Prince of the Blood. Raymond E. Feist
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groin. Almost aloud he said. It’s about the most beautiful bottom I’ve ever seen.
Instantly the young woman turned about, her hands flying up to her mouth, as if startled by a noise. In that instant, James discovered that the rest of her was equal to what he had already seen. Her figure was slender, like a dancer’s, and her arms and neck were long and elegant, her stomach flat, her breasts not large, but full and lovely. As her hand dropped away from her face, he saw a high forehead, fine cheekbones, and pale, slightly pink lips. Her eyes, wide in astonishment, were the blue of midwinter’s ice. All these details were etched in his mind in an instant. A thousand instants of recognition flooded through James, and in each he knew the young woman before him was at once the most wonderful and terrifying sight he had ever beheld. Then those beautiful pale blue eyes narrowed and suddenly pain exploded in James’s head.
He fell back as if struck by a weapon, and his voice cried out hollow in his own ears as he went beneath the water’s surface. Sharp knives of hot agony filled his mind as water filled his mouth. James sank into the murk of the water as he lost consciousness.
In a place which was not a place James swam, drowning in memories: his playing upon the street cobbles and never a moment passing without the fear. Strangers were a danger, yet every day brought strangers into his mother’s house. Men who were loud and frightening passed the boy each day, some ignoring him, others attempting to amuse him for a brief moment with a pat upon the head or an odd word.
Then the night when she died and no one came: the man with the crooked smile had heard him cry and fled. Jimmy had found his way out of the house, his child’s feet padding through the sticky blood on the floor.
Then the fights with the other boy for the bone and the bread crust left out behind the inns and taverns, eating the raw wheat and corn that spilled from under the grain wagons at the dockside. And the drops of bitter wine in the almost empty bottle. The occasional coin from a generous passerby to buy a hot pie. Hunger was always there.
A voice in the dark, no face to remember, asked him if he was clever. He had been clever. Very clever. His beginning with the Mockers.
Danger around, at all times. No friends, no allies, only the rules of the guild to protect Jimmy the Hand. But he was gifted; the Upright Man forgave small trespasses from one who brought in so much wealth at such an early age.
Then the man with the crooked smile reappeared. Jimmy had been twelve. It had been nothing of proud honour and hot revenge. A boy thief had crept in and dosed the drunk’s wine with a poison purchased from a man dealing in such things. The man with the crooked smile died without knowing his murderer’s reasons, his face blackening as his tongue protruded through swollen lips and his eyes bulging, while the son of a murdered whore watched through a crack in the ceiling of the flop house where he lay. Jimmy had felt no triumph, but somehow he hoped his mother rested better. He never knew his mother’s name. He felt as if he wanted to cry but didn’t know how. He had cried twice … no, three times in honesty. When Anita lay stricken and when he thought Arutha dead. That had been grief, and it was not a sign of weakness or shame. But he had cried in the darkness when trapped in the cave with the rock serpent, before Duke Martin had saved him. He could never admit to his fear.
Other images: his incredible, almost inhuman skills in the calling. His discovery that his fate was linked to great things when he helped to hide the Prince and Princess of Krondor from their captors during the reign of Mad King Rodric. His freeing the captives in Del Garza’s prison and feeling the city and the Upright Man’s wrath afterward, then his adventure in Land’s End. His death duel with a Nighthawk upon the rooftops of the city, saving Arutha’s life, though he had not known it at the time. His travels twice to the Northlands and the great battles of Armengar and Sethanon, and the peace that followed after the battle to stem the return of the Dragon Host.
Now he was James.
His service to Arutha and his reward by being elevated to a place in his court, his title, and, later, another title, and his being named Chancellor of Krondor, first in rank after Duke Gardan in the Prince’s court, all became a haze of pleasant thoughts, the only pleasant thoughts in his life. Faces passed, some named, others nameless. Thieves, assassins, nobles, peasants. Women. He remembered many, for early on he had developed a taste for the attentions of women and, as a rising young nobleman, had his choice of many companions. He never treated any poorly, and genuinely cared for those he bedded, but there was always something lacking. Something important. The moments were pleasant, but pleasure was fleeting and he felt empty afterward. Then a nude figure wading in the lake as she squeezed water from her hair. The most stunning vision he had beheld.
Then a face with pale blue eyes, and lips like pink roses. A concerned face, which peered into James’s, saw past the mask and deep into his very being. Something magical and beautiful burst within James, and again he wanted to cry. A sadness filled him with awful joy and he cringed before those clear eyes. They looked inside and saw things, and he had no secrets. He had no secrets! I am lost! he cried out and a child whimpered at the death of his mother, and a boy cried as a young woman lay dying from an assassin’s bolt, and a youth cried as the only man he had come to trust lay dead before him in his chambers, and a man cried for all the old pain and torment, the fear and loneliness that had lived within his breast since the day of his birth.
James awoke upon the shore, a cry of pain and fear upon his lips. He sat bolt upright, his arm over his head, a child avoiding a blow from above. He was still damp, and naked. A voice said, ‘The pain will pass.’
James turned, and as he did so the terrible aching inside slipped away. He turned to find the young woman sitting upon the shore a few feet away from him. She sat with her legs pulled up before her, arms around her knees, still without her clothing.
James had never so much wished to flee in his life. No experience filled him with such nameless dread as seeing this beautiful young woman sitting near. Tears rose unbidden to his eyes. ‘Who are you?’ he whispered. Yet as he wished to flee, so much more so did he long to be close to this woman.
Slowly she rose, unselfconscious in her nudity, and came to stand before him. She knelt until her face was before his. A voice sounded inside his mind: I am Gamina, James.
Fear again visited James, and he found himself unable to move. He said, ‘You spoke inside my head.’
‘Yes,’ she answered aloud. ‘You must understand that I can see your thoughts, hear them,’ she seemed to grope for a concept, ‘those words are not right. But I know what you think unless you try to keep your thoughts from me.’
He attempted to gather his wits about him as he fought down the aching pain inside. ‘What happened over there?’ He indicated the reed-filled pool.
‘Your thoughts startled me, and I reacted without reason. I can defend myself, as you discovered.’
James raised a hand to his head, a memory of pain there. ‘Yes,’ was all he could say.
She reached out and touched his cheek softly. ‘I am sorry. It was not something I would have done knowingly. I can cause much harm to the mind. It is one of the ways my talents could be abused.’
James found the touch of her hand both reassuring and disturbing. A fearful thrill ran from his chest to his groin. Softly he asked, ‘Who are you?’
She smiled and pain and fear fled from James. ‘I am Gamina. I am Pug and Katala’s daughter.’ Then she leaned forward and softly kissed his lips. ‘I am who you have been seeking, and you are who I have sought.’
James felt hot desire rise up within, but a giddy fearfulness came with it. No stranger to a woman’s embrace, he suddenly felt like a child with his first stolen moment of love. Words he had never thought to hear himself utter came unbidden. ‘I am frightened,’ he whispered.
‘Don’t be,’ she whispered back.
Holding him close, she spoke to his mind. When I stunned you, you fell back into the water. Had I not pulled you out, you would have drowned. As I revived you, your mind was open to me, and mine to you. Had you the ability, you would know me as well as I know you, my Jimmy.