Silverthorn

by Raymond E. Feist

  Arutha looked at the building. ‘That light is gone. Whoever our unseen benefactor is, he must feel we no longer need it.’ The gates in the wall before them slowly began to open. Martin handed the helm up for Arutha’s inspection. It was a strange thing, fashioned with a dragon carved in bas-relief on top, its downswept wings covering the sides. Two narrow slits provided vision for the wearer, and four small holes allowed him to breathe. Arutha tossed the helm back to Martin. ‘That’s an ill-aspected piece of ironmongery. Bring it along. Now let’s visit this abbey.’

  ‘Abbey!’ Gardan observed as they entered, it looks more like a fortress!’ Tall, iron-banded heavy wooden gates straddled the roadway. To the right a stone wall a dozen feet high stretched away, appearing to run to the other edge of the mountaintop. To the left the wall receded, facing upon a vertical drop over a hundred feet to a switchback in the roadway below. Behind the wall they could see a single tower, several floors high, if that isn’t an old-style keep tower, I’ve never seen one,’ said the captain. ‘I’d not want to storm this abbey, Highness. It’s the most defensible position I’ve seen. Look, there’s not five feet of clearing between the wall and cliff anywhere.’ He sat back in the saddle, in obvious appreciation of the military aspects of the abbey’s design.

  Arutha spurred his horse forward. The gates were now open, and, seeing no reason not to, Arutha led his companions onto the grounds of the Ishapian abbey at Sarth.

  • Chapter Ten •

  Sarth

  The abbey appeared deserted.

  The courtyard reflected what they had seen from the road. This had once been as a fortress. Around the ancient tower a larger single-storey keep building had been added, as well as two outbuildings that could be seen peeking from behind it. One appeared to be a stable. But before them no sign of movement could be seen.

  ‘Welcome to Ishap’s Abbey at Sarth,’ came a voice from behind one of the gates.

  Arutha had his sword halfway from its scabbard before the speaker added, ‘You have nothing to fear.’

  The speaker stepped from behind the gate. Arutha put away his weapon. As the others dismounted, the Prince studied the man. He was stocky, of middle years, short, with a youthful smile. His brown hair was cut close and ragged and his face was clean-shaven. He wore a simple brown robe gathered around the waist with a single leather thong. A pouch and some manner of holy symbol hung at his waist. He was unarmed, but Arutha got the impression that the man moved like one who had been trained in arms. Finally Arutha said, ‘I am Arutha, Prince of Krondor.’

  The man looked amused, though he didn’t smile. ‘Then welcome to Ishap’s Abbey at Sarth, Highness.’

  ‘You mock me?’

  ‘No, Highness. We of the Order of Ishap maintain little contact with the outside world, and few visit with us, let alone royalty. Please forgive any insult, if your honour permits, for none was intended.’

  Arutha dismounted and, fatigue in his voice, said, ‘It is I who asks forgiveness …?’

  ‘Brother Dominic, but please, no apologies. It is clear from the circumstances of your arrival you were hard-pressed.’

  Martin said, ‘Do we have you to thank for that mystic light?’

  The monk nodded. Arutha said, ‘There seems a great deal to speak of, Brother Dominic.’

  ‘There are many questions. You’ll have to wait upon the Father Abbot’s pleasure for most answers, Highness. Come, I’ll show you to the stable.’

  Arutha’s impatience wouldn’t let him wait a moment longer. ‘I came on a matter of the utmost urgency. I need to speak with your Abbot. Now.’

  The monk spread his hands in a gesture indicating it was outside his authority to decide. ‘The Father Abbot is unavailable for another two hours. He is meditating and praying in the chapel, with the others of our order, which is why I alone am here to greet you. Please, come with me.’

  Arutha seemed ready to protest, but Martin’s hand upon his shoulder settled him. ‘Again, I am sorry, Brother Dominic. We are, of course, guests.’

  Dominic’s expression indicated that Arutha’s temper was a matter of no consequence. He led them to the second of the smaller buildings behind what was once a central keep. It was indeed a stable. The sole occupants at the moment were another horse and a stout little donkey, which cast an indifferent eye upon the newcomers. As they tended their animals, Arutha spoke of their trials over the last few weeks. When he finished, he said, ‘How did you manage to confound the black riders?’

  ‘My title is Keeper of the Gates, Highness. I may admit any to the abbey, but no one with evil intent can cross the portals without my leave. Once upon the grounds of this abbey, those who sought your life became subject to my power. They took a risk attacking you so close to the abbey. It was a risk that proved deadly to their cause. But further conversation on this and other subjects must wait upon the Father Abbot.’

  Martin said, ‘If everyone else is at chapel, you’ll need some help disposing of those corpses. They have an irritating habit of coming back to life.’

  ‘I thank you for the offer, but I can manage. And they will remain dead. The magic employed to topple them cleansed them of the controlling evil. Now you must rest.’

  They left the stable and the monk led them to what appeared to be a barracks. Gardan said, This place has a martial look to it, brother.’

  Entering a long room with a single row of beds, the monk said, ‘In ancient times this fortress was home to a robber baron. The Kingdom and Kesh lay far enough away for him to be a law unto himself, pillaging, raping, and robbing without fear of retribution. After some time he was turned out by the people of the surrounding towns, made bold by his tyranny. The lands below this escarpment were given over to farming, but so deep was their hatred of the baron that this keep stood abandoned. When a mendicant friar of our Order of Wanderers discovered this place, he sent word back to the temple in the city of Kesh. When we sought the use of this place as an abbey, the descendants of those who had turned out the Baron had no objection. Today only those of us who serve here remember the history of this place. To those in the towns and villages along the Bay of Ships this has always been the Abbey of Ishap at Sarth.’

  Arutha said, ‘I assume this was once a barracks.’

  Dominic said, ‘Yes, Highness. We now use it as an infirmary and a place for occasional guests. Make yourselves comfortable, for I must be about my own tasks. The Father Abbot will see you shortly.’

  Dominic left and Jimmy fell onto one of the beds with an audible sigh. Martin inspected a small stove at one end of the room and found it lit, with the makings for tea next to it. He immediately set a pot to boil. Under a cloth he found bread, cheese, and fruit, which he passed around. Laurie sat examining his lute for possible travel damage and began tuning it. Gardan sat down opposite the Prince.

  Arutha sighed long and deeply. ‘I am on a ragged edge. I fear these monks will have no knowledge of this Silverthorn.’ For an instant his eyes betrayed his anguish, then he again showed only an impassive expression.

  Martin cocked his head to one side as he thought aloud. ‘Tully seems to think they know a great deal.’

  Laurie put up his lute. ‘Whenever I’ve found myself close to magic, priestly or otherwise, there also I’ve found trouble.’

  Jimmy spoke to Laurie. ‘That Pug seemed a friendly enough fellow for a magician. I wanted to speak to him more, but …’ He left unsaid the events that had prevented it. ‘There’s little about him that seems remarkable, but the Tsurani seem to fear him, and some of the court whisper about him.’

  ‘There is a saga begging to be sung,’ answered Laurie. He told Jimmy of Pug’s captivity and rise among the Tsurani. ‘Those who practise arcane arts on Kelewan are a law unto themselves, and whatsoever they command is done without hesitation. There is nothing like them on this world. That is why the Tsurani in LaMut hold him in awe. Old habits die hard.’

  Jimmy said, ‘He gave up a great deal to return, then.’

  Lauri
e laughed. ‘That wasn’t entirely a matter of choice.’

  Jimmy said, ‘What’s Kelewan like?’

  Laurie spun a rich and colourful story of his adventures on that world, with the eye for detail that lay at the heart of his craft, as much as did good voice and playing skills. The others settled in, relaxing and drinking their tea while listening. They all knew the story of Laurie and Pug and their part in the Riftwar, but each time Laurie told the story it was again a riveting adventure, one with the great legends.

  When Laurie finished, Jimmy said, ‘It would be an adventure to go to Kelewan.’

  ‘That is not possible,’ observed Gardan, ‘I’m glad to say.’

  Jimmy said, ‘If it was done once, why not again?’

  Martin said, ‘Arutha, you were with Pug when Kulgan read Macros’s letter explaining why he closed the rift.’

  Arutha said, ‘Rifts are wild things, spanning some impossible no-place between worlds, possibly across time as well. But something about them makes it possible to know where they’re going to come out. When one is fashioned, then others seem to “follow” it, coming out in the same general area. But that first one is the one you can’t control. That’s as much as I understand. You’d have to ask Kulgan or Pug for more details.’

  Gardan said, ‘Ask Pug. If you ask Kulgan, you’ll get a lecture.’

  ‘So Pug and Macros closed down the first one to end the war?’ said Jimmy.

  ‘And more,’ said Arutha.

  Jimmy looked around the room, sensing they all knew something he was not privy to. Laurie said, ‘According to Pug, there was in ancient times a vast evil power known to the Tsurani only as the Enemy. Macros said it would find its way to the two worlds if the rift was left open, drawn to it as steel to a lodestone. It was a being of awesome strength that had destroyed armies and humbled mighty magicians. Or at least that is what Pug explained.’

  Jimmy cocked his head to one side. ‘This Pug is that important a magician, then?’

  Laurie laughed. ‘To hear Kulgan tell it, Pug is the most powerful practicer of the magic arts there is since Macros’s death. And he’s cousin to the Duke and the Prince, and the King.’

  Jimmy’s eyes widened, ‘It’s true,’ said Martin. ‘Our father adopted Pug into our family.’

  Martin said, ‘Jimmy, you speak of magicians as if you’ve never had dealings with one.’

  ‘I know better. There are a few spellcasters in Krondor, and they tend to be a questionable lot. There was once among the Mockers a thief known as the Grey Cat, for his stealth was unmatched. He was given to bold theft and filched some bauble from a magician who viewed the deed with considerable disfavour.’

  ‘What became of him?’ asked Laurie.

  ‘He’s now the grey cat.’

  The four listeners sat quietly for a moment, then comprehension dawned and Gardan, Laurie, and Martin burst into laughter. Even Arutha smiled at the joke and shook his head in amusement.

  Conversation continued on, easy and relaxed, as the band of travellers felt secure for the first time since leaving Krondor.

  The bells sounded from the main building and a monk entered. Silently he motioned for them to come. Arutha said, ‘We’re to follow you?’ The monk nodded. ‘To see the Abbot?’ Again the monk nodded.

  Arutha was off his bed, all fatigue forgotten. He was the first out of the door behind the monk.

  The Abbot’s chamber befitted one given to a life of spiritual contemplation. It was austere in every aspect. But what was surprising about it was the bookshelves upon the walls, dozens of volumes at every hand. The Abbot, Father John, seemed a kindly man of advancing years, slender and ascetic in appearance. His grey hair and beard showed in stark contrast to dark skin that was lined and wrinkled like carefully carved mahogany. Behind him stood two men, Brother Dominic and one Brother Anthony, a tiny stooped-shouldered fellow of indeterminate age, who constantly squinted at the Prince.

  The Abbot smiled, his eyes crinkly at the corners, and Arutha was suddenly put in mind of paintings of Old Father Winter, a mythical figure who gave sweets to children at the Midwinter’s Festival. In a deep, youthful voice the Abbot said, ‘Welcome to Ishap’s Abbey, Highness. How may we help you?’

  Arutha quickly outlined the history of the last few weeks.

  The Abbot’s smile vanished as Arutha’s story unfolded. When the Prince was finished, the Abbot said, ‘Highness, we are gravely troubled to hear of this necromancy at the palace. But as to the tragedy that has befallen your Princess, how may we aid you?’

  Arutha found himself reluctant to speak, as if at the last his fear of there being no aid overwhelmed him. Sensing his brother’s reticence, Martin said, ‘A conspirator to the assassination attempt claims a moredhel gave him the poison used, one prepared with arcane skills. He called the substance Silverthorn.’

  The Abbot sat back, sympathy evident in his expression. ‘Brother Anthony?’

  The little man said, ‘Silverthorn? I’ll begin looking in the archives at once, father.’ With a shuffling step, he quickly departed the Abbot’s chambers.

  Arutha and the others watched the bent figure leave the room. Arutha asked, ‘How long will it take?’

  The Abbot said, ‘That depends. Brother Anthony has a remarkable ability to pull facts seemingly from out of the air, remembering things read once in passing a decade before. That is why he has risen to the rank of Head Archivist, our Keeper of Knowledge. But the search could take days.’

  Arutha clearly didn’t understand what the Abbot was speaking about, and the old priest said, ‘Brother Dominic, why don’t you show the Prince and his companions a little of what we do here at Sarth?’ The Abbot rose and bowed slightly to the Prince as Dominic moved towards the door. ‘Then bring him to the base of the tower.’ He added to Arutha, ‘I will meet with you shortly, Highness.’

  They followed the monk out into the main hall of the abbey. Dominic said, ‘This way.’ He led them through a door, then down a flight of stairs to a landing from which four passages branched off. He took them past a series of doors. As they walked, he said, ‘This hill is unlike those around, as you must have noticed when you rode here. It is mostly solid rock. When the first monks came to Sarth, they discovered these tunnels and chambers underneath the keep.’

  ‘What are they?’ asked Jimmy.

  They came to a door and Dominic produced a large ring of keys, which he used to open the heavy lock. The door swung open ponderously, and after they had stepped through, he closed it behind. ‘The original robber baron used these excavations as storage rooms, against siege, and to hoard booty. He must have grown lax in his defence for the villagers to have laid successful siege. There is enough room here for stores to last years. We have added to them until the entire hill is honeycombed with vaults and passages.’

  ‘To what end?’ asked Arutha.

  Dominic indicated they should follow him through another door, this one unlocked. They entered a large vaulted chamber, with shelving along the walls and freestanding shelves in the centre of the room. Each shelf was packed solid with books. Dominic crossed to one and took down a book. He handed it to Arutha.

  Arutha studied the old volume. It had faded gilt lettering burned into the binding. There was a faint resistance when Arutha carefully opened it, as if it had not been handled in years. On the first page he saw alien letters of an unknown language, painstakingly lettered in a stiff script. He lifted the book before his face and sniffed at it. There was a faint, pungent odour on the pages.

  As Arutha handed the book back, Dominic said, ‘Preservative. Every book here has been treated to prevent deterioration.’ He gave the book to Laurie.

  The widely travelled singer said, ‘I don’t speak this tongue, but I think it Keshian, though it is unlikely any scribing of the Empire’s I know.’

  Dominic smiled. ‘The book is from the south part of Great Kesh, near the border of the Keshian Confederacy. It is the diary of a slightly mad but otherwise insignificant noble fro
m a minor dynasty, written in a language called Low Delkian. High Delkian, as best we can ascertain, was a secret language limited to priests of some obscure order.’

  ‘What is this place?’ asked Jimmy.

  ‘We who serve Ishap at Sarth gather together books, tomes, manuals, scrolls, and parchments, even fragments. In our order there is a saying: “Those at Sarth serve the god Knowledge,” which is not far from the truth. Wherever one of our order finds a scrap of writing, it or a copy is eventually sent here. In this chamber, and in every other chamber under the abbey, are shelves like these. All are filled, even to the point of being crowded from floor to ceiling, and new vaults are constantly being dug. From the top of the hill to the lowest level there are over a thousand chambers like this one. Each houses several hundred volumes or more. Some of the larger vaults hold several thousand. At last tally we were approaching a half-million works.”

  Arutha was stunned. His own library, inherited with the throne of Krondor, numbered less than a thousand. ‘How long have you been gathering these?’

  ‘Over three centuries. There are many of our order who do nothing but travel and buy any scrap they can find, or who pay to have copies made. Some are ancient, others are in languages unknown, and three are from another world, having been obtained from the Tsurani in LaMut. There are arcane works, auguries and manuals of power, hidden from the eyes of all but a few of the most highly placed in our order.’ He looked about the room. ‘And with all this, there is still so much we don’t understand.’

  Gardan said, ‘How do you keep track of it all?’

  Dominic said, ‘We have brothers whose sole task is to catalogue these works, all working under Brother Anthony’s direction. Guides are prepared and constantly updated. In the building above us and in another room deep below are shelves of nothing but guides. Should you need a work on a subject, you can find it in the guides. It will list the work by vault number – we are standing in vault seventeen – shelf number, and space number upon the shelf. We are attempting to cross-index each work by author, when known, and title as well as subject. The work goes slowly and will take all of another century.’