‘Did you want it to be summer?’
‘No. Actually I want a moderate-sized blizzard. We’re leaving tracks in the snow behind us, and the tracks are pointing straight at Delphaeus.’
‘What difference does that make?’
‘The Delphae might not want unannounced visitors.’
‘There won’t be any – announced or otherwise. You promised to seal their valley, didn’t you?’
‘Oh, God!’ he said. ‘I’d forgotten about that! This is going to be a problem. I don’t have Bhelliom any more.’
‘Then you’d better try to get in touch with it, Sparhawk. A promise is a promise, after all. Xanetia’s kept her part of the bargain, so you’re morally obliged to keep yours.’
Sparhawk was troubled. He rode off some distance into a thick grove of spindly sapling pines and dismounted. ‘Blue Rose,’ he said aloud, not really expecting an answer. ‘Blue Rose.’
‘I hear thee, Anakha,’ the voice in his mind responded immediately. I had thought thou might be in some way discontent with me.’
‘Never that, Blue Rose. Thou hast fulfilled – or exceeded – all that I did require of thee. Our enemies are overthrown, and I am content. I did, however, pledge mine honor to the Delphae in exchange for their aid. I am obliged to seal up their valley that none of this world may come upon them.’
‘I do recall thy pledge, Anakha. It was well-given. Soon, however, it will not be needful.’
Thy meaning escapes me.’
‘Watch then, my son, and learn.’ There was a lengthy pause. ‘It is not mine intent to offend, but why hast thou brought this to me?’
‘I gave my word that I would seal their valley, Father.’
‘Then seal it.’
‘I was not certain that I could still speak with thee to entreat thine aid.’
Thou hast no need of aid, Anakha – not mine nor that of any other. Did not thine encounter with Cyrgon convince thee that all things are possible for thee? Thou art Anakha and my son, and there is none other like thee in all the starry universe. It was needful to make thee so, that my design might be accomplished. Whatsoever thou couldst do through me, thou couldst as easily have done with thine own hand.’ The voice paused. ‘I am, however, somewhat pleased that thou wert unaware of thine ability, for it did give me an opportunity to come to know thee. I shall think often of thee in my continuing journey. Let us then proceed to Delphaeus, where thy comrade Vanion and our dearly-loved Sephrenia will be joined, and where thou wilt behold a wonder.’
‘Which particular wonder is that, Blue Rose?’
‘'Twould hardly be a wonder for thee shouldst thou know of it in advance, my son.’ There were faint traces of amusement in the voice as the sense of Bhelliom’s presence faded.
It was early on a snowy evening when they crested a ridge and looked down into the valley where the glowing lake, misty in the swirling snowflakes, shone with a light almost like that of the moon. Ancient Cedon awaited them at the rude gate to this other hidden city, and standing beside him was Itagne’s friend, Ekrasios.
They talked until quite late, for there was much to share, and it was mid-morning of the following day before Sparhawk awoke in the oddly sunken bedroom he shared with his wife. It was one of the peculiarities of Delphaeic construction that the floors of most of their rooms were below ground-level. Sparhawk didn’t give it much thought, but Khalad seemed quite intrigued by the notion.
Sparhawk gently kissed his still-sleeping wife, slipped quietly from their bed, and went looking for Vanion. He remembered his own wedding day, and he was quite sure that his friend was going to need some support.
He found the silvery-haired Preceptor talking with Talen and Khalad in the makeshift stable. Khalad’s face was bleak. ‘What’s the problem?’ Sparhawk asked as he joined them.
‘My brother’s a little unhappy,’ Talen explained. ‘He talked with Ekrasios and the other Delphae who dispersed Scarpa’s army down in Arjuna, and nobody could tell him one way or the other about what happened to Krager.’
‘I’m going to operate on the theory that he’s still alive,’ Khalad declared. ‘He’s just too slippery not to have escaped.’
‘We have plans for you, Khalad,’ Vanion told him. ‘You’re too valuable to spend your whole life trying to chase down a weasely drunkard who may or may not have gotten out of Natayos alive.’
‘It won’t take him all that long, Lord Vanion,’ Talen said. ‘As soon as Stragen and I get back to Cimmura, we’ll talk with Platime, and he’ll put out the word. If Krager’s still alive – anywhere in the world – we’ll find out about it.’
‘What are the ladies doing?’ Vanion asked nervously.
‘Ehlana’s still asleep,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Are you and Sephrenia going back to Matherion with us when we leave here?’
‘Briefly,’ Vanion responded. ‘Sephrenia wants to speak with Sarabian about a few things. Then we’ll go back to Atan with Betuana and Engessa. It’s only a short trip from there to Sarsos. Have you noticed what’s going on between Betuana and Engessa, by the way?’
Sparhawk nodded. ‘Evidently Betuana’s decided that the Atans need a king. Engessa’s suitable, and he’s probably a great deal more intelligent than Androl was.’
‘That’s not saying too much for him, Sparhawk,’ Talen said with a broad grin. ‘Androl wasn’t a great deal more intelligent than a brick.’
The ladies, of course, made extended preparations. The knights, on the other hand, did what they could to keep Vanion’s mind occupied.
An obscure tenet of the Delphaeic faith dictated that the ceremony take place on the shore of the glowing lake just at dusk. Sparhawk dimly perceived why this might be appropriate for the Shining Ones, but the wedding of Vanion and Sephrenia had little if anything to do with the covenant between the Delphae and their God. Courtesy, however, dictated that he keep his opinions to himself. He did offer to clothe Vanion in traditional black Pandion armor, but the Preceptor chose instead to wear a white Styric robe. ‘I’ve fought my last war, Sparhawk,’ he said, a bit sadly. ‘Dolmant won’t have any choice but to excommunicate me and strip me of my knighthood after this. That makes me a civilian again. I never really enjoyed wearing armor all that much anyway.’ He looked curiously at Ulath and Tynian, who were talking earnestly with Bhlokw just outside the stable door. ‘What’s going on there?’
‘They’re trying to explain the concept of a wedding to their friend. They aren’t making very much headway.’
‘I don’t imagine that Trolls set much store in ceremonies.’
‘Not really. When a male feels that way about a female, he takes her something – or somebody – to eat. If she eats it, they’re married.’
‘And if she doesn’t?’
Sparhawk shrugged. ‘They usually try to kill each other.’
‘Do you have any idea of why Bhlokw didn’t go off with the rest of the Trolls?’
‘Not a clue, Vanion. We haven’t been able to get a straight answer out of him. Evidently there’s something the Troll-Gods want him to do.’
The afternoon dragged on, and Vanion grew more and more edgy with each passing moment. Inevitably, however, the grey day slid into a greyer evening, and dusk settled over the hidden valley of Delphaeus.
The path from the city gate to the edge of the lake had been carefully cleared, and Aphrael, who was not above cheating on occasion, had strewn it with flower petals. The Delphae, all aglow and singing an ancient hymn, lined the sides of the path. Vanion waited at the edge of the lake with Sparhawk, and the other members of their party stood in smiling anticipation as Sephrenia, with Ehlana at her side, emerged from the city to walk down to the shore.
‘Courage, my son,’ Sparhawk murmured to his old friend.
‘Are you trying to be funny?’
‘Getting married doesn’t really hurt, Vanion.’
It happened when the bride and her attendant were perhaps halfway to the lake-shore. A sudden cloud of inky darkness appeared at the
edge of the snow-covered meadow, and a great voice bellowed, ‘NO!’ Then a spark of incandescent light emerged from the center of the cloud and began to swell ominously, surging and surrounded by a blazing halo of purplish light. Sparhawk recognized the phenomenon.
‘I forbid this abomination!’ the great voice roared.
‘Zalasta!’ Kalten exclaimed, staring at the rapidly expanding sphere.
The Styric was haggard and his hair and beard were matted. He wore his customary white robe and held his polished staff in his trembling hands. He stood inside the glowing sphere, surrounded by its protective nimbus. Sparhawk felt an icy calm descending over him as he prepared his mind and spirit for the inevitable confrontation.
‘I have lost you, Sephrenia!’ Zalasta declared. ‘But I will not permit you to wed this Elene!’
Aphrael dashed to her sister, her long black hair flying and a look of implacable determination on her small face.
‘Fear not, Aphrael,’ Zalasta said, speaking in formal Styric. ‘I have not come to this accursed place to pit myself against thee or thine errant sister. I speak for Styricum in this matter, and I have come to prevent this obscene sham of a ceremony which will befoul our entire race.’ He straightened and pointed an accusing finger at Sephrenia. ‘I adjure thee, woman. Turn away from this unnatural act! Go out from here, Sephrenia of Ylara! This wedding shall not take place!’
‘It will!’ Sephrenia’s voice rang out. ‘You cannot prevent it! Go away, Zalasta! You lost all claim on me when you tried to kill me!’ She raised her chin. ‘And have you come to try again?’
‘No, Sephrenia of Ylara. That was the result of a madness that came over me. There is yet another way to prevent this abomination.’ And he quickly turned, leveling his deadly staff at Vanion. A brilliant spark shot from the tip of the staff, sizzling in the pale evening light, straight as an arrow it flew, carrying death and all Zalasta’s hatred.
But vigilant Anakha was ready, having already surmised at whom Zalasta would direct his attack. The sizzling spark flew straight, and agile Anakha stretched forth his hand to subdue it. He grasped the spark and saw its fury spurting out between his fingers. Then like a small boy throwing a stone at a bird, he hurled it back to explode against the surface of the blazing sphere.
‘Well done, my son,’ Bhelliom’s voice applauded.
Zalasta flinched violently within his protective sphere. Pale and shaken, he stared at the dreadful form of Bhelliom’s Child.
Methodical Anakha raised his hand, palm outward, and began to chip away at the blazing envelope which protected the desperate Styric with bolt after bolt of the kind of force that creates suns, noting almost absently as he did that the wedding-guests were scattering and that Sephrenia was rushing to Vanion’s side. As he whipped that force out again and again, curious Anakha studied it, testing its power, probing for its limits.
He found none.
Implacable Anakha advanced on the deceitful Styric who had been ultimately the cause of a lifetime of suffering and woe. He knew that he could obliterate the now-terrified sorcerer with a single thought.
He chose not to.
Vengeful Anakha moved forward, savaging the Styric’s last desperately erected defenses, cutting them away bit by bit and brushing aside Zalasta’s pitiful efforts to respond.
‘Anakha! It is not right!’ The voice spoke in Trollish.
Puzzled Anakha turned to look.
It was Bhlokw, and Bhelliom’s Child had respect for the shaggy priest of the Troll-Gods.
‘This is the last of the wicked ones!’ Bhlokw declared. ‘It is the wish of Khwaj to cause hurt to it! Will the Child of the Flower-Gem hear the words of Khwaj?’
Troubled Anakha considered the words of the priest of the Troll-Gods. ‘I will hear the words of Khwaj,’ he said. ‘It is right that I should do this, for Khwaj and I are pack-mates.’
The enormity of the Fire-God appeared, steaming away the snow covering the meadow around him. ‘Will Bhelliom’s Child be bound by the word of his pack-mate, Ulath-from-Thalesia?’ he demanded in a voice that roared like a furnace.
‘The word of Ulath-from-Thalesia is my word, Khwaj,’ honorable Anakha conceded.
‘Then the wicked one is mine!’
Regretful Anakha curbed his wrath. ‘The words of Khwaj are right words,’ he agreed. ‘If Ulath-from-Thalesia has given the wicked one to Khwaj, then I will not say that it shall not be so.’ He looked at the terrified Styric, who was struggling desperately to retain some small measure of defense. ‘It is yours, Khwaj. It has caused me much hurt, and I would cause hurt to it in return, but if Ulath-from-Thalesia has said that it is the place of Khwaj to cause hurt to it, then so be it.’
‘Bhelliom’s Child speaks well. You have honor, Anakha.’ The Fire-God looked accusingly at Zalasta. ‘You have done great wickedness, one-called-Zalasta.’
Zalasta stared at Khwaj in terrified incomprehension.
‘Say to it what I have said, Anakha,’ Khwaj requested. ‘It must know why it is being punished.’
Courteous Anakha said, ‘I will, Khwaj.’ He looked sternly at the dishevelled Styric. ‘You have caused me much pain, Zalasta,’ he said in a dreadful voice, speaking in Styric. ‘I was going to repay you for all those friends of mine you destroyed or corrupted, but Khwaj here has laid claim to you, and for various reasons I’m going to honor his claim. You should have stayed away, Zalasta. Vanion would have hunted you down eventually, but death is a little thing, and once it’s over, it’s over. What Khwaj is going to do to you will last for eternity.’
‘Does it understand?’ Khwaj demanded.
‘In some measure, Khwaj.’
‘In time it will understand more, and it has much time. It has always.’ And the dreadful Fire-God blew away Zalasta’s last pitiful defenses and laid a strangely gentle hand on the cringing Styric’s head. ‘Burn!’ he commanded. ‘Run and burn until the end of days!’
And, all aflame, Zalasta of Styricum went out from that place shrieking and engulfed in endless fire.
Compassionate Anakha sighed as he watched the burning man run out across the snowy meadow, growing smaller and smaller in the distance and with his cries of agony and woe and unspeakable loneliness receding with him as he began the first hour of his eternal punishment.
Epilogue
The following day dawned clear and cold. The sun on the snow-fields blanketing the surrounding mountains was dazzling, and the lake at the center of the hidden Valley of Delphaeus steamed. The wedding had, of course, been postponed, and was now to take place this evening.
There had been questions, naturally, but Sparhawk had put them to rest by explaining that everything that had happened had been Bhelliom’s doing, and that he had only been its instrument – which was not exactly a lie.
They spent the day quietly and gathered again as the sun went down and the shadows of evening settled over the valley. A strange sense of anticipation had nagged at Sparhawk all afternoon. Something was going to happen here. Bhelliom had told him that he would behold a wonder, and that was not the kind of word Bhelliom would use lightly.
The shadows of evening deepened, and Sparhawk and the other men escorted Vanion down to the shore of the glowing lake to await the bride’s party while the Shining Ones once again sang the ancient hymn which had been so abruptly broken off the previous evening.
Then the bride appeared at the gate with the Queen of Elenia at her side and the other ladies close behind them. The Child Goddess, whirling and dancing in the air and with her clear voice raised in flute-song, preceded them, again strewing their path with flower petals.
Sephrenia’s face was serene as she came down the path to the lake. As the small Styric bride approached the man whom two major religions had forbidden her to marry, her personal Goddess provided a visible symbol that she, at least, approved. The stars had just begun to appear overhead, and one of them seemed to have lost its way. Like a tiny comet, a brilliant spark of light descended over the radiant Sephrenia and
settled gently on her head as a glowing garland of spring flowers.
Sparhawk smiled gently. The similarity to the crowning of Mirtai during her rite of passage was a little too obvious to miss.
‘Critic,’ Aphrael’s voice accused.
‘I didn’t say anything.’
‘Well, don’t.’
Sephrenia and Vanion joined hands as the Delphaeic hymn swelled to a climax. And then Xanetia, all aglow and accompanied by two other glowing forms, one white and the other blue, came walking across the lake. A yearning kind of murmur passed through the Delphae, and, as one, they sank reverently to their knees.
The Anarae tenderly embraced her Styric sister and kissed Vanion chastely on the cheek. ‘I have entreated Beloved Edaemus to join with us here and to bless this most happy union,’ she told the assemblage, ‘and he hath brought with him this other guest, who also hath some interest in our ceremony.’
‘Is that blue one who I think it is?’ Kalten muttered to Sparhawk.
‘Oh, yes,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘That’s the form it took back in Cyrga, remember? – After I stuffed it down Klæl’s throat.’
‘I was a little distracted at that point. Is that what it really looks like? After you peel off all the layers of sapphire, I mean?’
‘I don’t really think so. Bhelliom’s a spirit, not a form. I think this particular shape is just a courtesy – for our benefit.’
‘I thought it had already left.’
‘No, not quite yet.’
The glowing form of Edaemus straightened, somehow managing to look uncomfortable. Xanetia’s face hardened and her eyes narrowed.
‘I had thought ill of thee, Sephrenia of Ylara,’ the God of the Delphae admitted. ‘Mine Anarae hath persuaded me that my thought was in error. I do entreat thee to forgive me.’ Gentle Xanetia, it appeared, was not above a certain amount of bullying.
Sephrenia smiled benignly. ‘Of course I forgive thee, Divine Edaemus. I was not entirely blameless myself, I do confess.’
‘Let us all then pray to our separate Gods to bless the union of this man and this woman,’ Xanetia said in formal tones, ‘for methinks it doth presage a new birth of understanding and trust for all of mankind.’
The Hidden City Page 53