Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

“Why then?” she demanded.

“Is it time to get up?” a sleepy voice asked from the stairway.

“Might as well, lad,” Barleb called out, his eyes shifting warily from Pelmen to Mar-Yilot. “Who could sleep with two shapers a ‘bickering’?” Evidently the bargeman expected the discussion to erupt into magical fireworks at any moment.

Rosha paid them no heed. He dressed himself quickly, stomped noisily down the staircase, and pushed between the two debaters on his way to the door. He had it unbarred before Barleb realized what he was doing. It was already open when the bargeman shouted, “Don’t do it lad! The storm!”

Rosha looked out at the ice-covered ground, then glanced curiously up at the sky. It was clear. The sun was just now climbing up over the skyline of the city of Drabeld to the east of them. “What storm?” he asked.

Barleb frowned, and walked over to the doorway to look out. Then he scratched his head and looked back over his shoulder at his mistress. “Get your things, my Lady. We can go.”

Mar-Yilot’s eyebrows arched in surprise. Then she shot

Pelmen a chagrined smile. “Your Power?” she mocked lightly.

“I have no idea.” Pelmen sighed wearily. “I only know that now I can see Serphimera!”

There was a bit of wind blowing very conveniently out of the south. It carried them quickly and uneventfully across the ten-mile channel. Soon after they left the shore, Mar-Yilot lay down to sleep.

Pelmen knew why. She was going by dream-search across the channel, to tell Syth they were on their way. Pelmen sat in one of the cushioned chairs, wrapped his cloak around him, and enjoyed the ride.

The Isle of Sythia had once been only a barren outcropping in the northern sea. In those ancient days it had no freshwater, no plant life, and only a single resource. That resource, however, happened to be diamonds. One day a poverty-stricken sailor named Syth, who operated a ferry between the larger islands and the North Coast, had the good fortune to be blown onto its rocky shores. As soon as the storm abated, he made his way to the court of the Jorl of the Isles, and claimed the barren rock as his own. Everyone in court laughed that day— but none more heartily than he. The ill wind that had blown him ashore had insured that his progeny would never lack for anything.

The first Syth made a fortune. Soon, however, his island was being pillaged, and he decided he had to move onto it to defend his jewels. He began to spend his wealth on improvements. Wells were dug.

Bargeloads of top soil were imported. Trees, shrubs, and grasses were all brought out to the island to take root in the Sythian ground. Whole herds of wild beasts were transported over from the mainland.

Naturally, along with all this, came people. The early Syths chose their tenants well; over the centuries, three pleasant little villages had matured in the island’s natural coves. There were fishermen and weavers, cheesemakers and cobblers, fanners and blacksmiths, and every other useful trade. But the island’s economy remained dependent upon the sparkling stones that lay scattered over the ground. Fortunately, there seemed to be an almost endless supply of

gems. As a result, the Syths had built a dreamland, and had always managed it superbly. At the base of the two hills that humped up in the island’s center, a magnificent mansion blossomed.

Pelmen could see it clearly, sparkling in the morning sun like the diamonds that had built it. Soon he could see something else. On the beach there waited a crowd, and it was growing.

They arrived to the sound of trumpets and cheers, and Pelmen wondered if the resulting goose bumps would stay upon his back forever. He shielded his eyes, rocking from side to side as he searched the crowd for his lady—and there she was! He beamed at her and waved. Serphimera returned his smile shyly and chewed her lower lip.

Once the barge touched the ground, he was off of it and running toward her. There was one long, searching kiss—then he held her at arm’s length and scowled. “Why?” he demanded.

“I’ll tell you after the feast.” She said it firmly, but with a smile. Pelmen didn’t argue. He knew there was no use in that.

The banquet was as sumptuous as any that might be thrown together at a moment’s notice on the very threshold of winter. There was little fruit, and the vegetables were not all that fresh; Syth spent the whole meal apologizing. He needn’t have, for Pelmen wasn’t tasting what he ate. Nor did he really hear Syth’s disclaimers. His eyes were engrossed in those of his lady, who seemed happy enough to return his gaze.

Midway through dessert, Syth turned to his wife and announced, “I have entertainment planned, of course.”

“What for?” Mar-Yilot groused. Then she smiled at her husband sweetly and murmured, “I don’t care what it is, I can think of something far more entertaining.”

Syth mod Syth-el cleared his throat and looked at his guests. “Ah—if you’re finished, perhaps you’d like to see your rooms?”

The mansion’s rooms were large but well heated, with glazed windows running from the ceilings to the floors. The walls were painted in cheerful colors that matched the thick-piled carpets, and all the settees were stuffed full of down for maximum comfort. Into one of these Pelmen and Serphimera sank, once Syth and Mar-Yilot had disappeared, giggling, into the castle’s tower. Rosha tactfully retreated into his own assigned apartment. The moment he was gone, Pelmen grabbed Serphimera and kissed her. Then he sat back and said, “Now. Where did you go?”

There was honest, understandable hurt in his voice, and Serphimera shifted position and looked away before answering. “I came here.”

“Directly? It took you that long?”

“Not directly, no. I really didn’t know where this was, so I didn’t know how to get here.”

“But why did you come?”

Serphimera sighed, but not in exasperation. It was a sigh of embarrassment mingled with pleasure—she liked being cared for this deeply. “I told you, Pelmen, months ago, that neither of us were finished. I’d seen this place in a vision and myself here, doing… what I do. It was time to come, so I came.”

“Without a word?” he demanded.

“What word could I give? I’d seen your travels too, my love—” She paused briefly, to let the term of endearment have its impact. “And I knew I would only impede you. It wasn’t by my choice that I left you. It was the Power’s.”

Pelmen gazed at her, and the anger he’d built up over the months of separation dissipated in a moment.

He kissed her dark hair. “So that’s why I couldn’t find you.”

“Did you look?” she asked with a mocking frown.

“Of course!”

“Good,” she muttered. “I was afraid you wouldn’t.”

Pelmen started to argue, then saw the dance in her emerald eyes and realized she was teasing. “And you had nothing to do with the rebirth of the Dragonfaith.”

Her frown turned serious. “Nothing at all. Only great sadness that it’s come so quickly.”

He frowned. “You knew?”

“I knew,” she said quietly.

For a long time Pelmen just looked at her. Then his eyes watered over, and he looked out the window at one of the twin hills that stood in the middle of the island.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, but she already knew the answer.

“I’m wondering how much else you know, my Lady, about you, about me, about this coming war that you won’t—or cannot—tell.”

Serphimera breathed an unhappy sigh and thought a moment. Then she said, “I don’t know everything, you realize. And I don’t always interpret correctly what I see.”

Pelmen remained uncomforted. “Only one thing I ask you to tell me, Serphimera, and all the rest can remain secret until it’s fulfilled. Warn me of when I can expect you to disappear again.” His jaw clenched and his eyes hardened as he waited for her response.