‘Like Aphrael?’ Kurik suggested, ‘or is she dangerous too?’
Sephrenia smiled. ‘Oh yes, very dangerous. She’ll capture your soul even faster than Bhelliom will.’
‘Your warning’s a little late, Sephrenia. I think she already has. I miss her, you know.’
‘You needn’t. She’s still with us.’
He looked around. ‘Where?’
‘In spirit, Kurik.’
‘That’s not exactly the same.’
‘Let’s do something about Bhelliom now,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Its grip is even more powerful than I’d imagined.’ She rose and went to the small pack that contained her personal belongings. She rummaged around in it and took out a canvas pouch, a large needle and a hank of red yarn. She took up the pouch and began to stitch a crimson design on it, a peculiarly asymmetrical design. Her face was intent in the ruddy firelight, and her lips moved constantly as she worked.
‘It doesn’t match, little mother,’ Sparhawk pointed out. ‘That side’s different from the other.’
‘It’s supposed to be. Please don’t talk to me just now, Sparhawk. I’m trying to concentrate.’ She continued her sewing for a time, then pinned her needle into her sleeve and held the pouch out to the fire. She spoke intently in Styric, and the fire rose and fell, dancing rhythmically to her words. Then the flame suddenly billowed out as if trying to fill the pouch. ‘Now, Sparhawk,’ she said, holding the pouch open. ‘Put Bhelliom in here. Be very firm. It’s probably going to try to fight you again.’
He was puzzled, but he reached inside his tunic, took the stone and tried to put it into the pouch. A screech of protest seemed to fill his ears, and the jewel actually grew hot in his hand. He felt as if he were trying to push the thing through solid rock, and his mind reeled, shrieking to him that what he was trying to do was impossible. He set his teeth together and shoved harder. With an almost audible wail, the Sapphire Rose slipped into the pouch, and Sephrenia pulled the drawstring tight. She tied the ends into an intricate knot then took her needle and wove red yarn through that knot. ‘There,’ she said, biting off the yarn, ‘that should help.’
‘What did you do?’ Kurik asked her.
‘It’s a form of a prayer. Aphrael can’t diminish Bhelliom’s power, but she can confine it so that it can’t influence us or reach out to others. It’s not perfect, but it’s the best we can do on short notice. We’ll do something a little more permanent later on. Put it away, Sparhawk. Try to keep your chain-mail between the pouch and your skin. I think that may help. Aphrael once told me that Bhelliom can’t bear the touch of steel.’
‘Aren’t you being a little overcautious, Sephrenia?’ Sparhawk asked her.
‘I don’t know, Sparhawk. I’ve never dealt with anything like Bhelliom before, and I can’t even begin to imagine the limits of its power. I know enough, though, to know that it can corrupt anything – even the Elene God or the Younger Gods of Styricum.’
‘All except Aphrael,’ Kurik corrected.
She shook her head. ‘Even Aphrael was tempted by Bhelliom when she was carrying it up out of that abyss to bring it to us.’
‘Why didn’t she just keep it for herself then?’
‘Love. My Goddess loves us all, and she gave up Bhelliom willingly out of that love. Bhelliom can’t begin to understand love. In the end, that may be our only defence against it.’
Sparhawk’s sleep was troubled that night, and he tossed restlessly on his blankets. Kurik was on watch near the edge of the circle of firelight, and so Sparhawk was left to wrestle with his nightmares alone. He seemed to see the Sapphire Rose hanging in mid-air before his eyes, its deep blue glow seductive. Out of the centre of that glow there came a sound – a song that pulled at his very being. Hovering around him, so close as to almost touch his shoulders, were shadows – more than one, certainly, but less than ten, or so it seemed. The shadows were not seductive. They seemed to be filled with a hatred born from some towering frustration. Beyond the glowing Bhelliom stood the obscenely grotesque mud idol of Azash, the idol he had smashed at Ghasek, the idol which had claimed Bellina’s soul. The idol’s face was moving, twisting hideously into expressions of the most elemental passions – lust and greed and hatred and a towering contempt that seemed born of its certainty of its own absolute power.
Sparhawk struggled in his dream, dragged first this way and then that. Bhelliom pulled at him; Azash pulled at him; and the hateful shadows pulled as well. The power of each was irresistible, and his mind and body seemed almost torn apart by those titanic conflicting forces.
He tried to scream. And then he awoke. He sat up and realized that he was sweating profusely. He swore. He was exhausted, but a sleep filled with nightmares was no cure for that bone-deep weariness. Grimly he lay back down, hoping for an oblivion without dreams.
It began again, however. Once again he wrestled in his sleep with Bhelliom and with Azash and with the hateful shadows lurking behind him.
‘Sparhawk,’ a small, familiar voice said in his ear, ‘don’t let them frighten you. They can’t hurt you, you know. All they can do is try to frighten you.’
‘Why are they doing it?’
‘Because they’re afraid of you.’
‘That doesn’t make sense, Aphrael. I’m only a man.’
Her laughter was like the peal of a small, silver bell. ‘You’re so innocent sometimes, father. You’re not like any other man who’s ever lived. In a rather peculiar way, you’re more powerful than the Gods themselves. Go to sleep now. I won’t let them hurt you.’
He felt a soft kiss on his cheek, and a pair of small arms seemed to embrace his head with a peculiarly maternal tenderness. The terrible images of his nightmare wavered. And then they vanished.
It must have been hours later when Kurik entered the tent and shook him into wakefulness. ‘What time is it?’ Sparhawk asked his squire.
‘About midnight,’ Kurik replied. ‘Take your cloak. It’s chilly out there.’
Sparhawk arose, put on his mail-shirt and tunic and then buckled his sword-belt around his waist. Then he tucked the pouch under the tunic. He picked up his traveller’s cloak. ‘Sleep well,’ he told his friend and left the tent.
The stars were very bright, and a crescent moon had just risen above the jagged line of peaks to the east. Sparhawk walked away from the embers of their fire to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He stood with his breath steaming slightly in the chill mountain air.