The Sapphire Rose

by David Eddings

  ‘And that’s more or less what happened, Sarathi,’ Sparhawk concluded. ‘It’s going to take me a while to get it all sorted out in my mind – the rest of my life, more than likely – and even then there are still going to be a lot of things I won’t understand.’

  Dolmant leaned thoughtfully back in his chair. ‘I think that Bhelliom – and the rings – should be in Church custody,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sarathi,’ Sparhawk told him, ‘but that’s impossible.’

  ‘You said what?’

  ‘We don’t have the Bhelliom any more.’

  ‘What did you do with it?’

  ‘We threw it into the sea, Sarathi,’ Bevier replied.

  Dolmant stared at him in dismay.

  Patriarch Ortzel came to his feet with a look of outrage on his face. ‘Without the permission of the Church?’ he almost screamed. ‘You did not even seek counsel from God?’

  ‘We were acting on the instructions of another God, Your Grace,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘A Goddess, actually,’ he corrected.

  ‘Heresy!’ Ortzel gasped.

  ‘I don’t really think so, Your Grace,’ Sparhawk disagreed. ‘Aphrael was the one who brought Bhelliom to me. She carried it up out of the chasm in Ghwerig’s cave. After I’d done what we needed to do with it, it was only proper for me to return it to her. She didn’t want it, though. She told me to throw it into the sea, so I did. We are instructed to be courteous, after all.’

  ‘That does not apply in a situation such as this!’ Ortzel stormed. ‘The Bhelliom’s too important to be treated as some mere trinket! Go back and find it at once and hand it over to the Church!’

  ‘I think he’s right, Sparhawk,’ Dolmant said gravely. ‘You’re going to have to go and retrieve it.’

  Sparhawk shrugged. ‘As you wish, Sarathi,’ he said. ‘We’ll start just as soon as you tell us which ocean to look in.’

  ‘Surely you –’ Dolmant looked at them helplessly.

  ‘We have absolutely no idea, Sarathi,’ Ulath assured him. ‘Aphrael took us to a cliff somewhere on some coast, and we threw Bhelliom into the sea. It could have been any coast and any ocean. It may not even be on this world, for all I know. Do they have oceans on the moon? Bhelliom’s gone for good, I’m afraid.’

  The Churchmen stared at him in open dismay.

  ‘I don’t think your Elene God really wants Bhelliom, anyway, Dolmant,’ Sephrenia told the Archprelate. ‘I think your God – like all the others – is very relieved to know that it’s lost for good. I think it frightens all of them. I know that it frightened Aphrael.’ She paused. ‘Have you noticed how long and dreary this winter’s been?’ she asked then. ‘And how low your spirits are?’

  ‘It’s been a troubled time, Sephrenia,’ Dolmant reminded her.

  ‘Granted, but I didn’t notice you dancing for joy when you heard that Azash and Otha are gone. Not even that could lift your spirits. Styrics believe that winter’s a state of mind in the Gods. Something happened at Zemoch that’s never happened before. We found out once and for all that the Gods can die too. I seriously doubt that any of us will feel spring in our souls until our Gods are able to come to grips with that. They’re distracted and frightened now – and not really very interested in us – or our problems. They’ve left us to fend for ourselves for a while, I’m afraid. Our magic doesn’t even seem to work any more for some reason. We’re all alone now, Dolmant, and we’ll have to endure this interminable winter until the Gods return.’

  Dolmant leaned back in his chair again. ‘You trouble me, little mother,’ he said. He passed one hand wearily across his eyes. ‘I’ll be honest with you, though. I’ve felt this wintery despair myself for the last month and a half. I awoke in the middle of the night once weeping uncontrollably. I haven’t smiled since, or felt any lightness of spirit. I thought it was only me, but perhaps not.’ He paused. ‘And that brings us face to face with our duty as representatives of the Church. We absolutely must find something to distract the minds of the faithful from this universal despair – something to give them purpose, if not joy. What could possibly do that?’

  ‘The conversion of the Zemochs, Sarathi,’ Bevier replied simply. ‘They’ve followed an evil God for eons. Now they’re Godless. What better task for the Church?’

  ‘Bevier,’ Emban said with a pained look. ‘Are you by any chance striving for sainthood?’ He looked at Dolmant. ‘It’s really a very good idea, though, Sarathi. It would keep the faithful busy. There’s no question about that.’

  ‘You’d better stop Wargun then, Your Grace,’ Ulath advised. ‘He’s poised in Kadum. As soon as the ground gets dry enough to hold a horse, he’s going to march into Zemoch and kill anything that moves.’

  ‘I’ll take care of that,’ Emban promised, ‘even if I have to ride to Kadum myself and arm-wrestle him into submission.’

  ‘Azash is – was – a Styric God,’ Dolmant said, ‘and Elene priests have never had much success trying to convert Styrics. Sephrenia, could you possibly help us? I’ll even find some way to give you authority and official status.’

  ‘No, Dolmant,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Why is everybody saying no to me today?’ he asked plaintively. ‘What’s the problem, little mother?’

  ‘I won’t assist you in converting Styrics to a heathen religion, Dolmant.’

  ‘Heathen?’ Ortzel choked.

  ‘It’s a word that’s used to describe someone who isn’t of the true faith, Your Grace.’

  ‘But the Elene faith is the true faith.’

  ‘Not to me, it isn’t. I find your religion repugnant. It’s cruel, rigid, unforgiving and smugly self-righteous. It’s totally without humanity, and I reject it. I’ll have no part of this ecumenicism of yours, Dolmant. If I should aid you in converting the Zemochs, you’ll turn next to western Styricum, and that is where you and I will fight.’ She smiled then, a gentle, surprising smile that shone through the pervading gloom. ‘As soon as she’s feeling better, I think I’ll have a little talk with Aphrael. She may just take an interest in the Zemochs herself.’ The smile she directed at Dolmant at that point was almost radiant. ‘That would put us on opposite sides of the fence, wouldn’t it, Sarathi?’ she suggested. ‘I wish you all the best, though, old dear, but as they say, may the better man – or woman – win.’

  The weather altered only slightly as they rode westward. The rain had ceased for the most part, but the sky remained cloudy, and the blustery wind still had the chill of winter in it. Their destination was Demos. They were taking Kurik home. Sparhawk was not really looking forward to telling Aslade that he had finally managed to get her husband killed. The gloom which had fallen over the earth following the death of Azash was heightened by the funereal nature of their journey. The armourers at the Pandion chapterhouse in Chyrellos had hammered the dents out of the armour of Sparhawk and his friends, and had even buffed off most of the rust. They rode now with a somewhat ornate black carriage that bore Kurik’s body.

  They made camp in a grove not far back from the road some five leagues from Demos, and Sparhawk and the other knights saw to their armour. They had decided by unspoken agreement that they would wear their formal garb the next day. When he was satisfied that his equipment was ready for tomorrow, Sparhawk started across the camp towards the black carriage which stood some distance from the fire. Talen rose from his place to join him. ‘Sparhawk,’ he said as they walked.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’re not really serious about this notion are you?’

  ‘Which notion was that?’

  ‘Putting me in training to become a Pandion.’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact I am. I made some promises to your father.’

  ‘I’ll run away.’

  ‘Then I’ll catch you – or send Berit to do it.’

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘You didn’t really expect life to throw honest dice, did you?’

  ‘Sparhawk, I don’t want to go to knight school.’
>
  ‘We don’t always get what we want, Talen. This is something your father wanted, and I’m not going to disappoint him.’

  ‘What about me? What about what I want?’

  ‘You’re young. You’ll adjust to it. After a while, you might even find that you like it.’

  ‘Where are we going right now?’ Talen’s tone was sulky.

  ‘I’m going to visit your father.’

  ‘Oh. I’ll go back to the fire then. I’d rather remember him the way he was.’

  The carriage creaked as Sparhawk climbed up into it and sat down beside his squire’s silent body. He did not say anything for quite some time. His grief had run itself out now and had been replaced with only a profound regret. ‘We’ve come a long way together, haven’t we, my old friend?’ he said finally. ‘Now you’re going home to rest, and I have to go on alone.’ He smiled faintly in the darkness. ‘That was really very inconsiderate of you, Kurik. I was looking forward to growing old with you – older that is.’

  He sat quietly for a time. ‘I’ve taken care of your sons,’ he added. ‘You’ll be very proud of them – even of Talen, although he may take a while to come around to the idea of respectability.’

  He paused again. ‘I’ll break the news to Aslade as gently as I can,’ he promised. Then he laid his hand on Kurik’s. ‘Goodbye, my friend,’ he said.

  The part he had dreaded the most, telling Aslade, turned out not to be necessary, since Aslade already knew. She wore a black country dress when she met them at the gate of the farm on which she and her husband had laboured for so many years. Her four sons, as tall as young trees, stood with her, also in their best clothes. Their sombre faces told Sparhawk that his carefully-prepared speech was unnecessary. ‘See to your father,’ Aslade told her sons.

  They nodded and went to the black carriage.

  ‘How did you find out?’ Sparhawk asked her after she had embraced him.

  ‘That little girl told us,’ she replied simply. ‘The one you brought with you when you were on your way to Chyrellos that time. She just appeared at the door one evening and told us. Then she went away.’

  ‘You believed her?’

  Aslade nodded. ‘I knew that I must. She’s not at all like other children.’

  ‘No, she isn’t. I’m very, very sorry, Aslade. When Kurik started getting older, I should have made him stay at home.’

  ‘No, Sparhawk. That would have broken his heart. You’re going to have to help me with something right now, though.’

  ‘Anything at all, Aslade.’

  ‘I need to talk with Talen.’

  Sparhawk was not sure where this was leading. He motioned to the young thief, and Talen joined them.

  ‘Talen,’ Aslade said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We’re very proud of you, you know.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You avenged your father’s death. Your brothers and I share that with you.’

  He stared at her. ‘Are you trying to say that you knew? About Kurik and me, I mean?’

  ‘Of course I knew. I’ve known for a long time. This is what you’re going to do – and if you don’t, Sparhawk here will thrash you. You’re going to Cimmura, and you’re going to bring your mother back here.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me. I’ve met your mother a few times. I went to Cimmura to have a look at her just before you were born. I wanted to talk with her so that we could decide which of us would be best for your father. She’s a nice girl – a little skinny, perhaps, but I can fatten her up once I get her here. She and I get along quite well, and we’re all going to live here until you and your brothers enter your novitiates. After that, she and I can keep each other company.’

  ‘You want me to live on a farm?’ he asked incredulously.

  ‘Your father would have wanted that, and I’m sure your mother wants it, and so do I. You’re too good a boy to disappoint all three of us.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Please don’t argue with me, Talen. It’s all settled. Now, let’s go inside. I’ve cooked a dinner for us, and I don’t want it to get cold.’

  They buried Kurik beneath a tall elm tree on a hill overlooking his farm about noon the following day. The sky had been ominous all morning, but the sun broke through as Kurik’s sons carried their father up the hill. Sparhawk was not as good as his squire had been at judging the weather, but the sudden appearance of a patch of blue sky and bright sunlight hovering just over the farm and touching no other part of the city of Demos made him more than a little suspicious.

  The funeral was very simple and very moving. The local priest, an elderly, almost doddering man, had known Kurik since boyhood, and he spoke not so much of sorrow as of love. When it was over, Kurik’s eldest son, Khalad, joined Sparhawk as they all walked back down the hill. ‘I’m honoured that you thought I might be worthy to become a Pandion, Sir Sparhawk,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.’

  Sparhawk looked sharply at the husky, plain-faced young man whose black beard was only beginning to sprout.

  ‘It’s nothing personal, Sir Sparhawk,’ Khalad assured him. ‘It’s just that my father had other plans for me. In a few weeks – after you’ve had the chance to get settled in, I’ll be joining you in Cimmura.’

  ‘You will?’ Sparhawk was slightly taken aback by the lad’s matter-of-fact manner.

  ‘Of course, Sir Sparhawk. I’ll be taking up my father’s duties. It’s a family tradition. My grandfather served yours – and your father, and my father served your father and you, so I’ll be taking up where he left off.’

  ‘That’s not really necessary, Khalad. Don’t you want to be a Pandion Knight?’

  ‘What I want isn’t important, Sir Sparhawk. I have other duties.’

  They left the farmstead the next morning, and Kalten rode forward to join Sparhawk. ‘Nice funeral,’ he noted, ‘– if you happen to like funerals. I’d rather keep my friends around me, personally.’

  ‘Do you want to help me with a problem?’ Sparhawk asked him.

  ‘I thought we’d already killed everybody who needs it.’

  ‘Can you be serious?’

  ‘That’s a lot to ask, Sparhawk, but I’ll try. What’s this problem?’

  ‘Khalad insists on being my squire.’

  ‘So? It’s the sort of thing country boys do – follow their fathers’ trades.’

  ‘I want him to become a Pandion Knight.’

  ‘I still don’t see any problem. Go ahead and get him knighted then.’

  ‘He can’t be a squire and a knight both, Kalten.’

  ‘Why not? Take you, for example. You’re a Pandion Knight, a member of the royal council, Queen’s Champion and the Prince Consort. Khalad’s got broad shoulders. He can handle both jobs.’

  The more Sparhawk thought about that, the more he liked it. ‘Kalten,’ he laughed, ‘what would I ever do without you?’

  ‘Flounder, most likely. You complicate things too much, Sparhawk. You really ought to try to keep them simple.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No charge.’

  It was raining. A soft, silvery drizzle sifted down out of the late afternoon sky and wreathed around the blocky watchtowers of the city of Cimmura. A lone rider approached the city. He was wrapped in a dark, heavy traveller’s cloak and rode a tall, shaggy roan horse with a long nose and flat, vicious eyes. ‘We always seem to come back to Cimmura in the rain, don’t we, Faran,’ the rider said to his horse.

  Faran flicked his ears.

  Sparhawk had left his friends behind that morning and had ridden on ahead. They all knew why, and they had not argued with him about it.

  ‘We can send word on ahead to the palace, if you’d like, Prince Sparhawk,’ one of the guards at the east gate offered. Ehlana, it appeared, had made some issue of his new title. Sparhawk wished that she had not. It was going to take some getting used to.

  ‘Thanks all the same, neighbour,’ Sparhawk told the guard, ‘b
ut I’d sort of like to surprise my wife. She’s young enough to still enjoy surprises.’

  The guard grinned at him.

  ‘Get back inside the guard-house, neighbour,’ Sparhawk advised. ‘You’ll catch cold out here in the weather.’

  He rode on into Cimmura. The rain was keeping almost everyone inside, and Faran’s steel-shod hooves echoed on the cobblestones of the nearly empty streets.

  Sparhawk dismounted in the palace courtyard and handed Faran’s reins to a groom. ‘Be a little careful of the horse, neighbour,’ he cautioned the stableman. ‘He’s bad-tempered. Give him some hay and grain and rub him down, if you would please. He’s had a hard trip.’

  ‘I’ll see to it, Prince Sparhawk.’ There it was again. Sparhawk decided to have a word with his wife about it.

  ‘Faran,’ he said to his horse, ‘behave yourself.’

  The big roan gave him a flat, unfriendly look.

  ‘It was a good ride,’ Sparhawk said, laying one hand on Faran’s powerfully muscled neck. ‘Get some rest.’ Then he turned and went up the stairs into the palace. ‘Where’s the queen?’ he asked one of the soldiers at the door.

  ‘In the council chamber, I believe, My Lord.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Sparhawk started down a long, candlelit corridor towards the council chamber.

  The Tamul giantess Mirtai was emerging from the council chamber when he reached the door. ‘What took you so long?’ she asked, showing no particular sign of surprise.

  ‘Some things came up,’ he shrugged. ‘Is she in there?’

  Mirtai nodded. ‘She’s with Lenda and the thieves. They’re talking about repairing streets.’ She paused. ‘Don’t greet her too enthusiastically, Sparhawk,’ she cautioned. ‘She’s with child.’

  Sparhawk gave her a stunned look.

  ‘Wasn’t that sort of what you two had in mind on your wedding night?’ She paused again. ‘Whatever happened to that bandy-legged man who shaves his head?’

  ‘Kring? The Domi?’

  ‘What does “Domi” mean?’

  ‘Chief – sort of. He’s the leader of his people. He’s still alive and well as far as I know. The last time I saw him, he was working on a plan to lure the Zemochs into a trap so that he could slaughter them.’