Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

Shock registered on Tahli-Damen’s face, and he leaned forward, as if to peer through his personal fog.

“You know the significance of this color?”

“I’m gowned as you are. But tell me, how did you learn what it means? Are you from Lamath?”

Tahli-Damen sighed. “I’ve spent time in Lamath. I’ve lived in all three lands. I used to be a merchant, back in the days of the dragon—a trading captain. I saw this robe occasionally there. Not very often.”

“We were few then,” Pelmen muttered.

“And,” Tahli-Damen continued, “I learned a little about the Power. Didn’t believe it then, of course.”

“But now you do?” Pelmen said, asking by his inflection why the change had come.

“I got in trouble with some wizards. It cost me my sight. That plunged me into depression.

Wayleeth—that’s my wife— did all she could to make me feel better, but nothing could penetrate this blue fog that surrounds me. Then I had the strangest experience. I felt that something wonderful and powerful was suddenly coming through me, as if I was—” Tahli-Damen broke off, and he turned his head in the direction of Pelmen’s voice. “Are you sure Wayleeth didn’t send you?” he demanded. His harshness had returned.

“I don’t even know your wife,” Pelmen responded. “But it sounds as if she cares for you very much.”

“Too much,” Tahli-Damen grunted. “She thinks too much of me. That’s partly why I’m leaving. She’ll be better off without me.”

“What’s the other reason?” Pelmen asked.

Tahli-Damen shrank back from him, clutching his arms across his chest once again. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Are you from Flayh?”

Pelmen’s eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. That name bore bitter memories. “No,” he growled. “I’m not from Flayh.” He relaxed then and went on more calmly. “If I’m from anyone, you may believe I’m from the Power. I think it’s possible that I’m here to help you by the Power’s design.”

Tahli-Damen’s uncertain frown twisted his features as he barked, “But how can I be sure?”

Pelmen had faced that question himself many times. He had an answer ready. “You can’t. But then you can’t be sure there’s

any value in that robe you wear. You still wear it. That’s why they call us ‘faithers.’”

“You expect me just to trust you?” Tahli-Damen asked.

Pelmen thought a moment, then simply said, “Yes.”

Apparently his conviction and sincerity were persuasive. After a brief pause, Tahli-Damen said, “Very well then. Where’s Dragonsgate?”

Pelmen took his arm and guided him back down the steep incline. Few words passed between them.

Tahli-Damen focused his attention on not stumbling. Pelmen pondered the irony of this situation. He had interrupted his quest for the woman who had deserted him in order to help this blind man desert a loving wife. At least, he guessed Serphimera had deserted him. Wrenching as it was, he could tolerate that explanation better than the other possibilities that had plagued his waking hours.

Pelmen and Serphimera had spent an idyllic summer. They’d explored the dirt roads of Chaomonous, lodging with peasants in pleasant cottages or resting beside quiet pools of crystal-clear water, engaged in a single, endless conversation. She’d told him her whole history—her girlhood, her growing fascination with the dragon cult, those first frightening moments when she’d sensed a responsibility being laid upon her, and the day she’d felt a new kind of power surge through her soul. Naturally she’d attributed it to the dragon, and that had intensified her devotion. Pelmen had listened sympathetically, his eyes gentle with understanding love. And he in turn had disclosed more secrets than he’d ever revealed to anyone else.

She knew him better now than did the prophet Erri, better than his acting companion Yona Parmi—better even than did Dorlyth. She’d listened in rapt attention, laughing in the appropriate places, weeping a time or two. The bond of physical attraction forged between them by competition had been tempered by this intimacy into love. At last they’d declared it to one another.

But one barrier had remained. “We’re not finished yet,” she had constantly reminded him. “Neither of us.

I’ve seen it.”

Pelmen knew it was true. Throughout the summer he’d acknowledged to himself that he would have to confront the wizard Flayh. Even so, he’d seen no reason why that should separate them.

She’d left him resting beneath an oak at the edge of the Great South Fir, saying she was going to hunt berries. He’d

waked hours later to find the daylight departed and Serphimera still gone. He’d started his search calmly; but as the long hours of evening passed into dark night and on toward dawn, he’d lost control of himself and grown frantic. He’d taken his falcon form and, for the next three days, had swept back and forth over the dense forest on the wing, punctuating each long turn with a sharp, fierce cry of frustration.

Despite his enhanced vision and the advantage of flight, Pelmen never found a trace of her. It was as if she’d vanished—and no one could disappear except through the intervention of a powershaper!

These thoughts led him back again to the dark door of Flayh. What could the man do now? Clearly Flayh’s powers exceeded those of all the shapers Pelmen had ever known. What were the man’s limits?

Had Flayh even found them himself? Was Flayh somehow responsible for this new blockade of Dragonsgate? As they headed up into the pass Pelmen probed his companion for more information.

“You said there’s been no traffic through here for several weeks. Have you heard any rumors to explain it?”

“Only rumors. The men of the House of Uda pride themselves on being cautious. They prefer that fiction to admitting their own cowardice.”

“Yet you show little cowardice yourself, braving the legendary Dragonsgate alone and without sight.”

“What do I have to fear?” Tahli-Damen murmured bitterly. “My House thinks I’m crazy. I’ve lost all honor there. My wife treats me as an invalid, smothering me with affection. I’ve lost my sight, so I judge myself poor material for slavers. You have more to fear from them than I.”

“Perhaps,” Pelmen acknowledged, the deadly tone in his voice making clear his opinion of slavers. “Yet I wonder if it’s those whom we’ll encounter. Cutthroats have blocked the pass before, but they never cut traffic off entirely. They make more money by controlling passage than they could by stopping it. Evil as they are, I’m expecting to meet something more ominous than slavers.”

“But what could be more—”

As if in answer to that unfinished question, they heard above them the double-throated roar that had chilled men’s blood for centuries. It echoed off the canyon walls. It thundered down upon them as palpably as an avalanche Tahli-Daman’s about his total lack of fear melted away, and he crumbled to his knees in terror. He’d been a trading captain. He knew that angry scream. Vicia-Heinox, the two-headed dragon, hovered in the air above them.

The scream stiffened the hairs on the back of Pelmen’s neck and knotted his body with tension, but he didn’t cower away. He turned his eyes up to stare at the monstrous beast and said, “Who would have guessed it? The dragon.”

“But Vicia-Heinox is dead!” Tahli-Damen wailed.

“Yes,” Pelmen muttered. “The dragon is dead.”

Vast jaws opened as one head shrieked in fury, “Who is this who dares trespass my domain?”

“Speak!” the other head demanded. “I asked you a question!”

“And I shall have an answer!” finished the first.

Pelmen propped his hands on his hips. “Why is it so important that you know our names?”