CHAPTER 33

There was fighting somewhere - the ring of steel on steel and shouts and cries - but Ehlana scarcely heard the sounds as she stared down at the square lying between the ruins of the temple and the only slightly less ruined palace. The sun was above the eastern horizon now, and it filled the ancient streets of Cyrga with harsh, unforgiving light. The Queen of Elenia was exhausted, but the ordeal of her captivity was over, and she yearned only to lose herself in her husband’s embrace. She did not understand much of what she had just witnessed, but that was not really important. She stood at the battlements holding the Child Goddess in her arms, gazing down at her invincible champion far below.

‘Do you think it might be safe for us to go down?’ she asked the small divinity in her arms.

‘The stairway’s blocked, Ehlana,’ Mirtai reminded her.

‘I can take care of that,’ Flute said. ‘Maybe we’d better stay up here,’ Bevier said with a worried frown.

‘Cyrgon and Klael are gone, but Zalasta’s still out there somewhere. He might try to seize the Queen again so that he can use her to bargain his way out of here.’

‘He’d better not,’ the Child Goddess said ominously. ‘Ehlana’s right. Let’s go down.’ They went back inside, reached the head of the stairs and peered down through billowing clouds of dust.

‘What did you do?’ Talen asked Flute. ‘Where did all the rocks go?’

She shrugged. ‘I turned them into sand,’ she replied. The stairway wound downward along the inside of the tower walls. Kalten and Bevier, swords in hand, led the way, prudently investigating each level as they reached it. The top three or four levels were empty, but as they began the descent to a level about midway down the inside of the tower, Xanetia hissed sharply, ‘Someone approaches!’

‘Where?’ Kalten demanded. ‘How many?’

‘Two, and they do mount the stairs toward us. ’

‘I’ll deal with them,’ he muttered, gripping his sword-hilt even more tightly.

‘Don’t do anything foolish,’ Alcan cautioned. ‘It’s the fellows coming up the stairs who are being foolish, love. Stay with the Queen.’ He started on ahead.

‘I’ll go with him,’ Mirtai said. ‘Bevier, it’s your turn to guard Ehlana.’

‘But’

‘Hush!’ she commanded. ‘Do as you’re told.’

‘Yes, Ma’am,’ he surrendered with a faint smile.

A murmured sound of voices came echoing up the stairs.

‘Santheocles.’ Ehlana identified one of the speakers in a short, urgent whisper.

‘And the other?’ Xanetia asked.

‘Ekatas.”

‘Ah,’ Xanetia said. Her pale brow furrowed in concentration. ‘This is not exact,’ she apologized, ‘but it seemeth me that they are unaware of thy release, Queen of Elenia, and they do rush to thy former prison, hoping that by threatening thy life might they gain safe conduct through the ranks of their enemies.’ There was a landing perhaps twenty steps down the narrow stairway, and Kalten and Mirtai stopped there, stepping somewhat apart to give themselves room. Santheocles, wearing his gleaming breastplate and crested helmet, came bounding up the stairs two at a time with his sword in his hand. He stopped suddenly when he reached the landing, staring at Kalten and Mirtai in stupefied disbelief. He waved his

sword at them and issued a peremptory command in his own language.

‘What did he say?’ Talen demanded.

‘He ordered them to get out of his way,’ Aphrael replied.

‘Doesn’t he realize that they’re his enemies?’

“‘Enemy” is a difficult concept for someone like Santheocles,’ Ehlana told him. ‘He’s never been outside the walls of Cyrga, and I doubt that he’s seen more than ten people who weren’t Cyrgai in his entire life.

The Cyrgai obey him automatically, so he hasn’t had much experience with open hostility.’

Ekatas came puffing up the stairs behind Santheocles. His eyes were wide with shock and his wrinkled face ashen. He spoke sharply to his king, and Santheocles placidly stepped aside. Ekatas drew himself up and began speaking sonorously, his hands moving in the air before him.

‘Stop him!’ Bevier cried. ‘He’s casting a spell!’

‘He’s trying to cast a spell,’ Aphrael corrected. ‘I think he’s in for a nasty surprise.’ The High Priest’s voice rose in a long, slow crescendo and he suddenly leveled one arm at Kalten and Mirtai.

Nothing happened. Ekatas held his empty hand up in front of his face, gaping at it in utter astonishment.

‘Ekatas,’ Aphrael called sweetly to him, ‘I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but now that Cyrgon’s dead, your spells won’t work any more.’ He stared up at her, comprehension and recognition slowly dawning on his face. Then he spun and bolted through the door on the left side of the landing and slammed it behind him. Mirtai moved quickly after him. She briefly tried the door, then stepped back and kicked it to pieces. Kalten advanced on the sneering King of the Cyrgai. Santheocles struck a heroic pose, his oversized shield extended, his sword raised, and his head held high.

‘He’s no match for Kalten,’ Bevier said. ‘Why doesn’t he run?’

‘He doth believe himself invincible, Sir Bevier,’ Xanetia replied. ‘He hath slain many of his own soldiers on the practice-field, and thus considers himself the paramount warrior in all the world. In truth, however, his subordinates would not strike back or even defend themselves, because he was their king.’

Kalten, grim-faced and vengeful, fell on the feeble-minded monarch like an avalanche. The face of Santheocles was filled with shock and outrage as, for the first time in his life, someone actually raised a weapon against him.

It was a short, ugly fight, and the outcome was quite predictable. Kalten battered down the oversized shield, parried a couple of stiffly formal swings at his head and then buried his sword up to the hilt in the precise center of the burnished breastplate. Santheocles stared at him in sheer astonishment. Then he sighed, toppled backward off the blade, and clattered limply back down the stairs.

‘Yes!’ Ehlana exulted in a savage voice as the most offensive of her persecutors died. From beyond the splintered door came a long, despairing scream fading horribly away, and Mirtai emerged with an expression of bleak satisfaction.

‘What did you do to him?’ Kalten asked curiously.

‘I defenestrated him,’ she replied with a shrug.

‘Mirtai!’ he gasped. ‘That’s awful!’

She gave him a baffled look. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘That’s a terrible thing to do to a man!’

‘Throw him out of a window? I can think of much worse things to do to somebody.’

‘Is that what that word means?’

‘Of course. Stragen used to talk about it back in Matherion.’

‘Oh.’ Kalten flushed slightly.

‘What did you think it meant?’

‘Ah - never mind, Mirtai. just forget I said anything.’

‘You must have thought it meant something.’

‘Can we just drop it? I misunderstood, that’s all.’ He looked up at the others. ‘Let’s go on down,’ he suggested. ‘I don’t think there’ll be anybody else in our way.’

Ehlana suddenly burst into tears. ‘I can’t!’ she wailed. ‘I can’t face Sparhawk like this!’ She put one hand on the wimple. Aphrael rolled her eyes upward. ‘Let’s go into that room,’ she t suggested. ‘I’ll fix it for you - if it’s so important.’

‘Could you?’ Ehlana asked eagerly.

‘Of course.’ The Child Goddess squinted at her. ‘Would you like to have me change the color?’ she asked. ‘Or maybe make it curly?’

The Queen pursed her lips. ‘Why don’t we talk about that a little?’ she said.

The Cynesgans who manned the outer wall of the Hidden City were not particularly good troops in the first place, and when the Trolls came leaping out of No-Time to scramble up the walls toward them, they broke and ran.

‘Did you tell the Trolls to open the gates for us?’ Vanion asked Ulath. ‘Yes, my Lord,’ the Genidian replied, ‘but it might be a little while before they remember. They’re hungry right now. They’ll eat breakfast first.’

‘We have to get inside, Ulath,’ Sephrenia said urgently. ‘We have to protect the slave-pens.’

‘Oh, Lord,’ he said. ‘I forgot about that. The Trolls won’t be able to distinguish slaves from Cynesgans.’

‘I’ll go have a look,’ Khalad volunteered. He swung down from his horse and ran forward to the massively timbered gates. After a couple of moments he came back. ‘It’s no particular problem, Lady Sephrenia,’ he reported. ‘Those gates would fall apart if you sneezed on them.’

‘What?’

‘The timbers are very old, my Lady, and they’re riddled with dry-rot. With your permission, Lord Vanion, I’ll take some men and rig up a battering-ram. We’ll knock down the gate so that we can get inside.’

‘Of course,’ Vanion replied.

‘Come along then, Berit,’ Khalad told his friend.

‘That young man always manages to make me feel inadequate,’ Vanion muttered as they watched the pair ride back to rejoin the knights massed some yards to the rear.

‘As I remember, his father had the same effect on you,’

Sephrenia said. Kring came galloping back around the wall.

‘Friend Bergsten’s preparing to assault the north gate,’ he reported. ‘Send word to him to be careful, friend Kring,’ Betuana advised. ‘The Trolls are already inside the city - and they’re hungry. It might be better if he delayed his attack just a little.’

Kring nodded his agreement. ‘Working with Trolls changes the complexion of things, doesn’t it, Betuana-Queen? They’re very good allies in a fight, but you don’t want to let them get hungry.’

About ten minutes later, Khalad and a few dozen knights dragged a large log into place before the gate, suspended it on ropes attached to several makeshift tripods, and began to pound on the rotting timbers.

The gate shuddered out billows of powdery red dust and began to crumble and fall apart.

‘Let’s go.’ Vanion called tersely to his oddly assorted army and led the way into the city. At Sephrenia’s insistence, the knights went straight to the pens, freed the shackled slaves, and escorted them to safety.

outside the walls. Then Vanion’s force moved directly to the inner wall that protected the steep hill rising in the middle of Cyrga.

‘How long is that likely to last, Sir Ulath?’ Vanion said, gesturing toward a cluster of ravening Trolls.

‘It’s a little hard to say, Lord Vanion,’ Ulath replied. ‘I don’t think we’ll get much cooperation from them as long as there are still Cynesgans running up and down the streets here in the outer city, though.’

‘Maybe it’s just as well,’ Vanion decided. ‘I think we want to get to Sparhawk and the others before the Trolls do.’ He looked around. ‘Khalad,’ he called, ‘tell your men to drag that battering ram up here. Let’s pound down the gate to the inner city and go find Sparhawk.’

‘Yes, my Lord,’ Khalad replied. The gates to the inner wall were more substantial, and Khalad’s ram was pounding out great booming sounds when Patriarch Bergsten came riding along the wall, accompanied by the veteran Pandion, Sir Heldin, a Peloi whom Vanion did not recognize, and a tall, lithe Atan girl. Vanion was a bit startled to see that the Styric God Setras was also with them.

‘What do you think you’re doing, Vanion?’ Bergsten roared.

‘Knocking down this gate, your Grace,’ Vanion replied.

‘That’s not what I’m talking about. What in God’s name possessed you to let the Trolls make the initial assault?’

‘It wasn’t really a question of “let”, your Grace. They didn’t exactly ask for permission.’

‘We’ve got absolute chaos here in the outer city. My knights can’t concentrate on this inner wall because they keep running into Trolls. They’re in a feeding-frenzy, you know. Right now they’ll eat anything that moves.’

‘Must you?’ Sephrenia murmured with a shudder.

‘Hello, Sephrenia,’ Bergsten said. ‘You’re looking well. How much longer are you going to be with this gate, Vanion? Let’s get our people into the inner city where all we have to worry about are the Cyrgai.

Your allies are making my men very nervous.’ He looked up at the top of the inner wall, sharply outlined against the dawn sky. ‘I thought the Cyrgai were supposed to be soldiers. Why aren’t they manning this wall?’

‘They’re a little demoralized right now,’ Sephrenia explained.

‘Sparhawk just killed their God.’

‘He did? I thought Bhelliom was going to do that.’ She sighed. ‘In a certain sense it did,’ she said. ‘It’s a little hard to separate the two of them at this point. Aphrael isn’t entirely sure where Bhelliom leaves off and Sparhawk begins right now.’

Bergsten shuddered. ‘I don’t think I want to know about that,’ he confessed. ‘I’m in enough theological trouble already. What about Klael?’ ‘He’s gone. He was banished as soon as Sparhawk killed Cyrgon.’

‘Oh, fine, Vanion,’ Bergsten said with heavy sarcasm. ‘You make me ride a thousand leagues in the dead of winter, and the fighting’s all over before I even get here.’

‘The exercise was probably good for you, your Grace.’ Vanion raised his voice.

‘How much longer, Khalad?’ he called. ‘Just a few more minutes, my Lord,’ Sparhawk’s squire replied.

‘The timbers are starting to crack.’

‘Good,’ Vanion said bleakly. ‘I want to locate Zalasta. He and I have some things to talk about - at great length.’

‘They’ve all bolted, Sparhawk,’ Talen reported, returning from his quick survey of the ruined palace. ‘The gates are standing wide open, and we’re the only people up here.’ Sparhawk nodded wearily. It had been a long night, and he was emotionally as well as physically drained. He could still, however, feel that enormous calm that had settled over him when he had at last understood the true significance of his strange relationship with Bhelliom. There were some fleeting temptations - curiosity perhaps more than anything else - a desire to experiment and test the limits of newly-recognized capabilities. He deliberately repressed them.

‘Go ahead, Sparhawk,’ Flute’s voice in his mind had a slight challenge in it. He turned his head to look quizzically at the ageless child, standing beside his wife. Ehlana’s face was serene as she ran her fingers through her long, pale-blonde hair.

‘What did you want me to do?’ he sent the thought back.

‘Anything that comes into your mind.

‘Why?’

‘Aren’t you just the least bit curious.? Wouldn’t you like to find out if you can turn a mountain inside out?’

‘I can,’ he replied. ‘I don’t see any reason to do something like that, though.’

‘You’re hateful, Sparhawk!’ she suddenly flared.

‘What’s your problem, Aphrael?’

‘You’re such a lump!’

He smiled gently at her. ‘I know, but you love me anyway, don’t you?’

‘Sparhawk,’ Kalten called from the ornate bronze gate,

‘Vanion’s coming up the hill. He’s got Bergsten with him.’

Vanion had known Sparhawk since his novitiate, but the weary-looking man in black armor seemed to

be almost a stranger. There was something about his face and in his eyes that had never been there before. The Preceptor approached his old friend with Patriarch Bergsten and Sephrenia with a sense of something very close to awe. As soon as Ehlana saw Sephrenia, she ran to her with a low cry and embraced her fiercely.

‘I see that you’ve wrecked another city, Sparhawk,’ Bergsten said with a broad grin. ‘That’s getting to be a habit, you know.’

‘Good morning, your Grace,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘It’s good to see you again.’

‘Did you do all this?’ Bergsten gestured at the ruined temple and the half-collapsed palace.

‘Klael did most of it, your Grace.’ The hulking churchman squared his shoulders.

‘I’ve got orders for you from Dolmant,’ he said. ‘You’re supposed to turn the Bhelliom over to me. Why don’t you do that now - before we both forget?’

‘I’m afraid that isn’t possible, your Grace,’ Sparhawk sighed. ‘I don’t have it any more.’

‘What did you do with it?’

‘It no longer exists - at least not in the shape it was before. Its been freed from its confinement to continue its journey.’

‘You released it without consulting the Church? You’re in trouble, Sparhawk.’

‘Oh, do be serious, Bergsten,’ Aphrael told him. ‘Sparhawk did what had to be done. I’ll explain to Dolmant later.’ Vanion, however, had something else on his mind.

‘This is all very interesting,’ he said bleakly, ‘but right now I’m far more concerned about finding Zalasta.

Does anybody have any idea of where I might find him?’

‘He might be under all that, Vanion,’ Ehlana told him, pointing at the ruined temple. ‘He and Ekatas were going there when they discovered that Sparhawk was here inside the walls of Cyrga. Ekatas escaped, and Mirtai killed him, but Zalasta might have been crushed when Klael exploded the place.

‘No,’ Aphrael said shortly. ‘He’s nowhere in the city.’

‘I really want to find him, Divine One,’ Vanion said.

‘Setras, dear,’ Aphrael said sweetly to her cousin, ‘would you see if you can find Zalasta for me? He has a great deal to answer for.’

‘I’ll see what I can do, Aphrael,’ the handsome God promised, ‘but I really ought to get back to my studio. I’ve been letting my own work slide during all this.’

‘Please, Setras,’ she wheedled, unleashing that devastating little smile. He laughed helplessly.

‘Do you see what I was talking about, Bergsten?’ he said to the towering Patriarch. ‘She’s the most dangerous creature in the universe.’

‘So I’ve heard,’ Bergsten replied. ‘You’d probably better go ahead and do as she asks, Setras. You’ll do it in the end anyway.’

‘Ah, there you are, Itagne-Ambassador,’ Vanion heard Atana Mans say in a deceptively pleasant tone of voice. He turned and saw the lithe young commander of the garrison at Cynestra descending on the clearly apprehensive Tamul diplomat. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you,’ she continued. ‘We have a great deal to talk about. Somehow, not one of your letters reached me. I think you should reprimand your messenger.’

Itagne’s face took on a trapped expression.

Betuana dispatched runners to Matherion just before noon, when the last of the demoralized Cyrgai capitulated. Sir Ulath made an issue of the fact that what had happened to the Cynesgans in the outer city might have influenced that decision to some degree. Patriarch Bergsten had taken to looking at his countryman with a critical and speculative eye. Bergsten was a rough-and-ready churchman, willing to bend all sorts of rules in the name of expediency, but he choked just a bit on Ulath’s led ecumenicalism.

‘He’s just a little too enthusiastic, Sparhawk.’ the huge Patriarch declared. ‘All right, I’ll grant you that the Trolls were useful, but -‘ He groped for a way to express his innate prejudices.

‘There’s a rather special kinship between Ulath and Bhlokw, your Grace,’ Sparhawk sidestepped the issue. ‘How much have we got left to do here? I’d sort of like to get my wife back to civilization. ’

‘You can leave now, Sparhawk,’ Bergsten said with a shrug. We can take care of cleaning up here. You didn’t leave very much for the rest of us to worry about. I’ll stay here with the knights to finish rounding up the Cyrgai; Tikume will take his Peloi back to Cynestra to help Itagne and Atana Mans set up the occupation, and Betuana’s going to send her Atans into Arjuna to re-establish imperial authority.’ He made a sour face. ‘There’s nothing really left but all the niggling little administrative details. You’ve robbed me of a very good fight, Sparhawk.’

‘I can send for more of Klael’s soldiers if you want, your Grace.’

‘No. That’s all right, Sparhawk,’ Bergsten replied quickly. ‘I can live without any more of those fights.

You’ll be going straight back to Matherion?’

‘Not straight back, your Grace. Courtesy obliges us to escort Anarae Xanetia back to Delphaeus.’

‘She’s a very strange lady,’ Bergsten mused. ‘I keep catching myself just on the verge of genuflection every time she enters a room. ’

‘She has that effect on people, your Grace. If you really don’t need us here, I’ll talk with the others, and we’ll get ready to leave.’

‘What actually happened, Sparhawk?’ Bergsten asked directly. ‘I have to make a report to Dolmant, and I can’t make much sense out of what the others have been telling me.’

‘I’m not sure I can explain it, your Grace,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Bhelliom and I were sort of combined for a while. It needed my arm, I guess.’ It was an easy answer, and it evaded a central issue that Sparhawk was not yet fully prepared to even think about.

‘You were just a tool, then?’ Bergsten’s look was intent.

Sparhawk shrugged. ‘Aren’t we all, your Grace? We’re the instruments of God. That’s what we get paid for.’

‘Sparhawk, you’re right on the verge of heresy here. Don’t throw the word “God” around like that.’

‘No, your Grace,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘It’s just a reflection of the limitations of language. There are things that we don’t understand and don’t have names for. We just lump them all together, call it “God”, and let it go at that. You and I are soldiers, Patriarch Bergsten. We get paid to hit the ground running when somebody blows a trumpet. Let Dolmant sort it out. That’s what he gets paid for.’

Sparhawk and his friends, accompanied by Kring, Betuana and Engessa, rode out of shattered Cyrga shortly after dawn the following morning, bound for Sama. Sparhawk had neither seen nor heard from Bhelliom since his encounter with Cyrgon, and he felt a peculiar sense of disappointment about that. The Troll-Gods had also departed with their children - all except for Bhlokw, who shambled along between Ulath and Tynian. Bhlokw was evasive about his reasons for accompanying them. They rode northeasterly across the barren wastes of Cynesga, traveling in easy stages. The urgent need for haste was gone now. Sephrenia and Xanetia, once again working in concert, had returned all the faces to their rightful owners, and things were slowly settling back to normal. It was about midmorning ten days after they had left Cyrga and when they were but a few leagues from Sama that Vanion rode forward to join Sparhawk at the head of the column. ‘A word with you, Sparhawk?’ he said.

‘Of course.’

‘It’s sort of private.’

Sparhawk nodded, turned the column over to Bevier and nudged Faran into a rolling canter. He and Vanion slowed again when they were about a quarter of a mile ahead of the others.

‘Sephrenia wants us to get married,’ Vanion said, cutting past any preamble.

‘You’re asking my permission?’

Vanion gave him a long, steady look.

‘Sorry,’ Sparhawk apologized. ‘You took me by surprise. There are problems with that, you know. The

Church will never approve, and neither will the Thousand of Styricum. We’re not quite as hide-bound as we used to be, but the notion of interracial or interfaith marriage still raises some hackles.’

‘I know,’ Vanion said glumly. ‘Dolmant probably wouldn’t have any personal objections, but his hands are tied by Church law and doctrine.’

‘Who are you going to get to officiate, then?’

‘Sephrenia’s already solved that problem. Xanetia’s going to perform the ceremony.’

Sparhawk nearly choked on that.

‘She is a priestess, Sparhawk.’

‘Well - technically, I suppose.’ Then Sparhawk suddenly broke out laughing.

‘What’s so funny?’ Vanion demanded truculently.

‘Can you imagine the look on Ortzel’s face when he hears that a Preceptor of one of the four orders, a Patriarch of the Church, has been married to one of the Thousand of Styricum by a Delphaeic priestess?’

‘It does violate a few rules, doesn’t it?’ Vanion conceded with a wry smile. ‘A few? Vanion, I doubt that you could find any single act that’d violate more.’

‘Do you object, too?’

‘Not me, old friend. If this is what you and Sephrenia want, I’ll back the two of you all the way up to the Hierocracy.’

‘Would you stand up with me, then? During the ceremony, I mean?’ Sparhawk clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I’d be honored, my lord.’ ‘Good. That’ll keep it all in the family. Sephrenia’s already spoken to your wife about it. Ehlana’s going to stand with her.’

‘Somehow I almost knew that was coming,’ Sparhawk laughed.

They passed through Sama and proceeded north along a snow-clogged mountain trail toward Dirgis in southern Atan. After they left Dirgis, they turned westward again and rode higher into the mountains.

‘We’re leaving a very wide trail behind us, Sparhawk,’ Bevier said late one snowy afternoon. ‘And the trail’s leading directly to Delphaeus.’ Sparhawk turned and looked back. ‘You’ve got a point,’ he conceded. ‘Maybe I’d better have a talk with Aphrael. Things have changed a bit, but I don’t think the Delphae are quite ready to welcome crowds of sightseers.’ He turned Faran around and rode back to join the ladies. Aphrael, as usual, rode with

Sephrenia.

‘A suggestion, Divine One?’ Sparhawk said tentatively.

‘You sound just like Tynian.’

He ignored that. ‘How good are you with weather?’ he asked.

‘Did you want it to be summer?’

‘No. Actually I want a moderate-sized blizzard. We’re leaving tracks in the snow behind us, and the tracks are pointing straight at Delphaeus.’

‘What difference does that make?’

‘The Delphae might not want unannounced visitors.’

‘There won’t be any - announced or otherwise. You promised to seal their valley, didn’t you?’

‘Oh, God!’ he said. ‘I’d forgotten about that. This is going to be a problem. I don’t have Bhelliom any more.’

‘Then you’d better try to get in touch with it, Sparhawk. A promise is a promise, after all. Xanetia’s kept her part of the bargain, so you’re morally obliged to keep yours.’ Sparhawk was troubled. He rode off some distance into a thick grove of spindly sapling pines and dismounted. ‘Blue Rose,’ he said aloud, not really expecting an answer. ‘Blue Rose.’

‘I hear thee, Anakha,’ the voice in his mind responded immediately. ‘I had thought thou might be in some way discontent with me.’

‘Never that, Blue Rose. Thou hast fulfilled - or exceeded - all that I did require of thee. Our enemies are overthrown, and I am content. I did, however, pledge mine honor to the Delphae in exchange for their aid. I am obliged to seal up their valley that none of this world may come upon them.’

‘I do recall thy pledge, Anakha. It was well-given. Soon, however, it will not be needful.’

‘Thy meaning escapes me.’

‘Watch then, my son, and learn.’ There was a lengthy pause ‘It is not mine intent to offend, but why hast thou brought this to me?’

‘I gave my word that I would seal their valley, Father.’

‘Then seal it.’

‘I was not certain that I could still speak with thee to entreat thine aid.’ ‘Thou hast no need of aid, Anakha

- not mine nor that of any other. Did not thine encounter with Cyrgon convince thee that all things are possible for thee? Thou art Anakha and my son, and there is none other like thee in all the starry universe. It was needful to make thee so, that my design might be accomplished. Whatsoever thou couldst do through me, thou couldst as easily have done with thine own hand.’ The voice paused. ‘I am, however, somewhat pleased that thou wert unaware of thine ability, for it did give me an opportunity to come to know thee. I shall think often of thee in my continuing journey. Let us then proceed to Delphaeus, where thy comrade Vanion and our dearly-loved Sephrenia will be joined, and where thou wilt behold a wonder.’

‘Which particular wonder is that, Blue Rose?’

‘It would hardly be a wonder for thee shouldst thou know of it in advance, my son.’ There were faint traces of amusement in the voice as the sense of Bhelliom’s presence faded.

It was early on a snowy evening when they crested a ridge and looked down into the valley where the glowing lake, misty in the swirling snowflakes, shone with a light almost like that of the moon. Ancient Codon awaited them at the rude gate to this other hidden city, and standing beside him was Itagne’s friend, Ekrasios. They talked until quite late, for there was much to share, and it was midmorning of the following day before Sparhawk awoke in the oddly sunken bedroom he shared with his wife. It was one of the peculiarities of Delphaeic construction that the floors of most of their rooms were below ground-level. Sparhawk didn’t give it much thought, but Khalad seemed quite intrigued by the notion.

Sparhawk gently kissed his still-sleeping wife, slipped quietly from their bed, and went looking for Vanion. He remembered his own wedding day, and he was Quite sure that his friend was going to need some support. He found the silvery-haired Preceptor talking with Talen and Khalad in the makeshift stable. Khalad’s face was bleak.

‘What’s the problem?’ Sparhawk asked as he joined them.

‘My brother’s a little unhappy,’ Talen explained. ‘He talked with Ekrasios and the other Delphae who dispersed Scarpa’s army down in Arjuna, and nobody could tell him one way or the other about what happened to Krager.’

‘I’m going to operate on the theory that he’s still alive,’ Khalad declared. ‘He’s just too slippery not to have escaped.’

‘We have plans for you, Khalad,’ Vanion told him. ‘You’re too valuable to spend your whole life trying to chase down a weasely drunkard who may or may not have gotten out of Natayos alive.’

‘It won’t take him all that long, Lord Vanion,’ Talen said. ‘As soon as Stragen and I get back to Cimmura, we’ll talk with Platime, and he’ll put out the word. If Krager’s still alive - anywhere in the world - we’ll find out about it.’

‘What are the ladies doing?’ Vanion asked nervously.

‘Ehlana’s still asleep,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Are you and Sephrenia going back to Matherion with us when we leave here?’

‘Briefly,’ Vanion responded. ‘Sephrenia wants to speak with Sarabian about a few things. Then we’ll go back to Atan with Betuana and Engessa. It’s only a short trip from there to Sarsos. Have you noticed what’s going on between Betuana and Engessa, by the way?’

Sparhawk nodded. ‘Evidently Betuana’s decided that the Atans need a king. Engessa’s suitable, and he’s probably a great deal more intelligent than Androl was.’

‘That’s not saying too much for him, Sparhawk,’ Talen said with a broad grin. ‘Androl wasn’t a great deal more intelligent than a buck.’

The ladies, of course, made extended preparations. The knights, on the other hand, did what they could

to keep Vanion’s mind occupied. An obscure tenet of the Delphaeic faith dictated that the ceremony take place on the shore of the glowing lake just at dusk. Sparhawk dimly perceived why this might be appropriate for the Shining Ones, but the wedding of Vanion and Sephrenia had little if anything to do with the covenant between the Delphae and their God. Courtesy, however, dictated that he keep his opinions to himself. He did offer to clothe Vanion in traditional black Pandion armor, but the Preceptor chose instead to wear a white Styric robe.

‘I’ve fought my last war, Sparhawk,’ he said, a bit sadly. ‘Dolmant won’t have any choice but to excommunicate me and strip me of my knighthood after this. That makes me a civilian again. I never really enjoyed wearing armor all that much anyway.’ He looked curiously at Ulath and Tynian who were talking earnestly with Bhlokw just outside the stable door. ‘What’s going on there?’

‘They’re trying to explain the concept of a wedding to their friend. They aren’t making very much headway.’

‘I don’t imagine that Trolls set much store in ceremonies.’

‘Not really. When a male feels that way about a female, he takes her something - or somebody - to eat.

If she eats it, they’re married.’

‘And if she doesn’t?’

Sparhawk shrugged. ‘They usually try to kill each other.’

‘Do you have any idea of why Bhlokw didn’t go off with the rest of the Trolls?’

‘Not a clue, Vanion. We haven’t been able to get a straight answer out of him. Evidently there’s something the Troll-Gods want him to do.’

The afternoon dragged on, and Vanion grew more and more edgy with each passing moment. Inevitably, however, the grey day slid into a greyer evening, and dusk settled over the hidden valley of Delphaeus.

The path from the city gate to the edge of the lake had been carefully cleared, and Aphrael, who was not above cheating on occasion, had strewn it with flower petals. The Delphae, all aglow and singing an ancient hymn, lined the sides of the path.

Vanion waited at the edge of the lake with Sparhawk, and the other members of their party stood in smiling anticipation as Sephrenia, with Ehlana at her side, emerged from the city to walk down to the shore.

‘Courage, my son,’ Sparhawk murmured to his old friend.

‘Are you trying to be funny?’

‘Getting married doesn’t really hurt, Vanion.’

It happened when the bride and her attendant were perhaps halfway to the lake-shore. A sudden cloud of inky darkness appeared at the edge of the snow-covered meadow, and a great voice bellowed,

‘NO!’ Then a spark of incandescent light emerged from the center of the cloud and began to swell ominously, surging and surrounded by a blazing halo of purplish light. Sparhawk recognized the phenomenon.

‘I forbid this abomination!’ the great voice roared.

‘Zalasta!’ Kalten exclaimed, staring at the rapidly expanding sphere.

The Styric was haggard and his hair and beard were matted. He wore his customary white robe and held his polished staff in his trembling hands. He stood inside the glowing sphere, surrounded by its protective nimbus. Sparhawk felt an icy calm descending over him as he prepared his mind and spirit for the inevitable confrontation.

‘I have lost you, Sephrenia!’ Zalasta declared. ‘But I will not permit you to wed this Elene!’

Aphrael dashed to her sister, her long black hair flying and a look of implacable determination on her small face.

‘Fear not, Aphrael,’ Zalasta said, speaking in formal Styric. ‘I have not come to this accursed place to pit myself against thee or thine errant sister. I speak for Styricum in this matter, and I have come to prevent this obscene sham of a ceremony which will befoul our entire race.’ He straightened and pointed an accusing finger at Sephrenia. ‘I adjure thee, woman. Turn away from this unnatural act. Go out from here, Sephrenia of Ylara! This wedding shall not take place!’

‘It will.’ Sephrenia’s voice rang out. ‘You cannot Prevent it. Go away Zalasta! You lost all claim on me

when you tried to kill me!’ She raised her chin. ‘And have you come to try again?’

‘No, Sephrenia of Ylara. That was the result of a madness that came over me. There is yet another way to prevent this abomination.’ And he quickly turned, leveling his deadly staff at Vanion. A brilliant spark shot from the tip of the staff, sizzling in the pale evening light, straight as an arrow it flew, carrying death and all Zalasta’s hatred. But vigilant Anakha was ready, having already surmised at whom Zalasta would direct his attack. The sizzling spark flew straight, and agile Anakha stretched forth his hand to subdue it.

He grasped the spark and saw its fury spurting out between his fingers. Then like a small boy throwing a stone at a bird, he hurled it back to explode against the surface of the blazing sphere.

‘Well done, my son,’ Bhelliom’s voice applauded. Zalasta flinched violently within his protective sphere.

Pale and shaken, he stared at the dreadful form of Bhelliom’s Child. Methodical Anakha raised his hand, palm outward, and began to chip away at the blazing envelope which protected the desperate Styric with bolt after bolt of the kind of force that creates suns, noting almost absently as he did that the wedding-guests were scattering and that Sephrenia was rushing to Vanion’s side As he whipped that force out again and again, curious Anakha studied it, testing its power, probing for its limits.

He found none. Implacable Anakha advanced on the deceitful Styric who had been ultimately the cause of a lifetime of suffering and woe. He knew that he could obliterate the now-terrified sorcerer with a single thought.

He chose not to. Vengeful Anakha moved forward, savaging the Styric’s last desperately erected defenses, cutting them away bit by bit and brushing aside Zalasta’s pitiful efforts to respond.

‘Anakha. It is not right!’ The voice spoke in Trollish.

Puzzled Anakha turned to look. It was Bhlokw, and Bhelliom’s Child had respect for the shaggy priest of the Troll-Gods.

‘This is the last of the wicked ones!’ Bhlokw declared. ‘It is the wish of Khwaj to cause hurt to it! Will the Child of the FlowerGem hear the words of Khwaj?’

Troubled Anakha considered the words of the priest of the Troll-Gods. ‘I will hear the words of Khwaj,’

he said. ‘It is right that I should do this, for Khwaj and I are pack-mates.’

The enormity of the Fire-God appeared, steaming away the snow covering the meadow around him.

‘Will Bhelliom’s Child be bound by the word of his pack-mate, Ulath-from-Thalesia?’ he demanded in a voice that roared like a furnace.

‘The word of Ulath-from-Thalesia is my word, Khwaj,’ honorable Anakha conceded.

‘Then the wicked one is mine!’ Regretful Anakha curbed his wrath. ‘The words of Khwaj are right words,’ he agreed. ‘if Ulath-from-Thalesia has given the wicked one to Khwaj, then I will not say that it shall not be so.’ He looked at the terrified Styric, who was struggling desperately to retain some small measure of defense. ‘It is yours, Khwaj. It has caused me much hurt, and I would cause hurt to it in return, but if Ulath-from-Thalesia has said that it is the place of Khwaj to cause hurt to it, then so be it.’

‘Bhelliom’s Child speaks well. You have honor, Anakha.’ The Fire-God looked accusingly at Zalasta.

‘You have done great wickedness, one-called-Zalasta.’

Zalasta stared at Khwaj in terrified incomprehension. ‘Say to it what I have said, Anakha,’ Khwaj requested. ‘It must know why it is being punished.’

Courteous Anakha said, ‘I will, Khwaj.’ He looked sternly at the dishevelled Styric. ‘You have caused me much pain, Zalasta,’ he said in a dreadful voice, speaking in Styric. ‘I was going to repay you for all those friends of mine you destroyed or corrupted, but Khwaj here has laid claim to you, and for various reasons I’m going to honor his claim. You should have stayed away, Zalasta. Vanion would have hunted you down eventually, but death is a little thing, and once it’s over, it’s over. What Khwaj is going to do to you will last for eternity.’

‘Does it understand?’ Khwaj demanded.

‘In some measure, Khwaj.’

‘In time it will understand more, and it has much time. It has always.’ And the dreadful Fire-God blew away Zalasta’s last pitiful defenses and laid a strangely gentle hand on the cringing Styric’s head. ‘Burn!’

he commanded. ‘Run and burn until the end of days!’ And, all aflame, Zalasta of Styricum went out from that place shrieking and engulfed in endless fire. Compassionate Anakha sighed as he watched the

burning man run out across the snowy meadow, growing smaller and smaller in the distance and with his cries of agony and woe and unspeakable loneliness receding with him as he began the first hour of his eternal punishment.