The Sapphire Rose

by David Eddings

  Otha flinched back and made a quick signal to the half-naked brutes around him. The bearers picked up the litter upon which he grossly sprawled and started towards the terraces leading down towards the onyx floor where the naked celebrants, twitching and blank-faced with exhaustion, continued their obscene rite. Annias, Arissa and Lycheas went with him, their eyes fearful as they stayed as close to his litter as possible to remain within the questionable safety of the glowing nimbus of his protective shield. When the litter reached the onyx floor, Otha shouted to the green-robed priests, and they rushed forward, their faces alight with mindless devotion as they drew weapons from beneath their vestments.

  From behind them, Sparhawk heard a sudden cry of frustrated chagrin. The soldiers rushing to the aid of their emperor had just encountered Sephrenia’s barrier. ‘Will it hold?’ he asked her.

  ‘It will unless one of those soldiers is stronger than I am.’

  ‘Not too likely. That leaves only the priests then.’ He looked at his friends. ‘All right, gentlemen,’ he said to them. ‘Let’s form up around Sephrenia and clear a path through here.’

  The priests of Azash wore no armour, and the way they handled their weapons showed little evidence of skill. They were Styric for the most part, and the sudden appearance of hostile Church Knights in the holy centre of their religion had startled them and filled them with dismay. Sparhawk remembered something Sephrenia had once said. Styrics, she had told him, do not react well when they are surprised. The unexpected tends to confound them. He could feel a faint prickling sensation as he and his armoured friends started down the stair-stepped terraces, a prickling that told him that some few of the priests at least were attempting to put some form of spell together. He roared an Elene war cry, a harsh bellow filled with a lust for blood and violence. The prickling evaporated. ‘Lots of noise, gentlemen!’ he shouted to his friends. ‘Keep them off-balance so they can’t use magic!’

  The Church Knights rushed down the black terraces bellowing war cries and brandishing their weapons. The priests recoiled, and then the knights were on them.

  Berit pushed past Sparhawk, his eyes alight with enthusiasm and Sir Bevier’s lochaber at the ready. ‘Save your strength, Sparhawk,’ he said gruffly, trying to make his voice deeper, more roughly masculine. He stepped purposefully in front of the startled Sparhawk and strode into the green-robed ranks facing them, swinging the lochaber like a scythe.

  Sparhawk reached out to pull him back, but Sephrenia laid her hand on his wrist. ‘No, Sparhawk,’ she said. ‘This is important to him, and he’s in no particular danger.’

  Otha had reached the polished altar in front of the idol and was staring at the carnage below in openmouthed fright. Then he drew himself up. ‘Approach then, Sparhawk!’ he blustered. ‘My God grows impatient!’

  ‘I doubt that, Otha,’ Sparhawk called back. ‘Azash wants Bhelliom, but he doesn’t want me to deliver it to him, because he doesn’t know what I’m going to do with it.’

  ‘Very good, Sparhawk,’ Sephrenia murmured. ‘Use your advantage. Azash will sense Otha’s uncertainty, and He’ll feel the same way.’

  The temple echoed with the noise of blows, shrieks and groans as Sparhawk’s friends systematically slaughtered the green-robed priests. They chopped their way through the tightly-packed ranks until they reached the foot of the first terrace below the altar.

  In spite of everything, Sparhawk felt tightly exultant. He had not expected to make it this far, and his unexpected survival filled him with a sense of euphoric invincibility. ‘Well, Otha,’ he said, looking up those stair-stepped terraces at the bloated emperor, ‘why don’t you awaken Azash? Let’s find out if the Elder Gods know how to die as well as men do.’

  Otha gaped at him, then scrambled from his litter and crumpled to the floor as his puny legs refused to support him. ‘Kneel!’ he half-screamed at Annias. ‘Kneel and pray to our God for deliverance!’ The notion that his soldiers could not enter the temple obviously frightened Otha considerably.

  ‘Kalten,’ Sparhawk called to his friend, ‘finish up with the priests, and then make sure that those soldiers don’t break through and rush us from behind.’

  ‘That’s not necessary, Sparhawk,’ Sephrenia said.

  ‘I know, but it should keep them back out of harm’s way.’ He drew in a deep breath. ‘Here we go, then.’ He shook off his gauntlets, tucked his sword-blade under his arm and took the steel-mesh pouch from his belt. He unwrapped the wire which bound the pouch shut and shook Bhelliom out into his hand. The jewel seemed very hot, and light, wavering like heat-lightning on a summer’s night, seethed among its petals. ‘Blue-Rose!’ he said sharply. ‘You must do as I command!’

  Otha, half-kneeling, half-squatting, was babbling a prayer to his God – a prayer made almost unintelligible by his fright. Annias, Lycheas and Arissa also knelt, and they stared up at the hideous face of the idol looming above them. Their eyes were filled with horror as they more closely beheld the reality of that God they had so willingly chosen to follow.

  ‘Come, Azash!’ Otha pleaded. ‘Awaken! Hear the prayer of thy servants!’

  The idol’s deep-sunk eyes had been closed, but now they slowly opened, and that greenish fire blazed from them. Sparhawk felt wave upon wave of malevolence blazing at him from those baleful eyes, and he stood, stunned into near-insensibility by the titanic presence of a God.

  The idol was moving! A kind of undulation rippled down its body and the tentacle-like arms sinuously reached forth – reaching towards the glowing stone in Sparhawk’s hand, yearning towards the one thing in all the world which offered restoration and freedom.

  ‘No!’ Sparhawk’s voice was a harsh rasp. He raised his sword above the Bhelliom. ‘I’ll destroy it!’ he threatened, ‘– and you along with it!’

  The idol seemed to recoil, and its eyes were suddenly filled with amazed shock. ‘Why hast thou brought this ignorant savage into my presence, Sephrenia?’ The voice was hollow, and it echoed throughout the temple and in Sparhawk’s mind as well. Sparhawk knew that the mind of Azash could obliterate him in the space between two heartbeats, but for some reason Azash seemed afraid to bring his power to bear upon the rash man who stood menacing the Sapphire Rose with drawn sword.

  ‘I do but obey my destiny, Azash,’ Sephrenia replied calmly. ‘I was born to bring Sparhawk to this place to face thee.’

  ‘But what of the Destiny of this Sparhawk? Dost thou know what he is destined to do?’ There was a kind of desperation in the voice of Azash.

  ‘No man or God knoweth that, Azash,’ she reminded him. ‘Sparhawk is Anakha, and all the Gods have known and feared that one day Anakha would come and would move through this world committed to ends which none may perceive. I am the servant of his Destiny, whatever it may be, and I have brought him here that he may bring those ends to fruition.’

  The idol seemed to tense itself, and then an irresistible command lashed out, overpowering and insistent, and the command was not directed at Sparhawk.

  Sephrenia gasped and seemed almost to wilt like a flower before the first blast of winter. Sparhawk could actually feel her resolve fading. She wavered as the force of the mind of Azash peeled away her defences.

  He tensed his arm and raised his sword higher. If Sephrenia were to fall, they were lost, and he could not know if there would be time to deliver the last fatal stroke after her collapse. He drew the image of Ehlana’s face in his mind and gripped his sword-hilt even more tightly.

  The sound was not audible to anyone else. He knew that. It was in his mind only; only he could hear it. It was the insistent, commanding sound of shepherd’s pipes, and there was a very strong overtone of irritation to it.

  ‘Aphrael!’ he called out in sudden relief.

  A small firefly spark appeared in front of his face. ‘Well, finally!’ Flute’s voice snapped angrily. ‘What took you so long, Sparhawk? Don’t you know that you have to call me?’

  ‘No. I didn’t know that. Help Sephrenia.’r />
  There was no touch, no movement, no sound, but Sephrenia straightened, brushing at her brow with lightly-touching fingers as the idol’s eyes burned and fixed themselves on that firefly spark.

  ‘My daughter,’ the voice of Azash said. ‘Wilt thou cast thy lot with these mortals?’

  ‘I am no daughter of thine, Azash.’ Flute’s voice was crisp. ‘I willed myself into existence, as did my brothers and sisters when thou and thy kindred did tear at the fabric of reality with thy childish contention. I am thy daughter only through thy fault. Hadst thou and thy kindred turned ye aside from that reckless course which would have destroyed all, there would have been no need for me and mine.’

  ‘I will have Bhelliom!’ The hollow voice was the thunder and the earthquake, tearing at the very foundations of the earth.

  ‘Thou shalt not!’ Flute’s voice was flatly contradictory. ‘It was to deny thee and thy kind possession of Bhelliom that I and my kind came into existence. Bhelliom is not of this place, and it must not be held here in bondage to thee or to me or to the Troll-Gods or any other Gods of this world.’

  ‘I will have it!’ The voice of Azash rose to a scream.

  ‘No. Anakha will destroy it first, and in its destruction shalt thou perish.’

  The idol seemed to flinch. ‘How darest thou!’ it gasped. ‘How darest thou even speak such horror? In the death of one of us lieth the seeds of the deaths of us all.’

  ‘So be it then.’ Aphrael’s tone was indifferent. Then her light little voice took on a cruel note. ‘Direct thy fury at me, Azash, and not at my children, for it was I who used the power of the rings to emasculate thee and to confine thee forever in that idol of mud.’

  ‘It was thou?’ The terrible voice seemed stunned.

  ‘It was I. Thy power is so abated by thine emasculation that thou canst not escape thy confinement. Thou wilt not have Bhelliom, impotent Godling, and thus shalt thou be forever imprisoned. Thou shalt remain unmanned and confined until the farthest star burns down to ashes.’ She paused, and when she spoke again it was in the tone of one slowly twisting a knife buried in the body of another. ‘It was thine absurd and transparent proposal that all the Gods of Styricum unite to seize Bhelliom from the Troll-Gods – “for the good of all” – that gave me the opportunity to mutilate and confine thee, Azash. Thou hast none to blame but thyself for what hath befallen thee. And now Anakha hath brought Bhelliom and the rings – and even the Troll-Gods locked within the jewel – here to confront thee. I call upon thee to submit to the power of the Sapphire Rose – or to perish.’

  There was a howl of inhuman frustration, but the idol made no move.

  Otha, however, his eyes filled with panic, began to mutter a desperate spell. Then he hurled it forth, and the hideous statues encircling the interior of the vast temple began to shimmer, changing from marble-white to greens and blues and bloody reds, and the babble of their inhuman voices filled the dome. Sephrenia spoke two words in Styric, her voice calm. She gestured, and the statues froze again, congealing back into pallid marble.

  Otha howled, and began to speak again, so frustrated and enraged that he did not even speak in Styric, but in his native Elene.

  ‘Listen to me, Sparhawk,’ Flute’s musical voice was very soft.

  ‘But Otha –’

  ‘He’s only babbling. My sister can deal with him. Pay attention. The time will come very soon when you’ll have to act. I’ll tell you when. Climb these stairs to the idol and keep your sword poised over Bhelliom. If Azash or Otha or anything else tries to keep you from reaching the idol, smash the Bhelliom. If all goes well and you reach the idol, touch Bhelliom to that place that looks burned and scarred.’

  ‘Will that destroy Azash?’

  ‘Of course not. The idol that’s sitting there is only an encasement. The real idol is inside that big one. Bhelliom will shatter the big idol, and you’ll be able to see Azash Himself. The real idol is quite small, and it’s made of dried mud. As soon as you can see it, drop your sword and hold Bhelliom in both hands. Then use these exact words, “Blue-Rose, I am Sparhawk-from-Elenia. By the power of these rings I command Blue-Rose to return this image to the earth from which it came.” Then touch Bhelliom to the idol.’

  ‘What happens then?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Aphrael!’ Sparhawk said it in a tone of startled protest.

  ‘Bhelliom’s Destiny is even more obscure than yours, and I can’t tell from one minute to the next what you’re going to do.’

  ‘Will it destroy Azash?’

  ‘Oh yes – and quite possibly the rest of the world as well. Bhelliom wants to be free of this world, and this might just be the chance it’s been waiting for.’

  Sparhawk swallowed very hard.

  ‘It’s a gamble,’ she conceded in an offhand way, ‘but we never know which way the dice are going to turn up until we roll them, do we?’

  The temple suddenly went totally dark as Sephrenia and Otha continued their struggle, and for a breathless moment it seemed as if that darkness might be eternal, so intense was it.

  Then the light gradually returned. The fires in those great iron braziers renewed themselves, and gradually the flames rose again.

  As the light returned, Sparhawk found that he was looking at Annias. The Primate of Cimmura’s emaciated face was a ghastly white, and all thought had vanished from his eyes. Blinded by his obsessive ambition, Annias had never looked fully at the horror to which he had pledged his soul in his pursuit of the Archprelate’s throne. Now at last he obviously perceived it, and now, just as obviously, it was too late. He stared at Sparhawk, his eyes pleading mutely for something – anything – which would save him from the pit which had opened before his feet.

  Lycheas was blubbering, gibbering in terror, and Arissa held him in her arms, clinging to him actually, and her face was no less filled with horror than that of Annias.

  The temple filled with noise and light, shattering sound and boiling smoke as Otha and Sephrenia continued to grapple.

  ‘It’s time, Sparhawk.’ Flute’s voice was very calm.

  Sparhawk braced himself and started forward, his sword held threateningly over the Sapphire Rose which seemed almost to cringe beneath that heavy steel blade.

  ‘Sparhawk,’ the little voice was almost wistful, ‘I love you.’

  The next sound he heard was not one of love, however. It was a snarling howl in the language of the Trolls. It was more than one voice, and it came from Bhelliom itself. Sparhawk reeled as the hatred of the Troll-Gods lashed at him. The pain was unendurable. He burned and froze at the same time, and his bones heaved and surged within his flesh. ‘Blue-Rose!’ he gasped, faltering, almost falling. ‘Command the Troll-Gods to be silent. Blue-Rose will do it – Now!’

  The agony continued, and the Trollish howling intensified.

  ‘Then die, Blue-Rose!’ Sparhawk raised his sword.

  The howling broke off abruptly, and the pain stopped.

  Sparhawk crossed the first onyx terrace and stepped up onto the next.

  ‘Do not do this, Sparhawk.’ The voice was in his mind. ‘Aphrael is a spiteful child. She leads thee to thy doom.’

  ‘I was wondering how long it was going to be, Azash,’ Sparhawk said in a shaking voice as he crossed the second terrace. ‘Why did you not speak to me before?’

  The voice which had spoken in his mind was silent.

  ‘Were you afraid, Azash?’ he asked. ‘Were you afraid that something you said might change that Destiny which you cannot see?’ He stepped up onto the third terrace.

  ‘Do not do this, Sparhawk.’ The voice was pleading now. ‘I can give thee the world.’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘I can give thee immortality.’

  ‘I’m not interested. Men are used to the idea of dying. It’s only the Gods who find the thought so frightening.’ He crossed the third terrace.

  ‘I will destroy thy comrades if thou dost persist.’

  ‘All
men die sooner or later.’ Sparhawk tried to sound convincingly indifferent. He stepped up onto the fourth terrace. He felt as if he were suddenly trying to wade through solid rock. Azash did not dare attack him directly, since that might trigger the fatal stroke which would destroy them all. Then Sparhawk saw his one absolute advantage. Not only could the Gods not see his Destiny; they could not see his thoughts either. Azash could not know when the decision to strike would come. Azash could not feel him make that decision and so He could not stop the sword-stroke. He decided to play on that advantage. Still locked in place, he sighed. ‘Oh, well, if that’s the way you want it.’ He raised his sword again.

  ‘No!’ The cry came not only from Azash but from the snarling Troll-Gods as well.

  Sparhawk crossed the fourth terrace. He was sweating profusely. He could hide his thoughts from the Gods, but not from himself. ‘Now, Blue-Rose,’ he said quietly to Bhelliom as he stepped up onto the fifth terrace, ‘I am going to do this. You and Khwaj and Ghnomb and the others will aid me, or you will perish. A God must die here – one God or many. If you aid me, it will only be the one. If you do not, it will be the many.’

  ‘Sparhawk!’ Aphrael’s voice was shocked.

  ‘Don’t interfere.’

  There was a momentary hesitation. ‘Can I help?’ she whispered in a little-girl voice.

  He thought for only an instant. ‘All right, but this isn’t the time for games – and don’t startle me. My arm’s set like a coiled spring.’

  The firefly spark began to expand, softening from intensity to a glow, and Aphrael emerged from that glow, her shepherd’s pipes held to her lips. As always her little feet were grass-stained. Her face was sombre as she lowered the pipes. ‘Go ahead and smash it, Sparhawk,’ she said sadly. ‘They’ll never listen to you.’ She sighed. ‘I grow weary of unending life anyway. Smash the stone and have done with it.’

  The Bhelliom went absolutely dark, and Sparhawk felt it shudder violently in his hand. Then its blue glow returned, soft and submissive.