She turned sharply, her eyes startled. ‘That’s absurd, Sparhawk. She doesn’t get sick. She can’t.’
‘I didn’t think so myself, but she’s sick all the same. It’s nothing really tangible, no overt symptoms or anything like that, but she’s definitely not well.’
Sephrenia rose quickly. ‘I’d better go have a look,’ she said. ‘Maybe I can get her to tell me what’s wrong. Is she alone?’
‘No. Ehlana’s with her. I don’t think she’ll be willing to leave. Won’t that complicate things?’
‘I’ll take care of it. Let’s get to the bottom of this before it goes any further.’
Sephrenia’s obvious concern worried Sparhawk all the more. He followed her back to the royal quarters with growing apprehension. She was right about one thing. Aphrael was not in any way susceptible to human illnesses, so this was no simple miasmic fever or one of the innumerable childhood diseases that all humans catch, endure and get over. He dismissed out of hand the notion that there could be such a thing as the sniffles of the Gods.
Sephrenia was very business-like. She was muttering the Styric spell before she even entered Danae’s room.
‘Thank God you’re here, Sephrenia!’ Ehlana exclaimed, half rising from her chair beside the little girl’s bed. ‘I’ve been so…’
Sephrenia released the spell with a curious flick of her hand, and Ehlana’s eyes went blank. She froze in place, half risen from her chair and with one hand partially extended.
Sephrenia approached the bed, sat on the edge of it, and took the little girl in her arms. ‘Aphrael,’ she said, ‘wake up. It’s me – Sephrenia.’
The Child Goddess opened her eyes and began to cry.
‘What is it?’ Sephrenia asked, holding her sister even more tightly and rocking back and forth with her.
‘They’re killing my children, Sephrenia!’ Aphrael wailed. ‘All over Eosia! The Elenes are killing my children! I want to die!’
‘We have to go to Sarsos,’ Sephrenia said to Sparhawk and Vanion a short while later when the three of them were alone. ‘I have to talk with the Thousand.’
‘I know that it’s breaking her heart,’ Vanion said, ‘but it can’t really hurt her, can it?’
‘It could kill her, Vanion. The younger Gods are so totally involved with their worshipers that their very lives depend on them. Please, Sparhawk, ask Bhelliom to take us to Sarsos immediately.’
Sparhawk nodded bleakly and took out the box and touched his ring to the lid. ‘Open!’ He said it more sharply than he’d intended.
The lid snapped up.
‘Blue Rose,’ Sparhawk said, ‘a crisis hath arisen. The Child Goddess is made gravely ill by reason of the murder of her worshipers in far-off Eosia. We must at once to Sarsos that Sephrenia might consult with the Thousand of Styricum regarding a cure.’
‘It shall be as thou dost require, Anakha.’ The words came from Vanion’s mouth. The Preceptor’s expression turned slightly uncertain. ‘Is it proper for me to tell thee that I feel sympathy for thee and thy mate for this illness of thine only child?’
‘I do appreciate thy kind concern, Blue Rose.’
‘My concern doth not arise merely from kindness, Anakha. Twice hath the gentle hand of the Child Goddess touched me, and even I am not proof against the subtle magic of her touch. For the love we all bear her, let us away to Sarsos that she may be made whole again.’
The world seemed to shift and blur, and the three of them found themselves outside the marble-sheathed council hall in Sarsos. Autumn was further along here, and the birch forest lying on the outskirts of the city was ablaze with color.
‘You two wait here,’ Sephrenia told them. ‘Let’s not stir up the hot-heads by marching Elenes into the council chamber again.’
Sparhawk nodded and opened Bhelliom’s golden case to put the jewel away.
‘Nay, Anakha,’ Bhelliom told him, still speaking through Vanion’s lips. ‘I would know how Sephrenia’s proposal is received.’
‘An it please thee, Blue Rose,’ Sparhawk replied politely.
Sephrenia went on inside.
‘It’s cooler here,’ Vanion noted, pulling his cloak a little tighter about him.
‘Yes,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘It’s farther north.’
‘That more or less exhausts the weather as a topic. Quit worrying, Sparhawk. Sephrenia has a great deal of influence with the Thousand. I’m sure they’ll agree to help.’
They waited as the minutes dragged by.
It was probably half an hour later when Sparhawk felt a sharp surge, almost a shudder, pass through Bhelliom. ‘Come with me, Anakha!’ Vanion’s voice was sharp, abrupt.
‘What is it?’
‘The Styric love of endless talk discontents me. I must needs go past the Thousand to the Younger Gods themselves. These babblers do talk away the life of Aphrael.’ Sparhawk was a bit surprised by the vehemence in Vanion’s voice. He followed as his Preceptor, walking in a gait that was peculiarly not his own, stormed into the building. The bronze doors to the council chamber may have been locked. The screech of tortured metal that accompanied Vanion’s abrupt opening of them suggested that they had been, at any rate.
Sephrenia was standing before the council pleading for aid. She broke off and stared incredulously at Vanion as he burst through the door.
‘We don’t allow Elenes in here!’ one of the council members on a back bench shrieked in Styric, rising to his feet and waving his arms.
Then a sort of strangled silence filled the chamber. Vanion began to swell, spreading upward and outward into enormity even as an intensely blue aura flickered brighter and brighter around him. Flickers of lightning surged through that aura, and ripping peals of thunder echoed shockingly back from the marble-clad walls. Sephrenia stared at Vanion in sudden awe.
Prompted by an unvoiced suggestion which only he could hear, Sparhawk raised the glowing Sapphire Rose. ‘Behold Bhelliom!’ he roared. ‘And hearken unto its mighty voice!’
‘Hear my words, ye Thousand of Styricum!’ The voice coming from the enormity which a moment before had been Vanion was vast. It was a voice to which mountains would listen and which waves and torrents would stop at once to hear. ‘I would speak with your Gods! Too small are ye and too caught up in endless babble to consider this matter!’
Sparhawk winced. Diplomacy, he saw, was not one of Bhelliom’s strong suits.
One of the white-robed councillors drew himself up, spluttering indignantly. ‘This is outrageous! We don’t have to…’ He was suddenly gone, and in his place stood a confused-looking personage who appeared to have been interrupted in the middle of his bath. Naked and dripping, he gaped at the huge, blue-lighted presence and at the glowing jewel in Sparhawk’s hand. ‘Well, really…’ he protested.
‘Setras!’ the profound voice said sharply. ‘How deep is thy love for thy cousin Aphrael?’
‘This is most irregular!’ the youthful God protested.
‘How deep is thy love?’ The voice was inexorable.
‘I adore her, naturally. We all do, but…’
‘What wouldst thou give to save her life?’
‘Anything she asks, of course, but how could her life be in danger?’
‘Thou knowest that Zalasta of Styricum is a traitor, dost thou not?’
There were gasps from the council.
‘Aphrael said so,’ the God replied, ‘but we thought she might have been a little excited. You know how she is sometimes.’
‘She told thee truly, Setras. Even now do Zalasta’s minions slaughter her worshipers in far-off Eosia. With each death is she made less. If this be permitted to continue, soon she will be no more.’
The God Setras stiffened, his eyes suddenly blazing. ‘Monstrous!’
‘What wilt thou give that she may live?’
‘Mine own life, if need be,’ Setras replied with archaic formalism.
‘Wilt thou lend her of thine own worshipers?’
Setras stared at the glowing Bhelliom, his face filled with chagrin.
‘Quickly, Setras! Even now doth the life of Aphrael ebb away!’
The God drew in a deep breath. ‘There is no alternative?’ he asked plaintively.
‘None. The life of the Child Goddess is sustained only by love. Give her the love of certain of thy children for a time that she may be made whole again.’
Setras straightened. ‘I will!’ he declared. ‘Though it doth rend mine heart.’ A determined look crossed that divine face. ‘And I do assure thee, World-Maker, that mine shall not be the only children who will sustain the life of our beloved cousin with their love. All shall contribute equally.’
‘Done, then!’ Bhelliom seemed fond of that expression.
‘Ah…’ Setras said then, his tone slightly worried and his speech slipping into less formal colloquialism. ‘She will give them back, won’t she?’
‘Thou hast mine assurance, Divine Setras,’ Sephrenia promised with a smile.
The Younger God looked relieved. Then his eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Anakha,’ he said crisply.
‘Yes, Divine One?’
‘Measures must be taken to protect Aphrael’s remaining children. How might that best be accomplished?’
‘Advise them to go to the chapterhouses of the Knights of the Church of Chyrellos,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘There will they be kept from all harm.’
‘And who doth command these knights?’
‘Archprelate Dolmant, I suppose,’ Sparhawk replied doubtfully. ‘It is he who doth exercise ultimate authority.’
‘I will speak with him. Where may I find him?’
‘He will be in the Basilica in Chyrellos, Divine One.’
‘I will go there and seek him out that we may consult together regarding this matter.’
Sparhawk nearly choked on the theological implications of that particular announcement. Then he looked somewhat more closely at Sephrenia’s face. She was still regarding Vanion with a certain amount of awe. Then, so clearly that he could almost hear the click in her mind, Sephrenia made a decision. Her whole face, her entire being, announced it louder than words.
‘Ulath,’ Kalten said irritably, ‘pay attention. You’ve been wool-gathering for the past two weeks. What’s got you so distracted?’
‘I don’t like the reports we’ve been getting back from Atan,’ the big Genidian replied, shifting the Princess Danae, Rollo and Mmrr around in his lap. The little princess had been confined to her room for ten days by her illness, and this was her first day back among them. She was engaging in one of her favorite pastimes – lapswitching. Sparhawk knew that most of his friends really didn’t pay that much attention, responding automatically to her mute, wan little appeals to be picked up and held. In actuality, however, Aphrael, with toy and with cat, was very busily going from lap to lap to re-establish contact with those who might have drifted out of her grasp during her illness. As always, there were kisses involved, but those kisses were not really the spontaneous little demonstrations of affection they seemed. Aphrael could change minds and alter moods with a touch. With a kiss, however, she could instantly take possession of the entirety of someone’s heart and soul. Whenever Sparhawk was engaged in a dispute with his daughter, he was always very careful to keep at least one piece of furniture between them.
‘Things aren’t working out the way I thought they would,’ Ulath said in a gloomy voice. ‘The Trolls are learning to hide from arrows and crossbow bolts.’
‘Even a Troll is bound to learn eventually,’ Talen said. Talen seemed fully recovered from his tumble out of the maple tree, although he still complained of headaches occasionally.
‘No,’ Ulath disagreed. ‘That’s the whole point. Trolls don’t learn. Maybe it’s because their Gods don’t learn – or can’t. The Trolls that are walking around right now know exactly what the first Troll who ever lived knew – no more, no less. Cyrgon’s tampering with them. If he alters the Trolls to the point that they can learn things, mankind’s going to be in serious trouble.’
‘There’s something more, too, isn’t there, Ulath?’ Bevier asked shrewdly. ‘You’ve had your “theological expression” on your face for the past several days. You’re tussling with some moral dilemma, aren’t you?’
Ulath sighed. ‘This is probably going to upset everybody, but try to consider it on its merits instead of just going up in flames about it.’
‘That doesn’t sound too promising, old boy,’ Stragen murmured. ‘You’d better break it to us gently.’
‘I don’t think there is a gentle way, Stragen. Betuana’s dispatches are getting more and more shrill. The Trolls won’t come out in the open any more. The mounted Atans can’t get at them with lances, and the arrows and crossbow bolts are hitting more trees than Trolls. They’re even setting grass-fires so they can hide in the smoke. Betuana’s right on the verge of calling her people home, and without the Atans, we don’t have an army any more.’
‘Sir Ulath,’ Oscagne said, ‘I gather that this gloomy preamble is a preparation for a shocking suggestion. I think we’ve all been sufficiently prepared. Go ahead and shock us.’
‘We have to take the Trolls away from Cyrgon,’ Ulath replied, absently scratching Mmrr’s ears. ‘We can’t let him continue to teach them even rudimentary tactics, and we definitely don’t want them cooperating with each other the way they have been.’
‘And how exactly are you going to take totally unmanageable brutes away from a God?’ Stragen asked him.
‘I was sort of thinking along the lines of letting their own Gods do it. The Troll-Gods are available, after all. Ghwerig imprisoned them inside Bhelliom, and Sparhawk’s got Bhelliom tucked away inside his shirt. I’d imagine that Khwaj and the others would do almost anything for us if we promise to give them their freedom.’
‘Are you mad?’ Stragen exclaimed. ‘We can’t turn them loose! That’s unthinkable!’ He dropped the pair of gold coins he always carried now.
‘I’d be more than happy to consider alternatives – if anyone can come up with some. The threat to Atan is serious enough, but the longer Cyrgon dominates the Trolls, the more they’re going to learn from him. Sooner or later, they’ll go back to Thalesia. Do we really want a trained army of Trolls outside the gates of Emsat? We’ve got at least some small advantage if we deal with the Troll-Gods. We hold the key to their freedom. But we don’t really have anything Cyrgon wants – except Bhelliom itself. I’d rather deal with the Troll-Gods, myself.’