At the Gates of Darkness. Raymond E. Feist
father, William Jamison, and his uncle Dasher had both died in the border wars with Kesh when Jim was a boy, and his great uncle Dashel had no surviving sons. By the time he was twenty years of age, Jim Dasher Jamison was the sole surviving heir to the family, and both his grandfather and great uncle had marked him.
Jim pushed aside the memory of the ruse his forbearers used to persuade him to take control of all the criminal activity along the Bitter Sea coast, as well as taking charge of the Kingdom’s intelligence services. He had found he had a knack for both and had made the criminal activities serve the Kingdom’s interest, but that hadn’t made wearing two caps at the same time any easier.
And now he was on the verge of more responsibility, as a fully committed agent of the Conclave. Pushing open the door to the tower’s common room, he wondered if he was making the right choice.
He pushed open the door and was confronted by two young women knitting, while a third placed wood on a fireplace set in the opposite wall. Three men huddled close to the fire speaking quietly. One young magician recognized him and said, ‘Jim Dasher, welcome!’
Jim nodded a return greeting and said, ‘Jason.’ He glanced around. ‘Where is everyone else?’
‘Scattered,’ said Jason, pushing his long blond hair back from his forehead. ‘Pug’s sent many of the younger students home or to Stardock, the rest have been moved to safe locations. A few of us have stayed to keep a lookout for any more trouble and convey messages. What do you require?’
‘I need to speak to Pug,’ said Jim, not bothering to mask his impatience. He held up a sphere of dull golden metal. ‘This doesn’t work. I had to take a fast ship from Durbin to get here.’
The magician took the sphere and said, ‘The Tsurani transport spheres…We’ve not had any new ones in years.’ He looked at it and his tone was regretful. ‘I fear most of the artificers who made them perished on Kelewan. The few who survived…’ He shrugged. ‘Most of those we have are decades old, my friend,’ Jason said softly.
Jim knew that the few Tsurani magicians who survived now struggled with the rest of their people on their new home world, or were perhaps living quietly in LaMut. And, without saying as much, Jason had implied that if the Conclave had access to newer devices, Jim would have had them.
Feeling a fool, Jim said, ‘Yes. You’re right. Now, may I speak with Pug?’
‘Pug’s not here,’ said Jason.
‘Where is he?’
Glancing over at his companions the young magician’s tone was apologetic. ‘We don’t know. We haven’t seen him for nearly a month now.’
Jim said, ‘Then I need to speak with Magnus.’
‘He’s gone as well,’ said Jason. ‘Come, sit by the fire and rest. We have means of sending word, but it may take some time.’
‘By some time, do you mean hours or days?’ asked Jim, pulling off his leather gauntlets and moving to a stool near the fire.
Jason only shrugged, and Jim felt his frustration return in full. He knew his crew would wait until he sent word or returned, so he felt little need to move away from the warming fire. Thinking of nothing better to do, he sat back against the cold stones, removed his boots, and wondered just where the two magicians might be.
LIGHTNING FLASHED ACROSS THE SKY.
Amirantha silently counted before the distant boom of thunder came. Looking at his old companion, Brandos, the Warlock of the Satumbria said, ‘The storm is moving away from us.’
The fighter nodded, remaining silent as he concentrated on cleaning his armour. He sat on a low stool near the massive fire burning in the ancient keep’s fireplace in the tiny room near the top of the only occupied tower.
Amirantha had been amused the first time he had visited the legendary castle of the Black Sorcerer. Now he simply found it old and drafty, stifling in its familiarity and a place locked in the grip of sorrow. After a year of living with these people, the Demon Master now understood their pain and anger. Whatever had passed for normalcy before the vicious attack on Villa Beata, the death of Miranda, her son Caleb and his wife Marie, along with the murder of a score of students, that normalcy had never returned.
One of the few brighter moments over that year had been Brandos’ return a month previous. He had travelled back from their home near the city of Maharta in Novindus, with his wife Samantha. But even that unrelentingly cheerful woman had only been able to lift the constant pall of gloom of this place momentarily.
Pug and his surviving son, Magnus, would come and go from the castle, and at times they shared interesting discussions. Amirantha was forced to concede he had broadened his understanding of demons and the demon realm more in the last year than he had in fifty years of solitary study. Often they possessed similar information, but the magicians had misinterpreted its significance, and he had frequently helped Pug identify misapprehensions in his knowledge.
But those times were growing more infrequent as Pug and Magnus were away for longer stretches dealing with matters pressing upon the Conclave. Amirantha and Brandos had not been formally invited to join their organization, but there was a tacit understanding that they were nevertheless a part of it, willing or not. Amirantha had no doubt that the magicians had the means to ensure he didn’t leave the island with the vital knowledge he possessed, so he considered his choice in the matter a moot point.
He stood and stretched, then made a small motion with his head to indicate that Brandos should look out of the small window. The old fighter put aside the leather jerkin he had been cleaning and walked over to his friend. He now looked ten years the magic user’s senior despite being the younger of the two. ‘What?’ he asked softly.
‘The rain is going to play out soon,’ answered the Warlock as he looked out at the late afternoon murk.
‘You look bored.’
‘Constantly,’ said the Warlock. ‘When I first came here, I did so with great anticipation, I thought that for the first time in my life I might have colleagues with whom I could share my knowledge as well as learn from; that I might find kindred souls, and I did at first, but lately…Now, who do I have instead?’
‘Children.’
Amirantha smiled. The magicians who remained here with Pug and his son, Magnus, were hardly children, yet with one word Brandos reminded Amirantha of his tendency to be dismissive of almost everyone he met, because of his long life and the perspective it offered. Yet, Pug was even older than him, as were others who came and went from this island. Miranda, Pug’s late wife, had been one of those, and her sudden death had served as a grim reminder to Amirantha that his long life and vast experience was not a defence against mortality.
‘Hardly,’ said Amirantha. ‘But most of them are still in the formative stages of their education, training, and power. None of them have been practicing their arts for more than twenty years.’
Brandos returned to his stool and took up the leather he had been cleaning. Applying a generous dollop of soap to his weapons belt, he said, ‘It makes you wonder where all the grown-ups went, doesn’t it?’
Amirantha continued to stare out of the window. ‘Indeed.’ He craned his neck slightly. ‘I’m ready to go outside.’
Brandos sighed, looking at his unfinished cleaning. ‘Well, a short walk. I could use a leg stretcher.’ Looking at his friend, he added, ‘Samantha says that lately I’ve been as irritated as a bear woken from an early hibernation, so maybe it’ll do us both good.’
‘We’ve had four days of rain.’
‘It’s an island in the middle of an ocean, Amirantha. It’s late autumn. There’s going to be