CHAPTER ONE
I
Please don’t die, Gallan willed the tiny blade of grass, squatting beside it in breathless concentration, his white finger hovering tremulously over its green tip. Next to it, two other blades lay withered and bent, their vivid green turned to uncolour – the colour of a cellar’s extremity – by Gallan’s fleeting, fearful touch.
His fingertip was almost grazing the sharp, erect blade, when Raddia’s voice filled his head, harsh and frightened. Have you lost your mind? she said, while casting her own mind around to make sure no other Mates or Makers were listening. Put your glove on, she said, her voice growing both frantic and plaintive. And dispose of the dead grass before someone sees it. Things are bad enough without provoking our Makers’ wrath.
With a single soft puff, the shriveled blades scattered in a thin cloud of particles, their telltale uncolour quickly disappearing into the living grass. Then Gallan turned to his Mate, although his eyes rose no further than Raddia’s red-shod feet.
But I came so close to succeeding! he said, his tightly-shut lips quivering like a beast’s from all the excitement. I managed to – contact. And it didn’t die at once! For a while it stayed alive, and green, and –
Nonsense! Of course it died. It’s just some lowly weed. Your Substance is killing it.
For a moment, Gallan contemplated the untouched blade, the skin of his finger tingling with illicit desire. But Raddia’s mounting distress was affecting him, and so, with an inner sigh of defeat, he put on his white glove, and saw it turn instantly red.
As he got to his feet, he picked up a Maker’s hoarse voice, speaking to her old Mate about an abortive Surfacing Rite, the latest in a series of failed matings that had cast a pall of unease over Lurien. Gallan wiped his mind clean in a hurry, concealing his thoughts about the grass with a trivial, guiltless statement.
I’m famished, he said. I crave a hearty supper.