Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

Soon the news traveled up to the head of the line, that while the upstart king had fled in fear, the prophet had rejoined his people in their hour of greatest need. Before long, a mounted contingent from the ad hoc leadership had raced back to greet him formally. Despite his protests, the prophet and the terrified Strahn were put on horseback and led to the head of the column.

As they passed, the warriors cheered joyfully, and Erri returned their waves with an ironic smile. It appeared leadership had little to do with one’s ability and more with how many people recognized one’s face.

The prophet hadn’t planned on this. Politics was a nuisance, a headache he’d been happy to be rid of for a time. But by the time they arrived back in the capital, he’d decided that, if somebody had to lead Lamath for the next few critical weeks, it might as well be he—at least until other, more lasting arrangements could be made. Agamalath had been right—Lamath needed someone like Asher, and that certainly wasn’t Erri. He did, however, have someone in mind.

By the time they marched into the city square, there was already a sizable gathering of civic leaders waiting to greet him. Erri grimaced at their stiff, formal poses. Obviously they’d planned some sort of ceremony, and the small prophet hated the thought. There were so many things he needed to attend to.

Why waste time standing around listening to pompous talk? Once again, the petty business of parochial politics interfered with his major concerns. He sighed inwardly and forced a smile of greeting for the tall dignitary who approached him.

“Lord Erri,” the man began, and the prophet winced in pain. “We offer you a kingdom.”

Erri nodded affably. “Fine,” he said. He could have produced a far more flowery speech, but his attention remained elsewhere. He hoped to get this nonsense over quickly so that he could find some private place and tune his spirit to the movements of the Power.

“When shall we plan your coronation?” the man continued.

“My what?” the prophet grunted in shock, as he turned his head back to look up into the eyes of the official who towered over him. “I’m no king!”

“My dear prophet.” The dignitary smiled condescendingly. “As I said, we offer you a kingdom. Our land has always been a kingdom. We’re accustomed to that. And as we’ve all had the chance to sample your… prophetic… form of government—and, incidentally, to see where it leads us—we urge you to accept the throne we offer instead of returning us to that unstable circumstance. You shall be King Erri the first—or King Prophet, or whatever you might prefer—and at your death, the crown shall descend to your heirs.”

Erri nodded thoughtfully and glanced around at the rest of the assembled leadership of Lamath. Their aims were rather transparent. They wanted someone to take on the difficult chore of binding the nation back together again—preferably someone they could disassociate themselves from when his policies became unpopular. Erri would serve nicely. And he had no heirs, which meant in all probability that the crown would eventually come to one of their heirs instead. By that time, the throne might be worth something again.

The prophet smiled, and said, “No.”

A moment of shocked silence followed by his refusal; then the group buzzed with animated whisperings.

Erri raised his voice to speak above them. “I’m not the king type! But you’re right. Lamath does need a king.” The gathered host hushed to listen to him. “We need a good ruler, a strong ruler. Someone a lot like Asher.” Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. The prophet had touched a nerve. That was it, exactly. “And I think I have just the man.”

“Who?” someone blurted boldly, and there were several more cautious echos of the same question.

“I’d prefer not to announce that as yet. The time isn’t right. Until that time comes, I’ll accept your offer to rule Lamath as a regent. But let’s not concern ourselves with the triviality of a coronation. Now if you don’t mind, there are important matters that require my attention. Excuse me.” Erri gathered up his robes and took off across the square.

This abrupt ending to their ceremony stunned the Lamathian leadership. They gazed around at one another in confusion and embarrassment. Strahn soon noticed that several people were looking expectantly at him. When others did the same, he found himself the focus of attention, and his face turned red. Not knowing what else to do, Strahn shrugged elaborately. Then he turned to race off after Erri, mentally berating the prophet for having so little respect for conventions.

Erri had already thrust the meeting from his mind and was wrapped in earnest conversation with the Power. He was pleading that his unannounced nominee for the crown of Lamath might survive the coming storm. Remembering Rosha’s foolhardiness, Erri scowled. That was not a hopeful sign. Still, there came a time—sometimes in a moment—when foolhardiness was tempered by crisis into bravery, and ambition crystallized into destiny. “Perhaps,” Erri mumbled, “that time is at hand for Rosha.” Erri listened, but the Power did not respond.

Scouting parties from the two armies met and exchanged greetings long before the two armies came into view of one another. Nevertheless trumpets of alarm were sounded, and two lines drew up facing each other as if in preparation for a pitched battle. When the leaders rode out to parlay, all were smiling—all, that is, except Queen Bronwynn. She looked at Syth and addressed him sharply. “Where’s Rosha?”

Syth’s eyes widened, his only admission of surprise, but his smile stayed fixed and even grew warmer.

“Your husband said you were direct—”

“Where is he?”

“That’s a lengthy tale and a bit of a secret—”

“Tell it,” Bronwynn snarled. She felt very much a queen this day and quite hostile. Syth looked around at his allies, then slowly turned back to face her. He got off his horse and started to walk away. “Where are you going?” Bronwynn called, her voice charged with annoyance.

“I said it was a secret. Come walking and I’ll tell you.”

Bronwynn looked at Joss, who gazed back impassively. She flung herself down from her saddle and walked quickly to Syth’s side. Those left behind tried to appear disinterested as they strained to hear whatever bits of the conversation they might. They all heard Bronwynn emit a bark of outrage and saw her face turn red with rage. They heard nothing more.

“He’s safe,” Syth was whispering. “Much safer than either of us, at present.”

“How do you know?” Bronwynn spat.

“Because it’s my wife who’s protecting him, that’s why!” Syth growled back, mostly for show. He wasn’t really angry. Rosha had anticipated Bronwynn’s response and had tried to prepare him for it, but that had really been unnecessary. This was just like talking with Mar-Yilot. “And you can drive that jealousy right out of your head. It was my idea.”

“Yours!”

“Our frontal assault will be suicidal unless they’re successful. That is what you came for, isn’t it? To aid Rosha in his cause?”

Bronwynn hesitated a moment at that, then snapped, “Of course.”

“Good. Then why don’t we map out our general strategy with the rest of the group? But keep quiet on Rosha’s whereabouts. I trust my people and I’m sure you trust yours, but it’s a treacherous age. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” Bronwynn nodded, a little miffed at how easily he was handling her.

“One other thing before we join the others.”

“Yes?”

“Is Pelmen with you?”

Bronwynn blinked. “No. He was, but we left him behind in Dragonsgate.”

“Looking for the other pyramids.” Syth nodded. He sounded dismayed.