‘I would not have suspected you of being able to fashion such a clear image in one try, but you seem to be more than you first appear to be.’
‘Sir?’
‘Never mind, Pug.’ He paused for a moment, then said, ‘I was using that toy for the first time, judging how far I could send my sight, when I spied you making for the road. From your limp and bruised condition, I judged that you would never reach the town, so I sent Meecham to fetch you.’
Pug looked embarrassed by the unusual attention, color rising to his cheeks. He said, with a thirteen-year-old’s high estimation of his own ability, ‘You needn’t have done that, sir. I would have reached the town in due time.’
Kulgan smiled. ‘Perhaps, but then again, perhaps not. The storm is unseasonably severe and perilous for traveling.’
Pug listened to the soft tattoo of rain on the roof of the cottage. The storm seemed to have slackened, and Pug doubted the magician’s words. As if reading the boy’s thought, Kulgan said, ‘Doubt me not, Pug. This glade is protected by more than the great boles. Should you pass beyond the circle of oaks that marks the edge of my holding, you would feel the storm’s fury. Meecham, how do you gauge this wind?’
Meecham put down the bread dough he was kneading and thought for a moment. ‘Near as bad as the storm that beached six ships three years back.’ He paused for a moment, as if reconsidering the estimate, then nodded his endorsement. ‘Yes, nearly as bad, though it won’t blow so long.’
Pug thought back three years to the storm that had blown a Quegan trading fleet bound for Crydee onto the rocks of Sailor’s Grief. At its height, the guards on the castle walls were forced to stay in the towers, lest they be blown down. If this storm was that severe, then Kulgan’s magic was impressive, for outside the cottage it sounded no worse than a spring rain.
Kulgan sat back on the bench, occupied with trying to light his extinguished pipe. As he produced a large cloud of sweet white smoke, Pug’s attention wandered to a case of books standing behind the magician. His lips moved silently as he tried to discern what was written on the bindings, but could not.
Kulgan lifted an eyebrow and said, ‘So you can read, aye?’
Pug started, alarmed that he might have offended the magician by intruding on his domain. Kulgan, sensing his embarrassment, said, ‘It is all right, boy. It is no crime to know letters.’
Pug felt his discomfort diminish. ‘I can read a little, sir. Megar the cook has shown me how to read the tallies on the stores laid away for the kitchen in the cellars. I know some numbers, as well.’
‘Numbers, too,’ the magician exclaimed good-naturedly. ‘Well, you are something of a rare bird.’ He reached behind himself and pulled out one volume, bound in red-brown leather, from the shelf. He opened it, squinting at one page, then another, and at last found a page that seemed to meet his requirements. He turned the open book around and lay it upon the table before Pug. Kulgan pointed to a page illuminated by a magnificent design of snakes, flowers, and twining vines in a colorful design around a large letter in the upper left corner. ‘Read this, boy.’
Pug had never seen anything remotely like it. His lessons had been on plain parchment with letters fashioned in Megar’s blunt script, using a charcoal stick. He sat, fascinated by the details of the work, then realized the magician was staring at him. Regaining his wits, he began to read.
‘And then there came a sum . . . summons from . . .’ He looked at the word, stumbling over the complex combinations that were new to him. ‘. . . Zacara.’ He paused, looking at Kulgan to see if he was correct. The magician nodded for him to continue. ‘For the north was to be forgot . . . forgotten, lest the heart of the empire lan . . . languish and all be lost. And though of Bosania from birth, those soldiers still were loyal to Great Kesh in their service. So for her great need, they took up their arms and put on their armor and quit Bosania, taking ship to the south, to save all from destruction.’
Kulgan said, ‘That’s enough,’ and gently closed the cover of the book. ‘You are well gifted with letters for a keep boy.’
‘This book, sir, what is it?’ asked Pug, as Kulgan took it from him. ‘I have never seen anything like it.’
Kulgan looked at Pug for a moment, with a gaze that made him uncomfortable again, then smiled, breaking the tension. As he put the book back, he said, ‘It is a history of this land, boy. It was given as a gift by the abbot of an Ishapian monastery. It is a translation of a Keshian text, over a hundred years old.’
Pug nodded and said, ‘It all sounded very strange. What does it tell of?’
Kulgan once more looked at Pug as if trying to see something inside of the boy, then said, ‘A long time ago, Pug, all these lands, from the Endless Sea across the Grey Tower Mountains to the Bitter Sea, were part of the Empire of Great Kesh. Far to the east existed a small kingdom, on one small island called Rillanon. It grew to engulf its neighboring island kingdoms, and it became the Kingdom of the Isles. Later it expanded again to the mainland, and while it is still the Kingdom of Isles, most of us simply call it ‘the Kingdom.’ We, who live in Crydee, are part of the Kingdom, though we live as far from the capital city of Rillanon as one can and still be within its boundaries.
‘Once, many long years ago, the Empire of Great Kesh abandoned these lands, for it was engaged in a long and bloody conflict with its neighbors to the south, the Keshian Confederacy.’
Pug was caught up in the grandeur of lost empires, but hungry enough to notice Meecham was putting several small loaves of dark bread in hearth oven. He turned his attention back to the magician. ‘Who were the Keshian Con— . . . ?’
‘The Keshian Confederacy,’ Kulgan finished for the boy. ‘It is a group of small nations who had existed as tributaries to Great Kesh for centuries. A dozen years before that book was written, they united against their oppressor. Each alone was insufficient to contest with Great Kesh, but united they proved its match. Too close a match, for the war dragged on year after year. The Empire was forced to strip its northern provinces of their legions and send them south, leaving the north open to the advances of the new, younger Kingdom.
‘It was Duke Borric’s grandfather, youngest son of the King, who brought the army westward, extending the Western Realm. Since then all of what was once the old imperial province of Bosania, except for the Free Cities of Natal, has been called the Duchy of Crydee.’
Pug thought for a moment, then said, ‘I think I would like to travel to this Great Kesh someday.’
Meecham snorted, something close to a laugh. ‘And what would you be traveling as, a freebooter?’
Pug felt his face flush. Freebooters were landless men, mercenaries who fought for pay, and who were regarded as being only one cut above outlaws.
Kulgan said, ‘Perhaps you might someday, Pug. The way is long and full of peril, but it is not unheard of for a brave and hearty soul to survive the journey. Stranger things have been known to happen.’
The talk at the table turned to more common topics, for the magician had been at the southern keep at Carse for over a month and wanted the gossip of Crydee. When the bread was done baking, Meecham served it hot, carved the pork loin, and brought out plates of cheese and greens. Pug had never eaten so well in his life. Even when he had worked in the kitchen, his position as keep boy earned him only meager fare. Twice during dinner, Pug found the magician regarding him intently.
When the
