Robert Hughes - The Prophet of Lamath

“How did you do that?” she asked, her gaze of girlish admiration reserved for Pelmen alone, shutting the others out.

Pelmen cleared his throat, for the drama of her entrance had affected him as well. He felt the warmth of that look with some discomfort. “The—the powers I spoke of—”

“Then you are a sorcerer!” she squealed, clapping her hands in delight.

“I—shape the powers—sometimes. That’s all.”

“That’s ain I would think that’s quite enough, wouldn’t you?” She aimed this at Dorlyth, who chuckled.

It struck him that the spell of enchantment she had so suddenly woven around the three of them showed that this girl had some magic of her own. “Surely.” Dorlyth shrugged. “I’ve said it myself. But who can tell a sorcerer anything?”

“Do it again,” Bronwynn pleaded, floating elegantly across the room to position herself in front of Pelmen.

“Later,” he muttered, embarrassed. He took her by the hand and turned her around to introduce her to the others.

“This is Dorlyth mod Karis, Lord of this castle and a member of the Federation of the Mar.” Dorlyth nodded his head graciously, and Bronwynn smiled. For the first time since she had been so rudely ripped from Ligne’s chambers over a week ago, she felt some control over her own destiny. At least she controlled this situation.

“We welcome you to our humble keep, my Lady, and feel honored by the presence of such a renowned visitor.”

Dorlyth summoned all of his practiced charm. “It is our hope that you will find the same pleasure in the Mar of Ngandib that we find in looking on your radiant face.” Bronwynn’s smile faltered, and she whispered to Pelmen, “Are all Maris this courteous?”

“Hardly.” Pelmen smiled, winking over her head at his friend, who managed to stifle a grin.

“And this—” Pelmen gestured to the young man hidden in the shadows at the far end of the room. “This is Rosha mod Dorlyth, son of Dorlyth mod Karis.”

“Mod?” she asked.

“Loosely, it means ‘son of.’”

“Very loosely, my lady,” Dorlyth broke in grandly. “Mod means ‘treasure of,’ and the son of a Mari is his dearest treasure. This, my Lady, is my treasure, Rosha.” It was an honest declaration, and true, but it trained those radiant eyes directly on the young man and stole away his tongue.

“Hello,” she said, with just the right combination of shyness and flirtation to stun him further. He just gazed at her, his mind racing frantically through his vocabulary, looking for words he could say without stuttering. Bronwynn waited for a moment, then leaned toward him and cocked her head. “Hello?” she said again, a question this time, and Rosha found himself leaning toward her, too. He straightened up self-consciously, struggling to swallow, and managed a quick smile.

“My Lady, would you like a drink before—” Dorlyth began, but Bronwynn had already started toward Rosha and was speaking to him again.

“I suppose your father more than makes up for your lack of charm, but you could at least give me a greeting.” Her tone was slightly taunting, but still quite flirtatious. That was the way the women of Talith’s court related to men, especially to her father, and Bronwynn was pleased to find that it worked equally well in Ngandib-Mar. But she didn’t realize just how powerfully her attention affected Rosha, as a cauldron mixed of frustration and pleasure bubbled within him, growing hotter with every step she took. Finally he could hold his tongue no longer, and he gave in to attempted speech. She was surprised when the torrent of fragmented words exploded from his lips.

“I—I—I am-m-m—you-y—glad t-t-to-to be N-nngandib-M-mar. Glad!”

“You’re what?” she said flatly. He swallowed, and forced his lips by an act of sheer will to re-form the words he had tried to say.

“I—I am g-g-glad you ha-ha-have c-c-come—” Here he stopped for a breath, then: “to N-ngandib-M-mar.” It was not a pretty sight, this boy fighting to give this small greeting. But it certainly didn’t warrant the cackle of derisive laughter that broke from Bronwynn’s lips.

“Bronwynn!” Pelmen snapped, eyes flashing angrily as he crossed the room to her.

“But he talks so funny!” she giggled in response to Pelmen’s scolding.

The player grabbed her by the arm and spun her around to face him. “Just because you are the daughter of the King, you feel you have the right to—”

“Please!” They both looked back at Rosha, surprised at the firmness and character he’d given to the word. He stood with both hands outstretched to her, indicating very eloquently to Pelmen that he wanted to deal with her himself. Bronwynn received a brief cold glance from Pelmen, before he turned and stalked away. She looked back at Rosha, who had forced his lips into a frozen smile.

“I—sometimes—have—a hard—time—s-s-saying—what—I feel,” he gasped, mouthing each word slowly and punching it out in triumph over his halting lips. “I—can’t—talk—very well.”

“I—can tell,” Bronwynn said nervously, wishing she could get this over with and get back to the two older men. She smiled faintly and began to turn away, but he stopped her.

“Wait.” She hesitated, looking at him. “I—would— I—like to—t-talk—to you—better. I—I’m sorry.” He shrugged, and grinned, then he picked up his shirt and strolled out of the room.

Pelmen and Dorlyth exchanged a look.

The young lady spun around and announced, “I’m hungry.” Dorlyth chuckled. “I’m not surprised. The kitchen is below us, my Lady. May I escort you to its table?” He extended his hand to her, and Bronwynn offered her own.

But before he led her from the room, she reached back to offer her other hand to Pelmen. “Aren’t you coming, too?”

Pelmen took her hand, and the three of them walked together to dinner.

Much later in the day Pelmen wandered through a quiet glade near the castle, tracing the route of a small stream he had followed many times before. He had finally managed to get free from the little lady. She had shadowed him all day. She played now with the falcons in Dorlyth’s aviary, finding in these savage, swooping birds of prey some strangely comforting feeling of communion. The way her gaze had followed him from place to place gave Pelmen the clear impression that she was the hunter and he the hunted. He thanked the powers for inspiring him to introduce her to her fellow predators. Dorlyth’s bird handler had thrilled her by giving her a little falconet, and as Bronwynn had stroked the hooded bird and cooed to it softly, Pelmen had slipped out the cage door. He hoped he had covered his tracks well. He needed some time alone.

The stream turned into a heavily wooded area, and Pelmen waded in to follow it into the trees. Twenty feet farther on it twisted and turned through a series of large rocks. Pelmen pulled himself up onto one of these and stretched across it.

The day had finally warmed up, but now in the late afternoon it was cooling off again, and Pelmen wrapped himself tightly in his robe and wished he’d not gotten his feet wet. “Still,” he said to himself, “it’s worth getting wet to have a little quiet.”

“I’m here,” someone said, and Pelmen jerked upright and looked around.

“Who’s there?” he demanded, his hand raising slowly above his head, ready to call from the air some powerful defense if need be.

“What?” the voice said, and it was as if someone spoke inside his head.

Pelmen could see no one, and the voice came from no direction. Understanding suddenly slashed through him, and he fell on his knees on the rock and fought to clear his mind completely of any words.

“Yes, I’m back,” the voice said. “I thought I heard someone at the door, and went to check it.” There was silence for a moment. “No, there was no one there. But I had the clear impression someone was speaking to me—someone besides the two of you.” His eyes shut against the light, bands clasped tightly over his ears to cut off the sound of the gaily trickling stream, Pelmen strained to hold all thought in check until the danger of discovery was past. Someone was using a tremendous coalition of the powers to communicate his thoughts to others. It was something Pelmen had never before experienced—unless… It seemed he had dreamed something of this feeling the night before. He had tumbled into bed as soon as they had arrived, even though the sun had not completely set. But for all of his exhaustion from the strain of the long ride from Dragonsgate, he had still slept fitfully.