A Darkness at Sethanon

by Raymond Feist

  The old Swordmaster rose slowly. Reaching the door, he turned. “I know you hide it well, Martin, but the pain is there. I’m sorry if it seems I add to it, but what I said needed to be said.” Martin could only nod.

  Fannon left and Martin sat alone in his chamber, the sole moving thing the shadows cast by the guttering torches in the wall sconces.

  —

  Martin stood impatiently watching the scurrying activity in preparation for his and the Duke of Rodez’s departure. The Duke had invited Martin to accompany them aboard his own ship, but Martin had managed a barely adequate refusal. Only the obvious stress of dealing with Arutha’s death had allowed him to rebuff the Duke without serious insult.

  Duke Miguel and his daughters appeared from the keep, dressed for travel. The girls were poorly hiding their irritation at having to resume travel so soon. It would be a full two weeks or more before they were again in Krondor. Then, as a member of the peerage, their father would be hurrying to Rillanon for Arutha’s burial and state funeral.

  Duke Miguel, a slight man of fine manners and dress, said, “It is tragic we must quit your wonderful home under such grim circumstances, Your Grace. If I may, I would gladly extend the hospitality of my own home to you should Your Grace wish to rest awhile after your brother’s funeral. Rodez is but a short journey from the capital.”

  Martin’s first impulse was to beg off but, keeping Fannon’s words of the night before in mind, he said, “Should time and circumstance permit, Your Grace, I’ll be most happy to visit you. Thank you.” He cast a glance at the two daughters and determined then and there that should Tully advise an alliance between Crydee and Rodez, it would be the quiet Miranda he would court. Inez was simply too much trouble gathered together in one place.

  The Duke and his daughters rode out in a carriage toward the harbor. Martin thought back to when his father had been Duke. No one in Crydee had need of a carriage, which served poorly on the dirt roads of the Duchy, often turned to thick mud by the coastal rains. But with the increasing number of visitors to the West, Martin had ordered one built. It seemed the eastern ladies fared poorly on horseback while in court costume. He thought of Carline’s riding like a man during the Riftwar, in tight-fitting trousers and tunic, racing with Squire Roland, to the utter horror of her governess. Martin sighed. Neither of Miguel’s girls would ever ride like that. Martin wondered if there was a woman anywhere who shared his need for rough living. Perhaps the best he could hope for would be a woman who would accept that need in him and not complain over his long absences while he hunted or visited his friends in Elvandar.

  Martin’s musing was interrupted by a soldier accompanying the Hawkmaster, who held out another small parchment. “This just arrived, Your Grace.”

  Martin took the parchment. Upon it was the crest of Salador. Martin waited until the Hawkmaster had left to open it. Most likely it was a personal message from Carline. He opened it and read. He read again, then thoughtfully put the parchment in his belt pouch. After a long moment of reflection, he spoke to a soldier at post before the keep. “Fetch Swordmaster Fannon.”

  Within minutes the Swordmaster was in the Duke’s presence. Martin said, “I’ve thought it over, and I agree with you. I’ll offer the position of Swordmaster to Charles.”

  “Good,” said Fannon. “I expect he will agree.”

  “Then after I’m gone, Fannon, begin at once to instruct Charles in his office.”

  Fannon said, “Yes, Your Grace.” He started to turn away but turned back toward Martin. “Your Grace?”

  Martin halted as he had just begun to walk back to the keep. “Yes?”

  “Are you all right?”

  Martin said, “Fine, Fannon. I’ve just received a note from Laurie informing me that Carline and Anita are well. Continue as you were.” Without another word he returned to the keep, passing through the large doors.

  Fannon hesitated before leaving. He was surprised at Martin’s tone and manner. There was something odd in the way he looked as he left.

  —

  Baru quietly faced Charles. Both men sat upon the floor, their legs crossed. A small gong rested to the left of Charles and a censer burned between them, filling the air with sweet pungency. Four candles illuminated the room. The only furnishings were a mat upon the floor, which Charles preferred to a bed, a small wooden chest, and a pile of cushions. Both men wore simple robes. Each had a sword across his knees. Baru waited while Charles kept his eyes focused upon some unseen point between them. Then the Tsurani said, “What is the Way?”

  Baru answered. “The Way consists of discharging loyal service to one’s master, and of deep fidelity in associations with comrades. The Way, with consideration for one’s place upon the Wheel, consists of placing duty above all.”

  Charles gave a single curt nod. “In the matter of duty, the code of the warrior is absolute. Duty above all. Unto death.”

  “This is understood.”

  “What, then, is the nature of duty?”

  Baru spoke softly. “There is duty to one’s lord. There is duty to one’s clan and family. There is duty to one’s work, which provides an understanding of duty to one’s self. In sum they become the duty that is never satisfactorily discharged, even through the toil of a lifetime, the duty to attempt a perfect existence, to attain a higher place on the Wheel.”

  Charles nodded once. “This is so.” He picked up a small felt hammer and rang a tiny gong. “Listen.” Baru closed his eyes in meditation, listening to the sound as it faded, diminishing, becoming fainter. When the sound was fully gone, Charles said, “Find where the sound ends and silence begins. Then exist in that moment, for there will you find your wal; it is your secret center of being, the perfect place of peace within yourself. And recall the most ancient lesson of the Tsurani: duty is the weight of all things, as heavy as a burden can become, while death is nothing, lighter than air.”

  The door opened and Martin slipped in. Both Baru and Charles began to rise, but Martin waved them back. He knelt between them, his eyes fixed on the censer upon the floor. “Pardon the interruption.”

  “No interruption, Your Grace,” answered Charles.

  Baru said, “For years I fought the Tsurani and found them honorable foemen. Now I learn more of them. Charles has allowed me to take instruction in the Code of the Warrior, in the fashion of his people.”

  Martin did not appear surprised. “Have you learned much?”

  “That they are like us,” said Baru with a faint smile. “I know little of such things, but I suspect we are as two saplings from the same root. They follow the Way and understand the Wheel as do the Hadati. They understand honor and duty as do the Hadati. We who live in Yabon had taken much from the Kingdom, the names of our gods, and most of our language, but there is much of the old ways we Hadati kept. The Tsurani belief in the Way is much like our own. This is strange, for until the coming of the Tsurani, no others we met shared our beliefs.”

  Martin looked at Charles. The Tsurani shrugged slightly. “Perhaps we only find the same truth on both worlds. Who can say?”

  Martin said, “That sounds the sort of thing to take up with Tully and Kulgan.” He was quiet a moment, then said, “Charles, will you accept the position of Swordmaster?”

  The Tsurani blinked, the only sign of surprise. “You honor me, Your Grace. Yes.”

  “Good, I am pleased. Fannon will begin your instruction after I’m gone.” Martin looked up at the door, then lowered his voice. “I want you both to do me a service.”

  Charles didn’t hesitate in agreeing to serve. Baru studied Martin closely. They had forged a bond on the trip to Moraelin with Arutha. Baru had almost died there, but fate had spared him. Baru knew his fortune was intertwined in some way with those who had quested for Silverthorn. Something lay hidden behind the Duke’s eyes, but Baru would not question him. He would learn what it was in time. Finally he said, “As will I.”

  Martin sat between the men and began to speak.

 
—

  Martin gathered his cloak about him. The afternoon breeze was chilly, blowing down from the north. He looked sternward as Crydee disappeared behind the headlands of Sailor’s Grief. With a nod to the ship’s captain, he descended the companionway from the quarterdeck. Entering the captain’s cabin, he locked the door behind. The man who waited there was one of Fannon’s soldiers, named Stefan, equal in height and general build to the Duke, and wearing a tunic and trousers of the same color as Martin’s. He had been sneaked aboard in the early hours before dawn, dressed as a common sailor. Martin took off his cloak and handed it to the man. “Don’t come up on deck except after night until you’re well past Queg. Should anything force the ship ashore at Carse, Tulan, or the Free Cities, I don’t want sailors speaking of my disappearance.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “When you get to Krondor, there’ll be a carriage waiting for you, I expect. I don’t know how long you can continue the masquerade. Most of the nobles who’ve met me will already be en route to Rillanon, and we’re enough alike to casual observation that most of the servants won’t know you.” Martin studied his bogus counterpart. “If you keep your mouth closed, you might pass as me all the way to Rillanon.”

  Stefan looked disquieted by the prospect of a long siege of playing nobility but said only, “I will try, Your Grace.”

  The ship rocked as the captain ordered a change of course. Martin said, “That’s the first warning.” Quickly he stripped off his boots, tunic, and trousers, until all he wore was his underbreeches.

  The captain’s cabin had a single, hinged window, which opened with a protest. Martin hung his legs over the edge. From above he heard the captain’s angry voice. “You’re coming too close to the shore! Hard astarboard!”

  A confused-sounding helmsman answered, “Aye, Captain, hard astarboard!”

  Martin said, “Good fortune be with you, Stefan.”

  “And with you, Your Grace.”

  Martin dropped from the captain’s cabin. The captain had warned him of the danger of hitting the large tiller, so Martin easily avoided it. The captain had brought him as close to shore as was safe, then turned out for deeper waters. Martin saw the beach less than a mile off. He was an indifferent swimmer but a powerful man, and he set out for the shore in a series of easy strokes. The rolling swells made it unlikely anyone in the rigging would notice the man who was falling far behind them.

  A short time later, Martin staggered up onto the beach, breathing hard. He looked about, locating landmarks. The action of the currents had carried him farther south than he had wished. Taking a deep breath, he turned up the beach and began to run.

  After less than ten minutes, three riders came over a low bluff, moving rapidly down to the sand. Upon seeing them, Martin halted. Garret was the first to dismount, while Charles led an extra horse. Baru kept an alert eye out for sign of anyone in the area. Garret handed Martin a bundle of clothing. The run up the beach had dried Martin off and he dressed quickly. Behind the saddle of the extra horse hung an oilskin-covered longbow.

  As Martin dressed, he said, “Did anyone see you leave?”

  Charles answered, “Garret was already gone from the castle with your horse before dawn, and I simply instructed the guards I was riding a short way with Baru as he returned to Yabon. No comment was made by anyone.”

  “Good. As we learned the last time we faced Murmandamus’s agents, secrecy is paramount.” Martin mounted and said, “Thank you for your help. Charles, you and Garret had best return quickly, before anyone becomes suspicious.”

  Charles said, “Whatever fate brings, Your Grace, may it also bring honor.”

  Garret only said, “Good fortune, Your Grace.”

  The four riders were off, two returning up the coast road to Crydee, two heading away from the sea, toward the forest, bound for the northeast.

  —

  The forests were quiet, but still punctuated by the normal bird calls and small animal noises that indicated things were as they should be. Martin and Baru had ridden hard for days, pushing their horses to the limit of their endurance. They had crossed the river Crydee hours earlier.

  From behind a tree a figure emerged, dressed in a dark green tunic and brown leather breeches. With a wave he said, “Well met, Martin Longbow, Baru Serpentslayer.”

  Martin recognized the elf, though he did not know him well. “Greetings, Tarlen. We come seeking counsel with the Queen.”

  “Then travel on, for you and Baru are always welcome in her court. I must stand watch here. Things have become somewhat strained since last you guested.”

  Martin recognized the tone of the elf’s words. Something had the elves distressed, but Tarlen wouldn’t speak of it. Martin would need to see the Queen and Tomas to discover what it was. He wondered. The last time the elves had seemed this disturbed over something, Tomas had been at the height of his madness. Martin spurred his horse forward.

  Later the two riders approached the heart of the elven forests, Elvandar, ancient home to the elves. The tree city was awash with light, for the sun was high overhead, crowning the massive trees with brilliance. Leaves of green and gold, red and white, silver and bronze sparkled across the canopy of Elvandar.

  As they dismounted, an elf approached. “We shall care for your mounts, Lord Martin. Her Majesty wishes you to come at once.”

  Martin and Baru hurried up the stairs cut from the bole of a tree into the city of the elves. Across high arches on the backs of branches and upward they moved. At last they reached the large platform that was the center of Elvandar, the court of the Queen.

  Aglaranna sat quietly upon her throne, her senior adviser, Tathar, at her side. Around the court the elder Spellweavers sat, the Queen’s council. The throne beside her was empty. Her expression was unreadable to most, but Martin understood elven ways and saw the strain in her eyes. Still, she was beautiful and regal and her smile a beacon of warmth as she said, “Welcome, Lord Martin. Welcome, Baru of the Hadati.”

  Both men bowed; then the Queen said, “Come, let us talk.” She rose and led them to a chamber, accompanied by Tathar. Inside she turned and bade them sit. Wine and food were brought but ignored as Martin said, “Something is wrong.” It was not a question.

  Aglaranna’s expression of concern deepened. Martin had not seen her this troubled since the Riftwar. “Tomas is gone.”

  Martin blinked. “Where?”

  Tathar answered. “We do not know. He vanished in the night, a few days after the Midsummer’s Festival. Occasionally he would wander off to be with his own thoughts, but never for more than a day. When he did not appear after two days, trackers were dispatched. There were no tracks from Elvandar, though that is not surprising. He has other means of traveling. But in a glade to the north we found marks from his boots. There were signs of another man there, sandal prints in the dirt.”

  Martin said, “Tomas went to meet with someone, then didn’t return.”

  “There was a third set of tracks,” said the Elf Queen. “A dragon’s. Once again the Valheru flies upon the back of a dragon.”

  Martin sat back, understanding. “You fear a return of the madness?”

  “No,” said Tathar instantly. “Tomas is free of that and, if anything, is stronger than he suspects. No, we fear Tomas’s need to depart in such a manner without word. We fear the presence of another.”

  Martin’s eyes widened. “The sandals?”

  “You know what power is needed to enter our forests undetected. Only one man before has had the ability: Macros the Black.”

  Martin pondered. “Perhaps he’s not the only one. I understand Pug to have stayed upon the Tsurani world to study the problem of Murmandamus and what he called the Enemy. Perhaps he has returned.”

  “Which sorcerous master it is proves of little import,” said Tathar.

  It was Baru who spoke next. “What is important is that two men of vast powers are about upon a mission of mystery, at a time when it seems troubles have returned from
the north.”

  Aglaranna said, “Yes.” She said to Martin, “Rumors have reached us of the death of one who was close to you.” In the elven way she avoided naming the dead.

  “There are things I may not speak of, lady, even to one as highly regarded as you. I have a duty.”

  “Then,” asked Tathar, “may I ask where you are bound, and what brings you here?”

  “It is time to go north again,” said Martin, “to finish what was started last year.”

  “It is well you came this way,” said Tathar. “We have seen signs from the coast to the east of massive goblin migrations northward. Also the moredhel are bold with their scouting along the edge of our forests. They seem intent on discovering if any of our warriors pass beyond our normal boundaries. There have been sightings of bands of renegade humans riding northward, close to the boundary with Stone Mountain, as well. The gwali have fled south into the Green Heart, as if fearing something approaching. And for months we have been visited by some ill-aspected wind of evil, which carries some mystic quality, as if power were being drawn to the north. We are concerned over many things.”

  Baru and Martin exchanged glances. “Things move at swift pace,” said the Hadati.

  Further conversation was halted when a shout went up from below and an elf appeared at the Queen’s elbow. “Majesty, come, a Returning.”

  Aglaranna said, “Come, Martin, Baru, witness something miraculous.”

  Tathar followed his Queen, turning to say, “If it is indeed a true Returning and not a ruse.”

  The Queen and Tathar were joined by her other advisers as they hurried down to the forest floor. When they reached ground level, they were greeted by several warriors who surrounded a moredhel. The dark elf looked somehow odd to Martin, showing a calmness beyond what was normal for the dark elves.