The Magic Kingdom of Landover , Volume 1

by Terry Brooks

  “I respect the initiative and the courage that you have shown in undertaking your journey to the peoples of the valley, High Lord.” The River Master returned now to the matter of Ben’s visit. “I believe you to be a stronger man than those who laid claim to the throne of Landover before. Your actions at Rhyndweir would suggest that you are, in any case. I think you are also a straightforward and decisive man, so I will spare you the evasive maneuverings of diplomacy. I have considered your request—knowing what it is, as I have said—and I must reject it.”

  They walked on in silence. Ben was stunned. “May I ask why?” he said finally.

  “I can see no advantage to granting it.”

  “I would argue that you should see many advantages.”

  The River Master nodded. “Yes, I know. You would argue that there is strength in numbers—that a central government would benefit the whole of the people of the land. You would argue that the people of the land cannot trust one another while there is no King. You would argue that we are threatened from without by neighboring worlds and from within by the Mark and his demons. You would argue that the land is stricken with a blight that is caused by a failing of the magic that made her, and that eventually she will die.” He looked over. “Have I correctly stated the arguments that you would make?”

  Ben nodded slowly. “How would you answer them?”

  “I would tell you a story.” The River Master slowed and led Ben to a bench chiseled from a massive rock. They sat. “The people of the lake country came from the fairy world, High Lord—most in a time long since forgotten by everyone but us. We are a fairy people who choose to live in a world of humans. We have become mortals by choice, affected by time’s passage where once we were virtually immortal. We are elementals—creatures of wood, earth, and water—sprites, nymphs, kelpies, naiads, pixies, and dozens more. We left the fairy world and claimed the lake country as our own. We made it what it is—a country of beauty, grace, and health. We made it so because that was our purpose for coming into Landover in the first place. We came to give her life—not simply the lake country, but all of the valley.”

  He paused. “We have that power, High Lord—the power to give life.” He bent close, an earnest teacher instructing his pupil. “We have not lost all of the magic, you see. We still possess the power to heal. We can take a land that suffers from sickness and blight and make it whole again. Come with me a moment. See what I mean.”

  He rose and walked a short distance to a gathering of brush nestled at the perimeter of the elm grove. The leaves were showing signs of wilt and spotting, much as the Bonnie Blues Ben had observed on his journey to Sterling Silver.

  “See the sickness in the leaves?” the River Master asked.

  He reached down and placed his hand upon the brush, close to where it rooted in the earth. There was concentration in his face. His breathing slowed and his head bent until his chin rested on his chest. Slowly the brush stirred, responding to his touch. The wilt and spotting disappeared, the color returned, and the brush grew straight again in the afternoon light.

  The River Master rose. “We have the power to heal,” he repeated, the intensity still visible in his eyes. “We would have used it to benefit the whole of the land had we been allowed to do so. But there are many who distrust us. There are many more who care nothing for the work that we do. They prefer us confined to the lake country, and we have honored their wishes. If they choose to think us dangerous because we are different, then so be it. But they will not leave well enough alone, High Lord. They continue to harm the land through their use of it. They cause sickness to spread through their carelessness and disregard. They bring sickness not only to their own homes in the valley, but to ours as well—to the rivers and the forests that belong to us!”

  Ben nodded. Perhaps they shared common ground after all. “Your world is really not so different from my own, River Master. There were many who pollute the land and water in my world as well, and they disregard the safety and health of others in doing so.”

  “Then, High Lord, you will understand the ending that I put to my story.” The River Master faced him squarely. “The lake country belongs to us—to the people who live within and care for it. This is our home. If the others in the valley choose to destroy their homes, that is of no concern to us. We have the power to heal our rivers and forests, and we will do so for as long as it is necessary. The loss of the magic that came with the death of the old King caused no greater problem for us than had already existed. The Lords of the Greensward, the trolls, kobolds, gnomes, and all of the others had spread their sickness through Landover long before that. Nothing has changed for us. We have always been a separate people, and I suspect that we always will be.”

  He shook his head slowly. “I wish you success, High Lord, but I will not pledge to you. Your coming to the throne of Landover changes nothing for the people of the lake country.”

  Ben glanced down again at the bit of brush the River Master had healed and then folded his arms across his chest solemnly. “I was told by Questor Thews that the River Master and his people worked to cure the sickness that spreads through Landover. But isn’t it true that your work to keep the sickness out grows more difficult each day? The loss of the magic spreads the sickness too quickly, River Master. There will come a day when even your skill will not be enough, a day when the blight is so strong that the magic of the land itself will die.”

  The River Master’s face was a stone. “The others may perish because they lack the skills to survive, High Lord. That will not happen with us.”

  Ben frowned. “That declaration of independence seems rather overoptimistic, don’t you think? What of the Mark and his demons? Can you survive them?” There was a trace of irritation in his voice.

  “They cannot even see us if we do not wish it. We can disappear into the mist in a moment. They pose no danger to us.”

  “They don’t? What if they occupy Elderew?”

  “Then we would build again. We have done so before. The land always offers the means to survive when you possess the magic.”

  His placid certainty was infuriating. He was a mirror image of the proverbial scholar who lived inside of his books and saw nothing of the world that was not printed there. It appeared that Abernathy’s cynicism had some foundation in fact after all. Ben’s mind raced, sorting through arguments and discarding them just as quickly. The River Master had obviously decided that he would not pledge to any King of Landover, and it did not seem that there was anything that could make him change his mind. Yet Ben knew that he must find a way.

  A light clicked on inside his head. “What of the reason that you came to Landover in the first place, River Master? What of your work here?”

  The chiseled face regarded him thoughtfully. “My work, High Lord?”

  “Your work—the work that brought all of your people out of the fairy world and into Landover. What of that? You left paradise and timeless, immortal life to cross into a world with time and death. You accepted that you would be human. You did that because you wanted to cleanse Landover, to make her earth, trees, mountains, and waters healthy and safe! I don’t know why you made that choice, but you did. Now you seem to be telling me that you have given up! You don’t seem that sort of man to me. Are you willing to sit back and let the whole valley turn sick and wither away into nothing just to prove a point? Once the sickness spreads far enough and deep enough, how will you ever find the magic to drive it out!”

  The River Master stared at him wordlessly, a small frown appearing, a hint of doubt in his eyes.

  Ben charged quickly ahead. “If you pledge to me, I will put an end to the pollution of the waterways and the forests. I will stop the spread of the sickness—not just here, in the lake country, but throughout the valley.”

  “A noble ambition, High Lord.” The River Master seemed almost sad. “How will you do that?”

  “I will find a way.”

  “How? You lack even the small magic of the ol
d King, the magic that gave him mastery over the Paladin. You wear the medallion—I see it beneath your tunic—but it is little more than a symbol of your office. High Lord, you are a King in name only. How can you do any of what you promise?”

  Ben took a deep breath. The words stung, but he was careful to keep the anger from his voice. “I don’t know. But I will find a way.”

  The River Master was silent a moment, lost in thought. Then he nodded slowly. His words were slow and carefully measured. “Very well, High Lord. Nothing is lost by letting you try. You make a promise I will hold you to. Put an end to the pollution. Put a stop to the spreading of the sickness. Extract a promise from the others who inhabit this valley that they will work with us to preserve the land. When you have done that, then I will give you my pledge.”

  He extended his hand. “A bargain, High Lord?”

  Ben gripped the hand firmly in his own. “A bargain, River Master.”

  They shook. The sound of the children’s laughter rang softly in the distance. Ben sighed inwardly. Another conditional pledge extracted. He was a man building a house of cards.

  He gave the River Master his best courtroom smile. “You wouldn’t happen to know a way to keep the dragon out of the Greensward, would you?”

  ELDEREW

  The River Master did not know a way to keep the dragon out of the Greensward. No one did, so far as he knew. Nightshade might, he speculated as he guided Ben back through the grove of elm and into the park with its children. The witch of the Deep Fell had magic more powerful than that of any other creature in the valley—although even Nightshade had never dared offer challenge to Strabo. In any case, Nightshade would never agree to help him, even if she had the means to do so. She had always hated the Kings of Landover because they commanded the services of the Paladin, and the Paladin was more powerful than she.

  Times change, Ben thought dismally.

  There were the fairies, of course, the River Master added almost as an afterthought. The fairies had always been able to control the dragons. That was why the dragons had fled from or been driven out of their world and come over into the valley. But the fairies would not help Ben either. The fairies helped no one, unless it was their idea first. They stayed within the mists, hidden in their timeless, ageless world, and lived their own lives according to their own rules. Ben could not even go to them to ask their help. No one ever went into the fairy world and came out again.

  They walked down together through Elderew, the River Master describing the history of his city and its people, Ben wondering how on God’s green earth—or this one, for that matter—he was ever going to make a success out of being King. The afternoon slipped away; while the city was a marvelous and exciting creation, the tour was wasted on Ben. He listened dutifully, commented in all of the appropriate places, asked the proper questions, and waited with a saint’s patience for a chance to excuse himself.

  The chance never came. Dusk settled, and the River Master deposited him at his lodging for the night—a ground-level cottage with several open-air porches and walkups, secluded gardens and an impressive stand of Bonnie Blues. Overhead, the brightly lighted treelanes of the city spiraled through the mist of the forest roof in arcs of hazy gold. Laughter and light banter echoed through the shadows. For some, the day’s work was finished.

  Ben trooped into the cottage, the daylight fading quickly to nightfall behind him, the River Master’s promise of an evening of celebration hanging over him like a pall. The last thing he felt like doing was celebrating.

  The others of the little company were waiting for him as he entered. He gave them a cursory hello and plopped down in a comfortably cushioned wicker rocker.

  “I struck out again,” he announced wearily.

  Questor took a seat across from him. “He refused his pledge, High Lord?”

  “More or less. He promised to give it only after I’ve found a way to put a stop to the pollution of the valley by the others who live here. I have to extract their sworn vow to work with the lake country people to keep the valley clean.”

  “I warned you he would be difficult, High Lord,” Abernathy declared triumphantly. Ben glanced over. He remembered his scribe’s admonishment somewhat differently, but there was nothing to be gained by arguing the point.

  “I think you have done rather well, High Lord,” Questor informed him, ignoring Abernathy.

  Ben groaned. “Questor, please …”

  “I am quite serious about this, I assure you,” the wizard added quickly. “I was worried he would refuse you unconditionally. He was loyal to the old King out of a sense of respect for a monarchy that had governed hundreds of years and out of a desire not to provoke trouble by refusing obeisance. But the lake country people have never truly had a sense of belonging; there has never been an acceptance of them by the others.”

  “The River Master said something along those same lines. Why is it such a problem?”

  Questor shook his head. “Mostly, it is a lack of understanding. The people of the lake country are fairies and they command magic the others in the valley do not and never will. The people of the lake country chose self-exile from a world viewed by most as perfect, a world that is timeless and changeless, a world where one can be immortal. The people of the lake country live differently from the others, and their conception of life’s priorities is different. All of that breeds mistrust, jealousy, envy—a lot of very destructive emotions.”

  “There is another side to the story, of course,” Abernathy interjected from behind Questor. “The people of the lake country have always had difficulty associating with the others of Landover. They remain aloof for the most part, arguing that their values should be imposed while they as a people remain apart. They rail against the others for spreading sickness and blight through poor management of the land and waters, yet they stay hidden within their mist and forest.”

  Ben frowned. “Is the pollution they complain about really that bad?”

  Questor shrugged. “Bad enough. The Lords of the Greensward strip the land for their fields and livestock and hunt the forests for food. The trolls mine the mountains north for ores and their smelts poison the streams that feed the valley. Others contribute their share as well.”

  “It is difficult to accommodate everyone, High Lord,” Abernathy added quietly, eyes blinking thoughtfully beneath his shaggy brows.

  “Words of wisdom.” Ben found himself thinking suddenly of the life he had left behind him in Chicago. “The more things change, the more things stay the same,” he muttered.

  Questor and Abernathy looked at each other. “High Lord?” Questor asked.

  Ben rose, stretched and shook his head. “Forget it. How soon do tonight’s festivities commence?”

  “Quite soon, High Lord,” the wizard replied.

  “A bath, High Lord?” Abernathy asked quickly. “A change of clothes?”

  “Both. And some ideas, if anyone has any, on how we can go about pleasing everyone long enough to persuade them all to acknowledge the damn throne!”

  Bunion and Parsnip hissed and grinned eagerly from across the room. Ben gave them a dark look, started from the room, then stopped. “You know, I wouldn’t mind tonight so much if I thought I could find a way to change the River Master’s mind—but I don’t see it happening.” He paused, considering. “Still, how much time do I have to work with?”

  “These celebrations usually last all night, High Lord,” Questor replied.

  Ben sighed wearily. “Terrific,” he muttered and left the room.

  Questor’s prediction proved to be right on target. The celebration began shortly after sunset and lasted until dawn. It was ostensibly held in honor of Landover’s visiting High Lord, but Ben was left with the distinct impression that the people of the lake country would have been willing to hold a celebration for almost any reason. Certainly neither pace nor order, orchestration nor duration, was in any way dictated by him.

  The festivities began with a processional. Ben was
seated in the amphitheater with the members of his little company, the River Master and his family, Willow among them, and several hundred others, as children and young people with torches and colored banners streamed through the open quarter section and circled the arena in a kaleidoscope of color and light, singing songs as they came. Concentric circles formed and turned slowly about one another, and the cheers and shouts of the people gathered lifted in appreciation. Music from flutes, horns, stringed instruments, and pipes rose from a band of players gathered directly below where Ben sat. The music was high and lilting, whisking the processional along, increasing its tempo as the minutes slipped past.

  Soon the broad concentric circles dissolved into smaller wheels, and the marchers became dancers who spun and whirled in the grasses, torches and banners fluttering above them as the music quickened. Wine and ale passed freely about the arena and the amphitheater seats above, and all joined in the clapping and singing. The sound rose to echo through the great forest trees of Elderew, filling the night until no other sound could be heard. Mist dissipated and the moons of Landover filled the skies, bright spheres of color that hung suspended like oversized balloons. Streamers of rainbow light filtered down through the trees to mingle with the fire of the torches and cast back the shadows.

  Ben quickly gave up looking for an opportunity to talk further with the River Master about pledging to the throne. No one was interested in doing anything except having a good time. The singing and shouting drowned out all efforts at normal conversation, and the wine was consumed with a speed he found astonishing. He accepted a glass warily and as a courtesy and found it quite good. He drank another—because what the hell difference did it make?—then several more; in no time at all, he was three sheets to the wind and having one hell of a good time. Questor and the kobolds drank with him, seemingly as relaxed as he, and only Abernathy abstained, muttering something about wine not being good for animals. Soon they were all singing and clapping, and it didn’t really matter what the singing and the clapping was for.