and there is none other like thee in all the starry universe. It was
needful to make thee so, that my design might be accomplished.
Whatsoever thou couldst do through me, thou couldst as easily
have done with thine own hand.’ The voice paused. ‘I am, however,
somewhat pleased that thou wert unaware of thine ability,
for it did give me an opportunity to come to know thee. I shall
think often of thee in my continuing journey. Let us then proceed
to Delphaeus, where thy comrade Vanion and our dearly-loved
Sephrenia will be joined, and where thou wilt behold a
wonder. ‘
‘Which particular wonder is that, Blue Rose?’
“Twould hardly be a wonder for thee shouldst thou know of
it in advance, my son.’ There were faint traces of amusement in
the voice as the sense of Bhelliom’s presence faded.
It ‘was early on a snowy evening when they crested a ridge
and looked down into the valley where the glowing lake, misty
in the swirling snowflakes, shone with a light almost like that
of the’ moon. Ancient Codon awaited them at the rude gate to
this other hidden city, and standing beside him was Itagne’s
friend, Ekrasios.
They talked until quite late, for there was much to share, and
it was mid-morning of the following day before Sparhawk awoke
in the oddly sunken bedroom he shared with his wife. It was
one of the peculiarities of Delphaeic construction that the floors
of most of their rooms were below ground-level. Sparhawk
didn’t give it much thought, but Khalad seemed quite intrigued
by the notion.
Sparhawk gently kissed his still-sleeping wife, slipped quietly
from their bed, and went looking for Vanion. He remembered
his own wedding day, and he was Quite sure that his friend was
going to need some support.
He found the silvery-haired Preceptor talking with Talen and
Khalad in the makeshift stable. Khalad’s face was bleak. ‘What’s
the problem?’ Sparhawk asked as he joined them.
“My brother’s a little unhappy,’ Talen explained. ‘He talked
with Ekrasios and the other Delphae who dispersed Scarpa’s
army down in Arjuna, and nobody could tell him one way or
the other about what happened to Krager.’
‘i’m going to operate on the theory that he’s still alive,’ Khalad
declared. ‘He’s just too slippery not to have escaped.’
‘We have plans for you, Khalad,’ Vanion told him. ‘You’re
too valuable to spend your whole life trying to chase down a
weasely drunkard who may or may not have gotten out of
Natayos alive.’
‘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 buck.’
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