Magician (4 page)

Pug pulled his sling out from within
his shirt. “If we came back with a brace of partridge or quail,
she might regain some of her good temper.”

Tomas smiled. “She might,”
he agreed, taking out his own sling. Both boys were excellent
slingers, Tomas being undoubted champion among the boys, edging Pug
by only a little. It was unlikely either could bring down a bird on
the wing, but should they find one at rest, there was a fair chance
they might hit it. Besides, it would give them something to do to
pass the hours and perhaps for a time forget the Choosing.

With exaggerated stealth they crept
along, playing the part of hunters. Tomas led the way as they left
the footpath, heading for the watering pool they knew lay not too far
distant. It was improbable they would spot game this time of the day
unless they simply blundered across it, but if any were to be found,
it most likely would be near the pool. The woods to the northeast of
the town of Crydee were less forbidding than the great forest to the
south. Many years of harvesting trees for lumber had given the green
glades a sunlit airiness not found in the deep haunts of the southern
forest. The keep boys had often played here over the years. With
small imagination, the woods were transformed into a wondrous place,
a green world of high adventure. Some of the greatest deeds known had
taken place here. Daring escapes, dread quests, and mightily
contested battles had been witnessed by the silent trees as the boys
gave vent to their youthful dreams of coming manhood. Foul creatures,
mighty monsters, and base outlaws had all been fought and vanquished,
often accompanied by the death of a great hero, with appropriate last
words to his mourning companions, all managed with just enough time
left to return to the keep for supper.

Tomas reached a small rise that
overlooked the pool, screened off by young beech saplings, and pulled
aside some brush so they could mount a vigil. He stopped, awed, and
softly said, “Pug, look!” Standing at the edge of the
pool was a stag, head held high as he sought the source of something
that disturbed his drinking. He was an old animal, the hair around
his muzzle nearly all white, and his head crowned by magnificent
antlers.

Pug counted quickly. “He has
fourteen points.”

Tomas nodded agreement. “He must
be the oldest buck in the forest.” The stag turned his
attention in the boys’ direction, flicking an ear nervously.
They froze, not wishing to frighten off such a beautiful creature.
For a long, silent minute the stag studied the rise, nostrils
flaring, then slowly lowered his head to the pool and drank.

Tomas gripped Pug’s shoulder and
inclined his head to one side. Pug followed Tomas’s motion and
saw a figure walking silently into the clearing. He was a tall man
dressed in leather clothing, dyed forest green. Across his back hung
a longbow and at his belt a hunter’s knife. His green cloak’s
hood was thrown back, and he walked toward the stag with a steady,
even step. Tomas said, “It’s Martin.”

Pug also recognized the Duke’s
Huntmaster. An orphan like Pug, Martin had come to be known as
Longbow by those in the castle, as he had few equals with that
weapon. Something of a mystery, Martin Longbow was still well liked
by the boys, for while he was aloof with the adults in the castle, he
was always friendly and accessible to the boys. As Huntmaster, he was
also the Duke’s Forester. His duties absented him from the
castle for days, even weeks at a time, as he kept his trackers busy
looking for signs of poaching, possible fire dangers, migrating
goblins, or outlaws camping in the woods. But when he was in the
castle, and not organizing a hunt for the Duke, he always had time
for the boys. His dark eyes were always merry when they pestered him
with questions of woodlore or for tales of the lands near the
boundaries of Crydee. He seemed to possess unending patience, which
set him apart from most of the Craftmasters in the town and keep.

Martin came up to the stag, gently
reached out, and touched his neck. The great head swung up, and the
stag nuzzled Martin’s arm.

Softly Martin said, “If you walk
out slowly, without speaking, he might let you approach.”

Pug and Tomas exchanged startled
glances, then stepped into the clearing. They walked slowly around
the edge of the pool, the stag following their movements with his
head, trembling slightly. Martin patted him reassuringly and he
quieted. Tomas and Pug came to stand beside the hunter, and Martin
said, “Reach out and touch him, slowly so as not to frighten
him.”

Tomas reached out first, and the stag
trembled beneath his fingers. Pug began to reach out, and the stag
retreated a step. Martin crooned to the stag in a language Pug had
never heard before, and the animal stood still. Pug touched him and
marveled at the feel of his coat—so like the cured hides he had
touched before, yet so different for the feel of life pulsing under
his fingertips.

Suddenly the stag backed off and
turned. Then, with a single bounding leap, he was gone among the
trees. Martin Longbow chuckled and said, “Just as well. It
wouldn’t do to have him become too friendly with men. Those
antlers would quickly end up over some poacher’s fireplace.”

Tomas whispered, “He’s
beautiful, Martin.”

Longbow nodded, his eyes still fastened
upon the spot where the stag had vanished into the woods. “That
he is, Tomas.”

Pug said, “I thought you hunted
stags, Martin. How—”

Martin 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 they
not be chosen.