CHAPTER 11

Page 82

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‘I can’t find anybody willing to stay in one place long enough for me to ask him any questions,’ Komier growled when he returned late one cloudy afternoon with his scouts. He looked sourly back across the empty, winter-fallow fields all neatly bordered with low stone walls, carefully shifting his broken right arm.

‘These Astellian serfs all take one look at us and bolt for the woods like frightened deer.’

‘What’s ahead?’ Darellon asked him. Darellon’s helmet hung from his saddlebow, one side so crushed in that it no longer fit his bandaged head. His eyes were unfocused, and his bandage was blood-soaked.

Komier took out his map and studied it. ‘We’re coming to the River Astel,’ he replied. ‘We saw a city over on the other side - Darsas, most likely. I couldn’t catch anybody to tell me for sure, though. I’m not the prettiest fellow in the world, but I’ve never had people flee from me in terror like this before. ’

‘Emban warned us about that,’ Bergsten said. ‘The countryside’s crawling with agitators. They’re telling the serfs that we’ve all got horns and tails and that we’re coming here to burn down their churches and ram assorted heresies down their throats at sword-point. This fellow called Sabre seems to be the one behind it all.’

‘He’s the one I want,’ Komier muttered darkly. ‘I think I’ll run him down and set him up as the centerpiece in a bonfire.’

‘Lets not stir up the locals any more than they already are, Komier,’ Darellon cautioned. ‘We’re not in any condition for confrontations at the moment.’ He glanced back at the battered column and the long string of wagons bearing the gravely wounded.

‘Did you see any signs of organized resistance?’ Heldin asked Komier.

‘Not yet. I expect we’ll find out how things really stand when we get to Darsas. If the bridge across the Astel’s been torn down and the tops of the city walls are lined with archers, we’ll know that Sabre’s message of peace and goodwill’s reached the people in authority.’

The Genidian Preceptor’s face darkened, and he squared his shoulders. ‘That’s all right. I’ve fought my way into towns before, so it won’t be a new experience.’

‘You’ve already managed to get Abriel and about a third of the Church Knights killed, Komier,’ Bergsten told him pointedly. ‘I ‘d say that your place in history’s secure. Let’s try a bit of negotiation before we start battering down gates and burning houses.’

‘You’ve had a clever mouth ever since we were novices, Bergsten. I should have done something about it before you put on that cassock.’

Bergsten hefted his war-axe a couple of times. ‘I can take my cassock off any time it suits you, old friend,’ he offered.

‘You’re getting side-tracked, gentlemen,’ Darellon said, his speech slightly slurred. ‘Our wounded need attention. This isn’t the time to pick fights - either with the local population or with each other. I think the four of us should ride on ahead under a flag of truce and find out which way the wind’s blowing before we start building siege-engines.’

‘Am I hearing the voice of reason here?’ Heldin rumbled mildly. They tied a gleaming white Cyrinic cape to Sir Heldin’s lance and rode ahead through the cheerless afternoon to the west bank of the River Astel.

The city beyond the river was clearly Elene, an ancient town with soaring towers and spires. It stood proudly and solidly on the far shore of the river under its snapping pennons of red and blue and gold proclaiming, or so it seemed, that it had always been there and always would be. It had high, thick walls and massive, closed gates. The bridge across the Astel was blocked by towering, bronze-faced warriors wearing minimal armor and carrying very unpleasant-looking weapons.

‘Atans,’ Sir Heldin identified them. ‘We definitely don’t want to fight those people.’ The ranks of bleak-faced infantry parted, and an ancient, bald Tamul in a gold-colored mantle flanked by a vastly bearded Astellian clergyman all in black came forward to meet them.

‘Well-met, Sir Knights,’ the hairless old Tamul greeted the armored men in a dry, dusty voice. ‘King Alberen’s tribe curious as to your intentions. We don’t see Church Knights in this part of the world very often.’

‘You would be Ambassador Fontan,’ Bergsten said. ‘Emban described you very well.’

‘I thought he had better manners,’ Fontan murmured.

Bergsten flashed him a brief smile. ‘You might want to send word back to the city, your Excellency.

Assure His Majesty that our intentions are entirely peaceful.’

‘I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear that.’

‘Emban and Sir Tynian came back to Chyrellos a couple months ago,’ Bergsten continued. ‘Sparhawk sent word that things were getting out of hand here. Dolmant dispatched us to help restore order.’ The huge Patriarch made a sour face. ‘We didn’t get off to a very good start, I’m afraid. We had an unfortunate encounter near Basne and we have many wounded in need of medical attention.’

‘I’ll send word to the nearby monasteries, Sir Knight,’ the bearded clergyman standing at Fontan’s elbow offered.

‘Bergsten’s not a knight any more, your Reverence,’ Komier corrected him. ‘He used to be, but God had other plans for him. He’s a Patriarch of the Church now. He prays well enough, I suppose, but we haven’t been able to get his axe away from him yet.’

‘The manners must be slipping,’ Fontan apologized. ‘My friend here is Archimandrite Morsel, the duly anointed head of the Church of Astel.’

‘Your Grace.’ Bergsten inclined his head politely.

‘Your Grace,’ Morsel replied, looking curiously at the warlike churchman. ‘Your friend Emban’ and I had some very stimulating discussions about our doctrinal differences. You and I might want to continue those, but let’s see to your wounded first. How many injured men do you have?’

‘Twenty thousand or so, your Grace,’ Komier answered bleakly. ‘It’s a little hard to keep an exact count.

A few score die on us every hour or so.’

‘What in God’s name did you encounter up in those Mountains?’

Morsel gasped.

‘The King of Hell, as closely as we can determine, your Grace,’ Darellon replied. ‘We left thirty thousand dead on the field mostly Cyrinics. Lord Abriel, their Preceptor, led the charge, and his knights followed closely behind him. They were fully engaged before they realized what they were up against.’ He sighed.

‘Abriel was nearing seventy, and he seemed to think he was leading his last charge.’

‘He was right about that,’ Komier grunted sourly. ‘There wasn’t enough of him left to bury.’

‘He died well, though,’ Heldin added.

‘His name’s Valash,’ Stragen told Sparhawk and Talen as the three of them, still wearing their tar-smeared sailor’s smocks, stepped out of the noisy, torch-lit street into a dark, foulsmelling alley. ‘He and his two friends are Dacites from Verel.’

‘Have you been able to find out who they’re working for?’ Sparhawk asked him as they stopped to let their eyes adjust to the darkness and their noses to the smell. The alleys of Beresa were particularly unpleasant.

‘I heard one of them mention Ogerajin,’ Stragen replied. ‘it makes sense, I guess. Ogerajin and Zalasta seem to be old friends.’

‘I thought Ogerajin’s brains were rotting out,’ Talen objected.

‘Maybe he has lucid moments. It doesn’t really matter who sent them, though. While they’re here, they’re reporting to Krager. As closely as I can make out, they’ve been sent here to assess the damage we did to them during the Harvest Festival and to pick up any bits and pieces of information that fall to hand.

They’ve got money, but they don’t want to turn much of it loose. They’re in this strictly for gain - and for the chance to seem important.’

‘Does Krager come here to get their reports?’ Sparhawk asked.

‘He hasn’t recently. Valash communicates with him by messenger. These three Dacites are seriously out of their depth here. They want to hold on to as much of the money Ogerajin gave them as they can, but they don’t want to miss anything important. They aren’t professionals by any stretch of the imagination.

They spend most of their time trying to figure out some way to get information without paying for it.’

‘A swindler’s dream,’ Talen noted. ‘What did they do for a living back in Verel?’

‘They sold children to people whose tastes run in that direction,’ Stragen replied in a disgusted tone. ‘As I understand it, Ogerajin used to be one of their best customers.’

‘That puts them right at the bottom, doesn’t it?’

‘Probably even lower than that.’ Stragen glanced around to make sure they were alone. ‘Valash wants to meet you two.’ Stragen pointed toward the end of the alley. ‘He’s just up those stairs. He’s renting a corner in the loft from a fellow who deals in stolen goods.’

Talen smiled a rather nasty little smile. ‘If these Dacites happened to pass too much erroneous information and false rumors on to Krager, he might just decide that they’ve outlived their usefulness, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Probably,’ Stragen shrugged.

‘That sort of stirs my creativity.’

‘Oh? Why’s that?’

‘I don’t like people who sell children. It’s a personal sort of thing. Let’s go meet this Valash. I’d like to find out if he’s as gullible as you say.’

They climbed a rickety outside stairway to a door that was flimsy and patched and showed some signs of having been kicked in a few times. The loft beyond the door was incredibly cluttered with all manner of worn clothing, battered furniture, and dented kitchen utensils. There were even broken farm tools gathering dust in the corners.

‘Some people will steal anything,’ Talen sniffed.

A lone candle guttered on the far side of the room, and a bony Elene sat drowsing at a table by its uncertain light. He wore a short, green brocade jacket of a Daconian cut, and his sparse, mud-colored hair stood almost straight up, looking much like a thin, dirty halo round his gaunt head. As they crossed the loft toward him, he stirred himself and quickly picked up some papers and began to shuffle them in a self-important manner. He looked up with feigned impatience as they approached.

‘You’re late, Vymer,’ he accused in a high-pitched, nasal voice.

‘Sorry, Master Valash,’ Stragen apologized in a servile tone. ‘From and I were busy extricating young Reldin here from a tense situation. Reldin’s very good, but he overextends himself sometimes. Anyway, you wanted to meet my associates.’ He laid one hand on Sparhawk’s shoulder. ‘This is From. He’s a tavern brawler, so we let him deal with any situation that can be settled with a few quick punches or a kick in the belly. The boy there is Reldin, the nimblest sneak-thief I’ve ever known. He can wriggle through mouse-holes, and his ears are sharp enough to hear ants crossing the street on the other side of town.’

‘I just want to hire him, Vymer,’ Valash said. ‘I don’t want to buy him.’ He giggled at his own joke. He smirked at them, clearly expecting them to join in his laughter. Talen, however, did not laugh. His eyes took on an icy glitter. Valash seemed a bit abashed by their reception of his feeble joke. ‘Why are you all dressed as sailors?’ he asked, more for something to say than out of any real curiosity.

Stragen shrugged. ‘It’s a port city, Master Valash. The streets are crawling with sailors, so three more won’t attract any particular attention.’

Valash grunted. ‘Have you anything for me that I might find worth my while?’ he asked in a superior, bored tone of voice. Talen snatched off his cap. ‘You’ll have to decide that for yourself, Master Valash,’ he whined, as he bowed awkwardly.

‘I did come across something, if you’d care to hear it.’

‘Go on,’ Valash told him.

‘Well, sir, there’s this rich Tamul merchant who owns a big house over in the fancy part of town. He’s got a tapestry on the wall of his study that I’ve had my eye on for quite some time now. It’s a very good one -

lots of tiny stitches, and the color hasn’t faded very much. The only trouble is that it covers the whole wall. You can get a fortune for really good tapestry, but only if you can get it all out in one piece. It’s not worth much if you have to cut it up to carry it out. Anyway, I went into his house the other night to try and come up with some way to get it out without butchering it. The merchant was in the study, though, and he had a friend with him - some noble from the imperial court at Matherion. I listened at the door, and the noble was telling the merchant about some of the rumors running around the imperial palace.

Everybody’s saying that the Emperor’s very unhappy with these people from Eosia. That attempt to overthrow the government last fall really frightened him, and he’d like to come to some kind of agreement with his enemies, but this Sparhawk person won’t let him. Sarabian’s convinced that they’re going to lose, so he’s secretly outfitted a fleet of ships all loaded down with treasure and as soon as trouble shows up on the horizon, he’s going to make a run for it. The courtiers all know about his plans, so they’re stealthily making arrangements for their own escapes when the fighting starts. Some morning very soon this Sparhawk’s going to wake up and find an unfriendly army at his gates and nobody around to help hold them off.’ He paused. ‘Was that the sort of information you wanted?’

The Dacite made some effort to conceal his excited interest. He put on a deprecating expression. ‘It’s nothing we haven’t heard before. About all it does is help to confirm what we’ve already picked up.’ He tentatively pushed a couple of small silver coins across the table. ‘I’ll pass it on to Panem-Doa and see what they think about it.’

Talen looked at the coins and then at Valash. Then he crammed his cap back on. ‘I’ll be leaving now, Vymer,’ he said in a flat tone, ‘and don’t waste my time on this cheapskate again.’

‘Don’t be in such a rush,’ Stragen said placatingly. ‘Let me talk with him first.’

‘You’re making a mistake, Valash,’ Sparhawk told the Dacite. ‘You’ve got a heavy purse hanging off your belt. If you try to cheat Reldin, he’ll come back some night and slice open the bottom of it. He won’t leave you enough to buy breakfast.’

Valash put his hand protectively over his purse. Then he opened it with what appeared to be extreme reluctance.

‘I thought Lord Scarpa was at Natayos,’ Stragen said casually.

‘Has he moved his operations to Panem-Doa?’ Valash was sweating as he counted out coins, his fingers lingering on each one as if he were parting with an old friend. ‘There are a lot of things you don’t know about our operation, Vymer,’ he replied. He gave Talen a pleading look as he tentatively pushed the money across the table.

Talen made no move to accept the coins.

Valash made a whimpering sound and added more coins.

‘That’s a little better,’ Talen told him, scooping up the money.

‘Then Scarpa’s moved?’ Stragen asked.

‘Of course not,’ Valash retorted. ‘You didn’t think his whole army’s at Natayos, did you?’

‘That’s what I’d heard. He has other strongholds as well, I take it?’

‘Of course. Only a fool puts his entire force in one place, and Scarpa’s far from being a fool, I’ll tell the world. He’s been recruiting men in the Elene kingdoms of western Tamuli for years now, and he sends them all to hydros and then on to Panem-Doa for training. After that, they go on to either Synagua or Norenja. Only his crack troops are at Natayos. His army’s at least five times larger than most people believe. These jungles positively seethe with his men.’

Sparhawk carefully concealed a smile. Valash obviously had a great need to appear important, and that need made him reveal things he shouldn’t be talking about.

‘I didn’t know Scarpa’s army was so big,’ Stragen admitted. ‘it makes me feel better. It might be nice to be on the winning side for a change.’

‘It’s about time,’ Sparhawk growled. ‘I’m getting a little tired of being chased out of every town we visit before I’ve even had the time to unpack my sea-bag.’ He squinted at Valash. ‘As long as the subject’s come up anyway, could we expect Scarpa’s people out there in the brush to take us in if things turn sour and we have to make a run for it?’

‘What could possibly go wrong?’

‘Have you ever taken a good look at an Atan, Valash? They’re as tall as trees, and they’ve got shoulders like bulls. They do unpleasant things to people, so I want a friendly place to come down if I suddenly have to take flight. Are there any other safe places out there in the woods?’

Valash’s expression grew wary as if he had suddenly realized that he’d said too much already.

‘Ah - I think we know what we need to, From,’ Stragen interposed smoothly. ‘There are safe places out there if we really need to find them. I’m sure there are many things Master Valash knows that he’s not

supposed to talk about.’

Valash puffed himself up slightly, and his expression took on a knowing, secretive cast. ‘You understand the situation perfectly Vymer,’ he said. ‘it wouldn’t be proper for me to reveal things Lord Scarpa’s told me in strictest confidence.’ He pointedly picked up his papers again.

‘We won’t keep you from important matters, Master Valash,’ Stragen said, backing away. ‘We’ll nose around town some more and let you know if we find out anything else.’

‘I’d appreciate’ that, Vymer,’ Valash replied, shuffling his papers as his visitors departed.

‘What an ass,’ Talen muttered as the three of them carefully descended the rickety staircase to the alley again.

‘Where did you learn so much about tapestry?’ Sparhawk asked him.

‘I don’t know anything about tapestry.’

‘You were talking as if you did.’

‘I talk about a lot of things I don’t know anything about. It fills in the gaps when you’re trying to peddle something that’s worthless. I could tell by the way Valash’s eyes glazed over when I mentioned the word

“tapestry” that he didn’t know any more about it than I did. He was too busy trying to make us think that he’s important to pay any real attention. I could get rich from that one. I could sell him blue butter.’

Sparhawk gave him a puzzled look. ‘It’s a swindler’s term,’ Stragen explained. ‘The meaning’s a little obscure.’

‘I’m sure it is.’

‘Did you want me to explain it?’

‘Not particularly, no,’

‘Is it a family custom? Or just a way to honor your father?’ Berit asked Khalad as the two of them, wearing mailshirts and grey cloaks, lounged against the forward rail of the scruffy lake-freighter plodding across the Sea of Arjun from Sepal to Tiara.

Khalad shrugged. ‘No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just that the men in our family all have heavy beards -

except for Talen. If I decided not to wear a beard, I’d have to shave twice a day. I clip it close with scissors once a week and let it go at that. It saves time. ’

Berit rubbed at his altered cheek. ‘I wonder what Sparhawk would do if I let his beard grow,’ he mused.

‘He might not do anything, but Queen Ehlana would probably peel you like an apple. She likes his face just the way it is. She’s even fond of that crooked nose.’

‘It looks as if we’ve got weather up ahead.’ Berit pointed toward the west.

Khalad frowned. ‘Where did that come from? The sky was clear just a minute ago. It’s funny I didn’t smell it coming.’ The cloudbank hovering low on the western horizon was purplish black, and it roiled ominously, swelling upward with surprising speed. There were flickers of lightning deep inside the cloud, and the sullen rumble of thunder came to them across the dark, choppy waters of the lake.

‘I hope these sailors know what they’re doing,’ Berit said.

‘That has the earmarks of a very nasty squall.’

They continued to watch the inky cloud as it boiled higher and higher, covering more and more of the western sky.

‘That’s not a natural storm, Berit,’ Khalad said tensely. ‘It’s building too fast.’

Then there was a shocking crash of thunder, and the cloud blanched and shuddered as the lightning seethed within it. Both the young men saw the shadowy shape in the instant that the bluish lightning thrust back the darkness to reveal what lay hidden in the cloud.

‘Klael!’ Berit gasped, staring at the monstrous, winged shape half-concealed in the churning storm-front.

The next crash of thunder ripped the sky, and the shabby vessel shuddered in the overwhelming sound.

The inverted wedge of Klael’s face seemed to ripple and change in the midst of its veiling cloud, and the slitted eyes flamed in sudden rage. The great, batlike wings began to claw at the approaching storm, and the awful mouth opened to roar forth the thunder of Klael’s frustration. He howled in vast fury, and his

enormous arms stretched up into the murky air, reaching hungrily to clutch at something that was not there. And then the thing was gone, and the unnatural cloud tattered and streamed harmlessly off to the southeast to become no more than a dirty smudge on the horizon. The air, however, was filled with a sulphurous reek.

‘You’d better pass the word to Aphrael,’ Khalad said grimly. ‘Klael’s loose again. He was looking for something, and he didn’t find it. God knows where he’ll look next.’

‘Komier’s arm is broken in three places,’ Sir Heldin rumbled when he joined the mail-skirted Patriarch Bergsten, Ambassador Fontan, and Archimandrite Morsel in Morsel’s book-littered study in the east wing of the palace, ‘and Darellon’s still seeing two of everything. Komier can travel if he has to, but I think we’d better leave Darellon here until he recovers.’

‘How many knights are fit to ride?’ Bergsten asked.

‘Forty thousand at most, your Grace.’

‘We’ll just have to make do with what we’ve got. Emban knew that we’d probably come this way, and he’s been sending messengers by the platoon. Things are coming to a head in southeastern Tamuli.

Sparhawk’s wife has been taken hostage, and our enemies are offering to trade her for Bhelliom. There’s a rebel army in the Arjuni jungles preparing to march on Matherion, and two more armies massing on the eastern frontier of Cynesga. If those armies all join up, the game’s over. Emban wants us to ride east across the steppes until we’re past the Astel Marshes and then turn south and lay siege to the Cynesgan capital. He needs a diversion of some kind to pull those armies back from the border.’

Sir Heldin pulled out his map. ‘It’s workable,’ he said after a moment’s study, ‘but we’re going to be a little light for that kind of job.’

‘We’ll get by. Vanion’s in the field, but he’s badly outnumbered along that Cynesgan frontier. If we don’t create enough of a disturbance to relieve some of the pressure on him, he’ll be swarmed under.’

Heldin looked speculatively at the huge Thalesian patriarch. ‘You’re not going to like this, your Grace,’ he said, ‘but there’s not much choice in the matter.’

‘Go ahead,’ Bergsten told him.

‘You’re going to have to lay your cassock aside and take command. Abriel’s been killed, Darellon’s incapacitated, and if Komier gets into a fight, the weight of his axe will cripple him.’

‘You’re still here, Heldin. You can take charge.’

Heldin shook his head. ‘I’m not a Preceptor, your Grace, and everybody in the army knows it. I’m also a Pandion, and the other orders have strong feelings about us. We haven’t made very many friends in the past couple of centuries. The other orders won’t accept me as commander. You’re a Patriarch, and you speak for Sarathi - and the Church. They’ll accept you with no argument.’

‘It’s out of the question.’

‘Then we’ll have to sit here until Dolmant sends us a new commander’

‘We can’t wait!’

‘My point exactly. Do I have your permission to tell the knights that you’re taking command?’

‘I can’t, Heldin. You know that I’m forbidden to use magic.’

‘We can work our way around that, your Grace. There are plenty of accomplished magicians in the ranks. Just tell us what you want done, and we’ll see to it.’

‘I’ve taken an oath.’

‘You took another one earlier, Lord Bergsten. You promised to defend the Church. That oath takes precedence in this situation.’

The hugely bearded and black-robed Archimandrite Morsel looked speculatively at the reluctant Thalesian. Then he spoke in a neutral sort of way. ‘Would you like an independent opinion, Bergsten?’

Bergsten scowled at him.

‘You’re going to get it anyway,’ the Astellian churchman said with unruffled calm. ‘Given the nature of our opponent, we’re face to face with a “Crisis of the Faith”, and that suspends all the other rules. God needs your axe, Bergsten, not your theology.’ He squinted at the Thalesian Patriarch. ‘You don’t seem

convinced,’ he said.

‘I’m not trying to be offensive, Morsel, but “Crisis of the Faith” can’t just be pulled out and dusted off whenever we want to bend some rules.’

‘All right, let’s try this one then. This is Astel, and your Church at Chyrellos recognizes my authority here.

As long as we’re in Astel, I speak for God.’ Bergsten pulled off his helmet and absently polished the glossy black Ogre-horns on his sleeve.

‘Technically, I suppose,’ he conceded. ‘Technicalities are the very soul of doctrine, your Grace.’ Morsel’s huge beard bristled with disputational fervor. ‘Do you agree that I speak for God here in Astel?’

‘All right, for the sake of argument, yes.’

‘I’m glad you agree, I’d hate to have to excommunicate you. Now then, I speak for God here, and God wants you to take command of the Church Knights. Go forth and smite God’s enemies, my son, and may heaven strengthen your arm.’

Bergsten squinted out the window at the dirty-looking sky for a long moment, mulling the clearly specious argument over in his mind. ‘You take full responsibility, Morsel?’ he asked.

‘I do.’

‘That’s good enough for me, then.’ Bergsten crammed his helmet back on his head. ‘Sir Heldin, go tell the knights that I’m assuming command of the four orders. Instruct them to make all the necessary preparations. We march first thing in the morning.’ ‘At once, General Bergsten,’ Heldin replied, coming to attention.

‘Anakha,’ Bhelliom’s voice echoed in the vaults of Sparhawk’s mind, ‘thou must awaken.’

Even before he opened his eyes, Sparhawk could feel a light touch on the thong about his neck. He caught the little hand and opened his eyes.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded of the Child Goddess.

‘I have to have the Bhelliom, Sparhawk!’ her voice was desperate, and her eyes were streaming tears.

‘What’s going on, Aphrael? Calm down and tell me what’s happened.’

‘Sephrenia’s been stabbed! She’s dying! Please, Sparhawk! Give me the Bhelliom!’

He came to his feet all in one motion. ‘Where did this happen?’

‘In Dings. She was getting ready for bed, and Zalasta came into her room. He stabbed her in the heart, Sparhawk! please, Father, give me the Bhelliom! I’ve got to have it to save her!’

‘She’s still alive?’

‘Yes, but I don’t know for how long! Xanetia’s with her. She’s using a Delphaeic spell to keep her breathing, but she’s dying, my sister’s dying!’ She wailed and hurled herself into his arms, weeping uncontrollably.

‘Stop that, Aphrael. this isn’t helping. When did this happen?’

‘A couple of hours ago. Please, Sparhawk! Only Bhelliom can save her!’

‘We can’t, Aphrael. If we take Bhelliom out of that box, Cyrgon will know immediately that we’re trying to trick him, and Scarpa will kill your mother!’

The Child Goddess clung to him, sobbing uncontrollably. ‘I know!’ she wailed. ‘What are we going to do, Father? We can’t just let her die!’

‘Can’t you do something?’

‘The knife touched her heart, Sparhawk. I can’t reverse that!

Only Bhelliom has that kind of power!’

Sparhawk’s soul seemed to shrivel, and he smashed at the wall with his fist. He lifted his face.

‘What can I do?’ he hurled his voice upward. ‘What in God’s name can I do?’

‘Compose thyself, Anakha!’ Bhelliom’s voice was sharp in his mind. ‘Thou wilt serve neither Sephrenia nor thy mate by this unseemly display!’

‘We have to do something, Blue Rose!’ ‘Thou art not at this moment fit to decide. Thou must therefore be ruled by me. Go at once and do as the Child Goddess doth entreat thee.’

‘Thou wilt condemn my wife!’

‘That is not certain, Anakha. Sephrenia, however, doth linger on the brink of death. That much is certain.

It is her need that is most pressing.’

‘No. I can’t do that!’

‘Thou wilt obey me, Anakha! Thou art my creature, and therefore subject to my will. Go thou and do as I have commanded thee!’