“Something you think will make me want to go to Stardock?” said the little man with a grin. “This must be something very wondrous.”
“I am convinced he somehow knew I would meet you, or someone like you—someone who would bring a different perspective to magic than anyone else at Stardock, and he felt that it was important. I think that is why he had me remember these words: There is no magic.”
Nakor laughed. He seemed genuinely amused. “Pug the Magician said that?”
“Yes.”
“Then,” said Nakor, “he is a very smart man for a magician.”
“You’ll go to Stardock?”
Nakor nodded. “Yes, I think you are right. Pug wanted me to go there and knew you would need to tell me this thing to make me go.”
Gamina had been riding silently beside her husband and at last she said, “Father often knew things before others. I think he knew that if left to their own devices, the Academy of Magicians would grow introspective and isolated.”
“Magicians like caves,” agreed Nakor.
James said, “Then do me one courtesy.”
“What?”
“Tell me what ‘there is no magic’ means.”
Nakor’s face screwed up in concentration. “Stop,” he said. James, Gamina, and Nakor moved their horses out of line and halted by the roadside, just beyond the boundary of the city. Nakor reached into his rucksack and pulled out three oranges. “Can you juggle?”
“A little,” said James.
Nakor tossed the three oranges to him. “Juggle.”
James, who had always had dexterity bordering on the supernatural, caught the three oranges and propelled them upward, and quickly was juggling them while holding his horse steady: no mean feat. Then Nakor said, “Can you do it with your eyes closed?”
James tried to get it into a rhythm as even as possible and closed his eyes. He had to force himself not to open his eyes and yet every instant he felt as if the next orange would not land in the palm of his left hand.
“Now, do it with one hand.”
James’s eyes opened and the oranges fell to the ground. “What?”
“I said you were to juggle with one hand.”
“Why?”
“It’s a trick. Do you see?”
James said, “I’m not sure.”
“Juggling is a trick. It is not magic. But if you don’t know how to do it, it looks like magic. That is why people toss coins to jugglers at the fair. When you can do it with one hand, you’re learning something.” Then he spurred his horse on and said, “And when you can do it without using either hand, you’ll understand what Pug meant.”
Arutha and Anita stood before their thrones as their sons marched into the court in Krondor. In the four months since the boys had left their court, the Prince and Princess of Krondor had felt pain and joy at news of Borric’s loss and his return. And they felt an empty place within that matched the empty place where Baron Locklear should have been.
The news of the Baron’s death had blunted the joy over the news of Borric’s survival. Arutha took the loss of any man in his command personally, and Anita had always had a soft spot for the roguish young boy who had grown to dazzle so many of the ladies in court. Glancing at Lord James, both rulers sensed that somehow he would never regain the playfulness he had reflected from Locklear. To every member of the court there was a void next to James that would never be filled.
The twins came to stand before their parents and both bowed formally. Arutha couldn’t put his finger on it but something in them was different. He had sent boys south to deal with Kesh and young men had returned—blooded, harder, and far more mature. They were now confident where they had been brash, decisive where they had been impulsive, and in their eyes was an echo of loss, of seeing the results of vicious and hateful acts. Arutha had read the reports that hard-riding dispatch riders had carried ahead of the returning Princes, but only now did he understand them.
So that all could hear, he said, “It pleases us that our sons have returned. The Princess and I welcome them back to our court.”
Then he stepped down from the dais and embraced Borric, then Erland. Anita came behind and hugged both fiercely, lingering a bit when she held Borric’s cheek next to her own. Then Elena and Nicholas were there to greet them, and Borric held his sister close to him, saying, “After those Keshian noblewomen, you are a simple and rare treasure.”
“Simple!” she said, pushing him away. “I like that!” Grinning at Erland, she said, “You must tell me about the ladies of the Keshian court. Everything. What did they wear?”
Borric and Erland exchanged glances and started to laugh. Borric said, “I don’t think you’ll be starting any fashions here, little sister. Keshian ladies wear almost no clothing at all. While Erland and I found it very attractive, I think Father would take one look at you in Keshian court regalia and have you locked away in your room forever.”
Elena blushed. “Well, tell me everything anyway. We’re going to have a wedding celebration for Baron James and I’ll want something different.”
Nicholas had been quietly waiting next to his father, and Borric and Erland as one noticed him. “Hello, little brother,” said Borric. He bent down hands on knees so he could look Nicholas in the eyes. “Have you been well?”
Nicholas threw his arms around Borric’s neck and began to cry. “They said you were dead. I knew you couldn’t be, but they said you were. I was so scared.”
Erland felt tears come unbidden to his own eyes and he uncharacteristically reached out and pulled Elena into his arms, hugging her again. Anita wept for joy, as did Elena, and even Arutha was hard-pressed to keep a dry eye.
After a moment, Borric picked up the boy and said, “That’s enough, Nicky. We’re both just fine.”
Erland said, “Yes, we are. And we missed you.”
Nicholas wiped away his tears and said, “You did?”
“Yes, we did,” answered Borric. “I met a boy in Kesh who was only a few years older than you. He made me understand just how much I did miss my little brother.”
Nicholas said, “What’s his name?”
“His name was Suli Abul,” said Borric with a tear running down his face.
“That’s a strange name,” said Nicholas. “What happened to him?”
“I’ll tell you about him some other time.”
“When?” said Nicholas with the impatience of most seven-year-old boys.
Borric put the boy down. “Maybe in a day or two, we’ll take a boat out of the harbor and go fishing. Would you like that?”
Nicholas nodded emphatically, and Erland tousled his hair.
Arutha motioned for James to come away from the others, then when they were off a little way, Duke Gardan joined them.
Arutha said, “First of all, I’ll want to talk to you at length tomorrow. But from your reports, I think we owe you thanks.”
James said, “It was something that needed to be done. Really, the boys deserve most of the credit. If Borric had returned to Krondor rather than risk his life trying to catch up with us, or had Erland not been so quick to see through some very clever ruses … who knows what harm could have come of it?”
Arutha put his hand on James’s shoulder. “It’s become something of a joke between us about you being named Duke of Krondor someday, hasn’t it?”
James smiled. “Yes, but I still want the job.”
Gardan, his seamed face showing disbelief, said, “After all you’ve just been through, you still want to sit at the right hand of power?”
James glanced at the happy faces in the court and said, “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
Arutha said, “Good. Because I have something to tell you. Gardan is finally retiring.”
James’s eyes widened. “Then …”
“No,” said Arutha. “I’m offering the post of Duke of Krondor to Earl Geoffery of Ravenswood, who’s serving in Rillanon with Lyam’s First Advisor.”
James’s
eyes narrowed. “What are you saying, Arutha?”
The Prince smiled his crooked smile and James felt his stomach turn cold. “When the festivities of your wedding celebration are over, my dear Jimmy,” said Arutha, “you and your lady are bound for Rillanon. You are to take Geoffery’s place as second-in-command to Duke Guy of Rillanon. Bas-Tyra is perhaps the shrewdest man I’ve ever met and you still have things to learn. Guy will teach you.” He grinned, one of the rare occasions James had ever seen him do that. “And who knows, when Borric is at last King, he may make you the next Duke of Rillanon.”
Motioning for his wife to come to his side, James slipped his arm around her waist and with a dry note said, “Amos Trask is right about you, you know. You do take the fun out of life.”
AFTERWORD
This is the second book I’ve elected to rewrite a decade or more after original publication. The first, Magician, was revised for the reasons outlined in the Foreword to the Revised/Author’s Preferred Edition. In short, it was to return the book to my original vision, reintroducing text that had been cut by editorial request prior to the original publication.
Prince of the Blood is a completely different story.
Let me start off by saying, I don’t reread my work after it’s published. Rewrite, responses to editorial requests, proofreading manuscripts, then reading galley proof pages, and by the time a book is published, I’m pretty sick of it. Besides, I’m usually off working on another project as soon as I finish one. At this writing, I’ve just turned in my twenty-first novel, King of Foxes.
Prince of the Blood was to me my least satisfying work. There are many reasons, some very personal, which I won’t share, but suffice it to say that for whatever reasons, the book didn’t quite turn out the way I wanted. I always felt there were two things I wished I had done differently; the development of the twins, who were never as likable by the end of the book as I wanted them to be, and the ending of the book itself.
For the first problem, I saw the flaw in the narration itself, where things got very busy and we never had much time to see Erland and Borric reflect on what they had experienced. I felt that could be fixed with a bit of introspection and emotional response here and there.
But that ending …? The problem was it was an action/adventure fantasy that suddenly in the last turns into a Victorian Murder Mystery, one in which “Sherlock Nakor” reveals who did it. Even when I finished the book back in 1988, I knew I had a problem, but publishing deadlines prevented me from “fixing it.”
And the book went on to become a New York Times and a Times of London bestseller, so I could hardly complain.
But recent events have offered me the opportunity to revisit my “problem-child book,” so I gladly took up the challenge.
When I wrote the foreword to the revised Magician I promised the reader that nothing significant had changed, that the story was essentially as it had been before. Such is not the case with Prince of the Blood. Yes, the last few pages are identical, with the reunited Borric and Erland returning home, wiser for their experiences, but from the time Borric enters the palace until then, things are quite a bit different than before.
I hope the reader will forgive me the vanity of going back to a previous work and trying to make it better than before. If the experience does not entertain, I apologize, but if you find this version a little more exciting, a little more fun, then I feel it was worth the effort. Either way, thank you for letting me take one more bash at this yarn.
Raymond E. Feist
San Diego, California, 2003
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Raymond E. Feist is the international bestselling author or co-author of twenty-one novels, including Magician, Silverthorn, A Darkness at Sethanon, Faerie Tale, The King’s Buccaneer, Talon of the Silver Hawk, and King of Foxes. Feist is a graduate of the University of California, San Diego, and resides in southern California with his family. He travels, collects wine, and lives and dies with the San Diego Chargers.
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THE NOVELS OF THE RIFTWAR
BY
RAYMOND E. FEIST
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Magician: Apprentice
VOLUME I IN THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING
RIFTWAR SAGA
The storm had broken.
Pug danced along the edge of the rocks, his feet finding scant purchase as he made his way among the tide pools. His dark eyes darted about as he peered into each pool under the cliff face, seeking the spiny creatures driven into the shallows by the recently passed storm. His boyish muscles bunched under his light shirt as he shifted the sack of sandcrawlers, rockclaws, and crabs plucked from this water garden.
The afternoon sun sent sparkles through the sea spray swirling around him, as the west wind blew his sun-streaked brown hair about. Pug set his sack down, checked to make sure it was securely tied, then squatted on a clear patch of sand. The sack was not quite full, but Pug relished the extra hour or so that he could relax. Megar the cook wouldn’t trouble him about the time as long as the sack was almost full. Resting with his back against a large rock, Pug was soon dozing in the sun’s warmth.
A cool wet spray woke him hours later. He opened his eyes with a start, knowing he had stayed much too long. Westward, over the sea, dark thunderheads were forming above the black outline of the Six Sisters, the small islands on the horizon. The roiling, surging clouds, with rain trailing below like some sooty veil, heralded another of the sudden storms common to this part of the coast in early summer. To the south, the high bluffs of Sailor’s Grief reared up against the sky, as waves crashed against the base of that rocky pinnacle. Whitecaps started to form behind the breakers, a sure sign that the storm would quickly strike. Pug knew he was in danger, for the storms of summer could drown anyone on the beaches, or if severe enough, on the low ground beyond.
He picked up his sack and started north, toward the castle. As he moved among the pools, he felt the coolness in the wind turn to a deeper, wetter cold. The day began to be broken by a patchwork of shadows as the first clouds passed before the sun, bright colors fading to shades of grey. Out to sea, lightning flashed against the blackness of the clouds, and the distant boom of thunder rode over the noise of the waves.
Pug picked up speed when he came to the first stretch of open beach. The storm was coming in faster than he would have thought possible, driving the rising tide before it. By the time he reached the second stretch of tide pools, there was barely ten feet of dry sand between water’s edge and cliffs.
Pug hurried as fast as was safe across the rocks, twice nearly catching his foot. As he reached the next expanse of sand, he mistimed his jump from the last rock and landed poorly. He fell to the sand, grasping his ankle. As if waiting for the mishap, the tide surged forward, covering him for a moment. He reached out blindly and felt his sack carried away. Frantically grabbing at it, Pug lunged forward, only to have his ankle fail. He went under, gulping water.…
Magician: Master
VOLUME II IN THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING
RIFTWAR SAGA
The dying slave lay screaming.
The day was unmercifully hot. The other slaves went about their work, ignoring the sound as much as possible. Life in the work camp was cheap, and it did no good to dwell on the fate that awaited so many. The dying man had been bitten by a relli, a snakelike swamp creature. Its venom was slow-acting and painful; short of magic, there was no cure.
Suddenly there was silence. Pug looked over to see a Tsurani guard wipe off his sword. A hand fell on Pug’s shoulder. Laurie’s voice whispered in his ear, “Looks like our venerable overseer was disturbed by the sound of Toffston’s dying.”
Pug tied a coil of rope securely around his waist. “At least it ended quickly.” He turned to the tall blond singer from the Kingdom city of Tyr-Sog and said, “Keep a sharp eye out. This one’s old and may be rotten.” Without another word, Pug scampered
up the bole of the ngaggi tree, a firlike swamp tree the Tsurani harvested for wood and resins. With few metals, the Tsurani had become clever in finding substitutes. The wood of this tree could be worked like paper, then dried to an incredible hardness, useful in fashioning a hundred things. The resins were used to laminate woods and cure hides. Properly cured hides could produce a suit of leather armor as tough as Midkemian chain mail, and laminated wooden weapons were nearly the match of Midkemian steel.
Four years in the swamp camp had hardened Pug’s body. His sinewy muscles strained as he climbed the tree. His skin had been tanned deeply by the harsh sun of the Tsurani homeworld. His face was covered by a slave’s beard.
Pug reached the first large branches and looked down at his friend. Laurie stood knee-deep in the murky water, absently swatting at the insects that plagued them while they worked. Pug liked Laurie. The troubadour had no business being here, but then he had no business tagging along with a patrol in the hope of seeing Tsurani soldiers, either. He said he wanted material for ballads that would make him famous throughout the Kingdom. He had seen more than he had hoped for. The patrol had ridden into a major Tsurani offensive, and Laurie had been captured. He had come to this camp over four months ago, and he and Pug had quickly become friends.
Pug continued climbing, keeping one eye always searching for the most dangerous tree dwellers of Kelewan. Reaching the most likely place for a topping, Pug froze as he caught a glimpse of movement. He relaxed when he saw it was only a needler, a creature whose protection was its resemblance to a clump of ngaggi needles. It scurried away from the presence of the human and made the short jump to the branch of a neighboring tree. Pug made another survey and started tying his ropes. His job was to cut away the tops of the huge trees, making the fall less dangerous to those below.
Pug took several cuts at the bark, then felt the edge of his wooden axe bite into the softer pulp beneath. A faint pungent odor greeted his careful sniffing. Swearing, he called down to Laurie, “This one’s rotten.…”
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