Legends of the Riftwar

by Raymond E. Feist

  The look in Morvai’s eyes was one of warning.

  ‘If you come to tell me that you love her, I know,’ Morvai said evenly.

  Stunned Bovai could not reply.

  Morvai put his hand upon his brother’s arm. ‘You have acted with honour.’ Then he spoke softly. ‘The heart wants what it wants. Always remember that, no matter what else happens.’

  Bovai found he could not speak. And then Morvai turned away, broke into a smile and extended a hand to his bride’s father, and the two of them clasped hands firmly, then shared a drink from the same goblet.

  Bovai had looked over at Anleah, seated at the feasting table and, seeing her aglow with love for Morvai, had felt his heart might shatter within his chest, for he knew that he would never see her look at him in that way.

  Throughout the ceremony he had stood by his brother’s side, heart filled–at first–with pain, but when he had seen his brother kiss her, he had forced his mind away from his pain, and willed his heart to ice. He would never love again, if love meant such pain.

  He had seen something else at that ceremony: the look she gave to Kavala. It had been warm–a friend’s smile–yet the look Kavala had returned to her told Bovai that now Kavala had three reasons to hate Morvai. He saw a reflection of his own longing mirrored in Kavala’s expression, just for an instant, only a brief flicker; but Bovai had seen it.

  When, at long last, protocol permitted, Bovai fled, leaving the feast for fear that his stomach would rebel and that he would vomit. His pain drove him from the camp. He took his bow and told a sentry he was going hunting.

  For five days he absented himself from his father’s compound.

  For a year and a month, Bovai and his brother lived without comment. Anleah grew more beautiful, happy in her marriage. Every smile and laugh was a dagger in Bovai’s heart, for he knew the laughter and the smiles were for Morvai. She loved him with an intensity only a few of the moredhel ever knew, and even the most reticent among the warriors would smile at the sight of her singing on her way to the stream to clean clothing, or as she tended the garden.

  But Morvai grew more reflective, more thoughtful, and disappeared alone in the forest for days at a time, often returning without game. There were days when he would suddenly become distracted while in conversations, as if he were listening to some distant call.

  One day Morvai called Bovai to his side and said something that troubled his brother for months to come. ‘Should I fall, brother, should anything happen to me…will you look after Anleah?’

  Bovai said, ‘Of course, but nothing will happen.’

  Morvai smiled and said, ‘Fate is fickle, brother. Rest assured, something will happen.’ He put his hand on his younger brother’s arm. ‘See to her needs. Take her back to the lodge of her father, should that be her wish.’

  ‘I will,’ said Bovai.

  Months fled, the seasons passed, and Morvai became ever more distracted. Gaduin asked Bovai if he knew what troubled his eldest son, but Bovai could think of nothing. Yet Bovai also sensed a deepening unease within his brother’s soul.

  Then, in late summer of the third year following the marriage, Morvai finally changed. No moredhel needed to be told when a family member made the change, known by the eledhel as the Returning. Bovai awoke an hour before dawn one day with a dread sense that something was terribly wrong. He was already out of his bed and in the courtyard of the compound, buckling his sword-belt, when he heard Anleah scream.

  He had raced with his father and other warriors to Morvai’s lodge, and inside found Anleah standing before an empty bed.

  ‘What is it, woman?’ Gaduin shouted.

  Softly, with tears flowing down her cheeks, Anleah spoke. ‘I awoke to find a stranger in this room, father of my…’ Her voice broke. ‘My husband is no more.’

  A cold more frigid than ice stabbed through Bovai’s stomach. He glanced at his father and saw the old warrior’s implacability. While his mask remained in place, all colour had drained from his cheeks.

  Softly, Gaduin said, ‘We must find the traitor. He must die.’

  Bovai felt the same pent-up rage and fear that his father was suppressing. Their beloved brother and son had changed. He was no longer of their blood. The evil Queen of Elvandar’s black arts had lured away another of their people: even as they stood there, the being who had once been Morvai was making his way southward, toward the haven of Elvandar.

  Bovai signalled and warriors hurried back to their own lodges to get weapons. Within minutes, fifty moredhel had made their way into the forest, after Morvai.

  The chase had been brutal, with no respite for either prey or hunters. In the memory of their race, there had been no greater affront to a clan than this. Even those renegades who had been banished by their own people and who lived in communities of humans and goblins might some day redeem their honour. But one who fled to Elvandar was a betrayer of everything that made one a member of the People, a moredhel.

  For six days they ran through the forests, swamps and bogs of Yabon. At last they came to the river marking the boundary of Elvandar.

  Bovai had glimpsed his brother three times in the chase; once upon the crest of a hill, another time moving into distant trees on the other side of a valley; and there at the river’s edge.

  Bovai had unleashed an arrow which had arched high into the sky only to strike futilely mere yards behind his brother as he splashed through the water.

  Figures in tunics with bows waited on the far bank, watching to see how close Bovai and the others would approach their border. Bovai’s rage overcame his caution and he ran forward to try to kill the traitor before he reached the shelter of the trees on the other side of the river. He nocked an arrow as he ran, then quickly planted his feet and sighted, forcing himself to accuracy, for this would be his final shot.

  As he drew, so did those behind him, and they were answered by the enemy across the river. His own arrow had left the bowstring a scant moment before others, and with a howl of frustration he had seen the shaft fall inches short. Then his shout of rage had turned to pain as an elven arrow struck him in the thigh.

  Two of his companions had had to drag him to safety, for even wounded, Bovai was ready to charge across the river.

  The last he saw of the creature who had once been his brother was his back as he disappeared into the darkness of Elvandar.

  ‘Bovai?’

  He stirred from his painful memories.

  It was Golun, leader of his scouts.

  ‘Yes?’

  Golun saw that Bovai’s arm was still bared in spite of the icy cold.

  ‘Remembering?’

  Bovai nodded. Golun had been at the wedding feast and knew of all the dishonour that had followed. Clan Badger had proclaimed the shame of Clan Raven unbearable and disavowed the peace between them. Anleah’s return was demanded by her father. Bovai told Gaduin of his promise to Morvai–to take the girl home–but his father had lashed out and struck his son at the very mention of the traitor’s name.

  Rather than let Anleah return to her people, Gaduin had forced Anleah to marry Bovai against her will. Bovai had fought six battles over four years with Clan Badger, before forcing them to yield after the death of Vergalus. Kavala had been forced to bow before Murad, and Clan Badger had been absorbed into Clan Raven.

  Ten years of struggle had followed, as other clans in Yabon sought to displace Raven. The bitterness of what all saw as a base betrayal by Clan Raven of Clan Badger had taken years to quell.

  Golun had stood by Bovai’s side throughout and in the years that followed Bovai had proven himself worthy of command, his mind cold, calculated, and filled with cunning. He was remorseless in the hunting down of his clan’s enemies, gaining the reputation of being the darkest of warriors and one never to be crossed, for vengeance was all that he lived for. He had partially redeemed himself in Murad’s eyes, and now he was poised to regain the seat on the Council denied him after his father’s death, the seat at Murad’s righ
t hand. His rage had served Bovai well.

  None outside the clan, and few within, understood the rage that was stoked every day as he lived with a woman who loved a memory. Anleah was a dutiful wife and allowed Bovai the pleasures of the marriage bed, but she evidenced no joy in being with him. She endured his touch, and each time desire drove him to take her, he left their bed feeling bitter pain instead of joy.

  Many days he would see her gazing out of the window of their lodge, or working quietly in their garden, and he knew her mind was turned to the past, to a night with another whom she still loved, despite his profound betrayal of his race. Gone were the happy songs, the laughter, and the smile. Anleah, most beautiful of women among Clan Raven, was now a figure of melancholy. Her smiles for Bovai were always tinged with sadness, and she never laughed.

  More than anything else, Golun understood these things, and why Bovai had become such a terrible figure on the battlefield. He understood that Bovai could never, truly, have the woman he loved, even though she shared his home and bed; and that scar on his heart, soul and honour haunted him.

  Over the years Golun had heard rumours that Morvai’s new elven name was Tinuva; that he had skirmished along the frontier with warriors from other clans. Three times Bovai had glimpsed his one-time brother, and yet had been unable to close with him. It was clear to him that Bovai knew that would be his last opportunity to find and destroy his brother.

  Golun unclasped his cloak and threw it over Bovai’s shoulders and Bovai nodded his thanks. He had forgotten just how long he had been standing there in the cold, alone, in just a tunic.

  ‘At least Kavala is dead,’ Bovai said, and Golun grunted in reply. ‘Strange, across all the years I could not slay him. He desired Anleah as much as I, and if I had fallen in battle, I know he would have courted her. But his hatred for Tinuva matched my own–he blamed him for Clan Badger’s destruction. He was ambitious and would have displaced me if he thought he could, yet I endured his envy and hatred; a day did not go by that he did not wish to drive a dagger into my heart.’

  ‘His death frees you of the need to kill him, and it has also revealed the presence of your brother for certain. It is ironic that in removing an avowed enemy, Tinuva did you a service.’

  ‘Yes,’ Bovai replied, drawing the cloak tight around his shoulders to ward off the chill. ‘At the fort we took, I sensed his presence, yet after all these years it was almost hard to believe that finally we were coming to the conclusion of all events.’

  ‘Slay him and your honour is fully restored,’ said Golun. ‘With your honour intact at the Great Council next summer no one will dare to speak against your name. Who could deny one who would slay his own brother in order to restore the family name?’

  Bovai nodded. Golun was his friend, but Golun was also ambitious. He knew what it was that Bovai sought.

  Bovai looked over at him.

  ‘Delekhan,’ Bovai whispered. ‘He has always used my brother’s betrayal against me in Council.’

  ‘It would be far better that you, rather than he, should rule the entire clan if Murad should fall. The death of your father left the way open for your ambitious cousin to seize control, when it should have been you sitting at Murad’s right hand.’

  Bovai glanced over at Golun and wondered for a second if there was some veiled insult in his words. If the tragedy had not played out as it had, it would have been Morvai bringing together Raven and Badger, Morvai who would now be ruling both clans, their combined strength thus making him Murad’s most trusted captain.

  ‘Kill Tinuva: but you will still have to contend with the problems down there,’ Golun said, nodding back to the stockade by the river.

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘Another fight between the humans and goblins. Two dead on both sides.’

  ‘Damn.’ Bovai sighed. Following Golun’s lead, he started back down the hill.

  Garrisoning all of them together to sit out the storms was proving to be a nightmare. Half a dozen heads were already staked above the gate, executions undertaken in order to maintain order.

  It had been nearly a fortnight since they had lost the chase and their prey had escaped. He knew they would hole up in the valley. Several of the humans with the party had heard rumours of the place and one claimed to know a pass to the north of the mountains that would bring them into the valley from the other side. That pass was a march of at least thirty miles, once the Edder Forest was circled, and until the storms abated and the thaw that often came at midwinter melted off some of the snow and compacted the rest, the march would be impossible.

  He knew he had to do three things now. The first was to keep his force together. He had promised to get them back safely to their homeland before winter. If it had not been for the diversion of the chase they would have gained the final pass before the storms. Having failed in that he now had to succeed in the other two. To satisfy the men and goblins, Hartraft’s Marauders had to be annihilated. The glory derived from such an act would assuage their anger and they would return home to boast of what they had achieved. And finally the death of Tinuva would settle a dispute that had lasted for centuries. It would afford him little pleasure, he knew, and Anleah would love him not one whit more when the traitor was dead, but it would remove a canker from his heart, and come summer it would place him in a position to challenge Delekhan himself for a prominent place in the clan Council. He might never have Morvai’s love, but he would some day have glory his former brother had only dreamed of.

  As the snow swirled he returned to the fortress and for several minutes loud arguments ensued. Some moments later there was the ringing of steel, and six more heads were placed upon the battlement wall.

  Gregory refilled Tinuva’s mug with tea and passed it over to him, pouring another cup for himself. Moving the small kettle off the flames, he tossed another log on the fire and settled back. The two of them were sitting inside the rotted-out remains of a massive tree stump. Tearing away the south side of the stump to gain entrance, they had settled in after a morning of hunting. The thin outer wall that engulfed them on three sides formed a natural shelter against the wind and snow: the two of them were able to stretch out comfortably on the sawdust-dry inner remains of the great tree.

  ‘You never told me about her before,’ Gregory said, his friend having fallen silent, after speaking, for the first time, of the story of his wife, Anleah.

  Gregory kept his voice soft, trying not to show the slightest shock over the tale that his companion of so many years had just related. He knew Tinuva had been of the moredhel, but had never questioned him about that, or the reason for his ‘Returning’, to the eledhel. One did not question elves on such secretive matters and the mere fact that Tinuva had just discussed Anleah with him was startling, and a bit worrisome.

  Tinuva nodded. ‘No reason before. It was long ago.’

  ‘Not so long ago that the memory doesn’t hurt.’

  Tinuva, gaze fixed on the fire, again fell silent. An acceptance of the elf’s silences was one thing Gregory had learned early on in his friendship with Tinuva. Elves understood time differently. Perhaps it was because the span of humans was so short that they had to cram each moment with something. An elf could go for days, weeks even, without speaking and in fact be completely unaware of it. It was one of the reasons they seldom chose humans as friends, for humans clouded the air with too much talk and too frenzied a pace of living.

  The small log he had tossed on the fire burned down and Gregory replaced it with another.

  Finally Tinuva stirred. ‘Yes, it hurts,’ he whispered. ‘It will always hurt. I love her still.’ He sighed, and the anguish of the sound cut into Gregory’s heart. ‘And I loved my brother as well.’

  Gregory wanted to ask the question but knew he couldn’t; he would have to wait.

  More than an hour passed before Tinuva spoke again.

  ‘I’ll never know if she wed my brother willingly, or if my father forced her. I guess it doesn’t matter, in any e
vent.’

  Startled, Gregory fought to keep his features composed, his eyes fixed on the flames. ‘I find it difficult to understand much of what you’ve told me, my friend.’

  Tinuva laughed sadly. ‘You have no idea of the struggle within my soul, of the great divide between moredhel and eledhel. You have no idea of what it was to be a moredhel. Yes there is a darkness to it, but ah, the passion, the power of it is intoxicating beyond my ability to describe. My father’s people are a unique and difficult race, yet they have their own honour and glory.

  ‘There are few outside our race who know of the Returning, Gregory. You and a few others among the Rangers. Even Martin Longbow, Prince Calin’s friend and hunting companion, is ignorant of the Returning, I think. To some among us, it is a difficult thing, for it speaks of an ancient lore and mysteries even the wisest among us can hardly fathom.

  ‘Some believe once we were a single race, serving the Ancient Ones.’

  Gregory nodded, for much of that lore had been hidden before the arrival in Elvandar of a white-clad warrior called Tomas. Rumour was he had once been a keep-boy in Crydee, but now he was a swordsman unmatched in ferocity and power. It was said he harboured an ancient magic within him, and Gregory knew there was some truth to this, for he had seen his friend and other elves when they spoke of Tomas. He had heard the whispers of Valheru, the Ancient Ones.

  ‘It is said that when the Ancient Ones departed this world, they named us a free people, and we divided, some clinging to the ways of our ancestors, while others sought out power for the sake of power.

  ‘It is from that division that the moredhel and the eledhel arose. We have grown so different that our language, customs, and beliefs have changed.’ Tinuva looked at Gregory. ‘Did you know that the union between a moredhel and an eledhel can produce no offspring?’

  Gregory said nothing, but silently gazed at his friend.

  ‘Some say this proves we are a different race from the Dark Ones. Yet, those of us who were once of the moredhel, who have Returned, can take wives and father children.’