Raymond E. Feist - The King’s Buccaneer

‘Amazing,’ observed Nicholas, his anger and frustration vanishing before his astonishment at his unusual cousin Margaret.

‘She’s that,’ Harry said.

‘You still think you’re in love?’ Nicholas asked jokingly.

‘My stomach hurts worse than ever, but …’

‘What?’

‘Your cousin Margaret is really scary.’

Nicholas laughed and bade Harry good night. As he returned to his own quarters, he lapsed into a memory of soft lips, warm perfume, and the most incredible eyes he had ever beheld. His body warmed at the memory. And his stomach hurt like mad.

M ARTIN SIGNALED.

The party halted as he turned and said, ‘All of you wait here a bit. There’s something ahead.’

The two boys were glad of the halt. They were footsore and tired. They had left the boundary of Crydee town at dawn. Martin had been teaching the two city boys something of wood lore, so they were moving on foot the entire way. Their destination was another day’s walk away, the banks of the river Crydee. They waited with Nakor and Ghuda while Martin and Marcus moved into the woods, vanishing silently. ‘How do they do that?’ asked Nicholas.

Huntmaster Garret said, ‘Your uncle was raised by the elves as much as by the monks at Silban’s Abbey who found him, and he’s taught Marcus and myself everything we know.’ Nicholas had met the Duke’s Huntmaster Garret for the first time the night before.

Nakor waved absently at the woodlands and said, ‘We’re being watched.’

Ghuda, his hand resting absently on his sword, said, ‘For about half an hour.’

Neither sounded concerned. Nicholas glanced around, while Harry said, ‘I don’t see anything.’

‘You have to know where to look,’ said a voice from their left.

A young man emerged from the woodlands, his movements as stealthy as Martin’s and Marcus’s. ‘And it’s been closer to an hour,’ he added. He was dressed in leather tunic and trousers dyed deep green. His hair was blond, but rather than the pale straw color of Anthony’s, it was nearly sun-golden. It hung to shoulder-length, but was cut at the sides, revealing lobeless but otherwise normal ears. His eyes were blue, but almost too pale, and his movement hinted at tremendous power, despite his slight frame.

Then with a grin that made him look years younger he said, ‘This is a game with Martin and us.’

‘Us?’ asked Nicholas.

The boy signaled and another three figures emerged from the woodlands, and Nicholas said, ‘Elves!’

The young human said, ‘I am Calis.’

The three elves stood silently nearby, then one turned suddenly as Martin and the others appeared. With a half-smile, Marcus said, ‘You didn’t think we were fooled by that false trail, did you?’

Martin made what looked to be slight gestures to the elves, who nodded slightly, or raised an eyebrow. Garret whispered to Nicholas and the others, ‘They have a subtle speech with few words when they want.’

Then Martin spoke aloud. ‘This is Nicholas, son of my brother, Arutha, and his companions, Harry of Ludland, Nakor the Isalani, and Ghuda Bulé from Kesh.’

Calis bowed and said, ‘Greetings. Are you bound for Elvandar?’

Martin shook his head. ‘No. Garret returned to the castle yesterday, carrying news that you were south of the river, so I thought it a good excuse to have you meet my nephew while we hunted. Perhaps in the future I’ll bring Nicholas to your court.’

‘And me,’ said Nakor.

Calis smiled and scratched his temple, his hand brushing back his long hair. Nicholas was surprised that Calis looked and sounded entirely human.

Martin frowned slightly, but Nakor said, ‘I have never talked to a Spellweaver before and would like to.’

Calis and Martin exchanged glances, but it was Nakor who continued to speak. ‘Yes, I know about your Spell-weavers, and no, I am not a magician.’

The three stood seemingly motionless for a moment, then Calis grinned. ‘How do you know so much?’

Nakor shrugged and said, ‘I pay attention when other people are babbling. You can learn a lot when you shut up.’ Reaching into his ever present bag, he said, ‘Want an orange?’

Producing four pieces of fruit, he tossed them to Calis and the elves. Calis bit into the fruit and tore away a bit of peel, then sucked the juice. ‘I haven’t had an orange since the last time I visited Crydee.’

The other elves sampled the fruit and nodded their appreciation to Nakor. Harry said, ‘I wish I could figure out how you can fit so many oranges into that bag.’

Nakor began to speak, but Nicholas interrupted: ‘I know. It’s a trick.’

Nakor laughed. ‘Maybe someday I’ll show you.’

Martin said, ‘Why has your Queen sent you south of river Crydee?’

‘We’re growing lax in our patrols, Lord Martin. Things have been peaceful too long on our borders.’

‘Trouble?’ said Martin, instantly alert.

Calis shrugged. ‘Not to talk about. A moredhel band crossed the river to the east of our borders a few months ago, heading south at great speed, but they did not trespass upon our lands, so we left them in peace.’ Nicholas knew of the elves’ dark cousins, called the Brotherhood of the Dark Path by humans. Their last rising had been broken at the Battle of Sethanon. ‘Tathar and the other Spellweavers speak of vague echoes of dark powers, but they can sense nothing that threatens us directly. So we mount more active patrols and venture farther from home than we have for years.’

‘Anything else?’

Calis said, ‘One report of a strange sighting near your new fortress up at Barran, near the river Sodina. Someone beached a long boat in the mouth of the river one night a few weeks ago. We found marks in the mud and tracks of men coming and going.’

Martin’s face reflected his consideration as he was silent for a moment. ‘No smuggler would be willing to come that close to a garrison; besides, there’s no one to trade with that far to the north.’

Marcus said, ‘Scouts?’

‘For whom?’ asked Nicholas.

Martin said, ‘We’ve no neighbors to the north, save goblins and moredhel. And they’ve been quiet since Sethanon.’

‘Not too quiet,’ said Calis. ‘We’ve had a few skirmishes along the northern borders of Elvandar.’

Marcus said, ‘Are they preparing to invade again?’

Calis said, ‘There’s no pattern to it. Father rode out and thinks it’s nothing more than migrations due to failed crops or clan wars. He sent word to the dwarves at Stone Mountain that they may have unwelcome neighbors soon.’

Suddenly Nicholas made the connection: this was Megar and Magya’s grandson! His father was Tomas, the legendary warrior from the Riftwar.

Martin nodded. ‘We’ll send word to Dolgan that they may be returning to the Grey Towers as well. It’s been more than thirty years since the great migration; the moredhel may be returning to their abandoned homelands.’

‘Thirty years is not very long as elvenkind counts time,’ observed Garret.

Marcus said, ‘To have the Dark Brothers in the Grey Towers and the Green Heart again would mean serious trouble.’

‘We send word to the commander at Jonril as well,’ said Martin. ‘If the Dark Brothers establish villages in the Green Heart, every caravan and mule train from Carse to Crydee is at risk.’

Marcus glanced around. ‘We should make camp, Father. The light is failing.’

Martin said, ‘Calis, will you join us?’

Calis glanced at the sky, noticing the fading light, then at his companions, who seemed to Nicholas to remain motionless, but after a moment he said, ‘We’d be pleased to share the fire with you.’