Kitabı oku: «The Hidden City»

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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.’