Magician

Magician

Riftware Sage Book 1

Raymond E. Feist

I
t
is with some hesitation and a great deal of trepidation that an
author approaches the task of revising an earlier edition of fiction.
This is especially true if the book was his first effort, judged
successful by most standards, and continuously in print for a decade.

Magician
was all this, and more.
In late 1977 I decided to try my hand at writing, part-time, while I
was an employee of the University of California, San Diego. It is now
some fifteen years later, and I have been a full-time writer for the
last fourteen years, successful in this craft beyond my wildest
dreams.
Magician
, the first novel in what became known as.
The
Riftwar Saga
, was a book that quickly took on a life of its own.
I hesitate to admit this publicly, but the truth is that part of the
success of the book was my ignorance of what makes a commercially
successful novel. My willingness to plunge blindly forward into a
tale spanning two dissimilar worlds, covering twelve years in the
lives of several major and dozens of minor characters, breaking
numerous rules of plotting along the way, seemed to find kindred
souls among readers the world over. After a decade in print, my best
judgment is that the appeal of the book is based upon its being what
was known once as a “ripping yarn.” I had little ambition
beyond spinning a good story, one that satisfied my sense of wonder,
adventure, and whimsy. It turned out that several million
readers—many of whom read translations in languages I can’t
even begin to comprehend—found it one that satisfied their
tastes for such a yarn as well.

But insofar as it was a first effort,
some pressures of the marketplace did manifest themselves during the
creation of the final book. Magician is by anyone’s measure a
large book. When the penultimate manuscript version sat upon my
editor’s desk, I was informed that some fifty thousand words
would have to be cut. And cut I did. Mostly line by line, but a few
scenes were either truncated or excised.

While I could live out my life with the
original manuscript as published being the only edition ever read, I
have always felt that some of the material cut added a certain
resonance, a counterpoint if you will, to key elements of the tale.
The relationships between characters, the additional details of an
alien world, the minor moments of reflection and mirth that act to
balance the more frenetic activity of conflict and adventure, all
these things were “close but not quite what I had in mind.”

In any event, to celebrate the tenth
anniversary of the original publication of
Magician
, I have
been permitted to return to this work, to reconstruct and change, to
add and cut as I see fit, to bring forth what is known in publishing
as the “Author’s Preferred Edition” of the work.
So, with the old admonition, “If it ain’t broke, don’t
fix it,” ringing in my ears, I return to the first work I
undertook, back when I had no pretensions of craft, no stature as a
bestselling author, and basically no idea of what I was doing. My
desire is to restore some of those excised bits, some of the minor
detail that I felt added to the heft of the narrative, as well as the
weight of the book. Other material was more directly related to the
books that follow, setting some of the background for the mythic
underpinning of the Riftwar. The slightly lengthy discussion of lore
between Tully and Kulgan in Chapter Three, as well as some of the
things revealed to Pug on the Tower of Testing were clearly in this
area. My editor wasn’t sold on the idea of a sequel, then, so
some of this was cut. Returning it may be self-indulgent, but as this
was material I felt belonged in the original book, it has been
restored.

To those readers who have already
discovered
Magician
, who wonder if it’s in their
interests to purchase this edition, I would like to reassure them
that nothing profound has been changed. No characters previously dead
are now alive, no battles lost are now won, and two boys still find
the same destiny. I ask you to feel no compulsion to read this new
volume, for your memory of the original work is as valid, perhaps
more so, than mine. But if you wish to return to the world of Pug and
Tomas, to rediscover old friends and forgotten adventure, then
consider this edition your opportunity to see a bit more than the
last time. And to the new reader, welcome. I trust you’ll find
this work to your satisfaction.

It is with profound gratitude I wish to
thank you all, new readers and old acquaintances, for without your
support and encouragement, ten years of “ripping yarns”
could not have been possible. If I have the opportunity to provide
you with a small part of the pleasure I feel in being able to share
my fanciful adventures with you, we are equally rewarded, for by your
embracing my works you have allowed me to fashion more. Without you
there would have been no
Silverthorn, A Darkness at Sethanon,
Faerie Tale,
and no
Empire Trilogy.
The letters get read,
if not answered—even if they sometimes take months to reach me
—and the kind remarks, in passing at public appearances, have
enriched me beyond measure. But most of all, you gave me the freedom
to practice a craft that was begun to “see if I could do it,”
while working at the Residence Halls of John Muir College at UCSD.

So, thank you. I guess “I did
it.” And with this work, I hope you’ll agree that
this
time
I did it a little more elegantly, with a little more color,
weight, and resonance.

RAYMOND E. FEIST

San Diego, California

August 1991

A boy’s will is the wind’s
will,
And the thoughts of youth are
long, long thoughts.

—LONGFELLOW,
My Lost Youth

T
he
storm had broken.

Pug danced along the edge of the rocks,
his feet finding scant purchase as he made his way among the tide
pools His dark eyes darted about as he peered into each pool under
the cliff face, seeking the spiny creatures driven into the shallows
by the recently passed storm. His boyish muscles bunched under his
light shirt as he shifted the sack of sandcrawlers, rockclaws, and
crabs plucked from this water garden.

The afternoon sun sent sparkles through
the sea spray swirling around him, as the west wind blew his
sun-streaked brown hair about Pug set his sack down, checked to make
sure it was securely tied, then squatted on a clear patch of sand.
The sack was not quite full, but Pug relished the extra hour or so
that he could relax Megar the cook wouldn’t trouble him about
the time as long as the sack was almost full Resting with his back
against a large rock, Pug was soon dozing in the sun’s warmth.

A cool wet spray woke him hours later.
He opened his eyes with a start, knowing he had stayed much too long.
Westward, over the sea, dark thunderheads were forming above the
black outline of the Six Sisters, the small islands on the horizon.
The roiling, surging clouds, with rain trailing below like some sooty
veil, heralded another of the sudden storms common to this part of
the coast in early summer To the south, the high bluffs of Sailors
Grief reared up against the sky, as waves crashed against the base of
that rocky pinnacle. Whitecaps started to form behind the breakers, a
sure sign the storm would quickly strike. Pug knew he was in danger,
for the storms of summer could drown anyone on the beaches, or if
severe enough, on the low ground beyond.

He picked up his sack and started
north, toward the castle. As he moved among the pools, he felt the
coolness in the wind turn to a deeper, wetter cold. The day began to
be broken by a patchwork of shadows as the first clouds passed before
the sun, bright colors fading to shades of grey. Out to sea,
lightning flashed against the blackness of the clouds, and the
distant boom of thunder rode over the noise of the waves.

Pug picked up speed when he came to the
first stretch of open beach. The storm was coming in faster than he
would have thought possible, driving the rising tide before it. By
the time he reached the second stretch of tide pools, there was
barely ten feet of dry sand between water’s edge and cliffs.

Pug hurried as fast as was safe across
the rocks, twice nearly catching his foot. As he reached the next
expanse of sand, he mistimed his jump from the last rock and landed
poorly. He fell to the sand, grasping his ankle. As if waiting for
the mishap, the tide surged forward, covering him for a moment. He
reached out blindly and felt his sack carried away. Frantically
grabbing at it, Pug lunged forward, only to have his ankle fail. He
went under, gulping water. He raised his head, sputtering and
coughing. He started to stand when a second wave, higher than the
last, hit him in the chest, knocking him backward. Pug had grown up
playing in the waves and was an experienced swimmer, but the pain of
his ankle and the battering of the waves were bringing him to the
edge of panic. He fought it off and came up for air as the wave
receded. He half swam, half scrambled toward the cliff face, knowing
the water would be only inches deep there.

Pug reached the cliffs and leaned
against them, keeping as much weight off the injured ankle as
possible. He inched along the rock wall, while each wave brought the
water higher. When Pug finally reached a place where he could make
his way upward, water was swirling at his waist. He had to use all
his strength to pull himself up to the path. He lay panting a moment,
then started to crawl up the pathway, unwilling to trust his balky
ankle on this rocky footing.

The first drops of rain began to fall
as he scrambled along, bruising knees and shins on the rocks, until
he reached the grassy top of the bluffs. Pug fell forward exhausted,
panting from the exertion of the climb. The scattered drops grew into
a light but steady rain.

When he had caught his breath, Pug sat
up and examined the swollen ankle. It was tender to the touch, but he
was reassured when he could move it: it was not broken. He would have
to limp the entire way back, but with the threat of drowning on the
beach behind him, he felt relatively buoyant.

Pug would be a drenched, chilled wretch
when he reached the town. He would have to find a lodging there, for
the gates of the castle would be closed for the night, and with his
tender ankle he would not attempt to climb the wall behind the
stables. Besides, should he wait and slip into the keep the next day,
only Megar would have words for him, but if he was caught coming over
the wall, Swordmaster Fannon or Horsemaster Algon would surely have a
lot worse in store for him than words.

While he rested, the rain took on an
insistent quality and the sky darkened as the late-afternoon sun was
completely engulfed in storm clouds. His momentary relief was
replaced with anger at himself for losing the sack of sandcrawlers.
His displeasure doubled when he considered his folly at falling
asleep. Had he remained awake, he would have made the return trip
unhurriedly, would not have sprained his ankle, and would have had
time to explore the streambed above the bluffs for the smooth stones
he prized so dearly for slinging. Now there would be no stones, and
it would be at least another week before he could return. If Megar
didn’t send another boy instead, which was likely now that he
was returning empty-handed.

Pug’s attention shifted to the
discomfort of sitting in the rain, and he decided it was time to move
on. He stood and tested his ankle. It protested such treatment, but
he could get along on it. He limped over the grass to where he had
left his belongings and picked up his rucksack, staff, and sling. He
swore an oath he had heard soldiers at the keep use when he found the
rucksack ripped apart and his bread and cheese missing. Raccoons, or
possibly sand lizards, he thought. He tossed the now useless sack
aside and wondered at his misfortune.

Taking a deep breath, he leaned on his
staff as he started across the low rolling hills that divided the
bluffs from the road. Stands of small trees were scattered over the
landscape, and Pug regretted there wasn’t more substantial
shelter nearby, for there was none upon the bluffs. He would be no
wetter for trudging to town than for staying under a tree.

The wind picked up, and Pug felt the
first cold bite against his wet back. He shivered and hurried his
pace as well as he could. The small trees started to bend before the
wind, and Pug felt as if a great hand were pushing at his back.
Reaching the road, he turned north. He heard the eerie sound of the
great forest off to the east, the wind whistling through the branches
of the ancient oaks, adding to its already foreboding aspect. The
dark glades of the forest were probably no more perilous than the
King’s road, but remembered tales of outlaws and other, less
human, malefactors stirred the hairs on the boy’s neck.