The Chaoswar Saga: A Kingdom Besieged, A Crown Imperilled, Magician’s End

‘What do you think that’s about?’ asked Bethany. Brendan glanced her way and said, ‘I have no idea.’ Bethany started back to where her father and the Duke were finishing their private chat. As the youngest son watched her go, he saw her turn again to stare at Martin. With a sigh, he said to himself, ‘Then again, maybe I do.’

The evening meal was a mixture of light banter interspersed with moments of quiet as everyone seemed caught up in their own thoughts. Martin and Bethany appeared to make a point of ignoring one another and Brendan was troubled by it.

The four of them had been raised together for as long as Brendan could remember. It was always assumed that some day Bethany would wed Hal, but Brendan now realized that was only an assumption, one that his father or mother had never spoken of; and right now he knew one thing, though he wasn’t sure he fully understood it. Something had changed between Bethany and Martin on her last visit. Without words, their feelings for each other had shifted. Martin had said nothing to his brother; not that he would, for Martin most among the family always kept his own counsel. But Bethany was also distant, chatting with his mother and managing somehow to avoid all the male members of the household as well as her own father.

He was currently lost in conversation with Brendan’s father, who had as yet to tell his sons why Earl Robert had appeared unexpectedly. Brendan balanced his youthful impatience with the knowledge that his father would tell him what he needed to know when he saw fit. Realizing there was no further reason to remain at the table, he said, ‘Father?’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s been a long day. If you permit I’d like to turn in early.’

A little surprised by his usually rambunctious youngest’s request, the Duke waved permission and Brendan nodded to the others at the table and departed. A sudden sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach told him that no matter what else, little good could come out of what was passing between Martin and Bethany. With a fatigued sigh, he pushed open the door to his quarters and threw himself down on his simple bed. Rolling over, he stared at the stones of the ceiling and thought: perhaps the war will distract the two of them.

After the guests had retired Duchess Caralin turned to her husband. ‘Bed?’

Duke Henry sat on a divan, a recent addition to the old castle’s private quarters. The room had been used since the castle’s construction as an informal meeting room and the Duke had also decided it was ideal place for his family to spend time together; Henry found it far more convivial than the draughty great hall. He looked up from his musing and smiled. ‘No, a while longer I think. I have much to think about.’

Caralin tilted her head to regard her husband. They had spent nearly thirty years together and at times she knew him better than she knew herself, yet at moments like this she didn’t have a clue as to what he was thinking. ‘Robert’s news must have been very troubling.’

Henry’s eyes widened and he sat up a bit straighter. ‘Oh, that. No, that’s not it at all.’ He motioned for her to return to the divan and as she sat down he said, ‘I’m sorry. I should have mentioned that to you and the boys. Robert wanted to share some information about our neighbours to the east, the elves in E’bar.’

‘Oh,’ she said, her brow furrowing a little. ‘I thought it had to do with the coming war.’

‘It may, truth to tell,’ said her husband. ‘I hope not. I asked Robert to send a messenger to their Lord Regent informing him of the possibilities of conflict in the area. I had Robert stress that it likely would be nothing of import, just a precautionary warning.

‘The messenger rode for three days to the gates of their city and was stopped. According to Robert, whatever passes for a sentry officer with these elves refused to let him into the city, took the message, and turned the rider away.’

‘Well, he got the message then, didn’t he, this Lord Regent?’

‘Yes, but that’s not the point, dear. Nor is the poor treatment of the messenger. Elven manners are not our own. We have always been on good terms with the Elf Queen and her court to the north, but these newcomers are a different stripe of cat, I’m afraid. No, it’s what the officer said to the messenger.’

‘What was that?’

‘Any human who trespasses on the land of the taredhel – as they call themselves – would be “dealt with”.’

‘That sounds unfriendly.

‘Yes,’ he agreed with a slowly released breath, sounding fatigued. ‘If the Keshians come and these elves remain neutral, that’s one thing. If they close their borders entirely—’

‘Anyone fleeing eastward will be trespassing on their territory.’

As always, you grasp the heart of the matter.’

Softly, as if not to be overheard, she said, ‘Do you think ... we may have to flee?’

‘No, no,’ he said, hugging her for reassurance. ‘I’m just trying

to anticipate every possibility, my love.’ He kissed her cheek, then smiled as he looked into her eyes. ‘The Keshians moving against the Far Coast? Why would they do that?’ He stood and put out his hand, and she took it, and rose. ‘There’s nothing here they could possibly desire. Forests? Farms? They have ample forests and farms in the Empire of Great Kesh. No, they’ll almost certainly move against the Vale of Dreams again. And the Prince of Krondor will order Lord Sutherland and the Knight-Marshal of the West to drive them back, and when the dust settles, the old lines will be drawn again, with a jot of difference here, a smidgen of change there.’

Gripping his arm and walking closely at his side, Caralin said, ‘I hope you’re right.’

Silently he nodded, knowing he probably was, but prepared for being utterly wrong. As many married couples do, they conspired to walk together silently, not needing to say another word.

Pug sat behind his desk, as he had for countless days since coming to the island. But unlike most days, his mind refused to grapple with the problems before him. Instead it kept returning to Brandos’s question about rebuilding the villa.

He had no good reason for considering it. He found himself unable even to imagine beginning the work. He knew that with a small group of skilled craftsmen from the mainland, and some magic provided by Magnus and himself, the villa could be resurrected in months, rather than the years it had probably taken the original inhabitants of this island.

Yet something in him became angry at the very thought of rebuilding his home. It was as if even to think about it was to diminish the loss he still felt.

After Miranda had died his otherwise steely resolve had wavered. He had revisited that last moment of her life countless times, seeing it over and over again in his mind. If I had been a moment quicker, he thought to himself, or if I had seen the demon move an instant earlier … He knew the futility of this sort of thinking. He was over a hundred years old and had watched many people die unfortunate deaths – far more than had passed on in the fullness of their years – yet this death haunted him.

Yes, she had been his wife, and he had loved her …

Pug sat back and sighed. He reached for the pot of tea that had been sitting on his desk all morning and found it empty. He could ring a bell and someone would bring him a new pot. He looked at the mess his desk had become and realized he could ring that same bell and someone would sort out all the clutter. He then found himself laughing slightly, realizing he would spend more time searching for where one of his earnest young pupils had put things than he would just cleaning up the clutter himself.

First, tea.

Pug made his way down the long circular stairs from his office, in the tower atop the one opposite Amirantha’s. He wondered how the Warlock was getting on with his visit to E’bar and was certain he and Gulamendis were furiously comparing notes. He hoped the visit would produce something more tangible than the numerous dead ends they’d encountered.

After the bloody mess that had been the Gates of Darkness down in the Valley of Lost Men in northern Kesh, Pug had asked every contact he had around the globe – and there were many – to spread the word that there was wealth, safety, or both for any demon-summoner who wished it; all the Conclave wanted was more information.

Reaching the bottom of the tower, Pug was forced to admit the results had been less than spectacular. Those few magic-users who had made their way to Sorcerer’s Isle had proven to be charlatans, of limited knowledge and skill, ignorant of anything larger than their own narrow experience. A few had added one or two facts to Pug’s knowledge, but only to corroborate what he had suspected to be the case before they arrived: there were upheavals on an unimagined scale in progress in the demon realm.

Amirantha had also been trying to make sense of the ancient volume of demon lore they had retrieved from the island of Queg. He had done a fair job of divining what was nonsense, what was a metaphorical approximation of reality, and what could be called ‘facts’. Though Pug was beginning to think the demon realm’s very nature made ‘facts’ somewhat mutable.

As he entered the great room, Pug caught sight of his son. ‘Magnus.’

Magnus turned and regarded him. After a brief second he said, ‘Something’s up. What?’

‘Let’s rebuild the villa.’

The younger magician hesitated for a moment. Then he nodded. ‘I think that’s a good idea.’ Looking at the empty teapot in his father’s hand he said, ‘May I join you?’

‘Always.’

The kitchen was empty but the fire still burned in the metal stove constructed within the roasting hearth. Pug filled the pot with water from a large bucket, then rinsed it out, and refilled it. He put it down in front of the fire on the hot metal plate, and waited for it to boil.

‘What caused you to change your mind?’ asked Magnus.

‘It’s time.’ So much of what he fought against was a dark despair that arose from a bargain struck with Lims-Kragma, the Death Goddess, when he had been given three choices: to end his life at the hands of the demon Jakan, to take up the burden of becoming an avatar of the God of Magic, hastening his return to Midkemia, or to come back and finish the struggle, but at a price. The price was to watch everyone he loved die before him. So far that had included a son, adopted daughter, then another son and his wife. Of his bloodline, only Magnus remained. There were the three foster-grandsons, Jommy, Tad, and Zane … Pug was forced to admit he had let his fear of the curse allow him to become estranged from his great-grandsons, Jimmy and Dash Jamison. While not blood relatives (they were his adopted daughter’s children) they still were dear to him. And there was Jim Dasher, Jimmy Jamison’s grandson. Pug sighed; he liked the complex, dangerous man, mostly because there were moments when he glimpsed his many-great-grandfather, Jimmy the Hand, in him, but if there was any spark of affection it had not been fanned into a flame. He liked Jim, but he hardly loved him.

Over the years Pug had become adept at steeling himself against feelings that might cause him to betray his higher calling, to protect this world and everyone else on it. Yet those feelings were there – hidden, buried even – but there nevertheless.

As they waited for the kettle to boil, Magnus said, ‘Who should oversee the rebuilding?’

‘I will, I think,’ said his father. ‘I know every beam and stone of that place as well or better than anyone else.’ He smiled. ‘I lived there longer than anyone else.’

Magnus returned the smile. ‘It’s good to see you … this way, Father.’