Xanetia’s face took on a pained expression.
Caalador was badly shaken the first few times Bhelliom whisked him half-way across the continent, but after that he seemed to grow numb. It took him about a half-hour each time to pass instructions to the various criminal chiefs of Tamuli, and Sparhawk strongly suspected that the ruddy-faced Cammorian settled his shaken nerves with strong drink at each stop. Sparhawk could not be sure, of course, since he was quite firmly excluded from the discussions. ‘You don’t need to know who these people are, Sparhawk,’ Caalador said, ‘and your presence would just make them nervous.’
Vanion’s small Atan detachments were streaming into the staging areas along the Atan border from all over Tamuli, and Tikume had promised several thousand eastern Peloi in addition to the three hundred bowmen Kring had taken with him back to Atana. Bhelliom took Sparhawk and Vanion to the Atan capital so that they could reassure Betuana that they were in fact marshaling forces to come to her aid, and to explain why they were holding most of that aid at the border. ‘The Trolls wouldn’t understand the significance of those reinforcements, Betuana-Queen,’ Vanion told her, ‘but Cyrgon’s completely versed in strategy and tactics. He’d understand what was going on immediately. Let’s not give him any hints about what we’re doing until we’re ready to strike.’
‘Do you really think you can spring surprises on a God, Vanion-Preceptor?’ she asked. Betuana was dressed in what passed for armor among the Atans, and her face clearly showed that she had been functioning on short sleep for weeks.
‘I’m certainly going to try, Betuana-Queen,’ Vanion replied with a brief smile. ‘I think it’s fairly safe to say that Cyrgon hasn’t had a new thought in the last twenty thousand years. Military thinking’s changed a great deal in that time, so he probably won’t fully understand what we’re up to.’ He made a wry face. ‘At least that’s what I’m hoping,’ he added.
And then it reached the point where they could not put it off any longer. None of them were really comfortable with the idea of chatting with the Troll-Gods, but the time had come to put Ulath’s notion to the test.
About an hour before dawn of the day none of them had really been looking forward to, Sparhawk and Vanion went to Sephrenia’s room to speak with Sephrenia, Xanetia and Danae. Their discussions struck a snag almost immediately.
‘I have to go along, Sparhawk,’ Danae insisted.
‘That’s out of the question,’ he told her. ‘Ulath and Stragen are going to be there. We can’t let them find out who you really are.’
‘They’re not going to find anything out, father,’ she said with exaggerated patience. ‘It won’t be Danae who’ll be going along.’
‘Oh. That’s different, then.’
‘Exactly how are we going to work this, Sparhawk?’ Vanion asked. ‘Won’t you have to release the Troll-Gods in order to talk with them?’
Sparhawk shook his head. ‘Bhelliom says we won’t. The Troll-Gods themselves will still be locked up inside Bhelliom. Their spirits have always been free to roam around, except when Bhelliom’s encased in gold – or steel. They have a certain limited amount of power in that condition, I guess, but their real power’s locked up with them inside the Bhelliom.’
‘Wouldn’t it be safer just to get them to agree to use that limited power rather than to unleash them entirely?’ Vanion asked.
‘It wouldn’t work, dear one,’ Sephrenia told him. ‘The Troll-Gods may encounter Cyrgon, and if they do, they’ll need their full power.’
‘Moreover,’ Xanetia added, ‘I do strongly believe that they will sense our need and bargain stringently.’
‘Are you going to do the talking, Sparhawk?’ Vanion asked.
Sparhawk shook his head. ‘Ulath knows Trolls – and the Troll-Gods – better than I do, and his Trollish is better than mine. I’ll hold Bhelliom and call the Troll-Gods out and then let him do the talking.’ He looked out the window. ‘It’s almost dawn,’ he said. ‘We’d better get started. Ulath and Stragen are going to meet us down in the courtyard.’
‘Turn your backs,’ Danae told them.
‘What?’ her father asked.
‘Turn around, Sparhawk. You don’t have to watch this.’
‘It’s one of her quirks,’ Sephrenia explained. ‘She doesn’t want anybody to know what she really looks like.’
‘I already know what Flute looks like.’
‘There’s a transition, Sparhawk. She doesn’t go directly from Danae to Flute. She passes through her real person on the way from one little girl to the other.’
Sparhawk sighed. ‘How many of her are there?’
‘Thousands, I’d imagine.’
‘That’s depressing. I’ve got a daughter I don’t really know.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Danae said. ‘Of course you know me.’
‘But only one of you, a several thousandth part of who you really are – such a tiny part.’ He sighed again and turned his back.
‘It’s not a tiny part, father.’ Danae’s voice changed as she spoke, becoming richer, more vibrant. It was no longer a child’s voice, but a woman’s.
There was a mirror on the far side of the room, a flat sheet of polished brass. Sparhawk glanced at it and saw the wavering reflection of a figure standing behind him. He quickly averted his eyes.
‘Go ahead and look, Sparhawk. It’s not a very good mirror, so you won’t see all that much.’
He raised his eyes and stared at the gleaming brass. The reflection was distorted. About all he could really see was the general size and shape. Aphrael was somewhat taller than Sephrenia. Her hair was long and very dark, and her skin was pale. Her face was hardly more than a blur in that imperfect reflection, but he could see her eyes quite clearly for some reason. There was an ageless wisdom in those eyes and a kind of eternal joy and love. ‘I wouldn’t do this for just anybody, Sparhawk,’ the woman’s voice told him, ‘but you’re the best father I’ve ever had, so I’m stretching the rules for you.’
‘Don’t you wear any clothes?’ he asked her.
‘What on earth for? I don’t get cold, you know.’
‘I’m talking about modesty, Aphrael. I am your father, after all, and things like that are supposed to concern me.’
She laughed and reached around from behind him to caress his face. It was not a little girl’s hand which touched his cheek. He caught the faint scent of crushed grass, but the rest of the familiar fragrance that lingered about both Danae and Flute had been subtly changed. The person standing behind him was definitely not a little girl.
‘Is this the way you appear to the rest of your family?’ he asked her.
‘Not very often. I prefer to have them think of me as a child. I can get my own way a lot easier in that form – and I get a lot more kisses.’
‘Getting your own way is very important to you, isn’t it, Aphrael?’
‘Of course. It’s important to all of us, isn’t it? I’m just better at it than most.’ She laughed, a deep, rich laugh. ‘I’m probably the best there is at getting my own way.’
‘I’ve noticed that,’ he said dryly.
‘Well,’ she said then, ‘I’d love to talk more with you about it, but I suppose we shouldn’t keep Ulath and Stragen waiting.’ The reflection wavered and began to shrink, sliding back into childhood. ‘All right, then,’ Flute’s familiar voice said, ‘let’s go have it out with the Troll-Gods.’
It was blustery that morning, and dirty gray clouds scudded in off the Tamul Sea. There were few citizens abroad in fire-domed Matherion as Sparhawk and his friends rode out of the palace compound and down the long, wide street leading to the west gate.
They left the city and rode up the long hill to the place from which they had first glimpsed the gleaming city. ‘How do you plan to approach them?’ Stragen asked Ulath as they crested the hill.
‘Carefully,’ Ulath grunted. ‘I’d rather not get eaten. I’ve talked with them before, so they probably remember me, and the fact that Sparhawk’s holding Bhelliom i
n his fist may help to curb their urge to devour me right on the spot.’
‘Any particular sort of place you’d like?’ Vanion asked him.
‘An open field – but not too open. I want trees nearby – so I can climb one – in case things turn ugly.’ Ulath looked around at the rest of them. ‘One word of caution,’ he added. ‘Don’t any of you stand between me and the nearest tree once I get started.’
‘Over there?’ Sparhawk suggested, pointing toward a pasture backed by a pine grove.
Ulath squinted. ‘It’s not perfect, but no place really would be. Let’s get this over with. My nerves are strung a little tight this morning for some reason.’
They rode out into the pasture and dismounted. ‘Is there anything anyone would like to tell me before we start?’ Sparhawk asked.
‘You’re on your own, Sparhawk,’ Flute replied. ‘It’s all up to you and Ulath. We’re just here to observe.’
‘Thanks,’ he said dryly.
She curtsied. ‘Don’t mention it.’
Sparhawk took the box out from inside his tunic and touched his ring to it. ‘Open,’ he told it.
The lid popped up.
‘Blue Rose,’ Sparhawk said, speaking in Elenic.
‘I hear thee, Anakha.’ The voice came from Vanion’s lips again.
‘I feel the Troll-Gods within thee. Can they understand my words when I speak in this tongue?’
‘Nay, Anakha.’
‘Good. Cyrgon hath by deceit and subterfuge lured the Trolls here to Daresia and doth hurl them against our allies, the Atans. We would attempt to persuade the Troll-Gods to re-assert their authority over their creatures. Thinkest thou that they might be willing to give hearing to our request?’
‘Any God listens most attentively to words concerning his worshipers, Anakha.’
‘I had thought such might be the case. Dost thou agree with mine assessment that the knowledge that Cyrgon hath stolen their Trolls will enrage them?’
‘They will be discomfited out of all measure, Anakha.’
‘How thinkest thou we might best proceed with them?’
‘Advise them in simple words of what hath come to pass. Speak not too quickly nor with obscured meaning, for they are slow of understanding.’
‘I have perceived as much in past dealings with them.’
‘Wilt thou speak with them? I say this not in criticism, but thy Trollish is rude and uncouth.’
‘Did you put that in, Vanion?’ Sparhawk accused.
‘Not me.’ Vanion protested his innocence. ‘I wouldn’t know good Trollish from bad.’
‘Forgive mine ineptitude, Blue Rose. Mine instructor was in haste when she schooled my tongue in the language of the man-beasts.’
‘Sparhawk!’ Sephrenia objected.
‘Well, weren’t you?’ He addressed the stone again. ‘My comrade, Sir Ulath, hath greater familiarity with Trolls and their speech than do I. It is he who will advise the Troll-Gods that Cyrgon hath stolen their creatures.’
‘I will bring forth their spirits that thy comrade may address them.’ The stone pulsed in his hand, and the gigantic presences Sparhawk had sensed in the Temple of Azash were there, but this time they were in front of him where he could see them. He fervently wished that he could not. Because their reality was still locked inside the Bhelliom, their forms were suffused with an azure glow. They bulked enormous before him, their brutish faces enraged and their fury held in check only by the power of Bhelliom.
‘All right, Ulath,’ Sparhawk said. ‘This is a dangerous situation. Try to be very, very convincing.’
The big Genidian knight swallowed hard and stepped forward. ‘I am Ulath-from-Thalesia,’ he said in Trollish. ‘I speak for Anakha, Bhelliom’s child. I bring word of your children. Will you hear me?’
‘Speak, Ulath-from-Thalesia.’ Sparhawk judged from the crackling roar mingled in the enormous voice that it was Khwaj, the Troll-God of Fire, who spoke.
Ulath’s face took on an expression of mild reproach. ‘We are baffled by what you have done,’ he told them. ‘Why have you given your children to Cyrgon?’
‘What?’ Khwaj roared.
‘It was our thought that you wished it so,’ Ulath said, feigning surprise. ‘Did you not command your children to leave their home-range and to walk for many sleeps across the ice-which-never-melts to this alien place?’
Khwaj howled, beating at the ground with his ape-like fists, raising a cloud of dust and smoke from the ground.
‘When did this come to pass?’ Another voice, a voice filled with a kind of gross slobbering, demanded.
‘Two full turns of the seasons, Ghnomb,’ Ulath answered the question of the God of Eat. ‘It was our thought that you knew. Blue Rose called you forth that we might ask why you have done this. Our Gods wish to know why you have broken the compact.’
‘Compact?’ Stragen asked after Sephrenia had translated.
‘It’s an agreement,’ Flute explained. ‘We didn’t really want to exterminate the Trolls, so we told the Troll-Gods that we’d leave their children alone if they’d stay in the Thalesian mountains.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘Twenty-five thousand years ago – or so.’
Stragen swallowed hard.
‘Why are your children obeying Cyrgon if you did not command it?’ Ulath asked.
One of the gigantic figures stretched out an abnormally long arm, and the huge hand plunged into a kind of emptiness, vanishing as it went in, almost as a stick seems to vanish when poked into a forest pool. When the hand re-emerged, it held a struggling Troll. The enormous God spoke, harshly demanding. The language was clearly Trollish, snarling and roaring.
‘Now that’s interesting,’ Ulath murmured. ‘It appears that even Trollish has changed over the years.’
‘What’s he saying?’ Sparhawk asked.
‘I can’t entirely make it out,’ Ulath replied. ‘It’s so archaic that I can’t understand most of the words. Zoka’s demanding some answers, though.’
‘Zoka?’
‘The God of Mating.’ Ulath listened intently.
‘The Troll’s confused,’ he reported. ‘He says that they all thought they were obeying their Gods. Cyrgon’s disguise must have been nearly perfect. The Trolls are very close to their Gods, and they’d probably recognize any ordinary attempt to deceive them.’
Zoka roared and hurled the shrieking Troll back into emptiness.
‘Anakha!’ another of the vast Gods bellowed.
‘Which one is that?’ Sparhawk muttered.
‘Ghworg,’ Ulath replied quietly, ‘the God of Kill. Be a little careful with him. He’s very short-tempered.’
‘Yes, Ghworg,’ Sparhawk responded to that vast brute.
‘Release us from your father’s grip. Let us go. We must reclaim our children.’ There was blood dripping from the fangs of the God of Kill. Sparhawk didn’t want to think about whose blood it might be.
‘Let me,’ Ulath murmured. He raised his voice. ‘That is beyond Anakha’s power, Ghworg,’ he replied. ‘The spell which imprisoned you was of Ghwerig’s making. It is a Trollish spell, and Anakha is untaught in such.’
‘We will teach him the spell.’
‘No!’ Flute suddenly broke in, throwing aside her pretense of merely observing. ‘These are my children. I will not permit you to contaminate them with Trollish spells.’
‘We beg you, Child Goddess! Set us free! Our children stray from us!’
‘My family will never agree. Your children look upon our children as food. If Anakha frees you, your children will devour ours. It cannot be.’
‘Ghnomb!’ Khwaj roared. ‘Give her surety!’
The huge face of the God of Eat twisted in agony. ‘I cannot!’ It was almost a wail. ‘It would lessen me! Our children must eat. All that lives must be food!’
‘Our children are lost unless you agree!’ The grass around the feet of the God of Fire began to smoke.
‘I think I see a toe-hold
here,’ Ulath said in Elenic. He spoke again in Trollish. There is justice in Ghnomb’s words,’ he told the Gods. ‘Why should he alone lessen himself? Each must also accept lessening. Ghnomb will not accept less.’
‘It speaks truly!’ Ghnomb howled. ‘I will not be lessened unless all are lessened!’
The four other Troll-Gods squirmed, their faces reflecting the same agony that had marked Ghnomb’s.
‘What will satisfy you?’ It was the voice of the God that had not yet spoken. There were blizzards in that voice.
‘The God of Ice,’ Ulath identified the speaker, ‘Schlee.’
‘Lessen yourselves!’ Ghnomb demanded stubbornly. ‘I will not if you will not!’
‘Trolls,’ Aphrael sighed, rolling her eyes. ‘Will you accept my mediation in this?’ she demanded of the monstrous deities.
‘We will hear your words, Aphrael,’ Ghworg replied doubtfully.
‘Our purposes are the same,’ the Child Goddess began.
Sparhawk groaned.
‘What’s wrong?’ Ulath asked quickly.
‘She’s going to make a speech – now of all times.’
‘Shut up, Sparhawk!’ the Child Goddess snapped. ‘I know what I’m doing.’ She turned to face the Troll-Gods again. ‘Cyrgon deceived your children,’ she began. ‘He brought them across the ice-which-never-melts to this place to make war on my children. Cyrgon must be punished!’
The Troll-Gods roared their agreement.
‘Will you join with me and my family to cause hurt to Cyrgon for what he has done?’
‘We will cause hurt to him by ourselves, Aphrael,’ Ghworg snarled.
‘And how many of your children will die if you do? My children can pursue the children of Cyrgon into the lands of the sun, where your children die. Should we not join then that Cyrgon will suffer more?’
‘There is wisdom in her words,’ Schlee said to his fellows. The breath of the God of Ice steamed in the air, though it was not really that cold, and glittering snowflakes appeared out of nowhere to settle on his massive shoulders.
‘Ghnomb must agree that your children will no longer eat mine,’ Aphrael bored in. ‘If he does not, Anakha will not free you from his father’s grip.’
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