"D-d-do you think-I m-m-might-" Rosha began, then grinned and shook his head.
"You might be a magician?" Bronwynn brayed, then laughed derisively. "You could never pronounce the spells!" Rosha said nothing, but the look he fired across Pelman at the girl spoke eloquently for him. Undaunted, Bronwynn raised her head proudly and returned his gaze, remembering how he had laughed at her. A wind whirled suddenly around them and it was some moments before they realized that Pelman had stopped and they were riding on without him. When they broke their staring match and looked back for him, his casual smile was gone. He sat stock still astride a motionless Minaliss, his visage grim.
He waited for the two to ride back to him, then spoke in tones quiet but full of authority. "Have you children any notion-any notion at all-of the forces at work when you bait one another in such a way? We ride to the Great North Fir, children! Even the dullest of men can sense the powers in that forest! In the Great North Fir, Rosha, such looks can kill! You ask, will you have power there? I say each man has power there! Whether you'll shape the powers there depends on what you are. But know this, you two, and know it well. Much of shaping is in focusing power by will. If you should argue there, and focus such ill will at one another, someone is liable to get hurt!" Bronwynn blinked. "You mean, I could injure him with a look?" "Don't take the possibility lightly, Bronwynn," Pelman said. "And don't plan to test it either!" he continued, reading her mind.
"I won't!" she lied, and she shot a furtive sneer at Rosha.
She had planned to look away, but his fierce eyes caught hers and held them. She realized then how very much like her falcon Rosha looked. Then she jerked as, eyes gripping hers, he slammed his greatsword home into its scabbard.
The lightning seemed to open the sky ten feet above their heads-and that on a day so cloudless as to call the very existence of clouds into question. The noise was deafening; the impact knocked them from their horses. The source was Pelman. Now as they gazed up at him, he looked like one of the mythological gods he played so frequently on the stages of Chaomonous. For the first time his youthful companions saw Pelman as his enemies saw him. Here, truly, was a man to fear.
Bronwynn got to her knees and began to pet her bird, but it seemed unaffected by the shock. The horses, too, were calm, as if the thunderclap had been inaudible to them. Rosha and Bronwynn both looked away from the frowning sorcerer, who was silent for several minutes. Then he spoke. "I'll warn you both once more.
Someone could be injured-and I will not allow that. Is that understood?" Both Rosha and Bronwynn nodded. Pelman waited until they had mounted their horses again, then shook his head. "Rosha, you will never be a sorcerer. Your focus is in your hands and arms. Prick your spirit and that blade is in your hand-it is the only extension of your will you will ever rely on. I worry more about you, Bronwynn." Pelman looked sharply at her. "You may discover you have the ability, only to find you've no worthwhile reason to use it." He nicked his reins, and Minaliss sprang forward. They rode many miles in silence.
* * *
The southwesterly wind rippled both the tall grasses and the brightly colored pennants, as Tohn's small army mustered in the fields before his keep. "Boys," Tohn muttered to himself, "all boys." Yet they did indeed look grand, their helmets and bucklers flashing in the morning sun, their greatswords drawn in salute. Their uniforms were bright blue and lime, pleasing to the public eye but worrisome to an old, experienced warrior. There was no dirt on these uniforms, and no blood. The lads inside the finery had fought only one another. Were he riding into battle, he would trade them all for a small troop of veteran cutthroats. But Tohn did not expect a battle. Dorlyth mod Karis was among the finest warriors in the three kingdoms, and he had proved it repeatedly in one border skirmish after another. But he was certainly no fool.
If he could but surprise Dorlyth, Tohn thought to himself as he answered the salute with his own sword, perhaps he could put a swift end to all of this and get back to the business of living. It was a pitiful time for a skirmish anyway, what with fields to be plowed and seed to be sown. He'd feel far better to see these lads in work clothes, instead of prancing around in these fancy pants and tunics. Still, if he could strike now and have it done, it would be worth the delay in planting. If the problem was allowed to fester, there would be no harvest this year to need work.
If he could capture Pelman! Now that would be a tribute to this fresh-faced troop. And it seemed feasible, provided the man was not preparing for his arrival. Tohn rehearsed the scenario of capture in a dozen different ways; but in each variation, success hinged on the element of surprise. And what if he had not been imagining the uninvited listener to his magic conversations? What if Pelman himself had been listening in? "I'm a crazy old man," he muttered angrily to himself.
His captain, not understanding him, barked out a crisp, "Yes, sir!" Tohn looked at the fellow in surprise, then chuckled.
The captain worried that he had missed something, but was somewhat reassured when the gray-haired merchant patted him on the shoulder and murmured, "That's right, son, keep reminding me." Tohn turned away and went to mount his horse. He heard the captain shouting orders behind him as he slipped his foot into the stirrup and swung himself up. When he turned to look at his battalion, they were mounting in spectacular precision.
"Beautiful sight," Tohn mumbled. "Not worth a snail, but a beautiful sight." He spurred his white mare, and she trotted down into a small gully and up onto a little rise. The wind blew his hair into his face and Tohn thought about donning his helmet; then he decided wild hair in the wind was preferable to a hot helmet and sweat, so he left it off.
What if Pelman had heard him? There were others who could shape the powers besides Pelman. The trouble was that Tohn knew none of them, and he basically mistrusted powershapers anyway. They had a callous disregard for a person's privacy, what with their mind reading and all. It didn't matter who may have been listening in-it couldn't be good.
Tohn sighed. Probably was just his imagination after all. Or what was that his cousin had said? A newly developed conscience? Little chance of that, Tohn thought. He summoned his squire to his side. "You have that bag I gave you?" "This one, sir?" the boy asked, holding up a bag of blue velvet, knotted shut by a golden drawstring.
"That's it. You didn't look in it, did you?" the old . man growled.
The boy shook his head vigorously. "I know it's something sharp though, sir," he volunteered.
"How do you know?" "It poked me in the leg!" "Here-you'd better give it to me then." It wouldn't do to have the lad concentrating on the mysterious object when Tohn's co-conspirators tried to contact him this afternoon. He took the bag, hung it by its string from his saddle horn, and smiled his dismissal at the squire. As the boy rode off, Tohn looked at the bag and told it, "You poke me in the leg and I'll toss you off the first bridge we cross." The tiny army was riding past Tohn toward the west. The passing riders heard the old man talking to himself, but they paid no attention. All were used to his eccentricity.
"Six hundred men," he was saying. "Well, that'll be plenty-if it's a surprise." A thousand feet above the snow-shrouded peaks of western Ngandib-Mar flew a bright blue messenger bird. A tiny sheepskin page, rolled into a tight cylinder, had been tied to the bird's leg by Dorlyth's falconer. This flyer was bound for the High City, and would not rest until she reached it. Throughout the night she had coasted along the air currents, finding the swiftest wind paths and spreading her wings to let them catch her and carry her onward. Dawn found her gliding along the treetops of a small forest, ignoring the calls of other birds as if they spoke a foreign tongue. She was not like other birds-she had a mission to perform. For she was a messenger bird, far removed from the life of the forest. She dwelt in the palaces of kings.
Blue flyers had been so long domesticated that few people now remembered their wild origins. Those whose business it was to know such things believed the species had been born in the Great North Fir, in the days before the coming of the
dragon. But that was perhaps only speculation, formed on the basis of the flyer's peculiar power. It was indeed a magic bird, for it could take an impress from any human mind. If a man could form a visual image of a place and fix in his own mind the direction and distance to that destination, the bird by some marvelous ability could absorb that knowledge and fly there. How long it took depended to some degree on the bird's health and on the weather, but the primary factor in prompt communication was the clarity of the bird handler's mental directions. Once tossed into the air, a blue flyer would deliver its message or die in the attempt; many a bird had perished as a result of fuzzy directions.
Now this brightly feathered creature began to beat the air in strong, swift strokes, rising up the face of a sheer mountain cliff. A road crisscrossed that rock wall, carved of the stone itself. It was the major thoroughfare of the King of the High City, known to most as the Down Road. It was heavily trafficked this morning. Those passing downward looked in considerably better spirits than those who trudged up, for the road was certainly one of the steepest in the world.
But the blue flyer ignored the Down Road, shooting ever higher with each powerful stroke, until at last she topped the cliff. She flew above a broad plateau that stood some five thousand feet above the valley floor. Below was Ngandib, the High City, capital of the Maris. It was a beautiful sight, or would have been if the bird thought in such terms, for the city had that slightly wild flavor of the people of the highlands, and its architecture reflected a heritage rich in magic. Ngandib-Mar had been the dwelling place of shapers for as long as the city had stood on this spot. No one knew how long that had been, since the Maris had little use for history. Their only concern was for now.
Though the traffic on the Down Road was heavy, it appeared deserted in comparison with the bumping and pushing and selling and stealing going on in the marketplace. No one noticed the flyer as she passed over, her small black eyes seeking everywhere for the landmarks Dorlyth's falconer had impressed upon her mind. Her flight took her over most of the city, for the citadel of the King was in the center of the table land, while the main city rimmed its eastern edge. The palace stood on a mesa, carved from living rock by an extremely powerful magician in times long forgotten. Its parapets rose another six hundred feet above the plateau itself. It was inaccessible, except by a cavelike entrance cut into the rock at ground level. One had to enter the castle from inside, by climbing a closely guarded flight of stone steps.
Yet with a flick of its tail and flash of feathers, the blue flyer soared even above the pinnacle of the King's own tower, looking for a place to alight. This was her destination; having reached it, she felt at last the urgent need for rest. She finally spied the picture Dorlyth's falconer had planted in her mind-a window in the tower with a large blue circle painted around it.
She flew through that circled window, and joined a line. For others had sent messengers to Pahd mod Pahd-el, the High King of Ngandib. And since no one in Pahd's court did anything very quickly, the messengers tended to stack up. All these flyers were tired and hungry, and now they set up a chirping that must wake every sleepy head in the tower. At last a barefoot servant came padding across the straw-covered stone floor, his mouth wide in a yawn. He was not particularly gentle in his handling, but he did finally slip the cylinder of parchment off the flyer's leg, and the bird followed the others to a trough filled with seed. They belonged to no one in particular, these birds. They simply were servants to men, flying wherever they were told to fly. Yet it was a rare man who truly appreciated this wonder.
Dorlyth's message had been the last one to be removed, which was fortunate. It became the top missive in the stack. The pile of letters changed hands several times until it reached that golden tray for its final trip into the King's chambers.
"Your messages, Sire," the serving lady said, curtseying before his Majesty, Pahd mod Pahd-el.
He was the fourteenth Pahd mod Pahd-el to rule Ngandib, if anyone cared about such things. Pahd certainly didn't. Nor did he care about his mail. His answer was a low snore, and a few grunts and groans as he rolled over in bed, turning his back on both the lady and her tray. The serving woman had expected this, and she placed the tray on a small table and tiptoed out, just as happy not to wake him. If he did wake, he would just send her after something. This would give her another hour to sleep.
"You mean you're not up yet!" screamed Pahd's mother as she powered her way through the door. The noise blew Pahd out of bed, just as it had done all his life. Chogi lan Pahd-el was built like a bulldog. Her bark was bad and her bite was much worse. Nothing could make Pahd get out of bed except his mother, but his mother always could.
"Of course he's not up yet, he's never up by noon." This was the voice of Sarie lan Pahd, Pahd's own lan, or wife. Between the two of them, these women made Pahd's life miserable. At least, he thought he was miserable. He couldn't be sure. He was constantly asking them if he were.
"I have a headache-" Pahd began.
"Of course you do, dear," Sarie soothed. "You always have a headache in the morning." "Shouldn't I go back to sleep? Maybe it will go away-" "No, you're not going back to sleep!" Chogi belted out, grabbing the covers off the bed, wadding them into a large ball and tossing them into the comer. "You want me to get up, Mother? Is that it?" Chogi didn't answer him. Instead she sat on the bed, picked up the mail, and began to sort through it. Sarie pulled Pahd to his feet.
"It's a beautiful day," she was saying as she pushed him toward the window. "Isn't it?" "Is it?" Pahd asked, looking out. He blinked at the harsh sunlight and stumbled quickly back into the room. "What do you think, Mother?" he asked.
"I think you need to have your head examined," she muttered without looking up.
"Didn't we already have my head examined?" Pahd asked his wife, and Sarie smiled sweetly. "Yes, dear, we did." "Ah, I remembered. And what did we decide?" "We decided you need more exercise!" the young woman exclaimed brightly, raising Pahd's hands above his head.
"We did?" he murmured absently.
"We did! What would you think about taking a nice ride through the city?" "We-we could," Pahd said, "but on the other hand, we would have to get dressed-and that would take the afternoon-and by the time we were ready to go it would be getting dark, and-" "Then how about some practice in the armory? You need some, you know-" "I-I could, but I'd have to get dressed, and get out the sword, and notify the swordmaster, and-" "Give up on him, Sarie," Pahd's mother said. "He's not worth the effort. There's a message here from Dorlyth mod Karis." "Dorlyth?" Sane asked. "Isn't he the Lord who knows the sorcerer well?" "Yes, he's Pelman's friend," Chogi replied. "We sent that ugly slave master-who now?" "Admon Faye, wasn't that it?" Sarie offered. "That's the name. We sent Admon Faye to him to try to find Pelman." "Why are we trying to find Pelman?" Pahd inquired with moderate curiosity. His mother moaned at his question and buried her face in her left hand.
Sarie smiled bravely, patiently, and put her hands on her husband's shoulders. "We decided you need a court magician, remember? We had a long conference with the advisors and the local Lords of the Confederacy and decided we would invite Pelman to be your personal powershaper, remember?" "We did?" Pahd asked. "Yes, dear," Sarie answered, forcing herself to smile her brightest, cheeriest smile. "And we asked this Admon Faye to locate him, and sent nun to Dorlyth, remember? And then he told us that he had heard Pelman was in Chaomonous, having been sold into slavery by the King there." "Really? Why would Pelman let them do a thing like that, if he's a shaper?" "Give up, Sarie," Chogi advised tonelessly, mulling Dorlyth's message over in her mind.
"We explained that, don't you remember? That Pelman isn't a magician in Chaomonous." "That's curious," Pahd observed, his eyes on the soft contours of his down-stuffed bed.
"Anyway, we sent this slave master to Chaomonous to buy the magician for us and bring him here," Sarie finished.
"Why?" Pahd asked simply.
"To try to bring you out of your stupor!" Chogi exploded. "To give you some
thing to be interested in besides this bed!" "Would he be able to do that?" "We hope so." Sarie sighed. Then she winked at her husband. "Maybe this is good news Dorlyth sends us. Maybe Pelman has been found." "No," Chogi grunted, "it's not good. It's bad news. Listen: Tohn mod Neelis, Lord of the west before Dragonsgate and an elder of Ognadzu, marches against me, breaking the confederacy. Your Majesty, may I count on your sword? It's signed Dorlyth, and there's an added note: Speed is essential-decide now." "That's presumptuous!" Sarie exclaimed, rubbing her husband's neck. "To demand that Pahd decide today-" "Presumptuous maybe, but it's certainly practical," said Chogi. She looked at her son, who was lost in thought. "Well?" she demanded.
"We do have an agreement, don't we?" he asked.
"The King of the Mar has agreed to defend his Lords against those who break the Confederacy, yes," Chogi replied.
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