David Eddings - The Tamuli - 3 Books

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Domes of Fire

David Eddings

Prologue

Excerpted from Chapter Two of The Cyrga

Affair: An Examination of the Recent Crisis.

Compiled by the Contemporary History Department

of the University of Matherion.

It was quite obvious to the Imperial Council at this point

that the empire was facing a threat of the gravest nature

a threat which his Imperial Majesty's government

was ill-prepared to confront. The empire had long

relied upon the armies of Atan to defend her interests

during the periodic outbreaks of incidental civil disorder

which are normal and to be expected in a disparate population

ruled by a strong central authority. The situation

facing his Majesty's government this time, however,

did not appear to arise from spontaneous demonstrations

by a few malcontented hotheads spilling out into

the streets from various university campuses during

the traditional recess which follows final examinations.

Those particular demonstrations can be taken in stride,

and order is usually restored with a minimum of bloodshed.

The government soon realized that this time, however,

things were different. The demonstrators were not

high-spirited schoolboys, for one thing, and domestic

tranquillity did not return when 'classes at the universities

resumed. The authorities might still have maintained

order had the various disruptions been the result

of ordinary revolutionary fervour. The mere presence of

Atan warriors can dampen the spirits of even the most

enthusiastic under normal circumstances. This time, the

customary acts of vandalism accompanying the demonstrations

were quite obviously of paranormal origin.

Inevitably, the imperial government cast a questioning

eye at the Styrics in Sarsos. An investigation by Styric

members of the Imperial Council whose loyalty to the

throne could not be questioned, however, quite clearly

indicated that Styricum had had no part in the disturbances.

The paranormal incidents were obviously coming

from some as yet to be determined source and were so

widespread that they could not have emanated from

the activities of a few Styric renegades. The Styrics themselves

were unable to identify the source of this activity,

and even the legendary Zalasta, pre-eminent magician

in" all of Styricum though he might be, ruefully confessed

to total bafflement.

It was Zalasta, however, who suggested the course

ultimately taken by his Majesty's government. He

advised that the empire might seek assistance from

the Eosian continent, and he specifically directed the

government's attention to a man named Sparhawk.

All imperial representatives on the Eosian continent

were immediately commanded to drop everything else

and to concentrate their full attention upon this man.

It was imperative that his Majesty's government have

information about this Sparhawk person. As the reports

from Eosia began to filter in, the Imperial Council began

to develop a composite picture of Sparhawk, his appearance,

his personality and his history.

Sir Sparhawk, they discovered, was a member of one

of the quasi-religious orders of the Elene Church. His

particular order is referred to as 'The Pandion Knights'.

He is a tall, ' lean man of early middle years with a

battered face, a keen intelligence and an abrupt, even

abrasive manner. The Knights of the Elene Church are

fearsome warriors, and Sir Sparhawk is in the forefront

of their ranks of champions. At the time in the history

of the Eosian continent when the four orders of Church

Knights were founded, the circumstances were so

desperate that the Elenes set aside their customary

prejudices and permitted the Militant Orders to receive

instruction in the arcane practices of Styricum, and it

was the proficiency of the Church Knights in those arts

which helped them to prevail during the First Zemoch

War some five centuries ago.

Sir Sparhawk held a position for which there is

no equivalent in our empire. He was the hereditary

'Champion' of the royal house of the Kingdom of

Elenia. Western Elenes have a chivalric culture replete

with many archaisms. The 'Challenge' (essentially an offer

to engage in single combat) is the customary response

of members of the nobility who feel that their honour

has been somehow sullied. It is amazing to note that

not even ruling monarchs are exempt from the necessity

of answering these challenges. In order to avoid the

inconvenience of responding to the impertinences of

assorted hotheads, the monarchs of Eosia customarily

designate some highly-skilled (and usually widelyfeared)

warrior as a surrogate. Sir Sparhawk's nature

and reputation is such that even the most quarrelsome

nobles of the kingdom of Elenia find after careful consideration

that they have not really been insulted. It is a

credit to Sir Sparhawk's skill and cool judgement that

he has seldom 'even been obliged to kill anyone during

these affairs, since, by ancient custom, a severely

incapacitated combatant may save his life by surrendering

and withdrawing his challenge.

After his father's death, Sir Sparhawk presented himself

to King Aldreas, the father of the present queen, to

take up his duties. King Aldreas, hoWever, was a weak

monarch, and he was dominated by his sister, Arissa,

and by Annias, the Primate of Cimmura, who was also

Princess Arissa's surreptitious lover and the father of

her bastard son, Lycheas. The Primate of Cimmura, who

was the de facto ruler of Elenia, had hopes of ascending

the throne of the Archprelacy of the Elene Church

in the Holy City of Chyrellos, and the presence of the

stern and moralistic Church Knight at the court inconvenienced

him, and so it was that he persuaded King

Aldreas to send Sir Sparhawk into exile in the Kingdom

of Render.

In time, King Aldreas also became inconvenient, and

Primate Annias and the Princess poisoned him, thus

elevating Princess Ehlana, Aldreas' daughter, to the

throne. Though she was 'young, Queen Ehlana had

received some training from Sir Sparhawk as a child,

and she was a far stronger monarch than her father had

been. She soon became more than a mere inconvenience

to the Primate. He poisoned her as well, but Sir Sparhawk's

fellow Pandions, aided by their tutor in the

arcane arts, a Styric woman named Sephrenia, cast an

enchantment which sealed the queen up in crystal and

sustained her life.

Thus it stood when Sir Sparhawk returned from exile.

Since the Militant Orders had no wish to see the Primate

of Cimmura on the Archprelate's throne, certain of the

champions of the other three orders were sent to assist

Sir Sparhawk in finding an antidote or a cure which

could restore Queen Ehlana to health. Since the queen

had denied Annias access to her treasury in the past,

the Church Knights reasoned that should she be

restored, she would once again deny Annias the funds

he needed to pursue his candidacy.

Annias allied himself with a renegade Pandion named

Martel, and this Martel person was, like all Pandions,

skilled in the use of Styric magic. He cast obstacles, both

physical and supernatural, in Sparhawk's path, but

Sir Sparhawk and ' his companions were ultimately

successful in discovering that Queen Ehlana could

only be restored by a magical object known as 'The

Bhelliom.'

Western Elenes are a peculiar people. They have a

level of sophistication in worldly matters which sometimes

surpasses our own, but at the same time, they

have an almost childlike belief in the more lurid forms

of magic. This 'Bhelliom' we are told, is a very large

sapphire which was laboriously carved into the shape

of a rose at some time in the distant past. The Elenes

here insist that the artisan who carved it was a Troll. We

will not dwell on that absurdity.

At any rate, Sir Sparhawk and his ' friends overcame

many obstacles and were ultimately able to obtain

the peculiar talisman, and (they claim) it was successful

in restoring Queen Ehlana - although one strongly

suspects that their tutor, Sephrenia, accomplished

that task unaided, and that the apparent use of the

Bhelliom was little more than a subterfuge she used

to protect her ,from the virulent bigotry of western

Elenes.

When the Archprelate Cluvonus died, the Hierocracy

of the Elene Church journeyed to Chyrellos to participate

in the 'election' of his successor. Election is a peculiar

practice which involves the stating of preference.

That candidate who receives the approval of a majority

of his fellows is elevated to the office in question. This,

of course, is an unnatural procedure, but since the Elene

clergy is ostensibly celibate, there is no non-scandalous

way the Archprelacy can be made hereditary. The

Primate of Cimmura had bribed a goodly number of

high churchmen to state a preference for him during the

deliberations of the Hierocracy, but he still fell short of

the needed majority. It was at this point that his

underling, the aforementioned Martel, led an assault on

the Holy City, hoping thereby to stampede the Hierocracy

into electing Primate Annias. Sir Sparhawk and a

limited number of Church Knights were able to keep

Martel away from the Basilica where the Hierocracy was

deliberating. Most of the city of Chyrellos, however,

was severely damaged or destroyed during the fighting.

As the situation reached crisis proportions, help

arrived for the beleaguered defenders in the form of

the armies of the western Elene kingdoms. (Elene

politics, one notes, are quite robust.) The connection

between the Primate of Cimmura and the renegade

Martel came to light as well as the fact that the pair

had a subterranean arrangement with Otha of

Zemoch. Outraged by the ' perfidy of the man, the

Hierocracy rejected his candidacy and elected instead

one Dolmant, the Patriarch of Demos. This Dolmant

appears to be competent, though it may be too early to

say for certain.

Queen Ehlana of the Kingdom of Elenia was scarcely

more than a child, but she appeared to be a strongwilled

and spirited young woman. She had long had a

secret preference for Sir Sparhawk, though he was more

than twenty Years her senior, and upon her recovery

it had been announced that the two were betrothed.

Following the election of Dolmant to the Archprelacy,

they were wed. Peculiarly enough, the queen retained

her authority, although we must suspect that Sir Sparhawk

exerts considerable influence upon her in state as

well as domestic matters.

The involvement of the Emperor of Zemoch in the

internal affairs of the Elene Church was, of course, a

Casus belli, and the armies of western Eosia, led by the

Church Knights, marched eastward across Lamorkand

to meet the Zemoch hordes poised on the border. The

long-dreaded Second Zemoch War had begun.

Sir Sparhawk and his companions, however, rode

north to avoid the turmoil of the battlefield, and they

then turned eastward, crossed the mountains of northern

Zem'och and surreptitiously made their way to

Otha's capital at the city of Zemoch, evidently in pursuit

of Annias and Martel.

The best efforts of the empire's agents in the west

have failed to reveal precisely what took place at

Zemoch. It is quite certain that Annias, Martel and

Otha himself perished there, but they are of little note

in the pageant of history. What is far more relevant

is the incontrovertible fact that Azash, Elder God

of Styricum and the driving force behind Otha and

his Zemochs, also perished, and it is undeniably true

that Sir Sparhawk was responsible. We must concede

that the levels of magic unleashed at Zemoch were

beyond our comprehension and that Sir Sparhawk

has powers at his command such as no mortal has

ever possessed. As evidence of the levels of violence

unleashed in the confrontation, we need only point

to the fact that the city of Zemoch was utterly destroyed

during the discussions.

Clearly, Zalasta the Styric had been right. Sir

Sparhawk, the prince consort of Queen Ehlana, was

the one man in all the world capable of dealing with

the crisis in Tamuli. Unfortunately, Sir Sparhawk was

not a citizen of the Tamul Empire, and thus could not

be summoned to the imperial capital at Matherion

by the emperor. His Majesty's government was in

a quandary. The emperor had no authority over this

Sparhawk, 'and to have been obliged to appeal to a man

who was essentially a private citizen would have been

an unthinkable humiliation.

The situation in the empire was daily worsening, and

our need for the intervention of Sir Sparhawk was growing

more and more urgent. Of equal urgency was the

absolute necessity of maintaining the empire's dignity.

It was ultimately the Foreign Office's most brilliant

diplomat, First Secretary Oscagne, who devised a solution

to the dilemma. We will discuss his Excellency's

brilliant diplomatic ploy at greater length in the following

chapter.

PART ONE

Eosia

CHAPTER 1

It was early spring, and the rain still had the lingering

chill of winter. A soft, silvery drizzle sifted down out of

the night sky and wreathed around the blocky watchtowers

of Cimmura, hissing in the torches on each side

of the broad gate and making the stones of the road

leading up to the gate shiny and black. A lone rider

approached the city.,He was wrapped in a heavy traveller's

cloak and rode a tall, shaggy roan horse with a long

nose and flat, vicious eyes. The traveler 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.

The big' roan shuddered, shaking the rain

out of his shaggy coat as they approached the east gate

of the city and stopped in the ruddy circle of torchlight

just outside the wall.

An unshaven gate guard in a rust-splotched breastplate

and helmet and with a patched green cloak hanging

negligently from one shoulder came out of the

gate house to look inquiringly at the traveler. He was

swaying slightly on his feet.

"Just passing through, neighbour,' the big man said

in a quiet voice. He pushed back the hood of his cloak.

. 'Oh,' the guard said, 'it's you, Prince Sparhawk. I

didn't recognise you. Welcome home.'

Thank you,' Sparhawk replied. He could smell the

cheap wine on the man's breath.

'Would you like to have me send word to the palace

that you've arrived, your Highness?'

"No. Don't bother them. I can unsaddle my own

horse.' Sparhawk privately disliked ceremonies - particularly

late at night. He leaned over and handed the

guard a small coin. 'Go back inside, neighbour. You'll

catch cold if you stand out here in the rain.' He nudged

his horse and rode on through the gate.

The district near the city wall was poor, with shabby,

run-down houses standing tightly packed beside each

other, their second storeys projecting out over the wet

littered streets. Sparhawk rode up a narrow, cobbled

street with the slow clatter of the big roan's steel-shod

hooves echoing back from the buildings. The night

breeze had come up, and the crude signs identifying

this or that tightly-shuttered shop on the street-level

floors swung creaking on rusty hooks.

A dog with nothing better to do came out of an alley to

bark at them with brainless self-importance. Sparhawk's

horse turned his head slightly to give the wet cur a

long, level stare that spoke eloquently of death. The

empty-headed dog's barking trailed off and he cringed

back, his rat-like tail between his legs. The horse bore

down on him purposefully. The dog whined, then

yelped, turned and fled. Sparhawk's horse' snorted

derisively.

'That make you feel better, Faran?' Sparhawk asked

the roan.

Faran flicked his ears.

"Shall we proceed then?'

A torch burned fitfully at an intersection, and a buxom

young whore in a cheap dress stood, wet and

bedraggled, in its ruddy, flaring light. Her dark hair was

plastered to her head, the rouge on her cheeks

was streaked and she had a resigned expression on

her face.

'What are you doing out here in the rain, Naween?'

Sparhawk asked her, reining in his horse.

'I've been waiting for you, Sparhawk.' Her tone was

arch, and her dark eyes wicked.

'Or for anyone else?'

'Of course. I am a professional, Sparhawk, but I still

owe you. Shouldn't we settle up one of these days?'

He ignored that. 'What are you doing working the

streets?'

"Shanda and I had a fight,' she shrugged. "I decided

to go into business for myself.'

'You're not vicious enough to be a street-girl,

Naween.' He dipped his fingers into the pouch at his

side, fished out several coins and gave them to her.

'Here,' he instructed. 'Get a room in an inn someplace

and stay off the streets for a few days. I'll talk with

Platime, and we'll see if we can make some arrangements

for you . '

Her eyes narrowed. 'You don't have to do that,

Sparhawk. I can take care of myself.'

'Of )course you can. That's why you're standing out

here in the rain. Just do it Naween. It's too late and too

wet for arguments.'

'This is two I owe you, Sparhawk. Are you absolutely

sure . . . ?' She left it hanging.

"Quite sure, little sister. I'm married now, remember?'

'So?'

'Never mind. Get in out of the weather.' Sparhawk

rode on, )shaking his head. He liked Naween, but she

was hopelessly incapable of taking care of herself.

He passed through a quiet square where all the shops

and booths were shut down. There were few people

abroad tonight, and few business opportunities. He let

his mind drift back over the past month and a half. No

one in Lamorkand had been willing to talk with him.

Archprelate Dolmant was a wise man, learned in doctrine

and Church politics, but he was woefully ignorant

of the way the common people thought. Sparhawk had

patiently tried to explain to him that sending a Church

Knight out to gather information was a waste of time,

but Dolmant had insisted, and Sparhawk's oath obliged

him to obey. And so it was that he had wasted six weeks

in the ugly cities of southern Lamorkand where no one

had been willing to talk with him about anything more

serious than the weather. To make matters even worse,

Dolmant had quite obviously blamed the knight for his

own blunder.

In a dark side-street where the water dripped monotonously

onto the cobblestones from the eaves of the

houses, he felt Faran's muscles tense. 'Sorry,' he said

quietly. "I wasn't paying attention." Someone was

watching him, and he could clearly sense the animosity

which had alerted his horse. Faran was a war-horse,

and he could probably sense antagonism in his veins.

Sparhawk muttered a quick spell in the Styric tongue,

concealing the gestures which accompanied it beneath

his cloak. He released the spell slowly to avoid alerting

whoever was watching him.

The watcher was not an Elene. Sparhawk sensed that

immediately. He probed further. Then he frowned.

There were more than one, and they were not Styrics

either. He pulled his thought back, passively waiting for

some clue as to their identity.

The realization came as a chilling shock. The watchers

were not human. He shifted slightly in his saddle, sliding

his hand toward his sword-hilt.

Then the sense of the watchers was gone, and Faran

shuddered with relief. He turned his ugly face to give

his master a suspicious look.

'Don't ask me, Faran,' Sparhawk told him. "I don't

know either.' But that was not entirely true. The touch

of the minds in the darkness had been vaguely familiar,

and that familiarity had raised questions in Sparhawk's

mind, questions he did not want to face.

He paused at the palace gate long enough to firmly

instruct the soldiers not to wake the whole house, and

then he dismounted in the courtyard.

A young man stepped out into the rain-swept yard

from the stable. 'Why didn't you send word that you

were coming, Sparhawk?' he asked very quietly.

'Because I don't particularly like parades and wild

celebrations in the middle of the night,' Sparhawk told

his squire, throwing back the hood of his cloak. 'What

are you doing up so late? I promised your mothers I'd

make sure you got your rest. You're going to get me in

trouble, Khalad.'

'Are you trying to be Funny?' Khalad's voice was

gruff, abrasive. He took Faran's reins. 'Come inside,

Sparhawk. You'll rust if you stand out here in the

rain.'

'You're as bad as your father was.'

"It's an old family trait.' Khalad led the prince consort

and his evil-tempered warhorse into the hay-smelling

stable where a pair of lanterns gave off a golden light.

Khalad was a husky young man with coarse black hair

and a short-trimmed black beard. He wore tight-fitting

black leather breeches, boots and a sleeveless leather

vest that left his arms and shoulders bare. A heavy

dagger hung from his belt, and steel cuffs encircled his

wrists. He looked and behaved so much like his father

that Sparhawk felt again a brief, brief pang of loss. "I

thought Talen would be coming back with you,' Sparhawk's

squire said as he began unsaddling Faran.

'He's got a cold. His mother - and yours - decided

that he shouldn't go out in the weather, and I certainly

wasn't going to argue with them.'

'Wise decision,' Khalad said, absently slapping Faran

on the nose as the big roan tried to bite him. 'How are

they?'

'Your mothers? Fine. Aslade's still trying to fatten Elys

up, but she's not having too much luck. How did you

find out I was in town?'

'One of Platime's cut-throats saw you coming through

the gate. He sent word.'

"I suppose I should have known. You didn't wake my

wife, did you?'

'Not with Mirtai standing watch outside her door, I

didn't. Give me that wet cloak, my Lord. I'll hang it in

the kitchen to dry.'

Sparhawk grunted and removed his sodden cloak.

'The mail shirt too, Sparhawk,' Khalad added, 'before

it rusts away entirely.'

Sparhawk nodded, unbelted his sword and began to

struggle out of his chain-mail shirt. 'How's your training

going?' Khalad made an indelicate sound. "I haven't learned

anything I didn't already know. My father was a much

better instructor than the ones at the chapterhouse. This

idea of yours isn't going to work, Sparhawk. The other

novices are all aristocrats, and when my brothers and I

outstrip them' on the practice field, they resent it. We

make enemies every time we turn around.' He lifted the

saddle from Faran's back and put it on the rail of a

nearby stall. He briefly laid his hand on the big roan's

back, then bent, picked up a handful of straw and began

to rub him down.

'Wake some groom and have him' do that,' Sparhawk

told him. 'is anybody still awake in the kitchen?'

'The bakers are already up, I think.'

'Have one of them throw something together for me

to eat. It's been a long time since lunch.'

'All right. What took you so long in Chyrellos?'

"I took a little side trip into Lamorkand. The civil war

there's getting out of hand, and the Archprelate wanted

me to nose around a bit.'

'You should have got word to your wife. She was just

about to send Mirtai out to find you.' Khalad grinned at

him. "I think you're going to get yelled at again,

Sparhawk.'

There's nothing new about that. Is Kalten here in the

palace?'

Khalad nodded. 'The food's better here, and he isn't

expected to pray three times a day. Besides, I think he's

got his eye on one of the chambermaids.'

That wouldn't surprise me very much. Is Stragen

here too?'

'No. Something came up, and he had to go back to

Emsat.'

'Get Kalten up then. Have him join us in the kitchen.

I want to talk with him. I'll be along in a bit. I'm going

to the bathhouse first.'

'The water won't be warm. They let the fires go out

at night.'

'We're soldiers of God, Khalad. We're all supposed to

be unspeakably brave.'

'I'll try to remember that, my Lord.'

The water in the bathhouse was definitely on the

chilly side, so Sparhawk did not linger very long. He

wrapped himself in a soft white robe and went into

the dim corridors of the palace and to the brightly-lit

kitchens where Khalad waited with the sleepy-looking

Kalten.

'Hail, Noble Prince Consort,' Kalten said drily. Sir

Kalten obviously didn't care much for the idea of being

roused in the middle of the night.

'Hail, noble Boyhood Companion of the Noble Prince

Consort,' Sparhawk replied.

'Now there's a cumbersome title,' Kalten said sourly.

What's so important that it won't wait until morning?'

Sparhawk sat down at one of the work tables, and a

white-smocked baker brought him a plate of roast beef

and a steaming loaf still hot from the oven.

'Thanks, neighbour,' Sparhawk said to him.

'Where have you been, Sparhawk?' Kalten

demanded, sitting down across the table from his friend.

Kalten had a wine flagon in one hand and a tin cup in

the other.

'Sarathi sent me to Lamorkand,' Sparhawk replied,

tearing a chunk of bread from the loaf.

'Your wife's been making life miserable for everyone

in the palace, you know.'

"It's nice to know she cares.'

'Not for any of the rest of us it isn't. What did Dolmant

need from Lamorkand?'

'information. He didn't altogether believe some of the

reports he's been getting.'

'What's not to believe? The Lamorks are just engaging

in their national pastime - civil war.'

'There seems to be something a little different this

time. Do you remember Count Gerrich?'

'The one who had us besieged in Baron Alstrom's

castle? I never met him personally, but his name's sort

of familiar.'

'He seems to be coming out on top in the squabbles

in western Lamorkand, and most everybody up there

believes that he's got his eye on the throne.'

'So?' Kalten helped himself to part of Sparhawk's loaf

of bread. 'Every baron in Lamorkand has his eyes on

the throne. What's got Dolmant so concerned about it

this time?'

'Gerrich's been making alliances beyond the borders

of Lamorkand. Some of those border barons in Pelosia

are more or less independent of King Saros.'

'Everybody in Pelosia's independent of Saros. He isn't

much of a king. He spends too much time praying.'

'That's a strange position for a soldier of God,' Khalad

murmured.

'You've got to keep these things in perspective,

Khalad,' Kalten told him. 'Too much praying softens a

man's brains.'

'Anyway,' Sparhawk went on. 'if Gerrich succeeds in

dragging those Pelosian barons into his bid for King

Friedahl's throne, Friedahl's going to have to declare

war on Pelosia. The Church already has a war going on

in Render, and Dolmant's not very enthusiastic about a

second front.' He paused. "I ran across something else,

though,' he added. "I overheard a conversation I wasn't

supposed to. The name Drychtnath came up. Do you

know anything about him?'

Kalten shrugged. 'He was the national hero of the

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DomesofFireDavidEddingsPrologueExcerptedfromChapterTwoofTheCyrgaAffair:AnExaminationoftheRecentCrisis.CompiledbytheContemporaryHistoryDepartmentoftheUniversityofMatherion.ItwasquiteobvioustotheImperialCouncilatthispointthattheempirewasfacingathreatofthegravestnatureathreatwhichhisImperialMajesty'sgo...

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