David Eddings - The Hidden City

‘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.

The following day dawned clear and cold. The sun on the snowfields blanketing the surrounding mountains was dazzling, and the lake at the center of the hidden Valley of Delphaeus gleamed.

The wedding had, of course, been postponed, and was now to take place this evening. There had been questions, naturally, but Sparhawk had put them to rest by explaining that everything that had happened had been Bhelliom’s doing, and that he had only been its instrument, which was not exactly a lie. They spent the day quietly and gathered again as the sun went down and the shadows of evening settled over the valley.

A strange sense of anticipation had nagged at Sparhawk all afternoon. Something was going to happen here. Bhelliom had told him that he would behold a wonder, and that was not the kind of word Bhelliom would use lightly.

The shadows of evening deepened, and Sparhawk and the other men escorted Vanion down to the shore of the glowing lake to await the bride’s party while the Shining Ones once again sang the ancient hymn which had been so abruptly broken off the previous evening.

Then the bride appeared at the gate with the Queen of Elenia at her side and the other ladies close behind them. The Child Goddess, whirling and dancing in the air and with her clear voice raised in flute-song, preceded them, again strewing their path with flower petals.

Sephrenia’s face was serene as she came down the path to the lake. As the small Styric bride approached the man whom two major religions had forbidden her to marry, her personal Goddess provided a visible symbol that she, at least, approved. The stars had just begun to appear overhead, and one of them seemed to have lost its way. Like a tiny comet, a brilliant spark of light descended over the radiant Sephrenia and settled gently on her head as a glowing garland of spring flowers.

Sparhawk smiled gently. The similarity to the crowning of Mirtai during her rite of passage was a little too obvious to miss.

‘Critic,’ Aphrael’s voice accused.

‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘Well, don’t.’

Sephrenia and Vanion joined hands as the Delphaeic hymn swelled to a climax. And then Xanetia, all aglow and accompanied by two other glowing forms, one white and the other blue, came walking across the lake. A yearning kind of murmur passed through the Delphae, and, as one, they sank reverently to their knees.

The Anarae tenderly embraced her Styric sister and kissed Vanion chastely on the cheek. ‘I have entreated Beloved Edaemus to join with us here and to bless this most happy union,’ she told the assemblage, ‘and he hath brought with him this other guest, who also hath some interest in our ceremony.’

‘Is that blue one who I think it is?’ Kalten muttered to Sparhawk.

‘Oh, yes,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘That’s the form it took back in Cyrga, remember?—After I stuffed it down Klael’s throat.’

‘I was a little distracted at that point. Is that what it really looks like? After you peel off all the layers of sapphire, I mean?’

‘I don’t really think so. Bhelliom’s a spirit, not a form. I think this particular shape is just a courtesy—for our benefit.’

‘I thought it had already left.’

‘No, not quite yet.’

The glowing form of Edaemus straightened, somehow managing to look uncomfortable. Xanetia’s face hardened and her eyes narrowed.

‘I had thought ill of thee, Sephrenia of Ylara,’ the God of the Delphae admitted. ‘Mine Anarae hath persuaded me that my thought was in error. I do entreat thee to forgive me.’ Gentle Xanetia, it appeared, was not above a certain amount of bullying.

Sephrenia smiled benignly. ‘Of course I forgive thee, Divine Edaemus. I was not entirely blameless myself, I do confess.’

‘Let us all then pray to our separate Gods to bless the union of this man and this woman,’ Xanetia said in formal tones, ‘for methinks it doth presage a new birth of understanding and trust for all of mankind.’

Sparhawk was a little dubious about that, but like the others, he bowed his head. He did not, however, direct his words to his Elene God. ‘Blue Rose,’ he sent out his thought.

‘Art thou praying, my son?’ The answering voice sounded slightly amused.

‘Consulting, Blue Rose,’ Sparhawk corrected. ‘Others will direct our entreaty to our Elene God, and I do perceive that the time fast approaches when thou and I must part.’

‘Truly.’

‘I thought to take this opportunity to ask a boon of thee.’

‘If it be within my power.’

‘I have seen the extent of thy power, Blue Rose—and in some measure shared it. It is uncandid of thee to suggest that there are any limits to what thou canst do.’

‘Be nice,’ Bhelliom murmured. It seemed quite fond of that particular phrase. ‘What is this boon, my son?’

‘I do entreat thee to take all thy power with thee when thou dost depart. It is a burden I am unprepared to accept. I am thy son, Blue Rose, but I am also a man. I have neither the patience nor the wisdom to accept responsibility for what thou hast bestowed upon me. This world which thou hast made hath Gods in plenty. She doth not need another.’

‘Think, my son. Think of what thou dost propose to surrender—’

‘I have, my father. I have been Anakha, for it was needful.’ Sparhawk struggled for a way to put his feelings into archaic Elenic. ‘When I did as Anakha confront the Styric Zalasta, I did feel a great detachment within myself, and that detachment abideth within me still. It seemeth me that thy gift hath altered me, making me more—or less—than a man. I would, an it please thee, no longer be “patient Anakha” or “curious Anakha” or “implacable Anakha”. Anakha’s task is finished. Now, with all my heart, I would be Sparhawk again. To be “loving Sparhawk” or even “irritated Sparhawk” would please me far more than the dreadful emptiness which is Anakha.’