Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

At first, his toes protested the sharp contrast between this and the cold outside, but they quickly grew accustomed to it. Soon he was soaking in water up to his chin, letting the warmth soothe muscles weary beyond expression. He relaxed. His mind more weary even than his muscles, floated with the bobbing of his hair in the water. Ears immersed, he heard only enough of the raucous game being played beyond the curtain to be soothed by it. He was among friends—powerful friends, who could be trusted to bear their share of responsibilities in the coming conflict. Those reassuring voices, distorted by the water, lulled him.

For the first time in what seemed like years, he rested.

The game ended with Ferlyth the victor, which wasn’t unusual. Dorlyth was a wily soldier and an artful strategist, but for some reason was an awful Drax player. As Pelmen stepped from the bath, Dorlyth was heaping verbal abuse on his laughing son for not helping him win. Pelmen chuckled to himself, and Dorlyth shouted, “There’s warm skins there,” and went back to his recriminations.

Pelmen dried off, wrapped himself in the skins, and stepped out to join his companions. “Feel better?”

Dorlyth asked.

“Much. I feel like I’m home. Why don’t I spend more time here?”

“You never answer me when I ask you that,” Dorlyth grumbled, “so why should I answer you? Sit down.”

Pelmen sat on a mat and leaned back against a saddle. “When do you plan to ride?”

“Not before Belra returns, and that will take a couple of days. And not then without some purpose.

We’ve been rather safe here, but we’ve also been blind. Unless Lord Garnabel brings some news with him, or you know something, I’ve no idea what our best move might be.”

“What do you want to achieve?” Pelmen asked soberly.

“The overthrow of the present Pahd and the demise of this new shaper who controls him.”

“You blame Pahd for this war?”

“I blame Pahd for not stopping it! Yes, I blame Pahd. Force of habit, I suppose—there’s been a Pahd at the root of every war I’ve fought in.”

“Except the war with Chaomonous. I was the cause of that, remember?” Pelmen leaned back against his saddle and laced

his fingers behind his head. “And Pahd helped you end that one.”

“You’re defending the sloth?” Dorlyth asked sharply.

“Perhaps. But not his slothfulness. Pahd’s been a poor king, but then he never should have been king.

You should have.” Ferlyth, who had been listening carefully to Pelmen, nodded in agreement.

“Let’s not cover that ground again,” Dorlyth grunted.

“Very well. I’m saying only that Pahd has always been weak and we’ve all known it. But that war with Chaomonous was precipitated by more than just my confusing of the dragon. It had been carefully plotted by the merchant council, led by the very man who now controls poor Pahd.”

“Flayh,” Dorlyth murmured, nodding. “Rosha’s told me a bit about this new shaper. I remember well how he and Tohn mod Neelis took council together against me through their crystal pyramids. Rosha tells me one of those talking devices is now in Bronwynn’s hands.”

“It is, though I keep advising her to lock it away forever. Flayh attacked me magically through the pyramids. Except for good fortune—or some powerful intervention—I’d bear scars of that battle on my face.”

“They say Flayh does,” Rosha broke in excitedly. “They say his face and bald pate are a pale blue, but for a pair of pink handprints over his eyes!”

“Who says that?” Pelmen asked.

Dorlyth shrugged. “There were certain members of the court who occasionally passed along information to us. One happened to glimpse the shaper’s face. I’m told he usually remains hidden.”

“The same spy told you?”

Dorlyth shook his head. “Those who once helped us have now disappeared. Flayh is more secretive than Pahd. And he’s hired a deadly enforcer to keep his secrets safe.”

“Who’s that?” Pelmen said flatly, certain that he already knew.

“Admon Faye,” Rosha said under his breath.

Pelmen nodded. “That’s bitter news, but I’m not surprised. The two men have worked together before.

Indeed, they seem to fit one another. Especially now, since you tell me the face of one is as marred as that of the other.” Pelmen subsided, absorbed in his own thoughts. They were bleak and heavy with despair, for he well knew that Admon Faye was first and foremost a slaver, and that his familiar haunts were in the Great South Fir. Often in these weeks since Serphimera’s disappearance he’d imagined her kidnapped by the killer. This was the worst thought imaginable, more terrible than the possibility of her death. Admon Faye was a cruel man—Pelmen had experienced that cruelty firsthand—and Flayh was doubly so. While Pelmen’s relationship with Serphimera had never been made public, it was surely no secret to those who made secrets their business. Pelmen had given both men plenty of cause to hate him.

What might these two do to her, in order to get at him?

“Pelmen!” Dorlyth growled, and the shaper came to himself.

“Yes?”

“I thought you were about to disappear!”

Pelmen grunted. “Just thinking of Admon Faye.”

“I try to do that as little as possible myself. Ruins the digestion.”

“Rosha,” Pelmen asked sharply, “have you heard any word about Serphimera?”

Rosha had been lost in thoughts of his own, revolving around those precious pyramids. Now he frowned. “I thought she was with you!”

“She was. She disappeared at the southern edge of the Great South Fir.”

“You think the slaver’s got her?” Rosha asked anxiously.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what to think.”

“Who’s Serphimera?” Dorlyth frowned.

“A woman,” Pelmen said. “A priestess.”

“A priestess!” Dorlyth snorted. “Of Lamath, then? I warned you to stay away from those Lamathian women! All they think about is religion!”

Pelmen nodded sadly. “That’s certainly Serphimera. And that’s another of my fears. Flayh has managed somehow to create an illusion of the dragon and has resuscitated the dead Dragonfaith.”

Rosha gazed at him, dumbfounded. “The dragon flies again?”

“So your own lady tells me, as well as witnesses in Lamath. In fact, I’ve chanced to have conversation with the ghostly

beast myself. I worry that perhaps Serphimera has reverted back to her old faith…”

“I don’t follow any of this,” Dorlyth grunted impatiently. “The dragon’s alive again? And your woman is its priestess?”

“Let’s just say that Flayh is far more powerful than I realized when I battled him through the crystals.

And that power appears to be growing.”

“So. He’s a shaper, you’re a shaper. Pahd’s a swordsman, I’m a swordsman. Admon Faye’s evil is well known to all of us, and so is his skill with weapons, but my son here bested him in a face-to-face struggle. Let’s fight them.”

“I wish it was all so simple, Dorlyth.” Pelmen sighed.

“You mean it’s not? Why not? What’s different between this and any other war of confederation?”

“The level of powers in use. Flayh is more than just another shaper. He has powers beyond any I’ve seen, beyond any I knew existed! He controls King Pahd, and thereby this nation. He controls a vision of the dragon, and thus he enslaves Lamath. You tell me he controls Terril as well, who potentially could demoralize Chaomonous. He’s brought the High Fortress to menacing, hostile life and a horde of scoundrels led by the prince of thieves! I can’t best him alone—I doubt the Autumn Lady and I together could, despite the fact that she’s at the height of her power during this season. And—a fact not to be forgotten—she opposes and threatens us. Your army—our army—is mutinous. Your allies, apart from Ferlyth, have departed. We’re small in numbers, if not in courage. My friend— it’s not so simple. Not simple at all.”