The Shining Ones

‘That might have been a bit inconvenient,’ Kalten noted.

‘I don’t quite understand,’ Talen said. ‘The last few times he’s used it, Sparhawk’s been able to get Bhelliom to do what he wants it to do without using the rings. Does that mean that Sparhawk’s a God?’

‘Nay, young sir,’ Xanetia smiled. ‘Anakha is of Bhelliom’s devising and is therefore in some measure a part of Bhelliom – even as are the rings. For him, the rings are not needful. Zalasta did perceive this. When Anakha slew Ghwerig and took up the Bhelliom, did Zalasta intensify his surveillance, ever using the rings as beacons to guide him. Thus did he observe Anakha’s progress, and thus did he watch Anakha’s mate as well.’

‘All right, Sparhawk,’ Ehlana said in a dangerous tone. ‘How did you get my ring? And what’s this?’ She extended her hand to show him the ruby adorning her finger. ‘Is it some cheap piece of glass?’

He sighed. ‘Aphrael stole your ring for me,’ he replied. ‘She’s the one who provided the substitute. I doubt that she’d have used glass.’

She pulled the ring off her finger and hurled it across the room. ‘Give it back! Give me back my ring, you thief.’

‘I didn’t steal it, Ehlana,’ he protested. ‘Aphrael did.’

‘You took it when she gave it to you, didn’t you? That makes you an accessory. Give me back my ring!’

‘Yes, dear,’ he replied meekly. ‘I meant to do that, but it slipped my mind.’ He took out the box. ‘Open,’ he told it. He did not touch his ring to the lid. He wanted to find out if the box would open at his command alone.

It did. He took out his wife’s ring and held it out to her.

‘Put it back where it belongs,’ she commanded.

‘All right. Here, hold this.’ He gave her the box, took her hand, and slipped the ring onto her finger. Then he reached for the box again.

‘Not just yet,’ she said, holding it out of his reach. She looked at the Sapphire Rose. ‘Does it know who I am?’

‘I think so. Why don’t you ask it? Call it “Blue Rose”. That’s what Ghwerig called it, so it’s familiar with the name.’

‘Blue Rose,’ she said, ‘do you know me?’

There was a momentary silence as Bhelliom pulsed, its azure glow dimming and then brightening.

‘Anakha,’ Talen said in a slightly wooden voice, ‘is it thy desire that I respond to the questions of thy mate?’

‘It were well that thou didst, Blue Rose,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘She and I are so intertwined that her thoughts are mine and mine hers. Whether we will or no, we are three. Ye two should know one another.’

‘This was not my design, Anakha.’ Talen’s voice had an accusing note in it.

‘The world is ever-changing, Blue Rose,’ Ehlana said, ‘and there is no design so perfect that it cannot be improved.’ Her speech, like Sparhawk’s, was profoundly formal. ‘Some there are who have feared that I might imperil my life should I touch thee. Is there in truth such peril?’

The wooden expression slid off Talen’s face to be replaced with a look of bleak determination. There is, mate of Anakha.’ The note in Talen’s voice was as hard and cold as steel. ‘Once did I relent and once only, when, after ages uncounted of lying imprisoned in the earth, did I permit Ghwerig to lift me from the place where I had lain. This shape, which is so pleasing unto thee, was the result. With cruel implements of diamond and accursed red iron did Ghwerig carve and contort me, living, into this grotesque form. I must submit to the touch of a God; I willingly submit to the touch of Anakha in the sure and certain hope that he will liberate me from this shape which hath become my prison. It is death for any other.’

‘Couldn’t you…?’ She left it hanging.

‘No.’ There was an icy finality in it. ‘I have no reason to trust the creatures of this world. The death that lieth in my touch shall remain, and there also will remain the lure which doth incline all who see me to touch me. They who see me will yearn to touch me, and will they eagerly reach forth their hands – and die. The dead have no desire to enslave me; the living are not to be trusted.’

She sighed. ‘Thou art hard, Blue Rose,’ she said.

‘I have reason, mate of Anakha.’

‘Someday, mayhap, we will learn trust.’

‘It is not needful. The achievement of our goal doth not hinge upon it.’

She sighed again and handed the box back to her husband. ‘Please go on, Xanetia. That shadow that was pestering Sparhawk and me was Zalasta, then? At first we thought it was Azash – and then, later on, the Troll-Gods.’

‘The shadow was Zalasta’s mind, Queen of Elenia,’ Xanetia replied. ‘A Styric spell known to very few doth make it possible for him thus to observe and listen unseen.’

‘I’d hardly call it unseen. I saw the edges of him every single time. It’s a very clumsy spell.’

‘That was Bhelliom’s doing. It sought to warn Anakha of Zalasta’s presence by making him partially visible. Since one of the rings was on thy hand, the shadow of Zalasta’s mind was also visible to thee.’ She paused. ‘Zalasta was afeared,’ she went on. ‘It was the design of the minions of Azash to lure Anakha – with Bhelliom in his grip – to go even unto Zemoch where Azash might take the jewel from him. Should that have come to pass, Zalasta’s one hope of defeating Aphrael and possessing Sephrenia would have been forever dashed. In truth, Anakha, were all the impediments heaped in thy path to Zemoch of Zalasta’s devising.’

‘I sort of wondered about that,’ Sparhawk mused. ‘Martel was being inconsistent, and that wasn’t at all like him. My brother was usually as single-minded as an avalanche. We thought it was the Troll-Gods, though. They had plenty of reason not to want Bhelliom to fall into the hands of Azash.’

‘Zalasta wished thee to believe so, Anakha. It was yet another means whereby he could conceal his own duplicity from Sephrenia, and her good opinion of him was most important. In short, thou didst win thy way through to Zemoch and didst destroy Azash there – along with diverse others.’

‘We did that, all right,’ Ulath murmured. ‘Whole groups of diverses.’

‘Then was Zalasta sore troubled,’ Xanetia continued, ‘for Anakha had come to full realization of his power to control Bhelliom, and with that realization had he become as dangerous as any God. Zalasta could no more confront him than he could confront Aphrael. And so it was that he went apart from all other men to consider his best course of action, and to consult with certain outcasts of his acquaintance. The destruction of Azash had confirmed their surmise; Bhelliom could, in fact, confront and destroy the Gods. The means of the death of Aphrael was at hand, could Zalasta but obtain it. That means, however, was in the hands of the most dangerous man on life. Clearly, if Zalasta wished to achieve his goal, he must needs ally himself with a God.’

‘Cyrgon,’ Kalten guessed.

‘Even so, my protector. The Elder Gods of Styricum, as ye have discovered, were powerless by reason of their lack of worshipers. The Troll-Gods were confined, and the Elene God was inaccessible, as was Edaemus of the Delphae. The Tamul Gods were too frivolous, and the God of the Atans too inhospitable to save all his own children. That left only Cyrgon, and Zalasta and his cohorts did immediately perceive a means by which he might strike a bargain with the God of the Cyrgai. With Bhelliom, might Cyrgon lift the Styric curse which confined his children and unleash them upon the world. In return, Zalasta believed, might Cyrgon be persuaded to permit him to use Bhelliom to destroy Aphrael, or, at the very least, to raise it against Aphrael with his own divine hand.’

‘It would have been a reasonable basis for opening negotiations,’ Oscagne conceded. ‘I’d take that kind of bargain to the table and expect a hearing at least.’

‘Perhaps,’ Itagne said dubiously, ‘but you’d have to live long enough to get to the table first. I don’t imagine that the appearance of a Styric in Cyrga would have moved the population there to enthusiastic demonstrations of welcome.’

‘It was in truth a perilous undertaking, Itagne of Matherion. By diverse means did Zalasta gain entrance into the Temple of Cyrgon in the heart of the hidden city, and there did he confront the blazing spirit of Cyrgon himself, and there did he stay the God’s vengeful hand with his offer of the liberation of the Cyrgai. The enemies at once became allies by reason of their mutual desires, and concluded they that Anakha must be lured to Daresia, for in no wise would they risk confrontation with the God of the Elenes, whose power, derived from his countless worshipers, is enormous. Conceived they then their involuted plan to disrupt all of Tamuli by insurrection and by apparition so that the imperial government must seek aid, and Zalasta’s position of trust would easily enable him to direct the attention of the government to Anakha and to suggest accommodation with the Church of Chyrellos. The apparitions to be raised were no great chore for Zalasta of Styricum and his outcast comrades, nor was the deceit whereby Cyrgon persuaded the Trolls that their Gods had commanded them to march across the polar ice to the north coast of Tamuli an impossible task for the God of the Cyrgai. More central to their plans, however, were the insurrections which have so sorely marred the peace of Tamuli in recent years. Insurrection, to be successful, must be tightly controlled. Spontaneous uprisings seldom succeed. History had persuaded Zalasta that central to the success of their plan would be the character and personality of him who would unite the diverse populations of the kingdoms of the Tamul Empire and fire them with his force and zeal. Zalasta did not have far to seek in order to find such an one. Straightway upon his departure from Cyrga, did he journey to Arjuna, and there presented he his plan to one known as Scarpa.’

‘Hold it,’ Stragen objected. ‘Zalasta’s plan involved high treason at the very least. It probably involved crimes they haven’t even named as yet – “consorting with ye powers of Darknesse” and the like. How did he know he could trust Scarpa?’

‘He had every reason, Stragen of Emsat,’ she replied. ‘Zalasta knew that he could trust Scarpa as he could trust none other on life. Scarpa, you see, is Zalasta’s own son.’

PART THREE

Xanetia

Maps

Chapter 21

Sephrenia sat alone on the bed in her room. Her selfimposed isolation, she sadly concluded, would probably continue for the rest of her life. She had spoken in anger and haste, and this empty solitude was the consequence. She sighed.

Sephrenia of Ylara. It was strange that both Xanetia and Cedon had reached into the past for that archaic name, and stranger still that it should touch her heart so deeply.

Ylara had not been much of a village, even by Styric standards. Styrics had long sought to divert the hostility of Elenes by posing as the poorest of the poor, living in hovels and wearing garments of the roughest homespun. But Ylara, with its single muddy street and clay and wattle huts, had been home. Sephrenia’s childhood there had been filled with love, and that love had reached its culmination with the birth of her sister. At the moment of Aphrael’s birth, Sephrenia had found at once fulfilment and life-long purpose.

The memory of that small, rude village and of its warmth and all-encompassing love had sustained her through dark days. Ylara, glowing in her memories, had always been a refuge to which she could retreat when the world and all its ugliness pressed in around her.

But now it was gone. Zalasta’s treachery had forever fouled and profaned her most precious memories. Now, whenever she remembered Ylara, Zalasta’s face intruded itself; and the feigned affection that had seemed to mark it was a cruel lie. She now saw his face for what it truly was – a mask of deceit and lust and a vile hatred for the Child Goddess who was at the core of Sephrenia’s very being.

Her memories had preserved Ylara; the revelation of Zalasta’s corrupt duplicity had forever destroyed it.

Sephrenia buried her face in her hands and wept.

Sparhawk and Vanion found Princess Danae brooding alone in a large chair in a darkened room. ‘No,’ she replied emphatically to their urgent request, ‘I will not interfere.’

‘Aphrael,’ Vanion pleaded with tears standing in his eyes, ‘it’s killing her.’

‘Then she’ll just have to die. I can’t help her. She has to do this by herself. If I tamper in any way at all, it won’t mean anything to her, and I love her too much to coddle her and steal away the significance of what she’s suffering.’

‘You don’t mind if we try to help her, do you?’ Sparhawk asked her tartly.

‘You can try if you want – as long as you don’t use Bhelliom.’

‘You’re a very cruel little girl, did you know that? I didn’t really intend to raise a monster.’

‘You’re not going to change my mind by calling me names, Sparhawk – and don’t try to sneak around behind my back, either. You can hold her hand or give her flowers or kiss her into insensibility if you want, but leave the Bhelliom right where it is. Now go away and leave me alone. I’m not enjoying this.’ And she curled up in her chair with her arms tightly wrapped around the battered Rollo and a look of ancient pain in her dark, luminous eyes.

‘Zalasta’s been interfering with us for a long time, hasn’t he, Anarae?’ Bevier asked the following morning when they had gathered once again in the blue-draped sitting room. They all wore more casual clothing now, and the long table against the far wall was set with a breakfast buffet. Queen Ehlana had discovered a long time ago that meals did not necessarily have to interfere with important matters. Bevier’s blue doublet was open at the front, and he was sunk low in his chair with his legs stretched out in front of him. ‘If he’s been behind that shadow and the cloud, that would almost have to mean that he was involved in the Zemoch war, wouldn’t it?’

Xanetia nodded. ‘Zalasta’s scheming is centuries old, Sir Knight. His passion for Sephrenia dates back to his childhood, as doth his hatred for Aphrael, whose birth did dash all his hopes. Well he knew that should he confront the Child Goddess directly, she could will away his very existence with a single thought. He knew that his lust was unwholesome, and that no God would be inclined to aid him in his struggle with Aphrael. Long he pondered this, and he concluded that his design required aid from some source with power, but without conscience or will of its own.’