Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

He hadn’t moved into this blindly. He had a plan for getting into the castle, a clever plan that had flashed upon him in a moment of insight and fanned a flame of excitement within him that he’d been hard pressed to conceal from the others. He’d studied it carefully, turning it over in his mind as he’d hunted, probing its weaknesses, contemplating its results. It would take skill and daring to carry it out, not to mention great stamina, courage, and some measure of simple luck. In short, it demanded a hero. That was exactly how Rosha saw himself.

He knew Dorlytn would view the attempt as foolhardy, and Pelmen would, as well. But they were leaders, both of them, with nothing to prove, plenty to lose, and countless people depending on them. No one depended on him, Rosha thought sullenly. Certainly not his tart-tongued, confident little queen. How could the ruler of the largest, most powerful empire among the three lands be dependent in any way upon him? What had she seen in him originally, if not his raw, unrealized potential to become a force among men? He was a hero. He could be nothing other. And he thought it fortunate that, for the moment at least, the ties that bound him could not overrule his sense of adventure, nor divert him from accepting this challenge. The evil Flayh possessed a magical artifact of immense power and antiquity, and Rosha would steal it or die. It was that simple.

His horse stepped into a clearing and he noticed suddenly that the fog had fled. A few yards away an elderly woman stooped to tie up a bundle of firewood. He would have ignored her, but suddenly she glanced up at him, and her eyes held his in their grip. They were a deep gold in color and unusually commanding, and he felt compelled to address her. “I’m going to the High City,” he announced.

She looked at him, startled, he thought, then her eyes narrowed, as if to pierce him through.

“I’m Rosha mod Dorlyth,” Rosha told her. He didn’t know why he felt so talkative.

She raised her eyebrows as if she thought him strange, and he had to confess to himself that he did indeed feel strange. He said so aloud. “I feel a bit awkward, talking to you like this.” He smiled.

The peasant woman curtsied and gave him a thin, knowing smile. “I’m certain you do, my Lord,” she rasped.

“It’s just that… I feel… my father and Pelmen are behind me. I must be going!” he finished with a shout, aware of how senseless and unnecessary that last statement had been, and totally confused as to why he’d said it. He drove his heels into the flanks of his horse and the animal bounded across the clearing and into the heavy brush on the far side.

Alone now, and pleased with the information she had garnered, Mar-Yilot untied the scarf that had disguised her and

shook her auburn tresses free. Then, with a self-satisfied chuckle, she set about the business of starting her fire.

A touch on his shoulder and Pelmen was awake. His eyes blinked open and he peered up into Dorlyth’s troubled face. “Rosha’s gone,” Dorlyth said, his normally rough voice made raspier by the morning cold.

Pelmen frowned, and made the sacrifice of rising from his warm bed onto his elbow. “Gone?”

Dorlyth gestured to an empty corner of the tent. “You see.”

Pelmen swung his legs out of the warm furs and got to his feet, keeping the rugs wrapped around his shoulders. His toes curled at the cold of the tents floor. “He’d make a skillful thief if he could creep out of here past both of us.”

Dorlyth grunted in agreement and gazed impatiently at the floor as Pelmen wound strips of woolen cloth around his legs. Then he flipped the tent flap aside and stepped into the cold morning air. Pelmen followed him out.

“Perhaps he’s hunting.”

“He hunted yesterday,” Dorlyth replied.

“Unsuccessfully—”

“Or so he said.”

“You disbelieve your son?” Pelmen asked Dorlyth’s back.

The warrior shrugged. “My son is an excellent hunter and these woods are full of game. He was quiet yesterday. Too quiet. You didn’t notice?”

“I attributed it to poor shooting.”

Dorlyth looked out toward the north, but there were no directions this morning. A thick mist clung to the bushes and huddled around the trunks of the trees. The air was damp, and the dead leaves on the forest floor clung quietly to their heels. “I can’t remember the last time Rosha shot poorly.” He swung his head around to gaze sadly at his companion. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he spent yesterday bagging and cleaning his provisions in order to travel today. I taught him to do that.” There was a trace of pride mixed into Dorlyth’s anxious tone. “The question is—where? Back to his wife?”

“That might be the best thing he could do,” Pelmen comforted, but he didn’t believe for a moment that Rosha had returned to Bronwynn, and he knew Dorlyth didn’t, either.

“Perhaps, but that’s not where he went. Where, then? It had something to do with our conversation of the night before last—”

“How do you know?” Pelmen frowned.

“He got very quiet after that—evasive—smiling too broadly and all that. What was it? Bronwynn’s appearance on the Rock of Tombs?”

“I doubt it. That tale barely held his attention,” Pelmen said thoughtfully.

“The dragon then? Has he gone off to—”

“The pyramids,” Pelmen interrupted. “That’s it. He was concerned to find a way we could communicate quickly with Erri and his wife.”

“But you told him plainly that wasn’t what they were for!”

“I’m afraid he’d already made up his mind.”

Dorlyth studied the wet ground. “And where is this third pyramid again?” He knew the answer. He was just double-checking facts.

“With Flayh.”

Dorlyth raised his head to meet Pelmen’s eyes, and said “You don’t think he’s fool enough to try to penetrate the High Fortress alone, do you?”

“He’s your son,” Pelmen said pointedly.

Dorlyth shook his head, then leaned back to gaze at the branches interlaced above them. “That’s not very reassuring, you know.”

“Shall we start tracking him?”

Dorlyth nodded curtly as Pelmen turned away. “Before you go sprouting wings on me, listen. Can you hunt from the sky and maintain the coverage of this glade?”

“You know I can’t.”

“Well, I didn’t think you could, but you can never know anything about a shaper’s powers that is certain.

Suppose we search on horseback, like normal people? You can continue to cover the glade then?”

“If I work at it.”

“Then let’s go.”

“Into the fog,” Pelmen said glumly.

“As long as it’s not so thick I can’t see the ground, we’ll do all right. Trust me, Pelmen,” Dorlyth added with a trace of his old grin. “I’m a fair tracker myself, even if I can’t fly.”

Dorlyth woke Ferlyth and quickly explained the situation. “Do you need me to go with you?” his cousin asked.

“No, no. Just do your best to keep this crew together. Actually, I think you have the tougher job!”

Dorlyth winked at Ferlyth, then beckoned to Pelmen. Moments later they were mounted and on the trail.

The two men shivered as they tracked. The mist crowded around them, robbing them of any sense of progress. Rosha’s trail climbed out of the glade to the northeast, up a mild but steady slope. It was difficult to follow, but not impossible. It had been Dorlyth, after all, who had taught him how to hide his tracks, and no war horse could move through a freshly laid carpet of fallen leaves without disturbing it somewhat. Rosha was skillful, however, and both men were challenged. Dorlyth might even have enjoyed the morning had he been less concerned for his impulsive son’s safety.