emitte lucem tuam et veritatem tuam
It's the following day that Princess Danae falls ill, with no definable malady. No fever, no rash, no cough--a listless sort of weakness. A lack of appetite and a difficulty in waking her. While Mirtai assures the royal couple that their child only needs a tonic--that it's the same as it was the previous month--Martel has his doubts about the ( Read more... )
Maryani looks extremely worried; she sticks close to Martel, and doesn't say anything, but she's paler than usual.
"The younger Gods are so totally involved with their worshipers that their very lives depend on them," Sephrenia explains, "Please, Sparhawk, ask Bhelliom to take us to Sarsos immediately."
Sparhawk nods bleakly and takes out the box, touching his ring to the lid. He commands it to open, and the lid snaps up.
"Blue-Rose," Sparhawk says, "a crisis hath arisen. The Child-Goddess is made gravely ill by reason of the murder of her worshipers in far-off Eosia. We must at once to Sarsos that Sephrenia might consult with the Thousand of Styricum regarding a cure."
"It shall be as thou doth require, Anakha," Bhelliom says--through Vanion.
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Martel starts, slightly--he suspects there's never going to be a reaction to that other than startlement. Vanion's expression--or perhaps Bhelliom's--turns slightly uncertain. "Is it proper for me to tell thee that I feel sympathy for thee and thy mate for this illness of thine only child?"
"I do appreciate thy kind concern, Blue Rose." Sparhawk, Martel is grudgingly forced to occasionally admit only to himself, isn't as rough-hewn in all things as he projects.
"My concern doth not arise merely from kindness, Anakha. Twice hath the gentle hand of the Child Goddess touched me, and even I am not proof against the subtle magic of her touch. For the love we all bear her, let us away to Sarsos that she may be made whole again."
The world shifts, blurs, and then the group of them are suddenly before the marble-sheathed council hall in Sarsos. Autumn is already more advanced, and the birch forest lying at the city's outskirts is ablaze with colour.
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"You three wait here," Sephrenia advises, "Maryani and I will go in together. Let's not stir up the hotheads by marching Elenes into the council chamber again."
Sparhawk nods and opens Bhelliom's golden case to put the jewel away.
"Nay, Anakha," Bhelliom says, still speaking through Vanion, "I would know how Sephrenia's proposal is received."
"An it please thee, Blue-Rose," Sparhawk says, politely.
Maryani and Sephrenia go quickly up the marble steps and inside.
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"It's cooler here," Vanion notes, pulling his cloak tighter about himself.
"Yes, it's farther north."
"That more or less exhausts the weather as a topic."
Martel snorts, quietly.
"Quit worrying, Sparhawk. Sephrenia has a great deal of influence with the Thousand. I'm sure they'll agree to help."
"Zalasta had a great deal of influence, too," Martel observes, blandly.
"Not now, Martel," Vanion reproaches him, wearily, and they wait on the steps as the minutes drag by.
It's half an hour or so later when Vanion's voice comes sharp, abrupt: "Come with me, Anakha!"
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"What is it?"
"The Styric love of endless talk discontents me. I must needs go past the Thousand to the Younger Gods themselves. These babblers do talk away the life of Aphrael." Vanion's voice is vehement, and it doesn't take long for him to burst into the council chamber.
Sephrenia breaks off midsentence to stare at Vanion, and Maryani darts forward, wide-eyed.
"We don't allow Elenes in here!" One of the council members on a back bench shrieks in Styric, rising to his feet and waving his arms.
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A strangled silence fills the chamber as Vanion begins to swell, spreading upward and outward into enormity even as an intensely blue aura flickers brighter and brighter around him. Flickers of lightening surge through that aura, and ripping peals of thunder echo back from the marble-clad walls. Martel catches sight of Sephrenia's awestruck gaze up at the power-swelled form of the Preceptor.
Sparhawk raises the glowing Sapphire Rose, as if on cue. "Behold Bhelliom!" he roars. "And hearken unto its mighty voice!"
His brother takes a few steps, prudently, to join Maryani.
"Hear my words, ye Thousand of Styricum!" The voice coming from the enormity which only a moment ago was Vanion is vast. A voice to which mountains would listen--which waves and torrents would stop simply to hear. "I would speak with your Gods! Too small are ye and too caught up in endless babble to consider this matter!"
Sparhawk winces.
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One of the white-robed councilors draws himself up, spluttering indignantly. "This is outrageous! We don't have to--"
He disappears suddenly, and is replaced by a confused-looking man who appears to have been interrupted in the middle of his bath. Naked and dripping, he gapes at the huge, blue-lit presence and at the glowing jewel in Sparhawk's hand. "Well, really--" he protests.
Maryani suppresses a laugh behind her hand, because regardless of situation she has only so many reactions to abruptly appearing naked men, frankly.
Even if they're more gods than men, in this case.
"Setras!" the profound voice says, sharply, "how deep is thy love for thy cousin Aphrael?"
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"This is most irregular!" the youthful god protests.
"How deep is thy love?" Bhelliom's voice is inexorable.
"I adore her, naturally. We all do, but..."
"What wouldst thou give to save her life?"
Martel's praying very hard right now that Maryani doesn't say a damn thing, although considering their goddess that mayn't help.
"Anything she asks, of course, but how could her life be in danger?"
"Thou knowest that Zalasta of Styricum is a traitor, dost thou not?"
There are gasps from the council; Martel suppresses an irritated sound, ineffectively.
"Aphrael said so, but we thought she might have been a little excited. You know how she is sometimes."
"She told thee truly, Setras. Even now do Zalasta's minions slaughter her worshipers in far-off Eosia. With each death is she made less. If this be permitted to continue, soon she will be no more."
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The God Setras tenses up, his eyes bright and blazing. "Monstrous!"
"What wilt thou give that she may live?"
"Mine own life, if need be," Setras replies with archaic formalism.
"Wilt thou lend her of thine own worshipers?"
Maryani's eyes widen--she wants to believe her goddess will do that, too, but isn't totally sure...Setras stares at the glowing Bhelliom, his face filled with chagrin.
"Quickly, Setras," Bhelliom urges, "Even now doth the life of Aphrael ebb away!"
The God draws in a deep breath. "There is no alternative?"
"None. The life of the Child-Goddess is sustained only by love. Give her the love of certain of thy children for a time that she may be made whole again."
Setras straightens up. "I will! Though it doth rend mine heart." A determined look crosses his face. "And I do assure thee, World-Maker, that mine shall not be the only children who will sustain the life of our beloved cousin. All shall contribute equally."
"Done, then!" Bhelliom declares.
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"Ah..." Setras's tone becomes a little worried, his speech slipping into less formal colloquialism. "She will give them back, won't she?"
"Thou hast mine assurance, Divine Setras," Sephrenia promises with a smile.
The Younger God looks relieved--then his eyes narrow. "Anakha," he says, crisply.
"Yes, Divine One?"
"Measures must be taken to protect Aphrael's remaining children. How might that best be accomplished?"
"Advise them to go to the chapterhouses of the Knights of the Church of Chyrellos," Sparhawk replies. "There will they be kept from all harm."
"And who doth command these knights?"
"Archprelate Dolmant, I suppose," Sparhawk replies doubtfully. "It is he who doth exercise ultimate authority."
Martel, who's been quiet this past while, has a slightly startled expression that doesn't appear to be directed at the exchange going on in front of him. At least--not entirely.
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Maryani watches Martel closer now.
"I will speak with him," Setras declares, "Where may I find him?"
"He will be in the Basilica in Chyrellos, Divine One," Sparhawk replies.
"I will go there and seek him out that we may consult together regarding this matter."
Maryani tries not to laugh again, considering the theological implications of a statement like that, and Sparhawk, for his part, tries not to choke. Meanwhile, Sephrenia is watching Vanion intently, and seems to come to a decision of some sort.
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The trip back to Matherion is much the same as the trip to Sarsos was in the first place, and Martel is tight-lipped to a noticeable degree when they accompany Sparhawk to reassure Danae. It's only as he opens the door to excuse himself and Maryani again that the reason for his reticence becomes clear--
"Welcome home, Martel," Danae says, sweetly mild in her tiredness, from where she rests in her father's arms.
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Maryani very politely (and very wisely, which is more likely the reason than manners--even she occasionally chooses to not test her husband's temper) waits until they've stepped outside and are in the hallway alone together to say, blandly, "Oh. I see."
Testing him a little is okay, isn't it?
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"Maryani. Must we." It's not really a question, mainly due to the fact Martel knows full well that they must, or at the very least that she must. He has a gift for being elusive, but there are some conversations even he can't put off effectively.
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"Yes," she confirms, with a reproachful look, "we absolutely must. So she's got you back, has she?"
Or so she's concluded from that brief exchange. Maryani slips her smaller hand into his and tugs, gently, intending to pull him with her down the hall. This is also a trickier move, however; she knows that sometimes touching him can coax him better than cajoling, and is hoping it will work here.
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Being touched does, often, persuade Martel much better than simply talking to him--he's not unaware of it, but to his endless frustration that doesn't make it any less useful a method. He curls his fingers around hers and lets himself be led, with a moderately discontent look into the bargain. "Evidently."
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