The War Within Read online

  OTHER BOOKS BY STEPHEN R. DONALDSON

  “THE GREAT GOD’S WAR”

  Seventh Decimate

  “THE CHRONICLES OF THOMAS COVENANT THE UNBELIEVER”

  Lord Foul’s Bane

  The Illearth War

  The Power That Preserves

  “THE SECOND CHRONICLES OF THOMAS COVENANT”

  The Wounded Land

  The One Tree

  White Gold Wielder

  “THE LAST CHRONICLES OF THOMAS COVENANT”

  The Runes of the Earth

  Fatal Revenant

  Against All Things Ending

  The Last Dark

  “MORDANT’S NEED”

  The Mirror of Her Dreams

  A Man Rides Through

  “THE GAP SEQUENCE”

  The Real Story

  Forbidden Knowledge

  A Dark and Hungry God Arises

  Chaos and Order

  This Day All Gods Die

  THE AXBREWDER-FISTOULARI MYSTERIES

  The Man Who Killed His Brother

  The Man Who Risked His Partner

  The Man Who Tried to Get Away

  The Man Who Fought Alone

  SHORT FICTION

  Daughter of Regals and Other Tales

  Reave the Just and Other Tales

  The King’s Justice: Two Novellas

  BERKLEY

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

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  Copyright © 2019 by Stephen R. Donaldson

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Donaldson, Stephen R., author.

  Title: The war within / Stephen R. Donaldson.

  Description: First Edition. | New York, NY: Berkley, 2019. | Series: The Great God’s War; book 2

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018037400 | ISBN 9780399586163 (hardback) | ISBN 9780399586170 (ebook)

  Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Fantasy / Epic. | FICTION / War & Military. | GSAFD: Fantasy fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3554.O469 W37 2019 | DDC 813/.54—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018037400

  First Edition: April 2019

  Cover art by Nekro

  Cover design by Katie Anderson

  Cover art direction by Adam Auerbach

  Title page art © Kirill Volkov / Shutterstock

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  TO ROCKY KEARNEY AND EVELIN YOURSTONE WHEELER

  FOR DECADES OF ENDURING FRIENDSHIP

  AND TO JENNIFER DUNSTAN

  FOR HER GENEROUS LOVE.

  CONTENTS

  Other Books by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue: Plans in Motion

  PART ONE

  Chapter One: Among Old Friends

  Chapter Two: Making Peace

  Chapter Three: The Queen in Council

  Chapter Four: “In the beginning . . .”

  Chapter Five: The Queen in Consultation

  Chapter Six: Unpreparedness

  PART TWO

  Chapter Seven: Prince Bifalt’s Courtship of Princess Estie

  Chapter Eight: The General’s Return

  Chapter Nine: Queen Estie’s Companions

  Chapter Ten: Before the First Encounters

  Chapter Eleven: Poking a Nest

  Chapter Twelve: King’s Secret

  Chapter Thirteen: Nothing Without Help

  PART THREE

  Chapter Fourteen: A Courted Man

  Chapter Fifteen: Deliveries

  Chapter Sixteen: Telling Each Other the Truth

  Chapter Seventeen: An Interrogation

  Chapter Eighteen: The Spy and the Archpriest

  Chapter Nineteen: A Crisis in Belleger’s Fist

  Chapter Twenty: A Day of Squalls

  Chapter Twenty-One: The Queen’s Choice

  Epilogue: Coming

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  PLANS IN MOTION

  From the high windows of his workroom, the tall librarian, white-haired and bearded, studied the battlements that defended the gates, and below them the wide plateau lying like a porch at the foot of the Last Repository. He had wasps of anxiety buzzing in his brain. During the night, he had dreamed of his own death—and not for the first time. In itself, the idea of dying did not trouble him. A new librarian would take his place. His special relationship with the Repository’s store of knowledge would pass to someone else: the sorcery preserving the continuance of that bond had been in effect for many centuries. And any new librarian would protect the books, scrolls, and papers as stringently as he did. But he did fear that his replacement might not share his vision of the library’s defense. If that happened, all of his efforts would accomplish nothing. He could not bring himself to leave his post at the windows.

  He was blind, of course. He had lost his sight when he had become the librarian. The gift or curse of knowing every text stored on the levels above him always exacted the same price. But he was more than a librarian. He was Magister Sirjane Marrow, and powerful. He saw with senses other than human vision. The midafternoon sun warmed his face but did not require him to lower his head or turn away.

  In any case, he did not need sight to tell him that Set Ungabwey’s caravan was arriving. He heard the grinding of its wheels on the distant stone of the plateau. Subtle vibrations reached him through the soles of his sandals. He could smell the importance of what was coming.

  The caravan master’s ornate conveyance, his traveling home, was already at rest in front of the gates, waiting for Magister Marrow himself. The wagon’s teamsters were tending their horses, while several of Master Ungabwey’s servants worked to clean the stains and grime of a hard journey from the vehicle’s carved, gilded sides. In addition, the librarian detected a number of smaller carriages settling on their wheels. They housed the caravan’s serving-folk, and some of them showed signs of damage: shattered spokes in their wheels, cracks and even holes in their roofs, deep scrapes along their sides. But the other wagons that had left the Repository almost three fortnights ago were not in range of the Magister’s senses.

  Those wagons were the most essential conveyances in the caravan. If they did not come—

  They were Sirjane Marrow’s latest gambit: only the most recent of his moves in the game he played against ruin, but by no means the least crucial. He had started to put his plans in motion more than a hundred years ago. Twenty years ago, he had beaten down Prince Bifalt’s pride and hostility so that Belleger and Amika might be able to negotiate for peace. But since then, he had done little more than watch and wait. Oh, he had approv
ed when the devotees of Flesh had proposed to give the two small realms their singular aid. And he had actively encouraged the devotees of Spirit to travel the continent with Allman Dancer’s Wide World Carnival, looking for hints of the library’s enemy, seeking out potential allies. In the intervening years, however, he had concentrated his own efforts on training the Repository’s sorcerers, on preserving communications with Magister Facile in Belleger, and on keeping watch. He had not urged Set Ungabwey to attempt the mountains until he knew the enemy was coming.

  Now the enemy was close. If Master Ungabwey had failed, the librarian’s entire defensive strategy would fall apart.

  Set Ungabwey and his ever-changing train had come to the Repository several times in recent years, but not on an occasion as fraught as this one; not since he had indirectly delivered Prince Bifalt. Twenty years ago, however, Magister Marrow had had other stratagems ready if his plans for the Prince failed. Now he had no idea what he would do if the caravan did not accomplish its purpose.

  An irascible man at the best of times, Sirjane Marrow scowled at the plateau as if the shapes he discerned made him furious.

  Still the bedraggled line of conveyances continued to come. Tired oxen tugged more carriages onto the high porch of the library, bringing teams of guards and scouts as well as mechanicians and trained laborers. The condition of the vehicles gave further proof—as if the librarian needed it—that they had emerged from hostile terrain.

  But not from human hostility. The state of the wagons did not suggest battle-damage. Before the caravan set out, Master Ungabwey’s interpreter, Tchwee, had reached an understanding with the Quolt, the strange mountain folk who could have barred the wagons’ road. In exchange for a trivial portion of the Last Repository’s abundance, the Quolt had promised safe passage, guidance, and aid. They must have kept their word.

  No, the hostility was that of the Wall Mountains themselves. They were so tall that even in summer they remained clogged with ice and flailed by snow, scourged by winds only granite could endure. Granite and, apparently, the Quolt. Centuries ago, when the guardians of the library had chosen to build their Last Repository here, they had believed the peaks and elevation and weather would protect them from any assault at their backs. Now, of course, they knew better. The Quolt had testified to that.

  But Magister Marrow refused to consider the hardships and dangers the caravan had endured. The library’s survival was his driving obsession. He already had too many piercing anxieties, and each of them felt like a fresh sting.

  Then he made out the first of the immense conveyances for which he had been waiting. Gusting steam from their nostrils in the mild air of the heights, six illirim hauled their burden onto the plateau. They were huge, tusked beasts, massive as bullocks, shaggy as sheep: the only animals muscular enough to pull the weight of their long wagon with its enormous load, and tough enough to keep going day after day. That load was tightly sheeted in canvas to protect it from rain or hail or snow or lesser rock-falls; but the librarian knew what it was.

  Set Ungabwey had taken three such wagons into the mountains. One had returned.

  But while it settled into its place on the plateau, more illirim impinged on Sirjane Marrow’s senses. More beasts dragged their wagon into view. Like the first, their burden was sealed in canvas; stoutly tied. And undamaged.

  Rubbing his sightless eyes, he allowed himself to imagine that where there were two, there might be a third. And when the third appeared, he allowed himself a moment of relief.

  Unfortunately, the return of the caravan did not indicate success. It demonstrated only that Set Ungabwey’s people had made the attempt, and had survived with their massive catapults intact. To know the truth, the blind librarian would have to hear it.

  He could have sent a messenger to get the caravan master’s report; but for several reasons, Sirjane Marrow wanted to hear Master Ungabwey’s tidings in person. He and Set Ungabwey had dealt with each other for a long time. He owed the house-bound master the respect of a personal visit. In addition, he trusted his own hearing more than anyone else’s; his own ability to detect what lay behind what was said. And if the caravan had succeeded, he had another challenge for it. He would have to negotiate.

  Set Ungabwey was a faithful ally, but he was also a merchant. He would have to be paid. Determining and then accepting—or refusing—his price was the responsibility of the Last Repository’s librarian. And if Magister Marrow could not meet that price, he would have to offer some other payment, something Master Ungabwey valued even more highly.

  Sounding more irate than he intended, the librarian summoned a servant to inform the caravan master that Magister Marrow would come to him shortly.

  The man who answered was not a monk devoted to the Cult of the Many. He gave his diligence and effort for pay: a detail that made no difference to the librarian. No doubt Magister Rummage, the hunchback—and therefore deaf Magister Avail—knew the man’s name, where he had come from, how long he had served the Last Repository. They could vouch for him. Sirjane Marrow did not hesitate to trust him.

  If the librarian had focused his remaining senses, he would have perceived a young man with a diffident manner wearing a blue tunic and pantaloons instead of a monk’s grey robe, black hair tousled on his forehead, sturdy boots on his feet. But the Magister did not trouble himself. He had other issues on his mind. To the servant, he said irritably, “Please tell the caravan master I will attend him. And send someone else to Magister Rummage. He should know I am about to leave the library.”

  The young man did not speak: he had not been asked a direct question. Instead, he bowed and left.

  Studying the wounded and comparatively small caravan below him, Magister Marrow wondered, Will they be enough? There were no Quolt in Belleger’s mountains. Without guides, Master Ungabwey would need to consult with the rulers of Belleger and Amika.

  That idea vexed the librarian. Some of his preparations would be exposed. But he had to face the consequences. He did not have many choices left. And he could not ask Set Ungabwey to brave another range of mountains without leaving the Master free to determine his own course.

  Muttering curses under his breath, the old man turned from his windows and began to make his unerring way down through the keep toward the mustering hall and the gates.

  * * *

  Before he reached the hall, the servant he had sent to Master Ungabwey stepped in front of him. “With your permission, Magister,” the man said to explain himself. “I have delivered your message. Now the most holy Amandis asks you to await her.”

  “Await her?” snapped the sorcerer. “Why? Master Ungabwey awaits me. What can she want that prompts her to delay me?”

  The servant took the liberty of replying, “She did not say. You know her, Magister. She does not account for her wishes. She merely states them and expects compliance.”

  That was true, but the librarian had not expected a servant to tell him so. He regarded the young man more closely. “Will Flamora accompany her?”

  The servant held his head so that his hair hid his eyes. “She did not say,” he repeated. His tone did not suggest discomfort. “However, I imagine the most holy Amandis waits for the most holy Flamora.”

  Magister Marrow snorted his impatience. But he could not justify venting his irritation on any servant, certainly not on a young man who felt so little awe in his presence. An attitude that Magister Rummage would have called impudence—if the bitter hunchback had been able to speak—Sirjane Marrow found refreshing. More mildly, he said, “Inform them, please, that I will await them in the hall. But I will not wait long. If the devotee of Spirit cannot bear to be parted from her antagonist, and the devotee of Flesh cannot tear herself away from her self-regard, I will speak with them when I have consulted with Master Ungabwey.”

  He thought he heard a muffled chuckle from the servant, but he was not sure. He had already gone past the y
oung man, walking briskly.

  Amandis and Flamora were in the keep, of course, as they had been at irregular intervals for decades. In their separate ways, or by their separate means, they knew as well as he did that events were approaching a crisis. It might be the last crisis: the last in the library’s besieged millennia of existence. They gave the Repository their support because they knew its worth. But they also had their own singular priorities—or their own peculiar styles of support. Magister Marrow did not care how fond of Elgart Flamora had become, but he still rued the impulse that had led Amandis to say too much to Bifalt twenty years ago. In his bones, the librarian believed that the more his designs became known, the more opposition they would attract.

  Bifalt and the Amikan, Commander Forguile, who had somehow become the Prince’s ally, already knew more than they should. No doubt Elgart did as well.

  But those misjudgments were long past. They could not be corrected. What mattered now were the conclusions that Belleger and Amika drew from their premature insights. So far, the librarian had no cause for regret. Those two realms were doing what he required of them.

  Knowing every intricacy of the Last Repository, he reached the mustering hall that fronted the gates in a short time.

  Those gates were the only entrance to the keep, and they were barred and strutted with heavy iron to protect the books, the scrolls and tomes, the loose papers. Nevertheless they were the most easily breached of the Repository’s defenses.

  Warned, no doubt, by the caravan’s arrival, servants who were also students of sorcery had already lit the many cressets, filling the huge space with light Magister Marrow did not need. Urged by the buzzing in his head, he would have gone straight to the massive gates, confident that they would open as he approached. Instead, he went to the staircase customarily used by the devotees. There he paused to compose himself. Much as he wanted to rail at Amandis, he had no intention of doing so. His allies were too few: he could not afford to indulge a petty frustration at any of them. In any case, his ire would be wasted. The assassin had often demonstrated that she was impervious to insult.