David Eddings - The Hidden City

‘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.