The Riftwar Saga

  ‘That is unacceptable.’

  ‘Then we shall have no bargain, and all will perish. For I will fail in my undertaking, and this world will vanish in a cloud of flaming gases.’

  The woman remained grave in appearance. After a long silence she said, ‘I shall amend our bargain. I will provide you with the power of the oracle, in exchange for this safe haven, when you have completed your quest.’

  ‘Quest?’

  ‘I read the future, and as we near agreement, the lines of probability resolve themselves and the most likely future is revealed to my sight. Even as we speak, I see what you will undertake, and it is a way fraught with perils.’ She stood silently for a moment, then softly said, ‘Now I understand what you face. I agree to these terms, as you must.’

  Pug shrugged. ‘Agreed. When all has been favourably resolved, we shall carry you to a place of safety.’

  ‘Return to the cavern.’

  Pug opened his eyes. Tomas and the servants of the oracle stood as they had done when he had begun the mind contact. He asked Tomas, ‘How long have I been standing here?’

  ‘A few moments, no longer.’

  Pug stepped away from the girl. She opened her eyes, and her voice was strong, untainted by madness, but carrying a hint of the alien woman’s speech. ‘Know that darkness unfolds and gathers, coming from where it has been confined, seeking to regain that which was lost, to the utter ruination of all you love, to the redemption of all you hold in terror. Go and find the one who knows all, who has from the first understood the truth. Only he can guide you to the final confrontation, only he.’

  Tomas and Pug exchanged glances, and even as Pug spoke, he knew the answer to his question. ‘Whom must I seek?’

  The girl’s eyes seemed to pierce his soul. Calmly she said, ‘You must find Macros the Black.’

  • Chapter Five •

  Crydee

  Martin crouched.

  He motioned for those behind to remain quiet as he listened for movement in the deep thicket. Sundown was approaching and animals should have been appearing at the edge of the pond. But something had driven away most of the game. Martin hunted the source of that disruption. The woods were silent except for the sound of birds overhead. Then something rustled in the brush.

  A stag leaped forward, bounding over the edge of the clearing. Martin dodged to his right, avoiding the stag’s antlers and flying hooves as the frightened animal sprang past. He could hear the scurrying of his companions as they avoided being trampled by the fleeing animal. Then Martin heard a deep grumbling sound issuing from where the stag had fled. Whatever had spurred the animal into flight was approaching through the undergrowth. Martin waited, his bow ready.

  He watched as the bear limped into view. At a time it should be getting fat and glossy, this animal was weak and scrawny, as thin as if it had just emerged from a long winter’s sleep. Martin studied it as it lowered its head to drink from the pool. Some injury had lamed the animal, sickening it and preventing it from getting the food it needed. Two nights before the bear had mauled a farmer who had attempted to defend his milk cow. The man had died and Martin had been tracking the bear since. It was a rogue and had to be killed.

  The sound of horses carried through the woods, and the bear’s muzzle came up as it sniffed the air. A questioning growl escaped its throat as it rose on hind legs, followed by an angry roar as it smelled horses and men. ‘Damn!’ said Martin as he stood, drawing his bow. He had hoped to get a cleaner shot, but the animal would turn and flee in a moment.

  The arrow sped across the clearing, taking the bear below the neck in the shoulder. It was not a quick killing shot. The animal pawed at the shaft, its growls a bubbling, liquid sound. Martin came around the pond, his hunting knife out, his three companions behind. Garret, now Huntmaster of Crydee, let fly his own arrow as Martin raced toward the bear. The second shaft took the beast in the chest, another serious but not yet fatal wound. Martin sprang at the bear while it pawed at the arrows embedded in its thick fur. The Duke of Crydee’s large hunter’s knife struck deep and true, taking the weak and confused animal in the throat. The bear died as it hit the ground.

  Baru and Charles followed, their bows at the ready. Charles, short and bandy-legged, wore the same green leather clothing as Garret’s, the uniform of a forester in Martin’s service. Baru, tall and muscular, wore a plaid of green and black tartan – signifying the Iron Hills Clan of the Hadati – slung over one shoulder, leather trousers, and buckskin boots. Martin knelt over the animal. He worked at the bear’s shoulder with his knife, turning his head slightly at the sweetish, rotting stench that came up from the gangrenous wound, then he sat back, showing a bloody, pus-covered arrowhead. He said to Garret in disgust, ‘When I was Huntmaster for my father, I often ignored a little poaching here and there during a lean year. But if you find the man who shot this bear, I want him hung. And if he has anything of value, give it to the farmer’s widow. He murdered that farmer as much as if he had shot him instead of the bear.’

  Garret took the arrowhead and examined it. ‘This arrowhead is home-cast, Your Grace. Look at this odd line running down the side of the head. The man who cast these doesn’t file the heads. He’s as sloppy in his fletchery as his hunting. If we find a quiver of arrowheads with the same flaw, we have our man. I’ll pass word to the trackers.’ Then the long-faced Huntmaster said, ‘If Your Grace had reached that bear before I’d hit it, we might have had two murders to charge the poacher with.’ His tone was disapproving.

  Martin smiled. ‘I had no doubt of your aim, Garret. You’re the only man I know who’s a better shot than I. It’s one of the reasons you’re Huntmaster.’

  Charles said, ‘And because he’s the only one of your trackers who can keep up with you when you decide to hunt.’

  ‘You do set a fast pace, Lord Martin,’ agreed Baru.

  ‘Well,’ said Garret, not entirely appeased by Martin’s answer, ‘we might have had one more good shot before the bear ran.’

  ‘Might, might not. I’d rather jump it here in the clearing, with you three coming, than try to follow it into the brush, even with three arrows in it.’ He motioned toward the thicket a few yards away. ‘It could get a little tight in there.’

  Garret looked at Charles and Baru. ‘No argument as to that, Your Grace.’ He added, ‘Though it got a mite close out here.’

  A calling voice sounded a short way off. Martin stood. ‘Find out who is making all that noise. It almost cost us this kill.’ Charles hurried off.

  Baru shook his head as he regarded the dead bear. ‘The man who wounded this bear is no hunter.’

  Martin looked about the woods. ‘I miss this, Baru. I might even forgive that poacher a little for giving me an excuse to get away from the castle.’

  Garret said, ‘It’s a thin excuse, my lord. By rights you should have left this to me and my trackers.’

  Martin smiled. ‘So Fannon will insist.’

  Baru said, ‘I understand. For almost a year I stayed with the elves and now you. I miss the hills and meadows of the Yabon Highlands.’

  Garret said nothing. Both he and Martin understood why the Hadati had not returned. His village had been destroyed by the moredhel chieftain Murad. And while Baru had avenged it by killing Murad, he no longer had a home. Someday he might find another Hadati village in which to settle, but for the time being he chose to wander far from home. After his wounds had healed at Elvandar, he had come to Crydee to guest for a while with Martin.

  Charles returned, a soldier of Crydee behind. The soldier saluted and said, ‘Swordmaster Fannon requests you return at once, Your Grace.’ Martin exchanged a quick glance with Baru. ‘What’s afoot, I wonder?’

  Baru shrugged.

  The soldier said, ‘The Swordmaster took the liberty of sending extra mounts, Your Grace. He knew you’d left on foot.’

  Martin said, ‘Lead on,’ and they followed the soldier to where others waited with mounts. As they readied themselves for the return
to Castle Crydee, the Duke felt a sudden disquiet.

  Fannon stood waiting for them as Martin dismounted. ‘What is it, Fannon?’ said Martin as he slapped at the road dust on his green leather tunic.

  ‘Has Your Grace forgotten Lord Miguel will arrive this afternoon?’

  Martin looked at the lowering sun. ‘Then he’s late.’

  ‘His ship was sighted beyond the point at Sailor’s Grief an hour ago. He’ll be passing Longpoint lighthouse into the harbour within the next hour.’

  Martin smiled at his Swordmaster. ‘You’re right, of course. I had forgotten.’ Almost running up the stairs, he said, ‘Come and talk with me, Fannon, while I change.’

  Martin hurried toward his quarters, once occupied by his father, Lord Borric. Pages had drawn a hot tub and Martin quickly stripped off his hunter’s garb. He took the strongly scented soap and washing stone and said to the page, ‘Have plenty of cold fresh water here. This scent is something my sister might like, but it cloys my nose.’ The page left to fetch more water.

  ‘Now, Fannon, what brings the illustrious Duke of Rodez from the other side of the Kingdom?’

  Fannon sat upon a settee. ‘He is simply travelling for the summer. It is not unheard of, Your Grace.’

  Martin laughed. ‘Fannon, we’re alone. You can drop the pretence. He’s bringing at least one daughter of marriageable age.’

  Fannon sighed. ‘Two. Miranda is twenty and Inez is fifteen. Both are said to be beauties.’

  ‘Fifteen! Gods, man! She’s a baby.’

  Fannon smiled ruefully. ‘Two duels have been fought already over that baby, according to my information. Remember, these are easterners.’

  Martin stretched out to soak. ‘They do tend to get into politics early back there, don’t they?’

  ‘Look, Martin, like it or not, you are Duke – and brother to the King. You’ve never married. If you didn’t live in the most remote corner of the Kingdom, you’d have had sixty social visits since your return home, not six.’

  Martin grimaced. ‘If this turns out like the last, I’m going to return to the forests and the bears.’ The last visit had been from the Earl of Tarloff, vassal to the Duke of Ran. His daughter had been charming enough, but she tended to the flighty and had giggled, a trait that set Martin’s teeth on edge. He had left the girl with vague promises to visit Tarloff someday. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘she was a pretty enough thing.’

  ‘Pretty has little to do with it, as you well know. Things are still reeling in the East, even though it’s approaching two years since King Rodric’s death. Guy du Bas-Tyra’s out there somewhere doing what only the gods know. Some of his faction still wait to see who will be named Duke of Bas-Tyra. With Caldric dead and the office of Duke of Rillanon also vacant, the East is a tower of sticks. Pull the wrong one and it will all come down on the King’s head. Lyam is well advised by Tully to wait for sons and nephews. Then he can put more allies in office. It would do well for you not to lose sight of the facts of life for the King’s family, Martin.’

  ‘Yes, Swordmaster,’ Martin said, with a regretful shake of his head. He knew Fannon was right. Once Lyam had elevated him to the position of Duke of Crydee, he had lost a great deal of his freedom, with even greater losses to come, or so it seemed.

  Three pages entered with buckets of cold water. Martin stood and let them pour the water over him. Shivering, he wrapped himself in a soft towel, and when the pages were gone, he said, ‘Fannon, what you say is obviously right, but … well, it’s not even a year since Arutha and I returned from Moraelin. Before that … it was that long tour of the East. Can’t I have a few months just to live quietly at home?’

  ‘You did. Last winter.’

  Martin laughed. ‘Very well. But it would seem to me that there is a lot more interest in a rural duke than is required.’

  Fannon shook his head. ‘More interest than is required in the brother to the King?’

  ‘None of my line could claim the crown, even if three, maybe soon four, others didn’t stand in succession before me. Remember, I abdicated any claim for my posterity.’

  ‘You are not a simple man, Martin. Don’t play the woodsy with me. You may have said whatever you wished on the day of Lyam’s coronation, but should some descendant of yours be in a position to inherit, your vows won’t count a tinker’s damn if some faction in the Congress of Lords wishes him King.’

  Martin began to dress. ‘I know, Fannon. That was meant only to keep people from opposing Lyam in my name. I may have spent most of my life in the forests, but when I dined with you, Tully, Kulgan, and Father, I kept my ears open. I learned a lot.’

  A knock came and a guard appeared at the door. ‘Ship flying the banner of Rodez clearing Longpoint light, Your Grace.’

  Martin waved the guard out. He said to Fannon, ‘I guess we’d better hurry to meet the Duke and his lovely daughters.’ Finishing his dressing, he said, ‘I will be inspected and courted by the Duke’s daughters, Fannon, but for the gods’ love and patience, I hope neither of them giggles.’ Fannon nodded in sympathy as he followed Martin from the room.

  Martin smiled at Duke Miguel’s jest. It concerned an eastern lord Martin had met only once. The man’s foibles might have been a source of humour to the eastern lords, but the joke was lost on Martin. Martin cast a glance at the Duke’s daughters. Both girls were lovely: delicate features, pale complexions framed by nearly black hair, and both had large dark eyes. Miranda sat engaged in conversation with young Squire Wilfred, third son of the Baron of Carse and newly come to the court. Inez sat regarding Martin with frank appraisal. Martin felt his neck begin to colour and turned his attention back to her father. He could see why she had been the excuse for a duel between hotheaded youths. Martin didn’t know a great deal about women, but he was an expert hunter and he knew a predator when he saw one. This girl might be only fifteen years of age, but she was a veteran of the eastern courts. She would find a powerful husband before too long, Martin didn’t doubt. Miranda was simply another pretty lady of the court, but Inez hinted at hard edges Martin found unattractive. This girl was clearly dangerous and already experienced in twisting men to her will. Martin determined to keep that fact uppermost in mind.

  Supper had been quiet, as was Martin’s usual custom, but tomorrow there would be jugglers and singers, for a travelling band of minstrels was in the area. Martin had little affection for formal banquets after his eastern tour but some sort of show was in order. Then a page hurried into the room, skirting the tables to reach Housecarl Samuel’s side. He spoke softly, and the Housecarl came to Martin’s chair. Leaning down, he said, ‘Pigeons just arrived from Ylith, Your Grace. Eight of them.’

  Martin understood. For so many birds to have been used the message would be urgent. It was usual to employ only two or three against the possibility of a bird not finishing the dangerous flight over the Grey Tower Mountains. It took weeks to send them back by cart or ship, so they were used sparingly. Martin rose. ‘If Your Grace will excuse me a moment?’ he said to the Duke of Rodez. ‘Ladies?’ He bowed to the two sisters, then followed the page out of the hall.

  In the antechamber of the keep, he found the Hawkmaster, in charge of the hawk mews and the pigeon coop, standing with the small parchments. He handed them to Martin and withdrew. Martin saw the tiny message slips were sealed, with the royal crest of Krondor drawn on the roll of paper about them, indicating only the Duke was to open them. Martin said, ‘I’ll read these in my council chamber.’

  Alone in his council room, Martin saw that the slips had been numbered one and two. Four pairs. The message had been sent four times to ensure it arrived intact. Martin unfolded one of the slips marked one, then his eyes widened as he fumbled to open another. The message was duplicated. He then read a number two, and tears came unbidden to his eyes.

  Long minutes passed as Martin opened every slip, hoping to find something different, something to tell him he had misunderstood. For a long time, he could only sit staring at the papers b
efore him as a cold sickness visited the pit of his stomach. Finally a knock came at the door, and he said weakly, ‘Yes?’

  The door opened and Fannon entered. ‘You’ve been gone near an hour –’ He stopped when he saw Martin’s drawn expression and red eyes. ‘What is it?’

  Martin could only wave his hand at the scraps. Fannon read them, then half staggered backward to sit in a chair. A shaking hand covered his face for a long minute. Both men were silent. At last he said, ‘How could this be?’

  ‘I don’t know. The message only says an assassin.’ Martin let his gaze wander around the room, every stone in the wall and piece of furniture associated with his father, Lord Borric. And of his family, the most like their father had been Arutha. Martin loved them all, but Arutha had been a mirror of Martin in many ways. They had shared a certain way of seeing things and had endured much together: the siege of the castle during the Riftwar while Lyam had been absent with their father, the long dangerous quest to Moraelin to find Silverthorn. No, in Arutha Martin had discovered his closest friend in many ways. Elven-taught, Martin knew the inevitability of death, but he was mortal and felt an empty place appear within himself. He regained his composure as he stood. ‘I had best inform Duke Miguel. His visit is to be short. We leave for Krondor tomorrow.’

  Martin looked up as Fannon reentered the room. ‘It will take all night and morning to get ready, but the captain says your ship will be able to leave on the afternoon tide.’

  Martin motioned for him to take a chair and waited a long moment before speaking. ‘How can it be, Fannon?’

  The Swordmaster said, ‘I can’t answer that, Martin.’ Fannon was thoughtful a moment, then softly said, ‘You know I share your grief. We all do. He, and Lyam, were like my own sons.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But there are other matters that cannot be put off.’