Kitabı oxu: «The Sapphire Rose»
DAVID EDDINGS
The Sapphire Rose
The Elenium
BOOK THREE
Copyright
HarperVoyager An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpervoyagerbooks.co.uk
This edition 1995
Previously published in paperback by Grafton 1992, reprinted once, and by HarperCollins Science Fiction & Fantasy 1993, reprinted twice
First published in Great Britain by Grafton 1991
Copyright © David Eddings 1991
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015 Cover images © Shutterstock.com
The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Source ISBN: 9780007127832
Ebook Edition © JUNE 2010 ISBN: 9780007375080
Version 2015-03-20
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Map
Prologue
Part One: The Basilica
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Part Two: The Archprelate
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Part Three: Zemoch
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Author’s Note
About the Author
Also by the Author
About the Publisher
Map
Prologue
Otha and Azash – Excerpted from A Cursory History of Zemoch. Compiled by the History Department of the University of Borrata.
Following the invasion of the Elenic-speaking peoples from the steppes of central Daresia lying to the east, the Elenes gradually migrated westward to displace the thinly scattered Styrics who inhabited the Eosian continent. The tribes which settled in Zemoch were latecomers, and they were far less advanced than their cousins to the west. Their economy and social organization were simplistic, and their towns rude by comparison with the cities which were springing up in the emerging western kingdoms. The climate of Zemoch, moreover, was at best inhospitable, and life there existed at the subsistence level. The Church found little to attract her attention to so poor and unpleasant a region; and as a result, the rough chapels of Zemoch became largely unpastored and their simple congregations untended. Thus the Zemochs were obliged to take their religious impulses elsewhere. Since there were few Elene priests in the region to enforce the Church ban on consorting with the heathen Styrics, fraternization became common. As the simple Elene peasantry perceived that their Styric neighbours were able to reap significant benefits from the use of the arcane arts, it is perhaps only natural that apostasy became rampant. Whole Elenic villages in Zemoch were converted to Styric pantheism. Temples were openly erected in honour of this or that topical God, and the darker Styric cults flourished. Intermarriage between Elene and Styric became common, and by the end of the first millennium, Zemoch could no longer have been considered in any light to be a true Elenic nation. The centuries and the close contact with the Styrics had even so far corrupted the Elenic language in Zemoch that it was scarcely intelligible to western Elenes.
It was in the eleventh century that a youthful goatherd in the mountain village of Ganda in central Zemoch had a strange and ultimately earth-shaking experience. While searching in the hills for a straying goat, the lad, Otha by name, came across a hidden, vine-covered shrine which had been erected in antiquity by one of the numerous Styric cults. The shrine had been raised to a weathered idol which was at once grotesquely distorted and at the same time oddly compelling. As Otha rested from the rigours of his climb, he heard a hollow voice address him in the Styric tongue. ‘Who art thou, boy?’ the voice inquired.
‘My name is Otha,’ the lad replied haltingly, trying to remember his Styric.
‘And hast thou come to this place to pay obeisance to me, to fall down and worship me?’
‘No,’ Otha answered with uncharacteristic truthfulness. ‘What I’m really doing is trying to find one of my goats.’
There was a long pause. Then the hollow, chilling voice continued. ‘And what must I give thee to wring from thee thine obeisance and thy worship? None of thy kind hath attended my shrine for five thousand years, and I hunger for worship – and for souls.’
Otha was certain at this point that the voice was that of one of his fellow herders playing a prank on him, and he determined to turn the joke around. ‘Oh,’ he said in an offhand manner, ‘I’d like to be the king of the world, to live forever, to have a thousand ripe young girls willing to do whatever I wanted them to do, and a mountain of gold – and, oh yes, I want my goat back.’
‘And wilt thou give me thy soul in exchange for these things?’
Otha considered it. He had been scarcely aware of the fact that he had a soul, and so its loss would hardly inconvenience him. He reasoned, moreover, that if this were not, in fact, some juvenile goatherd prank, and if the offer were serious, failure to deliver even one of his impossible demands would invalidate the contract. ‘Oh, all right,’ he agreed with an indifferent shrug, ‘– but first I’d like to see my goat – just as an indication of good faith.’
‘Turn thee around then, Otha,’ the voice commanded, ‘and behold that which was lost.’
Otha turned, and sure enough, there stood the missing goat, idly chewing on a bush and looking curiously at him. Quickly he tethered her to the bush. At heart, Otha was a moderately vicious lad. He enjoyed inflicting pain on helpless creatures. He was given to cruel practical jokes, to petty theft, and, whenever it was safe, to a form of seduction of lonely shepherdesses that had only directness to commend it. He was avaricious and slovenly, and he had a grossly overestimated opinion of his own cleverness. His mind worked very fast as he tied his goat to the bush. If this obscure Styric divinity could deliver a lost goat upon demand, what else might He be capable of? Otha decided that this might very well be the opportunity of a lifetime. ‘All right,’ he said, feigning simple-mindedness, ‘one prayer – for now – in exchange for the goat. We can talk about souls and empires and wealth and immortality and women later. Show yourself. I’m not going to bow down to empty air. What’s your name, by the way? I’ll need to know that in order to frame a proper prayer.’
‘I am Azash, most powerful of the Elder Gods, and if thou wilt be my servant and lead others to worship me, I will grant thee far more than thou hast asked. I will exalt thee and give thee wealth beyond thine imagining. The fairest of maidens shall be thine. Thou shalt have life unending, and, moreover, power over the spirit world such as no man hath ever had. All I ask in return, Otha, is thy soul and the souls of those others thou wilt bring to me. My need and my loneliness are great, and my rewards unto thee shall be equally great. Look upon my face now, and tremble before me.’
There was a shimmering in the air surrounding the crude idol, and Otha saw the reality of Azash hovering about the roughly-carved image. He shrank in horror before the awful presence which had so suddenly appeared before him and fell to the ground, abasing himself before it. This was going much too far. At heart, Otha was a coward, however, and he was afraid that the most rational response to the materialized Azash – instant flight – might provoke the hideous God into doing nasty things to him, and Otha was extremely solicitous of his own skin.
‘Pray, Otha,’ the idol gloated. ‘Mine ears hunger for thine adoration.’
‘Oh, mighty – um – Azash, wasn’t it? God of Gods and Lord of the World, hear my prayer and receive my humble worship. I am as the dust before thee, and thou towerest above me like the mountain. I worship thee and praise thee and thank thee from the depths of my heart for the return of this miserable goat – which I will beat senseless for straying just as soon as I get her home.’ Trembling, Otha hoped that the prayer might satisfy Azash – or at least distract Him enough to provide him an opportunity for escape.
‘Thy prayer is adequate, Otha,’ the idol acknowledged, ‘– barely. In time thou wilt become more proficient in thine adoration. Go now thy way, and I will savour this rude prayer of thine. Return again on the morrow, and I will disclose my mind further unto thee.’
As he trudged home with his goat, Otha vowed never to return, but that night he tossed on his rude pallet in the filthy hut where he lived, and his mind was afire with visions of wealth and subservient young women upon whom he could vent his lust. ‘Let’s see where this goes,’ he muttered to himself as the dawn marked the end of the troubled night. ‘If I have to, I can always run away later.’
And that began the discipleship of a simple Zemoch goatherd to the Elder God, Azash, a God whose name Otha’s Styric neighbours would not even utter, so great was their fear of Him. In the centuries which followed, Otha realized how profound was his enslavement. Azash patiently led him through simple worship into the practice of perverted rites and beyond into the realms of spiritual abomination. The formerly ingenuous and only moderately disgusting goatherd became morose and sombre as the dreaded idol fed gluttonously upon his mind and soul. Though he lived a half-dozen lifetimes, his limbs withered, while his paunch and head grew bloated and hairless and pallid-white as a result of his abhorrence of the sun. He grew vastly wealthy, but took no pleasure in his wealth. He had eager concubines by the score, but he was indifferent to their charms. A thousand, thousand wraiths and imps and creatures of ultimate darkness responded to his slightest whim, but he could not even summon sufficient interest to command them. His only joy became the contemplation of pain and death as his minions cruelly wrenched and tore the lives of the weak and helpless from their quivering bodies for his entertainment. In that respect, Otha had not changed.
During the early years of the third millennium, after the slug-like Otha had passed his nine hundredth year, he commanded his infernal underlings to carry the rude shrine of Azash to the city of Zemoch in the northeast highlands. An enormous semblance of the hideous God was constructed to enclose the shrine, and a vast temple erected about it. Beside that temple and connected to it by a labyrinthine series of passageways stood his own palace, gilt with fine, hammered gold and inlaid with pearl and onyx and chalcedony and with its columns surmounted with intricately-carved capitals of ruby and emerald. There he indifferently proclaimed himself Emperor of all Zemoch, a proclamation seconded by the thunderous but somehow mocking voice of Azash booming hollowly from the temple and cheered by multitudes of howling fiends.
There began then a ghastly reign of terror in Zemoch. All opposing cults were ruthlessly extirpated. Sacrifices of the newborn and virgins numbered in the thousands, and Elene and Styric alike were converted by the sword to the worship of Azash. It took perhaps a century for Otha and his henchmen to totally eradicate all traces of decency from his enslaved subjects. Blood-lust and rampant cruelty became common, and the rites performed before the altars and shrines erected to Azash became increasingly degenerate and obscene.
In the twenty-fifth century, Otha deemed that all was in readiness to pursue the ultimate goal of his perverted God, and he massed his human armies and their dark allies upon the western borders of Zemoch. After a brief pause, while he and Azash gathered their strength, Otha struck, sending his forces down onto the plains of Pelosia, Lamorkand and Cammoria. The horror of that invasion cannot be fully described. Simple atrocity was not sufficient to slake the savagery of the Zemoch horde, and the gross cruelties of the inhumans who accompanied the invading army are too hideous to be mentioned. Mountains of human heads were erected, captives were roasted alive and then eaten, and the roads and highways were lined with occupied crosses, gibbets and stakes. The skies grew black with flocks of vultures and ravens and the air reeked with the stench of burned and rotting flesh.
Otha’s armies moved with confidence towards the battlefield, fully believing that their hellish allies could easily overcome any resistance, but they had reckoned without the power of the Knights of the Church. The great battle was joined on the plains of Lamorkand just to the south of Lake Randera. The purely physical struggle was titanic enough, but the supernatural battle on that plain was even more stupendous. Every conceivable form of spirit joined in the fray. Waves of total darkness and sheets of multicoloured light swept the field. Fire and lightning rained from the sky. Whole battalions were swallowed up by the earth or burned to ashes in sudden flame. The shattering crash of thunder rolled perpetually from horizon to horizon, and the ground itself was torn by earthquake and the eruption of searing liquid rock which poured down slopes to engulf advancing legions. For days the armies were locked in dreadful battle upon that bloody field before, step by step, the Zemochs were pushed back. The horrors which Otha hurled into the fray were overmatched one by one by the concerted power of the Church Knights, and for the first time the Zemochs tasted defeat. Their slow, grudging retreat became more rapid, eventually turning into a rout as the demoralized horde broke and ran towards the dubious safety of the border.
The victory of the Elenes was complete, but not without dreadful cost. Fully half of the Militant Knights lay slain upon the battlefield, and the armies of the Elene Kings numbered their dead by the scores of thousands. The victory was theirs, but they were too exhausted and too few to pursue the fleeing Zemochs past the border.
The bloated Otha, his withered limbs no longer even able to bear his weight, was borne on a litter through the labyrinth at Zemoch to the temple, there to face the wrath of Azash. He grovelled before the idol of his God, blubbering and begging for mercy.
And at long last Azash spoke. ‘One last time, Otha,’ the God said in a horribly quiet voice. ‘Once only will I relent. I will possess Bhelliom, and thou wilt obtain it for me and deliver it up to me here, for if thou dost not do this thing, my generosity unto thee shall vanish. If gifts do not encourage thee to bend to my will, perhaps torment will. Go Otha. Find Bhelliom for me and return with it here that I may be unchained and my maleness restored. Shouldst thou fail me, surely wilt thou die, and thy dying shall consume a million, million years.’
Otha fled, and thus, even in the ruins and tatters of his defeat was born his last assault upon the Elene kingdoms of the west, an assault which was to bring the world to the brink of universal disaster.
PART ONE
Chapter 1
The waterfall dropped endlessly into the chasm that had claimed Ghwerig, and the echo of its plunge filled the cavern with a deep-toned sound like the after-shimmer of some great bell. Sparhawk knelt at the edge of the abyss with the Bhelliom held tightly in his fist. Thought had been erased, and he could only kneel at the brink of the chasm, his eyes dazzled by the light of the sun-touched column of water falling into the depths from the surface above and his ears full of its sound.
The cave smelled damp. The mist-like spray from the waterfall bedewed the rocks, and the wet stones shimmered in the shifting light of the torrent to mingle with the last fading glimmerings of Aphrael’s incandescent ascension.
Sparhawk slowly lowered his eyes to look at the jewel he held in his fist. Though it appeared delicate, even fragile, he sensed that the Sapphire Rose was all but indestructible. From deep within its azure heart there came a kind of pulsating glow, deep blue at the tips of the petals and darkening down at the gem’s centre to a lambent midnight. Its power made his hand ache, and something deep in his mind shrieked warnings at him as he gazed into its depths. He shuddered and tore his eyes from its seductive glow.
The hard-bitten Pandion Knight looked around, irrationally trying to cling to the fading bits of light lingering in the stones of the Troll-Dwarf’s cave as if the Child-Goddess Aphrael could somehow protect him from the jewel he had laboured so long to gain and which he now strangely feared. There was more to it than that, though. At some level below thought Sparhawk wanted to hold that faint light forever, to keep the spirit if not the person of the tiny, whimsical divinity in his heart.
Sephrenia sighed and slowly rose to her feet. Her face was weary and at the same time exalted. She had struggled hard to reach this damp cave in the mountains of Thalesia, but she had been rewarded with that joyful moment of epiphany when she had looked full into the face of her Goddess. ‘We must leave this place now, dear ones,’ she said sadly.
‘Can’t we stay a few minutes longer?’ Kurik asked her with an uncharacteristic longing in his voice. Of all the men in the world, Kurik was the most prosaic – most of the time.
‘It’s better that we don’t. If we stay too long, we’ll start finding excuses to stay longer. In time, we may not want to leave at all.’ The small, white-robed Styric looked at Bhelliom with revulsion. ‘Please get it out of sight, Sparhawk, and command it to be still. Its presence contaminates us all.’ She shifted the sword the ghost of Sir Gared had delivered to her aboard Captain Sorgi’s ship. She muttered in Styric for a moment and then released the spell that ignited the tip of the sword with a brilliant glow to light their way back to the surface.
Sparhawk tucked the flower gem inside his tunic and bent to pick up the spear of King Aldreas. His chain-mail shirt smelled very foul to him just now, and his skin cringed away from its touch. He wished that he could rid himself of it.
Kurik stooped and lifted the iron-bound stone club the hideously malformed Troll-Dwarf had wielded against them before his fatal plunge into the chasm. He hefted the brutal weapon a couple of times and then indifferently tossed it into the abyss after its owner.
Sephrenia lifted the glowing sword over her head, and the three of them crossed the gem-littered floor of Ghwerig’s treasure cave towards the entrance of the spiralling gallery that led to the surface.
‘Do you think we’ll ever see her again?’ Kurik asked wistfully as they entered the gallery.
‘Aphrael? It’s hard to say. She’s always been a little unpredictable.’ Sephrenia’s voice was subdued.
They climbed in silence for a time, following the spiral of the gallery steadily to the left. Sparhawk felt a strange emptiness as they climbed. They had been four when they had descended; now they were only three. The Child-Goddess, however, had not been left behind, for they all carried her in their hearts. There was something else bothering him, though. ‘Is there any way we can seal up this cave once we get outside?’ he asked his tutor.
Sephrenia looked at him, her eyes intent. ‘We can if you wish, dear one, but why do you want to?’
‘It’s a little hard to put into words.’
‘We’ve got what we came for, Sparhawk. Why should you care if some swineherd stumbles across the cave now?’
‘I’m not entirely sure.’ He frowned, trying to pinpoint it. ‘If some Thalesian peasant comes in here, he’ll eventually find Ghwerig’s treasure-hoard, won’t he?’
‘If he looks long enough, yes.’
‘And after that it won’t be long before the cave’s swarming with other Thalesians.’
‘Why should that bother you? Do you want Ghwerig’s treasure for yourself?’
‘Hardly. Martel’s the greedy one, not me.’
‘Then why are you so concerned? What does it matter if the Thalesians start wandering around in here?’
‘This is a very special place, Sephrenia.’
‘In what way?’
‘It’s holy,’ he replied shortly. Her probing had begun to irritate him. ‘A Goddess revealed herself to us here. I don’t want the cave profaned by a crowd of drunken, greedy treasure-hunters. I’d feel the same way if someone profaned an Elene Church.’
‘Dear Sparhawk,’ she said, impulsively embracing him. ‘Did it really cost you all that much to admit Aphrael’s divinity?’
‘Your Goddess was very convincing, Sephrenia,’ he replied wryly. ‘She’d have shaken the certainty of the Hierocracy of the Elene Church itself. Can we do it? Seal the cave, I mean?’
She started to say something, then stopped, frowning. ‘Wait here,’ she told them. She leaned Sir Gared’s sword point up against the wall of the gallery and walked back down the passage a little way, and then stopped again at the very edge of the light from the glowing sword-tip where she stood deep in thought. After a time, she returned.
‘I’m going to ask you to do something dangerous, Sparhawk,’ she said gravely. ‘I think you’ll be safe though. The memory of Aphrael is still strong in your mind, and that should protect you.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘We’re going to use Bhelliom to seal the cave. There are other ways we could do it, but we have to be sure that the jewel will accept your authority. I think it will, but let’s make certain. You’re going to have to be strong, Sparhawk. Bhelliom won’t want to do what you ask, so you’ll have to compel it.’
‘I’ve dealt with stubborn things before,’ he shrugged.
‘Don’t make light of this, Sparhawk. It’s something far more elemental than anything I’ve ever done before. Let’s move on.’
They continued upward along the spiralling passageway with the muted roar of the waterfall in Ghwerig’s treasure-cave growing fainter and fainter. Then, just as they moved beyond the range of hearing, the sound seemed to change, fragmenting its one endless note into many, becoming a complex chord rather than a single tone – some trick perhaps of the shifting echoes in the cave. With the change of that sound, Sparhawk’s mood also changed. Before, there had been a kind of weary satisfaction at having finally achieved a long-sought goal coupled with the sense of awe at the revelation of the Child-Goddess. Now, however, the dark, musty cave seemed somehow ominous, threatening. Sparhawk felt something he had not felt since early childhood. He was suddenly afraid of the dark. Things seemed to lurk in the shadows beyond the circle of light from the glowing sword-tip, faceless things filled with a cruel malevolence. He nervously looked back over his shoulder. Far back, beyond the light, something seemed to move. It was brief, no more than a flicker of a deeper, more intense darkness. He discovered that when he tried to look directly at it, he could no longer see it, but when he looked off to one side, it was there – vague, unformed and hovering on the very edge of his vision. It filled him with an unnamed dread. ‘Foolishness,’ he muttered, and moved on, eager to reach the light above them.
It was mid-afternoon when they reached the surface, and the sun seemed very bright after the dark cave. Sparhawk drew in a deep breath and reached inside his tunic.
‘Not yet, Sparhawk,’ Sephrenia advised. ‘We want to collapse the ceiling of the cave, but we don’t want to bring that overhanging cliff down on our heads at the same time. We’ll go back down to where the horses are and do it from there.’
‘You’ll have to teach me the spell,’ he said as the three of them crossed the bramble-choked basin in front of the cave mouth.
‘There isn’t any spell. You have the jewel and the rings. All you have to do is give the command. I’ll show you how when we get down.’
They clambered down the rocky ravine to the grassy plateau and their previous night’s encampment. It was nearly sunset when they reached the pair of tents and the picketed horses. Faran laid his ears back and bared his teeth as Sparhawk approached him.
‘What’s your problem?’ Sparhawk asked his evil-tempered warhorse.
‘He senses Bhelliom,’ Sephrenia explained. ‘He doesn’t like it. Stay away from him for a while.’ She looked critically up the gap from which they had just emerged. ‘It’s safe enough here,’ she decided. ‘Take out Bhelliom and hold it in both hands so that the rings are touching it.’
‘Do I have to face the cave?’
‘No. Bhelliom will know what you’re telling it to do. Now, remember the inside of the cave – the look of it, the feel, and even the smell. Then imagine the roof collapsing. The rocks will tumble down and bounce and roll and pile up on top of each other. There’ll be a lot of noise. A great cloud of dust and a strong wind will come rushing out of the cave mouth. The ridge-line above the cave will sag as the roof of the cavern collapses, and there’ll probably be avalanches. Don’t let any of that distract you. Keep the images firmly in your mind.’
‘It’s a bit more complicated than an ordinary spell, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. This is not, strictly speaking, a spell, though. You’ll be unleashing elemental magic. Concentrate, Sparhawk. The more detailed you make the image, the more powerfully Bhelliom will respond. When you’ve got it firmly in your mind, tell the jewel to make it happen.’
‘Do I have to speak to it in Ghwerig’s language?’
‘I’m not sure. Try Elene first. If that doesn’t work, we’ll fall back on Troll.’
Sparhawk remembered the mouth of the cave, the antechamber just inside, and the long, spiralling gallery leading down to Ghwerig’s treasure-cave. ‘Should I bring down the roof on that waterfall as well?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think so. That river might come to the surface again somewhere downstream. If you dam it up, someone might notice that it’s not running any more and start investigating. Besides, that particular cavern is very special, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Let’s enclose it then and protect it forever.’
Sparhawk pictured the ceiling of the cave collapsing with a huge, grinding roar and a billowing cloud of rock dust. ‘What do I say?’ he asked.
‘Call it “Blue-Rose”. That’s what Ghwerig called it. It might recognize the name.’
‘Blue-Rose,’ Sparhawk said in a tone of command, ‘make the cave fall in.’
The Sapphire Rose went very dark, and angry red flashes appeared deep in its centre.
‘It’s fighting you,’ Sephrenia said. ‘This is the part I warned you about. The cave is the place where it was born, and it doesn’t want to destroy it. Force it, Sparhawk.’
‘Do it, Blue-Rose!’ Sparhawk barked, bending every ounce of his will on the jewel in his hands. Then he felt a surge of incredible power, and the sapphire seemed to throb in his hands. He felt a sudden wild exaltation as he unloosed the might of the stone. It was far beyond mere satisfaction. It verged almost on physical ecstasy.
There was a low, sullen rumbling from deep in the ground, and the earth shuddered. Rocks deep beneath them began to pop and crack as the earthquake shattered layer upon layer of subterranean rock. Far up the ravine, the rock face looming over the mouth of Ghwerig’s cave began to topple outward, then dropped straight down into the weedy basin as its base crumbled out from under it. The sound of the collapsing cliff was very loud even at this distance, and a vast cloud of dust boiled up from the rubble and then drifted off to the northeast as the prevailing wind that raked these mountains swept it away. Then, even as it had in the cave, something flickered at the edge of Sparhawk’s vision – something dark and filled with malevolent curiosity.
‘How do you feel?’ Sephrenia asked, her eyes intent.
‘A little strange,’ he admitted, ‘very strong for some reason.’
‘Keep your mind away from that. Concentrate on Aphrael instead. Don’t even think about Bhelliom until that feeling wears off. Get it out of sight again. Don’t look at it.’
Sparhawk tucked the sapphire back inside his tunic.
Kurik looked up the ravine towards the huge pile of rubble now filling the basin which had lain before the mouth of Ghwerig’s cave. ‘That all seems so final,’ he said regretfully.
‘It is,’ Sephrenia told him. ‘The cavern’s safe now. Let’s keep our minds on other things, gentlemen. Don’t dwell on what we’ve just done, or we might be tempted to undo it.’
‘Nobody ever kissed me all that much.’
‘That may come in time, Talen – if you behave yourself.’
Chapter 2
The weather on the Thalesian Peninsula, like that in every northern kingdom, was never really settled, and it was drizzling rain the following morning as bank after bank of thick, dirty clouds rolled into the straits of Thalesia off the Deiran Sea.
‘A splendid day for a voyage,’ Stragen observed dryly as he and Sparhawk looked through a partially boarded-up window at the rain-wet streets below. ‘I hate rain. I wonder if I could find any career opportunities in Rendor.’
‘I don’t recommend it,’ Sparhawk told him, remembering a sun-blasted street in Jiroch.
‘Our horses are already on board the ship,’ Stragen said. ‘We can leave as soon as Sephrenia and the others are ready.’ He paused. ‘Is that roan horse of yours always so restive in the morning?’ he asked curiously. ‘My men report that he bit three of them on the way to the docks.’
‘I should have warned them. Faran’s not the best-tempered horse in the world.’
‘Why do you keep him?’
‘Because he’s the most dependable horse I’ve ever owned. I’ll put up with a few of his crotchets in exchange for that. Besides, I like him.’
Stragen looked at Sparhawk’s chain-mail shirt. ‘You really don’t have to wear that, you know.’
‘Habit,’ Sparhawk shrugged, ‘and there are a fair number of unfriendly people looking for me at the moment.’
‘It smells awful, you know.’
‘You get used to it.’
‘You seem moody this morning, Sparhawk. Is something wrong?’
‘I’ve been on the road for a long time, and I’ve run into some things I wasn’t really prepared to accept. I’m trying to sort things out in my mind.’
‘Maybe someday when we get to know each other better, you can tell me about it.’ Stragen seemed to think of something. ‘Oh, incidentally, Tel mentioned those three ruffians who were looking for you last night. They aren’t looking any more.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It was a sort of internal matter really, Sparhawk. They violated one of the primary rules when they didn’t check with me before they went looking for you. I can’t really afford to have people setting that kind of precedent. We couldn’t get much out of them, I’m afraid. They were acting on the orders of someone outside Thalesia, though. We were able to get that much from the one who was still breathing. Why don’t we go and see if Sephrenia’s ready?’
There was an elegant coach awaiting them outside the rear door of the warehouse about fifteen minutes later. They entered it, and the driver manoeuvred his matched team around in the narrow alley and out into the street.
When they reached the harbour, the coach rolled out onto a wharf and stopped beside a ship that appeared to be one of the kind normally used for coastal trade. Her half-furled sails were patched and her heavy railings showed signs of having been broken and repaired many times. Her sides were tarred, and she bore no name on her bow.
‘She’s a pirate, isn’t she?’ Kurik asked Stragen as they stepped down from the coach.
‘Yes, as a matter of fact, she is,’ Stragen replied. ‘I own a fair number of vessels in that business, but how did you recognize her?’
‘She’s built for speed, Milord,’ Kurik said. ‘She’s too narrow in the beam for cargo capacity, and the reinforcing around her masts says that she was built to carry a lot of sail. She was designed to run other ships down.’
‘Or to run away from them, Kurik. Pirates live nervous lives. There are all sorts of people in the world who yearn to hang pirates just on general principles.’ Stragen looked around at the drizzly harbour. ‘Let’s go on board,’ he suggested. ‘There’s not much point in standing out here in the rain discussing the finer points of life at sea.’
They went up the gangway, and Stragen led them to their cabins below deck. The sailors slipped their hawsers, and the ship moved out of the rainy harbour at a stately pace. Once they were past the headland and in deep water, however, the crew crowded on more sail, and the questionable vessel heeled over and raced across the straits of Thalesia towards the Deiran coast.
Sparhawk went up on deck about noon and found Stragen leaning on the rail near the bow looking moodily out over the grey, rain-dappled sea. He wore a heavy brown cloak, and his hat-brim dripped water down his back.
‘I thought you didn’t like rain,’ Sparhawk said.
‘It’s humid down in that cabin,’ the brigand replied. ‘I needed some air. I’m glad you came up though, Sparhawk. Pirates aren’t very interesting conversationalists.’
They stood for a time listening to the creaking of rigging and ship’s timbers and to the melancholy sound of rain hissing into the sea.
‘How is it that Kurik knows so much about ships?’ Stragen asked finally.
‘He went to sea for a while when he was young.’
‘That explains it, I guess. I don’t suppose you’d care to talk about what you were doing in Thalesia?’
‘Not really. Church business, you understand.’
Stragen smiled. ‘Ah, yes. Our taciturn holy mother Church,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I think she keeps secrets just for the fun of it.’
‘We sort of have to take it on faith that she knows what she’s doing.’
‘You have to, Sparhawk, because you’re a Church Knight. I haven’t taken any of those vows, so I’m perfectly free to view her with a certain scepticism. I did give some thought to entering the Priesthood when I was younger, though.’
‘You might have done very well. The Priesthood or the army are always interested in the talented younger sons of noblemen.’
‘I rather like that,’ Stragen smiled. ‘“Younger son” has a much nicer sound to it than “bastard”, doesn’t it? It doesn’t really matter to me, though. I don’t need rank or legitimacy to make my way in the world. The Church and I wouldn’t have got along too well, I’m afraid. I don’t have the humility she seems to require, and a congregation reeking of unwashed armpits would have driven me to renounce my vows fairly early on.’ He looked back out at the rainy sea. ‘When you get right down to it, life didn’t leave me too many options. I’m not humble enough for the Church, I’m not obedient enough for the army and I don’t have the bourgeois temperament necessary for trade. I did dabble for a time at court, though, since the government always needs good administrators, legitimate or not, but after I’d beaten out the dull-witted son of a duke for a position we both wanted, he became abusive. I challenged him, of course, and he was foolish enough to show up for our appointment wearing chain-mail and carrying a broadsword. No offence intended, Sparhawk, but chain-mail has a few too many small holes in it to be a good defence against a well-sharpened rapier. My opponent discovered that fairly early on in the discussion. After I’d run him through a few times, he sort of lost interest in the whole business. I left him for dead – which proved to be a pretty good guess – and quietly removed myself from government service. The dullard I’d just skewered turned out to be distantly related to King Wargun, and our drunken monarch has very little in the way of a sense of humour.’
‘I’ve noticed.’
‘How did you manage to get on the wrong side of him?’
Sparhawk shrugged. ‘He wanted me to participate in that war going on down in Arcium, but I had pressing business in Thalesia. How’s that war going, by the way? I’ve been a little out of touch.’
‘About all we’ve had in the way of information are rumours. Some say that the Rendors have been exterminated; others say that Wargun has, and that the Rendors are marching north burning everything that’s the least bit flammable. Whichever rumour you choose to believe depends on your view of the world, I suppose.’ Stragen looked sharply aft.
‘Something wrong?’ Sparhawk asked him.
‘That ship back there.’ Stragen pointed. ‘She looks like a merchantman, but she’s moving a little too fast.’
‘Another pirate?’
‘I don’t recognize her – and believe me, I’d recognize her if she were in my line of business.’ He peered aft, his face tight. Then he relaxed. ‘She’s veering off now.’ He laughed briefly. ‘Sorry if I seem a little over-suspicious, Sparhawk, but unsuspicious pirates usually end up decorating some wharf-side gallows. Where were we?’
Stragen was asking a few too many questions. It was probably a good time to divert him. ‘You were about to tell me about how you left Wargun’s court and set up one of your own,’ Sparhawk suggested.
‘It took a little while,’ Stragen admitted, ‘but I’m rather uniquely suited for a life of crime. I haven’t been the least bit squeamish since the day I killed my father and my two half-brothers.’
Sparhawk was a bit surprised at that.
‘Killing my father might have been a mistake,’ Stragen admitted. ‘He wasn’t really a bad sort, and he did pay for my education, but I took offence at the way he treated my mother. She was an amiable young woman from a well-placed family who’d been put in my father’s household as the companion of his ailing wife. The usual sort of thing happened, and I was the result. After my disgrace at court, my father decided to distance himself from me, so he sent my mother home to her family. She died not long afterwards. I suppose I could justify my patricide by claiming that she died of a broken heart, but as a matter of fact, she choked to death on a fish bone. Anyway, I paid a short visit to my father’s house, and his title is now vacant. My two half-brothers were stupid enough to join in, and now all three of them share the same tomb. I rather imagine that my father regretted all the money he’d spent on my fencing lessons. The expression on his face while he was dying seemed to indicate that he was regretting something.’ The blond man shrugged. ‘I was younger then. I’d probably do it differently now. There’s not much profit involved in randomly rendering relatives down to dog-meat, is there?’
‘That depends on how you define profit.’
Stragen gave him a quick grin. ‘Anyway, I realized almost as soon as I took to the streets that there’s not that much difference between a baron and a cutpurse or a duchess and a whore. I tried to explain that to my predecessor, but the fool wouldn’t listen to me. He drew his sword on me, and I removed him from office. Then I began training the thieves and whores of Emsat. I’ve adorned them with imaginary titles, purloined finery and a thin crust of good manners to give them a semblance of gentility. Then I turned them loose on the aristocracy. Business is very, very good, and I’m able to repay my former class for a thousand slights and insults.’ He paused. ‘Have you had about enough of this malcontented diatribe yet, Sparhawk? I must say that your courtesy and forbearance are virtually superhuman. I’m tired of being rained on anyway. Why don’t we go below? I’ve got a dozen flagons of Arcian red in my cabin. We can both get a little tipsy and engage in some civilized conversation.’
Sparhawk considered this complex man as he followed him below. Stragen’s motives were clear, of course. His resentment and that towering hunger for revenge were completely understandable. What was unusual was his total lack of self-pity. Sparhawk found that he liked the man. He didn’t trust him, of course. That would have been foolish, but he liked him nonetheless.
‘So do I,’ Talen agreed that evening in their cabin when Sparhawk briefly recounted Stragen’s story and confessed his liking for the man. ‘That’s probably natural, though. Stragen and I have a lot in common.’
‘Are you going to throw that in my teeth again?’ Kurik asked him.
‘I’m not lobbing stones in your direction, father,’ Talen said. ‘Things like that happen, and I’m a lot less sensitive about it than Stragen is.’ He grinned then. ‘I was able to use our similar backgrounds to some advantage while I was in Emsat, though. I think he took a liking to me, and he made me some very interesting offers. He wants me to come to work for him.’
‘You’ve got a promising future ahead of you, Talen,’ Kurik said sourly. ‘You could inherit either Platime’s position or Stragen’s – assuming you don’t get yourself caught and hanged first.’
‘I’m starting to think on a larger scale,’ Talen said grandly. ‘Stragen and I did some speculating about it while I was in Emsat. The thieves’ council is very close to being a government now. About all it really needs to qualify is some single leader – a king maybe, or even an emperor. Wouldn’t it make you proud to be the father of the Emperor of the Thieves, Kurik?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘What do you think, Sparhawk?’ the boy asked, his eyes filled with mischief. ‘Should I go into politics?’
‘I believe we can find something more suitable for you to do, Talen.’
‘Maybe, but would it be as profitable – or as much fun?’
They reached the Elenian coast a league or so to the north of Cardos a week later and disembarked about midday on a lonely beach bordered on its upper end with dark fir trees.
‘The Cardos road?’ Kurik asked Sparhawk as they saddled Faran and Kurik’s gelding.
‘Might I make a suggestion?’ Stragen asked from nearby.
‘Certainly.’
‘King Wargun’s a maudlin man when he’s drunk – which is most of the time. Your defection probably has him blubbering in his beer every night. He offered a sizeable reward for your capture in Thalesia and Deira, and he’s probably circulated the same offer here. Your face is well-known in Elenia, and it’s about seventy leagues from here to Cimmura – a good week of hard travel at least. Do you really want to spend that much time on a well-travelled road under those circumstances? – Particularly in view of the fact that somebody wants to shoot you full of arrows rather than just turn you over to Wargun?’
‘Perhaps not. Can you think of an alternative?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I can. It may take us a day or so longer, but Platime once showed me a different route. It’s a bit rough, but very few people know about it.’
Sparhawk looked at the thin blond man with a certain amount of suspicion. ‘Can I trust you, Stragen?’ he asked bluntly.
Stragen shook his head in resignation. ‘Talen,’ he said, ‘haven’t you ever explained thieves’ sanctuary to him?’
‘I’ve tried, but sometimes Sparhawk has difficulty with moral concepts. It goes like this, Sparhawk. If Stragen lets anything happen to us while we’re under his protection, he’ll have to answer to Platime.’
‘That’s more or less why I came along, actually,’ Stragen admitted. ‘As long as I’m with you, you’re still under my protection. I like you, Sparhawk, and having a Church Knight to intercede with God for me in case I happen to be accidentally hanged couldn’t hurt.’ His sardonic expression returned then. ‘Not only that, watching out for all of you might expiate some of my grosser sins.’
‘Do you really have that many sins, Stragen?’ Sephrenia asked him gently.
‘More than I can remember, dear sister,’ he replied in Styric, ‘and many of them are too foul to be described in your presence.’
Sparhawk looked quickly at Talen, and the boy nodded gravely. ‘Sorry, Stragen,’ he apologized. ‘I misjudged you.’
‘Perfectly all right, old boy.’ Stragen grinned. ‘And perfectly understandable. There are days when I don’t even trust myself.’
‘Where’s this other road to Cimmura?’
Stragen looked around. ‘Why, do you know, I actually believe it starts just up there at the head of this beach. Isn’t that an amazing coincidence?’
‘That was your ship we sailed on?’
‘I’m a part owner, yes.’
‘And you suggested to the captain that this beach might be a good place to drop us off?’
‘I do seem to recall such a conversation, yes.’
‘An amazing coincidence, all right,’ Sparhawk said dryly.
Stragen stopped, looking out to sea. ‘Odd,’ he said, pointing at a passing ship. ‘There’s that same merchantman we saw up in the straits. She’s sailing very light. Otherwise she couldn’t have made such good time.’ He shrugged. ‘Oh well. Let’s go to Cimmura, shall we?’
The ‘alternative route’ they followed was little more than a forest trail that wound up across the range of mountains that lay between the coast and the broad tract of farmland drained by the Cimmura River. Once the track came down out of the mountains, it merged imperceptibly with a series of sunken country lanes meandering through the fields.
Early one morning when they were midway across that farmland, a shabby-looking fellow on a spavined mule cautiously approached their camp. ‘I need to talk with a man named Stragen,’ he called from just out of bow-shot.
‘Come ahead,’ Stragen called back to him.
The man did not bother to dismount. ‘I’m from Platime,’ he identified himself to the Thalesian. ‘He told me to warn you. There were some fellows looking for you on the road from Cardos to Cimmura.’
‘Were?’
‘They couldn’t really identify themselves after we encountered them, and they aren’t looking for anything any more.’
‘Ah.’
‘They were asking questions before we intercepted them, though. They described you and your companions to a number of peasants. I don’t think they wanted to catch up with you just to talk about the weather, Milord.’
‘Were they Elenians?’ Stragen asked intently.
‘A few of them were. The rest seemed to be Thalesian sailors. Someone’s after you and your friends, Stragen, and I think they’ve got killing on their minds. If I were you, I’d get to Cimmura and Platime’s cellar just as quickly as I could.’
‘My thanks, friend,’ Stragen said.
The ruffian shrugged. ‘I’m getting paid for this. Thanks don’t fatten my purse at all.’ He turned his mule and rode off.
‘I knew I should have turned and sunk that ship,’ Stragen noted. ‘I must be getting soft. We’d better move right along, Sparhawk. We’re awfully exposed out here.’
Three days later, they reached Cimmura and reined in on the north rim of the valley to look down at the city, smoky and mist-plagued. ‘A distinctly unattractive place, Sparhawk,’ Stragen said critically.
‘It’s not much,’ Sparhawk conceded, ‘but we like to call it home.’
‘I’ll be leaving you here,’ Stragen said. ‘You have things to attend to and so do I. Might I suggest that we all forget we ever met each other? You’re involved in politics and I in theft. I’ll leave it to God to decide which occupation is the more dishonest. Good luck, Sparhawk, and keep your eyes open.’ He half-bowed to Sephrenia from his saddle, turned his horse and rode down to the grimy city below.
‘I could almost grow to like that man,’ Sephrenia said. ‘Where to, Sparhawk?’
‘The chapterhouse,’ the big Pandion decided. ‘We’ve been away for quite some time, and I’d like to know how things stand before I go to the palace.’ He squinted up at the noonday sun, bleary and wan-looking in the pervading haze that hung over Cimmura. ‘Let’s stay out of sight until we find out who’s controlling the city.’
They kept to the trees and rode on around Cimmura on the north side. Kurik slipped down from his gelding at one point and crept to the edge of the bushes to have a look. His expression was grave when he returned. ‘There are church soldiers manning the battlements,’ he reported.
Sparhawk swore. ‘Are you sure?’
‘The men up there are wearing red.’
‘Let’s move on anyway. We’ve got to get inside the chapterhouse.’
The dozen or so ostensible workmen outside the fortress of the Pandion Knights were still laying cobblestones.
‘They’ve been at that for almost a year now,’ Kurik muttered, ‘and they still haven’t finished. Do we wait for dark?’
‘I don’t think that would do much good. They’ll still be watching, and I don’t want it generally known that we’re back in Cimmura.’
‘Sephrenia,’ Talen said, ‘can you make a column of smoke come up from just inside the city walls near the gate?’
‘Yes,’ she replied.
‘Good. We’ll make those bricklayers go away then.’ The boy quickly explained his plan.
‘That isn’t really too bad, Sparhawk,’ Kurik said rather proudly. ‘What do you think?’
‘It’s worth a try. Let’s do it and see what happens.’
The red uniform Sephrenia created for Kurik did not look all that authentic, but the smudges and smoke-stains she added covered most of the discrepancies. The important things were the gold-embroidered epaulettes which identified him as an officer. The burly squire then led his horse through the bushes to a spot near the city gate.
Then Sephrenia began to murmur in Styric, gesturing with her fingers as she did so.
The column of smoke that rose from inside the walls was very convincing, thick, oily black and boiling dreadfully.
‘Hold my horse,’ Talen said to Sparhawk, slipping down from his saddle. He ran out to the edge of the bushes and began to shriek, ‘Fire!’ at the top of his lungs.
The so-called workmen gaped at him stupidly for a moment, then turned to stare in consternation at the city.
‘You always have to yell “fire”,’ Talen explained when he returned. ‘It gets people to thinking in the right direction.’
Then Kurik galloped up to the spies outside the gate of the chapterhouse. ‘You men,’ he barked, ‘there’s a house on fire in Goat Lane. Get in there and help put the fire out before the whole city starts to burn.’
‘But sir,’ one of the workmen objected, ‘we were ordered to stay here and keep an eye on the Pandions.’
‘Do you have anything you value inside the city walls?’ Kurik asked him bluntly. ‘If that fire gets away from us, you can stand here and keep an eye on it while it burns. Now move, all of you! I’m going up to that fortress to see if I can persuade the Pandions to lend a hand.’
The workmen looked at him, then dropped their tools and ran towards the illusory conflagration as Kurik rode on towards the drawbridge of the chapterhouse.
‘Slick,’ Sparhawk complimented Talen.
‘Thieves do it all the time,’ the boy shrugged. ‘We have to use real fire, though. People run outside to gawk at fires. That provides an excellent opportunity to look around inside their houses for things of value.’ He looked towards the city gate. ‘Our friends seem to be out of sight. Why don’t we ride on before they come back?’
Two Pandion Knights in black armour rode gravely out to meet them as they reached the drawbridge. ‘Is that a fire in the city, Sparhawk?’ one of them asked in some alarm.
‘Not really,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Sephrenia’s entertaining the church soldiers.’
The other knight grinned at Sephrenia. Then he straightened. ‘Who art thou who entreateth entry into the house of the Soldiers of God?’ he began the ritual.
‘We don’t have time for that, brother,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘We’ll go through it twice next time. Who’s in charge here now?’
‘Lord Vanion.’
That was surprising. Preceptor Vanion had been much involved in the campaign in Arcium when last Sparhawk had heard of him. ‘Do you have any idea of where I might locate him?’
‘He’s in his tower, Sparhawk,’ the second knight advised.
Sparhawk grunted. ‘How many knights are here right now, brother?’
‘About a hundred.’
‘Good. I may need them.’ Sparhawk nudged Faran with his heels. The big roan turned his head to look at his master with some surprise. ‘We’re busy now, Faran,’ Sparhawk explained to his horse. ‘We’ll go through the ritual some other time.’
Faran’s expression was disapproving as he started across the drawbridge.
‘Sir Sparhawk!’ a ringing voice came from the stable door. It was the novice, Berit, a rangy, raw-boned young man whose face was split with a broad grin.
‘Shout a little louder, Berit,’ Kurik said reprovingly. ‘Maybe they’ll be able to hear you in Chyrellos.’
‘Sorry, Kurik,’ Berit apologized, looking abashed.
‘Get some other novices to look after our horses and come with us,’ Sparhawk told the young man. ‘We have things to do, and we have to talk with Vanion.’
‘Yes, Sir Sparhawk.’ Berit ran back into the stable.
‘He’s such a nice boy,’ Sephrenia smiled.
‘He might work out,’ Kurik said grudgingly.
‘Sparhawk,’ a hooded Pandion said with some surprise as they entered the arched door leading into the chapterhouse. The knight pushed back his hood. It was Sir Perraine, the Pandion who had posed as a cattle-buyer in Dabour. Perraine spoke with a slight accent.
‘What are you doing back in Cimmura, Perraine?’ Sparhawk asked, clasping his brother knight’s hand. ‘We all thought you’d taken root in Dabour.’
Perraine seemed to recover from his surprise. ‘Ah –’ he began, ‘once Arasham died, there wasn’t much reason for me to remain in Dabour. We’d all heard that King Wargun was pursuing you all over western Eosia.’
‘Pursuing isn’t catching, Perraine,’ Sparhawk grinned. ‘We can talk later. But now my friends and I have to go and talk with Vanion.’
‘Of course.’ Perraine bowed slightly to Sephrenia and walked on out into the courtyard.
They went up the stairs to the south tower where Vanion’s study was located. The Preceptor of the Pandion Order wore that white Styric robe, and his face had aged even more in the short time since Sparhawk had last seen him. The others were also there, Ulath, Tynian, Bevier and Kalten. Their presence seemed somehow to make the room shrink. These were very large men, not only in sheer physical size, but also in terms of their towering reputations. The room seemed somehow full of bulky shoulders. As was customary among Church Knights when inside their chapterhouses, they all wore monks’ robes over their mail-shirts.
‘Finally!’ Kalten said, letting out an explosive breath. ‘Sparhawk, why didn’t you get word to us to let us know how you were?’
‘Messengers are a little hard to find in Troll-country, Kalten.’
‘Any luck?’ Ulath asked eagerly. Ulath was a huge, blond-braided Thalesian, and Bhelliom had a special meaning for him.
Sparhawk looked quickly at Sephrenia, silently asking permission.
‘All right,’ she said, ‘but only for a minute.’
Sparhawk reached down inside his tunic and drew out the canvas pouch in which he carried Bhelliom. He pulled open the drawstring, lifted out the most precious object in the world and placed it on the table Vanion used for a writing desk. Even as he did so, there came again that faint flicker of the darkness somewhere off in a dim corner. The hound of darkness his nightmare had conjured up in the mountains of Thalesia followed him still, and the shadow seemed larger and darker now as if each re-emergence of Bhelliom somehow increased its size and its brooding menace.
‘Do not look too deeply into those petals, gentlemen,’ Sephrenia warned. ‘Bhelliom can capture your souls if you look at it too long.’
‘God!’ Kalten breathed. ‘Look at that thing!’
Each glowing petal of the Sapphire Rose was so perfect that one could almost see dew clinging to it. From deep within the jewel emanated a blue light and an almost overpowering command to look upon it and observe its perfection.
‘Oh, God,’ Bevier prayed fervently, ‘defend us from the seduction of this stone.’ Bevier was a Cyrinic Knight and an Arcian. Sometimes Sparhawk felt that he was excessively pious. This, however, was not one of those times. If even half of what he had already sensed was true, Sparhawk knew that Bevier’s fear of Bhelliom was well placed.
Ulath, the huge Thalesian, was muttering in Troll. ‘Not kill, Bhelliom-Blue-Rose,’ he said. ‘Church Knights not enemies to Bhelliom. Church Knights protect Bhelliom from Azash. Help make what is wrong right again, Blue-Rose. I am Ulath-from-Thalesia. If Bhelliom have anger, send anger against Ulath.’
Sparhawk straightened. ‘No,’ he said firmly in the hideous Troll-tongue. ‘I am Sparhawk-from-Elenia. I am he who kills Ghwerig-Troll-Dwarf. I am he who brings Bhelliom-Blue-Rose to this place to heal my queen. If Bhelliom-Blue-Rose do this and still have anger, send anger against Sparhawk-from-Elenia and not against Ulath-from-Thalesia.’
‘You fool!’ Ulath exploded. ‘Have you got any idea of what that thing can do to you?’
‘Wouldn’t it do the same sort of things to you?’
‘Gentlemen, please,’ Sephrenia said to them wearily. ‘Stop this nonsense at once.’ She looked at the glowing rose on the table. ‘Listen to me, Bhelliom-Blue-Rose,’ she said firmly, not even bothering to speak in the language of the Trolls. ‘Sparhawk-from-Elenia has the rings. Bhelliom-Blue-Rose must acknowledge his authority and obey him.’
The jewel darkened briefly, and then the deep blue light returned.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘I will guide Bhelliom-Blue-Rose in what must be done, and Sparhawk-from-Elenia will command it. Blue-Rose must obey.’
The jewel flickered, and then the light returned.
‘Put it away now, Sparhawk.’
Sparhawk put the rose back into its pouch and slipped it back under his tunic.
‘Where’s Flute?’ Berit asked, looking around.
‘That, my young friend, is a very, very long story,’ Sparhawk told him.
‘Not dead?’ Sir Tynian asked in a shocked tone. ‘Surely not dead.’
‘No,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘That would be impossible. Flute is immortal.’
‘No human is immortal, Sparhawk,’ Bevier protested in a shocked voice.
‘Exactly,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Flute’s not human. She’s the Styric Child-Goddess Aphrael.’
‘Heresy!’ Bevier gasped.
‘You wouldn’t think so if you’d been in Ghwerig’s cave, Sir Bevier,’ Kurik told him. ‘I saw her rise from a bottomless abyss with my own eyes.’
‘A spell, perhaps?’ But Bevier did not seem quite so sure of himself now.
‘No, Bevier,’ Sephrenia said. ‘No spell could have accomplished what she did in that cave. She was – and is – Aphrael.’
‘Before we get involved in a theological dispute here, I need some information,’ Sparhawk said. ‘How did you all get away from Wargun, and what’s happening in the city?’
Pulsuz fraqment bitdi.
