The Sapphire Rose. David Eddings

his head to look at his master with some surprise. ‘We’re busy now, Faran,’ Sparhawk explained to his horse. ‘We’ll go through the ritual some other time.’

      Faran’s expression was disapproving as he started across the drawbridge.

      ‘Sir Sparhawk!’ a ringing voice came from the stable door. It was the novice, Berit, a rangy, raw-boned young man whose face was split with a broad grin.

      ‘Shout a little louder, Berit,’ Kurik said reprovingly. ‘Maybe they’ll be able to hear you in Chyrellos.’

      ‘Sorry, Kurik,’ Berit apologized, looking abashed.

      ‘Get some other novices to look after our horses and come with us,’ Sparhawk told the young man. ‘We have things to do, and we have to talk with Vanion.’

      ‘Yes, Sir Sparhawk.’ Berit ran back into the stable.

      ‘He’s such a nice boy,’ Sephrenia smiled.

      ‘He might work out,’ Kurik said grudgingly.

      ‘Sparhawk,’ a hooded Pandion said with some surprise as they entered the arched door leading into the chapterhouse. The knight pushed back his hood. It was Sir Perraine, the Pandion who had posed as a cattle-buyer in Dabour. Perraine spoke with a slight accent.

      ‘What are you doing back in Cimmura, Perraine?’ Sparhawk asked, clasping his brother knight’s hand. ‘We all thought you’d taken root in Dabour.’

      Perraine seemed to recover from his surprise. ‘Ah –’ he began, ‘once Arasham died, there wasn’t much reason for me to remain in Dabour. We’d all heard that King Wargun was pursuing you all over western Eosia.’

      ‘Pursuing isn’t catching, Perraine,’ Sparhawk grinned. ‘We can talk later. But now my friends and I have to go and talk with Vanion.’

      ‘Of course.’ Perraine bowed slightly to Sephrenia and walked on out into the courtyard.

      They went up the stairs to the south tower where Vanion’s study was located. The Preceptor of the Pandion Order wore that white Styric robe, and his face had aged even more in the short time since Sparhawk had last seen him. The others were also there, Ulath, Tynian, Bevier and Kalten. Their presence seemed somehow to make the room shrink. These were very large men, not only in sheer physical size, but also in terms of their towering reputations. The room seemed somehow full of bulky shoulders. As was customary among Church Knights when inside their chapterhouses, they all wore monks’ robes over their mail-shirts.

      ‘Finally!’ Kalten said, letting out an explosive breath. ‘Sparhawk, why didn’t you get word to us to let us know how you were?’

      ‘Messengers are a little hard to find in Troll-country, Kalten.’

      ‘Any luck?’ Ulath asked eagerly. Ulath was a huge, blond-braided Thalesian, and Bhelliom had a special meaning for him.

      Sparhawk looked quickly at Sephrenia, silently asking permission.

      ‘All right,’ she said, ‘but only for a minute.’

      Sparhawk reached down inside his tunic and drew out the canvas pouch in which he carried Bhelliom. He pulled open the drawstring, lifted out the most precious object in the world and placed it on the table Vanion used for a writing desk. Even as he did so, there came again that faint flicker of the darkness somewhere off in a dim corner. The hound of darkness his nightmare had conjured up in the mountains of Thalesia followed him still, and the shadow seemed larger and darker now as if each re-emergence of Bhelliom somehow increased its size and its brooding menace.

      ‘Do not look too deeply into those petals, gentlemen,’ Sephrenia warned. ‘Bhelliom can capture your souls if you look at it too long.’

      ‘God!’ Kalten breathed. ‘Look at that thing!’

      Each glowing petal of the Sapphire Rose was so perfect that one could almost see dew clinging to it. From deep within the jewel emanated a blue light and an almost overpowering command to look upon it and observe its perfection.

      ‘Oh, God,’ Bevier prayed fervently, ‘defend us from the seduction of this stone.’ Bevier was a Cyrinic Knight and an Arcian. Sometimes Sparhawk felt that he was excessively pious. This, however, was not one of those times. If even half of what he had already sensed was true, Sparhawk knew that Bevier’s fear of Bhelliom was well placed.

      Ulath, the huge Thalesian, was muttering in Troll. ‘Not kill, Bhelliom-Blue-Rose,’ he said. ‘Church Knights not enemies to Bhelliom. Church Knights protect Bhelliom from Azash. Help make what is wrong right again, Blue-Rose. I am Ulath-from-Thalesia. If Bhelliom have anger, send anger against Ulath.’

      Sparhawk straightened. ‘No,’ he said firmly in the hideous Troll-tongue. ‘I am Sparhawk-from-Elenia. I am he who kills Ghwerig-Troll-Dwarf. I am he who brings Bhelliom-Blue-Rose to this place to heal my queen. If Bhelliom-Blue-Rose do this and still have anger, send anger against Sparhawk-from-Elenia and not against Ulath-from-Thalesia.’

      ‘You fool!’ Ulath exploded. ‘Have you got any idea of what that thing can do to you?’

      ‘Wouldn’t it do the same sort of things to you?’

      ‘Gentlemen, please,’ Sephrenia said to them wearily. ‘Stop this nonsense at once.’ She looked at the glowing rose on the table. ‘Listen to me, Bhelliom-Blue-Rose,’ she said firmly, not even bothering to speak in the language of the Trolls. ‘Sparhawk-from-Elenia has the rings. Bhelliom-Blue-Rose must acknowledge his authority and obey him.’

      The jewel darkened briefly, and then the deep blue light returned.

      ‘Good,’ she said. ‘I will guide Bhelliom-Blue-Rose in what must be done, and Sparhawk-from-Elenia will command it. Blue-Rose must obey.’

      The jewel flickered, and then the light returned.

      ‘Put it away now, Sparhawk.’

      Sparhawk put the rose back into its pouch and slipped it back under his tunic.

      ‘Where’s Flute?’ Berit asked, looking around.

      ‘That, my young friend, is a very, very long story,’ Sparhawk told him.

      ‘Not dead?’ Sir Tynian asked in a shocked tone. ‘Surely not dead.’

      ‘No,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘That would be impossible. Flute is immortal.’

      ‘No human is immortal, Sparhawk,’ Bevier protested in a shocked voice.

      ‘Exactly,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Flute’s not human. She’s the Styric Child-Goddess Aphrael.’

      ‘Heresy!’ Bevier gasped.

      ‘You wouldn’t think so if you’d been in Ghwerig’s cave, Sir Bevier,’ Kurik told him. ‘I saw her rise from a bottomless abyss with my own eyes.’

      ‘A spell, perhaps?’ But Bevier did not seem quite so sure of himself now.

      ‘No, Bevier,’ Sephrenia said. ‘No spell could have accomplished what she did in that cave. She was – and is – Aphrael.’

      ‘Before we get involved in a theological dispute here, I need some information,’ Sparhawk said. ‘How did you all get away from Wargun, and what’s happening in the city?’

      ‘Wargun wasn’t really a problem,’ Vanion told him. ‘We came through Cimmura on our way south, and things went more or less the way we’d planned them at Acie. We threw Lycheas into the dungeon, put the Earl of Lenda in charge and persuaded the army and the church soldiers here in Cimmura to march south with us.’

      ‘How did you manage that?’ Sparhawk asked with some surprise.

      ‘Vanion’s a very good persuader,’ Kalten grinned. ‘Most of the generals were loyal to Primate Annias, but when they tried to object, Vanion invoked that Church Law the Earl of Lenda mentioned back at Acie and took