The Hidden City

Betuana’s going to send her Atans into Arjuna to re-establish imperial authority.’ He made a sour face. ‘There’s nothing really left but all the niggling little administrative details. You’ve robbed me of a very good fight, Sparhawk.’
    ‘I can send for more of Klael’s soldiers if you want, your Grace.
    ‘No. That’s all right, Sparhawk,’ Bergsten replied quickly. ‘I can live without any more of those fights. You’ll be going straight back to Matherion?’
    ‘Not straight back, your Grace. Courtesy obliges us to escort Anarae Xanetia back to Delphaeus.’
    ‘She’s a very strange lady,’ Bergsten mused. ‘I keep catching myself just on the verge of genuflection every time she enters a room.’
    ‘She has that effect on people, your Grace. If you really don’t need us here, I’ll talk with the others, and we’ll get ready to leave.’
    ‘What actually happened, Sparhawk?’ Bergsten asked directly. ‘I have to make a report to Dolmant, and I can’t make much sense out of what the others have been telling me.’
    ‘I’m not sure I can explain it, your Grace,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Bhelliom and I were sort of combined for a while. It needed my arm, I guess.’ It was an easy answer, and it evaded a central issue that Sparhawk was not yet fully prepared to even think about.
    ‘You were just a tool, then?’ Bergsten’s look was intent.
    Sparhawk shrugged. ‘Aren’t we all, your Grace? We’re the instruments of God. That’s what we get paid for.’
    ‘Sparhawk, you’re right on the verge of heresy here. Don’t throw the word “God” around like that.’
    ‘No, your Grace,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘It’s just a reflection of the limitations of language. There are things that we don’t understand and don’t have names for. We just lump them all together, call it “God”, and let it go at that. You and I are soldiers, Patriarch Bergsten. We get paid to hit the ground running when somebody blows a trumpet. Let Dolmant sort it out. That’s what he gets paid for.’
    Sparhawk and his friends, accompanied by Kring, Betuana and Engessa, rode out of shattered Cyrga shortly after dawn the following morning, bound for Sama. Sparhawk had neither seen nor heard from Bhelliom since his encounter with Cyrgon, and he felt a peculiar sense of disappointment about that. The Troll-Gods had also departed with their children—all except for Bhlokw, who shambled along between Ulath and Tynian. Bhlokw was evasive about his reasons for accompanying them.
    They rode northeasterly across the barren wastes of Cynesga, traveling in easy stages. The urgent need for haste was gone now. Sephrenia and Xanetia, once again working in concert, had returned all the faces to their rightful owners, and things were slowly settling back to normal.
    It was about mid-morning ten days after they had left Cyrga and when they were but a few leagues from Sama that Vanion rode forward to join Sparhawk at the head of the column. ‘A word with you, Sparhawk?’ he said.
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘It’s sort of private.’
    Sparhawk nodded, turned the column over to Bevier and nudged Faran into a rolling canter. He and Vanion slowed again when they were about a quarter of a mile ahead of the others.
    ‘Sephrenia wants us to get married,’ Vanion said, cutting past any preamble.
    ‘You’re asking my permission?’
    Vanion gave him a long, steady look.
    ‘Sorry,’ Sparhawk apologized. ‘You took me by surprise. There are problems with that, you know. The Church will never approve, and neither will the Thousand of Styricum. We’re not quite as hide-bound as we used to be, but the notion of interracial or interfaith marriage still raises some hackles.’
    ‘I know,’ Vanion said glumly. ‘Dolmant probably wouldn’t have any personal objections, but his hands are tied by Church law and doctrine.’
    ‘Who are you going to get to officiate, then?’
    ‘Sephrenia’s already solved that problem. Xanetia’s going to perform the ceremony.’
    Sparhawk nearly choked on that.
    ‘She is a priestess, Sparhawk.’
    ‘Well—technically, I suppose.’ Then Sparhawk suddenly broke out laughing.
    ‘What’s so funny?’ Vanion demanded truculently.
    ‘Can you imagine the look on Ortzel’s face when he hears that a Preceptor of one of the four orders, a Patriarch of the Church, has been married to one of the Thousand of Styricum by a Delphaeic priestess?’
    ‘It does violate a few rules, doesn’t it?’ Vanion