Magician (10th Aniversary Edition)

by Raymond E. Feist

  Moments later a sailor appeared before them. “Captain, we’ve cracked a timber and she’s taking water.”

  The captain waved to one of his mates who stood on the main deck “Take a crew below and shore up the damage, then report.”

  The mate quickly picked four men to accompany him below. Kulgan seemed to go into a trance for a minute before he said, “Captain, this storm will blow another three days.”

  The captain cursed the luck the gods had sent him and said to the Duke, “I can’t run her before the storm for three days taking water. I must find a place to heave to and repair the hull.”

  The Duke nodded, shouting over the storm, “Are you turning for Queg?”

  The captain shook his head, dislodging snow and water dripping from his black beard. “I cannot turn her into the wind for Queg. We will have to lie off Sorcerer’s Isle.”

  Kulgan shook his head, though the gesture was not noticed by the others. The magician asked, “Is there nowhere else we can put in?”

  The captain looked at the magician and the Duke. “Not as close. We would risk the loss of a mast. Then, if we didn’t founder and sink, we’d lose six days rather than three. The seas run higher, and I fear I may lose more men.” He shouted orders aloft and to the steersman, and they took a more southerly course, heading for Sorcerer’s Isle.

  Kulgan went below with the Duke. The rocking, surging motion of the ship made the ladder and narrow passageway difficult to negotiate, and the stout magician was tossed from one side to the other as they made their way to their cabins. The Duke went into his cabin, shared with his son, and Kulgan entered his own. Gardan, Meecham, and Pug were trying to rest on their respective bunks during the buffeting. The boy was having a difficult time, for he had been sick the first two days. He had gained sea legs of a sort, but still couldn’t bring himself to eat the salty pork and hardtack they were forced to consume. Because of the rough seas, the ship’s cook had been unable to perform his usual duties.

  The ship’s timbers groaned in protest at the pounding the waves were giving, and from ahead they could hear the sound of hammers as the work crew struggled to repair the breached hull.

  Pug rolled over and looked at Kulgan. “What about the storm?”

  Meecham came up on one elbow and looked at his master. Gardan did likewise. Kulgan said, “It will blow three days longer. We will put in to the lee of an island and hold there until it slackens.”

  “What island?” asked Pug.

  “Sorcerer’s Isle.”

  Meecham shot up out of his bunk, hitting his head on the low ceiling. Cursing and rubbing his head, while Gardan stifled a laugh, he exclaimed, “The island of Macros the Black?”

  Kulgan nodded, while using one hand to steady himself as the ship nosed over a high crest and forward into a deep trough. “The same. I have little liking for the idea, but the captain fears for the ship.” As if to punctuate the point, the hull creaked and groaned alarmingly for a moment.

  “Who is Macros?” asked Pug.

  Kulgan looked thoughtful for a moment, as much from listening to the work crew in the hold as from the boy’s question, then said, “Macros is a great sorcerer, Pug. Perhaps the greatest the world has ever known.”

  “Aye,” added Meecham, “and the spawn of some demon from the deepest circle of hell. His arts are the blackest, and even the bloody Priests of Lims-Kragma fear to set foot on his island.”

  Gardan laughed. “I have yet to see a wizard who could cow the death goddess’s priests. He must be a powerful mage.”

  “Those are only stories, Pug,” Kulgan said. “What we do know about him is that when the persecution of magicians reached its height in the Kingdom, Macros fled to this island. No one has since traveled to or from it.”

  Pug sat up on his bunk, interested in what he was hearing, oblivious to the terrible noise of the storm. He watched as Kulgan’s face was bathed in moving half lights and shadows by the crazily swinging lantern that danced with every lurch of the ship.

  “Macros is very old,” Kulgan continued. “By what arts he keeps alive, only he knows, but he has lived there over three hundred years.”

  Gardan scoffed, “Or several men by the same name have lived there.”

  Kulgan nodded. “Perhaps. In any event, there is nothing truly known about him, except terrible tales told by sailors. I suspect that even if Macros does practice the darker side of magic, his reputation is greatly inflated, perhaps as a means of securing privacy.”

  A loud cracking noise, as if another timber in the hull had split, quieted them. The cabin rolled with the storm, and Meecham spoke all their minds: “And I’m hoping we’ll all be able to stand upon Sorcerer’s Isle.”

  The ship limped into the southern bay of the island. They would have to wait until the storm subsided before they could put divers over the side to inspect the damage to the hull.

  Kulgan, Pug, Gardan, and Meecham came out on deck. The weather was slightly kinder with the cliffs cutting the fury of the storm. Pug walked to where the captain and Kulgan were standing. He followed their gaze up to the top of the cliffs.

  High above the bay sat a castle, its tall towers outlined against the sky by the grey light of day. It was a strange place, with spires and turrets pointing upward like some clawed hand. The castle was dark save for one window in a high tower that shone with blue, pulsating light, as if lightning had been captured and put to work by the inhabitant.

  Pug heard Meecham say, “There, upon the bluff. Macros.”

  Three days later the divers broke the surface and yelled to the captain their appraisal of the damage. Pug was on the main deck with Meecham, Gardan, and Kulgan Prince Arutha and his father stood near the captain, awaiting the verdict on the ship’s condition. Above, the seabirds wheeled, looking for the scraps and garbage heralded by a ship in these waters. The storms of winter did little to supplement the meager feeding of the birds, and a ship was a welcome source of fare.

  Arutha came down to the main deck where the others waited. “It will take all of this day and half tomorrow to repair the damage, but the captain thinks it will hold fair until we reach Krondor. We should have little trouble from here.”

  Meecham and Gardan threw each other meaningful glances. Not wanting to let the opportunity pass, Kulgan said, “Will we be able to put ashore, Your Highness?”

  Arutha rubbed his clean-shaven chin with a gloved hand. “Aye, though not one sailor will put out a boat to carry us.”

  “Us?” asked the magician.

  Arutha smiled his crooked smile. “I have had my fill of cabins, Kulgan. I feel the need to stretch my legs on firm ground. Besides, without supervision, you’d spend the day wandering about places where you’ve no business.” Pug looked up toward the castle, his glance noted by the magician.

  “We’ll keep clear of that castle and the road up from the beach, to be sure. The tales of this island only speak of ill coming to those who seek to enter the sorcerer’s halls.”

  Arutha signaled a seaman. A boat was readied, and the four men and the boy got aboard. The boat was hauled over the side and lowered by a crew sweating despite the cold wind that still blew after the storm. By the glances they kept throwing toward the crest of the bluffs, Pug knew they were not sweating because of work or weather.

  As if reading his thoughts, Arutha said, “There may be a more superstitious breed on Midkemia than sailors, but who they are I could not tell you.”

  When the boat was in the water, Meecham and Gardan cast off the lines that hung suspended from the davits. The two men awkwardly took oars and began to row toward the beach. It was a broken, stuttering rhythm at first, but with disapproving looks from the Prince, along with several comments about how men could spend their lives in a sea town and not know how to row, they finally got the boat moving in good order.

  They put in at a sandy stretch of beach, a little cove that broke the bluffs of the bay. Upward toward the castle ran a path, which joined another leading away across the isl
and.

  Pug leaped out of the boat and helped pull it ashore. When it was fast aground, the others got out and stretched their legs.

  Pug felt as if they were being watched, but each time he looked around, there was nothing in sight but the rocks, and the few seabirds that lived the winter in clefts of the cliff face.

  Kulgan and the Prince studied the two paths up from the beach. The magician looked at the other path, away from the sorcerer’s castle, and said, “There should be little harm in exploring the other trail. Shall we?”

  Days of boredom and confinement outweighed whatever anxiety they felt. With a brusque nod, Arutha led the way up the trail.

  Pug followed last, behind Meecham. The big-shouldered franklin was armed with a broadsword, upon which his hand rested. Pug kept his sling handy, for he still didn’t feel comfortable with a sword, though Gardan was giving him lessons when possible. The boy fingered the sling absently, his eyes taking in the scene before them.

  Along the trail they startled several colonies of turnstones and plovers, which took flight when the party came near. The birds squawked their protests and hovered near their roosts until the hikers passed, then returned to the scant comfort of the hillside.

  They crested the first of a series of hills, and the path away from the castle could be seen to dip behind another crest Kulgan said, “It must lead somewhere. Shall we continue?” Arutha nodded, and the others said nothing. They continued their journey until they came to a small valley, little more than a dell, between two ranges of low hills. On the floor of the valley sat some buildings.

  Arutha said softly, “What do you think, Kulgan? Are they inhabited?”

  Kulgan studied them for a moment, then turned to Meecham, who stepped forward. The franklin inspected the vista below, his gaze traveling from the floor of the vale to the hills around. “I think not. There is no sign of smoke from cook fires, nor sound of people working.”

  Arutha resumed his march down toward the floor of the valley, and the others followed. Meecham turned to watch Pug for a moment, then noticed the boy was unarmed except for his sling. The franklin pulled a long hunting knife from his belt and handed it to the boy without comment. Pug bobbed his head once in acknowledgment and took the knife in silence.

  They reached a plateau above the buildings, and Pug could see an alien-looking house, the central building circled by a large court and several outbuildings. The entire property was surrounded by a low wall, no more than four feet tall.

  They worked their way down the hillside to a gate in the wall. There were several barren fruit trees in the courtyard, and a garden area overgrown with weeds. Near the front of the central building a fountain stood, topped with a statue of three dolphins. They approached the fountain and saw that the interior of the low pool surrounding the statue was covered in blue tiles, faded and discolored with age. Kulgan examined the construction of the fountain ‘This is fashioned in a clever manner. I believe that water should issue from the mouths of the dolphins.”

  Arutha agreed. “I have seen the King’s fountains in Rillanon, and they are similar, though lacking the grace of this.”

  There was little snow on the ground, for it seemed the sheltered valley and the entire island received little even in the most severe winters. But it was still cold. Pug wandered a little way off and studied the house. It had a single story, with windows every ten feet along the wall. There was but one opening for a double door in the wall he stood facing, though the doors were long off their hinges.

  “Whoever lived here expected no trouble.”

  Pug turned to see Gardan standing behind him, staring at the house as well. “There is no tower for lookout,” continued the Sergeant. “And the low wall seems more likely to keep livestock out of the gardens than for defense.”

  Meecham joined them, hearing Gardan’s last remar.k “Aye, there is little concern for defense here. This is the lowest spot on the island, save for that small stream you could see behind the house when we came down the hill.” He turned to stare up at the castle, the highest spires of which could still be seen from the valley. “There is where you build for trouble. This place,” he said, indicating the low buildings with a sweep of his hand, “was fashioned by those who knew little of strife.”

  Pug nodded as he moved away. Gardan and Meecham headed in a different direction, toward an abandoned stable.

  Pug moved around to the back of the house and found several smaller buildings. He clutched his knife in his right hand and entered the closest. It was open to the sky, for the roof had collapsed. Red roof tiles, shattered and faded, lay about the floor, in what seemed to be a storeroom, with large wooden shelves along three walls. Pug investigated the other rooms in the building, finding them to be of similar configuration. The entire building was some sort of storage area.

  He moved to the next building and found a large kitchen. A stone stove stood against one wall, big enough for several kettles to cook upon it simultaneously, while a spit hung over a back opening above the fire was large enough for a beef side or whole lamb. A mammoth butcher’s block stood in the center of the room, scarred from countless blows of cleaver and knife.

  Pug examined a strange-looking bronze pot in the corner, overlaid with dust and cobwebs. He turned it over and found a wooden spoon. As he looked up, he thought he saw a glimpse of someone outside the door of the cookhouse.

  “Meecham? Gardan?” he asked, as he slowly approached the door. When he stepped outside, there was no one in sight, but he did catch another glimpse of movement at the rear door of the main house.

  He hurried toward that door, assuming his companions had already entered the building. As he entered the main house, he caught a hint of movement down a side corridor. He stopped for a moment to survey this strange house.

  The door before him stood open, a sliding door fallen from railings that had once held it in place. Through the door he could see a large central courtyard, open to the sky above. The house was actually a hollow square, with pillars holding up the interior of the partial roof. Another fountain and a small garden occupied the very center of the courtyard. Like the one outside, the fountain was in disrepair, and this garden was also choked with weeds.

  Pug turned toward the hall down which he had seen movement. He passed through a low side door into a shadowy corridor. In places the roof had lost several tiles, so that occasionally light shone down from above, making it easy for the boy to find his way. He passed two empty rooms, he suspected they might be sleeping quarters.

  He turned a corner to find himself before the door of an odd-looking room and entered. The walls were tile mosaics, of sea creatures sporting in the foam with scantily dressed men and women. The style of art was new to Pug. The few tapestries and fewer paintings on display in the Duke’s halls were all very lifelike, with muted colors and detailed execution in the finish. These mosaics were suggestive of people and animals without capturing details.

  In the floor was a large depression, like a pool, with steps leading down before him Out of the wall opposite obtruded a brass fish head, hanging over the pool. The nature of the room was beyond Pug.

  As if someone had read his thoughts, a voice from behind said, “It is a tepidanum.”

  Pug turned and saw a man standing behind him. He was of average height, with a high forehead and deep-set black eyes. There were streaks of grey at the temples of his dark hair, but his beard was black as night. He wore a brown robe of simple material, a whipcord belt around the waist. In his left hand he held a sturdy oak staff. Pug came on guard, holding the long hunting knife before him.

  “Nay, lad. Put up your scramasax, I mean you no harm.” He smiled in a way that made Pug relax.

  Pug lowered his knife and said, “What did you call this room?”

  “A tepidarium,” he said, entering the room. “Here warm water was piped into the pool, and bathers would remove their clothing and place them on those shelves.” He pointed to some shelves against the rear wall.

>   “Servants would clean and dry the clothing of dinner guests while they bathed here.”

  Pug thought the idea of dinner guests bathing at someone’s home in a group a novel one, but he said nothing. The man continued, “Through that door”—he pointed to a door next to the pool—“was another pool with very hot water, in a room called a calidanum. Beyond was another pool with cold water in a room called a fngidarium. There was a fourth room called the unctonum, where servants would rub down the bathers with scented oils. And they scraped their skins with wooden sticks. They didn’t use soap then.”

  Pug was confused by all the different bathing rooms. “That sounds like a lot of time spent getting clean. This is all very odd.”

  The man leaned on his staff. “So it must seem to you, Pug. Still, I expect those that built this house would consider your keep halls strange as well.”

  Pug started. “How did you know my name?”

  The man smiled again. “I heard the tall soldier call you by name as you approached the building. I was watching you, keeping out of sight until I was sure you were not pirates come to seek ancient loot. Few pirates come so young, so I thought it would be safe to talk to you.”

  Pug studied the man. There was something about him that suggested hidden meanings in his words. “Why would you speak with me?”

  The man sat on the edge of the empty pool. The hem of his robe was pulled back, revealing cross-gartered sandals of sturdy construction. “I am alone mostly, and the chance to speak with strangers is a rare thing. So I thought to see if you would visit with me awhile, for a few moments at least, until you return to your ship.”

  Pug sat down also, but kept a comfortable distance between himself and the stranger. “Do you live here?”

  The man looked around the room. “No, though I once did, long ago.” There was a contemplative note in his voice, as if the admission were calling up long-buried memories.

  “Who are you?”

  The man smiled again, and Pug felt his nervousness vanish. There was something reassuring about his manner, and Pug could see that he intended no harm. “Mostly I am called the traveler, for many lands have I seen. Here I am sometimes known as the hermit, for so I live. You may call me what you like. It is all the same.”