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Danlo had met a warrior-poet; physically, with his terrible quick body and beautiful face, Malaclypse might have been the other poet's twin, for all warrior-poets are cut from the same chromosomes. But there was something different about Malaclypse, an otherness, an impossible aliveness, perhaps even a greatness of soul. With his shiny black hair showing white around the temples, he was at least fifteen years older than Danlo, which is old for a warrior-poet. Then, too, there was the matter of his rings. An exceptional warrior-poet might wear the red ring around the little finger of either hand. But no warrior-poet in all history, as far as Danlo knew, had ever worn two red rings.
    'Why have you been following me?' Danlo finally asked.
    Malaclypse smiled nicely; he had a beautiful smile that spread out over the golden lines of his face. 'But as you see, I haven't been following you – here I stand appreciating this fine view, these strange, alien stars. It's you who have followed me. And that's very strange, don't you think? Most men flee our kind rather than seeking us out.'
    'It seems to be my fate . . . to seek out warrior-poets.'
    'A strange fate,' Malaclypse said. 'It would seem more natural for me to seek you.'
    'To seek me ... why?'
    'You don't know?'
    'I do not know . . . if I want to know.'
    Malaclypse held his wine goblet up to his nose and inhaled deeply. He said, 'On Qallar, you're famous. For two reasons. You're one of the few ever to have defeated a warrior-poet – and the only one to have done so as a boy.'
    'I was sixteen when I met Marek in the library. I did not think of myself . . . as a boy.'
    'Still, a remarkable feat. If only you had been born on Qallar, you might have become warrior among warriors, a poet among poets.'
    At this startling thought, Danlo looked straight at Malaclypse. He looked deep into his marvellous, violet eyes, which were so dark that he could almost see his reflection gleaming in their black centres. 'I could never have become . . . a warrior-poet,' he said.
    'No?'
    Danlo let this question hang in the air, even as the gong-ing sound of Mer Tadeo's music pools hung low and urgent over the lawns and fountains of the garden. He kept his eyes on Malaclypse's eyes, and he said, 'Have you come here tonight to avenge Marek's death, then?'
    'You ask this question so blithely.'
    'How should I ask, then?'
    'Most men would not ask at all. They would flee. Why aren't you afraid of our kind?'
    'I ... do not know.'
    'It's the greatest gift, not to fear,' Malaclypse said. 'But, of course, you needn't have feared that we would avenge Marek. He died according to our forms, which we thank you for observing so impeccably.'
    'I did not want him to die.'
    'And that is the most remarkable thing of all. It's said that you have taken a vow of ahimsa to harm no living thing – and yet you were able to help Marek on to his moment of the possible.'
    Danlo remembered too well how Marek of Qallar had plunged his killing knife into his own brain and so reached his moment of the possible, where life is death, and death is life. He remembered that Marek, just before he had accomplished this noble act, had confessed that the warrior-poets had a new rule for their bloody order: to kill all gods, even all women and men who might become as gods. For six years, Danlo had shared this secret with only two other people, but now he said, 'I know why Marek came to Neverness. The true reason. He told me about your rule before he died.'
    Malaclypse smiled at this piece of news, which – strangely – seemed not to surprise him. 'I've said that you're famous on my world for two reasons. The second reason, of course, is because you're the son of Mallory Ringess. Marek was sent to Neverness to determine if you're truly the son of the father.'
    'Am I, then?'
    'Don't you know?'
    'How . . . would I know?'
    At this, Malaclypse laughed easily, and to Danlo he said, 'I've heard that you're also famous for answering questions with