Into a Dark Realm: Book Two of the Darkwar Saga

by Raymond E. Feist

  He looked from face to face. “We are a race of warriors, and I mean that without boast. It is not as if we are the only warrior people to exist; however, we are a race bred to struggle. We kill our young males, did you know that?”

  Pug remembered a comment made by Kaspar. “I had heard something like that.”

  “Any boy may grow to be a threat, a rival, and as such must be obliterated before they can reach that state of existence.”

  Nakor looked fascinated by this. “How, then, did you endure as a race?”

  “By being dangerous, even as a child. By being wily. By having mothers who dedicate themselves to sheltering their children until they are old enough to protect themselves.

  “You will learn more about the Hiding and other things that are taken for granted among my people, but not all at once. For now, let us concentrate on how to keep you alive more than an hour once you set foot on any of the Twelve Worlds.”

  “Not every member of your people can be a warrior, surely?” asked Magnus.

  “No, there are warriors and their consorts, and their children and lesser brothers and sisters. That rank is not clearly labeled, much as you might think of the citizens of your nation as being ‘normal,’ while everyone else you meet is an ‘alien.’ He looked from face to face. “On my world you will be the aliens, so it is best if we find you a role that is somewhat suspect to the Dasati to begin with. Do you have any healing skills?”

  Nakor said, “I have some knowledge of herbs and how to dress wounds.”

  Pug said, “On my world, healing is done by chirurgeons and clerics, but I have some basic knowledge.”

  “Then you shall be members of the Guild of Attenders.”

  “Attenders?” asked Magnus.

  “Everyone not part of the ruling class are known as ‘Lessers,’” said Martuch. “Attenders are especially despised because of their impulse to take care of those not of their immediate family.”

  “Yet you endure their presence?” asked Pug.

  “Yes,” said Nakor. “Because they are useful!”

  Martuch smiled, and for a moment Pug felt there was a glimpse of something behind the stern exterior. “Yes. You grasp the concept.

  “Those you fear, you placate. Those who might be a threat, you destroy. But those who are neither fearsome nor threatening, but who may be useful, you keep around. You make them clients and protect them from other rulers who might take a notion to obliterate them.”

  Martuch waved his hand in a circle in the air. “Beyond these walls lies a city which has much more in common with your worlds than with mine. While the people here are distant kin to mine, they have lived long enough in this twisted space, this place halfway between the first and second planes, that many of our…ways are forgotten.

  “Here you have merchants and traders and entertainers, much as you do on your world. By our standards, these distant cousins of ours are carefree to the edge of madness—those of your world are surely mad.”

  Pug said, “So much to learn.”

  Bek finally spoke. “I don’t understand any of this. I just want to do something.”

  “Soon,” said Nakor, placating the restless young man.

  Martuch said, “Bek, we are done for now. Why don’t you go outside and get some air?”

  Bek looked at Nakor who nodded, and after the young man left, Nakor said, “Why did you want him to leave?”

  “Because so much of this is lost on him, yet in many ways he is more like a Dasati than any of you can imagine.” He looked at Nakor. “He follows you?”

  “He will do what I tell him to do, for at least a little while longer.”

  “Keep an eye on him.” To Pug he said, “Why did you bring him?”

  Pug said, “I was told to.”

  Martuch nodded, as if that were all he needed to know. “He may be important.”

  Nakor looked at Magnus, then said, “I need to ask you something, Martuch.”

  “What?”

  “Why are you helping us, without knowing our intent?”

  Martuch said, “I know more than you realize, Nakor the Isalani.

  Your coming was not unheralded. We received word some months ago that someone from the first plane of reality would be seeking access to my world.”

  “Word?” asked Pug. “From whom?”

  “I only have a name,” said the guide. “Kalkin.”

  Pug sat stunned. Even Nakor’s eyes widened. Magnus was the first to speak. “It doesn’t mean it was Kalkin, or Ban-ath. Just someone using that name.”

  “But who would know?” asked Pug. “Who besides the innermost circle of the Conclave even knows of Kaspar’s vision on the roof of the Pavilion of the Gods?”

  “And that, my friends, is why I may help you, if you show you’re able to endure what needs to be done to get you to the Dasati worlds. For whether or not you’re aware of it, we play a Game of Gods, and the stakes at risk are far more than you can begin to imagine. It is not only your world that lies at risk; it is my world, as well. Vast danger is circling: entire nations may die.”

  FOURTEEN

  CELEBRATION

  Pug lashed out.

  Martuch put his hands up and a shimmering disc appeared in front of his crossed wrists, a virtual shield of energy. The blue energy dart Pug had cast was deflected harmlessly into the sky.

  Pug, Nakor, and Magnus had met earlier that afternoon with Martuch, who had escorted them to a relatively deserted meadow in the hills a short walk from the city. Pug observed that there were acres of cultivated land everywhere, but no farms.

  “It is not our way,” Martuch had responded. He went on to explain that farmers were a caste of workers who labored for associations of cultivators, millers, and grain and produce exporters and who lived in clusters of rooms in large buildings he called “apartments.” They drove wagons out every morning and returned at sundown. He said it was a legacy of their Dasati heritage, for on the Twelve Worlds strength in numbers was not merely a catchphrase, but an axiom to live by: the packs of predators on the Dasati worlds were such that a farm family alone in a small house would not survive a year.

  The other thing Pug noticed was his use of the term “our way.” Whatever else he might think about the Ipiliac, he considered them one with the Dasati.

  “Magic is often thought of as just another tool to the Dasati,” said Martuch, “which of course means another weapon.

  “I think once you comprehend the intricacies of working with magic in this environment, your mastery of the subject will make you supreme among magic users, Pug.” To Nakor and Magnus he said, “Probably all three of you will rank highest.

  “But do not underestimate the ferocity of those whom you may encounter. A half-dozen Deathpriests may not equal you individually, but as a group they will overwhelm you. They are fanatics by your measure, as is every man, woman, and child in that realm.

  “They live by a standard that cannot even be called a ‘code.’ It is a set of unthinking responses honed over millennia of living in a world in which hesitation means obliteration.” He looked at the three magic users and said, “If you think, you die.”

  Magnus said, “You depict a grim reality.”

  “It is all they know. It is not grim to them, for they are the living, ergo, they are the survivors, the victors—even the least among them—and in that they take pride and satisfaction. The lowest of the Lessers, given the meanest tasks to perform, can feel superior to the failed son of the TeKarana himself. It is a sense of place you cannot begin to appreciate.”

  Nakor said, “I gathered as much hours ago, Martuch. What I would like to know is how you came to be different to your brothers?”

  “That is something for another time, but that time approaches. I have decided today to let you know my choice: I will guide you where you wish to go. And, moreover, I will give you my pledge to do all in my power to bring you home again.”

  “Speaking of which,” said Magnus, “after we endure all these cha
nges, how will we survive when we go home?”

  “In good order, I should think,” said Martuch. “It is the nature of the differences between the second and first plane of reality that as soon as you return home, you will start to revert to your old state. You may wish to take to your beds for a few days, and you’ll no doubt feel like dying, but you will not. Think of it as a particularly bad flux or the result of far too much drink the night before, only far more worse, lasting a week or so. Then it will pass.

  “There is an elegance in the order of nature, a stately progression of the universe which suggests that things should stay where they belong. As you seemed determined not to, the universe is inclined to forgive you and take you back once you return.” He squinted at Pug, a habit Pug had noticed usually meant he was very curious about whatever it was he was questioning. “So, may I now know the reason you wish to venture somewhere no sane member of your race would ever wish to go?”

  Pug glanced at Nakor, who nodded assent once. To Martuch he said, “What do you know of the Talnoy?”

  Martuch’s eyes widened. “First, that you should not even know that word, let alone what it is. Second, that it is a…blasphemy. Why?”

  “We have one.”

  Now Martuch looked openly shocked. “Where? How?”

  “It is the reason we must go to the Dasati worlds,” said Pug. “I will tell you everything in time, but for now understand that it is the presence of the Talnoy on my world that is the cause of our concern.”

  “Well, it should be, human,” said Martuch. “It is a thing to cause fear in even the bravest Dasati hero of yore, a monstrosity from the bloodiest days in the long and murderous history of my people.” He paused, then said, “This changes things.”

  “How?” asked Pug. “You’re not changing your mind?”

  “No. To the contrary, I am now even more determined to take you where you wish to go. I was correct in telling you that you play the Game of Gods, but now you play at a much higher stake than you ever imagined.

  “But I must go and speak to someone, and he will in turn speak with someone else. When we have conferred I will return, and when I do, we shall sit and talk of things no mortal, human or Dasati, should ever have to imagine, let alone face.” He looked around, as if suddenly concerned about being overheard. The gesture was almost humorous given their present location, but the implication was not lost on Pug. “I will return as quickly as I can. It should be obvious that you must say nothing of this to anyone else, not even to Kastor. Now, let us get back to the city and I will be off.”

  Pug and the others exchanged glances, then followed the obviously agitated Dasati.

  Valko did not enjoy the festivities. They were odd and troubling to him, though his mother had described such social encounters before. It was as if he possessed an extraordinary ability to see what others could not, or perhaps had more ease in ignoring what blinded or gulled others. This was what his mother had called the “social warfare” of the Dasati.

  As Hirea had predicted, most of his fellow student warriors were making tavaks of themselves, save for Seeleth, who like Valko had retreated to a corner of the room to watch and appraise.

  Several females had already made overtures to him, younger daughters of minor warriors, and one remarkably beautiful daughter of a Lesser Facilitator who specialized in wholesale arms and armor. Her father was an insect from what Valko could tell, but a very successful insect. And his daughter was extraordinarily attractive and using her beauty like a battering ram against a city gate. Valko had no doubt that given enough wine, several of his more foolish fellow trainees would come to blows over her, perhaps even shed blood. Valko watched the way she moved, the way her otherwise very proper attire clung to every curve of her body suggestively, and the way she smiled. He reckoned she was easily the most dangerous person in the room.

  He considered what Hirea had said earlier about the relationships between families and clans, houses and dynasties. He also remembered what his mother had taught him in contradiction to the conventional wisdom: that mating with a minor warrior’s daughter was not necessarily a bad thing, if that coupling produced a successful offspring who might bind that warrior and his family to you as a vassal. Breeding “up” was not the only way to success, she had taught him. Breeding “down” to secure a broad foundation could bring many swords to any cause you took up.

  In fact, he considered, looking around the room, there didn’t seem to be much opportunity to breed up. Only one young female appeared to come close to Hirea’s requirements, and she was surrounded by five of his companions.

  Seeleth came to his side. “You do not seek to couple tonight, brother?”

  Valko cast him a sidelong glance and shook his head. He saw that Seeleth had elected to wear the badge of Remalu on his armor. There was no prohibition against it, and Valko could have chosen the Camareen badge or the badge of the Sadharin. He chose neither. But to choose to reveal his society badge rather than his kinship badge, to name his father’s associations rather than his family, that was strange. Valko was tempted to ask about it, but as with all things regarding Seeleth, he thought silence the better course. Valko had decided the opportunity for a mating for advantage was slim, and he thought Hirea knew this. The old warrior stood near the table of his host, listening to whatever conversation was under way, but his eyes were constantly seeking out his charges around the room, weighing their behavior.

  Valko knew that as the night wore on his comrades would get drunk and make foolish choices. What he didn’t know was if this was something expected and that he should do the same, or whether it was something to be avoided. On one hand he did not wish to squander his time and energy on anything that was not advantageous, but on the other hand, he was mindful of Hirea’s warning not to become too distinctive.

  Weighing that choice, he said to his companion, “And are you not seeking a female, ‘brother’?”

  Seeleth grinned like a hungry zarkis. “There is none here worthy of my attention, in truth. Don’t you think so?”

  Valko glanced sidelong at him, then turned his attention to the floor. His decision had been made. “I think that female talking to Tokam might be.”

  “Why? Her father is a lesser knight.”

  “But her mother is the younger sister of someone placed high in the Bloodguard, Unkarlin.” Before Seeleth could speak, Valko stepped away and moved purposefully toward the female. She was attractive and he could feel his pulse starting to rise as he anticipated the possibility of coupling with her or battling with Tokam for her. He knew he would do neither, but by appearing to show interest, he acted predictably enough to avert any suspicion should he be observed, and he avoided wasting his time on a female who really wasn’t ideally placed and therefore, in the end, a waste of time.

  He glanced at Hirea, and saw the old warrior was watching him as he approached the pair who were speaking lowly, apparently lost in conversation. Could that be a hint of approval he saw in the old man’s eyes?

  Valko decided they must have that private talk, and soon.

  Tad fidgeted, Zane stared, and Jommy grinned. The reception at the palace was nothing “modest” by the boys’ standards. At least two hundred courtiers stood along either side of the long carpet leading to the throne, and along the walls two dozen royal guardsmen, the King’s First Dragoons, stood at attention in full gear—short round white fur caps with a black scarf that fell from the crown to the left shoulder, cream-colored jackets with red piping, black straight-legged trousers tucked into knee-high black boots.

  The boys were likewise turned out in their finest clothing, which they had to hurriedly purchase once the summons to the palace arrived. The monks were not happy to see their orderly schedule disrupted, but even the High Priest of La-Timsa couldn’t ignore a royal summons.

  Jommy, in particular, preened like a bantam rooster, wearing his first really fine jacket, of green corduroy with golden buttons worn open, a shirt Tad thought silly, but was now the fa
shion in Roldem (white linen with big ruffles down the front), tight black trousers, and ankle-high boots.

  Zane didn’t like the boots, for as he observed, they were useless for anything that required real boots, but were not as comfortable as slippers.

  Now the boys stood ready to be presented to the King of Roldem.

  Servan appeared at Jommy’s shoulder and whispered, “This is what you get for saving a prince’s life.”

  “If you’d warned me,” said Jommy, not losing his grin, “I’d have the little rotter still sitting up there.” Servan smiled and looked away.

  Servan and Jommy had not become friends, but they had reached an accommodation. Servan and Godfrey had become civil with the three boys from Sorcerer’s Isle, and Jommy had stopped hitting them.

  The Royal Master of Ceremonies struck the floor with the heel of a heavy wooden staff and the hall fell quiet. “Your Majesties!” he announced, “My lords, ladies, gentlemen, and all others assembled! Sir Jommy, Sir Tad, and Sir Zane of the Royal House of Kesh!”

  “‘Sir’?” said Tad. “When did that happen?”

  Servan whispered, “Well, they had to think of something to make you sound important. Now walk over to the King, bow the way I showed you, and don’t trip!”

  The three boys walked down the long carpet to the designated spot, six paces before the thrones, and bowed as they had been shown. Sitting on twin thrones were King Carol and Queen Gertrude. Standing at the Queen’s side was a little girl of no more than eight or nine, Princess Stephané, and at the King’s right hand stood three sons: the Crown Prince Constantine, a lad who was almost the same age as the three boys themselves; Prince Albér, a boy two years his junior; and of course Prince Grandy, who grinned at his friends. Constantine and Albér wore uniforms of the Royal Navy, while Grandy wore a simple tunic, as long as you considered that simple included gold threads and diamond buttons.