Magician: Master

by Raymond Feist

  “I have been told by some that no elf can be revived by human arts. Others have said that elves have no true souls, which is why they do not return. I think both are false, and they have a finer sense of where they live in the world.”

  Garret was quiet for a moment while he digested this information. “It is a strange tale, Huntmaster. What brought it to mind?”

  “The death of those elves and your question. It is to show you how they differ from us, and how you must work to learn their ways. You will spend time among them.”

  “Is the tale of the dead elf true?”

  “Yes. The newly fallen elf was the late Elf King, Queen Aglaranna’s husband. I was but a boy then, thirty years ago, but I remember it. I was with the hunting party when the accident happened, and I met the priest.”

  Garret said nothing, and Martin picked up his weapon and resumed his journey.

  They soon came to the edge of Elvandar. Martin stopped while Garret stood enraptured by the sight of the great trees. The late-afternoon sun cast long shadows through the forest, but the high boughs were already glimmering with their own fairy light.

  Martin took Garret by the elbow and gently guided the gawking tracker along to the Queen’s court. He reached the council ring and entered, saluting the Queen.

  Aglaranna smiled at sight of him. “Welcome, Martin Longbow. It has been too long since you last came to us.”

  Martin introduced Garret, who bowed awkwardly before the Queen. Then another figure entered the court, from where he had stood in the shadows.

  Martin had grown alongside elven children and was as able as any man in hiding his emotions when need be, but the sight of Tomas rocked him to the point of nearly exclaiming. Biting back a comment, he forced himself not to stare and heard Garret’s indrawn breath of amazement. They had heard of the changes in Tomas, but nothing had prepared either Martin or Garret for the sight of the towering man before him. Alien eyes regarded them. There was little remaining of the happy, grinning boy who had once followed Martin through the woods begging for tales of the elves, or played barrel ball with Garret. Without cordiality Tomas stepped forward and said, “What word from Crydee?”

  Martin leaned upon his bow. “Prince Arutha sends his greetings,” he said to the Queen, “and his affections, as well as his hope for your good health.” Turning to Tomas, who had obviously usurped some position of command within the Queen’s council, he said, “Arutha sends the following news: Black Guy, Duke of Bas-Tyra, now rules in Krondor, so no help will be forthcoming to the Far Coast. Also, the Prince has good cause to believe the outworlders plan to mount a major offensive soon, whether against Crydee, Elvandar, or the Duke’s army he cannot tell. However, the southern enclaves are not being reinforced through the dwarven mines, though they are strongly dug in. My trackers have had some signs of northward movement, but nothing on a large scale. It is Arutha’s guess the most likely offensive will be against his father and Brucal’s army.” Then he said, “And I bring word that Arutha’s Squire has been slain.” He observed the elven avoidance of naming the dead.

  Tomas’s eyes betrayed a glint of emotion at the news of Roland’s death, but all he said was, “In war men die.”

  Calin realized the exchange was something of a personal matter between Longbow and Tomas. No one else in the court had known Roland well, though Calin remembered him from the dinner that night so many years ago in Crydee. Martin was troubled by Tomas’s reaction to the news of his boyhood friend’s death. Returning to the business of the war, the Elf Prince said, “It is a logical thing. Should the Kingdom army in the West be broken, the outworlders could then turn their full attention on the other fronts, gaining the Free Cities and Crydee quickly. Within a year, two at the most, all of what once was Keshian Bosania would be under their banners. Then they could march easily upon Yabon. In time they could march to the gates of Krondor.”

  Tomas faced Calin, as if to speak, his eyes narrow. A flash of communication passed between the Queen and Tomas, and he stepped back into his place in the council circle. Calin continued, “If the outworlders are not staging to the west of the mountains, then we should be joined by the dwarves soon. We’ve had sorties across the river from the outworlders, but no sign of major attacks to come. I think Arutha is correct in his surmise, and should the dukes call, we should try to aid them.”

  Tomas turned upon the Elf Prince. “Leave Elvandar unprotected!” His face showed outrage. Martin was startled by the ferocity of Tomas’s barely checked anger. “Without stripping the elven forests of defenders, we could not mount enough numbers to matter in such a battle.”

  Calin’s face-remained impassive, but his eyes mirrored Tomas’s anger. His words came forth quietly. “I am Warleader of Elvandar. I would not leave our forests unprotected. But should the outworlders mount a major offensive against the dukes, they will not leave sufficient soldiers along the river to menace our forests. They have not come against us since we defeated them with the sorcerer’s aid and their Black Robes were killed. But should they battle Lords Borric and Brucal, and should the battle be a close thing, our numbers might tip the balance, especially as we can strike against their weaker flank.”

  Tomas maintained his self-control, standing rigidly for a moment; then in icy tones he said, “The dwarves follow Dolgan, and Dolgan follows my lead. They will not come unless I call them to battle.” Without another word he left the council circle.

  Martin watched Tomas leave. His skin crawled as he felt for the first time the power contained within this strange blend of man and whatever else lived inside the boy from Crydee. He had caught only a glimpse of what was within Tomas, but it had been enough. Tomas was a being to be feared.

  Martin then saw a flicker of expression on Aglaranna’s face. She rose and said, “I had better have words with Tomas. He has been overwrought of late.”

  As she left, Martin was struck by a certainty. Whatever else he had seen, he had witnessed a conflict between the Elf Queen’s son and her lover, and a deep conflict within herself, as well. Aglaranna had worn the expression of one caught in a hopeless fate.

  When the Queen had left, Calin said, “You have come at a propitious time, Martin. We have need of your wisdom.”

  Martin nodded. He sent Garret away to get something to eat, and when he was gone, Martin studied the Elf Prince, then the others in the council. Tathar stood at his usual place, to the right of the Queen’s throne. Others he knew, all old and trusted advisers of the Queen. Many were ancient Spellweavers.

  Martin sat down, patiently waiting for Calin to speak. The Elf Prince remained silent for a time. Martin studied Calin, for he knew him and could sense his disquiet. As a boy, Martin had thought the Elf Prince the finest embodiment of all elven virtues. While his boyish hero worship had passed, he still regarded Calin with undiminished respect.

  Calin said, “Martin, of all here you are the only one to have known Tomas before this change. What can you say of the transformation you’ve seen?”

  Martin spent time considering his reply. “I have only glimpsed these changes over the years, until this day. That they are great is obvious. But as to what they herald, I cannot begin to guess. He was a good enough boy; one not overly given to mischief, though with enough curiosity to find it. He had a tender side and did not hold back in his affections. His temper was moderate, though he could lose control when a friend was threatened or struck. In all, he was much like other boys, a dreamer.”

  “And now?”

  Martin was troubled and took no pains to hide this. “He is something beyond my understanding.”

  Tathar said, “Your words are clear to us, Martin, and true, for he has also gone beyond our understanding.”

  Calin spoke softly. “Of men, you know our history more than any. You know of our hatred for the ages spent in bondage to the Valheru. You know we reject the Dark Path they trod. We fear the return of that power as much as we do this invasion of outworlders and their Black Robes. You have seen Tomas. You m
ust know what we are forced to consider.”

  Martin nodded. “Yes. You weigh his life.”

  “Many of the younger elves follow him blindly,” said Tathar. “They lack the maturity and wisdom to withstand the subtle influence of the Valheru magic within him. And while the dwarves do not follow blindly, still they follow, for they have none of our heritage of fear, and they put great faith in his leadership. He has proved the means of their survival for eight years now, saving many of them from death repeatedly.

  “But while Tomas has been a boon to us in this struggle against the invaders, we may have to put aside all other considerations save one: will this half man, half Valheru attempt to become our master?” Tathar frowned. “If so, he must be destroyed.”

  Martin felt cold inside. Of all the boys he had known at Crydee, he had held special affection for three, Garret, Tomas, and Pug. He had mourned silently when Pug had been taken by the Tsurani, and had often wondered if it had been to his death or captivity. Now he mourned for Tomas, for whatever else might occur, Tomas would never again be as he once was.

  Martin said to Calin. “Can nothing be done?”

  Calin indicated Tathar should answer the question. The old Spellweaver looked around the circle, gaining silent agreement from the other Spellweavers. To Martin he said, “We do what we can to bring this to a good ending. But should the Valheru come forth in his might, we would not withstand, so we are fearful. We harbor no hatred for Tomas. But even as you pity a rabid wolf, you must kill it.”

  Martin looked grimly out at the lights of Elvandar, as darkness deepened. As long as he remembered, it had been a comforting sight. Now he felt only cold bitterness. “When shall you decide?”

  Tathar said, “You understand our ways. We shall decide when we must decide.”

  Martin rose slowly to his feet. “My counsel to you then is this: until the change has clearly shown itself to be toward the Dark Path, do not mistakenly give too much weight to ancient fears. I have long been taught that those who now rule in Elvandar are of heartier nature and more independent mind than those who were first set free by the Valheru. Stay your hand until the last. Something good may come of this yet, or if not that, something that is not entirely ill.”

  Tathar nodded. “Your counsel is given well. It is well received.”

  Martin looked heavily burdened. “I will do what I can. Once I was able to influence Tomas, perhaps I may yet again. I will go meditate upon the matter, then seek him out and speak with him.” None in the circle around the Queen’s court spoke as he left. They knew his heart was as troubled as their own.

  —

  THE THROBBING HAD become worse, not quite a pain, but a discomfort that grew unnervingly more persistent. Tomas sat in the cool glade, near the quiet pool, struggling within himself. Since coming to live in Elvandar, he had found his dreams little more than vague shadowy images, with half-remembered phrases and names to grasp. They were less troublesome, less fearful, less a presence in his daily life, but the pressure within his head, the dull near-ache had grown. When he was in battle, he became lost in red rage, and there was no sense of the ache, but when the battle lust subsided, especially when he was slow to return to Elvandar, the throbbing returned.

  Footsteps sounded lightly behind, and without turning, he said, “I wish to be alone.”

  Aglaranna said, “The pain, Tomas?”

  A faint stirring of some strange feeling rose briefly within, and he cocked his head as if listening for something. Then he answered curtly, “Yes. I will return to our rooms soon. Leave now and prepare for me to join you later.”

  Aglaranna stepped back, her proud features showing pain at being addressed in such a tone. She turned quickly and left.

  As she walked through the woods, her emotions churned within. Since surrendering to Tomas’s desire, and her own, she had lost the ability to command him, or to resist his commands. He was now lord over her, and she felt shame. It was a joyless union, not the return of lost happiness she had hoped for. But there was a will-sapping compulsion, a need to be with him, to belong to him, that stripped away her defenses. Tomas was dynamic, powerful, and sometimes cruel. She corrected herself: not cruel, just so removed from any other being, no comparison could be made. He was not indifferent to her needs; he simply was unaware she had any. As she approached Elvandar, the soft fairy lights reflected in the shimmering tears that touched her cheeks.

  Tomas was only partially aware of her departure. Under the dull ache within his head, a voice faintly called to him. He strained to listen, knowing its timbre, its color, knowing who called….

  “Tomas?”

  Yes.

  Ashen-Shugar looked across the desolation of the plains, dry cracked lands devoid of moisture save for bubbling alkali pots that spewed foul odors into the air. Aloud, to his unseen companion, he said, “It has been some time since we last spoke.”

  Tathar and the others seek to keep us apart. You are often forgotten.

  The fetid winds blew from the north, cold but cloying. The smell of decay was everywhere, and in the residue of the mighty madness that had gripped the universe around, only faint stirrings of life reasserting itself were felt.

  “No matter. We are together again.”

  What is this place?

  “The Desolation of the Chaos Wars. Draken-Korin’s monument, the lifeless tundra that was once great grasslands. Few living things abide here. Most creatures flee to the south, and more hospitable climes.”

  Who are you?

  Ashen-Shugar laughed. “I am what you are becoming. We are one. So you have said many times.”

  I had forgotten.

  Ashen-Shugar called, and Shuruga sped toward him over a grey landscape, while black clouds thundered overhead. The mighty dragon landed, and his master climbed upon his back. Casting a glance at the spot marked by ash, the only reminder of Draken-Korin’s existence, the Valheru said, “Come, let us see what fate has wrought.”

  Shuruga leaped into the heavens, and above the desolation they flew. Ashen-Shugar was silent as he rode upon Shuruga’s broad back, feeling the wind blowing across his face. They flew, and time passed them by, as they shared the death of one age and the birth of another. High in the blue sky they soared, free of the horror of the Chaos Wars.

  It is worthy of sorrow.

  “I think not. There is a lesson, though I cannot bring myself to know it. Yet I sense you do.” Ashen-Shugar closed his eyes as the throbbing returned.

  Yes, I remember.

  —

  “TOMAS?”

  Tomas’s eyes snapped open. He found Galain standing a short way off, near the edge of the clearing. “Shall I return later?”

  Tomas rose slowly from where he had sat dreaming. His voice was rough and tired. “No, what is it?”

  “Dolgan’s dwarven band has reached the outer forest and waits for you near the winding brook. The dwarves struck an outworld enclave as they crossed the river.” There was a merry smile upon the young elf’s face. “They have finally captured prisoners.”

  A strange look of mixed delight and fury passed over Tomas’s face. Galain felt strange emotions as he regarded the reaction of the warrior in white and gold to this news. As if listening to a distant call, Tomas spoke distractedly. “Go to the dwarven camp. I will join you there presently.”

  Galain withdrew, and Tomas listened. A distant voice grew louder.

  —

  “HAVE I ERRED?”

  The hall echoed with the words, for now it was vacant, the servants having slipped away. Ashen-Shugar brooded upon his throne. He spoke to shadows. “Have I erred?”

  Now you know doubt, answered the ever-present voice.

  “This strange quietness within, what is it?”

  It is death approaching.

  Ashen-Shugar closed his eyes. “I thought as much. So few of my kind lived beyond battle. It was a rare thing. I am the last. Still, I would like to fly Shuruga once more.”

  He is gone. Dead, ages pas
t.

  “But I flew him this morning.”

  It was a dream. As is this.

  “Am I then also mad?”

  You are but a memory. This is but a dream.

  “Then I will do what is planned. I accept the inevitable. Another will come to take my place.”

  So it has happened already, for I am the one who came, and I have taken up your sword and put upon your mantle; your cause is now mine. I stand against those who would plunder this world.

  “Then am I content to die.”

  Opening his eyes, he took one last look at his hall now cloaked in ancient dust. Closing them for the last time, the Ruler of the Eagles’ Reaches cast his final spell. His waning powers, still unmatched upon this world by any save the new gods, flowed from his tired body, infusing his armor. Smoky wisps wafted upward from where his body had rested, and soon only the golden armor, white tabard, shield, and sword of white and gold remained.

  I am Ashen-Shugar; I am Tomas.

  —

  TOMAS’S EYES OPENED, and for a moment he was confused to find himself in the glade. A strange passion grew within as he felt a new strength flowing throughout his being. In his mind rang a clarion call: I am Ashen-Shugar, the Valheru. I will destroy all who seek to plunder my world.

  With a terrible resolve he left the glade, to find the place the dwarves had brought his enemies.

  —

  “IT IS GOOD to see you again, friend Longbow,” said Dolgan, puffing away on his pipe. They had not seen each other since a chance meeting several years before when the dwarves passed through the forest east of Crydee on their way to Elvandar.

  Martin, Calin, and a few elves had come to see the dwarves’ prisoners, who were still bound. They waited in a group in a corner of the clearing, glaring at their captors. Galain entered the clearing and said, “Tomas is coming soon.”

  Martin said, “How is it, Dolgan, after all these years, you managed to capture prisoners, and an entire enclave at that?”

  Behind the eight bound warriors stood a fearful group of Tsurani slaves, unbound but huddled together, uncertain of their fate. Dolgan gave an offhanded wave. “Usually we’re raiding across the river, and prisoners tend to slow things down during a withdrawal, being either unconscious or uncooperative. This time we had little choice in the matter, as we needed to cross the river Crydee. In past years we’d wait to sneak across in darkness, but this year they’re as close as nettles in a thicket everywhere along the river.