Magician: Master

by Raymond Feist

  Pug thought about this. “He must truly have been the master of all magic.”

  Gathis’s smile broadened. “He would laugh to hear that, master. He was always complaining of there being so much to learn and so little time to learn it. And that from a man who had lived years beyond numbering.”

  Kulgan said, as he rose from his chair, “We will have to fetch men to carry all these things back to the ship.”

  Gathis said, “Worry not, master. Retire to your ship when you are ready. Leave two boats on the beach at the cove. At first light the next day you will find everything placed aboard, packed for shipment.”

  Kulgan nodded. “Very well; then we should start at once to catalog all these works, before we move them.”

  Gathis went over to a shelf and returned with a rolled parchment. “In anticipation of your needs, master, I have prepared such a listing of all the works here.”

  Kulgan unrolled the parchment and began reading the inventory of works. His eyes widened. “Listen,” he said, excitedly. “There’s a copy of Vitalus’s Expectations of Matter Transformation here.” His eyes grew bigger still. “And Spandric’s Temporal Research. That work was thought lost a hundred years ago!” He looked at the others, wonder upon his face. “And hundreds of volumes with Macros’s name on them. This is a treasure beyond measure.”

  Gathis said, “I am pleased that you find it so, master.”

  Kulgan started to ask for those volumes to be brought to him, but Arutha said, “Wait Kulgan. Once you begin, we’ll have to tie you up to get you out of here. Let us return to the ship and wait for all this to be brought. We must be off soon.”

  Kulgan looked like a child whose sweets had been taken from him. Arutha, Pug, and Meecham all chuckled at the stout magician. Pug said, “There is no good reason to stay now. We shall have years to study these after the coronation. Look around, Kulgan. Do you mean to inhale all this in one breath?”

  A look of resignation crossed Kulgan’s face. “Very well.”

  Pug surveyed all in the room. “Think of it. An academy for the study of magic, with Macros’s library at the heart.”

  Kulgan’s eyes grew luminous. “I had all but forgotten the Duke’s bequest. A place to learn. No longer will an apprentice learn from this master or that, but from many. With this legacy and your own teachings, Pug, we have a wonderful start.”

  Arutha said, “Let us be on our way if we’re to have any sort of start. There’s a new king to crown, and the longer you tarry, the more likely you’ll lose yourself in here.”

  Kulgan looked as if his good name were impugned. “Well, I will take a few things to study while on the ship—if you have no objections?”

  Arutha raised a placating hand. “Whatever you wish,” he said with a rueful smile. “But please, no more than we can reasonably lug down to the boat.”

  Kulgan smiled, his mood lightening. “Agreed.” He turned to Gathis. “Would you fetch those two volumes I mentioned.”

  Gathis held out the two volumes, old and well read. Kulgan looked surprised, while Gathis said, “I thought you might reach such an understanding and removed them from the shelves while you discussed the matter.”

  Kulgan walked toward the door, shaking his head slowly as he regarded the two books he held. The others followed, and Gathis closed the door behind them. The goblinlike creature guided them to the courtyard and bid them a safe journey at the door of the keep.

  When the large doors had closed behind them, Meecham said, “This fellow Macros seems to have raised five questions for each he answered.”

  Kulgan said, “You have that right, old friend. Perhaps we will gain additional knowledge from his notes, and other works. Perhaps not, and maybe that’s the right of it.”

  16

  Renaissance

  Rillanon was in a festive mood.

  Everywhere banners rippled in the breeze, and garlands of summer flowers replaced the black bunting that had marked the period of mourning for the late King and his cousin Borric. Now they would be crowning a new king, and the people rejoiced. The people of Rillanon knew little of Lyam, but he was fair to view, and generous with his smile in public. To the populace it was as if the sun had come out from behind the dark clouds that had been Rodric’s reign.

  Few among the people were aware of the many royal guards who circulated throughout the city, always alert for signs of Guy du Bas-Tyra’s agents and possible assassins. And fewer still noticed the plainly dressed men who were always near when groups gathered to speak of the new King, listening to what was said.

  Arutha cantered his horse toward the palace, leaving Pug, Meecham, and Kulgan behind. He cursed the fate that had delayed them nearly a week, becalmed less than three days from Krondor, then the slowness of their journey to Salador. It was midmorning, and already the Priests of Ishap were bearing the King’s new crown through the city. In less than three hours they would appear before the throne and Lyam would take the crown.

  Arutha reached the palace, and shouts from the guards echoed across the vast courtyard, “Prince Arutha arrives!”

  Arutha gave his mount to a page and hurried up the steps to the palace. As he reached the entranceway, Anita came running in his direction, a radiant smile on her face. “Oh,” she cried, “it is so good to see you!”

  He smiled back at her and said, “It is good to see you, also. I must get ready for the ceremony. Where is Lyam?”

  “He has secreted himself in the Royal Tomb. He left word you were to come straight away to him there.” Her voice was troubled. “There is something strange taking place here, but no one seems to know what it is. Only Martin Longbow has seen Lyam since supper last night, and when I saw Martin, he had the strangest look upon his face.”

  Arutha laughed. “Martin is always full of strange looks. Come, let us go to Lyam.”

  She refused to let him ignore the warning. “No, you go alone; that is what Lyam ordered. Besides, I must dress for the ceremony. But, Arutha, there is something very queer in the wind.”

  Arutha’s manner turned more reflective. Anita was a good judge of such things. “Very well. I’ll have to wait for my things to be brought from the ship, anyway. I will see Lyam, then when this mystery is cleared up, join you at the ceremony.”

  “Good.”

  “Where is Carline?”

  “Fussing over this and that. I’ll tell her you’ve arrived.”

  She kissed his cheek and hurried off. Arutha hadn’t been to the vault of his ancestors since he was a boy, the first time he had come to Rillanon, for Rodric’s coronation. He asked a page to lead him there, and the boy guided him through a maze of corridors.

  The palace had been through many transformations over the ages, new wings being added on, new constructions over those destroyed by fire, earthquake, or war, but in the center of the vast edifice the ancient first keep remained. The only clue they were entering the ancient halls was the sudden appearance of dark stone walls, worn smooth by time. Two guards stood watch by a door over which was carved a bas-relief crest of the conDoin kings, a crowned lion holding a sword in its claws. The page said, “Prince Arutha,” and the guards opened the door. Arutha stepped through into a small anteroom, with a long flight of stairs leading down.

  He followed the stairs past rows of brightly burning torches that stained the stones of the walls with black soot. The stairs ended, and Arutha stood before a large, high-arched doorway. On both sides loomed heroic statues of ancient conDoin kings. To the right, with features dulled with age, stood the statue of Dannis, first conDoin King of Rillanon, some seven hundred fifty years past. To the left stood the statue of Delong, the only King called “the Great,” the King who first brought the banner of Rillanon to the mainland with the conquest of Bas-Tyra, two hundred fifty years after Dannis.

  Arutha passed between his ancestors’ likenesses and entered the burial vault. He walked between the ancient forebears of his line, entombed in the walls and upon great catafalques. Kings and queens, princes a
nd princesses, scoundrels and rogues, saints and scholars lined his way. At the far end of the huge chamber he found Lyam sitting next to the catafalque that supported his father’s stone coffin. A likeness of Borric had been carved in the coffin’s surface, and it looked as if the late Duke of Crydee lay sleeping.

  Arutha approached slowly, for Lyam seemed deep in thought. Lyam looked up and said, “I feared you might come late.”

  “As did I. We had wretched weather and slow progress, but we are all here. Now, what is this strange business? Anita told me you’ve been here all night, and there is some mystery. What is it?”

  “I have given great thought to this matter, Arutha. The whole of the Kingdom will know within a few hours’ time, but I wanted you to see what I have done and hear what I must say before any others.”

  “Anita said Martin was here with you this morning. What is this, Lyam?”

  Lyam stepped away from his father’s catafalque and pointed. Inscribed upon the stones of the burial place were the words:

  HERE LIES BORRIC, THIRD DUKE OF CRYDEE,

  HUSBAND OF CATHERINE,

  FATHER OF

  MARTIN,

  LYAM,

  ARUTHA,

  AND CARLINE

  Arutha’s lips moved, but no words came forth. He shook his head, then said, “What madness is this?”

  Lyam came between Arutha and the likeness of their father. “No madness, Arutha. Father acknowledged Martin on his deathbed. He is our brother. He is the eldest.”

  Arutha’s face became contorted with rage. “Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice was tormented. “What right had you to hide this from me?”

  Lyam raised his own voice. “All who knew were sworn to secrecy. I could not risk anyone knowing until the peace was made. There was too much to lose.”

  Arutha shoved past his brother, looking in disbelief at the inscription. “It all makes an evil sense. Martin’s exclusion from the Choosing. The way Father always kept an eye on his whereabouts. His freedom to come and go as he pleased.” Bitterness rang in Arutha’s words. “But why now? Why did Father acknowledge Martin after so many years of denial?”

  Lyam tried to comfort Arutha. “I’ve pieced together what I could from Kulgan and Tully. Besides them, no one knew, not even Fannon. Father was a guest of Brucal’s when he was in his first year of office, after Grandfather’s death. He tumbled a pretty serving girl and conceived Martin. It was five years before Father knew of him. Father had come to court, met Mother, and married. When he learned of Martin, he had already been abandoned by his mother to the monks of Silban’s Abbey. Father chose to let Martin remain in their care.

  “When I was born, Father began to feel remorse over having a son unknown to him, and when I was six, Martin was ready for Choosing. Father arranged to have him brought to Crydee. But he wouldn’t acknowledge him, for fear of shaming Mother.”

  “Then why now?”

  Lyam looked at the likeness of their father. “Who knows what passes through a man’s mind in the moments before death? Perhaps more guilt, or some sense of honor. Whatever the reason, he acknowledged Martin, and Brucal bore witness.”

  Anger still sounded in Arutha’s voice. “Now we must deal with this madness, regardless of Father’s reasons for creating it.” He fixed Lyam with a harsh stare. “What did he say when you brought him down to see this?”

  Lyam looked away, as if pained by what he now said. “He stood silently, then I saw him weep. Finally he said, ‘I am pleased he told you.’ Arutha, he knew.” Lyam gripped his brother’s arm. “All those years Father thought him ignorant of his birthright, and he knew. And never once did he seek to turn that knowledge to his own gain.”

  Arutha’s anger subsided. “Did he say anything more?”

  “Only ‘Thank you, Lyam,’ and then he left.”

  Arutha paced away for a moment, then faced Lyam. “Martin is a good man, as good a man as I’ve ever known. I’ll be the first to say so. But this acknowledgment! My gods, do you know what you’ve done?”

  “I’m aware of my actions.”

  “You’ve placed all we’ve won over the last nine years in the balance, Lyam. Shall we fight ambitious eastern lords who might rally in Martin’s name? Do we end one war simply to begin an even more bitter one?”

  “There will be no contestation.”

  Arutha stopped his pacing. His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean? Has Martin promised to voice no claim?”

  “No. I have decided not to oppose Martin should he choose the crown.”

  Arutha was speechless for a moment, in shock as he regarded Lyam. For the first time he understood the terrible doubts his brother had been voicing over being King. “You don’t want to be King,” he said, his tone accusatory.

  Lyam laughed bitterly. “No sane man would. You have said as much yourself, brother. I don’t know if I am a match for the burdens of kingship. But the matter is out of my hands now. If Martin speaks for himself as King, I will acknowledge his right.”

  “His right! The royal signet passed to your hand, before most of the Lords of the Kingdom. You are not sick Erland deferring to his brother’s son because of ill health and by reason of no clear succession. You are the named Heir!”

  Lyam lowered his head. “The announcement of succession is invalid, Arutha. Rodric named me Heir as ‘eldest conDoin male,’ which I am not. Martin is.”

  Arutha confronted his brother. “A pretty point of law, Lyam, but one that may prove the destruction of this Kingdom! Should Martin voice a claim before the congress assembled, the Priests of Ishap will break the crown, and the matter passes to the Congress of Lords for resolution. Even with Guy in hiding, there are dozens of dukes, scores of earls, and a host of barons who would willingly cut their neighbors’ throats to convene such a congress. Such bargaining would end with half the estates in the Kingdom switching hands in trade for votes. It would be a carnival!

  “If you take the crown, Bas-Tyra cannot act. But if you back Martin, many will refuse to follow. A deadlocked congress is exactly what Guy wishes. I’ll bet all I own he is somewhere in the city at this very moment, plotting against such an event. If the eastern lords bolt, Guy will emerge, and many will flock to his banner.”

  Lyam appeared overwhelmed by his brother’s words. “I cannot say what will happen, Arutha. But I know I could not do other than I have done.”

  Arutha looked on the verge of striking Lyam. “You may have inherited the burden of Father’s sense of family honor, but it will fall to the rest of us to deal with the killing! Heaven’s mercy, Lyam, what do you think will happen if some heretofore nameless huntsman sits the conDoin throne simply because our father tumbled a pretty maid nearly forty years ago! We shall have civil war!”

  Lyam stood firm. “Should our positions have been reversed, would you have robbed Martin of his birthright?”

  Arutha’s anger vanished. He looked at his brother with open amazement on his face. “Gods! You feel guilt because Father denied Martin all his life, don’t you?” He stepped away from Lyam, as if trying to gain perspective on him. “Should our positions have been reversed, I most assuredly would deny Martin his birthright. After thirty-seven years, what matter a few more days? After I was King, firm on my throne, then I would make him a duke, give him an army to command, name him First Adviser, whatever need be to salve my conscience, but not until the Kingdom was secure. I would not wish Martin to play Borric the First to Guy’s Jon the Pretender, and I would do whatever must be done to see that would not come to pass.”

  Lyam sighed with deep regret. “Then you and I are two different sorts of men, Arutha. I told you back at camp I thought you would make a better king than I. Perhaps you are right, but what’s done is done.”

  “Does Brucal know of this?”

  “Only we three.” He looked directly at Arutha. “Only our father’s sons.”

  Arutha flushed, irritated at the remark. “Don’t misunderstand me, Lyam. I hold Martin in no little affection, but there are
issues here much larger than any personal consideration.” He thought quietly for a moment. “Then it is in Martin’s hands. If you had to do this, at least you did right in not making it a public matter. There will be shock enough should Martin come forth at the coronation. At least with advance warning we can prepare.”

  Arutha moved toward the stairs, then stopped and faced his brother. “What you said cuts both ways, Lyam. Perhaps because you cannot deny Martin, you’ll make a better king than I. But as much as I love you, I’ll not let the Kingdom be destroyed over the succession.”

  Lyam seemed unable to contest with his brother any longer. Fatigue, a weary resignation toward what fate would bring, sounded in his words. “What will you do?”

  “What must be done. I will ensure that those who are loyal to us are forewarned. If there comes a need to fight, then let us have the advantage of surprise.” He paused for a moment. “I have nothing but the greatest affection for Martin, Lyam, you must know that. I hunted with him as a boy, and he was in no small part responsible for my safely getting Anita away from Guy’s watchdogs, a debt beyond repaying. In another time and place, I would gladly accept him as my brother. But should it come to bloodshed, Lyam, I’ll willingly kill him.”

  Arutha left the vault of his ancestors. Lyam stood alone, feeling the chill of ages press in upon him.

  —

  PUG LOOKED OUT the window, reminiscing. Katala came to his side, and he came out of his reverie. “You look lovely,” he said. She was dressed in a brilliant gown of deep red, with golden trim at the bodice and sleeves. “The finest Duchess of the court could not match your beauty.”

  She smiled at his flattery. “I thank you, husband.” She spun, showing off the gown. “Your Duke Caldric is the true magician, I am thinking. How his staff could manage to find all these things and have them ready in two short hours is true magic.” She patted at the full skirt. “These heavy gowns will take some practice getting around in. I think I prefer the short robes of home.” She stroked the material. “Still, this is a lovely cloth. And in this cold world of yours, I can see the need.” The weather had turned cooler, now that summer was waning. In less than two months snow would begin falling.