A Darkness at Sethanon

by Raymond Feist

  “Well?” said the taller, her blue eyes regarding them frankly.

  Jimmy got to his feet and was surprised to find the girl almost as tall as he was. “Well what?” he responded, in halting Armengarian.

  “You were staring at us.”

  Jimmy glanced down at Locklear, who stood. “Is there something wrong with that?” asked the younger boy, who spoke the language better than Jimmy.

  The two girls exchanged glances and laughed, little more than giggles. “It is rude.”

  “We’re strangers,” ventured Locklear.

  The two girls laughed openly at that. “That is clear. We heard of you. Everyone in Armengar has heard of you.”

  Locklear blushed. It only took a moment’s thought to realize that he and Jimmy were markedly different in appearance from everyone in sight. The second girl studied Locklear with dark eyes and said, “Do you stare at girls where you come from?”

  With a sudden grin, Locklear said, “Every chance I get.”

  All four laughed. The taller girl said, “I am Krista; this is Bronwynn. We serve in the Tenth Company. We have liberty until tomorrow night.”

  Jimmy didn’t know the significance of the reference to company, but he said, “I’m Squire James—Jimmy. This is Squire Locklear.”

  “Locky.”

  Bronwynn said, “You have the same name?”

  Locklear said, “ ‘Squire’ is a title. We are in service to the Prince.”

  The girls exchanged questioning looks. Krista said, “You speak of outlandish things we do not understand.”

  In a fluid motion, Jimmy slipped his arm inside hers and said, “Well then, why don’t you show us the city and we’ll explain our outlandish ways.”

  Awkwardly Locklear followed his friend’s example, but it wasn’t clear who grabbed whose arm first, he or Bronwynn.

  With girlish laughter, Bronwynn and Krista took the boys in tow and they made their way through the streets of the city.

  —

  Martin ate quietly, studying Briana while he listened to the dinner conversation. Arutha’s company, except for Jimmy and Locklear, sat around a large table with Guy, Amos, and Briana. Another of Guy’s commanders, Gareth, also dined with them. The boys’ absence was no cause for alarm, Amos had assured them, for there was no trouble in the city they could find without the Protector hearing about it at once. And there was no way they could leave the city, even for one as gifted as Jimmy. Arutha was not as sure of that as Amos, but forwent comment.

  Arutha knew he and Guy would quickly have to come to an understanding, and he had some sense of what it would be, but he deferred speculation until he heard what Guy had to say in private. Arutha studied the Protector. Guy had fallen into a black mood, which in a strange way reminded Arutha of his father when in a similar frame of mind. Guy had eaten little, but had been steadily drinking for an hour.

  Arutha turned his attention to his brother, who had been behaving in a most unusual fashion since morning. Martin could be quiet for long periods of time, a trait they both shared, but since meeting Briana he had become almost mute. She had arrived with Amos in Arutha’s suite for the noon meal, and since then Martin hadn’t uttered a dozen words to anyone. But over this meal, as over that earlier one, his eyes had spoken volumes, and if Arutha could judge such things, Briana answered. At least, she seemed to spend more time observing Martin than anyone else at the table.

  Guy had said little during the course of the evening. If Briana’s mother had been anything like her, Arutha understood Guy’s loss, for in the short hours he had observed her, he had come to count her a rare woman. He also could understand Martin’s being attracted to her. There was nothing pretty about her, but as different as she was from his beloved Anita, there was a powerful appeal in her, a rough, determined quality of competence that was magnetic. She seemed without artifice, and in Arutha’s judgment there was something in her manner that suggested her nature was a match for his brother’s. Arutha’s attention had been focused for a long time upon grave considerations, but he still had a moment for amusement; he judged Martin was quickly sinking in deep waters.

  The meal was somewhat strange to Arutha and Martin, for there were no servants in Guy’s hall, or in any part of Armengar. Soldiers brought food to the Protector’s quarters as a courtesy, but he served himself, as did his guests. Amos had remarked that most nights he and Armand would lug the serving ware back down to the scullery and give a hand washing it. Everyone in the city helped.

  When the meal was finished, Amos said, “I, Gareth, and Armand are due to make rounds of the wall. We’re spared the scullery this night so we might act the proper hosts. Would you care to join us?” It was a general invitation to all at the table. Roald, Laurie, and Baru asked to join them, the Hadati especially wishing to see more of his distant kin.

  Martin rose and, in what appeared a heroic effort for him, said to Briana, “Perhaps the commander would show me the city?” He seemed equally pleased and distressed when she agreed.

  Arutha motioned for him to go with the woman, indicating he would stay behind to speak with Guy. Martin hurried out of the hall as Briana led the way.

  In the long hall that led to the lift, Martin paused to look at the city lights below. A thousand glittering points shone in the sable darkness. “As often as I pass this way,” said Briana, “I never tire of the sight.” Martin nodded agreement. “Is your home like Armengar?”

  Martin didn’t look at her. “Crydee?” he thought aloud. “No. My castle is tiny compared to this citadel, and the town of Crydee is but a tenth the size of this city. We have no giant wall about it, nor are all its people constantly under arms. It is a peaceful place, or so it seems now. Before, I used to shun it as much as I could, staying in the forests, to hunt and be alone with my thoughts. Or I would go to the tallest tower of my castle and watch the sun set over the ocean. That is the best time of day. In the summer the breeze from off the water cools the heat of day while the sun plays colors across the water. In the winter the towers are draped in white and it seems a storied place. You can see mighty clouds rolling in from the ocean. And even more magnificent are the lightning storms, with flashes and booming thunder, as if the sky were alive.” He looked down and saw her studying him. Suddenly he felt foolish and smiled slightly, his only sign of embarrassment. “I ramble.”

  “Amos has told me of oceans.” She tilted her head a little, as if considering. “It seems a strange thing, all that water.”

  Martin laughed a little, feeling his nervousness diminish. “It is a strange thing, strange and powerful. I’ve never liked ships, but I’ve had to sail them, and after a while you appreciate how beautiful the sea can be. It is like…” He halted, words not coming. “Laurie should tell you, or Amos. Both have a flair for words I lack.”

  She placed her hand upon his arm. “I would rather hear them from you.” She turned toward the window, her face sculptured by orange torchlight, her hair a black crown in the half-light. She was silent for a long moment, and then looked at Martin. “Are you a good hunter?”

  Suddenly Martin was grinning, feeling like a fool. “Yes, very good.” Both knew there was no false boasting, just as there would be no false modesty. “I am elventaught and know only one man who may be a fairer archer than I.”

  “I enjoy the hunt but rarely have time, now that I command. Perhaps we may steal away sometime and look for game. It is more dangerous here than in your Kingdom, perhaps, for while we hunt, others may be hunting us.”

  Coolly Martin said, “I have dealt with the moredhel before.”

  She regarded him frankly. “You are a strong man, Martin.” Placing her hand upon his arm, she said, “And I think a good man, as well. I am Briana, daughter of Gwynnath and Gurtman, of the line of Alwynne.” These were formal words, yet there was something else in them, as if somehow she was revealing herself to him, reaching out to him.

  “I am Martin, son of Margaret…” For the first time in years he thought of his mothe
r, a pretty serving girl in Duke Brucal’s court. “…and Borric, of the line of Dannis, first of the conDoins. I am called Martin Longbow.”

  She looked long at his face, as if studying each feature. Her expression changed as she smiled. Martin felt heat burst in his chest at the sight of it. Then she laughed. “That name suits you, Martin Longbow. You are as tall and powerful as your weapon. Have you a wife?”

  Martin spoke softly. “No. I…I had never met anyone…I’ve never had a way with words…or women. I’ve not known many.”

  She placed her fingertips on his lips. “I understand.”

  Suddenly Martin found her in his arms, her head on his chest, how he didn’t know. Gently he held her, as if the slightest motion would cause her to flee. “I do not know how things are done in your Kingdom, Martin, but Amos says you avoid speaking openly of things we take for granted in Armengar. I do not know if this is such a thing. But I do not wish to be alone this night.” She looked again at his face, and he saw both desire and fear there and understood her needs. Softly, almost inaudibly, she said, “Are you as gentle as you are strong, Martin Longbow?”

  Martin studied her face and knew no words were needed. He held her for a long time in silence, until she slowly moved away, took his hand, and led him off toward her quarters.

  —

  For a long time Arutha sat watching Guy. The Protector of Armengar was lost in his own thoughts, drinking absently from his ale cup, the fire’s crackle the only sound in the room. Then at last Guy said, “The thing I miss the most is the wine, I think. There are times when it suits a mood, don’t you agree?”

  Arutha nodded, sampling his own ale. “Amos told us of your loss.”

  Guy waved absently, and Arutha could see he was a little drunk, his movements not as sure, not quite as controlled. But his voice betrayed no slurring of speech. He sighed deeply. “More your loss than mine, Arutha. You never met her.”

  Arutha didn’t know what to say. He suddenly felt irritated by this, as if he was being forced to watch something private, somehow being forced to share a bond of grief with a man he should hate. “You said we needed to speak, Guy.”

  Guy nodded, pushing aside his cup. He still stared off into the distance. “I have need of you.” He turned to face Arutha. “I have need of the Kingdom, at least, and that means Lyam.” Arutha motioned for Guy to continue. “It makes little difference to me personally if I possess your good opinion or not. But it is clear I need your acceptance as the leader of these people.” He lapsed into thoughtfulness. Then he said, “I thought your brother would marry Anita. It was the logical thing to do to bolster his claim. But then, he was King before he knew it. Rodric did us all a favor by having one lucid moment before he died.” He looked hard at Arutha. “Anita is a fine young woman. I had no desire to wed her, only a need at the time. I would have let her find her own…satisfactions. It is better this way.” He sat back. “I’m drunk. My mind wanders.” He closed his eye, and for a moment Arutha thought he might be drifting off to sleep.

  Then Guy said, “Amos told you how we came to Armengar, so I’ll not repeat that tale. But there are other matters I think he’d not touch upon.” Again he was silent. Another long period without words was followed by “Did your father ever tell you how there came to be so much bitterness between us?”

  Arutha kept his voice calm. “He said you were at the heart of every conspiracy in court against the Western Realm, and you used your position with both Rodric and his father to undermine Father’s position.”

  To Arutha’s astonishment, Guy said, “That’s mostly true. A different interpretation of my actions might give a softer label to what I did, but my actions under the reigns of Rodric and his father before him were never in the interest of Borric or the West.

  “No, I speak of…other things.”

  “He never spoke of you except to brand you an enemy.” Arutha considered, then went on, “Dulanic said you and Father were friends once.”

  Guy again looked at the fire. His manner was distant, as if remembering. Softly he said, “Yes, very good friends.” Again he fell into silence, then just as Arutha was about to speak, he said, “It started when we were both young men at court, during the reign of Rodric the Third. We were among the very first squires sent to the royal court—Caldric’s innovation to produce rulers who would know more than their fathers.” Guy considered. “Let me tell you how it was. And when I’m done, maybe you’ll understand why you and your brother were never sent to court.

  “I was three years younger than your father, who was barely eighteen, but we were of a size and temper. At first we were thrown together, for he was a distant cousin, and I was expected to teach manners to this son of a rustic duke. In time we became friends. Over the years we gambled, wenched, and fought together.

  “Oh, we had differences, even then. Borric was a frontier noble’s son, more concerned with old concepts of honor and duty than in understanding the true causes of events around him. I, well…” He drew his hand down over his face, as if stirring himself awake. His tone became more brisk. “I was raised in the eastern courts, and I was marked to command from an early age. My family is as old and honored as any in the Kingdom, even yours. Had Delong and his brothers been slightly less gifted generals and my forebears slightly better ones, the Bas-Tyras would have been kings instead of the conDoins. So I had been taught from boyhood how the game of politics is played in the realms. No, we were very different in some ways, your father and I, but in my life there has never been a man I’ve loved more than Borric.” He looked hard at Arutha. “He was the brother I never had.”

  Arutha was intrigued. He had no doubt Guy was coloring things to suit his purpose, suspecting even the drunkenness was a pose, but he was curious to hear of his father’s youth. “What, then, caused the estrangement between you?”

  “We competed as young men do, in the hunt, gambling, and for the affection of the ladies. Our political differences led to hot words from time to time, but we always found a way to gloss over arguments and reconcile ourselves. Once we even came to blows over some thoughtless remarks I made. I had said your great-grandfather had been nothing more than the disgruntled third son of a king, seeking to gain by strength of arms that which could not be found within the existing Kingdom. Borric saw him a great man who planted the banner of the Kingdom in Bosania.

  “I held that the West was a sap upon the resources of the Kingdom. The distances are too great for proper administration. You rule in Krondor. You know you govern an independent realm, with only broad policy coming from Rillanon. The Western Realm is almost a separate nation. Anyway, we argued about that, then fought. Afterward we relented in our anger. But that was the first sign of how deep were the differences we felt over the policies of the realms. Still, even those differences did nothing to lessen the bond between us.”

  “You make it sound a reasonable disagreement between honorable men over politics. But I knew Father. He hated you and his hate ran deep; there must be more.”

  Guy again studied the firelight for a time. Softly he said, “Your father and I were rivals in many things, but most bitterly for your mother.”

  Arutha sat forward. “What?”

  “When your uncle Malcom died of the fever, your father was called home. As older brother, Borric would inherit, which is why he had been sent to court for an education, but with Malcom dead your grandfather was alone. So your grandfather had the King name your father Warden of the West and send him back to Crydee. Your grandfather was aging—your grandmother had already died, and with Malcom’s death he seemed to fade quickly. It was less than two years later that he died and Borric became Duke of Crydee. By then Brucal had returned to Yabon, and I was Senior Squire of the King’s court. I looked forward to Borric’s return—for he was to present himself to the King to swear fealty as all new dukes are required to do during the first year of their office.”

  Arutha calculated and realized that had to be the time his father had visited Brucal a
t Yabon, on his way to the capital. It was during that visit that Borric’s fancy was caught by a pretty serving maid, and from that union came Martin, a fact not known to Borric until five years later.

  Guy continued speaking. “The year before Borric’s return to Rillanon, your mother came to court, to be a lady-in-waiting to Queen Janica, the King’s second wife—Prince Rodric’s mother. That’s when Catherine and I met. Until Gwynnath, she was the only woman I’ve ever loved.”

  Guy lapsed into silence, and suddenly Arutha felt an odd sense of shame, as if he had somehow forced Guy to reexamine two painful losses. “Catherine was rare, Arutha. I know you understand that; she was your mother, but when I first saw her she was as fresh as a spring morning, with a blush in her cheeks and a hint of playfulness in her shy smile. Her hair was golden, with a shine to it. I fell in love with her the first moment I saw her. And so did your father. From that moment on, our competition for her attention became fierce.

  “For two months we both courted her, and by the end of the second, your father and I were not speaking, so bitter was our rivalry for Catherine. Your father kept putting off his return to Crydee, choosing to stay and woo Catherine. We vied desperately for her favor.

  “I was to have gone riding with Catherine one morning, but when I reached her quarters, she was readying to travel. She was first cousin to Queen Janica and, as such, a prize in the game of court intrigue. The lessons I had taught your father the years before had paid handsomely, for while I had been riding and walking in the garden with Catherine, he had been speaking to the King. Rodric directed your mother to wed your father, as was his right as her guardian. It was a politically expedient marriage, for even then the King had doubts as to his son’s ability and his brother’s health. Damn it, but Rodric was an unhappy man. His three sons from his first marriage had died before reaching manhood, and he never got over their deaths or the death of his beloved Queen Beatrice. And his younger brother, Erland, was a late child and sickly with the lung flux. He was but ten years older than Prince Rodric. The court knew that the King wished to name your father Heir, but Janica had given him a son, a shy boy whom Rodric despised. I think he forced your mother to marry your father to strengthen the tie to the throne, so he might name him Heir, and heaven knows he spent the next twelve years trying to either make the Prince a better man or break him in the trying. But the King never did name an Heir before he died, and we were left with Rodric the Fourth, a sadder, more broken man than his father.”