‘You’re really very good with that crossbow,’ Berit said.
Khalad shrugged. ‘Practice,’ he replied. Then his head came up sharply. ‘Company coming.’ He pointed toward the road with his knife.
‘Arjuni,’ Berit noted, squinting at the approaching riders.
‘Not all of them,’ Khalad disagreed. ‘The one in front’s an Elene – an Edomishman, judging from his clothes.’ Khalad wiped his bloody hands on the long grass, picked up his crossbow and re-cocked it. ‘Just to be on the safe side,’ he explained. ‘They do know who we really are, after all.’
Berit nodded bleakly and loosened his sword in its scabbard.
The riders reined in about fifty yards away. ‘Sir sparhawk?’ the Edomishman called out in Elenic.
‘Maybe,’ Berit called back. ‘What can I do for you, neighbor?’
‘I have a message for you.’
‘I’m touched. Bring it on in.’
‘Come alone,’ Khalad added. ‘You won’t need your bodyguards.’
‘I’ve heard about what you did to the last messenger.’
‘Good,’ Khalad replied. ‘We sort of intended for word of that to get around. The fellow had a little trouble being civil, but I’m sure you have better manners. Come ahead. You’re safe – as long as you’re polite.’
The Edomishman still hesitated.
‘Friend,’ Khalad said pointedly, ‘You’re well within range of my crossbow, so you’d better do as I tell you. Just come on in alone. We’ll conduct our business, and then you and your Arjuni friends can be on your way. Otherwise, this might turn unpleasant.’
The Edomishman conferred briefly with his bodyguards and then rode cautiously forward, holding a folded parchment above his head. ‘I’m not armed,’ he announced.
‘That’s not very prudent, neighbor,’ Berit told him. ‘These are troubled times. Let’s have the note.’
The messenger lowered his arm slowly and extended the parchment. ‘The plans have changed, Sir Sparhawk,’ he said politely.
‘Astonishing.’ Berit opened the parchment and gently took out the lock of identifying hair. ‘This is only about the third time. You fellows seem to be having some difficulty making up your minds.’ He looked at the parchment. ‘That’s accommodating. Somebody even drew a map this time.’
‘The village isn’t really very well-known,’ the Edomishman explained. ‘It’s a tiny place that wouldn’t even be there if it weren’t for the slave-trade.’
‘You’re a very good messenger, friend,’ Khalad told him. ‘Would you like to carry a word back to Krager for me?’
‘I’ll try, young Master.’
‘Good. Tell him that I’m coming after him. He should probably start looking back over his shoulder, because no matter how this turns out, one day I’ll be there.’
The Edomishman swallowed hard. ‘I’ll tell him, young Master.’
‘I’d appreciate it.’
The messenger carefully backed his horse off a few yards and then rode off to rejoin his Arjuni escort.
‘Well?’ Khalad asked.
‘Vigayo – over in Cynesga.’
‘It’s not much of a town.’
‘You’ve been there?’
‘Briefly. Bhelliom took us there by mistake when Sparhawk was practicing with it.’
‘How far is it from here?’
‘About a hundred leagues. It’s in the right direction, though. Aphrael said that Zalasta’s taking the Queen to Cyrga, so Vigayo’s got to be closer than Arjun. Pass the word, Berit. Tell Aphrael that we’ll start out first thing in the morning. Then you can come and help me cut up this deer. It’s ten days to Vigayo, so we’re probably going to need the meat.’
‘He hath been there,’ Xanetia told them. ‘His memories of the Hidden City are vivid, but his recollection of the route is imprecise. I could glean no more than disconnected impressions of the journey. His madness hath bereft his thought of coherence, and his mind doth flit from reality to illusion and back without purpose or direction.’
‘I’d say we got us a problem,’ Caalador drawled. ‘Ol’ Krager, he don’t know th’ way on accounta he wuz too drunk t’ pay attention when Zalasta wuz a-talkin’ ‘bout how t’ git t’ Cyrga, an’ Scorpa’s too crazy t’ remember how he got thar.’ His eyes narrowed, and he discarded the dialect. ‘What about Cyzada?’ he asked Xanetia.
She shuddered. ‘It is not madness nor drunkenness which doth bar my way into the thought of Cyzada of Esos,’ she replied in a voice filled with revulsion. ‘Deeply hath he reached into the darkness that was Azash, and the creatures of the nether-world have possessed him so utterly that his thought is no longer human. His spells at first did in some measure control those horrid demons, but then he did summon Klæl, and in that act was all unloosed. Prithee, do not send me again into that seething chaos. He doth indeed know a route to Cyrga, but we could in no wise follow that path, for it doth lie through the realm of flame and darkness and unspeakable horror.’
‘That more or less exhausts the possibilities of this place then, doesn’t it?’ They all turned quickly at the sound of the familiar voice. The Child Goddess sat demurely on a window-ledge holding her pipes in her hands.
‘Is this wise, Divine One?’ Bevier asked her. ‘Won’t our enemies sense your presence?’
‘There’s no one left here who can do that, Bevier,’ she replied. ‘Zalasta’s gone. I just stopped by to tell you that Berit’s received new instructions. He and Khalad are going to Vigayo, a village just on the other side of the Cynesgan border. As soon as you’re ready, I’ll take you there.’
‘What good will that do?’ Kalten asked.
‘I need to get Xanetia close to the next messenger,’ she replied. ‘Cyrga’s completely concealed – even from me. There’s a key to that illusion, and that’s what we have to find. Without that key, we could all grow old wandering around out in that wasteland and still not find the city.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ Sparhawk conceded. He looked directly at her. ‘Can you arrange another meeting? We’re getting close to the end of this, and I need to talk with the others – Vanion and Bergsten in particular, and probably with Betuana and Kring as well. We’ve got armies at our disposal, but they won’t be much use if they’re running off in three different directions or attacking Cyrga piecemeal. We’ve got a general idea of where the place is, and I’d like to put a ring of steel around it, but I don’t want anybody to go blundering in there until we get Ehlana and Alean safely out.’
‘You’re going to get me in trouble, Sparhawk,’ she said tartly. ‘Do you have any idea of the kinds of promises I’ll have to make to get permission for that kind of gathering? – and I’ll have to keep all those promises too.’
‘It’s really very important, Aphrael.’
She stuck her tongue out at him, and then she wavered and vanished.
‘Domi Tikume sent orders, your Reverence,’ the shaved-headed Peloi advised Patriarch Bergsten when they met in the churchman’s tent just outside the town of Pela in central Astel. ‘We’re to provide whatever assistance we can.’
‘Your Domi’s a good man, friend Daiya,’ the armored Patriarch replied.
‘His orders stirred up a hornet’s nest,’ Daiya said wryly. ‘The idea of an alliance with the Church Knights set off a theological debate that went on for days. Most people here in Astel believe that the Church Knights were born and raised in Hell. A fair number of the debaters are currently taking the matter up with God in person.’
‘I gather that religious disputes among the Peloi are quite spirited.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Daiya agreed. ‘The message from Archimandrite Monsel helped to quiet things, though. Peloi religious thought isn’t really all that profound, your Reverence. We trust God and leave the theology to the churchmen. If the Archimandrite approves, that’s good enough for us. If he’s wrong, he’s the one who’ll burn in Hell for it.’
‘How far is it from here to Cynestra?’ Bergsten asked him.
‘About a hundred and seventy-five leagues, your Reverence.’
‘Three weeks,’ Bergsten muttered sourly. ‘Well, there’s not much we can do about that, I suppose. We’ll start out first thing in the morning. Tell your men to get some sleep, friend Daiya. It’s probably going to be in short supply for the next month or so.’
‘Bergsten.’ The voice crooning his name was light and musical.
The Thalesian Patriarch sat up quickly, reaching for his axe.
‘Oh, don’t do that, Bergsten. I’m not going to hurt you.’
‘Who’s there?’ he demanded, fumbling for his candle and his flint and steel.
‘Here.’ A small hand emerged from the darkness with a tongue of flame dancing on its palm.
Bergsten blinked. His midnight visitor was a little girl – Styric, he guessed. She was a beautiful child with long hair and large eyes as dark as night. Bergsten’s hands started to tremble. ‘You’re Aphrael, aren’t you?’ he choked.
‘Keen observation, your Grace. Sparhawk wants to see you.’
He drew back from this personage that standard Church doctrine told him did not – could not – exist.
‘You’re being silly, your Grace,’ she told him. ‘You know that I couldn’t even be talking to you if I didn’t have permission from your God, don’t you? I can’t even come near you without permission.’
‘Well, theoretically,’ he reluctantly conceded. ‘You could be a demon, though, and the rules don’t apply to them.’
‘Do I look like a demon?’
‘Appearance and reality are two different things,’ he insisted.
She looked into his eyes and pronounced the true name of the Elene God, one of the most closely-kept secrets of the Church. ‘A demon couldn’t say that name, could it, your Grace?’
‘Well, I suppose not.’
‘We’ll get along well, Bergsten,’ she smiled, kissing him lightly on the cheek. ‘Ortzel would have argued that point for weeks. Leave your axe here, please. Steel makes my flesh crawl.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘To meet with Sparhawk. I already told you that.’
‘Is it far?’
‘Not really.’ She smiled, opening the tent flap.
It was still night in Pela, but it was broad daylight beyond the tent flap – a strange sort of daylight. A pristine white beach stretched down to a sapphire sea all under a rainbow-colored sky, and a small green eyot surmounted by a gleaming alabaster temple rose from that incredibly blue sea about a half-mile from the beach.
‘What place is this?’ Bergsten asked, poking his head out of the tent and looking around in amazement.
‘I suppose you could call it Heaven, your Grace,’ the Child Goddess replied, blowing out the flame dancing on her palm. ‘It’s mine, anyway. There are others, but this one’s mine.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Everywhere and anywhere. All the Heavens are everyplace all at once. So are all the Hells, of course -but that’s another story. Shall we go?’
Chapter 21
Cordz of Nelan was the perfect man. That realization had not come easily to the devout Edomishman. It had only been after extended soul-searching and a meticulous examination of the sacred texts of his faith that he had arrived at the inescapable conclusion. He was perfect. He obeyed all of God’s commandments, he did what he was supposed to do, and he did not do the things that were forbidden. Isn’t that what perfection is all about?
It was a comfort to be perfect, but Cordz was not one to rest on his laurels. Now that he had achieved perfection in the eyes of God, it was time to turn his attention to the faults of his neighbors. Sinners, however, seldom sin openly, so Cordz was obliged to resort to subterfuge. He peeked through windows late at night; he eavesdropped on private conversations; and, when his sinful neighbors cleverly concealed their wrongdoing from him, he imagined the sins they might be committing. The Sabbath was a very special day for Cordz, but not for the sermons. After all, what need had a perfect man for sermons? It was on the Sabbath that he was able to rise to his feet and denounce the sins of his neighbors, both the sins they had committed and the sins they might be committing.
He probably irritated the Devil. God knows he irritated his neighbors.
But then a crisis had arisen in Edom. The debauched and heretical Church of Chyrellos, after two eons of plotting and scheming, was finally preparing to make her move against the righteous. The Church Knights were on the march, and horrors beyond imagining marched with them.
Cordz was among the first to enlist in Rebal’s army, the perfect man abandoned his neighbors to their sinful ways to join a holier cause. He became Rebal’s most trusted messenger, killing horses by the dozen as he rushed about the Elene kingdoms of western Tamuli carrying the dispatches so vital to the cause.
On this particular day Cordz was flogging his exhausted horse southward toward the corrupt cities of southern Daconia, cesspools of sin and licentiousness, if the truth were to be known, where the citizens not only did not know that they were sinners, they did not even care. Worse yet, an obscure and probably heretical tradition of the Dacite Church prevented laymen from speaking aloud during Sabbath services. Thus, God’s very own spokesman, the perfect man, was not permitted to expose and denounce the sins he saw all around him. The frustration of it sometimes made him want to just scream.
He had been riding hard for the past week, and he was very tired. Thus it was with some relief that he finally crested the hill that overlooked the port city of Melek.
Then all thoughts of the sins of others vanished. Cordz reined in his staggering horse and gaped in horror at what he saw.
There on a sea sparkling in the winter sun was a vast armada, ships beyond counting, sailing majestically down the coast under the red and gold banners of the Church of Chyrellos!
The perfect man was so overcome with horror that he did not even hear the plaintive sound of a shepherd’s rude pipe playing a Styric air in a minor key somewhere off to his left. He gaped for a time at his worst nightmare, and then he desperately drove his spurs into his horse’s flanks, rushing to spread the alarm.
General Sirada was the younger brother of Duke Milanis, and he commanded the rebel forces in Panem-Dea. King Rakya had so arranged it that most of Scarpa’s generals were Arjuni. Sirada knew that there were risks involved, but the younger sons of noble families were obliged to take risks if they wanted to get ahead in the world. For them, rank and position had to be won. Sirada had endured the years of association with the crazy bastard son of a tavern wench and the discomfort of camping out in the jungle waiting for his chance.
And now it had come. The madman in Natayos had finally sent the order to march. The campaign had begun. There was no sleep in Panem-Dea that night. The preparations for the march went on through the hours of darkness, and the undisciplined rabble Sirada commanded was incapable of doing anything quietly. The general spent the night poring over his maps.
The strategy was sound; he was forced to admit that. He was to join forces with Scarpa and the other rebels near Derel. Then they would march north to the Tamul Mountains to be reinforced by Cynesgans. From there, they would march on Tosa in preparation for the final assault on Matherion.
General Sirada’s own strategy was much simpler. Scarpa would crush any resistance at Tosa, but he would not live to see the gleaming domes of the imperial capital. Sirada smiled thinly and patted the little vial of poison he carried in his inside pocket. The army would capture Matherion, but it would be General Sirada who would lead the final assault and personally run his sword through Emperor Sarabian. The younger brother of Duke Milanis expected an earldom at the very least to come out of this campaign.
The door banged open, and his adjutant burst into the room, his eyes starting from his head and his face a pasty white. ‘Good God, my General!’ he shrieked.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Sirada demanded. ‘How dare you? I’ll have you flogged for this!’
/> ‘We’re being attacked, my General!’
Sirada could hear the squeals of terror now. He rose quickly and went out the door.
It was not yet daylight, and a clinging mist had crept in out of the tangled forest to blur the ruined walls and houses of Panem-Dea. There were fires and flaring torches pushing back the darkness with their ruddy light, but there were other lights in the weed-choked streets as well, pale, cold lights that did not burn or flicker. Creatures of light, pale as wandering moons, stalked the streets of Panem-Dea. The general’s heart filled with terror. It was impossible! The Shining Ones were a myth! There were no such creatures!
Sirada shook off his fright and drew his sword. ‘Stand fast!’ he roared at his demoralized men. ‘Form up! Pike-men to the front!’ He bulled his way into the milling mob of terrified troops, flailing about him with the flat of his sword. ‘Form up! Make a line!’
But there was no rationality nor fear of authority in the panic-stricken faces of his poorly trained men. The screaming mob simply diverged and bypassed him on either side. He ran at them again, swinging great strokes with his sword, cutting down his own men.
He was so desperate to restore order that he did not even feel the knife-stroke that went in just below his ribs on the left side. He could not even understand why his knees buckled or why he fell under the trampling feet of his soldiers as they fled screaming into the trackless forest.
* * *
‘Are you sure this map’s accurate, Tynian?’ Patriarch Bergsten demanded, peering at the miniature world under his feet.
‘It’s the most accurate map you’ll ever see, your Grace,’ Tynian assured him. ‘Bhlokw cast the spell, and the Troll-Gods put their hands into the ground and felt the shape of the continent. This is it – down to the last tree and bush. Everything’s here.’
‘Except for Cyrga, Tynian-Knight,’ Engessa amended. The Atan general was completely healed now, and he looked as fit as ever. His face, however, was troubled. His Queen had greeted him almost abruptly when she had first arrived, and she was now quite obviously avoiding him.