The Power and the Prophet, page 12
Or so he hoped. It seemed logical enough. Certainly it was worth a try. But what would he find under this chilly water? A connecting tunnel too narrow for a man to pass through? Or perhaps an ancient grill put in place to prevent anyone from doing just what he was attempting? Rosha shrugged. He'd done far too much thinking for one day. Better just try it.
First he ate the rest of his food. He knew it wasn't wise to swim right after eating, but he was famished. He chewed well, concentrating on clearing his mind, then scooped up a handful of water to wash down his meal. Next he made a quick check to insure that everything he'd brought with him was securely tied to him. He took a deep breath and dove in.
He didn't fight his way down. He didn't need to—his mail shirt and heavy sword carried him toward the bottom. He kept his eyes open, struggling to see through the ink. He wished it was noon instead of dusk. The high sun shining down on the reservoir might have made the tunnel visible—if there was a tunnel. He had to go by feel.
His feet at last touched rock—a gently sloping wall—and he crouched against that slime-covered granite and pushed off toward the far side. His lungs began to burn. He swam with heightened urgency. He couldn't tell how far he'd gone. His chest pleaded for air, and he decided to go up for a breath and try again later. He didn't make it. His head bumped rock before it broke the surface. He was already in the channel, and he had no idea how long it was. A frantic desperation surpassing anything he'd felt on his long climb seized him as he propelled himself forward. He swam in terror, the great sword around his neck weighing upon him like an anchor, his mail shirt feeling like a full suit of armor. He swam as far as he could,closing his eyes against the sting in his lungs, fearing every moment that he'd crash against another wall and be lost. His reserves of strength had been depleted by the long day's climb. He could go no further. He fought his way up, lashing at the water, angry at it for obstructing him, angry at himself for his foolishness, angry at death for taking him so casually—
Then he was out. His head broke the surface of the reservoir, and he sucked in the twilight sky. His gasps for air substituted for a victory shout. He had made it to the top! He would not permit the great distance that still separated him from his goal to intrude into his wheezing of celebration. He was alive, and for the moment that was all that mattered.
He had to get out of the water—his shirt would pull him back under if he didn't. He glanced around. While moments before he had been wishing it was noontime, he was suddenly glad it was dusk. There were sentries positioned around the lake. At least, he thought they were sentries—obviously, they weren't taking their responsibilities seriously. Evidently they were set not to guard the lake but the plateau, for no head was turned toward the water. All eyes were fixed either on the purple sunset or on the faces of their lovers. Since there seemed little chance of invasion up the sheer walls of the cliff, sentry duty around the rim provided a wonderful opportunity for intimate trysts.
Rosha made his way toward the nearest shore, carefully keeping his head down. Soon his feet touched the bottom, and he rested for a moment, neck-deep in the water. He wondered why these guards had been posted at all—to watch the skies for flying powershapers? It didn't matter. What was important was for him to reach the fortress that loomed over the lake at least a mile away. It wouldn't do for him to clamber up out of the water behind some passionate couple. Rosha decided to make his way to the rear of the High Fortress through the water. He started walking.
The High Fortress was impregnable. He knew that. Every lad in the Mar knew that before the age of ten. Then again, every Mari boy also knew that there was no way onto the High Plateau save by the Down Road. Rosha had proved today that that was a myth. Could the castle's invincibility be a myth as well? The fortress stood atop a rock ridge that jutted six hundred feet above the level of the lake. From this angle, he thought he could make out ledges and projections that made scaling it a possibility. Perhaps he could climb to the top of the ridge, then scale the back wall. Obviously the guards did not fear an approach from the lake. Could it be that the rear of the castle was as poorly guarded? He calculated the possibilities as he slogged the last hundred feet. The closer he got, the more possible the task appeared.
It was night when he reached the rock wall. He was weary beyond all belief. But he couldn't rest here. He had to climb at least part of the way. He started up. Thirty feet above the level of the lake he found a crevice in the granite and beamed with excitement. It looked big enough—he shoved himself into it, and found to his great relief that it was large enough to hold him securely. In moments he was lost in delightful sleep, safe from prying eyes.
But it wasn't eyes that had been watching him, ever since his head broke the surface of the reservoir. The living fortress had noted his appearance, and had been reporting his progress to its master ever since.
—He is sleeping in a crevice at the base of this fortress, it told the powershaper.
Flayh chuckled and said, "Don't disturb him. I'm certain he needs his rest."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Silent Entry
A change had come. Pelmen slipped through the nearly deserted streets of Ngandib and considered it.
He had, at long last, wholly committed himself to the battle. Not that he'd shirked his responsibilities before—he had just been bound by his friendships to limited courses of action. But one by one, his friends had been separated from him. Serphimera was missing; Rosha was missing; Erri was in hiding; Bronwynn was under pressure from a rival sorcerer well out of his reach; and Dorlyth was lost to him forever. These things had created in Pelmen both a terrible loneliness and an exhilarating fury.
Pelmen did not anger easily; he was far too powerful to permit himself that luxury. But when his wrath was finally kindled, a new aspect of Pelmen's personality emerged. It was so fearsome even to himself that he'd spent a lifetime try.ng to bury it. When his rage came, it was not with heat and passion—and their consequent foolishness. Rather it was cold, critically calculating—cunning. Now Pelmen was enraged. And in Flayh he had finally found a foe who demanded he unleash his every resource.
How to get at the man! He gazed up at the bleak towers of the fortress, his eyes blazing. He glanced around at what had been a cheerful, bustling city and silently railed at Flayh for what he'd done to its people. That shaper's mean spirit dominated these Man's as totally as his frowning fortress dominated their plateau, and Pelmen was struck once again by how quickly people yielded control of their lives. His deepening bitterness reflected itself in his hard expression. Was the High Fortress watching him? He wasn't close enough yet to hear its conversation.
Was Rosha inside? Pelmen scolded himself for wasting a day searching the roads by air. If he'd gotten to the top of the Down Road in time he could have stopped the young warrior on his way up! When he'd finally had the good sense to fly here to the city, it was evidently too late. He'd watched the same sordid scene repeated again and again at the top of the road, as Admon Faye's so-called guards had seized and abused one upward-bound traveler after another. But Rosha had never appeared. Pelmen had been forced to conclude that Rosha had already been subdued and arrested by the time he'd arrived.
Was he wrong? Had Rosha never intended to penetrate this place and steal the third pyramid? Was he even now bound for some other place? Chaomonous, perhaps, to aid his bride against the sinister Terril? Pelmen fervently hoped that might be the case, but it didn't change his resolve. He was going to get inside this castle and he was going to do it without the aid of magic. He was going in the simplest, the most inobtrusive way,
the way so many terrified Mari citizens had gone in before him.
He was about to be arrested.
"Look, mates," a voice behind him said, slimy with cruelty and malice. "Someone's paid us a call." Rough hands seized him under the arms while others smacked the sides of his head, and his legs were booted out from under him. One thug held him up by grabbing a handful of his hair; as he struggled to regain his feet, fists pummelled his stomach and groin. Moments later he disappeared into the black maw of the High Fortress of Ngandib. It all went according to plan.
He'd gambled that Flayh took little interest in the private entertainments of his bodyguards. This policy of arrest and abuse of local citizens was certainly unrelated to any security need. Pelmen knew the High Fortress was alive. In the event of attack it would simply notify its master, and Flayh would deal with the problem magically. Pelmen really didn't know why Flayh kept this garrison of thugs and bullies around— unless it might be that he preferred having such a dangerous collection of men under his thumb rather than out in the woods, possibly conspiring against him. In any case, no one seemed to notice as the three cutthroats who had abducted Pelmen dragged him down into a dark corner of the fortress and prepared to beat him.
He used no magic, save that sleight-of-hand variety he'd learned in his years onstage. Powershaping would attract the attention of the castle, and that was the last thing he wanted. Even so, the three thugs thought themselves bewitched as this cowering peasant turned suddenly into a savage. Pelmen slipped a dagger out of one man's belt and back in between two of his ribs. There was a single grunt and gush of blood, but by the time the other two realized its source, their own throats had been slashed open. Pelmen left them behind, gasping and wrestling upon a suddenly sticky floor. Killing did not come easily for him, but he always did what was demanded. He doubted if the world would miss this trio.
He did not sneak through the hallways. Nothing would have attracted attention to him so quickly. Instead he shuffled along, looking like a bored slave. No one stopped him. He drew no stares. He didn't fear being identified by men.
But what about the fortress? Was it watching him? Despite the care he'd taken not to use his power, could the fortress
somehow sense Pelmen's exceptional abilities? As he moved through the corridors, he turned his ears to hear the creaks and pops in the masonry and woodwork that formed the words of castle-speech. Occasionally he lightly touched the walls, checking for condensation that might indicate the High Fortress was engaged in some difficult act of shaping of its own. He strained to smell meaningful scents, monitored the temperature of the air on his cheeks, pressed all his senses to analyze his surroundings while maintaining an expression of careless incompetence. Still, the castle said nothing. That greatly disturbed him. He'd expected to hear a steady stream of invective from the fortress, since any act of shaping was excruciating to a living castle. He knew that made no difference to Flayh and was certain that the small sorcerer was up in his tower, just as busy as ever. Why wasn't the castle screaming?
Since he was already in the upper dungeon, he explored it quickly. It was empty. This did not surprise him, knowing the mentality of slavers. Why keep prisoners? It was too much bother to feed them and watch over them. It was much simpler either to enslave them or kill them. Of this Pelmen was certain—the slave pit of this castle would be filled to capacity.
Was that where Rosha was? No. A man like Rosha was far too dangerous to enslave. He would be killed outright. Pelmen gritted his teeth and pressed on, determined to tour the upper levels.
He found the stairway to the royal tower unguarded. Where were these slavers? He'd expected to encounter at least a few along the way! Of course, this lapse in security was understandable in one sense. Why should anyone want to assassinate a king who already slept like the dead? Pelmen shuffled to King Pahd's door, listened for a moment, then stepped inside. The room was empty, except for Pahd, and the king never saw him. As usual Pahd mod Pahd-el was fast asleep.
Sleep was Pahd's great passion. He preferred it to eating, to drinking, or to lovemaking. He could sleep in any position and through any event. He'd also developed the feigning of sleep into a high art, to discourage those fools who tried to pry him from his bed. Only one thing had consistently been able to lure him from the sack, and that was a promise of challenging swordplay. Pelmen wondered if even that could excite him now. The king slept in self-defense to avoid having to face the
tragedy his laziness had brought upon his nation and his family.
Oh, he would surely blame it on his mother—but it was Pahd's fault.
Pelmen had learned the story from Ferlyth. Pahd's mother, Chogi Ian Pahd-el, had become infatuated with Flayh and had encouraged her son to invite him into the High Fortress. The lazy king had agreed—it was easier than arguing—but within days, they both had realized their mistake. Flayh had taken the castle over.
No one had protested this but Sarie, Pahd's wife. Pelmen remembered the woman as a slovenly, giggling party giver who had encouraged Pahd's laziness primarily just to frustrate tier mother-in-law. It was hard to imagine her standing up to Flayh, but evidently she had done so—and immediately thereafter had contracted a violent illness. Apparently she'd been sick ever since. Ferlyth had heard it was Flayh's chief hold over Pahd; despite his laziness and self-indulgence, it was well known that Pahd worshipped his little wife.
So now he slept, Pelmen thought, to block out her illness and his own guilt. The king stirred, and Pelmen stepped back to the door. Pahd raised up on one arm, looked blearily at Pelmen and whispered, "Sarie?" Then the drug of sleep reclaimed him, and he settled back into his pillows, a satisfied smile curling across his lips.
Pelmen closed the door quietly, speculating sadly on what might have been if Dorlyth had consented to rule this nation. Now where? he wondered to himself. He sought to stifle it, but it came anyway—a sudden pang of despair. Besides hunting for Rosha, he had entered this castle with the hope that it might lead him somehow to Serphimera. He was running out of places to look.
The same servants who had denied her entry only days before now welcomed her with smiles. Serphimera nodded and smiled back, a bit uncertain as to how she was to behave. Resentment, scorn, abuse—these responses she had great experience in handling. Warmth and friendliness were new to her.
It had been an arduous walk from the Great South Fir to this, the northern tip of Ngandib-Mar. It had taken weeks, for when she'd set out initially she'd had no idea of where she was bound. Harder to bear than the travel itself had been her guilt at abandoning Pelmen so abruptly. But how could she have done otherwise? The Power's requirements had been crystal clear, yet Pelmen had refused to heed them! She had been needed here, he had been needed elsewhere, but each time she'd tried to point that out, he'd rejected her words, protesting that above all else they needed to stay together. She had realized finally that he would never willingly yield to their separation and she'd departed, knowing only that she must travel northward. Had he searched for her? She'd seen no sign of it. She hoped he had, but realized he might have decided she was more trouble than she was worth. She couldn't help it. She'd had to come.
Of course, the people of Sythia Isle hadn't understood that when she'd arrived. She'd been stared at, laughed at, and insulted. She'd had to beg to be allowed to visit their stricken lord, and then was only permitted to do so under heavy guard. When she'd reached out to touch him, one warrior nearly beheaded her, but stopped in midstroke when Syth suddenly sat up in bed. It had been no surprise to Serphimera. That was the reason she'd come.
"Is he awake?" she asked the guard outside Syth's door. "I am!" Lord Syth called from within the room, and Serphimera nodded at the warrior and stepped inside. "You're looking well this morning," she murmured. "I've never felt better!" Syth responded, and he bounded out of bed to prove it to her. "You see? No ill-effects! And all because of you!"
"Oh, no," Serphimera demurred, shaking her head. "I really had very little to do with it."
"Yes, yes, I know, it was all the Power, not you. I've heard the speech. But are you going to stand there and deny that you made any personal sacrifices to get in here to heal me? Please don't, Serphimera. I don't like to call my friends liars."
Serphimera glanced away in embarrassment and saw motion by the bed. When her eyes widened with surprise, Syth looked that way too. The filmy image of an auburn-haired woman had suddenly appeared there and was looking down at his empty pillow with a frown. "Mar-Yilot!" he shouted, and the vapory form swirled around to face them.
"Syth!" the woman began joyfully. Then she stopped short, her golden eyes fixed on Serphimera.
Syth ran to her, flinging his arms around her shimmery form in an attempted embrace. He grabbed nothing but air, but he didn't seem to mind. "Mar-Yilot! I'm healed!"
The Autumn Lady looked past him stonily, as if she were the solid one and he but a wispy vapor. Her eyes didn't leave Serphimera's. "Who are you?" she asked, her voice devoid of all expression. Serphimera recognized the look—undiluted jealousy. "Are you a shaper?" Mar-Yilot demanded flatly.
"I do not shape the powers," Serphimera answered evenly. "Rather, I am shaped—"
"1 can see that already, despite that ugly sack you're wearing."
"Mar-Yilot!" Syth scolded.
Serphimera smiled graciously. "You misunderstand." "I understand that you're in my bedroom with my husband, and that he's no longer under the dread. Am I wrong to assume you had some part in that?" Mar-Yilot did not mask her hostility. Syth looked at Serphimera and rolled his eyes in embarrassment.
"A part, perhaps, but not the major part. I am but a tool, a conduit of the Power—"
"Whose power? I know all the wizards. Are you afraid to name him?"
"I did name him. The Power."
"What are you talking about?" Mar-Yilot frowned, propping translucent hands on equally translucent hips. "Are you trying to provoke me?" "I am not."
