Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

the striding leader.

Once inside the fish-satin tent. Dorlyth breathed a sigh of relief. “Dramatic timing, my friend, but you could have saved some wear and tear on my old heart by appearing sooner.”

“I didn’t even know I was coming! I got a message from Bronwynn requesting that I find her vanished husband, so naturally I expected to find him here. I had no idea you were so vulnerable!”

“Why don’t you check on us from time to time?” Dorlyth

scolded. “Mar-Yilot does.”

“Has she been here?” Pelmen asked with alarm.

“Once,” Rosha grunted.

“Which is often enough,” Dorlyth added. “By that, I mean her form was here—like a wraith.”

“There are several things that Mar-Yilot does that I can’t.

That’s one of them.”

“Not true,” Dorlyth muttered. “I’ve seen you. Trouble is, you don’t practice. If you would, maybe we could stay in closer

touch with you.”

“In any case, I’m here now. And since, as you say, I always get involved, regardless of how I might try to avoid it, you can be sure that I’ll do what I can to aid you.”

“Good. Rosha, send a flyer to Gamabel. Inform the impatient Belra that he can leave Joooms in peace and spare himself some treasure. And tell him to get his red mustache back down here—we need to plan.”

Rosha nodded and started through the tent flap. “And while you’re at it,” Pelmen added, “why not send your wife word of where you are.”

Dorlyth turned to frown at his son. “Haven’t you done that yet? I thought you loved that girl!”

“I do,” Rosha snapped. “It’s just that, if I tell her where I am, she’s apt to send an army to protect me!

How would you like an army chasing you around?”

“Right now I wouldn’t turn it down,” Dorlyth joked, winking at Pelmen.

The wizard didn’t smile. “The trouble is, she may send it anyway.”

Dorlyth quickly grew serious. “That wouldn’t do at all. We’ve enough factions within this nation. We certainly don’t need our wealthy southern neighbor sticking her big nose in where it isn’t needed. You realize that’s just a figure of speech, son, not a comment on your lady’s facial features.”

“Do send the flyers,” Pelmen urged, “but be careful how you word your message to her. What am I saying! She’s your wife. You know how best to deal with her.” Rosha nodded— a bit doubtfully, Pelmen thought—and left the tent.

Dorlyth stroked his beard reflectively. “She’s thinking of invading?”

“I’ve done my best to dissuade her. Perhaps she’ll listen.”

“I hope for her sake she does. Ferlyth, tell him what you know.”

Lord Ferlyth turned his icy blue gaze on Pelmen. “Terril the twin-killer has entered the service of Lord Flayh—whether willingly or unwillingly is not known. It is known that Flayh has sent him south—to the extreme south, across Arl Lake and the westernmost spur of the Great South Fir. His orders are to create havoc in that region.”

“Which is southern Chaomonous.”

“Exactly. It is also known that Terril has been promised the whole of Chaomonous as a fiefdom if he can succeed in taking it. I assume he’ll use every resource at his disposal. You would know more about that than I. As you recall, Terril’s altershape is a—”

“Yes,” Pelmen said thoughtfully. “Terril the twin-killer is a sugar-clawsp.”

“Of course, Terril’s not much of a warrior,” Dorlyth put in, “But he certainly can cause problems if he’s highly motivated.”

“And nothing moves Terril like greed,” Pelmen murmured. He was deep in thought, remembering the days long ago when he’d battled the clawsp and the other shapers to a standstill.

“I hate to interrupt your meditations,” Dorlyth drawled, “but since you’re here, there’s another friend you might want to visit.”

Pelmen glanced up, his brow wrinkling with curiosity and hope. “What friend?” he asked eagerly.

Dorlyth laughed. “You say that as if you’re surprised you have any friends!”

“It’s just that the ones I do have keep disappearing! What friend?”

Now Dorlyth frowned. “I’m sorry. I fear now my news will only disappoint you.”

“Why? Who is it?” Pelmen demanded.

“It’s just a horse—”

“A horse? Minaliss?” Pelmen grinned.

“If that’s what you call that big roan stallion you stole from the merchant Pezi—”

“Where is he?” Pelmen whooped with delight, and he dashed out the tent flap without waiting for an answer.

Dorlyth turned to Ferlyth and slipped his tongue into his cheek. “It’s so reassuring, isn’t it, to have a shaper who always maintains his composure?”

Shivering at the cold, Pelmen walked the perimeter of the camp, checking the efficacy of his spell.

Cloaking was a simple task once a shaper disciplined his mind to it. Pelmen could keep this magical baffle in place even in his sleep—provided his sleep was not disturbed by that other, far more potent Power. He remembered when he had lain down with confidence, certain no force on earth could penetrate his carefully woven barrier. He smiled ruefully at such memories now. He was no longer his own. The Power had placed a stamp upon him, and part of that mark was a humility born of uncertainty.

He could never be sure, now, when he might be summoned. Often, in responding to that call, he’d witnessed his own careful plans evaporate in the shift of circumstance. Yet he wasn’t unhappy in this.

There burned within him a sense of personal purpose

that had always been lacking when he’d called himself his own. And the world, with its entangling webs of sorcery and deceit, seemed to him an altogether less frightful place, for he knew that righting it did not depend on him alone. He took comfort in that—the uncertain comfort of faith.

“Pelmen!” Dorlyth barked from his tent. “Come in out of that wind, fool! You’ll freeze your rump and won’t be able to ride!”

Pelmen realized that his fingers and toes were indeed numb, and he headed toward the shelter. “I should think a numb bottom might be an advantage,” he jested.

“If you want to experiment, you can stand here in the tent flap and stick it out, but I prefer your hands and eyes and brain to go unfrozen, since that’s what’s protecting us. There,” he said, pointing across the tent with one hand as he closed the flap behind Pelmen with the other.

Pelmen’s eyes widened and he smiled. “Bless you,” he murmured. “But how did you manage—”

“I had to bring Minaliss in any case, didn’t I? Might as well bring my bathtub along on his back.”

“How did you get it on his back?” Pelmen exclaimed.

Dorlyth rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t easy, I’ll grant you. I had to lie.” He leaned forward. “I told him it was for you.”

“Why did you have to bring him in any case? How did you come to find him?”

“He found me, I didn’t find him. As to why—I figured you’d come wheeling in here on the wing, instead of mounted like any sensible warrior on a war horse.”

“But then what about your bathtub?” Pelmen asked, raising a mocking eyebrow, “won’t you have to leave it behind when we ride?”

Dorlyth frowned. “I’ve been studying that. You wouldn’t mind riding on top of it, would you?”

Pelmen laughed and stepped out of his sandals as he walked across the fish-satin floor. “When is this ride taking place? And where are we going?”

“Bathe first,” Dorlyth said, pulling the curtain between himself and his guest. “We can discuss more minor matters later Ferlyth? Rosha? I’m for a game of Drax; what of you?”

The others responded from the far side of the tent as Pelmen peeled off his garments and stepped into the steaming water