that he would suffer through the deaths of everyone he loved as a price for returning to the land of the living and ending the threat from the Emerald Queen’s invading army.
His mood no longer lifted by the pastoral beauty around him, he gave in to a moment of pique and willed himself to the threshold of the cottage. Raising his hand, he knocked three times.
A familiar voice he had not heard in ages, but recognized instantly said, ‘Come in.’
Pug could hardly believe his senses as he pushed open the door and immediately recognized the pungent aroma of tabac, a particular blend of mountain-grown aromatic from the foothills of Kesh. A portly figure in a grey homespun robe sat before a table upon which rested an open book. Blue eyes seemed to twinkle above a thick grey beard. ‘Well, you haven’t changed much in all these years, have you, Pug?’
‘Kulgan,’ Pug whispered. Something told him this was no magic likeness before him, no creature of the mind fashioned to resemble someone he trusted, but somehow his old teacher, dead for more than a century, returned to this little cottage in the woods which so resembled where they had first met.
Emotions long absent rushed up within Pug and his eyes welled up. A lifetime of the impossible had not prepared him for this, seeing again his first master, the man who had taken an orphaned kitchen boy and begun the education which had evolved Pug into the most powerful practitioner of magic on two worlds.
Smiling, the old man rose and indicated a pot of water on an iron hook overhanging the fireplace. ‘Fetch that while I get us some tea.’ As he moved away, he added, ‘We have a great deal to discuss, my old friend, and I’m sorry to say, little time in which to discuss it.’
Pug stood rooted for a moment as he struggled with the urge to rush and embrace his boyhood teacher, or start asking questions. Then he smiled, nodded, and just did as he had been asked.
Kulgan chuckled as he put the tea to steep. ‘I take it you are as surprised as I am,’ he began, glancing over his shoulder at his former pupil.
‘A great deal has occurred since …’
‘I died,’ supplied Kulgan. ‘Yes, exactly how long has it been?’
‘Over a century,’ said Pug.
‘Hmmm,’ mused the teacher. ‘So, continue.’
Pug took a moment to breathe deeply. ‘I need help,’ he said at last.
‘Ah,’ said Kulgan.
The cottage was not exactly as Pug remembered it, but he was at a loss to know if that was due to an imperfect replication or his own faulty memory. He asked, ‘Where are we? This is not your cottage in the woods south of the keep at Crydee.’
Kulgan shrugged again. ‘I’m not certain. For here’s the thing, Pug: my last memory is lying sick abed in Stardock, Meecham hovering like a mother hen as he always did, having said my goodbye to you. Age weighed heavily on my soul and I was tired to the core of my being. Your generosity with the healing priests was appreciated: I was free of pain, but I knew my time had come.’ He paused, a bemused expression crossing his wrinkled old visage. ‘I closed my eyes, then this odd thing … As I was drifting into darkness there was this momentary …’ He shrugged. ‘I am not sure how to describe it, but a cut, as cold as the coldest ice or stone, slicing through my being, then suddenly it was gone, the pain vanishing before it registered, but so vivid that in the fading of life, it was my first recollection as, instead of arising in the halls of Lims-Kragma, I found myself there.’ He pointed to the oversized bed in the corner of the room. ‘Apparently three or four hours ago.’
He picked up the pot and poured Pug’s tea and his own, then indicated with a wave a small pot of honey. Pug shook his head, and Kulgan went on, ‘I felt wonderful. There is no looking-glass, but I suspect I am now a great deal younger than when I died.’ He laughed. ‘It is an odd thing to say, isn’t it? My favourite robe was folded at the foot of the bed.’ He plucked at the fabric. ‘My sandals, my staff too. After I had dressed, I wandered about a little, trying to determine where I was, and shouted, but no one answered.’ He sat down opposite Pug and said, ‘When I returned, I found a lovely meal to break my fast and must admit to relishing every bite.’ He pointed to a small washbasin of stone next to the stove. A tidy pile of dishes rested within. ‘I have no idea who prepared it for me. I had a faint hope it might have been my man Meecham, but I knew by then this was not Crydee. This is not Midkemia, is it?’
Pug shook his head.
Sighing, Kulgan said, ‘I really knew that. I feel too good, Pug. I don’t mean relative to my dying or even the last few years of life. I feel invigorated here in a way I haven’t since years before I met you, and while I’ve resisted the temptation to use any of my arts, I suspect they will prove effective beyond my expectation.’
Pug smiled. Kulgan had had as quick an intuitive grasp of the underlying nature of magic as any being he had ever known. ‘There’s a heightened energy state in this world. We are in a different realm of magic, I think, than Midkemia. I suspect if you tried that trick of lighting your tabac pipe with a flame from your finger you might burn this cottage down.’
Kulgan laughed and Pug was suddenly struck by how much he had missed that sound. A bittersweet pang followed that recognition, for as certain as Pug was about anything else, he knew this visit with his old mentor would be brief. He said, his voice heavy with emotion, ‘I have lost so many beloved friends, and you were first among them. It’s so good to see you again.’
Kulgan’s blue eyes misted. He reached out and took Pug’s hand for a moment. ‘I suppose a summary of the past hundred years is impossible.’
Pug laughed.
‘So, perhaps if there’s time later we might speak of what happened after I died. Though waking up here and finding you …’ He peered at Pug for a moment, then smiled. ‘Slightly more grey than last I saw you was not something I expected.’ He reached absently for the pouch where he kept his pipe and tabac and found it absent. ‘Ah,’ he said in an aggrieved tone. ‘Not perfect!’
Pug smiled. ‘The older I get, the less I know, Kulgan.’
‘It’s always thus,’ answered the greybeard. ‘Still, our paths hardly crossed by chance, and one supposes in these circumstances that there’s little logic in having us flail about wondering why we’re here. What are you about these days and how do you require help?’
‘I am trying to save Midkemia,’ said Pug, ‘and apparently a large chunk of the universe along with it. And I am far from home and uncertain how to return there.’
Kulgan tapped his fingers absently. ‘It would be easier to think had I my pipe.’
Suddenly his pipe and a bag of tabac appeared on the table.
Both Pug and Kulgan looked around the cottage. ‘We are being observed,’ Kulgan said. He opened the pouch eagerly, took a long sniff, then said in satisfied tones, ‘That’s the very thing!’
Pug watched with an unexpected pleasure as his old teacher filled the bowl, and looked around for a taper, and saw one next to the small fire he had used for heating water for the tea. He reached over and with a wave of his hand caused the taper to come flying across the room. It smacked his palm hard enough that he recoiled. ‘That hurt!’ he yelped.
‘I told you magic here would be … more intense,’ said Pug.
