The Hidden City

20

If they would just let her sleep. The world around her seemed distorted, unreal, and she could only watch in numb, uncaring bemusement as her exhausted body screamed for sleep—or even for death. She stood exhausted at the window. The slaves toiling in the fields around the lake below looked almost like ants crawling across the winter-fallow fields as they grubbed at the soil with crude implements. Other slaves gathered firewood among the trees on the sloping sides of the basin, and the puny sounds of their axes drifted up to the dark tower from which she watched.

Alcan lay on an unpadded bench, sleeping or dead, Ehlana could no longer tell which, but she envied her gentle maid in either case.

They were not alone, of course. They were never alone. Zalasta, his own face gaunt with weariness, talked on and on with King Santheocles. Ehlana was too tired to make any sense of the haggard Styric’s droning words. She absently looked at the King of the Cyrgai, a man in a close-fitting steel breastplate, a short leather kirtle and ornate steel wrist-guards. Santheocles was of a race apart, and generations of selective breeding had heightened those features most admired by his people. He was tall and superbly muscled. His skin was very fair, although his carefully curled and oiled hair and beard were glossy black. Ffis nose was straight, continuing the unbroken line of his forehead.

His eyes were very large and very dark—and totally empty. His expression was haughty, cruel. His was the face of a stupid, arrogant man devoid of compassion or even simple decency. His ornate breastplate left his upper arms and shoulders bare, and as he listened, he absently clenched and relaxed his fists, setting his muscles to writhing and dancing under his pale skin. He was obviously not paying much attention to Zalasta’s words, but sat instead totally engrossed in the rhythmic flexing and relaxing of the muscles in his arms. He was in all respects a perfect soldier, possessed of a superbly-conditioned body and mind unviolated by thought.

Ehlana wearily let her eyes drift again around the room. The furniture was strange. There were no chairs as such, only benches and padded stools with ornate arms but no backs. Evidently the notion of a chair-back had not occurred to the Cyrgai. The table in the center of the room was awkwardly low, and the lamps were of an ancient design, no more than hammered copper bowls of oil with burning wicks floating in them. The roughly sawed boards of the floor were covered with rushes, the walls of square-cut black basalt were unadorned, and the windows were undraped.

The door opened and Ekatas entered. Ehlana struggled to bring her exhausted mind into focus. Santheocles was king here in Cyrga, but it was Ekatas who ruled. The High Priest of Cyrgon was robed and cowled in black, and his aged face was a network of deep wrinkles. Although his expression was every bit as cruel and arrogant as that of his king, his eyes were shrewd, ruthless. The front of his black robe was adorned with the symbol that seemed to be everywhere here in the Hidden City, a white square surmounted by a stylized golden flame. There was some significance there certainly, but Ehlana was too tired to even wonder what it might be. ‘Come with me,’ he commanded abruptly. ‘Bring the women.’

‘The servant girl is of no moment,’ Zalasta replied in a slightly challenging tone. ‘Let her sleep.’

‘I am not accustomed to having my commands questioned, Styric.’

‘Get accustomed, Cyrgai. The women are my prisoners. My arrangement is with Cyrgon, and you’re no more than an appendage to that arrangement. Your arrogance is beginning to annoy me. Leave the girl alone.’

Their eyes locked, and a sudden tension filled the room. ‘Well, Ekatas?’ Zalasta said very quietly. ‘Has the time come? Have you finally worked up enough courage to challenge me? Any time, Ekatas. Any time at all.’

Ehlana, now fully alert, saw the flicker of fear in the eyes of Cyrgon’s priest. ‘Bring the Queen then,’ he said sullenly. ‘It is she whom Cyrgon would behold.’

‘Wise decision, Ekatas,’ Zalasta said sardonically. ‘If you keep making the right choices, you might even live for a little while longer.’

Ehlana took her cloak and gently covered Alcan with it. Then she turned to face the three men. ‘Let’s get on with this,’ she told them, mustering some remnant of her royal manner.

Santheocles rose woodenly to his feet and put on his highcrested helmet, taking great pains to avoid mussing his carefully arranged hair. He spent several moments buckling on his large round shield, and then he drew his sword.

‘What an ass,’ Ehlana noted scornfully. ‘Are you really sure you should trust His Majesty with anything sharp, though? He might hurt himself with it, you know.’

‘It is customary, woman,’ Ekatas replied stiffly. ‘Prisoners are always kept under close guard.’

‘Ah,’ she murmured, ‘and we must obey the dictates of custom, mustn’t we, Ekatas? When custom rules, thought is unnecessary.’

Zalasta smiled faintly. ‘I believe you wanted to take us to the temple, Ekatas. Let’s not keep Cyrgon waiting.’

Ekatas choked back a retort, jerked the door open and led them out into the chilly hallway. The stairs that descended from the topmost tower of the royal palace were narrow and steep, endless stairs winding down and down. Ehlana was trembling by the time they reached the courtyard below.

The winter sun was very bright in that broad courtyard, but there was not much heat to it. They crossed the flagstoned courtyard to the pale temple, a building constructed not of marble but of chalky limestone. Unlike marble, the limestone had a dull, unreflective surface, and the temple looked somehow diseased, leprous.

They mounted the stairs to the portico and entered through a rude doorway. Ehlana had expected it to be dark inside this holy of Holies, but it was not. She stared with a certain apprehensive astonishment at the source of the light even as Ekatas and Santheocles prostrated themselves, crying in unison, ‘VBnet, Akor. Yala Cyrgon!’

And then it was that the Queen understood the significance of that ubiquitous emblem that marked virtually everything here in the Hidden City. The white square represented the blocky altar set in the precise center of the temple, but the flame that burned atop that altar was no stylized representation. It was instead an actual fire that twisted and flared, reaching hungrily upward.

Ehlana was suddenly afraid. The fire burning on the altar was not some votive offering, but a living flame, conscious, aware, and possessed of an unquenchable will. Bright as the sun, Cyrgon himself burned eternal on his pale altar.

‘No,’ Sparhawk decided. ‘We’d better not. Let’s just sit tight, at least until Xanetia has the chance to winnow through a few minds. We can always come back and deal with Scarpa and his friends later. Right now we need to know where Zalasta’s taking Ehlana and Alcan.’

‘We already know,’ Kalten said. ‘They’re going to Cyrga.’

‘That’s the whole point,’ the now-visible Ulath told him. ‘We don’t know where Cyrga is.’

They had gone back into the vine-choked ruins and had gathered on the second floor of a semi-intact palace to consider options.

‘Aphrael has a general idea,’ Kalten said. ‘Can’t we just start out for central Cynesga and do some poking around when we get there?’

‘I don’t think that’d do much good,’ Bevier pointed out. ‘Cyrgon’s been concealing the place with illusions for the past ten eons. We could probably walk right through the streets of the city and not even see it.’

‘He’s not hiding it from everybody,’ Caalador mused. ‘There are messages going back and forth, so somebody here in Natayos has to know the way. Sparhawk’s right. Why don’t we let Xanetia do the poking around here, instead of the lot of us going off into the desert to dodge scorpions and snakes while we turn over pebbles and grains of sand?’

‘We stay here then?’ Tynian asked.

‘For the time being,’’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Let’s not do anything to attract attention until we find out what Xanetia can discover. That’s our best option at the moment.’

‘We were so close.’ Kalten fumed. ‘If we’d just gotten here a day or two earlier.”

‘Well, we didn’t,’ Sparhawk said flatly, forcing back his own disappointment and frustration. ‘So let’s make the best of it and salvage what we can.’

‘With Zalasta getting further and further away with every minute,’ Kalten added bitterly.

‘Don’t worry, Kalten,’ Sparhawk told him in a tone as cold as death. ‘Zalasta can’t run far enough or fast enough to get away from me when I decide to go after him.’

‘Are you busy, Sarabian?’ Empress Elysoun asked tentatively from the doorway of the blue-draped room.

‘Not really, Elysoun,’ he sighed. ‘Just brooding. I’ve had a great deal of bad news in the last day or so.’

‘I’ll come back some other time. You’re not much fun when you’ve got things on your mind.’

‘Is that all there is in the world, Elysoun?’ he asked her sadly. ‘Only fun?’

Her sunny expression tightened slightly, and she stepped into the room. ‘That’s what you married us for in the first place, wasn’t it, Sarabian?’ She spoke in crisp Tamul that was not at all like her usual relaxed Valesian dialect. ‘Our marriages to you were to cement political alliances, so we’re here as symbols, playthings, and ornaments. We’re certainly not a part of the government.’

He was rather startled by her perception and by the sudden change in her. It was easy to underestimate Elysoun. Her single-minded pursuit of pleasure and the aggressively revealing nature of her native dress proclaimed her to be an empty-headed sensualist, but this was a completely different Elysoun. He looked at her with new interest. ‘What have you been up to lately, my love?’ he asked her fondly.

‘The usual,’ she shrugged.

He averted his eyes. ‘Please don’t do that.’

‘Do what?’

‘Bounce that way. It’s very distracting.’

‘It’s supposed to be. You don’t think I dress this way because I’m too lazy to put on clothes, do you?’

‘Is that why you came by? For fun? Or was there something more tedious?’ They had never talked this way before, and her sudden frankness intrigued him.

‘Let’s talk about the tedious things first,’ she said. She looked at him critically. ‘You need to get more sleep,’ she chided.

‘I wish I could. I’ve got too much on my mind.’

‘I’ll have to see what I can do about that.’ She paused. ‘There’s something going on in the Women’s Palace, Sarabian.’

‘Oh?’

‘A lot of strangers have been mingling with the assorted lapdogs and toadies that litter the halls.’

He laughed. ‘That’s a blunt way to describe courtiers.’

‘Aren’t they? There’s not a real man among them. They’re in the palace to help us with our schemes. You did know that we spend our days plotting against each other, didn’t you?’

He shrugged. ‘It gives you all something to do in your spare time.’

‘That’s the only kind of time we have, my husband. All of our time is spare time, Sarabian, that’s what’s wrong with us. Anyway, these strangers aren’t attached to any of the established courts.’

‘Are you sure?’

Her answering smile was wicked. ‘Trust me. I’ve had dealings with all the regular ones. They’re all little more than butterflies. These strangers are wasps.’

He gave her an amused look. ‘Have you actually winnowed your way through all the courtiers in the Women’s Palace?’

‘More or less.’ She shrugged again—quite deliberately, he thought. ‘Actually it was rather boring. Courtiers are a tepid lot, but it was a way to keep track of what was going on.’

‘Then it wasn’t entirely—?’

‘A little, perhaps, but I have to take steps to protect myself. Our politics are subtle, but they’re very savage.’

‘Are these strangers Tamuls?’

‘Some are. Some aren’t.’

‘How long has this been going on?’

‘Since we all moved back to the Women’s Palace. I didn’t see any of these wasps when we were all living here with the Elenes.’

‘Just the past few weeks then?’

She nodded. ‘I thought you should know. It could be just more of the same kind of thing that’s been going on for years, but I don’t really think so. It feels different somehow. Our politics are more indirect than yours, and what’s happening in the Women’s Palace is men’s politics.’

‘Do you suppose you could keep an eye on it for me? I’d be grateful.’

‘Of course, my husband. I am loyal, after all.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘Don’t make that mistake, Sarabian. Loyalty shouldn’t be confused with that other business. That doesn’t mean anything. Loyalty does.’

‘There’s a lot more to you than meets the eye, Elysoun.’

‘Oh? I’ve never tried to conceal anything.’ She inhaled deeply.

He laughed again. ‘Do you have plans for this evening?’

‘Nothing that can’t be put off until some other time. What did you have in mind?’

‘I thought we might talk a while.’

‘Talk?’

‘Among other things.’

‘Let me send a message first. Then we can talk for as long as you like—among those other things you mentioned.’

They were two days out of Tiara on their way around the west end of the lake on the road to Arjuna. They had camped on the lakeshore some distance from the road, and Khalad had shot a deer with his crossbow. ‘Camp-meat,’ he explained to Berit as he skinned the animal. ‘It saves time and money.’

‘You’re really very good with that crossbow,’ Berit said.

Khalad shrugged. ‘Practice,’ he replied. Then his head came up sharply. ‘Company coming.’ He pointed toward the road with his knife.

‘Arjunir,’ Berit noted, squinting at the approaching riders.

‘Not all of them,’ Khalad disagreed. ‘The one in front’s an Elene—an Edomishman, judging from his clothes.’ Khalad wiped his bloody hands on the long grass, picked up his crossbow and re-cocked it. ‘Just to be on the safe side,’ he explained. ‘They do know who we really are, after all.’

Berit nodded bleakly and loosened his sword in its scabbard.

The riders reined in about fifty yards away. ‘Sir Sparhawk?’ the Edomishman called out in Elenic.

‘Maybe,’ Berit called back. ‘What can I do for you, neighbor?’

‘I have a message for you.’

‘I’m touched. Bring it on in.’

‘Come alone,’ Khalad added. ‘You won’t need your bodyguards.’

‘I’ve heard about what you did to the last messenger.’

‘Good,’ Khalad replied. ‘We sort of intended for word of that to get around. The fellow had a little trouble being civil, but I’m sure you have better manners. Come ahead. You’re safe—as long as you’re polite.’

The Edomishman still hesitated.

‘Friend,’ Khalad said pointedly, ‘you’re well within range of my crossbow, so you’d better do as I tell you. Just come on in alone. We’ll conduct our business, and then you and your Arjuni friends can be on your way. Otherwise, this might turn unpleasant.’

The Edomishman conferred briefly with his bodyguards and then rode cautiously forward, holding a folded parchment above his head. ‘I’m not armed,’ he announced.

‘That’s not very prudent, neighbor,’ Berit told him. ‘These are troubled times. Let’s have the note.’

The messenger lowered his arm slowly and extended the parchment. ‘The plans have changed, Sir Sparhawk,’ he said politely.

‘Astonishing.’ Berit opened the parchment and gently took out the lock of identifying hair. ‘This is only about the third time. You fellows seem to be having some difficulty making up your minds.’ He looked at the parchment. ‘That’s accommodating. Somebody even drew a map this time.’

‘The village isn’t really very well-known,’ the Edomishman explained. ‘It’s a tiny place that wouldn’t even be there if it weren’t for the slave-trade.’

‘You’re a very good messenger, friend,’ Khalad told him. ‘Would you like to carry a word back to Krager for me?’

‘I’ll try, young Master.’

‘Good. Tell him that I’m coming after him. He should probably start looking back over his shoulder, because no matter how this turns out, one day I’ll be there.’

The Edomishman swallowed hard. ‘I’ll tell him, young Master.’

‘I’d appreciate it.’

The messenger carefully backed his horse off a few yards and then rode off to rejoin his Arjuni escort.

‘Well?’ Khalad asked.

‘Vigayo—over in Cynesga.’

‘It’s not much of a town.’

‘You’ve been there?’

‘Briefly. Bhelliom took us there by mistake when Sparhawk was practicing with it.’

‘How far is it from here?’

‘About a hundred leagues. It’s in the right direction, though. Aphrael said that Zalasta’s taking the Queen to Cyrga, so Vigayo’s got to be closer than Arjun. Pass the word, Berit. Tell Aphrael that we’ll start out first thing in the morning. Then you can come and help me cut up this deer. It’s ten days to Vigayo, so we’re probably going to need the meat.’

‘He hath been there,’ Xanetia told them. ‘His memories of the Hidden City are vivid, but his recollection of the route is imprecise. I could glean no more than disconnected impressions of the journey. His madness hath bereft his thought of coherence, and his mind doth flit from reality to illusion and back without purpose or direction.’

‘I’d say we got us a problem,’ Caalador drawled. ‘Ol’ Krager, he don’t know th’ way on accounta he wuz too drunk t’ pay attention when Zalasta wuz a-talkin ’bout how t’ git t’ Cyrga, an’ Scorpa’s too crazy t’ remember how he got that.’ His eyes narrowed, and he discarded the dialect. ‘What about Cyzada?’ he asked Xanetia.

She shuddered. ‘It is not madness nor drunkenness which doth bar my way into the thought of Cyzada of Esos,’ she replied in a voice filled with revulsion. ‘Deeply hath he reached into the darkness that was Azash, and the creatures of the netherworld have possessed him so utterly that his thought is no longer human. His spells at first did in some measure control those horrid demons, but then he did summon Klael, and in that act was all unloosed. Prithee, do not send me again into that soothing chaos. He doth indeed know a route to Cyrga, but we could in no wise follow that path, for it doth lie through the realm of sine and darkness and unspeakable horror.’

‘That more or less exhausts the possibilities of this place then, doesn’t it?’ They all turned quickly at the sound of the familiar voice. The Child Goddess sat demurely on a window-ledge holding her pipes in her hands.

‘Is this wise, Divine One?’ Bevier asked her. ‘Won’t our enemies sense your presence?’

‘There’s no one left here who can do that, Bevier,’ she replied. ‘Zalasta’s gone. I just stopped by to tell you that Berit’s received new instructions. He and Khalad are going to Vigayo, a village just on the other side of the Cynesgan border. As soon as you’re ready, I’ll take you there.’

‘What good will that do?’ Kalten asked.

‘I need to get Xanetia close to the next messenger,’ she replied. ‘Cyrga’s completely concealed—even from me. There’s a key to that illusion, and that’s what we have to find. Without that key, we could all grow old wandering around out in that wasteland and still not find the city.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ Sparhawk conceded. He looked directly at her. ‘Can you arrange another meeting? We’re getting close to the end of this, and I need to talk with the others, Vanion and Bergsten in particular, and probably with Betuana and Kring as well. We’ve got armies at our disposal, but they won’t be much use if they’re running off in three different directions or attacking Cyrga piecemeal. We’ve got a general idea of where the place is, and I’d like to put a ring of steel around it, but I don’t want anybody to go blundering in there until we get Ehlana and Alcan safely out.’

‘You’re going to get me in trouble, Sparhawk,’ she said tartly. ‘Do you have any idea of the kinds of promises I’ll have to make to get permission for that kind of gathering?—and I’ll have to keep all those promises too.’

‘It’s really very important, Aphrael.’

She stuck her tongue out at him, and then she wavered and vanished.

‘Domi Tikume sent orders, your Reverence,’ the shaved-headed Peloi advised Patriarch Bergsten when they met in the churchman’s tent just outside the town of Pela in central Astel. ‘We’re to provide whatever assistance we can.’

‘Your Domi’s a good man, friend Daiya,’ the armored Patriarch replied.

‘His orders stirred up a hornet’s nest,’ Daiya said wryly. ‘The idea of an alliance with the Church Knights set off a theological debate that went on for days. Most people here in Astel believe that the Church Knights were born and raised in Hell. A fair number of the debaters are currently taking the matter up with God in person.’

‘I gather that religious disputes among the Peloi are quite spirited.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Daiya agreed. ‘The message from Archimandrite Morsel helped to quiet things, though. Peloi religious thought isn’t really all that profound, your Reverence. We trust God and leave the theology to the churchmen. If the Archimandrite approves, that’s good enough for us. If he’s wrong, he’s the one who’ll burn in Hell for it.’

‘How far is it from here to Cynestra?’ Bergsten asked him.

‘About a hundred and seventy-five leagues, your Reverence.’

‘Three weeks,’ Bergsten muttered sourly. ‘Well, there’s not much we can do about that, I suppose. We’ll start out first thing in the morning. Tell your men to get some sleep, friend Daiya. It’s probably going to be in short supply for the next month or so.’

‘Bergsten.’ The voice crooning his name was light and musical. The Thalesian Patriarch sat up quickly, reaching for his axe.

‘Oh, don’t do that, Bergsten. I’m not going to hurt you.’

‘Who’s there?’ he demanded, fumbling for his candle and his flint and steel.’

‘Here.’ A small hand emerged from the darkness with a tongue of flame dancing on its palm.

Bergsten blinked. His midnight visitor was a little girl—Styric, he guessed. She was a beautiful child with long hair and large eyes as dark as night. Bergsten’s hands started to tremble.

‘You’re Aphrael, aren’t you?’ he choked.

‘Good observation, your Grace. Sparhawk wants to see you.’

He drew back from this personage that standard Church doctrine told him did not—could not—exist.

‘You’re being silly, your Grace,’ she told him. ‘You know that I wouldn’t even be talking to you if I didn’t have permission from your God, don’t you? I can’t even come near you without permission.’

‘Well, theoretically,’ he reluctantly conceded. ‘You could be a demon, though, and the rules don’t apply to them.’

‘Do I look like a demon?’

‘Appearance and reality are two different things,’ he insisted.

Afrael looked into his eyes and pronounced the true name of the Elene god, one of the most closely-kept secrets of the Church. ‘A demon couldn’t say that name, could it, your Grace?’

‘Well, I suppose not.’

‘We’ll get along well, Bergsten,’ she smiled, kissing him lightly on the cheek. ‘Ortzel would have argued that point for weeks. Leave your axe here, please. Steel makes my flesh crawl.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘To meet with Sparhawk. I already told you that.’

‘Is it far?’

‘Not really.’ She smiled, opening the tent flap.

It was still night in Pela, but it was broad daylight beyond the tent flap—a strange sort of daylight. A pristine white beach stretched down to a sapphire sea all under a rainbow-colored sky, and a small green eyot surmounted by a gleaming alabaster temple rose from that incredibly blue sea about a half-mile from the beach.

‘What place is this!’ Bergsten asked, poking his head out of the tent and looking around in amazement.

‘I suppose you could call it Heaven, your Grace,’ the Child Goddess replied, blowing out the flame dancing on her palm. ‘It’s mine, anyway. There are others, but this one’s mine.’

‘Where is it?’

‘Everywhere and anywhere. All the Heavens are everyplace all at once. So are all the Hells, of course—but that’s another story. Shall we go?’

21

Cordz of Nelan was the perfect man. That realization had not come easily to the devout Edomishman. It had only been after extended soul-searching and a meticulous examination of the sacred texts of his faith that he had arrived at the inescapable conclusion.

He was perfect. He obeyed all of God’s commandments, he did what he was supposed to do, and he did not do the things that were forbidden. Isn’t that what perfection is all about?

It was a comfort to be perfect, but Cordz was not one to rest on his laurels. Now that he had achieved perfection in the eyes of God, it was time to turn his attention to the faults of his neighbors. Sinners, however, seldom sin openly, so Cordz was forced to resort to subterfuge. He peeked through windows at night, he eavesdropped on private conversations, and, when his sinful neighbors cleverly concealed their wrongdoing from him, he imagined the sins they might be committing. The Sabbath was a very special day for Cordz, but not for the service. After all, what need had a perfect man for sermons? It was on the Sabbath that he was able to rise to his feet and announce the sins of his neighbors, both the sins they hand committed and the sins they might be committing.

He probably irritated the Devil. God knows he irritated his neighbours.

But then a crisis had arisen in Edom. The debauched and Church of Chyrellos, after two eons of plotting and yr was finally preparing to make her move against the righteous. The Church Knights were on the march, and horrors beyond imagining marched with them.

Cordz was among the first to enlist in Rebal’s army, the perfect man abandoned his neighbors to their sinful ways to join a holier cause. He became Rebal’s most trusted messenger, killing horses by the dozen as he rushed about the Elene kingdoms of western Tamuli carrying the dispatches so vital to the cause.

On this particular day Cordz was flogging his exhausted horse southward toward the corrupt cities of southern Daconia, cesspools of sin and licentiousness, if the truth were to be known, where the citizens not only did not know that they were sinners, they did not even care. Worse yet, an obscure and probably heretical tradition of the Dacite Church prevented laymen from speaking aloud during Sabbath services. Thus, God’s very own spokesman, the perfect man, was not permitted to expose and denounce the sins he saw all around him. The frustration of it sometimes made him want to just scream.

He had been riding hard for the past week, and he was very tired. Thus it was with some relief that he finally crested the hill that overlooked the port city of Melek. Then all thoughts of the sins of others vanished. Cordz reined in his staggering horse and gaped in horror at what he saw.

There on a sea sparkling in the winter sun was a vast armada, ships beyond counting, sailing majestically down the coast under the red and gold banners of the Church of Chyrellos! The perfect man was so overcome with horror that he did not even hear the plaintive sound of a shepherd’s rude pipe playing a Styric air in a minor key somewhere off to his left. He gaped for a time at his worst nightmare, and then he desperately drove his spurs into his horse’s flanks, rushing to spread the alarm.

General Sirada was the younger brother of Duke Milanis, and he commanded the rebel forces in Panem-Doa. King Rakya had so arranged it that most of Scarpa’s generals were Arjuni. Sirada knew that there were risks involved, but the younger sons of noble families were obliged to take risks if they wanted to get ahead in the world. For them, rank and position had to be won.

Sirada had endured the years of association with the crazy bastard son of a tavern wench and the discomfort of camping out in the jungle waiting for his chance. And now it had come. The madman in Natayos had finally sent the order to march. The campaign had begun. There was no sleep in Panem-Doa that night. The preparations for the march went on through the hours of darkness, and the undisciplined rabble Sirada commanded was incapable of doing anything quietly.

The general spent the night poring over his maps. The strategy was sound, he was forced to admit that. He was to join forces with Scarpa and the other rebels near Verel. Then they would march north to the Tamul Mountains to be reinforced by Cynesgans. From there, they would march on Toea in preparation for the final assault on Matherion.

General Sirada’s own strategy was much simpler. Scarpa would crush any resistance at Toea, but he would not live to see the gleaming domes of the imperial capital. Sirada smiled thinly and patted the little vial of poison he carried in his inside pocket. The army would capture Matherion, but it would be General Sirada who would lead the final assault and personally run his sword through Emperor Sarabian. The younger brother of Duke Milanis expected an earldom at the very least to come out of this campaign.

The door banged open, and his adjutant burst into the room, his eyes starting from his head and his face a pasty white. ‘Good God, my General!’ he shrieked.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Sirada demanded. ‘How dare you? I’ll have you flogged for this!’

‘We’re being attacked, my General!’

Sirada could hear the squeals of terror now. He rose quickly and went out the door. It was not yet daylight, and a clinging mist had crept in out of the tangled forest to blur the ruined walls and houses of Panem-Doa. There were fires and flaring torches pushing back the darkness with their ruddy light, but there were other lights in the weed-choked streets as well, pale, cold lights that did not burn or flicker. Creatures of light, pale as wandering moons, stalked the streets of Panem-Doa. The general’s heart filled with terror. It was impossible. the Shining Ones were a myth! There were no such creatures!

Sirada shook off his fright and drew his sword. ‘Stand fast!’ he roared at his demoralized men. ‘Form up! Pikemen to the front!’ He bulled his way into the milling mob of terrified troops, flailing about him with the flat of his sword. ‘Form up! Make a—’

But there was no rationality nor fear of authority in the panic-stricken faces of his poorly trained men. The screaming mob simply diverged and bypassed him on either side. He ran at them again, swinging great strokes with his sword, cutting down his own men. He was so desperate to restore order that he did not even feel the knife-stroke that went in just below his ribs on the left side. He could not even understand why his knees buckled or why he fell under the trampling feet of his soldiers as they fled screaming into the trackless forest.

‘Are you sure this map’s accurate, Tynian?’ Patriarch Bergsten demanded, peering at the miniature world under his foot.

‘It’s the most accurate map you’ll ever see, your Grace,’ Tynian assured him. ‘Bhlokw cast the spell, and the Troll-Gods put their hands into the ground and felt the shape of the continent. This is it—down to the last tree and bush. Everything’s here.’

‘Except for Cyrga, Tynian-Knight,’ Engessa amended. The Atan general was completely healed now, and he looked as fit as ever. His face, however, was troubled. His Queen had greeted him almost abruptly when she had first arrived, and she was now quite obviously avoiding him.

Sephrenia was seated on one of the benches in Aphrael’s alabaster temple with the rainbow light from the impossible sky playing over her face. ‘We’d hoped that Schlee might be able to feel Cyrga when he re-created the continent, your Grace,’ she said, ‘but Cyrgon’s illusion seems to be absolute. Not even a Trollish spell can break it.’

‘What’s the best guess we can come up with?’ Bergsten asked.

Aphrael walked lightly across the tiny world Bhlokw had conjured up for them. She stepped over the minuscule city of Cynestra and continued south to a mountainous region in the center of the desert. ‘It used to be somewhere in this general vicinity,’ she said, gesturing vaguely over the mountains.

‘Used to be?’ Bergsten asked her sharply.

She shrugged. ‘Sometimes we move things.’

‘Whole cities?’

‘It’s possible—but it’s a reflection of bad planning.’

Bergsten shuddered and began marking off distances on the miniature continent with a long piece of string. ‘I’m up here at Pela,’ he told them, pointing at a spot in central Astel. ‘That’s almost three hundred leagues from the general vicinity of Cyrga, and I’ll have to stop to capture Cynestra along the way. The rest of you are much closer, so you’re going to have to hold off a bit if we all want to get there at approximately the same time.’

Aphrael shrugged. ‘I’ll tamper,’ she said.

Bergsten gave her a puzzled look.

‘Divine Aphrael has ways of compressing time and distance your Grace,’ Sparhawk explained. ‘She can—’

‘I don’t want to hear about it, Sparhawk!’ Bergsten said sharply, putting his hands over his ears. ‘You’ve already put my soul in danger just by bringing me here. Please don’t make it any worse by telling me things I don’t need to know about.’

‘Whatever you say, your Grace,’ Sparhawk agreed.

Emban was pacing around the cluster of up-thrusting mountains in the center of the Cynesgan Desert. ‘We’re all going to be converging on these mountains,’ he said. ‘I’m no expert, but wouldn’t our best move be to just stop in the foothills and wait until everyone’s in place before we make the final assault?’

‘No, your Grace,’ Vanion said firmly. ‘Let’s stay out a bit from the foothills—at least a day’s ride. If we run into Klael’s creatures, we’ll need room to maneuver. I want a lot of flat ground around me when that happens.’

The fat little Churchman shrugged. ‘You’re the soldier, Vanion.’ He pointed toward the south. ‘There’s our weakness,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a good concentration of forces coming out of the east, the northeast and the north, but we don’t have anybody covering the south.’

‘Or the west,’ Sarabian added.

‘I’ll cover the west, your Majesty,’ Bergsten told him. ‘I can position my knights and the Peloi to block off that entire quadrant.’

‘That still leaves the south,’ Emban mused.

‘It’s already been taken care of, Emban,’ Aphrael assured him. Stragen’s been spinning stories about a vast Church fleet off the southern coast, and I’ve been weaving illusions to back him up.’

‘How long is it going to take the Trolls to get into position north of Zhubay, Ulath?’

‘Just as long as it takes to persuade the Troll-Gods that we need their children there instead of in the Tamul mountains,’ Tynian replied. ‘A day or so, probably. Once they’re convinced, they’ll put their children into No-Time. If we didn’t have to stop now and then to feed the Trolls, we could be in Zhubay before you could even blink. If I knew where Cyrga was, I could have fifteen hundred Trolls on the doorstep by morning.’

‘There’s no need to rush.’ The Child Goddess looked around with steely eyes. ‘Nobody—and I mean nobody—is going to move on Cyrga until I know that Ehlana and Alcan are safe. If I have to, I can keep you running around in circles out there in that desert for generations, so don’t try to get creative on me.’

‘Is the Queen of Elenia so very important to you, Divine One?’ Betuana asked mildly. ‘War is hard, and we must accept our losses.’

‘It’s a personal matter, Betuana,’ Aphrael said shortly. ‘These are your positions.’ She gestured over the miniature continent. ‘Bergsten will come in from the north and west to cover that side of the city, Ulath, Tynian and Bhlokw will bring the Trolls down from Zhubay and join with Betuana’s Atans on their left flank, Vanion will come in from the east and be joined on his left by Kring and the Peloi, Stragen’s persuaded that disgusting Dacite in Beresa that there are a million or so Church Knights landing on the coast around Verel and Kaftal, and that should divert most of the armies of Cynesga. We’ll all converge on Cyrga. There are some discrepancies in the distances, but I’ll take care of those. When the time comes, you will all be in place—even if I have to pick you up one by one and carry you.’ She stopped abruptly. ‘What is your problem, Bergsten? Don’t laugh at me, or I’ll take you by the nose and shake you.’’

‘I wasn’t laughing, Divine One,’ he assured her. ‘I was only smiling in approval. Where did you learn so much about strategy and tactics?’

‘I’ve been watching you Elenes make war since shortly after you discovered fire, your Grace. I was bound to learn a few of the tricks of the trade.’ She turned suddenly on Bhlokw. ‘What?’ she asked irritably in Trollish.

‘U-lat has said to me what you have said, Child Goddess. Why are we doing this?’

‘To punish the wicked ones, Priest of the Troll-Gods.’

‘What?” Sparhawk said to Ulath in stunned amazement. ‘What did she call him?’

‘Oh?’ Ulath said mildly. ‘Didn’t you know? Our shaggy friend has a certain eminence.’

‘They actually have priests?’

‘Of course. Doesn’t everybody?’

‘It is good to punish the wicked ones who have taken Anakha’s mate away,’ Bhlokw was saying, ‘but do we need to take so many? Khwaj will punish the wicked ones. This is the season of Schlee, and we should be following the way of the hunt. The young must be fed or they will die, and that is not a good thing.’

‘Oh, dear,’ Aphrael murmured.

‘What’s happening here, Sir Ulath?’ Sarabian asked.

‘The Trolls are hunters, your Majesty,’ Ulath explained, ‘not warriors. They have no real understanding of warfare. They eat what they kill.’

Sarabian shuddered.

‘It is very moral, your Majesty,’ Ulath pointed out. ‘From a Troll’s point of view, wasting the meat is criminal.’

Aphrael was squinting at the priest of the Troll-Gods. ‘It is a good thing to do that which follows the way of the hunt and punishes the wicked ones at the same time,’ she said. ‘If we hunt this way, we will cause hurt to the wicked ones and bring much meat to the young during the season of Schlee.’

Bhlokw considered that. ‘The hunts of the man-things are not-simple,’ he said dubiously, ‘but it is my thought that the hunts of the God-things are even more not-simple.’ He reflected on it. ‘It is good, though. A hunt that gathers more than meat is a good hunt. You hunt very well, Child Goddess. Sometime we might take eat together and talk of old hunts. It is good to do this. It makes pack-mates closer so that they hunt together better.’

‘It would make me glad if we did this, Bhlokw.’

‘Then we will do it. I will kill a dog for us to eat. Dog is even more good-to-eat than pig.’

Aphrael made a slight gagging sound.

‘Will it cause anger to you if I speak to our pack-mates in bird-noises, Bhlokw?’ Sparhawk stepped in. ‘It will soon be time for the hunt to begin, and all must be made ready.’

‘It will not cause anger to me, Anakha. U-lat can say to me what you are saying.’

‘All right then,’ Sparhawk said to the rest of them. ‘We all know how we’re going to converge on Cyrga, but there are several of us who have to go in first. Please hold off on your attack until we’re in position. Don’t crowd us by trampling on our heels.’

‘Who are you taking in with you, Sparhawk?’ Vanion asked.

‘Kalten, Bevier, Talen, Xanetia and Mirtai.’

‘I don’t quite—’

Sparhawk held up one hand. ‘Aphrael made the choices, my Lord,’ he said. ‘If there are any objections, take them up with her.’

‘You have to have those people with you, Sparhawk,’ Aphrael explained patiently. ‘If you don’t, you’ll fail.’

‘Whatever you say, Divine One,’ he surrendered.

‘You’ll be out in front of Berit and me then?’ Khalad asked.

Sparhawk nodded. ‘The people on the other side will expect us to trail along behind you. If we’re in front, it might confuse them—at least that’s what we’re hoping. Aphrael will take us directly to Vigayo and we’ll nose around a bit. If the fellow with the next message is already there, Xanetia should be able to pick up your new destination. Sooner or later, somebody’s going to have to give you the key to the illusion that’s hiding Cyrga, and that’s the one piece of information we have to have. Once we’ve got that, the rest is easy.’

‘I like his definition of easy,’ Caalador murmured to Stragen.

Emban jotted another note on his inevitable list. Then he cleared his throat.

‘Must you, Emban?’ Bergsten sighed.

‘It helps me to think, Bergsten, and it makes sure that we haven’t left anything out. If it bores you so much, don’t listen.’

‘The man-things talk much when they decide how they will hunt, U-lat,’ Bhlokw complained.

‘It is the nature of the man-things to do this.’

‘It is because the hunts of the man-things are too much not-simple. It is my thought that their hunts are not-simple because they do not eat the ones they kill. They hunt and kill for reasons which I do not understand. It is my thought that this thing the man-things call “war” is a very great wickedness.’

‘It is not in our thought to cause anger to the priest of the Troll-Gods,’ Patriarch Bergsten said in flawless Trollish. ‘The thing which the man-things call war is like the thing which happens when two Troll-packs come to hunt on the same range.’

Bhlokw considered that. Then he grunted as comprehension came over his shaggy face. ‘Now it is clear to me,’ he said. ‘This thing the man-things call “war” is like the hunting of thought. That is why it is not-simple. But you still talk much.’ The Troll squinted at Emban. ‘That one is the worst,’ he added. ‘His mindbelly is as big as his belly-belly.’

‘What did he say?’ Emban asked curiously.

‘It wouldn’t translate very well, your Grace,’ Ulath replied blandly.

Patriarch Emban gave him a slightly suspicious look and then meticulously laid out their deployment once again, checking items off his list as he went. When he had finished, he looked around. ‘Can anybody think of anything else?’

‘Perhaps,’ Sephrenia said, frowning slightly. ‘Our enemies know that Berit’s not really Sparhawk, but they’re going to think that Sparhawk won’t have any choice but to follow along behind. It might help to confirm that belief. I think I know a way to duplicate the sound and sense of Bhelliom. If it works, our enemies will think that Sparhawk’s somewhere in the column of knights Vanion’s going to lead out into the desert. They’ll concentrate on us rather than looking for him.’

‘You’re putting yourself in danger, Sephrenia,’ Aphrael objected.

‘There’s nothing particularly new about that.’ Sephrenia smiled. ‘And when you consider what we’re trying to do, no place is really safe.’

‘Is that it, then?’ Engessa asked, standing up.

‘Probably, friend Engessa,’ Kring replied, ‘except for the hour or so we’ll all spend telling each other to be careful.’

Engessa squared his shoulders, turned and faced his Queen directly. ‘What are your orders, Betuana-Queen,’ he asked her with military formality.

She drew herself up with a regal stiffness. ‘It is our instruction that you return with us to Sama, Engessa-Atan. There you will resume command of our armies.’

‘It shall be as you say, Betuana-Queen.’

‘Directly upon our return, you will send runners to my husband, the king. Tell him that there is no longer a threat to Toea. The Shining Ones will deal with Scarpa.’

He nodded stiffly.

‘Further, tell him that I have need of his forces in Sama. That is where we will prepare for the main battle, and he should be there to take command.’ She paused. ‘This is not because we are dissatisfied with your leadership, Engessa-Atan, but he is the king. You have served well. The royal house of Atan is grateful.’

‘It is my duty, Betuana-Queen,’ he replied, clashing his fist against his breastplate in salute. ‘No gratitude is necessary.’

‘Oh, dear,’ Aphrael murmured.

‘What’s wrong?’ Sephrenia asked her.

‘Nothing.’

22

‘It was definitely Chacole and Torellia, Sarabian,’ Elysoun insisted several days later. ‘Chacole’s more or less running things. She’s er and shrewder. The strangers usually go directly to her. They talk privately for a while, and then she sends for Torellia. They weren’t really all that fond of each other before, but now theyve got their heads together all the time.’

‘Theyre probably getting orders from home,’ Sarabian mused. Jaluah of Cynesga is Chacole’s brother, and Torellia’s the daughter of King Rakya of Arjuna. Can you get any sense at all of what they might be up to?’

She shook her head. ‘It’s too early.”

‘Early?’

‘Women’s politics again. We’re more devious than men. Chacole will want everything in place before she starts to form alliances. She’s got Torellia under control, but she’s not ready to start trying to expand yet.’

‘You’rere sure that Torellia’s the subordinate one?’

She nodded. ‘Chacole’s servants are lording it over hers. That’s the first sign of dominance in the Women’s Palace. Ceirona’s servants are all insufferable because she’s the first wife and we’re all subordinate to her—except for Liatris, of course,’

Sarabian smiled. ‘No one in his right mind is ont to Liatris. Has she killed anybody lately?’

‘Not since she butchered Cieronna’s footman last year.’

‘There’s a thought. Should we bring Liatris into this?’

Elisoun shook her head. ‘Maybe later, but not at this stage. Atana Liatris is too direct. If I approached her with this, she’d simply kill Chacole and Torellia. Let’s wait until she approaches me before we involve Liatris.’

‘Are you sure Chacole will approach you?’

‘It’s almost certain. My servants have greater freedom of movement than hers—because of my social activities.’

‘That’s a delicate way to put it.’

‘You knew I was a Valesian when you married me, Sarabian, and you know about our customs. That’s why my servants have the run of the compound. It’s always been a tradition.’

He sighed. ‘How many are there currently, Elysoun?’

‘None, actually.’ She smiled at him. ‘You don’t really understand, do you, Sarabian? The biggest part of the fun of those little adventures has always been the intrigue, and I’m getting plenty of that playing politics.’

‘Aren’t you feeling a little—deprived?’

‘I can endure it,’ she shrugged, ‘and if I get desperate, I always have you to fall back on, don’t I?’ and she gave him an arch little smile.

‘Wal, sir, Master Valash,’ Caalador drawled, leaning back in his chair in the cluttered loft, ‘ol’ Vymer here, he done tole me that yet a’ willin’ t’ pay good money fer information, an’ he sorta figgered oz how y’ might want t’ hear ’bout the stuff I seen in southwest Atan fer yet very own self.’

‘You two have known each other for quite some time then?’ Valash asked.

‘Oh, gorsh yes, Master Valash. Me’n Vymer goes way back. We wuz all t’gether durin’ that fracas in Matherion—him an’ me an’ From an’ Reldin—along with a couple others—when the fellers from Interior come a-bustin’ in on us. They wuz hull bunches o’ excitement that night, let me tell yew. Anyway, ahem we shuck off the po-lice, we all split up an’ scattered t’ th’ winds. Tain’t a real good idee t’ stay all bunched up whin yet a-runnin’ from th’ law.’

Stragen sat back from the table out of the circle of light from the single candle, carefully watching Valash’s face. Caalador had just arrived to replace Sparhawk and Talen in the ongoing deception of Valash, and Stragen was once again impressed by how smooth his friend really was. Valash seemed lulled by the easy, folksy charm of Caalador’s dialect. Stragen despised the speech, but he was forced to admit its utility. It always seemed so innocently artless.

‘Anyway?’ Valash asked.

‘I tuk off ‘bout a week ago,’ Caalador shrugged. ‘ff in a tavern up in Delo whilst I wuz e, an’ they wuz a feller what had “police him who wuz describin’ ol’ From an’ the warts. Soon’s I got yore, I tole ‘em ’bout at it might just be time t’ move on. Anyas how yet innerested in whut’s a-goin’ I seen a few things after we all got run e’s a-thankin’ might be worth somethin.’

‘I’ll certainly listen, Ezek.’ Valash raised his head sharply as the comatose Ogerajin began to mumble in his sleep.

‘Is he all right?’ Stragen asked.

‘It’s nothing,’ Valash said shortly. ‘He does that all the time. Go ahead, Ezek.’

‘Wal, sir, she wuz a couple weeks ago, I guess, an’ I wuz hot-footin’ it across Atan, figgerin’ t’ make m’ way on across Darsos—on accounta the law bein’ hot on m’ heels an’

‘I wuz a-comin’ on down outten th’ mountings when I putt e.bort, cuz I seen more gol-darg Atans than I thought they in the hull world—I mean, they wint on fer miles. They multitudes o’ them bi rascals—all geared up fer war an real mean an’ on-friendly-like.’

‘The entire Atan army?’ Valash exclaimed.’

‘It lookt t’ me more like a gineral my-grashun of the hull darg, master Valash. Y aint’ niver seen s’ miny of ’em!’

‘Where exactly were they?’ Valash asked excitedly.

‘Waal sir, close oz I could make out, they wuz right close t’ the Synesgan border—up that close by a little town call Zhubay. Appen t’ have a map handy, I could point out th’ eggt fer ya.’ Caalador squinted at the Dacite. ‘Whut would as infermaytion’s worth, Master Valash?’

He didn’t even hesitate when he reached for his purse.

‘Strange, Domi Tikume,’ Kring told his friend as the head of their massed tribesmen out into the sort the morning after the conference on Aphrael’s island. ‘The Child Goddess said that we were all dreaming, but everything seemed so real. I could actually smell the flowers and the grass. I’ve never smelled anything in a dream before.”

Tikume looked dubious. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t heresy to go there, Domi Kring?’

Kring laughed wryly. ‘Well, if it was, I was in good company. Patriarch Emban was there, and so was Patriarch Bergsten. Anyway, you and I are supposed to continue making these raids into Cynesga. Then we’re supposed to go ahead and ride on in toward those mountains out in the middle of the desert. We’re hoping that Prince Sparhawk will have pinpointed the exact location of Cyrga by the time we get there.’

One of the scouts who had been ranging out into the burnt brown desert ahead came galloping back. ‘Domi Tikume,’ he said as he reined in. ‘We’ve found them.’

‘Where?’ Tikume demanded.

‘There’s a dry watercourse about two miles ahead, Domi. They’re crouched down in there. I’d say they’re planning to ambush us.’

‘What sort of soldiers are they?’ Kring asked.

‘There was Cynesgan cavalry and more of those big ones with the steel masks that we’ve been running to death lately. There was some other infantry as well, but I didn’t recognize them.’

‘Breastplates? Short kirtles? Helmets with high crests, and big round shields?’’

‘Those are the ones, Domi Kring.’

Kring rubbed one hand across his shaved scalp. ‘How wide is the water-course?’ he asked.

‘Fifty paces or so, Domi.’

‘Crooked? Fairly deep?’

The scout nodded.

‘It’s an ambush, all right,’ Kring said. ‘The cavalry probably intends to let us see them and then retreat into the gully. If we follow them, we’ll run right into the infantry. We’ve been running Klael’s soldiers to death in open country, so they want to get us into tight quarters.’

‘What do we do?’ Tikume asked.

‘We stay out of that stream-bed, friend Tikume. Send out flankers to cut off their cavalry after they ride out. We’ll slaughter them, and that should bring Klael’s soldiers out into the open.’

‘What about the Cyrgai? Are they more of those ones out of the past that we keep coming across?’

‘I don’t think so. This is inside the borders of Cynesga, so they’re probably live ones from Cyrga itself. ‘ Kring stopped suddenly and a slow grin crossed his face. ‘I just thought of something. Send out your flankers, friend Tikume. Give me some time to think my way through this.’

‘That’s a particularly nasty grin there, friend Kring.’

‘I’m a particularly nasty fellow sometimes, friend Tikume,’ Kring replied, his grin growing even wider.

‘Slavers,’ Mirtai said shortly after she had peered down the rocky slope toward the village clustered around the oasis. The almost instar at the column creeping slowly across the barren brown gravel WHaus change from the humidity of the Arjuni jungle to the arid Cynesgan Desert had given Sparhawk a slight headache.

‘How can you tell at this distance?’ Bevier asked her.

‘Those hooded black robes,’ she replied peering again over the boulder which concealed them. ‘Slavers wear them when they come into Cynesga so that the local authorities won’t interfere with them. Cynesga’s about the only place left where slavery’s openly legal. The other kingdoms frown on it.’

‘There’s a thought, Sparhawk,’ Bevier said. ‘If we could get our hands on some of those black robes, we’d be able to move about in the desert without attracting attention.’

‘We don’t look very much like Arjuni, Bevier,’ Kalten objected.

‘We don’t have to,’ Talen told him. ‘From what I heard back in Beresa, there are bands of raiders out in the desert who work with the caravans in order to steal the slaves, so the Arjuni always hire lots of fighting men of all races to help protect the merchandise.’

‘Oh,’ Kalten said. ‘I wonder where we could lay our hands on black robes.’

‘There’s a hundred or so of them right out there,’ Bevier said, pointing at the caravan.

‘Elenes,’ Xanetia sighed, rolling her eyes upward.

‘You’re even starting to sound like Sephrenia, Anarae,’ Sparhawk said with a faint smile. ‘What are we overlooking?’

‘Robes doubtless may be obtained in Vigayo close by. Any shade or hue will serve, Anakha,’ she explained.

‘They have to be black, Anarae,’ Bevier objected.

‘Color is an aspect of light, Sir Bevier, and I am most skilled at controlling light.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I guess I didn’t think of that.’

‘I had noticed that myself—almost immediately.’

‘Be nice,’ he murmured.

Bergsten’s knights and their Peloi allies crossed the Cynesgan border on a cloudy, chill afternoon after what seemed to be several days of hard riding, and rode southeasterly toward the capital at Cynestra. Peloi scouts ranged out in front, but they encountered no resistance that day. They made camp, put out guards, and bedded down early.

It was not long after they had broken camp and set out on what was ostensibly the next morning that Daiya came riding back to join Bergsten and Heldin at the head of the column. ‘My scouts report that there are soldiers massing about a mile ahead, your Reverence,’ he reported.

‘Cynesgans?’ Bergsten asked quickly.

‘It does not appear so, your Reverence.’

‘Go have a look, Heldin,’ Bergsten ordered.

The Pandion nodded and spurred his horse to the top of a rocky hill a quarter mile to the front. His face was bleak when he returned. ‘We’ve got trouble, your Grace,’ he rumbled. ‘They’re more of those monsters we came up against in eastern Zemoch.’

Bergsten muttered a fairly savage oath. ‘I knew things were going too well.’

‘Domi Tikume has warned us about these foreign soldiers,’ Daiya said. ‘Would it offend your Reverence if I suggested that you let us deal with them? Domi Tikume and Domi Kring have devised certain tactics that seem to work.’

‘I’m not offended in the slightest, friend Daiya,’ Bergsten replied. ‘We didn’t exactly cover ourselves with glory the last time we encountered those brutes, so I’d be very interested in seeing something that’s a little more effective than our tactics were.’

Daiya conferred briefly with his clan-chiefs, and then he led Bergsten, Heldin and several other knights up to the top of the hill to watch.

Bergsten immediately saw the advantages of light cavalry as opposed to armored knights mounted on heavy war-horses. The huge soldiers in their tight-fitting armor seemed baffled by the attacks of the Peloi armed with javelins. They floundered, desperately trying to close with their tormentors, but the horses of the Peloi were simply too quick. The o take their toll, and more and more of the hulk fell in that deadly rain.

‘We need to force them to run, your Reverence,’ Daiya ‘They’re very dangerous in close quarters, but they don’t have much endurance, so they aren’t nearly as good in a running fight.’

‘Vanion told me about that,’ Bergsten said. ‘Did Domi Tikume givee you any idea of how long it takes them to run out of breath?’

‘Nothing very specific, your Reverence.’

Bergsten shrugged. ‘That’s all right, friend Daiya. We’ve got plenty of open ground, and it’s still morning. We can run them all day if we have to.’

Stung by the repeated attacks, the huge soldiers began to lumber forward in a kind of shuffling trot, brandishing their horrid weapons and bellowing hoarse war-cries. The Peloi, however, refused those challenges and continued their slash-and-run tactics. Then, driven and stung beyond endurance, the creatures broke into a shambling run.

‘It’s feasible,’ Sir Heldin mused in his deep, rumbling basso. ‘We’d need different equipment, though.’

‘What are you talking about, Heldin?’ Bergsten demanded.

‘Looking to the future, your Grace,’ Heldin replied. ‘If those wars become a standard fixture, we’ll have to modify a few things. It might not be a bad idea to train and equip a few squadrons of Church Knights to serve as light cavalry.’

‘Heldin,’ Bergsten said acidly, ‘If those things become a standard fixture, do you think there’ll be any Church Knights at that point?’

‘1rd fixture, it’ll be because we’ve lost this war. What makes—’

‘They’re breaking off, your Reverence!’ Daiya cried excitedly. They’re running away!’

‘But where are they running to, Daiya?’ Bergsten demanded. It’s the air that’s killing them, and the air’s everywhere. Where can they go, Daiya? Where can they go?’

‘Where can they go?’ Kring asked in bafflement as Klael’s soldiers broke off from their clumsy pursuit of the Peloi horsemen and into the desert.

‘Who cares?’ Tikume laughed. ‘Let them run. We’ve still got those Cyrgai penned up in that gully. We’d better get them to moving before some clever subaltern in the rear ranks has time to take his bearings.’

The Cyrgai were following a strategy from the dawn of time. They advanced steadily, marching in step, with their large round shields protecting their bodies and with their long spears leveled to the front. As the Peloi slashed in on them, they would stop and close ranks. The front rank would kneel with overlapping shields and leveled spears. The ranks behind would close up, their shields also overlapping and spears also to the front. It was absolutely beautiful—but it didn’t accomplish anything at all against cavalry.

‘We have to get them to run, Domi Tikume!’ Kring shouted to his friend as they galloped clear of the massed Cyrgai regiments again. ‘Pull your children back a little further after the next attack! This won’t work if those antiques just keep plodding! Make them run!’

Tikume shouted some orders, and his horsemen altered their tactics, pulling back several hundred yards and forcing the Cyrgai to come to them. A brazen trumpet sounded from the center of one of the advancing regimental squares, and the Cyrgai broke into a jingling trot, their ranks still perfectly straight.

‘They look good, don’t they?’ Tikume laughed.

‘They would if this was a parade-ground,’ Kring replied. ‘Let’s sting them again and then pull back even further.’

‘How far is it to the border?’ Tikume asked.

‘Who knows? Nobody I’ve talked with is really sure. We’re close, though. Make them run, Tikume, make them run!’

Tikume rose in his stirrups. ‘Pass the word!’ he bellowed. ‘Full retreat!’

The Peloi turned tail and galloped to the east across the rattling brown gravel. A thin cheer went up from the massed regiments of the Cyrgai, and the trumpet sounded again. The ancient soldiers, still in perfect step and with their ranks still perfectly straight, broke into a running charge. Sergeants barked the staccato cadence, and the sound of the half-boots of the Cyrgai beating on the barren ground was like the pounding of some huge drum.

And then the full light of a winter midday dimmed as if some frit, silent wings had somehow blotted out the sun. A chill wind swept across the desert, and there was a wailing sound like the sum of human woe. The suddenly stricken Cyrgai, rank upon rank, died soundlesly in mid-stride, falling limply to earth to be trampled by their blindly advancing comrades, who also fell, astonished, on top of them.

Kring and Tikume, both pale and trembling, watched in awestruck wonder as the ancient Styric curse did its dreadful work. Then, sickened, they wheeled and rode back eastward, turning their backs on the perfect soldiers rushing blindly into chill, wailing obliteration.

‘These clothes are good enough for Arjuna and Tamul Proper, neighbor,’ Sparhawk told the shopkeeper later that same day, ‘but they don’t exactly turn the trick in a duststorm. I think that last one put about four pounds of dirt down my back.’

The shopkeeper nodded sagely. ‘Other races laugh at our customary garb, good Master,’ he observed. ‘They usually keep laughing right up until the time when they ride through their first duststorm.’

‘Does the wind blow all the time out there?’ Talen asked him.

‘Not quite all the time, young Master. The afternoons are usually the worst.’ He looked at Sparhawk. ‘How many robes will you be needing, good Master?’

‘There are six of us, neighbor, and none of us are so fond of each other that we’d care to share a robe.’

‘Have you any preferences in colors?’

‘Does one color keep the dust out better than the others?’

‘Not that I’ve noticed.’

‘Then any color will do, I guess.’

The shopkeeper hustled into his storeroom and returned with a pile of neatly-folded garments. Then he smiled, rubbed his hands together and broached the subject of the price.

‘He overcharged you, you know,’ Talen said as they emerged from the cluttered shop into the dusty street.

Sparhawk shrugged. ‘Perhaps,’ he said.

‘Someday I’m going to have to teach you about the finer points of bargaining.’

‘Does it really matter?’ Sparhawk asked, tying the bundle of Cynesgan robes to the back of his saddle. He looked around. ‘Anarae?’

‘I am here, Anakha,’ her whispered voice responded.

‘Were you able to find anything?’

‘Nay, Anakha. Clearly the messenger hath not yet arrived.’

‘Berit and Khalad are still several days away, Sparhawk,’ Talen said quietly. ‘And this isn’t such an attractive place that the messenger would want to get here early to enjoy the scenery.’ He looked around at the winter-dispirited palm trees and the muddy pond that lay at the center of the cluster of white houses.

‘Attractive or not, we’re going to have to come up with some reason for staying,’ Sparhawk said. ‘We can’t leave until the messenger gets here and Anarae Xanetia can listen to what he’s thinking.’

‘I can remain here alone, Anakha,’ Xanetia told him. ‘None here can detect my presence, so I do not need protection.’

‘We’ll stay all the same, Anarae,’ Sparhawk told her. ‘Courtesy and all that, you understand. An Elene gentleman will not permit a lady to go about unescorted.’

An argument had broken out on the shaded porch of what appeared to be a tavern or a wine-shop of some kind. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, Echon!’ a wheezy-voiced old man in a patched and filthy robe declared loudly. ‘It’s a good hundred miles from here to the River Sama, and there’s no water at all between here and there.’

‘You either drink too much or you’ve been out in the sun too long, Zagorri,’ Echon, a thin, sun-dried man in a dark blue robe scoffed. ‘My map says that it’s sixty miles—no more.’

‘How well do you know the man who drew the map? I’ve been here all my life, and I know how far it is to the Sama. Go ahead, though. Take only enough water for sixty miles. Your mules will die, and you’ll be drinking sand for that last forty miles. It’s all right with me, though, because I’ve never liked you all that much anyway. But, mark my words, Echon. It’s one hundred miles from the Well of Vigay there to the banks of the Sama.’ And the old man spat in the direction of the pale brown pond. Talen suddenly began to laugh.

‘What’s so funny?’ Sparhawk asked him.

‘We just had a stroke of luck, revered leader,’ the boy replied gaily. ‘If we’re all finished up here, why don’t we go back to where the others are waiting? We’ll all want a good night’s sleep—since we’ll probably be leaving first thin in the morning.’

‘Oh? For where?’

‘Cyrga, of course. Wasn’t that where we wanted to go?’

‘Yes, but we don’t know where Cyrga is.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong, Sparhawk. We do know the way to Cyrga—at least I do.’

23

‘Did he die well?’ Betuana asked. Her face was very pale, but she gave no other outward sign of distress.

‘It was a suitable death, Betuana-Queen,’ the messenger replied. ‘We were at the bottom of a gorge and the Klael-beast was hurling the sides of it down upon us. Androl-King attacked the beast, and many escaped that would have died if he had not.’

She considered it. ‘Yes,’ she agreed finally. ‘It was suitable. It will be remembered. Is the army fit to travel?’

‘We have many injured, Betuana-Queen, and thousands are buried in the gorge. We withdrew to Tualas to await your commands.’

‘Leave some few to care for the injured, and bring the army here,’ she told him. ‘Toea is no longer in danger. The danger is here.’

‘It shall be as you say, my Queen.’ He clashed his fist against his breastplate in salute.

The Queen of Atan rose to her feet, her still-pale face betraying no emotion. ‘I must go apart and consider this, Itagne-Ambassador,’ she said formally.

‘It is proper, Betuana-Queen,’ he responded. ‘I share your grief.’

‘But not my guilt.’ She turned and slowly left the room.

Itagne looked at the stony-faced Engessa. ‘I’d better pass the word to the others,’ he said. Engessa nodded shortly.

‘Could you speak with the messenger before he leaves, Engessa?’ Itagne asked. ‘Lord Vanion will need casualty figures before he can change his strategy.’

‘I will obtain them for you, Itagne-Ambassador.’ Engessa inclined his head shortly and went out.

Itagne swore and banged his fist on the table. ‘Of all the times for this to happen!’ he fumed. ‘If that idiot had only waited before he got himself killed!’

Betuana had done nothing wrong. There had been no stain of dishonor in her concern for Engessa, and if she had only had a week or two to put it behind her, it would probably have been forgotten—along with the personal feelings which caused it. But Androl’s death, coming as it did at this particular time—Itagne swore again. The Atan Queen had to be able to function, and this crisis might well incapacitate her. For all Itagne knew, she was in her room right now preparing to fall on her sword.

He rose and went looking for paper and pen. Vanion had to be warned about this before everything here in Sama fell apart.

‘It all fell into place when I heard that old man call their little pond ‘the Well of Vigay”,’ Talen explained. ‘Ogerajin used exactly the same term.’

‘I don’t know that it means very much,’ Mirtai said dubiously. ‘Cynesgans call all these desert springs wells. Vigay was probably the one who discovered it.’

‘But the important thing is that this is one of the landmarks Ogerajin mentioned,’ Bevier said. ‘How did the subject come up?’ he asked Talen.

‘Stragen and I were spinning moonbeams for Valash,’ the boy replied. ‘Ogerajin had just arrived from Verel, and he was sitting in a chair with his brains quietly rotting. Stragen was telling Valash about something he’d supposedly overheard—some fellow telling another that Scarpa was waiting for instructions from Cyrga. He was fishing for information, and he casually asked Valash what route a man would have to follow to get to Cyrga.

‘That’s when Ogerajin jumped in. He started rambling, talking about the “Well of Vigay” and the “Plains of Salt” and other places with names that sounded as if they’d come right out of a story-book. I thought he was just raving, but Valash got very excited and tried to hush him up. That’s what made me pay closer attention to what the crazy man was saying. I got the feeling that he was giving Stragen very specific directions to Cyrga, but the directions were all clouded over with those storybook names. This “Well of Vigay” business makes me start to wonder if the directions were as cloudy and garbled as I thought they were at first.’

‘What were his exact words, young Talen?’ Xanetia asked.

‘He said, “The pathway lies close by the Well of Vigay”. That’s when Valash tried to shut him up, but he kept right on. He said something about wanting to give Stragen directions so that he could go to Cyrga and bow down to Cyrgon. He told him to go northwest from the “Well of Vigay” to the “Forbidden Mountains”.’

Sparhawk checked over his map. ‘There are several clusters of mountains in central Cynesga, and that’s the general region Aphrael pointed out back on the island. What else did he say, Talen?’

‘He sort of jumped around. He talked about the “Forbidden Mountains” and the “Pillars of Cyrgon”. Then he doubled back on himself and started talking about the “Plains of Salt”. From what he told Stragen, you’re supposed to be able to see these “Forbidden Mountains” from those salt-plains. Then there was something about “Fiery White Pillars” and “The Plain of Bones”. He said that the bones are “the nameless slaves who toil until death for Cyrgon’s Chosen”. Evidently when a slave dies in Cyrga, he’s taken out and dumped in the desert.’

‘That boneyard wouldn’t be very far from the city, then,’ Kalten mused.

‘It does all sort of fit together, Sparhawk,’ Bevier said seriously. ‘The Cynesgans themselves are largely nomads, so they wouldn’t have any real need for large numbers of slaves. Ogerajin spoke of “Cyrgon’s Chosen”. That would be the Cyrgai, and they’re probably the ones who buy slaves.’

‘And that would mean that the caravan of slavers we saw is going to Cyrga, wouldn’t it?’ Talen added excitedly.

‘And they were going northwest,’ Mirtai said, ‘the exact direction Ogerajin was raving about.’

Sparhawk went to his saddle-bags and took out his map. He sat down again and opened it, holding it firmly as the desert wind started to flap its corners. ‘We know that Cyrga’s somewhere in these mountains in central Cynesga,’ he mused, ‘so we’ll be going in that direction anyway. If Ogerajin was just raving and his directions don’t go anyplace, we’ll still be in the right vicinity if we follow them.’

‘It’s better than just sitting here waiting for Berit and Khalad,’ Kalten said impatiently. ‘I have to be doing something—even if it’s only riding around in circles out there in the desert.’

Sparhawk wordlessly put a comforting hand on his old friend’s shoulder. His own desperate concern was at least as driving as Kalten’s, but he knew that he had to keep it separate, remote. Desperate men make mistakes, and a mistake here could put Ehlana in even greater peril. His emotions screamed at him, but he grimly, implacably, pushed them into a separate compartment of his mind and firmly closed the door.

‘Anakha would be made glad if we would do this,’ Ulath said in Trollish to the enormous presences.

Ghworg, God of Kill, rumbled ominously. ‘Anakha’s thought is like the wind,’ he complained. ‘One time he said to us, “Go to the place the man-things call the Tamul Mountains to kill the children of Cyrgon.” Now he says to us, “Go to the place the man-things call Zhubay to kill the Children of Cyrgon.” Can he not decide which Children of Cyrgon he wants us to kill?’

‘It is the way of the hunt, Ghworg,’ Tynian explained. ‘The Children of Cyrgon are not like the red-deer, which feeds always in the same range. The Children of Cyrgon are like the reindeer, which goes from this place to that place as the seasons change to find better food. Before, they were going to this place, Tamul Mountains, to feed, but now they go to the place Zhubay to feed. If we hunt in this place Tamul Mountains, we will find no game to kill and eat.’

‘It speaks well,’ Ghnomb, God of Eat, said. ‘It is not Anakha’s thought which changes, it is the path of the creatures we hunt which changes. The way of the hunt tells us that we must go where they graze if we would find them and kill them and eat them.’

‘This hunt becomes more and more not-simple,’ Ghworg grumbled.

‘That is because the man-things are more not-simple than the deer-things,’ Khwaj, God of Fire, told him. ‘The thought of Tynian-from-Deira is good. The one who hunts where there is no game does not eat.’

Ghworg pondered it. ‘We must follow the way of the hunt,’ he decided. ‘We will take our children to the place Zhubay to hunt the Children of Cyrgon. When they come there to graze, our children will kill them and eat them.’

‘It would make us glad if you would,’ Tynian said politely.

‘I will take our children into the Time-Which-Does-Not-Move,’ Ghnomb said. ‘They will be in the place Zhubay before the Children of Cyrgon come there.’

Schlee, God of Ice, stuck his huge fingers into the dirt. The earth shuddered slightly and contorted itself into his picture of the continent. ‘Show us where, Ulath-from-Thalesia,’ he said. ‘Where is the place Zhubay?’

Ulath walked some distance along the southwestern edge of the tiny mountains of Atan, peering intently at the ground. Then he stopped, bent, and touched a spot a short way out into the northern end of the Desert of Cynesga. ‘It is here, Schlee,’ he said.

Ghworg, God of Kill, stood up. ‘We will take our children there,’ he declared. ‘Let us make Anakha glad.’

‘They’re watching us, Vanion,’ Sephrenia said quietly.

He pulled his horse in closer to hers. ‘Styrics?’ he asked quietly.

‘One of them is,’ she replied. ‘He’s not particularly skilled.’ She smiled faintly. ‘I may have to hit him over the head to get his attention.’

‘Whatever it takes, love,’ he said. He glanced back over his shoulder at the column of knights and then on ahead. They were coming down out of the mountains, and the Valley of the Sama was beginning to broaden. ‘We should reach that bridge tomorrow,’ he told her. ‘After we cross the river, we’ll be in Cynesga.’

‘Yes, dear one,’ she said, ‘I’ve seen the map.’

‘Why don’t you cast the spell?’ he suggested. ‘Let’s give our inept Styric out there a chance to earn his keep.’ He looked at her gravely. ‘I’m having some second thoughts about this, Sephrenia. Klael’s still out there, and if he thinks Sparhawk’s somewhere in this column with Bhelliom, he’ll be all over us.’

‘You can’t have it both ways, Vanion,’ she said with a fond smile. ‘You said that you were never going to let me out of your sight, so if you insist on going into dangerous places, I’m sort of obliged to go along. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll wake up that Styric.’ She began to speak softly in Styric, her fingers weaving the spell as she did so.

Vanion was puzzled. He took a certain pride in his familiarity with most of the spells, but this was one he had never seen or heard before. He watched more closely.

‘Never mind,’ she told him crisply, breaking off the spell. ‘You don’t need to know this one.’

‘But—’

‘Just look over there, Vanion,’ she said. ‘I can do this without any help.’ She paused. ‘Humor me, dear one. A girl needs a few secrets, after all.’

He smiled and turned his head.

There was a kind of vague blurring in the air about ten yards away, and then, as surely as if he were really there, Vanion saw Sparhawk appear, mounted as always on his evil-tempered roan. So real was the image that flies were attracted to the horse.

‘Brilliant!’ Vanion exclaimed. He sent out a probing thought and even encountered the familiar sense of Sparhawk’s presence. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that he was really here. Can you sustain this illusion?’

‘Naturally,’ she said in an infuriatingly offhand way. And then she laughed, reached out and fondly touched his cheek.

‘What took you so long?’ Talen asked the Child Goddess when she appeared on the edge of their camp outside Vigayo the following morning.

‘I’ve been busy,’ she replied with a little shrug. ‘This is a fairly complex business, you know. We all do want to get there at approximately the same time, don’t we? What’s the problem here, Sparhawk?’

‘We might have just had a bit of good luck for a change, Divine One,’ he replied. ‘Talen and I were in the village yesterday, and we heard one of the villagers refer to their oasis as “the Well of Vigay”.’

‘So?’

‘Why don’t you tell her about it, Talen?’

The young thief quickly repeated the conversation between Ogerajin and Stragen back in Beresa.

‘What do you think?’ Kalten asked the Child Goddess.

‘Does somebody have a map?’ she asked. Sparhawk went to his saddle-bags, took out his tightly rolled map, and brought it to her. She spread it out on the ground, knelt in front of it, and studied it for several moments. ‘There are some salt-flats out there,’ she conceded.

‘And they are in the right direction,’ Bevier pointed out.

‘Ogerajin’s been there,’ Talen added, ‘at least he says he has, so he’d almost have to know the way, wouldn’t he?’

‘There’s also a slaver’s route that runs off to the northwest,’ Mirtai said. ‘We saw a caravan following it when we first got here, and Ogerajin mentioned the fact that the Cyrgai keep slaves. It sort of stands to reason that the slave caravan’s bound for Cyrga, doesn’t it?’

‘You’re hanging all this speculation on the ravings of a madman, you know,’ Flute said critically.

‘We do have a bit of verification, Aphrael,’ Sparhawk reminded her. ‘The villagers use the same term for their oasis as Ogerajin did, the salt-flats are where he said they were, and the slavers are going in that direction as well. I’m inclined to accept it.’

‘You said yourself that Cyrga’s somewhere in central Cynesga,’ Kalten reminded her, ‘and that’s where all of this points. Even if Ogerajin left some things out, we’ll still end up in the general vicinity of Cyrga. We’ll be a lot closer than we are right now, anyway.’

‘Since you’ve all made up your minds, why did you bother me with it?’ Her tone was just a bit petulant.

Talen grinned at her. ‘We didn’t think it’d be polite to run off without telling you, Divine One.’

‘I’ll get you for that, Talen,’ she threatened.

‘How far ahead of us would you say that caravan is by now?’ Sparhawk asked Mirtai.

‘Ten leagues,’ she replied. ‘Twelve at the most. Slave caravans don’t move very fast.’

‘I think that’s our best bet, then,’ he decided. ‘Let’s put on those black robes and get started. We’ll trail along a couple of leagues behind that caravan, and anybody who happens to see us will think we’re stragglers.’

‘Anything’s better than just sitting still,’ Kalten said.

‘Somehow I was almost sure you’d feel that way about it,’ Sparhawk replied.

‘We’re little more than prisoners here,’ Empress Chacole declared, waving her hand at the luxurious furnishings of the women’s Palace. Chacole was a ripe-figured Cynesgan lady in her thirties. Her tone was one of only idle discontent, but her eyes were hard and shrewd as she looked at Elysoun.

Elysoun shrugged. ‘I’ve never had any trouble coming and going as I choose.’

‘That’s because you’re a Valesian,’ Empress Torellia told her with just a touch of resentment. ‘They make allowances for you that they don’t make for the rest of us. I don’t think it’s very fair.’

Elysoun shrugged again. ‘Fair or not, it’s the custom.’

‘Why should you have more freedom than the rest of us?’

‘Because I have a more active social life.’

‘Aren’t there enough men in the Women’s Palace for you?’

‘Don’t be catty, Torellia. You’re not old enough to make it convincing.’ Elysoun looked appraisingly at the Arjuni Empress. Torellia was a slender girl in her mid-twenties, and, like all Arjuni women, she was quite subservient. Chacole was obviously taking advantage of that.

‘You don’t see anybody restricting Cieronna’s movements,’ Chacole said.

‘Cieronna’s the first wife,’ Elysoun replied, ‘and she’s the oldest. We should respect her age if nothing else.’

‘I will not be a servant to an ageing Tamul hag!’ Chacole flared.

‘She doesn’t want you as a servant, Chacole,’ Elysoun told her. ‘She already has more servants than she can count—unless Liatris has thinned them out some more. All Cieronna really wants is a fancier crown than the rest of us have and the right to walk in front of us in formal processions. It doesn’t take much to make her happy. She’s not the brightest person in Matherion.’

Torellia giggled.

‘Here comes Gahennas,’ Chacole hissed.

The jug-eared Tegan Empress, covered to the chin in scratchy wool, approached them with a disapproving expression, an expression that came over her face every time she so much as looked at the barely dressed Elysoun. ‘Ladies,’ she greeted them with a stiff little nod.

‘Join us, Gahennas,’ Chacole invited. ‘We’re discussing politics.’

Gahennas’ bulging eyes brightened. Tegans lived and breathed politics.

‘Chacole and Torellia want to get up a petition to our husband,’ Elysoun said. She raised her arms and yawned deeply, stretching back and literally thrusting her bare breasts at Gahennas. Gahennas quickly averted her eyes.

‘I’m sorry, ladies,’ Elysoun apologized. ‘I didn’t get much sleep last night.’

‘How do you find enough hours in the day?’ Gahennas asked spitefully.

‘It’s only a matter of scheduling, Gahennas,’ Elysoun shrugged. ‘You can get all sorts of things accomplished if you budget your time. Why don’t we just drop it, dear? You don’t approve of me, and I don’t really care. We’ll never understand each other, so why waste our time trying?’

‘You can go anywhere in the imperial compound you want to, can’t you, Elysoun?’ Chacole asked rather tentatively.

Elysoun feigned another yawn to conceal her smile. Chacole had finally gotten to the point. Elysoun had wondered how long it was going to take. ‘I can come and go more or less as I choose,’ she replied. ‘I guess all the spies got tired of trying to keep up with me.’

‘Do you suppose I could ask a favor of you?’

‘Of course, dear. What do you need?’

‘Cieronna doesn’t like me, and her spies follow me everywhere I go. I’m involved in something at the moment I’d rather she didn’t find out about.’

‘Why Chacole, are you saying that you’ve finally decided to go a little further afield for entertainment?’

The Cynesgan Empress gave her a blank stare, obviously missing her point.

‘Oh, come now, dear,’ Elysoun said slyly. ‘We all have our little private amusements here inside the Women’s Palace—even Gahennas here.’

‘I most certainly do not!’ the Tegan protested.

‘Oh, really, Gahennas? I’ve seen that new page-boy of yours. He’s absolutely luscious. Who’s your new lover, Chacole? Some husky young lieutenant in the Guards? Did you want me to smuggle him into the palace for you?’

‘It’s nothing like that, Elysoun.’

‘Of course it isn’t,’ Elysoun agreed with heavy sarcasm. ‘All right, Chacole. I’ll carry your love-notes for you—if you’re really sure you trust me that close to him. But why go so far afield, sister dear? Gahennas has this lovely young page-boy, and I’m sure she’s trained him very well—haven’t you, Gahennas?’ She raised one mocking eyebrow. ‘Tell me, dear,’ she added, ‘was he a virgin?—Before you got your hands on him, I mean?’

Gahennas fled with Elysoun’s mocking laughter following after her.

24

‘It’s supposed to be two words,’ Kalten insisted that afternoon some miles outside Vigayo. ‘Ram’s. Horn. Two words.’

‘It’s a password, Sir Kalten,’ Talen tried to explain. ‘“Ramshorn”. Like that.’

‘What do you say, Sparhawk?’ Kalten asked his friend. ‘Is it one word or two?’ The three of them had just finished piling rocks in a rough approximation of a grave at the side of the trail, and Talen and Kalten were arguing about the crude marker the boy had prepared.

‘What difference does it make?’ Sparhawk shrugged.

‘If it’s spelled wrong, Berit might not recognize it when he rides by,’ Talen said.

‘He’ll recognize it,’ Sparhawk disagreed. ‘Berit’s quick. Just don’t disturb the arrangement of those yellow rocks on the top of the grave.’

‘Are you sure Khalad will understand what those rocks mean?’ Talen asked skeptically.

‘Your father would have,’ Sparhawk replied, ‘and I’m sure he taught Khalad all the usual signals.’

‘I still say it’s supposed to be two words,’ Kalten insisted.

‘Bevier,’ Sparhawk called.

The Cyrinic Knight walked back to the imitation grave with an enquiring expression.

‘These two are arguing about how to spell “ramshorn”,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘You’re the scholar. You settle it.’

‘I say he spelled it wrong,’ Kalten said truculently. ‘It’s supposed to be two words, isn’t it?’

‘Ah...’ Bevier said evasively, ‘there are two schools of thought on that.’

‘Why don’t you tell them about it as we ride along?’ Mirtai suggested.

Sparhawk looked at Xanetia. ‘Don’t,’ he warned her quietly.

‘What wouldst thou not have me do, Anakha?’ she asked innocently.

‘Don’t laugh. Don’t even smile. You’ll only make it worse.’

It may or may not have been three weeks later. Patriarch Bergsten had given up on trying to keep track of actual time. Instead he glared in sullen theological discontent at the mudwalled city of Cynestra and at the disgustingly young and well-conditioned person coming toward him. Bergsten believed in an orderly world, and violations of order made him nervous.

She was very tall and she had golden skin and night-dark hair, she was also extremely pretty and superbly muscled. She emerged from the main gate of Cynestra under a flag of truce, running easily out to meet them. She stopped some distance to their front, and Bergsten, Sir Heldin, Daiya, and Neran, their Tamul translator, rode forward to confer with her. She spoke at some length with Neran.

‘Keep your eyes where they belong, Heldin,’ Bergsten muttered.

‘I was just—’

‘I know what you were doing. Stop it.’ Bergsten paused. ‘I wonder why they sent a woman.’

Neran, a slender Tamul who had been sent along by Ambassador Fontan, returned. ‘She’s Atana Maris,’ he told them. ‘Commander of the Atan garrison here in Cynestra.’

‘A woman?’ Bergsten was startled.

‘It’s not uncommon among the Atans, your Grace. She’s been expecting us. Foreign Minister Oscagne sent word that we were coming.’

‘What’s the situation in the city?’ Heldin asked.

‘King Jaluah’s been quietly dribbling troops into Cynestra for the past month or so,’ Neran replied. ‘Atana Maris has a thousand Atans in her garrison, and the Cynesgans have been trying to restrict their movements. She’s been growing impatient with all of that. She probably would have moved against the royal palace a week ago, but Oscagne instructed her to wait until we arrived.’

‘How did she get out of the city?’ Heldin rumbled.

‘I didn’t ask her, Sir Heldin. I didn’t want to insult her.

‘What I meant was, didn’t they try to stop her?’

‘They’re dead if they did.’

‘But she’s a woman!’ Bergsten objected.

‘You’re not really familiar with the Atans, are you, your Reverence?’ Daiya asked.

‘I’ve heard of them, friend Daiya. The stories all seem wildly exaggerated to me.’

‘No, your Reverence, they aren’t,’ Daiya said firmly. ‘I know of this girl’s reputation. She’s the youngest garrison commander in the entire Atan army, and she didn’t get to where she is by being sweet and ladylike. From what I’ve heard, she’s an absolute savage.’

‘But she’s so pretty,’ Heldin protested.

‘Sir Heldin,’ Neran said firmly to him, ‘while you’re admiring her, pay particular attention to the development of her arms and shoulders. She’s as strong as a bull, and if you offend her in any way at all, she’ll tear you to pieces. She almost killed Itagne, or so the rumor has it.’

‘The Foreign Minister’s brother?’ Bergsten asked.

Neran nodded. ‘He was here on a mission, and he decided to place the city under martial law. He needed Atana Maris’ help with that, so he seduced her. Her response was enthusiastic—but very muscular. Be very careful around her, gentlemen. She’s almost as dangerous to have as a friend as an enemy. She asked me to give you your instructions.’

‘Instructions?’ Bergsten erupted. ‘I don’t take orders from women!’

‘Your Grace,’ Neran said, ‘Cynestra’s technically still under martial law, and that puts Atana Maris in charge. She’s been ordered to deliver the city to you, but she’s instructed you to wait outside the walls until she’s crushed all the resistance. She wants to present the city to you as a gift—all neat and tidy. Please don’t spoil it for her. Smile at her, thank her politely, and wait right here until she’s finished cleaning the streets. After she’s got all the bodies stacked in neat piles, she’ll invite you in and turn the city over to you—along with King Jaluah’s head, more than likely. I know that the situation seems unnatural to you, but for God’s sake don’t do a thing to offend her. She’ll go to war with you just as quickly as with anybody else.’

‘But she’s so pretty,’ Heldin objected again.

Berit and Khalad dismounted and led their horses down to the edge of the oasis to water them. In theory, they might have reached Vigayo this soon. ‘Can you tell if he’s here?’ Khalad muttered.

Berit shook his head. ‘I think that means that he’s not a Styric. We’ll just have to wait for him to come to us.’ He looked around at the few white-walled houses shaded by low palm trees. ‘Is there any kind of inn here?’

‘Not very likely. I see a lot of tents on the other side of the oasis. I’ll ask around, but don’t get your hopes up.’

Berit shrugged. ‘Oh, well. We’ve lived in tents before. Find out where we’re permitted to set up.’

The village of Vigayo itself was clustered along the eastern side of the oasis, and the informal encampment of nomads and merchants stretched along the west shore of what was actually a fair-sized pool of artesian water. Berit and Khalad picketed their horses, erected their tent near the water, and sat down in the shade to wait. ‘Can you tell if Sparhawk’s around anyplace?’ Khalad asked.

Berit shook his head. ‘He may have already passed through. Or he could be watching from one of the hills outside of town. He might not want people to know that he’s here.’

It was an hour or so past sunset, and twilight was descending on the oasis when a Cynesgan in a loose-fitting striped robe approached their tent. ‘I’m supposed to ask if one of you might be named Sparhawk,’ he said in a slightly accented voice.

Berit rose to his feet. ‘I might be named Sparhawk, neighbor.’

‘Might be?’

‘That’s the way you phrased your question, friend. You’ve got a note for me. Why don’t you just hand it over and be on your way? We don’t really have anything else to talk about, do we?’

The messenger’s face hardened. He reached inside his robe, took out a folded and sealed parchment, and negligently tossed it at Berit’s feet. Then he turned and walked away.

‘You know, Berit,’ Khalad said mildly, ‘sometimes you’re even more abrasive than Sparhawk himself.’

Berit grinned. ‘I know. I’m trying to maintain his reputation.” He bent, picked up the parchment, and broke the seal. He removed the identifying lock of hair and quickly read the brief message.

‘Well?’ Khalad asked.

‘Nothing very specific. It says that there’s a caravan route running off to the northwest. We’re supposed to follow that. We’ll get further instructions along the way.’

‘Will it be safe to use the spell and talk with Aphrael once we get out of town?’

‘I think so. I’m sure she’d have told me if I wasn’t supposed to use it here in Cynesga.’

‘We don’t have much choice,’ Khalad said. ‘We can’t tell if Sparhawk’s already been here, if he’s here now, or if he’s still on the way, and we’ve got to let him know about these new instructions.’

‘Do you think we ought to start out tonight?’

‘No. Let’s not start floundering round in the dark. We might miss the trail, and there’s nothing out in that desert but empty.’

‘I won’t do anything to put Berit in any kind of danger,’ Elysoun insisted a few days later. ‘I’m very fond of him.’

‘They found out that he was posing as Sparhawk quite some time ago, Elysoun,’ Baroness Melidere told her. ‘You won’t be putting him in any more danger than he’s already in. Telling Chacole about his disguise will convince her that you’ve gone over to her side—and that you have access to important information.’

‘You might want to make them believe that your husband’s totally smitten with you, Empress Elysoun,’ Patriarch Emban added. ‘Let them think that he tells you everything.’

‘Are you smitten with me, Sarabian?’ Elysoun asked archly.

‘Oh, absolutely, my dear,’ he smiled. ‘I adore you.’

‘What a nice thing to say.’ She smiled warmly.

‘Later, children,’ Melidere told them absently, her forehead furrowed with concentration. ‘At the same time you tell Chacole about Berit’s disguise, drop a few hints about a fleet of Church ships in the Gulf of Daconia. Stragen’s been very carefully planting that particular lie, so let’s give them some confirmation. After you tell them about Berit, they’ll be inclined to believe your story about the fleet.’ She looked at the Emperor. ‘Is there anything else we can give them that won’t hurt us? Something they can verify?’

‘Does it have to be important?’

‘Not really, just something that’s true. We need another truth to get the mix right.’

‘The mix?’

‘It’s like a recipe, your Majesty,’ she smiled. ‘Two parts truth to one part lie, stir well and serve. If you get the mix right, they’ll swallow the whole thing.’

They had set out at first light, and the sun had not yet risen when they topped a low ridge and saw a vast, flat expanse of dead whiteness lying ahead. Time, like climate, had lost all meaning.

‘I’d hate to have to cross that in the summertime,’ Kalten said.

‘Truly,’ Sparhawk agreed.

‘The slavers’ trail swings north here,’ Bevier noted, ‘probably to go around those flats. If a Cynesgan patrol stumbles across us out there, we might have trouble convincing them that we’re attached to that caravan we’ve been following.’

‘We’ll just say that we got lost,’ Kalten said with a shrug. ‘Let me do the talking, Bevier. I get lost all the time anyway, so I can be fairly convincing. How far is it to the other side, Sparhawk?’

‘About twenty-five leagues, according to my map.’

‘Two days—even if we push,’ Kalten calculated.

‘And no cover,’ Bevier added. ‘You couldn’t hide a spider out—’ He broke off. ‘What’s that?’ he asked, pointing at an intensely bright spot of light on the mountainous western horizon.

Talen squinted at the light. ‘I think it might be the landmark we’ve been looking for,’ he said.

‘How did you arrive at that?’ Kalten asked skeptically.

‘It’s in the right direction, isn’t it? Ogerajin said that we were supposed to go northwest from Vigayo to the Plains of Salt. Then he said, “From the verge of the Plains of Salt wilt thou behold low on the horizon before thee the dark shapes of the Forbidden Mountains, and, if it please Cyrgon, his fiery white pillars will guide thee to his hidden City.” There are mountains there, and if that light’s coming from right in the middle of them wouldn’t it almost have to be coming from the pillars?’

‘The man was crazy, Talen,’ Kalten objected.

‘Maybe,’ Sparhawk disagreed, ‘but everything he described is right where he said it would be. Let’s take a chance on it. It’s still the right direction.’

‘About the only thing that might cause us any trouble would be if we stumbled across a helpful Cynesgan patrol and they decided to escort us back to that caravan we’ve been following for the last few days,’ Mirtai observed.

‘Logically, our chances of coming across a patrol out there on the flats are very slim,’ Bevier suggested. ‘Cynesgans would normally avoid that waste in the first place, and the war’s probably pulled almost everybody off patrol duty in the second.’

‘And any patrols unlucky enough to cross us won’t be making any reports in the third,’ Mirtai added, suggestively putting her hand on her sword-hilt.

‘We’ve tentatively located the pillars,’ Sparhawk said. ‘And if Ogerajin knew what he was talking about, we’ll have to take a line of sight on them to penetrate the illusion. Now that we’ve found them, let’s not lose them. We’ll just have to take our chances out there on the flats. If we’re lucky, nobody will even notice us. If not, we’ll try lying to them, and if that doesn’t work, we still have our swords.’ He looked around at them. ‘Does anybody have anything else to add?’

‘I think that covers it,’ Kalten said, still somewhat dubious.

‘Let’s get started, then.’

‘They just broke off and ran away, friend Vanion,’ Kring said a day or so later. Kring’s face was baffled. ‘We were using those tactics Tikume and I came up with, and everything was going more or less the way we expected, and then somebody blew a horn or something, and they turned tail and ran—but where? If what we’ve been told is true, there’s no place in the whole world they can go to catch their breath.’

‘Did you have anybody follow them?’ Vanion asked.

‘I probably should have, I suppose, but I was concentrating on luring the Cyrgai across the border.’ Kring smiled at Sephrenia. ‘That Styric curse doesn’t seem to have worn thin in the last ten thousand years, Lady. Three full regiments of Cyrgai went down like newly-mown wheat when they crossed the border.’ He paused. ‘They’re not really very bright, are they?’

‘The Cyrgai? No. It’s against their religion.’

‘You’d think that at least a few of them would have realized that something was wrong, but they just kept running across the border and falling over dead.’

‘Independent thinking isn’t encouraged among them. They’re trained to follow orders—even bad ones.’

Kring looked at the bridge crossing the Sama. ‘You’ll be operating from here, friend Vanion?’ he asked.

‘I’ll put a force on the other side of the bridge,’ Vanion replied. ‘But our main camp will be on this side. The river marks the boundary between Tamul Proper and Cynesga, doesn’t it?’

‘Technically, I suppose.’ The Domi shrugged. ‘The curse-line’s a couple of miles further west, though.’

‘The boundary’s changed several times over the years,’ Sephrenia explained.

‘Ticume thought I should come up here and talk things over with you, friend Vanion,’ Kring said then. ‘We don’t want to interfere with Sparhawk, so we haven’t been going too far into Cynesga, but we’re running out of people to chase.’

‘How far in have you been going?’ Vanion asked.

‘Six or seven leagues,’ Kring replied. ‘We come back to Samar every night—although there’s no real reason for it now. I don’t think there’s any danger of a siege any more.’

‘No,’ Vanion agreed. ‘We’ve pushed them enough so that they can’t really concentrate on Samar now.’ He opened his map and frowned at it for a few moments, then he dropped to one knee and spread it out on the winter-brown grass. ‘Step on that corner, please,’ he said to Sephrenia. ‘I don’t want to have to chase it again.’

Kring looked puzzled.

‘Household joke,’ Sephrenia explained, putting one small foot on the corner of Vanion’s map. ‘Vanion’s fond of maps, and an errant breeze turned his current favorite into a kite two days ago.’

Vanion let that pass. ‘I’ll agree that we don’t want to crowd Sparhawk, Domi, but I think we’ll want to build some fortified positions out there in the desert. They’ll give us jumping-off places when we start our advance on Cyrga.’

‘I had the same thought, friend Vanion.’

‘Let’s establish a presence across that border,’ Vanion decided. ‘I’ll send word to Betuana, and she’ll do the same.’

‘How deep in should we go?’ Kring asked.

Vanion looked at Sephrenia. ‘Ten leagues?’ he suggested.

‘That’s not so deep that we’ll be stepping on Sparhawk’s heels but we’ll have room to maneuver, and it’ll give you some elbow-room for that spell of yours.’

‘Using the spell’s a good plan, friend Vanion,’ Kring said a bit dubiously. ‘But you’re deliberately drawing the best our enemies can throw at us to yourself—and to Lady Sephrenia. Is that what you want? I don’t mean to be offensive, but your fight with Klael’s soldiers seriously reduced your ranks.’

‘That’s one of the reasons I want forts out there in the desert, Domi,’ Vanion said wryly. ‘If worst comes to worst, I’ll pull back into those positions. I’m almost sure I can count on some dear friends on my flanks to come to my rescue.’

‘Well said,’ Sephrenia murmured.

‘Stop,’ Khalad said sharply, reining in his horse when they were perhaps five miles outside Vigayo.

‘What is it?’ Berit asked tensely.

‘Somebody named Ramshorn died,’ Khalad said, pointing. ‘I think we should stop and pay our respects.’

Berit looked at the crude grave beside the trail. ‘I looked right through it,’ he confessed. ‘Sorry, Khalad.’

‘Pay attention, my Lord.’

‘It seems you’ve said that before.’

They dismounted and approached the rude ‘grave’.

‘Clever,’ Berit murmured quietly. It was probably not necessary to lower his voice, but it had gotten to be a habit.

‘Talen’s idea, probably,’ Khalad said as they both knelt beside the mound. ‘It’s a little subtle for Sparhawk.’

‘Isn’t that supposed to be two words?’ Berit asked, pointing at the weathered plank with ‘Ramshorn’ roughly carved into its face.

‘You’re the educated one, my Lord. Don’t touch those rocks.’

‘Which rocks?’

‘The yellow ones. We’ll mix them up as soon as I read them.

‘You read rocks? Is that like reading seagulls?’

‘Not exactly. It’s a message from Sparhawk. He and my father worked this out a long time ago.’ The short-bearded young man leaned first this way and then that, squinting at the mound.

‘Naturally,’ he said finally with a certain resignation. He rose and moved to the head of the grave.

‘What?’

‘Sparhawk wrote it upside down. Now it makes sense.’

Khalad studied the apparently random placement of the yellowish rocks on top of the predominantly brown mound. ‘Pray, Berit,’ he said. ‘Offer up a prayer for the soul of our departed brother, Ramshorn.’

‘You’re not making any sense, Khalad.’

‘Somebody might be watching. Act religious.’ The husky young squire took the reins of their horses and led them several yards away from the ill-defined trail. Then he bent, took Faran’s left foreleg in both hands, and carefully inspected the hoof. Faran gave him an unfriendly stare.

‘Sorry,’ Khalad apologized to the bad-tempered brute, ‘It’s nothing important.’ He lowered the hoof to the gravel again.

‘All right, Berit,’ he said then, ‘say “Amen”, and we’ll get going again.’

‘What was that all about?’ Berit’s tone was surly as he remounted.

‘Sparhawk left a message for us,’ Khalad replied, swinging up into his saddle. ‘The arrangement of the yellow rocks told me where to find it.’

‘Where is it?’ Berit asked eagerly.

‘Right now? It’s in my left boot. I picked it up when I was checking Faran’s hoof.’

‘I didn’t see you pick up a thing.’

‘You weren’t supposed to, my Lord.’

Krager awoke with the horrors to the sound of distant screaming.

Days and nights had long since blurred in Krager’s awareness, but the sun shattering against his eyes told him that it was a full and awful morning. He had certainly not intended to drink so much the previous night, but the knowledge that he was reaching the bottom of his last cask of Arcian red had worried at him as he had grown progressively drunker, and the knowledge that it would soon be all gone had somehow translated itself in his fuddled mind into a compulsion to drink it all before it got away from him.

Now he was paying for that foolishness. His head was throbbing, his stomach was on fire, and his mouth tasted as if something had crawled in there and died. He was shaking violently, and there were sharp stabbing pains in his liver. He sat on the edge of his tangled bed with his head in his hands. There was a sense of dread hanging over him, a shadowy feeling of horror.

He kept his burning eyes closed and groped under the bed with one shaking hand for the emergency bottle he always kept there. The liquid it contained was neither wine nor beer but a dreadful concoction of Lamork origin that was obtained by setting certain inferior wines out in the winter and allowing them to freeze. The liquid that rose to the top and remained unfrozen was almost pure spirits. It tasted foul, and it burned like fire going down, but it put the horrors to sleep. Shuddering, Krager drank off about a pint of the awful stuff and lurched to his feet.

The sun was painfully bright when he stumbled out into the streets of Natayos and went looking for the source of the screams that had awakened him. He reached a central square and recoiled in horror. Several men were being systematically tortured to death while Scarpa, dressed in his shabby imitation royal robe and his makeshift crown, sat in an ornate chair watching with approval.

‘What’s going on?’ Krager asked CabaL, a shabby Dacite brigand of his acquaintance with whom he had frequently gotten drunk. CabaL turned quickly. ‘Oh, it’s you, Krager,’ he said. ‘As closely as I can gather, the Shining Ones descended on Panem-Doa.’

‘That’s impossible,’ Krager said shortly. ‘Ptaga’s dead. There aren’t any more of those illusions to keep the Tamuls running around in circles.’

‘If we can believe what some of those dying fellows said, the ones who went into Panem-Doa weren’t illusions,’ CabaL replied. ‘A fair number of the officers there got themselves disolved when they tried to stand and fight.’

‘What’s happening here?’ Krager asked, pointing at the screaming men bound to poles set up in the middle of the square.

‘Scarpa’s making examples of the ones who ran away. He’s having them cut to pieces. Here comes Cyzada.’ CabaL pointed at the Styric hurrying out of Scarpa’s headquarters.

‘What are you doing?’ the hollow-eyed Cyzada bellowed at the madman sitting on his cheap throne.

‘They deserted their posts,’ Scarpa replied. ‘They’re being punished.’

‘You need every man, you idiot!’

‘I ordered them to march to the north to join my loyal armies,’ Scarpa shrugged. ‘They concocted lies to excuse their failure to obey. They must be punished. I will have obedience!’

‘You will not kill your own soldiers. Order your butchers to stop!’

‘That’s quite impossible, Cyzada. An imperial order, once given, cannot be rescinded. I have commanded that every deserter from Panem-Doa be tortured to death. It’s out of my hands now.’

‘You maniac. you won’t have a soldier left by tomorrow morning. They’ll all desert!’

‘Then I will recruit more and hunt them all down. I will be obeyed!’

Cyzada of Esos controlled his fury with an obviously great effort. Krager saw his lips moving and his fingers weaving intricate pattens in the air. ‘Let’s get out of here, CabaL!’ he said urgently.

‘What? the crazy man ordered us all to watch.’

‘You don’t want to watch what’s going to happen next,’ Krager told him. ‘Cyzada’s casting a spell—Zemoch, most likely. He’s summoning a demon to teach our “emperor” the meaning of the word “obedience”.’

‘He can’t do that. Zalasta left his son in charge here.’

‘No, actually Cyzada’s in charge. I personally heard Zalasta tell that Styric who’s wriggling his fingers right now to kill Scarpa the minute he stepped out of line. I don’t know about you, my friend, but I’m going to find someplace to hide. I’ve seen the kind of creatures that were subject to Azash before, and I’m feeling a little delicate this morning, so I don’t want to see one again.’

‘We’ll get into trouble, Krager.’

‘Not if the demon Cyzada’s summoning right now eats Scarpa alive, we won’t.’ Krager drew in a deep breath. ‘It’s up to you, CabaL. Stay if you want, but I think I’ve seen as much as I want to of Natayos.’

‘You’re going to desert?’ CabaL was aghast.

‘The situation’s changed. If Sparhawk’s allied himself with the Delphae, I want to be a long way from here when they come glowing out of that jungle. I find that I’m suddenly homesick for Eosia. Come or stay, CabaL, but I’m leaving—now.’

25

Zalasta’s face was strangely altered when Ekatas unlocked and opened the door to the small, dank cell adjoining the larger room at the top of the tower a week or so after he had brought Ehlana and Alcan to Cyrga. The doubt and remorse which had filled it before were gone, and the Styric’s expression was now one of calm detachment. He took in the horrid little room at a glance. Ehlana and Alcan were chained to the wall, and they were sitting on heaps of moldy straw that were supposed to serve as beds. Crude earthenware bowls filled with cold gruel sat untouched on the floor.

‘This won’t do, Ekatas,’ Zalasta said in a remote kind of voice.

‘It’s really none of your concern,’ the High Priest replied. ‘Prisoners are kept closely confined here in Cyrga.’ As always, Ekatas sneered when he spoke to Zalasta.

‘Not these prisoners.’ Zalasta stepped into the cell and took up the chains that bound the two women to the wall. Then, showing no emotion, he crushed them into powdery rust. ‘The situation here has changed, Ekatas,’ he snapped, helping Ehlana to her feet. ‘Get this mess cleaned up.’

Ekatas drew himself up. ‘I don’t take orders from Styrics. I am the High Priest of Cyrgon.’

‘I’m truly sorry about this, your Majesty,’ Zalasta apologized to Ehlana. ‘My attention’s been diverted for the past week or so. Evidently I didn’t make my wishes clear to the Cyrgai. Please excuse me for a moment, and I’ll correct that oversight.’ He turned back to Ekatas. ‘I told you to do something,’ he said in a dreadful voice. ‘Why haven’t you started?’

‘Come out of there, Zalasta, or I’ll lock you in with them.’

‘Oh, really?’ Zalasta said with a thin smile. ‘I thought you had better sense. I don’t have time for this, Ekatas. Get this room cleaned up. I have to take our guests to the Temple again.’

‘I’ve received no such instructions.

‘Why should you have?’

‘Cyrgon speaks through me.’

‘Precisely. The instructions didn’t come from Cyrgon.

‘Cyrgon is God here.’

‘Not any more, he isn’t.’ Zalasta gave him an almost pitying look. ‘You didn’t even feel it, did you, Ekatas? The world heaved and convulsed all around you, and you didn’t even notice. How can you possibly be so dense? Cyrgon has been supplanted. Klael rules in Cyrga now—and I speak for Klael.’

‘That’s not possible. You’re lying!’

Zalasta walked out of the cell and took hold of the front of the High Priest’s robe. ‘Look at me, Ekatas,’ he commanded. ‘Take a long, hard look, and then tell me that I’m lying.’

Ekatas struggled momentarily, and then, unable to help himself, he looked into Zalasta’s eyes. The blood slowly drained from his face, and then he screamed. He screamed again, trying to tear himself free from the Styric’s iron grasp. ‘I beg of you!’ he cried out in a voice filled with horror, ‘no more. No more!’ Then he sagged, covering his eyes with his hands.’

Zalasta contemptuously let go of the front of his black robe, and he fell to the floor, weeping uncontrollably.

‘Now do you understand?’ Zalasta asked him, almost gently. ‘Cyzada and I tried to warn you and your petty godling about the dangers involved in summoning Klael, but you wouldn’t listen. Cyrgon wanted to enslave Bhelliom, and now he’s the slave of Bhelliom’s opposite. And, since I speak for Klael, I guess that makes you my slave.’ He prodded the weeping priest with one foot. ‘Get up, Ekatas! Get on your feet when your master speaks!’

The grovelling priest scrambled to his feet, his tear-streaked face still filled with unspeakable horror.

‘Say it, Ekatas,’ Zalasta said in a cruel voice. ‘I want to hear you say it—or would you like to witness the death of another star?’

‘M-M-Master,’ the High Priest choked.

‘Again—a little louder, if you don’t mind.’

‘Master!’ It came out almost as a shriek.

‘Much better, Ekatas. Now wake up those lazy cretins in the guardroom and put them to work cleaning this cell. We have preparations to make when I come back from the temple. Anakha’s bringing Bhelliom to Cyrga, and we’ll want to be ready when he arrives.’ He turned. ‘Bring your maid, Ehlana. Klael wants to look at you.’ Zalasta paused, looking at her critically. ‘I know that we’ve treated you badly,’ he half-apologized, ‘but don’t let our bad manners break your spirit. Remember who you are and draw that about you. Klael respects power and those who wield it.’

‘What do I say to him?’

‘Nothing. He’ll find out what he wants to know just by looking at you. He doesn’t understand your husband, and looking at you will give him some hints about Anakha’s nature. Anakha’s the unknown element in this business. He always has been, I suppose. Klael understands Bhelliom. It’s Bhelliom’s creature who baffles him.’

‘You’ve changed, Zalasta.’

‘I suppose I have,’ he admitted. ‘I have a feeling that I won’t live much longer. Klael’s touch does peculiar things to people. We’d better not keep him waiting.’ He looked at Ekatas, who stood trembling violently. ‘I want this room clean when we come back.’

‘I’ll see to it, Master,’ Ekatas promised in a grotesquely servile tone.

‘How do you find them again?’ Itagne asked curiously. ‘What I’m trying to get at is that the Trolls are in this “No-Time”, but you and Tynian had to come out into real time in order to enter Sama, so time started moving for you. How do you get back to the moment where you left the Trolls?’

‘Please don’t ask metaphysical questions, Itagne,’ Ulath replied with a pained expression. ‘We just go back to the spot where we left the Trolls, and there they are. We deal with “where” and let the Troll-Gods deal with “when”. They seem to be able to jump around in time without paying much attention to the rules.’

‘Where are the Trolls right now?’

‘Just outside of town,’ Tynian replied. ‘We didn’t think it was a good idea to bring them into Sama with us. They’re starting to get a little out of hand.’

‘Is it something we should know about, Tynian-Knight?’ Engessa asked.

Ulath leaned back in his chair. ‘Cyrgon disrupted Trollish behavior rather profoundly when he went to Thalesia and posed as Ghworg,’ he explained somberly. ‘Zalasta told him about the Trolls, but Cyrgon’s been a little out of touch, so he mistook the Trolls for the Dawn-Men. The Dawn-Men were herd-animals, but the Trolls run in packs. Herd-animals will accept any member of their species, but pack-animals are a little more selective. It’s to our advantage right now to have the Trolls behave like a herd. At least we can keep them all going in the same direction, but some problems are starting to crop up. The packs are beginning to separate, and there’s a great deal of snapping and snarling going on.’

Tynian glanced at Queen Betuana, who, gowned all in black, was sitting somewhat apart from them. He motioned Engessa slightly to one side. ‘Is she all right?’ he asked very quietly.

‘Betuana-Queen is in ritual mourning,’ Engessa replied, also in half-whisper. ‘The loss of her husband has touched her very deeply.’

‘Were they really that close?’

‘It did not seem so,’ Engessa admitted. His eyes were troubled as he looked at his melancholy queen. ‘The mourning-ritual is seldom observed now. I am keeping careful watch over her. She must not be allowed to do herself injury.’ Engessa’s shoulder-muscles bunched.

Tynian was startled. ‘Is there any real danger of that?’

‘It was not uncommon a few centuries ago,’ Engessa replied.

‘We’d been expecting you earlier,’ Itagne was saying to Ulath. ‘As I understand it, “No-Time” means that the Trolls can go from one place to another almost instantaneously.’

‘Not quite instantaneously, Itagne. We’ve been a week or so getting here from the Tamul Mountains. We have to stop and go back into real time every so often so that they can hunt. Hungry Trolls aren’t the best of travelling companions. What’s been happening? We can’t make contact with Aphrael when we’re in No-Time.’

‘Sparhawk’s found some clues about the location of Cyrga,’ Itagne replied. ‘They aren’t too precise, but he’s going to take a chance and try to follow them.’

‘How’s Patriarch Bergsten coming?’

‘He’s captured Cynestra. Had it handed to him on a plate, actually.’

‘Oh?’

‘Do you remember Atana Maris?’

‘The pretty girl who commanded the garrison in Cynestra? The one who was so fond of you?’

Itagne smiled. ‘That’s the one. She’s an abrupt sort of girl, and I’m quite fond of her, and when she saw Bergsten and the Church Knights approaching, she decided to present him with the city. She swept the streets clean of Cynesgan troops and opened the gates for Bergsten. She was going to give him King Jaluah’s head as well, but he persuaded her not to.’

‘Pity,’ Ulath murmured, ‘but that’s the sort of thing you have to expect when a good man gets religion.’

‘Vanion’s in place,’ Itagne continued, ‘and he and Kring are establishing strongholds about a day’s ride out into Cynesga. We’re going to do the same here, but we thought we’d wait until you arrived first.’

‘Is anybody encountering any significant opposition?’ Tynian asked.

‘It’s hard to say exactly,’ Itagne mused. ‘We’re moving on to central Cynesga, but Klael’s soldiers pop out of every crack between two rocks. The further back we push them, the tighter they’ll be concentrated. If we don’t come up with a way to neutralize them, we’ll have to carve our way through them, and from what Vanion tells me they don’t carve very well. Kring’s tactics are working well enough now, but when we get closer to Cyrga—’ He spread his hands helplessly.

‘We’ll work something out,’ Ulath said. ‘Anything else?’

‘It’s still sort of up in the air, Sir Ulath,’ Itagne replied. ‘The fairy-stories Stragen and Caalador are hatching in Beresa are diverting most of the Cynesgan cavalry away from the eastern border. Half of them are running south toward the coast around Kaftal, and the other half are running north toward a little village called Zhubay. Caalador added an imaginary massing of the Atans up there to Stragen’s illusory fleet off the southern coast. Between them, they’ve split the entire Cynesgan army in two and sent them off to chase moonbeams.’

‘You say that half of them are going north?’ Tynian asked innocently.

‘Toward Zhubay, yes. They seem to think the Atans are massing there for some reason.’

‘What an amazing thing,’ Ulath said with a straight face. ‘It just so happens that Tynian and I have been sort of drifting in that general direction anyway. Do you think the Cynesgans would be too disappointed if they came up against Trolls instead of Atans?’

‘You could go up there and ask them, I suppose,’ Itagne replied, also with no hint of a smile. They all knew what was going to happen at Zhubay.

‘Convey our apologies to them, Ulath-Knight,’ Betuana said with a sad little smile.

‘Oh, we will, your Majesty,’ Ulath assured her. ‘If we can find any of them still in one piece after they’ve frolicked around with the Trolls for a couple of hours.

‘Get out of there!’ Kalten shouted, galloping his horse toward the dog-like creatures clustered around something lying on the gravel floor of the desert. The beasts scampered away, hooting with soulless laughter.

‘Are they dogs?’ Talen asked in a sick voice.

‘No,’ Mirtai replied shortly. ‘Hyenas.’

Kalten rode back. ‘It’s a man,’ he reported bleakly, ‘or what’s left of one.’

‘We must bury him,’ Bevier said.

‘They’d only dig him up again,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘Besides, he added, ‘If you start trying to bury them all, we’ll be here for several lifetimes.’ He gestured at the bone-littered plain stretching off to the low range of black mountains lying to the west.

He looked at Xanetia. ‘It was a mistake to bring you along, Anarae,’ he apologized. ‘This is going to get worse before it gets any better.’

‘It was not unexpected, Anakha,’ she replied.

Kalten looked up at the flock of vultures circling overhead. ‘Filthy brutes,’ he muttered.

Sparhawk raised up in his stirrups to peer on ahead. ‘We’ve got a couple more hours until the sun goes down, but maybe we’d better pull back a mile or two and set up camp a little early. We’ll have to spend one night out there. Let’s not spend two.’

‘We need those pillars for landmarks anyway,” Talen added, ‘and they’re a lot brighter when the sun first comes up.’

‘That’s if that bright spot we’ve been following really comes from those pillars,’ Kalten said dubiously.

‘They got us here, didn’t they? This has to be what Ogerajin called “the Plain of Bones”, doesn’t it? I had my own doubts at first. Ogerajin was raving so much of the time that I was sure that he’d garbled at least some of the directions, but he hasn’t led us astray yet.’

‘We still haven’t seen the city, Talen,’ Kalten reminded him, ‘so I’d sort of hold off on composing the letter of thanks.’

‘I’ve got all the money I’ll ever need, Order,’ Krager said expansively, leaning back in his chair and looking out through the window at the buildings and the harbor of the port city of Delo.

He took another drink of wine.

‘I wouldn’t go around announcing that, Krager,’ the burly Order advised. ‘Particularly not here on the waterfront.’

‘I’ve hired some bodyguards, Order. Can you ask around and find out if there’s a fast ship leaving for Zenga in Cammoria in the next week or so?’

‘Why would anybody want to go to Zenga?’

‘I grew up there, and I’m homesick,’ Krager replied with a shrug. ‘Besides, I’d sort of like to grind a few faces—all the people who said that I’d come to no good end while I was growing up.’

‘Did you happen to come across a fellow named Ezek while you were in Natayos?’ Order asked. ‘I think he’s a Deiran.’

‘The name rings a bell. I think he was working for the fellow who ran the tavern.’

‘I sent him down there,’ Order explained, ‘him and the other two—Col and Shallag. They were going to see if they could join Narstil’s band of outlaws.’

‘They may have, but they were working in the tavern when I left.’

‘It’s none of my business, but if you were doing so well in Natayos, why did you leave?’

‘Instincts, Order,’ Krager replied owlishly. ‘I get this cold little feeling at the base of my skull, and I know that it’s time to run. Have you ever heard of a man named Sparhawk?’

‘You mean Prince Sparhawk? Everybody’s heard of him. He’s got quite a reputation.’

‘Oh, yes. That he does. Anyway, Sparhawk’s been looking for an opportunity to kill me for twenty years or so, and that’s the sort of thing that puts a very fine edge on a man’s instincts.’

Krager took another long drink.

‘You might want to give some thought to drying out for a while,’ Order advised, looking meaningfully at Krager’s tankard of Arcian red. ‘I run a tavern, and I’ve learned to recognize the signs. Your liver’s starting to go on you, my friend. Your eyeballs are turning yellow.’

‘I’ll cut down once I get out to sea.’

‘I think you’ll have to do more than just cut down, Krager. You’re going to have to give it up entirely if you want to go on living. Believe me, you don’t want to die the way most drunkards do. I knew one once who screamed for three straight weeks before he finally died. It was awful.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my liver,’ Krager said truculently. ‘It’s just the funny light in here. When I get out to sea, I’ll space out my drinks. I’ll be all right.’ His face had a haunted expression, however, and the mere mention of giving up strong drink had set his hands to trembling violently.

Order shrugged. He had tried to warn the man. ‘It’s up to you, Krager,’ he said. ‘I’ll ask around and see if I can find a ship that’ll get you out of Prince Sparhawk’s reach.’

‘Soon, Order. Soon.’ Krager held out his tankard. ‘In the meantime, why don’t we have another?’

Ekrasios and his party of Delphae reached Norenja late in the afternoon on a murky day when heavy clouds hung low over the treetops and there was not a breath of air moving. Ekrasios took his boyhood friend, Adras, and crept forward through the tangle of brush and vines to the edge of the clearing to survey the ruin.

‘Thinkest thou that they will offer resistance?’ Adras asked quietly.

‘That is difficult to predict,’ Ekrasios replied. ‘Anakha and his companions have advised that these rebels are poorly trained. Methinks their response to our sudden appearance will depend on the character of their officers. Better that we leave them a clear path to the surrounding forest. Should we encircle them, desperation will impel them to fight.’

Adras nodded. ‘They have made some effort to repair the gates,’ he said, pointing at the entrance to the city.

‘The gates will pose no problem. I will instruct thee and our companions in the spell which doth modify the curse of Edaemus. Those newly-made gates are constructed of wood, and wood is as susceptible to decay as is flesh,’ He looked up at the dirty grey clouds. ‘Canst thou make any estimate as to the time of day?’

‘No more than two hours until dusk,’ Adras replied.

‘Let us proceed then. We must find yet another gate to provide means of escape for those whom we would confront this night.’

‘And if there be none other?’

‘Then those who would escape must find their own way. I am reluctant to unleash the full force of the curse of Edaemas. Should necessity compel me to it, however, I will not shrink from that stern duty. Should they flee, well and good. Should they choose to stay and fight, we will do what we must. I do assure thee, Adras, that when tomorrow’s sun rises, none living shall remain within the walls of Norenja.’

‘Good God!’ Berit exclaimed, peering over the edge of the dry gully at the huge soldiers in close-fitting armor running westward across the sun-baked gravel. ‘They’re monsters.’

‘Keep your voice down,’ Khalad cautioned. ‘There’s no way of knowing how good their ears are.’

The strange, bestial soldiers were larger than Atans, and their burnished steel breastplates fit their torsos snugly, outlining each muscle. They wore helmets adorned with fanciful horns or wings, and the visors of those helmets were individualized, evidently forged to fit each warrior’s face. They ran westward in a sort of ragged formation, and their hoarse gasping was clearly audible even at this distance.

‘Where are they going?’ Berit demanded. ‘The border’s off in the other direction.’

‘That one who’s trailing along behind the others has a broken-off javelin sticking out of him,’ Khalad replied. ‘I’d say that means that they’ve come up against Tikume’s Peloi. They’ve already been to the border, and now they’re coming back.’

‘Back to where?’ Berit was baffled. ‘Where can they go? They can’t breathe here.’

Khalad cautiously poked his head above the rim of the gully and squinted out across the rocky desert. ‘They seem to be going toward that cluster of hills about a mile to the west.’ He paused. ‘Just how curious are we feeling today, Berit?’

‘What have you got in mind?’

‘This gully comes down out of those hills, and if we follow it and keep our heads down, they won’t see us. Why don’t we drift off toward the west? I’ve got a strong feeling that we might find out something important if we tag along behind those fellows.’

Berit shrugged. ‘Why not?’

‘That’s really not a very logical answer, Berit. I can think of a half-dozen reasons why not.’ Khalad squinted at the panting soldiers lurching across the desert. ‘Let’s do it anyway, though. For some reason, I think we should.’

They slid back down into the gully and led their horses along the dry watercourse toward the west. They moved quietly along the bottom of the wash for about a quarter of an hour. ‘Are they still out there?’ Berit whispered.

‘I’ll look.’ Khalad carefully climbed back up the steep bank to the rim of the gully and eased his head up far enough to look. Then he slid back down again. ‘They’re still staggering toward the hills,’ he reported. ‘This gully starts getting shallower on up ahead. Let’s leave the horses here.’

They crept along, crouched over to stay out of sight, and as the gully started to run uphill, they found that they were forced to crawl on their hands and knees.

Khalad raised up slightly to look again. ‘They seem to be swinging around behind that other hill,’ he said quietly. ‘Let’s slip up to the top of this ridge and see what’s back there.’

The two of them crawled out of the now-shallow wash and slanted their way up to the ridge-line to a point from which they could see what lay behind the hill Khalad had pointed out. It was a kind of shallow basin nestled down among the three hills that heaved up out of the surrounding desert. The basin was empty.

‘Where did they go?’ Berit whispered.

‘That basin was the place they were making for,’ Khalad insisted with a puzzled frown. ‘Wait. Here comes that one with the javelin in his belly.’

They watched the wounded soldier stumble into the basin, half-falling and rising again to drag himself along. He raised his masked face and bellowed something.

Khalad and Berit waited tensely Then two other soldiers emerged from a narrow opening in the side of one of the hills, descended to the floor of the basin, and half-dragged their injured comrade back up the hill and on into the mouth of the cave.

‘That answers that,’ Khalad said. ‘They ran across miles of open desert to get to that cave.’

‘Why? What good will it do them?’

‘I haven’t got a clue, Berit, but I still think it’s important.’ Khalad stood up. ‘Let’s go back to where we left the horses. We can still cover a few more miles before the sun goes down.’

Ekrasios crouched at the edge of the forest waiting for the torches inside the walls of Norenja to burn down and for the sounds of human activity to subside. The events at Panem-Doa had confirmed the assessment of these rebels Lord Vanion had given him at Sama. Given the slightest opportunity, these poorly-trained soldiers would flee, and that suited Ekrasios very well. He was still somewhat reluctant to unleash the curse of Edaemus, and people who ran away did not have to be destroyed.

Adras returned, ghosting back to the edge of the jungle through the night mist. ‘All is in readiness, Ekrasios,’ he reported quietly. ‘The gates will crumble at the merest touch.’

‘Let us then proceed,’ Ekrasios replied, standing up and relaxing the rigid control that dimmed his inner light. ‘Let us pray that all within yon walls may flee.’

‘And if they do not?’

‘Then they must surely die. Our promise to Anakha binds us. We will empty yon ruin—in one fashion or the other.’

‘It’s not so bad here,’ Kalten said as they dismounted. ‘The bones are older, for one thing.’ Necessity had compelled them to camp in the hideous boneyard the previous night, and they were all eager to reach the end of the horror.

Sparhawk grunted, looking across the intervening stretch of desert at the fractured basalt cliff that seemed to mark the eastern edge of the Forbidden Mountains. The sun had just come up above the eastern horizon, and its brilliant light reflected back from the pair of quartz-laced peaks rearing up out of the rusty black mountains just to the west.

‘Why are we stopping here?’ Mirtai asked. ‘That cliff’s still a quarter of a mile away.’

‘I think we’re supposed to line up on those two peaks,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Talen, can you remember Ogerajin’s exact words?’

‘Let’s see.’ The boy frowned in concentration. Then he nodded shortly. ‘I’ve got it now,’ he said.

‘How do you do that?’ Bevier asked him curiously.

Talen shrugged. ‘There’s a trick to it. You don’t think about the words. You just concentrate on where you were when you heard them.’ He lifted his face slightly, closed his eyes, and began to recite. ‘Beyond the Plain of Bones wilt thou come to the Gates of Illusion behind which lies concealed the Hidden City of Cyrga. The eye of mortal man cannot perceive those gates. Stark they stand as a fractured wall at the verge of the Forbidden Mountains to bar thy way. Bend thine eye, however, upon Cyrgon’s two white pillars and direct thy steps toward the emptiness which doth lie between them. Trust not the evidence which thine eye doth present unto thee, for the solid-seeming wall is as mist and will not bar thy way.’

‘That didn’t even sound like your own voice,’ Bevier said.

‘That’s part of the trick,’ Talen explained. ‘That was Ogerajin’s voice—sort of.’

‘All right then,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Let’s see if he really knew what he was talking about.’ He squinted at the two brilliant points of reflected light. ‘There are the pillars.’ He took a few steps to the right and shook his head. ‘From here they merge into one light.’ Then he walked to the left. ‘It does the same thing here.’ Then he went back to his original location. ‘This is the spot,’ he said with a certain amount of excitement. ‘Those two peaks are very close together. If you move a few feet either way, you can’t even see that gap between them. Unless you’re really looking for it, you could miss it altogether.’

‘Oh, that’s just fine, Talen,’ Kalten said sarcastically. ‘If we go any closer, the cliff will block off our view of the pillars.’

Talen rolled his eyes upward.

‘What?’ Kalten asked.

‘Just start walking toward the cliff, Kalten. Sparhawk can stand here and keep his eyes on the gap. He’ll tell you whether to go to the right or the left.’

‘Oh.’ Kalten looked around at the others. ‘Don’t make an issue of it,’ he told them. Then he started off toward the cliff.

‘Veer to the right,’ Sparhawk told him.

Kalten nodded and changed direction.

‘Too far. Back to the left a little.’

The blond Pandion continued toward the cliff, altering his direction in response to Sparhawk’s shouted commands. When he reached the cliff, he went along slapping his hands on the face of the rock. Then he drew his heavy dagger, stuck it into the ground, and started back.

‘Well?’ Sparhawk called when he had covered half the distance.

‘Ogerajin didn’t know what he was talking about,’ Kalten shouted.

Sparhawk swore.

‘Do you mean there’s no opening?’ Talen called.

‘Oh, the opening’s there all right,’ Kalten replied, ‘but it’s at least five feet to the left of where your crazy man said it would be.’

26

‘Please don’t do that, Talen,’ Bevier said. ‘Either go all the way in or stay outside. It’s very disturbing to see the bottom half of you sticking out of solid rock that way.’

‘It’s not solid, Bevier.’ The boy stuck his hand into the rock and pulled it out again to demonstrate.

‘Well, it looks solid. Please Talen, in or out. Don’t hover in between.’

‘Can you feel anything at all when you poke your head through?’ Mirtai asked.

‘It’s a little cooler in there,’ Talen replied. ‘It’s a sort of cave or tunnel. There’s light at the far end.’

‘Can we get the horses through?’ Sparhawk asked.

Talen nodded. ‘It’s big enough for that—if we go through in single file. I guess Cyrgon wanted to keep down the chances of anybody accidentally discovering the opening.’

‘You’d better let me go first, Sparhawk said. ‘There might be guards at the other end.’

‘I’ll be right behind you,’ Kalten said, retrieving his dagger and drawing his sword.

‘’Tis a most clever illusion,’ Xanetia observed, touching the rock face on the left of the gate. ‘Seamless and indistinguishable from reality.’

‘It’s been good enough to hide Cyrga for ten thousand years, I guess,’ Talen said.

‘Let’s go in,’ Sparhawk said. ‘I want to have a look at this place.’

There was difficulty with the horses, of course. No matter how reasonably one explains something to a horse, he will not willingly walk into a stone wall. Bevier solved the problem by wrapping cloth around their heads, and, with Sparhawk in the lead, the party led their mounts into the tunnel. It was perhaps a hundred feet long, and since the opening at the far end was still in shade, the light from it was not blinding.

‘Hold my horse,’ Sparhawk muttered to Kalten. Then, his sword held low, he moved quietly toward the opening. When he reached it, he tensed himself and then stepped through quickly, whirling to fend off an attack from either side.

‘Anything?’ Kalten demanded in a hoarse whisper.

‘No. There’s nobody here.’

The rest of them cautiously led their horses out of the tunnel. They had emerged into a tree-shaded swale carpeted with winter-dry grass and dotted with white stone markers.

‘The Glen of Heroes,’ Talen murmured.

‘What?’ Kalten asked.

‘That’s what Ogerajin called it. I guess it sounds nicer than “graveyard”. The Cyrgai seem to treat their own dead a little better than they do the slaves.’

Sparhawk looked across the extensive cemetery. He pointed to the western side where a slight rise marked the edge of the burial ground. ‘Let’s go,’ he told his friends. ‘I want to see just exactly what we’re up against.’

They crossed the cemetery to the bottom of the rise, tied their horses to the trees growing there and carefully crept to the top. The basin was significantly lower than the floor of the surrounding desert, and there was a fair-sized lake nestled in the center, dark and unreflective in the morning shadows. The lake was surrounded by winter-fallow fields, and a forest of dark trees stretched up the slopes of the basin. There was a sort of rigid tidiness about it all, as if nature itself had been coerced thto straight lines and precise angles. Centuries of brutal labor had been devoted to hammering what might have been a place of beauty into a stern reflection of the mind of Cyrgon himself.

The hidden valley was perhaps five miles across, and on the east side stood the city that had remained concealed for ten eons. The surrounding mountains had provided the building materials, and the city wall and the buildings within were constructed of that same brownish-black volcanic basalt. The exterior walls were high and massive, and a steep, cone-like hill, its sides thickly covered with buildings, rose inside those walls. Surmounting that hill was yet another walled enclosure with black spires rising on one side and, in startling contrast to the rest of the city, white spires on the other.

‘It’s not particularly creative,’ Bevier observed critically. ‘The architect doesn’t seem to have had much imagination.’

‘Imagination is not a trait encouraged amongst the Cyrgai, Sir Knight,’ Xanetia told him.

‘We could swing around the sides of the basin and get closer, Kalten suggested. ‘The trees would hide us. The ground around the lake doesn’t offer much concealment.’

‘We’ve got some time,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Let’s get away from the mouth of this tunnel. If it’s the only way in or out of the valley, there’s bound to be traffic going through here. I can see people working in those fields down there—slaves, most likely. There’ll be Cyrgai watching them, and there may be patrols as well. Let’s see if we can pick up some kind of routine before we blunder into anything.’

Berit and Khalad made a dry camp in another cluster of jumbled boulders two days west of the place where they had seen the strange soldiers. They watered their horses sparingly, built no fire, and ate cold rations. Khalad spoke very little, but sat instead staring moodily out at the desert.

‘Quit worrying at it, Khalad,’ Berit told him.

‘It’s right in front of my face, Berit. I know it is, but I just can’t put my finger on it.’

‘Do you want to talk it out? Neither one of us is going to get any sleep if you spend the whole night wrestling with it.’

‘I can brood quietly.’

‘No, actually you can’t. We’ve been together too long, my friend. I can hear you thinking.’

Khalad smiled faintly. ‘It has to do with those creatures,’ he said.

‘Really? I never would have guessed. That’s all you’ve been thinking about for the past two days. What did you want to know about them—aside from the fact that they’re big, ugly, savage, and they’ve got yellow blood?’

‘That’s the part that’s nagging at me—that yellow blood. Aphrael says that it’s because they breathe with their livers. They do that because what they’re used to breathing isn’t air. They can get along here for a little while, but when they start exerting themselves, they start to fall apart. The ones we saw the other day weren’t just running around aimlessly out there in the desert. They had a specific destination in mind.’

‘That cave? You think it might be a haven for them?’

‘Now we’re starting to get somewhere,’ Khalad said, his face growing intent. ‘The Peloi are probably the best light cavalry in the world, but Klael’s soldiers are almost as big as Trolls, and they seem to be able to ignore wounds that would kill one of us. I don’t think they’re running from the Peloi.’

‘No. They’re trying to run away from the air.’

Khalad snapped his fingers. ‘That’s it!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s why they break off and run back to those caves. They aren’t hiding from the Peloi. They’re hiding from the air.’

‘Air is air, Khalad—whether it’s out in the open or inside a cave.’

‘I don’t think so, Berit. I think Klael has filled that cave with the kind of air his soldiers are used to breathing. He can’t change all the air on the whole world, because it would kill the Cyrgai as well as all the rest of us, and Cyrgon won’t let him do that. He can fill the cave with that other kind of air, though. It’d be the perfect place. It’s closed-in and more or less air-tight. It gives those monsters a place to go when they start to get winded. They can rest up in there and then come back out and fight some more. You’d better pass this on, Berit. Aphrael can let the others know that Klael’s soldiers are hiding out in caves because they can breathe there.’

‘I’ll tell her,’ Berit said dubiously. ‘I’m not sure what good it’s going to do us, but I’ll tell her.’

Khalad leaned back on his elbows with a broad grin. ‘You’re not thinking, Berit. If something’s giving you problems, and it’s hiding out in a cave, you don’t have to go in after it. All you have to do is collapse the entrance. Once it’s trapped inside, you can forget about it. Why don’t you pass this on to Aphrael? Suggest that she tell the others to collapse every cave they come across. She won’t even have to do it herself.’ Then he frowned again.

‘What’s wrong now?’

‘That was too easy,’ Khalad told him, ‘and it doesn’t really help all that much. As big as those beasts are, you could collapse a whole mountain on them, and they could still dig their way out. There’s something else that hasn’t quite come together yet. He held up one hand. ‘I’ll get it,’ he promised. ‘I’ll get it if it takes me all night.’

Berit groaned.

‘I have decided to go with you, Bergsten-Priest,’ Atana Maris replied haltingly in heavily accented Elenic. She had come up from behind their column when they were five days south of Cynestra.

Bergsten suppressed an oath. ‘We’re an army on the move, Atana Maris,’ he tried to explain diplomatically. ‘We wouldn’t be able to make suitable arrangements for your comfort or safety when we stop for the night.’

‘Arrangements?’ She looked at Neran, the translator, with a puzzled expression.

Neran spoke at some length in Tamul, and the tall girl burst out laughing. ‘What’s so funny, Atana?’ Bergsten asked suspiciously.

‘That you would worry about that, Bergsten-Priest. I am a soldier. I can defend myself against any of your men who admire me too much.’

‘Why have you decided to come along with us, Atana Maris?’ Heldin stepped in.

‘I had a thought after you left Cynestra, Heldin-Knight,’ she replied. ‘It has been in my mind to go find Itagne-Ambassador for much weeks now. You are going to the place where he will be, so I will go with you.’

‘We could carry a message to him for you, Atana. You don’t really have to go along.’

She shook her head. ‘No, Heldin-Knight. It is a personal matter between Itagne-Ambassador and me. He was friendly to me when he was in Cynestra. Then he had to go away, but he said to me that he would write letters to me. He did not do that. Now I must go find him to make sure that he is well.’ Her eyes went hard. ‘If he is well, I must know if he does not want to be friendly to me any more.’ She sighed. ‘I hope much that his feelings have not changed. I would not want to have to kill him.’

‘I want no part of this,’ Gahennas said abruptly, standing up and giving the rest of them a reproving look. ‘I was willing to work with you if it meant tweaking Cieronna’s nose, but I’m not going to involve myself in treason.’

‘Who said anything about treason, Gahennas?’ Chacole asked her. ‘There won’t be any real danger to our husband. We’re just going to make it appear that there’s a plot against him—and we’re going to plant enough evidence to lay the plot at Cieronna’s door. If something were to happen to Sarabian, the crown Prince would be elevated to the imperial throne, and Cieronna would be regent. We’ll expose her plot before anything really happens, and she’ll be totally discredited—probably imprisoned—and we won’t have to kow-tow to her any more.’

‘I don’t care what you say, Chacole,’ the jug-eared Tegan Empress declared flatly. ‘You’re putting something in motion that’s treasonous, and I won’t be a party to it. I’m going to keep an eye on you, Chacole. Dismiss your spies and drop this wild scheme at once, because if you don’t—’ Gahennas left it hanging ominously in the air as she turned on her heel and stalked away.

‘That was very clumsy, Chacole,’ Elysoun drawled, carefully selecting a piece of fruit from the silver platter on the table. ‘She might have gone along if you hadn’t gone into such detail. She didn’t have to know that you were actually going to send out your assassins. You weren’t really sure of her yet, and you went too fast.’

‘I’m running out of time, Elysoun.’ Chacole’s tone was desperate.

‘I don’t see the need for all this urgency,’ Elysoun replied, ‘and how much time did you save today? That Tegan hag’s going to be watching your every move now. You blundered, Chacole. Now you’re going to have to kill her.’

‘What?” Chacole’s face went white.

‘Unless you don’t mind losing your head. One word from Gahennas can send you to the block. You aren’t really cut out for men’s politics, dear. You talk too much.’ Elysoun rose lazily to her feet. ‘We can discuss this later,’ she said. ‘I have an enthusiastic young guardsman waiting for me, and I wouldn’t want him to cool off.’ She sauntered away.

Elysoun’s casual attitude concealed a great deal of urgency. Chacole’s Cynesgan upbringing had made her painfully obvious. She had drawn on the hatred of Sarabian’s other wives for Empress Cieronna. That part was clever enough, but the elaborate, involved story of staging an imitation assassination-attempt was ridiculously excessive. Very clearly the attempt was not designed to fail, as Chacole and Torellia so piously proclaimed. Elysoun began to walk faster. She had to get to her husband in order to warn him that his life was in immediate danger.

‘Xanetia!’ Kalten said, starting back in surprise as the Anarae suddenly appeared in their midst that evening, ‘can’t you cough or something before you do that?’

‘It was not mine intent to startle thee, my protector,’ she apologized.

‘My nerves are strung a little tight right now,’ he said.

‘Did you have any luck?’ Mirtai asked.

‘I gleaned much, Atana Mirtai.’ Xanetia paused, collecting her thoughts. ‘The slaves are not closely watched,’ she began, ‘and their supervision is given over to Cynesgan overseers, for such menial tasks are beneath the dignity of the Cyrgai. The desert itself doth confine the slaves. Those foolish enough to attempt escape inevitably perish in that barren waste.’

‘What’s the customary routine, Anarae?’ Bevier asked her.

‘The slaves emerge from their pens at dawn,’ she replied, ‘and, unbidden and unguarded, leave the city to take up their tasks. Then, at sunset, still uncommanded and scarce noticed, they return to the city and to the slave-pens for feeding. They are then chained and locked in their pens for the night to be released again at first light of day.’

‘Some of them are up here in these woods,’ Mirtai noted, peering out through the trees that concealed them. ‘What are they supposed to be doing?’

‘They cut firewood for their masters in this extensive forest. The Cyrgai warm themselves with fires in the chill of winter. The kenneled slaves must endure the weather.’

‘Were you able to get any sense of how the city’s laid out, Anarae?’ Bevier asked her.

‘Some, Sir Knight.’ She beckoned them to the edge of the trees so that they could look across the valley at the black-walled city. ‘The Cyrgai themselves live on the slopes of the hill which doth rise within the walls,’ she explained, ‘and they do hold themselves aloof from the more mundane portion of the city below. There is yet another wall within the outer one, and that inner wall doth protect Cyrgon’s Chosen from contact with inferior races. The lower city doth contain the slave-pens, the warehouses for foodstuffs, and the barracks of the Cynesgans who oversee the slaves and man the outer wall. As thou canst see, there is yet that final wall which doth enclose the summit of the hill. Within that ultimate wall lieth the palace of King Santheocles and the temple of Cyrgon.’

Bevier nodded. ‘It’s fairly standard for a fortified town then.’

‘If thou wert aware of all this, why didst thou ask, Sir Knight?’ she asked tartly.

‘Confirmation, dear lady,’ he replied, smiling. ‘The city’s ten thousand years old. They might have had different ideas about how to build a fort before the invention of modern weapons.’ He squinted across the valley at walled Cyrga. ‘They’re obviously willing to sacrifice the lower city,’ he said. ‘Otherwise that outer wall would be defended by Cyrgai. The fact that they’ve turned that chore over to the Cynesgans means that they don’t place much value on those warehouses and slave-pens. The wall at the foot of “Mount Cyrgon” will be more fiercely defended, and if necessary, they’ll pull back up the hill to that last wall that encloses the palace and the temple.’

‘All of this is well and good, Bevier,’ Kalten interrupted him, but where are Ehlana and Alcan?’

Bevier gave him a surprised look. ‘Up on top, of course,’ he replied, ‘either in the palace or in the temple.’

‘How did you arrive at that?’

‘They’re hostages, Kalten. When you’re holding hostages, you have to keep them close enough to threaten them when your enemies get too close. Our problem is how to get into the city.’

‘We’ll come up with something,’ Sparhawk said confidently. ‘Let’s go back into the woods a ways and set up for the night.’

They moved back among the trees and ate cold rations, since a fire was out of the question.

‘The problem’s still there, Sparhawk,’ Kalten said as evening settled over the hidden valley. ‘How are we going to get inside all those walls?’

‘The first wall’s easy,’ Talen said. ‘We just walk in through the gate.’

‘How do you propose to do that without being challenged?’ Kalten demanded.

‘People walk out of the city every morning and back again every evening, don’t they?’

‘Those are slaves.’

‘Exactly.’

Kalten stared at him.

‘We want to get into the city, don’t we? That’s the easiest way.’

‘What about the other walls?’ Bevier objected.

‘One wall at a time, Sir Knight,’ Talen said gaily, ‘one wall at a time. Let’s get through the outer one first. Then we’ll worry about the other two.’

Daiya the Peloi came riding hard back across the gravelly desert about mid-morning the next day. ‘We’ve found them, your Reverence,’ he reported to Bergsten as he reined in. ‘The Cynesgan cavalry tried to lead us away from where they’re hiding, but we found them anyway. They’re in those hills just ahead of us.’

‘More of those big ones with masks on their faces?’ Heldin asked.

‘Some of those, friend Heldin,’ Daiya replied. ‘But there are others as well—wearing old-fashioned helmets and carrying spears.’

‘Cyrgai,’ Bergsten grunted. ‘Vanion mentioned them. Their tactics are so archaic that they won’t be much of a problem.’

‘Where exactly are they, friend Daiya?’ Heldin asked.

‘They’re in a large canyon on the east side of those hills, friend Heldin. My scouts saw them from the canyon-rim.’

‘We definitely don’t want to go into that canyon after them, your Grace,’ Heldin cautioned. ‘They’re infantry, and close quartors are made to order for their tactics. We’ll have to devise some way to get them to come out into the open.’

Atana Maris asked Neran a question in Tamul, and he replied at some length. She nodded, spoke briefly to him, and then she ran off toward the south.

‘Where’s she going?’ Bergsten demanded.

‘She said that your enemies have laid a trap for you, your Grace,’ Neran replied with a shrug. ‘She’s going to go spring it.’

‘Stop her, Heldin!’ Bergsten said sharply.

It must be said in Sir Heldin’s defense that he did try to catch up to the lithe, fleet-footed Atan girl, but she merely glanced back over her shoulder, laughed, and ran even faster, leaving him far behind, flogging at his horse and muttering curses.

Bergsten’s curses were not muttered. He blistered the air around him. ‘What is she doing?’ he demanded of Neran.

‘They’re planning an ambush, your Grace,’ Neran replied calmly. ‘It won’t work if somebody sees them hiding in that canyon. Atana Maris is going to run into the canyon, let them see her, and then run out again. They’ll have to try to catch her. That’ll bring them out into the open. You might want to give some thought to picking up your pace just a bit. She’ll be terribly disappointed in you if you’re not in position when she leads them out.’

Patriarch Bergsten looked out across the desert at the golden Atana running smoothly to the south with her long black hair flying behind her. Then he swore again, rose up in his stirrups, and bellowed, ‘Charge!’

Ekrasios and his comrades reached Synaqua late in the afternoon just as the sun broke through the heavy cloud-cover which had obscured the sky for the past several days. The ruins of Synaqua were in much greater disrepair than had been the case with Panem-Doa and Norenja. The entire east wall had been undercut by one of the numerous streams which flowed sluggishly through the soggy delta of the Arjun River, and it had collapsed at some unknown time in the past. When Scarpa’s rebels had moved in to occupy the ruin, they had replaced it with a log palisade. The construction was shoddy, and the palisade was not particularly imposing.

Ekrasios considered that as he sat alone moodily watching the sun sinking into a cloud-bank off to the west. A serious problem had arisen following their disastrous assault on Norenja. It had appeared that there were many gates through which the panic-stricken rebels could flee, but their commander had blocked off those gates with heaps of rubble as a part of his defenses. The terrified soldiers had been trapped inside the walls, and had therefore had no choice but to turn and fight. Hundreds had died in unspeakable agony before Ekrasios had been able to divert his men into the uninhabited parts of the ruin so that the escape-route through the main gate was open. Many of the Delphae had wept openly at the horror they had been forced to inflict on men who were essentially no more than misguided peasants. It had taken Ekrasios two days and all of his eloquence to keep half his men from abandoning the cause and returning immediately to Delphaeus.

Adras, Ekrasios’ boyhood friend and his second-in-command, was among the most profoundly disturbed. Adras now avoided his leader whenever possible, and the few communications that passed between them were abrupt and official. And so it was that Ekrasios was somewhat surprised when Adras came to him unsummoned in the ruddy glow of that fiery sunset.

‘A word with thee, Ekrasios,’ he asked tentatively.

‘Of course, Adras. Thou knowst that it is not needful for thee to ask.’

‘I must advise thee that I will not participate in this night’s work.’

‘We are bound by our pledge to Anakha, Adras,’ Ekrasios reminded him. ‘Our Anari hath sworn to this, and we are obliged to honor his oath.’

‘I cannot, Ekrasios!’ Adras cried, sudden tears streaming down his face. ‘I cannot bear what I have done and must do again should I enter yon city. Surely Edaemus did not intend for us to so use his dreadful gift.’

There were a dozen arguments Ekrasios might have raised, but he knew in his heart that they were all spurious. ‘I will not insist, Adras. That would not be the act of a friend.’ He sighed. ‘I am no less unquiet than thou, I do confess. We are not suited for war, Adras, and the curse of Edaemus makes our way of making war more horrible than the casual bloodletting of other races, and, since we are not fiends, the horror doth tear at our souls.’ He paused. ‘Thou art not alone in this resolve, art thou, Adras? There are others as well, are there not?’

Adras nodded mutely.

‘How many?’

‘Close to a hundred and fifty, my friend.’

Ekrasios was shaken. Nearly a third of his force had quite literally defected. ‘You trouble me, Adras,’ he said. ‘I will not command thee to forswear the dictates of thy conscience, but thine absence and that of they who feel similarly constrained do raise doubts about our possible success this night. Let me think on’t.’ He began to pace up and down in the muddy forest clearing, considering various possibilities. ‘We may yet salvage some measure of victory this night,’ he said finally. ‘Let me probe the extent of thy reluctance, my friend. I do concede that thou canst not in conscience enter the ruin which doth lie before us, but wilt thou abandon me utterly?’

‘Never, Ekrasios.’

‘I thank thee, Adras. Yet mayest thou and thy fellows further our design without injury to thy sensibilities. As we discovered at Norenja, the curse of Edaemus extends its effects to things other than flesh.’

‘Truly,’ Adras agreed. ‘The gates of that mournful ruin did collapse in decay at our merest touch.’

‘The east wall of Synaqua is constructed of logs. Might I prevail upon thee and thy fellows to pull it down whilst I and the remainder of our force do enter the city?’

The mind of Adras was quick. His sudden grin erased the estrangement which had marred their friendship for the past several days. ‘Thou wert born to command, Ekrasios,’ he said warmly. ‘My friends and I will most happily perform this task. Do thou and thy cohorts enter Synaqua by the front gate whilst I and mine do open a huge back gate to the east that they who reside within yon city may freely depart. Both ends are thus served.’

‘Well said, Adras,’ Ekrasios approved. ‘Well said.’

27

‘They’re out of sight now,’ Talen hissed. ‘Go grab their cart.’

Kalten and Sparhawk rose from the bushes, appropriated the half-full wood-cart, and pulled it back out of sight. It was about noon.

‘I still think this is a really stupid idea,’ Kalten grumbled. ‘Assuming that we don’t get stopped when we try to go through the gate, how are we going to unload our weapons and mailshirts without being seen? And how are we going to get out of the slave-pen to pick them up?’

‘Trust me.’

‘This boy’s making me old, Sparhawk,’ Kalten complained.

‘We might be able to pull it off, Kalten,’ Bevier said. ‘Xanetia told us that the Cynesgan overseers don’t pay much attention to the slaves. Right now, though, we’d better get this cart away from here before the fellows it belongs to come back and find that it’s gone.’

They pulled the wobbly, two-wheeled cart along the narrow track toward the spot where Xanetia and Mirtai were concealed in the bushes. ‘Lo,’ Mirtai said dryly from her hiding place, ‘our heroes return with the spoils of war.’

‘I love you, little sister,’ Sparhawk retorted, ‘but you’ve got an overly clever mouth. Kalten’s got a point, Talen. The Cynesgan overseers themselves might be too stupid to notice what we’re doing, but the other slaves probably will, and the first one to open his mouth about it will probably get a lot of attention.’

‘I’m a-workin’ on that port, Sporhawk,’ the boy replied. He dropped to his knees and scrutinized the underside of the cart.

‘No problem,’ he said confidently, rising and brushing off his bare knees. They had modified the Cynesgan robes they had bought in Vigayo by removing the sleeves and hoods and cutting the tails off just above the knees. The resulting garments now resembled the smocks worn by the slaves who labored in the fields and woods surrounding Cyrga.

While the rest of them fanned out through the woods to pilfer firewood from the stacks cut by the slaves, Talen remained behind, working at something on the underside of the cart. They had amassed a sizeable pile by the time he had finished. Sparhawk returned once more with an armload of wood to find the boy just finishing up.

‘Do you want to take a look at this, Sparhawk?’ he asked from under the cart.

Sparhawk knelt to examine the young thief’s handiwork. Talen had wedged the ends of slender tree-limbs between the floorboards of the cart and then had woven them into a shallow basket that fit snugly under the bottom of the stolen conveyance.

‘Are you sure it won’t come apart if we hit a bump?’ he asked dubiously. ‘It might be a little embarrassing to have all our weapons and our mail-shirts come spilling out just as we’re passing through the gate.’

‘I’ll ride in it myself, if you want,’ Talen replied.

Sparhawk grunted. ‘Tie the swords together so that they won’t rattle, and stuff grass in around the mail-shirts to muffle the clinking.’

‘Yes, oh glorious leader. And how many other things that I already know did you want to tell me?’

‘Just do it, Talen. Don’t make clever speeches.’

‘I’m not trying to be offensive, Mirtai,’ Kalten was saying. ‘It’s just that your legs are prettier than mine.’

Mirtai lifted the bottom of her smock a little and looked critically at her long, golden legs. Then she squinted at Kalten’s.

‘They are rather, aren’t they?’

‘What I’m getting at is that they won’t be quite as noticeable if you smear some mud on them. I don’t think the gate guards are blind, and if one of them sees the dimples on your knees, he’ll probably realize that you aren’t a man, and he might decide to investigate further.’

‘He’d better not,’ she replied in a chill tone.

‘There are not so many of the dens of the man-things in this place as there were in the place Sepal or the place Arjun,’ Bhlokw noted as he and Ulath looked down at the village of Zhubay. It had seemed that they had been travelling for several days, but they all knew better.

‘No,’ Ulath agreed. ‘It is a smaller place with fewer of the man-things.’

‘But there are many of the dens-of-cloth on the other side of the water hole,’ the Troll added, pointing at the large tent city on the far side of the oasis.

‘Those are the ones we hunt,’ Ulath told him.

‘Are you certain that we are permitted to kill and eat those?’ Bhlokw asked. ‘You and Tin-in would not let me do that in the place Sepal or the place Arjun or even in the place Hat-os.’

‘It is permitted here. We have put bait out to bring them to this place so that we can hunt them for food.’

‘What bait do you use to lure the man-things?’ Bhlokw asked curiously. ‘If the minds of the Gods ever get well again and they let us go back to hunting the man-things, it would be good to know this.’

‘The bait is thought, Bhlokw. The man-things in the dens-of-cloth have come to this place because certain of our pack-mates put it in their thought that the tall man-things with the yellow skin will be here. The ones in the dens-of-cloth have come here to fight the tall ones with yellow skin.’

Bhlokw’s face contorted into a hideous approximation of a grin. ‘That is good bait, U-lat,’ he said. ‘I will summon Ghworg and Ghnomb and tell them that we will go to the hunt now. How many of them may we kill and eat?’

‘All, Bhlokw. All.’

‘That is not a good thought, U-lat. If we kill and eat them all, they will not breed, and there will not be new ones to hunt in the next season. The good thought is to always let enough run away so that they can breed to keep the numbers of their herd the same. If we eat them all now, there will be none to eat by-and-by.’

Ulath considered that as Bhlokw cast the brief Troll-spell that summoned Ghworg and the others. He decided not to make an issue of it. The Trolls were hunters, not warriors, and it would take far too long to explain the concept of total war to them.

Bhlokw conferred at some length with the enormous presences of his Gods in the grey light of No-Time, and then he raised his brutish face and bellowed his summons to the rest of the herd. The great shaggy mass flowed down the hill toward the village and the forest of tents beyond the oasis in the steely light of frozen time as Ulath and Tynian watched from the hilltop. The Trolls divided, went around the village, and moved in among the Cynesgan tents, fanning out as each of the great beasts selected its prey. Then, evidently at a signal from Bhlokw, the chill light flickered and the sunlight returned.

There were screams, of course, but that was to be expected. Very few men in the entire world will not scream when a full-grown Troll suddenly steps out of nowhere immediately in front of them. The carnage in that vast slaughtering-ground beyond the oasis was ghastly, since the Trolls were bent not on fighting the Cynesgans but on tearing them to pieces in preparation for the feast to follow.

‘Some of them are getting away,’ Tynian observed, pointing at a sizeable number of panic-stricken Cynesgans desperately flogging their horses southward.

Ulath shrugged. ‘Breeding stock,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘It’s a Trollish concept, Tynian. It’s a way to guarantee a continuing food-supply. If the Trolls eat them all today, there won’t be any left when supper-time rolls around tomorrow.’

Tynian shuddered with revulsion. ‘That’s a horrible thought, Ulath!’ he exclaimed.

‘Yes,’ Ulath agreed, ‘moderately horrible, but one should always respect the customs and traditions of one’s allies, wouldn’t you say?’

At the end of a half-hour, the tents were all flattened, the breeding stock had been permitted to escape, and the Trolls settled down to eat. The Cynesgan threat in the north had been effectively eliminated, and now the Trolls were free to join the march on Cyrga.

Khalad sat up suddenly, throwing off his blankets. ‘Berit,’ he said sharply.

Berit came awake instantly, reaching for his sword.

‘No,’ Khalad told him. ‘It’s nothing like that. Do you know what firedamp is?’

‘I’ve never heard of it.’ Berit yawned and rubbed at his eyes.

‘I’m going to have to talk with Aphrael then—personally. How long will it take you to teach me the spell?’

‘That depends, I guess. Can’t you pass what you have to tell her through me?’

‘No. I need to ask her some questions, and you wouldn’t understand what I’m talking about. I’ve got to talk with her myself. It’s very important, Berit. I don’t have to understand the language to just repeat the words, do I?’

Berit frowned. ‘I’m not sure. Sephrenia and the Styric who replaced her at Demos wouldn’t let us do it that way, because they said we had to think in Styric.’

‘That could just be their peculiarity, not Aphrael’s. Let’s try it and find out if I can reach her.’

It took them almost two hours, and Berit, sandy-eyed and definitely in need of more sleep, began to grow grouchy toward the end.

‘I’m going to be mispronouncing words,’ Khalad said finally. ‘There’s no way I’ll ever be able to twist my mouth around to make some of those sounds. Let’s try it and see what happens.’

‘You’ll make her angry,’ Berit warned.

‘She’ll get over it. Here goes.’ Khalad began to haltingly pronounce the spell, and his fingers faltered as he moved them in the accompanying gestures.

‘What on earth are you doing, Khalad?’ Her voice almost crackled in his ears.

‘I’m sorry, Flute,’ he apologized, ‘but this is urgent.’

‘Berit’s not hurt, is he?’ she demanded with a note of concern.

‘No. He’s fine. It’s just that I need to talk with you personally. Do you know what firedamp is?’

‘Yes. It sometimes kills coal-miners.’

‘You said that Klael’s soldiers breathe something like marsh-gas.’

‘Yes. Where are we going with this? I’m sort of busy just now.’

‘Please be patient, Divine One. I’m still groping my way toward this. Berit told you that we saw some of those aliens run into a cave, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, but I still don’t—’

‘I thought that Klael might have filled the cave with marsh-gas so that his soldiers could go there to breathe, but now I’m not so sure. Maybe the gas was already there.’

‘Would you please get to the point?’

‘Is it possible that firedamp and marsh-gas are anything at all alike?’

She sighed one of those infuriating long-suffering sighs. ‘Very much alike, Khalad—which sort of stands to reason, since they’re the same thing.’

‘I do love you, Aphrael,’ he said with a delighted laugh.

‘What brought that on?’

‘I knew there had to be a connection of some kind. This is a desert, and there aren’t any swamps here. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out where Klael might be getting marsh-gas to fill that cave. But he didn’t have to, did he? If marsh-gas is the same thing as firedamp, all he had to do was find a cave with a seam of coal in it.’

‘All right, now that I’ve answered your question and satisfied your scientific curiosity, can I go?’

‘In a minute, Divine Aphrael,’ he said, rubbing his hands together gleefully. ‘Is there some way that you can blow some of our air into that cave so that it’ll mix with the firedamp those soldiers are breathing?’

There was another of those long pauses. ‘That’s dreadful, Khalad!’ she exclaimed.

‘And what happened to Lord Abriel and Lord Vanion’s knights wasn’t?’ he demanded. ‘This is war, Aphrael, and it’s a war we absolutely have to win. If Klael’s soldiers can run into those caves to catch their breath, they’ll be coming out and attacking our friends every time we turn around. We have to come up with a way to neutralize them, and I think this is it. Can you take us back to that cave where we saw those soldiers?’

‘All right.’ Her tone was a little sulky.

‘What were you talking with her about?’ Berit asked.

‘A way to win the war, Berit. Let’s gather up our things. Aphrael’s going to take us back to that cave.’

‘Are they still coming?’ Vanion called back to Sir Endrik, who was trailing behind the other knights.

‘Yes, my Lord,’ Endrik shouted. ‘Some of them are starting to fall behind, though.’

‘Good. They’re beginning to weaken.’ Vanion looked out across the rocky barrens lying ahead. ‘We’ve got plenty of room, he told Sephrenia. ‘We’ll lead them out onto those flats and run them around for a while.’

‘This is cruel, Vanion,’ she reproved him.

‘They don’t have to follow us, love.’ He rose up in his stirrups. ‘Let’s pick up the pace, gentlemen,’ he called to his knights. ‘I want those monsters to really run.’

The knights pushed their horses into a gallop and moved out onto the barren flats with a vast, steely jingling sound.

‘They’re breaking off.” Endrik called from behind after about half an hour.

Vanion raised his steel-clad arm to call a halt. Then he reined in and looked back. The masked giants had given up their pursuit and were running due west now, staggering toward an outcropping of rocky hills several miles away.

‘That’s the part that has everybody baffled,’ he told Sephrenia. ‘From what Aphrael told me, the others have encountered the same thing. Klael’s soldiers chase after us for a while, and then they break off and run toward the nearest cluster of hills. What can they possibly hope to find that’s going to do them any good?’

‘I have no idea, dear one,’ she replied.

‘This is all very fine, I suppose,’ Vanion said with a worried frown, ‘but when we begin our final advance on Cyrga, we won’t have time to run those brutes into exhaustion. Not only that, Klael will probably start massing them in units larger than these regiments we’ve been coming across out here in the open. If we don’t come up with some way to neutralize them permanently, our chances of getting to Cyrga alive aren’t very good.’

‘Lord Vanion!’ one of the knights cried out in alarm. ‘There are more of them coming.’

‘Where!’ Vanion looked around.

‘From the west!’

Vanion peered after the fleeing monsters. And then he saw them. There were two regiments of Klael’s soldiers out there on the flats. The one they had encountered earlier was reeling and staggering toward the hills jutting up from the horizon. The other was coming toward them from the hills, and the second regiment showed no signs of the exhaustion which had incapacitated their fellows.

‘This is ridiculous,’ Talen muttered, examining the lock on his chain with sensitive fingertips.

‘You said you could unlock them,’ Kalten accused in a hoarse whisper.

‘Kalten, you could unlock these. They’re the worst locks I’ve ever seen.’

‘Just open them, Talen,’ Sparhawk told him quietly. ‘Don’t give lectures. We still have to get out of this pen.’

They had merged with the other woodcutters and had passed unchallenged through the gates of Cyrga just as the sun was setting. Then they had followed the slaves to an open square near the gate, unloaded their cart onto one of the stacks of wood piled there, and leaned the cart against a rough stone wall with the others. Then, like docile cattle, they had gone into the large slave-pen and allowed the Cynesgan overseers to chain them to rusty iron rings protruding from the rear wall of the pen. They had been fed a thin, watery soup and had then bedded down in piles of filthy straw heaped against the wall to wait for nightfall. Xanetia was not with them. Silent and unseen, she roamed the streets outside the pen instead.

‘Hold your leg still, Kalten,’ Talen hissed. ‘I can’t get the chain off when you’re flopping around like that.’

‘Sorry.’

The boy concentrated for a moment, and the lock snapped open. Then he moved on, crawling through the rustling straw.

‘Don’t get so familiar,’ Mirtai’s voice muttered in the darkness.

‘Sorry. I was looking for your ankle.’

‘It’s on the other end of the leg.’

‘Yes. I noticed that myself. It’s dark, Atana. I can’t see what I’m doing.’

‘What are you men doing there?’ It was a whining, servile kind of voice coming from somewhere in the straw beyond where Kalten lay.

‘It’s none of your business,’ Kalten rasped. ‘Go back to sleep.’

‘I want to know what you’re doing. If you don’t tell me, I’ll call the overseers.’

‘You’d better shut him up, Kalten,’ Mirtai muttered. ‘He’s an informer.’

‘I’ll deal with it,’ Kalten replied darkly. He slipped away through the rustling straw.

‘What are you doing?’ the slave with the whining voice demanded. ‘How did you—’ The voice broke off, and there was a sudden thrashing in the straw and a kind of wheezy gurgling.

‘What’s going on out there?’ A harsh voice called from the overseer’s barracks. The barracks doorway poured light out into the yard.

There was no answer, only a few spasmodic rustles in the straw. Kalten was breathing a little hard when he returned to his place, quickly wrapped his chain around his ankles again and covered it with straw. They waited tensely, butt the Cynesgan overseer evidently decided not to investigate. He went back inside, closing the door behind him and plunging the yard into darkness again.

‘Does that happen often—among slaves, I mean?’ Bevier whispered to Mirtai as Talen was unchaining him.

‘All the time,’ she murmured. ‘There’s no loyalty among slaves. One slave will betray another for an extra crust of bread.’

‘How sad.’

‘Slavery? I could find harsher words than sad.’

‘Let’s go,’ Sparhawk told them.

‘How are we going to find Xanetia?’ Kalten whispered as they crossed the pen.

‘We can’t. She’s going to have to find us.’

It took Talen only a moment to unlock the gate, and they all slipped out into the dark street beyond. They crept along that street to the large square where the firewood was stacked and stopped before stepping out into the open.

‘Take a look, Talen,’ Sparhawk suggested.

‘Right.’ The young thief melted away into the darkness. The rest of them waited tensely.

‘It’s all clear,’ Talen’s whisper came to them after a few minutes. ‘The carts are over here.’

They followed the sound of his hushed voice and soon reached the line of wood-carts leaning against the wall.

‘Did you see any guards?’ Kalten asked.

‘Who’s going to stay up all night to guard a wood pile?’ Talen dropped down onto his stomach and wormed his way under the cart. There was a faint creaking of the tightly-woven limbs of the makeshift basket. ‘Here,’ Talen said. A sword-tip banged against Sparhawk’s shin.

Sparhawk took the sword, handed it to Kalten and then leaned down. ‘Pass them out hilt-first,’ he instructed. ‘Don’t poke me with the sharp end of a sword that way.’

‘I’ll try.’ Talen continued to pass out weapons and then followed them with their mail-shirts and tunics. They all felt better once they were armed again.

‘Anakha?’ The voice was soft and very light.

‘Is that you, Xanetia?’ Sparhawk realized how foolish the question was almost before it left his lips.

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Come away, I prithee. The whisper is the natural voice of stealth, and it doth carry far by night. Let us be gone ere they who watch this sleeping city come hither in search of the source of our incautious conversation.’

‘We’re going to have to wait a bit,’ Khalad said. ‘Aphrael has to blow air into that cave.’

‘Are you sure this is going to work?’ Berit asked dubiously.

‘No, not really, but it’s worth a try, isn’t it?’

‘You don’t even know for sure that they’re still inside the cave.’

‘That doesn’t really matter. Either way they won’t be able to hide in the cave any more.’ Khalad began to carefully wrap a length of oil-soaked rag around one of his crossbow bolts. Then, being careful to conceal the sparks with his body, he began striking his flint and steel together. After a moment, his tinder caught, he lit his stub of a candle, and brushed the fire out of his tinder. Then he carefully put the candle behind a fair-sized rock.

‘Aphrael seems to be unhappy about this, Khalad,’ Berit said as a chill breeze came up.

‘I wasn’t too happy about what happened to Lord Abriel either,’ Khalad replied bleakly. ‘I had a great deal of respect for that old man, and these monsters with yellow blood tore him to pieces.’

‘You’re doing this for revenge then?’

‘No. Not really. This is just the most practical way to get rid of them. Ask Aphrael to let me know when there’s enough air in the cave.’

‘How long is that likely to take?’

‘I have no idea. All the coal-miners who’ve ever seen it up close are dead.’ Khalad scratched at his beard. ‘I’m not entirely sure what’s going to happen here, Berit. When marsh-gas catches on fire, it just burns off and goes out. Firedamp’s a little more spectacular.’

‘What’s all this business about blowing air into the cave?’ Berit demanded.

‘Khalad shrugged. ‘Fire’s a living thing. It has to be able to breathe.’

‘You’re just guessing about this, aren’t you? You don’t have any idea at all whether or not it’s going to work—or if it does, what’s going to happen.’

Khalad gave him a tight grin. ‘I’ve got a good working theory.’

‘I think you’re insane. You could set the whole desert on fire with this silly experiment of yours.’

‘Oh, that probably won’t happen.’

‘Probably?’

‘It’s very unlikely. I can just make out that cave mouth. Why don’t I try it?’

‘What happens if you miss?’

Khalad shrugged. ‘I’ll shoot again.”

‘That’s not what I meant. I was—’ Berit broke off, listening intently. ‘Aphrael says that the mixture’s right now. You can shoot whenever you’re ready.’

Khalad held the point of his crossbow bolt in the candle-flame, turning it slowly to make certain that the oily rag was evenly ablaze. Then he set the burning bolt in place, laid the forestock of his crossbow on a rock, and took careful aim. ‘Here goes,’ he said, slowly pressing the lever. The crossbow gave a ringing thud, and the burning arrow streaked through the darkness and disappeared into the narrow cave mouth.

‘So much for your good working theory,’ Berit said sardonically.

Nothing happened.

Khalad swore, banging his fist on the gravel. ‘It has to work, Berit. I did everything exactly—’

The sound was beyond noise when the hill exploded, and a ball of fire hundreds of feet across seethed skyward out of the crater that had suddenly replaced the hill. Without thinking, Khalad threw himself across Berit’s head, covering the back of his own neck with his hands. Fortunately, what fell on them was small gravel for the most part. The larger rocks fell much further out into the desert. It continued to rain gravel for several minutes, and the two young men, battered and shaken, lay tensely clenched, enduring the cataclysmic results of Khalad’s experiment. Gradually, the stinging rain subsided.

‘You idiot!’ Berit screamed. ‘You could have killed us both.’

‘I must have miscalculated just a little,’ Khalad conceded, shaking the dirt out of his hair. ‘I’ll have to work on it a bit before we try it again.’

‘Try it again? What are you talking about?’

‘It does work, Berit,’ Khalad said in his most reasonable tone of voice. ‘All I have to do is fine-tune it a little bit. Every experiment’s got a few rough places around the edges.’ He stood up, thumping the side of his head with the heel of his hand to shake the ringing out of his ears. ‘I’ll get it perfected, my lord,’ he promised, helping Berit to his feet. ‘The next time won’t be nearly so bad. Now, why don’t you ask Aphrael to take us back to camp? We’re probably being watched, so let’s not arouse any suspicions.’

28

‘We’re inside the city, Aphrael,’ Sparhawk announced silently after he had cast the spell.

‘How did you manage that?’ She sounded surprised.

‘It’s a long story. Tell Khalad that I’ve marked the passageway that leads into the valley. He’ll know what to look for.’

‘Have you found out where they’re keeping Mother yet?’

‘Speculatively.’

There was a long pause. ‘I’d better come there,’ she decided.

‘How will you find us?’

‘I’ll use you as a beacon. Just keep talking to me.’

‘I don’t think it’s a good idea. We’re right in Cyrgon’s lap here. Won’t he be able to sense you?’

‘Xanetia’s there, isn’t she?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then Cyrgon won’t feel a thing. That’s why I sent her along. She paused again. ‘Who came up with a way to get you inside the city?’

‘It was Talen’s idea.’

‘You see? And you wanted to argue with me about taking him with you. When will you learn to trust me, Father? Keep talking. I’ve almost got you located. Tell me how Talen managed to get you inside the walls of Cyrga.’

He described the subterfuge at some length.

‘All right,’ she said from just behind him. ‘That’s enough. I get the general drift.’ He turned and saw her in Xanetia’s arms.

She looked around. ‘I see that the Cyrgai haven’t discovered fire yet. It’s darker than the inside of an old boot here. Exactly where are we?’

‘In the outer city, Divine One,’ Bevier said softly. ‘I suppose you could call it the commercial district. The slave-pens are here and various warehouses. It’s guarded by Cynesgans and they’re not particularly alert.’

‘Good. Let’s get out of the street.’

Talen groped his way along one of the barn-like storehouses until he found a door. ‘Over here,’ he whispered.

‘Isn’t it locked?’ Kalten asked.

‘Not any more.’

They joined him and went inside.

‘Would you mind, dear?’ Aphrael asked Xanetia. ‘I can’t see a thing in this place.’

Xanetia’s face began to glow, a soft light that faintly illumimated the area around them.

‘What do they keep in here?’ Kalten asked, peering into the dimness. ‘Food maybe?’ His tone was hopeful. ‘That slop they fed us in the slave-pens wasn’t very filling.’

‘I don’t think it’s a food warehouse,’ Talen told him. ‘It doesn’t smell quite right.’

‘You can go exploring some other time,’ Aphrael told him crisply. ‘We have other things to do now.’

‘How are the others making out?’ Sparhawk asked her.

‘Bergsten’s captured Cynestra,’’ she reported, ‘and he’s coming south with the Church Knights. Ulath and Tynian took the Trolls to Zhubay, and the Trolls ate about half of the Cynesgan cavalry. Betuana and Engessa are marching southwest with the Atans. Vanion and Sephrenia are out in the desert laying down false hints that you’re with them. Kring and Tikume are allowing themselves to be chased all over the desert west of Sama by Cyrgai, Cynesgan cavalry, and Klael’s overgrown soldiers, although I don’t think those brutes are going to be a problem for much longer. Khalad’s devised a way to neutralize them.’

‘All by himself?’ Talen sounded surprised.

‘Klael outsmarted himself. He found caves where his soldiers could breathe, and they were hiding in the caves and then coming out to attack us. Khalad’s come up with a way to set the caves on fire. The results are fairly noisy.’

‘That’s my brother for you,’ Talen said proudly.

‘Yes,’ the Child Goddess said critically. ‘He’s inventing horrors at every turn. Stragen and Caalador have managed to convince that Dacite in Beresa that we’ve got an invasion force off the south coast and—’ she stopped. ‘You know about all this already, Sparhawk. Why am I wasting time describing it to you?’

‘It’s all going according to plan, then?’ he asked her. ‘No setbacks? No new surprises?’

‘Not for us. Cyrgon’s not having such a good time, though. The Delphae have almost completely dispersed Scarpa’s army, so the danger to Matherion’s pretty much evaporated. I’ve enlisted some of my family to lend a hand. They’re compressing time and distance. As soon as Ehlana’s safe, I’ll pass the word, and we’ll have whole armies knocking at the gates of Cyrga.’

‘Did you get word of Khalad’s invention to the others?’ Talen asked her.

‘My cousin Setras is taking care of it for me. Setras is a little vague sometimes, but I went over it with him several times. I don’t think he’ll garble it too badly. Everything’s in place. The others are simply waiting for word from us to start moving, so let’s get down to business. Has anyone had a chance to look around here at all?’

‘I have explored the outer city to some degree, Divine Aphrael,’ Xanetia replied. ‘Anakha deemed it unwise for me to share their captivity in the slave-pens.’

The Child Goddess handed Talen a large sheet of stiff, crackling parchment and a pencil. ‘Here,’ she said to him, ‘earn your keep.’

‘Where did you get these?’ he asked curiously.

‘I had them in one of my pockets.’

‘You don’t have any pockets, Flute.’

She gave him one of those long-suffering looks.

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I keep forgetting that for some reason. All right, Anarae, you describe the city, and I’ll draw it.’

The sketch that emerged was fairly detailed—as far as it went.

‘I was not able to penetrate the wall which doth encircle the inner city,’ Xanetia apologized. ‘The gates are perpetually locked, for the Cyrgai do hold themselves aloof from their Cynesgan hirelings and from the slaves whose toil supports them.’

‘This should be enough to work with for now,’ Flute said, pursing her lips as she examined Talen’s drawing. ‘All right, Bevier, you’re the expert on fortifications. Where’s the weak spot?’

The Cyrinic studied the sketch for several minutes. ‘Did you see any wells, Anarae?’ he asked.

‘Nay, Sir Knight.’

‘They’ve got a lake right outside the front gate, Bevier,’ Kalten reminded him.

‘That wouldn’t do much good if the city were under siege,’ Bevier replied. ‘There has to be some source of water inside the walls—either a well or some kind of a cistern. A siege ends rather quickly when the defenders run out of water.’

‘Siege?’ Mirtai asked. ‘Nobody’s supposed to be able to find it. What makes you think that the place was built to hold off a siege?’

‘The walls are a little too high and thick to be purely ornamental, Atana. Cyrga’s a fortified city, and that means that it was built to withstand a siege. The Cyrgai aren’t very bright, but nobody’s stupid enough to build a fort without water inside. That’s my best guess, Divine Aphrael. Find out how they’re getting water—both here in the outer city and in the inner city as well. There might be a weakness there. If not, we may have to tunnel under the inner wall or try to scale it.’

‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,’ Aphrael said. ‘We’re inside the enemy city, and the longer we putter around, the more chance there is of being discovered. If it’s in any way possible, xxx for water. The rest of you stay here. We don’t want to have to go looking for you when we come back.’

‘Are you mad, Gardas?’ Bergsten demanded of the massively armored Alcione knight. The Thalesian Patriarch refused to look at the pleasant-faced young man standing beside the knight. ‘I’m not even supposed to admit that he exists, much less sit down and talk with him.’

‘Aphrael said you might be tedious about this, Bergsten,’ the man Sir Gardas had escorted into the Patriarch’s tent noted. ‘Would it help at all if I did something miraculous?’

Bergsten said. ‘Please don’t do that! I’m probably in enough trouble already!’

‘Dolmant had some problems when I visited him, too,’ Aphrael’s cousin observed. ‘You servants of the Elene God have some strange ideas. He doesn’t get excited about us, so why should you? Anyway, the normal rules are all more or less suspended until this crisis is over. We’ve even enlisted Edaemus and the Atan God—and they haven’t spoken to any of the rest of us for eons. Aphrael wants me to tell you about something having to do with the soldiers Klael brought with him. Somebody named Khalad has devised a means of destroying them.’

‘Tell Gardas about it,’ Bergsten suggested. ‘He can pass it on to me, and I won’t get into trouble.’

‘I’m sorry, Bergsten, but Aphrael insisted that I say it directly to you. Just pretend that I’m a dream or something.’ Setras’ face grew slightly puzzled, and his large, luminous eyes revealed a frightening lack of comprehension. ‘I don’t entirely understand this,’ he confessed. ‘Aphrael’s much cleverer than I am—but we love each other, so she doesn’t throw my stupidity into my face very often. She’s terribly polite. She’s even nice to your God, and he can be extremely tedious sometimes—where was I?’

‘Ah—’ Sir Gardas said gently, ‘you were going to tell his Grace about Klael’s soldiers, Divine Setras.’

‘I was?’ The large eyes were blank. ‘Oh, yes. I was, wasn’t I? You mustn’t let me ramble on like that, Gardas. You know how easily I get distracted.’

‘Yes, Divine Setras. That had occurred to me.’

‘Anyway,’ Setras pushed on, ‘this Khalad person—a frightfully clever young man, I gather—realized that there might be some similarity between the awful stuff Klael’s soldiers breathe and something he calls “firedamp”. Have you any idea at all of what he was talking about, Bergsten?’ Setras hesitated. ‘Am I supposed to call you “your Grace” the way Gardas did? Are you really that graceful? You look awfully large and clumsy to me.’

‘It’s a formal mode of address, Divine One,’ Sir Gardas explained.

‘Oh. We don’t have to be formal with each other, do we Bergsten? We’re almost old friends now, aren’t we?’

The Patriarch of Emsat swallowed very hard. Then he sighed. ‘Yes, Divine Setras,’ he said. ‘I suppose we are. Why don’t you go ahead and tell me about this strategy Sparhawk’s squire has devised?’

‘Of course. Oh, there’s one other thing, too. We have to be at the gates of Cyrga by morning.’

‘Please, Atana Liatris,’ Baroness Melidere said patiently to Sarabian’s Atan wife, ‘we want them to make the attempt.’

‘It is too dangerous,’ Liatris said stubbornly. ‘If I go ahead and kill Chacole and Torellia, the others will run away and that will be the end of it.’

‘Except that we’ll never find out who else is involved,’ Patriarch Emban explained. ‘And we can’t know for certain that they won’t try again.’

Princess Danae sat a little apart from them with Mmrr curled up in her lap. Her vision was strangely doubled with one image superimposed on the other. It seemed that the dark streets of Cyrga lay just behind the others here in the sitting-room.

‘I’m touched by your concern, Liatris,’ Sarabian was saying, ‘but I’m not nearly as helpless as I seem.’ He flourished his rapier.

‘And we will have guards nearby,’ Foreign Minister Oscagne added. ‘Chacole and Torellia almost have to be getting help from somebody inside the government—some leftover from that coup-attempt, most likely.’

‘I will wring his identity from them before I kill them,’ Liatris declared.

Sarabian winced at the word ‘wring’.

‘We are near, Divine Aphrael.’ Xanetia’s voice seemed at once a long way away and very close. ‘Methinks I do smell water.’

The dark, narrow street they followed opened out into some kind of square a hundred feet further on.

‘Let’s catch them all, Liatris,’ Elysoun urged her sister empress. ‘You might be able to beat one or two names out of Chacole and Torellia, but if we can catch the assassins in the actual attempt, we’ll be able to sweep the palace compound clean. If we don’t, our husband’s going to have to go through the rest of his life with a drawn rapier.’

‘Hark!’ Xanetia whispered in that other city. ‘I do hear the sound of running water.’ Danae concentrated very hard. It was exhausting to keep things separate.

‘I really hate to have to put it this way, Liatris,’ Sarabian said regretfully, ‘but I forbid you to kill either Chacole or Torellia. We’ll deal with them after their assassins try to kill me.’

‘As my husband commands,’ Liatris responded automatically.

‘What I want you to do is to protect Elysoun and Gahennas,’ he continued. ‘Gahennas is probably in the greater danger right now. Elysoun’s still useful to the people involved in this, but Gahennas knows more than they want her to. I’m sure they’ll try to kill her, so let’s get her out of the Women’s Palace tonight.’

‘It is beneath the street, Divine One,’ Xanetia said. ‘Methinks there is some volume of water passing under our feet.’

‘Truly,’ the Child Goddess replied. ‘Let’s follow the sound back to its source. There has to be some way to get to the water here in the outer city.’

‘How did you become involved in this, Elysoun?’ Liatris was asking.

Elysoun shrugged. ‘I have more freedom of movement than the rest of you,’ she replied. ‘Chacole needed somebody she trusted to carry messages out of the Women’s Palace. I pretended to fall in with her plan. It wasn’t too hard to deceive Chacole. She is a Cynesgan, after all.’

‘It is here, Divine One,’ Xanetia whispered, laying her hand on a large iron plate set into the cobblestones. ‘Thou canst feel the urgent rush of water through the very iron.’

‘I’ll take your word for it, Anarae,’ Aphrael replied, cringing back from the notion of touching iron. ‘How do they get it open?’

‘These rings do suggest that the plate can be lifted.’

‘Let’s go back and get the others. I think this might be the weakness Bevier was looking for.’

Danae yawned. Everything seemed to be under control, so she curled up in her chair, nestled Mmrr in her arms, and promptly fell asleep.

‘Couldn’t you have just—well—?’ Talen wiggled his fingers.

‘It’s iron, Talen,’ Flute said with exaggerated patience She shuddered. ‘I can’t bear the touch of iron.

‘So? What’s that got to do with it?’

Bevier looked intently at her. ‘Bhelliom suffers from the same affliction,’ he observed.

‘Yes. So what?’

‘That would suggest a certain kinship.’

‘Your grasp of the obvious is positively dazzling, Bevier.’

‘Behave yourself,’ Sparhawk chided.

‘What’s so unpleasant about iron?’ Talen asked. ‘It’s cold, it’s hard, you can pound it into various shapes, and it gets rusty.’

‘That’s a nice scholarly description. Do you know what a lodestone is?’

‘It’s a piece of iron ore that sticks to other iron, isn’t it? I seem to remember Platime talking about something called magnetism once.’

‘And you actually listened? Amazing.’

‘That’s why Bhelliom had to congeal itself into a sapphire!’ Bevier exclaimed. ‘It’s the magnetism of iron, isn’t it? Bhelliom can’t bear it—and neither can you, isn’t that so?’

‘Please, Bevier,’ Aphrael said weakly. ‘Just thinking about it makes my flesh crawl. Right now we don’t want to talk about iron. We want to talk about water. There’s a stream or river of some kind running under the streets here in the outer city, and it’s flowing in the direction of the inner wall. There’s a large iron plate set in the middle of the street not far from here, and you can hear the water running beneath it. I think that’s the weakness you were looking for. The water’s running through a tunnel of some kind, and that tunnel goes under the wall of the inner fortress—at least I hope so. I’ll go find out as soon as you gentlemen lift off that iron plate for me.’

‘Did you see any patrols in the streets?’ Kalten asked.

‘Nay, Sir Knight,’ Xanetia replied. ‘Centuries of custom have clearly dulled the alertness of the Cynesgans responsible for the defense of the outer city.’

‘A burglar’s dream,’ Talen murmured. ‘I could get rich in this town.’

‘What would you steal?’ Aphrael asked him. ‘The Cyrgai don’t believe in gold and silver.’

‘What do they use for money?’

‘They don’t. They don’t need money. The Cynesgans provide them with everything they need, so they don’t even think about money.’

‘That’s monstrous.’

‘We can discuss economics some other time. Right now I want to investigate their water supply.’

‘You idiot!’ queen Betuana raged at her general.

‘We had to find out, Betuana-Queen,’ Engessa explained. ‘And I will not send another where I will not go.’

‘I am most displeased with you, Engessa-Atan!’ Betuana’s retreat into ritualized mourning had vanished. ‘Did your last encounter with the Klael-beasts teach you nothing? They could have been lurking just inside the cave, and you would have faced them alone again.’

‘It is not reasonable to suppose that they would have,’ he replied stiffly. ‘Aphrael’s messenger told us that the Klael-beasts take shelter in caves that they might breathe a different air. The air at the entrance to this cave will be the same as the air outside. It is of no moment, however. It is done, and no harm came from it.’

She controlled her anger with an obvious effort. ‘And what did you prove by your foolish venture, Engessa-Atan?’

‘The Klael-beasts have sealed the cave, Betuana-Queen,’ he replied. ‘Some hundred paces within stands a steel wall. It is reasonable to suppose that it may in some fashion be opened. The Klael beasts retreat beyond the barrier, close it behind them and are then able to breathe freely for a time. Then they emerge again and attack us once more.’

‘Was this information worth the risk of your life?’

‘We have yet to discover that, my Queen. The tactics devised by Kring-Domi keep us out of the reach of the Klael-beasts, but I do not like this running away.’

Betuana’s eyes hardened. ‘Nor do I,’ she conceded. ‘I dishonor my husband’s memory each time I turn and flee.’

‘Aphrael’s cousin told us that Khalad-Squire had found that the air which the Klael-beasts breathe will burn when it mixes with our air.’

‘I have not seen air burn before.’

‘Nor have I. If the trap that I have set for the Klael-beasts works, we may both see it happen.’

‘What sort of trap, Engessa-Atan!’

‘A lantern, my Queen—well hidden.’

‘A lantern? That’s all?’

‘If Khalad-Squire was right, it should be enough. I closed the lantern so that the Klael-beasts will see no light when they open their steel door to come out again. All unseen, their air will join with ours, and the mix will find its way to the candle burning inside my lantern. Then we will discover if Khalad-Squire was right.’

‘Then we must wait until they open that door. I will not leave them behind us until I know without any doubt that this burning of air will kill them. As Ulath-Knight says, only a fool leaves live enemies behind him.’

They concealed themselves behind an outcropping of rock and waited, intently watching the cave-mouth faintly visible in the light of the stars. ‘It may be some time before they open their door, my Queen,’ Engessa noted.

‘Engessa-Atan,’ Betuana said firmly, ‘I have long thought that this formality of yours is out of place. We are soldiers, and comrades. Please address me as such.’

‘As you wish, Betuana-Atana.’

They waited patiently, watching the sizeable peak and the dark mouth of the cave. Then, like a deep, subterranean thunder, a stunning sound shattered the silence, shaking the ground, and a great billow of boiling fire blasted out of the cave-mouth, searing the few scrubby thorn-bushes growing nearby. The fire spewed out of the cave for what seemed hours, and then it gradually subsided. Engessa and his Queen, shocked by that violent eruption, could only stare in wonder. Finally, Betuana rose to her feet.

‘Now I have seen air burn,’ she noted in a cool sort of way. ‘It was worth the wait, I suppose.” Then she smiled at her still-shaken comrade. ‘You lay good traps, Engessa-Atan, but now we must hurry to rejoin the trolls. Ulath-Knight says that we must reach Cyrga by morning.’

‘Whatever you say, Betuana-Atana,’ he replied.

‘When I say, “lift”,’ Sparhawk instructed, settling his hands into place around the ring, ‘and don’t let it clank when we set it down. All right, lift.’

Kalten, Bevier, Mirtai, and Sparhawk all rose slowly, straining to lift the rusty iron plate up out of its place among the worn cobblestones.

‘Be careful,’ Talen said to Mirtai. ‘Don’t fall in.’

‘Do you want to do this?’ she asked.

The four of them shuffled around slightly and moved the ponderous weight to one side so that the large square hole was partially uncovered. ‘Set it down,’ Sparhawk said from between his clenched teeth. ‘Easy,’ he added.

They slowly lowered the cover to the stones.

‘It’d be easier to pick up a house,’ Kalten wheezed.

‘Turn your backs,’ Flute instructed.

‘Do you have to do that?’ Talen asked. ‘Is it like flying?’

‘Just turn around, Talen.’

‘Don’t forget the clothes,’ Sparhawk told her.

‘They’d just be in my way. If you don’t like it, don’t look.” Her voice was already richer. Bevier had his eyes tightly closed, and his lips were moving. He was obviously praying—very hard.

‘I’ll be right back,’ the Goddess promised. ‘Don’t go away.’

They waited for what seemed to be hours. Then they heard a faint splashing down below. The splashing was accompanied by muffled laughter.

Talen knelt at the edge of the rectangular shaft. ‘Are you all right?’ he whispered.

‘I’m fine.’

‘What’s so funny?’

‘The Cyrgai. You wouldn’t believe how stupid they are.’

‘What did they do now. ?’

‘The water comes from a large artesian spring right near the outer wall. The Cyrgai built a sort of cistern around it. Then they built a tunnel that goes under the inner wall to carry water to a very large pool that lies underneath the mountain they’ve built their main city on.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘Nothing—as far as it goes. They seem to have realized the same thing that Bevier did. Their water-source is a weakness. They very carefully, built a stone lattice at the mouth of the tunnel. Nobody can get into the tunnel from the cistern.’

‘I still don’t see anything to laugh about.’

‘I’m just coming to that. This shaft that leads down to the tunnel seems to have been added later—probably so that they could get into the tunnel to clean it.’

‘That doesn’t sound like such a bad idea. It is supposed to be drinking water, after all.’

‘Yes, but when they dug the shaft, they forgot something. The other end of the tunnel—the one that’s inside their second wall—is completely open. There aren’t any bars, no lattice, no chains, nothing.’

‘You’re not serious.’

‘May muh tongue turn green iff’n I ain’t.’

‘This is going to be easier than I thought,’ Kalten said. He leaned over and peered down into the darkness. ‘Is that current very swift?’ he called down softly.

‘Swift enough,’ Aphrael replied. ‘But that’s all right. It speeds you right straight through, so you won’t have to hold your breath so long.’

‘Do what?’ his voice was choked.

‘Hold your breath. You have to swim under water.’

‘Not me,’ he said flatly.

‘You do know how to swim, don’t you?

‘I can swim in full armor if I have to.’

‘What’s the problem, then?’

‘I don’t swim under water. It sends me into a panic.’

‘He’s right, Aphrael,’ Sparhawk called down softly. ‘As soon as Kalten’s head goes under water, he starts screaming.’

‘He can’t do that. He’ll drown.’

‘Exactly. I used to have to stand on his chest to squeeze the water out of him. It happened all the time when we were boys.’

‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘I hadn’t counted on this.’

29

The moon was almost full, and it stained the eastern horizon before it rose in a pallid imitation of dawn. It slid slowly into view, rising ponderously above the brittle white salt-flats.

‘Good God!’ Berit exclaimed, staring at the horror all around them. What had seemed to be round white rocks by the faint light of the stars were revealed as bleached skulls, nesting in jumbles of bones and staring in mute accusation at the heavens.

‘It looks as if we’ve come to the right place,’ Khalad observed. ‘The note Sparhawk left us talked about a “Plain of Bones”.’

‘It goes on forever!’ Berit gasped, looking off toward the west.

‘Let’s hope not. We have to cross it.’ Khalad stopped, peering intently toward the west. ‘There it is,’ he said, pointing at a gleaming spot of reflected light in the center of a low range of dark hills some distance beyond the ghastly plain.

‘There what is?’

‘Our landmark. Sparhawk called it the “Pillars of Cyrgon”. Something out there’s catching the moonlight. We’re supposed to ride toward that spot.’

‘Who’s that?’ Berit hissed, pointing at a figure walking toward them out of the bone-littered desert.

Khalad loosened his sword in its sheath. ‘Another note from Kragen, maybe,’ he muttered. ‘Let’s start being a little careful, my Lord. I think we’re getting very close to the place where we’ll have outlived our usefulness.’

The figure coming out of the desert seemed to be moving at no more than a casual stroll, and as he came closer, they were able to make out his features.

‘Watch yourself, Khalad!’ Berit hissed sharply. ‘He’s not human.’

Khalad felt it as well. It was nothing really definable, just an overpowering sense of presence, an aura that no human had. The figure appeared to be that of an extraordinarily handsome young man. He had tightly-curled hair, classic features and very large, almost luminous eyes.

‘Ah, there you are, gentlemen,’ he said urbanely in flawless Elenic. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you.’ He glanced around. ‘This is a really wretched place, don’t you think? Exactly the sort of place you’d expect the Cyrgai to inhabit. Cyrgon’s terribly warped. He adores ugliness. Have you ever met him? Frightful fellow. No sense of beauty whatsoever.’

He smiled, a radiant, slightly vague smile. ‘My cousin Aphrael sent me. She’d have come herself, but she’s a little busy right now—but then, Aphrael’s always busy, isn’t she? She can’t stand to just sit quietly.’ He frowned. ‘She wanted me to tell you something.’ His frown intensified. ‘What was it now? I have the worst memory lately.’ He held up one hand. ‘No,’ he said, ‘don’t tell me. It’ll come to me in a moment. It’s terribly important, though, and we’re supposed to hurry. I’ll probably think of it as we go along.’ He looked around. ‘Do you gentlemen by any chance happen to know which way we’re supposed to go?’

‘It won’t work, Aphrael,’ Kalten said morosely. ‘I’ve tried it when I was dead drunk and the same thing happens. I go crazy when I feel the water closing over my head.’

‘Just try it, Kalten,’ the minimally dressed Goddess urged. ‘It really will relax you.’ She pushed the tankard into his hand.

He sniffed suspiciously. ‘It smells good. What is it?’

‘We drink it at parties.’

‘The beer of the Gods?’ His eyes brightened. ‘Well, now.” He took a cautious sip. ‘Well now,”he said enthusiastically. ‘That’s the way it’s supposed to taste.’

‘Drink it all.’ she instructed, watching him intently.

‘Gladly. ‘ He drained the tankard and wiped his lips. ‘That’s really good. If a man had the recipe for that, he could—’ he broke off, his eyes glazed.

‘Lay him down,’ Aphrael ordered. ‘Quickly, before he stiffens up. I don’t want him all twisted into a pretzel when I drag him through the tunnel.’

Talen was doubled over with both hands tightly over his mouth to stifle his laughter.

‘What’s your problem?’ the Goddess demanded tartly.

‘Nothing,’ he gasped.”Nothing at all.’

‘I’ve got a long way to go with that one,’ Aphrael muttered to Sparhawk.

‘Is this going to work?’ Sparhawk asked her. ‘Kalten, I mean? Can you really drag an unconscious man underwater for any distance without drowning him?’

‘I’ll stop his breathing.’ She looked around at the others. ‘I don’t want any of you to try to help me,’ she cautioned. ‘You just concentrate on getting through yourselves. I don’t have to breathe, but you do, and I don’t want to have to spend an hour fishing you out of that pool one by one after we get there. Now, does anybody else have any problems you haven’t told me about? This is the time to talk about them—before we’re all under water.

She looked pointedly at Bevier. ‘Is there something you’d like to tell me, Sir Knight? You seem to be having a crisis of some sort.

‘It’s nothing, Divine One,’ he mumbled. ‘I’ll be fine. I swim like a fish.’ He deliberately avoided looking at her.

‘What’s bothering you, then?’

‘I’d really rather not say.’

She sighed. ‘Men.’ Then she climbed into the shaft leading down toward the unseen water rushing toward the inner wall.

‘Bring Kalten,’ she ordered, ‘and let’s get at this.

‘I’d really like to do something about that,’ Sephrenia murmured to Vanion as they peered over the top of the gravel mound at the encampment of the slavers.

‘So would I, love,’ Vanion replied, ‘but I think we’d better wait until later. If everything goes the way it’s supposed to, we’ll be waiting for them when they reach Cyrga.’ He raised himself a bit higher. ‘I think that’s the salt-flats just beyond that trail they’re following.’

‘We’ll be able to tell for certain when the moon rises,’ she replied.

‘Have you heard anything at all from Aphrael?’

‘Nothing I can make any sense of. The echoes are very confusing when she’s in two places at the same time. I gather that things are coming to a head in Matherion, and she and Sparhawk are swimming.’

‘Swimming? This is a desert, Sephrenia.’

‘Yes, I noticed that. They’ve found something to swim in, though.’ She paused. ‘Does Kalten know how to swim?’ she asked.

‘He splashes a great deal, but he manages to drag himself through the water. I wouldn’t call him graceful, by any means. Why do you ask?’

‘She’s having some sort of problems with him, and it has to do with swimming. Let’s go back and join the others, dear one. Just the sight of those slavers is setting my blood to boiling.’

They slid back down the gravel-strewn mound and walked along a shallow gully toward their armored soldiers. The Cyrinic knight, Sir Launesse, stood somewhat diffidently beside a burly, intricately curled and massively eyebrowed personage with heavy shoulders and a classical demeanor.

‘Sephrenia!’ the clearly non-human being said in a voice that could probably have been heard in Thalesia. ‘Well-met!’

‘Well-met indeed, Divine Romalic,’ she replied with just a trace of a weary sigh.

‘Please, dear,’ Vanion murmured, ‘ask him to lower his voice.’

‘Nobody else can hear him,’ she assured him. ‘The Gods speak loudly—but only to certain ears.’

‘Thy sister bids me give thee greetings,’ Romalic announced in a voice of thunder.

‘Thou art kind to bear those greetings, Divine One.’

‘Kindness and courtesy aside, Sephrenia,’ the huge God declaimed, combing his beard with enormous fingers, ‘art thou yet prepared to serve us all and to assume thy proper place?’

‘I am unworthy, Divine One,’ she replied modestly. ‘Surely there are others wiser and better suited.’

‘What’s this?’ Vanion asked.

‘It’s been going on for a long time, dear one,’ she explained. ‘I’ve been avoiding it for centuries. Romalic always has to bring it up, though.’

It all fell into place in Vanion’s mind. ‘Sephrenia.’ he gasped. They want you to be Over-Priestess, don’t they?’

‘It’s Aphrael, Vanion, not me. They think they can get around her by offering this to me. I don’t really want it, and they don’t really want to give it to me, but they’re afraid of her, and this is their way to placate her.’

‘Aphrael bids thee to make haste,’ Romalic proclaimed. ‘Ye must all be at the gates of Cyrga ere dawn, for this is the night of decision, when Cyrgon and, yea, even Klael, must be confronted and, we may hope, confounded. E’en now doth Anakha move ghost-like through the streets of the Hidden City towards his design. Let us hasten.’ He lifted his voice and thundered, ‘On to Cyrga!’

‘Is he always like this?’ Vanion murmured.

‘Romalic?’ Sephrenia said. ‘Oh, yes. He’s perfectly suited to the Cyrinic Knights. Come along, dear one. Let’s go to Cyrga.’

There were dim, flickering lights far above, but the pool was sunk in inky blackness when Sparhawk surfaced and explosively blew out the breath he had been holding.

‘Kalten,’ he heard Aphrael saying, ‘wake up.’

There was a startled cry and a great deal of splashing.

‘Oh, stop that,’ the Goddess told Sparhawk’s friend. ‘It’s all over, and you came through it just fine. Xanetia, dear, could we have a little light?’

‘Of a certainty, Divine One,’ the Anarae replied, and her face began to glow.

‘Are we all here?’ Aphrael asked quietly, looking around. As Xanetia’s light gradually increased, Sparhawk saw that the Goddess appeared to be no more than waist-deep in the pool, and she was holding Kalten up by the back of his tunic.

‘Do you want to give me a hand with this, Sparhawk?’ Bevier said.

‘Right.’ Sparhawk swam over to join the Cyrinic, and together they hauled in the slender rope Bevier had trailed behind him as they had come through the tunnel. At the other end of the rope were their tightly-bundled mail-shirts and swords.

‘Wait a minute,’ Bevier said when the rope suddenly went taut. ‘It’s caught on something.’ He drew in several deep breaths, plunged under the surface, and went hand-over-hand back along the rope. Sparhawk waited, unconsciously holding his own breath.

Then the rope came free, and he hauled it in quiclly. Bevier popped to the surface again, blowing out air.

‘Are you sure you aren’t part fish?’ Sparhawk asked him.

‘I’ve always had good lungs,’ Bevier replied. ‘Do you think we should get out our swords?’

‘Let’s see what Aphrael says first,’ Sparhawk decided, peering around. ‘I don’t see any place to climb up out of the water yet.’

‘Now what?’ Talen was asking the Goddess. ‘We’re swimming around at the bottom of a well here.’ He looked up at the sheer sides of the shaft rising from the pool. ‘There are some openings up there, but there’s no way to get to them.’

‘Did you bring it, Mirtai?’ Aphrael asked.

The giantess nodded. ‘‘Excuse me a moment,’ she said and she sank beneath the surface and began to pull off her tunic.

‘What’s she doing?’ Talen asked, peering down through the clear water.

‘She’s taking off her clothes,’ Aphrael replied, ‘and she doesn’t need any help from you. Keep your eyes where they belong.’

‘You run around naked all the time,’ he protested. ‘Why should you care if we watch Mirtai get undressed?’

‘It’s entirely different,’ she replied in a lofty tone. ‘Now do as you’re told.’

Talen thrust himself around in the water until he had his back to Mirtai. ‘I’m never going to understand her,’ he grumbled.

‘Oh, yes you will, Talen,’ she told him in a mysterious little voice. ‘But not quite yet. I’ll explain it all to you in a few more years.’

Then Mirtai rose to the surface coiling the coil of rope that had been slung over her shoulder under her tunic. ‘I’ll need something to stand on, Aphrael,’ she said, hefting the grappling hook attached to one end of the rope. ‘I won’t be able to throw this while I’m treading water.’

‘All right, gentlemen,’ Aphrael said primly, ‘eyes front.’

Sparhawk’s smile was concealed in the dimness. Talen was right. Aphrael seemed almost unaware of her own nakedness, but Mirtai’s was an entirely different matter. He heard the sound of water trickling off the sleek limbs of the golden giantess as she rose to stand, he surmised, on its very surface.

Then he heard the whistling sound of the grappling hook as Mirtai swung it in wider and wider circles. Then the whistling stopped for an interminable, breathless moment. There was the clink of steel on stone high above, followed by a grating sound as the points dug in.

‘Good cast,’ Aphrael said.

‘Lucky,’ Mirtai replied. ‘It usually takes two or three throws.’

Sparhawk felt a touch on his shoulder. ‘Here,’ Mirtai said, handing him the rope. ‘Hold this while I get dressed. Then we climb up and go find your wife.’

‘What on earth are you doing, Bergsten?’

The Patriarch of Emsat started violently and jerked his head around to stare at the God who had just walked up behind him.

‘You’re supposed to be hurrying, you know,’ Setras chided him. ‘Aphrael wants everybody to be in place by morning.’

‘We came across some of Klael’s soldiers, Divine One,’ Sir Heldin rumbled. ‘They’re inside that cave.’ He pointed at a barely visible opening in the hillside across the shallow gully.

‘Why didn’t you deal with them? I told you how to do it.’

‘We put a lantern in there, but there’s a door inside the cave, Setras-God,’ Atana Maris advised him.

‘Well, open it, dear lady,’ Setras said. ‘We really must reach Cyrga by morning. Aphrael will be terribly vexed with me if we’re late.’

‘We’d gladly open it if we knew how, Divine One,’ Bergsten told him, ‘but late or not, I won’t ride away from here and leave those monsters behind me, and if that vexes Aphrael, that’s just too bad.’ The handsome, stupid God irritated Bergsten for some reason.

‘Why do I have to do everything myself?’ Setras sighed. ‘Wait here. I’ll deal with this, and then we’ll be able to move on. We’re terribly behind schedule, you know. We’ll have to get cracking if we’re going to make it by morning.’ He strolled on across the rocky gully and entered the cave.

‘That young fellow’s really trying my patience,’ Bergsten muttered.

‘Trying to explain something to him is like talking to a brick. How can he be so—’ Bergsten pulled up short just this side of heresy.

‘He’s coming back out,’ Atana Mans said.

‘I thought he might,’ Bergsten said with some satisfaction.

‘Apparently he didn’t have any better luck with that door than we did.’

Setras was strolling toward them humming a Styric melody when the entire hill vanished in a great, fiery explosion that shook the very earth. The fire billowed out with a dreadful, seething roar, hurling Bergsten and the others to the ground and engulfing Aphrael’s cousin.

‘Dear God!’ Bergsten gasped, staring at the boiling fire.

Then Setras, with not so much as a hair out of place, came sauntering out of the fire. ‘There now,’ he said mildly, ‘that wasn’t so difficult, was it?’

‘How did you get the door open, Divine One?’ Heldin asked curiously.

‘I didn’t, old boy,’ Setras smiled. ‘Actually, they opened it for me.’

‘Why would they do that?’

‘I knocked, dear boy. I knocked. Even creatures like that have some manners. Shall we be going, then?’

‘They are much feared by the other Cyrgai,’ Xanetia reported, ‘and all do give way to them.’

‘That would be useful—if it weren’t for the racial differences,’ Bevier noted.

‘Such differences do not pose an insurmountable obstacle, Sir Knight,’ Xanetia assured him. ‘Should it prove needful, thy features and those of thy companions may once more be altered. Divine Aphrael can doubtless serve in her sister’s stead in the combining of the two spells which disguised ye previously.’

‘We can talk about that in a moment,’ Flute said. ‘First, though, I think we should all get some idea of how this part of the city’s laid out.’ The Goddess had asumed her more familiar form, and Bevier for one seemed much relieved.

‘Methinks this mount is not of natural origin, Divine One,’ Xanetia told her. ‘The sides are of uniform steepness, and the avenues which do ascend to the top are more stairways than streets. Cross-streets, however, do encircle the hill at regular intervals.’

‘Unimaginative, aren’t they?’ Mirtai observed. ‘Are there many of them wandering around out there?’

‘Nay, Atana. ’Tis late, and most have long since sought their beds.’

‘We could chance it,’ Kalten mused. ‘If Flute and Xanetia can make us look like Cyrgai, we could just march right up the hill.’

‘Not in these clothes we can’t,’ Sparhawk disagreed.

Talen slipped out of the shadows to re-enter the passageway leading back to the central shaft of the well. In many ways the agile young thief could be nearly as invisible as Xanetia. ‘More soldiers coming,’ he whispered.

‘Those patrols could get to be a nuisance,’ Kalten said.

‘These aren’t like those others,’ Talen told him. ‘They aren’t patrolling the side-streets. They’re just climbing the stairs toward the top of the city. They aren’t wearing the same kind of armor either.’

‘Describe them, young master Talen,’ Xanetia said intently.

‘They’re wearing cloaks, for one thing,’ Talen replied, ‘and they’ve got a sort of emblem on their breastplates. Their helmets are different, too.’

‘Temple Guards then,’ Xanetia said, ‘the ones of which I spake earlier. I did glean from the thought of such few as I encountered that other Cyrgai do avoid them insofar as they might, and that all are obliged to bow down when they pass.’

Sparhawk and Bevier exchanged a long look. ‘There are the clothes you wanted, Sparhawk,’ Bevier said.

‘How many are there?’ Sparhawk asked Talen.

‘I counted ten.’

Sparhawk considered it. ‘Let’s do it,’ he decided, ‘but try to keep the noise down.’ And he led them out of the passageway into the street.

‘Good God, Ulath,’ Itagne exclaimed, ‘don’t do that! My heart almost stopped!’

‘Sorry, Itagne,’ the big Thalesian apologized. ‘There’s no really graceful way to come out of No-Time. Let’s go talk with Betuana and Engessa.’

They rode back to join the Queen and her general.

‘Sir Ulath just arrived with news, your Majesty,’ Itagne said politely.

‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Good news or bad news, Ulath-Knight?’

‘A little of each, your Majesty,’ he replied. ‘The Trolls are a couple of miles east of here.’

‘And what’s the good news?’

He smiled slightly. ‘That is the good news. The bad news is that there’s another large force of Klael’s soldiers waiting in ambush just south of here. They’ll probably hit you within the hour. They’re in our way, and we have to hurry. Sparhawk and the others are going to rescue Ehlana and her maid tonight, and he wants us all to converge on the city by morning.’

‘We must fight the Klael-beasts then,’ she said.

‘That could be troublesome,’ Itagne murmured.

‘Tynian and I have worked out a solution of sorts,’ Ulath continued, ‘but we don’t want to offend you, your Majesty, so we thought I should stop by and talk it over first. Klael’s troops are preparing to ambush you. I know you’d prefer to deal with that yourself, but in the interests of expediency, would you be willing to forgo the pleasure?’

‘I’d be willing to listen, Ulath-Knight,’ she said.

‘There are ways we could just slip around that ambush, but Klael can probably do the same kinds of things to time and distance that Aphrael and her cousins can, and I don’t think we want those brutes coming up behind us.’

‘What’s your solution then, Ulath-Knight?’

‘I’ve got a sizeable force at my disposal, your Majesty,’ he replied, ‘and they’re hungry. Since we’re too busy right now for an extended romp through the desert, why don’t we just let the Trolls have Klael’s soldiers for breakfast?’

Sir Anosian looked a little shaken as he rode forward to speak with Kring and Tikume.

‘What’s the matter, friend Anosian?’ Tikume asked the black-armored Pandion. ‘You look as if you just saw a ghost.’

‘Worse, friend Tikume,’ Anosian replied. ‘I’ve just been reprimanded by a God. Most men don’t survive that experience.’

‘Aphrael again?’ Kring guessed.

‘No, friend Kring. This time it was her cousin Hanka. He’s very abrupt. The Genidian Knights rely on him for assistance with their spells.’

‘He was unhappy with you?’ Tikume asked. ‘What did you do this time?’

Anosian made a sour face. ‘Sometimes my spells are a little sloppy,’ he admitted. ‘Aphrael’s generous enough to forgive me. Her cousin isn’t.’ He shuddered. ‘Divine Hanka’s going to hurry us along just a bit.’

‘Oh?’

‘We have to be at the gates of Cyrga by morning.’

‘How far is it?’ Kring asked him.

‘I have no idea,’ Anosian admitted, ‘and under the circumstances, I didn’t think it would be prudent to ask. Hanka wants us to ride west from here.’

Tikume frowned. ‘If we don’t know how far it is, how can we be sure we’ll get there by morning?’

‘Oh, we’ll get there all right, friend Tikume,’ Anosian assured him. ‘I think we’d better start moving, though. Divine Hanka’s notoriously short-tempered. If we don’t start riding west very soon, he might just decide to pick us up and throw us from here to Cyrga.’

The Temple Guardsman assumed a warlike posture—a rather stiff, formalized pose such as one occasionally sees on a frieze carved by an indifferently talented sculptor. Kalten brushed the man’s sword aside and slammed his fist against the side of his helmet. The guardsman reeled away and fell heavily onto the cobblestones. He was struggling to rise again when Kalten kicked him solidly in the face.

‘Quietly, Kalten!’ Sparhawk said in a hoarse whisper.

‘Sorry. I guess I got carried away.’ Kalten bent and peeled back the fallen guardsman’s eyelid. ‘He’ll sleep till noon,’ he said. He straightened and looked around. ‘Is that all of them?’

‘That was the last,’ Bevier whispered. ‘Let’s get them out of the middle of the street. The moon’s finally starting to come up down in this basin, and it’ll soon be as bright as day here.’

It had been a short, ugly little fight. Sparhawk and his friends had rushed out of a dark side-street and had fallen on the detachment from the rear. Surprise had accounted for much of their success, and what surprise had not accomplished had been more than made up for by the ineptitude of the ceremonial troops.

Sparhawk concluded that the Cyrgai looked impressive, but that their training over the centuries had become so formalized and detached from reality that it had almost turned into a form of dance instead of a preparation for real combat. Since the Cyrgai could not cross the Styric curse-line, they had not been involved in any real fights for ten thousand years, and so they were hopelessly unprepared for all the nasty little tricks that crop up from time to time in close, hand-to-hand fighting.

‘I still don’t see how we’re going to pull this off,’ Talen puffed as he dragged an inert guardsman back into the shadows. ‘One look will tell the gate-guards that we’re not Cyrgai.’

‘We’ve already discussed that while you were out scouting, Sparhawk told him. ‘Xanetia and Aphrael are going to mix spells again—the way the Anarae and Sephrenia did back in Matherion. We’ll look enough like Cyrgai to get us through the gate—particularly if the rest of the Cyrgai are as much afraid of these Temple Guardsmen as Xanetia says they are.’

‘As long as the subject’s come up,’ Kalten said, ‘after we’ve bluffed our way past those gate-guards, I want my own face back. We stand a fair chance of getting killed tonight, and I’d like to have my own name on my tombstone. Besides, even if by some chance we succeed, I don’t want to startle Alcan by coming at her with a stranger’s face. After what she’s been through, she’s entitled to see the real me.’

‘I don’t have any problem with that,’ Sparhawk agreed.

30

Captain Jodral returned just after dark, his loose robe flapping and his eyes wide as he desperately flogged at his horse. ‘We’re doomed, my General!’ he shrieked.

‘Get control of yourself Jodral!’ general Piras snapped. ‘What did you see?’

‘There are millions of them, General!’ Jodral was still on the verge of hysteria.

‘Jodral, you’ve never seen a million of anything. Now, what’s out there?’

‘They’re coming across the Sama, General,’ Jodral replied, trying his best to control his quavering voice. ‘The reports about that fleet are true. I saw the ships.’

‘Where? We’re ten leagues from the coast.’

‘They’ve sailed up the River Sama, General Piras, and they’ve lashed their ships together side by side to form bridges.’

‘Absurd. The Sama’s five miles wide down here! Talk sense, man!’

‘I know what I saw, General. The other scouts will be along shortly to confirm it. Kaftal’s in flames. You can see the light of the fire from here.’ Jodral turned and pointed south toward a huge, flickering orange glow in the sky above the low coastal hills standing between the Cynesgan forces and the sea.

General Piras swore. This was the third time this week that his scouts had reported a crossing of the lower Sama or the Verel River, and he had not thus far seen any sign of hostile forces. Under normal circumstances, he’d have simply had his scouts flogged or worse, but these were not normal circumstances. The enemy force that had been harrying the southern coast was made up of the Knights of the Church of Chyrellos to a man—who were quite capable of vanishing and reappearing miles to his rear.

Still muttering curses, he summoned his adjutant. ‘Sallat!’ he snapped. ‘Wake up the troops. Tell them to prepare themselves! If those accursed knights are crossing the Sama here, we’ll have to engage them before they can establish a foothold on this side of the river.’

‘It’s just another ruse, my General,’ his adjutant said, looking at Captain Jodral with contempt. ‘Every time some idiot sees three fishermen in a boat, we get a report of a crossing.’

‘rivers.’ The General spread his hands helplessly. ‘What else can I do?’ He swore again. ‘Sound the charge, Sallat. Maybe this time we’ll find somebody real when we reach the river.’

Alcan was trembling violently when Zalasta returned the two captives to the small but now scrupulously clean cell following yet another of those hideous, silent interviews with the bat-winged Klael, but Ehlana felt drained of all emotion. There was a perverse seductiveness to the strangely gentle probing of that intricate mind, and Ehlana always felt violated and befouled when it was over.

‘That will be the last time, Ehlana,’ Zalasta told her apologetically. ‘If it’s any comfort to you, he’s still baffled by your husband. He cannot understand how any creature with such power would willingly subordinate himself to—’ He hesitated.

‘To a mere woman, Zalasta?’ she suggested wearily.

‘No, Ehlana, that’s not it. Some of the worlds Klael dominates are wholly ruled by females. Males are kept for breeding purposes only. He simply cannot understand the relationship between you and Sparhawk.’

‘You might explain the meaning of love to him, Zalasta.’ She paused. ‘But you don’t understand it yourself, do you?’

His face went cold. ‘Good night, your Majesty,’ he said in an unemotional tone. Then he turned and left the cell, closing and locking the door behind him.

Ehlana had her ear pressed to the door before the clanging of its closing had subsided.

‘I do not fear them,’ she heard King Santheocles declare.

‘Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought,’ Zalasta told him bluntly. ‘All of your allies have been systematically neutralized, and your enemies have you surrounded.’

‘We are Cyrgai,’ Santheocles insisted. ‘No one can stand against us.’

‘That may have been true ten thousand years ago when your enemies dressed in furs and charged your lines with flint-tipped spears. Now you face Church Knights armed with steel, you face Atan warriors who can kill your soldiers with their fingertips, you face Peloi who ride through your ranks like the wind, you face Trolls, who not only kill your soldiers, but also eat them. If that weren’t bad enough, you face Aphrael, who can stop the sun or turn you to stone. Worst of all, you face Anakha and Bhelliom, and that means that you face obliteration.’

‘Mighty Cyrgon will protect us.’ Santheocles’ voice was set in a willful note of stubborn imbecility.

‘Why don’t you go talk with Otha of Zemoch, Santheocles?’ There was a sneer in Zalasta’s voice. ‘He’ll tell you how the Elder God Azash squealed when Anakha destroyed him.’ Zalasta suddenly broke off. ‘He comes!’ he choked. ‘Closer than we’d ever thought possible!’

‘What are you talking about?’ Ekatas demanded.

‘Anakha is here!’ Zalasta exclaimed. ‘Go to your generals, Santheocles. Tell them to call out their troops and order them to scour the streets of Cyrga, for Anakha is within your walls! Hurry, man! Anakha is here, and our deaths stalk the streets with him! Come with me, Ekatas! Cyrgon must be warned, and eternal Klael. The night of decision is upon us!’

Elron ticked off the count on his fingers and swore. No matter how he slurred or compressed the words of that last line, it still had one beat too many. He hurled his quill-pen across the room and sank his face into his hands in an artful pose of poetic despair. Elron did that frequently when composing verse. Then he hopefully raised his face as a thought came to him. He was nearing the final stanzas of his masterpiece, after all, and an Alexandrine would add emphasis. What would the critics say?

Elron agonized over the decision. He cursed the day when he had chosen to cast the most important work of his career in heroic couplets. He hated iambics. They were so mercilessly regular and unforgiving, and pentameter was like a chain around his neck, jerking him up short at the end of every line. ‘Ode to Blue’ hung in the balance while her creator struggled with the sullen intransigencies of form and meter.

Elron could not be sure how long the screaming had been going on or exactly when it had started. His mind, caught up in a creative frenzy, had blotted out everything external to that one maddeningly recalcitrant line. The poet rose irritably to his feet and went to the window to look out at the torch-lit streets of Natayos. What were they screaming about? Scarpa’s soldiers, ignorant, unwashed serfs for the most part, were running, bawling in terror like so many bleating sheep. What had set them off this time?

Elron leaned slightly out to look back up the street. There seemed to be a different kind of light coming from the part of the ruined city that was still buried in tangled brush and creeping vines. Elron frowned. It was most definitely not torchlight. It seemed to be a pale white glow instead, steady, unwavering, and coming from dozens of places at the same time.

Then Elron heard Scarpa’s voice rising over the screams. The crazy charlatan was shouting orders of some kind in his most imperial voice. The rabble in the streets, however, were ignoring him. The army was streaming along the cobbled streets of ruined Natayos toward the main gate, pushing, howling, jamming together and struggling to get through that hopelessly clogged gateway. Beyond the gate, Elron saw winking torches streaming off into the surrounding jungle. What in God’s name was going on here?

Then his blood suddenly froze. He gaped in horror at the glowing figures emerging from the side-streets of the ruin to stalk implacably along the broad avenue that led to the gate. The Shining Ones who had depopulated Panem-Doa, Norenja and Synaqua had finally descended on Natayos!

The poet stood frozen for only a moment, and then his mind moved more quickly than he’d have thought possible. Flight was clearly out of the question. The gate was so completely jammed that even those who had already reached it had little chance of forcing their way through. Elron dashed to his writing-table and swatted his candle with the flat of his hand, plunging the room into darkness. If there were no lights in the windows of this upper floor, the horrors that stalked the streets would have no reason to search. Frantically, stumbling in the darkness, he ran from room to room, desperately searching for any other burning candles that might betray his location. Then, certain that he was safe for the moment at least, the one known throughout Astel as Sabre crept back to his room to fearfully peer around the edge of the window-frame at the street below.

Scarpa stood atop a partially-collapsed wall issuing contradictory commands to regiments that evidently only he could see. His threadbare velvet cloak was draped over his shoulders and his makeshift crown was slightly askew. Not far from where he stood, Cyzada was saying something in his hollow voice—an incantation of some kind, Elron guessed and his fingers were weaving intricate designs in the air. Louder and louder he spoke in guttural Styric, summoning God only knew what horrors to face the silent, glowing figures advancing on him. His voice rose to a screech, and he pawed at the air, frantically exaggerating the gestures.

And then one of the incandescent intruders reached him. Cyzada screamed and flinched back violently, but it was too late. The glowing hand had already touched him. He reeled back as if that almost gentle touch had been some massive blow. Staggering, he turned as if to flee, and Elron saw his face.

The poet retched, clamping his hands over his mouth to hold in any sound that might give away his presence. Cyzada of Esos was dissolving. His already unrecognizable face was sliding down the front of his head like melted wax, and a rapidly-spreading stain was discoloring the front of his white Styric robe. He staggered a few steps toward the still-raving Scarpa, his arms reaching hungrily out toward the madman even as the flesh slid away from those skeletal, outstretched hands. Then the Styric slowly collapsed to the stones, bubbling, seething, his decaying body oozing out through the fabric of his robe.

‘Archers to the front!’ Scarpa commanded in his rich, theatrical voice. ‘Sweep them with arrows!’ Elron fell to the floor and scrambled away from the window. ‘Cavalry to the flanks!’ he heard Scarpa command. ‘Sabers at the ready!’

Elron crawled toward his writing-table, groping in the dark.

‘Imperial guardsmen!’ Scarpa bellowed. ‘Quicktime, march!’

Elron found the leg of the table, reached up and frantically began grabbing at the sheets of paper lying on the table-top.

‘First Regiment—charge!’ Scarpa commanded in a great voice.

Elron knocked over the table, whimpering in his desperate haste.

‘Second Regiment—’ Scarpa’s voice broke off suddenly, and Elron heard him scream.

The poet spread his arms, trying to gather the priceless pages of ‘Ode to Blue’ out of the darkness.

Scarpa’s voice was shrill now. ‘Mother!’ he shrieked. ‘Pleasepleaseplease!’ The resonant voice had become a kind of liquid screech. ‘Pleasepleaseplease!’ It sounded almost like a man trying to cry out from under water. ‘Pleasepleaseplease!’ And then the voice wheezed off into a dreadful gurgling silence.

Clutching the pages he had found, Sabre abandoned his search for any others, scurried across the room on his hands and knees, and hid under the bed.

Bhlokw’s expression was reproachful as he shambled back across the night-shrouded gravel. ‘Wickedness, U-lat,’ he accused. ‘We are pack-mates, and you said a thing to me that was not so.’

‘I would not do that, Bhlokw,’ Ulath protested.

‘You put the thought into my mind-belly that the big things with iron on their faces were good-to-eat. They are not good-to-eat.’

‘Were they bad-to-eat, Bhlokw?’ Tynian asked sympathetically.

‘Very bad-to-eat, Tin-in. I have not tasted anything so bad-to-eat before.’

‘I did not know this, Bhlokw,’ Ulath tried to apologize. ‘It was my thought that they were big enough that one or two might fill your belly.’

‘I only ate one,’ Bhlokw replied. ‘It was so bad-to-eat that I did not want to eat another. Not even Ogres would eat those, and Ogres will eat anything. It makes me not-glad that you said the thing that was not so to me, U-lat.’

‘It makes me not-glad as well,’ Ulath confessed. ‘I said a thing which I did not know. It was wicked of me to do this.’

Queen Betuana drew Tynian aside. ‘How long will it take us to reach the Hidden City, Tynian-Knight?’ she asked.

‘Is your Majesty talking about how long it’s really going to take or how long it’s going to seem?’

‘Both.’

‘It’s going to seem like weeks, Betuana-Queen, but in actual time, it’ll be instantaneous. Ulath and I left Matherion just a few weeks ago in real time, but it seems that we’ve been on the road for nearly a year. It’s very strange, but you get used to it after a while.’

‘We must start soon if we are to reach Cyrga by morning.’

‘Ulath and I’ll have to talk with Ghnomb about that. He’s the one who stops time, but he’s also the God of Eat. He may not be happy with us. The idea of letting the Trolls kill Klael’s soldiers was a good one, but Ghnomb expects them to eat what they kill, and they don’t like the taste.’

She shuddered. ‘How can you stand to be around the Troll-beasts, Tynian-Knight? They’re horrible creatures.’

‘They aren’t really so bad, your Majesty,’ Tynian defended them. ‘They’re very moral creatures, you know. They’re fiercely loyal to their own packs; they don’t even know how to lie; and they won’t kill anything unless they intend to eat it—or unless it attacks them. As soon as Ulath finishes apologizing to Bhlokw, we’ll summon Ghnomb and talk with him about stopping time so that we can get to Cyrga.” Tynian made a face. ‘That’s what’s going to take a while. You have to be patient when you’re trying to explain something to the Troll-Gods.’

‘Is that what Ulath-Knight is doing?’ she asked curiously. ‘Apologizing?’

Tynian nodded. ‘It’s not as easy as it sounds, your Majesty. There’s nothing in Trollish that even comes close to “I’m sorry,” probably because Trolls never do anything that they’re ashamed of.’

‘Will you be still?’ Liatris hissed at the protesting Gahennas. ‘They’re in the next room right now.’

The three empresses were hiding in a dark antechamber adjoining the Tegan’s private quarters. Liatris stood at the door with her dagger in her hand. They waited in tense apprehension.

‘They’re gone now,’ Liatris said. ‘We’d better wait for a little while, though.’

‘Will you please tell me what’s going on?’ Gahennas asked.

‘Chacole sent some people to kill you,’ Elysoun told her. ‘Liatris and I found out about it, and came to rescue you.’

‘Why would Chacole do that?’

‘Because you know too much about what she’s planning.’

‘That silly plan to implicate Cieronna in a spurious assassination plot?’

‘The plot wasn’t spurious, and Cieronna wasn’t even remotely connected with it. Chacole and Torellia are planning to kill our husband.’

‘Treason!’ Gahennas gasped.

‘Probably not. Chacole and Torellia are members of royal houses currently at war with the Tamul Empire, and they’re getting orders from home. The assassination of Sarabian could technically be called an act of war.’ Elysoun stopped as a wave of nausea swept over her. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said in a sick little voice.

‘What’s wrong?’ Liatris demanded.

‘It’s nothing. It’ll pass.’

‘Are you sick?’

‘Sort of. It’s nothing to worry about. I should have eaten something when you woke me up, that’s all.’

‘You’re white as a sheet. What’s wrong with you?’

‘I’m pregnant, if you really have to know.’

‘It was bound to happen eventually, Elysoun,’ Gahennas said smugly. ‘I’m surprised it didn’t happen earlier, the way you carry on. Have you any idea at all of who the father is?’

‘Sarabian,’ Elysoun replied with a shrug of her shoulders. ‘Do you think it’s safe to leave now, Liatris? I think we’d better get to our husband as quickly as we can. Chacole wouldn’t have sent people to kill Gahennas unless this was the night when she was planning her attempt on Sarabian.’

‘She’ll have people watching all the doors,’ Liatris said.

‘Not all the doors, dear,’ Elysoun smiled. ‘I know of at least three that she’s not aware of. You see, Gahennas, there are some advantages to having an active social life. Check the hallway, Liatris. Let’s get Gahennas out of here before Chacole’s assassins come back.’

The Cyrgai at the bronze gate stood back fearfully as Sparhawk led the others up the last few steps. ‘YBIn Cyrgon!’ the officer in charge said, smashing his fist against his breastplate in a kind of formal salute.

‘Respond, Anakha,’ Xanetia’s voice murmured in Sparhawk’s ear. ’Tis customary.’

‘YBIn Cyrgon!’ Sparhawk said, also banging on his chest and being careful not to allow the cloak he’d removed from the unconscious Temple Guardsman to open and reveal the fact that he was wearing his mail-shirt rather than an ornate breastplate.

The officer seemed not to notice. Sparhawk and the others marched through the gate and moved along a broad street toward a kind of central square. ‘Is he still watching?’ Sparhawk muttered.

‘Nay, Anakha,’ Xanetia replied. ‘He and his men have returned to the guardroom beside the gate.’

It had appeared from below that the only buildings within the walls at the summit of Cyrga were the fortress-palace and the temple, but that was not entirely true. There were other structures as well, low, utilitarian-looking buildings, storehouses for the most part, Sparhawk guessed. ‘Talen,’ he said back over his shoulder, ‘ease over to the side of the street. Find a door you can get open in a hurry. Let’s get out of sight while Xanetia scouts around.’

‘Right,’ Talen replied. He ducked into the shadows and a moment later they heard his whisper and quickly moved to the door he was holding open for them.

‘Now what?’ Kalten asked.

‘Xanetia and I go looking for Ehlana and Alcan,’ Aphrael’s voice replied out of the darkness.

‘Where were you?’ Talen asked curiously. ‘When we were coming up the hill, I mean?’

‘Here and there,’ she replied. ‘My family’s moving all the others into position, and I wanted to be sure everything’s going according to schedule.’

‘Is it?’

‘It is now. There were a couple of problems, but I took care of them. Let’s get at this, Xanetia. We still have a lot to do before morning.’

‘There they are,’ Setras said. ‘I wasn’t really all that far off, was I?’

‘Are you sure this time?’ Bergsten demanded.

‘You’re cross with me, aren’t you, Bergsten?’

Bergsten sighed, and decided to let it pass. ‘No, Divine One,’ he replied. ‘We all make mistakes, I guess.’

‘That’s frightfully decent of you, old boy,’ Setras thanked him. We were moving in generally the right direction. I was just off a few degrees, that’s all.’

‘Are you certain those are the right peaks this time, Divine One?’ Heldin rumbled.

‘Oh, absolutely,’ Setras said happily. ‘They’re exactly as Aphrael described them. You notice how they glow in the moonlight?’

Heldin squinted across the desert at the two glowing spires rearing up out of the dark jumble of broken rock.

‘They look about right,’ he said dubiously.

‘I have to go find the gate,’ Setras told them. ‘It’s supposed to be exactly on a line from the gap between the two peaks.’

‘Are you sure, Divine One?’ Bergsten asked. ‘It’s that way on the south side, but do we know for certain that it’s the same here on the north?’

‘You’ve never met Cyrgon, have you, old boy? He’s the most stupid creature you’ve ever seen. If there’s a gate on the south, there’ll be one on the north as well, believe me. Don’t go away. I’ll be right back.’ He turned and strolled off across the desert toward the two peaks glowing in the moonlight.

Atana Maris was standing to one side of Bergsten and Heldin with a slightly troubled look on her face.

‘What’s the matter, Atana?’ Heldin asked her.

‘I think there is something I do not understand, Heldin-Knight.” she replied, struggling to put her thought into Elenic. ‘The Setras person is a God?’

‘A Styric God, yes.’

‘If he is a God, how did he get lost?’

‘We’re not certain, Atana Maris.’

‘That is what I do not understand. If Setras-God were a man, I would say that he is stupid. But he is a God, so he cannot be stupid, can he?’

‘I think you’d better take that up with his Grace here,’ Heldin said. ‘I’m only a soldier. He’s the expert on theology.’

‘Thanks, Heldin,’ Bergsten said in a flat tone of voice.

‘If he is stupid, Bergsten-Priest, how can we be certain that he’s brought us to the right place?’

‘We have to trust Aphrael, Atana. Setras may be a little uncertain about things, but Aphrael isn’t, and she talked with him for quite some time, as I recall.’

‘Speaking slowly,’ Heldin added, ‘and using short, simple words.’

‘Is it possible, Bergsten-Priest?’ Maris asked insistently. ‘Can a God be stupid?’

Bergsten looked at her helplessly. ‘Ours isn’t,’ he evaded, ‘and I’m sure yours isn’t either.’

‘You didn’t answer my question, Bergsten.’

‘You’re right, Atana,’ he replied. ‘I didn’t—and I’m not going to, either. If you’re really curious, I’ll take you to Chyrellos when this is all over, and you can ask Dolmant.’

‘Bravely spoken, Lord Bergsten,’ Heldin murmured.

‘Shut up, Heldin.’

‘Yes, your Grace.’

Sparhawk, Bevier and Kalten stood at a small, barred window in the musty-smelling warehouse looking out at the fortress-like palace rearing above the rest of the city. ‘That’s really archaic, Bevier said critically.

‘It looks strong enough to me,’ Kalten said.

‘They’ve built the main structure of the palace right up against the outer wall, Kalten. It saves building two walls, but it compromises the structural integrity of the fortress. Give me a couple of months and some good catapults, and I could pound the whole thing to pieces.’

‘I don’t think catapults had been invented when they built it, Bevier,’ Sparhawk said. ‘It was probably the strongest fort in the world ten thousand years ago.’ He looked out at the gloomy, rearing pile. As Bevier had noted, the main structure was backed up against the wall that separated this part of Cyrga from the rest of the city. Shorter towers stair-stepped up to the large central tower that shouldered high above the rest of the palace and grew, or so it seemed, out of the wall itself. It appeared that the palace had not been built to look out over the city, but rather to face the white limestone temple. The Cyrgai clearly looked at their God, and turned their backs on the rest of the world.

The door which Talen had unlocked to provide them entry into this storehouse creaked as it opened and then closed. Then the soft glow of Xanetia’s face once again dimly illuminated the area around her.

‘We’ve found them,’ the Child Goddess said as the Anarae set her down on the flagstoned floor.

Sparhawk’s heart leaped. ‘Are they all right?’

‘They haven’t been treated very well. They’re tired and hungry and very much afraid. Zalasta took them to see Klael, and that’s enough to frighten anybody.’

‘Where are they?’ Mirtai demanded intently.

‘At the very top of that highest tower at the back of the palace.’

‘Did you talk with them?’ Kalten asked intently.

Aphrael shook her head. ‘I didn’t think it was a good idea. What they don’t know about, they can’t talk about.’

‘Anarae,’ Bevier said thoughtfully, ‘would the soldiers in the palace let Temple Guardsmen move around freely in there?’

‘Nay, Sir Knight. The Cyrgai are much driven by custom, and Temple Guardsmen have little cause to enter the palace.’

‘I guess we can discard these, then,’ Kalten said, pulling off the ornate bronze helmet and dark cloak he had purloined in the lower city. He touched his cheek. ‘We still look like Cyrgai. We could steal some different uniforms and then just march in, couldn’t we?’

Xanetia shook her head. ‘The soldiers within the palace are all kinsmen, members of the royal clan, and are all known to one another. Subterfuge would be far too perilous.’

‘We’ve got to come up with a way to get into that tower!’ Kalten said desperately.

‘I already have,’ Mirtai told him calmly. ‘It’s dangerous, but I think it’s the only way.’

‘Go ahead,’ Sparhawk told her.

‘We might be able to sneak up through the palace, but if we’re discovered, we’d have to fight, and that’d put Ehlana and Alcan in immediate danger.’

Sparhawk nodded bleakly. ‘It’s just too dangerous to risk,’ he agreed.

‘All right, then. If we can’t go through the palace, we’ll have to go up the outside.’

‘You mean climb the tower?’ Kalten asked incredulously.

‘It’s not as difficult as it sounds, Kalten. Those walls aren’t built of marble, so they aren’t smooth. They’re rough stone blocks, and there are plenty of hand-holds and places to put your feet. I could climb that back wall like a ladder, if I had to.’

‘I’m not really very graceful, Mirtai,’ he said dubiously. ‘I’ll do anything at all to rescue Alcan, but I won’t be much good to her if I make a misstep and fall five hundred feet into the lower city.’

‘We have ropes, Kalten. I’ll keep you from falling. Talen can scamper up a wall like a squirrel, and I can climb almost as well. If we had Stragen and Caalador along, they’d be halfway up the side of that tower by now.’

‘Mirtai,’ Bevier said in a pained voice, ‘we’re wearing mailshirts. Climbing a sheer wall with seventy pounds of steel hanging from your shoulders might be a little challenging.’

‘Then take the mail-shirt off, Bevier.’

‘I might need it when I get up on top.’

‘No problem,’ Talen assured him. ‘We’ll bundle them all together and pull them up behind us. I do sort of like it, Sparhawk. It’s quiet, it’s fairly fast, and there probably won’t be any guards going hand-over-hand around the outside of the tower looking for intruders. Mirtai’s had training from Stragen and Caalador, and I was born for burglary. She and I can do the real climbing. We’ll drop ropes down to the rest of you at various stages along the way, and you can haul up the mail-shirts and swords behind you. We can get to the top of that tower in no time at all. We can do it, Sparhawk. It’ll be easy.’

‘I can’t really think of any alternatives,’ Sparhawk conceded dubiously.

‘Let’s do it then,’ Mirtai said abruptly. ‘Let’s get Ehlana and Alcan out of there, and once they’re safe, we can start to take this place apart.’

‘After I get my real face back,’ Kalten added adamantly. ‘Alcan’s entitled to that much consideration.’

‘Let’s do that right now, Xanetia,’ Aphrael said. ‘Kalten will nag us about it all night if we don’t.’

‘Nag?’ Kalten objected.

‘What color was your hair again, Kalten? Purple, wasn’t it?’ she asked him with an impish little smile.’

31

There were deep shadows along the western side of the Women’s Palace when Elysoun, Liatris and Gahennas emerged through the little-used door and moved quickly through the darkness to take cover in a nearby grove of ornamental evergreens.

‘This is going to be the dangerous part,’ Liatris cautioned in a low voice. ‘Chacole knows by now that her assassins weren’t able to find Gahennas, and she’s certain to have her people out to try to prevent us from reaching Ehlana’s castle.’

Elysoun looked out at the moon-drenched lawn. ‘That’s impossible,’ she said. ‘It’s just too bright. There’s a path that goes on through this grove. It comes out near the Ministry of the Interior.’

‘That’s the wrong direction, Elysoun,’ Gahennas protested. ‘The Elene castle’s the other way.’

‘Yes, I know, but there’s no cover. There’s nothing between here and the castle but open lawn. We’d better stick to the shadows. If we go around on the other side of Interior, we’ll be able to go through the grounds of the Foreign Ministry. It’s only about fifty yards from there to the drawbridge of the castle.’

‘What if the drawbridge has been raised?’

‘We’ll worry about that when we get there, Gahennas. But we have to get into the gardens around the Foreign Ministry first.’

‘Let’s go then, ladies,’ Liatris said abruptly. ‘We’re not accomplishing anything by standing around talking. Let’s go find out what we’re up against.’

‘Back here,’ Talen whispered to them, coming out of a narrow alleyway. ‘The palace wall runs back to the place where it joins the outer fortifications at the end of this alley. The right angle where the two walls meet is perfect for climbing.’

‘Will you need this?’ Mirtai asked, holding her grappling hook out to him.

‘No. I can make it to the top without it, and we’d better not risk having some sentry up there hear the hook banging on the stones.’ He led them back along the alley to the cul-de-sac where the palace wall butted up against the imposing fortifications separating the compound from the rest of the city.

‘How high would you say it is?’ Kalten asked, squinting upward. It was strange to see Kalten’s face again after all the weeks it had been disguised. Sparhawk tentatively touched his own face and immediately recognized the familiar contours of his broken nose.

‘Thirty feet or so,’ Bevier replied softly to Kalten’s question.

Mirtai was examining the angle formed by the joining of the two walls. ‘This won’t be very difficult,’ she whispered.

‘The whole structure’s poorly designed,’ Bevier agreed critically.

‘I’ll go up first,’ Talen said.

‘Don’t do anything foolish up there,’ Mirtai cautioned.

‘Trust me.’ He set his foot up on one of the protruding stones of the outer wall and reached for a hand-hold on the palace wall. He went up quickly.

‘We’ll check for sentries when we get up there,’ Mirtai quietly told the others. ‘Then we’ll drop a rope down to you.’ She reached up and began to follow the young thief up the angle between the two walls.

Bevier leaned back and looked upward. ‘The moon’s all the way up now,’ he said.

‘Thinkest thou that it might reveal us?’ Xanetia asked him.

‘No, Anarae. We’ll be climbing the north side of the tower, so we’ll be in shadow the whole way to the top.’

They waited tensely, craning their necks to watch the climbers creeping upward.

‘Somebody’s coming!’ Kalten hissed. ‘Up there—along the battlements!’

The climbers stopped, pulling back into the shadows of the sharp angle between the two walls.

‘He’s got a torch,’ Kalten whispered. ‘If he holds it out over those battlements—’ he left it hanging.

Sparhawk held his breath.

‘It’s all right now,’ Bevier said. ‘He’s going back.’

‘We might want to deal with him when we get up there,’ Kalten noted.

‘Not if we can avoid it,’ Sparhawk disagreed. ‘We don’t want somebody else to come looking for him.’

Talen had reached the battlements. He clung to the rough stones for a moment, listening. Then he slipped over the top and out of sight. After several interminable moments, Mirtai followed him. Sparhawk and the others waited in the darkness. Then Mirtai’s rope came slithering down the wall.

‘Let’s go,’ Sparhawk said tensely. ‘One at a time.’

The building-blocks were of rough, square-fractured basalt, and they protruded unevenly from the walls, making climbing much simpler than it appeared. Sparhawk didn’t even bother to use the rope. He reached the top and clambered over the battlements. ‘Do the sentries have any kind of set routine up here?’ he asked Mirtai.

‘It seems that each one has his own section of wall,’ she replied. ‘The one at this end doesn’t walk very fast. I’m guessing, but I’d say that it’ll be a quarter of an hour before he comes back.’

‘Is there any place where we can take cover before then?’

‘There’s a door in that first tower,’ Talen said, pointing at the squat structure rising at the end of the parapet. ‘It opens onto a stairwell.’

‘Have you taken a look at the back wall yet?’

Talen nodded. ‘There’s no parapet along that side, but there’s a ledge a couple of feet wide where the outer wall joins the back of the palace. We’ll be able to make our way along that until we get on that central tower. Then we get to start climbing.’

‘Does the sentry look back there when he reaches this end of the parapet?’

‘He didn’t last time,’ Mirtai said.

‘Let’s look at that stairwell, then,’ Sparhawk decided. ‘As soon as the others are up, we’ll hide in there until the sentry reaches this end and starts back. That should give us a half-hour to crawl along that ledge to the central tower. Even if he looks around the corner next time, we should be out of the range of his torch by then.’

‘He’s right on top of these things, isn’t he?’ Talen said gaily to Mirtai.

‘What is this boy’s problem?’ Sparhawk demanded of the golden giantess.

‘There’s a certain kind of excitement involved in this, Dorlin’,’ Mirtai replied. ‘It sets the blood to pounding.’

‘Dorlin’?’

‘Professional joke, Sparhawk. You probably wouldn’t understand.’

Vanion’s scouts had returned about sunset to report contact with Kring to the south and Queen Betuana’s Atans to the north. The ring of steel around the Forbidden Mountains was drawing inexorably tighter. The moon was rising over the desert when Betuana and Engessa came running in from Vanion’s right flank and Kring and Tikume rode in from the left.

‘Tynian-Knight will be along soon, Vanion-Preceptor,’ Engessa reported. ‘He and Ulath-Knight have spoken with Bergsten-Priest on their right. Ulath-Knight has remained with the Trolls to try to prevent incidents.’

‘Incidents?’ Sephrenia asked.

‘The Trolls are hungry. Ulath-Knight gave them a regiment of the Klael-beasts to eat, but the flavor did not please the Trolls. Ulath-Knight tried to apologize, but I am not sure if the Trolls understood.’

‘Have you seen Berit and Khalad yet, friend Vanion?’ Kring asked.

‘No, but Aphrael said that they’re just ahead of us. Her cousin guided them to the spot where that hidden gate’s supposed to be.’

‘If they know where the gate is, we could go on in,’ Betuana suggested.

‘We’d better wait, dear,’ Sephrenia replied. ‘Aphrael will let me know as soon as Sparhawk rescues Ehlana and Alcan.’

Tynian came riding across the vast open graveyard. ‘Bergsten’s in place,’ he reported, swinging down out of his saddle. He looked at Itagne. ‘I have a message for you, your Excellency.’

‘Oh? From whom?’

‘Atana Maris is with Bergsten. She wants to talk with you.’

Itagne’s eyes widened. ‘What’s she doing here?’ he exclaimed.

‘She said that your letters must have gone astray. Not a single one of them reached her. You did write to her, didn’t you, your Excellency?’

‘Well—I was intending to.’ Itagne looked slightly embarrassed. ‘Something always seemed to come up, though.’

‘I’m sure she’ll understand.’ Tynian’s face was blandly expressionless. ‘Anyway, after she handed the city of Cynestra over to Bergsten, she decided to come looking for you.’

Itagne’s expression was slightly worried. ‘I hadn’t counted on that,’ he confessed.

‘What’s this?’ Betuana asked curiously.

‘Ambassador Itagne and Atana Maris became good friends while he was in Cynestra, your Majesty,’ Sephrenia explained. ‘Very good friends, actually.’

‘Ah,’ Betuana said. ‘It’s a little unusual, but it’s not unheard of, and Maris has always been an impulsive girl.’ Although the Atan Queen still wore deep mourning, she seemed to have abandoned her ritual silence. ‘A word of advice, Itagne-Ambassador, if you’d care to hear it.’

‘Of course, your Majesty.’

‘It’s not at all wise to toy with the affections of an Atan woman. It might not seem so, but we’re very emotional. Sometimes we form attachments that aren’t really appropriate.’ She did not look at Engessa as she said it. ‘Appropriate or not, however, those emotions are extremely powerful, and once the attachment is formed, there’s very little we can do about it.’

‘I see,’ he said. ‘I’ll definitely keep that in mind, your Majesty.’

‘Do you want me to go find Berit and Khalad and bring them back here, friend Vanion?’ Kring asked.

Vanion considered it. ‘We’d better stay away from that gate,’ he decided. ‘The Cyrgai might be watching. Berit and Khalad are supposed to be there, but we aren’t. Let’s not stir anything up until Sparhawk sends word that his wife’s safe. Then we’ll all go in. There are a number of accounts that are long past due, and I think the time’s coming when we’ll want to settle up.’

The ledge that ran along the back of the palace made reaching the central tower a matter of hardly more than a casual stroll. It still took time, however, and Sparhawk was acutely aware of the fact that the night was already more than half over. Mirtai and Talen moved up the side of the tower quickly, but the rest of them, roped together for safety, made much slower progress.

Sparhawk was peering upward when Kalten joined him.

‘Where’s Aphrael?’ the blond Pandion asked quietly.

‘Everywhere. Didn’t she tell you?’

‘Very funny, Sparhawk.’ Kalten looked off toward the east. ‘Are we going to make it before it starts getting light?’

‘It could be close. There seems to be some kind of balcony just above us—and lit windows.’

‘Are we going around them?’

‘I’ll have Talen take a look. If there aren’t too many Cyrgai in the room, we might be able to finish this climb inside.’

‘Let’s not take chances, Sparhawk. I’ll climb all the way to the moon if I have to. Go on up. I’ve got the rope tied off.’

‘Right.’ Sparhawk started up again. A slight breeze had come up, brushing the basalt wall with tenuous fingers. It was not strong enough to pose any dangers as yet, but Sparhawk definitely didn’t want it getting any stronger.

‘You’re out of condition, Sparhawk,’ Mirtai told him critically when he reached the spot just below where she and Talen clung to the wall.

‘Nobody’s perfect. Can you make out any details of that balcony yet?’

‘I was just going to swing over and have a look,’ Talen replied. He untied the rope from about his waist and began working his way across the wall toward the balcony.

‘You’re making me cross, Sparhawk.’ Aphrael’s voice seemed very loud in the silence of his mind. ‘I have plans for that young man, and they don’t include scraping him up off a street five hundred feet below.’

‘He knows what he’s doing. You worry too much. As long as you’re here, could you give me a few details about the top of this tower?’

‘There’s a separate building up there—probably an afterthought of some kind. It’s got three rooms: a guardroom for the platoon or so of ceremonial troops, the cell where Mother and Alcan are being held, and a large room across the front. Santheocles spends most of his time there.’

‘Santheocles?’

‘The King of the Cyrgai. He’s an idiot. They all are, but he’s worse than most.’

‘Is there a window in Ehlana’s cell?’

‘A small one. It’s barred, but you couldn’t get through it anyway. The building up there is smaller than the rest of this tower, so there’s a kind of parapet that runs all the way round it.’

‘Do those guards patrol it?’

‘No. There’s no real need for that. It’s the highest place in the city, and the notion that somebody might scale the tower has never occurred to the Cyrgai.’

‘Is Santheocles up there right now?’

‘He was, but I think he might have left since I looked in through the window. Zalasta was with him—and Ekatas. There was some sort of gathering they were planning to attend.’

There was a low whistle, and Sparhawk looked toward the balcony. Talen was motioning to him. ‘I’m going to go and have a look,’ Sparhawk told Mirtai.

‘Don’t be too long,’ she cautioned. ‘The night’s starting to run out on us.’

He grunted and started across toward the balcony.

The drawbridge was down, and no one was standing watch.

‘How very convenient,’ Elysoun said as she, Liatris and Gahennas crossed the bridge into the courtyard of the castle. ‘Chacole thinks of everything, doesn’t she?’

‘I thought there were supposed to be Church Knights on guard here,’ Gahennas said. ‘Chacole couldn’t bribe them, could she?’

‘Lord Vanion took his knights with him,’ Liatris replied. ‘The responsibility for guarding the castle’s been turned over to ceremonial troops from the main garrison. Some officer is probably quite a bit richer than he was yesterday. You’ve been here before, Elysoun. Where can we find our husband?’

‘He’s usually up on the second floor. There are royal apartments there.’

‘We’d better get up there in a hurry. That unguarded gate makes me very nervous. I doubt that we’d be able to find a guard anywhere in the castle, and that means that Chacole’s assassins have free access to Sarabian.’

The balcony appeared not to have been used for at least a generation. Dust lay deep in the corners, and the thick crust of birddroppings on the floor was undisturbed. Talen was crouched beside the window, peering round the edge, when Sparhawk came up over the stone balustrade. ‘Is there anybody in there?’ the big Pandion whispered.

‘A whole crowd,’ Talen whispered back. ‘Zalasta just came in with a couple of Cyrgai.’

Sparhawk joined his young friend and looked in. The room appeared to be some kind of torch-lit audience hall or throne-room. The balcony where Sparhawk and Talen crouched was above the level of the floor and was reached from the inside by a flight of stone stairs. There was a slightly raised dais at the far end of the room with a throne carved from a single rock at the back of it. A well-muscled, handsome man in an ornate breastplate and a short leather kirtle sat on the throne surveying the merf around him with an imperious expression.

Zalasta stood to one side of the man on the throne, and a wrinkled man in an ornamented black robe was at the front of the dais speaking in his own language. Sparhawk swore and quickly cast the spell.

‘Now what?’ Aphrael’s voice sounded in his mind.

‘Can you translate for me?’

‘I can do better than that.’

He seemed to hear a faint buzzing sound and felt a momentary giddiness.

‘—and even now those forces do surround the sacred city,’ the wrinkled man was saying in a language Sparhawk now understood.

A man with iron-grey hair and powerfully muscled arms stepped forward from the gathering before the dais. ‘What is there to fear, Ekatas?’ he asked in a booming voice. ‘Mighty Cyrgon clouds the eyes of our enemies as he has for a hundred centuries. Let them crouch among the bones beyond our valley and seek vainly the Gates of Illusion. They are as blind men and pose no danger to the Hidden City.’

There was a murmur of agreement from the others standing before the dais.

‘General Ospados speaks truth,’ another armored man declared, also stepping forward. ‘Let us, as we have always, ignore these puny foreigners at our gates.’

‘Shameful!’ another bellowed, stepping to the front some distance from the two who had already spoken. ‘Will we hide from inferior races? Their presence at our gates is an affront that must be punished!’’

‘Can you make out what they’re saying?’ Talen whispered.

‘They’re arguing,’ Sparhawk replied.

‘Really?’ Talen’s tone was sardonic. ‘Could you be a little more specific, Sparhawk?’

‘Evidently Aphrael’s cousins have managed to get everybody here. From what the fellow in the black robe was saying, the city’s surrounded.’

‘It’s a comfort to have friends nearby. What do these people plan to do about it?’

‘That’s what they’re arguing about. Some of them want to just sit tight. Others want to attack.’

Then Zalasta came to the front of the dais. ‘Thus says Eternal Klael,’ he declared. ‘The forces beyond the Gates of Illusion are as nothing. The danger is here within the walls of the Hidden City. Anakha is even now within the sound of my voice.’

Sparhawk swore.

‘What’s wrong?’ Talen demanded.

‘Zalasta knows we’re here.’

‘How did he find that out?’

‘I have no idea. He says that he’s speaking for Klael, and Klael can probably feel Bhelliom.’

‘Even through the gold?’

‘The gold might hide Bhelliom from Cyrgon, but Bhelliom and Klael are brothers. They can probably feel each other halfway across the universe—even when there are whole suns burning between them.’ Sparhawk held up his hand. ‘He’s saying something else.’ He leaned closer to the window.

‘I know you can hear me, Sparhawk!’ Zalasta said in a loud voice, speaking in Elenic. ‘You’re Bhelliom’s creature, and that gives you a certain amount of power. But I am Klael’s now, and that gives me just as much as you have.’ Zalasta sneered. ‘The disguises were very clever, but Klael saw through them immediately. You should have done as you were told, Sparhawk. You’ve doomed your two young friends, and there’s not a single thing you can do about it.’

There were a half-dozen men in nondescript clothing in the hallway outside the door to the room where the Emperor had been the last time Elysoun had visited him. Elysoun did not even think. ‘Sarabian!’ she shouted. ‘Lock your door!’

The Emperor, of course, did not. After a momentary shocked pause while the assassins froze in their tracks and Liatris blistered the air around her with curses even as she drew her daggers, the door burst open and Sarabian, dressed in Elene hose, a full-sleeved linen shirt, and with his long, black hair tied back, lunged out into the hallway, rapier in hand.

Sarabian was tall for a Tamul, and his first lunge pinned an assassin to the wall opposite the door. The Emperor whipped his sword free of the suddenly collapsing body with a dramatic flourish.

‘Quit showing off.’ Liatris snapped at her husband as she neatly ripped one of the assassins up the middle. ‘Pay attention!’

‘Yes, my love,’ Sarabian said gaily, crouching again into en garde.

Elysoun had only a small, neat dagger with a five-inch blade. It was long enough, though. An Arjuni assassin with a foot-long poniard parried Sarabian’s next thrust and, snarling spitefully, rushed forward with his needle-like dagger directed at the Emperor’s very eyes. Then he arched back with a choked cry. Elysoun’s little knife, sharp as any razor, had plunged smoothly into the small of his back, ripping into his kidneys.

It was Gahennas, however, who startled and shocked them all. Her weapon was a slim, curved knife. With a shrill scream, the jug-eared Tegan Empress flew into the middle of the fray, slashing at the faces of Chacole’s hired killers. Screeching, Gahennas hacked at the startled assailants, and Sarabian took advantage of every lapse. His thin blade whistled as he danced the deadly dance of thrust and recover. This is not to say that the Emperor of Tamuli was a master swordsman. He was fairly skilled, but Stragen might have found room for criticism. In truth, it was the wives who carried the day—or night, in this case.

‘Inside, my dear ones,’ Sarabian said, thrusting his savage women toward the door while he slashed at the empty air over the fallen assassins. ‘I’ll cover your backs.’

‘Oh, dear,’ Liatris murmured to Elysoun and Gahennas. ‘He’s such a baby.’

‘Yes, Liatris,’ Elysoun replied, wrapping one arm affectionately about her ugly Tegan sister, ‘but he’s ours.’

‘Kring’s coming,’ Khalad said quietly, pointing at the shadowy horseman galloping across the bone-littered gravel in the moonlight.

‘That’s not a good idea,’ Berit said, frowning. ‘Somebody might be watching.’

The Domi reached them and reined in sharply. ‘Come away!’ he hissed.

‘What’s wrong?’ Berit demanded.

‘The Child Goddess says for you to come back to where the others are. The Cyrgai are coming out to kill you.’

‘I was wondering how long it was going to take them to decide to try that,’ Khalad said, swinging up into his saddle. ‘Let’s go, Berit.’

Berit nodded, reaching for Faran’s reins. ‘Is Lord Vanion going to do anything when the Cyrgai come out?’ he asked Kring.

Kring’s answering grin was wolfish. ‘Friend Ulath has a little surprise for them when they come through the gate,’ he replied.

Berit looked around. ‘Where is he?’ he asked. ‘I don’t see him.’

‘Neither will the Cyrgai—until it’s too late. Let’s get back away from this cliff. We’ll let them see us. They’ve been ordered to kill you, so they’ll come running after us. Friend Ulath has six or eight very hungry Trolls with him, and they’ll be right on top of the Cyrgai when they come out.’

‘Did he know where you were?’ Kalten asked tensely as they clung to the wall.

‘I don’t think so,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘He knows that I’m somewhere in the city, but there are several ways I could be listening to him. I don’t think he realized just how close I was when he started making threats.’

‘Are Berit and Khalad going to be all right?’

Sparhawk nodded. ‘Aphrael was with me when Zalasta made his little speech. She’s taking care of it.’

‘All right, Sparhawk,’ Mirtai called from above them, ‘here comes the rope.’ The free end of the rope came slithering down out of the dimness above them, and Sparhawk quickly climbed up. ‘How much further?’ he asked quietly when he reached Mirtai’s side.

‘About one more climb,’ she replied. ‘Talen’s already up there.’

‘He should have waited,’ Sparhawk fumed. ‘I’m going to have to have a talk with that boy.’

‘It won’t do any good. Talen likes to take chances. Is Kalten still dragging our equipment behind him? I’d hate to get up there and have to deal with things with my fingernails.’

‘He’s hauling it up—stage by stage.’ Sparhawk peered up the wall. ‘Why don’t you let me go on ahead this time? Get the others up there as quickly as you can. We’ve still got a lot left to do, and this night won’t last forever.’

She gestured up the rough stone wall. ‘Feel free,’ she said.

‘I don’t know if I’ve ever said this,’ he told her, ‘but I’m glad you came along. You’re probably the best soldier I’ve ever known.’

‘Don’t get emotional, Sparhawk. It’s embarrassing. Are you going to go up the wall? Or did you want to wait for the sun to come up?’

He started up, moving carefully. It was to their advantage that the north side of the tower was in shade, but the deep shadows made it necessary to feel for each hand-hold and to carefully probe with his toes for places to put his feet. He concentrated on the climbing and resisted the impulse to lean back to look at the wall above and the sharp line of the edge of the parapet some fifty feet further up.

‘What kept you?’ Talen whispered as the big Pandion clambered over the top of the balustrade marking the edge of the parapet.

‘I stopped to smell the flowers,’ Sparhawk replied acidly. He looked quickly toward the east and saw the faint light of false dawn outlining the mountains. They had at most one more hour of darkness left. ‘No sentries, I gather?’ he whispered.

‘No,’ Talen replied quietly. The Cyrgai evidently feel that they need their sleep.’

‘Sparhawk?’ Kalten’s whisper came from below.

‘Up here.’

‘Take the baggage.’ A coil of rope came unwinding up out of the darkness.

‘Get clear of it,’ he called down softly to Kalten. ‘Give me a hand with this, Talen.’ He leaned over the stone railing. ‘We’re going to pull it up.’

Kalten grunted, and they could hear him moving across the wall to one side. Then Sparhawk and Talen slowly pulled the awkward, bulky bundle up to the top of the tower, being careful not to let it bang against the stones of the wall. Sparhawk quickly retrieved his sword and then fumbled through the mail-shirts, searching for his own.

Kalten was puffing as he climbed up over the railing. ‘Why did you let me get so badly out of shape, Sparhawk?’ he asked accusingly.

Sparhawk shrugged. ‘Careless, I guess. Ah, here it is.’ He lifted his own mail-shirt free of the others.

‘How can you tell?’ Talen asked curiously. ‘In the dark, I mean?’

‘I’ve worn it for over twenty years. Believe me, I recognize it. See how the others are coming.’

Talen went to the rail and helped Xanetia onto the parapet while Bevier and Mirtai clambered over on their own. It took only a couple of minutes for the knights to re-arm themselves. ‘Where did Talen go?’ Kalten whispered, looking around.

‘He’s snooping,’ Mirtai replied, settling her sword-belt into place.

‘I think it’s called scouting,’ Bevier corrected her.

She shrugged. ‘Whatever.’

Then Talen came back. ‘I think I found what we’re looking for,’ he said softly. ‘There’s a small window with a sort of iron grate over it. It’s up high, so I didn’t look in.’

‘Is Aphrael coming back?’ Bevier asked. ‘Should we wait for her?’

Sparhawk shook his head. ‘It’s going to start getting light before long. Aphrael knows what we’re doing. She’s making sure the others are all in place.’

Talen led them around to the east side of the tower. ‘Up there,’ he whispered, pointing at a small, barred window about ten feet up the side of the rough wall.

‘Do any of the windows on the front side have bars?’ Sparhawk asked him.

‘No, and they’re bigger and closer to the floor.’

‘That’s it then.’ Sparhawk fought back an urge to shout with exultation. ‘Aphrael described that window to me.’

Kalten squinted up at the iron-grated window high in the wall. ‘Let’s make sure of this before we start to celebrate.’ He laid his hands on the wall and set his feet wide apart. ‘Climb up and take a look, Sparhawk.’

‘Right.’ Sparhawk put his hands on his friend’s arms and climbed up his broad back. He set his feet carefully on Kalten’s shoulders and slowly straightened, reaching up to grasp the grating that covered the window. He pulled his face up and peered into the darkness. ‘Ehlana?’ he called softly.

‘Sparhawk?’ Her voice was startled.

‘Please keep your voice down. Are you all right?’

‘I am now. How did you get here?’

‘It’s a long story. Is Alcan there too?’

‘Right here, Prince Sparhawk,’ the girl’s silvery voice replied. ‘Is Kalten with you?’

‘I’m standing on his shoulders right now. Can you make a light of any kind?’

‘Absolutely not!’ Ehlana’s voice was stricken.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘They’ve cut off all my hair, Sparhawk!’ she moaned. ‘I don’t want you to look at me!’

32

Talen dropped back to the parapet from the small window. ‘I can get through it,’ he whispered confidently.

‘What about that iron grate?’ Kalten demanded.

‘It’s ornamental. It wasn’t very good to begin with, and it’s been there for at least a couple of centuries. It won’t take long to work it loose.’

‘Let’s hold off until Xanetia gets back,’ Sparhawk decided. ‘I want to know what we’re up against before we start crashing around.’

‘I’m not trying to be offensive,’ Mirtai said softly to Talen, ‘but I don’t see what good it’s going to do us to have you inside the cell when the fighting starts and half a dozen Cyrgai rush into the cell to kill Ehlana and Alcan.’

‘It’s on accounta the fact that they ain’t a-gonna git in the cell, Dorlin’,’ he said with an outrageous grin. ‘The door’s locked.’

‘They’ve got a key.’

‘Give me about a half a minute with the lock, and their key won’t fit. They won’t get in, trust me.’

‘Are there alternatives?’ Bevier asked.

‘Not in the amount of time we’ve got left before it starts getting light,’ Sparhawk replied with a worried glance at the eastern horizon. ‘Kalten, go up and have a look at that grating.’

‘Right.’ The blond Pandion climbed up to the small window, took hold of the ancient iron lattice in both hands and started to heave on it. Crumbs and fragments of mortar began to shower down on the rest of them.

‘Quietly.’ Mirtai hissed at him.

‘It’s already loose,’ he reported in a hoarse whisper. ‘The mortar’s rotten.’ He stopped wrenching at the bars and leaned closer to the window. ‘Ehlana wants to talk to you, Sparhawk,’ he called down softly.

Sparhawk climbed back up to the window. ‘Yes, love?’ he whispered into the darkness.

‘What are you planning, Sparhawk?’ she murmured, her voice so near that it seemed he could almost touch her.

‘We’re going to pull the bars loose, and then Talen’s going to crawl through the window. He’ll jam the lock so the people outside can’t get into the cell. Then the rest of us will rush the guards. Is Zalasta out there anywhere?”

‘No. He and Ekatas went to the temple. He knows that you’re here, Sparhawk. He sensed you somehow. Santheocles has men searching the city for you right now.’

‘I think we’re ahead of them. I don’t believe they realize that we’re already up here.’

‘How did you get up here, Sparhawk? All the stairways are guarded.’

‘We climbed up the outside of the tower. When do those guards out there start stirring around?’

‘When it begins to get light, usually. They cook what passes for food around here in the guardroom. Then a couple of them bring breakfast to Alcan and me.’

‘Your breakfast might be a little late this morning, love,’ he whispered with a slight grin. ‘I think the cooks might have other things on their minds before long.’

‘Be careful, Sparhawk.’

‘Of course, my Queen.’

‘Sparhawk,’ Mirtai called up softly. ‘Xanetia’s back.’

‘I have to run now, dear,’ he whispered into the darkness. We’ll have you out of there shortly. I love you.’

‘What a lovely thing to say.’

Sparhawk quickly climbed back down to the parapet. ‘Welcome back, Anarae,’ he greeted Xanetia.

‘Thou art in a peculiar humor, Anakha,’ she replied in a slightly puzzled tone.

‘I just had a chat with my wife, Anarae,’ he said. ‘That always brightens my day. How many guards will we have to deal with?’

‘I do fear me that they number some score or more, Anakha.’

‘That could be a problem, Sparhawk,’ Bevier noted. ‘They’re Cyrgai and none too bright, but twenty of them might give us some trouble.’

‘Maybe not,’ Sparhawk disagreed. ‘Aphrael said that there are only three rooms up here—the main room, the cell where Ehlana and Alcan are, and the guardroom. Was she right, Anarae?’

‘Indeed,’ she replied. ‘The cell and the guardroom are here on this north side. The main room is on the south, overlooking the Temple of Cyrgon. I did glean from the sleepy thought of such Cyrgai who were awake that this ultimate tower is the customary retreat of King Santheocles, for he doth take some pleasure in surveying his domain from the parapet—and above all in receiving the adulation of his subjects in the city below.’

‘Stupid,’ Mirtai muttered. ‘Doesn’t he have anything better to do?’

Xanetia smiled faintly. ‘Much else would be quite beyond him, Atana. His guardsmen, limited though they themselves are, do hold their King’s understanding in low regard. But his wits, or lack thereof, are of little moment. Santheocles is the descendant of the royal house, and his sole function is to wear the crown.’

‘A hat-rack could do that,’ Talen noted.

‘Truly.’

‘Do the guardsmen have any kind of set routine?’ Bevier asked.

‘Nay, Sir Knight. They do but hold themselves in readiness to respond to the commands of their King, nothing more. In truth, they are trumpeteers rather than warriors. Their primary duty is to announce with brazen notes to their fellow citizens that Santheocles will appear on the parapet to accept the adulation of the Cyrgai.’

‘And they do their waiting in the guardroom?’ Sparhawk pressed.

‘Save only for the pair who stand guard at the door to thy Queen’s prison and the other pair who bar the stairway which doth lead down into the lower levels of this tower.’

‘Can they get into the Queen’s cell from the guardroom? Bevier asked intently.

‘Nay. There is but one door.’

‘And how wide is the doorway between the guardroom and the main room?’

‘Wide enough for one man only, Sir Bevier.’

‘Kalten and I can hold that one, Sparhawk.’

‘Are there any other doors to the guardroom?’ Kalten asked.

Xanetia shook her head.

‘Any large windows?’

‘One window only—the mate to this one above us—though it is not barred.’

‘That narrows the opposition down to just those four guards in the main room then,’ Kalten said. ‘Bevier and I can keep the rest of them penned in for a week, if we have to.’

‘And Sparhawk and I can deal with the ones at the cell door and the top of the stairs,’ Mirtai added.

‘Let’s get Talen inside that cell,’ Sparhawk said, looking again toward the east, where a faint lessening of the darkness had begun.

Kalten scrambled back up the wall to the window and began digging at the mortar with his heavy dagger.

‘Slip around and keep watch, Anarae,’ Sparhawk whispered. ‘Let us know if anybody comes up those stairs.’

She nodded and went on back round the corner of the tower.

Sparhawk climbed up and attacked the mortar on the left side of the iron lattice while his friend continued to dig at the right.

After a few moments Kalten took hold of the rusty iron and pulled. ‘The bottom’s loose,’ he muttered. ‘Let’s get the top.’

‘Right.’ The two of them went to the top of the window and began to chip away the mortar there. ‘Be careful when it breaks away,’ Sparhawk cautioned. ‘We don’t want it clanging down on that parapet.’

‘This side’s free,’ Kalten whispered. ‘I’ll hold it while you dig your side loose.’ He reached inside, found a secure hand-hold with his right hand, and grasped the grating with his left.

Sparhawk dug harder, sending a shower of chunks and dust to the parapet below. ‘I think that’s got it,’ he whispered.

‘We’ll see.’ Kalten’s shoulders heaved and there was a grinding sound as the ancient grate tore loose from the wall. Then, with the same movement, Sparhawk’s burly friend hurled the heavy obstruction out beyond the balustrade.

‘What are you doing?’ Sparhawk choked.

‘Getting rid of it.’

‘Do you know how much noise that thing’s going to make when it hits the ground?’

‘So what? It’s five hundred feet down. Let it make all the noise it wants to. If some Cyrgai or Cynesgan slave-driver’s standing under it, he’s in for a nasty surprise, though. But we can live with that, can’t we?’

Sparhawk pushed his head through the now unobstructed opening. ‘Ehlana?’ he whispered. ‘Are you there?’

‘Where else would I be, Sparhawk?’

‘Sorry. Stupid question, I suppose. The bars are out of the way now. We’re sending Talen in. Shout or something as soon as he gets the lock jammed so that the guards can’t get through the door.’

‘Get out of the way, Sparhawk,’ Talen said abruptly from just below. ‘I can’t get in there with you filling up the whole window.’

Sparhawk swung himself clear of the opening, and the agile boy began to wriggle his way through. Suddenly he stopped.

‘It’s not working,’ he muttered. ‘Pull me back out.’

‘What’s wrong?’ Kalten demanded.

‘Just pull me back out, Kalten. I don’t have time to explain.’

Sparhawk’s heart sank as he and Kalten hauled the young thief back.

‘Hold on for a minute.’ Talen turned until he was on his side, and then he extended his arms until they were stretched out above his head. ‘All right then, push.’

‘You’ll just get stuck again,’ Kalten objected.

‘Then you’ll have to shove harder. This is what comes of all that wholesome food, exercise, and clean living you keep pushing on me, Sparhawk. I’ve grown so much that I can’t get my shoulders through.’ He began to wriggle through the opening again. ‘Push, gentlemen!’ he instructed.

The two of them pushed their hands against the soles of his feet.

‘Harder!’ he grunted.

‘You’ll tear all your skin off,’ Kalten warned.

‘I’m young. I heal fast. Push!’

The two shoved at his feet, and, with a great deal of squirming and a few muttered oaths, he was through.

‘Is he all right?’ Sparhawk whispered hoarsely through the window.

‘I’m fine, Sparhawk,’ Talen whispered back. ‘You’d better get moving. This won’t take me very long.’

Sparhawk and Kalten dropped back to the parapet. ‘Let’s go,’ Sparhawk said shortly, and the three knights and the Atan giantess moved quickly around the narrow parapet to the south side of the tower.

‘Quietly, Anakha.’ Xanetia’s voice seemed to come out of nowhere.

‘Are they stirring yet, Anarae?’ Bevier whispered.

‘Some few sounds do emanate from the guardroom,’ her voice replied.

There were two large, unglazed windows at the front of the tower, one on each side of the broad door. Sparhawk cautiously raised his head above the lower edge of one of them and peered inside. The room, as Aphrael had reported, was fairly large. It was sparsely furnished with benches, a few backless chairs, a couple of low tables, and it was lit with primitive oil lamps. There was a narrow door on the right side of the rear wall with two statue-like Cyrgai, one on each side, guarding it. The stairway on the left-hand side of the room, also guarded, was enclosed on three sides by a low wall. The second doorway, the one leading into the guardroom, was also on the left side, not far from the top of the stairs.

Sparhawk looked intently at the guards, closely studying their weapons and equipment. They were well-muscled men in archaic breastplates, crested helmets and short leather kilts. Each had a large round shield strapped to his left arm, and each grasped an eight-foot spear in his right. They all had swords and heavy daggers belted at their waists.

Sparhawk moved his head away from the window. ‘You’d all better take a look,’ he whispered to his friends.

One by one, Kalten, Bevier, and Mirtai raised up slightly to peer into the room.

‘Is this locked, Anarae?’ Sparhawk whispered, pointing at the door leading out onto the parapet.

‘I did not think it wise to try it, Anakha. Cyrgai construction is crude, and methinks no door-latch in the city may be attempted soundlessly.’

‘You’re probably right,’ he breathed. ‘Let’s pull back around the corner,’ he told the others, leading them round to the east side.

‘It’s getting lighter, Kalten noted, pointing toward the horizon.

Sparhawk grunted. ‘We’ll go in through the windows,’ he told them. ‘We’d just jam up if we tried to go through the doorway anyhow. Bevier, you and Mirtai go through the one on the far side of the door. Kalten and I’ll go through the one on this side. Be careful. Those spears seem to be their primary weapon, so they’ve probably had lots of training with them. Get in close and fast. Take them down in a hurry and then block that door to the guardroom. We’re going to have to hold those stairs, too.’

‘I’ll do that, Sparhawk,’ Mirtai assured him. ‘You concentrate on getting our friends out of that cell.’

‘Right,’ he agreed. ‘As soon as they’re free, I’ll unleash the Bhelliom. That should change the odds up here significantly.’

And then a clear voice raised in aching song that soared out above the sleeping city.

‘That’s the signal!’ Kalten told them. ‘That’s Alcan! Talen’s finished up. Let’s go!’

‘You heard him!’ Sparhawk said, stepping back so that Bevier and Mirtai could get past. ‘I’ll give the word, and we’ll all go in at the same time!’

Bevier and Mirtai crouched low as they ran past the window on the near side to take positions under the window beyond the door.

‘Stay clear of this, Anarae.” Sparhawk murmured to the invisible Xanetia. ‘It’s not your kind of fight.’ He frowned. There was no sense of her presence nearby. ‘All right, Kalten,’ he said then, ‘let’s get to work.’

The two of them silently crept forward, swords in hand, to crouch beneath the broad window. Sparhawk raised slightly to look along the parapet. Bevier and Mirtai waited tensely under the far window. He drew in a deep breath and set himself ‘Now!’ he shouted, setting his hand on the window-ledge and vaulting through into the room.

There had been four Cyrgai inside before. Now there were ten. ‘They’re changing the guard, Sparhawk!’ Bevier shouted, swinging his deadly lochaber in both hands.’

They still had the element of surprise, but the situation had drastically changed. Sparhawk swore and cut down a Cyrgai carrying a pail of some kind—the captives’ breakfast, most likely.

Then he rushed the four confused guards milling in front of the cell door. One of them was fighting with the lock while the other three tried to get into position. They were disciplined, there was no question about that, and their long spears did raise problems.

Sparhawk swore a savage oath and swung his heavy broadsword, chopping at the spears. Kalten had moved to one side, and he was also swinging massive blows at the spears. There were sounds of fighting coming from the other side of the room, but Sparhawk was too intent on breaking through to the guard who was trying to force the cell door, to turn and look.

Two of the spears were broken now, and the Cyrgai had discarded them and drawn their swords. The third, his spear still intact, had stepped back to protect the one feverishly struggling with the lock. Sparhawk risked a quick glance at the other side of the room, just in time to see Mirtai lift a struggling guard over her head and hurl him bodily down the stairs with a great clattering sound. Two other Cyrgai lay dead or dying nearby. Bevier, even as he had in Otha’s throne-room in Zemoch, held the door to the guardroom while Mirtai, like some great, golden cat, savaged the remaining guards at the top of the stairs. Sparhawk quickly turned his attention back to the men he faced.

The Cyrgai were indifferent swordsmen, and their oversized shields seriously hindered their movements. Sparhawk made a quick feint at the head of one, and the man instinctively raised his shield. Instantly recovering, Sparhawk drove his sword into the gleaming breastplate. The Cyrgai cried out and fell back with blood gushing from the sheared gash in his armor.

It was not enough. The Cyrgai at the cell door had abandoned his efforts to unlock it and had begun slamming his shoulder against it. Sparhawk could clearly hear the splintering of wood. Desperately, he renewed his attack. Once the Cyrgai broke through that door— And then, without even being forced, the door swung inward. With a triumphant shout, the Cyrgai who had been battering at the door drew his sword.

And then he screamed as a new light flooded the room. Xanetia, blazing like the sun, stood in the doorway with one deadly hand extended. The Cyrgai screamed again, falling back, tangling himself in the struggles of his two comrades. Then he broke free, ran to the window and plunged through. He was still running when he went over the balustrade with a long despairing scream. The other two Cyrgai at the cell door also fled, scurrying around the room like frightened mice.

‘Mirtai!’ Sparhawk roared. ‘Stand clear. Let them go!’

The Atana had just raised another struggling warrior over her head. She threw him down the stairs and turned sharply. Then she dodged clear to allow the demoralized Cyrgai to escape.

‘Stand aside, Sir Knight!’ Xanetia commanded Bevier. ‘I will bar that door, and I do vouchsafe that none shall pass!’

Bevier took one look at her glowing face and stepped away from the guardroom door. The Cyrgai inside the room also looked at her, and then they slammed the door shut.

‘It’s all right now, Ehlana,’ Sparhawk called.

Talen came out first, and his face was pale and shaken. The boy’s tunic was ripped in several places, and a long, bleeding scrape on one arm spoke of his struggle to get through the narrow window. He was staring in awe at Xanetia. ‘She came through the window in a puff of smoke, Sparhawk!’ he choked.

‘Mist, young Talen,’ Xanetia corrected in a clinical tone. She was still all aglow and facing the guardroom door. ‘Smoke would be impractical for human flesh.’

There was a great deal of noise coming from the guardroom.

‘They seem to be moving furniture in there, Sparhawk,’ Bevier laughed. ‘Piling it against the door, I think.’

Then Alcan came running out of the cell to hurl herself into Kalten’s arms, and, immediately behind her, Ehlana emerged from her prison. She was even more pale than usual, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Her clothing was tattered, and her head was tightly bound in a bandage-like wimple. ‘Oh, Sparhawk!’ she cried out in a low voice, holding her arms out to him. He went to her and enfolded her in a rough embrace.

From far below there came a savage bellow.

‘Anakha!’ Bhelliom’s voice roared in Sparhawk’s mind. ‘Cyrgon hath awakened to his peril! Release me.’

Sparhawk jerked the pouch out from under his tunic and fumbled with the drawstring.

‘What’s that shouting?’ Talen demanded.

‘Cyrgon knows that we’ve released Ehlana!’ Sparhawk replied tensely, drawing Kurik’s box out of the pouch. ‘Open!’ he commanded.

The lid raised, and the blue radiance of the Bhelliom blazed forth. Sparhawk carefully lifted out the jewel.

‘They’re coming up the stairs, Sparhawk.’ Mirtai warned.

‘Get clear!’ he said sharply. ‘Blue Rose!’ he said then. ‘Canst thou bar the way to our enemies, who even now rush up yon stairway?’

The Bhelliom did not answer, but the waist-high wall surrounding the head of the stairs collapsed inward, crashing down into the stairwell with a great clattering and a billowing cloud of dust.

‘Advise Aphrael that her mother is safe.’ Bhelliom’s voice was crisp. ‘Let the attack begin.’

Sparhawk cast the spell. ‘Aphrael!’ he said sharply. ‘We’ve got Ehlana. Tell the others to move in!’

‘Can Bhelliom break Cyrgon’s illusion?’ she asked in a tone every bit as crisp as the Sapphire Rose’s had been.

‘Blue Rose,’ Sparhawk said silently, ‘the illusion of Cyrgon doth still impede the advance of our friends upon the city. Canst thou dispel it that they may bring their forces to bear upon this accursed place?’

‘It shall be as thou wouldst have it, my son.’

There was a momentary pause, and then the earth seemed to shudder slightly, and a vast shimmer ran in waves across the sky. From the leprous white temple far below there came a shrill screech of pain.

‘My goodness,’ Flute said mildly as she suddenly appeared in the center of the room. ‘I’ve never had a ten-thousand-year-old spell broken. I’ll bet it hurts like anything. Poor Cyrgon’s having an absolutely dreadful night.’

‘The night is not yet over, Child Goddess,’ Bhelliom spoke through Kalten’s lips. ‘Save thine unseemly gloating until all danger is past.’

‘Well, really!’

‘Hush, Aphrael. We must look to our defenses, Anakha. What Cyrgon knoweth, Klael doth also know. The contest is at hand. We must make ready.’

‘Truly,’ Sparhawk agreed. He looked around at his friends. ‘Let’s go,’ he told them. ‘We’ll spread out along the parapet, and keep your eyes open. Klael’s coming, and I don’t want him creeping up behind me. Is that stairway completely blocked?’

‘A mouse couldn’t get through all that rubble,’ Mirtai told him.

‘We can forget about the guards,’ Bevier announced, removing his ear from the guardroom door. ‘They’re still rearranging the furniture.’

‘Good.’ Sparhawk went to the door leading out to the parapet. It opened with a shrill protest of rusty hinges. ‘Don’t start getting brave,’ he cautioned his friends. ‘The fight’s between Bhelliom and Klael. Spread out and keep watch.’

The eastern sky was pale with the approach of day as they came out onto the parapet, and Cyrgon’s agonized shrieking still echoed through the Hidden City.

‘There,’ Talen said, pointing toward the basalt escarpment beyond the lake to the south.

A mass of figures, tiny in the distance and still dark in the dawn-light, were streaming out of ‘the Glen of Heroes’, moving into the basin before the gates of Cyrga.

‘Who are they?’ Ehlana cried, suddenly gripping Sparhawk’s arm.

‘Vanion,’ Sparhawk told her, ‘along with just about everybody else—Betuana, Kring, Ulath and the Trolls, Sephrenia—’

‘Sephrenia?’ Ehlana exclaimed. ‘She’s dead!’

‘You didn’t really think I’d let Zalasta kill my sister, did you, Ehlana?’ Flute said.

‘But—he said that he’d stabbed her in the heart!’

The Child Goddess shrugged. ‘He did, but Bhelliom cured it. Vanion’s going to take steps.’

Talen came running round the parapet from the back of the tower. ‘Bergsten’s coming in from the other side,’ he reported. ‘His knights just trampled about three regiments of Cyrgai under foot without even slowing down.’

‘Are we going to be caught in the middle of a siege here?’ Kalten asked with a worried expression.

‘Not too likely,’ Bevier replied. ‘The defenses of this place are pitifully inadequate, and Patriarch Bergsten tends to be a very abrupt sort of man.’

There was a sudden eruption far below, and the roof of the pale temple exploded, hurling chunks of limestone in all directions as the infinite darkness of Klael shouldered his way up out of the House of Cyrgon. His vast, leathery wings spread wider and his blazing, slitted eyes looked about wildly.

‘Prithee, Anakha, hold me aloft that my brother may behold me.’ The voice coming from Kalten’s lips was detached.

Sparhawk’s hand was shaking as he raised the Sapphire Rose over his head. Kalten, moving somewhat woodenly, gently put Alcan’s clinging arms aside and stepped to the stone rail at the front of the parapet. He spoke in a tongue no human mouth could have produced, and his words could quite probably have been heard in Chyrellos, half a world away.

Enormous Klael, waist-deep in the ruins of Cyrgon’s Temple, raised his triangular face and roared his reply, his fanged mouth dripping flame.

‘Attend closely, Anakha.’ Bhelliom’s voice in Sparhawk’s mind was very quiet. ‘I will continue to taunt mine errant brother, and all enraged will he come to do battle with me. Be thou steadfast in the face of that approaching horror, for our success or failure do hang entire upon thy courage and the strength of thine arm.’

‘I do not take thy meaning, Blue Rose. Am I to smite Klael?’

‘Nay, Anakha. Thy task is to free me.’

The beast of darkness below savagely kicked aside the limestone rubble and advanced on the palace with hungry arms outstretched. When he reached the massive gates, he brushed them from his path with a whip of lightning clutched in one enormous fist.

Kalten continued his deafening taunts, and Klael continued to howl his fury as he crushed his way through the lower wings of the palace, destroying everything that lay in the path of his relentless drive toward the tower. And then he reached it, and, seizing its rough stones in his two huge hands, he began to climb, his wings clawing at the morning air as he mounted up and up.

‘How am I to free thee, Blue Rose?’ Sparhawk asked urgently.

‘My brother and I must be briefly recombined, my son,’ Bhelliom replied, ‘to become one again, as we once were, else must I forever be imprisoned within this azure crystal—even as Klael must remain in his present monstrous form. In our temporary combination will we both be freed.’

‘Combine? How?’

‘When he doth reach this not inconsiderable height and doth exult with resounding bellow of victory, must thou hurl me straightway into his gaping maw.’

‘Do what?’

‘He would with all his soul devour me. Make it so. In the moment of our recombination shall Klael and I both be freed of our present forms, and then shall our contest begin. Fail not, my son, for this is thy purpose and the destiny for which I made thee.’

Sparhawk drew in a deep breath. ‘I will not fail thee, Father,’ he pledged with all his heart.

Still raging and with his leathery wings clawing at the air, Klael mounted higher and higher up the front of the palace tower. Sparhawk felt a sense of odd, undismayed detachment come over him. He looked full into the face of the King of Hell and felt no fear. His task was simplicity in itself. He had only to hurl the Sapphire Rose into that gaping maw, and, should a suitable opportunity for that not present itself, to hurl himself—with Bhelliom in his outstretched fist instead. He felt no regret nor even sadness as the unalterable resolve settled over him. Better this than to die in a meaningless, unremembered skirmish on some disputed frontier as so many of his friends had. This had significance, and for a soldier, that was the best one could hope for.

And still Klael came, climbing higher and higher, reaching hungrily for his hated brother. No more than a few yards below now, his slitted eyes blazed in cruel triumph and his jagged fangs dripped fire as he roared his challenge. And then Sparhawk leapt atop the ancient battlement to stand poised with Bhelliom aloft in his fist.

‘For God and my Queen!’ He bellowed his defiance.

Klael reached up with one awesome hand. Then, like the sudden uncoiling of some tightly-wound spring, Sparhawk struck. His arm snapped down like a whip.

‘Go!’ he shouted, as he released the blazing jewel.

As true as an arrow the Sapphire Rose flew from his hand even as Klael’s mouth gaped wider. Straight it went to vanish in the flaming maw.

The tower trembled as a shudder ran through the glossy blackness of the enormity clinging to its side, and Sparhawk struggled to keep his balance on his precarious perch. Klael’s wings stiffened to their fullest extent, quivering with awful tension. The great beast swelled, growing even more enormous.

Then he contracted, shriveling.

And then he exploded.

The detonation shook the very earth, and Sparhawk was hurled back from the battlement to fall heavily on the parapet. He rolled quickly, came to his feet, and rushed back to the battlements.

Two beings of light, one a glowing blue, the other sooty red, grappled with each other on insubstantial air not ten feet away. Their struggle was elemental, a savage contesting of will and strength. They were featureless beings, and their shapes were only vaguely human. Heaving back and forth, they clung to each other like wrestlers in some rude village square, each bending all his will and force to subdue his perfectly-matched opponent. Sparhawk and his friends lined the battlements, frozen, awed, able only to watch that primeval struggle.

And then the two broke free of each other and stood, backs bowed and arms half-extended, each facing his immortal brother In some inconceivable communion.

‘It falls to thee, Anakha,’ Bhelliom’s voice in Sparhawk’s mind was calm. ‘Should Klael and I continue, this world shall surely be destroyed, as hath oft-time come to pass before. Thou art of this world and must therefore be my champion. Constraints are upon thee which do not limit me. Klael’s champion is also of this world and is similarly constrained.’

‘It shall be even as thou has said, my father,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘I will serve as thy champion if it must needs be. With whom must I contend?’

A great roar of rage came from far below, and a living flame surged up out of the shattered ruins of the chalk-white temple.

‘There is thine opponent, my son,’ the azure spirit replied. ‘Klael hath called him forth to do battle with thee.’

‘Cyrgon?’

‘E’en so.’

‘But he is a God!’

‘And art thou not?’

Sparhawk’s mind reeled.

‘Look within thyself, Anakha. Thou art my son, and I made thee to be the receptacle of my will. I now release that will to thee that thou mayest be the champion of this world. Feel its power infuse thee.’

It was like the opening of a door that had always been closed. Sparhawk felt his mind and will expanding infinitely as the barrier went down, and with that expanding there came an unutterable calm.

‘Now art thou truly Anakha, my son!’ Bhelliom exulted. ‘Thy will is now my will. All things are now possible for thee. It was thy will which vanquished Azash. I was but thine instrument. In this occasion, however, shalt thou be mine. Bend thine invincible will to the task. Seize it in thine hands and mold it. Forge weapons with thy mind and confront Cyrgon. If thine heart be true, he cannot prevail against thee. Now go. Cyrgon awaits thee.’

Sparhawk drew in a deep breath and looked down at the rubble-littered square far below. The flame which had emerged from the ruins had coalesced into a blazing man-shape standing before the wreck of the temple.

‘Come, Anakha!’ it roared. ‘Our meeting hath been foretold since before time began.This is thy destiny! Thou art honored above all others to fall by my hand.’

Sparhawk deliberately pushed aside the windy pomposity of archaic expression. ‘Don’t start celebrating until after you’ve won, Cyrgon!’ he shouted his reply. ‘Don’t go away! I’ll be right down!’ Then he set one hand atop the battlement and lightly vaulted over it. He stopped, hanging in mid-air. ‘Let go, Aphrael,’ he said.

‘What are you doing?’ she exclaimed.

‘Just do as you’re told. Let me go.’

‘You’ll fall.’

‘No, actually I won’t. I can handle this. Don’t interfere. Cyrgon’s waiting for me, so please let go.’

It was not actually flying, although Sparhawk was certain that he could fly if he needed to. He felt a peculiar lightness as he drifted down toward the ruins of the House of Cyrgon. It was not that he had no weight, it was more that his weight had no meaning. His will was somehow stronger than gravity. Sword in hand, he settled down and down like a drifting feather. Cyrgon waited below. The burning figure of the ancient God drew his fire about him, congealing the incandescent flame into the antique armor customarily worn by those who worshipped him—a burnished steel cuirass, a crested helmet, a large round shield and a sword in his fist.

A peculiar insight came to Sparhawk as he slid down through the dawn-cool air. Cyrgon was not so much stupid as he was conservative. It was change that he hated, change that he feared. He had frozen his Cyrgai eternally in time and had erased any potential for change or innovation from their minds. The Cyrgai, unmoved by the winds of time, would remain forever as they had been when their God had first conceived of them. He had wrought an ideal and fenced it all about with law and custom and an innate hatred of change, and frozen thus, they were doomed —and had been since the first of them had placed one sandaled foot on the face of the ever-changing world.

Sparhawk smiled faintly. Cyrgon, it appeared, needed instruction in the benefits of change, and his first lesson would be in the advantages of modern equipment, weaponry, and tactics. Sparhawk thought, ‘Armor’, and he was immediately encased in black-enameled steel. He almost casually discarded his plain working sword and filled his hand with his heavier and longer ceremonial blade. Now he was a fully-armed Pandion Knight, a soldier of God—of several Gods, he rather ruefully amended that thought—and he was, almost by default, the champion not only of his Queen, his Church and his God—but also, if he read Bhelliom’s thought correctly, of his fair and sometimes vain sister, the world. He drifted down and settled to earth amidst the wreck of the destroyed temple.

‘Well-met, Cyrgon,’ he said with profoundest formality.

‘Well-met, Anakha,’ the God replied. ‘I had misjudged thee. Thou art suitable now. I had despaired of thee, fearing that thou wouldst never have realized thy true significance. Thine apprenticeship hath been long and methinks, hindered by thine inappropriate affiliation with Aphrael.’

‘We’re wasting time, Cyrgon,’ Sparhawk cut through the flowery courtesies. ‘Let’s get at this. I’m already late for breakfast.’

‘So be it, Anakha!’ Cyrgon’s classic features were set in an expression of approval. ‘Defend thyself.’ and he swung a huge sword stroke at Sparhawk’s head. But Sparhawk had already begun his stroke, and so their swords clashed harmlessly in the air between them. It was good to be fighting again. There was no politics here, no confusion of dissembling words or false promises, just the clean, sharp ring of steel on steel and the smooth flow of muscle and sinew over bone.

Cyrgon was quick, as quick as Martel had been in his youth, intricate moves of wrist and arm and shoulder that marked the master swordsman seemed to come unbidden, almost in spite of himself, to the ancient God.

‘Invigorating, isn’t it?’ Sparhawk panted through a wolf-like grin, lashing a stinging cut at the God’s shoulder. ‘Open your mind, Cyrgon. Nothing is set in stone—not even something as simple as this.’

And he lashed out with his sword again, flicking another cut onto Cyrgon’s sword-arm. The immortal rushed at him, forcing the oversized round shield against him, trying with will and main strength to overcome his better-trained opponent. Sparhawk looked into that flawless face and saw regret and desperation there. He bunched his shoulder, as Kurik had taught him, and locked his shield-arm, forming an impenetrable barrier against the ineffectual flailing of his opponent. He parried only with his lightly held sword.

‘Yield, Cyrgon,’ he said, ‘and live. Yield, and Klael will be banished. We are of this world, Cyrgon. Let Klael and Bhelliom contend for other worlds. Take thy life and thy people and go. I would not slay even thee.’

‘I spurn thine insulting offer, Anakha!’ Cyrgon half-shrieked.

‘I guess that satisfies the demands of knightly honor,’ Sparhawk muttered to himself with a certain amount of relief. ‘God knows what I’d have done if he’d accepted.’ He raised his sword again. ‘So be it then, brother,’ he said. ‘We weren’t meant to live in the same world together anyway.’ His body and will seemed to swell inside his armor. ‘Watch, brother,’ he grated through clenched teeth. ‘Watch and learn.’

And then he unleashed five hundred years of training, coupled with his towering anger, at this poor, impotent godling, who had ripped asunder the peace of the world, a peace toward which Sparhawk had yearned since his return from exile in Render. He ripped Cyrgon’s thigh with the classic ‘Pas-four’. He slashed that perfect face with Martel’s innovative ‘parry-pas-nine’. He cut away the upper half of Cyrgon’s oversized round shield with Vanion’s ‘Third feint-and-slash’.

Of all the Church Knights, the Pandions were the most skilled swordsmen, and of all the Pandions, Sparhawk stood supreme. Bhelliom had called him the equal of a God, but Sparhawk fought as a man superbly trained, a little out of condition and really too old for this kind of thing—but with an absolute confidence that if the fate of the world rested in his hands, he was good for at least one more fight. His sword blurred in the light of the new-risen sun, flickering, weaving, darting. Baffled, the ancient Cyrgon tried to respond. The opportunity presented itself, and Sparhawk felt the perfect symmetry of it. Cyrgon, untaught, had provided the black- armored Pandion precisely the same opening Martel had given him in the temple of Azash. Martel had fully understood the significance of the series of strokes. Cyrgon, however, did not. And so it was that the thrust which pierced him through came as an absolute surprise. The God stiffened and his sword fell from his nerveless fingers as he lurched back from that fatal thrust. Sparhawk recovered from the thrust and swept his bloody sword up in front of his face in salute.

‘An innovation, Cyrgon,’ he said in a detached sort of voice. ‘You’re really very good, you know, but you ought to try to stay abreast of things.’

Cyrgon sagged to the flagstoned court, his immortal life spilling out through the gash in his breastplate. ‘And wilt thou take the world now, Anakha?’ he gasped. Sparhawk dropped to his haunches beside the stricken God.

‘No, Cyrgon,’ he replied wearily. ‘I don’t want the world, just a quiet little corner of it.’

‘Then why camest thou against me?’

‘I didn’t want you to have it either, because if you had, my little part wouldn’t have been safe.’ He reached out and took the pallid hand. ‘You fought well, Cyrgon. I have respect for you. Hail and farewell.’

Cyrgon’s voice was only a whisper as he replied, ‘Hail and farewell, Anakha.’ There was a great despairing howl of frustration and rage. Sparhawk looked up and saw a man-shape of sooty red streaking upward into the dawn sky as Klael resumed his endless journey toward and beyond the farthest star.

33

There was fighting somewhere—the ring of steel on steel and shouts and cries—but Ehlana scarcely heard the sounds as she stared down at the square lying between the ruins of the temple and the only slightly less ruined palace. The sun was above the eastern horizon now, and it filled the ancient streets of Cyrga with harsh, unforgiving light. The Queen of Elenia was exhausted, but the ordeal of her captivity was over, and she yearned only to lose herself in her husband’s embrace. She did not understand much of what she had just witnessed, but that was not really important. She stood at the battlements holding the Child Goddess in her arms, gazing down at her invincible champion far below.

‘Do you think it might be safe for us to go down?’ she asked the small divinity in her arms.

‘The stairway’s blocked, Ehlana,’ Mirtai reminded her.

‘I can take care of that,’ Flute said.

‘Maybe we’d better stay up here,’ Bevier said with a worried frown. ‘Cyrgon and Klael are gone, but Zalasta’s still out there somewhere. He might try to seize the Queen again so that he can use her to bargain his way out of here.’

‘He’d better not,’ the Child Goddess said ominously. ‘Ehlana’s right. Let’s go down.’

They went back inside, reached the head of the stairs and peered down through billowing clouds of dust.

‘What did you do?’ Talen asked Flute. ‘Where did all the rocks go?’

She shrugged. ‘I turned them into sand,’ she replied.

The stairway wound downward along the inside of the tower walls. Kalten and Bevier, swords in hand, led the way, prudently investigating each level as they reached it. The top three or four levels were empty, but as they began the descent to a level about midway down the inside of the tower, Xanetia hissed sharply, ‘Someone approaches!’

‘Where?’ Kalten demanded. ‘How many?’

‘Two, and they do mount the stairs toward us.’

‘I’ll deal with them,’ he muttered, gripping his sword-hilt even more tightly.

‘Don’t do anything foolish,’ Alcan cautioned.

‘It’s the fellows coming up the stairs who are being foolish, love. Stay with the Queen.’ He started on ahead.

‘I’ll go with him,’ Mirtai said. ‘Bevier, it’s your turn to guard Ehlana.’

‘But—’

‘Hush!’ she commanded. ‘Do as you’re told.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he surrendered with a faint smile.

A murmured sound of voices came echoing up the stairs.

‘Santheocles.’ Ehlana identified one of the speakers in a short, urgent whisper.

‘And the other?’ Xanetia asked.

‘Ekatas.’

‘Ah,’ Xanetia said. Her pale brow furrowed in concentration. ‘This is not exact,’ she apologized, ‘but it seemeth me that they are unaware of thy release, Queen of Elenia, and they do rush to thy former prison, hoping that by threatening thy life might they gain safe conduct through the ranks of their enemies.’

There was a landing perhaps twenty steps down the narrow stairway, and Kalten and Mirtai stopped there, stepping somewhat apart to give themselves room. Santheocles, wearing his gleaming breastplate and crested helmet, came bounding up the stairs two at a time with his sword in his hand. He stopped suddenly when he reached the landing, staring at Kalten and Mirtai in stupefied disbelief. He waved his sword at them and issued a peremptory command in his own language.

‘What did he say?’ Talen demanded.

‘He ordered them to get out of his way,’ Aphrael replied.

‘Doesn’t he realize that they’re his enemies?’

‘“Enemy” is a difficult concept for someone like Santheocles, Ehlana told him. ‘He’s never been outside the walls of Cyrga, and I doubt that he’s seen more than ten people who weren’t Cyrgai in his entire life. The Cyrgai obey him automatically, so he hasn’t had much experience with open hostility.’

Ekatas came puffing up the stairs behind Santheocles. His eyes were wide with shock and his wrinkled face ashen. He spoke sharply to his king, and Santheocles placidly stepped aside. Ekatas drew himself up and began speaking sonorously, his hands moving in the air before him.

‘Stop him!’ Bevier cried. ‘He’s casting a spell!’

‘He’s trying to cast a spell,’ Aphrael corrected. ‘I think he’s in for a nasty surprise.’

The High Priest’s voice rose in a long, slow crescendo and he suddenly leveled one arm at Kalten and Mirtai.

Nothing happened.

Ekatas held his empty hand up in front of his face, gaping at it in utter astonishment.

‘Ekatas,’ Aphrael called sweetly to him, ‘I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but now that Cyrgon’s dead, your spells won’t work any more.’

He stared up at her, comprehension and recognition slowly dawning on his face. Then he spun and bolted through the door on the left side of the landing and slammed it behind him.

Mirtai moved quickly after him. She briefly tried the door, then stepped back and kicked it to pieces.

Kalten advanced on the sneering King of the Cyrgai. Santheocles struck a heroic pose, his oversized shield extended, his sword raised, and his head held high.

‘He’s no match for Kalten,’ Bevier said. ‘Why doesn’t he run?’

‘He doth believe himself invincible, Sir Bevier,’ Xanetia replied. ‘He hath slain many of his own soldiers on the practice-field, and thus considers himself the paramount warrior in all the world. In truth, however, his subordinates would not strike back or even defend themselves, because he was their king.’

Kalten, grim-faced and vengeful, fell on the feeble-minded monarch like an avalanche. The face of Santheocles was filled with shock and outrage as, for the first time in his life, someone actually raised a weapon against him. It was a short, ugly fight, and the outcome was quite predictable. Kalten battered down the oversized shield, parried a couple of stiffly formal swings at his head and then buried his sword up to the hilt in the precise center of the burnished breastplate. Santheocles stared at him in sheer astonishment. Then he sighed, toppled backward off the blade, and clattered limply back down the stairs.

‘Yes!’ Ehlana exulted in a savage voice as the most offensive of her persecutors died.

From beyond the splintered door came a long, despairing scream fading horribly away, and Mirtai emerged with an expression of bleak satisfaction.

‘What did you do to him?’ Kalten asked curiously.

‘I defenestrated him,’ she replied with a shrug.

‘Mirtai!’ he gasped. ‘That’s awful!’

She gave him a baffled look. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘That’s a terrible thing to do to a man!’

‘Throw him out of a window? I can think of much worse things to do to somebody.’

‘Is that what that word means?’

‘Of course. Stragen used to talk about it back in Matherion.’

‘Oh.’ Kalten flushed slightly.

‘What did you think it meant?’

‘Ah—never mind, Mirtai. just forget I said anything.’

‘You must have thought it meant something.’

‘Can we just drop it? I misunderstood, that’s all.’ He looked up at the others. ‘Let’s go on down,’ he suggested. ‘I don’t think there’ll be anybody else in our way.’

Ehlana suddenly burst into tears. ‘I can’t!’ she wailed. ‘I can’t face Sparhawk like this!’ She put one hand on the wimple that covered her violated scalp.

'Are you still worrying about that?’ Aphrael asked

'I look so awful!'Aphrael rolled her eyes upward. ‘Let’s go into that room,’ she suggested. ‘I’ll fix it for you—if it’s so important.’

‘Could you?’ Ehlana asked eagerly.

‘Of course.’ The Child Goddess squinted at her. ‘Would you like to have me change the color?’ she asked. ‘Or maybe make it curly?’

The Queen pursed her lips. ‘Why don’t we talk about that a little?’ she said.

The Cynesgans who manned the outer wall of the Hidden City were not particularly good troops in the first place, and when the Trolls came leaping out of No-Time to scramble up the walls toward them, they broke and ran.

‘Did you tell the Trolls to open the gates for us?’ Vanion asked Ulath.

‘Yes, my Lord,’ the Genidian replied, ‘but it might be a little while before they remember. They’re hungry right now. They’ll eat breakfast first.’

‘We have to get inside, Ulath,’ Sephrenia said urgently. ‘We have to protect the slave-pens.’

‘Oh, Lord,’ he said. ‘I forgot about that. The Trolls won’t be able to distinguish slaves from Cynesgans.’

‘I’ll go have a look,’ Khalad volunteered. He swung down from his horse and ran forward to the massively timbered gates.

After a couple of moments he came back. ‘It’s no particular problem, Lady Sephrenia,’ he reported. ‘Those gates would fall apart if you sneezed on them.’

‘What?’

‘The timbers are very old, my Lady, and they’re riddled with dry-rot. With your permission, Lord Vanion, I’ll take some men and rig up a battering-ram. We’ll knock down the gate so that we can get inside.’

‘Of course,’ Vanion replied.

‘Come along then, Berit,’ Khalad told his friend.

‘That young man always manages to make me feel inadequate,’ Vanion muttered as they watched the pair ride back to rejoin the knights massed some yards to the rear.

‘As I remember, his father had the same effect on you,’ Sephrenia said.

Kring came galloping back around the wall. ‘Friend Bergsten’s preparing to assault the north gate,’ he reported.

‘Send word to him to be careful, friend Kring,’ Betuana advised. ‘The Trolls are already inside the city—and they’re hungry. It might be better if he delayed his attack just a little.’

Kring nodded his agreement. ‘Working with Trolls changes the complexion of things, doesn’t it, Betuana-Queen? They’re very good allies in a fight, but you don’t want to let them get hungry.’

About ten minutes later, Khalad and a few dozen knights dragged a large log into place before the gate, suspended it on ropes attached to several makeshift tripods, and began to pound on the rotting timbers. The gate shuddered out billows of powdery red dust and began to crumble and fall apart.

‘Let’s go.’ Vanion called tersely to his oddly assorted army and led the way into the city. At Sephrenia’s insistence, the knights went straight to the pens, freed the shackled slaves, and escorted them to safety outside the walls. Then Vanion’s force moved directly to the inner wall that protected the steep hill rising in the middle of Cyrga.

‘How long is that likely to last, Sir Ulath?’ Vanion said, gesturing toward a cluster of ravening Trolls.

‘It’s a little hard to say, Lord Vanion,’ Ulath replied. ‘I don’t think we’ll get much co-operation from them as long as there are still Cynesgans running up and down the streets here in the outer city, though.’

‘Maybe it’s just as well,’ Vanion decided. ‘I think we want to get to Sparhawk and the others before the Trolls do.’ He looked around. ‘Khalad,’ he called, ‘tell your men to drag that battering ram up here. Let’s pound down the gate to the inner city and go find Sparhawk.’

‘Yes, my Lord,’ Khalad replied.

The gates to the inner wall were more substantial, and Khalad’s ram was pounding out great booming sounds when Patriarch Bergsten came riding along the wall, accompanied by the veteran Pandion, Sir Heldin, a Peloi whom Vanion did not recognize, and a tall, lithe Atan girl. Vanion was a bit startled to see that the Styric God Setras was also with them.

‘What do you think you’re doing, Vanion?’ Bergsten roared.

‘Knocking down this gate, your Grace,’ Vanion replied.

‘That’s not what I’m talking about. What in God’s name possessed you to let the Trolls make the initial assault?’

‘It wasn’t really a question of “let”, your Grace. They didn’t exactly ask for permission.’

‘We’ve got absolute chaos here in the outer city. My knights can’t concentrate on this inner wall because they keep running into Trolls. They’re in a feeding-frenzy, you know. Right now they’ll eat anything that moves.’

‘Must you?’ Sephrenia murmured with a shudder.

‘Hello, Sephrenia,’ Bergsten said. ‘You’re looking well. How much longer are you going to be with this gate, Vanion? Let’s get our people into the inner city where all we have to worry about are the Cyrgai. Your allies are making my men very nervous.’ He looked up at the top of the inner wall, sharply outlined against the dawn sky. ‘I thought the Cyrgai were supposed to be soldiers. Why aren’t they manning this wall?’

‘They’re a little demoralized right now,’ Sephrenia explained. ‘Sparhawk just killed their God.’

‘He did? I thought Bhelliom was going to do that.’

She sighed. ‘In a certain sense it did,’ she said. ‘It’s a little hard to separate the two of them at this point. Aphrael isn’t entirely sure where Bhelliom leaves off and Sparhawk begins right now.’

Bergsten shuddered. ‘I don’t think I want to know about that,’ he confessed. ‘I’m in enough theological trouble already. What about Klael?’

‘He’s gone. He was banished as soon as Sparhawk killed Cyrgon.’

‘Oh, fine, Vanion,’ Bergsten said with heavy sarcasm. ‘You make me ride a thousand leagues in the dead of winter, and the fighting’s all over before I even get here.’

‘The exercise was probably good for you, your Grace.’ Vanion raised his voice. ‘How much longer, Khalad?’ he called.

‘Just a few more minutes, my Lord,’ Sparhawk’s squire replied. ‘The timbers are starting to crack.’

‘Good,’ Vanion said bleakly. ‘I want to locate Zalasta. He and I have some things to talk about—at great length.’

‘They’ve all bolted, Sparhawk,’ Talen reported, returning from his quick survey of the ruined palace. ‘The gates are standing wide open, and we’re the only people up here.’

Sparhawk nodded wearily. It had been a long night, and he was emotionally as well as physically drained. He could still, however, feel that enormous calm that had settled over him when he had at last understood the true significance of his strange relationship with Bhelliom. There were some fleeting temptations—curiosity perhaps more than anything else—a desire to experiment and test the limits of newly-recognized capabilities. He deliberately repressed them.

‘Go ahead, Sparhawk,’ Flute’s voice in his mind had a slight challenge in it.

He turned his head to look quizzically at the ageless child, standing beside his wife. Ehlana’s face was serene as she ran her fingers through her long, pale-blonde hair. ‘What did you want me to do?’ he sent the thought back.

‘Anything that comes into your mind.’

‘Why?’

‘Aren’t you just the least bit curious.? Wouldn’t you like to find out if you can turn a mountain inside out?’

‘I can,’ he replied. ‘I don’t see any reason to do something like that, though.’

‘You’re hateful, Sparhawk!’ she suddenly flared.

‘What’s your problem, Aphrael?’

‘You’re such a lump!’

He smiled gently at her. ‘I know, but you love me anyway, don’t you?’

‘Sparhawk,’ Kalten called from the ornate bronze gate, ‘Vanion’s coming up the hill. He’s got Bergsten with him.’

Vanion had known Sparhawk since his novitiate, but the weary-looking man in black armor seemed to be almost a stranger. There was something about his face and in his eyes that had never been there before. The Preceptor approached his old frend with Patriarch Bergsten and Sephrenia with a sense of something very close to awe. As soon as Ehlana saw Sephrenia, she ran to her with a low cry and embraced her fiercely.

‘I see that you’ve wrecked another city, Sparhawk,’ Bergsten said with a broad grin. ‘That’s getting to be a habit, you know.’

‘Good morning, your Grace,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘It’s good to see you again.’

‘Did you do all this?’ Bergsten gestured at the ruined temple and the half-collapsed palace.

‘Klael did most of it, your Grace.’

The hulking churchman squared his shoulders. ‘I’ve got orders for you from Dolmant,’ he said. ‘You’re supposed to turn the Bhelliom over to me. Why don’t you do that now—before we both forget?’

‘I’m afraid that isn’t possible, your Grace,’ Sparhawk sighed. ‘I don’t have it any more.’

‘What did you do with it?’

‘It no longer exists—at least not in the shape it was before. Its been freed from its confinement to continue its journey.’

‘You released it without consulting the Church? You’re in trouble, Sparhawk.’

‘Oh, do be serious, Bergsten,’ Aphrael told him. ‘Sparhawk did what had to be done. I’ll explain to Dolmant later.’

Vanion, however, had something else on his mind. ‘This is all very interesting,’ he said bleakly, ‘but right now I’m far more concerned about finding Zalasta. Does anybody have any idea of where I might find him?’

‘He might be under all that, Vanion,’ Ehlana told him, pointing at the ruined temple. ‘He and Ekatas were going there when they discovered that Sparhawk was here inside the walls of Cyrga. Ekatas escaped, and Mirtai killed him, but Zalasta might have been crushed when Klael exploded the place.’

‘No,’ Aphrael said shortly. ‘He’s nowhere in the city.’

‘I really want to find him, Divine One,’ Vanion said.

‘Setras, dear,’ Aphrael said sweetly to her cousin, ‘would you see if you can find Zalasta for me? He has a great deal to answer for.’

‘I’ll see what I can do, Aphrael,’ the handsome God promised, ‘but I really ought to get back to my studio. I’ve been letting my own work slide during all this.’

‘Please, Setras,’ she wheedled, unleashing that devastating little smile.

He laughed helplessly. ‘Do you see what I was talking about, Bergsten?’ he said to the towering Patriarch. ‘She’s the most dangerous creature in the universe.’

‘So I’ve heard,’ Bergsten replied. ‘You’d probably better go ahead and do as she asks, Setras. You’ll do it in the end anyway.’

‘Ah, there you are, Itagne-Ambassador,’ Vanion heard Atana Maris say in a deceptively pleasant tone of voice. He turned and saw the lithe young commander of the garrison at Cynestra descending on the clearly apprehensive Tamul diplomat. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you,’ she continued. ‘We have a great deal to talk about. Somehow, not one of your letters reached me. I think you should reprimand your messenger.’

Itagne’s face took on a trapped expression.

Betuana dispatched runners to Matherion just before noon, when the last of the demoralized Cyrgai capitulated. Sir Ulath made an issue of the fact that what had happened to the Cynesgans in the outer city might have influenced that decision to some degree. Patriarch Bergsten had taken to looking at his countryman with a critical and speculative eye. Bergsten was a rough-and-ready churchman, willing to bend all sorts of rules in the name of expediency, but he choked just a bit on Ulath’s led ecumenicism.

‘He’s just a little too enthusiastic, Sparhawk.” the huge Patriarch declared. ‘All right, I’ll grant you that the Trolls were useful, but—’ He groped for a way to express his innate prejudices.

‘There’s a rather special kinship between Ulath and Bhlokw, your Grace,’ Sparhawk sidestepped the issue. ‘How much have we got left to do here? I’d sort of like to get my wife back to civilization.’

‘You can leave now, Sparhawk,’ Bergsten said with a shrug. We can take care of cleaning up here. You didn’t leave very much for the rest of us to worry about. I’ll stay here with the knights to finish rounding up the Cyrgai; Tikume will take his Peloi back to Cynestra to help Itagne and Atana Mans set up the occupation, and Betuana’s going to send her Atans into Arjuna to re-establish imperial authority.’ He made a sour face. ‘There’s nothing really left but all the niggling little administrative details. You’ve robbed me of a very good fight, Sparhawk.’

‘I can send for more of Klael’s soldiers if you want, your Grace.

‘No. That’s all right, Sparhawk,’ Bergsten replied quickly. ‘I can live without any more of those fights. You’ll be going straight back to Matherion?’

‘Not straight back, your Grace. Courtesy obliges us to escort Anarae Xanetia back to Delphaeus.’

‘She’s a very strange lady,’ Bergsten mused. ‘I keep catching myself just on the verge of genuflection every time she enters a room.’

‘She has that effect on people, your Grace. If you really don’t need us here, I’ll talk with the others, and we’ll get ready to leave.’

‘What actually happened, Sparhawk?’ Bergsten asked directly. ‘I have to make a report to Dolmant, and I can’t make much sense out of what the others have been telling me.’

‘I’m not sure I can explain it, your Grace,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Bhelliom and I were sort of combined for a while. It needed my arm, I guess.’ It was an easy answer, and it evaded a central issue that Sparhawk was not yet fully prepared to even think about.

‘You were just a tool, then?’ Bergsten’s look was intent.

Sparhawk shrugged. ‘Aren’t we all, your Grace? We’re the instruments of God. That’s what we get paid for.’

‘Sparhawk, you’re right on the verge of heresy here. Don’t throw the word “God” around like that.’

‘No, your Grace,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘It’s just a reflection of the limitations of language. There are things that we don’t understand and don’t have names for. We just lump them all together, call it “God”, and let it go at that. You and I are soldiers, Patriarch Bergsten. We get paid to hit the ground running when somebody blows a trumpet. Let Dolmant sort it out. That’s what he gets paid for.’

Sparhawk and his friends, accompanied by Kring, Betuana and Engessa, rode out of shattered Cyrga shortly after dawn the following morning, bound for Sama. Sparhawk had neither seen nor heard from Bhelliom since his encounter with Cyrgon, and he felt a peculiar sense of disappointment about that. The Troll-Gods had also departed with their children—all except for Bhlokw, who shambled along between Ulath and Tynian. Bhlokw was evasive about his reasons for accompanying them.

They rode northeasterly across the barren wastes of Cynesga, traveling in easy stages. The urgent need for haste was gone now. Sephrenia and Xanetia, once again working in concert, had returned all the faces to their rightful owners, and things were slowly settling back to normal.

It was about mid-morning ten days after they had left Cyrga and when they were but a few leagues from Sama that Vanion rode forward to join Sparhawk at the head of the column. ‘A word with you, Sparhawk?’ he said.

‘Of course.’

‘It’s sort of private.’

Sparhawk nodded, turned the column over to Bevier and nudged Faran into a rolling canter. He and Vanion slowed again when they were about a quarter of a mile ahead of the others.

‘Sephrenia wants us to get married,’ Vanion said, cutting past any preamble.

‘You’re asking my permission?’

Vanion gave him a long, steady look.

‘Sorry,’ Sparhawk apologized. ‘You took me by surprise. There are problems with that, you know. The Church will never approve, and neither will the Thousand of Styricum. We’re not quite as hide-bound as we used to be, but the notion of interracial or interfaith marriage still raises some hackles.’

‘I know,’ Vanion said glumly. ‘Dolmant probably wouldn’t have any personal objections, but his hands are tied by Church law and doctrine.’

‘Who are you going to get to officiate, then?’

‘Sephrenia’s already solved that problem. Xanetia’s going to perform the ceremony.’

Sparhawk nearly choked on that.

‘She is a priestess, Sparhawk.’

‘Well—technically, I suppose.’ Then Sparhawk suddenly broke out laughing.

‘What’s so funny?’ Vanion demanded truculently.

‘Can you imagine the look on Ortzel’s face when he hears that a Preceptor of one of the four orders, a Patriarch of the Church, has been married to one of the Thousand of Styricum by a Delphaeic priestess?’

‘It does violate a few rules, doesn’t it?’ Vanion conceded with a wry smile.

‘A few? Vanion, I doubt that you could find any single act that’d violate more.’

‘Do you object, too?’

‘Not me, old friend. If this is what you and Sephrenia want, I’ll back the two of you all the way up to the Hierocracy.’

‘Would you stand up with me, then? During the ceremony, I mean?’

Sparhawk clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I’d be honored, my lord.’

‘Good. That’ll keep it all in the family. Sephrenia’s already spoken to your wife about it. Ehlana’s going to stand with her.’

‘Somehow I almost knew that was coming,’ Sparhawk laughed.

They passed through Sama and proceeded north along a snow-clogged mountain trail toward Dirgis in southern Atan. After they left Dirgis, they turned westward again and rode higher into the mountains.

‘We’re leaving a very wide trail behind us, Sparhawk,’ Bevier said late one snowy afternoon. ‘And the trail’s leading directly to Delphaeus.’

Sparhawk turned and looked back. ‘You’ve got a point,’ he conceded. ‘Maybe I’d better have a talk with Aphrael. Things have changed a bit, but I don’t think the Delphae are quite ready to welcome crowds of sightseers.’ He turned Faran around and rode back to join the ladies. Aphrael, as usual, rode with Sephrenia. ‘A suggestion, Divine One?’ Sparhawk said tentatively.

‘You sound just like Tynian.’

He ignored that. ‘How good are you with weather?’ he asked.

‘Did you want it to be summer?’

‘No. Actually I want a moderate-sized blizzard. We’re leaving tracks in the snow behind us, and the tracks are pointing straight at Delphaeus.’

‘What difference does that make?’

‘The Delphae might not want unannounced visitors.’

‘There won’t be any—announced or otherwise. You promised to seal their valley, didn’t you?’

‘Oh, God!” he said. ‘I’d forgotten about that. This is going to be a problem. I don’t have Bhelliom any more.’

‘Then you’d better try to get in touch with it, Sparhawk. A promise is a promise, after all. Xanetia’s kept her part of the bargain, so you’re morally obliged to keep yours.’

Sparhawk was troubled. He rode off some distance into a thick grove of spindly sapling pines and dismounted. ‘Blue Rose,’ he said aloud, not really expecting an answer. ‘Blue Rose.’

‘I hear thee, Anakha,’ the voice in his mind responded immediately. ‘I had thought thou might be in some way discontent with me.’

‘Never that, Blue Rose. Thou hast fulfilled—or exceeded—all that I did require of thee. Our enemies are overthrown, and I am content. I did, however, pledge mine honor to the Delphae in exchange for their aid. I am obliged to seal up their valley that none of this world may come upon them.’

‘I do recall thy pledge, Anakha. It was well-given. Soon, however, it will not be needful.’

‘Thy meaning escapes me.’

‘Watch then, my son, and learn.’ There was a lengthy pause ‘It is not mine intent to offend, but why hast thou brought this to me?’

‘I gave my word that I would seal their valley, Father.’

‘Then seal it.’

‘I was not certain that I could still speak with thee to entreat thine aid.’

‘Thou hast no need of aid, Anakha—not mine nor that of any other. Did not thine encounter with Cyrgon convince thee that all things are possible for thee? Thou art Anakha and my son, and there is none other like thee in all the starry universe. It was needful to make thee so, that my design might be accomplished. Whatsoever thou couldst do through me, thou couldst as easily have done with thine own hand.’ The voice paused. ‘I am, however, somewhat pleased that thou wert unaware of thine ability, for it did give me an opportunity to come to know thee. I shall think often of thee in my continuing journey. Let us then proceed to Delphaeus, where thy comrade Vanion and our dearly-loved Sephrenia will be joined, and where thou wilt behold a wonder.’

‘Which particular wonder is that, Blue Rose?’

‘’Twould hardly be a wonder for thee shouldst thou know of it in advance, my son.’ There were faint traces of amusement in the voice as the sense of Bhelliom’s presence faded.

It was early on a snowy evening when they crested a ridge and looked down into the valley where the glowing lake, misty in the swirling snowflakes, shone with a light almost like that of the moon. Ancient Codon awaited them at the rude gate to this other hidden city, and standing beside him was Itagne’s friend, Ekrasios.

They talked until quite late, for there was much to share, and it was mid-morning of the following day before Sparhawk awoke in the oddly sunken bedroom he shared with his wife. It was one of the peculiarities of Delphaeic construction that the floors of most of their rooms were below ground-level. Sparhawk didn’t give it much thought, but Khalad seemed quite intrigued by the notion.

Sparhawk gently kissed his still-sleeping wife, slipped quietly from their bed, and went looking for Vanion. He remembered his own wedding day, and he was quite sure that his friend was going to need some support.

He found the silvery-haired Preceptor talking with Talen and Khalad in the makeshift stable. Khalad’s face was bleak. ‘What’s the problem?’ Sparhawk asked as he joined them.

‘My brother’s a little unhappy,’ Talen explained. ‘He talked with Ekrasios and the other Delphae who dispersed Scarpa’s army down in Arjuna, and nobody could tell him one way or the other about what happened to Krager.’

‘I’m going to operate on the theory that he’s still alive,’ Khalad declared. ‘He’s just too slippery not to have escaped.’

‘We have plans for you, Khalad,’ Vanion told him. ‘You’re too valuable to spend your whole life trying to chase down a weasely drunkard who may or may not have gotten out of Natayos alive.’

‘It won’t take him all that long, Lord Vanion,’ Talen said. ‘As soon as Stragen and I get back to Cimmura, we’ll talk with Platime, and he’ll put out the word. If Krager’s still alive—anywhere in the world—we’ll find out about it.’

‘What are the ladies doing?’ Vanion asked nervously.

‘Ehlana’s still asleep,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Are you and Sephrenia going back to Matherion with us when we leave here?’

‘Briefly,’ Vanion responded. ‘Sephrenia wants to speak with Sarabian about a few things. Then we’ll go back to Atan with Betuana and Engessa. It’s only a short trip from there to Sarsos. Have you noticed what’s going on between Betuana and Engessa, by the way?’

Sparhawk nodded. ‘Evidently Betuana’s decided that the Atans need a king. Engessa’s suitable, and he’s probably a great deal more intelligent than Androl was.’

‘That’s not saying too much for him, Sparhawk,’ Talen said with a broad grin. ‘Androl wasn’t a great deal more intelligent than a brick.’

The ladies, of course, made extended preparations. The knights, on the other hand, did what they could to keep Vanion’s mind occupied.

An obscure tenet of the Delphaeic faith dictated that the ceremony take place on the shore of the glowing lake just at dusk. Sparhawk dimly perceived why this might be appropriate for the Shining Ones, but the wedding of Vanion and Sephrenia had little if anything to do with the covenant between the Delphae and their God. Courtesy, however, dictated that he keep his opinions to himself. He did offer to clothe Vanion in traditional black Pandion armor, but the Preceptor chose instead to wear a white Styric robe.

‘I’ve fought my last war, Sparhawk,’ he said, a bit sadly. ‘Dolmant won’t have any choice but to excommunicate me and strip me of my knighthood after this. That makes me a civilian again. I never really enjoyed wearing armor all that much anyway.’ He looked curiously at Ulath and Tynian who were talking earnestly with Bhlokw just outside the stable door. ‘What’s going on there?’

‘They’re trying to explain the concept of a wedding to their friend. They aren’t making very much headway.’

‘I don’t imagine that Trolls set much store in ceremonies.’

‘Not really. When a male feels that way about a female, he takes her something—or somebody—to eat. If she eats it, they’re married.’

‘And if she doesn’t?’

Sparhawk shrugged. ‘They usually try to kill each other.’

‘Do you have any idea of why Bhlokw didn’t go off with the rest of the Trolls?’

‘Not a clue, Vanion. We haven’t been able to get a straight answer out of him. Evidently there’s something the Troll-Gods want him to do.’

The afternoon dragged on, and Vanion grew more and more edgy with each passing moment. Inevitably, however, the grey day slid into a greyer evening, and dusk settled over the hidden valley of Delphaeus. The path from the city gate to the edge of the lake had been carefully cleared, and Aphrael, who was not above cheating on occasion, had strewn it with flower petals. The Delphae, all aglow and singing an ancient hymn, lined the sides of the path.

Vanion waited at the edge of the lake with Sparhawk, and the other members of their party stood in smiling anticipation as Sephrenia, with Ehlana at her side, emerged from the city to walk down to the shore.

‘Courage, my son,’ Sparhawk murmured to his old friend.

‘Are you trying to be funny?’

‘Getting married doesn’t really hurt, Vanion.”

It happened when the bride and her attendant were perhaps halfway to the lake-shore. A sudden cloud of inky darkness appeared at the edge of the snow-covered meadow, and a great voice bellowed, ‘NO!’ Then a spark of incandescent light emerged from the center of the cloud and began to swell ominously, surging and surrounded by a blazing halo of purplish light. Sparhawk recognized the phenomenon.

‘I forbid this abomination!’ the great voice roared.

‘Zalasta!’ Kalten exclaimed, staring at the rapidly expanding sphere.

The Styric was haggard and his hair and beard were matted. He wore his customary white robe and held his polished staff in his trembling hands. He stood inside the glowing sphere, surrounded by its protective nimbus. Sparhawk felt an icy calm descending over him as he prepared his mind and spirit for the inevitable confrontation.

‘I have lost you, Sephrenia!’ Zalasta declared. ‘But I will not permit you to wed this Elene!’

Aphrael dashed to her sister, her long black hair flying and a look of implacable determination on her small face.

‘Fear not, Aphrael,’ Zalasta said, speaking in formal Styric. ‘I have not come to this accursed place to pit myself against thee or thine errant sister. I speak for Styricum in this matter, and I have come to prevent this obscene sham of a ceremony which will befoul our entire race.’ He straightened and pointed an accusing finger at Sephrenia. ‘I adjure thee, woman. Turn away from this unnatural act. Go out from here, Sephrenia of Ylara! This wedding shall not take place!’

‘It will.’ Sephrenia’s voice rang out. ‘You cannot prevent it. Go away, Zalasta! You lost all claim on me when you tried to kill me!’ She raised her chin. ‘And have you come to try again?’

‘No, Sephrenia of Ylara. That was the result of a madness that came over me. There is yet another way to prevent this abomination.’ And he quickly turned, leveling his deadly staff at Vanion. A brilliant spark shot from the tip of the staff, sizzling in the pale evening light, straight as an arrow it flew, carrying death and all Zalasta’s hatred.

But vigilant Anakha was ready, having already surmised at whom Zalasta would direct his attack. The sizzling spark flew straight, and agile Anakha stretched forth his hand to subdue it. He grasped the spark and saw its fury spurting out between his fingers. Then like a small boy throwing a stone at a bird, he hurled it back to explode against the surface of the blazing sphere.

‘Well done, my son,’ Bhelliom’s voice applauded.

Zalasta flinched violently within his protective sphere. Pale and shaken, he stared at the dreadful form of Bhelliom’s Child.

Methodical Anakha raised his hand, palm outward, and began to chip away at the blazing envelope which protected the desperate Styric with bolt after bolt of the kind of force that creates suns, noting almost absently as he did that the wedding-guests were scattering and that Sephrenia was rushing to Vanion’s side as he whipped that force out again and again, curious Anakha studied it, testing its power, probing for its limits.

He found none.

Implacable Anakha advanced on the deceitful Styric who had been ultimately the cause of a lifetime of suffering and woe. He knew that he could obliterate the now-terrified sorcerer with a single thought.

He chose not to.

Vengeful Anakha moved forward, savaging the Styric’s last desperately erected defenses, cutting them away bit by bit and brushing aside Zalasta’s pitiful efforts to respond.

‘Anakha. It is not right!’ The voice spoke in Trollish.

Puzzled Anakha turned to look.

It was Bhlokw, and Bhelliom’s Child had respect for the shaggy priest of the Troll-Gods.

‘This is the last of the wicked ones!’ Bhlokw declared. ‘It is the wish of Khwaj to cause hurt to it! Will the Child of the Flower-Gem hear the words of Khwaj?’

Troubled Anakha considered the words of the priest of the Troll-Gods. ‘I will hear the words of Khwaj,’ he said. ‘It is right that I should do this, for Khwaj and I are pack-mates.’

The enormity of the Fire-God appeared, steaming away the snow covering the meadow around him. ‘Will Bhelliom’s Child be bound by the word of his pack-mate, Ulath-from-Thalesia?’ he demanded in a voice that roared like a furnace.

‘The word of Ulath-from-Thalesia is my word, Khwaj,’ honorable Anakha conceded.

‘Then the wicked one is mine!’

Regretful Anakha curbed his wrath. ‘The words of Khwaj are right words,’ he agreed. ‘If Ulath-from-Thalesia has given the wicked one to Khwaj, then I will not say that it shall not be so.’

He looked at the terrified Styric, who was struggling desperately to retain some small measure of defense. ‘It is yours, Khwaj. It has caused me much hurt, and I would cause hurt to it in return, but if Ulath-from-Thalesia has said that it is the place of Khwaj to cause hurt to it, then so be it.’

‘Bhelliom’s Child speaks well. You have honor, Anakha.’ The Fire-God looked accusingly at Zalasta. ‘You have done great wickedness, one-called-Zalasta.’

Zalasta stared at Khwaj in terrified incomprehension.

‘Say to it what I have said, Anakha,’ Khwaj requested. ‘It must know why it is being punished.’

Courteous Anakha said, ‘I will, Khwaj.’ He looked sternly at the dishevelled Styric. ‘You have caused me much pain, Zalasta,’ he said in a dreadful voice, speaking in Styric. ‘I was going to repay you for all those friends of mine you destroyed or corrupted, but Khwaj here has laid claim to you, and for various reasons I’m going to honor his claim. You should have stayed away, Zalasta. Vanion would have hunted you down eventually, but death is a little thing, and once it’s over, it’s over. What Khwaj is going to do to you will last for eternity.’

‘Does it understand?’ Khwaj demanded.

‘In some measure, Khwaj.’

‘In time it will understand more, and it has much time. It has always.’ And the dreadful Fire-God blew away Zalasta’s last pitiful defenses and laid a strangely gentle hand on the cringing Styric’s head. ‘Burn!’ he commanded. ‘Run and burn until the end of days!’

And, all aflame, Zalasta of Styricum went out from that place shrieking and engulfed in endless fire.

Compassionate Anakha sighed as he watched the burning man run out across the snowy meadow, growing smaller and smaller in the distance and with his cries of agony and woe and unspeakable loneliness receding with him as he began the first hour of his eternal punishment.