The Shining Ones (45 page)

‘Don’t you wear any clothes?’ he asked her.

‘What on earth for? I don’t get cold, you know.’

‘I’m talking about modesty, Aphrael. I
am
your father, after all, and things like that are supposed to concern me.’

She laughed and reached around from behind him to caress his face. It was not a little girl’s hand which touched his cheek. He caught the faint scent of crushed grass, but the rest of the familiar fragrance that lingered about both Danae and Flute had been subtly changed. The person standing behind him was definitely
not
a little girl.

‘Is this the way you appear to the rest of your family?’ he asked her.

‘Not very often. I prefer to have them think of me as a child. I can get my own way a lot easier in that form – and I get a lot more kisses.’

‘Getting your own way is very important to you, isn’t it, Aphrael?’

‘Of course. It’s important to all of us, isn’t it? I’m just better at it than most.’ She laughed, a deep, rich laugh. ‘I’m probably the best there is at getting my own way.’

‘I’ve noticed that,’ he said dryly.

‘Well,’ she said then, ‘I’d love to talk more with you about it, but I suppose we shouldn’t keep Ulath and Stragen waiting.’ The reflection wavered and began to shrink, sliding back into childhood. ‘All right, then,’ Flute’s familiar voice said, ‘let’s go have it out with the Troll-Gods.’

It was blustery that morning, and dirty gray clouds scudded in off the Tamul Sea. There were few citizens abroad in fire-domed Matherion as Sparhawk and his friends rode out of the palace compound and down the long, wide street leading to the west gate.

They left the city and rode up the long hill to the place from which they had first glimpsed the gleaming city. ‘How do you plan to approach them?’ Stragen asked Ulath as they crested the hill.

‘Carefully,’ Ulath grunted. ‘I’d rather not get eaten. I’ve talked with them before, so they probably remember me, and the fact that Sparhawk’s holding Bhelliom in his fist may help to curb their urge to devour me right on the spot.’

‘Any particular sort of place you’d like?’ Vanion asked him.

‘An open field – but not
too
open. I want trees nearby – so I can climb one – in case things turn ugly.’ Ulath
looked around at the rest of them. ‘One word of caution,’ he added. ‘Don’t any of you stand between me and the nearest tree once I get started.’

‘Over there?’ Sparhawk suggested, pointing toward a pasture backed by a pine grove.

Ulath squinted. ‘It’s not perfect, but no place really would be. Let’s get this over with. My nerves are strung a little tight this morning for some reason.’

They rode out into the pasture and dismounted. ‘Is there anything anyone would like to tell me before we start?’ Sparhawk asked.

‘You’re on your own, Sparhawk,’ Flute replied. ‘It’s all up to you and Ulath. We’re just here to observe.’

‘Thanks,’ he said dryly.

She curtsied. ‘Don’t mention it.’

Sparhawk took the box out from inside his tunic and touched his ring to it. ‘Open,’ he told it.

The lid popped up.

‘Blue Rose,’ Sparhawk said, speaking in Elenic.

‘I hear thee, Anakha.’ The voice came from Vanion’s lips again.

‘I feel the Troll-Gods within thee. Can they understand my words when I speak in this tongue?’

‘Nay, Anakha.’

‘Good. Cyrgon hath by deceit and subterfuge lured the Trolls here to Daresia and doth hurl them against our allies, the Atans. We would attempt to persuade the Troll-Gods to re-assert their authority over their creatures. Thinkest thou that they might be willing to give hearing to our request?’

‘Any God listens most attentively to words concerning his worshipers, Anakha.’

‘I had thought such might be the case. Dost thou agree with mine assessment that the knowledge that Cyrgon hath stolen their Trolls will enrage them?’

‘They will be discomfited out of all measure, Anakha.’

‘How thinkest thou we might best proceed with them?’

‘Advise them in simple words of what hath come to pass. Speak not too quickly nor with obscured meaning, for they are slow of understanding.’

‘I have perceived as much in past dealings with them.’

‘Wilt
thou
speak with them? I say this not in criticism, but thy Trollish is rude and uncouth.’

‘Did
you
put that in, Vanion?’ Sparhawk accused.

‘Not me.’ Vanion protested his innocence. ‘I wouldn’t know good Trollish from bad.’

‘Forgive mine ineptitude, Blue Rose. Mine instructor was in haste when she schooled my tongue in the language of the man-beasts.’

‘Sparhawk!’ Sephrenia objected.

‘Well, weren’t you?’ He addressed the stone again. ‘My comrade, Sir Ulath, hath greater familiarity with Trolls and their speech than do I. It is
he
who will advise the Troll-Gods that Cyrgon hath stolen their creatures.’

‘I will bring forth their spirits that thy comrade may address them.’ The stone pulsed in his hand, and the gigantic presences Sparhawk had sensed in the Temple of Azash were there, but this time they were in front of him where he could see them. He fervently wished that he could not. Because their reality was still locked inside the Bhelliom, their forms were suffused with an azure glow. They bulked enormous before him, their brutish faces enraged and their fury held in check only by the power of Bhelliom.

‘All right, Ulath,’ Sparhawk said. ‘This is a dangerous situation. Try to be very, very convincing.’

The big Genidian knight swallowed hard and stepped forward. ‘I am Ulath-from-Thalesia,’ he said in Trollish. ‘I speak for Anakha, Bhelliom’s child. I bring word of
your
children. Will you hear me?’

‘Speak, Ulath-from-Thalesia.’ Sparhawk judged from
the crackling roar mingled in the enormous voice that it was Khwaj, the Troll-God of Fire, who spoke.

Ulath’s face took on an expression of mild reproach. ‘We are baffled by what you have done,’ he told them. ‘Why have you given your children to Cyrgon?’

‘What?’
Khwaj roared.

‘It was our thought that you wished it so,’ Ulath said, feigning surprise. ‘Did you not command your children to leave their home-range and to walk for many sleeps across the ice-which-never-melts to this alien place?’

Khwaj howled, beating at the ground with his ape-like fists, raising a cloud of dust and smoke from the ground.

‘When did this come to pass?’ Another voice, a voice filled with a kind of gross slobbering, demanded.

‘Two full turns of the seasons, Ghnomb,’ Ulath answered the question of the God of Eat. ‘It was our thought that you knew. Blue Rose called you forth that we might ask why you have done this. Our Gods wish to know why you have broken the compact.’

‘Compact?’ Stragen asked after Sephrenia had translated.

‘It’s an agreement,’ Flute explained. ‘We didn’t really want to exterminate the Trolls, so we told the Troll-Gods that we’d leave their children alone if they’d stay in the Thalesian mountains.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘Twenty-five thousand years ago – or so.’

Stragen swallowed hard.

‘Why are your children obeying Cyrgon if you did not command it?’ Ulath asked.

One of the gigantic figures stretched out an abnormally long arm, and the huge hand plunged into a kind of emptiness, vanishing as it went in, almost as a stick seems to vanish when poked into a forest pool. When the hand re-emerged, it held a struggling Troll. The
enormous God spoke, harshly demanding. The language was clearly Trollish, snarling and roaring.

‘Now that’s interesting,’ Ulath murmured. ‘It appears that even Trollish has changed over the years.’

‘What’s he saying?’ Sparhawk asked.

‘I can’t entirely make it out,’ Ulath replied. ‘It’s so archaic that I can’t understand most of the words. Zoka’s demanding some answers, though.’

‘Zoka?’

‘The God of Mating.’ Ulath listened intently.

‘The Troll’s confused,’ he reported. ‘He says that they all thought they
were
obeying their Gods. Cyrgon’s disguise must have been nearly perfect. The Trolls are very close to their Gods, and they’d probably recognize any ordinary attempt to deceive them.’

Zoka roared and hurled the shrieking Troll back into emptiness.

‘Anakha!’ another of the vast Gods bellowed.

‘Which one is that?’ Sparhawk muttered.

‘Ghworg,’ Ulath replied quietly, ‘the God of Kill. Be a little careful with him. He’s very short-tempered.’

‘Yes, Ghworg,’ Sparhawk responded to that vast brute.

‘Release us from your father’s grip. Let us go. We must reclaim our children.’ There was blood dripping from the fangs of the God of Kill. Sparhawk didn’t want to think about whose blood it might be.

‘Let me,’ Ulath murmured. He raised his voice. ‘That is beyond Anakha’s power, Ghworg,’ he replied. ‘The spell which imprisoned you was of Ghwerig’s making. It is a Trollish spell, and Anakha is untaught in such.’

‘We will teach him the spell.’

‘No!’ Flute suddenly broke in, throwing aside her pretense of merely observing. ‘These are
my
children. I will not permit you to contaminate them with Trollish spells.’

‘We beg you, Child Goddess! Set us free! Our children stray from us!’

‘My family will never agree. Your children look upon our children as food. If Anakha frees you, your children will devour ours. It cannot be.’

‘Ghnomb!’ Khwaj roared. ‘Give her surety!’

The huge face of the God of Eat twisted in agony. ‘I cannot!’ It was almost a wail. ‘It would lessen me! Our children
must
eat. All that lives
must
be food!’

‘Our children are lost unless you agree!’ The grass around the feet of the God of Fire began to smoke.

‘I think I see a toe-hold here,’ Ulath said in Elenic. He spoke again in Trollish. There is justice in Ghnomb’s words,’ he told the Gods. ‘Why should he alone lessen himself? Each must
also
accept lessening. Ghnomb will not accept less.’

‘It speaks truly!’ Ghnomb howled. ‘I will not be lessened unless all are lessened!’

The four other Troll-Gods squirmed, their faces reflecting the same agony that had marked Ghnomb’s.

‘What will satisfy you?’ It was the voice of the God that had not yet spoken. There were blizzards in that voice.

‘The God of Ice,’ Ulath identified the speaker, ‘Schlee.’

‘Lessen yourselves!’ Ghnomb demanded stubbornly. ‘I will not if you will not!’

‘Trolls,’ Aphrael sighed, rolling her eyes. ‘Will you accept my mediation in this?’ she demanded of the monstrous deities.

‘We will hear your words, Aphrael,’ Ghworg replied doubtfully.

‘Our purposes are the same,’ the Child Goddess began.

Sparhawk groaned.

‘What’s wrong?’ Ulath asked quickly.

‘She’s going to make a speech – now of all times.’

‘Shut up, Sparhawk!’ the Child Goddess snapped. ‘I know what I’m doing.’ She turned to face the Troll-Gods again. ‘Cyrgon deceived your children,’ she began. ‘He brought them across the ice-which-never-melts to this place to make war on
my
children. Cyrgon must be punished!’

The Troll-Gods roared their agreement.

‘Will you join with me and my family to cause hurt to Cyrgon for what he has done?’

‘We will cause hurt to him by ourselves, Aphrael,’ Ghworg snarled.

‘And how many of your children will die if you do? My children can pursue the children of Cyrgon into the lands of the sun, where your children die. Should we not join then that Cyrgon will suffer more?’

‘There is wisdom in her words,’ Schlee said to his fellows. The breath of the God of Ice steamed in the air, though it was not really that cold, and glittering snowflakes appeared out of nowhere to settle on his massive shoulders.

‘Ghnomb must agree that your children will no longer eat mine,’ Aphrael bored in. ‘If he does not, Anakha will not free you from his father’s grip.’

Ghnomb groaned.

‘Ghnomb
must
do this,’ she insisted. ‘If he does not, I will not permit Anakha to free you, and Cyrgon will
keep
your children. Ghnomb will not agree to this if each of you will not accept equal lessening. Ghworg! You must no longer drive your children to kill mine!’

Ghworg raised both huge arms and howled.

‘Khwaj!’ she continued inexorably. ‘You must curb the fires which rage through the forests of Thalesia each year when the sun returns to the lands of the north.’

Khwaj stifled a sob.

‘Schlee!’ Aphrael barked. ‘You must hold back the
rivers of ice which crawl down the sides of the mountains. Let them melt when they reach the valleys.’

‘No!’ Schlee wailed.

‘Then you have lost all your children. Hold back the ice or you will weep alone in the wastes of the north. Zoka! No more than two offspring can issue from each she-Troll.’

‘Never
!’ Zoka bellowed. ‘My children
must
mate!’

‘Your children are now Cyrgon’s. Will you aid Cyrgon’s increase?’ She paused, her eyes narrowing. ‘One last agreement will I have from you all, or I will not let Anakha free you.’

‘What is your demand, Aphrael?’ Schlee asked in his ice-choked voice.

‘Your children are immortal. Mine are not. Your children must also die – each in an appointed time.’

They exploded in an absolute rage.

‘Return them to their prison, Anakha,’ Aphrael said. ‘They will not agree. The bargaining is done.’ She said it in Trollish, so it was obviously intended for the benefit of the raging Troll-Gods.

‘Wait!’ Khwaj shouted. ‘Wait!’

‘Well?’ she said.

‘Let us go apart from you and your children that we may consider this monstrous demand.’

‘Do not be long,’ she said to them. ‘I have little patience.’

The five vast beings withdrew further out into the pasture.

‘Weren’t you pushing them a little far?’ Sephrenia suggested. ‘That last demand of yours may very well kill any chance of reaching an agreement.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Aphrael replied. ‘The Troll-Gods can’t think that far into the future. They live for now, and right now the most important thing for them is taking their Trolls back from Cyrgon.’ She sighed. ‘The
last demand is the most important, really. Humans and Trolls can’t live in the same world. One or the other has to leave. I’d rather that it was the Trolls, wouldn’t you?’