The Steward and the Sorcerer by James Peart (books suggested by elon musk .TXT) 📕

from that other, anything might happen.  It was crucial that he stay within the protective cloak provided by the darkness.  There were others beyond the light, indistinct shapes that took human form, peering in at the darkness, at him, he felt certain, whispering to each other before moving away.  Every now and then they would return, but the interval provided by their absence grew longer and longer.  He hoped they would leave for good, yet there was an air of study about their movements that suggested this was not going to happen.  He was being examined, to what end he did not know.  All he knew was that he must not leave this place.

Things were returning to him now.  He was a Magus of some kind, a sorcerer of the dark arts.  He lived alone in a large fortress.  There had been a confrontation, more than one, between himself and an opponent.  Ah yes, he knew now.  There had been two of them, the first a creature of magic like he was, the other an ordinary person.  When he thought of the second a feeling of great betrayal swept through him.  A member of his family, a close relative, come to visit him to do him harm.  Was nothing sacred out there?  Better to stay here.

He remembered details of the second confrontation.  He had suspected his cousin was up to no good, had left him in the guest chamber while he prepared the...Ceylon fire?...and returned with the deadly white flame.  But it had been too late.  His cousin had taken him by surprise, plunging a knife into his guts.  He had never really thought Jareth would betray him like that, not his own kin.  Clearly there was no place safe out there.

The others returned, bent over him, examining him, examining his wounds?  He was in a medical centre of some sort.  Yes.  After putting an end to Jareth, he had fallen unconscious only to awake in great pain moments later.  He had summoned what was left of his strength and crawled across the castle floor outside to the stables.  He had entered the stallion Pendrax’s box and, after several attempts, managed to sling himself on the horse’s back.  Pendrax was wearing his reins which was a mercy as he did not think he could have fitted them on the large animal’s head.  He had arrived at Manor Harmon a day later, having slipped in and out of consciousness on the way, a miracle that he did not fall or lose his direction, the horse following the bridal paths that led south to the Manor.  The healers, when they took charge of him, must have given him something to sleep as his next memory was of this dark place.

He turned in the blackness, the dark shrouding him like a familiar robe, rippling against his movement.  It was cool here.  It gave him space to think.  He would eventually have to return, he knew.  There were things out there that demanded his attention, duties and responsibilities that must be carried out.  A confrontation with Karsin Longfellow, for one.  Perhaps one day he could negotiate with the stewardship of Brinemore, he thought, but it would be with Longfellow’s successor.  This man had ordered his assassination and the only appropriate response was to put an end to him.  The reputation of the Druids demanded such a retaliation.  He could not do this alone however.  It was not simply a matter of walking up to his residence and confronting him flat.  Longfellow was well protected, Brinemore a fortress city with the steward’s citadel built high in its centre and ringed by a patrol of formidable home guards, some of whom it was rumoured had knowledge of the dark arts.  Longfellow was not a proponent of sorcery yet this did not preclude him from using it to serve his own ends.

Then there was Fein Mor.  He needed to recruit assistants to tend to the many duties the keep required on a daily basis.  Also, he had to train and recruit other Druids, for if the order were to survive it would need to be greater than just one man.  This last would prove difficult.  He had eschewed his circle of connections in the Northern Earth for too long, the people he had known before he had begun his own training as Druid no longer in touch with him.  He supposed he could try to resume his relationship with them, but this would be difficult at best.  Relationships weren’t his strength.  And he had cut off most or all of his ties with the people he knew in Bottom Dell.

He had an idea of what he could do, but he would develop it later.

Tolke Straat stood over the patient in the large healing chamber, flanked by helpers either side of him, studying the expression on the Druid’s face.  He had earlier shown signs of recovery from the coma he had fallen into, nothing more than a flickering of his eyelids and slight movement of his right hand, but it was promising.  They had administered potions to assist his return to consciousness, Tolke making sure the dosage was kept low; too much and the patient would have reacted adversely by falling into a permanent coma.  Now it was perhaps time to feed him more drops.  He leaned over the bed, the small glass jar containing the accelerant known as Liquid Velvet in one hand, the other twisting the cap that was attached to a syringe.  He opened the patient’s mouth and let the potion drip inside.  He stood back, placing the jar on the night table and watched for any sign of a reaction.

The Druid stirred and opened his eyes.  An old man with a careworn face was peering down at him.  There were crow’s feet around his eyes, weathered lines grooved on his forehead and grey hair falling to his temples.  There was a large dimple on one cheek.  His eyes were the most youthful thing about