Magician

by Raymond E. Feist

  “Lyam, Your Majesty,” answered Brucal. “The Duke of Crydee.”

  The King shouted, “He is Duke only if I say he is Duke.” With a sudden change of mood, he said, in solicitous tones, “I am sorry to hear of your father’s death.” He then giggled. “But he was a traitor, you know. I was going to hang him.” Lyam tensed at Rodric’s words, and Brucal gripped his arm.

  The King saw and screamed, “You would attack your King? Traitor! You are one with your father and the others. Guards, seize him!” He pointed at the young man.

  Royal guards dismounted, and the soldiers of the West who stood nearby moved to stop them. “Stop!” commanded Brucal, and the western soldiers stopped. He turned to Lyam. “On your word, we have civil war,” he hissed.

  Lyam said, “I submit, Your Majesty.” The western soldiers grumbled.

  The King said coldly, “I shall have to hang you, you know. Take him to his tent and keep him there.” The guards complied. The King turned his attention to Brucal. “Are you loyal to me, my lord Brucal, or shall there be a new Duke in Yabon as well as Crydee?”

  “I am ever loyal to the crown, Your Majesty,” came the answer.

  The King dismounted. “Yes, I believe that.” He giggled again. “You knew my father thought highly of you, didn’t you?” He took the Duke’s arm, and they entered the command tent.

  Laurie touched Pug’s shoulder and said, “We had best stay in our tents. If one of those courtiers recognizes me, I may join the Duke on the gibbet.”

  Pug nodded. “Get Kulgan and Meecham, and have them meet us in my tent.”

  Laurie hurried off, and Pug returned to his tent Katala was feeding William from a bowl of stew from the night before. “I fear we have found another pot of trouble, love,” Pug said. “The King is in camp, and he is madder than I dreamed possible. We must leave soon, for he has ordered Lyam imprisoned.”

  Katala looked shocked. “Where will we go?”

  “I can manage to take us to Crydee, to Prince Arutha I know the court of Castle Crydee as well as if there were a pattern there I should have no trouble transporting us.”

  Laurie, Meecham, and Kulgan joined them a few minutes later, and Pug outlined his plan for escape Kulgan shook his head. “You take the boy and Katala, Pug, but I must stay.”

  Meecham added, “And I.”

  Pug looked incredulous. “Why?”

  “I served Lyam’s father, and now I serve him. If the King tries to execute Lyam, there will be fighting. The Armies of the West will not stand idly by and watch Lyam hanged. The King has only the Royal Guard, and they will be easily defeated. Once that happens, it is civil war. Bas-Tyra will lead the Armies of the East. Lyam will need my aid.”

  Meecham said, “The issue won’t be quickly decided. The Armies of the West are veteran, but they’re tired. There’s little spirit left in them. The Armies of the East are fresh, and Black Guy is the best general in the Kingdom. Lyam’s unproved. It’ll be a long struggle.” Pug understood what they were saying. “It may not reach that point, though. Brucal seems ready to follow Lyam’s lead, but if he changes his mind? Who knows if Ylith, Tyr-Sog, and the others will follow Lyam without Yabon’s lead?”

  Kulgan sighed. “Brucal will not waver. He hates Bas-Tyra as much as Borric did, though for less personal reasons. He sees Guy’s hand in every move to break the West. I think the Duke of Yabon would happily take Rodric’s head, but even so, Lyam may submit rather than risk a civil war and lose the West to the Tsurani. We shall have to see what passes.

  “Which is all the more reason you must go to Crydee, Pug. If Lyam dies, then Arutha is heir to the crown. Once begun, the King cannot stop the killing until Arutha is dead. Even Martin—whose claim would be blemished by his illegitimacy—and Carline would be hunted down and killed. Perhaps Anita as well. Rodric would not risk a western heir to the throne. Upon Lyam’s death, the bloodletting will not end until either Rodric or Arutha sits the throne of the Kingdom uncontested. You are the most powerful magician in the Kingdom.” Pug started to protest “I know enough of the arts to know your skills from the events you related to us. And I remember your promise as a boy. You are capable of feats unmatched by any in our world. Arutha will have grave need of your aid, for he would not let his brother’s death go unpunished. Crydee, Carse, and Tulan will march once the Tsurani have been dealt with. Others, especially Brucal, would join them. Then we would have civil war.”

  Meecham spat out of the tent. He froze, holding aside the tent flap for a moment, then said, “I think the argument is over. Look.”

  They joined him at the opening. None had the franklin’s sharp eyesight, and at first they couldn’t see what he was pointing out. Then slowly they recognized the cloud of dust hanging in the air, far to the southeast. It spread across the horizon for miles, a dirty brown ribbon that ran below the blue of the sky.

  The franklin turned to look at the others “The Armies of the East.”

  They stood near the command pavilion, among a group of LaMutian soldiers. With Laurie, Kulgan, Pug, and Meecham was Earl Vandros of LaMut, the former cavalry officer who had commanded the raid through the valley years ago, when they had first seen the rift. He had gained the title upon his father’s death, less than a year after Pug’s capture, and had proven to be one of the Kingdom’s most able field commanders.

  A company of nobles was riding up the hill toward the pavilion. The King and Brucal stood waiting for them. Next to each lord rode a standard-bearer, who held the banner of that noble Vandros announced the name of each army represented. “Rodez, Timons, Sadara, Ran, Cibon, they’re all here.” He turned to Kulgan. “I doubt there are a thousand soldiers left between here and Rillanon.” Laurie said, “There is one whose banner I don’t see. Bas-Tyra.” Vandros looked. “Salador, Deep Taunton, Pointer’s Head . . . no, you are right. The golden eagle on black is not among the standards.”

  Meecham said, “Black Guy is no fool. He is already upon the throne of Krondor. Should Lyam be hanged, and Rodric fall in battle, it would be only a short step to the throne in Rillanon.”

  Vandros looked back at the gathering nobles. “Nearly the entire Congress of Lords is present. Should they return to Krondor without the King, then Guy would be King in short order. Many of these are his men.”

  Pug said, “Who is that under the banner of Salador? It is not Lord Kerus.”

  Vandros spat upon the ground. “It is Richard, formerly Baron of Dolth, now Duke of Salador. The King hung Kerus, and his family fled to Kesh. Now Richard rules the third most powerful duchy in the East. He is one of Guy’s favorites.”

  When the nobles, were assembled before the King, Richard of Salador, a red-faced bear of a man, said, “My liege, we are assembled. Where are we to camp?”

  “Camp? We make no camp, my lord Duke We ride!” He turned to Lord Brucal. “Marshal the Armies of the West, Brucal.” The Duke gave the signal, and heralds ran through the camp, shouting the order to muster. The battle drums and war trumpets were shortly sounding throughout the western camp.

  Vandros left to join his soldiers, and soon there were few observers nearby. Kulgan, Pug, and the others moved off to one side, keeping clear of the King’s gaze.

  The King said to the assembled nobles, “We have had nine years of the western commander’s tender ways. I shall lead the attack that will drive the foe from out of our lands.” He turned to Brucal. “In deference to your advancing years, my lord Duke, I am giving command of the infantry to Duke Richard. You will stay here.”

  The old Duke of Yabon, who was in the process of donning his armor, looked stung. He said nothing save, “Your Majesty,” his tone cold and strained. He stiffly turned and entered the command tent.

  The King’s horse was brought, and Rodric mounted. A page handed up his crowned helm, and the King placed it upon his head. “The infantry shall follow as quickly as possible. Now we ride!”

  The King spurred his horse down the hill, followed by the Royal Guard and the assembled nobles. Whe
n he was out of sight, Kulgan turned to the others and said, “Now we wait.”

  The day grew long. Every hour that passed was like a slowly unfolding day. They sat in Pug’s tent, wondering what was occurring to the west.

  The army had marched forward, under the King’s banner, with drums and trumpets sounding. Over ten thousand horsemen and twenty thousand foot soldiers had advanced upon the Tsurani. There were only a few soldiers left in camp, the wounded and an orderly company. The quiet outside was unnerving after the almost constant camp noise of the previous day.

  William had grown restless, and Katala had taken him outside to play. Fantus welcomed the opportunity to rest untroubled by his tireless playmate.

  Kulgan sat quietly, puffing on his pipe. He and Pug passed the time by occasionally speaking of matters magical, but mostly were silent.

  Laurie was the first to break the tension. He stood and said, “I can’t take this waiting anymore. I think we should go to Lord Lyam and help decide what is to be done once the King returns.”

  Kulgan waved him back into his seat. “Lyam will do nothing, for he is his father’s son and would not start a civil war, not here.”

  Pug sat absently toying with a dagger. “With the Armies of the East in camp, Lyam knows that an outbreak of fighting would hand the West to the Tsurani and crown to Bas-Tyra. He’ll walk to the gibbet and put the rope around his own neck rather than see that.”

  “It’s the worst kind of foolishness,” countered Laurie.

  “No,” answered Kulgan, “not foolishness, minstrel, but a matter of honor. Lyam, like his father before him, believes that the nobility have a responsibility to give their lives’ work, and their lives if need be, for the Kingdom. With Borric and Erland dead, Lyam is next in line for the throne. But the succession is unclear, for Rodric has not named an heir. Lyam could not bear to wear the crown if he would be thought a usurper Arutha is another matter, for he would simply do what was expedient, take the throne—though he would not wish to—and worry about what was said of him when it was said.”

  Pug nodded. “I think that Kulgan has the right of things. I do not know the brothers as well as he, but I think it might have been a better thing had the order of their birthing been reversed. Lyam would make a good king, but Arutha would make a great one. Men would follow Lyam to their deaths, but the younger brother would use his shrewdness to keep them alive.”

  “A fair assessment,” conceded Kulgan. “If there is anyone who could find a way out of this mess, it is Arutha. He has his father’s courage, but he also has a mind as quick as Bas-Tyra’s. He could weather the intrigues of court, though he hates them.” Kulgan smiled “When they were boys, we called Arutha the ‘little storm cloud,’ for when he got angry, he would turn to black looks and rumbles, while Lyam would be quick to anger, quick to fight, and quick to forget.”

  Kulgan’s reminiscences were interrupted by the sound of shouting from outside. They jumped up and rushed out of the tent.

  A blood-covered rider, in the tabard of LaMut, sped past them, and they ran to follow. They reached the command tent as Lord Brucal came out. The old Duke of Yabon said, “What news?”

  “The Earl Vandros sends word. Victory!” Other riders could be heard approaching the camp. “We rode through them like the wind. The line on their east is breached, and the salient is rent. We broke them, isolating those in the salient, then wheeled to the west and rolled back those who sought to aid them. The infantry now holds fast, and the cavalry drives the Tsurani back into the North Pass. They flee in confusion! The day is ours!”

  A wineskin was handed to the rider, who sounded as if his voice would fail. He tilted it over his face and let the wine pour into his mouth. It ran down his chin, joining the deeper red splattered over his tabard. He threw aside the wineskin. “There is more. Richard of Salador has fallen, as has the Earl of Silden. And the King has been wounded.”

  Concern showed on Brucal’s face “How does he fare?”

  “Badly, I fear,” said the rider, holding his nervous horse as it pranced around. “It is a grievous wound. His helm was cleaved by a broadsword after his horse was killed beneath him. A hundred died to protect him, for his royal tabard was a beacon to the Tsurani. He comes now.” The rider pointed back the way he had come.

  Pug and the others turned to see a troop of riders approaching. In the van rode a royal guardsman with the King held before him. The monarch’s face was covered in blood, and he held to the saddle horn with his right hand, his other arm dangling limply at his side. They stopped before the tent, and soldiers helped the King from the horse. They started to carry him inside, but he said, in a weak and slurred voice, “No Do not take me from the sun. Bring a chair so I may sit.”

  Nobles were riding up even as a chair was placed for the King. He was lowered into it and leaned back, his head lolling to the left. His face was covered with blood, and white bone could be seen showing through his scalp wound.

  Kulgan moved to Rodric’s side “My King, may I attend?”

  The King struggled to see who was speaking. His eyes seemed to lose focus for a moment, then became clear. “Who is speaking? The magician? Yes, Borric’s magician. Please, I am in pain.”

  Kulgan closed his eyes, willing his powers to ease the King’s suffering. He placed his hand upon Rodric’s shoulder, and those nearby could see the ruler of the Kingdom visibly relax. “Thank you, magician. I feel more at ease.” Rodric struggled to turn his head slightly. “My lord Brucal, please bring Lyam to me.”

  Lyam was in his tent, under guard, and a soldier was sent to bring him out. Moments later the young man knelt before his cousin. “My liege, your wound?”

  Kulgan was joined by a Priest of Dala, who agreed with his assessment of the wound. He looked at Brucal and shook his head slowly. Herbs and bandages were brought, and the King was cared for. Kulgan left the priest to his ministrations and returned to stand where the others looked on. Katala had joined them, holding William in her arms. Kulgan said, “I fear it is a mortal wound. The skull is broken, and fluids seep through the crack.”

  In silence they watched. The priest stood to one side and began praying for Rodric. All the nobles, save those commanding the infantry, were now arrayed before the King. More horsemen could be heard riding into camp. They joined the others who stood watching and were told what had happened. A hush fell over the assembly as the King spoke.

  “Lyam,” he said in a faint voice. “I have been ill, haven’t I?” Lyam said nothing, his face betraying conflicting emotions. He had little love for his cousin, but he was still the King.

  Rodric ventured a weak smile. One side of his face moved only slightly, as if he could not control the muscles well Rodric reached out with his good right hand, and Lyam took it. “I do not know what I have been thinking of late. So much of what has happened seems like a dream, dark and frightening. I have been trapped within that dream, but now I am free of it.” Sweat appeared upon his brow, and his face was nearly white. “A demon has been driven from me, Lyam, and I can see much of what I have done was wrong, even evil.”

  Lyam knelt before his King. “No, my King, not evil.”

  The King coughed violently, then gasped as the attack subsided. “Lyam, my time grows short.” His voice rose a little, and he said, “Brucal, bear witness.” The old Duke looked on, his face an implacable mask. He stepped over next to Lyam and said, “I am here, Your Majesty.”

  The King gripped Lyam’s hand, pulling himself a little more upright His voice rose as he said, “We, Rodric, fourth of that name, hereditary ruler of the Kingdom of the Isles, do hereby proclaim that Lyam conDoin, our blood cousin, is of the royal blood. As oldest conDoin male, he is named Heir to the throne of our Kingdom.”

  Lyam shot Brucal an alarmed look, but the old Duke gave him a curt shake of his head, commanding silence. Lyam bowed his head, and his sorrow was heartfelt. He tightly gripped the King’s hand. Brucal said, “So do I, Brucal, Duke of Yabon, bear witness.”

 
; Rodric’s voice sounded faint. “Lyam, one boon do I ask. Your cousin Guy has done what he has done at my command. I grieve for the madness that drove me to have Erland deposed. I knew his going to the dungeon was his death warrant, and I did nothing to halt it. Have mercy on Guy. He is an ambitious man, but not an evil one.”

  The King then spoke of his plans for the Kingdom, asking that they be continued, though with more regard for the populace. He spoke of many other things: of his boyhood, and his sorrow that he had never married. After a time his speech became too slurred to understand, and his head fell forward upon his chest.

  Brucal ordered guards to attend the King. They gently raised him and carried him inside. Brucal and Lyam entered the tent, while the other nobles waited outside. More new arrivals were gathering, and they were told the news. Nearly a third of the Armies of the Kingdom stood before the commander’s pavilion, a sea of upturned faces extending down the hill. Each stood without speaking, waiting out the death watch.

  Brucal closed the tent flap behind and shut out the red glow of the sunset. The Priest of Dala examined the King, then looked at the two dukes “He will not regain consciousness, my lords. It is only a matter of time.”

  Brucal took Lyam by the arm and led him to one side. In a hushed whisper he said, “You must say nothing when I proclaim you Heir, Lyam.”

  Lyam pulled his arm from Brucal’s grasp, fixing his gaze upon the old warrior “You bore witness, Brucal,” he whispered back. “You heard my father acknowledge Martin as my brother, legitimizing him. He is the oldest conDoin male. Rodric’s proclamation of succession is invalid. It presumed I was the oldest!”

  Brucal spoke quietly, but his words were ungentle. “You have a war to end, Lyam. Then, if you should accomplish that small feat, you have to take your father and Rodric back to Rillanon, to bury them in the tomb of your ancestors. From the day Rodric is interred, there will be twelve days of mourning, then on noon of the thirteenth, all the claimants for the crown will present themselves before the priests of Ishap, and the entire, bloody damn Congress of Lords. Between now and then you’ll have plenty of time to decide what to do. But for now, you needs must be Heir. There is no other way.