He sighed and passed a weary hand over his eyes. ‘It is necessary,’ he told her.

‘For what reason? Sephrenia will never submit to you, you know. Even if Bhelliom and the rings fall into your hands, you cannot compel her love.’

‘There are other considerations as well, Queen Ehlana,’ he said sorrowfully. ‘Please bring your maid and come with me. I’ll see you to your quarters.’

‘Some dungeon, I suppose?’

He sighed. ‘No, Ehlana, the quarters are clean and comfortable. I’ve seen to that myself. Your ordeal is at an end, I promise you.’

‘My ordeal, as you call it, will not be at an end until I’m reunited with my husband and my daughter.’

‘That, we may pray, will be very soon. It is, however, in the hands of Prince Sparhawk. All he must do is follow instructions. Your quarters are not far. Follow me, please,’ He led them to a nearby building and unlocked the door.

Their prison was very nearly luxurious, an apartment of sorts, complete with several bedrooms, a dining hall, a large sitting-room, and even a kitchen. The building had evidently been the palace of some nobleman, and, although the upper stories had long since collapsed, the ground-floor rooms, their ceilings supported by great arches, were still intact. The furnishings in the rooms were ornate, though mis-matched, and there were rugs on the floors and drapes to cover the windows – windows, Ehlana noticed, which had recently been fitted with stout iron bars.

The fireplaces were cavernous, and they were all filled with blazing logs, not so much to ward off the minimal chill of the Arjuni winter but to dry out rooms saturated with over a millennium of dank humidity. There were beds and fresh linen and clothing of an Arjuni cut, but most important of all, there was a fair-sized room with a large marble bathtub set into the floor. Ehlana’s eyes fixed longingly on that ultimate luxury. It so completely seized her attention that she scarcely heard Zalasta’s apologies. After a few vague replies from her, the Styric realized that his continued presence was no longer appreciated, so he politely excused himself and left.

‘Alean, dear,’ Ehlana said in an almost dreamy voice, ‘that’s quite a large tub – certainly large enough for the two of us, wouldn’t you say?’

Alean was also gazing at the tub with undisguised longing. ‘Easily, your Majesty,’ she replied.

‘How long do you think it might take us to heat enough water to fill it?’

‘There are plenty of large pots and kettles in that kitchen, my Queen,’ the gentle girl said, ‘and all the fireplaces are going. It shouldn’t take very long at all.’

‘Wonderful,’ Ehlana said enthusiastically. ‘Why don’t we get started?’

‘Just exactly who is this Klæl, Zalasta?’ Ehlana asked the Styric several days later when he came by to call. Zalasta came to their prison often, as if his visits in some way lessened his guilt, and he always talked, long, rambling, sometimes disconnected talk that often revealed far more than he probably intended for her to know.

‘Klæl is an eternal being,’ he replied. Ehlana noted almost absently that the heavily accented Elenic which had so irritated her when they had first met in Sarsos was gone now. Another of his ruses, she concluded. ‘Klæl is far more eternal than the Gods of this world,’ he continued. ‘He’s in some way connected to Bhelliom. They’re contending principles, or something along those lines. I was a bit distraught when Cyrgon explained the relationship to me, so I didn’t fully understand.’

‘Yes, I can imagine,’ she murmured. Her relationship with Zalasta was peculiar. The circumstances made ranting and denunciation largely a waste of time, so Ehlana was civil to him. He appeared to be grateful for that, and his gratitude made him more open with her. That civility, which cost her nothing, enabled her to pick up much information from the Styric’s rambling conversation.

‘Anyway,’ Zalasta continued, ‘Cyzada was terrified when Cyrgon commanded him to summon Klæl, and he tried very hard to talk the God out of the notion. Cyrgon was implacable, though, and he was filled with rage when Sparhawk neatly plucked the Trolls right out of his grasp. We’d never even considered the possibility that Sparhawk might release the Troll-Gods from their confinement.’

‘That was Sir Ulath’s idea,’ Ehlana told him. ‘Ulath knows a great deal about Trolls.’

‘Evidently so. At any rate, Cyrgon forced Cyzada to summon Klæl, but Klæl no sooner appeared than he went in search of Bhelliom. That took Cyrgon aback. It had been his intention to hold Klæl in reserve – hiding, so to speak – and to unleash him by surprise. That went out the window when Klæl rushed off to the North Cape to confront Bhelliom. Sparhawk knows that Klæl is here now – although I have no idea what he can do about it. That was what made the summoning of Klæl such idiocy in the first place. Klæl can’t be controlled. I tried to explain that to Cyrgon, but he wouldn’t listen. Our goal is to gain possession of Bhelliom, and Klæl and Bhelliom are eternal enemies. As soon as Cyrgon takes Bhelliom in his hands, Klæl will attack him, and I’m fairly certain that Klæl is infinitely more powerful than he is.’ Zalasta glanced around cautiously. ‘The Cyrgai are in many ways a reflection of their God, I’m afraid. Cyrgon abhors any kind of intelligence. He’s frighteningly stupid sometimes.’

‘I hate to point this out, Zalasta,’ she said insincerely, ‘but you have this tendency to ally yourself with defectives. Annias was clever enough, I suppose, but his obsession with the Archprelacy distorted his judgment, and Martel’s drive for revenge made his thinking just as distorted. From what I gather, Otha was as stupid as a stump, and Azash was so elemental that all he had on his mind were his desires. Coherent thought was beyond him.’

‘You know everything, don’t you, Ehlana?’ he said. ‘How on earth did you find all of this out?’

‘I’m not really at liberty to discuss it,’ she replied.

‘No matter, I suppose,’ he said absently. A sudden hunger crossed his face. ‘How is Sephrenia?’ he asked.

‘Well enough. She was very upset when she first found out about you, though – and your attempt on Aphrael’s life was really ill-conceived, you know. That was the one thing that convinced her of your treachery.’

‘I lost my head,’ he confessed. ‘That cursed Delphaeic woman destroyed three hundred years of patient labor with a toss of her head.’