Robert Hughes - The Prophet of Lamath

“My father s-s-said you f-found it in the f-forest.”

“So I told him.”

“B-b-but why lie?”

“Why involve Dorlyth in a thing he needn’t know? Your father has carved his own history into the life of Ngandib-Mar with the sharp edge of his greatsword. He has carved his name in the lives of the people he has loved there. He is content with the skill of swords and the knowledge of powers. But you, my young friend—you are not so fortunate. You travel with me toward Lamath. For you it will be important.”

“What d-d-does this b-book say?” Rosha asked, his face wearing that intense expression he usually reserved for his swordplay.

“Where’s Bronwynn?” Pelmen asked suddenly. Both men jumped up and searched around them. Rosha threw open the flap of the tent and rushed inside. There was a look of shock and vengeance on his face when he reappeared.

“She’s gone!” Rosha cried.

Talk, talk, all they do is talk, Bronwynn thought to herself as the two men philosophized. She was used to that—being forgotten by men who adored her as they wrapped themselves in meaningless phrases and called it philosophy.

Neither man saw her stand, and walk to her horse. Neither saw her press a forked branch into the damp earth and then place Sharki, hooded and already sleeping, on one of the forks. Neither watched her tug her coat around her shoulders and walk away from the warmth of the fire toward the edge of its light. The stars were different, she decided, when you could stand still and stare up at them. She looked now for the striking constellation known in Chaomonous as the Butterfly, with its easily recognized body of three stars in a row. Then she remembered—that was a winter constellation.

This was spring. She looked instead for the Diamond Cluster…

The light from the fire, scant as it was, caused her difficulty in seeing. She moved a few paces farther from it, and clutched her cloak more tightly as the cold seemed to deepen. No, she couldn’t find the Diamond either. Pity about the Butterfly not being out. Those were the only two constellations that meant anything to her. The others she couldn’t make any sense of. She turned to walk back to the campfire—and it was gone.

Panic seized her, at first. But Bronwynn was nothing if not quick. She gathered her coat around her and walked toward the dark center of the clearing, and burst through the wall of chill into the firelight.

“Bronwynn!” Pelmen yelled, and breathed a sigh of relief. Rosha’s face lit up with joy. Bronwynn noticed, and decided she quite liked that.

“You’ve hidden us,” she exclaimed to Pelmen as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

“Did you really think I was sleeping while you gathered firewood?” Pelmen asked sternly. “The next time you—” He stopped. Why did he feel such a compulsion to lecture the lady? He turned on his heel and walked into the tent.

For lack of anyone else to talk to, Bronwynn looked at Rosha. “It’s just like the wall of cold at the stream this morning!

No one can see us, or hear us!” Rosha smiled shyly, and looked away. “A little startling at first,” she went on, “but I kept my head and just walked back through it.” Rosha looked back at the girl, and smiled again. “I am g-g-glad you ca-came back. I m-missed you.” He turned away, looking for his blanket, and left Bronwynn standing there. She was cold, for the night was chill and the fire was dying. And yet she felt strangely warm.

THE LONG HALLWAY that ran from Talith’s tower to Ligne’s apartments was glass-lined on both sides. This had certainly not been the King’s idea, for everyone in the court could see him when he made that trip. It served Ligne’s purposes, however, that the King be seen, and she had insisted on it. It was the only door into the rooms. Everyone knew there were other doors out, but only Ligne and a chosen few knew where they were located, and it was Ligne who controlled them. The King was not one of the chosen; but since he assumed he knew everything there was to know about Ligne already and had judged her to be loyal to him, he was totally unaware that a chosen faction even existed. He did wonder, however, when Ligne installed a hanging forest of sparkling cut crystal along most of the hallway’s length. The strings of glass got in his way; as he knocked them brusquely aside when he walked to her room, they set up the most hideous tinkling. When he asked her their purpose, she just shrugged, and said, “I don’t like surprises.” On the morning two days after his declaration of war, Talith stood in Ligne’s bedroom tying a golden sash around his royal waist. “I don’t see how they got her out,” he was muttering to himself. “With all the guards at the doors, and that noise in the hall—it doesn’t make sense!”

“Must that be the topic of every conversation?” Ligne snarled as she sat brushing her hair before one of the many mirrors in the room. “She was kidnapped by merchants, Talith.

Obviously they bribed the guards, or distracted them somehow with some new bauble. You IT? have the guards in your dungeon. Why not ask them yourself?” Talith glowered at the woman. “It seems strange to me that they would take her and leave you here!” Ligne turned around to face him, red lips open in surprise; then she brightened and danced to her feet. She glided toward him and slipped her arms around his neck. She kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you! What a sweet thing to say!”

“What?”

“Oh, but I’m sure the Lamathians didn’t realize your love for me is so great that you would go to war just to win me back.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Otherwise I’m sure they would have kidnapped me instead of poor Bronwynn. You can be sure that if they had, I would have kicked and screamed all of the way. As it was, I got those two horrible bruises I showed you when they knocked me down.” Ligne nibbled on the King’s ear, and whispered, “You want to see them again?” Talith cleared his throat. “Not right now. Affairs of state you know. A war to plan.” He started for the door.

“Your crown’s on the chair,” she reminded him, and he turned back to grab it and jam it down over his forehead. Out the door he went, knocking the crystal hangings aside so that a delicate tinkling followed him all the way back to his tower. Ligne smiled to herself, stroking her hair absently as she waited for the noise to cease.

“He’s gone,” she said to one mirror after the hall was quiet again.

“It’s hot in there,” the man grumbled as he opened the mirror out into the room and stepped from a compartment concealed behind it. The woman winced in disgust at the sight of him, but managed to smile through her grimace. How could anyone be so ugly? “You wear too many clothes, Admon Faye,” she said. “Shed some of that finery and perhaps you would breathe more easily in these lowlands.”

“My dress is fine for the climate of Chaomonous, my Lady.

But only a flower could thrive in this greenhouse of yours.” He gestured at the hanging plants that ringed the circular room, one for each of the tiny windows, set high in the wall for the sake of Ligne’s privacy. “But of course,” he continued, “clothing isn’t essential to the function of this room, is it?”

“Sit down,” she snapped, seating herself with a toss of her long green gown, “and we’ll speak of things that are your business. My life is not.” The slave raider’s face was so grotesque that even his smile chilled the heart. He sat on the edge of her bed and propped one boot upon it.

“I don’t like mud on my bedspread,” Ligne said as menacingly as she could manage. “Do you mind?”

“No, I don’t mind mud at all, my Lady. I sleep in it every night. Now can we get on to our business?” Ligne flared. “I hired you—”