Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

The world of men experienced a slight tremor. It was quickly forgotten.

Rosha sat up and looked at Bronwynn. “It’s over,” he said.

She’d expected him to be dazed and shaken, but he was alert and very much in control of himself. His eyes troubled her, however, as they met hers. They showed unspeakable suffering and great calm at the same time. “What happened?” she asked again.

“Didn’t you feel it?” Rosha asked. “The magic passed. That’s why you lost your altershape and why I lost the dread.”

“The dread!” Bronwynn gasped in horror. “Flayh laid a dread spell on you?”

“He did—at the same moment the Power took me. And I was aware of all that happened while I lay on your back.”

Bronwynn studied him doubtfully. This wasn’t the Rosha she’d known. He was different. As he climbed to his feet, there was an attitude of confidence and certainty about his movements. Somehow, he’d finally found himself, and she wasn’t sure she liked the change.

But as he reached out to pull her to him and kiss her soundly, she decided she did like it. This was the Rosha she’d always wanted.

“I hate to interrupt…” Dorlyth spoke beside them, and Rosha whirled around, delighted shock on his face.

“Father!” he shouted. Holding Bronwynn in his left arm, he reached out with his right to return Dorlyth’s embrace. “They told me you were dead!”

“I thought I was, too. But you know how these shapers are, flying off to a new thing before they’ve finished the old. Rosha, what is all this business? I don’t understand at all.”

Rosha sighed. “Pelmen and Serphimera remade the ancient weapon that was designed to kill the dragon.

And just before he made me jump, Flayh said he was going there to the Mount of Power. With the Power in me, I was aware of the struggle of the three of them for the weapon. Serphimera got it and sacrificed Flayh. Magic departed at that instant, and the top of the mountain blew off. We’ll search, of course, but I’m certain all three were destroyed.”

Silence greeted his words. Then Dorlyth whispered, “Pelmen gone!”

“And all magic departed,” Bronwynn murmured, her gaze far away.

Rosha gave his wife a quick squeeze and then turned to the

crowd clustered around them—Maris mingled with the invaders who had been locked with them in a deadly struggle only minutes before. “Mar-Yilot,” he barked. “Has anyone seen Mar-Yilot?”

“I saw her briefly,” a Mari warrior volunteered. “Lord Syth was trampled by a tugolith, and she covered them both—”

“Where was this?” Rosha asked. The man pointed. “You, you, and you,” Rosha commanded members of the crowd. “Go with this man, find them, and bring them to the castle. You others, start looking among the fallen. We’ll bury the dead later, but the wounded must be treated now.”

He didn’t wait to see if his orders were obeyed, but turned to look up at the High Fortress. “Mar-Yilot burned away the stairway,” he muttered to himself. “But there must be someone inside.” He marched toward the stable entrance, and people parted to let him pass.

The stable was filled with ashes. Rosha stepped over them to gaze up through the castle’s open floor.

“Anyone up there?” he called.

“I’m here,” a voice answered, and the slaver who’d stabbed Admon Faye tossed a rope down through the hole.

“A slaver!” someone who’d followed Rosha snarled.

Rosha smiled grimly. “One who saved my life. Are there other slavers still there?”

“None to give you trouble,” Tibb answered. “I let the slaves out of the pit and armed them. They took a bit of vengeance. There’s a winch here. Shall I draw you up?”

“In a moment,” Rosha called. Then he turned to set the crowd to cleaning the stables and to finding wood to rebuild the staircase. Minutes later, the group he’d sent to find Syth returned, carrying the Lord of Seriliath on an improvised stretcher. Mar-Yilot followed.

“Is he alive?” Rosha asked.

“Barely,” she muttered, her eyes averted. There was a sob in her voice as she looked down at her unconscious husband. “And this time, there’s no Serphimera to help him with her healing touch!”

“There’s one here who can help him,” a voice called from above. They all looked up to see a woman peeking through the hole in the ceiling.

“Sarie?” Rosha asked. “Sarie Ian Pahd?”

“That’s right,” Sarie answered. “Let me send you the man who healed me.”

A man came sliding down the rope to kneel quickly beside Syth.

“Wait!” Mar-Yilot ordered suspiciously, blocking the man’s hands away from Syth. “Who are you?”

“My name is Tahli-Damen,” he told her brightly. Clear eyes, freed from the blue haze with the end of magic and spells, locked onto those of Mar-Yilot. “I’m from the Power.”

There was the sound of massive feet pounding the ground outside, and the crowd cleared away from the door. Chimolitha stepped carefully inside, with Gerrig sitting gingerly astride her horn.

“Gerrig!” Bronwynn shouted, clapping her hands. “You survived!”

“Yes, your Highness, thanks to this beast. I found her wandering around the streets. I thought she might be able to help us in cleaning up.”

“An excellent idea,” Rosha said. Then, at someone’s cry, he turned to see Syth mod Syth-el’s eyes fluttering open.

Syth tried to move his head, found he couldn’t, and lay back. He peered curiously up into Rosha’s face.

“Did we win?”

“We won,” Rosha replied, his voice at once sad and proud. “But it cost us.”

He looked around and saw that the crowd continued to grow as people from the city shoved their way inside the stable. He raised his hands to get their attention and addressed them all:

“King Pahd is dead. He died honorably, defending his fortress and his family. The intruder who bewitched his family is gone for good. These golden-mailed warriors are merely guests in our city who will soon be returning to their own land.

“Ngandib is once again a free city of the Mari confederacy and will remain so. Your contributions to her defense will long be remembered. Let it be proclaimed through all the streets that the battle is over.

Tonight there is a true cause for celebration.”

Dorlyth beamed with pride. Less than two years before, his son couldn’t say a single sentence without stumbling over his own tongue. Now he made speeches in the palace!

Rosha raised his gaze to the entrance to the palace. He nodded. “Perhaps we should get on with the business…”

But the murmurs of approval from the crowd were turning to cheers. Then someone raised a shout:

“Rosha for citylord of Ngandib!”

“Rosha for king,” another voice cried. “Hail King Rosha, who drove out the evil wizard!” More voices picked it up, giving Rosha no time to correct the idea. Then it was a clamor from all.

By night, it was official. The new king stood with his queen at a palace window, watching the celebrating crowds below. It was then a messenger bird arrived from Lamath.

“What does it say?” Bronwynn asked as Rosha stood frowning over the note.. .

“It’s from Erri,” he told her. “He wants us to be king and queen of Lamath. He says it was his idea and that it has finally been voted on. Oh, he also congratulates us on the victory.”

Bronwynn nodded. “We’ll have to accept. It was always Pelmen’s dream to unite the One Land again.

But with three capitals, where will we live?”

“Dragonsgate,” Rosha told her. “We won’t have to reside there all the time, but it’s the logical center of the lands. That’s why the dragon chose it.”