Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

“Wayleeth,” he murmured tenderly and he tried reaching out to her again. “That was horrible, my love, horrible. But you mustn’t miss the most important thing.”

“And what’s that?” she snapped.

“The Power did take care of us.”

She wished he could see her face, for her look expressed far more than words ever could. But he couldn’t. He gazed sightlessly toward her with a smile she was sure he meant to be encouraging, but which struck her as merely idiotic. She leaned back against the bolted door, and thought once again about her choices. It would all be bearable, she told herself, if once—just once—the Power would address itself to her.

“Mother, can’t you—” Pahd mod Pahd-el began, but his mother didn’t let him finish.

“I’ve done what I could,” Chogi Ian Pahd-el answered her son brusquely.

“But she’s dying!”

“That’s not my fault. She ought to stop speaking against him.” The heavyset woman stood by the door, her lips pursed, her hands folded primly before her.

Pahd paced back to the bed, but not to lie upon it. He couldn’t sleep, and for Pahd there was no greater torment. His wife’s condition worsened by the hour. He knelt beside Sarie and peered again into her waxy face. Then he seized her hand and called over his shoulder, “Mother! What can I do?”

Chogi snorted. “You know what you can do. You’ve known all along. You’ve just been too lazy—”

“I’ve not been lazy!” Pahd flared. “I’ve not yielded to the man because it wouldn’t be right!”

Chogi arched a weary eyebrow. “Integrity, suddenly. You’ll forgive me, perhaps, if I seem a bit dubious, but I am your mother, and I know you rather well.”

“He wants me to kill Maris!” Pahd pleaded.

“What of that? We’ve always killed Marts! It’s been the family business for years!”

“Not when I rode with Dorlyth,” Pahd murmured, his body stiffening with deserved pride. “That day we killed Chaons and drove them, screaming, from our realm!”

“Dorlyth is dead.” Chogi grunted. “And your wife will be soon, unless you quit spouting inanities and face facts. Why can’t you trust him, Pahd? He wants to make you the ruler of the world!”

Pahd looked at his mother with disgust, then pointed down at Sarie’s unconscious form. “You can look at that and ask me to trust this wizard?”

Chogi’s eyes half closed, and her lips formed a thin, rigid line. “Trust him or don’t, you either serve him or she dies. It’s your choice. She’s your wife.” Chogi leaned back against the door and folded her arms across her chest. She did not fear the look of rage that turned his face scarlet. She’d seen it all his life and knew it was meaningless.

Pahd whirled away from her, stalked to the wall, and jerked a scabbarded greatsword down off its hanger. He buckled it on as he strode toward the door, and his mother stepped calmly out of the way.

So rarely did Pahd leave his own chambers that Chogi’s guards in the outer hall almost fell over with surprise. He ignored them, walking briskly down the steps of his tower and turning toward the tower of Flayh.

The husky slaver on guard at the foot of Flayh’s stairs insolently pulled out his sword. “You can’t pass,”

the man drawled.

Pahd whipped out his blade, brought it slashing around to clash against the slaver’s, and sent the man’s weapon bouncing crazily down the hall. The slaver’s insolence evaporated as Pahd’s sword tip danced within an inch of his nose. “I will be king in my own house!” Pahd roared. Then he sheathed his weapon and stomped up the spiral, leaving the guard to melt in relief against the wall.

When he reached the top of the stairs, he found that the door was already open, and Flayh was seated in a chair, waiting for him.

“Come in! Come in!” the wizard called with a false friendliness. Pahd stepped into the room and slumped into the chair Flayh offered. “You’re very welcome, King Pahd. I had hoped you might come to see me.”

“What do I have to do?” Pahd growled.

“Have to do?” Flayh asked. “You’re the king, my Lord. You can do as you wish.”

“What do I have to do to get you to release Sarie from this fever!”

Flayh frowned. “Sarie. Yes. A difficult case. I’ve tried to help, you know. She resists.”

“Just tell me,” Pahd said wearily. He slipped his greatsword from its scabbard and dropped it, clattering, onto the flagstones. Pointing his finger toward it, Pahd muttered, “It’s yours.”

Flayh gazed into Pahd’s face and said, “I recognize that’s no mean offer.”

“It’s yours. All I ask is that you spare Sarie.”

“I accept your offer, Pahd,” Flayh said quietly. “For you see, I need you.”

Pahd snorted. “Why? When you’ve got monsters that squish your enemies between their toes? When you’ve got slavers to slit their throats? What need do you have of me?”

“Legitimacy.” Flayh shrugged. “Oh, I must admit, the tugoliths are rather amazing. And cute, too, don’t you think? Remarkable! Did you know that was my nephew Pezi’s idea? Really amazing. These slavers, though. Rude lot, aren’t they! Terrorizing people—they’re necessary for security, of course, but worthless against major armies like the one that is marching to us.”

“What army?” Pahd grunted. “You’ve smashed the last of the resistance.”

“Most of it, yes. But not all. Syth still lives, as does his aggravating woman. And this nuisance son of Dorlyth. But they’re a paltry threat compared to the army that marched through Dragonsgate today.”

Flayh’s visage had grown stony with bitterness. “I understand you object to killing Maris. You surely could feel no shame at the slaughter of Chaons?”

Pahd frowned. “Chaomonous? Through Dragonsgate?”

“I tried to stop them. Even sent the army of Lamath to ambush them. All to no avail—because of Pelmen.” As he said the name, Flayh’s face lost all expression. His eyes, however, were icy.

“A shaper battle?” Pahd asked uneasily. He loved a good fight, but shapers had a way of confusing the conduct of battle that made him anxious.

“Of a sort.” Flayh shrugged. “You don’t worry about him. Concern yourself instead with the Golden Throng—and triumph.”

Pahd nodded. He stooped down to pick up his sword and sheathed it as he walked toward the door.

“And Pahd…” Flayh added, stopping him. “As to Sarie— well, I’ll do what I can. But she must do something as well.”

“What’s that?” Pahd asked flatly. He was beaten. He hadn’t the energy to bridle anymore.

“Tell her to stop resisting.”

Pahd hung his head. Then he sighed and left the room. Pahd knew well his limitations in the matter. He could control his wife about as well as he could control his mother—that was, not at all. Defeated, he made his way slowly back to his royal chambers. No one took much notice when he passed.

“We must go on,” Tahli-Damen said firmly.

Wayleeth shook her head, and looked around at the circle of dogs. They sat in the frozen mud of an alley on the eastern side of Ngandib. The gray afternoon slipped toward night, but Wayleeth would go no further without some sign.

“Tell the Power I’ve got to know that too, before I’ll move,” she mumbled.

“I thought you did know that,” Tahli-Damen answered. “Isn’t that why you followed me to Lamath?”

The hint of mockery in his tone enraged her, but she wouldn’t say what she felt. She couldn’t—not without denying the things she’d avowed to Erri—that she had heard the Power, that this was her purpose as well as her husband’s, and that she believed. Wayleeth sighed. Then she answered honestly,