Prince of the Blood (56 page)

Arutha and Anita stood before their thrones as their sons marched into the court in Krondor. In the four months since the boys had left their court, the Prince and Princess of Krondor had felt pain and joy at news of Borric’s loss and his return. And they felt an empty place within that matched the empty place where Baron Locklear should have been.

The news of the Baron’s death had blunted the joy
over the news of Borric’s survival. Arutha took the loss of any man in his command personally, and Anita had always had a soft spot for the roguish young boy who had grown to dazzle so many of the ladies in court. Glancing at Lord James, both rulers sensed that somehow he would never regain the playfulness he had reflected from Locklear. To every member of the court there was a void next to James that would never be filled.

The twins came to stand before their parents and both bowed formally. Arutha couldn’t put his finger on it but something in them was different. He had sent boys south to deal with Kesh and young men had returned—blooded, harder, and far more mature. They were now confident where they had been brash, decisive where they had been impulsive, and in their eyes was an echo of loss, of seeing the results of vicious and hateful acts. Arutha had read the reports that hard-riding dispatch riders had carried ahead of the returning Princes, but only now did he understand them.

So that all could hear, he said, “It pleases us that our sons have returned. The Princess and I welcome them back to our court.”

Then he stepped down from the dais and embraced Borric, then Erland. Anita came behind and hugged both fiercely, lingering a bit when she held Borric’s cheek next to her own. Then Elena and Nicholas were there to greet them, and Borric held his sister close to him, saying, “After those Keshian noblewomen, you are a simple and rare treasure.”

“Simple!” she said, pushing him away. “I like that!” Grinning at Erland, she said, “You must tell me about the ladies of the Keshian court. Everything. What did they wear?”

Borric and Erland exchanged glances and started to laugh. Borric said, “I don’t think you’ll be starting any fashions here, little sister. Keshian ladies wear almost no
clothing at all. While Erland and I found it very attractive, I think Father would take one look at you in Keshian court regalia and have you locked away in your room forever.”

Elena blushed. “Well, tell me everything anyway. We’re going to have a wedding celebration for Baron James and I’ll want something different.”

Nicholas had been quietly waiting next to his father, and Borric and Erland as one noticed him. “Hello, little brother,” said Borric. He bent down hands on knees so he could look Nicholas in the eyes. “Have you been well?”

Nicholas threw his arms around Borric’s neck and began to cry. “They said you were dead. I knew you couldn’t be, but they said you were. I was so scared.”

Erland felt tears come unbidden to his own eyes and he uncharacteristically reached out and pulled Elena into his arms, hugging her again. Anita wept for joy, as did Elena, and even Arutha was hard-pressed to keep a dry eye.

After a moment, Borric picked up the boy and said, “That’s enough, Nicky. We’re both just fine.”

Erland said, “Yes, we are. And we missed you.”

Nicholas wiped away his tears and said, “You did?”

“Yes, we did,” answered Borric. “I met a boy in Kesh who was only a few years older than you. He made me understand just how much I did miss my little brother.”

Nicholas said, “What’s his name?”

“His name was Suli Abul,” said Borric with a tear running down his face.

“That’s a strange name,” said Nicholas. “What happened to him?”

“I’ll tell you about him some other time.”

“When?” said Nicholas with the impatience of most seven-year-old boys.

Borric put the boy down. “Maybe in a day or two, we’ll take a boat out of the harbor and go fishing. Would you like that?”

Nicholas nodded emphatically, and Erland tousled his hair.

Arutha motioned for James to come away from the others, then when they were off a little way, Duke Gardan joined them.

Arutha said, “First of all, I’ll want to talk to you at length tomorrow. But from your reports, I think we owe you thanks.”

James said, “It was something that needed to be done. Really, the boys deserve most of the credit. If Borric had returned to Krondor rather than risk his life trying to catch up with us, or had Erland not been so quick to see through some very clever ruses … who knows what harm could have come of it?”

Arutha put his hand on James’s shoulder. “It’s become something of a joke between us about you being named Duke of Krondor someday, hasn’t it?”

James smiled. “Yes, but I still want the job.”

Gardan, his seamed face showing disbelief, said, “After all you’ve just been through, you still want to sit at the right hand of power?”

James glanced at the happy faces in the court and said, “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Arutha said, “Good. Because I have something to tell you. Gardan is finally retiring.”

James’s eyes widened. “Then …”

“No,” said Arutha. “I’m offering the post of Duke of Krondor to Earl Geoffery of Ravenswood, who’s serving in Rillanon with Lyam’s First Advisor.”

James’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying, Arutha?”

The Prince smiled his crooked smile and James felt his stomach turn cold. “When the festivities of your wedding celebration are over, my dear Jimmy,” said Arutha, “you and your lady are bound for Rillanon. You are to take Geoffery’s place as second-in-command to Duke Guy of Rillanon. Bas-Tyra is perhaps the shrewdest man I’ve
ever met and you still have things to learn. Guy will teach you.” He grinned, one of the rare occasions James had ever seen him do that. “And who knows, when Borric is at last King, he may make you the next Duke of Rillanon.”

Motioning for his wife to come to his side, James slipped his arm around her waist and with a dry note said, “Amos Trask is right about you, you know. You do take the fun out of life.”

This is the second book I’ve elected to rewrite a decade or more after original publication. The first,
Magician
, was revised for the reasons outlined in the Foreword to the Revised/Author’s Preferred Edition. In short, it was to return the book to my original vision, reintroducing text that had been cut by editorial request prior to the original publication.

Prince of the Blood
is a completely different story.

Let me start off by saying, I don’t reread my work after it’s published. Rewrite, responses to editorial requests, proofreading manuscripts, then reading galley proof pages, and by the time a book is published, I’m pretty sick of it. Besides, I’m usually off working on another project as soon as I finish one. At this writing, I’ve just turned in my twenty-first novel,
King of Foxes
.

Prince of the Blood
was to me my least satisfying work. There are many reasons, some very personal, which I won’t share, but suffice it to say that for whatever reasons, the book didn’t quite turn out the way I wanted. I always felt there were two things I wished I had done differently; the development of the twins, who were never as likable by the end of the book as I wanted them to be, and the ending of the book itself.

For the first problem, I saw the flaw in the narration
itself, where things got very busy and we never had much time to see Erland and Borric reflect on what they had experienced. I felt that could be fixed with a bit of introspection and emotional response here and there.

But that ending …? The problem was it was an action/adventure fantasy that suddenly in the last turns into a Victorian Murder Mystery, one in which “Sherlock Nakor” reveals who did it. Even when I finished the book back in 1988, I knew I had a problem, but publishing deadlines prevented me from “fixing it.”

And the book went on to become a
New York Times
and a
Times
of London bestseller, so I could hardly complain.

But recent events have offered me the opportunity to revisit my “problem-child book,” so I gladly took up the challenge.

When I wrote the foreword to the revised
Magician
I promised the reader that nothing significant had changed, that the story was essentially as it had been before. Such is not the case with
Prince of the Blood
. Yes, the last few pages are identical, with the reunited Borric and Erland returning home, wiser for their experiences, but from the time Borric enters the palace until then, things are quite a bit different than before.

I hope the reader will forgive me the vanity of going back to a previous work and trying to make it better than before. If the experience does not entertain, I apologize, but if you find this version a little more exciting, a little more fun, then I feel it was worth the effort. Either way, thank you for letting me take one more bash at this yarn.

Raymond E. Feist is the international bestselling author or co-author of twenty-one novels, including
Magician, Silverthorn, A Darkness at Sethanon, Faerie Tale, The King’s Buccaneer, Talon of the Silver Hawk
, and
King of
Foxes. Feist is a graduate of the University of California, San Diego, and resides in southern California with his family. He travels, collects wine, and lives and dies with the San Diego Chargers.

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EIST

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V
OLUME
I
IN THE
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EW
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ORK
T
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BESTSELLING
R
IFTWAR
SAGA

The storm had broken.

Pug danced along the edge of the rocks, his feet finding scant purchase as he made his way among the tide pools. His dark eyes darted about as he peered into each pool under the cliff face, seeking the spiny creatures driven into the shallows by the recently passed storm. His boyish muscles bunched under his light shirt as he shifted the sack of sandcrawlers, rockclaws, and crabs plucked from this water garden.

The afternoon sun sent sparkles through the sea spray swirling around him, as the west wind blew his sun-streaked brown hair about. Pug set his sack down, checked to make sure it was securely tied, then squatted on a clear patch of sand. The sack was not quite full, but Pug relished the extra hour or so that he could relax. Megar the cook wouldn’t trouble him about the time as long as the sack was almost full. Resting with his back against a large rock, Pug was soon dozing in the sun’s warmth.

A cool wet spray woke him hours later. He opened his eyes with a start, knowing he had stayed much too long. Westward, over the sea, dark thunderheads were forming above the black outline of the Six Sisters, the small islands on the horizon. The roiling, surging clouds, with rain trailing below like some sooty veil, heralded another of the sudden storms common to this part of the coast in early summer. To the south, the high bluffs of Sailor’s Grief
reared up against the sky, as waves crashed against the base of that rocky pinnacle. Whitecaps started to form behind the breakers, a sure sign that the storm would quickly strike. Pug knew he was in danger, for the storms of summer could drown anyone on the beaches, or if severe enough, on the low ground beyond.

He picked up his sack and started north, toward the castle. As he moved among the pools, he felt the coolness in the wind turn to a deeper, wetter cold. The day began to be broken by a patchwork of shadows as the first clouds passed before the sun, bright colors fading to shades of grey. Out to sea, lightning flashed against the blackness of the clouds, and the distant boom of thunder rode over the noise of the waves.

Pug picked up speed when he came to the first stretch of open beach. The storm was coming in faster than he would have thought possible, driving the rising tide before it. By the time he reached the second stretch of tide pools, there was barely ten feet of dry sand between water’s edge and cliffs.

Pug hurried as fast as was safe across the rocks, twice nearly catching his foot. As he reached the next expanse of sand, he mistimed his jump from the last rock and landed poorly. He fell to the sand, grasping his ankle. As if waiting for the mishap, the tide surged forward, covering him for a moment. He reached out blindly and felt his sack carried away. Frantically grabbing at it, Pug lunged forward, only to have his ankle fail. He went under, gulping water.…

V
OLUME
II
IN THE
N
EW
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ORK
T
IMES
BESTSELLING
R
IFTWAR
SAGA

The dying slave lay screaming.