The Hidden City

occasion, had strewn it with flower petals. The Delphae, all aglow and singing an ancient hymn, lined the sides of the path.
    Vanion waited at the edge of the lake with Sparhawk, and the other members of their party stood in smiling anticipation as Sephrenia, with Ehlana at her side, emerged from the city to walk down to the shore.
    ‘Courage, my son,’ Sparhawk murmured to his old friend.
    ‘Are you trying to be funny?’
    ‘Getting married doesn’t really hurt, Vanion.”
    It happened when the bride and her attendant were perhaps halfway to the lake-shore. A sudden cloud of inky darkness appeared at the edge of the snow-covered meadow, and a great voice bellowed, ‘NO!’ Then a spark of incandescent light emerged from the center of the cloud and began to swell ominously, surging and surrounded by a blazing halo of purplish light. Sparhawk recognized the phenomenon.
    ‘I forbid this abomination!’ the great voice roared.
    ‘Zalasta!’ Kalten exclaimed, staring at the rapidly expanding sphere.
    The Styric was haggard and his hair and beard were matted. He wore his customary white robe and held his polished staff in his trembling hands. He stood inside the glowing sphere, surrounded by its protective nimbus. Sparhawk felt an icy calm descending over him as he prepared his mind and spirit for the inevitable confrontation.
    ‘I have lost you, Sephrenia!’ Zalasta declared. ‘But I will not permit you to wed this Elene!’
    Aphrael dashed to her sister, her long black hair flying and a look of implacable determination on her small face.
    ‘Fear not, Aphrael,’ Zalasta said, speaking in formal Styric. ‘I have not come to this accursed place to pit myself against thee or thine errant sister. I speak for Styricum in this matter, and I have come to prevent this obscene sham of a ceremony which will befoul our entire race.’ He straightened and pointed an accusing finger at Sephrenia. ‘I adjure thee, woman. Turn away from this unnatural act. Go out from here, Sephrenia of Ylara! This wedding shall not take place!’
    ‘It will.’ Sephrenia’s voice rang out. ‘You cannot prevent it. Go away, Zalasta! You lost all claim on me when you tried to kill me!’ She raised her chin. ‘And have you come to try again?’
    ‘No, Sephrenia of Ylara. That was the result of a madness that came over me. There is yet another way to prevent this abomination.’ And he quickly turned, leveling his deadly staff at Vanion. A brilliant spark shot from the tip of the staff, sizzling in the pale evening light, straight as an arrow it flew, carrying death and all Zalasta’s hatred.
    But vigilant Anakha was ready, having already surmised at whom Zalasta would direct his attack. The sizzling spark flew straight, and agile Anakha stretched forth his hand to subdue it. He grasped the spark and saw its fury spurting out between his fingers. Then like a small boy throwing a stone at a bird, he hurled it back to explode against the surface of the blazing sphere.
    ‘Well done, my son,’ Bhelliom’s voice applauded.
    Zalasta flinched violently within his protective sphere. Pale and shaken, he stared at the dreadful form of Bhelliom’s Child.
    Methodical Anakha raised his hand, palm outward, and began to chip away at the blazing envelope which protected the desperate Styric with bolt after bolt of the kind of force that creates suns, noting almost absently as he did that the wedding-guests were scattering and that Sephrenia was rushing to Vanion’s side As he whipped that force out again and again, curious Anakha studied it, testing its power, probing for its limits.
    He found none.
    Implacable Anakha advanced on the deceitful Styric who had been ultimately the cause of a lifetime of suffering and woe. He knew that he could obliterate the now-terrified sorcerer with a single thought.
    He chose not to.
    Vengeful Anakha moved forward, savaging the Styric’s last desperately erected defenses, cutting them away bit by bit and brushing aside Zalasta’s pitiful efforts to respond.
    ‘Anakha. It is not right!’ The voice spoke in Trollish.
    Puzzled Anakha turned to look.
    It was Bhlokw, and Bhelliom’s Child had respect for the shaggy priest of the Troll-Gods.
    ‘This is the last of the wicked ones!’ Bhlokw declared. ‘It is the wish of Khwaj to cause hurt to it! Will the Child of the Flower-Gem hear the words of Khwaj?’
    Troubled Anakha considered the words of the priest of the Troll-Gods. ‘I will hear the words of