The figure standing next to Martuch was tall, with dark hair and a beard. He appeared to be Dasati, but there was something about him…. Pug felt his world suddenly contract, as if his senses were betraying him. Before him stood a being who could not possibly exist. He was a Dasati, but he was someone well known to Pug.
That man stepped forward, and in a very familiar voice, speaking the King’s Tongue, he said, “Here I am called the Gardener.” He came to stand before the three visitors. He looked first at Pug. When he came to Nakor he nodded once, and Nakor stood in openmouthed shock.
Then he stood before Magnus. “Is this my grandson?” he asked.
Pug looked up into that Dasati face and whispered, “Macros.”
TWENTY-TWO
REVELATIONS
Jommy struggled.
His arms had been bound behind him and he and the other boys had been marched to the three boats pulled up on the shore. They were narrow boats which looked more like a ship’s longboat than a true river craft. Jommy supposed they could have sailed up the mouth of the river, for this section of the river was broad and slow-flowing, so it would only take a few minutes to row across the shore.
The border between Salmater and Olasko was about a mile to the southwest of the river, so there was still a possibility of Roldem forces overtaking the raiders before they were back home. At least Jommy prayed there would be. Once he and Zane were interviewed the chances were good they would be disposed of: princes and nobles might fetch handsome ransoms, but the sons of farmers on the other side of the world were unlikely to be considered worth the bother.
As the last of the raiders approached the boat, a sentry on the ridge above them fell over. For a moment, Jommy and the other boys looked confused, as did the soldiers nearby, then suddenly they heard it: the whistling of arrows flying through the air.
“Down!” shouted Jommy, and they flattened themselves, trying to keep below the gunwales. Three raiders had been detailed to watch the five boys in the boat; but they were also hunkering down and trying to see where the arrows were coming from.
“Push off!” shouted the raiders’ commander, and two of the raiders slid over the gunwales. They had started pushing the boat into the river when one took an arrow in the back for his troubles. The other tried to clamber over the side and Jommy kicked him as hard as he could in the face. The man’s eyes went unfocused and he fell into the water.
The one guard remaining in the boat drew his sword and raised it to strike Jommy, but Zane leaped up and shouldered him from behind. The man fell forward on top of Jommy and suddenly there was a writhing mass of bodies in a boat that was starting to drift downriver.
The guard tried to roll off Jommy, turning to find Zane landing on top of both of them. Zane head-butted the man while Godfrey bit his arm hard, and Jommy tried to move enough to breathe. Following Zane’s example, Servan head-butted the man as well, and he slumped into unconsciousness.
“Thank the gods they’re not wearing helmets,” said Zane.
“Get his knife,” said Servan.
Zane felt around behind him and managed to pull the dagger from the man’s belt.
“Will you please get off me,” said Jommy, barely able to draw breath.
Zane held the knife behind him, while Godfrey positioned himself to get his bonds cut. “Ow!” said the young noble. “Hold that thing still.”
“It’s a boat. It rocks!” said Zane. “It’s not my fault!”
“Get off me!” Jommy pleaded.
Finally Godfrey got his bonds cut, as well as his lower arm. He cut Zane, Servan, Grandy, and Jommy loose, and they threw the unconscious soldier overboard.
Jommy sat up and took a deep breath. In the minute they had been struggling to get free, they had drifted a hundred yards down the river and were moving out toward the center of the current, picking up speed.
“Where are the oars?” asked Servan.
“Still back on shore,” said Jommy, looking around.
“Over we go,” said Zane, jumping into the water. He started swimming to the eastern shore. The others followed reluctantly: five drenched young officers came ashore almost out of sight of combat.
“Hurry,” Servan instructed, motioning them to move off the shore and into the trees. “In case someone’s coming after us.”
They got into the tree line and started back upriver. The sounds of men and combat reached them, and they ventured to look, but the site of the conflict was on the other side of a ridge. They reached an overhanging outcrop of rock that served as a barrier and Jommy said, “I’ll take a look.”
Still dripping, he scrambled up the rock face and pulled himself up. In the distance he could see boats from Salmater still on the shore and a veritable wave of soldiers from Roldem running down the beach beyond, as well as sweeping up over the ridge to the east. “Come on!” shouted Jommy, climbing back down. “We’ve got them!”
He led the boys out of the trees and onto the shore and they started running toward the conflict. By the time they came into view the remaining Salmater forces were surrendering, standing there with their hands in the air, swords reversed, not putting up any resistance.
General Devrees approached the boys. Relief was etched on his face. “Highness!” he exclaimed. “You’re safe!”
Tad came over to the boys, grinning. They were obviously exhausted, but he was happy to see his friends alive.
Grandy said, “I’m glad to see you, General.”
“When this young man came running into our camp, I immediately ordered the entire first and third into a forced march.”
Servan said, “Sir, you didn’t think much of my idea of sixty men by boat?”
“It was a nice plan, if I didn’t mind losing half the forces down here; but when I heard that I had just sent two members of the royal court into a full-scale Salmater raid…I didn’t relish the idea of explaining to either of your fathers”—he looked significantly at Grandy—“especially yours, Highness, that I’d let their sons get killed. Our intelligence was faulty; I thought I was sending you lads as far from the real action as possible, not right into the teeth of the incursion.” He shrugged.
“We should certainly see an end to Salmater raids once word gets back to them we’re willing to defend Olasko as if it’s Roldem soil.”
“General, did you capture their leader?” Grandy asked.
“I think so,” said the General, leading the boys to where the Salmater prisoners were being guarded. “See what you think.”
The prisoners sat on the ground, glaring at their captors.
Grandy looked from face to face then pointed to one man. “Him.”
The General motioned for the prisoner to be brought forward. The young Prince stared at him, then said to the General, “This man killed twenty soldiers in cold blood.”
“They were deserters,” shot back the captive.
“Then they should have been left for Roldemish justice,” said Grandy. He looked at the General and said, “Hang him.”
“I’m a prisoner of war!” shouted the Salmater captain as two Roldemish soldiers grabbed him, thrust his arms behind him, and tied them.
“You wear no uniform,” said the General. “As far as I can tell, you’re a common bandit. If His Highness says you are to be hanged, then hanged you shall be.” The General nodded to Sergeant Walenski, who motioned for a group of soldiers to follow him into the trees. One carried a coil of rope.
“What about these others?” asked the General.
The young Prince said, “Send them home. Have them carry word that Roldem now regards these islands as being as sacred as the soil under my father’s castle. Olasko is now Roldem, and we shall defend it to the last drop of our blood.” He turned to the General and said, “I will ask my father to start recruiting to replenish the first and third and bring the garrison at Opardum up to full muster. We must ensure that this sort of thing stops.”
With a slight smile, the General said, “Highness,” and motioned
to the soldiers. “Escort these men to the boats and let them go home.”
The soldiers did as ordered.
Servan moved over to his cousin. “That was…impressive.”
“Yes,” agreed Jommy, then he added, “Highness.”
All five boys looked at the young Prince who now suddenly appeared years older than he had yesterday. Grandy looked at his friends. “I think it’s time for us to go home now.”
He turned and walked away, following the General, and after a moment’s hesitation, his friends trailed after him.
Miranda returned to consciousness and found herself on a bed, untied. She sat up and breathed deeply. Her chest hurt, but she could breathe without pain, and her mind was free of the clouding sensation that had gripped her the last time she had awoken.
She looked around, trying to make sense of her surroundings. She was no longer in the bedchamber where she had been tied up but instead appeared to be in something akin to a tent. However, when she touched the walls she felt hardness, like smooth stone, beneath her fingertips.
Suddenly a figure appeared before her—a Dasati in a black robe, but with a different device on his chest: a circle of yellow. She could see through the figure, so she recognized it for what it was: a sending. Trying to ascertain what she could and couldn’t do, she reached out mentally and found her magic worked, but in a strange way.
“You are conscious,” the figure said, and she realized that he was speaking the Dasati language, which she now apparently understood. “You have been here for three days. We have ensured that you may eat, drink, and breathe without suffering. We have let you…regain your powers, but within limits.”
Miranda tried to will herself back to the Assembly of Magicians, for she was the unquestioned mistress of that ability; but nothing happened.
“It has taken some work on our part,” said the Dasati image, “but your power only works within the confines of this room.
“The creature who brought you to us says that you are a powerful practitioner of magic and we can learn much by studying you. We have watched you for some time now, Tsurani woman. It seems that your warriors are as children; but we do fear your black-robed ones.”
The figure vanished and a voice said, “Rest. Many tests are coming. If you cooperate, you shall live.”
It left unsaid what would happen if she failed to cooperate.
Nakor said, “This is really interesting.”
Pug could scarcely credit his senses. The Dasati who stood before him was Macros the Black, one-time owner of Sorcerer’s Isle and Miranda’s father. He probed with his own magical senses and ascertained this was not an illusion or some disguise glamour: this man he thought he had known was a Dasati. The last time Pug had seen him he was battling a demon king on the Saaur world of Shila as a rift closed. “You’re dead,” said Pug.
“I was,” said Macros. “Come, we have a great deal to discuss and little time in which to discuss it.”
Without apology or explanation for the others, Macros led Pug out of a door into a small garden which was hidden from all eyes behind massive walls. Macros looked up and said, “This poor little plot of soil only gets an hour or so of light, when the sun is directly overhead.” He was speaking the language of the Kingdom of the Isles, Pug’s native tongue, and Pug realized that whatever he was about to say, he was taking every precaution not to be overheard.
Pug looked at the Dasati standing before him and said, “I can think of nothing intelligent to say to you. I am completely confused.”
Macros motioned to a bench. “Meditation is not a Dasati trait, so I had to have this space created to my own specifications.”
Pug was forced to smile. The bench looked exactly like one in the garden at Villa Beata. “How is this possible?”
“I angered the gods,” said Macros, sitting down on the bench. Pug joined him. “I fought Maarg with every magical weapon at my disposal while you attempted to seal the rift between the fifth circle and Shila.” He sighed. “Obviously you succeeded, or you wouldn’t be here.” He looked down. “Some of my memories are still denied me, Pug. I do remember the first time we met, for example. I also remember the last time I met Nakor, but I don’t remember the first time I met him.
“I don’t remember much about my wife; or daughter, though I know I have one.”
“My wife, Miranda,” said Pug.
Macros nodded, and looked out at the wall opposite where he sat. There was pain in his eyes and Pug said, “This is your punishment for angering the gods of Midkemia?”
“Yes,” said Macros. “I fought Maarg, and suddenly the pain stopped and I was speeding toward a white light. Then I found myself before Lims-Kragma.” He paused, then asked, “You’ve visited her?”
“Twice,” said Pug. “A vast hall full of catafalques?”
“Endless, in every direction, and the dead would appear, rest for a while, then stand and walk to join a great line, where Lims-Kragma would judge them and direct them to the next turning of the Wheel of Life.” Macros sighed. “But not for me.
“I appeared before her but I will spare you every detail of our exchange. I was, as you know, a vain man, given to a sense of my own importance. I thought my own judgment was better than any other’s.”
Pug nodded. “More often than not, you were right. Tomas never would have endured the transformation of the Dragon Lord’s armor had you not taken a hand, and who knows where I would have ended up.”
“That was a minor transgression,” said Macros. He sat back, then said, “I tried to become a god, remember?”
“Your attempted ascension when Nakor found you?”
“Yes, when I sought to hasten the return of Sarig, the lost God of Magic.”
“And for this you are punished?”
“More than anything, the gods hate hubris. They may urge us on to do great things, Pug, but without our worshipful devotion to them, they wither away. How would we worship them if we became like them?”
“Ah,” said Pug.
“Here’s what you must know. Everything else can wait for another time. The Dasati have found Kelewan.”
“The Talnoy,” said Pug.
“That name is best not mentioned, for reasons I’ll explain in a moment.”
Macros paused as if gathering his thoughts, then said, “It’s all connected, Pug. All the way back to the beginning.
“You’ve heard tales of the Chaos Wars, correct?”
“Tomas has memories, Ashen-Shugar’s memories,” said Pug.
“Does he remember the triumph, when the Lifestone was hidden, and the Dragon Horde was banished from Midkemia?”
“Yes, at the end of the Chaos Wars. He’s told me the story. It was something we discussed before his son Calis freed all the trapped energy from the Lifestone.”
“Ah,” said Macros. “I have no memory of that. That’s good. One less thing to worry about. But what you should know is that that wasn’t the end of the Chaos Wars, Pug.” He looked at his heir. “The Chaos Wars never stopped. The Riftwar and the battle with the demons on Shila and the invasion of the Saaur and the war of the Emerald Queen; all were battles in the Chaos Wars. And the most desperate struggle is yet to come.”
“The Dasati?”
“Yes,” said Macros. “This world had its own Chaos Wars, or something much like them, but in that struggle one god emerged victorious over all the rest. That god is now simply known as His Darkness; but he is the Dasati God of Evil. Look around you, Pug. This is what Midkemia might become in a thousand years if the Nameless One ever gains supremacy in Midkemia.”
“Incredible,” said Pug.
“The Dasati were not always as you see them, I believe. I will say that even at their best they would be unwelcome guests in Midkemia, for many reasons, not the least of which would be their ability to simply wilt grass by standing on it for too long a period of time.
“Moreover, they are aggressive to the point of making mountain trolls look mild-mannered.” Macros chuckled.
“Some of the things I do remember from my previous life…” He sighed. “When I was reborn, I was allowed to keep some memories, enough so that I had a frame of reference for the work I need to do.
“I am the Gardener. I am tending a very delicate, very vulnerable flower.”
“The White?”
“Yes, the White. Nothing ever dies, Pug. It just changes. Nothing is destroyed. It is just changed to another state, from matter to energy, energy to mind, mind to spirit.
“It’s vital you know that, because when this is over, you’re going to feel a great sense of personal loss, I fear.”
Pug said only, “So I have been warned.”
Macros stood and began to pace. “Long ago, when this world’s Dark God rose to permanence, the other gods were hunted down and imprisoned. These people, the Dasati, were warped and changed and perverted until all memory of good as we know it was lost.
“That is what the White does, it nurtures little pockets of good where it can. We have obvious members, like the Attenders who are despised for their tiny impulse to care for others, and some not so obvious members, including highly placed Deathknights and a few prelates among the Deathpriests.”
“Macros, I came here because there is a threat to Midkemia. What is it?”
“There is no rational reason in two universes for the Dasati to wish to invade the first level of reality, Pug. You know that.”
“Nakor is of the opinion that evil is by nature insane, even if it acts with purpose.”
“In our realm—” Macros stopped. “In your realm, that is most certainly true. Here?” He shrugged, a very human gesture. “I have only been a Dasati for thirty years, Pug, as best I can judge—the time difference is difficult.”
“You’ve been gone closer to fifty,” said Pug.
Macros looked tired. “I came to consciousness as a young Dasati boy, ready to do battle to claim his father’s honors. For nearly a year I watched from within another’s mind, and then gradually we blended, and his nature was subsumed into mine.
“I know relatively little of what the gods of Midkemia are capable of here. Which is why you are here, as their agents. But somehow an evil trick was played—”