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 Khwaj,’ he said. ‘It is right that I should do this, for Khwaj and I are pack-mates.’

The enormity of the Fire-God appeared, steaming away the snow covering the meadow around him. ‘Will Bhelliom’s Child be bound by the word of his pack-mate, Ulath-from-Thalesia?’ he demanded in a voice that roared like a furnace.

‘The word of Ulath-from-Thalesia is my word, Khwaj,’ honorable Anakha conceded.

‘Then the wicked one is mine!’

Regretful Anakha curbed his wrath. ‘The words of Khwaj are right words,’ he agreed. ‘If Ulath-from-Thalesia has given the wicked one to Khwaj, then I will not say that it shall not be so.’ He looked at the terrified Styric, who was struggling desperately to retain some small measure of defense. ‘It is yours, Khwaj. It has caused me much hurt, and I would cause hurt to it in return, but if Ulath-from-Thalesia has said that it is the place of Khwaj to cause hurt to it, then so be it.’

‘Bhelliom’s Child speaks well. You have honor, Anakha.’ The Fire-God looked accusingly at Zalasta. ‘You have done great wickedness, one-called-Zalasta.’

Zalasta stared at Khwaj in terrified incomprehension.

‘Say to it what I have said, Anakha,’ Khwaj requested. ‘It must know why it is being punished.’

Courteous Anakha said, ‘I will, Khwaj.’ He looked sternly at the dishevelled Styric. ‘You have caused me much pain, Zalasta,’ he said in a dreadful voice, speaking in Styric. ‘I was going to repay you for all those friends of mine you destroyed or corrupted, but Khwaj here has laid claim to you, and for various reasons I’m going to honor his claim. You should have stayed away, Zalasta. Vanion would have hunted you down eventually, but death is a little thing, and once it’s over, it’s over. What Khwaj is going to do to you will last for eternity.’

‘Does it understand?’ Khwaj demanded.

‘In some measure, Khwaj.’

‘In time it will understand more, and it has much time. It has always.’ And the dreadful Fire-God blew away Zalasta’s last pitiful defenses and laid a strangely gentle hand on the cringing Styric’s head. ‘Burn!’ he commanded. ‘Run and burn until the end of days!’

And, all aflame, Zalasta of Styricum went out from that place shrieking and engulfed in endless fire.

Compassionate Anakha sighed as he watched the burning man run out across the snowy meadow, growing smaller and smaller in the distance and with his cries of agony and woe and unspeakable loneliness receding with him as he began the first hour of his eternal punishment.

Epilogue

The following day dawned clear and cold. The sun on the snow-fields blanketing the surrounding mountains was dazzling, and the lake at the center of the hidden Valley of Delphaeus steamed. The wedding had, of course, been postponed, and was now to take place this evening.

There had been questions, naturally, but Sparhawk had put them to rest by explaining that everything that had happened had been Bhelliom’s doing, and that he had only been its instrument – which was not exactly a lie.

They spent the day quietly and gathered again as the sun went down and the shadows of evening settled over the valley. A strange sense of anticipation had nagged at Sparhawk all afternoon. Something was going to happen here. Bhelliom had told him that he would behold a wonder, and that was not the kind of word Bhelliom would use lightly.

The shadows of evening deepened, and Sparhawk and the other men escorted Vanion down to the shore of the glowing lake to await the bride’s party while the Shining Ones once again sang the ancient hymn which had been so abruptly broken off the previous evening.