“Yes, Pelmen?”
“Bring me the book—I have some things I need to tell Erri before he goes.” Bronwynn jumped up obediently and trotted over with the volume. Pelmen took it and handled it fondly, feeling its cover and thumbing its pages. Then he thrust it out to Erri.
“Prophet,” he said. “Here is your book.” Erri was shocked. “But—you are the only real Prophet! That is your book, not mine—” Pelmen pushed the volume into Erri’s hands and closed the little man’s fingers over its edges. “Erri—you’ve found your calling. I’m still searching for mine.” Erri gulped hard. “Come, friend,” Pelmen continued. “Don’t deny your vocation.”
“But what about you? Lamath needs your—”
“Lamath fares better today than the other two lands, Erri.
Especially since it has you to restore it. I’ll be around, don’t worry. But this task is yours. And the book.”
“Yes, Prophet,” Erri said humbly.
“And Erri—”
“Yes, Prophet?”
“Call me Pelmen.” Erri smiled, and they embraced. Then the little Prophet began trudging down the hill. He had donned once again his sky-blue robe, and it flapped around his sandals as he walked.
Pelmen rejoined Bronwynn, and smiled at Rosha. The boy’s face was dark and hard with frustration.
“You think you failed, don’t you?” Pelmen said. The young warrior would not reply. “You didn’t fail. You tried. In fact, given a sword big enough, you would have split the beast in half by sheer savagery alone. Will you let a trip of the tongue rob you of your achievement?” Rosha looked up, still surly. “What achievement.”
“The winning of a name—Rosha, bear’s-bane. And of a woman.” Pelmen’s eyes flicked down to Rosha’s hand, twined in that of the young Princess of Lamath. Both Bronwynn and Rosha blushed, but Pelmen marked well that they didn’t unclasp their hands.
There were unexpected hoofbeats in the southern pass, and all three of them jumped in surprise. It was a small troop of golden-mailed warriors-led by General Joss. Rosha felt for his greatsword, then remembered. It was still embedded in the dragon’s eye. He felt naked.
Joss stopped his horse and dismounted. “When I spotted Admon Faye bolting from the pass below, I felt obliged to investigate. I’m glad I did.” He walked to Bronwynn, who stood frozen in place—and dropped to one knee. “My Queen,” he said, and the other golden warriors followed his example.
“Me?” Bronwynn replied quietly. “What of my father? My mother?”
“Ligne murdered your mother, my Lady. As for your father—I’m sorry—but he was slain on the west-mouth plain two weeks ago.” Bronwynn’s face stiffened. “By the dragon.”
“No,” Joss said evenly, and her eyes shot open.
“Then by whom?” The answer was so shocking the young couple had to lean on each other for support. “Dorlyth mod Karis.”
“My—father?” Rosha gasped, stunned.
“If your father is Dorlyth mod Karis,” Joss said, eyeing the young warrior as if intending to cut him down in reprisal.
“By Dorlyth,” Bronwynn sighed, and she pulled free of Rosha’s arms and smoothed down her golden garments. “Well then, General. What is—your next move?”
“I’d like to take you back to claim your rightful throne. An impostor sits in Chaomonous now—a lady you know well.”
“Ligne,” Bronwynn said, her thoughts far away.
“The same.” Bronwynn bit her lip. Then she looked up at Pelmen. “Where were we going to go next?”
“I never made any plans beyond today, Bronwynn,” Pelmen said. “I didn’t really expect to need them.” He gazed at her face, his eyes serious. “You are free, must be free, to go wherever you choose. You are, after all, the Queen of Chaomonous. And a Queen waits on no man’s decision.” Bronwynn looked over at Rosha. He had backed away a step and had been waiting for her to notice him again. He felt sorrow that it had been Dorlyth who had slain her father, but she could hardly blame him for that.
“Where are you going?” she asked him. “I’m—I’m riding home to see my father. He told me to come home when I’d become a hero.” Rosha smiled slightly. “It appears I—I have.” Bronwynn looked back at Joss and sighed. “Then I’ll go with you.” She didn’t see Rosha’s smile die as she walked to take up the reins of her little white pony.
“You spoke of Admon Faye,” Pelmen said forcefully. “Where is he now?” Joss looked at the meddlesome player contemptuously—for so Pelmen was, to him. “Riding for his hideouts in the Great South Fir, being pursued by a contingent of my men. Oh, we’ll catch him eventually, Pelmen. You needn’t worry yourself over that.” Bronwynn rode to Join the Chaon party, and Pelmen noticed now that Rosha had retrieved his greatsword from the dragon’s eye and was mounting up as well. The youthful bear’s-bane patted his horse’s flanks, and they trotted over to join the group.
Bronwynn looked up at Rosha’s face. His expression echoed a look she remembered Dorlyth’s face wearing-stony, unflinching, unfeeling where women were concerned. She pointed a finger at him.
“Listen. Just because I have to go claim my throne doesn’t mean you’re free. I’ll see you again, Rosha mod Bronwynn!”
Rosha’s eyes widened. Gone was that rock-hewn expression, replaced by a boyish blush. Pelmen stifled a laugh.
“My—my Lady,” he stammered, this time with reason. “A Man woman does not call a man her treasure unless she intends to marry him!”
“I know that!” Bronwynn snapped. “I’m not stupid, you know! Joss, away!” She was gone then, riding south at the head of a troop of golden warriors, and Rosha thought as he watched her go that he had never known anyone so fit to be a regent.
At length he sighed, and looked at Pelmen. “Ready to g-go home?” he asked.
Pelmen’s eyes dropped. “No, Rosha. Not just yet. Tell your father I may be there in a few days, or weeks.” Then Pelmen shrugged. “Or maybe years. He knows me.”
“Indeed he does.” Rosha smiled. Then the young warrior cleared his throat. “I remember what you ccalled the old Elder at the m-monastery. For you and for him, it seemed-fitting. Somehow—it does to m-me as well. Fare you well, my father.”
Pelmen nodded, smiling. “And you, my brother.” Then the horse wheeled at Rosha’s command, and galloped swiftly down and out, onto the west-mouth plain.
Pelmen folded his blue robe carefully and put it on the ground. By now, the sun had set on Dragonsgate, and Pelmen had spent several hours in quiet conversation with the dead beast that had given the place its name—and with the Power. Now he grinned, and held out his hand. For the first time in what seemed like ages, a little ball of blue flame blazed in the air at his command. Pelmen pointed to the robe, and the ball dropped down onto it and quickly consumed it. Pelmen glanced at the sky, and spoke. “I hope you don’t mind, but there’s so much to do yet. And I don’t think I’ll be able to move freely as a holy man—” A sense of peace stole over him, a warm blanket of good feeling. The Power, he realized again, was real—and it was pleased. It really didn’t matter where or how he traveled now. The Power would meet him there, wherever it was.
He sighed, stood, and looked around at the darkness “Where to go, who to be,” he said aloud, then leant back and looked up again. “Will there be a time, ever, when I can be all my selves at once?” Not, he answered himself, while the world remained in such confusion. There was still so much to do. Pelmen mounted Minaliss, picked a direction, and beg his long ride out of Dragonsgate.