David Eddings - Ellenium 1 - The Diamond Throne

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The Diamond Throne
David Eddings
Ellenium
book 1
Sparhawk, Pandion Knight, and Queen's Champion have returned to Elenia
after ten years of exile, only to find young Queen Ehlanda trapped in
a block of ensorcelled crystal. As Sparhawk sets out to find a cure
for Ehlana, he discovers that only he can defeat the evil plots that
threaten her rule.....
Prologue
Ghwerig and the Bhelliom - From the Legends of the Troll-Gods
At the dawn of time, long before the ancestors of
Styricum slouched, fur-clad and club-wielding, out of
the mountains and forests of Zemoch onto the plains of
central Eosia, there dwelt in a deep cavern lying beneath
the perpetual snows of northern Thalesia a dwarfed and
misshapen Troll named Ghwerig. Now, Ghwerig was
an outcast by reason of his ugliness and his overwhelming
greed, and he laboured alone in the depths of
the earth, seeking gold and precious gems that he might
add to the treasure-hoard which he jealously guarded.
Finally there came a day when he broke into a deep
gallery far beneath the frozen surface of the earth and
beheld by the light of his flickering torch a deep blue
gemstone, larger than his fist, embedded in the wall.
Trembling with excitement in all his gnarled and twisted
limbs, he squatted on the floor of that passage and
gazed with longing at the huge jewel, knowing that its
value exceeded that of the entire hoard which he had
laboured for centuries to acquire. Then he began with
great care to cut away the surrounding stone, chip by
chip, so that he might lift the precious gem from the
spot where it had rested since the world began. And as
more and more it emerged from the rock, he perceived
that it had a peculiar shape, and an idea came to him.
Could he but remove it intact, he might by careful
carving and polishing enhance that shape and thus
increase the value of the gem a thousand-fold.
When at last he gently took the jewel from its rocky
bed, he carried it straightaway to the cave wherein lay his
workshop and his treasure-hoard. Indifferently, he
shattered a diamond of incalculable worth and fashioned
from its fragments tools with which he might carve and
shape the gem which he had found.
For decades, by the light of smoky torches, Ghwerig
patiently carved and polished, muttering all the while
the spells and incantations which would infuse this
priceless gem with all the power for good or ill of the
Troll-Gods. When at last the carving was done, the gem
was in the shape of a rose of deepest sapphire blue. And
he named it Bhelliom, the flower-gem, and he believed
that by its might all things might be possible for him.
But though Bhelliom was filled with all the power of
the Troll-Gods, it would not yield up that power unto its
misshapen and ugly owner, and Ghwerig pounded his
fists in rage upon the stone floor of his cavern. He
consulted with his Gods and made offerings to them of
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heavy gold and bright silver, and his Gods revealed to
him that there must be a key to unlock the power of
Bhelliom, lest its might be unleashed by the whim of any
who came upon it. Then the Troll-Gods told Ghwerig
what he must do to gain mastery over the gem which he
had wrought. Taking the shards which had fallen unnoticed
in the dust about his feet as he had laboured to
shape the sapphire rose, he fashioned a pair of rings. Of
finest gold were the rings, and each was mounted with a
polished oval fragment of Bhelliom itself. When it was
done, he placed the rings one on each of his hands and
then lifted the sapphire rose. The deep, glowing blue of
the stones mounted in his rings fled back into Bhelliom
itself, and the jewels that adorned his twisted hands
were now as pale as diamond. And as he held the
flower-gem, he felt the surge of its power, and he
rejoiced in the knowledge that the jewel he had wrought
had consented to yield to him.
As the uncounted centuries rolled by, great were the
wonders Ghwerig wrought by the power of Bhelliom.
But the Styrics came at last into the land of the Trolls.
When the Elder Gods of Styricum learned of Bhelliom,
each in his heart coveted it by reason of its power. But
Ghwerig was cunning and he sealed up the entrances to
his cavern with enchantments to repel their efforts to
wrest Bhelliom from him.
Now at a certain time, the Younger Gods of Styricum
took counsel with each other, for they were disquieted
about the power which Bhelliom would confer upon
whichever God came to possess it, and they concluded
that such might should not be unloosed in the earth.
They resolved then to render the stone powerless. Of
their number they selected the nimble Goddess Aphrael
for the task. Then Aphrael journeyed to the north, and,
by reason of her slight form, she was able to wriggle her
way through a crevice so small that Ghwerig had
neglected to seal it. Once she was within the cavern,
Aphrael lifted her voice in song. So sweetly she sang that
Ghwerig was all bemused by her melody, and he felt no
alarm at her presence. So it was that Aphrael lulled him.
When, with dreamy smile, the Troll-Dwarf closed his
eyes, she tugged the ring from off his right hand and
replaced it with a ring set with a common diamond.
Ghwerig started up when he felt the tug, but when he
looked at his hand, a ring still encircled his finger, and he
sat him down again and took his ease, delighting in the
song of the Goddess. When once again, in sweet reverie,
his eyes dropped shut, the nimble Aphrael tugged the
ring from off his left hand, replacing it with yet another
ring mounted with yet another diamond. Again Ghwerig
started to his feet and looked with alarm at his left hand,
but he was reassured by the presence there of a ring
which looked for all the world like one of the pair which
he had fashioned from the shards of the flower-gem.
Aphrael continued to sing for him until at last he lapsed
into deep slumber. Then the Goddess stole away on
silent feet, bearing with her' the rings which were the
keys to the power of Bhelliom.
Now, upon a later day, Ghwerig lifted Bhelliom from
the crystal case wherein it lay that he might perform a
task by its power, but Bhelliom would not yield to him,
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for he no longer possessed the rings which were the keys
to its power. The rage of Ghwerig was beyond measure,
and he went up and down in the land seeking the
Goddess Aphrael that he might wrest his rings from her,
but he found her not, though for centuries he searched.
Thus it was for as long as Styricum held sway over the
mountains and plains of Eosia. But there came a time
when , the Elenes rode out of the east and intruded
themselves into this place. After centuries of random
wandering to and fro in the land, some of their number
came at last into far northern Thalesia and dispossessed
the Styrics and their Gods. And when the Elenes heard of
Ghwerig and his Bhelliom, they sought the entrances to
the Troll-Dwarf's cavern throughout the hills and valleys
of Thalesia, all hot with their lust to find and own the
fabled gem by reason of its incalculable worth, for they
knew not of the power locked in its azure petals.
It fell at last to Adian of Thalesia, mightiest and most
crafty of the heroes of antiquity, to solve the riddle. At
peril of his soul, he took counsel with the Troll-Gods and
made offering to them, and they relented and told him
that Ghwerig went abroad in the land at certain times in
search of the Goddess Aphrael of Styricum that he might
reclaim a pair of rings which she had stolen from him, but
of the true meaning of those rings they told him not. And
Adian journeyed to the far north and there he awaited
each twilight for a half-dozen years the appearance of
Ghwerig.
When at last the Troll-Dwarf appeared, Adian went up
to him in a dissembling guise and told him that he knew
where Aphrael might be found and that he would reveal
her location for a helmet full of fine yellow gold. Ghwerig
was deceived and straightaway led Adian to the hidden
mouth of his cavern and he took the hero's helm and
went into his treasure chamber and filled it to overflowing
with fine gold. Then he emerged again, sealing the
entrance to his cavern behind him. And he gave Adian
the gold, and Adian deceived him again, saying that
Aphrael might be found in the district of Horset on the
western coast of Thalesia. Ghwerig hastened to Horset to
seek out the Goddess. And once again Adian impereled
his soul and implored the Troll-Gods to break Ghwerig's
enchantments that he might gain entrance to the cavern.
The capricious Troll-Gods consented and the enchantments
were broken.
As rosy dawn touched the ice fields of the north into
flame, Adian emerged from Ghwerig's cavern with
Bhelliom in his grasp. He journeyed straightaway to his
capital at Emsat and there he fashioned a crown for
himself and surmounted it with Bhelliom.
The chagrin of Ghwerig knew no bounds when he
returned empty-handed to his cavern to find that not
only had he lost the keys to the power of Bhelliom, but
that the flower-gem itself was no longer in his possession.
Thereafter he usually lurked by night in the fields
and forests about the city of Emsat, seeking to reclaim his
treasure, but the descendants of Adian protected it
closely and prevented him from approaching it.
Now as it happened, Azash, an Elder God of Styricum,
had long yearned in his heart for possession of Bhelliom
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and of the rings which unlocked its power and he sent
forth his hordes out of Zemoch to seize the gems by force
of arms. The kings of the west took up arms to join with
the Knights of the Church to face the armies of Otha of
Zemoch and of his dark Styric God, Azash. And King
Sarak of Thalesia took ship with some few of his vassals
and sailed south from Emsat, leaving behind the royal
command that his earls were to follow when the mobilization
of all Thalesia was complete. As it happened,
however, King Sarak never reached the great battlefield
on the plains of Lamorkand, but fell instead to a Zemoch
spear in an unrecorded skirmish near the shores of Lake
Venne in Pelosia. A faithful vassal, though mortally
wounded, took up his fallen lord's crown and struggled
his way to the marshy eastern shore of the lake. There,
hard-pressed and dying, he cast the Thalesian crown into
the murky, peat-clouded waters of the lake, even as
Ghwerig, who had followed his lost treasure, watched in
horror from his place of concealment in a nearby peat
bog. The Zemochs who had slain King Sarak immediately
began to probe the brown-stained depths, that they
might find the crown and carry it in triumph to Azash,
but they were interrupted in their search by a column of
Alcione Knights sweeping down out of Deira to join the
battle in Lamorkand. The Alciones fell upon the
Zemochs and slew them to the last man. The faithful
vassal of the Thalesian king was given an honourable
burial, and the Alciones rode on, all unaware that the
fabled crown of Thalesia lay beneath the turbid waters of
Lake Venne.
It is sometimes rumoured in Pelosia, however, that on
moonless nights the shadowy form of the immortal
Troll-Dwarf haunts the marshy shore. Since, by reason of
his malformed limbs, Ghwerig dares not enter the dark
waters of the lake to probe its depths, he must creep
along the marge, alternately crying out his longing to
Bhelliom and dancing in howling frustration that it will
not respond to him.
!!!
PART ONE
Cimmura
*Chapter1
It was raining. A soft, silvery drizzle sifted down out of
the night sky and wreathed around the blocky watchtowers of the city of
Cimmura, hissing in the torches on each side of the broad gate and making
the stones of the road leading up to the city shiny and black. A lone rider
approached the city. He was wrapped in a dark, heavy traveller's cloak and
rode a tall, shaggy roan horse with a long nose and flat, vicious eyes. The
traveller was a big man, a bigness of large, heavy bone and ropy tendon
rather than of flesh. His hair was coarse and black, and at some time his
nose had been broken. He rode easily, but with the peculiar alertness of
the trained warrior. His name was Sparhawk, a man at least ten years older
than he looked, who carried the erosion of his years not so much on his
battered face as in a half-dozen or so minor infirmities and discomforts
and in the several wide purple scars upon his body which always ached in
damp weather. Tonight, however, he felt his age, and he wished only for a
warm bed in the obscure inn which was his goal. Sparhawk was coming home at
last after a decade of being someone else with a different name in a
country where it almost never rained, where the sun was a hammer pounding
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down on a bleached white anvil of sand and rock and hard-baked clay, where
the walls of the buildings were thick and white to ward off the blows of
the sun, and where graceful women went to the wells in the silvery light of
early morning with large clay vessels balanced on their shoulders and
black veils across their faces. The big roan horse shuddered absently,
shaking the rain out of his shaggy coat, and approached the city gate,
stopping in the ruddy circle of torchlight before the gatehouse.
An unshaven gate guard in a rust-splotched breastplate and helmet, and with
a patched green cloak negligently hanging from one shoulder, came
unsteadily out of the gatehouse and stood swaying in Sparhawk's path.
'I'll need your name,' he said in a voice thick with
drink.
Sparhawk gave him a long stare, then opened his cloak
to show the heavy silver amulet hanging on a chain about
his neck.
The half-drunk gate guard's eyes widened slightly,
and he stepped back a pace. 'Oh,' he said, "sorry, my
Lord. Go ahead.'
Another guard poked his head out of the gatehouse.
'Who is it,, Raf?' he demanded.
'A Pandion Knight,' the first guard replied nervously.
'What's his business in Cimmura?'
'I don't question the Pandions, Bral,' the man named
Raf answered. He smiled ingratiatingly up at Sparhawk.
'New man,' he said apologetically, jerking his thumb
back over his shoulder at his comrade. 'He'll learn in
time, my Lord. Can we serve you in any way?'
'No,' Sparhawk replied, 'thanks all the same. You'd
better get in out of the rain, neighbour. You'll catch cold out
here.' He handed a small coin to the green cloaked guard
and rode on into the city, Passing up the narrow, cobbled
street beyond the gate with the slow clatter of the big roan's
steel-shod hooves echoing back from the buildings.
The district near the gate was poor, with shabby, rundown houses standing
tightly packed beside each other with their upper floors projecting out
over the wet, littered street. Crude signs swung creaking on rusty hooks in
the night wind, identifying this or that tightly shuttered shop on the
street-level floors. A wet, miserable-looking cur slunk across the street
with his ratlike tail between his legs. Otherwise, the street was dark and
empty.
A torch burned fitfully at an intersection where
another street crossed the one upon which Sparhawk
rode. A sick young whore, thin and wrapped in a shabby
blue cloak, stood hopefully under the torch like a pale,
frightened ghost. 'Would you like a nice time, sir?' she
whined at him. Her eyes were wide and timid, and her
face gaunt and hungry.
He stopped, bent in his saddle, and poured a few small
coins into her grimy hand. 'Go home, little sister, ' he told
her in a gentle voice. 'it's late and wet, and there'll be no
customers tonight.' Then he straightened and rode on,
leaving her to stare in grateful astonishment after him.
He turned down a narrow side' street clotted with
shadow and heard the scurry of feet somewhere in the
rainy dark ahead of him. His ears caught a quick,
whispered conversation in the deep shadows somewhere to his left.
The roan snorted and laid his ears back.
'its nothing to get excited about,' Sparhawk told him.
The big man's voice was very soft, almost a husky
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whisper. It was the kind of voice people turned to hear.
Then he spoke more loudly, addressing the pair of
hoods lurking in the shadows. 'I'd like to accommodate you, neighbours,' he
said, but it's late, and I'm not
in the mood for casual entertainment. Why don't you go
rob some drunk young nobleman instead, and live to
steal another day?' To emphasize his words, he threw
back his damp cloak to reveal the leather-bound hilt of
the plain broadsword belted at his side.
There was a quick, startled silence in the dark street,
followed by the rapid patter of fleeing feet.
The big roan snorted derisively. 'My sentiments exactly,'
Sparhawk agreed, pulling his cloak back around him.
"Shall we proceed?'
They entered a large square surrounded by hissing
torches where most of the brightly coloured canvas
booths had their fronts rolled down. A few forlornly
hopeful enthusiasts remained open for business,
stridently bawling their wares to indifferent passers-by
hurrying home on a late, rainy evening. Sparhawk
reined in his horse as a group of rowdy young nobles
lurched unsteadily from the door of a seedy tavern,
shouting drunkenly to each other as they crossed the
square. He waited calmly until they vanished into a side
street and then looked around, not so much wary as
alert.' Had there been but a few more people in the nearly
empty square, even Sparhawk's trained eye might not
have noticed Krager. The man was of medium height and
he was rumpled and unkempt. His boots were muddy,
and his maroon cape carelessly caught at the throat. He
slouched across the square, his wet, colourless hair
plastered down on his narrow skull and his watery eyes
blinking nearsightedly as he peered about in the rain.
Sparhawk drew in his breath sharply. He hadn't seen
Krager since that night in Cippria, almost ten years ago,
and the man had aged considerably. His face was greyer
and more pouchy-looking, but there could be no
question that it was Krager.
Since quick movements attracted the eye, Sparhawk's
reaction was studied. He dismounted slowly and led his
big horse to a green canvas food vendor's stall, keeping
the animal between himself and the nearsighted man
in the maroon cape. 'Good evening, neighbour,' he said to
the brown-clad food vendor in his deadly quiet voice. 'I
have some business to attend to. I'll pay you if you'll
watch my horse.'
The unshaven vendor's eyes came quickly alight.
'Don't even think it,' Sparhawk warned. 'The horse
won't follow you, no matter what you do - but I will, and
you wouldn't like that at all. just take the pay and forget
about trying to steal the horse.'
The vendor looked at the big man's bleak face,
swallowed hard, and made a jerky attempt at a bow.
'Whatever you say, my Lord," he agreed' quickly, his
words tumbling over each other. 'I vow to you that your
noble mount will be safe with me.'
'Noble what?'
"Noble mount - your horse.'
'Oh, I see. I'd appreciate that.'
'Can I do anything else for you, my Lord?'
Sparhawk looked across the square at Krager's back.
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'Do you by chance happen to have a bit of wire handy -
about so long?' He measured out perhaps three feet with
his hands.
'I may have, my Lord. The herring kegs are bound with
wire. Let me look.'
Sparhawk crossed his arms and leaned them on his
saddle, watching Krager across the horse's back. The
past ten years, the blasting sun, and the women going to the
wells in the steely light of early morning fell away, and
quite suddenly he was back in the stockyards outside
Cippria with the stink of dung and blood on him, the
taste of fear and hatred in his mouth, and the pain of his
wounds making him weak as his pursuers searched for
him with their swords in their hands.
He pulled his mind away from that, deliberately
concentrating on this moment rather than the past. He
hoped that the vendor could find some wire. Wire was
good. No noise, no mess, and with a little time it could be
made to look exotic - the kind of thing one might expect
from a Styric or perhaps a Pelosian. It wasn't so much
Krager, he thought as the tense excitement built in him.
Krager had never been more than a dim, feeble adjunct to
Martel - an extension, another set of hands, just as the
other man, Adus, had never been more than a weapon. It
was what Krager's death would do to Martel - that was
what mattered.
'This is the best I could find, my Lord,' the greasy-aproned food vendor
said respectfully, coming out of the
back of his canvas booth and holding out a length of
rusty, soft-iron wire. 'I'm sorry. It isn't much.'
'it's just fine,' Sparhawk replied, taking the wire. He
snapped the rusty strand taut between his hands. 'it's
perfect in fact.' Then he turned to his horse. 'Stay here,
Faran,' he said. The horse bared his teeth at him. Sparhawk laughed
softly and moved out into the square, some distance
behind Krager. If the nearsighted man were found in
some shadowy doorway, bowed tautly backward with
the wire knotted about his neck and ankles and with his
eyes popping out of a blackened face, or face down in the
trough of some back-alley public urinal, that would
unnerve Martel, hurt him , perhaps even frighten him. It
might be enough to bring him out into the open, and
Sparhawk had been waiting for years for a chance to
catch Martel out in the open. Carefully, his hands
concealed beneath his cloak, he began to work the kinks
out of his length of wire, even as he stalked his quarry.
His senses had become preternaturally alert. He could
clearly hear the guttering of the torches along the sides of
the square and see their orange flicker reflected in the
puddles of water lying among the cobblestones. That
reflected glow seemed for some reason very beautiful.
Sparhawk felt good - better perhaps than he had for ten
years.
'Sir Knight? Sir Sparhawk? Can that be you?'
Startled, Sparhawk turned quickly, swearing under
his breath. The man who had accosted him had long,
elegantly curled blond hair. He wore a saffron-coloured
doublet, lavender hose, and an apple-green cloak. His
wet maroon shoes were long and pointed, and his cheeks
were rouged. The small, useless sword at his side and his
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broad-brimmed hat with its dripping plume marked him
as a courtier, one of the petty functionaries and parasitic
hangers~on who infested the palace like vermin.
'What are you doing back here in Cimmura?' the fop
,demanded, his high-pitched, effeminate voice startled.
"you were banished.'
Sparhawk looked quickly at the man he had been
following. Krager was nearing the entrance to a street
that opened into the square, and in a moment he would
be out of sight. It was still possible, however. One quick,
hard blow would put this over-dressed butterfly before
him to sleep, and Krager would still be within reach.
Then a hot disappointment filled Sparhawk's mouth as a
detachment of the watch marched into the square with
lumbering tread. There was no way now to dispose of
this interfering popinjay without attracting their attention.
The look he directed at the perfumed man barring
his path was flat with anger.
The courtier stepped back nervously, glancing quickly
at the soldiers who were moving along in front of the
booths, checking the fastenings on the rolled-down
canvas fronts. 'i insist that you tell me what you're doing
back here,' he said, trying to sound authoritative.
'insist? You?' Sparhawk's voice was full of contempt.
The other man looked quickly at the soldiers again,
seeking reassurance, then he straightened, boldly. 'I'm
taking you in charge, Sparhawk. I demand that you give
an account of yourself.' He reached out and grasped
Sparhawk's arm.
'Don't touch me,' Sparhawk spat out the words,
striking the hand away.
'You hit me!' the courtier gasped, clutching at his hand
in pain. Sparhawk took the man's shoulder in one hand and
pulled him close. 'if you ever put your hands on me
again, I'll rip out your guts. Now get out of my way.'
'I'll call the watch,' the fop threatened.
'And how long do you think you'll continue to live
after you do that?'
'You can't threaten me. I have powerful friends.'
'But they're not here, are they? I am, however.'
Sparhawk pushed him away in disgust and turned to
walk on across the square.
'You Pandions can't get away with this high-handed
behaviour any more. There are laws in Elenia now,' the
overdressed man called after him shrilly. 'I'm going
straight to Baron Harparin. I'm going to tell him that
you've come back to Cimmura and about how you hit me
and threatened me.'
'Good,' Sparhawk replied without turning. 'Do that.'
He continued to walk away, his irritation and
disappointment rising to the point where he had to clench
his teeth tightly to keep himself under control. Then an
idea came to him. It was petty even childish - but for
some reason it seemed quite appropriate. He stopped
and straightened his shoulders, muttering 'under his
breath in the Styric tongue, even as his fingers wove
intricate designs in the air in front of him. He hesitated
slightly, groping for the word for carbuncle. He finally
settled for boil instead and completed the incantation.
He turned slightly, looked at his tormentor, and released
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the spell. Then he turned back and continued on across
the square, smiling slightly to himself. It was, to be sure,
quite petty, but Sparhawk was like that sometimes.
He handed the food vendor a coin for minding Faran,
swung up into his saddle, and rode across the square in
the misty drizzle, a big man shrouded in a rough woollen
cloak, astride an ugly-faced roan horse.
Once he was past the square, the streets were dark and
empty again, with guttering torches hissing in the rain at
intersections and casting their dim, sooty orange glow.
The sound of Faran's hooves was loud in the empty
Street. Sparhawk shifted slightly in his saddle. The
sensation he felt was very faint, a kind of Prickling of the
skin across his shoulders and up the back of his neck, but
he recognized it immediately. Someone was watching
him, and the watcher was not friendly. Sparhawk shifted
again, carefully trying to make the movement appear to
be no more than the uncomfortable fidgeting of a
saddle-weary traveller. His right hand, however, was
concealed beneath his cloak, and it sought the hilt of his
sword. The oppressive sense of malevolence increased,
and then, in the shadows beyond the flickering torch at
the next intersection, he saw a figure robed and hooded
in a dark grey garment that blended so well into the
shadows and wreathing drizzle that the watcher was
almost invisible.
The roan tensed his muscles, and his ears flicked.
'I see him, Faran,' Sparhawk replied very quietly.
They continued on along the cobblestone street, passing
through the pool of orange torchlight and on into the
shadowy street beyond. Sparhawk's eyes readjusted to
the dark, but the hooded figure had already vanished up
some alleyway or through one of the narrow doors along
the street. The sense of being watched was gone, and the
street was no longer a place of danger. Faran moved on,
his hooves clattering on the wet stones.
The inn which was Sparhawk's destination was on an
unobtrusive back street. It was gated at the front of its
central courtyard with stout oaken planks. Its walls were
peculiarly high and thick, and a single, dim lantern
glowed beside a much-weathered wooden sign that
creaked mournfully as it swung back and forth in the
rain-filled night breeze. Sparhawk pulled Faran close to
the gate, leaned back in his saddle, and kicked the
rainblackened planks solidly with one spurred foot. There
was a peculiar rhythm to the kicks.
He waited.
Then the gate creaked inward and the shadowy form
of a porter, hooded in black, looked out. He nodded
briefly, then pulled the gate wider to admit Sparhawk.
The big knight rode into the rain-wet courtyard and
slowly dismounted. The porter swung the gate shut and
barred it, then he pushed his hood back from his steel
helm, turned, and bowed. 'My Lord,' he greeted
Sparhawk respectfully.
'it's too late at night for formalities, Sir Knight,'
Sparhawk responded, also with a brief bow.
'Formality is the very soul of gentility, Sir Sparhawk,'
the porter replied ironically. 'I try to practise it whenever
I can.'
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file:///F|/rah/Dave%20Eddings/Eddings,%20David%20-%20Elenium%201%20The%20Diamond%20Throne.txt
'As you wish.' Sparhawk shrugged. 'Will you see to
my horse?'
'Of course. Your man, Kurik, is here.'
Sparhawk nodded, untying the two heavy leather bags
from the skirt of his saddle.
'I'll take those up for you, my Lord,' the porter offered.
'There's no need. where's Kurik?'
First door at the top of the stairs. Will you want
supper?'
Sparhawk shook his head. 'Just a bath and a warm
bed.' He turned to his horse, who stood dozing with one
hind leg cocked slightly so that his hoof rested on its tip.
'Wake up, Faran,' he told the animal.
Faran opened his eyes and gave him a flat, unfriendly
stare.
'Go with this knight,' Sparhawk instructed firmly.
'don't try to bite him, or kick him, or pin him against the
side of the stall with your rump - and don't step on his
feet, either.'
The big roan briefly laid back his ears and then sighed.
Sparhawk laughed. 'Give him a few carrots,' he
instructed the porter.
'How can you tolerate this foul-tempered brute, Sir
Sparhawk?'
'We're perfectly matched,' Sparhawk replied. 'it was a
good ride, Faran,' he said then to the horse. 'Thank you,
and sleep warm.'
The horse turned his back on him.
'Keep your eyes open, Sir Knight,' Sparhawk
cautioned the porter. "Someone was watching me as I
came here, and I got the feeling that it was a little more
than idle curiosity.'
The knight porter's face hardened. 'I'll attend to it, my
Lord,' he said.
'Good.' Sparhawk turned and crossed the wet, glistening
stones of the courtyard and mounted the steps
leading to the roofed gallery on the upper floor of the inn.
The inn was a well-kept secret that few in Cimmura
knew about. Though ostensibly no different from any of
dozens of others, this particular establishment was
owned and operated by the Knights Pandion, and it
provided a safe haven for any of their number who, for
one reason or another, were reluctant to avail themselves
of the facilities of their chapterhouse on the eastern
outskirts of the city.
At the top of the stairs, Sparhawk stopped and tapped
his fingertips lightly on the first door. After a moment,
the door opened. The man inside was burly, and he had
iron-grey hair and a coarse, short-trimmed beard. His
hose and boots were of black leather, and his long
waistcoat was of the same material. A heavy dagger hung
from his belt, steel cuffs encircled his wrists, and his
heavily-muscled arms and shoulders were bare. He was
not a handsome man, and his eyes were as hard as
agates. 'You're late,' he said flatly.
'A few interruptions along the way,' Sparhawk replied
laconically, stepping into the warm, candlelit room. The
bare-shouldered man closed the door behind him and
slid the bolt with a solid clank. Sparhawk looked at him.
'I trust you've been well, Kurik?' he said to the man he
had not seen for ten years.
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file:///F|/rah/Dave%20Eddings/Eddings,%20David%20-%20Elenium%201%20The%2\0Diamond%20Throne.txtTheDiamondThroneDavidEddingsElleniumbook1Sparhawk,PandionKnight,andQueen'sChampionhavereturnedtoEleniaaftertenyearsofexile,onlytofindyoungQueenEhlandatrappedinablockofensorcelledcrystal.AsSparhawksetsouttof...

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