The Spellmonger’s Honeymoon

A Spellmonger Novella

By Terry Mancour

By Ishi’s hallowed hand are their hearts entangled,

By Briga’s blessed fire they make their common bed.

By Luin’s sacred laws they plead troth and trust,

By Trygg’s holy grace are the lovers gaily wed!

Seven bottles of mead to share

For seven nights or more.

Each cup a toast, each sip a wish

To bind their lives forevermore:

A bottle first for happiness, a bottle then for health

A bottle for togetherness, a bottle next for wealth

A bottle sipped for harmony, the equilibrium of desire

A bottle savored for purest lust, which brings the marriage fire!

A bottle last for love to endure as long as life shall last,

Saved for they who toast their love when five full years have passed!

Riverlands Honeymoon Folk Blessing

That was the song they sang us off to, the morning after our wedding.  It was sweet.  It was heartfelt.  And the sweet, heartfelt words banged against my throbbing skull like iron maces.

I stepped drunkenly onto the barge, waved at my family, friends and retainers, helped my darling bride aboard (who was likewise feeling poorly, though that had more to do with being seven months pregnant than having too much to drink) and blearily watched the crew cast off as half the town belted out the old honeymoon blessing.  I kept waving until we had pulled out into the Burine river and around the bend before I vomited heartily over the side.  It was just classier.

In most places in the Riverlands the giddy period immediately following your wedding is known as your “maidenmoon”, whereas in the Alshari Wilderlands west of here it’s known as your “honeymoon”, and maidenmoon means the point when a maiden reaches menarche.  In the Wilderlands menarche is usually called the blood moon.  That can be quite confusing, particularly if the two occasions are close together and you’re anywhere near the frontiers between the two.

But both agreed that no matter the class and station of a bride and groom, they should enjoy a period of leisure and rest to celebrate their nuptials.  It was ordained by Ishi and Trygg, of course, to mark the transition a woman makes between maiden and mother.  Religious mandate aside, the honeymoon or maidenmoon is a time in which the presumably happy couple could relax, relieved of their responsibilities, and (in the occasion of arranged marriages, more popular among the gentry than the common folk) get to know your new spouse.  Perhaps even learning how to pronounce their name correctly.

Alya and I had known each other for a year, now, so we were past much of the awkward silliness that infests such occasions.  We had been through so much, and had waited so long to find each other again, that when we finally did escape from my home village of Talry-on-Burine in the Riverlands after the most tumultuous wedding feast in village history, all we really wanted to do was celebrate in the most simple and pleasant way possible.

As she was no virgin and I was intimately familiar with her virtue already, just what constituted “simple” and “pleasant” was relative.  So we both fell asleep, exhausted, in our little cabin belowdecks and didn’t wake up until the next morning when we were already far downriver.

Then we consummated the marriage.

Of course, with my bride pregnant, that made things challenging.  She was bearing up well, after the excitement of the wedding, and had only thrown up once since we’d boarded the barge to my twice - from the rich food at the wedding, she insisted, not from illness, and certainly not from too much drink.

I knew as much.  I was checking on the health of the baby zealously, using magic.  I did so once before the consummation, and then once after, just as an experiment.  That’s a bread-and-butter sort of spell for an ordinary village spellmonger, and I was far above ordinary. Using my eldritch powers to spy on my ripening son was as simple as scrying a village a few miles away.  The baby was fine - a little cranky, maybe, from the food and the alcohol and the excitement Alya had inflicted on him, but physically he was perfectly healthy.

When I assured Alya, she was able to try to relax and enjoy our new married life . . . which included, technically, being on the run from a vicious order of militant regulatory fanatics, the Royal Censorate of Magic.  That was my fault.  I was wanted for practicing High Magic without their permission, using unlawful magical artifacts and just generally being “that Spellmonger”.

They were the checkered-cloaked clowns who had tried to bust up my wedding and who had threatened Alya’s life, in violation of the laws of gods and men.  While we had stopped the pair who had offended me, my ancestors, my parents, the gods, and (worse) Lady Pentandra, there were still teams of them searching the land for any sign of me.  There was even a substantial reward, probably the most I’ve ever been worth.  So this honeymoon cruise was as much to keep a low profile as a means to get away from life for a week or so.

The Censorate was scouring the land . . . so I stuck to the water.

I soothed myself with the fact that our fugitive status should be a temporary situation.  While their Order had been recently exiled by ducal decree from the duchy we were currently in, many of the fanatical warmagi had not heard that decree, and most were likely to ignore it anyway.  The Censors are just like that, the bloodthirsty bastards.  They were magically-talented militant bureaucrats with a license to do pretty much whatever they wanted, including hunt for my head, even if the Duke told them not to.

That added an even more romantic element to my honeymoon.  At any time the idiots in the checkered cloaks could decide to attack us, if they found us, and possible capture or kill us on the spot.

But believe it or not, I wasn’t worried about the Censorate that much, as I had sent them chasing their tails across the western Duchies.  I wasn’t even all that concerned about taking up residence in my new home, after our honeymoon, out of fear of the Censorate.  Neither, I discovered, was Alya.  The personal changes we faced as man and wife loomed more pressing in our minds.  I thought about the first morning, while I watched my new bride sleep.

We were married now.  Husband and wife.  Lord and Lady, even, thanks to the gratitude of the aforementioned duke.  I’d saved the duchies, won a few key battles for him, and had – by accident – set him up to claim kingship over three of the Five Duchies.  He had been grateful.  I even had a deed to a quaint mountain domain a few hundred miles to the east where we could settle down and raise the baby, far away from the threat of war.

But even becoming Lord of a domain seemed pretty minor in comparison to suddenly being someone’s husband.  And from the uneasy look on Alya’s pretty face, and the nervous glances she kept shooting me when she awoke, she was just as uncomfortable with the subtle change as I was.  Oh, neither one of us was regretting it . . . we just didn’t really know what we were supposed to do now, exactly.

We knew, intellectually, what it meant.  My own parents had enjoyed a long and happy marriage, and Alya’s father had run her family’s creamery with her mother for twenty years, before she’d died.  We knew what husbands were supposed to do, and we knew what wives were supposed to do . . . in theory.

But once we were faced with assuming the new titles and new responsibilities ourselves, we were having some awkward moments.

Liquor helped.

“A bottle first for happiness . . .”

There were seven bottles of mead waiting for us aboard the barge when Alya and I left on our honeymoon.  They were a gift from Pentandra, just like in the folksong.  The use of her entire barge for the honeymoon was also a gift, actually, but the beautiful basket with seven bottles was an especially lovely and sentimental touch.  It was traditional, I knew, a custom of my barbaric Narasi ancestors had brought down from the northern steppes.  It was one of the few customs that the Imperials we’d conquered a few centuries ago had adopted, if not eagerly, at least complacently.

The basket was beautiful.  It was made of red-stained wicker, with yellow and pink ribbons woven through the basketry.  It was sprinkled liberally with flowers and fruits that she’d had to have imported from the south this time of year.

“Oh, Min!” Alya had cooed, when she woke up, peed, and started looking around at our cabin in the daylight.  She saw the ornate basket, covered with flowers and ribbons, and got teary.  “Min, this is magnificent!  Do you think . . . do you think maybe she doesn’t hate me?” my new bride asked.

“Hate you?” I asked, confused.  “Pentandra?  What do you mean?  Penny likes you!” I assured her about my ex-girlfriend and current colleague as I inspected the basket.

I was a trifle defensive, perhaps.  Pentandra was a professional colleague or co-conspirator, depending on how you looked at things.  Alya, of course, chose to dwell on the fact that Penny and I had also been intimate, back at the magical academy we’d attended in our youth.

That was partially because she specialized in the obscure and scandalous area of Sex Magic, and needed a young and virile partner for research purposes.  But she would not have chosen me if there hadn’t been a lot of affection there as well, and I had returned it at the time. That was years ago.  Apart from one minor episode (funny story, that), Penny and I hadn’t been intimate in years.  But to Alya, Penny would always be my pretty, smart ex-girlfriend.

I knew they would probably never quite get along – ever since Pentandra had mistaken Alya for a serving girl and ordered her around, the sort of thing to make any woman testy – but after the wedding they seemed to have come to some truce.  This barge was Pentandra’s tangible peace offering, I knew, her material wish for our happiness.  As was the mead.

It was odd: it wasn’t that Penny disliked Alya personally.  In fact in a lot of ways they were strangely alike.  They were both intelligent, capable, competent women, with determined and courageous natures.

They both loved me, in each their own way.  Alya loved me passionately, joyfully, delighting in me as a man and a mate.  My profession was, to her, secondary.  I believe Alya would have loved me if I’d been a swineherd, not a spellmonger.  Or a magelord.  Or so I’ve led myself to believe.

Pentandra was more allured of my intellect and leadership, investing in me a level of trust and respect that I was certain I didn’t deserve and was positive I hadn’t earned.

Perhaps she was just manipulating me, using me to further her own ends in the kind of convoluted, devious power-play that Remeran magi were famous for.  She was certainly capable, and my recent rise to power was just the sort of cover she could use for achieving her own ends . . . I just wasn’t particularly certain what those ends might be.

And today, I didn’t care.  Alya confirmed her love for me in front of Ishi and Trygg and my entire family (and a few knights and a couple of over-achieving Censors), and was bearing my child.  Pentandra’s contribution to my honeymoon confirmed her love for me respecting that in Alya I had found happiness.  It was far more about our friendship than because we were once lovers.

I was hoping that the barge and the presents and the mead would help sooth any prickly feelings that might remain, particularly after what Pentandra had done to rescue my wedding and my bride.  The fact that Alya had suggested it when she saw the mead was a good sign.

It wasn’t just any seven bottles of mead, either, I realized.  The decorative labels painted on the bottles indicated that each well-aged bottle was from a different temple meadery, scattered all over the Duchies.  I knew less about mead than I knew about wine, which wasn’t much, but I could tell by the elegantly painted glass bottles that Penny had paid a pretty penny for these.  It was a noble gift.  A loving gesture of friendship.  Not the kind of gift you give to a woman you hate.

“She likes me?  You really think so?” she sniffed.  She was happily weeping, overcome with emotion after our tumultuous wedding.  Or just tired and very pregnant.

“I’m positive,” I nodded, confidently.  “I mean, just look at this place!”

Penny had gone to great lengths to make this barge a pleasure-palace for us.  She had never intended on buying it in the first place, but had been forced to in order to make it to my wedding on time.  She could afford it – Pentandra is from one of the wealthier families of magi in Remere, and she had amassed a bit of a personal fortune too.  But she had invested likely twice as much as she spent on it in up-fitting the humble old boat.  I don’t know where she had gotten it done, and when, but I could tell she had used magic liberally and coin even more-so.

The barge had been freshly painted a bright, fecund green, the trim along the cabins and such whitewashed to gleaming.  A new brass bell had been hung at the pilot’s house, and the ropes and fittings all seemed to be either new or recently-scrubbed.  The wooden decks had shined when we had first come aboard.  It wasn’t a huge barge – barely forty feet long – but it had a deeper draught than most.  There was room for an entire cabin belowdecks.  A cabin that Pentandra had indulged herself on.

It was a mere twenty feet long and ten wide, but it had been packed with luxuries and comforts suitable for a duke.  A broad bedstead was mounted on gimbles against rocking, its rope slats covered with a sinfully thick goose-down tick, sown with salt against the damp.  Layered on top were four thick quilts, each one a riot of color and beautiful design.  There were more pillows on that bed than should be allowed by law.

An elaborate oil lamp on a brass chain hung overhead, its red-tinted glass panels emitting a warm glow.  A small painting of Ishi in an elegant gilded frame portrayed the serene visage of the goddess of love . . .  until you took a closer look and realized that it was actually entwined with tastefully erotic figures.  The rafters overhead were hung with silks and soft cottons, both to disguise the worn wood and to dampen any loud noises that might emit from the cabin.  Bouquets of flowers and sweet herbs filled the cabin with a wholesome scent. There was even a tiny stove we could light, if we needed to keep the river’s chill at bay, and I didn’t feel like using magic.

A chest at the foot of the bed proved to be packed with glasses, cups, and bottles of other sorts – spirits and wine, mostly, and exotic liquors from Farise.  A large wicker hamper hanging from the ceiling was filled with fresh fruits – apples, pears, rentons, handmelons, and even some oranges and lemons from the coast.  A leather satchel on the wall held several different mixtures of smoking herbs, along with two new pipes.

And of course there was the lovely basket with seven bottles of mead in the middle of the bed.

“So we’re not supposed to come back home until all seven bottles are empty, right?” she asked, as she clung to me.  That was complicated by her belly, which was growing larger with our child.  The wedding, while elaborate, had been a formality.  I’d pledged my love to Alya months before, when she’d told me she was bearing my child.

“Six. We keep one for when we’ve been wed five years to toast our love, or bring us children, or . . . how should I know?  You’re the one who has been married before!” I reminded her – and then immediately regretted it.  Alya rarely spoke to me of her first husband.  They’d only been married a few months when he’d died.  Her face started to fall, and then the troubled expression was swept away by something . . . else.

“We never got our seven bottles,” she said, remembering fondly.  “I’m not certain we would have finished them if we had.” Oh.  I knew that look.

“He was a lusty lad, then?”

“We were both pretty lusty,” she admitted, grinning while she absentmindedly rubbed her belly.  “Ah, the vigor of youth!”

I studied her face a little.  “Alya, if this somehow feels wrong, if—”

“Don’t be silly, my husband,” she said, dismissing my concerns.  “I have been waiting months for you to return to me safely.  And to do so in such grand fashion was more than I could have imagined.  Laden with riches and titles . . . that’s more than a poor country bride is used to.  My first husband would be thrilled to see me so happy, I believe,” she assured me.  “He would have liked you, I think, and you him.  He wasn’t a particularly jealous man.”

“I’m not sure I can say the same,” I said, kissing her.  She giggled self-consciously.  I felt a thrill run up my spine.

I suppose that’s how you know that the mate you’ve chosen is the right one.  When even their giggles are precious to your ears.

“Excuse me, my lord,” the young Remeran valet, Palia, interrupted from the doorway, “Captain Turic asks for direction.  Upstream or downstream?  Have you a particular destination in mind?  And what haste shall we make?”

“Downstream for now,” I decided.  “And no place in particular yet, so, we’re not in a hurry to get there.  That may change,” I warned.

“As my lord commands,” she said, bowing obsequiously.  “My lady, my lord, I shall have luncheon prepared within an hour, if you wish.”  She wasn’t a particularly pretty maid, and kind of shapeless, but her voice was as sweet as a nightingale and she was well-trained for service.  Pentandra did not settle for less than excellence in her servants.

But I wasn’t in the mood for lunch.  I looked at Alya with a different kind of hunger.  I had other plans in mind.

So did the baby.  “I am getting hungry,” she admitted.

“And will my lord and lady prefer to eat on deck, or in your cabin?”

I looked at Alya.  “The deck,” she decided.  “I think I’ll be seeing quite enough of this cabin on this journey.”

The barge, we discovered, was crewed by three: the pilot, Captain Turic, the original owner of the barge, happy to be relieved of the responsibility for cargo, a squinting, weatherworn man.  The young, handsome-looking Mate, Orduin, had duties that were poorly-defined but seemed to include everything from welcoming us aboard to stowing our baggage to dealing with the dockmaster to stocking firewood to filling the oil lamps at bow and stern.  Then there was the cook, Ylita, a one-eyed crone who seemed content to stay in the galley day and night, muttering darkly to herself . . . and producing one incredible meal after another for us.

To complete our nuptial cruise, Pentandra had caused a pavilion more suited to a tournament than a river barge be erected on the main deck.  The structure allowed for the canvas walls to be rolled up or down to deflect wind and sun, or afford privacy, with an inner curtain of loosely-woven cotton that would allow sun and light inside, but protect us from insects, birds, and the frequent winter rains.

Within the canopy Palia had crafted a delightful nest of over-sized cushions around a wicker couch and a few luxurious chairs.  Another hamper of liquors was stored there, too, with some bottles enchanted to maintain their temperature at a desired level.

In fact, the barge as a whole had been thoroughly enchanted, though it looked normal enough to a mundane eye.  She had been warded against a number of common littoral plagues: parasites, rats, roaches, snakes and river-skunks, and her hull had been strengthened and preserved against rot and decay.  Pentandra’s handiwork.  She had yet to add permanent magelights, or a resident water elemental or the like, but then she’d only had the boat a few days.  I had every confidence it would resemble a floating bedchamber soon enough.

In the meantime, I had every intention of enjoying the gift from my dear friend with my new bride.  As she sat on the bed, after Palia departed, I ceremoniously opened the first bottle of mead and poured it into two of the ornate painted glasses included in the basket and handed her one.

“To my beloved bride,” I toasted, “who has made me the happiest man on Callidore!”

“To my handsome groom,” she replied, “who has conjured happiness out of misfortune and war.”

“To happiness!” we said together.

We drank.  It was dry, smooth as a glassy lake, with a hint of lemon and coriander.  I barely tasted the alcohol. We smiled.  We were married.  And it was awkward.

Now what?

I think we were both wondering that, when we finally drifted off to sleep.

That first real day as man and wife passed from awkward novelty to contentedness quickly enough.  Lunch was almost uncomfortable.  Palia flitted from one of us to the other, serving small glazed earthenware bowls of hot mutton stew with a loaf of bread (my father, the master baker of Talry-on-Burine, had sent his son into matrimony with a well-loaded basket of his finest breads, enough for a week or more), fresh apples, and a tiny savory vegetable pie.  We washed it down with ale, and then with another toast from the bottle marked HAPPINESS.

“Who knew you could drink happiness?” Alya sighed, looking at me – staring at me? – intently.  I wondered what she was thinking, but wasn’t certain I should ask.  I figured I would stick with my strong points when it came to women, instead of trying to figure out the mystery of femininity through the vessel of my wife all in one night.

“I’ve known a few who tried,” I admitted.  “Let’s see if we can decant a little this evening . . . my wife.”

“. . . a bottle next for health,”

I stared at my beloved bride’s eyes as they flickered under her eyelids, her mind enwrapped in sleep after a busy day and a busy night.  Dawn was still a few hours away, and as exhausted as I was I felt strangely energized.  Perhaps it was the excitement of the wedding, and the riotous party afterward.  Perhaps it was the sweet thrill of consummation of our union as man and wife, in the sight of gods and man.  Perhaps it was the stimulating feel of the barge gently rocking under us as it made its way downriver.  But regardless of the source, I felt like I could fight a dragon.  Again.  A small one.

I brushed a lock of hair out of her face where it had flopped when she had turned – not an infrequent occasion for a woman seven months into a pregnancy.  Was she dreaming about our child, our baby boy, I wondered?  Was she thinking about our future life together?  Was she envisioning a prosperous future in troubled times?

She stirred.  Alya rolled slightly on her back with a moan.  Her eyes fluttered a bit.  Now I would be able to discover the nature of her post-marital, post-coital thoughts.  She opened her eyes wide, suddenly, and looked at me.

“Good morning, wife,” I said, kissing her forehead.

“Good gods, I have to pee!” she said, struggling to get out of bed.  “I’m so sorry, Min, I didn’t mean – could you grab the –?”

I sighed and smiled indulgently as I fetched the chamber pot and then helped her steady herself to use it.  Not as easy as it sounds.  Not on a barge that didn’t feel like staying level under her.

“This was not how I saw us beginning married life,” she grumbled as she finished.  “I feel like I have to pee all the time!”

“You’re pregnant,” I reasoned.  “Not a lot of room in there.”

She groaned expressively.  “You’re telling me!  Every time I roll over, he presses up against my bladder and I feel like a dam ready to burst!”  She glanced out of the porthole at the darkness.  “What time is it?”

“Nearly dawn,” I answered, helping her back into bed.

“Nearly dawn,” she answered, dully, “and you woke me up?   Do you want me to be a widow?”

“I . . . I didn’t wake you up,” I pointed out.  I didn’t sound convincing, even to myself.

“Near enough,” she grumbled unfairly, pulling a pillow over her head.  “You have to let me get at least another few hours before you can expect me to fulfil my wifely duties . . . again,” she groaned.

“As you wish, milady,” I said, sweetly.  She started at the term, then smiled.  Thanks to marrying me, she really was a lady now – Lady Alya.  Soon to be Lady of Sevendor.  I gave her a sleepy kiss and then went upstairs to the deck.  One advantage of being a man on a barge is you don’t have to use a chamberpot.

Dawn was just beginning to lighten the sky in the east, and the mate on duty nodded in silent greeting as he steered us through the lazy current of the Burine.  It was peaceful . . . as I conducted my business over the side of the boat, I watched the banks.  Mostly they were treed, to keep the river from roaming, and the foliage looked beautiful in the mists of dawn.  There wasn’t even another boat in sight, and the world seemed deceptively at peace.

I was just finishing up when I felt the first brush of contact, mind-to-mind.  I waited a moment until I was done – there are some things you should just not do while you’re in intimate mental contact with someone – and then answered.

The nature of the contact was odd – not like the usual communication through the witchstones.  Pentandra’s spell worked through the principle that all of the witchstones in the hands of High Magi were once connected.  This contact seemed to come from a different mental direction. I can’t describe it further than that, but I knew something was different.

Master Minalan, came the call, a female “voice” in my head of surpassing smoothness.

Yes? I replied.  Then I recognized it – and her – and understood why things weren’t quite normal.  Lady Ithalia, I said, taking a seat on a bench on deck.  What brings me the pleasure of your contact?

I felt compelled to speak to you after our last encounter, she explained.  I wanted to check and see if there were any ill-effects from the irionite.

I feel right as rain, I promised.  Never better.  Of course, today was my wedding day . . . yesterday, now . . .

Congratulations! came the approving tone.  May your goddess Trygg bless your union.  That is the correct response, is it not?  There is still so much my people don’t understand about yours.  Particularly your gods.  They can be difficult to keep track of.

Yes, Trygg is our motherhood and childbirth goddess, I agreed.  Ishi is the goddess of love and beauty, Briga is the goddess of wisdom and fire, Duin is the—

I appreciate the instruction, Master Spellmonger, but I have an urgent errand to speak to you of.  My inquiry about the sphere had purpose.  Have you . . . used it yet?

What do you mean? I asked.  I’ve drawn power from it aplenty.  As far as the other facilities I now find within . . . no, I’ve been a bit busy.

I urge you proceed with the utmost caution, she said, a note of relief in her tone.

I always do, when dealing with strange magical artifacts.  This one just happens to be connected to my brain, so I’m being extra careful.

As well you should, she agreed.  The master who prepared the stone was . . . overzealous in his contribution, I’m afraid.  I did not understand myself what he was doing, as I lack the lore in that realm, but from what I understand he not only re-formed your irionite and made it more effective but . . . he enhanced it with Alka Alon spells.

Yes, I noticed that, I agreed.  And they are so above my level of knowledge, I have not the wit to use them.  Or to understand why he put them there in the first place.

He is . . . he is an old rebel, she explained, sounding embarrassed.  It is a long and complicated story, but he has a history of such mischief.

What, is it dangerous? I asked, alarmed.

Of course, she said, its irionite.  There are those among the Alka Alon who see such things in the hands of humans as perversion – a minority, but a vocal minority.  But the spells are even more dangerous than the innate power of irionite.  Some of them are . . . well, they are powerful.  More powerful than any a human has been given access to.

‘Been given’ access to? I asked, confused.  We’re not idiots.  We can figure a lot of stuff out on our own.

Of course, she soothed.  In some ways human magic has progressed tremendously over the centuries, often in unexpected and intriguing ways.  But it is still based on Alkan magic, and ours is, by its nature, more sophisticated.  The spells he gave you were some of the most sophisticated.  He is . . . he is in trouble.

How?  Under arrest?

My people do not do things that way.  But he is being questioned.  And there are many, now, who see what he did as a betrayal.  For your own safety, I urge you not to use those spells, not yet.

Why not?  Are they inherently dangerous, too?

Some of them, she admitted, if you do not understand their nature.  Others you might be able to cast.  But at a cost.

What cost? I asked, swallowing.

Your human nervous system is not designed to utilize magic at that level.  Or, to put it a better way, Alka Alon magic was not designed to be utilized through the vehicle of a human mind.  When some of us heard of what he had given you access to, we immediately feared for your safety.

So . . . some of the Alka Alon are afraid of me, and some are afraid for me.

And some just wish to take the sphere out of human hands, she added.  It is an old prejudice, that humanity cannot be trusted with such power.  It has caused much strife between our peoples over the years.

I’m not sure that I disagree, I replied, thoughtfully.

You do not think you are ready for that kind of power? she asked, amused.

I have a healthy respect for corruption, I said.  Including my own.  Luckily, I’ve got the things I want most, now, and I’m willing to fight to protect them.  Corruption would not be helpful to that end.

Your new family, she said, approvingly.  One of the things we find alluring about your people is your ability to bond so passionately after so short acquaintance.  In our culture there is often a long, long period of shared experience before such a bond is possible.  It is more complete, but with such long acquaintance passion is difficult to cultivate.

Some of us don’t even need to know their names, I agreed, ruefully.  But yes, I’m counting on wanting to protect my wife and son to keep me from descending too quickly into corruption.  Gold, magic, power, armies, none of it has the appeal to me that family life does.  I suppose I should be more ambitious, I said, philosophically.

You are the most powerful human mage in history, she said, flatly.  I think you have risen beyond any mortal ambition.

Point taken, I smiled.  But I’d still give it all up to rid the world of Sharuel.

Even the sphere?

Especially the sphere, I agreed.  I know how powerful it is.  Or I can guess.  Whatever the answer is, it’s ‘more powerful than I can command’.  I’m content to let it lie, for now.  But I know once I start exploring it, my curiosity alone will doom me to try to master it.  If it can be mastered.  But I’d drop it like a hot coal if it was the price for a normal, goblin-free life.

Well said, she said.  One of the arguments in favor of you keeping the sphere was that you have good moral character.

‘Keeping the sphere’? I asked, concerned.  I do hope no one tries to take it.  As much as I’d get rid of it, the only price I’d accept is a world without the Dead God.  If someone tried, well . . . I might be tempted to consider those spells.

It could be taken from you, she said, simply.  I concur, it would not be easy, particularly if you resist.  But your actions at Timberwatch and elsewhere have also drawn many an admiring eye among my folk.  There is a renewed swell of enthusiasm for the humani and their bold, rash, noisy ways.  Even among the Karshak Alon and other races you have admirers.  Admirers that could become allies.

That’s good to know, I replied.  But it also implies that I need allies in that context.  Which implies that there is opposition to me having the sphere.  Organized opposition.

Organizing opposition, more like, she corrected.  As we contend with the emergence of the Dead God, we discuss all contingencies and assets.  You are considered an asset.  Undeveloped, undisciplined, but charismatic among your own people and shrewd.  Unbeholden to your warrior prince.  Unfettered by loyalties outside of your family.  And devoted to the eventual defeat of Sharuel.

That seems overstating it, but I suppose that’s a valid perspective, I observed.  But this opposition . . .

Many bear old grudges against the humani.  Some consider you interlopers, alien, foreign beings at odds with the way of the Alon.  Some even hate the humani, although not with the singlemindedness of the gurvani.  They may not approve of the abomination that is Sharuel, but they do not begrudge him his target.

That’s disturbing, I said, uncomfortably.

It should be, she agreed.  Some of those who dislike your species hail from ancient houses of great power and majesty.

But not you, I pointed out.

Not me, she agreed.  I am . . . my people are more rustic than those who dislike humani.  As such, those of us in the region of the Five Duchies have seen you more intimately and understand your ways better.  We do not have the highest rank among our folk, but our voices are respected.  And there are those in other kindreds who are just as enthusiastic about humanity’s resistance, although not always for altruistic purposes.  I have sought to gather those who share that opinion so that we might advocate on humanity’s behalf in our counsels.

That’s very generous of you, I said, sincerely.  But I can’t help but be curious as to your own motivations.  Forgive me for being suspicious, but . . . well, I am largely ignorant of the Alka Alon.  I figured that was the most tactful way to put it.

By design, she agreed.  Since the . . . you would call it the Late Magocracy, after the tragedy of Perwyn, the Alka councils decided to veil ourselves from intercourse with humanity.  There was politics involved—

Even among the Alka Alon?

Where there is conflict, there is always politics, she said, ruefully.  But regardless, the decision was made.  Our settlements in the humani region were veiled, and our exchanges with your people were limited.  As the Late Magocracy fell to the barbarians of the north, those of the Alka kindreds that do not favor an accommodation with the humani prevailed.  Our two races were largely sundered, our dealings restricted.  They saw the fall of the Magocracy as vindication of their position.

But now that Sharuel has come, your folk are re-thinking their position, I finished.

The arrival of the gurvani and the Abomination were not foreseen clearly by my folk, she admitted.  We have lost many refuges within the realm of darkness.  The gurvani bear us great ill, for what they see as past wrongs.  Sharuel’s dark priests delight in bringing us to the sacrificial stone.  Her image shuddered.

So now you want our help, I realized.

Some of us do.  And some of us recognize you as kindred spirits, worthy of our protection and guidance.

I just looked at her image.  You do realize how utterly patronizing that sounds, don’t you?

I . . . I ask your indulgence, Master Minalan, she said, embarrassed.  As you have said, we are ignorant of each others’ cultures.  The Alka Alon do not mean to . . . patronize other races.

A little humility would do you some good, no doubt, I grunted.  Perhaps your association with us will grant that.

There are now many who would ally more meaningfully with you.  Specifically, with you, she said, meaningfully looking at me.  It made me a little uncomfortable.  The tales of the Spellmonger’s gallant fight have reached rarified halls.  You have inspired many, even among those who do not count themselves humanity’s champions.  If you are the human with whom we can have relations, and not your warrior princes, then there is hope.

Well, I suppose that is encouraging, I grumbled.  But I am guessing that doesn’t translate into legions of Alkan warriors.

There are some who, for reasons of their own, wish to fight the gurvani by your side, she acknowledged.  And there are those who could be persuaded to do so, at need.  But no, Master Minalan, it is unlikely that an Alkan army will take the field.

I’ll settle for technical assistance, I sighed.  I take it that was what was behind the advice to settle in the northern Uwarris?

Yes, she agreed.  There are within those old hills fortresses and deep settlements, long abandoned, that may serve you well in your struggle.  And the lost Karshak Alon city of Angrenost lies somewhere within that range.  Mayhap there are hidden secrets of the Stone Folk you may find helpful in your struggle.  And the location is convenient for us, I admit.

You do realize it’s marginal farmland at best, it’s sparsely peopled and the folk there are ignorant and superstitious?

I would not have it said that the Spellmonger’s task was too easy, she demurred.

I snorted.  Lady Ithalia, I appreciate this guidance – I do – but I hope you try to keep the practical considerations of humani politics in mind.  As much as the Alka Alon seem to like me, I am still quite new at all of this.

As I hope you keep the practical considerations of Alkan politics in mind, she countered.  My people are splintered into five kindreds and hundreds of lines, clans, and even tribes, she said, self-consciously.

Five?  Like the Five Duchies?

Five.  But nothing like what you are familiar with.  I fear you would find our system of governance too complex.  Particularly how the five kindreds relate to each other.

How so?  I find myself intrigued.

You really wish to know?  she asked, surprised.

Why wouldn’t I?  Wouldn’t you, in my position?  If we are to be allies, it is best I understand what I am dealing with.  My recent experiences with the Ducal court have made me wary, I explained.

Very well, then.  There are the Avalanti, my kindred.  We know the songs of life and growth.  There are the Versaroti, some of whom also inhabit these lands, and who know the songs of craft and creation.  Then there are the Farastamari, who know the songs of lore and learning.  Few of those Alka ever come to these rustic lands.  The Nofani know the songs of mystery and memory, and they are but few in number and make their realm in a distant part of Callidore.  And there are the Rulathi, the kindred who know the songs of the seas, and who follow the ways of the Sea Folk.  A strange people, she commented, but very merry.

They must not get seasick, I said, remembering my horrible journey back from Farise, getting caught in a squall.  I had come a long way from that wretched night, I decided, and drank a healthy swallow of the liquor.  It tasted of peaches and licorice.  So that’s who the kindreds are.  How do the humani fit into your people’s plans?

The lands you know as the Five Duchies, they are within the bounds my kindred’s realm, the Avalanti.  We are responsible for it.  It is . . . it is not the best land in the world, but my kindred specializes in songs of life and growth.  Before your people came from the Void, it was once a thriving land, but then our own pride and avarice overwhelmed our wisdom, and there was war.  After our wars this was a wasteland.  That was why it was give to us for safekeeping and restoration . . . and granted to your people when they came from the Void.

The Five Duchies?  A wasteland?

Originally, yes.  But it was well within your race’s tolerance, even ideal, in some ways. What we saw as wasteland you saw as opportunity.  The Avalanti and the humani both helped reclaim this land, once long ago.   We once were great, ourselves, before our wars, and our works were everywhere across the land  We are as fallen from our zenith, in our way, as you are sundered from the great civilization your kind once had in Perwyn. Culturally speaking, we are in similar states.

I chuckled ruefully and opened a hamper.  It was early but this conversation seemed to call for another libation.

You can still sing rings around us, magically speaking, I pointed out as I poured some interesting-looking bottle into a pretty glass.

Please do not misunderstand me but . . . that is not the highest of praise.

Point taken.  But so is mine.  We may be in similar states, but humanity has fallen far lower than your Avalanti, I imagine.

What once was great on Callidore, crafted by our songs . . . is no more.  The great cities of the Alka are all but gone.  The hidden palaces and remote settlements are little more than echoes of past glories.  And though there are those who hunger for fresh stories to sing about, the sad fact is that my people are weary.  Weary and tired of bearing their burdens.

Weary?  How so?

Our own great wars took much of our spark from us.  What was once unified is now splintered into factions and parties, with ties of loyalty, fealty, and family all competing with ideology.

It sounds . . . depressing, I said.  Not the most politic thing to mention, I suppose.

Many of us younger Alka are questioning the wisdom of our sires, questioning their old rivalries and alliances, questioning their long-held beliefs.  That is causing some discomfort, in some quarters.  When we do make more formal overtures to your people, she warned, it may be best if you are prepared for some resistance.

Alka Alon resistance?

Aye.  And we are a subtle and long-lived people, she reminded me.  There are as many who would war with you as would ally with you at the moment.  So beware.  Accepting our advice, our assistance, and our alliance may well prove fraught with other worries.

I shrugged.  I’ve got just about everyone else pissed off at me, I reasoned, thinking about my wedding.  A few Alka Alon in the soup will just keep things interesting.

I admire your attitude, she said, sincerely.  One of the things the allies of the humani among my people value is your boldness.

Its most oft based on ignorance and foolishness, I pointed out.

Yet it is endearing nonetheless.  I envy your bride, Master Minalan.  You are quite the specimen of your race.

Aww, I demurred, that wouldn’t be a little inter-species crush, would it?

Such things have happened before, she giggled almost naughtily.  It is considered quite scandalous among the more conservative Alka.

And among the more conservative humani, I agreed.  Yet now I’m curious.  Our peoples really did . . . mate, once upon a time?

That wasn’t mere idle speculation, on my part. There were several impressive epics from the Early Magocracy that detailed a few of the more prominent unions between our two species.  As disaster followed each one, in ever-increasing waves of catastrophe, the process was frowned upon among my people, as well as Ithalia’s.  Some Imperial lines whispered of ancient ancestors who were crossed with the Alka Alon, somehow, but that always seemed a conceit to me.

How could that even happen, after all?  As “pretty” as Ithalia was in her way, she was still decidedly alien.  Our parts just didn’t align properly.  From what I’d seen of Alka anatomy it might be technically possible . . . but I’m not certain it would be comfortable, from certain perspectives.  And angles.

The Alon had penile sheaths, for instance.  Humani did not.  The Alon were reported to have two clitorii, not one.  Personally, I didn’t see the drawback, but there were other physical differences – not to mention a decided height difference – that would make such a union challenging, at best.

I’d always written them off as fancy conceits or liberties for the sake of legend, but Ithalia was making me reconsider that position.  As unlikely as those fabled pairings sounded, I supposed there had to be some germ of truth in them.  There were no such rumors of successful breeding between the other Alon species and humans, from what I knew.  But that didn’t mean they didn’t happen at some point.

I thought of the gurvani, and suppressed a shudder.

But while Ithalia may have lacked in certain physical characteristics I tend to associate with females . . . actual breasts, for instance . . . she was nonetheless able to project a considerable femininity into her conversation that made me quite aware of her gender.  And her warmth. She was almost friendly, compared to most Alka Alon.  It was her physical differences that made me comfortable enough to flirt with her on my honeymoon.  That made her safe, in my mind, and I was still getting used to being a husband.  There wasn’t much chance I’d try to seduce her, for instance.  Old habits are hard to break.

Yes, and perhaps we will discuss that when we have more time.  There is another matter of concern I wish to speak with you of, Minalan.  You are the first human to be around irionite for an extended period of time, and your bride and unborn child have been, as well.

That’s the second time you have mentioned that.  Why is that a matter of concern?

Irionite is harsh on some humani.  Some of your minds and bodies do not have the natural capacity to bear such power . . . and even its proximity could pose a danger.

I am monitoring the baby twice a day, I pointed out, alarmed.

The dangers are more subtle than that, she said, quietly.  I do not think it is a matter for alarm, Minalan, merely one of concern.  If you are amenable, I thought it best to arrange for you to be . . . examined.

Examined? I asked, even more alarmed.  By whom?

By one of my people, she explained.  You are on the Burine, are you not?  Near to the fork with the river Teelvar? she asked, though I suspect she knew the answer already.  Hells, I didn’t.  I was on a barge.  Beyond that, I hadn’t been paying much attention.

Yes, I believe so.  Why?  And who is this person you want to examine me?

Why?  Because you are close to her, for one.  Perhaps not by accident, I think.  But you may trust her.  She is a very wise Alkan, considered ancient even among my people, and very great, once.

So she likes humani?

More than any others among my kindred.  She was among the first to welcome your people from the Void, when all others were suspicious of you.  She is one of the few voices in our kindred who is not openly concerned about the danger your race presents.  Or she was. And one of those who recognized the true nature of your gods, when they appeared for the first time.

What happened?  The true nature of the gods?  I was no theurge, but any mage who has witnessed the microcosm and macrocosm could not deny a desire to know the nature of the gods.

We shall have to save that, too, for another time, she decided.  Have your boat sail up the Teelvar, toward the ruins to the northeast.  There is a forest of some size, covering ancient hilltops for miles.  I will tell you more on the morrow. The song I sang to contact you works only at twilight, and my time is nearly spent.

That seems surprisingly limited for an Alkan spell, I pointed out.

I am not . . . not in the best situation at present, Master Minalan, she admitted.  Nor am I adept with this song.  But if you will consent to speak with me, I shall seek you out again on the morrow?  And then we can speak of these . . . interspecies flirtations you’re so interested in.  And the nature of the gods. Among other things.

I just have a dirty mind, I said.  And then there’s cosmology.  I look forward to it.

Enjoy your day, Spellmonger, and your bride.

And then she was gone.

I sat there for some time, smoking a pipe and watching the river go by through the curtains of the canopy.  It was a glorious, peaceful morning, warm for the season but still chill enough to let you know it was nearly winter.

After the rising sun burned the mist away, I began smelling bacon and tea . . . Palia must have awakened the cook, if she was not already stirring.  All I had to do was sit here, and breakfast would appear. Like magic.

Then I remembered I was a husband, and realized that there were better ways to spend my time.  I headed belowdecks with a contented sigh.

“A bottle next for togetherness . . .”

“’Jistal ahead, milord,” the captain of the barge, Turic, grunted at me, as I climbed the stairs.  “Will we be putting in?”

“That all depends on whether or not we need to put in,” I decided, “and even more importantly, just what or who is Jistal?”

Turic smirked, the closest I’d seen the old river rat come to a smile.  “Jistal is the town,” he supplied.  “Banajistal.”

“Oh,” I said, thinking.  Banajistal is a reasonably sized town, about four thousand people, one that I’d sailed by half a dozen times but had never visited.  It sits at the conjunction of the Burine and the Teelvar.  The town is on the narrow spit of land between the two, walled but without a proper castle refuge.  It does have a largish temple (compared to my home village) and a prominent watchtower that looms over the confluence to both for defense and to monitor the river traffic that was Banajistal’s lifeblood.

“Let’s put in,” I decided.  “I’ve never been there, and that will give Alya some firm ground under her feet for a while.  There are inns in Banajistal?”

“Aye,” the captain grunted.  “Most too fair for my purse.  But a rich lord like yourself, you’d like it, no doubt.”  He acted as if that was a serious flaw in my character.  I ignored him.

“And there will be shops, and a market, perhaps.  Make the arrangements, and we’ll spend the day there, and perhaps the night.”

“Very good, milord,” he said, sounding utterly unconvinced.

Alya, who had settled into the pavilion nest after breakfast, was happy to hear it.

“I don’t mind river travel,” she said, “but I do get bored.  I never knew there were so many towns . . . or so many rivers in the Riverlands.  When I was a girl, I always thought that was a silly thing to call a place.  But then the widest river I knew was less than ten feet across.  I nearly fainted when I came upriver from the coast, seeing how wide the river was there.  I thought we were at sea!”

“You haven’t even seen the sea, yet,” I sighed, smiling.  “It will fill you with awe.”

“And you’ve not only seen such a wonder, but have been beyond it,” she said, looking at me suddenly, with a serious expression.  “How rustic I must seem to you!”

I thought of my conversation with Ithalia, hearing the strange origins of the Five Duchies and the gods themselves, and felt more than a little rustic myself.  “It’s not that important a thing,” I decided.  “I’ve only been to Farise, and while it is exotic, dangerous, and interesting, after a few days there it is just another place.  We have our entire lives to see the world,” I promised.

“That was so sentimental I may vomit,” she said, sweetly.

“It’s true!” I insisted.  “We’re still alive, and six months ago that was in doubt.  In the middle of a siege, surrounded by goblins with no hope of rescue, that’s hardly a time to make a lot of long-term plans.”

She touched her belly fondly.  “Yet here we are.”

I shrugged.  “Ishi and Trygg make their own plans.  I’m only responsible for mine.”

“This one is yours,” she insisted, rubbing a little more firmly now.

“And I’m building our whole future around him - as far away from Boval Vale as I reasonably can.”

She winced a bit at the mention of her lost home, and wisely changed the subject.  “Then let us go to Banajistal and buy him a blanket or two, and perhaps have him blessed in the temple,” she said with a sigh.  “My lord husband,” she added, a twinkle in her eye.

Magic words.  I was still getting used to them.  I kissed my wife.

Banajistal had docks all along the waterfront, facing the brown stone walls.  We put in as near to the tip as we could.  I wasn’t certain which way we would go on our journey to nowhere yet, but I still had five bottles of mead to get through.  I like options.

While the mate paid the dock fees, Palia helped Alya prepare for the outing . . . and then attended her.  That is, she stood around and just waited to be told what to do.  She seemed very professional about it, but my rustic bride wasn’t comfortable with it, at first.

“It’s like she’s a slave or something!”

“I doubt it,” I decided.  “I don’t think Penny owns a lot of slaves.  But she’s good at what she does.  Let her be.  You just enjoy yourself.  You need to get used to servants.  We’re going to need some, I think.”

She stared at me in disbelief.  “Servants?”

“You think you can run a whole castle by yourself?” I teased.

“Castle?” she asked, her voice a little fainter.

“Relax,” I soothed.  “After a while, you’ll see it’s just another place.  Another job.  Like bossing a creamery, only on a larger, more complex scale.”

Alya had managed Hawk’s Reach, her father’s holding, and had overseen a profitable, if simple, business.  She was used to bossing around farmhands and cowherds.  Not scullery maids and castellans.  Having Palia around would be good training for that.

Banajistal was the largest town Alya had ever been to, so she was eager to look at everything at once.  She was not particularly concerned about looking like a rustic, which I appreciated.  She did want to stop and look at every stall and shop.

“No buying now,” I said.  “If you see something you like, we’ll pick it up on the way back.  Less for Palia to carry,” I pointed out.

“I see a thousand things I want,” she confessed, suddenly getting a little weepy.  “I have nothing.  We have nothing.  Everything we owned is lost.”

“Just things,” I reminded, putting my arm around her.  “We can get more.”

“How are you paying for all of this?” she wondered aloud.

“We have plenty of money, remember? I promised.  “And if we run out, I’ll make more.  I’m a spellmonger.  I can hawk love potions and lost dog spells in the market if I need to.  We’ll manage,” I teased.

“You are so sure of yourself, all the time,” she observed . . . which made me uncomfortable, but it was better than her being weepy.  “How do you do that?  Even in the middle of the siege, you were always . . . you knew what you were doing.  You even joked.”

“I faked it convincingly,” I countered with a laugh.  “I was terrified.  You knew I was terrified.”

“But it never kept you from doing what you needed to.”

“You give me too much credit.  But if you must know,” I sighed, putting my hand on the small of her back and gently urging her along, “I just pretend I know what I’m doing.  So far, no one has called me to account on that.  I’ve been lucky.”

“You’ve been brave,” she said, allowing me to guide her through the narrow streets toward the market proper.

“I’m a knight, now,” I reminded her.  “Rescuing maidens fair is our business.  Or, that’s what I pretend when they need rescuing.”

“So is joking casually about serious matters, apparently,” she said, the barest touch of edge to her voice.  “I’m trying to compliment you, my husband!”

“You compliment me by your very presence,” I said, as smoothly as a courtier.  “Um . . . considering I’ve spread rumors far and wide of a peasant uprising led by a spellmonger, let’s pretend we’re just a regular married couple come to market.”

“Oh!” she said, her eyes growing wide as she pulled her mantle around her.  “Like in the stories!”

“Let’s just not herald our names or my new rank.  It might be . . . awkward.”  A good reason to skip the temple, too.  Priestesses gossip.

“You are worried about Censors?” she asked, looking worried.

“Among others.  But if we’re just Min and Alya, cheese traders from the west, or something, no one will raise an eyebrow.  Trygg willing.”

She bit her lip, looked nervous for a moment, then looked at me suddenly.  “Let’s go to the market.  Min.  My husband.”

I took her hand and we went, Palia grinning under her hood behind us.

I was surprised when Alya led me past the fabric stalls, the clothiers and tailors and over to the market’s smithy.

“You aren’t thinking about a . . . a chastity device are you?” I asked, worriedly.  I had heard such things were popular for keeping errant spouses in line, back in Vore and Merwyn.  I didn’t think Alya had.  Perhaps I was mistaken. “I’ll be faithful, I promise!”

“The places your mind goes . . .” she snorted.  “No, my lord husband, this is something to make your lady wife sleep better at night, for an entirely different reason.”

“From a smithy?” I asked, skeptically.  Then my imagination supplied a couple of fanciful possibilities before I could stop it.

Alya’s right - my mind wanders in dangerous, unclean waters, sometimes.

She snorted again, then approached the strapping young apprentice who was patiently hammering away.  He nodded, she rattled her purse, and they disappeared into the shadowed depths of the shop.  I looked at Palia quizzically, hoping she could provide some insight into my wife’s behavior.  She just smiled serenely.

Alya appeared ten minutes later with an eighteen-inch long dagger, two inches wide at the guard and tapering gently to a sharp point. The hilt was black walnut, and the guard of plain steel.  It came with a soft leather sheath, not a proper scabbard, but it was sturdy enough to dangle from a belt.  As weapons went, it was nothing special - I wouldn’t have taken it into battle.  I might have used it on a farm.  In my wife’s hands, however, it was potent.  She waved it around like a magical blade.

“Uh . . . Alya?” I asked.  “If this is your way of telling me how you want our marriage—”

“Oh, stop it,” she sighed.  “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m waddling around like a pregnant sow, barely able to sit down on my own.  Thanks to your son, I cannot run away.  Not from any real threat.”  She waved the dagger around.  “This probably won’t help much, either, but it makes me feel better.”

“But you don’t know how to fight, Alya,” I said, sadly.  This was not the direction I wanted my honeymoon to go.  “I’m here to protect you.”

“You are at the moment.  You won’t always be.  And don’t tell me I don’t know how to fight,” she added, warningly.  “All Bovali know how to fight, now, after that dreadful siege.  I believe I clubbed a goblin in your presence?”  She thrust the dagger into the sheath.  “This is the kind of dagger the smith sells to bargemen on the docks.  A good, solid steel blade.  I paid young Iscad there to fashion me a more ladylike scabbard and shine it up a bit.  I can wear it under my cloak or my skirts.  And I’ll feel a lot less like a helpless burden and a lot more like a pissed-off pregnant sow with a sharp tusk like that at hand.”

I looked at her and swallowed.  That wasn’t the kind of life I wanted for her, not after we had been through so much.  I wanted to protect her, more than anything.  But that was the kind of life we had, and she had apparently accepted it more quickly than I.

And she was right.  Being married to me made her a target, and the more capable she was at defending herself, the less vulnerable she would be.

“I’ll properly enchant it,” I promised.  “Sharpness, accuracy, the works.  It won’t be as good as a real magical blade, but-- say, are you sure you can . . . you know, stab someone?”

She smirked as she handed the weapon back to Iscad the Smith.  “My husband, the year before you came to Boval I slaughtered and field-dressed seven of our herd during culling.  If I can stab a cow I’ve raised from a calf, I can stab someone who is trying to harm my baby.”

When put like that, I felt a little better about it.  She was right.  She could do what needed to be done.  That’s one reason I loved her, I realized.  She had clubbed a goblin to death before our first date, and then had made our cramped quarters in the midst of a siege almost cozy.  You just don’t find that kind of versatility in your average girl.  If she wanted a dagger, and I wasn’t the intended target, the lady could have her dagger.

After that our mood lightened.  We stood in a light drizzle and examined every stall and shop in the market.  The dagger wasn’t the only thing she bought, but the rest were trinkets, gifts for friends, or exotic luxuries she had never tried before.

For my part I found a reputable scribe and purchased ten rolls of parchment, almost a hundred leaves, with four bottles of ink and a sheaf of quills.  I had a lot of notes to make, a few letters to write, and some magical observations I wanted to write down, after my conversations with Ithalia.  Alka Alon may not need to write things down to remember, but I did.  The parchment was good quality, fresh from the marsh but expertly dried.  I knew the information Lady Ithalia was giving me was valuable, and I didn’t want to miss any important detail.  It is rare that anyone can have a candid conversation with an Alka Alon.

“My lord does not plan on spending his honeymoon . . . writing, does he?” asked Palia, when I left the shop and handed her my purchases.

“A good mage always keeps a record of his travels,” I told her.  “So have you found a good place for us to have lunch?”

“There is an inn of decent quality up the high street, my lord.  Three days to market, so it is lightly attended.  Shall I go ahead and prepare a table for you?”

“Uh . . . yes,” I decided.  I wasn’t used to servants either, I guess.  Of course, the last one I had tried to kill me, which may have colored my perspective.  “I’m more concerned with quality than price.”

“Leave it to me, my lord,” she said, grinning and bowing.

And I did.  When Alya came out of the last shop in the square, a new wimple on her head, I escorted her down the high street until we came to the inn -- the sign of the Fish and Plow -- where Palia had found us a private table, mediocre wine, and as good a peasant’s feast as I could have asked for.  Bowls of bean-and-mutton stew and crispy-crusted bread almost as good as my father’s to start, an eel pie as an entree, which I had never had before but liked instantly, and a pudding with honey, flosins and fresh apples baked inside as a fruit course.  Palia waited on us the entire time, and even tipped a lad to play a fiddle quietly nearby.

Alya wasn’t as intrigued by the music or atmosphere as much as she was enchanted by the food.  She ate like a woman possessed, and was continuing to eat long after I had settled into the comfy pipe-and-cup stage of the meal.  She skipped the dessert, but other than that she was insatiable.

“Trygg’s curse,” she explained, when she had ordered Palia to fetch a third course of bread.  “I was warned about this part of my pregnancy.  I can’t seem to eat enough.”

“It’s impressive to watch,” I agreed.  I knew, intellectually, that a woman’s late-term pregnancy involved the baby in her womb doubling in size, and that required a lot of food to accomplish.  Actually seeing it in action was another thing entirely.

“This . . . this is so good,” she sighed, when Palia had delivered a second bowl of baked apples and pudding.  “I loved the way your mother cooks, Min. I thought I would get as fat as a barn there, but . . . your son seems to welcome every bite and ask for more.”

“Don’t spare yourself,” I said, amused.  “It is quite good.”

“You don’t understand,” she moaned, dreamily.  “Food tastes so good right now . . .”

I finally pried her away from the inn when she admitted she could take on no more, and then helped steer her back through the market, where her dagger had been polished and fitted with a more-serviceable waxed leather scabbard.  She hung it from her belt behind her back, under her cloak.

“Thank you for indulging me, my husband,” she said, guiltily.

“I’m just sorry you feel the need.  I don’t blame you.  It’s a sensible precaution, just not one I’m thrilled about.  It’s . . . well, I guess that’s just the price of being my wife.”

The rain began in earnest as we arrived back at the barge.  Alya insisted on a nap before resuming her wifely duties, and I enjoyed a glass of mead out under the canopy where I watched the rain fall over the docks.  I guess I was dozing, lulled to sleep by the sound of rain on canvas . . . but as the sun started to fade, I felt the presence of Lady Ithalia again.

There you are, I said with a sigh.  I thought you could only speak to me at dawn?

At twilight, I said, she corrected.  But I have little time this evening.  Tell me, Master Minalin, where precisely on the Burine are you?

“. . . a bottle next for wealth,”

“You want to do what?” Turic asked, puzzled, “my lord?” he added.

“I want to change course and sail up the Teelvar.”

He didn’t look happy about it . . . if that face could ever manage a happy expression.  “That would be a lot of polling,” he said, doubtfully.  Bargemen disliked going upriver, which is why their rates in that direction were always higher.

“It won’t be as problematic as you think,” I promised.  “Now that this boat belongs to Lady Pentandra, you should start getting used to doing things a little differently.  You know I am a mage . . . I will conjure a water elemental or two to propel us against the current.  You will not have to use the poles, just steer.”

He looked skeptical, but agreed that we’d leave after breakfast the next morning.  “May I ask, my lord, what lies up the Teelvar that has your interest?  I’ve sailed the rivers my whole life, and past Gilasfar there ain’t much worth anyone’s time.  Just oats, and more oats.”

“There are some spectacular Alka Alon ruins near there, I understand, elaborate structures left over from the ancient times.”

“You wanna . . . you wanna go a hundred miles upriver to see . . . to see a building that’s not there anymore?” he asked in disbelief.

“I hear it’s lovely this time of year,” I said, truthfully.  “It’s on a hill in the middle of a forest.  The leaves have yet to fall there.  I’ll have a more complete itinerary tomorrow.”

“As my lord wishes,” he grumbled.  “I’ll make preparations.”

I rose before dawn the next morning, careful not to awaken Alya after a busy night of marital bliss.  I wrapped my mantle around me, gathered my accoutrements as quietly as I could, and made my way up to the pavilion.  The mate had closed the sides after we had retired, so the interior was dark enough to warrant a tiny magelight while I got comfortable.

I could hear the river port start to come alive around me as fishermen launched into the current and barges and boats passed by.  The town, too, was starting to come awake.  I tried to ignore it all.  Just like I tried to ignore the cold as I settled in. When my teeth started chattering in the damp, I cursed silently and started slinging magic around.

A spell to keep the outside noises at bay.  A spell to make the crew resist disturbing me.  A spell to call the tiny brass brazier to life, igniting the charcoal until the glowing coals began to take the bite out of the morning chill.  For good measure I poured a mild, sweet Remerean wine out of the hamper and heated it, using a similar spell to the one I’d used on our desserts the night before.  What’s the use of being a mage if you have to suffer?

By the time I felt Lady Ithalia’s mental call, the pavilion was warm enough that I could no longer see my breath, my fingers had begun to warm, and I was enjoying my first pipe of the day.

Master Minalan, how fares your holiday?

Fair enough, I admitted, even with the rain.  But my wife is somewhat curious about our sudden change of course.  As am I.  Ruins might be pretty, but they aren’t that pretty.  You asked me to trust you, and I did.  I asked her to trust me, and she did.  But I would love to know why.

Of course, the Alkan said, her tiny body shimmering into existence, translucent but attentive.  You know I am concerned about you using the Alka Alon spells within your sphere.

And I agreed not to, not until I understand them better.

The problem is not merely one of trusting a mortal with such magic, she explained.  There is a question of whether your body and mind has the capacity for its use . . . and what using them may do to you.  Alka Alon have known and used irionite for millennia.  It is . . . of our world, she said, as if trying to put some high concept into simple, easy-to-understand terms.  In the past, some humans have reacted poorly to its continued use.

And some have gone their lives using it and demonstrated no ill effects, I countered.

True enough, she agreed.  But even if you maintain your sanity under the thrall of that much power, you may not survive using Alka Alon magic.

I’m fighting Sharuel, I pointed out.  My chances of dying in bed in my dotage are fairly slim, I’d imagine.

Yours is not the only life at stake, she said.  You have a child coming.  What you now hold he will be heir to.  Perhaps.

I understand, I sighed.  But what can I do?  Throw away this pretty toy because it might be bad for me? I asked, as I played with my sphere.  Yes, I played with my sphere when no one else was around, sometimes.  Do not be so bold as to judge me.  It was pretty.

There are many magics in the world, Minalan, and your people have not always been the ignorant rustics they are now.  Ouch. How far we must have fallen to have merited that.  Once your folk were great enough to challenge any power on Callidore.

The Magocracy was a high point, I admitted, but--

It was not the Magocracy that I speak of, Minalan.  As powerful as the magi of that age were, they were not the danger my kindred fears of your folk.

Certainly you aren’t worried about our military power, I observed.  It was hard to be scared of an army that couldn’t even find your magically-concealed tree cities.  And for all of their diminutive size, compared to us, the Alka Alon were adept and graceful fighters.

The strength of the humani lies not with its magi, but with its gods.  This scholar . . . she was among the first of my people to witness one of the humani gods manifesting, and recognize the phenomenon for what it was.

As much as I was curious about my ancestors, Alka Alon politics, and concerned about being magically ‘examined’, that last part got my attention.

About that, I said, interrupting, you said that the Alka Alon don’t have gods . . . but I’ve been blessed by Alka in the name of the gods before.  The Aronin did it.  You’ve done it.  And there are gods in your own epics.  So the Alka Alon are . . . godless?  I asked, struggling for the right word.

We do not worship as you do the humani gods, she explained, yet we do not deny the truth of their existence.  We do not have such gods ourselves.  Our understanding of the universe, and the way our minds work, remove the necessity for such entities.

But the Alka Alon deities . . .

The ones you translate as ‘gods’ in our epics are more akin to culture heroes, or distantly-remembered histories.  Sometimes they are used to personify an abstract concept for artistic or magical purposes.  But they do not manifest the way humani gods do.   I supposed because we don’t need them the way that you do.

I wouldn’t say we need the gods-- I began, philosophically.  Ithalia interrupted.

Your people do need your gods, Master Minalan, she said, apologetically.  At least, that is my kindred’s understanding, and we know you better than any.  Many times they have intervened -some would say interfered - in the welfare of the humani.  Protected you, sometimes from dangers of which you are yet ignorant.  If it hadn’t been for your gods, humanity would have been extinct on Callidore long ago.

I swallowed, unconsciously.  If that was true, I realized, I needed to start paying better attention to holy services.  So what  . . are the gods?

As best my kindred can understand, when the humani’s collective desires or experiences entwine and entrain in the Otherworld, they can create a powerful force.  Undirected, you understand how destructive that could be.  The Alka Alon would never allow such metaphysical debris clutter up our trees.  Untidy, she said, distastefully.  When some form or order is imposed on that force, then much like the elemental spells you know, the force itself becomes personified.

So who or what imposes the order and form on the gods?

It seems to happen spontaneously, from what I understand.  Although there are also records of certain archmagi purposefully attempting to create divinities by using their own personification spells.  The results were . . . less than successful.

I can’t even imagine, I said truthfully.

The gods usually arise from the form the human subconscious gives it.  If a million humani minds all know that Herus only wore sandals, for instance, then the god would naturally only wear sandals when he manifested.  Belief defines desire, and desire molds reality.

It seems . . . untidy, somehow, I pointed out.  I expected there to be a more dramatic method.  Something a little more . . . celestial.

It is untidy, she agreed.  But it is also one of your race’s greatest powers.  It was a new magic, when it arose, and it caused quite a stir among my people.  Because of its untidiness.  My kindred has seen the great wonders such a phenomenon can create.  This scholar witnessed such, and became enamored of your race.   But that also means my kindred knows the destruction  your deities are capable of.  She didn’t sound enthusiastic about them, I realized.  Therefore, some of the humani’s greatest detractors also lie within my kindred.

Uh, like what kind of destruction?

It . . . it was long ago.  And it is complex.  At one time, events conspired to put our peoples at odds.  Enough so that some Alka interfered in your civilization.  The gods manifested and interfered themselves.

Interfered?  How?

The details are irrelevant, she said, shaking her image of a head.  That was centuries ago.  She sounded irritated.  I found that strangely amusing.

The details are always relevant.

Suffice it to say that the power thus demonstrated was frightening and wondrous to my folk.  The capacity for what your scholars have called the collective unconscious is unique to humani.  It is the community desire made manifest by magic.

It took me a moment to work through that.  Wait, we created the gods?  I asked, my head spinning.  That seemed to amuse her.

Essentially, yes, she agreed.  As similar as we are in many ways, the minds of our two peoples function very differently.  Among the Alka Alon, we can all sing -- practice magic, as you see it.  Among humans, only a few out of a thousand have the rajira strong enough to manipulate reality.  But where you humani lack magical skill, you more than make up for in emotion.  Even non-Talented human contribute their fears and desires, their wishes and hopes into the collective pool of subconsciousness.

The Otherworld, I supplied.

Yes, as you know it, Ithalia nodded.  While the Alka Alon can enter the Otherworld at will, their minds dwelling awake in both places at once, most humans only do so in their sleep.  Magi being the exception.  Through their presence and shared community in the Otherworld, your race’s feelings find consensus with each other.  Common hopes and desires find strength in numbers or fervor.  Once those complex feelings are given form . . . they are as real and as potent as elementals.  Only far, far more self-aware, for they are imbued with the collective desires and personalities of their thousands of constituent worshippers.  And when their self-awareness and self-identification reach a certain point, they become self-perpetuating.  Once a god forms . . . there is very little that can be done to un-form it.

You speak of them as if they were a menace, I observed a little warily.

Some of them are, she agreed.  The dregs of your humani subconscious are filled with horrors, Minalan.  Not yours, personally, she amended, when she realized what it sounded like she said.  I held up my hand to stop her.

Actually, yes, some of mine personally, I agreed.  I’m certain I’ve contributed my share of desires in the Otherworld.  Perhaps I know of what you speak more than you might think.  So the gods are like big elementals?

Elementals who are self-perpetuating.  They have been given form over the years by the vision of your people.  They have gained strength and potency as they have gained believers.  They are compelled by those feelings, often as complex and contradictory as the humans from whose minds they sprang.   And they are unbound, answering to no one but themselves.  Ironically, she was sounding like a reproving nun when she was discussing my divinities.  That made me grin.

That is fascinating, I said, as a thousand questions about the gods I’d borne since childhood were answered . . . and twice as many took their place.  So if I really believed fervently enough in Briga, I could convince her to manifest?

With the proper spells and magical architecture, she agreed.  The wisdom of such a working would be in doubt, however.  The gods can rarely be controlled, Minalan.

Aww, I’m not worried, I dismissed. Briga loves bakers’ sons.

The Bright One is often more helpful than destructive, historically, she agreed, a little reluctantly.  But her mythological brother-in-law, Duin the Destroyer, is another matter.  When he manifested at Faralon, when your ancestors attacked the Imperial garrison at Vastan Cor, he slew thousands . . . and kept slaying until thousands more civilians were dead as well.

I swallowed.  Duin the Destroyer was not known for his gentlemanly restraint.  I could just imagine his manifestation, complete with his magical axe, hewing through Imperial infantry like wheat.  According to legend, that was the first time he aided my ancestors in battle directly.  It was a great victory, and one that, a generation later, led to the wholesale conquest of Vore and upper Merwyn.

All right, I conceded, I can see where having a sudden, materially personified, arcanely powered expression of human subconscious desires might be . . . awkward, I said, diplomatically.  But is it really a cause for concern?

She looked tolerantly amused.  Minalan, they do not merely manifest, they do so with great power.  And thanks to the quirks of the humani subconscious, they dissipate only when their self-declared mission is done, and their worshippers do not need them anymore.  Some never completely discorporate, others appear and disappear with regularity.  Some are rare to manifest.  Others do so with regularity.  At first my people were fascinated by this novel manifestation of magic.  But when these deities began taking part in your affairs, and ultimately in ours, the effects were dire.

I take it they were doing more than collecting alms for their temples?

We have learned to respect the humani capacity for this unique magic but . . . we rightly fear it, too.  A particular manifestation of a deity may or may not recall a bargain struck by a previous manifestation.  Some are primal in nature, like your Duin--

He’s not my Duin, I said, automatically.  I know what you mean but . . . the Destroyer doesn’t call to me.  And, to be frank, the men he does call to scare the piss out of me.   I’d met plenty of warbrothers and fervent disciples of Duin, Gobarba and the other bellicose gods.  They just didn’t appeal to me.  If I want protection in the theoretical afterlife, I don’t want to do so over a pile of bodies.  I’m not that bloodthirsty or desperate.

I tried to ignore the fact that I had, indeed, piled up quite a few bodies in my life.  And I was just getting started.

I hoped.

So what do the nature of the gods and such have to do with this . . . examiner?  This scholar of humanity?

Ithalia sighed.  It is a long, complicated story, and one which I know only a piece of.  It is not one of the prouder moments of my kindred, or the other Alka Alon.  But this scholar I wish to examine you once assisted your gods in fighting against certain factions who desired to see humanity diminished, even destroyed.  And while she was able to help protect your people, she was forever exiled by our people for her role in those affairs.

So you are you saying the humani owe her a debt?

I don’t think she would see it thus.  She did what she did for her own reasons.  But she is isolated, now, condemned to low estate, passively studying a few uninteresting local specimens. There are those among the kindreds who would see her dead or worse to this day, and she is ever watched.  But when my people turned our backs on her selfless heroism, your gods at least took pity on her.

They did?  How so?

To reward her for her service to the humani they cast a veil of magic over her refuge.  There she has absolute power, absolute security.  Not even the greatest of our songmasters can challenge the working, she said, in reluctant admiration.  It protects her still, after centuries. But she cannot leave.

So she can’t come to me, I reasoned. We have to go to her.  That’s going to be hard to convince my pregnant wife.  On our honeymoon.

If we are to gain the benefit of her wisdom, then she must examine you.  And your bride, she added.

And you believe this is absolutely necessary?

She studied me.  Yes, Minalan.  It is in your best interest.  Please trust me.

It was a heartfelt request, sincerely delivered.  I had a hard time saying no to it, on the basis of its beauty alone.  But I had other obligations, and one in particular I had just committed to sleeping next to every night for the rest of my life.  If I wanted that arrangement to be the toasty domestic bliss I was craving, I would have to handle this delicately.

So what do I tell Alya?  That we have to go see some crazy old Tree Folk lady in the middle of nowhere domain?  I’m going to need a better explanation

There is within her domain a hot spring, Ithalia decided.  It is near to the ruins of an ancient Alka Alon settlement.  She dwells now behind the veil in the last habitable part, alone save for a few servants.  If you explain to your bride that the spring was blessed by the gods and would be beneficial to your child, would she not see that as desirable?

I scratched my chin and tried to answer that.  My wife is not an ignorant savage, Ithalia, I said at last, as gently as I could.  She’s a grown woman.  I don’t need to lie to her.

Ithalia smiled.  You needn’t.  I know for certain that your gods have blessed the site, in person.  Ishi herself bathed in that pool.  You may ask the scholar herself.

I looked at her skeptically.  I’m not an ignorant savage either, Ithalia.  You don’t need to promise me theological goodies to motivate me.  If you think this is what needs to be done . . . well, I have no reason to doubt you.  I would hope that we could call each other friends, after that pleasant afternoon rescuing you from the trolls.

I do consider us friends, Minalan.  And I hope this is the beginning of a new era of friendship and renewed acquaintance between our peoples.  But it must begin with this.  You must see this scholar and consent to be examined, so that we can ensure you and your family are not suffering from the irionite.  She will examine you and she will make recommendations.  I would advise you to listen to her.

So what do we call her? Surely she has a name?  Apart from ‘the scholar’?

Of course. Her name is Lilastien.  She is known to my folk most often as Elre, which means Rebel.  In her youth she was known by L’lasail.  Your people know her as a legend, and call her the Sorceress of Sartha Wood.  But that’s not what I call her.

The Sorceress of Sartha Wood was, indeed, a figure of legend.  I wasn’t sure where in the Riverlands Sartha Wood was located, but the magical figure associated with that name was also associated with a lot of unlikely tales, some of which were pre-Conquest in origin.  I wasn’t certain of the details - legends are like that - but in essence the Sorceress held forth in an enchanted forest which was at the center of a perfectly ordinary forest.

Knights, heroes, magi, demigods, and brave-but-stupid peasants would stumble across her territory, or (more rarely) seek her out.  She wasn’t known to be terribly forthcoming with assistance, being more of a trickster divinity.  But I had never heard the legend of the Sorceress associated with the Alka Alon.

So what do you call her? I asked, my head swimming again. Ithalia wanted me to be examined by a legendary sorceress or rebellious Alka Alon or academic authority on my species or divine ally . . . on my honeymoon.  Things could not get stranger than this, I told myself.

Grandmother, Ithalia said, smugly.

See, I spoke too soon, my mind reproved.

“A bottle sipped for harmony, the equilibrium of desire,”

We dined that night on river fish fried in nut-flavored oils, served over rice with baked yams.  The old crone might have been unsightly, but Ylita knew her craft.  We finished the second bottle of mead over dinner, toasting each other’s health..

“Only five more to go,” she said, wistfully.  “This was really lovely, Min.  This was a nice town.  So what are our plans, now?” she asked, expectantly.

“I’ve a side excursion in mind,” I said, pleasantly, as Palia cleared away our plates.  “There are some Alka Alon ruins I’d like to see.”

“Ruins?” she asked, skeptically.  “Why?”

“They’re supposed to be pretty,” I explained.  “It’s only a day or so off the river, and we can see some new country along the way.  The leaves are supposed to be breathtaking.  And there’s a hot spring,” I added as incentive.  She wasn’t looking enthusiastic.

“Min . . .: she said, patiently.

“I’ll hire a proper carriage,” I promised.  “You won’t have to walk far.  And I’ll do my best to keep you amused.”

She studied me, and for a moment I thought we were going to have our first married fight.  But she sighed and relented.  “I can see it’s important to you,” she said, picking at the last of her fish.  “If you’re willing to put up with me complaining the whole way, then we can see whatever pile of rocks you want.  This is your honeymoon, too.”

“It will be worth it,” I assured her.

She looked at me funny.  “You . . . there’s something else going on.”

Not married a week, and she was already seeing through my deceits.  That didn’t bode well.  I swallowed and tried to be casual.

“With magi, there usually is,” I said, cryptically.  “Trust me.”

She sighed again.  “I guess that is part of my job, now.  Just . . . if you’re planning on seducing me in a picturesque ruin, remember to bring a blanket or something.”

I hadn’t considered that element . . . and suddenly this excursion took on new dimensions.  “I will ensure there will be a sufficiency of blankets.”

“But that’s not really why we’re going, is it?  This is . . . wizard’s business?”

“Only in part,” I promised.  “Nothing that will interfere in our holiday, my wife.”  I could tell I was pushing the boundaries of her patience.

She looked at me thoughtfully.  “Please do me the courtesy of the truth on my honeymoon, my husband,” she said, carefully.

It was time for the raw truth.  “Very well.  We’re going to an enchanted forest to meet an ancient Alka Alon sorceress who is going to do a magical examination of us to ensure we’re faring well under the effects of irionite,” I explained calmly.

“Oh,” she said, belching politely behind her hand.  “When did that happen?”

“At dawn this morning.  One of the Alka Alon has been communicating with me through the sphere, and they’re worried that something might be amiss with you and the baby.”

“Oh,” she repeated.  She considered.   “All right.”

I blinked.  “All right?  I ask you to interrupt your honeymoon and take a sudden detour to find some crazy old Tree Folk enchantress to put you and our unborn child under unknown magical scrutiny, and you’re . . . you’re all right with that?”

She looked at me like I was an idiot and rolled her eyes.  “Minalan, will you please stop expecting me to burst into hysterics over every little thing?  Yes, I’m moody as three hells and I can’t seem to get comfortable any more, but apart from that I’m enjoying our honeymoon tremendously.”

“Even if it includes Tree Folk?”

“I knew you were eccentric when I married you,” she pointed out.  “We had our first date after I clubbed a goblin to death in your presence, if you recall.”

“It made an impression,” I agreed, absently.  “But . . . I figured any woman would be in hysterics over something like this.  The magic of the honeymoon is usually only second in a maid’s mind to her wedding day.”

“It’s been years since I was a maid, and I’ve already had my first honeymoon, remember?  It was . . . well, magical, in the mundane sort of way.  But this honeymoon is magical in the authentic manner, and to be honest . . . and I cannot believe I’m admitted this aloud . . . I think I might love you more than I loved my first husband.”  She looked wracked with guilt over saying it.

I blinked.  I was not expecting that.  I had no idea how to respond.  Good?  How dare you?  Of course?  Have you no shame?  Apparently my confusion was easy enough to read on my face, so Alya came to my rescue.

“I’m only telling you that,” she said, quietly as she bit her lip, “so that you understand that I am being truthful when I tell you that I will embrace with joy whatever insanity follows you.  Or that you follow.  My first husband was a wonderful man, Min, but I only knew him a few weeks before we wed.  You . . . I’ve been thinking of you constantly for months, now.  I know your mother, your father, your sisters, your apprentices, the village you grew up in, I know more about you than I knew about most of my neighbors in Boval.  I know you have new duties and responsibilities, and I know that I’m going to have to share you with . . . with your trade.  That’s no less than any wife must do”

“Yes, but we’re not talking about me just heading to the fields, or to the forge, or running a cart or fishing for the day, Alya,” I sighed.  “I’m not even a real spellmonger anymore.  I’m a noble.  And . . . well, whatever you call it when you have one of these,” I said, nodding toward my green amber sphere where lay on a pillow nearby.  “I don’t know what lies ahead of us, except that it will be inconvenient, expensive, and fraught with danger.  I could be gone for weeks or months at a time, and I might . . . I might die in battle.  Or be assassinated.  Or blow myself up with a futzed spell.  Not much of a good husband, I’m afraid,” I said, suddenly having doubts about the wisdom of her marrying me.  “You’d probably have a happier marriage with a villein.”

“In which case I would have to worry about him being gone from sunup to sundown or longer, exhausted every night, being worked to death for the reeve while our children went hungry, going to the stocks for fighting, getting drunk as often as he can to dull his pain, constantly paying fines or working off his debts for the privilege of continuing to live, getting conscripted for some stupid war anyway and likely leaving me a widow before I’m thirty,” she said, ticking off her points on her fingers.

“That’s a compelling argument,” I conceded.  “I suppose married life is a trial no matter what social strata you live in.  But the risk to you and the baby-”

“--is what you are addressing with this excursion, is it not?” she asked, pointedly.

“Well, yes.  But--”

“Then I don’t see what the problem might be, my husband,” she said in a tone that clearly meant more than what the words did.  I just had no idea what that might be.

“The problem is that I’m trying to make this a period of delight and intimate romance, and the gods themselves seem to be determined to call me to work!” I exploded.

Alya laughed, quite unexpectedly.  I looked at her sharply.  I was being serious!

“Oh, Min,” she said, gaining control of herself.  “Don’t you realize that we could be wading waist-deep through pig shit, and I’d still be having a good time?”

This . . . this was making my head spin more than mere magic.  Women were supposed to get all shrieky when their plans went awry . . . weren’t they?  My mother and sisters never seemed to tire of the practice.  The sound of my mother’s voice when she used that tone still made every male in the house cringe and look for something that needed to be done elsewhere.  My youngest sister’s tantrums were legendary.

And Pentandra?  She once tried to have the cook at Inarion Academy flogged for preparing a traditional Remeran dish for her with inadequate seasoning.  And she was only slightly miffed.  If something really went wrong, she had a capacity for projecting emotional violence like a trebuchet.  Now that she had a witchstone, it was only a matter of time before we discovered what an arcane hissy-fit might look like.

But Alya?  I tried to think back to the time I saw her lose her composure.  She had sometimes been rushed, sometimes poorly prepared, and sometimes confused, but even when . . . well, when I had to tell her that the only way to save us both (and the five thousand other people in the castle) was to have sex for an extended period of time with my ex-girlfriend, she had not reacted with what I would normally associate with “feminine hysterics”.

I realized it was one of the reasons I had been attracted to her, and why I loved her.  She wasn’t like the other women I knew, in my mind.  She was exceptional.

Palia tried very hard not to get between us as she brought the next course - stewed peaches and apples in honey and cream.  She placed a small, steaming dish before each of us and then went to get the proper wine.

“Ugh!” she grunted in surprise and disgust.

“What is it?” I asked, alarmed, immediately thinking of the baby.

“Hot fruit,” Alya said, looking disgusted.  “I’m not . . . not really fond of it,” she said, looking doubtfully at the bowl.  “Min, what do I do?  I don’t want her to think I don’t like it!”

It looked - and smelled -wonderful to me.  I could detect hints of cinnamon, clove and nutmeg and some kind of exotic liquor in the aroma.  I saw a dark dollop of treacle swimming in the middle of the milky dessert that beckoned to me through the steam.  I would gladly eat hers, I knew, but I also knew she would regret it later.

“But you don’t like it!” I whispered back.

“I’m sure it’s wonderful, I just don’t like hot fruit!”

“Then . . . then . . .”  I struggled to find a solution.  “Can’t you wait for it to cool?” I offered, lamely.

She made a face.  That was clearly not her preference.  “Don’t worry,” she dismissed with a sigh.  “I can choke it down.  Your son certainly doesn’t seem to care how it tastes to me,” she said, a little resentfully.

“Why don’t you like hot fruit?” I asked, confused.  I envisioned some horrible fruit-related secret from her past.  Had her first husband been killed by a skillet of fried apples?  Had she been badly burned by a fresh berry pie in her youth? I was starting to realize that there was a lot about Alya I didn’t yet know.

“I just don’t,” she said, sharply.  “It’s mushy and disgusting, warm and . . . I just  never have liked it.  Is that . . . is that a problem, my husband?”

“Uh, no,” I said, laughing at myself and my willingness to panic so easily.  “But maybe I can help,” I said, remembering what it is I do for a living.  I summoned a tiny tendril of power and envisioned the proper rune, after mentally defining the proper area.  By surmounting it with the sigil of my desire, I pointed at her bowl . . . and we both watched it freeze solid, so quickly there was still steam hovering over it as it solidified.

“There,” I said, triumphantly.  “A little simple thermomantics, and you don’t have to suffer hot fruit.”

She stared at it even more doubtfully.  “And . . . I can eat it?”

“It’s just frozen,” I agreed.  “Like snow.  Perfectly safe.”

She reached out and tapped the milky-white surface with her spoon.  Then she dug up the smallest shaving of the icy confection and placed it gingerly between her pretty lips.

Her eyes lit up.

“Oh, Min,” she said, quickly scooping up a larger spoonful.  “This is incredible now!” She took two more bites before offering me one.  “It just melts in your mouth, like snow!  But it’s sweet and creamy, too!”

“It is really good,” I agreed.  She beamed at me in delight.  “All right, if you keep producing wonders like this,” she decided, “you can drag me off to any old pile of rocks to be seen by any old enchantress you desire!”

I’d like to think she meant it, when she said it.  Perhaps if she had known what was coming, she would have put up with the hot stewed peaches instead.

*                            *                            *

The Teelvar is a minor branch of the Burine, one of hundreds of deep tributary rivers that gave the Riverlands their name.  It was smaller than its mother river by half, width-wise, so our journey immediately took on a more intimate character after we left Jistal.  That just meant that the gorgeous late-autumn trees were closer, and the barge traffic more sparse.  There really wasn’t much up the Teelvar to travel to.

I cast a water elemental spell to help propel us.  In moments we were gliding against the flow without using poles, which made the mate visibly happy.  The elemental was a calm one, and seemed content to quietly churn the waters on our stern.  It occurred to me after I cast the spell that the legends and stories about river deities could be the result of such elementals getting caught up in the dreams of the humans that lived around the river, and that led me into a haze of thaumaturgical and theurgical speculation that could have lasted all day, had Pilia not summoned me to lunch.

I had spent the morning after dawn writing down every bit of our conversation, as I recalled it, which only slightly annoyed Alya.  We lounged on the deck under the canopy sipping mead and wine and snacking between meals.  Pilia and the cook seemed determined to feed the baby as much as possible, so there seemed to be food around constantly.

“So how long have you been talking to this other woman?” Alya asked me unexpectedly that afternoon.  I sat upright.

“Alya, it’s not like that!”

“I’m sure it isn’t,” she agreed, smoothly.  “But since it isn’t, then I’m sure you will indulge me, my husband.”

“You’re jealous?  Of an Alka Alon?”

“I’m jealous of another woman,” she corrected.  “But here’s your opportunity to end that jealousy.”

I sighed, and sank back into the down cushions.  “All right.  Her name is Lady Ithalia.  She’s one of the ones I saved from a gurvani attack on my way home from the war.”

She looked at me, annoyed.  “So why didn’t you mention that?”

I made a sour face.  “Well, between getting married, dodging the Censorate, and fleeing for our lives I may have skipped over a few uninteresting details.”  I thought of a few other things that I skipped over that Alya would definitely be interested in and quickly moved on.  “When the boys and I were returning from Timberwatch, we found a band of gurvani and trolls besieging an Alka Alon treehouse in eastern Alshar.  Ithalia was the Alka who contacted me.  We attacked the gurvani - funny story, that - and allowed the Alka Alon to escape.  They were grateful enough to triple the size of my witchstone.”

“So that’s why your ball is so big now,” she said, giggling at the innuendo.

“They’ve always been that big,” I promised.  “I just get to show one off in public, now.  But Ithalia was easily the friendliest and most approachable of the Alka Alon we met that day.  I don’t know why, but she wants to help us.”

“And you trust her?” she asked skeptically.

“She has given me no reason not to.  I did save her from trolls, so I’m imagining this counts as a boon for that.  But . . . well, I don’t know why. exactly, but I get the feeling she’s doing something she’s not supposed to, in talking so frankly with me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know very little of Alka Alon politics, but from what she says it sounds like Ithalia’s people are . . . well, like a bunch of Wilderlands peasants compared to most,” I said, teasing her.  “I don’t know much more than that, but it sounds like a good idea to go see this sorceress.  And there is a hot spring to soak your tired bones in.”

“A hot spring?” she asked, intrigued.  The days were getting fairly cold, now, and she hadn’t had a proper bath since the night before our wedding.

“It is said that Ishi herself bathed in it, blessing the spring,” I told her solemnly.

“I don’t care whose arse has been there, I want mine to be next!  There were hot springs in Winakur.  I went to one, once.  Heavenly!”

Well, that settled that.

Captain Turic steered us masterfully up the Teelvar, accepting the speed with which the tireless water elemental propelled us and adjusting accordingly.  The mate was beaming, and kept going back to the stern to check and see that the magical construct was still churning along.  When Twilight came, I waited for Ithalia to contact me . . . but there was nothing.

“Maybe tomorrow, at dawn,” I told Alya, who wanted to “meet” this unhuman woman who had invited herself along on our honeymoon.  “She said the spell didn’t work well for her.”

“Just as well,” she decided.  “That roast we had for dinner is sitting on my bladder like a brick, and your son doesn’t want to move off of it, either.  I’m going belowdecks to get ready for bed,” she said, as I helped her rise from her nest of cushions.  “I’m sure I’ll make a better impression in the morning, anyway.”

“Yes, you are a princess before dawn,” I said, sarcastically.  Her reluctance to greet the dawn had become a kind of running joke for us.  She made a face.

“Well, if someone wasn’t keeping me up to all hours of the night . . . “

“So your charming morning disposition is my fault?” I teased.  “That’s hardly fair!”

“I’m the one who has to carry the baby and you want to discuss ‘fair’?” she snorted.  “Let me pee before I stab you in a fit of vapors.”  I smiled as she carefully waddled belowdecks, Palia assisting her down the last few stairs.  I took a moment to stand out on the deck, examining the winter stars that were starting to rise in the lee of the twilight.  Then I took a moment longer, digging out my pipe.  Alya didn’t like for me to smoke in the cramped little cabin.

“My lady is resting, my lord,” Palia said quietly, a few moments later.  “What time shall I have breakfast ready in the morning?”

“Before dawn, a morsel at least,” I decided.  “Perhaps something more substantial afterwards.  Uh, Palia, can I ask you a question?  Do you believe in the gods?”

The question took the servant by surprise.  “The gods, my lord?  Aye.  I pray to Faralasa.”

“Faralasa?  I’ve not heard of her.”

“She is a folk god amongst the Remeran peasantry,” she supplied.  “Lady Dawn, in your language.  She is . . . well, she brings the joy of the new day,” she said, simply.

“Would you still believe in her, if she did not exist?” I asked, curious.

Palia smiled.  “My lord, how could the dawn not exist?  And if it did not, would we?”

I had no compelling answer for that.  I didn’t know much about theurgy or theology, but I knew that divinities who were tied up with physical phenomenon were different, somehow, than those whose domains were mired in abstract thought.

“But has Faralasa manifested herself before you?  Before your people?  In person?”

“Every morn, without fail, my lord,” she said, serenely.

It was hard to argue with that kind of convenience.  But it also offered an intriguing perspective about the different ways the Alka and the humani viewed divinity.

I had read about six or seven of the major Alka Alon epics, the best picture we had of their culture and civilization.  Their gods were prominent players in them, but as I recalled they were treated much differently than we treated ours.  Less awe, more respect, less worship, more reverence.  They each had very distinct and individual personalities, but their associations were with the most abstract and conceptual of things: sorrow, amusement, foresight, regret, meetings and partings, laughter and about nine hundred different kinds of “song”.

Compared to the human gods, well . . . Briga was the fiery Goddess of Wisdom in the Narasi divine family . . . but she also made shit burn. When the Alka Alon god Vatragand, ostensibly the God of Lightning and Wit made war on his brother-in-law, Celaran, the God of Contemplative Poetry, Vatragand didn’t use lightning bolts or tempests.  He hired an army and borrowed a shadowy duelist demi-god from his uncle to invest the Castle of Patient Singing.  The destruction that ensued was, literally, epic, but apart from some fairly straightforward magic and a lot of intricate verse, nothing particularly divine.

Of course, something is undoubtedly lost in the translation, but if Duin the Destroyer wanted to level a fortress, he used his divine powers of war and storm and would get the job done.  And had.  The Alkan gods were, by comparison, no greater than Alkan lords.

While that gave me plenty of metaphysics, magic and history to contemplate in a pleasant haze of apple brandy that night, it all vanished with the chill of winter when I went below to our cabin and my very warm wife.

A man finds divinity where he seeks it.

“A bottle savored for purest lust, which brings the marriage fire!”

Palia awakened us both as instructed before dawn, and while Alya was not cheerful about it she was at least enthusiastic about meeting the apparition of Ithalia.  By the time we had made our way up to the canopy, there was already a fire blazing in the little stove and a kettle of water boiling for our morning tea.

Good morn, Master Minalan, I heard, before I saw her.  You make progress up the Teelvar, I see.

I just checked on the elementals, I agreed.  Although my pilot was curious as to just where we might be landing.

Your people call the place Gilasfar, she said.  It is a small settlement, but not undeveloped. From there you should be able to depart overland to the forest ruins.

“Palia, have the pilot land at Gilasfar,” I called out, waiting only for her acknowledgement before I returned to the conversation.  Ithalia, I would like to present to you my wife, Lady Alya.

If you’ve never startled an Alka Alon, I highly recommend it.  Alya had been bundled up in a thick wool mantle, and Palia had placed heated furs around her as she took her tea.  Except for her pink nose and cheeks, she could have been a pile of laundry to a casual glance.  Ithalia quickly recovered her composure and made a point of bowing to my wife, excusing her from returning the courtesy.

My lady, she said, shifting her perspective to engage her as well.  Master Minalan has spoken of you often.

“You have only recently come into our discussions,” Alya said, a little self-consciously.  “But then he has been busy.”

“There’s a lot to keep track of,” I agreed.  “Ithalia, could your spell extend to speech as well?  It might be easier for conversation.”

“My pleasure, Master Minalan,” she said, her voice erupting into the air like frozen bells of silver.  “I wish to reassure you, my lady, that we have only your best interests at heart when we wish to examine you properly.  I promise no harm will come to either you or your babe.”

“That is comforting,” Alya said, unconvincingly.  “The Tree Folk have never been known as those who would cause harm.  Yet . . . this is magic, we’re talking about,” she finished, quietly.  “I’ve seen what magic can do . . . and I’m just the smallest bit concerned.”

“Alya!” I interjected, “I’ve done at least two scans a day--”

“That’s the thing,” she snorted, “I’ve got to take your word for it that our child is fine, yet here is this Tree Lady telling me there might be cause for concern.  Both of you are magically wise.  But should I be concerned?  Or not?”

“I’ve been checking the baby to make sure there was no cause for concern,” I answered as gently as I could.  “Lady Ithalia feels that there may be some effects worthy of study, especially at this early stage.  It is not a specific worry or concern, merely a chance to take a very close and thoughtful look.”

“Hrmph,” she said, making a face.  “I suppose I understand.  And this enchanted hot spring that is supposed in this tower . . .”

“It’s a ruin, actually,” Lady Ithalia said.  “One of the ancient homes of my kindred in this realm.  It fell long ago, before our peoples met, but it is beautiful even in its destruction.  The land is pleasant and warm, warded against trouble by my . . . my grandmother,” she said.

If Alka Alon blushed, she would have.  There was more to that story, I could tell.  The part about being in exile, or entrapped, or however you wanted to view it was making our guest uncomfortable. “She is in residence there with but a few servants now, enjoying her dotage in pure study.  And there is, indeed, a natural hot spring – one of the reasons the region was settled.”

“So it’s your grandmother,” yawned Alya.  "That improves my mood, I suppose.  And the idea of soaking my sore back in a hot spring is lovely.  I take it she likes humans?”

“Adores them,” Ithalia promised.  “And the journey should be easy to make.  There are but few natural dangers and some scattered bandits in this land.  Your folk grow oats there, and barley, and have cut back the forest, which is a shame.  Once it was tended as a garden, every hill and dale blessed and sang to.  Then it was a wasteland, devastated by the forces of magic and war.  Then the humani came and made it bloom again, beautiful in a different way with their importasta trees, their birds, their insects.  It was a fresh, wild song that the land embraces.”

“That is really beautiful,” Alya said, sitting up in her cushions, slightly.  “My sires always said it was the Tree Folk who made the trees grow.”

“That would be a conceit,” Ithalia nodded.  “But we do help them along, we adore them so.  Some of our wisest take to crossing them, breeding them as you would a mare or a cow until they produce wonders.  And we know the songs to make them grow fast and large and produce many seedlings.”

“Your cities must be magical,” Alya breathed. “Beautiful,” she amended, realizing that Alka Alon cities were, by their very nature, magical.

“Now, they are often mere arboretums,” she said.  “Of my kindred’s great settlements only a few survive: Carneduin, in the Kulines, a place of great lore.  Anthatiel, the City of the Lake, in the remote reaches of the Mindens.  And Nandaroriel, a merry place, but a shadow of its former glory.  Other kindreds live differently, within our realm, but ours prefers the majesty of living wood to the cold of stone.”

“It sounds terribly romantic,” agreed Alya, who I could tell was not at all allured by the thought of living perched in a tree.  “Is that where you are now?”

“I am . . . in transit,” she answered.  “I took a respite to look in on you, but I will have to be on my way again soon.  Indeed, I may not be able to contact you for the next few days.  Fear not, just follow my instructions and I will contact you anon.  In two days time you will reach Gilasfar.  From there you make your way northeast to the domain of Sarthameton.  The locals know a way into the forest, they call it the Elf’s Gate.  Have them take you there. From there, I will help you make the final part of the journey.”

We continued chatting for a few more minutes, Ithalia politely (if often evasively) answering Alya’s questions about the Tree Folk and their culture.  While many girlhood myths about the elusive creatures were shattered for her, she came away from the meeting very impressed by Ithalia.  When her songspell could no longer hold and she bid us farewell, Alya was even feeling more positive about our visit to the Sorceress of Sartha Wood.

“But did you get the feeling that she was holding back something, Min?” she asked as she peeled a hardboiled egg Palia had brought her.  “Like there is a lot more to this that she isn’t telling us?”

I nodded approvingly.  My bride was observant.  “Just what I thought, too.  But we don’t know enough to know what questions to ask, yet.  Not about them, not about her.  But they’re on our side,” I reasoned.  I remembered the Aronin and his fellows marching bravely toward the malignant green sphere that was Sharuel.

“I suppose,” she said, slowly.  “Still, dealing with cheese merchants taught me how pretty words and a smile can distract you while you’re getting stolen blind.”

I looked at her, startled.  “They really tried to cheat you by being charming?”  Such things were notoriously common among the mercantile class.  Charming got you little when you were an artisan.

“Whoever said I was the one getting cheated?” she smiled, mischievously.  “Can you hand me those plums?  If I move more than half an inch I’m going to have to pee.  And once I’m up, I’m going back to bed.”

I handed her the plums.  “Having fun so far?” I asked.

“It’s my honeymoon,” she moaned gratefully as she began eating the dried plum.  They had been dusted in cinnamon and were quite good.  “I’m sitting on my arse, sleeping as much as I want and eating like a duchess.  My husband isn’t ignoring me yet.  There are no Censors jumping out of the bushes.  No gurvani hiding in the chamberpot.  I am content, my husband.”

“Just as long as you don’t get bored,” I smiled.  “I don’t think you could bear that.”

*                            *                            *

One of the lovely advantages of pushing upstream on the remote Teelvar during early winter was the scenery, the wildlife, and the lack of much else in the way of traffic on the river.  Apart from the occasional cot or hovel on the river banks, where villeins fished and crones did laundry in the chilly water, it was almost completely unspoiled.  It was peaceful and quiet as the water elementals pushed us along under a clear, cold blue sky and warm sun.

But the remote nature of the branch also made it a good spot for enterprising locals to interfere with trade without much in the way of risk of accountability, it seemed.  A single barge making its way upstream at that time of year was unusual enough to warrant special consideration.

I was just getting up from an afternoon nap when I heard a particularly distinctive thunk of metal on wood.  The sort you don’t mistake for anything else.  An arrow.

“Pirates!” came the pilot’s panicked call.  I was up the short steps in a flash, closing the hatch behind me. The pilot was coming out of the rudderhouse, but he didn’t look too alarmed.

“Where?” I demanded, as I drew a warwand.  Yes, I know, I’m on my honeymoon.  I’m also wanted dead by a lot of people.  And my mageblade was packed away at the bottom of our luggage, enwrapped in oilcloth.

“Soon, my lord,” the pilot said, disgusted.  “That’s a Yellow Arrow,” he said, nodding to a long, yellow-fletched shaft that protruded jarringly from the barge’s bow.  “That’s how the locals let you know they expect a donation for coming through.  And a warning as to what will happen if you don’t comply.”

“Ishi’s tits!” I groaned.  “Pirates?  On my honeymoon?”

“Likely just a couple of lads who want to try to scare some gilt out o’ us,” the man reasoned.  “We’re well past harvest, now, and they’ve spent their bonuses.  Now they’re facing winter without.  So they’ll watch the shore from secret,  try to make the difference through our purses.”

“And if we choose not to comply?”

“Oh, they might try to take us, they might not,” the pilot shrugged.  “Depends upon whether they are just a couple o’ lads, or whether they’re a bigger gang.  There have been rumors of one, sometimes through here,” he said, uneasily.

“Now you tell me?  Captain, I am not inclined to be robbed on my honeymoon.”

“No, you don’t seem the type.”

“Can I count on you to fight?”

“Been a riverman all my life,” he grunted.  “I been in my share of scraps with pirates.  The mate, too, for his years.  You look fit, and will be guarding your wife.  Might have a spare axe or knife around here.”

“Don’t bother,” I dismissed.  “I’m going to add a few charms to the boat, see if that doesn’t help.  But as for these folk,” I said, plucking the arrow from the bow and snapping it in half before throwing it over the side, “I’ll deal with them properly, if I have to.”

I wasn’t particularly nervous about it, as I knew we had been in danger of pirate attack at nearly any time on the river.  While it rarely happened on the big ones, like the Burine and the Bontal, river pirates were a constant in the Riverlands.  They were almost always out-of-work locals, or enterprising outlaws with some sort of scheme to take a toll on river traffic.  Rarely did the attacks lead to a wholesale massacre, but it had happened.  Wise lords patrolled for river pirates in their domain, lest they get a reputation for being unsafe.  Wiser lords allowed just enough river piracy to make their tolls seem worthwhile.

The pirates usually enjoyed a marginal existence in camps and hidden oxbows and used elaborate systems to spy out likely targets.  The gangs were ephemeral, and waxed and waned with the need for honest labor in the nearby villages, but there were frequently other criminal enterprises associated with pirates.

Ironically, many local groups were viewed as sort of folk heroes to the local villagers.  While no one wanted pirates to take their barge, seeing the lads from the river come and spend their loot at your shop was seen as a boon to business.

I wasn’t about to let this pretty barge become some pirate’s prize.  Nor did I want to spill blood on my honeymoon.  I considered digging my mageblade, Twilight, out of the hold, but that might take hours . . . and spread our baggage out on the deck for all the world to see.  Instead I tried to cast a big unnoticeability charm on the barge

But the biggest thing I did was to prepare a few scratch wands.

I found a bundle of willow branches in the barrel of tinder near the galley and after magically inspecting them, I found a half-dozen that would suit my purpose.  I returned to the privacy of the pavilion on the deck and began trimming them with my belt knife until they were each about eighteen inches long, each the thickness of my pinkie.

These weren’t real warwands, of course.  If you want to kill someone, it takes a lot of power and some relatively sophisticated tools - and willow is just the wrong wood for that.  It takes a spell easily, but it won’t keep it without a lot of effort.  And it couldn’t bear but so much power before something unfortunate happened.

But I didn’t need these to last, and I didn’t need to blaze hot arcane death on my foes.  I just needed them incapacitated.  Luckily, the War College at Relan Cor had a huge library on all sorts of warwands, and among the ones I’d picked up was the decidedly non-lethal Malleus Wand - known in the trade as the Guthammer,  Using five innocent glyphs and a sigil, the Malleus was an ideal way to keep a sentry down without risking killing him . . . in one of the most painful ways possible.

It was a low-power wand, but it didn’t need much.  The sigil allowed a small electrical charge to explode for a few moments, but not on the skin - on the target’s vagus nerve. The sudden interruption of so many autonomic processes in the body resulted in immediate loss of consciousness, and the occasional control of the bladder and bowels. No physical damage was done, but the effect was splendidly sudden and immediate. The victim was usually out for twenty minutes, and when he woke up, he felt like a drunk in the bottom of a privy.  You didn’t even need a command word mnemonic.  Just touch him, and down he goes.

I held three of them on me, and then hid the other three around the boat. The wands wouldn’t last more than a few days, a week at most, before they lost power.  And I had other resources.  It only took me a few moments to hang a couple of deadlier spells, more sophisticated things I could cast with a word.  I made sure that the cook and Palia would join my wife in the hold as soon as there was a sign of trouble.

Then I sat back and scryed the route ahead.  I’m no great military tactician, but I saw a spot, a bend in the river six miles ahead, that was perfect for piracy, in my estimation. Closer examination revealed enough to confirm my suspicions, and even estimate the number of our foes.  I ran through a few possible scenarios, and didn’t see much room for error.  I finally sat down to lunch - lamb sliced thin, marinated in a rich red wine, and cooked over the coals - feeling quite satisfied by my preparations.

“We’re going to be attacked by pirates this afternoon,” I mentioned to my bride, casually.  “Don’t worry, I have it taken care of, but I thought it would be appropriate to bring it to your attention.

“Pirates?” she said, her eyes wide.  “First you take me to a sorceress in the forest in the middle of nowhere, and now we have to fight pirates?”

“I’m going to fight the pirates,” I corrected.  “You just get to watch.”

“Min, are you being serious?” she accused.

“Am I likely to jest about a pirate attack?” I asked, surprised.  “It seems to be just a little shake-down operation.  I could pay them off, but that seems against my nature.”

“You’re doing this because you’re bored, right?” she grumbled.  “Here it is your honeymoon, and I’m the shape of a pumpkin.  That has to be hard for a husband to bear.”

“I’ve never been happier,” I said, honestly.  “And your shape hasn’t precluded any traditional honeymoon activities,” I reminded her.  “We just have to get creative.”

She snorted.  She didn’t look convinced.  “I think you’re growing bored with me.”

“So bored I arranged to be attacked by pirates?  Waylaid by Alka Alon plots?” I asked in disbelief.

“You’re a wizard,” she reminded me.  “I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“It seems an awful lot to willfully arrange at such short notice,” I pointed out.  Was she just teasing me?  Or was she serious?

“Perhaps,” she conceded.  “But I guess I’ll have to just get used to this sort of thing, now.  Being a wizard’s wife.”

“And lady of the domain!” I said.

“Please, one re-adjustment at a time,” she warned.  “I’ve just barely accepted that I’m your wife, and now I’m contending with being a wizard’s wife.  We’ll save Lady Alya for another time.  I’m still working on Goody Alya.”

“Fair enough,” I conceded.  “And I have to agree, you will have to get used to a few . . . unusual aspects of my profession.  Whatever that happens to be, now.  But conversing with fey creatures and defending my love from pirates are, apparently, just those sorts of elements.”

“Daddy always said I should have married a rancher,” she snorted.  “They’re predictable, stable . . .”

“Sorry to disappoint,” I said, flatly.  “Let’s not even discuss my mother’s feelings about whom I should have married.”  That made her blush.  She knew precisely my mother’s feelings on the subject, after spending a few weeks under her roof.  They weren’t flattering.  Mother thought I should have found a nice Riverlands girl, perhaps a miller’s daughter, not a western mountain woman who talked with a funny accent.  “If such things are going to discomfit you, my wife, best I should hear of it now.”

“As I said, I am merely growing used to the idea, my husband.  And in a few short months, I get to discover what motherhood will make me.  Grant me the boon of patience, my lord,” she said, sarcastically.

I sighed.  I did owe her that.

“And I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” she added, slyly.  “My love, if you could hold off a hundred thousand goblins, you can handle a few common river pirates.”

That was what I wanted to hear, I realized.  Here I was trying to keep her safe, and she was sniping at me about her marital options.  I needed a bit of validation, it just took her awhile to get there.

I stood and kissed her brow.  “I’ll try to make it quick,” I promised her.  “If we aren’t delayed, we can make Gilasfar in time for supper in a proper inn.”

*                            *                            *

“Red arrow!” shouted the pilot, a moment after the scarlet-fletched shaft thunked into the bow, near to where the yellow arrow had sprung.  The pilot had informed me that this was the pirate’s way of saying “stand and deliver!”.

The women had taken shelter in the cabin below, and the mate had grabbed a rusty short sword, a frightened look in his eyes as he guarded the hatch.  The pilot continued steering, resolutely, the water elementals mindlessly forcing us against the current.  He had a wickedly curved knife in his belt and a spear next to his tiller.

I stood around with a drink in my hand.  I’d found a breathtaking mint spirit in the chest of goodies Pentandra had left, and I was sipping it on the foredeck after I had readied my defensive spells.  I suppose an unnoticeability spell wasn’t worth much when you’re doing something as noticeable as pushing a boat upstream without anyone at the poles.

“Two boats, aft,” the mate reported, trying to sound confident.  “Two apiece.”

“That won’t be all,” promised the pilot.  “That’s just to keep us from turning around.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, my insides warmed by the strong liquor.  As we approached the bend where I had scryed our trap, ropes flew from the overhanging trees, boathooks on their ends.  Two clutched firmly at the starboard gunwales and tried to pull the barge into a knot of trees looming menacingly from the bank.

I waved, sending a simple charm in their direction.  Both ropes parted from their hooks and allowed us to go free.

But the pirates were persistent.  Another rope dropped from the trees, and three skinny, barefoot pirates descended.

They certainly looked the part: undyed cotton tunics and trousers, threadbare woolen mantles or leather jerkins.  Each bore a long, nasty-looking knife in their fists.

Orduin, the young mate, tensed, but I’d ordered him not to move unless I commanded it. This was my honeymoon.  This was my fight.  He was just supposed to guard the hatch.

The first pirate had the misfortune to land inside one of the spells I’d cast on an unused portion of the deck, and now he could not move his feet any further, struggle and curse though he did.  I would tend to him later.

One of the other two pirates rushed toward the pilothouse, where he ran smack into a glyph I’d inscribed there.  He sank to his knees, a goofy expression on his face.  The pilot calmly leaned out and hit him on the back of the head to render him unconscious before he went back to steering.

The last pirate darted right toward me, brandishing his knife and shouting for me to surrender.

“No,” I said.  “I’m on my honeymoon.”

“Heave to, or I’ll cut your godsdamned throat!” he screamed belligerently. He waved his knife wide, a threatening and intimidating move that left his half-bare chest completely exposed under his mantle.

I shoved a willow wand in it and he crumpled to the deck, pissing himself.

Just as I was about to relax, two more ugly bandits scrambled over the port side, one with a rusty old short sword and the other with a hooked spear.  The two punts behind us were gaining a bit, so these must have come from the other side of the river.  As I turned to face them I heard the twang of bowstrings, and a few arrows landed on the deck.

I dealt with the boarders first.  As I grabbed the spear behind the rusty head with my left hand and tickled the wielder's chin with a Guthammer.  When he wasn’t using the spear anymore, I used the haft to push the other man over the side after crushing his fingers with it.  Then I turned to deal with the archers from the shoreline.

These weren’t colorfully fletched warning shafts, anymore I saw as I crossed the deck, these were ugly, lethal-looking war arrows, steel tipped and meant for business. An iron bolt from an arbalest was next, protruding from the freshly-painted pilothouse in a way I knew Pentandra would not be pleased with.

From the pattern of fire I figured that there were around three or four shooters sniping from the underbrush.  I had hung the perfect spell for the occasion: with a wave of my hand and the murmur of an arcane word, their senses of direction and balance were suddenly corrupted.  The next few shafts flew wildly overhead or careened in unlikely directions.  I didn’t have to worry about snipers for a while.

That left the boats pursuing us.  I figured they would leave off, once they saw their fellows had not taken the barge, but they were persistent.  They had bows, too, and longer swords and likely other weapons.   Four at one time was a little more than I wanted to contend with, however, so I decided to re-task one of the water elementals pushing the barge to give them some attention.  I figured that it was already there, so I might as well use it.

I reached out through the sphere to revisit the spell that kept the mindless personification of liquidity a cohesive entity . . . and I stopped.

I was going to use the standard Imperial spell to carefully redirect the thing, but as I was contacting it, a portion of the sphere beckoned to me.  A portion of the Alka Alon bank of spellwork that had been included when my sphere had been made.  The portion that Ithalia had warned me against using.

I could see her point, in most ways - there was so much that I did not understand about Alka Alon magic.  Most of that mysterious library of spellsongs was pregnant with potential disaster.  But the arcane templates used in Imperial magic for energizing elementals were based directly on those of the Alka Alon . . . so what was the harm?

I yielded to temptation.  I reached out and brought the songspell alive - much different, I saw, than simply using magic.  The song went forth unsung by my lips, but the effect was impressive.  The sluggish and dull elemental I’d conjured was suddenly as attentive and responsive as a loyal hound.

“Sic ‘em,” I whispered, as I indicated the nature of my desire.  The magically-coherent part of the river dove away, and in moments both punts were overturned and destroyed by the wildly contorting waves. The men screamed and tried to swim away.  Not all of them made it.

I was fascinated by this new aspect of elemental magic.  The Alkan songspell had improved the responsiveness of the thing immeasurably.  I delighted as I explored its capabilities, using my magical link to command it to perform several tricks from the stern.  I bashed the wreckage of the punts into splinters, had the elemental jump and cavort like a seamonster, and then races against the banks until they were flooded.

So preoccupied was I with the novel magic, I didn’t notice the man I’d pushed over the side return to the barge.  Nor did I notice him clubbing the mate unconscious before he could raise the alarm.  I was not wakened from my spell until I heard Alya shriek:

“You take one more godsdamn step and I’ll gut you like a sick heifer!”

That got my attention.

I whirled, leaving my elemental to its own devices.  There was a wet pirate standing in front of the hatch, the mate lying sprawled at his feet.  His hands were held wide apart, my beloved wife’s new dagger was hovering dangerously close to his groin.  Behind her, I saw when I rushed to assist, were the cook, armed with her kitchen knife, and Palia holding an iron fire poker.

“I’d listen to the lady,” I said, calmly, when I saw in his eye that he was considering pressing the attack.  “She’s a bit . . . moody at this stage in her pregnancy.  Makes her impulsive.”  Something in Alya’s eyes must have been convincing as her shiny new dagger hovered dangerously close to his family jewels.  He dropped his knife.

Orduin, the mate was, thankfully, only stunned, and a bit of rest and a sip of liquor brought his color back soon enough.  I gave him a quick scan to ensure that he didn’t have a concussion.  I spent the next half-hour binding the prisoners on the deck, ensuring magically that they would not get free.  I also redirected the improved water elemental to drive us even faster upriver.  I had six ugly guests I wanted to get rid of, and I didn’t have the heart to just throw them over and let them drown.  Not on my honeymoon.

But that did give me other problems, I realized.  What to do with them when I got there? And how to explain how so few captured so many was itself problematic.  I was supposed to be traveling incognito, after all.  Advertising what a great godsdamned warmage I was probably would work counter to that.

I rummaged around in Penny’s hamper and found a small, evil-looking bottle of black glass.  The liquor inside was dark and pungent and strong - a hundred proof, at least.  I handed the flask to the pirate who surrendered, and demanded he toast my bride, then pass the bottle to his mates.

He sniffed it suspiciously, and I had to take a sip of the vile stuff to demonstrate it wasn’t poison – just awful.  Apparently they didn’t share my tastes.  Getting captured was wearing on their spirits, and so was sitting around tied up in piss-soaked pants.  They were only too happy to drink to Alya’s health when invited.  An hour later I returned with another bottle, and had them drink to the health of my son.

With the added help of the extra elemental, we pulled into the sparse docks of Gilasfar an hour before dusk.  The dockmaster was surprised at a ship coming in so quickly, so late in the day and off the season, so he was on the deck as soon as we tied off.

“Well, what is all this, then?” he asked, puzzled, when he saw the drunken pirates tied up on the deck.

“What, them?” I asked, scornfully.  “Bunch of drunken bandits tried to board us downriver.  The pilot and the mate made short work of them, thank goodness.  They were raving mad when they came over the side.  Talking about all sorts of strangeness - the river was chasing them, that sort of thing.  Put down the mate, but the rest were like . . . well, like a bunch of drunks,” I sighed.

He sniffed them suspiciously, and one of the guthammered ones moaned drunkenly.

“Luin’s staff, this is the bloody Redwater gang,” he chuckled, toothlessly.  “They have a camp at the Redwater Oxbow.  Every time my lord sends the reeve for them, they disappear into the wilderness or the river.  Folks were starting to think they were unnatural.  Took five good barges last year,” he said, shaking his head.  “Killed six men.  Bunch of ruffians, you ask me.  The gods and their intemperance finally caught up with them!  It’ll be the gibbet for sure,” he chuckled evilly.

“I’m sure they would have been quite bloodthirsty, had they not been raving,” I agreed, as Palia helped the wounded mate upstairs from the cabin where Alya had been nursing him.  Apart from a small laceration I’d bound together and enchanted against infection, he would be fine.  He’d have a scar, but the young man would be no worse for wear.

He kicked one of the prisoners lazily with his boot, earning a groan.  “Spend the night in the gaol, you will, lads.  And I’ll send to the manor with news.”  He eyed me, suddenly.  “You did want the bounty on their capture, didn’t you?”

“How much?” I asked, startled.  I hadn’t considered there might be a reward.

“Ten piggies per,” the dockmaster said, nodding his head sagely.  I was a bit startled at that, too – ten hogs per prisoner seemed extreme.

But then I remembered that in this part of the Riverlands one of the standard coins with allegedly a half-ounce of silver were minted a century ago by a Riverlands count (one of the Darmines, if I recalled correctly) and featured a fierce rendering of his arms on the obverse.  After a generation most of the detail had worn away from constant use, leaving only the shape of a fat pig – a ‘piggy shilling’ or “piggy” for short.  So each of these men’s heads were worth five ounces of silver.  That was impressive.

“I can pay out . . . seven?  Eight?  Call it seven, right now,” he promised, “but I’ll have to send to the manor for the balance.  Will you be docking for the evening?” he asked, clearly hoping we were in a hurry so that he could pocket the difference.

“We’ll be staying a few days,” I admitted.  “Pay the reward to the captain and mate – they did the hard parts.  And if you could refer me to a good inn for me and my wife . . .”

“The Yellowfish is the only inn,” he said, scratching his beard.  “Good fare, not fancy.  Not too crowded now, either – not many fare this far upriver in the winter.”

“And could I hire a coach and driver there?”

“Livery stable across the High Street,” he grunted.  “Sign of the five shoes.  Where might you folks be headed?  Dillinsby?”

I had no idea where Dillinsby was.  “No, we’re going to see the ruins in Sartha forest, find that hot spring.”

He looked at me oddly.  “Sartha forest?  Aye, that’s in Sarthameton, to the northeast, but . . .” the dockmaster said, looking troubled.  “Folk don’t oft go there,” he said, almost in a whisper.  “The place is filled with strange folk, it is said, and some who go never return.  That forest . . . it’s dangerous,” he warned.

I toed one of the rank-smelling river pirates at my feet.  “Unlike the serene and peaceful life on the river,” I pointed out, ironically.  “Don’t worry, my wife is armed.”

*                            *                            *

The Yellowfish proved to be an old, worn building at least a hundred years old, catering to the rivermen and the merchants who made the rounds during the summers and autumns.  This was sheep country, thanks to the rougher terrain, and the wool merchants were notoriously picky about their lodgings, so the inn was cozy and comfortable, at least. In winter, the old couple who ran the place made do with locals and the odd stray.  But when I escorted Alya into the inn, the small common room on the ground floor was virtually deserted.

I was able to secure the highly-misnamed Duke’s Room for six copper pennies.  While any self-respecting Duke would have refused to lodge there, it was a spacious chamber with a garderrobe, not merely a chamberpot, and a big brass bathtub at one end, ancient but serviceable with two inches of soapsand in the bottom.

There was a large fireplace – unusual on a second floor, but welcome – that had a fire already laid on it.  The bed was large, four-posted and hung with faded green cotton hangings.  The tick was stuffed with goose down and reasonably free of vermin – I checked by magic.  There was a basin and ewer and even a towel of sorts next to the candlestick on the table.  A rocking chair sat near to the fire.

It wasn’t luxury, perhaps, but it was comfort.

The chambermaid (their daughter or granddaughter, I guessed) showed us the room and made a strong pitch for us to take it.  I accepted at once – the bed alone would have been worth the price – and then asked her to fill the tub with water.

“Hot or cold, my lord?” she asked, eyes sparkling.  “Cold I can do at once, hot will take an hour.  A penny for cold, three pence for hot!  Candles are two copper pennies, too,” she added.  You could buy six from a chandler at that price, but I suppose innkeepers need to make a profit, too.

“Cold,” I ordered.  “And don’t worry about lighting the fire.  I’ll handle that.”  I also ordered her to arrange a special dinner prepared for us, paying up front in silver to ensure a proper meal.  The maid was back in moments with two big pails full of river water, and three more trips filled the cauldron-like tub more than half way.  I tipped her a penny and bolted the door behind her.

“A cold room and a cold bath?” Alya asked wryly from the bedding – which she swore was the most comfortable she’d been in months.  “Have I made you angry, my husband?”

“Why wait on hot water . . .” I said, summoning power and casting a simple thermomantic spell.  “. . . when you can have it now?”  The tub began steaming almost immediately.  I turned and waggled my fingers at the wood in the fireplace, and it obligingly came to light.  As an afterthought, I cast a small magelight and had it float over the center of the room.  I’d tip until I was a pauper, but I’d be damned if I wasted money on candles and a cranky old cauldron downstairs when I could do it better and quicker with magic.

“A tub, a featherbed, a fire . . . I feel like a duchess!” she giggled.  I swelled with satisfaction.  “I’m enjoying our barge,” she said, “but after those pirates I feel like I need a bath more than anything!  Help me undress?”

While Alya was luxuriating in the tub, I spent some time writing down everything I could recall or speculate about concerning the secrets of the Alka Alon Ithalia had given me.  The Alka Alon don’t use writing, or rarely, just to humor us, but they have better memories than humans do.  I wrote out as complete an account of our adventure, thus far, and was just finishing up when Alya asked to be helped out of the tub and wrapped in a thick cotton towel.

Our meal appeared shortly thereafter, the maid looking wide-eyed at the magelight and with wonder at the steamy tub.  She set up the small table with our repast, a bowl of beans fried in garlic and onions, a thick slab of ham seared, roasted, and then covered in brandied cherries; freshly-baked biscuits, honey and an onion-ale soup served over toasted bread.  With a bottle of wine and another of mead from the barge, it was a delicious meal.

“So is it going to be like this every day?” she asked, playfully, as she finished her soup.  “Featherbeds and feasts?”

“As long as the money holds out,” I shrugged.  “Enjoy it while it lasts.  When our honeymoon is over, we have to learn how to be a lord and a lady of a domain.  Don’t all nobles sleep on featherbeds and feast every night?”

“I always thought so,” she agreed, giggling.  “I am looking forward to our new home, Min, wherever it is.  You said it wasn’t very big . . .”

“Less than twenty square miles, according to the map,” I said.  “But that should be almost enough for . . . whatever we end up calling him to run around on.”

“And there’s a castle?”

“Supposedly a grand old castle,” I agreed, as I finished off a biscuit.  “It dates from the early Lensely settlement of the Bontal valley.  I don’t know about how many fighting men it has now, but in its heyday it could support dozens.  Several villages.  But enough room for the Bovali refugees, and then some, I’m figuring.  And enough mountains around so that you won’t be too homesick, I hope.”  Since her home was now the staging area for the vast goblin army that menaced all of humanity, I couldn’t exactly promise her a trip back.

“You . . . you didn’t pick it because of . . . because of me, did you?” she asked, startled.

“I picked it most of all because of you,” I answered.  “You and our son.  The Alka Alon suggested choosing a place in that region, among others, and it had to be far enough away from the war to be safe, but close enough so that I could return to the front at need . . . it had to be viable, but not too rich.  I don’t exactly plan on building an empire, but I don’t want to spend all of our time defending our property from those who might covet it.  But yes, I chose a mountainous domain because I wanted you to feel at home.  And because I like mountains,” I added, truthfully.

Her eyes were weepy.  I tried to ignore it.

“And . . . and you’ve invited everyone I know to live there,” she continued, a few more tears appearing.

“Well, we’ll likely need the help,” I pointed out, eating another biscuit.  “Unless you were planning on cleaning the castle all by yourself.”

She looked at me thoughtfully from under the towel.  She was biting her lip.  “If I wasn’t the size and shape of a pumpkin right now,” she said, softly, “I would dance for you like a maiden in a meadow, and pleasure you slavishly all night long, Minalan.”

I swallowed as I considered that mental image.  Before she was pregnant, my twenty-year old bride could have been mistaken for fifteen from five feet away.  While the course of her pregnancy had somewhat altered her features (her nose was a little wider, I’d noticed, and her breasts and arse had spread predictably), Alya was still a very beautiful woman.  While she may have lacked Pentandra’s considerable skill and knowledge in the Scarlet Arts, she had a native enthusiasm and an inventive imagination that had continued to intrigue me.

It was a shame, I reflected, that she was this pregnant on our honeymoon.  I vowed to make it up to her someday with a proper retreat.  I opened that sixth bottle of mead – the one devoted to passion – and poured us each a glass.  We toasted each other silently, sipped, and then I stood.

She looked at me quizzically.  “My husband?”

“It seems a shame,” I said, softly, as I unlaced my tunic, “that your sweet offer of entertainment should go to waste.”

Her eyes grew wide.  “You want me to . . . dance for you?  You want to see a prize pumpkin dance around?”  I could tell she was wavering between excitement and insult.  She was getting increasingly self-conscious about her body, I knew.  “If my husband commands it,” she decided, with a reluctant sigh.

“I wasn’t going to ask you to dance for me,” I told her, pulling the tunic over my shoulders.  “Although it might be entertaining, and possibly arousing, I don’t want you to feel embarrassed.  Or take a misstep and fall,” I added, and she blushed.  Her center-of-gravity was constantly changing, and she was increasingly clumsy.  “But as it is our honeymoon, and this is the bottle of lust . . . I shall dance for you, my wife,” I said, swallowing uneasily.

“Minalan?” she asked, her lips contorting into a smile and her eyes gleaming.

“Who said only women could dance enticingly?” I challenged.  “If the sight of your melons and that exquisite bottom bouncing around should be alluring to me,” I reasoned, “I can only guess that seeing me prance around unclad might stir your cauldron a bit.”  I pulled the drawstring at my waist.  With a wiggle of my hips my cotton hose dropped to the floor.  My underwear followed.

Her eyes got larger.  “Oh, my!” she giggled, blushing.

“Does my lady find my appearance pleasing?” I asked, puffing up my chest in my manliest fashion.  It had been a few weeks since I’d done any serious fighting, and my virile youth was far behind me, but the days I’d spent having my body pounded into fighting shape, and that long march down the mountainous Farisian peninsula when I was a youth had given me a solid foundation of muscle under my hairy chest.

“Ishi’s dripping twat, Min!” she swore as she giggled, holding her hand in front of her mouth, “you are quite impressive when you’re naked!”

What man doesn’t want to hear that?  I swelled with pride, among other things, as I prepared to entertain my wife . . . and then realized I didn’t really know how to dance.

Oh, I knew a few steps of a pavane or a brawl or two, but as for proper dancing I’d never been formally tutored.

But I did know how to fight.  In fact, at Relan Cor, the ducal War College where they had turned me from a scholar into a warmage, they had drilled the “Sword Dance of the Magi” into my skull with daily repetition until I could do it in my sleep.  There were three or four variations, and the small room suggested the close-quarters element of the drill . . . but I lacked a sword.  It wasn’t that important, but it wasn’t particularly impressive without it.

I looked around.  The iron fireplace poker would do.  I summoned a tendril of magical force and compelled it to float across the room into my hand, then I turned and saluted my bride smartly.

“Oh, I find this extremely entertaining!” she assured me, continuing to giggle.  I smiled and then closed my eyes, preparing myself . . . and then I began.

First the iron went behind my head, my left hand outstretched as I took the beginning position.  I tried to ignore the fact that I was naked, and my lance was hanging out in ways that would complicate a few steps and focused on precision.  Then I raised my left knee and took the step that led into the second position, shifting my balance and pivoting so that I could change direction swiftly and employ my fake blade.

Next I pulled it back, parallel to my arm, and swung it in a slow but precise circle, my thighs flexing and my back stretching until all three fictional opponents I was facing would have been hit.  I snapped back into third position, crouched low with the “blade” now held parallel to the ground, and I stabbed left and right, swung another gentle, slow arc, and quickly changed orientations three times in rapid succession.

“Oh, my!” Alya repeated approvingly, blushing.

I continued, only a faint smile on my face.  I was trying to arouse my beloved, not kill a man, and I altered the routine accordingly.  I tried to imagine what it must look like, from her perspective: a naked man with an iron rod dancing around under a magelight.  I flexed my biceps, twirled on my heel, stabbed and slashed the air gently while she watched in apt attention.  With one pivot my own arse was suddenly near to her face, and she squealed and slapped at it.

I ignored it, and kept “dancing”.  Faster and faster I moved as my muscles warmed up and I felt my limbs responding to the old routines.  After five full minutes, I had broken a sweat, but I kept going.  It felt good to use those muscles, all of those muscles.  And it felt even better to watch the increasing lust reflected in my bride’s eyes as she took in the sight of her husband’s display.

I’m reasonably good looking, after all – thanks to magic, I hadn’t kept any acne scars from youth, and so far all of my battle scars were confined to limbs, more interesting than unsightly.  A career at arms had sculpted my body well, better, perhaps, than most peasant farmers or tradesmen.

Alya drank it in like it was half-price wine.  When I finally did stomp to a stop after completing the close quarters drill, my eye fixed hers as I froze.

“Minalan,” she said, throwing open the towel that still covered her, “come pleasure me.  As much as you can.  All night long, if you are able.”

“As my wife commands,” I said, dropping the poker to the floor and crawling into bed over her.

A bottle last for love to endure as long as life shall last,

Arranging a carriage the next morn was easily enough arranged.  As it was winter, the stable had three to select from and I of course chose the most comfortable, and hand-picked the team to pull it.  I didn’t want to drive the wain myself, of course, so I hired a man to do it, one who had been to Sarthameton domain before, and then hired a boy to accompany us and look after this and that.  It was nearly a day’s ride to the northeast, perhaps more, depending on the road conditions, so I had Palia pack a hamper of provisions for us.

The ride was long, dusty, and cold.  I had to magically insulate the drafty carriage to keep Alya warm enough, and then ply her with sips of spirits to keep her insides warm.  Yet the day was beautiful, sunny with little wind, and no snow had yet graced this part of the Riverlands.  We rode with the canvas windows rolled up so we could see the hills and woods alongside the road.

But we did not make Sarthameton that night, thanks to two separate work corvees who were repairing the road and forced us to stop or slow.  Every mile took us even deeper into the remote domain, until we were forced to camp near a tiny hamlet of villeins and woodcutters.

As the coachmen we hired set up camp, I followed my nose until I found the most enticing smells of supper being prepared, and by spending more silver than those poor peasants had likely seen in their lives I procured enough for us all.  The camp fire next to our carriage became quite festive, after the peasant woman delivered our dinner and I invited her to toast my marriage with one of the bottles of wine I’d brought.  Her husband arrived a bit later, and was also invited.  Neither one of them had ever tasted real wine before, so I broke out the other bottle and soon nearly the entire hamlet was clustered around our fire, toasting our health and our happiness.  Then someone pulled out a battered viol from somewhere and singing began in earnest.

It was a merry gathering, all the more welcome for its unexpected nature.  When we continued our journey the next morning just after dawn, at least a dozen showed up to see us off and wish us well.  For my part, I did not begrudge a single penny I spent there (and I spent lavishly, from a peasant’s perspective).  Winters were hard for the villeins, and a few extra coins could mean the difference between starvation and survival.

“That was lovely,” my bride admitted, as she ate her breakfast in the carriage.  “But how much further is it?”

“Perhaps another half-day,” I said, having scryed the route.  “If what the headman of the hamlet told me is correct, the Elf’s Gate is nearly four leagues away.  Are you . . . are you concerned about meeting the Sorceress of Sartha Wood?”

“Me?  No, not at all.  I was just wondering.  I like the Alka Alon.  I’m not sure if I trust them, entirely, but they were always a good omen to meet, back in Boval Vale.”  There had been a settlement of Tree Folk in the far north of her native valley.  I’d visited it, once, at the very beginning of the invasion, but for the most part the Alka Alon had been reclusive to the human inhabitants of the vale.  “Besides,” she groaned, as I felt one of the wheels hit a rock and our carriage rattled, “I just wanted to know how much more of this my arse can take.  After last night, I’m a little . . . tender,” she admitted with a blush.

“I can imagine,” I agreed.  “If you recall, my wife, that third time was your idea, not mine.”

“I do not regret it,” she chuckled.  “Besides, how could any maid resist the charms of such a robust and virile man?  I’d consider doing it again, if those two churls wouldn’t overhear.”

“Bah!  Peasants!” I dismissed.  “We’re ennobled, now.  We get to act like spoiled children and inconsiderate tyrants, now, remember?”

“You really want your servants to hear your wife scream her bloody head off?” she asked, amused.

“I don’t really care who hears it,” I pointed out.  “That’s the great thing about being a noble.  And there are ways to get around that sort of thing,” I added, casually.

“Min,” she said, suddenly changing the subject, “what if we find out that . . . that the baby is . . . is in danger?” she asked, worried.  How women can shift directions like that, I’ll never understand.  I was just considering how to engineer a quick erotic interlude, and now she was discussing babies.

“We’ll do whatever must be done,” I said, solemnly.  That seemed to mollify her.

It didn’t take long to arrange for a carriage and team the next morning, and we departed the inn right after breakfast, taking along a hamper of supplies from both inn and barge.  Our crew we rewarded liberally and invited to take a few days’ leave, if desired, while we ranged the countryside.

One often thinks of the Riverlands as being full of people, and that’s true in enough in many places.  But the country around Gilasfar reminded me just what could happen to a “prosperous” land when its people are taxed and conscripted for generation after generation.  I knew that the region had been heir to one ugly dynastic dispute after another, and outside of the river basin the lands here were of only moderate fertility.

We saw villages and hamlets and fields and hovels aplenty, it was true enough.  But there were times when (apart from the condition of the road) it felt more like we were riding through the sparsely-settled Wilderlands, not the long-peopled Riverlands.

We camped that night at a shrine to Herus, the god of travelers.  I hadn’t expected to see one in a region this remote from civilization, but that’s where the priests of the god of restless feet liked to surprise the world with them.  This was not a full-blown hostel, but a small, unoccupied cabin near a spring.  The roughly-carved wooden idol smiled benevolently over stocks of firewood, a kettle, and three earthenware jars of oats, corn, and rice.  Other travelers had offered a small jar of honey, salt, some bandages and, of all things, a sponge.

While we did not take advantage of the sparse amenities, save the firewood, I considered how fortunate our journey had been thus far – pirates included – and left one of the small bottles of spirits from our steadily-diminishing supplies.  It was a mint liquor that was just a bit too strong for Alya’s taste, and too minty for mine, so there was nearly three-quarters of a bottle left.  But it would serve as an antiseptic in a pinch, as well as being an unexpected cheer to some future weary pilgrim.  I even gave a brief prayer to Herus, asking for protection and fortune for the remainder of the journey.  It never hurts to have the ear of a god, I reasoned.

The cabin was snug, and the drovers were content to sleep in the carriage.  The weather was clear, if cold, and the wind wasn’t too bad, but I was glad to get the fire going before the sun went down.  Soon Alya had some stew going in the kettle.  I was about to comment on the aroma when I felt the beginnings of mind-to-mind contact – Alkan style.

I quickly found a spot outside of the cabin where I wouldn’t be disturbed.

Master Minalan, came her first words, what have you done?

What? I sputtered, confused.  What do you mean?  I thought I had followed her orders to the letter.  We’re on the edge of Sartha Wood, now.  We should be there by mid-morning.

Spellmonger, she said, reprovingly, in my mind, did I not caution you against employing any of the Alka Alon songspells within your sphere?

The water elemental.  The pirates.

Oh.  That.

Uh, my lady we were beset by bandits and were nearly overcome.  I admit, I used the spell only because it was an emergency.

Mayhap, she argued, but your use of the spell has alerted . . . it has complicated matters, somewhat, she said, trying to regain her composure.  Indeed, it may have put you in danger.

Danger? I asked, alarmed.  How so?

Those who imposed my grandmother’s exile were loath to allow her easy congress with her allies, she explained, patiently.  To that end they surrounded her enclave with certain defenses that engage in specific circumstances.  While I cannot be certain that your spell caught their attention . . . the defenses were specific to Alka Alon magic.  I had hoped that mere humani magic would not be enough to disturb them, and you could slip in quietly . . . but that may not be possible, now.

So just what kind of magical defenses are these? I asked, suddenly worried.

They change their manner after the nature of the stimulus, she said, sadly.  I cannot predict what your spell may have attracted.  A creature, a force, or something in between, many things are possible.  And I cannot discount the possibility that it will be ignored entirely.

I like that possibility, I answered, earnestly.  Let’s proceed with that in mind.  Besides, I like to think I’m a fairly adept thaumaturge, and I know warmagic.  I can handle myself.

Even as I said it, a flood of doubt crept into my mind to undermine my confidence.

I truly hope so, Minalan, for your sake.  I will not be in a position to protect you until you are at the Elf’s Gate . . . if then.

I swallowed, hard.  Then I guess I had better be on my toes.

Master Minalan . . . how would that help? She asked, confused.

Just an idiom, I chuckled.  I will take what precautions I can.   Even as I said it, I was heading back to the carriage.  I can keep a low profile.

Let us hope so.  I have no more time to speak tonight, but look for me on the morrow.  Make for that gate as quickly and as quietly as you can.  And if you encounter defenses that are too strong for you, she counseled, do not hesitate to run.

I opened the luggage box behind the carriage and rummaged around.  I felt it before I saw it, and pulled the cold sleek surface into the fading twilight.  It took the barest hint of effort to loose it from its scabbard, and then the magnificent mageblade was in my hand.  It had been packed away tightly against the damp, at the bottom of our luggage.  There hadn’t been time to get it before the pirates boarded us – and I had been trying to keep a low profile, remember – but it was the first thing I ordered unpacked when we docked at Gilasfar.  I’d brought it with me because after you’ve been attacked by pirates, a thirty-six inch long slender sliver of highly-enchanted steel gives you a sense of security a drawbridge cannot.

Ithalia, I soothed, as Twilight shone in the last rays of twilight, running isn’t really my style.

“You got out your sword,” Alya observed, when I went back inside the cabin.  I’d warded the area as thoroughly as I could, using only crappy old Imperial magic, not the Alka Alon vintage.  I’d tried to be subtle about it, but I was confident if a mouse farted within the field, I’d know what he had for lunch.

“I thought it a wise precaution,” I said, setting it aside.  “I don’t know this country, and while the shrines of Herus are supposed to be sanctuaries . . . well, not all bandits are that devout.”

“I was approving,” she said, nodding as she dished us each a bowl of stew.  “Those pirates . . . I suppose that they’re no better or worse than any bandit but . . . they scared me, Min.  Not just because I was afraid for my life, but because I had drawn a knife and was prepared to use it to kill a man.”

“That’s . . . a good thing,” I promised her.   “You’re surviving for two, now, remember.”

“Do you think I could forget?” she demanded.  “I was terrified for the baby!  And angry!  Some thuggish stranger wanted to invade my home – however temporary – and do me and my child harm.  I thought I’d cringe and hide in the cabin, but when that hatch opened, and it wasn’t you or the mate . . . I was enraged.  I was going to kill a man . . . I wanted to kill a man!  Trygg stayed my hand, is all I can think, because I was going to gut him.  I’ve butchered enough cattle to know where a man is vulnerable, and my knife . . . gods help me, Min, I wanted to punch it through his pecker and keep hacking until he wasn’t moving!”

There were tears in her eyes as she confessed it, as if survival were a sin.  “I’ve never had that feeling, Min.  When we were fighting goblins, that was pure terror and panic, a struggle to stay alive.  But this,” she said, shaking her head, “this was me being angry, more angry than I’ve ever been.  Angry enough to kill a man, even after he wasn’t a threat to me anymore.  It was a feeling I’ve never had before.”

“Don’t be ashamed of it,” I advised her, gently.  “Your hand was stayed, you warned before you wounded.  And that man did want to hurt you, or at least threaten to.  I’m very, very happy that you have that capacity to protect yourself and our child, but I’m also sad that you had to.”

“I will adapt,” she promised.  “I suppose all mothers learn what lengths they’ll go to protect their children.  For me, at least, stabbing is not out of the question,” she said, smiling through her tears.  “I just . . . I never felt that way before.  It was a shock, like a cold bath.”

“Well,” I said, rubbing her arm, “I’ve warded the camp as tightly as I could, without drawing undue attention.  These lands are not wild, precisely, but they are remote and sparsely peopled, for a Riverlands domain.  There could be bandits and worse about.  But with the wards, and Twilight at hand, not to mention a former warmage with incredibly good prospects, I’d say that you are as safe as in a castle, my lady.”

“I feel safe,” she said, putting her hand over mind.  “No, I want to feel safe.  I feel safer. I know you’ll do everything to protect me – us – but I just can’t get over . . .”

“Let’s have a sip of something strong before bed,” I counseled.  “For medicinal purposes.”  And if that didn’t work, there were calming spells I could use.

“I shall be fine,” she sighed.  “I just wanted to talk about it.”

“And I just wanted to listen,” I countered.  “You did a brave, brave thing, Alya.  And brave deeds always arise out of dark circumstances.”

“I feel no need to be brave,” she said, sullenly.  “But I suppose I had better learn.”

“You’re about to dice with the gods for the life of our child, and yours as well,” I pointed out.  “Every mother is brave.”

She looked at me thoughtfully.  “I may vomit.”

We were not attacked in the night, thankfully, though it was not particularly restful for me.  Ithalia’s vague warning did little more than make me paranoid.  I rose three or four times to inspect the wards, patrol the camp, and scry the surroundings against attackers.  Not the best way to spend your honeymoon nights.

Alya seemed in much better spirits in the morning, especially when I started carrying my mageblade on my belt.  I tried to be calm and smile and kiss her the way she wanted while trying to keep a constant eye out for danger.  After breakfast at dawn, we left as quickly as the team could be harnessed and my bride made ready to depart.

“Why so early?” she asked, yawning.  “I thought we had plenty of time.”

“I don’t want to dawdle,” I explained, reasonably.  “I have a fairly good idea where this ruined gate is, but I don’t want to miss it, then have to backtrack in the dark.  Besides, I enjoy a lovely morning where I can take in the scenery without actually using my legs.”

“It is beautiful,” she agreed, smiling at the barren hardwoods, the bright green evergreens, and the flaccid, shriveled trunks of the corwoods as we rolled through the countryside.  The fields we’d seen were planted with winter wheat, or had the remnants of oats or corn, but more often they were overgrown into meadows or pastures.  Goats, not cows, seemed to be the livestock of choice.  “I’ve always loved winter.  Oh, how I wish it would snow – I’ve always loved snow.”

“I’m partial to it myself,” I agreed, “when I don’t have to be in it.”

“Do you think Sevendor will be this pretty?”

“If not, I’ll make it prettier,” I promised.   “The records say the winters are mild, just three or four snows a year.”

“That would be enough,” she decided.  “And if it isn’t, I’ll just have you make more.”

“I’m sure we can work something out,” I snickered, lustfully.  “I’m going to perch on the roof for a bit, take a look around.  Would you like to join me?”

“And fall off like a watermelon?  No, thank you,” she said, holding the thick clay bottle of hot tea she’d prepared before we’d broken camp, “I’m comfortable.  If I move, I’ll have to pee.”

“An excellent point,” I said, kissing her and climbing up the side of the carriage.

The dull young man we’d hired to drive the team looked surprised that I’d joined him, but then he’d looked even more surprised in the morning when I was suddenly wearing a sword on my hip.  He and his fellow each bore a stout belt knife, as most peasants carry, but they were otherwise unarmed . . . and clearly hadn’t expected the possibility of trouble.  A trip to Sarthawood was counted as easy work for these lads.

I scryed the area, saw nothing to concern me, and then I did it again a few minutes later.  I considered contacting Pentandra, mind-to-mind, or even one of my apprentices, but I had little idea what I would say to them, or what I could ask them to do to help.  I was on my own, out here in the woods.

So I spent the next hour quietly hanging combat spells while Alya napped.

My vantage point did help us make the proper turn, from the miserably ill-repaired road we had been on to a wretched rut that pretended to be a road.  Then a trail through the woods.  I was starting to get anxious about how close the trees were growing when the path opened up into a meadow.

I had scryed the area, of course, but the three figures who stood in the middle of the clearing did not show as threats.  With simple magesight, however, they were abundantly powerful manifestations of . . . something.

At first they seemed to be three man-tall stalks of some sort, shiny and smooth on the outside, but with fronds or branches or something spreading in a tight coil from their trunks.

Then they were suddenly three heavily-armed human infantrymen, with hard steel cuirasses and shiny steel helms, each dressed in a surcoat of green.  And swords.  And shields.  And axes.

It was a cheap conjuring trick, of course – make three trees look like three knights to scare away the peasants?  That was basic warmagic.  I was about to order the drover to ride around when the damn things started to move.  March, even.  Toward us.

“Halt,” I ordered the man, and then climbed down from the perch, Twilight loose in the scabbard on my hip.

“Alya, stay in the carriage,” I instructed, and was gratified to see her nod while she drew her new dagger.

“Gentlemen,” I called out to the fake knights, “could you direct us toward the famous baths of Sartha Wood?  My bride is sorely—”

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

“On whose authority?” I asked.  The knights stood silent.  “All right, then why should I listen to you?”

“You will be in jeopardy if you continue along this way,” another one said in the same flat voice.

“I like a little excitement,” I promised.

“This road is forbidden for you,” the first one repeated.

“We will not permit you to go further,” the third one said.

“And why is that?”

“This road is forbidden to you,” the first one repeated, again.

“I understand that,” I reasoned, “but I need to know who forbade it.  And is it me, specifically, or just anyone?”

“We will not permit you to go further,” the third one repeated, with an air of finality.

“I see,” I sighed.  “All right, one at a time, or is this going to be interesting?”  They began advancing toward me, preparing their weapons.  Not vey talkative fellows, these green knights.

I drew Twilight and held it in both hands.  Forged by Master Cormoran, one of the finest weaponsmiths in the duchies, the steel was as light as feathers and as strong as a mother’s condemnation.  It was a slender, leaf-shaped blade chased with runes and sigils.  The interior spaces at the end of the blade had been fitted with thaumaturgic glass and other goodies, giving the weapon a wide range of implicit powers.

“We will not permit you to go further,” Number Three said, advancing first with a two-handed, double-bladed axe.

“I suppose we’ll have to contest that, then,” I said, murmuring a command.  The tip of Twilight exploded in a sheaf of bright orange flame.  The knight erupted at once, but kept marching forward until the heat of the blaze overcame him.

The other two continued without noticing their fellow.  Number One cocked his shield and began a fairly-standard close attack, pushing that green, woody shield into my face to bind up my weapon  . . . which is the exact proper way to engage a man without one.   But Twilight was no ordinary weapon.  Unencumbered by armor, I was able to roll along the edge of his shield, drop my blade as I twisted, and managed a nasty off-handed slash that took a good third of his head off.  Instead of blood, bone and brain, however, Twilight’s razor sharp edge felt like it was cutting through a huge, tough lettuce.

As effective as the move was, it threw me off-balance, which allowed Number Two a shot at me.  I don’t know where the Alka Alon grow these guys, but visual acuity is not one of their strengths, I realized, when he missed with his greatsword.  I didn’t wait for him to correct – I raised my left hand and uttered another spell.  It was basic, but effective in this case.  It was designed to debilitate a man by drawing the water out of his body.  For these green knights, however, the effect was far more dramatic.  The fake human dried to a husk in seconds.

Sir Husk and Sir Ash were still quivering, but Sir Stalk was beginning to recover from his wound.  That is, he continued to fight, albeit poorly.  I had plenty of time to scramble to my feet, take careful position, and carve him into salad.

“Let’s move,” I commanded, as I swung back on to the carriage.  “No telling how many more of them are around here!”

“My lord!” squeaked the drover in disbelief.  “My lord, were those –?”

“Challenging?  A bit,” I admitted.  “But magic and steel beats aggressive foliage.  Just keep us moving, and I’ll keep the danger at bay!”

After that our morning was spent rolling past one shadowy figure through the trees after another.  Twice they got close enough for me to lob a spell toward, but no one else attacked us directly.

The closest settlement to the wood was a tiny hamlet of woodcutters, a cluster of huts surrounding a stone hall that served as workshop and storehouse.  A silver penny bought us lunch, and another got us explicit directions to the Elf’s Gate.

“Nay, but you won’t find your way within, my lord, not unless the Lady of the wood wishes,” the toothless old graybeard who ran the hamlet told us with a smile.  “Mists, my lord, as thick as mud, and howling fell beasts, reeking fens and flies as big as my hand, my lord, as big as my hand!”

When questioned more carefully, however, it was easy to determine that folklore, not experience, informed his opinion.  The closest the woodcutters would get to the fabled wood was the Elf’s Gate, and no further.  The gate was less than a mile away, but they never felled a tree within sight of it.

“We’ll continue from here on foot,” I decided, after lunch.  “We can go slow, enjoy the day.  And that way the carriage won’t be a hindrance.”

“I could do with some exercise,” Alya agreed.  “Between the barge and the carriage, I haven’t stretched my legs in days.  But what if we run into more tree-knights?” she asked, concerned.

“Then we have salad for dinner,” I said, confidently.  “Don’t worry, my wife.”

She didn’t say anything, but I didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad.

We set out with a pack of supplies and a blanket along with our heavy winter mantles.  The temperature was just above freezing, and the sky clear of clouds.  It was a lovely day, and despite the anxiety I felt about being exposed to yet more unknown dangers, I wasn’t about to let that corrupt my honeymoon.

Stopping only once to rest, we saw the first glimpse of the Elf’s Gate early that afternoon.  Calling it a gate is a misnomer.  It’s actually the remains of some massive complex that had encountered a force greater than mere catapult stones.  The pale rock that had made up the building had been blasted into a wide field of rubble.  The “gate” was a single arched portal that had escaped the devastation, surrounded by a patchwork of walls and columns and other ruins.  They were overgrown with vines and underbrush, but there was something about them . . .

“Oh, that’s pretty!” Alya said, gasping when she saw the full stretch of the ruin.  I activated magesight.  Suddenly it didn’t seem so pretty.

There was a barrier, invisible to the human eye, that spread on either side of the gate.  It was indistinct even with magesight, but you could not disguise the tremendous power behind it.  Indeed, it felt as if it was a live, responsive creature.   And it wasn’t inclined to let casual passers-by pass by . . . at all.

“Oh, my,” I breathed.  “That’s the barrier Ithalia spoke of.   I haven’t seen anything like that . . . not since I went to the edge of the Umbra,” I reminded myself.  “This . . . this is more complex, structurally-speaking.  More like an elemental than a mere force.  There’s a kind of consciousness there.  Kind of like a perpetually-awake guard dog.”

“And we’re supposed to get past that?” Alya asked, quietly.

“That’s what I’m told,” I agreed.  “Ithalia said that she would tell us more on the morrow – which is today.  I suppose we just have to wait here until she contacts us.”

Alya shivered a bit.  “In the cold?”

“I’ll build a fire,” I decided.  I could have made her warmer magically, but I didn’t want to attract undue attention this close to the barrier.  I had already scryed the area, and had set up very basic wards to warn me of others, but I didn’t want to be too lavish with power, not so soon after my duel with the green knights.

“Don’t,” she countered.  “I’m warm enough, I suppose.  And I don’t want to attract any more attention, if we don’t need to.”

“Alya, there’s no telling how long it will take for Ithalia to contact us,” I warned.

“So I reserve the right to change my mind about the fire,” she grinned, shyly.  “But let’s hold off.”

“So . . . what should we do to stay warm then?” I asked, mischievously.

An hour later we snuggled up under both of our cloaks, sipping a sweet spirit and smoking one of the milder blends from my pouch, musing idly on our future lives as lord and lady, when suddenly someone set off my wards.  I stood quickly, summoning the spell and drawing my blade.  Unfortunately, Alya was quite entangled with me and I ended up spilling her.

“Hey!” she protested.

“Quiet!” I commanded, looking around intently.  “Someone is nearby.”

“What should I do?” she whispered, her eyes wide.

“Get under that cloak and pretend to be a rock.  I’m serious!” I said, when she looked at me quizzically.  “Don’t move until I tell you to.”  She bit her lip, but she complied.  It was a brown travel cloak, lined with rabbit fur, the kind any tradesman’s wife might wear on the road.  It didn’t quite disguise her, I decided, but from five steps away it became difficult to even see her.  I took ten steps toward the intruder, then two sideways, and waited.

My spells didn’t tell me much, save that there was but one variable, and that it wasn’t human.  I used a couple of augmentations to try to both see and hear the approaching . . . whatever it was, and re-checked the spells I’d hung.

Presently there was a rustle through the trees, one that extended to the treetops – whatever it was, it was big.  I found a slightly better spot to make a stand upon, making use of a table-sized boulder in the midst of an outcropping, and started activating my defensive spells.

A few moments later my guest lumbered through the trees.  A big guest.  A troll.

Not a regular troll – that would be too easy.  Trolls are a type of Alon, a really big and stupid type.  They were bred by the Alka Alon in their glory days as a brute labor force for construction and such.  They look kind of like a goblin, only much broader, proportionately, and five to ten times larger.  The Dead God had recruited or bred plenty of them.  They had fought at every major battle of the war.  Big, dumb, and taking direction well were all the requirements for membership in Sharuel’s troll corps.  Usually they wore bits and pieces of armor or mantles or breechclouts of some sort, or went entirely naked (not a pretty sight – trolls grow less hair than goblins, and it tends to be patchy).  When they fought, they used trees or logs as clubs, or put together crude hammers.

This one looked like the classy, uptown version.  He wore armor, for one thing.  A black coat-of-plates the size of a tournament pavilion, but clearly made for him.  There was a thick iron cap on the top of his head, and his broad feet were stuffed into iron hobbed boots the size of a washtub.  His armor was banded by a broad leather belt, a hideous-looking face as its buckle, and from it dangled a nasty-looking morning star.  Worse, there was a spear the size of a ship’s mast in his great gnarled fist, the head of which was as long as my mageblade.

“Oh, Duin’s dirty champerpot,” I swore, my heart sinking.  This was no more a “real” troll than the knights had been.  He was far better armed than a troll had reason to be.  And I had a feeling he was smarter than the average troll.

That part, at least, I could test.

“It’s about time you arrived,” I said, testily, my hands folded across my chest.

The big, black eyes looked at me thoughtfully for a moment, when the thing brought its bulk to a halt.  Far more thoughtfully than an ordinary troll would.

“It takes a while to get here,” he answered.  “I appreciate you waiting.”  The voice was deep and slow, but spoke Narasi with a perfect accent.

“May I ask exactly why you came all this way?”

“It’s my job,” he said, shrugging in a very non-trollish manner.  “When I’m called, I go.”

“And when you arrive,” I asked, “then what?”

“I see what needs to be done.  Then I do it.”

“I applaud your work ethic,” I said, looking for ways to stall.  It wasn’t that I had a particular plan, I was just trying to find an angle, a weakness.  So far, it wasn’t looking good.  “It’s rare in one of your folk.”

“You’re probably used to the young ones,” he chuckled, almost human-like.  “They’re not too bright.  Takes a whipping to get them moving.”

“It’s much the same with our lads in their youth,” I agreed.  “Like the world owes them a living.  No appreciation for honest toil.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” he asked, leaning on his spear.  “No pride in their work.”

“So what, in your professional opinion, is the task to be done, now that you’ve arrived?”

“Well, I’ve been charged with keeping the bounds clear of interlopers,” he said, conversationally.

“What kind of interlopers?  Surely you don’t go chasing after every fox, hare, and woodcutter who stumbles through?”

“No, no,” he chuckled.  “Are you serious?  I’d be running hither and yon all day, if that was the case.  No, I only go seek out the serious threats.”

“And what constitutes a serious threat?”

“Say, a humani mage poking around places he shouldn’t, letting his curiosity get him into trouble.”

“I beg your pardon – say, I didn’t get your name?”

“Dargarin,” he said, nodding congenially.  “A pleasure.  And you?”

“Minalan,” I bowed.  “The same.  In any case, Sir Dargarin, I must take issue with your charge, then.  I am not merely poking around.  I aim to go within the barrier.”

“See?  That’s not allowed,” he said, shaking his head, sadly.  “That’s why I’m here.  To dissuade you.”

“I wish to see the sacred baths of Ishi, which legend says lie within Sartha Wood.  I am newly wed, and the baths are said to be powerful aids to fertility.”

“A noble cause,” he conceded.  “And it is true, Ishi once made use of the springs, it is said.  Before my time,” he grunted.  “But unless you have permission, you can’t go in.”

“And from whom might I secure permission?”

“That’s not for me to say,” he admitted, scratching his scraggly face.  “The fact that you have to ask tells me you don’t have permission.”

“And what if I tried to enter without permission?”

“Oh, it would be bad,” he nodded.  “Very bad.  Confounding mists, restless spirits, malicious spells – I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“You do make some compelling arguments,” I had to agree.  “None of that sounds pleasant.  Yet I’ve taken a sacred vow to bathe in the springs, to insure my first born is a son.  How can I walk away from a sacred vow?”

“That’s between your soul and your gods,” he decided, after a moment’s thought.  “Don’t have much use for either of them, myself.”

“Well, if that’s the kind of danger I’m facing,” I reasoned, “doesn’t that make your job redundant?”

“I like to think of me more as an auxiliary to the barrier,” he countered.  “It is a passive defense.  I’m more active.”

“Yet I still don’t understand why I cannot go through.”

“It is forbidden.”

“Yes, but why?”

He shrugged again, his coat of iron plates clanking mutely.  “I don’t really care.  I have my orders.”

I sighed.  “Again, I can’t fault you for your work ethic.  But I must ask, if you don’t care about why you are to actively forbid me to go through the barrier in fulfillment of holy vow, then what compels you to do so?”

“Duty?  Honor?  The satisfaction of a job well-done?” he considered.  “All of these and none, perhaps.  The truth is, I like to be useful, and someone found me a good use.  It’s light work, good grub, and I get to walk through the forest a lot.  It’s pretty,” he observed, looking around.

“I cannot argue with that,” I conceded.  “It really is pretty.  Especially with the ruins in the background.”

“Yes, I like to come here and just stand, sometimes.  Just . . . be.”

“You know, you aren’t like any troll I’ve met before.”

“There are only a few like me – old enough to have gotten beyond the impetuous violence stage.  Most of us don’t make it past adolescence, you know.”

“Really?  Why?  Angry villagers?  Vengeful knights errant?”

“Nah,” he dismissed, leaning on his spear, “young trolls are apt to fits of impetuous violence.  Old trolls are apt to very deliberate and highly destructive fits of violence.  The subtlety is lost on the young and stupid,” he reflected.  “Only a few are wise enough to survive.  The ones that do . . . well, we tend to be very, very dangerous.  And occasionally well-read.”

“Well read?  You read?” I asked, surprised.

“Well, it’s not that difficult, once you get the grasp of it.  Every now and then some scholar or sage or loremaster wanders up here looking for the gods alone know what, and I have to . . . contend with them.  Sometimes they have the most interesting books in their personal effects.  Narasi, Perwyneese, Old High Perwyneese, Farisi, Hvecti, Old Imperial, I can read it all,” he said, proudly.

“That is perhaps the most fascinating thing I’ve heard all week,” I admitted.  “And it’s been an eventful week.  Say, what if I promised you that I’d bring you a bunch of books if you looked the other way while you scooted across the barrier?”

He shook his head.  “It’s not that I’m not open to a bribe, you see – I’m a reasonable enough troll.  But I’m accountable for this.  I can’t risk such a cozy assignment.  Not for a couple of books.”

“No, I can see that. But . . . well . . .”

He suddenly grinned.  “Oh!  You’re stalling!” he realized.

“Well, uh, yes,” I admitted, guiltily.  “I suppose I am.  It’s such a pretty day, and the woods are so beautiful I would hate to mess them up with blood.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he dismissed.  “It happens all the time.  Two, three weeks there won’t be any sign left of your body.”  He spoke with the authority of someone who knew from personal experience.

“Well, I also hate to rush into anything,” I said.  “And I’m still hoping I can convince you to look the other way.”

“You can try,” he conceded.  “But the fact is, I’m stalling, too.”

Again, I was surprised.  “Why are you stalling?”

“Because there are two more of my mates on the way,” he chuckled, “and I’d hate to start without them.  It can get boring, this job.  If you run out of things to read, the odd bit of violence is really your only entertainment.”

My spine froze.  One well-armored, well-armed literate troll was bad enough . . . but three?  I thought of Alya, hiding under a cloak a dozen yards away.  How could I protect her against three trolls?  How could I protect myself from three trolls?  I was pretty anxious about the one.

“Well, that does alter our circumstance, then,” I sighed, drawing Twilight.  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to impose on you to begin before they arrive.”

“Aww!” he said, mockingly, “they’re going to be so disappointed!”

“Serves them right for being slowcoaches,” I grunted.

He picked up his spear.  “I’ll give you one last chance to walk away from the place,” he offered, graciously.  “You seem like a nice enough fellow, Minalan.”

“Likewise, Dargarin.  At your convenience,” I said, saluting with my mageblade.

He didn’t dally.  In moments that sword-length spearhead was slashing at my face.  I parried, but while the boulder I was standing on put me more or less at the same height as Dargarin, it did so at the expense of mobility.  And fighting against a spear made mobility a treasure.

But I wasn’t defenseless.  While I parried, I cast a couple of simple offensive spells at the troll, just to see what would happen.  Unfortunately, my suspicions were confirmed when he shrugged them off instead of collapsing in pain.  Dargarin was magically protected.

I leapt to avoid a nasty slash at my thighs, and abandoned the boulder with a diving roll into the loamy underbrush and sprang to my feet, engaging my warmagic augmentation spells as I did so.  Suddenly everything around me seemed to move much more slowly, and I had a lot more leisure to plan my attack.

Or so I thought.  As I was moving in to stab the big lug’s unprotected shin, I could feel a surge of power from him . . . and then he was moving as fast as I was.  His mammoth spear blade blocked my attack deftly.  That did give me the opportunity to reach out with my left hand, slap the haft of the weapon just behind the head, and activate a spell I’d prepared with the green knights in mind.

If Dargarin was protected by magic, his spear was not.  The five-inch-thick log grew dry and brittle in his hands, and snapped into dust and splinters with his next swing.

“Well done!” he chortled as his useless spearhead went flying.

“Thank you!” I called, automatically.  I didn’t let his congeniality get in the way of trying to take his head off, as he stood unarmed.  Unfortunately, his head was out of range, and my blow skidded harmlessly off of his enchanted armor while he backpedaled through the forest.

He got his hand on that vicious-looking morning star all too quickly.  I realized I should have let him keep the spear.

Fighting against a morning star is tricky.  They aren’t particularly good at blocking or parrying, and they aren’t particularly precise weapons . . . but in the hands of someone who knows how to use one, when they do land they do a lot of damage.  This one was half the size of my head, and the haft was an iron-shod oak log eight inches thick.  The iron chain was the real problem, though.  Not only did it give Dargarin’s blows far more leverage, it was easily long enough to enwrap and entangle a sword.

The troll began swinging it in slow, dangerous-looking circles.  He seemed extremely comfortable with the weapon.  I stood there, ready, trying to figure out how to get past that swirling chain and its brutal head.

“Ready to reconsider?”

“No, I’m just anticipating how nice that hot spring will feel, after this.”  I ran against him again.  The morning star swung gracefully around, but Dargarin deftly snapped his wrist and made the lethal ball of iron spikes change direction with frightening speed.  I narrowly avoided the thing as it buried itself into the ground, inches from my feet.

I sprayed the trolls face with a flaring cantrip, and he grunted in discomfort as he pulled his weapon back out of the ground, but I was still at a loss for how to attack him.  I spouted fire at his chest with a spell from Twilight, but he shrugged it off.  That did get him angry, though.

“Hey!” he blared.  “No catching the forest on fire!”

“Sorry!” I called, as he stomped on a flaming patch with his mighty boot.  “I’ll be more considerate in the future!”

“You don’t have much future left,” he grunted, as he whirled back around, weapon in hand.

The spell had been ineffective, but it had given me an idea.  I hit him with a few more flaring cantrips, just to distract him, while I circled around and quietly cast another spell on the ground a few yards away, between two rocks and a conveniently-placed hemlock.

It was a lot easier this time, thanks to the robust power of my new sphere, than the time in Boval when I employed it against the first goblin shaman I ever faced in battle.  I hadn’t even used the Alka Alon spells for it, just plain ol’ spellmongering.  But when I maneuvered Dargarin back with some inspired swordwork, his left leg sunk into the earth up to his thigh, earning me a shocked look.  With a thought I concluded the spell, and the troll was half-buried in the dirt.

“Hey!” he bellowed.  “No fair!”

“I just changed the density of the soil for a moment,” I pointed out.  “Even a big guy like you will have a hard time wiggling out of that!”

“Damn it!” he gasped, after a moment’s struggle.  “You really caught me!”  He quickly picked his morning star back up and began to swing it warily.  He couldn’t move, which made him particularly vulnerable, and the decrease in his height brought him down to eye level.  Of course he was still one big damn slab of troll under thick, enchanted armor, so the prospect of simply walking up and cutting his throat was meager.

“Sorry, but I really have to take that bath,” I said, “and I didn’t feel right slaying you, for some reason.”

“Well, I appreciate the consideration, but this doesn’t change much,” he growled.  “I can hear one of my mates approaching, now.  Theridald, if I’m any judge.”

I gazed in the direction he indicated.  Sure enough, there was a stirring in the treetops a quarter-mile or so away, and it was heading toward me at a good pace.

“Shit!” I swore.  “Any advice?”

“Reconsider your desire for a bath,” he said, after some thought.

I left him alone, struggling against the soil that bound him.  I quickly ran back to where Alya was crouched and quietly told her to keep still – I had dealt with one troll, but there was another on the way.  She grunted a response and I left, pausing only long enough to cast an unnoticability spell over her.

I met Theridald a hundred yards from the Elf’s Gate, finding a small clearing where I might be able to maneuver.  Theridald was, apparently, not gifted with the same devotion to his duty as Dargarin, as he loped along with a lackadaisical gait, a massive double-bladed, double-handed axe the size of a wagon wheel hung on his shoulder, making him look like a peasant with a hoe.  He seemed completely at ease, which did not bode well for my future, and when he saw me his face broke into a wide grin.

“Splendid!” he boomed, slowing a bit, but otherwise not reacting to my presence.  “Here I thought this would be a false alarm!”

“I’ve already eliminated Dargarin,” I warned him, boldly, Twilight in both hands in front of me.   “Fight me at your peril.”

“You killed Dargarin?” he asked in disbelief, halting suddenly.

“No!” Dargarin called from his earthy bonds, out of sight but clearly within trollish hearing.  “He just tricked me with magic!”

“Magic!” Theridald said, uneasily.  His axe found its way into his mighty fists, and he waved the huge iron head around like it was made of paper.  “I don’t have no truck with magic!”

I thought about correcting his double negative, but considering Theridald was easily the second smartest troll I’d ever met, I didn’t have the heart.  “Yes, magic,” I said with my best glaring look.  “It was over in moments.  I spared your friend’s life, since he was gracious enough to converse with me first.  I’ll offer him the same bribe I offered you: what would make you look the other way while I assay the barrier?”

Theridald froze and thought about it.  “Bribe?”

“Yes, a bribe,” I said.  “What would you like?  What would it take?”

He waited so long that I started to think that he had forgotten the question.  Then he snorted and shrugged.  “I got everything I want,” he decided.  “Good food, good job, kind masters . . . and I get to bash people every once in a while.  That’s what I want.”  To emphasize his point he gave his axe a couple of impressive practice swings.  As large as it was, he swung it so effortlessly and so fast that the blades whistled through the air.

“Gods,” I breathed.  “You really know how to use that thing!”

“Why, thank you!” he boomed, proudly.  “I can fell a mighty oak with one little swing”

I snorted.  “Now that might be stretching the truth a bit, don’t you think, Sir Theridald?”

He looked at me defiantly, his beady eyes suddenly angry.  “You doubt my word?”

“Oh, you cut the air most deftly,” I agreed.  “But when it comes to your boast, well, consider me skeptical.  Dargarin, maybe.  You?” I asked.  In truth Dargarin probably outweighed this troll by a few hundred pounds at most, but I had a feeling that trolls might be sensitive to such criticism.  I was correct.

Theridald put his axe blade on the ground and leaned on it.  “Go ahead.  Pick out a tree.”

“What?  That won’t be necessary,” I said.  “I would hate to embarrass you, after what you claimed.  Let’s just get to the fighting.”

“No, no, I insist!” the troll demanded.  “Choose your tree!  Any tree in the forest!”

I thought about finding one a few miles from here, but even trolls aren’t that dim.  I looked around and spotted an ancient oak tree, at least a hundred years old, on the edge of the clearing.  “Promise not to attack me if I do?”

“You have my word,” the troll said, solemnly.  “I will do you no harm until I have reduced whichever tree you select to splinters.”

I nodded and put my sword away.  While I wasn’t certain if one can count on the word of a troll-cum-security guard, I was starting to formulate a plan.  I walked over to the oak – a red oak, whose trunk would be tough and stringy – and examined it.

While I was there, I used a quickly-contrived variation of a spell I knew, enchanted the living wood with a few quiet words, then made a show of circumnavigating the huge tree before I nodded to the troll, satisfied.  “If you cut through this with one blow, Sir Theridald,” I promised, “I shall quit the field and retire, and assay the barrier no more.”

The big troll grunted in satisfaction.  He hefted the axe and was at the tree in three mighty paces.  “This one?” he asked, peering at the brown bark.

“That will do,” I nodded.  “Cleve it in twain and I’ll withdraw.”

He chuckled, making a show of warming up and stretching a bit, and then took a few more practice swings before he got into position.  With one last gloating look at me, he wound back that massive blade and then sent it sailing at the trunk of the tree with all the force his mighty shoulders could muster.  He even put his hips into it.  By all rights, the swing should have been more than enough to bisect a tree twice as thick.

But then magic isn’t concerned with rights.  When the blade intersected the trunk, it stopped, frozen by the spell.  Theridald’s shoulder did not.  The force was so powerful that I heard a dull snap, and then the huge humanoid was screaming in pain like a baby.

“My shoulder!” he bellowed.  “My shoulder!  I dislocated my shoulder!”

“Ouch!” I said, empathetically.

Theridald stared at me accusingly through teary eyes as his big left hand massaged his painful right shoulder.  “You bastard!  You bewitched it!”

“I did warn you about magic,” I reminded him, patiently.  “And I did warn you I had eliminated Dargarin from the day.”

“You bloody mage!” he howled, taking an unsteady step toward me.  “I’ll kill you!”

“Now, now,” I said, drawing my sword again.  “You gave your word, Sir Theridald!”

That caught him up short.  “I did?”

“ ‘I will do you no harm until I reduce whatever tree you select to splinters,’ ” I quoted.  “You gave me your word.”

He sighed, heavily.  “I did.  Very well, Sir . . .”

“Minalan,” I said, with a bow.  “Sir Minalan the Spellmonger, at your service.”

It was meant as an empty formality, but the offer caught the troll’s attention.

“Really?  Then . . . could you fix my shoulder?”

That took me aback.  The fact was, I probably could have.  The fact was, actually doing so would have been bad for my health.  Besides, I had little idea about trollish musculature.  I’d be as apt to harm him as heal him.

“You can rig a sling,” I offered.  “And I can numb the nerve that’s causing the pain, but . . . well, it will take the strength of a troll to pop that back in the socket.  Perhaps when Dargarin has freed himself . . .”

“Oh, I shouldn’t have to wait that long,” Theridald said, peering to the south.  “I think our fellow Arsimbal is nigh.  He’s not as nice as Dar or me.  Downright mean, for a troll.  He can fix it, then . . . after he deals with the likes of you!”

“That’s telling him, Ther!” Dargarin shouted from a distance.

The fact that I had incapacitated two trolls in rapid succession should have had me bursting with pride . . . but the approach of a third sapped any joy I could have taken.  The third troll, Arsimbal, lumbered unceremoniously into the clearing.

He was dressed in the same black coat-of-plates his mates wore, but he wore no iron helm, and instead of axe or morning star he carried the trunk of a tree around like a club.

“What’s all this, then?” he hollered as he saw me with a sword and his fellow clutching painfully at his shoulder.

“Watch him, Arsimbal!” Theridald called disgustedly, still holding his shoulder.  “He’s a bloody mage!”

“They all taste the same to me,” dismissed Arsimbal.  “Should have known you two wouldn’t be able to handle him.”  He slapped his big club in his hand threateningly.

“Uh, may I ask you a question, Sir Arsimbal?”

“What is it?  And no tricks!”

“Of course not.  I was just wondering why you aren’t as well armed as your fellows?  Surely a big troll like you would warrant a magnificent sword or axe . . .”

Arsimbal glanced at his club and shrugged.  “I’m a traditionalist.  Bashing things with clubs is in my blood.”

It was my turn to shrug.  “I can’t argue with that.  You wouldn’t be open to a bribe, would you?”

“Not bloody likely!” he called back derisively.  He wasn’t as chatty as his fellows, either.  In moments he was racing toward me far faster than any troll had a right to move, swinging that tree-trunk around him in deadly arcs.  I started backpedalling at his advance as Theridald stood by and chuckled evilly.

“Told you he was mean,” Theridald said, as I raced past him.

I ignored the wounded troll and stopped to pivot and fire off a few spells.  Arsimbal merely raised his club and the magic was inexplicably absorbed by it.  I stood there, gape-mouthed, while he grinned.

“Weirwood,” he explained, smugly.  “Wipes up magic like a mop!”

“Really?  I knew it could hold an enchantment—”

“You just have to know how to treat it,” the troll explained, as he closed menacingly on me.  “If it’s cured properly, you can get it to do all sorts of things.”  He swung a powerful blow at me.  I side-stepped at the last moment, letting it bury itself into the ground.  I considered a rotting spell, as I had used on Dargarin’s spear, but if this weirwood club absorbed magic, it would be wasted.

Instead I kicked him in the shin, hard, earning a grunt and no more.  While he pulled the club out of the dirt I sprinted behind him and looked for weaknesses in that armor.  I was still looking when suddenly the club whirled around and sailed at my head.

I ducked.  It was pure reflex, but it saved my life.  Arsimbal reversed direction and tried to take it off again, but I was ready this time . . . and once he swung, I swiftly stepped inside of his comfortable range with the thing and aimed a vicious slash at his neck.  It bounced harmlessly off of his armor (two feet short of the mark) and he chuckled again.

“I’m not going to get tired,” he said, swinging again.  I tried to parry but he knocked Twilight out of line, and nearly out of my hand.  “I’m not going to get bored,” he added, with another swing I narrowly avoided.  “I’m enjoying this!”

“It’s good . . . to enjoy . . . your work!” I panted.  Every strike I made at him he either dodged, allowed it to hit his armor, or he blocked it with the club.  Usually I could fight for a fairly long time, but his overpowered attacks and vigorous defense were making me tired.  I used some warmagic to try to even the score, and was somewhat refreshed . . . but that didn’t help my fighting all that much.  I could not get past that club, not in any meaningful way.

“Getting tired yet?” he grinned, when I barely stopped an overhand attack that would have pounded me into the ground like a pavilion spike.  “Those tiny little arms can’t be all that strong!”

That gave me an idea – he might be able to absorb direct attacks, but perhaps an indirect one . . .

I was getting desperate, too.  Arsimbal was able to block me with impunity, but every time I tried to stop that club it was taking all my effort.  I didn’t have another density spell hung, but there were a few cantrips I could employ.  One was ideal at temporarily reducing the coefficient of static friction on a site.  Great for getting wagon wheels unstuck, or helping a pig get through a narrow gate.  I hoped it worked well on underbrush and grass.

I waited until I had the big lug moving again.  I cast the spell silently after a dodging twist, and when I recovered and started sprinting away Arsimbal howled in wordless delight and chased me.  As soon as his foot hit my spell, he was ass-over-elbows, his face smacking the forest floor . . . hard.

“Ow!” he protested.  “What did you do to the ground?”

I didn’t answer.  I attacked.  The troll immediately began scrambling to his feet.  That gave me a great opening.  Or it would have, if Arsimbal hadn’t frozen like a statue halfway up.  His mouth was open, his eyes wide in anger, and he was ready to pound me to mush, but he had just . . . stopped.  And it wasn’t my doing.

The mystery cleared up a moment later, when from behind the behemoth scampered a familiar-looking, diminutive figure.  Lady Ithalia, all four-feet-two of her.

The Alka Alon woman was nude, of course (the Alka Alon only don clothes for special occasions).  Her green-black hair and big dark eyes sparkled in the winter afternoon sun, but her face held a grave and frightened expression – something I’d never seen an Alka Alon demonstrate.

“Master Spellmonger,” she began, quietly.  “We must hurry . . . this song will only last a moment!”

“Uh . . .”

“Hey!” bellowed Thereidald.  “You’re an Alka Alon!”

“And you’re a troll,” I pointed out.  “I’m a human.”

He thought for a moment.  “I didn’t promise anything about hurting an Alka Alon!” he said triumphantly.  He took a step in her direction.

“And this Alka Alon has killed more trolls than you have killed Tree Folk,” I pointed out.  “Take another step and I’ll find a way to make that shoulder scream.”  Theridald stopped his advance.

“Let us go at once,” Lady Ithalia commanded, looking around.  “Where is your bride?  Did you not bring her?”  She sounded stressed about it.

Having an Alka Alon walk right past my unnoticability spell and not notice it was high praise indeed.

“Alya!  Come out now!  Quickly!” I called, and in seconds she had thrown off the mantle and was looking around in confusion.

“Thank your gods,” Ithalia said, visibly relaxing.  “We must hurry, else the others will be here soon.”

“Others?” I asked.  “More trolls?”

“There are worse things than trolls in this forest,” she said, quietly.

“Hey!” Theridald and Dargarin both called in protest at the same time.

“I meant no offense, mighty ones,” she said.  “But we are at cross-purposes today.  Be on your way, once we leave.”

“Where are we heading?” Alya asked, folding the mantle over her arm as she looked from the wounded troll to the paralyzed troll.

“For the gate, Lady Alya,” Ithalia said serenely.  “You do still have that jewel I sent for you, do you not?”

Wordlessly Alya pulled the beautiful abstract trinket from around her neck.

“That will serve as our key through the barrier,” she explained, turning her back on our foes and marching toward the Elf’s Gate.

“What?” I asked, sharply.  “We’ve been here for hours, cold and beset by trolls . . . and we could have just walked through any time?”

“You could have gone through, Master Minalan, but the trolls you faced were only the first of many challenges.  Her captors were thorough, though not comprehensive.  While my grandmother may not leave her enclave, she does appreciate visitors once in a while.  My brothers and I use these,” she said, indicating the charm.  “They allow us to pass through the veil unmolested.  And we have ways around the other challenges.  Her captors know nothing of them, of course.”  She sounded a little smug about that, too.

The tiny Tree Folk lady led us quickly through the forest and to the ruins.  Through the last surviving doorway of the ruin, the barrier seemed particularly thick: dense gray clouds of mist, swirling with breezes or under some sinister intelligence.  Ithalia raised the charm on its chain and sang a few words in her own language.  To my delight the fog thinned to translucence and then transparency.  We could see the barren trunks of the trees on the other side of the portal, though they were still vague and indistinct.

The little Tree Folk maid took mine and Alya’s hands, and with the strength of the charm we all passed through the magical barrier with no difficulty.  I felt a surge of power surround me and sparks flew from my sphere, but once we were standing on the other side it subsided.

“We have a walk of nearly a mile ahead of us,” Ithalia informed us.  “But I have sent ahead for an escort.”

“Looks like just more trees, to me,” Alya commented.  “The ruins are pretty, though.”

They were.  Made of a milky marble, chased with veins of black and silver, the structure must have stood fifteen or twenty stories high, in its youth.  I took a moment to examine one tumbled block and saw how intricately it had been carved: the trim around windows and doors had an ivy motif, with plenty of quickgrass and adderlite leaves intertwined.  But then the decorations stopped, and the edges of the ruins were melted.

That took me aback.  What kind of temperature would it take to melt marble?  Whatever felled this tower, it had been potent.

“This was once the Tower of Rengolarth,” she said in her bell-like voice.  “Once it was the proud seat of one of the greatest lords of my kindred, a thousand years ago.  It stood over four hundred feet tall, and was the home to thousands.  The Stone Folk, the Karshak Alon, built it in exchange for my kindred supplying them with specialized beasts for use in mining.

“Once it was a center of learning and scholarship, songs of deep meaning and profound complexity.  Here they delved into the secrets of life itself, and sang into being new creatures and plants from the roots of the old.  Here they discovered and developed the arts of transgenic enchantments that could change the very nature of a body, or build a new species from scratch.”  She sounded both mournful and proud of the boast.

“So what happened?” Alya asked, before I could.

“There was a war.  This House was a strong one, but there were disagreements with others – and with other kindreds over policies.  Many Alka Alon felt that what was being done at Rengolarth was abomination.  Eventually, an alliance formed against them.  The Tower stood under attack for nearly twenty years before the final blow came.  Thankfully,” she added, “most of the folk had been evacuated by then.  But the Aronin of Rengolarth was slain in the final battle, and the tower toppled after as a warning to my entire kindred not to meddle with such matters.”

“Did it work?” I asked.

She gave me a grin – an almost human grin, which was somewhat disconcerting coming from such an alien face.  “If it had, my grandmother would not be exiled here.”

I nodded.  So granny was practicing proscribed magic.  I liked her already.

The weather within the barrier was somehow calmer, warmer, and more peaceful than that without, but there was also a sort of lingering force that made the air heavy with expectation.  I don’t know if it was the result of the barrier or some other spell, but Sartha Wood was decidedly an enchanted place.  It was also extremely well-tended, for a forest.  There was very little deadfall from the trees, and the underbrush looked almost cultivated.   There were also plenty of marble stones, debris from the ruins, dotting the landscape.

It was a pleasant day to walk, though it was clear rain was to be expected later by the look of the sky.  I was still looking at the clouds above as we walked when Ithalia stopped and pointed her long, delicate finger gracefully toward a structure ahead.

“There lies our destination: Arth Noafa, the Tower of Refuge.”  As towers went, it was pretty humble: only five or six stories, its cap seemingly truncated, surrounded on all sides by broken stones from its predecessor.  It hardly towered – instead it seemed to be a humble reflection of the former glory of the place.  Like a new shoot springing from the stump of a long-felled tree.

“Pretty,” Alya remarked, absently.  I could tell she was getting tired.

“It was one of the few outlying structures that escaped the destruction of Rengolarth,” Ithalia explained.  “A mere watchtower, then, and it still is but half the height it was.  My grandmother took up residence there when she was exiled.  It was a ruin when she came.  She and her servants have managed to make it . . . quite homey,” she said, almost apologetically.

“Are there guards?” I asked, looking around warily through the mist.

“None to be concerned with,” the Alkan said, shaking her head sadly.  “The barrier keeps most interlopers at bay, and Elre has enough power to contend with those who she wants to remove.  The strength of Arth Noafa is in its wisdom, not in its arms.”

The dirt path we trod soon gave way to paving stones made from relocated debris, and as we crested the next ridge and looked down upon the valley, I saw that Itharia’s idea of “a few servants” was a matter of perspective.

The tower itself was perched on a small but respectable hilltop, with the ruins of walls extending a few dozen feet from two sides, the north and east.  Between those walls had been built an almost human-style dormitory or hall, outside of which was a grove of various trees of both natavista and importasta.  Near the entrance, and against the base of the hill was as neat and tidy a Tal Alon burrow as I’d ever seen.  Dozens of tiny figures seemed hard at work in the extensive gardens that surrounded it.  Even in winter there was plenty to do to keep the fields working.

On the other side of the tower there was a cluster of huts, and my spine froze: the figures coming and going there had black fur, not brown.  My hand immediately began to move towards Twilight’s hilt.  I felt a small hand on my arm.

“Master Minalan,” Ithalia said, gently, “the gurvani below are servants, only.  Their ancestors came to serve Elre voluntarily, long before the troubles between your two peoples.  They are not belligerent – indeed, they are serving as they were intended to, and they are well-treated by my grandmother.  They have not heard of the Abomination, much less follow him.  I pray that you take care in how you treat them.”

I swallowed and nodded, trying not to let the fact that I had slaughtered thousands of goblins in battle overcome good sense. We were guests here, after all, and summarily executing the janitorial staff would break the rules of hospitality.  I glanced at Alya, whose eyes were wide.  She swallowed and nodded in silent assent.

“Sorry,” I said, hoarsely.  “Force of habit.  We’ll be good, I promise.”

“Not all the mountain folk are evil,” Alya agreed, though her voice was unsteady.  “My father used to trade with them at Hawk’s Reach, sometimes, when they had iron or copper and wanted meat and cheese.  Long before the invasion.”

We continued to walk down the hill into the little vale, and as we did the settlement became clearer.  It seemed nearly a proper manor, save the lack of human peasants . . . and then I saw a few of those, too.

“Human servants?” Alya asked, before I could.

“A few families,” agreed Ithalia.  “Some of their ancestors came here seeking refuge, or assistance from the Sorceress, and agreed to stay on.”  The men were well if simply dressed, tending to a few beasts in pens near the outskirts of the settlement.  One looked up and waved at Ithalia.

“It seems to be a model of interspecies harmony,” I observed as we passed a kind of gateway.

“Only because my grandmother wills it so.  None here would dare challenge her authority.  Ah, ahead is her emissary, Cuinthora.  A cousin,” she added, with a smile.

Another naked Alkan was, indeed, awaiting us near a large well, standing serenely as if he – no, she, I saw – had nothing better to do but wait for us to arrive.  She bowed her head almost imperceptibly in greeting.

“Ithalia,” she said in a delightful little voice.  “I see that you have brought visitors.  Seek they refuge?”

“Nay, Cuinthora.  Elre knows of their coming, I believe.  I sent word ahead by . . . the usual channels.  May I present Lord Minalan the Spellmonger, and Lady Alya, his bride.  He is the one who rescued us from the trolls and gurvani shamans.  Among other feats.”

“One who has given such great service to our sister is always welcome at the Tower of Refuge,” she said, bowing slightly more.  “Come, let us go within and I will find you some refreshment.”

We followed the two Alka through the neatly laid-out village, and the sounds around us were near enough to those of a humani manor that I almost relaxed.  Then I heard the unmistakable sound of gurvani laughter, as two goblins – no, mountain folk, I corrected myself – shared a joke while hauling a cart full of manure away from a byre.  I tensed, the forced myself to relax.  The Alka choose not to notice.  Alya, on the other hand, was almost shaking.

The door to the tower was almost as big as a hall itself, and now that we were close to the base I could appreciate both the magnificence of the structure and how far it had fallen from its prime.  An elegantly arched doorway stood without cover and doorless.  We went in without challenge.  Magelights – Alka Alon teardrop-shaped things of a strange hue – lit our way.

The hall within was almost like a humani great hall, too, with a firepit in the center and tables and trestles clustered around.  I could see places built for the Alka Alon, and much tinier seats for the Tal Alon (who were busy cleaning the place with great industry) and then there were sections designed for humans and for gurvani.  Cuinthora led us to the human table closest the fire.  While it was not cold in here, the cheer and heat was welcome after our long cold walk.

“Be at peace,” Cuinthora urged us.  “I shall inform the mistress of your arrival.  Food and drink for our guests,” she commanded to no one in particular, and then walked gracefully away.

Before she was gone three River Folk, their fur brushed to gleaming, came to our table bearing full plates of soup, bread, and cheese, as well as a clay pot of excellent ale.  It had been awhile since breakfast, so we ate well – Alya with the ferocity only a very pregnant woman can display.  The bread was excellent, finely grained and perfectly baked.  It had a nutty taste to it, but the effect made it sweet, not bitter.

“It makes me glad that we all arrived safely,” Ithalia said, sipping from a long clear glass one of the Tal brought her unbidden.  “I can only hope we did so without alerting any of our adversaries.”

“Why would they care if your grandmother saw another couple of humans?” I asked between bites.

“The comings and goings of this place are watched closely, by some.  While many of the great among us would have little concern, there are those who have always opposed my grandmother’s politics, and who devoutly hate your people.  Such purists would take any opportunity to discredit her, or worse.  Her exile here was a compromise, you see.  Many wanted to see her sent to another domain, where she would never have the opportunity to study your folk again.  Others . . . others would be happy to see her dead.”

“Everyone has enemies,” Alya agreed, slurping soup.  “But could they get through that barrier?”

“Some would try.  Only the wardings your gods put in place keep them from coming and going as they please.”  She went on lecturing us about the history of the settlement.  Most of the names and titles she used were foreign to me, but the gist seemed to be that this place was both prison and refuge, fortress and place of exile.  “Grandmother’s alliance with your gods was an affront to even her allies, in some quarters.  They are seen every bit as much an abomination as . . . the other,” she said, not wishing to speak Sharuel’s name.

Before we were done with our second cup of ale, Cuinthora returned and nodded.  “Mistress Lilastien will receive you now.”

We followed her up the most elegant, narrow flight of stairs I’d ever seen, a stone construction that looked as if it had been built of spiderwebs.  Three stories of these stairs brought us to a small chamber that must have taken up most of the floor.  We entered another doorless doorway to find another Alkan standing and gazing out of the window.  Surrounding her were tables and stands on which were set various strange minerals and magical devices.  The room virtually pulsed with magic.

“May I present Lilastien, called Elre, mistress of the Tower of Refuge . . . and the Sorceress of Sartha Wood.  Mistress, this is Lord Minalan the Spellmonger and his bride, Lady Alya, of the humani.”

“Thank you, Cuinthora, you are dismissed,” the old Alkan said, staring at us with those big, dark eyes.  The steward bowed deeply and left.

“Granddaughter, who have you brought to me today?” she asked, smiling sweetly at Ithalia.

Determining the age of a nearly-immortal being is hard, and my lack of familiarity with her people could have made me mistake the grandmother for the granddaughter . . . until she spoke.  Her voice was lower, deeper, yet more melodious than Ithalia’s.  She was slightly smaller, her mane was slightly longer, and there was a deep and abiding intelligence in her eyes – wisdom, I suppose – that Ithalia lacked.  She walked over to us and peered up at us with something akin to excitement.

“These are the humani I spoke of, grandmother,” Ithalia said respectfully.  “Master Minalan has been possessed of some irionite for most of a year, and the female – Lady Alya, excuse me – has been in close proximity . . . and is with child.  I felt it prudent to have them examined, to determine if there were any ill-effects we should be concerned with.”  She was holding something back, I could tell, but I let it go.

“A Lord and Lady of the humani!  We have not been blessed with such in a few of your generations!” she said, gaily.  “Yet I have heard tales of you, my dear,” she said, smiling up at me.  “You saved my granddaughter and my nephew, as well as others I hold dear.  For that, Master Minalan, this house will always stand to welcome you, for as long as you like.  And your mate is with child . . . what treasures you bring me, Ithalia!” she said, almost beaming.

“A pleasure to meet you . . . my lady,” Alya said, bowing.  As well as she could managed, having misplaced her waist a few months ago.

“Oh, you may both call me Lilastien.  No title is necessary.  But do tell me, how far along are you?”

“Seven months?  Eight?” Alya tried to figure.  “It’s hard to tell.”

“Well into your third trimester, then,” she said, smiling satisfactorily.  “And no difficulties?”

“Well, I haven’t been able to sleep well in months,” my bride admitted.  “But I haven’t had the morning sickness in a good long time.  Thank Trygg,” she said, rolling her eyes heavenward.

“I’ve been scrying her womb every chance I get,” I promised her solemnly.  “So far, she has had a fairly normal and uneventful pregnancy.”

“Except for the invasion, the refugee camp, and living with your mother,” Alya corrected, ticking the items off on her fingers.  “But no untoward bleeding or pains.”

“Well that is good!” the old Alka Alon lady cooed.  “I remember all seven of my pregnancies, even though they were so long ago.  I hope you understand that this is just a precaution, dear,” she said, sounding so much like a human grandmother I had to stifle a giggle.  “When magic is involved, you cannot be too careful!”

“So I’ve learned,” Alya said, nodding thoughtfully.  She said it in such a way that made me think she wasn’t entirely comfortable with my profession, or her relationship to it.

“Well, now,” she said, taking both of our hands in her cool, tiny little ones, “I have arranged a small feast for you this evening, before we get started.  I even had one of my retainers slaughter a goat,” she added, with special emphasis.  “They do so tire of a vegetarian diet.”

“My— Lilastien,” I began, cautiously, “I wouldn’t presume to hurry you, but would it not be better to begin the examination at once?”

“My dear boy, there are some sorts of magic that are best practiced by the light of the sun  . . . and others which are better after nightfall.  This is one of the latter.  You must trust me on this.”

“But we have—”

“Traveled a great distance, by the way your folk reckon things,” she agreed, nodding her head in human fashion.  “I understand, Master Minalan, I do.  But there are compelling reasons for waiting.  Refreshing your bride, for one.  This will be more difficult if she is ill-rested,” she assured me.  “There is ample time before supper, however . . . if you would like to avail yourselves of the baths.”

I wasn’t sure how to take that.  It was common (if rarely spoken of) knowledge that the Alka Alon in general did not care for human body odors.  I had worked up quite a sweat fighting three trolls to a standstill, and my last bath had been when I was a single man.  But Lilastien did not seem to be employing tact, here, I decided.  Likely Ithalia had already informed her of Alya’s eagerness, and she was just being polite.  But we probably did stink.

“That would be lovely, my lady,” Alya agreed.

“Just don’t linger overlong,” she confided, “too much would be bad for the child . . . and you wouldn’t want to miss your supper.”

The Baths were more than a mere hot spring.  Located a quarter-mile north of the tower, under a rocky outcropping, a natural spring and a streamlet had collided in a tiny little cataract.  The result was a shallow pond about a quarter-acre in size, surrounded by boulders.  The hot water from the spring was almost too hot, near its source under the outcropping, but the further you waded away from it, the more it mixed with the wintery stream and cooled.

It really was lovely.  You could adjust the temperature by just moving a few inches where the spring and the stream combined.  Too hot, you moved streamward.  Too cool, you moved springward.  And there seemed to end of smooth rocks upon which to perch, nor pools between them in which to soak.  The sun was going down behind the trees to the west, and there were a few winter butterflies attracted to the warmth.  And other creatures – I swore I saw a family of vrints dive into a hole when Ithalia escorted us to the place, and a very cranky beaver chattered, annoyed, when his fishing was interrupted.

The water steamed, near the rock, and after helping Alya disrobe (in utter disregard to the sensibilities of the Alka Alon – who saw our clothing as an amusing affectation) and into one of the warmer sections of the place, I stripped off my muddy, sweaty clothes and let them soak a bit downstream from us, secured by a rock.  Then I explored the bounds of the pool looking for sharp rocks and enjoying the relentless heat on my sore muscles.

“This,” pronounced Alya with a beatific sigh, “is what the palaces of the gods must be like.  You said Ishi, herself, once bathed here?”

“Repeatedly, if what Grandmother says is to be believed,” the Alka maiden agreed.  “Does that imbue it with special power?”

“Maybe,” I shrugged, up to my chest in warm, warm water.  “I suppose that depends on her mood, and whether she found it favorable.”

“Perhaps it will make me more beautiful then,” Alya teased.

“Impossible,” I said, shaking my head.  “You could not be more beautiful.”

“Don’t make me vomit before our hostess’ meal,” chided Alya.

“It might also get you pregnant,” I reminded, ignoring her jibe as I submerged myself up to my neck.  “Fertility goddess, remember?”

“I believe I’ve proven my fertility,” she said wryly, her belly floating to the surface of her pool.  “This feels wonderful on my sore tired arse, though.  I wonder what made her want a bath?  I never knew the gods needed to bathe.”

“They are, in their way, quite human in their passions,” Ithalia said, after a moment’s thought.

“You’ve . . . met . . . Ishi?” I asked.

“No, not her.  But a few of your other deities, when they came to call here.  I met Herus, once,” she said, as an example.  “And Durthon.  Not a likable divinity,” she observed.  “He came bearing a message from one of the others, but while he was here he slaughtered half the herds.”

Durthon is one of the Old Imperial gods of the fields – sheep, goats, and pigs were his domain, but he had a martial side as well.  Durthon’s magical bow Yadgicor was known to have slain thousands of my ancestors when he appeared to defend the Empire, at the request and command of the Last Archmage of those years. Durthon had a hagiological reputation for being dour, like the eastern shepherds who worshipped him, but I suppose if Ishi took comfort in the baths here, he felt entitled to do likewise, bad temper and all.  And after hanging around livestock all day, I’m sure he needed the bath.

“How was Herus?” I asked, as I splashed delightfully hot water on my face.  I needed to see a barber soon, I realized.

“Jolly, like many of his priests,” she smiled.  “But hard to talk to.  Everything is a joke with him.  Lady Alya, perhaps you should consider finishing your bath.  Any longer and it might be stressful to your child.”

“Not even here yet and he’s already disturbing my peace,” she grumbled, good naturedly as she dipped her long honey-colored hair a final time.  “Can you give me a hand, Min?”

Dinner that night was fascinating.  Unlike a human hall, there were no tables to speak of.  We ate Alka Alon fashion, in a ring of concentric circles with the more important sitting toward the center.  I was gratified to be in the innermost group, along with Ithalia and our hostess and the other Alka Alon.  Behind us were a mix of humans and Tal Alon, with more Tal (with less status) and gurvani making up the outer ring.  Tal and gurvani served us, overseen by a portly human woman who knew her business.  My cup was never empty and my trencher never bare.

The goat was decently prepared, but the vegetable dishes surpassed anything I’ve had anywhere.   Many were laced with nuts or cheese, and all were well-seasoned with herbs and spices.  Even the bread was good, every bit as good as my father’s, though it all had a vaguely nutty, wholesome flavor I couldn’t identify.  One of Lilastien’s fellow Alka provided entertainment by singing and playing a harp-like instrument.  It was music of surpassing beauty – not magical, really, but wondrous nonetheless.

“Not precisely what I had in mind for a honeymoon,” Alya whispered to me at one point, “but I’m not complaining!”

“I’d offer to slip away for some . . . marital comfort, but I think that might disturb our hostess.”

“Are you kidding?  She’d probably want to watch.  And take notes.  Have you noticed that she studies us the way you study those books of yours?”

I had, actually, although I hadn’t seen it like that – or realized that Alya was uncomfortable with how often I referred to the written tools of my trade.  I also realized that that’s how I had felt when Pentandra and I had been intimate.  Lilastien’s attention was never too far from us, but it wasn’t quite ‘suspicious’.  I had pegged it as a natural suspicion of strangers, but Alya was more accurate.  She was studying us like a fresh specimen.

When the last round of wine (locally made, the human server informed me proudly, and not half bad) was finished, Ithalia bade us to refresh ourselves and then join our hostess in her laboratory, upstairs.  Soon we were both sitting on comfortable cushions on low benches, reclined at an angle a barber prefers to work.  Lilastien’s two Alka Alon assistants were busying themselves at worktables, and one of them handed us each a clear spherical glass of a bright yellow liquid.

“To help relax you,” one of them explained, comfortingly.  “A mild sedative.  And no, my lady, it should not affect your child in the slightest.”

Shrugging, I tossed mine back while Alya sipped hers more cautiously.  It wasn’t awful, but it was strong enough to drive the flavor of the wine from my mouth, regretfully.  And it was fast.  Within moments of drinking it I was feeling lightheaded and yawning.

“We are merely going to examine you,” Lilastien told us, when she had finished whatever preparations she was making.  “A brief magical assay into your viscera and internal organs, and then a more involved look at your brains.”

“You aren’t going to be removing them, are you?” I quipped, mostly to distract Alya, who was becoming more and more nervous about the procedure despite the drugs.  Lilastien favored me with a laugh.  And then my eyes closed.

“I shall be right here, Master Minalan,” Ithalia assured me, taking my hand when I started feeling uneasy.  “No harm will come to you, I promise.”

That seemed to satisfy me – that and the charm she sang over us both.  Between the magic and the drug I felt safe and content to let them do whatever they wanted with me.  I assume Alya felt the same, because I heard her start to snore just before my awareness fled me entirely.  Then someone started singing, I felt a cocoon of magic surround me, and I could not move.  Nor did I care to.

I don’t know how long I was unconscious, exactly, and my dreams were scattered and confused.  I learned later that I should not have retained any awareness of my surroundings, and for a long time I didn’t . . . but then something happened during the process and for a brief time I was aware enough to listen in to their conversation.

In Alka Alon.

I don’t know how I did – probably due to the enchanted ball of Irionite in my pouch – but somehow I “overheard” the discussion between Ithalia and her grandmother, perfectly translated.  I suppose it was similar to the mind-to-mind communication that Pentandra had developed.  I didn’t remember it all, later, but as different waves of magical energy washed over and through me, snippets of conversation clung to my consciousness like dust to a broom.

. . . organs look normal, for the most part . . . some slight damage to the liver in the male . . . female and child appear normal, healthy, and . . .

. . . musculo-skeletal structure is intact and relatively undamaged . . . oxygen levels are adequate . . . neurological function is subdued but strong . . .

. . . greater degree of Talent in the male, of course, but the female demonstrates a capacity . . .

. . . Grandmother, did you notice their lungs?  The flecticules?  They’re full of . . .

. . . not exactly full of, dear, but certainly exposed.  In granulated form, too.  I wonder what . . .

. . . the female seems to have suffered less exposure, but she seems to be tolerating it better . . .

. . . the fetus appears unaffected directly.  It did not cross the placental barrier . . .

. . . could be problematic in the future, if steps aren’t taken.  I can sing a protection, and that may help, but there are no guarantees . . .

. . . you know this would be an excellent opportunity to attempt a transgenetic enchantment . . .

. . . practice forbidden magic during an illegal examination, and risk alerting the council?  Or worse, the Enshadowed?  My dear, I thought I taught you to never break more than one rule at a time . . .

. . . the irony of you saying that is not lost on me.  The female’s randrara is weak, likely due to her lifetime proximity to the molopor.  Isn’t that interesting?

. . . appear that the male’s ristoreth is tending toward shenfalan.  But his age suggests a more poorly developed aptitude than his . . .

. . . this would make Brenthildin so jealous, an opportunity like this . . .

. . . if he didn’t try to steal them from you . . . better be safe . . .

. . . leagues away from here, and has no idea that they’re here . . . a low profile is—wait!  Back up!  No, to the left!  There!  Is that a . . . ?

. . . in trouble with the authorities.  That’s the last thing you need . . .

. . . most of my life in trouble with the authorities, I shan’t let such an opportunity pass again . . .

. . . really do object to that sort of thing.  Some tribes even prohibit autopsy, for all the good . . .

. . . not one of the strengths of our kindred, I’m afraid.  Perhaps a Versorati songmaster could, but . . .

. . . matter of opinion.  Of course I trust your observations, but that doesn’t mean I concur with your conclusions.  What could possibly . . .

. . . that would be a matter of transgenics, not mere enchantment.  Honestly, did you never pay attention to the loremasters when you were a child?  Even the best . . .

. . . in my home.  The barrier would keep such a thing from . . .

And so on.  Only much of it was impossible for me to understand, even in context (what there was of it).  I can only assume that some ‘words’ weren’t easily translatable, but the gist of the conversation seemed at first eager and even amused, peppered with startled delight, and later it turned more serious and businesslike, with even a few arguments thrown in.

But there was also fear: fear that they were doing the forbidden, with the possibility of discovery looming.  That, as much as a magical purpose, was why they were conducting their researches at night.  It must have gone on for hours, but for the most part I was blissfully unaware.

I felt the thoughtful peace of the room shatter, however, like a clap of thunder during a quiet nap.  Suddenly I was almost awake – conscious, at least – and terrified.  I still couldn’t open my eyes, but I could tell that the collegial atmosphere had been sundered . . . and someone else had joined us.

The singing had stopped, I noticed absently, as my mind fought for wakefulness.  The drug they’d given me had started to wear off, but from the sounds my ears were starting to recognize, they weren’t concerned with me, exactly.  The new presence in the room had their attention.  It was male, I found, and it was both gleeful and angry.

. . . you rash old hag, the newcomer was ‘saying’.   Not only did you violate the terms of your exile, but you compounded the crime with procuring further subjects!  And involved your innocent descendents!

I heard nothing from the other Alka Alon, and that concerned me.  I couldn’t imagine Ithalia enduring that kind of insult to her kin without a response.  At least a polite rebuke or objection.  She was gracious, but proud.  My panic rose, and I did my best to will my eyes open.  It wasn’t working.  But I could still hear.

How did you . . . ? someone was gasping.

You didn’t think that we would depend on the authority of the council to oversee your exile, did you?  Just because we ourselves are hidden does not mean that we have removed ourselves from the affairs of the world.  Your disgusting fetish for these . . . abominations is too deeply rooted for mere exile and punishment to repair.  We have kept watch, Lilastien Elre, quietly and carefully . . . more carefully than your would-be wardens, it seems.

The voice was filled with contempt and loathing, but fiendish pleasure as well.  I wasn’t completely sure of the direction it was coming from, but I could tell it was slowly moving around the room.  That’s when I noted that the songspells that had kept me immobile were gone.  It didn’t matter much – my mind was still clouded, and my body wasn’t particularly interested in listening to it, anyway.

But my will was returning quickly, and I hoped that eventually the body attached to it would be forced to pay attention.  Until then I had to struggle to understand what was happening.  I focused it first on my eyes, and managed to get one of them open to a slit.  It was a monumental struggle to do so, but the feeling of danger and panic I felt was great motivation.  Time seemed to crawl, and move too fast at the same time.

You know you were forbidden from conducting this kind of research ever again, Elre.  Nor are these mere common control subjects – that one has rajira in abundance!  Gah!  How perverse!  Now that you have indulged in this folly, you have broken your parole to the council.  And for that there will be consequences – consequences those weaklings on the council are far too meek to administer.

I, on the other hand, have no compunctions about doing what needs to be done.  To you, to your sycophants, and to every living thing in the barrier.  Let us wash the stain of your perversity from Callidore, shall we, Elre? he mocked.

Whoever this asshole was, I didn’t like him much.

Finally I managed to squint blearily through my right eye.  I immediately sought out Alya, who seemed to be sleeping peacefully – I watched the rise and fall of her breath for three cycles before I moved on to the rest of the room.

Ithalia and one of the assistants were pinned against the wall by some magical force, unable to speak or move.  Both struggled, wide-eyed in fear, but both were powerless against the strange Alkan’s magic.

Lilastien was similarly immobilized, but instead of fear there was a burning hatred in her small eyes.  That was a look I’d never seen on an Alkan face before.  She was lying limp over a worktable, her other assistant sprawled at her feet.  There was a smell of smoke in the air, I realized.

As for the unexpected visitor, he was clad far more strangely than I’d ever seen an Alka Alon.  Of course, the fact he wore clothes at all was a bit of an aberration, but I knew the Alka Alon employed clothing for ceremony and protection.  I’d seen Ithalia in armor, for example.

But this churl wore a tight-fitting black garment that covered him from chin to ankle.  He also wore a strange headdress, high-crowned and tightly fitted, his mane spilling out of the back and sides.  He wore something else I’d never seen an Alka Alon wear: a sneer.

He was facing Lilastien, so I could only see part of his face, but the sneer was pronounced.  And ugly.  His hands were crossed over his chest, judgmentally, and I could see his dark eyes glare over the tip of my boot.  He was the most un-Alkan Alka Alon I’d ever seen.

Nothing to say Elre?  Ah, I suppose I should loose your lips, for your final words.  I didn’t see him do much of anything, but suddenly my hostess, the Sorceress of Sartha Wood, growled back in her bell-like voice.

You accursed outcast! she spat.  You have no right to interfere in—

I have every right to prohibit such disgusting abominations! he replied.  I was still understanding the language they were speaking, which I found curious, but I couldn’t deny it was helpful.  Otherwise they could have been singing a duet.  These foul beasts should never have been welcomed from the Void, and never granted room on our world.  Yet you and your followers greeted them as fellows, and then perversely granted them a homeland.  That was bad enough – but then they summoned those aggravating abominations they worship, here, and nearly destroyed us all.  So I have every right to repair the disgusting mistake you made.

They are peaceful, except to themselves, Brinthildin, she said, passionately.  They have done nothing to interfere with our affairs, even after what we did—

What we did?  You misspeak, Elre.  If you recall, it was my faction who urged caution and study – yours who threw caution to the wind and then broke the consensus. Centuries later they have stirred up powers we thought long dormant, and then inspired the gurvani to create their own perversions.  Have you no shame, Elre, for the fruits of your work?

Brinthildin was apparently enjoying the opportunity to confront an old enemy before he killed her – killed us all, form what he had promised.  I didn’t know what form of magic he was using to bind them, but he had more or less ignored Alya and me since he arrived.  My toe twitched, as my mind fought to direct it, but luckily he didn’t notice.

Shame?  It was not my faction who conspired to destroy the humani civilization, if you recall, youngling.  No, it was the scion of a dark line who betrayed them – and us as well!  There was no shame in what we were doing – yet attempted genocide shames the lifeforce itself!

The lifeforce! Brinthildin spat mockingly in return.  You, who pervert and manipulate it like clay and call foul fair are worse than these ignorant animals.  My kindred, at least, knew enough when the time had come for action.

Not all your kindred!  Only a few pathetic disaffected voices!

That’s all it took, wasn’t it? he sneered.  The humani were gullible and greedy, ripe enough to hear what they wanted to hear when our emissaries approached them.  They are as much to blame as we.  More – if they had had the good sense to stay where they were, then no tragedy would have occurred.

And you could have focused on oppressing the Avalanti instead! she nearly shouted in return.  Still her little hands were not moving, nor any other part of her.

Oppressing? He scoffed.  Overseeing is a better term.  You and your pathetic kindred have always been far too willing to succumb to the temptation of perversion, and our world suffered for it accordingly.  Now you bring the stain of your folly to Callidore and compound it by consorting with these beasts.  Not even as subjects – you welcomed them as equals!

We offered them respect, nothing more, she replied angrily.  We offered them friendship and trust – yet you were the ones who betrayed that trust!  The Enshadowed were the ones who nearly destroyed them, because of your narrow perspectives.  And nearly destroyed us all.  And now you betray the will of the council by skulking out of the shadows and violating their edicts!

I enforce their edicts! he corrected, hotly.  I felt my fingers twitch a bit, an encouraging sign.  I didn’t like the way this conversation was going.  You were forbidden from further research, yet here you are with two prime specimens.  Were you ready to dissect them?   Carve them up like they carve up their food?

No!  You lie!  We were just examining them, not practicing transgenics!

Yet that is why you are here in the first place! he countered triumphantly.  The council spoke – I was there – and forbade such things after the Inundation.  If the council lacks the will to act, then I do not.  And after I take my satisfaction, be sure that I will: nothing of your perverted regime will remain, and I shall quietly hunt down all of your followers!  And as of shadow . . . it is almost lamentable you will not be around to observe the works my brothers and I have wrought.  We will take our vengeance on the humani, be sure, and on you backwards Avalanti, once they are gone.  The humani animals may have stirred the Abomination into existence, but we are not loath to use what is at hand to achieve our ends.

You never were, the Sorceress condemned.  I think there were tears in her eyes.  Pain, hate, and order were all you ever wanted.  And you admit you are cooperating with the Shadow?  You despise the gurvani almost as much as you do the humani!

The gurvani are honest in their dealings, even if they’re disgusting and they act far above their station.  What our faction wanted was a world clean and pure of filth like this! He said, gesturing to the couches Alya and I were laying upon.  I sorely wanted to slay this Alkan.

My body was responding, but not nearly as fast as I would have liked.  There was no way I could have sprung up and grabbed my mageblade the way that I wanted to.  Even summoning power from my sphere was inadvisable.  The drugs were keeping me from being able to concentrate well enough to put together more than a cantrip, if that.

But then I remembered I really didn’t need to.  While I had promised not to use them, as my mind groped for answers and lit upon my witchstone – sphere – I realized that I had plenty of potent spellwork at hand.  Just not Imperial magic.

The old Alkan who had put my sphere together from various bits of irionite had gifted me with a mighty library of spells, and I really did not see the disadvantage of turning to them when the alternative was death at the hands of a madman.  Mad-alkan.  Whatever.

I was still unsure of what most of them did, but as my mind wandered through the sphere and took stock of what was available, I saw something that might be helpful, if only as a distraction.  Alkan magic depends on their songspells.  There was a spell of silence that I thought could make things in the tower a little more interesting.

I took a deep breath, mentally speaking, and then pulled on the spell the same way I had at the river when I commanded the elemental.  It took affect almost instantly, and I got to watch with some amusement as Brinthildin’s lips moved frantically.   Glaring and outraged he looked around – but I’d let my eyes slam shut again.  When I was sure he wasn’t facing me directly, I slid off of the couch or table or whatever it was and landed face-down on the floor.  My borrowed spell faded as fast as it had been brought on, but it done the trick.  Brinthildin’s power had been temporarily broken.  And Lilastien had been ready to take advantage of it.

Suddenly the room was filled with radiance as my hostess surrounded herself with power using a single note.  She was moving, now, as her captor struggled with his voice.  Then my spell was shattered, and the old Alka sorceress and the younger Alka were locked in struggle.

It was fascinating to watch, or would have been if I hadn’t been in a blind panic.  Alya had yet to wake up, Ithalia and the two assistants were sprawled on the floor unconscious, and the arcane forces squaring off against each other in a space just a bit larger than a peasant’s cottage had the promise of destroying us all – including my new bride and baby.  I couldn’t let that happen.

How did you do that? Brinthildin demanded, as he began weaving lines of force with a hum.  I had you bound!

I am far more powerful than you realize, Outcast! Lilastien said, confidently.  Do you think I’ve spent five hundred years picking flowers in here?  Just because you surprised me doesn’t mean you out-class me!

At first I thought she hadn’t realized that I had been the one who had broken his spell, but then I saw she was trying to distract the malicious Alkan from noticing me.  Not that it did me much good.  My body just wasn’t cooperating, and my mind was moving almost reflexively, so my options were limited.  I could try to hurl more magic, but I had no idea what would actually be effective against him.  I could see through slitted eyes that Brinthildin was casting some powerful spells, and I could feel the hesitancy with which Lilastien was preparing a defense.  , but anything else I cast now, I knew, could hurt her as well as him.  Or myself.

Or kill us all.  I really didn’t know much at all about those spells.  Or Alkan magic in particular.

Lilastien, however, was an adept, even by Alkan standards, apparently.  I suppose one doesn’t get the name Sorceress of Sartha Wood just by being mysterious.  The Alkan grandmother was weaving together some powerful songspells.  Now that she had overcome the surprise attack she was able to defend herself.  I was glad I could help out.  As I fought against sliding back into unconsciousness, the air around me began to crackle.

I think I did lose consciousness again for a few moments, which I regretted.  I doubt any mage in my lifetime had witnessed such a potent contest between two Alkan spellsingers, and even if I didn’t have the magical context to appreciate it fully, it would have been instructive to observe.  As it was, residual flashes of light, sound, and vibration, strange forms of feeling and sensation washed over me and filled the room and perhaps the entire tower - but it wasn’t as messy or as flashy as a fight between warmagi.

Instead it was almost elegant, as much duet as duel, with each of them singing and casting against each other while trying to protect themselves. Once I regained my awareness of the situation it was fascinating.  The “translation” provided by my sphere encouraged me to view it in magesight, and hinted at dimensions of the combat that were, alas, tantalizingly out of the range of my ability to perceive them.

There were epithets that didn’t translate peppering their duel, but every now and then I would catch snatches that were as rough, in their way, as a tavern brawl.  There were several from Lilastien regarding Brinthildin’s parentage and family, and plenty from the darker Alkan concerning the old woman’s fidelity and honor.

I was gallantly attempting to move my right arm in some meaningful way when a bolt or a wave or a cascade of magic affected me like an ice-cold stream.  I don’t know where it came from, but it cleared the cobwebs away from my mind.  Suddenly I was profoundly aware.  Of everything.  It didn’t help with gaining control of my body, but it did make me keenly aware of just how little control I had, which was frustrating and comforting at the same time.

But I also became aware that Lilastien, for all of her power, was losing the contest.  That didn’t bode well for her laboratory subjects, and I couldn’t let that happen.  As Brinthildin bore down on her with a crushing staccato of arcane power, the Sorceress was forced to defend.  Her song became more of a desperate scream, and his became a vicious rebuke.

I took a few moments to study him, eyes open and magesight engaged, and I began to understand, a little, about who we faced.  There was anger in his eyes, anger and fury that surpassed what most humans had ever seen.  That anger was compelling him, feeding his melody.  Whoever Brinthildin was, he had a burning passion that I could almost admire, if it hadn’t been directed at our hostess.

I’ve been anticipating this moment for centuries, his voice said, when he came to the end of one spell and rested.  Lilastien was struggling, and there was a trace of fear in her eyes.  After the shame and outrage you have inflicted, my only regret is that your suffering will be short-lived.

You and the rest of your pathetic band speak of treasons?  The irony alone should kill you with shame! she tossed back as she strove to counter his unseen attack.  Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed movement: whatever had awakened me fully had also affected Ithalia and the attendants.  Ithalia’s eyes opened, dark and terrified, but then resolute.  Suddenly she was on her feet, adding her song to her grandmother’s in opposition.

Outcast of shadow! she sang, defiantly.  Defiler of the lifeforce!  A ray of blue force leapt from her fingers, but the dark Alkan’s stout defenses weren’t overly challenged by it.  Her attack was brave and perhaps a bit reckless, as Brinthildin made a graceful sweep of his fingers and dismissed it.  Splitting his attention was enough of a distraction to allow Lilastien to repair her own defenses.  Nor was Brinthildin able to overwhelm either of the sorceresses, not without allowing the other to prevail.  But he was still decidedly holding his own.

Spawn of traitors and rebels! He added to the din. Is that the sum of your power?  I need not even summon my brothers to contend with you!

Then you will have no one but us to be humiliated in front of when you lose! Ithalia said after a musically magical snort.  I almost giggled.  Until Brinthildin retorted.

You know of our vow: should one fall, then all work to avenge, he sneered, enwrapping them both in a gray mist that rose from the floor.  Whoever shall spill our blood is accursed.  Even if I lose, I win.

You . . . are such . . . an asshole! Ithalia grunted in response.  Yes, it translated exactly. I suppose some insults are universal.

One of the attendants seemed to be trying to pull himself into the battle, but Brinthildin countered the weakened Alkan mage handily without softening his attack.  The other one wasn’t moving much, yet, and was bleeding.  I realized that if there was other help to be had within the tower, it was running late . . . and from the strain on the Sorceress, any later might be fatal.  Then I realized that my fingers were wiggling more or less the way I wanted them to, and I could feel the pins-and-needles in my feet and legs as feeling came back to them.  Time to do something stupid.

I looked around for Twilight, but it was probably stuck downstairs in a closet somewhere.  That would have been too convenient anyway.  That left magic.  My sphere was nearby, I knew, well within range for me to summon power and utilize magic, so I searched through the alien spells within and chose one almost at random to lob at Brinthildin’s back.  Then another.  Then another.  I had little idea what I was doing – my intent was to harm, that was all.  The sudden flurry of pre-sung songspells wasn’t potent, but it was unexpected.  Brinthildin whirled in surprise.  Whatever that gray cloud was doing stopped, and Lilastien banished it with a hum.

Blasphemy! Came the uneven translation.  Such songs are forbidden to foul beasts like you! he rebuked.

“You really are an asshole!” I shouted back, relying on the sphere or his own spells to translate while I volleyed more and more Alkan magic at him.  His small face twisted up into a savage scowl while he blocked it.  I didn’t do any harm, I could tell, but from his occasional looks of confusion I knew I was affecting his concentration, there from where I was sprawled on the floor.  I felt like a goodwife throwing plates and cups at an armored knight. Annoying, but not threatening, except by accident.

That was so humiliating that I changed my approach.  He could see the Alkan magic coming . . . but I had plenty of Imperial spells hung, thanks to my encounter with the three trolls.  I sat up and flung a few nastier attacks at him, and was gratified to see Brinthildin recoil.  The cups and plates had been irritating.  The bolts of warmagic I threw were like a pot of hot water.  And the nature of the attack was as much an insult as the damage to his defenses it inflicted.

Silence, animal! he commanded, furiously, as he spared me some real attention.  I am a prince of the royal house of Varas, and you will not interrupt me again! He gave me a contemptuous wave with his small hands . . .

. . . and suddenly I couldn’t have cast a cantrip.  Some variation of Annulment, I gathered, and it was potent.  My connection with my sphere was cut.  My mind struggled in vain to regain it.  I was back to the glorious role of mortal bystander.  So much for the might of Imperial warmagi.  That was even more humiliating, somehow, than throwing cups and plates.

But Ithalia and Lilastien were able to regroup and send a better-coordinated attack, so I suppose I helped.  The attendant who had revived added his song to the duel, and Brinthildin looked challenged while I felt helpless.  Thank Briga, goddess of healing, my body was almost normal again, I comforted myself.  And if she was handy, I would not have minded a divine intervention about now . . . because whoever this clown was, I had a feeling that the sudden appearance of an angry fire goddess might wipe the sneer of contempt off of his face.

That gave me a thought, and part of me also recalled Briga was the goddess of inspiration.  My legs, at least, worked.  I was too far out of range of his tiny legs to kick him, but I did notice a stool of some sort nearby, something I hadn’t noticed from the couch.  I didn’t have the strength to pick it up and throw it at him, but I realized my foot wasn’t too far out of the way.  I quietly placed my right toe against it . . . and kicked.

If the Imperial magic attack had been gratifying, seeing Brinthildin’s tiny legs swept out from under him, and seeing him go ass-over-elbows in surprise was delightful.  But it caught my allies by surprise, too, and for a fleeting moment all the songspells stopped.  Brinthildin started to struggle to his feet, shock and fury on his face.  Because I was still sprawled, he was almost at eye level as his dainty arms pushed him up.  And I was still weak and powerless as a kitten.

I will watch you die in agony— he began . . . and then a steel blade sliced more than halfway through his neck.  He crumpled in surprise, a fountain of blood spewing from his wound and splattering everything in the area.  Alya dropped the dagger – that sturdy, new-forged, utterly non-magical peasant’s weapon she’d bought in Banajistal – as Brinthildin died at her feet.

“Everyone . . . stop . . . singing!” she demanded, her brow knitted in pain.  “I have . . . the worst headache . . . and I, I have . . . to . . .” she glanced down at the dying Alka Alon at her feet, and seemed to see her bloodied dagger for the first time.  She stared at it like it was a snake.

Then she vomited, all over Brinthildin’s lifeless body. When she recovered, she looked up at the rest of the room, unsteadily.  “I have to pee!” she said, before sinking back onto her couch in a faint.

*                            *                            *

The next few days were a blur to me.  After meticulously and thoroughly examining the baby for ill-effects (there weren’t any I could determine) and doing the same to Alya, I allowed Lilastien and her minions to do the same.  I was not terribly eager to allow it, after the trauma in the tower, but I was also anxious over the condition of my wife and child and Lilastien had convinced me she was adept at human medicine.  Someone handed me a glass of wine and I downed it while she worked.  The moment she pronounced them both in no danger, I felt my knees give out, and the next thing I knew I was waking up in a low bed in the east side of the tower, Alya snoring next to me.

It was Ithalia who answered many of my questions, the day after the attack, while the rest of the refuge scurried around at their tasks – one of which was probably connected with a dead Alka Alon princeling’s body.  Ithalia met me in the great chamber at noon and ate with me while she patiently tried to explain what happened.

“You understand that my grandmother is a . . . a bit of a rebel,” she began, over porridge.  “She has many enemies, some formal . . . some not as formal.”

“We all collect enemies,” I agreed.  “But this one was able to pierce the barrier and invade her home – which I can only assume is warded against such things – and then nearly kill her, you, me, and my wife and child.”

“He is – was – one of the . . . less formal,” she agreed, sadly.  “He is a scion of an ancient and honorable house, yet he is also a member of a faction that despises the humani.  Lilastien was concerned that he or one of his fellows might attempt to interfere, but she never figured that it would come to violence.  Brinthildin had deep, personal concerns with my grandmother over and above his fanaticism about the humani.”

“I guessed that by the way he was trying to kill us all,” I said, dryly.  “So he was not an official representative of the authority under which your grandmother is exiled?”

“No – far from it.  Indeed, he is . . . your word would be ‘outlawed’, within our realm.  He wasn’t even supposed to be here.  We can only assume he has been watching through auxiliaries for awhile, and when he saw the chance to strike, and apparent justification for doing so, he took it.”

“May I recommend your grandmother reconsider her security,” I grumbled.  “I was trusting of you, Ithalia – you and Lilastien.  I was given assurances that no harm would come to us.  Yet we were very nearly killed, and Alya had to begin her married life with a murder.”

“She did no murder,” Ithalia said, shaking her head.  A humani mannerism, I noted.  “She acted in self-defense, whether she knew it or not.”

“Intellectually, perhaps.  But emotionally, that was an unexpectedly traumatic even during what was supposed to be a time of peaceful reflection.  I’m not terribly happy about it.”

“Nor should you be,” she assured me, a tiny hand on my arm.  “My lord Minalan, we are as aggrieved by this breach as you, indeed far more so, as it portends . . . well, many things, and few of them are good.  For anyone but the Abomination.”

I remembered Brinthildin was working in association with Sharuel, somehow.  I was about to bring it up, but Ithalia was still apologizing.  “We – I – am deeply sorry for this.  It was unexpected, but it should not have been.  My grandmother is too trusting, I fear, of restraints from the past that no longer apply to her enemies.  And while our peoples have many different customs, the laws of hospitality are the same between us.  What occurred in the tower last night broke those sacred laws.”

“But who the hells was he?  Besides an enemy?” I demanded.  I elected not to share with her just how much I’d overheard, or the fact that my sphere had translated much of the difficult Alka Alon language for me.  I wanted to see how much she would reveal, and how much deception she would attempt.

“Brinthildin himself is of the Versaroti kindred, one which was once considered great.  While their star set long ago, many still adhere to the attitudes which prevailed during their ascendancy.  He, himself, was even more fanatical than his kin.  Brinthildin’s faction tried to attack humanity during the Old Magocracy,” she explained, choosing her words carefully.  Too carefully.  “They are purists, and he was among their leaders.  They are adherents to codes and beliefs from a long-dead era.  They are also fanatical and vicious.  When their crimes were exposed – about the same time as Lilastien’s – they were banished from our realm by the council.

“But as they were as unwelcome in other realms as they were here, they instead built secret refuges from which they plot, plan, and watch.  They have sworn oathsongs to each other to reinforce their resolve and attempt to ennoble their ignorant hatred.  And they still have many who sympathize with their simplistic perspective among the powers of the realm.  Some may have even been giving them support and guidance,” she added, guiltily.  “They have even acted out against their foes, using magic and sabotage and even assassination to thwart them.  Because of their fanaticism, and their willingness to hide and strike in secret, they have been given the name ulmaranaron kyroni.”

“ ‘The Enshadowed Faction’,” I translated.  “But why was he so hot to slay your grandmother, in particular?”

“I do not entirely know,” she confessed.  “Save that she had some role in the death of his father, himself a noteworthy adversary of the humani.  She has not shared the details with me though I have asked her to.  My lord, there is more: it is possible that these disaffected outlaws may be working . . . directly . . . with the Abomination.”  Well, at least she had confirmed that. I started to trust her a tiny bit more.  “That is disturbing news, and news which should be brought to the attention of the council.  Unfortunately,” she sighed – another human affectation – “bringing that news would also require us to relate just how it was delivered.  And by whom.  And the results of that meeting.”

“I thought Brinthildin was an outlaw?” I asked, surprised.  “I would assume that this council of yours would be eager to see him dead?”

“Just because he defied the council doesn’t mean that he is without supporters upon it,” she reminded me.  “Indeed, due to his lineage, there are those even among parties who favor the humani who would reconsider, had they discovered that Brinthildin was slain by a . . .”

“Woman?” I supplied.  “Human?  Pregnant woman?  Pregnant human woman? Peasant?  No, she’s ennobled, now.  Former dairy manager?”

“Any of those would be galling enough – but that she attacked him with cold iron from behind, while he was in battle . . . that would be seen as an unacceptable death, among some factions,” she said, delicately.

“Well, I’m sorry she didn’t challenge him to a formal duel, but . . .”

“My lord Minalan, do not be sorry – she did nothing wrong.  The fault is ours, as I have said.  If word of Brinthildin’s death escapes, then we risk exposure to others with his zeal and hatred, and my grandmother’s case may be reviewed.  That would not be in her favor, I’m afraid.  We will clean up this mess we have made.”

“Does that extend to ‘cleaning up’ the two humani who witnessed it?” I asked, warily.  I suddenly wanted the comfort of Twilight on my hip, very badly.  I didn’t exactly feel safe here.

“Not as you imagine,” she said, realizing with alarm what I was thinking.  “You and your bride were promised safe conduct.  We would never break that vow.  But . . . we cannot allow this news to spread . . . unmanaged,” she said, struggling for a diplomatic word.  “Should even a hint of this tragedy reach the ears of the wrong people . . .” she said, trailing off apologetically, letting me imagine what the result might be.

“I’m not in the habit of rubbing elbows with the Alka Alon elite,” I pointed out.  “Neither is Alya.  Your secrets are safe with us.”

“Oh, you may not voluntarily divulge the secret,” she agreed, “but humani minds are notoriously easy to manipulate, compared to an Alka Alon.  And once Brinthildin’s disappearance is noted by his fellows, well, they have a reputation for bloodthirsty vengeance.  You and your bride – and yes, even your child – would be targeted for revenge over his shed blood.  Accidental it might have been, but acceptable it would never be to them.”

“So now I have the Censorate, Sharuel, and insanely angry Tree Folk after me?” I whistled.

“Not if we can keep this secret,” she insisted.  “It can be done, if you are willing.”

“I told you that I would never tell anyone,” I reminded her.  “If my word isn’t good enough---”

“It is not your faith that we doubt, my lord, it is the willingness of the Enshadowed to slaughter humani under such a pretext that we fear.  Should the opinion of the council turn away from your folk . . . the Abomination will not be your only foe.  Nor perhaps even your most dangerous.”

“Well, I’m not going to stay here forever, as picturesque as it is,” I pointed out.  “I have responsibilities, if you recall.”

“Nor could you,” she agreed.  “Within a few days there will be a visit by a representative of the council to investigate your attempt to breach the barrier.  If you are here, then it would be nearly impossible to keep that representative from asking questions.”

“So we can’t tell anyone, but we can’t be trusted to keep our mouths shut, either,” I grumbled.  “I don’t like where this is going, Ithalia.”

“My lord, we have discussed this all night,” she said, tiredly.  “Among many other things.  A solution we think you will find agreeable was proposed.  But we would never resort to such a thing without your consent.”

“So just what are you proposing?” I asked, even more warily.

Saved for they who toast their love when five full years have passed!

I made sure that Alya and I were going to be alone that afternoon, down at the hot springs.  She was still in shock, a bit, but after eating a few bowls of porridge and splashing water on her face, she was able to look me in the eye.  I wanted to get her alone as soon as I could to speak to her about Ithalia’s proposal – and the events of the night before.

“I . . . I killed a Tree Folk,” she said, as she reclined into the pool, which was steaming in the cool winter air.

“You killed a Tree Folk prince,” I corrected.  “And one that had admitted that he was planning on killing everyone else in the room, and in the rest of Arth Noatha as well.  You and me included.”

“So you tell me,” she agreed.  “But I didn’t know that.  I just knew I had to . . . had to slay him.  Minalan, I don’t know what came over me, but after I was awakened, I felt compelled to stab him!”

“Yes, that awakening spell was disconcerting,” I agreed, settling down next to her.  “And I’m glad you had that compulsion.  All I could do was knock him over with a stool.”

“I had forgotten I was wearing the blade,” she recounted.  “I was just lying there, knowing that there was something terribly wrong.  Then I was wide, wide awake.  And so was your son,” she added, placing a hand on her swollen belly.  “Whoever cast that spell woke him up angry.  It was like I could feel it.”

“Magic can be like that, sometimes,” I soothed.

“But then I couldn’t move.  I . . . I prayed.  To Briga, since I know she looks after the unborn.  I prayed but didn’t expect anything to come of it.  Until . . . until I found that dagger in my hand.  I could move, and what is more, I knew I had to end the struggle.  The songs, those songs got into my head. I had to make them stop.”

“Or maybe the goddess heard you,” I pointed out.  “And sent you a little divine guidance.  Or maybe your instinct to protect the baby took over your will.  I don’t know.  I expect that we’ll never know.  But . . . I’m sorry, Alya.  I should never have brought you here and ruined your honeymoon.”  I really did feel miserable about that.

“It wasn’t your fault!” she chided.  “Minalan, you have done everything to keep me comfortable, safe, and well-fed since we were wed.  I know you’ll have to do things like this from time to time, and as much as the life of a rancher’s wife sounds appealing, about now, I am a part of this life.  Your life. That was the vow I made in Talry.

“And if that means I have to stab someone occasionally . . . well, I can,” she declared.  “When I realized that little imp was trying to kill you, I couldn’t allow him to exist anymore.  It was almost worse than fighting the gurvani, though, because I wasn’t fearful of my life.  At least, that’s not what compelled my hand.  Oh, I have made such a mess of things for our hosts!” she said, starting to cry.

“Alya, no!  It’s them who have made a mess of things for you!  And me,” I added, as an afterthought.  “I was promised that no hard would come if we came here.  And I’ve had to fight pirates, trolls, and a pissed-off Alkan mage since then.  Please don’t cry,” I begged, feeling my throat well up as I watched the tears run down her cheeks and into the steaming water.  “Please!”

“My . . . husband,” she sobbed, “please understand that sometimes a woman just needs to get her feelings out . . . why don’t you get us something to drink while I tend to this?” she asked.  Numbly, I stood and went to the hamper, taking much longer than was comfortable, in the cold air.  By the time I returned she had composed herself, though her eyes were still teary.

“Much better,” she agreed, when I brought her a tiny bottle of mint liquor.  “I . . . I know what happened wasn’t anyone’s fault, in particular.  But it was my hand that wielded the blade.”

“It could very well have been mine,” I nodded.  “I wish it had been.”  I settled my naked butt back down into the incredibly welcoming pool.  The days were getting colder, I noted.

“Honestly, so do I.  I’m no warrior woman, Min.  But I am very pregnant, and the way those songs were splitting my head, well, I would have stabbed my own kin to shut them up.  Stabbing some unfriendly Tree Folk housebreaker was no big chore.  I just wish it wouldn’t stain our honeymoon so.”

I knew she was lying, but I thought it was a good time to bring up Ithalia’s proposal.  “Alya, what if I could arrange it so that the attack wouldn’t stain our honeymoon?”

She looked at me in surprise.  “You can un-do the killing?  I don’t know, I was pretty thorough,” she said, doubtfully.

“No, I can’t bring the little shit back to life, nor would I want to, after discussing it with Ithalia.  But if you are willing . . . how would you like to forget that you ever did it?”

“What?  They can do that?”

“They assure me that it will be easy.  Of course, they also assured me we wouldn’t be harmed, but if I take them at their word they can suggest a far more pleasant – and completely bloodless – honeymoon memory in place of what actually happened.  But not just the attack.  Our entire visit, here.  And, well, we would be forgetting an awful lot of the journey,” I admitted.  “Where this place was, who these people are, the trolls, the pirates . . . but we’d remember fondly our wonderful, perfect honeymoon.”

“Just not very many details?”

“They would be fuzzy,” I conceded. “By design.”

“Most of them are now, anyway,” she shrugged.  “But I could forget that awful feeling of looking down at the body . . .?” she asked, looking stricken an vulnerable.  The idea clearly had a lot of appeal to her.  And, if I was honest with myself, to me.

“Unless you were reminded of it strongly, according to Ithalia.  She assures me humans are ideal subjects for that kind of magic.  But there would be another penalty.”

Her face froze.  “What?”

“I would also forget an awful lot of incredibly useful information I’ve learned.  Like the nature of the gods.  The lore of the Tree Folk I’ve discovered.  Their internal politics.  A hint of the history of our two peoples.  Knowing that there are apparently fanatical Alka Alon skulking about in the shadows, perhaps aiding the Dead God in his wars against us.  The fact that I single handedly defeated a pirate attack and fought three trolls to a standstill.”

“How is that useful?” she asked, sharply.

“Bragging purposes,” I pointed out.  “But some of that knowledge is going to be very useful in the days ahead.  I’m going to be putting my energies into building us a home, but some day I will be recalled to serve the Duchies on the field, or in council, even, and that sort of thing can make a big difference.  I can’t help but think that our hosts are using this memory spell in part to cloak the embarrassing elements of their role in events, and of history itself.”

“You have to admit, that would be handy, if you were they,” she observed.

“I know,” I sighed.  “And in all likelihood, none of this information is going to be crucial.  It’s mostly just lore and legend, and a little intelligence that tells us that the Alka Alon don’t speak with one voice.  No battles will be won or lost without it, it’s just . . . really, really useful.”

She looked at me skeptically, her dark eyebrows arching.  They had gotten thicker and darker with the progression of her pregnancy.  “So you are in favor of this spell, my husband?”

“Well, yes and no,” I admitted as I shifted my weight around so I could look at her better.  “That information could be crucial.  But so is the sanctity of my honeymoon, and starting our life together fresh and . . . unbloodied.  The spell isn’t particularly selective, but I can tell Ithalia and the Sorceress when we want it to take effect.  We have to go back downriver anyway, so I was thinking of having it work on us when we stepped off the boat at Jistal, but before we proceeded back upriver to meet up with the vanguard of the Bovali refugees.  That would give us at least three, maybe four more days.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“It would be more plausible to be confused then, and ascribe it to normal post-honeymoon drunkedness, than to find ourselves suddenly wandering in the forest with no idea how we got there, for one,” I pointed out.  “But it does have other advantages.  We’d get to enjoy the rest of our honeymoon knowing that all of our memories of it would be grand- that presents some interesting possibilities.  We’d have a few days to get our feelings about the matter off of our chests.  And it would keep the barge staff from asking too many questions.

“But there’s one other thing.”  I explained my idea to her, quietly and quickly, using vague language and plenty of idiom I hoped anyone trying to listen to wouldn’t be able to figure out, and my bride quickly caught on to the point I was making – and what I was proposing.

“You really think that will work?” she asked, skeptically.  “I mean, do you really think it would be helpful?”

“Who knows?” I admitted.  “Really, I think they’re set on doing it regardless, and in truth I don’t know if I could fight them off.  You were there: you saw how powerful their magic was.  I didn’t even understand most of it.  And, honestly, I don’t know if I’m even strong enough to try.”  I tried not sounding defeated, but that’s how it came out.

“We’re both exhausted,” she excused.  “The last thing I want to do is get into a fight with our hostess.  She reminds me of a mad old village woman, like one of the Boliek sisters back in Boval Vale.”

“I’m sure it’s just the captivity,” I suggested.  “But either way, I don’t have it in me.  They’re feeling very apologetic.  I say we use that, preserve as much of our honeymoon memories as possible, and . . . safeguard the rest.”

“I think I can live with that,” she agreed, knowingly.  And I can’t help but consider how novel the result might be.”

We spent the rest of the day in lazy repose, allowing ourselves to be pampered by the cheerful folk of the Tower of Refuge.  They brought us wine and dainties, played exquisite music and entertained us, each in their various ways.  I learned much about the history of the old Alka Alon settlement, and a bit more detail of Alka Alon culture and politics, and I learned that –among other talents – some of the Tal Alon were quite amazing jugglers.

But at a subdued feast that evening, it was clear that our hostess was growing uncomfortable with our stay.  It would be hard to say just what gave away her anxiety, as she had not changed her presentation much at all – after a formal apology, an assurance that we were indeed in good health, with but a few minor preventative enchantments laid to ensure a fortunate birth and avoid medical catastrophe.  I was suspect about them, of course, but I also remembered the snatches of conversation from when I was supposed to be unconscious.  They had found something unusual about us, and that was another piece of information I wanted to preserve. If they had sang spells that would help and protect us, I was almost gratified.

“So you have accepted our proposal, then?” Lilastien asked as we followed Ithalia to a private balcony overlooking the gardens, for more quiet speech.  There was a well-groomed Tal valet on hand with a bottle and goblets.

“In part, my lady,” I agreed.  “We wish for you to delay our memory until we make the river port at Banajistal, if you could.  We would like for our memories to be edited as little as possible, and we would like a few . . . special ones in their place,” I said, as Alya blushed.  “I promise not to contact anyone along the way.  We just want a few more days of this before we step out of the boat and into our new life.”

“I see no objection, Lord Minalan,” she said, graciously.  I wondered for a moment what she would have done had I refused outright, and then decided I wasn’t eager to find out.  “It pains me that you will retain no memory of meeting me, alas.  You are a jolly fellow, and quite quick-witted.  I offer you what blessings I may on your life and your union, and to your wife and your son, when he arrives.  Watch that babe,” she warned, with a smile.  “Children in general have magical natures, but that one . . . that one promises to be special,” she said.

“What makes you say that, Sorceress?” asked Alya, curious.  “A vision?  A prophecy?”

“I’ve met his parents,” she replied, offering a tinkling laugh.  “Brave and strong, wise and far-sighted, compassionate and loving.  How could he grow up with two such impressive parents and not be . . . legendary?”

“I’ll settle for healthy and reasonably intelligent,” I

“I think ‘legendary’ is more likely,” agreed Alya.  “Thank you for your blessings.  And your hospitality.  And for . . . letting me not remember.”

“Whether you know it or not, my dear, my house is always open to you both, for the rest of your lives,” she promised.

“And I shall accompany you as far as the river,” Ithalia added.  “Once I see you on board and tend to your servants, I shall cast the enchantment.  Then the next time you step on land, it will trigger, and you will have naught but pleasant – and I imagine, lusty – memories of your honeymoon.  May the rest of your union live up to those ideals.”

“Happiness, health, togetherness, wealth, harmony, lust, and . . . endurance,” my bride quoted, looking at me knowingly.  “I believe we have it all.  Just have the memories reflect those elements, and we’ll be fine.”

And so it was.  The next morning saw us skulk back to our carriage, where our porters were only mildly concerned about our additional passenger (and the woodmen were positively spooked).  Thence back to Gilasfar, where Ithalia enchanted the minds of our barge crew after enjoying a delicious meal with us: with Palia serenely serving the crone’s incredible cuisine it was almost a celebration.  There was even singing.  She passed up the meat courses, but was delighted to try the vegetables as they were prepared, voicing a fascination for humani culture.

At last, near nightfall, she had Captain Turic put her to shore at a deserted landing downstream, so she might continue her journey.  She waved at us from the bank and sang her spell, and then disappeared into the thickets.

“She’s a nice girl, for a Tree Folk,” Alya sighed.  “I suppose she’s a little mortified about her grandmother, but everyone has family issues.”

“Hey!  Is that a blow at my folks?” I asked.  I knew that relations between my Riverlands artisan family and her Wilderlands farm family customs had been strained, but then Mama wouldn’t have found the Duchess an acceptable mate for me.  Particularly, I reflected, after she’d met one.

“No, actually, at mine.  Just wait until you really get to know my sister.  She’ll be living near us in . . . Sevendor?”

“I’m looking forward to it.  And yes, Ithalia is a nice girl.  But I thought she would never leave.”

Alya looked at me stubbornly.  “You want to get started already?” she accused.

I shrugged.  “Sooner we get to it, the sooner its over.  I thought you’d appreciate that, in your condition.”

“There’s just so much to get through, though,” she complained, as we headed back down to our cabin.  I cast a magelight for us to see by.  “Let me at least take off this cloak,” she complained good-naturedly, “and if I don’t pee now, I’ll just have to in five minutes, and that’s bound to throw you off,” she observed, unfastening the clasp.

“I’ll be fine,” I promised, “you just do what you need to so you’re comfortable.  This is going to last a good long time, I’m afraid.”  I looked around the cramped cabin until I found the accoutrements we would need.  I added a bottle of Cormeeran brandy as an artistic necessity.  The liquor hamper was almost empty, I noted – we would have to stock up in Banajistal.

“All right, I’m ready,” Alya said.  “Let’s get this started.  I’m tired and I need sleep – real sleep, not the honeymoon kind.”

Five minutes later we were both furiously at it – writing down every scrap of memory we could about our experience: the knowledge about the Alka Alon, the Tower of Refuge, the tree knights, the three trolls, the Sorceress of Sartha Wood, the battle with Brinthildin and his subsequent death, the nature of the Enshadowed Faction and what it would mean, how they were probably working with Sharuel, and every other little bit of recollection we could remember went into that account.  It took up two bottles of ink and both sides of sixty sheaves of parchment, after we included some drawings, by the time we were finally done.  Piled up in front of us on the bed, two days later as we were coming in to Banajistal, it looked impressive.

“That’s just one little account of a week,” Alya said, a little dazed from all the hard work.  “I’ve had entire weeks that could have been described in a page.  Or a sentence.  You sure make life interesting, my lord husband.”

“And you sure make life pleasant, my lady wife,” I said, kissing her on the neck.  “Want to wager our last sheet on our wishes to our future selves?”

“I don’t know,” she said, uneasily.  “That was so sweet I may vomit.  Again.  Give me that quill,” she commanded, and then she carefully wrote out a note to me before folding it so that I could not read it and gave it back.  When the ink was dry, I wrote my own note, imagining the youthful bride before me five years older, wiser, and with far less patience for my ineptitudes.

“Now let me wrap this up,” I said, removing the final bottle of mead from its waxed leather case, removing the straw padding, twisting the sheaf of parchment around the bottle, and carefully settling it back within.  I closed the bronze buckle with a little ceremony, and then spellbound the case with a very specific charm.  “Now we can be blissfully ignorant for the next five years, until we enjoy this on our anniversary.”

“I wonder what it will be like, opening it up and realizing that all of this went on?” she asked, twisting a lock of her hair adorably.  “Knowing that we decided to let our minds to be remade, rather than bear the burden of the truth?”

“We don’t even know if we’ll be alive in five years,” I said, a little more pessimistic than I actually felt.  “It was probably pointless.  It will get stolen, or stepped on and discarded, or something, and make the last few days a waste . . . and our honeymoon an utter mystery.  If the Alka Alon knew about it, they’d flip their little manes over it.”

“So the Tree Folk really don’t use writing?” Alya asked.

“Not really.  Only to humor us.  They think anything important enough to write down should be important enough to remember.  Needless to say, they aren’t like us.  Which is why they won’t likely consider that we might write all of this down and hide it from ourselves.  That is not a very Alka Alon sort of thing to do.  But you have to admit, it is kind of romantic.”

“That’s what I thought,” she agreed with a devilish snicker.  “I can’t wait until you read what I wrote for you.  Now strip off the rest of your clothes, slide in beside me, and keep me warm!  We make Banajistal tomorrow, and then all of this won’t even be a memory!”

I considered a snappy retort, but honestly my hand was cramped from writing and I was eager for our union.  Knowing it would be forgotten made it somehow even more passionate.  I kissed her, as I unbuttoned my jerkin, and tried to ignore the baby in her tummy for a few moments.  I sat back to appreciate her, her youth, her beauty, and what promised to come with age and experience.

As the temple bells of Banajistal got louder in the distance, there was an intensity to our lovemaking that was breathtaking.  What we had been through, what we had chosen to forget, what we had written down as a promise of future happiness – I wanted everything in that silly honeymoon poem, I realized, more than I wanted fame, fortune, glory, titles, or gold.  Even magic.

This, I decided as I slid my body over hers, kissing every inch along the way, was all the magic a sane man needed in his life.  And if I was going to forget about it in a few minutes, I wanted to make this moment that would transcend mere memory, and burn the bliss I was feeling into my very soul.  And I like to think that I did . . .

. . . until I rolled over on the bed, and in a moment of passionate flailing, my hand came into contact with the last Gutbuster wand I’d made.  Alya had hidden away behind a basket, in case of dire emergency, and then – ironically – forgotten it.  It was only dumb luck that I hit it, instead of her – it could have been extremely unfortunate for our baby.  As it was, the effect on my physiology was fleeting but pronounced.  When my gut finally stopped spasming, my swirling eyes were locked on the tastefully erotic portrait of Ishi staring at me while I floundered for control of my bodily functions, and I swear she was laughing.

“That,” I said dully, wiping vomit from my mouth, “was certainly worthy of forgetting,” I said, as my bride laughed so hard that she cried.

Not a bad way to end a honeymoon.  Vomit and all.

The End

Special Thanks to Tim Faherty!

Thank you for reading!  You can always contact the author at tmancour@gmail.com!

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