Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

“Indeed he lost,” said Pelmen. “The weapon was shattered again into the six diamond pyramids. The One Land has never been united. And the dragon has been with us ever since—or at least, until very recently.”

Mar-Yilot looked thoughtfully at him. “Then these things your foolish friends were talking through are really parts of an ancient weapon—and you’re contemplating remaking it and turning it on Flayh.”

Pelmen nodded. “But it’s hopeless. We could gather these pyramids, but that would leave three parts of the weapon still missing. What possible good would that do?”

“You say these crystals are cut from diamonds?” Syth asked. When Pelmen nodded, he said, “In my vaults are diamonds beyond your imagination. Huge stones, many of them still uncut. We can cut you some more pyramids, Pelmen. How would that do?”

“Thank you, Syth, for your offer—and who knows? Perhaps these that exist came from such an offer from your ancestors. But it’s not much help, I fear. There’s magic in these three pyramids—shaping beyond my imagination—plus contributions of skill in calibrating the exact cuts that would tax the most gifted of your jewelers. No, I’m afraid it’s hopeless.”

“Then why do we have these three?” Serphimera asked simply.

“We don’t,” Pelmen grunted. “We have one. Erri has the second, and I don’t know where he is. I know where Bronwynn is, but the Golden Queen is headstrong in the best of times, and these are, for her, the worst. There’s no assurance she’d surrender the pyramid she possesses.”

“But there’s a chance,” Serphimera said quietly.

Pelmen looked at her, frowning. “Do you want us to go up that mountain? Thinking as you do?”

“Oh, Pelmen,” Serphimera said, and there was more passion in her voice than Mar-Yilot or Syth had yet heard from her. “What does it matter what I want? And if I’ve seen it, and it’s to be, how shall we set about preventing it? There is a chance,

Pelmen. Perhaps it only appears such to us—perhaps the task is hopeless. But this is the pathway that lies open. This is the light we have.”

Pelmen leaned back in his chair and gazed again out the window. “That path looks far from open to me.”

“What do you need, Pelmen?” Syth asked. “What can I help you with?”

The weary powershaper turned his eyes to meet the gaze of this new friend, and said quietly, “Horses. And a map.”

“A map!” Mar-Yilot snorted. “What do you need with a map of the Mar! You know these lands like a—”

“He means a political map, darling,” Syth interrupted. “The fastest, safest route to Dragonsgate. Am I right?”

Pelmen nodded.

“How did you know what he meant?” Mar-Yilot demanded.

Syth ignored her and went on, “My best horses are in Seriliath, but I have steeds here good enough to get you there in a day. There you’ll pick up my fastest mounts—I’ll send you with letters, but my stable master will know them already. And these will be strong enough to make Dragonsgate in four. What are you thinking?”

Pelmen had gone glassy-eyed. Syth’s question startled him back into the present. “I was just remembering a horse I used to ride. Minaliss, I called him, because he had shoulders of steel. I wish I had him here.”

Syth shrugged. “Perhaps in four days you’ll feel the same about mine.”

Pelmen grinned. “Maybe I will, at that.”

“As to route—first to Seriliath, of course. Then to Tuckad’s castle just inside the western edge of the parks region. Tuckad’s dead, but his family is for us. You can carry a message to them from me.” Pelmen nodded. “As to the third night—well, we’ve no allies in the Westmouth region. At least, none that far north. If you want to go south to the Hanni house on the plain—”

“Too far south, and I make it a practice to stay out of debt to merchants.”

Syth nodded. “As I thought. One night of camping then, and the next day you should reach Dragonsgate.”

Pelmen got to his feet. “It’s late,” he announced. “And tomorrow we’ll be leaving early.”

Mar-Yilot frowned. “We just got here! Do you think you’re well enough to travel again so quickly?”

Pelmen looked at Serphimera. “I feel better now than I have in months.”

“Ah.” Mar-Yilot nodded. “I’d forgotten your wife was a healer.”

Syth stood up and offered his hand. “Pelmen, you’ve long been an adversary. I like you better as a friend.” They gripped hands, then Syth stepped aside and looked at Mar-Yilot, who’d gotten up to stand behind him.

At that moment the sorceress looked like a timid teenager— very thin, very awkward. Without looking at Serphimera, she suddenly stepped up and slipped her arms around her old enemy’s neck. “I don’t know anything about this Power business or what it is you’re actually doing,” she whispered. “But be careful! This dog is dangerous!” Then she pecked Pelmen on the cheek and quickly left the room.

Stunned, Pelmen looked at Serphimera, who raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps I’d better be careful too,”

she said frowning mockingly. Then she smiled.

Pelmen was entranced again by her beauty. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about—wife.”

She lowered her eyes. “I’d like to be that.”

He nodded curtly. “All the more reason to get to Erri as quickly as possible.” He embraced her and kissed her hair, then said, “Go on and get your rest. It will be a hard ride tomorrow.”

He was right. It was. But by evening of that next day they were resting comfortably in Seriliath. There were some harrowing escapes. There were times of icy silence, for they both still held dark secrets from one another—trying to save each other from the coming grief. Yet the hours passed swiftly; regardless of what they faced, they were at last together.

The tugoliths enjoyed the snow. They were northern animals from wintry climes, and the deep drifts prompted them to dance and frolic. Even the disciplined Chimolitha couldn’t resist an occasionally spontaneous romp off of the roadway. At those times she seemed totally oblivious to Pezi’s strangled screams.

Pezi had taken it all rather badly. He’d always judged snow to be a good thing to be out of and a bad thing to be out in.

When the white flakes began drifting out of the sky, he’d eyed them suspiciously and had politely requested that they go fall on someone else. When they grew in size and began dropping in eager clumps, Pezi had started cursing them. Not long thereafter, he’d begun to feel that peculiar tickling in the back of the throat that heralded the onset of a cold. His curses had turned to pitiful moans; as the afternoon plodded on, and he’d started to sneeze. He began to picture himself as chief among the wretched of the earth. Soon he was weeping and gnashing his teeth. That first night, as the herd had grouped together to sleep under a stand of leafless trees, he’d huddled in his fish-satin tent and shivered in misery. When they’d started out again the following morning, Pezi began enumerating his troubles to his stolid, sensible steed. He’d been at it ever since.

Chimolitha ignored him. She viewed Pezi as she might a sore in an unreachable spot. He was a nuisance, an irritation, but she was sure she’d be healed of him eventually. Until then, she pressed on through the snow, enjoying the way it crunched between her massive toes.

Four days after leaving Dragonsgate, the column of saucer-eyed monsters came within sight of the High Plateau. Pezi exhorted them to move faster, but Chim refused to be hurried. She held to that same steady pace she’d maintained throughout the journey, and they came inexorably to the foot of the Down Road.

There the gigantic beast stopped.