David Eddings - The Hidden City

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.