Kitabı oku: «The Sapphire Rose», sayfa 3

Chapter 2

The weather on the Thalesian Peninsula, like that in every northern kingdom, was never really settled, and it was drizzling rain the following morning as bank after bank of thick, dirty clouds rolled into the straits of Thalesia off the Deiran Sea.

‘A splendid day for a voyage,’ Stragen observed dryly as he and Sparhawk looked through a partially boarded-up window at the rain-wet streets below. ‘I hate rain. I wonder if I could find any career opportunities in Rendor.’

‘I don’t recommend it,’ Sparhawk told him, remembering a sun-blasted street in Jiroch.

‘Our horses are already on board the ship,’ Stragen said. ‘We can leave as soon as Sephrenia and the others are ready.’ He paused. ‘Is that roan horse of yours always so restive in the morning?’ he asked curiously. ‘My men report that he bit three of them on the way to the docks.’

‘I should have warned them. Faran’s not the best-tempered horse in the world.’

‘Why do you keep him?’

‘Because he’s the most dependable horse I’ve ever owned. I’ll put up with a few of his crotchets in exchange for that. Besides, I like him.’

Stragen looked at Sparhawk’s chain-mail shirt. ‘You really don’t have to wear that, you know.’

‘Habit,’ Sparhawk shrugged, ‘and there are a fair number of unfriendly people looking for me at the moment.’

‘It smells awful, you know.’

‘You get used to it.’

‘You seem moody this morning, Sparhawk. Is something wrong?’

‘I’ve been on the road for a long time, and I’ve run into some things I wasn’t really prepared to accept. I’m trying to sort things out in my mind.’

‘Maybe someday when we get to know each other better, you can tell me about it.’ Stragen seemed to think of something. ‘Oh, incidentally, Tel mentioned those three ruffians who were looking for you last night. They aren’t looking any more.’

‘Thank you.’

‘It was a sort of internal matter really, Sparhawk. They violated one of the primary rules when they didn’t check with me before they went looking for you. I can’t really afford to have people setting that kind of precedent. We couldn’t get much out of them, I’m afraid. They were acting on the orders of someone outside Thalesia, though. We were able to get that much from the one who was still breathing. Why don’t we go and see if Sephrenia’s ready?’

There was an elegant coach awaiting them outside the rear door of the warehouse about fifteen minutes later. They entered it, and the driver manoeuvred his matched team around in the narrow alley and out into the street.

When they reached the harbour, the coach rolled out onto a wharf and stopped beside a ship that appeared to be one of the kind normally used for coastal trade. Her half-furled sails were patched and her heavy railings showed signs of having been broken and repaired many times. Her sides were tarred, and she bore no name on her bow.

‘She’s a pirate, isn’t she?’ Kurik asked Stragen as they stepped down from the coach.

‘Yes, as a matter of fact, she is,’ Stragen replied. ‘I own a fair number of vessels in that business, but how did you recognize her?’

‘She’s built for speed, Milord,’ Kurik said. ‘She’s too narrow in the beam for cargo capacity, and the reinforcing around her masts says that she was built to carry a lot of sail. She was designed to run other ships down.’

‘Or to run away from them, Kurik. Pirates live nervous lives. There are all sorts of people in the world who yearn to hang pirates just on general principles.’ Stragen looked around at the drizzly harbour. ‘Let’s go on board,’ he suggested. ‘There’s not much point in standing out here in the rain discussing the finer points of life at sea.’

They went up the gangway, and Stragen led them to their cabins below deck. The sailors slipped their hawsers, and the ship moved out of the rainy harbour at a stately pace. Once they were past the headland and in deep water, however, the crew crowded on more sail, and the questionable vessel heeled over and raced across the straits of Thalesia towards the Deiran coast.

Sparhawk went up on deck about noon and found Stragen leaning on the rail near the bow looking moodily out over the grey, rain-dappled sea. He wore a heavy brown cloak, and his hat-brim dripped water down his back.

‘I thought you didn’t like rain,’ Sparhawk said.

‘It’s humid down in that cabin,’ the brigand replied. ‘I needed some air. I’m glad you came up though, Sparhawk. Pirates aren’t very interesting conversationalists.’

They stood for a time listening to the creaking of rigging and ship’s timbers and to the melancholy sound of rain hissing into the sea.

‘How is it that Kurik knows so much about ships?’ Stragen asked finally.

‘He went to sea for a while when he was young.’

‘That explains it, I guess. I don’t suppose you’d care to talk about what you were doing in Thalesia?’

‘Not really. Church business, you understand.’

Stragen smiled. ‘Ah, yes. Our taciturn holy mother Church,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I think she keeps secrets just for the fun of it.’

‘We sort of have to take it on faith that she knows what she’s doing.’

‘You have to, Sparhawk, because you’re a Church Knight. I haven’t taken any of those vows, so I’m perfectly free to view her with a certain scepticism. I did give some thought to entering the Priesthood when I was younger, though.’

‘You might have done very well. The Priesthood or the army are always interested in the talented younger sons of noblemen.’

‘I rather like that,’ Stragen smiled. ‘“Younger son” has a much nicer sound to it than “bastard”, doesn’t it? It doesn’t really matter to me, though. I don’t need rank or legitimacy to make my way in the world. The Church and I wouldn’t have got along too well, I’m afraid. I don’t have the humility she seems to require, and a congregation reeking of unwashed armpits would have driven me to renounce my vows fairly early on.’ He looked back out at the rainy sea. ‘When you get right down to it, life didn’t leave me too many options. I’m not humble enough for the Church, I’m not obedient enough for the army and I don’t have the bourgeois temperament necessary for trade. I did dabble for a time at court, though, since the government always needs good administrators, legitimate or not, but after I’d beaten out the dull-witted son of a duke for a position we both wanted, he became abusive. I challenged him, of course, and he was foolish enough to show up for our appointment wearing chain-mail and carrying a broadsword. No offence intended, Sparhawk, but chain-mail has a few too many small holes in it to be a good defence against a well-sharpened rapier. My opponent discovered that fairly early on in the discussion. After I’d run him through a few times, he sort of lost interest in the whole business. I left him for dead – which proved to be a pretty good guess – and quietly removed myself from government service. The dullard I’d just skewered turned out to be distantly related to King Wargun, and our drunken monarch has very little in the way of a sense of humour.’

‘I’ve noticed.’

‘How did you manage to get on the wrong side of him?’

Sparhawk shrugged. ‘He wanted me to participate in that war going on down in Arcium, but I had pressing business in Thalesia. How’s that war going, by the way? I’ve been a little out of touch.’

‘About all we’ve had in the way of information are rumours. Some say that the Rendors have been exterminated; others say that Wargun has, and that the Rendors are marching north burning everything that’s the least bit flammable. Whichever rumour you choose to believe depends on your view of the world, I suppose.’ Stragen looked sharply aft.

‘Something wrong?’ Sparhawk asked him.

‘That ship back there.’ Stragen pointed. ‘She looks like a merchantman, but she’s moving a little too fast.’

‘Another pirate?’

‘I don’t recognize her – and believe me, I’d recognize her if she were in my line of business.’ He peered aft, his face tight. Then he relaxed. ‘She’s veering off now.’ He laughed briefly. ‘Sorry if I seem a little over-suspicious, Sparhawk, but unsuspicious pirates usually end up decorating some wharf-side gallows. Where were we?’

Stragen was asking a few too many questions. It was probably a good time to divert him. ‘You were about to tell me about how you left Wargun’s court and set up one of your own,’ Sparhawk suggested.

‘It took a little while,’ Stragen admitted, ‘but I’m rather uniquely suited for a life of crime. I haven’t been the least bit squeamish since the day I killed my father and my two half-brothers.’

Sparhawk was a bit surprised at that.

‘Killing my father might have been a mistake,’ Stragen admitted. ‘He wasn’t really a bad sort, and he did pay for my education, but I took offence at the way he treated my mother. She was an amiable young woman from a well-placed family who’d been put in my father’s household as the companion of his ailing wife. The usual sort of thing happened, and I was the result. After my disgrace at court, my father decided to distance himself from me, so he sent my mother home to her family. She died not long afterwards. I suppose I could justify my patricide by claiming that she died of a broken heart, but as a matter of fact, she choked to death on a fish bone. Anyway, I paid a short visit to my father’s house, and his title is now vacant. My two half-brothers were stupid enough to join in, and now all three of them share the same tomb. I rather imagine that my father regretted all the money he’d spent on my fencing lessons. The expression on his face while he was dying seemed to indicate that he was regretting something.’ The blond man shrugged. ‘I was younger then. I’d probably do it differently now. There’s not much profit involved in randomly rendering relatives down to dog-meat, is there?’

‘That depends on how you define profit.’

Stragen gave him a quick grin. ‘Anyway, I realized almost as soon as I took to the streets that there’s not that much difference between a baron and a cutpurse or a duchess and a whore. I tried to explain that to my predecessor, but the fool wouldn’t listen to me. He drew his sword on me, and I removed him from office. Then I began training the thieves and whores of Emsat. I’ve adorned them with imaginary titles, purloined finery and a thin crust of good manners to give them a semblance of gentility. Then I turned them loose on the aristocracy. Business is very, very good, and I’m able to repay my former class for a thousand slights and insults.’ He paused. ‘Have you had about enough of this malcontented diatribe yet, Sparhawk? I must say that your courtesy and forbearance are virtually superhuman. I’m tired of being rained on anyway. Why don’t we go below? I’ve got a dozen flagons of Arcian red in my cabin. We can both get a little tipsy and engage in some civilized conversation.’

Sparhawk considered this complex man as he followed him below. Stragen’s motives were clear, of course. His resentment and that towering hunger for revenge were completely understandable. What was unusual was his total lack of self-pity. Sparhawk found that he liked the man. He didn’t trust him, of course. That would have been foolish, but he liked him nonetheless.

‘So do I,’ Talen agreed that evening in their cabin when Sparhawk briefly recounted Stragen’s story and confessed his liking for the man. ‘That’s probably natural, though. Stragen and I have a lot in common.’

‘Are you going to throw that in my teeth again?’ Kurik asked him.

‘I’m not lobbing stones in your direction, father,’ Talen said. ‘Things like that happen, and I’m a lot less sensitive about it than Stragen is.’ He grinned then. ‘I was able to use our similar backgrounds to some advantage while I was in Emsat, though. I think he took a liking to me, and he made me some very interesting offers. He wants me to come to work for him.’

‘You’ve got a promising future ahead of you, Talen,’ Kurik said sourly. ‘You could inherit either Platime’s position or Stragen’s – assuming you don’t get yourself caught and hanged first.’

‘I’m starting to think on a larger scale,’ Talen said grandly. ‘Stragen and I did some speculating about it while I was in Emsat. The thieves’ council is very close to being a government now. About all it really needs to qualify is some single leader – a king maybe, or even an emperor. Wouldn’t it make you proud to be the father of the Emperor of the Thieves, Kurik?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘What do you think, Sparhawk?’ the boy asked, his eyes filled with mischief. ‘Should I go into politics?’

‘I believe we can find something more suitable for you to do, Talen.’

‘Maybe, but would it be as profitable – or as much fun?’

They reached the Elenian coast a league or so to the north of Cardos a week later and disembarked about midday on a lonely beach bordered on its upper end with dark fir trees.

‘The Cardos road?’ Kurik asked Sparhawk as they saddled Faran and Kurik’s gelding.

‘Might I make a suggestion?’ Stragen asked from nearby.

‘Certainly.’

‘King Wargun’s a maudlin man when he’s drunk – which is most of the time. Your defection probably has him blubbering in his beer every night. He offered a sizeable reward for your capture in Thalesia and Deira, and he’s probably circulated the same offer here. Your face is well-known in Elenia, and it’s about seventy leagues from here to Cimmura – a good week of hard travel at least. Do you really want to spend that much time on a well-travelled road under those circumstances? – Particularly in view of the fact that somebody wants to shoot you full of arrows rather than just turn you over to Wargun?’

‘Perhaps not. Can you think of an alternative?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I can. It may take us a day or so longer, but Platime once showed me a different route. It’s a bit rough, but very few people know about it.’

Sparhawk looked at the thin blond man with a certain amount of suspicion. ‘Can I trust you, Stragen?’ he asked bluntly.

Stragen shook his head in resignation. ‘Talen,’ he said, ‘haven’t you ever explained thieves’ sanctuary to him?’

‘I’ve tried, but sometimes Sparhawk has difficulty with moral concepts. It goes like this, Sparhawk. If Stragen lets anything happen to us while we’re under his protection, he’ll have to answer to Platime.’

‘That’s more or less why I came along, actually,’ Stragen admitted. ‘As long as I’m with you, you’re still under my protection. I like you, Sparhawk, and having a Church Knight to intercede with God for me in case I happen to be accidentally hanged couldn’t hurt.’ His sardonic expression returned then. ‘Not only that, watching out for all of you might expiate some of my grosser sins.’

‘Do you really have that many sins, Stragen?’ Sephrenia asked him gently.

‘More than I can remember, dear sister,’ he replied in Styric, ‘and many of them are too foul to be described in your presence.’

Sparhawk looked quickly at Talen, and the boy nodded gravely. ‘Sorry, Stragen,’ he apologized. ‘I misjudged you.’

‘Perfectly all right, old boy.’ Stragen grinned. ‘And perfectly understandable. There are days when I don’t even trust myself.’

‘Where’s this other road to Cimmura?’

Stragen looked around. ‘Why, do you know, I actually believe it starts just up there at the head of this beach. Isn’t that an amazing coincidence?’

‘That was your ship we sailed on?’

‘I’m a part owner, yes.’

‘And you suggested to the captain that this beach might be a good place to drop us off?’

‘I do seem to recall such a conversation, yes.’

‘An amazing coincidence, all right,’ Sparhawk said dryly.

Stragen stopped, looking out to sea. ‘Odd,’ he said, pointing at a passing ship. ‘There’s that same merchantman we saw up in the straits. She’s sailing very light. Otherwise she couldn’t have made such good time.’ He shrugged. ‘Oh well. Let’s go to Cimmura, shall we?’

The ‘alternative route’ they followed was little more than a forest trail that wound up across the range of mountains that lay between the coast and the broad tract of farmland drained by the Cimmura River. Once the track came down out of the mountains, it merged imperceptibly with a series of sunken country lanes meandering through the fields.

Early one morning when they were midway across that farmland, a shabby-looking fellow on a spavined mule cautiously approached their camp. ‘I need to talk with a man named Stragen,’ he called from just out of bow-shot.

‘Come ahead,’ Stragen called back to him.

The man did not bother to dismount. ‘I’m from Platime,’ he identified himself to the Thalesian. ‘He told me to warn you. There were some fellows looking for you on the road from Cardos to Cimmura.’

‘Were?’

‘They couldn’t really identify themselves after we encountered them, and they aren’t looking for anything any more.’

‘Ah.’

‘They were asking questions before we intercepted them, though. They described you and your companions to a number of peasants. I don’t think they wanted to catch up with you just to talk about the weather, Milord.’

‘Were they Elenians?’ Stragen asked intently.

‘A few of them were. The rest seemed to be Thalesian sailors. Someone’s after you and your friends, Stragen, and I think they’ve got killing on their minds. If I were you, I’d get to Cimmura and Platime’s cellar just as quickly as I could.’

‘My thanks, friend,’ Stragen said.

The ruffian shrugged. ‘I’m getting paid for this. Thanks don’t fatten my purse at all.’ He turned his mule and rode off.

‘I knew I should have turned and sunk that ship,’ Stragen noted. ‘I must be getting soft. We’d better move right along, Sparhawk. We’re awfully exposed out here.’

Three days later, they reached Cimmura and reined in on the north rim of the valley to look down at the city, smoky and mist-plagued. ‘A distinctly unattractive place, Sparhawk,’ Stragen said critically.

‘It’s not much,’ Sparhawk conceded, ‘but we like to call it home.’

‘I’ll be leaving you here,’ Stragen said. ‘You have things to attend to and so do I. Might I suggest that we all forget we ever met each other? You’re involved in politics and I in theft. I’ll leave it to God to decide which occupation is the more dishonest. Good luck, Sparhawk, and keep your eyes open.’ He half-bowed to Sephrenia from his saddle, turned his horse and rode down to the grimy city below.

‘I could almost grow to like that man,’ Sephrenia said. ‘Where to, Sparhawk?’

‘The chapterhouse,’ the big Pandion decided. ‘We’ve been away for quite some time, and I’d like to know how things stand before I go to the palace.’ He squinted up at the noonday sun, bleary and wan-looking in the pervading haze that hung over Cimmura. ‘Let’s stay out of sight until we find out who’s controlling the city.’

They kept to the trees and rode on around Cimmura on the north side. Kurik slipped down from his gelding at one point and crept to the edge of the bushes to have a look. His expression was grave when he returned. ‘There are church soldiers manning the battlements,’ he reported.

Sparhawk swore. ‘Are you sure?’

‘The men up there are wearing red.’

‘Let’s move on anyway. We’ve got to get inside the chapterhouse.’

The dozen or so ostensible workmen outside the fortress of the Pandion Knights were still laying cobblestones.

‘They’ve been at that for almost a year now,’ Kurik muttered, ‘and they still haven’t finished. Do we wait for dark?’

‘I don’t think that would do much good. They’ll still be watching, and I don’t want it generally known that we’re back in Cimmura.’

‘Sephrenia,’ Talen said, ‘can you make a column of smoke come up from just inside the city walls near the gate?’

‘Yes,’ she replied.

‘Good. We’ll make those bricklayers go away then.’ The boy quickly explained his plan.

‘That isn’t really too bad, Sparhawk,’ Kurik said rather proudly. ‘What do you think?’

‘It’s worth a try. Let’s do it and see what happens.’

The red uniform Sephrenia created for Kurik did not look all that authentic, but the smudges and smoke-stains she added covered most of the discrepancies. The important things were the gold-embroidered epaulettes which identified him as an officer. The burly squire then led his horse through the bushes to a spot near the city gate.

Then Sephrenia began to murmur in Styric, gesturing with her fingers as she did so.

The column of smoke that rose from inside the walls was very convincing, thick, oily black and boiling dreadfully.

‘Hold my horse,’ Talen said to Sparhawk, slipping down from his saddle. He ran out to the edge of the bushes and began to shriek, ‘Fire!’ at the top of his lungs.

The so-called workmen gaped at him stupidly for a moment, then turned to stare in consternation at the city.

‘You always have to yell “fire”,’ Talen explained when he returned. ‘It gets people to thinking in the right direction.’

Then Kurik galloped up to the spies outside the gate of the chapterhouse. ‘You men,’ he barked, ‘there’s a house on fire in Goat Lane. Get in there and help put the fire out before the whole city starts to burn.’

‘But sir,’ one of the workmen objected, ‘we were ordered to stay here and keep an eye on the Pandions.’

‘Do you have anything you value inside the city walls?’ Kurik asked him bluntly. ‘If that fire gets away from us, you can stand here and keep an eye on it while it burns. Now move, all of you! I’m going up to that fortress to see if I can persuade the Pandions to lend a hand.’

The workmen looked at him, then dropped their tools and ran towards the illusory conflagration as Kurik rode on towards the drawbridge of the chapterhouse.

‘Slick,’ Sparhawk complimented Talen.

‘Thieves do it all the time,’ the boy shrugged. ‘We have to use real fire, though. People run outside to gawk at fires. That provides an excellent opportunity to look around inside their houses for things of value.’ He looked towards the city gate. ‘Our friends seem to be out of sight. Why don’t we ride on before they come back?’

Two Pandion Knights in black armour rode gravely out to meet them as they reached the drawbridge. ‘Is that a fire in the city, Sparhawk?’ one of them asked in some alarm.

‘Not really,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Sephrenia’s entertaining the church soldiers.’

The other knight grinned at Sephrenia. Then he straightened. ‘Who art thou who entreateth entry into the house of the Soldiers of God?’ he began the ritual.

‘We don’t have time for that, brother,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘We’ll go through it twice next time. Who’s in charge here now?’

‘Lord Vanion.’

That was surprising. Preceptor Vanion had been much involved in the campaign in Arcium when last Sparhawk had heard of him. ‘Do you have any idea of where I might locate him?’

‘He’s in his tower, Sparhawk,’ the second knight advised.

Sparhawk grunted. ‘How many knights are here right now, brother?’

‘About a hundred.’

‘Good. I may need them.’ Sparhawk nudged Faran with his heels. The big roan turned his head to look at his master with some surprise. ‘We’re busy now, Faran,’ Sparhawk explained to his horse. ‘We’ll go through the ritual some other time.’

Faran’s expression was disapproving as he started across the drawbridge.

‘Sir Sparhawk!’ a ringing voice came from the stable door. It was the novice, Berit, a rangy, raw-boned young man whose face was split with a broad grin.

‘Shout a little louder, Berit,’ Kurik said reprovingly. ‘Maybe they’ll be able to hear you in Chyrellos.’

‘Sorry, Kurik,’ Berit apologized, looking abashed.

‘Get some other novices to look after our horses and come with us,’ Sparhawk told the young man. ‘We have things to do, and we have to talk with Vanion.’

‘Yes, Sir Sparhawk.’ Berit ran back into the stable.

‘He’s such a nice boy,’ Sephrenia smiled.

‘He might work out,’ Kurik said grudgingly.

‘Sparhawk,’ a hooded Pandion said with some surprise as they entered the arched door leading into the chapterhouse. The knight pushed back his hood. It was Sir Perraine, the Pandion who had posed as a cattle-buyer in Dabour. Perraine spoke with a slight accent.

‘What are you doing back in Cimmura, Perraine?’ Sparhawk asked, clasping his brother knight’s hand. ‘We all thought you’d taken root in Dabour.’

Perraine seemed to recover from his surprise. ‘Ah –’ he began, ‘once Arasham died, there wasn’t much reason for me to remain in Dabour. We’d all heard that King Wargun was pursuing you all over western Eosia.’

‘Pursuing isn’t catching, Perraine,’ Sparhawk grinned. ‘We can talk later. But now my friends and I have to go and talk with Vanion.’

‘Of course.’ Perraine bowed slightly to Sephrenia and walked on out into the courtyard.

They went up the stairs to the south tower where Vanion’s study was located. The Preceptor of the Pandion Order wore that white Styric robe, and his face had aged even more in the short time since Sparhawk had last seen him. The others were also there, Ulath, Tynian, Bevier and Kalten. Their presence seemed somehow to make the room shrink. These were very large men, not only in sheer physical size, but also in terms of their towering reputations. The room seemed somehow full of bulky shoulders. As was customary among Church Knights when inside their chapterhouses, they all wore monks’ robes over their mail-shirts.

‘Finally!’ Kalten said, letting out an explosive breath. ‘Sparhawk, why didn’t you get word to us to let us know how you were?’

‘Messengers are a little hard to find in Troll-country, Kalten.’

‘Any luck?’ Ulath asked eagerly. Ulath was a huge, blond-braided Thalesian, and Bhelliom had a special meaning for him.

Sparhawk looked quickly at Sephrenia, silently asking permission.

‘All right,’ she said, ‘but only for a minute.’

Sparhawk reached down inside his tunic and drew out the canvas pouch in which he carried Bhelliom. He pulled open the drawstring, lifted out the most precious object in the world and placed it on the table Vanion used for a writing desk. Even as he did so, there came again that faint flicker of the darkness somewhere off in a dim corner. The hound of darkness his nightmare had conjured up in the mountains of Thalesia followed him still, and the shadow seemed larger and darker now as if each re-emergence of Bhelliom somehow increased its size and its brooding menace.

‘Do not look too deeply into those petals, gentlemen,’ Sephrenia warned. ‘Bhelliom can capture your souls if you look at it too long.’

‘God!’ Kalten breathed. ‘Look at that thing!’

Each glowing petal of the Sapphire Rose was so perfect that one could almost see dew clinging to it. From deep within the jewel emanated a blue light and an almost overpowering command to look upon it and observe its perfection.

‘Oh, God,’ Bevier prayed fervently, ‘defend us from the seduction of this stone.’ Bevier was a Cyrinic Knight and an Arcian. Sometimes Sparhawk felt that he was excessively pious. This, however, was not one of those times. If even half of what he had already sensed was true, Sparhawk knew that Bevier’s fear of Bhelliom was well placed.

Ulath, the huge Thalesian, was muttering in Troll. ‘Not kill, Bhelliom-Blue-Rose,’ he said. ‘Church Knights not enemies to Bhelliom. Church Knights protect Bhelliom from Azash. Help make what is wrong right again, Blue-Rose. I am Ulath-from-Thalesia. If Bhelliom have anger, send anger against Ulath.’

Sparhawk straightened. ‘No,’ he said firmly in the hideous Troll-tongue. ‘I am Sparhawk-from-Elenia. I am he who kills Ghwerig-Troll-Dwarf. I am he who brings Bhelliom-Blue-Rose to this place to heal my queen. If Bhelliom-Blue-Rose do this and still have anger, send anger against Sparhawk-from-Elenia and not against Ulath-from-Thalesia.’

‘You fool!’ Ulath exploded. ‘Have you got any idea of what that thing can do to you?’

‘Wouldn’t it do the same sort of things to you?’

‘Gentlemen, please,’ Sephrenia said to them wearily. ‘Stop this nonsense at once.’ She looked at the glowing rose on the table. ‘Listen to me, Bhelliom-Blue-Rose,’ she said firmly, not even bothering to speak in the language of the Trolls. ‘Sparhawk-from-Elenia has the rings. Bhelliom-Blue-Rose must acknowledge his authority and obey him.’

The jewel darkened briefly, and then the deep blue light returned.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘I will guide Bhelliom-Blue-Rose in what must be done, and Sparhawk-from-Elenia will command it. Blue-Rose must obey.’

The jewel flickered, and then the light returned.

‘Put it away now, Sparhawk.’

Sparhawk put the rose back into its pouch and slipped it back under his tunic.

‘Where’s Flute?’ Berit asked, looking around.

‘That, my young friend, is a very, very long story,’ Sparhawk told him.

‘Not dead?’ Sir Tynian asked in a shocked tone. ‘Surely not dead.’

‘No,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘That would be impossible. Flute is immortal.’

‘No human is immortal, Sparhawk,’ Bevier protested in a shocked voice.

‘Exactly,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Flute’s not human. She’s the Styric Child-Goddess Aphrael.’

‘Heresy!’ Bevier gasped.

‘You wouldn’t think so if you’d been in Ghwerig’s cave, Sir Bevier,’ Kurik told him. ‘I saw her rise from a bottomless abyss with my own eyes.’

‘A spell, perhaps?’ But Bevier did not seem quite so sure of himself now.

‘No, Bevier,’ Sephrenia said. ‘No spell could have accomplished what she did in that cave. She was – and is – Aphrael.’

‘Before we get involved in a theological dispute here, I need some information,’ Sparhawk said. ‘How did you all get away from Wargun, and what’s happening in the city?’