Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

Who had cast it? That was a senseless question and Pelmen knew it. Speculation was a waste of time, for he knew of several who could weave such, and there was always the possibility of a new shaper appearing on the scene—as Flayh had done. He disregarded the thought, turning all his attention to the important task at hand. It would take his total concentration to fly safely to the glade while so exposed.

Once there, he could reassume his human shape and either cloak himself or come under the coverage of whatever shaper Dorlyth should have hired. But he couldn’t fly and cloak both. Even a wizard of unlimited power couldn’t do more than one thing at a time. At least, Pelmen hoped not. He surely couldn’t.

The wind stirred his feathers. Pelmen rocked uneasily from one taloned foot to the other, then scratched his way higher onto the pinnacle of the Rock of Tombs. For all the protection it offered, there was danger here, too.

It wasn’t ghosts he feared. Had that been so, this was a frightful place indeed, for if ghosts there were, the most powerful in the Mar surely prowled these desolate crevices. Ngandib-Mar had long been a magic land, and among its greats had been many shapers. Wedged into a crack somewhere below him was the body of Nobalog, the wizard who had given life to a castle. There, too, were some who’d helped in the making of the dragon. A wedge had also been cut and dropped in the memory of the shaper named Sheth, although that sorcerer’s remains were not within it. Vicia-Heinox had consumed him. Still, if his spirit lived on, would it not be here as likely as in any other place? Here the mighty clustered together in sleep.

But Pelmen didn’t fear dead sorcerers; he feared living ones. The powers upon this spire of stone could be used against him as easily as he could use them to his advantage. That was why he recoiled in shock as a pastel glow appeared on a crag above him and shaped itself into a female form.

It could only be Mar-Yilot. Pelmen changed shapes and turned to face her. Then he gasped in surprise.

The woman blinked her eyes and struggled to focus them on him. “Pelmen?” she mumbled.

“Bronwynn!” he replied. “What are you doing here?”

“I… I guess… looking for you?” Her eyes sagged shut again and she reeled. He jumped up the rock and reached out to steady her. His hand passed through her arm. Then he understood.

“Bronwynn,” he said quietly but with grave authority, “you must listen to me.”

“I’m listening,” she replied, a bit petulantly, like a pouting child.

“You must open your eyes.”

She obeyed him, then seemed to catch interest and to waken. “Where am I?” she asked quickly.

“At home in your bed, I wager. You tell me, Lady Bronwynn.”

“I… I’m sleeping. Aren’t I? And all of this is a dream—” Suddenly she looked down and caught her breath at the sight of the forest so far below them.

“Don’t be frightened, Bronwynn, and don’t fall!” Pelmen snapped.

“What would happen if I did?” she asked anxiously.

“You’d wake up in the Imperial House of Chaomonous, and we’d have lost this opportunity. Look into my eyes!” Bronwynn obeyed. “Now tell me why you’re here.”

His eyes held hers, and she relaxed into them, forgetting the fearsome height completely. “I was longing to see you, to hear news of my Rosha. I stood on the rooftop, gazing northward for a sign. At last I saw on the horizon a tiny speck of blue—I was sure the flyer brought word from you, and I raced to Maliff’s side to grab the message from his hand. It was from Lamath, true, but not from you. Nor did it bear any news I wished to hear. Ambassador Joss was reporting that the royal family had again seized control of Lamath and that the dragon was once more in the sky. I think I cried myself to sleep. I wish that were the dream instead of this!”

“What of Erri?” Pelmen asked stonily.

“Disappeared, and the core of his followers with him.”

“And Joss?”

“He’s still in Lamath, awaiting my instructions. I don’t know what to do. I’d rather march to Ngandib-Mar!”

“No!” Pelmen commanded. He quickly added, “My dear Queen, I urge you not to. There’s no need for you there, not as yet. And if Erri is fleeing, he may need your home as a haven.”

“Why should that prevent me from marching?” Bronwynn snapped.

“Recall for a moment what happened the last time Chaomonous warred upon the Mar?”

“The Golden Throng was destroyed and the Dorlyth killed my father. But I’m not my father, and I—”

“Then don’t be the fool he was! You’ve missed my point, Bronwynn. When he left for Dragonsgate, your father left his crown behind as well. Ligne usurped his throne before he was a day’s march up the road.”

“Ligne’s dead—”

“You think there aren’t scores of others like her? Many witnessed her rise to power and would like to model their own success after hers. You haven’t held the crown even as long as she did! Be wise, Queen Bronwynn. Be wise and stay home.”

“I want to see Rosha!” Bronwynn frowned.

“I’ll find him for you, my Lady, and send you word as soon as I do.”

“Can’t I come with you?” she pleaded.

“You’re not really here,” Pelmen explained. He passed his hand through her head to demonstrate. “You see?”

“And yet I am\ This isn’t just a dream—is it? I don’t understand.”

“I told you long ago, my Lady, that you had the potential within you to shape. You’re experiencing dream-search, a low-level cousin of a spell some—Mar-Yilot, for example—are very practiced at controlling. The difficulty will be in believing it really happened when you wake. But this is shaping, Bronwynn. The powers are unleashed. They’re abroad now in every land, and dormant shapers will soon be waking to force those powers to their bidding. You’re a budding wizard, Bronwynn. You must be careful, for there may be others in Chaomonous who are already blossoming. That’s why you need to remain at home, if for no other reason that you know—”

“What?” Bronwynn interrupted, snapping her head to one side as if answering someone’s call. In that instant she disappeared.

Mar-Yilot stood at her tower window and snarled in dismay. “Lost you!” she wailed. “Lost you again!”

A wind swirled around the spire in response, the backwash of an enormous projection of her power.

“In my net,” she murmured. “You were in my net and I could have reeled you here like a fish—like a fish, Pelmen! Oh, I’ll have you yet. Where are you now? Hiding? Show yourself, Dragonsbane,” she sneered,

“or do you fear this frail girl who taunts you!”

No one stood in the tower beside her, nor were there any mirrors to reflect her image back at her. But in that moment Mar-Yilot looked anything but frail. The backwash wind whirled into the window, streaming her autumn hair back over her shoulders. Her eyebrows knitted above her grain-colored eyes as she peered defiantly into the distance—the far distance. She saw neither the walls of Seriliath nor the fields beyond them, but rather other fields and forests a hundred miles distant. She sought vainly to think like a falcon, diligently searching through

the bushes and trees where Pelmen had first brushed her net. She cursed herself for not being ready for him. Her attention had wavered for just a moment and she’d lost him. It would not waver again!

In her fury, Syth was forgotten.

The army of the north galloped down the cobbled streets of Seriliath, and the townsfolk responded with delirious pride. As the gray and blue standard of Sythia Isle snapped fiercely above their heads, the citylord’s followers shouted themselves hoarse.

That was for show. Once out of sight of the fortified walls, Syth slowed his riders to a sensible, cautious trot. “We need to move slowly so Mar-Yilot can track us,” Bainer explained unnecessarily to Tuckad mod Pak. Bainer always talked when he was nervous and today he was frightened out of his wits. It promised, therefore, to be a tedious journey for his companions.