The Complete Elenium Trilogy: The Diamond Throne, The Ruby Knight, The Sapphire Rose

‘And then?’ Bevier asked, his voice shaking.

‘Then I will also depart,’ Sephrenia replied simply.

A stifled sob escaped the young Cyrinic. ‘Not while I have breath,’ he said in a choked voice.

‘Someone, however, is trying to speed things up,’ Sparhawk went on. ‘This is the third attempt on Sephrenia’s life since we left Cimmura.’

‘But I have survived them,’ she said as if they were of no moment. ‘Were you able in any way to identify the people behind this attack?’

‘Martel and some Styric,’ Kalten told her. ‘The Styric had put a spell on the mercenaries to keep them from talking, but Ulath broke it somehow. He spoke with a prisoner in a language I didn’t understand. The man answered in the same tongue.’

She looked inquiringly at the Thalesian knight.

‘We spoke in the language of the Trolls,’ Ulath shrugged. ‘It’s a nonhuman tongue, so it circumvented the spell.’

She stared at him in horror. ‘You called upon the Troll-Gods?’ she gasped.

‘Sometimes it’s necessary, Lady,’ he replied. ‘It’s not too dangerous, if you’re careful.’

Bevier’s face was tear-streaked. ‘An it please you, my Lord Sparhawk,’ he said, ‘I shall personally undertake the protection of the Lady Sephrenia. I shall remain constantly at this valiant lady’s side, and should there be further encounters, I pledge you my life that she shall not be harmed.’

A brief expression of consternation crossed Sephrenia’s face, and she looked appealingly at Sparhawk.

‘Probably not a bad idea,’ he said, ignoring her unspoken objection. ‘All right then, Bevier. Stay with her.’

Sephrenia gave him a withering look.

‘Are we going to get the dead under the ground?’ Tynian asked.

Sparhawk shook his head. ‘We don’t have time to be gravediggers. My brothers are dying one by one, and Sephrenia’s at the end of the list. If we see some peasants, we’ll tell them where the bodies are. The loot they’ll get will more than pay for the digging. Let’s move along.’

Borrata was a university town that had grown up around the stately buildings of the oldest centre of higher learning in Eosia. On occasion in the past, the Church had strongly urged that the institution be moved to Chyrellos, but the faculty had always resisted that notion, obviously desiring to maintain their independence and the absence of Church supervision.

Sparhawk and his companions took rooms in one of the local inns late in the afternoon on the day they arrived. The inn was more comfortable and certainly cleaner than the roadside ones in which they had stayed in Elenia and here in Cammoria.

The following morning, Sparhawk put on his mail coat and his heavy woollen cloak.

‘Do you want us to go with you?’ Kalten asked as his friend came down into the common room on the main floor of the inn.

‘No,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Let’s not turn it into a parade. The university isn’t very far from here, and I can protect Sephrenia along the way.’

Sir Bevier looked as if he were about to protest. He had taken his self-appointed role as Sephrenia’s protector very seriously, seldom moving more than a few feet from her side during the journey to Borrata. Sparhawk looked at the earnest young Cyrinic. ‘I know you’ve been keeping watch outside her door every night, Bevier,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you get some sleep? You won’t be much good to her – or the rest of us – if you fall out of your saddle.’

Bevier’s face stiffened.

‘He didn’t mean it personally, Bevier,’ Kalten said. ‘Sparhawk just hasn’t quite figured out the meaning of the word “diplomatic” yet. We’re all hoping that someday it might come to him.’

Bevier smiled faintly, then he laughed. ‘I think it might take me some time to adjust to you Pandions,’ he said.

‘Look upon it as educational,’ Kalten suggested.

‘You know that if you and the Lady are successful in finding that cure, we’re likely to encounter all kinds of trouble on the way back to Cimmura,’ Tynian said to Sparhawk. ‘We’ll probably run into whole armies trying to stop us.’

‘Madel,’ Ulath suggested cryptically, ‘or Sarrinium.’

‘I don’t quite follow,’ Tynian admitted.

‘Those armies you mentioned will try to block the road to Chyrellos to keep us from getting there – and then on into Elenia. If we ride south to either of those seaports, we can hire a ship and sail around to Vardenais on the west coast of Elenia. It’s faster to travel by sea anyway.’

‘Let’s decide that after we find the cure,’ Sparhawk said.

Sephrenia came down the stairs with Flute. ‘Are you ready then?’ she asked.

Sparhawk nodded.

She spoke briefly to Flute. The little girl nodded and crossed the room to where Talen sat. ‘You’ve been selected, Talen,’ Sephrenia told the boy. ‘Watch over her while I’m gone.’

‘But – he started to object.

‘Just do as she says, Talen,’ Kurik told him wearily.

‘I was going to go out and have a look around.’

‘No,’ his father said, ‘as a matter of fact, you weren’t.’

Talen’s expression grew sulky. ‘All right,’ he said as Flute climbed up into his lap.

Since the university grounds were so close, Sparhawk decided against taking their horses, and he and Sephrenia walked through the narrow streets of Borrata. The small woman looked around. ‘I haven’t been here in a long time,’ she murmured.

‘I can’t imagine what interest a university could hold for you,’ Sparhawk smiled, ‘considering your views on reading.’

‘I wasn’t studying, Sparhawk. I was teaching.’

‘I should have guessed, I suppose. How are you getting on with Bevier?’

‘Fine – except that he won’t let me do anything for myself – and that he keeps trying to convert me to the Elene faith.’ Her tone was slightly tart.

‘He’s just trying to protect you – your soul as well as your person.’

‘Are you trying to be funny?’

He decided not to answer that.

The grounds of the University of Borrata were parklike, and students and members of the faculty strolled contemplatively across the well-kept lawns.

Sparhawk stopped a young man in a lime-green doublet. ‘Excuse me, neighbour,’ he said, ‘but could you direct me to the medical college?’

‘Are you ill?’

‘No. A friend of mine is though.’

‘Ah. The physicians occupy that building over there.’ The student pointed at a squat-looking structure made of grey stone.

‘Thank you, neighbour.’

‘I hope your friend gets better soon.’

‘So do we.’

When they entered the building, they encountered a rotund man in a black robe.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ Sephrenia said to him. ‘Are you a physician?

‘I am.’

‘Splendid. Have you a few moments?’

The rotund man had been looking closely at Sparhawk. ‘Sorry,’ he said curtly. ‘I’m busy.’

‘Could you direct us to one of your colleagues, then?’

‘Try any door,’ he said, waving his hand and walking quickly away from them.

‘That’s an odd attitude for a healer,’ Sparhawk said.

‘Every profession attracts its share of louts,’ she replied.

They crossed the antechamber and Sparhawk rapped on a dark-painted door.

‘What is it?’ a weary voice said.

‘We need to consult a physician.’

There was a long pause. ‘Oh, all right,’ the weary voice replied, ‘come in.’

Sparhawk opened the door and held it for Sephrenia.

The man seated behind the cluttered desk in the cubicle had deep circles beneath his eyes, and it appeared that he had forgone shaving some weeks ago. ‘What is the nature of your illness?’ he asked Sephrenia in a voice hovering on exhaustion.

‘I’m not the one who’s ill,’ she replied.

‘Him, then?’ The doctor pointed at Sparhawk. ‘He looks robust enough to me.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘He’s not ill either. We’re here on behalf of a friend.’

‘I don’t go to people’s houses.’

‘We weren’t asking you to do that,’ Sparhawk said.

‘Our friend lives some distance away,’ Sephrenia said. ‘We thought that if we described her symptoms to you, you might be able to hazard a guess as to the cause of her malady.’

‘I don’t make guesses,’ he told her shortly. ‘What are the symptoms?’

‘Much like those of the falling-sickness,’ Sephrenia told him.

‘That’s it, then. You’ve already made the diagnosis yourself.’

‘There’s a certain difference, however.’

‘All right. Describe the differences.’

‘There’s a fever involved – quite a high one – and profuse sweating.’

‘These two don’t match, little lady. With a fever, the skin is dry.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Have you a medical background?’

‘I’m familiar with certain folk remedies.’

He snorted. ‘My experience tells me that folk remedies kill more than they cure. What other symptoms did you notice?’

Sephrenia meticulously described the illness that had rendered Ehlana comatose.

The physician, however, seemed not to be listening, but was staring instead at Sparhawk. His eyes narrowed, his face became suddenly alert and his expression sly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said when Sephrenia had finished. ‘I think you’d better go back and take another look at your friend. What you just described matches no known illness.’ His tone was abrupt, even curt.

Sparhawk straightened, clenching his fist, but Sephrenia laid her hand on his arm. ‘Thank you for your time, learned sir,’ she said smoothly. ‘Come along then,’ she told Sparhawk.

The two of them went back out into the corridor.

‘Two in a row,’ Sparhawk muttered.

‘Two what?’

‘People with bad manners.’

‘It stands to reason, perhaps.’

‘I don’t follow you.’

‘There’s a certain natural arrogance in those who teach.’

‘You’ve never displayed it.’

‘I keep it under control. Try another door, Sparhawk.’

In the next two hours, they spoke with seven physicians. Each of them, after a searching look at Sparhawk’s face, pretended ignorance.

‘I’m starting to get a peculiar feeling about this,’ he growled as they emerged from yet another office. ‘They take one look at me, and they suddenly become stupid – or is that just my imagination?’

‘I’ve noticed that, too,’ she replied thoughtfully.

‘My face isn’t that exciting, I know, but it’s never struck anyone dumb before.’

‘It’s a perfectly good face, Sparhawk.’

‘It covers the front of my head. What else can you expect from a face?’

‘The physicians of Borrata seem less skilled than we’d been led to believe.’

‘We’ve wasted more time, then?’

‘We haven’t finished yet. Don’t give up hope.’

They came finally to a small, unpainted door set back in a shabby alcove. Sparhawk rapped, and a slurred voice responded, ‘Go away.’

‘We need your help, learned sir,’ Sephrenia said.

‘Go and bother somebody else. I’m busy getting drunk right now.’

‘That does it!’ Sparhawk snapped. He grasped the door handle and pushed, but the door was locked from the inside. Irritably, he kicked it open, splintering the frame.

The man inside the tiny cubicle blinked. He was a shabby little man with a crooked back and bleary eyes. ‘You knock very loudly, friend,’ he observed. Then he belched. ‘Well, don’t just stand there. Come in.’ His head weaved back and forth. He was shabbily dressed, and his wispy grey hair stuck out in all directions.

‘Is there something in the water around here that makes everybody so churlish?’ Sparhawk asked acidly.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ the shabby man replied. ‘I never drink water.’ He drank noisily from a battered tankard.

‘Obviously.’

‘Shall we spend the rest of the day exchanging insults, or would you rather tell me about your problem?’ The physician squinted myopically at Sparhawk’s face. ‘So you’re the one,’ he said.

‘The one what?’

‘The one we aren’t supposed to talk to.’

‘Would you like to explain that?’

‘A man came here a few days ago. He said that it would be worth a hundred gold pieces to every physician in the building if you left empty-handed.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘He had a military bearing and white hair.’

‘Martel,’ Sparhawk said to Sephrenia.

‘We should have guessed almost immediately,’ she replied.

‘Take heart, friends,’ the messy little man told them expansively. ‘You’ve found your way to the finest physician in Borrata.’ He grinned then. ‘My colleagues all fly south with the ducks in the fall going, “Quack, quack, quack.” You couldn’t get a sound medical opinion out of any one of them. The white-haired man said that you’d describe some symptoms. Some lady someplace is very ill, I understand, and your friend – this Martel you mentioned – would prefer that she didn’t recover. Why don’t we disappoint him?’ He drank deeply from his tankard.

‘You’re a credit to your profession, good doctor,’ Sephrenia said.

‘No. I’m a vicious-minded old drunkard. Do you really want to know why I’m willing to help you? It’s because I’ll enjoy the screams of anguish from my colleagues when all that money slips through their fingers.’

‘That’s as good a reason as any, I suppose,’ Sparhawk said.

‘Exactly.’ The slightly tipsy physician peered at Sparhawk’s nose. ‘Why didn’t you have that set when it got broken?’ he asked.

Sparhawk touched his nose. ‘I was busy with other things.’

‘I can fix it for you if you’d like. All I have to do is take a hammer and break it again. Then I can set it for you.’

‘Thanks all the same, but I’m used to it now.’

‘Suit yourself. All right, what are these symptoms you came here to describe?’

Once again Sephrenia ran down the list for him.

He sat scratching at his ear with his eyes narrowed. Then he rummaged through the litter piled high on his desk and pulled out a thick book with a torn leather cover. He leafed through it for several moments, then slammed it shut. ‘Just as I thought,’ he said triumphantly. He belched again.

‘Well?’ Sparhawk said.

‘Your friend was poisoned. Has she died yet?’

A chill caught at Sparhawk’s stomach. ‘No,’ he replied.

‘It’s only a matter of time.’ The physician shrugged. ‘It’s a rare poison from Rendor. It’s invariably fatal.’

Sparhawk clenched his teeth. ‘I’m going to go back to Cimmura and disembowel Annias,’ he grated, ‘with a dull knife.’

The disreputable little physician suddenly looked interested. ‘You do it this way,’ he suggested. ‘Make a lateral incision just below the navel. Then kick him over backwards. Everything ought to fall out at that point.’

‘Thank you.’

‘No charge. If you’re going to do something, do it right. I take it that this Annias person is the one you think was responsible?’

‘Undoubtedly.’

‘Go ahead and kill him then. I despise a poisoner.’

‘Is there an antidote for this poison?’ Sephrenia asked.

‘None that I know of. I’d suggest talking with several physicians I know in Cippria, but your friend will be dead before you could get back.’

‘No,’ Sephrenia disagreed. ‘She’s being sustained.’

‘I’d like to know how you managed that.’

‘The lady is Styric,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘She has access to certain unusual things.’

‘Magic? Does that really work?’

‘At times, yes.’

‘All right, then. Maybe you do have time.’ The seedy-looking doctor ripped a corner off one of the papers on his desk and dipped a quill into a nearly dry inkpot. ‘The first two names here are those of a couple of fairly adept physicians in Cippria,’ he said as he scrawled on the paper. ‘This last one is the name of the poison.’ He handed the paper to Sparhawk. ‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘Now get out of here so I can continue what I was doing before you kicked in my door.’

Chapter 16

‘Because you don’t look like Rendors,’ Sparhawk told them. ‘Foreigners attract a great deal of attention there – usually unfriendly. I can pass for a native in Cippria. So can Kurik. Rendorish women wear veils, so Sephrenia’s appearance won’t be a problem. The rest of you are going to have to stay behind.’

They were gathered in a large room on the upper floor of the inn near the university. The room was bare with only a few benches along the walls and no curtains at the narrow window. Sparhawk had reported what the tipsy physician had said and the fact that Martel had attempted subterfuge this time rather than a physical confrontation.

‘We could put something on our hair to change the colour,’ Kalten protested. ‘Wouldn’t that get us by?’

‘It’s the manner, Kalten,’ Sparhawk explained. ‘I could dye you green, and people would still know that you’re an Elenian. The same’s more or less true of the rest of you. You all have the bearing of knights. It takes years to erase that.’

‘You want us to stay here, then?’ Ulath asked.

‘No. Let’s all go down to Madel,’ Sparhawk decided. ‘If something unexpected comes up in Cippria, I can get word to you there faster.’

‘I think you’re overlooking something, Sparhawk,’ Kalten said. ‘We know that Martel’s moving around down here, and he’s probably got eyes everywhere. If we all ride out of Borrata in full armour, he’ll know about it before we cover half a league.’

‘Pilgrims,’ Ulath grunted cryptically.

‘I don’t quite follow you,’ Kalten said, frowning.

‘If we pack our armour in a cart and dress in sober clothes, we can join a group of pilgrims, and nobody’s going to give us a second glance.’ He looked at Bevier. ‘Do you know very much about Madel?’ he asked.

‘We have a chapterhouse there,’ Bevier replied. ‘I visit it from time to time.’

‘Are there any shrines or holy places there?’

‘Several. But pilgrims seldom travel in winter.’

‘They do if they get paid. ‘We’ll hire some – and a clergyman to sing hymns as we go along.’

‘It’s got possibilities, Sparhawk,’ Kalten said. ‘Martel doesn’t really know which way we’re going when we leave here, so his spies are going to be spread fairly thin.’

‘How will we know this Martel person?’ Bevier asked. ‘Should we encounter him while you’re in Cippria, I mean?’

‘Kalten knows him,’ Sparhawk replied, ‘and Talen has seen him once.’ Then he remembered something. He looked over at the boy, who was making a cat’s cradle to entertain Flute. ‘Talen,’ he said, ‘could you draw pictures of Martel and Krager?’

‘Of course.’

‘And we can conjure up the image of Adus as well,’ Sephrenia added.

‘Adus is easy,’ Kalten said. ‘Just put armour on a gorilla and you’ve got him.’

‘All right, we’ll do it that way, then,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Berit.’

‘Yes, Lord Sparhawk?’

‘Go and find a church somewhere – a poor one. Talk with the vicar. Tell him that we’ll finance a pilgrimage to the shrines in Madel. Ask him to pick a dozen or so of his neediest parishioners and to bring them here tomorrow morning. We’ll want him to come with us as well – to be the caretaker of our souls. And tell him that we’ll make a sizeable contribution to his church if he agrees.’

‘Won’t he ask about our motives, my Lord?’

‘Tell him that we’ve committed a dreadful sin and want to atone for it,’ Kalten shrugged. ‘Just don’t be too specific about the sin.’

‘Sir Kalten!’ Bevier gasped. ‘You would lie to a churchman?’

‘It’s not exactly a lie, Bevier. We’ve all committed sins. I’ve sinned at least a half-dozen times this week already. Besides, the vicar of a poor church isn’t going to ask too many questions when there’s a contribution involved.’

Sparhawk took a leather pouch from inside his tunic. He shook it a few times, and a distinctive jingling sound came from it. ‘All right, gentlemen,’ he said, untying the top of the pouch, ‘we’ve reached the part of this service you all enjoy the most – the offertory. God appreciates a generous giver, so don’t be shy. The vicar will need cash to hire pilgrims.’ He passed the pouch around.

‘Do you think God might accept a promissory note?’ Kalten asked.

‘God might. I won’t. Put something in the pouch, Kalten.’

The group that gathered in the innyard the following morning was uniformly shabby – widows in patched mourning, out-of-work artisans and several hungry beggars. They were all mounted on weary nags or sleepy-looking mules. Sparhawk looked at them from the window. ‘Tell the innkeeper to feed them,’ he said to Kalten.

‘There’s quite a number of them, Sparhawk.’

‘I don’t want them fainting from hunger a mile out of town. You take care of that while I go and talk with the vicar.’

‘Anything you say.’ Kalten shrugged. ‘Should I bathe them, too? Some of them look a bit unwashed.’

‘That won’t be necessary. Feed their horses and mules as well.’

‘Aren’t we being a little overgenerous?’

‘You get to carry any horse that collapses.’

‘Oh. I’ll see to it right away, then.’

The vicar of the poor church was a thin, anxious-looking man in his sixties. His silvery hair was curly and his face was drawn and deeply lined with care. ‘My Lord,’ he said, bowing deeply to Sparhawk.

‘Please, good vicar,’ Sparhawk said to him, ‘just “pilgrim” is adequate. We are all equal in the service of God. My companions and I wish simply to join with your good, pious folk and to journey to Madel that we may worship at the holy shrines there for the solace of our souls and in the certain knowledge of the infinite mercy of God.’

‘Well said – uh – pilgrim.’

‘Would you join us at table, good vicar?’ Sparhawk asked him. ‘We will go many miles before we sleep tonight.’

The vicar’s eyes grew suddenly bright. ‘I would be delighted, my Lord – uh, pilgrim, that is.’

The feeding of the Cammorian pilgrims and their mounts took quite some time and stretched the capacity of the kitchen and the stable grain bins to a considerable degree.

‘I’ve never seen people eat so much,’ Kalten grumbled. Clad in a sturdy, unmarked cloak, he swung up into his saddle just outside the inn.

‘They were hungry,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘At least we can see to it that they get a few good meals before they have to return to Borrata.’

‘Charity, Sir Sparhawk?’ Bevier asked. ‘Isn’t that a bit out of character? The grim-faced Pandions are not noted for their tender sensibilities.’

‘How little you know them, Sir Bevier,’ Sephrenia murmured. She mounted her white palfrey, then held out her hands to Flute, but the little girl shook her head, walked over to Faran and reached out her tiny hand. The big roan lowered his head, and she caressed his velvety nose. Sparhawk felt an odd quiver run through his mount’s body. Then Flute insistently raised her hands to the big Pandion. Gravely, Sparhawk leaned over and lifted her into her accustomed place in front of the saddle and enfolded her in his cloak. She nestled against him, took out her pipes, and began to play that same minor melody she had been playing when they had first found her.

The vicar at the head of their column intoned a brief prayer, invoking the protection of the God of the Elenes during their journey, an invocation punctuated by questioning – even sceptical – trills from Flute’s pipes.

‘Behave yourself,’ Sparhawk whispered to her. ‘He’s a good man and he’s doing what he thinks is right.’

She rolled her eyes roguishly. Then she yawned, snuggling closer to him, and promptly went to sleep.

They rode south out of Borrata under a clear morning sky with Kurik and the two-wheeled cart containing their armour and equipment clattering along behind them. The breeze was gusty and it tugged at the ragged clothing of the pilgrims patiently plodding along behind their vicar. A line of low mountains lay to the west, touched with snow on their peaks, and the sunlight glistened on those white fields. Their pace as they rode seemed to Sparhawk leisurely – even lackadaisical – though the panting and wheezing of the poor mounts of the pilgrims was a fair indication that the beasts were being pressed as hard as was possible.