DAVID

EDDINGS

THE HIDDEN CITY

The Tamuli Book Three

Copyright

HarperVoyager An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF

harpervoyagerbooks.co.uk

This edition 2006

Previously published in paperback by Voyager 1996, reprinted twelve times.

First published in Great Britain by

HarperCollins Science Fiction and Fantasy 1995

Copyright © David Eddings 1994

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015 Cover image texture © Shutterstock.com

The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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Source ISBN: 9780007217083

Ebook Edition © MARCH 2011 ISBN: 9780007368051

Version: 2015-08-03

Dedication

FOR DR BRUCE GRAY

for his enthusiasm and his technical advice -

and for keeping our favorite author (and wife) alive

AND FOR NANCY GRAY, R.N.

who takes care of everybody else,

and neglects to take care of herself.

Shape up, Nancy.

Maps

CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Maps

Prologue

PART ONE: Berit

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

PART TWO: Natayos

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

PART THREE: Cyrga

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Epilogue

Keep Reading

Also by the Author

About the Author

About the Publisher

Prologue

Professor Itagne of the Foreign Affairs Department of the University of Matherion sat on the platform reviewing his notes. It was early in the evening of a fine spring day, and the windows of the auditorium where the faculty of the college of Political Science had gathered were open to admit the smell of flowers and grass and the faintly distracting sound of bird-song.

Professor Emeritus Gintana of the International Trade Department stood at the lectern droning on interminably about twenty-seventh century tariff regulations. Gintana was a wispy, white-haired, and slightly vague academic customarily referred to as ‘that dear old man’. Itagne was not really listening to him.

This was not going to go well, he concluded wryly, crumpling up and discarding yet another sheet of notes. Word of his subject had been broadcast across the campus, and academics from as far away as Applied Mathematics and Contemporary Alchemy packed the hall, their eyes bright with anticipation. The entire faculty of the Contemporary History Department filled the front rows, their black academic robes making them look like a flock of crows. Contemporary History was here in force to ensure all the fireworks anyone could hope for.

Itagne idly considered a feigned collapse. How in the name of God – any God – was he going to get through the next hour without making a total ass of himself? He had all the facts, of course, but what rational man would believe the facts? A straightforward account of what had really happened during the recent turmoil would sound like the ravings of a lunatic. If he stuck to straight truth, the hacks from Contemporary History would not have to say a word. He could destroy his own reputation with no help from them at all.

Itagne took one more brief glance at his carefully prepared notes. Then he bleakly folded them and thrust them back into the voluminous sleeve of his academic robe. What was going to happen here tonight would more closely resemble a tavern brawl than reasoned discourse. Contemporary History had obviously showed up to shout him down. Itagne squared his shoulders. Well, if they wanted a fight, he’d give them one.

A breeze had come up. The curtains at the tall windows rustled and billowed, and the golden tongues of flame flickering in the oil lamps wavered and danced. It was a beautiful spring evening – everywhere but here inside this auditorium.

There was a polite spattering of applause, and old professor Gintana, flustered and confused by this acknowledgement of his existence, bowed awkwardly, clutched his notes in both hands, and tottered back to his seat. Then the Dean of the College of Political Science rose to announce the evening’s main event. ‘Colleagues,’ he began, ‘before Professor Itagne favors us with his remarks, I would like to take this opportunity to introduce some visitors of note. I’m sure you will all join with me in welcoming Patriarch Emban, First Secretary of the Church of Chyrellos, Sir Bevier, the Cyrinic Knight from Arcium and Sir Ulath of the Genidian Order located in Thalesia.’

There was more polite applause as Itagne hurried across the platform to greet his Elene friends. ‘Thank God you’re here,’ he said fervently. ‘The whole Contemporary History Department’s turned out – except for the few who are probably outside boiling the tar and bringing up bags of feathers.’

‘You didn’t think your brother was going to hang you out to dry, did you, Itagne?’ Emban smiled. ‘He thought you might get lonesome here, so he sent us to keep you company.’

Itagne felt better as he returned to his seat. If nothing else, Bevier and Ulath could head off any physical attacks.

‘And now, colleagues and distinguished guests,’ the Dean continued, ‘Professor Itagne of the Foreign Affairs Department will respond to a recent paper published by the Department of Contemporary History under the title, “The Cyrga Affair: An Examination of the Recent Crisis”. Professor Itagne.’

Itagne rose, strode purposefully to the lectern and assumed his most offensively civilized expression. ‘Dean Altus, distinguished colleagues, faculty wives, honored guests-’ He paused. ‘Did I leave anybody out?’

There was a titter of nervous laughter. Tension was high in the hall. ‘I’m particularly pleased to see so many of our colleagues from Contemporary History here with us this evening,’ Itagne continued, throwing the first punch. ‘Since I’ll be discussing something near and dear to their hearts, it’s much better that they’re present to hear what I say with their own ears rather than being forced to rely on garbled second-hand accounts.’ He smiled benignly down at the scowling hacks in the front row. ‘Can you hear me, gentlemen?’ he asked. ‘Am I going too fast for any of you?’

‘This is outrageous!’ a portly, sweating professor protested loudly.

‘It’s going to get worse, Quinsal,’ Itagne told him. ‘If the truth bothers you, you’d better leave now.’ He looked out over the assemblage. ‘It’s been said that the quest for truth is the noblest occupation of man, but there be dragons lurking in the dark forests of ignorance. And the names of these dragons are “Incompetence” and “Political Bias” and “Deliberate Distortion” and “Sheer, Wrongheaded Stupidity”. Our gallant friends here in Contemporary History bravely sallied forth to do battle with these dragons in their recently published “Cyrga Affair”. It is with the deepest regret that I must inform you that the dragons won.’

There was more laughter, and dark scowls from the front row.

It’s never been any secret at this institution that the Contemporary History Department is a political entity rather than an academic one,’ Itagne continued. It has been sponsored from its very inception by the Prime Minister, and its only reasons for existence have been to gloss over his blunders and to conceal as best they might his absolute incompetence. To be sure, Prime Minister Subat and his accomplice, Interior Minister Kolata, have never been interested in the truth, but please, gentlemen, this is a university. Shouldn’t we at least pretend to be telling the truth?’

‘Rubbish!’ a burly academic in the front row bellowed.

‘Yes,’ Itagne replied, holding up a yellow-bound copy of ‘The Cyrga Affair’, I noticed that myself. But if you knew it was rubbish, Professor Pessalt, why did you publish it?’

The laughter in the hall was even louder this time, and it drowned out Pessalt’s spluttered attempt to answer.

‘Let us push on with this great work that we are in,’ Itagne suggested. ‘We all know Pondia Subat for the scheming incompetent he really is, but the only thing that most baffles me about your “Cyrga Affair” is its consistent attempt to elevate the Styric renegade Zalasta to near sainthood. How in the name of God could anyone – even someone as severely limited as the Prime Minister – revere this scoundrel?’

‘How dare you speak so of the greatest man of this century?’ one of the hacks screamed at him.

‘If Zalasta’s the best this century can manage, colleague, I think we’re in deep trouble. But we digress. The crisis which Contemporary History chooses to call “The Cyrga Affair” has been brewing for several years.’

‘Yes,’ someone shouted with heavy sarcasm, ‘we noticed that!’

‘I’m so happy for you,’ Itagne murmured, drawing another loud laugh from the audience. To whom did our idiot Prime Minister turn for aid? To Zalasta, of course. And what was Zalasta’s answer to the crisis? He urged us to send for the Pandion Knight, Prince Sparhawk of Elenia. Why would the name of an Elene nobleman leap to Zalasta’s lips in answer to the question – almost before it was asked – particularly in view of the sorry record of the Elenes in their relations with the Styrics? To be sure, Prince Sparhawk’s exploits are legendary, but what was it about the man that made Zalasta pine so for his company? And why was it that Zalasta neglected to tell us that Sparhawk is Anakha, the instrument of the Bhelliom? Did the fact somehow slip his mind? Did he think that the spirit which creates whole universes was somehow irrelevant? I find no mention at all about Bhelliom in this recently published heap of bird-droppings. Did you omit the most momentous event of the past eon deliberately? Were you so caught up in trying to give your adored Pondia Subat credit for policy decisions he had no part in that you decided not to mention Bhelliom at all?’

‘Balderdash!’ a deep voice roared.

‘I’m pleased to meet you, Professor Balderdash. My name’s Itagne. It was good of you to introduce yourself. Thanks awfully, old boy.’

The laughter was tumultuous this time.

‘Fast on his feet, isn’t he?’ Itagne heard Ulath murmur to Bevier.

Itagne looked up. ‘Colleagues,’ he said, ‘I submit that it was not Prince Sparhawk that Zalasta so yearned for, but the Bhelliom. Bhelliom is the source of ultimate power, and Zalasta has been trying to get his hands on it for three centuries – for reasons too disgusting to mention. He has been willing to go to any lengths. He has betrayed his faith, his people, and his personal integrity – such as it was – to gain what the Trolls call “The Flower-Gem”.’

That tears it!’ the corpulent Quinsal declared, rising to his feet. ‘This man is mad! Now he’s talking about Trolls! This is an academic affair, Itagne, not the children’s hour. You’ve picked the wrong forum for fairytales and ghost stories.’

‘Why don’t you let me do this, Itagne?’ Ulath said, rising to his feet and coming to the podium. I can settle this question in just a moment or two.’

‘Feel free,’ Itagne said gratefully.

Ulath set one huge hand on each side of the lectern. ‘Professor Itagne has requested me to brief you gentlemen on a few matters,’ he said. I take it that you’re having some difficulties with the notion of Trolls.’

‘None at all, Sir Knight,’ Quinsal retorted. ‘Trolls are an Elene myth and nothing else. There’s no difficulty in that at all.’

‘What an amazing thing. I spent five years compiling a Trollish grammar. Are you saying that I was wasting my time?’

‘I think you’re as mad as Itagne is.’

‘Then you probably shouldn’t irritate me, should you? Particularly in view of the fact that I’m so much bigger than you are.’ Ulath squinted at the ceiling. ‘Logic tells us that no one can prove a negative. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to amend your statement?’

‘No, Sir Ulath. I’ll stand by what I just said. There’s no such thing as a Troll.’

‘Did you hear that, Bhlokw?’ Ulath raised his voice slightly. This fellow says that you don’t exist.’

There was a hideous roar in the corridor outside the auditorium, and the double doors at the rear splintered and crashed inward.

‘Stay calm!’ Bevier hissed as Itagne jumped. ‘It’s an illusion. Ulath’s amusing himself.’

‘Would you like to turn around and tell me what you see at the back of the hall, Quinsal?’ Ulath asked. ‘Exactly what would you call my friend Bhlokw there?’

The creature hulking in the doorway was huge, and its bestial face was contorted with rage. It stretched its paws forth hungrily. ‘Who has said this, U-Lat?’ it demanded in a hideous voice. I will cause hurt to it! I will rip it to pieces and eat it!’

‘Can that Troll actually speak Tamul?’ Itagne whispered.

‘Of course not,’ Bevier smiled. ‘Ulath’s getting carried away.’

The hideous apparition in the doorway continued to bellow horribly graphic descriptions of its plans for the faculty of the Contemporary History Department.

‘Were there any other questions about Trolls?’ Ulath asked mildly, but none of the assembled academics heard him over all the shouts, screams and the tipping over of chairs.

It took the better part of a quarter of an hour to restore order once Ulath had dismissed his illusion, and when Itagne reapproached the lectern, the entire audience was huddled closely together near the front of the auditorium. ‘I’m touched by your eagerness to hear my every word, gentlemen,’ Itagne smiled, ‘but I can speak loudly enough to be heard at the back of the hall, so you needn’t draw so close. I trust that the visit of Sir Ulath’s friend has cleared up the little misunderstanding about Trolls?’ He looked at Quinsal, who was still cowering on the floor, gibbering in terror. ‘Splendid,’ Itagne said. ‘Briefly then, Prince Sparhawk came to Tamuli. Elenes are sometimes a devious people, so Sparhawk’s wife, Queen Ehlana, proposed a state visit to Matherion and concealed her husband and his friends in her entourage. Upon their arrival, they almost immediately uncovered some facts which we had somehow overlooked. First, Emperor Sarabian actually has a mind; and second, the government led by Pondia Subat was in league with our enemies.’

‘Treason!’ a thin, balding professor shrieked, leaping to his feet.

‘Really, Dalash?’ Itagne asked. ‘Against whom?’

‘Why – uh -’ Dalash floundered.

‘You still don’t understand, do you gentlemen?’ Itagne asked the faculty of Contemporary History. ‘The previous government has been overthrown – by Emperor Sarabian himself. Tamuli is now an Elene-style monarchy, and Emperor Sarabian rules by decree. The previous government – and its Prime Minister – are no longer relevant.’

‘The Prime Minister cannot be removed from office!’ Dalash screamed. ‘He holds his position for life!’

‘Even if that were true, it suggests a rather simple solution to the problem, doesn’t it?’

‘You wouldn’t dare!’

‘Not me, old boy. That’s the Emperor’s decision. Don’t cross him, gentlemen. If you do, he’ll decorate the city gates with your heads. Let’s press on here. I’d like to cover a bit more ground before our customary recess. It was the aborted coup-attempt that finally brought things to a head. Pondia Subat was a party to the entire conspiracy and he fully intended to stand around wringing his hands while the drunken mob murdered all of his political enemies, evidently including the Emperor himself. If Professor Dalash wants to scream “treason” he might take a look at that. We discovered much in the aftermath of that failed coup, not only concerning the treason of the Prime Minister, but of the Minister of the Interior as well. Most important, however, was the discovery that it had been Zalasta who had engineered the entire plot, and that he was secretly allied with Ekatas, High Priest of Cyrgon, the God of the supposedly extinct Cyrgai.

‘At this point Prince Sparhawk had no choice but to retrieve Bhelliom from its hiding place and to send to Chyrellos for reinforcements. He enlisted other allies as well, not the least of which were the Delphae – who do in fact exist in all their glowing horror.’

‘This is absurd!’ Contemporary History’s reigning bully-boy, the crude and muscular Professor Pessalt sneered. ‘Are we supposed to believe this nonsense?’

‘You’ve already seen a Troll this evening, Pessalt,’ Itagne reminded him. ‘Would you like a personal visitation by a Shining One as well? I can arrange it, if you’d like – but outside, please. We’d never get rid of the stink if you were dissolved into a puddle of slime right here in front of the platform.’

Dean Altus cleared his throat meaningfully.

‘Yes sir,’ Itagne assured him. ‘I’ll just be a few more minutes.’ He turned back to the audience. ‘Now then,’ he continued quickly, ‘since the subject of the Trolls has come up again, we might as well go into that and clear it away once and for all. As you’ve noticed, the Trolls are real. They were lured to Tamuli from their home range in northern Thalesia by Cyrgon, who posed as one of their Gods. The real Troll-Gods have been imprisoned for eons, and Prince Sparhawk offered them an exchange – their freedom in return for their aid. He then led a sizeable force to northern Atan, where the misguided Trolls had been stirring up turmoil in hopes of forcing the Atans to return to defend their homeland – which would have left us effectively defenseless, since the Atans comprise the bulk of our army. Sparhawk’s move seemed to play right into the hands of our enemies, but when Cyrgon and Zalasta unleashed the Trolls, Sparhawk called forth their Gods to reclaim them. In desperation, Cyrgon reached back in time and produced a huge army of his Cyrgai. Then the Trolls, true to their nature, ate them.’

‘You don’t really expect us to swallow this, do you, Itagne?’ Professor Sarafawn, Chairman of the Department of Contemporary History and brother-in-law of the Prime Minister, demanded scornfully.

‘You might as well, Sarafawn,’ Itagne told him. ‘Your wife’s brother isn’t dictating official history any more. From now on, the Emperor wants us to give our students the plain, unvarnished truth. I’ll be publishing a factual account in the next month or so. You’d better reserve a copy, Sarafawn, because you’re going to be required to teach it to all your students in the future – assuming that you have a future at this institution. Next year’s budget’s going to be a little tight, I understand, so a number of departments will probably have to be dropped.’ He paused. ‘Are you any good with tools, Sarafawn? There’s a very nice little vocational school at Jura, I hear. You’d just love Daconia.’

The Dean cleared his throat again, a bit more urgently this time.

‘Sorry, Dean Altus,’ Itagne apologized. ‘I’m running past time, gentlemen, so I’ll just briefly sum up one more development. Despite their crushing defeat, Cyrgon and Zalasta were by no means powerless. In a bold stroke, Zalasta’s natural son, one Scarpa, crept into the imperial compound and abducted Queen Ehlana, leaving behind a demand that Sparhawk give up the Bhelliom in exchange for the safe return of his wife.

‘Following the recess Dean Altus has been so patiently awaiting, I will take up Prince Sparhawk’s reaction to this new development.’

PART ONE Berit

Chapter 1

A chill haze was rising from the meadow, and thin clouds had drifted in from the west to obscure the cold, brittle sky. There were no shadows, and the frozen ground was iron-hard and unyielding. Winter was inexorably tightening its grip on the North Cape.

Sparhawk’s army, girt in steel and leather and thousands strong, was lined up along a broad front in the frost-covered grass of the meadow near the ruins of Tzada. Sir Berit sat his horse in the center of the bulky, armored Church Knights watching the ghastly feast taking place a few hundred yards to the front. Berit was a young and idealistic knight, and he was having some difficulty with the behavior of their new allies.

The screams were remote, mere rumors of agony, and those who were screaming were not actually people -not really. They were no more than shades, the scarce-remembered reflections of long-dead men. Besides, they were enemies – members of a cruel and savage race that worshipped an unspeakable God.

But they steamed. That was the part of the horror Sir Berit could not shrug off. Though he told himself that these Cyrgai were dead – phantoms raised by Cyrgon’s magic – the fact that steam rose from their eviscerated bodies as the ravening Trolls fed on them brought all of Berit’s defenses crashing down around his ears.

Trouble?’ Sparhawk asked sympathetically. Sparhawk’s black armor was frost-touched, and his battered face was bleak.

Berit felt a sudden embarrassment. ‘It’s nothing, Sir Sparhawk,’ he lied quickly. ‘It’s just -’ He groped for a word.

‘I know. I’m stumbling over that part myself. The Trolls aren’t being deliberately cruel, you know. To them we’re just food. They’re only following their nature.’

That’s part of the problem, Sparhawk. The notion of being eaten makes my blood run cold.’

‘Would it help if I said, “better them than us”?’

‘Not very much.’ Berit laughed weakly. ‘Maybe I’m not cut out for this kind of work. Everybody else seems to be taking it in stride.’

‘Nobody’s taking it in stride, Berit. We all feel the same way about what’s happening. Try to hold on. We’ve met these armies out of the past before. As soon as the Trolls kill the Cyrgai generals, the rest should vanish, and that’ll put an end to it.’ Sparhawk frowned. ‘Let’s go find Ulath,’ he suggested. I just thought of something, and I want to ask him about it.’

‘All right,’ Berit agreed quickly. The two black-armored Pandions turned their horses and rode through the frosty grass along the front of the massed army.

They found Ulath, Tynian and Bevier a hundred yards or so down the line. ‘I’ve got a question for you, Ulath,’ Sparhawk said as he reined Faran in.

‘For me? Oh, Sparhawk, you shouldn’t have!’ Ulath removed his conical helmet and absently polished the glossy black Ogre-horns on the sleeve of his green surcoat. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘Every time we’ve come up against these antiques before, the dead all shriveled up after we killed the leaders. How are the Trolls going to react to that?’

‘How should I know?’

‘You’re supposed to be the expert on Trolls.’

‘Be reasonable, Sparhawk. It’s never happened before. Nobody can predict what’s going to happen in a totally new situation.’

‘Make a guess,’ Sparhawk snapped irritably.

The two of them glared at each other.

‘Why badger Ulath about it, Sparhawk?’ Bevier suggested gently. ‘Why not just warn the Troll-Gods that it’s going to happen and let them deal with the problem?’

Sparhawk rubbed reflectively at the side of his face, his hand making a kind of sandy sound on his unshaven cheek. ‘Sorry, Ulath,’ he apologized. ‘The noise from the banquet hall out there’s distracting me.’

‘I know just how you feel,’ Ulath replied wryly. ‘I’m glad you brought it up, though. The Trolls won’t be satisfied with dried rations when there’s all this fresh meat no more than a quarter-mile away.’ He put his Ogre-horned helmet back on. ‘The Troll-Gods will honor their commitment to Aphrael, but I think we’d better warn them about this. I definitely want them to have a firm grip on their Trolls when supper turns stale. I’d hate to end up being the dessert course.’

‘Ehlana?’ Sephrenia gasped.

‘Keep your voice down!’ Aphrael muttered. She looked around. They were some distance to the rear of the army, but they were not alone. She reached out and touched Chiel’s bowed white neck, and Sephrenia’s palfrey obediently ambled off a little way from Kalten and Xanetia to crop at the frozen grass. I can’t get too many details,’ the Child Goddess said. ‘Melidere’s been badly hurt, and Mirtai’s so enraged that they’ve had to chain her up.’

‘Who did it?’

‘I don’t know, Sephrenia! Nobody’s talking to Danae. All I can get is the word “hostage”. Somebody’s managed to get into the castle, seize Ehlana and Alean and spirit them out. Sarabian’s beside himself. He’s flooded the halls with guards, so Danae can’t get out of her room to find out what’s really happening.’

‘We must tell Sparhawk!’

‘Absolutely not! Sparhawk bursts into flames when Ehlana’s in danger. He’s got to get this army safely back to Matherion before we can let him catch on fire.’

‘But-’

‘No, Sephrenia. He’ll find out soon enough, but let’s get everyone to safety before he does. We’ve only got a week or so left until the sun goes down permanently and everything – and everyone – up here turns to solid ice.’

‘You’re probably right,’ Sephrenia conceded. She thought a moment, staring off at the frost-silvered forest beyond the meadow. ‘That word “hostage” explains everything, I think. Is there any way you can pinpoint your mother’s exact location?’

Aphrael shook her head. ‘Not without putting her in danger. If I start moving around and poking my nose into things, Cyrgon will feel me nudging at the edges of his scheme, and he might do something to Mother before he stops to think. Our main concern right now is keeping Sparhawk from going crazy when he finds out what’s happened.’ She suddenly gasped and her dark eyes went very wide.

‘What is it?’ Sephrenia asked in alarm. ‘What’s happening?’

‘I don’t know!’ Aphrael cried. ‘It’s something monstrous!’ She cast her eyes about wildly for a moment and then steadied herself, her pale brow furrowing in concentration. Then her eyes narrowed in anger. ‘Somebody’s using one of the forbidden spells, Sephrenia,’ she said in a voice that was as hard as the frozen ground.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely. The very air stinks of it.’

Djarian the necromancer was a cadaverous-looking Styric with sunken eyes, a thin, almost skeletal frame, and a stale, mildewed odor about him. Like the other Styric captives, he was in chains and under the close watch of Church Knights well-versed in countering Styric spells.

A cold, oppressive twilight was settling over the encampment near the ruins of Tzada when Sparhawk and the others finally got around to questioning the prisoners. The Troll-Gods had taken their creatures firmly in hand when the feeding orgy had come suddenly to an end, and the Trolls were now gathered around a huge bonfire several miles out in the meadow holding what appeared to be religious observances of some sort.

‘Just go through the motions, Bevier,’ Sparhawk quietly advised the olive-skinned Cyrinic Knight as Djarian was dragged before them. ‘Keep asking him irrelevant questions until Xanetia signals that she’s picked him clean.’

Bevier nodded. I can crag it out for as long as you want, Sparhawk. Let’s get started.’

Sir Bevier’s gleaming white surcoat, made ruddy by the flickering firelight, gave him a decidedly ecclesiastical appearance, and he heightened that impression by prefacing his interrogation with a lengthy prayer. Then he got down to business.

Djarian replied to the questions tersely in a hollow voice that seemed almost to come echoing up out of a vault. Bevier appeared to take no note of the prisoner’s sullen behavior. His whole manner seemed excessively correct, even fussy, and he heightened that impression by wearing fingerless wool gloves such as scribes and scholars wear in cold weather. He doubled back frequently, rephrasing questions he had previously asked and then triumphantly pointing out inconsistencies in the prisoner’s replies.

The one exception to Djarian’s terse brevity was a sudden outburst of vituperation, a lengthy denunciation of Zalasta – and Cyrgon – for abandoning him here on this inhospitable field.

‘Bevier sounds exactly like a lawyer,’ Kalten muttered quietly to Sparhawk. ‘I hate lawyers.’

‘He’s doing it on purpose,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Lawyers like to spring trick questions on people, and Djarian knows it. Bevier’s forcing him to think very hard about the things he’s supposed to conceal, and that’s all Xanetia really needs. We always seem to underestimate Bevier.’

‘It’s all that praying,’ Kalten said sagely. ‘It’s hard to take a man seriously when he’s praying all the time.’

‘We’re Knights of the Church, Kalten – members of religious orders.’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘In his own mind he is more dead than alive,’ Xanetia reported later when they had gathered around one of the large fires the Atans had built to hold back the bitter chill. The Anarae’s face reflected the glow of the fire, as did her unbleached wool robe.

‘Were we right?’ Tynian asked her. ‘Is Cyrgon augmenting Djarian’s spells so that he can raise whole armies?’

‘He is,’ she replied.

‘Was that outburst against Zalasta genuine?’ Vanion asked her.

‘Indeed, my Lord. Djarian and his fellows are increasingly discontent with the leadership of Zalasta. They have all come to expect no true comradeship from their leader. There is no longer common cause among them, and each doth seek to wring best advantage to himself from their dubious alliance. Overlaying all is the secret desire of each to gain sole possession of Bhelliom.’

‘Dissension among your enemies is always good,’ Vanion noted, ‘but I don’t think we should discount the possibility that they’ll all fall in line again after what happened here today. Could you get anything specific about what they might try next, Anarae?’

‘Nay, Lord Vanion. They were in no wise prepared for what hath come to pass. One thing did stand out in the mind of this Djarian, however, and it doth perhaps pose some danger. The outcasts who surround Zalasta do all fear Cyzada of Esos, for he alone is versed in Zemoch magic, and he alone doth plunge his hand through that door to the nether world which Azash opened. Horrors beyond imagining lie within his reach. It is Djarian’s thought that since all their plans have thus far gone awry, Cyrgon in desperation might command Cyzada to use his unspeakable art to raise creatures of darkness to confront and confound us.’

Vanion nodded gravely.

‘How did Stragen’s plan affect them?’ Talen asked curiously.

‘They are discomfited out of all measure,’ Xanetia replied. ‘They did rely heavily on those who now are dead.’

‘Stragen will be happy to hear that. What were they going to do with all those spies and informers?’

‘Since they had no force capable of facing the Atans, Zalasta and his cohorts thought to use the hidden employees of the Ministry of the Interior to assassinate diverse Tamul officials in the subject kingdoms of the empire, hoping thereby to disrupt the governments.’

‘You might want to make a note of that, Sparhawk,’ Kalten said.

‘Oh?’

‘Emperor Sarabian had some qualms when he approved Stragen’s plan. He’ll probably feel much better when he finds out that all Stragen really did was beat our enemies to the well. They’d have killed our people if Stragen hadn’t killed theirs first.’

That’s very shaky moral ground, Kalten,’ Bevier said disapprovingly.

‘I know,’ Kalten admitted. That’s why you have to run across the top of it so fast.’

The sky was cloudy the following morning, thick roiling clouds that streamed in from the west, all seethe and confusion. Because it was late autumn and they were far to the north, it seemed almost that the sun was rising in the south, turning the sky above Bhelliom’s escarpment a fiery orange and reaching feebly out with ruddy, low-lying light to paint the surging underbellies of the swift-scudding cloud with a brush of flame.

The campfires seemed wan and weak and very tiny against the overpowering chill here on the roof of the world, and the knights and their friends all wore fur cloaks and huddled close to the fires.

There were low rumbles off to the south, and flickers of pale, ghastly light.

Thunder?’ Kalten asked Ulath incredulously. ‘Isn’t it the wrong time of year for thunderstorms?’

‘It happens,’ Ulath shrugged. I was in a thunderstorm north of Heid once that touched off a blizzard. That’s a very unusual sort of experience.’

‘Whose turn is it to do the cooking?’ Kalten asked him absently.

‘Yours,’ Ulath replied promptly.

‘You’re not paying attention, Kalten,’ Tynian laughed. ‘You know better than to ask that question.’

Kalten grumbled and started to stir up the fire.

‘I think we’d better get back to the coast today, sparhawk,’ Vanion said gravely. The weather’s held off so far, but I don’t think we’ll be able to count on that much longer.’

Sparhawk nodded.

The thunder grew louder, and the fire-red clouds overhead blanched with shuddering flickers of lightning.

Then there was a sudden, rhythmic booming sound.

‘Is it another earthquake?’ Kring cried out in alarm.

‘No,’ Khalad replied. ‘It’s too regular. It sounds almost like somebody beating a very big drum.’ He stared at the top of Bhelliom’s wall. ‘What’s that?’ he asked, pointing.

It was like a hilltop rearing up out of the forest beyond the knife-like edge of the top of the cliff – very much like a hilltop, except that it was moving.

The sun was behind it, so they could not see any details, but as it rose higher and higher they could make out the fact that it was a kind of flattened dome with two pointed protuberances flaring out from either side like huge wings. And still it swelled upward. As they could see more of it, they realized that it was not a dome. It seemed to be some enormous, inverted triangle instead, wide at the top, pointed at the bottom and with those odd winglike protuberances jutting out from its sides. The pointed bottom seemed to be set in some massive column. Since the light was behind it, it was as black as night, and it rose and swelled like some vast darkness.

Then it stopped.

And then its eyes opened.

Like two thin, fiery gashes at first, the blazing eyes opened wider and wider, cruelly slanted like cats’ eyes and all ablaze with fire more incandescent than the sun itself. The imagination shuddered back from the realization of the enormity of the thing. What had appeared to be huge wings were the creature’s ears.

And then it opened its mouth and roared, and they knew that what they had heard before had not been thunder.

It roared again, and its fangs were flickers of lightning that dripped flame like blood.

‘Klæl!’ Aphrael shrieked.

And then, like two rounded, bulky mountains, the shoulders rose above the sharp line of the cliff, and, fanning out from the shoulders like black sails, two jointed, batlike wings.

‘What is it?’ Talen cried.

‘It’s Klæl!’ Aphrael shrieked again.

‘What’s a Klæl?’

‘Not what, you dolt! Who! Azash and the other Elder Gods cast him out! Some idiot has returned him!’

The enormity atop the escarpment continued to rise, revealing vast arms with many-fingered hands. The trunk was huge, and flashes of lightning seethed beneath its skin, illuminating ghastly details with their surging flickers.

And then that monstrous presence rose to its full height, towering eighty, a hundred feet above the top of the escarpment.

Sparhawk’s spirit shrivelled. How could they possibly – ? ‘Blue Rose!’ he said sharply. ‘Do something!’

‘There is no need, Anakha.’ Vanion’s usurped voice was very calm as Bhelliom once again spoke through his lips. ‘Klæl hath but momentarily escaped Cyrgon’s grasp. Cyrgon will not risk his creature in a direct confrontation with me.’

‘That thing belongs to Cyrgon?’

‘For the moment. In time that will change, and Cyrgon will belong to Klæl.’

‘What is it doing?’ Betuana cried.

The monstrosity atop the cliff had raised one huge fist and was striking at the ground with incandescent fire, hammering at the earth with lightning. The face of the escarpment shuddered and began to crack away, falling, tumbling, roaring down to smash into the forest at the foot of the cliff. More and more of the sheer face crumbled and sheared away and fell in a huge thundering landslide.

‘Klæl was ever uncertain of the strength of his wings,’ Bhelliom observed calmly. ‘He would come to join battle with me, but he fears the height of the wall. Thus he prepares a stair for himself.’

Then with a booming like that of the earthquake which had spawned it, a mile or more of the escarpment toppled ponderously outward and crashed into the forest, piling rubble higher and higher against the foot of the cliff.

The enormous being continued to savage the top of the cliff, spilling more and more rubble down to form a steep causeway reaching up and up to the top of the wall.

And then the thing called Klæl vanished, and a shrieking wind swept the face of the escarpment, whipping away the boiling clouds of dust the landslide had raised.

There was another sound as well. Sparhawk turned quickly. The Trolls had fallen to their faces, moaning in terror.

‘We’ve always known about him,’ Aphrael said pensively. ‘We used to frighten ourselves by telling stories about him. There’s a certain perverse pleasure in making one’s own flesh crawl. I don’t think I ever really admitted to myself that he actually existed.’

‘Exactly what is he?’ Bevier asked her.

‘Evil.’ She shrugged. ‘We’re supposed to be the essence of good – at least that’s what we tell ourselves. Klæl is the opposite. He’s our way of explaining the existence of evil. If we didn’t have Klæl, we’d have to accept the responsibility for evil ourselves, and we’re a little too fond of ourselves to do that.’

Then this Klæl is the King of Hell?’ Bevier asked.

‘Well, sort of. Hell isn’t a place, though. It’s a state of mind. The story has it that when the Elder Gods – Azash and the others – emerged, they found Klæl already here. They wanted the world for themselves, and he was in their way. After several of them had tried individually to get rid of him and got themselves obliterated, they banded together and cast him out.’

‘Where did he come from? Originally, I mean?’ Bevier pressed. Bevier was very much caught up in first causes.

‘How in the world should I know? I wasn’t there. Ask Bhelliom.’

‘I’m not so much interested in where this Klæl came from as I am in what kinds of things it can do,’ Sparhawk said. He took Bhelliom out of the pouch at his waist. ‘Blue Rose,’ he said, I do think we must talk concerning Klæl.’

‘It might be well, Anakha,’ the jewel responded, once again taking control of Vanion.

‘Where did he – or it – originate?’

‘Klæl did not originate, Anakha. Even as I, Klæl hath always been.’

‘What is it – he?’

‘Necessary. I would not offend thee, Anakha, but the necessity of Klæl is beyond thine ability to comprehend. The Child Goddess hath explained Klæl sufficiently -within her capabilities.’

‘Well, really!’ Aphrael spluttered.

A faint smile touched Vanion’s lips. ‘Be not wroth with me, Aphrael. I do love thee still – despite thy limitations. Thou art young, and age shall bring thee wisdom and understanding.’

This is not going well, Blue Rose,’ Sephrenia warned the stone.

‘Ah, well,’ Bhelliom sighed. ‘Let us then to work. Klæl was, in fact, cast out by the Elder Gods, as Aphrael hath told thee – although the spirit of Klæl, even as my spirit, doth linger in the very rocks of this world – as in all others which I have made. Moreover, what the Elder Gods could do, they could also undo, and the spell which hath returned Klæl was implicit in the spell which did cast Klæl out. Clearly, some mortal conversant with the spells of the Elder Gods hath reversed the spell of casting out, and Klæl hath returned.’

‘Can he – or it – be destroyed?’

‘It is not “he” of which we speak, nor do we speak of some “it”. We speak of Klæl. But nay, Anakha, Klæl cannot be destroyed – no more than can I. Klæl is eternal.’

Sparhawk’s heart sank. ‘I think we’re in trouble,’ he muttered to his friends.

‘The fault is in some measure mine. So caught up was I in the birth of this latest child of mine that mine attention did stray from needful duties. It is my wont to cast Klæl out at a certain point in the making of a new world. This particular child did so delight me, however, that I delayed the casting out. Then it was that I did encounter the red dust which did imprison me, and the duty to cast Klæl out did devolve upon the Elder Gods. The casting-out was made imperfect by reason of their imperfection, and thus it was possible for Klæl to be returned.’

‘By Cyrgon?’ Sparhawk asked bleakly.

‘The spell of casting out – and returning – is Styric. Cyrgon could not utter it.’

‘Cyzada then,’ Sephrenia guessed. ‘He might very well have known the spell. I don’t think he’d have used it willingly, though.’

‘Cyrgon probably forced him to use it, little mother,’ Kalten said. ‘Things haven’t been going very well for Cyrgon and Zalasta lately.’

‘But to call Klæl!’ Aphrael shuddered.

‘Desperate people do desperate things,’ Kalten shrugged. ‘So do desperate Gods, I suppose.’

‘What do we do, Blue Rose?’ Sparhawk asked. ‘About Klæl, I mean to say?’

‘Thou canst do nothing, Anakha. Thou didst well when thou didst meet Azash, and doubtless will do well again in thy dispute with Cyrgon. Thou wouldst be powerless against Klæl, however.’

‘We’re doomed then.’ Sparhawk suddenly felt totally crushed.

‘Doomed? Of course thou art not doomed. Why art thou so easily downcast and made disconsolate, my friend? I did not make thee to confront Klæl. That is my duty. Klæl will trouble us in some measure, as is Klæl’s wont. Then, as is our custom, Klæl and I will meet.’

‘And thou wilt once more banish him?’

‘That is never certain, Anakha. I do assure thee, however, that I will strive to mine utmost to cast Klæl out – even as Klæl will strive to cast me out. The contest between us doth lie in the future, and as I have oft told thee, the future is concealed. I will approach the contest with confidence, however, for doubt doth weaken resolve, and timorous uncertainty doth weigh down the spirit. Battle should be joined with a light heart and joyous demeanor.’

‘You can be very sententious sometimes, World-Maker,’ Aphrael said with just a hint of spitefulness.

‘Be nice,’ Bhelliom chided mildly.

‘Anakha!’ It was Ghworg, the God of Kill. The huge presence came across the frosty meadow, plowing a dark path through the silver-sheathed grass.

‘I will hear the words of Ghworg,’ Sparhawk replied.

‘Have you summoned Klæl? Is it your thought that Klæl will aid us in causing hurt to Cyrgon? It is not good if you have. Let Klæl go back.’

‘It was not my doing, Ghworg. Neither was it the Flower-Gem’s doing. It is our thought that it was Cyrgon who summoned Klæl to cause hurt to us.’

‘Can the Flower-Gem cause hurt to Klæl?’

‘That is not certain. The might of Klæl is even as the might of the Flower-Gem.’

The God of Kill squatted on the frozen turf, scratching at his shaggy face with one huge paw. ‘Cyrgon is as nothing, Anakha,’ he rumbled in an almost colloquial form of speech. ‘We can cause hurt to Cyrgon tomorrow – or some time by-and-by. We must cause hurt to Klæl now. We cannot wait for by-and-by.’

Sparhawk dropped to one knee on the frozen turf. ‘Your words are wise, Ghworg.’

Ghworg’s lips pulled back in a hideous approximation of a grin. ‘The word you use is not common among us, Anakha. If Khwaj said, “Ghworg is wise”, I would cause hurt to him.’

‘I did not say it to cause you anger, Ghworg.’

‘You are not a Troll, Anakha. You do not know our ways. We must cause hurt to Klæl so that he will go away. How can we do this?’

‘We cannot cause hurt to him. Only the Flower-Gem can make him go away.’

Ghworg smashed his fist against the frozen ground with a hideous snarl.

Sparhawk held up one hand. ‘Cyrgon has called Klæl,’ he said. ‘Klæl has joined Cyrgon to cause hurt to us. Let us cause hurt to Cyrgon now, not by-and-by. If we cause hurt to Cyrgon, he will fear to aid Klæl when the Flower-Gem goes to cause hurt to Klæl and make him go away.’

Ghworg puzzled his way through that. ‘Your words are good, Anakha,’ he said finally. ‘How might we best cause hurt to Cyrgon now?’

Sparhawk considered it. ‘The mind of Cyrgon is not like your mind, Ghworg, nor is it like mine. Our minds are direct. Cyrgon’s is guileful. He threw your children against our friends here in the lands of winter to make us come here to fight them. But your children were not his main force.

‘Cyrgon’s main force will come from the lands of the sun to attack our friends in the city that shines.’

‘I have seen that place. The Child Goddess spoke first with us there.’

Sparhawk frowned, trying to remember the details of Vanion’s map. ‘There are high places here and to the south,’ he said.

Ghworg nodded.

‘Then, even further south, the high places grow low and then they become flat.’

‘I see it,’ Ghworg said. ‘You describe it well, Anakha.’ That startled Sparhawk. Evidently Ghworg could visualize the entire continent.

‘In the middle of that flat place is another high place that the man-things call the Tamul Mountains.’

Ghworg nodded in agreement.

‘The main force of Cyrgon’s children will pass that high place to reach the city that shines. The high place will be cool, so your children will not suffer from the sun there.’

‘I see which way your thought goes, Anakha,’ Ghworg said. ‘We will take our children to that high place and wait there for Cyrgon’s children. Our children will not eat Aphrael’s children. They will eat Cyrgon’s children instead.’

‘That will cause hurt to Cyrgon and his servants, Ghworg.’

‘Then we will do it.’ Ghworg turned and pointed toward the landslide. ‘Our children will climb Klæl’s stairway. Then Ghnomb will make time stop. Our children will be in the high place before the sun goes to sleep this night.’ He stood up abruptly. ‘Good hunting,’ he growled, turned and went back to join his fellows and the still terrified Trolls.

‘We still have to proceed as if things were normal,’ Vanion told them as they gathered near the fire a couple of hours past noon. The sun, Sparhawk noted, was already going down. ‘Klæl can probably appear at any time and any place. We can’t plan for him – any more than we can plan for a blizzard or a hurricane. If you can’t plan for something, about the only thing you can do is take a few precautions and then ignore it.’

‘Well spoken,’ Queen Betuana approved. Betuana and Vanion were getting along well.

‘What do we do then, friend Vanion?’ Tikume asked.

‘We’re soldiers, friend Tikume,’ Vanion replied. ‘We do what soldiers do. We get ready to fight armies, not Gods. Scarpa’s coming up out of the jungles of Arjuna, and I’d expect another thrust to come out of Cynesga. The Trolls will probably hamper Scarpa, but they can only move out a short way from those mountains in southern Tamul Proper because of the climate. After the initial shock of encountering Trolls, Scarpa will probably try to go around them.’ Vanion consulted his map. ‘We’ll have to have forces in place to respond either to Scarpa or to an army coming out of Cynesga. I’d say that Samar would be the best location.’

‘Sarna,’ Betuana disagreed.

‘Both,’ Ulath countered. ‘Forces in Samar could cover everything from the southern edge of the Atan Mountains to the Sea of Arjuna and be in position to strike eastward to the southern Tamul Mountains if Scarpa evades the Trolls. Forces in Sarna could block the invasion route through the Atan mountains.’

‘His point’s well taken,’ Bevier said. ‘It divides our forces, but we don’t have much choice.’

‘We could put the knights and the Peloi in Samar and the Atan infantry in Sarna,’ Tynian added. ‘The lower valley of the River Sarna’s ideal for mounted operations, and the mountains around Sarna itself are natural for Atans.’

‘Both positions are defensive,’ Engessa objected. ‘Wars aren’t won from defensive positions.’

Sparhawk and Vanion exchanged a long look. ‘Invade Cynesga?’ Sparhawk asked dubiously.

‘Not yet,’ Vanion decided. ‘Let’s wait until the Church Knights get here from Eosia before we do that. When Komier and the others cross into Cynesga from the west, that’s when we’ll want to come at the place from the east. We’ll put Cyrgon in a vice. With that sort of force coming at him from both sides, he can raise every Cyrgai who’s ever lived, and he’ll still lose.’

‘Right up until the moment he unleashes Klæl,’ Aphrael added moodily.

‘No, Divine One,’ Sparhawk told her. ‘Bhelliom wants Cyrgon to send Klæl against us. If we do it this way, we’ll force the issue in a place and time that we choose. We’ll pick the spot, Cyrgon will unleash Klæl, and I’ll unleash Bhelliom. Then all we have to do is sit back and watch.’

‘We’ll go to the top of the wall the same way the Trolls went, Vanion-Preceptor,’ Engessa said the following morning. ‘We can climb as well as they can.’

‘It might take us a little longer,’ Tikume added. ‘We’ll have to push boulders out of the way to get our horses up that slope.’

‘We will help you, Tikume-Domi,’ Engessa promised.

‘That’s it, then,’ Tynian summed up. The Atans and the Peloi will go south from here to take up positions in Sarna and Samar. We’ll take the knights back to the coast, and Sorgi will ferry us back to Matherion. We’ll go overland from there.’

‘It’s the ferrying that concerns me,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Sorgi’s going to have to make at least a half-dozen trips.’

Khalad sighed and rolled his eyes upward.

‘I gather you’re going to embarrass me in public again,’ Sparhawk said. ‘What am I overlooking?’

‘The rafts, Sparhawk,’ Khalad said in a weary voice. ‘Sorgi’s gathering up the rafts to take them south to the timber markets. He’s going to lash them all together into a long log-boom. Put the knights in the ships, the horses on the boom, and we can all make it to Matherion in one trip.’

‘I forgot about the rafts,’ Sparhawk admitted sheepishly.

That log-boom won’t move very fast,’ Ulath pointed out.

Xanetia had been listening to their plans intently. She looked at Khalad and spoke diffidently, almost shyly. ‘Might a steady wind behind thy logs assist thee, young Master?’ Xanetia asked Khalad.

‘It would indeed, Anarae,’ Khalad said enthusiastically. ‘We can weave rough sails out of tree-limbs.’

‘Won’t Cyrgon – or Klæl – feel you raising a breeze, dear sister?’ Sephrenia asked.

‘Cyrgon cannot detect Delphaeic magic, Sephrenia,’ Xanetia replied. ‘Anakha can ask Bhelliom whether Klæl is similarly unaware.’

‘How did you manage that?’ Aphrael asked curiously.

Xanetia looked slightly embarrassed. ‘It was to hide from thee and thy kindred, Divine Aphrael. When Edaemus did curse us, he did so arrange his curse that our magic would be hidden from our enemies – for thus did we view thee at that time. Doth that offend thee, Divine One?’

‘Not under these circumstances, Anarae,’ Flute replied, swarming up into Xanetia’s arms and kissing her soundly.

Chapter 2

The log-boom Captain Sorgi’s sailors had constructed from the rafts was a quarter of a mile long and a hundred feet wide. Most of it was taken up by the huge corral. It wallowed and wobbled its way south under threatening skies, and it was frequently raked by stinging sleet-squalls. The weather was bitterly cold, and the young knights who manned the raft were bundled to the ears in furs and spent most of their time huddled in the dubious shelter of the flapping tents.

‘It’s all in attention to detail, Berit,’ Khalad said as he tied off the rope holding the starboard end of one of their makeshift sails in place. ‘That’s all that work really is – details.’ He squinted along the ice-covered line of what was really much more like a snow-fence than a sail. ‘Sparhawk looks at the grand plan and leaves the details to others. It’s a good thing, really, because he’s a hopeless incompetent when it comes to little things and real work.’

‘Khalad!’ Berit was actually shocked.

‘Have you ever seen him try to use tools? That was something our father used to tell us over and over: “Don’t ever let Sparhawk pick up a tool.” Kalten’s fairly good with his hands, but Sparhawk’s hopeless. If you hand him anything associated with honest work, he’ll hurt himself with it.’ Khalad’s head came up sharply, and he swore.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Didn’t you feel it? The port-side tow-ropes just went slack. Let’s go wake up those sailors. We don’t want this big cow turning broadside on us again.’ The two fur-clad young men started across the icy collection of lashed-together rafts, skirting the huge corral where the horses huddled together in the bitterly cold breeze coming from astern.

The idea of making a log-boom out of the rafts was very good in theory, but the problems of steering proved to be far more complex than either Sorgi or Khalad had anticipated. Khalad’s thickly woven fences of evergreen boughs acted well enough as sails, moving the sheer dead weight of the boom steadily southward ahead of Xanetia’s breeze. Sorgi’s ships were supposed to provide steerageway by towing the boom, and that was where the problems cropped up. No two ships ever move at exactly the same rate of speed, even when propelled by the same wind. Thus, the fifty ships ahead and the twenty-five strung out along each side of the boom had to be almost constantly fine-tuned to keep the huge raft moving in the right general direction. As long as everybody paid very close attention, all went well. Two days south of Bhelliom’s wall, however, a number of things had gone wrong all at once, and the log-boom had swung round sideways. No amount of effort had been able to straighten it out, and so they had been obliged to take it apart and reassemble it – back-breaking labor in the bitter cold. Nobody wanted to go through that again.

When they reached the port side of the boom, Berit took a dented brass horn out from under his fur cape and blew a flat, off-key blast at the port-side tow-boats while Khalad picked up a yellow flag and began to wave it vigorously. The pre-arranged signals were simple. The yellow flag told the ships to crowd on more sail to keep the towing hawsers taut; the blue flag told them to put out the sea-anchors to slack off on the ropes; and the red flag told them to cast off all lines and get out of the way.

The tow-ropes went tight again as Khalad’s crisp signal trickled down through the ranks to the sailors who actually did the work aboard the ships.

‘How do you keep track of everything?’ Berit asked his friend. ‘And how do you know so quickly that something’s wrong?’

‘Pain,’ Khalad replied wryly. ‘I don’t really want to spend several days taking this beast apart and putting it back together again with the spray freezing on me, so I’m paying very close attention to the things my body’s telling me. You can feel things change in your legs and the soles of your feet. When one of the hawsers goes slack, it changes the feel of how the boom moves.’

‘Is there anything you don’t know how to do?’

‘I don’t dance very well.’ Khalad squinted up into the first stinging pellets of another sleet-squall. ‘It’s time to feed and water the horses,’ he said. ‘Let’s go tell the novices to stop sitting around admiring their titles and get to work.’

‘You really dislike the aristocracy, don’t you?’ Berit asked as they started forward along the edge of the corral toward the wind-whipped tents of the apprentice knights.

‘No, I don’t dislike them. I just don’t have any patience with them, and I can’t understand how they can be so blind to what’s going on around them. A title must be a very heavy thing to carry if the weight makes you ignore everything else.’

‘You’re going to be a knight yourself, you know.’

‘It wasn’t my idea. Sparhawk gets silly sometimes. He thinks that making knights of my brothers and me is a way of honoring our father. I’m sure that Father’s laughing at him right now.’

They reached the tents, and Khalad raised his voice. ‘All right, gentlemen!’ he shouted. ‘It’s time to feed and water the animals! Let’s get at it!’ Then he critically surveyed the corral. Five thousand horses leave a great deal of evidence that they have been present. ‘I think it’s time for another lesson in the virtue of humility for our novices,’ he said quietly to Berit. Then he raised his voice again. ‘And after you’ve finished with that, you’d better break out the scoop-shovels and wheel-barrows again. We wouldn’t want to let the work pile up on us, would we, gentlemen?’

Berit was not yet fully adept at some of the subtler forms of magic. That part of the Pandion training was the study of a lifetime. He was far enough along, however, to recognize ‘tampering’ when he encountered it. The log-boom seemed to be lumbering southward at a crawl, but the turning of the seasons was giving some things away. It should have taken them much longer to escape the bitter cold of the far north, for one thing, and the days should not have become so much longer in such a short time, for another.

However it was managed, and whoever managed it, they arrived at a sandy beach a few miles north of Matherion late one golden autumn afternoon long before they should have and began wading the horses ashore from the wobbly collection of rafts.

‘Short trip,’ Khalad observed laconically as the two watched the novices unloading the horses.

‘You noticed,’ Berit laughed.

‘They weren’t particularly subtle about it. When the spray stopped freezing in my beard between one minute and the next, I started having suspicions.’ He paused. ‘Is magic very hard to learn?’ he asked.

‘The magic itself isn’t too hard. The hard part is learning the Styric language. Styric doesn’t have any regular verbs. They’re all irregular – and there are nine tenses.’

‘Berit, please speak plain Elenic’

‘You know what a verb is, don’t you?’

‘Sort of, but what’s a tense?’

Somehow that made Berit feel better. Khalad did not know everything. ‘We’ll work on it,’ he assured his friend. ‘Maybe Sephrenia can make some suggestions.’

The sun was going down in a blaze of color when they rode through the opalescent gates into fire-domed Matherion, and it was dusk when they reached the imperial compound.

‘What’s wrong with everybody?’ Khalad muttered as they rode through the gate.

‘I didn’t follow that,’ Berit confessed.

‘Use your eyes, man! Those gate-guards were looking at Sparhawk as if they expected him to explode – or maybe turn into a dragon. Something’s going on, Berit.’

The Church Knights rode off across the twilight-dim lawn to their barracks while the rest of them clattered across the drawbridge into Ehlana’s castle. They dismounted in the torch-lit courtyard and trooped inside.

‘It’s even worse here,’ Khalad murmured. ‘Let’s stay close to Sparhawk in case we have to restrain him. The knights at the drawbridge seemed to be actually afraid of him.’

They went up the stairs to the royal apartment. Mirtai was not in her customary place at the door, and that made Berit even more edgy. Khalad was right. Something here was definitely not the way it should be.

Emperor Sarabian, dressed in his favorite purple doublet and hose, was nervously pacing the blue-carpeted floor of the sitting-room as they entered, and he seemed to shrink back as Sparhawk and Vanion approached him.

‘Your Majesty,’ Sparhawk greeted him, inclining his head. ‘It’s good to see you again.’ He looked around. ‘Where’s Ehlana?’ he asked, laying his helmet on the table.

‘Uh – in a minute, Sparhawk. How did things go on the North Cape?’

‘More or less the way we’d planned. Cyrgon doesn’t command the Trolls any more, but we’ve got another problem that might be even worse.’

‘Oh?’

‘We’ll tell you about it when Ehlana joins us. It’s not such a pretty story that we’d want to go through it twice.’

The Emperor gave Foreign Minister Oscagne a helpless look.

‘Let’s go speak with Baroness Melidere, Prince sparhawk,’ Oscagne suggested. ‘Something’s happened here. She was present, so she’ll be able to answer your questions better than we would.’

‘All right.’ Sparhawk’s gaze was level, and his voice was steady, despite the fact that Sarabian’s nervousness and Oscagne’s evasive answer fairly screamed out the fact that something was terribly wrong.

Baroness Melidere sat propped up in her bed. She wore a fetching blue dressing-gown, but the sizeable bandage on her left shoulder was a clear indication that something serious had happened. Her face was pale, but her eyes were cool and rock-steady. Stragen sat at her bedside in his white satin doublet, his face filled with concern.

‘Well,’ Melidere said, ‘finally.’ Her voice was crisp and businesslike. She flicked a withering glance at the Emperor and his advisers. I see that these brave gentlemen have decided to let me tell you about what happened here, Prince Sparhawk. I’ll try to be brief. One night a couple of weeks ago, the Queen, Alean, and I were getting ready for bed. There was a knock on the door, and four men we thought were Peloi came in. Their heads were shaved and they wore Peloi clothing, but they weren’t Peloi. One of them was Krager. The other three were Elron, Baron Parok, and Scarpa.’

Sparhawk did not move, and his face did not change expression. ‘And?’ he asked, his voice still unemotional.

‘You’ve decided to be sensible, I see,’ Melidere said coolly. ‘Good. We exchanged a few insults, and then Scarpa told Elron to kill me – just to prove to the Queen that he was serious. Elron lunged at me, and I deflected his thrust with my wrist. I fell down and smeared the blood around to make it appear that I’d been killed. Ehlana threw herself over me, pretending to be hysterical, but she’d seen what I’d done.’ The Baroness took a ruby ring out from under her pillow. This is for you, Prince Sparhawk. Your wife hid it in my bodice. She also said, “Tell Sparhawk that I’m all right, and tell him that I forbid him to give up Bhelliom, no matter what they threaten to do to me.” Those were her exact words. Then she covered me with a blanket.’

Sparhawk took the ring and slipped it onto his finger. I see,’ he said in a calm voice. ‘What happened then, Baroness?’

‘Scarpa told your wife that he and his friends were taking her and Alean as hostages. He said that you were so foolishly attached to her that you’d give him anything for her safe return. He obviously intends to exchange her for the Bhelliom. Krager had a note already prepared. He cut off a lock of Ehlana’s hair to include in the note. I gather that there’ll be other notes, and each one will have some of her hair in it to prove that it’s authentic. Then they took Ehlana and Alean and left.’

‘Thank you, Baroness,’ Sparhawk said, his voice still steady. ‘You’ve shown amazing courage in this unfortunate business. May I have the note?’

Melidere reached under her pillow again, took out a folded and sealed piece of parchment, and handed it to him.

Berit had loved his Queen from the moment he had first seen her sitting on her throne encased in crystal, although he had never mentioned the fact to her. There would be other loves in his life, of course, but she would always be the first. So it was that when Sparhawk broke the seal, unfolded the parchment, and gently removed the thick lock of pale blonde hair, Berit’s mind suddenly filled with flames. His grip tightened round the haft of his war-axe.

Khalad took him by the arm, and Berit was dimly startled by just how strong his friend’s grip was. ‘That’s not going to do anybody any good at all, Berit,’ he said in a crisp voice. ‘Now why don’t you just give me the axe before you do something foolish with it?’

Berit drew in a deep, trembling breath, pushing away his sudden, irrational fury. ‘Sorry, Khalad,’ he said. I sort of lost my grip there for a moment. I’ll be all right now.’ He looked at his friend. ‘Sparhawk’s going to let you kill Krager, isn’t he?’

‘So he says.’

‘Would you like some help?’

Khalad flashed him a quick grin. ‘It’s always nice to have company when you’re doing something that takes several days,’ he said.

Sparhawk quickly read the note, his free hand still gently holding the lock of Ehlana’s pale hair. Berit could see the muscles rippling along his friend’s jaw as he read. He handed the note to Vanion. ‘You’d better read this to them,’ he said bleakly.

Vanion nodded and took the note. He cleared his throat.

‘ “Well now, Sparhawk,’ ” he read aloud. “‘I gather that your temper-tantrum’s over. I hope you didn’t kill too many of the people who were supposed to be guarding your wife.

‘ “The situation here is painfully obvious, I’m afraid. We’ve taken Ehlana hostage. You will behave yourself, won’t you, old boy? The tiresomely obvious part of all of this is that you can have her back in exchange for Bhelliom and the rings. We’ll give you a few days to rant and rave and try to find some way out of this. Then, when you’ve come to your senses and realize that you have no choice but to do exactly as you’re told, I’ll drop you another note with some rather precise instructions. Do be a good boy and follow the instructions to the letter. I’d really rather not be forced to kill your wife, so don’t try to be creative.

‘ “Be well, Sparhawk, and keep an eye out for my next note. You’ll know it’s from me because I’ll decorate it with another lock of Ehlana’s hair. Pay very close attention, because if our correspondence continues for too long, your wife will run out of hair, and I’ll have to start using fingers.”

‘And it’s signed “Krager”,’ Vanion concluded.

Kalten smashed his fist into the wall, his face rigid with fury.

‘That’s enough of that!’ Vanion snapped.

‘What are we going to do?’ Kalten demanded. ‘We have to do something!’

‘We’re not going to jump eight feet into the air and come down running, for a start,’ Vanion told him.

‘Where’s Mirtai?’ Kring’s voice had a note of sudden alarm.

‘She’s perfectly all right, Domi,’ Sarabian assured him. ‘She was a little upset when she found out what happened.’

‘A little?’ Oscagne murmured. ‘It took twelve men to subdue her. She’s in her room, Domi Kring – chained to the bed, actually. There are some guards there as well to keep her from doing herself any injury.’

Kring abruptly turned and left Melidere’s bedroom.

‘We’re tiring you, aren’t we, Baroness?’ Sarabian said then.

‘Not in the least, your Majesty,’ she replied in a cool voice. She looked around at them. ‘It’s a bit cramped in here. Why don’t we adjourn to the sitting-room? I’d imagine we’ll be most of the night at this, so we might as well be comfortable.’ She threw back her blankets and started to get out of bed.

Stragen gently restrained her. Then he picked her up.

‘I can walk, Stragen,’ she protested.

‘Not while I’m around, you can’t.’ Stragen’s customary expression of civilized urbanity was gone as he looked around at the others, and it had been replaced with one of cold, tightly suppressed rage. ‘One thing, gentlemen,’ he told them. ‘When we catch up with these people, Elron’s mine. I’ll be very put out with anybody who accidentally kills him.’

Baroness Melidere’s eyes were quite content, and there was a faint smile on her face as she laid her head on Stragen’s shoulder.

Caalador was waiting for them in the sitting-room. His knees and elbows were muddy, and there were cobwebs in his hair. ‘I found it, your Majesty,’ he reported to the Emperor. ‘It comes out in the basement of that barracks the Church Knights have been using.’ He looked appraisingly at Sparhawk. ‘I’d heard you were back,’ he said. ‘We’ve managed to pick up a little information for you.’

‘I appreciate that, Caalador,’ Sparhawk replied quietly. The big Pandion’s almost inhuman calm had them all more than a little on edge.

‘Stragen was a bit distracted after what happened to the Baroness here,’ Caalador reported, ‘so I was left more or less to my own devices. I took some fairly direct steps. The ideas were all mine, so don’t blame him for them.’

‘You don’t have to do that, Caalador,’ Stragen said, carefully tucking a blanket round Melidere’s shoulders. ‘You didn’t do anything I didn’t approve of.’

‘I take it that there were a few atrocities,’ Ulath surmised.

‘Let me start at the beginning,’ Caalador said, brushing his hands through his hair, trying to dislodge the cobwebs. ‘One of the men we’d been planning to kill during the Harvest Festival managed to evade my cut-throats, and he sent me a message offering to exchange information for his life. I agreed to that, and he told me something I didn’t know about. We knew that there were tunnels under the lawns here in the imperial compound, but what we didn’t know is that the ground under the whole city’s honeycombed with more tunnels. That’s how Krager and his friends got into the imperial grounds, and that’s how they took the Queen and her maid out.’

‘Prithee, good Master Caalador, stay a moment,’ Xanetia said. I have seen into the memories of the Minister of the Interior, and he had no knowledge of such tunnels.’

‘That wouldn’t be hard to explain, Anarae,’ Patriarch Emban told her. ‘Ambitious underlings quite often conceal things from their superiors. Teovin, Director of the Secret Police, probably had his eye on Kolata’s position.’

‘That’s most likely it, your Grace,’ Caalador agreed. ‘Anyway, my informant knew the location of some of the tunnels, and I put men down there to look around for more while I questioned various members of the Secret Police who were in custody. My methods were fairly direct, and the ones who survived the questioning were more than happy to co-operate.

‘The tunnels were very busy on the night the Queen was abducted. The diplomats who were forted up in the Cynesgan Embassy knew about the scheme, and they realized that we’d kick down their walls as soon as we found out that the Queen was gone. They tried to escape through the tunnels, but I already had men down in those rat-holes. There were a number of noisy encounters, and we either rounded up or killed just about the entire embassy staff. The Ambassador himself survived, and I let him watch while I interrogated several under-secretaries. I’m very fond of Queen Ehlana, so I was quite firm with them.’ He looked at Sephrenia. I don’t think I need to go into too much detail,’ he added.

‘Thank you,’ Sephrenia murmured.

‘The Ambassador didn’t really know all that much,’ Caalador continued apologetically, ‘but he did tell me that Scarpa and his friends were going south from here – which may or may not have been a ruse. His Majesty ordered the ports of Micae and Saranth sealed, and he put Atan patrols on the road from Tosa to the coast, just to be on the safe side. Nothing’s turned up yet, so Scarpa either got away ahead of us, or he’s gone down a hole someplace nearby.’

The door opened, and Kring rejoined them, his face gloomy.

‘Did you unchain her?’ Tynian asked him.

‘That wouldn’t be a good idea right now, friend Tynian. She feels personally responsible for the Queen’s abduction. She wants to kill herself. I took everything with any kind of sharp edge out of the room, but I don’t think it’s really safe to unshackle her just yet.’

‘Did you get that spoon of hers away from her?’ Talen asked.

Kring’s eyes went wide. ‘Oh, God!’ he exclaimed, bolting for the door.

‘If he’d only yell at us or bang his fist against the wall or something,’ Berit murmured to Khalad the next morning when they gathered once again in the blue-draped sitting-room. ‘All he does is sit there.’

‘Sparhawk keeps his feelings to himself,’ Khalad replied.

‘It’s his wife we’re talking about, Khalad! He sits there like a lump. Doesn’t he have any feelings at all?’

‘Of course he does, but he’s not going to take them out and wave them around for us to look at. Right now it’s more important for him to think than to feel. He’s listening and putting things together. He’s saving up his feelings for when he gets his hands on Scarpa.’

Sparhawk sat in his chair with his daughter in his lap. He seemed to be studying the floor, and he was absently stroking Princess Danae’s cat.

Lord Vanion was telling the Emperor and the others about Klæl and about their strategic disposition of forces: the Trolls to the Tamul mountains in south-central Tamul Proper, the Atans to Sarna, and Tikume’s Peloi to Samar.

Flute was sitting quietly on Sephrenia’s lap. Berit noticed something that hadn’t occurred to him before. He glanced first at Princess Danae and then at the Child Goddess. They appeared to be about the same age, and their bearing and manner seemed very much alike for some reason.

The presence of the Child Goddess was having a peculiar effect on Emperor Sarabian. The brilliant, erratic ruler of the continent seemed dumbfounded by her presence and he sat gazing wide-eyed at her. His face was pale, and he was obviously not hearing a word Lord Vanion was saying.

Aphrael finally twisted round and returned his gaze. Then she slowly crossed her eyes at him.

The Emperor started back violently.

‘Didn’t your mother ever tell you that it’s not polite to stare, Sarabian?’ she asked him.

‘Mind your manners,’ Sephrenia chided.

‘He’s supposed to be listening. If I want adoration, I’ll get myself a puppy ‘

‘Forgive me, Goddess Aphrael,’ the Emperor apologized. ‘I seldom have divine visitors.’ He looked at her rather closely. ‘I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but you rather resemble Prince Sparhawk’s daughter. Have you ever met her Royal Highness?’

Sparhawk’s head came up sharply, and there was a strange, almost wild look in his eyes.

‘Now that you mention it, I don’t think I have,’ Flute said. She looked across the room at the Princess. Berit noticed that Sephrenia’s eyes were also just a bit wild as Flute slid down out of her lap and went across the room to Sparhawk’s chair. ‘Hullo, Danae,’ the Child Goddess said in an offhand sort of way.

‘Hullo, Aphrael,’ the Princess replied in almost exactly the same tone. ‘Are you going to do something to get my mother back home?’

‘I’m working on it. Try to keep your father from getting too excited about this. He’s no good to any of us when he flies all to pieces and we have to gather him up and put him back together again.’

‘I know. I’ll do what I can with him. Would you like to hold my cat?’

Flute glanced at Mmrr, whose eyes were filled with a look of absolute horror. ‘I don’t think she likes me,’ she declined.

‘I’ll take care of my father,’ Danae assured the little Goddess. ‘You deal with these others.’

‘All right.’ Aphrael paused. ‘I think we’ll get on well together,’ she said. ‘You wouldn’t mind if I stopped by from time to time, would you?’

‘Any time, Aphrael.’

Something very peculiar was going on. Berit saw nothing unusual in the conversation between the two little girls, but Sparhawk’s face – and Sephrenia’s – clearly showed that they were both very disturbed. Berit kept his expression casual and looked around. Everyone else had faintly indulgent smiles on their faces as they watched the exchange – all except Lord Vanion and Anarae Xanetia. Their faces were no less strained than Sparhawk’s and Sephrenia’s. Evidently something titanic had just happened, but for the life of him, Berit could not fathom out what it might have been.

‘I don’t think we should discount the possibility,’ Oscagne said gravely. ‘Baroness Melidere has demonstrated again and again the fact that she has a very penetrating mind.’

Thank you, your Excellency,’ Melidere said sweetly.

‘I wasn’t really being complimentary, Baroness,’ he replied coolly. ‘Your intelligence is a resource to be exploited in this situation. You’ve seen Scarpa and we haven’t. Do you really believe he’s mad?’

‘Yes, your Excellency, quite mad. It wasn’t only his behavior that convinced me of it. Krager and the others treated him the way you’d treat a live cobra. They’re terrified of him.’

‘That dovetails rather neatly with some of the reports I got from the thieves of Arjuna,’ Caalador agreed. ‘There’s always a certain amount of exaggeration involved when people talk about madmen, but every report that came in mentioned it.’

‘If you’re trying to make Sparhawk and me feel better, you’re going at it in a strange way, Caalador,’ Kalten accused. ‘You’re suggesting that the women we love are the prisoners of a crazy man. He could do anything.’

‘It might not be as bad as it looks, Sir Kalten,’ Oscagne said. ‘If Scarpa’s mad, couldn’t this abduction have been his idea alone? If that’s the case, our solution becomes almost too simple. Prince Sparhawk simply follows the instructions he receives to the letter, and when Scarpa appears with Queen Ehlana and Alean, his Highness simply hands over the Bhelliom. We all know what'll happen to Scarpa as soon as he touches it.’

‘You’re equating insanity with feeble-mindedness, Oscagne,’ Sarabian disagreed, ‘and that’s simply not the way it works. Zalasta knows that the rings would protect him if he ever managed to get his hands on Bhelliom, and if he knows, then we have to assume that Scarpa does, too. He’ll demand the rings before he even tries to touch the jewel.’

‘We have three possibilities then,’ Patriarch Emban summed it all up. ‘Either Cyrgon instructed Zalasta to arrange for the abduction, or Zalasta came up with the notion on his own, or Scarpa’s so crazy that he thinks he can just pick up Bhelliom and start giving it commands with no instruction or preparation at all.’

‘There’s one more possibility, your Grace,’ Ulath said. ‘Klæl could already be in charge, and this could be his way to force Bhelliom to come to him for their customary contest.’

‘What difference does it make at this point?’ Sparhawk asked suddenly. ‘We won’t know whose idea it is until we see who shows up to make the exchange.’

‘We should have some plans in place, Prince Sparhawk,’ Oscagne pointed out. ‘We should try to think our way through each situation so that we’ll know what to do.’

‘I already know what I’m going to do, your Excellency,’ Sparhawk told him bleakly.

‘At the moment, we can’t do anything,’ Vanion said, moving in rather quickly. ‘All we can do is wait for Krager’s next note.’

‘Truly,’ Ulath agreed. ‘Krager’s going to give Sparhawk instructions. Those instructions might give us some clues about whose idea this really is,’

* * *

‘You noticed it, too, didn’t you?’ Berit said to Khalad that evening when the two of them were getting ready for bed.

‘Noticed what?’

‘Don’t play the innocent with me, Khalad. You see everything that’s going on around you. Nothing gets by you. Sparhawk and Sephrenia were behaving very peculiarly when Flute and Danae were talking to each other.’

‘Yes,’ Khalad admitted calmly. ‘So what?’

‘Aren’t you curious about why?’

‘Has it occurred to you that “why” might not be any of our business?’

Berit stepped round that. ‘Did you notice how much the two little girls resemble each other?’

Khalad shrugged. ‘You’re the expert on girls.’

Berit suddenly blushed and silently cursed himself for blushing.

‘It isn’t a secret, you know,’ Khalad told him. ‘Empress Elysoun’s fairly obvious. She doesn’t hide her feelings any more than she hides – well, you know.’

‘She’s a good girl,’ Berit quickly came to her defense. ‘It’s just that her people don’t pay any attention to our kind of morality. They can’t even comprehend the notion of fidelity.’

‘I’m not throwing rocks at her. If the way she behaves doesn’t bother her husband, it certainly doesn’t bother me. I’m a country boy, remember? We’re more realistic about things like that. I just wouldn’t get too attached to her, Berit. Her attention may wander in time.’

‘It already has,’ Berit replied. ‘She doesn’t want to discontinue our friendship, though. She wants to be friendly to me and to him – and to the half-dozen or so others she neglected to mention earlier.’

‘The world needs more friendliness, Berit,’ Khalad grinned. There wouldn’t be so many wars if people were friendlier.’

Krager’s next note arrived two days later, and it was authenticated by another lock of Ehlana’s hair. The thought of the sodden drunkard violating his Queen’s pale blonde hair enraged Berit for some obscure reason. Vanion once again read the note to them while Sparhawk sat somewhat apart, gently holding the lock of his wife’s hair in his fingers.

‘ “Sparhawk, old boy,”’ the note began. ‘ “You don’t mind if I call you that, do you? I always admired the way Martel sort of tossed that off when everything was going his way. It was possibly the only thing about him that I admired.

‘ “Enough of these fond reminiscences. You’re going to be making a trip, Sparhawk. We want you to take your squire and travel by the customary overland route to Beresa in southeastern Arjuna. You’ll be watched, so don’t take any side-trips, don’t have Kalten and the other baboons trailing along behind you, don’t have Sephrenia disguised as a mouse or a flea hidden in your pocket, and most definitely don’t use Bhelliom for anything at all – not even for building campfires. I know we can depend on your absolute co-operation, old boy, since you’ll never see Ehlana alive again if you misbehave.

‘ “It’s always a pleasure to talk with you, Sparhawk, particularly in view of the fact that it’s your hands that are chained this time. Now stop wasting time. Take Khalad and the Bhelliom and go to Beresa. You’ll receive further instructions there. Fondly, Krager”.’

Chapter 3

They talked and talked and talked, and every ‘maybe’ or ‘possibly’ or ‘probably’ or ‘on the other hand’ set Sparhawk’s teeth on edge. It was all pure speculation, useless guessing that circled and circled and never got to the point. He sat slightly apart from them holding the lock of pale hair. The hair felt strangely alive, coiling round his fingers in a soft caress.

It was his fault, of course. He should never have permitted Ehlana to come to Tamuli. It went further than that, though. Ehlana had been in danger all her life, and it had all been because of him – because of the fact that he was Anakha. Xanetia had said that Anakha was invincible, but she was wrong. Anakha was as vulnerable as any married man. By marrying Ehlana, he had immediately put her at risk, a risk that would last for as long as she lived.

He should never have married her. He loved her, of course, but was it an act of love to put her in danger? He silently cursed the weakness that had led him to even consider the ridiculous notion when she had first raised it. He was a soldier, and soldiers should never marry – particularly not scarred, battered old veterans with too many years and too many battles behind them and too many enemies still about. Was he some selfish old fool? Some disgusting, half-senile lecher eager to take advantage of a foolish young girl’s infatuation? Ehlana had extravagantly declared that she would die if he refused her, but he knew better than that. People die from a sword in the belly, or from old age, but they do not die from love. He should have laughed in her face and rejected her absurd command. Then he could have arranged a proper marriage for her, a marriage to some handsome young nobleman with good manners and a safe occupation. If he had, she would still be safely back in Cimmura instead of in the hands of madmen, degenerate sorcerers and alien Gods to whom her life meant nothing at all.

And still they talked on and on and on. Why were they wasting all their breath? There wasn’t any choice in the matter. Sparhawk would obey the instructions because Ehlana’s life depended on it. The others were certain to argue with him about it, and the arguments would only irritate him. The best thing would probably be just to take the Bhelliom and Khalad and slip out of Matherion without giving them the chance to drive him mad with their meaningless babble.

It was the touch of a springlike breeze on his cheek and a soft nuzzling on his hand that roused him from his gloomy reverie.

‘It was not mine intent to disturb thy thought, Sir Knight,’ the white deer apologized, ‘but my mistress would have words with thee.’

Sparhawk jerked his head round in astonishment. He no longer sat in the blue-draped room in Matherion, and the voices of the others had faded away to be replaced by the sound of the gentle lapping of waves upon a golden strand. His chair now sat on the marble floor of Aphrael’s temple on the small verdant island that rose gem-like from the sea. The breeze was soft under the rainbow-colored sky, and the ancient oaks around the alabaster temple rustled softly.

‘Thou hast forgotten me,’ the gentle white hind reproached him, her liquid eyes touched with sorrow.

‘Never,’ he replied. ‘I shall remember thee always, dear creature, for I do love thee, even as I did when first we met.’ The extravagant expression came to his lips unbidden.

The white deer sighed happily and laid her snowy head in his lap. He stroked her arched white neck and looked around.

The Child Goddess Aphrael, gowned in white and surrounded by a glowing nimbus, sat calmly on a branch of one of the nearby oaks. She lifted her many-chambered pipes and blew an almost mocking little trill.

‘What are you up to now, Aphrael?’ he called up to her, deliberately forcing away the flowery words that jumped to his lips.

‘I thought you might want to talk,’ she replied, lowering the pipes. ‘Did you want some more time for self-mortification? Would you like a whip so that you can flog yourself with it? Take as much time as you want, Father. This particular instant will last for as long as I want it to.’ She reached out with one grass-stained little foot, placed it on nothing at all and calmly walked down a non-existent stairway to the alabaster floor of her temple. She sank down on it, crossed her feet at the ankles and lifted her pipes again. ‘Will it disturb your sour musings if I play?’

‘Just what do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded.

She shrugged. ‘You seem to have this obscure need for penance of some kind, and there’s no time for it. I wouldn’t be much of a Goddess if I couldn’t satisfy both needs at the same time, now would I?’ She raised her pipes. ‘Do you have any favorites you’d like to hear?’

‘You’re actually serious, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’ She breathed another little trill into the pipes.

He glared at her for a moment, and then he gave up. ‘Can we talk about this?’ he asked her.

‘You’ve come to your senses? Already? Amazing.’

He looked around at the island. ‘Where is this place?’ he asked curiously.

The Child Goddess shrugged. ‘Wherever I want it to be. I carry it with me everyplace I go. Were you serious about what you were just thinking, Sparhawk? Were you really going to snatch up Bhelliom, grab Khalad by the scruff of the neck, leap onto Faran’s back and try to ride off in three directions at the same time?’

‘All Vanion and the others are doing is talking, Aphrael, and the talk isn’t going anywhere.’

‘Did you speak with Bhelliom about this notion of yours?’

‘The decision is mine, Aphrael. Ehlana’s my wife.’

‘How brave you are, Sparhawk. You’re making a decision that involves the Bhelliom without even consulting it. Don’t be misled by its seeming politeness, Father. That’s just a reflection of its archaic speech. It won’t do something it knows is wrong, no matter how sorry you’re feeling for yourself, and if you grow too insistent, it might just decide to create a new sun – about six inches from your heart.’

‘I have the rings, Aphrael. I’m still the one giving the orders.’

She laughed at him. ‘Do you really think the rings mean anything, Sparhawk? They have no control over Bhelliom at all. That was just a subterfuge that concealed the fact that it has an awareness – and a will and purpose of its own. It can ignore the rings any time it wants to.’

‘Then why did it need me?’

‘Because you’re a necessity, Sparhawk – like wind or tide or rain. You’re as necessary as Klæl is – or Bhelliom – or me, for that matter. Someday we’ll have to come back here and have a long talk about necessity, but we’re a little pressed for time right now.’

‘And was that little virtuoso performance of yours yesterday another necessity as well? Would the world have come to an end if you hadn’t held that public conversation with yourself?’

‘What I did yesterday was useful, Father, not necessary. I am who I am, and I can’t change that. When I’m going through one of these transitions, there are usually people around who know both of the little girls, and they start noticing the similarities. I always make it a point to have the girls meet each other in public. It puts off tiresome questions and lays unwanted suspicions to rest.’

‘You terrified Mmrr, you know.’

She nodded. ‘I’ll make it up to her. That’s always been a problem. Animals can see right through my disguises. They don’t look at us in the way that we look at each other.’

He sighed. ‘What am I going to do, Aphrael?’

‘I was hoping that a visit here would bring you back to your senses. A stopover in reality usually has that effect.’

He looked up at her private, rainbow-colored sky. ‘This is your notion of reality?’

‘Don’t you like my reality?’

‘It’s lovely,’ he told her, absently stroking the white deer’s neck, ‘but it’s a dream.’

‘Are you really sure about that, Sparhawk? Are you so certain that this isn’t reality and that other place isn’t the dream?’

‘Don’t do that. It makes my head hurt. What should I do?’

‘I’d say that your first step ought to be to have a long conversation with Bhelliom. All of your moping around and contemplating arbitrary decisions has it more than a little worried.’

‘All right. Then what?’

‘I haven’t gotten that far yet.’ She grinned at him. ‘I’m a-workin’ on it though, Dorlin’,’ she added.

‘They’re going to be all right, Kalten,’ Sparhawk said, gently laying his hand on his suffering friend’s shoulder.

Kalten looked up, his eyes filled with hopeless misery. ‘Are you sure, Sparhawk?’

They will be if we can just keep our heads. Ehlana was in much more danger when I came back from Rendor, and we took care of that, didn’t we?’

‘I suppose you’re right.’ Kalten straightened up in his chair and jerked down his blue doublet. His face was bleak. ‘I think I’m going to find some people and hurt them,’ he declared.

‘Would you mind if I came along?’

‘You can help if you like.’ Kalten rubbed at the side of his face. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said. ‘You know that if you follow those orders in Krager’s note, he’ll be able to keep you plodding from one end of Tamuli to the other for the next year or more, don’t you?’

‘Do I have any choice? They’re going to be watching me.’

‘Let them. Do you remember how we met Berit?’

‘He was a novice in the Chapterhouse in Cimmura,’ Sparhawk shrugged.

‘Not when, I first saw him, he wasn’t. I was coming back from exile in Lamorkand, and I stopped at a roadside tavern outside of Cimmura. Berit was there with Kurik, and he was wearing your armor. I’ve known you since we were children, and even, I couldn’t tell that he wasn’t you. If, I couldn’t tell, Krager’s spies certainly won’t be able to. If somebody has to plod around Tamuli, let Berit do it. You and I have better things to do.’

Sparhawk was startled. ‘That’s the best idea I’ve heard yet.’ He looked around at the others. ‘Could I have your attention, please?’ he said.

They all looked sharply at him, their faces apprehensive.

‘It’s time to get to work,’ he told them. ‘Kalten here just reminded me that we’ve used Sir Berit as a decoy in the past. Berit and I are nearly the same size, and my armor fits him – more or less – and with his visor down, nobody can really tell that he isn’t me. If we can prevail on him to masquerade as a broken-down old campaigner again, we might just be able to prepare a few surprises for Krager and his friends.’

‘You don’t even have to ask, Sparhawk,’ Berit said.

‘Get some details before you volunteer like that, Berit,’ Khalad told his friend in a pained voice.

‘Your father used to say almost exactly the same thing,’ Berit recalled.

‘Why didn’t you listen to him?’

‘It’s an interesting plan, Prince Sparhawk,’ Oscagne said a bit dubiously, ‘but isn’t it extremely dangerous?’

‘I’m not afraid, your Excellency,’ Berit protested.

‘I wasn’t talking about your danger, young sir. I’m talking about the danger to Queen Ehlana. The moment someone penetrates your disguise – well …’ Oscagne spread his hands.

‘Then we’ll just have to make sure that his disguise is foolproof,’ Sephrenia said.

‘He can’t keep his visor down forever, Sephrenia,’ Sarabian objected.

‘I don’t think he’ll have to,’ Sephrenia replied. She looked speculatively at Xanetia. ‘Do we trust each other enough to co-operate, Anarae?’ she asked. ‘I’m talking about something a little deeper than we’ve gone so far.’

‘I will listen most attentively to thy proposal, my sister.’

‘Delphaeic magic is directed primarily inward, isn’t it?’

Xanetia nodded.

‘That’s probably why no one can hear or feel it. Styric magic is just the reverse. We alter things around us, so our magic reaches out. Neither form will work by itself in this particular situation, but if we were to combine them …’ She left it hanging in the air between them.

‘Interesting notion,’ Aphrael mused.

‘I’m not sure I follow,’ Vanion said.

‘The Anarae and I are going to have to experiment a bit,’ Sephrenia told him, ‘but if what I’ve got in mind works, we’ll be able to make Berit look so much like Sparhawk that they’ll be able to use each other for shaving mirrors.’

‘As long as each of us knows exactly what the other’s doing, it’s not too difficult, Sparhawk,’ Sephrenia assured him later when he and Berit joined her, Vanion and the Anarae in the room she shared with Vanion.

‘Will it really work?’ he asked her dubiously.

‘They haven’t actually tried it yet, Sparhawk,’ Vanion told him, ‘so we’re not entirely positive.’

‘That doesn’t sound too promising. This isn’t much of a face, but it’s the only one I’ve got.’

‘There will be no danger to thee or to young Sir Berit, Anakha,’ Xanetia said. ‘In times past it hath oft been necessary for my people to leave our valley and to go abroad amongst others. This hath been our means of disguising our true identity.’

‘It works sort of like this, Sparhawk,’ Sephrenia explained. ‘Xanetia casts a Delphaeic spell that would normally imprint your features on her own face, but just as she releases her spell, I release a Styric one that deflects the spell to Berit instead.’

‘Won’t every Styric in Matherion feel it when you release your spell?’ Sparhawk asked.

‘That’s the beauty of it, Sparhawk,’ Aphrael told him. ‘The spell itself originates with Xanetia, and others can’t feel or hear a Delphaeic spell. Cyrgon himself could be in the next room and he wouldn’t hear a thing.’

‘You’re sure it’s going to work?’

‘There’s one way to find out.’

Sparhawk, of course, did not feel a thing. He was only the model, after all. It was a bit disconcerting to watch Berit’s appearance gradually change, however.

When the combined spell had been completed, sparhawk carefully inspected his young friend. ‘Do I really look like that from the side?’ he asked Vanion, feeling a bit deflated.

‘I can’t tell the two of you apart.’

‘That nose is really crooked, isn’t it?’

‘We thought you knew.’

‘I’ve never looked at myself from the side this way before.’ Sparhawk looked critically at Berit’s eyes. ‘You should probably try to squint just a little,’ he suggested. ‘My eyes aren’t as good as they used to be. ‘That’s one of the things you have to look forward to as you get older.’

‘I’ll try to remember that.’ Even Berit’s voice was different.

‘Do I really sound like that?’ Sparhawk was crestfallen.

Vanion nodded.

Sparhawk shook his head. ‘Seeing and hearing yourself as others do definitely lowers your opinion of yourself,’ he admitted. He looked at Berit again. ‘I didn’t feel anything, did you?’

Berit nodded, swallowing hard.

‘What was it like?’

‘I’d really rather not talk about it.’ Berit gently explored his new face with cringing fingertips, wincing as he did.

‘I still can’t tell them apart,’ Kalten marveled, staring first at Berit and then at Sparhawk.

‘That was sort of the idea,’ Sparhawk told him.

‘Which one are you?’

‘Try to be serious, Kalten.’

‘Now that we know how it’s done, we can make some other changes as well,’ Sephrenia told them. ‘We’ll give you all different faces so that you’ll be able to move around freely – and we’ll put men wearing your faces here in the palace. I think we can all expect to be watched, even after the Harvest Festival, and this should nullify that particular problem.’

‘We can make more detailed plans later,’ Vanion said. ‘Let’s get Berit and Khalad on their way first. What’s the customary route when someone wants to go overland from here to Beresa?’ He unrolled a map and spread it out on the table.

‘Most travelers go by sea,’ Oscagne replied, but those who don’t usually cross the peninsula to Micae and then take a ship across the gulf to the mainland.’

‘There don’t seem to be any roads over there,’ Vanion frowned, looking at the map.

‘It’s a relatively uninhabited region, Lord Vanion,’ Oscagne shrugged, ‘salt marshes and the like. What few tracks there are wouldn’t show up on the map.’

‘Do the best you can,’ Vanion told the two young men. ‘Once you get past the Tamul Mountains, you’ll hit that road that skirts the western side of the jungle.’

‘I’d make a special point of staying out of those mountains, Berit,’ Ulath advised. ‘There are Trolls there now.’

Berit nodded.

‘You’d better have a talk with Faran, Sparhawk,’ Khalad suggested. ‘I don’t think he’ll be fooled just because Berit’s wearing your face, and Berit’s going to have to ride him if this is going to be convincing.’

‘I’d forgotten that,’ Sparhawk admitted.

‘I thought you might have.’

‘All right then,’ Vanion continued his instructions to the two young men, ‘follow that road down to Lydros, then take the road round the southern tip of Arjuna to Beresa. That’s the logical route, and they’ll probably be expecting you to go that way.’

That’s going to take quite a while, Lord Vanion,’ Khalad said.

‘I know. Evidently Krager and his friends want it to. If they were in a hurry, they’d have instructed Sparhawk to go by sea.’

‘Give Berit your wife’s ring, Sparhawk,’ Flute instructed.

‘What?’

‘Zalasta can sense the ring, and if he can, Cyrgon can, too – and Klæl will definitely feel it. If you don’t give Berit the ring, changing his face was just a waste of time.’

‘You’re putting Berit and Khalad in a great deal of danger,’ Sephrenia said critically.

‘That’s what we get paid for, little mother,’ Khalad shrugged.

‘I’ll watch over them,’ Aphrael assured her sister. She looked critically at Berit. ‘Call me,’ she told him.

‘Ma’am?’

‘Use the spell, Berit,’ she explained with exaggerated patience. ‘I want to be sure you’re doing it right.’

‘Oh.’ Berit carefully enunciated the spell of summoning, his hands moving in the intricate accompanying gestures.

‘You mispronounced “Kajerasticon”,’ she corrected him.

Sephrenia was trying without much success to suppress a laugh.

‘What’s so funny?’ Talen asked her.

‘Sir Berit’s pronunciations raised some questions about his meaning,’ Stragen explained.

‘What did he say?’ Talen asked curiously.

‘Just never mind what he said,’ Flute told him primly. ‘We’re not here to repeat off-color jokes about the differences between boys and girls. Practice on that one, Berit. Now try the secret summoning.’

‘What’s that?’ Itagne murmured to Vanion.

‘It’s used to pass messages, your Excellency,’ Vanion replied. ‘It summons the awareness of the Child Goddess, but not her presence. We can give her a message to carry to someone else by using that spell.’

‘Isn’t that just a little demeaning for the Child Goddess? Do you really make her run errands and carry messages that way?’

‘I’m not offended, Itagne.’ Aphrael smiled. ‘After all, we live only to serve those we love, don’t we?’

Berit’s pronunciation of the second spell raised no objections.

‘You’ll probably want to use that one most of the time anyway, Berit,’ Vanion instructed. ‘Krager warned Sparhawk about using magic, so don’t be too obvious about things. If you get any further instructions along the road, make some show of following them, but pass the word on to Aphrael.’

‘There’s no real point in decking him out in Sparhawk’s armor now, is there, Lord Vanion?’ Khalad asked.

‘Good point,’ Vanion agreed. ‘A mail-shirt should do, Berit. We want them to see your face now.’

‘Yes, my Lord.’

‘Now you’d better get some sleep,’ Vanion continued. ‘You’ll be starting early tomorrow morning.’

‘Not too early, though,’ Caalador amended. ‘We purely wouldn’t want th’ spies t’ oversleep therselfs an’ miss seein’ y’ leave. Gittin’ a new face don’t mean shucks iffn y’ don’t git no chance t’ show it off, now does it?’

It was chill and damp in the courtyard the following morning, and a thin autumn mist lay over the gleaming city. Sparhawk led Faran out of the stables. ‘Just be careful,’ he cautioned the two young men in mail-shirts and travelers’ cloaks.

‘You’ve said that already, my Lord,’ Khalad reminded him. ‘Berit and I aren’t deaf, you know.’

‘You’d better forget that name, Khalad,’ Sparhawk said critically. ‘Start thinking of our young friend here as me. A slip of the tongue in the wrong place could give this all away.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

‘Do you need money?’

‘I thought you’d never ask.’

‘You’re as bad as your father was.’ Sparhawk pulled a purse from under his belt and handed it to his squire. Then he firmly took Faran by the chin and looked straight into the big roan’s eyes. I want you to go with Berit, Faran,’ he said. ‘Behave exactly as you would if he were me.’

Faran flicked his ears and looked away.

‘Pay attention,’ Sparhawk said sharply. ‘This is important.’

Faran sighed.

‘He knows what you’re talking about, Sparhawk,’ Khalad said. ‘He’s not stupid – just bad-tempered.’

Sparhawk handed the reins to Berit. Then he remembered something. ‘We’ll need a password,’ he said. ‘The rest of us are going to have different faces, so you won’t recognize us if we have to contact you. Pick something ordinary.’

They all considered it.

‘How about “ramshorn”?’ Berit suggested. ‘It shouldn’t be too hard to work it into an ordinary conversation, and we’ve used it before.’

Sparhawk suddenly remembered Ulesim, most-favored-disciple-of-holy-Arasham, standing atop a pile of rubble with Kurik’s crossbow bolt sticking out of his forehead and the word Ramshorn still on his lips. ‘Very good, Berit – ah – Sir Sparhawk, that is. It’s a word we all remember. You’d better get started.’

They nodded and swung up into their saddles.

‘Good luck,’ Sparhawk said.

‘You too, my Lord,’ Khalad replied. And then the pair turned and rode slowly toward the drawbridge.

‘All we’ve really got to work with is the name Beresa,’ Sarabian mused, somewhat later. ‘Krager’s note said that Sparhawk would receive further instructions there.’

‘That could be a ruse, your Majesty,’ Itagne pointed out. ‘Actually, the exchange could take place at any time – and any place. That might have been the reason for the instructions to go overland.’

‘That’s true,’ Caalador agreed. ‘Scarpa and Zalasta might just be waiting on the beach on the west side of the Gulf of Micae wanting to make the trade right there, for all we know.’

‘We’re going to an awful lot of trouble here,’ Talen said. ‘Why doesn’t Sparhawk just have Bhelliom go rescue the Queen? It could pick her up and have her back here before Scarpa even knew she was gone.’

‘No,’ Aphrael said, shaking her head. ‘Bhelliom can’t do that any more than I can.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because we don’t know where she is - and we can’t go looking for her, because they’ll be able to sense us moving around.’

‘Oh. I didn’t know that.’

Aphrael rolled her eyes upward. ‘Men!’ she sighed.

‘It was very resourceful of Ehlana to slip her ring to Melidere,’ Sephrenia said, ‘but locating her would be much easier if she still had it with her.’

‘I sort of doubt that, dear,’ Vanion disagreed. ‘Zalasta of all people knows that the rings can be traced. If Ehlana had still been wearing it, the first thing Scarpa would have done would have been to send Krager or Elron off in the opposite direction with it.’

‘You’re assuming that Zalasta’s involved in this,’ she disagreed. There is the possibility that Scarpa’s acting on his own, you know.’

‘It’s always better to assume the worst,’ he shrugged. ‘Our situation is much more perilous if Zalasta and Cyrgon are involved. If it’s only Scarpa, he’ll be relatively easy to dispose of.’

‘But only after Ehlana and Alean are safe,’ Sparhawk amended.

‘That goes without saying, Sparhawk,’ Vanion said.

‘Everything hinges on the moment of the exchange then, doesn’t it?’ Sarabian noted. ‘We can make some preparations, but we won’t be able to do anything at all significant until the moment that Scarpa actually produces Ehlana.’

‘And that means that we have to stay close to Berit and Khalad,’ Tynian added.

‘No.’ Aphrael was shaking her head. ‘You’ll give everything away if you all start hovering over those two. Let me do the staying close. I don’t wear armor, so no one will be able to smell me from a thousand paces off. Itagne’s right. The exchange could come at any time. I’ll let Sparhawk know the very instant Scarpa shows up with Ehlana and Alean. Then Bhelliom can set him down – with knife – right on top of them. Then we’ll have the ladies back, and we’ll be more or less in charge of things again.’

‘And that brings us right back to a purely military situation,’ Patriarch Emban mused. I think we’ll want to send word to Komier and Bergsten. We’re going to need the Church Knights in Cynesga and Arjuna, not in Edom or Astel – or here in Matherion. Let’s have them ride southeast after they come down out of the mountains of Zemoch. We’ll have the Atans in Sarna, the eastern Peloi and the Church Knights we’ve already got in Samar, the Trolls in the Tamul Mountains and Komier and Bergsten on the western side of the Desert of Cynesga. We’ll be able to squeeze the land of the Cyrgai like a lemon at that point.’

‘And see what kind of seeds come popping out,’ Kalten added bleakly.

Patriarch Emban, First Secretary of the Church of Chyrellos, was a man who absolutely adored lists. The fat little churchman automatically drew up a list when any subject was being discussed. There is a certain point in most discussions when things have all been settled, and the participants start going back over the various points. Inevitably, that was the point at which Emban pulled out his list. ‘All right then,’ he said in a tone that clearly said that he was summing up, ‘Sparhawk will take ship for Beresa, along with Milord Stragen and young master Talen, right?’

‘It puts him in place in case Berit and Khalad do, in fact, have to ride all the way down there, your Grace,’ Vanion said. ‘And Stragen and Talen have contacts in Beresa, so they’ll probably be able to find out just who else is in town.’

Emban checked that off his list. ‘Next. Sir Kalten, Sir Bevier and Master Caalador will sail south on a different ship and go into the jungles of Arjuna.’

Caalador nodded. ‘I’ve got a friend in Delo who has contacts with the robber bands in those jungles,’ he said. ‘We’ll join one of those bands, so we’ll be able to keep an eye on Natayos and pass the word if Scarpa’s army starts to move.’

‘Right.’ Emban checked that off. ‘Next. Sir Ulath and Sir Tynian will go to the Tamul Mountains to stay in touch with the Trolls.’ He frowned. ‘Why is Tynian going there?’ he asked. ‘He doesn’t speak Trollish.’

‘Tynian and I get along well,’ Ulath rumbled, ‘and I’ll get terribly lonely if there’s no one around to talk with but Trolls. You have no idea of how depressing it is to be alone with Trolls, your Grace.’

‘Whatever makes you happy, Sir Ulath.’ Emban shrugged. ‘Now then, Sephrenia and Anarae Xanetia will go to Delphaeus to advise Anari Cedon about all these recent developments and to explain what we’re doing.’

‘And to see what we can do to make peace between Styricum and the Delphae,’ Sephrenia added.

Emban checked off another item. He said, ‘Lord Vanion, Queen Betuana, Ambassador Itagne and Domi Kring will take the five thousand knights and go to Western Tamul Proper to join with the forces they have in place in Sarna and Samar.’

‘Where is Domi Kring?’ Betuana asked, looking around for the little man.

‘He’s standing guard over Mirtai,’ Princess Danae said. ‘He’s still about half afraid she might try to kill herself.’

‘We could have a problem there,’ Bevier observed. ‘Under those circumstances, Kring might not be willing to leave Matherion.’

‘We can get along without him if we have to,’ Vanion said. I can deal with Tikume directly. Having Kring around would make it easier, but I can make do without him if he really thinks that Mirtai might do something foolish.’

Emban nodded. ‘Emperor Sarabian, Foreign Minister Oscagne and I will stay here in Matherion to hold down the fort, and the Child Goddess will keep us all in touch with each other. Have I left anything out?’

‘What do you want me to do, Emban?’ Danae asked sweetly.

‘You’ll stay here in Matherion with us, your Royal Highness,’ Emban replied, ‘to brighten our gloomy days and nights with the sunshine of your smile.’

‘Are you making fun of me, your Grace?’

‘Of course not, Princess.’

To say that Mirtai was unhappy would have been the grossest of understatements. She was in chains when Kring brought her into the council chamber with a hopeless kind of look on his face. ‘Nothing I say even reaches her,’ the Domi told them. ‘I think she’s even forgotten that we’re betrothed.’

The golden Atan giantess would not look at any of them, but sank instead to the floor in abject misery.

‘She has failed her owner.’ Betuana shrugged. ‘She must either avenge or die.’

‘Not quite, your Majesty,’ Sparhawk’s daughter said firmly. She slipped down from the chair in the corner from which she had been watching the proceedings. She deposited Rollo in one corner of the chair and Mmrr in the other and crossed the room to Mirtai with a businesslike look on her small face. ‘Atana Mirtai,’ she said crisply, ‘get up off the floor.’

Mirtai looked sullenly at her, then slowly rose, her chains clinking.

‘In my mother’s absence, I am the queen,’ Danae declared.

Sparhawk blinked.

‘You’re not Ehlana,’ Mirtai said.

‘Im not pretending to be. I’m stating a legal fact. Sarabian, isn’t that the way it works? Isn’t my mother’s power mine while she’s away?’

‘Well – technically, I suppose.’

‘Technically my foot. I’m Queen Ehlana’s heir. I’m assuming her position until she returns. That means that I temporarily own everything that’s hers – her throne, her crown, her jewels, and her personal slave.’

‘I’d hate to have to argue against her in a court of law,’ Emban admitted.

Thank you, your Grace,’ Danae said. ‘All right, Atana Mirtai, you heard them. You’re my property now.’

Mirtai scowled at her.

‘Don’t do that,’ Danae snapped. ‘Pay attention. I am your owner, and I forbid you to kill yourself. I also forbid you to run off. I need you here. You’re going to stay here with Melidere and me, and you’re going to guard us. You failed my mother. Don’t fail me.’

Mirtai stiffened, and then she broke her chains with an angry wrench of her arms. ‘It shall be as you say, your Majesty,’ she snapped, her eyes blazing.

Danae looked around at the rest of them with a smug little smile. ‘See,’ she said. ‘Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?’

Chapter 4

It was a small, single-masted coastal freighter with a leaky bottom and patched sails. It definitely did not skim the waves. Berit and Khalad wore their mail-shirts and travelers’ cloaks and they stood in the bow looking out across the leaden expanse of the Gulf of Micae as the wretched vessel wallowed along. ‘Is that coast up ahead?’ Berit asked hopefully.

Khalad looked out across the choppy water. ‘No, just a cloud-bank. We’re not moving very fast, my Lord. We won’t make the coast today, I’m afraid.’ He looked aft and lowered his voice. ‘Stay alert after the sun goes down,’ he instructed. ‘The crew of this tub is made up of waterfront sweepings, and the captain isn’t much better. I think we should take turns sleeping tonight.’

Berit glanced back along the deck at the assortment of ruffians loitering there. ‘I wish I had my axe,’ he muttered.

‘Don’t say things like that out loud, Berit,’ Khalad muttered. ‘Sparhawk doesn’t use a war-axe. Krager knows that, and one of these sailors may be working for him.’

‘Still? After the Harvest Festival?’

‘Nobody’s ever figured out a way to kill all the rats, my Lord, and it only takes one. Let’s both behave as if we’re being watched and every word we say is being overheard – just to be on the safe side.’

‘I’ll be a lot happier once we get ashore. Did we really have to make this leg of the trip by sea?’

‘It’s the custom.’ Khalad shrugged. ‘Don’t worry. We can hold off these sailors if we have to.’

‘That’s not what’s bothering me, Khalad. This scow waddles through the water like a whale with a sprained back. It’s making me queasy.’

‘Eat a piece of dry bread.’

‘I’d rather not. This is really miserable, Khalad.’

‘But we’re having an adventure, my Lord,’ Khalad said brightly. ‘Doesn’t the excitement make up for the discomfort?’

‘No. Not really.’

‘You’re the one who wanted to be a knight.’

‘Yes, I know – and right now I’m trying to remember why.’

Patriarch Emban was very displeased. ‘This is really outrageous, Vanion,’ he protested as he waddled along with the others toward the chapel in the west wing. ‘If Dolmant ever finds out that I’ve permitted the practice of witchcraft in a consecrated place of worship, he’ll have me defrocked.’

‘It’s the safest place, Emban,’ Vanion replied, ‘The pretense of “sacred rites” gives us an excuse to chase all the Tamuls out of the west wing. Besides, the chapel’s probably never really been consecrated anyway. This is an imitation castle built to make Elenes feel at home. The people who built it couldn’t have known the rite of consecration.’

‘You don’t know that it hasn’t been consecrated.’

‘And you don’t know that it has. If it bothers you all that much, Emban, you can re-consecrate it after we finish.’

Emban’s face blanched. ‘Do you know what’s involved in that, Vanion?’ he protested. ‘The hours of praying – the prostration before the altar – the fasting?’ His chubby face went pale. ‘Good God, the fasting!’

Sephrenia, Flute, and Xanetia had slipped into the chapel several hours earlier, and they were sitting unobtrusively in one corner listening to a choir of Church Knights singing hymns.

Emban and Vanion were still arguing when they joined the ladies. ‘What’s the problem?’ Sephrenia asked.

‘Patriarch Emban and Lord Vanion are having a disagreement about whether or not the chapel’s been consecrated, little mother,’ Kalten explained.

‘It hasn’t,’ Flute told him with a little shrug.

‘How can you tell?’ Emban demanded.

She gave him a long-suffering look. ‘Who am I, your Grace?’ she asked him.

He blinked. ‘Oh. I keep forgetting that for some reason. Is there actually a way you can tell whether or not a place has been consecrated?’

‘Well of course there is. Believe me, Emban, this chapel’s never been consecrated to your Elene God.’ She paused. ‘There was a spot not far from here that was consecrated to a tree about eighteen thousand years ago, though.’

‘A tree?

‘It was a very nice tree – an oak. It’s always an oak for some reason. Nobody ever seems to want to worship an elm. Lots of people used to worship trees. They’re predictable, for one thing.’

‘How could anybody in his right mind worship a tree?’

‘Who ever said that religious people were in their right minds? Sometimes you humans confuse us a great deal, you know.’

Since there was an exchange of features involved in most cases here, Sephrenia and Xanetia had experimented a bit to alter the spell which had imprinted Sparhawk’s face on Berit. No exchange was necessary for Sparhawk, however, so they modified him first. He sat beside his old friend, Sir Endrik, a veteran with whom he, Kalten and Martel had endured their novitiates. Xanetia approached them with the color draining from her features and that soft radiance suffusing her face. She examined Endrik meticulously, and then her voice rose as she began to intone the Delphaeic spell in her oddly accented, archaic Tamul. Sephrenia stood at her side simultaneously casting the Styric spell.

Sparhawk felt nothing whatsoever as Xanetia released her spell. Then at the crucial instant, Sephrenia extended her hand, interposing it between Sir Endrik’s face and Xanetia’s and simultaneously releasing the Styric spell. Sparhawk definitely felt that. His features seemed to somehow soften like melting wax, and he could actually feel his face changing, almost as wet clay is changed and molded by the potter’s hand. The straightening of his broken nose was a bit painful, and the lengthening of his jaw made his teeth ache as they shifted in the bone.

‘What do you think?’ Sephrenia asked Vanion when the process had been completed.

‘I don’t think you could get them any closer,’ Vanion replied, examining the two men closely. ‘How does it feel to be twins, Endrik?’

‘I didn’t feel a thing, my Lord,’ Endrik replied, staring curiously at Sparhawk.

‘I did,’ Sparhawk told him, gingerly touching his re-shaped nose. ‘Does the ache go away eventually, Anarae?’ he asked.

‘Thou wilt notice it less as time doth accustom thee to the alteration, Anakha. I did warn thee that some discomfort is involved, did I not?’

‘You did indeed.’ Sparhawk shrugged. ‘It’s not unbearable.’

‘Do I really look like that?’ Endrik asked.

‘Yes,’ Vanion replied.

‘I should take better care of myself. The years aren’t being good to me.’

‘Nobody stays young and beautiful forever, Endrik,’ Kalten laughed.

‘Is that all that needs to be done to these two, Anarae?’ Vanion asked.

‘The process is complete, Lord Vanion,’ Xanetia replied.

‘We need to talk, Sparhawk,’ the Preceptor said. ‘Let’s go into the vestry where we’ll be out of the way while the ladies modify the others.’

Sparhawk nodded, stood up and followed his friend to the small door to the left of the altar.

Vanion led the way inside and closed the door behind them. ‘You’ve made all the arrangements with Sorgi?’ he asked.

Sparhawk sat down. ‘I talked with him yesterday,’ he replied. ‘I told him that I had some friends that had to go to Beresa without attracting attention. He’s had the usual desertions, and he’s holding three berths open. Stragen, Talen and I’ll merge with the crew. We should be able to slip into Beresa without being noticed.’

‘I imagine that cost you. Sorgi’s prices are a little steep sometimes.’

Sparhawk massaged the side of his aching jaw. ‘It wasn’t all that bad,’ he said. ‘Sorgi owes me a couple of favors, and I gave him time to pick up a cargo to cover most of the cost.’

‘You’ll be going directly to the harbor from here?’

Sparhawk nodded. ‘We’ll use that tunnel Caalador found under the barracks. I told Sorgi that his three new crew members would report to him about midnight.’

‘You’ll sail tomorrow then?’

Sparhawk shook his head. ‘The day after. We have to load Sorgi’s cargo tomorrow.’

‘Honest work, Sparhawk?’ Vanion smiled.

‘You’re starting to sound like Khalad.’

‘He does have opinions, doesn’t he?’

‘So did his father.’

‘Quit rubbing your face like that, Sparhawk. You’ll make your skin raw.’ Vanion paused. ‘What was it like?’

‘Very strange.’

‘Painful?’

‘The nose was. It feels almost as if somebody broke it again. Be glad you don’t have to go through it.’

‘There wouldn’t be much point in that. I won’t be sneaking down alleys the way the rest of you will.’ Vanion looked sympathetically at his friend. ‘We’ll get her back, Sparhawk,’ he said.

‘Of course. Was that all?’ Sparhawk’s tone was deliberately unemotional. The important thing here was not to feel.

‘Just be careful, and try to keep a handle on your temper.’

Sparhawk nodded. ‘Let’s go see how the others are coming.’

The alterations were confusing; there was no question about that. It was hard to tell exactly who was talking, and sometimes Sparhawk was startled by just who answered his questions. They said their goodbyes and quietly left the chapel with the main body of the Church Knights. They went out into the torch-lit courtyard, crossed the drawbridge, and proceeded across the night-shrouded lawn to the barracks of the knights, where Sparhawk, Stragen and Talen changed into tar-smeared sailor’s smocks while the others also donned the mis-matched clothing of commoners. Then they all went down to the cellar.

Caalador, who now wore the blocky face of a middle-aged Deiran knight, led the way into a damp, cobweb-draped tunnel with a smoky torch. When they had gone about a mile, he stopped and raised the torch. ‘This yere’s yer exit, Sporhawk,’ he said, pointing at a steep, narrow stairway. ‘You’ll come out in an alley – which it is ez don’t smell none too sweet, but is good an’ dork.’ He paused. ‘Sorry, Stragen,’ he apologized. ‘I wanted to give you something to remember me by.’

‘You’re too kind,’ Stragen murmured.

‘Good luck, Sparhawk,’ Caalador said then.

‘Thanks, Caalador.’ The two shook hands, and then Caalador lifted his torch and led the rest of the party off down the musty-smelling passageway toward their assorted destinations, leaving Sparhawk, Talen, and Stragen alone in the dark.

‘They won’t be in any danger, Vanion,’ Flute assured the Preceptor as the ladies were packing. ‘Ill be going along, after all, and I can take care of them.’

‘Ten knights then,’ he amended his suggestion downward.

‘They’d just be in our way, love,’ Sephrenia told him. ‘I do want you to be careful, though. A body of armed men is far more likely to be attacked than a small party of travelers.’

‘But it isn’t safe for ladies to travel alone,’ he protested. ‘There are always robbers and the like lurking in the forest.’

‘We won’t be in one place long enough to attract robbers or anybody else,’ Flute told him. ‘We’ll be in Delphaeus in two days. I could do it in one, but I’ll have to stop and have a long talk with Edaemus before I go into his valley. He might just take a bit of convincing.’

‘When art thou leaving Matherion, Lord Vanion?’ Xanetia asked.

‘About the end of the week, Anarae,’ he replied. ‘We’ve got to spend some time on our equipment, and there’s always the business of organizing the supply train.’

‘Take warm clothing,’ Sephrenia instructed. ‘The weather could change at any time.’

‘Yes, love. How long will you be at Delphaeus?’

‘We can’t be sure. Aphrael will keep you advised. We have a great deal to discuss with Anari Cedon. The fact that Cyrgon has summoned Klæl complicates matters.’

‘Truly,’ Xanetia agreed. ‘We may be obliged to entreat Edaemus to return.’

‘Would he do that?’

Flute smiled roguishly. ‘I’ll coax him, Vanion,’ she said, ‘and you know how good I am at that. If I really want something, I almost always get it.’

‘You there! Look lively!’ Sorgi’s bull-necked bo’sun bellowed, popping his whip at Stragen’s heels.

Stragen, who now wore the braids and sweeping mustaches of a blond Genidian Knight, dropped the bale he was carrying across the deck and reached for his dagger.

‘No!’ Sparhawk hissed at him. ‘Pick up that bale!’

Stragen glared at him for a moment, then bent and lifted the bale again. ‘This wasn’t part of the agreement,’ he muttered.

‘He’s not really going to hit you with that whip,’ Talen assured the fuming Thalesian. ‘Sailors all complain about it, but the whip’s just for show. A bo’sun who really hits his men with his whip usually gets thrown over the side some night during the voyage.’

‘Maybe,’ Stragen growled darkly, ‘but I’ll tell you this right now. If that cretin so much as touches me with that whip of his, he won’t live long enough to go swimming. I’ll have his guts in a pile on the deck before he can even blink.’

‘You new men!’ the bo’sun shouted. ‘Do your talking on your own time! You’re here to work, not to discuss the weather!’ And he cracked his whip again.

* * *

‘She could do it, Khalad,’ Berit insisted.

‘I think you’ve been out in the sun too long,’ Khalad replied. They were riding south along a lonely beach under an overcast sky. The beach was backed by an uninviting salt marsh where dry reeds clattered against each other in the stiff onshore breeze. Khalad rose in his stirrups and looked around. Then he settled back in his saddle again. ‘It’s a ridiculous idea, my Lord.’

‘Try to keep an open mind, Khalad. Aphrael’s a Goddess. She can do anything.’

I’m sure she can, but why would she want to?’

‘Well –’ Berit struggled with it. ‘She could have a reason, couldn’t she? Something that you and I wouldn’t even understand?’

‘Is this what all that Styric training does to a man? You’re starting to see Gods under every bush. It was only a coincidence. The two of them look a little bit alike, but that’s all.’

‘You can be as skeptical as you want, Khalad, but I still think that something very strange is going on.’

‘And I think that what you’re suggesting is an absurdity.’

‘Absurd or not, their mannerisms are the same, their expressions are identical, and they’ve both got that same air of smug superiority about them.’

‘Of course they do. Aphrael’s a Goddess, and Danae’s a Crown Princess. They are superior – at least in their own minds – and I think you’re overlooking the fact that we saw them both in the same room and at the same time. They even talked to each other, for God’s sake.’

‘Khalad, that doesn’t mean anything. Aphrael’s a Goddess. She can probably be in a dozen different places all at the same time if she really wants to be.’

‘That still brings us right back to the question of why? What would be the purpose of it? Not even a God does things without any reason.’

‘We don’t know that, Khalad. Maybe she’s doing it just to amuse herself.’

‘Are you really all that desperate to witness miracles, Berit?’

‘She could do it,’ Berit insisted.

‘All right. So what?’

‘Aren’t you the least bit curious about it?’

‘Not particularly,’ Khalad shrugged.

Ulath and Tynian wore bits and pieces of the uniforms of one of the few units of the Tamul army that accepted volunteers from the Elene kingdoms of western Daresia. The faces they had borrowed were those of grizzled, middle-aged knights, the faces of hard-bitten veterans. The vessel aboard which they sailed was one of those battered, ill-maintained ships that ply coastal waters. The small amount of money they had paid for their passage bought them exactly that – passage, and nothing else. They had brought their own food and drink and their patched blankets, and they ate and slept on the deck. Their destination was a small coastal village some twenty-five leagues east of the foothills of the Tamul mountains. They lounged on the deck in the daytime, drinking cheap wine and rolling dice for pennies.

The sky was overcast when the ship’s longboat deposited them on the rickety wharf of the village. The day was cool, and the Tamul Mountains were little more than a low smudge on the horizon.

‘What was that horse-trader’s name again?’ Tynian asked.

‘Sablis,’ Ulath grunted.

‘I hope Oscagne was right,’ Tynian said. ‘If this Sablis has gone out of business, we’ll have to walk to those mountains.’

Ulath stepped across the wharf to speak to a pinch-faced fellow who was mending a fish net. ‘Tell me, friend,’ he said politely in Tamul, ‘where can we find Sablis the horse-trader?’

‘What if I don’t feel like telling you?’ the scrawny net-mender replied in a whining, nasal voice that identified him as one of those mean-spirited men who would rather die than be helpful, or even polite. Tynian had encountered his kind before, small men, usually, with an inflated notion of their own worth, men who delighted in irritating others just for the fun of it. ‘Let me,’ he murmured, laying one gently restraining hand on his Thalesian companion’s arm. Ulath’s bunched muscles clearly spoke of impending violence.

‘Nice net,’ Tynian noted casually, picking up one edge of it. Then he drew his dagger and began cutting the strings.

‘What are you doing?’ the pinch-faced fisherman screamed.

‘I’m showing you what,’ Tynian explained. ‘You said, “what if I don’t feel like telling you?” This is what. Think it over. My friend and I aren’t in any hurry, so take your time.’ He took a fistful of net and sawed through it with his knife.

‘Stop!’ the fellow shrieked in horror.

‘Ah – where was it you said we might find Sablis?’ Ulath asked innocently.

‘His corrals are on the eastern edge of town.’ The words came tumbling out. Then the scrawny fellow gathered up his net in both arms and held it to his chest, almost like a mother shielding a child from harm.

‘Have a pleasant day, neighbor,’ Tynian said, sheathing his dagger. ‘I can’t begin to tell you how much we’ve appreciated your help here. You’ve been absolutely splendid about the whole affair.’ And the two knights turned and walked along the wharf toward the shabby-looking village.

* * *

Their camp was neat and orderly with a place for everything and everything exactly where it belonged. Berit had noticed that Khalad always set up camp in exactly the same way. He seemed to have some concept of the ideal camp etched in his mind and, since it was perfect, he never altered it. Khalad was very rigid in some ways.

‘How far did we come today?’ Berit asked as they washed up their supper dishes.

‘Ten leagues,’ Khalad shrugged, ‘the same as always. Ten leagues is standard on level terrain.’

‘This is going to take forever,’ Berit complained.

‘No. It might seem like it, though.’ Khalad looked around and then lowered his voice until it was hardly more than a whisper. ‘We’re not really in any hurry, Berit,’ he said. ‘We might even want to slow down a bit.’

‘What?’

‘Keep your voice down. Sparhawk and the others have a long way to go, and we want to be sure they’re in place before Krager – or whoever it is – makes contact with us. We don’t know when or where that’s going to happen, so the best way to delay it is to slow down.’ Khalad looked out into the darkness beyond the circle of firelight. ‘How good are you at magic?’

‘Not very,’ Berit admitted, scrubbing diligently. ‘I’ve still got a lot to learn. What did you want me to do?’

‘Could you make one of our horses limp – without actually hurting him?’

Berit probed through his memory. Then he shook his head. I don’t think I know any spells that would do that.’

‘That’s too bad. A lame horse would give us a good reason to slow down.’

It came without warning: a cold, prickling kind of sensation that seemed to be centered at the back of Berit’s neck. ‘That’s good enough,’ he said in a louder voice. ‘I’m not getting paid enough to scrub holes in tin plates,’ He rinsed off the dish he’d been washing, shook most of the water off it and stowed it back into the pack.

‘You felt it, too?’ Khalad’s whisper came out from between motionless lips. That startled Berit. How could Khalad have known?

Berit buckled the straps on the pack and gave his friend a curt nod. ‘Let’s build up the fire a bit and then get some sleep.’ He said it loudly enough to be heard out beyond the circle of firelight. The two of them walked toward their pile of firewood. Berit was murmuring the spell and concealing the movements of his hands at the same time.

‘Who is it?’ Again, Khalad’s lips did not move.

‘I’m still working on that,’ Berit whispered back. He released the spell so slowly that it seemed almost to dribble out of the ends of his fingers.

The sense of it came washing back to him. It was something on the order of recognizing an accent – except that it was done when nobody was talking. ‘It’s a Styric,’ he said quietly.

‘Zalasta?’

‘No, I don’t believe so. I think I’d recognize him. It’s somebody I’ve never been around before.’

‘Not too much wood, my Lord,’ Khalad said aloud. ‘This pile has to get us through breakfast too, you know.’

‘Good thinking,’ Berit approved. He reached out again, very cautiously. ‘He’s moving away,’ he muttered. ‘How did you know we were being watched?’

‘I could feel it,’ Khalad shrugged. ‘I always know when somebody’s watching me. How noisy is it when you get in touch with Aphrael?’

‘That’s one of the good spells. It doesn’t make a sound.’

‘You’d better tell her about this. Let her know that we are being watched and that it’s a Styric who’s doing the watching.’ Khalad knelt and began to carefully stack his armload of broken-off limbs on their campfire. ‘Your disguise seems to be working,’ he noted.

‘How did you arrive at that?’

‘They wouldn’t waste a Styric on us if they knew who you really are.’

‘Unless they don’t have anybody left except Styrics. Stragen’s celebration of the Harvest Festival might have been more effective than we thought.’

‘We could probably argue about that all night. Just tell Aphrael about our visitor out there. She’ll pass it on to the others, and we’ll let them get the headache from trying to sort it out with logic.’

‘Aren’t you curious about it?’

‘Not so curious that I’m going to lose any sleep over it. That’s one of the advantages of being a peasant, my Lord. We’re not required to come up with the answers to these earth-shaking questions. You aristocrats get the pleasure of doing that.’

‘Thanks,’ Berit said sourly.

‘No charge, my Lord,’ Khalad grinned.

Sparhawk had never actually worked for a living before, and he discovered that he did not like it very much. He quickly grew to hate Captain Sorgi’s thick-necked bo’sun. The man was crude, stupid, and spitefully cruel. He fawned outrageously whenever Sorgi appeared on the quarterdeck, but when the captain returned below decks, the bo’sun’s natural character re-asserted itself. He seemed to take particular delight in tormenting the newest members of the crew, assigning them the most tedious, exhausting and demeaning tasks aboard ship. Sparhawk found himself quite suddenly in full agreement with Khalad’s class prejudices, and sometimes at night he found himself contemplating murder.

‘Every man hates his employer, Fron,’ Stragen told him, using Sparhawk’s assumed name. ‘It’s a very natural part of the scheme of things.’

‘I could stand him if he didn’t deliberately go out of his way to be offensive,’ Sparhawk growled, scrubbing at the deck with his block of pumice-stone.

‘He’s paid to be offensive, my friend. Angry men work harder. Part of your problem is that you always look him right in the eye. He wouldn’t single you out the way he does if you’d keep your eyes lowered. If you don’t, this is going to be a very long voyage for you.’

‘Or a short one for him,’ Sparhawk said darkly.

He considered it that night as he tried, without much success, to sleep in his hammock. He fervently wished that he could get his hands on the idiot who had decided that humans could sleep in hammocks. The roll of the ship made it swing from side to side, and Sparhawk continually felt that he was right on the verge of being thrown out.

‘Anakha.’ The voice was only a whisper in his mind.

Sparhawk was stunned. ‘Blue Rose?’ he said.

‘Prithee, Anakha, do not speak aloud. Thy voice is as the thunder in mine ears. Speak silently in the halls of thine awareness. I will hear thee.’

‘How is this possible?’ Sparhawk framed the thought. ‘Thou art confined.’

‘Who hath power to confine me, Anakha? When thou art alone and thy mind is clear of other distraction, we may speak thus.’

‘I did not know that.’

‘Until now, it was not needful for thee to know.’

‘I see. But now it is?’

‘Yes.’

‘How dost thou penetrate the barrier of the gold?’

‘It is no barrier to me, Anakha. Others may not sense me within the confines of thine excellent receptacle. I, however, may reach out to thee in this manner. This is particularly true when we are so close.’

Sparhawk laid his hand on the leather pouch hanging on a thong about his neck and felt the square outline of the box. ‘And should it prove needful, may I speak so with thee?’

‘Even as thou dost now, Anakha.’

‘This is good to know.’

‘I sense thy disquiet, Anakha, and I share thine anxiety for the safety of thy mate.’

‘Thou art kind to say so, Blue Rose.’

‘Expend thou all thine efforts to securing thy Queen’s release, Anakha. I will keep watch over our enemies whilst thou art so occupied.’ The jewel under sparhawk’s hand paused. ‘Hear me well, my friend,’ Bhelliom continued, ‘should it come to pass that no other course be open to thee, fear not to surrender me up to obtain thy mate’s freedom.’

‘That I will not do – for she hath forbidden it.’

‘Do not be untranquil if it should come to pass, Anakha. I will not submit to Cyrgon, even though mine own child, whom I love even as thou lovest thine, be endangered by my refusal. Be comforted in the knowledge that I will not permit my child – nor thee and all thy kind – to be enslaved by Cyrgon – or worse yet, by Klæl. Thou hast my promise that this will never happen. Should it appear that our task doth verge on failure, I give thee my solemn vow that I shall destroy this child of mine and all who dwell here to prevent such mischance.’

‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’

Chapter 5

She was always tired, hovering at times on the verge of exhaustion, and she was nearly always wet and dirty. Her clothes were ripped and tattered, and her hair was a ruin. Those things were unimportant, however. She willingly submitted to discomfort and indignities to keep the madman who was their captor from hurting the terrified Alean.

The realization that Scarpa was mad had come to her slowly. She had known from the first moment she had seen him that he was ruthless and driven, but the evidence of his insanity had become gradually more and more overwhelming as the endless days of her captivity ground on.

He was cruel, but Ehlana had encountered cruel men before. After she and Alean had been hurried through the dank tunnels under the streets of Matherion to the outskirts of the city, they had been roughly shoved into the saddles of waiting horses, bound securely in place, and literally dragged at breakneck speed down the road leading to the port of Micae on the southwestern coast of the peninsula, seventy-five leagues away. A normal man does not mistreat the animals upon which he is totally dependent. That was the first evidence of Scarpa’s madness. He drove the horses, flogging them savagely until the poor beasts were staggering with exhaustion, and his only words during those dreadful four days were, ‘Faster! Faster!’

Ehlana shuddered as she recalled the horror of that endless ride. They had –

Her horse stumbled in the muddy path, and she was jolted forward, bringing her attention back into the immediate present. The cord which tightly bound her wrists to the saddlebow dug into her flesh, and the bleeding started again. She tried to ease into a different position so that the cord would no longer cut into the already open wounds.

‘What are you doing?’ Scarpa demanded. His voice was harsh, and it came out almost as a scream. Scarpa almost always screamed when he was talking to her.

‘I’m just trying to keep the cord from cutting deeper into my wrists, Lord Scarpa,’ she replied meekly. She had been instructed early in her captivity to address him so and she had quickly found that failure to do so resulted in savage mistreatment of Alean and the withholding of food and water.

‘You’re not here to be comfortable, woman!’ he raged at her. ‘You’re here to obey! I see what you’re doing there! If you don’t stop trying to loosen those cords, I’ll use wire!’ His eyes bulged, and she saw again that strange, bluish cast to the whites of those eyes and the abnormally large pupils.

‘Yes, Lord Scarpa,’ she said in her most submissive tone.

He glared at her, his face filled with suspicion and his mad eyes looking hungrily for some excuse to punish or humiliate his prisoners further.

She lowered her gaze to stare fixedly at the rough, muddy track that wound deeper and deeper into the rank, vine-choked forest of the southeast coast of Daresia.

The ship they had boarded at the port of Micae had been a sleek, black-hulled corsair that could not have been built for any honest purpose. She and Alean had been unceremoniously dragged below decks and confined in a cramped compartment that smelled of the bilges and was totally dark. After they had been two hours at sea, the compartment door had opened and Krager had entered with two swarthy sailors, one carrying what appeared to be a decent meal, and the other, two pails of hot water, some soap and a wad of rags for use as towels. Ehlana had resisted an impulse to embrace the fellow.

‘I’m really sorry about all this, Ehlana,’ Krager had apologized, squinting at her nearsightedly, ‘but I have no control of the situation. Be very careful of what you say to Scarpa. You’ve probably noticed that he’s not entirely rational.’ He had looked around nervously, then laid a handful of cheap tallow candles on the rough table and left, chaining the door shut behind him.

They had been five days at sea and had reached Anan, a port city on the edge of the jungles of the southeast coast some time after midnight. Then she and Alean had been hustled into a closed carriage with the pouchy-eyed Baron Parok at the reins. During the transfer from the ship to the carriage, Ehlana had discreetly looked at each of her captors, seeking some weakness. Krager, despite his habitual drunkenness, was too shrewd, and Parok was Scarpa’s long-time confederate, a man evidently untroubled by his friend’s madness. Then she had coolly appraised Elron. She had noticed that under no circumstances would the foppish Astellian poet look her in the eye. His apparent murder of Melidere had evidently filled him with remorse. Elron was a poseur rather than a man of action, and he clearly had no stomach for blood. She had recalled moreover, how vain he had been about his long curls when she had first met him and had wondered what form of duress Scarpa had used to force him to shave his head in order to pose as one of Kring’s Peloi. She had surmised that the violation of his hair had raised certain strong resentments in him. Elron was clearly reluctant to participate in this affair, and that made him the weak link. She kept that fact firmly in mind now. The time might come when she could use it to her advantage.

The carriage had carried them from the waterfront to a large house on the outskirts of Anan. It had been there that Scarpa had spoken with a gaunt Styric with the lumpy features characteristic of the men of his race. The Styric’s name was Keska, and his eyes had the look of one hopelessly damned.

‘I don’t care about the discomfort!’ Scarpa had half-shouted to the gaunt man at one point. ‘Time is important, Keska, time! Just do it! As long as it doesn’t kill us, we can endure it!’

The next morning the significance of that command had become all too obvious. Keska was evidently one of those outcast Styric magicians, but not a very good one. He could, with a great deal of clearly exhausting effort, compress the miles that lay between them and Scarpa’s intended destination, but only a few miles each time, and the compression was accompanied by a horrid kind of wrenching agony. It seemed almost as if the clumsy magician were jerking them up and hurling them blindly forward with every ounce of his strength, and Ehlana could never be certain after each hideous, bruising jump that she was still intact. She felt torn and battered, but did what she could to conceal her pain from Alean. The gentle girl with the large eyes wept almost continuously now, overcome by her pain and fear and the misery of their circumstances.

Ehlana drew her mind into the present and looked about warily. It was approaching evening again. The overcast sky was gradually darkening, and the time of day Ehlana dreaded the most would soon be upon them.

Scarpa looked with some scorn at Keska, who slumped in his saddle like a wilted flower, obviously near exhaustion. ‘This is far enough,’ he said. ‘Set up some kind of camp and get the women down off those horses,’ His brittle eyes grew bright as he looked Ehlana full in the face. ‘It’s time for the bedraggled Queen of the Elenes to beg for her supper again. I do hope she’ll be more convincing this time. It really distresses me to have to refuse her when her pleas aren’t sufficiently sincere.’

‘Ehlana,’ Krager whispered, touching her shoulder. The fire had died down to embers, and Ehlana could hear the sound of snores coming from the other side of their rude camp.

‘What?’ she replied shortly.

‘Keep your voice down.’ He was still wearing the black leather Peloi jerkin, his shaved head was sparsely stubbled, and his wine-reeking breath was nearly overpowering. ‘I’m doing you a favor. Don’t put me in danger. I assume you realize by now that Scarpa’s completely insane?’

‘Really?’ she replied sardonically. ‘What an amazing thing.’

‘Please don’t make this any more difficult. I seem to have made a small error in judgment here. If I’d fully realized how deranged that half-Styric bastard is, I’d have never agreed to take part in this ridiculous adventure.’

‘What is this strange fascination you have with lunatics, Krager?’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s a character defect. Scarpa actually believes that he can outwit his father – and even Cyrgon. He doesn’t really believe that Sparhawk will surrender Bhelliom in exchange for your return, but he’s managed to about half-convince the others. I’m sure you realize by now how he feels about women.’

‘He’s demonstrated it often enough,’ she said bitterly. ‘Does he share Baron Harparin’s fondness for little boys instead?’

‘Scarpa isn’t fond of anything except himself. He is his only passion. I’ve seen him spend hours trimming that beard of his. It gives him the opportunity to adore his reflection in the mirror. You haven’t had the opportunity to see his delightful personality in full flower. The details of this trip are keeping what he chooses to call his mind occupied. Wait until we get to Natayos and you hear him start raving. He makes Martel and Annias seem like the very souls of sanity by comparison. I don’t dare stay too long, so listen closely. Scarpa believes that Sparhawk will bring Bhelliom with him when he comes, right enough, but he doesn’t believe he’ll bring it to trade for you. Scarpa’s absolutely certain that your husband’s coming in order to have it out with Cyrgon, and he believes that they’ll destroy each other in the course of the argument.’

‘Sparhawk has Bhelliom, you fool, and Bhelliom eats Gods for breakfast.’

‘I’m not here to argue about that. Maybe Sparhawk will win, and maybe he won’t. That’s really beside the point. What’s important to us is what Scarpa believes. He’s convinced himself that Sparhawk and Cyrgon will fight a war of mutual extinction. Then he thinks that Bhelliom will be left lying around free for the taking.’

‘What about Zalasta?’

‘I get the strong feeling that Scarpa doesn’t expect Zalasta to be around when the fight’s over. Scarpa’s more than willing to kill anybody who gets in his way.’

‘He’d kill his own father?’

Krager shrugged. ‘Blood ties don’t mean anything to Scarpa. When he was younger, he decided that his mother and his half-sisters knew things about him that he didn’t want them to share with the authorities, so he killed them. He hated them anyway, so that may not mean all that much. If Sparhawk and Cyrgon do kill each other, and if Zalasta’s broken out in a sudden rash of mortality during the festivities, Scarpa might just be the only one left around to take possession of the Bhelliom. He’s got an army in these jungles, and if he has the Bhelliom as well, he might be able to pull it off. He’ll march on Matherion, take the city and slaughter the government. Then he’ll crown himself emperor. I’m personally betting against it, though, so for God’s sake keep your temper under control. You’re not really important to his plans, but you’re vital to Zalasta’s – and mine. If you do anything at all to set Scarpa off, he’ll kill you as quickly as he ordered Elron to kill your lady-in-waiting. Zalasta and I believe that Sparhawk will trade Bhelliom for you, but only if you’re alive. Don’t enrage that maniac. If he kills you, all our plans will collapse.’

‘Why are you telling me this, Krager? There’s something else too, isn’t there?’

‘Of course. If things go against us, I’d like to have you available to speak out in my behalf when the trials start.’

‘That wouldn’t do any good, I’m afraid,’ she told him sweetly. There won’t be any trial for you, Krager. sparhawk’s already given you to Khalad and Khalad’s already made up his mind.’

‘Khalad?’ Krager’s voice sounded a little weak.

‘Kurik’s oldest son. He seems to feel that you had some part in his father’s death, and he feels obliged to do something about it. I suppose you could try to talk him out of it, but I’d advise you to talk fast if you do. Khalad’s a very abrupt young man, and he’ll probably have you hanging from a meat-hook before you get out three words.’

Krager didn’t answer, but slipped away instead, his shaved scalp pale in the darkness. It wasn’t much of a victory, Ehlana privately conceded, but in her situation victories of any kind were very hard to come by.

* * *

‘They actually do that?’ Scarpa’s harsh voice was hungry.

‘It’s an old custom, Lord Scarpa,’ Ehlana replied in a meek voice, keeping her eyes downcast as they plodded along the muddy path. ‘Emperor Sarabian is planning to discontinue the practice, however.’

‘It will be reinstituted immediately following my coronation.’ Scarpa’s eyes were very bright. ‘It is a proper form of respect.’ Scarpa had an old purple velvet cloak, shiny with wear, that he had dramatically pulled over one shoulder in a grotesque imitation of an imperial mantle, and he struck absurd poses with each pronouncement.

‘As you say, Lord Scarpa.’ It was tedious to go over the same things again and again, but it kept Scarpa’s mind occupied, and when his attention was firmly fixed on the ceremonies and practices of the imperial court in Matherion he was not thinking of ways to make life unbearable for his captives.

‘Describe it again,’ he commanded. ‘I’ll need to know precisely how it’s supposed to be done – so that I can punish those who fail to perform it properly.’

Ehlana sighed. ‘At the approach of the imperial person, the members of the court kneel –’

‘On both knees?’

‘Yes, Lord Scarpa.’

‘Excellent! Excellent!’ His face was exalted. ‘Go on.’

‘Then, as the emperor passes, they lean forward, put the palms of their hands on the floor and touch their foreheads to the tiles.’

‘Capital!’ He suddenly giggled, a high-pitched, almost girlish sound that startled her. She gave him a quick, sidelong glance. His face was grotesquely distorted into an expression of unholy exaltation. And then his eyes grew wide and his expression became one of near-religious ecstasy. ‘And the Tamuls who rule the world shall be ruled by me’,’ He intoned in a resonant, declamatory voice. ‘All power shall be mine! The governance of the world shall be in my hands, and disobedience will be death!’

Ehlana shuddered as he raved on.

And he came to her again as humid night settled over their muddy forest encampment, drawn to her by a hunger, a greed, that was beyond his ability to control. It was revolting, but Ehlana realized that her knowledge of the particulars of traditional court ceremonies gave her an enormous power over him. His hunger was insatiable, and only she could satisfy it. She grasped that power firmly, drawing strength and confidence from it, actually relishing it even as Krager and the others withdrew with expressions of frightened revulsion.

‘Nine wives, you say!’ Scarpa’s voice was almost pleading. ‘Why not ninety? Why not nine hundred?’

‘It is the custom, Lord Scarpa. The reason for it should be obvious.’

‘Oh, of course, of course.’ He brooded darkly over it. ‘I shall have nine thousand!’ he proclaimed. ‘And each shall be more desirable than the last! And when I have finished with them, they shall be given to my loyal soldiers! Let no woman dare to believe that my favor in any way empowers her! All women are only whores! I shall buy them and throw them away when I tire of them!’ His mad eyes bulged, and he stared into the campfire. The flickering flames reflected in those eyes seemed to seethe like the madness that lay behind them.

He leaned toward her, laying a confiding hand on her arm. I have seen that which others are too stupid to see,’ he told her. ‘Others look, but they do not see – but, I see. Oh, yes, I see. I see very well. They are all in it together, you know – all of them. They watch me. They have always watched me. I can never get away from their eyes – watching, watching, watching – and talking – talking behind their hands, breathing their cinnamon-scented breath into each other’s faces. All foul and corrupt – scheming, plotting against me, trying to bring me down. Their eyes – all soft and hidden and veiled with the lashes that hide the daggers of their hatred, watching, watching, watching.’ His voice sank lower and lower. ‘And talking, talking behind their hands so that I can’t hear what they’re saying. Whispering. I hear it always. I hear the hissing susurration of their endless whispering. Their eyes following me wherever I go – and their laughing and whispering. I hear the hiss, hiss of their whispering – endless whisper – always my name – Ssscar-pa, Ssscar-pa, Ssscar-pa, again and again, hissing in my ears. Flaunting their rounded limbs and rolling their soot-lined eyes. Plotting, scheming with the endless hissing whispers, always seeking ways to hurt me. Ssscar-pa, Ssscar-pa, trying to humiliate me.’ His blue-tinged eyeballs were starting from his face, and his lips and beard were flecked with foam. ‘I was nothing. They made me nothing. They called me Selga’s bastard and gave me pennies to lead them to the beds of my mother and my sisters and cuffed me and spat on me and laughed at me when I cried and they lusted after my mother and my sisters and all around me the hissing in my ears – and I smell the sound – that sweet cloying sound of rotten flesh and stale lust all purple and writhing with the liquid hiss of their whispers and –’

Then his mad eyes filled with terror, and he cringed back from her and fell, grovelling in the mud. ‘Please, Mother!’ he wailed. I didn’t do it! Silbie did it! Please-pleaseplease don’t lock me in there again! Please not in the dark! Pleasepleaseplease not in the dark! Not in the dark!’ And he scrambled to his feet and fled back into the forest with his ‘Pleasepleaseplease’ echoing back in a long, dying fall.

Ehlana was suddenly overcome with a wrenching, unbearable pity, and she bowed her head and wept.

Zalasta was waiting for them in Natayos. The sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries had seen a flowering of Arjuni civilization, a flowering financed largely by the burgeoning slave-trade. An ill-advised slave-raid into southern Atan, however, coupled with a number of gross policy blunders by the Tamul administrators of that region had unleashed an uncontrolled Atan punitive expedition. Natayos had been a virtual gem of a city with stately buildings and broad avenues. It was now a forgotten ruin buried in the jungle, its tumbled buildings snarled in ropelike vines, its stately halls now the home of chattering monkeys and brightly colored tropical birds, and its darker recesses inhabited by snakes and the scurrying rats which were their prey.

But now humans had returned to Natayos. Scarpa’s army was quartered there, and Arjunis, Cynesgans, and rag-tag battalions of Elenes had cleared the quarter near the ancient city’s northern gate of vines, trees, monkeys and reptiles in order to make it semi-habitable.

Zalasta stood leaning on his staff at the half-fallen gate, his silvery-bearded face drawn with fatigue and a look of hopeless pain in his eyes. His first reaction when his son arrived with the captives was one of rage. He snarled at Scarpa in Styric, a language that seemed eminently suited for reprimand and one which Ehlana did not understand. She took no small measure of satisfaction, however, in the look of sullen apprehension that crossed Scarpa’s face. For all his blustering and airs of pre-eminent superiority, Scarpa still appeared to stand in a certain awe and fear of the ancient Styric who had incidentally sired him.

Once, and only once, apparently stung by something Zalasta said to him in a tone loaded with contempt, Scarpa drew himself up and snarled a reply. Zalasta’s reaction was immediate and savage. He sent his son reeling with a heavy blow of his staff, then leveled its polished length at him, muttered a few words, and unleashed a fiery spot of light from the tip of the staff. The burning spot struck the still-staggering Scarpa in the belly, and he doubled over sharply, clawing at his stomach and shrieking in agony. He fell onto the muddy earth, kicking and convulsing as Zalasta’s spell burned into him. His father, the deadly staff still leveled, watched his writhing son coldly for several endless minutes.

‘Now do you understand?’ he demanded in a deadly voice, speaking in Tamul this time.

‘Yes! Yes! Father!’ Scarpa shrieked. ‘Stop! I beg you!’

Zalasta let him writhe and squirm for a while longer. Then he lifted the staff. ‘You are not master here,’ he declared. ‘You are no more than a brain-sick incompetent. Any one of a dozen others here could command this army, so do not try my patience further. Next time, son or no son, I will let the spell follow its natural course. Pain is like a disease, Scarpa. After a few days – or weeks – the body begins to deteriorate. A man can die from pain. Don’t force me to prove that to you.’ And he turned his back on his pale-faced, sweating son. ‘My apologies, your Majesty,’ he said to Ehlana. ‘This was not what I intended.’

‘And what did you intend, Zalasta?’ she asked coldly.

‘The dispute is between your husband and myself, Ehlana. It was never in my mind to cause you such discomfort. This cretin I must unfortunately acknowledge took it upon himself to mistreat you. I promise you that he will not live to see the sunset of the day in which he does it again.’

‘I see. The humiliation and pain were not your idea, but the captivity was. Where’s the difference, Zalasta?’

He sighed and passed a weary hand over his eyes. ‘It is necessary,’ he told her.

‘For what reason? Sephrenia will never submit to you, you know. Even if Bhelliom and the rings fall into your hands, you cannot compel her love.’

‘There are other considerations as well, Queen Ehlana,’ he said sorrowfully. ‘Please bring your maid and come with me. I’ll see you to your quarters.’

‘Some dungeon, I suppose?’

He sighed. ‘No, Ehlana, the quarters are clean and comfortable. I’ve seen to that myself. Your ordeal is at an end, I promise you.’

‘My ordeal, as you call it, will not be at an end until I’m reunited with my husband and my daughter.’

‘That, we may pray, will be very soon. It is, however, in the hands of Prince Sparhawk. All he must do is follow instructions. Your quarters are not far. Follow me, please,’ He led them to a nearby building and unlocked the door.

Their prison was very nearly luxurious, an apartment of sorts, complete with several bedrooms, a dining hall, a large sitting-room, and even a kitchen. The building had evidently been the palace of some nobleman, and, although the upper stories had long since collapsed, the ground-floor rooms, their ceilings supported by great arches, were still intact. The furnishings in the rooms were ornate, though mis-matched, and there were rugs on the floors and drapes to cover the windows – windows, Ehlana noticed, which had recently been fitted with stout iron bars.

The fireplaces were cavernous, and they were all filled with blazing logs, not so much to ward off the minimal chill of the Arjuni winter but to dry out rooms saturated with over a millennium of dank humidity. There were beds and fresh linen and clothing of an Arjuni cut, but most important of all, there was a fair-sized room with a large marble bathtub set into the floor. Ehlana’s eyes fixed longingly on that ultimate luxury. It so completely seized her attention that she scarcely heard Zalasta’s apologies. After a few vague replies from her, the Styric realized that his continued presence was no longer appreciated, so he politely excused himself and left.

‘Alean, dear,’ Ehlana said in an almost dreamy voice, ‘that’s quite a large tub – certainly large enough for the two of us, wouldn’t you say?’

Alean was also gazing at the tub with undisguised longing. ‘Easily, your Majesty,’ she replied.

‘How long do you think it might take us to heat enough water to fill it?’

‘There are plenty of large pots and kettles in that kitchen, my Queen,’ the gentle girl said, ‘and all the fireplaces are going. It shouldn’t take very long at all.’

‘Wonderful,’ Ehlana said enthusiastically. ‘Why don’t we get started?’

‘Just exactly who is this Klæl, Zalasta?’ Ehlana asked the Styric several days later when he came by to call. Zalasta came to their prison often, as if his visits in some way lessened his guilt, and he always talked, long, rambling, sometimes disconnected talk that often revealed far more than he probably intended for her to know.

‘Klæl is an eternal being,’ he replied. Ehlana noted almost absently that the heavily accented Elenic which had so irritated her when they had first met in Sarsos was gone now. Another of his ruses, she concluded. ‘Klæl is far more eternal than the Gods of this world,’ he continued. ‘He’s in some way connected to Bhelliom. They’re contending principles, or something along those lines. I was a bit distraught when Cyrgon explained the relationship to me, so I didn’t fully understand.’

‘Yes, I can imagine,’ she murmured. Her relationship with Zalasta was peculiar. The circumstances made ranting and denunciation largely a waste of time, so Ehlana was civil to him. He appeared to be grateful for that, and his gratitude made him more open with her. That civility, which cost her nothing, enabled her to pick up much information from the Styric’s rambling conversation.

‘Anyway,’ Zalasta continued, ‘Cyzada was terrified when Cyrgon commanded him to summon Klæl, and he tried very hard to talk the God out of the notion. Cyrgon was implacable, though, and he was filled with rage when Sparhawk neatly plucked the Trolls right out of his grasp. We’d never even considered the possibility that Sparhawk might release the Troll-Gods from their confinement.’

‘That was Sir Ulath’s idea,’ Ehlana told him. ‘Ulath knows a great deal about Trolls.’

‘Evidently so. At any rate, Cyrgon forced Cyzada to summon Klæl, but Klæl no sooner appeared than he went in search of Bhelliom. That took Cyrgon aback. It had been his intention to hold Klæl in reserve – hiding, so to speak – and to unleash him by surprise. That went out the window when Klæl rushed off to the North Cape to confront Bhelliom. Sparhawk knows that Klæl is here now – although I have no idea what he can do about it. That was what made the summoning of Klæl such idiocy in the first place. Klæl can’t be controlled. I tried to explain that to Cyrgon, but he wouldn’t listen. Our goal is to gain possession of Bhelliom, and Klæl and Bhelliom are eternal enemies. As soon as Cyrgon takes Bhelliom in his hands, Klæl will attack him, and I’m fairly certain that Klæl is infinitely more powerful than he is.’ Zalasta glanced around cautiously. ‘The Cyrgai are in many ways a reflection of their God, I’m afraid. Cyrgon abhors any kind of intelligence. He’s frighteningly stupid sometimes.’

‘I hate to point this out, Zalasta,’ she said insincerely, ‘but you have this tendency to ally yourself with defectives. Annias was clever enough, I suppose, but his obsession with the Archprelacy distorted his judgment, and Martel’s drive for revenge made his thinking just as distorted. From what I gather, Otha was as stupid as a stump, and Azash was so elemental that all he had on his mind were his desires. Coherent thought was beyond him.’

‘You know everything, don’t you, Ehlana?’ he said. ‘How on earth did you find all of this out?’

‘I’m not really at liberty to discuss it,’ she replied.

‘No matter, I suppose,’ he said absently. A sudden hunger crossed his face. ‘How is Sephrenia?’ he asked.

‘Well enough. She was very upset when she first found out about you, though – and your attempt on Aphrael’s life was really ill-conceived, you know. That was the one thing that convinced her of your treachery.’

‘I lost my head,’ he confessed. ‘That cursed Delphaeic woman destroyed three hundred years of patient labor with a toss of her head.’

‘I suppose it’s none of my business, but why didn’t you just accept the fact that Sephrenia was wholly committed to Aphrael and let it go at that? There’s no way you can ever compete with the Child Goddess, you know.’

‘Could you have ever accepted the idea that Sparhawk was committed to another, Ehlana?’ His tone was accusing.

‘No,’ she admitted, ‘I suppose I couldn’t have. We do strange things for love, don’t we, Zalasta? I was at least direct about it, though. Things might have worked out differently for you if you hadn’t tried deceit and deception. Aphrael’s not completely unreasonable, you know.’

‘Perhaps not,’ he replied. Then he sighed deeply. ‘But we’ll never know, will we?’

‘No. It’s far too late now.’

‘The glazier cracked the pane when he was setting it into the frame, my Queen,’ Alean said quietly, pointing at the defective triangle of bubbled glass in the lower corner of the window. ‘He was very clumsy.’

‘How did you come to know so much about this, Alean?’ Ehlana asked her.

‘My father was apprenticed to a glazier when he was young,’ the doe-eyed girl replied. ‘He used to repair windows in our village.’ She touched the tip of the glowing poker to the bead of lead that held the cracked pane in place. ‘I’ll have to be very careful,’ she said, frowning in concentration, ‘but if I do it right, I can fix it so that we can take out this little section of glass and put it back in again. That way, we’ll be able to hear what they’re talking about out there in the street, and then we’ll be able to put the glass back in again so that they’ll never know what we’ve done. I thought you might want to be able to listen to them, and they always seem to gather just outside this window.’

‘You’re an absolute treasure, Alean!’ Ehlana exclaimed, impulsively embracing the girl.

‘Be careful, my Lady!’ Alean cried in alarm. ‘The hot iron!’

Alean was right. The window with the small defective pane was at the corner of the building, and Zalasta, Scarpa and the others were quartered in the attached structure. It appeared that whenever they wanted to discuss something out of the hearing of the soldiers, they habitually drifted to the walled-in cul-de-sac just outside the window. The small panes of cheap glass leaded into the window-frame were only semi-transparent at best, and so, with minimal caution, Alean’s modification of the cracked pane permitted Ehlana to listen and even marginally observe without being seen.

On the day following her conversation with Zalasta, she saw the white-robed Styric approaching with a look of bleakest melancholy on his face and with Scarpa and Krager close behind him. ‘You’ve got to snap out of this, Father,’ Scarpa said urgently. ‘The soldiers are beginning to notice.’

‘Let them,’ Zalasta replied shortly.

‘No, Father,’ Scarpa said in his rich, theatrical voice, ‘we can’t do that. These men are animals. They function below the level of thought. If you walk around through these streets with the face of a little boy whose dog just died, they’re going to think that something’s wrong and they’ll start deserting by the regiment. I’ve spent too much time and effort gathering this army to have you drive them away by feeling sorry for yourself.’

‘You’d never understand, Scarpa,’ Zalasta retorted. ‘You can’t even begin to comprehend the meaning of love. You don’t love anything.’

‘Oh, yes I do, Zalasta,’ Scarpa snapped. ‘I love me. That’s the only kind of love that makes any sense.’

Ehlana just happened to be watching Krager. The drunkard’s eyes were narrowed, shrewd. He casually moved his ever-present tankard around behind him and poured most of the wine out. Then he raised the tankard and drank off the dregs noisily. Then he belched. ‘Parn’me,’ he slurred, reaching out his hand to the wall to steady himself as he weaved back and forth on his feet.

Scarpa gave him a quick, irritated glance, obviously dismissing him. Ehlana, however, rather quickly reassessed Krager. He was not always nearly as drunk as he appeared to be.

‘It’s all been for nothing, Scarpa,’ Zalasta groaned. ‘I’ve allied myself with the diseased, the degenerate and the insane for nothing. I had thought that once Aphrael was gone, Sephrenia might turn to me. But she won’t. She’d die before she’ll have anything to do with me.’

Scarpa’s eyes narrowed. ‘Let her die then,’ he said bluntly. ‘Can’t you get it through your head that one woman’s the same as any other? Women are a commodity – like bales of hay or barrels of wine. Look at Krager here. How much affection do you think he has for an empty wine barrel? It’s the new ones, the full ones, that he loves, right, Krager?’

Krager smirked at him owlishly and then belched again. ‘Parn’me,’ he said.

‘I can’t really see any reason for this obsession of yours anyway,’ Scarpa continued to grind on his father’s most sensitive spot. ‘Sephrenia’s only damaged goods now. Vanion’s had her – dozens of times. Are you so poor-spirited that you’d take the leavings of an Elene?’

Zalasta suddenly smashed his fist against the stone wall with a snarl of frustration.

‘He’s probably so used to having her that he doesn’t even waste his time murmuring endearments to her any more,’ Scarpa went on. ‘He just takes what he wants from her, rolls over and starts to snore. You know how Elenes are when they’re in rut. And she’s probably no better. He’s made an Elene out of her, Father. She’s not a Styric any more. She’s become an Elene – or even worse, a mongrel. I’m really surprised to see you wasting all this pure emotion on a mongrel.’ He sneered. ‘She’s no better than my mother or my sisters, and you know what they were.’

Zalasta’s face twisted, and he threw back his head and actually howled. ‘I’d rather see her dead!’

Scarpa’s pale, bearded face grew sly. ‘Why don’t you kill her then, Father?’ he asked in an insinuating whisper. ‘Once a decent woman’s been bedded by an Elene, she can never be trusted again, you know. Even if you did persuade her to marry you, she’d never be faithful.’ He laid an insincere hand on his father’s arm. ‘Kill her, Father,’ he advised. ‘At least your memories of her will be pure; she never will be.’

Zalasta howled again and clawed at his beard with his long fingernails. Then he turned quickly and ran off down the street.

Krager straightened, and his seeming drunkenness slid away. ‘You took an awful chance there, you know,’ he said in a cautious tone.

Scarpa looked sharply at him. ‘Very good, Krager,’ he murmured. ‘You played the part of a drunkard almost to perfection.’

‘I’ve had lots of practice,’ Krager shrugged. ‘You’re lucky he didn’t obliterate you, Scarpa – or tie your guts in knots again.’

‘He couldn’t,’ Scarpa smirked. ‘I’m a fair magician myself, you know, and I’m skilled enough to know that you have to have a clear head to work the spells. I kept him in a state of rage. He couldn’t have worked up enough magic to break a spider-web. Let’s hope that he does kill Sephrenia. That should really scatter Sparhawk’s wits, not to mention the fact that as soon as the desire of his life is no more than a pile of dead meat, Zalasta’s very likely to conveniently cut his own throat.’

‘You really hate him, don’t you?’

‘Wouldn’t you, Krager? He could have taken me with him when I was a child, but he’d come to visit for a while, and he’d show me what it meant to be a Styric, and then he’d go off alone, leaving me behind to be tormented by whores. If he doesn’t have the stomach to cut his own throat, I’d be more than happy to lend him a hand.’ Scarpa’s eyes were very bright, and he was smiling broadly. ‘Where’s your wine barrel, Krager?’ he asked. ‘Right now I feel like getting drunk.’ And he began to laugh, a cackling, insane laugh empty of any mirth or humanity.

‘It’s no use!’ Ehlana said, flinging the comb across the room. ‘Look at what they’ve done to my hair!’ She buried her face in her hands and wept.

‘It’s not hopeless, my Lady,’ Alean said in her soft voice. ‘There’s a style they wear in Cammoria.’ She lifted the mass of blonde hair on the right side of Ehlana’s head and brought it over across the top. ‘You see,’ she said. ‘It covers all the bare places, and it really looks quite chic’

Ehlana looked hopefully into her mirror. ‘It doesn’t look too bad, does it?’ she conceded.

‘And if we set a flower just behind your right ear, it would really look very stunning.’

‘Alean, you’re wonderful!’ the Queen exclaimed happily. ‘What would I ever do without you?’

It took them the better part of an hour, but at last the unsightly bare places were covered, and Ehlana felt that some measure of her dignity had been restored.

That evening, however, Krager came to call. He stood swaying in the doorway, his eyes bleary and a drunken smirk on his face. ‘Harvest-time again, Ehlana,’ he announced, drawing his dagger. ‘It seems that I’ll need just a bit more of your hair.’

Chapter 6

The sky remained overcast, but as luck had it, it had not yet rained. The stiff wind coming in off the Gulf of Micae was raw, however, and they rode with their cloaks wrapped tightly about them. Despite Khalad’s belief that it was to their advantage to move slowly, Berit was consumed with impatience. He knew that what they were doing was only a small part of the overall strategy, but the confrontation they all knew was coming loomed ahead, and he desperately wanted to get on with it. ‘How can you be so patient?’ he asked Khalad about mid-afternoon one day when the onshore wind was particularly chill and damp.

‘I’m a farmer, Sparhawk,’ Khalad replied, scratching at his short black beard. ‘Waiting for things to grow teaches you not to expect changes overnight.’

‘I suppose I’ve never really thought about what it must be like just sitting still waiting for things to sprout.’

‘There’s not much sitting still when you’re a farmer,’ Khalad told him. ‘There are always more things to do than there are hours in the day, and if you get bored, you can always keep a close watch on the sky. A whole year’s work can be lost in a dry-spell or a sudden hailstorm.’

‘I hadn’t thought about that either.’ Berit mulled it over. ‘That’s what makes you so good at predicting the weather, isn’t it?’

‘It helps.’

‘There’s more to it than that, though. You always seem to know about everything that’s going on around you. When we were on that log-boom, you knew instantly when there was the slightest change in the way it was moving.’

‘It’s called “paying attention”, my Lord. The world around you is screaming at you all the time, but most people can’t seem to hear it. That really baffles me. I can’t understand how you can miss so many things.’

Berit was just slightly offended by that. ‘All right, what’s the world screaming at you right now that I can’t hear?’

‘It’s telling me that we’re going to need some fairly substantial shelter tonight. We’ve got bad weather coming.’

‘How did you arrive at that?’

Khalad pointed. ‘You see those seagulls?’ he asked.

‘Yes. What’s that got to do with it?’

Khalad sighed. ‘What do seagulls eat, my Lord?’

‘Just about everything – fish mostly, I suppose.’

‘Then why are they flying inland? They aren’t going to find very many fish on dry land, are they? They’ve seen something they don’t like out there in the gulf and they’re running away from it. Just about the only thing that frightens a seagull is wind – and the high seas that go with it. There’s a storm out to sea, and it’s coming this way. That’s what the world’s screaming at me right now.’

‘It’s just common sense then, isn’t it?’

‘Most things are, Sparhawk – common sense and experience.’ Khalad smiled slightly. I can still feel Krager’s Styric out there watching us. If he isn’t paying any more attention than you were just now, he’s probably going to spend a very miserable night.’

Berit grinned just a bit viciously. ‘Somehow that information fails to disquiet me,’ he said.

It was more than a village, but not quite a town. It had three streets, for one thing, and at least six buildings of more than one story, for another. The streets were muddy, and pigs roamed freely. The buildings were made primarily of wood and they were roofed with thatch. There was an inn on what purported to be the main street. It was a substantial-looking building, and there were a pair of rickety wagons with dispirited mules in their traces out front. Ulath reined in the weary old horse he had bought in the fishing village. ‘What do you think?’ he said to his friend.

‘I thought you’d never ask,’ Tynian replied.

‘Let’s go ahead and take a room as well,’ Ulath suggested. The afternoon’s wearing on anyway, and I’m getting tired of sleeping on the ground. Besides, I’m a little overdue for a bath.’

Tynian looked toward the starkly outlined peaks of the Tamul Mountains lying some leagues to the west. ‘I’d really hate to keep the Trolls waiting, Ulath,’ he said with mock seriousness.

‘It’s not as if we had a definite appointment with them. Trolls wouldn’t notice anyway. They’ve got a very imprecise notion of time.’

They rode on into the innyard, tied their horses to a rail outside the stable and went on into the inn.

‘We need a room,’ Ulath told the innkeeper in heavily accented Tamul.

The innkeeper was a small, furtive-looking man. He gave them a quick, appraising glance, noting the bits and pieces of army uniform that made up most of their dress. His expression hardened with distaste. Soldiers are frequently unwelcome in rural communities for any number of very good reasons. ‘Well,’ he replied in a whining, sing-song sort of voice, ‘I don’t know. It’s our busy season -’

‘Late autumn?’ Tynian broke in skeptically. ‘That’s your busy season?’

‘Well – there are all the wagoneers who can come by at any time, you know.’

Ulath looked beyond the innkeeper’s shoulder into the low, smoky taproom. ‘I count three,’ he said flatly.

There are bound to be more along shortly,’ the fellow replied just a bit too quickly.

‘Of course there are,’ Tynian said sarcastically. ‘But we’re here now, and we’ve got money. Are you going to gamble a sure thing against the remote possibility that some wagon might stop here along about midnight?’

‘He doesn’t want to do business with a couple of pensioned-off veterans, Corporal,’ Ulath said. ‘Let’s go talk with the local commissioner. I’m sure he’ll be very interested in the way this fellow treats his Imperial Majesty’s soldiers.’

‘I’m his Imperial Majesty’s loyal subject,’ the innkeeper said quickly, ‘and I’ll be honored to have brave veterans of his army under my roof.’

‘How much?’ Tynian cut him off.

‘A half-crown?’

‘He doesn’t seem very certain, does he, Sergeant?’ Tynian asked his friend. I think you misunderstood,’ he said then to the nervous innkeeper. ‘We don’t want to buy the room. We just want to rent it for one night.’

Ulath was staring hard at the now-frightened little Tamul. ‘Eight pence,’ he countered with a note of finality.

‘Eight?’ the innkeeper objected in a shrill voice.

‘Take it or leave it – and don’t be all day about it. We’ll need a little daylight to find the Commissioner.’

‘You’re a hard man, Sergeant.’

‘Nobody ever promised you that life would be easy, did they?’ Ulath counted out some coins and jingled them in his hand. ‘Do you want these or not?’

After a moment of agonized indecision, the innkeeper reluctantly took the coins.

‘You took all the fun out of that, you know,’ Tynian complained as the two went back out to the stable to see to their horses.

‘I’m thirsty,’ Ulath shrugged. ‘Besides, a couple of ex-soldiers would know in advance exactly how much they were willing to pay, wouldn’t they?’ He scratched at his face. ‘I wonder if Sir Gerda would mind if I shaved off his beard,’ he mused. This thing itches.’

‘It’s not really his face, Ulath. It’s still yours. You’ve just been modified to look like him.’

‘Yes, but when the ladies switch our faces back, they’ll use this one as a model for Gerda, and when they’re done, he’ll be standing there with a naked face. He might object.’

They unsaddled their horses, put them into stalls and went on into the taproom. Tamul drinking establishments were arranged differently from those owned by Elenes. The tables were much lower, for one thing, and here the room was heated by a porcelain stove rather than a fireplace. The stove smoked as badly as a fireplace, though. Wine was served in delicate little cups and ale in cheap tin tankards. The smell was much the same, however.

They were just starting on their second tankard of ale when an officious-looking Tamul in a food-spotted wool mantle came into the room and walked directly to their table. ‘I'll have a look at your release papers, if you don’t mind,’ he told them in a loftily superior tone.

‘And if we do?’ Ulath asked.

The official blinked. ‘What?’

‘You said if we don’t mind. What if we do mind?’

‘I have the authority to demand to see those documents.’

‘Why did you ask, then?’ Ulath reached inside his red uniform jacket and took out a dog-eared sheet of paper. ‘In our old regiment, men in authority never asked.’

The Tamul read through the documents Oscagne had provided them as a part of their disguise. These seem to be in order,’ he said in a more conciliatory tone. ‘Sorry I was so abrupt. We’ve been told to keep our eyes out for deserters – all the turmoil, you understand. I guess the army looks a lot less attractive when there’s fighting in the wind.’ He looked at them a bit wistfully. ‘I see you were stationed in Matherion.’

Tynian nodded. ‘It was good duty – a lot of inspections and polishing, though. Sit down, Commissioner.’

The Tamul smiled faintly. ‘Deputy-Commissioner, I’m afraid, Corporal. This backwater doesn’t rate a full Commissioner.’ He slid into a chair. ‘Where are you men bound?’

‘Home,’ Ulath said, ‘back to Verel in Daconia.’

‘You’ll forgive my saying so, Sergeant, but you don’t look all that much like a Dacite.’

Ulath shrugged. I take after my mother’s family. She was an Astel before she married my father. Tell me, Deputy-Commissioner, would we save very much time if we went straight on across the Tamul Mountains to reach Sopal? We thought we’d catch a ferry or some trading ship there, go across the Sea of Arjun to Tiana and then ride on down to Saras. It’s only a short way from there to Verel.’

‘I’d advise staying out of the Tamul Mountains, my friends.’

‘Bad weather?’ Tynian asked him.

‘That’s always possible at this time of year, Corporal, but there have been some disturbing reports coming out of those mountains. It seems that the bears up there have been breeding like rabbits. Every traveler who’s come through here in the past few weeks reports sighting the brutes. Fortunately they all run away.’

‘Bears, you say?’

The Tamul smiled. ‘I’m translating. The ignorant peasants around here use the word “monster”, but we all know what a large, shaggy creature who lives alone in the mountains is, don’t we?’

‘Peasants are an excitable lot, aren’t they?’ Ulath laughed, draining his tankard. ‘We were out on a training exercise once, and this peasant came running up to us claiming that he was being chased by a pack of wolves. When we went out to take a look, it turned out to be one lone fox. The size and number of any wild animal a peasant sees seems to grow with each passing hour.’

‘Or each tankard of ale,’ Tynian added.

They talked with the now-polite official for a while longer, and then the man wished them a good journey and left.

‘Well, it’s nice to know that the Trolls made it this far south,’ Ulath said. ‘I’d hate to have to go looking for them.’

‘Their Gods were guiding them, Ulath,’ Tynian pointed out.

‘You’ve never talked with the Troll-Gods, I see,’ Ulath laughed. ‘Their sense of direction is a little vague – probably because their compass only has two directions on it.’

‘Oh?’

‘North and not-north. It makes finding places a little difficult.’

The storm was one of those short, savage gales that seem to come out of nowhere in the late autumn. Khalad had dismissed the possibility of finding any kind of shelter in the salt marshes and had turned instead to the beach. At the head of a shallow inlet he had found the mountain of driftwood he’d been seeking. A couple of hours of fairly intense labor had produced a snug, even cozy little shelter on the leeward side of the pile. The gale struck just as the last light was fading. The wind screamed through the huge pile of driftwood. The surf crashed and thundered against the beach, and the rain sheeted horizontally across the ground in the driving wind.

Khalad and Berit, however, were warm and dry. They sat with their backs against the huge, bleached-white log that formed the rear wall of their shelter and their feet stretched out toward their crackling fire.

‘You always amaze me, Khalad,’ Berit said. ‘How did you know that there’d be boards mixed in amongst all this driftwood?’

‘There always are,’ Khalad shrugged. ‘Any time you find one of these big heaps of driftwood, you’re going to find sawed lumber as well. Men make ships out of boards, and ships get wrecked. The boards float around until the wind and currents and tides push them to the same sheltered places where the sticks and the logs have been accumulating.’ He reached up and patted the ceiling. ‘Finding this hatch-cover all in one piece was a stroke of luck, though, I’ll grant you that.’ He rose to his feet and went to the front of the shelter. ‘It’s really blowing out there,’ he noted. He extended his hands toward the fire. ‘Cold, too. The rain’s probably going to turn to sleet before midnight.’

‘Yes,’ Berit agreed pleasantly. ‘I certainly pity anybody caught out in the open on a night like this.’ He grinned.

‘Me too,’ Khalad grinned back. He lowered his voice, although there was no real need. ‘Can you get any sense of what he’s thinking?’

‘Nothing specific,’ Berit replied. ‘He’s seriously uncomfortable, though.’

‘What a shame.’

‘There’s something else, though. He’s going to come and talk with us. He has a message of some kind for us.’

‘Is he likely to come in here tonight?’

Berit shook his head. ‘He has orders not to make contact until tomorrow morning. He’s very much afraid of whoever told him what to do and when to do it, so he’ll obey those orders to the letter. How’s that ham coming?’

Khalad drew his dagger and used its point to lift the lid of the iron pot half-buried in embers at the edge of the fire. The steam that came boiling out smelled positively delicious. ‘It’s ready. As soon as the beans are done, we can eat.’

‘If our friend out there is down-wind of us, that smell should add to his misery just a bit.’ Berit chuckled.

‘I sort of doubt it, Sparhawk. He’s a Styric, and he’s not allowed to eat pork.’

‘Oh, yes. I’d forgotten about that. He’s a renegade, though. Maybe he’s discarded his dietary prejudices.’

‘We’ll find out in the morning. When he comes to us tomorrow, I’ll offer him a piece. Why don’t you saw off a few slices of that loaf of bread? I’ll toast them on the pot-lid here.’

The wind had abated somewhat the following morning, and the rain had slacked off to a few fitful spatters stuttering on the hatch-cover roof. They had more of the ham and beans for breakfast and began to get things ready to pack. ‘What do you think?’ Berit asked.

‘Let’s make him come to us. Sitting tight until the last of the rain passes wouldn’t be all that unusual.’ Khalad looked speculatively at his friend. ‘Would you be offended by a bit of advice, my Lord?’ he asked.

‘Of course not.’

‘You look like Sparhawk, but you don’t sound very much like him, and your mannerisms aren’t quite right. When the Styric comes, make your face colder and harder. Keep your eyes narrow. Sparhawk squints. You’ll also want to keep your voice low and level. Sparhawk’s voice gets very quiet when he’s angry – and he calls people “neighbor” a lot. He can put all sorts of meaning into that one word.’

‘That’s right, he does call just about everybody “neighbor”, doesn’t he? I’d almost forgotten that. You’ve got my permission to correct me any time I start to lose my grip on the real Sparhawk, Khalad.’

‘Permission?’

‘Poor choice of words there, I suppose.’

‘You might say that, yes.’

‘The climate got a little too warm for us back in Matherion,’ Caalador said, leaning back in his chair. He looked directly at the hard-faced man seated across from him. ‘I’m sure you take my meaning, Orden.’

The hard-faced man laughed. ‘Oh, yes,’ he replied. ‘I’ve left a few places about one jump ahead of the law a time or two myself.’ Orden was an Elene from Vardenaise who ran a seedy tavern on the waterfront in Delo. He was a burly ruffian who prospered here because Elene criminals felt comfortable in the familiar surroundings of an Elene tavern and because Orden was willing to buy things from them – at about a tenth of their real value – without asking questions.

‘What we really need is a new line of work.’ Caalador gestured at Kalten and Bevier, disguised with new faces and rough, mismatched clothing. ‘A fairly high personage in the Ministry of the Interior was in charge of the group of policemen who stopped by to ask us some embarrassing questions.’ He grinned at Bevier, who wore the face of one of his brother Cyrinics, an evil-looking knight who had lost an eye in a skirmish in Rendor and covered the empty socket with a black patch. ‘My one-eyed friend there didn’t care for the fellow’s attitude, so he lopped his head off with that funny-looking hatchet of his.’

Orden looked at the weapon Bevier had laid on the table beside his ale-tankard. That’s a lochaber axe, isn’t it?’ he asked.

Bevier grunted. Kalten felt that Bevier’s flair for dramatics was pushing him a little far. The black eye-patch was probably enough, but Bevier’s participation in amateur theatricals as a student made him seem to want to go to extremes. His intent was obviously to appear dangerously competent. What he was achieving, however, was the appearance of a homicidal maniac.

‘Doesn’t a lochaber usually have a longer handle?’ Orden asked.

‘It wouldn’t fit under my tunic,’ Bevier growled, ‘so I sawed a couple of feet off the handle. It works well enough – if you keep chopping with it. The screaming and the blood don’t bother me all that much, so it suits me just fine.’

Orden shuddered and looked slightly sick. ‘That’s the meanest-looking weapon I’ve ever seen,’ he confessed.

‘Maybe that’s why I like it so much,’ Bevier told him.

Orden looked at Caalador. ‘What line were you and your friends thinking of taking up, Ezek?’ he asked.

‘We thought we might try our hand at highway robbery or something along those lines,’ Caalador said. ‘You know, fresh air, exercise, wholesome food, no policemen in the neighborhood – that sort of thing. We’ve got some fairly substantial prices on our heads, and now that the Emperor’s disbanded Interior, all the policing is being done by the Atans. Did you know that you can’t bribe an Aran?’

Orden nodded glumly. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘It’s shocking.’ He squinted speculatively at ‘Ezek’, who appeared to be a middle-aged Deiran. ‘Why don’t you describe Caalador to me, Ezek? I’m not doubting your word, mind. It’s just that things are a little topsy-turvy right now, what with all the policemen we used to bribe either in jail or dead, so we all have to be careful.’

‘No offense taken at all, Orden,’ Caalador assured him. ‘I wouldn’t trust a man who wasn’t careful these days. Caalador’s a Cammorian, and he’s got curly hair and a red face. He’s sort of blocky – you know, big shoulders, thick neck, and a little stout around the middle.’

Orden’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. ‘What did he tell you? Repeat his exact words.’

‘Wal, sir,’ Caalador replied, exaggerating the dialect just a bit, ‘Ol’ Caalador, he tole us t’ come down yere t’ Delo an’ look up a feller name o’ Orden – on accounta this yere Orden, he’s th’ one ez knows whut’s whut in the shadowy world o’ crime herebouts.’

Orden relaxed and laughed. ‘That’s Caalador, all right,’ he said. ‘I knew you were telling me the truth before you’d said three words.’

‘He certainly mangles the language,’ Caalador agreed. ‘He’s not as stupid as he sounds, though.’

Kalten covered a smile with his hand.

‘Not by a dang sight, he ain’t,’ Orden agreed, imitating the dialect. ‘I think you’ll find that highway robbery isn’t very profitable around here, Ezek, mainly because there aren’t that many highways. It’s safe enough out in the jungle – not even the Atans can find anybody in all that underbrush – but pickings are slim. Three men alone in the bush won’t be able to make ends meet. I think you’ll have to join one of the bands out there. They make a fair living robbing isolated estates and raiding various towns and villages. That takes quite a number of men, so there are always job openings.’ He sat back and tapped one finger thoughtfully against his chin. ‘Do you want to go a long way from town?’ he asked.

‘The further out the better,’ Caalador replied.

‘Narstil’s operating down by the ruins of Natayos. I can guarantee that the police won’t bother you there. A fellow named Scarpa’s got an army stationed in the ruins. He’s a crazy revolutionary who wants to overthrow the Tamul government. Narstil has quite a few dealings with him. There’s some risk involved, but there’s a lot of profit to be made in that neighborhood.’

‘I think you’ve found just what we’re looking for, Orden,’ Caalador said eagerly.

Kalten carefully let out a long sigh of relief. Orden had come up with the exact answer they’d been looking for without even being prompted. If they joined this particular band of robbers, they’d be close enough to Natayos to smell the smoke from the chimneys, and that was a better stroke of luck than they’d even dared to hope for.

‘I’ll tell you what, Ezek,’ Orden said, ‘why don’t I write a letter to Narstil introducing you and your friends?’

‘We’d definitely appreciate it, Orden.’

‘But before I waste all that ink and paper, why don’t we have a talk about how much you’re going to pay me to write that letter?’

The Styric was wet and muddy and very nearly blue with the cold. He was shivering so violently that his voice quavered as he hailed their camp. ‘I have a message for you,’ he called. ‘Don’t get excited and do something foolish.’ He spoke in Elenic, and that made Berit quite thankful, since his own Styric was not all that good. It was the one major flaw in his disguise.

‘Come on in, neighbor,’ he called out to the miserable-looking fellow at the upper end of the beach. ‘Just keep your hands out in plain sight.’

‘Don’t order me around, Elene,’ the Styric snapped. ‘I’m the one who’s giving the orders here.’

‘Deliver your message from right there then, neighbor,’ Berit said coldly. ‘Take your time, if you want. I’m warm and dry in here, so waiting while you make up your mind won’t be all that unpleasant for me.’

‘It’s a written message,’ the man said in Styric. At least Berit thought that was what he said.

‘Friend,’ Khalad said, stepping in quickly, ‘we’ve got a slightly touchy situation here. There are all sorts of chances for misunderstandings, so don’t make me nervous by talking in a language I don’t understand. Sir Sparhawk here understands Styric, but I don’t, and my knife in your belly will kill you just as quick as his will. I’ll be very sorry afterward, of course, but you’ll still be dead.’

‘Can I come in?’ the Styric asked, speaking in Elenic.

‘Come ahead, neighbor,’ Berit told him.

The lumpy-faced messenger approached the front of their shelter, looking longingly at the fire.

‘You really look uncomfortable, old boy,’ Berit noted. ‘Couldn’t you think of a spell to keep the rain off?’

The Styric ignored that. ‘I’m instructed to give you this,’ he said, reaching inside his homespun smock and drawing out an oilskin-covered packet.

Tell me what you’re going to do before you stick your hand inside your clothes like that, neighbor,’ Berit cautioned him in a low voice and squinting at him as he said it. ‘As my friend just pointed out, we’ve got some wonderful opportunities for misunderstandings here. Startling me when I’m this close to you isn’t a good way to keep your guts on the inside.’

The Styric swallowed hard and stepped back as soon as Berit took the packet.

‘Would you care for a slice of ham while my Lord Sparhawk reads his mail, friend?’ Khalad offered. ‘It’s nice and greasy, so it’ll lubricate your innards.’

The Styric shuddered, and his face took on a faintly nauseated look.

‘There’s nothing quite like a few gobs of oozy pork-fat to slick up a man’s gullet,’ Khalad told him cheerfully. ‘It must come from all the garbage and half-rotten swill that pigs eat.’

The Styric made a retching sound.

‘You’ve delivered your message, neighbor,’ Berit said coldly. ‘I’m sure you have someplace important to go, and we certainly wouldn’t want to keep you.’

‘Are you sure you understand the message?’

‘I’ve read it. Elenes read very well. We’re not illiterates like you Styrics. The message didn’t make me very happy, so it’s not going to pay you to stay around.’

The Styric messenger backed away, his face apprehensive. Then he turned and fled.

‘What does it say?’ Khalad asked.

Berit gently held the identifying lock of the Queen’s hair in his hand. ‘It says that there’s been a change of plans. We’re supposed to go on down past the Tamul Mountains and then turn west. They want us to go to Sopal now.’

‘You’d better get word to Aphrael.’

There was a sudden, familiar little trill of pipes. The two young men spun around quickly.

The Child Goddess sat cross-legged on Khalad’s blankets, breathing a plaintive Styric melody into her many-chambered pipes. ‘Why are you staring at me?’ she asked them. ‘I told you I was going to look after you, didn’t I?’

‘Is this really wise, Divine One?’ Berit asked her. ‘That Styric’s no more than a few hundred yards away, you know, and he can probably sense your presence.’

‘Not right now, he can’t,’ Aphrael smiled. ‘Right now he’s too busy concentrating on keeping his stomach from turning inside out. All that talk about pork-fat was really cruel, Khalad.’

‘Yes. I know.’

‘Did you have to be so graphic?’

‘I didn’t know you were around. What do you want us to do?’

‘Go to Sopal the way they told you to. I’ll get word to the others.’ She paused. ‘What did you do to that ham, Khalad?’ she asked curiously. ‘You’ve actually managed to make it smell almost edible.’

‘It’s probably the cloves,’ he shrugged. ‘Nobody’s really all that fond of the taste of pork, when you get right down to it, but my mother taught me that almost anything can be made edible – if you use enough spices. You might want to keep that in mind the next time you’re thinking about serving up a goat.’

She stuck her tongue out at him, and then she vanished.

Chapter 7

It was snowing in the mountains of Zemoch, a dry, brittle snow that settled like a cloud of feathers in the dead calm air. It was bitterly cold, and a huge cloud of steam hung like a low-lying fog over the horses of the army of the Knights of the Church as they plodded forward, their hooves sending the powdery snow swirling into the air again. The preceptors of the militant orders rode in the lead, dressed in full armor and bundled in furs. Preceptor Abriel of the Cyrinic Knights, still vigorous despite his advanced age, rode with Darellon, the Alcione Preceptor, and with Sir Heldin, a scarred old veteran who was filling in as leader of the Pandions during Sparhawk’s absence. Patriarch Bergsten rode somewhat apart. The huge Churchman was muffled to the ears in fur, and his Ogre-horned helmet made him look very warlike, an appearance offset to some degree by the small, black-bound prayer book he was reading. Preceptor Komier of the Genidians was off ahead with the scouts.

‘I don’t think I’ll ever be warm again,’ Abriel groaned, pulling his fur cloak tighter about him. ‘Old age thins the blood. Don’t ever get old, Darellon.’

‘The alternative isn’t very attractive, Lord Abriel.’ Darellon was a slender Deiran who appeared to have been swallowed up by his massive armor. He lowered his voice. ‘You didn’t really have to come along, my friend,’ he said. ‘Sarathi would have understood.’

‘Oh, no, Darellon. This is probably my last campaign. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’ Abriel peered ahead. ‘What’s Komier doing out there?’

‘Lord Komier said that he wanted to take a look at the ruins of Zemoch,’ Sir Heldin replied in his rumbling basso. ‘I guess Thalesians take a certain pleasure in viewing the wreckage after a war’s over.’

‘They’re a barbaric people,’ Abriel muttered sourly. He glanced quickly at Bergsten, who seemed totally immersed in his prayer book. ‘You don’t necessarily have to repeat that, gentlemen,’ he said to Darellon and Heldin.

‘I wouldn’t dream of it, Abriel,’ Bergsten said, not looking up from his prayer book.

‘You’ve got unwholesomely sharp ears, your Grace.’

‘It comes from listening to confessions. People tend to shout the sins of others from the rooftops, but you can barely hear them when they’re describing their own.’ Bergsten looked up and pointed. ‘Komier’s coming back.’

The Preceptor of the Genidian Knights was in high spirits as he reined in his horse, swirling up a huge billow of the dustlike snow. ‘Sparhawk doesn’t leave very much standing when he destroys a place,’ he announced cheerfully. ‘I didn’t entirely believe Ulath when he told me that our broken-nosed friend blew the lid off the Temple of Azash, but I do now. You’ve never seen such a wreck. I doubt if there’s a habitable building left in the whole city.’

‘You really enjoy that sort of thing, don’t you, Komier?’ Abriel accused.

‘That’s enough of that, gentlemen!’ Bergsten cut in quickly. ‘We’re not going to resurrect that worn-out old dispute again. We make war in different ways. Arcians like to build forts and castles, and Thalesians like to knock them down. It’s all part of making war, and that’s what we get paid for.’

‘We, your Grace?’ Heldin rumbled mildly.

‘You know what I mean, Heldin. I don’t personally get involved in that any more, of course, but –’

‘Why did you bring your axe along then, Bergsten?’ Komier asked him.

Bergsten gave him a flat stare. ‘For old times’ sake – and because you Thalesian brigands pay closer attention to a man who’s got an axe in his hands.’

‘Knights, your Grace,’ Komier mildly corrected his countryman. ‘We’re called knights now. We used to be brigands, but now we’re behaving ourselves.’

‘The Church appreciates your efforts to mend your ways, my son, even though she knows that you’re lying in your teeth.’

Abriel carefully covered a smile. Bergsten was a former Genidian Knight himself, and sometimes his cassock slipped a bit. ‘Who’s got the map?’ he asked, more to head off the impending argument than out of any real curiosity.

Heldin unbuckled one of his saddle-bags, his black armor clinking. ‘What did you want to know, my Lord?’ he asked, taking out his map.

‘The usual. How far? How long? What sort of unpleasantness up ahead?’

‘It’s just over a hundred leagues to the Astellian border, my Lord,’ Heldin replied, consulting his map, ‘and nine hundred leagues from there to Matherion.’

‘A hundred days at least,’ Bergsten grunted sourly.

‘That’s if we don’t run into any trouble, your Grace,’ Darellon added.

‘Take a look back over your shoulder, Darellon. There are a hundred thousand Church Knights behind us. There’s no trouble that we can’t deal with. What sort of terrain’s up ahead, Heldin?’

‘There’s some sort of divide about three days east of here, your Grace. All the rivers on this side of it run down into the Gulf of Merjuk. On the other side, they run off into the Astel Marshes. I’d imagine that we’ll be going downhill after we cross that divide – unless Otha fixed it so that water runs uphill here in Zemoch.’

A Genidian Knight rode forward. ‘A messenger from Emsat just caught up with us, Lord Komier,’ he reported. ‘He says he has important news for you.’

Komier nodded, wheeled his horse and rode back toward the army. The rest of them pushed on as it started to snow a little harder.

Komier was laughing uproariously when he returned with the travel-stained messenger who had chased them down.

‘What’s so funny?’ Bergsten asked him.

‘We have good news from home, your Grace,’ Komier said gaily. ‘Tell our beloved Patriarch what you just told me,’ he instructed the messenger.

‘Yes, my Lord,’ the blond-braided Thalesian said. ‘It happened a few weeks back, your Grace. One morning the palace servants couldn’t find a trace of the Prince Regent anywhere at all. The guards tore the place apart for two straight days, but the little weasel seemed to have vanished entirely.’

‘Mind your manners, man,’ Bergsten snapped. ‘Avin’s the Prince Regent, after all – even if he is a little weasel.’

‘Sorry, your Grace. Anyway, the whole capital was mystified. Avin Wargunsson never went anywhere without taking a brass band along to blow fanfares announcing his coming. Then one of the servants happened to notice a full wine barrel in Avin’s study. That seemed odd, because Avin didn’t have much stomach for wine, so they got to looking at the barrel a little more closely. It was clear that it had been opened, because quite a bit of wine had been spilled on the floor. Well, your Grace, they’d all worked up quite a thirst looking for Avin, so they decided to open the barrel, but when they tried to pry it open, they found out that it had been nailed shut. Now nobody nails a wine barrel shut in Thalesia, so everybody got suspicious right away. They took some pliers and pulled out the nails and lifted the lid – and there was Avin, stone dead and floating face down in the barrel.’

‘You’re not serious!’

‘Yes, your Grace. Somebody in Emsat’s got a very warped sense of humor, I guess. He went to all the trouble of rolling that wine barrel into Avin’s study just so that he could stuff him in and nail down the lid. Avin seems to have struggled a bit. He had splinters under his fingernails, and there were claw-marks on the underside of the lid. It made an awful mess. I guess the wine drained out of him for a half an hour after they fished him out of the barrel. The palace servants tried to clean him up for the funeral, but you know how hard wine-stains are to get out. He was very purple when they laid him out on the bier in the Cathedral of Emsat for his funeral.’ The messenger rubbed at the side of his face reflectively. ‘It was the strangest funeral I’ve ever attended. The Primate of Emsat kept trying to keep from laughing while he was reading the burial service, but he wasn’t having much luck, and that got the whole congregation to laughing too. There was Avin lying on that bier, no bigger than a half-grown goat and as purple as a ripe plum, and there was the whole congregation, roaring with laughter.’

‘At least everybody noticed him,’ Komier said. ‘That was always important to Avin.’

‘Oh, they noticed him all right, Lord Komier. Every eye in the Cathedral was on him. Then, after they put him in the royal crypt, the whole city had a huge party, and we all drank toasts to the memory of Avin Wargunsson. It’s hard to find something to laugh about in Thalesia when winter’s coming on, but Avin managed to brighten up the whole season.’

‘What kind of wine was it?’ Patriarch Bergsten asked gravely.

‘Arcian red, your Grace.’

‘Any idea of what year?’

‘Year before last, I believe it was.’

‘A vintage year,’ Bergsten sighed. ‘There was no way to save it, I suppose?’

‘Not after Avin had been soaking in it for two days, your Grace.’

Bergsten sighed again. ‘What a waste,’ he mourned. And then he collapsed over his saddlebow, howling with laughter.

It was cold in the Tamul Mountains as Ulath and Tynian rode up into the foothills. The Tamul Mountains were one of those geographic anomalies which crop up here and there, a cluster of worn-down, weary-looking peaks with no evident connection to neighboring and more jagged peaks forested by fir and spruce and pine. The gentler slopes of the Tamul Mountains were covered with hardwoods which had been stripped of their leaves by the onset of winter.

The two knights rode carefully, staying in the open and making enough noise to announce their presence. ‘It’s very unwise to startle a Troll,’ Ulath explained.

‘Are you sure they’re out there?’ Tynian asked as they wound deeper into the mountains.

Ulath nodded. ‘I’ve seen tracks – or places where they’ve tried to brush out their traces – and fresh dirt where they’ve buried their droppings. Trolls take pains to conceal their presence from humans. It’s easier to catch supper if it doesn’t know you’re around.’

‘The Troll-Gods promised Aphrael that their creatures wouldn’t eat humans any more.’

‘It may take a few generations for that notion to sift down into the minds of some of the stupider Trolls – and a Troll can be fearfully stupid when he sets his mind to it. We’d better stay alert. As soon as we get up out of these foothills, I’ll perform the ceremony that calls the Troll-Gods. We should be safe after that. It’s these foothills that are dangerous.’

‘Why not just perform the ceremony now?’

Ulath shook his head. ‘Bad manners. You’re not supposed to call on the Troll-Gods until you’re up higher – up in real Troll country.’

This isn’t Troll country, Ulath.’

‘It is now. Let’s find a place to camp for the night.’

They built their camp on a kind of stair-stepped bench so that they had a solid cliff to their backs and a steep drop to the front. They took turns standing watch, and as the first faint light of dawn began to wash the darkness out of the overcast sky, Tynian shook Ulath awake. There’s something moving around in the brush at the foot of the cliff,’ he whispered.

Ulath sat up, his hand going to his axe. He cocked his head to listen. Troll,’ he said after a moment.

‘How can you tell?’

‘Whatever’s making all the noise is doing it on purpose. A deer wouldn’t crash around like that, and the bears have all denned up for the winter. The Troll wants us to know he’s there.’

‘What do we do?’

‘Let’s build up the fire a bit – let him know that we’re awake. We’ve got a touchy situation here, so let’s not move too fast.’ He pushed his blankets aside and rose to his feet as Tynian piled more limbs on the fire.

‘Should we invite him in to get warm?’ Tynian asked.

‘He isn’t cold.’

‘It’s freezing, Ulath.’

That’s why he’s got fur. Trolls build fires for light, not heat. Why don’t you go ahead and get started with breakfast? He’s not going to do anything until full daylight.’

‘It’s not my turn.’

‘I have to keep watch.’

‘I can keep watch as well as you can.’

‘You wouldn’t know what to look for, Tynian.’ Ulath’s tone was reasonable. It usually was when he was talking his way out of doing the cooking.

The light grew gradually stronger. It was a process that is always strange. A man can be looking directly at a dark patch in the surrounding forest and suddenly realize that he can see trees and rocks and bushes where there had been only darkness before.

Tynian brought Ulath a plate of steaming ham and a chunk of leathery-crusted bread. ‘Leave the ham on the spit,’ Ulath told him.

Tynian grunted, picked up his own plate, and joined his friend at the front edge of the rocky shelf. They sat and kept watch on the birch forest that ran down the steep slope beneath them as they ate. ‘There he is,’ Ulath said gravely, ‘right beside that big rock.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Tynian replied. ‘I see him now. He blends right in, doesn’t he?’

‘That’s what being a Troll is all about, Tynian. He’s a part of the forest.’

‘Sephrenia says that we’re distantly related to them.’

‘She’s probably right. There aren’t really all that many differences between us and the Trolls. They’re bigger, and they have a different diet is about all.’

‘How long is this likely to take?’

‘I have no idea. As far as I know, this has never happened before.’

‘What’ll he do next?’

‘As soon as he’s sure we know he’s there, he’ll probably try to communicate in some way.’

‘Does he know that you speak Trollish?’

‘He might. The Troll-Gods are acquainted with me, and they know that I run in the same pack with Sparhawk.’

‘That’s an odd way to put it.’

‘I’m trying to think like a Troll. If I can get it right, I might be able to anticipate what he’s going to do next.’

Then the Troll shouted up the hill to them.

‘What did he say?’ Tynian asked nervously.

‘He wants to know what he’s supposed to do. He’s very confused.’

‘He’s confused? What about me?’

‘He’s been told to meet us and take us to the Troll-Gods. He doesn’t have any idea of our customs or the proper courtesies. We’ll have to guide him through this. Put your sword back in its sheath. Let’s not make things any worse than they already are.’ Ulath stood up, being careful not to move too fast. He raised his voice and called to the creature below in Trollish. ‘Come to this child of Khwaj which we have made. We will take eat together and talk of what we must do.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘I invited him to join us for breakfast.’

‘You did what? You want a Troll that’s no more than a few feet from you to start eating?’

‘It’s a precaution. It would be discourteous of him to kill us after he’s taken food from us.’

‘Discourteous? That’s a Troll out there, Ulath.’

‘Just because he’s a Troll doesn’t mean that he has bad manners. Oh, I almost forgot. When he comes into camp, he’ll want to sniff us. It’s polite to sniff him as well. He won’t smell very nice, but do it anyway. Trolls do that so that they’ll recognize each other if they ever meet again.’

‘I think you’re losing your mind.’

‘Just follow my lead, and let me do the talking.’

‘What else can I do, you clot? I don’t speak Trollish, remember?’

‘You don’t? What an amazing thing. I thought every educated man spoke Trollish.’

The Troll approached cautiously, moving smoothly up through the birch forest. He used his arms a great deal as he moved, grasping trees to pull himself along, moving with his whole body. He was about eight and a half feet tall and had glossy brown fur. His face was simian to a degree, though he did not have the protruding muzzle of most apes, and there was a glimmer of intelligence in his deep-sunk eyes. He came up onto the bench where the camp lay and then squatted, resting his forearms on his knees and keeping his paws in plain sight. ‘I have no club,’ he half-growled.

Ulath made some show of setting his axe aside and held out his empty hands. ‘I have no club,’ he repeated the customary greeting. ‘Undo your sword-belt, Tynian,’ he muttered. ‘Lay it aside.’

Tynian started to object, but decided against it.

‘The child of Khwaj you have made is good,’ the Troll said, pointing at their fire. ‘Khwaj will be pleased.’

‘It is good to please the Gods,’ Ulath replied.

The Troll suddenly banged his fist on the ground. ‘This is not how it should be!’ he declared in an unhappy voice.

‘No,’ Ulath agreed, dropping down into a squat much like the Troll’s, ‘it is not. The Gods have their reasons for it, though. They have said we must not kill each other. They have also said we must not eat each other.’

‘I have heard them say it. Could we have misunderstood them?’

‘I think we have not.’

‘Could it be that their minds are sick?’

‘It is possible. We must still do as they tell us, though.’

‘What are you two talking about?’ Tynian asked nervously.

‘We’re discussing philosophy,’ Ulath shrugged.

Tynian stared at him.

‘It’s fairly complex. It has to do with whether or not we’re morally obliged to obey the Gods if they’ve gone crazy. I’m saying that we are. Of course my position’s a little tainted by self-interest in this particular situation.’

‘Can it not speak?’ the Troll asked, pointing at Tynian. ‘Are those bird-noises the only sounds it can make?’

‘The bird-noises pass for speech among those of our kind. Will you take some of our eat with us?’

The Troll looked appraisingly at their horses. ‘Those?’ he asked.

‘No.’ Ulath shook his head. ‘Those are the beasts which carry us.’

‘Are your legs sick? Is that why you are so short?’

‘No. The beasts can run faster than we can. They carry us when we want to go fast.’

‘What kind of eat do you take?’

‘Pig.’

‘Pig is good. Deer is better.’

‘Yes.’

‘Where is the pig? Is it dead? If it is still alive, I will kill it.’

‘It is dead.’

The Troll looked around. ‘I do not see it.’

‘We have only brought part of it.’ Ulath pointed at the large ham spitted over the fire.

‘Do you share your eat with the child of Khwaj?’

Ulath decided not to explain the concept of cooking at that particular moment. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is our custom.’

‘Does it please Khwaj that you share your eat with his child?’

‘It is our thought that it does.’ Ulath drew his dagger, lifted the spit from off the fire and sawed off a chunk of ham weighing perhaps three pounds.

‘Are your teeth sick?’ The Troll even sounded sympathetic. ‘I had a sick tooth once. It caused me much hurt.’

‘Our kind does not have sharp teeth,’ Ulath told him. ‘Will you take some of our eat?’

‘I will.’ The Troll rose to his feet and came to the fire, towering over them.

‘The eat has been near the child of Khwaj,’ Ulath warned. ‘It is hot. It may cause hurt to your mouth.’

‘I am called Bhlokw,’ the Troll introduced himself.

‘I am called Ulath.’

‘U-lat? That is a strange thing to be called.’ Bhlokw pointed at Tynian. ‘What is it called?’

‘Tynian,’ Ulath replied.

‘Tin-in. That is stranger than U-lat.’

‘The bird-noises of our speech make what we are called sound strange.’

The Troll leaned forward and snuffled at the top of Ulath’s head. Ulath suppressed a strong urge to shriek and run for the nearest tree. He politely sniffed at Bhlokw’s fur. The Troll actually didn’t smell too bad. Then the monster and Tynian exchanged sniffs. ‘Now I know you,’ Bhlokw said.

‘It is good that you do.’ Ulath held out the chunk of steaming ham.

Bhlokw took it from him and stuffed it into his mouth. Then he quickly spat it back out into his hand. ‘Hot,’ he explained a little sheepishly.

‘We blow on it to make it cool so that we can eat it without causing hurt to our mouths,’ Ulath instructed.

Bhlokw blew noisily on the piece of ham for a while. Then he crammed it back into his mouth. He chewed reflectively for a moment. Then he swallowed. ‘It is different,’ he said, diplomatically. Then he sighed. ‘I do not like this, U-lat,’ he confided unhappily. ‘This is not how things should be.’

‘No,’ Ulath agreed, ‘it is not.’

‘We should be killing each other. I have killed and eaten you man-things since you first came to the Troll-range. That is how things should be. It is my thought that the Gods are sick in their minds to make us do this,’ He sighed a hurricane sort of sigh. ‘Your thought is right, though. We must do as they tell us to do. Someday their minds will get well. Then they will let us kill and eat each other again,’ He stood up abruptly. ‘They want to see you. I will take you to them.’

‘We will go with you.’

They followed Bhlokw up into the mountains all that day and half of the next, and he led them finally to a snow-covered clearing where a fire burned in a large pit. The Troll-Gods were waiting for them there.

‘Aphrael came to us,’ the enormity that was Ghworg told them.

‘She said that she would do this,’ Ulath replied. ‘She said that when things happened that we should know about, she would come to us and tell us.’

‘She put her mouth on our faces.’ Ghworg seemed puzzled.

‘She does this. It gives her pleasure.’

‘It was not painful,’ Ghworg conceded a bit dubiously, touching the cheek where Aphrael had kissed him.

‘What did he say?’ Tynian asked quietly.

‘Aphrael came here and talked with them,’ Ulath replied. ‘She even kissed them a few times. You know Aphrael.’

‘She actually kissed the Troll-Gods?’ Tynian’s face grew pale.

‘What did it say?’ Ghworg demanded.

‘It wanted me to say what you had said.’

‘This is not good, Ulath-from-Thalesia. It should not talk to you in words we do not understand. What is its name?’

‘It is called Tynian-from-Deira.’

‘I will make it so that Tynian-from-Deira knows our speech.’

‘Brace yourself,’ Ulath warned his friend.

‘What? What’s happening, Ulath?’

‘Ghworg’s going to teach you Trollish.’

‘Now, wait a minute –’ Then Tynian suddenly clapped his hands to the sides of his head, cried out and fell writhing into the snow. The paroxysm passed quickly, but Tynian was pale and shaking as he sat up, and his eyes were wild.

‘You are Tynian-from-Deira?’ Ghworg demanded in Trollish.

‘Y-yes.’ Tynian’s voice trembled as he replied.

‘Do you understand my words?’

‘They are clear to me.’

‘It is good. Do not speak the other kind of talk when you are near us. When you do, you make it so that we do not trust you.’

‘I will remember that.’

‘It is good that you will. Aphrael came to us. She told us that the one called Berit has been told not to go to the place Beresa. He has been told to go to the place Sopal instead. She said that you would understand what this means.’ He paused, frowning. ‘Do you?’ he asked.

‘Do we?’ Tynian asked Ulath, speaking in Trollish.

‘I am not sure.’ Ulath rose, went to his horse, and took a map out of his saddle-bag. Then he returned to the fire. This is a picture of the ground,’ he explained to the enormous presences. ‘We make these pictures so that we will know where we are going.’

Schlee looked briefly at the map. ‘The ground does not look like that,’ he told them. He squatted and thrust his huge fingers down through the snow into the dirt. ‘This is how the ground looks.’

Ulath jumped back as the earth under his feet shuddered slightly. Then he stared down. It was not so much a map as it was a miniaturized version of the continent itself. ‘This is a very good picture of the ground,’ he marveled.

Schlee shrugged. ‘I put my hand into the ground and felt its shape. This is how it looks.’

‘Where is Beresa?’ Tynian asked Ulath, staring in wonderment at hair-thin little trees bristling like a two-day growth of beard on the sides of tiny mountains.

Ulath checked his map and walked several yards south to a shimmering surface covered with minuscule waves. His feet even sank slightly into Schlee’s recreation of the southern Tamul sea. ‘It is right here,’ he replied in Trollish, bending and putting his finger on a spot on the coastline.

‘That is where the ones who took Anakha’s mate away told him to go,’ Tynian explained to the Troll-Gods.

‘We do not understand,’ Khwaj said bluntly.

‘Anakha is fond of his mate.’

‘That is how it should be.’

‘He grows angry when his mate is in danger. The ones who took his mate away know this. They said that they will not give her back to him unless he gives them the Flower-Gem.’

The Troll-Gods all frowned, puzzling their way through it. Then Khwaj suddenly roared, belching out a great, billowing cloud of fire and melting the snow for fifty yards in every direction. ‘That is wickedness!’ he thundered. ‘It is not right to do this! Their quarrel was with Anakha, not with his mate! I will find these wicked ones! I will turn them into fires that will never go out! They will cry out with hurt forever!’

Tynian shuddered at the enormity of that idea. Then, with a great deal of help from Ulath, he explained their disguises and the subterfuges those disguises made possible.

‘Do you in truth look different from how you looked before, Ulath-from-Thalesia?’ Ghworg asked, peering curiously at Ulath.

‘Much different, Ghworg.’

‘That is strange. You seem the same to me,’ The God considered it. ‘Perhaps it is not so strange,’ he amended. ‘Your kind all look the same to me,’ He clenched his huge fists. ‘Khwaj is right,’ he said. ‘We must cause hurt to the wicked ones. Show us where the one called Berit has been told to go.’

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