Raymond E. Feist - Riftwar Legacy - Tear of the Gods

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Raymond E. Feist

Tear of the Gods

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As with other projects, I am in debt to many

people, but more so with this than almost any

other work I've undertaken. That was due in

significant part to the evolution of the game,

"Return to Krondor," the core story of which also

serves as the core of this novel. I would be lax in

my crediting those responsible for that project,

upon which this rests, if I did not point to the work

of many people, some who will go uncredited upon

the game itself, for dealing with dozens of

potentially terminal problems, distractions, and

delays. Literally hundreds of hands touched

"Return to Krondor" in its evolution, too many to

single out here. Knowing this list is incomplete, I

would like to thank: Andy Ashcraft, Craig Boland,

Chuck Mitchell, Susan Deneker, Leanne Moen, and

Michael Lynch who at various times had to listen to

my opinion when they probably would rather have

been working.

Scott Page, who found himself unexpectedly

dealing with other people's messes, but who stayed

the course.

Bob Ezrin, who was the Father of Us All during

very trying times at 7th Level, who had to clean up

an impossible mess made by other people who

betrayed his trust, and who held my hand and kept

the company alive when he rather would have

been in the studio making music. St. John Bain,

who inherited a mess, and who with good humor

and determination made someone else's vision his

own; indefatigable is the only word that describes

his commitment to Krondor.

Steve Abrams, old friend and partner-in-crime,

whose contributions to my work over the years

have often gone uncredited, but never

unappreciated.

Jonathan Matson, my agent, for all the usual

reasons, and in this case, for all the unusual

reasons.

My daughter, Jessica, and my son, James, for

making every day spent with them better.

Jennifer Brehl and Jane Johnson, my editors in

New York and London, for so much more than the

job description requires. On a personal note: This

book was produced during a very difficult time for

me personally, the end of my twelve-year

marriage, and there are people out there who

helped me through that period, people who did not

have anything directly to do with the production of

this novel, but who, by keeping me relatively sane

during that period, helped me finish the project.

So, special thanks to Steve Abrams, Andy

Abramson, Jim Curl, Jonathan Matson, Rich Spahl,

and Janny Wurts for keeping me together early on,

and being there for the long haul. There have been

others, but the aforementioned went above and

beyond the call. Words cannot express my

gratitude. I am blessed beyond belief by friends of

special quality. And to the "gang" at Flemming's in

La Jolla, the best steak house and wine bar in

California, for giving me a place to hang.

Raymond E. Feist

San Diego, CA

August 30, 2000.

For Bob Ezrin, who else?

PROLOGUE

Attack

The weather worsened.

Dark clouds roiled overhead as angry lightning

flashed, piercing the night's blackness on all

quarters. The lookout atop the highest mast of the

ship Ishap's Dawn thought he saw a flicker of

movement in the distance and squinted against the

murk. He tried to use his hand to shield his eyes as

the salt spray and biting cold wind filled them with

tears. He blinked them away and whatever

movement he thought he had seen was gone.

Night and the threat of storms had forced the

lookout to spend a miserable watch aloft, against

the unlikely chance the captain had drifted off

course. It was hardly possible, considered the

lookout, as the captain was a knowledgeable

seaman, chosen for his skill at avoiding danger as

much as any other quality. And he knew as well as

any man how hazardous this passage was. The

Temple held the cargo's value second to none, and

rumors of possible raiders along the Quegan coast

had dictated a hazardous tack near Widow's Point,

a rocky area best avoided if possible.

But Ishap's Dawn was crewed by experienced

sailors, who were now closely attentive to the

captain's orders, and each was quick to respond,

for every man aloft knew that, once upon the rocks

at Widow's Point, no ship survived. Each man

feared for his own life—that was only natural—but

these men were chosen not only for their

seamanship, but also for fealty to the Temple. And

they all knew how precious their cargo was to the

Temple.

In the hold below, eight monks of the Temple

of Ishap in Krondor stood around a most holy

artifact, the Tear of the Gods. A jewel of

astonishing size, easily as long as a large man's

arm and twice as thick, it was illuminated from

within by a mystic light. Once every ten years a

new Tear was formed in a hidden monastery in a

tiny secret valley in the Grey Tower Mountains.

When it was ready and most holy rites completed,

a heavily armed caravan transported it to the

nearest port in the Free Cities of Natal. There it

was placed upon a ship and carried to Krondor.

From there, the Tear and an escort of warrior

monks, priests, and servants would continue on,

eventually reaching Salador to then be taken by

ship and transported to the mother Temple in

Rillanon where it replaced the previous Tear, as its

power waned.

The true nature and purpose of the sacred gem

was known only to the highest ranking among

those serving within the Temple, and the sailor

high atop the main mast asked no questions. He

trusted in the power of the gods and knew that he

served a greater good. And he was being

handsomely paid not to ask questions as much as

to stand his watch. But after two weeks of battling

contrary winds and difficult seas, even the most

pious man found the blue-white light which shone

every night from below, and the monks' incessant

chanting, nerve-wracking. The duration of the

unseasonable winds and unexpected storms had

some of the crew muttering about sorcery and dark

magic. The lookout offered a silent prayer of

thanks to Killian, Goddess of Nature and Sailors

(and then added a short one to Eortis, who some

said was the true God of the Sea) that come dawn

they would reach their destination: Krondor. The

Tear and its escort would quickly leave the city for

the east, but the sailor would remain in Krondor,

with his family. What he was being paid would

allow him a long visit home.

The sailor above thought of his wife and two

children, and he smiled briefly. His daughter was

now old enough to help her mother around the

kitchen and with her baby brother, and a third child

was due soon. As he had a hundred times before,

the sailor vowed he'd find other work near home,

so he could spend more time with his family. He

was pulled from his reverie by another flicker of

movement toward shore. Light from the ship

painted the storm-tossed combers and he could

sense the rhythm of the sea. Something had just

broken the rhythm. He peered through the murk,

trying to pierce the gloom by strength of will, to

see if they might be drifting too close to the rocks.

Knute said, "The blue light coming from that

ship gives me a bad feeling, Captain."

The man Knute addressed towered over him as

he looked down. At six foot eight inches tall he

dwarfed those around him. His massive shoulders

and arms lay exposed by the black leather cuirass

he favored, though he had added a pair of shoulder

pads studded with steel spikes—a prize taken off

the corpse of one of Queg's more renowned

gladiators. The exposed skin displayed dozens of

reminders of battles fought, traces of old wounds

intersecting one another. A scar that ran from

forehead to jawbone through his right eye, which

was milky white, marked his face. But his left

seemed to glow with an evil red light from within

and Knute knew that eye missed little. Save for the

spikes on his shoulders, his armor was plain and

serviceable, well oiled and cared for, but displaying

patches and repairs. An amulet hung around his

neck, bronze but darkened by more than time and

neglect, stained by ancient and black arts. The red

gem set in its middle pulsed with a faint inner light

of its own as Bear said, "Worry about keeping us

off the rocks, pilot. It's the only reason I keep you

alive." Turning to the rear of the ship, he spoke

softly, but his voice carried to the stern. "Now!" A

sailor at the rear spoke down to those in the hold

below, "Forward!" and the hortator raised one

hand, and then brought its heel down on the drum

between his knees.

At the sound of the first beat, the slaves

chained to their seats raised their oars and on the

second beat they lowered them and pulled as one.

The word had been passed, but the Master of

Slaves who walked between the banks of oars

repeated it. "Silently, my darlings! I'll kill the first

of you who makes a sound above a whisper!" The

ship, a Quegan patrol galley seized in a raid the

year before, inched forward, picking up speed. At

the prow, Knute crouched, intently scanning the

water before him. He had positioned the ship so it

would come straight at the target, but there was

one turn that still needed to be made to port—not

difficult if one reckoned the timing correctly, but

dangerous nevertheless. Suddenly Knute turned

and said, "Now, hard to port!"

Bear turned and relayed the order and the

helmsman turned the ship. A moment later Knute

ordered the rudder amidships, and the galley

began to cut through the water.

Knute's gaze lingered on Bear for a moment,

and then he returned his attention to the ship they

were about to take. Knute had never been so

frightened in his life. He was a born pirate, a dock-

rat from Port Natal who had worked his way up

from being an ordinary seaman to being one of the

best pilots in the Bitter Sea. He knew every rock,

shoal, reef, and tide pool between Ylith and

Krondor, and westward to the Straits of Darkness,

and along the coast of the Free Cities. And it was

that knowledge that had kept him alive more than

forty years while braver, stronger, and more

intelligent men had died. Knute felt Bear standing

behind him. He had worked for the enormous

pirate before, once taking Quegan prize ships as

they returned from raids along the Keshian coast.

Another time he had served with Bear as a

privateer, under marque from the Governor of

Durbin, plundering Kingdom ships.

For the last four years Knute had run his own

gang, scavengers picking over wrecks drawn upon

the rocks by false lights here at Widow's Point. It

had been the knowledge of the rocks and how to

negotiate them that had brought him back into

Bear's service. The odd trader named Sidi, who

came to the Widow's Point area every year or so,

had asked him to find a ruthless man, one who

would not shirk from a dangerous mission and who

had no aversion to killing. Knute had spent a year

tracking down Bear and had sent him word that

there was a job of great risk and greater reward

waiting. Bear had answered and had come to meet

with Sidi. Knute had figured he'd either take a fee

for putting the two men in touch, or he might work

a split with Bear in exchange for use of his men

and his ship. But from that point where Knute had

brought Bear to meet with Sidi, on the beach at

Widow's Point, everything had changed. Instead of

working for himself, Knute was now again working

as Bear's galley-pilot and first mate—Knute's own

ship, a nimble little coaster, had been sunk to drive

home Bear's terms: riches to Knute and his men if

they joined him. If they refused, the alternative

was simple: death.

Knute glanced at the strange blue light dancing

upon the water as they drew down upon the

Ishapian ship. The little man's heart beat with

enough force to make him fear it would somehow

break loose from within. He gripped the wooden

rail tightly as he called for a meaningless course

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[Version1.0][Proofreadbybraven]RaymondE.FeistTearoftheGodsACKNOWLEDGMENTSAswithotherprojects,Iamindebttomanypeople,butmoresowiththisthanalmostanyotherworkI'veundertaken.Thatwasdueinsignificantparttotheevolutionofthegame,"ReturntoKrondor,"thecorestoryofwhichalsoservesasthecoreofthisnovel.Iwouldbelaxi...

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Raymond E. Feist - Riftwar Legacy - Tear of the Gods

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