Stand at the edge of the penumbra and biting cold is the first thing to hit. It's a wind like no other. No soft zephyr or spring warmth to sooth the soul, but a blast of bone-deep raging death that penetrates every cell to leave icicles in its wake. Creatures of the shadow ring grew long, multiple-layered coats, much prized among the elite, thick and soft, in numerous hues because at the centre you couldn't see those brilliant shades. Knowing this didn't make the prospect of heading in there any more appealing than it had when they discussed the idea a week ago. Rabarn curled his lip in disgust, and cast a look overhead at the looming shape of the sphere above him. It hung like a curse, which it was; he had no doubt of that.

A shard of cold air found its way through the layers of fur, and he shivered, swinging away from it and back towards the bright light of the tent. Trudging across the rocky ground, he focussed on the noises around him. Somewhere, out there in the deep night, a s'phan hunted. He could sense it, just on the periphery of every nerve, a tickle at the back of his ever-alert lizard brain. As soon as he reached the small circle of light that represented safety, he pulled apart the flap and crouched, moving down the short tunnel to the main living area. Pushing through the opening, he crawled on his hands and knees into the tent, and headed to the fire pit. Warmth, and the appetising scent of stew assailed him.

“Cold, is it?”

Rabarn paused in the removal of the layers that protected him from the worst the night brought, and eyed the speaker. Golden cat-eyes stared back, amusement in their depths. “Balmy,” he said, and the other snorted. “Perfect.”

“Did you manage to piss, or did your cock freeze off?”

“Managed fine, thanks.” Rabarn ignored the hoot of laughter, and accepted the full bowl and knife being offered. Digging into the food, he speared a chunk of meat and nibbled on it cautiously. Rich flavours burst on his tongue, and he made an inarticulate noise of pleasure. “S'good,” he managed, brandishing the knife and flicking golden drops of gravy in the direction of the chef who snarled when a few hit him on the face.

“I do have some skills,” he said, and picked up his own bowl. He set to with gusto, the meat quivering like jelly, crimson as a poppy. Blood dripped from his spoon, and a long tongue lapped it up.

“Wouldn't dare say otherwise, Malak,” Rabarn observed, and studiously ignored the way he tore at the flesh. “You bite.”

“Never my friends.” The words were a little slurred, wrapped as they were around a chunk of tissue before it disappeared in a gulp. “Though I might make an exception for you.”

“Is that supposed to turn me on?”

“Does it?”

They both guffawed at this, and Malak went on with his meal, seemingly unaware of the intense scrutiny Rabarn gave him. Tall, muscular, the Alkash was half naked, long legs crossed as he bent over his food, a sweep of golden hair hanging across his shoulder although it bore the signs it would turn the darker bronze of most adults in later years. Clan tattoos glistened, stark against copper toned skin, and curled over half of his chest. Rabarn knew those tattoos, recognised and remembered every scratch of them, indelible, the proof of kinship nearly as deep as the lineage that bound them, because they were his own.

Settled and belly full, Rabarn belched softly when he set the bowl to the side and stretched his legs out towards the heater. Outside, the wind whistled, the fabric of the tent thrumming slightly as it raced over its surface. In here, they were both warm and dry, safe from the things that crept out at night, encouraged by the passing of the day. Rested and comfortable, his thoughts began to spin ever outwards, gathering speed.

The quest fell into place without a hitch or hindrance, his mind reaching beyond the confines of the tent with an ease he rarely achieved when in the cities or at home with his family. Only here, where it was quiet and wild, could he really reach the power that bubbled like lava deep in his being. For a long while he seemed to hang there, and then he felt Malak join him, at his side, the swift wind on which he flew. Together they surged on through the darkness towards the centre of the shadow lands, the umbra, and soared towards the Glimmer. It hung there, faint as star shine, a soft lavender glow with white fire at its centre, enticing, mysterious.

At first he sensed nothing. Only the soft sough of the wind outside, the deeper breaths of Malak, his own, concentrating on the way oxygen filled his lungs, rushed through his bloodstream. And then... Stars. Fizzing stars that bounced and jumped, leaping in silver abandon, each one a glow against the deeper purple, to glow and then fade to nothing. So many. How could they find the right one? 'You will know', their teacher had told them. 'You will know', Malak's grandsire had said, his tall spare frame silhouetted against the brighter lights of the open doorway, his attention already fixed on other matters.

They had set out not long after that, leaving family behind, even Guinvar, despite her loud, and unexpected, protest. He regretted that. Malak did too, and he was more sure of that than anything else. Malak would have preferred to have her there with them. He considered himself the only one able to keep her safe. Which was ludicrous, of course. Guinvar was better off with almost everyone else apart from them, and besides, he didn't really approve of the way Malak looked at his baby sister. Like she was food.

The stars grew in intensity, and Malak growled, the sound soft. You see it?

Yes.

They circled round it with as much care as they could, both unwilling to take the next step. It grew in intensity until the gleam became the very centre of his universe. Tentative, he reached out, thought as fine as the silk thread spun by the weewods, a glistening strand of nothingness. Every atom strained towards that meeting point, hung breathless, empty, and it exploded, shrivelled every nerve, and sent a bolt of lightening to rush though his nervous system. Instinct took over, and they fled back the way they'd come, crashing rudely back to awareness, frazzled, singed, their surroundings once again merely cloth over a webbed frame.

Rabarn clutched his head. “I thought you were there to protect us?” A groan of pain answered him, and he uncreased his eyes long enough to squint at his friend. “Malak?”

Sprawled out on the heap of furs, the Alkash's skin had turned ashen, a fine tracery of blue veins clear under his skin. Ignoring his own pain, Rabarn moved jerkily over to where he lay, and reached for his hands, placing them on the side of his head. He didn't do this lightly. But he'd taken the test, they all did now.

“Do it,” he hissed, pressing the limp palms against his flesh. “Just do it. You know I need you.” Malak stayed limp as weed ripped out of the ground, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Leaning over him, Rabarn whispered, “If not for me, you bastard, then for Guinvar.” Under his own palms, the hands tightened, claws set against his skin, and the drawing began. “Heard that, didn't you?” Rabarn snarled, and clenched his teeth against the pain.

Sweat dripped down his forehead, sliding from the point of his nose and splashed against Malak's chest. Head bowed, he focussed on the rise and fall of Malak's ribs, his returning colour, which mottled his hide like the first flush of spring through new leaves and strained to keep the scream from leaving his lungs. Every muscle quivered, protested against its treatment, and his head and heart felt as if they would explode. Just... A. Few.

More...

Seconds.

Malak's body arched from the furs, and his hands fell away from Rabarn's skull, his own teeth bared. They shone white and sharp, a carnivore's weapons, and Rabarn slumped against his body, shuddering with the after effect of allowing so much energy to leave his body in one go. Too soon... too soon after the Glimmer. Cold to the marrow, he didn't resist when the Alkash lifted him, moved him like a child's toy, closer to the warmth of the fire. He couldn't even help him wrap the furs around his quaking frame, or move a hand to take the hot drink that appeared. Instead, Malak lifted him again, set him against his side and fed him it sip by slow sip, until he could keep his eyes open no longer.

“Oh no you don't.”

Before he could drift into that blissful state, Malak shook him awake. Rabarn pushed at him feebly. “Leave -”

A strong hand took his in its powerful grip, and fierce lion eyes gazed at him. “You saved my life, now let me return the favour, damn you, Rab Nextor.”

Rabarn managed a weak chuckle. “Fuck you too.”

“Not yet, and not today,” Malak returned, his tones grim and hoisted Rabarn into a sitting position, propping him against their equipment boxes while he moved around the tent to retrieve more fur. “There will be plenty of time for that later.”

Rabarn began to drift again, a jumble of bright visions clouding his mind. “Just... need to... sleep -”

“Later, I said.”

Malak shook him again, and this time the drink was cold, sweet and tart at the same time. Felek juice. The acidity of something else bit on the back of his tongue, and Rabarn coughed with disgust. “Poison...”

“Yeah, that's right,” Malak mimicked his own tones and delivery, “like I'd try to murder my only means of survival in this hellhole.”

“The hell...”

“Something Guinver gave me,” Malak said, and made him swallow more of the concoction. “It will help with the pain.”

“Guinvar?”

“Guinvar.” Malak shifted under the stare Rabarn favoured him with, a faint colour stealing under his skin. He shrugged, swift, eloquent, his hair sliding between his shoulder blades. “What of it? We are friends too, you know.”

“Friends...” Rabarn repeated, and managed a stony glare.

“Are we going to do this all night?” Never particularly patient, Malak's voice had acquired a hard 'shut it' note.

“You -”

“Leave her alone?”

Demon eyes glared into Rabarn's, banked fury smouldering in their depths. Never make the mistake the Alkash are tame, Rabarn remembered, and offered Malak a weak grin. Yes, they were now allies. Yes, they were even, on occasion, good friends, but they were still apex predators, top of their very narrow niche and his kind had once been nothing more than a tasty meal or pets. A sort of golden slavery spent serving their masters and hoping for benevolence instead of the dinner table, with occasional, very occasional, other benefits. The irony being that Alkash were as human as Homo Sapiens, only with sharper teeth and a predilection for sucking energy. Somewhere they'd evolved a nifty ability to drain the aura, that link to the Glimmer all living things carried. They didn't need to do it anymore because his people had developed the science to make sure they tapped into the all. Better all round. It allowed for this.

They continued to stare at each other for some minutes, but it was exhausting, and Rabarn didn't know if he could manage to maintain his outrage. They'd grown up together, fostered into each others families at a time when the alliance had been nothing more than one path they could have taken. The sheer determination of Malak's grandsire and his mother to make it happen in spite of deep distrust and generations of inbuilt hate in spite of the fact that Malak's people were the reason his kind were afraid of the dark. The Alkash, instigators of nightmares since sentience graced the human race wrapped in a toothsome and, often very, beautiful wrapper had begun the long journey to change. Most of them.

There were pockets of resistance, of course. Difficult, intransigent, on both sides of the alliance, who worked at destroying what fifty years of peace had brought them. But they would root them out, every leaf and stem.

Rabarn grunted, and relaxed back into the furs. Warmth cushioned him, as well as feeling of contentment the afterglow of energy depletion; he could feel it begin to thrum back into him though, and he sent forth an empathic tendril to soothe the Alkash.

“Just... don't hurt her.” It came out sounding like a threat, and if he was honest, it was.

“You're an idiot, Rab.” Malak pulled away, something else now blazing in his face, and took up position on the other side of the tent. Pulling off his boots, he aimed one at Rabarn, and it bounced off his head. “I'd sooner hurt myself than Guin.”

That had the ring of truth about it, and Rabarn woke enough to scrutinise Malak harder. Careful not to set any alarms ringing, he examined the man's aura, replete with the dying echoes of his transfer. The colours shifted through a variety of shades, settling towards the green Malak's energy usually favoured. But there, just in the periphery, faint rose and silver lingered, the same shades as his sister's own extraordinary field. Alarmed, he tried to capture the sense of them, but they were gone and Rabarn blinked, suddenly uncertain. Had he imagined that?

Malak had shifted into the position he favoured for sleep, sharp pointed nose pointed to the roof, arms folded under his head as he stared upwards. “Go to sleep, Rab Nextor. You're safe enough now.”

On that, he turned and presented his back to Rabarn who stared at him for a few minutes longer. Warmth lulled him to welcome oblivion. It could wait.

******

The longest time seemed to pass for Malak as he lay listening to Rabarn's breathing, waiting for the man to finally fall into the deep sleep he'd fought against. Not that he begrudged it. No. He'd taken his fill, and was grateful for it if regretful he'd had to once again rely on Rab. He was Alkash and they'd predated Homo Sapiens for as long as their two species existed. This brand new society, however, demanded an equality that never existed before rather than the uneasy jostling for position, and outright contempt that denoted the norm until so recently. Or worse, the complete indifference to the fate of another intelligent species.

Brought up to respect and cherish the humans he knew, Malak's mind shifted through all the people he had in his life, who'd played a part in forming him to the man he'd become. Not least among those was an annoying little girl with dark curls and a pair of vivid tawny eyes set in a freckled face. The annoying child became the woman he adored but could never hope to win. Thoughts of Guin persisted, and he turned to his other side, restless, unwilling to dwell on her and concentrated on the vibrations the wind sent through the fabric.

Contemplation of the canvas did nothing. If anything he felt less like sleeping than before, and the muffled grunt of a snore from the other side of the tent made his mind up. Time to get out into the air and run this... whatever the hell this was, out. The hunt earlier only served to sharpen his appetite. His belly rumbled.

Moving slowly, he banked the fire and set the perimeter alarms to a higher pitch. One he could hear, but would not disturb the resting man. He moved faster than most of the beasts out there, and anything that wanted to test the tent's contents would have taken alarm at his scent for the most part. A crooked grin graced his mouth. There were times when being one of the scary things in the dark was very useful and most creatures preferred not to tackle a fully adult Alkash male. Human males and females were the exception, and had been rather keen to get on board with the issue once Rabarn's people found the doorway. An exploration that launched them both into a war lasting for decades until a common enemy forced them to reassess their reasons. The old human adage 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend' ran through his head, but he doubted the truth of that. Enemies remained enemies once the dust cleared from the battleground. Always.

No. What saved them was an unlikely truth that set two governments on fire. Alkash were fully human. As human as Rabarn and his people. Only a different environment shaped them to the creatures they were. A cosmic joke inflicted by the Makers, who had wandered through the various universes inflicting their ideas of life and sentience on countless planets. So far six others had been found, two with humans as diverse from themselves as they were from each other. Neither of those was sentient and it was this that Rabarn's people used to change the fortunes of both species.

Oh lucky day, Malak thought, and eased his boots back on over the thick stockings encasing his narrow feet, then slipped on jacket and gloves. For them all. Extinction still loomed, a catastrophe with all the power of a tsunami, if they didn't find the artifacts needed to complete the machine. He cast another look at his sleeping friend, and slid through the opening into the tunnel.

Almost immediately the contrast to the warmth of their shelter clamped frozen fingers around every muscle, and he hissed with surprise. The temperature must have dropped by at least twenty degrees. Frost lined the tunnel, glistened like a thin sheet of quartz in the meagre light. Adjusting the fur of his hood, he cracked open the outer flap and slithered out like a sala, all flippers and awkward long body. Sniffing the air, he drew in a breath, braced for the experience but still surprised at how it burnt his warm nostrils. Puffs of steam erupted from his mouth, coating him instantly in rime and he got to his feet, eyes adjusting to the gloom.

Under his boots the ground crunched, frozen solid at the approach of night and the penumbra looked impenetrable, almost solid. Nothing flickered in that Stygian night, but Malak cocked his head, listening for the telltale signs of prey. Fingers clenched tight, he edged forward and crossed the boundary of land between them and the penumbra, circling the outline of the shadow and allowing the sense of it to wash through him. Tiny snuffles reached him, nothing big enough to become a decent meal though, so he skirted into the shadow a little deeper, switching to the silent mode that made his kind such efficient killers. Even on the gravelly, frozen earth, his feet whispered over it, almost floating across the surface and leaving only the faintest of marks to show his passage.

Not much dared to stray so far into the shade. Most of the middle sized herbivores chose to stay well away as things lurked in the depths, only the very largest of their kind daring to make inroads into a superbly dangerous environment. Malak walked the line between what passed as the norm and the very edge of darkness. He could sense those things weighing up whether he was worth the bother of catching. Whether expending the energy they needed to catch him would result in a meal or injury – a cost all predators had to weigh up. One he did automatically, no less a predator than any of them.

Something caught his ear, and he twisted away from his current path to follow the noise that piqued his interest. It seemed promising. Besides, he needed the distraction to keep his mind from Guin and that sweet leaving kiss.

What would Rab have made of that, he wondered? Answering his own thought, Malak, growled under his breath. There would have been too many questions. Questions he didn't want to face or answer, and he was damn certain Guin didn't either. Oh, he thought no more of it than as an accidental expression of affection to someone she regarded as a brother. He'd tried hard to make certain that's all she felt for him, even if he didn't feel that way himself.

A rustle to the rear told him he was being stalked, and he brushed his mind over the creature. Projecting fear into its mind, it veered away in terror at his scent, sudden recall of the pain one such as Malak could inflict on tender flesh. Amused at how easily the beast took flight, Malak projected malice as far as he could through the darkness, striving to frighten a few more of the damn things. The fewer beasts he had as competition, the better, and more likely he was to get a decent meal for them both. Dragging it back to the tent would be good, and then he could wake Rabarn to skin and butcher it. Leaving the meat in the tunnel would freeze it solid enough to preserve it, as well as make it easier to carry. Pleased with the plan, he stepped into hunt mode, waiting for something to walk into his radar.

Leaning against the rail, Guinvar closed her eyes, basking in the late afternoon sun before it disappeared below the horizon. Golden light spilled through leaves dappled with shadows as they rustled against each other, speckling her with filtered tinges of russet, an occasional one drifting, lazy as a moth, to the ground. Warmth tickled her bare arms, even though the wind had bite when it came from the north. Soon she would leave, and this was the last moment to enjoy her stay. She wished she didn't have to but work called to her, and she couldn't keep putting it off now she'd got what she wanted.

“Come in child, you will get cold.”

The gruff voice startled her at first, but she threw a glance back over her shoulder at the tall male standing in the doorway, which ws wide open behind him, allowing the wind to puff leaves into the room. Head cocked to the side, a question lay clear on his sharp-angled features, so Guinver smiled a non-committal response and turned back to the view. She wasn't quite ready to go in yet.

Taking another deep breath of the clear air, she pulled at a stray twig, still with most of its leaves intact. They crackled under her fingers, crisp, already the colour of that world's autumn. Across the valley, purples, violet and lavender spiked with golds and reds painted the sides of the hills in swathes.

Folding her arms, she rested against them and took in a deep breath. There was frost in the air, she could smell it, taste it. “It's so lovely.”

“Yes.” The whisper of robes and a heavy presence told her he'd joined her. “It is.”

The silence was companionable, and he made no move to push her into returning to the warmth of the house but, even so, there was undeniable pressure to comply. Subtle, but there, a tickle in her hind brain. She slid a look at his fierce visage. “Stop that.”

“So, you are then your mother's daughter?”

“Hah,” she said, and gave him the look she'd seen that worthy give him. “Did you doubt it?”

He didn't bother to answer, the corner of his mouth turned up in appreciation. “Time moves on apace, child, and we have to finish packing your things.”

“We?”

A slight shrug indicated he didn't care about such niceties, and he placed his hands on the rail. Guinvar contrasted them with her own. Long, strong hands, each finger equipped with pewter painted claws, heavy rings on the three middle fingers, each with a different inscription. A scientist, a mage, a leader. These were the things he claimed – not without some justification - and she called him uncle. It never ceased to entertain her.

“You then,” he said, and glanced down at her, amusement in golden lion-eyes. “Or I will be on the receiving end of your mother's sharp tongue if you are not delivered in a timely fashion.”

"Or dad's,” she said, and stood on tip-toe so she could reach his cheek and plant a kiss there.

“You father will tell me he'll kill me.”

“Still?”

“It never gets old for him,” he said, and the deep voice carried affection in its depths. “I think he likes to keep me on my toes, as you are want to say.”

A sudden sharp gust caught her, bouncing leaves into frantic motion, and Guinvar shivered. “Okay” she said, relenting, “let's go in.”

“Your aunt will be pleased you've decided to stay for tonight. She's prepared a special meal for you.”

“Has she? Great. Can't wait.” Ella's food was always good so she couldn't help the child-like glee with which she greeted the news. If she was lucky there would be some kind of fragrant pie and soup with fresh baked bread covered in golden yellow butter.

Chuckling, Atiron swung the doors shut behind them and followed her out of the room down the curving stairs to the open plan living area with its sunken chairs. From the kitchen came more homely sounds. Pans being moved, oven doors opened and slammed shut. Hurrying across the floor, Guinvar ran up the steps to the dining room in time to see her aunt disappear through the door to the kitchen. She picked up speed and nearly ran into her on the way back out.

“Ooops, sorry.” A hasty bit of sidestepping allowed Ella to get to the table without spilling a drop, and, right behind her, Atiron reached past her to take the plates, setting the table in exactly the way Ella insisted on every night.

Guinvar followed him round, laying the napkins at the side of each setting, lining up the cutlery exactly so it lay in serried rank, neat and tidy. Satisfied, they both sat, waiting for Ella to reappear, which she did carrying another plate of goodies.

“Looks great,” Guinvar said, and surveyed the dishes in front of her, sniffing with appreciation, fragrant steam rising from the bowls, while her aunt set the dish on the table. It held one of the local vegetables, a brownish tuber with the taste of parsnip and sweet potato. Roasted, like these, they were one of Ella's personal favourites.

Even Atiron's meal looked mouth-watering, though Guinvar didn't quite know how Ella managed to make raw fish look quite so attractive. All those fins and eyes didn't do a thing for her appetite but he seemed pleased with the effort and his gaze fixed on Ella, shining with something that made Guinvar shiver. In all the years she'd spent in this house she never grew tired of seeing the deep attachment they had for each other. That they could never acknowledge it openly, or display it except here where no one would make comment, hurt her immeasurably. 'You are too feeling, my daughter', her mother told her when she wept for them, head in her lap, sadness crushing her tender heart while her face grew hot and puffy. 'Despite it all,' her father said one day, when she'd asked why two people she idolised couldn't have what her parents had, 'they are happy.' And they were. Guinvar saw it in the little gestures they made to each other, and the way they spoke to each other when when they thought no one heard.

“Well, get on with it.” Ella waved her hand at the dishes, and had her hand caught deftly by Atiron. Rose stole into her cheeks, and she looked flustered but pleased. “It's just fish, Atiron.”

“You give it such a pleasing aspect, though,” he remarked, and sliced through the flesh. It peeled apart and spilled its contents, slivers of meat and bone marrow, across his plate and he quirked a brow at Ella. “You are an artist.”

“Hardly,” Ella sniffed. “It's not exactly a challenge to make that look more inviting.”

“It was inviting without the effort,” Atiron murmured, and skewered a piece of meat then popped it into his mouth, swallowing without chewing. Guinvar had seen this banter played out many times, and she concentrated on her own food. “You should spend more time on what you do so well, my dear.”

“Cooking, I suppose?” Mock outrage bounced across the table, and Atiron bowed his head gravely in response.

“As I said, your skill is exceptional.”

“Did I have a choice?”

“You always had a choice.”

Guinvar grinned, but hid it behind her napkin as she wiped her mouth. If Ella hadn't learnt to cook, she would have still been eating the same food as Atiron. Which she'd tried, she confessed to Ella one day, but the taste of raw meat, raw fish, raw everything, grew pretty dull after a while. A stance Guinvar could only sympathise with; she reckoned she would get pretty sick of a diet like that too.

“You're an old fool,” Ella added, without much rancour, and Atiron snorted.

“Which you always knew.”

Her aunt lifted her head and smirked at Atiron. “Yes, I did, didn't I?”

“Well,” he said, and shared a long look with the human woman, “if that's settled we should follow Guin's example and eat.”

*****

Packing. Guinvar kicked at a box with some small items in it. They gave the rattle of breakables knocking against each other, and she huffed with annoyance. Something else to go through and see if any of it was needed. She glanced up at a knock on the door, and Ella poked her head round it.

“I see you're busy,” she said, and came into the room to watch her. Clothes lay on her sleeping platform in random heaps, accompanied by the tablets which contained her research into the Maker artefacts, so it wasn't much of a stretch.

“What gave it away?”

“Nothing I can put me finger on.” Ella scanned the piles critically. “You don't mind if I join you?”

“No, carry on.” Ella crossed to the chair and sat in it, looping her legs in a complicated structure Guinvar had seen many times.

Guinvar cast a smile in her direction, and flicked through a sheaf of paper. The smell and feel of it always pleased her, though favouring such an anachronism was sheerest eccentricity these days. Several pale blue Maker objects she'd collected on an expedition to the foothills sat there too, massed together, sleek as the fur on the head of an otter and she paused to run her fingers across their conjoined surface. A faint buzz, as always, greeted her and she wondered at it. She slid a few more items into her case, and then picked up the artefacts. They would do fine as long as she wrapped them.

“Are you any closer to finding out what they are?”

Guinvar lifted her eyes to meet the gaze of the other woman and she shook her head. “Not really.” She turned them over in the palm of her hand for a moment, thoughtful. “I'll need to run some tests when I get back home. Things behave differently back there, and I might get a bit more insight.” taking a step closer to her aunt, she presented them to her. “Take a look for yourself.”

Ella bent her head closer. “Did you show Atiron?”

“Gods, yes. Said he'd not seen anything like them and spent a good day and a half playing with them in the lab.”

“Just the sort of thing he likes to do,” Ella remarked, her expression intensely curious, running her fingers across their glossy surface. They stayed inert on Guinvar's palm, but she got the impression they shrank, somehow. How strange. “Metal?”

“Sort of, but not quite,” Guinvar said, and continued to consider the objects. They'd grown slightly warmer in her hand and felt less solid, the colour deeper. “The best I can make out is they're metallic in certain situations and plasticise in others.” She gave Ella an apologetic shrug. “That's the best I can do at the moment. They are... well... sort of anamorphic.”

“Fascinating,” Ella said, fingertips resting lightly on them, but then withdrew them. The change in the objects texture was almost immediate and Guinvar tightened her mouth, all manner of possibilities beginning to occur. “They feel kind of... “ She paused, brows tightened while she thought it over. “Slick... oily.”

“They did,” Guinvar said, and they both peered, taking a much closer examination.

Ella made a 'hmm' noise. “I really wish I could help but... ” She trailed off and looked round the room, studying it and the disarray before adding, “Well, if there's ever anything you need help with in the medical field, or biological...”

“I'll be sure to ask you,” Guinvar said, and leaned forward so she could give the older woman a brief hug. “Atiron was the one who pointed out its plasticity.”

At the mention of his name, Ella's mouth curved slightly. “He is brilliant, you know.”

“Yes.” And totally ruthless with anyone outside of those he considered worth his attention, Guinvar wanted to add. She had no illusions about Atiron or his ambitions for his people. Weren't her mother and father both his old adversaries and comrades in arms over many, many years? Not that she could deny he'd ever been anything but benevolent - if occasionally terrifying - to her. Came with the territory, she supposed. “Pity he doesn't want to come back with me.”

Ella looked thoughtful, but shook her head. “No. I think the hospitality he experienced in the brief time we spent there coloured his opinion in a negative way.”

“I don't think it would involve prison bars this time,” Guinvar said, all the stories she'd been told making a return. “Bars perhaps, if dad has his way.”

Somehow Ella didn't look as if that held any appeal either as her face twisted into a pained expression. “Drink and Alkash metabolism aren't the best of friends,” she said, as if that was the final word.

Guinvar gave a gurgle, which she changed to a cough when Ella squinted a look of disapproval. “Sorry.”

The other woman picked up some of Guinvar's clothes, folding them into neat packages that she placed on the others, nimble fingers tidying them into recognisable order. Underwear first, then tops, pants... She proceeded to reduce them to nothing more than multi-coloured easily managed piles in no time flat, something Guinvar failed to do at every turn. It would all fit in her pack now; she didn't know how she did it and expressed that with no small sense of awe.

“That's quite a skill.”

“Along with cooking, call it a need to be efficient, sweetheart, rather than a skill.,” Ella murmured, and with Guinvar's help pushed the last items into the case. A brief struggle ensued as they did it up. “Too many days on the road,” she said, by way of an explanation.

Which made Guinvar recall the argument she'd had with Rabarn just before he set off with Malak. Annoyance and frustration reared up again and she slammed a tablet into one of the bag's side pockets with too much force. It gave a pathetic whine of protest and she snatched it back up to examine it. She gave an inward sigh of relief when a quick scan showed her none of the precious data had been damaged or lost, and she then became acutely aware of Ella's knowing gaze. A slim brow was raised in question, and the glimmer of a smile tugged at the pink mouth.

“Pissed he got all macho on you and wouldn't let you go?”

“My brother is a dick,” Guinvar pronounced, and kicked herself for behaving like the kid he claimed she was, but couldn't stop the kernel of resentment from germinating. “I could help them.”

“I dare say, but I rather think it has to do with Malak rather than his doubt in your abilities.”

“What?” Genuinely startled, Guinvar stared at her aunt, who continued to stare back as though she expected her to realise something. Guinvar racked her brains. What about Malak? They were friends, good friends, and he'd never hurt her, would he?

“Are you being deliberately stupid, Guin?” Ella asked, obviously nonplussed.

“No more than usual. Am I missing something?” She cocked her head, curious, wondering what Ella meant and then it struck her with all the force of an incoming earthquake. “Oh.”

Amusement sparkled in Ella's eyes, and then disappeared behind concern as something occurred to her. “I take it you don't reciprocate, honey?”

Didn't reciprocate? Battered by sudden realisation, Guinvar found she needed to take the weight off her feet and sank into the chair beside her bed. She knew she must look like a fish, so she closed her mouth with an audible snap. So... What. The. Hell. Shit. When the hell had easy camaraderie and nuisance-girl-child turned into something else? Brown hair flopped into her face and she pushed it back behind her ear. To be frank, she didn't know how she felt about Malak, apart from him being like another big brother who'd tugged on her hair when she was little because she'd happened to get in his face too much.

Glancing up, she gave Ella a quizzical look. “Ah...”

Ella blew out a short puff of air in exasperation, and came to perch on the side of the bed. “Well, I'm not really surprised you didn't realise, but that's the reason Rabarn didn't want you along. He thought -”

“Wait,” Guinvar interrupted, beginning to feel more than a little bit put out, “you mean he talked to you about this and not to me?”

Falling silent, the older woman examined her, brown gaze hot as it passed over her. “Considering who Malak is, no one thinks it's a great idea and 'no' he didn't discuss it with me. Malak did because it pissed him off.”

“Politics.” The word fell from Guinvar's mouth like a brick, and she stared at her toes which had grown suddenly very interesting. She wriggled them, red polish catching the light. Something else occurred to her and, annoyed by the faint tremble in her voice, she asked, “Does Atiron know about this... this... whatever?”

“Not much escapes him,” Ella said, dryly, and patted Guinvar on the arm in sympathy. “Even if his grandson chose not to mention it to him, he already knew. Besides -” she said, and raised her slim shoulders in an eloquent shrug - “it isn't as if he can have any worthwhile opinion on the matter.”

Somehow Guinvar doubted that. Atiron's opinions on most matters were not taken lightly , and as a Council Elder he held a great deal of power. Power which he wasn't above wielding to further his own end. How he'd weaselled his way to a position at the top, and with him his daughter and son, was legend on both sides of the door. Using humans, namely her father and mother, to manoeuvre and influence the other clans into doing precisely what he wanted... well... that was both outrageous and brilliant. And he was. Only one other person matched him for intelligence and that person had disappeared some time ago into one of the other universes. Something they all regretted, Guinvar knew. He'd been an integral part of their friendship group, though it had taken a long time for it to finalise into that tight bond.

“Atiron would not choose this for Malak, or for you,” Ella said, and she turned her head to the door to gaze out into the darker space of the corridor beyond. “It can be lonely.”

How true. The world they lived in had neither civilisation nor anything other than a few far neighbours. A few others like them who decided to remove themselves from mainstream existence to live less complicated lives, untrammelled by the troubles of either Hegemony or Alliance. Mostly it worked. But only mostly, as it seemed Atiron had no choice but to rejoin the Alliance in order to push an agenda that had started to flag.

“Isn't that his, or mine to make?” Guinvar couldn't help the challenge, and waited for an answer, a rising sense of pissed off sitting in her guts.

Ella closed her eyes, a sweep of dark lashes on her skin and nodded. “I thought so, and said as much, but have been shouted down on this occasion.”

That she could imagine. On the few occasions she'd seen Atiron and Ella quarrel, it had been pretty spectacular and unforgettable, even – if she were to admit it – a little on the scary side. In his bare, high-arched, clawed feet, Atiron towered over Ella by at least thirty centimetres and didn't hold back from using it to intimidate anyone who didn't have the guts to meet him as an equal. Except Ella never got intimidated and muscled up to him, a tiny spitfire, full of piss and vinegar. Invariably they reached consensus despite much roaring and shouting, and the unpredictable throwing of stuff. That was one of the reasons, Guinvar supposed, why they'd been together so long and why he treated her like she was the most precious jewel in all the universes.

“Must have been quite the row,” she observed, mildly, and earned a raised brow and a snort.

“Lasted for a few days,” Ella confided, and then sighed. Leaning across again, she said, “Be careful, eh, whatever you decide?”

By all the gods of six vaulted heavens, Guinvar thought, how, and what, would she decide when she still didn't know what to think of this bolt from the great blue yonder? Instead she made the right noises. “Don't worry. Of course I'll be careful.”

*****

Atiron looked up when he heard Ella cross the threshold of his lab, and recognised the expression on her face straight away. “You told her?”

Dragging a chair round to face him, Ella threw herself in it and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. “Yes. Unavoidable, so before you start just shut up.”

The inscriptions on his rings held no real fascination for him as he'd read them many times, but they served to focus his temper, which today felt as taut as wire between two clamps. In some respects, the whole business was unavoidable as the children had mixed with each other from early childhood, building friendships and connections that escaped most Alkash and human. Oh, there were a few willing to challenge the status quo, but not many. He'd hoped for better, but it appeared old prejudices were harder to surmount than he'd supposed.

The brief touch of Ella's mind on his made him glance up at her. Taking out his bad mood on her would get him precisely nowhere, even if the resulting fight would provide a reasonable amount of distraction.

He gave a soft grunt, and returned to the examination of one of the objects Guin had given to him. Whatever function the Maker's gave this oval of blue inertness had yet to make itself obvious, and beyond a certain amount of malleability he'd not been able to get it to respond to anything he'd subjected it to.

“Have I told you that I love you and that you are a miserable old bastard?”

Amused, he shot her a look, and shook his head. “Not today.”

“Well, you are, and I do,” she said, and he placed the stone back on the bench, so he could cross to her. Gently, he bent down and placed a kiss on her mouth, savouring the sweet taste of her lips.

“That's just as well, because I will need you to accompany me when I go back to face the Council.”

“Not part of the deal.”

Atiron grinned. “I think you'll find it quite enlightening.”

A suspicious expression flashed across Ella's face, and she slanted her head to scrutinise him more closely. “Oh?”

“Indeed.” A spark of understanding entered into her brown eyes, and she shook her head. “Most enlightening,” he repeated, and took her hand, stroking her palm with his thumb.

“Oh gods,” she murmured, “what the hell have you done now?”

Saying goodbye to Ella always choked Guinvar up. The woman had a habit of becoming both best friend and confidante despite a massive age gap. Her mother claimed she was the best friend she'd ever have, and Guinvar could believe it. For herself, finding another woman to talk to about all those girl issues remained difficult and awkward because she'd not spent much time around Terran families while she grew up. She liked the company of men, especially Alkash men. Who wouldn't? Their deference was appealing, and not a little flattering. If you managed to get past the whole 'is he being nice because he thinks I would make a good meal' thing, then they were perfectly polite and attentive companions. It helped a lot that she'd got her mother's knack of being able to read them so well. That particular little skill had come in useful more than once.

She pursed her lips in thought, and stared out of the window. They travelled at a fair click, Atiron handling the small craft with all the experience of a true pro. Sliding a glance at him, she made an amendment to her earlier assessment. Except for Atiron, that was. He remained as much an enigma as always, though she had it on very good authority that Ella read him pretty much like an open file. Perhaps it was because she'd grown up and though he would always be the uncle she adored, he treated her rather differently now.

“Something is bothering you?”

“Sorry?”

From the corner of his eye he managed to give her one of those looks. Gods, she hated them. Amusment, tinged with sarcasm and a kind of smug knowledge rolled into one big smirk. Ever since she'd reached adulthood he'd also baited her tirelessly. For reaction. Always. Ugh. Here it came.

“Your apologies are not required, Guin.” She managed a snort, and stared out at the disappearing landscape. “Well...?”

Tempted to ignore him, she tossed a reply backwards and forwards. Smartass, or bolshy? Which? She settled on non-committal. “Thinking.”

“Ah.”

Silence reigned for a while, a non-committal entertainment at her expense radiating from Atiron. “You are a smug -”

“So your aunt tells me,” he interrupted and gunned the craft to a higher speed, avoiding a herd of herbivores by pushing the nose up and sailing over them. Beneath them, golden-striped bodies milled about in panic and confusion, dust rising from countless massive-pawed feet. The sound of them shrieking a protest disappeared as they moved out of range. “I'll ask again. What's bothering you?”

“This Malak thing,” she said, tentatively, unwilling to say anything else and unsure of his reaction.

A subtle change of expression crept over his face while she sneaked a sideways glance. “Yes,” he agreed, and swung the machine towards the only large settlement the planet had, “that does present a few difficulties.”

Mostly, Guinvar wanted to steer the topic back to a safer area. Like how they would proceed on deciphering the artefacts residing in her bag, and what they'd do with the data once they'd got it. Yeah, that was one to look forward to. Coping with the stodgy atmosphere didn't sit well, and cramped her style. She brazened it out. “How come no one told me?”

“Ignorance is bliss, I believe,” he said, and the flier swerved into a downward trajectory with her stomach left behind for a good twenty second gap. Damn. Him. “And it was.”

Catching her breath and some of her breakfast, Guinvar snapped, “What the hell am I supposed to do with that information?”

“Nothing,” Atiron growled, the sound low, quite menacing. “Absolutely nothing.”

“You don't approve.”

Atiron lifted a burnished copper brow at her, and showed his teeth. “Approbation would serve no purpose.” The flier adjusted its course automatically and lined up with the narrow landing strips radiating close to the boundary edge of the doorway when he released the controls. The motors hummed. “Anymore than my disapproval, which -” he held up a hand when Guinvar opened her mouth, stopping her from speaking - “in any case would be the rankest hypocrisy given my own circumstances.”

“It should have changed by now,” Guinvar said, and sat back in her seat with a thump. The scowl on her face reflected in the glass screen.

The Alkash sighed, hawk profile fixed on the exterior beyond the small cabin; he met her eyes in the reflection. “Are you truly still so naïve, child, as to believe the last thirty cycles could dissolve the attitudes of millennia?” A soft bump indicated they'd settled on the ground, the canopy sliding away into the sides of the machine and the doors pulling away. “Or is it something more?”

Guinvar shook her head and he grunted in response. Reaching back he dragged her bag out and climbed out of the seat, setting off with long strides towards the compound. Forced to run after him, Guinvar managed to catch him up, and snatched at his arm. He slowed long enough to allow her to slip her hand into the crook of his arm. Pissed off, she trotted beside him wondering about what he'd just said.

Eventually, she was forced to speak. “What do you mean?”

“If you were to pursue any meaningful relationship, let it be professional and friendship.”

“But -”

“Hear me out, Guinvar.” Everything died on her tongue. He never, ever, called her by her full name unless something serious was about to go down. They halted and he drew her hand into his own, covering it with his long fingers. “You are the daughter of my dear friends and I would see no harm come to you. You are as dear to me as if you were of my own flesh and bone, but...” Atiron paused and searched her features, concern etched deep in his eyes. “You have a path to follow, as does Malak, and it would serve no purpose for either of you to lose sight of it.”

Bemused, Guinvar shook her head trying to get a grip on the suggestion and also to hang on to her world which looked as if it was just about to turn and slope off to some other plane. “We're friends, Atiron, friends. Nothing. More.” Unbelievable. Just unbelievable. “I've got work to do.” She glanced meaningfully at the bag. “Far too much on my plate.”

He eyed her, head slanted to one side as if he didn't really believe what she told him. After a pause, he gave a curt nod. “For now, yes.”

As they set off again, she demanded, “What the fuck does that mean?”

“Is your aunt aware of your use of profanities?”

Pulling at him to stop walking, Guinvar gave a little growl. “Don't change the damn subject, you son of a bitch, and don't try to blackmail me with Ella.”

Examining her again, Atiron's mouth acquired a thin smile. “She would approve of the attempt.”

“Like hell -”

“We must concentrate on the real task, Guin. We have to. You know what's at stake.”

What was at stake? Gods of every heaven and the devils of every pit, yes, she knew. Find the machine, turn it off, and ensure the survival of both species. An elusive, probably mythical creation that would serve no purpose just like every other damn thing found over the last century. If the hegemony and Alliance hadn't pulled together at the last minute then she might well never have been born, and they certainly wouldn't be having this conversation, but they still squabbled about insignificant bullshit that shouldn't have any bearing on the real, and mutual, goal. Fuck the Makers, she thought, and her mind conjured unspeakable visions of torture for them. If one thing bound the two species of human together it was their mutual loathing of their progenitors.

Leaning forward, Atiron said, “Find the key, Guin, and we stand to change everything.”

“Not just me,” she said, jumped out of her reverie.

“No,” he agreed, intense, “not just you, but every child born into this peace must strive for what we cannot achieve.” The hand holding hers tightened, claws cutting into the soft flesh of her wrist. “I will do what I can, as will my daughter.” He didn't need to add Ella into that equation; she already knew how important his consort was to the whole affair. Without her...

“Ella?” she whispered, almost afraid to hear the answer. Normally, he left her safe at home, unwilling to risk so much as a hair on her head.

“This time she will come with me.”

*****

Warmth radiated from the corpse and Malak rested against it, unwilling to take another step into the sudden bitter storm blowing up out of some pit of an icy hell. Hoping to rouse Rabarn, he slipped along the fringes of his thoughts and discovered his friend still lay deep in sleep, the dream landscape that surrounded him full of shadowy figures. Unseen, one more ghost among many, Malak stepped up his infiltration projecting ice and snow into the visions flitting through his friend's mind with little effect. The human shuddered, an autonomic reflex, but remained otherwise inert. Which meant he would need to employ some other part of his arsenal. Malak squirmed deeper into the long pelt behind him, pulling its heavy legs into place to form a barrier and settled back to concentrate harder on getting past the barrier placed in his way.

In places it appeared insubstantial, like the ice on a puddle after the first frost of winter waiting for a boot heel to smash through the surface. Yet in other spots it had the tenacity of rubber, flexible, giving way only to snap back and sting the unwary with considerable force. Those he preferred to avoid. The trick, he'd found, was to worm his way through the many shifting layers, shedding everything that threatened, projecting benevolence. Anything less would mean Rabarn's defences closed on him with all the ferocity of a river elidor and its pack, to ravage him with teeth as sharp and deadly as those terrible lizards. Trained psyches like Rabarn's responded to danger with violence and determination, that matched his own or any other Alkash. It meant he needed to demonstrate recognisable kinship, but he came equipped for that, the chemical markers in his blood already shifting to change his thought processes to human prominence so Rabarn would respond positively.

His breath billowed in front of him, white, the crack of water loud as it froze when it left his body. Minuscule drops of ice fell from the air, crystals to blanket him... Concentrate, concentrate... Do not see the world, enter a place of peace, tranquillity, where nothing will harm you and you wish no harm. Consciousness faded. It bled at the edges, perception shifting, faltering... Mist rose up and Malak stepped free of it, conjuring ground where there was none. Grass and flowers bloomed where his feet trod, the heat of a ruddy sun beating down on him.

Echoes sounded, the distant thunder of his heart, and Malak stilled his mind, a deep cool pool, impenetrable, easing into the surroundings and extended his awareness. Living things bustled round him, the wee creatures of Rabarn's imagination, splinters of argent whirling in the air, sparks shooting from them to hit the ground and burst into a multitude of wings, numerous as autumn leaves. Perfumed grasses rose in front of him, a golden nimbus round each seed head, but Malak steered clear, appreciating them for the trap they were – his brother was too fond of the honeyed lure. How many times had they done this, when they both were fully conscious, in practise for a moment such as this? A hundred? Five hundred? Perhaps a thousand. Drilled to perfection, or as near as they could manage, by his grandsire, by Atiron himself, to anticipate the traps their unconscious would set. The had sculpted a bond that went deeper than some seas on Mehwo, deeper than the great trenches of the oceans of Terra - a terrible dark place where strange creatures scuttled along the bottom. And they'd learned to face them all. The demons and sprites of their collective nous could be called forth when needed but right now he wanted light. A flare answered his wish nearly as soon as he'd thought it and ignoring the soft whispers and enticements reaching for him with seductive arms, moved certainly towards it.

Leaving behind a grasping clawed thing and shaking off its clammy touch when it grabbed at him, he took stock of his surroundings again. Closer, it swam just out of reach, and he imagined himself a wave moving with the push of gravity towards a distant shore, the rumble of the ocean locked into his mind. Splashing against the barrier, he undulated into the warm brightness, pulling it into and over himself so he fitted almost seamlessly into Rabarn's jumble of imagery and spun a cocoon, bright as the centre of a star, merging with it until he was indistinguishable. The harsh clamour of rejection began to soothe, recognising him as one of their own. Now... The journey continued in twists and tumbles, ending only when he came to the final obstruction. A woven sheet of brilliance faced him, studded all about with diamonds, and Malak worked quickly, infiltrating its substance.

A long birth, a painful birth, every bit as traumatic as his first experience of being squeezed down a narrow canal. Emerging to the other side, his covering peeled from him like the skin of a fruit to leave him naked and barefoot and gasping for air that was not there. He fell to his knees, coughing, fingers wrapped tight in springy and soft deep blue fronds and somewhere his body recalled its function, responded and drew in oxygen. It washed through him, laden with ice and snow, the sensation of wetness threatening to break his concentration. Willing himself calm, Malak concentrated, finally stable enough to focus outwards. Raising his head, he took his first look and gave a sigh of relief.

Stretching in front of him lay a plain and great rocks, surrounded by a bank of trees with a river winding lazily through the landscape. In the near distance a figure lay stretched out on the bank side, dark head resting on his arms. Malak allowed himself a small grin. This was Rabarn's favourite scenario and he retreated to this place often when he healed, or needed escape from some other issue in the world. Pity he had no choice but to disturb him this time. Without further preamble, Malak gave the recumbent man a nudge which he brushed off like he batted at a parasite. This was the trouble with such places, he reminded himself, they were too beguiling. He gave a firmer push, adding his own particular bite, and was rewarded by vague movement.

Rabarn.

Nothing.

Harder. Rabarn.

Then...

Malak...?

Malak sighed with relief. Yes.

Where are you?

I need you Rabarn. Wake. Wake now.

*****

Rabarn came to with a start, perceptions of cold bled from his skin distinct and impressions of snow and ice fled, insubstantial ghosts, as he regained a sense of place and time. When the furs slid off his body from his sudden movement, heat assailed him, too warm, stifling, taking every last intimation of chill. Shadows leapt on the tent's roof in response to flames from the heater in the middle of the living space, the homely crackle causing him a moments disorientation. Steam hissed, the complicated pipe and tap arrangement that gave them hot water gleaming with brassy overtones in the ruddy light. Rabarn licked his lips. Dry. He reached for the water at his side and slopped it as a memory surfaced, bobbing like a cork on the sea.

Malak.

Drink forgotten, he grabbed for his furs, shaking off a slight dizziness from his rude awakening. Autonomic responses kicked in, the all too real sense of need and danger making him react rather than think. Boots... boots? Where the hell...? Hard soles met his groping fingers, lodged under one of the sleeping cushions, when he connected with the recalcitrant items. He dragged them out, yanked them over his feet and pulled up his hood, crawling for the opening to the tunnel. How long, how long...?

Be quick. Not his own thought. The tone sounded in his head with the clarity of cut-glass.

Where?

Effortless, the result of long years of training, of personal knowledge, their minds linked and Malak appeared as a small radiating splodge on the map spread out in his head, far enough from their shelter to need transport. Now he'd got him pinned, Rabarn snagged a few items from the tent – a flask full of warm tea, some of the revolting chunks of dried raw flesh Malak kept for emergencies, and the high energy bars both of them tolerated because they had no choice.

Rabarn scrambled down the short tunnel on his hands and knees, huffing with the urgency, emerging into a night unrecognisable from the one he'd left earlier. Snow swirled in circles, great soft white feathers in shining clumps, eerily silent in the face of a rapidly falling temperature. Even the wind had slowed, pushing the downfall about with lazy ineptitude, stirring it eventually to drifts that were building against the rigid sides of the tent and covering their equipment. Rabarn didn't want to spend too long digging out their transport sled. The impression of warmth leaving his friend bit at him and he hurried, fumbling, fingers numb as he released the chains holding the sled in place. Hopefully, it would work first time.

Try one. Hope always sprang up and never delivered. Nothing. Not even a purr. Two. A quiet rumble indicated it might come to reluctant life. Three... Shit, shit, shit... Frustrated, Rabarn gave the machine a kick, and regretted it instantly. Misjudged aim and sheer stupidity, he snarled to himself, are no substitute for patience and methodology. Yanking his temper back under control, he gave it another go, winding the starter tight as he could and let it go, on the verge of pleading with it to cooperate. A false start... no, no, no, no, no... it sputtered... Rabarn gritted his teeth, waiting... and then it sang into life.

He flung himself into the driving seat and toggled the controls. Under him the machine gave a complaining grumble, but responded to the commands despite initial sluggish reluctance to comply. Switching to low-level skimmer mode, Rabarn flicked the switch that would extend small fins at the side for added stability. Reversing, he swung its nose into the storm and raised the canopy, light spilling from the vehicle when he set it to high speed.

All around the landscape glowed with a subtle nimbus, the pale glow from the sled highlighting flakes as they flurried in a ballet across his path. He leaned forwards against the console, peering into the darkness, testing the link he'd established with his friend. Damn him. What the hell was the idiot thinking when he took himself out into a night like this? If he was dead he'd have his hide and nail it to his mother's front door as a warning to all other young Alkash that being stupid cost. Alive, and he'd find a way to extract a promise that he'd never try something like that again. Maybe threaten him with Guin, or a lack of Guin, which was probably a better way of getting compliance.

I'm alive.

Damn shame, Rabarn growled back, that skin of yours would look pretty on Tracitral's door. Oh, he could see it now stretched across the ornate surface, the soft light of the rooms inside making it translucent.

A lovely image, but I'm not certain my dam would agree.

Rabarn chuckled. She might when I tell her about this.

Blackmail?

Of course, Rabarn replied, his mood shifting from scared to annoyed and put out.

We taught you so well.

Massive lurches over uneven ground rattled Rabarn's teeth and he wrestled with the sled controls as it bucked with all the determination of an unbroken stallion, engines whining in protest at their mistreatment. Crabwise, the machine slid along while he grunted with the effort to get it back on track, spinning one hundred and eighty degrees and back again, the slim wings ploughing into soil as it threatened to turn on its side. Sweat broke out on his head, made his scalp itch while his mouth went dry, heart hammering at ten to the dozen. Tiny ant feet crawled over him when each nerve fired in a cascade of blind terror and for a single horrible moment he thought he would lose control, but a sudden lurch to the right saved him and the sled flew straight again. A quick consultation with the console told him that, by some fucking miracle, he still made good time. Not willing to risk another heart in mouth moment, he pulled the sled up sharp, slowing the engine as he drew closer to the point where Malak should be, not wanting to overshoot. Margins of error, sure, in a general sense, were good, but not this filthy night. He scanned the bleak exterior, eyes narrow. Damn, it all looked the same. White, white and a bit more white. A flicker. Rabarn moved the sled a metre or so forward, idling the motor. Yes. There. The console light grew brighter, indicating he'd been right. Was Malak still alive? Rabarn reached out.

Yes. I am here. Hurry.

Heartened by that brief touch, Rabarn glided to a halt, slamming the machine into ready mode, canopy dissolving with a hum before he stepped out onto the ground. Cold punched at him, found every minuscule gap in his clothes, and he gasped from the shock of it when it gnawed its icy fangs into his tender flesh. Somehow he managed to get his gloves back on and hood up around his already thoroughly chilled ears as he headed in the direction of the mound all the instruments in the sled indicated held Malak. Leaning into the wind, he fought against its determined effort to get him off his feet, and staggered the last few metres until he reached the hillock. Somewhere in there Malak waited, and he picked up speed.

Boots skidding on the frost he slid around the front, glad to get out of the wind. Digging down, he worked as fast as he could. “Malak?” he dug down again, not pausing, scraping the forming ice away. Fur parted under his probing fingers, thick, its colours bleached to nothing in the dark. “Damn it, man, are you okay?”

I hear you.

Help me then.

The corpse of the animal trembled and the built up deposit of whiteness began to move, fissures appearing in its powdery surface. Some of the thick covering cracked off and fell, a miniature avalanche of ice crystals, still not frozen solid, luckily for them. As soon as Malak understood how much trouble he was in, Rabarn realised, he must have hunkered down with the kill to preserve energy and stay warm. Then all he needed to do was concentrate on kicking Rabarn's sorry ass into gear. Which he'd managed to do rather effectively. Perspiration dampened Rabarn's armpits and his shirt clung to his back while he worked at uncovering more of the great beast, scraping snow from its fur until he came to a small gap, something stirring beneath it.

Malak, can you hear me?

Yes. Keep going. The light is changing.

Then gloved fingers poked up past the fur and he seized them, pulling hard as he could. Placing all his weight into it, he leant back, knees braced against limbs set concrete with rigor and the snow tumbled apart unable to resist them both. He fell back hard, hitting the floor with a loud 'oof' just as the surface collapsed to leave a dark gap.

Breath knocked out of his lungs, Rabarn lay collecting his garbled wits for a second. Above, white flurries hovered. so he rolled to his side and clambered to his feet. They had to get out of there. If they didn't move more quickly the fall would bury them both and they'd never find the tent again. Despite all their training they were both helpless if the storm grew more furious. The modicum of shelter provided by the sled didn't cut it, and they had to get back to the tent. That was designed to take the brunt of the worst the weather could throw at them. Even something as extreme as this. Come on. Come. On. Through the white haze he spotted movement and he dug faster.

The handbecome a forearm, so he gripped it by the elbow, and slowly, slowly Malak emerged, head and shoulders squeezing free until his torso came into view, then his other arm... Grabbing Malak's other arm, Rabarn tugged, and together they crashed to the ground, Rabarn scrambling to get out of the way as the Alkash landed with a heavy thump.

“No... time...” he gasped, and Malak nodded, lurching to his feet and following him to the sled.

They slipped and slid the few metres across open ground to the sled, guided by the automatic tethers the machine reeled out in the face of such appalling conditions. Hand over hand, they pulled themselves into its sheltering side and clambered gratefully into the seats. Shaking, Rabarn triggered the canopy, and it hummed into existence again, shutting out the whine of the wind.

“What... about... that?” Malak asked, still fighting to grab whatever air he could after having it stolen, and nodded towards the corpse of the dead animal.

“Just a... suggestion,” Rabarn muttered, busy getting the sled to start, “but let's leave... it for now, you think?”

“Good... idea.”

The sled swung away from the wind, creeping towards their camp. A real possibility existed that they could well be sucked into the centre of the umbra, and Raburn didn't want to risk that. Not yet. They still had too much to prepare for either of them to brave it.