Rage of a Demon King. Raymond E. Feist

in the branches of the trees. Throughout the community, glowing lanterns had been ignited, but rather than the harsh yellow flame of a city lamp, these glowed with a softer, blue-white light: elven globes, part natural, part magic, and unique to this place. But the trees themselves also were alight, branches illuminated with a soft glow, a faint bluish or greenish haze, as if the leaves were phosphorescent.

      Tomas turned, the golden trimmed red robe flaring slightly, and said, ‘Is it time for me to don my armor, old friend?’

      ‘Soon, I fear,’ said Pug.

      Almost wistfully Tomas said, ‘When we were victorious at Sethanon, I hoped we were done with this business.’

      Pug nodded. ‘Hoped. But we knew sooner or later the Pantathians would come again for the Lifestone.’ Pug’s forehead furrowed, as if he was about to say something additional, but he halted himself. ‘So long as your sword rests within the stone, and so long as the Valheru are not finally vanquished, we did but buy time.’

      Tomas did not reply, but he continued to stare out over the railing at the splendor of Elvandar. ‘I know,’ he said at last. ‘There will come a time when I must retrieve that sword and finish what we started that day.’ He had listened with keen interest when Miranda had recounted what she and his son had discovered on their last voyage to the southern continent. Tathar, Acaila, and the other Spellweavers had questioned her repeatedly over the months since she had come, ferreting out details she had forgotten. While Miranda’s patience had been worn thin on many occasions, the long-lived elves took the interminable investigation as a matter of course.

      The sounds of voices announced that Aglaranna and her advisers were coming to join her husband in their private quarters. The Queen, followed by Tathar, Acaila, Redtree, and Calin, entered.

      Miranda and Pug bowed their heads, but the Queen said, ‘Court is over, my friends. We are here to discuss important issues in an informal fashion.’

      Miranda said, ‘Thank the gods.’

      Redtree scowled. ‘My familiarity with your race is limited,’ – he glanced at Acaila, who mouthed a word – ‘milady.’ He pronounced the word as something alien. ‘But this rushing to action I’ve observed in humans … it’s incomprehensible!’

      ‘Rushing!’ said Miranda, allowing her astonishment to show openly.

      Pug said, ‘We have been dealing with the Pantathians for fifty years, Redtree.’

      The old elf took an offered goblet of wine and said, ‘Well, you should have come up with some sense of the enemy, then.’

      Suddenly Pug realized that the old elf had his own sense of humor. It was different from Acaila’s, while just as dry: it had a mocking edge. Pug grinned. ‘You remind me of Martin Longbow.’

      Redtree smiled and years dropped from his face. ‘Now, there’s a human I like.’

      ‘Where is Martin?’ asked Tomas.

      ‘Here,’ came a voice as the old former Duke of Crydee climbed into view, mounting a flight of steps from below. ‘I don’t move quite as spryly as I once did.’

      ‘You’re still a fair hand with a bow, Martin,’ said Redtree. Then he added, ‘For a human.’

      Martin was the oldest living human Redtree might call a friend. Nearly ninety years of age, Martin looked a man in his late sixties or early seventies. His powerful shoulders and chest were still broad, though his arms and legs were thinner than Pug remembered. His skin looked like old leather, sun-dried and wrinkled, and his hair was now completely white. But his eyes were still alert, and Pug realized that Martin, over the months he had stayed in Elvandar, continued to have his wits about him. There was no hint of the doddering in this old man. While not quite rejuvenating him, the magic of Elvandar kept him vigorous.

      Nodding at Miranda, Martin smiled. ‘I’ve known the edhel,’ he said, using the elves’ own term for their people, ‘since I was a baby, and their humor is often lost on humans.’

      Miranda said, ‘As is their sense of haste.’ She looked at Pug. ‘For months now, close to a year or more, you’ve been saying that we must be about this or that – mostly, “We must find Macros the Black” – yet I find us spending a great deal of time sitting around doing little.’

      Pug’s eyes narrowed briefly. He knew Miranda was far older than she looked, perhaps even older than his own seventy-odd years, but often she displayed what he could only call an impatience that surprised him. He seemed about to say one thing, then another. At last he said, ‘Macros’s legacy to me included many things – his library, his commentaries, and, to some extent, his powers – but nothing could replace his experience. If anyone can help us unlock the mystery of what is behind all we face, it is he.’ Pug stood before Miranda and looked into her eyes. ‘I can not help but feel that far behind all we have seen lurks another mystery, one far more profound and dangerous than what we yet know.’ Then his tone lightened slightly as in a mock-chiding voice, he added, ‘And I would expect you, as much as anyone, to realize that often when one is motionless, the most thought is being applied to the problems at hand.’

      Miranda said, ‘I know, but I feel like a horse too long held under rein; I feel the need to be doing something!’

      Pug turned to Tomas. ‘There we have the problem, don’t we?’

      Tomas nodded, glancing at the oldest, wisest minds in the Council of Elvandar. ‘What is to be done?’ he asked.

      Pug said, ‘Once you found Macros by leading me into the Halls of the Dead. Would it be useful to return there?’

      Tomas shook his head. ‘I don’t think so; do you?’

      Pug shrugged. ‘Not really. I’m not even sure what I would say should we again face Lims-Kragma. I know more now than I did then, but of the nature of the gods and those other agents who serve them I still feel ignorant. In any event, I’m grasping at straws.’ He was silent a moment, frustration clearly evident on his features. Then he said, ‘No, the realm of the dead would be a waste of time.’

      Acaila said, ‘Those beings are not meant for easy apprehension by those who live mortal spans. But indulge me one question, Pug: why would it be a waste of time to seek this person in the Halls of the Dead?’

      Pug said, ‘I really don’t know. A feeling, nothing more. I’m certain Macros is alive.’ He then described how when they had last sought the Black Sorcerer, Gathis – then Macros’s and now Pug’s majordomo at Sorcerer’s Island – had indicated that there was a bond between them, and should Macros be dead Gathis would somehow know it. Pug finished by saying, ‘Several times over the last few years I’ve had this sense that Macros was not only still alive but …’

      Miranda now looked thoroughly irritated. ‘What?’

      Pug shrugged. ‘That he was somehow close by.’

      Under her breath she let out a sound of aggravation. ‘That wouldn’t surprise me.’

      Martin smiled with wry amusement and asked, ‘Why?’

      Miranda glanced out over the lights of Elvandar and said, ‘Because my experience is that most of these “legendary” individuals turn out to be no more than a well-constructed sham, designed to convince us all of their importance, rather than any real indication of their true significance.’

      Aglaranna sipped her wine and sat next to Tomas on a long bench by the railing. ‘You sound more than irritated in a general way, Miranda.’

      Miranda dropped her gaze a moment; when she raised it to look at the Elf Queen, she was composed. ‘Forgive my petulance, lady. We of Kesh often struggle with issues of appearance, rank, and court standing that have nothing to do with worth or value in any real sense. Many rise high by dint of birth while others far more worthy never achieve any significance, their lives spent in trivial work. Yet those “great” nobles have no sense they achieved high rank by a simple accident of birth.’ She made a sour expression. ‘They