Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

“Why, certainly his instructions. He is, after all, your spiritual father, and when he—”

“I met Erri when he was a foul-mouthed sailor who still stank of fish! I’ll not follow his instructions nor anyone else’s! Get out!”

Naquin gulped, his eyes wide. “Get out?” he said and she shouted:

“You heard me! Get out!”

The skyfaither stiffened his already stiff back and pursed his lips reprovingly. “You’re making a grievous error—” he began, but, when Bronwynn spun around and shouted for the guards, he turned his back on her in turn and marched self-righteously out of the castle. He’d performed his task. He couldn’t be held accountable.

Bronwynn looked over her shoulder and watched him go. She chanced to catch sight of herself in one of the mirrors Ligne had placed in the throne room and was startled by the savagery of her sneer. She softened it, but didn’t soften her voice as she shoved a guard aside and stalked toward her royal apartments. She was angry, and the thing that bothered her most was that she was fearing Naquin might be right.

No one saw this her way! Not one of her trusted advisors had tried to see it from her perspective. And from each one she received the same reproachful look, that expression adults reserve for impetuous teens who won’t listen and who are going to be sorry they didn’t.

As she burst into her room, a flock of maids ran to greet her, but she waved them all off. “I don’t need you!” She sent them bustling out the doors. Her armor had been laid out for her on the bed. She strode toward it, grabbed it up, and began buckling on her glistening breastplate. She was suddenly conscious of the roaring crowd outside her window, and realized that the news had been published that she marched today. She walked to a mirror, scooped up a hairbrush, and told her reflection, “I can’t back out now.”

—Why not? the mirror answered back.

The hairbrush clattered to the marble floor. Bronwynn stared at the mirror in shock. “What did you say?”

—Why can’t you wait? Are you not the queen?

Bronwynn stepped away from the mirror, and slowly looked up at the tapestry-draped walls. She thought she knew who it was—or rather, what it was—that was addressing her. This knowledge did not allay her amazement, not did it still the pounding of her heart. “House?” she said. “Are you talking to me?”

—Is that so difficult to imagine?

“But—I thought—Pelmen said you had retired from dealings with mankind! He said you wouldn’t talk again!”

—Unless the Power directed.

Bronwynn looked from one wall to the next, making a slow circle in the center of her gigantic bedroom.

She had difficulty breathing. “Then—you—the Power is—”

—It would be helpful if you could complete your sentences, the Imperial House harrumphed. This House cannot read minds.

“The—the Power commanded that you talk to me?” she asked, a tremor in her voice.

—It seems you wouldn’t listen to anyone else.

“But—how is it that I understand you?”

—Why shouldn’t you understand this House? the castle lectured sternly. You’re of royal blood, are you not? And have you not demonstrated some talent at shaping?

“Am I—truly a powershaper then?” Bronwynn whispered, awed by the possibility and longing for confirmation of it.

—Who can say? the House grumbled. No one is a shaper

who has not found his altershape. This House has been— elsewhere. Has such a thing occurred?

“No,” Bronwynn admitted.

—Then think no more about it. If it happens, it happens. At present, there are more pressing matters to attend to.

“The Power doesn’t want me to go to Ngandib-Mar,” Bronwynn said thoughtfully.

—Perhaps that’s so, perhaps it is not. The only clear directive is simply to wait.

“To wait,” Bronwynn mused. “That’s all?”

—That’s all.

The queen studied this for a moment in silence. Then she frowned. “But why?”

The shutters of her windows flew open with a bang. Anyone else would have interpreted this as a gust of wind, but Bronwynn now recognized it as an exasperated sigh.

—This House cannot foretell the future! the Imperial House of Chaomonous thundered, and Bronwynn thought seriously about getting under the bed.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I just don’t know what to do.”

—Wait! The Imperial House roared. Does it have to be written upon the wall?

“I’ll wait, I’ll wait!” Bronwynn snapped, annoyed now. “I meant, what do I do about the march?”

—Send someone in your place! Is that so difficult to reason out?

“Someone else? But who could—” Just then, everything seemed to come into focus for Browynn Ian Rosha. She summoned a messenger.

“Yes, your Highness?”

“Send me General Joss. Then go to the areas frequented by the players and tell Lady Danyilyn that I’d like to see her.” As the messenger saluted and scooted off to obey, Bronwynn smiled. Who better to take her place than a professional actress?

Terril the twin-killer hung in the air sixty feet above the entrance to the Imperial House. Despite having to wear his odious body, elation surged through him. He was about to conquer Chaomonous.

The minute the queen left the reviewing stand he’d flown here, to the roof of her castle. He’d taken his human form then and dispatched a pair of the queen’s blue flyers with messages to Flayh and to the new king of Lamath. Terril enjoyed the irony of this—launching the seeds of the queen’s destruction from the roof of her palace. The messages warned Flayh and his Lamathian allies to prepare an ambush for the Golden Throng in Dragonsgate. Now he waited for her to march. Once she was gone, he would unleash his swarms upon the depleted staff of her castle, and the Imperial House would be his.

It was all so easy! Nothing at all like battling a rival shaper. War in the Mar was a guessing game where the whims of the powers always made the outcome unpredictable. This victory was so certain it was almost boring! Almost—but not quite. Tonight he would take his human form again to sleep in the bed of a king! He could hardly wait.

Suddenly the gates flew open, and the huge throng that had made its way here from the parade ground began cheering lustily. A double column of warriors marched out first and stepped smartly down the incline toward the market. As they approached the crowds that clogged the street, the column formed a wedge and began shoving onlookers back out of the way.

There was a rumbling from within the castle, then the first of the huge wagons issued from the portal.

There were two dozen of these, each drawn by teams of eight heavy draft horses, and each flanked by golden-mailed warriors. The riders came next, encased in burnished plates of glistening gold, astride proudly prancing mounts draped in brocade of the same rich hue. Terril was impressed only with the wealth this all demonstrated. He scoffed at the thought of a warrior dressing like the belle of a royal ball.

His multifaceted eyes searched the riders earnestly. There was still no sign of the queen.

With a sudden fanfare, the last column of riders divided, turning their mounts to face inward toward the open pathway they’d created. Out rode the queen in full armor, astride a grandly caparisoned stallion of jet black. Her visor was shut, but it was clear from the womanly shape of the armor that this was she.

Her golden cape was trimmed with bright blue, a symbolic reference to the skyfaith. This was the only intrusion of any other color in the whole of the gilded parade, and it drew all eyes to her. She drew her sword and held it above her, then spurred her steed forward and rode to the head of the line.