The Hidden City

Then the bride appeared at the gate with the Queen of Elenia at her side and the other ladies close behind them. The Child Goddess, whirling and dancing in the air and with her clear voice raised in flute-song, preceded them, again strewing their path with flower petals.

Sephrenia’s face was serene as she came down the path to the lake. As the small Styric bride approached the man whom two major religions had forbidden her to marry, her personal Goddess provided a visible symbol that she, at least, approved. The stars had just begun to appear overhead, and one of them seemed to have lost its way. Like a tiny comet, a brilliant spark of light descended over the radiant Sephrenia and settled gently on her head as a glowing garland of spring flowers.

Sparhawk smiled gently. The similarity to the crowning of Mirtai during her rite of passage was a little too obvious to miss.

‘Critic,’ Aphrael’s voice accused.

‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘Well, don’t.’

Sephrenia and Vanion joined hands as the Delphaeic hymn swelled to a climax. And then Xanetia, all aglow and accompanied by two other glowing forms, one white and the other blue, came walking across the lake. A yearning kind of murmur passed through the Delphae, and, as one, they sank reverently to their knees.

The Anarae tenderly embraced her Styric sister and kissed Vanion chastely on the cheek. ‘I have entreated Beloved Edaemus to join with us here and to bless this most happy union,’ she told the assemblage, ‘and he hath brought with him this other guest, who also hath some interest in our ceremony.’

‘Is that blue one who I think it is?’ Kalten muttered to Sparhawk.

‘Oh, yes,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘That’s the form it took back in Cyrga, remember? – After I stuffed it down Klæl’s throat.’

‘I was a little distracted at that point. Is that what it really looks like? After you peel off all the layers of sapphire, I mean?’

‘I don’t really think so. Bhelliom’s a spirit, not a form. I think this particular shape is just a courtesy – for our benefit.’

‘I thought it had already left.’

‘No, not quite yet.’

The glowing form of Edaemus straightened, somehow managing to look uncomfortable. Xanetia’s face hardened and her eyes narrowed.

‘I had thought ill of thee, Sephrenia of Ylara,’ the God of the Delphae admitted. ‘Mine Anarae hath persuaded me that my thought was in error. I do entreat thee to forgive me.’ Gentle Xanetia, it appeared, was not above a certain amount of bullying.

Sephrenia smiled benignly. ‘Of course I forgive thee, Divine Edaemus. I was not entirely blameless myself, I do confess.’

‘Let us all then pray to our separate Gods to bless the union of this man and this woman,’ Xanetia said in formal tones, ‘for methinks it doth presage a new birth of understanding and trust for all of mankind.’

Sparhawk was a little dubious about that, but like the others, he bowed his head. He did not, however, direct his words to his Elene God. ‘Blue Rose,’ he sent out his thought.

‘Art thou praying, my son?’ The answering voice sounded slightly amused.

‘Consulting, Blue Rose,’ Sparhawk corrected. ‘Others will direct our entreaty to our Elene God, and I do perceive that the time fast approaches when thou and I must part.’

‘Truly.’

‘I thought to take this opportunity to ask a boon of thee.’

‘If it be within my power.’

‘I have seen the extent of thy power, Blue Rose – and in some measure shared it. It is uncandid of thee to suggest that there are any limits to what thou canst do.’

‘Be nice,’ Bhelliom murmured. It seemed quite fond of that particular phrase. ‘What is this boon, my son?’

‘I do entreat thee to take all thy power with thee when thou dost depart. It is a burden I am unprepared to accept. I am thy son, Blue Rose, but I am also a man. I have neither the patience nor the wisdom to accept responsibility for what thou hast bestowed upon me. This world which thou hast made hath Gods in plenty. She doth not need another.’

‘Think, my son. Think of what thou dost propose to surrender.’

‘I have, my father. I have been Anakha, for it was needful.’ Sparhawk struggled for a way to put his feelings into archaic Elenic. ‘When I did as Anakha confront the Styric Zalasta, I did feel a great detachment within myself, and that detachment abideth within me still. It seemeth me that thy gift hath altered me, making me more – or less – than a man. I would, an it please thee, no longer be “patient Anakha” or “curious Anakha” or “implacable Anakha”. Anakha’s task is finished. Now, with all my heart, I would be Sparhawk again. To be “loving Sparhawk” or even “irritated Sparhawk” would please me far more than the dreadful emptiness which is Anakha.’

There was a long pause. ‘Know that I am well-pleased with thee, my son.’ There was pride in the silent voice in Sparhawk’s mind. ‘I find more merit in thee in this moment than in any other. Be well, Sparhawk.’ And the voice was gone.

The wedding ceremony was strange in some ways and very familiar in others. The celebration of the love that existed between Vanion and Sephrenia was there, but the preaching which so marred the Elene ritual was not. At the conclusion, Xanetia gently laid her hands in loving benediction upon the heads of the two she had just joined. The gesture seemed to proclaim that the ceremony was at an end.

But it was not.

The second of the two figures which had accompanied Xanetia across the luminous waters of the lake stepped forward, all glowing blue, to add its own benediction. It raised its hands over the man and the woman, and for a brief moment they shared its azure incandescence. And when the light faded, Sephrenia had subtly changed. The cares and weariness which had marked her face in a dozen tiny ways were gone, and she appeared to be no older than Alean. The changes Bhelliom’s glowing touch had wrought on Vanion were more visible and pronounced. His shoulders, which had imperceptibly slumped over the years, were straight again. His face was unlined, and his silvery hair and beard were now the dark auburn Sparhawk dimly remembered from the days of his novitiate. It was Bhelliom’s final gift, and nothing could have pleased Sparhawk more.

Aphrael clapped her hands together with a squeal of delight and flew into the arms of the nebulous, glowing figure which had just rejuvenated her sister and Vanion.

Sparhawk rather carefully concealed a smile. The Child Goddess had finally maneuvered Bhelliom into a position where she could unleash the devastating effects of her kisses upon it. The kisses could, of course, have been pure, effusive gratitude – but they probably weren’t.