‘You have no aptitude for languages, Kalten,’ Vanion told him. ‘Even Elenic confuses you sometimes.’
‘You don’t have to be insulting, Lord Vanion.’
‘I imagine Sephrenia will cheat a little,’ Sparhawk added. ‘She and Aphrael taught me to speak Troll in about five seconds in Ghwerig’s cave.’ He looked at Norkan. ‘When will the ceremony take place?’ he asked.
‘At midnight. The child passes into adulthood as one day passes into the next.’
‘There’s an exquisite kind of logic there,’ Stragen noted.
‘The hand of God,’ Bevier murmured piously.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Even the heathen responds to that gentle inner voice, Milord Stragen.’
‘I’m afraid I’m still missing the point, Sir Bevier.’
‘Logic is what sets our God apart,’ Bevier explained patiently. ‘It’s His special gift to the Elene people, and He reaches out with it to all others, freely offering its blessing to the unenlightened.’
‘Is that really a part of Elene doctrine, your Grace?’ Stragen asked the Patriarch of Ucera.
‘Tentatively,’ Emban replied. ‘The view is more widely-held in Arcium than elsewhere. The Arcian clergy has been trying to have it included in the articles of the faith for the last thousand years or so, but the Deirans have been resisting. The Hierocracy takes up the question when we have nothing else to do.’
‘Do you think it will ever be resolved, your Grace?’ Norkan asked him.
‘Good God no, your Excellency. If we ever settled the issue, we wouldn’t have anything to argue about.’
Oscagne approached from the far side of the square. He took Sparhawk and Vanion aside, his expression concerned. ‘How well do you gentlemen know Zalasta?’ he asked them.
‘I only met him once before we reached Sarsos,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Lord Vanion here knows him much better than I.’
‘I’m starting to have some doubts about this legendary wisdom of his,’ Oscagne said to them. ‘The Styric enclave in eastern Astel abuts Atan, so he should know more about these people than he seems to. I just caught him suggesting a demonstration of prowess to the Peloi and some of the younger Church Knights.’
‘It’s not unusual, your Excellency,’ Vanion shrugged. ‘Young men like to show off.’
‘That’s exactly my point, Lord Vanion.’ Oscagne’s expression was worried. ‘That’s not done here in Atan. Demonstrations of that kind lead to bloodshed. The Atans look upon that sort of thing as a challenge. I got there just in time to avert a disaster. What was the man thinking of?’
‘Styrics sometimes grow a bit vague,’ Vanion explained. ‘They can be profoundly absent-minded sometimes. I’ll have Sephrenia speak with him and remind him to pay attention.’
‘Oh, there’s something else, gentlemen,’ Oscagne smiled. ‘Don’t let Sir Berit wander around alone in the city. There are whole platoons of unmarried Atan girls lusting after him.’
‘Berit?’ Vanion looked startled.
‘It’s happened before, Vanion,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘There’s something about our young friend that drives young women wild. It has to do with his eyelashes, I think. Ehlana and Melidere tried to explain it to me in Darsas. I didn’t understand what they were saying, but I took their word for it.’
‘What an astonishing thing,’ Vanion said.
There were torches everywhere, and the faint, fragrant night breeze tossed their sooty orange flames like a field of fiery wheat. The Rite of Passage took place in a broad meadow outside the city. An ancient stone altar adorned with wild-flowers stood between two broad oaks at the centre of the meadow, and two bronze, basin-like oil-lamps flared, one on each end of the altar.
A lone Atan with snowy hair stood atop the city wall, intently watching the light of the moon passing through a narrow horizontal aperture in one of the battlements and down the face of a nearby wall, which was marked at regular intervals with deeply-scored lines. It was not the most precise way to determine the time, but if everyone agreed that the line of moonlight would reach a certain one of those scorings at midnight, precision was unimportant. As long as there was general agreement, it was midnight.
The night was silent except for the guttering of the torches and the sighing of the breeze in the dark forest surrounding the meadow.
They waited as the silvery line of moonlight crept down the wall.
Then the ancient Atan gave a signal, and a dozen trumpeters raised brazen horns to greet the new day and to signal the beginning of the Rite which would end Mirtai’s childhood.
The Atans sang. There were no words, for this rite was too sacred for words. Their song began with a single deep rumbling male voice, swelling and rising as other voices joined it in soaring and complex harmonies.
King Androl and Queen Betuana moved with slow and stately pace along a broad, torchlit avenue toward the ageless trees and the flower-decked altar. Their bronze faces were serene, and their golden helmets gleamed in the torchlight. When they reached the altar, they turned, expectant.
There was a pause while the torches flared and the organ-song of the Atans rose and swelled. Then the melody subsided into a tightly controlled hum, scarcely more than a whisper.
Engessa and Ehlana, both in deep blue robes, escorted Mirtai out of the shadows near the city wall. Mirtai was all in white, and her raven hair was unadorned. Her eyes were modestly down-cast as her parents led her toward the altar.
The song swelled again with a different melody and a different counterpoint.
‘The approach of the child,’ Norkan murmured to Sparhawk and the others. The sophisticated, even cynical Tamul’s voice was respectful, almost awed, and his world-weary eyes glistened. Sparhawk felt a small tug on his hand, and he lifted his daughter so that she might better see.
Mirtai and her family reached the altar and bowed to Androl and Betuana. The song sank to a whisper.
Engessa spoke to the king and queen of the Atans. His voice was loud and forceful. The Tamul tongue flowed musically from his lips as he declared his daughter fit. Then he turned, opened his robe and drew his sword. He spoke again, and there was a note of challenge in his voice.
‘What did he say?’ Talen whispered to Oscagne.
‘He offered to do violence to anyone who objected to his daughter’s passage.’ Oscagne replied. His voice was also profoundly respectful, even slightly choked with emotion.
Then Ehlana spoke, also in Tamul. Her voice rang out like a silver trumpet as she also declared that her child was fit and ready to assume her place as an adult.
‘She wasn’t supposed to say that last bit,’ Danae whispered in Sparhawk’s ear. ‘She’s adding things.’
‘You know your mother,’ he smiled.
Then the Queen of Elenia turned to look at the assembled Atans, and her voice took on a flinty note of challenge as she also opened her robe and drew a silver-hilted sword. Sparhawk was startled by the professional way she held it.
Then Mirtai spoke to the king and queen.
‘The child entreats passage,’ Norkan told them.
King Androl spoke his reply, his voice loud and commanding, and his queen added her agreement. Then they too drew their swords and stepped forward to flank the child’s parents, joining in their challenge.
The song of the Atans soared, and the trumpets added a brazen fanfare. Then the sound diminished again.