Magician: Master

by Raymond E. Feist

  The crowd cheers, for Sudkahanchoza, thirty-four times Emperor, is well loved, and this will be the last time they will ever look upon him. He will now retire to the Holy Palace, where his soul will stand forever vigilant on behalf of his subjects, while the Warlord and the High Council conduct the business of governing the Empire. The new Emperor will live a contemplative life, reading, painting, studying the great books of the temples, seeking to purify his soul for this arduous life.

  This Emperor is unlike his father and, after hearing the grave news from the Assembly, orders the building of a great castle upon an island in the center of the giant lake in the midst of the mountains of Ambolina.

  Time…

  —

  …PASSES.

  Hundreds of black-clad magicians stand atop towers that rise from the city of the island, not yet the magnificent single entity of the future. Two hundred years have passed, and now two suns burn in the sky, one warm and yellow-green, the other small, white, and angry. The watcher sees the men work their magic, the greatest spell cast in the history of the nations. Even the legendary bridge from the outside, the beginning of time, was not so great a feat, for then they had only moved between worlds, now they would move a star. Below he can feel the presence of hundreds of other magicians, adding their power to those above. The spell has been wrought over the last few years, each step taken with the greatest care, as the Stranger approaches. Though powerful beyond compare, this enchantment is also delicate in the extreme. Any misstep and its work will be undone. He looks up and sees the Stranger, its course marked toward the path of this world. It will not strike Kelewan, but there is little doubt that its heat added to Kelewan’s already hot star will render the planet lifeless. Kelewan will hang for over a year between its own primary and the Stranger, in constant daylight, and all magicians agree that only a few might survive in deep caves, to emerge to a burned-out planet. Now they must act, before it is too late to try again should the enchantment fail.

  Now they do act, all in concert, incanting the last piece of the great arcane work. The world seems to stand still for a moment, reverberating with the final word of the spell. Slowly that reverberation grows louder, picking up resonance, developing new harmonies, new overtones, a character of its own. Soon it is loud enough to deafen those in the towers, who cover their ears. Below, those on the ground stand in mute wonder, looking to the sky where a blaze of color begins to form. Ragged bolts of energy flash, and the light from the two stars is dimmed in momentarily blinding displays that will leave some who viewed them sightless for the rest of their lives. He is not affected by the sound or light, as if some agency has taken care to protect him from their effects. A great rift appears in the sky, much like the one the golden bridge came through ages ago. He watches without emotion, his strongest feeling being detached fascination. It grows in the sky, between the Stranger and Kelewan, and begins to move away from the planet, toward the invading star.

  But something else occurs. From the heart of the rift, more violent than at the time of the golden bridge, an unprecedented display of erupting energies comes forth. The chaotic scene is matched with an overwhelming wave of hatred. The Enemy, the evil power that drove the nations to Kelewan, still abides in the other universe, and it has not forgotten those who escaped it ages ago. It cannot pierce the barrier of the rift, for it needs more time to move between universes than the life span of the rift, but it reaches forth and warps it, sending it away from the Stranger. The rift grows larger, and those on the ground see it is going to engulf Kelewan, bringing the planet back into the dominion of the Enemy.

  The watcher looks on impassively, unlike those around him, for he knows that this is not the end of the world. The rift rushes toward the planet, and one magician comes forth.

  He is somehow familiar to the one who watches. The man, unlike those around him, wears a brown robe, fastened round with a whipcord belt, and holds a staff of wood. He raises the staff above his head and incants. The rift changes, from colors impossible to describe to inky black, and it strikes the planet.

  The heavens explode for a moment, then all around is black. When the darkness lifts, the sun, Kelewan’s own, is dropping below the horizon.

  The magicians who are not dead or mad stare upward in horror. Above them the sky is a void, without stars.

  And the man in brown turns to him and says, “Remember, things are not always what they seem.”

  Blackness…

  —

  …HERALDS THE PASSING of time again. He is standing in the halls of the Assembly. Magicians are appearing regularly, using the pattern on the floor as a focal point for their transit. Each remembers the pattern like an address, and wills himself there. A message arrives from the Emperor. He begs the Assembly to solve the problem, promising them whatever aid they require.

  The watcher moves forward through generations to find the magicians again upon the towers. Now, instead of the invading Stranger, they regard a starless sky. Another spell, years in the fashioning, is being incanted. When it is finished, the earth reverberates with violent energies. Suddenly the sky is ablaze with stars, and Kelewan is again in its normal place.

  “Things are not always what they seem,” says a voice.

  The Emperor sends a command that the full Assembly should come to the Holy City at once. By ones and twos they use the patterns to travel to Kentosani. The watcher follows. There they are taken to the inner chamber of the Emperor’s palace, something unheard of in the history of the Empire.

  Of the seven thousand magicians who gathered a century before to thwart the Stranger, only two hundred survived. Even now that number has increased but slightly, so that not even one magician for each twenty who stood upon towers against the Stranger answers the Emperor’s call. They advance to stand before Tukamaco, forty times Emperor, descendant of Sudkahanchoza, and Light of Heaven. The Emperor asks if the Assembly will accept the charge to stand ever vigilant over the Empire, protecting it until the end of time. The magicians confer and agree. The Emperor then leaves his throne and abases himself before the assembled magicians, something never done before. He sits back and, still on his knees before them, throws wide his arms and proclaims that from this day forth the magicians are the Great Ones, free from all obligations, save the charge just accepted. They are outside the law, and none may command them, including the Warlord, who stands to one side, a frown upon his face. Whatever they desire is theirs to ask, for their words will be as law.

  And a magician smiles knowingly at another nearby.

  Darkness…

  —

  …AND TIME PASSES.

  The watcher stands before the Warlord’s throne. A delegation of magicians stands before the Warlord. They present him with proof of what they have claimed. A controllable rift, free from the Enemy’s influence, has been opened, and another world has been found. This is unsuitable for life—but a second has been discovered, a rich, ripe world. They show him a lifetime’s worth of wealth in metals, all found lying about, discarded. He who watches smiles to himself over the Warlord’s eagerness at the sight of a broken breastplate, a rusted sword, and a handful of bent nails. To further prove this is an alien world, they present him with a strange but beautiful flower. The Warlord smells it and is pleased with its rich fragrance. The watcher nods, for he, too, knows the richness of a Midkemian rose.

  The black wing of passing time covers him again.

  —

  ONCE MORE HE stood upon the platform. He looked around and saw that the full fury of the storm was breaking around him. Only by his unconscious will had he been able to stand upon this platform, while his conscious mind was occupied by the unfolding history of Kelewan. He now understood the nature of the test, for he found himself exhausted from the energy he had expended during the ordeal. While being instilled with the final instruction in his place in this society, he had been tested with the raw fury of nature.

  He took a last look around, finding the grim view of the storm-tosse
d lake and the shuttered windows of the towers somehow satisfying. He strove to capture this image, as if to ensure that he would forever remember the moment he came to his full awakening as a Great One, for there were no more blocks on his memory, or his emotions. He exulted in his power: no longer Pug the keep boy, but now a magician of power to dwarf the imagination of his former master, Kulgan. And never again would either of these worlds, Midkemia or Kelewan, seem the same to him.

  By force of will he descended to the roof, floating gently through the raging wind. The door opened in anticipation of his coming. He entered, and it closed behind him. Shimone was waiting for him, a smile upon his face. As they moved down the long halls of the Assembly building-city, the skies outside exploded with clashes of thunder, as if heralding his arrival.

  —

  HOCHOPEPA SAT UPON his mat, awaiting the arrival of his guest. The heavy, bald magician was interested in gauging the mettle of the newest member of the Assembly, come into his estate as a wearer of the black robe the previous day.

  A chime sounded, announcing his guest’s arrival. Hochopepa stood and crossed his richly furnished apartment. He pulled aside the sliding door. “Welcome, Milamber. I am pleased you saw fit to accept my invitation.”

  “I am honored,” was all Milamber said as he entered and regarded the room. Of all the quarters in the Assembly building he had seen, this was by far the most opulent. The hangings on the walls were rich cloth, enhanced with the finest threadwork, and there were several valuable metal objects adorning various shelves.

  Milamber made a study of his host as well. The heavyset magician showed Milamber to a cushion before a low table and then poured cups of chocha. His plump hands moved with controlled ease, precisely and efficiently. His dark, nearly black, eyes shone from under the thick brows that accented an otherwise deceptively bland face. He was the stockiest magician Milamber had seen yet, as most who wore the black robe tended to be thin and ascetic looking. Milamber sensed this was largely by design, as if someone occupied with the pleasures of the flesh couldn’t be too concerned with matters of deep thought.

  After the first sip of chocha had been taken, Hochopepa said, “You pose something of a problem for me, Milamber.”

  When Milamber made no comment, Hochopepa said, “You make no remark.” Milamber inclined his head in agreement. “Perhaps your background accounts for a bit more wariness than is the rule here.”

  Milamber said, “A slave become magician is something to ponder.”

  Hochopepa waved his hand. “It is a rarity for a slave to don the black robe, but not unheard of. Occasionally the power is not recognized until adulthood. But the laws are explicit, and no matter how late the power is revealed, nor how mean the station of the man manifesting it, from that instant on he is subject only to the Assembly. Once a soldier was ordered hanged by his lord. He floated, suspended in space, a scant hair’s breadth from hanging, by sheer power of will. His power finally manifested itself at the moment of his greatest need. He was given over to the Assembly, where he survived training, but proved to be a magician of indifferent power and overall poor outlook.

  “But that is not for this discussion. Your particular situation, the one that makes you somewhat of a problem for me, is that you are a barbarian—excuse me, were a barbarian.”

  Milamber smiled again. He had left the Tower of Testing with all his memories of his life, though much about his training was still sketchy. He understood the processes that had been used to bring him into control of his magic. They had singled him out as one among a hundred thousand, a Great One. Of the two hundred million people of the Empire, he was one of two thousand magicians of the black robe. His slave-bred wariness, as Hochopepa pointed out, combined with his intelligence to keep him silent. Hochopepa was trying to make a point, and Milamber would wait to hear what it was, no matter how roundabout the stout magician insisted on being.

  When Milamber said nothing, Hochopepa continued. “Your position is strange for several reasons. The obvious one is that you are the first to wear the black who is not of this world. The second is that you were the apprentice of a Lesser Magician.”

  Milamber raised an eyebrow. “Kulgan? You know of my training?”

  Hochopepa laughed, a genuine belly laugh, which made Milamber relax his guard a little and regard the other man with a little less distrust. “Of course. There was not one aspect of your background that was not closely examined, for you provided a wealth of information about your world.” Hochopepa looked closely at his guest. “The Warlord might choose to launch an invasion into a world we know little about—over the objections of some of his magician advisers, I might add—but we of the Assembly prefer to study our adversaries. We were most relieved to learn magic is restricted to the province of priests and followers of the Lesser Path on your world.”

  “Again you mention a Lesser Magic. What is your meaning?”

  It was Hochopepa’s turn to look slightly surprised. “I assumed you knew.” Milamber shook his head. “The Path of Lesser Magic is walked by some who can operate certain forces by power of will, though of a different order than we of the black robe.”

  “Then you know of my previous failure.”

  Hochopepa laughed again. “Yes. Had you been less suited to the Greater Path, you might have learned his ways. As it is, you had too much ability to have succeeded as a Lesser Path magician. It is a talent rather than an art, the Lesser Path. The Greater Path is for scholars.”

  Milamber nodded. Each time Hochopepa explained a concept, it was as if Milamber had known it all his life. He remarked on this.

  “It is easy enough to understand. During your training many facts and concepts were taught you. The basic concepts of magic were taught early, your responsibility to the Empire later. Part of the process of bringing all your abilities to maturity requires that all these facts be there when you need them. But much of what you were taught was also masked, to be revealed when you needed it, when you could fully understand what was in your mind. There will be a period when thoughts will come unbidden from time to time. As you frame a question, the answer will appear in your mind. And sometimes an answer will come as you read it or hear it. It serves to keep you from reeling under the impact of years of learning coming upon you in an instant.

  “It is not unlike the spells used to grant you the visions on the Tower of Testing. Obviously, we have no means to ‘see’ what occurred before the time of the bridge, or at any other time in history, but we can plant suggestions, create illusion—”

  Things are not what they seem. Milamber barely hid his surprise at this unexpected voice in his mind.

  “—and provide a construct around which you may add the images most significant to you. Personally, I find the entire presentation upon the Tower reeks of Grand Dō Opera. You may avail yourself of the libraries should you seek history rather than theater.” Seeing Milamber’s attentions were elsewhere, Hochopepa said, “In any event, we were speaking of other things.”

  Milamber said, “I would hear of your problem.”

  Hochopepa adjusted his robe, smoothing the creases. “Indulge me a moment longer for a brief digression. It all has bearing on why I asked you here.” Milamber signified that Hochopepa should continue.

  “Little is known of our peoples before the Escape. We know that the nations came from many different worlds. There is also some speculation that others fled the Enemy to different worlds, your former homeworld among them perhaps. There are a few shreds of evidence to support that hypothesis, but it is only conjecture at this point.” Milamber thought about the games of shāh he had played with the Lord of the Shinzawai and considered the possibility.

  “We came as refugees. Of millions, only thousands survived to plant seeds here. We found this world old and used up. Great civilizations once flourished here, and all that is left of them are worn, smooth stones where once cities stood. Who these creatures were, no one knows. This world has few metals, and what was brought with us in the Esc
ape wore away over the ages. Our animals, like your horses and cattle, died out, all save for dogs. We had to adjust to our new homeworld, and to each other.

  “We fought many wars between the time of the Escape and the advent of the Stranger. We were little more than city-states until the Battle of a Thousand Ships. Then the humblest of the races, the Tsurani, rose to conquer all others, uniting most of this world in a single Empire.

  “We of the Assembly support the Empire because on this world it is the single most powerful force for order—not because it is noble, or fair, or beautiful, or just. But because of it the majority of humanity can live and work without war in their homelands, can live without famine, plagues, and the other disasters of older times. And with this order around us, we of the Assembly can work unhindered.

  “It was the attempt to dispel the Stranger that first made it apparent that we must be able to work unhindered by anyone, including the Emperor, with whatever resources are necessary. We were robbed of precious time for action by the Emperor’s lack of cooperation when we first learned of the Stranger. Had we been given support at once, we might have been able to deal with the Enemy when it acted to warp the rift. That is why we accepted the charge to defend and serve the Empire, in exchange for total freedom.”

  Milamber said, “This is all apparent as you speak of it. I am still waiting to hear of your problem regarding me.”

  Hochopepa sighed. “In good time, my friend. I must finish one last thought. You must understand why the Assembly functions as it does to have any hope of surviving more than a few weeks.”

  Milamber looked openly surprised at this remark. “Survive?”

  “Yes, Milamber, survive, for there are many here who would have seen you at the bottom of the lake during your training.”

  “Why?”

  “We work to restore the Greater Art. When we fled the Enemy, at the dawn of history, only one magician in a thousand who battled the Enemy survived. They, for the most part, were the Lesser Magicians and apprentices. They banded together in small groups to protect the knowledge they brought with them from their homeworlds. At first countryman would seek out countryman, then, later, larger associations grew, as desire grew to restore the lost arts. After centuries had passed, the Assembly was founded, and magicians from all parts of the world came, until today all who walk the Greater Path are members of the Assembly. Most of those who practice the Lesser Art serve here as well, though they are afforded a different level of respect and freedom. They tend to be better at building devices and understanding the forces of nature than we of the black robes—they build the orbs we use to transport ourselves from place to place, for one example. While not outside the law, the Lesser Magicians are protected from interference from others by the Assembly. All magicians are the province of the Assembly.”