Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

“Did you hear it all, too?” Serphimera asked Mar-Yilot, and the sorceress nodded in disgust.

Serphimera’s eyes met Syth’s, and they sympathized with one another silently. Like Rosha, they were often in the dark. Neither of them had heard a thing.

“Now he must know we’re together!” Mar-Yilot fumed.

“Probably.” Pelmen nodded. “But he’d surely guessed that anyway. Maybe knowing it for certain will frighten him, somehow.” Mar-Yilot shot him another look of disgust. Pelmen met her gaze. “It could have been much worse. Our position wasn’t revealed. Nor was Erri’s—”

“Who is this Erri, anyway?” the woman asked. “He sounded thoroughly sensible.”

Pelmen gave her a slight smile. “That’s one of the best descriptions of Erri I’ve ever heard. I hope you’ll meet him one day.”

Mar-Yilot snorted. “If I survive!” She shot another foul look at Rosha, then stormed out of the room.

After a moment Syth followed her—but not before laying a comforting hand on Rosha’s shoulder.

Rosha wouldn’t look up. Pelmen nodded at Serphimera, and she, too, disappeared. Then the shaper sat on the bed beside his young friend. Rosha had put the pyramid back in its wrappings—the burned remnant of Pelmen’s old cloak. He handed it to Pelmen, his eyes still on the floor. “You want this?” he asked dully.

Pelmen sighed. “Not really,” he said, but he took it anyway and sat it, bundled up, on his lap.

“I’m sorry,” Rosha growled.

“I’m sorry too. For you. It sounded like a most unsatisfying reunion.”

“It was.”

“Can I do anything?”

Rosha looked up at him finally. “You can take that thing

out of here and let me go to bed.” Pelmen nodded, patted Rosha’s back, and started for the door.

“Pelmen,” Rosha called, and the powershaper turned to look back at him. “I’m sorry about Yona Parmi.”

Pelmen lowered his head, and nodded. Then he looked squarely at Rosha. “I keep losing my friends.

Don’t let your guilt cost me you, too.” He left the room, closing the door behind him.

There were many handsome rooms in Syth’s palace, but the grandest of all was the long hallway that spanned the length of the northern face of the house. A series of columns ran along the wall, interspersed with full-length windows. Some of these were of stained glass. One, the most prominent, pictured a butterfly in shades of auburn, amber and apricot. Most, however, were clear, providing a vista of the two peaks in the middle of the island.

It was a beautiful room throughout the day. It made a good spot for an early breakfast, as dawn painted the twin hills a pleasant pink. In the afternoon, the columns formed dramatic silhouettes, and the room had the somber mood of a brooding library. By nightfall the personality of the hallway changed completely. Except for the rare occasions when its chandeliers were lighted for a grand ball, its only light came from two giant fireplaces at either end—or from the moon through the windows.

Pelmen and Serphimera stood gazing out at the hills. With their coats of fresh snow, those peaks seemed to glow, reflecting back the moon’s pale light. The view gave rise to thoughts of warmth and rest and security. It certainly was no invitation to travel. Yet that’s what they discussed. Pelmen sighed and turned away from her. “Why, Serphimera?” he asked. “It’s hopeless, don’t you see?”

At that moment Mar-Yilot walked into the hall and smiled her most cheerful, cynical smile. “May I share your despair?” she asked. Her spirits seemed improved over the afternoon, but it was well that Rosha wasn’t present. She didn’t forgive easily—and certainly not this quickly. “What’s hopeless?” she asked.

Pelmen was not inclined to respond, so Serphimera did. “I have had a vision, my Lady, of Pelmen and myself going to the mountain. We’re trying to interpret our purpose and whether these crystal pyramids play a part.”

“What mountain?” Mar-Yilot asked, wrinkling her nose.

“I don’t know,” Serphimera said with a slight smile. “Pelmen thinks he does.”

When Mar-Yilot turned an inquiring look on him, Pelmen explained, “It’s a mountain in the North Fir—a mountain where… the Power is.” He appeared unwilling to say the words, conveying by his manner that it was a long story and he’d rather not go on.

Mar-Yilot raised an eyebrow. “The Power. Is it always there?”

“Each time I’ve passed it.” Pelmen nodded, looking out the window.

“And what do you think you’ll be doing there?” Mar-Yilot asked.

Pelmen shrugged and explained, “It was there Sheth met with the men of faith and refused their contribution to the crystal weapon.”

Mar-Yilot frowned, as he’d known she would, and said, “This is a story I don’t know.”

“I didn’t know it either—or rather, only a part—until I had a conversation with the Imperial House of Chaomonous.”

Intrigued, Mar-Yilot gestured for them to sit in the comfortable chairs before one of the large fireplaces; she settled back in one herself to listen. Syth stepped in a few minutes later and joined them, but he didn’t interrupt, for Pelmen had already begun the tale.

“This all happened centuries ago. At that time there was only one land, spreading from the sea on the east to the high

plains of Ngandib, and from the cold wastes of northern Lamath to the spice islands south of Chaomonous. A mighty land, obviously, but perhaps a bit too big, for it began to crumble from within.

There were those who shaped the powers, then as now. Others were in contact with the one who made all things, the One we call the Power. Still others scoffed at the thought of any powers beyond those of man, and set about to study the world in order to prove such. I suppose there had always been these groups, but they’d all been able to live together before. Gradually, however, that became impossible.

They warred on one another, and the land was split into fragments.

“Certain leaders devised a plan they hoped would unite the One Land again. They thought that if there was only some overpowering threat which would demand the cooperation of all men, the race would be knit together once more. At least, that’s the reason they gave for the making of Vicia-Heinox.”

“Vicia-Heinox?” Mar-Yilot interrupted. “They made the dragon?”

“They did—and loosed it upon the world. Fields and villages were burned—whole nations, in fact, were destroyed, with names that would surprise you—”

“Surprise me!” Mar-Yilot pleaded, clapping her hands in fascination.

“Yes.” Syth smiled. “What names?”

Pelmen looked into the crackling fire. “Ever heard of the nation of Arl?”

“Arl? You mean there was once a country down around Arl Lake?” asked the sorceress.

“It was the grandest of the remnants of the One Land, and it stretched from north of the High Plateau to the borders of what is now Chaomonous.”

“But the great South Fir—” Syth began.

“It wasn’t there,” Pelmen said. “All that region was occupied. The dragon burned Arl away—the forest grew in its place.” He paused for a moment before going on. Mar-Yilot sat entranced, delighted by the story. “The lands did not unite. But certain individuals did. A weapon was devised, fashioned of six diamonds, each shaped into three-sided pyramids and filled with magical power. The shaper named Sheth was appointed to meld them together and pass them on to the men of faith, but he changed his mind. He tried to attack Vicia-Heinox by himself.”

“What happened?” Mar-Yilot asked breathlessly.

“Well, we know he lost.” Syth shrugged, but his wife hushed him.