The Spellmonger’s Yule

A Spellmonger Short Story

By Terry Mancour

Copyright © 2017

To my father

Irving Leslie Mancour

The real Archmage

Drink the mead.

That phrase haunted me, once I returned to Sevendor after the horrific destruction of Duke Anguin’s palace in Vorone by dragonfire.  It had been uttered by one of my best friends in a moment of crisis, and I probably would have forgotten about it completely in the ensuing chaos if it hadn’t been so damned... intimate.

I came back to Sevendor into my lab, instead of the through the Waystone I’d installed in the hall I lived in now.  I was not quite ready to go home yet, I realized.  Despite the acrid stench of dragon that still clung to my clothes even weeks after the attack, it was the echo of Pentandra’s – advice? Suggestion?  Mystical direction? – That kept me from going home.  Drink the mead.  As if that would do anything.

My tower was dark this time of night, but with a commanding thought, the permanent magelights in the lab sprung into illumination.  The room seemed… tired in its emptiness.  I felt a little guilty for how intensely I’d used it, searching for a treatment for Alya... and then for how quickly I’d abandoned it, when a convenient answer proved elusive.

It was far tidier than I usually kept it, a sure sign of my absence and the diligent efforts of my young apprentice, Ruderal.  The young lad was far more attentive to his domestic duties as my student than his predecessors.  Dara was too busy to tend to them, usually, with her work at the Mews.  Since Ruderal arrived, things had been unnaturally neat around the shop.  I wasn’t sure if that was a sign of success or mediocrity, but seeing my usually chaotic workbench neatly organized was a pleasant feeling that merited a contented sigh.  One that I could see, in the cold.

The night was chilly this time of year, especially in the unused lab.  Since even before the awkward Sixth Annual Magic Fair ended, I’d essentially abandoned the place in disgust at my failures and fled to Vorone for a while to help with the distraction of reconstruction.  I had not returned here for weeks, letting my parents and servants tend my children while I brooded in Alshar in a professionally productive manner.  The workshop had an unused quality to it that the cold emphasized.  Ruderal had deactivated the spells that warmed the place without the need of a fire, and the late autumn cold Sevendor enjoyed had seeped into the white stones of the tower, and thence through my mantle.

I wasn’t planning to be here long, but it was too damn cold – even after Vorone – to be at all comfortable.  Instead of re-activating them, however, I glanced at the abandoned fireplace, stacked with logs that had grown dusty.  I decided a fire was more suited to my mood than arcane heat.

It was childishly simple to ignite the wood.  It took me back to the eruption of my rajira when I was a boy.

The first sign of my magical Talent was when I’d accidentally started a fire with the force of my anger and resentment at my sister.  Since then I’d learned a hundred ways to do it, and fire continued to me the element I had the strongest affinity with.  Draw power, focus it, form the right cantrip in my mind, select the target location, and activate.  I glanced at it, my mind invoked the right combination of runes, I poured power into it until the combination of heat and oxygen ignited... and a moment later, the yellow flames filled the tiny chamber and began radiating heat into the lab.  I automatically held my hands out to warm my fingers as the orange flames began to lick at the sides of the dry oak logs.

Fire.  It was simple.  I contemplated it, as the light flickered across my eyes and warmed my hands.  Fire was the most intriguing of the four Greater Elements.  Not a thing, but an event.   When a bunch of energetic matter met oxygen, a party breaks out, creating the plasma of flame, which consumed and fed like a living thing.  A tool for telling tales, firing a pot, melting ore, cooking soup, warming fingers, lighting the darkness… when it wasn’t burning down a palace or destroying your enemies, that is.

“Well, you’ve certainly had a busy time,” came a familiar feminine voice from behind me.  Not the one I most wanted to fill my ears, but not an unwelcome one, either.

“It has been eventful,” I agreed, not turning around.  Abasing yourself in front of your patron goddess the first time you meet her can be forgiven, but at this point, I was over my awe of divinity.  “The sudden dragon attack was particularly exciting.”

“A gift from Shereul,” Briga, the goddess of fire agreed.  “Retribution, which is the only way I have a hint of why he did it.  He was unhappy at the recent raids and skirmishes.   Particularly the two fortresses Anguin destroyed on his frontiers.  Some of his human servants overheard, which is the only reason I know about it.  The dragon was revenge for the attack,” she informed me.

“Which was in response to an unprovoked assault on the Wilderlands, in violation of the precious treaty with Shereul,” I said, still not turning around.  The radiant blaze of heat was driving the chill away, and I lingered until the heat on my chest was almost uncomfortable.

“An attack he did not order,” Briga replied.  “That was an... independent operation by some of his less-disciplined forces.  Instigated by a splinter faction, led by the Enshadowed.  Nor does he consider the treaty binding on himself.  That was with the ‘Goblin King’s’ representatives, not his.”

“Are you arguing in the Dead God’s favor of, now?” I asked, amused and irritated at the same time.  The radiant heat from the fireplace had almost saturated my chest.  It felt delicious.

“I’m reporting intelligence so that you understand the true nature of the situation,” Briga countered.  “You were supposed to be lured into a full-out assault by the raid, a plan for which neither we nor our foes are ready to consider.  It was not the Dead God’s plan.  It took Sheruel’s loyalists by surprise, as it was organized and executed among disaffected elements.  They serve mostly along the periphery of his power base, closer to the Penumbra and the Hills.  Some of his... more energetic auxiliaries were responsible,” she said, choosing her words carefully.

“You are speaking of the Enshadowed,” I nodded, finally turning around.  The time had come for a change of perspective.  My chest was too hot and my ass was getting cold.

“Indeed,” the redheaded goddess nodded.  She looked magnificent in a red mantle that was more red than blood, her multi-hued tresses dancing in the firelight.  “But the attack and Anguin’s response not only took Sheruel’s loyalists off-guard, it confounded their planning. Worse – for them – it sowed distrust among the various factions of the enemy.”

I wasn’t confused by what she said, but perhaps she thought I was.

“Shereul felt he had to respond, but couldn’t violate the treaty with his vassal the Goblin King by sending an army,” she over-explained.

“Yes, I understand, dragons were not covered in the treaty,” I chuckled.  “An oversight I shall bring to Tavard’s attention the next time we meet.  It’s at least gratifying to know that insubordination and disorder aren’t exclusively human traits.”

The pretty goddess nodded, and suddenly there were two silver flagons of wine in front of her on the worktable.  Show off.

“Sheruel’s forces have always been advised by the Enshadowed, but now that they have awakened Korbal, raised him and his followers to strength, and granted them the fief of Olum Seheri, it is becoming a point of resentment among the gurvani.  The priests of Shereul are suspicious.  Particularly as the nascent gurvani kingdom seems far too cozy with them.  Once the urgulnosti priests ruled supreme in fallen Boval.   Now there are Nemovorti in his court, advising and manipulating it for their own purposes.”

“Isn’t the gurvani king kind of a sham?” I asked, skeptically.

“Believe it or not, he’s the gurvani’s way of attempting to adapt to the situation,” Briga disagreed.  “When the invasion began, the goal for most of the gurvani was the recovery of their ancient homelands, the ones they claimed after their rebellion.  Many are satisfied with having achieved that, and are unenthusiastic about continuing the war.

“The gurvani kingdom was originally conceived as a means of ruling the common gurvani without direct ecclesiastical supervision, while the Black Skulls and the Enshadowed prepared the rest of the war.  A puppet king to administrate over all the tribes and factions, so the urgulnosti need not be bothered.

“But instead it became a hub of those who wanted to adapt to the humani civilization, the ruins of which they are now living in.  The average gurvan has not had a good life in the Mindens since before the Goblin Wars, which were hundreds of years ago.  They want to improve the lives of the gurvani within their sphere and elevate them to humani levels.  The King and his court are an opportunity to do that, to their minds.”

“But not those of the human slaves who built the civilization to begin with?”

“They are largely the property of the Black Skulls, except for the Soulless, some mercenaries, and a few experiments.  To be truthful, many new lords of the gurvani kingdom look to their human slaves for guidance and ideas.  They set up the capital at one of the old baronial castles.  The place was crawling with Soulless and human slaves.  The Soulless who ran the place were smart enough to know how to run an estate efficiently.  The gurvani court started depending upon them for guidance, and started adopting some of the institutions – well-changed for their liking, of course.  Nevertheless, they had established the rudiments of a state, largely dependent upon the advice of their human slaves.

“Or they did, before Korbal started sending his minions to the Goblin King’s court.  Now the Nemovorti are systematically taking control of the institution.  They are the ones who conspired to persuade several commanders to launch the summer raids.  Ostensibly it was done at Sheruel’s command, but in reality, the Enshadowed were behind the whole plan.”

“I don’t particularly like the sound of that.”  As much as dissension amongst the enemy counted in our favor, theoretically, recent experience instructed me that the devious nature of the Enshadowed, and their undead allies, were far more insidious than the straightforward genocidal tendencies of Shereul.

“You are not alone.   It has inspired a lot of resentment among the gurvani most loyal to Shereul.  And a lot of rebellions amongst the lands and estates of the Penumbra,” she reported.  “That’s what allowed the raids to be conducted without Sheruel’s permission.  The Enshadowed and their confederates deliberately enflamed the honor of the Penumbra troops who invaded, for their own purpose.”

“You sure get around a lot for a barbarian goddess,” I quipped.  The heat was starting to thaw my backside, now.  Thank Briga.

“I can’t penetrate the Umbra,” she admitted, “but even being nocturnal, the gurvani still use candles, tapers, and fire.  More importantly, their human slaves gossip like all servants,” she added.

“I’m sure we can use that to our advantage, somehow,” I said, with a sigh.  “But with Vorone in ashes and Rard obsessing about the rebels in Enultramar, his kidnapped daughter, and his shiny new palace, it’s going to be hard to take advantage of it.”

“Yes, well, that’s human politics,” she smiled.  “That’s out of my control as well.”

“That’s out of anyone’s control,” I agreed.  “But if we don’t get our collective act together soon, then Korbal and Shereul will work out their differences before we can exploit their acrimony.  And here I sit, without my witchsphere... or my wife,” I added, for no particular reason except that I felt like complaining.

The look in her eyes immediately made me regret it.  When a goddess can’t cure what ails your wife, the guilt you feel begins to take on divine proportions.

“We’re still working on that,” she insisted.  “The three of us... persistent deities have each done what we could.  Alya’s body is as well as it could be.  It is her mind that is damaged.  Not even Trygg Allmother has that power, I fear.”

That did not seem fair.  Alya had sacrificed herself in the Magewar against Greenflower, in defense of her marriage and motherhood in general.  She never should have been there, but it was lucky for us she was.  She won the battle for us, after magelords and warmagi had fallen to Isily’s cunning wrath.  Now she was lying in a bed in an abbey two domains away, completely unresponsive to all but the most basic stimuli.

Our children were devastated.  Minalyan was scared of his own mother, and Almina burst into tears at the sight of her.  Their mother’s body might be there, but she was... gone.

I could sympathize.  I was... well, I didn’t have a more potent word than “devastated”.  Mostly I was just doing what everyone expected me to do.  I did my best to allow myself to be distracted from the aching pit at the center of my soul, but it was hard, these days.  It took something like a dragon attack or a midnight visit from a goddess to keep me from dwelling on the hopelessness.

Once I would have said that it was in the hands of the gods.  Now that I knew some gods, I wasn’t so hopeful.

“So, which of you divinities does specialize in that sort of thing?” I asked, casually.

“That’s... it’s complicated,” Briga sighed, over her wine.  “The gods are bound by the limitations of human imagination and need.  You need to start a fire or bake a loaf or cauterize a wound or gain vengeance on the warrior who slaughtered your family, I’m your girl.  If you want a deity who specializes in restoring higher brain function... well, your people should have conceived of one!” she said, a little defensively.

“Not even the Imperial pantheon?” I suggested.

I’d picked up that the two loose families of gods, each based on a different culture, were often at odds.  The Magocracy’s deities considered themselves superior to their Narasi cousins, due to the great civilization they presided over.  Meanwhile, the barbarically rustic Narasi pantheon resented the snooty Imperial gods and delighted over their diminution after the Conquest.

As more than one of the deities worshiped today were syncretic fusions of both pantheons. That meant that divine politics could be… interesting.  It’s amazing what Herus the Traveler will gossip about when he’s drunk.

“Perhaps,” she conceded, her nostrils flaring a bit.  “They had a lot of minor divinities, at the peak of their decadent civilization.  Some were pretty specialized.  But few of those ever incarnated,” she pointed out, quickly.  “The rule of thumb is that the more specialized a deity is, the less vibrant the energy generated by their worshipers.  The Imperials had loads of minor medical deities, but mostly they were personifications of mnemonics or technical gods.  Like Yrentia’s many children: Arkameeds, Nuton, Keplar, Planc, Bor, Haking, that lot.  Or the daughters of the Storm Lord, if you want to get exotic.  Superstition and ritual used to educate and control an increasingly ignorant people during the twilight of their civilization,” she said, defensively.

“What about Yrentia’s children?” I ventured.  The Imperial goddess of science and magic once enjoyed a vibrant cult in the early Magocracy, and many of her brilliant children had even made appearances at times.  “She manifested enough to write a bunch of vital stuff on rocks in Merwyn, among other great feats.  Wouldn’t she know?”

“That was during her mortal phase, from what I understand, something her human seed did before she ascended to divinity.”

I frowned.  “Damn.  Another glorious myth destroyed.”

“Oh, she was vital to the survival of humanity, and what she did – ensuring that the most basic scientific and magical information would not be lost by humanity – was worthy of deification.  Perhaps she could be persuaded to manifest, if you did the right rituals or something.”

“I’ve considered that,” I nodded.  “If you and the other persistents cannot repair her mind, then perhaps Yrentia...”

“Well, her consort Avital shows up every now and then over the centuries, but he’s more engineering focused than neural science.  Really, Min,” she said, finally, throwing up her thin arms in frustration, “if there is a god who can put Alya’s mind right, I don’t know who it is.  I’ll keep looking, and so will the other persistent deities, but... well, this is far outside of our realms.   If you want to restore your bride, then the answer is more likely to be found in thaumaturgy than theurgy.  Or maybe the Alka Alon...” she said, frowning.

I snorted.  “You think the Tree Folk know more about the human psyche than our own gods?”

“Not them collectively,” she conceded.  “But during the early Magocracy there was a period where they worked very closely with humanity.  Some were enraptured by the opportunity to study you.  Most of that stopped before the Inundation, for various political reasons – that was before my time – but I’ve heard rumors that the Alka studied human beings more intently than we’d ever studied ourselves.  Perhaps that knowledge still exists with them,” she shrugged.

“None of the Alka I’ve met seemed particularly concerned with our psychology.  Even the three Envoys were mostly ignorant of humankind when they arrived.  And Onranion has done what he can for her with songspells, but this is far outside of his area of specialty,” I sighed, the pit of hopelessness growing wider inside me.

“Then you must continue to seek, my friend,” the goddess said, softly and sympathetically.  “As will we all.  But... beware of your own hopelessness,” she advised.  “So much depends upon you, Minalan.  If you give in to despair and outrage, you may well doom us all.”

“That makes me feel so much better,” I sighed with bitter sarcasm.  “I am doing... what I need to,” I stressed, unwilling to elaborate.  She might be a goddess, but a man has a right to his own private spiritual struggle.  “And what I need to do most is find a way to restore Alya.”

“That is guilt speaking, Minalan,” she pointed out, gently. “And desperation.”

“That’s Minalan speaking,” I corrected, firmly.  “If I thought that Sheruel or Korbal held the answer and were willing to bargain with me, I might even consider it.  But I know that they don’t and they wouldn’t, so you have nothing to fear on that front,” I said, perhaps more bitterly than I intended.

“It wasn’t your treason I fear, Minalan,” she said with an irritated snort.  “Can’t you see that?  It’s your self-destruction!”

With that, she disappeared in an entirely unnecessary and overly dramatic burst of flame.  Briga’s equivalent of slamming a door.

I turned back to the fire, knowing her eyes were still watching me through the flames.  I kept my face stoically set, unwilling to let her even guess my thoughts from my expression.  I briefly thought about extinguishing the flame by urination, but I knew that would be going too far.  I was frustrated, but I wasn’t frustrated with Briga.

Drink the mead.

It irritated me like a pebble in my shoe while I was running for my life.  There were so many other things that needed my attention and required my investigation.

Politics.  War.  Governance.  Gods.  Goblins.  As irritated as I was with Briga, she was correct.  Too much did depend upon what I did – or didn’t do – and lapsing into abject despair could doom us all.

So why didn’t I care more?

I knew why, and the answer was selfish.  Doing all of this without Alya seemed pointless to me.  I’d become so dependent upon her that without her I felt like I was acting on a stage from a script written by someone else, to an empty audience.  And that was selfish.

But I didn’t care.  See why Briga was worried?

Drink the mead.  Pentandra’s unearthly message would not flee my thoughts, not after weeks.  And I was a good enough wizard to know that when your subconscious keeps pointing to something like that, it would haunt me until I dealt with it.

When Alya and I were married, nearly gotten killed by Censors, and escaped on our honeymoon on a romantic river cruise on Pentandra’s private barge, Pentandra had followed an old Narasi custom and included (among other incredible delicacies) a hamper containing seven bottles of mead.

Alya and I drank the first six bottles on the honeymoon, and – again, according to custom – saved the final bottle to celebrate our fifth anniversary.

Only... the Magewar had intervened, and Alya had fallen before we could complete that happy ritual.  I had vowed not to drink the final bottle of mead until I restored her, and we could drink it together, as intended.

I felt a little stupid.  It was a silly peasant rite. A superstitious bit of folk religion that helped bond unruly peasants together.  There was nothing magical about that mead.  I could pour the entire bottle down Alya’s throat and it would not alter her condition one bit.  I could empty the bottle myself and, after a brief period of pleasant drunkenness, my problems would still be piled in front of me, as they were before.

It was a silly solution to an intractable problem... but part of me suspected what it meant, if not where it originated.

To me, by opening that bottle I was accepting the fact that Alya was forever gone.  To drink the mead was to admit that I had failed, that I needed to mourn a wife who was dead in all but name, and move on with my life.

I had no doubt that there were important lessons and deep spiritual truths involved in the process, but I could not care less about my spiritual health.  Drinking the mead was admitting defeat in the most personal battle of my life.

So, a tiny part of my mind whispered, perhaps you should do that.

That wasn’t a part of myself I wanted to listen to.  But experience had shown that when it spoke, it was usually in my interest to listen.

I hate that part of myself.

I knew that it was my fear of letting go that was keeping me from doing it.

I thought of our children, Minalyan and Almina, growing up without their mother.  I thought of the unborn baby we’d lost at Greenflower, and allowed my mind to take me into all sorts of dark places.

Drinking that mead would be accepting all of that... accepting a life without Alya.  I was still clinging to mad hopes and desperate ideas about magically repairing her, but the fact was that I had consulted the best magical minds in the Kingdom already, to no avail.  I had even toyed with the idea of necromancy, but Alya’s problem wasn’t death.  It was... beyond madness.  Beyond the understanding of the mightiest minds of the age.  Even Master Icorod, head of the medical order of magi, had told me sympathetically that Alya’s recovery was “in the hands of the gods.”

Icorod is not a religious man, but he wanted to give me hope after his exhaustive examination.  But when the gods themselves declare that they are stumped, it kind of saps your confidence.  And your hope.  Perhaps it was time to face that.

It had been only months since Greenflower, and while I knew that the entire barony was shocked and in mourning over their beloved baroness, there were already whispers – even proposals – that I have my marriage annulled and seek a new wife.  No one had been brave or stupid enough to say the words to my face, but I wasn’t naive.  Or surprised.

Alya was an integral part of running the barony.  Right now, Lady Estret and Sister Bemia were handling much of her functions, with Sire Cei conducting business as usual.  As if we were just, off on holiday somewhere.

But that was a stopgap.  With Yule approaching in just a few weeks there was a lot of baronial and domain-level work to be done, work that Alya, as baroness, should be conducting.  Yule Court was one of the central ceremonial occasions of the year, when my vassals would be feasted at the castle, gifts would be given, posts would be announced, and fealty would be pledged for another year.

Alya loved Yule, I recalled fondly. She would be terribly upset to miss it this year.

The absurdity of that thought was what brought me back to my senses.

Drinking the mead would acknowledge the reality I didn’t want to face, but that my loyal subjects and friends were quietly urging me to.

I don’t know how long I sat and smoked and stared into the fire.  All I know is that at some point I went downstairs to our old bedroom (and my current study) and retrieved the leather-cased bottle, sealed up since we returned from our honeymoon.  I don’t even remember doing it, I just recall staring at it in the center of my worktable for what seemed like hours.

Drink the mead.  Whether it was merely Pentandra’s subconscious advice or a message from some other power through her lips, I could not ignore it.

Finally, with tears rolling down my cheeks and despair and hopelessness in my heart, my trembling fingers unsealed the top of the case and pulled the bottle out... along with a thick sheaf of parchment.

I wasn’t expecting that.

I stared at the roll of parchment surrounding the bottle in confusion, and straightened them.  They were filled with cramped sentences, some stuffed into margins or written at odd angles.  Most of it, I was even more surprised to see, was in my handwriting.  And Alya’s. Odd, considering that I didn’t remember writing a word of it.

The leaf at the top of the stack caught my attention, as it was designed to.  It was from me.  To me.

MINALAN – Greetings from your storied past!  Either this will be an amusing tale to tell my kids, or a vital piece of intelligence.  But herein lies the story of what truly happened on your “uneventful” honeymoon.  Hopefully you’re reading it while you and Alya are wildly celebrating.  In any case, there are several details here that, for obvious reasons, you may find interesting or even important.  You are likely wondering why you have no memory of this, or even of writing this account.  Once you read this, you should understand.  Good luck, and may Ishi’s blessings keep our union as lusty and fruitful as it is now! – s. Minalan

Yes, that was my flamboyant signature at the bottom of the page.  I had written it.  And I didn’t remember writing it.

The bottle forgotten in front of me, I eagerly devoured the tale – which occasionally rambled, as details were inserted or something was explained in more detail.  While it was far from scholarly standards, it was fascinating to read.  And it explained so much I had questions about.

Apparently, my uneventful honeymoon was a bit more eventful than I recalled.

It took me two hours to get through the sheaf; much of it spent tracking down where in the wandering narrative certain things and certain people were mentioned.  By the time I felt like I had a good understanding of the events of five years ago – events I had no recollection of – the roosters in the courtyard of the castle were starting to greet the pale sky in the east.

It was a lot to absorb.  From the sheer unlikelihood of the adventure to the unexpected conclusion, to the removal of the experience from my memory to the point where I had not even suspected a gap... it was a lot to absorb.

I was still mulling the details of the revelation when the laboratory door opened, and Ruderal entered, yawning.  When he saw me, he stopped mid-yawn.

“Master! When did you arrive?  I thought you were still in Vorone!”

“Last night,” I admitted.  “But I am not staying long.  Fetch me some hot tea and breakfast from the kitchen and send word to Sire Cei to attend me in my lab.  And Onranion, if the rascal is around.”

“He is, Master,” Ruderal assured me.  “Is everything... all right?”

“Mayhap,” I admitted, grudgingly.  “Ruderal, I was in the depths of despair... but I think I just threw myself a rope from the past.”

Ruderal looked at me skeptically.  “That seems a bit cryptic, Master,” he said, cautiously.

“It was meant to be,” I decided.  “Tell no one you don’t have to that I’ve returned.  I won’t be here long.”

“What... what did you discover, Master?” the lad asked, hesitantly but politely.  He glanced at the parchments, now scattered across the table around the bottle and its case.

“Hope, Ruderal,” I conceded.  “I discovered a tiny, almost invisible ray of hope.”

*

*

*

“So, tell me about this rebel of yours, Onranion,” I said, as the transformed Alkan songmaster settled into his favorite chair in my study.  “The Sorceress of Sartha Wood.  Lilastien. Elre.”

Onranion normally jovial manner changed abruptly at the mention of her name.  His eyes grew larger, and then narrowed in recollection.  He grew serious, which is always disturbing to see in the Alkan songmaster, even in his humani form.  Especially in his humani form.

“Ah.  You’ve heard of Lilastien,” he said, quietly, with a sigh.

“I’ve apparently met the good lady,” I said, glancing at the parchments before me.  “A fact which, in retrospect, may have changed a good many things.”

“Mayhap it is best things evolved as they have, without her,” proposed Onranion.  “I have the deepest respect for her, but Lilastien has a history of chaos and disruption associated with her.  And considering I’m generally in favor of chaos and disruption, you can appreciate my caution, my friend.”

“I don’t need your advice right now, Onranion, I need some straight answers,” I said, sharply.  “Truthful ones.”

“Minalan!” he said, affecting shock.  “I’ve always been straightforward with you, my boy!”

“In your way,” I conceded.  “And a lot more candid than your countrymen.  Now I find out that they’ve been keeping their foremost specialist on humanity locked away, when we need her the most.  And these Enshadowed... you knew about them and didn’t tell us.”

The old Alkan songmaster sighed.  “Minalan, the things the Alka Alon haven’t told you are manifold.  Some we have told you, but you’re so damnably short-lived that you forget after two or three generations.  It’s a bit like having a conversation with someone who forgets what you’ve told them every five minutes.”

“A fair point,” I grunted.  “But I was thinking a little more immediately.”

“Yes, the rebels are confined, yes Enshadowed conspire against both our peoples for sinister reasons of their own, yes there are factions and clans and families of Alka Alon who despise humanity for their own personal reasons,” he recited.  “Minalan, we’ve had ten thousand years of history on Callidore.  It’s hard to explain the nuances of it all, so we’ve given you what we think is important.  The problem is we don’t know what is important until it becomes important.”

“Then back to the Sorceress.  You know her?”

“Lilastien?  Intimately,” he nodded, some untold tale inspiring his emphasis.  “She’s brilliant.  Very passionate about your people, and… a little insane.  She’s also under arrest, by order of the council.”

“And protected by the gods, apparently,” I added, nodding to the parchments.

“Yes, that was an unexpected development,” chuckled the old reprobate.  “It was one thing to confine her to her laboratory.  It was another to lose control over the access to it.  If she chooses, she can keep the council out, as much as they can keep her in.  One of the many reasons why human divinity is not in favor among some on the council.”

“For once, I empathize,” I snorted.  Ishi had caused enough trouble in the last year to make a man consider swearing off religion.  “But that doesn’t change the fact that I happen to desperately need an Alkan songmaster familiar with the intracacies of humanity to save my wife, and your folk happen to have one... and no one bothered to mention it!”

“Minalan!  Lilastien is dangerous,” he reminded me.  “She’s unpredictable.  ‘Elre’ means ‘rebel’ in Alkan, and it’s a term of deep shame.  She’s embraced it.”  He sounded both condemning and admiring.

“I don’t care if she calls herself Queen of May and smears blue mud on her arse to help the flowers grow; I need to consult with her!  And I apparently already have, and I don’t remember it.  To be honest, I feel particularly betrayed by Ithalia’s role in this,” I added, with more emotion than I’d intended.  “She’s supposed to be my friend and my envoy, yet—”

“Don’t blame the poor girl!  She was put into an impossible situation, Minalan,” Onranion interrupted.  “She took some initiative – against the wishes of the Council – and ended up bringing our peoples into an alliance.  Be angry for many things, my friend, but poor Ithalia has done remarkably well with what she was given.  Her grandmother’s status has been a social burden on her for her entire life.  Yet she was courageous enough to make the attempt, despite the risk.

“You know,” he said, after a pause after my outburst, “now that I think about it, Lilastien might actually have some insight on your particular problem,” he finally conceded.  “She was among the first to recognize what was happening with your divine eruptions, when they first appeared.  She also knows more about human physiology than any Alkan alive.  She studied for years with your physicians, on Perwyn.  We were all intrigued by your arrival, but she was one of the few who were obsessed with you as a species.  She might know something about human psychology that may have escaped the rest of us.”

“Onranion, from what I can tell, the Alka Alon know very little about human psychology at all.  Otherwise I wouldn’t have to keep lecturing you about leaving a trail of heartbroken maidens behind you.”  Since Onranion had been granted permission to use his human form, he’d taken advantage of his new body to indulge in a great many liaisons with Sevendor’s women.  To the Alkan they were no more important than what he had for breakfast or the vintage of wine he was drinking.  To the women involved, the seductions were far more meaningful.  “But if this Lilastien has any insights, I must seek her counsel.  Perhaps she will provide better perspective on the human condition than the other Alka Alon.”

“Mayhap,” he admitted.  “You are a delightfully confounding species.  But your point is well-taken.  Lilastien’s combination of Alkan songspells and human physiology – and psychology – might have an answer for you.  But it might not,” he emphasized.  “Minalan, I know you are desperate, and I understand why.  However, despite the reputation Lilastien has garnered among humanity as ‘the Sorceress of Sartha Wood’, she is just a songmaster with a rebellious streak.  Try not to elevate your hope beyond reason.”

“I do what I must,” I said, simply.  I didn’t know how else to answer that.

“I know,” he said, sympathetically.  “And between us, I share your hope.  But once you’ve been around a few centuries, you see how such hope gets dashed over and over again.  It’s a little depressing.”

*

*

*

Sneaking around your own castle when you don’t want to be noticed can be surprisingly difficult – if you aren’t a powerful wizard.  I used unnoticability spells, the kind warmagi use to sneak past sentries, and avoided anyone recognizing me as I walked from the door of the keep to the outer bailey.

There is an old shed in the outer bailey that got turned into a clandestine taproom, a few years ago.  It’s a small, cozy place where the residents of the castle grounds could retire for a quiet pint or a quick shot of spirits.  It was a quiet favorite of the enchanters, the senior staff, and important residents.  At this time of day it was still quiet, with only a few patrons.  One of them was covered in flour.

It might seem odd to some professions to see a man tip back a full pint that early in the working day, but my father’s working day was done.  When you rise before the roosters to get the day’s bake started, by noon your day is done.  Even a brand-new bakery and a squadron of former apprentices could not break a habit cultivated over a lifetime.

He still wore his ragged apron, as he smoked a long-stemmed pipe and drank peacefully from the earthenware mug the Tal barman kept filled until he called a halt.

“I was wondering when you’d get back here,” he murmured around his pipestem without looking up.

“I had wizard’s business in Vorone,” I replied, casually.  “Dragon attack.  Burned the palace down.  It’s taken weeks to put things right.  I even missed most of the Magic Fair.”

“Pesky things, those dragons,” he observed.  “Glad you made it back.”

“My lads mostly handled things without me,” I conceded.  “But I’m considering leaving again, which is why I haven’t made my return well-known.”

“Oh?” he remarked, his bushy eyebrows rising.

“Only I’m conflicted,” I sighed, as I motioned for a beer.  The Tal poured one, apparently unsurprised by the appearance of the Baron at his bar.  That’s why I liked the Tal, as a species.  Their first thought is to food and drink, not rank or position.  “I’ve discovered a very thin, probably illusory hope that might lead to at least partial restoration of Alya’s mind,” I explained.

“So why are you conflicted?” he asked, reasonably.

“Because it is a mad, faint hope with at least some risk involved,” I confided.  “And I know that there are those who would see me abandon Alya as dead, and find a new wife.”

“Then they have the sense not to say it to me,” he growled.  He was incredibly fond of his only daughter-in-law.

“Or me,” I nodded.  “But I have a duty to the people I rule.  They deserve a functioning baroness.  And baron,” I added.  “It seems foolish to pursue this new hope, when I have already exhausted all reasonable means to cure her.  Not even the gods can restore her.”

I didn’t mention to Dad why I knew that – technically he was a lay brother of Briga’s temple, and had achieved the highest of honors for his service to the Flame That Burneth Bright... and Baketh Bread.  No need to shake his faith in her by revealing that the goddess had admitted as much to me herself.

Dad took a long pull on his mug, and then inhaled deeply on his pipe.  His face took on a thoughtful expression above his flour-stained beard.

“Bullshit,” he finally said, jabbing the air with his pipestem.

“What?”

“Son, long before you were ruling over this marvelous land you and Alya built, you stood before the gods and my neighbors and pledged your life to that woman.  She is your wife.  You vowed to take care of her until she died, and as far as I know she’s not dead yet.  You have an obligation to her long before you had one to the Sevendori... who are doing just fine, by the way, despite your long absences and sullen silences,” he added, critically.  Dad would know.  For the last year he’d been in the market every day, baking and selling his wares to everyone.  The baker hears everything, in a small town.

“But I’m not just a husband, I’m—”

“You were a husband first,” he declared.  “Before those wars and honors, you and Alya made a pact with your loins, one which entangled your hearts.  Mayhap the nobility toss away such riches at the first sign of tarnish,” he snorted, derisively, “but I raised you better than that, Minalan.  There are few things in life upon which a man may depend,” he continued, thoughtfully.  “Riches, power, wealth, position, all of those are fleeting and meaningless.  When you sift through a man’s life and take out all the chaff, no matter his class or his stars, there are only a few things that he can count on to bring happiness.  One is fulfilling work,” he said, patting his dusty apron.

“The other is family,” he continued.  “And the basis of all families is the love and commitment we make with our wives,” he declared.  “Those grandchildren I play with every night are the result of that love – mine for your mother, and yours for Alya.  Whatever oaths you’ve sworn, that is one you may never forswear.  King or villein, a man’s family is sacred.  It’s worthy.  And a man’s worth is measured, at the end of his life, not by how fulfilling his work was or how much treasure he has, but by how he’s lived up to that duty.

“So consider that.  You’ve an obligation not just to my daughter-in-law, whom I love more than a little, but to those children to restore their mother, if you possibly can.  That’s your duty to your family.”

Dad’s words were not kindly delivered, but they weren’t words of rebuke.  It was pure paternal wisdom, the kind that cuts through the strings of complexity we entangle ourselves in and reveals the essential.

Sure, Dad was a bit of a mystic – he was a senior lay brother in Briga’s temple.  But his belief was not predicated on the laws of the gods or divine instruction.  It was good, fatherly common-sense, plainly delivered, father to son.

“Thanks, Dad,” I sighed, as I finished my beer.  “That actually helps.”

“Good,” he murmured through the cloud of smoke.  “Now go do whatever wizard business you need to before your kids grow up.  Your mother is starting to worry about you, and gods help you if she decides to help you.”

*

*

*

Sire Cei arrived at my study just after his normal breakfast duties, when I had Ruderal discretely inform him his baron wished to speak with him in private.  Thankfully Sire Cei is subtle enough to understand the subtext of the invitation, and mentioned my arrival to no one before he knocked on my door.

It wasn’t that I was hiding.  I just needed some time to think intensely about my personal options before I was assailed by the needs of my government.  Or my family.

“So, you’ve returned from Vorone, my lord,” he began, after the smallest of bows.  “We’ve heard dreadful things...”

“Dragon attack,” I nodded.  “I would have called you in, but we had the talent to deal with the beast.  The palace and a few smaller buildings are completely razed, but the rest of the town is intact.  But shaken,” I added.

Sire Cei the Dragonslayer, of dall people, understood that.  He still bore scars from his own encounter.

“And Sir Tyndal was the one who slew it?”

“With magic... and a lot of help,” I smiled.  “He was the one who delivered the blow.  But the palace is wrecked beyond repair and Duke Anguin is ruling from his country estate while Lady Carmella plans a new keep and palace complex for Vorone.”

“It angers me to see such a treasure of my nation destroyed,” he said, grimly.

“Oh, the place was a dump,” I dismissed.  “I appreciate the nationalism implied in a palace as much as anyone, but in truth I think Anguin is relieved.  Not that so many died, of course, but that he doesn’t have to live in the mausoleum where his mother was murdered anymore.”

“I can see how that might be disturbing,” agreed Sire Cei.  “You summoned me, my lord?”

“I have learned of some information that could, possibly, help Alya,” I said, without wasting words.  “But I need to do some investigation.  A short journey – I hope it is short – and I need someone I can trust to watch my back.”

“My lord?” he asked, both alarmed and cautiously hopeful.  “You discovered something?”

“Yes, and something that could lead to more,” I said, trying to be cautious myself.  “But it is also the sort of thing that could attract the wrong sort of attention.”

He frowned, his bushy Wilderlands-style mustache fluttering.  “Ducal attention?”

“Alka Alon attention,” I corrected.  “Can Estret and the rest of the barony spare you for a few days?  Up to two weeks?  You might miss Yule,” I said, apologetically.

“If my lord has need of me, it is clear where my duty lies,” the big Wilderlord stated, matter-of-factly.  “With the Fair and harvest behind us, and only Yule ahead, I have the time.”

“Then if you would discretely prepare for a journey of a few weeks, a carriage and a driver.  Get Joppo the Root, if he’s available.  For a loudmouth he’s relatively discrete.”

“May I ask where we are headed, my lord?”

“The abbey, to begin with.  We will pick up Alya there, and then continue on through the Riverlands.  Our ultimate destination is common called Sartha Wood.  Remote,” I added, “and dangerous.”

“Then we shall proceed cautiously,” he said, resolutely.  “When do we depart?”

“At dawn,” I decided.  “The sooner started, the sooner done.  And make no mention of our journey, if you will.  If the Alka Alon council knew what I planned, I have a feeling it might strain our relations.”

*

*

*

That morning I quietly summoned Zagor, Olmeg and Banamor to my tower that morning.  Olmeg and Banamor I called mind-to-mind, but I had to send Ruderal for Zagor.  Though he possessed the largest witchstone in Sevendor at the moment, he had resisted learning and using the spell that allowed such contact.  What I was planning was both risky and audacious, and when one wants to do something risky and audacious having recourse to a wizard or three is helpful.  That holds true even when you’re a wizard yourself.

I explained to each of them separately what I intended to do, and gave them some instruction in my absence.  I also received their counsel.

I discussed the (human) political situation with Banamor, who kept up with such things a bit better than I did.  His position as burgher, mayor, and merchant gave him access to plenty of news that didn’t get to the aristocracy, and I trusted his judgment on the state of the barony as much as I trusted Sire Cei’s.

My questions for Zagor were more specific – and related to his unusual apprenticeship with the Alka Alon.  The Tree Folk took very few human apprentices in their arts, and I had one of the very few who were not so over-awed by the Alkans that they could be objective about their former masters.  Zagor had much good advice, once I convinced him what my goals were.

That’s the other thing I value about Zagor.  While we were once colleagues, and I’d technically saved his life, he was willing to criticize me – sometimes brutally – to my face.  I’d discovered all too quickly how fast the sycophants can assemble around power.  If I screwed up, Zagor wouldn’t care if I was lord of the domain, baron, or archmage – he’d tell me.

My consultation with Olmeg the Green revolved around entirely different matters.  Even my fellow magelords scoffed at me when I’d hired the big Green mage to steward the horticulture of my domains, and in truth they still did.  But under Olmeg’s tutelage and advice the yields of the farms in the barony were exploding.  The increasingly elaborate mixture of enchantment and floromancy were benefiting everyone but the grain merchants.

But what I needed from Olmeg concerned less growing plants and more killing them.  I was not disappointed that he had a solution to the problem... but he was not content to give me advice on floromancy.

“Minalan, my friend, are you certain this pursuit is entirely healthy?” he asked, concerned.

“I seek to restore Alya’s health,” I said, shaking my head in confusion.

“It wasn’t she I was concerned with.  If this endeavor should fail, Minalan, what next?  I am as hopeful as I can be, but not every seed sown is harvested.”

“I appreciate your concern, my friend,” I said, resisting the urge to lash out.  I don’t think anyone familiar with Olmeg could possibly get angry at him – he just doesn’t inspire that kind of reaction.  “And I understand it.  Sevendor needs at least one working noble.  I plan on putting Lenodara in charge in my absence.”

“A sensible girl,” Olmeg agreed steadily, “one with Sevendor’s interests at heart.  Yet it is not the domain’s health that concerns me.  Minalan, just how far down this rabbit hole do you plan on going?”

“Until I see that it’s pointless,” I admitted, with a heavy sigh.  “But you must understand, Olmeg: if I don’t try, and leave her... leave her like this, when there was at least a chance...”

“I know, I know,” soothed the big mage in his deep baritone.  “In your place I would do much the same.  But... you understand, I worry for you.”

“Thank you,” I said, sincerely.  “Thankfully, with your advice, I should be able to prevail.  And once I do, I should know whether or not the rabbit hole is worth traveling.”

That did little to mollify Olmeg, but it was the best I could do.  There were no guarantees, here, merely a wild chance at an unlikely hope.  One I had to take.

Dara was actually the hardest meeting.  She knew I was back from Vorone long before most did, thanks to her falcon, Frightful, who saw me in my tower.  As anything Frightful sees Dara sees, she was in my laboratory before noon.

“So, you just blink your way home again without even telling me?” she accused me, frustrated.

“I was going to,” I tried to soothe.  “I was going to let you know this afternoon.”  Her chin jutted out and her nostrils flared.  She wasn’t buying it.

“I’m sure you were!  Master, when you just up and leave like that and don’t tell anyone, it makes us all sick with worry!  And there are things that need your attention!  Me, Ruderal, the lab, the castle, the Karshak, the—  anyway, when you leave suddenly like that...”

“I’m sorry, Vorone was in danger,” I countered.  “You’ve heard about the palace?”

“Rondal told me,” she nodded, gravely.  “He says they’re going to go after the ones responsible.”

“That seems to be what they’re planning,” I agreed.  I’d already approved the operation, including some highly unusual inclusions to keep the boys on their toes.

I’d largely stayed out of the lads’ interest in Enultramar and their secret war against the criminal Brotherhood of the Rat – they had their own valid reasons for pursuing a vendetta against the gang.  But it had pulled the boys firmly into Duke Anguin’s orbit.  That was one thing when it meant supporting his claim to the title and to the Wilderlands, but their errantry this summer had involved multiple forays into the heart of southern Alshar.  And the ruckus they’d stirred up was now having political consequences.

It put me in a difficult position.  I had refused to aid Rard and Grendine with the re-capture the portions of Alshar that had rebelled from their rule on principal.  That was, after all, a blatantly political move, the kind of thing that I had wanted the Arcane Orders to avoid.  It was important that magi remain institutionally independent from the Kingdom’s bureaucracy and control.

But then Rondal and Tyndal had started their own independent arcane order, the militant Estasi Order of Knights Magi.  Their public purpose was errantry in the service of man.  Their real purpose was the destruction of the Brotherhood of the Rat.

I’d indulged the boys at the time because it seemed like a harmless enough pursuit.  The Brotherhood was a vast, insidious organization with thousands of ruthless thugs in its ranks.  Making war on them seemed a good excuse to exercise their skills against someone demonstrably in need of it.

But then the two idiots had to take my permission seriously.  Somehow or another, before the end of summer they’d arranged to rob their foe blind and deliver the fortune to their liege – or at least most of it.  They’d kept a reasonable fee.

While that saved Anguin, the Orphan Duke who didn’t even have a palace anymore, and the nascent government he was trying to run on good looks and a loan I’d made him, it had also stirred up tremendous trouble in Enultramar, Alshar’s storied southlands.

In a few weeks-long jaunts into Enultramar they’d not only slaughtered hundreds of Rats and disrupted their operations far more than I’d ever imagined, they’d gathered valuable intelligence... and discovered that the undead minions of our darkest enemies were plotting to subvert all Alshar for conquest.

Send the boys after a couple of rats, and they come back with the corpse of a dragon.

Tyn and Ron made an alliance with some local rebels who were unexpectedly helpful in their score.  Now they were following up with a mission to Olum Seheri, the mansion of Korbal the Necromancer, to verify that the ancient undead lord and his minions had, indeed, purchased Princess Rardine from the Brotherhood, who had captured her at sea, and were holding them captive in that once-beautiful place.

I’d favored their mission, even authorizing a paroled prisoner (Noutha, the former Lady Mask, who had unexpectedly won the Spellmonger’s Trial this year) to accompany them, but I was worried.  Worried for their fate if they failed, in that dark place; and worried for everyone else’s if they succeeded.  Korbal was clearly attempting to infiltrate the rebel lords of Enultramar, and if he succeeded it would be disaster.  Using Rardine as leverage against King Rard was horrific enough, if it was true.  But if Korbal or his Nemovorti minions took the time to actually interrogate her, they would discover that she was highly placed in the Kingdom’s intelligence service.

That would reveal far, far too much about Castalshar’s military and clandestine position... enough to win the war.  That made Rardine’s recovery – or death – the highest priority, right now.  That’s why I hadn’t hesitated to authorize the risky scouting expedition to Olum Seheri.  Whatever happened next was out of my control, now.

*

*

*

“Would it be a breach of security to ask where we might be going, Excellency?” Sire Cei asked, when the coach lurched out of the abbey grounds.

“To the Bontal, first, and thence to the Burine, and thence up the Teelvar,” I sighed.  There was no reason he shouldn’t know.  “We’re going to a village called Gilasfar, first, and from there we go overland to a little backwoods domain known as Sarthameton.”

“And would it be a further breach of security to know why, my lord?” the big Wilderlord asked.

“Because we’re going to visit an old Alka Alon lady who might be able to help Alya,” I revealed, at last.  “She’s commonly known as the Sorceress of Sartha Wood.”

Sire Cei frowned, his bushy mustache drooping.  “Is she not a myth?”

“She is not,” I agreed.  “I’ve apparently been there before, five years ago.  And had my memory of the occasion erased.”

Sire Cei looked shocked and troubled.  “How so?” was all he asked.

“Alka Alon magic.  By my request,” I hastened to add.  I told him most of the story over the next hour, and watched a parade of expressions cross his face.  He kept glancing back toward Alya and her attendants.  I’m sure he was trying to picture the drooling body of my wife in the midst of such an adventure.

“So we’re headed back to Sartha Wood to let this Lilastien examine Alya again, and perhaps suggest a way to repair her mind.”

“Why the subterfuge, my lord?” he asked, puzzled.  “It seems that all would support such a quest.”

“It is nigh Yule,” I pointed out.  “In a few weeks it will be the Yule Court, and I don’t want to distract the barony from that with this damn fool quest.  You know this isn’t likely to be successful,” I informed him, darkly.

“Minalan, you have earned my trust over and over again.  I have watched you entertain impossibility and disaster like old friends at dinner, and emerge victorious.”

“Does that look like a victory to you?” I asked, a little angrily, as I nodded to my invalid wife.

“Victory rarely occurs without cost,” he said, quietly.

“That is not particularly soothing, at the moment,” I replied, bitterly.

“I trust you and the gods, Minalan,” Cei assured me.  I bit back a retort about the wisdom of either faith.  Sire Cei was a good man, a better man than I, and he did not deserve my ire.

“Let’s gets some sleep,” I sighed, cracking the window.  The rain had stopped, and I watched a few miles of barren Sashtalian fields and leafless trees roll by.  Someone tried to contact me, mind-to-mind, but I ignored it.  I was on a mission.  The rest of the world could continue on without me, for a little while.

*

*

*

The barge trip down the frigid Burine and beyond was uneventful and bittersweet.  Being on the river with Alya brought me fond memories of our honeymoon – what parts I could remember – and what felt like a more innocent and uncomplicated time.  Of course, we were on the run from the Censorate and planting rumors of spellmonger-led peasants revolts to throw them off our trail, but it seemed innocent and carefree in retrospect.

Talry-On-Burine slid past on the left bank mid-day.  My home village seemed tiny.  The visceral excitement of seeing someplace with which I was intimately familiar was tempered by the sight of my father’s two giant ovens, like red-painted boobs jutting out from the bosom of the riverbank, sitting dark and cold.  Dad was talking about reopening them, once Baron Lithar came to his senses, but he wasn’t in a hurry.  He was enjoying the extended holiday at his son the Spellmonger’s barony playing with his grandchildren.

Even once we got to the much-smaller Teelvar things were uneventful.  At this time of year there was little traffic, and no sign of the Redwater river pirates I’d battled five years before, but then perhaps the weather had something to do with that.  As soon as we changed course up the Teelvar, the drizzle we’d endured since leaving home turned to sleet and then snow. A mile upriver we were sailing through a fall of big, luscious-looking snowflakes that pelted the muddy riverbanks.

I tried to see that as a sign.

I mostly kept to myself on that trip.  I joined the others for meals, and I checked on Alya’s condition every few hours, but I was not in a mood for conversation.  Sire Cei seemed to understand that, and after a few feeble attempts he stopped trying to get me to talk.

I wasn’t just sulking, however.  I was studying.

I’d brought the scribbled account we’d concealed in our final bottle of honeymoon mead, before getting our memories magically altered, and I pored over it looking for as much information as I could about what I would be facing.  It was unfortunate that I could not ask Ithalia about any of it – she’d been there, after all – but I was doing everything I could to keep the Alka Alon from knowing about my excursion.

Why?  Firstly, because what I was doing was, technically, forbidden by the Alka Alon Council, their ruling body.  Lilastien was a criminal, by their accounting, confined to her quarters and prohibited from pursuing what they considered a dangerous course of study: humanity.  That in doing so she’d also attracted the favor of at least a couple of benevolent human divinities suggested that her crimes were not completely without merit, for humans.  And by my own hand I’d recorded how pro-human she was. Going to visit a prisoner without the consent of the Council was likely to attract their ire, and I did not want to cause any unnecessary political complications.

No, really.

But that wasn’t the only reason.  Our first trip to visit the Sorceress of Sartha Wood we’d apparently attracted the attention of the Enshadowed, the ruthless and fanatical faction of Alka Alon who were determined to get vengeance on the Council, and remake Callidore (or at least the part of it the Five Duchies were occupying) for their own purposes.  There was a growing body of evidence that suggested the Enshadowed were not only working in concert with the gurvani, but that they were behind the gurvani’s creation of Shereul the Dead God in the first place.

If the Council became aware of my trip, the Enshadowed (who were known to have spies in the Alka Alon territories – Noutha had said as much) might learn of it.  I didn’t need to show up just to be overpowered by sinister songmasters bearing a grudge.

So I couldn’t tell Ithalia.  Or any other Alka Alon... save Onranion. He was so far out of the Council’s good graces he himself had been sent into exile... to Sevendor.  And he’d apparently been a part of whatever mess got Lilastien condemned to internal exile.  As much of a pain in my ass as he was, the old coot wasn’t going to be telling anyone about my business in Sartha Wood.

Going to see Lilastien would irritate two groups of Alka Alon.  While that made it additionally challenging, it also suggested that it was the right course of action.  The Council had a habit of treating humanity in a patronizing manner, even though our civilization was once at least as mighty as theirs.  There was a lot of history there, and at one point a lot of interference.  For us humans, that was ancient history.  For the long-lived, nearly immortal Alka Alon, it was just a few years ago.  Recent enough so that a few of the Council members still bore active grudges.  By making this trip I would be inflaming those.

Well, I consoled myself, at least there was no human political problem with the trip.  Rard didn’t even know he had a powerful Alka Alon songmaster living imprisoned in the middle of his kingdom, nor did he care.

By the time we got to the river hamlet of Gilasfar, my resolve was firm.  Even though I had technically been made a member of the Alka Alon Council as a representative of humanity’s interests and in token of our alliance against Shereul and now Korbal, I was treading on ice thinner than the frost on a puddle.  Even if the Council saw the matter of Lilastien as an internal affair, the fact was she was the foremost Alkan authority on humanity gave me every reason to visit her.

“Minalan, you expect to find assistance... here?” Sire Cei asked doubtfully as he looked around at the ratty hamlet as we off-loaded.

“This is just a way-station,” I promised.  “It’s not far, now.  We head overland from here to some Alkan ruins.”  I pulled the carriage out of its hoxter pocket in my staff while Joppo and the porters lead the team off the barge.  Then I had to bribe them heavily to keep them quiet about my presence, after they witnessed that bit of magic.  While it was unlikely that anyone followed us, this was also the closest riverport to Sartha Wood.  It would be natural for someone who was following me to ask questions of the Gilasfari.  Hopefully my silver and the threat of my return was enough to silence them.

At that point in the journey I was overcome with an odd feeling, as I moved through country both strange and familiar.  I didn’t recognize any of it... but I did.  I could not tell if they were legitimate memories or fictions supplied by my imagination and informed by my written account.

“Shrine ahead, Magelord,” Joppo called, at one point.  “Looks like to Herus.  You want to stop and pay our respects?”

“No!” I said, perhaps a little too forcefully.  “Ride around it.  We make haste,” I added, forcefully to the driver.  I didn’t need to explain to him how I was trying to avoid the attention of even the gods.  I liked Herus, and he was an ally, but the last thing I needed was him persuading me not to do what I was about to do.  Besides, the God of Travelers was a notorious gossip.

As dusk began to fall across the autumnal landscape, lightly dusted with snow, and I directed Joppo to make the proper turn off the miserably ill-repaired road to the wretched rut that pretended to be a road, thence to the trail through the woods.  The leafless trees were hovering over the path when it opened up into a meadow.  I ordered Joppo to halt the carriage, and led Sire Cei outside.

“This is the Meadow of Arrogant Vegetation,” I informed him.  His bushy eyebrows raised under the hood of his mantle.

“It’s called that?”

“It is now,” I nodded.  “Magelord’s prerogative.”

He shrugged.  I guess he was used to my flaming ego by now.

“I suppose that’s how most things get their names,” he conceded.  “But why—”

As if to answer him three odd-looking “trees” reformed themselves into simulacrums of humanity.  The Knights of Chlorophyll.

Okay, maybe not all my ideas for names are gilded.

“They’re here to bar our passage,” I explained.  “Last time I was here, I fought them.”

“This road is forbidden to you,” one of the saplings-at-arms grunted in perfect Narasi.  “Turn back, now.”

“They said that back then, too, according to my notes.  In fact, that’s about all that they say.”

“Shall we lay into them, then?” Sire Cei asked, as he appraised the strange-looking knights.

“That is our alternative,” I said, pulling a small sphere of thaumaturgical glass out of a pouch.  “But when I described the guards to Olmeg he’d heard of them.  He created this to counter them,” I said, as I took a careful step forward.  The lead knight took an answering step, blocking my path across the meadow.

“This road is forbidden to you,” it said in a hollow voice through its... hell, I had no idea how it was speaking.

“I’m thinking it’s not,” I said, lobbing the sphere into the midst of the knights.  They did not react, likely because the sphere wasn’t a mammal of some sort.  But once it landed and shattered, an eerie, high-pitched noise filled the brown tufted meadow.   At once the three green knights froze.

“It’s a sonic spell,” I commented, raising my voice a bit as I lead the team past the guards.  “Plants are subject to a lot of sonic cues, believe it or not.  That one convinced them that it was the depths of winter and time to hibernate.”

“Ingenious,” Cei admitted, as he eyed the frozen vegetables.  “Are there many such obstacles in our way?”

“According to the notes, there should be at least two more,” I nodded.  “We’ll walk and lead the team from here.  There’s a hamlet of woodcutters, up ahead.  We’ll rest there before we continue through the next two challenges.”

We paid the headman of the nameless hamlet a few silver pennies to watch the team – the carriage I made disappear again.  The elder seemed to remember me from my last visit, and I played along to see if I could coax any more detail out of him.  Just as my notes suggested, he did not advise going anywhere near the ruins – the Elf’s Gate, as he called them.  The vegetable knights largely left his folk alone, unless they came too close.

“We’ll stay the night, here, then press on to the gate in the morning,” I decided.  The shadows in the wood were already growing darker and gloomier.  While I could have managed with magesight or Cat’s Eye spells, I preferred to see where I was going with the naked eye.

The woodsmen were happy enough for the company, especially when I shared two bottles of wine from my magical store.  They rarely had cider, and this was on the second time in their lives they tasted “the lords’ wine”.  I didn’t mind.  The poor bastards who scratched a living cutting firewood and firing charcoal for the other villages were the poorest of the poor, in a remote and poverty-stricken region.  While we drank around their fire they told us of the devastating peasants’ revolt of a generation before, one which took the lives of half the village.  They didn’t even know how it rightly turned out.

On the subject of the Sorceress they were more circumspect.  She was a figure of great mystery, reputed to be the most powerful witch in the world.  Village lore suggested that every couple of years some knight errant or Censor would appear, ready to confront the Sorceress... but if they came back from the Elf’s Gate at all, they were unable to penetrate the mysterious force that kept them out.

I didn’t mention that the force had been placed there by the Alka Alon to keep the Sorceress in... nor did I mention how the gods reinforced it to keep dangers at bay.  If everything went according to plan, neither would be an issue anymore.

The next morning we rose and departed at dawn.  Alya could walk, after a fashion, if she was well-led and directed.  Her eyes stared blankly ahead but she would still follow, if someone tugged on her hand.  She was utterly compliant... but otherwise unresponsive to most stimuli.  I’d like to say she was better than directly after Greenflower... and she was... but that didn’t make her well.  In other ways she’d actually seemed to grow worse.

But the outdoors seemed to do her well, I noticed as she stumbled along, a nun on each arm.  The day was cold but clear, with just a trace of breeze, and the air was filled with a rich, loamy smell from the few day’s precipitation and a few million fallen leaves.  There were still small pockets of snowflakes from the dusting the region received hiding in shady corners of the forest.  I tried to see them as good omens.

“That, I take it, is the Elf’s Gate,” Sire Cei said as we rounded a bend in the path and came to the ruin.  A solitary arch, part of some much longer structure, was the final intact piece of the ruin.  It seemed to be more gateway than anything else.  There were dead vines and debris all over the rest of the ruin, but this small section looked more... maintained.

A flash of magesight and I could see why: the entire complex – what was left of it – served as the perimeter of a massive magical wall or fence that stretched out on either side.  Though I could not prove it, I was pretty sure it extended far into the air, too.

“Shall we knock?” Sire Cei asked, as we halted in front of it.  There was a faint shimmering across the entrance one could see even without magesight.

“Unnecessary,” I informed him.  “Lilastien’s door-warden has already been informed of our arrival.  He’ll be along directly.”

“Not more of those plant-things, I hope,” he said, his eyes narrowing.

“Oh, nothing like that.  He’s a perfectly normal troll.  Well, perhaps not normal – but he’s a troll.”

“A troll?”

“His name is Dargarin,” I explained.  “He’s been working the gate for around four centuries, now.  Maybe five.”

“Four... centuries?  Trolls live that long?”

“If they survive, and if they’re agents of the Alka Alon Council, they do,” I answered.  “He’s also well-armed and armored.  Unless it’s Theridald, or Arsimbal.”

“Who?”

“His partners.  He’s the reasonable one.”

I’m not sure if that soothed Sire Cei or disturbed him more.  We waited patiently for ten minutes or so – while I reviewed my notes, just in case I missed anything – and just as I was getting impatient I heard heavy footsteps in the distance.  A moment later my spells detected a troll headed directly for us.

Sire Cei tensed up, and put his hand on the haft of his warhammer, but I laid a hand on his shoulder to calm him.

“Let me talk to him, first,” I said.  “Dargarin was almost friendly.  For a troll,” I added.

“And if it is one of the others?”

“Then by all means, feel free to rescue me from my folly.”

Thankfully, it was Dargarin.  When the trees began to part and a black-clad troll appeared out of the woods, he bore a long spear, not an axe or a staff.

“Sir Dargarin!” I hailed him, before he could properly take his guard.  That startled him, and he peered through clenched eyes before he hefted his spear.

“You know me?” he asked, surprised.

“It is I, Minalan the Spellmonger,” I said.  “I believe we crossed swords five years ago?”

“Sir Minalan?  The wizard?” Dargarin asked, his mighty eyebrows raised under his iron helm.  “I thought you’d died!”

“I escaped,” I demurred.  “I met with the Sorceress.  Now I need to meet with her again.”

He looked uneasy.  “I don’t think that’s going to happen, Sir Minalan,” he said, doubtfully.

“Would you be open to a bribe?” I asked, activating a hoxter pocket I’d prepared.  I had a cluster of the things on the studded belt I wore, now.  It was handy for this sort of work.  A stack of books, all recently copied works from the library in Sevendor, appeared on the ground.  “The Complete History of the Five Duchies, Perwyn Before The Flood, Ater’s Almanac, The Nine Barons’ Revolt... and a dozen more,” I promised.

The troll eyed the tomes the way I was used to them eyeing a plump Tal Alon.

“That’s awfully tempting, Sir Minalan,” he said, with a sigh.  “But I can’t let anyone in here without permission of the Alkan Council.  That is the rule,” he recited.

A thought struck me.  “What about members of the Alkan Council?” I proposed.  “Are they denied entry by the rule?”

“Uh... no,” he admitted, leaning on his spear and eyeing the books.  “They have the right to make inspections.  But that dainty Fair One who came by last time was not a member of the council,” he warned.

“You are completely correct,” I agreed.  “But as it happens, I have been made a provisional member of the Council,” I reported, matter-of-factly.

That was technically true; after arranging the rescue of the survivors of Anthatiel when none of their kin would make the dangerous journey, the Alka Alon had grudgingly allowed me on the Council, in some diminished capacity.  It was an effort to secure our shaky alliance, I’d discovered through the Alkan web of gossip. There were splits growing in various Alkan factions, when it came to the war against Shereul.  But once the Enshadowed released Korbal, a powerful undead lord of necromancy from the Alka Alon’s own past, things had changed.  The Alka Alon needed our help, now, and I was representative of that help.

Provisionally.  In an associate capacity.

Still, it was enough, I hoped, to talk my way past Dargarin without fighting him again.  From the account in my notes, though I’d won the battle he was a mighty warrior.  And his partners were close by.

“You?  On the council?” he scoffed.  “You’re humani!”

“Nonetheless, thanks to the alliance of humani and Alka Alon, I have been granted a position on the council.  As such, I am asking you to open the way and allow me to make an unscheduled inspection of the premises.

“I dunno, Sir Minalan,” the troll said, scratching his wide, ungainly chin.  His hair was trimmed short all over his body, and particularly short near his face.  I suppose one of his mates did it for him.  It did little for his comeliness.  “I haven’t heard anything about humani on the Council.”

“Sir Dargarin,” I said, reasonably, “have I ever lied to you?”

“Well, now that you mention it, no,” he agreed.  “Not that I’m aware of.  But that doesn’t mean you haven’t started.”

“A point,” I conceded.  “How long would it take for you to verify my claim?”

“Three, maybe four... months,” he said.  “If you don’t mind waiting here, I’ll—”

“No, I’m afraid our errand requires more haste,” I sighed, unhappily.  “And it is near the edge of winter, now.  What proof would you require that I am, indeed, who I say I am?”

“Well, I’ve been instructed to use my judgment,” he said, thinking about it hard.  “But that usually means just kill everyone.  I mean, that’s always how I’ve interpreted it, before.”

“Yet I think this situation requires a more nuanced approach,” I proposed.  “For if I am not lying, you would be killing a member of the Council.  Surely that cannot be a good mark on your service.”

“Oh, Trygg’s bum, it wouldn’t!” he agreed with an unpleasant laugh.  “Not too many jobs around for fellows like me.”

“I’ve heard Shereul is hiring,” Sire Cei suggested, still staring at the literate troll with caution.

The mention of the name made Dargarin snort.  “Me?  Work for a gurvan?  Doing what?  Riding herd on a bunch of angry infant trolls?  My clan didn’t do well, after we allied with them the first time.”

“You allied with Shereul during the Goblin Wars?” Sire Cei asked, surprised.

“No! Not that ridiculous upstart,” sneered the troll – and it was a hell of a sneer.  “The first one, Gurvos.  The one who started the original rebellion.  Our kin threw in with him, way back when the gurvani first fought against the Alka Alon and escaped into the hills.  Only the little buggers fled when the Council sent their troops in.  My grandsires were captured, and pledged six generations of service to spare our lives and preserve the clan.  Never trust them again, after that,” he said, resolutely.

“Good to know,” I nodded.  “Now, are you going to let me through, or are we going to come to blows?”

“If I’m to use my judgement, I’ll need to discover your intent.  Are you planning an attack, plotting revenge, or attempting to liberate the prisoner?”

“Not at this time,” I vowed.  “I swear by the Everflame of Briga.”

He considered... and then reconsidered.  I had to give him points for professionalism.  Especially when he took the bribe.

“I suppose I could look away, just this once,” he said, rubbing his chin as he stared at the small library I’d brought him.  “Just this once.  As you’re a council member, and all.”

“Your indulgence is appreciated, and will be remembered, Sir Dargarin,” I said with a grateful bow.  “I bid you good reading.  Say... have you ever considered... writing?”

“Me?” the troll asked, surprised.  “A... writer?  What would I write?”

I shrugged.  “What do you know?”

“That’s... that’s a very interesting question,” he said, nodding to himself, thoughtfully.  “If I arrived at an answer, do you think anyone would read it?”

“I would imagine it would have at least a fringe audience, among the humani,” I pointed out.  “Something written from the troll’s perspective would be quite a departure, literarily speaking.”

He nodded, liking the idea.  “I suppose it would,” he grunted.  “You’ve given me some intriguing things to think about, Sir Minalan,” he said, dropping his spear and scooping the books greedily into his arms.  “Pass!”

I nodded to Sire Cei.  “And that is how you bargain with a troll,” I said, sagely.

“Not information I’d ever thought I would learn.  Or need to,” my castellan pointed out, as he motioned the frightened nuns forward with their charge.  Alya hadn’t reacted to the encounter at all.  The priestesses, on the other hand, looked like they were about to wet themselves.

When we got to the gate I had to take the biggest risk of the journey, from what I could tell.  Five years ago a charm from Ithalia was required to pass the magical barrier that encircled Sartha Wood.

Part songspell and part divine magic, the barrier glimmered a bit even without magesight.  With it, it was a band of pure power denying either passage in multiple ways.  Only at the Elf’s Gate was there any variation in the field.  There it was... not weaker, but somehow more permissible.  Without the talisman to allow us through, I would have to come up with something else.

Fortunately, I wasn’t the wizard I was five years ago.  A lot of things had changed.  I glanced at Alya.  Some hadn’t.  I manifested Blizzard in my hand and began pulling power through its stones, and activating the Sympathy Stone in the head.  The last time I had done this it was during the dragon attack on Vorone.  I focused my attention through the stone to its mate, in the Chamber of the Snowflake (or whatever I ended up calling it).  I now had access to the tremendous power of my ever-changing crystalline quasi-molopar.

What to do with it was another issue entirely.  I decided to start with a gentle probing.  Using a narrow tendril of the Snowflake’s multiphasic force, guided by thaumaturgical purpose, I assailed the Elf’s Gate looking for weaknesses.

I was startled by what happened next: the beam of force from my staff pulsed.  It was as if I was fishing and had a far larger strike on the line than I was expecting.  Or walking a dog on a leash and suddenly having him lunge toward a rabbit in the bush.  I maintained control of the flow, after I contained my surprise – but just barely.

As surprised as I was by the power flowing through my staff, I was even more shocked when I saw Alya lift her head and regard the incredible flow of arcane power that was almost invisible, without magesight.

But Alya saw – sensed – something in that flow, and it caught her attention.  An attention I did not think she retained the wit to possess.  It was the first sign of spontaneous activity I’d seen in her in months.

While I was trying to control both my staff and my surprise, the Snowflake’s power, with very little direction, brought down the gate.  Hard.  There aren’t usually material world manifestations of that kind of energy-based spell, but the excess of power and the combination of forces caused a flash of residual energy in the form of light.

Then it was down, and the staff ceased its probing.

“That was easier than I expected,” I commented, to myself.  I glanced up at Alya.  She had resumed her dumb pose, as soon as the Snowflake’s power was gone.  I was sorely tempted to manifest it again to see if she would repeat the reaction, but I also knew that such a display would not only delay us, it could well attract even more attention than I had thus far.

“Minalan!” Sire Cei said, his eyes wide.  “Did you see—?”

“I saw,” I nodded, firmly.  “It bears further study, but now is not the time.  Through the gate, quickly!”

Sire Cei pushed the two wide-eyed sisters and my wife through the portal and followed, drawing his long sword as he went.  I glanced around and did a quick scrying spell to see if anyone was near.  There was no one – that I could detect – but that didn’t prove anything.  I hurried after, wondering if the gate had been brought down permanently by the spell or if it would return.

The path through Sartha Wood was as spooky and gloomy as one would expect the lair of an infamous sorceress to be.  For the first quarter mile the forest on either side was choked with undergrowth and thorny briers that I recognized as common passive defenses among the Alka Alon – I’d stolen the idea for my own defensive gardening.  After a quarter-mile the woods became more stately and less sinister, though they were far from welcoming.

I could feel a maelstrom of spells encouraging my heart to abandon the quest and seek my personal safety.  A sense of dread and foreboding that I was not only endangering myself, but somehow putting everyone I cared about at risk.  I indulged in feeling the emotion for a few moments before dispelling it.  Blue magic, Alka Alon style.  Effective, on the simple-minded and easily-scared.  The gurvani used similar spells.  Hell, so did we human wizards.

“Minalan,” Sire Cei gasped, nearly panicked.  “It occurs to me that this is not perhaps the best—”

“Relax, Cei,” I soothed.  “It’s just a spell of discouragement.  I’m casting the counterspell.”

“But my lord, I—” he began, looking more and more frightened.

“Bide!” I urged, and threw the spell.  In a moment, his face sagged with relief, and his breathing returned to normal.

“Oh,” he said, as his natural emotions took control again.  “I see.  Merely a trick.”

“Like the spells in our Enchanted Forest,” I agreed.  “That’s not to say that there isn’t real danger ahead,” I nodded, “but not the catastrophe the spell encourages you to believe.  I believe that was the last major obstacle.  We should be past the worst of their defenses, now.”

We weren’t past the worst of their defenses.  In the next clearing the ground began to rumble, and a twelve-foot earth elemental appeared before us, stepping out of the ground in all its anthropomorphic glory as easily as a man gets out of a bathtub.

“That seems to be another obstacle,” Sire Cei observed, coolly, his brush with terror and doubt steeling him with new resolve.  Unlike most knights, he wasn’t particularly awed by the construct.  We used them around Sevendor all the time for big projects.  Only this one was clearly more interested in defense than agriculture.  “Do you have a counterspell, Magelord?”

“I do.  I brought along the greatest knight mage of the day.  Will you do the honors?”

Sire Cei smiled under his bushy mustache.  He was relieved to finally get to hit something, I guessed, after contending with magic for so long.  He unstrapped the cord of his warhammer from his belt and shed his mantle.  “It would be my pleasure, my lord.” he assured me.

The elemental took an obstructive position in the clearing – there was no way past it.  While it didn’t have eyes, a couple of shiny rocks seemed to regard me warily.  Or perhaps that was just my imagination.  If Ruderal were here, he could tell me what the thing was thinking, but I wasn’t particularly concerned.  Earth elementals are particularly simple, by nature.

As Sire Cei advanced across the meadow, holding his warhammer with both hands, the big clod of sentient dirt began striding across to meet him.  Before the elemental could strike, Cei swung that mighty hammer into the thing’s “thigh”, giving a manly grunt of effort that was (I knew) his activation of his power.  Suddenly all the emotion in his soul was turned magically into force.

The meadow exploded in a shower of dirt.  While Sire Cei’s blow didn’t quite bisect the construct, there was a hole in his left side that left very little to connect the top of the thing with its two legs.  Bereft of cohesiveness, it began to collapse.

Sire Cei was not satisfied with his handiwork.  With an expert pivot and twist, he reversed direction behind his back and pounded the construct on the right side.  This time the entire elemental collapsed.

“That was oddly satisfying,” he said, as he brushed the dirt and debris off his armor.

“Impressive,” I agreed.  “You’ve been practicing?”

“I spent the summer at war in Sashtalia,” he reminded me.  “It gave me some opportunity to improve my form.”  He hefted the magical warhammer I’d given him.  Enchanted to maintain its integrity and focus Cei’s natural Talent more effectively than a common blade, there was little in the mundane world that could stand against it.  And not a lot in the magical world, I noted, as the former elemental bathed the clearing in a cloud of dust.

“Let’s move on,” I encouraged the nuns – who were also quite impressed with the display of naked power.  “I doubt it can reform quickly, but there are no guarantees.  And its defeat may launch further obstacles in our way.”

We traveled through the last portion of defensive woods and into the interior of the forest, which was far less cluttered with underbrush.  Indeed, the forest took on the cultivated look I’d come to associate with Alkan settlements.  It was odd, viewing century-old oak trees like garden onions, but that’s about how the Tree Folk saw them.

The trail opened on a wide vale between a ring of small hills.  It was pretty, the way the modest newer construction complimented the stately old stone foundations.  Ancient Alka Alon ruins had been adapted into crude but cozy cantonment.  The central structure was a modest six stories, but was built on a sprawling section of intact original construction.  Huts and cottages, halls and holes indicated the variety of Alon and even human retainers the Sorceress was permitted, according to my notes.

“Arth Noafa, the Tower of Refuge,” I announced.  “Last remnant of the ancient citadel of Rengolarth, fallen long before humani came from the Void.  Though modest, it is a place of great power.  The citadel of the Sorceress, Lilastien.  Foremost living authority on humans,” I mused.

“But... she’s an Alkan,” Sire Cei remarked, frowning.

“And as such, she’s had a dozen human lifetimes to study us,” I countered.  “With the deep perspective of Alka Alon magic.”

“This is who you place your hope in?”

I shrugged.  “It has to lie somewhere.  I think the Sorceress will be sending a servant, soon.  We should probably wait here.”

For a moment, I thought Alya showed a flash of recognition of the place.  It might have been my hopeful imagination, but I took it as a good sign.  I needed one right now, despite my outward calm.

Within ten minutes a small figure appeared on the path – an Alka Alon, in her true, naked form.  She regarded our party with a faint smile.

“Magelord Minalan,” she said, courteously, giving a slight bow.

“You must be Cuinthora, Ithalia’s cousin,” I said, returning the bow respectfully.  “I am aware we have met, but I confess the loss of the memory.”

“So, your memory has not returned?” she asked, frowning.  “We were certain that the failure of the spell would be the only way you would have remembered the way.”

“You forgot the human fetish with the written word,” I explained.  “Alya and I wrote down a complete account of our journey, before the spell was fulfilled, and hid it away.”

“Writing,” she said, shaking her head.  “A useful tool.  Too useful,” she chuckled.  “And your friends?”

“Sire Cei the Dragonslayer,” I introduced, “mage knight, my castellan and champion.  Sisters Arania and Gessiri, of the Holy Hill Abbey.  They are in attendance of my lady wife, Baroness Alya,” I added.  “She has been maimed.  She is the reason why I am here.  I seek refuge and her restoration”

Cuinthora studied Alya, and immediately assessed her blank condition.  She nodded sympathetically.

“Come with me,” she agreed.  “But quickly.  Your arrival was noted, and not only by the Lady.  It would be best if we got under cover,” she advised, glancing toward the skies.

The brisk walk through the Tower’s tidy precincts demonstrated a well-run community of a number of races.  Human farmers toiled in the fields of winter wheat while Alka Alon tended to a late harvest in groves of nuts, and Tal Alon cultivated herbs and roots, vegetables and mushrooms.  There were gurvani laborers hauling loads and tending flocks.  Human estates did not run this well, even in Sevendor.  All was at peace, in the land of the Sorceress.

As we came closer to the center of the community, the Tower itself, the number of Alka Alon increased.  We were escorted into a wide, welcoming hall filled with intriguing magic and fascinating artifacts, where we were offered food and drink and fire.

“The Lady will see you shortly,” Cuinthora promised.  “She has been notified of your arrival.”

“This is a strange, strange land, Minalan,” Sire Cei confided to me in a quiet voice as we sipped mulled wine and watched the priestesses fuss over Alya.  “Gurvani working next to humans?”

“It wasn’t unknown in the Mindens, before the war, particularly in the iron trade,” I reminded him.  “Once all the Alon were servants to the Alka Alon.  Some tribes of each race retain that sense of loyalty.  At least to select nobility,” I added.  There were plenty of Alka Alon nobles who were assholes.

“And the humans?”

“From what my notes say, they’re more pets and test subjects,” I explained.  “Not unlike the status of free peasants on our own estates.”

“She experiments with them?” he asked, suspiciously.

“No more than we ‘experiment’ with what we feed our livestock.  Look, she has a sinister reputation,” I admitted.  “But there are complex reasons for that.  Reasons involving Alka Alon politics, which is about as twisted and contrived as anything in our own political nature.  Lady Lilastien has a loyalty to humanity that most of her Alkan peers find a distasteful fetish.  She’s more political prisoner for her views than villain, from what I understand.”

“Like Korbal?” he asked.

“Good point,” I said.  “Only Lilastien didn’t try to overthrow the established order, she just helped out humanity against the Council’s wishes.  Or so the rumors go,” I added.

A moment later, Cuinthora returned.  “Master Minalan, if you will follow me, I will lead you to the Lady.  Your friends will be taken to a guest house where they can refresh themselves and await you in comfort.”

I assured Cei with a glance that he would be secure, without knowing for certain that he would.  I was trusting the good graces of this sorceress.  I tried to relax, as I followed the diminutive Alkan woman up three flights of too-narrow and too-shallow stairs, but I couldn’t.

Lilastien was seated on a couch in a wide, spacious room with a broad window leading out to a balcony overlooking the village below.  She was in her natural form, but had draped herself with a colorful human-made mantle.

“Master Minalan,” she said, without rising.  “Welcome back to my home.”

“It’s nice to see it again, for the first time,” I quipped as I bowed.  “Thank you for seeing me, Lady Lilastien.”

“I daresay your determination to return required no other response.  Cuinthora tells me that your return was not due to a failure of my spell, but to your own desire to get around it.”

“Once one learns the art of writing, it’s terribly hard to give it up,” I pointed out.  “I am a wizard, after all.”

“And I am a foolish old woman,” she sighed with wry humor.  “I should never have underestimated you, Minalan.  Humanity continues to surprise me.  You are here because of your poor wife, Alya?”

“You’ve heard what has happened to her?”

“My granddaughter does her best to keep me informed of what is going on in the wider world, but her visits are rare, and what she brings me is sparse.  Ithalia fears running afoul of the Council.”

“So she does,” I nodded.  According to the parchments she’d taken a great risk bringing us here in the first place... a risk borne out by how the Enshadowed faction responded to our presence.  The Enshadowed hated Lilastien and her family, thanks to some ancient slight or insult.  “And with good reason.  But many things have changed in a very short time.

“But what concerns me today is the state of Alya’s mind.  I want you to examine her, and tell me if there is any hope of her restoration.”

She regarded me thoughtfully.  “You think I have the skill to do so?”

“If you don’t, can you suggest someone who could?”

“A fair point,” she conceded. “Why don’t you tell me what happened to her,” she said, patting the seat next to her on the couch.  “Tell me everything, dear boy.  Leave out no detail, however unimportant.”

So I did.  Dusk had long past when I had exhausted my abilities to describe the Battle of Greenflower in thaumaturgical detail.  Servants brought us wine and refreshment twice, and we missed dinner in the common room below.

But I did as she asked, and she asked a thousand questions, it seemed.  A few I didn’t have answers to, since I was unlearned in Alkan songspells and their version of advanced thaumaturgy.  But I did my best, and at the end of the marathon recitation I felt drained.  I’m certain the old Alkan learned far more from me than I thought I was telling her, but that’s just how their elders work, sometimes.  Even Onranion managed to tease out some subtlety from human interactions that escaped me, sometimes.

Finally, she rose.  “Return to your friends in the guesthouse, and I will examine Lady Alya tonight,” she proposed.  “In the morning, perhaps I will have an answer for you.”

“Perhaps?”

“My dear boy, I am as out of my depth here as you are,” she said, sadly.  “There is so much about this I’ve never seen before.  But I will do my best,” she promised.  “It’s been a long time since I delved into a human mind, and I might be rusty.  But I will do my best.”

*

*

*

The next morning she summoned me with a human servant.  This time she had me meet her in her laboratory.  It seemed vaguely familiar, for some reason.

“Do you want the good news or the bad news?” she asked, without delay.

“Both.”

“Alya’s mind has been shattered like a vase,” she said, matter-of-factly.  “The feedback from the destruction of the irionite matrix overwhelmed her neurology and fractured the underlying psychological architecture into pieces.  Like she was struck by a bolt of lightning, thaumaturgically.  Compared to the readings I took five years ago, there’s just barely enough there to sustain basic life.

“What I was able to do,” she said, cautiously, “is difficult to describe without instructing you in both human neurology and Alka Alon magic, both of which would take years.  But to use a convenient metaphor, through hours of perseverance and painstaking work, I’ve managed to take a few of the largest fragments and... knit them together,”

“How do you mean?” I asked, confused.

“To put it in enneagramatic terms, I’ve jammed the most-intact elements of her personality – not merely her memories, but her basic responses to the universe – and make a few tenuous connections to string them together.  From a psychological perspective, I helped re-establish her ego – or at least a few central parts of it.  From a thaumaturgical approach, I’ve restored a few points of integral cohesiveness among the fragments of her huomal bodies, encouraging the flow of energies in a supportive manner.”

“What effect will that have on her?”

“We won’t know for a few days,” she admitted.  “I’ve never done that kind of work before.  I was improvising the entire time.”

“I appreciate your candor,” I said, with a small grin.  “That’s how I operate, most of the time.”

“It’s good practice, whether you’re a doctor or a wizard, I suppose: I just don’t usually admit it to the patient.  But we won’t be able to tell whether Alya had a good effect from the procedure until her body and mind rest and heal from the additional trauma.  Hopefully the connections I established will properly knit.  I dosed her heavily with sedatives and neural factors to encourage growth, along with a restorative and regenerative field.  It’s the best I can do,” she said, apologetically.

“So... it’s in the hands of the gods?” I asked, wryly.  “They’ve already had a go.”

She reached out and put a small hand on my arm.  “Minalan, the fact is, it will take more than a god or two to put your wife’s mind right, again,” the Sorceress said, sadly.  “The way she was injured, where she was injured, have fractured her mind in ways I’ve simply never seen before.  They alone are the reason that she yet lives,” she said, shaking her tiny head.

“So what can I do?” I begged.  “I’ve exhausted my resources.  Including the gods whose acquaintances I’ve made.  I’ve tried every Imperial magic spell.  Not even the power of the Snowflake can repair her,” I lamented.  I’d been careful to avoid mentioning the Snowflake’s role in the Battle of Greenflower.

“Snowflake?” she asked, curious.  “What snowflake?”

“I... I’ve had some adventures, apparently, since my honeymoon visit.  When my son was born – the one Alya was pregnant with, when we came – it was in the middle of a snowstorm.  It was a difficult birth.  There were complications.  Magical complications,” I clarified, “in addition to the normal ones.”

“What kind of complications?” asked the Sorceress, frowning suspiciously.

“The baby did not want to part from his mother,” I explained.  “There was a magical attachment.  I know little of such things, but it was clear he wasn’t about to turn loose of her, and it was killing them both.  I had no choice.  I had to... make it up as I went.  With Briga’s help and a whole lot of power I improvised a spell.”

“Did you... loose the baby?” she asked, her forehead wrinkled with concern.

“On the contrary, the improvised spell worked.  I convinced him to let go, and parted their arcane shrouds enough to let the midwife take over.  But... well, it transformed everything in a two-mile radius of my castle.”

“Transformed into what?” she frowned, suspiciously.

I sighed.  Time to come clean.

“The spell produced a wave that transformed all of the silica in the area-of-effect into... well, we call it snowstone,” I explained, taking a smooth, egg-shaped sample out of a pouch and handed it to her.  “It lowers the thaumaturgical resistance in its immediate vicinity.  Tremendously.”

“I... I can see that,” the old Alkan woman agreed, her eyes wide.  “I’ve never seen anything like it before!  How did you...?”

“I wish I knew,” I shrugged.  “As I said, the gods were involved.  Briga, specifically.”

The Sorceress grunted unfavorably as she led me to a table and chairs at the side of the room.  One was humani sized, thank goodness.  She complained as she went.  “Of course.  It had to be divine magic.  Your people and your gods!” she said with unexpected disdain as she examined the snowstone egg.

“I thought you had a good relationship with the gods?”

“A few of them are all right – some are fascinating.  But they keep violating the rules of reality in a way that is, quite frankly, troublesome.”

“I’ve noticed that,” I sighed.  “When the birth of Minalyan – my son – I invoked her in a moment of desperation, in the midst of the spell.  The spell worked, and it also created the snowstone as a side-effect.

“But that’s not all.  It also transformed several natural deposits of silica-bearing crystals in underground vesicles in the mountains around the castle.  I’ve had a sample of them assayed by the Karshak.  They are... exotic.  Some of those crystals have quite unusual – nay, unique – properties, from what the Karshak, my own wizards, and the Alka Alon have informed me.”

“Tell me about them!” she said, excitedly, handing the snowstone egg back to me.  There was an eagerness in her voice and a look in her eyes that told me that this was an unexpected – and novel – thing.  I’d seen it on the faces of my own wizards, when they’d latched on to an idea.  Only in Lilastien’s case it went beyond mere interest and flamed instantly into obsession.

I could see in that moment why she’d earned the name Elre.  Rebel.  Telling her my most intimate thaumaturgical secrets, things I’d hidden from the gods themselves, was likely to be dangerous, I instantly knew.

So I did.  I told her everything, and she drank it in like a barfly in a distillery after hours.  I spent nearly an hour explaining the various gems and minerals, and what we’d discovered about them.  Then I told her about using the Ways, and how my overuse of them had caused a fevered dreamscape and (again, with the assistance of the gods) my subconscious built the quasi-molopor I called The Snowflake.

“It drinks in energies as a natural feature,” I explained, “and its ever-changing nature seems to constantly shift the thaumaturgical harmonics it produces.  It was a powerful, potent artifact, as it was.  Then we augmented it with an enneagram to help control it, and made it more powerful.”  I didn’t see a need to elaborate on what kind of enneagram, or where it originated – my rule of thumb is revealing one mind-bending wonder at a time.

“And you subjected Alya to this... thing?” she asked, shocked.

“I was desperate,” I insisted.  “And as Alya was responsible in part for the original spell – or at least deeply associated with it – I was hoping she would have some special affinity to the thing.”

“But it didn’t work,” she supplied.

“No, but it didn’t hurt,” I defended.  “In fact, it might have done some good.  Briga and Ishi didn’t see any harm in it, although using it concerned Herus.  And she did seem to improve a little.”

“Why was Herus involved?” she asked, curious.

“He’s been a worry-wort since I granted him enneagramatic continuity,” I dismissed.  “Since he gets around a lot by nature, he seems to collect concerns like pilgrim medals.  Briga wasn’t worried.  Much.  I trust her the most, since she was the author of the crystals, in a way.  They’ve been as valuable to my endeavors as snowstone and irionite,” I admitted.  “Particularly the one that can permanently affix a divine enneagram... which made me quite popular in some lofty circles.”

She looked at me sharply, more troubled at my explanation than I’d expected.

“What did you say?”

“I can make the enneagrams of the gods permanent with one of the stones,” I explained.  “So that they have continuity between incarnations.”

“Oh, dear me!” the Sorceress said, shaking her head and frowning.  “That’s not going to sit very well with... well, a great number of people!”

“Why not?” I asked, puzzled.

She sighed, heavily, and looked around guiltily.  “Let me summon some wine and food,” she decided.  “I need to tell you some things about the gods, and it’s going to take some time.”

*

*

*

“Minalan, when your people arrived from the Void, so many years ago, the humani were allowed to settle here partially because they were novel in that they did not practice magic in any serious way,” Lilastien began, after two human servants brought us luncheon.

“Not that the original humani weren’t advanced, in their way.  Your tekka was impressive, and even dangerous, but entirely unlike our civilization.  And you asked very politely,” she added, pleased.  “My people did not see your ancestors as much of a threat, at least not most of them.  And other kindreds... well, they depended upon our judgement.

“So when a few generations passed and your folk began manifesting rajira, we were surprised at how quickly the Talent popped up on Perwyn.  We were even more surprised when the first of the collective subconscious entities your people summoned appeared.  The first of those you call the gods.  I was called in,” she remembered, fondly.  “I was doing my residency at the New Leiden Medical Center on the big island when the first reports were made.”

“The first gods?” I offered.

“The first... manifestations,” she corrected.  “It is unclear whether or not they were actual gods, as we understand them, but they were the first times that entities from the humani subconscious manifested corporeally.”  She got a distant look in her eye as she thought back to memories forged centuries before.

“There were two the first six months: an old man in a red suit and a pointed-eared warrior in a black cloak who attacked a criminal gang.  They were dismissed as costumes or pranks, at first, but some of their abilities could not be explained away by mere imagination.  They were still kept quiet, to the public in Perwyn, but they attracted our attention.

“After the fat man and the dark knight, these manifestations started appearing regularly in extreme situations: three instances of a woman with bird’s wings rescuing people in danger.  Anthropomorphic animals doing the impossible.  A short warrior with whiskers and a big nose, wearing a winged helm, appeared in a sea-side resort and battled an archaic tattooed mariner, disfigured by his long years at sea.”

“That sounds... ominous...”

“It wasn’t as deadly as it sounds,” she assured.  “They confined their combat largely to each other.  That was a particularly interesting case,” she smiled fondly.  “I investigated, and traced the manifestations back to an argument between two young human boys at the resort – both with the first stirrings of their nascent first-generation rajira – who were trying to settle which cultural character would prevail in the contest: the warrior with his potion of strength, or the mariner with his rations of spinach.

“Spinach?” I snorted.

“Your ancestors had their reasons,” she reproved.  “Spinach is an excellent source of dietary fiber and essential vitamins for growth!”

“I’d still take the magical potion of strength,” I shrugged.

“Regardless of the outcome of the combat,” she continued, sternly, “the event was widely documented, and the first overt sign that there was something... odd about humanity.”

“That was your first sign?” I asked in disbelief.  She ignored me.  The wisdom of the Sorceress of Sartha Wood is legendary.

“That convinced us we needed to do something about the emergence of rajira in humanity,” she corrected.  “That’s why we embarked on a ten-year program to adapt the rudiments of Alkan songspells into something simple enough for the humani mind to grasp.  We adapted many of the basic phrases and tunes into glyphs, you being perversely addicted to literacy.”

“The Perada,” I nodded.

“The Perwyn Institute Rules for Abstract Directive Action,” she corrected.  “PIRADA is the acronym, in that dialect of Perwynese.”

“’Abstract Directive Action?’”

“That’s what your ancestors insisted on calling magic, when they first encountered it among their own people,” she recalled with a snort.  “They were doing their best to apply the language of science to a realm where their science had few answers.  The Perwyn Institute was tasked with investigating the manifestations and their source, and that lead to the recognition that Callidore’s soil had begun to change humanity.  The world was making it more magically-sensitive with every passing generation.  And that was becoming disruptive to human society, so we had to study the matter.

“After a few years we came up with twenty basic rules to help the human mind affected by rajira to understand and contend with their powers.  Hardly comprehensive, but it let them get used to the idea that reality wasn’t quite as normal for them as for others.”

“That must have been a shock,” I snorted, imagining a non-magical society realizing it was raising wizards in their midst.”

“It was,” she agreed.  “In hundreds of ways.  We did a decade’s worth of research on ‘abstract directive action’ in humanity, before releasing that paper.  They couldn’t bring themselves to just call it ‘magic’, though they had the cultural foundation from your homeworld they could have adopted, for simplicity’s sake.  You can still find the suffix ‘-ada’ in many contemporary documents on magic from Perwyn, from what I understand.

“But the gods...”

“Yes, the gods... or the ‘collective corporeal manifestation of abstract independent entities’,” she said, smiling wryly.  “Early on they were more of a nuisance than real powers.  We were much more concerned with the rise of the human magi, who had taken the PIRADA and exceeded our expectations.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, confused.

“We gave you the Perada and the other introductions to magic to aid you in your understanding of the subject,” she explained.  “We never expected those early magi to develop them so quickly into the sophisticated forms they did.  It took everyone by surprise.  Compared to those early magi, the pale images of children’s characters and cultural heroes were mere distractions.  The early magi were doing things with the limited tools we’d given them that we’d never anticipated.”

“A lute only has eight courses, but they still manage to come up with new songs,” I pointed out.

“Precisely!” the old Alkan grinned.  “That’s what I love about studying your species, your endless adaptability.  The early magi were experimenting and causing all sorts of problems, so the gods, such as they were, weren’t important... then.  When the office of Archmage was established after the coup, and magic was institutionalized, a lot of things happened,” she said, her expression changing, like a cloud passing over the sun.  “We weren’t exactly paying attention to all of their little manifestations.

“Things were just getting interesting when Kephan was elected Archmage and began his island improvement campaign.  The Inundation stopped the formal investigation into the phenomenon, of course – hard to conduct interviews and take readings when your island is sinking two meters a week.  And the gods were the least of our concerns at the time – which is unfortunate, because several of them were apparently involved in the Inundation.  But by the time we knew that, the bulk of the civilization had been relocated to Merwyn.”

“So when did the gods become... gods?”

“About a generation after the Inundation,” she answered.  “Your culture lost much in the sinking of Perwyn – it really was a grand civilization,” she recalled.  “Worst of all it lost its commitment to rationality, and within a generation the cultural context Perwyn provided, the bridge to humanity’s past, was nearly gone.  So the people began filling in the gaps of their understanding with myth and superstition.”  She didn’t sound condemning, she was making an observation.

“Why did that happen, if the evacuation was so orderly?”

“Well, we got the people out safely, but the place was gone too quickly to move much of the infrastructure to the coastal colonies, which weren’t prepared to receive them.  The people were lost and confused, going from a comfortable existence in an advanced civilization to a crude and rustic life in the wilderness.  The continental settlements were geared for food production, not industry.  The cities there were transport hubs and commercial centers, not manufacturing or cultural centers.

“Although Emden was advanced, and Lur Berria was becoming quite well-developed, the refugees from Perwyn weren’t farmers, fisherman or prospectors.  They struggled with their new circumstances, and things were rotten for a few generations.  The quality of education and the sense of cultural cohesion fell, and your people... regressed.

“That’s when the first proto-divinities began to manifest from your frightened, confused, desperate subconscious.  Figures from popular culture were transformed, and old myths were given new life as they struggled to maintain their culture after the crisis.  The syncretic nature of human culture bonded some rather unorthodox ideas, thanks to their stark condition, and that produced entirely new entities, within a few generations.  From that sense of desperation, need, loss and ignorance, the gods emerged from the mists of your collective subconscious.”

“That must have been impressive,” I remarked.

“It changed everything.  Previous manifested thoughtforms had rudimentary enneagramatic cohesion, like basic elementals, but thanks to the human capacity for creativity they were far more complex and unpredictable as time went on and your culture changed.

“To an Alkan eye, it was frightening: these entities didn’t conform to our previous experience.  They seemed to appear from nowhere, without being consciously summoned, and they possessed independent agency.

“Far more troubling were some of their powers.  They were able to do things that were... impossible, even with magic.  At least as we knew it.”

“And you were involved with that, I take it?”

“I had no choice!  I was the Alkan expert on humanity at the time, and one of your species’ greatest proponents in our councils.  I studied humanity more deeply and intently than any other Alka Alon.  I’d lived among you for over a century.  I’d learned as much about being a human as I could, on your own terms and through your own science.  So naturally when human proto-elementals with independent agency started throwing their metaphysical weight around, I was drafted into the effort.

“That is a tale on its own,” she continued, thoughtfully, “but one of the things that grew out of it was an appreciation for the very temporary nature of manifested divinity,” she sighed.  “The transitory nature of the gods’ appearances made them bearable, if unpredictable... and positively useful in a few instances.  As our understanding of their nature grew, we realized that priesthoods could be used to manage the social anxieties that could cause a deity to manifest.”

“You?  Encouraged temples?”

“Oh, not just me,” she demurred.  “It was a joint decision with the colonial authorities.  You have to understand, some of the divinities from humanity’s pre-Callidore past were horrific: world-destroying cosmic gods with a penchant for genocide.

“I’m not judging – the proto-Alkan culture was just as barbaric and horrific, before we came to this world, but our gods never manifested the way yours did.  Our subconscious minds work differently.  Thankfully, there was little absolute belief left in most of those older religions by the time of colonization.  Yours was largely a secular society, with only remnants of pre-Callidoran religion remaining.

“But after the Inundation of Perwyn there was a conscious decision made to repress the older forms and encourage the emergence of a loosely-structured adapted religion.”

“Why?” I asked, troubled at such a conscious manipulation of human culture.

“Some of your folk began looking to their past divinities for guidance and succor,” she explained.  “While your ancient cults were psychologically intriguing, the original myths they were based on involved divinities that had dangerous properties.”

“How so?” I felt like I was begging her for information, like a child.

“If the human mind can conceive of a divinity who has the power to create and destroy the universe at whim,” she proposed, “just what would the useful purpose be of actually manifesting that divinity?  Would they judge your species by the standards of another world and another time, as culture and myth dictated?  That was madness.

“So the Cosmic deities and the monotheistic religious traditions were eliminated or discouraged.  It wasn’t as hard as we thought.  Within a few generations on Callidore most of them lost their cultural context anyway.

“What came after was a return to a kind of agricultural paleo-religion.  The refugees, deprived of their advanced civilization, were forced to learn to farm, hunt, and fish, and it was a difficult transition.  It was made more difficult by the hostilities that broke out over the mainland as the surviving power structures competed for dominance.

“In the few generations it took to get things sorted out, so much of the old world was lost that the ignorant descendants of your race were all too willing to cleave to whatever spiritual solace was available.  By encouraging the priesthoods, the Magocracy was able to keep those old Cosmic gods from manifesting by draining the subconscious power that fueled them into socio-magical rituals.  Else, any disturbance could potentially release a world-destroying human god on Callidore.”

“That was really a danger?”

“It was,” she nodded, solemnly.  “There were a few incidents of manifestations that caused a great deal of trouble.  Some of them could have gotten humanity eradicated, if they’d been noticed by the wrong eyes.  We were able to keep them quiet, but it’s quite possible that one of those old cosmic manifestations was involved in the destruction of Perwyn.  There’s at least circumstantial evidence of that.  We know a few lesser archetypes were involved.  And some were borne from that crisis: Avital, for one.

“In any case, the new religions were a lot less potentially damaging, once their powers and symbolisms were separated from each other in syncretic polytheisms.  The gods your people called forth from their collective unconscious during the Second Magocracy were less likely to destroy the world and more likely to add to its fertility... and its inter-tribal strife.  The Imperial gods were fairly manageable, once the Second Magocracy was organized.  They manifested rarely, intervened sparingly, and they thankfully faded away fairly quickly.  It wasn’t until the Narasi became a force north of the Vore than things got complicated again.”

“My barbarian ancestors,” I mused.  “Always the life of the party.”

“A passionate people,” she said, diplomatically.  “With a well-defined, if crude, cosmology.  And a genius for warfare.”

“I didn’t think the Alka Alon appreciated warfare as an art, the way we practice it,” I pointed out.

“I am no ordinary Alkan,” she reminded me.  “I lived with humani culture for a century.  Your people’s approach to warfare is different than ours, but the results are inarguable.

“When the Narasi overwhelmed the Magocracy and imposed their gods on the conquered, not to mention destroying the magical infrastructure of the Empire that controlled such manifestations, my people were appalled.  Your Narasi deities were far more violent than the Magocracy’s, even their stormy sea gods, and when they manifested it was calamitous.

“It took two generations to complete the cultural fusion that tamed the original gods into something more manageable, but by then my folk had had enough of humanity.  When the Narasi began oppressing the magi, the only ones amongst you who had any inkling what was happening when Duin the Destroyer manifested, for instance, most of us gave up.  A few of us who didn’t want to ended up discredited, exiled, or... imprisoned,” she sighed, sadly.

“But that’s why the idea of a permanently manifesting human divinity is so frightening, Minalan.  Your gods have capabilities that no one on Callidore can match.  The snowstone is tangible proof of that.  Yet they are as capricious as your myths suggest – more so,” she conceded.  “In all truth, most of your myths give the gods far too much credit.  Far too much... humanity.”

“I’ve been very selective in which of them I’ve given this gift,” I answered, carefully.  “In some cases, I’ve exacted promises and concessions from them.”

She looked horrified. “You realize that there is very little you can do to enforce those, don’t you?”

I shrugged.  “What can be given, can be taken away.  Ishi started to get out of hand in Vorone.  I had a talk with her, and things got better.”

“You... had a talk with Ishi?  And things just... got better?”

“I can be very persuasive,” I offered.  “And I invoked her self-interest.”

“What other divinities have you... affected like this?”

“Just Herus and Briga, who both seem level-headed by comparison, but I’m open to others.”

“And you think you are adequate to judge which among them is worthy of this gift?” she asked, trying hard not to be condescending.  She wasn’t entirely successful.

“If I’m wise enough to regulate the magi, why not the gods?”

“Your wisdom isn’t the question, Minalan, it’s your ability to enforce your will.  This is a disturbing development, I will not lie to you.  It will enrage certain Alka Alon, when it becomes known,” she said, shaking her head, sadly.

“The Enshadowed?  They’re already enraged by humanity.  No, there are those amongst respectable Alkan great houses that will see this as an unacceptable development.  The same ones who decided to confine me here in Sartha Wood.  That’s why they did it, when you get down to it: I assisted the gods in aiding humanity, when they sought to save Perwyn.  When my people had turned their backs on it.”

“How?”

“That is too long and complex a story for now, my friend.  Perhaps someday I will tell the tale.  Right now, it is not germane.

“What is germane is the condition of your wife.  I think that with a little assistance, we can help heal her body the rest of the way.  And perhaps even bring some structure to her mind, even if we cannot bring it cohesion beyond what I have accomplished.”

“But you said there was hope?” I asked, desperately.

“Hope?  Yes, if myths, legends and speculation count as hope.  Callidore has many powers, from many ages, and the answers may be among them.”

“I had hoped that it would lie with the ancient enneagram we installed in the Snowflake,” I confessed.  “An ancient power we took from a shard of Ghost Rock known as the Grain of Pors.”

“Oh, dear,” she asked, disturbed.  “When you said you used an enneagram to control the thing, I thought you had constructed one.  You borrowed one from Hapaxilite?”

“Yes, the Snowflake was too complex for a simply constructed enneagram.  But one of my apprentices surveyed the Grain and retrieved an ancient pattern, one with sufficient complexity to someday control the thing.  A paraclete,” I explained.  “An intercessory enchantment to convey and empower the Snowflake.”

“Minalan, there are many ancient horrors that have been entrapped in Ghost Rock,” she said, as if she’d walked in on a child playing with deadly acid.  “Dangerous things that predate both of our species’ time on Callidore.”

“We considered some of those,” I admitted.  “But in the end Ruderal – my apprentice – identified one he called The Celestial Mother, a benign entity from the ancient oceans.  One with sufficient complexity to control it.  Onranion and my people managed to connect it, in a rudimentary way... why are you gaping at me, if I might ask?”

“You have... attached the enneagram of a legendary great Celestial Mother to a hunk of magical crystal?” she asked, horrified.

“Well, yes,” I agreed, “but so far there haven’t been any ill effects.  I wouldn’t say it allows me control of the Snowflake but it does give me a rudder to steer with, so to speak.”

“Oh, dear gods!” she gasped, horrified.  “You impetuous, short-sighted, impulsive wizard!  Minalan, what have you done?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, concerned at her reaction.

“Minalan... does the Alkan Council know you’ve done this?” she demanded.

“No, just Onranion.  He’s not exactly in their best graces, right now.”

“Some things are eternal,” she quoted from somewhere, rolling her little eyes.  “But if they knew the danger you have just put both our races in...”

“Why?  What are you talking about, Lilastien?”

She looked at me quietly for a long time, and I’m sure she was considering just how much information to entrust in my feeble human mind.

Finally she cleared her throat and sipped a large amount of wine.

“What I’m about to tell you hasn’t been properly understood by your people since before Perwyn sank,” she began, softly.  “The knowledge has been lost over time, and for the most part your people have carried on without the burden of it.  Living happy, natural lives, as their ancestors intended.

“But when your folk first arrived from the Void, they assumed – incorrectly – that the Alka Alon were the masters of Callidore.  Our cities and settlements were the most like theirs, and they recognized our civilizations as being remarkably similar.

“Unfortunately for you, that was not the case.  The Alon ourselves came from another world, more than ten thousand years ago.  We were invited here... by the Sea Folk.  The Vunden.  They are the true native civilization of Callidore.”

“I know as much,” I agreed. “But why would they do that?”

“They have their own reasons,” she shrugged.  “From what I understand from they years I studied the Vunden—”

“You’ve studied the Sea Folk?” I asked, surprised.  I hadn’t thought the Alka Alon had much commerce with the aquatic race.

“I had to do something before humanity showed up and captivated my interest,” she demurred.  “But I studied them for a century, in my youth.  A very alien people, compared to Alon or human.  They rule the most important part of Callidore, the seas: the Great Depths beyond the Shallow Sea, where the great reefs span hundreds of miles, giant mountains teeming with life the Sea Folk shepherd.

“The history of the Vunden stretches back over a hundred thousand years, and they are just the latest incarnation of the aquatic masters of Callidore.  Their line, in truth, stretches back millions of years, to a time before both Alon and human were more than beasts on our respective homeworlds.  In the ancient history of Callidore, the ancestors of the Vunden were ruled by the Great Mothers, beings so complex and sophisticated that they ordered the very ecosystem of the oceans.  Millions of beings depended upon their wise governance.

“But the Great Mothers weren’t the pinnacle of the race,” she continued, reciting a history few had ever considered.  “For as the Realms of Light and Darkness waxed and waned, their powers grew and receded as well.  Over time they became more and more sophisticated, until the Great Mothers birthed the Celestial Mothers... beings so vast that they could perceive the universe far beyond the shores of Callidore.

“They reached out their perceptions into the universe and eventually found that they were not alone.  There were other worlds, some teeming with life.  While they observed, the Celestial Mothers had little way to interact with the distant worlds.  Their curiosity outweighed their caution, however, and they finally discovered another world... one which was similar to Callidore, in many respects.

“Like here, life had arisen within a type of Magosphere.  But while the new race possessed curiosity and interest as the Sea Folk did, when the Celestial Mothers invited them to visit through their mighty magic, the new race agreed.

“Only once they arrived, they proved to be an invasion force, not emissaries of good will.  The translations we have of their name are tenuous, but the Sea Folk usually refer to them as the Formless Foe.  Their powers were great, allowing them to transform their bodies and adapt themselves to Callidore’s rich Magosphere.

“It was far stronger than their homeworld’s.  They grew strong, very quickly.  They found they enriched themselves when they consumed the magical corals the Sea Folk tended.  They realized new powers, with the help of the Sea Folk.  Then they went to war with their hosts.

“It was war on a scale unimaginable to our minds,” she reflected.  “For thousands of years the Formless fought under the sea, seeking to overcome the Celestial Mothers’ defenses and feast on the rich corals that sustained both races: one by cultivation, one by consumption.  After millennia, it appeared the Celestial Mothers were triumphant, driving the Formless Foe either into the Depths, the deepest part of the ocean, a place of unimaginable darkness and fury... or on the Dry lands, above the surface, where they could do little harm.”

“They came ashore?” I asked, surprised.

“They were Formless,” she shrugged.  “They adapted.  The Dry Lands were almost unknown to the Sea Folk, beyond a few brief surveys.  The life above the waves was sparse and primitive, compared to what lay in the Deeps.  The Formless were an aquatic species, evolved on a watery world, but they were powerful enough to transform themselves to survive the Dry.  For a few brief centuries, the Sea Folk felt as if they had finally won.”

“I’m guessing that it didn’t work out that way,” I said, pouring more wine.  It was good wine.

“No,” she said, shaking her head.  “The Formless were weakened in the Dry, but they were cunning.  They conspired to attack the Celestial Mothers in new ways.  In an attempt to release their most powerful allies from the Deeps, they tried to destroy a great portion of Callidore and feast on the remains.  They summoned a mountain from the sky and hurled it down at the land.

“The last of the Celestial Mothers was able to keep the world from being destroyed, but at a terrible price.  Titanic earthquakes rocked Callidore and upset the ecology so dreadfully that it never fully recovered.  While they contended with that destruction, the Formless and their creations released their great brothers and began their war anew, from the security of the Dry lands.

“In the end, the last Celestial Mother searched the universe and found a race willing to help: a race of plant-like beings whose tiny world was in crisis.  A race they called the Met Sakinsa.  As strange as they were, the emissaries of the Vundel struck a bargain with them.  They agreed to serve the Celestial Mothers in return for sanctuary on Callidore.  After long negotiations, they brought the core of their civilization here on the smaller of the two moons, using their magic and that of the Celestial Mother to affect the transport.”

“That turned the tide.  The newcomers had evolved on land, as a great living forest, and though they were a peaceful race they were stout in their defense.  While the Vundel battled the Formless Foe’s incessant raids into the sea, the Sakinsa were preparing their own assault.  They sent down thousands of seed pods from their green moonlet, bombarding the Dry with their scouts.  When they sprouted and grew, they transformed the Dry.  Many of the flora you see today on Callidore, outside of the humanized lands, are from that bombardment.

“The Sakinsa attacked suddenly and viciously.  The Formless were unprepared and surprised.  The magic of the Sakinsa was elegant and subtle, but powerful, when applied.  The greatest among them rallied their warrior class and slaughtered the dens of the Formless across the continents.  Only a few desolate places were left untouched.  The great ones from the Deeps were either slain or driven back down to their hellish exile.

“And though the final battle cost the last Celestial Mother her life, her descendants, those we now call the Vundel and sail their great leviathans beyond the Shallow Sea, honored their pact with the Met Sakinsa.  A small continent was granted to them in perpetuity.  The Grandfather Forest was transplanted, and most of their race retired there, to grow their great forest home.”

“That is beyond fascinating,” I nodded, “but I don’t see how it has anything to do with me.  Or Alya.”

“It has everything to do with you now, you idiot boy!” the old woman said, crossly.  “You just don’t understand the axial role the Celestial Mother once played in the seas.  She was more than a queen.  She was more than a goddess.  She was more, to the Sea Folk’s ancestors, than all the pantheons of humanity combined.  The Celestial Mothers literally oversaw the way the world turns,” she said, reverently.  “Their successors were divided and ill-suited to the task of holding the incredibly complex realm under the sea in unity and harmony.”

“And I’m assuming that’s where the Alon and humanity came in,” I suggested.

“Not for a long time.  Though the Formless Foe languished in their prisons, the scars from their long war were devastating.  The seas were in turmoil.  The lands in most places blossomed with the remnants of the Met Sakinska’s passage.

“All but in the places of the most damage.  There, the scars were just too deep for a few hundred generations of forest to cover.  And while the Sea Folk were divided and in disarray, the chaos on the land affected the seas.  They needed additional help.  After searching for thousands of years, they extended an invitation to the Alon.  A... conditional invitation.”

“Conditional... how?”

“They gave us provisional control of many areas of the Dry, with the purpose of securing it against future incursions.  And developing the richness of Callidore through our own contributions.  I would like to say we were largely successful in that endeavor,” she mused.  “In many places, the Alon civilization is as great or greater than on our homeworld.”

“But not in the Duchies,” I supplied.

“This is a backwater, even for the Dry,” she agreed.  “A rough and tortured land doubly cursed: first by the titanic struggle against the Formless that wrecked the land, and then once again by the Alkan wars.  You’ve read the sagas, but the truth is they weren’t nearly as elegantly organized as they are recorded.  In dictating, we left a lot of the worst and most shameful parts out.  They were horrifically violent, and eventually their scope was such that the Vundel took notice.

“When that happened, the Alon were summoned to council and the terms of their invitation were reviewed.  We were judged – not by our willingness to slay each other, but in involving the other races and endangering the harmony of Callidore.  We were given a warning... and put on probation.  If we dared disrupt the harmony again, we would be asked to leave.”

“Asked... to leave?  The world?”

She nodded, solemnly.  “Yes, Minalan.  The entire Alon race would be... evicted.  It seems a drastic punishment, but the terms were quite clear... and the power of the Vundel, as diminished as it was from the mighty Celestial Mothers, is more than sufficient to do so.”

“So, if they were so strict, why in nine hells did they let us settle here?” I asked, my mind bobbling.

“For balance,” she supplied.  “The Alon ruled many of the dry lands of Callidore, save for the Grandfather Forest and a few other places.  But like the Formless Foe before us, the Magosphere here was far stronger than our homeworld’s.  Our command of its complexities grew, and our civilization became more sophisticated.  In our power, we became unruly.  When your race appeared from the Void, without any kind of magic, the Sea Folk were intrigued.  Those who spared the Dry any thought at all.”

“That must have been jarring for your folk,” I suggested, diplomatically.

“For some, it was the ultimate insult,” she agreed.  “By that time the Alon had segmented firmly between Alka and the more ephemeral subspecies.  And there was considerable unrest among them, particularly those on the margins of our society.  There was much resistance to the idea of human settlement among us in any capacity – but the Vundel were in favor, and we weren’t in a position to negotiate.

“Some of our folk were angry, when your race was allowed to settle, feeling entitled to all of Callidore.  Especially jealous among the clans were some factions of Rulathi and some Versaroti fanatics in the lands granted you.  They were already in exile here, among the simple Avalanti, and the ones most responsible for the wars.  But as we were on probation, there was little we could do, once the Articles of Colonization were agreed upon.  These lands were the ones most suited to human habitation, for one thing.  And you promised to try to heal the hurts to the place, and make it a garden of human perfection.”

“We... did?” I asked, confused.  That seemed like a big promise.

“That is the understanding the Vundel have,” she nodded.  “Bereft of the wisdom and the guidance of the Great Mothers, they carry on the best they can, in a diminished capacity.  Instead of conducting surgery on their world, the way the Mothers would have, they resort to folk medicine.  Most would see the promise of humanity to restore the land as a solemn agreement,” she continued, “but having studied their culture in more depth, I see it closer to how they do.  Humanity – and the Alon before you – were brought here for the same reason a wounded animal smears mud on a wound.  The Dry – at least the areas of human habitation – is damaged, and it is hoped that by cultivating some passing... spores, some measure of healing will be achieved.”

“Uh, can you explain that to me again?”

“Humanity and the Alon were invited to settle Callidore – temporarily – in an effort to repair and restore the damaged lands.  But they’re blissfully unconcerned with how that might happen.  Some molds and fungi have amazing healing properties, when properly applied.  Others can cause infection and rot.  The Vundel hope that our species, or some combination of them, can produce some curative that will bring some semblance of repair to their world.”

“I suddenly feel used, in a biological sort of way,” I said with mock horror.

She grinned.  That’s what I liked about Lilastien, I decided.  Her long association with humans had given her a far more human-like sense of humor than even Onranion.

“You’ll get used to it, in a few more thousand years,” she dismissed.  “To the Vundel we are, to extend the metaphor, a biological poultice on Callidore.  Nothing more.”

“And when our work here is done... we get discarded,” I guessed.

“Or if we become an irritant, we get scraped off,” she agreed.  “And they could do it.  The weaponry they used to combat the Formless Foe, and darker foes before them, could easily overcome anything either of us could do together.”

“That is a seriously disturbing idea,” I shuddered.  “You have proof of that power?”

“It’s in their legends,” she nodded, gravely.  “A small race of aquatic beings was invited, once, and took residence in a volcanic region.  They immediately began trouble by tinkering with the edges of the Deeps, which was forbidden.  The Vundel unleashed their power against them and all but exterminated them.  Our residence in the Dry keeps us removed from their common notice, and they are slow to respond.  But make no mistake, Minalan.  Once they are aroused, they are decisive.”

“So... humanity is on the hook for restoring the damaged lands?” I asked in disbelief.  “Do they realize how unequal to that task we are?”

“Perhaps,” she shrugged.  “Perhaps not.  Originally, it was your technology that you were to rely upon – your amazing tekka, as it is called, now.  Yours was the only race to ever reach Callidore without magic, and that sophistication was astonishing to us all.  The promise of your potential was enough to convince the Vundel to let you try.

“Later, the arising of your rajira gave some hope, even as your civilization was falling.  Not much, but some.  In particular, the divine forces that you raised held the tantalizing hints that some great new power was possible.  Unfortunately, as potent as the gods were, they rarely looked beyond their primal purposes or used their powers beyond often misguided attempts to aid humanity.  When they did manifest, often as not they brought chaos, not healing.  So the jealous among the Alka Alon undermined you, while others were afraid of the problems you might cause.  Many were merely disgusted with the squandered promise of humanity.”

“Well, that’s hardly constructive,” I chided.

“That’s what I thought!” she smiled.  “A few of us – a very few – rejected the Council’s reasoning, of course, and paid the price.  I’m not the only one under internal exile.  But thanks to our efforts, we felt we’d put humanity on a path that would at least allow your survival.”

“That was kind of you,” I nodded.

“You’re a wonderful hobby of mine,” she said, affectionately.  “The Vundel are alien, but humanity is so deliciously similar to us – yet intriguingly different – how could a serious scholar not indulge in that?”

“I see your point,” I shrugged.  I was a scholar myself, of sorts.  “And while I’m gratified by your interest, I still fail to see how—”

“Minalan, we’re mold,” she emphasized.  “And now, thanks to your little experiments, not only have you created a unique magical mineral and a host of fascinating crystals, you’ve resurrected the ghost of one of the Vundel’s ancient gods... and put it in your cellar.”

“It’s more of a chamber,” I countered.  “It’s underground, but...”

“You have something the Vundel have been missing for a hundred of their long-lived generations: the insights and power of the Celestial Mother.”

“You think they would object to that?”

“I think they would lose their godsdamned minds over it,” she countered, evenly.  “There’s no way to predict how they would react.  It could be anything from complete awe at some form of their ancestral leaders returning to complete extinction of both our races for the temerity of such an act.  The politics of the Vundel are beyond our understanding.”

“So... I have a reason to wipe out both our races in my castle.”

“It gets better,” she smiled, madly.  “You may have the key to repairing your wife’s mind.”

“Explain!” I demanded.

“From what I understand, the Celestial Mother was the central hub, part of a more complex system of subordinate creatures, each tasked with nurturing, protecting, and serving the Celestial Mothers while they ruled.  The Mother was the center, but her attendants were vitally important in her administration.  Together, working in harmony, they were able to rule every bit of Callidore and keep it within the proper Realm for a million years.

“Among them was a creature known as a... Handmaiden, I suppose you would translate it.”

“It served the Celestial Mother drinks?” I asked, amused by the idea.  I had no clue what either creature looked like, so long ago, but I have a vivid imagination.

“No, sustaining the Celestial Mother was the responsibility of pair of beings you could call the Butler and the Cook.  Just as reproduction was handled by the Midwife.

“But the Handmaiden... the Handmaiden was responsible for, essentially, maintaining the cohesion of the Celestial Mother’s complicated awareness.”

“I... What do... okay, I don’t understand,” I confessed.

“I’m not sure I do, either, but from what I learned about the Sea Folk’s mythic ancient history, the Handmaiden supported the Celestial Mother’s monumentally complex self-awareness by... well, think of it as maintaining the enneagram.”

“It is far more complex than even that of a god,” I agreed.  “I’ve made some quiet investigations.”

“It would be,” she agreed.  “Your gods are amalgamations of human experience filtered through your cultural context, informed by hundreds of individual perceptions.  They grow like weeds, wild and untamed.  And, because of that, they often behave erratically or even in ways that could be classified as insane.

“The Great Mothers escaped that fate by employing the Handmaiden.  She was responsible for cultivating the enneagram on behalf of the collective.  Trimming away useless or harmful perspectives, regulating memory and experience, providing balance and harmony as the Mothers’ perceptions and experience added to their self-awareness.”

“How is that even possible?” I asked, my mind a-whirl.

“Magic,” she shrugged.  “A far more advanced form of the way we make simple constructs or engage elementals.  From what I understand, the special nature of the Handmaiden is such that it could comb and cut the vast enneagram to fit a greater plan.  It could repair damage or avoid potential insanity as new patterns evolved.”

“So, if we find the enneagram of a Handmaiden,” I reasoned, “then I have a potential took to restore Alya’s mind!”

“Oh, there’s far more to it than that, Minalan,” she said, patting my arm.  “The Handmaiden could not only restore Alya, it might be able to restore the Celestial Mother’s enneagram... assuming this Snowflake of yours is as mutable as you say,” she added, doubtfully.

“You mean... bring back the Celestial Mother, in full awareness, inside it?”

“With the Handmaiden’s assistance, I think it is possible,” she agreed.  “Whether or not it is wise is another matter.”

“Isn’t this all a moot point?” I asked.  “If the Handmaiden existed within the Grain of Pors, I think Ruderal would have found it.”

“Mayhap,” she agreed.  “But in my many journeys, and on my many researches, I have encountered at least one place where such an enneagram may exist,” she said cautiously.  “The great vein of Ghost Rock under the citadel of Anthatiel.  I believe there is a strong possibility that it exists within it.  The Grain of Pors was small and portable – it could be brought before the Celestial Mother.  That lode, on the other hand, has been stationary for millions of years.  The Great Mothers were creatures of the Deeps.  There is no way they could make it that far inland.

“But among the other duties of the Handmaiden was investigation, and I think it’s possible that the enneagram of one has been captured in the lodes of Anthatiel.”

“Anthatiel has fallen,” I reminded her.  “It is Olum Seheri, the lair of the Necromancer, now.”

“Still, that is where it may lie.  The Ghost Rock veins under the island are among the greatest in all Callidore.  It has been a place of pilgrimage for my people since we discovered it, but its capacities are vast, and hold the record of ages.  You say Korbal has control of it, now?” she asked, alarmed.

“We flooded the lower levels and destroyed much of the city before we left, which will make accessing it difficult for him.  But yes, he does.”

“Then our danger is far greater than I thought,” she said, gravely.

“Why?”

“Because the lode has been a place of pilgrimage for others, long before my people discovered it.  The Formless controlled it for centuries, and even darker forces before that.  Their enneagrams are within, just as mine and all the Alon who have ever surveyed it.  If Korbal is allowed to restore the Formless to incarnate forms, once they adjust to their new bodies they will return to their age-old obsession: releasing the Great Brothers from their prisons in the Deeps.  That will void the agreements between our species and the Vundel,” she said, shaking our head.  “That must not be allowed to happen.”

“Do you think Korbal would do that?”

“He and the Enshadowed have been plotting this sort of bold stroke for centuries,” she assured me.  “They are fanatics, devoted to ancient, archaic ideas of cultural and genetic purity.  They covet power at all costs, the power to avoid death altogether... and the power to control all Callidore.  If Korbal has the opportunity to unleash the Formless Foes, or even darker forces, he will.”

“We have learned that it may have been the Enshadowed who set the gurvani on their quest to restore Shereul, in the first place,” I informed her.

“That would make sense,” she nodded, as if I’d just fingered the neighbor boy for stealing pies.  “The Enshadowed have never enjoyed popularity in our councils, even at the peak of their power.  To further their aims, they often used the servitor species in their plots: as labor, as soldiery, as slaves.  Using the gurvani in such a disgusting manner is well within their ideology,” she said, distastefully.  “It’s something for which they are known.”

“And humans?”

She looked even more disgusted.  “To the Enshadowed, you are no more than animals with which to be experimented!”

“Isn’t that what you are doing?” I countered.

“Of course not!” she snapped.  “I am doing observational science, not experimental!  Well, outside of a few pet theories, nothing invasive, I assure you.  Not so those fanatics!  The Enshadowed may be purists, but they are also determined and opportunistic, justifying nearly any horror in their pursuits.  If they felt that using humanity against itself – and against the Council – would aid them, they would not hesitate.  You are not even worthy of their consideration.”

“I am planning a foray against Olum Seheri,” I told her, thoughtfully.  “For many reasons, but now it seems as if I have the most compelling reason of all: to save both our peoples from the wrath of the Vundel.”

“In doing so, you may incur it yourself, for the temerity of using the Celestial Mother like some puppet vassal,” she pointed out, warningly.

“We’ll cross that ford when the road does,” I dismissed.  “If we can avoid their notice, perhaps we can keep Korbal from gaining their attention.  I’ve dispatched a squadron of warmagi to scout the island,” I added, “my most trusted warriors.  If they return with good intelligence then we shall prepare a full assault.”

“Against the might of Korbal?” she asked, skeptically.

“And Shereul, if need be,” I nodded.  “We have no choice.  And if Anthatiel is where this Handmaiden is hidden, then before we deny Korbal the use of the lode we shall find it and remove it,” I vowed.

“That may be far more difficult than you imagine,” she said, uneasily.

“I imagine it’s impossible,” I countered.  “More difficult than impossible is my specialty.”

“You are bold and audacious, Spellmonger,” she said, shaking her head in admiration.

“I am desperate and committed,” I corrected.  “My wife’s mind is at stake.  As well as the fate of all the peoples of the Dry lands.  I don’t have a choice, Lilastien.”

“You very well may die, if you go to Olum Seheri, Minalan,” she said, sadly.

“I will certainly die if I don’t.  Of heartbreak, if not by the hand of the enemy.”

“Enemies,” she corrected.  “There are those on the Council who would seek to slay you merely for speaking to me.”

“Then it is time to address that,” I decided.  Lilastien had given me the faintest, most desperate hope.  I wasn’t about to let a little thing like politics taint that.  “Can you be spared from here, for a while?” I asked.  “Will Alya be all right without you?”

“What?” she asked, surprised.  “Of course, but... Minalan, I am under arrest!  I am not allowed to leave here, by the law of the Council!  I cannot pass the barrier, I cannot use the Waypoints here, I cannot—”

“There have been some changes,” I said, simply, as I rose.  “Give me your hand,” I insisted, holding mine out.  She looked hesitant and doubtful, but she sighed, stood, and put her tiny hand in my palm.  I reached out, and before she could object I pulled her through the Ways toward a very particular Waystone.

A moment later we were staring down at Raer Haruthel, high lord of Carneduin, one of the final great fortresses of the Alka Alon.

I never knew Alka Alon took hot baths.  Or how much they valued their privacy while doing so,  A moment later we were in the anteroom to Haruthel’s chamber, waiting until his two young attendants were finished with the job.

“All right, that did not go as smoothly as I imagined,” I said, apologetically, as we sat on a bench.

“He’s gotten so old,” she smirked.  “I thought I’d aged, but Haruthel... Minalan, how did you get through the barrier?”

“The Alkan Ways,” I supplied.

“The Ways into my realm were blocked,” she said, shaking her head.

“I brought my own Waypoint,” I said smugly.  “They didn’t think of that.”  I explained about the Waystones, and how I’d traded a few for a fortune in irionite.  “So, once I got back inside your Sartha Wood, I made sure I could get back out without taking the long way.  Magelord’s prerogative.”

“That prerogative does not extend to unannounced interruptions, my boy,” Haruthel said, as he entered the room wrapped in a towel.  “I know your people have very casual ways, but the Alka Alon value their privacy at such intimate moments,” he lectured.

“My apologies, Raer,” I said with a bow.  “I had a matter that would brook no delay in my mind.  I should have contacted you first.”

He glanced from me to Lilastien, his green eyes thoughtful and troubled.  “If the matter involved Elre, then I can see why you hesitated.  Good morrow, Lilastien,” he said, with a bow.

“Good morrow, Haruthel,” she said, returning the bow with just a hint of sass.  “This was not my idea,” she began.

“I didn’t think it was,” Haruthel said, looking back at me.  “Magelord Minalan, I assume your impetuosity has merit?”

“As hasty as my people are, my lord, I rarely act without cause,” I pointed out.  “I wish to speak to the Council concerning parole for Lilastien.”

Haruthel looked at me with a mixture of skepticism and curiosity.  “This old prisoner?  Why?”

“Because I need her,” I declared.  “We need her,” I corrected.  “With Korbal’s rise, we find ourselves challenged on new fronts in new ways.  Undead are beginning to infiltrate human society.  His possession of Anthatiel gives him tremendous advantage.  I need all the resources I can muster, to deal with the threat.”

“Have we not provided enough irionite?” he asked, cautiously.

“For now,” I conceded.  “But this war cannot be won by power alone.  In just a few months we’ve seen how quickly Korbal’s minions have acted on his behalf, and how insidious even their clumsy moves have been.”

“They fight a war, like any war,” Haruthel agreed.

“No, not like any war,” I countered.  “My lord, fighting Shereul dictates that we use power and armies to counter him.  With Korbal, the pieces are different.  If we try to fight a traditional war against such an insidious foe, we will lose before we begin.”

“Korbal’s machinations are legendary,” Haruthel conceded, leading us to a smaller chamber where chairs and cushions had been prepared for us.  “He fought a long war against a superior force and held out for years.  And that was without support from anyone but the Enshadowed.”

“With Sheruel’s aid, and the defenses of Olum Seheri to hide behind, he will be far more secure, this time,” I proposed.  “From what we’ve seen he has mixed the fanaticism of the Enshadowed with the villainy of humanity, and begun using his disciples – in the bodies of humans – infiltrate southern Alshar.  If they are successful, they will use the Duchy’s resources to prosecute their secret war against the rest of humanity.”

“You think he would waste his energies on mere humans?  No offense,” he added.

“None taken.  But yes, I think he would.  He already has, based on what we’ve learned.    Pitting us against ourselves to weaken us, while Shereul waits his chance to descend on what’s left.  When they’re done with us, they can march their slave armies on the Alka Alon citadels with impunity.  Sheruel’s powers were bad enough... combined with Korbal’s sorcery and human ingenuity, how long until they fall?”

The idea made the tiny Alkan lord shudder.  “Little has changed,” he said, shaking his head.

“Everything has changed,” I disagreed.  “Raer Haruthel, the disciples of Korbal the Necromancer are recruiting magi for their host bodies, in Enultramar and the Wilderlands.  And probably elsewhere, by now.  By choosing bodies with rajira, they can channel their fell powers against us.  Death energies which we have little defense against.  Through their domination they can take the body of the mildest mage, and make it fight like the greatest warmage.  All the strength of a human body and human will, with the deep knowledge of an Alka Alon.  Goblins and dragons I can fight, my lord, but it will take more than witchstones and the Ways to fight against that.”

I suppose Briga made me particularly persuasive, that day, or perhaps Raer Haruthel was simply anxious to finish his bath... but he finally nodded.

“I see your point, Minalan,” he nodded.  “But of all remedies to apply to this grave situation, why... her?” he asked.  He didn’t look at her with disgust, as much as disregard.

“Because in this new phase of the war, I will need guile.  I need wisdom.  I need intelligence.  I need resources that span our two civilizations.  Gods, I’ll need more than that.  I will need someone who can look askance at the board and find ways to gain victory where others would only see their own rigid perceptions.  In short, my lord, I need a rebel.  Elre.”

He snorted, which looks particularly funny on an Alkan, but I didn’t laugh.  “Her?  The last time she knew your folk, Perwyn was sinking below the waves.  Humanity is entirely different, now,” he dismissed.

“Bullshit,” I said, quoting my father and shaking my head.  I wished I knew the Alkan word for “bullshit”, but as I didn’t I used the Narasi term.  “We haven’t changed, not that much.  Our civilization may have fallen but we’re still the same species, with the same strengths and weaknesses that we brought with us from the Void.  No one knows humanity better among your people than Lilastien – unless you disagree.”

“I am the last surviving member of the Callidore Colonial Medical Association, board certified in nine different specialties,” she informed him.  “By their own, best accounting, I am an expert in human biology.”

“And you think that would be helpful?” he asked, doubtfully.

“With Korbal using our bodies and souls like kindling wood?  I dare say,” I nodded.  “I need her.  We need her.  Whatever crimes she may have committed have long lost their relevancy.”

“Such a decision would require the acquiescence of the full Council,” he said, skeptically.

“A council you invited me to,” I reminded him.  “I am willing to plead my case before them all, if you wish.  I will reveal all I have learned to them in the process, including my conclusions about our fortunes in the war.”  That was a bold move.  Haruthel was generally friendly toward me, as a representative of human civilization.  He’d sponsored the proposal to include me in the Alkan council, arguing that our common foe required closer cooperation, after the disaster at Anthatiel.

But this wasn’t me being the helpful and stalwart human ally.  This was me being a pain in the ass, and we both knew it.

Thankfully, Master Haruthel also knew me well enough to know I wouldn’t make such a push unless I was certain of it.  I hadn’t tried to extort more weapons or more resources from him, during our association.  I had given a corner of my lands to Lord Aeratas to act as a base for his exiled people.  I’d been on my best behavior – considering the more conservative Alka Alon on the Council saw me as yet-another barbarian warrior-prince.

“You make some valid points,” he sighed.  “I will contact the rest of the executive council and see what their thoughts are.  I warn you, they may call you to make your plea in full council, as you say.  They may refuse outright – you made many enemies, Lilastien,” he said, reprovingly.

“Many are apparently now in the faction of the Enshadowed,” she pointed out.  “Or dispossessed.  Would they really use their old grudges to doom us all?”

“You think yourself so important, Elre?” he countered.

“I think that you’ve all let things go to shit while I’ve been locked up,” she accused, hotly.  Haruthel backed up.  “The Council was designed to bring order and harmony to the realm, and you’ve used it to keep the humani ignorant of their heritage and their potential!”

“We’ve done nothing of the sort!” he said, putting his little hands on his little hips.  “We allowed them to develop naturally – as you advised, if you remember!”

“Develop, yes!  Suffer in ignorance and squalor? No!  Now look what has happened,” she continued, circling him.  “Our own sins have returned to curse us threefold!  The gurvani!  Korbal!  And allowing the humani to devolve so badly!”

“I’d think an Avalanti would appreciate the value of the simple life!” he snorted.  This time I probably smirked, but I didn’t think he’d noticed.

“Don’t use that old ‘rustic simpletons’ stereotype on me!” she retorted, heatedly.  “If the smug superiority of the Versaroti hadn’t tried to undermine the purpose of the Council in the first place for their own ends, half of the realm wouldn’t be in ruins!”

“This is hardly the time or place to revisit old arguments,” I said, trying to be the voice of reason.  Me.  “I think its best if we focus our efforts on our highest, most critical priorities.  I want to win this war more than anyone,” I promised.  “I’ll do it with or without her, if I have to.  But I think it will be easier with her.  I’ll do it with or without you, too,” I suggested to Master Haruthel.  “But I think it will be easier with you.”

“Minalan,” he sighed, shaking his head, “I appreciate your eagerness and commitment – I really do – but this goes beyond mere politics and old loyalties.  Lord Aeratas and his Tera Alon have scandalized many of the wider council, and his abrupt change in position after his devastating loss caused many to re-examine the situation.  Indeed, we have done little else.  We understand this is a crisis,” he said, sadly.  “One with far greater potential for disaster than you realize.”

“Extinction seems sufficient motivation,” I replied, drolly.  “Need I another?”

“I do not doubt that we need a fresh perspective and new resources,” Haruthel agreed, reluctantly.  “But it will be difficult to convince the others that Elre has sufficiently paid for her crimes... or is no longer a danger.”

“Then set her parole,” I suggested.  “Give her a few years to work with me, and if she performs in good faith, perhaps you will reconsider.  What can it hurt?”

“It does seem petty, in the face of the danger ahead,” she encouraged.  “Not that I am uncomfortable in my prison, Haruthel.  I will grant you that.”

“You would have been far less comfortable, had the gods not intervened,” he countered with a hint of scowl.

“They were grateful for my service to Perwyn,” she said, angrily.  “I did not ask them for their interference.”

“Yet their interference inflamed the opposition you face upon the council!”

“Then the Council needs to come to terms with that... as well as a good many other things!  This poor boy has risked his life a dozen times to defend your people and his, and what have you done in return?  Not even gone to the aid of your kinsmen in a time of need?  Have you sent word to the other realms?  Have you mobilized our defenses?”

“You are not in charge of the Council, Lilastien!” he snapped back.  “Nor were you ever!  There are a great many things to balance, here, as you well know!  We proceed with caution and diligence, lest we overstep and find ourselves in lasting peril!”

“We’re in bloody lasting peril!” Lilastien said, rolling her eyes.  “Do you think I want to get involved in another war?  One involving gods?  Worse, one involving gods of our own creation?  I’m an old woman used to a quiet life, content to my studies in my own – very well protected – land.  But I’ve invested too much time and energy into the humani to see them destroyed so casually, when they are willing to fight.  And I’ve more pride in my own race than to stand idly by when good people are damned by our mistakes.”

“They were not our mistakes!” Haruthel exclaimed, defensively.  “We did the best we could, at the time, under those circumstances.  The very best we could!”

“Then do that again,” Lilastien insisted, poking him in the chest.  It was like watching an old, cranky and very short married couple fighting.  “The very best we can includes letting me help this poor boy in his mad quests to save our own kindreds, as well as his people.  If my old, enfeebled mind is all the help you can offer him, then why do you resist?”

“Enough!” he said, throwing his hands up in despair.  “I will contact the others, and we will make an emergency ruling... for your parole, not your freedom!”

“If that’s all you can do...”

“Lilastien! Enough!” I snapped.  “Know when you’ve won!”

“She knows neither defeat or victory, only chaos!” the master of Carneduin complained.  “Bide here.  I will return,” he said, and slouched off.

“You really pissed him off!” I whispered, when he was gone.

“He’s actually not that bad,” she conceded, sulkily.  “He argued for mercy, during my trial.  But he still voted for house arrest!”

“I’m sure he felt very bad about it, afterwards,” I soothed.

“Regardless, I’m impressed with what you’ve done, Minalan,” she replied in an answering whisper.  “A bold move, and presumptuous.  One guaranteed to rile certain parties.”

“Hopefully, it will compel them to action,” I said, hopefully.  “Beyond that, I found having such a resource as yourself constrained, when I have need of it, an obstacle to my goals.  If the Council really wants me to sit as a member as humanity’s representative, then it needs to get used to such action.  Or else find them a new wizard.”

“Well said, young man,” Lilastien said, approvingly.  “You remind me of another human boy who was a friend of mine, back in the last days of Perwyn: Aaron.”

“A wizard?”

“More powerful,” she said, shaking her head at some private joke.  “He was a technician who kept the pumps and other devices running, right up to the end.  He stayed long after the last boats left,” she recalled, fondly.  “He wouldn’t give up.  He wouldn’t leave his post.  He thought there was something he could do, long after it was clear that there was nothing anyone could do.  Loyal to the end.  They fired him, told him to evacuate, and threatened him with arrest, and then abandonment.  He was determined to find a way,” she sighed.  “Hopeful, to the end.”

“See?” I pointed out.  “We haven’t changed that much.”

“Not the essential human nature,” she agreed.  “But your civilization is vastly different from what it was when you arrived.  More noble, in some ways.  More petty, in others.”

“I’d like to think that displays the range of our character,” I mused.

“That’s that hopeful nature, again,” she chuckled.  “Always trying to turn bad wine into good vinegar.  I wasn’t wrong, what I said to Haruthel,” she continued.  “We really did keep you from regaining your potential.  When Perwyn sank, we could have done more to help you save more of your own civilization.  Instead we encouraged you to simplify and adapt to your new world, instead of following your initial inclinations and making it adapt to you.”

“It seems fairly well adapted,” I pointed out.  “I certainly feel at home, here.”

“The colonization process was a success, from a biological perspective,” she agreed.  “The Terran Zone – that’s where we are – was cultivated adequately, and in some ways exceeded the original colonists’ wildest dreams.  But the development of the colony failed,” she explained.  “Instead of maintaining and even expanding the impressive civilization they brought with them, disaster struck your ancestors again and again.  Now you are simple farmers, rustic warriors who fight amongst themselves for the scraps of your old civilization, not much more advanced than the Tal Alon.  I think if we had used our influence and resources properly, that could have been avoided.”

“I’m not certain you would have been doing us a favor,” I said, doubtfully.  “Mankind seems petty and brutish as it is.  Perhaps we’re at our best, as farmers an warriors.”

We continued to chat idly for two hours in that chamber, while we waited for Haruthel.  Lilastien spoke to me as I was an old friend, and the old Alkan’s nature encouraged me to do likewise.  She was as irreverent as Onranion, in some ways, and as delighted in the simple beauty of Carneduin as Ithalia, her granddaughter.

“It has been centuries since I was last here,” she sighed, at one point, looking out the wide paneless window at the beautiful river valley below the hall.  “I love my little realm, but I miss the society of my kin,” she added, wistfully.

“I’ve often wondered how an Alkan contends with loneliness, considering your facility for coordinated action,” I replied, casually.  Pentandra and I had both noted how the Alka Alon – indeed, most of the Alon – had a capacity for incredibly well-coordinated action, at various times.  The Alka Alon seemed to be able to do it at will.  The Karshak Alon did it at labor.  The Tal Alon did it in times of crisis, when their nests were threatened.  Even the gurvani were capable of it, we theorized, if controlled by their shamans or Shereul tightly enough.

But it wasn’t something the Alka Alon spoke of often, just as we didn’t mention our dreams every day.  Of course, while I was fishing for information, Lilastien chose to wax philosophical.

“It can be a hard burden,” she reflected, watching the activity below.  “My people were meant to be social, even more than yours... interspersed with brief periods of solitary meditation.  Psychologically speaking, we’re far more extroverted than you, individually.  Humans who enjoy quiet solitude would be seen as nearly pathological by my folk... while our enjoyment of society would be seen as dangerously extroverted by yours.  But don’t forget that great variation exists in both species,” she cautioned.  “We have our share of dangerous loners... just as you have yours of dangerously decadent extroverts.”

“That’s only because we’re getting close to Yule,” I dismissed.

“Ah, Yule!” she smiled, fondly.  “One of my favorite humani customs.  Almost Alkan in flavor, with a lot more alcohol.”

“And a lot poorer singing,” I agreed.  “Back at my castle, the drudges are preparing the hall for the Yule Court.  Gifts are being readied, feasts are being planned, and everyone looks forward to the merriment.  Even with... with their baroness stricken,” I added, reminded that Alya would be missing this year’s festivities.

“If it is any consolation,” she said, sympathetically, “that is one tradition that hasn’t changed since humanity arrived from the void.  The name and customs may have shifted, but everyone loves a party at the Solstice.”

“It keeps you from killing the people you’re trapped inside with, all winter,” I theorized.  “I’ve often thought— ah, Master Haruthel!  What news?”

“Am I to be thrown in a pit, this time?” Lilastien asked, rising.  “Something murky and damp, perhaps?”

“While something like that was, indeed, suggested,” Haruthel said, with another adorable snort, “the consensus of the executive council is to grant Master Minalan’s request for a – brief! – parole.  A conditional parole,” he emphasized.

“How brief?” she asked.

“How conditional?” I added.

“As to the conditions,” Haruthel said, purposefully answering my question first, “As this parole is granted strictly for the war effort, Lilastien is to be in your custody and under your supervision during her release,” he said, “much as you have taken responsibility for Onranion.  You are responsible for her, and all she does, Minalan,” he warned.

“Acceptable,” I nodded.  “What else?”

“She is to obey the dictates of the council... absolutely,” he said, sternly.  “If we rescind the parole, she is to return to her former condition, or else face sanction.  And you, my friend, will be expelled from the Council,” he added, regretfully.  “Third, her work is to be open to examination by the designated representative of the Council.  No secret research, Lilastien!”

“My youthful impetuousness has long fled, Haruthel!” she dismissed.  I didn’t believe a word of it.  Neither did Haruthel.  He grunted and continued.

“Lastly, she is to abstain from any hint of political interference, during her parole,” he insisted.  “She is still a prisoner of the Council.  Attempts to interfere in its workings or its decisions are forbidden.”

“As if I’d bother!” she said, icily, crossing her tiny arms.

“Further, the Council has ruled that since transgenic enchantment is one of your... specialties, the rules of their use will be – temporarily – relaxed for the duration of the crisis.  That was insisted upon by Lord Aeratas, leader of the . . .  the Tera Alon,” he added, a little distaste in his voice.

“That is the first sensible thing that old—”

“Lilastien!” I said, warningly.  “We’re asking a boon, here.  Try not to defecate on the rug while we do so.”

She grinned, impishly.  “I do love the way you humani express yourselves!  Very well, I shall be the model of proper behavior,” she pledged.  “I accept these terms in good faith and pledge to be an ideal parolee.  I do ask that the defenses on Sartha Wood be relaxed... this will be a lot easier if I can get the occasional visitor.”

“Granted,” Haruthel said, with a tired wave.  “And to answer your original question: you have but ten years,” he pronounced.

Her face fell.  “A mere decade?  Really?”

“Either you will prove your worth and your loyalty during that time, or you won’t,” Haruthel said with a shrug.  “And it’s ten times what your most vocal critics advocated.”

“I don’t doubt it,” she sneered, contemptuously.  “Very well.  Ten years it is.  I shall be on my best behavior.”

“That will be a refreshing novelty,” he shot back.  “Now, if our business here is concluded—”

“Actually,” Lilastien said, holding up a finger, “I was wondering if I could go root around in the Hall of Memories, and see if there are any supplies I might find useful,” she proposed.  “I know for a fact some of my equipment was stored there, after my arrest.”

Haruthel rolled his eyes.  “Quickly!  The more who see your face again in these halls, the more they’ll realize just how desperate we’ve become!”

“Back in a moment, Minalan!” she smiled, broadly, and then took off running faster than I’d expected an Alkan of her age to manage.

“Minalan,” Haruthel said, the moment we were alone, “what have you done?  Do you realize what you have done?”

“I’ve done what I’ve had to,” I explained.  “Yes, she’s a crazy old sorceress with a long history of rebellion.”

“She’s also a politically dangerous subject,” he winced.  “I don’t necessarily agree with the opposition that has built up around her, but it took considerable persuasion and compromise to achieve her release at all.  And your own inclusion on the Council was called into question,” he added.

“You wanted me to prosecute this war in alliance with your folk,” I reminded him.  “That is an alliance we both desire, and both need.  I’ve already broken my own people’s laws and traditions to do it, at my personal risk.  All I am asking here is that the Council be flexible enough to risk a little political strife and hurt feelings over a crime committed in the murky past, and let me talk to an old lady when I need to.  Surely that is not unreasonable?”

“No, no it isn’t,” he agreed, guiltily.  “Oftentimes our species’ relationship has suffered because of my race’s perception that it has more to lose than your ephemeral lives can appreciate.”

“We all get just one death apiece,” I pointed out.  “If this is to be a meaningful alliance, then we must cast aside our old preconceptions.  Korbal and Shereul are combining Alkan magic, gurvani power and human guile against us.  We need a suitable counter, or we lose.  Lilastien is a valuable piece for me to play.”

“She is brilliant,” Haruthel conceded.  “One of the greatest songmasters of our time, especially for an Avalanti.  She was at the core of a group of scholars who embraced the arrival of humankind, and sought to learn all she could about you.  In her youth she pushed the bounds of our spellcraft... to the point of ethical concern.”

“I’m far less concerned about her youthful indiscretions than her mature intellect,” I explained.   “I need that brilliance, now.  From what she explained to me, this is a crisis that could grow to threaten both our peoples with extinction... from the Vundel.”

Haruthel’s shoulders sank.  “She told you,” he sighed.

“She did.  I’m wondering now why you did not.”

“This is a complicated matter,” he said, his guilty look increasing.  “Whether we could have prevented it or not, your civilization did fall.  We focused our efforts on ensuring the survival of your people, not your technology or knowledge.  We saw ourselves as caretakers, after entering an unpopular partnership with your folk.”

“Unpopular?  With whom?”

“There are Alka Alon realms beyond the Five Duchies, Minalan,” he explained, gravely.  “When your people arrived from the Void, and eventually entered into negotiation with the Vundel over colonization, all of the Alka Alon realms were involved.  And when humanity requested our devastated realm be used as the Terran Zone, it was encouraged by the other realms partially because it kept humanity segregated from their lands … and partially to punish our realm for its tragic history.

“But the greater Alka Alon realms were largely against the settlement from the start.  Only here, where the lands seem cursed, were the others willing to let you settle unmolested... but only if we were responsible for you.”

“Suddenly I feel like a pet pig on a leash on market day,” I said, shaking my head.  “That does explain some of the resentment on the Council.”

“And our reluctance to endorse Elre, in any way,” he agreed.  “When most houses were reluctant to take on this new burden, she and her friends embraced it as opportunity.  From some perspectives, that opportunity has led us to the brink of ruin.”

“I see,” I nodded.  “Then I will do my best to mitigate that belief, as I manage her operations.  But I did not exaggerate: I need her.  And others like her.  The war is about to heat up again, after a brief lull, and the next campaigns will be far worse than the first.  The enemy seeks your ancient arsenal, dominion over the west, and infiltrates the south.  They took Anthatiel.  They’ll come for this place, in time.  And the other refuges.  I’ve done my best to bring it to the attention of the Duchies, but I think we both know how that is working.”

“And I have done what I could to unite us against the dangers of the Enshadowed, for my part,” he pointed out.  “I have kept Lord Aeratas on the council, and endorsed the Tera Alon faction, despite strong opposition.”

“Then the alliance proceeds,” I nodded.  “And I have an opportunity to prove my value to the Council.  Is there any word, yet, on locating Ameras?  Or the location of the arsenal?”

“No,” he said, looking disturbed.  “We have searched everywhere we can.  She is not dead,” he assured me.  “But she may be captured.”

“Or hidden,” I countered.  “If she was captured, then Korbal would be sitting here in the midst of ruin, by now, from what I understand.  I have my folk searching, too, and are following up on rumors.”  Lilastien chose that moment to return, her arms full of equipment – mostly human tekka, I noted.  She was also wearing a bright white coat that seemed several sizes too large for her.

“I’m ready!” she sang with a smile.  “Most of it hadn’t even been touched!”

“No one else knows what to do with it,” shrugged Haruthel.  “Very well.  Your parole is granted, Lilastien.  I pray you will use it wisely.”

“She will,” I promised, as I called to the next Waystone, and pulled us through the Ways.

*

*

*

When we arrived on the other side, Lilastien immediately snorted.  “No I won’t!”

“Well, you’ll at least use it usefully,” I proposed.  “Believe me, I just buried that poor Alkan in bullshit in ways I haven’t used since I was a practicing spellmonger!”

“Then what is your actual plan?” she asked.

“Plan?  Like you, I’m making this up as I go.  I saw an opportunity to gain a potentially useful piece, and I took it.  It was a risk that I won.”

“And if you’d lost?”

“Then what would they do?  Throw me off a council I didn’t ask to be on?”

“So where are we now?” she asked, confused.

“Sevendor,” I answered.  “My private laboratory.  The epicenter of the Snowstone Effect,” I explained, for context.

“Ah!  That explains it!” she beamed, as she looked around at the white castle walls.  “Why did you bring me back here?”

“I wanted to gather a few things,” I said, as she sorted through her loot on my worktable.  “I figured you’d like a bit of an outing, too.”

“I certainly appreciate that, Minalan,” she agreed, as she began fiddling with the various boxes and... things in front of her.  “Some of these items could be useful in treating Alya,” she insisted, as she fiddled.  “If they still work, after this many centuries...”

I could hear the afternoon bustle in the Great Hall from my tower window: the castle drudges hauling fresh reeds and greenery into the hall, the kitchens busy with a hundred activities, and teams of Tal Alon scrubbing every surface to gleaming.  It hadn’t snowed yet, here, but the mountain chill was certainly evident.

“There!” she said, a moment later.  “Blast!” she added, her triumph turning to disappointment, when something didn’t go as planned.  “The power cell is depleted.  You said you had a store of tekka?  Do you mind me taking a look?  There may be a replacement,” she proposed.

I pulled out my growing collection of ancient artifacts from my own civilization, and dumped them out on the table in front of her.  She began rooting through the odd devices with interest.

“Oh, my, it looks like you raided a crappy second-hand shop on Perwyn!” she giggled.  “Some of this is absolute junk,” she explained.  “That thing there?  It’s the inner workings of a food preparation device,” she laughed.  “And that and that are both commemorative objects promoting various sports teams.  That, though, is a geological scanner, the kind the survey teams used – but it’s broken,” she sighed.  “The power cell seems to be intact, though, and it’s the right size to fit my biometric scanner.  This is the solar collector for a trash collecting device, this is a control panel for a lift, this is a manipulator arm for some sort of remote drone, this is – I think – a part of a child’s toy, and this is part of a public address loudspeaker.”

Suddenly, she stopped, and her eyes opened wide.  “Oh!  I haven’t seen one of these in forever! Oh, I hope it works!” she squealed.  “Watch this!”

After manipulating the tiny device for a moment, she set it down triumphantly on the table... and music began to play.  In fact, it seemed as if an entire army of musicians was playing.  Lilastien squealed happily in her oversized coat, clapping her hands.

“That, my boy, is Jazz!” she exclaimed, and began to do an odd little dance.  “One of the best cultural manifestations of human creativity.  This is a recording of actual musicians, reproduced exactly as they played it.”

“And they put it into a box?” I asked, looking at the tiny little structure that made such a big noise.

“Your ancestors would give each other cards – parchments with inspirational sayings or well-wishes – on special occasions.  Some of the more sophisticated included these little music boxes in them, to play songs of especial meaning to the recipient.”

“So, what was the special meaning of this particular song?” I asked, amazed at the peek into the lives of my distant ancestors.  To do this – without magic – did seem pretty amazing.

“I believe that this song was called In The Mood,” she answered, thoughtfully.  “You can guess what the implied meaning was.  Some things, like human sexuality, are eternal,” she giggled as she shut the music off.

“Pentandra will be gratified to know that,” I shrugged.  “I was curious also about your mantle,” I said, nodding toward the long white garment she still wore.  “The words on it are ancient Perwynese, but I’m unfamiliar with the vocabulary,” I said, diplomatically.

She looked down at her breast, self-consciously.  “Oh, that?  That’s just the Medical Center logo – a kind of heraldic device. And that’s my name... sort of,” she smirked.  “Here, you can read it better when it fits better,” she said, taking a deep breath and humming a little tune.

I watched as she transformed into her transgenically enchanted guise.  She grew double in height and gained weight, and her features shifted abruptly into something more human... but still distinctively Alka Alon.  In a moment, a naked old lady who still retained the beauty of her youth stood before me in a white coat.

Of course the nudity didn’t bother Lilastien at all.

“That’s better!  Everything looks so different, from up here!  Anyway, my boy, when I began at the Medical academy, my name promoted some confusion.  LIL-i-AST-ee-en, when spelled phonetically in Perwynese is coincidentally, very similar to the way a number of medical personnel spelled their names.  I quickly tired of being referred to as LEE-la-stine, and correcting everyone.

“I was going to change it, but I was taking a course on the history of human science, and had a better idea.  As most humans, at the time, used both personal and family names, I added the name, with my nickname ‘Lily’, in the middle, as a kind of inside joke to the students,” she explained.

“So who was ‘Jane Goodall’?” I asked, pronouncing the odd name on her coat.

“A famous scientist who devoted her life to the passionate study of primitive animals,” she chuckled.  “The students understood the context of the reference.  I was there studying the primitive humani much as Jane Goodall studied her subjects, by living among them.  Those were good days,” she recalled, fondly, as the music played.  “Before politics messed everything up.  Your people were reasonably wise, if misguided, sometimes.  They were meticulous and scholarly.  Before they began manifesting rajira, I got a taste of how things must have been on your homeworld, through the window of your history and experience of your culture.  It’s sad that more of my people did not realize the incredible opportunity of your arrival, and chose to focus on the problems involved, instead.”

“And all we have to show for it now is a pile of junk,” I said, discouraged, as I waved at the tekka on the worktable.

“Not entirely junk,” she said, as she continued to poke around in the pile.  “I mean, most of it is, but... ah, there are a few good items in here, tokens of your ancestors’ brilliance.  This, for example,” she said, as she pulled a small object off the table and held it out for my inspection, “is a rather sophisticated general purpose analysis and diagnostic tool, with powerful computational and data capabilities.  It even had a synthetic programable interface,” she said, admiringly.  “Your entire civilization was run by such advanced technologies.”

“I only understood about a third of what you just said,” I admitted.  There was a lot of Ancient Perwynese that we lacked the context to understand, unfortunately.  It wasn’t just a matter of vocabulary.  We just didn’t have need of many of the words our ancestors used.  “What was this thing used for?”

“Survey teams, mostly,” she shrugged.  “Checking on the progress of the biome integration, sampling water quality, investigating anomalies – of which there are plenty.  Where did you find this one?”

“In the molopor chamber in the cavern under Boval Castle, actually.” I told her, taking it and looking at the oddly-shaped thing.  “Some of the loot we recovered, along with some gurvani texts.  I haven’t devoted much time to it,” I admitted.  “I’ve had more pressing matters.  Why?”

“That... might be important,” she said, hesitantly.  “These devices were built to be incredibly durable, able to survive very extreme conditions over very long periods of time.  Unfortunately, it isn’t connected to any of the peripheral devices that allow it to be terribly useful,” she said, frowning.  “And I doubt there’s any power left.  Still... let’s try connecting it to this,” she said, taking the thing from me and attaching it to another... thing.  “Supposedly these universal fittings would work across a wide array of devices,” she said, as if reciting an incantation.  “If we place this in a window for a few days and let the sun get on it, who knows?  Maybe it will recharge.”

“What will that do?” I asked, curiously.

“Nothing, if we can’t get it working.  It’s intact, and might even have some residual power, but it’s been inactive for centuries,” she said, skeptically, as she placed it on the tower’s window.

“But there’s always a possibility that we can find some way to find out what it knows.  Depending on who carried it, and what they were doing before it ended up in a cave in the wilderness, it might be informative.  And there’s no telling what else is on it,” she smirked.  “Some of your ancestors kept a lot of their personal information on them, too.  Songs, stories, records, all sorts of things.  I suppose more Jazz would be too much to hope for, but there’s always a possibility.”  She looked wistful, the memories of Lost Perwyn hers, alone.  She shook herself from her reverie and placed one of the objects into her instruments.  A light shone from its face.

“It still works!” she said, triumphantly.  “Only forty percent charged, but enough for my purpose.”

“What is your purpose?”

“To scan Alya’s brain for structural issues and monitor her recovery,” she explained.  “I’m using modified songspells for that, now, but this equipment is calibrated for human beings.  It can let me see her brain and test her blood and other things.  And it is delightfully accurate,” she smiled as she tucked it into a pocket.

“Then we’d best be going,” I said, as the noise from the Great Hall increased as the those who were decorating it for the court were interrupted by those who wanted dinner.  “It’s almost Yule, and I’ve been gone for more than a week.  Suddenly appearing to my subjects might be entangling.”

“You must give me an extended tour,” she insisted, as I gathered up my own things.  “Especially the Snowflake.  Whether it is the source of our salvation or our doom, I would very much like the opportunity to see it.”

“As soon as this crisis has passed,” I promised.  “In fact, I have a feeling you’re going to be in Sevendor a lot, in the coming days.”

*

*

*

It was already dusk at the Tower of Refuge when I brought us through the Waypoint I’d established there by the simple expedient of following Alya’s.  I always wanted to be able to find her, so I’d had one fashioned into the necklace she wore.

She was laying in a cozy bed in a clean room, being tended by one of the nuns and one of Lilastien’s folk – both of whom were startled by our sudden appearance.

The Sorceress got to work at once, removing her scanner and passing it over Alya’s face.

She looked peaceful, I suppose.  Her skin was pale, compared to her usual healthy tan, and her hair was limp and lifeless, without its usual shine.  But there was a far more peaceful expression on her face than the blankness I’d become used to.

“How is she?” I asked, before Lilastien was done with her spell.

“She’s... she’s doing better, I think,” she offered, hopefully.  “But why don’t you give me a few minutes and I’ll give her a thorough physical?” she said, patting the machine affectionately.  “Go get something to eat.  I’ll contact you shortly.”

I sighed.  It was too much to hope for that Alya would spring up, restored to health.  Magic didn’t work that way.  Neither, apparently, did the science of my ancestors.

I sought out Sire Cei’s company.  He was in the great hall of the tower, which is almost completely unlike a human great hall except that it had a big fireplace and was where most people congregated and socialized in the small community.

To his credit, Cei was not reacting to the presence of so many gurvani around him.  As they mixed freely and easily with their Alkan, Tal, and human fellows, he watched them thoughtfully, puffing on his pipe by the fire.

“This is a remarkable place, Minalan,” he murmured.  “I’ve spoken with Tal who spoke as fluently as I, and as educated men.  I’ve diced and drank with gurvan and human, while being served wine by an Alkan lass.  All without discussion about class or rank.”

“All are equal in their service to the Lady,” I agreed.  “Lilastien is a unique mistress, and this a unique opportunity for many.”

“How fares Alya?” he asked, finally turning to a subject he was hesitant to broach.

“We’ll know, shortly,” I sighed.  “I am assured she will be no worse off... and perhaps better,” I suggested, trying to sound hopeful.

“We can only pray,” he added, solemnly.

I didn’t know what else to do with my hands, so I took out my own pipe.  “Regardless of what happens with her, this little journey has changed things.  It appears that a foray into Olum Seheri is necessary for a number of reasons.”

“Anthatiel?” he asked, shaking his head.  He’d fought there, on the frozen lake, and nearly died.

“Olum Seheri, now,” I said, bringing my pipe to life.  “Lair of Korbal the Necromancer.”

“That sounds like... an adventure,” he said, warily.  There was a mixture of hesitancy and undeniable interest in his voice.  Like a new father contemplating incredible, dangerous glory.

“It will be.  Probably several.  But there is more at stake than I imagined, and I don’t foresee anyone else stepping forward to do it.  Besides,” I added, as I inhaled the sweet smoke, “it might be the best hope to restore Alya.”

“Then the Sorceress was unsuccessful?” he asked, with a heavy sigh.

“The issue is beyond even her powers,” I replied, unwilling to go into detail.  You can only bore a layman with technicalities for so long, as Lilastien proved to me.  “But she led me to our best hope.  It lies beneath the citadels of Olum Seheri, locked in the Ghost Rock.  We seek the Handmaiden of the Celestial Mother,” I informed him.  “An enneagram of great power.”

“And that will restore Alya?” he asked.

“That is our best guess.”

“Then when do we depart?” he asked, as if we were wandering down to the pub.

“Cei, I cannot ask you to forsake your wife and children for this mad quest,” I said, shaking my head.   “Not against a dark lord like Korbal.”

“I will count it an insult if you do not,” he said, quietly.  “I will not abandon you when you need me the most, Minalan.”

“A quest of that nature will require several forays, intense preparation and much planning,” I pointed out.  “To do it properly it will require a very large company.  I’m sure I’ll find something for you to do.”

One of the human servants brought us wine, while we sat and smoked and waited.  I was on my second cup and my third pipe when an Alkan woman approached me, and invited me to attend the Lady in her garden, to the west.

It seemed an odd place for a consultation.  The corridor spilled out on the place abruptly, a large open space filled with trees – mostly evergreens, I noted.  A mixture of natavia and importasta, everything from blue spruce to kellisarth shrubs to juniper to Elf’s Hair.  All was dusted with a light snowfall that began at dusk, and the flakes were coming down hard, big fat snowflakes that promised reinforcements, according to the color of the sky.

The garden was lit by a slowly-rotating cloud of magelights, Alkan style, giving the scene a strange blue glow.  Lilastien, her white coat finally fitting her larger body, was standing and watching.  She felt me approach but did not take her eyes off of the object of her fascination.

“She came out here of her own accord, when she woke,” the Sorceress whispered to me.  “She hasn’t spoken, but there’s... there’s something there.  More than when she came,” she said, with subdued excitement.

I followed her gaze until I spotted my wife, her mantle discarded on the snowy ground, as she lifted her hands and face up to the falling snowflakes.

“She’s...”

“Reactive,” Lilastien said, cautiously.  “I’m just beginning to go through the information from the scan, but my efforts were rewarded a little, at least,” she said, a faint smile on her face.  “She has the beginnings of self-awareness.  She’s responding to external stimuli.  Those big pieces I stitched together were enough for that, at least.”

“Can she... does she... talk?”

“Not yet,” Lilastien admitted.  “But it’s early, yet.  I’ve never done this before, but I’m guessing it will take time for her to integrate herself to any great extant.  Now that I can check her neurochemical levels and brain activity, I’ll have much better tools for adjusting my treatment.

“She’ll have to stay here, for a while,” she added, finally looking at me.  “I can care for her here, and she will be safe.  But if you want her to continue to improve and have the best chance at a full recovery, then I’ll need to work with her.  If you can recover the Handmaiden, and by some miracle it can repair her damage, then it will be best if she’s well-rested and prepared for the trauma of that.”

“You think it will be traumatic?” I asked, wincing.

“It’s trying to create a whole person out of shattered pieces.  Some of Alya is just gone, Minalan.  What I’m doing is remedial care, at best.  Right now, her ego is like a tiny pat of butter in a vast sea of milk.  The best I can do for her is to slowly encourage it to grow and hope the Handmaiden can fix things if I make mistakes.  The next few days will be telling.  Either she’ll begin to integrate what I’ve put together, or she’ll remain... vegetative.”

I stared and watched my wife accept the sanctification of the snowfall on her face and hands until my fingers started to get numb.  She just... stood there.

“You say this is better?” I finally managed.

“She’s reacting,” Lilastien emphasized.  “Believe me, this early that’s a good sign.”

*

*

*

As strange as the place was, Cei and I settled into the Tower of Refuge quickly, as we waited for Alya to heal.  Lilastien focused hours on her care, alternatively singing songspells and checking her humani equipment for progress.

At first I haunted the infirmary where Alya was being cared for like a poverty-stricken heir, but I could tell I was making people nervous.  When one of the nuns gently suggested that Sire Cei and I explore the lands around the ruins, I took the hint.  There was nothing I could do that Lilastien wasn’t already doing.

Cei and I decided to walk the bounds of Sartha Wood, for lack of anything better to do and in need of a distraction.  The day was cold but clear, and the inch of snow on the ground was no impediment to our walk.

“Let’s head for that summit,” I said, pointing to a huge pile of ancient Alkan masonry that had spent a thousand years as a home for rabbits and foxes.  “I’d like to see the tower from up there.”

“Tomorrow is Yule,” he remarked, gruffly, as we trudged up the path toward the tightest cluster of ruins.  “How do you think Lenodara will fare at court?”

“She’ll do splendidly,” I dismissed.  “At least, she won’t do any damage I can’t undo.  Dara is incredibly smart,” I praised.  Not the sort of thing I wanted her to hear, of course, but after the tumultuous apprenticeships of Tyndal and Rondal, she was incredibly responsible.

“You know, Sire Festarlan came to me at the Magic Fair – unofficially, of course.  He inquired as to when Dara’s apprenticeship would allow her to wed.”

“Festaran’s dad?” I chuckled.  Ordinarily, I knew, one spoke to a girl’s father about such things – but Dara’s unusual status as both ennobled Lady of Westwood and my senior apprentice complicated matters.  Her father, while a senior yeoman of Sevendor, was still a commoner.  “Isn’t that a bit premature?”

“The lass is fifteen,” he pointed out.  “That is an appropriate age at which to consider such matters.”

“Perhaps for village girls or the petty nobility,” I countered, “but Dara is a magelord.”

“Which means...?” he asked, as he offered his arm to help me up an incline.

“I have no idea what that means,” I admitted.  “I was the first magelord, and I’m still inventing deeply-held traditions.  I just know that she might have something to say about it, not just her master.”

“She and Sir Festaran seem incredibly fond of each other, and have a growing affection,” he said, encouragingly.

“Yet Sir Fes is not her only suitor,” I reminded him.  “Gareth seems quite determined to win her affections.  That was the point, I believe, of his uncharacteristically dangerous indulgence in Enultramar.”

“Minalan, I’ve watched how she responds to both,” he confided with a smile.  “As fond as she is for Gareth, I feel that she has a deeper feeling for Festaran.”

“She’s a fifteen-year-old girl,” I pointed out.  “Her feelings are apt to be fluid.”

“A valid point,” he admitted.  “I fear the day when I will have to start the worrisome process for my own children.  Already I’ve been approached about finding a husband for Faresa, and she is but ten.  The Riverlords begin the process as soon as a maid reaches her first bloodmoon, if not before.  Very civilized.”

“You’re a knight mage.  Another newly-minted tradition.  You are not bound by the dictates of your Riverlord neighbors.”

“Yet I will likely be given estates in both of the Lensley baronies, after my service this summer,” he said, shaking his head.  “That raises my profile among my noble peers.  It seems many houses in the Bontal wish an alliance with the Dragonslayer.”

“Bide, then,” I suggested.  “If we do assail Olum Seheri and survive, then every house in Castal will want your step-daughter’s hand.”  We’d made it to the top of the tallest pile of rubble – about the same height as the top of the Tower of Refuge, which we could see half a mile away.

“What is that?  Some sorcery?” Cei asked, as he gestured to a hill to the northwest that seemed to be producing clouds like my father makes dough.  I considered telling him that was where the Sorceress manufactured rainclouds, but Cei is no fool.

“A hot spring, like the one in Winakur,” I told him.  “Ishi herself has sat her sacred arse in it and pronounced it good.  One of Sartha Wood’s amenities.”

“Really?” he asked, with amused skepticism.

“Really,” I assured him.  “She told me herself.”

“You... you met Ishi?”

“And Briga,” I agreed.  “And Herus.  I told you that,” I reminded him.

“I thought you were speaking metaphorically, or mystically, or . . . or merely clinging to religion in a time of deep crisis!  Minalan, as your friend... you were not merely jesting with me?  That would be blasphemous to insist, as a joke.”

“What would be a fair token of my veracity?  I swear it is true on the Snowflake, which wouldn’t be there without the gods’ assistance.  By the Everflame, which is a token of Briga’s blessing.  If that’s not sufficient—”

“Of course!” he agreed, hurriedly.  “My lord, I did not mean to offend, but any pious man who did not challenge such claims...”

“I understand,” I sighed.  “The truth is, the blessings of the gods are not all they’re cracked up to be, sometimes.  Most of the time,” I corrected.  “While they mean well – usually – they are bound by the natures that we give them.  The whole thing is a mess.  But occasionally useful,” I said, philosophically.

“You have met the very gods,” he said, shaking his head.  “I serve a remarkable master.”

“And I have an ideal vassal,” I said, responding to him in a way he would most appreciate.

We quietly watched the snowy landscape until noon, contemplating without comment.  It was worth the time.  The wide clearings, gardens, and orchards of the Sartha Wood compound demonstrated what a few centuries of careful Alka Alon cultivation and aesthetic could do to a small spot.

I’d seen several examples of Alka Alon settlements, now, from grand Anthatiel before its fall and delightful Carneduin to the simple tree homes they employed in the Wilderlands.  Every one was different, but shared a captivating aesthetic that compelled such thoughts.  Even on the eve of winter the magnificence of the ruins, the tower, the cultivated lands and those left “wild” conspired to intrigue and entertain the eye.

I conjured a luncheon of fresh bread, cheese, sausage and mulled spiced wine for us from a hoxter pocket, where they were just as hot as when they’d been placed there.  I’d eaten enough cold rations in the field in my day to appreciate the indulgence.

We were nearly done with our lunch when Cei’s sharp eyes noticed a disturbance across the compound.  He called my attention to it just as I drained the dregs of the wine.

“Who are they,” he asked, “and why do they seemed so determined to get inside?”

I tried to see what was going on, but the tree line and the sudden appearance of our old friend the earth elemental was blocking the view.  Even with magesight I couldn’t tell who was trying to enter.  But a cloud of dust and snow demonstrated that someone was making a valiant effort.

“That is a very good question, Cei,” I agreed.  “I convinced the Alkan Council to grant Lilastien’s parole for a decade, and relax her prison... but I didn’t think they would move so quickly.  But now she has callers.  That disturbs me.  Let’s go.”

Descending the mound proved much easier and quicker than climbing it, and ten minutes later we were more than halfway across the compound, headed toward the ruckus.  I hung spells as I walked.  I wasn’t dealing with nearly as much power as I’d had with my Witchsphere, but it was sufficient for the ruckus.

And ruckus it was.  A number of human and Alkan servants were starting to gather, some of them lightly armed, when we arrived at the site of the incursion.  The intruders were having far less luck with the elemental than we had, I was gratified to see.  Unfortunately, the back of the elemental was pretty much all I could see.

“What is happening?” I asked one of the human castellans, for lack of a more descriptive title.  The man paused and shook his head.

“It’s the bloody Enshadowed!” he gasped, as he caught his breath and leaned on his spear.  “They found out the outer defenses were down, and they attacked!”

Sire Cei went into military mode at once.  “What are their numbers and disposition?” he demanded.

“At least a dozen, with some gurvani attendants, but there might be more in the woods,” the man admitted.  “We’ve roused the Tower and they are arming, but there are few weapons here,” he said, bitterly.  “Not more than a few spears and swords our ancestors brought... and we have little knowledge in their use.”

“You also have the Spellmonger,” I told him, “and I have been feeling pensive for days.  I would consider it a boon if you allowed me to defend.”

He looked startled.  “My lord, you are a guest, here!  I—”

“A guest defending my helpless wife,” I pointed out.  “And as a guest, at least under Narasi tradition and the Book of Luin regarding such things, I have the right to elect to defend my host.  Even an obligation, depending upon which priests you believe.”  It wasn’t an opportune moment to discuss the intricacies of the Peace of Wenshar after the Luinite Heresies, but regardless of which interpretation you believed, I felt like hitting something very, very hard, right now.

Particularly if it was an Enshadowed.  The ancient faction of an ancient, discredited ideology – or something like that – had taken a personal interest in me and my family, as far back as my original visit here.  We had information that suggested the Enshadowed had aided the gurvani in creating Shereul in the first place, as a means of freeing Korbal from his prison... which meant that they were the authors of the war.

Though Alya had stabbed one in the back to save my life, we had done nothing else to arouse their ire... yet one of their agents had the temerity, a year back, to try to purchase outright my son, Minalyan, for study.  Since then they had been behind most of the devious moves we’d recently dealt with, from the summertime raids in the Wilderlands to the recruitment of Lady Mask to the betrayal of Isily to the infiltration of Enultramar by powerful undead.

If I had to pick a worthy subject for venting my anger, the Enshadowed were ideal.

“These are the same who invaded Sevendor, tried to slay your family, and stole the gems from your tower?” Sire Cei asked.

“In fact they are,” I nodded.  I had almost forgotten that.

“Then as your castellan, my lord, it occurs to me that I, too, have a dispute with these fellows,” he pointed out.  “I would be remiss if I allowed my master to strike a blow that it was my duty to throw.”

“I can’t very well have that on my conscience,” I clucked.  “I’ve always valued your reputation more than my own.  Very well,” I sighed, summoning Blizzard to my hand.  “We shall answer them together.”

I turned back to the nervous farmer who was holding a spear in earnest for the first time in his life.

“Do you know where Dargarin makes his lair?”  The question took the man by surprise.

“Yes, my lord,” he agreed, uneasily.

“As he’s likely out of a job, at the moment,” I reasoned, “bear him this message: his friend the Spellmonger has a lucrative position for him and his comrades but only if they respond quickly and forcefully,” I told him.  “Explain the situation to him, then return.”

“I should not wait for an answer, my lord?” he asked, confused.

“He will either respond, or he will not,” I explained.  “Go!”

“The defenses are failing, Minalan,” Cei murmured to me, nodding toward the earth elemental.  He was correct: some songmaster among the Enshadowed found a weakness, and the animated pile of dirt was starting to lose cohesion.  In a moment, their force would be able to pass by.

“Get the non-combatants back to the tower,” I suggested, loudly, as I began preparing spells.  “All those who wish to defend, form a line,” I ordered.  A loose band of a few dozen, mostly human and Alkan, with a few gurvani mixed in, formed a rough line across the path behind me.  Sire Cei shed his mantle and taking some practice swings with his warhammer.

We were just in our places when the elemental failed for the final time.  As the hill of dirt collapsed it revealed a line of Alka Alon warriors... the Enshadowed.  About two dozen of them, geared for war.

By that I don’t mean they were bearing the little bows and stone-tipped poisoned arrows I usually associated with the Alka Alon.  Those, I’d learned, were how the rustic Avalanti fought most of the time.  The Enshadowed were from another kindred, the Versaroti – a clan devoted to obscure magics, secret knowledge, and technical craftsmanship.  The same kindred as Haruthel and Aeratas.  When the Versaroti go to war, they commit.

Despite their dedication to racial purity – whatever that means – the Enshadowed before us were not so fanatical that they gave up their military advantages.  Each wore a transgenically enchanted guise developed, I assumed, for combat.  More than twice as tall as their natural forms, the Alka Alon who stared at me were solid and powerfully-built, clad in tight-fitting armor and bearing long, hilt-less swords.

“Can I help you gentles?” I asked, politely, leaning on Blizzard.

“Stand aside!” demanded the dirt-stained leader, who had apparently taken the brunt of the earth-elemental’s wrath.

“Do you really need a bath that badly?” I asked, sympathetically.  “The hot springs are technically closed for the season, but as it is the eve of Yule I’m certain that Lady Lilastien—”

“Stand aside or I will cut your heart out and feed it to that traitor!” bellowed the Alkan, as his fellows formed up on their guards around them.

“That kind of rudeness is likely to lose you your place in line, my friend,” I said, shaking my head sadly.  “And I daresay you do need a bath the most out of all of you.”

“Kill him,” the leader ordered to a young female Alkan.  She nodded and threw a songspell in my direction.  My defenses activated the moment she cast it, however, and I was able to concoct a counterspell before she was aware it hadn’t taken effect.

Then I blasted her with a bolt of frigid air combined with magical power that gave her feet an instant case of intense frostbite.  She cried out at the unexpected attack and stumbled.

The leader looked at me sharply, with new respect.  “Who are you?” he demanded.

“Lady Lilastien’s bath attendant,” I said, enjoying the scene perversely.  I didn’t often have an opportunity to taunt the haughty Alka Alon to their faces.  “My name is Minalan the Spellmonger,” I added.  “This is my friend Sire Cei the Dragonslayer.  We’re here to keep the Lady from being disturbed.  And to ensure an orderly bathing process,” I added.  Most Alkans hate humani flippancy, I’ve noticed.  But my name sparked some recognition in the Alkan’s eyes.

“You are the Spellmonger!” he restated.  “Then we are doubly fortunate.  I am Voherinas, and I won the right to lead this expedition to finally punish the rebel for her collaboration with you filthy animals!”  The irony of saying that while he was covered in dirt was delicious, but I didn’t have a chance to turn it into a taunt.  “Slaying you, personally, will be an unexpected boon!”

“One you will find hard to collect,” I informed him.  “Every time you Enshadowed cross paths with me, you end up the poorer for it.  Turn back, now, and we shall spare your lives.  This is the only chance I will give you,” I added, confidently.

Once I would have been anxious to face even one Alkan warrior, particularly in these powerful-looking guises; now I was counting the foe and wishing they had sent more.  Fourteen Alka Alon warriors were in the clearing in front of us.  Clearly Voherinas felt that was sufficient to overwhelm the defenses.

“We will not be obstructed from our vengeance!” the Alkan woman, still clutching her legs, spat at me from the ground.  “I have waited three hundred years to avenge my kin, and I will wait no longer!”

“We are prepared to assault the tower and slay everything within it!” called another, threateningly.  “We are ready to face the rebels – why would we let one humani wizard and a rabble of sentries delay us?”

“Because this wizard enjoys the company of men with nicknames like ‘the Dragonslayer,’” I pointed out, as Cei stretched out his warhammer toward them.  “And you know how stupid we humani are,” I added.  “We just don’t know when we’re beaten.”

“Then let this be a lesson for all your stinking folk!” Voherinas said angrily, raising his slender sword and giving the command to charge.

That’s what I was waiting for.

The banter, the taunting, all of it had been mere preparation.  The fact is, the frustration I felt about my situation had boiled over like a cauldron full of dirty laundry.  I had spent so much time thinking and plotting and planning, being patient and trying to out-think my enemies that my body and soul were primed for action like a cocked crossbow.  The moment I saw that sword come out and heard the command for action, I felt all of that drop away.

I had Blizzard in my hand, a strong friend beside me, and enemies in front of me who wanted me dead.  It was like a Yule gift from the gods.

One of the largest Alkan warriors moved to engage Sire Cei, who grunted, swung his warhammer... and struck the foe square in the chest, killing him instantly.

Not just killing him, but sending his blood and entrails showering over his comrades.  That had to be discouraging.

For my part, I summoned the long spearhead on Blizzard’s tip and parried Voherinas’ slender blade of steel before I activated my bank of warmagic spells.  As time seemed to slow around me, I saw opportunities for mayhem looming like ripe fruit.

I could wait on Voherinas, I decided.  Instead of impaling him then and there, I used the butt of my spear to smack him hard behind one knee, sending him sprawling.  The Alkan who was charging in behind him got the point of the spear in his chest while I selected the next target – a fellow with two slender swords advancing on my right, stepping over the Alkan woman.  He got an incendiary fireball in his face for his troubles, courtesy of my left hand.  It was unlikely to kill him, but he’d spend the next ten seconds trying to extinguish his burning hair, so it effectively kept him from attacking.

But that wasn’t all the trouble in my view.  The next line of Enshadowed was charging me, slowly.  I pivoted my hips, re-adjusted my footwork, and levered the body of the impaled Alkan between us.  Then I pushed savagely on the spear, until the eighteen-inch steel tip ripped through his back... and I began firing bolts of thaumaturgically energized plasma from it.  Since I had a twitching and dying Enshadowed warrior obscuring my view it was hard to see what effect the blasts had.

When you are fighting a foe who outnumbers you that badly, a good warmage will use his own enemies’ numbers against them.  The Alka Alon were in their combat forms, well-armed, and from the beating my defenses were taking they were well-versed in offensive magic.

But their numbers were actually a disadvantage in this fight.  They had to worry about hitting friend or foe in the fight, while I just had to be aware of what Sire Cei was doing (which was, I noted, sending another Alkan warrior flying across the clearing when his warhammer didn’t connect quite well enough to obliterate him).  More, the spells they were throwing were uncoordinated – plenty of them were dangerous, but the amount of magic and the variety of songspells were crossing purposes.

That’s not to say they didn’t have an effect.  I realized just how much as my warmagic augmentation fell, and I was suddenly fighting without the benefit of studying every move my enemies made.  The three charging to engage me directly sped up, and I was fighting hand-to-hand.

That was fine with me.  The Enshadowed had a reputation for being masterminds, not combat veterans.  Their slender steel swords were razor sharp, but they did not use them with the flawless grace I was expecting from the Alka Alon.  Even with their powerful magic and their larger, stronger forms they did not have the experience fighting the way I did – or Sire Cei, for that matter, who still took pride in the hours of training he managed to put in daily, despite his schedule.

These were a band of Alka Alon songmasters who had put on armor and taken up swords.  Sire Cei was a Wilderlands knight who had been practicing with a wooden sword since he was six years old.  He’d fought in wars, tournaments, and dozens of skirmishes, not to mention a few sieges.

And there was that one time with the dragon.  He knew the craft of war and the song of battle better than they knew their own names.

I wasn’t entirely unskilled, myself.

I figured – correctly – that the combat forms the Enshadowed had chosen were novel to them.  Being bigger and more powerful had to seem a huge advantage over their punier natural forms.  But it came at a penalty: one thing I’d noted about transgenic enchantments was that it took a while for an Alkan to adjust to the difference in balance and center-of-gravity.  While these weren’t the humani-forms I was used to seeing now, they were almost as large, and broader in the chest.  Those who lingered in those forms for a long time, like Onranion or Ithalia, eventually adjusted to them, I’d seen.

The Enshadowed, on the other hand, were still a little shaky on their feet.  Their combat forms were novel, like donning new armor, and it made a difference in their fighting. Their legs were longer than they were used to.  So I tripped them.

It’s a stupid little stumbling cantrip we used back at the academy to make other kids stumble – no more than a flash of misplaced certainty about your next step – but apparently, the might songmasters of the Enshadowed were unprepared for it.  Two of them tripped disastrously as they plowed into me, their swords flailing.  I stepped out of their way, banishing the spearpoint that bound Blizzard in the body of its last victim, and used the butt of the spear to crush one Alkan throat while Sire Cei helpfully crushed the skull of another in spectacularly bloody form.

In seconds the odds had gone from fourteen to two, to six to two.  While not every victim was dead, they were out of the fight.  Voherinas was desperately struggling to his feet, while the motley militia behind us on the trail moved cautiously up to support us.

The third Alkan I faced, the one who hadn’t stumbled, was doing a passable job of continuing to attack but as decent as his swordplay was it was still slow and clumsy.  I knocked his blade out of position with Blizzard and then blasted him in the face with a bolt of force I usually use for blowing down castle gates.  The Enshadowed behind him, who were still running into the fray, were also affected.

“It doesn’t look like you’re going to get that bath,” I said to Voherinas as he faced me, fear and desperation beginning to dawn in his eyes.  He needed a bath more than ever, now.  The spray of blood and entrails from the combat had mixed with the dirt on and snow his armor turning it into a disgusting pink and brown mud.

“We will not withdraw!” he said, passionately.  When the Alka Alon

There was rumble at the edge of the clearing as trees were pushed aside and the huge form of the troll warden, Dargarin, entered the battle.

“Minalan!” he roared.  “What is going on here?”

“I’ll give you a volume of new works for every Enshadowed head you take!” I proposed to him in a shout.  Voherinas was making a few deft attacks with his blade as Cei protected my flanks, but I was easily defending with Blizzard.  It wasn’t even much of a challenge.

“But I just got sacked!” he complained.

“I know!  And you just got hired!” I informed him.  “Defend the tower for the Sorceress, and your position will be restored!”

Of course, Voherinas had a counter-proposal.  “Troll!  Slay these humani!  I command you, as your rightful master!”

That might have worked on a young, stupid troll who was still subject to the instinctual deference most of the Alon felt about dealing with their ancient Alka Alon masters.  But Dargarin was mature, educated, and – thankfully – independently minded.

“I chose my own work!” he growled in response.  “And my own masters!  I owe you our jobs restored, you say?”

He considered quickly – about four clumsy passes of Voherinas’ blade – before he nodded.

“It’s a deal, Minalan!” he said, with some relief... and began fighting the few Enshadowed left.  His spear flew out to impale one in the belly as fast as lightning and as smoothly as a river.  His next step saw him push the butt of his massive shaft against the back of another Alkan warrior and fling him into another, like a farmer hoeing weeds.

Sire Cei grinned.  “It’s refreshing to have a troll on our side for once!” he said, and charged another knot of the foe.

Between the three of us we put the survivors to flight despite their angry protests.  If what they expected was a quick and bloody raid on the Tower of Refuge, they were satisfied.  After Dargarin joined in the fray it was quick, and far bloodier for the Enshadowed than they’d anticipated.

“That was just what I needed!” I sighed, leaning on Blizzard as I watched the last of the Enshadowed quit the clearing.  “Dargarin!  Leave off, and police the field, if you will.  Bring the wounded to the Tower – no mercy killings! – and pile up the dead.  We’ll discuss precise terms for your new post when you are done,” I promised.

The big troll smiled broadly at the new orders.  It did little to improve his looks. He began bellowing orders to the attendants from the Tower who were quick to administer first aid to those who needed it.  The troll piled up the corpses of those who didn’t.  We walked back toward the settlement, the rush of battle fading a little with every step.

“That was fast,” I murmured, as I considered the attack.  “Not just the Council’s action to lower the defenses, but the Enshadowed moving to take advantage of it.  That speaks to a close watch on both,” I reasoned.

“They likely planned for a quick slaughter,” Sire Cei agreed as he stowed his hammer away in his belt.  “That many would have plowed through the meager defenses here and slain the Sorceress.”

“She may not have been the only target,” I pointed out.  “The Enshadowed are a vengeful sect.  Alya slew one of their officials or lords or whatever they use.  It’s just as likely that they were coming for her, too.”

“In either case, this place will need more protection,” Sire Cei pointed out, critically, as he looked around at the picturesque place.

“Well, perhaps the Terra Alon will consent to guard it,” I proposed.

“And the trolls,” Sire Cei reminded me.

“And the trolls,” I nodded.  “Perhaps some of the gods, even,” I sighed, as I took out my pipe and lit it.  I’d been putting this off long enough, I knew.  It was time to face the music.

The moment my finger flared into flame and ignited the packed herbs, a red-haired woman appeared from between the neat rows of bushes that lined the trail back to the Tower.  She was wearing a scarlet habit over her tresses.  Her eyes were flaming.  I sighed.

“Well, someone’s been busy again!” she said accusingly, shaking her head angrily.

“Sister?” Sire Cei asked, confused at the sight of the strange young nun.

“Actually,” I said, as I cleared my throat, “this is Briga, Narasi goddess of fire.  I told you I met them,” I added, chidingly.  “Briga, I expect you know Sire Cei?”

“A pleasure,” she said, nodding at the knight, absently.  “Minalan, do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”  I was hearing that a lot, lately.

“Yes,” I said, flatly.  “I recruited a valuable ally to our cause.”

“You’ve done a lot more than that!”

“I also slew a bunch of Enshadowed,” I added.  “In valiant combat.”

“Yes, your muscles are truly impressive,” she said, patiently, rolling her eyes, “and woe be unto your enemies . . . but that doesn’t excuse the avalanche of crap you just started!”

“One might consider it inspired,” I suggested as I smirked at the goddess of inspiration.

“Or just plain donkey-shit mad!” Briga shot back.  “You interfered with the Alka Alon council!”

“Not technically,” I demurred.  “I was invited to the Alka Alon council,” I reminded her.  “I’m a member.  So I can’t really be said to have interfered.”

“And the very first thing you do as such is free a... a... “

“An ally,” I supplied, graciously.

“There are others on the council who will not look upon this kindly!” she warned.

“I am asking for their kindness,” I challenged.  “I’m asking for their pragmatism.  I suppose they should have considered what admitting an ephemeral, unstable humani mage to their club might entail,” I reflected, philosophically.  “But the deed is done.  Several of them.  And Alya is one step closer to wholeness,” I added.

“And our world is one step closer to chaos!” she snorted, angrily.  “You don’t know Elre the way I do!”

“I thought you liked her?”

“I do!  That doesn’t mean I don’t think she should be locked up!” she said, exasperated.

“The time for such conservative measures is passed,” I remarked.  “Anthatiel has fallen, Korbal has awakened, the Enshadowed are resurgent, Shereul is gathering strength, and the council itself is hard-pressed to contend with the situation.”

“That’s why they included the foremost human mage to assist them,” Briga explained patiently.  “It was thought that the advice and assistance of our people would be of benefit!”

“My advice . . . is to not be stupidly restrained by tradition and history when our civilization is in danger.  My assistance lies in forcing the Alka Alon to do what they should do even when they don’t want to,” I countered.

“This is going to earn you more enemies,” she warned, shaking her head doubtfully.

“Hells, line them up!” I snapped.  “I’ve already got a couple of genocidal dark lords on the list, and the entirety of the Enshadowed, the Censorate, and who knows who else – if any of the council members think they can do a better job, I am eager to see their wares.  Perhaps this will explain to them – and to you, my fiery goddess – that Minalan the Spellmonger has lost his patience and is sick of waiting around for others to fix the problems of the universe!”

“That’s what the gods are for!” she defended.

“And you’re doing the usual piss-poor job!  Why didn’t you tell me about the Vundel, goddess?” I demanded.  “The real story?  And the precarious position of the Alka Alon?  Why didn’t you mention the truth about humanity’s plight to me?”

Briga looked guilty – and Sire Cei looked shocked.  I was not only conversing with a divine presence, I was chewing her out like a castle drudge.

“That’s...complicated,” she admitted, in a murmur.  “Most of that happened before my time.  And I was concerned that telling you too much would overwhelm you, and keep you from the tasks at hand.”

“That’s no excuse!” I said, bitterly.  “If you wanted me to be a champion of humanity, it might have been helpful if I’d known the situation – the entire situation – before I accepted the job!”

“I was unsure if you had the sophistication to appreciate the nuances,” she said with exaggerated diplomacy.  “I barely grasp it myself.”

“It’s not that hard, actually, once someone actually explains it to you!” I accused, angrily.

“Minalan, what are you talking about?” Sire Cei asked, confused, as he looked from wizard to goddess and back.

“Forget the myths and legends, my friend.  Humanity and the Alon are both merely guests on Callidore,” I stated, matter-of-factly.  “Guests of the Sea Folk. Or tenants, more accurately. If either race perturbs them, then they are empowered to evict us like a cottager delinquent on the rent.  And to the Sea Folk – the Vundel – there is no real difference between us and the Alon.  Or me and Shereul.  They care not for our politics or our ethics.  One misstep, and both our races will be... gone.  The face of Callidore will be free from its pests.”

“Can they... can they do that?” he asked, his eyes wide with existential horror.

“From what I understand, it is well within their power,” I agreed, gravely.   Briga nodded, silently, her eyes wide and nearly as afraid as Sire Cei’s.  As brutal as it felt, I knew I had to explain the mess fully to someone lest my heart explode.  “And the Alka Alon are already on probation,” I added, “thanks to their horrific wars, before we showed up.  In fact,” I said, suddenly realizing the obvious, “I’d say that the probation was one of the reasons the Alka Alon quit building cities and went back to the trees,” I proposed.  “It wasn’t a purely aesthetic choice, I’m guessing, but a capitulation and surrender to the Vundel.”

“From what I understand,” Briga sighed, “it was decided that the Vundel’s warning was so profound that Alka Alon kindreds across Callidore agreed to put away their differences and deal with the... difficult element.  Their intervention was quick and decisive.  And bloody.  But it satisfied the Vundel’s complaints.  When they left, placing the Council in charge of the territory, there was little in this realm but ruins and wastelands.  Instead of rebuilding the great cities in our part of the world, they embraced a more rustic life while they policed the radicals among them.”

“Which also encouraged them to keep a low profile, regarding the Sea Folk,” I guessed.

“Extremely,” she nodded.  “The remnants and survivors of the centuries-long struggle were weary from the war and the ire of their distant kin.  They eschewed their lofty past and withdrew to a simpler life as much to avoid another catastrophe as out of guilt for their role in it.  They were just recovering from that effort when humanity appeared on the horizon.  Some were relieved by the appearance, as they thought our race would distract the Vundel from their displeasure with the Alon.  Others feared it would compound the problem.  They appear to have been correct,” she said, biting her lip.

“Perhaps,” I shrugged.  “But that’s history, now.  They did allow us to live here.  Now they have to live with us.”

“They only agreed because we didn’t seem to have any magic!” the goddess stressed.  “That’s the only reason the various Alka Alon realms beyond the Duchies agreed – over some strident objections by those within the settlement area.  Your tekka allowed you to live inside the Terran Zone without being a threat to their realms.  By the time our people expressed rajira, it was too late for them to reconsider: there were already ninety-thousand humans on Callidore and more arriving every year.”

“Why was that a problem?” I asked.

“Because once we were able to do magic,” she sighed, “the pleasant face and delightful stories of the Alka Alon started to unravel.  We discovered that they weren’t entirely forthcoming about their role on Calidore, or their recent history.  And some of the Alka Alon felt as if we’d lied to them, somehow.”

“It wasn’t as if we could have known we’d develop rajira!” I pointed out.

“That’s what the Archmage said!” Briga agreed, fervently.  “But the Alkan Councils were not persuaded by that argument,” she continued, shaking her head.  “There was a conflict, a crisis – one which is still shrouded in mystery – and some political struggle among your ancestors.  As I said, before my time.  The settlement stopped as the horizon was withdrawn beyond the moons, and that averted the crisis.”

“That was around the time of the founding of the first Magocracy,” I supplied, appreciating my perverse fascination with ancient history, a subject that bores other people into premature dotage.  “The records are spotty, from then.”

“By design,” she nodded, her eyes narrowing.  “The magi took power on Perwyn... with the help of some Alka Alon.  And some of the early divinities.  At the time, I’m sure it seemed like a good idea – some of your ancestors were as fanatical as the Enshadowed, and weren’t fond of the restrictions they felt were forced on the colony.  They would have become a danger to us all, and it is said we are better off without them.

“But then a few generations later, the magi were responsible for sinking Perwyn and nearly dooming your civilization entirely... also, perhaps, with the help of some Alka Alon.  And maybe a god or two.  So . . . I guess that was a judgement call . . .” she decided, pursing her lips thoughtfully.

This was a fascinating glimpse into our ancient history, and it was filling in some tantalizing gaps in my education.  Perhaps even something useful.  “So what did the Sea Folk do about it?”

“Well, they weren’t particularly happy with the ecological disruption caused by Perwyn’s destruction,” she explained, sullenly, crossing her arms.  “They have a bank of feeding reefs just beyond, and there was some... unpleasantness, during and immediately after the evacuation.  A mild rebuke.  Mostly, they like us.  Unlike the Alon, we build boats and come trade with them at sea.  When there have been incidents, they destroy the miscreants and then there aren’t any more problems.”

“Someone would actually attack a Leviathan?” I asked, doubtfully.  I’d seen one in the distance, on the way home from Farise.  I thought it was an island, at first, it was so big.  “That’s insanity!”

“It’s usually suicide,” she agreed.  “And the Sea Folk understand the actions of a few violators of the rules don’t represent anything serious . . . just like when one of their clippermen goes amok on a coastal village.  These things happen,” she shrugged. “They weren’t happy with Perwyn sinking, and they let us know.  Hells, they summoned the Sea God, personally.  But apart from that, the Vundel have yet to take notice of the recent problems in the Dry World.  We think,” she said, unsteadily.

“My goddess,” Sire Cei said, with a mix of reverent awe and curiosity, “should you not know such things?”

“Omniscience is not one of my attributes,” snorted Briga.  “I can only see that which takes place in the presence of flame.  Believe it or not,” she said, with a hint of chuckle in her voice, “the Sea Folk don’t light a lot of fires.”

“Why did you not explain all of this to me before?” I demanded.  “It might have given me a lot better insight.”

“Minalan,” she said, patiently, “we’re speaking of the histories of three or four different worlds, here, not village gossip.  It’s not a simple story.  Or one easily explained, especially to...”

“To a simple village spellmonger?” I supplied, wryly.

“You were always more than just that!” she confided, affectionately.  “But even as an educated man, you still lack the sophistication and context to understand all of . . . this.  Ash and soot, I lack the sophistication!” she added, with a trace of bitterness.  “I’m a relatively young goddess who grew up on the steppes.  I see a lot, but I don’t understand all of it,” she confessed.  “But I do know that we are on the knife’s edge of danger.  The Alka Alon are worried, almost panicked.  Shereul and Korbal and their fanatics barely acknowledge the power of the Vundel and feel that it will be centuries before they take note of affairs in the Dry World, again.”

“Yet they know they cannot escape judgement,” Sire Cei pointed out, disturbed.

“By that time, they plan on being in control, and in a position to re-negotiate with the Sea Folk... the fools!”

“Are they wrong?” I felt compelled to ask.

“They would need far more power than the two dark lords, combined, and all of their minions as well.  More than the power of the gods.  And yes, before you ask, there are powers on Callidore greater than both.  Let us not even consider the possibility of them coming into play,” she said, her face as white as ash.

“If the Vundel barely noted the passage of Perwyn, why would they be concerned with a fight between us so far from the sea?”

“Because while the Vundel might be disinterested, but they are aware,” she explained.  “The Alka Alon are on probation because their struggles threatened the security of Callidore.  Turning around, just a few millennia later, and fighting with the newcomers to once again endanger that security could make them lose patience with both.”

“So, who among the Alka Alon understands the nature of the Vundel the best?” I asked.

The question took her by surprise.  She wrinkled up her nose in a way that was divinely adorable.  “Locally?  That would be Raer Haruthel... Ambiarel the Sage... and Lilastien Elre,” she admitted.

“And who among the Alka Alon understands the nature of humanity the best?” I prodded.  Her expression changed to a less-adorable divine scowl.

“Lilastien Elre,” she conceded, with a defeated sigh.

“Whom I have just secured as a valuable counselor and aid to our cause,” I said, with a triumphant exhale of smoke.  “Now, either that will end up a disaster, irritating the Council to the point where they throw me off, and we’re on our own, or it will prove to be a masterful stroke of inspiration and a credit to my divine patroness,” I said, smugly.

How could she argue with that?

“It occurs to me, goddess, that Minalan’s risk is a worthy undertaking,” Sire Cei offered, trying to be helpful.  “Considering how quickly the Enshadowed responded to her apparent vulnerability, and in such force, one has to assume that keeping her counsel from Minalan’s ears was a high priority for our foe,” he reasoned.

“You don’t think their motivation was mere revenge?” I asked, considering the counsel.

My castellan shook his head.  “Why rush the process, if it was mere revenge?  Minalan, this was a military attack – hastily arranged, poorly executed, clearly opportunistic.  But it was a military action.  They were relying on surprise and the lack of mundane defenses to carry the day.  Had we not been here, still, they may well have succeeded.  I suggest a vigorous interrogation of the prisoners to ascertain their precise mission, when they are able.”

“Agreed,” I nodded, the implications clouding my mind.  It implied a far deeper penetration of our enemies into our councils, for one thing.  While that paled in comparison to the doom we faced, it still bothered me.

“More, it occurs to me that if one appraises one’s worth by the quality of one’s foes, the Sorceress has proven her value, and the value of the risk involved in her parole.  The Enshadowed have revealed themselves, and in their haste they reveal her importance to our effort.”

“A small gain, but at the cost of a risk we may all yet rue, Cei,” she said, darkly.  “Elre’s unpredictability could be our ruin.”

“Or the ruin of the Enshadowed,” I countered.  “If we find her unpredictable, I’m certain they will as well.”

Briga’s arms crossed even more tightly.  Then she sighed.  “It’s only a decade,” she conceded.  “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“Shall we summon Ifnia and see?” I teased.  Briga fixed me with an evil stare.

“No, I don’t think that would be helpful,” she said, with a snort.  “The die has been cast.  The pyre cannot be unlit.”

I got fed up with her attitude.  “Look, Goddess, I believe it was your idea in the first place to seek answers about human psychology from the Alka Alon, if you recall!”

“You’re trying to blame this disaster on me?” she asked, appalled.

“You were inspirational,” I shrugged.  “If the gods dodn’t have the answer, then try the Alka Alon.  I’m paraphrasing you, but...”

“I meant seeking out specialists in songspells that...” she trailed off.

“Who is a better specialist than the Sorceress?” I offered.  “You were concerned I was headed toward self-destruction... but as you can see, I’m feeling much better, now that I have a plan.  And hope.”

“What plan?” she asked, suspiciously.

“Lilastien was helpful in more ways than one,” I explained.  “Not only was she able to stabilize Alya’s mind a bit, but she suggested that there was one entity she was aware of that might have the capacity to mend it.”

The face of the Goddess of Fire grew fearful, like a flame holding its breath.

“And what forces did she recommend you pursue?” she asked, hoarsely.

“The long-dead enneagram of the Handmaiden of the Celestial Mother, entombed in the Ghost Rock veins beneath Anthatiel.”

“Olum Seheri,” she corrected me.  Reminded me.  She looked dazed.  Blanked.

“That’s what they call the place, now,” I nodded.

“You know one of the worst things about being a divinity?” she asked, softly.  “Not having anyone superior to swear by.  Ash and cinders, Minalan, are you mad?  A raid on the Necromancer’s new fortress?  To ressurect the shade of an ancient monster?”

“A raid, disguised as a rescue mission, designed to gather intelligence on our greatest foe toward his eventual downfall,” I corrected.  “Hopeless odds, implacable foes, a thousand obstacles, and titanic forces at play,” I added, foreseeing her objections.  “And if all goes well, we’ll rescue a princess along the way.”

“I pledge to you, Goddess, we shall not fail!” Sire Cei said, resolutely.

“It is not your failure I fear,” she confessed, guiltily biting her lip.  “It is your success.”

“You don’t want the princess rescued?” he asked, confused.

“She’s irrelevant,” Briga dismissed with a toss of her hair.  “What I fear is the successful recovery of such a potent force... and what might be done with it.”

“I’ve already got the bloody Celestial Mother chained up in my basement,” I said, softly.  “What matters if I gain her servant?”

“To me?  Not much.  To the Vundel... oh, Minalan, I hope you know what you’re doing,” she said, sadly.

“Still making it up as I go,” I assured her.  “You think its ill-advised?”

“I think it is a risk that dwarfs the parole of Elre,” she said, resigned.  “Your chances of failure or death are high.”

I snorted.  “Everyone thinks it’s fun to be a wizard until it’s time to do some serious wizard stuff.”

“Do we have your blessing then, Goddess?” Sire Cei asked, hopefully.

“The last time she did something like that, we got the Everflame and the Snowflake,” I reminded him with a chuckle.

“At least he’s considerate enough to ask!” she chided me.  “For what it will be worth?  Yes, my mortals, you have my blessing.  As if it will make any difference!”  She raised her hand and both Cei and I were instantly enveloped in heatless flame.  It died as quickly as it appeared.  It was kind of terrifying.

“You’re blessed,” she shrugged, annoyed.  “You’re also probably screwed.”  She left in a far more flamboyant and impressive burst of flame.

“So that was... a real goddess,” Sire Cei said, as the flame faded.

“It was,” I nodded, carefully tapping out my pipe on the heel of my hand.  “A real, really annoyed goddess.  One you were foolish enough to make a promise to.  And secured a blessing,” I admitted.

“That was... strange,” he observed, his eyes a little glazed over.  “I never in my wildest dreams expected to have such an encounter before the afterlife!”

“You get used to it.  You’d better.  This place has been traditionally favored by the gods.  And Sevendor is visited on a regular basis, as I’ve told you.  Now that you’re a legitimate heroic figure, you’re going to be attracting more divine attention.  Just like I did with magic.”

“And you don’t find that disturbing?”

I put my pipe in my pouch.  “My ability to be disturbed was injured the moment I met Shereul, face-to-face.  After that, I just tried to accept things as they came.”

“And that’s helpful?”

“It’s pragmatic.  I try not to think about it too much.  I’m not often successful.  Can you see to our prisoners?  I’ll interrogate them later, I think, but for now see if you can get our troll friend to set up a prison somewhere in the compound and guard them.”

“It shall be done,” he assured me.

“As for me,” I sighed, “after a fight and a divine intervention, both before dinner, I think I need to bring our hostess up-to-date on events.  And start planning our strategies.  I’ll see you at dinner.”

“Merry Yule, Minalan,” Cei said, warmly, slapping me on the back.

It was Yule.  I’d almost forgotten.

As he turned around to take charge, I gave the universe my gratitude for supplying me with such a stalwart friend.  Sire Cei was more than a castellan and loyal vassal.  He was more than a hero.  He was the kind of man who held firmly to simple beliefs, and one of those was support of his folk.  His kin.  His family.  For whatever reason, he’d included me in that, and I felt honored.

It started to snow again by the time I made it back to the Tower of Refuge, and the place looked merrily whimsical in the shower of flakes.  I told the anxious folk at the doors of our victory at the gate, and gave a few suggestions for the defense of the place, before I sought out Lilastien.

She was once again observing Alya, while she took notes on parchment and referred to her tekka device.  She wore her white coat, and had added a white mantle over the top of it.  It was odd, seeing an Alka Alon writing – much less making use of tekka – but when she looked up she appeared encouraged.

“Minalan!  Where have you been all morning?”

“Defending your domain,” I explained.  I told her of the encounter with the Enshadowed, and she looked genuinely distressed.

“I haven’t had to concern myself with that sort of thing in centuries!” she said, sadly.  “My people are not warriors.  I can protect them, some, from such incursions, but...”

“I’ve hired your former jailors, the trolls, to fill in for now.  But I think it would be helpful if you had some warriors present, too.  Say... a few seasoned warmagi, eager to learn from your research... and maybe a settlement of Tera Alon?  They’re seeking refuge, and this place is closer to the front lines than Sevendor.”

“That would be intriguing!” she agreed, smiling.  “I suppose a defensive action is sufficient excuse for your absence, then.”

“If it wasn’t, then the dressing-down I just got from Briga would serve.  Our Lady Of Perpetual Combustion was not happy with the deal I forced on the Council.  Even less so of my plan to raid Olum Seheri and recover the Handmaiden.”

“She fears the attention of the Vundel?”

“How could she not?  Once we raid Olum Seheri, the war is going to heat up again.  If it gets too hot, the Sea Folk are going to take note.  But that’s going to happen anyway,” I explained.  “Shereul and Korbal are preparing to come after us and we’re going to resist.  This way, at least, we take the initiative.  It’s the best choice, strategically.  Especially if we can wound them in the process and disrupt their plans.”

“It will take a delicate hand to penetrate that place, if Korbal has taken control of its defenses.”

“I have a party scouting there right now,” I offered.  “A squadron of warmagi is gathering some initial intelligence.  When they return with a report we can start to assemble a real plan.”

“You will need several such efforts,” she agreed.  “And a council of skilled magi... resources...”

“I’ll figure it out,” I dismissed.

“Well, I’m glad you escaped both mortal peril and divine displeasure,” she said, gathering her parchments.  “I have some excellent news!  Alya’s neuropeptide levels are starting to approach normal levels – slowly, but it’s happening.  While there has never been an established correlation between neuropeptides and enneagramatic cohesion, the theory is sound and there are several suggestive observations that support it.”

“Well... good...” I offered, not understanding a thing she’d just said.

“It’s as if... well, perhaps this will be a helpful metaphor: when Alya arrived here, her brain was essentially a big tub of cream, with a few flecks of butter floating in it.  After I worked on her and gave her a basic framework, she started to heal.  But it’s... slow,” she said, reluctantly.  “Slower than I’d like.  But... encouraging.”

“What does that mean, in practical terms?”

“We’ll really only know over time,” she said, cautiously.  “But I’ve noted improvement since yesterday.  She’s more observant, more aware, and more reactive to her surroundings.  She’s using the chamberpot on her own, which is a relief to the sisters who care for her.  She’s understanding simple commands.  She’s sometimes obeying them.  Or at least trying to.  Her cognition is still rudimentary.  Speech still eludes her, I’m afraid.  Her memory... well, one day at a time,” she said, with a faint smile.

I watched her awhile, from the gallery, as she slowly walked through the garden again.  Her nurses were nearby, but were allowing her to explore the way you might introduce a kitten into a new place.

Alya seemed entranced by the snowflakes descending on the landscape.  Her eyes tried to track them individually, but she soon learned the futility of that.  Then she trailed her fingers in the accumulated snow from the day before where it lay atop the stone planters.  She examined the flakes on the holly bushes, where the deep red and dark green contrasted with the bright white snow.  Her attention was absolute, as if she was desperate to find meaning or purpose in the experience.  If she felt the cold, she did not show it.

“That’s much more responsive than yesterday,” Lilastien observed, hopefully.  “See how she’s so invested in the detail?  That’s excellent!  This morning she noticed her shadow and spent ten minutes exploring it.  She’s starting to experience, again.  Hopefully, she’ll retain it – that’s critical.  But I’m optimistic, based on some other things.  Retention of previous experience, perhaps, but there’s no way to be certain.  She knew how to use a spoon, this morning, though,” she said, enormously pleased.  “No one showed her.  That was a very encouraging sign!  Any time little things like that come back, it’s that tiny pat of butter getting a little bit bigger.”

“But there’s still a lot of cream in the churn,” I said, trying not to be too hopeful.  I was desperate for hope, and so far I’d done everything I could possibly do to find it.  But I also needed to be rational and realistic.  Using a spoon or going potty was not the same as having my wife back.

“Oceans of cream,” Lilastien conceded.  “I’d like to keep her here for a time so that I can evaluate her condition and consider other treatments.  I’m just getting started on this case, and there might be other approaches that could speed her healing.  In time, with care, her cognition will continue to improve, I think.  But it will be based on her experiences since the... accident.  Not her original personality, unfortunately.”

“The Handmaiden is her best option for full improvement,” I stated.

“As far as I can theorize?  Yes,” she agreed.  “Even then, there are no guarantees.  Once we had it, we’d have to find a way to employ it.”

“Then I’ll get her the Handmaiden,” I nodded, as I watched her smell the snow.  She seemed delighted.  “The rest is just a problem I haven’t figured out yet.”

“You should go see her,” Lilastien encouraged.  “She liked that, yesterday, I think.  And the more familiar she is with you, the more likely she’ll incorporate portions of her personality associated with you.  In theory,” she added.

I wasn’t concerned by the theory – I wanted to see how Alya was doing.

The snow crunched under my boots as I joined her in the garden.  She looked up and studied me as I approached.  There wasn’t exactly interest, there, or even recognition, but there was... awareness.  After months of blank stares, it was a relief to see that much.

When she’d eventually decided that I wasn’t a threat – or just lost interest – she went back to absently trailing her fingers through the snow, and rocking her body gently back and forth as she stared up into the snowy sky.

It wasn’t a lot... but that glance of awareness was the best gift I’d been given.

I couldn’t help myself – I knew Alya, as I knew her, was not really inside her head, anymore, but seeing that tantalizing glimpse of awareness propelled me to embrace her.  And kiss her.

She accepted the hug with utter passivity, reacting only enough to ensure her balance.  The kiss... her lips were stone, unresponsive.  Her eyes barely registered the event.

“Merry Yule, Alya,” I whispered, as her eyes stared at me... but saw me.

I slowly turned away and let her return to her playing in the snow.  I was heartbroken for how much she had lost, but grateful for the few crumbs she’d recovered.  And I’d fight to gain more.  I would not relent until it was done.

I suppose I was walking slowly, awash in my own thoughts, so the attack took me by surprise.  With no warning, my neck exploded in a frozen shower as a snowball was hurled into it.  I whirled around in shock and surprise at the unexpected assault... and realized with wonder and astonishment that it had come from Alya.

Who was smiling.