The Complete Riftwar Saga Trilogy: Magician, Silverthorn, A Darkness at Sethanon. Raymond E. Feist
said, ‘Old Whitebeard and I have something of an understanding, Pug. I hunt only bachelor stags, without does, or does too old to calve. When Whitebeard loses his harem to some younger buck someday, I may take him. Now each leaves the other to his own way. The day will come when I will look at him down the shaft of an arrow.’ He smiled at the boys. ‘I won’t know until then if I shall let the shaft fly. Perhaps I will, perhaps not.’ He fell silent for a time, as if the thought of Whitebeard’s becoming old was saddening, then as a light breeze rustled the branches said, ‘Now, what brings two such bold hunters into the Duke’s woods in the early morning? There must be a thousand things left undone with the Midsummer festival this afternoon.’
Tomas answered. ‘My mother tossed us out of the kitchen. We were more trouble than not. With the Choosing today . . .’ His voice died away, and he felt suddenly embarrassed. Much of Martin’s mysterious reputation stemmed from when he first came to Crydee. At his time for the Choosing, he had been placed directly with the old Huntmaster by the Duke, rather than standing before the assembled Craftmasters with the other boys his age. This violation of one of the oldest traditions known had offended many people in town, though none would dare openly express such feelings to Lord Borric. As was natural, Martin became the object of their ire, rather than the Duke. Over the years Martin had more than justified Lord Borric’s decision, but still most people were troubled by the Duke’s special treatment of him that one day. Even after twelve years some people still regarded Martin Longbow as being different and, as such, worthy of distrust.
Tomas said, ‘I’m sorry, Martin.’
Martin nodded in acknowledgment, but without humor. ‘I understand, Tomas. I may not have had to endure your uncertainty, but I have seen many others wait for the day of Choosing. And for four years I myself have stood with the other Masters, so I know a little of your worry.’
A thought struck Pug and he blurted, ‘But you’re not with the other Craftmasters.’
Martin shook his head, a rueful expression playing across his even features. ‘I had thought that, in light of your worry, you might fail to observe the obvious. But you’ve a sharp wit about you, Pug.’
Tomas didn’t understand what they were saying for a moment, then comprehension dawned. ‘Then you’ll select no apprentices!’
Martin raised a finger to his lips. ‘Not a word, lad. No, with young Garret chosen last year, I’ve a full company of trackers.’
Tomas was disappointed. He wished more than anything to take service with Swordmaster Fannon, but should he not be chosen as a soldier, then he would prefer the life of a forester, under Martin. Now his second choice was denied him. After a moment of dark brooding, he brightened: perhaps Martin didn’t choose him because Fannon already had.
Seeing his friend entering a cycle of elation and depression as he considered all the possibilities, Pug said, ‘You haven’t been in the keep for nearly a month, Martin.’ He put away the sling he still held and asked, ‘Where have you kept yourself?’
Martin looked at Pug as the boy instantly regretted his question. As friendly as Martin could be, he was still Huntmaster, a member of the Duke’s household, and keep boys did not make a habit of questioning the comings and goings of the Duke’s staff.
Martin relieved Pug’s embarrassment with a slight smile. ‘I’ve been to Elvandar. Queen Aglaranna has ended her twenty years of mourning the death of her husband, the Elf King. There was a great celebration.’
Pug was surprised by the answer. To him, as to most people in Crydee, the elves were little more than legend. But Martin had spent his youth near the elven forests and was one of the few humans to come and go through those forests to the north at will. It was another thing that set Martin Longbow apart from others. While Martin had shared elvish lore with the boys before, this was the first time in Pug’s memory he had spoken of his relationship to the elves. Pug stammered, ‘You feasted with the Elf Queen?’
Martin assumed a pose of modest inconsequence. ‘Well, I sat at the table farthest from the throne, but yes; I was there.’ Seeing the unasked questions in their eyes, he continued. ‘You know as a boy I was raised by the monks of Silban’s Abbey, near the elven forest. I played with elven children, and before I came here, I hunted with Prince Calin and his cousin, Galain.’
Tomas nearly jumped with excitement. Elves were a subject holding particular fascination for him. ‘Did you know King Aidan?’
Martin’s expression clouded, and his eyes narrowed, his manner suddenly becoming stiff. Tomas saw Martin’s reaction and said, ‘I’m sorry, Martin. Did I say something wrong?’
Martin waved away the apology. ‘No fault of yours, Tomas,’ he said, his manner softening somewhat. ‘The elves do not use the names of those who have gone to the Blessed Isles, especially those who have died untimely. They believe to do so recalls those spoken of from their journey there, denying them their final rest. I respect their beliefs.
‘Well, to answer you, no, I never met him. He was killed when I was only a small boy. But I have heard the stories of his deeds, and he was a good and wise King by all accounts.’ Martin looked about. ‘It approaches noon. We should return to the keep.’
He began to walk toward the path, and the boys fell in beside him.
‘What was the feast like, Martin?’ asked Tomas.
Pug sighed as the hunter began to speak of the marvels of Elvandar. He was also fascinated by tales of the elves, but to nowhere near the degree Tomas was. Tomas could endure hours of tales of the people of the elven forests, regardless of the speaker’s credibility. At least, Pug considered, in the Huntmaster they had a dependable eye witness. Martin’s voice droned on, and Pug’s attention wandered, as he again found himself pondering the Choosing. No matter that he told himself worry was useless: he worried. He found he was facing the approaching of this afternoon with something akin to dread.
The boys stood in the courtyard. It was Midsummer, the day that ended one year and marked the beginning of another. Today everyone in the castle would be counted one year older. For the milling boys this was significant, for today was the last day of their boyhood. Today was the Choosing.
Pug tugged at the collar of his new tunic. It wasn’t really new, being one of Tomas’s old ones, but it was the newest Pug had ever owned. Magya, Tomas’s mother, had taken it in for the smaller boy, to ensure he was presentable before the Duke and his court. Magya and her husband, Megar the cook, were as close to being parents to the orphan as anyone in the keep. They tended his ills, saw that he was fed, and boxed his ears when he deserved it. They also loved him as if he were Tomas’s brother.
Pug looked around. The other boys all wore their best, for this was one of the most important days of their young lives. Each would stand before the assembled Craftmasters and members of the Duke’s staff, and each would be considered for an apprentice’s post. It was a ritual, its origins lost in time, for the choices had already been made. The crafters and the Duke’s staff had spent many hours discussing each boy’s merits with one another and knew which boys they would call.
The practice of having the boys between eight and thirteen years of age work in the crafts and services had proved a wise course over the years in fitting the best suited to each craft. In addition, it provided a pool of semiskilled individuals for the other crafts should the need arise. The drawback to the system was that certain boys were not chosen for a craft or staff position. Occasionally there would be too many boys for a single position, or no lad judged fit even though there was an opening. Even when the number of boys and openings seemed well matched, as it did this year, there were no guarantees. For those who stood in doubt, it was an anxious time.
Pug scuffed his bare feet absently in the dust. Unlike Tomas, who seemed to do well at anything he tried, Pug was often guilty of trying too hard and bungling his tasks. He looked around and noticed that a few of the other boys also showed signs of tension. Some were joking roughly, pretending no concern over whether they were chosen or not. Others stood like Pug, lost in their thoughts, trying not to dwell on what they would do should