“In what way?” Pelmen asked.
Just a warmth, at present. If the battles move into this region, the pain will become intense as you must know.
“I… apologize again for what I inflicted on you ”
It is past, if not forgotten, said the House. Your apologies all of them have been accepted. But the one you battled is most insensitive to the pain he causes his own castle. The High Fortress may be a malevolent place, and poor company, but not even it deserves such misery.
Pelmen sighed. “I can imagine how it feels ”
No, you can’t, said the House. No one can no one but this House. And you are perhaps the only one who can do anything to aid it. You, and the Power, of course.
“You believe what I’ve told you of the Power?”
No need. This House has met the Power. It is to the Power that this House withdraws.
“What do you mean?”
Before the House could answer, Pelmen was grabbed by the elbow and spun around. “You have the news?”
“Look at you!” the power shaper exclaimed, and he followed his own instructions. Rosha glistened in the light of the sun. His basic garments were shades of blue, Bron wynn’s reminder to him of their time as Pelmen’s initiates in the sky faith What sparkled was the trim. The entire costume was frosted with a glaze of diamonds set in gold. Rosha was frankly embarrassed by it.
“The news!” he begged. “A messenger told me you had some.”
Pelmen frowned and handed Rosha the parchment. Then he leaned over the battlements again as the lad read it. Rosha soon leaned on the low wall beside him, and they stood together in silence for several minutes.
“I’m sorry,” Pelmen said finally.
“He just couldn’t make it, that’s all.” Rosha shrugged. He struggled to hide his concern.
Pelmen put an arm around Rosha’s shoulder. “I know what you’re thinking, but it wouldn’t do any good. You’ve got a bride waiting for you down below and your father can take care of himself.”
“You’re going,” Rosha muttered.
“How do you know that?”
“I know you.”
“Well. We’ll talk about it. Right now Bronwynn’s waiting, and I’m sure Erri is anxious to get this ceremony out of the way.”
“Right.” Rosha nodded and started toward the gaping hole where the aviary once stood. “You coming?”
“In a bit,” Pelmen called back. Rosha nodded again and left the roof.
“Now. What were you saying?”
This House is withdrawing to be with the Power. “I don’t understand.”
It is apparent that castles are not made to live. These stones, these walls, this House all of these have their own existence, quite apart from that of man. The hills, the river these don’t aspire to copy man.
Nor should this House.
“But you’re alive!”
In imitation of human life, and not by choice. This House lives rather by human device and ambition. Yet men can move. This House cannot move. Men enjoy the company of others. This House has no company, save you and the High Fortress. But that castle has a cruel spirit and all the dangerous ambition of the very young among men. And you will soon be leaving, because of that Fortress. Men may live in happy ignorance of the magical forces being shaped around them. This House must endure the necessary pain such shaping creates without recourse.
That pain makes these coming wars that much more frightening. For all these reasons, it seems better for the House for the life in this House to withdraw. “But where will you go?”
Back to the Power. For it’s from the Power that all life is shaped.
“All?” Pelmen asked, thinking of the life now in the High Fortress and its evil genesis.
All. Either by the Power… or artificially, through. “Then I’ll not speak with you again?”
Only if the Power permits. The peace of this House be on you, Pelmen Dragonsbane. Attend your task. And your Lady. She slips away this very moment through the front gate. Perhaps you can catch her.
“Serphimera?” Pelmen shouted. He raced to the battlements and looked down. Five floors below, he could see the flowing navy robes of the Priestess as she quickly made her way down the cobblestones toward the city. “Serphimera, wait!” he cried, and he vaulted on top of the parapet and leaped off.
Maliff, the falconer, stepped out of his mews just in time to observe Pelmen disappear. “Here now!” he cried in horror. He raced to the wall and looked down to see the falling man spread the wings of a bird.
It glided upwards, then down to settle on the shoulders of a blue-clad woman. Maliff stared for a minute, watching as woman and falcon disappeared among the throngs of shoppers in the market. Then he clucked his tongue. “Why didn’t you just tell me you were a far con in the first pr ace You birds,” he mumbled. “You’ve arways got to pray your rittre tricks.” As Maliff ducked back into the cool darkness of his fafcon house, he was still chuckling.
About the Author
Robert Don Hughes was born in Ventura, California, the son of a Baptist pastor. He grew up in Long Beach, and was educated in Redlands, Riverside, and Mill Valley, gaining degrees in theater arts and divinity. That education continued and he finished a Ph.D. in Missions, Religions and Philosophy in Louisville, Kentucky.
He has been a pastor, a playwright, a teacher, a filmmaker, and a missionary, and considers all those roles fulfilling. He has published several short plays, and presently teaches drama. He spent two years in Zambia, and while there was bitten by the Africa bug. His two passions are writing and football not necessarily in that order, especially in October. He is married to Gail, a beautiful South Alabama woman who loves rainbows, and fills his LIFE with them.
Currently, he and Gail, with a beautiful baby daughter, are living in Africa where he is doing missionary work.
Most of all, Bob likes people. The infinite variety of personalities and opinions makes life interesting. The sharing of self makes it worthwhile.