Katala whispered to Pug, “We’ll talk later,” and answered the hoarse shouts of the hadonra, Septiem. Pug joined Laurie, who had ridden up to Kasumi’s side.
The minstrel looked at the dead creatures on the ground and said, “What are they?”
Kasumi said, “Thün. They’re nomadic creatures of the northern tundra. We have forts along the foothills of the mountains separating our estates from their lands, at every pass. Once they roamed these ranges until we drove them north. Occasionally they seek to return to the warmer lands of the south.” He pointed to a talisman tied in the fur of one of the creatures. “This was a Blood Raid. They are all young males, unproved in their bands, without mates. They failed in the summer rites of combat and were banished from the herd by the stronger males. They had to come south, killing at least one Tsurani before they would be allowed to return to their band. Each would have to return with a Tsurani head, or not come back. It is their custom. Those who escaped will be hunted down, for they will not cross back to their home range.”
Laurie shook his head. “Does this happen often?”
“Every year,” said Hokanu with a wry smile. “Usually the watch forts turn them back, but it must have been a large herd this year. Many must have already returned to the north with heads taken from our men at the forts.”
Kasumi said, “They must have killed two patrols, as well.” He shook his head. “We’ve lost between sixty and a hundred men.”
Hokanu seemed to reflect his older brother’s unhappiness at the setback. “I will personally lead a patrol to see to the damage.”
Kasumi gave him permission, and he left Kasumi turned toward Laurie. “The horses?” Laurie pointed to where the stallion Pug had ridden stood watch over a small herd.
Suddenly Pug spoke up. “Kasumi, I do wish to ask your father permission to marry Katala.”
Kasumi’s eyes narrowed. “Listen well, Pug. I tried to instruct you, but you did not seem to catch my meaning. You are not of a subtle people. Now I will put it plainly. You may ask, but it will be refused.”
Pug began to object, but Kasumi cut him off. “I have said, you are impatient people. There are reasons. More I cannot say, but there are reasons, Pug.”
Anger flared in Pug’s eyes, and Kasumi said, in the King’s Tongue, “Say a word in anger within earshot of any soldier of this house, especially my brother, and you are a dead slave.”
Stiffly Pug said, “Your will, master.”
Witnessing the bitterness of Pug’s expression, Kasumi softly repeated, “There are reasons, Pug.” For a moment he was trying to be other than a Tsurani master, a friend trying to ease pain. He locked gaze with Pug, then a veil dropped over Kasumi’s eyes, and once more they were slave and master.
Pug lowered his eyes as was expected of a slave, and Kasumi said, “See to the horses.” He strode away, leaving Pug alone.
Pug never spoke of his request to Katala She sensed that something troubled him deeply, something that seemed to add a bitter note to their otherwise joyful time together. He learned the depth of his love for her and began to explore her complex nature. Besides being strong-willed, she was quick-minded. He only had to explain something to her once, and she understood. He learned to love her dry wit, a quality native to her people, the Thuril, and sharpened to a razor’s edge by her captivity She was an observant student of everything around her and commented unmercifully upon the foibles of everyone in the household, to their detriment and Pug’s amusement She insisted upon learning some of Pug’s language, so he began teaching her the King’s Tongue. She proved an apt student.
Two months went by uneventfully, then one night Pug and Laurie were called to the dining room of the master of the house. Laurie had completed work upon his lute and, though dissatisfied in a hundred little ways, judged it passable for playing. Tonight he was to play for the Lord of the Shinzawai.
They entered the room and saw that the lord was entertaining a guest, a black-robed man, the Great One whom they had glimpsed months ago. Pug stood by the door while Laurie took a place at the foot of the low dining table. Adjusting the cushion he sat upon, he began to play.
As the first notes hung in the air, he started singing: an old tune that Pug knew well. It sang of the joys of harvest and the riches of the land, and was a favorite in farm villages throughout the Kingdom. Besides Pug, only Kasumi understood the words, though his father could pick out a few that he had learned during his chess matches with Pug.
Pug had never heard Laurie sing before, and he was genuinely impressed. For all the troubadour’s braggadocio, he was better than any Pug had heard. His voice was a clear, true instrument, expressive in both words and music of what he sang. When he was finished, the diners politely struck the table with eating knives, in what Pug assumed was the Tsurani equivalent of applause.
Laurie began another tune, a merry air played at festivals throughout the Kingdom. Pug remembered when he had last heard it, at the Festival of Banapis the year before he had left Crydee for Rillanon. He could almost see once more the familiar sights of home. For the first time in years, Pug felt a deep sadness and longing that nearly overwhelmed him.
Pug swallowed hard, easing the tightness in his throat. Homesickness and hopeless frustration warred within him, and he could feel his hard-learned self-control slipping away. He quickly invoked one of the calming exercises he had been taught by Kulgan. A sense of well-being swept over him, and he relaxed. While Laurie performed, Pug used all his concentration to fend off the haunting memories of home. All his skills created an aura of calm he could stand within, a refuge from useless rage, the only legacy of reminiscence.
Several times during the performance, Pug felt the gaze of the Great One upon him. The man seemed to study him with some question in his eyes. When Laurie was finished, the magician leaned over and spoke to his host.
The Lord of the Shinzawai beckoned Pug to the table. When he was seated, the Great One spoke. “I must ask you something.” His voice was clear and strong, and his tone reminded Pug of Kulgan when he was preparing Pug for lessons. “Who are you?”
The direct, simple question caught everyone at the table by surprise. The lord of the house seemed uncertain as to the magician’s question and started to reply. “He is a slave—”
He was interrupted by the Great One’s upraised hand. Pug said, “I am called Pug, master.”
Again the man’s dark eyes studied him. “Who are you?”
Pug felt flustered. He had never liked being the center of attention, and this time it was focused upon him as never before in his life.
“I am Pug, once of the Duke of Crydee’s court.”
“Who are you, to stand here radiating the power?” At this all three men of the Shinzawai household started, and Laurie looked at Pug in confusion.
“I am a slave, master.”
“Give me your hand.”
Pug reached out, and his hand was taken by the Great One. The man’s lips moved, and his eyes clouded over Pug felt a warmth flow through his hand and over him. The room seemed to glow with a soft white haze. Soon all he could see was the magician’s eyes. His mind fogged over, and time was suspended. He felt a pressure inside his head as if something were trying to intrude. He fought against it, and the pressure withdrew.
His vision cleared, and the two dark eyes seemed to withdraw from his face until he could see the entire room again. The magician let go of his hand. “Who are you?” A brief flicker in his eyes was the only sign of his deep concern.
“I am Pug, apprentice to the magician Kulgan.”
At this the Lord of the Shinzawai blanched, confusion registering on his face. “How . . .”
The black-robed Great One rose and announced, “This slave is no longer property of this house. He is now the province of the Assembly.”
The room fell silent. Pug couldn’t understand what was happening and felt afraid.
The magician drew forth a device from his robe Pug remembered that he had seen one before,
during the raid on the Tsurani camp, and his fear mounted. The magician activated it, and it buzzed as the other one had. He placed his hand on Pug’s shoulder, and the room disappeared in a grey haze.
TWENTY-ONE - Changeling
The Elf Prince sat quietly.
Calin awaited his mother. There was much on his mind, and he needed to speak with her this night. There had been little chance for that of late, for as the war had grown in scope, he found less time to abide in the bowers of Elvandar. As Warleader of the elves, he had been in the field nearly every day since the last time the outworlders had tried to forge across the river.
Since the siege of Castle Crydee three years before, the outworlders had come each spring, swarming across the river like ants, a dozen for each elf Each year elven magic had defeated them. Hundreds would enter the sleeping glades to fall into the endless sleep, their bodies being consumed by the soil, to nourish the magic trees. Others would answer the dryads’ call, following the enchanted sprites’ songs until in their passion for the elemental beings they would die of thirst while still in their inhuman lovers’ embrace feeding the dryads with their lives. Others would fall to the creatures of the forests, the giant wolves, bears, and lions who answered the call of the elven war horns. The very branches and roots of the trees of the elven forests would resist the invaders until they turned and fled.
But this year, for the first time, the Black Robes had come. Much of the elven magic had been blunted. The elves had prevailed, but Calin wondered how they would fare when the outworlders returned.
This year the dwarves of the Grey Towers had again aided the elves. With the moredhel gone from the Green Heart, the dwarves had made swift passage from their wintering in the mountains, adding their numbers to the defense of Elvandar. For the third year since the siege at Crydee, the dwarves had proved the difference in holding the out-worlders across the river. And again with the dwarves came the man called Tomas.
Calin looked up, then rose as his mother approached. Queen Aglaranna seated herself upon her throne and said, “My son, it is good to see you again.”
“Mother, it is good to see you also.” He sat at her feet and waited for the words he needed to come. His mother sat patiently, sensing his dark mood.
Finally he spoke. “I am troubled by Tomas.”
“As am I,” said the Queen, her expression clouded and pensive.
“Is that why you absent yourself when he comes to court?”
“For that . . . and other reasons.”
“How can it be the Old Ones’ magic still holds so strong after all these ages?”
A voice came from behind the throne. “So that’s it, then?”
They turned, surprised, and Dolgan stepped from the gloom, lighting his pipe. Aglaranna looked incensed. “Are the dwarves of the Grey Towers known for eavesdropping, Dolgan?”
The dwarven chief ignored the bite of the question. “Usually not, my lady. But I was out for a walk—those little tree rooms fill with smoke right quickly—and I happened to overhear. I did not wish to interrupt.”
Calin said, “You can move with stealth when you choose, friend Dolgan.”
Dolgan shrugged and blew a cloud of smoke. “Elvenfolk are not the only ones with the knack of treading lightly. But we were speaking of the lad. If what you say is true, then it is a serious matter indeed. Had I known, I would never have allowed him to take the gift.”
The Queen smiled at him. “It is not your fault, Dolgan. You could not have known. I have feared this since Tomas came among us in the mantle of the Old Ones. At first I thought the magic of the Valheru would not work for him, being a mortal, but now I can see he is less mortal each year.
“It was an unfortunate series of events brought this to pass. Our Spellweavers would have discovered that treasure ages ago, but for the dragon’s magic. We spent centuries seeking out and destroying such relics, preventing their use by the moredhel. Now it is too late, for Tomas would never willingly let the armor be destroyed.”
Dolgan puffed at his pipe. “Each winter he broods in the long halls, awaiting the coming of spring, and the coming of battle. There is little else for him. He sits and drinks, or stands at the door staring out into the snow, seeing what no other can see. He keeps the armor locked away in his room during such times, and when campaigning, he never removes it, even to sleep. He has changed, and it is not a natural changing. No, he would never willingly give up the armor.”
“We could try to force him,” said the Queen, “but that could prove unwise. There is something coming into being in him, something that may save my people, and I would risk much for them.”
Dolgan said, “I do not understand, my lady.”
“I am not sure I do either, Dolgan, but I am Queen of a people at war. A terrible foe savages our lands and each year grows bolder. The outworld magic is strong, perhaps stronger than any since the Old Ones vanished. It may be the magic in the dragon’s gift will save my people.”
Dolgan shook his head. “It seems strange such power could still reside in metal armor.”
Aglaranna smiled at the dwarf. “Does it? What of the Hammer of Tholin you carry? Is it not vested with powers from ages past? Powers that mark you once more heir to the throne of the dwarves of the West?”
Dolgan looked hard at the Queen. “You know much of our ways, lady I must never forget your girlish countenance masks ages of knowledge.” He then brushed away her comment. “We have been done with kings for many years in the West, since Tholin vanished in the Mac Mordain Cadal. We do as well as those who obey old King Halfdan in Dorgin. But should my people wish the throne restored, we shall meet in moot, though not until this war is over. Now, what of the lad?”
Aglaranna looked troubled. “He is becoming what he is becoming. We can aid that transformation. Our Spellweavers work to this end already. Should the full power of the Valheru rise up in Tomas untempered, he would be able to brush aside our protective magic much as you would a bothersome twig barring your way upon the trail. But he is not an Old One born. His nature is as alien to the Valheru as their nature was to all others. Aided by our Spellweavers, his human ability to love, to know compassion, to understand, may temper the unchecked power of the Valheru. If so, he may . . . he may prove a boon to us all.” Dolgan was visited by the certainty the Queen had been about to say something else, but remained silent as she continued “Should that Valheru power become coupled with a human’s capacity for blind hatred, savagery, and cruelty, then he would become something to fear. Only time will tell us what such a blending will produce.”
“The Dragon Lords . . . ,” said Dolgan. “We have some mention of the Valheru in our lore, but only scraps here and there. I would understand more, if you’ll permit.”
The Queen looked off into the distance. “Our lore, eldest of all in the world today, tells of the Valheru, Dolgan. There is much of which I am forbidden to speak, names of power, fearful to invoke, things terrible to recall, but I may tell you this much. Long before man or dwarf came to this world, the Valheru ruled. They were part of this world, fashioned from the very fabric of its creation, nearly godlike in power and unfathomable in purpose. Their nature was chaotic and unpredictable. They were more powerful than any others. Upon the backs of the great dragons they flew, no place in the universe beyond their reach. To other worlds they roamed, bringing back that which pleased them, treasure and knowledge plundered from other beings. They were subject to no law but their own will and whim. They fought among themselves as often as not, and only death resolved conflicts. This world was their dominion. And we were their creatures.
“We and the moredhel were of one race then, and the Valheru bred us as you would cattle. Some were taken, from both races, for . . . personal pets, bred for beauty . . . and other qualities. Others were bred to tend the forests and fields. Those who lived in the wild became the forerunners of the elves, while those who remained with the Valheru were the forerunners of the moredhel.
“But then came a time
of changing. Our masters ceased their internecine struggles and banded together. Why they did so is forgotten, though some among the moredhel may still know, for they were closer to our masters than we elves. We may have known their reasons then, but this was the time of the Chaos Wars, and much was lost. Only this we know: all the servants of the Valheru were given freedom, and the Old Ones were never again seen by elf or moredhel. When the Chaos Wars raged, great rifts in time and space were opened, and it was through these that goblins, men, and dwarves came to this world. Few of our people or of the moredhel survived, but those that did rebuilt our homes. The moredhel longed to inherit the might of their lost masters, rather than seek their own destiny as the elves did, and used their cunning to find tokens of the Valheru, taking to the Dark Path. It is the reason we are so unalike, who once were brothers.
“The old magic is still powerful. In strength and bravery Tomas matches any. He took the magic unwittingly, and that may prove the difference. The old magic changed the moredhel into the Brotherhood of the Dark Path because they sought the power out of dark longings. Tomas was a boy of good and noble heart, with no taint of evil in his soul. Perchance he will grow to master the dark side of the magic.”
Dolgan scratched his head. “ ‘Tis a grave risk, then, from what you say. I was concerned for the lad, true, and gave little thought to the larger scheme of things. You know the way of it better than I, but I hope we’ll not live to regret letting him keep the armor.”
The Queen stepped down from her throne. “I also hope there will be no regrets, Dolgan. Here in Elvandar the old magic is softened, and Tomas is of lighter heart. Perhaps that is a sign we do the right thing, tempering the change rather than opposing it.”
Dolgan made a courtly bow. “I yield to your wisdom, my lady. And I pray you are right.”
The Queen bade them good night and left. Calin said, “I also pray my Mother-Queen speaks from wisdom, and not from some other feeling.”
Book 1 - Magician Page 50
