The Spellmonger’s Wedding

By Terry Mancour

A Spellmonger Story

The halls of Wilderhall were nearly deserted at this time of year, as the Duke’s staff had largely relocated to the Winter Palace at the capital of Castabriel, where the bulk of the administrative work of the duchy was done.  But there are some offices which just do not lend themselves to portability, and the Ministry of Domains, Lands and Estates was one of them.

I suppose it made sense to keep the vast records of all the domains in the Summer Palace.  Space in the busy urban capital was at a premium, and the office needed a lot of it for the voluminous records of who owned what and owed how much tribute where.  Wilderhall is a large castle, and there was plenty of room to spread out.  The archives wound back through the dusty, cool chambers of the keep, tended by a small army of brown-robed clerks.  It was as quiet as a library where I was sitting, in Lady Arnet’s office.

I was awaiting the Mistress of Domains, Lands and Estates with a fresh warrant for my reward in my hands.  I was to have my choice of domains from the Duke’s holdings, within limits.  Theoretically, that could mean an estate just about anywhere.  It all depended upon where I wanted to hang my four-pointed hat.

There were hundreds of estates on the books in his name, estates confiscated for taxation, legal issues, or punishments, forfeitures and estates held in trust for noble lines gone extinct.  The administration of that great empire of real estate and taxation was a massive task, but Lady Arnet seemed more than capable of it.  She had glanced at the warrant when I’d arrived, asked me a few brief questions, and then had me escorted to her office while she hobbled back into the dusty recesses of the archives, to find some possible estates for my consideration.

While I was waiting, I couldn’t help but notice the beautiful collection of thimbles displayed behind her ancient desk. There were hundreds of them, of all shapes and sizes, made of different materials and neatly displayed in a cunningly- carved wooden case.  The ones at the top were golden, the next tier silver, and so forth.  At the bottom there were several of porcelain, tin, and common clay.  It was an impressive and illustrative display of the thimbler’s art – and I had never even known that there were thimblers, or that there was art to what they did.

“Admiring my collection, young man?” the creaky voice of Lady Arnet asked, breaking my reverie.

“It’s impressive,” I agreed.  “I had no idea that there were this many types of thimbles.  You must really enjoy your needlework.”

“Bah, I hate needlework – haven’t touched it in years,” she dismissed with a giggle at some private joke.  She took her chair and laid a thick stack of leather-bound folios on her desk.  “Those thimbles are meaningful in other ways,” she explained, casually.  “They are a record of every man I’ve ever ordered assassinated.”

“Oh,” I said, dumbly.

I might have forgotten to mention.  Lady Arnet was also known as “Grandmother”, the matriarch behind the Duchess of Castal’s sinister Family of intelligence and assassination operatives.  I looked at the collection again.  There were hundreds.

“The gold are those of royal descent, of course,” she added, conversationally, “Dukes, duchesses, and their heirs.  The silver are nobles of highest rank, the bronze are barons and viscounts, the porcelain are petty nobility, the pewter are craftsmasters or burghers – the six there at the end were once the Barrowbell Burghers’ Council.  The lead ones are clergy, and the unglazed clay are, of course, commoners.”

I studied the collection anew with a sick feeling in my stomach.  “For magi you should have them made to resemble our four-pointed caps,” I suggested.  “And for High Magi, top them with emeralds.”

She considered, and then nodded in agreement.  “You are anticipating that already?  Then you may just be wiser than you appear, Sir Minalan.”

“I recognize the possibility,” I conceded.  “‘Anticipating’ might be too strong a term.  Our organizations are working well together at the moment, but I also have a fine appreciation the vagaries of Fate and the whimsical nature of the gods.”

She nodded, pleasantly, and poured tea for us both.  “I am so glad we understand each other, then.  I have been doing this a very long time, my dear, and I hope you realize that it is almost never personal.  Why,” she said, gesturing to the collection, “three of those thimbles are blood relatives of mine.  But they were in the way.”

“That is regrettable,” I said, feeling almost as chilled by the kindly old woman as I had been by the presence of the Dead God.  “But I do understand.  As I consider how to establish the way magic will work in the new regime,” I added, carefully, “I am certain that we, too, will have to make such difficult decisions.  For the greater good.”

“For the greater good,” she agreed, fixing me with a stark stare that belied her kindly features.  “I do believe we have an understanding, young man.”

“I’m not certain that we do, Grandmother,” I said, invoking her secret title.  “As I tried to explain to Mother,” – the Duchess – “as potent as the protection of the Crown would be for our order, it matters not to us which head lies under that crown.”

She wasn’t startled by the challenge – in truth, I think she expected it. Or at least was so good at her job that she wouldn’t display that kind of emotion unless she wanted to.

“I can respect that,” she agreed.  “But before you think me a bloodthirsty old bitch, Son-in-Law, let me explain that each of those dainties behind me also represents lives saved.  Sometimes thousands of lives.  Sometimes millions.  The Family does not resort to such tactics lightly – that is one way in which we differ from our . . . competitors in other realms.  We weigh everything quite carefully before we send one of our daughters to her needlework.”

The assassins in the Family were almost all female, almost all young and pretty, and extremely talented in making their kills look like accidents.  No one suspects a vapid serving maid or a love-struck young noblewoman to be a secret assassin.

“I’m sure that brings great comfort to the families of the fallen,” I said, dryly.

“No doubt,” she said, deadpan.  “But let us turn our attention to more important matters than needlework.  The selection of your domain is an important decision, young man.  And learning what it is to be noble is an important skill to learn.  It is my task to help you with both.”

“Both?  I didn’t think nobility was a skill,” I observed, sipping my tea.  Sure, it could have been poisoned, but somehow I didn’t think Lady Arnet would stoop to such base treacheries.  It would be inartful.

“A common misconception.  Even amongst the nobility, if you would have the truth.  But most of us learn these things as a matter of course, from our parents and families and lieges.  Those born common,” she said, without a trace of judgment, “only see the result, not the preparation.

“But your situation is far from unique.  I’ve taught more commoners how to present their nobility than I have thimbles in my collection.”  She took two books down from a shelf nearby.  “You can read, can’t you?  Of course you can, you were Academy trained.  Read these two books,” she ordered, pushing them to me, “and come to me with any questions.  Now, let us see what the Duchy can provide for you as your just reward for such gallant and faithful service.”

I tucked the books under my arm and we spent the next two hours going through one estate after another.  Each folio was a record of the land, its size and composition, the people, the number of hearths, principal produce and exports, and tax and tribute information.

Once I had sketched out my basic requirements, Lady Arnet began helping me sift through the offerings, discarding some out of hand, putting some in a pile for consideration, and piling up a very few as strong contenders for my requirements.

She was actually quite helpful, once you got over the fact that she had killed more men than I had.   She kept up a litany of helpful advice about what I should look for in an estate, and she steered me away from any obvious disasters-in-waiting.

“No, this domain was in rebellion ten years ago, and it is still harboring ill feeling among the people – you don’t need to borrow someone else’s trouble for your first estate.  This one has six villages, which sounds like a bounty, but three of them are near to aggressive neighbors and difficult to defend.  This one is a motley collection of feuding clans, you don’t need that kind of management problem.  This one is deeply in debt to the coinbrothers.  This one is split by a river, but there is no secure bridge, and it is surrounded by no less than nine other domains.  This one’s castle is a ruin, despite what the record says.  This one was beset by plague not five years ago, during the Farisian campaign, and there are periodic reports of a resurgence.”  And so on.

But we made progress.  By the end of the day I retired to my luxurious room with my two books – Count Ragin’s excellent The Practice of Nobility and Chivalry and Dame Reandine’s equally-helpful On The Goodly Management Of Estates – and read them both.  Compared to magical texts, they were light reading, written for the average nobleman, and not nearly as long-winded as the treatises of the magi of old.

Some of their advice was impractical, or was specific to particular types of estates or situations.  I didn’t want a coastal estate, for example, so I skipped the section on how to bribe pirates away from your ports, as fascinating as it sounds. Nor was I likely to have to understand how to treat with an emissary of the Valley People, since Castal’s proximity to that strange and secretive race is limited.  Some was just archaic – it’s been an age since there were actual Priestlords, for instance, and those had been powerful only in the cult-prone reaches of southern Merwin.

Ragin’s advice about a lord’s duty to his class, his domain, and his liege was classic, however, and put a lot of what I had once thought about the nobility into doubt.  I went to sleep that night with my head spinning with acreages and virgates and stock management and staff management and the difference between high and low justice.  If feudal politics was difficult, learning the proper way to run a manorial system of administration was complex beyond compare.  I started to doubt whether or not I was up to the task of being a magelord.

The next few days went similarly.  I’d spend the daytime in the archives, sifting through the lands with Lady Arnet and her staff, and the evenings I’d study my new profession and investigate my new Witchsphere.

When we were close to narrowing it down to a few estates, Lady Arnet ordered another pot of tea and lunch for us both, before leaning back in her chair with a sigh.

“So do you have any questions about the reading?” she asked, stifling a yawn.  She’d been busy.  Two new thimbles had been delivered that morning, I’d noticed, one brass and one pewter.

“Many – but I honestly won’t know which ones to ask until I’m faced with the problem,” I admitted.  “It seems like an awful lot of work, being a landed noble.”

“It is.  But that is the price we pay for holding up the social order.  The nobility is the bridge between the common people and the Duke, or other central authority.  As a noble, you represent the entire Duchy to your folk.  To the Duchy, you represent your people.  All good nobles understand that they are even more bound to the land than the basest villein.  Their first duty is to their people and to their land, after their duty to their liege.”

“But all of this . . . revenue stuff,” I said, exasperated, “whether a man is serf, villein, freed or free, how much land he should be accorded, the nature of his crimes and fees, when civil law is applied and when canon law – all of this is more complicated than I’d ever imagined.”

“Oh, you’ll master it soon enough,” she dismissed.  “You’re a damn sight smarter than most nobles I’ve taught.  Indeed, I like you, Spellmonger,” she confessed.  “I have high hopes for you.  But if you’re really worried about it, the best advice I can give you is to hire a castellan you trust.  The greatest fool with a title can be rescued by a competent castellan, provided you have their trust.”

Then we got down to the final matter of selecting my domain.  We had reduced the possibilities to three, none of them sterling prizes in and of themselves, but each with decided advantages and disadvantages.  We went through each of them in detail, until she helped me winnow it down to the best possible selection.

It turned out to be a quaint little domain in northeastern Castal, not too far from the border of Remere – and only a few hundred miles southeast from Wilderhall, which might prove convenient.  It was technically within the sprawling Castali Riverlands, but nestled in the vales of the small but respectable Uwarri mountain range. It was a small land, easily defensible with one castle, two towers, two villages and a couple of hamlets, and it was unlikely to be the target of aggressive neighbors.  It was remote, it was convenient, and according to the ledgers, it should be fairly productive.

And it was hundreds and hundreds of leagues away from the goblins invasion in Alshar.  That alone was worth quite a bit to me.

“So, you want one of the old Lensely domains, eh?” Lady Arnet asked, when I presented her with my final selection.  “Good choice.  The Bontal Riverlands are a fertile region.  I’ll have the patent and award drawn up by this afternoon, and then you can be on your way, young man.  If I remember correctly, you are going to be wed?” she asked, her eyes twinkling.

“Yes, my bride awaits.  She’s living with my parents at the moment, down the Burine.”

She smiled wickedly.  “If you thought becoming a lord of the land or a knight of the realm was complicated,” she snickered, “just wait until you launch upon the grand adventure of being a husband.  That, Sir Spellmonger, is the most harrowing title of all.  Now what was the name of that domain again?”

“Sevendor,” I said, savoring the name as I spoke it.

*                            *                            *

With a new leather folio detailing my award to my new domain in my saddlebag and a draught on the Ducal treasury for a one-time stipend of five thousand ounces of gold, I nearly flew south toward Talry.  After such an uneventful time at Wilderhall I couldn’t wait to get home and claim my bride.

Alya had stayed with my parents in Talry for most of the last few months while I was off fighting the goblin hordes.  She had initially gone there with Tyndal, before I recalled him to duty, and from how he had described her relationship with the many women in my family, I was actually pretty happy with the goblin hordes.

Supposedly things had calmed down after Tyndal (with some help from Pentandra) had driven off the Censors who were searching for me in my home village, but if I knew my mother and sisters Alya was feeling tortured by now.  I took a barge south from Wilderhall, rode overland to a landing on the Burine, and was soon speeding on my way toward Talry and wedded bliss.

I wasn’t the only one – speeding toward Talry, that is.  The word had gone out across the land, mostly by arcane channels, to those who knew me and who might want to attend my nuptials.

Pentandra was clearing up some errands but promised to be there.  I’d sent Tyndal and Rondal ahead to help my parents with the preparations.  Pentandra had even thoughtfully sent word south, where the Bovali refugees were encamped, and told them of the date.  A few old comrades, a few new ones, at this point I didn’t care if Korbal the Mountain Demon of the Mindens showed up in formal robes with a nice fruit basket with the Dead God on his arm as an escort in a pretty new gown, I just wanted to get on with my well-earned reward.  Someone owed me a happily-ever-after, and I wanted it.

The first glimmer that something was amiss occurred completely by chance – or fortune or fate, depending upon your religious and philosophical perspective.

The barge had made landing about a hundred miles above Talry, at a lackluster riverport called Grolt, which gave me an opportunity to stretch my legs and have a pint of ale.  I also had an errand.  My pipe had been empty since I’d left Wilderhall, and I was missing it.

The bargeman laconically pointed out a stall at the top of the bank, above the docks and set away from the porthouse where I might find such sundries.  The place looked decrepit, but there was a fire in the pit and the smell of roasting meat wafted down to the river enticingly.  I wrapped my mantle around me, realizing that I’d need a good winter cloak soon, and trudged up the steep incline.

The shop itself was not much more than a shed, a single room with a single door through which the vendor sold his wares, and with two barges in at the same time he was doing brisk business – I had to stand in a cue.

That’s when I noted the distinctive checkered cloak of one of the Censors of Magic, not three places in front of me.

My blood froze the instant I recognized it.  The Royal Censorate of Magic is responsible for regulation and enforcement of the Bans on Magic, the four-hundred year old repressive code that manages my trade as a warranted mage.  That’s sort of like going to the privy and meeting the bailiff who’s looking for you with a warrant coming out.

I was in egregious violation of the Bans, you see, because I had wisely chosen power over death.  I was in possession of a witchstone, a piece of irionite that greatly augmented my powers.  Those were technically illegal.  And in my case I was a flagrant violator.

Possession of the smallest piece of it is usually a death sentence – and the Censorate’s superjurisdictional position made appeal to civil authorities impossible.  Duke Rard was challenging the custom, and planned on using it as a pretext to make a crown for himself, but the politics of the thing weren’t what concerned me.  What had me anxious was the fact that I was holding a sphere of the magical green amber almost as wide as my palm, a gift from the grateful Alka Alon for a timely rescue.

Now, it wasn’t that I was worried that I could not best the best of the Censorate’s warmagi in a contest – my sphere gave me incredible leverage in that regard.  The problem was that I was on my way to my wedding, and stopping to get involved in a fight with potentially dynastic implications just wasn’t what I wanted to be doing.  I wanted a bag of smoke, a pint of ale, and to be on my way to collect my bride.

Thankfully I had stowed most of the accoutrements that would identify me as a mage of any sort back on the barge.  I didn’t wear a mageblade, carry a staff, or wear my four-pointed hat. My cloak was the travel-worn dark woolen mantle I’d carried through the end of the summer’s campaign season.  It was stained with mud, blood, and worse, but it didn’t look otherwise remarkable.  Apart from the sphere that lay cool and dormant against my chest, there wasn’t much actual enchantment on my person.  Unless he chanced to gaze at me with magesight I might as well be a swineherd.

It was possible that it was mere happenstance, of course – for all I knew, he was on his way home for his sister’s wedding, or something equally innocuous.  But when one is wanted for high crimes against the Bans Of Magic, one is far more aware of such coincidences.  Magic is, after all, the science of coincidence.

I studied the back of the man’s head while trying to appear like another bored and weary traveler.  He might have been a warmage, but he was un-armored and bareheaded.  A young man – the Censorate likes to recruit young magi while they are still idealistic – but a fighter, I realized, by the way he moved.  He may not have been wearing his mageblade on his shoulder, but there was a wand hanging from his belt, I saw when he turned a bit.

I couldn’t help but overhear his conversation when he approached the doorway of the shed.  He paid six pennies to fill up his aleskin, a needle, some thread, and a trencher of vegetables and grilled lamb.

“Back again so soon, m’lord Witchfinder?” the grungy merchant asked with a cock-eyed grin.

“Wickedness never sleeps,” the man agreed, as he spelled out his order.  “No mere witch or footwizard this time – there’s some real nastiness brewing,” he added, darkly.

“You don’t say, m’lord?” the merchant asked, curiously.  “Sorcery?”

“The worst sort,” the Censor agreed, gravely.  “There’s going to be a whole meeting of them, downriver.  I’ve had to summon help to deal with them,” he added.

“You, Witchfinder?” the merchant asked, surprised.

“It’s unlikely that they will go quietly,” he pointed out.  “And I wish to avoid any unnecessary casualties.  But I will not let this coven slip through my fingers.  They’ve already killed one of my men and wounded another.  If they aren’t stopped, there’s no telling what sorcerous mischief they’ll raise.”

“You give ‘em a swipe for me!” the merchant declared adamantly as he took the man’s money.  “I don’t hold with those unnatural practices!”

“Just keep it to yourself,” the Censor added.  “No one knows what this one really looks like, and just about anyone could be in their dark coven.  And there’s no telling what magics they’ve employed to scry us out.”  That seemed to terrify the man, as it was designed to.

That’s one thing I’ve always hated about the Censorate.  Most of the Censors aren’t really evil, but there’s something about petty authority that seems to stunt most men who have it inflicted on them.  The need to intimidate for no better reason than to be intimidating was something I’ve always found to be bullying.

The Censor passed by me without a second glance.  If he felt the presence of my witchsphere, he made no indication.  But my heart did not slow down to a respectable rhythm until I was back on the barge, my pipe in my shaking hands.

As unlikely as such an encounter was, I wasn’t about to throw away a warning from the gods like that.

I sat and smoked and studied my new toy while I controlled a water elemental that was pushing our barge along at about twice the speed of the river.  My obese sphere of irionite sparkled in the sun.

It was made from shards of the stuff that had been cleaved away from the massive sphere encasing the head of Shereul, the undead goblin king of the gurvani I had spent the last year fighting.  It had been melded into this shape by one of the Tree Folk, the Alka Alon, the diminutive non-humans who were apparently just as welcome for sacrifice at Shereul’s table as humanity was.

I tried to forget the impending interruption to my wedding and explore the new power I had, explore it without succumb to the urge of using it.  Madness was an occupational hazard for magi, and those High Magi, those of us with witchstones, were particularly vulnerable.  Now I had four times as much at my disposal as any other mage, and it had been . . . augmented, somehow, by the Alka.

I spent most of the rest of the afternoon using various thaumaturgical spells to root around the sphere, exploring the spellcraft that had gone into its creation with fascination.  To an outside observer, it looked like I was taking a nap.

But inside my head . . . inside my head while it was inside the sphere, things were marvelous.  I recognized a sophisticated array of spell elements, useful components which could be accessed and assembled with a thought.  The sigils, runes, and symbolic magic of the Imperial school of magic were all easily identifiable – those I knew.  It was like sitting down before a massive organ keyboard in a big city temple, or being the captain of a magical ship or – well, there isn’t any easy way to describe it, not unless you understand the language.

And even then the sphere was vastly more sophisticated.  There were hundreds of representations within its circumference I had no idea of what they meant or did.  And I’m considered a talented thaumaturge.  I could only conclude that they were of Alka origin and design, perhaps elements to Imperial magic lost to us over the years.

Then I realized, as I studied the arcane spaces within, that the sophisticated array of tools at my disposal was purposefully reduced in complexity from the Alkan underpinnings that had given the sphere actual arcane architecture.   They were giving us the kind of help you’d give a child, in other words, who couldn’t understand Grown Up Talk.  Let me attempt to explain.

A regular witchstone – a phrase I never thought I’d utter – is a nearly limitless wellspring of power, available at will to the mage who is attuned to it.  That much hadn’t changed.  Indeed, the volumes of power I could draw now dwarfed what I could do with my stone’s previous incarnation.

But the sphere was different.  It wasn’t just a wellspring, it was a library, of sorts.  Or a storehouse. Or stewpot.  Pick your metaphor, it had structure and form inside.  It was a sphere of infinite potential and possibility, waiting to respond to my slightest wish.

As I realized the depths of the sphere’s complexity and its utility, I also got very, very scared.

No one should have that kind of power.  Not even me.  Perhaps especially not me.

But the allure of the sphere’s potential was irresistible.  I couldn’t stop admiring its subtleties, and for hours I did nothing but study it as I sat on the barge between two sacks of corn.  When I finally, reluctantly stepped away from it, I was exhausted and it was night.  And I was no closer to figuring out how to keep the Censorate from crashing my wedding.

*                            *                            *

One the thing the sphere was adept at was contacting other people with witchstones.  Specifically members of my order, whatever that was, who I had given the stones to.  Including my . . . well, I’m not certain of our relationship, at the moment, so let’s just call her an old school chum, Pentandra.

Penny was one of the best thaumaturges I knew, and she had greeted the knowledge of my sphere with cautious excitement.  Calling to her magically and speaking to her, mind-to-mind, over great distance was child’s play.

Penny, I began, when she had accepted the contact, how do I get the Censorate’s attention?

Why would you want to do that? she asked.  I could hear the shock and surprise in her “voice”.

Because they’re trying to arrest me.  Not immanently, but I have it on highest authority that the Censors are gathering with the intention of crashing my wedding and leading me away in chains.  Or better yet, burying me.

You’re paranoid, she commented.  Who was this source?

The Censorate.

Oh.  Well, then, I suppose you had better take it seriously.  Where are you?

On a boat on the Burine at the moment.  I’m on my way to Talry.

Of course you are.  I will be too, shortly.  But why would you want to attract the Censorate’s attention?  It seems to me that avoiding their attention would be a wiser course of action.

Only if I wanted to avoid them, I pointed out. I’ve decided I want to attract them . . . to any place but Talry.  Mama has already solidified the guest list, and she’ll be vexed if there are extras.  What I want is a distraction.  Something big.  Something big enough to keep them busy while I get wed, I stressed.

You peasants are so invested in the whole concept of marriage, she complained.  Among the higher orders, it’s just not that serious of an issue.  A way to conserve property, seal alliances and promote heirs.  It’s a legal contract

Tell that to my pregnant girlfriend.  And remember that I’m a noble now . . . as are you.  Recently, I reminded her.

I know, I know, oh magelord.  My point is, you are investing an awful lot in a ceremony.  And . . . look, I like Alya, she’s good for you.  But marriage?  You do realize that in a couple of years you may be one of the most powerful men in the Duchies?  Tying up a valuable resource like that isn’t very wise.  I’ve spoken to her about it, and she would be perfectly content to be your concubine, if you wanted.  That way we could—

Pentandra, I said quietly, I want to get married.

Why? she demanded. I’ve never understood the attraction.

It’s not so bad, if you do it right.  When was the last time you saw your parents?  Together?

Oh, a few years ago, at the reception they threw when I got my license.  They barely spoke to each other the whole time.  If I hadn’t been so drunk I would have been mortified.  You’re using them as an example?  That’s a poor debate tactic.

I’m pointing out that people who genuinely don’t like each other probably ought not to get married, I offered.  Alya and I do like each other.  Love each other.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, love makes it right, she complained.  But that doesn’t mean marriage.  Hells, some of the best romances in history have been unsullied by marriage.

My parents managed, I said, carefully.  You’ll see, when you arrive in Talry.

I look forward to it.  Last time I was only there for a few hours, and your folks were otherwise occupied.  But that reminds me, Tyndal and Rondal are both there.  Well, Tyndal is, and Rondal will be there before you will.  I spoke with Rondal this morning.  He checked on the Bovali refugees in Limwell, and some want to express their appreciation.  They’re sending a delegation.

A delegation? I asked.  All the way up to the Burine?  Won’t that be expensive?

They took up a collection, she explained.  Rondal will tell you about it.  But they felt so grateful that they didn’t want to go unrepresented.  And of course Alya’s sister and her husband will be coming.  Astryal cannot make it, unfortunately, nor can most of the High Magi, thanks to your victory. They’re scurrying off to follow your orders.  I’m sure they’ll send gifts, she pointed out.

That’s fine, the less High Magi together in one place . . . actually, I just . . . wait . . . if I . . .

I can hear your thoughts, remember, she reminded me patiently.  It’s kind of amusing.

Bide a moment.  I did some fast thinking.  Pen, if they can’t be here in person, do you think the High Magi might be persuaded to help out an old war buddy?

*                            *                            *

I actually got off the river north of Talry, at a little village called Gunder famous for its sausages.  I had never heard of the place, or its sausages, but the locals all assured me that the Gunder sausage was, indeed, the preferred and superior sausage up and down the Burine.  I tried one – it was good.  But not legendary.

That’s not just a bit of travel trivia, that’s actually quite instructional.  The quality of one’s sausage doesn’t matter nearly as much as what other people knew – or thought they knew – about it.  And how many people knew.  Or which people in particular knew.  “Famous for its sausages” is very useful, for a community dedicated to sausage-stuffing, but only if people outside of your hamlet knew about it.

But it was good.  I was willing to pass that on, if the subject came up.

The point, I decided as I rode Traveler south overland, was that appearances were often far more important than performance.  After hanging around Ducal court, I should have figured that out by now.

I had gone ashore at Gunder for a couple of reasons, and none of them were sausage-related.  I wanted to give Traveler a chance to stretch his legs, for one thing.  He dislikes water travel, and he can get positively nasty if he doesn’t feel land under him regularly.  I didn’t want to arrive with a pissed-off steed.

The other reason was that I felt in need of a bath and a shave and a bit of rest before I arrived for my wedding, which I still had a few days to get to.  I’d not tidied up much since Wilderhall, and my beard and hair were getting annoying.   A proper indulgent hot bath, perhaps with a pretty attendant or two, sounded like a splendid way to prepare for my wedding.

The third reason was that I didn’t want to show up at Talry, step off the barge, and into a pre-nuptial duel with the Censorate.  The precautions I’d taken were impressive, but they weren’t exhaustive.  At most they would lessen the chance of a general bloodbath.  If I was very lucky, no one at all would show, and I could begin my marriage in peace.

I was very philosophical as I rode.  I had a little more time before the wedding day, thanks to my speedy trip downriver.  I enjoyed the scenery and smoked and got slightly tipsy, checking in with my colleagues mind-to-mind as I needed to.  I thought of the folio of parchments that represented my new life, I thought about Alya as Goodwife Alya – sorry, Lady Alya, now, wouldn’t that be a surprise.  I thought about the son I had yet to meet.

It was a blissful ride.  The peasants were busy with the last of the harvest, untroubled by war or its rumors.  The merchants and peddlers and artisans went about their business without the fear of the Dead God.  The priests and priestesses, monks and nuns were dutifully at their devotions and ministries, unconcerned yet for a storm from which they had yet to hear the thunder.

I did my best to engrave that beatific ride into my soul while I rode, and tried to make it a part of my being.  The peaceful order of life, the routine of daily living.  As much as the war in the west frightened and worried me, I needed to be able to maintain that rhythm in the hearts of my new people, whomever they were, that would inspire growth and hope, not fear and defeat.

By the time I made it to Loxly, the crossroads farm village just outside of Talry, I was in a good mood.  I was going to get married, in front of the gods and with my entire family, and I’d be damned if I was going to let the Censorate ruin that.

I paid for a few days at the inn in Loxly, a creepy-but-homey place Tyndal, of all people, had recommended called the Four Stags.  The beer was good, the fare was fair, and the innkeeper’s daughter was comely, so I can’t fault his advice.

I tarried for a shave and a haircut at the barber across the road, then paid for the big copper bathtub in the back of the inn to be filled with water.  It was four pennies to fill it with cold water, ten to fill it with hot.  I paid for cold, and then raised it to the perfect temperature by magic.  It’s the little things like that that make being a mage tolerable.

The innkeeper’s daughter brought me wine and dinner while I soaked and scrubbed, and for two pennies more I got her help with certain hard-to-reach parts.  By the time I got out the water had become both murky and cold, and my flesh was wrinkled like a prune.  I changed into my cleaner pair of travel clothes and had the innkeeper’s daughter wash the rest, while I took up a spot by the fire in the common hall.

Wrapped in my mantle and smoking my pipe, I could have been anyone, of nearly any class, from baron to beggar.  The Four Stags was a busy place, and as a crossroads near to the river there was a lot of commerce it availed itself of.  And a lot of gossip.  I was looking for particular pieces of information, and sometimes you could get that passively more effectively than going around asking attention-getting questions.

I employed the Long Ears spell, and pretended to be dozing and smoking, to keep anyone from bothering me.  But I listened to each person who spoke in turn, and with the spell I could hear every whisper.

Most was useless to me, of course, although it was a pleasure to hear people speak in my native accent.  Mere rural gossip about who was fighting with whom, who was attacking whom, whose neighbors were boning whose wives.  Utterly typical discussion you could overhear in any inn in the Duchies.

But if one is thoughtful, one can comb-out the random seeds of information you need from the tangle of voices.  It’s the same kind of mental acuity you need to practice any high level of magic.  It’s also a helpful skill, I’m told, if you are a bartender.

Two hours of leaving my line in the water caught me more than I’d hoped, as one of the late-arriving travelers of the evening brought news from the east that a spellmonger had started a peasant’s revolt in Nagosk.  Less than an hour later, another rumor of another spellmonger and another peasant’s revolt, this time south in the Peachlands.  When I heard the latter, I smiled, opened my eyes, and ordered another ale.

Everyone fears a peasant’s revolt.  They are inevitable, often the result of a bad lord or a few enterprising commoners or both, but they happen with ugly regularity, particularly in the Riverlands estates.  The problem with peasants’ revolts is that they force you to take a side.

Only the clergy are exempt, it seems, although they’ve led more than a few.  If you’re a noble you are obligated to fight to put down the revolt.  Duchies have stopped major wars and assisted each other in putting down revolts several times in history.  A noble who joins a revolt, or is co-opted into one by force, will likely lose his title and his head at its conclusion.

Commoners, on the other hand, are in a similarly dangerous position.  If the mob arrives in your village, then it’s difficult not to cooperate with them lest they raze the place as an example.  If you do cooperate with them, then afterwards it might be your neck in the noose.  Both common and noble alike feared the aftermath.  There were some domains that never recovered from them.

A peasant’s revolt is bad enough – one led by a spellmonger was not just strange, it was noteworthy.  Particularly if you were hunting a spellmonger you feared was going to make trouble.  At least, that’s the theory I was testing.

Contacting nearly every High Mage we could trust mind-to-mind, Penny and I had quietly arranged for a host of reports to go out with the same basic story: there was a spellmonger in the Castali Riverlands leading a peasant’s revolt.  A powerful spellmonger.

I gave them license to embellish the rumor as much as they liked, but they did their best to spread it across the Duchy, particularly through the bargemen that linked so much of the land.  They were often the main conduits of rumor and gossip, as well as outright news.

The thing was, if a spellmonger was involved, then regardless of what the nobility did to put down the revolt, the Censorate was obligated to respond to arrest or execute (usually the later) any mage stupid enough to get involved with politics.  And they would likely be called upon to do just that with great urgency by the nobility hearing such tales.  If they really wanted me as badly as they seemed to, they’d feel obligated to track down every rumor

But the location always varied.  Everyone along the Riverlands was sure it was happening just a few domains over, and there were all sorts of variations of how it started, but they were all sure of the detail of the powerful spellmonger.

That meant that wherever the Censorate rode looking for me, they’d be searching for the center of a non-existent peasant’s revolt.  Not a peaceful village wedding.  And trying to convince local authorities to cooperate with them to break up a wedding when there were peasants’ revolts breaking out all over would be challenging, I was hoping.

If I was wrong . . . then the next day I would be riding into a bloody trap or the happiest day of my life.

Since I’d almost always entered and left my home village by river, this was the first time I had approached it from the landward-side.  First the scattered farmsteads got closer together and the woodlands rarer, and then I started to see things I remembered.  When the sight of my father’s huge red ovens finally peeked over the horizon, I felt that blush of recognition that means you’re home.

Or at least where home used to be.  This was a visit, I reminded myself, and I was bringing danger to my family with this damn-fool stunt, but they wouldn’t have it any other way.  There weren’t any Censorate warmagi waiting for me on the road, at least – perhaps they were all watching the docks.

I smiled to everyone in my finery, tried to relax, and kept a warwand in my boot.  Every now and then I used magesight to scout ahead and see if I was walking into some sort of magical trap, but . . . nothing.

Traveler clip-clopped down the cobbles of the High Street like he did so every day.  Maybe I was just being paranoid.

When I got within sight of my father’s shop, I quit worrying, which was stupid.  But I was home, and it felt like home, and I could smell bread baking.  That put me at ease more than anything.  Instead of belligerent warmagi, my sister Urah was awaiting me, tears of joy in her eyes.  A single shout from her and I was mobbed.  Who knew I had so many relatives?

It wasn’t just my mom, dad, and five sisters – it was their husbands, children (some of whom had never met me) a few close neighbors, two aunts, an uncle, a dozen cousins and some folk I knew I was only distantly related to, almost fifty relatives in all.  The great yard around the ovens had temporarily been turned into an encampment, as both inns in town were filled.

And that didn’t count the Bovali contingent: Rondal and Tyndal, of course, but also Sagal and Ela (Alya’s sister), Goodmen Rollo, Arstol, and stout Goodman Loas the Shepherd had arrived.

And three more men from Boval, three I hadn’t expected.  Three knights.  Among them – and the most surprising – was Sir Cei, the former castellan of Boval Vale, and with him were two other gentlemen knights who had been liegemen to Sire Koucey, Sirs Roncil and Olve.  They looked a little uncomfortable, Alshari Wilderland knights at a Castali Riverlands commoner’s wedding, but my mother could make Korbal feel at home if she had a mind.  And the knights liked to drink as much as anyone, as we learned.

Eventually they dragged me inside to the big family room, where Alya waited.  I melted into her arms

Yes.  I was home.

I’ll spare you the banal sentimentality involved, but there was a lot of emotion in that evening.  It was a celebration, a wedding, a reunion, a homecoming, all wrapped up into one.  On the morrow I would meet my bride at the Old Well in the commons and with the help of a bridesister of Trygg, I would at last be wed to her.  And anyone who wanted to get in the way of that was going to regret it.

Eventually the men tore me away from the women, who helped my fiancé waddle up to her room to prepare for the next day’s ceremony. I had met the priestess, a pretty young woman from Norhald, and she would instruct my bride on her duties and mysteries, as well as bless our child.

My brothers-in-law – including Sagal, I was happy to see – hauled me out of the house on their shoulders and carried me off to my father’s woodshed.  There were manly mysteries to learn, advice from the married men and scorn from the single.  I took the traditional Twelve Draughts of the Bachelor, a custom designed to make me sick, and one ribald joke after another was made at my expense.  It didn’t help that Alya was already pregnant, and the raunch just flowed from there.

As the younger boys and light drinkers faded out, one after another, at last it was just me, my father, and my brothers-in-law sitting around the room, smoking and drinking and being philosophical.  Dad got weepy, and imparted a bargefull of advice that I’ve since forgotten (although it springs to mind when needed, I’ve noticed) about how to run my household, once we were wed.  The importance of being a good leader to my wife and faithful to my family.  All sorts of meaningful stuff like that.

Finally, I had to seek sleep.  I stumbled out to the privy to relieve myself before bed, and on my way back I encountered Pentandra.

“Penny!” I said, drunkenly.  “When did you get in?”

“Just a few moments ago,” she said, quietly, her breath pale in the moonlight.  She was wrapped up in a flowing cloak against the chill, and it only served to make her seem smaller and more vulnerable.  “My boat put in for the night downriver, so I bought another one and had an elemental push us here.”

“That’s . . . dedication,” I said, not sure how else to describe it.

“Hey, if you think I’m going to let my best friend get married and not be there, you’re crazy, peasant!”

That took me aback.  I was never sure where Pentandra and I stood.  We’d been lovers, but not in love; we had been colleagues; we had fought together, and she was my . . .

. . . well, my best friend.   I just hadn’t put it that way ever.  It suddenly occurred to me that this might be painful to her – she’d always insisted that she wasn’t interested in marriage, which would detract from her studies, but I could see in her eyes she wasn’t nearly as detached about the subject as she let on.

“Damn.  This must be hard for you,” I said, without thinking.

“Not really,” she said, more lightly than she appeared to feel.  “Min, I do have deep feelings for you – but I don’t think I could be married to you.”

“Then you’ve—”

“Of course I’ve thought about it,” she said, rolling her eyes.  “Every woman thinks about it . . . with just about every man. Just like every man thinks about every woman he knows naked. As much as I admire and respect and yes, even love you a little, we never shared the kind of fire I see in your eyes when you look at Alya. Don’t—” she said, placing a finger on my lips before I could say anything.  “I am no fool, Minalan.  I inspire camaraderie, friendship, even lust in you, but when you look at me, you don’t have that passion.  And, to be truthful, I don’t have it for you.

“Now I could act like a jealous old harpy and try to sabotage your happiness, like a lot of women would do, or I can remember that I had my chance and decided against it, and live with that consequence.  For whatever reason that peasant girl has stolen your heart, but I’m not so petty as to want to try to take it from her when I don’t really want it.  What I want—”

“What do you want, Pentandra?” I finally managed to interrupt.

“I want what she has . . .” she admitted.  “But not from you.  You’re endearing and goofy, brave and valiant, noble and wise . . . but you are not for me.  I know that.  But you’ve proven to me that it exists, and that’s . . . vital.  And in knowing that, I take solace in knowing that by protecting and nurturing what you and Alya have, perhaps I’ll find it one day myself.”

I was stunned.  That was the most profound, heartfelt, personal confession I had ever heard fall from Pentandra’s lips.  And she didn’t shed a tear until she had finished.  I knew she was right.

There was sadness and regret in what she said, but also hope and even the anticipation of happiness.  I wanted to feel sorry for her, but realized that my pity was not the reaction she had been seeking.  Indeed, it would appall and repel her.  So I just stared at her, our breath fogging in the frosty moonlight, and suddenly I wished for nothing so ardently as for her to find what I had found.

I embraced her, kissed her on the forehead, and there may have been a tear or two in my eye.  “I just realized something,” I whispered.  “I have no earthly idea where I’m supposed to sleep tonight.”

“Come down to my new boat,” she suggested.  “It’s not particularly large, but it is snug.  You can sleep in my cabin, where no one will have to see you throw up in the morning.”

*                            *                            *

Thankfully, the gods spared me more than a token hangover in the morning, and once I’d taken the briefest of dips into the chilly flow of the Burine, I felt positively sober and intoxicated at the same time.  I was getting married today!

Part of me wanted to agree with Penny: it seems a silly thing to get worked up about.  Marriage customs vary across the duchies, and across the classes, and mean different things to different people.  Pentandra’s parent’s attitudes toward the institution were fairly typical for her station.  Other folks looked at marriage differently.

Among the peasants, particularly serfs and villeins, getting married usually just means the couple makes a promise, states their intention to each other in front of a shrine or on the steps of a temple, or just moves in together and starts referring to each other as husband and wife.

There was little other ceremony, beyond paying the manorial fee.  Sometimes they splurged on a keg of ale, and if they were particularly ambitious they could even offer gewyntage; that is, the right of any and all of the folk of the village to watch the couple’s consummation, at a silver penny each.  Some attractive, bawdy, or popular couples could establish quite a nest-egg that way, and it wasn’t subject to fee to the manor, the way a dowry was.  There was always the apocryphal tale of the comely couple who married in three different villages, and garnered enough capital to buy a homestead.

Among the nobility, of course, marriage is a carefully-negotiated affair that has more to do with property and inheritance and assumption of rights and obligations than it does long kisses and new bedding.  For men it was the establishment of a dynasty, a way to make more nobles to inherit your fortunes and honor.  For the women of the nobility, their wedding was the highlight of their lives, the last celebration they had to themselves before they began dutifully bearing heirs.

It was only with the artisan class, professionals, merchants, clergy, and among the wealthier free peasants that marriage was seen as a dignified celebration of the union of two people with the sanction of the gods – although there was often a powerful economic component, as well.  There’s almost always a ritual, a number of folk traditions to be adhered to, a lot of gift-giving, and a huge feast.  My father had five daughters – I knew all about weddings.

As Alya and I were guests in Talry, not residents, we wouldn’t have to pay Baron Lithar for the privilege, as my sisters all had.  Instead we paid for a bridesister of Trygg to officiate.  Instead of the tiny shrine my village boasted, we held the ceremony on the north end of the commons, a spot with a beautiful well (known, creatively enough, as the Old Well) where many types of ceremonies were conducted, from naming to eulogizing.  The Old Well had been around for at least a century, crafted of six pillars of smooth white stone and capped with a bronze dome that had a beautiful patina of verdigris.

My sisters had found big bouquets of winterflowers, somewhere (I think Urta had ordered them from further south, but there were dozens of earthenware jars of the velvety, bright red blooms surrounding the well) and there were boughs of some golden-leaved tree I should have known the name of entwined betwixt the pillars. Ribbons of yellow, white, and red laced them all together, and bells and chimes sparkled merrily in the wind.

It was beautiful, and the weather was sunny and clear.  I couldn’t have bribed the gods for a more perfect day.

I was surprisingly calm – nervous, of course, but I had been looking forward to this for so long I couldn’t help but feel more victorious than anxious.  There had been so many times I had thought I’d never make it to this day that I wasn’t about to let anything else stand in my way.  Pentandra helped me get dressed in my finery.  After Rondal told me, mind-to-mind, that the bridal party had departed my parent’s compound I went back home, grabbed a roll for breakfast (my stomach wasn’t up to anything more robust) and Penny kissed me for luck before heading off to the Old Well herself.

My father, my brothers-in-law, and my nephews had all stayed behind to help me, not that I needed much help.  Tyndal had spent all morning grooming Traveler until he shone, including bows and ribbons that assaulted his male dignity, and after I carefully put on the white bridegroom’s mantle and took a quick nip of something sharp for courage, I settled into the saddle.

My father, to my surprise, also took to saddle.  I had only seen him ride a horse maybe thrice in my life, but he seemed knowledgeable enough.  One of his neighbors who ran the livery stable had loaned him his best for the occasion, and once my apprentices were likewise mounted, we began a slow walk toward the well, the other menfolk following.

One of them started a chorus of the “Bridegroom’s Brother”, which is bawdy and sweet at the same time, and I felt my spirits lift.

“Son,” my dad said, quietly, as we rode just slightly ahead, “this is your last chance to gallop away.”

I made a face at him, and he laughed.  “Just thought I’d mention it,” he sighed.  “Alya’s a fine girl.  We’ve gotten to know her very well in the last few months.  She’s a smart one, a good worker, and comely as well.  I think you chose well,” he said.  Somehow, that relieved a lot of the anxiety I was feeling.

“You really think so?  She’s not as . . . fiery as Mama—”

“Your Mama was as sweet as a cucumber, when I met her,” my dad interrupted, shaking his head in fond memory.  “Oh, she had spirit, but the woman you see today raised six healthy children, and five girls that would have made Trygg weep, had she raised them.  No, your Alya has all the makings of a good wife.  Most importantly, she makes you happy.”

“She does,” I agreed, sighing.  “We’ve been through a lot, and she’s been stalwart, despite everything.”

“Just remember,” my dad said, after a moment’s thought, “you have to think of your marriage like a barge.”

I just looked at him.  I expected a baking metaphor.

“There’s only one boat, even if you only sit on one side of it,” he explained.  “But if there’s a hole in the boat, it doesn’t matter if it’s on her side or your side . . . there’s still a hole in the boat.”

“I see,” I lied.  He kept giving little bits of advice like that the whole way there, interspersed with memories of his own wedding day, until we finally turned left at the end of the High Street and came within sight of the Old Well.  There my bride awaited, resplendent in a long white hooded wedding mantle.  The bridesister was dressed in her clerical robes, white, gold and red, and she had all the accoutrements of the rite in a small chest nearby.

I dismounted Traveler, hugged my father, shook the hands of all of my escort, kissed my mother and sisters, then bowed low, first to the crowd of Bovali representing Alya’s family, then to the priestess, then to my own crowd.

Then I got married.

I don’t remember much about that part, just some words, some kissing, a cup of mead, the tying of the hands, we were pronounced Goodman and Goodwife, cheers, more kissing, some songs and flower petals.  We walked slowly back to the bakery afterward, in deference to my bride’s pregnant condition and sore feet, and I was pleased to see neighbors of my father’s I hadn’t seen since I was a boy line the streets.

Then the party began.

Dad had married off five daughters, and it had been expensive.  Technically the bride’s family was supposed to handle the marriage feast in the Riverlands, but since Alya was from the Wilderlands, where it’s more casual, and her family was essentially destitute, he had been ready to pay for his son’s wedding, as well.  But apparently Pentandra (I found out later) insisted on funding the entire thing as her gift to us.

It was a magnificent feast.  The weather held warm and clear all day, and my family had spared no expense to show off their successful son to the entire village.

The fare was amazing.  There were a dozen large trestles set up in the courtyard between the residence and the ovens, and each of them was covered with food of all sorts.  When you come from a family of bakers, you can imagine just how impressive that was.

It became a competition: each of my dad’s apprentices had tried to out-do the others in creating more and more magnificent confections.  Alya, being seven months pregnant, devoured them all with unseemly eagerness, but her reactions permanently endeared her to my kin.  No one enjoys baked goods like a very pregnant woman.

The women in the household hadn’t skimped, either; the roasting ovens and spits in the kitchen had been going since before dawn, and there was a wealth of meat dishes: spiced roasted pork, mint-roasted lamb, river eels seasoned with herbs, and an entire oxen, which had been prepared at the inn and brought in with great ceremony.

There was a huge kettle of boiled sausage, a catfish as long as my arm cooked whole, and more varieties of pickles and preserves than I thought possible.  There were mashed carrots with raisins and honey, turnips and parsnips cooked in butter, stuffed river cabbage, andratha root cooked in sheep’s milk, rabbit pie with onions and flosins, a huge vat of potatoes, and four wheels of different kinds of cheese.  No Bovali, of course, but that was to be expected.

And there was wine.  Good gods above, there was wine.  The Bovali refugees were nearly destitute, but they had scraped together enough to procure a barrel of delightfully drinkable red from some Castali coastal plantation that was quite potent.  I was touched – they were disposed, homeless, and at the edge of poverty, but they wanted to thank me somehow for my help.  In addition to the wine, there were three kegs of mead, several bottles of spirits, and a sea of ale to wash everything down.

My father had hired six musicians to entertain while we ate, and that of course led to dancing.  I don’t really know how to dance, but by that time I was drunk enough not to care.  I made one wobbly trip around the circle with my rotund bride before turning the space over to better and more sober practitioners of the art.  He’d also hired over a dozen servants from the inn to help with the feast, so that his wife and daughters could enjoy the celebration without worrying who needed a refill.

My father had built perhaps the most magnificent wedding cake of his long career, a towering confection of winterberries and sugar and candied this and that, each of the five layers a different essay in his art.  My dad is a master baker, and while that usually meant overseeing hundreds of racks of journeybread or trenchers or small loaves, he had used every morsel of knowledge to put together that magnificent cake.  To be honest, I hated to eat it, it looked so beautiful.

But by the Flame That Burneth Bright, I’m glad I did.

Then it was time for the gifts.  Most were clearly practical – like the bedding my sisters gave us, hand-stitched blankets and quilts, and some baby clothes.  My father gave us a magnificent oaken chest with his baker’s craft crest, entwined with Briga’s sacred flame, wood-burned into its lid “to remind you which oven you sprang out of,” as he informed me drunkenly before he danced with my mother and pinched her on the ass.  My mother presented Alya her trousseau, which she had overseen my nieces laboring upon in secret to complete when she wasn’t around.

Baron Lithar and his wife, I was surprised to see, had sent us a lovely matched set of silver plates, cups, and spoons as a token of his esteem, and old Master Tilo, the baronial court wizard who had sent me to Inrion Academy in the first place, sent me a beautifully illuminated copy of Fenylus’ Grimoire of the Roses, a book of love spells (some clearly tongue-in-cheek) and love poetry.

The Bovali knights – Sirs Cei, Roncil and Olve – gave me a beautiful riding saddle, much better than the worn-out one I’d taken to Timberwatch and back.  There were gifts from afar, too: Captain Rogo Redshaft, of the Nirodi Free Mounted Archers, sent me a handsome new weapons’ harness in black, and the mercenary captain Sir Rindolo sent me a set of silver-plated spurs.  The Orphan’s Band, a mercenary unit I’d led over the summer, generously sent a bag of silver and a cunningly-fitted embossed leather gorget with their sigil upon the throat.

There were others, from the simple gifts my younger nieces and nephews made me by themselves, to the surprise lump of yellow knot coral that Tyndal and Rondal had pooled their resources to purchase.

But the most impressive had to be the gift from His Grace, Duke Rard II, Duke of Castal.

When my brother-in-law Sagal, who had decided to act as master of ceremonies, came across the note, a hush fell over the crowd.  It wasn’t often one got a gift from the Duke . . . personally.  It turned out to be a draft on the Ducal treasury for a thousand ounces of gold.  That was on top of the five thousand he’d already given me, along with my domain, for service in Timberwatch.

The fact that I knew that his wife and daughter were complicit with (if not directly responsible for) the assassination of his rival and brother-duke, Lenguin of Alshar, I’m sure had nothing to do with his generosity.

But one doesn’t get a thousand ounces of gold without your family exploding into a cacophony.  That was wealth beyond what most of them could even imagine, much less count.  I hadn’t mentioned my other riches yet, or really flaunted my title, but when Sagal had haltingly read aloud “To: Sir Minalan called the Spellmonger, Mage Knight of Castal and Alshar”, that pretty much broke the news to all.

“There must be some mistake,” Sagal said, scratching his head.  “You’re just—”

“A Knight Mage, by the hands of two Dukes,” finished Pentandra, deep in her cups.  “So are those two,” she added, nodding toward my apprentices, one of whom was in a tangle with some girl – was that the innkeeper’s daughter? – while the other was doing his best to avoid offending two of my nieces who had taken a fancy to him.  “Hells, so am I, I guess.  A Magelady.  But Minalan is no longer the common peasant he was when he met me.  He’s a magelord, now.”

That just made the cacophony worse.  My father stared at me, wide-eyed.  My mother looked like she was going to faint.  My bride looked at me dully.

“What does that mean?” she whispered, too loudly.

“It means that when you became my wife, you also were enobled,” I explained.

“Oh,” she said, a little drunkenly – the bridesister, in light of her delicate condition, had restricted her to one glass of wine before making her switch over to mead.  “That means . . .”

“You’re a Lady,” I supplied.  “As in ‘Lady Alya.’”

“Oh,” she said, trying to comprehend the implications.  I could tell she was starting to get it when she squeezed her eyes shut and whispered “shit!”

The most curious reaction, to my mind, was that of the Bovali knights, particularly Sir Cei.  As the only other nobility present, they had all been a little uncomfortable . . . but as soon as Sir Cei learned of my transformation, his entire attitude about me seemed to change.

He respectfully asked to see the patent of my enoblement, and I dug out the scrap of parchment that had risen me to be his social peer.  Suddenly I wasn’t just a spellmonger.  Indeed he and the other two knights insisted on embracing me and my apprentices as “brother knights”, and there was a bit more respect in their eyes after that.

Exactly how much that meant to them I didn’t realize until a few moments later.

We were still all feasting and dancing and discussing my new-found fortunes when the simple magelight Pentandra had cast to help light our table suddenly went out – and a wave of nothingness washed over us.

That’s a little dramatic, actually, since the wave only affected those of us with Talent.  But suddenly the constant contact I enjoyed with my new and improved Witchsphere was just . . . gone.  As I looked around in a panic, Penny, Tyndal, and Rondal were all equally confused and alarmed.

It took a few seconds for some reason to apply itself to the situation through the fog of reverie and good wine, but you can’t study thaumaturgic magic for a few years without some things sticking.  Someone had obviously cast an annulment enchantment.

An annulment is a way to temporarily-disrupt the flow of magical power in an area, or in a person.  If you imagine magic as a calm, clear pool in which you can usefully see your reflection, then an annulment enchantment is like tossing a handful of sand into the water.  Magic doesn’t exactly go away, just the ability to usefully channel it.

That class of spell was fairly obscure, being useful for a very limited number of applications.  But one of them was to interfere in the spellcasting of “deviant magi” by the Censorate.  Indeed, the Censorate was reputed to have sophisticated magical devices to accomplish just that sort of thing.

“Oh, shit,” I whispered.  Pentandra looked terrified.  Tyndal and Rondal were just confused, not really understanding what was going on.  For, despite my best efforts, the Censorate had managed to crash my wedding.

They proved the point a moment later, when two of the “servants” revealed themselves . . . one by displaying a four-foot rod topped with a sphere of thaumaturgic glass four inches wide and glowing a pale yellow, and the other by holding a dagger.  At my bride’s throat.

“HOLD, IN THE NAME OF THE KING!” bellowed the fellow with the magic rod.  A long dagger appeared in his other hand.

“Anyone moves, and the bride is sacrificed!” assured the other, nastily.  He was a small man, dressed in a drudge’s gray tunic and wearing the simple tabard of the Eel’s Elbow inn.  But he moved with a dancer’s grace, and there was no mistaking the serious look in his eye as he held a nine-inch blade against Alya’s terrified throat.

“We are sworn men of the Royal Censorate of Magic, and in the name of the King, we place these renegade magi under arrest!”

Nobody moved.  I felt in vain for some kind of magic – any scrap of power I could – but for naught.  Pentandra was similarly hampered, I saw, and she looked distressed.  But not nearly as distressed as my bride.  Alya’s eyes were open wide in terror.

“What is the meaning of this?” my father asked, in his loudest patriarchal voice.  “This is a wedding!”

“This is an arrest,” said the Censor with the rod.  I suddenly recognized him as the one I had been standing behind, up-river, when he inadvertently revealed his plans.  Apparently he hadn’t let the rumor of peasant rebellion stop him from his pursuit.  That would have been an admirable display of duty, if it hadn’t been putting the lives of my wife and unborn child at risk.  “By order of Ducal Censor Captain Rosando of the Remeran Censorate, this . . . spellmonger, his apprentices, and all those bearing proscribed items or powers are to be placed under arrest, secured, and taken back to the commandary . . . dead or alive!”

Still, no one moved.  Few of us were armed at all – I didn’t have so much as a warwand, although that would have been just a glorified stick with the annulment enchantment working.  The only ones who had weapons at all were those carving meat and the Bovali knights, who didn’t go into a garderobe without a sword.

“Just how do you plan on getting us all out of here,” I asked, after the tension became taut in the air.  “These are my family.  My entire family.  They’re unlikely to permit that,” I added, mildly.

“Then they can hang along with you,” sneered the man with the knife at Alya’s throat.  “Aiding a renegade mage is a capital penalty, under the King’s Law—”

“There is no king!” someone from the crowd – one of my nephews, I thought – pointed out in protest.

“This is Castal,” my father reminded them, “not Remere.  You have no jurisdiction—”

“The Censorate has jurisdiction everywhere,” sneered the Censor with the annulment device.  “Just because the warrant was made in Remere does not limit its power there.  We know this man has somehow convinced the Censor General to betray our order – that does not mean the rest of us have forgotten our duty!”

“Still,” I continued, conversationally, my blood running cold as I saw that blade glint against my bride’s pretty throat, “getting us to Remere might prove . . . tricky.  There are two of you.  How many magi are there, here?” I asked.

The smaller man looked around.  “You, that slut,” he said, nodding toward Pentandra – who immediately got an expression in her eye that anyone with any experience with her would avoid.  “And your apprentices.  Four renegade magi with witchstones.  All under arrest,” he added, triumphantly.

Sir Olve, of all people, stood and tried to be reasonable.  The older knight looked distinguished in his Wilderlands-style surcoat and silver hair.  “Gentlemen, while I would never try to deter any man from his sworn and honorable duty, surely the middle of a wedding is not the proper place for an arrest!  These are holy rites!”

“The rites are over,” said the taller Censor, turning to face the knight.  “We waited until he was wed; now if he is cautious, he will merely make his wife a widow.  Or she can predecease him,” he added, menacingly, “if anything . . . untoward happens.”

“This is an outrage!” Sir Cei said, standing suddenly.  The big man’s mantle was thrown back.  “This is not proper, Sir!” he insisted.

The smaller censor appraised him.  “You are a belted knight, Sir?” he asked, after a moment.

Sir Cei nodded, sternly.  “I am.”

“Then I call upon you and your fellows to cooperate, aid, and assist us in this arrest, on your honor as a knight.  We have a lawfully-written and executed warrant for Minalan the Spellmonger and Associates, and I deputize you to assist us in taking them into custody.  Do you dispute the propriety of that, Sir Knight?”

Sir Cei looked troubled.  “No, Censor.  Although I have seen no warrant.  Produce it, and I will study the matter.  For all I know, you are two ruffians intent on robbing the bridegroom and bride.”

The smaller Censor looked irritated, but withdrew a tightly-bound scroll from behind his belt and tossed it on the table, next to Alya’s new silver plate.  “Can you read, Sir Knight?”

Sir Cei nodded.  “I have my letters.”

“Then read the warrant, and if it is in order to your satisfaction, then I call upon you to fulfill your oath to uphold the laws of the King.”

Sir Cei still looked troubled, but giving meaningful looks to Sir Roncil and Sir Olve, he walked stiffly over to the table where Alya was shaking in fear.  He looked at the Censor carefully, then slowly unfurled the scroll on the table, using the new silver cup to hold it open.

It took him a while to read the scribbled warrant, and he moved his lips when he read.  The Censor was growing more and more impatient.  When Sir Cei finally got to the end, asked how to pronounce the Ducal Censor of Remere’s name, and inquired about the nature of the heraldry on the seal, the man’s impatience was palpable.

“So, Sir Knight, what is your verdict?” he asked, sarcastically.

“It does, indeed, appear to be in order,” Sir Cei conceded, regretfully.  “It is properly signed, properly worded, and properly sealed.  There is just one small technicality,” he said, pointing to the parchment.

The Censor’s eyes crinkled.  “Where?”

“Here,” Sir Cei said – and without reaching for a weapon he punched his big hairy fist so hard into the Censor’s face that it knocked the man off of his feet – and the knife that had been so menacing clattered to the ground.

Before the other Censor could react, Sir Roncil’s sword was drawn and laying on his neck.

“Tend to your wisdom,” he muttered sinisterly to the remaining Censor, while his fellow struggled with a broken, bloodied nose.  “I need no magic to slay you.”

I was gratified to see Sir Olve was likewise undeterred by talk of law or duty.  He deftly took the knife out of the Censor’s hand, then took the rod from the other, before unceremoniously smashing the thaumaturgic glass against the side of the trestle table with a sneer of disgust on his face.  Almost instantly I felt the power of the witchsphere surge back into my mind.

I didn’t waste any time myself – nor did my colleagues or family.  Both men were quickly grabbed, both magically and by the crowd, and brought before me.  Tyndal and Rondal searched them at my direction and removed other enchanted items, their purses, and their credentials.

“Now,” I said, when things had once-again come to order, “we have a few things to discuss, gentlemen.”  I took out the Witchsphere, which was gaining potency again by the moment, and their eyes bulged in wonder and terror.  “I suppose you could say I’ve got bigger balls than you – at least one of them – so I’m not going to slay you out of hand.  But you did threaten my pregnant wife with death on her wedding day.  You upset my guests, in violation of the sacred laws of hospitality, and you violated the edict of His Grace, Rard II of Castal.”

“That matters not!” the larger Censor said, angrily, his arms held behind him tightly by Tyndal’s spell.  “The laws of the King supersede the laws of the Duke, and—”

“The laws of the gods supersede either Duke or King,” the bridesister pointed out angrily.  “To violate them so flagrantly, on such a holy occasion, is to invite calamity!”

“I think they have a gracious plenty of calamity due them,” Pentandra said, her voice icy.  She had her own witchstone out, a smooth torus-shaped disk of the green amber that had some unique capabilities.  It doesn’t pay to insult that woman.

“You have no right to deter us in our lawful—” the taller man began to demand angrily, when Sagal punched him almost as hard as Sir Cei had his partner.

“That man saved my entire family – my entire people,” he said angrily to the Censor’s bloodied face.  “He risked his life to do it, when no one else would.  You dare raise a hand to him again, and I won’t care if I hang for it, I’ll rip out our entrails from the spot you used to keep your balls!”  Sagal is a big man – not as big as Cei, but he had a cowhand’s build.  He could be almost as intimidating as a knight in armor, when he was angry.

“When word of this betrayal reaches the commandary,” began the other man, the font of blood from his nose starting to abate, “this whole village will be burned to the ground!”

“I don’t think Baron Lithar would like that,” I pointed out.  “Nor would these good folk, whose celebration you’ve tried to ruin.  But you’re right, if word of this does get back to the commandary . . .”

“Oh, that won’t be a problem,” Pentandra said, coolly.

“I cannot allow a murder at a wedding!”  the bridesister insisted.

“I would never dream of offending the gods like that,” Penny agreed.  “That would make me as improper as these scum.  But I have an idea . . . if you gentlemen will escort them behind that big red breast-shaped thing over there,” she said, indicating one of my dad’s two great ovens, “I think I can find a satisfactory solution.”

So, kicking and shouting (until Rondal silenced them magically), Sagal and some other volunteers dragged the two Censors away, while my father and mother watched, grimly determined.

“Son, I don’t want to interfere in what you and your friends need to do, but . . .”

“Don’t worry,” I assured him, “Pentandra won’t let anything happen that could come back to harm you.”

“I trust you,” he said, after a moment’s consideration.  “But perhaps you should go soothe your bride – she’s still trembling.  You’re her husband, now.  Her trembling is your problem now.”

I realized he was right, and I went to try to comfort her.  Her husband.  I was her husband, now.

Twenty minutes later we were all still murmuring about the events, and once Ela, Alya’s sister, had escorted her to the privy, someone put a glass of spirits in my hand and I drank them without notice.  I realized it was Sir Cei.

“I owe you a debt,” I said, when I had regained my composure.

“I’ve watched that girl since she was a child of twelve,” he said, slowly, as he watched my wife waddle off.  “I’ve seen so many of her folk suffer and die, and today, for the first time in a year, I saw her happy.  And then that churl held a knife to her throat.”

I nodded, but couldn’t help but ask.  “But wasn’t the legal and proper thing to do cooperating with the Censors?”

“It may have been the legal thing to do,” he conceded, “but it was far from proper.  I would not have a brother knight’s nuptials defiled,” he stated authoritatively.  “It was an unworthy and unchivlarous tactic, attacking a man at his own wedding.  And holding a pregnant woman hostage is . . . cowardly,” he said, his lip curling into a sneer.

“I still owe you a debt,” I pointed out.  “How would you like to be my new Castellan?”

That really took the knight by surprise.  “Excuse me?”

“I just took title to a domain, a reward for my service to the Coronet,” I explained.  “It was part of the enoblement.  I got to choose my own fief.  So I did – only it’s not going to be easy.  The land is marginal, the place is depopulated, and there hasn’t been a resident lord there in at least two generations.  I have it on the highest authority,” I said, remembering my conversations with Lady Arnet, “that the ability of a noble to hold his lands properly is often dependent on his choice of Castellan.”

“Surely, Sir Minalan, there are other men you trust better,” he said, after pausing.  “I am not certain I am the best choice for you.”  I could tell he was being diplomatic.  Sir Cei and I had rarely gotten along, back when he was working for Sire Koucey, and was in charge of imprisoning Pentandra, among other things.

“Why, do you have another engagement?”  I asked.

“Well, no,” he admitted.  “But I . . . well, there is the matter of the Bovali folk, still encamped in the south.  I was considering joining one of the Free Companies, once they are settled, or perhaps taking service somewhere in the Riverlands or northern Wilderlands.”

“Why look for a job when there’s one right here?” I asked.  “Look, despite our differences I know you are an outstanding Castellan.  Boval Vale was among the best-run domains I’ve ever seen, and I know that wasn’t because of Sire Koucey’s witty rhetoric.  You don’t go out of your way to be liked, but you don’t cheat.  People know what they get with you.  And you know how to get things done.”

“Aye,” he conceded.  “But then that would involve abandoning the Bovali to the whims of fate,” he concluded.  “Right now they are encamped and living on the charity of the Duchy, such as it is.  Some families are drifting away to find work, but most are just . . . waiting.  It would be ignoble of me to abandon them now.”

“That’s the other thing,” I nodded.  I got to my feet, took another swig of spirits for courage, then climbed on to the rickety trestle table to address the crowd.

“Thank you all for coming!” I announced.  “I want to thank you all for your patience while we got this unpleasantness sorted out,” I began, “and I want to thank you all for your kindhearted and generous gifts.  You have truly made this day memorable . . . for a lot of reasons.”  That brought some laughter and a few nervous cheers.

“But while we celebrate, my wife’s people sit in a draughty old Ducal castle in the Coastlands, surrounded by strangers and with no land or purpose.  Today, in gratitude of what these gallant knights did by breaking with thoughtless tradition and displaying their chivalrous natures, I want to invite the Bovali – all of the Bovali – to join me in my new domain.”  There was a gasp and sudden surge of chatter, particularly among the Bovali delegation.  And, I was moved to note, not a few tears.

“It won’t be easy,” I continued.  “It won’t be . . . inexpensive,” I sighed.  I dug out my recent gift.  “But I am going to give this draft on the Ducal treasury to Sir Cei, who has agreed to join me as my new Castellan, for the purpose of transporting everyone upriver to our new home.  Everyone.  A thousand ounces of gold should be enough to pay the passage and feed every refugee,” I explained.  “And once they arrive, together we will rebuild our lives in safer, if less-familiar, surroundings.  Now everyone drink to the health of my wife!” I said, as the liquor started affecting me.

There were more cheers at that, and when I got down from the table I ceremoniously handed Sir Cei the valuable slip of parchment.

“But Sir Minalan,” he protested.  “I have not given you my answer!”

“So think about it,” I coaxed.  “But you’d have your old post back.  Probably more pay, too.  You are already familiar with the Bovali, they trust you, even if they aren’t thrilled with your personality some times.”

“I . . . I will consider it, Sir Minalan,” he agreed, his thoughts swirling.

Pentandra came back a few moments after that, looking very pleased with herself.  The two Censors were now following her around docilely, not a trace of defiance (or even much intelligence) evident on their faces.

“What did you do to them?” I asked, my heart leaping in my chest.  “You didn’t . . . ?” I began, about to ask if she had permanently burned out their brains, or at least the parts that control magic.

“No, no,” she chuckled.  “They’ll snap out of it . . . eventually.  I didn’t burn out their brains.  Or even destroy their capacity to manifest Talent.  I just . . . messed with their minds a bit.  They don’t remember who they are, now.  Just a harmless little Blue Magic spell, Ytrinara’s Enchantment of Forgetfulness.”

“I’m not familiar with that one,” I admitted, taking another drink.

“It’s an old family recipe,” she dismissed, casually . . . her code words for ‘secret spell hidden in the Order of the Secret Tower’s private library of clandestine magic’.  “I have only used it a few times, but it works.  For at least the next three weeks these gentlemen will only answer to the names of ‘Pud’ and ‘Dud’; further, they won’t be able to speak more than the simplest phrases, they will be put into service aboard my new barge, and when I return downriver to a certain . . . disreputable merchant I know, they will soon be learning new tricks for the sailors, when the fleets come into port.  By the time their proper memories return, there’s no telling what condition they’ll be in.”

I made a mental note never to seriously piss off Penny.

Sir Cei continued to be astonished by my offer.  “Sir Minalan, I feel honored at the invitation and the trust you have bestowed in me . . . but to then hand me a fortune and trust me to carry out your assignment?  Surely no man is that trustful of another,” he said, cradling the draught like it was made of spiderwebs.  “This is a thousand ounces of gold.  You could buy a comfortable estate with this. Yet you trust me to take it and not mis-use it?”

“More than anyone but my wife,” I agreed, as Alya and her sister returned from the privy.  “Perhaps more – you don’t seem the type to spend it on pretty dresses.  Have a drink.  Relax.  If it makes you feel better, I’m sending both of my apprentices to help.  I figure if we break them down into small groups, we can bring them up in convoys, keep them all together, those who wish to come.  But you only have a week or so to prepare – just long enough for my honeymoon.  Then I want you, Sagal, and an advanced party that you pick to re-join me here.  From there we’ll head for the Bontal Riverlands, where my new fief is.”

“Sir Minalan, this is generosity beyond all bounds,” he said, solemnly.  “I not only take the position, I swear I shall serve you as faithfully as I did Sire Koucey.”

“If I had any doubt about that, I wouldn’t have asked you,” I assured him.  “We might butt heads from time to time, but I have a hell of a lot of respect for you, Sir Cei.  And I’m going to need that hard head, when it comes to whipping my new domain into shape.”

We were interrupted when Alya –sorry, Lady Alya – finally made it back to my table.  Apparently the gossip about my announcement had reached her before she had reached me.  She nearly leapt at me, weeping, when she finally found me.

“Is it true?” she asked.  “Did you really just invite . . . well, pretty much everyone I know to come and settle your new domain?”

“Our new domain,” I corrected.  “And yes, yes I did.  We’re going to need the help, they need the work and the home, and maybe together we can show the world what magic in the service of the people can do for a land.  I don’t think—”

I wasn’t able to continue explaining, because Lady Alya’s kisses were keeping me nearly from breathing, much less from speaking.  She looked so grateful and so beautiful that the rest of the world just kind of stopped for a while.

“So,” she said, when she finally broke the kiss.  “If I’m Lady Alya, now, shouldn’t I be Lady Alya of . . . . somewhere?”

“Sevendor,” I supplied.  “The name of our new home is Sevendor.  It’s a small domain in the northeast, up the Bontal and to the right.  Near the Remeran border, in the northern foothills of the Uwarri range.”

“I have no idea where that is,” she confessed.  “It sounds wonderful!”

“It will be,” I sighed, “now that you’re going to be there.”

“We’re going to be there,” she corrected me, kissing me again while she put her hand on her big belly.  “All of us.  Our whole family.”

“Sir Cei,” I said, “as your first official act as my Castellan, could you persuade the musicians to play ‘A Heart Made For Glory’ please?  I feel like dancing badly with my bride.”

“Do you not mean ‘I badly feel like dancing with my wife’?” Sir Cei asked.

Pentandra snorted.  “Have you seen him dance?  He chose his words wisely.”

“My pleasure, Sir Minalan,” the knight said, a smug look on his face as he started to rise.  Then he stopped.  “Pardon.  I mean, ‘My pleasure, Magelord.’”

Lady Alya grinned.  “You know, I like the sound of that!” and kissed me more.

You know, I kind of did, too.

Dedicated to my wife Laurin,

who was at the real Spellmonger’s Wedding,

on the occasion of our 22nd anniversary.

I wish we could do it all over again.

ALSO IN THE SPELLMONGER SERIES

NOVELS

Spellmonger

Warmage

Magelord

STORIES

“Victory Soup”

“The River Mists of Talry”

Other Books By The Author:

STAR TREK

Spartacus (ST:NG #20)

SPACE VIKING SEQUELS

Prince of Tanith

Princess Valerie’s War

You may email the author at tmancour@gmail.com

Thanks for reading!