Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

Tibb nodded and pulled Wayleeth to her feet. “That way,”

he grunted, thrusting the two initiates before him.

There were probably many reasons for what Tibb did next, some of which he was unaware of himself.

He hated Admon Faye, of course. He was a Lamathian and had in years past spent time on his knees before a dragon statue—a different branch of the faith from that of these light-robed fanatics, true, but in Tibb’s mind religion was all the same. He’d met and been impressed by the young woman who was now queen of Chaomonous, and she had thought highly of people who wore these light blue robes, although Tibb couldn’t guess why. And, while some of the slavers had been amused by the antics of the tugoliths, Tibb couldn’t shake the image of that blood-stained snow from his mind. For these and other reasons, Tibb propelled his two prisoners past the hallway that branched toward the stables, heading instead for the slave pit.

“Be brave, Wayleeth,” Tahli-Damen advised with that constrained elation of would-be martyrs everywhere. “The Power has some purpose in this.” Wayleeth didn’t reply, nor really even hear her husband’s platitude. She’d realized that they’d missed the turn, and was anxiously watching new developments.

’ A moment later the corridor came to a dead end at a heavy wooden door. There was a key in the lock, and Tibb turned it. When he opened the door, the stench sent the two initiates reeling backward. Tibb reached in, grabbed two hapless figures out, then slammed the door shut and relocked it. He turned to Tahli-Damen, seized the hem of the blind man’s robe and jerked it up and off. Tahli-Damen didn’t protest; instead he murmured encouragingly, “We came naked into this world, Wayleeth. We’ll go naked out of it.” Once again, Wayleeth did not reply. She’d nearly been stripped once already today, but she had the impression that this little man had quite a different purpose.

Tibb threw the robe to one of the starving slaves he’d pulled out of the pit. “Put that on,” he growled, and the slave quickly obeyed.

Now it was clear to Wayleeth what was taking place, but she didn’t explain to her husband. She feared that if he knew, Tahli-Damen would not permit this exchange to be made. Silently she shucked off her own garment and passed it to the other slave as Tibb nodded approvingly. Then the slaver unlocked the door again, pulled it open, and started to shove the two naked initiates into the anonymous hellhole.

Wayleeth stopped him first with a question: “Why are you doing this?”

Tibb’s snarling expression didn’t change. “Dragon knows.” He shrugged. Then he pushed Wayleeth backward into the fetid swamp of the slave pit and slammed and locked the door.

Wayleeth sat in the black silence, listening. A few moments later the horrendous thumping and bellowing from the stables finally ceased.

It was a horrible place to be, but they were alive. And Tahli-Damen, who by now had pieced it all together, said, “No, the dragon doesn’t. But the Power does.”

Pelmen and his companions spent the night in Bronwynn’s gilded pavilion. They got little sleep—the celebration outside continued until daybreak. Then too, they each wrestled through the hours of darkness with burdensome personal concerns— all, that is, save Erri’s youthful companion. Strahn’s merry snoring insured that no one else would sleep.

Despite the restless night and despite the bleary eyes that greeted her when she stepped outside to meet her warriors the next morning, Bronwynn gave the order to break camp and march toward the Mar.

General Joss stood stiffly at her side, an expression of confident obedience to his queen fixed upon his face. Only the general himself could know if his stomach still churned with frustration. Joss would certainly tell no one.

As the servants and soldiers dismantled their tents, Erri and Strahn made preparations to slip quietly away. Just as they were leaving, however, Pelmen stopped them. He had Serphimera by the hand.

“Prophet, could we hold you here another moment?” Pelmen asked. Then he explained what he wanted Erri to do.

“You mean you’re not already?” Erri growled, a frown wrinkling his face. “I thought surely you’d already taken care of that.”

“We’ve not had the opportunity,” Pelmen murmured, and his arm tightened around Serphimera’s shoulder as he added, “We might not get another chance.”

Erri nodded and turned to his companion. “Strahn, go fetch the queen. I think she’ll want to witness this.”

The young man raced off, returning quickly with Bronwynn in tow. She did, indeed, wish to take part.

So it was, in a ceremony as simple as it was ancient, that Pelmen and Serphimera were married. In the heart of Dragonsgate, at the center of the three lands, on the spot where the bloodthirsty beast that had brought them unwillingly together had died, they were wed. And when it was over, the prophet who had linked them shuffled off to the north, and the queen who’d been their witness marched westward with her army, leaving them alone in the pass. Pelmen and Serphimera did not feel slighted. There were important tasks to be accomplished—none, perhaps, more so than their own quest. They had taken advantage of an opportunity. Now they bent their attention once again to the pyramids.

They sat on a flat rock that had been cleared of snow, near the northern cliff and the dragon’s cave.

Pelmen had pulled the three crystals from their wrappings and set them before him. “Where are they?” he murmured aloud, and all three objects seemed to glow a little brighter at his words.

“Is that wise?” Serphimera asked. “Could Flayh not be listening?”

“Perhaps,” Pelmen granted. “I brought them out in the hope that they might inspire us. Where can the other three be?”

Serphimera glanced around the pass. “Hidden here, somewhere?”

“In Dragonsgate?”

“Isn’t this where the weapon was destroyed?”

Pelmen nodded. “But I hardly think something so large and sparkling could escape the dragon’s attention throughout a millennium. He liked sparkling things anyway. That was how the merchant houses gained his favor. They brought him diamonds.”

Serphimera nodded. While she’d worshipped this dragon throughout her whole life, she’d loved an idealized vision of the beast. She knew little about the real Vicia-Heinox. “What did he do with them?”

Pelmen chuckled. “He liked to toss them in the air. One head would toss a diamond up, and the other would catch it. The trouble was, the two heads kept swallowing diamonds, which is why the beast needed—” Pelmen stopped himself, his expression that of a man who’s just heard a thunderclap.

Serphimera had heard it also. Without a word, they bagged up the three pyramids. Then Pelmen stepped back away from

the cliff face, and pointed out a cave mouth some forty feet above their heads. “There,” he said, and Serphimera nodded and hoisted up her skirts to tie them out of the way.

It was a difficult climb, but they had the eagerness of inspiration to drive them upward. Soon they were onto the shelf. The smell within the dragon’s old lair was loathsome; as they crawled inside and stood up, Pelmen and Serphimera exchanged looks of mutual sympathy. “How can we bear it?” she gasped.

“We’ll manage,” Pelmen said and he pointed to several signs of human habitation. “Someone else did.” A year before, this cave had been the dwelling place of Tibb and his unlucky companion Pinter. The remains of their fire was visible beside the mouth of the cave.

“Are you sure they did?” Serphimera questioned. “They’re not here now, are they?” She said it with a slight smile that assured him she was teasing. She had no intention of turning back.