Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

“Mercenary sorcerers never give you their best,” Ferlyth interrupted in the rich, clipped tones of an aristocrat.

“Besides,” Dorlyth added, “with all due respect to the lizard, Joooms is no match for the Autumn Lady when she’s angry. At her best, she can rout even Pelmen.”

“You needn’t remind me,” Belra grumbled. “I fought at Mar-Yilot’s side in the last conflict. The woman is awesome.”

“And yet it seems even Mar-Yilot is checked by the power of this new Flayh,” Ferlyth mused. “While we’ve lingered in this glade, we’ve missed very little action. The armies of those two have only skirmished.”

“We’ll not have the warriors even for skirmishing if we pause much longer!” Belra argued. “Naturally I’d prefer Pelmen Dragonsbane behind us. Who wouldn’t? But he’s not

here!”

A rider clothed in the blue and white diagonals of Belra’s house rode fiercely through the drilling company and up the grassy rise. “A warrior, Lord Belra!”

“Whose?” Belra barked.

“My lord, he’s not of the Mar! He wears the gilded mail of the Golden Throng of Chaomonous—and he rides from the

southeast!”

Belra snorted. “So you think that means he’s come through

the Fir?”

“Well, it seems so, my lord—”

“And that’s just what our enemies would have us to believe! Ridiculous. None but thieves can pass through that tangle of weeds and brambles. This is a spy, sent behind us. Take him!”

Ferlyth glanced over at Dorlyth, surprised that the aging warrior hadn’t intervened. “No protest?” he asked as the rider galloped back toward the forest.

“Why should I protest?” Dorlyth’s lazy reply did not match the eager excitement in his old eyes.

“It’s no secret, mod Karis, that your own Rosha has married the Golden Land’s young queen. Could this be a messenger come from him?”

“No,” Dorlyth grunted. “No messenger. He uses only blue flyers to contact me. And Belra’s right. None but thieves can penetrate the Great Fir. Thieves—or heroes.”

Ferlyth raised his eyebrows knowingly. “Perhaps.”

“We should know in a moment,” Dorlyth muttered, and all three lords watched the wall of giant trees on the far side of the clearing. Suddenly three riders broke from the thicket in rapid succession, each throwing anxious looks behind them. Then a powerful charger leaped a bush and raced to the center of the clearing. Astride its back sat a powerfully built man arrayed in the glistening gold armor of Chaomonous. Above his helmet he whirled a great sword almost four feet long. Dorlyth grinned proudly at the sight of that blade. It had once been his own.

“Why—it’s your son!” Belra blurted in surprise.

“As I said,” Dorlyth chuckled, “only thieves or heroes.” He spurred his charger forward and raced down to meet Rosha mod Dorlyth.

Rosha jerked off his helmet and slung it from his saddle horn as his father reined in beside him. His black curls shone with sweat, and rivulets coursed down his handsome cheeks. “Hot in there,” he muttered.

Dorlyth sat back in his saddle and beamed. He said nothing for a moment, just looking his son up and down. Then he growled “Hail, mod Dorlyth, of Chaomonous king!” He laughed as the blood rushed to his son’s face.

“I’m no king,” Rosha snarled, but a pleased grin found its way to his lips anyway.

“Apparently not,” Dorlyth muttered, “or you wouldn’t be traipsing around alone in the wilderness of a neighboring land. What are you doing here?” he demanded sternly.

“You know why I’m here,” Rosha grunted, unconsciously imitating his father’s gruff manner. No longer did the stutter of his youth plague him. He had the relaxed confidence of a natural victor.

“How did you guess the place?”

“I didn’t guess Since I was a boy, I’ve heard you bid good-bye to your warriors with ‘See you next week at the glade of mod Carl.’ You think I didn’t learn anything in your keep?”

“I thought at least I taught you better treatment of women,” Dorlyth snorted, and Rosha looked away in embarrassment. “Did you tell Bronwynn you were coming?”

Rosha scowled at his father. “Did you ever ask my mother’s permission to ride to war?”

Now Dorlyth looked away. “Maybe once or twice.”

Rosha was surprised. “Really? What’d she say?”

“She said ‘no.’”

“What did you do?” Rosha frowned.

“I went anyway.” Dorlyth shrugged, and Rosha laughed aloud. “But I didn’t enjoy it!” Dorlyth added seriously, cutting short his son’s mirth.

“Why, I didn’t come for enjoyment,” Rosha grumbled.

“Yes, you did. For enjoyment and excitement and to get away from the boredom of the castle. Did she send anybody after you?”

“I didn’t look back.”

Dorlyth nodded. “Knowing Bronwynn, she did. But they probably had the wisdom to turn around when they reached the Fir. Unlike my son,” he added with a snort.

“You want me to go back?” Rosha snapped.

“Eventually, yes!” Dorlyth frowned. Then his bearded lips parted in a huge smile. “But not for a while.”

He could contain himself no longer and he reached out to grab his son by the shoulders. The small army had been watching all this quietly; now they cheered. Rosha was well known to all of them, and they valued the addition of his blade to their cause.

Dorlyth sat back again in his saddle, his eyes a bit moist with pleasure and pride. “We need you, son.

We face a formidable foe with no assurance of victory, and that famous sword of yours will be welcome. But not just your sword. Bronwynn is sure to be alarmed by your absence. If there’s any way she can contact Pelmen, she’s sure to send him after you. I hope this doesn’t offend, but we need him even more. Let’s hope you attract him to us!” Dorlyth pointed across the clearing. “My tent is in the trees there on the north side. Unless things have changed drastically, you’re hungry.”

“I sure am!”

“Then let’s go eat,” Dorlyth muttered and he wheeled his horse around to lead the way. He was proud of himself. He’d resisted the urge to kiss his boy on the cheek in front of his warriors.

It started as a simple meal. It soon turned into a feast. Dorlyth had not hunted that day and had little to offer Rosha but a hunk of bread and some cheese. But then the friends began arriving, bringing with them dressed pheasant, fresh

brook trout, a saddle of aged venison, some snails, eels, and vegetables, as well as flutes and stringed instruments, jokes and sly winks, and many good wishes for Rosha and his new bride. They fed the fire until all forty of them could feel it, and laughed and sang until the forest rang with their celebration. When the northwesterly winds kicked up, stirring the leaves around them, they huddled closer together and laughed even louder. Every jest, regardless how small, reaped a happy reward, and some ancient grudges were forgotten—for the night, at least. Rosha was compelled to recite the history of his courtship; this he did with relish, proudly demonstrating his newfound control over his tongue. He good-naturedly ignored the constant interruptions, patiently enduring one ribald comment after another as he told his story. He tailored his telling to suit his audience, and his father fingered his beard and nodded knowingly. He would get the full story when the revelers slept, and the logs on the fire had turned to glowing embers. Then he would learn Rosha’s true feelings, when honesty could be valued over wit.

The story told, there were more songs and much more merry laughter. The ring of warriors struggled to hold that spirit of elation as long as possible, but it died as necessarily and naturally as the fire. Then the first man, feeling badly about it, slipped away, freeing others to follow. And at last the two men sat alone, gazing into the glowing embers, and spoke in voices made rough by the chill and an excess of talk.