‘A pleasure, Phillip,’ said Magnus. As they walked to the road and turned north, he asked, ‘Who rules here?’
‘Why, King Henry and Queen Stephané, sir. King Henry was Duke of Crydee before he took the Crown in far-off Rillanon, as was his father before him. The reeve rules the castle for him, and the Baron of Carse is his Knight-Marshal in the West.’
‘So, no Duke of Crydee.’
The boy shrugged. ‘The king still holds the title, sir, but you can better ask the reeve.’ Then his expression brightened. ‘Or you can ask my father. He knows everything.’
‘Your father?’
‘My father is the keep’s cook,’ said the boy.
‘So, you’re an apprentice to the castle’s cook?’
‘Not really,’ said the boy. ‘I have another month before the Choosing. The truth is, I’m not a very good cook.’
‘What do you dream of, boy?’
The boy laughed aloud. ‘I dream of many things, sir. I dream of far-off lands, and places I will never see. I wonder what is beyond the stars, and I wish I knew more about … everything!’ He laughed again.
‘You do like to laugh,’ observed Magnus.
‘Truth to tell, my mother claims I was born laughing. Everyone says that I enjoy things more than others.’ His face was alight. ‘And why wouldn’t I? I have a family and a home and I eat well,’ he said, hefting the bag of crustaceans. ‘I would like to travel, but we can’t have all we wish, can we?’
‘You might be surprised,’ said Magnus as they crested a small rise in the road and the town and keep came into view. ‘Have you thought of apprenticing as something other than in the kitchen?’
‘I have little aptitude for anything. I’m clumsy when it comes to working the boats, and have little gift for weapons. I’m too small to work the forge, and … well, the only thing I’m good at is reading.’
‘You read?’
‘Everything! Father Ignatius taught me. There’s a tower in the keep, full of books, and I’ve read them all.’
Magnus paused. ‘Do you understand them?’
‘Almost,’ said Phillip. ‘Some of the time I feel like I almost know what things mean. Some of the books are about other places, histories, and geography, but others are about how things work. I wish I understood those better.’
‘Perhaps if Father Ignatius doesn’t object, I might look at those books and lend you a hand?’
‘I think that would be all right, sir,’ said the boy as they trudged along the muddy road leading to Crydee town. ‘Have you been here before, sir?’
‘Many years ago,’ said Magnus. ‘Many, many years ago.’
‘Crydee is hard to get to now,’ said Phillip, showing off his knowledge of things. ‘You have to come by ship now, through the Straits of Darkness. It used to be there was a highway from Crydee to Ylith, in the Duchy of Yabon, but that’s no longer there.’
‘Why is that?’ asked Magnus as they neared the edge of the town.
‘No one is sure, but apparently something terrible happened there before I was born. A massive change and, well, to be truthful, as strange as it sounds, to the east once rose mountains.’
The forest blocked out any vista to the east, but no mountains rose up behind it. Magnus said, ‘What happened?’
‘No one is certain. A great magic, they say.’ The boy shrugged. ‘Now there’s only a giant pit, below a promontory. My father took me there once, and I got to stand on the rocks and look down into the crater. People call it the Sunken Lands, that crater.’
‘Interesting,’ said Magnus.
‘The rocks have a very odd name, too.’
‘What would that be?’
‘They call the rocks Magician’s End.’
Magnus closed his eyes for a moment. Then he said, ‘Indeed, that is an odd name.’ He paused, then asked, ‘Have you considered apprenticing as a magician?’
The boy laughed aloud, sounding delighted at the idea. ‘Can you do that?’
‘We’ll see,’ said Magnus as they reached the edge of the town. ‘I am something of a magician, or so others have claimed, and I am in need of an apprentice, Phillip.’
‘Oh, no one calls me Phillip,’ said the boy. ‘Though it is my name and my mother said it was important to introduce myself that way.’
‘Well, what do they call you, then?
‘Everyone in the town calls me Pug, sir.’
Magnus stopped and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know exactly, sir. It was just one of those things that happens. Someone called me that and it stuck.’ He seemed pleased to tell the story.
‘You seem a happy lad,’ said Magnus.
‘Mother says I am the happiest boy she has ever seen.’ He lost his grin and said, ‘Were you serious about me being a magician, sir?’
Magnus nodded and they walked on in silence.
As they entered the town Magnus looked around and said, ‘So much has changed.’ Then he looked down at the boy beside him. ‘Yet some things are very familiar.’ He patted Pug’s shoulder. ‘Let us go meet your father, and the reeve, and Father Ignatius, and when it’s time you and I will sit and discuss the subject of magic. You may have some knack for it.’
Magnus knew for certain that would prove to be the case.
Acknowledgements
As this is the very last of a ‘history of an imaginary place’, I would like to indulge myself a little and call attention to certain people who were instrumental along the way in the success of this series.
First, as always, are the Thursday/Friday Nighters, Jon, Anita, Ethan, Rich, Steve B., Lori and Jeff, April, Conan, Bob, and most especially Steve Abrams; if there is one heart of Midkemia, its lorekeeper and architect, it’s Steve. Thank you all for giving me a marvellous place to play ‘let’s pretend’, back when we were all starving students in San Diego, over thirty years ago.
My mother, Barbara A. Feist, who didn’t manage to get to the end with me, but who was there from the start. Reading an early chapter she said, ‘You can’t send this in looking like this,’ and proceeded to retype every word, and in so doing became my first and always biggest fan. I miss her daily.
Harold Matson, a genius and a gentleman, who said, ‘We think we can sell this,’ and made me the last client he signed in a long and stellar career. I would say they don’t make them like that any more, save I’ve met his son and grandson and they do.
Jonathan Matson, who took over for his dad without missing a step, along with Ben Camardi, and the marvellous men and women of the Harold Matson Company; the late, wonderful Abner Stein and his great staff at the Abner Stein Company headed by his daughter Arabella in London; Nicki Kennedy, Sam Edenborough and the rest of the staff of Intercontinental Literary Agency, for turning me into an international hit. Stalwarts all.
Adrian Zackheim, my first editor at Doubleday, who said, ‘I don’t usually do fiction, but I like this. Can you make it longer?’ and when I did said, ‘Now, cut fifty thousand words from it,’ and in less than five months taught me exactly how I should be writing. I have been blessed by an abundance of talent in those editors who have shepherded my work through the publishing process, as people change companies and move on. After Adrian I have been loyally defended and appropriately scolded, regularly encouraged, and lovingly supported by Pat LoBrutto, Lou Aronica, Janna Silverstein, and my current New York genius, Jennifer Brehl, whom I have known for many years, for which I am very glad.
Nick Austin, who bought Magician for Granada, which became Grafton, then Collins, then HarperCollins, keeping me with the same publisher for thirty-two years despite many name and ownership changes. He was most ably followed by Jonathan Edwards, John Booth, Malcolm Edwards, Emma Coode, and currently Jane Johnson, who is an amazing talent, an author in her own right, whose writing talents are only matched by her editing skills and an uncanny ability to get what I’m trying to say even when I’m not saying it well. Special mention goes to Eddie Bell, who kept thi
ngs sane around me when international mergers and changes in ownership threatened chaos.
Peter Schneider, who back in the day when I was a rookie author and he was a baby publicist at Doubleday, went way above and beyond to see I caught every break I was entitled to and quite a few I didn’t deserve, who endured very early morning phone calls and lots of opinions on how things should be done, as well as a fair degree of hand-holding with a guy afraid it would all turn sour at any minute, and who was smart enough to marry Jen Brehl.
My many foreign language publishers who have enabled me to reach readers I could not have imagined when I began. After thirty years they’ve come and gone, many I’ve never met, but a special thanks to Jacques Post in the Netherlands, and Stéphane Marsan and Alain Névant at Bragelonne in France.
Too many other writers to name, both past and present, who either influenced me or befriended me, though a few warrant special notice: Theodore Sturgeon for smiling when I told him I didn’t listen to his advice not to become a writer and said, ‘I tell that to everyone; the writers never listen.’ Poul Anderson for being both an inspiration and damn good company, and the same can be said for Gordon R. Dickson, Harlan Ellison, and Robert Silverberg. Those I have listed for inspiration in the past, Anthony Hope, Arthur Conan Doyle, H. Rider Haggard, A. Merritt, and Fritz Leiber, and every other great writer I’ve ever read; I’ve shamelessly stolen from all of you.
But four writers in particular, Janny Wurts – who showed me things about the craft I never could have imagined and without whom I don’t think I could craft a believable female character today – Steve Stirling, Bill Fortschen, and the very-much-missed Joel Rosenberg, for playing well in my sandbox and giving me stories I could not have achieved without them.
To John Bunting and his lovely wife Tammy, for doing so much on my behalf out of loyalty and affection. They are splendid people I am richer for knowing.
And Ralph Askren, whose love for the geography of an imaginary world has given it rich detail in his wonderful maps.
My core fans, who have been with me since the beginning, who have been my recruiting army and who have worked tirelessly, to endorse my work. Thank you: words do not express how grateful I am.
Lastly, my many friends outside of publishing, some of whom have driven me crazy over the years, many of whom have saved my sanity over the years, thank you for your affection and loyalty. And most of all to my daughter Jessica and my son James for keeping me constantly aware there are things far more important in life than my own momentary concerns.
Without any of you I doubt I would be writing this today.
Raymond E. Feist
San Diego, CA
January, 2013
About the Author
Raymond E. Feist was born and raised in southern California. He was educated at the University of California, San Diego, where he graduated with honours in Communication Arts. He is the author of ten bestselling and critically acclaimed series: The Riftwar Saga, The Empire Trilogy (with Janny Wurts), Krondor’s Sons, The Serpentwar Saga, The Riftwar Legacy, Legends of the Riftwar, Conclave of Shadows, Darkwar Saga, Demonwar Saga and his most recent Chaoswar Saga.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Magician
Silverthorn
A Darkness at Sethanon
Faerie Tale
Prince of the Blood
The King’s Buccaneer
Shadow of a Dark Queen
Rise of a Merchant Prince
Rage of a Demon King
Shards of a Broken Crown
Krondor: The Betrayal
Krondor: The Assassins
Krondor: Tear of the Gods
Talon of the Silver Hawk
King of Foxes
Exile’s Return
Flight of the Night Hawks
Into a Dark Realm
Wrath of a Mad God
Rides a Dread Legion
At the Gates of Darkness
A Kingdom Besieged
A Crown Imperilled
With Janny Wurts:
Daughter of the Empire
Servant of the Empire
Mistress of the Empire
With William R. Forstchen:
Honoured Enemy
With Joel Rosenberg:
Murder in LaMut
With Steve Stirling:
Jimmy the Hand
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
HarperCollinsPublishers
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Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
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Published by HarperVoyager
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 2013
Copyright © Raymond E. Feist 2013
Raymond E. Feist asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Source ISBN: 9780007264797
Ebook Edition © May 2013 ISBN: 9780007290192
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Map designed by Ralph M. Askren, D.V.M.
Version 1
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