Silverthorn

by Raymond Feist

  “Everything I have said is true, Warlord! Torturing my friends will not change that!”

  “Master!” came a cry.

  The Warlord looked at his Inquisitor. “What?”

  “This man…look.” Dominic had lost his pained expression. He hung from the pillar, beatific peace upon his face.

  Ergoran stepped up before the monk and examined him. “He’s in some manner of trance?”

  Both Warlord and magician looked at Pug, and the magician said, “What tricks does this false priest practice, Milamber?”

  “He is no priest of Hantukama, true, but he is a cleric of my world. He can place his mind at rest regardless of what occurs with his body.”

  The Warlord nodded toward the Inquisitor, who removed a sharp knife from the table. He stepped before the monk and, with a sudden cut, sliced open his shoulder. Dominic did not move, not even an involuntary twitch, in reaction. Using pincers, the Inquisitor took a hot coal and applied it to the cut. Again the monk did not react.

  The Inquisitor put away his pincers and said, “It is useless, master. His mind is blocked away. We’ve had this problem with priests before.”

  Pug’s brow furrowed. While not free of politics, the temples tended to be circumspect in their relationships with the High Council. If the Warlord had been interrogating priests, that indicated movement on the part of the temples toward those allied against the War Party. From Hochopepa’s ignorance of this fact, it also meant the Warlord was moving covertly and had stolen the march on his opposition. As much as anything, this told Pug that the Empire was in serious straits, even now poised on the brink of civil war. The assault upon those who stood with the Emperor would come soon.

  “This one’s no priest,” said Ergoran, coming up to Meecham. He looked up at the tall franklin. “He’s a simple slave, so he should prove more manageable.” Meecham spit full in the magician’s face. Ergoran, used to the unhesitating fear and respect due a Great One, was as stunned as if he had been clubbed. He staggered back, wiping spittle from his face. Enraged, he said coldly, “You’ve earned a slow, lingering death, slave.”

  Meecham smiled, for the first time Pug could remember, a broad grin, almost leering. His face was rendered impossibly demonic by the scar on his cheek. “It was worth it, you genderless mule.”

  In his anger, Meecham had spoken in the King’s Tongue, but the tone of the insult was not lost on the magician. He reached over, pulled the sharp blade from the Inquisitor’s table, and slashed a long furrow on Meecham’s chest. The franklin stiffened, his face draining of color as the wound began to bleed. Ergoran stood before him in triumph. Then the Midkemian spit again.

  The Inquisitor turned to the Warlord. “Master, the Great One is interfering with delicate work.”

  The magician stepped back, letting the knife drop. He again wiped the spittle from his face as he returned to the Warlord’s side. With hatred in his voice, he said, “Don’t be too hasty in speaking what you know, Milamber. I wish this carrion a long session.”

  Pug struggled to battle the magic neutralizing properties of the bracelets upon his wrists, but to no avail. The Inquisitor began to work upon Meecham, but the stoic franklin refused to cry out. For half an hour the Inquisitor practiced his bloody trade, until at last Meecham sounded a strangled groan and passed into semiconsciousness. The Warlord said, “Why have you returned, Milamber?”

  Pug, feeling Meecham’s pain as if it were his own, said, “I’ve told you the truth.” He looked at Ergoran. “You know it’s the truth.” He knew his plea fell on deaf ears, for the enraged magician wished Meecham to suffer for spite, not caring that Pug had told all.

  The Warlord indicated to the Inquisitor that he was to begin upon Pug. The red-hooded man tore Pug’s robes open. The pot of caustic was opened and a small daub was applied to Pug’s chest. Years of hard work as a slave in the swamp had left Pug a lean, muscled man, and his body tensed as the pain began. At first daub there had been no sensation, then an instant later pain seared his flesh as the chemicals in the paste reacted. Pug could almost hear the skin blister. The Warlord’s voice cut through the pain. “Why have you returned? Whom have you contacted?”

  Pug closed his eyes against the fire on his chest. He sought refuge in the calming exercises Kulgan had taught him as an apprentice. Another daub of paste and another fire erupted, this time on the sensitive flesh inside his thigh. Pug’s mind rebelled and sought to find refuge in magic. Again and again he battled to break through the barrier imposed by the magic limiting bracelets. In his youth he had been able to find his path to magic only under great stress. When his life had been threatened by trolls, he had found his first spell. When battling Squire Roland, he had lashed out magically, and when he had destroyed the Imperial Games, it had been from a deeply held well of anger and outrage. Now his mind was an enraged animal, bouncing off the bars of a magically imposed cage, and like an animal, he reacted blindly, striking against the barrier again and again, determined either to be free or to die.

  Hot coals were placed against his flesh and he screamed. It was an animal cry, mixed pain and rage, and his mind lashed out. His thoughts became blurred, as if he existed in a landscape of reflecting surfaces, a mad spinning room of mirrors, each casting back an image. He saw the kitchen boy of Crydee looking back at him in one surface, then Kulgan’s student in another. In a third was the young squire, and the fourth, a slave in the Shinzawai swamp camp. But in the reflections behind the reflections, the mirrors seen within the mirrors, in each he saw a new thing. Behind the boy in the kitchen he saw a man, a servant, but there was no doubt who that man was. Pug, without magic, without training, grown to manhood as a simple member of the castle’s serving staff, labored in the kitchen. Behind the image of the young squire he saw a Kingdom noble, with Princess Carline upon his arm, his wife. His mind whirled. He frantically sought something. He studied the image of Kulgan’s student. Behind him he saw the reflected image of an adult practitioner of the Lesser Art. In his mind Pug spun, seeking the origin of that reflected image within an image, of the Pug grown to be a master of the Lesser Magic. Then he saw the source of that image, a possible future never realized, a chance of fate having diverted his life from that outcome. But in the alternate probabilities of his life he found what he sought. He found an escape. Suddenly he understood. A way was opened to him and his mind fled down that path.

  Pug’s eyes snapped open and he looked past the red-hooded figure of the Inquisitor. Meecham hung groaning, again conscious, while Dominic was still lost in a trance.

  Pug used a mental ability to turn off his awareness of the injury done his body. In an instant he stood without feeling pain. Then his mind reached toward the black-robed figure of Ergoran. The Great One of the Empire almost staggered as Pug’s gaze locked upon his own. For the first time in memory, a magician of the Greater Path employed a talent of the Lesser Path, and Pug engaged Ergoran in a contest of wills.

  With mind-shattering force, Pug overwhelmed the magician, stunning him instantly. The black-robed figure sagged for a moment until Pug took control of his body. Closing his own eyes, Pug now saw through Ergoran’s. He adjusted his senses, then had complete command over the Tsurani Great One. Ergoran’s hand shot forward and a cascade of energies sprang from his fingers, striking the Inquisitor from behind. Red and purple lines of force danced along the man’s body as he arched and shrieked. Then the Inquisitor danced across the room like a mad puppet, his movements jerky and spastic as he cried out in agony.

  The Warlord stood briefly stunned, then screamed, “Ergoran! What insanity is this?” He grabbed the magician’s robe as the Inquisitor slammed against the far wall and fell to the stone floor. The instant the Warlord came into contact with the magician, the painful energies ceased to strike the Inquisitor and engulfed the Warlord. Axantucar writhed as he fell back from the onslaught.

  The Inquisitor rose from the floor, shaking his head to clear it, and staggered back toward the captives. The red-hooded torturer
pulled a slender knife from the table, sensing Pug to be the author of his pain. He stepped toward Pug, but Meecham gripped his chains and hoisted himself up. With a heave, Meecham reached out and encircled the Inquisitor’s neck with his legs. In a scissors grip he held the struggling Inquisitor, squeezing with tremendous power. The Inquisitor struck at Meecham’s leg with the knife, slashing it across the flesh over and over, but Meecham kept pressure on. Again and again the knife cut, until Meecham’s legs were covered in his own blood, but the Inquisitor couldn’t cut deeply with the blood-slick little knife. Meecham only gave a joyous cry of victory. Then, with a grunt and a jerk, he crushed the man’s windpipe. As the Inquisitor collapsed, strength flowed out of the franklin. Meecham dropped, held up only by his chains. With a weak smile he nodded toward Pug.

  Pug broke off the pain spell and the Warlord fell back from Ergoran. Pug commanded the magician to approach. The Great One’s mind felt like a soft, malleable thing under Pug’s magic control, and somehow Pug knew how to command the magician to act, while keeping aware of what he himself was doing.

  The magician began freeing Pug from his chains, while the Warlord struggled to his feet. One hand was free. Axantucar staggered to the outer door. Pug made a decision. If he could be free of the bonds, he could handle any number of guards called in by the Warlord, but he couldn’t control two men and he didn’t think he could keep control of the magician long enough to destroy the Warlord and free himself. Or could he? Then Pug recognized the danger. This new magic was proving difficult and his judgment was slipping. Why was he allowing the Warlord to gain his freedom? The pain of torture and the exertion were taking a terrible toll, and Pug felt himself weakening by the moment. The Warlord pulled open the door, screaming for guards, and when it opened, Axantucar grabbed at a spear. With a heave, he struck Ergoran full in the back. The blow knocked the magician to his knees before he could loosen Pug’s other hand. It also had the effect of sending a psychic shock back to strike Pug. Pug screamed in concert with Ergoran’s dying pain.

  Fog shrouded Pug’s mind. Then something within cracked, and his thoughts became a sea of glittering shards as the mirrors of memory shattered; scraps of past lessons, images of his family, smells, tastes, and sounds rang through his consciousness.

  Lights danced through his mind, first scattering motes of starlight, reflections of new vistas within. They weaved and danced, forming a pattern, a circle, a tunnel, then a way. He plunged through the way and found himself upon a new plane of consciousness. New paths were walked, new understandings achieved. That path opened to him before, through pain and terror, was now his to walk at will. At last he stood in command of those powers which were his legacy.

  His vision cleared and he saw soldiers struggling on the stairs. Pug turned his attention to the remaining shackle upon his wrist. Suddenly he remembered an old lesson of Kulgan’s. With a caress of his mind, the hardened leather shackle was made soft and supple again and he pulled his hand free.

  Pug concentrated and the magic-inhibiting bracelets fell away, broken in half. He looked up at the stairs, and for the first time the full impact of what he saw registered. The Warlord and his soldiers had fled the room as some sort of struggle took place above. A soldier in the blue armor of the Kanazawai clan lay dead next to an Imperial White. Pug quickly released Meecham, easing him to the ground. He was bleeding heavily from the leg wounds and cuts to his body. Pug sent Dominic a questing mental message: Return. Dominic’s eyes opened at once as his shackles fell off and Pug said, “Tend to Meecham.” Without asking for explanation, the monk turned to treat the wounded franklin.

  Pug dashed up the stairs and ran to where Hochopepa lay imprisoned. He entered the cell and the startled magician said, “What is it? I heard some noise outside.”

  Pug bent over and changed the manacles to soft leather. “I don’t know. Allies, I think. I suspect the Blue Wheel Party is attempting to free us.” He pulled Hochopepa’s hands free of the now soft restraints.

  Hochopepa stood on wobbly legs. “We must help them help us,” he said with resolution. Then he considered his freedom and the softened restraints. “Milamber, how did you do that?”

  Passing through the door, Pug answered, “I don’t know, Hocho. It will be something to discuss.”

  Pug raced up the stairs toward the upper level of the palace. In the central gallery of the Warlord’s palace, armed men struggled in hand-to-hand combat. Men in armor of various colors battled the Warlord’s Imperial Whites. Looking about the bloody combat, Pug saw Axantucar fighting past a struggling pair of soldiers. Two white-armored soldiers covered his retreat. Pug closed his eyes and reached out. His eyes opened and he could see the invisible hand of energy he had created. He could feel it as he could his own. As if picking up a kitten by the neck, he reached out and gripped the Warlord. Raising him up, he drew the struggling, kicking man toward him. The soldiers halted their struggle at the sight of the Warlord above them. Axantucar, supreme warrior of the Empire, shrieked in unashamed terror at the invisible force that had grabbed him.

  Pug pulled him back toward where he and Hocho stood. Some of the Imperial Whites recovered from their shock and deduced that the renegade magician must be the cause of their master’s dilemma. Several broke off from their struggles with the soldiers in colored armor and ran to aid the Warlord.

  Then a loud voice cried out, “Ichindar! Ninety-one times Emperor!”

  Instantly every soldier in the room, regardless of which side he struggled for, dropped to the floor, putting forehead against the stone. The officers stood with heads bowed. Only Hochopepa and Pug watched as a cortege of Warchiefs, all in the armor of those who constituted the Blue Wheel Party, entered the room. In the forefront, wearing armor not seen in years, came Kamatsu, again for a time Warchief of the Kanazawai Clan. Forming up, they parted to allow the Emperor to enter. Ichindar, supreme authority of the Empire, walked into the hall, resplendent in his ceremonial golden armor. He stalked to where Pug waited, the Warlord still hanging in midair above him, and surveyed the scene. At last he said, “Great One, you do seem to cause difficulty whenever you appear.” He looked up at the Warlord. “If you’ll put him down, we can get to the bottom of this mess.”

  Pug allowed the Warlord to fall, striking the ground heavily.

  —

  “That is an amazing tale, Milamber,” said Ichindar to Pug. He sat on the pillows occupied earlier that day by the Warlord, sipping a cup of the Warlord’s chocha. “It would be simple to say I believe you and that all is forgiven, but the dishonor visited upon me by those you call elves and dwarves is an impossible thing to forget.” Around him stood the Warchiefs of the clans of the Blue Wheel, and the magician Elgahar.

  Hochopepa said, “If the Light of Heaven will permit me? Remember they were but tools, soldiers, if you will, in a game of shah. That this Macros was attempting to prevent the arrival of the Enemy is but another concern. That he is responsible for the betrayal rids you of the responsibility of avenging yourself upon anyone but Macros. And as he is presumed dead, it is a moot issue.”

  The Emperor said, “Hochopepa, your tongue is as facile as a relli’s.” He referred to the water-snake-like creature known for its supple movement. “I will not be punitive without good cause, but I also am reluctant to take my former stance of conciliation toward the Kingdom.”

  Pug said, “Majesty, that would not be wise at this time, in any event.” When Ichindar looked interested in the comment, Pug continued. “While I hope that someday our two nations may meet again as friends, at this time there are more pressing matters that demand attention. For the short term, it must be as if the two worlds were never rejoined.”

  The Emperor sat up. “From what little I understand of such matters, I suspect you are correct. Larger issues need to be resolved. I must make a decision shortly that may forever change the course of Tsurani history.” He lapsed into silence. For a long time he held his own council, then said, “When Kamatsu and the others came to me, telli
ng me of your return and your suspicion of some black terror of Tsurani origin upon your world, I wished to ignore it all. I cared nothing for your problems or those of your world. I was even indifferent to the possibility of once more invading your land. I was fearful of acting again, for I had lost much face before the High Council after the attack on your world.” He seemed lost in thought a brief moment. “Your world was lovely, what little I saw before the battle.” He sighed, his green eyes fastening on Pug. “Milamber, had Elgahar not come to the palace, confirming what your allies in the Blue Wheel Party reported, you most likely would be dead, and I would soon follow after, and Axantucar on his way to bloody civil war. He gained the white and gold only because of the outrage against the betrayal. You prevented my death, if not some greater calamity for the Empire. I think that warrants some consideration, though you know the turmoil in the Empire is just beginning.”

  Pug said, “I am enough a product of the Empire to understand that the Game of the Council will become even more vicious.”

  Ichindar looked outside the window, where the body of Axantucar hung twisting in the wind. “I will have to consult the historians, but that is the first Warlord hung by an Emperor, I believe.” Hanging was the ultimate shame and punishment for a warrior. “Still, as he no doubt planned the same fate for myself, I don’t think I’m likely to have a rebellion, at least not this week.”

  The Warchiefs of the High Council who were in attendance looked at one another. Finally Kamatsu said, “Light of Heaven, if I may? The War Party retires in confusion. The betrayal by the Warlord has robbed them of any base for negotiation within the High Council. Even as we speak, the War Party is no more, and its clans and families will be meeting to discuss which parties to join to regain some shred of their influence. For now the moderates rule.”