Robert Hughes - The Prophet of Lamath

“Is there s-s-such a thing as a-a-an ocean?” Rosha demanded, frowning fiercely. Bronwynn said nothing. She knew she didn’t need to.

“Of course. It bounds the eastern edge of the three lands.”

“F-f-full of water?” Rosha protested. He didn’t look at Bronwynn. He didn’t care to view her smug smile.

“And fish, and shells, and salt. You mean Dorlyth never told you of the ocean?” Rosha shook his head angrily.

“No—under the circumstances I suppose not. We didn’t have joyful experiences there.”

“What circumstances?”

Bronwynn piped up. Pelmen’s comment had been laden with meaning, and Bronwynn sensed a story hidden within it.

Bronwynn loved stories.

“Well,” Pelmen said after a moment, “Rosha’s father told me to teach him. I suppose this is as good a time as any.” The powershaper turned his horse back to the north, and his youthful companions reined in beside him. Through the rest of the afternoon he told them stories of adventure, stories of love, stories of failure that made the tales of victory seem more grand. He told them of the days he and Dorlyth had spent as slaves, and how they first encountered a man named Admon Faye.

“Ad-m-mon F-faye? He’s the one who c-c-came to see m-my father.” Pelmen looked sharply at Rosha, surprised by this—then recalled Dorlyth’s cryptic statement about being in touch with the man. “Yes, Dorlyth did get on better with him than I did.”

“Was he captain of the slave raiders that captured you?” Bronwynn asked.

“Oh no, he was just a slave himself then, a helper to the land pirate who stole our freedom from us. Tried to befriend us, even as he helped put the shackles to our wrists.”

“That ugly thing?” Bronwynn protested.

“He wasn’t ugly then. Evil comes to carve a man, Bronwynn. The ugly face he wears today was not inflicted on him.

Somewhere along the way, Admon Faye chose evil—and in that choosing, chose the ugly face as well.” The conversation wound through different subjects much as they wound their way through the massive trunks. Rosha listened earnestly, his mind a-jumble with facts and concepts that vaulted beyond his poor imagination. As dusk came, they found that the forest had thinned around them, and realized they had been climbing for some time. A break in the branches revealed the peak of a breathtaking mountain towering above them, and Pelmen slowed his horse to gaze upward, transfixed by the vision.

“We’ll stop here,” he muttered. Without a further word, he dismounted and walked to the center of the clearing, eyes still fixed on that crown of snow turned pink by the setting sun. Bronwynn looked at Rosha and shrugged, then hopped off her horse and stretched. She was becoming used to these rugged days of riding, and was proud of herself for it. She began to pick up what wood was lying around, and called to Rosha to do the same.

But Rosha remained seated on his horse. The day’s conversation had benumbed his mind, but that was not his concern now. He worried about Pelmen.

The powershaper was changing. Dorlyth had warned him it could come, Pelmen had warned him it would come; but even so, the young man could not escape the uneasiness this change produced in his heart. He dropped from his horse, drew his greatsword, and vowed that this night he would not sleep.

Bronwynn was puzzled. She dropped the wood in the middle of the clearing and put her hands on her hips. “You would think someone else might help!” she complained, looking back and forth between the two men. Suddenly Pelmen began to walk, climbing up the slope and entering the trees.

“P-Pelmen!” Rosha called, wanting to run after him but hesitant to do so.

“Where’s he going?” Bronwynn cried, aware now that something was happening she didn’t understand. Rosha ran to her instead, and put a protective arm around her shoulder.

“I d-don’t know that. But I do know he’s not p-pprotecting us tonight.”

“I’m cold,” she said quietly, and Rosha felt a shudder scramble through his body. He raced to the packhorse and fetched her coat, then ran back to wrap her in it.

He set up the tent while there was still some light, and he bundled Bronwynn in piles of wraps and put her inside it.

“No fire?” she asked.

“N-none tonight,” Rosha growled. A picture burned in his mind, a picture of his father and Pelmen, trussed like bagged bucks and tied across the saddles of slave raiders. It was all the warmth he needed to keep his eyes wide open and his hands clenched on the pommel of his sword.

Pelmen spent the night on the mountain.

“Onions!” Pezi exclaimed, and took a long, deep sniff. His companions, other merchants of Ognadzu, looked at one another and snickered. “Well, can’t you smell them?” he asked. “Someone has an onion patch along here, and I intend to find it.”

“Pezi, you are beginning to smell like a vegetable vendor,” one mocked him. “You’ve bought out every garden we’ve passed since we left the desert!”

“Don’t remind me of the desert! I don’t ever want to hear about that desert again!” The Telera Desert stretched across much of the southeastern section of Lamath. One had to cross it to get to the more populated areas in the northern river valleys. The five merchants had been three long days crossing it.

“Come now, cousin, it was good for you,” another merchant joked. “I’ll wager you dropped forty pounds back there in the form of sweat!”

“But he’ll replace it with forty pounds of potatoes as soon as we get to Lamath,” another man cackled.

“And why shouldn’t I?” Pezi blustered. “You have your vices, your recreation. Why shouldn’t I have mine?”

“It’s a pity the games don’t include a meat-to-mouth competition. Ognadzu would be assured of at least one first prize every year!”

“I warn you, cousin, I’m not to be trifled with!” Pezi threatened the last speaker.

“Yes, be careful, Malchar. Woe betide if Pezi should decide to sit on you!” More laughter greeted this, but it was cut short by the ring of steel scraping steel. The merchant named Faliar, a barely bearded youth who was Pezi’s second cousin, sighted down a sword blade that hovered at his nose.

“And should I decide to sit on you, Faliar—woe betide?” Pezi said quietly. A cruel grin spread across his broad face as he watched Faliar ransack his vocabulary for a reply that would get him out of trouble with the least amount of embarrassment. Pezi dropped the tip of his sword and lightly tapped Faliar’s chin with it. “These new whiskers. They perhaps make you think yourself a man now, who can scoff at others without threat of injury? Perhaps I should shave them for you?” Faliar gulped involuntarily, and pulled tightly on the reins of his horse. If the beast should become frisky and jerk forward…

“My apologies, Pezi,” he blurted, choking on the cockiness he was forced to swallow.

Pezi said nothing, but sneered meaningfully. He sheathed his sword. “Now to the onions,” he muttered, standing in the stirrups to peer down the rows of crops that lined each side of the King’s Road.

“Your uncle may not be pleased with you dallying over foodstuffs while he waits for news,” Malchar said coldly.

“And who would be so foolish as to tell my uncle such a thing, Malchar?” Pezi inquired.

“You mustn’t think, because my young brother backed away from your drawn sword, that I will, cousin,” Malchar said, his hand on the handle of his own blade. Pezi met his gaze.

“Threaten me again sometime when I’m not hot and hungry,” Pezi said at length. “We’ll see who backs away then.” He looked at the others. “Come on, we ride to Lamath.”

“You’ve decided your visit with the King is top priority?” Malchar said snidely.