The Complete Elenium Trilogy: The Diamond Throne, The Ruby Knight, The Sapphire Rose

The market place to which Sephrenia led him was some distance from the chapterhouse, and it was perhaps three-quarters of an hour before they reached it.

‘How did you find this shopkeeper?’ Sparhawk asked.

‘There are certain staples in the Styric diet,’ she replied. ‘Elenes don’t eat those things very often.’

‘I thought you said that this porter delivered some sides of meat.’

‘Goat, Sparhawk. Elenes don’t care much for goat.’

He shuddered.

‘How provincial you are,’ she said lightly. ‘If it doesn’t come from a cow, you won’t eat it.’

‘I suppose it’s what you’re used to.’

‘I’d better go to the shop alone,’ she said. ‘Sometimes you’re a bit intimidating, dear one. We want answers from the porter, and we might not get them if you frighten him. Watch my horse.’ She handed him her reins and then moved off through the market. Sparhawk watched as she went across the bustling square to speak with a shabby-looking fellow in a blood-smeared canvas smock. After a short time she returned. He got down and helped her back onto her horse.

‘Did he tell you where the house is?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘It’s not far – near the east gate.’

‘Let’s go have a look.’

As they started out, Sparhawk did something uncharacteristically impulsive. He reached out and took the small woman’s hand. ‘I love you, little mother,’ he told her.

‘Yes,’ she said calmly, ‘I know. It’s nice of you to say it, though.’ Then she smiled. It was an impish little smile that somehow reminded him of Flute. ‘Another lesson for you, Sparhawk,’ she said. ‘When you’re having dealings with a woman, you cannot say “I love you” too often.’

‘I’ll remember that. Does the same thing apply to Elene women?’

‘It applies to all women, Sparhawk. Gender is a far more important distinction than race.’

‘I shall be guided by you, Sephrenia.’

‘Have you been reading medieval poetry again?’

‘Me?’

They rode through the market place and on into the run-down quarter near the east gate of Chyrellos. While not perhaps the same as the slums of Cimmura, this part of the holy city was far less opulent than the area around the Basilica. There was less colour here, for one thing. The tunics of the men in the street were uniformly drab, and the few merchants there were in the crowd wore garments which were faded and threadbare. They did, however, have the self-important expressions which all merchants, successful or not, automatically assume. Then, at the far end of the street, Sparhawk saw a short man in a lumpy, unbleached smock of homespun wool. ‘Styric,’ he said shortly.

Sephrenia nodded and drew up the hood of her white robe so that it covered her face. Sparhawk straightened in his saddle and carefully assumed an arrogant, condescending expression such as the servant of some important personage might wear. They passed the Styric, who stepped cautiously aside without paying them any particular heed. Like all members of his race, the Styric had dark, almost black, hair and a pale skin. He was shorter than the Elenes who passed him in this narrow street, and the bones in his face were prominent, as if he had somehow not quite been completed.

‘Zemoch?’ Sparhawk asked after they had passed the man.

‘It’s impossible to say,’ Sephrenia replied.

‘Is he concealing his identity with a spell?’

She spread her hands helplessly. ‘There’s no way to tell, Sparhawk. Either he’s just an ordinary backwoods Styric with nothing on his mind but his next meal, or he’s a very subtle magician who’s playing the bumpkin to block out attempts to probe him.’

Sparhawk swore under his breath. ‘This might not be as easy as I thought,’ he said. ‘Let’s go on then and see what we can find out.’

The house to which Sephrenia had been directed sat at the end of a cul-de-sac, a short street that went nowhere.

‘That’s going to be difficult to watch without being obvious,’ Sparhawk said as they rode slowly past the mouth of the narrow street.

‘Not really,’ Sephrenia disagreed. She reined in her palfrey. ‘We need to talk with the shopkeeper there on the corner.’

‘Did you want to buy something?’

‘Not exactly buy, Sparhawk. Come along. You’ll see.’ She slid down out of her saddle and tied the reins of her delicate white horse to a post outside the shop she had indicated. She looked around briefly. ‘Will your great war horse discourage anyone who might want to steal my gentle little Ch’iel?’ she asked. She laid her hand affectionately on the white horse’s neck.

‘I’ll talk to him about it.’

‘Would you?’

‘Faran,’ Sparhawk said to the ugly roan, ‘stay here and protect Sephrenia’s mare.’

Faran nickered, his ears pricked eagerly forward.

‘You big old fool,’ Sparhawk laughed.

Faran snapped at him, his teeth clacking together at the empty air inches from Sparhawk’s ear.

‘Be nice,’ Sparhawk murmured.

Inside the shop, a room devoted to the display of cheap furniture, Sephrenia’s attitude became ingratiating, even oddly submissive. ‘Good master merchant,’ she said with an uncharacteristic tone in her voice, ‘we serve a great Pelosian noble who has come to Chyrellos to seek solace for his soul in the holy city.’

‘I don’t deal with Styrics,’ the merchant said rudely, glowering at Sephrenia. ‘There are too many of you filthy heathens in Chyrellos already.’ He assumed an expression of extreme distaste, all the while making what Sparhawk knew to be totally ineffective gestures to ward off magic.

‘Look, huckster,’ the big knight said, affecting an insulting Pelosian-accented manner, ‘do not rise above yourself. My master’s chatelaine and I will be treated with respect, regardless of your feeble-minded bigotry.’

The shopkeeper bristled at that. ‘Why –’ he began to bluster.

Sparhawk smashed the top of a cheap table into splinters with a single blow of his fist. Then he seized the shopman’s collar and pulled him forward so that they were eye to eye. ‘Do we understand each other?’ he said in a dreadful voice that hovered just this side of a whisper.

‘What we require, good master merchant,’ Sephrenia said smoothly, ‘is a goodly set of chambers facing the street. Our master has been ever fond of watching the ebb and flow of humanity.’ She lowered her eyelashes modestly. ‘Have you such a place abovestairs?’

The shopkeeper’s face was a study in conflicting emotions as he turned to mount the stairs towards the upper floor.

The chambers above were shabby – one might even go so far as to say ratty. They had at some time in the past been painted, but the pea-soup-green paint had peeled and now hung in long strips from the walls. Sparhawk and Sephrenia were not interested in paint, however. It was to the dirty window at the front of the main chamber that their eyes went.

‘There’s more, little lady,’ the shopkeeper said, more respectfully now.

‘We can conduct our own inspection, good master merchant.’ She cocked her head slightly. ‘Was that the step of a customer I heard from below?’

The shopkeeper blinked and then he bolted downstairs.

‘Can you see the house up the street from the window?’ Sephrenia asked.

‘The panes are dirty.’ Sparhawk lifted the hem of his grey cloak to wipe away the dust and grime.

‘Don’t,’ she said sharply. ‘Styric eyes are very sharp.’

‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’ll look through the dust. Elene eyes are just as sharp.’ He looked at her. ‘Does that happen every time you go out?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Common Elenes are not much smarter than common Styrics. Frankly I’d rather have a conversation with a toad than with either breed.’

‘Toads can talk?’ He was a little surprised at that.

‘If you know what you’re listening for, yes. They’re not very stimulating conversationalists, though.’

The house at the end of the street was not impressive. The lower floor was constructed of field-stone, crudely mortared together, and the second storey was of roughly squared-off timbers. It seemed somehow set off from the houses around it as if drawing in a kind of isolated separateness. As they watched, a Styric wearing the poorly woven woollen smock which was the characteristic garb of his race moved up the street towards the house. He looked around furtively before he entered.

‘Well?’ Sparhawk asked.

‘It’s hard to say,’ Sephrenia replied, ‘It’s the same as with that one we saw in the street. He’s either simple or very skilled.’

‘This could take a while.’

‘Only until dark if I’m right,’ she said as she drew a chair up to the window.

In the next several hours, a fair number of Styrics entered the house, and, as the sun sank into a dense, dirty-looking cloud bank on the western horizon, others began to arrive. A Cammorian in a bright yellow silk robe went furtively up the cul-de-sac and was immediately admitted. A booted Lamork in a polished steel cuirass and accompanied by two crossbow-bearing men-at-arms marched arrogantly up to the doors of the house and gained entry just as quickly. Then, as the chill winter twilight began to settle over Chyrellos, a lady in a deep purple robe and attended by a huge manservant in bullhide armour such as that commonly worn by Pelosians went up the centre of the short street, moving with a stiff-legged, abstracted pace. Her eyes seemed vacant and her movements jerky. Her face, however, bore an expression of ineffable ecstasy.

‘Strange visitors to a Styric house,’ Sephrenia commented.

Sparhawk nodded and looked around the darkening room. ‘Do you want some light?’ he asked her.

‘No. Let’s not be seen to be here. I’m certain that the street is being watched from the upper floor of the house.’ Then she leaned against him, filling his nostrils with the woody fragrance of her hair. ‘You can hold my hand, though,’ she offered. ‘For some reason, I’ve always been a little afraid of the dark.’

‘Of course,’ he said; taking her small hand in his big one. They sat together for perhaps another quarter of an hour as the street outside grew darker.

Suddenly Sephrenia gave an agonized little gasp.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked in alarm.

She did not immediately reply but rose to her feet instead, raising her hands, palm up, above her. A dim figure seemed to stand before her, a figure that was more shadow than substance, and a faint glow seemed to stretch between its widespread, gauntleted hands. Slowly it held forth that silvery nimbus. The glow grew momentarily brighter, then coalesced into solidity as the shadow before her vanished. She sank back into her chair, holding the long, slender object with a curious kind of sorrowful reverence.

‘What was that, Sephrenia?’ Sparhawk demanded.

‘Another of the twelve knights has fallen,’ she said in a voice that was almost a moan. ‘This is his sword, a part of my burden.’

‘Vanion?’ he asked, almost choking with a dreadful sense of fear.

Her finger sought the crest on the pommel of the sword she held, feeling the design in the darkness. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It was Lakus.’

Sparhawk felt a wrench of grief. Lakus was an elderly Pandion, a man with snowy hair and a grim visage whom all the knights of Sparhawk’s generation had revered as a teacher and a friend.

Sephrenia buried her face in Sparhawk’s armoured shoulder and began to weep. ‘I knew him as a boy, Sparhawk,’ she lamented.

‘Let’s go back to the chapterhouse,’ he suggested gently. ‘We can do this another day.’

She lifted her head and wiped her eyes with her hand. ‘No, Sparhawk,’ she said firmly. ‘Something’s happening in that house tonight – something that may not happen again for a while.’

He started to say something, but then he felt an oppressive weight that seemed to be located just behind his ears. It was as if someone had just placed the heels of his hands at the back of his skull and pushed inward. Sephrenia leaned intently forward. ‘Azash!’ she hissed.

‘What?’

‘They’re summoning the spirit of Azash,’ she said with a terrible note of urgency in her voice.

‘That nails it down then, doesn’t it?’ he said, rising to his feet.

‘Sit down, Sparhawk. This isn’t played out yet.’

‘There can’t be that many.’

‘And what will you learn if you go up the street and chop the house and everyone in it to pieces? Sit down. Watch and learn.’

‘I’m obliged, Sephrenia. It’s part of the oath. It has been for five centuries.’

‘Bother the oath,’ she snapped. ‘This is more important.’

He sank back into his chair, troubled and uncertain. ‘What are they doing?’ he asked.

‘I told you. They’re raising the spirit of Azash. That can only mean that they’re Zemochs.’

‘What are the Elenes doing in there, then? The Cammorian, the Lamork, and that Pelosian woman?’

‘Receiving instruction, I think. The Zemochs didn’t come here to learn, but to teach. This is serious, Sparhawk – more deadly serious than you could ever imagine.’

‘What do we do?’

‘For the moment, nothing. We sit here and watch.’

Again Sparhawk felt that oppressive weight at the base of his skull, and then a fiery tingling that seemed to run through all his veins.

‘Azash has answered the summons,’ Sephrenia said quietly. ‘It’s very important to sit quietly now and for both of us to keep our thoughts neutral. Azash can sense hostility directed at him.’

‘Why would Elenes participate in the rites of Azash?’

‘Probably for the rewards he will give them for worshipping him. The Elder Gods have always been most lavish with their rewards – when it suits them to be.’

‘What kind of reward could possibly pay for the loss of one’s soul?’

She shrugged, a barely perceptible motion in the growing darkness. ‘Longevity, perhaps. Wealth, power and in the case of the woman – beauty. It could even be other things – things I don’t care to think about. Azash is twisted, and he soon twists those who worship him.’

In the street below, a workman with a handcart and a torch clattered along over the cobblestones. He took an unlighted torch from the cart, set it in an iron ring protruding from the shop-front below, and ignited it. Then he rattled on.

‘Good,’ Sephrenia murmured. ‘Now we’ll be able to see them when they come out.’

‘We’ve already seen them.’

‘They’ll be different, I’m afraid.’

The door to the Styric house opened, and the silk-robed Cammorian emerged. As he passed through the circle of torchlight below, Sparhawk saw that his face was very pale, and his eyes were wide with horror.

‘That one will not return,’ Sephrenia said quietly. ‘Most likely he’ll spend the rest of his life trying to atone for his venture into the darkness.’

A few minutes later, the booted Lamork came out into the street. His eyes burned, and his face was twisted into an expression of savage cruelty. His impassive crossbow-men marched along behind him.

‘Lost,’ Sephrenia sighed.

‘What?’

‘The Lamork is lost. Azash has him.’

Then the Pelosian lady emerged from the house. Her purple robe was carelessly open at the front, and beneath it she was naked. As she came into the torchlight, Sparhawk could see that her eyes were glazed and that her nude body was splattered with blood. Her hulking attendant made some effort to close the front of her robe, but she hissed at him, thrusting his hand away, and went off down the street shamelessly flaunting her body.

‘And that one is more than lost,’ Sephrenia said. ‘She will be dangerous now. Azash rewarded her with powers.’ She frowned. ‘I’m tempted to suggest that we follow her and kill her.’

‘I’m not sure that I could kill a woman, Sephrenia.’

‘She’s not even a woman any more, but we’d have to behead her, and that could cause some outrage in Chyrellos.’

‘Do what?’

‘Behead her. It’s the only way to be certain that she’s really dead. I think we’ve seen enough here, Sparhawk. Let’s go back to the chapterhouse and talk with Nashan. Tomorrow I think we should report this to Dolmant. The Church has ways to deal with this sort of thing.’ She rose to her feet.

‘Let me carry the sword for you.’

‘No, Sparhawk. It’s my burden. I must carry it.’ She tucked Lakus’ sword inside her robe and led the way towards the door.

They went downstairs again, and the shopkeeper came out of the back of his establishment rubbing his hands together. ‘Well?’ he said eagerly. ‘Will you be taking the rooms?’

‘Totally unsuitable,’ Sephrenia sniffed. ‘I wouldn’t keep my master’s dog in a place like that.’ Her face was very pale, and she was visibly trembling.

‘But –’

‘Just unlock the door, neighbour,’ Sparhawk said, ‘and we’ll be on our way.’

‘What took you so long, then?’

Sparhawk gave him a flat, cold stare, and the shopkeeper swallowed hard and went to the door, fishing in his tunic pocket for the key.

Outside, Faran was standing protectively beside Sephrenia’s palfrey. There was a torn scrap of rough cloth on the cobblestones under his hooves.

‘Trouble?’ Sparhawk asked him.

Faran snorted derisively.

‘I see,’ Sparhawk said.

‘What was that about?’ Sephrenia asked wearily as Sparhawk helped her to mount.

‘Someone tried to steal your horse,’ he shrugged. ‘Faran persuaded him not to.’

‘Can you really communicate with him?’

‘I more or less know what he’s thinking. We’ve been together for a long time.’ He hauled himself up into his saddle, and the two of them rode off down the street in the direction of the Pandion chapterhouse.

They had gone perhaps half a mile when Sparhawk had a momentary premonition. He reacted instantly, driving Faran’s shoulder against the white palfrey. The smaller horse lurched to one side, even as a crossbow bolt buzzed spitefully through the space where Sephrenia had been an instant before. ‘Ride, Sephrenia!’ he barked as the bolt clashed against the stones of a house fronting the street. He looked back, drawing his sword. But Sephrenia had already thumped her heels to the white horse’s flanks and plunged off down the street at a clattering gallop with Sparhawk closely behind her, shielding her body with his own.

After they had crossed several streets, Sephrenia slowed her pace. ‘Did you see him?’ she asked. She had Lakus’ sword in her hand now.

‘I didn’t have to see him. A crossbow means a Lamork. Nobody else uses them.’

‘The one who was in the house with the Styrics?’

‘Probably – unless you’ve gone out of your way to offend other Lamorks of late. Could Azash or one of his Zemochs have sensed your presence back there?’

‘It’s possible,’ she conceded. ‘No one can be absolutely certain just how far the power of the Elder Gods goes. How did you know that we were about to be attacked?’

‘Training, I suppose. I’ve learned to know when someone’s pointing a weapon at me.’

‘I thought it was pointed at me.’

‘It amounts to the same thing, Sephrenia.’

‘Well, he missed.’

‘This time. I think I’ll talk to Nashan about getting you a mail shirt.’

‘Are you mad, Sparhawk?’ she protested. ‘The weight alone would put me on my knees – not to mention the awful smell.’

‘Better the weight and the smell than an arrow between the shoulder blades.’

‘Totally out of the question.’

‘We’ll see. Put the sword away and let’s move on. You need rest, and I want to get you inside the chapterhouse where it’s safe before someone else takes a shot at you.’

Chapter 14

The following day, about midmorning, Sir Bevier arrived at the gates of the Pandion chapterhouse in Chyrellos. Sir Bevier was a Cyrinic Knight from Arcium. His formal armour was burnished to a silvery sheen, and his surcoat was white. His helmet had no visor, but rather bore heavy cheekpieces and a formidable nose guard. He dismounted in the courtyard, hung his shield and his Lochaber axe on his saddlebow, and removed his helmet. Bevier was young and somewhat slender. His complexion was olive and his hair curly and blue-black.

With some show of ceremony, Nashan descended the steps of the chapterhouse with Sparhawk and Kalten to greet him. ‘Our house is honoured, Sir Bevier,’ he said.

Bevier inclined his head stiffly. ‘My Lord,’ he responded, ‘I am commanded by the preceptor of my order to convey to you his greetings.’

‘Thank you, Sir Bevier.’ Nashan said, somewhat taken aback by the young knight’s stiff formality.

‘Sir Sparhawk.’ Bevier said then, again inclining his head.

‘Do we know each other, Bevier?’

‘Our preceptor described you to me, my Lord Sparhawk – you and your companion, Sir Kalten. Have the others arrived yet?’

Sparhawk shook his head. ‘No. You’re the first.’

‘Come inside, Sir Bevier,’ Nashan said then. ‘We’ll assign you a cell so that you can get out of your armour, and I’ll speak to the kitchen about a hot meal.’

‘An it please you, my Lord, might I first visit your chapel? I have been some days on the road and I feel sorely the need for prayer in a consecrated place.’

‘Of course,’ Nashan said to him.

‘We’ll see to your horse,’ Sparhawk told the young man.

‘Thank you, Lord Sparhawk.’ Bevier bent his head again and followed Nashan up the steps.

‘Oh, he’s going to be a jolly travelling companion,’ Kalten said ironically.

‘He’ll loosen up once he gets to know us,’ Sparhawk said.

‘I hope you’re right. I’d heard that the Cyrinics are a shade formal, but I think our young friend there might be carrying it to extremes.’ Curiously, he unhooked the Lochaber from the saddlebow. ‘Can you imagine using this thing on somebody?’ He shuddered. The Lochaber axe had a heavy, two-foot blade surmounted at its forward end with a razor-sharp, hawklike bill. Its heavy handle was about four feet long. ‘You could shuck a man out of his armour like an oyster out of its shell with this.’

‘I think that’s the idea. It is sort of intimidating, isn’t it? Put it away, Kalten. Don’t play with another man’s toys.’

After Sir Bevier had completed his prayers and changed out of his armour, he joined them in Nashan’s ornate study.

‘Did they give you something to eat?’ Nashan asked.

‘It isn’t necessary, my Lord,’ Bevier replied. ‘If I may be permitted, I’ll join you and your knights in refectory for the noon meal.’

‘Of course,’ Nashan replied. ‘You’re more than welcome to join us, Bevier.’

Sparhawk then introduced Bevier to Sephrenia. The young man bowed deeply to her. ‘I have heard much of you, Lady,’ he said. ‘Our instructors in the Styric secrets hold you in great esteem.’

‘You’re kind to say so, Sir Knight. My skills are the result of age and practice, however, and do not result from any particular virtue.’

‘Age, Lady? Surely not. You can scarce be much older than I, and I will not see my thirtieth year for some months yet. The bloom of youth has not yet left your cheeks, and your eyes quite overwhelm me.’

Sephrenia smiled warmly at him, then looked critically at Kalten and Sparhawk. I hope you two are paying attention,’ she said. ‘A little polish wouldn’t hurt either of you.’

‘I was never much good at formality, little mother,’ Kalten confessed.

‘I’ve noticed,’ she said. ‘Flute,’ she said a bit wearily then, ‘please put the book down. I’ve asked you again and again not to touch them.’

Several days later, Sir Tynian and Sir Ulath arrived, riding together. Tynian was a good-humoured Alcione Knight from Deira, the kingdom lying to the north of Elenia. His broad, round face was open and friendly. His shoulders and chest were powerfully muscled as the result of years of bearing Deiran armour, the heaviest in the world. Over his massive armour he wore a sky-blue surcoat. Ulath was a hulking Genidian Knight, fully a head taller than Sparhawk. He did not wear armour, but rather a plain mail shirt and a simple conical helmet. Covering his shirt, he wore a green surcoat. He carried a large round shield and a heavy war axe. Ulath was a silent, withdrawn man who seldom spoke. His blond hair hung in two braids down his back.