Shards of a Broken Crown. Raymond E. Feist

handed him a goblet of wine.

      “The Prince?” asked Pug.

      Arutha shrugged. “It’s difficult. During the war he seemed content to follow Father and Uncle William’s lead. The preparations for the city were underway by the time he arrived in Krondor, and he simply agreed to whatever Father wanted.

      “Now, he’s out of his element. He is being asked to make decisions that would have taxed the wits of the best generals in this Kingdom’s history.” He sipped his wine. “Partly it’s my fault.”

      Pug shook his head. “No, Patrick is responsible for his own actions.”

      “But Father would have—”

      Pug interrupted. “You are not your father.” He let out a slow sigh. “No one is James. James was unique. As was Prince Arutha. The Western Realm may never again see men as able as them gathered together at one time.” Pug grew reflective. “It all began with Lord Borric. I have never known a man his equal. Arutha was his equal in many ways, perhaps his superior in some, but on the whole, Borric raised two sons the Kingdom needed.

      “But from there we are seeing a diminution of the line. King Borric was seasoned in his travels to Kesh, but nothing like his father the Prince.” Pug looked out a window at the distant torchlight along the palisades of the castle. “Perhaps it’s just the years passing, the ability to think back with history’s perspective, but at the time of the Riftwar there was a sense in the West that eventually we should prevail. Now I realize that came from Prince Arutha, your father at his brashest and most reckless, others who led and those who followed.”

      Looking at his grandson, Pug said, “You must step forward, Arutha. You will never be the man for whom you were named, and you will never be your father, but nature didn’t intend for you to be either of those men, no matter how worthy they were. You must become the best man you are capable of. I know the war took as much a toll on you as it did me. You alone of all those here know what I feel. Men like Owen Greylock and Erik von Darkmoor must rise to meet the needs of the nation.” He smiled as he added, “You are more capable than you think. You will be a fine Duke of Krondor.”

      Arutha nodded. His mother, Gamina, was Pug’s daughter by adoption, but he had loved and treasured her as much as he had his son, William. To lose them both within days of one another had been terrible. “I know that it was worse for you, Grandfather. I mourn my parents. You mourn your children.”

      Pug said nothing, swallowing hard and gripping Miranda’s hand. Since the end of the war he had been revisited time and again by a wave of profound sorrow and pain, and as much as he hoped for the sense of loss to pass, it didn’t. It grew muted at times, even forgotten for hours at a stretch, but in any quiet, reflective moment, it returned.

      Even his marriage to Miranda had been hastily conducted, as if any delay might steal moments away from them. Pug and his new wife had spent as much time together as possible, dealing with the revelations of their past lives and the need to discuss their future. Yet every moment together, no matter how joyous, was overshadowed by the sense of loss, the sense of work yet undone, and the sense that nothing could ever return to them that which was lost.

      Pug nodded at his grandson’s words. He sighed. “Arutha, you and I have never had the opportunity to be close. After my first wife’s death I distanced myself from your mother. Watching her grow old was a fate I tried to avoid.” He looked deep into his grandson’s eyes. “There is much of both your parents in you. I know your father trained you from birth to serve, and your life was never your own, but I also know he would have found a less demanding role for you had he found you lacking; you would not be allowed to follow after him had you been less a man than what you are. So, again I say, you must step forward. Patrick may prove a worthy ruler someday, but that day is not here yet. And it has often been our history that one in the role of advisor limited the choices placed before the rulers.” Remembering the rule of mad King Roderic, Pug said, “Perhaps we could have used more of such men in the past.”

      Arutha said, “I’ll try, Grandfather.”

      Miranda said, “I don’t presume to advise, as I’ve never done well with obeying rulers in my day, but you’ll have to do more than try before we’re done.”

      Arutha looked as if he was ready to wilt. “I know.”

      A servant announced supper was ready, and they adjourned to the next room. As Pug preceded his grandson, he knew one of the reasons Arutha was so fatigued: from worry over the whereabouts of his own sons.

      Jimmy looked around. A series of patrols had been coming through the area for the last two days. They had tried to enter the city and discovered that no one was being allowed through the established checkpoints. Whoever was in charge inside Krondor, General Duko or someone else, had decided that Kingdom infiltration was a serious threat and had sealed the city.

      Those mercenaries and traders who had gathered outside the city walls were not troubled, as long as they didn’t cause trouble. A brawl had erupted the night before at a large bonfire some distance away, over a gambling debt, woman, or insult, Jimmy didn’t know, but it had quickly been quelled by a detachment of warriors from the city who rode out and scattered everyone in sight. There had been nothing gentle or orderly about it, a simple raid to disperse, conducted with speed and efficiency. A half dozen men lay dead, while others were moaning and nursing injuries as the strike force returned to the city, but order had been restored. Most of the men outside the walls had come for booty, the opportunity to loot, or to gain steady pay, not to storm a well-fortified city.

      Jimmy had judged the city fairly easy to retake should Patrick and his army be sitting outside the walls, but they weren’t. They were in Darkmoor or en route, and by the time they reached Krondor, the fortifications would be reaching daunting proportions. Workers – freemen or prisoners, Jimmy didn’t know which – were up each day at dawn, repairing the damage from the final assault on the city the previous summer.

      He had chanced a leisurely ride past the main eastern gates, and saw that they had been successfully replaced. While not as grand as the originals, the new gates looked stout and well crafted. Accomplished carpenters were among those working for the invaders, as most every man of fighting age on the distant continent of Novindus had been pressed into the army.

      It was nearly sundown on their second day when Malar asked, “Young sir, are we to find a safe place to sleep?”

      Jimmy shook his head. “I think I’ve seen enough outside. It’s time to go inside the city.”

      “Forgive my ignorance, but if each gate and breach is manned in the fashion we have observed so far, how do you propose to do this thing?”

      Jimmy said, “There are more ways in and out of Krondor than are apparent. My grandfather knew them all, and he made sure Dash and I knew of every one of them before we left.”

      “Is your brother likely to find a similar entrance?”

      He motioned for his “servant” to follow him, and they walked slowly past a group of sullen-looking fighting men, getting ready to settle in for another cold night around a campfire with little food or prospects. “Knowing Dash, he’s already in the city.”

      Dash sat with his back against the dirty stone wall. The other prisoners did likewise. Men crowded together on both sides, but he didn’t object; the weather was still cold and his captors spared no fuel to keep the slave pen heated. He wore only his undershirt and trousers. His boots, jacket, cloak, and all the other possessions he had carried were taken from him.

      He had managed to evade the patrol that had followed him and had ridden to the edge of Krondor. There he had found a thriving community of traders, thieves, camp followers, and others assembled outside the gates of the city. The invaders had closed the city to anyone not among their own forces and an odd truce existed along the eastern wall.

      With many breaches in the walls, the peace was kept by patrols riding among those gathered outside the walls: a mix of Kingdom deserters, displaced farmers, workers, and mercenaries looking for employment. Among the invaders and Kingdom soldiers