He continues northward.

Now the City of Yissou slides into view far to the north, huddling like a wary tortoise behind its immense wall; and then in another moment he is past it, and coming over Vengiboneeza now, its turquoise and crimson towers all aglow with swarming insect life. There is a Nest here, above the ground, sprawling like a strange gray growth over the ancient Great World structures, but no Nialli. He has reached so great an altitude that he can make out the sweeping curve of the shoreline moving sharply to his right as he advances into the north. The entire coast of the continent slants notably eastward as it goes from south to north, so that the City of Yissou can lie far to the east of Dawinno and nevertheless be near the sea, and Vengiboneeza be farther eastward still, but also have its easy access to the water.

Onward. Beyond Vengiboneeza, into territory he has never dared enter except in imagination.

This is the land of the hjjks. They had ruled it in Great World days and they had never relinquished command of it, not even in the brutal worst of the Long Winter, when rivers and mountains of ice covered everything. Somehow they endured; somehow they provided for themselves when all other creatures were forced to flee to the milder south.

Now the ice is gone, laying bare the sorry barren land. Hresh looks down on red buttes and mesas, on knobby terraced promontories rising above dismal gray-brown wastes where no grass would grow, on empty riverbeds streaked with white saline outcroppings, on a chilly desolate landscape of forbidding aridity.

And yet there is life here.

The Barak Dayir brings him incontrovertible impulses of it. Here, here, here: the unmistakable blaze of life. No more than isolated sparks far from one another in this miserable netherworld over which he hovers; but they are sparks with a terrible intensity that nothing could quench.

They are hjjk sparks, though, only hjjk sparks, no trace here of anything but hjjks.

He senses insect souls by twos and threes, or tens and twenties, or a few hundreds, little bands of hjjks and some not so little, moving across the bleak face of these northlands on errands which even the Wonderstone can’t interpret for him. The scattered traveling bands move with a determination stronger than iron, less pliant than stone. Nothing, Hresh knows, would halt them, neither cold nor drought nor the wrath of the gods. They could have been planets, journeying on unswervable orbits across the sky. The strength that comes from them is terrifying.

These, Hresh thought, are the inhuman bowelless hjjks his people have always dreaded, the invulnerable and implacable insect-men of myth and fable and chronicle.

Is it to these monsters that his daughter has gone, seeking Nest-bond, seeking Queen-love? How could she have done it? What love, what mercy can she expect from them?

And yet — yet—

He tunes his perceptions, he extends and deepens the range of the Barak Dayir, and in amazement he tumbles through the net of his own preconceptions, he falls like a plummeting star into a new realm of awareness, and just as he has seen life behind the lifelessness it seems to him now that he sees souls behind the soullessness. He feels the presence of the Nest.

Many nests, actually. Widely spaced across the land, settlements largely underground, warm snug tunnels that radiate in a dozen directions from a central core, so that they remind him of nothing so much as the cocoon in which his own people had passed the seven hundred thousand years of the Long Winter. They teem with hjjks, uncountable multitudes of them, moving with the purposefulness and singlemindedness that the People regard with such horror. But it isn’t a soulless purposefulness. There is a plan, a central organizing principle, an inner coherence; and each of those millions of creatures moves in accordance with its part in it. It is as Nialli Apuilana had said, that day she spoke before the Presidium: they are no mere vermin. Their civilization, strange though it might be, is rich and complex, even great.

In each Nest lies a slumbering Queen, a great somnolent creature, swaddled and guarded, about whom the entire intricate life of the settlement revolves. Hresh, sensing the Queens now, is powerfully tempted to touch the mind of one of them with his own, to sink down into that sleeping vastness, to enter its powerful spirit and attempt to comprehend it. But he doesn’t dare. He doesn’t dare. He holds back, uneasy, uncertain, gripped by the timidities of age and fatigue, telling himself that that is not what he came here for, not now, not yet.

His roving mind seeks his daughter. Does not find her.

Not here? Not even here?

Farther north, then, perhaps. These are only subordinate Nests, subordinate Queens. Seek elsewhere, then. He feels the lodestone pull of the huge capital that lies beyond them, the home of the Queen of Queens, to which these great quiescent creatures are mere handmaidens.

Nialli? Nialli?

On and on he goes. Still no hint of her presence. Now he feels his disembodied consciousness approaching the Nest of Nests, ablaze on the northern horizon like a second sun. A terrible irresistible warmth comes from it. From it comes the incandescent all-loving soul-embrace of the Queen of Queens, calling to him, drawing him in.

No Nialli here. I have misled myself. She didn’t go to the Nest after all. I’ve gone in the wrong direction. Taken myself thousands of leagues away from where I should have looked.

Hresh halts his flight. The bright radiance on the horizon grows no closer. Time for him to return. He’s traveled as far this day as he can. The Queen of Queens is calling, but he won’t answer that summons, not now. It’s a powerful temptation: to enter the Nest, to fuse his soul with Hers, to learn more of what the world within this great hjjk-hive is like. The Hresh of the old days, wild little Hresh-full-of-questions, wouldn’t have hesitated. But this Hresh knows that he has responsibilities elsewhere. Let the Queen wait a little longer for him.

The warmth of the Nest burns in his flesh. The heat of Queen-love courses through his spirit. But with a powerful effort he makes himself turn, pulls away, begins the homeward journey.

Southward now he flew, past the barren lands, past radiant Vengiboneeza, past Yissou, past the dry plateaus of ruined fragmentary cities. The familiar warm greenness of his own province came into view. He could see the bay, the shore, the hills, the white towers of the city that he himself had built. He saw the parapet of the tall narrow House of Knowledge, and saw himself within the building, sitting sightless at his desk, the Barak Dayir clutched in his sensing-organ. A moment later he was united with himself once more.

“Thaggoran?” he called, looking around the room. “Noum om Beng? Are you still here?”

No, they’re gone. He’s alone, dazed, shaken, dumb-founded by the voyage he has just made. Somehow the night has fled while he journeyed. Golden light out of the east floods the room.

And Nialli — he has to find Nialli—

Surely she’s somewhere nearby, as Taniane had argued all along. Certainly she lives; the shinestones wouldn’t have deceived him about that. The life-impulses he had detected had been unmistakably hers. But where, where? In exhaustion he contemplated the Barak Dayir, wondering if he could muster the energy for another excursion.

I’ll rest a little while, he told himself. Ten minutes, half an hour—

He became aware of the sounds of shouting in the street far below.

An uprising? An invasion? With an effort Hresh rose and went outside, to the parapet. People were running and calling to one another down there. What were they saying? He could make nothing out — nothing—

A gust of wind blew him a few syllables only: “Nialli! Apuilana!”