Magician (67 page)

Pug lowered his eyes as was expected of
a slave, and Kasumi said, “See to the horses.” He strode
away, leaving Pug alone.

Pug never spoke of his request to
Katala She sensed that something troubled him deeply, something that
seemed to add a bitter note to their otherwise joyful time together.
He learned the depth of his love for her and began to explore her
complex nature. Besides being strong-willed, she was quick-minded. He
only had to explain something to her once, and she understood. He
learned to love her dry wit, a quality native to her people, the
Thuril, and sharpened to a razor’s edge by her captivity She
was an observant student of everything around her and commented
unmercifully upon the foibles of everyone in the household, to their
detriment and Pug’s amusement She insisted upon learning some
of Pug’s language, so he began teaching her the King’s
Tongue. She proved an apt student.

Two months went by uneventfully, then
one night Pug and Laurie were called to the dining room of the master
of the house. Laurie had completed work upon his lute and, though
dissatisfied in a hundred little ways, judged it passable for
playing. Tonight he was to play for the Lord of the Shinzawai.

They entered the room and saw that the
lord was entertaining a guest, a black-robed man, the Great One whom
they had glimpsed months ago. Pug stood by the door while Laurie took
a place at the foot of the low dining table. Adjusting the cushion he
sat upon, he began to play.

As the first notes hung in the air, he
started singing: an old tune that Pug knew well. It sang of the joys
of harvest and the riches of the land, and was a favorite in farm
villages throughout the Kingdom. Besides Pug, only Kasumi understood
the words, though his father could pick out a few that he had learned
during his chess matches with Pug.

Pug had never heard Laurie sing before,
and he was genuinely impressed. For all the troubadour’s
braggadocio, he was better than any Pug had heard. His voice was a
clear, true instrument, expressive in both words and music of what he
sang. When he was finished, the diners politely struck the table with
eating knives, in what Pug assumed was the Tsurani equivalent of
applause.

Laurie began another tune, a merry air
played at festivals throughout the Kingdom. Pug remembered when he
had last heard it, at the Festival of Banapis the year before he had
left Crydee for Rillanon. He could almost see once more the familiar
sights of home. For the first time in years, Pug felt a deep sadness
and longing that nearly overwhelmed him.

Pug swallowed hard, easing the
tightness in his throat. Homesickness and hopeless frustration warred
within him, and he could feel his hard-learned self-control slipping
away. He quickly invoked one of the calming exercises he had been
taught by Kulgan. A sense of well-being swept over him, and he
relaxed. While Laurie performed, Pug used all his concentration to
fend off the haunting memories of home. All his skills created an
aura of calm he could stand within, a refuge from useless rage, the
only legacy of reminiscence.

Several times during the performance,
Pug felt the gaze of the Great One upon him. The man seemed to study
him with some question in his eyes. When Laurie was finished, the
magician leaned over and spoke to his host.

The Lord of the Shinzawai beckoned Pug
to the table. When he was seated, the Great One spoke. “I must
ask you something.” His voice was clear and strong, and his
tone reminded Pug of Kulgan when he was preparing Pug for lessons.
“Who are you?”

The direct, simple question caught
everyone at the table by surprise. The lord of the house seemed
uncertain as to the magician’s question and started to reply.
“He is a slave—”

He was interrupted by the Great One’s
upraised hand. Pug said, “I am called Pug, master.”

Again the man’s dark eyes studied
him. “Who are you?”

Pug felt flustered. He had never liked
being the center of attention, and this time it was focused upon him
as never before in his life.

“I am Pug, once of the Duke of
Crydee’s court.”

“Who are you, to stand here
radiating the power?” At this all three men of the Shinzawai
household started, and Laurie looked at Pug in confusion.

“I am a slave, master.”

“Give me your hand.”

Pug reached out, and his hand was taken
by the Great One. The man’s lips moved, and his eyes clouded
over Pug felt a warmth flow through his hand and over him. The room
seemed to glow with a soft white haze. Soon all he could see was the
magician’s eyes. His mind fogged over, and time was suspended.
He felt a pressure inside his head as if something were trying to
intrude. He fought against it, and the pressure withdrew.

His vision cleared, and the two dark
eyes seemed to withdraw from his face until he could see the entire
room again. The magician let go of his hand. “Who are you?”
A brief flicker in his eyes was the only sign of his deep concern.

“I am Pug, apprentice to the
magician Kulgan.”

At this the Lord of the Shinzawai
blanched, confusion registering on his face. “How . . .”

The black-robed Great One rose and
announced, “This slave is no longer property of this house. He
is now the province of the Assembly.”

The room fell silent. Pug couldn’t
understand what was happening and felt afraid.

The magician drew forth a device from
his robe Pug remembered that he had seen one before, during the raid
on the Tsurani camp, and his fear mounted. The magician activated it,
and it buzzed as the other one had. He placed his hand on Pug’s
shoulder, and the room disappeared in a grey haze.

T
he
Elf Prince sat quietly.

Calin awaited his mother. There was
much on his mind, and he needed to speak with her this night. There
had been little chance for that of late, for as the war had grown in
scope, he found less time to abide in the bowers of Elvandar. As
Warleader of the elves, he had been in the field nearly every day
since the last time the outworlders had tried to forge across the
river.

Since the siege of Castle Crydee three
years before, the outworlders had come each spring, swarming across
the river like ants, a dozen for each elf Each year elven magic had
defeated them. Hundreds would enter the sleeping glades to fall into
the endless sleep, their bodies being consumed by the soil, to
nourish the magic trees. Others would answer the dryads’ call,
following the enchanted sprites’ songs until in their passion
for the elemental beings they would die of thirst while still in
their inhuman lovers’ embrace feeding the dryads with their
lives. Others would fall to the creatures of the forests, the giant
wolves, bears, and lions who answered the call of the elven war
horns. The very branches and roots of the trees of the elven forests
would resist the invaders until they turned and fled.

But this year, for the first time, the
Black Robes had come. Much of the elven magic had been blunted. The
elves had prevailed, but Calin wondered how they would fare when the
outworlders returned.

This year the dwarves of the Grey
Towers had again aided the elves. With the moredhel gone from the
Green Heart, the dwarves had made swift passage from their wintering
in the mountains, adding their numbers to the defense of Elvandar.
For the third year since the siege at Crydee, the dwarves had proved
the difference in holding the out-worlders across the river. And
again with the dwarves came the man called Tomas.

Calin looked up, then rose as his
mother approached. Queen Aglaranna seated herself upon her throne and
said, “My son, it is good to see you again.”

“Mother, it is good to see you
also.” He sat at her feet and waited for the words he needed to
come. His mother sat patiently, sensing his dark mood.

Finally he spoke. “I am troubled
by Tomas.”

“As am I,” said the Queen,
her expression clouded and pensive.

“Is that why you absent yourself
when he comes to court?”

“For that . . . and other
reasons.”

“How can it be the Old Ones’
magic still holds so strong after all these ages?”

A voice came from behind the throne.
“So that’s it, then?”

They turned, surprised, and Dolgan
stepped from the gloom, lighting his pipe. Aglaranna looked incensed.
“Are the dwarves of the Grey Towers known for eavesdropping,
Dolgan?”

The dwarven chief ignored the bite of
the question. “Usually not, my lady. But I was out for a
walk—those little tree rooms fill with smoke right quickly—and
I happened to overhear. I did not wish to interrupt.”

Calin said, “You can move with
stealth when you choose, friend Dolgan.”

Dolgan shrugged and blew a cloud of
smoke. “Elvenfolk are not the only ones with the knack of
treading lightly. But we were speaking of the lad. If what you say is
true, then it is a serious matter indeed. Had I known, I would never
have allowed him to take the gift.”

The Queen smiled at him. “It is
not your fault, Dolgan. You could not have known. I have feared this
since Tomas came among us in the mantle of the Old Ones. At first I
thought the magic of the Valheru would not work for him, being a
mortal, but now I can see he is less mortal each year.

“It was an unfortunate series of
events brought this to pass. Our Spellweavers would have discovered
that treasure ages ago, but for the dragon’s magic. We spent
centuries seeking out and destroying such relics, preventing their
use by the moredhel. Now it is too late, for Tomas would never
willingly let the armor be destroyed.”

Dolgan puffed at his pipe. “Each
winter he broods in the long halls, awaiting the coming of spring,
and the coming of battle. There is little else for him. He sits and
drinks, or stands at the door staring out into the snow, seeing what
no other can see. He keeps the armor locked away in his room during
such times, and when campaigning, he never removes it, even to sleep.
He has changed, and it is not a natural changing. No, he would never
willingly give up the armor.”

“We could try to force him,”
said the Queen, “but that could prove unwise. There is
something coming into being in him, something that may save my
people, and I would risk much for them.”

Dolgan said, “I do not
understand, my lady.”

“I am not sure I do either,
Dolgan, but I am Queen of a people at war. A terrible foe savages our
lands and each year grows bolder. The outworld magic is strong,
perhaps stronger than any since the Old Ones vanished. It may be the
magic in the dragon’s gift will save my people.”

Dolgan shook his head. “It seems
strange such power could still reside in metal armor.”

Aglaranna smiled at the dwarf. “Does
it? What of the Hammer of Tholin you carry? Is it not vested with
powers from ages past? Powers that mark you once more heir to the
throne of the dwarves of the West?”

Dolgan looked hard at the Queen. “You
know much of our ways, lady I must never forget your girlish
countenance masks ages of knowledge.” He then brushed away her
comment. “We have been done with kings for many years in the
West, since Tholin vanished in the Mac Mordain Cadal. We do as well
as those who obey old King Halfdan in Dorgin. But should my people
wish the throne restored, we shall meet in moot, though not until
this war is over. Now, what of the lad?”

Aglaranna looked troubled. “He is
becoming what he is becoming. We can aid that transformation. Our
Spellweavers work to this end already. Should the full power of the
Valheru rise up in Tomas untempered, he would be able to brush aside
our protective magic much as you would a bothersome twig barring your
way upon the trail. But he is not an Old One born. His nature is as
alien to the Valheru as their nature was to all others. Aided by our
Spellweavers, his human ability to love, to know compassion, to
understand, may temper the unchecked power of the Valheru. If so, he
may . . . he may prove a boon to us all.” Dolgan was visited by
the certainty the Queen had been about to say something else, but
remained silent as she continued “Should that Valheru power
become coupled with a human’s capacity for blind hatred,
savagery, and cruelty, then he would become something to fear. Only
time will tell us what such a blending will produce.”

“The Dragon Lords . . . ,”
said Dolgan. “We have some mention of the Valheru in our lore,
but only scraps here and there. I would understand more, if you’ll
permit.”

The Queen looked off into the distance.
“Our lore, eldest of all in the world today, tells of the
Valheru, Dolgan. There is much of which I am forbidden to speak,
names of power, fearful to invoke, things terrible to recall, but I
may tell you this much. Long before man or dwarf came to this world,
the Valheru ruled. They were part of this world, fashioned from the
very fabric of its creation, nearly godlike in power and unfathomable
in purpose. Their nature was chaotic and unpredictable. They were
more powerful than any others. Upon the backs of the great dragons
they flew, no place in the universe beyond their reach. To other
worlds they roamed, bringing back that which pleased them, treasure
and knowledge plundered from other beings. They were subject to no
law but their own will and whim. They fought among themselves as
often as not, and only death resolved conflicts. This world was their
dominion. And we were their creatures.

“We and the moredhel were of one
race then, and the Valheru bred us as you would cattle. Some were
taken, from both races, for . . . personal pets, bred for beauty . .
. and other qualities. Others were bred to tend the forests and
fields. Those who lived in the wild became the forerunners of the
elves, while those who remained with the Valheru were the forerunners
of the moredhel.