Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

Too late! She’d seen the trick too late. Pelmen had toyed with her while Dorlyth sprang his trap, and now her lover was lost! Guilt feasted on her feelings, gorged itself upon her. She was only dimly aware when the column took the last fork for

Seriliath.

The walls of the city looked silvery cold, like cliffs of ice standing silently against the stars. The pace picked up. Soon the lead riders were exchanging muted conversation with the gatekeepers, and the portals swung open to admit the weary warriors. As they climbed the winding cobblestones to the castle there were no cheers. The city slept on. It was four in the morning, and the turning wheels that bore their lord and his mourning lady made as little impression on the sleepers as the milk wagon. As dawn broke and the city came awake, the word would spread, and with disbelieving tears the people would fill the streets to mourn the fallen. For now they slept on, and Mar-Yilot envied their rest. She wondered if she would

ever sleep again.

As the wagon reached the palace, the butterfly left, soaring up through an open window high in the tower above. There Mar-Yilot took her human form and stepped to a mirror to check her appearance. She looked horrible. Her hair was in disarray and her cheeks were so pale they looked bleached. At least her face wasn’t tear-streaked. One advantage of her altershape was that a butterfly couldn’t weep. She pushed her hair into some semblance of order, then steeled herself to descend the stairs. This was for Bainer’s sake. Bainer would need to see her strength.

The armor-clad body had been laid on a bier in the lord’s chamber. Neither torches nor candles burned here, but the room was lined on both sides by tall windows, and Mar-Yilot had ordered that these be opened despite the cold. Moonlight fell across the body. The loyal Bainer crouched over it.

“Is he dead?” she asked tonelessly.

Bainer didn’t seem startled. “Would that he were.”

“Why!” Mar-Yilot snarled, her anger flaring.

“Because he lives, my Lady, only to gaze on hell! Look at him!” Bainer reached forward to raise Syth’s visor, but Mar-Yilot stepped forward and caught his hand.

“No,” she whispered. Her eyes forced him back away from the body. Then she turned away, and sighed deeply. “You saw his face yourself?”

“I closed his helmet.”

“And you’re familiar with the dread?”

“I’m no novice in magical wars. I’ve seen it before.”

Her golden eyes flicked back to lock onto his. “Who’s responsible?” she grunted.

“It was Dorlyth mod Karis. By my mace, I swear it. And Ferlyth and Belra with him.”

Mar-Yilot trembled with rage. “And Pelmen?” she asked.

“I saw no shaper on the field today,” Bainer said boldly. “Who it was is for you to say. I know only what I saw in Syth’s eyes, and that’s far more of magic than I ever cared to learn in a lifetime.”

“I had him in my net!” Mar-Yilot wailed, and the tears welled up inside her.

Bainer stumbled backward, mumbling, “Should I go, my Lady?”

She fought the sorrow down, controlling it once more. Then she sought out his eyes in the dark. “You must do one more thing, Bainer, before I release you from this ill-favored alliance. Carry him home to Sythia Isle. Go now, before the light of day brings the mourners out to clog the streets. I’ll cover your every step and cover the barge as well until you beach upon the island. Do that for Syth, Bainer, and for me. Then you’re free to seek your best interests elsewhere.”

“Free?” Bainer snorted. “For what? To join the king? To link myself with the traitor Dorlyth? Or would you have me blend back into the landscape like these other barons who are so afraid of losing they choose not to choose ’til the battle’s lost? I’ll bear Syth to the islands, my Lady, and return home. There I’ll wait.”

“For what?” Mar-Yilot asked bitterly. “For your command. You’ll think of something.” Mar-Yilot took a deep breath and gazed at this loyal friend. “Indeed, Bainer, perhaps I have done so already. Send the servants in to fetch him, and prepare to carry him home.”

Bainer nodded and left. As he closed the door, the sorceress collapsed across her lover’s body. She permitted herself very few tears, however. By the time the servants arrived, she was already back up in her tower. From that lofty perch she cloaked the last, long leg of Bainer’s weary march, giving her full attention to getting her loved one home. Once the barge had beached on Sythia Isle she departed, unwilling to waste even a single moment. She threw herself over the balustrade and fluttered off toward the south—a very angry, very dangerous butterfly.

Pelmen saw the glade clearly from the sky. Obviously Dorlyth was no longer there, or it would have been cloaked. He was about to veer northeast to fly to Dorlyth Castle when he decided to check the glade anyway. Perhaps his friend had left him a message. He was shocked to drop through the trees and find a small army assembled on the grass.

“Pelmen!” Rosha shouted.

“He’s come indeed!” Ferlyth added as Pelmen struck the ground as a falcon and immediately took his human form. Dorlyth said nothing, but stood struggling to stifle a self-satisfied smile. He wondered to himself how Pelmen always

managed to time his entrances so precisely and put it down to the actor’s instinct.

Pelmen had arrived at a critical moment. Dorlyth and Ferlyth faced a mutinous, foul-spirited band of men. Nor did Pelmen’s abrupt appearance automatically end the confrontation. “What’s happening?” he asked.

“It’s a bit of a rebellion,” Ferlyth answered.

Dorlyth shrugged. “Some of our warriors are angry with me. Probably with reason.”

“Where’s your coverage?” Pelmen frowned, and Dorlyth raised his bushy eyebrows.

“That’s the reason.”

“No one’s cloaking you?” Pelmen gasped, astonished. “How long has this been going on?”

“Long enough for us all to have been fried by a fire circle, if any shaper had thought us worth the trouble.

Fortunately, we’ve managed to wait here rather quietly without offending anyone.”

“No one knows you’re here?”

“Now I didn’t say that.” Those eyebrows, grayer now than Pelmen remembered, underscored Dorlyth’s frown. “The Autumn Lady knows our whereabouts, and probably Flayh does too. I must say I’ve never longed to see anyone so much as I’ve wished that you would appear.”

“Is this all of you?” Pelmen asked, turning to the band of fighters.

“Not all,” a brave man finally answered, not troubling to hide the bitterness he felt. “We were never many, but we were enough. But Lord Belra’s broken with these two lords and gone to Garnabel to hire Joooms.”

Pelmen raised an eyebrow and looked back at Dorlyth. “Belra, Lord Gamabel? An ally?”

“Well he was…” Dorlyth sighed.

“I’ve always respected him as an enemy. He’d certainly make a worthy friend.”

“Perhaps we can win him back, now that you’re here.”

Pelmen gazed at his old friend. “I really didn’t come to fight,” he said honestly.

“You never do.” Dorlyth shrugged. “Yet you somehow manage to become involved. I know, I know.

No promises. But while we stand here talking about it, would you mind putting a cloak up over us? We’ve been naked so long I’ve

started to feel the chill.”

Pelmen smiled. “It’s been in place ever since I entered the clearing. I care about my security, unlike some foolhardy

friends!”

Dorlyth nodded sardonically and turned to face his surly army. “There now,” he said, gesturing. “Pelmen Dragonsbane. I said he would come and he’s here. Would any man deny that we’re now the best protected force in the land?” No one replied. They all knew Pelmen’s reputation. “And with that protection, we now have some chance against these demons in dogflesh. Sharpen your swords. Now we’re prepared to fight!” Dorlyth turned his back and started walking away, effectively dismissing the mutinous company. The warriors began slipping away to their own tents as Pelmen, Rosha, and Ferlyth fell in behind