The Diamond Throne by David Eddings
To see her as she was now, locked in the semblance of death, wrenched at his heart, and he swore to himself that he would take the world apart if need be to restore her to health and to her throne. For some reason it made him angry to look at her, and he felt an irrational desire to lash out at things as if by sheer physical force he could return her to consciousness.
And then he heard and felt it. The sound appeared to grow more pronounced, and it grew louder moment by moment. It was a regular, steady thudding sound, not quite like the beating of a drum, and it did not change nor falter, but echoed through the room, its volume steadily increasing as it announced to any who might enter that Ehlana’s heart was still beating.
Sparhawk drew his sword and saluted his queen with it. Then he sank to one knee in a move of profoundest respect and a peculiar form of love. He leaned forward and gently kissed the unyielding crystal, his eyes suddenly filling with tears. ‘I am here now, Ehlana,’ he murmured, ‘and I’ll make everything all right again.’
The heartbeat grew louder, almost as if in some peculiar way she had heard him.
From the doorway he heard Lycheas snicker derisively, and he promised himself that should the opportunity arise, he would do a number of unpleasant things to the Queen’s bastard cousin. Then he rose and went towards the door again.
Lycheas stood smirking at him, still holding the key to the throne room in his hand. As Sparhawk passed the prince, he reached out and took the key. ‘You won’t need this any more,’ he said. ‘I’m here now, so I’ll take care of it.’
‘Annias,’ Lycheas said in a voice shrill with protest.
Annias, however, took one look at the bleak face of the Queen’s Champion and decided not to press the issue. ‘Let him keep it,’ he said shortly.
‘But—’
‘I said to let him keep it,’ the primate snapped. ‘We don’t need it anyway. Let the Queen’s Champion hold the key to the room in which she sleeps.’ There was a vile innuendo in the churchman’s voice, and Sparhawk clenched his still-gauntleted left fist.
‘Will you walk with me as we return to the council chamber, Sir Sparhawk?’ the Earl of Lenda said, placing a lightly restraining hand on Sparhawk’s armoured forearm. ‘My steps sometimes falter, and it’s comforting to have a strong young person at my side.’
‘Certainly, my Lord,’ Sparhawk replied, unclenching his fist. When Lycheas had led the members of the council back down the corridor towards their meeting room, Sparhawk closed the door and locked it. Then he handed the key to his old friend. ‘Will you keep this for me, my Lord?’ he asked.
‘Gladly, Sir Sparhawk.’
‘And if you can, keep the candles burning in the throne room. Don’t leave her sitting there in the dark.’
‘Of course.’
They started down the corridor.
‘Do you know something, Sparhawk?’ the old man said. ‘They left a great deal of bark on you when they were giving you the last polishing touches.’
Sparhawk grinned at him.
‘You can be truly offensive when you set your mind to it.’ Lenda chuckled.
‘I can but try, my Lord.’
‘Be very careful here in Cimmura, Sparhawk,’ the old man cautioned seriously in a low voice. ‘Annias has a spy on every street corner. Lycheas won’t even sneeze without his permission, so the primate is the real ruler here in Elenia and he hates you.’
‘I’m not overly fond of him, either.’ Sparhawk thought of something. ‘You’ve been a good friend here today, my Lord. Is that going to put you in any kind of danger?’
The Earl of Lenda smiled. ‘I doubt it. I’m too old and powerless to be any kind of threat to Annias. I’m hardly more than an irritation, and he’s far too calculating to take action against me for that.’
The primate awaited them at the door to the council chamber. ‘The council has discussed the situation here, Sir Sparhawk,’ he said coldly ‘The Queen is quite obviously in no danger. Her heartbeat is strong, and the crystal which encloses her is quite impregnable. She has no real need of a protector at this particular time. It is the command of the council, therefore, that you return to the chapterhouse of your order here in Cimmura and remain there until you receive further instructions.’ A chill smile touched his lips. ‘Or until the Queen herself summons you, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Sparhawk replied distantly. ‘I was about to suggest that myself, your Grace. I’m just a simple knight, and I’ll be far more at ease in the chapterhouse with my brothers than here in the palace.’ He smiled. ‘I’m really quite out of place at court.’
‘I noticed that.’
‘I thought you might have.’ Sparhawk briefly clasped the hand of the Earl of Lenda by way of farewell. Then he looked directly at Annias. ‘Until we meet again, then, your Grace.’
‘If we meet again.’
‘Oh, we will, Annias. Indeed we will.’ Then Sparhawk turned on his heel and walked on down the corridor.
Chapter 3
The chapterhouse of the Pandion Knights in Cimmura lay just beyond the eastern gate of the city. It was, in every sense of the word, a castle, with high walls surmounted by battlements and with bleak towers at each corner. It was approached by way of a drawbridge which spanned a deep fosse bristling with sharpened stakes. The drawbridge had been lowered, but it was guarded by four black-armoured Pandions mounted on war horses.
Sparhawk reined Faran in at the outer end of the bridge and waited. There were certain formalities involved in gaining entry into a Pandion chapterhouse. Oddly, he found that he did not chafe at those formalities. They had been a part of his life for all the years of his novitiate, and the observance of these age-old ceremonies seemed somehow to mark a renewal and a reaffirmation of his very identity. Even as he awaited the ritual challenge, the sun-baked city of Jiroch and the women going to the wells in the steel-grey light of morning faded back in his memory, becoming more remote and taking their proper place among all his other memories.
Two of the armoured knights rode forward at a stately pace, the hooves of their chargers booming hollowly on the foot-thick planks of the drawbridge. They halted just in front of Sparhawk. ‘Who art thou who entreateth entry into the house of the Soldiers of God?’ one of them intoned.
Sparhawk raised his visor in the symbolic gesture of peaceable intent. ‘I am Sparhawk,’ he replied, ‘a soldier of God and a member of this order.’
‘How may we know thee?’ the second knight inquired.
‘By this token may you know me.’ Sparhawk reached his hand into the neck of his surcoat and drew out the heavy silver amulet suspended on the chain about his neck. Every Pandion wore such an amulet.
The pair made some pretence of looking carefully at it.
‘This is indeed Sir Sparhawk of our order,’ the first knight declared.
‘Truly,’ the second agreed, ‘and shall we then—uh—’ He faltered, frowning.
‘—Grant him entry into the house of the Soldiers of God,’ Sparhawk prompted.
The second knight made a face. ‘I can never remember that part,’ he muttered. ‘Thanks, Sparhawk.’ He cleared his throat and began again. ‘Truly,’ he said, ‘and shall we then grant him entry into the house of the Soldiers of God?’
The first knight was grinning openly. ‘It is his right freely to enter this house,’ he said, ‘for he is one of us. Hail, Sir Sparhawk. Prithee, come within the walls of this house, and may peace abide with thee beneath its roof.’
‘And with thee and thy companion as well, wheresoever you may fare,’ Sparhawk replied, concluding the ceremony.
‘Welcome home, Sparhawk,’ the first knight said warmly then. ‘You’ve been a long time away.’
‘You noticed,’ Sparhawk answered. ‘Did Kurik get here?’
The second knight nodded. ‘An hour or so ago. He talked with Vanion and then left again.’
‘Let’s go inside,’ Sparhawk suggested. ‘I need a large dose of that peace you mentioned earlier, and I’ve got t
The two knights turned their horses, and the three rode together back across the drawbridge.
‘Is Sephrenia still here?’ Sparhawk asked.
‘Yes,’ the second knight replied. ‘She and Vanion came from Demos shortly after the Queen fell ill, and she hasn’t gone back to the motherhouse yet.’
‘Good. I need to talk with her as well.’
The three of them halted at the castle gate. This is Sir Sparhawk, a member of our order,’ the first knight declared to the two who had remained at the gate. ‘We have confirmed his identity and vouch for his right to enter the house of the Knights Pandion.’
‘Pass then, Sir Sparhawk, and may peace abide with thee whilst thou remain within this house.’
‘I thank thee, Sir Knight, and may peace also be thine.’
The knights drew their mounts aside, and Faran moved forward without any urging.
‘You know the ritual as well as I do, don’t you?’ Sparhawk murmured.
Faran flicked his ears.
In the central courtyard, an apprentice knight who had not yet been vested with his ceremonial armour or spurs hurried forward and took Faran’s reins. ‘Welcome, Sir Knight,’ he said.
Sparhawk hooked his shield to his saddlebow and swung down from Faran’s back with his armour clinking. ‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘Do you have any idea of where I might find Lord Vanion?’
‘I believe he’s in the south tower, my Lord.’
‘Thanks again.’ Sparhawk started across the courtyard, then stopped. ‘Oh, be careful of the horse,’ he warned. ‘He bites.’
The novice looked startled and then cautiously stepped away from the big, ugly roan, though still firmly holding the reins.
The horse gave Sparhawk a flat, unfriendly stare.
‘It’s more sporting this way, Faran,’ Sparhawk explained. He started up the worn steps that led into the centuries-old castle.
The inside of the chapterhouse was cool and dim, and the few members of the order Sparhawk met in those halls wore cowled monk’s robes, as was customary inside a secure house, although an occasional steely clink betrayed the fact that, beneath their humble garb, the members of this order wore chain mail and were inevitably armed. There were no greetings exchanged, and the cowled brothers of Pandion went resolutely about their duties with bowed heads and shadowed faces.
Sparhawk put the flat of his hand out in front of one of the cowled men. Pandions seldom touched each other. ‘Excuse me, brother,’ he said. ‘Do you know if Vanion is still in the south tower?’
‘He is,’ the other knight replied.
‘Thank you, brother. Peace be with you.’
‘And with you, Sir Knight.’
Sparhawk went on along the torchlit corridor until he came to a narrow stairway which wound up into the south tower between walls of massive, unmortared stones. At the top of the stairs there was a heavy door guarded by two young Pandions. Sparhawk did not recognize either of them. ‘I need to talk with Vanion,’ he told them. ‘The name is Sparhawk.’
‘Can you identify yourself?’ one of them asked, trying to make his youthful voice sound gruff.
‘I’ve just done so.’
It hung there while the two young knights struggled to find a graceful way out of the situation. ‘Why not just open the door and tell Vanion that I’m here?’ Sparhawk suggested. ‘If he recognizes me, fine. If he doesn’t, the two of you can try to throw me back down the stairs.’ He laid no particular emphasis on the word try.
The two looked at each other, then one of them opened the door and looked inside. ‘A thousand pardons, my Lord Vanion,’ he apologized, ‘but there’s a Pandion here who calls himself Sparhawk. He says that he wants to talk with you.’
‘Good,’ a familiar voice replied from inside the room. ‘I’ve been expecting him. Send him in.’
The two knights looked abashed and stepped out of Sparhawk’s way.
‘Thank you, my brothers,’ Sparhawk murmured to them. ‘Peace be with you.’ And then he went on through the door. The room was large, with stone walls, dark green drapes at the narrow windows, and a carpet of muted brown. A fire crackled in the arched fireplace at one end, and there was a candlelit table surrounded by heavy chairs in the centre. Two people, a man and a woman, sat at the table.
Vanion, the Preceptor of the Pandion Knights, had aged somewhat in the past ten years. His hair and beard were iron-grey now. There were a few more lines in his face, but there were no signs of feebleness there. He wore a mail shirt and a silver surcoat. As Sparhawk entered the room, he rose and came around the table. ‘I was about to send a rescue party to the palace for you,’ he said, grasping Sparhawk’s armoured shoulders. ‘You shouldn’t have gone there alone, you know.’
‘Maybe not, but things worked out all right.’ Sparhawk removed his gauntlets and helmet, laying them on the table. Then he unfastened his sword from its studs and laid it beside them. ‘It’s good to see you again, Vanion,’ he said, taking the older man’s hand in his. Vanion had always been a stern teacher, tolerating no shortcomings in the young knights he had trained to take their places in Pandion ranks. Although Sparhawk had come close to hating the man during his novitiate, he now regarded the blunt-spoken preceptor as one of his closest friends, and their handclasp was warm, even affectionate.
Then the big knight turned to the woman. She was small and had that peculiar neat perfection one sometimes sees in small people. Her hair was as black as night, though her eyes were a deep blue. Her features were obviously not Elene, but had that strangely foreign cast that marked her as a Styric. She wore a soft, white robe, and there was a large book on the table in front of her. ‘Sephrenia,’ he greeted her warmly, ‘you’re looking well.’ He took both of her hands in his and kissed her palms in the ritual Styric gesture of greeting.
‘You have been long away, Sir Sparhawk,’ she replied. Her voice was soft and musical and had an odd, lilting quality to it.
‘And will you bless me, little mother?’ he asked, a smile touching his battered face. He knelt before her. The form of address was Styric, reflecting that intimate personal connection between teacher and pupil which had existed since the dawn of time.
‘Gladly’ She lightly touched her hands to his face and spoke a ritual benediction in the Styric tongue.
‘Thank you,’ he said simply.
Then she did something she rarely did. With her hands still holding his face, she leaned forward and lightly kissed him. ‘Welcome home, dear one,’ she murmured.
‘It’s good to be back,’ he replied. ‘I’ve missed you.’
‘Even though I scolded you when you were a boy?’ she asked with a gentle smile.
‘Scoldings don’t hurt that much.’ He laughed. ‘I even missed those, for some reason.’
‘I think that perhaps we did well with this one, Vanion,’ she said to the preceptor. ‘Between us, we’ve made a good Pandion.’
‘One of the best,’ Vanion agreed. ‘I think Sparhawk’s what they had in mind when they formed the order.’
Sephrenia’s position among the Knights Pandion was a peculiar one She had appeared at the gates of the order’s motherhouse at Demos upon the death of the Styric tutor who had been instructing the novices in what the Styrics referred to as the secrets. She had neither been selected nor summoned, but had simply appeared and taken up her predecessor’s duties. Generally, Elenes despised and feared Styrics. They were a strange, alien people who lived in small, rude clusters of houses deep in the forests and mountains. They worshipped strange Gods and practised magic Wild stories about hideous rites involving the use of Elene blood and flesh had circulated among the more gullible in Elene society for centuries, and periodically mobs of drunken peasants would descend on unsuspecting Styric villages, bent on massacre The Church vigorously denounced such atrocities. The Church Knights, who had come to know and respect their alien tutors, went perhaps a step further than the Church, letting it be generally known that unprovoked
Sparhawk looked at the volume lying on the table before her ‘A book, Sephrenia?’ he said in mock amazement. ‘Has Vanion finally persuaded you to learn how to read?’
‘You know my beliefs about that practice, Sparhawk,’ she replied. ‘I was merely looking at the pictures.’ She pointed at the brilliant illuminations on the page. ‘I was ever fond of bright colours.’
Sparhawk drew up a chair and sat, his armour creaking.
‘You saw Ehlana?’ Vanion asked, resuming his seat across the table.
‘Yes.’ Sparhawk looked at Sephrenia. ‘How did you do that?’ he asked her. ‘Seal her up like that, I mean?’
‘It’s a bit complex.’ Then she stopped and gave him a penetrating look. ‘Perhaps you’re ready, at that,’ she murmured. She rose to her feet. ‘Come over here, Sparhawk,’ she said, moving towards the fireplace.
Puzzled, he rose and followed her.
‘Look into the flames, dear one,’ she said softly, using that odd Styric form of address she had used when he was her pupil.
Compelled by her voice, he stared at the fire Faintly, he heard her whispering in Styric, and then she passed her hand slowly across the flames. Unthinking, he sank to his knees and stared into the fireplace.