The Sapphire Rose

by David Eddings

  ‘Sephrenia’s like a mother hen sometimes.’

  ‘She loves you, Sparhawk. It’s only natural for her to be concerned.’

  ‘I’m a big boy now, Kurik. I’m even married.’

  ‘Why, I do believe you’re right. How strange that I missed that.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  They waited, straining their ears, but all they could hear was the sound of water dripping from tree-limbs.

  ‘Sparhawk,’ Kurik said finally.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If something happens to me, you’ll look after Aslade, won’t you? – and the boys?’

  ‘Nothing’s going to happen to you, Kurik.’

  ‘Probably not, but I need to know anyway.’

  ‘You’ve got a pension coming – quite a sizeable one, actually. I may have to sell off some acreage to cover it. Aslade will be well taken care of.’

  ‘That’s assuming you survive this trip as well,’ Kurik said wryly.

  ‘You don’t have to worry about that, my friend. It’s in my will. Vanion will see to it – or Ehlana.’

  ‘You think of everything, don’t you, Sparhawk?’

  ‘I’m in a dangerous line of work. I’m sort of obliged to make provisions – just in case of accidents.’ Sparhawk grinned at his friend. ‘Is this particular subject designed to cheer me up in some obscure way?’ he asked.

  ‘I just wanted to know, that’s all,’ Kurik said. ‘It’s good to have your mind at rest about such things. Aslade should be able to set the boys up in trades of their own then.’

  ‘Your boys already have a trade, Kurik.’

  ‘Farming? Sometimes that’s a little dubious.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about farming. I’ve talked with Vanion about them. Your oldest boy’s probably going to be entering his novitiate when this business is all over.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous, Sparhawk.’

  ‘Not really. The Pandion order always needs good men, and if they’re at all like their father, your sons are some of the best. We’d have had you knighted years ago, but you wouldn’t even let me talk about it. You’re a stubborn man, Kurik.’

  ‘Sparhawk, you –’ Kurik broke off. ‘Somebody’s coming!’ he hissed.

  ‘This is pure idiocy,’ a voice from the other side of the thicket said in the crude mixture of Elene and Styric that identified the speaker as a Zemoch.

  ‘What did he say?’ Kurik whispered. ‘I can’t follow that gibberish.’

  ‘I’ll tell you later.’

  ‘Why don’t you go back and tell Surkhel that he’s an idiot, Houna?’ the other voice suggested. ‘I’m sure he’ll be very interested in your opinion.’

  ‘Surkhel is an idiot, Timak. He’s from Korakach. They’re all either insane or feeble-minded there.’

  ‘Our orders come from Otha, not from Surkhel, Houna,’ Timak said. ‘Surkhel’s just doing what he’s told to do.’

  ‘Otha,’ Houna snorted. ‘I don’t believe there is an Otha. The priesthood just made him up. Who’s ever seen him?’

  ‘You’re lucky I’m your friend, Houna. You could get yourself fed to the vultures for that kind of talk. Stop complaining so much. This isn’t so bad. All we have to do is ride around looking for people in a countryside where there aren’t any people. They’ve all been rounded up and sent off to Lamorkand already.’

  ‘I’m tired of all the rain, that’s all.’

  ‘Be glad it’s only raining water, Houna. When our friends encounter the Church Knights on the plains of Lamorkand, they’ll probably run into cloudbursts of fire – or lightning – or poisonous snakes.’

  ‘The Church Knights can’t be that bad,’ Houna scoffed. ‘We’ve got Azash to protect us.’

  ‘Some protection,’ Timak sneered. ‘Azash boils Zemoch babies down for soup-stock.’

  ‘That’s superstitious nonsense, Timak.’

  ‘Have you ever known anybody who went to his temple and came back?’

  A shrill whistle came from some distance off.

  ‘That’s Surkhel,’ Timak said. ‘It’s time to move on, I guess. I wonder if he knows how irritating that whistling is?’

  ‘He has to whistle, Timak. He hasn’t learned how to talk yet. Let’s go.’

  ‘What did they say?’ Kurik whispered. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘They seem to be a part of a patrol of some kind,’ Sparhawk replied.

  ‘Looking for us? Did Martel manage to send people out in spite of everything?’

  ‘I don’t think so. From what those two said, they’re out to round up everybody who hasn’t gone off to war. Let’s gather up the others and move on.’

  ‘What were they saying?’ Kalten asked as they set out again.

  ‘They were complaining,’ Sparhawk said. ‘They sounded like soldiers the whole world over. I think if we push aside all these horror-stories, we’ll find that Zemochs aren’t really all that much different from common people the world over.’

  ‘They worship Azash,’ Bevier said stubbornly. ‘That makes them monsters by definition.’

  ‘They fear Azash, Bevier,’ Sparhawk corrected. ‘There’s a difference between fear and worship. I don’t really think we need to embark on a war of total annihilation here in Zemoch. We need to clean out the fanatics and the elite troops – along with Azash and Otha, of course. After that, I think we can leave the common people alone to pick out their own theology, whether it’s Elene or Styric’

  ‘They’re a degenerate race, Sparhawk,’ Bevier insisted stubbornly. ‘The intermarriage of Styric and Elene is an abomination in the eyes of God.’

  Sparhawk sighed. Bevier was an arch-conservative, and nothing would be gained by arguing with him. ‘We can sort all that out after the war, I think,’ he said. ‘It’s safe enough to ride on now. Let’s keep our eyes open, but I don’t think we’ll have to try to sneak through the countryside.’

  They remounted and rode on up out of the pass onto a hilly plateau dotted here and there with groves of trees. The rain continued to fall, and the large, wet snowflakes mingled with it grew thicker as they continued eastward. They camped that night in a grove of spruce trees, and their fire, fed by damp twigs and branches, was small and sickly. They awoke the following morning to find the plateau covered with wet, slushy snow to a depth of perhaps three inches.

  ‘It’s time for a decision, Sparhawk,’ Kurik said, looking out at the still-falling snow.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘We can keep trying to follow this trail – which isn’t very well marked to begin with and will probably disappear altogether in about an hour – or we can strike out to the north. We could be on the Vileta road by noon.’

  ‘You have a certain preference, I gather?’

  ‘You could say that, yes. I don’t feature wandering around in strange country trying to find a trail that might not even lead to where we want to go.’

  ‘All right then, Kurik,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Since you’re so keen on this, we’ll do it your way. All I was really concerned about was getting through the border country where Martel was planning to leave ambushes in our path anyway.’

  ‘We’ll lose half a day,’ Ulath pointed out.

  ‘We’ll lose a lot more if we get turned around in these mountains,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘We don’t have any specific appointment with Azash. He’ll welcome us any time we get there.’

  They rode north through the slushy snow with the thickly-falling flakes and the mist which accompanied them obscuring nearby hills. The wet snow plastered itself against them in sodden blankets, and their discomfort added to their gloom. Neither Ulath nor Tynian could lighten the mood with their few tentative efforts at humour, and after a while they rode in silence, each sunk in moody melancholy.

  As Kurik had predicted, they reached the Vileta road about midday and turned east again. There was no evidence that the road had been travelled since the snow had begun to fall. Evening was undefined on that snow-clogged day, a gradual darkening of the pervading gloom. They took s
helter for the night in an ancient, decrepit barn, and as they always did in hostile country, they took turns standing watch.

  They bypassed Vileta late the following day. There was nothing in the town they wanted anyway, and there was no point in taking chances.

  ‘Deserted,’ Kurik said shortly as they rode past the town.

  ‘How do you know that?’ Kalten asked him.

  ‘No smoke. The weather’s chilly, and it’s still snowing. They’d have fires going.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I wonder if they forgot anything when they left,’ Talen said, his eyes bright.

  ‘Never mind,’ Kurik told him flatly.

  The snow abated somewhat the following day, and their mood noticeably brightened; but when they awoke the morning after that, it was snowing again, and their spirits plummeted once more.

  ‘Why are we doing this, Sparhawk?’ Kalten asked morosely towards the end of the day. ‘Why does it have to be us?’

  ‘Because we’re Church Knights.’

  ‘There are other Church Knights, you know. Haven’t we done enough already?’

  ‘Do you want to go back? I didn’t ask you – any of you – to come along, you know.’

  Kalten shook his head. ‘No, of course not. I don’t know what came over me. Forget I said anything.’

  Sparhawk, however, did not. That evening he drew Sephrenia to one side. ‘I think we have a problem,’ he said to her.

  ‘Are you starting to have unusual feelings?’ she asked quickly. ‘Something that may be coming from somewhere outside yourself?’

  ‘I didn’t exactly follow that.’

  ‘I think we’ve all noticed it a few times before. We’ve all been having these sudden bouts of doubt and depression.’ She smiled slightly. ‘That’s not really in the character of Church Knights, you know. Most of the time you’re optimistic to the point of insanity. These doubts and gloom are being imposed on us from the outside. Is that the sort of thing you’re feeling? Is that the problem?’

  ‘It’s not me,’ he assured her. ‘I’m feeling a little low, but I think that’s just the weather. It’s the others I’m talking about. Kalten came up to me today, and he was asking me why we had to be the ones to do this. Kalten would never ask that kind of question. You usually have to hold him back, but now I think he just wants to pack it all up and go home. If my friends are all feeling this way, why don’t I feel it too?’

  She looked out into the still-falling snow. Once again he was struck by just how agelessly beautiful she was. ‘I think He’s afraid of you,’ she said after a while.

  ‘Kalten? That’s nonsense.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. It’s Azash who’s afraid of you, Sparhawk.’

  ‘That’s absurd.’

  ‘I know, but I think it’s true all the same. Somehow you have more control over Bhelliom than anyone else has ever had. Not even Ghwerig had such absolute power over the stone. That’s what Azash is really afraid of. That’s why He won’t risk confronting you directly, and that’s why He’s trying to dishearten your friends. He’s attacking Kalten and Bevier and the others because He’s afraid to attack you.’

  ‘You too?’ he asked her. ‘Are you in despair too?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Why of course?’

  ‘It would take too long to explain. I’ll take care of this, Sparhawk. Go to bed.’

  They awoke the following morning to a familiar sound. It was clear and pure, and though the song of the pipes was in a minor key, it seemed filled with an ageless joy. A slow smile came to Sparhawk’s lips, and he shook Kalten awake. ‘We’ve got company,’ he said.

  Kalten sat up quickly, reaching for his sword, and then he heard the sound of the pipes. ‘Well, now,’ he grinned, ‘it’s about time. I’ll be glad to see her again.’

  They emerged from the tent and looked around. It was still snowing, and the stubborn mist hung back among the trees. Sephrenia and Kurik sat by the small fire in front of her tent.

  ‘Where is she?’ Kalten asked, looking out into the settling snow.

  ‘She’s here,’ Sephrenia said calmly, sipping her tea.

  ‘I can’t see her.’

  ‘You don’t have to, Kalten. All you really need to know is that she’s here.’

  ‘It’s not the same, Sephrenia.’ His voice was just slightly disappointed.

  ‘She finally went and did it, didn’t she?’ Kurik laughed.

  ‘Did what?’ Sephrenia asked him.

  ‘She poached a group of Church Knights right out from under the nose of the Elene God.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. She wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Oh, really? Take a look at Kalten there. That’s the closest thing to adoration I’ve ever seen on his face. If I put together something that looked like an altar right now, he’d probably genuflect.’

  ‘That’s nonsense,’ Kalten said, looking slightly embarrassed. ‘I just like her, that’s all. She makes me feel good when she’s around.’

  ‘Of course,’ Kurik said sceptically.

  ‘I don’t know that we should pursue this line of thought when Bevier joins us,’ Sephrenia cautioned. ‘Let’s not confuse him.’

  The others also emerged from their tents smiling broadly. Ulath was actually laughing.

  Their mood had lightened enormously, and the bleak morning seemed almost sunny. Even their horses seemed alert, almost frisky. Sparhawk and Berit went to where they were picketed to feed them their morning ration of grain. Faran normally greeted the morning with a flat look of dislike, but on this particular day the big, ugly roan seemed calm, even serene. He was looking intently at a large, spreading beech tree. Sparhawk glanced at the tree and then froze. The tree was half-concealed by mist, but he seemed quite clearly to see the familiar figure of the little girl who had just banished their despair with her joyful song. She appeared to be exactly the same as she had been the first time he had seen her. She sat upon a limb holding her shepherd’s pipes to her lips. The headband of plaited grass encircled her glossy black hair. She still wore the short, belted linen smock, and her grass-stained little feet were crossed at the ankles. Her large, dark eyes looked directly at him, and there was the hint of a dimple on each of her cheeks.

  ‘Berit,’ Sparhawk said quietly, ‘look.’

  The young apprentice turned, and then he suddenly stopped. ‘Hello, Flute,’ he greeted her, sounding strangely unsurprised.

  Aphrael blew him a little trill of recognition and continued her song. Then the mist swirled about the tree, and when it cleared, she was no longer there. Her melody, however, continued.

  ‘She looks well, doesn’t she?’ Berit said.

  ‘How could she look otherwise?’ Sparhawk laughed.

  The days seemed to race by after that. What had been tedious plodding through gloom and snow now took on an almost holiday air. They laughed and joked and even ignored the weather, though it did not noticeably improve. It continued to snow each night and on into the morning, but at about noon each day, the snow gradually turned to rain, and the rain melted down each night’s accumulation so that, although they rode through continual slush, the drifts did not pile up sufficiently to impede their progress. Intermittently as they rode, the sound of Aphrael’s pipes hauntingly drifted out of the mist, urging them on.

  It was several days later when they came over a hill to look down at the lead-grey expanse of the Gulf of Merjuk stretching before them, half-shrouded by mist and the chill drizzle, and huddled on the near shore was a sizeable cluster of low buildings.

  ‘That would be Albak,’ Kalten said. He wiped at his face and peered down at the town intently. ‘I don’t see any smoke,’ he noted. ‘No, wait. There’s one live chimney – right near the centre of town.’

  ‘We may as well go down there,’ Kurik said. ‘We’re going to have to steal a boat.’

  They rode down the hill and entered Albak. The streets were unpaved and clogged with slushy snow. The snow had not been churned into soupy
muck, a clear indication that the town was uninhabited. The single column of smoke, thin and sickly-looking, rose from the chimney of a low, shed-like building facing what appeared to be a town square. Ulath sniffed at the air. ‘A tavern, judging from the smell,’ he said.

  They dismounted and went inside. The room was long and low with smoke-stained beams and mouldy straw on the floor. It was cold and damp and smelled foul. There were no windows, and the only light came from a small fire flickering on a hearth at the far end. A hunchbacked man dressed in rags was kicking a bench to pieces to feed the fire. ‘Who’s there?’ he cried out as they entered.

  ‘Travellers,’ Sephrenia replied in Styric, her tone strangely alien. ‘We’re looking for a place to spend the night.’

  ‘Don’t look here,’ the hunchback growled. ‘This is my place.’ He threw several pieces of the bench into the fireplace, pulled a greasy blanket about his shoulders and sat back down, pulling an open beer-keg closer to him and then extending his hands towards the feeble flames.

  ‘We’ll gladly go somewhere else,’ she said to him. ‘We need a little information, though.’

  ‘Go and ask somebody else.’ He squinted at her. His eyes were oddly disconnected, looking off in different directions, and he looked to one side of her in that peculiar way of the nearly-blind.

  Sephrenia crossed the straw-littered floor and faced the uncivil hunchback. ‘You seem to be the only one here,’ she told him.

  ‘I am,’ he said sullenly. ‘All the rest went off to die in Lamorkand. I’ll die here. That way I don’t have to walk so far. Now get out of here.’

  She extended her arm and then turned it over in front of his stubbled face. The image of the serpent’s head rose from her palm, its tongue flickering. The half-blind hunchback puckered his face, turning his head this way and that in an effort to see what she was holding. Then he cried out in fright, half-rose and stumbled back over his stool, spilling his beer-keg.

  ‘You have my permission to offer your greeting,’ Sephrenia said in an implacable tone.