Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

Mar-Yilot raised her eyebrows. “Joooms finally caved in?".

“Which we knew was inevitable.” Syth nodded. “Now you’re faced with a perilous army of opponents—”

“Pelmen battled many of us at once and won.”

“That’s true, my dear, and you’re at least as talented as he. But the merchants credit Flayh’s vindictive nature and unpredictability over your experience. Perhaps we do need to call Pelmen back after all.

When he left Sythia he had very little hope of succeeding in finding the pieces—”

“He wouldn’t have undertaken the journey if he had thought there was some other way.” This was Rosha speaking. He lay back on a bed, peering up at the darkness, his hands clasped behind his neck.

“Yes, but if we move into shaper battle—”

“Flayh will defeat us,” Rosha interrupted.

Mar-Yilot gazed at him caustically. “You sound very certain of that.”

“I am,” Rosha growled. Then he sat up, and his eyes glowed with light reflected from her aura. He looked into Syth’s face and said, “You know it too.”

“Do you have any suggestions?” Mar-Yilot snarled, but Syth held up a hand to silence her. Then he scratched his jaw and sighed.

“Rosha’s right.”

“Syth!” Mark-Yilot complained, frowning.

“He’s right. The dog has the knowledge to counter any shaper attack on him. I’m sure that’s what he’s preparing himself to face. Perhaps if we sent someone he didn’t fear against him—someone he thought he’d ensnared in dread—”

“You’re thinking of going against him yourself?” Rosha asked.

“I forbid it!” the sorceress cried, and her halo of light flared up like a flame.

Syth smiled. “I couldn’t go. I have an army to lead, small as it is, and besides—I’m not a hero.” He looked around at Rosha. “You could go.”

Rosha stared back silently.

This exchange of looks made Mar-Yilot impatient. “How could he go? He’s already been inside the fortress once and needed the help of two wizards to get out!”

“But he did get out,” Syth murmured, eyes still on Rosha. “And he succeeded in bringing away what he went in after.”

“You’re suggesting we ask Pelmen to lay aside his task to help this boy get into the fortress again?”

“Not Pelmen.”

“He’ll need some powershaper to cover him.” Mar-Yilot snarled. “And if you’re thinking of his queen, remember: She’s no shaper yet!”

“I was thinking of you, Mar-Yilot.”

His wife stared at him. “Me! Where will you be during all this?”

“Outside on the plain with the Golden Throng, battling Pahd and our Mari brothers.”

“No,” Mar-Yilot said bluntly. “I’ll not leave you uncovered.”

“You can cover me all you choose, my Lady, but Flayh will penetrate your coverage and kill me if he pleases.”

“Let him try! I’ll battle him above the—”

“No,” Syth barked, and his frown stopped her. “The key is the shaper. Eliminate Flayh and you eliminate the power that binds the other shapers. You also eliminate the need to murder countless Maris in Flayh’s name.”

“And you propose to send a boy to do a task that—”

“Not a boy, woman!” Syth roared. “A hero! One who’s faced a bear, a dragon, Admon Faye, and most importantly of all, Flayh himself, and survived each encounter! Armed with a magic sword of your own design, protected and supported by your own vast experience, he could slip inside a castle he knows well and go straight to the source of our dilemma!”

“And what about the living fortress!” the Autumn Lady shouted.

“Create enough magic inside its belly and you’ll incapacitate it! You told me so yourself!”

“And what of the other shapers during this time?” she snarled. “Joooms and Terril—where will they be?”

Syth smiled triumphantly and murmured, “Pelmen battled many at once, and you’re as talented as he!”

Then he frowned. “There’ll be a battle going on below! That will attract Flayh’s attention and that of his allied shapers as well.”

“When he has battle beasts to chew you up and swallow you?” Mar-Yilot sneered. “Why should he trouble himself? He’ll not even notice you!”

It was a strong argument, but Syth refused to heed it. “My Lady, listen! It’s our only hope!”

“Then we’re hopeless indeed, and perhaps should yield now!”

“Do you believe that?” Syth demanded accusingly, knowing full well what her answer would have to be.

Mar-Yilot pouted a moment before giving it. “No.”

“Very well. Then we’ll plan for—”

“But I don’t believe this will succeed.”

“Then let me convince you—”

“You’ll not convince me, Syth! I’ll do it, but I don’t think it can possibly work!”

Syth threw up his hands in exasperation. “Of course you don’t! Because there’s one thing you always fail to take into consideration!”

“And that is?” she asked, cocking her head to one side.

“We are right. And Flayh is irrevocably in the wrong!”

She smiled, finally, but with cynicism, not amusement. “You think events will honor your moral vision?”

she asked.

“I think we must live as if they will.”

The sorceress shrugged. “And die with the same conviction.”

“If need be, yes.”

Mar-Yilot nodded, and looked at Rosha. “He fits very well with your Pelmen, doesn’t he?”

Rosha had watched the argument unfold with a kind of awe. To be in such company, to hear his merits discussed so critically, and to measure the responsibility offered to him against his own self-esteem had challenged him to produce his best. He wanted to be wise, to be viewed as wise, and to justify Syth’s confidence in him while winning Mar-Yilot’s respect. When she aimed this comment at him, he responded immediately: “Of course. That’s why they both impress you so deeply.”

Mar-Yilot was stunned. She thought about it, then acknowledged the possibility with a nod. Her eyes suddenly darted at Rosha’s face, gripping his attention. “And why I ought to be impressed by you, too?”

That startled Rosha. He could think of no quick retort. “I… don’t know…”

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Mar-Yilot said quietly. Melancholy crept into her voice as she continued, “My husband has made a decision, and I’ll abide by it—even though I fear it will cost him his life. But I guess that’s the way it is with moralists; they demand that the world be just, and then kill themselves proving it can be made a little more so.” Without a good-bye, without any warning that she was leaving, Mar-Yilot disappeared.

The two warriors were left sitting in total darkness. It surprised Rosha to hear Syth chuckling. “She does love a good exit line,” the lord of Seriliath murmured, and Rosha could almost hear the man’s smile.

He had no smile of his own. He reflected on the question Mar-Yilot had asked him. He’d never been much concerned with questions of morality, but her comment had truly stunned him. How could he be a hero and not have moral convictions?

“In any case, it’s settled. Rest some—we’ve had a hard two days. But as soon as you’re ready, you need to be on your way.”

“To the High Fortress,” Rosha murmured. Despite his efforts to keep them submerged, fears began to nibble on his confidence. “And when I’m there?”

“Just wait. She’ll find you. Think, Rosha,” Syth added, his voice rich with encouragement. “This is your opportunity to be who you must be.”

Rosha stared into the darkness, swallowed, and nodded grimly.

It was inevitable that Erri should be recognized. He had, after all, been the head of the Lamathian government, and he hadn’t hidden himself from his people as had the former king. As he shuffled along with the defeated army, listening, arguing, laughing, and encouraging, the whispers began around him.