Necromancer

By Terry Mancour

Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series

Copyright © 2017

All Rights Reserved

The Spellmonger Series

Spellmonger

Warmage

Magelord

Knights Magi

Journeymage

High Mage

Enchanter

Court Wizard

Shadowmage

Necromancer

The Road To Sevendor (anthology)

The Spellmonger’s Wedding

The Spellmonger’s Honeymoon

The Spellmonger’s Yule

The Spellmonger Cadet Series (YA):

Hawkmaiden

Hawklady

Sky Rider (2018)

Dedication

To the two friends who helped

Nurture and develop this series the most:

Emily Burch Harris,

My long-suffering Editor

And

Lance Sawyers,

My amazing Art Director

You wouldn’t have the work in your hand without their

constant and inspirational support.

Prologue

I watched my son’s face contort into an expression of fascinated terror as he ran for his life.  His face was red and flushed, and his eyes had the wild look of one desperately dodging a predator as he searched for the danger he knew lurked nearby.  A moment later a blood-curdling, ear-splitting scream from his sister informed him of where his predator was hiding.

Desperate, he rolled across the floor and under the trestle table, just as his foe appeared.

“WHERE IS THAT TASTY LITTLE BOY?” a great voice boomed, making him shiver in terror.  “WHERE IS MY BREAKFAST?”

Minalyan clapped his hands over his mouth to keep from screaming in horror.  When the huge figure finally crept into the room, one could see why the lad was terrified: the great beard and hair of the creature was a chaotic sight, standing up and out like so many spikes.  The eyes between were wide and scary, and the mouth that called for the unlikely meal was smeared with the residue of his previous victims . . . raspberry tarts.

“Here I am!” Minalyan finally announced, rolling out from under the trestle and leaping atop a stool with surprising alacrity.  He brandished a three-day old long baguette in his hands like a greatsword and challenged the monster.  “You will not eat me!”

“I will eat every tasty morsel!” the Flour Monster roared, as he charged.  Minalyan didn’t hesitate – with a mighty swing of his stale weapon he leapt across the kitchen and delivered a fury of blows that defeated the beast and broke the batard into two, sending it flying across the kitchen as the Flour Monster howled and growled at the heat of the combat.  Almina stood in the doorway, eyes wide and hands over her mouth as she watched her big brother duel with the giant ogre who periodically snuck into their home after work and terrorized them.

As valiant as Minalyan’s attack was, no one defeats the Flour Monster.  I’d learned that a lifetime ago.

He picked up the little boy and swung him into the air, ripping up his tunic and burying his bushy, floury beard into his tender belly and began chomping.  Minalyan erupted into a squirmy, giggly scream that was only slightly less nerve-slicing than his sister’s, until he begged for the Flour Monster to relent and release him.

“Run along now,” my father said with an exhausted sigh, as he gave each of them a raspberry tart from the shop and sent them outside to play in the yard.  “That is so much fun,” he admitted, out of breath from the infant-eating effort as he sat on the stool Min vacated.  “But I don’t remember being this tired when I ate you and your sisters for breakfast.”

“We were easier to catch,” I assured him with a smile.  “And twenty-odd years ago, children were slower and more docile.”

We both chuckled at that – my father had been enjoying his grandchildren immensely, both my two and the brood that Urah and Borsa brought with them when my family came to Sevendor.  While two of the other sisters and their husbands were preparing to return to Talry-on-Burine in Varune with my father, Urah’s and Borsa’s husbands had elected to stay in their brother’s barony and run the prosperous bakery here.

My father was surrounded by his grandchildren – and then some.  Four of his girls and his son had spent the last year or so keeping him in a state of paternal bliss as he got to know them all.  The entire family had taken residence in the Baker’s Hall – an elaborate home I’d had constructed for the purpose – within the outer bailey of the castle.

Dad spent most of the day at the bakery, as he had since long before I was born, but when he was ready to turn the day’s bake over to his apprentices, he brought home a basket of whatever goodies he’d made that day and – on certain occasions – would slick up his hair with flour and water to create the role that had terrified and delighted us since we were tots.

“You’ve got a brave one, there,” he nodded admiringly to my son chasing his little sister into the yard.  “I’ve been whacked by more stale bread this year than in the twenty before.  He doesn’t shy away from being scared, like Almina,” he observed.

“She enjoys being scared too much to attack – she’s three,” I reminded him.

“Reminds me of Borsa, at her age,” he recalled fondly.  “Always a squealer, that one.  But that boy of yours is braver than them all,” he said, referring to my three nephews who’d arrived with the rest of my family.  All good, strong boys . . . but with more sense than boldness.  Minalyan, on the other hand, was fearless.  He must get it from his mother.

“He’d better be,” I sighed.  “He’ll have to defend this place, when I’m gone.  Timidity is not oft a characteristic of a magelord.  It’s like he wants to fight the world.  He’s gotten worse about it since . . . since his mother went away,” I said, trying to say the words casually.  “He’ll approach a stray dog, bold as brass, and demand it identify itself.”

“When is he going to get to see her again?” my father asked, hesitantly.  It was a touchy subject, and he knew it.  For months I’d been obsessed with discovering some way, either mundane or arcane, to restore my wife Alya’s mind to her after it had been shattered during the Wizard War at Greenflower.

She was fine, physically – on that the brightest medical and magical minds of the kingdom could agree.  But her psyche had sustained a powerful shock by a witchstone she’d destroyed.  Since that fateful night, she’d been in the care of the priestesses of Trygg at the Holy Hill abbey.  I visited every fortnight, sometimes more.

But there had been scant improvement for months, until I’d discovered that the legendary Sorceress of Sartha Wood was, in fact, a slightly-batty Alka Alon rebel imprisoned with her staff in a small compound in the middle of the upper Riverlands – one who was trained in ancient human medicine and advanced Alka Alon magic.  Lilastien, as she was properly known, had taken over Alya’s care at Yule and she’d shown some immediate improvement.  But there were limits to what even the Sorceress could accomplish.

“Soon, I hope,” I answered, non-committally.  “She’s getting a little better every day.”

It wasn’t a lie.  She was.  But “better” is a relative term, judged by condition.  On any given day she wasn’t as bad as the previous day – therefore she was “better”.  It wasn’t a lie.

But the truth was Alya wasn’t going to get much better on her own.  That, at least, Lilastien the Sorceress had been able to tell me.  In fact, the only treatment she even suspected might help was locked away deep in a cavern under a ruined city inhabited by humanity’s deadliest foes.  The only way it could be of help was to recover an ancient spirit from inside a rock and somehow bring it back to Sevendor, where it might be able to glue Alya’s fractured mind back together.

Maybe.  Possibly.  If I could figure out and overcome more obstacles and barriers than any mage had before.  If I could manage an enchantment that no one had any idea how to cast, much less cast properly.  If I could manage all that and do so without getting myself killed, Alya might, possibly, with the help of the gods and more fortune than I was ever due, recognize her children again.  Maybe.

“So, you’ve decided to go after it, then?” he asked, softly, knowing my thoughts without me speaking.  Dad is quite intuitive, for a baker.

“I don’t see that I have much choice,” I said, resigned.  “The Handmaiden is the only thing I’ve even heard about that might work.”

“It seems a hard thing, depending upon an old legend for hope,” he offered.

“I wish this was an old legend,” I snorted.  “Most old legends have a grain of truth to them.  This is just a half-remembered encounter from the mind of a half-crazy old Alka Alon lady from centuries ago.  And it’s the best course I have left.”

“Minalan, you said that Handmaiden was in a cave, deep under a city that you’ve already seen ruined once,” he reminded me.  “On an island in the middle of a lake in mountains higher than these, guarded by dragons and covered with goblins.”

“Yes,” I nodded.  “That is what I said.”

He sighed expressively, and started to shake the dried flour from his beard.  “But you’re going to go, anyway,” he concluded.

“Yes.  Yes, I am.  Alone, if I have to.”

“No, you won’t go alone,” he said, shaking his head and sending a shower of flour to the wooden floor.  “You have too many friends who are too eager to help you.  But be careful, Min,” he cautioned.  “I know you’re a big, tough warmage and wizard and all, but . . .”

“But walking into Olum Seheri like it’s a baronial fair and expecting to find what I need is suicidal, stupid, and hopelessly naïve?”

“I knew you were a smart one,” he snorted.

“I know the dangers, Dad.  Or at least I suspect I do.  And it’s far, far more dangerous than you think,” I informed him.  “Olum Seheri isn’t just full of goblins, it’s full of undead.  My apprentices made a full report, and the place is crawling with walking corpses.  Led by Korbal the Necromancer.”

“The ‘demon god of the Mindens’,” he chuckled, wryly.  “Now that is an old legend.”

“And one with more than a grain of truth to it,” I agreed.  “He’s actually not a god at all, just a powerful Alka Alon necromancer who pissed off the Council, a thousand years ago or so.  They imprisoned him in a tomb along with his followers.  Unfortunately, he was awakened by yet more of his followers.  Now they’re building an army, raising dragons, and generally threatening . . . well, everything.”

My dad shook his head again.  “I don’t know how you wizards do it,” he admitted.  “I’ve watched you pursue your craft for years, one way or another.  Warmagic, spellmongering, and now . . . all this,” he said, gesturing toward my barony at large.  “It seems too much work.  Compared to baking,” he added.

I didn’t take offense – I am in a profession that prides itself on obscurity and obfuscation.  And while the practice of magic, on its own, doesn’t mandate that sort of mysterious approach, the business of magic encourages it.

“Honestly, the heart of a wizard’s work isn’t even about magic,” I decided.  “It’s about getting things done.  Either for a client or yourself.  Mostly by convincing other people to do the hard parts for you.”

“That’s what apprentices are for,” he nodded and smiled.  Over the years Dad had trained at least eight or nine apprentices.  Four of them had married my sisters.

“Oh, they’re helpful,” I agreed, “but that’s not what I’m speaking of.

“A wizard’s Talent provides access to power, but even with a witchstone that’s not usually enough to accomplish much.  Oh, I do things with magic all the time – but being a wizard goes beyond mastering the arcane.  It is far more about knowing when and how to use magic to change the universe.  And when not to use magic, and use more subtle means instead.”

“So what’s the point of studying so damn much magic?” he asked.  It was a common complaint of his that I had Ruderal and Dara, my two apprentices, constantly reading and taking notes on seven centuries of accumulated knowledge and lore about our profession.  Dad considered that excessive.  But then most bakers weren’t even literate.

“The magic opens the door,” I explained, struggling for a metaphor.  “But it is your understanding of the universe that gives you the ambition to go through it.  To be honest, most of my work these days involves wandering around, talking to people, listening to things, and quietly arranging for them to want to do what I want them to do.  Sometimes by persuasion, sometimes by coercion, but one of the benefits of wisdom is understanding enough about the limitations of your own power that you can get other people to do the heavy lifting.”

“Sounds more like a priest than a wizard.”  Dad wasn’t unfamiliar with the priesthood.  As a master baker, he was a high-ranking lay member of the Temple of Briga.

“The two are not dissimilar,” I agreed.  “The difference is that – ideally – a wizard is convincing other people to do things for the greater good.  A priest does so for the glory or adoration of his divinity.  The two are not always the same.”

“So what was Dunselen doing for the greater good?” he asked, curious.  It was an insightful question.  Anyone who dismissed Dad’s wit because of his choice of profession was an idiot.

“Believe it or not, I think Dunselen was trying to figure out how the Snowstone spell worked.  Which would have been for the greater good.  His methods, on the other hand, were not particularly ethical.”  I wasn’t even going to mention Isily’s role in his researches – or his ethical breeches.  Dad knew enough of the story to not bring her up.  He’d even met the two grandchildren Isily bore me, against my will, when Taren brought them briefly to Sevendor for examination.  “Dunselen was a good mage, objectively speaking, but a very poor wizard.”

“So what makes you a good wizard?”

“I get other people to do stuff for me as much as possible,” I decided.  “And I try not to lose sight of the important things.  Like the greater good.”

“Or providing a mother for your children,” he added, as he watched Almina chase her brother, now, as he chased a chicken through the yard.

“Or defending the kingdom against goblin invasion, undead incursions, and the occasional dragon.  Yes, there is a lot to it.  Especially at my level.  And to be honest, there are limits to what I can do.  Magic might give me leverage, but it’s often as problematic as it is helpful.  I think I probably accomplish as much by subtlety and a whispered word in the right ear as I do with incantations and irionite.  But I must continue to study it,” I continued.  “Indeed, I have an appointment with Kedaran the Black this afternoon.  To study necromancy.”

Dad shivered, involuntarily, and I couldn’t blame him.  He hadn’t even seen a walking corpse before.  I had.  I didn’t have the heart to explain to him that the reality was far worse than his imaginings.

“That’s the part of this profession I don’t like,” he admitted, through pursed lips.  “The enchantments are helpful.  The spells have turned this place into a going concern.  But when you delve into such dark places, Min . . . I worry.”

“You should,” I agreed, emphatically.  “Necromancy is . . . it’s not something Imperial magic has encouraged a study of for a reason.  Reanimation is creepy, and fraught with ethical dilemmas.  It’s one step beyond human sacrifice, according to some scholars, and merely a natural extension of already-existing magical principles to their logical conclusion, according to another group.  A smaller group,” I added.  “And yes, everyone thinks they’re creepy.”

“Well, you play around with dead people, folk are going to talk,” he observed.

“It’s not something you can get away with in the village,” I agreed.  “Necromancy was all but forbidden by the Censorate.  It was a moot point, for the most part, because without irionite, it took a necromancer three or four days to accumulate enough power to cast the spell.  It only lasted a few hours, and the results were usually . . . disappointing.  So very few went past basic theory.  And those who did were subject to penalties.”

“So why do it at all?  Seems . . . creepy.”

“Because Korbal is a necromancer, and he’s studied necromancy for longer than humanity has been on this world.  Not only are he and his followers undead, the creatures he’s creating out of the corpses of slaves are far more sophisticated than anything human necromancers have ever produced.  I need to know more about the practice, at least in theory, if I am going to be able to challenge him.”

Dad winced – he’d never gotten over the idea of me risking my life, and I’m sure the idea of me fighting against some undead ghoul was abhorrent.  “Son,” he said, which he almost never called me unless he was about to impart some profound piece of fatherly wisdom, “perhaps I’ve been too preoccupied by the possibility of my own death to see the subject as one for much study – except in how to avoid it.  But it doesn’t exactly seem wholesome to be mucking around with such things.”

“Wizards do a great many things that aren’t very wholesome,” I chuckled, thinking of some of my warmagic buddies.  “Death magic is particularly slippery to consider, for a host of technical reasons beyond the mere moral issues.  It’s a natural human fascination,” I pointed out.  “You yourself admit to thinking about it.  Too much,” I emphasized.

“When a man has this many grandchildren, he knows his time among them is limited,” he sighed.  “Don’t worry, I feel hale enough . . . for my age.  But every winter is harder, and one more closer to the last one.  Any father understands that,” he said, gently.  “Nor is there shame or worry in it.  But I wouldn’t mind not dying,” he added.

“The quest for immortality has been constant among humanity,” I said, philosophically.  “The Wenshari magi had an entire cult around it.  Necromancy is a natural magical extension of that desire, with dreadfully disappointing results.  No human spell has managed more than the simplest reanimation.  Your soul doesn’t get popped back into your body.  Your dead flesh is merely propelled by magic at the direction of another.  Like I did with the water elemental in the pond, only with rotting human flesh instead of nice, clean water.”

“But not Korbal,” Dad said, as he poured water into the basin to wash the flour off of his face.

“No, Korbal’s necromancy does allow some bit of your mind to return,” I conceded.  “That’s the problem.  He’s using a very sophisticated necromancy . . . and I don’t even know simple necromancy.”

“You’ll figure it out, Min,” he said, confidently, as he patted his face dry with a towel, and then tossed it on the side of the basin where my mother could complain about it.  “You’re a smart lad.  Always were.  We’re going to miss you,” he sighed.

“I’m going to miss you all, too,” I agreed.  “The kids, especially.  They’ve kept Min and Almina distracted, and that’s worth a lot to me.”  Dad and Baron Lithar had come to an arrangement to re-open the bakery back in Talry, after the Temple of Briga lifted its interdiction on the barony.

They were planning on leaving in just a few more weeks.  Dad was only taking half of the household he left with, as two of his former apprentices would be staying on here, with my sisters, and continue to run the Sevendor Town bakery.  Mom and Dad had enjoyed getting to know their grandchildren and their daughter-in-law, but it was time for them to head back home and we all knew it.

“They’re beautiful children,” he assured me.  “As pretty as their mother, as smart as their father.  All your children are beautiful.  But they’ll be happier with their mother.  If you can find a way to restore her . . .”

“I’ve done almost nothing else,” I agreed.  “This is likely the best option I have.”

“Then do what you have to do, Son,” he said.

For no particular reason, his words filled me with confidence I hadn’t felt before.  I wasn’t exactly fishing for his validation, but getting it unexpectedly made it all the more potent.

“I will, dad,” I promised.  “If it means chasing Korbal into his darkest cellar and beating him to death the bloody stump of his own arm, then I’ll find a way to do it.  Are there more tarts?  Those were delicious!”

Interlude I

Pentandra

“The Conspiracy”

Pentandra regarded her young guest with a mixture of admiration and trepidation over a cup of tea in the garden of her country estate.  Ordinarily, it would be too cold to consider lingering outside for any length of time, but that was under the old feeble wizards of the court.  In her very first days at the estate she’d enchanted the gardens with an invisible dome that allowed the air within to stay considerably warmer than the chill Wilderland weather outside.  It made conversations like this one a bit more pleasant to have, outside in the daylight.

“. . . so, I hope you can appreciate my dilemma,” Gatina finished, as she set down the teacup.  “I really don’t see what else I can do.”

Pentandra considered the girl’s problem.  Fortunately, she seemed to be working along with the currents of fate, not against them, for her sake.  Else Pentandra would have to dissuade her, or at least challenge her course.

“I do see the problem,” Pentandra finally admitted.  “Oft the gods present these challenges to us seemingly out of spite, when what we desire is so close but yet seems unobtainable.  But I am not a priestess,” she said, tossing up her hands.  “I am a wizard.  And where the gods fail, magic prospers.”

“Yet it seems an impossible task,” Gatina lamented.

“Not impossible,” Pentandra said, quickly, “just . . . highly unlikely.  Let me think . . .”

The pretty Coastlord sat with perfect feminine patience while Pentandra thought.  When Gatina appeared on her doorstep so unexpectedly she’d been surprised.

The young shadowmage was in a desperate mood, however, and chose to appeal to the court wizard of the court-in-exile, instead of taking matters into her own hands.  Her dark sable gown and beautiful silver necklace was at odds with the other garments she’d seen the girl wear.  She was appealing to Pentandra not just as a mage and administrator, counselor to His Grace, but also as a woman.

At last Pentandra sighed, patting her growing belly.  “The problem is that the political situation is so dire,” she said, letting her eyes light on the hills in the distance, rather than her guest.  “That may or may not seem to hold bearing on your problem, my dear, but I assure you that it does.   You know the push to have the Count of Rhemes named Duke in Anguin’s stead?” she asked.

“Intimately,” Gatina said, flatly.  “His party, and those of the other rebels, has made it a practice of extolling the virtues of such a move.  Only the Count of Erona stands to object, and he is quickly seeing the advantages of letting another claim the coronet.”

“That must not happen,” Pentandra insisted.  “I need more information.  How would you say is Anguin viewed in the south?”

“By the nobility?  As a foolish boy, under Rard’s thumb and a lackey of House Bimin, pretending to be Duke while hiding in the woods.  By the people?  He is barely known at all.”

“And the gurvani invasion?”

“Considered a myth by all but the highest nobles,” Gatina confirmed.  “Duke Lenguin is seen to have lost half the Wilderlands due to his own incompetence as a war-leader.”

“Castal’s fleet?” she prompted.

“Openly scorned as part-time warrior-merchants, inadequate to face the vast Alshari fleets if they had the Storm Lord himself on the tiller.”

“And the undead?”

“Hollow tales of drunken mariners,” Gatina said, with a sniff of disgust.  “Stories of how they are infiltrating the swamplands are obscured.  Yet the Nemovorti continue to recruit.  Their agents prowl the slave pens looking for the finest . . . hosts,” she said, distastefully.  “Others are taken at night, or off the street, and never seen again.  Magi especially are prone to such disappearances.  As if we are being hunted.  More and more villages go silent as their headmen and elders are taken, slain, and reanimated.  It is said that even the Count of Caramas is now under their direct sway,” she added, worriedly.

Pentandra thought in silence a few more moments.  As if she were matching up the particulars of the situation with some prophecy or another.

“I can think of a way,” she began, hesitantly.  “But it will take much work, coin, and a number of very brave men.  And magic.  Lots of magic.”

“Coin I have in plenty,” she reminded Pentandra, “and what I lack, I’ll steal.  The prospect of work has never bothered me.  And there are brave men aplenty in the Wilderlands,” she observed.  “What magic we need I shall secure.  I assure you, my lady, I am committed to this course.  What price you ask of me, I shall be happy to pay.”

Pentandra couldn’t argue with that.  “We shall come to that in a moment,” she decided.  Manpower wasn’t the problem.  Where it was and where it wasn’t, that was the problem.  But one thing at a time, she decided.

“If you want to work to our mutual benefit,” she told her guest, “then among the first things that must be done is to remind Enultramar that they have a very real Duke, and one who is not pretending in the slightest.”

Gatina smiled, and her lavender eyes widened in a way that made Pentandra shiver a little inside.  The girl was determined, that was certain.

“Just what do you suggest, my lady?” she asked, leaning forward expectantly.

“Actually, my plan has several parts,” she said.  “But the first will involve a journey back to Falas.  A clandestine journey,” she emphasized.

“No one ever notices a cat,” she shrugged, nodding toward where a big tabby that lived in the barn was sprawled on a sunny ledge.

“Just so,” Pentandra nodded.  “Once the message is delivered, and I speak to my cousin Planus for some essential supplies, we can progress to the next part of the plan.  It will also require some assistance from Sevendor, assistance that I cannot let Minalan know about without compromising him . . . but Lord Banamor owes me a favor or three.  And Gareth is suddenly available, I hear.  I can acquire what you need.”

“And warriors?”

“Warriors we have in plenty,” Pentandra assured her.  “Since the arrival of the Third Commando, and the influx of Wilderlords for the Weapontake, we now have thousands of soldiers.  I know just the type to undertake this task.  A highly risky task, even under the best of circumstances,” she reminded her guest.

“I am aware of the potential consequences, my lady,” Gatina said, nodding her head.

“Should things go ill, it is likely that all involved will face execution.  Unless the soil is prepared properly, this garden shall not bear fruit . . . or even sprout.”

“Understood, my lady,” Gatina nodded.  “I think I know what needs to be done to till it, before the planting.  And then water it . . . liberally,” she grinned.

“You may need to remove some offensive weeds, along the way,” she warned her.

“Hard work and dirty hands never bother me, if the fruit is juicy enough,” she countered.

“I will not be able to help much, in my present condition,” she pointed out, patting her tummy.

“I would feel cheated if I could not claim the satisfaction of this achievement for my own,” Gatina declared.  “Your counsel and wisdom are assistance enough, my lady.”

“Well spoken!” Pentandra approved.  “Then I can do what I will to assist . . . with the understanding that the onus for success or failure lies on your shoulders.  It must be a conspiracy, for now.  Perhaps until it is concluded.”

“The greater the prize, the greater the glory,” Gatina quoted.  “I shall speak of it to no one, save my mother,” she advised.

“Then let us begin,” Pentandra said, conjuring a blank sheet of parchment out of her amulet.  She’d had it modified, since she became Court Wizard, to produce such helpful things when needed.  A quill and inkpot followed.

She began the letter to her friend and colleague, using some coded terms that she would understand.  “I shall send this to Lady Carmella to make the initial arrangements . . . yes, yes, I think that she’ll have precisely what you need to proceed.  Alurra!” she called to the cat.

It wagged the tip of its tail but once in response.  “Have one of the pages sent to me, to bear a message to Vorone!” she instructed the cat.

“You summon your apprentice?  Mind-to-mind?” Gatina asked, confused.

“No, the nosy girl has been listening in the entire time,” Pentandra explained as she wrote.  “Through the ears of Lord Fuzzypaws, over there.”

“Ah!  A beastmaster,” Gatina nodded, understanding.

“Yes, a highly useful quality . . . when it isn’t irritating me,” she conceded, looking purposefully at the bored-looking tabby cat.  “As apprentices go, I could do worse,” she admitted.  “She does look after me, when Lord Arborn is out ranging, as he is now.”

“Will Duke Anguin be angry, if the . . . if we come to harvest, Lady Pentandra?” Gatina asked, concerned.

“My dear, we are so far away from harvest that such considerations really just don’t bear consideration,” Pentandra dismissed.  “What you are attempting is so far-fetched and unlikely that . . . well, by the time Anguin learns of it, you will either be dangling from the end of the traitor’s noose, or you will be triumphant.  Worrying about such things before they are at hand is pointless.”

“I submit to your wisdom, my lady,” Gatina agreed.

“We can get Tyndal and Rondal to assemble the men,” she decided, as she finished the note to Carmella a few moments later.  “We need not share our intent; the less they know of this, the better, for now.  The best kinds of conspiracies employ agents who do not realize they are such.  I shall come up with a clever excuse for doing so.”

“Won’t they feel betrayed, if we come to a successful harvest?”

“If we are successful,” Pentandra countered, “then they will spend their energies gleaning from the field of victory,” she promised.

A moment later Alurra appeared, being led by a scrawny young servant.  Her raven, Lucky, was perched on her shoulder.

“I come with Barstan, my lady,” she called, unnecessarily.

Pentandra nodded to the lad as he bowed, gave him the letter, and bid him to deliver it as quickly as possible.

She could have used mind-to-mind communication, she knew, but Pentandra also knew that Carmella was a wizard of intense concentration, when she was working.  Considering she was laboring to build a Ducal keep in a tenth the time and at half the expense of normal, she really didn’t need to distract the warmage in the middle of the day.  Not for something that would require a little finesse on her part.

When the boy left to get a horse from the stable, Pentandra regarded her blonde apprentice.

“Alurra, you do realize that this should be kept discreet,” she reminded her incautious apprentice.

The blonde girl snorted.  “As if I could understand one single thing you two said!” she accused.  “First you speak in riddles, then of warriors, then of conspiracies, and then of gardening.  Does no one in this court speak plainly?” she asked, exasperated.

“There are good reasons to keep secrets, sometimes,” Pentandra explained, patiently.  “Lady Gatina has ambitions that require the assistance of the court wizard.  Thankfully, her ambitions coincide with the good of the realm.  Thus I am supporting her endeavors.”

“Well, unless they involve growing peppers or potatoes, I have no idea what you were talking about,” Alurra said, annoyed.  “And that is perfectly fine by me.  It’s bad enough to find that your quarters have been consumed by the dragon,” she began complaining, “but then to be shipped off to this boring old place, out in the middle of—”

“Thank you, Allura, that will be all,” Pentandra said, rolling her eyes.

“It’s not like I’m stupid or anything,” the girl continued.  “I know you were talking about Enultramar, and—”

“Thank you, Allura, that will be all!” Pentandra repeated, more forcefully.

“Yes, Mistress,” Allura said, curtseying sarcastically.  “I swear to Trygg, every day it’s a new ruse, a new deception, a new—”

“THANK YOU, ALURRA!” Pentandra said, nearly angry.

When the blind girl returned to the hall, and Pentandra glanced at the tabby cat and continued.  “Clearly, you’ve established the desire for a change in leadership in your own mind, my dear, else you would not have come.”

“My motivations are not so pure, I’m afraid, my lady,” Gatina demurred.

“Your motivations are as pure as any a maid possessed,” chided Pentandra in return.  “The gods rarely put what we desire in easy reach, for what glory then in its attainment?  No, Lady Gatina, I admit I admire your willingness to pursue your heart’s desire.  No wizard worth the name could have chosen a worthier goal.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Gatina said, standing and giving Pentandra a perfect curtsey.  “I stand much in your debt, if I succeed.”

“And if you fail?” Pentandra asked, the obvious question.

“If I fail, I expect you to arrange a rescue, before my neck is stretched,” she confided.  “Failing that, arrange for a heroic funeral oratory in my honor to celebrate the noble futility of the endeavor.  To serve as inspiration – or warning – to others,” she suggested.

“I could do no less, my lady, for one so brave, during a time so tumultuous,” Pentandra agreed.

“I STILL DON’T KNOW WHAT IN THREE HELLS YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT!” Alurra screamed from the hall.

“And another piece of professional advice, my dear?  Be very, very careful about the quality of apprentice you take,” she advised.  “You never quite know what you’re going to get.”

Part I

The Spellmonger’s Bargain

Chapter One

The Departure Of Dranus

My parents were not the only ones to be leaving Sevendor soon.  Another departure was occurring sooner, and required my attention.  It is customary, when letting go a retainer who has provided good and faithful service, to send them off with gifts and praise as they move along to a better position.  It’s just good management.  When the retainer in question is making the jump from Baronial Court Wizard to Count and member of the peerage, the occasion merits a grand gift and an extended personal visit.

“I came to see you off to press your candidacy, and wish you both luck and blessings as you press your case,” I told Dranus as he saw the last few crates from his empty laboratory packed into a hoxter pocket in his new warstaff.  “That doesn’t mean I don’t regret losing you.  You’ve done a masterful job in Sevendor.”

Most of the common items in the small tower on the wall of the inner bailey that had become the home for my court wizard were staying for Master Loiko: elementary texts and references, basic lab equipment, common tools of enchantment and thaumaturgy.

But he was taking a number of enchantments he’d constructed in the last year with him in his bid to become the Count of Moros.  Deadly ones.

“It is my duty, as well as my legacy,” the Remeran nodded, turning to face me.  He’d had the barber shave his head entirely, allowing his bushy eyebrows to dominate his forehead unopposed.  It gave him a much more dangerous look.

“My half-brother Inutulius has enjoyed three years of interim appointment, since my father’s death.  In that brief time, he has allowed my father’s legacy to decline damnably.  The people of Moros are poorly led and trained, the roads are in poor repair, and the castles are neglected in favor of the estates, and the arsenals are laughable.  My late father would be livid.  It is in a poor situation for defense, which is the primary responsibility of a count.

“Inutulius intends to take the position permanently, and use it much as my uncle did, before my father restored the position – as a means of enriching himself, not properly seeing to his office.”

“I don’t fault your ambition,” I assured him as I took a seat in his chamber.  “Quite the contrary.  I support your bid.  But I wouldn’t expect it to be an easy challenge.  There are still many who fear a Magelord in such a high position,” I warned.

“I’ve spent enough time preparing, Minalan,” he said, thoughtfully.  “My tenure in Sevendor has been invaluable.  I am twice the wizard I was when I came here.  I have irionite.  And I am enough a man to admit that you have been my best teacher.”

That took me aback.  I hadn’t realized I’d been teaching anything.  “How so?”

“In innumerable ways,” he said, amused at my surprise.  “The lessons I’ve learned in statecraft, alone, as I watched how you elevated Sevendor to a barony, and changed the course of a war by supporting your vassals . . . you are a canny and subtle magelord, Minalan.  Far more than you give yourself credit for.  Yet you bank your ambitions, play a long game, and seek as much to promote your allies in secret as you do yourself in public.”

“I do?  I had no idea.”

“Far from seeing such generosity punished by betrayal, you seem to thrive at every turn . . . the Baroness, not withstanding,” he added, sympathetically.

I looked away uncomfortably.  I’ve always been self-conscious about earnest praise from my professional peers.  It’s a lot easier to endure sycophants.  They don’t get as disappointed when you fall on your ass as your real admirers do.  “I’m glad you’ve taken something of value from your stay here,” I said, letting the moment pass.

“Oh, I have,” he said, as he picked up one of the Sentry Rods he’d built to support his quest for the county, giving it an appreciative look.  “In many ways.”

The Sentry Rods were deadly magical weapons were developed for the dedicated warmagi who protected each of my domains.  Dranus had assisted in the development of the prototype, and then helped oversee their production.  Then he ordered thirty of them from Sevendor’s bouleuterion for his own use, empowering them using his own shard of irionite.  They could be wielded by anyone with a lick of Talent and proper instruction, and they were worth about a company of infantry each.  I had no doubt they would be instrumental in his coming war.

“I also appreciate you hiring so many warmagi for your effort,” I chuckled.  “The number of brawls at the Sword and Staff has declined precipitously, of late, so Banamor says.

“I need good men I can trust.  One good thing about Sevendori warmagi is that they’re loyal.”

“So what is your plan?” I asked, simply, as he stowed the last of the Sentry Rods into his staff’s hoxter.  “Professional interest,” I added.

“I will retire to my domain of Viridagro, where my bastard cousin Callidus has been gathering my forces,” he said, as he packed up one of the Mirrors he’d purchased during his tenure in Sevendor.

“I now have forty veteran warmagi who have enlisted in the effort.  Six companies of mercenaries, quartered in inns and friendly estates across Moros.  When I attend the Spring Conclave of the Moros League, I shall impugn the leadership of dull Inutulius and challenge the idea that he has effectively undertaken the office.  As the council will be held in Rubeum Fula,” he said, raising an eyebrow, “the seat of the count, my brother will not be able to escape the challenge, or dismiss it as hearsay.”

“How will that be received?” I asked, curiously.  One who has been forced to dabble in politics does well to observe the political movements of others.  At least that was what Pentandra told me.  And she’s always right.  She told me that, too.

“Well, in some quarters, I believe,” he considered with a smile.  “I have had my cousin quietly ensure a favorable reception among several of the lords of the league.  It’s cost me some gold, but I can depend upon six domains and the favor of a baron, at the onset.  Perhaps as many as four others will support me of their own accord, for the poor esteem in which they hold Count Tempors Inutulius.

“He has made a few enemies on his own, without my agents’ intervention.  It’s just terrible, the unfortunate but embarrassing events that have stricken my poor, deficient half-brother,” he said, with mock sorrow.

“It sounds as if bribery isn’t the only mission your agents have undertaken,” I said, fishing for information.

“How did you know?” he asked, innocently, his dark eyebrows dancing over his bald pate.  “I’ve had a squadron of warmagi quietly souring the soup of Moros, for the last year.  Quite a number of important issues for which the office is responsible have suddenly sprung up, much to the consternation of my noble peers.”

“Feudal management is fraught with challenges,” I agreed.  It didn’t take much to disturb the delicate operation of a manor or a domain, if you looked at the situation with an open mind.  Dranus has learned the lessons of the Sashtalia war well.

“Thrice since last Yule an important bridge in the northern part of the county has failed.  An illegal war between an ambitious knight banneret and a neglected eastern estate owned by the count has involved its neighbors in a scandalous fashion.  Three prestigious abbeys which depend on the beneficence of the count have had troubling episodes of fire, fungus, and flooded stores, requiring additional support from Inutulius, when he can scarce afford to grant it.  A horrific scandal about a sergeant in the County’s garrison and a squire has arisen, calling into question the leadership of my brother’s castellan.  That sort of thing.”

“Just the sort of problems to cast doubt on the abilities of a political appointee to a functional job,” I nodded.  “Especially in the eyes of the average noble who doesn’t see much in return for his fees to the county.”

“Why, Minalan!  What an astute observation!” he chuckled.  “When I present my challenge, Inutulius and his allies will be forced to defend.  At some point he will lose his temper, do something rash, and I can declare war on him legally.”

“How can you make war on a sitting count?” I asked, confused.  “I thought that was forbidden by Duin’s Law.”

“Ah, only if the man holding the office is judged competent and is accepted by the Duke,” he informed me.  “In the case of a temporary appointment, such as Inutulius enjoys, according to the law any noble under his purview can challenge his competence through the purifying struggle of warfare.  If a man can’t defend himself against such a challenge, clearly he has no business running the defenses of the entire county.”

The rank of Count was an interesting one.  Usually it came with some lands dedicated to the office, but just as a baron had a responsibility to represent the duke (or king) and vice-versa, a count’s position was less direct.  A count was responsible for the collective security of an entire region.  It was a military office, first and foremost, not a civil one.

That didn’t require a military man, necessarily, but at least a leader who could hire the proper military men to see to the defense of a region.  In most places, the local count had dominion over the military disposition of the baronies and domains under his control.  That included fines for failure, maintenance of major roads and bridges, maintenance and improvement of the large castles associated with the office, oversight of the militia training and postal service within his county, and a couple of other services considered essential for the post.

He paid for it all with a mixture of revenues from his lands and fees taken for any number of occasions – squiring, knighting, admission to the militia, tolls on bridges and roads, and an assessment from each domain under his purview.

While counts were technically prohibited from making war on their own name as a count, except under very specific circumstances, a count could (and often did) encourage others to do so on his behalf.  A count often held lands in addition to his official estates, and using the dominance of his office to improve his private holdings was common.

The appointment of a new count usually meant holding a meeting of the barons and leading nobles of the county and selecting one among their number to elevate to that position.  Once elected (or selected, depending on the custom) they met regularly after that to discuss the efficacy of the count and military issues haunting the county.  In County Lensely, the Riverlords League played that role – I’d never gone to the moot, but Baron Arathanial was very involved in the politics of the county.  The occasion was used for knighting prominent noblemen at the apex of their training, overseeing regulation for the conscription, pay, and training of local peasant militias, that sort of thing.

But there were a lot of variations, due to tradition, favoritism, and ducal law.  In some places, the count held the position as it was intended, and rigorously saw to the defense of his baronies.  In others, strong barons or the distractions of feudal business encouraged the count to neglect his duties, turning them over to his friends without oversight.

That was the sort of thing that had happened in Moros, from what I understood.

Depending on the duchy and the local tradition, when there was a vacancy or weakness in the office it was either left to the Duke to appoint a replacement acceptable to the barons and nobles, or a local council of those nobles voted on one from among their number, and the Duke approved, if found agreeable.  In Wenshar and the Remeran Riverlands, it was the latter system.

That’s what made Dranus’ ambitions particularly important.  If he could convince the barons and knights-elector of Moros to select him, it was highly unlikely that the fairly weak Duke of Remere, Clofalin, would object.  But there was a lot to do, before that happened.  Nearly two-thirds of the lords in the council, from what Iyugi my magical spy had learned, were either opposed or ambivalent about the idea of electing a count who was a magelord.

But it was not impossible, my spy had added when I’d sent him to explore the issue, over the winter.  When I returned from my trip at Yule, a well-written report was awaiting me, detailing the dispositions of each elector and the likelihood that they could be turned.  In some cases, he indicated the best way to do that, either through bribery, extortion, or conquest.  In fact, he had identified three key barons whose allegiance would likely cement the question.

I’d passed the intelligence on to a grateful Dranus.  He’d been using his position as my Court Wizard (with my tacit permission) to prepare a plan of action against his hostile relatives for a year, now.  He was using his lands and estates in Moros as staging grounds for the anticipated war he’d have to fight to conquer their domains.

For the last six months, he’d been quietly interviewing mercenary companies and individual warmagi.  He’d invested a significant amount of gold in their hire, I knew.  They were quietly heading toward Moros and gathering without attracting attention.  That was in addition to the knights and vassals he’d inherited with his lands.

“So how are you fixed for troops?” I asked, casually.

“In addition to my magical corps, I have a hundred and twenty archers my cousin has trained from my domain and his, twenty-two knights, sixty-one sergeants, and fifty-five men-at-arms.  My cousin is housing my main mercenary force, the combined companies of the Masters of Field heavy cavalry unit and Belat’s Company, light infantry, six hundred horsemen in all.

“Then I have a unit of veteran crossbowmen quartered at the Barrel and Table inn, in Imisilius, in the west, the small but venerable Sir Oakfeller’s Company of noble cavalry in Laetus Town, and two companies of Wenshari infantry hired from my friend and former client, Baron Acuton of Skitia,” he said, proudly.  “With the hiring of Akutuan’s Avengers—”

“Akutuan’s Avengers?” I asked, incredulously.

“A new company, but made up of veterans of the Stalwart Sons and the Everbrave,” he explained – both well-known companies.  “They experienced a change in leadership, recently, and their new captain has agreed to bring his five-hundred men with me to Moros.  Altogether, I will have well over three thousand fighting men, distributed about the county.  When I make my challenge, I shall have the men to back up my claim already in place to strike,” he declared.

“What if you brother can rally sufficient support to rebuff you?”

“He’ll have to defend his county seat, first,” Dranus grinned.  “As soon as hostilities begin, I shall have half my warmagi and Oakfeller’s Company immediately attack Rubeum Fola, while the rest of my troops invade Inutulius’ personal lands,” he said, with satisfaction.  “By the time he realizes what he faces, he will be unprepared and overwhelmed.”

“That’s a fair plan,” I agreed, after some thought.  “As long as he doesn’t suspect anything and prepares a defense.”

“He does not,” Dranus assured me.  “My agents have been most thorough in spreading the rumor that I no longer desire the position, and that I am content with my arcane studies,” he said, pushing the last basket of miscellaneous items into a hoxter.  “When my brother heard I’d accepted a post with the Spellmonger, he not only relaxed his vigilance, he increased the exploitation of his office.  His forces are in even worse shape than when I initially threatened to press my claim,” he said, with a sense of satisfaction.  “That appears to be everything,” he sighed.  “It is time to take horse.”

“I want to thank you for your excellent service, Dranus,” I said, with a formal bow in the Remeran style.  “You have truly set the standard for what I expect in a court wizard.”

“You will be well served by Master Loiko,” he assured me, returning the bow.  “I was hesitant, at first, as he is a warmage—”

“Probably the best one who ever lived,” I reminded him.

“Just so.  Yet in managing the transition, I find him to also be a capable and intelligent administrator,” he added, with a note of surprise in his voice.  “He was particularly interested in continuing my effort to improve the arcane library of the barony.  Quite a scholar, for a warmage,” he reflected approvingly.

“The Wenshari are known for both.  Please let me know if there is anything else I can do.  I will keep the King off your neck as long as I can,” I promised.  “But there are limits to my influence.”

“If all goes as planned, then it should be over before the King even hears about it,” Dranus said.  “And by then it will be too late.  Farewell, Baron.”

“Farewell, Magelord,” I replied, as I saw him to the door of the little tower that had been his home for nearly two years.  “May Ifnia and Huin favor you!”

He nodded one final time as he mounted the charger he’d purchased, and joined a squadron of mercenary cavalry and a couple of stray warmagi who’d enlisted in his expedition.  The rest of his recently-hired mercenaries were in an inn in Boval Village, waiting for him to depart.

I watched as the Remeran wizard rode away with his men, looking far less like the robed mage who’d come to me originally, and far more like the regal and determined magelord, well-armored and armed, in command of troops, that he now was.

It was an interesting example of how dramatically things had changed for my profession in just a few years.  Court wizards were learning warmagic and prosecuting their claims as magelords.  Spellmongers were ruling baronies.  Footwizards were dressing and acting like burghers.  Where once Practical Adepts were seen as near parasites on commerce, now they commanded merchant fleets and long convoys of trade wagons.  And growing fortunes in gold.

That was progress, progress that would continue with or without me, now, I knew.  I had encouraged enough different wizards to establish themselves on their own, and through the Arcane Orders set up institutions to protect and defend both the magelords and the other magi from being returned to their previous diminished state.

With magelords like Dranus, Pentandra, Astyral, Taren, and my other friends and allies having independent power bases spread throughout the kingdom, and the Censorate crushed in exile, there just wasn’t much chance that magic would be relegated back into the slums of society.

Wizards were here to stay, in the Kingdom of Castalshar.  They would help steer it through the coming times, no matter what other politics raged.  That would persist, I reflected with satisfaction, as Dranus disappeared through the gate, no matter what happened to me when I went to Olum Seheri.

Chapter Two

A Letter From His Highness

A message awaited me, when I finally returned to the castle, held in the hand of an anxious page.  The seal it bore explained why he was anxious. The message had arrived at Sevendor Castle by way of the Mirror Array in town and delivered to my page before breakfast.  Thank Briga the lad had the decency to wait until I’d gotten into my second cup of tea before he presented it to me.  The official seal of the Mirror Array and the use of the “good” parchment told me it was trouble before I even opened it.

To His Excellency Baron Minalan the Spellmonger of Sevendor:

His Highness Prince Tavard, Duke by the Grace of the Gods of Castal, deigns to bring his family to Pilgrimage at the holy Everfire that has manifested by Briga’s grace in his Barony of Sevendor so that they might remark on its nature and receive the benefits of its blessings at the Festival of Briga’s Day.

Attend to his Ducal Counsellor Sire Dasuos when he arrives in preparation for the occasion of His Highness’ visit to his loyal vassal, and lend him all available consideration for accommodation of His Highness’ party.

S., Reiman of Lancelawn, Ducal Scribe

I get Mirror messages pretty frequently, about all sorts of things, and usually they were delivered open, scrawled on regular parchment stock by the receiving mage, and delivered without seal.  The only time they bother with that sort of thing is if it labeled sensitive about the Arcane Orders, or someone actually paid money to send a note to me through the magical array.

I suppose everyone at the high table that morning knew that I’d received word of something horrible when I set down my cup and issued a choice string of invective that blasphemed ever divinity within earshot.

Sire Cei looked up from his porridge.

“Something amiss, Excellency?”  Despite the “Spellmonger’s Breakfast Rule” of casual address during these informal meetings, Cei exempted himself from the rule he rigorously enforced on others.  Castellan’s prerogative.

“Yes,” I sighed, heavily.  “It’s your lucky day, Cei.”

He raised his thick eyebrows.  “So lucky that it required you to suggest the goddess of luck perform that particular act on herself with that particular vegetable?”

“She has it coming,” I said, unapologetically.  “You are going to get to cross off one more highly-coveted item on whatever chivalric honor code you knights use.”

“And what would that be, Excellency?” he asked, serenely.

“Hosting your liege at an important occasion,” I said, tossing him the parchment.

He read it carefully, and then folded it up again with reverence.  When he looked up again, there was a particular look in his eyes that I’ve come to associate with knights.  My warmage colleagues and I call it “itchy spurs”.

That’s when they are overcome with an opportunity to live up to the chivalric ideal in some obtuse, obscure, or violent manner, and gods help anything that got in their way.  As knights are essentially civil as well as military officers in the feudal structure, there were all sorts of social components to their cult.

I don’t want to even discuss the religious elements – Duin the Destroyer’s chivalric clergy are legendary.

I even understood it, somewhat.  Sparks – combat and support warmagi in the various Magical Corps across history – have their own measures and standards of greatness, and they can be just as obtuse, obscure and violent.

Now that the warmagi had become magelords and High Magi, some of those elements were becoming ingrained in the emergent culture, as Pentandra was fond of pointing out.  Hells, the three biggest magelords of the Wilderlands, Astyral, Azar and Wenek, were all old comrades of mine who seemed to be competing for professional bragging rights about their achievements in the craft.  Currently, Azar single-handedly charging a dragon in the middle of a burning palace put him on top, but I suspected Wenek was already plotting something else as brazenly heroic to supplant him.

But the opportunity to feast and host a liege-lord in grand chivalric style was one thing on every worthy knight’s list of professional achievements.  I found the Prince’s arrival an annoyance and headache.  Sire Cei saw it as an opportunity to compound his chivalric honor.  So, my wizardly wisdom told me it was best to put him in charge, let him bask in the glory of a lavish showing, present his pretty wife and children to His Highness, and show-off the prosperous mageland that the chief of the knights magi had nurtured.

All I had to do was pay for it all.

The expense didn’t concern me, that much, as I was currently pretty comfortable.  In fact, even the loan guarantees I’d extended secretly to the Duke of Alshar had been unexpectedly cancelled when he was presented a fortune in back taxes by my former apprentices, so I was more than prepared to drop a purse of gold on this circus if it kept me from being bothered with the details.

My problem – besides the innately annoying person of Tavard, himself – was that this sort of thing was really interrupting my planning and plotting to do far more important things than flatter Tavard’s vanity.

So I gave it to Sire Cei . . . and he relished it, I could tell.  He had itchy spurs.

“I’ll host him in the new castle, of course,” he said, aloud.  He meant the new gatehouse, but since my neighbors were all a bit concerned with the size of the new fortress behind my crappy old fortress, I was hesitant about bragging about the massive brand-new fortress I was having built in the mountain behind it.  So I’d quietly instructed everyone to refer to it as the “new castle”, not the “new gatehouse”, at least until we were ready to show off the real new castle.  By then Sevendor will have assured our neighbors of our peaceful intent, I hoped.  Conversely, we’d really need a real new castle if we hadn’t.

Feudal politics, in case you haven’t realized it, are complicated.

“We will of course have to hold a tournament of some sort, in His Highness’ honor,” he began reciting.  “A banquet afterwards, as a manner of course, and that doesn’t include the Briga’s Day festivities, which will have to be re-arranged to accommodate Their Highnesses.  Can I count on you to arrange for some arcane illuminary entertainments, Master Loiko?” he asked my new court wizard politely.

“That was more Master Dranus’ avocation,” Loiko Vaneran, one of the greatest warmagi of our age, admitted as he peeled a hardboiled egg.   My new court wizard looked uncomfortable with the request on his first full day on the job.  “But I think with the number of eager wizards in Sevendor Town, we can find someone to dazzle the Prince’s fancies.”

“Why not make it a competition?” I suggested.  “Briga is the goddess of inspiration, and you can get the temple to sponsor it.  Offer a fat prize, present the winner at the banquet, where he can talk about how he did it with Her Cumbustionness’ divine guidance, or something.”  That would help further cement the good relations between the town’s growing clerical community and the influx of magi that was already starting to cause some professional issues on both sides.

“An excellent idea, and demonstrative of Sevendor’s unique position,” Sire Cei agreed, enthusiastically.  “Do you think we could persuade the Alka Alon to lend us a chorus of their folk to perform for His Highness?”

“Whatever you need,” I promised, expansively.  “See if they can spellsing him a new personality.”  That sort of talk was also covered by the “Spellmonger Breakfast Rule”: anyone could bitch, either generally or about notable personalities – even me – without fear of repercussion.  I needed to know what my people really thought, if I was going to trust their judgements.  If I was being an asshole, they needed at least one opportunity a day to tell me that to my face and let me reflect on it as a man, not as a lord, wizard, or any of the other things I did.

“That actually would be a good occasion to finally see the wedding of Lady Fal to Sire Ryff,” Sister Bemia pointed out.  “We’ve been putting that off far too long.”

My castle chaplain was right – but it wasn’t Sire Ryff who was the one dragging his feet on the way to temple.  Lady Falawen had pledged to marry the brave young knight when he saved her father’s life at the Battle of the Red Ice.  That was two years ago.  One of the many problems with dealing with a nearly-immortal species as allies is that their ideas of “soon” don’t match up with ours.

“She was awaiting the completion of the refuge in Hosendor,” Sire Cei said, referring to the estate turned Alkan settlement, established as part of the marriage contract.  “From what I understand, it stands near completed.  There are hundreds of Tera Alon there, already, and hundreds more expected soon.  As well as an elegant manor house for the lord and his new bride.”

The Tera Alon were a sect, tribe, or club (I wasn’t certain what their exact standing was) of Alka Alon who had pledged to change their forms and fight with their human allies (me, mostly) against the growing darkness in the west.

That was an unwelcome development among many of the more conservative members of the Alka Alon who found the taller, stronger humani forms (a product of Alka Alon songspells using transgenic enchantment) an affront to their shorter sensibilities.  Or something like that.  Personally, when you live up to three thousand years, you’d think spending a few of them taller wouldn’t be a big deal, but it was.

Symbolizing the alliance, the marriage of Falawen and Sir Ryff was important to both races.  Performing the ceremony on Briga’s Day, in front of the Prince and Princess, would demonstrate how important we saw it.  I wasn’t certain how the Alka Alon would celebrate it.  But Sire Ryff was growing anxious about the wedding, and I needed to push it forward.

If the holiday wasn’t going to be a circus before, it would be now.

I sighed.  “I suppose it’s best to do a full baronial court, too, since I skipped the Yule Court.  That will assure everyone I didn’t just wander off.”

“But you did just wander off, Min,” Sister Bemia chided gently as she sipped her morning ale.  “You disappeared with Sire Cei and didn’t let anyone know where or when you’d be back.”

“Well, it was a secret mission,” I pointed out.

“Next time, leave a bloody note!” she said, sharply.  I knew a lot of the administrative responsibilities fell on her and her clerks when I was gone, not to mention people all over the vales asking her where I was.

“Sorry!” I pleaded.  “Secret mission . . .”

“Was it successful, at least?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

“After a fashion,” I shrugged.  “I escaped with my life.  I count that as a success.”

I was being purposefully cryptic, because there was a lot about my sudden trip to the middle of nowhere I wasn’t ready to share with people, yet.  A wrong word in the wrong ear could dash some part of the complicated plan that was forming in my mind to achieve my every wish and desire. And with Prince Tavard showing up, his entourage filled with spies, I was feeling very security conscious, all of a sudden.

But I should have been more socially conscious, in retrospect.  Sister Bemia reminded me of that in a lecture I knew was coming, I was dreading, and I had to endure.

“So did your former apprentices,” she continued, in a low voice.  “Barely.  Have you spoken to them, yet?”

“Not in person,” I admitted, guiltily.  “I . . . I let them know I was back.  They gave me the highlights of their mission, but . . .”

“They are recuperating at Taragwen Keep,” she pointed out, “which is a day’s walk or a half-day’s ride over the ridge.  They were worried sick about you,” she accused.

“I know,” I said, defensively.  “I’ll go see them this evening, I promise.”

“So was Lady Estret,” she said, shooting her eyes at Sire Cei, whose eyes were glazed over in some chivalric fantasy.  “Taking her husband away from her children on Yule – Yule! – for some damnfool secret mission, and then popping back here like you were just running into town for a pint . . . do you have any idea how worried she was?” she asked, accusingly.

“I had to—”

“Yes, I know,” she said, flatly.  “You had a ‘secret mission’.  One you can’t tell anyone about.  While your own poor children—”

“My ‘poor children’ were being feasted and feted by their adoring grandparents in the lap of luxury, and barely noticed I was gone,” I informed her.  That was the first place I went, once I brought Sire Cei, Joppo and myself back to Sevendor.

Almina and Minalyan were still basking in the post-Yule bliss of young children who have been stuffed with cookies and treats and given the most fantastic toys that the enchanter’s art could produce.  They and their cousins had stayed at the Baker’s Hall for the holiday, and my parents and sisters had spoiled them rotten.

“They weren’t suffering,” I added, guiltily.

“As you say,” the nun conceded, unconvinced.  “I just hope that . . . whatever it was you were doing was important enough to cause all that worry.”

“It was,” I assured her.  “You should know by now I am not prone to actual foolishness, Bemia.  Else none of this would have come to pass,” I said, gesturing toward my peaceful, prosperous Great Hall.  It was late winter, but the weather was pleasant, and the doors to the hall were wide open allowing the castle folk to go about their business.

“You hire good people,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“That, I do,” I agreed.  “Yourself included.  So while I cannot elaborate on the nature or outcome of my quest, I will tell you that Lady Alya is . . . better,” I said, cautiously.  “And there is hope that she will be better still.  You’ll have to take that morsel and be content with it, because that’s all I can reveal right now.”

The nun’s eyes widened, as did a few others around the cracked stone table.

“That’s all you get,” I repeated.  “And keep even that much to yourselves.  I’m certain my absence was noted, in certain quarters, just as I am certain that Lady Lenodara performed her duties well, as I directed her.  But sometimes wizard’s business requires such sacrifices.  It wasn’t the first time I was called away from Sevendor, and it won’t be the last.

“But until this . . . matter is resolved, you’re all going to have to bear with me and some inconvenience as I have to be elsewhere.  Especially now that Prince Tavard is coming here.  That complicates things,” I sighed.  “In ways you cannot imagine.  I will make the best of it, and who knows what could come out of such a visit?  But we will host him here with all due honor and respect.  Or at least Sevendor will, and I’ll show up and look important.  Believe me, the last thing I want with Tavard right now is any sort of quarrel or conflict.”

Organizing a baronial court on relatively short notice wasn’t as much of a problem for me as it was my noble peers.  One of the advantages of being a magelord is that you aren’t reliant on the whims of weather and the lives of messengers to communicate with your vassals and allies.

Nor did I have to wait days for a reply.  Every one of my vassal domains now had a resident wizard installed, at my own expense, to handle arcane affairs for their territory.  For those few who were High Magi, possessing irionite, it was a matter of a mental conversation.  For the rest, I had the local Baronial Mirror Array send word.

By nightfall of the morning I got the message, all of my vassals and local allies had been informed of the Prince’s pilgrimage to Sevendor, and the special baronial court I would hold in his honor.

There was a significant amount of business piling up, since the last real court I held . . . sometime before Greenflower.  Sire Cei was adept at stalling important matters, thank Luin, but I had to give the barony some official attention.

There were matters such as the continuing problems in Northwood, the wedding of Lady Falawen and Sire Ryff, a number of minor issues regarding the new barony in Sashtalia, people to honor, people to punish.  Magelord stuff.  It would take me a few days to consult with Cei and his staff about it.  That would be tedious, but necessary.

I wish that was the extent to which I had to prepare, but the truth was having Tavard here was inviting political disaster in any number of ways.

My young liege was a proud, bellicose, and not particularly bright.  That is, he was about typical of his age and class, not really any better or worse than most of the nobility.

But Tavard was a bully.  He was used to power he hadn’t earned, and as a result he was subject to whims and reactions that an older, wiser man would be wary of.  Worse, he was so heavily favored by his mother that she’d shielded the boy from honest criticisms that might have made him stronger.

There were plenty of court rumors about episodes from his youth, when his impetuous nature and viciousness (something else that Queen Grendine encouraged in her son) led to a variety of minor scandals.  What’s killing a few peasants or sporting with the wives of your vassals against their will, after all?

While I’d been careful to distance the Arcane Orders from royal politics, I hadn’t been entirely ignorant of what transpired in Castabriel.  I’d watched the decline in importance of my own people, and the increase in importance of Remeran commercial interests . . . and I was perfectly happy with that.  Magelord Planus was a close friend and business partner, and he was ideally positioned to inform me of what was happening through his insidious web of commercial contacts in the court.

Courts, actually.  Because there was a growing political split in the Kingdom as King Rard was trying to establish a true government for all of his territories from his new palace at Kaunis, north of Castabriel . . . while his son, twenty miles down the road, seemed to be determined to contest important issues as Duke of the richest part of the realm.

It was well-known that there was a lot of resentment festering under the surface after the coronation that the Castali had all worked so hard to pull off.  Rard and Grendine had to broaden the ministers of the Royal Court to reflect their new realm, including prominent Wenshari, Remeran, and even Alshari nobles for important political reasons.

That left the remnants of the old Castali ducal court with their best minds gone.  New ministers had replaced the old, ambitious men who were quite willing to accept a powerful position at a mere ducal court rather than the Royal Court.  And with the titular management passed over to brash young Tavard, there were already scandals and plots brewing.

Chief among the plotters was the new ducal Prime Minister . . . Count Moran.  The ambitious noble hadn’t been invited to any official position in the Royal government, so he was quick to advance himself as the replacement for the previous Prime Minister, the venerable Count Kindine, who got kicked upstairs.

The Castali high nobles welcomed him as a counter to the sudden importance of Remere in the royal councils, and in the last few years Moran had slowly but surely promoted his own partisans into positions of power within the Ducal administration.  Now that the King had unofficially left the ducal palace in Castabriel for his grander new royal palace at Kaunis, Count Moran had crushed opposition and consolidated power in the ducal capital.

That was starting to produce some friction, as the two power centers disentangled from each other.  Moran was subtle, though, and would not move overtly against the Royal Court.  He was too afraid of Grendine’s army of pretty assassins.  But that didn’t stop him from causing trouble in other ways.

Everything had come to a head, Planus informed me, when Princess Rardine was captured at sea, along with some royal ministers and her entire entourage, by pirates off the coast of Farise.  Instead of demanding ransom themselves, as was traditional, the pirates sold off their prize to the rebels in Enultramar, who in turn traded her to Korbal the Necromancer.

That raised a permanent split in the courts.  The Royal Court was – officially – furious at the kidnapping, and was – officially – pursuing all means to secure Rardine’s release.  But Tavard’s ducal court, under Moran’s guidance, was dead-set against that course of action.  Instead it had agitated for an all-out assault on Enultramar, to punish the rebels for their role in the crime.

And, along the way, conquer the richest part of Alshar for Tavard’s own.

None of which did a damn thing to rescue Rardine from Korbal.  But it gave Tavard every excuse to try to raise a fleet to assail the most heavily-guarded maritime power in the Five Duchies.

Meanwhile, Tavard and Moray were taking every possible opportunity to snipe at his poor cousin Duke Anguin, whose attempt at re-establishing his rule at Vorone, the summer capital of Alshar, was interrupted by a dragon destroying his palace.  That had provided His Highness and his gentlemen at court a great deal of amusement.  There were even satirical songs being sung about the hapless Orphan Duke who couldn’t seem to do anything right.

That was fine, by me.  I wanted him to underestimate his cousin.  What Tavard and his court didn’t know – but were probably beginning to expect – was that until recently I was propping up the nascent Alshari government through loan guarantees, through the Arcane Orders and the Temple of Ifnia.  I’d helped recruit the core of his ducal court, loaned him my very best administrative mage as his court wizard, found him an ideal soldier as his minister of war, and an underappreciated court noble as a prime minister.

Thankfully all had survived the destruction of the palace.  And while the government was now being run from the various picturesque estates around Vorone, and not from the palace, it was still functioning.  Indeed, it was arguably functioning better.  With magelord support, Anguin was beginning to construct a new, more secure palace at Vorone.  And with the help of my two sneaky former apprentices and a family of truly gifted magical thieves, the Orphan Duke now had a bulging treasury with which to pay for it.

None of that was known at the Castali ducal court.  They saw Anguin as a young backwoods buffoon, weak, poor, stupid and pretentious, barely scraping by in the rustic Wilderlands.  And they saw the remainder of his rebellious realm as ripe for conquest.

In the middle of all of this was Queen Grendine, herself raised in Enultramar in the Alshari ducal house before she was married off to Rard.  Her ambitions to own Enultramar were legendary, so she technically favored Tavard’s desire to conquer it.

But growing up in Alshar also gave her a far more realistic idea of what it would take to assault Enultramar and the southern Alshari vales.  Tavard’s bold idea for conquest was doomed, and she knew it.

Worse, the old bitch seemed quite willing to abandon the daughter she’d raised as the heir to her secret intelligence service in favor of her securing her son’s eventual rise to the throne.  Losing a daughter who was seemingly impossible to marry off was a small price to pay for ensuring Tavard took the crown, one day.  I was no admirer of Rardine, who’d tried to kill me, once, but I was sympathetic to her plight.

That’s why her rescue made such a good distraction . . . in more ways than one.  And why Tavard’s unexpected pilgrimage to Sevendor was so problematic.  If he caught wind that I was behind even attempting such madness, it undermined his reasons for assailing Enultramar.

More, if His Highness discovered just how much power and wealth I’d amassed in Sevendor, he would try to find some way to steal it.  That’s just how nobles think.

So the first thing I had to do in preparation was hide the big stuff.  Thankfully, I had a partially-hollowed-out mountain that, at this point, still looked like a mountain.  The construction around the three entrances into the diggings looked more like a staging ground for building the beautiful new gatehouse, the Mewstower that was nearing completion, and the new fortifications on my borders than it did anything else.  Covering and obscuring the main tunnels into the growing complex was easy.

Master Guri and his folk had already built a temporary vault, down near the Snowflake chamber, for much of my secure work on enchantment.  Another held the bulk of my fortune in gold and silver.  And that didn’t even count the special third vault in the Westwood that only a few knew about.

But I had my men move as much of my other wealth, magical and mundane, into the vaults anyway, just to be safe.  I’d been robbed recently.  And taxed regularly.  No need to take chances with either.  I didn’t even know all the wonders I owned, and the chaos of Briga’s Day would be a perfect time for an enterprising housebreaker to raid me.

I’m not paranoid.  Lots of people don’t like me.  I try not to take it personally.

If I was afraid of theft, I was even more afraid of threats against my family.  And Sevendor.  And, I regretted to say, Prince Tavard and the royal family.  As much as I didn’t like the asshole, having him harmed in Sevendor would not be in my interest.

To that end, I hired additional security.  Not only did I send a summons to most of my vassals for sergeants to help keep the expected crowds in line, I sent Gareth down to the Staff and Sword to hire some extra warmagi.

There are always a handful of professional warmagi hanging around the tavern, when they’re in Sevendor.  Not that there’s a lot of business for them here, usually (though Dranus had been steadily interviewing them and hiring the ones he liked) but there was a lot of gossip and professional advantages to wintering in town before the season began.  Picking up a couple of extra Stags, and becoming known to the Spellmonger, for doing what they were essentially doing anyway was simple.

Gareth found six decent fellows willing to take my coin and my orders and put them on the payroll immediately.  He deputized them as Spellwardens and I directed them to start paying attention to any newcomers who arrived ahead of the festivities, as well as general security during the festival.

It was a lot of effort.  By dinner time the entire vale was bustling with activity as the news spread and the orders began to pour out.  Sire Cei was still commanding the effort from the high table in the castle when I had my horse saddled for the trip to Taragwen through the back way we’d cut through the Westwood.

He was in his element, as he made lists and scribbled orders, sending messengers all over the barony.  He was hosting the Prince, himself, on behalf of his liege.  I felt the most sorry for Lady Estret, who just got her husband back from errantry, only to lose him again to the demands of chivalry.

Spur fever.  Don’t let it happen to you.

Chapter Three

Consultations

It annoyed me that Tavard was forcing me to divert my attention from what was most important, right now, I reflected as I rode my new rouncey through the secret shortcut to Castle Taragwen, but I had little choice in the matter.  Despite my intentions to pursue a raid against Olum Seheri with all speed, now I had to drop everything and cater to the details of a sudden state visit.

As I rode along the darkened path on my strong new horse, who I’d yet to name, I decided to do a little bitching about my situation.  Magelord’s prerogative.

It was dark, and I was reasonably certain Pentandra would be done with dinner, even though it was a few hours earlier over in Vorone.  I summoned the sigil that connected the temporary witchstone around my neck to contact her mind-to-mind.

So, you’ve finally returned to Sevendor, she said, an observation, not an accusation.  Did you find what you were seeking when you so rudely disappeared?

I did, I replied, pleased.  And I think I have a plan to restore Alya.  I met a powerful new ally.  I made the acquaintance of an ancient Alka Alon sorceress who also happens to have been present during the colonization of Perwyn, I bragged.  It seems she knows of something which might, possibly, be used to stitch Alya’s consciousness back together in a reasonable fashion.

How is she, Min? Penny asked, genuinely concerned.

She’s . . . a little better, I conceded, reluctantly.  I had to be honest, with Penny.  Lilastien, the Sorceress of Sartha Wood—

She’s not a myth? Pentandra asked, surprised.  I always thought she was some wild witch who’d escaped the Censors.

She’s no witch, she’s a . . . well, a doctor, among other things.  A human doctor.  But she’s also Ithalia’s grandmother, a specialist on human anatomy and culture, and she’s been imprisoned in her home by the Council for the last four-hundred years.  I convinced the Council to grant her a temporary parole to help with the war effort.  Ten years.

We get a powerful spellsinger for ten years? How in five hells did you negotiate that?  Without me? she asked, sounding hurt.

I got lucky, I demurred.  In any case, she’s identified something which might help put Alya’s mind aright.  Or at least more right than it is.  As it was, she was able to coax a little more awareness and responsiveness out of her.

Well, that’s encouraging.  So where is this spell?

That’s the bad news.  It’s in the basement of Olum Seheri.  Guarded by Korbal’s minions.  It’s the enneagram of a subsidiary creature of the Celestial Mothers, one she called the Handmaiden.  If we can successfully sneak in there and access the Ghost Rock beneath Olum Seheri, we can copy the enneagram and use it.  It’s supposed to support and regulate enneagrams, I explained.

And we have to reanimate it? Pentandra asked, skeptically.  Min, that sounds an awful lot like . . . necromancy.

Only because it is exactly like necromancy, I pointed out.  We’d be using the shade of a long-dead creature, energizing it and essentially bringing it into a limited kind of un-life.  That’s pretty much the definition of necromancy.

You can do that?

We’re going to find out, I promised.  I’ve been meeting with my on-staff specialist about it, to learn the basics.  And I’ve been doing my own investigations.  If we can figure out a few technical details, it might work.  Removing the centerpoint from the Snowflake is the hard part.  That’s the first step.  I’ve got my private bouleuterion working on it.  Once that’s done, we can proceed to the really dangerous part.

The raid on Olum Seheri.  The fortress of Korbal the Necromancer, she replied with dread.

Yeah, that.  That’s going to be the other hard part.  Especially the getting-back-out-alive part.  But I have the bare bones of a plan, I said, hopefully.

No doubt, she said, unenthusiastically.  You do realize that the fortress is incredibly isolated, beyond the worst terrain of the Land of Scars, infested with goblins and trolls, filled with wretched human slaves and evil undead, and guarded by dragons.

I’ve been there before, remember?

I do.  You almost died.  As did my husband.  And now you want to go back.  Only, now the place is a fetid lake and the city is a real fortress, not an Alka Alon fancy.  And it’s garrisoned by soldiers who have toiled to make it impregnable.

It’s also filled with wyverns, I added, helpfully.  When the lads returned from their excursion, they reported that the island is now home to hundreds of scaly, flying predators about the size of a cat.

Wyverns?  I’ve heard of them.  Like a snake with claws and wings?  Korbal probably cultivated them to keep the hawks at bay, Pentandra reasoned.  Dragons are too big to screen for them.  That many ferocious flyers will make scouting by air problematic.

I hadn’t thought of that, I admitted.  Damn!  This is going to be tougher than I thought.

It’s always tougher than you think, she chided.

We have some advantages, I pointed out.  For one thing, Tyndal and Rondal and their friends not only gathered some good intelligence, they apparently sighted the Princess.  Rardine is languishing in a cell in Olum Seheri.  I’m on my way to their clubhouse to hear the entire story.

So Rardine is in enemy hands!  I had so hoped that was mere rumor.  That gives Korbal all the leverage he needs to keep Rard from being too aggressive.

You would think, I sighed.  From what I understand, there is little interest in the Royal Court to mount any kind of rescue mission.  Oh, they’ve offered a rich reward to the hero who can rescue her, blah blah blah, and they’ve made threats . . . only against the rebel counts of Enultramar, who don’t have her.

What in six hells? Pentandra swore.  Are they mad?  She knows more about the security of the kingdom than the sodding Prince!

A detail that, thankfully, Korbal does not suspect.  Or does not care about.  Yet.  But it’s almost inevitable that he discovers it, should he bring himself to question her.  No killer tarts to protect her in a prison cell.  So we have a very limited amount of time in which to act.

You want to rescue Rardine?

It’s not my first choice, I admitted.  But as we’re going to be raiding the fortress of an evil Necromancer anyway, we might as well pick up some souvenirs.

Min, that’s mad.

I know, I sighed.  But it’s my only choice.  If I want to restore Alya.  And even that is only a possibility.  Oh, but it gets better, I added, remembering something she needed to know.  You remember that imprisoned Alkan sorceress I mentioned?  Turns out she’s more familiar with humanity’s situation on Callidore than we are.  The Sea Folk are actually in charge, and the rest of us are their guests.  They pretty much leave us alone, as long as we don’t disturb their fishy realm.  But the Alka Alon – who are also tenants, here – have already screwed up enough to be put on probation.  One more incident and they will be . . . evicted.

Evicted?  How?

I suppose they’ll call the reeve or something.  I don’t know.  But it’s dire.  The Sea Folk are already wary, after what we did to Perwyn.  Apparently, they gave us a perfectly good island and we sunk it.

Hey!  That was over seven hundred years ago!

If the Alka Alon have long memories, the Sea Folks’ are much longer.  Lilastien was terrified of the possibility of Korbal or Shereul doing something to disturb the peace enough for the Vundel to intervene.

So going to spit in Korbal’s eye is going to keep him from pissing in the Shallow Sea? she asked, confused.

Korbal and his brood are determined to overthrow the council and rule this realm, I pointed out.  Not attacking them isn’t going to keep that from happening.  No, after speaking with Lilastien, I’m convinced that ending the threat from the Enemy quickly is our best course of action.  That means more direct engagement.

Trygg’s womb, Min, you are trying to get yourself killed! she accused.

Not at all!  We’re far better prepared than we were five years ago.  We have scores of trained warmagi, far more powerful weapons, some potent High Magi, and the advantages that snowstone and the Snowflake give us, I pointed out.  Our Waystones give us a means of secret travel, our pocketstones lighten our loads, and we have powerful new allies.

The Tera Alon, she supplied.

Yes, the Tera Alon.  Whatever it is that motivates a three-foot Alka Alon to transform into a six-foot perfect physical specimen of near-humanity, find out a way to get us more.  Reports say that hundreds, perhaps thousands of Alka Alon have followed Lord Aeratas and the Emissaries in taking humanish forms.  The way the movement is spreading among the Alkan refuges is almost cultish, from what Onranion tells me.

Arborn has met with several bands who wish to get the enchantment, Pentandra confirmed.  They are enthusiastic, she agreed.  But Arborn mistrusts their motivations and their expectations of what humani style war will be like.

Of course, the Tera Alon will have to learn how to fight all over again, with human-style weapons, but with some advice and good armament they will be a formidable force.  And one intimately familiar with what has become of fair Anthatiel.

So, zealots, to match the Enshadowed’s fanatics, she snorted, mentally.

Oh, the Enshadowed have adopted larger forms with which to fight, too, I informed her.  Transgenics left over from their Warring States period.  A group of them tried to overcome Lilastien’s defenses, once the Council opened her cell at Yule.  They’re human-sized, but they’re different than the transgenically enchanted bodies our friends use.  They’re . . . sharper.  Slenderer, more angular, with longer arms and legs.  Their eyes are more widely spaced on their faces, and their hair is uniformly black.  Their skin is more mottled, too, I recalled.  And their voices are less bell-like and more . . . hoarse.  Darker.

They sound pleasant, she said, distastefully.  Where did they come up with such . . .?

The old Alka Alon wars, I answered.  Lilastien told me about it.  Those were ‘warrior’ forms, designed for combat.  It’s one of the reasons that the Alka Alon are so prejudiced against transgenic enchantments in the first place.  Various houses and sects had their own versions, but at the height of the hostilities most battles were fought with those kinds of forms.  Or some even worse.  When the war started – our war – the Enshadowed must have dusted them off.  Not that it did them much good.

They’ll get better, Pentandra promised.

So will our friends, I countered.  Once Aeratas settles into his new encampment near Sevendor, we can start outfitting his people properly and teach them how to be deadlier in battle.

You do realize you’re talking about a civilization that was ancient before it arrived here, ten thousand years ago? she pointed out.  They understand war.

Sure they do, I soothed.  Pentandra had been getting more and more testy during her pregnancy . . . which was totally understandable.  She was having triplets.  But they haven’t had to practice the art in generations.  Not really.  The Avalanti are nearly pacifists, unless threatened.  The Versaroti are militant by tradition, not necessity.  This is the first time they’ve been seriously threatened in millennia.  From what Varen tells me, most of her kin don’t even consider the gurvani worthy of fighting.  But this crisis is going to call for both kindreds to re-assess their cultural priorities.  The Tera Alon are the best step in that direction.

We’ve started seeing them more in the Wilderlands, Pentandra agreed.  They’re working with the Kasari to patrol the Penumbra.  We’re talking about building a camp for them up in the northeast, near the Anvil.  Since we already have a pretty extensive quarry camp up there, that shouldn’t be too difficult to establish.

How is Vorone surviving without the palace?

Well enough, she conceded.  The major ministries have relocated to the surrounding estates, when they can.  Believe it or not, without all the regular meetings I’m actually getting a lot more done.  We’ve cut it down to one day a week, usually in one of the finer townhomes in Vorone, sometimes a temple.  But Vorone is making up for the lack of the ministries with a boom in construction.  Carmella has been working all winter long to clear the ruins of the old palace and lay the foundations of the new castle.  With magic and a lavish budget for labor.  She laid the cornerstone at Yule, and says the first walls will be completed by Ishi’s Day.

That’s impressive, I remarked.  Usually it took an engineer a couple of years to get that far.  But then Carmella had an open-ended budget, complete freedom to build, and magical construction techniques that allowed her to move much more quickly than a traditional engineer.  She was also getting assistance from a few petty-dwarves, the rustic Karshak clans traditionally in charge of the low-status production of wood.

How is Anguin doing? I asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

Much better than I would have thought, for a boy whose only home was destroyed by a dragon, she conceded.  He only brooded for about a week, after you left.  Then he got to work.  Since then he’s been a model Duke, burying himself in the details of his court.  Everyone is getting paid on time, the local estates are set to plant this spring, and he’s got the Third Commando screening the city while Count Salgo is building a more credible force of Wilderlords.  Of course, all of that may change when the weather warms enough to get armies through the Wilderlands, she added, disturbed.

If Sheruel was preparing a major offensive, we would have caught word of it, I said, more confidently than I felt.  Now that Korbal was a player in the game, Sheruel was not the only foe we had to be wary of.  That didn’t mean he wasn’t still an existential threat.  You’ve done admirably, in Vorone, Pentandra, I said, sincerely.  Between you, Salgo, and Angrial the place might actually survive.

It will do more than that, she snapped.  Anguin isn’t content to be known to history as merely the Orphan Duke.  He plots to restore his rule over all Alshar.  Which is why you must be sure to consult with him and gain his permission before you do anything crazy with Olum Seheri.

Why?  Is their tribute in arrears? I joked.

Because it’s technically part of Anguin’s realm, and conducting operations within Alshar need to be cleared with the Alshari court, she lectured.  It’s not that I anticipate any resistance to the plan, she added, but after all the good will you’ve built up with Anguin, it would be a shame to waste some of it because you were too busy to ask permission.

Point taken, I sighed.  Please tell His Grace to expect a social call, in the near future.  One among many it seems I’m going to be making.  All right, this beast has borne me all the way to Taragwen, now.  Most of the Estasi Order is assembled to brief me about their adventures in Olum Seheri.

Please extend the lads my thanks, and the gratitude of His Grace, she replied, just the kind of gesture a good court wizard makes.  He is anxious for their return to his service.

One deadly mission at a time, please.  I’ve only got a few knights magi.  I don’t want to use them up.

Taragwen Keep is the headquarters for the Estasi Order of Knights Magi . . . which mostly meant it was a place for Tyndal and Rondal to hang out when they wanted more quiet than Sevendor Town afforded.  It’s a modest little mountain tower-house, adequate as a protected manor but hardly big enough to withstand more than a raid.

I supported the boys’ rash actions when they’d captured the castle (with their confederate and fellow founder, Sir Festaran, and a cross-dressing goblin – long story) I’d only told them to scout because it guarded one of only two deposits of snowstone outside of Sevendor, proper, and I wanted it in secure hands.

Since then, the place had become their unofficial clubhouse and war department in their fight against the Brotherhood of the Rat.  Those were evil pirates and gangsters who’d gravely offended the lads, a few years ago.  They don’t have very forgiving natures.

But they did know how to fight, and fight with both courage and cunning.  They’d made some valuable allies in their skirmishes, last summer, and exploited them to the point of impoverishing the criminal gang and disrupting their operations.  In the process, they’d discovered an insidious plot by the undead to invade Enultramar, and at least slowed it down.

But then they pushed their luck.  They wanted to send an expedition into the heart of the shadow, to the mountain fortress of Korbal the Necromancer, Olum Seheri.  It was a bold, dangerous, and audacious plan, but I’d authorized it.  And to give them the best possible chance, I’d additionally authorized the inclusion of Noutha Venaren, formerly Lady Mask, in their party.  Apparently, that had been instrumental.

As I’d explained to Sister Bemia, I’d checked in with the lads as soon as I was back, and had gotten a brief report from them.  But there was much they were unwilling to reveal to me, even in mind-to-mind conversation.  So, as I walked under the freshly-scrubbed gateway of Taragwen Keep and into the neatly-kept little bailey, I had little idea what to expect from this briefing.

Stumbling across three dwarves working busily in a shed near the hall door was not one of them.

At first, I thought that they were Karshak, perhaps a few of the fellows who hired out on their days off from the mountain.  But then I realized that their massive mane and beards were black, not brown, and their features were unlike the Karshak in some ways, and I knew who they were.  Q’azarai.  The Alon Dradrien.  More commonly known as the Iron Folk.

I tried not to look surprised, merely smiled warmly at the three and kept going.  I had no idea what crap had happened in Olum Seheri, but apparently it was quite a story.

“Baron Minalan,” came the voice of Sir Ganulan, the steward of the Order.  He more or less hated me, but we had come to terms after his former companions and employers tried to kill him.  Now he worked for the boys, and was more or less in charge of Taragwen Keep when they weren’t around.  “We’ve been waiting,” he added, coolly.

“I had business to attend to,” I answered, absently, as one of the servants took my mantle.  “But this is important.”

“That’s what we thought, too,” called Tyndal from Great Hall.  “Four weeks ago.”

“Join us, Master,” Rondal called, in a less-judgmental voice.  “We’ll tell you all about it.”

And they did.

For this meeting Tyndal and Rondal had included Gareth, Noutha, and their friend the Sir Atopol the Cat of Enultramar, thief and shadowmage – their newest member.  One after another they gave me a detailed account of the sortie to Olum Seheri, reported the terrifying meeting between our two greatest enemies, and confirmed the presence of Princess Rardine in a tower cell.

“She was right there,” Tyndal grumbled.  “Our new Iron Folk vassals got us as close as we could come, but it was a little hard to execute a rescue with Sheruel and Korbal throwing a bloody festival in the streets.”

“Too bad you didn’t,” I pointed out.  “King Rard has declared he will grant two rich Gilmoran baronies to the man who rescues Rardine and brings her safely home.”

Tyndal shook his head.  “I know,” he sighed.  “I wish I’d known that while I was there.  It would have made me think on the matter for another five whole seconds before I ran screaming from that horrible place.”

“It’s going to be difficult to extract her,” Rondal agreed with a sigh.  “But the good news is that she’s undervalued as a prisoner.  They aren’t really interrogating her, from what the Iron Folk managed to tell us.  They’re just holding her, as prize and hostage.”

“That’s a blessing, then,” I nodded.  “Because we are, indeed, going to go after her.  In Olum Seheri.”

“Master, you have one barony already,” Tyndal pointed out.  “Is that not enough?”

“It’s not for the real estate,” I promised.  “It’s for a distraction.”

Rondal and Gareth, in particular, looked at me sharply.

“A distraction for what?” Rondal said, beating his friend by a half-second.

“Another mission entirely,” I said, tapping my fingers on the table.  “Yes, we should go after Rardine, if only to deny her use to the enemy.  But that rescue can also serve to keep the eyes of the Necromancer away from where I don’t want them to be.  While you ladies and gentlemen will be performing the rescue, I will be conducting my own business in Olum Seheri.”

“Well, that certainly sounded cryptic,” Noutha said with a snort. Since she’d fairly won a witchstone at the last Spellmonger’s Trial, soundly defeating every obstacle in her path (and dueling two opponents on the trail to a standstill) she was once again a High Mage.  Giving her a chance to use that new power, now under my oath, was the final step toward me releasing her as my prisoner.

“It was meant to be,” I replied.  “I’m gratified that your mission was successful because my own was even more successful.  And in completing it, I gained us another ally and, more importantly, a much greater understanding of the stakes of this war.  There is much going on of which we are not aware.  In order to counter the danger, I need to penetrate into areas of Olum Seheri that are going to be very difficult to get to, by design.  That mission, which is far more important than Rardine’s rescue, is mine.”

“So . . . you want us to go bursting back into Olum Seheri, which is filled with goblins, hobgoblins, trolls, undead – oh, and did we mention wyverns?” demanded Gareth, annoyed.  “Because there were wyverns.  I thought those things were a myth!” he said, accusingly.  “The entire place is just swarming with flocks of vicious flying wyverns.”

“Don’t forget the dragons,” Atopol added, helpfully, brushing his overlong white hair out of his lavender eyes with a finger.

“Oh yes . . . the dragons . . .” the young wizard added, as if an afterthought.

“Or the Necromancer, himself,” Tyndal pointed out.

“There’s that as well,” Gareth agreed.  “And you want us to take on this mission . . . as a distraction?”

“You have understood my direction perfectly,” I agreed, smugly, while the lad went pale.  Gareth wasn’t cut out to be a warmage, though he knew more warmagic than any non-practicing wizard I knew.  He was a thaumaturge of powerful thought, an enchanter of note, and he had an administrative knack that was a rare and special talent in a subordinate.

Thankfully, the others were more enthusiastic.

“I don’t think we honestly have the strength to pull that off,” Rondal said with a sigh, a moment later.  “I mean, we’re good – we beat the snot out of the Brotherhood of the Rat and stung the undead pretty badly, but . . . Master . . . Olum Seheri?”

“I agree,” I nodded.  “Your current membership is inadequate to the task. I therefore challenge you to increase your membership.  We’re going to need a lot of very smart, very Talented folk to help us on this quest, and we need to start gathering them and training them now.  While we’re scouting and gathering intelligence on the place, I want the Estasi Order to recruit worthy and powerful warmagi and knights magi to train for the mission.

“But do it discreetly,” I warned.  “Away from prying eyes and big ears.  This must be a secret mission until it’s successful.  There are too many parties arrayed against us who would welcome the opportunity to spoil our plans out of spite and malice, if for no other reason.  Should we prove successful, we will upset a good many of their plans, as well.  So . . . keep it under the wands,” I said, using the wizardly shorthand for “keep your damn mouth shut.”

“That’s a big order,” Rondal said, shaking his head.

“I know a few fellows who might be game,” Tyndal considered, cocking his head in contemplation.

“As do I,” noted Noutha.

“And we have heard of some sports who might be worth interviewing,” Rondal agreed, reluctantly.  He groaned.  “Ishi’s tits, Master Min!  How big of a force do we require?”

“I’m thinking at least a score, maybe two,” I decided.  “Not so much cavalry, but they need to know how to ride.  And fight.  Fight most of all.”

“All right,” Gareth said, nodding his head.  “I’m out.”

He got up from his seat, pushing the heavy wooden chair back from the trestle.

“What?” snapped Tyndal, confused.

“I am out of this,” the wizard said, indicating the entire affair.  “Look, I helped you guys out with the Brotherhood for one reason only: to try to attract Dara’s attention and prove to her how brave and . . . and whatever it is she’s looking for, I did it for her.

“But you saw how she reacted at Yule,” he continued, a fire in his eyes.  “You heard what happened.  She barely acknowledged everything I did.  While she and Festaran played Lord and Lady of the Castle all through the holiday!”

“It wasn’t her fault,” Rondal said, defensively, “she was forced to hold the Yule Court in Min’s absence, and with Sire Cei gone Fes had to step in and be castellan.”

“I know!” Gareth said, darkly.  “Once again, they get pushed together!  While I languish in the background, waiting patiently for my turn to dance!”

“Hey, she did dance with you,” Tyndal pointed out uneasily.

“And do you recall how that went?” demanded the wizard, tensely.

Everyone at the table winced.

“Apparently, I missed an eventful court,” I observed.

“With all due respect, Master,” Gareth continued, easily, “this is an order of Knights Magi, of which I am not.  It is a haven for warmagi, a profession for which I have proven unsuited.  So, while it was highly educational to risk my fucking life on your behalf in order to impress a girl, that girl remains unimpressed,” he said, as dignified as he could manage.  “Therefore, my service here is at an end.”

“Coward!” Noutha said under her breath.

“Just because you’re a girl doesn’t mean I won’t strike you,” Gareth said, bitterly.

“Just because you’re a girl doesn’t mean I won’t strike you back,” she replied, acidly, her hand straying to her new mageblade.  “And end your life.”

Gareth turned and stormed out of the hall.  Rondal started to rise to follow, but Tyndal wisely held him back.

“Let him go,” he advised.  “He’s . . . he’s just worked up.”

“What happened?” I demanded.

“Just what he said,” Rondal sighed.  “He risked his life in Enultramar at our behest to topple the Brotherhood.  He proved remarkably helpful and instrumental to the quest.  He did it in hopes his deeds would translate to interest, in Dara’s eyes.  But she’s smitten with Sir Festaran, and enjoys Gareth only for his friendship.”

I winced.  Ouch.

“Yes, let him go,” I sighed, heavily.  “He’s right.  He isn’t a warmage.  Or a knight mage.  I’ll find other uses for him.  The rest of you,” I said, pouring another cup of wine, “need to explain to me about the three dwarves in your front shed.”

Chapter Four

Plans And Preparations

The days after the fateful message arrived were even busier for my staff, as preparations for the state visit began in earnest.  I spent most of the mornings overseeing the transfer of my valuables into the mountain vaults and seeing to some business details that needed my attention.  Sire Cei had been staying up deep into the night every night and was back at it again at dawn.

You can’t prepare for the Prince and his family by just sweeping the streets clear of dung and dusting off the furniture.

Briga’s Day was already a major attraction for Sevendor, the largest regular event held here now save for the Magic Fair in the fall.  In the few years since the Everfire had appeared in town, folk from across the Bontal Vales made pilgrimage to see the officially-sanctioned sacred sight of a free-standing, miraculous pillar of eternal flame placed there by the fire goddess Briga’s inspiration, favor and grace.

There was more to the story to that, but I’m not one to upset an emerging myth.  Besides, my brother-in-law ran the bakery next to the Temple of the Everfire, just off the market square, and he made a killing every year selling seasonal pastries in the shape of Briga’s Cross.

Last year, Banamor told me when I inquired, over two thousand people had made the pilgrimage to the Everfire at the end of winter, praying for a variety of rustic boons: a bountiful lambing, good skill in smithing, blessings for a foster child, and the occasional request for righteous vengeance.  The temple’s priestesses (of whom I was a generous patron) escorted the pious through a line around the Everfire at a safe distance and directed a ritual that included abandoning burdens by burning them away, purification by incense, and submission of written prayers to the Flame Who Burneth Bright.

Along the way the pilgrims were exposed to the serene and tasteful artistic renderings of Briga’s myths, brilliantly painted by talented Remeran limners on the snowstone walls of the temple.  They were serenaded by two Brigadine nuns playing harp and flute, while an older priestess with a beautiful voice read inspirational poetry.  At the end of the ceremony they were gifted an iron pilgrims’ medallion with Briga’s Cross on the obverse and the Snowflake of Sevendor on the reverse.

They were also strongly encouraged to donate an offering to the Temple by a pretty young priestess with a lovely smile, big boobs, and a large wooden begging bowl.

The holiday was the Temple’s single biggest source of revenue, outside of direct patronage by Sevendor’s folk (and lucrative fees from my family’s bakery, the smiths of Sevendor, and various ecclesiastical services – the Temple was not poor) and the high priestess used the event to fund several charitable services for the townsfolk.

Since their biggest patron was the son of a baker (and a high-ranking lay member of their order) most of the effort, besides supporting three nuns every year, was being devoted to subsidizing my brothers’-in-law bakery’s apprenticeship program, not smithcraft or poetry.  My family now had nine apprentices toiling at the ovens in town, under my father’s expert eye.

It was a lucrative arrangement for all involved: the temple got an influx of funds, the bakery made huge sales, the pilgrims were able to unload their burdens and appeal for divine favor as well as enjoy an expertly-crafted pastry, and the town got the benefit of an influx of outside coin at the very beginning of the agricultural season, when it needed it the most.

Tavard’s visit would compound all of that.  His party alone would be huge, I suspected, and the visiting parties of local dignitaries would strain the resources of Sevendor’s upscale accommodations to the limit.   That would be good news for my other brother-in-law, Lord Sagal (Alya’s sister Ela’s husband, if you’re keeping track) who ran a lucrative trade in hostelries from his estate of Southridge, but that’s where the headaches began.

The Prince’s pilgrimage would attract far more than the usual number of commoners, I knew.  I was figuring at least double last year’s attendance.  That was troubling, because Sevendor just didn’t have the regular accommodations for that kind of influx of visitors, not during the cold, rainy end of winter.  We’d have to resort to tents on the commons, as we did with the Magic Fair.

In order to head off the strain on municipal services, I consulted with Lord Mayor Banamor that evening, after an afternoon meeting in his office stretched out into detail after detail and bumped into the evening.

The former footwizard, now ennobled burgher, public official and growing commercial power, had four desks in his office chamber, each covered with parchments detailing all of his business interests.  Shelves of folios and account books were interspersed with wine racks of his growing collection of vintages.  A big iron chest filled with silver sat near to an even stronger box of gold – both as heavily enchanted against theft as he could make them.

He had two personal assistants, now, clerks who ran his day-to-day business.  That was in addition to the clerk he had for his municipal duties, over at the Town Hall, and Gareth, his assistant Spellwarden and general troubleshooter.  There were six more men in the hall downstairs in the warehouse.  Banamor’s counting house always buzzed with activity.  So did Banamor’s mind.

“This is a big deal, Min,” he assured me, enthusiastically, when he poured that first cup of wine.  Banamor was beside himself at the potential opportunities of Tavard’s surprise visit.  He got out the gold chalices.  The serious ass-kissing ones.  I felt honored.  He filled them with a hearty Gilmoran red, good for afternoon affairs and plotting economic strategy.

“It will be expensive up front, of course, but we’ll make a huge enough profit on the back-end to make it worthwhile.”  Banamor seemed to think I would balk at authorizing the expense of a worthy presentation of the town we’d built together from scratch.  I cut him off.

“Of course it will,” I nodded.  “And a boon to the local economy.  Please understand that’s not my highest concern,” I pointed out.

“It doesn’t hurt,” he offered.  “Look, if we play this right—”

“We’ll make money,” I finished for him with a sigh.  “Granted.  Let’s go over the preparations you’ve made, first, and then we can discuss the potential revenue streams.  Let’s start with where we’re going to house everyone . . .”

I ended up staying through the rest of the afternoon and three bottles of wine before we retired across his street to dine as the sun was disappearing behind the ridge and the town’s magelights were beginning to form.

I rarely pass up an opportunity to dine at Banamor’s private table at the Alembic.  Especially when he mentioned the new Tal Alon cook who was picking up some Remeran dishes.  Usually the quality of the service and the wine cellar alone was enough to capture my attention.

As it happened, we were joined by Masters Olmeg and Loiko Vaneran, the former concluding a tour of Sevendor for the new court wizard, who Banamor eagerly invited to our meal.  I certainly didn’t object.  It was an un-official, spontaneous gathering of some of the leading wizards-in-residence of Sevendor, so it was an opportune time to talk shop.

Banamor sauntered in to the decadently-appointed inn (he’d built three small but elegant rooms above for special clients) and began calling unnecessary orders to the staff.  In moments, we were settled at the beautiful wooden table he claimed as his own private domain, a cool magelight hanging overhead, cups and plates distributed for us.  A young lad near the front played a quiet tune on a viol, while my nose began to entertain me with the promise of a delicious meal.

The castle’s kitchen is first-rate, but Banamor had a craving for luxury only a life of hardship can inspire.  Besides, I always eat for free at Banamor’s table.  Magelord’s prerogative.

I began the impromptu meeting by cautioning our host about becoming overly friendly with Tavard’s party while they were here.

“I have no intention of betraying Sevendor’s interests to Tavard,” the merchant mage snorted, when I brought up the possibility as the first course was served – the latest Sevendori attempt at Bovali cheese, and an incredibly well-made loaf of toasted rye bread.  Not my Dad’s – I can tell, somehow, when he made the bread.  But my brother-in-law was taught by the best.  If I have no higher legacy in this world, bringing high-quality baked goods to Sevendor is one of my most satisfying.

“Don’t tell me you aren’t open to a well-placed bribe,” I jabbed at my friend and business partner.

“Me?  Of course!  But only if it’s in our mutual interest.  I’ve turned down more bribes than I’ve taken.  Let a courtier get under my skirts?  You jest, Min.  I’m merely looking for access to the ducal court, while they’re in town,” Banamor assured, as he poured the wine.  A sweet red Remeran, of course.  Expensive.  Now he was showing off.

“Why?” Olmeg asked, simply, as he hacked at the cheese.

“For commercial advantage, of course,” Master Loiko answered.  He was a warmage, but he’d also been an administrator of a conquered province.  He was familiar with both politics and commerce.  “Just knowing a courtier can give a man commercial advantage.”

“In this case, I’m looking to make friends that can facilitate some business in the southwest,” Banamor proposed.  “The Westlands, and Old Castal.  We don’t have a lot of exposure, there.  And there are a lot of good resources down there that could be lucrative opportunities.  A friend or two in the ducal court could prove helpful.”

“Just stay clear of Count Moran,” Loiko advised, as a pretty servant set a large tray of pickled . . . everything in front of us.  “His passion is power, not commerce.  But he will use whatever means he can to achieve his aims.”

“Is the good count to be in attendance?” I asked, curious.  And concerned.

“If not he, then one of his agents,” Loiko assured.  “He has not let Tavard go without a firm eye on him since the lad learned to pee standing up.  Dealing with Moran’s party is dangerous,” he said, an observation, not a judgement.

“Good to know,” grunted the mayor, as he stabbed a pickled egg with his belt knife.  “I have no desire to end up some courtier’s pawn . . . or assassin’s assignment.  I merely wish to see Sevendor prosper,” he shrugged.   “Moran is behind this damnfool idea of conquering Alshar by sea.  Or encouraging Tavard to do it.”

“That is complete idiocy,” Master Loiko pronounced, sipping the wine.  His opinion was authoritative, as the only man to ever oversee the conquest of Farise.  He was as adept at sea as he was at land tactics – that’s one of the reasons he was so highly regarded.

Additionally, he was recently come from that region, and knew the intelligence about Enultramar’s forces better than anyone.  “The man is a fool to even consider it.  The rebel navy is vast.  Sending a few score hired Cormeeran caravels against them is a waste of gold.”

“A popular opinion . . . outside of the ducal court, from what I understand,” Banamor mentioned.  “Within, it’s nearly treason to say so.”

“How would you know such a thing?” Master Olmeg asked, as he picked through the cabbage rolls.  It wasn’t an accusation, just an inquiry.

“I am a notorious gossip who is free with my wine,” the merchant wizard said, as he poured more into our cups.  “I have my own agents.  People talk.  Particularly merchants.  Hence, I’m well-aware of his difficulty in raising the gold he needs to pay such fools.  I expect we’ll know the mind of the prince better when he arrives.  And knowing he needs gold, well, that presents opportunities.  There are many rights and lucrative boons that a desperate duke can grant,” he said, expansively.

“And you’ve the purse to purchase them,” Olmeg nodded.  Another observation, not a judgement.  The big green mage did not value coin, but he did not begrudge those who did.

“I should hope so,” Banamor nodded.  “Like gaining a trading franchise at the Wilderhall Fair,” he suggested.  That was the biannual regional fare that brought wares from as far away as Wenshar in the east and Vorone, in the west.  Particularly wool.  “If the Sevendori delegation had an invitation to the fair, it could be worth a lot, with our new possessions” he considered.  “We could by-pass the wool merchants and sell direct, at a greater profit.”

“Wool?” Loiko asked, amused.  “You have the ear of a Prince and you wish to stuff it with wool, Lord Banamor?  Perhaps your vision is inadequate for your purse.”

“No, my friend, one must know Banamor to appreciate his intelligence.  Wool is a stepping-stone toward greater things,” Olmeg pointed out.  “The tolls alone make trade that far away prohibitive.  Unless you bear a trade pass, which exempts you from all but the county tolls, any profits you might have made are quickly swallowed.  Once you secure a wool franchise to the fair, you’re exempt.  And if one can transport wool to the fair, one can also transport a great many other items.  Merchandise unavailable outside of Sevendor.”

“What matters that, when you can now transport the product by hoxter pocket?” Loiko asked.

“Firstly, that’s a . . . a trade secret,” Banamor said, in a hushed voice.  The table was protected from casual eavesdropping by magic, but old habits die hard.  “If that information becomes widely known, and it’s suspected that we’re quietly subverting taxation and toll revenue by transporting merchandise magically, we’ll have serious political trouble,” he lectured.  “As far as anyone knows, hoxters are rare and special things only the most erudite amongst the magi can fathom.

“Secondly, you cannot get into the far more lucrative Inner Market without a trade franchise from the fair.  That’s where the deep discounts and real profits are made,” he said, with relish.  “Otherwise you’re stuck in the Common Market, trading small lots with local abbeys and estates.  That’s a lot less worthwhile,” he assured us.

“That sounds suspiciously like you’re planning on founding a trading league,” Loiko said, amused, as he picked his way across the pickle platter.  “The Merwyni League did that, before the Dukes crushed them.”

“More of an arcane merchant guild,” Banamor corrected.  “A very quiet one.  Planus and Rael and I have been tossing this idea around for months, now.  That little trip into the Wilderlands was fruitful, Min.  It established the infrastructure that we need to transport goods from the Wilderlands to Remere and back.  When you put Sevendor into the equation, things start to get interesting.”

“But you’ll catch holy hell, if you’re caught,” I nodded.  “So how do you plan to turn this wool into gold?”

“Well, I’m just a rustic footwizard,” the self-made merchant prince smiled, affecting a country accent, “but if we can get a Ducal – or even Royal – charter for a trading guild, without too many specifics, we can use it to cloak our activities.  We can ship living specimens, such as seedlings and herb cuttings, overland in the traditional manner while we quietly continue to use the hoxter pockets to transport mundane materials between the chapterhouses,” he proposed.  “Without all of those pesky tolls and fees.”

I rubbed my beard.  “That could work, even if temporarily.  Until you got caught,” I added, warily.

“I’m a rustic footwizard,” Banamor replied, smoothly, as the soup course was served.  “We don’t get caught.  But your point is well-taken.  Which is why I would have this theoretical charter enumerate that any potential conflicts be handled by a tribunal from the ecclesiastic courts, not the civil courts, where the merchant classes tend to have more clout.  There we can delay and obstruct the proceedings indefinitely.”

“What does that give you?” Loiko asked, curiously, as he sipped the rich beef broth the attractive servant placed before him.

“Time,” Banamor shrugged.  “Time to find a better political solution.  Or at least hide the evidence.”

“That seems a little devious for you to participate in, Olmeg,” I noted.  Usually the big Green Mage has the moral fiber of a Kasari.

“I’m just in it for the herbs,” the gentle wizard shrugged.  “This institution could ensure the widespread distribution of a number of promising species.  From how Banamor described it to me, Green Magic would be the cover for caravans traversing the kingdom from border to border without serious toll.  My colleagues and I would be very interested in that kind of league,” he assured me.

“We’d also use them to transport some of the more volatile enchantments and components,” Banamor agreed.  “All perfectly above-board and legitimately arcane.

“Meanwhile, the chapterhouses would be transporting the good stuff, the non-magical commodities that really take a beating in long-distance trade like timber, steel, grain, salt, textiles, cheese, wine,” he added, holding up his cup.  “We’d be trading those on the side.  And making an obscene amount of profit.”

“Enterprising,” Loiko nodded.  “You’re looking to become chartered smugglers.”

“Essentially,” Banamor agreed, without taking offense.  “You object, Lord Loiko?”

“Me?” the Wenshari warmage asked, startled.  “Not at all.  I’ve dealt with my share of them, back in Farise.  I didn’t take the crime personally, even as I had them hung.  I was just wondering if you’d be interested in a Farisian connection,” he offered, innocently enough.

“Would I?  With all that the great maritime markets there provide?  You have a local connection?”

“A mis-named scoundrel called Asalon the Fair, head of the Musaranya trading house,” he suggested, a gleam in his eye.  “He’s the kind of enterprising merchant who would fit well with your plans.”

“With a name like ‘the Fair’, he must be a scoundrel,” Banamor said, approvingly.

“His brother was one of the Mad Mage’s apprentices, for a while, before he got into . . . well, let us not dwell on the bad business he fell into.  A terrible shame for a talented adept.  But as I am occasionally open to a reasonable bribe in the interests of the greater good, I let Asalon persuade me to spare his brother’s life.

“As a result, the rascal feels indebted to me.  He’s not a major player in the Farisi markets, but he’s smart and he’s ambitious.  Now that his brother isn’t running from the Censorate anymore, he might be just the man to involve.”

“Can you trust him?” I asked.

“No,” Loiko conceded.  “But you can trust him not to betray his interests.  And he has a lot of good intelligence on what the other smugglers – I mean, merchants – are doing.”

“Sounds like just the scoundrel we could use,” agreed Banamor.  “This is a sound investment, my friends.”

“You always say that,” I pointed out.

“And you have profited tremendously by listening to me,” he continued, undeterred.  “Really, a few thousand golden Roses will seem like nothing, when the profits from such an operation start accruing.  Not only are Olmeg and I partners in this enterprise, but Rael and the Enchanters Guild are in.  Planus is in.  Master Dranus is in, assuming he is made Count of Moros, as he desires.  Even Pentandra is in,” he added, looking at me.

“Pentandra?  She never mentioned an international arcane smuggling ring!” I accused.

“You should keep up with your memos,” snorted Banamor.  “How do you think she managed to feed Vorone, and cheat the grain merchants out of an expected windfall last spring?  She and that wily cousin of hers used the hoxter pockets of the supply rods, left over from the Great March, to exchange grain for timber and iron ore.  They ended up making a profit on both sides.”

“I was wondering how they were managing to get by without plundering their reserve funds,” I nodded.  “Pentandra was smuggling?  What would her mother say?”

“Ask her next time you’re in Vorone – she’s still there,” Banamor confided.  “And driving Penny absolutely insane.  But she’s the one who put me on to the idea.  She wants to do it as part of some big construction project she’s doing, out in the Wilderlands, somewhere.”

I was at least somewhat familiar with that project, having put her and Carmella on the task.  I hadn’t heard a lot about it since she settled on the Anvil as a site – a remote stony hill with a prodigious overhang.  It was far east in the Wilderlands, on a plateau protected by river and ridge from the goblins, and all but deserted, after the invasion.

“Yes, this would aid in that,” I said, without further comment.  If Penny was using this smuggler’s guild to hide her quiet effort to build the Magi a refuge and fortress, I wasn’t going to complain.  Indeed, I felt her touch all over the plan.  Pentandra often leads best by convincing the rest of us that the right course of action is our own idea.  Sneaky.  “So what do you need from me?”

“Well,” Banamor said, pleased that I was also supportive of the enterprise, “firstly, you’d need to sign a request for me to appear before the ducal court,” he said, ticking the items off his fingers, “then you’d need to prepare an application – under your prominent and politically powerful name – for the Duke to consider the charter, with plenty of flowery language elaborating why this would be ultimately for the good of the realm.

“Thirdly you would enter into discrete negotiations with the court – likely Moran, the Prime Minister – about how much gold such concessions are worth.  A quiet payment, in coin or draft, usually follows, along with ample discussion about the splendid merits and progressive thinking implied in the innovative order.  Then you present a draft charter for His Grace’s inspection, signature, and seal.”

“Just how do you propose such a guild would be organized?” Loiko asked, as his empty soup bowl was replaced by a plate of tiny sausages fried with mushrooms.

“Much as any similar guild is,” Banamor offered.  “The Motherhouse – here in Sevendor, of course – would operate as a central hub and scheduling center.  The various chapterhouses would be subsidiary, but would act as regional agents for our ‘special’ consignments.

“Each would run a merchant house, open to the public, selling our guild’s wares . . . while each would also retain the services of a local commodities’ broker to quietly sell the smuggled inventory.  Two sets of ledgers,” he emphasized, his eyes gleaming, “one for the arcane merchandise, which will rarely show a profit . . . and one for the mundane, which will show a very hefty – and untaxed – profit.  That latter set we keep to ourselves,” he added, unnecessarily.

“That’s going to require an awful lot of organization and coordination,” Olmeg said, doubtfully.  “Would not running a clandestine exchange for such commodities work better than individual contracts?”

Olmeg might look like the village idiot, from afar, and walk everywhere without suffering shoes on his massive feet . . . but he was not uneducated in the ways of commerce.  Particularly agricultural commodities.  “If you had a small, central exchange with regular meeting times, the individual chapterhouses could meet and settle their purchases at a common price.  It keeps us from undercutting ourselves,” he pointed out.

“That . . . that does have merit,” Banamor agreed, his eyes squinting.  “And use of the Mirror Array, or merely speaking mind-to-mind, can ensure the exchange is not troubled by delays.  Or overheard by the wrong ears.  Planus has already used the damn thing to steal a march on his competitors, who rely on barges to send market prices downriver.  Planus uses mind-to-mind or Mirror messages with his agents, and can buy or sell at an advantage before the news is known to the general market.”

“That’s nothing, compared to smuggling,” Loiko observed.  “A man who buys a bale of cotton in Barrowbell, or a staple of wool in Wilderhall, and sells it for what they’ll pay for it at the mills of Cormeer . . . that man will make a fortune with every transaction,” he assured.

“We’re not the only ones who are pursuing a charter,” Olmeg confided.  “Rael the Enchantress and the Enchanters Guild seek a charter, themselves.  I saw her this morning on the way to town.  She’s nearly got the funds she thinks will purchase the franchise, and she’s hurrying to raise more.

“There’s also a cadre of warmagi, based out of the Staff and Sword, who seek a charter for a mercenary warmagi’s order,” Loiko added, as he devoured the last of the little sausages.  “Just some basic rights, the benefits of a professional association, that sort of thing.  About time,” he said, with a grunt.

I had to agree.  We’d both been professional itinerant mercenary warmagi for a few years, he more than I, and we both resented the Censorate’s prohibitions on forming such societies.

“Anyone else?” I asked.  “This is starting to sound like a terribly lucrative pilgrimage for His Highness.”

“Actually, yes,” Olmeg said, setting down his knife.  “When the news came to town, Master Loiko and I overheard a group of masons – that lot you have finishing up the keep at Caolan’s Pass – discussing forming an order for arcane construction.  I doubt they’ve gotten to the fundraising stage yet, though,” he added.

“Considering what I’m paying them, they could probably take it out of their alms coffer,” I said, rolling my eyes.  “But I can see their perspective.  They aren’t exactly using the same techniques as traditional masons.”

“Yet they are getting guff from those traditional masons about how radically they’ve departed from Fargus’ rites.”

Fargus was the minor divinity that served as many masons’ patron.  A hybrid of Imperial and Narasi influences, the Shaper of Bricks was far less sophisticated than his spiritual cousin, Avital.  He was the god of stonemasons, not engineers.  “Some priests object to using magic to replace honest toil.”

“We’re seeing the same thing from the peasantry, with the rise in popularity of tilling wands,” Olmeg agreed, soberly.  “While the priests of Huin seem in favor, many peasants see them as a threat to their traditional rights.  When a communal plow or the toil to drive it are no longer needed,” he explained, “then determining who owns how much of the harvest becomes problematic.”

“This is the price we’ll have to pay for progress,” I sighed.  “I’ll support all three endeavors, I suppose.  The masons need protection, the warmagi need regulation, and the enchanters . . . well, I’m not sure what the enchanters need, but they don’t get rowdy, so I’ll support them.”

“Excellent decision, Sire!” Banamor beamed.

“And just the one you more or less forced him to make,” quipped Loiko, as a small but plump roasted fowl was placed before him with some ceremony.  It was stuffed with berries and smelled delicious.

“I considered the merits quite carefully, I assure you,” I told my new court wizard.  “If it means promoting Sevendor and increasing its importance, I’m in favor.  Besides, it will give me something to distract His Grace with so that he doesn’t look around too closely while I’m scheming.

“Banamor, have those documents sent up to the castle for me to sign and seal, when they’re drawn up, and we can put this behind us and focus on important things, like street-sweeping and public privies.”

“Oh, I took the liberty of having all the documents in question prepared for your signature and seal this afternoon, while we were speaking,” Banamor said, demurely.  “My lawbrother was working on it all day.  I picked it up when I got here,” he said, taking a tightly-bound sheaf of twenty or thirty pages of parchment out of his sleeve.  “And look, a quill!” he said, withdrawing a goosefeather from his other sleeve, along with a small inkpot.  “How fortuitous!” he continued, as he unrolled the imposing stack of documents for my approval.

“How . . . convenient,” I said, sarcastically, as I took the quill in hand.

“Aren’t you glad that you have me to take care of such details?” Banamor asked, jovially, as I scrawled my name across the page.  “It makes the rest of it just work so much more smoothly!”

Chapter Five

A Second Unexpected Visitor

It’s not often that a baron gets to entertain his duke.  Of course, it’s always a possibility: a baron is merely the king’s representative and stand-in sovereign for the duke’s power and authority.  A baron holds his lands (and those assigned to him by his liege) in the name of the duke, which implies a state of ownership – or at least authority.  The possibility that your boss might choose to drop by and stay a few days is implicit in the position.

There are baronies where no sitting duke has ever visited, much less been entertained by the baron.  There are also baronies (mostly located fortuitously on the banks of busy rivers or at heavily-travelled crossroads) who see far more of the ducal court than they’d like.  But to have a duke come to a barony on an official visit was the epitome of political and social aspiration for most baronies.

Me, I would have rather skipped the entire thing, or held out for a Royal visit.  But mere barons don’t get to instruct their betters like that, so when the notification came that His Grace, Tavard III would be spending a few days in Sevendor, on a tour of County Lensely, I had to shut my mouth and pretend to be both impressed and grateful – when I was neither.

There was overt political purpose in the visit.  Since the respective defeat of West Fleria and the Sashtalian Confederation, the Duke felt compelled to tour the affected area and inspect the new barony Baron Arathanial had carved out of Sashtalia for his younger son.  Ostensibly to check on the county’s preparation for war, Tavard had the perfect excuse to get an appreciation of just how far Sevendor had come.

Giving me only two weeks’ notice before his arrival was the feudal equivalent of a snap inspection, in military terms.  While it gave us enough time to tidy up the place, if we’d been doing anything suspicious it would not be adequate time to hide it, or something like that.

I wasn’t worried.  The things I was hiding were already well-hidden, or required understanding and intelligence I was pretty certain Prince Tavard did not possess.

But that didn’t mean I didn’t prepare.  The moment I got the letter, I informed Lady Estret – who acted in Alya’s stead as lady of the castle – and Sister Bemia, the castle chaplain, and let them get to work.  The cleaning teams were deployed within the hour.

“This is a magnificent opportunity for us to show off our barony!” Sister Bemia said proudly at breakfast, a few days later.

“This is . . . this is a disaster!” Lady Estret said, her fair features contorted into a weary frown.  She’d been working on getting the castle ready since the moment she knew about the event.  Castles.  She was also overseeing the sprucing up of the Gatehouse, where she and Sire Cei and their family resided when in Sevendor.

“But think of the honor that will fall to us?” Bemia had countered.  “When they’re gone,” she added.

That didn’t seem to mollify Lady Estret.  By the second day, she was already looking fretful as she dutifully went over the list her husband gave her to accomplish.  Out of his earshot, she didn’t mind complaining directly to me.  She and Bemia didn’t hesitate to corner me at every opportunity as they rushed to prepare.

“You do realize that half of Sevendor looks like a construction site, right now,” she began, anxiously twisting the ends of her long blonde hair as if she were spinning.  “There are cranes and stockpiles everywhere, the Great Hall is totally inadequate for a proper reception, there are no quarters in the castle suitable for a Duke, every cot and hold will have to be thoroughly cleansed—”

“Do what you must, within reason,” I acknowledged, “but don’t go out of your way.  If Tavard wants to see Sevendor, let him see Sevendor.  A slightly cleaner-than-usual Sevendor,” I amended, seeing how Lady Estret winced.  “With my parents preparing to return to Talry, now, we can move my sisters and their families into town for a few months, and Their Graces can stay there,” I suggested.  “It’s nearly new, and we can make it suitable for their delicate ducal sensibilities.”

“That . . . might work,” she conceded, biting her lip.

“And then my sisters will be able to brag the rest of their lives how the Duke and Duchess once slept there,” I added, quietly amused at the thought.

“And the reception?” Lady Estret asked, doubtfully.  “There has to be a reception feast.  A court,” she emphasized.  “There must be a holiday court!  Where can we allow the Duke to hold a holiday court?  This place is . . . is . . . entirely unacceptable!”

“Then we shall use the new hall at the Gatehouse,” I decided.  “It’s almost finished, anyway, and this will be an ideal way to break it in.  And then Sire Cei can have the pleasure of bragging how he feasted a Duke and Duchess in his hall, once,” I smiled.

“You do realize that will bring up the subject of your new fortification,” Sister Bemia asked, concerned.  “There has been enough talk in the Bontal of how strong it is.  It worries some.  Having His Grace dine there will bring attention from a royal level,” she warned.

“I can’t very well stick it in my pocket,” I dismissed.  “It’s a big castle.  It was bound to be noticed.”

“The excavations into the mountain will also be noticed,” Bemia pointed out.  “That is the focus of the Karshak’s efforts, now.”

“I’ve already spoken to Guri and had him shift the bulk of the work parties on finishing the Gatehouse,” I informed them.  “And perhaps give them a holiday.  Oh, we can disguise the minehead, for now, and explain it away as quarry work for storage – that shouldn’t be too difficult.”

The neatly-drawn plans Guri showed me at the beginning of construction eventually had a pair of eight-story towers built against the face of the mountain, with a towering spire that would – eventually – be seen clear to Chepstan Castle.  But even with a squadron of construction magi aiding the effort, that vision was years away from being realized.

Right now the front of the cliff looked relatively normal, for gleaming white enchanted basalt.  Only at the base, concealed from ready view by the massive Gatehouse itself, was the cliff disturbed.  That was the entrance to the interior sections the Karshak were excavating, first.  It was obscured by a long canvas tent, used for storage and such.  As of yet there was little sign of what was happening within the mountain.

The entire operation could be told away, at this point, I reasoned, as quarrying for stone for the Gatehouse and the Mewstower, which a separate crew had begun work upon.  That was Dara’s refuge and laboratory for her work on the giant hawk project.  It was only about five stories high, built on a shoulder of the mountain beyond the crevasse, but when the top of the spire was complete it would eventually be seen above the tree line.

“I do hope you appreciate everything we’re doing here,” Lady Estret said, in a rare display of ire.  “Our love for Lady Alya compels us to represent Sevendor as sincerely as she did.”

I changed the subject abruptly.  I hated when they spoke of Alya as if she were dead.

I’d called a council meeting for dinner, in the Great Hall after the rest of the folk finished eating about a week and a half before Briga’s day, to discuss preparations.  It was an expanded council, consisting not just of Sire Cei and the castle administration, but the Sevendor Town council, representatives of all of the temples, a few yeomen, and a number of wizards.

By that time word had saturated the vale about the impending royal visit, some of the details of the entertainments and contests were leaked, and there was a spark of excitement in the air that rivaled the magelights overhead.

We got a surprising amount of work done at that dinner – that’s what you get when you hire good people.

Banamor anticipated the visit with great eagerness, proud of the little town he’d worked so hard to build.  Master Olmeg was nearly as excited by the prospect of showing off his magnificent greenery.  The others saw the visit as equal parts opportunity and burden.  Great lists of projects were drawn up, and for once no one complained about the expense.  The consensus was that this was Sevendor’s opportunity to shine in the royal eye as the first mageland, and everyone wanted that.

Thankfully, I had adequate subordinates who knew their work.  Once I outlined what I wanted to happen, they made it happen.

It was like magic.  Only a lot easier.  And vastly more expensive.

Once given their tasks, the Sevendori went to work.  The fields took very little preparation, thanks to the Master Olmeg’s good stewardship and the liberal use of plowing wands.  While the rest of the Bontal was struggling to drive their iron plows through the still-cold, wet soil, Sevendor’s were already prepared to take seed, after the last frost (Zagor assured us there would be at least one more).

That freed up a lot of labor for other projects, and I didn’t spare the coin to pay for them.  One crew finished paving the road from Boval Hall to Brestal with cobbles, one of the last main roads in the domain to be done.  The Diketower was given a thorough renovation, repainted, and cleaned up.  New banners were hurriedly sewn.  The Tal worked from dawn to dusk hauling debris and garbage that had piled up over the long winter.  Gallons of whitewash were distributed to every hamlet and cot, so that the building looked clean and almost as white as the snowstone castle in the distance.

Sire Cei and Sir Festaran placed huge orders for victuals, wine, and other delicacies from Sendaria Port and beyond.  Inns and taverns did likewise.

Meanwhile, Banamor enlisted the aid of a dozen magi (there were always plenty of those around town, especially around the Enchanters Guild) to lay down enchantments to augment the engineering and beautification projects.  The public fountains, which now extended water clear to the Street of Magi in the north end of town, were given magelights that activated at dusk.  They glowed to life at the same time the streetlights did, illuminating the splashing water in changing colors.  Banamor even built two new public privies at his own expense.

A week before the visit Master Olmeg’s furry minions deployed hundreds of spring wildflowers in small clay pots throughout the town.  With a bit of enchantment they began to bloom early.

As for me, I mostly just paid for it all.  That may seem terribly lazy of me, but in truth I was not concerned about whether or not we would impress Tavard.  Of course we would impress Tavard.  The man was easy to impress.

What concerned me far more was impressing Tavard the wrong way.

While my retainers scurried around me to ensure the best possible presentation, my mind explored all of the dark ways in which this visit could go wrong.  Wars had erupted over such excursions.  Feuds and duels had occurred after a state visit in the past.  That was precisely the kind of thing I wanted to avoid.  My goal was to be entertaining, forgiving – in light of our recent history – and utterly supportive of Tavard’s rule and eventual ascension to the throne.

That was difficult, because Tavard was not only personally annoying, but his succession had also ensured that his powerful mother, Queen Grendine, had essentially abandoned his sister Rardine to the clutches of her captors.

Rardine was her second-in-command of the kingdom’s intelligence service, not to mention difficult to marry off, so the Queen saw her daughter’s sacrifice as a political tool.  Hanging around court, Rardine was a threat to Tavard’s rule by her very existence.  Though regrettable, in her eyes, having Rardine “safely” in the hands of pirates, awaiting ransom negotiations, kept her out of the way.

Only the Queen knew very well that Rardine was not in the hands of mere pirates.  She’d been traded, like a sack of meal, first to the Brotherhood of the Rat and thence to the hands of Korbal, the Necromancer of the Mindens.  I know she knew that because I’d told her myself, after learning the fact after Yule, when my former apprentices returned from Olum Seheri with the intelligence.

Yet Grendine kept the public fiction that her daughter was still being held in Enultramar, by pirates, and a suitable ransom would be negotiated Any Time Now.  There could be dozens of reasons for that.  A few of them might even make sense.

But the woman’s willingness to use even her children as pieces in her game of power was distasteful to me.  Rardine, for all of her faults, had been utterly devoted to her mother and the Family – the unofficial name for the official kingdom intelligence apparatus.

Rard, at least, had vowed to punish the miscreants who took her and offered two baronies to the man who rescued her, but even those were token efforts, designed to appease propriety, not to secure his daughter.  In fact, they served Prince Tavard’s ambition to conquer Enultramar from the sea in his own name, as it was unlikely any adventurers in Enultramar would find her there, and the two vacant baronies pledged for her recovery were currently recovering from an aborted goblin invasion.

Instead, talk around court was centered on the dedication of the new palace and the building of the new Royal Fleet.  And that was really why Tavard was coming to Sevendor.

Fleets are expensive to construct and maintain.  More expensive than armies.  Instead of building ships, Tavard (who was ostensibly in charge of the invasion) was hiring ships, naval mercenaries from Remere and even Merwyn.  They were gathering in the east, even now, arming and preparing for an autumnal launch.

But the Minister of the Treasury was not free with funds for such an endeavor, much to Tavard’s dismay.  The costs of the palace, the smaller revenues collected from the lands affected by invasion, and the price of fielding troops in Gilmora and elsewhere was already straining the new Royal Treasury.  He was given a mere 10,000 ounces of gold to begin his effort, and was told by the Royal Council to raise additional funds on his own.  He’d borrowed a like some already.  Now he was shaking down his vassals.

That was why he was touring Castal: not just to see the countryside and check on his vassals, but to extort money from them.  It only took me an hour to verify, through mind-to-mind communication with my magical peers.  Tavard was putting pressure on every noble he could to “donate” funds to the cause.

My discussion on that front was interesting, and Astyral helped bring me understanding.  As a native Gilmoran noble, he understood what was happening better than I.

You have to remember, Min, that Tavard is not just Prince and Heir, he’s also the sitting Duke.  One way that the ducal houses have traditionally kept rival powers from emerging from among their vassals is to tax them into obedience.  If he has a legal cause to do so, he can raise funds from them as a way to keep them from gaining too much military or political strength.  Likely that’s why he’s put Sevendor on his itinerary.  He doesn’t like you.

I’m aware.  Just how much do you think he doesn’t like me?  How much will he hit me up for?

From what I’ve heard, he’s pushing for an average of a thousand ounces of gold from each barony, he reported.

Ifnia’s Dice!  That’s almost a decade worth of tribute!

He’s entitled to ask . . . and then either grant favors or impose penalties to encourage you to pay.  Reluctance is often seen as a sign of disloyalty or ill intent.  If a baron has just reason to refuse, or such a payment would bankrupt him, he can usually appeal to the temples for intervention.  But few high priests want to get involved in that sort of thing.

I can see why.  Well, it’s not like I don’t have it.  He’d have to ask for significantly more than that before it would be a problem.  But I hate to fund an effort I know is doomed to fail.  There’s no way Tavard’s mercenary fleet can out-match the rebels, from what I understand.  They’ve already got the fleet at Farise tied up in knots, after Rardine’s capture.  I might as well just throw my gold into the sea!

Oh, let the lad do it for you, Astyral counselled, with a chuckle.  He’s more than capable.  Just be gracious and pay up, Min.  If you do it, then your neighbors will, too . . . and that’s what he’s likely after.  Your good example as a loyal and obedient vassal.  No doubt he reasons that if anyone would start a rebellion against him, it would be you.

Me?  I’ve only been in one little rebellion.  I’ve been a model noble.  I’ve paid my tribute on time and in full, every year. Even my paperwork is in order.  Rebel? Hells, I don’t want the idiot’s title or his responsibilities.  I have enough of my own.

Just trying to look at it from his perspective, he soothed.

Astyral was correct, I discovered through other sources.  As the Ducal Party made its way upriver from Castabriel to Wilderhall, it was stopping at most of the major baronies along the way.  And he was, indeed, shaking them down like a thug from the slums.  Sevendor was a little inconvenient to that trip, but I hoped to make the excursion worth His Grace’s while.

The day after I spoke to Astyral, things got even more complicated – although I didn’t realize it at the time.  I was in my laboratory, lecturing Ruderal on some obscure point of magic while he swept the place clean, when a mage named Ostry contacted me, hesitantly, mind-to-mind.

Ostry had been issued a temporary stone, having come on to my staff as part of the reserves for the holiday.  He’d been assigned to duty at the Diketower, acting as the Spellwarden for magi seeking entrance to Sevendor.  He was young, strongly-Talented, and Imperially trained, and he’d been making a little extra coin working for the regular bouleuterion.  I liked the kid.  He was smart.

Magelord Minalan? he began.  I was instructed to contact you if anything unusual or noteworthy happened here.

So which is it?  Unusual, or noteworthy? I quipped.

Both.  I have a gentleman here . . . well, I have a man here who seeks an audience with you.  A mage.

Anyone I know?

I don’t think so.  Do you know any seamagi?

I abruptly stopped what I was doing and searched my memory.

No one worth mentioning, I admitted.  I met a few on the docks and in Farise, but no more than passing acquaintances.  This seamage wants to speak with me?

Yes, Magelord.  He said he is an emissary.

From whom?  Perhaps the pirates who captured Rardine wanted to negotiate?

He says he’s from the Sea Folk.  He’s here to see the one called the Spellmonger.

I tried very, very hard not to pass out on the spot.  And then recover enough composure so that I wouldn’t sound panicked in front of my subordinate.  That’s not professional.

The Sea Folk?  How interesting!  Have him escorted to the castle, I instructed.  I’ll ensure that he’s hosted here.  See if he wants anything to drink, I added, for no particular reason at all.

Shit.   Shit.

How could the Vundel taken notice of me?  Why in the name of nine hells and Ishi’s soggy crotch had the Sea Folk even heard of me?  And why did they choose the week before an important state visit to decide to drop by unexpectedly?

I resolved not to panic, as I prepared for my second unexpected visitor.  I knew the Vundel occasionally used human seamagi as translators and ambassadors from their massive leviathans, when they happened to interact with humanity on the open sea.  There was a whole damned cult associated with the mystical nature of the Vundel, the Seamasters, one I’d dismissed as mere nonsense . . . until recently.

Not even the Censorate had bothered trying to control them.  When the criminal you’re chasing can step on a ship and go anywhere in the world beyond the Censorate’s jurisdiction, it’s hard to serve a warrant.

Why the hell were they here?  Why now?

Of course, my mind leapt to all sorts of unlikely and horrific reasons, with even more terrible consequences.  Images of chitinous warriors forcing men, women, Alka Alon and gurvani alike into the ocean to our collective doom filled my mind.  The knowledge that I had the ancient shades of their most revered ancestors locked up in my cellar increased my anxiety, and every dire warning Lilastien had given me about the precarious position our races enjoyed in regard to the Sea Folk came back to me.

I needed to stall him, at least a day or so, I reasoned, while I completed some preparations.  I could do that – I was the damned baron.  I didn’t have to speak to every itinerate mage who wandered up to my door, I reasoned.  I had enough going on to reasonably beg off an immediate audience.  It was late enough that I could put him up in one of the guest halls in Southridge or in one of the inns in Sevendor Town for the night and deal with him in the morning.

I had my reasons for the delay.  Tonight was an important night for me, professionally, as it was when some of my top magical experts were supposed to convene inside the mountain.  It was the last such scheduled meeting before the Briga’s Day holiday, and I was anxious to share my news and forge some progress toward my eventual goals.  Having a fishy-smelling wizard from the Sea Folk hanging around put a damper on the evening.

I tried to put it out of my mind, after I contacted Banamor and had him intercept the seamage on his way to Sevendor.  I could trust him to entertain the man without raising suspicion . . . or asking too many questions.  I just couldn’t be distracted from what I was doing, tonight.

But I couldn’t.  An hour passed, and while I was trying to work out a few last-minute calculations before the meeting, my concentration was shot.  I considered contacting Pentandra and seeking her advice, but that would just upset a pregnant lady.  It wasn’t worth the price to salve my jitters.

Instead I turned to the other expert at my disposal.  I used the sigil we’d contrived to add her to my growing fisherman’s net of advisors and contacted Lilastien mind-to-mind.

How is Alya doing? was my first question.  The issue of the seamage and the Vundel sunk in priority the moment I contacted her.

She’s fine, the Sorceress of Sartha Wood assured me.  She’s doing well, actually.  She took a long walk beyond the gardens, today, in company with one of the Tal she’s adopted as her maid.  She smiled over dinner last night.

Minor things, tiny victories, I knew.  But each one gave me the tiniest bit more hope, another minor measure of optimism.  That kept me motivated.

Excellent!  Tell her I love her, I asked, though I knew Alya had only the vaguest awareness of my existence.  Look, I hate to bother you, but . . . well, there’s a seamage at my threshold who wants to speak with me.

I could hear the mental snort.  Is he looking to sell you an enchanted dinghy? she joked.

No, he says he’s an emissary of the Vundel.  The Sea Folk.  And he wants to see me.

Oh, shit, Min! my new ally said, anxiety pouring out of her mental voice.  That’s bad!

Well, so much for my quest for reassurance, I replied, dryly.  After what you just told me about them, I’m tempted to slip out the back door and slink away.  I could always become a baker in the backwoods of Vore, or something.  Much less likely to cause an inadvertent exile of my species from this world, that way.

No!  Gods, no, Min!  If they came, you can’t ignore them.  Do you realize how incredibly rare it is for the Vundel to send an emissary ashore this far?  To parlay with coastal authorities, perhaps, or to negotiate passage through contested waters, but . . . you’re about five hundred miles inland of where they usually roam.  This is bad, Min!

You think? I asked, sarcastically.  What do I do?  You’re the expert, I reminded her.

Well, you don’t slink out the back door!  If they came, you have to entertain them.  How many?

Just the one seamage.

That’s . . . that’s good.  Better than I thought.  If it was a serious visit, they’d send an entire delegation.   It might just be a casual inquiry from one of the breeding pods, or a request . . . shit, Min, how the hell did they know who you are?

I have no idea, I said, sulkily.  I do try to keep a low profile . . .

Treat him as an honored guest, she advised.  The Vundel don’t think much of us, but they do see honors and respect for one of their emissaries as noteworthy and admirable.  If they think that they have business with you, it’s best to treat that with all due solemnity.

They are the landlords, after all.

Exactly, she sighed, wearily, through the connection.  I don’t know what more to tell you, Min.  Just . . . be careful.  Be respectful.  Be polite.  Don’t have him summarily executed or anything like that.

Hey!  What kind of magelord do you think I am?

I just thought I’d mention it, she said, defensively.  Listen respectfully, hear him out, and seriously entertain any proposals he might have.  When dealing with the Vundel, it’s best to be as deferential as possible.  Can you fake that, at least?

Hey! I repeated.  I’ll have you know I’ve been kissing noble ass for over five years, now.  I can fake deference.  I just want to know why he’s here.  And why he picked the week before Tavard shows up to appear.

So do I, she agreed, unhelpfully.  Do let me know, when you find out.  Not to change the subject, but I received word from a very unexpected quarter that someone else wants to speak with you – here, in private, not in Sevendor.  Lord Aeratas.

Really?  Why?

Because his daughter Falawen is somewhat reluctant to get married to that humani knight of yours, and it has him perplexed.  Despite his antipathy toward me, when he discovered I was on parole he asked if I wouldn’t speak to her.

Did you?

Of course!  I have more experience with human-Alkan social interactions than anyone, she boasted.  That’s one of the reasons those hidebound, close-minded traditionalists on the Council were so eager to lock me away.  The scandal of interspecies unions was just too much for them.

Lilastien sounded like she wanted me to ask about all of her tawdry encounters with my distant ancestors, but I didn’t have the energy to entertain her.  I had a meeting to get to, an important one.

Tell him I’ll pop by tomorrow night.  I can speak with him then.  Perhaps I can soothe her nervous jitters, although I don’t know how.  That will also give me a chance to tell you what the sea mage says.

I’m looking forward to it, she said, unconvincingly.  Four hundred years without much in the way of company gives a woman a desire to entertain.

Chapter Six

The Bouleuterion of the Handmaiden

In the bowels of the pure white mountain behind my pure white castle there are laboratories where only the finest enchanters worked with the most exotic of materials, in my service.  I had spent a lot of time, money, and energy ensuring that the Karshak had built the lab out solid snowstone to my exact specifications.  It was a model lab, a series of dream workshops that even the Archmagi would have envied.

Within were some of the most advanced enchantments of our age, being developed by some of our finest minds.  Experimental magic, using the novel powers of the unique crystals from the mountain, combined with the mysterious powers that lingered here.

Among the underground facilities was a special suite, three rooms devoted to my personal projects.

Chief among those, at the moment, was a plan to re-construct my cracked Witchsphere . . . and improve it dramatically.  I’d been getting by with loner stones from my collection – perfectly adequate for normal use.  But I wanted my big powerful ball of green amber back.  And if we could improve upon it, so much the better.

To that end, the Alka Alon songmaster Onranion, master of shaping irionite, was working with Master Azhguri, the Karshak stonesinging master, and Master Ulin of Setria, the foremost human enchanter of the age.  At various points, other experts were brought in, as needed, in an effort to plan and build the perfect magical device, the culmination of their combined arts.

The thing was, recent events had changed our plans.

When Alya was magically maimed at the Battle of Greenflower, her chances for recovery were negligible.  Even the hands of the gods could not bring her back to me. I was quietly urged to consign her to an abbey, annul our marriage, and seek another wife.

While I’d sulked in despair for months afterwards, and, I’d recently learned that her potential salvation could lie under one of the most fearsome places on Callidore: Olum Seheri.  I’d learned from Lilastien that there was the enneagram of an ancient creature known as the Handmaiden that could, theoretically, be brought back to un-life and used to restore my wife’s mind.

So the focus of my expert staff had changed, since I’d returned at Yule.  The plan was no longer focused on making me more powerful, but on figuring out a way to contend with the transport and use of the Handmaiden’s enneagram, should I actually have the chance.

Therefore, I’d taken to calling the group of arcane experts the Bouleuterion of the Handmaiden.  It was a thaumaturgical cross-disciplinary master class, and it was my best hope to execute my vague and poorly-thought-out plan.

The problem is, if you want to go carting enneagrams all over the place, you have to store them in something, usually some kind of crystalline matrix.  And for an enneagram as large, complex, and sophisticated as the Handmaiden, no normal crystal would suffice.  Indeed, the only one we’d seen that was capable of handling the shades of the ancestors of the Sea Folk was the Snowflake.

That was a semi-stable quasi-molopor of ever-changing crystal I kept down at the end of the hall.  It was “dressed” with the enneagram of an ancient Celestial Mother, a being more powerful than any six human gods you care to name.  Only a fraction of it was connected to the crystal, but it was enough to provide incredible power.

But we only had one Snowflake.  We couldn’t move it.  And it was occupied.

If we could not find a way to transport the Handmaiden, then going to Olum Seheri was futile.

Lately our efforts had focused on actually removing the center of the ever-changing crystal, which (for the barest fraction of a second) occasionally became entirely un-connected to the larger Snowflake.  The problem was that, despite its crystalline composition, the Snowflake was enough like a molopor to make it essentially unmovable.  Whether or not that was sufficient to block our efforts remained to be seen.  I was pretty determined.

Obsessed, even.

When I arrived I saw that Master Ulin had covered an entire wall with Imperial formulas, as he tried to work out the details of the plan.  The others were already there, along with Master Loiko, my new Court Wizard, and one of the best thaumaturges I’d ever met, Sir Taren the Sage, Warden of Greenflower.

I’d had my misgivings about posting the young warmage to the post not because I doubted his abilities, but that handing over that grave responsibility to anyone would likely depress the hell out of them.  Taren was just too nice to have to not only deal with the issues of being a powerful tenant lord, but also contend with the strange and uncanny issue of Castle Salaisus, where the dead go for holiday.

Dunselen of Greenflower’s mad attempts to re-create the Snowstone Effect had actually yielded some results . . . but they also drove him mad when they affected him.  Taren had spent a year studying the strange substance that resulted.  Instead of lowering the etheric density in a given area, the bluestone seemed to allow a far more tangible connection to the material world.

In practical terms that meant that the shades of the dead had a lot easier time manifesting there.  And spells involving the Otherworld worked particularly well there.

While Taren had learned an incredible amount during his tenure as Warden of Greenflower, it had taken a ghastly toll on the man.  He looked tired and worn, his once-youthful face lined with worry and anxiety.  Speaking to the dead bears a cost, and it wasn’t one Taren was particularly well-suited to bear.

But the insights he had gained at Castle Salaisus were invaluable.  Every month he had faithfully submitted a report about his findings as he made his way through Dunselen’s notes and records of his experiments.  They were somber and sometimes horrific accounts, not just of his research, but of facing the results of Dunselen’s research.  As that included two of my children, and a number of other children that had been bred directly as a result of his and Isily’s madness, I read every report with especial care.

Taren welcomed every time I summoned him to Sevendor for consultation as a result.  He pounced upon any opportunity to retreat from that haunted castle.

“I’ve got something,” Master Ulin said, without formality, the moment I entered.  I’d long-ago established a more collegial environment in this deep underground laboratory.  “It’s only theoretical,” he cautioned, “but it sounds pretty intriguing.”

“He told me about it, and as crazy as it sounds it might have merit,” Master Azhguri admitted, grudgingly.  “Only one of your folk could come up with something this convoluted . . .”

“Really?  I thought it was quite elegant,” Onranion sniffed.  “Tell him, Ulin!”

“If we place the Snowflake in a hoxter pocket,” he said, after taking a deep breath, “the shift in the temporal component might be enough to weaken the bonds that hold the centerpoint in place,” he proposed, boldly.

I thought about that.  “That’s . . . an intriguing approach.  But I can see a lot of problems.  First and foremost, can you even get the Snowflake in a hoxter pocket?  And then there is the issue of striking it while it’s inside the pocket, at the precise moment, with the precise amount of force . . . which is going to be difficult, since hoxter pockets kill anyone who goes inside of them.”

“That is a challenge,” Ulin admitted.

“Do you have an answer for it, yet?”

“That’s the challenging part,” he said with a shrug.

“Some divine assistance might be helpful,” suggested Taren.  “You know a few gods, don’t you, Min?”

I snorted.  “Not one that might be useful.  Right now my divine favor extends to baking, rutting, and marching, and not much else.”

“Avital could work,” Taren suggested, thoughtfully.  “He’s Imperial, but . . .”

“I’ve mentioned the idea to the Avitalines,” I informed him.  The ancient order of monks had a passion for preserving the mysterious ways of our ancestors.  “There are ways to invoke him, it is written, but depending upon which aspect you summon, it could be disastrous.  Remember, he’s the one who helped Kephan the Damned sink Perwyn, according to legend.”

“That was a mere miscalculation,” Onranion murmured.  “I heard he was given the wrong figures.  Could have happened to anyone!”

“Regardless, unless you can find a good way to invoke him, we’re on our own.  But this is encouraging,” I nodded, looking at the equations on the wall.  “Let’s see if we can figure a way around the problem.”

We spent three hours chewing on the issue from as many perspectives as possible.  Three schools of magic, five wizards, you’d think we would have come up with something.

It was three separate problems: how to generate that kind of force (which was considerable), how to project it with precision, and how to do so in the hoxter . . . if the Snowflake could be stuffed inside one.

We discussed potential solutions for all three issues, and came up with some rather innovative ideas . . . but no real answers.  Taren’s insights from his work at Greenflower were particularly intriguing.  He’d been asking important questions from an impressive list of dead people.

“I do have some things I’ve been working on,” he admitted, when Onranion insisted that he needed a better class of wine for further thought.  “The bluestone has some very interesting thaumaturgical effects.  I’ve done some experiments, and it . . . well, it expands the dimensional potential of spells,” he said, struggling for the right words.  “I don’t know, I don’t really have the right vocabulary to describe it, yet.  I have to invent it as I go.”

“Expands the . . . what do you mean?”

“It’s complex,” he said, with a sigh.  “But it’s become apparent that the attachment to the Otherworld the stones supply can augment many spells.  Sometimes in unusual and unpredictable ways.

“For example, when you try to enter into the Otherworld in their proximity, it’s as easy as falling into a well.  That’s almost expected, I suppose.

“But then I noticed some of the effects I was seeing in simple thaumaturgical essays.  Complexities in the responses that you can’t imagine,” he said, reverently.  “Enneagramatic spells in particular are affected.  Common enchantments gained additional results.  Others are almost impossible to control.  I’m still trying to define the rules of how it works, but it’s . . . it’s complex.”

“You aren’t defeated, are you?” I teased.

“Me?  Never!” Taren said with a tired grin, a bit of his old spark coming back to his worn face.  “I’m not unenthusiastic about the work, Min, you have to believe me.  But you also have to understand just how draining working in Salaisus is.  Every moment in its proximity is like walking through a crypt on an icy day.  But the work . . . the work is worth the sacrifice,” he assured me.  “Especially now that I’ve built this.”

He pulled a baculus out of the magical pocket he’d stashed it in.  It was a simple and elegant thaumaturgical rod of deep red weirwood.  It was enwrapped with spells, and studded with stones to produce various magical effects.

But the staffhead was unique.  The head of the baculus was a smooth sphere of bluestone, polished to a shine.

“Meet Threshold,” he said, presenting the five-foot tall, intricately carved staff of weirwood.  “It’s a special thaumaturgic baculus I use around Salaisus.  Dunselen had the wood in storage, when he did the spell.  They were in the area of effect.  There was actually a decent supply of them, but this was the best of the lot.  The calcium inside the cells is transformed,” he said, answering my question before I asked it.  “Even without this big marble at the top, it’s different than any other weirwood in the world.”

“Paracletic?” I asked, professionally curious.

“Not yet.  I haven’t found an enneagram in the Grain that I trust with it.  The wrong one could be disastrous, with this stuff.  I’m still working on it, but so far it has some fairly unique abilities.  Like raising the dead,” he suggested.

“Really?” I asked, surprised. “It’s necromantic?” I asked, recalling my recent conversations with Kedaran about the subject.

“Only for a few hours, and only the recently dead, but it’s promising.  You can also use it to see into the Otherworld without actually going into the Otherworld, which can be useful.  And you can use it to detect non-vibrant enneagrams—”

“Wait, what?” I asked, sharply.  “Non-vibrant?”

“Oh,” he said, shrugging, as if it was an afterthought.  “Studying at Salaisus has given me a deeper insight into how enneagrams and life magic work,” he explained.  “Dunselen’s notes were surprisingly helpful – the man was a wart on the arse of humanity, but his library is exquisite.  There’s ample scholarship on the subject from the Late Magocracy – you should really read a few of the Merwyni Codicils,” he suggested.

“In all my free time,” I said, rolling my eyes.  “Give me the high points.”

“Most of the enneagrams we’re used to working with are either pure thaumaturgical constructs or they’re control mechanisms and architecture grafted onto basic elemental patterns, right?”

“Basic thaumaturgy,” I nodded.

“Sure.  But we also know that living beings not only contain enneagrams, but are the source of some of the most complex.  A cockroach has a far more sophisticated sense of self-awareness than, say, a water elemental, for instance.

“But more importantly, the cockroach’s enneagram isn’t just the chance repetition of a primal elemental pattern.  It’s the product of biological functions and responses; it grows, it changes, it thinks, after a fashion.  It utilizes the inherent magical energy implicit in metabolism and higher functions to form its enneagram.

“Life energy,” he emphasized.  “When the gurvani or a necromancer sacrifices a living thing, what they’re doing is harnessing the energy of that life energy as it’s converted.  It leaves the enneagram behind as a residue, of sorts.  Like draining a wineskin.  Or taking your clothes off,” he said, searching for an adequate metaphor.

“Your tunic and hose still look like you, kind of, but they aren’t you.  We can re-animate it, after a fashion, using a necromantic architecture and a lot of energy, but it we can’t give it vibrancy.  That only comes as a by-product of living metabolisms.

“As it is, the necromancy converts the arcane power into necromantic energy – death energy – as it transforms direction into action.  Threshold,” he said, hefting the staff for emphasis, “can detect those necromantic energies . . . even the very faint ones emitted by mere elementals.”

“That could come in handy,” I nodded, impressed.  “That also might explain why hoxter pockets kill living things, but allow enneagrams like paracletes to pass through unharmed.  They aren’t vibrant.”

“Exactly!” he nodded, excited.  “The hoxter pockets don’t have the capacity to contain vibrant energy.  They just don’t have the . . . the dimension available.  The moment a living thing enters the pocket, it’s vibrancy is destroyed.”

“But where does it go?” I asked.  “The Magosphere?”

Taren shrugged.  “That’s a damn good question, Min.  I hadn’t gotten that far.  It could be,” he agreed.  “All I’ve done at this point is to throw chickens into the pocket and examine them when they come back out.  Their enneagrams aren’t stripped, as I originally thought, they’re intact,” he informed me.  “They’re just dormant.  It’s their vibrancy that’s been destroyed.  I can usually re-animate a chicken that’s been through a hoxter – especially in Salaisus,” he reported.

“You have undead chickens in Salaisus?” I chuckled.

“Too many,” he chuckled.  “The animation spells last an obscenely long time, too.  They guard their old roosts, day and night, never sleeping, slowly rotting away.  We haven’t had much trouble with foxes and racquiels, lately – or chicken-stealing peasants.  But I’m convinced.  It’s the vibrancy of the animals it destroys, not its thaumaturgical pattern of self-identity.”

“What would it do to an undead?” I asked, curious.

“I tried that,” Taren nodded.  “Put an undead chicken inside a hoxter, the necromantic energy is drained, too.  But it can be immediately reanimated, as the architecture of the enneagram is intact.  You’d need an independent power source, like irionite, to sustain a necromantic field, but it should come right back.”

“Oh,” I sighed.  “So it wouldn’t kill Sheruel.”

“No, he could sustain himself indefinitely in a hoxter, with the proper power,” Taren said, shaking his head.  “although it would get pretty lonely in there.  If you could get him in one to begin with.  The kind of reality-warping field that much irionite creates would likely keep him from sliding into a hoxter.”

“Theoretically,” I prompted.

“Theoretically?  Min, all of this is theoretical, bordering on whimsical bullshit,” he said, frankly.  “We barely understand irionite, have a vague idea about snowstone, and bluestone is just weird.  Hoxters?  Theory is all we have.  And that stuff?” he asked, pointing at the big lump of what looked like molten glass swimming around in a big transparent urn.  “What in five hells have you been up to, Min?”

“Oh,” I said, my lips going tight.  “That.  Uh, something Briga and I cooked up one night.”

“What is it?”

“As far as I can tell, it’s a pure physical arcane medium,” I said, uncertainly.  “But ask me again next week and I might have an entirely different answer.”

He looked confused.  “Doesn’t Briga know?”

“She’s in inspiration, not analysis.  That’s my department.  Our department,” I corrected.  “It’s a liquid medium, extremely viscous, even at room temperature.  And it’s thaumaturgically responsive,” I added.  “Beyond that . . .”

“Any way that it could be used on our current problem?” he proposed.

“Not that I can think of,” I said, a moment later.  And yes, I really did try to think of something.

“Then let’s adjourn to the Chamber of the Snowflake,” suggested Onranion, returning from the storeroom with two fresh bottles.  “We can at least test this mad theory by seeing if the damn thing will even go into a hoxter.  Of course, with the energies involved, we could destroy ourselves.  Or it.  Or the world,” he shrugged.  “Shall we pour, before we go?”

Master Ulin cast the spell for the hoxter.  He was by far the most adept with the largest of the two remaining pocketstones at this point (the third having been stolen by the Enshadowed), having learned all he could from the Karshak’s imperfect understanding of the artifact.  While he was preparing, Taren used Threshold to examine the Snowflake . . . and returned from his surveys with a puzzled expression.

“That is . . . odd . . .” he said, mostly to himself.

Master Azhguri grunted.  “It’s an eternally evolving piece of magical crystal.  What’s so odd about that?”

“You know, it doesn’t really . . . exist, in the Otherworld,” he announced.

“But I’ve seen it!” I protested.

“You’ve seen the ripple effect in the Otherworld caused by its presence, but the Snowflake itself isn’t there.”

“That’s pretty subtle,” I observed, doubtfully.

“It has an enneagram – dear gods, it has the most spectacular enneagram I’ve ever seen.  It’s sucking in arcane power like a hole in your pocket.  But it lacks vibrant energy.  There’s a little necromantic power, there, enough to disturb the Otherworld.  But the Snowflake, as a form, isn’t there,” he pronounced, confidently, as he peered past Threshold.

“Should it be?”

“Not that I know of.  But I expected to see something there.  All I see is the wave form around it.  It’s just . . . odd.”

“I think that I’m ready to start, now,” Ulin called from his place in front of the Snowflake.  He had the largest of the pocketstones in his hand, and a concerned expression on his face.

“You’re worried?” Master Azhguri asked, cocking a bushy eyebrow.

“About trying an untested thaumaturgical experiment with a barely understood dimensional magic on a unique quasi-divine immovable artifact?” Ulin asked.  “Nah, I live for this shit,” the master enchanter declared.

Despite his mousy exterior and mild demeanor, I did not doubt his dedication one bit.  Indeed, he was as fervent as any knight in the lists, tilting with a rival.

I took a moment to appreciate my chief Enchanter.  He’d plowed through the intricacies of the general bouleuterion’s most advanced offerings like they were a reeve’s report on hay production.  He didn’t ask for more than the stipend I paid him, he lived in flat rented from Banamor and spent every third night in the workshops.  He’d made me a fortune, by any estimation, just by overseeing the production of agricultural wands and heats tones.

But here, he was in his element.  This was the kind of work an enchanter dreams about.  I was actually envious at his professional fulfillment.  Specialists can enjoy that sort of thing.  As a generalist, I mostly end up frustrated.

Ordinarily, casting a hoxter pocket, once you’ve prepared yourself, is a relatively simple matter.  But this was an unusual occasion, so Taren was lending a hand as Monitor, watching with Threshold and keeping an eye on the etheric currents and such.

Ulin nodded to Master Azhguri, who began a deep throaty chant that I’d come to associate with the art of stonesinging.  According to the plan, this was just enough contact to slow the Snowflake’s rate of change, but no more.  Then Onranion joined in, his Alkan songspell preparing the region to be affected by the hoxter.

It was unusual and thrilling, this odd combination of three schools of magic on one project.  To my knowledge nothing like this had been attempted before.

A few moments later, I discovered why.

It looked like it was working, at first.  A field started to form around the Snowflake, and it looked like it was fading into the pocket, the way it was supposed to.  But then it stopped.  The field failed to coalesce, though it persisted in trying.  The Snowflake slowed its transformations to a near-halt.  The pale light it always emanated seemed to intensify . . . and the Snowflake seemed to push back against the attempt.

Then it erupted in a bright white flash of arcane power that engulphed us all, and knocked us off our feet.  I didn’t quite lose consciousness, but I was stunned for a few moments.  My head pounded with pain and stars flashed before my eyes for several seconds.

“Is everyone okay?” Taren asked, concerned.  The magelights in the chamber had been extinguished, and the only light came from the pulsating Snowflake.  There was smoke and the smell of ozone in the air.

“What in six fiery hells happened?” swore Ulin, recovering his hat and dusting it off.

Master Azhguri exclaimed something in Karshak, and Onranion shook his head a bit.

“Well, that was explosively disappointing,” Master Azhguri said, struggling to his feet.

“We should probably not do that, ever again,” Onranion observed, solemnly.

“Not for a long time,” moaned Azhguri.  “My head is pounding!”

“Let’s not be hasty, Gentlemen,” Master Ulin said, whipping out a thaumaturgical wand.  “It wasn’t a complete failure.  There was definitely some attempt to phase into the pocket, before it met resistance.  I think we collected some invaluable information from the attempt.”

“Like only do it in the proximity of pillows?” Onranion snorted, rubbing his back.

“He’s right,” Taren agreed, picking up Threshold.  “While the experiment didn’t work, it wasn’t unfruitful.  Once we study what happened . . .”

“I’ll leave that to you gentlemen,” I sighed.  “Keep at it.  This was a productive line of research.  You’re doing good work,” I assured them.  I’m not going to deny that I was a little disappointed at the result, but I was also determined.  “Let me know the next time you want to try.”

I suppose I could have lingered and added my insights to the process, but honestly Taren is a better thaumaturge than I am, and Ulin a better enchanter.  I’m better at being in a supervisory role.

I walked back to my tower, deep in thought about the experiment, wondering what other means of moving the unmovable I had at my disposal.  Along the way I stopped by the Gatehouse and climbed three flights of stairs to Sire Cei’s personal quarters.

I admit, they made my own hall look shabby by comparison.  Cei had a spacious modern hall directly over the gate allowing a spectacular view of the valley, with Sevendor Town, Sevendor Castle and Lesgaethael towering in the distance.

Sire Cei and Estret’s personal chamber was on the eastern side, with smaller rooms for the children.  The western end of the floor was my official stronghouse, where the castellan guarded my treasures and funds.  An alcove with a recently-carved pegboard for keeping track of our expenses and incomes served him as an office.

When the weather permitted, Sire Cei liked to take his meals out on the balcony overlooking the road below.  That’s where I found him, that evening, deep in thought with his lips clasped firmly around the stem of his pipe as he read the day’s reports.

“So, will we be ready for His Highness’ arrival?” I asked, when he’d poured me wine.

“Oh, decidedly,” Sire Cei nodded, approvingly.  “We have sufficient notice to order proper victuals, engage in a cleaning program, and otherwise engage the occasion.  Be warned: I’ve approved several additional outlays from the baronial treasury to cover the additional expense.  We’re hiring more Tal and peasants to help.  And I’ve ordered two dozen new snowflake banners made,” he reported.  “I thought it would be appropriate.”

“Perfectly,” I agreed.  “I want Tavard to be completely aware that he’s in a mageland, and my mageland, at that.  The goal will be to welcome him, fete him, let him conduct his pilgrimage, and then send him on his way as quickly as possible.”

“A gift is customary, from vassal to liege, on such an occasion,” Sire Cei reminded me.  “Will you be able to produce something arcane, or should I focus on expensive gaudiness?”

“The arcane,” I decided.  “I’ll speak with Master Ulin or one of his assistants about producing something suitable.  I just came from the Snowflake chamber, where we were doing some . . . advanced experiments.  He should have some new and useless enchantments I can throw at the Prince.”

“Ah, I wondered at the work you were doing,” Cei nodded, both disturbed and relieved.  “That must have been it.”

“What?” I demanded.

“Well,” he began, slowly, as he studied his winecup, “about half an hour ago, the entire mountain lit up.  The stone itself glowed with a pale light.  The effect only lasted a few minutes, but it was quite impressive.  No doubt I’ll be flooded with demands for an explanation.  But whatever it was you were doing in there, it had an effect out here,” he warned me.  “You should be wary of that.”

“I try to be wary of everything,” I sighed.  “But it makes sense.  Thanks for letting me know.  The official response should run something like ‘the Magelord was performing a scheduled assay into the thaumaturgical underpinnings of the local Magosphere.’  Something like that.”

Sire Cei chuckled.  “You know, I’m almost starting to understand some of that stuff,” he admitted.

“I hope not.  It was pure bullshit.  What we were actually doing was trying to figure out how to knock the centerpoint out of the Snowflake.  Without getting a cataclysmic response.”

“And were you successful in your experiments?”

“No, Cei, we were not,” I sighed, heavily.  “Some days it feels like I’ll never get Alya back again.  But I think we’re making progress.  I hope we are.  With three different schools of magic working on the problem, one of them should be able to free it.”  I suppose I sounded discouraged and tired, probably because how tired and discouraged I was.  But Sire Cei has a knack of knowing just the right thing to say.

“To progress,” he said, holding out his cup for a toast.  “One foot in front of the other.”

I couldn’t argue with that, either.

Chapter Seven

The Seamage Moudrost

Sire Cei was not the only one to note the effects of our experiment with the Snowflake.  Nearly every mage I saw the next day asked me some variation of “what are you cooking up in the mountain, now, Min?”, and I got a lot of uneasy looks from the non-magi around the castle.

Considering all of the arcane ruckus that they’d experienced since I took ownership of Sevendor, I suppose I couldn’t blame them.  From the original Snow That Never Melted that turned a quarter of my domain white, to the scandalously tawdry Ishi’s Night, to the waves of magical experiments from myself and others, the poor folk of Sevendor had been tormented by magic almost as much as they’d benefitted from it.

The intriguing thing to me was actually how well they now accepted it.  Having the entire mountain and castle burst into an unearthly glow in the middle of the night was, in context, just not that big of a deal.  That was just life in a mageland.  We were all getting used to it, by now.

It wasn’t until after breakfast that my page – the lad who dealt with my messages and appointments and such – reminded me that there was a seamage waiting patiently to speak to me.

That’s when I started to suspect that mucking around with the Snowflake and dangerous thaumaturgy while the Sea Folk were watching might not have been my wisest decision.

“Tell the gentleman that I will meet with him in my private chamber, then bring him to the tower,” I instructed the lad.  Whatever the strange wizard had to say to me, I preferred to hear it without any interested ears around.  My workshop tower was one of the most secure places in Sevendor.

When the lad escorted the man to me, he gave a deep bow and introduced himself.

“I am Moudrost, the Dryspeaker for the Sau’libik pod of the Leviathan Kyrinsik,” he said in a deep but hoarse voice.  He was striking: tall, lean and sinewy, his long hair spilling over his shoulders into his beard.

He was dressed similarly to a common mariner, with long leather trousers and tunic under a thick woolen cloak.  But he wore a broad, elaborately-tooled oil-cured leather bandolier across his chest, filled with the tools of his trade.  His thick boots were cunningly designed to keep from slipping on even the slickest of decks, and a broad mariner’s knife was stuck in his belt.

Moudrost carried a long driftwood staff that had been carefully polished with fish oils and wax until it shone.  It was studded with tiny bits of coral, shells, and stones, and glimmered in magesight with arcane power.  He didn’t seem to have a witchstone, but the odd shimmering of power the man emitted told me he was a potent wizard without one.

“Baron Minalan the Spellmonger,” I answered with a smile and a bow.  “Wine?  I’ve no Sea Lord vintages, but . . .”

“Please,” the man assured me, politely, “I have had my fill of seawater.  I enjoy the landsmen’s wines, when I am able.”

Just to be showy, I conjured a platter from a hoxter pocket in one of my rings that bore two silver goblets and a bottle of decent Gilmoran red.  Moudrost showed just the barest sign of being impressed as he took a seat and I poured.

“So what brings you to my lands, Master Moudrost?” I inquired, casually.

“I come seeking an audience with you,” he explained, amiably.  “My pod chanced to range near the shallows at the coast of Castal, as is their way, and tasted something . . . strange and new in the waters.  Intrigued, they asked me to investigate.  I have been tracking the new factor upriver for near a year, now.  It leads to this charming little stream . . . and this magnificent white castle,” he said, gesturing to my study.

“Ah,” I realized.  “Snowstone.  That’s what your pod sensed.”

“So I have come to understand,” agreed Moudrost.  “Along my journey I have gathered much has changed in Castal since I took service with the pod.  A lack of Censors, for one,” he said, wryly.

“I didn’t think the Seamasters feared the Censorate.”

“Fear is a strong term.  We are wary of their arbitrary rules, and reject them.  When they cross the brethren, we strike back.  By now they know that we are not to be trifled with,” he said, sternly.  “But it is gratifying to see our dryland cousins finally overthrow their yoke.  I have heard that that is largely your doing.”

“Mine and Duke Rard’s.  Now King Rard’s,” I pointed out.  “Since then, I’ve done my best to manage the result.”

“While defending against a gurvani invasion and a reawakening of the undead in the west,” he added.  “I have done my research, Baron.”

“Please, call me Minalan,” I insisted.  “And I appreciate the interest.  But I don’t understand it.  Why is your pod so intrigued by snowstone?”

“The tongues of the nymphs are highly sensitive, especially in ranging season,” Moudrost supplied – not that I understood what he was talking about.  “It takes but a small change in the flavor of the sweetwater to capture their notice.  To be candid, Minalan, they were near mad with it.”

“So the . . . nymphs like . . . my snowstone-flavored river water?” I asked, confused.  I had virtually no understanding of what he was speaking about.

That’s never stopped me before.

“They were the first who sensed it,” he agreed, after a long and lusty sip of wine.  “Was after a storm, when the spring floods bring the finest sweetwaters to the sea.  The nymphs were ranging along the sandy plains underwave, and began to churn excitedly.  And of course their cries caught the attention of their Keeper, who in turn notified the Kraytak on duty.  When he sent a Seeker school in to investigate, they discovered the source of the new flavor.  That’s when the Hindermen took charge, had the Sekleties taste the sweetwater, and the old crones went mad, too.”

“I have no doubt,” I said, trying to obscure my confusion.  “Who wouldn’t?”

“Your . . . snowstone,” he explained, when he realized I was upriver without a pole, “is new, Minalan.  New to the world of Callidore.”

“That’s what my Alka Alon friends tell me,” I nodded.

“More, when the sweetwater samples were taken to moisten the coral beds . . . they grew twice as fast as normal.”

That did seem intriguing.  I didn’t know why, but I was intrigued.

“Snowstone lowers the local thaumaturgical resistance field of the Magosphere,” I explained.  “I don’t know how much you know Imperial magic—”

“I was fairly apprenticed to a landborn sea wizard in Enultramar,” he informed me.  “I held journeyman papers before I was selected by the pod for training.  I know how to read.  I understand basic thaumaturgy,” he said, with the hint of a snicker in his voice.

“Excellent.  Then you will appreciate the research I’ve been doing on this material.”

I proceeded to tell him the story of the raging blizzard that happened the night my son Minalyan was born, and the resulting magical transformation of Sevendor.  I further explained what we’d discovered about the substance, and made brief mention of some of the unique crystals we’d harvested from vesicles within the rock without giving too many details.

“That makes sense of much of what we theorized,” the seamage nodded, sagely.  “And would explain the dramatic effect on the coral beds.  I have been empowered by my pod to extend an offer, should I discover the source of the new flavor.  Last night I spoke with my Hinderman, who has had conversation with his fellows.  He has authorized me to purchase some of this snowstone for our use.”

“Now, that’s an intriguing proposition,” I nodded.  “As it happens, I do sell the material to my colleagues, who find it invaluable in their enchantments.”

“I can understand why,” he nodded.  “At what rate do you sell the stone?”

I explained the going market rate for snowstone – not counting the free samples I’d given away, or the generous gifts of the stuff I’d made my friends.  “So just how much are you looking to buy?”

“About three thousand tons,” he said, as casually as if he was discussing eggs at the market.  “To start.”

My head spun.  Three thousand . . . tons?  Of snowstone?

“That’s a lot of rock,” I said, dazed.

“We would pay fair market price,” he assured me.  “I took note of the southern ridge behind the hostel I stayed in last night.  It appears to be solid snowstone, and has no settlement upon its steep slopes.  Could the stone be harvested from there?”

I blinked.  “Uh, of course.  It’s easily accessible, and there’s no one living there.  We could certainly mine that ridge,” I agreed.  My head began to right itself, and my mind began calculating just how many people I’d need to do so.  Hundreds.  Three thousand tons would require a lot of labor.  Then I stopped.  “We would, of course, reserve the right to any . . . exotic minerals,” I added.

“What do you mean?” he asked, curiously.

“We’ve discovered some crystalline structures of peculiar configuration,” I shrugged.  “I’m a scholar.  A thaumaturge.  I’d like to study them.”

“My pod is only interested in snowstone,” Moudrost assured me.  “Any pretty pebbles you like, you may keep.”

“How does your pod plan to pay for the stone?” I asked, as I refilled our glasses.  I hoped my hand wasn’t trembling.  So far snowstone sales were a significant and growing part of my revenue, almost pure profit.  The market rate for three thousand tons was an astronomical amount.  The kind of number that only coinbrothers can visualize.

“Traditionally, transactions between the Vundel and the landborn are conducted in trade of hard goods,” he reasoned.  “We can pay in gold, on delivery.  Or in other metals.  Or corals,” he added.  That was intriguing, too.  Almost all the really good magical corals used in enchantment come to us exclusively through the Sea Folk.

“Why don’t you make eighty percent in gold,” I suggested, magnanimously, “and the rest in a variety of other materials?”

“Such as?” he asked, a bushy eyebrow rising.

“Surprise me,” I shrugged.  “If you are Imperially trained, then you understand the sorts of things I’d like.  Give me some of those.  I’m sure there are things out beyond the horizon that I don’t know about, but might interest me.  I’d take that sort of thing, as well.”

“That can be done,” he nodded, grinning widely.  I noted two of his teeth had been replaced with corals of different colors.  “My pod will be pleased with the bargain.”

“So how does a seamage become a . . . a . . .”

“Dryspeaker?” he supplied.  “One has to first be accepted by the lodges of the Seamasters, who have watched over the waves since the horizon brought us forth.  Some apprentice there as young boys.  I submitted myself a year after taking my journeyman’s exams.  From there, I was put through trials until I was among the most worthy to be offered to the pods which range our coasts.  I was fortunate enough to be chosen.”

“But why?” I asked.  “Not why you were chosen – although I confess I’m curious – but why are you drawn to such an . . . exotic life?”

“Power,” he said, instantly.  “Power and knowledge.  The mysteries that lie in the deeps are more compelling than any landborn mage could approach.  To be in contact with the ancient minds of our Leviathan mothers is an honored bliss . . . and to swim above the coral beds a sublime joy that no mere wizard will understand,” he said, reverently.  “For this I gave up the pleasures of even the life of a mariner.  Those chosen for Dryspeaking vow to serve twenty years.  Some never set foot upon soil until their term is expired.  Most die at sea before they ever embrace the Dry again.”

“Well, I suppose that’s a legitimate motivation,” I said, postponing judgement on the man’s choices.  I had very good friends who buried themselves in their work to the exclusion of pleasures and pastimes.  Taren was one.  He was virtually uninterested in the increasing numbers of women, magi and mundane alike, who were attracted to the thaumaturge.  His passion was his work.

“It can be a lonely life,” he conceded, “but I have my pod, and during ranging season they don’t hesitate to send me ashore to negotiate with the dryborn.  And I shall be expired in a mere eight years,” he added with a mournful sigh.  “It’s like losing your entire family.  Some can’t abide the thought, and plunge themselves into the waves instead of facing it.  Once a Dryspeaker fulfills his term, he is cast out of the pod forever.”

To be honest, his life sounded awful to me.  I didn’t mind non-humans – some of my best friends weren’t human – but to be entirely cut off from your fellow man and surrounded by an array of squishy, chitinous, scaly and stinky non-humans would be at least three kinds of hell.  To choose that over beer, bread, and boobs seemed a little mad.

He continued to tell me about his life, and while I pitied him for the hardships he’d inflicted on himself, it was clear that it was he who pitied me my landsman’s life.  Moudrost was a friendly sort, once you got past his stoic exterior, I found.  We finished the bottle in good spirits, shaking hands on our agreement before he left.

“I shall take my leave of Sevendor this evening, as my pod has bidden,” he told me.  “They are anxious to receive the snowstone, and wish a full report.”

“As we are anxious to begin delivering on the bargain,” I assured him.  “I have to make a quick trip myself, tonight.  I regret that I won’t have more time to spend in your company, hearing your tales of the strange Sea Folk.  But Prince Tavard has elected to visit next week, and I am forced to focus my energies on his arrival.  Indeed, I received word his envoy arrives tomorrow,” I said, apologetically.

“Ah!” Moudrost nodded, as we crossed the Great Hall to the doorway.  “That explains the fantastic displays from your mountain, last night.  Why, the entire sky above glowed with the power of the spell.  I was fascinated by the energies involved in the feat – an arcane entertainment for your liege?”

“We are always experimenting with new ways to delight and wonder our patrons,” I said, letting the obsequious tone of a real spellmonger seep into my voice.  Damn!  I’d almost forgotten about the Snowflake!  “Prince Tavard deserves only the finest from the Spellmonger.  I would hate to disappoint him.”

“In truth, I doubt any could be disappointed with such a land,” Moudrost told me, sincerely.  “I never thought I would see the day when magic is used with such abandon – and to such purpose.  Your folk are prosperous, your city is beautiful, and even the Alka Alon pay court to you,” he said, pointing to the spire of Lesgaethael as I escorted him out of the hall.  “You have Karshak and Tal Alon as your servants.  I’ve never seen a land so well-run,” he complimented.

“A credit to my staff,” I insisted.  “I hire good people.  I spend a lot of gold.  And I’ve been blessed with good apprentices,” I added, as I saw Ruderal peek his head out from behind a tree in the courtyard, then dart back, displaying an unusual shyness.  “Usually.  But by all means, if you must depart, let the days before you return be few,” I said, citing an old Riverlands proverb.

“You can expect to see me again, soon,” Moudrost agreed, with one last handshake before he departed.  I watched him walk all the way to the gatehouse (the small one for the castle, not the new one that towered overhead behind us) until he was out of sight.  That’s when the smile left my face.

Three thousand tons.  Sixty thousand pounds of pure snowstone.  I was already selling it for what I thought was a hefty sum, and getting eager buyers, but this . . . this had the potential to transform Sevendor.

I envisioned long lines of ox-drawn wains hauling huge blocks of stone across the land to Sendaria Port, as my folk hacked past the topsoil and into the white stone underneath.  We could do the actually quarrying magically, of course, which would save time.  But that would still employ scores, perhaps hundreds of quarrymen.  Men who no longer had jobs behind plows, thanks to the planting wands.  A project like this would take years to complete, perhaps lifetimes.

And unlike other potential buyers, the Sea Folk had an outstanding reputation for honesty in their dealings.  They didn’t seem to understand the concept of cheating, from what the lore said.  Their funds weren’t dependent on the price of cotton or wool, expected tribute payments, or the harvest.  If they said they would pay, they would pay.  Enough to enrich my domain and my entire barony for lifetimes to come.

Not a bad price for one small mountain we weren’t really using for anything else.

I closed my eyes and contacted Lilastien, my expert on Vundel Affairs.

My seamage guest just left, I reported, when the Alkan sorceress’ mind touched my own.  Good news: he didn’t ask about the war or Sharuel or Korbal, at all.

That is a relief! Lilastien sighed.  I thought it was too early for the Vundel to take note, but with them it’s hard to know.  So what did he want?

Snowstone.  A lot of it.

Really? she asked, surprised.  That’s all?

That’s a lot, I countered.  They want three hundred tons of it.  At fair market prices.  That’s about a mountain’s worth . . . and enough gold to buy my own kingdom, if I wanted.

Do you?

Hells, no! I swore.  Do you take me for a fool?  But this will require a significant investment that will feed my people for years to come, I said, pleased with myself.

Why did the Vundel want snowstone? she asked, suspiciously.

I . . . I didn’t inquire, I realized.  Something about its effect on their coral beds.  They were pleased, I added.

The corals are what the Leviathans subsist upon, she agreed.  The ones in the Shallow Sea are notoriously damaged and anemic, compared to other seas on Callidore.  The Leviathans who tend them are scrawny, barely able to survive on what is left.

So doubling the growth rate of the coral would be worthwhile?

Doubling?  My dear boy, that would be worth just about anything to them.  Those corals barely grow, anymore.  The ridge corals are millions of years old, and it takes the lifetimes of Alkans to see any perceptible growth.  So yes, I can see why the Vundel would be interested in that.

You don’t sound particularly hopeful about that, I pointed out.

Oh, it’s better than a general eviction, she agreed, quickly.  But it comes with some new problems.  This is the first time I can recall when there was something the Vundel really wanted.  Now I think we know why.

Why would snowstone affect the coral growth?

Because the coral system is magical in nature, she explained.  Reducing the thaumaturgical resistance around it would allow the cells to metabolize much more quickly, she reasoned.  If provided with sufficient minerals and sunlight, then yes, that would accelerate the growth rate.  Which would allow the Shallow Sea pods to repopulate.

There seem to be plenty of them around, I pointed out.

Not as many as there used to be, nor as many as there should be.  The Sea Folk you see now in the Shallow Sea are a thin remnant of the great fleets of Leviathans which used to ply the glorious reef system.  The damage was that extensive.  Even a modest improvement in their food supply would allow several more pods to split off, and their Clippermen to transform into Leviathan mothers.

So . . . maybe that will keep them from throwing us off the world? I offered, hopefully.

It’s a good start, she agreed.  Let’s see how the experiment goes.  Speaking of experiments, Lord Aeratas and his party have arrived.  With three hundred more Tera Alon warriors to protect the borders of the Tower.

You sound annoyed by that.

I . . . yes, I am, she admitted.  Permit an old lady a few complaints when her household is disrupted, Minalan.  And, before you say it, yes, I understand the necessity.  That doesn’t’ mean I enjoy the company.

Did he bring Lady Falawen with him?

Every sulky, irritating bit of her.  She reminds me of my older sister.  That is not a positive thing, she added.  But they’re here, and are awaiting your arrival this evening.

I’ll be there, I assured her.  Thanks for the counsel.  I’m hoping we can continue to escape their notice as anything but humble purveyors of shiny rocks.

That’s probably in our best interests, she agreed, dryly.

When I broke contact, I took a moment to re-orient myself and look around at the bustle of activity across the courtyard.

Porters were unloading a long string of wagons bringing ordered provisions to the kitchens, both here and at the Gatehouse.  Tal Alon drudges were sweeping and scrubbing the exterior of the castle, while Tal Alon gardeners clipped the trees and bushes within the bailey walls.  Teams of castle workers erected every tournament tent and campaign canopy we had in storage for the expected overflow of guests too important to send into town.

As I looked around, the distant spire of the Mewstower caught my eye.  Dara could probably fit some more visitors in her new little keep, I reasoned.  While the first two stories were designed for storage and supplies, the meandering third story, I knew, was a barracks only a quarter-filled with Sky Riders, thus far.

Dara had two wings of four birds each, quartered here, with a third stationed in Vorone.  The barracks story the Karshak constructed had room for three times that many, and comfortably appointed, too.  The fourth floor, given over to the craft of falconry, also contained the standard sort of mews.

But the fifth floor, the very peak of the tower, still enwrapped with scaffolding as the Karshak toiled to finish it, was the home of her giant birds.  There was room for as many as sixteen, someday, but for now half that number nested in the massive mews.  That was where Dara’s private apartments were, too, near to her birds.

I hadn’t seen much of her, since I returned from Yule, but it was probably time I paid her new home a visit.  Especially if I wanted her quartering my vassals.  It was her hall, after all.

“Master?” came a hesitant voice from behind me.  At first, I thought it was my page, but then I saw it was Ruderal, my youngest apprentice.  The normally quiet boy looked more than a little disturbed, which wasn’t like him.

“What is it, Ruderal?”

“Word has come from the Diketower,” he reported.  “The Ducal Envoy is approaching, a party of six.  You asked to be alerted,” he added, politely.

“Of course,” I said, absently.  “Have the castellans quarter them in Spellmonger’s Hall, and allow him and his party to rest and recuperate from his long journey.  Inform them that I shall attend them in the morning.”

“You have plans for the evening, Master?” the boy inquired.

“I need to go fix Ryff’s wedding,” I confided.  “Especially if we want to see it occur on Briga’s Day, with all due ceremony.”

“He was quite excited about it, the last time he was here,” the boy agreed.  But there was still something bothering him, I could tell.

“What is it about the Ducal Envoy that has you so nervous, lad?” I asked, as kindly as I could.  “I’ve met the man.  He’s a horrible boor, overly ambitious, and he tends to shout everything, but he’s a harmless fool.  Or is it the Prince’s visit you fear?” I asked, concerned.

Ruderal was a little moody, thanks to his Talent for reading other people’s enneagrams constantly, but he had developed a fairly thick skin about letting such things affect him personally.

“Oh, I look forward to seeing a Prince, Master,” Ruderal assured me.  “I’ve never seen one before.”

“You are not missing much,” I sighed.  “So, if it isn’t the Prince’s visit, what is it?  Do you not have enough lessons to keep you busy?”

“Not at all, Master!” he said, horrified.  I had him working daily with the court wizard or one of the other magi in the castle, when I couldn’t spare my attention.  By all accounts the boy was an ideal student, picking up on his lessons even faster than Dara did.  And far faster than Tyndal ever had.  “No, it’s just . . . who was that wizard you were talking to, earlier?” he asked, curiously.

“Him?  A seamage,” I replied.  “An emissary from the Sea Folk on an errand of business.  Why?  Is it the Vundel you fear?”

Ruderal swallowed nervously, and shook his head.

“I’ve never met one, though I’ve seen their pictures and statues often enough in Solashaven.  But they never come to Enultramar, thanks to the rocks in the bay.  It’s too shallow for them, even though there are lots of yummy sandflies and spiderclaws on the shore.”

“Then what is it?” I demanded, getting a little impatient.

“That man, Master?” he continued, after a thoughtful pause.  “I read his enneagram.  I didn’t mean to, really, but there was something about it,” he reported, warily.  “Something that made me.”

I paid attention, then.  Ruderal’s skill at reading the arcane symbolism of a particular person’s self-awareness had been vital in the past.  I was still getting used to the boy’s almost preternatural understanding of what other people were thinking and doing, but he still surprised me on a regular basis.

“What is it?” I repeated.  “Does he mean us harm?  Is he not what he says he is?”

“No, no, Master,” he said, shaking his head.  “Nothing like that.  He’s honest, more honest than Lord Mayor Banamor,” he explained.  “He doesn’t mean you or Sevendor harm.  He’s uncomfortable this far inland, but part of him is enjoying it.”

“Then what is it?” I asked for the third time.

“Master?  I . . . I think that man was my father!”

Chapter Eight

The Reluctant Bride

Lord Aeratas was waiting for me at Arth Noafa, the Tower of Refuge with his daughter, Lady Falawen, and a few score of his people.  All of them were in their humanish forms, and many were armed and armored in the human-style the Tera Alon were beginning to adopt.  Others were dressed in robes and gowns cut in exotic fashion.

I was gratified to see Tera Alon warriors patrolling both the perimeter of the settlement and the Tower itself.  While there were no traditional battlements, the Tree Folk had improvised merlons and such out of stones from the ruins.   There were more than enough of them to repel a raid the size of the one the Enshadowed sent at Yule.

The Tera Alon troops were quartered in an unused corner of the settlement, but spellsingers (in their natural forms) were encouraging three trees to grow in an equilateral triangle.  From what I understood the trees would eventually become the kind of hidden tree forts that the Alka Alon – particularly the Avalanti kindreds – preferred.

I was escorted up to the second-floor balcony, an area of the Tower I’d yet to see.  Lilastien was there, also in her humanish form, looking irritated.  Lord Aeratas was looking stoic and stubborn.  And Falawen was looking resigned and depressed.

“Thank you for meeting with me here,” I began, without ceremony, as I hung my mantle and my hat on a convenient . . . protrusion.  I still wasn’t terribly familiar with Alka Alon architecture, and there were a lot of elements I didn’t know the use for.  The thing looked ornate and floral, so naturally I used it as a hat rack.  “I am here on behalf of my vassal, Sire Ryff.”

“We know,” Falawen said, deliberately.

“He has my blessing to hold the wedding at Briga’s Day, in Sevendor.  The Prince of Castalshar will be in attendance, and it would be an auspicious occasion to mark the alliance between our peoples with your union.”

“So . . . so soon?” Falawen asked, dazed.

“Soon, my lady?” I answered.  “It has been near two years since you pledged your troth.  The Tera Alon encampment is nearly complete, from what I understand.  Your own folk are gathering for the effort,” I reminded her.

“I’ve done twenty transgenic spells just today,” Lilastien agreed, wearily.  “There seem to be plenty of volunteers, particularly amongst the Avalanti.”

“We are gaining strength,” agreed Lord Aeratas, his voice sounding like a deep bronze bell.  “I have hundreds of Tera Alon warriors, Avalanti and Versaroti both, who have taken the oaths I devised and the form of our allies.  Once they gain their forms here, and adjust to them, they are sent to one of several camps to train in the arts of war.”

“I will not have my home turned into an army camp,” Lilastien said, distastefully.  “It is a place of healing!”

“Nor would we begrudge your hospitality.  While I was uneasy with your parole, Elre, I concede that our situation requires many unconventional responses.  Arth Noafa is a place of healing.  Our new outpost in Sevendor shall serve as our training ground,” Aeratas assured her in a tone that told me it was not the first time he’d made the argument.  “There the Tera Alon shall study with the humani and arm themselves more completely.”

“A feat that would be facilitated, should the marriage to Sire Ryff inspire the proper desire among my folk,” I pointed out with what I hoped was tact.  “There is much excitement about the wedding,” I added.

“Evidentially,” Falawen said, icily.

“My lady,” I said, politely, “did you not enter into this union of your own free will?  What is this show of reluctance you display?”

“Sire Ryff is a fine knight,” she replied, curtly.  There seemed to be much she was not saying.  I looked toward our hostess.

“Lady Falawen’s reluctance is due to the insecurity she feels becoming intimate with Sire Ryff,” Lilastien said, wryly.  “Though I have explained the mechanics of human reproduction, including the usual expectations of a marital relationship, she balks at some of the finer matters she finds unpalatable.”

“Such as?” I asked, wondering if I needed to summon Pentandra.  This was really more her type of thing.

“Such as submitting to his orders and deferring to his judgement . . . in all things?  How do your women endure such humiliation?” she demanded, angrily.  “The more of your marital customs I study, the more I wonder how your species has survived at all!”

“We’re good at brewing and distilling,” I shrugged.  “The Rites of Trygg are fairly straightforward, my lady.  And while it is true that they demand a wife submit to her husband’s judgement and obey his orders, they also demand his fair and just treatment of you.”

“Fair?” she scoffed.  “Just?  Should he so deign, Spellmonger, he may elect to confine me to my chamber!  And I’m just supposed to . . . obey him?  Even if I disagree with him?” she demanded, angrily.

“There are ample provisions in the sacrament for a wife to respectfully declare her objections, if her goddess-given wisdom deems her husband’s orders harmful or demeaning,” I pointed out.  “You may even appeal to the Temple of Trygg’s judgement, if he mistreats you.  And no vassal of mine would dare ignore a judgement from the temple, on such an important matter,” I added, warningly.

“You think I fear Sire Ryff would beat me?” scoffed Falawen.  “When the man has the legal authority under your insane system to forbid his wife to attend the market, without his leave, a beating would be a welcome alternative to such confinement!”

“I assure you, my lady, my wife Alya finds little confinement in her role,” I pointed out.  “While Sire Ryff is, admittedly, from the rural nobility, I cannot foresee a case where a man so smitten with his bride would consider such extremes.”

“You ask me to depend upon his love . . .” she said, shaking her head.

“I am asking you to take the same risks with your heart and your life that any human maid would, entering into marriage,” I said, briskly.  I started to realize that her objections weren’t entirely rooted in our strange humani customs.  They were starting to sound like the sort of misgivings many a maiden has had, when the reality of a marriage commitment started to set in.

“I am no human maiden!” she said, proudly.  “I am a noble of the House of Aeratas, of the Versaroti kindred!  My line extends ten thousand years, back to our coming to Callidore!”

“A line whose leadership you would have inherited, had you not convinced me to leave Anthatiel to fight another day,” her father reminded her.  “This was the price of the sacrifice of my honor.  It was you who begged me to reconsider an alliance with the humani.  It was you who encouraged me to mount an opposition to the Abomination.  Yet now you drag your feet when the day comes to fulfill your honorable pledge?” he chided.

“I . . . I am not dragging my feet,” Falawen said, sighing heavily.  “I . . . I am merely concerned that Sire Ryff and I will not be . . . compatible,” she admitted.  “That my tenure as his wife will be something to endure . . .”

Lilastien snorted, and rolled her eyes.  “There is no woman on Callidore who does not have doubts before they come to the altar, Falawen.  You tremble with anxiety, just as all brides do.

“But let me assure you, humani and Alka Alon can enjoy a robust and blissful union together, in these forms,” she said, gesturing to herself.  “I’ve done so myself, dozens of times, back on Perwyn.”

“What?” Falawen asked, scandalized.

“Oh, don’t be such a prude!” dismissed the old Alkan with a wave.  “Do you honestly think that you’re the first Alkan woman to be curious?  Perwyn was a very sophisticated place, back during the Colonization, and that curiosity was shared by plenty of adventurous humani.  And you have no idea how boring it can be in Residency.”

“Lady Lilastien!” Falawen’s face was blushing darkly.

“I assure you, the experience was both novel and rewarding for all parties,” the old Alkan lady snickered, fondly.  “There are spots in these bodies that—”

“Did you have a point, Elre?” Lord Aeratas demanded, uncomfortably.  I could sympathize.  No father wants to hear about his daughter’s marriage bed.

“My point is that this is nothing more but a failure of your own ego,” she said, matter-of-factly.  “You advocate an alliance with the humani, and openly admire their race.  Your fascination with them is well-known, even to me in my prison.  You volunteered to be among the first to undertake the transgenic enchantment to give you your Tera Alon form.  You’ve adopted humani fashions and behaviors with stylish abandon.

“But now you have to face your fascination,” Lilastien said, with a wicked gleam in her eye. “You have come face to face with the reflection of yourself not as an Alkan maiden, but as a Tera Alon about to cross the frontier of interspecies relations in the most intimate of all possible ways.  You have to . . . to evolve,” she said, searching for a Narasi term.  Technically, it was an Imperial root with a Narasi style, but close enough.

“You have to make the decision to commit not just to a humani man who has declared his undying and deeply abiding love and infatuation with you, but to your own sense of self: are you an Alkan maid with a scandalously perverse fascination with an alien species, or are you the bridge to something different, something new in Callidore: a merging of humani and Alkan at the most primal level possible?”

The accusation made Falawen blanche uncomfortably.  Lord Aeratas folded his hands on the table, as his daughter struggled with her sense of identity.  His position was clear.

I cleared my throat.  “Perhaps it would be helpful to exercise another Narasi rite: the Maiden’s Vigil.”

“The . . . I’m sorry, I’m not terribly familiar with that one,” confessed Lilastien.  “When I got locked in here, your folk were still waging their terror campaign devouring the sophisticated civilization of the Magocracy.”

I ignored the jab.  “Under the Laws of Trygg regarding such matters, if the bride is reluctant or has misgivings, she may retire to a place of seclusion with her closest confidants and a priestess of Trygg for a period of reflection, self-criticism, and self-examination, before she comes to Temple.  The Vigil can last anywhere from three days to . . . well, to just before the wedding.  But the usual result is either appearance at the altar or the taking of holy orders,” I added, apologetically.

“Married, or submit to some insane priesthood?” Falawen asked, her eyes wide.  “What kind of barbarian savages are you?”

“There are enough extenuating circumstances in this case that I’m certain a reasonable third option could be found,” I said, slowly, wondering how persuading a bride with cold feet to actually make it to the wedding had become part of my duties.

“I . . . I . . . I want to exercise the Maiden’s Vigil!” Falawen declared, in a near panic.

“I will have Sister Bemia make the arrangements,” I nodded, slowly.  “I trust she is an acceptable officiant?  You know her, after all,” I pointed out.  “And you can name your own confidants to accompany you and advise you.”

“Varen and . . . and Ithalia.  Damn it!  Somehow I know Ithalia is behind this!”

“Behind what?” asked her father.  “Your own reluctance?  Perhaps the promise you made me was rashly done, my daughter, but I take you on your honor.  Do what you must to convince yourself, but the vow was freely made.  Do not invoke your pride in your line and your kindred if you are so quick to dishonor it by your deeds.”

To that, Falawen had no answer.  She lowered her eyes and sighed.

“It will only be for a few decades, dear,” Lilastien comforted her.  “I think you will find it far more enjoyable than you anticipate.”

“What if I cannot fulfil my duties to produce . . . to have babies?” she asked, her face now draining.

“Oh, there should be no issue with that,” Lilastien assured her.  “When we designed these forms, we used only the finest physical specimens of humani to base them upon . . . and then we made certain improvements, to make them more compatible with our Alkan enneagramatic architecture.

“The only differences between your current form’s physiology and a human maid’s are in your limbic and neurological systems.  Your reproductive organs are as healthy and ripe as any young humani woman’s.  There should be no impediment to having children.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Falawen said, unconvincingly.

“I am happy to offer Arth Noafa for the Vigil,” Lilastien continued.  “There are dozens of hectares of forest within the bounds.  And plenty of scenic, inspirational sites which may help your mind find balance.”

“Thank you, Elre,” Lord Aeratas nodded.  “As to the wedding itself . . . you mentioned a warrior prince would be in attendance?  Prince Tavard of Castal?”  He was as ignorant of human politics as I was Alkan, but he was starting to learn.

“Indeed.  Somewhat of a surprise, but His Grace sees fit to grace us with his presence on Briga’s Day, on a pilgrimage to the Everfire.  Such an auspicious witness to the union between our two peoples would bode well for future relations.”

“Yet we cannot have a humani of higher rank in attendance,” Aeratas said, troubled.  “Damn!  That means we have to trot out Almasarvala again!”

Lilastien groaned.

“That’s the fellow who was at Rard’s coronation, wasn’t he?” I recalled.

“Yes, he’s technically a member of the Council, but in truth Prince Almasarvala, of the House of Felarsamas, is a vapid figurehead, a remnant of a once-important political dynasty that, for reasons no one can properly explain, still lingers as titular monarch over this realm.”

I could tell Aeratas held a certain animosity for the Alkan.  “He’s an idiot, powerless, and pretentious.  Worse, he’s a horrible boor with none of the redeeming virtues of his sires.  Most of them were at least aware of the current political situation, even if they didn’t participate.  Almasarvala sits in his ancient palace in his idyllic glade, suffering the delusion he commands any but his immediate servants.”

“It was his ancestors who built Castabriel – the original Alkan city, not the humani shantytown that sits there, now.  And they who bungled their rule so badly that they were forced to turn all actual decisions over to the Council, about three thousand years ago.  Since then they have been a royal pain in the council’s arse,” Lilastien supplied.  She so enjoyed gossip, I was noticing.

“The closest he comes to power is whatever he can wheedle out of his niece, Micrethiel . . . who doesn’t hold him in as high esteem as I,” Aeratas sniffed, wryly.  “She doesn’t forgive him or his father for their original support of the human settlement.  Yet he will do as he is bid,” he added, sternly.  “If the Council requests his presence in Sevendor, he shall be there.”

“Thank you,” I nodded, although inside I started to panic about adding yet-another unstable element to an already chaotic and potentially disastrous occasion.  “I’m certain His Grace will appreciate the honor of the Prince’s attendance.”

“It is a small price to pay,” the Alkan lord insisted, “to gather the strength to strike back against the Abominations.”

“Then I bear good news,” I smiled.  “I’m planning a little raid, soon, against the forces of the Enemy.  And no mere strike against an outpost.  I want to raid the cursed fortress of Olum Seheri.”

The mention of his former home’s dark new name was more than enough to capture Lord Aeratas’ interest.

“You have my attention, Spellmonger,” the Alkan lord said, leaning closer.  “Tell me more . . .”

I wasn’t trying to hurry the long-overdue meeting between me and Lord Aeratas, but once we established the problem and Falawen committed to a course of action, the rest of the evening was mere pleasantries.  Pleasantries I grew impatient with.

But even ancient Alkan lords get tired, and eventually Aeratas excused himself and his daughter, informing us he planned to enjoy the stars from the rise near the center of the compound.  I was thankful to see him go.  Not because I disliked the man, but because I had important matters to discuss with Lilastien.

“We had a bit of an issue with our plan to secure a gemstone of sufficient complexity to carry the Handmaiden,” I told her, as she led me upstairs to a quiet part of the Tower.  “Apparently, the Snowflake doesn’t like it when you try to stuff it into a hoxter pocket.  I thought the whole mountain would collapse, for a minute.”

“Now why would you want to do something like that?” she demanded, as she led me to Alya’s quarters.

“To convince the Snowflake not to act quite so much as a molopor,” I answered.  “At least, that was the theory.  If we could remove it from this reality, even for a moment, then perhaps we could strike the centerpoint from it before it noticed.  Only . . . it noticed.”

She grunted.  “You’re lucky you weren’t all killed!  Molopors are nothing to approach lightly.  You are as arrogant and incautious as your sires!” she chided.

“Is that so terrible?” I asked, not expecting an answer.  “We only have a few score decades on this world, at best.  Caution and humility are for the long-lived.”

She stopped, her human form turning on her slippered feet.  “Not at all.  It’s one of your species’ more endearing qualities.  It allows you to progress far faster than my own race ever did.  It also tends to start wars, blow things up, and sink perfectly good islands, if you aren’t careful.”

“So noted,” I shrugged.

“Why would you have to put the thing inside a hoxter pocket in the first place?” she added, continuing down the corridor.  “That seems rash.  It seems to me that if you merely want to separate the centerpoint, you just need to affect that section accordingly, using some thaumaturgical medium to alter its inherent vibration enough to create an imbalance in the field.  If the imbalance is great enough,” she reasoned, “then the Snowflake, itself, will push the centerpoint away . . . given enough encouragement.”

It was my turn to stop.  “You know,” I said, slowly, considering the implications of her suggestions.  “That just might work.  Or at least be a solid enough premise on which to base a more thorough approach.  Let me think on it.”

“You do that,” she said, as she brought me to the door of Alya’s chamber.

She was sleeping, inside, one of the two nuns who I paid to attend her sitting in a chair near her bedside.  She looked peaceful, almost childlike, under the blankets.  The nun realized who I was and stood up immediately.

“Shhh!” I said, putting my finger to my lip.  “I just wanted to check on her, while I was here,” I explained in a whisper.  “How does she fare?”

“She eats most heartily, Magelord,” the young novice assured me with a continuous nod.  “She seems in good spirits, but she’s easily confused and can get frightened.”

“But her health is good?  Her physical health?”

“Oh, aye, Magelord,” she nodded.  “The Elves take wondrous care of her.  Of all of us.”

I nodded absently and stroked Alya’s face gently.  I couldn’t help it.  Here, asleep, she looked almost the same as my wife did before I took her to Greenflower.  I allowed myself a few tortured, aching moments of quiet self-pity and regret before I dried my eyes and left her to sleep in peace.

“Was that really healthy?” Lilastien accused.

“I needed it,” I admitted.  “I needed to remind myself why I was going through all of this.  For whom I was going through all of this.”

“Your children aren’t your inspiration?” she asked, curious.

“It would likely be best for my children if I took the counsel of locking her away in an abbey somewhere, having my marriage annulled, and finding them a fresh mother.  They are young enough so that they would recover, it is said.

“But I’m not here for them,” I declared, as we headed back to the main hall.  “I am here for her.  She sacrificed her mind, her life for me, to avenge a crime done to me.  Out of love, alone.   I cannot rest until I have done everything I can to restore her.”

“You poor, pathetic, ephemeral creatures!” Lilastien sighed, sounding amused.  “You live so briefly, yet love so intently.  No wonder you breed so prolifically,” she added.  “But such desperate lives lead to such amazing accomplishments.  And such profound commitments.”

“If I had to give up everything I’ve gotten since I met her to be with her – the real her – again,” I answered, after some thought, “I would not hesitate.  Nor ever regret the cost.”

“I don’t doubt it,” she said, a small smile on her face.  “Nor do I doubt that you will find a way.  You are damned determined, once you have committed yourself.”

“How do you feel Aeratas took the news of the impending raid?” I asked, as we left the Tower and entered the cool late winter night.  Spring was just around the corner, no more than a few more weeks away.  The snow here had already faded to frozen banks in the shadowed lee of ruins and hills.  It crunched under my boot as we walked.

“He was eager,” Lilastien said, her manner changing.  “Passing eager.  I’ll be honest: seeing him there at the table tonight, in his larger form . . . he reminded me of the great warriors of old.  Oh, not that I remember them,” she demurred.  “I’m old, I’m not ancient.  But Aeratas has a regal bearing and a single-mindedness that harkens back to our own ancient warrior princes.”

“He’s going to need that kind of fortitude, to assail Olum Seheri,” I observed.  “Hopefully rage and revenge will be enough to carry him through.  And I’m counting on his folk’s knowledge of the geography of the place to help get us in and out.  That’s going to be essential.”

“Aeratas is a proud Alkan, and stubborn.  But he will do whatever it takes to reconquer his stolen city.  He’s helpful in another way, too,” she added.  “He’s one of the few who had access to the Ghost Rock, under the city.  He has plumbed the depths within hundreds of times.  No one knows the intricacies of the technique better.”

“I was wondering how I was going to handle that,” I sighed.  “Once we get in, assuming we get all the way down to the Ghost Rock, we’re not going to have a lot of time before Korbal responds in force.  Not the ideal time for necromantic experimentation.”

“The technique itself is not complicated.  But Aeratas built an elaborate security system around its access to restrict the foolish from dabbling with those potent forces.  He’s one of the few who can penetrate it.”

“Then I’ll need his assistance transferring the enneagram to the stone . . . assuming I can secure that.”  I yawned, unexpectedly.

“You’re tired,” Lilastien noted.  “Go home and get some rest.  I think we’ve convinced our reluctant maiden to consider her commitment, and Aeratas is pleased with that.  You even got him to get our slothful prince off his regal butt and make an appearance.  You’ve done a good night’s work, here, Minalan.”

“I do wonder how an actual marriage between the two will work.  Can she put aside her preconceptions and prejudices enough to appreciate Ryff?  And can he go beyond his romantic notions of the Alka Alon to understand Falawen’s more-sophisticated perspective?  It shall be interesting to watch.”

“Oh, she’ll overcome her misgivings,” Lilastien assured me.  “There weren’t very many actual marriages between species, back in Perwyn.  Just a lot of curious naughtiness.  But the few that did occur weren’t any more or less tumultuous than either Alkan or human marriages.  Apart from the scandal in Alkan circles, they weren’t even particularly remarkable.”

“My people didn’t object?” I asked, surprised.

“Your ancestors were quite open-minded.  Refreshingly so.  There was never any serious objection to such unions on Perwyn.  All part of the great colonial experiment.  You didn’t get pig-headed and barbaric until after you sank the place.

“By then, interspecies mating was a rarity.  My people withdrew from yours and let you sink into ignorant squalor.  And ignorant squalor just isn’t particularly attractive.  I think that is as much a factor in her reluctance as anything else.”

“It should be an interesting experiment,” I agreed.  Then I yawned again.  “I must get some sleep.  The Prince will be there in a week, and I have a lot of ignorant squalor yet to contend with.”

Chapter Nine

The Missing Mountain

The morning after visiting the Tower of Refuge, I steeled myself for the inevitable meeting with the Ducal Envoy as I plowed my way through a potato and ham casserole at the High Table in the Great Hall.  I’d risen late – magelord’s prerogative – and most of the hall was empty at the end of breakfast, so I didn’t see many people before my page approached me, a look of fear and wonder in his eyes.

“Good morning, Teres.  Messages, today?”

“Magelord,” he began.  “I have to know . . . what did you do with it?”

“What did I do with what?” I asked, confused.

“Rudy says it wasn’t you, but you’re the Spellmonger, aren’t you?  So it has to be you.  No one else could do that.”

“Do what?” I asked, growing frustrated.

“I don’t care what Rudy says,” he said, referring to Ruderal, my young apprentice.  The two boys were friends, I knew.  “I know you could do it, if you wanted to.  But where did it go?  That’s what I want to know!”

I took a deep breath.  “What I want to know is what you are talking about.”

He looked at me as if I’d played a joke on him.  Or was testing him.  I was just confused as hell.  “The mountain?”

“What mountain?” I asked, my sense of anxiety growing.

“The one that isn’t there anymore?” he said, as if reminding me of something obvious.

“Show me!” I demanded, at once, my eyes growing wide.

The lad led me outside into the inner bailey, and walked with me to the outer wall, near the Court Wizard’s tower.  The moment I mounted the rise before the wall, my eye was drawn instantly to the deeply disturbing vision.

When you are used to something being there and it isn’t, your mind gets bruised, I’ve decided.  But there was no denying the truth of what my eyes were seeing.

I just couldn’t believe it.  One of my mountains was missing.

To say it was disconcerting is the greatest of understatements.  Mountains tend to be fairly permanent fixtures on the horizon, and walking outside to the sight of one of them not there anymore disturbed me at a fundamental level.

The entire peak was gone, a slice of the ridge taken neatly away from its fellows like a slice of cake.  I could see the smooth white cliffs of the peak on the other side.  The depression where the mountain had once lay was at least eighty feet below the surface.  From where I was standing I could just see across the void and into the land beyond.  The resulting gap was almost a quarter mile wide.  I could see the fertile lands of my vassal domain, Hosendor, through the new gap.

And there was something glittering in the afternoon sunshine at the bottom of the new gigantic white pit.

“Summon my wizards,” I ordered my page, my voice hoarse and shaking.  “I have need of them.”

“Which ones, Magelord?” the boy asked.  He was starting to realize that I wasn’t responsible for the missing mountain.

“All of them,” I said, in a near whisper, as my mind tried to accommodate the novelty of this new view.  “I’m going to need them all!”

Sire Cei looked out across the vast smooth expanse of exposed bedrock below his head shaking in disbelief.

“Minalan,” he said, hoarsely, not using a title.  That’s how shaken he was.  “What did you do?”

“I . . . sold some snowstone,” I managed, my eyes trying to encompass the volume of stone the Sea Folk had purchased.

“So it appears,” Zagor nodded.  “I do hope you received payment,” he said.  Non-payment was a frequent complaint of spellmongers.

“Let’s go find out,” Banamor said, nodding toward the center of the . . . quarry, where there seemed to be some building or other.  “Magesight says that is a big pile of glittery . . . something.”

“It could be anything,”

“It’s not dog shit.  Dog shit doesn’t glitter,” Banamor grunted.

“It could be dangerous,” Zagor said.

“Just getting down there will be dangerous,” Olmeg pointed out.  “Minalan, you realize what will happen in a few months, once we hit the rainy season, don’t you?”

“I get a new, really large moat,” I sighed.  “So someone fetch a hundred feet of rope.  Let’s go see what a mountain of snowstone is worth, these days.”

As it turned out, quite a lot.

I didn’t want to wait around for rope or the inevitably difficult climb down to the floor.  That wasn’t greed or ambition speaking, or even an unquenchable quest for the unknown.  In fact, I was panicking mightily about what had to have been a massive miscalculation.

When the Vundel’s seamage emissary offered to buy that much snowstone, I figured that it would be my people who harvested and delivered it over a period of years.  It had seemed an outstanding deal, when I’d negotiated it.

But apparently the Sea Folk had other ideas.  As soon as the agreement was concluded, they took delivery on the spot.  Magically.

I had to get down to the center of the quarry first, and see if what I’d lost was worth what I’d gained.

We lowered a rope down to the smooth floor of the trench and one by one we climbed down.  Master Loiko was already detailing soldiers to patrol the edge of the gap and keep back the curious and alarmed people of Sevendor.  Sire Cei was assuring everyone that the Spellmonger was dealing with the matter.  That seemed to soothe everyone on the lip of the cliff.

Except for me.  I was going mad inside my head.

There was nothing moving down there, no hidden enemies, no obvious traps.  Just two piles of . . . stuff.

The larger was a pyramid, the smaller a pile.  When I slid to the floor of the pure white trench, the pyramid demanded my inspection first.  It towered into the air almost three stories above me, a perfect tetrahedron . . . of spheres.

As I got closer I realized that the entire structure was made of spheres, each the size of a child’s head.

The bottom four levels were solid gold.

I stumbled and fell to my knees with the realization.  The two levels above that were silver, and beyond that they changed color and texture with frequency as they diminished with each level.  The top . . . I could not even see the top sphere, from this angle.

Just the four levels of gold, however – assuming that the levels were flat sheets, solid throughout – represented more gold, I was certain, than currently existed in the Kingdom.

I was quite literally the richest human being . . . anywhere.

While the magnitude of my fortune was still keeping my mouth moving with no sound coming out of it, the other wizards began to arrive.  The scene that followed was a wild chorus of oaths and disbelief.  Even quiet Olmeg was moved to profanity.  Banamor . . . I don’t think I’ll record his reaction.  There weren’t a lot of words involved, and honestly, I’m not sure the words exist to describe it.

“Sir Festaran,” I said, quietly.  “How much?  Just the gold, to start.”

I suppose it was unfair of me to throw the boy in the deep part of the river, but I needed answers, fast.  I almost hoped those spheres were mere hollow shells.  Past a certain point great wealth is as much of a curse as great poverty.

There was no hollow sound when Sire Cei rapped the lowest sphere with his knuckles and pronounced it solid.  Solid gold.

Festaran got a far-away look in his eye, and for a moment I thought I’d broken the boy.  But a few harried moments later, while Dara looked on, concerned, he returned an answer.

“Five hundred twenty-four ounces,” he finally sighed.  “For each sphere.  Approximately eighty-one hundred spheres on the first level alone.  Which makes the first level worth . . . over four million ounces of gold.  Over three million on the second.”

“Each of those spheres is worth enough to purchase a barony,” Banamor realized, his eyes glazed over.

“Do you want a barony?” Olmeg asked, surprised.

“Hells, no!” Banamor spat.  “I work for a living.  I just provided some context for value.”

“That means you could buy every barony in the Five Duchies, then,” Master Loiko offered.

“This . . . this is more gold than anyone should have,” I said, shaking my head.

“Not to mention the silver.  And what are all of those . . . spheres in the upper level?”

“A fortune of fortunes,” Banamor nodded.  “More than any man could spend in a hundred lifetimes.  Worth enough gold to permanently destabilize the economy.”

“What’s this, over here?” asked Ruderal, his voice filled with excitement and boyish curiosity.  He was the only one not obsessed with the unimaginable fortune I’d just acquired.   He’d wandered past the pyramid and over to a pile of debris on the other side.  I joined him, curious what else the Vundel emissary had done to my land.

It proved to be a mound of crystals, a pile as wide as a house and as tall as my waist at its peak.  I recalled the seamage (who Ruderal didn’t want me to pursue, for reasons he would not explain) agreeing that any crystals found during excavation shall be the property of the Spellmonger.  The Vundel had adhered to the letter of the agreement.  All of the hidden vesicles of crystals within my missing mountain were no doubt now piled up here.  While that spared me years – perhaps lifetimes – of prospecting, it presented me with a far more pressing problem.

Indeed, this entire episode was a far more pressing problem.  The implications of what had happened were echoing in my mind.  Not merely the reaction of my neighbors, and my overlords, to this sudden change in geography, but the importance of what happened in interspecies politics.

I struggled to breathe.  “Let’s start getting all of this cleaned up,” I said, hoarsely.  “As quickly and as efficiently as possible.  I’ll speak to the Karshak about helping,” I added, looking at the spheres of gold and silver that were far too heavy for a man to lug.  Even with magic there would be some lugging to do.  Spheres are not the most efficient shapes to deal with, on dry land.  “Master Loiko, if you will cast some obscuring spells, and Sir Festaran, if you could go fetch some supply rods from the castle, I think we can probably get this cleaned up before anyone notices.  And no one breathes a word of this to anyone – I need your assurances, as gentlemen of Sevendor.”

I looked around and made certain to receive a verbal assent from each of them – an attention that I hoped proved a measure of how serious I took this oath.  I hope it worked.

The rest of the day was spent in a state of continuous crisis.  Troops screened the people back from the site while we worked, far enough back so that they could not see our industry . . . but there was no disguising the sudden change in the skyline.  You could peer through the gap clear into Hosendor, now, like a magnificent tapestry.  Crowds assembled beyond the barricades to do just that . . . and speculate on what in nine hells the Spellmonger had done now.

I was asking that same question myself.

“Well, this was an unmitigated disaster,” Onranion remarked as he poured wine for us all in my study that evening.  The treasure was now entombed deep within the recesses of my mountain castle, guarded by the Karshak.  The crystals were stored in a chamber carved near to the Snowflake’s chamber, where it was hoped they wouldn’t do anything . . . unnatural.  Once we got organized the work flowed smoothly, and the last of the valuable debris in the giant depression was removed by dusk.

That’s when the impromptu council erupted.  I didn’t call it, it just sort of happened.  People started showing up in my study and started pouring wine.

“It also made Minalan the richest man in the world,” grumbled Banamor.

“Jealous?” asked Sister Bemia, the castle chaplain.  She’d been brought in to help soothe the jittery nerves of the population.

“It does take me out of the running,” Banamor grinned.  He mostly had a good-natured approach to his avarice.  After a lifetime of hard wandering, he enjoyed being a rich man.  He didn’t need to be the richest.

“Min, why in the name of all the gods did you take the Sea Folk’s bargain?” asked Master Olmeg, shaking his head.

“They are not to be refused,” Zagor said, shaking his head.  “Even the Fair Ones fear them, and rightly so.”

“Maybe if you were in a coastal fief,” snorted Banamor.  “But we’re hundreds of miles from a seaport.”

“The Sea Folk’s reach can extend well beyond the coasts,” I explained.  “They made a polite request, at market prices.  I had thought that it would be a gradual process, using human labor and industry.  A long-term project, not a market day purchase.  But had I refused, the next offer was not likely to be as generous,” I sighed.

“That I cannot argue,” Onranion said, sympathetically.  “And if you want to get technical, they dramatically overpaid for it.  But what the Vundel want, the Vundel get.  It was a disaster,” he repeated, “but unavoidable.”

“How in three hells did they even know about it?” asked Sister Bemia.

“Downstream,” Olmeg said, as he lit his long pipe.  “The Ketta empties into the Bontal, and thence to the sea.  The Sea Folk could taste the change in the outflow into the Shallow Sea, I expect.”

“You are,” I agreed.  “That’s what the seamage told me.”

“I’m curious as to what they want with it,” Banamor said.  “And if they want more.”

“They just bought about ten percent of my unique inventory,” I complained.  “I don’t think I could afford to sell them more.  I’ll run out of mountains, eventually.

“But let’s quit the speculation, as entertaining as it is, and focus on the immediate crisis.”

“I don’t see a crisis,” Banamor declared.  “I see a two-day journey to Hosendor, Hosly and Kest suddenly cut to a half-day.  That’s an opportunity.”

“Only if you can get across that gap, Lord Mayor,” Sire Cei pointed out.  “That implies a bridge to be built.  That gully will quickly fill, come the next rainy season.  It does provide a spectacular defense, however,” he added, his military mind engaged.  “Perhaps a wall built on the far side, with a tower protecting the bridge across it . . .”

“Yes, it will be a wonderful moat,” I dismissed, irritated.  “And, by all means, let us make building a bridge and fortifying it a priority.  Because in case it hasn’t escaped your attention, suddenly missing a mountain is going to attract a lot of other people’s attention.  Particularly in the wake of the Magewar.  If I’m the kind of mage who can lightly make mountains disappear, well, that makes folks nervous.”

Some of the potentially nervous folks were already here.  I’d had to send apologies to the Ducal Envoys, while I dealt with the day’s crisis.  I explained I was detained by construction matters.  It wasn’t really a lie.

“You mean, the court?” Sire Cei asked.

“I mean Prince Tavard, in particular,” I nodded.  “He’s already not an admirer of mine.  He’s feeling complacent and powerful, with his little sister locked away.  While this isn’t a direct threat to his rule, he’s going to feel compelled to do something if it becomes a problem.  We have to prepare for that.  Any suggestions?” I asked, a bit desperately.

We did a surprisingly good job hammering together a strategy that evening.  The Karshak would immediately devote their resources to building a bridge and wall, while sketching up plans for a defensive emplacement to guard the new moat.  It could be made passable by wagon within weeks, they assured me.  The hard defenses would take much longer, but with Master Aeratas’ Tera Alon encamped just to the northeast of the gap, there was little danger in surprise attack.

That only left a thousand other majorly important details unaccounted for.

What would I do with that much gold, for instance?  Or that much magical coral?  What were those other spheres made from?  And what would I do with that many unique crystals, touched by snowstone and bearing the possibility of new potencies?

It was enough to inspire a man to drink, which is just what I did that night.  Two small bottles of local spirits.  Ruderal finally poured me into the cot in my workshop, determining I was too far gone by that late hour to make it across the yard to my hall.  The next morning, hung over and feeling wretched, the magnitude of my problems was still there.

It was enough to make a man doubt the efficiency of drink.

The next morning, I made meeting with the Ducal Envoy a top priority, inviting Sire Dasuos and his aid, Lord Ustal, at my personal hall, just outside of the castle.  Putting him off even a day was problematic.  But I figured an excellent breakfast on the balcony of my hall, overlooking my beautiful little vale, would be a good place to make up for the slight.

I wore a new outfit for the occasion, a long, knee-length tunic with wide sleeves in Sevendor Green, with a surcoat resembling the style the Riverlords favored.  Only I had the collar cut in Remeran fashion, in a deep V, revealing the amulet in which I carried my loaner witchstone.  There was an enchantment on the exterior that emitted a pale green glow, but that was merely for effect.

“Sire Dasuos!  Wonderful to see you again!” I called to him as my valet, Staksid, let him up from the door.  The young knight was dressed in a fine cotton surcoat over his expensive mail.  He wore an irritated expression on his clean-shaven face, one mirrored by the smaller man behind him.

“Spellmonger!” he called, loudly, as he mounted the stairs.  Indeed, Sire Dasuos said just about everything loudly.  It was easily his most distinguishable characteristic. “What is the meaning of keeping us waiting an entire day after our arrival?”

“My apologies, my lord,” I said, soothingly.  “I had urgent business to attend to – wizard business,” I added, without further elaboration.  Hiding the sudden disappearance of a mountain just outside your door counts as “wizard business”.  “I trust your journey was pleasant?”

“Enough,” he conceded.  “And I cannot believe that the same vagabond mage who came to Wilderhall in borrowed clothes five years ago has produced all of this,” he added, grudgingly.  “Truly, I underestimated you.”

“You would be neither the first nor the last, let us hope,” I said, as I ushered them to their chairs.  Two Tal Alon maids, Sunflower and Tulip, served ale and food, respectively.  Their small hands had been meticulously manicured, and the hair on their hands and wrists had been covered by a cloth sleeve.  They even wore the Tal Alon equivalent of wimples, over their sturdy dresses.

“The Prince arrives in a mere six days,” Sire Dasuos said, nearly shouting his emotions across the table.  “He and his family expect to be accommodated as befits their station,” he said, in a warning tone.

“The resources of Sevendor are at your disposal,” I smiled.  “How many in the Ducal Party?”

“Two hundred and six,” answered Lord Ustal, the little lord who apparently dealt with any issues that didn’t require shouting, as he recited a list from memory.  “That is, Their Highnesses and the Heir, their immediate household of twenty-four, twelve gentlemen of the court, twenty-two attendants and servants for said gentlemen, nine ladies of the court and fifteen of their servants, three ministers, five clerks, two lawbrothers, the Ducal chaplain and his assistant, the chamberlain and his staff of four, the Prince’s personal physician, his barber, an almoner, and a hundred sergeants-at-arms of the Royal Guard,” he finished, proudly.

He spoke the words almost as a challenge . . . and for most other barons, it might be.

“Well, I will be happy to make this hall available for His Highnesses’ use,” I began in return, “which should accommodate most of his household, if they’re cozy.  His gentlemen and ladies of the court shall have the use of the Baker’s Hall, where my family usually lives, a fine and well-appointed home.  There are adequate servants’ quarters for both, attached.

“The ministers, clerks, clergy, and other professionals shall be quartered in Southridge Hold,” I said, pointing across the wall toward my brother-in-law’s estate.  He’d invested heavily in hostels to take advantage of the frequent visitors to Sevendor, and he had ample capacity to house both the Ducal party and my displaced kin.

Moving out of their hall temporarily didn’t seem to bother my parents (it bothered my sisters, but then most everything bothered my sisters).  Come spring, they would return to Talry-on-Burine where my father would re-open his bakery.  They were already preparing for the move, and this gave Mama an excellent opportunity to sort out their belongings and pack some things away.

“As for the Royal Guard, they will be our guests at Brestal Tower, just a few miles away,” I continued.  “We have already prepared accommodations for them.  The keep is small, but there are two new halls within the bailey which should house your officers grandly.  And the beer on that side of the vale is just as good, but a lot cheaper,” I added.

“Why . . . that’s . . . I . . .” stammered Lord Ustal, who apparently wasn’t used to having his questions answered quite so easily.

“And what about provision?” demanded Sire Dasuos.

“We have ample hay, oats, and straw for your party’s beasts,” I answered, smoothly, “and we can ensure we have a gracious plenty to feed our guests in style.  Sufficient stocks of ale, wine, mead and spirits have been laid in, and some of our finest cooks will be competing to dazzle the tongues of the court.”

The two men looked at each other, and seemed to have a silent conversation.  “What about tapers?” asked Sire Dasuos, just a little less loudly than before.  I laughed.

“My lords, this is a mageland.  We have but one chandler, and he’s near starving.  Folk in Sevendor use magelights, usually.  In this hall, we have nothing but,” I pointed out.

“And firewood?” Lord Ustal asked, hoping to trip me up.

“All you need,” I assured him.  “Which won’t be much.  This hall, and most other halls in this land, are warmed by heatstones, at need.  Oh, we still use fire for cooking, but rarely for heating.  It really cuts down on the soot in the air during the winter,” I observed, pointing to the relatively clear skies over the town in the distance.

Clearly, the two men weren’t used to being accommodated so easily.  I could understand why.  Usually, when a high noble toured his lands and guested with his vassals, part of the point of the exercise was to impress the rural gentry with how unsophisticated and rude they were, compared to their betters.  Having two hundred extra mouths to feed, alone, could bleed a vassal of funds to the point of penury.  Some counts and dukes even traveled with a moneylender, usually from some pet temple, who could arrange loans for the poor host who was forced to pay for it all by custom.

An element in the tradition was to also make a lot of demands on the host and keep him hopping trying to fill them.  It was supposed to keep him humble in the face of his superiors.  There were some great old myths about the lengths to which a host would go to feast his liege, most of which ended in comic horror when he failed.

I didn’t plan to fail.

“His Highness will, of course, as is tradition, hold a joint court with you while he is here, lending his magnificence to your proceedings.  He is also fond of entertainments . . .”

“Sire Cei is holding a tournament,” I informed him, “local champions, only, and offering a fat prize.  We have mock battles of warmagi planned, a horse race, and numerous musicians, jongleurs, and poets in town for the festival.  And, of course, an exhibition of the arcane illuminations from some of our most talented enchanters.  The Enchanters Guild has invited the court to a special fete in their hall, and the Temple of Briga is hosting a ball in Her Highness’ honor.  Oh, and then there is the wedding,” I added casually, as the two men’s eyes glazed over.

“The wedding?” Sire Dasuos asked, confused.

“One of my new vassals is getting married . . . to Lady Falawen, a noblewoman of the Alka Alon.  They shall be wed in front of the Everfire, on Briga’s Day.”

“The . . . Alka Alon?” Lord Ustal asked, confused.  “Those little people?”

“When they wish to appear so,” I answered.  “But Lady Falawen is a maiden of great beauty and uncommon intelligence, even for an Alka Alon.  She’s one of the three Emissaries from their people to ours, in token of our alliance.”

“Is it truly proper to have such an . . . unseemly occasion for the Prince to witness?” asked Sire Dasuos.

“There is nothing unseemly about Trygg’s holy sacrament, my lords,” I said, coolly.  “The Alka Alon are our allies.  This is a valuable symbol of that alliance.”

“But . . . she’s not even human!” Sire Dasuos complained.

“A fact in which she takes a certain amount of pride.  As does her father, Lord Aeratas, who will be in attendance with his men,” I added.  “I trust you would not be so foolish as to imperil both our alliance and your own life by saying such . . . ill-considered things in his earshot.  Lord Aeratas is not known for his forgiving nature.  And his love of humanity is tepid, at best, compared to his daughter’s.”

That made both men go pale.  “We shall practice discretion, then,” Sire Dasuos said, in an almost normal tone of voice.

“Yes, that would be best,” I agreed, riding.  “Now that all the details have been dealt with, gentlemen, please enjoy the hospitality of Sevendor until His Highness arrives.”

Chapter Ten

The Mewstower

Now that I had the Ducal party taken care of, I had to make additional arrangements for the other important nobles who would be in attendance.  After I dismissed Sire Dasuos and Lord Ustal I had my horse saddled for a quick trip over to the Westwood.  Baron Arathanial of Sendaria and his party would be housed as guests in the Gatehouse.  I was hoping that the new Baron of Taravanal, Arathanial’s oldest son, Arlastan, could house his party at the Mewstower.  That meant I had to go speak to Dara.

I could have simply spoken to her mind-to-mind, as my apprentice, but this wasn’t, technically speaking, an arcane matter.  It was a political one.  Dara was a fellow noble, and when a liege imposed on a vassal it was traditional to do so in person, or by messenger.  I figured it was an excellent excuse for a lovely late winter ride through the Westwood, one of my favorite parts of Sevendor.

In many ways, it was the estate which had changed the least since our arrival.  The outer forest we’d harvested when we first came here now had a strong growth of a number of varieties of weirwood saplings, one of Olmeg the Green’s pet projects.  It was hedged with long rows of shrubs the herbomancer thought would do well, including some kirsieth bushes.

But apart from that, the road to the Westwood looked much the same as it had when we came here.  Except it was white.

The young man at the wide rope bridge that spanned the chasm between the Westwood and the rest of the vale recognized me and waved me through automatically.  The new horse was still nervous on the bridge, but he was getting used to it.  I waved to the work parties hanging out laundry in the courtyard of Westwood Hall before I took the newly-made road to the newly-built keep.

Technically speaking, the Mewstower wasn’t a fortress, it was a mews.  But when your falconer raises birds with forty-foot wingspans, no normal mews would do.  The tower was built on a high shoulder of bare rock extending from the southeast spur of Rundeval, behind my castle.  The road took me up a steeply sloping path around the north side of the spur, past the kennels, to the gatehouse.

When I’d given the Karshak the commission to build the place I let Dara direct the design, within reason.  Thankfully, she had more good taste and good sense than most nobles with a nearly unlimited budget.

The rounded archway of the gatehouse bore a large stylized hawk, her device, with wings stretching down both sides, mage-carved into the rock by Karshak masons.  I knew the eyes were enchanted to glow in the darkness, but in daylight they just stared intently ahead at any who approached.

Though it wasn’t a fortress, the gatehouse of the tower was crenelated, a second story housing the castellan of the keep and his family, her Chief Falconer, Master Arcor.  A couple of lads with bows sitting behind those merlons would make it difficult for anyone coming up the road.

The courtyard was long and narrow.  It separated the gatehouse by a hundred feet, protected by a wall that enclosed the space against the side of the spur.  Sturdy wooden sheds lined the wall, providing the Mewstower with everything a master falconer might need to pursue his craft.  Leather sheds, a hatchery, mews, a coldhouse for storing lures and feed, even a smithy.  The stables were small, as there were few beasts on this side of the chasm.

The Sky Rider on duty came out to take my horse.  Just as I’d given the Karshak free reign with the design of the Mewstower, I’d given Dara the freedom to design her corps of giant hawk riders as she saw fit.  She’d adopted a quasi-military organization, similar to a mercenary cavalry regiment.

Each Sky Rider was commissioned into the corps with due ceremony, but only after a grueling training period that included, I was surprised to learn, both the specialized sky combat the corps used but also traditional hand-to-hand and unarmed combat.  As part of their rotation, each Sky Rider had to serve a shift at other duties, just as any other military officer did.

Today it was Jagan, a delicate-boned lad not much taller than a Tal.  Dara had found him on a farmstead in Hosly when she was visiting Sir Festaran’s home.  His limp blonde hair lay flat on his angular head.  His malnourished cheekbones were sharp enough to cut cheese with.  He looked a lot better fed now than when I’d first met him two years before.

He wore the distinctive leather jack the Sky Riders had adopted as theirs, with Dara’s hawk device on his shoulder.  There was a curved dagger, patterned after his mistress’ mageblade, Talon, on his broad flyer’s belt.  A sash denoted his temporary duty as officer-of-the-day.

“Baron Minalan!” he greeted me in a high tenor voice as he came out of the hall and grabbed the bridle.  “What brings you here?”

“I need to speak with the Hawklady,” I said, looking up at the tower above.  The sky beyond was overcast and gray.  “Is she in?”

“She is,” he agreed, as I dismounted.  “She’s in a mood, though,” he confided.

“Why?  Is something amiss with Frightful?”

“Nay, she’s nesting on her eggs like a queen,” the rustic Sky Rider informed me.  “No, it was that wizard, Gareth.  He was here this morning,” he said, shaking his head.  There was a troubled look in his eye.

“What happened?” I demanded, quietly.

Jagan looked up at the tower.  “Isn’t my place to say.  But I know he went in looking determined, and came out with a wrathful expression, Baron,” he said, barely above a whisper.  “It’s common knowledge that he’s set his cap for the lady,” he said.  “But . . . well, if he was paying court, it didn’t go well,” he confided.  “And it put the lady in a state.”

“Good to know, Jagan,” I nodded, handing him the reigns.  “I’ll show myself up.”

The Mewstower is entered through a second gatehouse that was built against the side of the spur, and the first floor of the place was split into storage rooms and the kitchen, closer to the mountain, and a grand hall, overlooking Westwood Hall.  It was spacious, and two doors in the western wall, flanking the fireplace, led out to the point of the spur, which the Karshak had carved into a beautiful patio.

I crossed the hall to gain the second staircase, which led through a second floor only slightly smaller than the first, where the eastern side of the keep abutted against the mountain.  I knew that Master Guri had plans to cut a tunnel between the Mewstower and my new mountain fortress, eventually, but for now the place was largely deserted.

The third and fourth floors were in the Tower, proper.  The round keep was eighty feet in diameter, at the base, but gently sloped inward as it rose.  Each level had twenty-foot high ceilings and broad arched windows, a good indoor space for training a bird.  The individual Sky Riders had their quarters, here, each assigned to a small, narrow chamber.  A permanent magelight hung in the center of the high ceiling.  It provided excellent lighting in the shaded hall.

Dara’s personal chambers were above that, on the next level.  Her bedchamber and office were on the west side, with windows and a balcony looking out over the hall in which she was born.  On the mountain-facing side were the chambers for her other two wing leaders.  The high central chamber was a common room, with a central fireplace and another magelight overlooking a triangle-shaped table and several chairs and couches.

Dara wasn’t in either place.  I climbed the last flight of spiral stairs to the Mews, proper, my aging knees complaining at the effort.

The Mews for the giant hawks protruded out from the slender, 40-foot-wide tower by twenty feet in every direction.  A cunning series of counterweighted snowstone arches allowed the structure to give Dara ample room to nest her largest birds.  A dozen more pointed stone arches around the perimeter of the Mews were twenty feet high, and each was crafted into a separate bay.  Two of the arches had been left open, allowing the hawks to take wing on command.

Dara was standing near one giant nest, where her first bird, the Silver Headed Raptor named Frightful, was sitting on two eggs the size of ale kegs.

“Master,” she said, evenly, without turning around.

“How is she faring?” I asked, gesturing to the huge hawk.

“She’s fine,” Dara reported, still not looking at me.  “She’s trying to calm me down.”

“Why do you need calming?”

“It’s personal,” she nearly snapped.  “Is there a reason you walked up all of those stairs?”

“To see the Hawklady of Westwood, and beg a boon from her.”

“Does this have anything to do with the mountain that’s missing?”

“No,” I answered, simply.

“Then it concerns the Prince’s visit,” she said with a heavy sigh.

“Yes, actually.  We’re going to have a lot of important guests.  I’ve put up the Prince and his family at Sevendor Castle, but I was wondering if you would consider lodging Baron Arlastan and his party here at the Mewstower.”

That’s when she looked up, sharply.  She tossed her red curls out of her face and regarded me, her brow furrowed.

“Do you think now is a good time to have a bunch of strangers in the tower?” she demanded.  “Frightful is nesting!  Anything could set her off!”

It didn’t sound like Frightful was the problem.  But I couldn’t mention that, after she’d invoked privacy.  “We can insulate the Mews from noise from the tower with magic,” I proposed.  “And the barony would cover the cost of feeding them.”

“It’s not the money that concerns me,” she said, through clenched teeth.  “Now is just a very delicate time.  Those eggs will hatch, soon.”

“Dara,” I said, patiently, “I understand – I have my own projects that I’ve had to postpone, because of this annoying pilgrimage.”

“Like making the entire mountain glow, and then vanishing another?” she accused.  “You’re screwing around with the Snowflake again, aren’t you?”

“I was,” I admitted.  “But it didn’t work out so well.  We’ll try again after Tavard is safely gone.  It’s part of the spell I’m hoping will fix Alya.”

“I know!” Dara said with a dark sigh.  “That’s all you’ve been focused on for months, now.  Disappearing with Sire Cei over Yule, and leaving me stuck running the Yule Court, was bad enough.  Now you’re back and messing with that . . . that thing!”

“I am,” I agreed.  “But not at the moment.  At the moment, I want to put about sixty Riverlords up in your keep for a few days, and have you host them as befits the Hawklady of Westwood.  After all, Baron Arlastan is an ally, and you will have to deal with him on Sevendor’s behalf frequently, in the coming years.  Best you get to know the man, and allow him to get to know you.  The charming, sparkling you,” I added, wryly.

“And what do I get out of this?” she asked, sullenly.

“You’re the leading cadet noble house of the barony,” I pointed out.  “The opportunity to strengthen ties with an old and prestigious house should be enough.  You know, Baron Arlastan has yet to take a wife—”

“That is not a consideration of mine!” she said, adamantly, her nostrils flaring dangerously.  I backed off.

“Still, being on friendly terms with the man is a good idea.  Give him a tour of the Mews, show him what you’re doing with the Sky Riders and their steeds, and represent your profession and class the best you can.”

“While that does seem a tempting offer, Magelord,” she said, formally, “it is a most inconvenient time . . .”

I sighed.  “How about if I ennoble your father?” I asked.

“What?” she asked, startled.

“Kamen has been a stalwart vassal, and runs a model estate.  Your brother not only served in the defense of Sevendor against the Warbird, and in Gilmora against the gurvani, he has kept the keep at Caolan’s Pass well-staffed and guarded.  He is admired across the vale,” I added, knowing how proud she was of her brother, Kyre, the Wolf of the Westwood.  “The patent would see the title pass from father to son.  Kyre would become Lord Kyre.  And Kamen would be Lord here, as your vassal.”

“Won’t that make holiday feasts more entertaining!” Dara snorted.

But I could tell the offer had value for her.  She’d seen Sevendor invaded by foreign lords, and saw herself and her kin as some of the last vestige of the old domain.  Seeing her father made a peer of the nobility pleased her mightily, no matter what her frowning lips said.  Just another push, I figured, and she’d agree.

“So, what else do you want?” I asked, slyly.  Dara was an excellent apprentice, far better than I deserved.  She had accepted the fame and fortune that fate, the gods, and myself had forced upon her with a tremendous amount of grace.  She hadn’t been raised as a noble, but (with a little help from Sire Cei and Lady Estret) she had risen to the challenge splendidly.

But that also meant that she’d learned the type of exchange of favors that peppered feudal politics.

“I want to establish a second Mews, in Alshar,” she proposed, forcefully.  “My second wing is patrolling there now, and they want to stay for a while.  That would allow me to train a fourth wing, here, when the new hatchlings are ready.  Maybe even a fifth,” she said, doing some calculations in her head.

I sighed.  “Granted.  But they stay under your command.  They are a loan to Anguin, not a gift,” I warned.

“I do hope Baron Arlastan will find his stay here pleasant,” Dara said, finally.

“Thank you,” I nodded.  “I’ll let you get back to your brooding, now.”

“Thank you,” she said, without sarcasm, as she turned back to her giant falcon.

I got the hell out of there.  I have five sisters.  Moody teenage girls scare me.

On the way back from the Westwood I rode into town, enjoying the coolness of the day.  Merchants and early pilgrims were already starting to fill the place, though it was days before Briga’s Day.  Word of the Prince’s visit spread, and there were plenty who wanted to catch a glimpse of the man who ruled them as Duke, and would someday rule as King.

Poor bastards.

I was worried that Sire Dasuos would find some other way to challenge me and my domain before the Prince’s party arrived, but thankfully Sire Cei wisely gave him the job of organizing the Tournament of the Everfire, as the joust in Tavard’s honor was called.  No honorable knight could resist such a task; Sire Cei used Dasuos’ own Spur Fever against him.  He left me alone.

Lord Ustal, on the other hand, began to seriously question the propriety of the wedding of Sire Ryff and Lady Falawen.  He accosted me thrice in the next two days, asking me to reconsider.

I hoped that actually meeting the Tera Alon would mollify him, so I had Onranion escort him up Matten’s Helm to meet a few.  When he returned, instead of being reassured, he was even more adamant.

“Magelord, you cannot allow this to happen!” he insisted, when he tracked me down – ironically, while I was inspecting the special pavilion we’d erected outside of the Temple of Briga to host the event.  It was beautiful – carved wood pillars, painted with orange and red flames, with the Cauldron of Trygg symbol in gilded wood hanging suspended from the roof.  “It is an affront to the gods!”

“Actually, it’s not,” I replied.  “Indeed, the clergy has blessed this union since it was announced.”  A few of the gods had, too – but I didn’t want to tax the man’s imagination too much.

“Such a thing is indecent,” he declared.  “Why, it’s like marrying a beast—”

“I think anyone would be hard pressed to compare the Alka Alon to beasts,” I said, warningly.  “They are our allies.  Why does this disturb you, so, my lord?”

“Baron, Her Highness Princess Armandra is very sensitive to being disturbed,” Ustal argued.  “Since she gave birth to Prince Tavard she is highly excitable.  To expose her to . . . to such a . . . a . . .”

“The wedding is going to happen,” I stated, flatly.  “And Prince Tavard and his wife shall attend.  I shall hear no more word against it.”

Lord Ustal did leave me alone, after that.  But he spent a lot of time trying to appeal to Sire Cei, and then to the priestess of the temple.  He even tried to speak with Sister Bemia, but she was attending to Falawen’s Maiden’s Vigil.

But he didn’t ask about the missing mountain.

I had other issues to attend to.  A wooden bridge was being hastily-built over the gap in the ridge, with crews working day and night to complete at least a single passage across by the holiday.  The bottom of the great white trench was already starting to fill up with wide puddles, as the winter rains drained into the huge reservoir. In another few weeks the water would make traversing the trench impossible.  Hence the bridge.

It was temporary, but it required a lot of timber and it needed to be strong enough to hold up until the stone bridge was built next to it.  Guri was already drawing up plans for a replacement, something tastefully gaudy that would allow wagons to cross from both directions at once.  After that, I had to interview the finalists for the magical entertainments, and then I had to check with my spies.

That is, the warmagi I had hired to keep an eye on who was attempting to slip into Sevendor.  And they had a few prospects to report upon.

My men were both thorough and subtle.  Sevendor attracts top-quality warmagi, and it was considered an honor to take a commission from me . . . and no one wanted to screw up in my service.

They worked together, too, meeting in twos and threes at the Sword and Staff to exchange information and trade surveillance of their subjects, to keep suspicion low.

Their efforts had revealed an agent of Baron Vulric of Fleria, the older brother of Sire Gimbal, who had arrived alone, on foot, and had taken a room in Boval Village.  A day later, two pack merchants arrived and lodged in Sevendor Town, but their story of traveling from Bocaraton didn’t ring true to my agent.  Further inquiry (and some subtle magic) revealed that the two Castali traders were actually from Enultramar.  I authorized a truthtell to reveal which power in the rebel province was behind their presence.

The third agent might have passed undetected, had I not alerted my men to be particularly alert for young women – no matter how charming and flirtatious, kind and wholesome they might seem.

One of my men encountered a young novice of Briga along the main road, between Boval Village and Gurisham, and nearly passed by, unaware.  There were plenty of visiting Brigadine nuns visiting for the holiday, after all.

But something inspired the man to follow her, stalking her to a small inn on the north side of town, the Key and Wheel.  It usually catered to farmers traveling to market, and was correspondingly modest.  But as a priestess, a Brigadine nun should have taken quarters in the Temple.  As busy as it was, there were plenty of cells she could have stayed at for free . . . if she really was a nun.

Another warmage asked the High Priestess of the temple about the clerical pilgrims in town, and the nun did not appear on the list she kept.  Another inquiry revealed that she’d paid for her room in advance, with new-minted Stags.  Scrying her quarters showed a bag filled with poisons and blades, and other instruments of assassination.

Instead of having a truthtell interrogation arranged, I had the lass shadowed by one of the sneakier warmagi, a fellow named Astar.  He specialized in battlefield reconnaissance, but he could work as well in a city.  He took a room in the same inn, pretending to be an out-of-work spellmonger looking for a job.

I was fairly certain our fake nun was an agent of the Family, but that didn’t mean she was necessarily here for me, or anyone else in Sevendor.  The Family is the intelligence service for the kingdom, which implied a lot of possible operations.  If she was here to eliminate a threat to the realm, I didn’t want to interfere.

On the other hand, if she was planning on sticking a dagger in my back, I wanted to be in a position to take action.

I could have confronted Grendine, directly, and learned the truth.  But that would likely reveal more about my own intelligence operation than I was comfortable with.  Besides, I was still pissed at her for abandoning her daughter to the enemy.

I was relieved at learning about the spies, not concerned.  I was getting used to the world of kingdom-level politics, and spies in my domain were now part of that world.  Just about every high noble employs some sort of “keeper of secrets”, of course; but when you’re dealing with rebel counts and overprotective queens, the espionage was at an entirely different level.

The day before word came of the Prince’s arrival at port, my men informed me that the truthtell on the agents from Enultramar revealed that they were sent by the Count of Rhemes, and were most interested in discovering what assistance I was providing for Duke Anguin in his bid to return to the south and claim his lands.

Apparently, it had become known in some quarters that I was supporting the Orphan Duke, behind the scenes, and they were trying to establish the extant of that support.  Was I merely trying to keep him solvent in Vorone, or was I trying to bring him back to the greater part of his realm?

I had my agents fill their ears with information, but the kind I wanted them to hear.  Appearing as a disgruntled castle servant, one of the warmagi pretended to be drunk enough to spill all sorts of unlikely secrets about the Spellmonger, including his desire to keep Anguin in the Wilderlands.

He added some embellishments of his own about my personal habits and predilections, but I didn’t mind.  Some of the wilder ones were intriguing enough to help us track the course of the intelligence, once they returned to rebel territory.

Baron Vulric’s man was much simpler: the baron merely wanted to know what transpired at the Prince’s visit, nothing more.  I ordered him to be left alone.  Vulric hadn’t done me any ill, not even when his brother begged him to raise an army against me.  He had more sense than the Warbird, it was clear.  If he wanted unvarnished intelligence on what was happening in Sevendor, then I’d let him have it.

But the fake nun I felt I had to confront, myself.  I dressed in a plain brown artisan’s tunic and added a traveler’s cap before I walked down to the Key and Wheel around supper time.  I found the young novice in the common room, eating a passable lamb stew and waiting for . . . something.

She didn’t see me come in, but then I was using an unnoticeability spell that discouraged anyone from noticing me.  I let it fall as I slid into the chair across from hers.

“Shouldn’t you be at matins, Flamesister?” I asked.  “Usually the Brigadines don’t eat their dinner until after their evening service.”

My sudden appearance and direct challenge of her guise startled her, but to her credit the young assassin recovered quickly.

“Is that not between my goddess and me?” she asked in return.

“That depends on which goddess . . . the one whose habit you wear, or the one in Castabriel who gave you your orders.  How is Mother, these days?”

Realizing that she was revealed, she in turn revealed me.  Her pretty eyes narrowed under her habit.  “You’re him.  The Spellmonger.”

“Baron Minalan, or just Magelord, if you’d prefer,” I shrugged.  “But yes, that’s me.  So, what business brings one of my sisters-in-law to my domain?”

She looked uncomfortable, but she did not shrink.  “My mission is my own,” she replied, quietly.

“When it involves Sevendor, it becomes my business,” I pointed out.  “Now, you can tell me truthfully what you are doing here, or I can employ all sorts of invasive methods to learn the truth.  Which would you prefer?”

The young nun seemed to find my threat amusing.  “You think you can torture me?  My sisters and I can resist any amount of physical pain.”

“Why do you think I’d limit myself to mere torture?  I have some of the most advanced magi in the world in this town,” I bragged.  “I can have you confessing your darkest secrets in an hour, and thank me for the opportunity afterward.”

She looked disgusted.  “Magic!”

“Yes, magic,” I nodded.  “You come to a magelord’s home, you can expect magic to be at play.  But that won’t be needed, if you just tell me why you’re here.”

She sighed, looking around us.  I cast a quick spell to make listening to our conversation incredibly difficult, then nodded to her.

“All right,” she said, with another sigh.  “Mother deployed me here to watch the Prince’s party, when it arrives,” she reported.  “In particular, I am to watch one minister for signs of treason or rebellion.”

“Which one?”

“Count Moran, the Prime Minister,” she supplied, reluctantly.  “He has been watched since he took the office.  And he has had conversations with people that have disturbed Mother.”

“Which people?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” she confessed.  “If I find proof of his treachery, then I am to report back to Mother and wait for instructions.”  I had a pretty good idea of what those instructions would be.

“And you think that Moran will meet his contact here, in Sevendor?”

“That is the intelligence that we have received,” she nodded.  “I have no idea who it might be, or who they might represent.  But we’re certain that there is to be a meeting.  The day after Briga’s Day.”

“Very well,” I said, rising.  “As long as you do no violence in Sevendor, you may proceed with your mission.  But you are marked,” I informed her.  “Magically marked.  Wherever you go in the domain, my Spellwarden can track you.  And please let Mother know that I find it disturbing to discover spies in my town from someone who professes their admiration of me.

“In the future, a brief word in advance would be appreciated.  Unless they’re coming to slay me,” I added.  “In which case I understand it would be a breach of professional standards to expect a warning.”

“How did you discover who I was?” she demanded, her face blushing slightly.

“I’m the Spellmonger,” I said, letting my brow furrow.  “This is my country.  I know everything that transpires here,” I lied, convincingly.  “We knew who you were the moment you crossed our frontier, and have been watching you for days.”  I waved at my clandestine warmage, who waved back, bowed to the novice, and left the inn.

“Him?” she asked in disbelief.  “He’s a drunk!  And handsy, too!” she said, annoyed.

“He had to be convincing, and he was successful in his mission,” I countered.  “Just one of many of my talented fellows.  They always have their eyes open, particularly in my own lands.”

“I shall relay your message to Mother,” she finally conceded.  “But I ask that you do not disrupt my mission,” she added, intently.

“If it’s a threat to the realm, then I have no desire to be anything but cooperative,” I assured her.  “But don’t mistake my hospitality for weakness.  If I wanted you dead, you’d be gone three days ago and no one would be the wiser.  And be sure to try the bread with your stew tonight,” I added, as I left.  “The innkeeper gets it from my brother-in-law’s bakery.  It’s outstanding.”

Chapter Eleven

Sire Ryff of Hosendor

As the day of the important fire festival approached, long lines of travelers formed at the gates of Sevendor.  One important party after another arrived in anticipation of the Prince’s pilgrimage, and I was honor-bound to greet many of them in person.

That included my local peers: Baron Arathanial of Sendaria, and his son, the new Baron of Taravanal, who came by different routes.  By courtesy it also included Sire Sigalan, my friend and ally from Trestendor.

But it also included a lot of other important folk, from a delegation of burghers from Sendaria Port to a battalion of clergy: the Abbot of Stapeldor, the high priestess of Holy Hill abbey, the assistant-abbot of Fistan Abbey, Brother Mison, the Huinite priest whose stature had risen since he helped negotiate the failed truce between me and the Warbird, before I ultimately defeated him.

It also included my vassals.  It was politically important that I include them in this prestigious event, and I greeted them each in turn as they arrived with their delegations.  Of particular note was Sire Fetalan of Hosly, father of Sir Festaran, my assistant castellan, who brought a wain loaded with gifts.  Sire Stancil of Northwood and his bride, Sire Sigalan’s sister Sarsha, arrived with a small contingent, and didn’t seem to be fighting for a change.

But the most important vassal was Sire Ryff of Hosendor.  The Prince’s visit, the sacred nature of the occasion, the tournaments and entertainments were all meaningless to the man who had waited two long years for his bride to come to the altar.

I gave him the honor of being the first traveler across the hastily-constructed new bridge that spanned my new moat, just two days before Briga’s Day.  Now that there wasn’t a ridge in the way, Hosendor Castle was only six miles away from Sevendor Castle.

Sire Ryff rode across the bridge on a splendid chestnut charger, his bright mail covered with a surcoat bearing his device, a simple blue badger on a white field.  He bore both lance and shield, though he slung his helmet at his saddlebow and rode with his lance rested.

Behind him trailed nine knights of his household, then a squadron of mounted sergeants, three well-loaded wains, and nearly a hundred of his folk afoot, many bearing banners with Hosendor’s device.  They were a proud folk who had struggled for a generation under the Warbird’s yoke.  They saw their fortunes changing, under the Spellmonger’s leadership, and they wanted to represent themselves to their new lady in the best possible way.

The tale of Sire Ryff’s rescue of an Alkan Alon prince, and his subsequent engagement to his daughter, had swelled the pride of the Hosendori tremendously.  They loved their young lord, it was clear, and they eagerly anticipated the fey Lady Falawen as their new lady.  For a poor mountain fief like Hosendor, such attention was a decided honor.

I found out later that the sudden disappearance of the mountain betwixt our domains was widely seen as a welcoming invitation from the Spellmonger to Sire Ryff and the rest of Hosendor and Kest.  They saw it as a further sign of their lord’s nobility and rising importance in baronial politics.

I didn’t try to allay the notion – any reasonable explanation about where the missing mountain went, and why, was welcome in the pit of gossip Sevendor had become.

I feasted Sire Ryff and his kin at the castle, the night he arrived, and invited both vassals and military allies to attend.  The groom was calm and confident, the two years of his engagement paring most of his anxiety away.  He was also more mature for those two years having passed.  While still young and vibrant, his bearing was more confident and assured.

“So, Sire Ryff, when is the lovely bride due to arrive?” Baron Arathanial asked, as the musicians entertaining us from the gallery finished their first set.

“She abides in seclusion,” I supplied.  “She wishes to experience the full breadth of human marriage customs.  So she and her closest friends have taken the Maiden’s Vigil, in a far-away enchanted forest.”

“How fascinating!” Sire Sigalan chuckled.  “Usually such a rite is reserved for a reluctant bride.”

“My love is thorough,” Sire Ryff said with a tilt of his head.  “I can only hope she finds Trygg’s guidance to lead her to the altar.”

“You doubt she will be faithful to her word?” Arathanial asked.

“She is an honorable woman,” the Hosendor lord insisted.  “But I would not take her to wife unwilling.”

“Some say that’s the best kind of wife!” young Baron Arlastan chuckled, wickedly.  “If she warms to you, after the honeymoon, that is.  Otherwise it is the goddess’ own curse.”

“I would not compel her commitment if her heart is closed,” Sire Ryff said, almost sadly.  “I made my request for her hand to her father in haste, on the battlefield.  She agreed out of love for him, not for me.  If my lady choses to forswear that oath, I will forgive her.”

“Well spoken, Sire,” Sire Cei murmured.  While I was technically host, my Wilderlord castellan was operating more in that capacity than me.  He was, after all, the vassal to not one but three of the sitting barons at the table.  “Reluctance in a wife can be soothed and tamed, with time and affection.  Refusal, on the other hand, is a wall that should not be breached, no matter the oaths sworn.”

“I do not see why she would refuse,” grunted Sir Olsted, Baron Arathanial’s aging castellan.  “You seem a fit enough husband, with a good estate.”

“The standards of the Alka Alon are different than a human maiden’s,” I countered.  “They value other things than land and castles.  To such a long-lived race, even the lives of old men are but a quickly-passing thing.

“But to Sire Ryff’s character I can attest.  A faithful vassal and a keen sword hand, as well as a model gentleman.”  Ryff nearly preened with pride at the compliment.  Sure, it was gratuitous arse-kissing, but then it was about to be his wedding day.  He was entitled.

The feast lasted long into the night, and cost me an entire keg of good Gilmoran wine, but in terms of vassal relations it was worth it.  Before we got too drunk I distributed little presents to all, mostly minor enchantments that were either useful or gaudy, depending on the character of the recipient.

Such gift-giving is a regular and expected part of feudal life.  The constant exchange of valuables between the nobility creates an entangling web of gratitude and obligation that helps build personal loyalty between liege and vassal.  Usually gifts of rich clothing, flatware, armor, books or jewels were given.

But nothing makes a country knight more appreciative than receiving an enchanted sharpening stone or a magical lockbox to keep his treasures in.  The gifts were designed to be bragged about to their neighbors and peers, which increased both their status and my own.  It was part of the advantage to being vassals of the Spellmonger.

As the night wore on, and the jokes got rougher, the traditional ribbing by the married men of a new member of their club ensued as we gathered by the fire for spirits and fellowship.

“She’s a fair one, your bride,” sighed Arathanial, wistfully.  “Though she’s a hundred years old or more, she doesn’t look a day over nineteen!  I envy you your coming honeymoon, Ryff,” he admitted.

“I just hope the lad can survive the appetites of the Alka Alon lass,” chuckled Sire Roncil, Lord of Northwood.  “From what the legends say, they are insatiable!”

“Oh, all wives are insatiable,” Sir Olsted said, with a straight face.  “I remember when my dear bride took me to bed after the rite.  Ishi’s eternal grace, she would scarce leave me be long enough to run my estate.  Every day, twice, thrice . . .”

“Ah, Trygg’s holy rite does confer the bliss of physical congress, but in truth the demands can grow wearisome, after a few years . . . decades,” agreed Sire Fetalan, shaking his head.  “Matrimony is, I’m afraid, an endless indulgence in the carnal pleasures.  One must only whisper one’s desire, and your wife will likely leap at the opportunity.  It can drain a knight of his vital energies, if you aren’t careful,” he warned.

Sire Ryff looked startled.  “Surely her desires will slake, in time,” he suggested.

“Slake?” scoffed Sir Olsted.  “You should be that fortunate!  Why, I can’t keep my ol’ Lanibel off of me, not in thirty years of marriage.”

“Really?” Sire Ryff asked, looking troubled.

“Once a maid is a goodwife,” agreed Arathanial, “then Trygg gifts her with an unending bounty of feminine energy that she in turn feels compelled to bestow on her lord husband.  His slightest pleasure is her holy ambition.”

“I . . . I understood there to be more . . . more difficulty,” the poor young knight stammered.

“Mere peasants’ tales,” dismissed Sir Roncil.  “Why, not to shame you, my good brother-in-law, but since I’ve been wed there isn’t a day or night that my good wife does not try to brighten with her affections.”

“Sarsha always suffered from a lusty manner,” Sire Sigalan admitted, uncomfortably.  No one likes to talk about his sister’s sex life.

“Oh, marriage has put a fine edge on that affliction, I assure you,” Roncil declared.  “A more loving and affectionate wife has never been brought to altar.”

“This is . . . this is a lot different than what I expected,” Sire Ryff admitted.  “I’d always thought . . .”

“What young men think about marriage is mostly rubbish,” I said, adding the benefit of my advice.  “Lady Alya has quite the lusty nature herself, as my two children prove.  Always a kind word for me, before her affliction, and always eager to cater to my pleasures.  Never did I have to persuade her with gifts, favors, or promises.”

“That . . . that gives me a lot for thought,” the drunken groom said, slowly.  “Pardon me, gentlemen, I must find the privy,” he added with a belch, and then stumbled off toward the chamber he needed.

The rest of us stood around the fireplace, more for ambiance than warmth, and continued sipping our spirits from tiny silver cups.  Sire Sigalan alone looked confused.

“Gentlemen,” he began, slowly, “far be it for me to contend with such wise and worthy minds on the subject, but as the frequent letters from my sister attest, her marriage is not at all like you portray, Sire Roncil,” he said, apologetically.  “I defer to your role as her husband, of course, and merely ensure that she does not complain of abuse, as a good brother should.  But the tale you tell about your marriage is far removed from her reports,” he said, exercising discretion about the details.

“Oh, hells, no,” the Wilderlands knight agreed.  “After the first few weeks, she dried up on me like an empty wineskin.  After that it was a near-constant fight to get a few kind words out of her.  Bedding?  Only when I plead and call her attention to her vows.”

“Aye,” sighed Sire Fetalan, “I love my wife with all my heart, but her reluctance to entertain my desires causes me much confusion.  I spend a fortune in cloth and presents,” he admitted, guiltily.

“It’s the begging and pleading that always got me,” Sir Olsted said, in a philosophical tone.  “It can take weeks, sometimes, and best you put your pride away before you take off your hose!”

“The excuses are what amuse you, after a time, when even the thought of the hunt fades in importance,” Baron Arathanial confided with a chuckle.  “Should all the ailments that wives present to escape their duties be real, all of humanity would fail, though every doctor in the world were put on the case.”

Sigalan looked no less confused – far from it.  “Then . . . then why did you just inform the man of the reverse?  He’s going to the altar believing that his marriage will be one long, extended Rite of Ishi!”

All of us married men looked around at each other.  Sigalan had not wed, yet, though he was searching the Bontal for a good match that would not bind him politically.  So he didn’t know.  None of us wanted to say the awful words, I could see, but the question was honest, and deserved the honest answer.

So I responded.  I was the host.  And I was drunk enough to be candid, without offense.  Magelord’s prerogative.

“Because no one told us the raw truth before we wed our wives,” I informed him, to nods of agreement from around the fire.  “What Ishi provides, Trygg confiscates.  That’s something every husband must learn on his own, else he’d never wed.  No one told us.  Why should he be any different?”

The next morning the tents and canopies were all raised, the gleaming cobbled streets swept clean, the inns and taverns were hung with banners and bunting, and all of Sevendor was ready for the impending visit of the Prince of the realm.

Two solid weeks of negotiations and preparations were in place.  Security was tight.  Storerooms were bulging.  The finishing touches were being put on a thousand projects as Briga’s Day loomed.

Like it or not, Prince Tavard and Princess Armandra were coming.

Chapter Twelve

Prince Tavard’ Pilgrimage

Four days before Briga’s Day, the ducal party landed at Sendaria Port.  I didn’t want any surprises.  I made certain that I knew everything that happened from the moment when Prince Tavard and his party made landfall.

Thankfully for me, Iyugi was between journeys and was willing to spend a few days shadowing the ducal company on my behalf.  Considering some of the rough places Iyugi was used to haunting in his quest for information, living at a mid-level Riverlands inn at my expense and spying on my liege was rich duty.

He wasn’t my only agent, both human and magical.  I received updates on their progress and the composition of their party on an hourly basis, from the moment the small fleet of barges landed at the docks.  By the end of the day, Iyugi had the names and ranks of every person who disembarked from the six wide, richly-appointed barges, not to mention a few choice details that only my magical spy could obtain.

It seemed that His Highness, Prince Tavard, was not having the smoothest of journeys with his bride.  Indeed, though the infant Prince Heir was a healthy lad, the baby’s cranky nature and his wife’s anxiety over the boy were causing sleepless nights and dark murmurs for the future king of the realm.  More, the Remeran retainers who traveled with Her Highness were not well-disposed to the Prince, and his impatience with either his wife or son.

I don’t know how Iyugi does his work, nor would I ever consider criticism of a specialist in the midst of his specialty; but whatever natural talent or innate comprehension the half-breed mage possessed was ideal for my service.  Before the Prince and Princess and their retinue arrived at Chepstan Castle, I knew more about what happened in their bedroom than was entirely proper.

Iyugi was also helpful in supplying context for the visit, with some judicious eavesdropping.  Tavard was not enjoying the success a future heir to the throne should.  In most of the baronies he visited, he’d been forced to either accept a far reduced payment, in return for his patriotic plea, or grant lucrative boons to a variety of lords, burghers, and clerics who were well-aware of Prince Tavard’s ambitions . . . and empty purse.

That only added to Tavard’s frustration.  He’d planned to at least gain commitments for at least twenty thousand ounces of gold by this point in his journey upriver.  From what Iyugi reported, he’d managed to get pledges for less than half of that . . . and ceded a lot of valuable rights in return.

Since each ship in his nascent fleet cost between three hundred and five hundred ounces of gold to hire – merely for the season – Tavard’s efforts had not gained him much.  No more than a squadron, in addition to the thirty-odd ships he’d managed to compel to service so far.  Not enough to challenge a robust harbor patrol, much less the combined naval power of Enultramar and her allies.

That didn’t bode well.  Iyugi reported that Tavard was being forced to consider using his own – limited – funds to add to the fleet.  Or, even worse, take his duchy into debt to pay for it.  That was not a prospect that he relished.  As his vassal, I could not disagree.

I watched very carefully as the young Duke and his court contended with my neighbors.  Duke Tavard managed to secure a pledge for a full thousand gold Roses from Baron Arathanial at Chepstan Castle, after a hastily-arranged but exciting hunt in Arathanial’s game lands.  The baron was feeling extravagant, after his victory over the Warbird and Sashtalia, and the payment secured both his son’s rights to their respective lands.

From what Iyugi said, another three hundred Roses ensured a favorable endorsement of his assumption of leadership at the next Riverlords League, which was traditionally a scion of House Lensely.

Trestendor was good for two hundred in gold and pledges for three hundred more, in return for His Grace’s permission to found a grand abbey within the domain and confirmation of Trestendor and its current domains as his, as Knight Banneret.  That helped protect my friend and ally from the ambitions of my other friend and ally, Arathanial, which would hopefully buy peace in the Bontal Vales for a few years.  Gold well spent.

Beyond that, the Duke did not deign to bargain with nobles below a certain rank . . . though his shadowy Prime Minister, Count Moran, entertained proposals from any and all along the way.  Another three hundred gold and change, Iyugi reported, from various temples, petty burghers, country knights, and even my vassals added to his coffers at the expense of his interests.

Still, it was disappointing to him.  From what Iyugi told me of his minister’s deepest conversations, Tavard was in a tizzy over the slow influx of funds . . . and he was increasingly looking at his stop in Sevendor to make up the difference.

That put me in an interesting position.  I was already accounted one of the wealthier lords in the Bontal Vales, and after the Sea Folk bought my second-best mountain I was now rich enough to bribe the boy to do whatever I wanted.

Only, I didn’t want him to know how much gold I had.  I didn’t even know how much gold I had.  But that kind of wealth would be an unbearable temptation for the ambitious young Duke.  More, he was raising funds to attack the rebellious realm of my friend and ally, Duke Anguin of Alshar.  Directly contributing toward that end rubbed me the wrong way, no matter how doomed I thought the prospect would be.

Still, I had certain feudal obligations to fulfil.  And I had a – pardon the pun – golden opportunity to increase Sevendor’s fortunes and security.  I couldn’t ignore that, either.  If Tavard was hungry enough, he might be willing to grant some valuable concessions to me.  Concessions that could be politically and financially important, down the river.

With that in mind I began considering a wish-list of things that Sevendor might need in the future, and had a fanciful hour’s discussion with some of my smartest friends to come to some decisions.

Tavard arrived at Sevendor’s frontier with Bastidor at noon, on Briga’s Eve, among his armed gentlemen and thirty mounted sergeants in the vanguard of the column.  Her Highness Armandra, Iyugi reported, was quite content to ride with her ladies in a grand carriage in the rear, though it was a dustier position.

Tavard was richly garbed in yellow and blue, and wore a pilgrim’s mantle on his shoulders . . . the most richly-embroidered pilgrim’s mantle I’d ever seen.  The arrogance of the boy was palpable as he was met by Sire Cei and a company of Sevendori knights and warmagi.

I wish I’d been there to witness it, but I would meet the Prince at the market square, near the temple, for a private showing of the Everfire, as planned.  From all accounts Tavard tried to rush through formalities, anxious to complete his journey . . . and perhaps irritated that Sire Cei insisted.

The Dragonslayer not only insisted, but deigned to lecture the Prince on the finer points of chivalry in front of his gentlemen.  Not in a patronizing way, but by citing from the Laws of Duin and the great Chivalric Lays of our ancestors, who forged the bright blade of chivalry from the barbarity of common war.  It was a powerful and elegant speech, one that won the patient praise of Count Moran and greatly added to the Dragonslayer’s reputation in the court.

Along the route into town Sire Cei stopped briefly at Boval Village, and told the tale of the refugees from a tiny Wilderlands domain.  Then he proceeded around Matten’s Helm, informing the gentlemen of the Three Emissaries from the Alka Alon who’d built the spire of Lesgaethael out of snowstone.  That seemed to irritate the Prince, for some reason.

By the time he entered Sevendor, the Prince’s mood had changed.  As soon as he saw the bounty of the land, and its prosperity, he took notice.  When it was pointed out to him that the villeins of the hamlet of Gurisham now had homes as rich as any freemen, and that Sevendori freemen lived as burghers, he was particularly interested.

Then he hit the city gates, where hundreds lined the streets with flutes and drums, waving Sevendor’s banners and singing a welcome to the Prince and Princess.  Banamor outdid himself in splendor, as magi cast brilliant display spells in the sky overhead, and showers of arcane snowflake-shaped sparks rained down to within six feet of the ground, and then disappeared.

I awaited the Prince in my own finery, the garb I’d associated most with my role as Magelord.  It was a Sevendori green tunic that was a looser fit than the doublets the courtiers favored, with snowflakes in enchanted thread-of-silver glowing at my neck and sleeves.  A darker green mantle, lined with rabbit fur against the cold, kept my neck warm, and the big green emerald around my neck looked just a tad bit too gaudy to be stylish.  Which was by intent.

“Welcome in the name of Briga, the Flame that Burneth Bright, to Sevendor, my Prince!” I called to him across the square, my voice amplified by magic.  A crowd of about a thousand was assembled to witness the scene.  They burst into cheers.

Now magical flames danced across the market square and disappeared.  Tavard’s device appeared briefly in the sky – a nice touch.  Banamor, the Lord Mayor smirked at it, too.  I’d assembled all the nobility of the domain to welcome Tavard,

“How much did that cost?” I whispered to him.

“If you’re gonna kiss a man’s arse, best to pucker up your best and don’t spare the tip,” he snickered.  “A Prince deserves the very best.”

“I think it’s pretty!” Dara commented.  “That’s some impressive work!”

“Just wait for this next part,” Olmeg the Green said, smugly.  “It is sure to win the Prince’s favor.”

“Olmeg, you, too?” I asked, shocked.  He was not a man who usually indulged in such pettiness as political favors.

“I’m in it for the herbs,” he shrugged.  “Besides, this was inspired.  In Briga’s honor,” he said, with a hint more reverence that I suspected.  Olmeg was not known to be a religious man, but then not all prayer and devotion happens in a temple.

When the Princess’ carriage entered the square, I saw what he meant.  The number of sparks and flames settled down, while from the sky rained thousands of fresh flowers.  “The next part,” as Olmeg called it.

“Briga’s bright bunions, that’s lovely!” I said, as the Prince’s horse was led to the reviewing stand under a rain of roses.

“Fresh from Remere,” Olmeg confided.  “From Planus.  He’ll be here, later.”

I had no doubt.  If there was potential commercial gain to be had, you could always count on Planus to be lurking in the background.  This display had his touch to it, I realized.  Spring flowers came far earlier in the subtropical climes of Remere.  Many of them, I discovered later, were from Her Highnesses’ homeland.  Planus always pays attention to that sort of detail.

Princess Armandra was delighted, especially when a huge bouquet in the intricately-woven Remeran style was presented to her, filled with warm Briga’s Cross buns from my brother-in-law’s shop.  I’d tutored the girl in the basics of magic, as it was now practiced, and the scope of my profession a few months before, in Castabriel.  She was not particularly bright, I’d realized then, even if she seemed to have a good heart and good instincts.  Tavard had not wed with intelligence in mind.

We had to wait for Her Highness and the Prince Heir to disembark from their coaches, servants and attendants in tow before we could proceed.  The Duke and Duchess (Moran never far away from the Duke’s elbow) were escorted to the canopy erected at the western end of the square by Sire Cei and Lady Estret, where we waited.

I’ll spare you the ceremonious greeting that followed, save that it involved a warm welcome, an assurance of loyalty and fealty, the blessing of the High Priestess of the Temple and the other clergy, and a symbolic meal of wine and bread.

After that, Sire Cei escorted Princess Armandra and her guard to the castle to let her rest at the Spellmonger’s Hall.

Count Moran and Prince Tavard deigned to join me for a more substantial cup of cheer on the overcast day at a respectable tavern on the market square, across from the temple.

“It drizzled all the way from Sendaria Port,” he said, shaking out his rich blue mantle.  “Can you do nothing about the weather, Spellmonger?”

“It’s spring, it rains,” I shrugged.  “That’s the province of the divine, not the arcane.”

‘Yet the two seem to mix freely, here in Sevendor,” Count Moran pointed out, nodding toward the big red-domed temple behind the bakery, where the Everfire lived.

“Occasionally, the interests of the two realms overlap, my lords,” I pointed out, congenially as Banamor poured a much stronger grade of wine for us.  “As do many, in Sevendor.”

“The Alka Alon,” Tavard said, his eyes narrowing, as he glanced toward the mist-shrouded Lesgaethael.  “Their fey tower looms over your land, Spellmonger.”

“Yet their presence has enriched both our houses,” I pointed out.  “And may yet, further.  Perhaps we can discuss that future at length, after tomorrow’s rite.”

“We look forward to it, Baron,” Moran said, with a smile.  I didn’t trust it in the slightest.  “His Highness has had many novel ideas about magic.  The wonder of your domain has sparked many wild tales and songs.  I see now that they were understating the matter,” he said, gesturing to a brightly-colored snowstone fountain that was firing bursts of glowing water through the air.

“These are mere amusements and entertainments, Excellency,” Banamor boasted.  “The really good stuff is in the Enchanter’s Ward.  Here, my Prince: a sample of one of our newest enchantments, and one that may aid you in your errantry: wear this pin, and you will never drown,” he promised, “though you be in the fiercest tempest.  It increases your buoyancy so dramatically that you’ll scarce get wet.  And it has fifty breaths of air available, at a kiss and command I’ll teach you.”

“Really?” Moran asked, interested.  “Proof against drowning?  That’s remarkable!  Is it easy to prepare?”

“Alas, no,” Banamor said, regretfully.  “This prototype is the result of a year’s work by a number of enchanters.  If I had to put a cost on it, it would be over a thousand Stags to pay for such a thing.  Now that the enchantment has been perfected, perhaps we can get the costs down.”

“Well, that is disappointing,” Tavard said, frowning.

“Alas, there are no shortcuts in magic, my lords, else we would use them.”  He pinned the elaborate broach, in the shape of the rose-and-sword, on Tavard’s collar, where it seemed to fit his dignity well.

“Remarkable!” the Prince admitted.  “I can no longer drown?  Then I could swim to Enultramar and wage war, and damned their coastal defenses!”

“More like to save your life in an emergency, Your Highness,” Count Moran counseled.  “But a handsome gift, nonetheless.”

“And something for His Little Highness, too,” Banamor continued, sweetly, like a market-day pack trader selling discount eggs, as his assistance brought forth his next present.  “A magical cradle that rocks on command.  Enchanted to repel vermin and insects, as well.  And another command soothes the babe, in his anxious moments, with the softest of harp songs and a soft display of illuminance.”

He demonstrated by whispering a command, and the sound of a lap harp playing a lullaby began playing, while tiny magelights chased each other overhead.

“Dear gods!” Tavard said, eyes wide.  “This is a wondrous gift!” he said with more emotion than usual.

I actually felt a little sympathetic for the man, at that point.  All new fathers have that that look in their eye for months after a new baby is born – no matter how many servants you have.  When your child is fussy and restless, it makes your wife fussy and restless.  You can guess where it goes from there.

“And lastly, something for Her Highness, the beautiful-beyond-compare Princess Armandra,” Banamor said, proudly, as his men brought forth another cask.  Within was a beautiful set of four pure white opaque glass goblets.  “The finest products from our new potter, Master Gayle, who alone works with the Snowglass,” he said, in an entirely theatrical manner.  Moran and Tavard were eating it up like a couple of rustics at the fair for the first time.

“What do they do?” Tavard asked, his eyes gleaming.

“My prince, they are enchanted to glow entertainingly when the one who drinks from it enjoys the vintage,” Banamor said, proudly.  “Every color of the rainbow, save red.  Should the goblet glow red, then it has detected the presence of one of many poisons used commonly among assassins.  When it thus glows, the drinker will not be able to pick it up without sustaining a powerful, but harmless, shock.”

That made Moran and Tavard give each other a meaningful look.

“This is a truly royal gift, and one that will bring much peace to my mind,” Tavard said, earnestly.  “My lady wife frequently fears conspiracies against her, since she came to court,” he confided, mournfully.  “Even from dear family members,” he said, apparently unaware of the irony.

“But the truth is that the Five Counts of Enultramar would enjoy seeing me tormented by her death as much as they enjoy my dear sister’s imprisonment.  I shall make them pay for the temerity of striking the Royal House!” he declared.

All of his gentlemen cheered.  A few Sevendori in the room picked up the cheer, but most just smiled.

“Perhaps we can discuss the matter further, in my chambers tonight, noble gentlemen,” I said, putting a hand on each of their shoulders and steering them towards the High Priestess of the Temple.  “Indeed, I think we have much to discuss, before tomorrow’s rites.

“Flamemother Diastra is eager to give you a tour of her beautiful new temple, and a private moment of contemplation before the holy Everfire, before you will proceed to the festivities and entertainments.  After you check on Her Highness and ensure her comfort, please join me at Spellmonger’s Hall for a private meeting this evening, after matins.  No doubt you will want to attend to your private prayers for inspiration, before our discussions.”  I tried to keep my voice light, but Moran caught on immediately.

“Discussions, Baron?  That implies a certain transactional nature of the evening,” Moran murmured, indulgently.

“I don’t see why a religious holiday should preclude a mutually beneficial discussion,” I demurred.  “Perhaps even an inspired one.”

“I’m certain the goddess wouldn’t mind,” Moran concurred.

I knew for a fact that Briga didn’t really give a damn what happened to the kingdom, or much in human politics in general.  She certainly wouldn’t care about some minor feudal agreements.  Her vision was more continental in scope.

While I waited outside the temple for the ducal party, I summoned Banamor, mind-to-mind.  His stone was one of the smallest, but it allowed him to use the enchantment.

Good work, there, Lord Mayor.  I think you made a few friends for Sevendor Town.

For all of Sevendor, Min, he assured me.

Of course, you just removed the possibility of an accidental drowning at sea, I pointed out.

And send the Kingdom into a succession crisis? he scoffed.  That’s bad for business.  Besides, he continued, between you and me, my lord, that may not be the only enchantment laid upon that pin.

What do you mean?

I thought it might be helpful to know just where His Highness might be, at any one time.  So embedded within the broach a tracking charm.  Very difficult to detect.  And a tiny but powerful Sympathy stone, in case one wishes to hear what His Highness hears.

I thought for a moment.  You understand that is treason, don’t you?

That’s for the lawfather to decide, he said, directly, giving me a stare across the square.  I’m protecting my interests.  Our interests.  Knowing what counsel is being given Tavard could be critical for our future.

Oh, I don’t discount that, I agreed.  I just wanted to make sure you understood what you were doing.

Remind me to tell you about the four poisons that I purposefully did not have added to the goblets’ enchantment, sometime, he replied.  It’s insurance, Min.  An arrow in the quiver, if we need it.

So, are you doing this out of loyalty or avarice? I asked.  I had to know.

Why must the two be mutually exclusive?  Look, I’ve built something here, under your auspices, and I want to keep it growing without too much interference.  You’re a good master to serve.  You mostly leave me alone, and you made me rich.  I’m not going to get a better deal anywhere, even if I tried to set up independently.  So yes, I’m protecting my assets by making strategic decisions without informing you until after the fact.  If you want to hang me for treason, that tree over there appears to be vacant.

Thankfully, this conversation never took place, I agreed.   But good work.  Now, let’s see if we can bribe this boy prince into submission.

I’ve warmed him up, Banamor agreed, it’s time for you to take him out for drinks.  Make it a good one, Min.  I’ll be following up with my wish-list afterward, but that will go better if your negotiations go well.

That’s why I loved Banamor.  He was as corrupt as Sir Cei was noble.  But his heart – and his interests – were in the right place.

While I was discussing potential treason with Banamor, my younger apprentice, Ruderal, sidled quietly up next to me.  He waited patiently until I took note of him, expecting he bore some message or other.

“Master, the man in the dark cloak,” he said, nodding toward where Count Moran was coming out of the Temple after his tour, “he’s twisted.  Lying.  He . . . he has very dark thoughts.”

“That I knew the moment I met him, Ruderal.”

“His darkest came when he came to this land,” Ruderal insisted.  “He hates it, for some reason.  He means it ill.  And all within it.”

“That’s . . . interesting, lad,” I answered.  “And good to know.  And the Prince?”

Ruderal shrugged.  “He just looks like any other foppish nobleman to me, Master.  He frets about how he appears, his marriage, and fears assassination more than anything.  He’s not fond of you, but he fears you a bit.  He doesn’t trust many in his counsels, I’d say.  Typical stuff,” he dismissed with a shrug.

“Also good to know,” I agreed.  “Keep those keen eyes on them, inform me of any further interesting observations.  And have Lesana summoned to serve, tonight.  I think I’ll have need of her.”

“I’ll let her know,” Ruderal nodded.  The insightful boy’s special Talent had allowed him to discover my truth-telling sport’s own special Talent, and I had taken him into confidence about her.  “And about the seamage . . .” he began, hesitantly.

“I have given it some thought.  If you are convinced the man’s enneagrams are an echo of your own, enough for him to be your father, I shall find him,” I assured.  “As soon as this . . . holiday is passed, I will put my best finder on the trail.  He will discover where he is.”

“Thank you, Master,” Ruderal said, relieved.  “My mum always said my sire was a seamage, but . . . well, I wasn’t sure until I saw the man.  I might even look like him, under all that hair,” he added.

“If it is important to you, I shall find him,” I promised.

“I just don’t want to cause any problems,” he confided.  “Or . . . I don’t want him to take me away from Sevendor.”

“That won’t happen,” I said, shaking my head.  “Your mother agreed to your apprenticeship, and that’s legally binding.  He cannot remove you without kidnapping you, and I would find you if that happened.  As would Rondal and Tyndal, who have no small love for you.  You are safe, here, in Sevendor,” I vowed.  “No one will remove you without my leave.”

“Thank you, Master,” he said, quietly.  “I’ll go tend to that message, now.”

I sighed as the boy went away.  I didn’t have his Talent for observing enneagrams, but I could recognize the look of a burden lifted from the boy’s shoulders.  He really had been anxious about the prospect.

“What a wonder, Spellmonger!” Prince Tavard said, shaking his head as he exited the temple on the arm of the high priestess.  “I’ve never seen the like: a column of flame with no fuel.  Surely a miracle of the goddess!”

“And a blessing on all who witness it, from what the clergy say,” I agreed, smiling broadly at the Flamemother, who was smiling back broadly.  “Now, if you’d like to retire to Spellmonger’s Hall to refresh yourself, I would be honored to accompany you myself, my lords.”  Sir Festaran led my horse out, while the other gentlemen mounted, and the streets were cleared for the procession.

“So tell me, Minalan,” Moran said, as he rode next to me, “how do you do that trick with the flame?”

“No trick, my lord, just divine magic.  I, myself, do not entirely understand it.”

“And you are certain that is arises from Briga?”

“As certain as I am of anything, Count Moran.  If the attestations of the clergy are not sufficient, perhaps Briga, Herself, will decide to validate her creative expression.”

“Well, that would be convenient,” the count said, slyly.  “Word is that you have nearly moved mountains to build this lovely mountain estate,” he said, his tone pregnant with meaning.  So he knew about the missing mountain.

“I live to redecorate,” I agreed, nodding toward the New Castle in the distance, behind the old one.  “When one has such a delightful place to work with, creating wonders is natural.”

“It is quite quaint,” he agreed.  “And quite prosperous.  A credit to its lord,” he nodded toward me.

“I hire good people,” I shrugged.  “People who understand how coin and magic both work.”

“In regard to the former,” Moran said, quietly, “it is well-known that His Highness seeks to build a fleet to assail Enultramar.  And that he’s looking for funding.”

“Sevendor is a prosperous realm,” I reminded him.  “We might be open to a contribution, if circumstances were right.”

“No doubt we can arrange to find them acceptable,” agreed Moran.  “But I must insist that you not meet with the Prince on the matter without my leave.”

“I would never attempt to deprive His Highness of his most valuable counselors during negotiations,” I agreed.

“Ah!  We’ve moved from discussions to negotiations, now,” Moran said, affably enough.  “What would Sevendor seek, in return for its contribution?”

“Nothing untoward,” I shrugged.  “Ducal chartering of our Magical Fair, acceptance to the Wilderhall Fair for our trade delegation – we’re dabbling in wool, now,” I explained, affecting a bit of irritation.  “Perhaps chartering our proposed Enchanter’s Guild and Arcane Merchants’ League, to expedite the transfer of vital magical resources without undue taxation . . .”

Moran chuckled.  “Honestly, Spellmonger, I expected something more outrageous.”

“I’ll save my outrageous proposals for when His Highness is in more dire straits,” I chuckled in return.  “For now, I merely wish to see my mageland integrated into the commercial fabric of Castal.  And I’m willing to pay for the privilege.”

“And just how much are you interested in contributing?” Moran asked, curiously.

“You will have to negotiate with Banamor and Rael about their charters, but for most of what I desire, I would be willing to contribute two thousand Roses to His Grace’s efforts.”

“You mean His Highness’,” corrected Moran.

“If Prince Tavard assails Enultramar, he shall be doing so as a Castali Duke, not the prince of a united realm,” I counseled.  “At least, that is what the folk of southern Alshar will see.”

“It matters not how they perceive their conquest,” Moran replied, smoothly.  “They will be conquered by Prince and Duke, both.”

“If they can be conquered,” I countered.  “My intelligence on the matter puts a Castali victory in doubt.”

“Not if the way is well-seeded by treachery,” Moran riposted.  “Castal is not ignorant of what the Kingdom knows.  Or without resources in Alshar.”

“You’ll have to bribe half the Alshari fleet, to get a beachhead there,” I said, shaking my head.

“Only if we try to assail the foe at their strongest point.  Our Master of Waves assures us a landward assault in their southeastern shore could cross the peninsula and by-pass their sea castles,” he reasoned.

It was a bold plan, and one that had been tried before with some success, in ancient times, I knew.

The southeastern plains of Enultramar were stony and barren, with few sources of fresh water.  Parts were vast fields of rocks, lichens, weeds, and nothing more.  While there weren’t a lot of castles and fortresses barring the way, the land itself was a barrier.

If an army of sufficient size could find a way to make landfall there, it could likely seize a foothold at some minor tower.  Then all it had to do was fight its way through dozens of irate Sea Lords who would see the invasion as an affront to their sovereignty, make its way to the great Bay of Enultramar, and begin conquering a land that had resisted conquest for centuries.  I didn’t have a lot of hope about a Castali campaign against them.

But I was also unwilling to give Moran and the Castali ducal court the benefit of my wisdom, unasked, when it countered my own interests.  Seeing Tavard conquer Enultramar on Rard’s behalf would permanently alienate the Alshari from the kingdom, from what I understood.  As it was, the governance of the Five Counts was already souring in the mouths of the nobility and the commonfolk alike.  There was a lot of agitation and murmurs of rebellion, within the rebellion, as conditions worsened.

“I will do what I can to support Prince Tavard’s policies, as a loyal baron would,” I assured him.  “I care not what he does with the coin; I merely wish to benefit from his desire to raise funds.”

“One can ask nothing more from a loyal vassal,” Moran said, an edge creeping into his voice.  “Though one could question the loyalty of one who was not perceived as enthusiastic about his policies in regard to Enultramar.”

“I am a Magelord of the Riverlands, Count Moran,” I dissembled, “not a Coastlord or Sea Lord.  My interests, and Sevendor’s, are confined to the Bontal Vales and the Riverlands.  The Prince’s policies are his own to conduct.  But we’ll discuss that more this evening, over wine,” I promised.

Chapter Thirteen

The Rites Of Briga

My negotiations with Prince Tavard, Count Moran, and Sir Maris, the deputy minister in charge of acquisitions – in other words, Tavard’s bag man for the fleet – went far into the evening, an involved some rather detailed discussions about the ramifications of the intended proposals.

Moran fretted that chartering so many new institutions would give Sevendor an unfair trade advantage over more established houses – which was true, I conceded.  But it also gave Sevendor a means of enriching the Ducal coffers in matters of trade and taxation, which was also true.  That kind of endless nibbling around the edges of the deal was Moran’s way of pissing in the porridge until he liked the taste better.

Tavard, himself, largely stayed out of the discussions, apart from voicing the occasional pointless word of agreement with his Prime Minister.  Sir Maris was more interested in figures, pledges, and dates of delivery . . . until I raised my arm, pointed my hand, and invoked the spell in one of my many rings.  The two thousand freshly minted golden Roses I’d secreted in the hoxter pocket appeared inside a stout iron box.

“Payment is ready to be made, gentlemen,” I pointed out.  “Once the details are worked out.”

As most of the pledges thus far in his campaign had been for future payments, this represented a tremendous amount of gold.  Enough to buy the loyalty of four or five independent caravel captains.

The presence of that much gold had the predictable effect of wrapping up those negotiations in record time, once it was clear how I would be paying.  The rest of the details were worked out well before midnight.  As soon as the charters were drawn up, approved, signed and sealed, the coin would be paid.

“I confess, Baron, when I came here I dreaded the possibility of protracted discussions,” Count Moran said, over steepled fingers, when we’d drank a toast to the conclusion of business.  “When I met you at Wilderhall, I took you for a vagabond – I pray you take no offense.  Then as I watched you build up the Arcane Orders, I saw you as a scheming profiteer seeking to advance your aims for power.

“Yet here, when you have the opportunity to advance yourself, you present but a few minor concessions for His Highness to approve.  And for real specie,” he pointed out.  I’d left the big chest of gold sitting out, even after the deputy minister retreated for the evening, and let his betters speak.

“My ambitions for higher office are well-sated, I assure you.  I never set out to rule over more than this little domain, and . . . well, things just escaped my control,” I smiled, engagingly, as I gestured for Lesana to enter.  “Gentlemen, meet Lesana, my most trusted servant.  She bears a charm that keeps her from overhearing anything said in her presence, allowing her to serve without observing.”

“Really?  You have deaf mute servants?” smiled Moran.  “Very wise of you, Spellmonger.  One can never trust the ears in our proximity.  May I test her?”  Without waiting for a response, he barked out at her, as she bent to pour.  “You’re a frightful old bitch, aren’t you?” he asked.  I spared his life, in the name of good liege-vassal relations.  Lesana didn’t even look up, or make note of his sudden, loud insult.

“She’s used to this method of service,” I assured him.  “I can direct her magically, or by hand signals.”  I dismissed her after she poured, and she retired to the outer room.  Well within the range of her unique curse.  “Apart from my Tal Alon, among my most faithful.

“Now, gentlemen, before we dismiss ourselves from the night, I beg the boon of your insight.  For apart from your bold plan to assail Enultramar – who no longer has your sister – what is being done about actually rescuing Princess Rardine?”

Count Moran’s mood turned dark.  I let him chew on my words before he spoke.

“That is a family matter, Spellmonger,” he said, sternly, trying to end discussion after glancing at Prince Tavard.  The look on Tavard’s face told me everything.  But I had Lesana here for a reason, and I am not the kind of wizard who will let a little thing like the illusion of social propriety keep me from making my point.

“I am gratified that you think so.  That’s entirely my thinking in the matter, too, Count Moran,” I continued, smoothly.  “It is the desire of the gods that we ensure the security of our families in a dangerous world, sparing no expense or energy in protecting them.  Your father has offered a reward, in token of this responsibility.

“I am curious as to what you have done, my liege, to see to your sister Rardine’s safe return?  And I do wish invite you to speak . . . candidly.”  I gave the slightest glance to Lesana, in the shadows.

I wasn’t lying – she was entirely deaf, under the charm I gave her.  But she was also keen to pick up on my cues, and at that glance she took off her other charm – the one that prevented her natural Talent – be it blessing or curse – from working.

The effect was subtle, but I was used to it by now.  Lesana’s curse was to compel men to speak nothing but the truth of their minds.  I had measured the effect – it was stronger than a simple truthtell or even more elaborate means of interrogation.

“Why should I do anything to help that spiteful shrew?” Prince Tavard said, as easily as if he were remarking on the weather.  “She’s conspired against me since we were children, constantly insulting my intelligence and insisting that she was the more fit to rule.  I hate her,” he pronounced.  “I hate her all the more that she is my sister.”

I thought Count Moran’s eyes were going to bug out of his head at the frank – and completely inappropriate – admission.  But his own tongue betrayed him just as quickly.

“Sire!  It fares ill to speak your true mind to a vassal!” he said, and then shut his mouth.

“I’ve always been interested in the family dynamics of political dynasties,” I said, truthfully.  “I am genuinely intrigued by your response to the current crisis, my liege.”

“Your intrigues are what inflamed this crisis, Spellmonger!” Tavard said, hotly.  “As for what I care, I see Rardine’s imprisonment and eventual death as a boon to my line.  Do you think my son would ever see the throne, with her around?” he asked.

“Your mother seems very determined to keep you on the throne, my lord,” I pointed out, simply.

“As long as she has no alternative,” Tavard spat, angrily.  “Do you know how long she’s threatened me with Rardine’s future marital hopes as a foil against my coronation?  She’s always planned to establish my sister the power behind my throne,” he complained bitterly.  “She does not credit me with the intelligence to rule wisely.  Rardine has always been a vicious little bitch.  Enultramar did us a favor when they took her hostage!”

“In point of face, my liege, it was freelance pirates who captured your sister’s craft,” I pointed out.  “Enultramar held her for the briefest of times, and never officially, before she was sold to . . . more unsavory forces.  The rebel counts had little, if any, knowledge of her capture.”

“Do you think it matters to me upon what pretext I invade Enultramar?” asked Tavard, arrogantly.  “It is the one act that will secure my position in my mother’s mind.  Achieving something no Castali duke has done before, that will transform me from puppet to conqueror, in my own right.  And perhaps earn me some respect in my mother’s eyes,” he said, bitterly.

“My liege!  I beg you to choose your words wisely!” Moran squirmed, looking around nervously as Tavard’s truthful thoughts tumbled out for my inspection.

“We are safely private, here,” I assured the gentlemen, truthfully.  “And I do not judge my lord for his ambitions, for they are worthy of a young man.  The decision to invade Enultramar is yours,” I declared.  “I will support you as any good vassal would, regardless of that decision.”  I left a lot unsaid, thanks to familiarity with Lesana’s curse.  Moran was not as ready to contend with the nature of truth.

“While that is well-spoken, Spellmonger, it is also well-known that you hold ambitions of your own!” he accused.

“What has my lord heard?” I asked, feigning amusement – the kind that challenges a man to dig for evidence.

“That you desire to steer the course of all Five Duchies, under the mantle of a new Archmage!  To rule not just Castal, but over all humanity!  And that you have made dark pacts with unearthly powers,” he said, suspiciously.  “Pacts that endanger the stability of the Duchy!”

“Well,” I admitted, “none of that originated with me.  I assure you gentlemen, I have already exceeded the wildest ambitions of an imaginative youth.  I have no desire to be Archmage, or rule over anything I don’t already own.

“As far as pacts with ‘unearthly powers’,” I conceded, “I’ve made a few.  Always to the benefit of humanity in general, and the Kingdom in particular.  My final ambition is no less than the preservation of the human race on Callidore, in the face of a range of challenges.  I assume you noble gentlemen are in favor of that prospect?”

“Under the rule of the magi?” snorted Moran.  “Absolutely not!”

“You would rather face extinction than social disorder, Moran?” I smiled.  “That would explain a lot.”

“I favor instead the rightful rule of those the gods have chosen to place in leadership,” he said, fighting to choose every word with care.  His eyes were blazing, as he began to realize that he was in the grip of a spell.  “Not those who would see our folk as serfs, magically enslaved to the Alka Alon in our own lands!”

“The gods keep their own counsel about whom they chose to lead us,” I replied, philosophically.  “Nor would they allow the servitude of humanity.  Indeed, that is largely why they manifest.”  That was probably a little too much theurgy for a young man who was, by all accounts, uncomfortable with reading in general.

“Yet it is the duty of the nobility to preserve the social order as it was bequeathed to us,” Moran continued, stiffly.  He was starting to understand the nature of the spell.  Indeed, he turned to me suddenly.  “Is it true that Baroness Isily birthed two illegitimate children sired by you, Spellmonger?” he snarled.

“Yes,” I said, unwillingly, trapped by my own trick.  Not only was that not general knowledge, it wasn’t known outside a very small circle of people.  Moran was exposing how far his network of spies penetrated, but he also learned that I, too, was compelled to truthfulness.  I considered having Lesana re-engage her charm against it, but events proceeded too quickly.

“And you killed her in revenge?” he barked.

“No,” I replied, as if in a daze, “my wife slew her with a physical attack on a thaumaturgical device she was using.  With a little help from the Goddess of Vengeance,” I added.

That made Moran’s eyes bulge.  Tavard, of course, still hadn’t realized the nature of the spell and was nearly babbling, now.

“Stupid gods!” he snorted.  “As if they really exist!  A fantasy to keep the peasants happy!”

“Bide, my liege!” Moran commanded.  He fixed me with a stare.  If I was compelled to tell the truth, then what I was telling him was, reasonably, the truth.  “The goddess of vengeance?  Briga?”

“She was involved,” I conceded.  “But she was not the only one.  You wondered if I had made pacts with unearthly powers, Moran.  Yes, I have.  Powers who have protected humanity since we came to Callidore.  Powers who have seen mighty empires fall and rise, duchies and kingdoms come and go.  To them, the social order is a consequence of our well-being.  It is not their primary concern.”

“You speak like a priest!” Moran said, angrily.  “By what craft—?”

“Magic,” I answered, simply.  “But that should inform you as to what is actually at stake.  To the dukes go the glory of conquest,” I conceded, raising my goblet in toast to Tavard.  “To the magi goes the satisfaction of understanding.”  Thank goodness Lesana’s curse didn’t extend to proverbs and platitudes.

“Only if the social order is upheld,” Moran said, firmly.  “Else, all that we value is lost.”

“That stick is lost downstream, I’m afraid,” I said, shaking my head.  “The most we can manage is to control the change, my lords.  Already the effects of my enchantments are having an upsetting effect on the very people they were designed to aid.  Without a common plow and oxen, or mowers in the summer, there has been an increase in the number of idle hands in my barony,” I admitted, regretting it at once.

“See?” Moran said, leaping on the point.  “What happens when a man cannot earn his season’s coin toiling at honest work?”

“We put them to work where they can do the most good!” I replied, firmly.  “We are at war, and the energies of the entire Kingdom must need to be devoted to winning it, or all else is lost.  There are castles to be built, swords to be forged, ditches to be dug, and battles to fight.  That is where the honest work of the duchies lies.”

“And who pays for it?” complained Prince Tavard, who was lost in the finer points of the debate.  “We’ve melted half the gold in the kingdom and minted thousands of Roses, yet the Treasury constantly insists that we run short of funds!  Who shall pay for all these changes, these idle, tradefallen rustics?”

I carefully controlled the disgusted eye-roll I dearly wanted to perform.  There was a danger, here, of revealing too much . . . like the fact that I had more gold than that tucked away just a thousand or so feet from this spot.

Instead I tried to stick to the philosophical arguments.  Truth seems more ambiguous, when you speak in generalities.

“Those who want to maintain as much of the established order as they can shall pay,” I said, dryly, looking at my liege lord.  “The duty of the common man is to toil, the duty of the priest to pray and guide, the duty of the mage to investigate, and the duty of the nobility is to protect and lead.  I would say that if we each stick entirely to our duty, and perform it faithfully, then the gods can ask nothing better of us.”

I glanced at the water clock that Brother Mison had gifted me last Huin’s Day.  It was near an hour past midnight.  I silently signaled for Lesana to resume the charm that blocked her curse.  I felt it fall.  The other two did not.

“But then I suppose the hour for us to retire has come,” I sighed.  “Allow me to escort you back to Spellmonger’s Hall, myself.  And let me assure you, my lords, I have all together enjoyed the candid nature of our discussion.  And its absolute confidence,” I added, thankful that I could lie again.   “Services begin at dawn, tomorrow, and you know how Briga appreciates promptness.”

Briga’s Day is rarely a state holiday, in most Riverland baronies, largely because she’s a folk and craft divinity whose local cults vary widely across the Duchies.

But in Sevendor, thanks to the Everfire and a devout and openhanded patron, it was a major celebration.  When I’d invited the Motherhouse temple in Wilderhall – the largest temple to Briga closest to Sevendor – the High Priestess sent a small delegation of Flamesisters and a Flamemother to establish the Everfire Temple.

As I was also paying for the construction of the place, I had a lot of influence over its administration, but I had yet to find conflict with the Flamemother.  She was a little perturbed that I’d installed Sister Bemia as castle chaplain, and not a nun of her own order, but considering how generous I was to her temple and supportive of her ecclesiastic endeavors, she didn’t mention it much.

The Temple had done everything it could to excite the spirits of the faithful and the passions of the commonfolk for the occasion.  Ostensibly celebrating the beginning of the lambing season, the Festival of Lights traditionally burns up the last few tapers before the end of winter, refreshes the spirit after the boredom of winter, sharpening of shears, forging of new tools, that sort of thing.

But in Sevendor, thanks to the influence of my father (a senior lay member of the Temple, himself) and brothers-in-law, much of the celebration revolved around the thousands of pastries that the great ovens produced that morning, after the temple’s anvil was rung three times at dawn.  That’s when the High Priestess used the Everfire to ceremoniously light a torch, which then lit three tapers held by three senior priestesses who then lit the altars to the Forge of Industry, the Oven of Plenty, and the Hearth of Inspiration.

The harp, sacred to Briga, was played reverently during the solemn Invocation of Ignition.  Young novices sang a beautiful hymn praising her brightness, warmth, and ingenuity.  A lovely flame-shaped loaf of bread (Dad’s work, and he shed a tear in pride as it presented) was cut with a freshly-forged blade, while one of the Brigantine Bards, poet-monks devoted to Briga’s inspiration, composed an intricate ode to Our Lady of Rapid Oxidation on the spot.  All while the first rays of the sacred day shine through the stained-glass depiction of the divine redhead.

It was an incredibly beautiful ceremony.  Prince Tavard slept through the entire thing.

After the invocation, ritual cleansing, and offering, the assembled were led into a line, headed by the Baron of Sevendor, who then wrote (or, as was more likely, whispered to a novice to write) on a piece of parchment the one thing they desired the goddess to burn away from their souls, and one thing to transform it into.

I’d thought about this for a while, considering everything that had happened since last autumn.  I took the charcoal pencil the priestess provided and stepped to the lectern.  A stack of neatly-cut sheets of parchment, each stamped in scarlet with Briga’s Cross on the back with a potato, lay blank in front of me.

I took a moment, stared into the Everfire, and sighed.

GUILT, I wrote in the big, bold letters, on the obverse.  Then I flipped it over.  RESOLVE, I spelled out, with as much spiritual force as I could put behind each stroke of the stylus.

With a great deal of ceremony I stepped forward and allowed the edge of the parchment to catch fire, and then watch it be consumed.

“By the Flame That Burneth Bright, Briga hear my prayer,” I intoned.  “Let me be transformed by the sacred fire!”

I don’t know if it worked.  I didn’t feel particularly transformed, but then there’s a whole lot about theurgy I didn’t know.  But apparently, I looked good doing it, because the entire congregation cheered as I turned around and allowed Prince Tavard and his family to do the same.

As each parishioner left the line, they were marked on their wrists and foreheads with ash, and were given a small token version of the Briga’s Crossed Bun.  Well, most of them did.  I rated a special one made by my brother-in-law, who was studying for the lay order.  It was much bigger, fluffier, and sweeter than the regular ones, but that’s one of the benefits of nobility.

I dropped a handful of gold Stags into the offertory as I left, devouring high-quality pastry and reflecting on the transformative nature of my patron divinity.

Most of the other important folk were in the first wave of parishioners, and as they left Banamor’s attendants ushered them toward a temporary pavilion he’d placed on the Commons to officially break their fast with something more substantial than a sweet bun.  It was a beautiful late-winter morning, with just a hint of mist lingering over the fields and the river, and the harp music and theological contemplation gave the event a serene quality.

A temporary chapel had been constructed nearby for the wedding of Sir Ryff and Lady Falawen, which was being prepared by a small company of servants while we nobility mingled and enjoyed the morning.  The Alka Alon delegation began to arrive, dressed in their larger forms and in stunning finery.  I had the pleasure of introducing Prince Tavard to his counterpart among the Alka Alon.  I don’t think Tavard realized that the Alka Alon had such titles, and watching the awkward conversation that followed became a cherished memory of mine.

While I did my duties as host I tried very hard not to mention the missing mountain in the background.  No one else mentioned it, thankfully, but it still made me nervous.  Sire Cei was doing an admirable job of entertaining the Prince and his gentlemen, including Barons Arathanial and Arlastan, while I mingled with the other guests.  I think Moran and Tavard were avoiding me, after the previous night’s candid negotiations.

Princess Armandra made a point to seek me out, the infant Prince Heir in her maid’s arms behind her.

“Thank you for such a wonderful service, Baron Minalan,” she said, politely.  “I confess, I took what you told me about the possibilities of magic as exaggeration,” she continued, referring to the few days I’d spent instructing her about the role of magi in the kingdom, last year.  “But the more I see of your country the more I understand that if anything you understated the potential.  Seeing magelights just . . . appear all over the vale at dusk was delightful!”

“We are just getting started, Your Highness,” I assured her, as charmingly as I could.  “Sevendor is a land of enchantment.  Indeed, Master Ulin, our master enchanter, is planning to place an installation on the ridges this spring that will add to the effect.  I hope you will be able to return when . . .” I said, trailing off.

I didn’t mean to be rude.  But the doorway of the canopy behind Armandra and her ladies opened to reveal a new group of visitors to the reception.  Led by a rustic-looking monk, my heart sank when I recognized him . . . and the people behind him.

“Brother Hotfoot,” I whispered, my face no doubt pale.  Princess Armandra was certainly caught off-guard by my sudden distraction.  She looked toward the doorway to see what had caught my eye.

The monk wasn’t alone.  Behind him was a tall, buxom blonde woman of surpassing beauty.  A tall, stately looking woman with dark hair and a serene expression accompanied her, and a third woman, with striking red hair and a costume in full keeping with the holiday, walked with three men I did not recognize.  They were walking with purpose, and I could tell this was no casual visit.

“You know the monk?” the Princess asked, curiously.

“Yes, Highness,” I sighed, my heart sinking fast.  My mind spun as I tried to figure out how to explain what was about to happen.  “Sevendor attracts many . . . figures of note,” I finished, awkwardly.  “Especially at such an occasion.”

“Briga’s Day?” she asked, still confused.  It was a commoner’s divinity, after all, in her mind . . . but I had a feeling that Armandra’s perceptions of religion were about to change.  “I had no idea it was so popular, here.”

“It is also the occasion of an important wedding,” I reminded her, inspiring a frown.  I recalled she was scandalized at the idea of a human marrying a non-human.

“Yes, the so-called Fair Folk,” she said, judgmentally, as she watched Lady Varen chat with a party of knights who were clearly enchanted by her unearthly beauty.  “One has to wonder what their ultimate plans are.”

As I was reasonably certain the Alka Alon weren’t organized enough to have “ultimate plans”, I wrote her attitude off to ignorant suspicion and misinformation.  But as Lady Varen and the other Alka Alon stopped chatting the moment the newcomers walked into the canopy, recognizing them for who they were, everyone else stopped, too.

The blonde woman pushed her way to the center of the tent and looked around, her hands on her hips.

“This is supposed to be a wedding party?” she asked, skeptically.  “Minalan!  I thought you had better taste than that!  Where’s the wine?” she demanded.

“Who is that . . . woman?” Princess Armandra said, frowning.

“Let’s not be hasty,” the monk said, gently taking the blonde’s arm.  “Or rude.  Introductions are in order,” he reproved her.

“If they don’t know us by now, introductions aren’t going to do us much good,” snorted the blonde.

Sire Cei certainly recognized what was happening, and his face was as pale as I’m sure mine was.  He had taken great pains to prepare an entertainment fit for royalty . . . and this was not on his approved agenda.

“The forms must be observed,” the monk insisted, as the others filed in and stood in a semi-circle in the middle of the canopy.  “We can’t just come barging into the middle of a—”

“Well, of course we can!” the blonde said, annoyed.  “They invited us.  Well, her,” she conceded, nodding toward the redhead.  “But the rest of us, by implication.”

“Who are those people?” Armandra demanded.  “Vassals of yours?”

“No, Your Highness,” I sighed.  “They are not vassals.  They are party crashers.”

“Dear gods!” she swore, angrily, as she stared daggers at them.

“Yes,” the blonde smiled, wickedly.  “How did you guess?”

“What does she mean?” the Princess said, growing more anxious.

“It means, Your Highness, that we are experiencing the rarest of occasions: a divine manifestation.  We are being visited by the gods, themselves.”

Chapter Fourteen

Divine Visitation

“My Princes, my lords, my noble Alkan guests, my humble folk of Sevendor,” Herus, God of Travelers and Messengers, announced to the assembled, “may I present Trygg, goddess of Motherhood and Marriage, Fertility and Fecundity, Life and Abundance, who has come to bless this amazing union!” Brother Hotfoot said, beaming a smile that lit up the crowded canopy more than the magelights overhead.

“In addition,” he continued to the stunned crowd, “may I present Briga, goddess of Fire, in whose celebration today we gather!”  Hotfoot seemed delightfully pleased to be addressing mortals directly – and he had everyone’s complete attention.  “Also, there’s Ishi, goddess of Love and Beauty.  Together, the three of the most powerful Narasi goddesses lend their divine blessing to this marriage!”

The crowd was stunned with disbelief – especially among the clergy assembled.  Sister Bemia looked terrified, as did a few others.  Some made holy signs or prostrated themselves, as it became clear that the newcomers were unearthly.

Others were skeptical.  Count Moran decided to advance himself as their spokesman.

“What is the meaning of this blasphemy?” he demanded, angrily, stepping toward Brother Hotfoot.  “Spellmonger, what trick is this?  It is poor taste!” he pronounced.

“I can attest to the authenticity of the goddess Ishi,” Prince Almasarvala, of the House of Felarsamas said, unexpectedly taking an interest.  “I do believe we met at the Concord of Aramis, did we not?”

“That is beyond poor taste!” one of Tavard’s gentlemen said, shaking his head disdainfully at the Alkan nobleman.

“Little man, don’t make me convince you I’m the real Ishi,” the goddess said, shaking her shoulders just slightly as she gave him a withering look.  “I doubt you’d survive the experience.”

“Will you please honor the sanctity of my feast day?” Briga complained.

“Oh, cool your holy biscuits!” snorted Ishi.  “If they don’t believe we’re gods—”

“There are better ways to make a point!” Briga shot back.

“Daughters!” Trygg – I guess it was Trygg – snapped.  “Do not be rude!  We are here to sanctify and bless this sacred occasion.  Do not ruin it with your bickering!”

“She started it!” Briga said, under her breath.

“I always do,” assured Ishi, surveying the crowd.

“More,” Herus continued, as if it was all a mummer’s play, “we bring further blessings: Slagur, Imperial god of games, lore, and wine, and Sisu, the North Elpea tribes’ god of the hunt,” he said, as he escorted each divinity inside the canopy.  “And last, but not least, Couther, Narasi god of hospitality!”

“Dear gods!” someone said, in confusion.

“Exactly,” Ishi answered, impishly.  She clearly enjoyed the attention.

“Our divine delegation has come to offer our support of this alliance,” Herus continued, as the unreal spectacle unfolded.  “Humankind and Alka Alon must come together if the peril to the West is to be faced.  My princes, I bear tidings of foul bargains being made between Sheruel the Dead God and Korbal, the Necromancer of the Mindens.  They conspire to cast down both our realms in their hateful quest for vengeance.

“To that end, let the blessings of marriage, inspiration, children, good travels, bountiful hunts . . . amusing pastimes,” he said, stumbling over Slagur, as he gestured at his fellow divinities, “and plentiful hospitality be visited on the newmade House of Ryff!”

“Neither wholly human, nor wholly Alkan, the union of the Tera Alon and humankind will produce great heroes,” pronounced Trygg Allmother.  “The kind of men and women we will need to contend against the coming storm.  Let their line be blessed with fecundity,” she said, holding her graceful hands up in the air.

“Let them enjoy the passions and sorrows of both their kinds,” Ishi invoked, making her sacred sign in the air with both hands.  I had the feeling she was sincere about it.

“Let their line be wise, bold, cunning, and inspired,” Briga said, with a burst of harmless flame flashing about her hem for effect.

“Let it be blessed with good fortune and pleasant journeys!” Herus announced, expansively.

“Let it be blessed with abundance, fellowship, and mirth,” Couther called in a clear tenor voice.  “Let their halls be legendary for their entertainments and hospitality!”

“Let it be blessed with fascination, intellect, cleverness, and guile,” Slagur offered, though he didn’t make a sign.

“Let it be blessed with determination, perseverance, endurance, and commitment!” grunted Sisu.  He was an odd-looking fellow, dressed in a jack of intricately tooled leather, thick bracers on his forearms, and a beautifully-tanned deerskin mantle over his shoulders.

He was dark-haired and dark-eyed, his hair straight and long around his shoulders, and his beard trimmed more neatly than I’d expect from a god of the hunt.  He had a massive longbow on his back, similar to the Wilderlands bow I was familiar with, and a wide, curved knife was stuck in his wide belt.  He smelled a bit of musk.

“Let the blessings of these deities combine to bring forth the champions in this new line,” Trygg intoned, solemnly, as she directed the combined energies at the terrified-looking couple.  They glowed for a few moments, in magesight, and then the power dissipated.  Or was transformed.  Hells, I don’t know.  I didn’t know a thing about divine magic.

Prince Almasarvala chose that moment to speak.  “Oh, well done!” he called, merrily.  “Here I thought this would be a boring affair!  To lend hope to the new couple, I grant them – probationary – standing as a House of the Alka Alon.  In token of that,” he proposed, “I name them the House of Rokearyff,” he decided.

I recalled that rokea was an Alkan word for “quick and decisive” . . . and not entirely a positive, in the culture of the long-lived species that valued deliberation over action.  There was even a kind of anti-hero, I remembered, the subject of four or five of their minor epic poems from the Warring States period, named Asrokea.  He was a bit of a buffoon.  “For the hour of our need requires boldness, and quick-action.  And from what I understand, Sire Ryff excels in bold and hasty action.”

“Prince Tavard,” prompted Briga, calmly, “His Highness has made a bold move, recognizing the new Tera Alon as having the right of position in the counsels of the Alka Alon.  Will you do no less in elevating this house amongst human governance?”

Tavard looked like he was drunk.  The presence of so many gods in front of a man who doubted their existence seemed to produce a crisis.  Nor was Tavard alone in that struggle.  His poor bride clutched her baby and stared wide-eyed at the goddesses she invoked most in her life.  If it’s hard to meet your heroes, it’s even harder to meet your gods.

“I . . . on behalf of my father, King Rard of Castalshar,” he began, and then the words just began tumbling out of his mouth.  “I hereby recognize this new house . . . Rokearyff?  And declare them specially protected by the Royal household,” he said, struggling for just how to respond.  “Any sons born of this line shall be invited to join the Royal Court to be squired, and any daughters shall be presented at court at their maturity,” he decided.

Princess Armandra scowled a little, and pulled her husband’s sleeve until she could whisper in his ear.  “Oh,” Tavard continued, a little dully.  “I also authorize a chapel, shrine or temple be built to commemorate this occasion.”

“The day Seven Gods came to Sevendor,” remarked Onranion.  The old bastard was drunk and enjoying everyone’s discomfort at the awkward situation.  “The birth of the race of the Tera Alon.”

“Birth?” asked someone amongst the human nobles.  “Can they even breed?”

Lord Aeratas scowled, but bowed.  “Should grandchildren come of the union,” he sighed, resigned, “then they shall be accounted true princes of the City of Rainbows.”

“Oh, there will be children!” Lilastien chuckled quietly to me.  “We covered that part!  They are both healthy specimens.  Their genetics should prove no barrier to offspring.  In fact, they should prove quite extraordinary.”  She gave Trygg, the goddess of Motherhood, a very human-looking wink.  I think Lilastien was drinking a lot, too.

Almost everyone in the canopy looked relieved at the revelation– everyone but Lady Falawen.  All the blood had drained from her face.  Sire Ryff looked overwhelmed at the unexpected attention.

I realized it was my turn.  “Sire Ryff and Lady Falawen already stand high in my counsels,” I began.  “But proximity to snowstone and the unique nature of this union may well produce magi, as well as warriors, in the line.

“Should any of their children have sufficient rajira, then they will be apprenticed or enrolled in the study of arcane science, at the barony’s expense.”  It wasn’t much – but with the blessings of the gods, the elevation to the councils of princes, and the lavish gifts they’d received, free tuition for any Talented kids was about the best I could do.

There were other pledges by both human and Alkan lords – it seemed nearly everyone wanted a chance to add their blessings.  Afterwards, Herus began blessing everyone in attendance with smooth journeys, while the others added their good wishes.  The young Princess, her entire body shaking, presented the infant Heir to the Allmother, herself, and asked for her blessing.

Trygg looked at the babe thoughtfully, then leaned down and kissed him, whispering a tender blessing in the baby’s ear.

“He won’t have colic, anymore,” she promised.  “He will begin sleeping through the night, now.”

“Will he be king, goddess?” the Princess asked, pleadingly.

Trygg was startled by the question.  “I am not a goddess of prophecy, my daughter,” she explained, quietly.  “I cannot see the future.  Only that he will grow into a strong young man, if fate so wills.  A strong boy, with no infirmities.  A keen eye.  A strong arm.  A beautiful voice, like his mother,” she smiled.

“But . . . but you cannot tell me if he will wear a crown?” Armandra asked, frowning.

“Daughter,” Trygg said, quietly, “I cannot assure that he will be king – ask Luin, if you ever chance to meet my son.  My sphere can only tell you that unless fate intervenes he will be well and whole, and that he has my blessing and protection against illness until he becomes a man.  There is no higher aspiration for a mother to hold,” she added, looking back at the Princess.  A divine glow filled her face, and washed over the trembling consort, and then the rest of the court.

“Yes, goddess!” the Princess said, overcome with religious awe.

There was a stir, a kind of moan that emitted from the ladies of the court who were assembled.  Trygg’s blessing filled the canopy, and I think every woman there with a lick of maternal instinct was its beneficiary.  Even the Tera Alon were affected, I noticed, the bride not the least.

Indeed, the blessing caused a surge in the interest of the duchess in the Temple of Trygg.  The experience resulted in her endowing a new abbey outside of Castabriel at one of her estates, and spending lavish amounts on supporting midwives and orphanages.  Two of the ladies of the court were so moved that they took holy orders.  Paintings and poems were commissioned of the event.

At last, the summoning trumpet for the tournament sounded in the distance.  That was our signal for starting the procession to the listfield.

I took the chance (while the clergy were adding their supplemental blessings to the union, rather unnecessarily, after what the seven gods had done, I thought) to sidle up to Herus, who seemed inordinately proud of the occasion.

“How did . . .?”

“It took a lot of effort,” he said, proudly, “but I got it done!”

“You realize . . .?”

“Of course I do, Minalan,” he said, without looking at me.  “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“I didn’t think things were that desperate,” I replied, quietly.

“Then you obviously don’t understand what in nine hells is going on,” he said, still smiling.  “Perhaps it escaped your notice, but the Sea Folk have taken a few hundred tons of snowstone and relieved you of a mountain.”

“Actually, I sold it to them,” I informed him.  That earned me a glance from the god.  “Good price, too.”

“You . . . of course you did,” he said, the mirth leaving his face.  “I—”

“It occurs to me, gentlemen,” Sire Cei said, interrupting the god, “that perhaps this is not the ideal occasion or location for such a discreet subject.”  I shot a grateful look at my castellan.

“The Dragonslayer is correct,” I agreed.  “Sire Cei, please escort our guests to the listfield.  Inform them I’ll be along shortly.  I have some . . . Spellmonger business to conclude.  Herus: bring them all to the Everfire.  Have the Flamemother vacate the temple for the purpose.”

“Oh, he’s giving orders to gods, now,” Herus said, rolling his eyes.

“In Sevendor, that is the Magelord’s prerogative,” Sire Cei said, simply.

“Fifteen minutes,” I ordered the god, hoarsely.  “And make sure Ishi keeps her boobs under control until I get there.”

The pillar of flame in the center of the temple was gigantic, in the presence of so many divine powers.  In its quiet moments, the Everfire was only a plasmatic plume of twenty feet tall or so.  If it was “awake”, that could double.

Now a lance of flame roared twice that or more, piercing through the hole in the white-domed roof of the temple and disappearing into the overcast sky.

“I know you’re all wondering why I called you here, today,” quipped Herus, as I joined the loose circle of divinities who loitered in the temple sanctuary.

“Oh, stop it,” dismissed Ishi with an irritated tone.

“Sorry, couldn’t resist,” the Messenger of the Gods chuckled.  “Min, you wanted to say something?”

“I . . . just what was the purpose of today’s exercise in divine intervention?”

“Technically, it was merely a divine visitation,” suggested Slagur, helpfully.

“Just a couple of drinks,” agreed the God of Hospitality.  “We didn’t do anything more than a casual blessing.”

“Oh, that was more than a casual blessing,” Briga said, shaking her head.  “That was the combined divine power of seven disparate divinities, soaking into the very essence of those two newlyweds.  You do that sort of thing, especially when I’m involved, you can figure that something . . . unexpected is going to happen,” she said, staring at the Everfire.  “Especially here!”

“Oh, I would say it was inspired,” Herus quipped.

I smiled.  I wasn’t feeling cheerful.  “Herus, a word?  Just some . . . administrative details,” I assured my divine guests.

The others looked at each other and shrugged, while Herus strolled over to the edge of the circle.

“What in ninety-nine sadistic hells did you do?” I demanded in a hoarse whisper.  “Do you need me to take another journey?  Because throwing seven corporeally manifested divinities into the middle of this political cesspit is suddenly inspiring me to take an extended trip to Outer Vore!  My liege, my neighbors, my prince, all my vassals, and the highest-ranking delegation of Alka Alon to visit the human realms since Rard’s coronation . . . and you decide to throw half a pantheon into the stew?” I asked, my nostrils flaring.

“Slow your pace, brother!” Herus snorted, a bit annoyed.  “You wanted me to gather allies, so I’ve been gathering.  This was the right point in the journey for a little divine visitation, so I took it.”

“And as the Messenger of the Gods, you couldn’t drop me a godsdamned note before crashing the party?”

“Your surprise added to the effect,” he dismissed.  “Ishi thought it would sell it to the Prince and Princess.  You saw the reaction some of them had . . . open disbelief!” he said, as if insulted.  “Seven acknowledged gods show up, and those asses think it’s the Spellmonger’s magic show!”

“And now you have half the ducal court on the edge of religious hysterics,” I sighed.  “The Princess is bordering on mania, the already-scandalized Alka Alon are further scandalized, the Prince is having an existential crisis—”

“Hey!  Do you have any idea what I just did for the pilgrimages in this town?” Herus demanded, getting just a little too close.  “I busted my ass, trudging across the Duchies, trying to round up as many manifest gods as I could for this party.  I just missed Falassa, in the Wilderlands, who pops up for a few days as the first shoots appear after the thaw, when I stumbled across Sisu, here, chasing the wolves out of the mountain passes during the full moon.”

“Who is he?” I asked.  “I’ve never heard of him.”

“Sisu?  He’s the patron god of one of the ancient tribes who range north of the Wilderlands.  Descendants of some wayward settlement.  They hunt, follow the great herds in a semi-migratory pattern, and enjoy a fairly stable existence.  Until recently,” he added, darkly.

“Since the invasion they’ve been fighting goblins.  The tribes who follow him have been invoking him to hunt the fell hounds that have been ranging the northeast; that’s how I recruited him.  And it wasn’t easy – Sisu is one of those heroic masculine archetype divinities, all woodsy lore and quiet strength.  They’re loners,” he sneered.  “I had to really get into my Trickster guise to even arrange a conversation.  I promised him that he’d have the chance to hunt them all, throughout the summer when it’s difficult for him to manifest.  That’s the only way I got him here,” Herus said.

“What about the other two?” I asked, quietly.

“Slagur was easy,” Herus conceded.  “He manifests every two years to participate in the great gaming tournament in Dikos Artis.  I just had to hang around the temple and figure out which one he was.  Then I had to convince him that we needed his strategic genius.”

“Do we?”

“I haven’t exactly seen any other strategic geniuses wandering around here,” Herus pointed out.  “He’s not a hugely popular god, but his cult has persisted since the Early Magocracy.  I figured we could use the help.”

“What about Trygg?”

“Pentandra,” he supplied.  “When she got pregnant, apparently that attracted the Great Mother, over there.  She’s been lingering until I could get her here.  Thank goodness her manifestations generally are tied to the duration of a pregnancy.”

“And Couther?”

“Oh.  That was a total accident,” Herus blushed.  “I was skulking along the roads in southern Gilmora, and one of my shrines was in horrible repair.  Vomit, feces, no firewood, no—it was a mess.  I was in the middle of fixing it when I realized I needed a hammer and a couple of nails.  I went to a nearby inn to borrow them, and ran into him.”

“You just . . . ran into the god of hospitality?”

“He’s the patron of innkeepers,” he reminded me.  “It was the place’s first day under new management.  The innkeeper invoked him, and apparently it was a slow day in innkeeping.  I’m also the god of chance meetings,” he reminded me.  “That’s how the divine life works.  We had a couple of beers and I recruited him.”

“What good can he do against the gurvani?”

“What good can I do against the gurvani?” riposted the god, irritated.  “I have no idea, Min.  But he can keep the sheets clean and the stew hot for us, while we fight.  Do you have any idea how difficult it is to first find other gods actually manifesting, and then convince them to help?  I mean, Sisu isn’t even from our pantheon!”

“I’m not criticizing!” I assured him, hastily.  “I’m just incredibly surprised by the sudden and unexpected nature of a major divine manifestation.”

“I was moving in mysterious ways!” the scrappy little god said, defiantly.  “I got them here.  We blessed.  They’re in agreement with our aims.  And they would like you to grant them persistence,” he finished.  “It is my opinion that these are all good assets to our makeshift pantheon.  And the dangers of making any of them persistent are small,” he added.

“Barring unforeseen consequences,” I grunted.

“All life is an unforeseen consequence,” he said, with divine smugness.  “You wanna write that down?  That one’s quotable!”

I shook my head in resignation.  “Fine.  Let’s get this over with.  I don’t mind missing the first few rounds of the tournament, but if I’m not there at the end it will be noted.”

“Sorry that the whims of the gods interceded with your well-made plans,” he snorted.  “I’m sure that’s a novel experience.”

I called the bizarre collection of divine powers together and addressed them, as politely as I could.

I explained the situation, the dire threat to all of humanity implicit in the dark forces coalescing against us in the West, the suffering of the people of the Wilderlands and Gilmora, the horror of Korbal the Necromancer’s rise and his alliance with Sheruel, the Dead God, the existential crisis that faced both humanity and the Alon, in relation to the Vundel . . . I covered a lot of territory.

But it was a highly receptive audience.  For the most part.  Because there is always one . . .

“May I ask why we’re allowing this mortal to lecture us, thus?” asked Slagur, arrogantly.

“Because he’s the one with the power,” Ishi stated, flatly.  “Only he knows how to use the Alaran stone.  Or something like that.”

“And you allow him to dictate terms to you?” the god of strategy asked, coolly.  “Can you not just demand his compliance?”

“What is your objection?” Herus asked, curious.

“Only that the divine should not condescend to be directed by mortal whim.  I find it unnerving.  That is a power that will inevitably be abused,” he projected.

“Minalan has exercised great wisdom and judgement in his use of the stone,” Briga objected.  “We are subjected to human whim all the time,” she reminded him.  “Minalan has stood as a representative of humanity, with humanity’s interest in mind.  He has the moral strength to stand against divine whim,” she said, glancing at Ishi, “and act with restraint and deliberation.”

“Of course, you are his patroness,” Ishi pointed out.  She hadn’t missed the dig.  “You have to say that!”

“I have been watching Minalan from afar since he became a father,” Trygg interjected.

“You have?” I asked, startled.

“Allmother’s prerogative,” she said, with a smug little smile.  It looked like my mother’s.  “You have a well-developed moral sense that is not confined to your class or profession,” she pronounced.  “He has a dedication to fairness and the prosperity of his fellow man.  He has used his power to enrich others, not merely aggrandize himself or flatter his own ego.”

“I am also blessed with great humility,” I added.  “All a credit to my mother.  Yes, I have the power, Slagur.  As a gamesman, you can appreciate that.  But it is an advantage I have to use wisely and sparingly.  I seek not to bind the will of the gods,” I pointed out, “but to act as a shield between their irresponsible whim and their faithful devotees.  My goal is the defeat of those forces which imperil all human life on Callidore.  I understand that is supposed to be your job,” I conceded, gesturing to the gods in attendance.  “But it appears that the naturally-occurring divine sphere needs a little . . . focus,” I said, as reasonably as I could.

“One player directing the course of action,” nodded Slagur.

“Exactly.  The goal is to win the contest, not make myself emperor of the world.  I have better things to do,” I assured him.

“Then I concede to submit to your terms for the duration of the conflict,” Slagur nodded.  “And pledge myself to the effort.”

“I look forward to your guidance and assistance,” I promised him.  “Anyone else have any questions?”

“The vermin that infect my vales and forests,” Sisu said, in a heavily-accented growl, “I will persist to fight them, wherever they stain my lands?”

“That’s the idea,” I nodded.  “Wherever they might appear.  Hunt them all.  Protect the woodlands.  Protect your herders and hunters,” I assured him.

“Some of the Kasari pray to me,” Sisu nodded, sagely.  “I will rally them against the foul folk.  I will keep the hills and vales pure!”

“How about you, Couther?” I asked the mild-looking deity.  He wore an apron of special significance, I saw, the roof-and-bed sigil of his cult was embroidered on its breast.

“Me?” he asked, startled.  “Herus and I go way back, to the Conquest.  Inns and roads,” he pointed out, unnecessarily.  “If there’s going to be a war, there’s going to be people travelling and lodging.  I can help keep folks fed and comfortable,” he promised.  “Persistence would also improve guest services,” he added.

“A point,” I nodded.  “All right, the goddesses of fire, motherhood, and sex; the gods of the hunt, games, travel and hospitality.  Against the Dead God and the Demon God.  It’s a start,” I said, trying to convince myself.

“It is a solid foundation,” my patron goddess insisted.  “This is no ordinary war.  These are no ordinary stakes.  Focusing on the fundamentals now will pay larger benefits later, more than if you’d summoned Huin and Orvatas.”

“I’m not complaining,” I countered.  “I’m taking stock.  Very well.  I guess I’m convening the ad hoc divine persistent pantheon of Sevendor.”

“Don’t you need the Alaran Stone for that?” Ishi asked.

“I never let it leave my side,” I said, as I conjured the jewel from its hoxter pocket in my signet ring.  “Who’s first?”

Chapter Fifteen

The Ambitions Of Gods and Men

I arrived at the tournament in time for the semi-finals.  The Ducal party was just recovering from their divine experience, drinking heavily to soothe their theological questions . . . but I have to admit the action was distracting.  The four finalists in the lists were all Riverlord knights, including Sir Festaran.

I was surprised – I knew the lad could use a lance as well as any country knight.  Indeed, the bulk of his education had been devoted to the unique art of riding a horse and holding a stick.  But like any art, it required skill and talent, and I hadn’t thought that Sir Festaran had an abundance of either when it came to the joust.

Yet when I arrived, he was setting up for his second bout against his competitor, a lad from Rolone who took the point of Sir Fes’ blunted lance to his face, as my assistant castellan deftly rode his charger by.

“He’s been on a tear today, for some reason,” Banamor confided to me as I slid passed on my way to the Royal box.  “His first three opponents fell without getting a strike on him.”

“They’re allowing knights magi in the lists?” I asked, surprised.

“The Duke insisted,” snorted Banamor.  “He wanted to see how the arcane chivalry did against the mundane.”

As it turned out, they did pretty well.  Sir Fes was one of two Talented jousters in the lists.  The other, I discovered, was a Bastidori squire who’d just been knighted at Yule.  Not enough Talent to train, Banamor assured me.  But his arcane gifts were decidedly aiding him.

“The boy’s name is Sir Laramai,” he explained.  “One of the growing crop of Talented sports who are popping up, downstream of the Ketta.  Normal lad, son of a yeoman, squired to one of the lord’s household knights.

“He started getting headaches last year, and then woke up one morning with the ability of perfect balance.  Perfect,” he repeated, shaking his head.  “Maser Dranus tested him thoroughly.  Like Festaran’s talent, it’s pronounced, but limited.  He can’t throw a magelight, but he can dance on the edge of a rope – I’ve seen it.

“That extends to combat skills, apparently.  The boy picks up a sword, he understands its balance thoroughly.  Same thing with a lance.  He’s had two knock-outs so far, this tournament.  He’s favored, at two to three.   Sir Fes is at ten to one.  A little wager?”

“I wouldn’t feel right,” I said.  “Besides, when you’re as rich as I am, gambling just doesn’t have the same appeal anymore.  What did I miss?” I asked, nodding toward the canopied platform where the ducal party was seated.

“It’s been quiet,” he murmured.  “Everyone’s in a daze, after . . . what, seven assorted gods show up for a surprise blessing?  Real gods?  Ishi’s tits, Min, where did that come from?”

“Herus set it up,” I admitted.  “He wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Gods, Min!” he said, smiling at one of the townswomen he knew, but his voice quavering.  “I’ve seen a lot of shit, Min.  White mountains appearing from nowhere.  Columns of fire sprouting up in the middle of the commons.  Hells, mountains disappearing overnight and crapping a fortune in return,” he said, counting off on his fingers.  “Ordinarily, I’d write it off as wild magic and start charging admission – that’s what I’ve done.   Temples are good for business.  I like monks and nuns – spiritual folk.

“But then the actual fucking gods come to luncheon, Min,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.  “Actual fucking gods.  The Goddess of Love, Min.  The Allmother.  Briga, maybe, I could see – it’s her feast, her Everfire.  But Herus, Min?  Who, coincidentally, looks suspiciously like our friend Roadbrother Hotfoot, don’t think I didn’t catch that.  Herus showed up as herald?  At a party I arranged?”

Banamor suddenly put his hand on my shoulder and stared me dead in the eye.  “Ishi’s tits, Min.  I’ve said that ten-thousand times.  Today, I saw Ishi’s tits.  The real thing.  And they were . . . perfect.  Godly.  Awe-inspiring,” he admitted.  “But now every time I say ‘Ishi’s tits’, I know I’ve actually seen the real divine thing!”

“Get ahold of yourself, Banamor!” I ordered.  “I expected the Princess to swoon, but you?”

“This is me getting ahold of myself, Min,” he said, pulling a flask out of his belt.  “I’m smiling, waving, making sure everyone has a good time, making sure everyone gets to the honeymoon send-off for the happy couple, then making sure everyone gets to the feast, and I’m drinking as much as I can pour down my godsdamned gullet!”

“Easy,” I encouraged, staring back at him.  “They’re just gods.  They just blessed the hell out of you and your town, at least by association.  Just . . . just put the spiritual matters aside, for now, and concentrate on the commercial.  That’s where you’re most comfortable.”

“I’m going to be most comfortable curled up under my bed in a fetal position,” he countered, taking another sip.  “What the hells do you get up to, in that mountain, Min?”

“Saving the world.  Striking out at the darkness.  Wizard shit,” I shrugged.  “Just keep everyone happy.  I’m going to mingle.”

“You do that,” he nodded, his lips quivering.

I made my way up the stairs to the reviewing stand just as the young Sir Laramai charged against an experienced Sashtalian knight.  I paused to watch the boy guide his courser perfectly with his knees, and partially stand in the saddle, taking a highly aggressive stance.  His small triangular shield was flung ahead, while his lance seemed to nearly flop around in his right hand.

His opponent’s form was practiced and traditional, far more polished than Sir Laramai’s.  He canted his larger kite shield at a sharp angle, taking a far more defensive posture.   His lance was held firm and resolutely, an irresistible blunted spike that did not waver as his destrier thundered down the lists.

But a bare moment before the impact, Sir Laramai’s shield flashed out on his young arm and knocked the blunted tip away with the edge before it could strike solidly.  At the same time, his tournament lance went rigid in his hand.  It skipped up the surface of the Sashtalian’s shield and took the man in the center of his helmet.  Sir Laramai hit the mark just right, not just landing the blow but sending the man flying clear of his saddle.  His lance didn’t even shatter, and he galloped proudly to the end of the field with it at rest.

“Win or lose, make certain that one is included for some special training, under the Dragonslayer,” I murmured to Sire Cei, as I made my way to my seat.

“He shall be joining the castle this spring, Magelord,” my castellan assured me.  “I take it your business was successful?”

“Surprisingly devoid of cataclysm, yes,” I agreed.  “But it is still early in the day.  How is everyone?”

“Sister Bemia is near catatonic,” the castellan reported.  “My own wife is praying under her breath.  The bridal couple is in a complete daze.  Onranion has introduced the Alka Alon prince to the local wines, while Lord Aeratas tries not to glare at Master Haruthel and Lady Lilastien.  Lady Ithalia and Lady Varen are apparently fighting over something.  Count Moran has sent out four dispatches by messenger, since he sat down.  And Prince Tavard . . . Magelord, the Prince enjoys the tournament,” he said, as Sir Festaran’s opponent, Sir Oreks of Last Oak, wherever the hells that was, was introduced by the list herald.

He was a big man – really big.  Over six feet four, with a battered breastplate that had seen many lance tips.  And he rode a really big horse, a black Mersogan charger.

“Uh-oh,” I sighed.  “I hope he leaves enough of Sir Fes left to stich back together.  He’s huge!”  Festaran was tall and lanky, and while he’d filled out well in the last few years, he still looked scrawny, even in armor.  Even from here in the stands.

“Our assistant castellan is doing remarkably well,” Sire Cei said, with a critical eye.  “Indeed, he has surprised us all, much to the enrichment of my purse.”

I raised an eyebrow.  “You bet on Sir Festaran?” I asked, surprised.

“It is honorable to demonstrate our confidence in our fellows with the commitment of coin,” he nodded.  “Indeed, my lady wife insisted.  She favors the good knight and wishes to support his virtue.  I wagered twenty stags on the lad.”

“Coin you can afford to lose, I hope,” I said, doubtfully, as Sir Oreks readied his steed.

Sire Cei’s honor was rewarded a moment later when Sir Fes managed to land a well-placed blow to the corner of Sir Oreks’ shield and twist the man out of his saddle.

“Oh, well done!” Sire Cei smiled, as Lady Estret cheered, with the rest of the Sevendori crowd.

I finally got to my seat, directly behind Their Highnesses, who seemed enrapt in the sport.  Count Moran looked profoundly disturbed, still, and continuously whispered to his aides.  The remainder of the ducal party appeared to be in a lingering state of shock from the divine visitation, paying polite attention to the joust, but little more.  They were drinking a lot of wine.

The Tera Alon delegation seemed to be trying to match them in volume, though they were much smaller in number.  Onranion seemed to be playing the host, entertaining the Prince and flirting outrageously with Lady Varen.  Lilastien was sitting with Ithalia, while Lord Aeratas surveyed the human competition near his daughter and new son-in-law.  Everyone had a cup, and every cup was full.

“Are you enjoying the tournament, Prince Tavard?” I asked, as I settled down.

“It’s actually quite fascinating,” he admitted.  “Your mage knights have done quite well against traditional cavalry,” he observed.  “They use their abilities to counter their opponent’s strengths,” he said, as if it were the wisdom of the ages.  “Yet the mundane knights seem just as capable of defeating them.  They are not invulnerable.”

“I wish that they were, Highness,” I sighed.  “Magic can make a man more potent, but it is no replacement for the discipline of the practice yard and the lists.”

“So the magi aren’t as powerful as it is feared!” he said, almost triumphantly.

“Well, this is just one joust, and tilting is not war, my prince,” I pointed out.  “These are mage knights.  Not warmagi.”

“Yet it was common cavalry who overran the might of the Magocracy,” he reminded me.  “Steel overcame spell.  Valor defeated sorcery.”

“We need both, to defeat the foe in the West.  My prince, the magi do not contend to rule in the Kingdom.  We merely seek our proper place.”

“So it is said,” he said, with a skeptical sniff.  “I depart tomorrow, bound for Wilderhall.  We come early, since the dedication of my father’s new palace will require us to return to Castabriel for a few weeks this spring.  But I find myself with a vacancy in my court.  My Court Wizard has resigned,” he reported, annoyed.  “I must have a replacement.  Count Moran has been good enough to suggest a few possibilities, and I wanted to ask your opinion.”

“My liege ever has the benefit of my best advice,” I agreed.  We spoke of a few candidates – all perfectly qualified for the position – when he mentioned a friend of mine.  Sandoval.

Sandy and I had been in Farise, together, during the war.  He was a fellow thaumaturge who’d been drafted the same time I was, and he had a lot of the same interests as I did.  The last I’d heard he’d been working for the Royal Court, troubleshooting for Master Hartarian.  I recommended him at once, without hesitation.  Tavard agreed to consider the wisdom of my advice and make a decision, soon.

The tournament ended with a final contest between the two surviving knights magi, Sir Festaran and Sir Laramai.  It was a close competition, requiring no less than three passes as the talents of the two dueled as much as their mounts and lances.

Sir Laramai’s confidence with his seating and his weaponry made a vicious foe, as he used every twitch of his foot in his stirrup to position his lance perfectly.

But Sir Festaran’s ability to estimate the traction of the sand under his horse’s hooves, the distance and weight of his opponent’s lance, and the capabilities of that small, triangular shield gave him tremendous advantage.  In the end that proved decisive, and the knight from Hosendor took the prize.

I cheered as loudly as anyone at the unexpected victory.  To roaring cheers (and a couple of impromptu displays from the enchanting community) Sir Festaran saluted his defeated opponent before accepting the champion’s banner on the point of his lance.

He caused even more uproar a moment later, when he presented it to my apprentice, Lenodara, in front of the entire crowd.  I thought Dara was going to wet herself at such a public display of admiration and affection.

When the tournament, proper, was over, it was time to adjourn to the second pavilion Banamor had set up at the edge of Southridge.  The bridgehead there was still under construction (I’d convinced the Karshak to knock off for the holiday) but Banamor had erected a sprawling pavilion over it, and had the field next to it filled with trestle tables for an evening feast.

I tried to relax, as I mingled among the guests and looked baronial at the second site.  But it’s hard to relax when one of the things worrying your mind the most is staring right at you the entire time.  The gap in the ridge seemed to throb in my perceptions as I conducted my host duties.

Herus was correct, though: the divine visitation had dashed any discussion of the missing mountain.  Only a few Sevendori looked up at the gap with same expression I was feeling.  No one else paid it much attention.

As dusk swiftly broke, after a beautiful sunset filled with dancing and music, it was time for the arcane displays.  Three final contestants, chosen by Master Loiko and Banamor, appeared at the High Table of the pavilion, and gave their presentations.

The first two were impressive, enchanters who had practiced the nascent art of dramatic illusion that my old Court Wizard, Dranus, had set the standard for.

One’s entertainment featured a battle between glowing clouds shaped like knights and puffs of dark smoke that swirled like an army of goblins.   The second mage showed a more patriotic bent, presenting a stylized history of the Conquest and the establishment of the Duchy of Castal by Tavard’s distant ancestor, Duke Bimin.

I was startled at the third contestant, however.  Gareth had entered the contest.  I’d always known the lad had a great head for enchantment, and he was one of the more competent thaumaturges I knew.  But I never knew he had a talent for such displays.

Gareth’s wondrous show began with a giant glowing egg, which hatched into a falcon.  The baby bird grew quickly to adulthood, and then began a number of adventures – learning how to fly, how to hunt, and encountering the denizens of the sky, one after another.

It was done with great humor and magnificent attention to detail, and I was incredibly impressed for entirely different reasons than the rest of the crowd.  Some of those stunts seemed simple, unless you knew how the spells were put together . . . and had the benefit of an Imperial education.  The boy really outdid himself.

But then the show changed, when a second egg – far larger and darker – began to form over the new white moat between the mountains.  While the falcon darted and played over the fields, the egg grew malevolently until it shattered, releasing the dragon contained within.

The sounds that Gareth generated to accompany the effect were amazing, causing chills and shudders in the audience as the dark dragon began to stalk the brilliant falcon across the sky.

The climactic battle between the two was dramatic, but ultimately the falcon triumphed.  It tore the heart out of the dragon high overhead, then flew a victorious circle over the crowd before it flew off toward the Westwood, disappearing in a beautiful burst of light like a glorious sunset.  It was a sublime presentation, telling a simple story and evoking emotion as well as dazzling the eyes.

I glanced at Dara, knowing the intended audience for the display.  She looked awed, sitting at the Champion’s Table next to Sir Festaran.  Then Onranion said something and I got distracted.

But a few moments later, the judges conferred and agreed Gareth was the winner.  I made the presentation myself, praising the young mage’s incredible talent, resourcefulness, and brilliance in front of two princes and a hundred nobles.  He might have even blushed.

Soon after, in a final musical farewell, the wedding party returned over the new bridge to Hosendor and their honeymoon.  The groom had chosen to spend a week with his bride at the site of the new Alka Alon manor, to make his bride feel more at home, before returning to Hosendor Castle.  When he’d originally made the plan, the estate was one of the most remote in his domain.

Now it was the other end of a bridgehead that connected the two domains, destined to be an important point for the security and commerce of the barony.  I did him a favor and closed the bridge against all but official traffic for a week after the wedding party departed.  At least he got to enjoy the beautiful manor hall he’d spent two years building on the site before it got all touristy.

I escorted the ducal party back to Sevendor castle, through town and past the beautiful millpond, where my pet water elemental was sporting.  I drank one last cup with my lieges under the stars before they retired, and received Her Highnesses’ devout assurance that she had been entertained and awed by the wonders of Sevendor.

Prince Tavard was more circumspect in his praise, due to Count Moran being near, but he congratulated me on my impressive work and thanked me for being such a generous vassal.  As it had been less than a year since the man put me under house arrest, I’d say that was progress.

Count Moran, of course, had to have a few words alone with me before he joined the rest of the party in Spellmonger’s Hall.

“I have to congratulate you, as well, Baron,” the dark man said, adjusting his mantle against the cool mountain breeze.  “Not just for the splendor of your domain, but for your political acumen, as well.  From country lord to baron in just a few years,” he said, nodding toward a cluster of my vassals.  Sire Cei was hosting an evening of drinking in the magnificent new Gatehouse for them.  “You conquered half of them, and bought the others outright.”

“They don’t seem particularly oppressed at my rule,” I pointed out.

“No, they don’t . . . and the lands I rode through on the way were hardly what I’d expect of country so recently at war.  Indeed, we’re weeks from plowing, yet, and the peasants were already preparing gardens.”

That would be Master Olmeg’s doing.  He was taking a far more active hand in what the peasantry outside of the domain were cultivating, and on his advice a number of areas that were marginal for wheat, oats or barley were being turned to early-season vegetables.  He assured me that would keep grain prices reasonable, as winter stocks ran low and folk were forced to decide how much seed to eat.

“When I took this domain, I promised Duke Rard to demonstrate what magic in the service of mankind could accomplish,” I demurred.  “That extends beyond building castles and roads with magic, Prime Minister.  If magic is truly to be brought to bear, it factors in even what things the peasants grow.”

“And when to melt an enemy’s castle with sorcery,” Moran observed.

“Well, the Warbird did attack my lands first,” I pointed out.  “I merely responded as any good lord should.  With every power at my disposal.”

“I will be frank, Baron,” Moran said, after peering at me a moment in thought.  “I dislike the way that magic has evolved, under the new regime.  It is disrupting the social fabric of the realm, at all levels.  Magelords conquer with impunity, wizards strut around like burghers, and sorcery abounds.  There are rumblings across Castal,” he said, warningly.

“There are always rumblings across Castal,” I dismissed.  “I’m keeping the magi in line.  If you see a case where I’m failing, bring it to my attention.  I will take care of it.”

“And who takes care of you, if you get out of line, Baron?” Moran asked, pointedly.

“The gods,” I shrugged.  “You saw them today.  Right now, they’re supporting what I’m doing because it is in humanity’s best interest.  That may not coincide with the Duchy’s best interests,” I conceded, “but generally if the people are happy, the government has less to worry about.  That’s how the gods seem to see it.”

That shut him up, a bit.  Count Moran was as publicly pious as any public figure, though to my knowledge he didn’t favor any particular temple.  Getting a ringing endorsement on your administration from the divine really did undercut any earthly argument, especially when you used divine favor to uphold your rule.

“Yes . . . the gods,” he conceded, quietly.  “Her Highness in particular was moved by the visitation,” he added, uncomfortably.

“That’s the sort of thing that happens in Sevendor, I’m afraid,” I sighed.  “It’s a mageland.”

“As is the barony of Greenflower,” he agreed.  “An entire barony under the control of the Arcane Orders.”

“Because Dunselen and Isily conducted such horrid experiments that much of the domain is no longer fit for human use,” I countered.  “When I suspected such terrors, I moved quickly and decisively . . . and suffered accordingly,” I added, darkly.

“Yes, I heard the news of your wife’s injury,” he said, with formal sympathy.  “May the gods see her healed.”

“The gods have done what they can.  It lies to magic to make her whole again.  Which means I may have to travel to the ends of Callidore to see it done.”

“What a shame it would be for His Highness to lose the benefit of your counsel, even for a short time,” Moran said, dryly, as I walked him to the door.  “But that brings me to another matter.  While I concede that you have been more than generous in supporting His Grace, financially, I have heard less enthusiasm for his adventure.”

“I am a Riverlands baron,” I pointed out.  “That puts me at a distance from His Grace’s maritime adventures.  If that is how he spends his leisure time, that is his business.  Mine is Sevendor.”

“And Alshar,” Moran countered.  “It is whispered that you favored – nay, even arranged! – Anguin’s sudden seizure of Vorone.  Your colleague became his Court Wizard, and it is said that you introduced Count Angrial and Count Salgo to that priest who wards the boy.”

“The Orphan Duke needed to go back to Alshar,” I riposted.  “As hostage in Castal he weakened Rard’s claim to rule over three duchies.  By reigning in Vorone, the rebel Alshari counts couldn’t very well claim that he was Rard’s prisoner.”

“It was adeptly done, I agree,” Moran said, nodding his head.  “Though to get the Orphan Duke’s palace destroyed suddenly by dragonfire doesn’t exactly inspire confidence in his rule,” Moran chuckled.  “But it seems unusual for a loyal vassal of a Castali duke to support an Alshari duke so thoroughly.”

“I am more than just a baron, Count Moran.  I am also a member of the Royal Court.  What I did, I did in the interests of His Majesty and the kingdom.”

“Yes, so you are,” Moran conceded.  “Yet that did not extend to you aiding in establishing Rard’s rule over Enultramar and the South, when he asked you to.”

“Rard has a Minister of War, an army, a navy, and an adept intelligence service.  If they cannot do the job, then what is a spellmonger to do?”

“If you will not aid your king, then would you aid your duke?” he quietly demanded.

“To conquer another duke’s province?  That seems unwise.  And opportunistic.  No, Count Moran, if there really was something for the nobility to fear from the magelords, then I would be eagerly assisting in hopes of acquiring new lands and new revenue.  But I don’t.  I’m happiest here in Sevendor.  I need no Alshari lands.”

“Reasoned like a wizard,” Moran said, sarcastically.

“Occupational hazard.  You will be taking your leave in the morning?”

“At dawn,” Moran agreed.  “The Prince rides to Wilderhall.”

“And he rides thousands of Roses richer for his stay.  May his quest in the Castali Wilderlands be as productive.  It may well be, after news of the visitation is learned.”

“It will take many more thousands to enact his plan,” the minister admitted.  “Our admirals say that it will take no less than a hundred and fifty ships to make landing with enough force to gain a foothold in Enultramar.  We have the troops, but we must pay for scores more of these caravels if we’re to deploy them.”

“Assuming he does,” I proposed.  “What happens when he gets to Falas and learns that his sister is no longer prisoner there?”

“Things are already in motion,” Moran said, shaking his head.  “They cannot be stopped.  I expect that when Prince Tavard is hailed as the conqueror of Enultramar, the issue will be forgotten.”

“And what of the captive princess, in the meantime?”

“Have you not met the hateful bitch?” Moran asked, in a rare display of candor.  “Korbal did us a favor when he removed her from court politics!  Now Tavard at least has a chance to assume the throne, one day.  With Rardine skulking around that was seriously in doubt.”

“So you are loyal to the boy?”

“He’s going to be king, some day,” shrugged Moran.  “He’s an idiot, but I served his father with honor, and I will prepare him to rule us all, one day.”

“With you at his side,” I observed.

“Someone has to tell him what to think,” Moran murmured, as he passed the guards.  “Briga’s blessings on you, Spellmonger.”

“You, too, Count,” I said, seeing the man to his door.  As I walked back to my castle room, I lit my pipe and reflected on our conversation.  Moran would be a problem.  He didn’t like me.  I didn’t particularly like him.  And he wasn’t particularly pro-magic, despite everything that I’d shown him.

I’d have to watch him.  He was a piece of work.

Chapter Sixteen

Gareth’s Resignation

The next night we all got drunk.

Though they started out at dawn, getting the ducal party underway was an all-day affair.  A delegation of clerks and lawbrothers lingered to finalize the agreements for signature and seal, and Tavard signed charters and grants for nearly an hour before he took horse.

Banamor got ducal sponsorship for the Arcane Mercantile Guild, with a motherhouse to be built in Sevendor, and which had access to the Wilderhall Fair.  In addition, they got relief from all ducal tariffs and fees while moving goods between chapterhouses.

The nature of the goods was unspecified in the charter, I noticed.

Rael’s Enchanter’s Guild likewise gained a charter, though the terms of it were vaguer than Banamor’s.  Banamor also got a civil ducal charter for Sevendor Town, granting a number of traditional rights and privileges for his few hundred golden Roses.  Money well spent . . . especially when he pointed out those rights included building a non-crenelated wall around the town.

He hadn’t consulted me about that beforehand, but then Banamor is a crafty mage.  Usually a sitting baron is leery of allowing the town nearest his castle to build a wall of any sort – his ability to protect it is the basis of the payment of their taxes.  And towns with walls often don’t see any good reason to pay taxes.

But I wasn’t worried about that.  After the ducal visit, I was certain that the place was in far more danger from other quarters than from an irritated baron.  Thick snowstone walls would be insurance against any future threats against the town.  I couldn’t care less about the taxes.

After I saw my vassals leave with the bulk of the ducal party, around luncheon, I retired to my workshop.  Then Onranion stopped by, griping about snooty Lord Aeratas and his conservative perspectives on interspecies socializing.  I poured him a glass of wine for form’s sake, and had one myself.  We were finishing it when Olmeg stopped in on his way home from the Westwood groves.  He had a glass to be sociable and brag about the incredible number of new herbs he’d soon have access to.

Then my brother-in-law, Sagal, stopped to present the bill for the rooms we’d rented for the occasion.  I paid him in cash, on the spot, rather than deferring it to Sir Cei in the morning.  I had it sitting around, and it’s best to take care of that sort of thing sooner rather than later.  Particularly for family.

But that called for a glass of wine, and before we were done Sister Bemia came in to complain about the week-long vigil she’d had to oversee with a reluctant Tera Alon maiden, and demanded I pour her a glass.

It was getting a little crowded in there, but I didn’t mind.  It was a spontaneous party to celebrate Sevendor surviving a state visit.  Even Sire Cei had shown up with a few of his gentlemen to give the party some class.  But the emphasis was on drinking, complaining, and crowing, and we needed it.

At some point, several glasses passed where I stopped counting, I stood on my workbench and addressed my drunken vassals, friends, and colleagues and thanked them for their hard work.  I may have said other stuff.

I awoke near noon the next morning on that same bench, hungover and feeling like death.  The place looked like it had been hit with an arcane blast.  I stumbled through the Great Hall, which was filled with the smell of sausages and onion mash, and nearly vomited before I got to the door.  Then across the courtyard to the recently-vacated Spellmonger’s Hall where my Tal Alon servants were starting to drift back.

“Bath,” I ordered Sprout, one of the downstairs servants, when I got in.  I found the miniature apothecary I kept in the upstairs chamber and started mixing things in a mortar and pestle.  A moment later I poured the vile concoction into a cup and added water, before I heated it up with magic.  It tastes nastier that way, but it’s far more effective.

An hour later, after a thorough scrubbing and an opportunity for the medicine to take effect, I didn’t have a trace of headache and I suspected that I might have food again, someday.  I don’t drink that much often, but after the stress of the visit, it was good for my spirit.  And for the spirits of my retainers.  We’d all worked hard to ensure as good a visit as possible, and apparently it was good enough for the god of hospitality, himself.  Or one of them.

I spent the time in the bath getting Pentandra up to speed.  She was in a carriage bound for Vorone, to meet with Carmella about the new castle, and delighted in hearing about it all.

No, I had no idea that the gods were planning that, she said, when I told her about the seven gods in Sevendor.  But it makes an odd kind of sense.  I’m just glad Prince Tavard was able to be there to witness it.

Perhaps it does make sense, I conceded, but it also complicates things mightily.  I think we’re going to have to go ahead and execute the planned strike against Olum Seheri before summer’s end.

Tyndal and Rondal are already here, recruiting, Pentandra informed me.  They want to use Timberwatch as a training and evaluation area for the Estasi Order.  Anguin granted it to them, as long as they also agreed to train some of his men there at the same time.  They agree it’s good cover.  Timberwatch is remote, and on Alshari territory.  Hard for Prince Tavard’s spies to learn about.  Or even Grendine’s.

It is, actually.  Smart of them.  But I think we’re going to have to set up a planning meeting soon, if we’re going to do this right.  At least to arrange for adequate scouting and intelligence.

Where and when?

Not here, and not for a few days.  We’re recovering.  But let’s invite Onranion, Aeratas, Lilastien, and Ithalia, from the Tera Alon.  And I’d like to include Taren, Terleman, and yourself, to represent the magi.  That should be enough to start.

You’re forgetting the political side, Min, she reminded me.  Before you plan anything, don’t you think it’s wise to ask permission of the duke in whose realm you are about to go adventuring?

Yes, yes, absolutely right, I sighed. Include Anguin, and whichever counselors he decides to bring.  That brings us to where . . .

May I suggest we do it in Alshar?  Not in Vorone, too many eyes around.

What about Carmella’s place?  Anguin’s Tower?  She’s got a nice little holding there, for her and her students.  Plenty of room for a discrete council of magi.

And that wouldn’t be an unusual place for Anguin to visit, I agreed.  Very well, if you’ll make the arrangements, perhaps some time next week?

I look forward to it, she agreed.  Arborn is out a-ranging in the north to Osbury, so he won’t be there, but I’ll make sure we are adequately secure.

Thanks.  I appreciate it.  By then, perhaps Sevendor will have recovered.

I finally managed to return to a reasonable state of usefulness that afternoon, joining a reception for the three newly-blessed apprentices my brothers-in-law were taking at their shop.  I studiously avoided wine, contenting myself with ale and a few of the filling fruit and nut cakes Papa always recommended for hangovers.

I had a good time, giving the bakers and the flamesisters every bit as much attention as I gave Prince Tavard and company.  My dad, in particular, was enjoying his apprentices taking apprentices.  He was soaking up all the glory he could, for in a few weeks he and my mother, and about half of the family, would be packing up and moving back to Talry-on-Burine.  Mother had enjoyed her exile, with her son the baron, but I could tell she missed home.

The only person who didn’t seem content with his lot that day was Banamor.  I thought he’d be walking on clouds, after the major achievements he’d managed, but when I ran into him on the way back to the castle, his face looked stricken.  I found out why quickly enough.

“Gareth.  He just . . . he just quit,” he said, shaking his head.

“Ishi’s tits!  Why?” I demanded.

“I have no idea,” Banamor said, with a sigh.  “But I don’t know how I’m going to run things without him.  Gilard and Olven are useful enough, but no one understands how Sevendor runs like Gareth.  He just showed up in my office, before I was headed out to dine, and gave his resignation.  Both from my house and as Deputy Spellwarden.  I asked him why and he said it was personal.  Had me pay him out right there, and left.  Haven’t seen him since.”

That was disturbing news.  Instead of heading directly back to the castle, I re-routed through town and stopped by the Rat Trap – the ramshackle townhouse that Gareth, Tyndal and Rondal shared.

It was cold and dark.  I questioned the enchanted guard that wandered the place, and learned that Gareth had been and gone.  I tried to reach him mind-to-mind.

Yes, Baron? he asked, when I contacted him.  His mental voice sounded strained.

I just heard that you resigned from Banamor’s service.  I was curious as to why.

I . . . I don’t want to be in Sevendor, anymore, he explained.  I’m staying at Taragwen tonight.  I’m headed their now, the long way.  But after that I’m headed . . . elsewhere.

Does this have something to do with Dara? I asked, cautiously.

This has everything to do with Dara, he replied, hotly.

Do you want to tell me about it?

I went to see her, after the competition, he said, after a pause.  She was speaking to one of her Riders.  I proclaimed my strong affections for her, and inquired if they were shared.  They were not, he said, sharply.

Surely, she didn’t spurn you . . .

She made her feelings clear.  She values my friendship, but desires no more attention from me, regardless of my feelings.

So . . . you’re just . . . leaving?

I cannot bear to remain, after that, he confessed.  If Dara has no use for my heart when it was freely offered, then leaving my hand extended in friendship is just humiliating.  I respect myself more than that, he said, proudly.  Even her Rider was disturbed by her response.  After all I went through to impress her . . .

Gareth, are you sure you want to make such an abrupt departure?

I do, he assured me. I want to get as far away from Sevendor as I can.  Faster than a falcon flies.  I put my heart in her hands, and she discarded it.  I never wish to see her again, he pronounced.

Whatever she’d said to him, Dara had hurt the boy terribly.  I could feel his emotions through the connection, and I didn’t envy him.

Gareth looks more like the popular caricature of a scrawny wizard than most, even to his preference for the traditional pointed hat.  That doesn’t make him particularly attractive to the maidens, at first glance.  Nor was he particularly aggressive . . . not when it came to girls.  He’d had eyes for Dara for so long that he’d not cultivated other interests.

That seems severe, Gareth, I said, gently.

I don’t care, Minalan, he said, with sudden familiarity.  Look, I’ve busted my ass for Sevendor.  Most of the glamor and enchantment experienced today was my doing, he said, without bragging.  I’ve learned a lot doing it.  I’m particularly grateful for your guidance, and the opportunities you’ve granted me, he said, earnestly.  But . . . I was staying for a girl.  A girl I’m not going to get.  She was clutching Festaran’s favor the entire time she spoke to me, he said, disgustedly.

I sighed.  There was no easy fix to this.

Gareth, I can’t change her mind, I said, slowly.  But if this is what you have to do, I understand.  No man wants to feel like he’s beating his head against a tree if there’s no chance at least a few nuts will fall out.  Where do you think you’ll go?

Rondal and Tyndal invited me to Timberwatch, he said, sullenly.  I’m meeting up with Gatina there.  She says she has a job for me.  Not thieving, he clarified.  She says she has some enchantment work for me.  Master Ulin gave me permanent use of the bouleuterion workshops, so . . .

Whatever work engages you, I agreed.  Look up Pentandra, while you’re there – no doubt she could use you, if you’re looking for a job.  But while I understand that you want to quit your position with Banamor, you do understand that the witchstone you bear makes you beholden to me, personally?

That wasn’t intended as a threat – I wanted to clarify our position.  Gareth had proven himself capable enough and trustworthy enough for me to grant him one of the Spellmonger’s Seven – one of seven heavily-enchanted marbles of irionite given to us by the Alka Alon.

I reserved the powerful stones for my special agents.  Tyndal and Rondal both had one, as did Iyugi.  Their acceptance of the stones carried with it the implicit service I might call upon them for in defense of the realm or pursuit of arcane justice.

I understand, and I remain at the Spellmonger’s service, he agreed, proudly.  I will heed your call at need.  But unless you have need of me . . .

Go where your heart leads you, Gareth, I said, resigned.  Your head is already set on the notion.  And go with my blessing, as well as those of the gods.

Thank you, Master, that means a lot to me, he said, sincerely.  And Minalan?  Do me a favor . . . forget we had this conversation, when you speak next to your apprentice.  Whither I travel is no longer her business.  With that he severed the connection.

Ouch.

Gareth was a mystery.  I liked the boy, and had found a place for him to thrive when others might have turned him away.  He’d been instrumental in the Long March.  He’d been key in discovering the secret to using the Alka Alon Ways, before anyone else.  That had saved Alshar from a devastating raid.  And he’d helped Tyndal and Rondal with their escapades in Enultramar.  Hells, he’d even been to Olum Seheri, himself.

But if he wanted to quit, not only could I not stop him, I could even understand his reasoning, a little.  He’d learned all he could in Sevendor, and he’d won as much fame and renown as he could expect, without a mageblade in his hand.

Taking that reputation elsewhere could be a good move for him.  A wizard as good as Gareth had a hard time shining here, where there was so much competition.  Perhaps winning the competition in front of the Prince was enough to convince him of that.  Elsewhere, he could become a baronial court wizard in a blink.  I wished him well.

While I understood why Banamor was upset about his departure, the truth was that his organization was growing so quickly that he would soon need three Gareths, and a squadron of his own clerks and lawbrothers, to handle the new business.

While I was on that side of town, I stopped by the Enchanter’s Guild to congratulate them on their chartering.

Rael the Enchantress was there, with two or three others who used the house for lodging, and she filled me in on her plans to establish chapterhouses in all the magelands.  It sounded ambitious . . . and a perfect cover for some of the off-books smuggling Banamor wanted to do.

The Ducal Party had also commissioned several specific pieces at high prices, which made the enchanters happy.  And that was on top of some massive new commission that made the woman squirm with excitement.  I left with the impression that I was seeing the beginning of a glorious new enterprise.

I walked back through the magelit streets, content to end the day with a pipe and contemplation.

New walls, new trade opportunities, new commissions, new bridges, new temples – by every objective measure, Sevendor’s first state visit was a resounding success.  It marked an important milestone in the progress of the empty mountain domain I’d come to only a few years before.

I was proud of what I’d built, and I had every expectation that it would continue to grow and thrive.  Sevendor would become Minalyan’s someday, a vibrant city of magi protected by an impregnable mountain fortress, in the heart of a prosperous barony.

Of that much I was certain.   No matter how things went in Olum Seheri, my children would be taken care of.  I had family here, family who were protected by the institutions that I was building.  That gave me great solace, considering who I was facing.

It also gave me something to look forward to.  Introducing a restored Alya to a thriving Sevendor, someday.  That was a vision I could pursue with obsessive passion.

I tried not to think about such unpleasant possibilities when I stopped by the Lone Oak Tavern for a pint.  I stuck to myself, smoking and sipping the tavern’s infamously strong ale.  I was in a reflective mood, as I enjoyed the late-winter chill, looking back out over the town from the rise.

I had hope, the favor of the gods, and a vague idea of a nebulous possibility of a hazy hint of a plan.

That might just be enough to work.

Master Ulin was pleased to be able to get back to practical work, after the disruption of the state visit, and he resented the interruption to important work.  Indeed, he hadn’t wasted his time, while the mountain was officially closed.  He was a Vorean, and hadn’t felt compelled to indulge in the feasts and fetes surrounding the festival hosted by a Castali duke.  Instead, he holed up inside the mountain for five days with plenty of food and wine, and devoted his time to studying the problem of the centerpoint of the Snowflake.

“It was a surprisingly useful endeavor,” he admitted, when I visited him in the workshop.  Not the practical laboratory, but a chamber the Karshak had designed as a library.

Wooden bookshelves and cabinets had been built from the floor up to the top of the twenty-foot ceilings, and around the perimeter of the forty-foot long chamber.  A grand fireplace that was totally unnecessary to either heat or light the place dominated the center, where a set of comfortable chairs had been assembled to facilitate discussion.

The shelves were only half-filled with books and scrolls, at this point, but that just gave me room to expand.  Permanent magelights floated overhead, allowing the scholar to pursue his researches at any time of day.  A magical fountain at one end of the room helped keep time, producing a sun or moon in accordance with the conditions outside, lest you become lost in thought and forget to eat or sleep.  At the other end was a wide table with several stools, inkwells, quills, and stacks upon stacks of blank parchment.

“I went back and examined some of the more obscure discussions in the books we have,” he said, pacing back and forth in front of the fire.  “I found a fascinating series of letters collected in the back of one of Sonrisa’s Appendices, between a Late Magocracy enchanter from Wenshar named Osric, and a Remeran thaumaturge named Peturo.  On the ethics of necromancy, of all things,” the little wizard chuckled.

“But in defending his position, Peturo reveals the existence of a number of experiments on what he called ‘vibrational valences’ of arcane matter.  Apparently, a team of enchanters in Falas conducted the meticulous tests, just before the Conquest, but it never made it east before the Narasi started putting wizards to the sword.  In any case, Peturo maintained that the use of necromantic energies wasn’t inherently unethical, as they were merely the same wave form at a different vibrational frequency.  Or words to that effect.”

“So what did they tell you?” I asked.  I didn’t need a history lesson.

“Something intriguing: if you can separate a part of an arcane field from its arcane vibrational frequency – for lack of better terminology – the higher-vibrating portion tries to eject the lower-vibrating portion.  The greater the difference, the greater the force.  Which means that if we can coax a vibrational differential in the centerpoint, the Snowflake itself will attempt to push it away.”

“And Briga’s Biscuit Dough gives us the medium to use to convince it,” I nodded, following his reasoning.  “In theory,” I added.

“In theory,” Master Ulin nodded.  “In fact, the ideal would be to discharge it directly into a hoxter pocket, before it had a chance to realize what was going on.”

“The last time we tried that, we almost blew up the mountain,” I reminded him, cautiously.

“I’m not talking about the entire Snowflake, just the centerpoint,” Ulin said, shaking his head.  “It will take a lot more control, but less power, I think, to cast the enchantment.”

“What would you anchor it to?”

“What would you like?” he shrugged.

“I’ll get back to you,” I decided.  “I’m going to have to do a little planning before I know what I can take with me to Olum Seheri.”

“It will take me a week or so to work out the calculations, anyway,” Ulin agreed.  “After that, we can probably start any time you’d like.  Though I’ll warn you,” he added, “according to my early calculations, the energy implicit in the centerpoint is going to have a . . . corrosive effect on the hoxter.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that if we can convince the damn thing to leave its favorite spot in the universe, it’s not going to be comfortable in a hoxter for very long,” he cautioned.  “In fact, any disturbance in the arcane architecture could cause . . . well, I don’t know, really.  The numbers get really, really big, after a while, and it’s difficult to predict what will actually happen.  But we’re talking a secondary energy release of a few million joules.  All in one place,” he added.

“I’ll try to avoid that, then,” I sighed.  “How long until you think we can actually make the attempt?”

“Two weeks?  Four?  I don’t know,” he sighed.  “It would be helpful to have the actual experiments they did in Falas.  Those numbers would take a lot of guess-work out of this, particularly if they covered crystalline forms, specifically, as was alleged in the letter.”

“You think a copy of this exists somewhere in Falas?” I asked, surprised.

“Enultramar had several repositories of arcane knowledge,” Ulin pointed out.  “Many of the leading families of the Magocracy had their works shipped there, during the Conquest.  A lot of that ended up in the library of the Tower of Sorcery.”

“Which is in rebel-controlled territory,” I nodded.  “All right, I’ll see if I can’t procure it for you, or at least a copy.”

Ulin’s bushy eyebrows shot up.  “You have connections in Enultramar?”

“It’s a recent development, but I know a man who specializes in acquiring hard-to-find items in Enultramar,” I said, thinking of Lord Hance.  If anyone could steal a book from a library, it was him.

“Then see if he can’t also find a copy of Lister’s Schedules, Rennit’s Advanced Thaumaturgy, and – here, I’ll just make you a list,” my head enchanter decided, producing a parchment and quill out of a hoxter.  “There are reputedly dozens of lost works locked away in the libraries of Enultramar and Wenshar.  It would be lovely if we had access to them."

“I can see that,” I chuckled, as the man frantically wrote down his wish-list.  “I can see we’re also going to have to have a formal scriptorium,” I decided.  “I’ll talk to Guri about creating a temporary one, down here, in the meantime.”

“You know, there’s a market for such works,” Ulin reminded me.  “Some can fetch obscene amounts.”

“Oh, I know,” I said, remembering a book on thaumaturgy I lusted after, once, during my warmage days.  It would have cost me seventy ounces of silver more than I had.  “That’s part of my motivation.  It’s time to gather as much arcane lore as possible, here in Sevendor.  We’ll need every scrap, if we’re going to accomplish a tithe of what I want.”

“Glad to hear it,” Ulin nodded, smiling.  “All too often a patron scrimps on the important things, like basic research.  Nice to work for a man who understands the process,” he said, raising his wine glass in a toast.

“Still making it up as I go,” I sighed.  “But this is progress.”

Chapter Seventeen

The Secret Council of Anguin’s Tower

Anguin’s Tower was an impressive estate, especially with the understanding of what Carmella had started with.  In two years she and her crews had managed some profound improvements to the original structure.

The original pele tower was expanded with a far more substantial tower keep going up next to it, within the bailey.  The original walls had been heightened by ten feet and crenelated.  Halls and workshops lined the outer wall and were filled with activity.  There were almost a dozen war machines In the well-trodden courtyard, from catapults on their own carriages to small trebuchets.

Carmella’s work as the head of the Hesian Order emphasized defensive magic.  Hence, her holding was one of the most secure, militarily and magically, in the Wilderlands.  Warmagi from all over the kingdom sought her out, now, to learn her secrets.  She was also becoming a mundane lord of some note.  Not only did she hold the tower and the garrison installed there, but her holdings at Honeyhall and two other nearby estates were thriving.  When the goblins raided the area, last year, Carmella’s folk had stopped them hard, with very little damage.

I was surprised, when I exited the Ways into the courtyard of the place – one usually doesn’t expect such neatness and efficiency from a pronounced introvert like Carmella.  But Carmella’s elevation had also leant her a certain maturity about being a magelord that she hadn’t possessed as a mere warmage.  She had made this place into her own, and it showed in every little detail.

One intriguing addition to the tower was the new Karshak Hall . . . though no one there called it that.  It was the Wood Dwarves’ Hall, or the Kraverak Hall – the closest the human tongue came to pronouncing the name of the clan of Rumel the Wood Dwarf, Carmella’s assistant.

And perhaps lover.  There was a strange vibration between them, Pentandra had gossiped.  She’s rarely wrong about such things.

With Anguin’s permission, Rumel had resettled three families of his clan from their cantons in the deep forests of the eastern Wilderlands to here, to take service with the Order and all of Carmella’s construction projects.

Their hall was of their own design and contrivance, and it featured heavily-carved wooden beams and stout timber framing.  It was also big enough to hold fifty Wood Dwarves, at need.  The central building was three squat stories tall, with two wings of two stories spread out from each side.  The lower level was filled with workshops, the top used for residence.  Rumel, I learned, had his private apartment on the third floor of the central hall.

We were meeting in Carmella’s private hall, attached to the Tower, a comfortable if sparsely-furnished place.  The Alka Alon had arrived early, and were already mingling with the Alshari delegation.  I nodded to Onranion and Azhguri to take their seats at the long table of magically polished redwood.

Anguin and his Prime Minister, Count Angrial, were seated at the head of the table – I suppose that since the tower was named for him, he felt entitled.  Pentandra was on the other side of Angrial, looking increasingly pregnant.  Count Salgo sat at his left hand, while Tyndal and Rondal sat behind their Duke.

Anguin looked in good health and fine spirits, I was gratified to see, and I nodded to Pentandra in silent gratitude.  She’d done a splendid job of looking out for the boy, even if it had cost him a palace.  He looked cocky and ambitious, not tired and overwhelmed.  That was a good sign.

The Tera Alon delegation looked serenely bored, if you didn’t understand their faint expressions.  Lord Aeratas had arrived in full armor, a human-style sword at his side.  Ithalia sat between he and Lilastien, who was wearing her peculiar white coat.

Carmella nodded to me as I took my seat, then cleared her throat.  She must have had a charm ready, because the sound of a loud silver bell sounded in the hall.

“My lords, my ladies, I welcome you to Anguin’s Tower.  We are here at the behest of Minalan the Spellmonger, head of the Arcane Orders of the Kingdom.  The subject is a proposed raid on the new stronghold of Olum Seheri,” she said, her brow furrowing deeply.  “I now turn this council over to Minalan.”

I nodded in thanks, sighed, and began.

“We’ve been dealt one setback after another, in this war.  First the initial surprise invasion of the Wilderlands, then the invasion of Gilmora, then the attack and fall of the City of Rainbows, most egregious and cunning of all.  We’ve gone from facing a few hundred shamans with irionite and a single undead goblin, to an alliance of the gurvani hordes and the sinister forces of Korbal the Necromancer.

“All our species are in danger from these threats, and more beyond if we cannot contend with them,” I said, forebodingly.  “The time has come for us to merely holding the foe at bay and managing our losses to striking back, inflicting some pain on the enemy and gain some advantages.”

“What kind of advantages?” Count Angrial asked, sharply.  “We have two beehives on our frontiers, Master Minalan, and you propose to kick one of them.  And while our capital lies all but defenseless.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call the Alshari 3rd Commando defenseless,” reminded Count Salgo, roughly.  “Since they took our service we’ve regained control of a hundred miles of territory, and secured still more beyond that,” he boasted.

“Yet they would be poorly suited against a dragon,” Angrial pointed out.  “And with our new castle but half complete – no insult intended to you, Lady Carmella – perhaps now is not the best time to invite a dragon to town, again.”

“Count Angrial, any dragon who makes the attempt on the new keep will regret it,” Carmella assured.  “Yet not all of our defenses are ready,” she admitted.  “The keep, itself, will not be complete until late summer.  The outer buildings, gatehouse, and wall not until next year.  I’d hate to go back and re-do good work after a fire.”

“Will Sheruel wait that long?” Ithalia asked, pointedly.  “In my ranging with the Kasari along the Penumbralands, we’ve spoken to many who keep their eyes on the shadows beyond.  Last year’s raids were light infantry, canine cavalry, and a few larger units.”

“You’ve seen evidence of a new offensive?” Count Salgo asked, curious.

“The bulk of Sheruel’s forces have been growing and training in their camps and cantonments,” she reported.  “His mines and mills have been toiling day and night to craft swords, armor, and implements of war.  His allies, Alkan and human, have been seen assisting him in drilling his troops.”

“Yet that is merely discipline,” Count Angrial proposed, hopefully.

“I wish that were the case, my lord.  But it appears to be preparation for war.  In ranging with the Kasari, news came of the first of his minions from the deep mountains arriving as soon as the passes were cleared: long lines of siege worms, hundreds of trolls, and new legions of hobgoblins, arrayed for war.  The Umbra’s skies are filled with those insidious wyverns,” she said, wrinkling her nose.  “Everywhere, the signs point toward a renewed offensive.”

“That’s . . . troubling,” agreed Angrial.  “And unfortunate.”

“I will begin drilling our own troops at once,” nodded Salgo, looking disturbed.

“If that is the case, then perhaps now is the time for a preemptive strike,” Pentandra counselled.  “One of sufficient strength and surprise could forestall their plans.”

“As their plans seem to involve raising some of the more disturbing enneagrams from the Ghost Rock and incarnating them, that could be key,” I agreed.

“What?” Aeratas asked, startled.  “Why would—?”

“You know better than I, there are shades within the Ghost Rock beyond those of your ancestors, Lord Aeratas,” I pointed out.  “My fear is that Korbal and his minions will raise these beasts against us.  Ancient spirits with powers we cannot imagine, in whatever bodies he chooses to put them.  The potential for chaos goes beyond mere war.”

“Yet war is what we are faced with,” Duke Anguin said, rubbing his chin.  He had wisely not yet tried to grow a beard.  “We all know that it is inevitable.  It would be too much to ask the gods for Sheruel to wait until we are ready to receive him.  With all respects, Prime Minister, we’ve known about these beehives for years, now.  The bees are not going to move along peacefully.”

“Then you are willing to risk the potential for provocation, Your Grace?” Pentandra asked, respectfully.  The young duke nodded, glancing around the room.

“Duin’s axe, if they are ready to strike at us before we are ready, then it seems only just to return the favor,” he snorted.  “If we can disrupt their plans for a neat and orderly invasion, then I see it as well-worth the risk.”

Count Angrial looked resigned, but sighed and nodded.  I could appreciate his reluctance.  He’d just started getting his realm into order, and now he was faced with its potential ruin.

“The consequences of this course of action are unknown,” Pentandra agreed, “but Alshar has been preparing for this.  We have but a third of the castles we once held, but Count Salgo has seen to their repair and resupply.”

“We can garrison what we have,” the count agreed.  “For the last year we have been organizing militia training, infantry training, and cavalry training.  I’ve re-organized local defenses to be more responsive to raids, and coordinated defensive maneuvers – thanks to the help of the magi,” he added, gratefully.  “With the addition of the 3rd Commando, we can survive a great deal of punishment.”

“There are other potential consequences,” Lady Ithalia pointed out.  “Korbal is also raising an army, an army not just of goblins, but of undead.  Should he launch an offensive, it could be disastrous for the human populations.”

“But not the Alka Alon?” Count Angrial asked, curious.

“Most of our folk have fled to our strongholds,” Lord Aeratas reported.  “The fair refuges and settlements in the Wilderlands are empty, now.  It would take much for our foes to strike us there.”

“Yet they have before,” Onranion pointed out.  “Anthatiel has fallen into dark hands.  Anas Yartharel was attacked by dragonfire.  And they were the strongest of our remaining fortresses.  Do you expect Carneduin to fare better against the worms?  Or Nandaroriel?” he scoffed.  “In just a few years the enemy has dealt us a devastating blow.  We can barely defend ourselves.  We have scorned violence for so long, we have forgotten how to fight.”

“Speak for yourself!” Ithalia snorted.  “I’ve ranged from Castabriel to the lands of the Kasari, and slain hundreds of gurvani,” she said, proudly.  “And that’s with primitive weapons.  Let us relearn the ways of war, and teach ourselves the valor of our ancestors!”

“Well spoken!” Aeratas nodded.  “While this grim day is but a shadow of our past struggles, so too are we but shadows of our past glories.  Yet it is an opportunity for us to demonstrate that we have the spirit of our ancestors, if not their craft.”  He looked pointedly at me.  “Having been convinced to adopt these . . . stronger forms for war, let us see their value in harassing the foe.  Weapons we can find or forge.  Our commitment, that is what is important, now.”

“This is a raid,” I emphasized, “not an attempt to conquer.  Even with magic, we do not yet have the resources to make that attempt with hope of success.  From what the Estasi Order reports,” I said, nodding to Tyndal and Rondal, “Anthatiel has been transformed.

“Out of the ruin Korbal has constructed an entire compound of fortresses, workshops, prisons and laboratories.  He’s guarded by goblins, trolls, draugen and dragons.  Now wyverns have infested the place.  It will take an army to dislodge him, and even if we could repeat the feat of freezing the Poros and marching one there, the struggle would be mighty.”

“Raids tend to have a purpose,” Count Salgo observed.  “Unless you just get your jollies risking your life and spitting in Korbal’s soup.  What is the purpose of this raid, Minalan?” the old soldier asked.  It was a question, not a criticism.

“The purpose is twofold,” I said, thoughtfully.  “Two main purposes, anyway, with a number of smaller ones we can take advantage of.  The first is the rescue of Princess Rardine and any other prisoners of high importance.  Olum Seheri has been collecting people in a far more deliberate fashion than Sheruel.”

“Their strategy is to infiltrate, not merely invade,” Rondal spoke, for the first time.  “From what we saw on the island and what we’ve learned from the prisoners we rescued, Korbal intends on subverting society from within.  That’s why he is using his undead so liberally, because he wishes to use our own weaknesses against us.  He already has a substantial operation in southeastern Enultramar.  We barely escaped with our lives from a trap he set for Talented human magi.  Apparently, we make the best draugen and Nemovort hosts.”

“That doesn’t mean he isn’t geared for war,” Tyndal added.  “He has at least two legions of gurvani regulars, another of hobgoblins, about a hundred trolls.  And he’s adding draugen to his armies every hour, I expect.  Rardine was being held in one of the old ruined towers of Anthatiel that Korbal’s slaves are rebuilding.  Getting past all of that to get her is going to be challenging.”

“Which is why your team will be responsible for that,” I chuckled.  “I know how much you enjoy a challenge.  The other team, the one I will lead, will use the distraction of Rardine’s escape to penetrate the caverns under the city.  My goal is to get to the Ghost Rock vein and secure the enneagram of a long-dead creature known as the Handmaiden.”

“Why are you doing that, Baron?” asked Count Angrial, curiously.

“Because it’s the best chance I have to heal my wife,” I barked.  “And it’s my primary motivation for conducting this raid in the first place.  Once we secure the Handmaiden, our last goal is to keep Korbal from using the Ghost Rock himself.”

“How do you plan on doing that?” Pentandra asked.

“I’m still working on that,” I admitted.  “That’s why we’re having this planning meeting.  But denying Korbal use of the Ghost Rock would be a victory, perhaps a decisive one.  It was certainly his primary motivation for taking Anthatiel,” I pointed out.

“I have some ideas about that,” Aeratas nodded.  “I am the one most familiar with those chambers.”

“I expected you might.  We’ll meet separately about that.  But those are our main goals: Rardine, the Handmaiden, and Ghost Rock.

“Beyond that . . . our goal is to mess up anything that Korbal has invested in.  If he and Sheruel are preparing for another offensive, then he’ll be using Olum Seheri as a staging ground.  While we’re there, damaging their plans buys us time to prepare.”

“What about Sheruel?” Duke Anguin asked, concerned.  “I see the danger in Korbal, but he’s on the other side of the Land of Scars.  Sheruel has forces on my doorstep with legions.  And dragons,” he added.

“It’s a risk,” I admitted.  “But one that could be mitigated.”  A thought occurred to me.  “Your Grace, if the gurvani are preparing an offensive, then their human slaves will not only be important, but once it begins their fates are all but assured.  Perhaps if we used the raid as an opportunity to distract Sheruel and keep his attention elsewhere, the chance of success would increase.  Say, a sudden, concerted attack with the express goal of rescuing as many human slaves as we can.  The raid of liberation Pentandra mentioned you were considering.”

“Would that not violate the treaty?” Onranion asked.  He took more interest in human politics than most of his fellows.

“So did destroying my palace with dragonfire,” Anguin replied, his nostrils flaring.  “That treaty was a fiction from the moment of its inception, an attempt by my cousin to look regal.  I will not allow it to stand in the way of rescuing my subjects from slavery, torture, and death.”

“With the Third Commando augmenting our defenses around Vorone,” Salgo reasoned, “we would have enough men to strike at three or four of their largest camps.  We could rescue thousands,” he nodded, the idea appealing to the man.

“Let us think larger than that,” Ithalia counseled.  “We have several allies in the region that could coordinate attacks.  Nor would they have to be attacks in force – indeed, if done with guile and vigilance, small groups could affect a large liberation.  The gurvani depend on the terror of the slaves to keep them in line.  The horrific consequences for captured escapees is well-known, as is the disdain for which they are held by the gurvani.  As a result, the slave camps are comparatively lightly guarded.  Drawing off what troops are there with distractions and well-planned ruses would give us the opportunity to liberate thousands more.”

“The Iron Band will help,” I figured.  “And we have bases all along the edge of the Penumbra.  We’ll have to prepare for that many freed slaves arriving all at once, and take pains to ensure their security, but if Sheruel is busy contending with that, he’s unlikely to be able to send much aid to Korbal.  Indeed, such a strike might draw strength from Olum Seheri, if played right.”

“I think we can help with that,” Rondal volunteered.  “At least, in providing a force for doing it.  At the behest of our esteemed former master, Tyndal and I have been scouring the kingdom for volunteers, ostensibly a recruitment drive by the Estasi Order for more errants.

“But we’re using this as cover to train men for this mission,” he continued.  “With His Grace’s kind permission to use Timberwatch, which is now under Ducal control, as our camp, we plan on drilling the recruits this spring.  As well as a goodly number of mundane warriors,” he added, “to help strengthen the defense of the Wilderlands and teach them to fight in concert with warmagi.”

“We’re recruiting far more men than we’ll need,” Tyndal continued, smoothly.  “Our hope is to select the absolute best for Olum Seheri, but leave behind enough of the second-best to work with the Duchy.  I think a coordinated strike to liberate slaves sounds like an ideal final examination,” he pointed out.  “We can seed them clandestinely across the Penumbra, and have them strike as needed, according to plan.  That many warmagi working together with infantry troops could get a lot of people out of those camps.”

“Could we count on the Kasari for support, Lady Pentandra?” asked Carmella.

“The gurvani haven’t typically discriminated about the slaves they’ve taken,” Pentandra nodded.  “Though they are harder to capture than normal Wilderlands freeholders, the Kasari have lost hundreds to the slavers.  The good news is that they are harder to cow than Wilderlands peasants, and they have a tendency to escape with far more regularity.  Much of our intelligence on conditions in the camps comes from Kasari escapees.”

“Then the first phase of our raid should be the liberation of the Wilderlands slaves,” I announced.  “The second will be the rescue of Princess Rardine.  And the third will be the Ghost Rock.”

“And the fourth,” Prime Minister Angrial said, chuckling mirthlessly, “will be to rebuild in the aftermath.  Again,” he emphasized.  “Your Grace, while I agree Baron Minalan makes some compelling arguments, I would be remiss if I did not point out the potential for disaster, here.”

“Your concerns are noted, Angrial,” Anguin said, soberly.  “But I feel that the potential gains, weighed against those risks, are rich enough to warrant a try.  Therefore, I grant permission for this expedition . . . on one condition.”

“And that is, Your Grace?” I asked.

“I’m going,” he stated, flatly.  “I will be included in the rescue party.”

That produced an explosion of murmuring from around the room.  Anguin didn’t allow the initiative of his statement to slip away, but compounded it.  “This threat is to my realm.  It is my cousin who is held hostage, in my own lands.  It is my duty to see to her rescue and to see for myself the festering sore that overlooks the only route connecting the Wilderlands to Enultramar.”

“Your Grace!  I beg you to reconsider!” Count Angrial said, alarmed.

“My Duke, you have many brave and resolute—” Count Salgo began, almost as alarmed.

“Enough!” Anguin said, as Pentandra began to add her own concerns.  To his credit, his advisors ceased speaking at once.  He might still be a teenager, but Anguin had mastered at least part of the art of command.

“I understand the dangers.  They do not need to be listed.  I understand the consequences if I fall on the quest, or – even worse – am captured myself.  I even understand the risks to my life and the duchy.  And even the success of the mission, by including me.

“But I have weighed all of those factors, and it is my decision that I will, indeed, undertake this quest.  I need not command it, but I will participate, particularly in the rescue of my cousin.”

“The baronies,” Pentandra said, coming to a realization.  “You want the two Gilmoran baronies!”

Also to his credit, Anguin did not demure.  “Indeed.  If I, not another man, lays claim to that reward, then I will have control of three baronies in rich Gilmora.  That is not an insignificant revenue.  One of which my realm is in dire need.”

“You really think that Rard is going to give an Alshari duke two baronies in Gilmora?” Carmella asked.  “That would be enough for a third of the nobles to rebel in favor of a restoration!”

“We are a kingdom, now,” Anguin said, sagely, “not merely feuding duchies.  While it will, alas, technically make me a vassal of my cousin Tavard, that’s inevitable at this point, anyway.  But laying claim fairly to them by returning Rardine home would force Rard to grant them to me, before Tavard someday ascends the throne.”

“It’s a shrewd move,” chuckled Onranion.  “Assuming you can trust Rard to keep his word.”

“If he didn’t, the Alka Alon counsel would rethink their alliance with him,” Aeratas suggested.

“If he didn’t, he’d have rebellion from his other vassals,” Pentandra snorted.  “You don’t go around making grand promises and then breaking them, if you’re a king.  The Lawfathers don’t like that sort of thing.”

“He could not afford alienating me, in any case,” Anguin shrugged.  “He needs me.  Especially if one of the Five Counts of the rebellion tries proclaiming himself Duke, which they will likely do soon.  Especially in the face of a farce of an invasion from Castal,” he added, ruefully.

“It does make you important, but not indispensable,” Angrial pointed out.  “And while your ambitions are a credit to your house, I beg Your Grace to reconsider!”

“If I am to claim the reward, it will be because it was my hands that broke her fetters,” Anguin insisted.  “Honor demands it.  I can fight,” he assured me.  “I’ve been studying the art further with my . . . new bodyguard,” he said, tactfully.  There was a story there, I knew – I’d have to get Pentandra to fill me in.  “I am not a great warrior, but I can defend myself.  I can even attack.  And I can follow orders.  But it must be me who rescues Rardine, or there is no raid.”

“I defer to the wishes of Your Grace,” I nodded.  I had a hundred other reasons prepared to argue against it, but I could tell when Anguin was committed.  If he wanted to risk his life – and potentially his duchy – on this mad quest, then I would not disagree.  Damn it, I needed this to happen.  And I needed him to make it happen smoothly.

“Then it is settled,” he nodded, satisfied.  “I will be among the rescue party.  While my men are busy rescuing my subjects.  And Master Minalan will be doing . . .”

“Wizard stuff,” I supplied.  It was just easier than explaining precisely what I was doing and why.  “Important wizard stuff.”

“Then I defer to the wisdom of the Spellmonger,” Anguin nodded.  “Who shall lead us, then?”

“I would like to make Tyndal and Rondal in charge of both preparation and planning of the rescue of Rardine,” I suggested.  “I will lead the foray into the undercaverns.  And . . . Lady Pentandra?  I know you are headed for bedrest,” I said, nodding to her increasingly growing belly, “but much of this can be done with magic.  Would you coordinate the rescue of the slaves?  Since it will be in your garden, so to speak, you seem best prepared to coordinate intelligence, magic, and troops as needed.”

“In all of my free time?” she complained.  “You do realize that I’m a busy Court Wizard?”

“With a full staff,” I pointed out.  “And you do know how to delegate,” I reminded her.

“Yes, of course I’ll coordinate,” she said, rolling her eyes.  “Particularly on the intelligence of the matter.  We’re going to have to scout the area thoroughly before we move.  The Kasari have had ranger outposts in the Land of Scars for years.  Though they’ve evacuated them, they know the territory.  I think I might be able to persuade them to act on our behalf.”

“When do you think all of this will happen, Baron?” asked Angrial, politely.

“No sooner than Midsummer, no later than harvest,” I decided.  “Much will depend upon that intelligence Pentandra spoke of.  But the sooner, the better, to my mind.  Every day we delay is an opportunity for Korbal to discover what a true prize he has in Rardine, and I despair that her life and her mind is endangered.”

“We shall plan on Midsummer, then,” Pentandra decided.  “Let us see to our men, our plans, and our equipage until then.  And keep this matter as the utmost secret,” she reminded.  “The Estasi Order, and our two errants’ quest for companionship, should be enough to conceal much of our preparations, but we’ll need cover for the liberation raids,” she said, getting a far-away look in her eye.  “And then we’ll need to feed, clothe, and house any slaves . . .”

“See why I picked you?” I pointed out, triumphantly.  “You think of that sort of thing.  If you can coordinate the Wilderlands phase of the plan, we can plan the other two phases.”

“If I don’t happen to be giving birth at the time,” she said, shaking her head.  “You realize that I’ll be in labor around then?  With triplets?”

“By which time you’ll have everything long organized,” I soothed.  “And no one will even suspect a pregnant courtier of planning something like a sudden, secret campaign of liberation.”

“Or the quiet murder of her long-term friend the Spellmonger,” she teased, her eyes narrowed.

“Exactly,” I agreed.  “You’ll be above suspicion.  But you’re also the one best-suited to coordinate between the Iron Band, Alshari locals, the Kasari, and the Third Commando.  And well-located to do so.”

More importantly, her pregnancy, as inconvenient as it was for our plans, would keep Pentandra from accompanying us.  She was my best hope of continuing the reforms I’d started, should I not return from Olum Seheri.  I wanted her safe from both harm and political accountability, should the quest fail.

“I think that’s the bell for luncheon,” Carmella announced, a moment later, when a loud bronze bell was struck.  “If no one objects, I think we understand what the goals of the plan are.  We know our basic roles are to be, and how to prepare for them.  We have a staging ground in Timberwatch.  I propose we reconvene in a month and discuss our progress.”

“I concur,” nodded Anguin.  “I will start working even more diligently with my bodyguard to prepare myself.  And I will take steps to ensure that there are adequate troops available to execute a liberation – even if I have to hire mercenaries to support our defense.  I can afford that, now,” he added, glancing toward my former apprentices.

“It’s a calculated risk, but one that could add thousands of subjects to my lands and two new baronies to my legacy.  If I can send other men into danger to fight and die on my behalf, the least I can do is face the same danger myself.”

Chapter Eighteen

The Tale Of The Dwarves

“Here,” the Dradrien said, offering me a sheaf of parchment.  “This is what we remember about the denardsark Uncle Suhi was working on.  This is, this part, is made of tirel,” he explained, using the first of many Dradrien terms I was unfamiliar with.

“Very hard to make, very hard.  Steel, you start with steel . . . but it is harder than steel.  Magic,” he said, and then repeated it with more emphasis.  “Magic!  Very powerful.  This ring, this is made of koghul, not good, not good,” he said, shaking his head.  “This ring, this is gravel, not so hard to make, but so much!  Never so much for one sark!  And this . . . this only Uncle Suhi can make.  This is why they take him.  Varpetykel.  The metal must be sung, to forge it, in the hottest of fires.  Special flux,” he added.

“What does it do?” I asked, mystified.

After returning to Sevendor from Anguin’s Tower and the day-long council, I found one of the Dradrien, Jarn, waiting for me impatiently in my tower.  Sire Cei agreed to let him meet me there, after he’d been escorted through the back ways of the Westwood from the headquarters of the Estasi Order by Sir Ganulan. He’d brought with him a sheaf of parchment full of notes he and his fellows had made in the weeks since their liberation, detailing the experience in pictures, diagrams, and a few crude words.

“It’s . . . very bad,” the Iron Folk said, his eyes expressive.

“Yes, but what does it do?  What does any of it do?” I demanded, as I tapped my finger on the strange diagram.  I could not fault Jarn for his renderings.  They were neatly done, with a great deal of precision in their execution and incredible attention to detail.

But I could not figure out, from what they presented, just what Korbal was working on.  It seemed to be some sort of oversized metal staff with an oversized head on one end, but it was clearly not designed for its aesthetics.

The widely-spaced protrusions were at once elegant and brutal, with gentle curves in places and wildly jagged elements in others.  There was a mechanical hinge involved. It looked almost like a kind of sea axe with the head twisted off and put on backwards, or something.  Parts of the head moved, while parts were decidedly stationary.  Mechanically, it seemed simple . . . but I could think of no particular use for it, either magical or mundane.

Unless it was some sort of ingenious new torture device, part of my mind considered.  If you stuck that end someplace uncomfortable, and then twisted that part, releasing . . . no, I decided.  It was not an ingenious new torture device.

But I had no real idea what it was or what it did.

Jarn leaned back in his chair and gave me a steady and thoughtful look.

“Don’t know,” he finally admitted.  “We only helped with shaft, before Uncle Suhi got stubborn.  Then they throw us into cell,” he sighed.

“But . . . do you have any ideas?”

“Death magic?” he shrugged.  “Necromancy.  High priority project,” he assured.  “Highest.  More than weapons for Nemovorti.  More than weapons for draugen.  Only one other was as important.  Suit of armor,” he revealed.

“A . . . suit of armor?”

Jarn shuffled through his notes and showed me the drawing – done in a different hand, I noted.  It was a bizarre fusion of traditional Alka Alon designs and a stark, savage aesthetic all its own.  It covered the entire body, from the sharply-pointed grieves all the way up to the massive helmet, covered in jagged protrusions.  It was beautiful and ghastly at the same time.  It was also huge, if the Alon Dradrien figure drawn next to it for scale was any indication.  At least seven feet tall.

“This,” he said, hoarsely.  “This is made mostly of ankotrum, very hard,” he sighed.  “Like steel, only lighter.  Harder.  Only Dradrien can make,” he said, proudly.  “For Korbal.  New body,” he emphasized.

“Korbal can change his body?” Sire Cei asked, surprised.

“He was without a body for a thousand years,” I pointed out.  “The one he’s using now is apparently a very large human, and degrading rapidly.  Taren theorizes that his Enshadowed disciples have been using transgenic enchantment to build a better host body.  Probably out of an Alka Alon, even though from what I understand the implantation process is more difficult.  That way he’ll be able to use human or Alkan magic.  In addition to necromancy.”

“What disturbs me about it is the implication,” Sire Cei pointed out, tapping the sketch of the armor.  “A man only invests in such a panoply if he intends to use it on the battlefield.”

“That does not bode well,” I agreed.  “Especially if he’s armed with this . . . whatever it is,” I said, pointing to the original device.  “It looks like some sort of hook or something.  But this spring,” I said, tracing the coiled line under . . . was that a spike?  “I don’t know,” I admitted.  “But I don’t like it.”

“No, is not good,” Jarn agreed.  “Not good.  We need to stop it.”

“I’m working on it,” I assured him.  “He’s a threat to us all.  I’m hoping to raid the place and rescue the prisoners,” I said.  I hadn’t been planning on adding an Alon Dradrien to the mission, but if Korbal wanted to build this thing, I wanted to destroy it.  And keep him from building another one.  Which meant relieving him of his expert help.  From what Tyndal told me, the Dradrien master smith was being kept with the other high-value prisoners in Olum Seheri.

“We will help,” Jarn offered, excitedly.  “You get Uncle Suhi, we will help all we can.”

“What can you do to help?” Sire Cei asked.  “These drawings are lovely, but what else can you do?”

“Make weapons,” Jarn suggested.

“We have weapons,” Sire Cei said, drawing his cavalry blade.  Jarn took one look at the long, slender weapon, finely balanced and polished to a mirror finish, and burst into laughter.

“No, no, no!” he chuckled.  “Real weapons.  Strong!  Sharp!  Deadly!”

“I assure you, Master Dwarf, this blade is strong, sharp, and deadly enough, in my hands,” my castellan sniffed.

“It is a sharp stick,” Jarn dismissed.  “Poor metal, low carbon.  Single alloy.  Not even pattern welded!  Good for killing chickens,” he suggested with a sneer.

“And other—”

“Now, Sire Cei, hold your temper,” I said, putting a hand on his wrist.  I doubt he would have slain the Dradrien smith out-of-hand.  Cei has more control than that.  I didn’t doubt he would threaten to slay the Dradrien out-of-hand.  He’s perfectly capable of that.

“Our guest clearly has a much better idea of smithing than we – let us not dismiss his opinions out of resentment.  Indeed, let us challenge him.”  I turned back to Jarn.  “My friend here has the power to transform magical energy into kinetic force – useful for a warrior.  But when he does it with a sword, well, they inevitably break.  Could you fashion a blade that wouldn’t?” I proposed.  “I think such a thing is beyond even the Dradrien, but . . .”

“Need a forge, stock, tools,” he listed, “Will take a few weeks.”

“Can you make it a human-style mageblade?” I asked.

“Steel is steel,” he shrugged.  “You want steel with kakhardel?  We make you kakhardel steel.  Easy.  Need a few things, but easy.”

“If I let you work with a human smith, a magical smith, could you teach him?  And learn the style of our weapons?”

“Oh, yes, yes, very easy,” Jarn agreed, stroking his beard.  “Ten years’ service.  Whatever you need,” he smiled.  It wasn’t a pretty expression, on him.

“Then we’ll take him to Master Cormoran?” Sire Cei asked.

“Yes, in Tudry.  Or the manor outside of Tudry where Cormoran has his current workshop.  He’s planning on establishing a permanent forge in that settlement Pentandra is building around the Anvil, but until then that’s where he’s working.  If we can get them out there, then that will prevent any unfortunate issues with the Karshak.  They aren’t fond of the Dradrien.  And they’re already upset enough that Carmella is hiring Rumel’s folk,” I added.

“Really?  Why?” Sire Cei asked, surprised.  “His clansmen did the finishing work in the Gatehouse – really quality work.”  Sire Cei had cultivated a good relationship with the Karshak lodge since they’d arrived.  Once he’d adjusted to their customs, he found them a steadfast and honorable folk.  But that was only part of the story.

“Ah, but the Wood Dwarves are only Karshak by association, apparently.  Master Azhguri and I spoke at length about it, after our council at Anguin’s Tower.  He was steamed when he saw the ‘false lodge’, the hall that Rumel’s folk built there.  He says it’s against custom for the Wood Dwarves to work on projects without Karshak oversight.  Or something like that – it was a little confusing.  But he was not happy about it.  Wood dwarves aren’t supposed to work with stone.  That’s for the real Karshak.”

That sparked a jarring, derisive laugh from Jarn.  “Karshak!  Stoneheads!  Can’t even keep the Sootybeards in line!”

“Sootybeards?”

“Malkas Alon,” Jarn explained.  “Karshak Alon have three clans of the seven: Karshak, the masons.  Brangok Alon, the jewelers – rich bastards!  And then the Malkas Alon.  Wood Dwarves.  Petty Dwarves, the humani call them, beyond the Mindens.  Live almost like humani or Tal Alon,” he snorted, derisively.  “Farmers.  Woodcutters.  Carpenters.  Charcoal burners,” he said, as if that was the worst fate in the world.

“Well, not everyone can be Dradrien,” Sire Cei said, dryly.

“Truth,” Jarn said, missing the sarcasm.  “Dradrien use Sootybeards, sometimes, if no Rudak Alon are around.  Rudak are miners,” he explained.  “Useful, but stupid.  Good refiners, some houses,” he grudgingly admitted.  “Alon Dradrien has three clans of seven.  Dradrien, Rudak Alon, and Izluk Alon.  Prospectors,” he supplied.  “Agarth is Izluk.  Married sister.  Can smell metal,” he informed me.

“So . . . the Karshak Alon have three clans, and the Alon Dradrien have three clans?  But there are seven clans?” Sire Cei asked.  “What is the seventh?”

Jarn screwed up his face in thought.  “We rarely speak of them.  Kilnusk Alon.”

“And what do they do?”

“Rule,” Jarn said, with a wince.  “And fight.”

“The Karshak have warriors?” Sire Cei asked, even more surprised.  “They have always seemed so peaceful!  Gruff and cantankerous, certainly, and stubborn.  But not violent.”

“Kilnusk Alon ruled all clans, in ancient times,” Jarn explained, struggling for the words.  His Narasi was improving dramatically, the more time he spent with human folk, but he still lacked a lot of vocabulary.  “Lords of every clan.  Protectors.

“But when Alka Alon wars came, some Kilnusk betrayed Karshak and Dradrien.  Involved us in wars, not protecting.  In great council, strongest clans, Karshak and Dradrien, reject Kilnusk, send them into exile.  We rule ourselves now,” he said, proudly.

“I had no idea,” I confessed.  I knew that the Alka Alon kindreds in the Five Duchies had used gurvani as soldiers, in violation of custom, but this was the first I’d heard of the Karshak’s history.  Or the Kilnusk clan.  “I take it that’s about the time that the Karshak built lost Angrenost.”

“All clans build secret strongholds,” Jarn nodded.  “Angrenost.  Gelez-nagu.  Giliavir.  When Kilnusk exiled, clans scattered and hid.”

“I’m still wondering why all of the other Dwarven clans are named first, and then appended with ‘Alon’.  All save the Alon Dradrien,” Sire Cei asked.  Really, that was the last question on my mind.

“Dradrien are special,” shrugged Jarn.

“Well, yes, that makes sense,” I lied.  “Thank you, Jarn.  I’ll send word when we’re ready to transport you and your friends to a friendlier place.”

The dark-haired dwarf nodded, and turned to go – but then stopped.  “Thank you, humani,” he said, hoarsely, his big eyes filled with gratitude.  “Thank you for saving us.  Thank you for saving Uncle Suhi.”

“Well, that was productive,” Sire Cei sighed, when the Dradrien smith left.  “While I feel I have a much better understanding of the inter-tribal politics of the Karshak, we still don’t really know what Korbal has the Dradrien working on.”

“Just that it’s a suit of armor for a really big body, and a contraption that looks suitable for dentistry on a dragon,” I sighed, rubbing my eyes tiredly.  “I suppose the good news is that you’ll likely get a new sword out of this.”

My conversations with the Dradrien smiths were difficult, but earnest.  My conversations with Master Guri were just as difficult, but for entirely different reasons.  But I felt compelled to verify some of what I’d learned from Jarn, and I owed Guri a visit, anyway.  His entire attitude changed when I mentioned the Iron Folk smiths.

“You know if the Dradrien are involved, there’s dark magic afoot,” the master builder insisted, when I visited him in his lodge later that day.

“Well, they were kidnapped by an evil necromancer,” I pointed out, as he poured me a mug of ale from a thick earthenware jug.  “I figured there would be some dark magic involved.”

“That’s not what I mean, Min,” Guri sighed, taking a seat.  “The Dradrien are . . . unique among my race.  My people have a reputation for greed, and it’s true that we value a fair price for our labors.  But when you speak of the Dradrien clans, that’s when true avarice appears.

“My folk are generally pretty reasonable.  But when Dradrien decide they want to do something, they’re committed.  Obsessed, even.  They don’t have the same ethical positions as Karshak do.  I mean, not all of them,” he said, hurriedly.  “Most Dradrien are pretty decent blokes, individually.  But when they get that lust for wealth . . . well, they become infatuated with it. To the exclusion of all else.  The Karshak value wealth honestly gained from the sweat of our brow.  The Dradrien just . . . take.”

“What about this other clan, the rulers?  The Kilnusk?”

Guri shook his head and whistled a long, low note.  “That’s not something we talk about much with outsiders.  What did they tell you?” he asked, cocking one enormously bushy eyebrow in curiosity.

“That the Kilnusk clan was the warrior caste, leaders and protectors,” I supplied.

“Well, that’s true enough, as far as it goes,” Guri agreed, reluctantly.  “But there’s more to it than that.”  The master mason gave me a thoughtful, searching look.  “I suppose there’s no harm telling you,” he finally decided, “you being who you are, and all.  Might even help, I suppose.”

“I appreciate your confidence,” I nodded.  “And I assure you of my discretion.”

“Which is the only reason I’d consider discussing such matters.  You’re a good egg, Min,” he decided.  “Even as a client.  You treat everyone fair, and you pay out on time.  And your ale is good,” he added, pouring us each another mug.

“It used to be that every other clan had a family of Kilnusk it looked to – they didn’t exactly rule, at least not over most of the Karshak, but they tried to, sometimes.  Some of them were good folk, strong leaders who did their jobs and kept danger at bay while we worked.  Others . . . well, some became downright lordly.  Especially the Kilnusk who ruled the Dradrien.

“You see, the Dradrien clans who mine and smelt and such, they became rich.  Nature of the work,” he grudgingly admitted.  “Lot easier to just haul gold and silver out of a hole than it is to earn it with your craft.  When those clans prospered, the Kilnusk who ruled them prospered, too.  And the one thing you can say about the Kilnusk, apart from their bravery and strength, is that they share the Dradrien’s love of owning.  They aren’t makers,” he stressed, as if that was a crime.  “They don’t make anything, they just enjoyed owning things.”

“And that caused problems,” I prompted.

“Oh, it did indeed,” Guri said, taking a long pull on his mug.  “The tale goes that the Kilnusk lords of the Dradrien clans tried to bargain with the various Alka Alon factions, during the Warring States period,” he explained.  “At first it was just for weapons – the Dradrien are fiendishly clever at building magical weapons, and the Alka Alon princes competed with each other for more and more elaborate tools of destruction.

“They made the Dradrien rich.  And the Karshak,” he admitted.  “We built a lot of their fortresses, back then.  But it takes years to build a fortress. The Dradrien were building weapons in months, and trading them at high cost to all sides.

“That was bad enough – but then some of the Kilnusk lords started getting involved directly.  The ones dealing with the Enshadowed and that lot started actually fighting for them.  That’s wrong,” he stressed.  “Our folk are supposed to be neutral in such conflicts, but that didn’t stop the Kilnusk and the Dradrien.

“When they started trying to impress the Karshak clans into service as warriors, we rebelled.  Our Kilnusk protectors tried to command us, and we revolted.  Oh, we fought – in defense of our lodges and our mansions.  But we would not fight at the command of our Kilnusk, despite ancient custom to do so.”

“And so they held a great council of all the clans,” I guessed.

“Eventually, but not before hundreds, thousands had perished in the conflicts,” he sighed, sadly.  “Brilliant craftsmen, slaughtered like common infantry in stupid battles.  Entire families and lines extinguished.  The Dradrien began conducting raids to compel the commands of the Kilnusk, but we resisted.

“Eventually, when the Karshak revolted, they did hold a great council.  That’s when the clans split.  We took in the Brangok and the Malkas, the former because they’re dedicated craftsmen and the latter because they’re useful, and the Dradrien took the Rudak and Izluk clans under their wing.  Prospectors and miners, naturally.”

“And the Kilnusk?”

“By that point, everyone was pissed at the Kilnusk,” Guri reported with some amusement.  “Pretentious pricks, the Kilnusk.  Like that Prince of yours.  They tried to tell us all how we should act, with them as our kings, but they couldn’t rightly explain why that should be.

“Ancient custom only takes you so far, when your folk are getting slaughtered, especially when they’re the ones supposed to be protecting you.  The only thing the two factions could agree on was that we were done with the Kilnusk.  We voted to exile the entire clan to the far north and repudiate their leadership.  After that, we chose our own kings,” he said, proudly.

“How did that work out?”

“Pretty well, for a few centuries.  Everything was in the chamberpot, back then, once Castabriel fell and shattered the Alka Alon’s civilization.  The Dradrien had a hand in that,” he added.  “There were dragons loose, the gurvani were revolting, the Enshadowed were still stirring up trouble, and without the Kilnusk to contain them, the Dradrien started raiding the other clans.

“They tried to dominate, to replace the Kilnusk, some of them,” he said, sourly.  “There were five families in particular that pushed to control all of my folk, and they didn’t mind getting their hands bloody to do it.  That’s about the time my ancestors built Angrenost, and other hidden fortresses.  Dark times,” he added, unnecessarily.

“So why did you abandon them?”

“Because while it’s fun to build something magnificent for yourself,” Guri admitted, “after a while your folk start going stone crazy with nothing to do.  The Dradrien got their asses handed to them by one of the Alka Alon factions they were dealing with, and withdrew to their own mansions.  The Kilnusk were all but gone.  No one was building anymore, with the Alka going back to living in trees, and you can’t make a living in a hole trading rocks back and forth to each other.  We had to work . . . even if it was for, uh, the newcomers,” he said, attempting to be tactful.

“Well, I appreciate your open-mindedness,” I chuckled.

“Eventually we started leaving our mansions in pursuit of work.  And wives,” he added.  “Mostly we marry within our clans, but sometimes we go outside, for love.  A few generations marrying each other’s cousins . . . well, I’m sure you can see why we left.”

“So how did it become lost?  Angrenost?”

“Oh!  Well, eventually it was just one or two families left there, for a few decades, but without much work to go around a lot of our folk lost touch.   Been more than a century since anyone heard tale of the place.  And no one who knows how to find its secret entrances lives, anymore,” he added, sadly.  “It’s always been my hope to re-discover it, someday, and see the craft of my ancestors from when they worked to please no one but themselves.”

“I see,” appreciating the impulse.  If I had an opportunity to see Perwyn at its height, I’d jump at it.  “So . . . can you explain the attitudes of your folk to Rumel’s?” I asked, trying not to offend.

“Oh, well, the Malkas Alon . . . we’ve always worked closely with them, the poor bastards.  You people call them the Wood Dwarves, and that’s apt; they breed more prolifically than us true Karshak, but they don’t live as long.  A bit lazy, by reputation.  And of course not as strong as us Karshak.  But we’ve always looked out for them,” he added, in a conciliatory tone.  “Some of them can be trained up decently.  But to let them build in stone?  On their own?” he asked, shaking his head in wonder.  “That’s unheard of.  If you need a hut or shed, call a Malkas.  If you want a fortress, you call the Karshak,” he said, as if quoting holy writ.

“So it’s more custom than law,” I observed.

“Well, back in the old days the Kilnusk regulated such things.  Every clan had their place, and they kept order.  Wouldn’t let some clans intermarry,” he added, a little nervously.  “Big believers in keeping the lines pure.  When the Kilnusk were kicked out, some clans started getting . . . unbearably ambitious.  For the Dradrien, they had problems with the Rudak.  The smiths have always looked down on the miners, and the miners have always resented the smiths who profit from their labor.  A lot of Rudak feel they can forge as well as the Dradrien.”

“Can they?”

“They do good work, the few I’ve met,” Guri conceded.  “Better than Karshak smiths.  Far better than human smiths,” he added, not wasting the opportunity to sneer at humanity.  I didn’t take it personally.  “But not up to Dradrien standards, and so they punished those Rudak who tried to change their stars.

“The Malkas, on the other hand . . . well, when we went into hiding, the little bastards started breeding like rabbits.  Some even took up farming,” he said with a shudder.  “Hells, Min, the first time I saw a Malkas settlement, it . . . it could have been a human settlement!” he said, scandalized.  “I’m an open-minded bloke – hells, I can work with nearly anyone – but when I saw the Malkas tots rolling around in the mud and dirt, eking out a marginal existence without hope of a real job, I . . . I just had to take them on, Min.  They’re good folk, they are, but . . . well, without direction, they’re content to live in squalor,” he pronounced.

“Rumel seems to do all right,” I pointed out, cautiously.

“He’s a good lad,” Guri agreed, reluctantly.  “His dad is one of the clan elders, and he’s worked with my grandfather before.  Rumel’s smarter than most Malkas.  Good at what he does, none better.  But he’s . . . uppity.  Thinks he can work stone as well as a true Karshak.  He should stick to scaffolding and trim work,” he advised.  “Play to his strengths.”

“He’s ambitious,” I countered.  “He’s willing to work on jobs that the Karshak aren’t.”

“Undercutting our wages and diluting the market with substandard work,” Guri replied, stubbornly.  “It doesn’t matter to you humans – a dwarf is a dwarf to your fuzzy eyes.  But when Rumel’s folk try passing off their ham-handed attempts at stonework as real Karshak make, it makes us look bad!” he said, offended.

“I don’t think anyone could mistake what Rumel is doing in the Wilderlands for what you’re doing here in Sevendor,” I soothed.

“Oh, you’d think,” he replied, sourly.  “But you’d be surprised.  Sure, it might look pretty on the outside, to your primitive eye, but once that pile of rocks is finished a stiff wind will knock it down,” he predicted.

“It’s a rush job in a combat zone, done on a budget,” I pointed out.  “Not something a real lodge would be willing to touch, I suspect.”

“Well, you’re right about that,” he muttered.  “We don’t aim to build things just to see them fall down right after.  That takes time.  And gold,” he added.  “If Rumel’s folk are willing to work for pennies . . .”

“Carmella tells me that most of his clan has been released from your service.  This keeps their skills fresh,” I persuaded.

“Well, we have most of the timber we need for scaffolding and such,” he admitted.  “We only need a few crews for finish work, and maintenance.  But they were well-paid for their service,” he added, defensively.

“No one is arguing that.  But if they aren’t under contract to your lodge anymore, why object to them hiring out to others?”

“Because it just isn’t right!” Guri insisted.  “The Malkas aren’t builders!  They’re woodcutters and charcoal burners!” he said, derisively.  “Clowns and buffoons!”

“Well, those clowns and buffoons are putting up a castle faster than any ever built in the Wilderlands,” I explained calmly.  “And while I know it isn’t up to the standards of the real Karshak, under the circumstances I would appreciate any forbearance your folk could show to Rumel’s clan on the matter.  I need a castle in Vorone sufficient to protect the people there from the possibility of a sudden goblin attack – a possibility that grows ever passing day.”

“Well, he’s working with that humani mage, Carmella,” Guri reminded himself.  “That’s unusual enough.  I admit, I’ve learned a thing or two working with your folk.  And the Malkas have always had a reputation for being . . . odd.

“I suppose, since it’s an emergency, and no one in their right mind is going to mistake it for actual Karshak workmanship, I can persuade the lodge elders to lay off.  For now.  But this is a bad precedent, Min,” he warned, shaking his shaggy head.  “Once you start mucking around with the natural order of things, it never goes well.”

I didn’t comment.  The same argument had been used against me and my profession to keep us divided and powerless.  I’d broken that chain when I supported Rard, and he in turn expelled the Censorate from the kingdom.  I could see the same kind of chains binding Rumel and the Wood Dwarves.

While Guri’s folk had hidden themselves in deep underground fortresses, Rumel’s had lived on the surface, subject to the chaos that ruled in the aftermath of the Alka wars . . . only to find themselves relegated to subsidiary status, when the true Karshak emerged.

I was sympathetic with Rumel, for that reason.  Whatever ancient traditions tried to hold him back, from what Carmella had shared with me he was an adept builder and engineer, the finest she’d ever worked with.

His clan was hard-working, industrious, and ingenious . . . and they didn’t have the same arrogant attitudes toward working with humanity that the Karshak did.  They were also cheaper, a particularly important factor for Anguin’s cash-strapped duchy.

But I didn’t want to alienate the Karshak, either.  Particularly if I was working with the Dradrien, too.  Now that I had a better idea of the politics of the strange species of Alon, perhaps I could keep my various dwarves from killing each other.

Chapter Nineteen

The Wounded Falcon and the Creeping Shadow

When I returned to Sevendor that evening, I had a visitor I didn’t expect: Dara.

My apprentice had excelled in her studies in the last few years, enhancing her knowledge of Imperial magic through her interactions with Lady Ithalia on the giant hawk project, and adding a breadth of experience to her native skills as a Beastmaster.

She read and wrote fluently, now, and had adapted to her position as ennobled magelord and ruler of her family’s estate with grace and poise.  She was, perhaps, the third-most admired noble in the barony, after myself and the Dragonslayer.

But she was in tears, as she stood in my tower’s social room.

“What happened to Gareth?” she demanded, without preamble.

“He . . . left Sevendor,” I explained, quietly, as I shut the door.

“Why?” she demanded.

“You’d have to ask him,” I said, gently.  “That’s not my news to share.  But I’m certain that you can make an astute guess.”

“You didn’t send him away?”

“His resignation from his duties came as a complete surprise,” I admitted.  “But he has his reasons.”

“It’s because of me, isn’t it?” she asked, tears streaming down her face.

“Again, that’s not for me to discuss.  He asked for discretion, and I feel honor bound to grant it.  I hope you understand.”

“No, no I don’t understand!  I don’t understand any of this!” she nearly yelled.  “One day, things are fine, and everyone is getting along!  The next . . .”

“Perhaps something happened to change things?” I suggested, as I conjured some wine.  The girl needed a drink, before she became overwrought.

Dara nodded, then took a deep breath.

“He . . . Gareth came to me in the Mewstower, the night of the Prince’s visit,” she explained through her sobs, as she accepted the goblet I gave her.  “I was busy, hosting the baron and his party, and I was speaking to Nattia, but I gave him a few moments.  He . . . he asked me if I loved him.  I told him I valued his friendship above all things.  He pressed the matter.  I . . . I told him that he was among my most stalwart, best friends.  I was frustrated and annoyed,” she confessed, “as I had duties to attend to, but he insisted that he needed an answer.”

“So, what did you tell him?”

“I . . . I told him that I . . . I was fond of him, but I saw . . . no future in romance between us,” she coughed out.  “That my heart was not invested in him.”

“Well, that might explain his sudden departure,” I agreed, a few things from our brief, tense conversation becoming clearer.  “You do realize that he would have quit Sevendor long ago, if he had not held out hope for your heart?”

“That’s what he said!” she almost screamed.

“In fact,” I continued, apologetically, “he put himself in grave danger last summer, helping Tyndal and Rondal in Enultramar, purely in an effort to attract your attention.”

“I never asked him to do that!” she fumed.

“Of course you didn’t.  But that attempt . . . failed,” I said, as objectively as possible.  “I’m sure the boy wanted the assurance that his efforts were not in vain before he made any further decisions.”  I knew it was small comfort to my sobbing apprentice, but she needed to understand the truth.  “When you did not return his affections after all he has done to impress you, and you told him in certain terms that it was a fruitless endeavor, what did you expect him to do?”

“No just pack up and leave! He won’t respond to me, mind-to-mind, and I have no idea where he is!”

“He’s the one who figured out how to use the Alkan Ways, on his own,” I reminded her.  “I doubt he’s lingering near Sevendor.  Or even in the Riverlands.”

“So where did he go?  I need to talk to him!”

“And say what?” I asked.  “That you’ve changed your mind?  That you’ve found love in your heart in his absence that his presence could not produce?” I suggested.

“That he doesn’t have to run away from me, just because I’m not in love with him!”

“Clearly, he feels differently about that,” I pointed out.  “Asking a man with a broken heart to be proximate to the one who broke it . . . that seems a cruel request, Dara.”

“But I didn’t mean to break his heart!  Now everyone thinks I drove him away!  Banamor is pissed with me, Sire Cei isn’t happy that he’s lost one of his best aides, and the enchanters in town all hate me!  Nattia isn’t even speaking to me!  She thinks I was unfair to him!”

“You may not have meant to do it, but it is done.  Gareth is a very, very smart man, Dara.  He’s one of the most intuitive thaumaturges I know, and a brilliant enchanter.  He’s as determined as Azar when it comes to achieving what he wants.  And when he learns that what he wants he cannot have, he's smart enough to know that lingering in your shadow, pining for what cannot be, is a torture he cannot bear.”

“But I hold his friendship in the highest esteem!” she protested.  “He was instrumental in the hawk project!  He’s been a constant help to me, and come to my aid faithfully!”

“Did you think he did that out of the goodness of his heart?” I felt compelled to ask.  “Oh, he’s a wholesome and worthy lad, don’t mistake me.  But if you don’t return his affections, then continuing to be at your call is . . . well, it’s humiliating, Dara.  Especially when you have other suitors you hold in more favor, nearby.”

“What do you mean, other suitors?” she demanded.  Teenage girls are very demanding.  Ask the youngest brother of five older sisters, if you doubt me.

“One doesn’t have to be a mage to see the growing bond of affection between you and Sir Festaran, who named you queen of his victory,” I observed

“I hold Sir Festaran’s friendship just as dearly as I hold Gareth’s!” she insisted, defiantly.

“Yet when pressed, you gave Gareth the answer in your heart.  Had it been Sir Fes, I would wager that your answer may have been different.”

“You don’t know that!”

“It’s an astute guess,” I countered.  “You look at Festaran a very different way than you look at Gareth.  You speak of Fes differently than you speak of Gareth.  But because it was Gareth who challenged your heart first, you provided him with the answer.”

“Why can’t he find another girl?  Another girl in Sevendor?” she asked, tearfully.  “He didn’t have to leave!”

“Would you have felt bad, had you seen him with another girl?” I asked, curious.

“No!  Why, I’d be happy for him!”

“Exactly.  Which would confirm for him that you harbored no affection for him outside of his useful friendship.  Finding another girl when his heart pined for you would be unfair to you all.  So, in the face of that pain, he left.”

“I didn’t mean to drive him away!”

“Regardless, that was what has happened.  Whether it was you, or his pain in regarding you, it was enough.  He’s been haunting your shadow for three years, now, trying to impress you.  He’s done.  I’m not criticizing your decision, Dara, but I’m explaining the consequences of that decision.  You cannot reject a suitor and expect him to continue to pay you court.”

“But he wasn’t courting me!”

“But he was . . . and your admission tells me why he left.  If you didn’t recognize his efforts after all this time, Dara, why would he persist?  You deny his very effort.  That’s just humiliating.  Especially when Sir Festaran is lurking around, impressing you by winning tournaments and otherwise publicly courting you.”

“I had nothing to do with that!” she protested.  “I had no idea Fes was going to win!  Or that he’d make me into such a display!”

“He likes you,” I shrugged.  “When a knight likes you, he wins a tournament against all comers.  When a wizard likes you, he’s going to fill the sky overhead with a testament in lights, in front of two princes and all of Sevendor, to tell you.”

“That was at least less embarrassing than what Fes did,” she agreed, tearfully.  “Not everyone knew . . .”

“Gareth knew, Dara,” I reminded her.  “It was his last, best effort to court you.  Or at least attract your attention, and inspire some affection.  Instead, he got an annoyed, irritated girl who likely didn’t even mention his beautiful display.”

“I was busy!  I had duties!  I had guests!”

“If you returned his affections, that wouldn’t matter.  Ishi moves us in powerful ways, Dara – let me assure you.  If you’d been impressed with his display, nothing else would have been on your mind.  Gareth’s a very empirical mage.  That was his last shot.  He took it, it didn’t work.  He didn’t impress you, he annoyed you.”

“But then you just let him leave?  You didn’t try to talk him out of it?” she accused.  “You’re the Spellmonger!  He has to listen to you!”

“When he came to me, I listened to him and sent him on his way, the same I would do to any loyal retainer who left my service.  I even offered him a letter of recommendation for employment and suggested some leads,” I added.  “To do less would be unfair and ignoble of me.  Nor would I compel a man to work for me when he’s free to leave and has a mind to change his fortune.”

“You could have at least tried to talk him out of it!”

“Why?  So that he’d be even more miserable than he was?  That would be a disservice to you both, after he made his feelings clear to you.  I’m wiser than that, Dara.”

“Where did he go?  Surely you must know!”

“He didn’t tell me.  I didn’t ask.  If you want to know, I suggest you try scrying for him . . . but I doubt you’ll find him,” I warned.  “In the mood he’s in, he’s not going to want to be found.  Particularly by you.  And he’s a good enough mage to ensure that he won’t.”

“So where do you think he’s gone?” she asked, changing her approach.

That was a different question – she was soliciting my opinion, not the intelligence on the man.  But that didn’t mean I had to be helpful.

“If experience teaches me anything, I’d say that Gareth is finding the most dangerous work possible as far away from here as possible.  That’s the sort of thing a man does, when his heart is broken.  For all I know, he’s taken ship to the far side of the ocean, or joined the Iron Band to live out his days fighting goblins in the Penumbra.”

“What?  Gareth’s no warmage!  He’d get killed!”

“Nonetheless, that’s his choice to make,” I reminded her.  “You gave up the right to influence him when you rejected his suit.”

“I did not!  I mean, I didn’t . . . I . . . oh, Minalan, what have I done?”

“You listened to your heart,” I said, gently.  “And you spoke honestly with Gareth, when he asked you an honest question.”

“So why is everything going so horribly wrong?” she sobbed.  “Gareth’s gone, everyone hates me, and even Sir Festaran is upset with me, for Gareth leaving!”

“He’ll get over it,” I counselled.  “He has a tremendous affection for you, himself.”

“Well, at least he has the decency to not ruin everything!”

I sighed.  There was no magic to fix this.  I was sympathetic, but then I wasn’t Dara’s father, I was her master.  Some truths are better coming from someone you aren’t related to.  As mature as she was, there was a lot that Dara didn’t understand about men.  Gareth’s actions were entirely predictable.  And while it wasn’t Dara’s fault, it wasn’t Gareth’s, either.

It was Ishi’s.

The rains that pelted Sevendor every late winter and early spring seemed especially abundant, for some reason.  We were locked in a constant cycle of drizzle, shower, storm, and more drizzle.  That was problematic, from an agricultural perspective, as the fields were sodden.  If they didn’t dry in a timely fashion, then plowing would be far more difficult.

Everywhere except Sevendor.  Each domain in my barony was equipped with several plowing wands that would magically churn the topsoil and leave it in neat rows of furrows.  Another wand could dry a field, beforehand, preparing a sodden field for planting in a day, rather than the week it would take our neighbors.  The change was so dramatic in the life of the peasants that the first tavern authorized in Gurisham was called the Rusty Plow, with an example hung proudly over the door.

But the rain had to go somewhere.  The Ketta was swollen, and the millpond was overflowing.  Master Olmeg deployed a peasant levy to re-route some of the runoff with temporary ditches, and now the eastern cavity where my mountain once stood had five feet of white muddy water standing in the bottom, with more pouring in every moment.  Olmeg had a few magi who specialized in water magic assisting him.  I didn’t mind the expense.  They were keeping things working orderly, and I could afford it.

Thankfully, the wooden bridge had been completed before the water got too deep.  That gave the Karshak engineers a platform from which to direct the human boatmen (the Karshak would not get in boats) in laying the first pilings for the permanent stone bridge.  It also gave us a new commercial corridor between Hosendor and Sevendor.

The folk of both domains didn’t hesitate to use it, either.  As my vassals, the Hosendori had the right to enter the Sevendor market, and vice versa.  Within weeks of the bridge being open, Hosendori wool and produce was being carted in, while the intriguing wonders from Sevendor were sold in Hosendor’s two markets by enterprising pack merchants.

It also brought a lot more Tera Alon to Sevendor.  The tall, exquisitely-formed demi-humans began taking tours of the domain as they filtered into Aeratas’ new headquarters for his army-in-exile.  They were curious about the humans they’d joined, and eventually, after a few misunderstandings, I had Sire Cei assign special castellans to escort them and ensure there wasn’t any conflict.

There were a few other consequences of the Elf’s Gap, as my folk began to unimaginatively call it.  One was the birth of a new hamlet at the bridgehead, born out of the construction camp and sheds the Karshak put up, the planned security post to be built there, and the institutionalization of a new tavern to cater to the custom of the builders and the travelers alike.

The snug little shack named the East Bridge Tavern soon had a wide window covered by an even wider canopy from which the proprietor sold generous pints of beer or bottles of wine to travelers and artisans.  He was doing a good business.

If one measured a land’s prosperity in taverns, Sevendor was booming.  Banamor told me there were now sixteen taphouses and nine inns, not counting Sagal’s hostelry, in our domain alone.  Enough so that a real brewery was being considered by the foresighted citizens of the town (prodded, of course, by Banamor) to supply the trade.  Until then, barrels and barrels of ale were being shipped in from the surrounding domains, and a significant amount of silver flowed out.

That was perfectly fine.  We could afford it.

I was feeling good about my domain, and the barony beyond.  Sister Bemia had been correct: I hired good people, and made certain that they had the resources they needed to do their jobs.  Sevendor was a place I could be proud of, if I did nothing else in my life.  A fitting legacy to hand over to my son, should I not return from this risky mission.  I could trust the people I’d hired to continue to see it prosper in my absence, I knew.  That gave me great peace of mind.

I needed it, one morning, when I received another Mirror message from the Iron Band warmage stationed at someplace called Fort Vigilance, near the Penumbra.  It was short, direct, and to the point:

Sometime between dusk last night and dawn this morning, the Umbra unexpectedly increased its coverage by over two hundred and twenty feet from its marked perimeter.  Two advanced outposts were overcome, but evacuated successfully.  Advise that you investigate the matter.

That was it . . . but before I’d finished reading the message, I received a mind-to-mind contact from Terleman.

Min, we got problems, he reported immediately.

Let me guess: the Umbra unexpectedly expanded by a goodly amount while you were sleeping.

How did you know? he asked, stunned.  I considered being all mysterious about it, as usual, but Terleman was a colleague.

The Iron Band got to me first, by Mirror array.

Oh.  That must be Mandar.  He’s a sharp one, he admitted.  But yes, it jumped the length of a listfield overnight.  That can’t be good.

No, it’s not, I agreed.  Any idea what happened?

We’re as surprised as anyone.  I’m here in a little castle between Vorone and Tudry, doing some work for Anguin, when I woke up and saw the damn thing for myself.  I couldn’t, yesterday, but today it’s a big ugly faint ball on the western horizon.  It’s definitely bigger.  And growing, although it’s slowed back down now.  What could make that happen?

Well, Sheruel originally established the Umbric field by using human sacrifice to power it, somehow, I said, as much to myself as to Terleman.  Taren estimated that at least fifty thousand souls contributed to that, probably more.  But we’re still ignorant of the exact mechanism.  So any suggestion would be pure speculation.  Particularly when a molopor is involved.

Speculation is what I’m inviting, complained Terleman.  I’m a warmage, not a thaumaturge.  Or a necromancer.

That’s probably what did it, actually, I reasoned.  Sheruel is closely allied with Korbal, now.  His little ghouls have been all over the Umbra, from what I understand.  Somehow, they found a way to accelerate the Umbra’s growth.  Presumably without slaughtering thousands of humans.

I thought they wanted to slaughter thousands of humans?

The goblins do.  The Enshadowed and the undead are more ambivalent about the matter.  And the one thing we know is that the Umbric field is at least partially necromantic magic, and Sheruel has the biggest necromancer in history advising him.  The Enshadowed probably figured out a way to make the process more efficient, or something.

Well, that’s alarming as nine hells, Terleman groused.  To what purpose?

That’s their inner refuge, the area in which importasta plants and animals are hunted, destroyed, and removed.  That’s also the field of Sheruel’s direct knowledge and control, I reasoned.  Expanding it so quickly is going to put a lot of new resources in that category, now.

Including two outposts and, if it keeps going, Preshan Castle.  The Wilderlords have been defending since the initial invasion.  It’s Count Marcadine’s seat.  That would be bad, Min, he informed me, unhelpfully.  That’s the castle supporting the entire southeast flank of the Penumbra.  Now it’s only a few hundred feet away from the damn shadow.

That is bad, I agreed.  A precursor to invasion, perhaps?

It’s the right time of year, he agreed, cautiously.  The roads in the north and west will be passable, soon.  Believe me, we’re watching them.  There’s been an increase in activity across the Penumbra.  Something is stirring, he predicted.  Their human confederates or vassals or whatever they are have had men at the butts since the snow stopped falling.

Not a good sign.  All right, keep an eye on it, and I’ll see if I can’t get Taren to figure out what’s happening.

I actually wasn’t able to do that all morning.  Instead I was in contact with Pentandra, Tyndal and Rondal (who were preparing to meet their new recruits at Timberwatch), Azar, Astyral, Carmella, and other magi in the region to explain what happened.  They were justifiably alarmed at the news.

As was I.  This was a disturbing development that had a lot of unpleasant and foreboding potential consequences.  But there wasn’t a lot that I could do about it save alert those closest to the danger.

One thing was for certain: I had a decided deadline for action, now.  If I delayed too long, I’d be too involved in the defense of the Wilderlands to strike.  I’d lose the initiative I’d hoped to gain in the raid.  In fact, I reasoned, the raid could potentially delay the enemy’s plans for an invasion, if we struck hard.

But we weren’t ready, not yet.  I’d spent a few weeks moving pieces into position on the board: Lord Aeratas and the Tera Alon, my Alshari allies, Dranus, my magi, even Prince Tavard and Count Moran.  Tyndal and Rondal were just beginning to train the combat forces I’d need for it, and Arborn and his men were still scouting out the place, as close as they could get to it.

I didn’t have more than a vague notion of a plan, at this point, not one for getting in, not one for rescuing the prisoners, not one for getting to the Ghost Rock, not one for getting out alive and intact.  All of those questions still needed to be answered.

And without progress on the thaumaturgical front, even a positive result on the other elements of the mission would be a hollow victory for me.

But I wasn’t just going after Alya’s restoration, here, I knew.  There were many more lives at stake, now.  Even if my secret bouleuterion couldn’t figure out their craft, the mission still needed to proceed as soon as possible.  At the very first moment possible.

If our enemy could advance the Umbra that far, that fast, once, they could do it again.  And again.  I didn’t have an entirely accurate magemap of western Alshar, but I could reasonably guess that it wouldn’t take too much more such expansions to erode the effective defense of the Wilderlands.  Anguin was already in danger of losing one major castle.  I could foresee several others cut off from supply and reinforcements by the intrusion of the shadow across the land.  Vorone, itself, would be directly imperiled, as would the lands of the last major Wilderlord count in the region.

But Sharuel and Korbal may not even attack the Wilderlands defenses directly, I knew.  That sparsely-peopled region held many avenues into the heartlands of the kingdom.  They could come back down the Timber Road into Gilmora and renew their incursions there.  They could barrel past Vorone on the Great Western Road and attack Wilderhall or the northern Riverlands.  Or they could skirt both, head cross-country, and burrow into the populated heart of the realm.

After they froze the Poros and used it to march to Anthatiel, I could not even count rivers as proper barriers to their advance.  After they started using dragons, there was no wall high enough to keep the foe at bay.  And after they feinted at the kingdom and turned to attack an unexpecting opponent, I could not count on them to be at all predictable.  We faced foes with centuries of experience, who had great powers at hand, both mundane and arcane.  And we only had the barest hint of an idea of what their motivations were.

Oh, sure, malice and vengeance were in there, as our brushes with the Nemovorti had proved.  But Korbal’s true purpose was unknown.  Sheruel’s, while known, was being mitigated by his ally’s schemes, now.  Was it all part of some greater plan?  Or were both of our undead foes improvising as events unfolded, as I was?

Once I’d envy the insights of the gods in such matters.  Now that I’d met the gods, I found more value in intelligent speculation than prayer.

While there were a few more pieces yet to set, I knew we were getting closer to the first play of the game.  It was shaping up to be dramatic, regardless of how it fell out.  Once the men were trained and selected, the objective scouted, and the plans finalized, it would be time for the first throw.

I was just waiting on that one piece: the center of the Snowflake.  If I could get it, it would be decisive to my plans.  If I had to substitute a lesser stone, and risk failure, well, that was what I would do.  The next few days would be telling as I determined just what pieces I’d have to take into the game.

Interlude II

Rondal

“The Message”

Falas, the distinguished, traditional capital of Alshar, seemed to be in a constant state of drizzle in early Spring, Rondal noted, as he and his party arrived quietly by the Ways.  The locals seemed to take it in stride, employing their hooded cloaks and coats against the constant rain as a matter of course.

Today, however, the folk of Falas were wearing their better cloaks, if they had them, to cover their finery.  Today was a special day for the capital.  Traditionally, it was time for a moot of all the nobles of Enultramar who had the interest and wherewithal to make their way to the capital.  For today was the Vernal Moot, and the entire city was flooded with nobility.

Rondal had learned all morning from his erstwhile fiancé, Gatina, about the ancient meeting.  Convened first before the Magocracy ever staked claim to the land, the Vernal Moot was steeped in tradition and lore.  Coinciding with the Spring Tide festival, a traditional time for taking stock of the health of the duchy before the merchant fleets set out on their summer voyages, it was the meeting to set the agenda for the year, ostensibly based on the needs for trade, where by custom the various Sea Lords and Coastlords determined the destinations for their fleets of merchants and corsairs.

Over the years it had also become the forum of choice for the inland lords of the Vale and beyond to bring forth important issues for discussion to the attention of the maritime-obsessed nobility.  Even the distant Wilderlords had sent emissaries to the council in the past to raise issues of state, he was gratified to learn.

Gatina was their guide for the affair.  The Kitten of Night had secured entrance to the Moot, and arranged for proper credentials for he, Tyndal, and Noutha, on Lady Pentandra’s orders.  He had to admit, his young paramour looked as dashing and regal as he’d ever seen her.

She had, alas, disguised her beautiful, soft white hair for a long dark wig that – with a little cosmetic assistance – made her look as much like a regular Imperial-descended Coastlord as any.  Her dark dress, cut in a tight-fitting Alshari style of the latest fashion, told her off as a noblewoman of a minor but proud house.  When she went into character, Rondal had no doubt that she was, based on her appearance and mannerisms, a chaste young lady of good breeding, education, and aspirations of either a good match or a worthy ecclesiastic career.

That didn’t stop him from wanting to ravish her – he was finding her more and more intoxicating, every time they had one of their brief but intense clandestine meetings.  He forced himself to show restraint, however – Tyndal and Noutha were chaperoning.

The site of the Vernal Moot was Velsignal Hall, as ornate and ostentatious a building as any Rondal had ever seen. The gilded architectural monstrosity that dominated the center of the massive government complex in Falas made the gaudy old palace in Vorone look conservative and stately, by comparison.

It had been constructed over a century before for the express purpose of allowing the various Sea Lords, Coastlords and Vale Lords (and Cotton Lords, at the time) a sprawling area to congregate and discuss the affairs of the Duchy without being beholden to (or overheard by) the clergy.

At the time of construction, Gatina had explained, the might of the temples in ducal politics was at its peak (the era was oft described as the Three Temples Period).  The weakness of the coronet, the strength of the clergy, and the anxiety of the Alshari nobility had convinced some of the more prominent families to invest in the institution as a means of preserving their interests.

Architecturally, Velsignal Hall was an attempt to tie together all the diverse elements of Alshari iconography and heraldry into one grand and comprehensive whole.  It was, in Rondal’s opinion, only partially successful

The windows were impressive collections of stained glass in the shapes of Sea Axes, Anchors, Shields, Sheaves, Barrels, Antlers, and (as a painful reminder) Cotton Bolls that represented the various classes of lordship in the realm.

The heavily-carved stonework depicted the various gods eagerly and cheerfully assisting the storied ancestors of the Alshari in their governance over their rich farmlands, serene harbors and bountiful trading routes.  Gilded anchor chains bound sea creatures and cattle, serf and servingman, ship and tree together in one gloriously tacky attempt to bring unity to all.  Rondal even saw the Antlers of the Wilderlands displayed prominently in a few late-period scenes, dating to the time of the rise of House Uasail and other prominent Wilderlord families.

The hall itself was built in concentric circles, allowing rank and position to be demonstrated by actual position within the hall.  There were no benches or chairs – the purpose of the hall was not prolonged business, but oratory and address.  Monks sat, the philosophy at the time had read.  Nobles and men of action stood.

Velsignal had been constructed specifically as a place for the nobility to address the Dukes, as well as each other, on vital matters of the realm.  When issues of ducal success arose, it was at Velsignal that they were discussed and voted upon.  When the nobility wanted to take issue with the duchy’s administration, they spoke their minds at Velsignal without fear of censure.  It was the one area of the palace complex of Falas that the Dukes did not control.  The general nobility did.

At the center of the dome was a podium, known as the Coral Seat, though it wasn’t a chair.  On state occasions, and the major religious holidays, nobility from throughout Alshar could come here to discuss their ills and seek changes in policy to benefit their interests.  A council of nobles would choose the speakers, but did not set their agenda.

Today’s speech from the Coral Seat was being delivered by Count Vichetral of Rhemes, a distinguished gentleman of ancient pedigree and no little political power; indeed, he was the titular leader of the rebellion against King Rard here in Enultramar, in alliance with four other territorial counts and Count Vrenn of Darlake, the elderly Prime Minister.  Count Vichetral was making an important address to the nobles gathered.

Gatina was happy to explain the complexities of the political situation as they crossed the palace complex toward the gaudy hall.

“Since the untimely death of the duke and duchess five years ago, the affairs of the realm have been managed by a council of senior nobles – lead by the good Count Vichetral of Rhemes,” she lectured.

“Out of the goodness of his heart,” snorted Tyndal, walking arm-in-arm with Noutha.

“He declared it was his duty as a member of the court and a kinsman, to intervene during such a major crisis of succession.  As he heads a house traditionally in opposition (as well as heavily related) to the Ducal house, he had both the title and the political power to make the claim – such things have been done in the past,” she admitted.  “The other prominent ministers, some refugees from Vorone, and high nobles who rejected Rard’s overlordship, formed a ruling party with old Count Vrenn.  They made up a small executive council fulfilling the functions of a duke.”

“And then Anguin showed up again,” supplied Rondal.

“Exactly, my love,” she smiled, indulgently.  “That complicated their plots.  News that the late duke’s eldest child, Anguin, had taken possession of the distant province of the Wilderlands in token of the entire duchy of Alshar had done nothing to shift their position.

“If anything, the blatant use of the heirs of the Ducal house as apparent hostages was an affront to Alshari nationality.  They forged their message to suite their political ambitions: Anguin was Rard’s puppet, a powerless boy forced at swordpoint to swear fealty on behalf of his defiant nation, the rebels insisted.  That put them in the position of ruling in the name of a dynasty who had a legitimate claimant they rejected.  But the power here in the richest portion of Alshar was now in the hands of Count of Rhemes, after his house has schemed to rule for decades.  He moves now to prepare the ground to claim the coronet, outright.”

Gatina completed her lecture as they mounted the stairs to the gallery overlooking the Coral Seat, where the impeccably-dressed old gentleman was addressing the assembled nobility.  Gatina was right.  Count Vichetral’s voice didn’t sound to Rondal’s ear as if he could imagine giving it up.

“. . . too long have we suffered from our fallen liege’s absence,” the Count was saying.  Through some simple magic and a trick of acoustics every word spoken from the Coral Seat could be heard clearly throughout the chamber.  “For more than five years the duchy has languished without a head-of-state.  The Heir was stolen from us, held against his will by those who do not have the best interests of our duchy at heart, and then was coerced into ceding Alshari sovereignty upon pain of death.

“To those who would point to reports of Anguin’s assumption of power in Vorone . . . perhaps the lad is more content with hunting and hawking than he is with affairs of state,” the Count said, with an indulgent smirk.  Vorone’s reputation in the south as a seamy getaway where the upper nobility could pursue their sordid habits away from prying eyes of Southern society was well-known.

“But after more than a year in ‘power’ in Vorone, has Anguin shown the slightest interest in Enultramar?  What has he been doing, save pretending to be a duke in a rustic province?  Yea, in the unlikely event that he should ever appear before this great and glorious body, by what token could he demand the loyalty of a people he has forsaken?”

The question was meant to be rhetorical, that was clear.  The Coral Seat was a pulpit, not an institution designed for dialogue.

But Rondal felt that such a powerful question deserved a robust answer . . . which was why he and Tyndal had spent so much time and effort preparing one, at Pentandra’s urging.  It was time to deliver the message he’d been sent for.

He gripped the ornate ring on his finger, mentally selected the egress point – a spot twenty feet over the Coral Seat and ten feet in front – and activated the hoxter pocket.  Suddenly, an object the size of a horse materialized in the shadows above the chamber.  It instantly plummeted to land in front of the startled count with a meaty thwack.

Velsignal Hall erupted in screams and shouts of dismay at the sudden intrusion of a severed dragon’s head into the speech.  It was partially decomposed, and most of the flesh and teeth had been harvested, but it was still recognizable as what it was.  If the sight was confusing, the horrific sulfury odor that clung to the severed head was unmistakable.

When the shouts and squeals in the chamber subsided and the guards had ensured that there was no authentic danger, a delegation of nobles, led by the esteemed Count Vrenn, examined the offending head.  They discovered a note affixed to its forehead with a small, decorative Sea Lord’s blade.

A portly and highly officious Coastlord baron was the first to approach the severed head.  He gingerly removed the note and read it to all, as the crowd of nobility demanded.

“‘Gentlemen,” he began, making sure that the crowd around the dragon’s head understood he was reading, not using his own words. “‘As you can see, I have been preoccupied in the Wilderlands with vital matters of Ducal security.  As things are progressing reasonably, you can expect me to turn my attentions to my southern domains, estates, and titles presently.  I look forward to returning to Falas and resuming the business of my line.  Graciously, Anguin II, Duke of Alshar, Count of Falas, Rouen, and Lord of the Coasts.’  That’s all it says,” the little baron reported, frustrated.

“That’s . . . all?” another high noble frowned.  “A severed head and a promise to return?”

“I think the message here is clear, my lords, for those with the wit to read it,” a thin Sea Lord said, thoughtfully, as the ruling council studied the horrific skull.  Likely he was a member of the council, Rondal reasoned, an official in charge of security, he guessed.

“Anguin has been building power in the North.  Magelords,” he said, his lip curling into a sneer.  “He’s gotten involved with the Spellmonger and those warmagi of his.  That’s how he accomplished this . . . trickery!”

“That does seem to be the only way he could have gotten this here,” agreed Count Vichetral, who seemed to have recovered from the fright.

The Sea Lord stared at the decomposing head, an angry expression on his face.

“That’s Count Arlas of Arangalan,” Gatina supplied in a whisper.  “He leads the fleets, now, and has demanded a seat on the council after Jendaran’s death.”

“So, you see this as a threat?” the portly baron asked, frowning.  “If so, what kind?”

“I see it as a statement of power,” nodded the old Sea Lord.  “The dead dragon – if that is truly what it is – demonstrates the power he has cultivated.  The method of delivery, likewise, is a message.  His agents have penetrated this very chamber, and perhaps lurk here even now!” he said, more irritated than suspicious.

“That is disturbing!” Tyndal murmured, patting the hand of Noutha protectively.  The warmage was not pleased with the gesture, but neither did she drive a dagger through Tyndal’s palm, so Rondal counted that as progress.  “To think that there might be magi lurking here, even now!”

That was for the benefit of the other lords in the gallery – a mixture of knights, lordlings, and petty nobility whose rank was sufficient for entry into the hall, but not adequate for a seat in the lower regions.  One elderly sire leaned forward and laid a hand on Tyndal’s shoulder.

“You really think Anguin’s spies are here, my lord?” he asked, concerned.

“I would wager all my lands upon it,” Tyndal assured the man, gravely, “and the lands of my lady wife,” he added, earning him a scowl from Noutha.  “Did you not hear the tales of the strange goings-on last summer?” he asked, boldly.  “Magi were playing havoc all down the Mandros.  If you ask me, I’d say that Anguin is entirely in league with them!”

If Tyndal was attempting to sound like an alarmist Sea Lord, bold as brass and as reactionary as stereotype made him, he succeeded brilliantly, Rondal decided.  Of course, that was not explicitly part of their mission.

“These are disturbing times,” the old knight sighed, sadly.  “The magi know not their place, any longer!”

That seemed to be the opinion shared by the Censors, too, who were hastily summoned from the nearby Tower of Sorcery to investigate.  No one was allowed to leave until they had been questioned by one of the guardsmen who accompanied them.  After nearly half an hour of studying the head, despite the stench it emitted, the Censor magi, too, declared it an authentic dragon’s head.

Beyond that, they had little idea of how it got there, save ‘magic’.

“They really are incompetent,” Gatina mused, sneering good-naturedly at the antics of the checkered cloaks below.  “I bet they’re all warmagi!” she said, scornfully.  “There’s not a real thaumaturge among them!”

“Thankfully, neither are there any undead,” Noutha said, shaking her head.  That was true, as well.  The checkered-cloaked sentries at every entrance waved a small wand over everyone who passed, as well as checking their credentials with their sergeants.

“The Censorate had been on its guard against the infiltrations of the Nemovorti who had made Enultramar their mission,” explained Gatina.  “After their near-destruction in the swamps of the east, the Three Censors have kept to the Tower of Sorcery in Falas and gotten exceedingly paranoid.  Twice, rumor has it, the Nemovorti have succeeded in capturing individual Censors and turning them into their undead agents.  They’ve sent an expedition there, at the council’s behest, to fight them.  Six men.  It never returned.”

“Unless Anguin has an answer for those, it will take more than a dragon’s head to convince the nobility to follow him,” Noutha said, shaking her head.

“That depends on how bad things get,” Rondal speculated.  “If the Nemovorti conquer the Lake Country, then Count Vichetral and his allies might be thrilled to see the problem become someone else’s responsibility.”

“Things are already bad,” Gatina said, in a low voice, as she watched the Censors below trying to convince the rebel council that they knew what they were doing.  “They just haven’t let news of it spread.

“Half the county of Caramas has been overwhelmed.  The swamps seethe with the restless dead.  Entire villages and small towns have been swallowed by the relentless corpses of their former inhabitants.  The Nemovorti have their foul draugen slaves roam the countryside, capturing man, woman, and child for their gruesome workshops.  Most of all they seek magekind, to channel their filthy darkness!”  Gatina’s voice got lower, as she spoke, until she was speaking in a harsh whisper.

“You know, your girlfriend is incredibly morbid,” Noutha informed Rondal.

“She’s just stating the facts,” Rondal insisted . . . although he was, indeed, disturbed by the haunting look on the Kitten of Night’s face as she spoke.

“She’s recounting rumor,” insisted Tyndal.

“Not rumor!” Gatina riposted.  “Father sent Atopol there, in late winter when we lost touch with one of our . . . trading partners,” she said, evenly.  “After he reported what he found, he got drunk for a week.  And Atopol rarely drinks.”

“I didn’t say I disliked it,” Noutha snorted.

“So, they’ve started their invasion,” Rondal frowned.  “How many, do you think?”

“A month ago, Atopol ventured there were over two thousand undead in the marshlands, perhaps twice that number, Beloved,” Gatina answered, eagerly, as her fingers intertwined forcefully with his own.  She played with them like a cat chased a string.  “

What is more disturbing is their aims.  When the Atopol first arrived in Caramas, they were merely scooping up peasants.  By the time he left, a fortnight later, they were starting to corrupt specific targets.  Townsmen of note and officials of responsibility.  The day he left, the Nemovorti turned an entire manor and took its tower for their own.”

“The maiden speaks true,” assured the old Sea Knight, who was seated behind them.  “I made port on the eastern bay on my way here.  Even the coastlands appear deserted.  Folk are either hiding away in their homes or . . . have turned,” he said with a shiver.

“Perhaps if Duke Anguin has the power to slay dragons at his command, he could manage the undead,” offered Rondal, reasonably.

“Well, I don’t see Vichetral doing much about the matter,” Tyndal complained, getting into character and broadcasting his opinion to all who might hear.  “Someone who knew how to employ the magi might be a help.”

“I’ve heard it said that a sovereign duke has power that no usurper could claim,” Gatina suggested.  “Surely, it’s mere legend . . .”

“Bah!” Noutha finally chimed in, affecting an accent he was coming to associate with Caramas.  “The eastlands fall to foul undead, and those lot want to sail away for the summer!” she snorted with disgust.  It was easily her most convincing expression.  “And to do what?  Bring more slaves for them to turn?  While honest folk fear for their lives?  They’re sparing no one, I hear,” she said, feigning fear.  “Noble and common alike are turned.”

“A real duke would fight them,” Tyndal said, accusingly, as he watched the old men in charge of the duchy mill around the dragon’s head like they were discussing a pregnant sow at market.  “A real duke knows how to take action!”

All right, I think we’re done, Gatina spoke to him, mind-to-mind, a moment later.  I don’t dare let Tyndal over-sell it, lest he raise suspicion.

I concur, Rondal replied, as he spied the dreaded checkered cloaks begin to examine the room with wands and spells, likely to detect the presence of the magi who sent the message.  It’s time to go.

“My lord, will you escort me to the privy?” Gatina asked, suddenly.  “I fear we will be waiting here overlong.”

“I wish to see that dragon’s head closer,” Tyndal bragged, tugging at Noutha’s arm.  “It cannot possibly be real!  Come with, honey-bush,” he said with obsequious charm to Noutha.  Rondal was gratified to see his friend survive the obvious mistake.   Noutha, instead, followed dutifully behind Tyndal like a submissive wife or paramour being dragged through some obscure political interest of her lover.

We need to leave, now, Gatina sang into his mind as they headed for the staircase – the same staircase up which the Censors were starting to climb.  As soon as they were out of easy sight of the nobles among whom they were lingering, Rondal felt someone cast the spell that took them out of the universe and through the Ways.  Before he was certain of what was happening, he realized that they were now in a safe house Gatina had prepared, far from the checkered cloaks in Falas.

“That was close,” his girlfriend admitted.  “A few more moments and they might have found us out.”

“Do you think we effectively delivered Anguin’s message? Rondal asked her, doubtfully.

“I don’t think it could have been any clearer,” Gatina agreed, pulling off her brunette wig and fluffing her white hair.  “Anguin still has an interest in the south, an interest he is preparing to act upon.  With force, if necessary.”

“Well, that part I hope was clear,” Tyndal agreed, tossing his broad-brimmed Sea Lord’s hat onto the rack by the door of the small cottage.  Gatina’s family had several such places, tucked away here and there, for escape and repose after a caper.  “I’d hate to go through all of the trouble of slaying a dragon just to have the rotting head of its corpse dismissed as a message.”

“Oh, the rumor of what happened in Velsignal Hall will spread in direct proportion to how strenuously Count Vichetral and his fellows tries to put a lid on the pot,” Gatina assured.  “It is one of the worst possible places to try to keep a secret.  The story of the dragon’s head will be known across Enultramar by tomorrow at dusk,” she prophesied.  “Nor will they be able to keep Anguin’s name from being associated with it,” she said, smugly.

“Which should go a long way toward interfering with Vichetral’s plans – it’s hard to complain about a sovereign who ignores the realm when he drops a dragon’s head in your lap.”  Rondal was struck by a thought.  “Why are you so in favor of Anguin’s claim?  Beside your father’s friendship with his?”

The question surprised her.  “Is it not enough that I am a patriotic Alshari?”

“The Count of Rhemes is every bit an Alshari as Anguin,” countered Rondal.  “Some would argue that he even has a superior claim to the coronet, if you want to go back enough generations.”

“For one, I dislike the policies that the Five Counts have implemented, particularly the open sale of slaves.  Their alliance with the Three Censors, and their persistence in keeping the Bans makes them doubly odious.  Five Counts and Three Censors give me eight reasons.

“If that arithmetic is not sufficient, I have no love for the ham-handed manner in which they have implemented those policies.  They have positively dashed the efficient flow of trade, in favor of sudden surpluses and shortages that make fortunes and pa34upers, but rob Alshar of its prosperity.

“But my most compelling reason remains the loyalty Anguin’s men display for him in the pursuit of his policies.  And after meeting His Grace, I find him personally charming, intelligent, and wise, as well as handsome and virile.  He will make a far better duke than Vichetral or any of those other old men.” She kissed him on the lips.  “Does that satisfy your curiosity, my lord?”

“Completely, my lady,” Rondal said, giving her a kiss in return.

“Aww!” Tyndal mocked, “they’re so cute!”

“Nauseating,” Noutha snorted, and looked away.

“Whatever courting you’re going to do, get done with it,” Tyndal continued.  “We have an engagement at Timberwatch we must attend to . . . with a few brief excursions to realms of darkness and oppression.  Try not to expend too much vitality before training,” he advised.

“He has it to spare,” Gatina said, continuing to kiss him.

Rondal allowed himself the sweet indulgence for a few blissful moments, ignoring his comrades’ reaction.  He saw her so rarely, now, and the prospect of enduring the coming trials to recruit for the Estasi Order without seeing her made the kisses that much sweeter.  She smelled amazing . . .

You know, Tyndal said, interrupting his blissful thoughts, mind-to-mind, she’s still going to be beautiful and sickeningly in love with you when you get back.  And she’s set her cap to marry you, someday.  So, you might want to—

Rondal never did hear Tyndal’s suggestion.  Instead he heard a whisper of steel being drawn, and noted that Gatina was managing to hold a dagger at Tyndal’s throat while continuing to kiss him thoroughly.

“It’s rude to interrupt Ishi’s Kiss upon a man’s departure, Sir Tyndal . . . even magically.  I will excuse your discourtesy for provincialism, this once.  Let it not happen again.  When I kiss my lord Rondal, I want his attention focused on my lips and my eyes, not whatever insults you are pouring into his mind.  Do we have an understanding?”

“I beg my lady’s pardon,” Tyndal said, carefully.  Gatina made the blade disappear.

“I’m starting to like her,” Noutha chuckled.

“When I know what I want,” Gatina said, slyly, “I do not allow anything to come between me and my prize.”

Rondal swallowed.  As the prize in question, he suddenly felt incredibly self-conscious.  “Ah, perhaps we’d best head to Timberwatch,” he suggested.  “There is much to do before the trials, and . . . and . . .”

“Go,” Gatina agreed, reluctantly.  “Go, else I’ll keep you here.  I know you have important matters to attend to.  I’m sure I’ll find some way to keep myself occupied, since my parents have forbidden me from such adventures, until I am done with my apprenticeship.”

“Just a formality,” Rondal said, encouragingly.  “Has your father set your final task, yet?”

“Oh, I’m working on something,” she assured him.  “Don’t worry.”

Alas, the tone in her voice did nothing but inspire worry in Rondal.

Chapter Twenty

The Magolith

The mood was tense in the Snowflake Chamber, that night.  I’d explained my delicate position to Master Ulin, and he begged me for one more day to finalize his latest round of calculations.  I granted it, having plenty of other things to occupy my time (two sulky apprentices, a couple of giddy enchanters-turned-merchants, baron stuff) but I impressed upon him just how important speed was, now.

It actually took two days, since Onranion needed the time to prepare the irionite the stone would need, and Master Azhguri had to ready whatever it was that stonesingers did to get ready.  That gave me time to bring in Taren, from Greenflower, and Lilastien the Sorceress.  She was curious about the entire process, and having a competent medic on hand if things went awry was just a good precaution.

But the mood was tense when Taren arrived, bearing news from the Otherworld.

“I’ve managed a new form of intelligence,” he told me, as we walked the distance through the excavations in the mountain to get to the Chamber.  “I’ve been interviewing the recently-deceased.  Those who died in the Umbra and Penumbra.”

“What?” I asked, shocked by the casual admission.

“It just seemed like a good idea,” he said, shrugging his thin shoulders.  The man didn’t look like he’d been eating much.  “Not an easy one, but a good one.  If we can’t get spies into the heart of the Umbra, then try to find someone who died there, recently.”  It sounded completely reasonable, the way he said it.

“That sounds morbid as eight hells,” I said, shaking my head.

“Morbid is relative.  When you work with the dead, it’s just something you have to get used to.  In any case, I found three souls who died in the region, lately, and managed to lure them to Greenflower.  I found out some interesting details.”

“Like what?”  I had to admit, once I got passed the squeamishness of its origin, I was intrigued.

“Two of the deceased were slaves in the Penumbra who were frequently sent from their estates as porters into the outskirts of the Umbra, where the Goblin King reigns.  A place called Ganz.  They were killed when they were trampled by a siege worm on the road.  But before they died, they witnessed a caravan from the south pass them on the road.  A caravan from Olum Seheri, as the carts were pulled by common undead, and driven by draugen.”

“That’s even more morbid,” I grumbled, as we continued on the way.

“That’s what they thought, too,” chuckled Taren.  “Indeed, even the gurvani were unnerved by the sight.  It seems that they do not feel the same way about their undead allies as they do their undead master.

“In any case, one particular cart was guarded with special attention.  The way they described it, it sounded like some sort of magical conveyance, or at least a heavily-enchanted cask.  They caught a glimpse of it, when it passed by.  They said it was merely a slab of stone.”

“A slab of stone?” I asked, with interest.  “Snowstone?”

“Not by their description.  Nor was it bluestone, which was my next thought.  They described it as light gray in color, irregular, as if it had been hewed out of a darker rock. They said there were traces of other minerals around it.  And that the stone had a strange call to them, when it passed.  As if it were filled with voices.”

“Ghost Rock?” I asked, startled.  “A shard of it?”

“That’s what I decided,” Taren nodded, solemnly.  “That was six days before the Umbra had its growth spurt.”

“You think the two are related?”

“I wouldn’t be a decent thaumaturge if I didn’t,” he pointed out.  “What else could they be transporting from Olum Seheri with such care?  Why have the gurvani not done this before, if they could have?  What has changed?  The two answer themselves, in my imagination.”

“That’s disturbing,” I muttered.  “If they can use Ghost Rock to expand the Umbra . . . dear gods, that could be really bad!”

“I don’t know if they’re doing it all at once, or if this was the result of just a portion of it.  We know the Umbra is an effect of the molopor.  But it makes sense that they’ve refined the initial necromantic process somehow, and that Ghost Rock is integral to the process.  Somehow, they’ve managed to access the necromantic potential of the stone.”

“But how did they do it?”  It wasn’t a rhetorical question.  If anyone had a theory, Taren would.  He didn’t disappoint.

“Well, we know that they used dark power to establish the Umbra, harnessing the death energy in their sacrificial victims and focusing it, somehow, into the Umbric field, using the nature of the molopor.  We’ve assumed that they just used the energies . . . but what if they’re using the actual enneagrams, somehow?”

“It would explain their preference for Alkan victims,” I pointed out.  “They have more complex enneagrams.”

“It would have to be part of the structural elements underpinning the field,” he said, thoughtfully.  “Not merely the energy.  They have a huge ball of irionite.  They have plenty of energy.  They need necromantic power of their victims, but they also need the structural essence – for lack of a better word – of their enneagrams.  And they’d need progressively more of it.  They aren’t just extending a circle, they’re projecting a sphere, after all.”

“Well, we know that there are Alka Alon enneagrams captured in the Ghost Rock.  If they just implanted those into human bodies, that would give them a nearly unending supply.”

“If they transferred some of the older shades,” Taren pointed out, “like the Handmaiden, then they’d have tremendous power available.”

“You could put the Handmaiden into a human body?” I asked, confused.

“Theoretically?  Sure.  It would be like putting six pigs into a two-pig sack, but it would work – for a very short period of time.  The body couldn’t handle it for very long, if it survived the process.  Probably not even long enough to sacrifice it, properly.”

“What if you used an Alka Alon body?” I asked.

“Hmm?  Interesting,” he said, fingering his sparse beard.  “Then it would be like putting six pigs into a three-pig sack.  It might be a better fit, but the outcome is just as inevitable.”

“But would it be long enough to sacrifice?”

“Probably,” he agreed, after a moment’s thought.  “On the other hand, it might shatter whatever thaumaturgical apparatus underlying the process.  I doubt it’s built for an influx of that size.  It might not be able to handle it.”

“Or it might,” I pointed out.  “In which case the Umbra could, theoretically, grow to encompass all of Callidore.  And I’m guessing that the Sea Folk would not like that.  Indeed, I imagine that they would object rather strenuously.”

“By that time, it might be too late,” Taren suggested.  “There’s no telling what kind of power he’d be able to project if that happened.  I’m assuming that this was an experiment of theirs.  It worked.  And that was but a shard.  From what I understand, they have a vast quantity in the veins under the city.”

We continued discussing the various catastrophic possibilities until we arrived at the Snowflake Chamber, where the rest of the bouleuterion was already assembled.

“Min!” called Onranion, as soon as we entered.  “I finished it last night!  What do you think?”

He presented a massive sphere of irionite, slightly larger than my fist, as smooth as glass in his hands.  It was larger than the old Witchsphere, from which it was – partially – created.  I stared at it, stunned for words.

“That’s a big ball,” Taren supplied, for me, in a reverent tone.

“It’s hollow, that’s why it’s so large,” Onranion explained, as he held it up to the light.  “The chamber within will hold the centerpoint, should we be successful.  Some of my very best work,” he reflected, proudly, at he stared at it.  “This time I had a chance to implant the songspells in a more orderly fashion.  Far more efficient.”

“What about the rest of you?” I called out to my colleagues.  “Is all in readiness?”

“Yes, yes, we’re all ready, waiting for you two,” Master Ulin said, sourly.  “Azhguri is in meditation, I’ve got the pocketstone set, and the thaumaturgical medium is . . . doing whatever it does.  We’re ready,” he assured.

“And I’m just here to watch,” Lilastien said with a smirk.  “Someone has to witness this madness.  This is the most idiotic, foolhardy—”

“If you object, why did you attend?” Taren asked, curious.

“Oh, I don’t object,” she explained.  “Nothing like this has ever been tried before.  The novelty alone is enough to warrant being here.  Whatever disaster happens, I’d like to observe.”

“I like her, Min,” Master Ulin said, with a rare chuckle.  “Let’s do this before we lose our nerve.”

The set-up was much as the previous attempt, only Ulin had restricted the field of effect just to the centerpoint.  And just before Azhguri began his chant, Master Ulin poured the viscous medium directly on to the centerpoint of the constantly-churning Snowflake, using a thaumaturgical wand to restrict its position against gravity.

The crystalline structure accepted the molasses-like substance and the minor spell without objection; it continued its eternal transformation without regard to the blob that now clung to its center.

“Well, so far, so good,” Master Ulin muttered, as he nodded to Azhguri.  The old stonesinger started his stonesong, and the rate of the Snowflake’s change slowed.

Onranion began his own songspell, then, holding the sphere of irionite directly behind the center of the structure as he sang to it, he invoked the magic to coax the piece forth.  Master Ulin waited until the gyrations of the thing matched his calculations, then directed Taren to begin altering the vibrations of the thaumaturgic medium.

My job was to observe the minute transformations along the edge between the centerpoint and the rest of the Snowflake with specially enhanced magesight.  According to Ulin’s calculations, there should be a “separation event cycle” every thirty-six seconds.  By invoking the perception slowing properties in the Focus Stone, I could see precisely when the instant occurred where there was a minute gap between them.

When the time was near, I indicated to Taren that he should start to alter the frequencies of the interior of the medium.  Everyone in the chamber could feel a difference, at once.  I allowed the Snowflake to cycle twice, after he started, and each time I could feel the differential between the frequencies start to have an effect.

It’s difficult to explain . . . but suddenly there was a sudden thaumaturgical pressure that was building up between the two portions.  A disharmony that produced a kind of arcane sheer, a force that everyone could feel in their bones.  In their very cells.

It was awful, in its way.  But I wasn’t going to abort.  We were committed.

The third time around, the pressure had built to the point where it was producing long, jagged sparks of lightning as the Snowflake desperately tried to regain its equilibrium.   The entire chamber began to tremble.  I nodded to Taren to increase the difference in the arcane harmonics.

When the perfect moment occurred, slowed in my mind like liquid glass, I gave Ulin the signal to activate the pocketstone, while I cast the spell to push the issue.

It was a perfect moment.  Time nearly froze as the sheer became too much for the system to bear.  When the hoxter was applied to the centerpoint, already weakened from the force of the sheer at the moment of separation, the Snowflake gave a shudder . . . and the centerpoint was propelled from the center of the structure.

There was a brilliant flash, a wave of magical energy that flowed through everything in the chamber and beyond.  A wave that twisted reality at a fundamental level . . . and then twisted it back again.

Onranion fell flat on his back, clutching the sphere of irionite, as the flash overtook him.  Master Ulin was thrown over his lectern into a heap.  Master Azhguri was sent sprawling onto his face.  I felt like I’d taken a hard hit in a tournament, and crumbled like a poorly-considered excuse.  Lilastien took refuge behind the couch she observed from, and still was tumbled.  Only Taren, who had his baculus out, managed to keep his feet.

It took a few panicked seconds for the Snowflake to settle down.  But the wave collapsed, the energy field declined in intensity, and in moments the think went back to its old, constantly-changing self.

Except for the six-inch hole that was in its center, now.

If the removal of the centerpoint was traumatic, its absence seemed to have no ill effect on the Snowflake.  The gap where it had been continued to change as if it was still there, but it never sought to fill the space.

“Ishi’s giant jiggly juggs!” Master Ulin exclaimed, with uncharacteristic joy.  “It worked!”

“Did it kill Onranion?” Lilastien asked, peeking out from behind the couch.

“No, you morbid crone, I survived,” the old reprobate groaned, his back on the floor.

I struggled to my feet, my ears ringing and my head spinning.  “Is everyone all right?”

“I’ve been better,” Master Azhguri croaked as he pulled himself to his hands and knees.  “Then again, I’ve been worse.  That actually worked?” he asked, in disbelief.

“You bet your beard it did!” Master Ulin beamed, as he pointed to the sphere in Onranion’s hands.  It was the same bright green shade of all irionite, but the center shown with a pale glow that pulsated and churned.

“I think he’s right,” Onranion agreed, still not getting up.  He just stared at the pretty ball.  “It’s in there, within the thaumaturgical medium.    It’s transforming, in cycle with the big one.  They are entrained,” he said, satisfied.  “Just like we predicted!”

“That . . . was impressive!” Taren said, in a rare display of awe.  Usually the wizard was so analytical about the wonders of the universe that he seemed unaffected by anything.  But removing the centerpoint had shaken him at his core.

I walked over to Onranion and took the sphere in my hands.  There was a jolt as my bruised mind contacted the irionite.  It was like the first time, back in Boval Vale, only orders of magnitude more powerful.

But there was more than just pure arcane energy, there.  There was even more than the songspells I could perceive layering the exterior of the hollow globe.  Within the chamber, swimming inside the neutral thaumaturgical medium, I could feel the potency and complexity of the churning crystal disc, inside.

It was the Snowflake, but held between my hands.  It wasn’t just power.  It was . . . indescribable.

I turned and carried it three steps and gently placed it on the trestle worktable behind me, before I helped Onranion to his feet.  As he dusted himself off, the rest of us crowded around the sphere.

It was beautiful.  Not just physically, but thaumaturgically.

“My friends,” I finally breathed, “I think we finally have what we need.”

After going so long without the Witchsphere, having it back – with more irionite and a portable molopor inside – left me near giddy with power.  Azhguri had prepared a special harness of mage-hardened gold in the shape of snowflakes around the perimeter to hold the disc of knot coral under the sphere and protect it from another fall.  There were settings for other stones already in place around the spars of the harness, as Master Ulin proposed continuing to experiment with the device.

I didn’t object.  It was like having the best toy in the world that followed me around like a puppy.  If he wanted to add jewels to the collar, that was fine by me.  For the first time since the Sashtalian war, I felt arcanely complete.  You just can’t use that kind of power for that long and not get used to it.

I was hesitant to explore the centerpoint of the sphere; I could tell it was still “settling in” and I didn’t want to disturb it too much.  But it was a unique type of magic, and one I would not molest without great need.

I’d used the projected power of the Snowflake at Greenflower, but this was different.  The centerpoint resonated differently, or something.  It was a part of the greater magic, yet it was somehow more particularly intense in scope that the entirety of the Snowflake.  I had a suspicion that it didn’t yet understand that it was no longer part of the greater whole.

When I walked out of the mountain the next morning, after spending the night exploring the sphere and learning its secrets, I was physically exhausted but spiritually elated.  Everything looked different to me, now.  More vibrant, the way it did when I first started using the stones, but now I seemed to understand how that vibrancy worked when I studied it.

I now had the weapon that could counter Sheruel.  I now had the tool that could restore Alya.

I went back to my tower and slept until late afternoon.  When I awoke, I was refreshed and confident. Part of me that I didn’t even know was anxious had relaxed.  The last major piece was placed on the bored.

I strode into the Great Hall, the Magolith (we’d finally settled on the name shortly before dawn) hovering obediently behind my right shoulder and over my head.  The entire hall watched as I took my seat for dinner.  I was famished.

I spent dinner practicing my control with the thing, filling the hall with dozens of magelights, among other essays in the craft.  I suppose I seemed jovial, because I saw a lot of the staff watching me carefully, and smiling at each other nervously.  I suppose they were relieved at the change in my mood – I’d been pretty surly since before Greenflower.  I guess I could have addressed it, at the risk of looking like a kid with a new toy.

I didn’t care.  One of the benefits of being the boss is doing what you like and not worrying about what people think.  I not only had hope, now, I had a plan.  And the means to execute it.  That was worth a little levity.

I devoured a mighty meal, while I puttered around with the sphere.  Spinach and mushroom tarts, an entire roasted capon, a bowl of savory rice porridge, and a half-dozen biscuits vanished from the table as fast as they could be brought.  I drank three large jacks of cool cider, before finishing the meal with a glass of stout red wine and a pipe.

I felt good, at last.  A belly full of food, a soul full of hope, a head full of schemes.  A pipe in front of the fire in your own hall.  What more could a wizard ask for?

“Master?” Ruderal asked, curiously, as he finished his meal and gave his trencher and bowl to one of the Tal Alon drudges.  “Is that your new witchstone?”

“Magolith,” I corrected.  “A fancy term for ‘magic rock’.”

“It’s pretty,” he nodded, appreciatively.  “Powerful, too.  Does this mean you’re . . . you’re going somewhere?”

I looked at him searchingly.  “You’re looking at my enneagram again, aren’t you?” I asked, a mild accusation.  The lad shrugged.  His shoulders were starting to grow wider.

“It’s just what I do.  You’ve made a decision, it involves travel, and you’re really looking forward to it.  That’s all I was able to read.”

“That’s enough, apparently.  Yes, between you and me – and I’m invoking your discretion, here – I’m planning an expedition to the west, sometime soon.  A very important one.”

“One that involves your secret mission over Yule?”

“That was the beginning of it,” I agreed.  “But things are progressing, and I have a plan.  And now I have this pretty arcane jewel,” I said, nodding to the sphere.  “Don’t worry, I won’t be alone.”

“The Tera Alon,” Ruderal nodded, sagely.  “And Rondal and Tyndal, I’m guessing,” he added.

“Among others,” I agreed.  “A bold band of adventurers, going into the darkness at great risk, for the potential of a great prize.  Real legendary wizard stuff,” I assured him.

“Should I go ahead and line up a jongleur to compose a ballad, Master?” he asked, with just a hint of sarcasm.

“Let’s see how it turns out, first.  A dirge might be required instead.  But it must be done, and I’ve gone to great lengths to organize it.”

“Korbal,” he said, instantly.  “You’re going against Korbal!”

“That was an astute guess,” I said, quietly.  “Pray keep it to yourself.  Yes, I go to challenge Korbal.  Not directly – this is an expedition, not an invasion.  I go to gather intelligence and foil his plots.”

“I want to go!” Ruderal said, his voice cracking.  “I owe him, for what they made me do!”

“Don’t let your anger and guilt over what happened in the Scarred Lands sway you, Ruderal,” I counselled.  “While it is true that the Enshadowed used you, they used many tools.  Without you they would have found Korbal, eventually.  They were determined.  Indeed, I’m starting to think that was the crux of their plan.”

“So, can I go?” he asked, his lip quivering the slightest.

“I don’t know yet,” I sighed.  I didn’t want to disappoint the boy, but the last thing I wanted to do was take a first-year apprentice into the lair of an evil dark lord.  It wasn’t professional.  “I will keep your service in mind, though.  We’re still in the planning stages of the mission, and I don’t know exactly what will be required.  If you are needed, I will consider you a volunteer.”  I couldn’t think of any reason we’d need the boy’s special abilities, but then again, I didn’t know exactly what we’d need, yet.

“Thank you, Master,” he said, gratefully.  “Apart from getting my mother to safety, I’ve never wanted anything more badly than to see Korbal put back in a hole in the ground.”  From the expression on his face, he meant it.

“Sometimes a wizard must exercise patience, as important as discipline and insight,” I advised.  “Just keep to your lessons and your duties, and at the proper time the gods will provide the right opportunity.”

“Thank you, Master, I will.  Master Loiko tutored me all evening in the fifth and six forms, both he and his Noutha, both.  I think I prefer Master Dranus,” he said, hesitantly.

I chuckled.  “Give him time, Ruderal.  He’s a warmage trying to be a court wizard.  But he – and his daughter – have a lot to teach you.  Don’t be afraid to learn.  He just has a different style of instruction, is all.”

“He’s very thorough,” Ruderal nodded.  “He and Noutha bicker constantly about how to do the different runes.  But I do learn,” he admitted.

“Good,” I nodded.  “That’s important.  Master Loiko may have some difficulties adjusting to his new life, the same as you did when you first arrived.  I’d appreciate it if you would extend him as much patience as possible.  Particularly as he tries to deal with his daughter.”

“She’s a piece of work!” Ruderal agreed, venturing an opinion.  “She’s about as confused a body as I’ve ever seen.  And angry.  All the time.”

“As long as she abides by her parole, she is to be extended every courtesy you would another High Mage,” I cautioned.  “Her winning of the Spellmonger’s Trial was unexpected, but fairly done.  Try not to get on her bad side.  Believe me, I’ve faced her in battle,” I reminded him.

“Oh, she’s not mad at me, she thinks I’m cute and smart,” he dismissed with a shrug.  “She’s mad at him.  And everyone else.  In general.  How does a body get to be so mad, master?”

“All sorts of things can lead to that,” I explained.  “Believe me, passions run high with the magi.  And that rarely turns out well.”

“Good advice, Master.  Especially from a man whose passions are driving him into darkness.”

My eyebrows shot up as I regarded my insightful young apprentice.  “You know, it’s rarely a pleasure to hear a master’s words come from the mouth of his apprentice,” I pointed out.

“My apologies for my impudence, Master,” he said with a straight face as he got up and headed toward bed.  “Experience should have taught me by now that you have everything perfectly under control.”

It occurred to me that sarcasm was just as bad to hear from your apprentice as irony.  I should do something about that, I reflected through a smoke ring, before that got out of hand.

PART II

Plots, Plans, and Politics

Chapter Twenty-One

The Decision To Act

Good news, Minalan, Dranus told me, mind-to-mind.  My bid to replace my brother was well-received at council.  He has made himself disliked in some quarters, and when I called him to account for his failures in front of the council, I found allies in some unexpected quarters.  Of course, my brother tried to defend himself, but he just made things worse.  Unfortunately, he has his own champions among the electors.  They kept a vote from being taken at once, but the challenge to my brother’s right to the title has been made, he reported, triumphantly.

Has he threatened war? I asked, interested in how the politics would play out.

Threatened?  He has all but demanded it.  When the challenges came, he blustered about the mighty fortresses and valiant men he commanded and welcomed any and all to contest his ability to defend the county.  I responded by commanding my men to conquer one of his smaller estates, in the south of the county, while we were still in council.  Word reached us this morning that he’d lost the estate, and my men are even now launching an attack on one of his most lucrative domains.  When the council learns that he cannot protect even his own lands, that should prove informative.

Has there been much objection to your suit, on the basis of your being a mage?

Surprisingly little.  Oh, there are some rude comments from some of the older lords, but Remere has always been more tolerant of magi than Castal, he reminded me.  Moros was at its peak, during the magelords’ tenure.  That’s been far less of an issue than my sudden appearance with so many foreign mercenaries.

What is your plan, now?

I will continue to press my brother in council, while eroding his estates and position.  He can either choose to go and lead his men against mine, or he can continue to try to persuade the electors he is a worthy heir to my father’s legacy, while I conquer that legacy out from under him.  It shall be interesting to see which course he takes.

So it will.  Keep me informed of developments, I requested.  I’d like to be in a position to intervene, if someone tries to bring the royal court into the equation.

I think you will find that unlikely, Dranus chuckled.  Feelings toward the crown tend to be negative, in Moros.  There is a lot of resentment here for having a Castali overlord.  The prevailing attitude is that Remerans can manage Remeran affairs.  Besides, I have cultivated friends and allies in the Remeran Ducal court.  If it came to a crisis, the council would appeal there long before they would consider bringing the matter to Rard.

The early-morning update from Dranus reminded me of how many things I had going on, right now.  In a way, that was a good thing: to any outside observer who understood half of what I did it would seem I was too involved to contemplate any extraneous projects.

On the other hand, since no one but me understood all of what I was doing, I alone knew how badly I could screw up everything if I neglected anything.

It was like a jongleur who juggled chamberpots in the market: sure, you only had to worry about the ones in your hands at any given moment, but even a momentary failure of attention could invite disaster.

I was counting on Dranus’ eventual election as Count of Moros to act as a political distraction in the east, while I skulked off quietly to the west.  If he did it right, it would take months for the full scope of the scandal to unfurl across the Kingdom.  By the time it rose to the level of official royal consideration, I would either be back from Olum Seheri, victorious, or I wouldn’t be coming back from Olum Seheri.  In which case the first magelord Count since the Magocracy would not be my problem to contend with.

There were other advantages to his victory, too: for one, it put a powerful magelord in the peerage of a relatively weak duchy.  With Wenshar near its frontier, having the Count of Moros be a mage would help protect the resurgent magical community that was emerging there, around Alar Academy and the Arcane Orders’ chapterhouse, established in the former Citadel of the Censorate.

Wenshar had been the land of exile for many outlawed magi, during the late Magocracy.  Their descendants were enjoying a renewed respect for their abilities . . . particularly with the High Magi I’d sprinkled in their midst.  Having a friendly state on their frontier would make them feel more secure.

Of course, Dranus’ victory would inevitably result in the rise of an anti-mage party, I knew.  That was just human nature.  But better to understand, accept, and prepare for that than to pretend it wouldn’t happen.  After Dunselen and Greenflower there were already enough outraged lords in the kingdom muttering about the “godsdamned sparks”.  It wouldn’t take much to galvanize that feeling into a political alliance.  Dranus becoming Count of Moros would be more than enough.

But all of that could wait my attention until after I returned to Olum Seheri.  Or didn’t.

Later that day I contacted Pentandra in a similar fashion, the power of my Magolith making the spell as simple as a thought.  Her mental voice came through bright and clear, much more so than when I’d been using a simple witchstone.  And she had news to report.

The damn Umbra is still growing, according to Terleman, although not nearly as quickly as it did a few days ago.  Whatever they’re doing, they keep doing it, she complained.  We’ve got to do something, quick.  Or Vorone will be under shadow before the new castle is finished.  That would irritate Carmella.

I’m working on it, I promised.  Taren and I have a theory.  He’s been interrogating the recently deceased for intelligence on what’s happening within the Umbra.  I sketched out our array of theories, each of which made her more and more depressed.

I hate to admit it, but that does fit the timing, she sighed.  And that makes the good news I have all the better.  The Bransei Kasari Council has met and agreed to support the duchy’s coming effort at slave emancipation and rescue.

Really?  You’re planning a concerted program?

A grand raid, actually.  It was Anguin’s idea, based on the petitions of the Kasari.  Indeed, they’ve been agitating for something to be done about the matter for some time – there are more than three hundred Kasari who are believed to be enslaved in the Penumbra.  To that end they’ve detailed two troops of scouts and a full company of rangers to the effort.  They’re scouting the Penumbra as we speak, picking targets for the strike and laying out routes for retreating slaves.  They’re going to establish caches of supplies for them along the way, to keep them from getting slowed down and recaptured.

What about the troops conducting the raid?

That will be the Alshari Third Commando in the south, the Iron Band and the Megelini Knights in the middle, and the Kasari and local forces in the north.  We shouldn’t have any problem mustering, as most of them are itching for a fight.  Going on the offensive appeals to them.  We should be able to hit nine or ten large slave encampments within a single day, she predicted.

We should probably launch our secret expedition within a few days of that, I decided.

That’s what I was thinking, she agreed.  Give them enough time to shift troops away from the west and south, leaving the Land of Scars unprotected.  Arborn is leading a patrol of rangers and scouts through there, now, to gather intelligence.

She tried to sound casual about it, but I could tell Pentandra was worried about her husband on this mission.  Arborn was a master woodsman, the chief of the Kasari Rangers, and as deadly in a fight as anyone I’d ever met.

But after Korbal had harassed Vorone last year, sending powerful undead to challenge Pentandra and her court, she was more fearful about that distant mildewy fortress than she was the thousands of goblins within a few days’ march of her home.  I couldn’t blame her.

I’m sure he’ll be fine, Pentandra, I soothed.

Well, he was this morning, she replied, a little irritated.  He’s checking in by Mirror every dawn and dusk.  If he misses more than two reports, then I send the Wood Owls in after him.  And he’s there with Ithalia, she added.  If anyone knows that country as well as he does, it’s her.  They just made it to the abandoned ranger camp last night.  The place is crawling with bandits, gurvani, and squatters.  There are undead, too, she added.  So far, he can report that Korbal has established a picket outpost in the ruins of an old tower on the southern side of the Poros, a place they destroyed when they froze it.  Only about fifty gurvani and a dozen draugen, but it looks like they’re establishing more, from what he said.

How soon until he approaches the city?

At least four days, she sighed, miserably.  Four days of the most tortured countryside on Callidore, through hordes of goblins and bandit gangs.  I swear, Min, if he doesn’t come back—

He will, I promised.  And we need to be ready to act on his intelligence when he does.  When can we all meet again?

Actually, the best time would appear to be at the dedication ceremony for Rard’s new palace, she decided.  That’s in two weeks, and it’s a high court occasion.  We can sneak away for a chat at the Chapterhouse while we’re in town and no one will be wiser.

Right under Tavard’s nose? I asked with a mental snort.  Isn’t that bold?

He’s in Wilderhall, and will only be returning briefly for the ceremony, she reminded me.  His court will already be out of the city by then.  Most of us are going to be there already, so we might as well put an otherwise boring occasion to use.  And there’s no more secure place in all of Castabriel, she added, proudly.  She should know.  For two years she had set up the place, and security had been high on her list of priorities.

True, I agreed.  All right, two weeks.

By then, Rondal and Tyndal will have their team selected from the warmagi, Arborn’s scouting report should be back, and we should be nearly ready to muster for the emancipation raid.  We’ll have enough information to begin planning the actual mission.  Hells, I know Anguin’s ready to go.  He’s spending at least four hours a day with his swordmaster and another two in riding.  And he hates riding, she added, wryly.

Why is he so dead-set on going?  He has men for that.

He’s feeling frustrated at the inactivity.  There’s not much for him to do but stand around and wait for his castle to be finished.  And there’s renewed talk of retaking the south from the rebels, she added, so this raid gives him something to divert attention to.

He should leave that for his grandchildren, I counselled.  He has enough in his bowl right now.

He wants to do something to keep one of the Five Counts on the rebel council from declaring himself Duke.  Right now, it looks like the Count of Rhemes is preparing to do just that.

It won’t matter what he does, or what he calls himself.  He’s just as isolated as a Duke as he is a Count.

It matters to the Alshari! Pentandra snapped, testily.  If the Count of Rhemes declares himself Duke, in two generations Anguin’s line will be an afterthought.  But don’t worry, she added, slyly.  I’ve dispatched some . . . emissaries to remind the Alshari that their Duke is alive and very much in power in the north.

You’re going to start an insurgency? I asked, amused.

Nothing so banal, she chuckled.  Just a symbolic message the meaning of which will be unescapable . . . and make the rebels think twice about doing anything hasty, politically speaking.

I left that sort of thing to Pentandra – she understood politics better than I did, and if she was being subtle and tricky, she’d want the result to be a surprise that she could brag about later.  Besides, the last thing I needed was to be entangled in a dynastic war in a duchy I didn’t even live in.

I closed the connection feeling satisfied that my pieces were truly placed.  Two weeks would be adequate time to prepare myself, both magically and personally, and with the Magolith I was quite confident I could do both.

But there was one last piece I needed to see to, I knew.  I needed to tell my family what I would be doing, and make some preparations on that front, particularly before they left for Talry-on-Burine for good.  They were scheduled to leave about the same time I would be in Castabriel, so I thought it would be best to spend some time with them and prepare them for the worst.

The Baker’s Hall looked no worse for wear for having been used as a repository for surplus nobility.  But it did look a lot emptier, without the possessions my family had accumulated in the few years they’d been my guests.

Most of their goods had been packed up and some had already been shipped ahead.  What was left was just what they would need for the next few days and the journey home.

The two sisters who would be staying with their husbands to run the Sevendor bakery had already moved into town, purchasing (at a very reasonable rate, considering who their brother was) a large lot on which they built a townhouse big enough for both of their growing families.

That would leave the hall depressingly empty, at least for a while, but I didn’t fault my parents for wanting to return home.  They’d lived in Talry all their lives, and this was the longest either of them had been away from it.  My mother missed her friends, and my father missed his own ovens.  Sure, he’d gotten to meet his patron goddess in person, but you cannot replace the comfortable feeling a man has about his livelihood with religious awe.

That didn’t mean they wouldn’t miss me and my kids, too.  My mom was spending every moment she could with Minalyan and Almina, and my father had started to take Little Min fishing in the pond with his older cousins.  That made him feel like a very big boy.

After taking dinner at my mother’s table, with the usual roar of children and adults competing for attention, my dad and I retired upstairs to the solar he’d turned into his office, while he was there.  It, too, was barren, but he’d saved a bottle of local spirits.  Untaxed, I noted.  Just because his son was the baron didn’t change Dad’s habits.

“So, you’re going to do it,” he said, simply, before I had a chance to tell him.

“I . . . yes,” I decided.  No use equivocating.  “It’s my best hope of restoring Alya.”

“And it’s dangerous?”

“The most dangerous,” I corrected.  “I’m going into the very lair of our enemy.”

He looked troubled, but he didn’t try to talk me out of it.  He poured me another small glass of spirits, instead.  “I see you’ve made another magic ball.  Will it be enough?”

“We’ll find out,” I shrugged.  “There are still many things left to be determined.  But I’m hopeful,” I offered.  “I’ve been studying the situation since I got back.  With the right planning and a whole lot of luck, it’s possible.”

“Then you should do it, then,” he murmured.  “Your mother wouldn’t tell you that – believe me.  She was beside herself when you went off to war, and when you came back and kept fighting, she was livid.  I think she was relieved when you gave up warmagic and went into spellmongery.  A mother always thinks of the safety and security of her children, no matter what.  No matter what age they are.

“But a father,” he said, waxing philosophically, “A father looks to what kind of people his children turn into.  I’m proud of each of my children, and they’ve each blessed me with grandchildren, now – a finer life a man could not wish for,” he assured me, as one of my nieces began to scream like her legs were being sawed off, downstairs.

“Your sisters have all done well for themselves, and done well by their mother and me.  And you, son . . . you’ve exceeded expectations,” he chuckled, looking out the window at the town, below.  “But as proud as I am of how high in the world you’ve risen, I’m prouder that you are the kind of man who sticks by his vows.  You could abandon this fool quest and no one would think less of you,” he pointed out.

“I would,” I insisted.

“Exactly,” he chuckled.  “That’s my point.  That’s the man I’m proud of.  Many can say that they’d go through darkness for their love, but when the day comes, they fail.  When you’ve been given every reasonable excuse to avoid the darkness, you plunge in anyway . . . because that’s the man I raised you to be.”

“Would you do such a thing for Mama?” I asked, hesitantly.

“I could say ‘yes’ and mean it,” Dad sighed.  “But the fact is, I don’t know.  I’d want to try.  But somehow I think the mighty Spellmonger is more likely to succeed than the best baker in the Riverlands.”

That was a lot to think about.  The validation was certainly helpful and welcome.  But at the same time I could tell my father’s pride was tinged by concern he’d never speak of.

I’d gone to war before, I reasoned, but this was the first time I was planning and executing an attack on the foe, not responding defensively.  Since the beginning of the war we’d been playing constant defense, as robust as it had been.

Now was the time to do it, I decided.  The presence of the gods and the success of the royal visit had given me confidence – perhaps too much.  The sale of the mountain had given me resources beyond my wildest dreams.  And now I had this powerful artifact, bursting with arcane power and thaumaturgical possibilities.

Now I just had to settle a few matters with the Royal Court, before I began the planning phase in earnest.  I had to feel out Rard on the subject and determine whether or not I should involve him or not in an official capacity.  A lot of that decision would be based on his mood, which I wouldn’t be able to determine until I met with him at the new palace at Kaunis Estate.

By all accounts he was distraught over the loss of his daughter, but strangely ill-disposed to actively seeking her repatriation.  He was being restrained, it was whispered, by the reluctance of the Queen and Princess Armandra.  No doubt Tavard’s hatred for his sister had a role to play, too.

But that wasn’t the Rard I knew.  While he was a capable administrator and a man of vision, he was also a man of action.  He loved his daughter despite her obvious character flaws . . . but then he loved his son, too.  Count Kindine, the Prime Minister, had apparently advised cautious optimism and patient waiting for her captors to contact the kingdom to arrange a ransom, but as the weeks went by and none appeared, anxiety was beginning to build in the court.

From everyone but the Prince and Princess.  They seemed fine with the captivity.

No matter their reluctance, however, the fact was that Rardine was in a position to aid me in my endeavors.  I was appreciative of the irony, of course – she’d tried to kill me, once.  I was still sore over that.

But who she was and where she was now gave me the impetus I needed to act in Rard’s absence.  And that action would play a role in how I prosecuted my own proposed raid on Olum Seheri.  After all, if I told Rard I needed to poke the Necromancer of the Mindens in the eye for a stupid piece of magical rock, he might be reluctant to grant me permission.

Rescuing his daughter, on the other hand, was something he was interested in.  He wouldn’t care what else I got into, as long as I brought Rardine back to the palace.  At least, that’s what I was counting on.

It was time to take the fight to the foe.  To strike against those who had done us so much harm.  To punish those who had created so much suffering.

The Spellmonger would go to Olum Seheri.  And doom to whichever dark lords got in his way.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The Dedication Of Kaunis

The new palace north of Castabriel was built on one of Rard’s favorite estates, Kaunis Estate, a beautiful and prosperous domain his sires had claimed during the original settlement of the broad and fertile central Riverlands region known as Narasidor.  Its close proximity to the capital made it an ideal country home, in ages past.  A great deal of Castal’s business was done there when Duke Rard was in power.

But Rard and Grendine wanted to establish a Royal capital with a palace far grander in scope than the castle that dominated Castabriel, and Kaunis was their favorite estate.

I’d never been to the old estate of Kaunis, but from what I understood it had been a beautiful, picturesque hunting lodge in a charming little valley between the rolling hills of the Riverlands.  It had originally been a large, simple country hall, modified from its original purpose as a model estate over the years by the generations of Ducal families who’d lived there.

Now it was being dramatically remodeled, with large parts of it torn down for the new palace.  The central hall had been expanded into a grand edifice four stories high.  They style was distinctively Castali, though there were some Remeran influences here and there, I noted.  Two lessor wings depended from the imposing central structure, though the hammers and saws that rang right up to the start of the dedication ceremony demonstrated that they were not yet complete.

The lower entryway was finished, a temple-like portal supported by imposing effigies of Rard’s noble ancestors, starting with King Kamaklavan and Duke Bimin the Bold, and it was a grand display of the sculptor’s art – far more than the greedy old murderers deserved.

The central portion of the upper levels was clearly still under construction, the scaffolding pulled down and hidden away under tarpaulins for the ceremony.  There were signs of construction everywhere, despite scores of planters with early-blossoming flowers attempting to obscure them.

I discovered that Rard eventually planned a massive spire rising a further eighty feet or more behind the main hall, as a part of his garden and amusement complex.  It was to be gilded and lit brightly enough to be seen for miles.  Especially from the walls of Castabriel, six miles away, where it would represent the permanence of royal sovereignty.

That spire was far in the future, without magical assistance.  By the number of stakes and flags scattered behind the palace, it was only a quarter complete.  Using traditional techniques, and spending a tremendous amount of gold, workmen had toiled on this palace for the last five years – work began before Rard was even officially King.  Despite the impressive transformation of the core structure, there was still far to go before it was going to be a real center of government.

Most of the original outbuildings to the estate had long been demolished, as the gardeners used the space for a long central ornamental garden that ran the length of the palace compound.  The fields and vegetable gardens of the original estate had been replaced with more flags and stakes, with string outlining the grand future Rard envisioned for his capital.

The ring of buildings to house the various ministries were mostly just foundations lining the central garden, at this point, with only the halls for Ministries of Ecclesiastic Affairs, War, and the Royal Treasury complete enough to function.

The Ministry of State had its own mini-complex that would eventually house the entire diplomatic corps, on the south side of the gardens, across from the temple square the architect’s drawings envisioned.  Both were currently just mazes of intertwining strings and carefully-placed stakes.  They were to be built as soon as the other projects were done . . . and paid for.  More than a dozen of the grand edifices still awaited funding, from what I understood.

But the central residential Palace of Kaunis was done . . . or done enough for their very impatient majesties.  Done enough to throw a party about it and remind everyone that they were King and Queen.

Queen Grendine pushed for the dedication ceremony to be held as soon in spring as possible, which I knew was about more than flattering her vanity.  Nor would it concern Princess Rardine’s captivity (which was rarely spoken of, in the royal court) or Prince Tavard’s ambitious attempt to invade Enultramar in response.  It was quite clear to everyone watching the court that both subjects bothered the monarchy enough to not speak of them casually.

No, the Kingdom was starting to flounder, and this dedication ceremony was Grendine’s effort to shore it up.  With one of her children captured and the other behaving like a spoiled brat, Grendine needed to reassure the kingdom that Rard was still firmly in power, and that their combined vision for the future warranted respect.  And a possible donation.

With delegations from all three duchies, not to mention most of the important high nobility of the kingdom in attendance, such an occasion would be ideal for the Crown to quietly and informally propose policy changes.  I was starting to become shrewd enough about these sorts of things to suspect as much, but Pentandra was good enough to confirm it for me at our meeting at the Order, the day before the ceremony.

“I’ve heard that the topic of discussion at the reception will be tribute,” Pentandra told me, as we mingled in the Very Important Nobles section of the massive foyer, sipping wine.  “Taxation.  Revenue.”

“Isn’t that a perpetual topic?” I pointed out.

“Of course,” she shrugged.  “But there are problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

“The specifics are unimportant, but the basic problem is the transition from being three separate governments into one,” she explained, slipping into the mode of lecturer.  “The re-organization and centralization of power has been happening with typical feudal efficiency, but there has been resistance.  And problems with funding,” she added, warily.

“The temporary structure of each of the Duchies surrendering a portion of their tribute is unpopular in some circles.  Including the Royal Family.  They just aren’t getting the revenue their new ministries require.  They’ve sustained the government on a patchwork of loans and pledges, but it’s pathetically inefficient and expensive.”

“Isn’t all government?”

“Well, of course – but when it impedes the implementation of policy, it becomes a problem.  Tavard is determined to re-conquer rebellious Enultramar – as his own.”

“Oh, I’m aware.  He was my houseguest a few weeks back, remember?  Sevendor is inadvertently paying for about seven or eight ships, I figure.  He’s assembling a fleet at Bonicavela, even now, but ships are expensive.  We made him pay for our gold.  We rung a lot of rights and privileges out of him for it.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” Pentandra mocked, wryly.  “Our Master of Waves has been keeping close eye on the Bonicavela fleet.  Tavard’s captains have even hired some Wilderlords to go – that raised some eyebrows, but it’s mercenary work.  We aren’t worried, confidentially. He’s been pledging future loot, positions, and revenues from there to secure the few ships he’s been able to gather.  But they are not nearly enough to fight past the fleets and conquer the rebels.”

“In any case, the rumor is that this dedication ceremony is an excuse, as is traditional, to discuss convening the greater royal court and make policy resolutions, after due consultation.  A gathering of all the counts in the kingdom, known as a Curia.  They get called from time to time to discuss important changes in policy affecting everyone.  This one is to revolve around the proposal that the Kingdom assess tribute revenue directly from the counts, not the dukes.”

“Now that is interesting,” I nodded.

In practice, counts tended to wield a lot of authority, but don’t play a large roles in the civil affairs of a region. That’s the barons’ role.  Counts were the noble military officials charged with keeping the fortifications and defenses of their counties in repair, entitled to a share of tribute from each barony and independent domain.  My recent experience with Dranus had given me a lot of insight into the position.

They had the power to fine their barons if they failed to meet his standards in training their men or maintaining their keeps, roads, and bridges.  They could even levy tolls on roads against the wishes of a baron, if they wanted.  Additionally, they could assess scutage fees on monasteries and temples, guilds and other enterprises, and they were entitled to their choice of lands as heriot if one of their barons died.  But they left civil and criminal administration to the baronies, while they oversaw the military.

In practical terms a count rarely did any of that – himself.  He delegated those duties to his noble staff.  In many cases the office passed from father to son of a noble house with the confirmation of the barons of the county – not the Duke.  Nor was the office eternal.  As counties were reorganized and changed hands, some houses retained the title, if not the office.  These “court counts” often ascended to the ducal service in those cases, acting as diplomats or envoys, advisors or ministers.  Count Angrial was a court count, for instance.

But the real counts, the ones who took their responsibilities seriously, could amass great fortunes, power, and even challenge ducal authority in the performance of their duties.  And they could be changed.  Depending upon the traditions of the county, an unpopular count could be replaced by the barons in his realm.  But not by the Duke.  While the sitting Castali duke accepted the count the barons elected – selected– he had no initial say on the candidate.

“The problem is that the ducal courts are being reluctant in fulfilling their pledges of tribute to the Crown.  Remere sends steady partial payments, but is perpetually in arrears because the Remeran ducal court still sees the Crown as a low priority.

“Castal started out faithfully enough, but the demands of the royal court soon outpaced their ability to pay, and then Tavard started diverting funds from the budget to pay for his toy fleet.  Only diminished Alshar has sent its proper payment, based on the lands we control.  That is a fraction of the other two duchies,” she reported.  “And it’s only been recently that it’s been paid up-to-date.”

“So Rard wants to by-pass the dukes entirely, and get his taxes from the men responsible for upholding the military might of his kingdom.  That makes sense.”

“Which also presents problems,” Pentandra observed.  I nodded.  I knew what she was getting at.

I paid a portion of my tribute every year, about one tenth of the part I sent to Duke Tavard, to old Count Lensely.  Technically that money, and revenue from estates associated with the office, was to be re-invested in the maintenance, repair, training and preparation of the county for war.

Practically, most of the major keeps, bridges, and roadways in County Lensely were in decent shape, the men were well-trained and well-armed, and adequate stores for siege or invasion were laid in, so that rich stream of revenue tended to collect in Old Lesley’s coffers.  It was a positive consequence of institutional efficiency.  That was one reason why counts tended to be such prestigious and wealthy men: they soaked up revenues like a dry rag, especially in peacetime.  All that gold was too alluring for Rard to ignore.

That didn’t mean the counts were willing to give it up.  The ancient tradition demanded that the counts’ first priority be the defense of the realm, not obedience to the crown – or the coronet.

They swore fealty to their immediate overlords, but it was a different oath than we barons swore.  They swore their duty to the gods before they spoke of their rightful lords.  That was why they foreswore personal vendettas or wars of conquest, and even acted as arbiters in squabbles between vassals.  They had the option of enforcing a duke’s edicts, or passing them along to the barons for enforcement.

They didn’t even pay regular tribute to the dukes, just a token stipend.  Their revenues were intended to be invested in defense. That was another reason why counts tended to accumulate revenue.  They didn’t split with upstairs.

They were an independent bunch, when it came to their traditional rights, and footing the bill for the kingdom’s infrastructure was not going to be popular, without some concessions.

“The purpose behind the proposal is to shift the burden of taxation from the dukes – who are complaining bitterly – to their great nobles whose support Rard is about to ask for,” she explained.

“You would think the dukes be happy with that,” I chuckled.  “I know Remere is pissed that Alshar is getting a forbearance on their fair portion of expenses, and I can imagine Tavard is bitching to his daddy behind the palace doors.”

“Oh, they are,” Pentandra nodded.  “Of course, that forbearance is the price Rard pays for Anguin’s loyalty,” she reminded me.  “Nor can his Wilderland possessions be expected to supply the revenue assessed on his entire duchy, not when the best part is in rebellion.”

“I’d suspect that Rard is using that forbearance as an excuse to allow Tavard to prosecute his invasion,” I reasoned.  “Which will also give him excellent position to deny Anguin his rule there, in anything but name.”

“Alshar is submitting our proper share of tribute,” Pentandra declared, defensively.  “A paltry amount, compared to Castal and Remere, but we’re sending every penny we’re collecting.  But that’s part of the point,” Pentandra continued.  “Rard is dependent on the good graces of the dukes for his funds.  By shifting the taxation to the counts, he removes a burden from the dukes . . . but he also removes their ability to block his revenues.  Which is an exercise of power that they will object to.”

“Paying taxes is power?” I asked, amused.

“Not paying taxes is power,” she corrected.  “Think of it this way: Rard has three villages in his domain, one rich, one powerful, one neither.  If the headmen of the rich and the powerful villages decide to rebel and not pay their taxes, what recourse does he have?

“But by circumventing the dukes and making the financial survival of the kingdom the responsibility of the counts, he prevents the dukes from being able to rebel against his policies on their own.  He also elevates the power of the counts,” she added, slyly.

“That’s almost inspired.  In Remere and southern Castal, the counts and viscounts are largely nominal offices, but this could reinvigorate some old houses.  Particularly if Rard agrees to allow an increase in county revenues to off-set the tax.  And legally empower counts to enforce it.”

“Making the organization of the kingdom rest on the military, instead of the political, is a shrewd but dangerous move,” I nodded.  “It keeps the great houses from getting too powerful.  But it allows the counts to rise to real political power.  Since Rard predicated his realm on a military matter, and we continue to be at war, there’s a certain sense to that.  But I can also see how that will upset the current order terribly.”

“The clergy, the merchant houses, and the cities would be relieved,” she pointed out.  “They’ve been whispering worriedly that Rard would levy taxes on them.  Depending on how Rard presents his case, this could work . . . for the moment.  Just by shifting the flow of coin from the barons and dukes.”

“That depends entirely on how he spends the money,” I observed.  “Building a decent palace is one thing.  Investing in a fleet for a foolish assault on Enultramar is another.  Tavard plans on landing on the exterior coast, and try to lead a column north over the wasteland.”

“That’s his plan?” she asked, incredulously.

“What else can he do?” I shrugged.  “Rard can’t get his nobles to move.  Tavard doesn’t want to move, unless he’s in charge and can get the credit.  The royal house has to avenge the slight, or Rard appears weak to his nobles.  Since he can’t spend five to ten years besieging the place from the north, he’s going to try to win a contest at sea.  By sending his valiant son to do the deed.”

“He’s going to lose,” Pentandra said, flatly.  “And that’s Alshari territory.  That’s the heart of Alshari territory.  That will make a lot of people in Alshar, north and south, upset.”

“I know,” I sighed.  “That’s only one of a number of things that trouble me about his plan.  If he sinks all that money to the bottom of the sea, he won’t be able to rule.”

“And if he wins, against all reason and the whims of the gods, he deprives Anguin of his patrimony,” Pentandra sighed.

“If he’s dependent upon the counts for his revenue, not the dukes, that becomes far less of a problem.”

“So it does,” she sighed.  “Min, I can’t invest all of this time and energy into Anguin’s success just to see it taken from him.”

“If it’s a choice between that and an organized kingdom, he may have to bide his time and let his heirs press their claim,” I said, unhappily.   “I like the lad, too, and I’ve backed him as much as I can.  But there is more at stake than one duke’s fortunes.”

“Agreed,” Pentandra said, reluctantly.  “But let’s see if we can avoid that sort of unpleasantness.”

Our discussion proved prophetic, in the mundane sort of way.  After the ceremony at the new palace, the reception was heavy with high nobility.  Between the wine and the introductions, I met a half-dozen sitting counts, and there were several more in attendance.  Viscounts, too, as well as important burghers, invited especially for the occasion.

I started keeping track, after a while.   Rard’s operatives, a crowd of senior clergy and important officials, sought out the counts and made a point of taking a private moment to speak with each of them.  From the expressions on their faces, revenue was the subject.  Nothing else can produce that kind of look on the face of a noble.

All three Dukes were there, of course.  Tavard staked out one end of his parent’s new house, under a portrait of Duke Donrard, with select members of his court while Anguin defiantly stood near a statue in an alcove – the short-reigned Duke Astin of Castal, who I discovered was an ancestor of his.  The old Duke of Remere toddled around in a circle as he mingled.  He was too mature to indulge in the kind of pissing contest his younger peers were waging; this was just another party, just another reception.

Rard and Grendine looked as splendid as the tailor’s art could contrive, but both looked considerably older and more worn, despite the festive occasion.  I hung back from the reception line – there were far too many nobles who’d never even met Their Majesties before, and wanted to bask in their gracious glory.

Instead I made my way to Tavard’s end of the hall, first.  He was my liege lord, after all, and had recently been my guest.  He spotted me at once, and welcomed me to his circle with poorly-feigned enthusiasm.

“Ah, Spellmonger!  What do you think of my father’s new hall?”

“It is as grand and magnificent as his rule, Highness,” I assured the prince.  “I cannot wait to see it finished.”

“Have you seen the plans?  It won’t be finished in your lifetime, Baron,” smirked Count Moran, never too far away from Tavard.

“Then His Highness will have a legacy of construction to complete in his own reign,” I returned, smoothly.  “And how is His Little Highness, and the princess?”

“The baby thrives.  The Princess . . . she’s become very devout, after our pilgrimage,” Tavard frowned.  “Between the baby and her devotion, she has an unceasing line of priestesses haunting her chambers.  She sends her regrets, but feels indisposed for public gatherings,” he explained, irritated.

“We so enjoyed your visit to Sevendor,” I replied, as serenely as possible.  “I do hope you both can return, and soon.”  I didn’t mean a word of it, but Tavard and Moran both nodded as if I’d been sincere.  “Perhaps at the next Magic Fair?  While I cannot promise the presence of the gods, it’s rather exciting, in its own way.”

“I expect to be abroad, next autumn, I’m afraid,” Tavard said, with a faint smile on his face as he referenced his invasion plans.  “But another time, perhaps, Spellmonger,” he said, dismissing me with his eyes.  I took the hint, made an excuse, and wandered back down the long hall.

Quite by surprise, the Duke of Remere tracked me down for a few words.  I’d met the gentleman a few times, at various court events, but we’d never spoken at length.  To find him seeking me out was unusual.

“Spellmonger!” Clofalin began, capturing my attention.  “A word?”

“Of course, Your Grace,” I bowed.  “What can I do for Remere, today?”

“It’s what you’ve already done that’s at issue,” he said, moving closer.  “Before I left home I received word that one of my counts has been challenged.  It turns out the challenger is your man, a fellow named Dranus?”

“Magelord Dranus was, until recently, employed by me as my court wizard,” I agreed.

That took the man aback.  He snorted, amused.  “The mighty Spellmonger?  Has a court wizard?”

I shrugged.  “I hate paperwork, Your Grace,” I admitted.

That amused him, as well.  “So, what can you tell me about this man, this Dranus?  Why on earth would he challenge a count?”

“The current Count of Moros is a probationary and temporary appointment, from what I understand, held by the younger half-brother of Dranus,” I explained.  “Now that Dranus has had his noble title restored to him, he feels his brother does the county a disservice.  It is duty that obligates him to take this step.”

“Ah, a man of duty,” he nodded, pleased.  “What kind of man is this Dranus?  Did he leave your service in good standing?”

“A good one, I’d say,” I decided.  “He provided exemplary service as court wizard.  He is a highly talented mage, as well as an adept administrator.  His experience in war is limited, but he is not afraid to take up arms, and has been studying the art of command.  He is well-spoken, respectful, and a loyal Remeran.  His character is sufficiently high to warrant granting him a witchstone,” I offered.  “I do not just hand those out like holiday sweets,” I reminded him.

“No, no you don’t,” he agreed.  “So, this is a dynastic thing?”

“Essentially,” I admitted.  “I have never met his brother, but I can attest to both the character and competence of Dranus, as well as his trustworthiness.  Were I a duke,” I added, “I would delight in having him as my vassal.  Indeed, had he not had other business, I’m certain I would have granted him lands myself.  I hate to lose competent people,” I sighed.

“That we can agree on,” he grunted.  “I tend to leave affairs in the north to be settled by the locals, but some are alarmed that a wizard would make such a bold move on a territorial lord.”

“Dranus inherited lands in Moros,” I pointed out.  “That gives him standing in the county’s council.  He is not an usurper.”

“Neither is he a knight,” His Grace pointed out.  “Nor a man with much military background, from what I understand.”

“And from what I understand, the office of count tends to require more attention to quills than quintains,” I replied, referring to the post at which young knights tilted to practice for battle.  “He might not be a heroic champion on the field.  But he knows how to organize and maintain an organization.  He pays exquisite attention to detail, and he has a subtle and thorough mind.  It may amuse you to know that I would likely hire him back, despite the competency of his replacement, if I could.”

“Oh?  Who is his replacement?”

“Master Loiko Vaneran,” I supplied.

That impressed the man.  Master Loiko was well-known to the duke from the Farisian campaign, and had impressed even his political foes with his determination, intelligence, and skill in counsel.

“I will continue to monitor the situation, then,” he decided, with a sigh.

“Might I suggest you send an emissary to observe how the challenge plays out, Your Grace?” I suggested.  “Have a man you trust be present to see how both parties comport themselves.  Clandestinely.  Consider his report before you make any decisions on who to accept as Count of Moros.”

“Good idea, Minalan,” he nodded.  “Between you and me,” he said, moving in even more closely, “what think you of Tavard’s idea to invade Enultramar?”

“Oh, I am merely a Riverlands baron, with little interest in the affairs of my betters . . . or their ill-considered expenditures of revenue on foreign adventures,” I demurred.  “It would be far above my station to dare criticize what is clearly a well-thought-out and carefully considered enterprise such as that.”

The tone in my voice belied my words, of course, and the Duke nodded thoughtfully at the real meaning.  “I thought as much.  The bugger hit me for a load – ten thousand ounces! – but my nobles are dead set against us supporting one duke invading another duchy like that.  Even if it would benefit them economically.  Bad precedent.  Well, I thank you for your counsel, Minalan.  Many in my court speak highly of you and your wisdom.”

“It’s said Remeran courtiers drink overmuch,” I observed, earning an honest chortle from the man.

By the time I made my way down the long hall to Anguin, I’d stopped a half-dozen times to greet people I knew and get introductions to people I didn’t.  Anguin, with Count Salgo and his new bodyguard flanking him, looked on-edge by that point, a silver goblet of good wine in his hand and a resentful expression on his face.

“They think this place is grand?” he said, looking around at the large room.  “I could fit this into the Grand Hall of my old palace and rattle it!”

“It’s a decent start,” I conceded.  “Give Rard his due, I didn’t think he’d indulge in this kind of institutional construction this early in his reign.  In a few generations, it might actually start to look substantial.”

“It is better than holding court at the palace in Castabriel,” he agreed.  “That always felt too much like being conquered.  At least here there’s some nod to Alshar.  In fact, from what the plans read, there are to be wings devoted to both Alshar and Remere, here, beside the wing dedicated to Castali affairs.”

“They’re trying,” I agreed.  “If it’s any consolation, your cousin and brother duke feels just as alienated by this place as you do by Castabriel.”

“It is,” he chuckled.  “Oh, my manners!  You’ve yet to meet my bodyguard, Sir Gydion.  I’ve taken him into my counsels, and seek to get him an introduction to the royal court.”

“A pleasure, Baron,” the taller man nodded.  He had a familiar look about him . . . indeed, I realized, his face was more similar to old Duke Lenguin’s than Anguin’s was, and his voice was nearly identical, if more resolute.  It startled me, for a moment.  Then I realized that Pentandra had likely dug up some bastard of Lenguin’s to shore up the Orphan Duke’s court.  Brilliant!

“If His Grace has taken you into his councils, I welcome you into mine,” I said, politely.  “Your Grace?  Are you still planning on attending the reception we’re having at the Orders’ Chapterhouse?”

“After I go see my sisters,” he agreed.  “They’re here for the occasion, and I’ve not laid eyes on them in almost two years.  I want to introduce them to Sir Gydion, and assure them that I am working to secure their . . . liberty.”

I frowned.  “How is Grendine going to react to that request?”

“When I make it, it will not be phrased as a request,” Anguin said, firmly.  “While I am not yet in a position to do so, that is my plan.”

“Let us see how the summer plays out, Your Grace,” I counselled.

He smiled.  “Yes, all sorts of things could happen between now and Huin’s Day,” he admitted.  “But I need to let them know that they are not forgotten.  Grendine has already started to try to wed them to Castali nobles,” he complained.  “Just suggestions, but each would put them firmly under her wing.  But it is my duty to see my sisters wed, not hers.  And certainly not to her Castali toadies.  No offense.”

“None taken,” I shrugged.  I was born in Castal.  That didn’t mean I approved of our leadership.  I just dealt with it, like everyone else.

“We can discuss this in greater detail at the meeting,” I advised.  “There are far too many hungry ears in this room for such delicate discussions.”

“Quite right,” Anguin said, gathering himself together.  “I’ll see you this evening, at the Chapterhouse.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Gatecrushers, Westwardens,

Marshals and Scholars

I made certain to linger long enough to ensure I spoke with Rard, privately.  We didn’t get an opportunity to sneak away, after the ceremony blessing the palace, but I was able to take him aside and cast a spell that kept us from being overheard.

“My liege, we cannot be overheard, now.  I had to ask . . . what of Rardine?” I said, continuing to smile as we spoke.  Grendine was at the opposite end of the hall.  She made no effort to come speak to me, nor I her.  “Have you sent someone to survey the prison?  To engage in negotiations?”

He wasn’t smiling.

“Do you think I have not tried, Minalan?” he asked, quietly.  “I was going to raise an army and march west myself . . . but I was . . . overruled,” he said, darkly.  “Grendine and Kindine.  And then Tavard insists on his foolishness at sea, and now I am told if I attempt to seek my daughter I will endanger her life.  We must wait, I am told, until her captors contact us.”

“That does not seem like you, if I may so, my liege,” I observed.

“It’s not like me in the slightest,” he growled.  “But if I were to enlist a spy, from what intelligence service could I get one from?  Mother?” he snorted.  “She has blocked me, Minalan,” he said, sounding hurt.  “I cannot summon assistance even from my military.  They insist that the information you provided is ‘unsubstantiated’.  That it is more likely that she is being held by the Count of Rhemes, who intends to use her as a hostage to get me to acknowledge him the Duke of Alshar.  My girl is in some filthy prison, and I am told that she is a ‘regrettable sacrifice’,” he said, disgusted.

“We both know better, my liege,” I said, quietly.  “I trust my men utterly.  They saw her.  She is in Olum Seheri.  She is the prisoner of the Necromancer.  Or was, just before Yule.”

“Then why no demand for ransom?” he asked.

“Because Korbal doesn’t want your gold,” I explained.  “He is holding a piece he is in no hurry to play.  Which gives us time to act,” I proposed.

“Do that, and Mother will take it unkindly,” he said, glancing around casually.  “She’s already vexed that I offered two baronies as a reward for the man who returns her to us.  She thinks that’s too rich a prize.  She has all but forbidden me from taking action.”

“My liege, are you king in this palace?  Or is she?” I asked.

“You know very well that governance is more complex than that,” he reproved.  “Or you should, by now.  It is not merely my wife I would be opposing, but a center of power.  The center of power,” he corrected.  “As long as she has her daughters, it matters not what I command.  The man who tries to follow an order she doesn’t like can fall dead before he can undertake it,” he said, bitterly.  “She has threatened as much.  Else I would be riding at the head of twenty thousand men to lay siege to this Necromancer,” he vowed.  “She would never harm me . . . but she can control those I depend upon to execute my orders.  She’s done that, often enough,” he said, grimly.

“I’m actually surprised she hasn’t come at me . . . again,” I said, glancing at the queen.

“I think she’s afraid to,” he chuckled, mirthlessly.  “Ever since you told her off after the coronation, she’s been wary of you.  You slew Isily and Dunselen – she didn’t think you had the balls for that,” he confided.  “And then this latest nonsense about the gods . . . you have her concerned.  But you’re too useful and too popular, I think, and she fears a general rebellion of magi, should anything befall you.”

“She might be right to,” I conceded.  Azar, especially, would not take that well.  Nor would Terleman, or any number of other wizards I’d cultivated as dangerous friends.  “But that also places me in a useful position, Your Majesty.  With your permission, I would like to explore the possibility of surveilling and, if possible, arranging the rescue of Rardine.  Unlike Mother, I think we are more vulnerable with her in enemy hands not for what her well-being means to you, but for the secrets she bears.  Indeed, I find her lack of attention to the matter troubling,” I confided.

“She is accepting this as expediency,” Rard growled.  “Our daughter!”

“Calm yourself, Sire,” I urged.  “We cannot be overheard, but your expression should not be over fierce.  I have men I can rely upon to look into this,” I offered.  “Without your official knowledge.”

“So you wish two more baronies?” he asked, slyly.

“I don’t know what to do with the one I have,” I shrugged.  “I will not rescue her . . . but I could facilitate some other brave hero to do so.  Let you reward him, in the unlikely event he prevails.  That’s the sort of wizard work at which I excel.”

“So you do,” he chuckled, glancing over at Anguin.  “Subtly, too.  Very well, Minalan, you have my tacit permission to do so,” he said, sounding a little relieved.  “Inform me what you discover – discreetly.”

“I am the epitome of discretion, Majesty,” I assured.  “Especially when the security of the realm is at stake.  It is my duty as a member of the royal court,” I suggested.

“Damn it, I never should have let Salgo go,” he fumed.  “He never would have capitulated to her.  And Kindine is becoming old and cautious,” he sighed.  “She so fears Rardine will do something to impede Tavard’s inheritance, out of spite, that she has Armandra near-convinced of a plot already.  Now even she works to avenge Rardine’s capture, not rescue her.  She claims that the divine visitation in Sevendor assures Tavard of victory.  And the idiot is stupid enough to believe her!” he scoffed.

“I’m certain I can make a few discreet inquiries, at least, Majesty,” I suggested.  “Indeed, I was planning on visiting the Arcane Order while I was here.  I can ask around.  Some of our footwizards wander places rangers fear to go.  I will see what rumors and news I can find out . . . without Grendine knowing about it.”

“That would be a blessing, Minalan,” Rard said, quietly.  “No one else will offer to help me, they fear her so.  Find me good news, and it will be rewarded,” he promised.

“The security of the realm is my primary concern, Sire,” I assured, pleased to get royal permission, even if it was clandestine.  “Let me see what I can find out.”

Before dusk I was sitting in one of the libraries in the Arcane Order’s tower, receiving a detailed briefing that far exceeded rumors and news from a few footwizards.

“The news from the Land of Scars is grim,” Pentandra reported, as she displayed a well-constructed magemap on the table before us.  The ghostly lines that detailed the new intelligence sketched out the entire region, though much of it was frustratingly blank.

“The Kasari scouts entered through this Waypoint, near this south-east section below the Poros.  They made their way to a base camp in the old ranger tower.  They spent two days scouting the local country, revealing no less than four fortified outposts bordering the territory – and two instances where local bandit gangs had been conquered and enslaved by gurvani and undead.  They are fortifying the land, particularly around the river,” she reported.

“It doesn’t need much fortification,” observed Count Salgo.  “The place is nigh impassable!”

“We could get to Olum Seheri the same way they did, up the Poros,” countered Taren, who joined us for the planning.  I had sent word to several High Magi who I wanted to bring into the conspiracy.  `Taren and Terleman were eager to join, the former for the chance to see Ghost Rock, the latter for the chance to slay gurvani.  “That’s likely why they’re focusing their efforts on that region.”

“Arborn’s party moved along through here, then backtracked along this route to make it to the entrance of Olum Seheri.  And yes, the dragon still guards it,” she said, frowning.

“And the other?”

“It lairs on the northern beach, under the overhanging cliff.  Worse, the cliffs have been taken over by wyverns.  Nasty things.  They flock day and night, filling the misty skies with their foul wings.”

“So, no help from the air from the giant hawks,” Terleman frowned.

“They won’t let any bird or flying thing enter the canyon,” Pentandra said, shaking her head and making a face.  “Ithalia told me about them.  When they detect prey, they swarm it, wrapping their filthy talons and snakey tails around it until the dead weight brings the creature down.  Then they devour it.  Arborn reported such, when he was there.

“We won’t be going in that way, anyway,” Pentandra reported, pausing to adjust herself in her chair around her tumescent belly.  “They have fortified the entrance, garrisoning the ancient towers with goblins and undead.  It would take a siege in a remote land with no road in dangerous country to dislodge them.

“Instead, I propose our forces enter through the Ways.  There are two natural Waypoints on the island, here at the southern end and here in the west – both are guarded.”

“Wait, if the entrance is fortified and guarded by a dragon, how did you discover this intelligence?” asked Sir Gydion, Anguin’s bodyguard.  He was still relatively new to court, I gathered.

“Arborn is the chief of the Kasari Rangers,” Pentandra declared.  “He had a company of his best men with him, and two troops of scouts.  Raptors, every one.  There is no patch of country on Callidore that he could not brave, and do so undetected.  He went himself, alone, into the lake.  He would not entrust such an important and dangerous duty to his men,” she said, proudly.

“Once past the gates, he surveyed the island from afar.  He learned the patterns of the patrols, their composition and disposition, and saw that both Waypoints have been garrisoned.  They are used infrequently, by the Nemovorti and the Enshadowed, but they are wary against any attack coming from those precincts.”

“That doesn’t mean we don’t want to give them one,” Terleman declared.  “How many guard the Ways?”

“Sixty to seventy, plus a few trolls when they aren’t being used for brute labor,” Pentandra answered.

“So, one for Azar, one for Wenek,” he suggested.

“If that was the only danger, then perhaps,” I answered.  “But the reserves they can call upon are far worse.  Within minutes of an attack, we can expect several Nemovorti and draugen to enter the fray.  Against those odds, even Azar would have to be thoughtful.”

“Have you spoken to Azar, recently?” snickered Terleman.

“But you are correct,” she continued.  “A strong force could likely overwhelm the garrison, temporarily.”

“An attack on one or both Waypoints would prove a useful distraction,” I said, tapping the table absently with the stem of my pipe.  “Indeed, if this plan is to succeed it is because we used subterfuge, surprise, and obfuscation to our advantage.”

Pentandra nodded.  “We will have to.  Because we have a third Waypoint the enemy isn’t aware of, which was thoughtfully placed in a concealed location by means of a Waystone.

“Unfortunately, it is in the middle of the island on the eastern side, obscured from easy view by a great grotto of debris.  The moment someone leaves that haven, however, they will be spotted.  It lies closely to the tower in which they were holding Rardine, which is rigorously patrolled.  And that does not even account for the magic detections that will be in place.  Arborn was unable to give me any details on those.”

“How did you get a Waystone into Olum Seheri?” asked Lord Aeratas.

“Sir Tyndal, actually,” Pentandra smiled.  “He dropped a Waystone there while they were reconnoitering the site at Yule.  He thought it would be useful.  When he and the Estasi Order made their first foray to the island, they brought back valuable intelligence.  Including a sighting of Sheruel visiting his new ally.”

“Ally?  Or vassal?” Lord Aeratas asked, skeptically.  “Korbal is not the type to suffer a peer.”

“The nature of their relationship is unknown,” she admitted.  “Perhaps we’ll establish that on this journey.  But the stone is placed.  We can enter into Olum Seheri undetected . . . once.  When they become aware of it . . . well, not only will that route be guarded, but they could recover the stone.  As of yet they do not realize the advantage they give us.  But that will not last.”

“Not if we take it with us, when we leave,” I pointed out.  “We need it only to enter, not to leave.  And if it is proximate to the tower in which Rardine and the other prisoners are being kept, then it’s perfectly placed.  The rescue party, to be most effective, should enter from that point.”

“Of course,” Terleman agreed.  “A quick, sudden strike, after a suitable distraction.”  He removed a wand from his belt and used it to point.  “The third Waypoint is only a few hundred yards from the base of the building.  If the position of this slab of debris is accurate—”

“It is,” Pentandra assured.  “I had Tyndal, Rondal, and Gareth each review it.  They all agreed.”

“Then launching a rescue effort from this point is ideal.  They can attack the base of the structure from a distance, by magic – maybe an alchemical fireball, or other anti-personnel spell that doesn’t damage the structural integrity – and then fight their way up from there.”

“You do realize that tower is also a garrison?” I pointed out.

“And the attack will be a mere feint,” he replied, confidently.  “Designed to encourage the garrison to descend to meet the attackers.  Thus clearing the upper levels where the prisoners are kept of guards.”

“According to the Dradrien prisoners the Estasi Knights rescued,” I added, “she’s up here, at this level.  There’s a final garrison of gurvani hobgoblin guards below, and another level of cells in the story above, from what they reported, though that may have changed since then.  The stairwell is in the center of the tower,” I explained, changing the magemap to display the structure’s interior.  “How do you propose to get to that level, if the guards are massing for a defensive movement?”

“Either from the top or laterally, through the air,” Terleman answered.  “We can find some magical way to bridge the gap between the entry Waypoint and the prison level.”

“You say that like it’s an easy thing!” snorted Terleman.

“It need not be difficult, if we apply ourselves with ingenuity,” Taren disagreed.  “I can think of at least half a dozen methods that could be used, if there are no magical defenses to counter them.”

“You can bet that there are, and Enshadowed spells, at that,” Lord Aeratas told us.  “They aren’t normal Alka Alon songspells.  My people experiment with magic just as yours does, and for far longer.  Our foes are particularly knowledgeable in the most obscure realms of the art.  The Enshadowed use many lost or forgotten techniques that we no longer recognize.  There will be magical defenses.”

“Then we will explore several alternative possibilities,” I decided.  “For the sake of argument, let’s say we get someone up there.  Someone who can transport Rardine and the Dradrien smith out of there.”

“Why are we rescuing a Dradrien smith?” asked Aeratas, suspiciously.

“Because he’s working on this for Korbal,” I said, sliding the sheaf of parchment sketches to the exiled lord.

He took them and began looking through the detailed illustrations.

“If you have any idea what it is, let me know.  Neither the Dradrien or myself could figure it out.  But it takes a master Dradrien smith to construct.  One whose life has to be threatened in order to get him to create it.”

“The Dradrien are working with the Enshadowed?” he asked, troubled.  “That is a renewal of an ancient alliance we can ill-afford.  The Dradrien constructed some of the direst weapons of our wars.  Weapons so fearsome that they were locked away from memory.”

“It’s not a voluntary alliance, in this case,” I explained.  “He was kidnapped from his home by the Enshadowed and compelled to work.  When his nephews came searching for him, they, too, were enslaved and used as hostages to force his craft.  We shall kidnap him in turn, and discover what this device is.  Hopefully before it is completed.”

“I have no clear conception of its use,” admitted Lord Aeratas.  “And I have seen many wonders and horrors in this world.  That, alone, is disturbing.”

“Which brings us to our next issue,” I said.  “Entering the undercaverns of the city.”

“That is going to prove quite difficult,” Aeratas sighed.  “Korbal has constructed his new palace over the entrance.  No doubt it can only be entered there, now.”

“Was there not another entrance?”

“It is now under the surface of the lake,” he explained.  “One of the caverns in the upper chambers lies proximate to the deep pit that leads to the Chamber of Ages, where the vein is exposed.    When the city was built the lake level was lower, allowing the Karshak entrance.  Now it is mostly filled.  A difficult route, if one is not a fish.”

“We’ll table that,” I decided.  “It might be useful, though.  Getting into the shaft means getting into the fortress.  So, we get into the fortress.”

“We have virtually no intelligence on it,” Pentandra warned.  “Arborn saw much, but the place was avoided by all but Korbal’s most trusted servants.  Even the minions of darkness fear it.”

“Then we’ll have to be sneaky about it,” I reasoned.  “If the fortress is emptied to support a sudden attack, that might be the perfect time to go in.”

“Against magical detection and defensive spells we have no idea about?” Terleman asked, skeptically.  “That’s not the kind of mission I’d sign up for, as a mercenary.”

“Thank Duin you’re a knight and gentleman of the court, which obligates you by duty,” I chuckled.  “I didn’t say it would be easy.  Once we get there, we’re going to have to improvise,” I said, making my Magolith spin in the air.  “Which is why that will be the most heavily-armed party of the three.”

“Three?” asked Pentandra, confused.

“Three,” I agreed.  “One to start a ferocious attack at this end of the island,” I said, pointing out the Waypoint at the farthest end.  “They’ll come through the Waypoint, wands blazing and mageblades flashing, do as much damage as possible, and create an excellent reason to pull the surrounding forces to this point.

“Then,” I said, as I shifted perspective on the map to encompass the entire island, “the second half of Group One will launch a second attack through the second Waypoint.  That should pull most of the reserves in this area in to respond,” I said, using my pipestem to trace the movements on the map.

“That will be more undead,” Terleman pointed out.  “If this map is accurate, then that means a lot more undead facing the second team.”

“Then we’ll tailor the attack to account for that,” I reasoned.  “There are specific spells that affect necromantic energy.  I’ve been working on some.  So has Taren.  Let’s use the opportunity to experiment.”

“That researcher better have some pretty cast-iron balls, to take that on,” snorted Taren.  “I’m not volunteering,” he added, quickly.

“No, I’ll need you supporting my team, keeping dragons and wyverns off of us while we’re heading to the fortress of the evil undead lord toward certain doom.”

“Thanks, I feel better.”

“It sounds like an Azar job, to me,” Pentandra offered.  “He’s not a necromancer, but he’s not going to be happy until he’s had a chance to kill one of every foe. He’d welcome the challenge.”

“We might want to bring in a real necromancer in on this,” Taren suggested, hesitantly.  “If we’re coming up with weapons against them, then we should get an expert opinion.”

“I actually have one on staff,” I remembered.  “Sort of.  It’s a hobby of his,” I conceded.  “But one of my Spellwardens is conversant in the basics.  Kedaran the Black.  He’s been teaching me basic necromantic theory, such as it is.  I’ll get him to consult with Master Ulin, and see if they can find some countermeasures.”

“Good idea,” Terleman agreed.  “We’ll need that kind of support, if we’re going to last beyond the initial attack.  So, we have one team attacking the gates, one team using that distraction to attack the tower, and then a third team attacking Korbal’s fortress.  And then a fourth team.”

“Fourth?” asked Aeratas, confused.

“The reserves,” he explained.  “We’re going to need a lot of support on this mission, particularly when so many things can potentially go awry.  Reinforcements will be needed,” he predicted.  “So will medical attention.  That means a talented and skilled group who can provide assistance and – if needed – rescue.  Four teams.”

“Four teams,” I agreed.  “Shall we grant them names?”

“I’ll lead the first team, with Azar as my second.  The Gatebreakers,” Terleman suggested.

“I’ll lead the second,” Anguin argued.  “The Westwardens, assuring the safety and security of my realm against the shadow in the West.  For now, at least.  I expect Tyndal and Rondal will be included,” he added.  “I will, of course, defer to an operational leader, once we are in battle.  But I need to lead the team that rescues my cousin,” he said, firmly.

“Understood, Your Grace,” I nodded.  “The Westwardens it is.  Who shall oversee the reserves?”

“I will,” Pentandra volunteered.  “I’m as big as a barn, but I can oversee and direct reserves.  Assuming I’m not in labor.  I’ll train a subordinate to take over, in such a case,” she added.  “But as this is ostensibly an Alshari operation, and a Magical Corps operation at that.  I’d like the Alshari Court Wizard to be involved.  Someone has to keep Minalan from screwing things up.”

“I keep telling you, it’s not me,” I complained.  “It’s the rest of the universe!”

“We shall be the Marshals,” she decided.  “That will occlude the meaning from casual conversation, and describe our essential duty: to see to the security of the state.  A common enough title, if infrequently used.”

“And my team shall be the Scholars, for much the same reason,” I suggested.

“Ah! It is a code!” Lord Aeratas realized.  “A metaphor.”

“See why I like them?” Lilastien asked, smugly.  “They have such delightful constructs!”

“A useful ruse to keep our purposes from being exposed, either to the darkness or to our own rulers,” Pentandra explained, helpfully.

“Ah.  Prince Tavard.  And King Rard.”

“More Queen Grendine, but . . . let’s just say that I’d prefer to surprise them with our success, not disappoint them with our failures,” Anguin said, diplomatically.  “This matter lies entirely within my own realm – no offense, Lord Aeratas, I claim no sovereignty over lost Anthatiel, nor have I ever,” he added, graciously.  The Tera Alon lord nodded in gratitude.  “But the Land of Scars lies betwixt the Wilderlands and the rest of Alshar.  I would contest any power who sought to fortify it against me.”

“A well-reasoned justification, Your Grace,” Lord Aeratas conceded.  “As for my part, my kin and I shall act as guides for all parties.  We know the city best, even in its ruined state.  And we have many who are eager to test these new bodies and these new weapons in battle.”

“You would lead your troops back to Olum Seheri, knowing that you will not be there to conquer it?”

“This war has barely begun,” Lord Aeratas offered, philosophically.  “This is a raid, a chance for revenge and retribution, not an invasion.  Trust me: my folk are eager for such a chance.  As am I.  Unfortunately, I shall be with the Scholars, as no one who is not my kin can enter the Chamber of Ages.  It is sealed with blood coral, among other defenses.  If they still stand,” he added.

“Yet they have penetrated it enough to secure a shard, by all accounts,” Pentandra argued.

“They have reached but an outcropping, a minor split off the main vein of stone,” Lord Aeratas assured her.  “It is but a remnant of the central core, not nearly as potent.  A chamber far more lightly warded than the Chamber of Ages.  The Grotto of Memory.”

“I love the names you give things,” I said to him.  Then I looked at Pentandra.  “Do you see why I like them?  They’re so creative!”

“Yet a mere shard saw the Umbra expanded by a quarter mile,” Terleman said, shaking his head and ignoring me.  “If that’s what they hewed from the arse end of the vein, what could they do with the pure Ghost Rock?”  He looked around for a moment at our silent faces.  “That wasn’t rhetorical, I really want to know!”

“We all would like to know,” Pentandra agreed, quietly.  “And I fear we may find out, to our peril.  That is why this mission is so critical: our foes have assembled a powerful combination of resources, magical and mundane, and they have waged a war against us,” she lectured, thoughtfully.

“They have surprised us at every turn, largely because we have misjudged their intentions and their goals.  We have been playing on a board where we do not understand the rules, assembling pieces without understanding the nature of our opponents.

“This is where that changes,” she said, forcefully, as she absently put her hand on her swollen abdomen.  “This is where we discover who we are fighting, why, and how we stop them.  I will not raise my daughters in a world where their very existence is in jeopardy!” she said, with especial fervor.

“Then our purposes are united, for I shall not leave this world until I have a fitting legacy to bequeath to my own daughter.  I will see her rule over a restored Anthatiel, once it has been washed free of its filth,” Aeratas pledged, resolutely.

“And I shall see the corruption of the Necromancer cut from the center of my realm,” Anguin agreed.

“The way ahead is clear,” I agreed with a sigh, “even if the route is dark.  How comes our bid to recruit warmagi for the task?  We will need a strong force.  A mighty force,” I amended.  “One that can do significant damage.”

“Rondal and Tyndal have raised a force at Timberwatch,” Pentandra supplied.  “Nearly two hundred magi and powerful sports have come to their trials, seeking to prove their worth to their order.

“To cover their activity, Count Salgo has detailed two thousand of his best men, the finest warriors the Wilderlands has to offer, for specialized training with the warmagi.  We can pick among the cream of the sparks, and leave the rest leading the grunts who will affect the Raid of Emancipation,” she proposed.

“’Raid of Emancipation’?” Lilastien asked, frowning.

“Sheruel’s minions have enslaved well over a hundred and fifty thousand humans in the Wilderlands and Gilmora,” she explained.  “Duke Anguin has decided that it would be both disruptive to the foe and helpful to his realm to re-capture them, and repatriate them to security.”

“That should deprive them of their workforce before they are ready to strike,” Anguin agreed.  “As well as further sacrifices and . . . foodstuffs.  More importantly, it rescues subjects that are suffering and in need.  Subjects that I need, in the north.”

“That sounds ambitious,” Lord Aeratas said, appraisingly.  “How soon will you be ready to strike?”

“We’re ready to execute that mission, within days of getting the word,” offered Salgo.  “We’ve targeted eleven major manors, estates, or encampments to strike.  Our Kasari confederates will provide distractions, and then we will attack with the purpose of freeing and escorting the slaves to safety,” the old warlord reported.  “A company of Third Commando will screen our retreat while another will protect Vorone from reprisals.”

“It also provides us an excellent distraction.  If Sheruel and Korbal are looking at the Wilderlands in distress, they won’t be expecting an attack on Olum Seheri immediately afterwards.  Which means we will have to raid in force.  That’s why I requested the Estasi Order recruit as many good candidates as possible.  We’ll want about a score of warmagi each, and another ten each supporting the Westwardens and the Scholars.  We can take the top sixty, and the rest can support the Rescue,” I figured.

“I find no fault with that plan,” agreed Lord Aeratas.  “I shall send the most valiant and potent of my Tera Alon to observe, perhaps to participate.  A look at humani fighting techniques might prove enlightening.”

“Yes, we should certainly train together, before the operation.  How many of your folk do you think could be devoted to the Gatebreakers?” Terleman asked, intrigued.

“At least a score,” Aeratas supplied.  “Perhaps more.  But I have that many in my own household who seethe with rage at the affront of the Enshadowed.  We shall not lack for volunteers.”

“That’s an attack of at least fifty warriors,” nodded Terleman.  “That should be sufficient to attract their attention.  It’s enough to convince them that it’s a serious attack, not a simple scouting expedition.”

“What about the dragons?” Pentandra asked.  “And the wyverns?”

“The dragons will not be an issue, unless things go horribly awry,” Terleman decided, looking at the map.  “We’re coming into the center of their fortifications, not on their frontiers, where the dragons nest.  They would be loath to summon them, to deal with a threat so small and concentrated.  Not if they don’t want to get their ugly new city destroyed,” he predicted.

“There is that,” I agreed.  “We want to give them just enough threat to convince them it’s a fight in earnest, but not so much that they feel desperate.”

“We can have half of our folk spread out over the island starting mischief, as soon as they transport in,” Terleman decided.  “That would reduce the appearance of the attack, but widen its effect.  And disperse us beyond the use of dragonfire.”

“That would give us maximum advantage to disrupt their operations,” agreed Aeratas, as he studied the map.  “Especially if you know how the infrastructure of the city is constructed.  We can teach you the secrets of Anthatiel which lie buried under the ruins of its spires.  Things they rely upon, and don’t even realize it.  A third more of the city will flood, if certain mechanisms in its bowels are disrupted.”

“That might make it difficult to send the dragons in,” Pentandra agreed, “but that still leaves the wyverns.”

“I have some ideas about that,” Taren said, his eyes narrowing in thought.  “But I might need to borrow the bouleuterion to work them out.  Or at least the use of the workshops at Sevendor,” he suggested.

“They are at your disposal,” I offered.  “What did you have in mind?”

He shrugged.  “I can think of a couple of approaches.  I figure at least one will work.  If I can clear the skies of wyverns, then the giant hawks can come into play.  That might be useful, at some point.”

“Not being attacked by flying lizards with poisoned bites—”

“Their bites are poisoned?” asked Taren, surprised.

“Their bites, their curved tail spikes, and their claws,” Lord Aeratas said, grimly.  “The exact nature of the venom depends upon the species, but they all have it.”

“A summary would be helpful,” Taren asked, politely, as Terleman nodded emphatically.

“The wyverns subdue their prey by enwrapping it with its tail while it gouges it with its claws.  It bites with poisoned fangs as well, usually causing paralysis or merely bleeding – some species have a powerful anti-coagulant.  The tail spike functions as a nerve agent that causing a burning pain, but is not itself fatal.  It lasts . . . days,” he said, clutching his arm in memory.

“The poison from their claws is different: they grasp their prey in them, and collect scraps of decaying flesh in small pockets near the nailbed of the claw.  And yes, it is both powerful and sharp . . . but wounds can heal.  The putrescence in the pockets cultivates a fungus that can be fatal, long term, if it infects the victim.  But long before that, it erodes the higher functions of the brain.  It can be cured, if countered quickly enough, but the effect on the brain is permanent.”

“How do you know the creatures so intimately, my lord?” asked Anguin, respectfully.

“During my youth, when my father was first building the City of Rainbows, it was our duty to rid the cliffs of the beasts,” he explained.  “They are cunning and highly social, which means that hunting them oft led to swarms appearing, and that could prove deadly.

“A single bite will rarely kill you, but the accumulated swarms of wyverns can tear you to shreds,” he warned.  “The moment one gives the hunting cry, it attracts every hungry wyvern in earshot.  And they are always hungry.  A single hunt can attract four or five.  A large beast can lure hundreds.  Few things can survive such an onslaught.”

Terleman snorted.  “That’s a cheery thought.  How did you clear them out?”

“In the end, it was only the power of our prismatic magic that kept them from nesting in the cliffs.  They dislike the bright light of day, particularly the red end of the spectrum.  It confuses them in the hunt.  So they stopped nesting there, when our songspells energized the spectra.  When the spectral field was stopped, and replaced with that hideous mist, they returned.  Indeed, it appears someone has cultivated the vicious beasts,” he said, a sneer of disgust on his face.

“They do make an effective deterrent,” agreed Taren, objectively.  “But that’s valuable intelligence, my lord.  Thank you.”

“You have an idea?” I asked, curiously.

“Oh, I have it figured out, already,” Taren assured me.  “Two different ways, in fact.  Hells, I might combine them, just to judge their effectiveness.”

“That’s the way I like a wizard to talk!” I said, encouragingly.  “Anyone else have anything significant to add?  Or shall we begin work on assembling our teams, and agree to meet again in a few weeks to discuss our progress?”

“I was curious about one thing,” Anguin asked, after a moment of thoughtful silence.  “What shall we do if we run into Korbal, himself?  Or Sharuel?”

Another thoughtful silence prevailed, a much more dreadful one.

I swallowed, and tried to appear business-like.  “We fight for our lives with everything we have.  Or we run.  Or both.  And, more than likely, we’ll die.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

The Plan

My team, the Scholars, was the smallest of the four.  I wanted to ensure that we had sufficient power to protect ourselves, deal with any obstacles, and complete our mission.  Oh, and return safely.  That was a priority.

Ours was the most difficult and ill-defined of the tasks in the mission.  We were facing defenses of unknown type and number, inside a structure we knew virtually nothing about.  One in which Korbal himself might be lurking.

I was going, of course.  I had the Magolith, which would be needed to transfer the Handmaiden, once we got into the Chamber of Ages.  So was Aeratas.  I needed him to access the chamber, as well as get past the defenses he’d arranged to guard its secrets.  And teach me to access the main vein of the Ghost Rock.  I had no doubt he could take care of himself.  He was a high lord of the Alka Alon, with the stature and strength of a perfect human form.  He combined the better elements of both our races in his present form.

I would need additional warriors, I knew.  Men as adept with spells as swords, as cunning as hunters as they were doughty as warriors.  But I wanted to keep the number small.  We needed to move fast, hit hard, and keep moving, if we were going to make the chamber.

I selected Sire Cei to come, as he was both the most loyal and the most powerful warrior I knew.  He’d already volunteered, at Yule, swearing before Briga that he would see the quest done.

I would have liked to include Tyndal and Rondal, but I knew they would want to be near their sovereign on the mission, and to be honest I wanted them there.  The last thing I needed was to get a sitting Duke killed on one of my foolish wizard’s quests.

Another one, that is.

I chose Onranion, because he was useful, if annoying.  And he was soaked in the lore of the Alka Alon.  He suggested bringing Master Azhguri, his comrade and friend, because having both a Karshak and a master stonesinger along wouldn’t hurt.  And he could carry a lot of things, even at his age, the old songmaster grinned.  He challenged me to see just how many things I could convince the Karshak to carry.

The bastard.

Lilastien insisted on coming, simply for the chance to see the Ghost Rock in person, herself . . . and I almost said no.  But she was the best healer in the world, better than Master Icorod, and her experience had given her some unique insights on both Alkan and human culture.

She was also familiar with the Vundel, which might be helpful.  We might have to protect her, but she was pretty wiley.  And no one on the Alkan Council would complain if she died along the way.

When it was starting to look like I had more brains than brawn, I decided to include a couple of fellows I knew I could rely on in a fight.

Sandoval, who had been recently rejected as Castali Ducal Court Wizard in favor of a friend of a friend of Moran’s, was between jobs.  Not only was he a good combat mage, he was also another thaumaturge.  Not as good as Taren, but good.  Given some special armor and weaponry from Sevendor’s vaults, he could be quite formidable.  More important, he was trustworthy.

I considered Lorcus, but I discovered that my vassal warmage had already taken a commission . . . for Dranus.  He was consulting on the conquest of Moros.  Apparently Dranus had been taken with how quickly and easily he’d prosecuted his war against Rolone, and wanted to benefit from his unique advice.

I couldn’t blame him . . . but this wasn’t the kind of mission Lorcus was best suited for.  This was an infiltration, true, but I needed someone sneaky, not unpredictable.  Likewise, Lanse of Bune was out.  He was busy working on a special royal commission for the next several months.  I couldn’t take a man away from paying work.  That would be unprofessional.

I figured that if Azar would be involved in the Gatebreakers, then he’d recruit Wenek and Astyral out of a sense of competitive loyalty.  The same with Terleman: his strength was commanding men in battle, not plunging into the depths of a cavern.  He needed to be directing the battle for the Waypoints, not hiding his talents in shadow.

Instead I chose Mavone.  He was dour, for a Gilmoran, but he was serious about his work, and not as flamboyant as some other warmagi I could name.  He had a head for high politics, and he was as good in combat as most warmagi.  I could trust him.

He’d been looking after the Order’s interests in various ways while tending to his own domain in southeastern Gilmora, chosen as his reward like I had selected Sevendor.  But he was a warmage first, a magelord second.  He was always ready to assist with little missions and such, and this was just too juicy a quest to pass up.  When I asked him, he said he felt honored.

I debated long and hard before including another . . . but if one is going sneaking into darkness, then having a shadowmage along is not a bad idea.  I happened to have the acquaintance of one, Lord Hance.

The master thief was reluctant to go, when I made the offer, mind-to-mind, until he discovered that Duke Anguin was going to be on the expedition, personally.  Then he insisted on coming, and volunteered his talented family to help with the effort, as well.  In particular, he insisted that his son Atopol accompany His Grace.

That would be a sufficient party, I figured, to get us through Korbal’s citadel and down into the undercaverns.  I hoped.

The truth was, I had no idea what would be needed, or whose talents would be of most use on the expedition.  I chose as wisely as I could from among the many talented people I knew, and that was the best I could do.  It would have to work.

I tried my best to let the other team leaders choose their members without interference.  Indeed, I tried to avoid them, entirely, lest I get a reputation for standing over their shoulder.  Anguin would choose who he would, but with Tyndal, Rondal, and Atopol along, I tried not to worry about him.  His success or failure would be his own.  I was just using him for the distraction.

The same went for Pentandra and Terleman, and their teams.  Terleman knows violence like a bride knows kisses, and Pentandra understood organization and planning at a spiritual level.  I had every confidence in their ability to choose their members without my advice.

Taren did, indeed, have a plan to deal with the wyverns.  And a number of other things.  Now that Master Ulin was not preoccupied with the centerpoint problem, Taren monopolized the enchanter’s time and most of the advanced enchantments in my private workshop to prepare his arguments.  I left him alone, too.

That didn’t mean I didn’t work on my own weapons and armor.  With the new power of the Magolith I went back over my combat gear and improved it as much as I could.  I did the same with Twilight, my mageblade, and Blizzard, my warstaff.  I attached new hoxters to my weapons harness, filling them with things I thought might be useful.  And a bunch of things I knew probably wouldn’t be useful, but I added them anyway.

One of the things I practiced while I prepared was using the Magolith, itself, as a weapon.  The mage-hardened gold harness it sat within was pretty, but hardly lethal on its own.  The incredible power bound inside the globe needed to be focused and directed before it could be purposefully lethal.  I tinkered with the thing for three days, coming up with methods to make the Magolith a potent weapon . . . not just a floating bauble.

That turned out to be easier than I suspected, once Onranion got involved.  He found a unique stone that could be used to filter and direct the arcane power of the sphere.  With a little fiddling, we were able to get it to emit five kinds of usefully destructive energy.

I arranged for new hoxters containing my blade, my various staves, and other items I used frequently anchored in the stones around the base of the Magolith, the portion enclosing the knot coral that kept it suspended in the air.  Keeping them in rings was handy, but rings could get lost.  Just to ensure that none of my precious items could, even if the sphere was stolen, I anchored the hoxters to something in my tower.  I’m paranoid like that.

A man can only do so much preparation before he realizes that he’s killing time.  The weather was warming and the entire domain was beginning the all-important rituals of the agricultural calendar.

Tallies of those who died during the winter, and those babes who survived, were gathered by the Priests of Huin as they hurried from field to field, blessing the land and using the agricultural wands to plow and furrow the soil.

The foundations for a new shrine to the Visitation of the Seven was being dug on the commons.  A new crop of squires showed up for training at the castle, and household knights left for their own lands as they were replaced by those whose turn at the duty it was.

I saw the first caravan of the Arcane Mercantile Guild set forth from Sevendor to Castabriel with a load of weirwood (freshly harvested from our own forest, and particularly potent for saplings), snowstone, three cartloads of enchantments, and a cart full of everything from Sevendor glass to sympathy stones from Trestendor’s mines.

I spent a lot of time with my family, who were extending their good-byes as long as they could.  Mama was using the spring floods as an excuse as they began to swell the rivers that would take them home.  I think I ate dinner at their hall every other night, while they were still there.  Seeing my kids around their grandparents was worth a sphere of gold from my collection.  No question.

Yet it all seemed empty and incomplete, without Alya’s presence.  She left a hole in my life larger than the hole in the countryside left by my missing mountain.  The kids missed her and were confused about where, exactly, she’d gone.  I missed her desperately; she was who kept me from doing anything truly stupid.  Like planning a suicidal an expedition into the very chambers of our darkest enemies for no better reason than to save my wife.

She would have been dead-set against me doing that.

We had one final grand strategy meeting at Carmella’s tower before we began the final preparations for the enterprise.  Despite my impatience, I had to admit that a lot had gotten accomplished.

Pentandra had not only organized the support team, she had prepared a familiar place for them to reside: the Blue Barn at Timberwatch.  The former battlefield was already swarming with magi, thanks to Tyndal and Rondal’s recruitment effort for the Estasi Order, and there were another couple of thousand Wilderlords and assorted mercenaries wandering around.

It was about as secure a location as we could ask for, and the Blue Barn wasn’t being used for anything but storage, at that point.  We still didn’t know what the team would need, but Timberwatch was as good a staging area as any.

For their part, the Estasi Order had a very successful recruitment drive.  The boys did me the courtesy of dropping by the tower a few days before the official meeting and showing off their results.  They swaggered in, dressed like rich Wilderlords, and plopped down on stools in my workshop, just like the old days.

“We’ve just returned from a highly productive training and assessment,” Rondal began, producing a scroll from a hoxter.  “One hundred and ninety-six warmagi and other interested parties appealed for consideration to the Order—”

“After we spent hundreds of Stags on minstrels and jongleurs to talk about how godsdamn wonderful we are,” Tyndal added, to Rondal’s annoyance.

“We assessed them on the basis of Talent, training, martial skill, and warmagic.  A number of familiar faces appeared, interested in joining our illustrious—

“—and storied, in the songs and tales of dozens of expensive jongleurs and minstrels,” Tyndal interrupted.

“. . . and noble Errant Order of the Estasi Knights Magi,” Rondal finished, firmly.  “We established a series of trials, based loosely on the Rites of Duin, to establish which among them was the strongest in each category.  The cumulative scores were used to rate them, best to worst . . . with a number of special notes of interest,” he added, with a slight smile.

“We were liberal in our consideration for admission,” Tyndal grumbled.

“We wanted to ensure we got the widest possible pool of talent,” Rondal corrected.  “And I think we profited by that.  Among the notables are some familiar names and former students: Icars, Hanilif and Buselen all appeared for consideration, as did Caswallon.  They all scored in the top thirty,” he added, proudly.

“They were high magi,” Tyndal dismissed.  “They had an advantage.”

“Our top competitors were Caswallon the Fox, Golvod of Timaria, Gerendren who styles himself the Grim, these days . . . oh, and plenty more.  It’s a real holiday parade of magical killers,” Rondal continued.

“Again, witchstones,” Tyndal shrugged.

“Some other intriguing competitors were Daro of Quins, that Remeran who won the Spellmonger’s Trial a few years back.  He ranked at fifty-six.  Coradine the Unkillable was our top-rated lady, at sixteen.  The top-rated sport came in at number eighteen – a Castali knight named Sir Jessin.”

“What can he do?” I asked, curiously.

“He doesn’t get tired,” Tyndal offered.  “Ever.  We put everyone through grueling endurance tests – ten hours carrying rocks back and forth, it really brought out everyone’s cheery side.  The first five hours were done without magical assistance.  The second five hours it was allowed.  At the end of the day, Sir Jessin was still moving them back and forth as fast and efficiently as he had at the beginning of the day.  He doesn’t get tired.”

“Handy!” I chuckled.  “And everyone is prepared to go on a secret mission?”

“We didn’t use your name, but they assumed it was for you.  Either that, or Anguin was going to invade Enultramar with just us, which is laughable.  But we let it be known to the men we trusted that the best warmagi would be working with you.  And that knighthoods would accompany the successful completion of the mission,” Tyndal added.

“We also let it slip that there would be employment for everyone who completed the trials who wanted it, whether they made the cut or not,” Rondal added.  “Anguin is keen to see his enslaved subjects liberated, before he goes.”

“How is he faring as team leader?”

“He wisely deferred most of the decision making to Rondal,” Tyndal said, sourly.

“I am the better thaumaturge,” Rondal pointed out, without malice.  “We need to get into that tower, and that’s going to be tricky.  That’s why he put me in charge of that.  Otherwise, I’m just another spark on the squad.”

“Well, there’s going to be an addition to your squad: Atopol.  Magelord Hance has all but insisted he accompany His Grace to watch his back. A shadowmage should be good for that.”

“Hey!  I thought that was our job!  And Gydion’s!” Tyndal protested.

“We watch his front,” Rondal instructed his colleague.

“Gydion?  He’s taking his body-guard?”

“Unacknowledged bastard half-brother, actually,” Rondal supplied.  “One of Lenguin’s follies from his youth, raised in Castal.  Professional jouster.  Pentandra dug him up.  Not as smart or educated as Anguin, but a good man,” he appraised.

“And he can do more than joust,” Tyndal added.  “He’s fought with the Third Commando all winter, rooting out outposts and listening posts around Vorone.  The man can use a cavalry blade,” he agreed.

“Good – I want Anguin’s ducal arse protected.  In many ways, he has the easiest job, but he’s also got one of the more dangerous ones.  If he falls into Korbal’s hands . . .”

“Master, that just isn’t going to happen!” Rondal declared, defiantly.

“We’d die before we’d let Anguin be taken,” Tyndal affirmed, resolutely.  “He laughs at my jokes.  That’s hard to find, in a boss.”

“My opinion of him just declined,” I winced.  Tyndal’s sense of humor was a little . . . off.  “But I’m glad we understand each other.  If it’s a choice between Anguin’s life and Rardine’s rescue . . . you preserve the Duke, and abandon the Princess.  We can always make another attempt, but we only have the one Duke of Alshar.”

“We shall do our best, Master,” Rondal affirmed.

“Beyond that, Rardine and the Dradrien smith are your highest priorities.  As soon as you have them, you get all three of them out of there as fast as you can.  If all goes well, those warmagi you’ve selected will be spreading out across the city, seeding mayhem and destruction among our foes while you’re rescuing the Princess.”

“I can’t believe they get to have all the fun,” griped Tyndal.

“It would be more of an honor if the spiteful—sovereign,” Rondal said, choosing his words carefully, “would act more like a princess and less like the head of the Brotherhood of the Rat.”

“Sure, she’s a vindictive and spiteful killer,” I agreed, “but she’s the princess that needs rescuing.  You don’t have to marry her, afterwards,” I pointed out.

“No one will,” Rondal said, shaking his head sadly.  “Not after she’s been held hostage.”

“She wasn’t exactly flooded with suitors before she was kidnapped,” snorted Tyndal.

“Regardless, the honor of this rescue belongs to Anguin.  You’re just helping, like good gentlemen of the court.”

“For which we will no doubt be rewarded, by anyone who doesn’t know Rardine personally,” Tyndal agreed.

“It’s for not the reward, it’s for the glory of the Estasi Order,” I reminded him.  “Look, it was your idea to found an order of magical knights errant.  Don’t think I’m not going to use it, when I need to.”

“I knew that would bite us in the arse, someday,” Rondal muttered.

We talked a little more shop, mostly about some of the innovative ideas Taren had about eliminating the wyvern threat.  Then we got on the topic of General Mayhem, and Rondal had a couple of suggestions I liked.

He and Tyn had a lot of experience in General Mayhem, last summer, and they had arrived at some delightful solutions to the problem.  I gave them permission to develop a few particular spells I liked the sound of and sent them on their way to the enchanters’ sheds . . . after they stopped at the Rat Trap and got some much-needed sleep.

I studied the scroll of names and the notations they’d made on everyone, and I singled out a few for special attention in the future.  I also drew up a list of who I thought should go in each of the two halves of the Gatebreakers, and who should be helping out the support team.

It was a good list.  The boys had done well, and had certainly put the warmagi through their paces.  I had no doubt that once they were in combat that they would bring destruction and chaos to our enemies.  You just couldn’t ask for more than that.

When I spoke of it to Pentandra, later that day, she was full of praise for their efforts.  Not only had they assembled the cream of the warmagi in Alshar, they manage to introduce almost two thousand mundane warriors to the idiosyncrasies of working with them.

The men had gone to Timberwatch as seasoned Wilderlands warriors.  They returned understanding the great advantages that the Magical Corps could bestow on an infantry or cavalry unit.  They’d even learned to use simple magical items designed to be activated by anyone, as well as use a map, understand a magemap, appreciate the value of wards and scrying in the field, all that sort of thing.

With the help of the Alshari Third Commando, an entire company skilled at the more mundane sorts of battlefield specialties, they made a formidable backbone to the coming emancipation effort.

Finally, the day came when we met one last time at Anguin’s tower to prepare for the mission.  Each team leader made a full report, and I made certain that my entire team, the smallest of the four, was included in the discussion.

The news was mostly good: the initial campaign to liberate the human slaves in the Penumbra was set.

“We’ve established caches of food along the likely routes of retreat,” Pentandra reported, glancing over a scroll on the elegant wooden table.  Rumel’s folk did exquisite work.  “We’re also going to post pickets, companies of twenty heavily-armed warriors, to guard the slaves as they march.  They won’t be enough to halt a determined pursuit against a large force, but they could slow it down in time for reinforcements to arrive.  Any skirmishers should be easily dealt with.

“Most of the effort will be focused on eleven strongholds across the length of the Wilderlands.  Most of the slaves will be safe when they’re beyond the Whitewater, or below the Tynial.  We’ve prepared encampments on the other bank, and have patrols screening the fords.  Every Iron Band castle is open to them.  We’ve gotten assurances from local lords that they won’t be turned away.  As many as possible will be taken to the northeast, around the marble quarry or the Anvil.  If we can get them there, we can keep them safe.”

“Most of us will be assisting in the effort,” Astyral agreed, smiling broadly.  “I’ve prepared Tudry against any eventuality, and that includes a sudden influx of penniless refugees.  There are still plenty of empty houses, down in New Town, and the local estates need labor.  I’ve purchased . . . from friendly merchants,” he said, glancing at me knowingly, “a significant quantity of grain, salt pork, peas, and other foodstuffs, as well as some healing ointments and bandages.  I’ve got every temple in the town preparing for wounded.  And the garrison ready for reprisals.”

Count Salgo filled us in on the tactical situation, looking every bit the Warlord of Castal in richly burnished plate armor with a baldric with his gold badge of office on his shoulder.  He strutted around like a man twenty years younger – apparently the air in Vorone agreed with him.

“The vanguard of the attack will be small units of Rangers and warmagi who will infiltrate the areas surrounding the camps an hour before dawn.  They will infest each area with traps, snares, and magical challenges, then fall back and lure the enemy’s main forces out with a series of timed distractions along the perimeter just as the sun breaks.  Each new distraction will be designed to bring their main forces farther and farther away from their camps.

“Then cavalry forces will approach each encampment shielded by warmagic.  At a pre-arranged time, they will strike hard, doing their best to lure the secondary defenders out into the trap zone and thence to slaughter.  At that time, the Rangers and advanced warmagi will liberate the prisoners and lead them out, behind the screen of the cavalry.

“Once the camps are emptied, the cavalry will act as rearguard to quell any pursuit.  Small companies of infantry will be posted to accompany the liberated slaves for the first ten miles, before a designated rest.  We should have food, water, and some emergency aid available.  The resting period should be no longer than four hours before pressing them on another ten miles.  That gives the cavalry time to respond to distract or mislead the pursuers before they get organized.”

“Oh, we plan on doing more than that,” Azar grinned, unpleasantly.  “The Megelini have worked to perfect certain spells that will, we hope, convince the various units of treachery and deceit from each other.  They’ve started using simple codes in their written orders, and we had no trouble breaking them.  I think they can be used to convince some of them to attack their fellows, given sufficient provocation.”

“When the slaves get to the third resting point, about midnight, that’s when the warmagi will begin an . . . active defense,” he said, nodding toward Azar.

“Our plan is to leave most of our mundane forces to guarding and escort, and gather warmagi in strength.  Then strike at the largest concentrations of pursuers as aggressively as possible.”

“When he say’s ‘aggressively’, he means leaving no bone unburned,” Wenek chuckled.

“The goal is to devastate the foe with magic, without risk of civilian casualties,” Azar reported.  “Our enemy will be concentrating to give chase to their escaped property.  Once our scouts and scryers identify where the enemy is, we take them while they are on the march, weary after a long day’s scrambling, and complacent.

“We shall take advantage of their eagerness to regain their slaves against a few horsemen by demonstrating what a High Mage can do, in his wrath.  And we continue the effort all night until they give up chasing or the dawn comes.”

“And what happens if they persist, when dawn comes?” asked Sandoval.

“If any survive the cool night for the blinding of the sun, they will chance to cross a thickly-enchanted series of enchantments and hidden redoubts which will conceal snipers, irritant magi, and commandos ready to pounce.  If they survive until noon, then the regrouped cavalry will charge in the full light of the sun while the slaves continued toward their sanctuaries.”

“And if they persist past noon?” prompted Terleman.

“Then we invite them to luncheon,” snorted Azar.  “If they are that far away from their strongholds, their reinforcements, and their foul lords then pressing pursuit in the face of such odds will slay them before they again see dusk,” he said, with an air of finality.

“We hope to convince them to quit pursuit long before,” answered Salgo.  “But should they linger, we should have sufficient forces at hand to gather and give battle.  I’ve studied the disposition reports carefully, however, and I think this unlikely.”

“Duin alone knows,” agreed Pentandra.  “The key is to get them so riled and angry that Sheruel begins moving his armies into a defensive position.  Away from being able to support Korbal in the south, if asked.”

“How long do you think that should take?”

“Three, four days, at the most,” Salgo replied.  “That could be off by as much as three days.”

“And if they don’t move their troops into a defensive position?”

“Then we’ll turn around and ride back through them,” Salgo suggested.  “If they are going to leave their heartland undefended, it would be remiss of us not to attack it.”

“But not all of Alshar,” Pentandra corrected.  “Those involved in the Olum Seheri mission will quit the battle as soon it is assured, and meet back at Timberwatch to prepare for the assault.  His Grace and his warmagi will be widely reported to the gurvani chain-of-command, and enough will be left behind to convince them that there are still many in the field.  Then those gathered at Timberwatch will begin their mission.  Terleman?”

“We begin our assault with a ten-man squadron entering the northern Waypoint as a vanguard.  Their job is to eliminate any immediate defenders and hold the spot.  The second squadron will appear three minutes later and start to disperse.

“When it becomes apparent that the alarm has been raised and reinforcements are on the way, the second team’s first squadron will enter the eastern Waypoint.  They will both continue to receive reinforcements in three-minute waves.  One quarter of the squadrons will hold the Waypoint and defend it.  The rest will fan out across the island, causing as much damage as possible.”

“What about the bloody wyverns?” asked an annoyed voice from the back.

“I’ll take care of them,” Taren assured.  “I will be in the first wave, and will launch my spells at the outset of the battle.  By the time the third wave shows up, I doubt there will be a wyvern over the island,” he said, smugly.

“And the dragons?” the same voice asked.

“Let us hope it doesn’t come to that,” Taren answered.  “But if it does, it will be an ideal time to experiment in the field.”

“One the wyverns are dealt with,” Dara said, stepping forward boldly, “Three wings of Sky Riders will start patrolling over the island to keep an eye for dragons, and assist the magi wherever they can.”

“Can your giant hawks win against a dragon?”

“We don’t know,” Dara confessed.  “But the last time I was there, I dropped a forty-ton boulder on a dragon’s head.  Its brain damaged, now.  The Sky Riders are not to be trifled with,” she said, indignantly.

She seemed to be faring better, now, as the weeks went by and her duties distracted her about her lost friendship with Gareth.  It helped that Frightful’s eggs had hatched.  Two new giant hawks, Fancy and Fluster, were greedily devouring whatever goat or rabbit their proud mother brought them, in the Mewstower.  Since the hatching, Dara’s mood had changed, and she’d taken on a more serious – if less dire – demeanor.

“By the time the last of the Gatebreakers enter the fray,” Terleman continued, “it will be time for the Westwardens to begin their assault.  Your Grace?”

“I will defer to my gentleman, Sir Rondal,” Duke Anguin said, nodding to my former apprentice.

“The Westwardens will enter the island through the third, hidden, Waypoint,” he explained, after clearing his throat.  “Once we are secure, we will launch our attack from a distance on the ground-level of the tower.  As soon as the troops above respond, we will secure entry to the upper levels.”

“How?  Giant hawk?”

“As much fun as that would be, we don’t want to risk our fierce feathered friends getting shot during the attempt.  We have two or three different ways to get into the top of the tower, including a master thief—”

“Journeyman thief,” corrected Hance.

“A really good thief,” Rondal continued with a grin.  “And a couple of sophisticated magic spells.  We didn’t want to get all that way and not have some options.

“Once we have someone inside, we can transport the rest of our party into the cell level.  There we liberate the prisoners, beat back any resistance, and exit the battle as expediently as possible as soon as we have them.  Simple,” he shrugged, casually.

“Simple?  Compared to what?” scoffed someone else.

“Slaying a dragon, destroying a complex criminal enterprise over summer holiday, facing down a powerful undead and living to tell the tale . . . you know, the usual.”

It would have sounded like a brag, from anyone else.  But Rondal spoke with the confidence of a man who had been put in impossible situations, over and over, and was used to them.

“Which brings us to my team,” I said, clearing my throat.  “The Scholars will enter the fray just after the Westwardens.  We will provide what support we can, as long as we can, but at the first convenient moment we will break for the citadel of Korbal, over the entrance to the undercaverns.  I’m assuming there will be sentries to deal with.  We will deal with them and gain entry.”

“And then what?” someone asked, when I stalled.

I sighed.  “Then . . . I have no idea.  We’ll have to improvise the entire way.”

“What?  The Spellmonger has no plan?” chuckled Azar.

“You cannot plan for what you do not know to anticipate,” I said, thoughtfully.  “I’ll just do what I usually do.  Make it up as I go along.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Complaints and Recriminations

I met with the Scholars privately under a tree in the courtyard after the larger session to discuss the details of our unplannable mission.

Sire Cei the Dragonslayer, Lord Hance the Shadowsired, Lord Aeratas, the Sorceress of Sartha Wood, Onranion the Reprobate, Master Azhguri the stonesinger, Magelords Sandoval and Mavone . . . and me.  Nine of us who would take the plunge into darkness.  They were some of the best and most talented people of the age.  And I was about to get them all killed.

We discussed the equipment needed.  Lord Aeratas briefed us on what to expect after we entered the tunnel to the undercaverns, and then we speculated on what we would face in Korbal’s fortress . . . palace . . . workshop . . . crypt?

“Undead,” Mavone suggested.  “Lots and lots of undead.  Draugen, Nemovorti, perhaps even some of the regular kind, just for variety.  Oh.  And the Necromancer himself.”

“I may have some remedy for them, but we won’t know until we encounter them.  I’ve been studying basic necromancy.”

“I propose hitting them,” Sire Cei suggested.  “Really, really hard.”

“That’s why I’m bringing you,” I agreed.  “But if anyone else has any secret spells or ancient weapons that can kill undead, now is the time to dust them off.”

“Wasn’t it said that Korbal is using a human body?” Lilastien asked, curious.

“So it seems – the biggest human body he could find, apparently, from what Tyndal reported.  But it was decomposing rapidly, so he may well have switched to a sturdier form by now.”

“Pentandra indicated that she’d had some success against the Nemovorti,” Mavone offered.  “Stabbing them in the head does work.  As does decapitation.  And vital energy disrupts their necromantic architecture, it seems.  One would assume that Korbal is as vulnerable to such arguments as his minions.”

“When we strove against the Enshadowed in the elder days,” Lord Aeratas offered, “they would occasionally use undead, if they had no better soldiery.  We found them more of an annoyance than a danger.  But they do have weaknesses.”

“Such as?”

“Cold,” he offered.  “Undead do not produce heat of their own, for their metabolism is engaged by dark forces, not the vital energy of life.  When songspells of freezing are applied, they are particularly effective, for reducing the temperature of the ichor within the abominations impedes their motion.  Then you cut their heads off,” he added.

“A timely explanation,” I nodded.  Freezing spells were easy.  Especially with the throbbing globe of power that haunted my every step, now.  “Anyone else?”

“Necromantic energy is immune to many effective counters to regular thaumaturgic practice,” Sandoval observed, thoughtfully.  “We found that out the hard way in Farise,” he said, rolling his eyes at the memory.  “But there are ways to disrupt it.  Creating a standing wave field in a disharmonious vibration could cause a necromantic system to fail – even damage the underlying architecture, if it was dependent—”

“Let’s skip the thaumaturgic lecture,” I said, as I watched Sire Cei’s eyes glaze over.  “Wrong crowd.”

“Right,” he agreed, shaking off the urge to think out loud.  “I have some things I can do,” he answered, simply.

“That’s what I want to hear,” I nodded.  “Do them.”  My old comrade from the Farisian campaign nodded.

We continued to discuss the details of the mission, from how we’d gain entry to the citadel to how we’d seal the Chamber of Ages and escape, until the late afternoon.  When we’d talked out everything we could, we agreed to prepare ourselves and await the hour of our departure.

Most of us were going to fight in the Emancipation Campaign.  Mavone and Sandoval insisted, and Sire Cei felt honor-bound to participate on the basis of recovering his fellow Wilderlands folk.

I decided at the last minute I wanted to be involved, too.  I’d seen what happened to human slaves in the Penumbra.  Now that the Dead God wasn’t dependent on human sacrifice to grow the Umbra anymore, the lives of those slaves had just declined in value.  If they weren’t rescued now, they’d never live to see sacrifice.  They could be beaten and slain with impunity.

I couldn’t see that happen.  I had to help stop it, and recover as many as I could.  As much as my quest to restore Alya was important to me, I still had a duty to secure those who were taken from the Wilderlands and Gilmora and forced into the grisly mill of the Dead God’s empire.  Otherwise, it wouldn’t matter if I had Alya back, or not.  Those were her countrymen, in part, and perhaps her very neighbors.  If I’d brave the undercaverns of the Necromancer for her, I had to also try to rescue as many of her folk as I could.

In case you hadn’t realized it yet, life as the Spellmonger is morally complicated.

I checked in with Terleman after my meeting adjourned.  He and Salgo were going over details of the planned offensive, and both welcomed my participation in the effort.

“I think we can use you best at Fethkala,” Salgo said, thoughtfully.

“Never heard of it,” I confessed.

“You wouldn’t, unless you speak gurvani,” the Warlord chuckled.  “It’s a novelty, of sorts: a homemade gurvani castle.  It’s built in our style, in a fashion, and it sits atop an underground complex overlooking three once-prosperous farmholds.  Now it’s a slave plantation growing barley and oats, as well as other foodstuffs and supplies.  Over ten thousand human slaves,” he informed me.  “Mostly Gilmorans, but plenty of Wilderfolk, too.”

“It’s fascinating because it’s the farthest eastern vassal of the so-called Goblin King,” Terleman grinned.  “It’s run in traditional feudal style by Lord Sefelet, a gurvan warlord of great repute.  In the gurvani royal court at Ganz.  Which used to be a third-rate castle in the hinterlands,” he laughed.

“So, striking this place will be a message to the goblins: you broke the truce last summer, then reprised with a dragon attack,” Salgo stated, flatly.  “The truce is over, and we will strike you at will!”

“How many defenders?” I asked, not caring much for the politics of the matter.  I just wanted to hit some things to warm up.

“Lord Sefelet commands a garrison of six hundred hobgoblin heavy infantry, three hundred gurvani light infantry and archers, another three hundred gurvani overseers, and a cavalry force of fifty human confederates,” Salgo reported.  “Less than fifteen hundred hold more than ten thousand hostage.”

“How many on our side?”

“I’ll be sending you in with your two gentlemen Scholars,” Terleman decided.  “In addition to a half-dozen warmagi contending to be in the Gatebreakers.  I’d like your assessment of their abilities in combat, if you’d be so kind.  But then you’ll have seven hundred Wilderlord cavalry, led by Count Marcadine, assisting you in the task.”

“Marcadine?  That will be a pleasure,” I agreed.  “Could you include Sire Cei in his party?  The Dragonslayer has a serious case of itchy spurs, and riding with the highest-ranking Wilderlord in the land before embarking on a desperate mission would calm his jitters,” I suggested.

“I think that can be arranged,” Count Salgo nodded.  “We’ve . . . nurtured His Excellency’s whims, for political purposes, and he holds the Dragonslayer in high esteem.”

“My thanks.  A couple of days in the field before the mission would be pleasant,” I decided.  “I’ve not had a fight since Yule, and Sire Cei did most of the work.”

“It’s important to stretch before a workout,” Terleman agreed, solemnly.

“To Fethkala, then,” I nodded.  “Let’s introduce His Furry Majesty’s gentlegurvan to the Spellmonger, and see if he enjoys the experience as much as my own liege lords do.”

As I was crossing the courtyard to say my good-byes to Pentandra, I ran into a tearful apprentice.  Dara was wiping her eyes and pulling her hawkwing cloak protectively around her.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, frowning.

“Nobody will bloody tell me anything about Gareth!” she spat.  “No one!  I’ve asked everyone, and either they say they haven’t seen him, or they won’t say anything about him at all!  The most I’ve heard is that he’s changed his name,” she said, dejectedly.  “That’s it: Gareth isn’t Gareth anymore!  And no one knows what he’s calling himself, now!”

I didn’t know what to say.  So I let her keep talking.  Ishi’s tits, there was no way I could stop her.

“It’s not like I stabbed the boy, or anything!” she said, wiping her eyes in disgust.  “I just told him I didn’t bear him the affection he wanted.  And for that he has to change his name?  And leave the country?”

“He was clearly very affected by your answer,” I said, as hesitantly as possible.  I had five sisters.  There are times, I had learned, when saying as little as possible was the wisest course of action.

“So why is everyone covering up his escape?  Am I so awful?  Tyndal and Rondal looked amused – that haystack laughed!  They’re the ones who told me he changed his name!  He may even have changed his appearance!”

“Did they say anything else?”

“Just that I shouldn’t expect to see him in Sevendor, any time soon!  Or ever!  Or anywhere!” she sputtered.  “They say he’s gone, and won’t be coming back!  Over me!” she said, sobbing.  “I promised Banamor that I’d try to find him and talk him into coming back!” she said, pulling her hair out of her face.  “I’ve been so busy with Frightful’s hatching that I haven’t had much time, and then getting ready for this mission, but I figured that someone here would have heard something!  But no one who knows anything will say anything, and most people haven’t heard anything!”

“That’s—”

“It’s maddening!” she supplied, her teary eyes squinched together under her unruly red hair.  “All I want to do is talk to him!”

“What would you say?” I asked.  Innocent question.

“What would I say?” she asked, in disbelief.  “What would I say?  Let’s start with telling him that he’s foolish for sulking off like that, just because I don’t want to . . . I deeply value his friendship, and deeply care for his welfare!  That should be sufficient cause to value mine!  If he cares for me, as he claims, then I wish him to see the distress he’s caused me by his sudden departure!  Had he but bidden, I could have explained to him that . . . that . . .” she broke off, stumbling for words.

“I . . . perhaps you should consider just what you wish to say before you attempt to locate him,” I suggested, gently.  “It might undermine the sincerity of your feeling if you weren’t able to explain what that feeling is.”

“I know exactly what I wish to say to him!” she declared, indignantly.  “When I see his face, whatever name he chooses, I will speak my mind!”

“And just what is that mind saying, Dara?” I asked, gently.  I was getting frustrated with this matter.  “Indeed, it is not your mind to which Gareth appealed, it was your heart.”

“My heart is my own to keep!” she insisted.

“And to give,” I added.  “He made a bid for yours.  You rejected that bid.”

“I . . . I am a professional woman!” she declared.  “I can’t entertain such matters while I’m apprenticed!”

“Dara, you’re nearing the end of your apprenticeship,” I informed her.  “And I am not amiss to my apprentices having romantic lives . . . just that they keep them from interfering with their duties and studies.  You cannot cling to that excuse much longer.”

“But it’s the best one I have!” she admitted, as frustrated as I was.  “I like Gareth!  But to give him my heart?” she asked, doubtfully.

“Are there any others who would wish to bid for it?” I asked, casually.

“That’s none of your business!” she said, hotly.  “Or Gareth’s!”

“Indeed,” I agreed, sagely.  “And so you told him, apparently.  As it is none of his business – or mine – he chose to act on that intelligence,” I said, reasonably.

“Take action?  He bloody vanished!” she exclaimed.

“So he did,” I agreed, as we began to walk slowly toward Pentandra.  “You’re a good wizard.  Why did he do that?”

“He’s . . . hurt,” Dara admitted.  “A lot.  He’s angry.  And he’s . . . embarrassed.”

“Those are good speculations,” I agreed.  “When you are hurt, angry and embarrassed, what do you do, Dara?”

“Me?  I just go up to the Mewstower and sit with my bird until I overcome it,” she explained.  “Frightful is a good listener.  I used to use the cottage in the nutwood,” she recalled, “but when you have your own tower . . .”

“But you withdraw.  You go talk to someone.  Why deny the man the same?”

“Because he doesn’t know everything, yet!” Dara exploded.  “He doesn’t . . . he didn’t really talk to me, he just asked one dumb question and then threw his whole life away when he didn’t like the answer!”

“Has your answer changed?” I asked, curious.

“No!” she assured.  “I . . . he’s a friend, but my heart does not lead me to him.”

“Then I doubt much else you have to say will alter his opinion, I’m afraid,” I sighed.

“If I just had a chance to talk to him, to convince him,” she said, shaking her head.  “Everyone knows that I’m the reason he’s gone.  My brothers are making jokes about it!  I thought Rondal and Tyndal would be helpful, since they’re his friends, but they . . . they shut me out.  Completely!   They wouldn’t tell me anything!  And they joked about it, too, like I broke his heart or something!”

“Think about that, Dara,” I said, gently.    “I’ll speak to the boys.  And try to focus on the mission, now.  We need you and your Sky Riders here and in the battle, not looking in vain for wizards who aren’t there.”

She nodded, blew her nose, and shuffled away, thanking me for my help.  I had no idea if I’d helped.  But I immediately contacted Tyndal, mind-to-mind.

What in three hells did you say to Dara? I demanded.

What?  Oh, she was asking about Gareth the Ghost.  We didn’t tell her anything, he promised.

What you didn’t tell her was enough to set her to tears, I reproved.  We’re on the eve of one of the biggest missions in our lives, and she’s commanding the skies overhead.  Why did you want to rile her like that?

Master!  We didn’t!  I promise! Tyndal pleaded.  She came to us riled, demanding this and insisting that.  Gareth swore us to secrecy, he explained.  We can’t break his confidence.  Especially to Dara.  She was explicitly mentioned.

I understand, I said, patiently, but laughing in her face?  That was just cruel!

So was what she did to Gareth! Tyndal replied, defensively.  Even Nattia thinks so, and she was there!  Look, I like Sir Fes, I do.  But he has her eye without even trying.  Gareth overthrew the bloody Brotherhood and went toe-to-toe with a Nemovort.  Hells, he’s already been to Olum Seheri!  And she doesn’t bat an eyelash.

So, you’re the ones who put him up to confronting her with his feelings?

If he hadn’t, would she have ever pressed the matter? he challenged.

Probably not, but that’s not for you to say, I replied.

Isn’t it? Tyndal asked.  A mate came to me with a problem.  I tried to help him out.

His problem is my apprentice, I reminded him.

Which means you have a problem, too.  I don’t have a problem, he added, a bit arrogantly.  That puts me in a good position to give advice on other people’s problems.

So, what is your advice to me on this problem?

You?  Oh, I’d probably tell you to leave her alone and let her suffer.  She made her choice.  She has to contend with the consequences.

That might be satisfying, but it’s not particularly effective, I chided.

Effective?  She’s not going to feel right until she has Gareth in her pouch where she wants him – outside of her skirts, not something intimate.  I like Dara, Master, but if she’s not going to love the man, she needs to turn him loose for someone else to. He sounded indignant on Gareth’s behalf.

I don’t disagree, I sighed, evenly, but this isn’t the best time for one of my commanders to be emotionally compromised.

Take it up with Ishi, Tyndal recommended.

Don’t think I won’t.  Just try to keep the torment to a minimum, will you?

I’ll endeavor to be more professional, Master, he agreed, with far too much deference.

I sighed to myself after I broke the connection.  No doubt I had more tears in my future.

Pentandra looked up and seemed positively pleased to see me, as she handed a sheaf of parchment to her blind apprentice and sent her on her way.

“I was wondering if you were going to chat,” she smiled.  “I think that went well.”

“We’re getting better at it,” I conceded.  “But I’m expecting a hundred different things to go horribly wrong,” I added.

“I think we all are, honestly,” she said, nodding thoughtfully.  “I was discussing it with Arborn last night.  This mission has so many things that can go wrong, it’s almost inevitable that something will.”

“That’s the fun part, the improvisation,” I smiled, humorlessly.  “How are you feeling?” I asked, never a question a pregnant woman isn’t willing to answer.

She rolled her eyes, as if on cue.  “When next I see Trygg Allmother, we’re going to have a long talk about the inconvenience of gestation!  If she couldn’t figure out any better way to get babies into this world—”

“Not well, I take it?”

“Oh, all three of them are as healthy as I could ask,” Pentandra admitted.  “I’m getting scryed thrice a week, now.  No problems with The Girls.  I just wish they’d stop mistaking my bladder for a quintain!  I swear, every time I have to stand up, I have to pee.  Every time I sit down, I have to stand up.  Sleep?  Arborn’s lucky he’s in the wilderness, blissfully slumbering on wet grass and hard rocks – he knows not the meaning of discomfort!”

None of this was new to me – I’d enjoyed two and a third pregnancies with Alya, and suffered through a sister and a sister-in-law both being pregnant at the same time.  But every first-time mother experiences the phenomenally uncomfortable miracle of life as a mystery.  No matter her preparation, it must be experienced – and shared – before it becomes real to her.

“It will be over before you know it,” I assured her, kindly.  “You still have weeks before you are due.  Plenty of time to get this mission underway.”

“The mission?” she asked, horrified.  “Do you think I’m worried about the mission?  The mission is a distraction from this, Min!” she said, indicating her giant tummy.  “It gives me something else to think about.  When I can think at all.  My memory is gone,” she admitted.  “If it wasn’t for Everkeen, Alurra, and my ministry staff, I’d never get anything done, anymore.  I delegated a lot of my preparation to my staff, after I sketched out the basic policy.  I find myself thinking more about the nursery than the mission.  Is that awful?” she asked, her eyes pleading.

Oh, dear goddess, another one! a cynical part of my mind shrieked.

“No, not at all,” I soothed.  “Look, you’re incredibly busy, and pregnant besides.  Arborn is gone much of the time, you have to prepare for the baby on your own, it’s only natural that you think more and more about such things as your time draws near.”  I’d said essentially the same thing to Alya on at least two separate occasions.  “As long as the work is done, it doesn’t matter who actually did it.”

“But I’m a professional woman, Min,” she said, much calmer than Dara had been but no less laden with emotion.  “I should be able to devote my fullest attention to the task at hand and not be distracted every time one a fight breaks out in my uterus.  But it’s exhausting!” she complained.  “Just walking across the room is brutal!  Stairs?  I’m starting to use magic to help me get up a flight of stairs.  Do you know how decrepit that makes me feel?” she demanded.

I did what I could to calm her down, without seeming like I was trying to calm her down, which would have excited her far more.  Thankfully, Pentandra was a little more self-aware and mature in her emotional expressions.  That was good.  She had enough magical power around her neck to sink a fleet.  Imperial magic may have its shortcomings, but learning how to shepherd your emotions is decidedly a strong point.

Finally, she heaved a big sigh.  “Thank you,” she said, her vulnerability showing.  “I think I have to have a bloody snit like that every now and again, or I’ll go mad.  I spoke with His Grace after the large council.  After consulting his staff – mostly Salgo and myself – he wants to schedule the campaign for four days hence.  The mission will proceed two days following.  Unless you have a compelling reason not to,” she added, searchingly.

Self-preservation?  “Of course, that will be fine,” I answered, instead.  “We meet at Timberwatch?”

“That’s the staging ground for both operations,” she agreed.  “We have three different Waypoints set up there, to handle the traffic.  Dara has her Alshari Mews there, now.  Two entire wings, ready for battle.  Most of the mundane troops there have already been quietly deployed up the road, and will be in position within a day or two.  As soon as we have final approval, we’ll inform the Pele Towers and the other outposts.”

“Who are you waiting approval from?” I asked, confused.

“The Spellmonger,” she answered, dryly.  “The one who organized this mummer’s play?”

“Oh.  Well, consider it approved,” I said, wiping my hands on my tunic.  They were sweaty, for some reason.  Probably because I’d just set in motion a new war against the gurvani and their undead masters.  People were going to die, now, because of my words.  I might be one of them.  That sort of thing can lead to sweaty palms.

“Very well,” she nodded, firmly.  She closed her eyes and then opened them, again.  “It is done.  We attack in four days,” she pronounced.

“To be honest, the waiting is starting to get boring,” I grumbled.  That earned me a sour look, as she pushed her belly at me.

“Do you really want to have a conversation about patience with a gestating woman?” she demanded.

No, no I did not.  I made my apologies and my escape.

I had had enough of femininity for the day.  Alas, it was not done with me.

When I returned home to Sevendor Castle, thinking I was safe, I found Sister Bemia, of all people, waiting for me in my tower.  Drinking wine.  She wasn’t drunk, but she was headed down that river, from the level on the bottle.

“Is there something I can help you with, Sister?”

“I just needed a place to retreat and reflect, someplace private,” she admitted, taking another sip.  “You weren’t using the place, so . . . well, I do that, occasionally,” she said, sheepishly.  “If I linger in my quarters or the chapel, people can find me.  And sometimes a priestess doesn’t want to be found.”

“I understand,” I nodded, hanging up my cloak on a peg by the door.  I grabbed a goblet from the shelf and poured a glass for myself.  I started to relax – she didn’t seem to need anything from me.  I flopped down on the cushioned chair next to the bookcase.  I recalled when this was once my bedroom.  Mine and Alya’s bedroom.  Where Minalyan was born.

“You know that selling that bloody mountain has caused a stir, don’t you?” she asked, casually.  “And Their Highnesses visit?  And that bloody divine visitation?” the middle-aged nun asked, her voice rising in pitch every time she added a trial.  “Trygg herself was standing on our commons.  The very real, very divine goddess of motherhood, her bloody self,” she groaned.

I sipped a generous amount before I answered.  “I would think that the clergy would welcome such a blessing,” I ventured.

“You’d think the nobility would have learned a thing or two, after having one divine manifestation in his domain,” she frowned.  “Now we’ve had . . . seven.  And the Everfire.”

“Somehow, I don’t think we’re going to be flooded with pilgrims of Sisu,” I chuckled.

“Trygg is enough!” she snarled.  “Now I’ve got to write up the entire thing and submit it to the abbey at Holy Hill, where they’ll send it to the Mother Temple in Sendaria Town.  And likely thence to Castabriel,” she said, disgusted.

“If that’s a problem, I can hire—”

“Oh, I’ve already completed it,” she dismissed.  “Temple doctrine is to record such a visitation before the next sunrise, to ensure an accurate account.  Took me two bottles of wine, but I’ve completed the bloody scroll.  It’s what comes next that’s a bother!  The Mother Temple sends an investigator to interview everyone on Callidore about what they saw – that’s to keep every villein from claiming Huin took a dump in their privy,” she added, sourly.  “Then they have to verify it with the clergywoman who wrote the account, to ensure she’s not lying – death penalty, for that – and confirm with the local lord.  That’s you.  And you don’t exactly have a sterling reputation for clarity.”

“I think you could get the Princess to give her testament,” I suggested.  “She outranks me, and her integrity is beyond fault.”

“That’s a thought,” Bemia sighed, considering it.  “She’s the one who’s funding the new shrine.  But the Mother Temple won’t authorize me to admit that it’s a true divine visitation, worthy of special consideration, until all the bloody parchment is filled out!”

“You have my sympathies,” I said, raising my glass in salute to her.  “I just authorized a bloody war of liberation in the Wilderlands.  And a secret raid on the lair of the Necromancer.  Probably tipped the kingdom over into an age of bloody chaos.”

She made a sour face.  “I’d hate to see the paperwork on that!”

“Let’s hope I’m around afterward to do it,” I replied, gloomily.  “I’m doing all of this out of a sense of hope . . . but I can’t help thinking I’m responsible for a lot of needless bloodshed.”

The priestess chuckled, not the reaction I expected.  When Alya had first proposed Sister Bemia as the castle chaplain, I’d agreed mostly because I didn’t find her objectionable and Alya wanted it.

But I could see how shrewd my wife had been in her inclusion into our household.  Bemia understood the human condition as well as any clergy I’d spoken to, and better than a couple of gods I could name.

“Minalan, you aren’t that important,” she laughed.  “Oh, you are – probably the most important man alive right now – but in terms of the tapestry of life you’re but one thread.  You intertwine with so many others along the course of your life.  What you do or don’t do is affected by what they do and don’t do, true; but as many had an effect on you as you affect others.

“Bloodshed?  Who is to blame for that?  You . . . or the men who made you who you are?  Does not the king, the duke, and the bloody goblins? Aye, and the women, too!  Does not your mother bear the responsibility for bringing you into the world?  Does not your wife own some portion of blame for every death?  Will your daughter understand the sacrifices you’ve made for her?

“Just as you shouldn’t shirk from your responsibilities, neither should you unfairly shoulder those which aren’t yours to bear,” she said, taking a deep sip of her wine.

There was a moment of silence between us as I contemplated her words.

“Sorry,” she said, a moment later.  “I didn’t mean to give you a sermon,” she sighed.

“Perhaps I needed to hear one,” I admitted.  “And perhaps you are correct.  I’m doubting my actions because I’m taking responsibility for them, but I’ve also been forced into this position by others.  Even the gods have compelled me, or at least guided me – do they not bear some of the guilt?”

“You’re asking me?” she snorted, rudely.  “I don’t know.  My mandate is for the spiritual health of the castle folk, not the state of the entire universe.  Especially not the gods.   Ask them, not me,” she insisted.  “Just don’t invite them here, not out in public,” she begged.  “That’s just too much drama for an old woman to stand.  And far too much paperwork.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Fethkala

The squat, ugly-looking building we were surveying was impressive, in its way.

Considering the people who built it were living in caves a decade ago, it was a decent stab at human-style engineering.  A long keep, two stories tall, was surrounded by a twelve-foot wall made of undressed stone.  The roof was thatched, not shingled or tiled, making it far easier to catch on fire.

There was a wooden gatehouse, a ditch in front of the wall, and guards who walked its length day and night . . . but there were no crenulations on the wall.  There were no fighting decks.  There were only two crude wooden towers, one at each end of the long bailey, but they overtopped the wall by no more than twenty feet.  The gatehouse had a portcullis, but no postern door – it was the only way into or out of Castle Fethkala.

It was an adequate basic defensive structure, more advanced than a basic pele tower, but that was about it.  Its biggest advantage was its size.  It could hold a fairly large garrison in its long, low hall, and it did.  But it wasn’t designed to protect the ten thousand people in the sprawling camp around it.  It was designed to protect the goblins from them.

Encircling the rough fortress was a sprawling series of pathetic huts and tarpaulins under which the humani slaves huddled at night, when their masters were most active.  It spread out for half a mile on each side of the ugly castle, a vast encampment of institutionalized human misery.

The smell of rotting offal and unwashed humanity mingled with the odor of decomposing corpses left around the camp as a morale booster.  Adding to the aroma was Beyond that was the rude rail fence and ditch, with a thorny hedge of some foul nativista shrub that bristled with poisoned thorns.  Beyond that were freshly-plowed fields that far exceeded the land the original three freeholds had cultivated.  The planting was about to begin, it seemed.

Sandoval, Mavone and I watched the hobgoblin guards with magesight from horseback on a hillock about a half mile away, between the fields and the fence, as the sleepy morning shift came on and the tired night-shift went off guard duty.  They all bore a humani-style tabard bearing the vile device of the “lord” of Fethkala, a yellow whip on a dark burgundy field.

As soon as the retiring gurvani sentries departed, Kasari snipers began to get into position, crawling into hastily-built blinds or climbing stealthily into the treetops around the fields.  At the proper time, they would ply their great Wilderlands bows and cunningly-built crossbows, their bowstrings silenced, to clear the walls of sentries.

As the sky in the east lightened with the approaching dawn a thick column of smoke began to rise from the eastern horizon, just as planned.  The gurvani had a storage depot there, where all of the seed corn was put up away from the starving slaves.  The Kasari had managed to set it afire with an alchemical device.  Not that they couldn’t have done it with a couple of dry sticks.

Meanwhile, one of our squadrons of Rangers, made up to look like escaped slaves, captured a solitary patrolling gurvan, interrogated him and then allowed him to escape . . . but not before putting the notion in his furry head that the humani scum were raiding the supplies stored there.  He ran four miles to report the apparent attack to the nearest large settlement: Fethkala.

I watched the anxious gurvan stumble past the sentries just as the smoke began to really billow in the east.

“At last!” Sandoval muttered.  “I was starting to think he’d deserted.”

“It would have been the wiser choice, if the less dutiful,” agreed Mavone.

Fifteen minutes later a squadron of eight human horseman and a dozen gurvani fell hound riders deployed to investigate.

“Their response time is good,” Mavone noted.

“When your seed corn is in danger, it pays to be vigilant,” Sandy agreed.

Those unfortunates galloped off to certain doom.  There were a hundred crossbowmen installed in an ambush two miles down the road, just before they would arrive at the burning barn.  The warmage detailed to them built a cunning series of glyphfields that slowed them just enough in their charge to allow the iron bolts of the 3rd Commando-led arbalests to shred the sortie to the last living thing.

Less than ten more minutes passed, the sky growing ever lighter, when another sentry ran into the crude castle to report the slaughter.  A few moments later another squadron of horse cavalry departed.

“I just love it when they’re cooperative with our plans like that.”

“I think they’ll send more,” Mavone predicted.  “If it’s a slave uprising, they need to stomp on it quick.  They’ll send in heavy forces.”

Mavone was prescient.  Moments later three hundred hobgoblin heavy infantry exited the gate, blowing their short bronze horns belligerently, marching resolutely toward the distant fire.  We waited until they were out of sight down the road before we acted.

“I’ve informed the other squads,” Sandy reported to me – since I was nominally in command.  “They’re ready.”

“I took their wards down,” Mavone said, helpfully, as he dismounted.  He was always very skillful at that sort of work.  “And there are no shamans here, that I can see.”

“They’re all up at the Goblin King’s palace in Ganz for a conference,” Sandy reported, as he drew his blackened mageblade and got down on his hands and knees.  “Some inspirational speech, or ecclesiastic conference, or something like that.  That was purposefully in the planning,” he added.

“Then let’s get to work,” I said, resolutely.  “We have a long day ahead of us.”

First, we engaged warspells of stealthiness, got as close to the gatehouse as possible, and then thickly peppered the entryway with berserker glyphs.  Those cause a fundamental shift to your perceptions and judgement, and encourage you to attack pretty much anything your mind perceives as a threat.  Including the goblin you just had breakfast with.

Just beyond that, we filled a section with spells that would encourage severe doubt and anxiety, encouraging whomever stumbled into the glyphs to flee from danger.  That was to keep slaves from being easily cowed into helping with the emergency, and convince any gurvani that running out into the thousands of human slaves was a poor idea, and to run back through the berserker field in case they missed any glyphs.

The plan was to get the next wave of gurvani to slay as many of themselves as they could, saving us the trouble.  We were just finishing up when they helped us test that theory.  Not infantry, this time.  Slave drivers preparing to order their charges to work.

A company of sixty goblin overseers bearing Fethkala’s repugnant device exited the castle to head for the fields and stumbled sleepily into the berserker zone.  Within moments a riot had broken out.

The hobgoblins who had just retired from night duty were roused to put them into order . . . and then they stumbled into it, as well.  Enough of the smaller goblins got pushed into the fright zone to make it seem like a rout.  Screams, warcries, and shouts of terror filled the morning air and roused hundreds of nearby humans from their squalid tents.  A crowd began to gather, in front of the gatehouse, as they watched their masters feud.  The entire thing was funny as hell, in a bloody sort of way.

By the time the sun was scaling the eastern peaks, the roadway was stained with blood and littered with bodies, while terrified goblins whimpered and fought on the landing in front of the gatehouse.  I made a silent count against our intelligence reports.  There were maybe a hundred defenders left in the castle who weren’t injured or imprisoned for rioting.

“I think now would be a good time for us to go ahead and ruin the place,” Mavone offered, as two enraged hobgoblins charged against five cowering gurvani.

“Let me,” Sandoval said, drawing his new warwand.  It was a multi-purpose tool he’d spent a few days in Sevendor crafting, and he was eager to test it.

The hedge at the edge of the camp withered under his magic, and the rail fence crumbed into sawdust as he strode over the narrow ditch toward the gate.   Mavone and I followed him, and we were quickly joined by a half a squad of light cavalry troopers from the Third Commando, when we motioned them forward.  They helpfully silenced the two sentry goblins guarding the gate and pushed it open.  The Kasari snipers began to fire their silent bows against any defenders in their range, adding further chaos to the situation.

Sandy looked around at the squalid camp in disgust and got visibly angrier as he quietly strode up the main path betwixt the castle and the camp.

There was a flash, and the gatehouse behind the warring gurvani was suddenly on fire, from its wooden frame to its thinly-thatched rooftop.   The compound went into another panic as a deep bronze bell was struck to alert the defenders of the crisis.  That seemed to amuse the growing crowd of slaves onlooking.  With the overseers late for getting their human slaves out to the fields, there was nothing for them to do but stand around.

“How shall we approach them?” Mavone asked, thumbing toward the crowd of slaves.

“I think we should introduce ourselves,” I suggested, nudging my way forward toward the knot of chained human slaves watching the gurvani try to fight the fire.

“Excuse me,” I said, loudly, from behind a crowd of a hundred or so filthy, scrawny humans in rough hempen tunics who were watching the gatehouse burn with a mixture of anxiety and amusement.  “I’m Baron Minalan, the Spellmonger of Sevendor.  These noble wizards and myself, and a number of our friends, are here to escort you to freedom.  I suggest we go soon, however, unless you want to be put to work on a bucket line.  Personally,” I said, peering at the fire, “I think those fellows can handle it without you.”

It took a few moments for the meaning of my words to sink in to the prisoners – they had just been beaten and starved and tortured for so long that they didn’t understand, at first.  Then Mavone got impatient.

“This is a rescue!” he finally bellowed.  “Everyone start marching east!  We’ll handle the goblins!  MOVE!”

The slaves responded better to a direct command than they did persuasive language, at this point, I realized.  They had become used to being told what to do, and it took a command to motivate them.  The group started shambling toward the east where Sandoval was encouraging them to go.  A few desperate souls took to their heels at once, despite their chains, and began heading for the promise of freedom the sunrise offered.  Several others ran back to the camps to spread the unbelievable news.

While it took a while to convince them that they weren’t dreaming, and that a party of wizards and knights had come to rescue them, as soon as they made that realization they began to move with more alacrity.

Not everyone was in favor of them leaving, however.  Apparently, the night watchmen in charge of keeping an eye on the sleeping slaves were still on duty, headed back to the castle to get a day’s sleep.  When they saw a bunch of their charges lurching away as a group, they came running to head them off.  They stopped as soon as they saw the horses of the 3rd Commando raiders who were herding the slaves out of the camp.  It was clear that they weren’t the castle’s human cavalry.   I led my warmagi toward them – four human trustees, with the foul brand of the Soulless on their arms, and three gurvani, armed with clubs, whips, short swords and bitterly angry expressions.

“What is the meaning of this?” screamed the leader of the guards, a smallish gurvan who spoke Narasi fluently.

“Prisoner transfer,” Sandoval quipped, facing the officious little twerp.

“Why wasn’t I informed?” the goblin screamed in passable Narasi, squinting in the morning sunshine.  His fellows stared at the long line of prisoners walking eastward, looking confused.  “I am the senior officer on duty!  Why wasn’t I informed?  This could have happened after my shift was over!  Who authorized this?  Where are they being transferred to?” he demanded.

“To freedom,” Sandoval said, and blew the gurvan’s head off with his new warwand.  He has a flair for the dramatic.

Mavone struck the other two gurvani with a pain spell that caught two of the human guards in its path, as well.  My contribution disrupted their internal organs until they were puking and shitting blood.  I didn’t spare the humans.  They were Soulless.  More, they were willing to beat and slay their fellow humans.  We didn’t need to take them with us.  We didn’t need to leave them behind to be of use to the Dead God, either.

“Those swords seem to be going to waste,” Mavone pointed out to a group of passing slaves, who were still wondering if the rumor of rescue was real or just a trick.  A few eagerly took the weapons of their captors and began to march even faster.  Nothing convinces a man of his freedom more than a weapon in his hand.

“There will be more defenders, as they get organized,” Mavone murmured, glancing up at the smoldering gatehouse.  “We should get in position to defend.  The cavalry won’t be here for a while, yet.”

Minalan, what is your status? Came Pentandra’s anxious voice, mind-to-mind.

We’ve neutralized the remaining defenders at Fethkala and are starting to move the captives east, I reported.

Good!  That makes eleven out of eleven!  Initial reports are all positive, but that could change any moment.  Scrying reports from the Barn show a small force moving up the western road, about four miles out.  Have fun.   I’ve got things to do, she said, and was gone.

“All the attacks have begun,” I reported to my men.  “Mavone is right.  We’ll have an aggressive response here before everyone can evacuate, according to Pentandra, in addition to those left here.  Have the other Sparks meet us here as soon as they finish up,” I ordered Sandy.  He smiled and complied.  It was like old times in Farise, when I was his squad leader during the occupation.  I hailed the 3rd Commando captain who was directing the prisoners and explained the situation, Sir Leran, and asked for one of his men to fetch our horses before the fight.

I was enormously impressed with the Alshari 3rd Commando.  I’d known them when they were the Third Royal Commando, multitalented mercenaries hand-picked by Count Salgo for the defense of Gilmora.  They were crack troops, then.

Now they were professional military men used to working with warmagi, in tough conditions.  Each of the three-hundred Commandos who’d been assigned to work with us was as equally comfortable on a horse, storming a redoubt, sneaking through the woods, performing as archers, light infantry, heavy infantry, cavalry, sappers . . . whatever was required of them.

Each Commando rode a charger or courser and was clad in chainmail hauberks, with thick leather covering their extremities to their knee-high boots.  They wore plain round short-necked helms, as a rule, unburnished and blackened against detection.  Each commando carried a light lance or spear, a round shield, a cavalry sword strapped to his horse, an infantry blade at his hip, and a newly-made crossbow of Remeran rosewood: light, powerful, easy to use from horseback . . . and clearly an early procurement through the nascent magical smuggling ring.  Such weapons carry a fiendish penalty for export.

Pentandra had quietly admitted to me, mind-to-mind, that Count Salgo had purchased three thousand of them from Planus, at a fair price: the product of some of Remere’s finest craftsmen.  They were just part of the bounty Anguin had showered on his new fighting men when they’d arrived.  Their trek from hostile Gilmora to the relative political safety of the Wilderlands had shaped them as a unit.  So had the lavish gifts the Orphan Duke had given the orphaned unit.

I’d spoken with the Commandos at length as we’d ridden to our positions before the raid.  They seemed uniformly grateful to Duke Anguin for taking them into service, and were proud to be known as the Alshari Third Commando, now.  After spending six months drilling former freeholders and reformed refugees into militia, they seemed especially eager to participate in this mission of liberation.

Mavone and Sandy weren’t the only warmagi on the Fethkala raid.  While we were seeing to the main gate, two other teams of three were eliminating the guards on the other side of camp, while the Kasari snipers began to shoot every furry face they saw inside the castle and the 3rd Commando ran pickets on horseback to rouse the entire camp.  Along the way, they didn’t hesitate to take a shot at any passing gurvani with their swords, or peg one who showed his face on the wall.

When the hobgoblin leader of the bucket brigade who’d finally gotten an organized response to the gatehouse fire under way took an iron bolt to his throat in the middle of a rousing speech, it didn’t take long for the gurvani to finally realize they were under attack.

That panicked them.  They were prepared for a slave insurrection, not a liberating raid-in-force.  Most of the garrison was already deployed against the raid on the depot.  The slaves were marching resolutely toward freedom, the strong bearing the weak and injured.  With their gatehouse in flames, they couldn’t even get out of the castle, now, to stop the thousands who were waking up for work and discovering a chance for freedom.

“I know it’s their first native attempt at building a castle,” Mavone noted, nodding to the smoldering fortress, “but perhaps they’ll learn to install a postern door, next time.”

“Having one entrance and exit does have its drawbacks,” Sandoval agreed, as one of the goblins inside who tried to lower himself down from one of the towers took an arrow in his back for his trouble.  The Kasari were watching.  “It’s just poor planning,” he said, shaking his head, sadly.

“Perhaps more than two guards at the gate,” I added.  “But then, this is a prison.  They relied upon their terror and the threat of execution and the garrison to keep them cowed.  They didn’t figure on an outside attack.”

The prisoners were starting to break into a run, as they came to the fence and finally recognized an opportunity to escape – those who were in any condition to run.  They all looked half-starved, their eyes wide and blinking blindly in the sun.  The rags they wore were filthy, and had infected the many welts on their bodies.  The chains and coffles around their necks had chafed their skin raw, leaving red and oozing pustules.  Their feet were black and blistered – none were shod.

Yet they ran, when they had the chance.  As a new day dawned, they glanced at the burning gatehouse, heard the irate screams of the goblins inside, and then at the warmagi and other warriors of the vanguard who were affecting their escape, and they ran for their lives.  At least two or three thousand had fled beyond the rail fence and thorny hedge, by that time, and the entire remaining gurvani administration was in a panic.  The scattered guards across the camp were being slain by the rebellious slaves.

The burning gatehouse and the sight of the river of humanity were all some rebellious souls needed to turn on their guards.  A few small groups of guards managed to form around the shacks that served as guardhouses, gathering in a huddle against retribution.  But wherever one or two of them tried to stop the flood of frightened slaves, used to obedient simpering and cowering compliance, their former prisoners leapt on them as one and beat them to death with rocks, fists, or their own clubs.

Eventually, the goblins within the castle got enough of the fire under control to allow passage of a few dozen goblins and hobgoblins out into the camp.  They immediately began attacking the fleeing prisoners with their cast iron weapons or thick wooden bats.

But they met fierce resistance before my men could even get to them.  By that time, enough of the guards’ weapons were in the hands of the prisoners that they were able to fend off the worst of the sorties, keeping the stream of humanity flowing.

A fully-armored hobgoblin with helm and glaive is able to deal quite a bit of damage.  Especially if he’s stumbled into a berserker glyph.  A few did just that, and began carving a bloody swath

“Are you not gon’ t’ help us?” a man with a long shaggy beard and a desperate look in his eye pleaded, as he glanced at the bloody melee unfolding.  He might have been a Wilderlord or a bandit, before he was a slave.  “We’ll fight!  But we don’t have nothin’ but our chains an’ our fists!”

I didn’t know what to say . . . until it occurred to me that I did have something to offer him.  Something left on my staff, Pathfinder, from the Long March.  I pointed the staff and activated a hoxter.  In a moment fifty plain siege spears spilled out on the ground.

“Defend yourselves!” I urged.  “But keep them moving!  I have thousands yet to get on their feet and underway!”

“Trygg bless you, Spellmonger!” the shaggy man said, his eyes gleeful as he began distributing the spears.  They were the most basic of weapons, a simple wrought iron head six inches long, three wide, attached to a stout (and reasonably straight) ash rod six feet long.  The sort of weapon you hand to a man who is fighting for his life in a siege, and may not have held more than a hoe in his hand before.

Nearly anyone can use a spear to basic effect.  Many of these men had used them before, and they were eagerly taken by the angry, frightened prisoners.  Fifty spears, suddenly deployed, was a surprise to the gurvani and hobgoblins who were trying to stem the flow.

The slaves weren’t disciplined or well-led, but it didn’t take much resistance to convince the gurvani to proceed more cautiously.  Especially when some of the slaves began using their despised chains to entangle the heads of their glaives and swords while their fellows stabbed or pummeled them to death.

“Keep them at bay,” I ordered Mavone, nodding toward the gurvani from the castle, “and you keep them moving!” I instructed Sandy, as I indicated the swiftly flowing river of unwashed humanity.  “I’m headed toward the center to fetch the rest of the sparks.”

“Aye, Captain!” Mavone smiled, recalling other days as a Commando brought us our horses.  “We’ll have it well in hand!”

I saluted before riding off toward the far end of the camp with two troopers escorting me.  I did my best to encourage the slaves to move quickly, but there were plenty for whom such a command was impossible.  I urged the strong to help the weak, freed some poor wretches who’d been confined to a gibbet for some offense, and otherwise did what I could to convince the slaves to run.

We came upon a tall, rickety shed that several guards and trustees had taken refuge within against the anger of the prisoners.  They were shooting arrows and throwing rocks from the summit, screaming out the vile punishments that would be due for any human who did not immediately return to their bed.  No one seemed to be listening to them, but they were causing as much harassing damage as possible.

I was about to deal with the guards when the entire tower collapsed, suddenly.  Before I could react, a large figure leapt atop the wreckage of the building and began flamboyantly plying his mageblade against the survivors while he kept up a booming soliloquy about how fearless and deadly he was.

“Are you quite done, Caswallon?” I asked, when the last guard breathed his last breath.

“Now that these vile vermin are dead, Spellmonger,” the big warmage agreed, with a satisfied nod of his head.  “We have split the fetters of hundreds, this morn,” he reported with unnecessary drama in his voice.  “The blood of their captors stains this once-fertile land,” he added, as if I was unaware.  “It has seen the vengeance of Caswallon’s blade this day, and the Fox’s Bite earns the debt of a thousand liberations!  What happy sunrise, to dawn on the freedom of so many in suffering!  I glory in the favor of the gods as we do this noble deed!”

I didn’t even roll my eyes.  Caswallon is just like that.

You meet a lot of characters in warmagic – a profession that depends upon a practitioner’s reputation for power encourages flamboyance and displays of potency to attract clients.  Not everyone is good at it – Carmella, for instance, is lousy at presenting herself in such a light, and suffered financially for that for years, until Boval Vale.  Others are quite good.  Sarakeem has made his career on his flashy style and his incredible displays of archery, and Azar cultivated the idea that he was Death, incarnate, since he’d entered the trade.

But Caswallon was in a class by himself, when it came to his professional presentation.

His six-foot six height, broad shoulders, and always-bare muscular arms (he favored a Farisian wrap-around waistcoat sort of garment specifically to display his biceps under his fighting harness) made him physically imposing.  Add to that a thick, long mane of auburn hair that hung to the middle of his back with the tips bleached white, held away from his eyes by a steel circlet engraved with his symbol, a stylized fox’s head, and you can imagine just how visually impressive the warmage was.

But that was just half the show.  Caswallon had a penchant for speaking of himself in the third person, stating the obvious as if no one else could see it, and aggrandizing himself with every verbal opportunity.  He basked in the glory of battle and prided himself on the righteousness of his cause, regardless of what that might be.  Caswallon’s personality filled a room, even if there wasn’t room for it, and managed to inject itself into nearly every conversation.  I suspected that part of his rajira had manifested as a sportish talent for charisma, but there was no way to be certain of that without a deep survey of him.  And that would be rude.

I admit, Caswallon’s attitude and personality flirted with the frontier of boorishness, no uncommon trait amongst our colleagues.  But if his narcissism contended with his charisma, they were both tempered by his bravery and his skills on the battlefield.  Unlike many who brag about their power and ability, Caswallon was fearless in his willingness to prove he was every bit as good as he said he was.

He was also just a genuinely friendly guy, someone who wanted to be everyone’s best friend, as self-serving as that was.  It was hard to dismiss the man as an asshole because he actually believed the stuff that flew out of his mouth.  When you’re put in command of a spark like that, you have two choices: try to put him in his place as your subordinate, or encourage his ego with flattery and inspire him to do crazy stuff on your behalf.  I’m lazy.  I took the latter route.

“Then I bear good news, Caswallon,” I said, bowing from horseback.  “A small gurvani force is bearing down on us, but two miles up the western road.  While they are not enough to deter this grand liberation, they could serve to harass the hindmost, and imperil the freedom of the weakest and most infirm among the prisoners.  Could you and your squad lead an ambush of them, as they arrive?  I can think of no more fitting greeting than to have the Fox and his friends challenge them.”

He was instantly hooked.  His eyes narrowed, his brows furrowed, his nostrils flared, and his posture changed subconsciously to a fighting stance.

“My friend Minalan, I shall give them such a greeting!  They shall drink a stirrup-cup of my wrath, and taste the bitter bread of my fury!  They shall rue the day they took service to their foul master, and ever dared emerge from their stinking mountain dens!  To the Fox!” he called out, into the steadily-emptying camp.

The other two warmagi in his team looked up, one eager, one sour.  “We have a mission most pressing, my friends!  All those who wish vengeance on your captors, follow me!  For I will give them battle, and see them perish in terror!  Any man who stands with Caswallon the Fox this day shall see the meaning of fury!  To the Fox!  To the Fox!”

See why I fed his ego?  It was voracious.

But it also fueled his resolve.  As his two comrades came jogging up to him, a small but growing crowd of slaves emerged from the crowd in response to his call.  The vast majority of hemp-clad humans had the bloody good sense to flee, as far and as fast as they could.

But out of every hundred men there is one for whom valor – or hatred – compelled to take up arms, even in impossible circumstances.  Surrounded by thousands, Caswallon’s call lured each of those to the warmage’s side, until he had half a company.

“Pick through the wreckage, my friends, and arm yourselves as best you can!” he said, pulling a nasty-looking iron knife out of the dead hand of a crushed gurvani overseer and handing it to a dazed-looking man with a recently-broken nose.

Tentatively, at first, then with more energy, the slaves began to root through the ruined tower and recover whatever weapons they could salvage.  They didn’t hesitate to use the beams and posts as clubs, or take up bricks if they could find nothing better.

In a few moments, Caswallon had recruited an army of a hundred enthusiastic slaves to his side.  “Take their tools of destruction and turn them on their masters!  Arm yourselves!  And follow the Fox and his friends into victory!”

Damned if he didn’t get them to cheer.  Caswallon was just like that.  They could all be dead in an hour, but none of them were even thinking about that.

I rode back to the now-burning castle with a feeling of satisfaction.  The camp was half-empty, now, the gibbets were cleared, the guard shacks all but destroyed.  Mavone and Sandy had reduced Fethkala to ruins.  By the time more than a band of goblins could be raised to respond to the raid, we’d be long gone, leaving Fethkala plundered of its most precious resource.

Turning Caswallon loose on them, that was just a bonus.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The Gathering Of Forces

“That was refreshing,” Sandoval yawned, as we finally returned through the Ways to the staging area at Timberwatch.

“Refreshing?  That was bloody well done!” Count Salgo greeted us.  “Eleven raids, only one ending poorly.  We slew thousands, and saved over a hundred thousand,” the old soldier read from a dispatch scroll upon which he was keeping a tally.  “And we knocked their organization and supply chain into Sheruel’s chamberpot!”

“How many lost, on our side?”

“Three hundred sixty-one,” he called out.  “Thus far.  Not counting slaves.  There are still battles underway.  Nearly two hundred of those were at Glandon,” he added, with a sigh.

Glandon had been the one dark spot of our otherwise triumphant mission.  Glandon had once been a prosperous Wilderlands barony, but had fallen early in the war.  Castle Glandon was now deep in the Penumbra and commanded by the gurvani.

Instead of being used to protect the human subjects of the barony, as intended, the castle was used to enslave them.  The modest armories and smithies there had been augmented by hundreds of temporary forges.  They used the high-quality ore they forced the human slaves to dig out of the nearby mines with their bare hands to cast thousands of vicious blades, helms, and other tools of warfare.  It was one of several of the gurvani’s manufactories, but by far the largest using human labor.

The attack on Glandon, led by the Iron Band, was as much of a surprise attack as the other ten sorties.  But Glandon Castle was more organized than the other human slave depots, and designed for defense.  A low-scale shaman was still on duty there, for one thing, and half a legion had come in unexpectedly, seeking to be re-equipped with newly forged gear.

But all of that could have been dealt with: the Iron Band had sent their best against Castle Glandon, including a dozen warmagi with four witchstones among them.  While the Iron Band troops themselves were not the best for such duties, they were decent common soldiers who had deep experience with goblin fighting.

What they did not plan for was the presence not just of a Nemovort, who seemed to be overseeing some special project, but a group of a half-dozen Iron Folk.  Unlike the three we had rescued, these were volunteers in their dark master’s service, or vassals, or both.  But they were heavily armored and armed with steel hammers.  When the Iron Band met the Iron Folk at the gates of the castle, the Alon Dradrien proved why they were so feared by the Karshak.

In twenty minutes of ferocious battle, they slaughtered over a hundred Iron Bandsmen and a dozen Third Commandos.  The Nemovort mostly just watched.  Their sacrifice was not in vain – they did preoccupy the gurvani enough to allow most of the slaves to flee.  But it was a grievous blow to lose so many brave and competent men.

Eventfully a company of Megelini Knights reinforced the mission, protecting the escapees as best they could.  They approached as the last dregs of humanity were drained from Glandon’s cup of horrors.  Their sudden assault, led by Bendonal the Outlaw, drove the Dradrien and the Nemovort inside, and kept the disastrous attack from becoming a rout.

But it was a fell day for the Iron Band, and one they did not soon forget.

Apart from that, as Salgo reported, the effort had proven incredibly fruitful.  A flood of slaves was being escorted across the great rivers of the Wilderlands and into the protected eastern quarter, behind the line of castles, pele towers, and military installations set up for the task.  The Wilderlords, the 3rd Commando, the Iron Bandsmen, and the magelords were escorting them to liberation, hope, and the chance at a future beyond a goblin’s lunch.

They were being met with a huge feast, comparatively speaking.  Anguin (actually, Pentandra under Anguin’s authority) had contrived to have hot food waiting in abundance for the starving prisoners, and thousands sought the attention of the priests and barbers who’d been called in to tend their wounds.

Nor had the raids been limited to liberation.  Dozens of companies set out with specific missions of destruction, designed to ruin the fishing net of support and manufacture the goblins had developed out of the Penumbra.

Individual human lords who had sought peace with the gurvani through subservience, going as far as to swear fealty as vassals to the Goblin King and his dark master, were singled out for violent retribution.  Cantons where horrific magical experiments were being conducted were wiped out, their abominable creations slain alongside their sadistic creators.  Strategic targets throughout the Penumbra were sacked and destroyed.

The suddenness and surprise of the early-spring attack devastated the leading edge of the Penumbra, leaving the interior largely unprotected from a concerted assault.

Indeed, after securing the prisoners he’d been assigned beyond the banks of a river, Azar turned his two companies of heavy cavalry and stormed toward the undefended heart of goblin territory, burning and killing as they went.  They joined up with Bendonal’s company, and recruited some Wilderlords who were still in the fight and drove toward the western territories until they met significant resistance.  They made every pretense of heading toward Ganz, where the Goblin King waited.

Then they retreated, doing even more damage in their withdrawal than they did in their advance.

The feint was strong enough and close enough to the goblin’s new civil heartland to be instructive: Sheruel might rule the Umbra, but his command over the outskirts was in doubt.  The goblin’s core was in peril, we’d told them.  One good push against their center, with enough troops, and we’d be retaking the Dark Vale before the end of the year.

None of that was really true, of course.  It would take more than three companies of heavy infantry to win the war, far more.  But Azar and Bendonal devastated enough land between the Dark Vale and Tudry to force the gurvani to bring their defenses closer in.  They were no longer looking forward to an invasion, with their staging area in such disarray.

At least, that was our intention.  If we could force Sheruel’s surrogates into a defensive posture, we’d be able to launch our attack at Olum Seheri without fear of reprisals against the Wilderlands.

We’d lightened their sacrificial arsenal and their workforce by over a hundred thousand souls, with more arriving all the time.  Without the bulk of their human slaves as hostages and fodder, the Penumbra was all but defenseless.  Indeed, as the region descended again into chaos, smaller farms and holdings rebelled against their gurvani masters and fled, often setting the places ablaze before they retreated into the east.

It was a successful mission, on all accounts.  Though a huge swath of humanity now found themselves penniless, stranded in the Wilderlands, and still torn from their families and their lives, they were alive, no longer destined for the sacrificial stone.

As warm-ups go, it was one of my better ones.

“We’re still waiting for our teams to filter in, particularly the Gatecrushers,” Pentandra reported over the long trestle table in the barn of Timberwatch.  There was a perfectly good hall that had been built on the site, adequate for our needs, but we’d naturally congregated in the big blue barn when we’d arrived at Timberwatch.

I guess the place brought back memories of simpler times and the excitement of the original terrifying battle.  It just seemed natural to return.  “Most of them are trickling back from the mopping-up operations.  We’re bringing them through the Ways as they return to the pele towers.”

“They’re going to need some rest, before we begin,” I pointed out.  Sandy and Mavone had seen our arrival at the barn as an excuse to do just that, producing bedrolls from hoxter pockets and collapsing into sleep after our busy day.  They weren’t the only ones.  The sides of the barn were filled with exhausted wizards who’d fought all day.  “I want them fresh when they go into Olum Seheri.  They’ll need all of their strength and their wits.  I could use a nap myself,” I added.

“Of course,” Pentandra dismissed, as she leafed through more dispatches from each tower.  “We have to re-arm, anyway.  Not everyone is a high mage,” she reminded me.  “Some of them have to rest up.”

“Well, as to that, let me know of anyone who particularly distinguished themselves,” I suggested.  “I brought six witchstones with me that need good homes.”

Pentandra looked up sharply as her apprentice brought her a cup of watered wine.  “Six?  How many does that leave in reserve?”

“Over fifty,” I assured her.  “They’re safe in Sevendor.  But I figured that this would be a good occasion to strengthen our numbers without a lot of oversight.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she nodded, her mind already calculating which of the heroic warmagi involved in the Liberation Campaign deserved the honor.  “As it is, you’re going in pretty heavy.”

“We need to go in very heavy,” I countered.  “That’s the whole point of the Gatebreakers.  How is our arcane armory?”

“Master Cormoran arrived yesterday with a wagon load of goodies – he’s gotten along famously with Tyndal’s pet Dradrien, and he wants to distribute some of their new wares,” she added.  “In addition, the Stench Guild sent over—”

“The who?” I asked, dully, as someone put a platter in between us.

“Oh, you don’t know,” she chuckled.  “The Kasari pointed us to a deep cloven vale in the eastern foothills of the Kulines that’s an alchemical wonderland.  Sulphur springs, pools of acid, alkaline deposits, and its surrounded by all sorts of minerals.  Anguin gave Ormar permission to lead a team of alchemists there to assess its usability, last year.  He hasn’t come back since.  Instead he built a settlement, and he’s been quietly harvesting the minerals . . . and using them to our benefit.”

That interested me – alchemy was not my strong suit, but I had a healthy respect for what a well-schooled scholar in the alchemical arts could do on the battlefield.  Ormar was particularly clever, and once he’d acquired a witchstone he’d exploited his powers to improve his mastery of the physical world.

“And you didn’t mention this to me?” I said, frowning.

“It slipped my mind!” she said, defensively.  “We’ve both been a little busy this last year, don’t you think?”

“A fair point,” I grunted.

“In any case,” she said, letting the matter evaporate . . . mostly, “Ormar founded a kind of alchemical bouleuterion in the vale.  It’s unofficially known as the Stench Guild, because of the noxious fumes the place emits.  There are about a score of workshops and halls there, now, and dozens of alchemists and assistants,” she said, proudly.

“What is it officially known as?” I inquired.

“It isn’t,” she shrugged.  “Officially, it doesn’t exist.  Ever since the dragon burned down the palace, I convinced Anguin to make the place a state secret.  Even the route is a secret,” she added.  “If you want to go there, you have to know which Waystone to relay through.  Or have the map.

“Ormar has been creating all sorts of things he dredged out of the old Perwynese recipe books.  He promises some nasty surprises for Korbal,” she said, crossing her arms over her turgid tummy with satisfaction.

“We’ll need every one of them,” I nodded.  “As well as the gear Master Ulin and Banamor prepared for us.  And Taren’s contributions.  And—”

“How are you armed?” she asked, suddenly, concerned.

I was surprised by the abrupt I nodded toward the emerald and gilt sphere that floated over my shoulder.  “I’m as well equipped as I can be.  But in addition to my throbbing big green ball of magic, I’ve got Twilight, and I’ve tuned up Blizzard,” I bragged.  “I’ve got a full slate of necromantic spells on it, now.  I’m bringing Pathfinder, my traveling staff.  And Insight, my thaumaturgical baculus.  I won’t lack for arguments, when I meet Korbal,” I assured her.

“If you meet Korbal,” she corrected.  “You can accomplish the mission – all of the missions – without facing him.  I encourage you to consider that a plan,” she said, catching my hand and forcing me to look her in the eye.  “I don’t know if I could face Alya if you wasted your life on some stupid, vainglorious attack.”

“If I don’t, you may never have the chance,” I pointed out.

“Don’t you bullshit me, Min!” she said, suddenly irate with me.  “Everyone else might believe your crap, but to me this just looks like an elaborate suicide mission!  Don’t let your guilt over what happened to Alya drive you into a fight you can’t win!”

“I don’t know if I can’t win it!” I said, automatically casting an obscuring field around us – we were having a conversation that by all rights should have been conducted mind-to-mind.  I didn’t want my personal business overheard by the wrong people.  Which meant anyone but Pentandra.  “I have no idea what that thing can do even before we get the Handmaiden inside it!”

“It’s not going to magically wash away your sense of guilt and obligation to your wife!”

“I don’t want that washed away,” I said, sullenly.  If it was anyone other than Pentandra, this conversation would be over.  Possibly in a violent fashion.  “You know very well I would not put this many good people in danger if this was merely an elaborate suicide attempt.  I have hope, Penny,” I said, with an exhausted sigh.  “Not much, but a little is all you ever need.”

“You’re risking an awful lot of lives on that hope,” she said, chewing her lip doubtfully.

“I risk them all if I don’t,” I pointed out.  “If we let Korbal and Sheruel get rowdy, the Vundel will kick us all off the world like a tenant in arrears.  We have to stop them now, before they do something noteworthy.”

“I understand that,” Pentandra promised.  “But that’s not a reason to throw yourself at them!”

“Believe me, it’s not my first choice,” I admitted in a low voice.  “I won’t restore Alya if I can’t bring the Handmaiden out of Olum Seheri.  That means surviving the encounter.  I wouldn’t throw myself against even one evil dark lord unless all hope was extinguished.  Much less two.”

“That was a beautifully articulated rationalization, Min,” she said, acid in her tone.  “But you aren’t fooling me.”

“What do you want me to say?” I asked, exasperated.  “That I’ll turn tail and run at the first sight of Korbal?  Hide until Sheruel gives up looking in frustration?  Give me some credit, Pen,” I pleaded, firmly.  “I’m going to Olum Seheri with the intention of returning.  With or without the Handmaiden.  I promise not to kick Korbal in the crotch or draw a mustache on Sheruel when he’s not looking,” I said, solemnly.  “Beyond that, I can’t say.  I’ll be improvising.  As will they,” I reminded her.

“Trygg’s eternal grace, you and Arborn are infuriatingly alike, sometimes!” she fumed, her nostrils flaring dangerously.  “He said much the same thing, when I tried to warn him!”

“Warn him of what?” I asked, curious.  “We’re going into the lair of an undead evil dark lord.  We’re aware that it’s not safe,” I said, sarcastically.

She chewed her lip nervously – which was unlike her.  I knew she was risking both her husband and her comrade in this mad endeavor, and it couldn’t have come at a more inconvenient time.  She was mere weeks away from giving birth.  How could she not be anxious about this?

“I worry that it won’t go well,” she admitted, finally.  “That something horrible will happen.  That . . . that an even more powerful darkness will come from this effort,” she said, with a resounding sigh.  “One more powerful than either Korbal or Sheruel.”

“More powerful?  Let’s hope not,” I sighed.  “I’m just getting used to the last powerful darkness.  We go there to destroy their plans, not accelerate them.”

“I’m just worried,” she said, shaking her head and looking away.  “Worried that you and Arborn . . . and the others . . . that you won’t come back,” she complained.  “I’m sorry, I know I’m . . . but I . . . what if you all go and die and leave me here with three babies and a kingdom on the brink of collapse in the middle of an invasion?” she demanded.  “You want me to clean up this mess while you snicker from the afterlife?”

“You won’t be alone,” I assured her.  “If I fall, if we all fall, then there are plenty of resources available for you to form a defensive line and contain the invasion while you figure out what to do next,” I shrugged.  “It will be a clearly observable crisis.  Someone is sure to help out.”

“While I breastfeed three hungry babies with only two boobs?” she asked, as she started to cry.  “That’s the shittiest pep-talk, ever!”

She buried her nose in a kerchief for a moment and I just stood there, silently.  Sometimes not saying a damned thing is the wisest course of action.  Especially late in a pregnancy.

“Sorry,” she finally sniffed, a moment later.  “They’re making me crazy!” she said, accusingly, as she glanced at her swollen abdomen.  “The one in the middle at the moment is teaching the others some sort of violent folk dance,” she said, resentfully.  “First, she starts, then the other two join in!  Is that anyway to treat your mommy?” she demanded of her unborn children.

Thankfully, they didn’t reply.

“Sorry,” I offered, involuntarily flinching.

There are some mysteries of the raw maternal that strike a chord in a man, no matter how old and wise he is.  “I didn’t mean to dismiss the gross inconveniences of my death for you,” I said, sympathetically.  “But if it comes to that, you’re the only one I trust to handle the contingencies.”

“I know,” she spat with a sigh.  “Gods above, I know.  Why do you think I’m in a tizzy?  If you fail, then it rests on me and . . . whoever is left.  Whatever’s left.  But you won’t fail,” she said, without much confidence in her voice.  “You just won’t quite succeed the way you thought you would.  Or something like that.”  She shook her head in confusion.

It was an odd thing to say, but I didn’t press.  Pentandra was under almost as much pressure as I was, and despite the active day I’d had, I’d wager a sphere of gold that she was more tired than I was.

We were both supposed to be models of confidence to our colleagues and subordinates, and mostly we succeeded.  It was only in these rare instances of face-to-face or mind-to-mind communication that we could be honest with ourselves and each other.  I realized how much I valued that . . . and her.

A man less tortured by wisdom might mistake that feeling for something sexual, especially in light of our past relationship.  All too many did, I knew, and they and their families suffered because of it.

But thankfully I had no illusions about Pentandra, perhaps because of our past relationship . . . and our present ones.  Sure, she was still physically attractive, despite her massive belly, but our lives had moved beyond that simple, joyful phase into something much more delicate and complex.  So had our relationship.  We were each in love with our spouses, but at the moment I could think of no greater friend on Callidore.

I sighed.  “It’s going to be fine,” I said, with as much assurance as I could muster.  “It’s just going to be . . . complicated.  And messy.  But we’ll come out all right,” I promised.

“You’d better,” she said, with a shudder.  “You . . . you just better come back.  Don’t you dare stick me with this burden,” she said, in a low and serious tone.  “I don’t know how you’ve borne it this long, and I don’t know how you can do it without going mad, but I do know that I don’t want it,” she declared, resolutely.  “Never.  I want to be a mother and raise my daughters, a wife to my wonderful husband, and in my spare time I want to do a little magic.  I do not want the responsibility for defending humanity.”

“It’s not as much fun as the legends make it out to be,” I agreed with a yawn.  “But that’s a reflection for another day.  Right now, I need sleep before I fall down right here.  Among other things.  Is the outhouse still in the same place?”

The concourse in front of the big blue barn was filled with wagons, the next morning, as supplies and materials arrived in preparation for the raid on Olum Seheri.  It was an impressive collection, from Master Cormoran’s incredible selection of mageblades and other weaponry, to the dragon-skin hauberks and chest plates (some made of a single scale from the beast’s great back) that would not only protect their bearer from every sharp instrument in the world, but make it particularly difficult to target him magically.

Then there were the three wains from the Stench Guild, filled with dozens of varieties of alchemical devices: explosions, flares, smokes, poison gasses, and things I had no idea about.  Ormar the Alchemist strutted back and forth between his wagons and explained the function of each device, as the warmagi rummaged through them.

And then Sire Cei arrived through one of the Waypoints, with Master Loiko’s assistance, bearing the bounty of enchantments that Sevendor’s bouleuterion had prepared for us, both the items we’d ordered and a selection of intriguing suggestions they’d come up with on their own.

One by one, and two by two, the warmagi and other participants in the Olum Seheri raid arrived at Timberwatch, either overland or through the Ways.  The Kasari marched in, or rode to the staging area in formation, their uniform cloaks with their distinctive triangle pattern thrown over their shoulders as the marched.  As barbarian rangers went, they made an impressive presentation.

Arborn was commanding them, technically, but most of the Kasari would be spread out among each of the separate teams.  Half of them would be lurking in the Land of Scars, directly outside of Olum Seheri, where they would wait and watch in case of trouble.

The others were going in with the Gatebreakers or were assisting the Duke with his rescue plan by keeping goblins and undead at bay while the core of the team did their work.  Arborn, I knew, was going along with Anguin to supervise, with the express instruction from his fretful wife to not let either of them die.

The Wilderlords who had been chosen to go with the Warmagi as shock troops were young, arrogant, and eager to cross swords with their Duke’s deadliest enemy on his home turf.  They were an impressive lot.

I grew up with Riverlords ruling over us, in the background.  Talry-on-Burine is lucky enough to be attached to a baronial village, which gave me some limited insight into the culture of my betters.  The knights who made their way to the castle to serve their term of service often passed through Talry, squires and servants in tow.  There was a certain pageantry involved in their simple transportation through the countryside, their banners and colors well-matched and wildly displayed.  Riverlords in general tend to be gaudy – and Gilmorans even gaudier.

But Wilderlords are subtle, in comparison.  While their devices were prominently displayed, they were accessories, not focal points of their costume.  A Wilderlord presents himself for the purpose of visual intimidation, while the Riverlord is far more interested in capturing some element of nobility – valor, tenacity, prosperity, intelligence, strength.  The culture of the Wilderlands invests itself in subtext.  The Riverlands nobility invest themselves in dramatic statements.

Sire Cei, for instance, was seen as particularly restrained amongst his Riverlord peers.  He had invested in a Riverlord-style panoply for ceremonial occasions, but his finest court garb reflected his Wilderlands roots.  The honeycomb and snowflake device he’d chosen as to represent his house and his personal chivalry was present in his panoply in very modest ways: a motif in the embroidery at his hem, a single medallion on his breastplate, a modest depiction on his wide, round-topped Wilderlands shield.  His banner was a sedate saffron field upon which the charges were reasonably stitched.

Sir Ryff, by contrast, was a typical Riverlord knight, heir to a small but proud domain enjoying a history of success in both battle and tourney.  When Ryff came to Sevendor Castle to serve his term in the garrison her arrived so plastered with blue boars that the very color quickly came to represent him in my mind.  When he rode through Sevendor Town his surcoat, shield, and barding were all decorated with his bold device.  His squire rode with a banner five feet tall and nine wide with a badger whose blue contended with the sky and sea for the right to the title.  Another depended from the point of his lance, another was draped upon either side of the cart which bore his baggage.  His four servants also bore tabards with his device, their shoes dyed to match.

The differences went beyond mere presentation.  For one thing, while Riverlords knew the bow and axe, they disparaged them as gentlemen.  Wilderlords don’t have that prejudice; the ability to bend and lose a mighty Wilderlands bow is as much a part of knightly valor as the lance or sword.  Both prize honor and chivalric virtue, but they see both from different vantages.

The Wilderlord sees himself as a war leader first, and a social fixture second.  For the Riverlord his position is as important – if not more so – than his ability to fight on horseback.

Both prize fighting with lance and shield, but the Riverlord’s approach is far more concerned with landing a solid blow than killing his enemy.  Wilderlords are more vicious when in battle, and they consider tournaments mild battles.  Riverlords are more chivalrous in tournaments, and they see war as an elaborate tournament.

Those differences are telling.  When Alshar struggled to keep the Gilmoran counties intact, they imported Wilderlords to fight for them against the Castali loyalists seeking to bring Gilmora under Castabriel’s rule.  A little over fifty years ago a few thousand of them were sent to raid behind enemy lines for the Duke of Alshar, ranging as far east as Drexel.  Wherever they went, they left ruin and devastation behind and brought with them bloody glory and saddlebags full of loot.  The tales of them still strike terror in the hearts of Riverlands peasants, because of those terrible raids.

When the two did meet on the field of battle, the Riverlords tended to be more concerned with the order of precedence and who had the honor of being in which rank of the charge.  The Wilderlords were more concerned with how many men they could kill or capture for ransom.  You can guess the outcomes of most of those battles.  If the Alshari had used them properly, and not folded on the Gilmoran question due to internal pressure after the death of the Black Duke, Gilmora might be Alshari to this day.

The modern version of Wilderlord was more sophisticated than his grandsire, but no less devoted to the practice of warfare as an art.  He prided himself on the ability to fight as well with axe or greatsword as lance or longsword.  When he couched a lance it was with the purpose not of breaking it, but of propelling it through the heart of his foe.  This wasn’t mere romantic hyperbole – it became a cultural factor that affected the history of both countries.

When the Wilderlords first took the field in the Riverlands during the Gilmoran conflicts, they developed a reputation for beating Riverlords who surrendered without at least a token fight, and then raising their ransoms in a kind of “coward tax”.  In the Wilderlands, surrendering to the inevitable and submitting to capture for ransom was honorable . . . but only when it was a matter of life or death.  In the Riverlands if a knight was more wealthy than he was puissant, he might surrender to his enemy as he might throw a tournament round.

I’d learned that Count Marcadine’s illustrious ancestors had been fierce enough to compound this coward tax into a viable business.  They’d ravaged the Upper Riverlands and eastern Gilmora, seeking out small congregations of Riverlords for particular attention.  The purpose was not strategic, but financial.  When a band of Wilderlords crossed a band of Riverlords posted in a defensive position, the fury of the northern knights was so harsh that ransoms rained down on the west like rain.  Marcadine’s grandsires had funded the grand Preshar Castle as a result.

The Wilderlords gathered for this expedition were young and brave, the cream of the crop Tyndal and Rondal had trained here.  They were all blooded.  There weren’t many, but at least three score high-born flat-headed sons of nobles wanted to prove their worth and their puissance against the gurvani, and Anguin had granted them the boon of inclusion.  Idiots.

The Tera Alon were among the last to appear at Timberwatch, each warrior materializing through the Ways as they were ready.

I watched the newly-tall Alon warriors as they appeared, each clad in armor of their own device – many looked like enchanted leather, shaped and formed to appear like tree bark, coverings of leaves, or vines enwrapping the vulnerable regions.  They wore helms, after a fashion, most built to keep from obscuring vision at the expense of leaving the face unprotected.

But their arms were what were most impressive.  They had taken the humani idea of a sword and adapted it to their longer, more graceful hands and arms.  Their blades were delicately curved, sharply pointed, and lacked anything of substance that would guard their hands.  That’s either the mark of a confident swordsman or a novice.  We’d see which the hundred Tera Alon warriors would prove to be.

Across nearly every back was also a slender, silvery bow of human size, next to a quiver full of arrows – long, deadly-looking things completely at odds with the small darts they usually shot.  These points weren’t poisoned.  They were crafted to cause trauma when their slender forms were propelled from those powerful bows.

The Tera Alon had come girded for war.

So had my gallant warmagi.  When the hour of our departure approached, they gathered in the barn to wait, passing flasks and smoking pipes.  Despite their joviality, they were nervous.

I didn’t know why.  They were the largest assemblage of magical badasses the world had ever seen.

We’d recruited the absolute best and most powerful for this mission, sparing no one who could be of use.  And they dressed the part.

Dragonhide armor abounded, among the Gatebreakers.  Terleman’s twin teams boasted more of the nearly-impenetrable armor than I’d seen outside of an actual dragon.  Mage-hardened leather and burnished steel competed with more traditional gear for the eye’s attention.  There was a bounty of heavy weapons, suitable for slaying trolls . . . and larger beasts.  Halberds, spears, two-handed maces and greatswords were sprinkled among the traditional mageblades.  There were wands in every belt and boot, and nearly everyone had a magical battlestaff.

Azar, who claimed the honor of leading the van, carried his new greatsword over his shoulder.  It was the first of the blades Master Cormoran had forged since he’d begun working with the Dradrien, and both men were proud of it: the one with the skill to build it, and the one who had the honor to bear it.

It was a polished blade of unblemished steel, an alloy using meteoric iron and other exotic sources, Cormoran bragged to all, as he presented it to Azar in the barn.  Over fifty-inches long from guard to point, the leaf-shape echoed the traditional mageblade, but with a greater width near the point to give additional weight to a slashing strike.

It was exactly built to Azar’s size and reach, and it had been laden with powerful enchantments along its length.  The pommel, hilt, and guard were encrusted with magical gems and crystals.  And, Cormoran finished, it had been fitted with a particularly deadly paraclete to integrate the many enchantments into one singular purpose: to kill.

“It was some ancient seaborn predator,” the master enchanter chuckled, with relish, as Azar held his blade aloft in the barn.  “Fast, powerful, and determined.  Highly intelligent.  Incredibly vicious.  It suited Azar’s character well.  It took three days to get it integrated into the blade, but it’s tied into everything now.  Offensive spells, defensive spells, static spells, runefields, Waystone, hoxter pockets, power, even the bloody knot coral!” Cormoran sighed.  “It’s like having a cavalry charge.  In a scabbard.”

I shook my head in wonder.  “I’m envious!  What’s he calling it?”

“Vanguard,” Cormoran answered, proudly.  “I engraved it on the blade this morning.  In honor of his being chosen to lead the van.”

“When you have someone that willing to do the stupidest thing imaginable,” I reasoned, “it’s often best to get out of the way and let them.”

“Not to mention useful,” Cormoran agreed.  “He’s got a hand-picked squadron of his knights, mage and mundane, going with him in the initial party.  Each of them eager to be known as the deadliest, next to Azar.  And don’t be envious,” he added, with a wink.  “That was the first mageblade I’ve forged with the Dradrien guiding me.  It won’t be the last.  It’s the best one I’ve ever forged.  It won’t be the best one I ever forge.  Not after what I’ve learned in the process.”

Between Azar’s armor, Vanguard, and his battlestaff he possibly could have taken the mission on his own and reasonably expected some success.  With the other heavy-hitting brutes he was bringing along, including Taren, Bendonal, Caswallon, Golvod of Tenaria, I suddenly felt a wave of confidence sweep over me.

A stupid, stupid wave of confidence.

The second wave, commanded by Bendonal, was nearly as doughty.  Comprised of seasoned warmagi from Tudry (including Sarakeem, Gerendren, Rustallo, Landrik, and other stalwarts) and the cream of the surviving Wilderlords, Bendonal had whipped them up into a chivalric furor over the opportunity to strike back at the foe who had caused them so much grief and woe.

Along with the second wave’s reinforcements would come a dozen Kasari, who would steal across Olum Seheri and secure the region around the first attack, before reinforcements could be summoned to the other side.  The third wave, commanded by Magelord Astyral, would deploy a dozen specialists whose task it was to destroy any and everything that might be of strategic value to the enemy.

The second group of Gatebreakers was similarly contrived in waves, with the first led by Terleman.  He and his folk would overwhelm the second Waypoint in force, saturating the eastern gateway with warmagi while making way for a flood of vengeful Tera Alon warriors.  Their goal was to secure the southern Waypoint and linger, quietly, much as Azar’s was to capture the westernmost Waypoint.

Then, the plan went, the second and third waves of warmagi would be escorted through and let loose on the flanks and rear of the enemy as they rushed to face Azar.  More Kasari rangers, more sappers and infiltrators, but this time dedicated to freeing the large number of human (and other races) prisoners being kept nearby.

While Korbal and his minions contended with that well-planned disaster, Anguin and his team would come through the third Waypoint, the secret one.  The portable one.  That should give them ample opportunity to assault the Tower in which Rardine and the Dradrien were being held.  Anyone who hadn’t rushed to either the first or the second attack would be devoted to stopping the attempt to rescue the prisoners.

Anguin’s group was much smaller, and had but two waves.  The first, led by impetuous Tyndal, was to establish the security of the entryway.  Sir Atopol, the Shadowmage thief from Enultramar (and official member of the Estasi Order) would begin skulking and sneaking his way toward the Tower while Tyndal’s merry band began a savage attack on the guards at the base of the tower, after a suitable barrage of magical doom.

When the second wave was summoned, Rondal would command the force of Wilderlords and warmagi to reinforce Tyndal’s group, while also deploying to gain access to the higher reaches of the Tower.  They had a few different plans to do so, including using Atopol’s stealthiness and command of shadowmagic to infiltrate the place, but which one they used would depend on the situation as it presented itself.

At some point, however, the assault would hopefully attract attention from the nearby Fortress of Korbal.  When that happened, the lads would be in a world of peril.

That’s when the Scholars would come in.  We would quietly use the Waypoint to enter Olum Seheri, and in the wake of three carefully-planned distractions, we would quietly break into the fortress.  And find our way to the entrance of the undercaverns.

After that, the plan said, everything should be smooth sailing.

The plan said so.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Vanguard

“Duke Anguin and his party report that they are prepared for battle.  They’re ready for you, Master,” Rondal reported, respectfully.

You don’t go into a raid of this size and complexity without giving the people who are about to risk their lives a rousing speech to either steel their resolve, or remind them of how important this was, and how they really shouldn’t screw it up.  Because that’s supposed to help.

The thing was, these men were eager for battle.  Eager to take the fight to the enemy.  They didn’t need stirring up.  Each, in their way, was determined to prove themselves against the enemy.  Some wanted vengeance, some wanted glory, but all wanted to inflict pain on those who’d caused so much suffering . . . and promised so much more.

But that didn’t mean I could skip the speech.  It’s tradition.  And I did have a few things to say.  After all, this entire thing, from start to finish, was my idea.  Whether it went well or ill, it was my responsibility.

We were gathered outside of the barn, in a square, unpaved area along the concourse that served as our staging ground.  Three different Waystones, set on posts of snowstone, were erected around its perimeter, each for use with one of the three destinations.

On one side a canopied platform on stilts had been erected to overlook the site, allowing a herald to call forth directions and instructions to different groups, as they assembled and departed, like a harbormaster.  Next to him was a mage in contact with the commander of the exercise, Pentandra.  She and her apprentice and assistants were inside the barn, at her headquarters, where she could direct support for the operation.

The platform made an excellent point to address the warriors.  I mounted the stairs to cheering, which is always nice.

“My friends, allies, and distinguished guests,” I began, my voice augmented by magic.

“Today we depart against the very heart of the dark empire that is arising to challenge our kingdom.  Only the Dark Vale is perhaps more fearsome by repute, but we are assured that Olum Seheri is far more dangerous to us.  Our self-sworn enemies have seized tremendous power, and aim to direct it at us all.

“We strike for no lessor purpose than the rescue of Princess Rardine, if vengeance and wrath are insufficient cause.  We strike to stave off some future calamity.  We strike for vengeance for lamented Anthatiel.  We strike because no man should have to suffer under such horrific darkness without being able to strike at it!”

That earned some earnest cheers.

“I trust each of you know your goals, and are prepared to achieve them,” I continued, as intently as I could manage.  “I trust each of you, because you were selected amongst the mighty for this honor,” I said, looking particularly at the Wilderlords and warmagi.  “I trust each of you, because I know how much this means to you,” I said, giving my attention to the Tera Alon.  “And I trust that nothing fate, fortune, or the schemes of the dark gods can muster can stand against a company as mighty as this!” I said, ending with a shout.

That got me cheers in abundance, particularly when I got off the stage.  No one likes a long pep-talk.  The herald began directing the lead teams to their places, and announced the time until the assault began.  Less than a half-hour.

After wishing Azar and his men well, and offering words of encouragement and admiration to anyone who looked like they needed it, I wandered back to the barn to see how Pentandra was contending with the complex operation.

Unsurprisingly, she was doing quite well.  She’d had an overstuffed burgher’s couch brought to the barn, and she rested on it in the middle of a ring of tables and displays designed to help her keep track of what was happening in Olum Seheri.

There were three magi from her office sitting at small tables nearby, quills and parchment in front of them, ready to relay any message the teams might need.  Two more assistants manned a wide, flat map made of long strips of parchment.

But the remarkable part of her apparatus was the diorama Lanse of Bune constructed on a specially-designed rolling table.  While it wasn’t magically connected with the site, yet, it was a perfect scale model of the entire island, drawn from memory and magic.

“That’s wonderful,” I breathed, awed by the skill Lanse demonstrated in the construction.  The detail was magnificent, from the sculpted cliffs surrounding the island to the intricately painted city, itself.  Even the outlands of Olum Seheri were portrayed: the forbidding gatehouse that guarded the egress of the lake had a tiny toy dragon, and the wide, flat region in the southwest was covered with miniature houses.  The lake itself was real water, which I found an interesting choice.

“Since I don’t have a lot in terms of physical objects from Anthatiel, I had to improvise,” Lanse admitted, frowning.  “I’m hoping we can gain more, on this mission, but until then I found it more effective to use actual elements, rather than representations, when I could.”  He shrugged.  “It’s not my best work, but it should be adequate for the task.”

“He’s being far too modest,” Pentandra insisted.  “Lanse has tied the diorama to several constructs we had commissioned for the purpose.  They’re designed for reconnaissance and battlefield intelligence.  Remember how much better things went at Cambrian, when we had Dara scouting the fields by hawk and Thoughtful Knife?  Same principle, but much less elegant.

“When we deploy them, early in the first wave of the vanguard’s attack,” she explained, “they’ll quietly move to points overlooking the three Waypoints and allow us to observe the entire battle from two hundred feet in the air.  They’ve been enchanted for unnoticeability, to keep the wyverns at bay.”

“We tied everything together through falhoudi stones,” Lanse agreed.  “When they’re activated, we can use them to scry directly to the site, without having to worry about screening spells.  That’s the other reason I used water in the model,” he said, trailing his long fingers through the tub that surrounded the miniature island, “it provides a much better medium for thaumaturgical display than glass, for this purpose.  We can reflect the arcane optical potential through—”

“Twenty minutes!” a mage who’d been designated the mission herald announced, at the other end of the barn.

“Not enough time for a thaumaturgical lecture, I’m afraid,” Pentandra said, stopping Lanse from starting one I would have no-doubt found fascinating.  “We tested it.  It works.  You two can discuss the innards, later.  We’re about to start the largest surprise assault on the enemy in . . . oh.  In two days.  Anyway, I think we have a few more urgent matters at hand, gentlemen, don’t you?”

I sighed in agreement, and we began discussing the details of the operation.

The vanguard of the Gatebreakers was a vitally important part of the operation.  If they could not establish a sufficiently secure anchor at the Waypoints, that would disrupt the entire rest of the mission.  I had no doubt in the fighting effectiveness of Azar and Terleman and the men they’d chosen to be in the vanguard – they were as vicious and powerful a group of killers as I’d ever seen.  It was the enemy response that had me worried.

We still didn’t know the full extent of Korbal’s resources, magical and mundane.  We were guessing, and making fairly astute guesses, but the Penumbra was difficult to scry and Olum Seheri was protected from such inspection by powerful spells in the mist, now.  We really had no idea how many troops were currently stationed there, where, or what their schedule was.  Nor did we have any idea what powers beyond his undead minions Korbal had contrived.  We were working blind, and it made me nervous.

But there are no certainties in war.  There are a lot of noble-sounding proverbs to that effect that they quote to you in War College, to let you know what an actual chamberpot of chaos battle is, but they all come down to this: no battle goes according to plan.  A good commander is confident.  A wise commander is also nervous, if he knows what the hell is going on.

“Five minutes!” the herald boomed, as we finished going over the deployment of the vanguard, again.  “First wave!  My lords of the vanguard, please take your places!”

“I’d better go wish them luck,” I decided.  “It couldn’t hurt.”

“You’d better hurry, then,” Pentandra called after me.  “They leave on time.  And send them my wishes, too!”

I had no better reason to go back outside to the staging ground than anxiety and curiosity.  I watched as Azar and Terleman stalked through the ranks, riling their men by pounding their armor and snarling at each other in preparation for battle.  Helmets were being donned and strapped.  Gauntlets were being slid on, and mighty weapons were coming out of their scabbards.

Due to the nature of transport, instead of a neat file of men ready to fight, Azar had his team form a circle with the backs to the snowstone pillar and Waystone.  I waved to them and called my well-wishes, and those of Lady Pentandra, as the brave warmagi made their final preparations, and the herald called out the last few seconds before departure.  Azar gave one last mighty war-cry, and then they were gone.

I took a few moments to breath, hoping and praying I hadn’t just sent some of the bravest men on Callidore to a hopeless death.

The second wave quickly took their positions, as did Terleman’s team, around the second pillar.  His approach to battle was calmer and more calculated than Azar’s, but no less effective.  His men were ready, eager for the greatest battle of their lives.  I stopped to salute him and give him a nod before I watched the second wave, including Taren, depart from the first pillar in support of the vanguard.  That was twenty High Magi who’d just poured through the portal.  A goodly fraction of my forces.

I suddenly had a profound desire to know whether or not I’d betrayed the lives of those men, and I rushed back inside the barn to consult with Pentandra.  Her eyes were closed, as she sat on her couch, and every now and then she’d belt out an instruction or relayed a piece of intelligence to her clerks, who rushed to carry them out.

Suddenly, they opened, and saw me.

“Min, they’re through!” she reported, excitedly.  “Azar says they hit stiff opposition, but they had the element of surprise.  About sixty gurvani and a troll.”

“How goes the battle?” I asked, anxiously.

“How do you think?  Azar’s in paradise.  They came through hard, but right in the middle of their encampment.  They were just pushing beyond their entry point when the reinforcements arrived.  Now shut up and let me work!” she said, crossly.

I ignored the sudden change in mood – she was under a lot of pressure, coordinating this battle.

“Taren’s on the ground and deploying his constructs,” she reported, a moment later, not opening her eyes to do so.  That was important news.

Taren’s big contribution to the mission was his anti-wyvern measures.  He’d constructed three flying constructs, incorporating a liberal amount of yellow knot coral.  They were bizarre looking things, about the size of a small pony, with protrusions issuing from every angle.  When he launched them into the air, each equipped with a simple-minded paraclete of his own selection, they immediately began attracting the beasts.

That was by design.  Indeed, the entire construct was built to give the vicious little bastards something to cling to, bite, scratch, and sting.  Taren had laden it with spells to infuriate the tiny minds of the airborne lizards, encouraging to see the constructs as a threat.

As they felt no pain, there was nothing particularly disturbing to the floating piles of debris.  They acted as directed, hovering over the city and drawing out more and more wyverns from their cliffside nests.

At regular intervals, they would vanish into a hoxter pocket.  And reappear a moment later, to rain dead wyverns down over Olum Seheri.

It was a simple but surprisingly effective counter to the dangerous winged threat.  With three of the constructs in the air, there were regular showers of dead lizards over the island during the entire battle.  While there were several attacks on our men by the things, they were more nuisance than threat.

Taren also launched his other constructs, the ones he and Pentandra and Lanse had worked out.  Unlike the first group, these were small and designed to avoid detection, not demand it.  They levitated silently over each Waypoint, out of either easy view of the ground.  When he activated them, and the spell was enjoined to the diorama, suddenly we had an excellent three-tiered view of the battlefield.

“Isn’t that amazing?” Pentandra breathed, as the images came into view, reflected off of the water in the diorama.  “Each one is connected to a Sympathy Stone that allows us to see what’s occurring, a thousand miles away.”

“The optical spell for the reflection was the hardest,” Lanse nodded.  “It requires a lot of power.  But thankfully we have that to spare.”  The herald called out the time – ten minutes into the battle – and the second team of Gatebreakers was ready to depart.  Lanse looked up and grinned.  “That’s my call!”

“Wait, you’re going?” I asked, surprised.  “Don’t they need you here?”

“Nah,” the tall, lanky mage said, pushing a shock of graying hair out of his eyes, “Now that it’s connected, this thing will run itself.  Pentandra is powering it.  I pulled rank and managed to go in with Terleman’s reinforcements.”

“You don’t have to do that, Lanse,” I said, wincing.  The thought of risking such a valuable asset to the war effort was painful.

“Did you think I was going to miss a scrap like this?” he asked, incredulously, as he manifested a long, deadly-looking and highly enchanted spear in his right hand.  His mageblade was already over his armored shoulder.  “I’ve been waiting to try this stuff out since Rolone.  Besides, I need to get samples for a more accurate model,” he added, checking a few things on his weapons harness.  “See you in Korbal Town!” he waved, as his long legs strode out of the barn.

“He’ll be fine, he’s in the second wave,” Pentandra dismissed, sensing my concern without me saying anything.  “And he’s right, we need better samples.  You might want to watch this next part,” she said, quickly, gesturing toward the diorama.  I wandered over and took a look.

It was incredible to watch my comrades at work.  Taren’s construct was holding steady, about a hundred feet above the first natural Waypoint.  If there had been sixty goblins there to begin with, they weren’t there now . . . unless that ring of bodies accounted for them.

Azar was standing on the corpse of a slain troll, his two-handed greatsword in his hand, shouting orders and blasting anything that got within reach with his mighty blade.  The vanguard had erupted on the sentries like a bursting dam, and none of my men, thus far, had fallen.

Indeed, they were eagerly battling any gurvan who dared to approach.  Sarakeem was firing into the shadows beyond the sight of the construct with the methodical timing of a mill.  Bendonal the Outlaw was establishing battlefield wardings while Wenek was laying what I could only guess was a truly nasty offensive runefield on the main approach to the little clearing in the rubble.  Taren was placing yet more arcane constructs around the perimeter of the circle, each one springing to life like living hat-racks.  Or sword-racks.

The other warmagi were dispatching the last of the defenders, while the first of the third wave – comprised of Wilderlords, led by Count Marcadine, himself, and Kasari rangers, led by Arborn – began to slip through behind them.

The second Waypoint was much more active.  Though there were less foe gathered to watch it, due to its proximity to so many garrisons, they were more stoutly composed: four ragged-looking trolls with thick iron armor and a score of hobgoblin infantry.  Terleman’s squadron burst through the Ways hacking, slashing, and casting offensive magic in big showy blobs.  One of the trolls and a couple of hobs were on fire, roaring in pain while their fellows tried to beat back the relentless advance of the warmagi.

Terleman directed the battle with quiet determination and close attention to detail.  When the hobgoblins called in half a dozen archers to support them, Terl detailed one of his men to deal with it.  A moment later, the entire group was split in half, horizontally, pawing at their spilled intestines in vain.  A couple of draugen sentries wandered too close and bore the brunt of someone’s warstaff until they were cut down to their shins.

But more of the foe were gathering in the distance, the construct showed us.  The garrisons near the southern Waypoint were emptying, as the gurvani responded to the attack.

The troops of the Necromancer were visibly different from Sheruel’s gurvani legions – the hobgoblins were far better armored and armed, and moved with more precision and discipline than the Dead God’s troops.  The smaller gurvani were likewise better trained and led, and their armor had a distinctive quality to it that told them out from Sheruel’s infantry.

There was a growing number of undead who were answering the horn calls and shouts across the island.  Draugen, mostly, loped across the ruined city with single-minded purpose.  It was easy to tell them apart from the few living human confederates in Korbal’s armies – they were shaven-headed and red-eyed, a grim hatred for all life fueling them.  They bore axes or iron staves, and they threw themselves at the attackers without regard to their own well-being.

That made them a lot tougher to handle, but the first one that approached Azar’s group with one of those poles fell a moment later, bisected by Azar’s new blade.  The second took Bendonal’s warhammer in the face and decorated the gurvani behind him with his black ichor-covered brains.  After that they were a little more cautious in their approach.

“It looks like they’re committing most of their southern garrisons to the defense,” one of Pentandra’s assistants noted, as he passed the diorama.  He trained a small wand over an area, and a third vision resolved in the air.  It showed the entrance of one of the garrisons – a rough-built stone blockhouse, with a broad wooden door bound in iron – from which scores of angry-looking goblins were running toward the distant disturbance . . . and directly into one of the artificial constructs Terleman’s group deployed.

This one wasn’t a sentry, it was a hunter.  The bouleuterion had constructed it of two thick round shields of bronze, laid back to back, with the thaumaturgical array within.  The legs were built of iron-sheathed weirwood and terminated in sharp steel spikes it could run on or impale with.

Possessed of some ancient predator’s enneagram, it stalked through the misty ruins like a six-legged wolf, seeking its prey.  When it came upon the first goblins squadron of reinforcements to approach Terleman’s position it suddenly sprouted four arms, each ending with a battle-axe.

It also stuck a ponderous “head” of weirwood and leather that beamed a brilliant magelight into the faces of the defenders.  It regularly stuck its “head” at them, tempting them to strike.  That convinced them to focus on that, instead of the flailing axes that were hewing through their legs and arms with staggering efficiency.  They could cut that head completely off, and it wouldn’t even stop the magelight.  It was a decoy.  The only way to stop the thing was to bash your way through the two shields and destroy the arcane device within.

As effective as the construct was, it didn’t stop the legion of goblins that poured around it and began forming a line three rows deep against Terleman’s crew.  They weren’t brave enough to launch themselves against them, yet, but in moments they outnumbered the warmagi enough to think about it.

Before they could summon the resolve, or receive the order to attack, a score of Tera Alon warriors appeared from the Waypoint.  The gurvani visibly flinched from the sight of the tall, determined-looking Alon.  Particularly the triple-bright magelights the Tera Alon sang into existence overhead to dazzle them.

Then their bows began to sing, too.  Dozens of arrows flew in an unrelenting volley toward the defenders, mowing them down like summer hay.  The Tera Alon shot with the same perfect synchronicity they showed in their smaller forms, but their much larger bows and their three-foot long arrows had a range their little bows couldn’t match.  They seemed to fire with every exhale, and in moments the gurvani had fallen back to a safe distance . . . and then learned that the only safety from the Tera Alon snipers was behind cover.

“So far, so good,” I muttered to myself.  If this was the best response the Necromancer could come up with, this might be a far easier mission than I’d considered.

Then a Nemovort arrived, and my hopes were dashed.

It was a tall human-looking man, as shaven as a draugen but with bright yellow eyes.  It wore heavy armor, but no helm, allowing me to see the hideous runes tattooed and branded on his face and neck.  Whatever spells of preservation they were holding, they didn’t stop the right side of the undead lord’s face from decomposing.

The blade he bore was a long, two-handed thing, sharply pointed but lacking much of a guard.  Some sort of necromantic mageblade, I figured, based on the bolt of energy he threw towards Terleman the moment he arrived.

The blast from the sword was the first serious challenge to Terleman’s command of the field, and he didn’t wait long to respond.  As the Nemovort began to rally his troops for a charge, Terleman launched a series of spells from Warmaster, his sophisticated battle staff.

The magical melee that erupted between the two forces was a study in the warmagi’s art.  The Nemovort called for a team of trolls to support his advance, and led the gurvani and hobgoblins forward against the invaders.  It dueled briefly with a spidery-looking construct before a blast from its sword withered it into a quivering pile.  Terleman’s biggest warmagi engaged the leading elements while the Tera Alon, newly reinforced, rained down more destructive shafts from the misty sky.

“That looks sufficiently chaotic,” I said, approvingly.

“More trolls coming in from the west!” Pentandra called out.

“Five minutes until the Westwardens enter!” the herald announced, an instant later.

I took another trip outside to go see my boys off.  Tyndal and Ronal were going in with Atopol the Cat, the shadowmage and thief, as the vanguard of the hidden Waypoint.  I wished them luck and reminded them to stick to the mission plan.

“Of course, Master!” Rondal assured, cheerfully.  “We’d never depart from the plan!”

“Unless it was absolutely necessary,” added Tyndal, putting on his close-fitting helmet.   “Then we might be forced to improvise.”

“And, honestly,” Atopol said, looking at his companions, “what are the odds of that happening?”

“Your first priority is to protect the Duke,” I reminded them. “Anguin comes back.  Alive.  Second priority is the princess.”

“I’d rather skip that part, honestly,” Tyndal sighed.  “But we know our business, Master.  Our mission is to keep a low profile,” he said, with utmost seriousness.

“As quiet as kittens,” Rondal agreed, nodding sagely.

“They’re going to get me killed,” Atopol stated, nodding matter-of-factly, as he drew his modest mageblade.

“PLACES!” the herald called.  The three boys set themselves back-to-back in an equilateral triangle around the snowstone post.  “The entrance point appears clear!  You may depart now, gentlemen!” he called a moment later, when Pentandra apparently gave him permission.

“Off to hold the goat!” Tyndal said, with a grin, before the three High Magi departed through the Ways.

I realized I was holding my breath.  I wondered if I’d ever see them again.

“They will fare well, Baron Minalan,” the youthful voice of Duke Anguin, from behind me.  “They always do.”

The Orphan Duke was dressed in a richly-made infantryman’s plate hauberk, chainmail and steel-studded leather vambraces encasing his arms.  He bore a small roundshield on his back with the ducal device and carried a cunningly-made helm with the anchor-and-antler crest of his house on his brow in gilt.  At his side was a sword and dagger.

“The last time they went to Olum Seheri, Tyndal didn’t wake up for near a week,” I reminded him.  “I cannot help but fear for them, Your Grace.  I’ve known them since they were boys.”

“And raised them to be champions of the realm,” he reminded me.  “I have many brave knights in my court, Wilderlords of renown.  None have the power and boldness of Sirs Tyndal and Rondal.  And Sir Atopol is one of the most stalwart gentlemen in the duchy,” he said, with assurance.

“My lords are valiant,” Sir Gydion, the Orphan Duke’s new bodyguard agreed.  “They have undertaken diverse missions on His Grace’s behalf, and have never disappointed.”  I glanced at the man and then did a double-take.  He was the spitting image of Duke Lenguin, save for the receding hairline and lighter tint of hair.  His eyes looked like Lady Pleasure’s.

“They will need to be, contending against the dark spires of the Necromancer,” I said, grimly.  “Yet I share your confidence.  I can’t think of three more suited to the task they’ve been set than they.  How fare you, Your Grace?” I asked, changing the subject.  “Sir Tyndal and Sir Rondal are well-used to being thrown into dangerous tides.  Are you anxious?”

A less-secure man would have bridled at such a challenge.  Duke Anguin considered thoughtfully, instead of getting defensive.

“It’s one thing leading troops from a saddle, surrounded by your sworn knights,” he said, after a moment’s thought.  “It is quite another to place yourself in command of someone, and endure the same dangers as any who bear a sword in my service.”

“An important perspective for a man to acquire,” I nodded, philosophically.

“Do try to avoid those dangers, my liege,” begged Count Angrial, trying desperately not to look like a worried old uncle.  “I would hate to have to break in a new monarch.  Your sisters are fair, but stubborn.”

“I shall endeavor not to inconvenience you, Prime Minister,” Anguin replied, smoothly, as he donned his helmet.  “Ready, Gydion?”

“Always, Your Grace!” the man I was sure was Anguin’s bastard brother agreed, enthusiastically.

“Second wave of Westwardens, take your places,” came the herald’s call.  Anguin drew his blade and hoisted his shield, and gave me and Angrial a final salute as he joined Gydion, Noutha, Ithalia, and the Wilderlords who’d been selected to accompany His Grace on the rescue mission.

“For Alshar!” Anguin called, raising his sword defiantly, before Ithalia’s song swept them away into the Ways.  I stared at the snowstone pillar for a few moments after they departed, wondering if I hadn’t just committed regicide.

Just how many of these brave men and women would die for me, today?  For Alya’s sake?  How many would die as a consequence of this mad scheme?

“Finally, the kiddies are gone,” Master Azhguri grunted, as he set down his heavy hammer.  He was wearing mail of Karshak make, and a thick iron helmet that pressed his normally bushy hair into a tight matte that made it seem to explode out of his helm.  “The Tera Alon reinforcements just left to the western Way,” he advised me.  “We’ll be cleared to depart in a few minutes.”

“All right,” I said, shaking off my doubts and fears.  I couldn’t afford to bear them if I was to do what needed to be done.  I needed a clear head and a confident outlook.  “Gather the Scholars,” I ordered.

“Aye, Captain,” the old Karshak nodded.  “This will be fun – I’ve never sung Ghost Stone before.  Not certain anyone ever has.  The Alkans are stingy with that sort of thing,” he said with a resentful sneer.  “Like they’re the only ones who deserve such honors.  Pure arrogance.  That’s what got them into this mess in the first place,” he declared, as he went to fetch the others.

How is it going, Pentandra? I asked, a moment later, mind-to-mind.  I’m just getting ready to go through.

So far, so good, she said, cautiously.  Azar is pressing an attack on a slave pen near the Waypoint, until the expected reinforcements show up.  Terleman has his hands full in a pitched battle at the southern point, and he’s piling up bodies.  But they’re holding their own.  The Tera Alon are even launching an attack on a complex to the east.

Wyverns?

Not enough to report on, she assured.  Taren’s enchantments over the island are working.  All the enchantments are working.  The Kasari are laying traps.  The warmagi are striking their targets.  Tyndal and Rondal have begun their approach to the tower.  Anguin is safe and secure among his men.  And the entire island is easily as chaotic as we’d hoped.

Then there’s no good reason not to go, I agreed.

Why?  Are you having second thoughts?  It’s a little late for that, she advised.

You think?  No, I suddenly just don’t want to be responsible for all the deaths that are about to happen.

These aren’t conscripts, Min, she reminded me.  These are self-appointed heroes, every single one an eager volunteer.  To be honest, if you hadn’t planned this picnic, I was worried that Azar and Astyral would have staged some kind of stunt on their own.  They were getting antsy, just waiting for something to happen in the Wilderlands.  And the Wilderlords and the Alka Alon are just as anxious.

So, they’ll die with a nice warm feeling of satisfaction, I reasoned.  I feel much better.

Just make certain that if they do die, they die for a damned good reason, she reminded me, sternly.  I know you’re just grumbling, but you need to cram that attitude someplace and forget about it.  It’s time for you to be the godsdamned Spellmonger, Min.

You’re right, I sighed.  I took a deep breath and tried to focus my attention and began to raise power from the Magolith.  The rush of energy through my link to the sophisticated artefact helped.  You cannot taste that kind of power without feeling confident.  The centerpoint pulsed inside it like a heartbeat, every flare sending a new flush of potent energy into my brain.

I’m ready, I informed her, opening my eyes.

My team, the Scholars, were gathering around the snowstone pole already.  Onranion looked six drinks drunk.  Azhguri looked mildly bored.  Lilastien was wearing her foolish white coat over her armor.  Lord Aeratas looked incredibly annoyed already.  Sire Cei appeared thoughtful and nervous, smacking his hammer into his palm absently.  Sandoval and Mavone were stretching.

This would be fun.

The Scholars are ready to go.  Have the heralds give the command, I ordered Pentandra.  Send in the Sky Riders.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The Tower Of Despair

The last time I’d been to this island, it had been dreadful: a beautiful city, mostly evacuated, ravaged by war and sudden attack, inundated by a great wave that dashed the place to bits.

Things had gone downhill since the recent change in management.

The sky that had once been the haunt of rainbows was now a bland, gray perpetual overcast that let in a little light but blocked out the sun.  With the additional magical protections Korbal had placed on the mists and the island below, the place was locked in a misty twilight.  The air smelled of death and decay, lake water and mildew mixed with rotting corpses and aromas I was not willing to speculate upon.

The ruined building that served as a blind for our force was coated with a thin layer of lake water residue from the flood, and there were pockets of trapped debris in all the cracks and corners.  But it did provide adequate cover from casual discovery.

Indeed, the interior of the artificial cavern must have once been some ornate hall.  Laid on its side and shattered, the cavity within was more than large enough for a man to stand in, and in the northern portion the building had collapsed in such a way as to provide an elevated platform from which to peer out at the inner workings of Olum Seheri.  Tyndal was there when I arrived through the Ways, perched on a broken stone beam that allowed access to the crack to the outside.

“Welcome to Olum Seheri, Master!” he called cheerfully from his perch.  “I’m afraid we’ve run short of pilgrim medals, but feel free to pick up any of the numerous bone fragments on the island as a cherished memento of your visit.”

I appreciated his quip, but ignored it.

“What is happening?” I demanded.  He dropped the grin and glanced back out at the view he commanded.

“Not as much as one would expect, in the middle of a two-pronged surprise attack.  The Tower of Despair issued about a hundred hobgoblin infantry and a couple of shamans toward the southern assault, but that’s been the extent of their response.”

“‘Tower of Despair’?”

“Ron’s name for it,” Tyndal nodded, looking again through his improvised squint.  “It’s apt.  From up there, wherever you look you can see Korbal’s works, bordered by an oily sea of captivity.  That can’t be pleasant,” he reflected.

“Not at all.  How goes the battle?”

“You’d know better than I,” he snorted.  “I had about ten words with Pentandra to report His Grace’s successful transport, and that was it.  Apparently, she’s busy.”

“How goes your attack, then?” I inquired.

“Oh, we’ll be ready to begin momentarily,” my former apprentice assured me, smiling.  “Sir Atopol is almost in place.  He’s climbing up the side of the Tower of Despair through a most depressing forest,” he said, pointing.  I climbed up beside him to share his vantage, and after adjusting my magesight I had a very good view of the dark edifice.

I couldn’t exactly see Atopol - the young shadowmage had cloaked himself thickly with obfuscation spells to keep from being detected – but once Tyndal pointed out his progress I could chart his path in my mind.  He was scaling the southern wall of the building, just approaching a landing on the eighth floor, where the tower narrowed significantly before it became a prison.

He was making good time.  His effort was aided by the number of beams, chains, and ropes that Korbal had thoughtfully provided.

The Necromancer apparently liked to remind his slaves and subjects of the penalties of disobedience and failure, as the Tower of Despair was decorated by hanging corpses, bones, skulls, and gibbets filled with living prisoners exposed to the elements and the tender affections of wild wyverns.

Atopol made full use of this grisly passage up the tower, gingerly climbing from one horrific perch to the other.  Thankfully there was enough activity along the length to disguise the sound of his approach.

“He’s a good climber,” I remarked, quietly.

“He’s a master thief and a shadowmage,” Tyndal insisted.  “There is none better in the world.”

“What’s he going to do when he reaches the proper level?”

“That will be our signal to start the attack,” he informed me, as Lilastien brought Sire Cei through the Ways into our secret chamber.  “Ron is already in place.  He created a blind down toward the front of the ruins, nearest the tower.  When I give him the signal, we will begin the assault.”

“Ron is assaulting the place alone?” I asked, surprised.  Idiotic bravery seemed to be far more Tyndal’s strength than Rondal’s.

“With a crossbow,” Tyndal nodded.

“A single crossbow?” I asked, skeptically.

“He’s gotten really good,” Tyndal assured.  “And it’s a special crossbow.”

I grunted and waited.  Tyndal was far more patient with Atopol’s progress than I would have suspected, and he waited until he was assured his friend was in position and ready before he gave Rondal permission to attack the base of the tower.

It provided a wide target.  The ghastly new edifice was built upon the foundation of what had originally been two separate buildings.  The gap between them had been covered over at the fifth level, where the roots of the original buildings stopped, providing a wide if crude fighting platform around its circumference, before the spire continued to climb upwards over the covered street.  The great mawing gate that served as the main entrance to the place was well-guarded, though posterns around the tower were less so.

Hundreds of slaves and gurvani workers continued to hoist bricks and stones, wooden beams and barrels of tar and mortar onto the huge cranes that ringed the tower at various levels.  I wasn’t fond of Korbal’s decorating style, but I had to admit that his construction crews were efficient.  Where there’s a whip, there’s a way.

Despite the simultaneous attacks on the Waypoints, the Tower of Despair seemed unalarmed.  The construction crews continued to work, corvees of slaves continued to be escorted to their worksites by cruel goblin masters, and the draugen who patrolled the area seemed unaware or unconcerned at the distant tumult.

That changed a moment later, when Tyndal gave Rondal the sign to begin.  The older lad nodded grimly, then produced a powerful arbalest from a hoxter pocket.  Instead of the usual iron quarrels used in sieges, however, Rondal fitted a sphere of thaumaturgical glass into the specially-contrived nock before he fired it over the street that separated the ruins from the Tower.  It landed precisely in the midst of a slave gang on their way back from their labors.

Immediately the slaves began to fight amongst themselves.

“Berserker balls,” Tyndal explained.  “Mild ones, first.  Then . . .” he said, expectantly, as the second sphere flew and shattered, “. . . the deadlier ones.  He’ll put those in among the gurvani.”

Just as he said, the first group of gurvani overseers who tried to intervene in the slaves’ squabble received a ball that shattered at their feet.  In moments, they had knives and clubs drawn and were beating and stabbing slaves and guards indiscriminately.  A squadron of hobgoblin infantry broke out of their guard station at the main gate to sort out the ruckus.  They took Rondal’s third salvo, and soon hobgoblin fought goblin, glaive versus knife.

“And now it’s a bloodbath!” Tyndal smiled, merrily.  “We’ll wait a moment, until they call in more reinforcements, before we proceed to the second movement.”

It didn’t take long.  With a violent melee breaking out in the middle of their largest fortification, during a double-pronged attack, there was a general call for reserves that soon flooded the street with all manner of his servants, from mean little gurvani slavers to a troll who happened to be handy.

That’s when Rondal’s next salvo was launched.  Three more spheres were quickly fired into the mixed mass of species battling for survival in front of the tower.  Instead of inspiring more random attacks of rage and violence, however, these balls merely rolled to a stop.

Then Rondal activated them.  Each one produced three constructs from hoxter pockets that energized immediately.  Though all were slightly different, I could see, they were based on similar designs.  They seemed to be weirwood tripods that could produce additional limbs with spinning blades or sharp spikes.  Every now and again one of them would emit a gout of flame or a blast of acid or a cloud of noxious fumes to irritate and annoy the foe while the mindless arcane constructs indiscriminately stabbed and slashed.  One even whirled a chain with a sharp blade at the end around its top in a deadly circle.

“We really spared no thaumaturgical expense for these,” Tyndal declared, proudly.  “Some of the most devious minds in warmagic helped conceive of them.”

“They’re impressive,” I admitted, though I thought the boys’ improvised constructs during the Long March had been more durable.  As it turned out, these didn’t need to be.  They weren’t designed to survive.  They were designed to get into position . . . and within five minutes of the unexpected attack, almost all of them had crawled their way to a line as close to the side of the building as possible.

Then each of them burst, simultaneously, into a long line of flame that stretched along either side of it, consuming each other in the blast. The flames also shot upwards, coating the entire face of the building in sticky fire, as the constructs burnt themselves to cinders.

But their sacrifice was worth it.  In seconds, the first three stories of the Tower of Despair were on fire.  Not enough to damage the structure, yet, but hundreds of furry gurvani who were caught in the blast were screaming and dying in the street.  Human slaves ran for their lives and hobgoblins and draugen alike were cooked alive (or dead, depending) by the intense heat of the arcane explosion.

“Part alchemical bomb, part fire spell,” Tyndal informed me, as I watched the chaos unfold.  “We really milked the Stench Works for their best flammables for this one.  The fire isn’t quite hot enough to ignite the stone, but anything less will be burnt to black.  And that,” he said, with an air of satisfaction, “is how the Estasi Order creates a diversion.”

“Well done!” I congratulated him, knowing he’d pass along my praise to Rondal and the others.  “That should clear out the upper levels.”

“Just in time for the second wave,” he nodded, as more spheres went flying into the chaos.

This time they transformed into blocky four armed, four legged constructs with thick bronze shells and heavy falchions at the end of each arm.  As each of them appeared, they began whirling and slashing indiscriminately at the gurvani desperately trying to form a bucket line to extinguish the unexpected blaze.

“After going to all of the trouble to catch the thing on fire, we didn’t want them to put it out easily.  Atopol figured that disrupting the fire brigades was the best way to escalate the crisis enough to involve whomever is guarding that ugly building,” he said, nodding toward Korbal’s fortress, a half-mile to the north.

It took a little while for it to happen, but as it became increasingly clear from the smoke and the screams, the gurvani in the Tower of Despair weren’t getting the job done, the slaves working on the wall around the squat black pyramid were pressed into service by their draugen masters to begin toting water from someplace nearby to contain the flames.  When it became clear why the gurvani were having such a hard time (four arcane constructs mindlessly hacking at them) the draugen themselves got involved.

“The Cat is in position,” he announced, a moment later.  “He thinks he’s on the floor with the Princess.  He says he doesn’t see any guards.  He thinks they’ve been called downstairs.”

“What do you do, now?” I asked, genuinely curious about the lads’ plans.

“As soon as Cat is in place, Rondal will escort His Grace and Sir Gydion to his position through the Ways – we gave Atopol a Waystone for the purpose – to affect the actual rescue.”

“Rondal?  I thought that kind of thing was your strength?”

“I’m the reserves,” he said, proudly.  “If they get into trouble during the relatively easy task of finding and liberating our prisoners from an unguarded cell block, then I will enter the fray with the others in the party,” he informed me.  “Sire Landrik and Lady Noutha will be eager for the chance to ply their trade in such a challenging situation.”

“I have no doubt,” I nodded.

Landrik was a former Censor warmage who had developed and cultivated his destructive powers greatly since he took his oath as a High Mage.  Noutha, the arrogant and talented daughter of the world’s foremost warmage (and my current Court Wizard) Loiko Vaneran, seemed to be permanently pissed-off about something.

As she had worked indirectly for Korbal through the Enshadowed as a renegade warmage, under the romantic warname Lady Mask.  She’d bested more than three hundred contestants at the Spellmonger’s Trial and fairly won her irionite.  After we captured her.

From what she’d told me in interrogation, she hadn’t enjoyed either the experience or the management, much, despite how well she profited from the association.  Until we captured her.  She’d proven her value in battle on both sides of the war.  I had no doubt that once she entered the fray, she’d do well.  Noutha couldn’t afford to be captured by her former employers.  They were an unforgiving sort.

The last of your team is through the Ways, Minalan, Pentandra reported to me, mind-to-mind, and then was gone before I could say anything.

“Well, let me know when the guards around the pyramid palace or whatever we’re calling it—”

“I’m voting for the ‘Tetrahedron . . . of Doom!” he said, ghoulishly.  I must have made a face.  “Yes, Ron and Cat were reluctant for that one.”

“I think the Fortress of the Necromancer is quite adequate,” I considered.  “Though ‘the temple of the demon god’ has some mythic character.”

“I’ll bring your insights to the next meeting,” he promised.  “In the meantime, you might want to prepare the Scholars, Master.  Lady Pentandra just informed me that the guardians on the wall of the Fortress To Be Named Later have plunged into the flank of our poor constructs . . . where they will discover that destroying one activates a hoxter pocket and energetic appearance of two more,” he said, smugly.  “Each newcomer has a different method of attack, and is governed by a different type of enneagram from the Grain of Pors.  Some are girded with dragonskin, proof against most magic.  It was incredibly expensive, but we figured the occasion called for it.”

“That’s . . . evil!” I gasped.

“Thank you,” he bowed.  “We figured it would complicate their response, and keep them off-balance enough to require additional assistance.  And you can thank Gareth for the concept – he has a twisted mind, sometimes,” he said, appreciatively.

“I’ll do that,” I promised.

Min!  The Nemovorti at the complex have left to support the goblins at the tower.  Now’s your chance!

Thanks, Penny, I said, automatically, as I pulled on my helmet.  I took a deep breath.  “Good luck, Tyn,” I said, slapping him on the shoulder.

“You, too, Master!” he said, returning the gesture.  “Go get the Handmaiden.  We’ll handle the Princess,” he assured.  “Cat just told me he thinks he’s found her cell.  It looks like we’re deployed, as well,” he said, eagerly, pulling off his cap and pulling on his own close-fitting helmet.

I jumped down from our perch and found Azhguri and Sire Cei waiting for me.  “I just got word,” I reported.  “We have our opportunity.  It’s time for the Scholars to deploy.”

The desolation and ruin around us gave ample cover and plenty of shadows to hide within, as the Scholars snuck across the enemy’s cotyard.  We had all sorts of clever spellwork keeping us from being noticed or spotted by anyone who wasn’t directly involved with the three separate crises erupting across that dismal isle.

That didn’t leave much . . . the flames from the incendiary spells were engulfing the fourth floor, now, and climbing up to the fifth floor on the southern side of the tower.  A pall of smoke angrily stained the sky, illuminated below by the growing gout of flame.

There were thousands gathered to fight the blaze, but the constructs were complicating that tremendously.  I paused for just a moment to assess the battle before we plunged into the darkness of the ruinous plain and witnessed one defeated spider-like construct collapse under the hammer of a troll . . . and then launch a fountain of berserker balls and concussion spheres into a circle around it, before producing another construct.  This one appeared to be some kind of monstrous bear, with halberd blades for hands.

As much as I wanted to admire the craft and handiwork of my lads, I had my own job to do.

We crept through the wastes as gingerly as possible, avoiding any outlying sentries or stalled draugen but still taking the most expedient path to the gates of the fortress.

It was a treacherous journey, across uncleared fields of rubble and the occasional path from one point to another.  Bones abounded, the remains of drowned goblins or trolls, men or even Alka Alon, mixed with hundreds of slave corpses that had been left to feed the scavenging wyverns.

There were other fell creatures abroad in the gloom, we noted, as we filed silently in a line across the plain – a quarter mile by bowshot, but our path was far more circuitous.  Several times as we wound a path through the debris we detected scurrying things diving into cracks in the wreckage.

There were strange web-building insects in shadowy pockets of the debris whose presence made Lord Aeratas glare darkly as we moved past them.  Serpents abounded, from swift-moving four and six-footed amphibians to legless snakes who coiled in the shadows and seemed to dare us to disturb them.

I don’t even want to mention the crawling insects.  They seemed to be everywhere, including in the collar of my armor.

Despite the challenges and inconvenience of the beasts, they didn’t seriously impede us as we quickly made our way toward the unfinished dark pyramid.  There was a pile of construction stone near the massive gateway, higher than a man’s height, each a rough-cut brick culled from the ruins around us.  We hid there while we inspected the incomplete gate and the defenders who were left to guard it.

“Not more than a few hobgoblins, bearing the heraldry of the Necromancer, I’d guess,” Sire Cei said as he strained his limited ability with magesight to see through the gloom and smoke.  “A black triangle on a putrid red field,” he pronounced with disgust.  “There is some Alkan sigil inscribed within.”

“That’s the symbol of the Enshadowed,” reported Onranion, troubled.  “Surmounted by the symbol for sovereign mastery.  He’s declared himself King of the Rebels.  It is a sign that demands obedience or rebellion.  It contends the mastery of the realm with the council.”

“That’s disturbing,” Lord Aeratas said, darkly.  “It is a dark sign from a dark time.  Even in his worst revolts, Korbal never claimed such a title.  It challenges the very order of the Alka Alon.”

“It seems a quibble,” I pointed out.

“Not for us,” Lilastien said, shaking her head.  “During Korbal’s rise, many of the Enshadowed rejected his twisted cult due to his lack of such standing.  He was merely a . . . a researcher who insisted on pursuing a forbidden field of study.  Without embracing the political elements of his rebellion, there were those fanatics who would not lend their aid and strength to his cause.  The Enshadowed felt entitled to control the entire realm, and Korbal wasn’t committed to that.”

“It appears he has realized his mistake,” Aeratas nodded.  “The Enshadowed always respected strength and power, the more grandiose the claim, the better it suited their purposes.  That is a banner most could not ignore, I fear.”

“I thought there were only a few Enshadowed,” Sandoval asked, curious.

“Only few full clans,” nodded Onranion.  “They were exiled, or removed themselves to secret strongholds, after that business.  But the Enshadowed have attracted many Alka Alon to their teachings over the years.  Far too many,” he said, shaking his head sadly.  “They appeal to youthful idealism and their creed rationalizes their own sense of self-importance.  They teach them in secret places, and sometimes return them to us to work subtly against us.”

“As intriguing as this historical lesson is, my lords,” Mavone said, glancing around nervously, “might I suggest we assail the gateway, before the hobgoblins ask you to repeat the pertinent parts for their notes?”

“There are only a half-dozen,” I pointed out.  “Would you like to do the honors, gentlemen?”

Sandoval grinned, and Mavone gave a curt nod.  They conferred for a moment, then drew their mageblades and began to skulk through the shadows toward the great gate.

The thing was forty feet high, and wide enough for three wagons to pass underneath, side by side.  The two great doors of bronze-banded wood were already attached to hinges in the tall tree-like stone columns that flanked the road, but were propped opened to admit the construction crews working on the complex.  Most of the work was abandoned, now, but the half-dozen hobgoblins at the gate had not quit their post.

They were standing resolutely – or resignedly – on the road, steadfast in their immobility.  They held their halberds and pikes listlessly, and it was clear they were uncomfortable in the heavy iron mail they wore under their blood-red tabards.

Mavone started with a bright distraction cast on the other side of the road, causing most of the band to turn away from their attackers to inspect the flare.  That’s when Sandy’s staff shot a blast of power in a plane that bisected the stocky eunuchs around their kidney level.  Instantly they dropped their weapons and clutched at their middles, many of them falling to the ground and vomiting hardily.  It didn’t look pleasant.  A second blast, originating from Mavone’s mageblade, began ending their suffering with soft puffs of smoke.

“Let us gain the road, my lords, and thence take the gate!” Sire Cei managed to whisper, as he led the way up the embankment to the rough-paved road.

“He’s enthusiastic,” Lilastien said, as she hurried past in her white coat.  It didn’t sound like a compliment.

“Anyone see that?” I asked, to no one in particular.

“I didn’t see any reaction from the southeast,” Onranion reported, as he climbed nimbly up the slope.  “It’s deserted, except for vermin.”

“Nothing from up the road, I think,” Azhguri said.  “Hard to see my hand in front of my face, in this bloody gloom!”

“Be glad your vision is spoilt, my friend,” Onranion assured him, as he helped the Karshak up.  “The view would not be improved by more light.  Fair Anthatiel is no more,” he said, mournfully.

“It will rise again,” Lord Aeratas assured them both resolutely, as he mounted the reconstructed ruins of his home.  “I vowed to cleanse and restore the City of Rainbows.  I do not make such a vow lightly.  Not even death could lift that vow.  My vengeance begins this moment,” he growled through the bars of his helmet.

“He’s bloody charming!” muttered the stonesinger, as he adjusted his hauberk on his shoulders.

“Just think of the contract for rebuilding this place,” suggested Onranion.  “And try to stay on his good side,” he added, warningly.

“You people all chatter like this is an afternoon garden stroll!” complained Hanse, the master of shadows, as he leapt the bank unassisted.  Me, I used magic from the Magosphere to lift me up.  I’m lazy.  “We are in the courtyard of an evil fortress,” he reminded us as it deposited my boots on the hard stone cobbles of the road.  “Try to pretend not to attract attention to us, at least!”

“Bah!” snorted Azhguri.  “Either the guards know we’re here, or they don’t.  I expect we’ll learn ourselves in a moment which is the case.  The time for stealth is over,” he declared, hefting his hammer.  That earned an eye roll from the master thief.

Mavone and Sandy had pushed the corpses of their victims over the embankment, while the Alka Alon crept through the wide gateway.  Sire Cei had gone ahead as a vanguard, his wide shield and warhammer ready to accept any challenge.  It took but a moment for one to arrive, in the form of a stumbling red-eyed draugen who seemed as surprised by the mage knight’s presence within the complex as he was by the hammer blow that shattered his brow.

“It appears clear, my lords!” he called to us, after he’d dashed the creature’s brains across the wall, creating quite a racket.  Hance snorted in disgust.

The entrance to the actual fortress was situated directly behind the gate – a horrible defensive arrangement, I recognized critically.  Siege warfare was not something the Alka Alon really conducted, even in their bloodiest period.  But even common sense should tell you that you don’t make it that easy for your foes to gain the portal to your refuge.

But that seemed to confirm the sense of arrogance I was getting from Korbal’s style, I reasoned.  He was not building this place as a true fortress, but as a testament to his ego.  I have an ego myself – none bigger – but I’m not stupid about it, usually.  Korbal wasn’t planning to defend this place.  He was planning on making it so foreboding as to deter anyone from daring to attack it out of fear for his power.

Weakness comes in many forms.  I was willing to take advantage of them all.

Sire Cei gained the entrance without further challenge, a square, temple-like columned doorway of the same black basalt that faced the rest of the structure.  The doors were smaller than the great gateway, but no less stoutly built . . . nor less open. It seemed deserted, and with an ominous feeling I bravely pushed myself into the shadows beyond the threshold.

And stopped.  I had no idea which way to go.

“Lord Aeratas, do you know the way?” I asked, quietly.

“This was the site of the Hall of Song – a conservatory, you would call it, where the spellsingers were trained and could practice their craft.  Next to it was the entrance to the undercaverns, and the Chambers of the Ages.  This . . . place,” he said, distastefully, looking around the darkened corridors within the pyramid, “occupies both sites, and beyond.  But it should not be here.  We should bear to the right,” he determined, peering down the corridors.

“Right, it is,” I agreed, turning that direction and bravely plunging into the unknown.  I tried to sound confident, but I wasn’t.  There was something about this place that confounded your sense of peace, I decided.  The dark stone, the narrow corridors, the walls that seemed to swallow the sound of your voice, all conspired to make it feel more like a crypt than a palace.

Much of the place was still being finished, I realized quickly, as we encountered a hall that was half-filled with wooden scaffolding.  They were installing frescoes in a pattern of black and white stones across the vault of the ceiling.  It looked like very tedious work.

“Pretty,” grunted Azhguri as he peered overhead.  “In a childish and rude sort of way.”

“It’s the farasah mardela,” explained Onranion, with a tone of reverence in his voice.  “A representation of the constellations in the skies of our homeworld.  Your people have a similar form of art, but it lacks the political significance of the farasah mardela.  The Enshadowed use it as a symbol of the ancient, corrupt order that we inherited from there.  They see its enforcement as an appeal to pure tradition, a legacy most of the Alon abandoned when they came to Callidore.  This display,” he said, pointing to the fresco, “is a calculated to valorize anything under it as maintaining that purity of tradition,” he finished.

“That’s subtle,” Azhguri said, sarcastically.  “And he’s doing it wrong,” he accused.  “I swear, you Alkans never get anything right!  That constellation is supposed to be—”

“A discussion for another time,” Mavone warned, as he searched the room.  “There’s a doorway here that seems to lead in the proper direction.  I suggest we avail ourselves of it.”

“We should be near to where the entrance was,” conceded Lord Aeratas.  “That could be their new way.”

“It would fit the ceremonial needs of the chamber,” agreed Onranion, as he glanced around before following Sire Cei into the narrow corridor. “There will probably be another space for rituals and addresses nearby.”

I followed behind him, the others filing in, one by one.  The corridor ran for fifty feet before it ended in a staircase that opened on a much wider hall.  It was even less finished than the chamber behind us.

“See?” Onranion pointed out.  “I’m good at this sort of thing!  I’d say that pit there will eventually be a decorative pool, that alcove there will contain a representation of the original Alon sun, and—”

“So which way to the Chamber of Ages?” Hance asked, nervously, as he scanned the darkness of the great hall.

“Through me,” a voice boomed, as a figure stepped out of the shadows and into the light of the Magolith.  “But I don’t think that’s very likely.”

It was a tall man, at least six and a half feet, with broad shoulders and arms like a blacksmith under his black mantle.  His beard was partially shaven and burned, in places, the scars smeared with some gray paste and written over with paint or tattoos.  His head was nearly bald, and in another time and with another soul I might have mistook him for a jolly artisan from some backwoods village.

But when he produced a solid iron staff, engraved and tooled with the same sort of eldritch symbols on his cheek, his eyes flashed with a pale-yellow light.

“I am Reshtitelen, steward of Korbal.  And your lives are mine to claim for your trespass in this sacred place!”

Chapter Thirty

Descent

There was no doubt in my mind that the undead soul inhabiting this monstrous human body wasn’t intimidated by our numbers.  Indeed, he seemed to relish the challenge.  He whirled his iron staff around like it was a peasant’s quarterstaff, but with the flair and confidence of a weaponsmaster.

“Allow me, Baron,” Mavone said, drawing his blade and taking a guard position.  Sandoval followed suit, and the others likewise prepared for battle.

“We need to pass,” I called to Reshtitelin.  “We will use violence to do so, if necessary.”

Hey, perhaps we could negotiate with him, I reasoned.  Unlike the obedient draugen, the Nemovorti were supposedly possessed of free will and independent thought.

Instead, the Steward of Korbal grinned a truly hideous grimace, revealing broken teeth and a blighted mouth.

“I am counting on that!” he said, moving to engage Mavone.

Sandy didn’t wait for the Gilmoran warmage to attack before he began his own assault on the undead.  The three of them traded blows in a fury of iron and steel, magefire and electricity, the cavernous hall echoing with the ring of their combat.  In seconds, the fight had moved to the empty pool at the center, and Sire Cei joined the fray.  He hates being left out of that sort of thing.

“Let’s go!” Onranion said, nervously, as he witnessed the reality of a Nemovort for the first time.  For some reason, the Alka Alon reacted with especial gloom when faced with one of their undead fellows.  For me, it was just another big ugly walking corpse who wanted to kill me.

But I couldn’t fault his logic.  With Reshtitelin tied up with our three valiant warriors, the way to the chambers beyond was clear.  Or so we thought.

When I approached the door at the far end of the hall, I was blocked by a stream of draugen issuing from it.  They bore simple excavating tools, but a hammer or an iron spike or a crowbar in the hands of a tireless undead monster is quite as effective as a sword, I reasoned.

“Company!” Onranion said, his face turning grim.  “The unwelcome kind!  Unless they have a bottle among them,” he added as he drew his blade for the first time.

I didn’t expect Onranion to have much facility with the slender weapon, which looked almost dainty in its sheath.  But when the point came clear of the scabbard and he whirled to put it in the red eyes of the first of the draugen, he did so with utter precision and incredible control.  The beast clawed at its injured face while the spellsinger dropped the point five inches and opened up his throat.  Some foul black ichor stained the blade, and the bare chest of the undead.

“That’s the way!” Azhguri chuckled as he advanced as his friend withdrew a step.  The Karshak wasn’t nearly as controlled as he brought his hammer to play against the ribs of the next draugen in line, crushing his torso into a pulp.  Aeratas, not to be outdone, took an arm off a draugen at the shoulder as it swung a crowbar at his head, then pivoted and impaled a second through the chest.

“We have these!” he declared, as he took a step back.  “Deal with that Nemovort!”

I nodded and turned back toward the ferocious battle in the empty pool.  Reshtitelin continued to fight three opponents at once, though there was a gash on his right shoulder that told me he hadn’t been entirely successful.  Sandy was down on one knee in a corner, shaking his head after the staff had connected unpleasantly in the fight, but he was still tossing spells from his mageblade to annoy the creature.

Mavone was dueling him, toe-to-toe, plying his mageblade adeptly against the double-ended weapon the Nemovort used so well.  Sire Cei did his best to counter the blows with his shield, and return them with his hammer, but he wasn’t doing as well.  Reshtitelin was moving at speeds only warmagi were used to, not Wilderlords.  Every swing the knight took at the creature was easily dodged.  Had he not been dividing his attention in three directions, Sire Cei would have been done for.

“What’s taking so long, Mavone?” I called out – more to distract our foe than to chide the warmage.

“He’s a nimble one!” the dark-haired Gilmoran said, flinging yet another furious attack at the monster with his mageblade. I could tell he was challenged, as the Nemovort’s staff absorbed the blows and the spells with equal facility.

“You will not pass this chamber!” Reshtitelin insisted with a snarl.  “My master commands it!”  After contending with Mavone, he spun and knocked Sire Cei back on his heels with a powerful overhead blow aimed at the haft of the knight’s hammer.  It kept Cei’s blow from connecting, as he intended.

But whatever crack Reshtitelin and his colleagues had spent the last few centuries in apparently didn’t have foes with shields.  Cei used the moment of being off-balance to shift his weight . . . and spun his broad Wilderlord shield around to slam it into Reshtitelin’s back, sending the undead guardian sprawling.

All three warriors took advantage of the moment, and struck at once.  Sandy blasted the undead’s feet and knees with a spell that enwrapped them in blue fire.  Mavone spitted the thing through the neck with his blade, nearly severing the head.  And Sire Cei brought his hammer over his shoulder, using the momentum of his turn to bring down the heavy, nearly-indestructible iron head firmly onto Reshtitelin’s breastbone.  The attack included just enough of Cei’s sport talent that the entire chamber boomed as bits and pieces of bone exploded across it, and the empty pool became stained with the black ichor the undead used for blood.

“So . . . who gets credit for that one?” Sandoval asked, a moment later, once he struggled to his feet.

“I yield the honor to my noble comrades,” Sire Cei insisted, breathing heavily from the effort of fighting the Nemovort.

“Oh, don’t be so chivalrous about it!” snorted Mavone, drawing his mageblade from the neck of the thing before wiping it off on its mantle.  “That was clearly your kill.  That shield blow threw him off-balance, and—”

“Ishi’s tits, shall we go ahead and compose the chivalric lay about the fight, or can we wipe the blood and sweat off and get the hells out of here?” Sandy complained.

“I concur,” I said, helping him out of the pool bed.  He bore a nasty bruise near his temple where Reshtitelin’s staff had landed.  I took a moment to scan him with magesight, and then another diagnostic spell.  “You might be working on a concussion,” I advised.  “See Lilastien about that, before we move.”  I glanced over my shoulder, where Aeratas was dealing with the last of the draugen workers, slicing off a leg with his blade before removing his head.  “I think the Alka Alon are about done with the servants, anyway.”

“I’ve had worse in tavern arguments.  Remember that little wineshop in Farise by the docks?  And those three big Unstarans?”

“They weren’t necromancers,” I reminded him.  “We don’t know just what these weapons can do yet.  Get it checked out,” I ordered.

“Yes, Captain,” Sandy said, rolling his eyes.

“Sir Reshtitelin was the sole guardian of note, it appears,” Sire Cei observed as he climbed out of the pit.

“Only at this point,” Aeratas replied, as he wiped his blade clean.  “But we are not even at the entrance to the undercaverns, yet.  There is little to guard here, so deep behind Korbal’s defenses.  The real treasures lie below.  That is where the Necromancer will have his greatest strength.”

“If this is an essay of their power,” Mavone said, examining the iron staff of the Nemovort gingerly, “then the true guardians will be formidable.  This rod drank in my spells like a drunkard at a festival.  I’m no enchanter, Min, but I think it converted that power to energize the necromantic architecture of the thing.”

“That does sound efficient,” Sandy said, as Lilastien tended his wound.  “Using your enemy’s power to improve your defenses is clever.”

“A pity it requires you to be dead before you can use it,” Mavone agreed, making the staff disappear into a hoxter, presumably for later study.  “That would be handy.”

“This chamber is likely where Korbal plans on doing the finishing work for his new bodies,” Lilastien remarked, looking around the place.  “It’s far from complete, yet, but this is as much necromantic laboratory as it is a ceremonial chamber.  That pool will probably be filled with the . . . fluids required to animate a fresh body.”

“What kind of fluids?” Sandy asked, curiously.

“You really, really don’t want to know,” the Sorceress said, grimly, as she placed a bandage on his brow over the bruise.  It stuck there without her having to bind it into place with another.  “Korbal’s process isn’t like the simple spells your folk use to reanimate the dead.  They’re designed to be far more permanent, and sustain the host body far beyond simple animation.  It’s a sophisticated technique that requires much specialized equipment and careful attention to minute detail.  At least, that’s his theory,” she added, shaking her head.  “In their quest for true immortality, the Enshadowed have yet to perfect it.”

“This, then, is their opportunity,” Onranion nodded, gravely examining the chamber.  “With the resources Anthatiel provides, they can complete their ghoulish research.”

“And win undying dominion over us all, eventually,” agreed Aeratas, grimly.

“Then might I suggest we not linger, lest the cleaning staff come around and discover us prematurely?” suggested Hance.  It was clear he wasn’t thrilled with the way we were running this raid.  But I suppose thieves are always a little nervous in larger groups.

“I agree,” Azhguri nodded.  “As soon as you’ve caught your breath, we can descend.  That doorway leads to the deeper regions,” he said, authoritatively, as he pointed to the door the draugen had appeared from.

In short order, we organized ourselves and began descending the narrow stairs.  It was probably my imagination, more than any spell, but every step down increased my sense of foreboding.  The entire place was just creepy that way.

I don’t know precisely where it happened, but at some point, we were decidedly underground, not merely walking through a construction site on the surface.  The walls around us went from being well-laid stone blocks to being a solid wall of limestone through which a shaft had been cut.

A sharp bend at the end of the stairwell became a landing that sprawled out into a much larger chamber.  It was dark when we entered, but empty of guards or attendants.

That didn’t mean it was unoccupied.

In small alcoves along arcades carved on both sides of the big chamber were bodies chained to the walls by their wrists.  The restraints seemed redundant: each of the captives was bound by necromantic enchantments that prohibited any voluntary movement.  The wretched inhabitants were locked into a prison of their own minds, blankly staring ahead while being confined behind their own eyes, impotent to move their bodies.

There were about a score of them – mostly human, but a few diminutive Alkans, too.  Each was stripped naked and stood as calmly as statues in their place.

“These minds are all but numbed,” Mavone said, as he examined one woman whose calm stare belied Mavone’s concern.  “Yet they are completely aware.  They must be going mad, in there.”

“Why do this?” demanded Hance, as he stared around at the naked prisoners in disgust.  “They aren’t even being tortured!  What kind of prison is this?”

“This is not a prison, this is a laboratory,” Lilastien informed him, coolly.  “These are not prisoners.  They are subjects.  Host bodies being prepared for habitation by a foreign enneagram.  No doubt the poor things can hear everything we say, but can’t do anything about it.”

“Hey!” Sandy said, suddenly.  “I know this one!” He pushed his way over to another woman, a middle-aged lady with a slight paunch and dark hair that had been wrapped in a thong to keep it out of her face, without regard to the usual concerns of beauty.  “This is Andra anna Corseen, an adept I trained with briefly in Falas!”

“A mage?” I asked, suddenly more interested.  “You’re sure?”

“Andra and I were intimate,” Sandy confessed, without embarrassment.  “I’d remember . . . her anywhere,” he added, as he studied his old flame.  “Ishi’s tits, this is bad!   She’s from southern Alshar, from the old Coastlord cities.  How did she get all the way up here?”

“The Enshadowed and the Nemovorti have been assailing Enultramar for months, now,” Hance explained.  “They have especially targeted our folk, for they require host bodies that possess rajira, for some reason.  All magekind has been afraid.

“Mostly they work quietly, kidnapping and abducting magefolk from their homes and laboratories.  Other times they purchase the Talented outright at slave auctions on the docks.  The remains of the Censorate are so terrified that they have taken refuge in the Tower of Sorcery and made it into a true fortress for the first time in centuries.”

“Well, that’s depressing,” Mavone observed.

“Talented human bodies are the only ones which can sustain an Alkan enneagram for any length of time,” Lilastien informed us.  “Even then, the more active architecture degrades the flesh quickly, if restorative spells and preservation charms are not used.”

“That’s hardly a sustainable plan,” Mavone pointed out, as he studied a broad-shouldered Gilmoran who looked enough like him to be related.  “They can’t simply move from one body to another forever.”

“That’s an interim step,” agreed Onranion.  “Korbal is a necromancer.  His strength is in the transformation process.  His minions, however, were working diligently on the perfect Alkan form, through transgenic enchantment, to construct a permanent host.”

“Idiots!” snorted Lilastien.  “No one knows more about transgenic enchantment than I do!”

“Umen does,” Onranion reminded her.  Whoever Umen was, the revelation startled the Sorceress.

“Umen?  Umen is dead!” she declared.

“Actually, I believe she’s undead,” corrected Onranion, gently.  “She did not fall in the war.  When the Council issued its decree, she changed sides and enlisted with the renegades under the name ‘Ketelen’.”

“‘Defiant’.  Yes, that is like her,” Lilastien conceded.  “She hated it when they moved against her work.  But I never would have suspected she’d join the Enshadowed!”

“It wasn’t principal or fanaticism that brought her to their side,” Aeratas recounted.  “It was anger and arrogance.  She felt it was the right of her kindred to explore such researches.  She was unwilling to sully the name she’d worked so hard to establish, but she bridled against the edict as unfair and irresponsible.  Korbal recruited her as Ketelen and she worked for him for a few years, before his capture.  She was sentenced to entombment, just as his more devout followers were.”

“I doubt she accepted that gracefully,” Lilastien said, shaking her head.

“She didn’t have much choice,” Aeratas said.  “She rebelled.  She faced the consequences.  Surely you can appreciate that, Elre?”

“None better!” she replied, proudly, to the Alkan lord.  “But if Umen has been brought back to existence – and she’s pissed off – we may have more troubles than we anticipated.”

“Who is this Umen person?” Sire Cei asked, frustrated by the discussion.

“She’s . . . she’s me, me from an earlier age,” Lilastien said.  “That is, she was a great master at the art of transgenics.  Perhaps the greatest master, before she . . . in any case,” she said, collecting her thoughts, “she was brilliant.  She could design genomic expressions the way the Tal Alon can whistle.”

“They can whistle?” I asked, surprised.  She made a face, as if I was a barbarian.

“If Korbal has her in his service, I shudder to think what kind of host body she might design for him,” she said, shaking her head.  “Especially if she’s pissed off.  Umen’s spitefulness was legendary.”

“How do you think she’d react to a couple of centuries trapped in a cave?” I asked.

“Without Elre’s graciousness,” Aeratas said, shaking his head.  “All of the Nemovorti in Korbal’s court are likely to be as resentful.  Many were scholars or mere ideologues, not true renegades.  They may well consider their punishment severe, considering their crimes.”

“Well, she’s got a wondrous palette with which to work,” Lilastien conceded.  “I’m assuming that the Nemovorti, once they perfected their necromantic transfer, found humanity an ideal testing ground for all of their twisted theories.  Using these as models, Umen cannot fail to indulge her whimsy in her art, unrestricted by censure or propriety.”

“Best we slay them before they can be so foully used!” Sire Cei said, drawing his sword.

“Hold on there, Dragonslayer!” Sandoval quickly declared, standing in front of his comatose friend.  “Their minds are imprisoned, but they are not yet destroyed.  They can be rescued,” he insisted.

“We are not situated as a rescue party,” Lord Aeratas observed.

“Neither are we executioners,” Lilastien agreed.  “Besides, there are better candidates for your blade nearby than these unfortunates,” she said, gesturing to the humans.

“Poinolah!” Onranion exclaimed, in his native language.  “We’d best not slay them – this Alkan is Rajuath!  Songmaster of the Misty clans!  I’d stake a hogshead of wine on it!”

“rajah?” Aeratas asked, in disbelief.  “Impossible!”

“I know him,” Onranion said, with fondness.  “We were to meet at the Aslorath refuge on Lake Timmeron, before the invasion began.  What in the realms of light and darkness is he doing, here?”

“Languishing,” suggested Mavone.  “Why cannot this be Rajuath?” he asked Lord Aeratas.  The high lord straightened his shoulders and peered at the immobilized form.

“Because Rajuath, by all accounts, was at Amergin when the invasion arrived.  He was never accounted among the survivors,” he explained, quietly.  “It was thought that he perished at the side of the Aronin, as they were great friends.  Their houses were closely allied.”

“That is disturbing,” I agreed.  I studied the face of the Alkan, and tried to affix it in my memory.  Perhaps some time with a Memory Stone might allow me to confirm his identity.

Then I realized how silly that was.  He was an Alka Alon chained in this dreadful dungeon.  I didn’t really need to see his pedigree to decide to rescue him.

“What about this one?” asked Hance, gesturing gracefully to the other Alkan – a female.

“She, I do not know,” confessed Onranion, as he peered at the diminutive maid.  Or crone.  I still have a hard time judging such things in the Alka Alon’s original forms.

“Well, let’s wake her up and ask her, shall we?” suggested Lilastien.  “Indeed, let us wake them all!”

“Can it be done?” Sire Cei asked, sheathing his sword, finally.

“Oh, yes,” Lilastien agreed, removing a few items from the bag she carried over her shoulder.  “It’s just a light stasis, not much more than that Blue Magic trickery your folk are so fond of,” she explained as she fiddled with her . . . whatever they were.  “True, it’s necromantic in function, but the basic spell architecture is the same.  Just significantly increased, a function of the scalability of the songspell.”

“You’re certain?” Sandoval asked, looking at his friend’s stone like face with concern.

“Well, yes,” Lilastien said, reluctantly.  “I’ve . . . I’ve used a variation of the songspell, myself.”

There was a moment of expectant silence as we all stared at her.  She snorted, defensively.  “Don’t look at me that way!  Magic is amoral.  Spells that can be used to kill can be used to cure.  There’s nothing particularly evil about this, it’s just a biological stasis field.  It keeps animals quiet when you’re operating on them,” she explained.

That made sense.  To me.  Lord Aeratas continued to look skeptical.  He might not have been the only one.

“Oh, don’t be so judgmental!  Do I look like I have an army of undead slaves hiding at the Tower of Refuge?  You’ve been there!  Don’t you think the place would be a hell of a lot neater?  I’m a medic, not a necromancer!”

“You’re a rebel, Elre,” Aeratas pronounced.

“A rebel on parole, in the middle of a vital mission,” I reminded her.  “And possibly within moments of being apprehended.  Can we conclude this verbal duel some other time?” I proposed.

“I concur with our captain, good Scholars,” Hance said, lightly.  “From my experience, I’d say that this door has the best likelihood of leading to the undercaverns.  On account of the multitude of stairs going down on the other side.”

“That is where the entrance would be,” conceded Aeratas.  “Damn them!  They must have built this, this manufactory of abominations over the ruins of the Hall of Memory.  That’s as close to blasphemy as my people can manage,” he said, a dire tone in his voice.

“But . . . this door is allayed with a sign,” Onranion pointed out, waving his hand in front of it and singing a few words.  A pale blue Alkan glyph appeared.

“What does it say?”

“Our language indicates, with layers of inference and context, a particular meaning,” Onranion lectured.  “Our symbols don’t merely ‘say’, they truly inform.  But only those who understand those subtle contexts, those who can make the proper inferences of meaning – and all of the possible shades of that meaning.”

“So what subtle concept does this particular glyph indicate?” asked Mavone, studying the squiggly blue line dancing in the air.

“‘To the Dungeon,’” supplied Lilastien, with a snicker.

“And the context?” prompted Hance.

“Uh . . . ‘this way to the dungeon?  It’s down these stairs?’” suggested Mavone.

“More or less,” Onranion shrugged.

“Why would they put a dungeon in such close proximity to a . . . oh,” Sire Cei said, mentally answering his own question.  “They use their prisoners for hosts for their foul transformations,” he guessed.

“Or worse,” agreed Lilastien, shaking her head, sadly.  “Korbal was a great necromancer.  But his minions explored all manner of dark and forbidden sorceries, using their twisted ideologies to justify their crimes.  I fear that we have yet to see the worst of what the Enshadowed have been working on.”

“Can we please free these people?” Sandoval nearly begged.  “I find it disconcerting to discuss mundane matters in front of them while they suffer!”

“These are no mundane matters,” Lilastien insisted.  “Some of the schemes the Enshadowed indulged in were worse than genocidal.”

“How could anything be worse than genocide?” Mavone asked.

“Please!” Sandoval said, impatiently.  “The prisoners!”

“Oh, fine, fine,” Lilastien sighed.  “Onranion, if you would perform the aliamathna?”

“That old thing?  I suppose it would work,” he shrugged.  “If you gentlemen will assist with the restraints, I shall wake our sleepers from their troubled slumbers.”  He cleared his throat before beginning a short, but elaborate tune; I don’t know if he sang words or was making up nonsense, but I could feel the magic rise as his notes filled the dismal room.

It took a few moments to have an effect, time Mavone, Cei and Sandy used to break the thin steel chains that kept the bodies anchored to the walls of their galleries.  One by one, the captives shuddered as life returned to their docile limbs.  Their faces slowly contorted into expressions of longing, suffering, or great relief.  And one by one they fell to the floor as control over their own bodies came back.

“Andra!” Sandy called, as he helped his naked friend slowly to her knees.  He quickly covered her with his mantle, which her fingers blindly clutched around her.  “Andra!  It’s Sandoval!  Andra!  Can you understand me?”

Onranion was taking a more Alkan approach with his comrade, scooping up his small body and cradling it like a babe while he sang what I guessed was a restorative songspell to him.

“S-sandy?” Andra asked, first.  She blinked her eyes, as if she were just regaining the use of them – and the ability to recognized and connect with what she was seeing.  “Are you another dream?”

“Unfortunately, I am corporate and real, else I’d be far handsomer and better dressed,” the sandy-haired mage grinned.  “Can I get you something?  Water?”

She considered a moment, her head shaking.  She took a deep breath and shuddered, exercising great will to establish control.  Her voice cracked as she spoke, and her long, thin fingers grasped his leather vambrace.  Her eyes opened wide, and with a terrified insistence her gaze bore into his, like an animal’s.

“Get . . . me . . . the hells out of here!” she pleaded, with such visceral need that it tore at my sympathies.  What horrors she must have witnessed, what hellish torture she must have endured, I could only imagine.  I have a very good imagination.  I shuddered, myself, and the Magolith throbbed in response.

“Bide!” Mavone insisted, holding up a gloved hand.  “My lady, I wish to rescue you nearly as much as you wish to be rescued, but we have an urgent matter at hand: we wish to know if you have intelligence on our enemy, Korbal the Necromancer, and his lackeys.  It is our aim to challenge his plans, and any word you could lend to that effort would be graciously appreciated.”

Mavone always knows what to say.  Damned Gilmorans.

“They . . . dear gods, they were going to replace me!  Burn out my soul, and stuff one of their folk inside my body!  I saw them do it to the others, dozens of others, Sandy.  It was horrible.  They scream in agony, for hours and hours, before they take.  I had to watch it, I couldn’t look away, I couldn’t leave, I couldn’t move!  It’s agony, it’s the cruelest torture, to be stripped of your very identity, your soul, and feel it replaced with another.  Pain, unimaginable pain.  And then . . . the things they put in their bodies, Sandy, the horrible, nasty things . . .”

“They are the necromantic remnants of a group of Alka Alon known as the Enshadowed,” I explained.  “When they . . . arise in such bodies, they are called the Nemovorti.  They seek immortality, and power over the realms of Alkans and man, alike.”

“I know the Nemovorti,” Andra gasped, shaking her head.  “The filthy walking corpses took me – me!  Right from my shop!  The Nemovorti are vile,” she agreed, “but they are not so fearsome.  Mere Alkan souls.  What they put in their Alkan hosts, save a few they reserve for some other purpose, is . . . they are not Alka Alon!” she said.  “They are some awful creature who . . . or the ones that . . . dear gods,” she said, with a shudder that shook her entire body.  “Get me away from this place!”

“I can speak to more,” one of the bearded men said in a shaky voice.  “I am Jareff of Rowe.  A hedgemage,” he added, without fear of scorn.  “When I could, I listened, just to keep from going mad.  The bastards are . . . they’re building an army!”

“They have armies,” Hance pointed out, helping the man over to the table in the center of the room.  “They have great whopping armies.  Goblins, hobgoblins, draugen—”

“Nay,” he insisted.  “They raise armies of the ancient dead.  Dredged from some hellish grotto in the depths of this horrid place.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound good,” Hance pointed out.

Onranion’s low humming began to awaken the little Alkan friend, while Lilastien tended to the female.  The rest of the prisoners struggled awake on their own, calming and comforting each other, assuring themselves that they were being rescued, finally.

“It’s not,” agreed Jareff, a grim expression on his fuzzy face.  “We were to be used to make more of those yellow-eyed freaks,” he said, angrily.  “We were to be . . . pretty, compared to those horrors.  Then we would be sent to villages and towns to prepare them for . . . for their advance,” he said, swallowing.

“But the real monsters, those they had below,” he said, nodding toward the door to the stairs.  “That’s where the worst ones were.  They were making . . . special bodies.  For special parasites.  They’ve got a whole crew of them, downstairs.  Each one worth an army, to hear them tell it.  Once we – our replacements, if you take my meaning – once we were in place and had prepared the way, then they would summon those beasts to slay.”

Onranion began speaking softly to his friend, who obliged with a reply in the creakiest voice I’ve ever heard come out of an Alkan, little or big.  It sounded like the cheapest tin bell ever made.

But whatever he said got the songmaster’s attention.  He looked up, startled.

“Min, they’ve . . . there’s a problem,” he began.  “My friend here, he’s telling me . . . well, he says that Korbal is using the Alkan prisoners he has as hosts!”

“We’ve established that,” Mavone agreed.

“Not for the Enshadowed!” he insisted.  “They’re using the Alkans for hosts for some of the ancients from the Ghost Rock.  The ancestors of the Vundel!”

“This, too, is well-established,” Mavone nodded.

“Not for fighting,” Onranion tried to explain.  “They are using them as sacrifices.  The Alka Alon system can accommodate far greater enneagramatic capacity than a mere human,” he said, without trying to be insulting.  “They cannot bear the imprint from the ancient enneagrams long, before their bodies start to decay, but long enough to be taken to the sacrificial stone.”

“But why use them?  Wouldn’t a regular Alkan do?” Mavone asked.  I thought it was a little insensitive, but then Mavone could manage that with more grace than most.

Onranion relayed the question to his friend, whose color seemed to be returning.  The little fellow thought for a moment, before answering back.  It was a long answer.

“Because the necromantic energy resulting from sacrificing such monstrosities feeds both the power and the structure of the Umbric field far more than mere Alka Alon,” he explained.  “Orders of magnitude more.”

“That would explain its recent increase,” nodded Sandoval, as he rubbed Andra’s shoulders.

“They needn’t use monsters for such purpose,” Lord Aeratas said, speaking for the first time.  “There are many fantastic creatures from Callidore’s remote past, stored within the Ghost Rock.  Many are peaceful.  And brilliantly complex.”

“The victims don’t live very long, I’m afraid,” agreed Onranion, after further discussion.  “More like livestock, than prisoners, I suppose.”

“Oh, the monsters are quite real,” Lilastien said, as she broke her conversation with the younger female.  “This is Drathalia, a maid responsible for alonut trees.  Despite her lowly position, she has a keen mind and paid careful attention to the songs of lore.

“She tells me that there are horrific bodies down those stairs, and the souls of the ancient damned to fill them.  But they are not designed to fight humani.  Nay, not even your gods.  Or even Alka Alon.

“They’re meant to slay the Vundel,” she said, with desperate sadness.

While Lilastien’s baleful words hung in the air and shivered our souls, Pentandra chose to contact me, mind-to-mind.

Min!  Good news! she announced.

I could use some, right now.

Princess Rardine and six other prisoners have safely arrived!  His Grace and Sir Gydion and two knights also came through!

Yeah, that’s great news, I agreed.  We’ve made our way to the entrance of the undercaverns.  Can you be ready to receive more prisoners?

More prisoners?

Korbal apparently keeps several collections.  We found sixteen humans and a couple of Alka Alon down here, and Sandy wants us to get them out.

I’ll have the staff prepare a welcome, she promised.  Any problems?

One cantankerous Nemovort and a squadron of draugen.  Apart from that it’s been quiet.  How fares the battle elsewhere?

Well, she said, after a pause.  It’s evolving more quickly than I anticipated, though.  Azar’s group has been highly successful in setting the western end of the island on fire, she reported.  The Tera Alon brigade has broken through the southern defenses, and the Kasari are spreading out to make mischief.  Dara and the Sky Riders are raining down magical death and destruction from above.  Terleman wants to lead a squadron in support of Tyndal and Rondal, and the other Estasi Knights.

What?  Why didn’t they escape with the Duke and the Princess?

They went back.  Atopol and Tyndal were engaged, and Rondal and Noutha went back to assist.  They want to destroy as much of the Tower of Despair as they can.  And Tyndal thinks he’s discovered something.

Tyndal always thinks he’s discovered something! I fumed.

That’s mitigated by the fact that he has, in fact, discovered many things in the past, she reminded me.  I trust his judgement.  You should, too.

Not if it gets him killed!

He’s managed to survive, so far, Pentandra insisted.  I’ve been getting the reports from them, you haven’t.  That place is a massive barracks complex.  Armory, storehouse, the whole works.  That’s why they put the special prisoners there.  If we weren’t certain before, now we have confirmation that Korbal is a threat to the Kingdom.

Yes, that nearly escaped my attention, I shot back, sarcastically.  The plan was to rescue the princess, any other high-value prisoners, and get the hells out!

The plan has changed, she said, simply.  Rondal is headed back with a small team of volunteers to support Tyndal and Noutha.  They have their mission, you have yours.

My mission hasn’t changed!

Really? she replied.  Then why am I suddenly contending with eighteen unanticipated prisoners?

I . . . because . . . damn it, they have valuable intelligence on Korbal’s schemes!

Which is precisely what Tyndal is trying to discover, she reasoned, patiently.  Damn it, Min, you have to trust me to do my job, and you do yours.  My job is operational control of this mummer’s show.  Yours is to retrieve the Handmaiden.

I took a deep breath.  I really hated it when Penny was right.

Fine.  Prepare to receive prisoners.  I’ll send as many through as I can with Mavone, Sandoval, Onranion and Lilastien.  They’ll have to take them in relays, but they should be able to handle it.  The rest of us will proceed into the caverns.  I’ll report in as soon as I have something else meaningful to say.

Good boy, she soothed.  Was that so hard?  Trust me, we know what we’re doing.  And we’re doing a lot of damage, she added, proudly.  Azar is like a kid at Yule, and Terleman is eliminating enemy positions like a conqueror.

Casualties?

Don’t worry about that until you return, Pentandra urged.  It will just distract you.

She was right.  Again.  Shit.

All right.  Tell everyone I wished them Ifnia’s blessing.

I opened my eyes and blinked.

“All right.  New plan,” I announced.

“Why would anyone think they could attack the Vundel?” I asked Lilastien, as Sandy and Mavone started taking the naked prisoners through the Ways.  “Do they misunderstand their power?”

“Misunderstand?” she asked, a little dazed.  “No, they understand it completely.  The Enshadowed and their forebears have always resented the power and control the Sea Folk have over Callidore.  When our ancestors first came here, the more extreme factions interpreted the agreement with them as absolute: the Vundel would control the seas, and – with a few notable exceptions – the Alon would rule the land.

“It was pure arrogance, on their part.  Most of us were happy to settle for the bounty we were given, and grateful for the opportunity to repair these tortured lands,” she sighed.  “But the fanatics were convinced of their traditional sovereignty.  When conflicts arose between the races – as they inevitably do – more reasonable heads have prevailed in council.  That’s why the Enshadowed were exiled here, from more . . . civilized realms, to begin with.  But they hate the Vundel, as much as they hate the councils.”

“But they can’t hope to succeed in attacking them!” I frowned.

“They don’t need to succeed,” she stressed.  “Though I suspect they have the means to cause great destruction for our hosts.  Korbal’s goal is clear in that sigil: he means to conquer this realm, defend it against the Vundel, and use it as a springboard to conquer the rest of Callidore!”

“Even the united strength of all the Alkan realms would be insufficient to contest with the Sea Folk, if what I’ve learned is true,” I said, worriedly.

She nodded, her face just as stricken.  “Indeed.  Yet he feels he has the means to try.  If my suspicions are correct, he plays an even more dangerous game that we could have imagined.”

I heaved a deep sigh.  Lilastien was the only Alkan to ever give me a straight answer, when I asked.  That made it even more frustrating when she lapsed into obscure language.

“Then let’s keep exploring.  You keep ferrying the prisoners back to Timberwatch with the others, and I’ll take the rest down to the undercaverns.  When you’re ready, you can join us through my Waystone.”

“Minalan, we don’t have any idea what’s down there!” she protested.

“It’s stairs,” I pointed out.  “I think I can manage to travel down them.”

“It’s what’s at the bottom that concerns me,” she said.

“And you’re worried I’ll contend with it without Alkan supervision?  I’ll have Aeratas with me,” I reminded her.  “He knows the way.”

“You do realize he’s nearly suicidal?” she asked in a whisper.

“He is?”  Why didn’t anyone tell me these things?

“He’s walking through the ruins of a home he’s enjoyed for over a thousand years,” she reminded me.  “The foulest of folk have slithered into it, and made it a refuge of evil and destruction.  One of the most sacred and unique elements of Anthatiel is being used by an abomination to pollute the land he loves.  His only daughter is married to a mortal, and will bear him mongrel grandchildren in exile from his ruined legacy.  His pride won’t let him take his own life, but it will allow him to die heroically in a hopeless quest.”

“And that’s . . . my guide?” I asked, my heart falling.

She nodded, gravely.  “Watch him, Minalan.  I don’t think he’s planning on coming back from down there.”

That was a depressing thought.  “I will,” I nodded.  “Anything in particular I should be wary of?  I’m not really an expert in Alkan psychology.”

“It’s mostly just like human psychology, only more complex and subtle.  Trust me, when the time comes, Aeratas will put himself in mortal danger, on purpose.  So . . . watch him.”

She turned to begin escorting the next few humans through the Ways to Timberwatch and safety.  I turned toward the doorway that led into the underworld, and unknown danger.  I nearly ran into Hance.

“That was disturbing news,” he murmured.

“You heard?” I asked, automatically.

“Of course I heard,” he said with a small shrug.  “I’m good at that sort of thing.”

“I hope you are good at discretion, as well,” I suggested.

“I appreciate the precarious nature of the situation regarding our friend,” he said, nodding slightly toward Aeratas, who was peering down the stairwell.  “I would hesitate to do anything to inflame it.”

“Are you certain you’ll be all right, just the five of you?” asked Mavone, skeptically.

“I think we’ll manage,” I agreed.  “But I enjoy your company.  Return them to safety and get back here, quickly.”

“Yes, Captain,” he nodded.  “Keep your guard up.”

“Are we finally ready?” asked Azhguri impatiently, as he fiddled with his beard.  “I’m growing old, here!”

“Yes, we are.  Master Hance, if you will do us the honor of leading the way?”

“Of course,” the master thief said, disappearing into the darkened stairwell, his black cloak fading into shadow.  Sire Cei hefted his warhammer, slung his shield, and followed bravely behind him.  Aeratas, Azhguri, and lastly, myself, began the long descent into the undercaverns.

I don’t know how long it took for us to climb down the first several hundred steps, but it quickly became a mental exercise to compel my boots to keep going down.  It was different than marching, for some reason.  The air became thick and oppressive.  Every step I took seemed to draw me closer and closer to . . . something.  Some nameless fear.

It didn’t help that the staircase seemed to go on for forever.

We paused at the first landing to get our bearings, and then continued another long flight that opened up into a chamber about the size of Sevendor Castle’s great hall.  I was surprised to see Aeratas stop and regard a . . . shrine?  Altar?  I still didn’t know enough about the Alka Alon to understand, but he touched the collection of objects arranged artfully on a carven alcove in such a way as to make me think of reverence.

Along one wall there was a wide basin, about four or five feet high, filled with water.  I almost paused for a drink, when the smell hit me.

“It’s lake water,” Aeratas explained.  “When we cut the original shaft, we had to get through the water table.  My father had this section built to keep the lower regions from flooding.  It was once pristine enough to drink,” he said, regretfully gazing into the polluted pool.

“So this is the entrance to the Chamber of Ages?” Azhguri asked, as he peered down the next long flight of stairs.  It was one of three doors, beside the way we entered.

“Yes, which is why we should avoid that direct route,” Aeratas counselled.  “If Korbal seeks to guard the place from such intrusions as this, that would be the most obvious path to ward.”

I summoned my thaumaturgical baculus and studied the arcane emanations from that route.  It was difficult, this far away, but the robust power of the Magolith greatly assisted the effort.

“Yes, he has a few wardings, I would guess,” I said.  “Nothing we can’t contend with, I’m certain.”  I wasn’t, but now was a hell of a time to start voicing my doubts.

“Thankfully, I know another way,” Lord Aeratas said, smugly.  “The left-hand doorway will lead us down into a secondary chamber.  My father’s laboratory was there, once.  That was where he plumbed the deep mysteries of the Ghost Rock.  If we can make it there, it offers a means of access to the main vein without contending with any defenses.”

“That sounds like an ideal place for Korbal to use as a headquarters,” Azhguri said, doubtfully.

“If he knows it is there,” corrected Aeratas.  “When my father went into the Realms of Light, in my grief I had the place sealed over.  Few even know of its existence.  If we can make it to that point, we should be able to consider our final task nearly complete.  And it is unlikely Korbal warded that route – it has been little used for centuries, save to check the safeguards keeping the lake water out of the caverns.”

“I do love a back entrance,” nodded Hance.  “It simplifies things.”

“I am more concerned that we have met so little resistance, thus far,” Sire Cei said, apprehensively.

“If you were a guard, would you want to have to walk down all those stairs to get here?” asked Azhguri.  “As the complex above is incomplete, as are the necromantic facilities Korbal is building, I would guess that Korbal sees little value in squandering what manpower he has on guarding a damp old cavern that only he and his necromantic cult have an interest in.”

“Especially since we have yet to encounter the . . . things that our prisoners told us of,” I agreed.  “Could it be that’s what is behind the third door?”

“It was once a chamber of reflection,” Aeratas informed us.  “A place where one could settle your mind before continuing down to face your ancestors.”

“That’s what you were doing down here?” Azhguri asked, skeptically.

“Most of us,” agreed the Alkan lord.  “My father long ago contrived a way to call forth specific enneagrams from within the matrix of the vein, and temporarily install them in a mechanism that would allow some limited reanimation of their spirits.  Enough for brief conversations, at least.”

“So you were dabbling in necromancy!” I said, amused.

“Not in the way you humani think of the practice,” Aeratas said, making a face.  “We merely wish to be able to commune with the essence of our loved ones, not create horrors and arcane curiosities.  We largely eschewed the deeper areas of the vein – the places that interest you, so.  We wished to honorably use such a powerful resource, not exploit it for our own gain.”

“I suppose it’s a matter of perspective,” I conceded.

“Speaking of perspective,” Master Azhguri said, studying the fetid pool that I’m sure was once quite lovely.  “I think I have an idea,” he said, and explained himself.

Aeratas immediately jumped on the details, and the two argued back and forth over them for nearly ten minutes.  I added my own perspective, and gave some helpful suggestions.  But it was a good idea, and I approved.  Azhguri got to work.

Hance and Cei, meanwhile, were more concerned with the Third Door . . . the one that led to the former meditation chamber.

“I’m thinking there are horrors behind that door,” Hance considered, studying its elegant – but thoroughly fortified – design.  “It’s just the sort of door that conceals horrors.”

“Does that thought stay your courage, my lord?” Cei asked.  It wasn’t meant as a dig, I could tell – it was merely his chivalrous response to the situation.  He was looking for an opportunity to inspire someone.  I’m certain he had a pithy proverb or motivational tale at the ready.

“Courage isn’t the issue,” I said, thoughtfully regarding the door.  “I’m just wondering what further horrors my mind can manage without going mad,” I said, and pushed it open.

PART III

The Battle Of Olum Seheri

Chapter Thirty-One

Assault On The Tower of Despair

Tyndal

“Ishi’s tits!” Tyndal said, as he stepped through the Ways into the burning tower.  “How high up are we?”

The view below was cataclysmic, a hellish chaos of fire and pain, smoke and suffering, anger and ashes.  The flames were climbing incessantly up the front of the Tower of Despair, as they consumed the wooden structure within, and a massive pall of putrid smoke mixed with the thick, hot air that stung his face and challenged his lungs.  He could barely hear the fighting on the street, seven stories below, though he could not see it beyond the thick wall of flames.

Worse, there were cages and gibbets hanging from the corners and face of the building, and those unfortunate souls – both human and gurvani – screamed in terror, as their iron bars heated up and their lungs filled with smoke.  They screamed in desperate agony as – one by one – they succumbed to the flames.

But as bad as the stench of burnt hair, oily smoke, and living flesh burning below was, it was the great height that commanded his attention.  He’d rarely been this far above the ground, before, and never so suddenly.  His head spun crazily as the flames under the ledge he found himself on seemed to spin.

“Nine stories, give or take,” Atopol said, casually, as he hung over the firestorm by one arm and one leg.  “I didn’t pick you for one to be scared of heights,” he observed, thoughtfully, as Tyndal’s hands scrambled to grab the iron bracket nearby.

“Not scared,” Tyndal insisted.  “Not of heights.  Or even of falling.  It’s the inevitable conclusion of the experience that concerns me.”

“It’s usually graciously brief, if that’s a help.”

“It is,” Tyndal agreed, nodding nervously.  He’d been in tall places before, like the rooftops of Inrion Academy or the battlements of Sevendor.  But in each case, he’d arrived at the height by his own power, not suddenly propelled by magic.  And he’d been far from the edge, not staring down between his feet into a hellish blaze.  “Could you not have chosen a more convenient spot?”

“This was convenient,” Atopol countered, pointing upward with one gloved finger.  “We’re but two stories below Princess Rardine’s chamber.  It’s directly above.  This way, we can get to her without all that mucking around avoiding guards in the corridors.”

“I hope you don’t expect His Grace to go this route,” Tyndal said, grasping his iron strut tightly.  “As gentlemen of the court, I hope you see that would be beneath his dignity.”

“And if he dies, there’s no one around to reward us for this,” nodded Atopol.  “Quite right: that’s why Sir Rondal and Noutha have gone through this entryway,” he said, nodding toward a narrow arrow slit in the side of the fortress.  “They will clear the way, and once they locate the cell door, they will bring His Grace through the Ways to affect a rescue.”

“It’s just like him, to take the easy way,” Tyndal said with a frown, as he stared up at the long vertical pathway above him.  It was only thirty-five, forty feet, he reasoned.  Thirty-five or forty long, treacherous, painful feet.  In full armor.  He stared back down at the flames below.  They were fifty feet away, now.  They were rising with an alacrity he just didn’t feel.

Forty feet suddenly didn’t seem too far to climb.

He closed his eyes and summoned a few spells from his stone.  The smooth sphere of irionite in the golden cage around his neck obeyed, and suddenly his vertigo receded.  His gloved hands now also adhered to the side of the building, requiring great effort to lift clear of the wall.

“All right, I’m ready to go,” he announced.  “Shall I lead?  Or do you want to?”

“I’m less likely to fall on top of you than you are me,” Atopol pointed out.  He reached out his long arms and pulled himself easily to the next stone ledge.  Thankfully, the gurvani’s sloppy masonry provided a plentitude of such holds.  “And I do know the way.  I peeked in her window to ensure it was truly hers.”

Tyndal was startled.  “You saw her?”

“Yes, and what a wretchedly regal woman she is,” he snorted.  “She’s scrawny, but still hale.  It doesn’t appear that she’s been tortured, yet.”  Atopol leaped from one perch to another without any visible concern for gravity, entirely resembling the cat that was his namesake.

Tyndal nodded as he began to follow the shadow thief.  He supposed he climbed as well as his own war namesake, a haystack.  “That’s good to know,” he gasped as he made the next difficult ascent to a ledge no wider than his pecker.  “I would hate for us to rescue Rardine and not have her in a mood to berate us about it.”

“Is she really that difficult?” Atopol asked, as he made the next leap.

“She’s highly placed in an organization of murderous, beautiful assassins,” Tyndal pointed out.  “Her charm is merely an affectation for court appearances.  Personally, she’s vicious.  In ways that would make a Rat shudder,” he added.  The Brotherhood of the Rat, during its heights, was known for its brutality, even among other criminal gangs.  But from what Tyndal had learned about the Castali ducal court’s “Family”, the thugs could take lessons from Queen Grendine in ruthlessness.

“So glad to be rescuing her, then,” Atopol commented, as he patiently assisted Tyndal to the next level.

“It just occurred to me,” Tyndal said, both grateful and resentful of the arm the white-haired youth offered him.  “If you went all the way up, why didn’t you secure a rope from there?  In fact, why did you descend forty feet just to summon me?”

“Well, there was the matter of this next fellow,” the thief said, conversationally, as he settled to sit on an impossibly narrow protrusion.  “His cell is directly below Rardine’s, and I don’t think I could trust him to not molest such a convenience.”  He indicated the bars securing the window to the cell, above.

“Who is it?” Tyndal asked, thankful of the opportunity to rest.  His arms already ached.

“I don’t know, but he’s a grumpy fellow,” the Cat assured.  “He tried to attack me through the bars when I came by.  I had to kick him in the face.”

“Did you try to speak with him?”

“I was too busy trying to kick him in the face to introduce myself,” Atopol admitted.

“I’m sure he was just startled,” Tyndal reasoned.  “Can we avoid him, going up?”

“To the left,” Atopol agreed, nodding toward a bracket holding a small iron gibbet by a thick iron chain.  There was a rotting corpse of an Alkan, within, half-devoured through the bars by wyverns.  But it did offer adequate support, and if Tyndal stretched, he could make it to the ledge outside Rardine’s cell window without passing by the window below.

With a final deep breath, Tyndal made the leap . . . and would have plummeted to his doom in the fire and chaos below, had his gloves not been enchanted.  He scrambled to gain the top of the bracket before attempting the stretch.

But, finally, he was on the level outside of Rardine’s cell.

The bars were heavy cast iron, he noted, welded into an iron frame that was mortared into the stones of the wall.  He grinned, and summoned more power from his stone.  In seconds, the thick iron turned red as every atomi of the bars oxidized.  With a tap of his warwand the bars crumbled.  He took his time to remove as much of the obstruction as possible before he pushed his way through.

The cell was dark and narrow, but he could make out the shape standing near the thick wooden door without magesight.

She was a sight.  She’d lost weight, during her captivity, and her face was drawn and pale under her hair.  Where her ringlets had once been spritely under her maids’ careful attendance, now her hair was limp, dirty, and tangled.  She was clad in a simple hempen shift without belt or mantle, and she was barefoot.  The girl before him only barely resembled the Princess he knew, but there was no mistaking the fire in her eyes.

“Princess Rardine,” he announced, “I believe we’ve been introduced.  Sir Tyndal of Sevendor,” he said, adding a deep courtly bow.

The girl regarding him suspiciously, but calmly.

“How do I know you are who you say?  And not another foul trick to deceive me?” she asked, warily.

“Because I slew Haman, my master’s servant and your slave, at Timberwatch the day after Duke Lenguin’s death, and only three people alive know that,” Tyndal replied, evenly.  Rardine’s eyes shifted back and forth.  Isily, the only other witness to the event besides the Spellmonger, was slain by his master’s wife last year.

“Very well,” the princess decided.  “So you are Sir Tyndal.  So, the Spellmonger is here to rescue me?” she asked, skeptically.

“He was, alas, otherwise detained,” Tyndal said, apologetically.  He began to search for some spells he hadn’t anticipated needing, but decided were in order.  First, a magelight, to illuminate the dank cell and give the Princess a tangible sign of hope.

He almost regretted doing so.  Though he disliked Rardine, personally, she’d been a fair maid.  Imprisonment had not been kind to her.

“So, you are rescuing me on your own initiative?” she asked.  “Did Mother send you?”

“Nay, Your Highness, this is not a royally-sanctioned rescue, I’m afraid,” he said, as he pulled his camping equipment out of a hoxter pocket he’d embedded in a ring on his pinky.  “And I am not, technically speaking, here to rescue you.  I am here to prepare you to be rescued,” he said, opening the field pack that suddenly appeared in the narrow cell.  In short order he removed a tunic, hose, and a cloak and handed it to the prisoner.  Unfortunately, his extra boots were far too large to fit Rardine’s dainty feet.

Rardine took the clothes and began dressing at once, without modesty.  Nor did she cease her discussion while she tossed aside the rags and pulled the woolen tunic over her head.  “Who, then, is responsible?  Did my brother send you?”

“Nay, His Highness prepares to assault Enultramar with a mighty armada to avenge the indignity to the Royal House . . . but he was unwilling to consider a more direct approach.”  Tyndal grabbed a few more things he thought she might need from his pack before sending it back to its hoxter.  “Your father offered rewards, but little else, as he is being restrained in the matter by . . . other forces.  Though by all accounts he’s plunged into melancholy over your capture,” he added, sympathetically.  “Wine?” he asked, holding out a skin of cheap Castali red to her as she pulled the cloak over her shoulders.

Rardine nearly leapt at the skin, and poured several swallows into her thirsty mouth before she reluctantly lowered it and wiped her lips.  “They’ve given me naught but filthy water to drink,” she admitted.  “Father did nothing?  With Mother screaming at him constantly?”

Tyndal cleared his throat.  He didn’t want to answer that question.  Rardine sensed his reluctance.  Her imprisonment had in no way reduced her awareness of such subtleties.

“The truth, Sir Tyndal, buys you my friendship, such as it is,” she offered.  “The unvarnished truth.”

“Queen Grendine was . . . she was more than reluctant to send rescue,” Tyndal finally admitted.  “She considered your captivity to be a tidy answer to a manifold of problems: what to do with a daughter difficult to marry off, removing a possible threat to Tavard and his family as he inherits the throne, and an excuse for her son to indulge in vainglorious conquest.  And your dear sister-in-law, by all accounts, finds herself more at ease with you lodged so far from court.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness, but that is the unvarnished truth.  The Queen was almost . . . pleased at the development.”

Tyndal watched helplessly as Rardine’s thin face contorted in a storm of raw emotions.  He watched as a daughter lost faith in her parents, a sister in her brother, and a loyal servant in her demanding mistress.  Then, something else settled into her expression, and a new tint came to her eye.  It was a cold, unyielding expression, the kind one feared in a foe and made one fret when seen in a friend.

“Was she?” Rardine finally said, when she regained her composure.  “How . . . interesting.  So . . . whom do I thank for this rescue attempt?  The magi at large?”

“Nay, Your Highness.  Not everyone in your family sees but their own concerns.  Your cousin, Anguin, arranged this rescue.  And it was no common feat,” he added.

“Anguin?  Really?” she asked in disbelief.

“His Grace felt his honor touched that brigands would contemplate such an affront on the Royal House in his realm.  His circumstances have made him quite devoted to his duties as head of his family,” he said, tactfully.  “He risked what treasury he had and what allies he could muster in the attempt.”

“But why would Anguin . . .?  What could . . . It’s no matter,” she decided.  “He’s earned my undying gratitude, just for making the attempt.  As have you all,” she added.

Atopol chose that moment to stick his head through the rusted bars.  “Tyndal, has His Grace arrived?  Because there’s something . . . crawling up the side of the tower, now.  Through the flames,” he emphasized, worriedly.

“Not yet, but I expect him any moment,” Tyndal answered.  “Your Highness, might I present Sir Atopol the Cat of Enultramar, a mage knight of the Estasi Order.”

“Sir Atopol, my thanks for your efforts on my behalf,” Rardine said, quickly, as she took stock of the situation.  “How many of you are there?  I heard some ruckus, earlier, then saw the tower catch fire . . .”

“His Grace has enlisted hundreds, perhaps thousands, in the effort to rescue you, Your Highness,” Tyndal assured.  “There are two teams of warmagi assaulting the island as we speak, and dozens of brave Wilderlords, Tera Alon and Kasari Rangers are causing havoc to distract the defenders from this rescue.”  He hoped that made her feel important, for some reason.

“But Anguin doesn’t have the resources . . . I heard his palace was burned!”

“Attacked by a dragon, alas,” Tyndal agreed.  “That was a rough night.  I had to kill the damn thing myself—”

“Oh, not this again!” snorted Atopol.  “Ishi’s tits, will you stop bragging for one moment and remember that there are things crawling up the side of the building?  Toward us?  Through the fire?”

Tyndal sighed.  “Fine, fine, let me contend with that,” he said, and closed his eyes.

Pentandra? he sent, mind-to-mind.  It took a moment for the Court Wizard of Alshar to respond to him, but she soon replied.

What is it, Tyndal?

We have the Princess in hand, he reported.  She is safe, reasonably healthy, and uninjured.  She’s also extremely pissed, he added.  He knew Pentandra would want to know.  Anguin and Rondal haven’t shown up yet, but I got her dressed and gave her some wine.  I don’t have any shoes for her, though.  Any way you could scare up some slippers or something?  She’ll need them when she comes through.

I’ll have some sent to the Waystone, she promised.  Minalan has entered Korbal’s temple complex, she reported without being asked.  Azar is thundering across the island.  Terleman is making impressive gains.  Casualties are still light.

Thanks, Pentandra!  Oh, and is there any way you could convince Dara to send a few hawks over here?  Atopol thinks something is scaling the tower behind us.  If they could do anything about that, it would keep us from being rushed.

I’ll see what I can do, she pledged.  Good luck!

“Help is on the way,” he promised Atopol.  “In the meantime, drop something on them.  Now, what else do you require, Your Highness, before you’re rescued?”

“A sword,” she said, instantly.  “I’ve wished for nothing else more devoutly, even rescue, for weeks.  Give me a blade.  I swear by Trygg’s grace and Duin’s strength, I will never feel helpless again,” she vowed.

Thankfully, Tyndal could assist her with that.  He collected such wares on his adventures, and had a hoxter with a small selection of unenchanted but extremely well-made swords.  It helped him in swordplay to be familiar with swords of different sizes and configurations.  He thoughtfully selected a leaf-shaped infantryman’s blade, elegant and deadly, a style favored in the Late Magocracy in the east.  It appeared at his command, and he presented it to the princess with some small ceremony.

“Thank you, Sir Tyndal,” she breathed, as she wrapped her skinny fingers around the hilt and lifted the blade.  It seemed overlarge in her hands, but she handled it in a way that told him she knew how to use it.  “Now, I have hope.  Where is that cousin of mine?”

As if summoned, there was a knock at the cell door.

“Your Highness?” came Sir Gydion’s voice through the small iron grate, “are you within?”

“I am, and I’m ready to be elsewhere,” Rardine reported, flatly.  In a few moments, the iron lock that secured the door was shattered, as if frozen, and the door creaked open.

Anguin strode in to the tiny cell with as much bravado as he could, under the circumstances.  He executed a short bow.

“Your Highness, are you ready to depart?” he asked – only to receive an entirely unanticipated embrace.

“Yes, get me the hells out of here!” she hissed into his ear.  “Now!”

Anguin looked entirely uncomfortable with the situation, but he returned the embrace while he looked around frantically for support.

“I’ll take them back,” Atopol said, sliding through the window.  “My father insisted I see him safely home.  And I do not like the look of those things, below.”

Rondal poked his head up from behind Sir Gydion’s mailed shoulder.

“I’ll assist,” he offered.  “I’ve got a few more prisoners, here, in need of rescue.  We’ve spellbound the doors to the lower levels, which will require some time for the guards to get through, but it won’t hold them for long,” he warned.

“Then let’s get you back home,” Tyndal said, stepping out of the way while Atopol and Rondal escorted the nobles through the Ways.  When they were gone, he was left alone.  With Lady Noutha.

She didn’t look particularly ladylike in her war armor, but Tyndal didn’t mind her hiding her femininity – she was an excellent warmage, and a doughty fighter in mundane terms.  She carried a battlestaff configured as a spear, he saw, and the expression under her helmet was set in a fell grimace.

“So that was it?” she demanded.  “All that build-up to rescue a princess, and . . . that was it?”

“Would you prefer trying to fight your way out of the tower, through the ruined city transformed into a warzone, through the fetid lake and past the dragons, only to escort her over a thousand miles of treacherous territory back home?”

“Yes, actually,” Noutha said, blinking.

Tyndal stopped short at that.  “I guess I’m glad you weren’t in charge of planning, then,” he decided.

“Do you want to look at some of these other prisoners?” she asked, impatiently, “or do you want to reflect on strategic matters?”

“Let’s search,” he decided.

The interior of the Tower of Despair was even more depressing than the exterior, thanks to gurvani-sized doors and corridors that only rarely opened up properly.  Tyndal found that there were a dozen cells lining the exterior of the floor, and seven interior cells that lacked even the luxury of a barred window to the outside.  Tyndal wondered whether that was a blessing or a punishment, however.

The damp climate of the island had encouraged mildew and mold to grow on every solid surface.  Though newly constructed, the structure of the building was already starting to demonstrate wear, and as they wound their way down the corridor to take inventory of the remaining prisoners they chanced across several repaired sections.  In other places prisoners had expressed their ire by throwing their crude clay chamberpots into the corridor, where they had been left.  At least one inhabitant had died, and their decomposing body filled the floor with the stench.

Tyndal sought to check the identity of each prisoner through the bars, before freeing them.  Noutha was content to wreck their cell door and move on without comment.

In short order, the freed prisoners began filling the halls of the floor.  They were an eclectic lot, including a few courtiers who’d been captured with Her Highness, some Wilderlords imprisoned for the temerity of defending their lands, and some southern folk whose captivity didn’t seem to make much sense to him at all.

“We’re hostages,” a young woman from Enultramar explained, when he helped her from her cell.  “I am Lady Enisha of Sorir, and my father is a baron.  He resisted the efforts of the council at Falas . . . so I was abducted from the temple I was studying in and brought here, to persuade him.”

“Why not just kill him?” he blurted out.  Perhaps not the best response to a girl who was, once, comely, but Tyndal’s mouth seemed enchanted to say such things.

“Because the council is already having trouble maintaining power among the nobles, and such a thing would only worsen the rising murmurs against the Count of Rhemes,” Enisha explained.

“That makes sense,” Noutha nodded, as she helped another man out of his dingy inner cell.  “Probably took the youngest children, not the oldest.  The ones whose deaths would be more emotionally devastating.  That’s what I would do,” she decided.

Tyndal suppressed a shudder at her coldness.  “Let us rescue as many of you as possible, then,” he said, as confidently as he could manage.  “Each one is a victory over their plans.”  Put strategically, he doubted Noutha could object.  He knew better to attempt to invoke her sense of humanity.  The warmage formerly known as Lady Mask had little, from what he had observed.

“Are there any other prisoners of note, in the tower?  That you are aware of?” she asked the Alshari noblewoman.

“They had me on the floor below this one, last week,” she offered, searching her memory.  “I recall a few other Alshari hostages.  And some Castali officials.”

“That’s enough for me,” Tyndal agreed.  “As soon as Rondal and Atopol get back, we can start bringing you folks back to civilization and safety,” he promised.

They’d freed everyone they could on the floor when the two magi sought permission to come through the Waystone he carried in the hilt of his mageblade.

Rondal brought reinforcements, of a sort: two Tera Alon warriors who could take several folk through the Ways at once to speed their rescue.

“This is going to take a while, even with the help,” he noted to his friend, as the first wave departed.

“Pentandra says to save as many as we can,” Rondal suggested.  “Have you found the Dradrien captive, yet?”

“No, and my little fellows will be vexed with me, if I don’t,” Tyndal said, shaking his head.  “I thought for certain that he would be here, somewhere.”

“All right, keep searching,” Rondal commanded.  “I’ll take the next lot back.  You keep the place secure.”

“It’s a prison,” Tyndal pointed out.  “It was already secure before we got here.”

As soon as he was certain all four parties had left, reducing the number of captives by more than half, he continued to question the emaciated Lady Enisha, giving the half-starved woman a dried sausage and a swig from his wineskin, after passing around a water bottle to those who needed it.

“We haven’t been here as long as the others,” she told him, between anxious bites.  “I hesitate to say, but we’re the fortunate ones.  Anyone who made any serious noise was sent . . . below,” she said, nodding toward a window.  “There were work gangs in need of bodies,” she reported.  “It was deadly work, and brutal.  We were told that they didn’t much care if the bodies were alive or dead.  The dead don’t eat as much, they joked.”

“They weren’t joking, I’m afraid,” Tyndal said with a sigh.  “And I think you would have joined them, once your purpose had been fulfilled.  As Sheruel has designs on the Wilderlands, Korbal seeks to undermine the South.  He’s infiltrated the rebel council,” he told her.  “His minions are planning out every move the Count of Rhemes and his colleagues make, now.”

“That . . . that would explain much,” she sighed.  “There have been many policies from the council that made no sense, without that context.  Oh, father will be angry, when he learns of this!  Who do we have to thank for our rescue?” she asked, as Rondal re-appeared nearby.

“Why, your own good Duke Anguin, who arranged this entire rescue,” Tyndal reported.  “The one which the rebel council deems a captive in his own lands.  Does this look like an operation designed by a man fettered by conquest, my lady?” he asked, when Atopol returned.

“No, Sir Tyndal, it does not,” agreed the scrawny noblewoman, as she took Atopol’s hand for the transport.  “It seems the righteous wrath of a powerful lord,” she said, as a loud boom shook the building.  “Farewell – and I hope we meet again!” she said, as the spell took her away.

“Can’t you go anywhere without flirting with the locals?” Noutha asked, irritated, when they were alone again.

“No, not really,” admitted Tyndal.  “Besides, it was good relations for His Grace.  When Enisha is returned to her kin, she’ll bear the tale of who was responsible.  That will help build support for his claim,” he reasoned.  “In a decade or so, when he’s built up enough strength to challenge the rebels, she might be married to someone powerful enough to turn the tide of battle or politics.”

“So, you don’t merely flirt, you scheme,” she snorted, disapprovingly.  “What do you think that boom was?”

“Spellcraft,” he said, shrugging.  “Whether ours or theirs, and of what nature, I cannot say.  Nor do I think it matters.  We have at least one more floor to examine, before we can leave.  And those gurvani will find a way around the spellbinding, eventually.”

Noutha’s eyes opened wide, and she grabbed his shoulder as she whirled her spear into a guard position.  “And then there are the things crawling up the side of the building,” she said, tersely.  “One of which is now behind you!”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Pentandra

Pentandra heaved a great sigh of relief when she received confirmation that Duke Anguin had arrived at the Waypoint outside with Princess Rardine, and knew at once she had to go greet them, personally.

She used her baculus, Everkeen, as a mere lever, for once, and hauled her great bulk out of her comfortable chair.  It had ceased being comfortable an hour ago, but she was beyond the point where she could be comfortable in any position: sitting, standing, or lying down.

“Allura, a hand?” she asked, when her efforts weren’t enough.  She’d be damned if she’d use magic to get around.  Yet.  Not when she had a perfectly good apprentice at hand.

The blind girl groaned in annoyance, but held out her hand without turning her head.  Her raven, Lucky, was keeping her informed of where everyone was in the room around her through the semi-permanent link they’d formed, but that didn’t keep her from normal teenaged frustration.  Nor had frequent lectures on social propriety.  Pentandra pointlessly rolled her own eyes and took the hand, leaning into both her apprentice and her baculus to haul her arse out of the chair.

“This,” she muttered darkly, under her breath, “is ridiculous!  We have the Princess,” she announced in a louder voice to her monitors, the wizards and clerks keeping track of each group.  There was a ragged cheer, and a visible expression of relief from the Alshari courtiers who’d witnessed the tense expedition.  “His Grace accompanies her, and all are safe and sound!”

That wasn’t exactly accurate, considering how many brave men and women were still in the field, but it was enough to purchase another cheer.  She began the long trek down the steps of the make-shift dais and out of the blue barn into the staging area for the mission.

It was tortuous.  Her feet hurt.  She had to pee.  Her back ached with especial urgency.  Number Two was being fussy, keeping her sisters awake, Pentandra noted with irritation, and Number One was responding defiantly.

She could sense each of the triplet’s personalities, now.  Number One was a fighter, Number Two was the sensitive one, and Number Three was the troublemaker.  She didn’t view such predictions as prophesy, as much as observation; having three other people actually inside your body gave you incredible insight into their personalities, without the benefit of magic or even conversation.  Sometimes it was a like a pile of kittens, in there.  Other times it was like an overcrowded tavern.

Pentandra never expected to appreciate the proximity of her child – children – as much as she did, but she’d come to enjoy the process of gestation despite the severe discomfort and inconvenience it caused.  The priestesses called it Trygg’s Maternal Grace, the special divine patience a woman cultivated as she brought forth new life into the world.  It was considered a holy benefice from the Mother Goddess.  It was Pentandra’s professional opinion that there was some internal alchemy at play.

Thankfully the girls had settled down when she got up.  Pentandra leaned on both Alurra and Everkeen as she walked with the stately grace of a woman trying desperately not to stumble.  The weather of the morning was starting to turn, and she could feel a few sprinkles of rain from the overcast sky on her face.

The mage-cobbled square was far more vacant, now, with only the reserves gathered in force at their station.  Even the Sky Riders were deployed, now, in support of the operation.  Pentandra did her best to hurry over to the Third Waystone, where the first rescued prisoners were being escorted away by the Alshari knights at hand.

“Your Highness!” she said, breathlessly (Number Three was stabbing her diaphragm most painfully) “Your Grace!  Are you well?” she asked, concerned.

“I live, stand, walk, and can hold a sword,” Princess Rardine assured her, displaying some unbloodied blade she’d picked up.  “I want to thank you all,” she said, looking around at the people crowding in to witness her return.  “When I was imprisoned and bereft of hope, you came to my succor: I shall not forget,” she declared, to cheers.

“Nor shall I forget the bravery of my dear cousin in daring such a dangerous mission.  No one knows the perils of that dark tower more than I.”  She looked fondly at Anguin’s blushing face.  “Thus, no one knows what courage it took to assail it better than I.  My most profound thanks and gratitude are yours, eternally.”

“My lady, I could no more let you languish in captivity than I could my own sisters,” he said, with special emphasis.

Anguin was starting to understand the value of political theater.  There were enough members of court here witnessing the safe return of Anguin to spread the rumor of his response to Rardine’s gracious thanks.

“Is there someplace I could go to . . . to wash up, Lady Pentandra?” she asked, demurely.

“I have a hall prepared, Your Highness,” she assured.  “Just a short distance away, though I can summon a carriage, if you prefer.”

“I prefer to walk,” she declared, defiantly, the sword still in her hand.  “For months I have been captive, in one form or fashion.  I wish to use my legs as a free woman for once.  Trygg knows I could stand the exercise,” she said, proudly, and began following Duke Anguin and his bodyguard toward the hall.

Pentandra followed behind, trying to keep up with the stream of congratulations while still being hailed, mind-to-mind, from the battle.

Thankfully, there was a lull in the fighting.  Azar had secured his area without further opposition, Terleman was dug in far in advance of his retreat position, and Tyndal and Noutha were rounding up additional prisoners to rescue.

She had one terse conversation with Minalan, in which she had to remind him that she was in charge of operations, but he’d been the only issue, so far.  He was safely inside the dread pyramid, now, beyond her ability to assist him.

By the time she was done with him, they’d arrived at the simple hall.  Pentandra watched as Princess Rardine’s entire manner changed, as she entered the hall behind her cousin.  Her shoulders slumped, her chin rose, and her expression turned to a scowl as the door shut behind them.

“Is there something amiss, Highness?” Pentandra asked, troubled, as the princess issued a tortured groan.

“No, my lady, the entire world is askew!” Rardine said, dropping her borrowed cloak to the floor.  “I’ve been held captive for months, and my parents – the all-powerful king and queen of Castalshar – can’t be bothered to send even one man to rescue me?  I have to depend on the unforeseen kindness of my poor cousin for rescue?  No, my lady, there is something completely amiss!”

“My cousin,” began Anguin, thoughtfully, “I hope that my intervention didn’t—”

His hesitant words seemed to enrage Rardine, though.  She snapped viciously, though her ire was not directed at him.

“You did nothing wrong, Anguin!” she declared.  “I was not facetious in offering my thanks and my gratitude so publicly – I have been betrayed by my closest kin, resigned to an enemy prison to further the schemes of my mother and brother.  And that bitch he married!  Lady Pentandra: your understanding of court matters is well known: what say you?  What meaning can I draw from my family’s inattention?”

“Well, your brother did begin an invasion of Enultramar,” she offered, hesitantly.  “And your father offered two vacant baronies in Gilmora for your return.”

“Two baronies?  I should have more in my dowry!” she scoffed.  “And Tavard was going to engage the rebels, anyway.  He’s been planning it since they rebelled.  He wants to conquer Enultramar for himself.”

“Enultramar is mine,” Anguin insisted.  “He gets none of it!”

“Relax,” Pentandra insisted, indulging in the informal for the sake of brevity.  She had a battle to get back to.  “He’s going to get shredded at sea.  Everyone knows it but he and the fools in his court backing the measure.  May I examine you, Highness?  Just to ensure nothing serious is amiss, physically,” she added.

Rardine nodded and spread her arms, as Pentandra peered at her with Everkeen’s insights.  The baculus obediently reached out and probed Rardine’s thin frame from Arcane Shroud to her core enneagram.  The princess saved her invective for her family, not her erstwhile physician.

“It would serve the idiot right!  And my mother for supporting such nonsense!  I saw the defenses Enultramar has, from the deck of a slave ship.  And they let me languish in support of that?”

“I believe his plan concerns seizing large portions of the coastline and then demanding your return,” Anguin said, with a snort.

“So, I’m merely a pretext for a conquest,” Rardine said, angrily.  “That’s even worse!  In your opinion, Lady Pentandra, what does my family’s response to my captivity indicate about their motivations?  Candor, please,” she directed.

Pentandra looked up from the readings she was taking through her enchanted rod.  She struggled to find some way to equivocate, but it was against her nature.  And she felt the girl deserved the truth.  “They have abandoned you, Highness,” she admitted.  “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Rardine said.  “Pity them, instead.  Did they not realize how much danger they were in, for having me in the open?  I revealed nothing, nor did those beasts know to ask . . . but if they had, I might have been tempted to relent.  Especially if I’d known they were sending no help!  They abandoned me?  They dared abandon . . . me?  The finest jewel in the castle, and they let it be stolen like yesterday’s bread!” she fumed.

“I offer you refuge, for as long as you require, before you return home, Cousin,” pledged Anguin.  “I don’t have much in the way of grand estates to offer, but what I have is at your disposal.”

“Thank you, Anguin,” she said, with a sigh.  “Of all people to offer me kindness, yours is most unexpected.  And therefore, the most appreciated.  Allow me some time to clean, eat, and rest, and I promise I will inform and advise you in a better humor.”

“You are as well as can be expected,” Pentandra pronounced.  “Everkeen tells me you need to slake your thirst and eat well for a few days, but some sleep and rest should restore you completely.”

“Take the time you need,” Anguin nodded, graciously.  “I’m afraid I have to return to service; as important as this operation is, we conducted a massive raid to act as a distraction, and I still have troops in the field to oversee.  Summon me, at need.”

“Thank you all,” the emaciated princess sighed.  “I had nearly given up hope of a real bed or a hot meal again, let alone freedom and safety.  I will repay your kindness,” she insisted.

“It is repayment enough that you are well, my cousin,” Anguin bowed, and gestured for Pentandra to follow him.

“What do you make of that?” he asked, as the door shut behind them.  Sir Gydion kept step with them, but walked behind them deferentially.

“Was that really Rardine?  What did they do to her?  She was almost . . . nice!” Anguin blurted.

“They didn’t do anything to her, beyond confining her in chains and in a cell, Your Grace,” Pentandra assured him.  “She holds no taint of Blue Magic, necromancy, or any other glamour that Everkeen could see.  It could be that her time in seclusion was an opportunity for self-reflection.  But there is no doubt it wrought a change in her,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at the hall.

“I would more likely credit sorcery, as introspection,” mused Anguin.  “I know how to contend with a spiteful, hateful Rardine.  I’m not certain I can deal with a grateful and respectful one.”

“Give her a few days,” Pentandra ventured.  “I think that with a few days’ sleep and some decent food, we’ll see much of the old Rardine return.  Her ire is certainly intact,” she observed.

“And for once not aimed at me,” Anguin agreed, relieved.  “I really do have to get back to my command post, now that this is done,” he continued, placing his helmet on his head.  “The Iron Band has reported much activity in the garrisons throughout the Penumbra.  Likely I have another invasion on my hands.”

“I’ll tend to the Princess, in the meantime,” Pentandra assured her liege.

They both looked back at the hall, which seemed quiet.  Too quiet.

“I think I prefer my chances with the gurvani,” Anguin decided.

“I envy Your Grace the freedom of that choice,” Pentandra agreed.  “See one of the yellow-sashed magi.  Those are Carmella’s folk.  One of them will be happy to see you to wherever you need to go.”

Pentandra took her time, getting back to her seat in the barn.  Had there been any pressing emergency, she would have been summoned.  She took the rare opportunity to send her apprentice to fetch something to eat from the kitchens, while she took advantage of a proper privy.

By the time she returned to the headquarters in the barn, things had, of course, deteriorated.  She settled in that damn uncomfortable comfortable chair and sighed, feeling somewhat refreshed and relieved.

“Report,” she announced to her subordinates, as they moved from one station to another around her.  She was gratified.  The news could be worse.

Azar’s brave commandos had secured a wide area on the western end of the island, but they were now spread out and had lost sight of each other in the maze of ruins.  A few were being subjected to attacks by individual gurvani hiding in the rubble.  Others swore that there were forces congregating just beyond easy view.

For Terleman’s part, he’d liberated one large prison complex housing common slave laborers and had his sights set on the other.

And Arborn’s Kasari, she learned in moments, were skulking their way across Olum Seheri, sticking to the edges of the battles erupting across the island, sniping, setting snares and traps, and gathering an enormous amount of intelligence while the defenders of the place were otherwise occupied.

She checked in directly by Mirror with Arborn, who was leading his hand-picked Night Owls through a largely abandoned section of the ruined city.  He was not only hale and unwounded, he seemed to be having far too much fun on the mission for Pentandra’s comfort.

Dara, at least, seemed to be taking her part of the mission seriously.  Her Sky Riders had transported in to the second site, the one Terleman controlled, and transformed their flying steeds from there.  Once they were ready, they took flight and provided not just excellent observations, but were able to provide support when either force became bogged down by defenders.

The Sky Riders were a marvel to behold.  Twelve giant hawks flew above Olum Seheri, working together and covering each other with the ease of long practice.  Pentandra had to give credit to Dara – she’d been given some help in the transgenics from the Alka Alon, but recruiting Sky Riders and training had all been her own ambition.  The Riders were becoming adept at combat operations – particularly the Alshari Wing, the one that had helped keep the Wilderlands clean of gurvani spies and raiders for the last few weeks.

Now they flew in formation in an endless ring over the island, swooping to attack with hand-hurled thaumaturgic weapons or the deadly skybolts – special javelins designed to be thrown from hawkback with deadly accuracy.  In addition, each of the giant birds was now equipped with steel barbs on their talons, and had been trained in how to use the devices with brutal efficiency.

Even Minalan’s desperate journey under Korbal’s evil pyramid was going well – the additional eighteen prisoners he’d rescued notwithstanding.  Only token resistance to the unexpected incursion told Pentandra that the multiple layers of distraction had been successful.  The island’s defenders were so preoccupied with the raids that they left Korbal’s most intimate complex virtually unguarded.

In fact, things were going so well that she knew they couldn’t last.  Her limited experience with warfare had demonstrated that no plan went according to plan, once an actual enemy was involved.

Thus far, the denizens of Olum Seheri had responded as expected.  The gurvani and trolls had reacted to the incursions predictably, and even with the few Nemovorti leading the resistance there hadn’t been much in the way of unusual elements.  Azar and Minalan had each taken down one of the undead lords – having done so once herself, she knew how difficult that was.

But she knew it was only a matter of time before the minions of Korbal regrouped, reformed, and counter-attacked in force.  Exactly how long that would take was a measure of their foe’s organization and power.  That was the strategic side of this raid, the boring parts that everyone else forgot about.  The parts Pentandra knew were almost as important as a princess.

She couldn’t forget those parts, else all might be lost.  All might be lost anyway, she knew.  That damn book of prophecies was chewing a hole in her soul.

Seven Scholars Descend Into The Chamber Of Ages

The Handmaiden To Fetch, Their Only Desire

A Guardian Found, The Consort Is Bound

One Falls Through Treachery Leaving Six Sages

From Scholarship To War They Soon Retire

When she’d first come across the phrase, it was yet-another meaningless bit of doggerel Old Antimei had inflicted on her.  She’d taken it at face value, figuring it describing far-off and obscure events, as many of Antimei’s prophecies did.

Then Aeratas mentioning the Chamber of Ages had caused it to spring to mind.  Minalan’s squadron had taken the name of the Scholars, and the rest of the prophecy snapped into context.  One falls through treachery – that didn’t bode well for his team.  Particularly if he, himself, was one of those who was stricken.  That would doom them all, she was certain.

Happily, there were so many other prophecies that mentioned Minalan by name that she didn’t worry too much about his survival.  But that only brought scant comfort.

There would be loss, in this raid, she knew for a fact.  More than the seven bodies that already decorated the staging area’s ambitious morgue, or the dozen others yet to be brought through the Ways.  Two from Minalan’s party would be stricken, and there was nothing she could do to avoid that.  Nor could she even discuss the matter with anyone.

Worse, there were at least two or three other prophesies that definitely concerned this raid, perhaps more.  Most only came into focus with the context of experience, and often then it was too late to do anything about them.

Pentandra was starting to appreciate more and more just why the Censorate condemned prophets to death.  It was a mercy killing.

As there was little she could do to affect the outcome of what was prophesied, she did her damnedest to control what wasn’t.  In rapid succession, she informed Azar about a unit of goblins forming on his north flank, sent a squadron of reinforcements to aid Terleman’s bid to liberate a prison, and ordered Dara’s wing to shift their attacks to cover the Tower of Despair, as Rondal had dubbed it.  There were things crawling up the sides, the report said.  Too high for anyone but the Sky Riders to contend with.

She handled everything she could, pushing the information around to where it would do the most good, and then making suggestions.  For example, she suggested that Noutha and Tyndal get the hell out of the tower, but the impetuous boy thought he could free more high-value prisoners, if he was given more time – and Rondal was supporting him, insisting on returning to the battlefield, now that the initial prisoners were safely transported through the Ways.

Pentandra had to concede to that – and then argue with Minalan about it, a moment later.  He, too, had more prisoners to send them, while he continued his descent.

She forced herself not to focus on the stirrings of prophecy.  She knew better than anyone how swiftly it turned in your hand.  Best to ignore the implications and focus on the battle, she reasoned.  One could go mad, otherwise.

“Pentandra, there’s a band of undead congregating away from the battles,” one of her observers, a Hesian Order mage named Osban, reported.  “About sixty, so far, but more are arriving.”

“Draugen, Nemovorti, or the market-variety walking corpse?” she asked, hoping for the last.

“No way to tell,” Osban admitted.  “I’ll send a hawk by to take a look,” he suggested.  She nodded.  She hoped the Sky Rider was careful.  There were all sorts of nasty things the Nemovorti could do.  But that’s what the flying cavalry was there for: reconnaissance and support.  As long as the dragons weren’t roused against them, they should be fine.

That hadn’t happened yet.  But Pentandra knew the two big monsters were Olum Seheri’s most devastating defensive weapon.  The problem was they were also fiendishly difficult to control, by all accounts.  Much like whipping up a windstorm: once it was loose, it was largely uncontrollable.  If Korbal valued his nascent fortress, he’d keep the dragons away.  Once they started attacking they were like puppies with a rat: little else could distract them until all around them was in ruin.

She still remembered with horror the night one of the beasts destroyed her home.  Had she’d not been at a professional meeting, she would likely have died in its attack.  As it was, she’d lost dozens of friends in the devastating assault on the Palace at Vorone.  Had the magi not been nearby, and had it not been for their bravery and ingenuity, the beast would have gone on to slay thousands in the rustic capital.

She still had to figure out a way to thank Tyndal properly for that.  Rondal, she’d taken care of – her assistance to Gatina was proof of her gratitude.  But Tyndal was more difficult.

“Two Nemovorti, and at least two score draugen, by Rider Astal’s estimation,” Osban reported.  “Possibly more – he only got a brief look at the crowd before they chased him off.  Singed his steed’s tailfeathers.”

“Any idea of which way they are headed?” she asked, glancing at the many maps around her.  “South?  Or West?”  Or, goddess forbid, northeast, toward the Pyramid.  Now that Rardine and Anguin were safely back from Olum Seheri, the mission’s next priority was to purchase as much time for Minalan and the rest of the Scholars to get to the undercaverns.  She still had reinforcements to send through the Ways, but it was helpful to know in which direction to send them.

“No telling,” Osban said, after a moment’s consultation with the Rider, mind-to-mind.  Astal was one of the few magically talented Riders, she knew, at least enough to earn a stone.  “They were in a big square cleared in the midst of several ruined buildings.  They could go either way.  And a smaller group is banding together to their southwest – they’ll likely go after Azar’s company, if I read their positioning correctly.”

“Let him know to expect company,” Pentandra ordered one of the other monitors.  “Osban, see if one of those wings can swing around in force and take a good healthy shit on those restless cadavers.”

“Berserker balls don’t work on them,” he reminded her.

“The Sky Riders have more than that to work with,” Pentandra assured him.  “Believe me, the Enchanters of Sevendor loaded them with new weapons to test in battle.  Tell Dara’s folk to use some of them.”

The wizard nodded as he went to do her bidding.  In a moment it was clear that Osban’s prediction about the smaller band was correct.  Azar sent six warmagi and a half-dozen Wilderlords to intercept them while he prepared to demolish a building in which a company of gurvani – living and dead – was using as an archery blind against him.

The larger group was headed south, however.  What was left of them.  The Second Wing reported a successful attack on the group, showering the undead army with chunks of rock the size of bushels from hoxter pockets, as well as alchemical fires that clung and burned the painless foe down to their dead bones and stuck to their lifeless fingers when they tried to beat it out.  The charred remnants of the company, more than fifty strong, began moving southward after their two Nemovorti fought off the attack with magic.

“Inform Terleman that it’s his turn to show some hospitality,” she commanded to a clerk.  “I’ll have the next twenty fresh reinforcements sent through to bolster his position,” she advised.

A quick word with Azar, mind-to-mind, assured her that he wasn’t in need of them first.  Before she could open her eyes again, another message came through her arcane link, this time from Mavone, of all people.

Penny, something’s happened, he reported, laconically.  We were about to send the reinforcements through, before returning for the next batch of prisoners . . . but it didn’t work.

What didn’t work?

The spell that opens the Ways, he said, calmly.  We’ve all tried, even the Alka Alon.  I don’t know how he did it, nor do they, but somehow Korbal has severed the Ways of Olum Seheri from the outside world.  Including the Waystones we brought with us.  We had someone from each team in the field try to get out through the Ways.  No luck.  Korbal has cut them off.

I thought that was impossible!

So did the Alka Alon, he observed.  You should see Onranion losing his mind over this.  It’s not supposed to happen, he says.  It can’t happen.  If things weren’t suddenly so dire, it would be funny.  But until we find a way to counter the effect, we’re cut off from supporting our people. Sandoval, Lilastien, Onranion and I are stuck on this side.  As are the reinforcements. Azar, Terleman, Rondal, Minalan . . . they’re all on their own, now.

Chapter Thirty-Three

The Menace Above The Lake

Dara

It was so different regarding the battle below from the back of a relatively strange bird, Dara reflected, as she coaxed Fearless over the grim beaches of Olum Seheri.  With Frightful, she and her bird were nearly one creature, so long had they worked together.  But Frightful was tending to her nest, now, and so Dara had to take flight on Fearless’ broad back, instead.

He was a magnificent bird, she had to admit, one of the best of the First Wing.  A Mindens Raptor, at home in these very mountains, and one of the largest Master Min had brought back from his first trip to Vorone, after the war.

The first war, she corrected.  She was standing on the vanguard of the second.

Fearless’ thirty-six-foot wingspan allowed him to soar with dignified grace, and he was an especially vicious warrior.  Most birds had to be coaxed from hunting to fighting, but not Fearless.  He’d earned his name by how eagerly he’d leapt into his training.

His massive talons were assisted by steel coverings, blades that extended the birds’ natural attack with an additional five inches of razor-sharp mage-fired steel.  Repeatedly the massive bird had dived at her command to rip up clawfuls of gurvani and fling the remains into the gruesome lake.

But it still wasn’t the same as flying Frightful, she knew.  When they were together, they flew as one, without much in the way of commands.  She had to fly Fearless more like she rode a horse, which required a lot more of her attention.

We need you to swing back over Terleman’s position, Dara, and see if they’re being menaced from the lakeside, requested Darmonal, the wizard in charge of relaying information to her team.  She could – and did – speak directly to Pentandra, who had charge of the battle, but she tried not to bother the pregnant wizard without cause.  She had enough to keep up with.

On my way, she promised, in return.  A quick glance confirmed her wingmen were still where they were supposed to be.  Tassi and Broal were flying Festive and Fancy, two older, well-trained birds, and the newest Rider to the First Wing, Ritha, was in Tail position with the massive Faithful.

“Patrol South!” she shouted into the wind, making the hand gestures that communicated the order at the same time.  She did it twice, until her wingmen repeated it back, and relayed the information back to Ritha.  Satisfied that her Wing knew the orders, Dara encouraged Fearless to bank gracefully over the awful waterfront and toward the knot of violence Terleman was sponsoring on the south bank of the island.

From the air Dara could see the lines of battle clearly, lit by magelights, torches, and the light of dozens of fires resulting from the assault.  Not the least was the giant pyre the evil-looking tower in the center of the city was transforming into.  The growing flames cast plenty of flickering shadows, allowing her to pick out the lines of each side.

Terleman and his warmagi held a strong forward position, Dara could see.  The Knight Commander had staked out a makeshift redoubt atop a pile of rubble overlooking the southwestern corner of the ruined city, and his men had quickly reformed the debris into a defensive shelter from which they could attack.  Two smaller outposts had been similarly carved out in the rubble, each boasting five or six diminutive warriors who supported Terleman’s main position.

A few hundred feet behind them, across a corpse-strewn field of debris that bore testament to the heat of the fighting, the Tera Alon volunteers were busy establishing an even more robust redoubt around the Waypoint entrance.  A dozen warmagi had pushed the perimeter of the attack hundreds of yards in all directions, and she could see through magesight the sweeping fisherman’s net of interlocking defensive spells being woven around the site.

Beyond the attacker’s lines lingered many small units of gurvani, hobgoblin infantry, and undead.  None of the forces remaining were strong enough to assail the raiders themselves, though the piles of bodies scattered across the fields and roadways indicated they’d tried.

The largest band, nearly a hundred strong, was congregating around the building she’d learned was a prison for human slaves, during her briefing.  They weren’t yet doing anything, but they were in the strongest position to threaten the raiders.  More, they were the only serious force between Terleman’s forces and the prisoners inside.  They seemed like a perfect target for her Wing’s attention, Dara decided.

She signaled the preparation for attack and intended targets, and waited until confirmation came before she began to execute the maneuver.  Leading her wing first back out over the dark waters of the lake, she signaled for a ground-attack formation and lined up Fearless’ mighty beak on the thickest part of the enemy force.

As the rest of her Wing formed up behind her, Dara began to dig the tools of her new trade out of the secure pouches on her saddle.  She selected a half-dozen small spheres of thaumaturgical glass containing spells designed against such occasions, and readied the wand containing a hoxter pocket filled with deadly objects: jagged boulders, rusty shards of iron, slag from the casting furnaces that would shatter into deadly splinters when dropped from a height, and a shower of war arrows.  Fearless would add his own dash of mayhem, when they made the pass, she knew.  She’d never ridden a bird so eager for violence.

“Broad formation, Tail high!   Rain of Doom!  Rain of Doom!” she repeated, calling the pre-arranged order.  “Descend to attack!” she commanded, illuminating her face briefly with a red magelight so that her Riders could see the signal.  Once again, she waited for confirmation before ordering Fearless to start to descend.

Silently, the four giant hawks soared over the wasted shore of Olum Seheri, depending on the oily mists to conceal their approach.  Dara launched the first double handful of airborne enchantments on the leading edge of the foe.  She didn’t wait to see them land before she launched the second.

Her wingmen moved into position in line with her, until the three of them covered the entire area above the gurvani and hobgoblins.  She could hear the squeals of surprise and shock below, quickly turning into screams and guttural shouts as the great birds appeared and began raining down death and chaos on them.  Faithful flew higher, and further behind, his Rider assessing the effectiveness of the attack and mopping up any spots that they’d missed.

When Dara judged the distance right, an art she’d developed through long practice with her Sky Riders, she activated the wand.  Below her bird an entire field of heavy and sharp objects joined the tangled storm of enchantments devastating the goblin force.  Hundreds of stones and arrows appeared out of thin air, and after seeming to hover for the barest instant, they succumbed to gravity.

The effect was dramatic.  It was as if a building had appeared and fell on the dismayed goblins.  A building full of arrows.  Only a fraction of the stones found their mark, but it was a wide-spread enough attack to devastate the gurvani.

Then Tassi dropped a couple of kegs of alchemical fire on the crowd, and things got really nasty.

Thankfully, few of the gurvani were armed with bows, and those who did have the weapons were too surprised by the sudden attack to launch more than a token defense against her Wing.  As Dara signaled for a Withering Spiral, she watched the few gurvani archers in the unit desperately try to sight on her birds with their short bows.  She took aim with a warwand and blasted one, as she coaxed Fearless up over the battle, and then used his gentle glide in a circle with the other birds to carefully choose her targets.

All four great hawks were focused on the battle, flying overhead in a tight circle that allowed each Rider an opportunity to saturate the ground below with more destruction.  Tassi and Ritha were using their crossbows to send deadly iron darts into the burning, seething mass below, while Broal – another Talented sport – dropped another alchemical weapon on the thickest part of the foe left standing.

This one didn’t burst into flames, as the pitch-soaked casks of kerosene had.  Instead this keg had been filled with noxious reagents that, when mixed in proper proportions and spread, turned the air into a deadly poison.  Dara watched with curiosity as the small wooden barrel plummeted into the center of the enemy unit.  It hit a rock at an odd angle, shattering instantly and sending a fine mist of droplets into their air.

The effect was almost as instant as the appearance of the weapon.  Within seconds the surviving gurvani were gasping, choking, and coughing.  Some were vomiting uncontrollably, and some were merely falling on the ground, clutching their throats or tearing at their eyes as the malevolent cloud overtook them.

It was a horrific sight, and a painful death.  Despite her hatred for the gurvani she could not help feeling just a bit bad at seeing them suffer so cruelly.

But this was war, she reminded herself.  And Dara the Sky Captain was a warrior.

Satisfied, at last, that the defenders were no longer a viable military unit, Dara reported the success of the flight to Timberwatch as she led her Wing back over the southern Waypoint to await further instructions.

Good news, Darmonal reported back a moment later, once he’d consulted with Lady Pentandra, or whomever she’d put in charge of the Sky Riders.  That was the only force keeping Caswallon’s squadron from assaulting and liberating that prison.  There are at least a thousand human slaves in there, he informed her.

How are we going to get a thousand people back through the Ways? she asked, concerned.  It had been a major effort to transport the raiders to Olum Seheri.

We’re working on it, he promised.  Let’s get them freed, first.  Then we’ll worry about their trip home.  Just got word – Tyndal needs your assistance on the Tower of Despair, he announced.  They’re on the upper floors, away from the fire, but apparently there’s something nasty climbing the wall.  Through the fire, he added, warningly.

We’ll go investigate and support, if able, Dara promised.

She briefly checked on the status of her Wing, and was relieved that everyone was still uninjured and not yet fatigued.  Combat flying was exhausting – the combination of concentration, fear, excitement, and effort took a toll on a Rider’s body.  She hastily gulped a few swallows of water from her bottle before she slung it and started relaying the new orders.

The run against the Tower of Despair – who came up with these names? – was different than their run over the gurvani.  For one thing, the objective wasn’t comfortably below them – it was directly in front.  The spire that towered above the rest of the island presented a massive target, helpfully lit by the flames engulfing the base of the structure.  Without gravity to aid their attack, the method and manner of assault had to change.

That meant Sky Bolts, and other horizontal weaponry.  While that was harder work, First Wing was adept at the technique.  There was an entire cliffside in the Uwarris decorated with the rotting remains of pumpkins the Sky Riders used as targets in their drills.  As Dara lined up the Wing’s attack, sailing out over the far eastern end of the island to take advantage of the wind, she pulled a Sky Bolt out of its scabbard and prepared it.

The light steel javelin was especially designed for this kind of work.  This model was the fifth generation of design improvements she’d made over the last two years, and Dara was adept with the weapon.  With overly large stabilizing fins in the wooden tail section, the nine-inch spearpoint was elegantly shaped and mage-hardened, making it a formidable projectile.

This time Dara formed her Wing up in a line, with Fearless leading, and they came in to the battle at a mere three hundred feet of altitude.  Most of the territory their swift wings covered was barren, rocky plains of ruined masonry left over from the final deluge of the Battle of Red Ice.  But there were just enough gurvani snipers concealed among the ruins to make the approach interesting.

The Tower itself was a darkened edifice that seemed to be constructed of the ruins.  It was as wide at the base as Chepstan Keep, back home, she saw, and even though much of that width was on fire, the Tower was so massive that less than a quarter of the building had been affected by the blaze.  Where they weren’t fighting the fire, the gurvani garrison within was congregating to respond to the multiple attacks.

More problematic, at the moment, were the shapes crawling through the flames and up the side of the building.  They seemed to ignore gravity, so fast did they move.  She used magesight to get a better look, as the smoke cleared enough for her to see.  The sight made her shudder, involuntarily.

The defenders of the Tower were undead, red-eyed draugen, from what she’d been told in briefing.  She’d never met one, herself, but any mental preparation she might have made for the possibility did not soften the shock of their appearance.

They wore the bodies of men: gaunt, tortured bodies of her fellow human beings, their skin usually exposed.  It did not have the same tone as living men, offering a ghastly gray pallor instead of living pink flesh.  Worse, the bodies had been branded with all manner of sorcerous sigils by the Enshadowed.  Those spells were to retard the rate of decomposition and degradation of the dead flesh, Minalan had told everyone at the briefing on the undead.  The necromantic spells that animated the dead limbs fed on the decomposition, and without the enchantments slowing it down they would soon consume the very flesh they animated.

The tortured bodies were animated not by mere sorcerous command; the draugen were defined by the enneagrams of ancient predators culled from the Ghost Rock of the island.  Just as the High Magi used those enneagrams as paracletes in enchantments ranging from magical rods and swords to the arcane constructs that did battle, below, the Necromancer used them to inhabit the bodies of the dead.

It was how they moved, Dara decided as Fearless flew closer, that made them truly terrifying.  They did not move like human beings.  They flung themselves into impossible positions, grasping the rough walls in ways human fingers were just not designed to, and moved with a combination of alien fluidity and sudden jerkiness that was entirely foreign to a human being.  The Nemovorti, at least, were Alka Alon enneagrams, she reasoned.  They were used to having hands and feet.  These things were ancient horrors compelled to work and fight in bodies they were unused to.

“Scrape them off that building!” she commanded to Fancy’s Rider, behind her.  Then she turned to her target.

With intense concentration Dara hefted the sky bolt over her shoulder, taking a steady aim on the draugen in the lead.  She waited until the distance was right – just like destroying pumpkins in the Uwarris back home, she reminded herself – and then hurled the sky bolt toward the hideous thing.

It darted out ahead of Fearless’ beak and streaked through the smoke-filled air like a lightning bolt.  Dara was already drawing a warwand as she watched the javelin impale the creature through the back, pinning it securely to the Tower through its backbone.

She got off two more blasts at closer range with her warwand, sending bolts of concussive force to shake the draugen off of their perches and into the flames, below, before she had to sharply bank to avoid a collision.  She and the big bird timed it well enough so that Fearless’ steel-clad claws raked through a fourth draugen as they made their closes approach to the building.

Behind her, she saw, the other Riders of the First Wing were scoring nearly as well on the creeping undead.  Sky bolts, crossbow darts, and lances of arcane power strafed the draugen, greatly reducing the number of them who pursued Tyndal and his company on the upper floors.  Faithful, the Tail of the Wing, slowed his flight to a crawl and allowed his Rider to launch a half-dozen concussive enchantments that shook the entire face of the structure before she pulled him into a bank.

Ishi’s tits, Dara! Rondal was yelling at her, mind-to-mind, a moment later.  Are you trying to kill us?  No more big booms!  This place wasn’t exactly built to masons’ guild standards!

Sorry! she replied.  We got carried away.  But there are a lot less draugen crawling up the side of the place, now, she reasoned.  How much longer are you going to be in there? she added, worriedly.  The fire the lads had started at the base of the structure was climbing beyond the fifth floor, now, and seemed to be burrowing into the center of the Tower above the great arch.  It still had several floors to go before it became a direct danger to the prison level . . . unless the building became unstable.

Not much longer, I think, Rondal reported back.  We’re still rounding up prisoners.  But it’s starting to get hard to breathe, he admitted.  As soon as we find Tyndal—

You’ve lost Tyndal? she demanded.

It’s complicated!  We’re on the floor below him, we think, but things are getting very chaotic, and you didn’t stop all the draugen from – I’ll talk later, he said, abruptly, and ended the conversation.

That was frustrating and worrying at the same time.  But she’d learned that you couldn’t worry about things affecting other units, not in combat.  She and the First Wing had done their duty and accomplished what they’d been ordered to do.

“Back to the southern point!” she called out to the Wing, when they’d resumed their patrol formation, flying close enough for their voices to be heard.  “Until we get new orders, we’ll patrol above Terleman’s site,” she commanded.

When the others confirmed the orders, she lead them back out east and south, away from the fires and back toward the dark, misty water.  She took a welcome breath of cleaner air and tried to relax from the excitement of combat flying.

She felt, before she saw or heard, the sudden attack from the darkness.  The awareness she’d cultivated as a beastmaster warned her that there were other things in the air mere moments before she saw the glint of light on their wings – and their eyes.

“Wyverns!” she screamed, unsure if anyone could hear her, but feeling compelled to warn them.  She cursed as the vicious predators began pacing Fearless.  Damn it, wasn’t Taren’s contraption supposed to have cleared the skies of them? she asked herself.

True, there weren’t nearly as many now as they were warned about, but there were enough flying reptiles left in the air to bother her Wing.  She drew a warwand in each hand and began trying to cull the survivors from the air while she called Pentandra, mind-to-mind.

Pentandra, weren’t the wyverns supposed to be gone? she demanded.  There’s a batch of them just south-east of Terleman’s position.  They’re harassing my Wing!

How many? Pentandra asked, bluntly.

Only six or seven, at the moment, but—

That’s almost nothing, Dara, Pentandra reproved.  There were thousands there, when we started!

Just thought I’d let you know, she replied, glumly.

She was too busy to report back to Pentandra a moment later, when the number of wyverns skirmishing with the hawks seemed to grow.  One of the vicious beasts tried to attack Fearless’ feet, but a flick of the powerful talons sent the creature plummeting.  Dara managed to fell two with her wands, but they moved so quickly and chaotically that her shots mostly missed.

Her Wingmates weren’t having any better luck.  She saw two of the beasts dig into the tailfeathers of Fancy, much to her annoyance, and Faithful’s ponderous bulk seemed to attract plenty of them.  Dara, herself, had to fend off the wyverns when they realized that the Riders, not just the hawks, were vulnerable.

She spent a few tense moments when one of the creatures wrapped its snaky tail around her right arm and began stabbing at her with its poisonous tail.  Thankfully her armor protected her flesh from the sting, but the claws and vicious teeth of the little flying predator gave her a few anxious moments before she got frustrate and used an arcanely-conjured electrical shock to stiffen the pest into unconsciousness.  She hoped it didn’t wake up before it hit the lake.

But as soon as she relieved herself from one of them, a second attacked her left thigh, and she had to fight all over again . . . as the scaly comrades of the beast attached themselves to Fearless’ wing.

We can’t fight them! she realized in a panic.  We’re going to go down!

“Emergency landing!” she yelled into the air as she fought for control over Fearless.  “Head for the shore!  Try not to land in the water!” she warned.

Fearless was getting frustrated and panicked himself, she could feel through their connection.  The bird was angry, and was flying more erratically with too much weight on his wing – weight that was biting and chewing at the poor bird’s flesh.  He banked sharply, without warning, as he tried to dislodge the predators.  He was only partially successful, leaving a bare and bloody spot revealed under the torn-away feathers.

Dara blasted the other wyvern carefully with a warwand, but with it entangled in Fearless’ wing, there was just too much possibility it would injure Fearless, as well.  She couldn’t do anything about it until they were on the ground and she could tear it off . . . but a single glance back told her that landing presented its own problems.  There was at least a score of wyverns behind her, waiting for Fearless to do just that.

Dara used the last of her warwands on thinning the flock of reptiles behind her, and experimented with some other spells to keep them away.  But she exhausted her knowledge of combat magic quickly, without reducing the number of pursuers by much.

Her Wingmates were in even more trouble, she saw – Fancy was flying on an injured wing herself, and was making a slow, lazy spiral who’s each revolution took her closer to shore.  Faithful was nearly falling out of the sky, gliding as quickly as he could to get to shore.  Dara couldn’t see how their Riders fared.  She couldn’t even see the fourth bird in her Wing, as Fearless crossed the shoreline.

That occupied all of her attention – landing a wounded bird was fraught with trouble, for a Rider.  She’d lost a Rider that way, she recalled with a painful stab, as the ground below rushed up to meet her.  She could hear, as well as feel, the clank of Fearless’ steel-clad talons scramble for purchase as he tried to land, braking hard with his injured wing.

It wasn’t an entirely successful maneuver, and both bird and Rider went sprawling as they landed.  Dara cleverly released the catches that bound her flying harness together with her saddle, one of Master Andalnam’s finest creations, and leapt clear of the injured hawk as it skidded across the rubble-strewn beach.

Her own impact was even more abrupt than Fearless’.  She took the brunt of it on her right shoulder as she slid into a rock.  Had she not been wearing her hard leather flight helmet, she was sure she would have brained herself in the landing.

But moments after she painfully skidded to a halt, she was on her feet again, her curved combat dagger Talon in her hand.

Talon wasn’t exactly a mageblade, but it was sufficiently enchanted to attack the wyverns now swarming over Fearless.  The bird shook angrily and used its great beak liberally to pull the tiny lizards from his skin and feathers – or at least a piece of them.  Fearless’ beak was massive, sharp, and powerful.

Dara stabbed and slashed at the scaly pests with Talon, wordlessly screaming her defiance and anger as she pulled them away with bloody hands.  Thankfully her flight gauntlets were thick enough to keep their needle-like teeth from her flesh, but she sustained a number of scratches as she worked around her angry bird.

Then, as suddenly as they’d appeared, the wyverns scattered.  At first Dara thought that they’d finally become aware of just how formidable a giant hawk could be, when it was enraged.  But she knew that didn’t fit the predators’ style.  Wyverns, she could tell, were all teeth and appetite.  They were swarm hunters and scavengers, not mental giants.

Once again, she felt the presence that scared them away before she saw it.  Not as nodes of animal life in the great matrix around her, but as a hollow space in that matrix.  It was as if there was a shadow cast over the web of life.

Fearless continued to call defiantly after the wyverns, feeling for all the world as if they’d been driven off by his magnificent prowess.  But the truth was, Dara knew with a sinking feeling, that there was a greater power than a giant hawk at play.

She did her best to send calming and soothing emotions through her link, to still the great bird, while she sought some cover in the rubble on the beach.  None of her Wingmates were visible in the sky, now, and she had no idea where any of them might be.

For twenty long breaths, she clung to a rock next to Fearless, who’d finally calmed down enough to keep from being such a target, and she was almost certain that the danger had passed . . . when she heard a voice from the darkness.

“That is an impressive creature,” the raspy voice said, in a thickly-accented tone.  “I wonder if it will still be able to fly, after it is dead and reanimated?”

“I’m guessing that’s a rhetorical question,” Dara said, boldly standing and brandishing her blade.  “Because that is not going to happen today.”

“Oh, he’s already taken a lot of venom from those things,” the voice dismissed as it came closer through the mists.  “He might last a few weeks, but if left untreated he’ll eventually get an infection.”

“He won’t be untreated,” Dara vowed, as she searched for her tormentor’s exact location.  “I wouldn’t get comfortable fantasizing about soaring over the clouds.  Who are you?” she demanded.

“The very thought of flight gives me chills,” the raspy voice announced.  “But it is intriguing.  Who am I?  This is my home, now.  Who are you?  Or do you humani have no manners?”

“I am Lenodara of Sevendor, Hawklady of the Westwood, Captain of the Sky Riders,” Dara announced, trying to sound fearless as possible.  “And you will not hurt my bird!”

“Hurt him?  I shall cherish his magnificence in death in ways you mortals cannot comprehend, much less appreciate.  But you have answered my question, and hospitality requires I answer yours,” the voice admitted.  “I am Khudoz.  Third counsellor to Korbal the Great,” he said, proudly.

“You’re a Nemovort,” Dara accused, her eyes growing wide and every hair on her head standing up.

“That is the term,” agreed the voice, coming closer.  “I am one of the master’s most devoted servants.  I have been for a thousand years.  He has tasked me with countering this . . . incursion into his peace,” Khudoz said, with disgust.

“So, you’re a great warrior?” Dara asked, hoping she sounded skeptical.  A Nemovort.  Lords of the undead.  Powerful Alka Alon sorcerers from long ago, stuffed into the body of some hulking human slave.

“Warrior?  Nay,” chuckled the voice.  “I am a researcher.  Nor do I embrace the necromantic arts, the way my brethren do,” he admitted.  “My interests are in the variety of life.”

“That is a more noble pursuit than necromancy,” agreed Dara, warily.  She noted that Fearless was much calmer, now . . . and very aware of the new danger in the shadows.

“I’ve always thought so,” the voice agreed.  “Take your own species, for example,” the undead lord said, conversationally.  “So similar to the Alon, yet so delightfully different!  This new body is as remarkable as it is strange.  A complex architecture, almost as sophisticated as the Alon.  A pity they wear out so soon, under the strain.  I will miss it, I think,” the voice admitted.

“What do you want, Sir Khudoz?” Dara demanded, feeling a little desperate.

“Why, I want to study you,” Khudoz’s voice said, soothingly.  “You and that magnificent animal.  I want to take you apart and see how you work,” he said, eagerly.

“My corpse is not your textbook,” Dara insisted.

“Your corpse?  Girl, I told you I was not interested in necromancy.

“When I examine you, you will be alive.  And fully awake.  I want to see your biological responses, as I slice open that fascinating skin and start to probe beneath.  I want to see every possible expression of your biology as I inflict a variety of stimulation on you.  And that animal,” he added.  “I’ll have to have a new laboratory constructed, but it will be quite worth it!  I am no mere necromancer.  I am a vivisectionist!”

Chapter Thirty-Four

The View From The Tower Of Despair

Rondal

“Where in three hells is Tyndal?” Rondal asked, annoyed, as he and Atopol the Cat materialized through the Ways.  He’d been expecting to see his goofy-looking comrade when he used the Waystone embedded in the hilt of his mageblade . . . but there was no sign of the intrepid knight mage when they came through.

“Perhaps that has something to do with it?” Atopol said, quietly, as he directed Rondal’s attention behind them with a magelight quickly cast from his hand to illuminate the spot.

The corridor was strewn from wall to wall with debris – stones and shattered planks and splinters from the flooring above.  As it was directly underneath a gaping hole in the ceiling.  It only took a few moments for Rondal to locate Tyndal’s mageblade – but not his body – in the debris.

“If there’s a gaping hole in something, one can reasonably assume Tyndal is involved,” he said, pulling the blade from the wreckage.  It was stained with some black ichor.  “This confirms it.  But no body, Tyndal’s or anyone else’s.”

“Which means that either the conflict was inconclusive, or that whatever it was ate Tyndal and is lurking around, regretting the wisdom of the meal.”

“Let’s stay open to the possibilities,” Rondal nodded, drawing his own blade after securing Tyndal’s to his weapon harness.  “So, are they down here?  Or still up there?”

“I’m guessing they’re still up there,” Atopol said, his violet eyes glancing around at the wreckage.  “I don’t see any footprints or other signs of disruption,” he observed.

Tyndal, are you well? Rondal asked, using the mind-to-mind enchantment.

We’re . . . busy, his partner explained.

We saw the damage, Rondal agreed.  Where are you?

A level above where we were, he said, after a few moments silence.  Noutha is with me, and about four prisoners.

What happened?

I’ll tell you in a moment, Tyndal promised.  We’re busy!

“Let’s search down here,” Rondal suggested.  “Either Tyndal took care of the threat, or he’s causing some poor creature indigestion, right now.”

“The two outcomes are not mutually exclusive,” Atopol pointed out.

“In any case, there’s an entire block of cells on this level we haven’t liberated.”  Though the dimly-lit corridors were deserted, the narrow doors to cells on both sides were still tightly shut.  “We should see who else we can rescue from certain doom and the torture of appalling taste in decorating.”

The occupants were skeptical and afraid, considering the smell of smoke in the air, the flames below, and the battles in the distance.  But most welcomed any chance to escape their confinement in such circumstances, particularly when a smart-looking armored knight mage was their rescuer.

They were in about the same shape they’d discovered Rardine in, upstairs . . . save for a few unfortunate souls who’d languished in Olum Seheri significantly longer.  They were barely able to speak their names, and were highly suspicious of Rondal’s story, even as they stood free outside of their cells.

“I’ll start taking them back to Timberwatch,” Atopol said, selecting four of the most decrepit-looking prisoners first.  “If we hurry we can get them all away before the fire gets to this floor.”  He took out his stone and started the enchantment . . . then stopped.

“It’s not working, he muttered.

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

“I can’t open the Ways,” Atopol said, concerned.

Instead of arguing, Rondal tried, himself.  The Alkan songspell in his tiny irionite orb engaged, when he called its thaumaturgical trigger, but there was no resulting stomach-turning twist in reality that took his breath away.  He was still in a smelly, smoldering enemy fortress with a bunch of scared people.

“I can’t open the Ways,” Rondal repeated, dismayed.

“What does that mean?” one of the prisoners in better condition asked, alarmed.

“It means that you are free,” Rondal assured him.  He didn’t need a panic in people already desperate and frightened.  “But our original means of escape is blocked.  Merely a temporary issue.  Bide, my lords and ladies, while we contend with the problem,” he said, in reasonable tones.

He wasn’t certain he was convincing, but they didn’t riot.  “Cat, make a quick sweep of this floor, see if there is anyone else about,” he suggested.  The shadow thief turned his bow into a means of fading into the darkness and nearly disappearing.

“What about us?” asked one man in desperate need of a shave.  “What if they come back?”

“We need arms!” one of the other prisoners insisted.  “You’ve an extra sword, there, Sir Rondal – spare it for one of us!” he pleaded, pointing at Tyndal’s mageblade.  “They could be coming back upstairs any moment!”

Some of the other prisoners weren’t begging.  They discovered the pile of rubble and a few took up planks or beams or stones to defend themselves with.

“Bide!” Rondal repeated, more harshly.  He sighed, and closed his eyes.

Pentandra?  Rondal.  Something has happened to the Ways.  We can’t use them to escape this place.

You’re the second report of that, she informed him.  I’ll check into it and get back to you.

Thanks, he replied, knowing Pentandra would do everything she could.  In the meantime, I’ve got some hungry, scared, unarmed prisoners who don’t want to be any of those things.

What’s your situation?

We’re on the floor below Rardine’s level, he reported.  It looks like Tyndal is otherwise occupied.  Last I checked, he’s two floors above us, with Noutha and some more prisoners.

We’ll look into the blockage, she promised, you just keep everyone safe and alive until we do.

That would be easier if we were prepared for this, Rondal countered.  We’re going to need some supplies.

The Ways are blocked, you recall.

They are, Rondal agreed.  But I doubt that would confound a double-ended hoxter pocket, he pointed out.  We set up a few of the things, before we started the mission.  We can’t get the prisoners out, but we can get food, clothing, and weapons to them.

I’ll see what I can put together, she agreed.  Good idea, Rondal.

“Help, as such, is on its way,” he announced to the prisoners, a moment later.  “I assure you, the entryway to the lower floors has been spellbound against anyone coming up that way, and the gallant giant hawks of the Sky Riders have kept most of the foe from scaling the walls.”

“Most?” asked a frail-looking woman, alarmed.  Rondal tried to ignore it.

“I’ve been in contact with my superiors, and we’re working on getting you some supplies, while we wait for them to break whatever spell is keeping us from leaving this awful place.”

Atopol faded back into sight, as silently as a whisper.  “No one else on this floor,” he reported.  “What’s the plan?”

“Bide,” Rondal pleaded, as he felt the stirrings of contact.  It was Tyndal.

We’re alive, he reported, matter-of-factly.  Mask took that thing apart like it was butchering day.  Remind me never to piss off Noutha.  She’s her father’s daughter, he said, reverently.

What was it?

Draugen, Tyndal replied, casually.  A real nasty one, too.  Stronger and faster than the ones in Enultramar.  They’re all over the place, here.

I’ve got your blade, Rondal informed him.  Shall I bring it up there, or would you like to fetch it down here?

There’s not much beyond this level, I think, not yet.  They’re still building it out.  We can’t use the Ways.

Neither can we, Rondal agreed.  What happened?

Korbal has an entire staff of ancient Alka Alon sorcerers.  Some of them probably built the Waypoints.  They probably know a way to block them.

It was actually a reasonable suggestion.  Rondal shook his head.  Do we come up, or do you come down?

We’ll come down, for now, Tyndal decided.  We can always retreat back here, if they get through the spellbindings.

We’ll meet you over by your . . . hole, Rondal agreed.

“We’re going to re-group with our comrades, who have been freeing the rest of the prisoners, above,” Rondal told the worried-looking prisoners, when he opened his eyes.  “Once we’re in a more secure position, we’ll formulate our next step.”

“Didn’t you have a plan to get us out?” demanded one of the men, a slight-looking fellow who might have been a clerk, before he came to Olum Seheri.

“We were only here to rescue a few specific prisoners,” Rondal explained.  “We weren’t aware that you were all here, when we arrived.”

“You aren’t just going to leave us here, are you?” a panicked female voice asked from the rear of the crowd in the cramped corridor.

“No, no, we’re all going to go home,” he promised.  “Just . . . not right away.”

“Didn’t someone say the tower was on fire?”

“Where did all the damned scrugs go?” asked another voice, angrier than the others.

“Who is this ‘we’ you mentioned, Sir Rondal?” a younger female voice.

“We . . . this mission is sponsored by His Grace, Anguin, Duke of Alshar . . . and was executed by the Arcane Order of Estasi Knights Errant,” he pronounced, trying to sound as authoritative as possible.  “Follow our direction, and everything will be well!”

You said that like you believed it, Atopol told him, a moment later, when they began moving toward the hole in the ceiling.  Well done.

I’m glad I was convincing.  I have no idea how we’ll get out, if the Ways aren’t working.

Well, I’m certain Tyndal will have a few brilliant ideas, Atopol said, sarcastically.  What about the giant hawks?

They aren’t strong enough to bear much more than their riders.  We’ll have to find another way.  We should be safe here, for now.

Safe.  In a burning building.  Full of enemies.  Your ideas of security are amusing, Striker.

Perhaps that will dissuade your sister from pressing her suit so aggressively, Rondal shot back.

Do you jest?  Have you not been introduced to Gatina the Kitten of Night?  She’d see our current situation as a mildly-whimsical evening out.

Which is why I purposefully convinced your father to exclude her from the festivities, Rondal replied, as they began helping prisoners down through the hole.  That way they didn’t have to lift the spellbinding on the stairway.  As much as I value her skills and boldness, she has a . . . an . . . she’s just . . .

I’ve lived with her my entire life, I know how she is, Atopol agreed.  I’m glad she was left behind, too.

When all the prisoners were in one place, muttering excitedly about the unexpected rescue, Noutha and Tyndal finally dropped down into the hole to join them all.

“I believe this is yours,” Rondal said, handing his blade back to his friend.  “So, no magic stairway from the top of the tower to over the mountains?”

“Not that we saw,” nodded Noutha.  “Nothing but unfinished rooms, scaffolding, and a crane.  And no,” she said, before he could ask, “I don’t think it would be a viable means to escape.  It only reaches the battlement below, which is where our enemies are gathering while they figure out how to stop us.  Or the fire.”

“Yes,” sighed Tyndal, sniffing.  The smoke was starting to get thick enough in the air to see.  “The fire.  That seemed like such a good idea, when we were only going to be here for a few moments,” he reflected.

“It’s an inconvenience, at this point, not a disaster,” Atopol shrugged.  “But it does provide a tidy hourglass for progress on our escape plan.”  He paused a moment.  “Do we have an escape plan?”

“Working on it,” promised Rondal.

A moment later Timberwatch contacted him to let him know that some initial supplies were placed in the two-sided hoxter.  That allowed him a few moments as a hero as he distributed some water bottles, blankets, cloaks, and a handful of infantry blades and spears.  A moment later he earned a rousing cheer when he also produced bread, cheese, and a pot of beans to feed the half-starved prisoners.

“While that was gratifying, in a humanitarian sort of way, a picnic doesn’t advance our escape plan much,” Atopol murmured to Rondal, when everyone was hungrily eating.

“It gave me time to think,” Rondal insisted.

“So, you came up with something?” Tyndal asked, eagerly.

“No,” Rondal said, frustrated.

He ignored the disappointed looks of his friends as he furiously searched his mind for some alternate way out of the tower.  He had no idea how Korbal’s magical corps had managed the feat of blocking the Ways, but it had put the mission in jeopardy.

How in six hells could they get out of this? he fumed.  The High Magi had become reliant on the Ways, he knew, using the ancient pathways to instantaneously transport themselves across the kingdom for years, now.  From what he understood about the process he used so liberally, the Ways flowed as naturally as rivers.

Of course, their foe had once managed to freeze an entire river, he conceded.  The truth was, the magi only had a vague idea about the capabilities and capacities of the foe they faced.

Two years ago, they’d been focused on combating Sheruel, and the seemingly-endless gurvani hordes.  Now that seemed almost a secondary undertaking, compared to the emergence of Korbal, the Enshadowed, and the undead army he was raising.  Sheruel was brutal and openly hostile.

Korbal and the Enshadowed, on the other hand, were devious and insidious.  Sheruel wanted to kill every human being on Callidore, and a fair number of Alka Alon, along the way.  Korbal’s goals were murkier, and he was far more willing to use humanity’s own weaknesses against itself in their pursuit.  In fact, he was more willing to use humanity than to destroy it, and that made him by far the more dangerous foe, in Rondal’s mind.

Two forays into Olum Seheri convinced him of that.  The destruction of Anthatiel was recent, and the establishment of Olum Seheri so quickly after its fall was remarkable.  It demonstrated not just an abundance of resources, mundane and arcane, but a quick and dedicated intelligence at the head of a devoted organization, committed to a specific goal.  You just don’t build cities in the middle of nowhere out of nothing, he reasoned.

The city, alone, would be remarkable enough . . . but this second raid proved the intensity of the enemy’s design.  The rapid construction of such large buildings indicated to Rondal the purpose and direction of their plans, at least some of them.  And it didn’t bode well for humanity.

The Tower of Despair he was currently both burning down and taking refuge in was a case in point.

The structure was massive, as large as any great keep . . . yet only lightly fortified.  Considering it was on an island in the middle of an enchanted lake at the arse-end of the world, encircled by mountains and unforgiving wilderness, it was unlikely that any large armies would just stumble by the place.  There was no ostensible reason to invest in such a massive fortification when nature provided the best walls and moats in the world.

Yet here they were.  Attacking the place.

Korbal built the Tower not for defense, but as a base for a mighty military machine.  While the upper levels were a prison, the sprawling two-sided base of the Tower included everything needed to produce, train, equip and deploy a military force, he’d observed.

The western side of the base was devoted to supply and equipage.  There were vast workshops and smithies on the lower floors, and expansive warehouses filling up with the products of their work.  The eastern leg of the Tower was mostly garrison and training facilities, he’d noted.  There was space there for thousands.

Indeed, of all the castles he’d seen in the world, the one that the Tower of Despair most resembled was Relan Cor, the ancient Magocracy-era fortress that housed the War College.  It, too, had been designed originally to produce and sustain a large army indefinitely.  It, too, had been built in a remote and easily-defendable location . . . on the edge of a wilderness it was preparing for conquest.

If the Tower of Despair wasn’t foreboding enough, the other major structures on the island promised even more dire affairs in the future.  Aside from Korbal’s grandiose palace complex, from the heights of the Tower he’d seen glimpses of other construction projects underway.  Huge projects, requiring the labor of tens of thousands of slaves and engineers.

It occurred to him that, while there was little he could do to change their situation at the moment, he could use his time more wisely, by gathering intelligence.

“I need some air,” he finally sighed.  “Who wants to go for a walk?  I want to see just how high this thing can go.”

“I’ll go,” Atopol volunteered.  “It would be a shame to have climbed this beast of a tower and not be able to brag that I stood on its spire.”

“You two guard this lot, and keep them happy,” ordered Rondal.  “We’ll be right back.”

Tyndal smirked.  “Of course.  What could possibly go amiss?”

The view from the spire confirmed Rondal’s worst suspicions, and compounded them.

The vista itself was magnificent, in a dreadful sort of way.  As he and the Cat of Enultramar carefully stalked the scaffolding surrounding the latest construction, they could see in every direction.  The gloomy mists overhead reflected the light of a dozen fires – the one consuming their own building the brightest.

But there was plenty on the ground to capture one’s attention, if you knew what to look for.  Leaving aside the battles that raged, and looking toward the rest of the island in the gloom seemed counter-intuitive, but then Rondal had been knighted for accurate field observations.  It only took a few moments for Rondal to assess the various developments underway around him below to tell him the story of Korbal’s ambitions.

“That’s what I was afraid of,” he sighed, as he surveyed the island’s eastern quarter.  “See that large square that they’re clearing?  And that deep pit within?  The channel being dug will allow it to void to the lake.  That’s where I would put an alchemical facility, if I was to build one here.”

“Alchemy?” Atopol asked, skeptically.  “I thought these fellows were necromancers?”

“It’s a multi-disciplinary fellowship, from what I understand,” Rondal suggested.  “And that installation they’re building over there?  That’s going to be a smelter, with a mill attached.  Which makes that next bit, there, the site of their smithies . . . and that’s a lot of territory they’ve staked out,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

“So . . . they’re planning a robust industrial enterprise?” Atopol asked, his arms folded as he leaned casually against a rickety scaffolding.

“Essentially,” Rondal nodded, as he continued his assessment.  It was time to improve his vantage, he realized.  He pulled his thaumaturgical baculus out of its hoxter pocket to aid in the effort, and was immediately gratified by the wealth of information it provided.

“Yes, it will be a robust enterprise,” he concluded a moment later.  “That has to be an enchantment complex.  There’s a convergence of natural arcane force lines there, and someone has begun twisting them into a usable font.  I’m guessing the space between the two will be devoted to workshops and such . . . hells, it’s essentially just like the bouleuterion in the Enchanter’s Quarter of Sevendor!”

“Only without all of the touristy taverns and quaint little shops,” Atopol agreed, clearly indulging his friend.

“Don’t worry, they’ll come,” Rondal said, grimly.  “All they’d need is a distribution system,” he decided.  “Being this remote gives you security and privacy, but how do you . . . oh . . . of course!” he said, as he realized the truth.

“What?” demanded Atopol.  “Tea shops?  Tell me you don’t foresee tea shops!”

“No,” Rondal said, with a heavy sigh.  “Sevendor Castle was raided by the Enshadowed awhile back – that’s where we captured Noutha.  While it wasn’t entirely successful, the thieves came away with some minor stones from Master Minalan’s personal collection . . . including the smallest and least powerful of the three Pocket Stones,” he explained.

“So, they can make small things appear and disappear,” shrugged Atopol.

“You should really reconsider additional study in thaumaturgy,” Rondal suggested.  “The hoxter pockets don’t just make things ‘appear and disappear’ – they allow access to a temporary ‘bubble’ between the structural spars of reality.  Before the stones, a really good mage who knew what he was doing and had access to a lot of power could manage that for the briefest of times.

“But the stones allow us to do that more-or-less permanently, using the power of the ambient Magosphere to sustain the ongoing enchantment.  It’s still a push to establish the initial framework, but once it’s done, it won’t degrade for a good long time – practically forever, especially if it’s done in Sevendor.”

“So, you’re upset over the potential coemption, after enjoying such a profitable monopoly?”

“The other great advantage of the Pocket Stones is that you can anchor multiple triggering enchantments to the same inter-dimensional space,” Rondal continued, patiently.  “That’s how we fed the prisoners.  The wand I carry is anchored to the same hoxter that is also tied to a wand in Timberwatch.  One of Pentandra’s staff uses his wand to pop a bunch of biscuits inside, and then I use my wand, hundreds of miles away, to pull them forth here, where they arrive all warm and toasty.”

Atopol was starting to understand Rondal’s concern.  “So, with the smallest Pocket Stone, Korbal can still move his war material from Olum Seheri to . . . well, pretty much anywhere . . . without the necessity of roads, wains, ships, or ports.  That . . . that, my friend, is a depressing prospect,” Atopol agreed.

“Oh, it’s far worse than that,” Rondal said, putting away his baculus.  “See, both sides can use the Ways to move people,” he reminded the thief.  “We have an advantage, because of the Waystones.  We can move our Waypoints around.”

“Which was lovely, until Korbal found a way to block them,” Atopol reflected.

“It surely was,” Rondal agreed.  “The difference is that with the lesser Pocket Stone, Korbal can move his troops around, too.  That’s something we cannot do.”

“Because it kills them,” nodded the Cat.  “And it kills his . . . oh,” the white-haired youth realized, his lavender eyes sparkling.  “The hoxters kill living things.  Not previously-living things.”

“Exactly.  Korbal has an incredible advantage in that he can move large numbers of his draugen, Nemovorti, and market-variety undead through them.  All they need to do is re-energize them, once they arrive, and,” he paused, snapping his fingers and adding a modest exploding cantrip for theatrical effect, “instant army.”

Atopol turned and looked down on the slave pens, which Terleman’s company seemed about to liberate.  “So those poor bastards down there are being worked to death . . . and then brought back and worked until they are almost ruined.  When they can be tucked into a hoxter with a spear and used as shock troops, at a later date,” Atopol said, grimly.  “All warm and toasty.”

“Korbal is using the slave trade in Enultramar to supply both his labor and his recruitment.  His insurgency in Caramas and their attempts to infiltrated both the Brotherhood, which is facilitating the trade, and the rebel council, which is providing cover for it, support his supply conduit,” concluded Rondal, grimly.

“And one that is completely independent of the gurvani,” Atopol reminded him.

“I think that was the Enshadowed’s plan, all along,” reasoned Rondal, as he looked down from the spire of the Tower of Despair.  “Use the gurvani’s argument with the Wilderlords over their sacred cave as a lever to invade the Wilderlands in force . . . after assisting the scrug shamans with constructing Sheruel.”

“That’s the part I don’t understand,” Atopol said, shaking his snowy head.  “If they needed to conquer the Wilderlands, they didn’t exactly need such a . . . well, complicated figure to rally them around.  Did they?”

“Where I grew up, the Goblin Wars were long ago and pretty conclusive.  The scrugs were peaceful Mountain Folk.  Some even traded with them – they met at what were called the Twilight Markets, and sometimes you could get really good deals with them.”

“They weren’t upset about the Goblin Wars?”

“Are you upset about Alshar losing Gilmora to Castal?” Rondal countered.

“That happened in my grandsire’s time,” shrugged Atopol.

“Exactly.  The scrugs might have held a grudge, but they certainly didn’t act on it.  But then I don’t think they raised a great army from the few tribes near Boval Vale.”

“My point is, why create a complicated monstrosity like Sheruel?” Atopol asked.  “Would not a charismatic gurvan warrior-shaman, or something like that, be far easier to rally the troops?”

“Well, I suppose they did need him to activate the molopor in Boval,” Rondal pointed out.  “And he’s responsible for the Umbra.  And they couldn’t have frozen the Poros all the way up to here without massive amounts of continuous arcane power.”

“I suppose that would also be useful for animating a might army of undead, recently released from a hoxter pocket,” Atopol concluded.

“Among other unpleasant things,” Rondal nodded, feeling a little nauseated.  “But you’re right: why use a brain-damaged gurvan head?  Why not an Alkan?  Why use a head at all, if you have the ability to create irionite?”

“Well, from what I understand, you enchanters use artificial enneagrams to control your enchantments,” Atopol suggested.  “I’m assuming that’s a time-consuming, laborious process.  And that a freshly-harvested brainpan with at least reasonable amounts of intelligence – not to mention a certain fanatical bent, in his former life – might make an adequate substitute.”

“It would be a kind of functional paraclete,” admitted Rondal, trying to understand the thaumaturgy behind such a construct.  “It would, indeed, be very difficult to construct an enneagram complex enough, autonomous enough, to do the job if you built it from scratch.  Even if you used templates, it would be a chore.  They just aren’t complex enough to use for more than simple tasks.

“But using the fresh brain of a complex creature would be adequate – or at least provide a semblance of autonomy.  It just substitutes the neural architecture of the decapitated head for an intact enneagram . . . kind of a grisly way around the problem,” he conceded.  “But it does solve some of the limitations of using a paraclete.  I don’t know,” he sighed.  “We just don’t have enough intelligence on them, yet.  Just a basketful of intriguing questions.”

“Well, now I’m intrigued, and cats love baskets,” Atopol said, taking a glance around.  “While the view is lovely, and the company enchanting, and the conversation about speculative thaumaturgy and necromancy is, truly, fascinating, I can’t help but feel we have more pressing matters to attend to.  Still, a welcomed respite to this expedition’s concerns,” he said with a slight bow.

“So, did you come up with any insights how we can escape our situation?” Rondal asked, hopefully.

“Not unless you can enchant wings on us all,” sighed Atopol.  “I can’t,” he added.  “In fact, the greatest insight I’ve come to on our excursion is that, as the foremost thief in Alshar, I really cannot abide the idea that Korbal has a jewel he covets.”

Rondal halted his progress down the ladder.  “You want to steal the Pocket Stone from Korbal?”

“It’s a bit of a challenge,” Atopol said, after a moment’s consideration, “but then it seems a rare prize, too.  Not to mention bragging rights as the greatest thief of my house.  Of all time,” he added, smugly.

Rondal rolled his eyes.  “I’m so glad you are willing to put your obsessive paternal issues in service of the greater good,” he snorted.

“As you are staking your marital future on the outcome of this expedition, I feel it is the least I can do to make a contribution,” Atopol agreed.

“Thankfully, Duke Anguin is no closer to reigning in Falas than you are to lifting the Pocket Stone from Korbal’s nightstand,” Rondal chuckled, as they descended into the first of the fully-enclosed sections of the spire . . . some fifteen floors above the street.

“Never underestimate the Cats of Enultramar,” his friend said, in a dramatic tone.  “We’ve yet to find a challenge we cannot best.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Fallen Rider

Tyndal

The draugen that faced them was a spindly creature.  Whomever owned the body before the new owner took residence had been long-limbed, and perhaps even stocky, but in undeath whatever spare flesh the body contained had long been consumed by the animation process.

What remained looked more like straps of twisted leather under the draugen’s ghastly skin.  The gape-jawed expression and the bald head were crowned by the pale-glowing red eyes of the type.  But it was large, clasping hands that concerned Tyndal.  They weren’t moving like normal human hands.  Indeed, they had some sort of artificial steel claws attached to them.  The creature was running toward them, but was using its hands as well as its feet to propel itself forward at them.

Noutha didn’t spare the time to assess the threat – she raised her mageblade and thundered a blast of white-hot magic past Tyndal’s cheek and shoulder at the charging draugen.  The shot missed, but it did cause the beast to alter its trajectory.

Tyndal reacted instinctively to the charge, throwing himself back while he drew his mageblade from over his shoulder.  He felt the mass of the brute hit his shoulder just as the blade came free, and felt the blow from one of those claws on his armor.

Noutha didn’t let her first attack’s failure dissuade her.  She met the draugen full-on, only failing to slice its right arm off at the shoulder when her sword became entangled in the left claw.  But it did slice an ugly, jagged cut across the bare chest of the foe, leaving a trail of dark ichor to stain its horrific brands and tattoos.

There wasn’t room for Tyndal to bring his sword into play, but that didn’t limit his response.  He saw a moment’s opportunity and kicked at the back of the creature’s sinewy knee.  The heel of his heavy boot buckled the limb, unbalancing its attack on Noutha.

The nimble warmage didn’t waste the opportunity.  She used her momentum to twist the trajectory of her blade, and managed to impale the spitting creature’s shoulder briefly to the floor.  The draugen did not react to the wound with pain, he noted.  It screamed hideously in frustration as it scrambled to free itself.

Fortunately, Noutha was already moving, as Tyndal got to his feet, narrowly avoiding the flailing legs of the beast.  He conjured a withering blast from his mageblade against it as the warmage vaulted over the supine draugen, using her sword as a fulcrum.  She nearly made it, too – until a well-timed strike by the flailing steel claws caught her leg and sent her sprawling into the wall . . . along with her sword.

If the draugen noticed his attack, it didn’t show it.  That was dismaying, Tyndal thought.  The warspell was powerful enough to incapacitate a half-dozen men, but the undead bastard shrugged it off like an unpleasant fart.

He didn’t have much time to react, even with his warmagic spells speeding his thoughts and movements.  But when he found his body moving seemingly of its own accord, he elected to trust its judgement, and its predilection for survival.  Without really thinking much about it, Tyndal flung his mageblade at the draugen, activating one of the enchantments he’d cast upon it as it left his hand.

The draugen barely reacted to the flying sword – and in a show of arrogance, instead of trying to block or dodge out of the path of the missile, it boldly pushed its wounded shoulder into its path, as if to taunt the mortals with its ability to endure damage without human pain.

Whether by luck or out of some inherent understanding of the nature of arrogance, Tyndal had chosen his warspell well.  Less than a second after the slender leaf-shaped blade buried its point into the pallid shoulder of the creature, earning Tyndal a sneer of contempt, the enchantment activated, producing an explosion of pure concussive force.  Whether or not it felt pain, even draugen were subject to the sacred laws of physical action and reaction.

The blast shook the entire floor, and part of that floor was unable to bear the force.  A gaping hole spanning nearly the entire corridor opened up at the site of the blast.  The draugen was blown back down the corridor to its end, narrowly avoiding Noutha.

It took a few moments for the dust to clear, and for the ringing sound to wane in his ears.

“My congratulations, Sir Hero,” Noutha said, sarcastically, as she pulled herself to her feet.  “You managed to not kill us both with that clumsy spell.  And you threw away your sword,” she added, with professional criticism.

“I abated the threat,” he countered, defensively.

“In the most inane way possible,” she said, disgusted.

“Believe me, I could have come up with worse,” Tyndal said, apologetically, as he stepped over the smoking hole to join his comrade.  “I’m talented, that way.  Shall we go finish him off?” he asked, drawing one of his favorite, most destructive warwands from his harness.

“I’ll lead,” Noutha said, with a sigh of resignation.  “I’m the one who still has her sword.”

Once they’d ensured the rest of the floor was clear of further foes, they freed the few prisoners from their cells that they found.  The floor was only partially occupied, it seemed, with several empty cells that had either not been used, or had been used but briefly and were now vacant.

“I think we’ve found where they were keeping our Dradrien target,” Tyndal told Noutha, when he’d opened the last little cell.  The walls were chalked with diagrams and numbers in a strange script.  “That looks like the type of writing my three Dradrien vassals used,” he pointed out, sagely.  “I haven’t seen any other sign of Alon Dradrien.  This place would be torture to them, though,” he said, shaking his head.

“What do you mean?” asked Noutha.

“I don’t know much about the little guys, but when they were staying at Taragwen I noticed that they really, really don’t like heights,” he said, gesturing toward the wide window in the wall.  Though it was secured with a well-fashioned iron grate, it still allowed an ample – and vertigo-inducing – view out over the island.

Noutha nodded.  “That would be tortuous,” she agreed.  “Like sticking me with a half-competent warmage who pauses his mission to reflect on something shiny!”

“Exactly,” Tyndal said, ignoring the jibe.  “This bears out the idea that Uncle Suhi isn’t working here of his own free will.”

“You had doubts?”  Noutha had become familiar with the three Dradrien prisoners rescued on their first foray to Olum Seheri when she was protecting them at Taragwen for a few weeks over the winter.  “I thought they seemed pretty sincere.”

“Oh, I believe them – but the Dradrien have a long history of contending against the Alon Council, from what I understand.  Several clans of them were essentially exiled, a thousand years or so, and they have a habit of throwing in their lot with the Enshadowed.  My fellows insist it’s just a few bad clans . . . but then, they also admitted that they were amongst the most gifted in the craft of forging, too.”

“That’s congruent with what I learned when I worked with the Enshadowed,” she said, casually, as they returned to the small group of prisoners they’d liberated.  “They didn’t say much about it, of course – they were sticklers for operational security – but there was a lot of excitement about the inclusion of the Dradrien in their plans.  But it always sounded like a voluntary alliance.  Not something you’d need a prison cell for.”

“From what the black bearded lads say, their clan refused to have anything to do with any kind of alliance with renegades . . . this time,” he added.  “Apparently they’ve been burned by such flirtations in the past.  Uncle Suhi made that clear, just before he disappeared.”

“But he isn’t here,” Noutha stated.  “So we can’t rescue him.”

“If he isn’t here, then, where is he?” Tyndal asked.

“Where someone else can rescue him,” she answered, irritated.  “We’re in a burning building with a bunch of half-starved civilians.  We complete the mission as we can, and move on.  How did you folk do so well against me, when you stop to indulge in speculation so often?”

“We caused you to underestimate us, based on your own notions of how things should be properly done,” countered Tyndal, dismissively.  “Let’s get these folks back to Timberwatch,” he suggested, “and then we can come back and pursue Uncle Suhi.”

He began to do that at once, selecting two frail-looking prisoners who seemed to need medical attention the most.  Yet when he closed his eyes and tried to summon the Ways . . . they did not open.

“Uh oh,” he said, his eyes banging open.  “We’re in trouble.”

Rejoining Rondal and Atopol, after discovering they’d returned mere moments before the failure of the Ways, gave Tyndal a sense of relief he didn’t realize he was craving.  Noutha was in a foul mood, after she’d learned their means of escape was cut off.

Rondal calmed both the anxious prisoners and the irritated warmage, the one with food, clothing, water and weapons, the other with clear direction and decisive command.  He and Atopol took a brief climb up into the unfinished spire of the Tower, but were back quickly enough, grim looks on their faces.

“There’s no real way down, from up there,” Rondal concluded, when he returned.  “The fire is getting higher, too.  I don’t know when, but at some point, it’s going to start degrading the structure of the lower floors, stone or not.”

“I already heard a few big booms, awhile back,” Tyndal recalled.  “We don’t have much time.”

“Oh, that was just Dara and her Wing, discouraging the festival crowd,” dismissed Rondal.  “But we’re still in peril.  The only saving grace is that the fire is likely too fierce to allow them to seriously attack the spellbinding on those doors.  On the other hand, we’ll soon choke to death on the smoke, if we don’t get buried by a collapse or burned alive by the flames.”

“Oh, he’s a cheery fellow,” one of the women in the crowd of prisoners said, shaking her head.  “Why not just put us back in our cells?”

Before Tyndal could assist with that suggestion, Atopol stepped forward.

“Are all the Ways blocked, or are they still functioning elsewhere?” he asked.

“Uh . . . they’re still working,” Rondal answered.  “Presumably everywhere else but here.”

“So Korbal’s sorcery has cut us off from escaping to Timberwatch,” Atopol agreed, patiently.  “But does his spell likewise keep us from using the Waypoints here, on the island?”

Rondal and Tyndal stared at each other.

“That was a bloody brilliant idea, whether it works or not!” Tyndal said, gratefully, as he began to try the spell.  He selected the clandestine Waypoint, the one he’d established in the rubble cavern across the street.  In moments, he was in the artificial cave with three wary-looking Kasari and a Wilderlord.

“We’ve hit a bit of a snag,” he advised them, and explained the situation with the Waypoints before using the same route to go back.

“Yeah, they work!” he told the others, excitedly, when he reappeared through the Waystone in Rondal’s sword.  “Let’s move these folk over to our entry point, where they will be safe,” he proposed.

“Unarmed, hidden away in a ruin, on an island filled with evil, in the middle of a lake which is in the middle of a mountain range that is, quite possibly, the scholar’s definition of ‘the middle of nowhere’,” scoffed Noutha.  “Perfectly safe.”

“Safer,” Rondal conceded.  “At least they’ll be away from the fire.  And have a fighting chance.  I gave some of them swords, already,” he added.  “Our supply lines to Timberwatch are still intact, even if we’re unable to get reinforcements.  Hoxter pockets,” he reminded them.

“That’s something,” Noutha admitted, perking up.  “Fine.  Let’s get them to a slightly less dire location.  But your plan stinks.  Should we bring them into Azar’s beachhead, or take them to Terleman?”

After a few moments’ consultation with Pentandra and her staff, after informing her of the discovery they settled on bringing the score of prisoners through to Terleman’s Waypoint.

The Knight Commander had established not just a defensive redoubt in the few hours he’d been leading the assault, but also a medical aid station and supply cache in the ring of ruins surrounding the natural Waypoint.  The encampment was bustling with Tera Alon warriors and Wilderlords, warmagi and Kasari.  It was also peppered with goblin arrows and the butchered corpses of gurvani.

Still, Tyndal reasoned, as he made his fourth and final trip through with a brace of rescued prisoners, the battlefield encampment was still a more secure location than the top of the Tower of Despair.

“What’s your situation?” Terleman demanded, when he returned to the camp from his forward base to debrief them.

“Twenty-odd prisoners rescued,” Rondal reported, with military efficiency.  “No casualties.  Princess Rardine and Duke Anguin and their party have safely returned to Timberwatch, before the . . . interruption in the Ways began.”

The veteran warmage snorted.  “Lovely of Korbal to do that, wasn’t it?  Still, I have over two-hundred men, here, and Azar has half again as many at his position.  We can hold out a while,” he said, glancing at the store of arrows and other supplies that was accumulating near the center of camp, near the aid station.  “Have you seen Dara?”

“What?” Rondal asked, concerned.

“She’s missing,” Terleman reported in a businesslike manner.  “We rescued two of her Riders an hour ago, and one of her birds.  Everyone else from her wing is missing.  The other wings are down, too,” he revealed.

“Ishi’s tits!  What happened?” Tyndal blurted out.  “Dragons?”

“Wyverns,” Terleman grunted in disgust, as he took a sip of water.  “Our measures dealt with the bulk of the ones here, on the island, but once you get out over the lake there are enough stragglers left to bring down hawk.  Or a few wings of them.”

“You’ve tried reaching her mind-to-mind?”

“I had someone attempt it.  No response.  I’ve reported her as ‘missing’,” he pronounced.  “But I’ve got a team about to assault that prison complex,” he said, gesturing in the distance.  “In a couple of hours, I’m hoping to have a few hundred more prisoners to bring back here.  Hopefully by then the thaumaturges will have figured out how to counter that blockage, so we can get them back to Timberwatch.”

The big warmage seemed utterly confident in his plans, Tyndal noted approvingly.  He did not have the panic that battle often brings to a commander; instead, Terleman approached the chaos of battle with the calm consideration of a seasoned professional in the middle of his trade.  He doffed his helmet for a moment, ran his fingers through his graying hair, and called forth a magemap in front of them all.

“This is my dilemma, now,” he said, using a wand to point at various areas on the map.  “We hold this area strongly, with a core of Tera Alon and Wilderlord infantry – and we can hold it for a while,” he said, proudly.  “Two spellfields guarding our flanks, wards here to here, and a picket post on the water-side of the redoubt.

“We’ve got five advanced positions, now, these two large ones here and here, and then three smaller ones at these locations,” he reported.  “We’re about to send another twenty men to reinforce the western position, and then we’ll assault that prison complex.  That’s going to stretch our forces thin, unless we pull in one or two of those other positions,” he said, thoughtfully.

“What kind of opposition are we facing?” Tyndal asked, fingering his chin.

“We demolished the original garrison, and then two guard posts in short order.  After that we received two sorties, but put them down easily.  Once the Tera Alon arrived, their archery kept them at length . . . and the need to respond that fire,” he said, nodding toward the flaming Tower of Despair.  “Once they realize their prisoners are gone, they’ll be quick to reallocate their forces here.  We have until then.  If the gods are with us.”

“Then who is going to search for the Riders?” Rondal asked, concerned.

“I’ve passed along word to the Kasari rangers in the field, but in truth I cannot spare a sufficient force to search.  I don’t have the men.

“Until now,” he said, sharply.  “Now I have your unit.  What’s left of it.  I figure we have an hour, perhaps two, before they will turn their strength on us.  I want you back here by then.  With the Riders or without them.  I’ll need you to defend this place, if they cannot reopen the Ways.  Until then . . . you may do as you like,” he said, dismissing the map with a wave.

“Understood, Captain,” Rondal said, replacing his own helm.  “Where do you think they went down?”

“Southeast of here,” he said, picking up his impressive-looking battle staff.  “At least some of them made it to shore.  Gods help the ones that didn’t.  I don’t want to imagine the things that lurk in that lake.  But if you want to help, that’s where you can search.”

Tyndal watched the warmage stalk off toward his waiting guard to lead them into battle.  He sighed.  Search-and-rescue duty seemed boring, in comparison.

“Not only will we be able to search for Dara,” Rondal explained to him as they rejoined Noutha and Atopol, “but for any signs of the captive Dradrien.  I’ll start scrying for signs of her to guide our search,” he said, producing his baculus.

“We’re chasing after wounded birdies, now?” Noutha asked, mildly amused.

“It increases our chances of locating the Dradrien, as well as rescuing our comrades,” Tyndal said, finally cleaning the ichor from his mageblade as they waited for Rondal’s results.

“After scaling that bloody flaming tower and scampering through the smoke-filled halls, a walk through the treacherous hinterlands of Olum Seheri sounds delightful,” Atopol assured.

“I think I know where she landed,” Rondal pronounced, a moment later, spinning the location into his magemap and displaying it for the four of them.  “Right around here there are signs of a recent struggle, and a few signs that might well prove to be feathers.  It’s near where they collected the other two Riders.  As it’s only a half-mile away, it’s as good a place to start as any.”

They began walking almost immediately, taking the opportunity to refresh themselves with water, wine, and what rations they’d brought along as they marched.  By the time they were challenged by the outer picket post, they were once again ready to face the terrors of Olum Seheri.

This end of the island seemed deserted of more than the things that slunk among the debris and the occasional wyvern, overhead, Tyndal noted.  There were no goblin patrols, here, largely because there was nothing of value to guard.  Merely a bunch of worthless stakes and strings crisscrossing the plain of rubble.  When they quickly came to the site Rondal had selected, Tyndal found it hard to believe that Dara had encountered anything in this barren reach that could have challenged her.

“She was here,” Rondal affirmed, using his baculus to inspect the site.  “There’s a little human blood, some hawk blood . . . but there’s also a strong necromantic signature,” he concluded.  “I fear she ran afoul of a draugen.”

“Dara could handle a draugen,” Tyndal countered, skeptically . . . though in truth he did not know if she could or not.  He’d been impressed by the gawky girl’s progress, both in practical magic and her brilliant collaboration with the Alka Alon on creating the giant hawks in the first place.  Add to that the dedication with which she’d built the Sky Riders as a military unit, Tyndal had no doubt that she’d go down as one of the more noteworthy wizards of the age.

But that didn’t mean she could hold her own in a fight with a powerful undead.  Dara was well-armed and trained for combat, and had been in several scraps in the air and on the ground . . . but while she was a tough and tenacious fighter, she wasn’t specifically trained as a warmage.  The lack of any remains of an undead nearby added to his anxiety over the once-junior apprentice.

“I’m not so certain,” Rondal said, shaking his head.  “But the necromantic signature is strong.  I—”

“Hey!” Atopol called.  “Over here!”  The white-haired wizard was standing atop a small pile of stone, peering out into the gloom.  “I think I spotted something!  It looks like a hawk!”

The four of them scrambled over the ridge of rubble and added their eyes to the task.  Sure enough, there was a dark pile just visible through the mists and shadows that could, indeed, be a giant hawk.

On the other hand, Tyndal reasoned, it could be a company of goblins huddled together, or a giant pile of organic debris, from this distance.  He had to use magesight to bring the object into view . . . which confirmed that it was, indeed, a giant hawk.

A dead hawk.

“It looks like we found her,” sighed Atopol, sadly.

“That’s not Fearless, the bird she was riding,” countered Rondal, as he began to cross the distance to the fallen hawk.  “That’s Festive, poor thing.”

“How can you tell?” Noutha asked, curious.

“She’s a smaller bird, even for being a female, than the others in the Third Wing, for one thing,” Rondal offered.  “But that saddled and harness were custom made for her by Master Andalnam.  Hers are the only ones with the scarlet and silver chasing,” he pointed out.  “He made it that way because of her constant preening.”

“Who was her Rider?”

“I think it was Nattia,” Tyndal offered.  “Nice girl.  Kasari.  Wing leader.  Good personality,” he added – his assessment for girls who were pleasant to be around, but otherwise uninteresting to his masculine soul.  But she had a nice smile and was a good flyer, he recalled, one of the more adept human Sky Riders.  She’d even accompanied them on the Long March, a few years back.  “I hope nothing happened to her,” he said, concerned.

Festive’s massive corpse was infested with feeding wyverns who, despite the enormous bounty the body represented, still inspired vicious fights between the beasts.  In disgust, the wizards made short work of the offensive predators, using their blades and wands to dispose of them before they examined the bird.

“Looks like her neck broke when she landed,” Rondal announced, after a few moment’s work with his baculus.  “Her feet were likely entangled with some of those pests, and that left wing looks pretty savaged.”

“The Rider was able to get away, afterwards,” Tyndal observed.  “Those buckles are loosed, not cut.  She got away.  I don’t know how far . . .”

“Let’s look around, then,” Noutha decided, drawing her blade and casting a spell to aid the search.  “Maybe she and Dara found each other.”

It didn’t take long searching the depressing site of the failed landing when they came upon a trace of Festive’s Rider.  A blood trail, leading off toward a cluster of ruins the foul folk of Olum Seheri had yet to clear or claim.

But after a few dozen paces the trail went cold, both physically and arcanely.

“There’s interference to my scrying,” Rondal said, discouraged, as he put away his baculus yet-again.  “It’s covering the entire island, now.  I can’t get a read on anything more than twenty feet away, and even then, it’s mushy.”

“Looks like someone finally remembered to practice strategic countermeasures,” Noutha nodded, with professional satisfaction.  “Sometimes I don’t know who is laxer in combat fundamentals, their side or ours,” she said, shaking her head.

“We did burn down their Tower,” Atopol pointed out, as they continued along the general direction they were following.  “That’s probably where their headquarters was located.  That had to cause them some delay in their response.”

“Which is why redundant systems of command and contingency battle plans are essential,” she criticized.  “Regardless of the army or the aim, you cannot adequately respond to the unknown capabilities of your foe, much less the fickle finger of the war gods, if you aren’t prepared for a disruption in command.  Amateurs!” she sneered.

“Them or us?” Tyndal asked, confused.

“Both,” insisted Noutha, after a few moments.  “I thought the ruthless efficiency of the other side would aid in building the perfect military unit, but despite some extraordinary individuals, the politics and the positioning for power were just as detrimental to that end,” she reflected.  “It was disappointing.

“Here, at least, there’s a tradition of obedience and command that allows some ability for independent unit development.  Not with common feudal troops, even the precious chivalry, of course, but among the dedicated professionals.  The mercenary units—”

Ahead of them, Atopol made the clenched fist sign that told them all to freeze in place and seek concealment.  Tyndal and Noutha both crouched and froze.  Tyndal cast a few concealment and obfuscation spells he had hung in preparation, and he could feel the surge of power next to him as Noutha did likewise.

Being frozen in place did not keep the magi from peering ahead.  Indeed, the sloping embankment of rubble they were descending offered an expansive, if depressing, view of the debris field in the mists below, as well as the shadowy pyramid of Korbal’s palace rising from the fog in the distance.

It quickly became clear what had alerted the sharp-eyed Atopol: there were three gurvani in strange livery at the base of the ridge, binding the hands and feet of a young Sky Rider.  At first Tyndal thought that they’d discovered Dara, but when the goblins pushed her down her flight cap fell off to reveal her face and hair, which was dark brown, not Dara’s auburn locks.

It was Nattia, Fancy’s Rider.  She didn’t look to be in good shape, Tyndal could see by magesight.  Her freckled face was bruised and stained with blood and dirt, and she appeared to be only semi-conscious.

She was disarmed, her large curved knife missing from its scabbard.  A furry black corpse, nearby, was its new sheath, he saw.  That made him feel a little better – he couldn’t imagine any Kasari maid being overcome by four goblins without taking at least one with her.  Her honor would not abide it.

We can’t just let them walk away with her, Tyndal sent to Rondal, mind-to-mind.

We can, Rondal countered.  For a little while, at least.  They’ll take her to wherever they took Dara, he reminded Tyndal.

Oh.  Yes, I suppose that’s true, Tyndal admitted.  Aren’t we getting a little far behind enemy lines? he asked, changing the subject.  Terleman said two hours, and we’re nearly at the half-way point.

We’ll hurry, Rondal promised.  I’m going to send Atopol in the vanguard to follow them, and we’ll follow behind at a safe distance.  When it becomes obvious where they’re taking her, we’ll hit the place just as soon as they enter it.

It was a good plan, Tyndal admitted – to himself.  He watched Atopol silently move out after the goblins dragged Nattia to her feet and forced the wheeling girl to march.  Within twenty feet he lost all sight of the shadowmage.  He was getting used to that.

The three warmagi began to silently follow the thief through the murky, misty landscape.  At the bottom of the ridge the fog from the lake was as thick as wool, and they had to resort to magesight just to maneuver through the increasingly-treacherous wreckage.  Whatever giant Alkan tower had once graced this spot, Tyndal reflected as he skirted the base of a massive broken pillar, it had left quite a skeleton behind in its death.

Finally, they came upon Atopol crouching behind a block of limestone the size of a wagon.  The white-haired thief looked discouraged.

“What’s wrong?” Tyndal whispered.  “Did they . . . execute her?”

“Oh, no,” Atopol said, not bothering to lower his voice.  “They took her right in.”

“Why didn’t you attack?” Noutha asked, frowning.  “We would have been here in plenty of time to support you!”

“Because I didn’t like the odds,” he said, grimly, gesturing toward the edge of the block that concealed them from the foe.  “You wanted Dradrien, Tyndal?  I think I found you some.  But they don’t exactly look . . . imprisoned, to my inexperienced eye.”

Each of the three magi took turns peering around the edge of the stone, by magic or through more traditional means.  They each swore an oath when they saw what was on the other side.

At least two hundred squat figures were gathered in an encampment hidden amongst the ruins, in the lee of a massive, three-story masonry wall.  Each was no taller than a short man, and as broad across the chest as a fat one, and without fail a huge bunch of dark whiskers protruded from their chins.  They were Iron Folk, every one of them.

But they were not captives; on the contrary, each Dradrien was clad from head to foot in dark mail, and wore a thick steel helm on their broad heads.  A few bore small iron roundshields as easily as a man might carry a wicker basket, and each seemed to carry a large and dangerous-looking hammer or axe.

While not in a strictly military formation, the steel-clad Dradrien were gathered for battle, it was plain to see.  There were even a few of what Tyndal guessed were unit standards among them – though instead of the woven banners of humanity, these crests were forged of iron, steel, and bronze.  There were what appeared to be officers or lords among them, shouting commands in their harsh language as they prepared to deploy.  Every few moments, someone would shout something that caused a response yelled by all the Dradrien in the clearing.

“They took her through them?” Rondal asked, in disbelief.  “There must be two-hundred or more!”

“I was not expecting this,” Noutha admitted, biting her lip as she spied on the new foe.

“The good news is, they look like they’re about to leave,” Atopol pointed out.  “Once they’re gone, we should have a better chance at rescuing her.  And perhaps Dara.”

“You’re implying that there’s bad news?” Tyndal asked.

“Well, if they aren’t going to be here, where are they going?  They don’t look like they’re dressed for the fire brigades – they look more likely to start fires than put them out.  So, they’re headed for Terleman’s position,” he reasoned.  “Which, to my untrained eye for military affairs, would be difficult to contend with.”

“Those are heavy infantry, down there,” Tyndal agreed.  “And if they’re as solid as our three pet Dradrien, they can snap a man in two with their hands.  Yes, that will be difficult to contend with,” he agreed.

“I’ll warn them,” Rondal decided, on the spot, and closed his eyes.

“These must be the dark clans the three brothers warned us of,” Noutha nodded as she studied the force with a critical eye.  “I didn’t think that there would be that many of them.  Or that they would act beyond a technical capacity.”

“Terleman knows,” Rondal said, a moment later, when he opened his eyes.  “But . . . well, they’ve become secondary priority.  When he got back to the Waypoint redoubt with the surviving prisoners, they were ambushed by a large force.  He got away with about a third and retreated back to base.  They’re under assault now, gurvani and undead.  And that’s just the first wave,” he warned, grimly.

“What’s the second wave?” Atopol asked, frowning.

There was a harsh crash in the distance, as if summoned by dramatic intent.  It seemed to split the air around them, an unnatural sound akin to thunder only in volume and shock.  All four young magi scrambled back to a previous vantage which allowed them to peer back through the ruins toward the southern Waypoint.

They could see a new flash of energy and sparks of light radiating from the distant site.  The low-hanging clouds and mists above the redoubt flashed and glowed with the release of arcane power.  Booms and hisses filled the air.  Beyond the Tower of Despair, now merely smoldering, not blazing, there were clear signs of troops surging against Terleman’s position – that’s where the Dradrien auxiliaries were headed, he realized.  Two-hundred brutally strong, well-armed-and armored heavy infantry, added to the small horde of gurvani, hobgoblins, and assorted trolls suddenly converging on the raiders.

And here and there, Tyndal realized with dismay, there were tall figures standing over the soldiery, directing the sudden counter-attack or adding their own arcane artillery to support them.

Nemovorti, he realized with dread.  A lot of them.

Perhaps all of them.

Chapter Thirty-Six

The Chamberpot

Pentandra

Things were going rapidly into the chamberpot, Pentandra realized with disappointment.

Within a few moments of returning to her seat, the reports began pouring in from all quarters, in a rapidly-descending spiral of bad news.  From the moment the all-important link to the raiders through the Ways was severed, one dispatch after another brought increasingly-disturbing reports of mishaps, counter-attacks, failures and losses.

Azar’s attack in the west faltered, when four trolls emerged from the ruins (some of which were more recent than others, thanks to Azar’s damaging attack) with a company of hobgoblins to ambush one of the forward patrols, killing all but one warmage.  Just after that, the western redoubt began receiving a pounding from rocks and spells from different directions, heralding an approaching attack.

Then they lost contact with the Sky Riders, first Dara’s First Wing, then Nattia’s Third Wing, apparently due to a remnant of wyverns from across the lake.  Then Beda’s Second Wing narrowly escaped a similar fate, taking refuge on the ground at Terleman’s redoubt with only minor injuries from the beasts, thanks to clever flying and the daring of the Riders.

When the southern forces began to receive similar harassment in force, she had a sinking suspicion that there was method to the response.  A few moments later, when both Gatecrusher redoubts began to sustain attacks at the same time, she was certain of it.

The only good news was hearing that the last of the Westwardens had evacuated the Tower of despair with their prisoners.  Now they were all corralled in one place.  Getting counter-attacked, with no clear avenue of escape or retreat.

She did her best to master her rising fear and anxiety as she received each new report.  Within ten minutes she knew with absolute certainty.  It wasn’t merely a counter-attack.

They’d fallen into a trap.

She could feel all three passengers in her coach take issue with her sudden alarm, but for once she couldn’t pay them the attention they deserved – she was busy watching her entire operation disintegrate.

“How are we coming on the Waypoint issue?” she demanded of her aide.

“Nothing helpful,” he supplied.  “The thaumaturges are talking to the Alka Alon, who are mostly saying it’s impossible to block the Ways.”

That was frustrating to hear.  “It’s got to be some sort of local interference,” she reasoned.  “What could interfere with just the Waypoints in Olum Seheri, and nowhere else?”

“A thousand-year old evil necromancer with a grudge?” he suggested.

“A point,” she conceded.  “Damn it!  Let me tell Min what’s going on, maybe he has some insight!”

She took a few moments to breathe deeply quieting the sudden riot in her tummy before she summoned Minalan’s mental sigil.

Min, things are sliding into the chamberpot up here, she reported.  No one knows how they’re blocking the Ways, and now we’re taking a heavy, concerted counterattack.  I’m still getting reports, but I don’t like the way they’re sounding.  How close are you to finding that thing?

Are you joking?  From what Aeratas tells me we’re only about half-way down.  We’re in some kind of . . . well, it doesn’t matter.  But we still have a long way to go.

Any ideas? she asked, hesitantly.  She didn’t want to admit she was out of her own, but it was Minalan.  She couldn’t worry about what he thought about her.

You’re looking for advice?  He didn’t sound judgmental, just concerned.  Concentrate your forces, take a defensive position, dig in, and try to support it from a distance as best you can.  See if the Tera Alon have any ideas – they’re from here, a lot of them.  They might have some ideas.

And then . . .?

He sounded annoyed.  Pen, right now I’m stuck half-way down a deep hole with a Karshak, a sulky, suicidal Alkan lord, an adventurous Wilderlord and a wisecracking shadowmage.  I can’t really do anything from here, he complained.  You’ve got the greatest pool of warmagic talent ever assembled up there.  They are not without resources.  They’ll just have to contend with it on their own until I get back.

She didn’t have any reasonable response to that.  He was right.

Pentandra took a deep breath and let it out slowly, her eyes still closed.

She had resources.  She had experts in the craft of violence at her disposal.  And she was not unskilled at the art of coordination, nor bereft of her own power.  She would not let desperation color her judgement.

When she opened her eyes, she began issuing orders to the ring of clerks, monitors, and messengers in the barn.  She needed more information.

She needed a plan.

“What do you mean, you can’t do anything?” Pentandra demanded of the Alka Alon delegation who’d brought the bad news.  She’d gotten the tactical situation straightened out, convincing both Azar and Terleman to move their forces into a defensive posture and ensured they were well-supplied before she summoned the hastily-assembled collection of spellsingers and thaumaturges addressing the Waypoint crisis.

“This is beyond our understanding,” Onranion said, apologetically.  “In ten thousand years, the Ways have never failed.  We do not know how they could fail.  In truth, they were discovered and utilized so long ago that few living today truly comprehend their nature,” he confessed.  “The Way Stones the Spellmonger produced are the first innovation in the Ways since they were constructed.”

“Then let’s move beyond the history, and into the theoretical,” she proposed, patiently.  “Because I have troops in battle right now, depending on an answer.  So do you,” she reminded them.

“Theoretically?” Lilastien said, raising an eyebrow.  “The only way I figure it could be done would be by imposing some sort of extra-dimensional field around the site . . . but this is not exactly my field of study,” she admitted.

“Lilastien is not wrong,” Lady Varen, the most mysterious of the three Emissaries, agreed.  She tended to be the most technically-minded of them, and often spoke on thaumaturgical subjects.  “I’ve sent word to those most knowledgeable about the Ways.  But it would require both incredible magical power—”

“Which they demonstrably have,” Pentandra reminded her.

“And unprecedented control over the interdimensional spaces,” Varen continued, reluctantly nodding.

“For example, screwing around with a Pocket Stone, necromantic energy, a stable molopor, and a couple of cubic feet of self-aware irionite?” suggested Pentandra.

“That might do it,” Onranion conceded.

“My lady, even with those powers, without an understanding of how those first Ways were discovered and constructed, I can think of no way Korbal could interfere with them,” Lady Varen assured.

“I agree, gentlefolk, we are contending with a novel situation,” she sighed, trying to adjust herself in her seat in a way that didn’t make her arse fall asleep.  “How did Korbal know this lore, when it is all but forgotten by the Alka Alon?”

“He’s had access to the Ghost Rock,” Mavone reminded them.  “In which, if Lord Aeratas informed me correctly, reside the enneagrams of the ancient Alkan lords.  The ones who first built the Ways in this realm.”

“Oh,” Lady Varen said, disappointed.  “That’s right.  They could glean the information that way,” she conceded.

“Which clearly someone did,” Pentandra said, impatiently.  “The question is, how do we stop it?”

“They . . . they must be using a localized extradimensional field,” she admitted, shaking her head.  “As Lilastien suggested.”

“Can you tell me anything more?” she demanded.  “Is it an inherent field, does it emanate from a single source, is it continuously powered, is it necromantic, thaumaturgic, theurgic . . . can you tell me anything?” Pentandra pleaded.

“Not from here.  But we have agents in Olum Seheri now making observations on our behalf,” Lady Varen assured.  “When we have more information, we should be able to tell you more, my lady.”

“And we have Taren and a few other thaumaturges in place,” agreed Sandoval, anxiously.  “But whatever we do, we have to do it soon.  Minalan is wandering around the bowels of that hellish isle without the oversight of a responsible adult.”

“I’m aware,” Pentandra sighed.  “That’s actually not my main concern.  My main concern is for the cream of the Kingdom’s Magical Corps being stranded and at the mercy of a potent foe, with no chance of rescue.  Not to mention the hundreds of prisoners they’ve freed,” she reminded them.

“All of those will be left to Korbal and Sheruel’s tender mercies, if we cannot discover a solution quickly.  Get the best thaumaturges in the Duchies on the problem.  Wake up whatever Alkan dotard who can remember how the Ways work at that level.  See if we can attract the interest of a friendly god – I don’t care!” she said, with more fury than she intended.  “Just figure out how to get our men out of there before they fall!”

It was a clear dismissal, and most of the assembled took the hint.  Mavone and Onranion, however, stayed behind to discuss the situation further.

“I think that this entire enterprise has been a trap,” the dark-haired Gilmoran said, matter-of-factly.  “I am starting to believe that Korbal was prepared for this sort of assault – far more prepared than we imagined.”

“You think he had advanced warning?” Onranion asked, frowning.

“No,” Mavone said, thoughtfully.  “We took them by surprise, I have no doubt of that.  But there is a difference between surprised and unprepared,” he reminded them.  “I’m assuming that someone anticipated this kind of raid, perhaps in response to our last penetration into their stronghold.”

“How could they prepare for this?” demanded Pentandra.  “We cloaked our preparations for weeks!  Even from our own folk!”

“They know we have but limited resources, and that we would deploy them in force, at some point.  Unfortunately,” he said, glancing at the map, “our best warriors are now also highly-valued resources.  Sandoval has been speaking to his recovered friend about what she witnessed in that pit.  The Nemovorti use the Talented humans as hosts for their transformations,” he explained.  “The more powerful a Talent, the more necromantic potential a host has.”

“So they grabbed Princess Rardine as the bait, and set a trap for our warmagi,” Pentandra concluded, slumping in the chair.  “They knew we were the only ones who had the power to penetrate to Olum Seheri.  It was only a matter of time before we sent an expedition against them to rescue her.”

“And we sent him a gracious plenty,” Mavone reminded her, grimly.  “He waited until he had the best of us in his box.  Then he slammed the trap shut.”

“That does sound like the kind of thing Korbal would do, by reputation,” agreed Onranion.

“Nice of you to warn us!” Pentandra reproved.

The Alkan songmaster shrugged.  “In a world of peril, it’s difficult to know which dangers to instruct you mortals in.  You tend to die of old age before any of the serious ones come to light.”

“A point,” Pentandra conceded.  “If you had to guess, what do you think will happen next?”

“From a historical perspective, Korbal will likely send his finest troops in to shock and overwhelm our friends and force their surrender under pain of destruction.

“Do you think we have a chance?” she asked, her shoulders sagging.

Mavone sighed, philosophically.  “In victory, fortune oft has a greater share than valor.  We don’t know what will happen, yet.  But a chance, my lady?  Aye, we have more than a chance.  We are not new-made wizards newly come into our power.  We are High Magi of experience, armed with the finest weaponry enchantment can craft.  We have the favor of the gods,” he reminded her.

“So have many, who have gone on to ruin,” she reminded him.

“We have the aid and alliance of an ancient and wise people,” Mavone, suggested.

“Don’t take me as an example,” Onranion hurried to say.  “The rest of us are really quite nice.”

“A people whose own unfortunate history is the spawn of our current misfortune,” Pentandra recalled.

“Most of the rest of us are quite nice,” Onranion corrected, nervously.

“And some of you are fanatical undead arseholes whose millennia-long imprisonment for magical ethics violations conspired to stir up a genocidal war against us,” Pentandra continued.

“They were undeniably evil,” Onranion agreed.  “And soundly punished by the proper authorities.  The Alka Alon Council.”

“The same authorities who withdrew their support and guidance for my people while their civilization crumbled, keeping us in purposeful ignorance in an effort to keep us divided and make us more manageable,” Pentandra accused, crossly.  There was a long pause, as the Alkan considered her words.

“Well, I’m quite charming,” Onranion offered, dismayed, after pausing to consider.

“I’m not judging your entire people on the basis of a few bad decisions made before humanity was even borne from the Void on the horizon,” she said, as patiently as she could.  “Nor on one individual.  I’m pointing out that our alliance with the Alka Alon has been fraught with problems, and has proven to be as much a weakness as a strength for this war.

“That being said,” she said, taking a deep breath, “if we can possibly move beyond the annoying arrogance your folk feel for mine, perhaps we can use that alliance as a fulcrum for meaningful action.”

“Is there a particular suggestion you have in mind, Pen, or are you just musing?” Mavone asked, casually but with an intensity to his voice.

“I know the Alka Alon are ashamed about the Enshadowed, and Korbal, and all that messiness that occurred during your warring states period.  So ashamed that you’ve routinely tried to change the subject, obfuscate the details, and generally keep us ignorant of what happened and who did what to whom.  That must stop, now,” she demanded.  “We walked into a trap because we didn’t understand the nature of the foe we were facing.”

“I don’t know how our . . . sordid past can help,” Onranion admitted, “but if candor can cut through the confusion, I will do my best to provide,” he said with a bow.

“If we cannot use the Ways to rescue our people, perhaps we can use them to send some kind of aid.  Your folk have roamed the Land of Scars for millennia; there must be some Waypoint close to Olum Seheri, yet outside of their interdiction.  Discover which one is closest, and estimate how quickly we can get reinforcements to Olum Seheri from there.”

“I will begin at once,” the Alkan assured her.

“That’s not all,” she said taking another deep breath.  “Contact the Council and inform them of the situation.”

Onranion did not like that request at all.  “Tell them?  They will not be pleased, my lady.”

“I am unconcerned about their disposition,” Pentandra said, flatly.  “I am far more concerned that they begin to take this alliance seriously.  Tell them everything, and then tell them that we need help.”

“Lady Pentandra,” Onranion squirmed, uncomfortably.  “Perhaps I am not the best messenger for such tidings.  The Council and I—”

“Your standing with the Council is the very reason I want you as messenger,” Pentandra countered.  “This is a military crisis, not a diplomatic mission.  I need to demonstrate how desperate the situation is.  Using you to convey the message should provide that subtext.”

“If you’re sending a reprobate like Onranion, things must be bad,” Mavone smirked.

“Exactly.  In fact, take Lilastien, too, when you make your report,” she advised.  “She’s not likely to be useful in the effort to counter the spell, and they like her even less than they like you.”

“Your wisdom is unassailable, my lady,” snorted Onranion.  “Very well, I shall lend my ill repute to the service of the cause.  But what shall I ask them to do, assuming they don’t throw us both out the moment we arrive?”

“Ask them to do . . . whatever they possibly can,” Pentandra suggested.  “I’m so far over my head right now I have no idea what I can do, much less what I should do.  Advice, arms, songspells, whatever ideas they have about the situation would be appreciated.  Quickly,” she emphasized.

“Understood, my lady,” Onranion nodded.  “I shall depart at once.”

“That was . . . uncharacteristically harsh of you,” Mavone observed, as the Alkan lord strode purposefully away.

“It wasn’t harsh, it was pragmatic,” Pentandra corrected.  “Minalan likes to play nice with the Council, and that’s good . . . as far as it goes.  We need to have cordial relations.  We also need to have useful relations.  If there was ever a time for them to come to our aid, it’s now.  I figured I should probably let them know that, without all the polite diplomatic stuffing around the matter.”

“Oh, I approve,” Mavone nodded.  “I just fear such a maneuver is, likewise, playing into Korbal’s trap.”

“A point,” Pentandra conceded.  “You have an alternative plan?”

“Not yet, but I’m working on it.  Without Minalan around to do stupid and inspired things, I feel obligated to take up the slack.  We do have an awful lot of destructive talent at hand, both magical and mundane.  We should be able to do something creative and – more importantly – unpredictable with it,” he concluded.  “We lost the initiative in the counter-attack.  We need to regain it.”

“Let me know if you come up with anything interesting,” Pentandra nodded.  Hearing that from most warmagi in her Magical Corps would have earned them a rebuke for not following orders.  But Mavone was one insidious and careful bastard, she’d learned over the years.  She trusted he wouldn’t do anything manifestly stupid, and she knew he had a talent for looking at things in different and thoughtful ways.

When the Gilmoran had departed, Pentandra began anew the process of determining the status of the battle from the accrued dispatches.  Things were not yet dire, as both companies of Gatecrushers had fallen back toward their Waypoints and assumed a defensive posture . . . but the reports were also filled with sightings of large groups of Olum Seheri’s defenders congregating and gathering strength just out of bowshot of both companies.

But it was ultimately frustrating, getting such information piecemeal.  She needed a better understanding of the way the battle was shaping up, like any strategic commander did.  Unlike most, she had recourse to magic.

Cursing herself for not thinking of it earlier, Pentandra summoned her baculus, Everkeen, and began using the compliant and insightful paraclete within to begin sorting and ordering the information at hand.  Within moments she had a much better understanding of the situation, as Everkeen supplied astute speculation to fill in areas where direct observations were not available.

Something began to stir in her mind, as she witnessed Everkeen’s perspective on the battle.  There were patterns to the movements, she realized, although she was still unsure what they heralded about the enemy’s plans.

Mavone was correct.  They were prepared, even if they were surprised.  They were . . . herding the two companies toward one direction, and away from others.  They were basing their strategy on entrapping and containing the attack around those two Waypoints.

But, she realized, they were not taking that third Waypoint into account.  Nor were they aware of the loose Waystones on the field: Rondal, Tyndal, Dara, Terleman, Azar, and many other High Warmagi each had one somewhere on their kits.  As the Necromancer’s spell had only severed the regional Waypoints from the rest of the world, those stones would be useless for escape . . . but they might prove crucial, tactically.

Pentandra began a long, in-depth “conversation” with her baculus.  Everkeen’s paraclete had become more and more sophisticated in its interactions with her, with time and experience . . . although Pentandra was noticing, more and more, the emergence of something more vital, as well.  She could not readily identify the nature of the . . . whatever it was, but it was fascinating to witness.

The enneagram at the heart of Everkeen was unimaginably ancient, and had lived in a world so different from the one that she knew that it challenged her imagination.

Yet the sophistication of the creature’s self-awareness was remarkably similar to hers, as she became used to it.  Especially since she began using Everkeen to monitor the girls, she noted, the paraclete had become more . . . interested.  And therefore, more involved in the context of the spellwork Pentandra directed it to oversee.

In this case, Pentandra realized the baculus recognized her stress and anxiety.  In presenting potential solutions to her mind, it also sought to soothe and relax her.  The thing was actually using subtle Blue Magic on her, without her bidding!

It made her smile, and almost made her giggle.

Am I that much of a bitch, right now, that even my inanimate objects are worried about getting on my bad side? Pentandra pondered, as she grudgingly allowed her paraclete to play with her mood.  Or does the creature recognize that I’m a mother-to-be in the final stages of my pregnancy, and is naturally trying to soothe me?  Either answer would be fascinating, in its way.  And safe for study at another time.

Right now, she needed Everkeen’s guidance and insights more than she needed to plumb the intricacies of its consciousness.  The solutions and maneuvers the baculus suggested were plausible, Pentandra considered, and a few might even be inspired.  But would they be adequate against the impressive forces building up for the counter-attack?  Without a way to either withdraw from the field or send reinforcements, there was little that could be done that didn’t split their forces unacceptably.

It became clear that the constraints of the island turned any possible strategy into a prolonged game of cat-and-mouse, one in which the human raiders inevitably lost, Pentandra quickly realized.  Without more information, or a way to change the current dynamics of the battle, the inescapable conclusion was defeat.

“The Alka Alon better figure this out, quick,” she breathed to herself.  “Or Korbal is going to have a lot of new, highly-powerful recruits.”

She had to expand the nature of the battle, she realized.  If the answers she was getting were insufficient, she needed to add new elements and new parameters to the equation, she reasoned.

As the possibilities flooded her mind and Everkeen supplied additional suggestions, she played out one scenario after another.  There was hope, she began to see; not much, but at least a little, as she expanded her ideas of what was possible and allowed that which she considered impossible to fade from importance.

She was so deep in concentration that she did not realize that both of her legs were asleep (but none of her daughters, unfortunately) and her lower back was painfully protesting her prolonged inactivity.

“New information, my lady,” one of the monitors said, referring to a sheet of parchment.  “Hated to disturb you, but it was important.   It just came in from Terleman’s company: large numbers of undead are massing on their periphery.  And they are being led by Nemovorti,” he reported.

“How many?” Pentandra said, her heart beginning to race.  The raiders had already encountered a few of the powerful undead lords on Olum Seheri, but Pentandra was hopeful that Korbal’s most powerful agents were deployed doing his bidding far from the fortress.  Each one was a potent challenge for even a High Warmage. More than one together, bound by their necromancy and their fanatical devotion, was particularly dangerous.

“Almost . . . two score, my lady,” the monitor revealed.  “And there are hundreds of draugen, leading the gurvani legions.”

“Two score?” Pentandra asked, her eyes growing wide.  “Two score?  That’s . . . that’s more than I thought Korbal even had!”

“They are closing in on Lord Terleman’s position.  In force.  And he’s protecting several hundred recently-released slaves,” he reminded her.  “Do you have any orders?”

Pentandra took another deep breath.  “Yes.  Contact my husband by Mirror, and see if he can rally the Kasari scouts to do something useful.  Have someone get in touch with Gareth, and tell him I have an idea that will need his assistance.  And then,” she said, holding out her hand, “help me out of this godsforsaken chair – I have to pee.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Grounded

Dara

The shadows seem to surge as the Nemovort finally emerged from the misty gloom.  It was wearing a long gray mantle that shrouded its face, save for the red glow of its eyes beneath the hood.  Two ghastly-looking draugen, the red-eyed undead servants of the amber-eyed Nemovorti, followed silently behind him.

“Unlike my colleagues, who immediately ran toward the fuss, I elected to look where there was no fuss . . . and gained a prize for my efforts.  One of the vaunted humani magi, and her . . . what is this thing?” he asked, suddenly turning toward Fearless.  The giant bird was beginning to recover from the fall, Dara recognized, as the link between them strengthened.

“It’s a transgenically enchanted bird, a hawk, to be precise,” Dara answered, stalling for time while Fearless regained consciousness.  “His name is Fearless.  For good reason.”

“So much has changed since we were entombed!” sighed the Nemovort.  Dara couldn’t tell if he was regretful or excited, or some bizarre combination of both.  “You humani really have brought a taste of the exotic to the realm!  I really will enjoy exploring your culture and the wonderful creatures you brought to Callidore, inside and out . . . while I help destroy them,” he added, sinisterly.

“You may find that more difficult than you think,” Dara answered, bravely, holding Talon steadily in one hand, and a wand in her other.

“Oh, you have spirit!” Khudoz said, approvingly, as his draugen began to inch closer to twitching Fearless.  Dara sent soothing but cautionary thoughts toward the bird, encouraging him to awaken but letting him know they were in danger.

“More than you can imagine,” Dara agreed, moving slowly between the undead and her bird.  “And you are about the most arrogant son-of-a-bitch I think I’ve ever met,” Dara continued, as she found secure footing amongst the ruins, “and I’ve met a few!”

Fearless jerked a bit, as full consciousness returned.  A soothing command from Dara kept him quiet, eyes closed, as if he were hooded.  He understood that.  Fearless had a more combative spirit than most hawks, and approached hunting and fighting with eagerness.  But he also understood strategy.  “If you think I’m going to let you touch either of us, you’re sorely mistaken.”

Both draugen were now spreading out, approaching Fearless from different angles.  Dara couldn’t keep all three of them in her sight at once.  Khudoz strode toward her until he was but a dozen feet away, his tall form towering over her in the gloom.

He glanced at the knife in her hand.  “You think you can deter me with that?” he asked incredulously.

“It’s a magic dagger,” she bragged.  “Of great power.”

“It’s a useless toy, against me,” Khudoz sneered, glancing at the curved dagger.  “Don’t make me damage you, mage.  That would ruin the experience of dissecting you.  Surrender yourself.  You have no chance.”

“Westwoodmen are not in the habit of surrendering without a fight,” Dara replied, evenly.  “Nor is Talon the only weapon at my disposal.”  She thought briefly of trying to call for help, either out loud or mind-to-mind.  But she dismissed it.  Not only was she on the end of the island farthest from the human raiders, but it was unlikely anyone could get here in time.

Dara was on her own.  But not helpless.

Khudoz’s hands appeared from under his cloak, bearing an iron rod with a twisted metal head.  “You wish to make it a challenge?  No matter,” he sighed.  “I’ve pacified great beasts, even dragons, before I’ve strapped them down and started cutting,” he boasted.  “My master has provided me with a new body of great utility, as hideous as it is.  And he gave me tools of great power,” he added, menacingly, as he raised the rod.  The cage-like head began to glow with a dark amber power, until it throbbed.  But there was no sudden attack.

He wasn’t casting a spell, Dara noted.  He was showing off his toys.  He really was an arrogant son-of-a-bitch.  Here they were, fighting to the death.  And he was behaving like a ten-year-old boy showing off a new bow on the commons.

“So has mine!” she said through gritted teeth.  She cast the most powerful blast at her command from Talon’s blade toward Khudoz, hoping to take him by surprise.  The Nemovort was startled, but raised his rod and easily countered the blast – his arcane shields really were powerful, Dara realized.  That blast was designed to fell a troll.

But that was just to keep Khudoz from attacking her first.  She’d heard about the incredible resilience and resistance the undead lords possessed.  She also knew that as potent as Talon was, it was unlikely to penetrate the arcane defenses that seemed to be woven into the Nemovorti.

But she also knew that, whatever necromantic defenses Khudoz possessed, he still had mass.  And his feet were unattached to the rocks he walked upon.  With a twist of her body she jabbed the wand she used for aerial bombardment at the Nemovort and spoke the mnemonic activation . . . the one that charged the wand with boulders, back at the stony pit in the Wilderlands.

Here, it drew a very-surprised looking Khudoz into the vast, forty-ton hoxter pocket.

At the same time, Fearless pounced upon one of the creeping draugen, his mighty head darting forward to clasp the creature in his massive beak.  Dara heard a crunch as the powerful beak crushed the draugen’s spine.  With a flick of his neck Fearless send the body flying in a long arc toward the water.  As his head swung back, he caught the second one by the shoulder.

In a flash, Fearless’ steel-clad claws shredded the draugen before he threw the top half of the flailing undead in one direction, and the other half in another.  Then he screeched defiantly, the proud, victorious call the hawk made when he completed a kill.  It pierced Dara’s ears, as it always did.

“Good boy!” she sighed, as she felt her body relax.  The moment she did so, she felt the aches in her muscles and the pain from her shoulder and hip, from where she’d come down.  It made her catch her breath, wince, and want to curl up in the fetal position.

But she was a Sky Rider, and her bird came first.  She ignored her own pain and wounds and made a detailed inspection of Fearless’ injuries.

The wyverns had been vicious, she found, but they hadn’t seriously injured him, she was gratified to see.  His left wing was the worst, with a nasty wound right on the alula, the leading edge of the wing, and a second gash among his primaries that would compromise his control in flight.  His right wing was better, but he had minor wounds on his tail and legs, above his talon guards.

He might be able to fly, she reasoned, but it would be clumsy and slow.  One more wyvern attack and he might not survive.

“I guess I’m carrying you, now,” she sighed.  Fearless looked at her quizzically as she stripped her baggage from his saddle, before using the amulet around her neck to unfasten the broad leather harness.

Each giant hawk in the Wing had an amulet like this, engraved with its name.  It was also the anchor of a specialized hoxter pocket Master Andalnam built, where each piece of a bird’s custom riding harness could be stored.  Other pockets tied to the amulet contained extra food, medical supplies, water, and other important resources.  And one had traditional falconer’s supplies.

Once the saddle, harness, and other pieces were gone, Dara summoned the more complex enchantment that transformed the bird into its normal size.  Fearless shook his beak and ruffed his feathers in distaste, as he adjusted to the change in scale.  Some birds were more comfortable in their smaller form, some were indifferent . . . and some, like Fearless, genuinely preferred his larger, more powerful incarnation.

“Oh, you’ll be fine!” she insisted, as she picked up the hawk and deposited him on her shoulder, taking the time to attach his jesses and put on his hood.  “I’m sure no one will notice.”  He gave one last squawk of protest before he settled down, resentfully.  That was another thing Dara was grateful for.  Fearless was generally one of the more “talkative” birds in the Wing, and in his large form his voice carried.

She’d defeated one Nemovort, but she didn’t want to face another.  The face of the dead man, and the sickly yellow eyes staring at her, were haunting.  The way he’d dismissed one of her most powerful attacks was daunting.  She didn’t want to repeat that sort of encounter, anytime soon.  She loved magic, but the darker side was truly appalling.  And smelly.  All three walking corpses bore the stench of decomposition, she noted, idly, as she quietly climbed to the top of a cracked block of stone the size of a haystack to get her bearings.

She scanned the horizon to the west, from the darkened, mist-shrouded areas to the north, guarded by Korbal’s black pyramid, to the smoking, smoldering mass of the Tower of Despair in the middle of the island, to the flares and flashes to the south, where Terleman’s redoubt was located.

She sighed.  Her part of the battle was over, she reasoned.  She was grounded.  It was time to go home.

Only when she attempted to summon the portal back to Timberwatch, nothing happened.  She tried again, and then in a panic tried to reach the Waypoints she was most familiar with.  Sevendor.  Vorone.  The Mewstower.  She even tried one she recalled that led to Castabriel – nothing worked.

“Ishi’s . . .!  Oh, Fearless,” she said, addressing her bird, “something is amiss.  We can’t evacuate, like we’re supposed to.”

She reached out mind-to-mind to Lady Pentandra – but the pregnant wizard did not respond.  Perhaps she was busy, she reasoned.

Her next impulse was to contact Master Minalan, but she knew he was off on his own mission.  He could not help her.  Nor did she want to appear helpless.  Tyndal and Rondal, likewise, were engaged in their missions, and none of her Wingmates were High Magi, as she was.  From what she saw in the air, it was possible some of them were dead.  It was possible that all of them were dead, she corrected, stilling the emotional surge that the thought inspired.

Terleman and Azar were clearly engaged.  Indeed, as she pondered she watched the lights and flares to the south painted the thick fogs and clouds of smoke in the air with a new intensity of color.  She could even hear the distant reports of spells being discharged.  Magically tapping on Terleman’s shoulder in the middle of all that chaos to ask to be rescued did not sound heroic or noble or beneficial to her career.

She considered trying to contact Gareth.  She found she wanted to, someplace in her heart.  The gentle wizard always seemed to know what to do, even in the worst situations.  He was no heroic warmage, but he was incredibly clever . . . and right now she needed cleverness by the wagonload.

But she couldn’t reach out to Gareth.  For all she knew, he was involved in this battle, somewhere.  Everyone who might know had been maddeningly silent about his activities and whereabouts, citing his strongly-stated wishes in the matter.

Specifically, in regards to her, she’d learned.  None of his trusted friends and comrades would whisper a word of anything more than his continued existence and good health.  Beyond that, they were compelled by oath or some other power from revealing any morsel of information about him to her.  Contacting Gareth was unlikely to bring her rescue, considering how he evidently felt about her, now.

That pained her terribly – she’d never meant to hurt the man’s feelings – but was now really the time to try to make amends?  When she was alone and injured on the edge of a battlefield, surrounded by enemies and desperate for rescue?

That really wasn’t Gareth’s sort of thing anyway, she reasoned.

As much as she missed his wit and his insights, she had to depend upon herself to get out of danger.  With the Ways inexplicably failed and her bird too injured to fly, she would have to cross the great distance from the shoreline to the hidden Waypoint near the Tower of Despair on her own.

She was no warmage, but she knew a spell or two to help conceal her and Fearless.  The Waystone that Tyndal had hidden among the ruins was the closest potential safety she was aware of.  She didn’t know who was still there, but she knew where it was – she’d flown over it half a dozen times.  She could find it.

“Let’s go, bird,” she said, calming Fearless as she set out, her bags slung over her shoulder.  “It should only take us an hour or so to get there.  If we don’t get eaten, first.”

The ruined plain in the eastern quarter of the isle was not deserted – thrice she had to hide from patrols of gurvani who roamed the region.  Thankfully they were neither attentive nor observant.  She overheard the last of the three complaining about the duty while at the same time expressing relief at being exempted from fire brigade duty or gathered for the assault.

They spoke in Narasi, which Dara thought odd . . . but then she didn’t know much about the gurvani, really.  Or their new masters, the Enshadowed.  She made a note of it and proceeded on her way, once the patrol had passed.

The hidden redoubt was, she discovered, occupied by two men, a Kasar and a Wilderlord.  After giving them the password (“Rardine”) and introducing herself to them, she learned that the Kasari ranger was named Phen, and the Wilderlord was named Sir Lijan.

Both men were troubled by the sounds of distant battle, but they at least had news: the failure of the Ways was well-known and the source of much trouble, they told her, and the defenders of Olum Seheri were in the middle of a determined counterattack that they feared would overwhelm the southern redoubt.

“If they’re facing Terleman, they’ll pay dearly for every inch,” Dara reported.  She’d seen the warmage commander in battle several times, now, and he was admired for his tenacity and cool thinking in combat as much as he was his head for strategic thinking.  “How fares the Tower of Despair?”

“All prisoners of note have been rescued and returned to Timberwatch before the Ways failed,” Phen was proud to report.  “That part of the mission, at least, is accomplished.  Two of my fellows were dispatched to join Captain Arborn and hear his plan for a counter counter-attack, but I was selected to stay and tend this outpost,” he added, sadly.

“A duty that may save your life,” suggested Lijan, sitting on a stone high-up in the artificial cavern, where he could peer out.  “Terleman’s position is being soundly assaulted.  I know not how his folk can stand such a determined attack.”

“Those are warmagi and Tera Alon warriors,” Dara reminded them, producing a portable perch from a hoxter pocket in her medallion and placing Fearless upon it.  “They aren’t going to fold like some peasant militia.”

“There are a lot of undead out there,” Sir Lijan countered.  “And . . . here’s something new!” he said, as he peered through the slit in the rubble.  “Who are these fellows?”

His surprise was so genuine that Dara felt compelled to scurry up to the look-out point and see for herself.

“They look like Karshak,” she said, as she studied the long line of dark, iron-clad figures marching toward Terleman’s redoubt.  Each one bore a hammer and a stout round shield fashioned of metal.  “They must be Dradrien.  We knew they were working with Korbal,” she reminded herself.  “But I didn’t think they were fighting for him, too!”

“Heavy infantry.  There’s over two hundred of them, by my count” Lijan said, grimly.  “That’s going to piss in Terleman’s porridge.”

“Well, we can’t just let them march up and crush the line!” Dara said, anxiously.  She could just imagine what warriors with the strength of the Karshak would do.  She didn’t know a lot about the Dradrien, but their Karshak cousins were fearful of the race for a reason.  And the Karshak did not scare easily.

“If my lady has a company of lancers in her pocket, I think we might deter them,” Lijan said, with a chuckle.  “Anything less than that and those fellows will shrug it off like a light rain.”

“I’m not a warmage, I’m a Sky Rider,” Dara said, apologetically.  “Unless I can get above them, I don’t have much that can help.”

But that wasn’t entirely true, part of her mind whispered.

“That’s just as well,” Sir Lijan nodded.  “We don’t want to give away our position.  Me and Phen have been doing fine, since the other Kasari left.  Might be the one safe spot on Olum Seheri.”

“It’s still on Olum Seheri,” Dara countered.  “It’s not that safe.  But you’re right; until they break the spell that’s blocking the Ways, this is the one Waypoint that Korbal’s folk don’t know about.  We may need it, in an emergency.  But I still dislike seeing so many of the foe march past us, and not even give them a skirmish.  Have any other Sky Riders made it to this point?” she asked, hopefully.

Lijan shrugged.  “Haven’t seen anyone since Sir Tyndal popped through the Ways, a few hours back.”

“But . . . but the Ways are not working!” Dara said, confused.

“Oh, the Ways going outwards are befouled,” Sir Lijan reported, “but Sir Tyndal discovered that the Ways upon the island still function.  Did you not know, Lady Dara?”

“I . . . it escaped my attention,” Dara admitted.  She hadn’t thought of trying the other Olum Seheri Waypoints.  She’d only tried those leading out of the cursed land.  She could get back to Terleman or Azar, she realized, or go to where Tyndal or Rondal or one of the other warmagi with Waystones were located.

That changed her situation dramatically.  She’d planned on simply holing up with the two mundane warriors here until something happened to change the situation.  But knowing that she could be of further use to the mission gave her hope . . . and a motivation for action.

Dara, like her master, hated waiting around – her impatience was her greatest weakness, Master Dranus had always said.  The Westwoodmen were men of action by culture, and skulking around in artificial caverns while others fought was not in her nature.

But, really, another part of her mind chided, what could one grounded Sky Rider add to the battle that a company of seasoned high warmagi could not?  She’d be one more mediocre archer, one support mage in the midst of a battle that demanded a warmage.  Sure, she could help out . . . but she figured she’d be in the way more than she’d be helpful.

But what could she do?  She wasn’t trapped here, anymore, exactly, but she couldn’t fly, either.  Not on Fearless.  She hadn’t felt so helpless and useless in a battle since Castle Cambrian, when she’d . . .

Oh, yeah, Dara thought to herself, recalling the events of her second real battle.  Then she cursed herself soundly for being an idiot.

“Well, we can’t just let them march by like that,” she declared, jumping down from the perch to the uneven floor below.  “And we cannot reveal our position.  So it looks like we’ll have to find an alternative plan.”

“Can you summon an army of . . . something bigger?” Sir Lijan asked.  Phen looked up from his sentry post, intrigued by the question.

“No, magic doesn’t really work like that, usually,” Dara conceded, as she rummaged around in her pack.  “I am a beastmaster, but unless you count rats or the occasional fell hound, there’s not much to work with, here.  Wyverns are natavia – much harder to work with than importasta species,” she lectured, as she searched for the right tool.  She found it – a tiny snowstone box with a particular sigil on the top.  The box itself was empty.  But it was the anchor for a very special hoxter pocket.

“But that doesn’t mean I’m without resources,” she said, pulling the thing from her pack triumphantly.  “Before I was a Sky Rider – hells, I was barely a wizard – I was given another task.  Gentlemen,” she said, dramatically, as she opened the pocket, “meet the Thoughtful Knife.”

The slender weapon appeared from its interdimensional space, a smooth and shiny contrast to the gray rubble around it.  Dara picked up the control stone and looked around for a comfortable spot to sit.  She remembered just how cramped she got when she used the Knife for an extended period of time.

“That’s the one that slew the dragon!” Sir Lijan said, reverently.

“It helped,” she conceded.  “But dragonhide is incredibly strong.  I’m hoping the armor of the Dradrien isn’t so resilient.”

“And if it is?” asked Phen.

“Then I plan to test it, rigorously,” she said, folding her mantle into a pad in a small cavity in the rubble.  “If you gentlemen will ensure I’m not disturbed for a while, I’ll see just how much I can discomfort them.”  She closed her eyes and initiated the Knife.  It rose a few feet in the air in front of her, then sped away like an arrow through a gap in the rubble.

“Nice of them to line up all in a straight row like that,” she murmured to herself.  “That was very thoughtful.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Regrouping

Rondal

The four wizards waited until the long line of Dradrien warriors departed the encampment before they began skulking more closely to where the Sky Rider was being held captive.  It was a rough-built shed made of recovered rubble, an ugly little make-shift building the gurvani were using as a guard post . . . and the Dradrien warriors were using as a headquarters.  There was a tired-looking banner bearing a strange device hanging over the doorway.

Rondal was less interested in livery than he was security, however.  He had to get that prisoner out, despite there being nearly a score of black-furred little warriors inhabiting the post.

“Oh, this will be easy,” Tyndal boasted in his ear as they surveyed the site from cover.

“There’s still nearly twenty of them,” Rondal cautioned.

“They’re gurvani,” Tyndal dismissed.  “I’d get more of a fight from my breakfast porridge.”

“Remember, this is a prisoner rescue, not a general massacre,” he lectured.  “I don’t want her throat slit because you took too much time with the scrugs.”

“I think I know how to do a prisoner rescue,” Tyndal said, rolling his eyes.

“I’ll see to our Rider,” Atopol suggested.  “While you contend with the bloody stuff.  I doubt they’ll even notice me,” he bragged.

“Are you three going to chat like a bunch of goodwives, or are we going to attack?” Noutha asked, disgustedly, as she drew her blade.

“We want to ensure the Dradrien are far enough down the road to keep them from returning in the middle of our assault,” Rondal pointed out.

“They didn’t look like good sprinters,” Noutha observed.  “Especially not in full armor.  Let’s hurry up and get this done and get back to the real battle,” she insisted.

“Oh, fine,” Tyndal sighed, drawing his own blade.  “All three of us at once, then?  Frontal assault?”

“It has the virtue of being uncomplicated,” Noutha nodded.  “Distraction has its place on the battlefield, but so does bold, decisive action.  We go in hard, all three of us, with Cat as rearguard.  While we’re slaughtering goblins, he can get her out.”

“That’s the extent of your plan?” Rondal asked, incredulously.  “I thought you were a great warmage?”

“Great enough not to overthink the little things,” she snorted.  “You want my professional opinion?  This is a clear-cut surprise raid against a lightly-held static position.  A dozen pekotai, six udateli, and a couple of runners?  I could take the place apart myself,” she said, shaking her head.

As Lady Mask, Rondal knew Noutha became familiar with the gurvani and their organizations.  Indeed, she’d commanded an entire garrison of them, and knew at least some of their languages.

“What are ‘pekotai’?” asked Tyndal, conversationally.

“Common light infantry,” Noutha shrugged.  “It means ‘mace-wielders’, if you want to get technical, but they’re usually armed with a javelin or spear and a sword, now.  Udateli are the non-commissioned officers.  The ones in charge.  They don’t usually have a spear.  In my command, they used a talisman to denote their office, but these scrugs are using tabards.”

“You think that they’ll be wary?” Rondal asked, curious.  If anyone knew how the enemy fought, it would be Noutha.

“Those fellows,” she said, nodding toward the outpost, “are pulling guard duty on the deserted arse-end of this island.  That’s likely why the Dradrien were bivouacked here,” she added.  “They aren’t expecting trouble.  They captured a prisoner when they weren’t expecting it – that’s where their focus will be.   All the ruckus is on the other end of the island.  Their biggest pain-in-the-arse, the Dradrien, just marched away.  They’re going to be sloppy and relaxed, and totally unprepared for a surprise assault,” she predicted.

“So, a frontal assault would actually not be that hard,” reasoned Rondal.

“It’s actually the simplest solution to the problem,” she proposed.  “Look, the moment there’s word of attack, those scrugs are going to go rushing outside to see what’s going on.  If they’re lucky they’ll remember to leave a guard for the prisoner.  Scrugs are curious, as curious as people, but they’re far more undisciplined.  It takes a lot of effort to enforce anything like real military order on them, believe me.  You often have to resort to magic to get them to work together.  Or raise them from pups, crushing the undisciplined from the ranks.

“But as soon as the alarm goes up, everyone will want to fight.  That’s how their psychology works,” she promised.  “There’s no glory in guard duty.”

“All right,” Rondal sighed.  “But instead of all three of us rushing in at once, how about I let you two have your way with the place, and I’ll observe and act in reserve?”

“I don’t need the help,” agreed Noutha.  “You ready, Haystack?  Cat?”

“I’m all aquiver,” Tyndal agreed.

“Ready,” assured Atopol, pulling his dark hood over his head.

“Then . . . charge?” Rondal commanded.

Both warmagi chuckled as they turned and began walking toward the outpost, casting protective spells and engaging their warmagic enchantments.  Both were justifiably confident in their approach – Rondal knew they were two of the better warmagi in the Kingdom, armed with irionite and the most advanced enchantments Sevendor could produce.

Atopol was nowhere to be seen . . . which was expected.  The Cat of Enultramar crept among the shadows of the twisted land silently, enshrouded by shadowmagic and informed by a lifetime of practical experience.

Rondal had grown fond of the white-haired thief over the course of the last year, regardless of his relationship to his sister.  In many ways Atopol was the opposite of Tyndal’s boisterous personality and compulsive behavior.  But he shared Tyndal’s humor and his bravado.

Tyndal began the assault with a wide-ranging attack from just out of bowshot, peppering the front of the outpost, where the gurvani gathered, with a hail of spellfire from his mageblade.  The bodies of the unsuspecting gurvani suddenly twitched and contorted as his attack took effect.

Meanwhile, Noutha raised her arms and began her own attack: a series of blinding flashes erupted over the heads of the light-sensitive gurvani, followed by a bolt of searing plasma that struck a gurvan in the center and quickly engulphed the soldiers nearby.

Noutha was correct: the gurvani within the outpost could not resist rushing out to meet the attack.  As they did Tyndal’s spells cut them down, one by one or in small groups.  By the time he and Noutha got close enough to use their blades hand-to-hand, there were only a few goblins left to stand . . . and they didn’t fare well.  The two made short work of every gurvan within seconds, moving at warmagic-enhanced speeds.

Noutha, he noted, fought with brutal efficiency, laying out each new opponent with sharp thrusts or quick slashes of her mageblade, while using her left hand to blast away with a warwand.  She never spared an enemy more time than it took to eliminate him.

Tyndal, by contrast, was flamboyant in how he dismembered his challengers.  That didn’t mean he was slower – the warmage seemed to push a recovery from one attack into the beginning of another, his blade making wide but elegant sweeps as it slew.

Before they even made it to the front of the outpost, however, Atopol appeared with a bundle over his shoulder.  He pushed his way past the dying goblins and slipped behind some cover.  In a few moments he was standing behind Rondal, unwrapping his cloak from the captured Sky Rider’s shoulders.

“Thank you!” the girl said in a broad Wilderlands accent.  “I was preparing to escape, but this was a lot easier.”

“Typical Estasi Order service,” Atopol grinned.  “Fast but sloppy.”

“You’re Nattia, aren’t you?  You haven’t seen Dara around anywhere, have you?” Rondal asked.

The dark-haired Rider shook her head, as she accepted a water bottle from Atopol.  “No, I haven’t seen anyone since my bird went down,” she said, sorrowfully.  “Third Wing was headed over to search for them when we were attacked – just as we came across them.  Last I saw her, she and Fearless were going down just past the shoreline.  After that I was too confounded by wyverns to pay attention to much,” she admitted, taking a swallow.

“Can you travel?”

“You mean, without my bird?” she asked, chuckling.  “Yes, I can walk.  I can march.  I can even fight.  Poor Festive!   She was such a sweetheart,” she sighed, sadly.

“We’ll mourn her later, among others,” Rondal promised, as Tyndal and Noutha finished destroying the last defenders of the outpost.  “Right now, we have to locate our fallen Riders and return to a more secure position.  This sort of thing is fun, but our friends are getting hammered right now.  We need to get back and lend them our aid.”

“I am at your command,” the Kasari girl assured him.  “What can I do?  They took my gear, when they took me prisoner,” she cautioned.

Atopol held up a wide leather bag.  “I believe this is your bag, my lady?” he asked, politely.  “It didn’t look of gurvani manufacture.”

“Oh, Ishi bless you!” she declared, grabbing the bag as Atopol blushed.  “All of my equipment is in here!  Except for my blade – I sort of lost that.”

“In the belly of a goblin,” Rondal nodded, retrieving the blade he’d taken from the gurvani corpse next to Festive’s from behind his belt and handing it to her.  “Good work, that.”

“I never thought I’d see that again,” she said, taking the curved dagger gratefully.  “Thank you!”

Rondal and Noutha walked back from the sacked outpost casually, as if they were returning from the market.  “I told you a frontal assault was easiest,” Tyndal chided him, as they came within earshot.

“It accomplished the task,” he nodded.  “We have our rescued prisoner.  She’s well, and can travel,” he informed them.

“But to where?” Noutha asked.  “Has she seen Lady Lenodara?”

“Not since she went down, but she gave me a clue of where she might be,” Rondal reported, as he began to climb back up the block of rubble he was using as a vantage point.  “I think if we take a route that . . . oh.  Let me get a little higher,” he said, disturbed, and began to mount a higher point on the rubble to gain a better perspective.

“He always has to actually look at stuff before he goes somewhere,” Tyndal said, shaking his head.  “He can never just set off.  It’s annoying.”

“It’s almost like he’s afflicted with preparation,” the Sky Rider said, sarcastically.  “Byddwch yn barod!” she added in the Kasari native tongue.

“Did you happen to learn anything of value, while you were captive?” Atopol asked, conversationally, as he offered the Rider a biscuit from his pack.

“Yes, actually,” the Kasari girl said, pushing her hair out of her eyes before she bit into the biscuit.  “Everyone was called out to repel the attackers, from what I understood.  Those . . . those Iron Folk were already armored, as if they were anticipating a fight,” she reported.  “The gurvani were irritated about it.  They wanted a Nemovort to come inspect me,” she said, shivering as she said it, “but all of the leaders had been called away.”

“It sounds like they’re throwing everything at poor Terleman,” nodded Tyndal.

Rondal made the summit of the rubble pile, where he could more clearly see the results of Tyndal and Noutha’s raid on the outpost.  But he could also see a portion of the road, in the distance, the long road that connected the Temple of Korbal with the Tower of Despair, and beyond.

There was a long dark line of troops moving up the avenue, past the smoldering tower.  The Dradrien troops had joined the mass of gurvani already assembled there, he noted with magesight.  No doubt they and their Nemovorti leaders would fall upon poor Terleman with a fury, he reasoned.

But he also noted that the enemy forces were not marching quietly – they were being harassed.

“Good news,” he called out from his perch.  “No need to search for Dara.  She’s fine,” he reported.

“What?” asked Tyndal, surprised.  “Did you reach her, mind-to-mind?”

“No,” Rondal said, peering into the distance.  “But that’s definitely the Thoughtful Knife, slicing through those troops, and Dara is the only one who has one, to my knowledge.  Or knows how to use it that effectively,” he said, admiringly, as he watched the weapon bury itself in the breastplate of one Dradrien warrior and emerge explosively from the other side.

“Well, that’s a relief,” Tyndal sighed.  “I’d hate to be the one to tell Master that his senior apprentice got captured.  Or splatted,” he added.

“She’s safe and sound, somewhere,” Rondal guessed.  “Probably back at the southern Waypoint.  We can stop searching for her, now, and get back to the fight.”

“Azar or Terleman?” Noutha asked.  It didn’t appear that she had a preference.

“How about we stop back by our hidden Waypoint?” suggested Atopol.  “I’d prefer to examine the field from a distance, before we plunge right in with the slaughtering and such.”

“Might as well,” Rondal shrugged, as he hopped down.  “I think we’ve done about as much damage as we can, here.”

When Rondal came out of the Ways back where he’d started, he reflected on the cyclical nature of life and history and such while he discovered Dara, curled up in a corner of the clandestine cave, silently directing the Knife’s attack a few hundred yards away.

Nattia was next, along with Tyndal, and then Noutha and Atopol.  The Rider immediately began fussing over the injured falcon on the perch in the corner, while Tyndal and the others began to assess the situation.  There were a few Kasari rangers and a Wilderlord who’d taken refuge here, he noted – the same ones Tyndal had seen earlier that day.

That, of course, seemed like a decade ago, not a few hours.

“Back to where we started,” sighed Tyndal, echoing his thoughts.  “I’m certain there’s a lesson in there, somewhere.  How goes the battle?” he asked the Wilderlord who was standing as lookout.

“She’s got them pinned down, unmoving,” the knight reported with pride.  “She never keeps it in one place long enough for them to draw a bead on it.”

“Secure the perimeter, and let me contact our commander,” Rondal ordered everyone.  “I should know what we should do in a moment.”

He found a good seat, set back from where he’d spent the morning pelting the Tower of Despair with his crossbow, and closed his eyes.  Patiently he tried to contact Terleman, mind-to-mind.  To his surprise, the warmage answered almost at once.

You have her?

She’s safe and intact, reported Rondal.  She grounded and apparently made her way to the hidden Waystone with her injured bird – in small form, he added.  She’s using the Thoughtful Knife from here to slow the rush of forces descending on your position.

Duin bless her, then, Terleman said.  Things have started to get harsh, here.  I’ve withdrawn everyone back to the inner line of defense, with the rescued prisoners on the inside.  So far, they’re just containing us, pushing us back with skirmishers.  They haven’t engaged in force yet, but they’re just waiting.

Dara’s got about two hundred Dradrien warriors pinned down here with the Knife.  Heavy infantry.  Tough, Rondal assessed. And about another five, six hundred gurvani and assorted undead.

Have her keep at it for a while, Terleman ordered.  You and your team stay put, for now.  Except for the Kasari rangers and Azar, you’re the only other unit in play at the moment.  As much as I’d welcome you here, I think we might find a better place for you later on in the battle.

We’ll stay here and wait for orders, then, Rondal agreed.  Any word from Minalan? he added, trying not to sound anxious.

Not for more than an hour, at least, the warmage replied.   But then, I’ve been a little busy to keep up with my correspondence.  Rest up but stay ready.  If I need a sudden flanking maneuver, I’ll give you a shout.

Rondal let the connection fail.  He tried to relax.  Despite everything hanging in the balance, despite everything going wrong on this mission, he’d been granted an unexpected and completely temporary reprieve.  Unlike Noutha and Tyndal, he didn’t mind periods of enforced inactivity as much.  A soldier came to expect them, even cherish them, when they happened.

He took out his pipe as he went back to inform his colleagues.  “Terl wants us to stay put.  Protect Dara, and prepare for action if he needs a sudden distraction in the rear of the foe, or something like that.  So we have a few moments.”

“Don’t start a pot of tea,” Noutha complained, peering out of a crack toward the distant battlefield.  “I have a feeling that things are about to get desperate, over there.”

“They are,” Rondal assured her.  “But Terleman has enough men, for the moment.  He’ll let us know when he needs us.”

“But I agree about the tea,” Tyndal nodded, producing a flask.  “This is not a time for tea.”

“How in six hells are we supposed to get out of this mess?” complained Noutha, pacing as much as the small space afforded.  “Without the Ways, we’re doomed.”

“They have to be piping a tremendous amount of energy to maintain the disturbance,” Rondal reasoned, as he charged the bowl of his pipe and lit it with a cantrip.  “Just like they did to freeze the Poros.  If we can find the source of that enchantment and disrupt it, even briefly, we can get some people away.”

“Where would he keep it?” asked Nattia, as she tended to the falcon’s wounds.

“He’s got an entire island and an entire lake to hide it in,” reasoned Atopol.

“It doesn’t necessarily have to be a thing that can be hid,” pointed out Rondal.  “In fact . . . here, let me do some scrying,” he said, wandering off into an alcove of the artificial grotto and summoning Insight, his baculus.  With the help of its powerful paraclete, he was soon able to determine at least something of the nature of the spell.

“He’s placed the entire lake canyon under the spell,” he reported, when he was done.  “It’s pushed the area into a different arcane phase, I believe.  There might even be some dimensional elements to the spell,” he said, more to himself than the others.  “It’s not locked up with the mists, as I suspected.  It’s radiating from a central point, near the center of the island.”

“We’re nowhere near the center of the island,” Noutha pointed out.

“We may not have to be, to counter the spell,” Rondal considered.  “But I need more information.  Like where that energy is coming from.  And whether or not it’s necromantic or traditionally thaumaturgic in nature.”

“Would that make a difference?” Atopol asked, curious.

“It might,” Rondal admitted.  “I don’t know.  Necromantic energy depends upon the arcane power derived from the decomposition of organic matter, in theory.”

“In practice,” Noutha told him, “it can do things that thaumaturgy cannot.  Thaumaturgy using vital energy,” she amended.  “When I was working with the Enshadowed I witnessed it at work, a few times.  I’m no thaumaturge, but some of the things they did violated some pretty basic principles of Imperial magical practice.  Including dimensional magic.  Time, gravity, electromagnetism – it all behaved differently with necromancy.”

“Do you think they could use that to block the Ways?” proposed Rondal.

“Well, clearly they have,” Noutha shot back.  “I told you, I’m not a thaumaturge.  But field state changes were definitely one of the things they could accomplish.”

“You saw that?” Atopol asked, interested.

She snorted.  “I watched one Enshadowed bastard use necromancy to age a prisoner sixty years in sixty seconds,” she boasted.  “I don’t know anything in Imperial magic that can do that.”

“Neither do I,” agreed Rondal.  “Let’s hope they don’t resort to such spells against our noble officers.  I don’t think some of our more experienced magi could survive.  Did necromancy, as you observed the Enshadowed using it, have any weaknesses?”

“Now that’s a good question,” Noutha nodded, slowly, her eyes slitted.  “Those slimy little bastards were arrogant about their magical superiority over us ‘mere’ humani warmagi, but yes, there were a few occasions that stymied them.

“They got into a squabble with some of Sheruel’s priests, once, when they first started arriving in the Penumbra and throwing their weight around.  Something they did prohibited the Enshadowed from raising power,” she recalled.

“What did they do?”

“I told you, I’m not a thaumaturge!  It happened quickly, at the court of the Goblin King.  Three shamans took offense to two Enshadowed emissaries.  The Enshadowed demonstrated their power with a few necromantic-based blasts, which pissed off the locals.  They responded with this spell.  The Enshadowed twisted around for a few moments, impotent, until Sheruel’s Black Skulls broke it up.  They still had some power, back then,” she recalled.  “But if I had to guess the nature of the spell, it was some sort of arcane vibratory oscillation,” Noutha guessed.

“An oscillation,” Rondal repeated, thinking furiously.  He only knew a little about the complex, dark, and murky field of necromancy and its capabilities.  The human study of the morbid art tended to be limited to the dead, the afterlife, and how to overcome both, but there was clearly more to it than merely raising corpses to do your housework.

All arcane energies existed at their own specific vibratory state, he knew – just as light changed color when its vibrations were tampered with.  Imperial magic dealt with some very specific and established elements of that “spectra”, but not all of them.  Karshak and Alka Alon practitioners used very different elements than Imperial magic, although there was some overlap.  And there was plenty of room in thaumaturgical theory surrounding the possibilities of those more mysterious vibrations.

But if you interrupted or transformed that vibratory state, you could disrupt the efficacy of the spell.  That’s what half of defensive warmagic involved: disrupting the basic vibratory expression of arcane energies headed in your direction, preferably before they arrived.

Usually that involved tuning the arcane shields of your defenses to try to dissipate the harmful effects of that energy.  There were several ways you could do that, he knew: interdiction, deflection, obfuscation . . . but the one he focused on was diffusion.

When you knew – more or less – the vibration of the arcane energy being thrown at you, it was possible to get your own personal defenses to challenge the magical attack by diffusing the potency of the blast with a vibration that canceled or altered that of the attack.  You might be off by a bit, depending on precisely which spell was thrown, but even a partial diffusion could mean the difference between life and death on the battlefield.

An oscillating vibrational enchantment, he realized, would be just as effective, even against necromancy.  It would have to be a field enchantment, he knew, and one capable of projecting a wide, powerful field.  Which implied a lot of power – how much, he did not know.

But if he could establish the field, entrain it with whatever vibration the Nemovorti were using to disrupt the Ways, and then begin an oscillating pulse that countered that vibration, he might be able to free the Ways in Olum Seheri.

Thaumaturgically, it made sense.  The theory was sound.  But Rondal was a novice thaumaturge, at best, and there was so much he didn’t understand about what he was considering that he was tempted to let it sit as mere theory.

Fatefully, fortune intervened.  As he was pondering over their situation, and how to overcome it, Tyndal had apparently getting into contact, mind-to-mind, with the defenders of Terleman’s redoubt.  Not the commanders, he assured him, but the friends he’d made among the other high warmagi over the years.  Tyndal assumed they would give him plenty of valuable intelligence without the burdensome possibility of forthcoming orders.  He wasn’t wrong.

“Break’s over,” Tyndal announced.  “Somebody wake up Dara, and get her to bring the Knife back in.  I just got word from Caswallon.  The enemy has elected to defeat Terleman before they turn and face Azar.  They’re attacking now, and they have more forces on the way.  They’ve already lost six men,” he added, to spur them on.

“With no hope of reinforcements?” Noutha said, making a face.  “That’s not good.”

“It’s worse than not good,” Tyndal announced.  “The Nemovorti are taking the lead in the battle.  The draugen are as thick as fleas.  There are gurvani and hobgoblins everywhere.  And the Nemovorti are being led by Korbal, himself!”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Attack From The Rear

Tyndal

Now this, Tyndal reflected, was a battle.

Thousands of goblins and hobgoblins massed against the redoubt where Terleman and his few hundred defenders were holed up.  There was a great pile of fuzzy black bodies already making a ring around the place, Tyndal noted from his hidden position, and the way the enemy was compelling their soldiery toward the wizards’ redoubt, they didn’t mind making more.

Standing against them were no more than a dozen warmagi, arrayed in front of the installation in a loose line that was close enough to support each other, yet not so close as to risk interference in their casting.  Tyndal picked out a few he knew by eye, but with that much magic swirling around it was hard to see, even with magesight.  The men were doing a good job of merely keeping the goblins at bay – they did not attack, they only defended.

Behind them was a score of Tera Alon archers, lending their support by sending volleys or sniping against ambitious gurvani who escaped the warmagi’s clutches.

Against those kinds of odds, most commanders would just pack it in and surrender, Tyndal reasoned.  But Terleman was cool-headed, perhaps the most collected commander Tyndal had ever seen.  He was standing on a ridge overlooking the chaos below, directing the defenses with the patience of a chess player.  When one of the magi faltered, Terleman directed him to withdraw, to be replaced by a fresh wizard.  That kept too much of his defenders from being exposed at once, and allowed him to conserve his strength.

It was a wise and effective deployment of troops, Tyndal noted.  It was also going to fail, before long, too.  As he watched it became clear to all involved in the battle that simply throwing goblins at the raiders merely got you more dead goblins.  Not even the shamanic magic some of their officers were throwing around was effective – with the best professional warmagi in the world at work, the arcane defenses around the redoubt were impressive.  Gurvani magical attacks fizzled and died before they got anywhere near the mass of humanity at the center of the chaos.

But Olum Seheri had more than mere goblins to spend in its defense.  The next wave, Tyndal saw, was a ghastly-looking line of at least two or three hundred draugen.  They would be far tougher than the mortal gurvani.  Terleman was aware of the threat, too, Tyndal could see, as the commander brought up another dozen fresh warmagi from his reserves to help repel the threat.

The problem was, behind the draugen there were at least forty Nemovorti, each armed according to their ability.  Even one Nemovort was daunting; so many together was depressing.  Behind them were the surviving Dradrien infantry, much more bloodied for Dara’s harassing attacks with the Thoughtful Knife.

In the midst of the defenders was a tall figure, nearly eight feet tall, enshrouded in a dark cloak and wearing strange but cunningly-crafted armor.

Korbal.  The Necromancer had emerged to defend his domain.  Tyndal would recognize him anywhere, after seeing him last year near this very spot.

The Necromancer of Olum Seheri looked gleeful in the torchlight as he directed the battle himself.  He seemed far more festive and flamboyant than Terleman, in his command style, Tyndal noted.  This overlarge human body seemed to have a perpetual grin on its wide, scarred face as it gave orders and received messengers.  It was as if Korbal had been expecting and anticipating this battle.

That pissed Tyndal off.  What was the point of having a devastating surprise attack when you were just walking into a trap?

Trap or not, there was a job for him to do, here, he reasoned.  He’d been detailed to scout out the battlefield in person, while Rondal and the others prepared a flanking maneuver on Terleman’s behalf.

After considerable consultation, it was agreed that Azar – whose forces, while surrounded, were not being pressed the way Terleman’s were – would send some of his best men through the Waypoint to join the Estasi Knights in their clandestine blind.  When Terleman called for it, it would be their job to attack the enemy army in the rear.

There wouldn’t be enough of them to make more than a token effort, but Terl hoped that the surprise might be enough to stall the fight at a critical time.  Tyndal didn’t bother trying to second-guess the warmage commander – Terleman had proven he knew his deadly business, over and over.

But that was the other part of Tyndal’s job: in addition to scouting the route to the battlefield, he was also searching for the best possible point of attack on the foe’s rear.

As he skulked around beyond the perimeter of the enemy army, through gloomy ruins and the foundations of shattered buildings, he finally found a spot he liked.  It was only a half-mile away from the edge of the army, a crushed, roofless shell of some grand old Alka Alon hall, but the bulk of the ruin concealed a wide, relatively open space that would serve nicely as a staging ground, he decided.

After thoroughly inspecting the site for goblin deserters, escaped slaves and antisocial wyverns, Tyndal decided it was adequate.  Then he took apart the pommel of his mageblade, pried the Waystone from its setting, and placed it in an out-of-the-way corner of the ruin.

I found our spot, he reported back to Rondal, a moment later.  Less than half a mile away from the battle, too.  Plenty of concealment.  Should I go ahead and set wards?

Only if you want to attract the attention of every Nemovort there, Rondal replied.  That close and the residual power will attract their attention and give away your position.

Probably, Tyndal conceded.  Shall I come back, now?

No, Rondal ordered.  Hold position and maintain observations.  You’re going to wait for contact from the Kasari Rangers.  They’re apparently gathered just northwest of here, and want to coordinate the attack.

Understood, Tyndal acknowledged.  You don’t happen to know of any taverns nearby, while I wait?  I’m starting to develop a powerful thirst.

Must be a fast day or something, I think they’re all closed, Rondal replied.  Want some more good news?  Taren and I have been talking, when he hasn’t been fighting for his life.  We think it might be possible, theoretically, to disrupt the blockage to the Ways.  It’s clearly a necromantic-based spell, focused on the—

Save the lecture for the seminar, Master, and just tell me, Tyndal complained.

We have a theory, Rondal stated.  It might work.  If it does, it will probably only work for a few moments.

That would be enough for us to get the hells out of here!

That’s my idea.  So we will all have to be ready, when and if we can make it happen.  But there’s still much to do before we even attempt it.

Like win this battle?

I’d settle for surviving this battle, Rondal replied.

Tyndal didn’t argue.  He’d been in some tight spots, before, but none of them felt as potentially hopeless as this one.

He marveled at the irony of it all: after years of screwing around after the invasion, humanity had finally launched a successful counter-attack . . . only to see its most powerful force trapped in a battle of attrition they could not hope to win.  He’d always wanted to be a part of that vengeful army, after what the gurvani had done to Boval Vale.  Now here he was, in the vanguard of the force, in the thick of battle . . . and he was as trapped now as he’d been in Boval Castle.

But he was not powerless, he reasoned, as he chose a hidden spot to wait for his Kasari contact.  Back in the siege of Boval Castle he’d been a boy, a terrified stableboy with a bow, a warwand he didn’t understand, and only the vaguest notion of the power of his magical Talent.  He didn’t know how to fight, at all.

Not so, now.  A few years and countless miles had given him the skills and experience that the stableboy lacked.  Fortune and daring had granted him resources and repute.  And faithful service had been rewarded with some of the finest tools of thaumaturgical warfare ever created.  He was a well-trained, deadly warrior who’d proven himself.  He was a knight mage of the Estasi Order of Errants, and he’d earned that title, he reasoned.

So why did he still feel so inadequate to the task?

“Are you in prayer, Sir Tyndal?  Or in telepathic conference?” came a familiar voice, just loud enough to hear.

“No, Lord Arborn,” he said, opening his eyes and trying not to act surprised.  “Merely reflecting on my shortcomings, in light of the situation.”

“M’ sgowtiaid yn ddewr,” he reminded him, with a chuckle.  The ranger joined him in the little alcove, taking out his water bottle.

“It’s not bravery that I lack, my lord, it’s power sufficient to smite our enemies, and the wit to use it.”

“All is far from lost,” Arborn pointed out.  “Indeed, we’ve taken few losses, as of yet.  The enemy has not crushed our friends, as we feared.”

“That’s because they want to take them alive and unspoiled, if possible,” Tyndal informed him.  “They would be the perfect hosts for the Nemovorti.  With the Ways cut off, Korbal can take his time and wear us down.  Probably in hopes of forcing a surrender, promising amnesty and safety, before he betrays his word and obliterates us all, one by one.”

“We are unlikely to surrender.”

“Yes, but he doesn’t know that.  He’s still learning about humanity.  How fare your men?”

“I have three score and six, gathered in a cellar beneath a ruin in the northwest,” he reported.  “Most completed their reconnaissance before they were recalled,” he added, proudly.

“That’s a goodly force,” Tyndal nodded.  “Any insights into our situation?”

“A few,” Arborn agreed, and began discussing what his men had found on their missions.  Not all of it was germane to their present situation, but it was interesting in its greater implications.  And disturbing.

But the information was helpful, especially in terms of planning a surprise attack on the enemy’s rear.  One thing Tyndal loved about the Kasari Rangers: they were incredibly clever when it came to sabotage and traps.  Devious, almost.  Arborn’s hand-picked patrol of the best such rangers, the Night Owls, were legendary back in Vorone and the Wilderlands.  They were all with the group for this excursion.

They took a few moments to sketch out a plan for action in the dirt, while the battle ground away in the distance, until they were both satisfied with the roles their respective units would play.

“Safe journey back to your men,” Tyndal saluted, as Arborn prepared to go.

“My thanks.  Please tell my wife I am alive, the next time you speak to her,” he requested.

“I will,” Tyndal assured.  “Don’t think she’s going to let something like battle get in the way of your impending fatherhood.  She’s not inclined to raise three little girls without you.”

That earned a grin from the normally stoic Ranger.  Tyndal felt strangely close to the man, after enjoying the intimacies of his wife before she’d even met Arborn.  Tyndal still felt a little guilty about the gift Pentandra had given him, on the barge so long ago, when he spoke to Arborn – so much so that he’d never spoken of the matter to anyone, even Rondal.

But he also knew that Lady Pentandra had many lovers before either of them came along.  That didn’t stop him from feeling somewhat protective and connected to the Chief of Rangers, beyond the great respect and admiration he had for the man.

Ishi, he reflected as he prepared to return to the Westwardens’ makeshift headquarters, had a strange and twisted sense of humor.

“Enjoy your stroll, lad?” asked a familiar voice when he emerged from the Waypoint.

“Wenek!” Tyndal exclaimed, embracing the stout warmage warmly.  He’d always been fond of the gruff warmage, since he’d taught him some of the nastiest spells back at Boval Castle.  Wenek’s specialty was offensive magics, and he proudly boasted he was the most offensive mage in the Kingdom.

“I brought a few of my friends from Azar’s redoubt,” he said, gesturing with his mace.  There were a half-dozen men lingering in the crowded space beyond.  “All he could spare, for now.  Just as we were leaving, we got company,” he said, grimly.

“Nemovorti?”

“Worse.  The big ugly green ball, himself.  Sheruel.”

The name made Tyndal’s guts clench.

“He showed up right before we left, and Azar wanted to get us out of there before things got warm.  So far,” he conceded, “he’s simply floated around the edge of the camp, like he’s taunting us.”

“He won’t attack unless he has to, not yet,” Tyndal theorized.  “They want us alive.  To turn us into Nemovorti.”

“Yeah, we figured that out,” Wenek sighed, gloomily.  “Still, we figured we’d do more good here than there.  So what do you want to do with us?”

It turned out that Wenek brought some mighty warmagi to assist in the attack.  Gerendren the Grim was there, bearing his double axes, as was Caswallon the Fox.  Golvod of Timaria leaned upon the nastiest-looking warstaff Tyndal had ever seen.  And there was another familiar face.

“Magelord Astyral,” Tyndal said, bowing to the elegant Gilmoran warmage.  Even though he was armored for battle, the graceful man managed to keep his kit clean and his hair combed stylishly.  “Glad you could join us on this excursion.”

“My pleasure, Sir Tyndal,” Astyral beamed, graciously.  “I was getting bored holding a defensive position.  Even when Sheruel showed up, there wasn’t any action to speak of.  I’m hoping that the Necromancer is more generous with his time.”

“We’ll find out shortly,” Tyndal said, feeling more hopeful by far, now that reinforcements had arrived.  He didn’t mind dying in a gallant display of self-sacrifice, but it wouldn’t become Rondal.  He had a girlfriend, after all.  “I hope you brought your finest arguments?”

“All of my best,” Astyral nodded, patting his ornate weapons’ harness.  “I just spoke with Dara about re-directing her attack.  And . . . well, I had an idea while I was speaking to her.  One that might just save a few of us.”  He elaborated, explaining the plan to Tyndal.  “It could buy us some time, if nothing else,” he suggested.

“That’s not a bad plan at all,” conceded Tyndal.  “We should have thought of it earlier.”

“Things got hectic,” Wenek shrugged, his massive shoulders setting his belly rolling under his armor.  “Once Old Baldy showed up, we were distracted.”

Rondal approached him, striding through the crowded shelter with purpose.

“Good work,” he murmured.  “I just spoke to Terleman.  They just sent the first wave of draugen in, in force.  They’re holding their own, but they’re starting to take casualties.”

“So what’s the plan?” Tyndal asked, concerned.

“We go in at the same time as the Kasari,” his friend sketched out.  “We hit them from the northwest, they hit them from the northeast.  Dara comes in with the Thoughtful Knife from due west.  A three-way attack on their rearguard.”

“Even with that, it’s unlikely that they’ll notice,” Tyndal said, just above a whisper.  “I was just surveying their rear.  They aren’t camp followers and baggage boys,” he warned.  “Draugen, Nemovorti, and those Dradrien.  I’m surprised there aren’t any trolls,” he added.

“They’ve sent them all to the western end, against Azar,” Rondal said.  “That’s why this is such an important attack.  Our goal isn’t to drive the rear into the center, or even decimate their forces.  Our goal is to slay the Necromancer.”

“What?” Tyndal demanded.

“This is one of the few times Korbal has been confirmed to be in one place, in the open,” Rondal explained.  “Azar, Terleman and I all agree that this is the best shot at him that we’re going to get.”

“You want us to carry out a battlefield assassination against Korbal?”  Tyndal asked, in disbelief.

“It’s our best shot,” Rondal stressed, looking around.  “While Terl has his attention in the front, between our three forces we should be able to fight our way through the rear and get to him.”

“And then what?” Tyndal asked.  “Ask him to dance?”

“We slay him,” Rondal said, flatly.  “Really hard.”

“Ishi’s tits, Ron!  We’ve got some heavy hitters, here, but that’s a bloody undead lord, surrounded by other undead lords, surrounded by really angry little Dradrien!”

“While we hit them from the rear, Terleman will counterattack,” reasoned Rondal.  “He’s been hoarding his strength, fighting his men in rotation, and waiting for a chance to press the matter.  Our attack is his chance.  The goal isn’t to rescue the prisoners, or even relieve the redoubt.  It’s to kill Korbal,” he said, with a note of finality in his voice.  “However we can.  Whatever the cost.”

Tyndal sighed.  “All right.  I guess we can do that.  It will buy Master Min some more time, at least.”

“We go in five minutes,” Rondal informed him.  “From here to the staging area you found.  We’ll leave Dara and Nattia here with the mundane warriors, and use this place as a retreat position and aid station, if we must.  Five minutes.  Take a piss, catch a smoke, eat a morsel, get drunk, whatever you need to do.  I’ll get the others ready.”

“I’m wondering if I have time for all of them at once,” mused Tyndal.

Instead, he checked over his inventory of warmagic supplies, weapons, and the condition of his armor, before hanging a few spells of choice.  He tuned up his mageblade with a few fresh warmagic enchantments, and constructed a thick, multi-layered arcane shield around himself.

Ten minutes later, as he and the other warmagi sprung on the foe’s left flank, he wondered if he shouldn’t have increased it.

The warmagi crept around the rocks and rubble until they were facing the menacing rear of the army – a block of iron-clad Dradrien intermixed with draugen reserves.  The short warriors looked impatiently at the battle, on the other side of the army.  Tyndal and his band gave them something to keep them busy.

Taking a page from the gurvani’s own book, Wenek began the attack with a powerful cloud of arcane lightning that laced its way through the highly-conductive Dradrien infantry, causing them to jerk and dance painfully.  Astyral followed a moment later with a shower of flaming plasma that incinerated anything it touched.  Rondal complimented that with a hailstorm of rubble – conveniently at hand – propelled in an arc with especial force, as powerful as a volley of mangonels.

The other warmagi would not be outdone, and for a few heated minutes the small band poured the most potent warspells they knew into Korbal’s army.

The attack had an effect, but it was not nearly as profound as Tyndal hoped.  Many of the armored Dradrien picked themselves up in the middle of the attack and took a defensive position with their thick shields, instead of fleeing like the gurvani might have done.

That suited Tyndal.  He’d waited to launch his own attack – a massive concussive wave – until they’d assumed such a position where it would be most effective.

The arcanely-produced shockwave hit the shields of the Dradrien like an aggressive thunderclap, knocking dozens of mailed warriors to the ground.  It wasn’t a particularly lethal attack, compared to the others, but it accomplished the goal of ruining the defensive posture of their line.

“Charge!” Rondal commanded, the cry being picked up across the ragged line of warmagi.  Each of them readied their weapons and activated their warmagic enhancements as they ran into the chaotic remnant of Dradrien.

The little warriors proved tough nuts to crack.  Tyndal’s first solid hit whinged off the helmet of one of the Dradrien, forcing him to trip his opponent and impale him through the throat while he was down.  The next dueled him with a hammer the size of a two-penny loaf, nearly smashing Tyndal’s knee before a blast from his warmage blinded him.

The other warmagi were having just as much trouble, though Astyral and Rondal, in particular, seemed to be making more progress through the ranks.  Caswallon was bashing away at two Dradrien who seemed determined to act as hammer and anvil, while Wenek was trading mace blows with a fellow that seemed just as wide, though a head and a half shorter than the Baron of the Pearwoods.

“Keep moving!” Rondal screamed into the battle.  “Don’t get caught up!  Keep moving!” he kept repeating, as he pushed his way past opponents, sparing them as little effort as he needed to.  He impaled a draugen on the tip of his blade and pushed it against two charging Dradrien to demonstrate.

It took a few confusing moments for Tyndal to get his bearings in the battle, but he saw the slight rise where Korbal’s tall figure was standing . . . surrounded by a sea of his vassals.  Though he was less than a hundred yards away, it seemed a hopeless task to try to make it to him.  Nonetheless, he kept pushing, slashing, bashing, and blasting his way through the most heated battle of his life.

Tyndal found himself near Gerendren the Grim, whose two massive axes had smashed and hewed a path through the Dradrien and draugen.  He took up a position on his flank, and began working in tandem with the big man to push through the line.  More than once they faced a small line of iron shields as they pressed on, as the Dradrien tried to block and encapsulate them.  More than once the two of them used magic, warcraft, and pure brute strength to push past them.

It was hard, heavy work, and his world descended into the space a few steps away, the next foe to face him, the next danger to avoid.  He was already exhausted, after his long, busy day, and he was depending now on the restorative nature of warmagic to keep his feet moving, his arms fighting, and his head aware of every move the enemy made.  He would pay a high price for it, later . . . assuming that there was a later, for him.

Just as his frustration was starting to rise and transform into a pessimistic bitterness, he saw two sights, one after the other, that gave him some hope.  The first was the attack by the Kasari.

It was no ordinary attack.  They seemed to come out of nowhere, set themselves in place and launched a volley of arrows without speaking so much as a word to one another.  A moment later they had reformed in their irregular positions and launched a second.  It took a few moments for the foe to even realize that they were under attack from such a surprising direction.

When the edge of the far side of the army broke to pursue the Kasari, they were undone.  Almost immediately, large portions of the gurvani and draugen who guarded that flank ran afoul of numerous traps and snares the cunning Kasari had laid in their path.  That only encouraged more of Olum Seheri’s defenders to break and face the attack . . . but the Kasari had already pulled away, out of reach.  Hundreds of gurvani corpses lay in their wake, along with a few draugen still moving, though they were pinned to the ground by the heavy Wilderlands arrows.

It wasn’t a heavy attack, but it was distracting.  Had there been a company of cavalry handy, it would have been an opportune time to charge, Tyndal reflected, as he smashed the face of a Dradrien with the guard of his blade before kicking him in the shoulder.  It was a pity they didn’t have one.

The second thing that gave him hope was the streak of light that shot across the field, sending a shower of blood behind it as it neatly decapitated everything in its path.  The Thoughtful Knife, Tyndal smiled, as he pushed on.  Just as good as a cavalry charge, and almost as effective.

While Tyndal and the others pushed on, it became clear that Terleman’s side of the fight was also heated, as the commander counter-charged the draugen in force.  Tyndal couldn’t see what was going on, but he could feel the throb of magic in the air, and hear the screams of the gurvani and other living minions in the vanguard as they bore the brunt of the attack.

It was working, Tyndal told himself.  He could see that bastard, Korbal, in the center of it all, looking first this way and then that as the battle took a sudden and unexpected turn.

Tyndal didn’t know what inspired him, but he took a moment to lob a glass sphere from his pouch at the Necromancer, and was gratified to hear it whoosh in an explosion, when it landed.  He had no idea if it landed well, or not, after he threw it, but he hoped the thing had splashed a few of the bad guys around him, at least.

The thing was designed to produce a cloud of caustic acid that burned the skin and could blind the eyes.  Tyndal didn’t know if undead eyes were susceptible to such things, but he felt it was an opportune time to test the theory.

Gerendren nearly fell at the hands of a Nemovort who crossed the field to face the big warrior.  Tyndal’s blade was fouled in the belly of a Dradrien, and had Caswallon not suddenly sprung from the rear to decapitate the beast in one graceful sweep of his blade, Gerendren would have been killed.

“For Alshar and Castalshar!” the vainglorious warrior bellowed, as he continued to hack at the Dradrien and draugen who sought to block them and blast away with his warwand.

“My thanks, my friend,” Gerendren gasped, using his axes to help struggle to his feet.  “How much further?”

“All the way,” Tyndal said, dismissing the idea that this bloody day would ever end.  “Korbal is but a few hundred feet, that way,” he pointed with his blade.  “I hear he’s yet to meet a warmage in combat that’s his match,” he added to Caswallon.

“He has yet to meet the Fox!” Caswallon declared, indignantly.  With a snort the man fell against the next draugen with renewed purpose.

“Was that true?” Gerendren asked, as they followed the Fox into battle.

“How the hells should I know?” Tyndal asked, stabbing a draugen in the eye, and then slashing his throat when that didn’t deter him.  “I don’t take tea with the gentleman.  What’s more important is that Caswallon thinks that,” he pointed out.

Gerendren chuckled, and with a tired shout he plunged into the next group of foes.

At some point, Tyndal recalled seeing Rondal in the midst of battle, using a captured Dradrien round shield and his short mageblade to carve through another layer of defenders.  Another time, he saw Astyral incinerate an entire company of undead, when they menaced his position.  Wenek was laughing madly as his round face surveyed the incredible damage his spells dealt, and Noutha was nearly dancing through the ranks of the enemy, leaving a path of severed limbs and quivering corpses behind her.

Still, no one could get to Korbal, Tyndal noted with frustration.  Terleman’s folk were closest, he noted, during his next chance to assess the situation.  The Necromancer was surrounded by his personal guards, the Nemovorti who’d shared his dark tomb for a thousand years, and they were not abiding anyone getting close enough to threaten their master.

Indeed, the Nemovorti were now turning on the warmagi in strength, using spells against the humans that caught up plenty of their own folk in the damage.  They didn’t seem to care.  Whatever necromantic sorcery they were using against Terleman’s advance, it was potent, Tyndal realized, as he watched Hanilif, a seasoned warmage of many battles, get his legs withered away in an instant, consigning the man to a painful battlefield death.

Weariness began to overtake him as his steps slowed, and his warmagic spells began to wane.  There were limits to what a mage could do to push his body in battle, he knew, and he was quickly approaching his own.  Yet there seemed no limit to the enemies standing between he and Korbal.

It was a disheartening situation, he knew, as he narrowly blocked Gerendren from taking a spear in the shoulder.  But dying in battle, on his feet with a sword in his hand, was better than shoveling horseshit into his dotage, he reasoned, philosophically.

He returned to the battle with grim determination, reducing his world to the enemy in front of him.  That was something he understood, something that didn’t cause more than a moment’s anxiety.  Just the pure adrenaline surge needed to slay the foe and move on to the next one.

When next he glanced at the goal, he seemed no closer – but neither did any of those fighting their way toward the Necromancer.  It seemed a hopeless task . . . made more hopeless a moment later, when an unmistakable green sphere appeared next to Korbal.

Tyndal nearly threw down his weapons in disgust.  That just wasn’t fair!

Then he heard something, a sound in the air that cut through the screams and shouts and chaos of battle.  A horn, he realized.

“It’s not the cavalry,” Gerendren explained, with a grin.  “That’s Azar’s horn!”

Chapter Forty

Strategy And Tactics

Pentandra

“Things are not . . . not going well, Your Grace,” Pentandra informed the image in the Mirror in the corner of the barn.  “Indeed, things are going poorly, if you want to know the truth.”

“Ishi’s tits!” the image of her liege swore.  “I was there but eight hours ago, Pentandra!  What happened?” he demanded.

“The Necromancer has contrived to shut off the Ways into or out of Olum Seheri.  Our people are trapped there,” she reported, dutifully.  “Almost all of our best warmagi . . . and the Spellmonger.”

“That is unpleasant news,” Duke Anguin said, his face troubled.  “Perhaps disastrous.  You are working on the matter?”

“With every power at my command,” assured Pentandra to the faint image in the pool.  “The Alka Alon are studying it, as are thaumaturges both here and on the battlefield.  We’ve had some intriguing theories, so far, but nothing we could act upon yet.  From the last report I had of Terleman, he was leading his men in a counter-attack to assassinate Korbal, in the midst of battle.  They had joined just a moment before I called upon you.  I will keep you appraised of the outcome.”

“Please do,” he nodded, politely.  “I have my hands full with the consequences of our raid on the Penumbralands, at the moment, but that does not mean I don’t have the keenest interest in the operation.”

“I understand, Your Grace,” Pentandra nodded.  “Have you informed His Majesty of Rardine’s rescue, yet?”

“No,” Anguin said, a cloud coming over his face.  “At my cousin’s request.  She seeks a few days to recover from her ordeal, before she announces her freedom.”

“A reasonable request,” admitted Pentandra.

“It is,” he agreed.  “But I suspect she seeks to gain intelligence on the Royal Court and assess her political position, more than she needs rest.  I have her hidden away at a small estate of mine, outside of Vorone.  A place without any Family oversight,” he added.

“A good idea,” Pentandra agreed.  “Until we see how this battle turns out, and whether we just lost a few hundred of our best men to the enemy, it’s best we keep Their Majesty’s attention focused on the Penumbra raids, not Timberwatch.”

After her quick briefing of her sovereign, Pentandra reluctantly went back to the busy nest of chairs and tables in the center of the barn.  She could not bear to return to the deceptively comfortable-looking chair, yet, so she waddled around the diorama of Olum Seheri to see how the battle was playing out.

The tokens on the display showed the two large knots of warmagi clustered around the static Waypoints, both surrounded by large numbers of enemy forces.  Terleman’s company earned the larger portion of the foe, led by Korbal, himself, while Sheruel – apparently on holiday from the Dark Vale – was warding the western redoubt, but not engaging, much to Azar’s consternation.

Then there were the expeditionary forces – the Kasari rangers, whom Arborn had rallied, along with a handful of mundane Wilderlords caught outside of the lines on the one hand, and the remnants of the Westwardens, reinforced by Azar’s reserves, chewing their way through the enemy lines.  Many of her old friends were in that group, arguably the one most at risk.

But the Sky Riders were off the board, and there were nearly three hundred ragged, recently-liberated human slaves on it, mostly around Terleman’s post.  There was no way to get reinforcements through, and while they could send supplies in abundance they would soon run out of men to use them.

“My lady,” one of the monitors said, interrupting politely as she studied the situation, “an interesting report: the thaumaturgical group just sent word that – for the briefest instant – the dimensional field around Olum Seheri fell.  Then it raised itself, again, a moment later.  It was too brief for us to take advantage of it, alas, but it does demonstrate that the spell is not constant.”

“So it does!” Pentandra said.  That was the first piece of good news she’d had in an hour.  “Do they have any idea why it happened?”

“Still working on that, my lady,” he assured her.

That was interesting!  If they could figure out what caused the fluctuation in the spell, perhaps they would find the key to affecting it.  It was a pretty thaumaturgical problem, one involving necromancy – a field she knew almost nothing about.  Indeed, her focus had been on its polar opposite, in a way, the generative vital side of magic.

Particularly since she’d gotten pregnant.  Pentandra had been astonished at the surge of inherent arcane power her body produced during gestation.  Every time the cells within her daughters reproduced, they released residual vital power.  True, they just as quickly re-absorbed it, depending upon their stage of gestation, but other times the excess was so overwhelming that it exhausted her to contend with it.

As fascinating as a full-blown examination of the two comparative fields was, she didn’t have time for thaumaturgy, at the moment.  She had a battle to oversee.  There were better experts than she working on the job, and it was unlikely her perspectives would be helpful.

The one thing she could admit about the battle, as she studied the diorama, was that it was doing a masterful job at distracting the Necromancer from Minalan’s secretive mission under his own temple.  Even with the smaller party that part of the mission had continued to go well . . . if descending endless stairs was progress.

Yet she found the prospect of Minalan recovering the Handmaiden hollow, if she had to trade the lives of all her friends to get it.

There had to be some answer, she knew, as she studied.  With a sigh of frustration, she finally returned to her seat.  Her lower back had started to ache painfully, the way Number Two was curled up.

Pentandra, Taren called, mind-to-mind, I think we have something!

As likely the most adept thaumaturge actually on the battlefield, Pentandra had pulled Taren off of combat duty to devote his talents to studying how to break the spell that held the Ways.

What is it? She asked, eagerly.

That slight fluctuation in the field? I checked . . . it did correlate with something else, pretty much precisely: when Korbal summoned Sheruel to his side, I think he did it through a hoxter pocket.

Damn! Pentandra swore.  I guess Sheruel wouldn’t need to worry about dying in one.

Inside a ball of irionite, he can re-energize what’s left of his enneagram as he emerges, agreed Taren.  That’s consistent with the experiments I conducted back at Greenflower.  But what was fascinating was that the distortion spell stopped the moment he entered it, and then didn’t re-engage until he was back out of it.

Which implies that Sheruel is powering the blocking spell, Pentandra reasoned.

That’s what I’m thinking, Taren agreed.  If we can convince them to repeat the trick, we might have just enough time to get a bunch of us away.  We’re starting to get wounded piling up, he added, concerned.

Can’t we put Sheruel in a hoxter? she asked.  And then destroy the anchor?

Wouldn’t that be lovely? Taren sighed.  I thought about that.  Hells, I’d even try it.  It would be interesting, at the very least.  But . . . well, I’m guessing that Sheruel has enough innate power and perception to contest a hoxter summons, if he wanted to.  I can think of at least four different ways he could do it, thaumaturgically speaking.  And there is no telling what the effect of that contest would be . . . beyond interesting.

But if Sheruel wanted to be in a hoxter pocket . . .

. . . then the field around Olum Seheri would resort to normal.  And we could escape this hellhole.

Is it that bad? Pentandra asked, anxiously.  Her husband was in the middle of the battle – in the thick of it, if she knew Arborn.

It’s bad, Taren admitted.  I’ve been in some nasty battles, Penny, but . . . this one is probably the worst.  The draugen are hard enough to kill, but the Nemovorti, they’re powerful.  They each have different capabilities, we’re learning.  Those iron staves they carry are no joke, either.  The human bodies they’ve chosen are big, strong, and enhanced with necromantic magic.  We’re doing the best we can, and we’re holding our own, for now, but . . .

I understand, Pentandra assured him.

A few moments later the barn began receiving reports from the various monitors confirming that Sheruel was, indeed, working with Korbal, as the warmagi closed in on his position.  The disembodied goblin head floated serenely over the battle, next to the Necromancer, as the Nemovorti formed a defensive line around them both.

Pentandra got very anxious, when she saw what was happening.  According to the map, the foe had the Kasari rangers on the run, back toward the city – that wasn’t good.  Then she watched the pursuers stumble and fall, as they tripped, fell, or were knocked off their feet by a variety of snares and traps the retreating Kasari had left in their path.  At a predetermined point they turned and fired a ragged volley behind them, before disappearing into the ruins.

Pentandra liked to imagine that the tallest among the tiny figures crawling across the diorama was Arborn.  She mentally blew him a kiss, sighed, and continued to examine the battle.

She was startled to note that even as the attacks from the rear got some attention from the enemy, another force suddenly broke into the battle unexpectedly.

“Who is that attacking the south-east flank?” she demanded of her staff, without looking up.

“Azar,” someone replied. “He was tired of waiting around.  Once Sheruel left, he forced-marched the rest of his troops across the island.  He’s attacking the flank now, to relieve the center.”

She could only guess how furious the battle was raging based on the movements on the diorama, but from the way both friend and foe threw themselves at each other, there had to be a lot of arcane power manifesting there.

“We just pushed the last of the constructs through to Terleman,” someone called, behind her.  “That’s the last of them,” they added grimly.  Pentandra hoped the commander could use them – some were fairly simple and not particularly deadly.  But they might add to the defense, or at least give the attackers something to contend with.  Right now, buying time was essential.  They had to figure some way to drive Sheruel back into a hoxter.

“We just lost someone!” a shrill voice called.  “Two warmagi were taken prisoner from Azar’s troop!”

That didn’t bode well, either.  As deadly as the combat was between the two sides, ever mage who fell would awaken as a Nemovort.  Korbal seemed to have no end of immortal, fanatical followers in need of fresh meat to be garbed in.

She was frustrated.  All Pentandra could do was watch helpfully.  She’d sent every useful thing she could, through the shared hoxters, but she was no closer to figuring out how to stage a retreat from an island guarded by dragons.

Perhaps mount a Waystone on the Thoughtful Knife, and fly it to the edge of the canyon beyond the lake?  That would take it out of range of Dara’s control, she knew – the Knife was potent, but the pilot had to be within a half-mile of the thing, and the lake was miles wide.  She’d lose it over the water before it could come to shore.

Maybe by falcon?

The plans grew more and more desperate as Pentandra surveyed the situation.  She was powerless, she realized.  All her brains, all her Talent, all the prophesies she’d read, and she had no idea what to do.

“It’s a game,” a calm male voice said, beside her.  She looked up and saw an unassuming man in an unassuming tunic.  “Slagur,” he said, introducing himself briefly, before going back to the board.  “I’ve been studying it with great interest.  It’s essentially a game of Rushes, with some severe handicaps and extreme rules,” he explained.

“I don’t see any dice sitting around,” Pentandra said, realizing she was standing next to a god . . . of sorts.  “That’s real blood being spilled down there,” she reminded him.

“Yet it is a game, nonetheless, with pieces, powers, forces and plays,” the mild-mannered divinity suggested, thoughtfully.  “Right now, the two forces are evenly matched, at a standstill.  One restrains themselves to capture, not eliminate, the other.  The smaller force is eagerly trying to decapitate the opposition,” he said, pointing to the spot on the diorama where Rondal was leading a squadron toward Korbal, himself.  “The key,” he decided, “is to challenge that force directly.  Convert the weakness into strength.”

“That’s beautiful,” Pentandra acknowledged.  “Any idea of how to implement a plan like that?  All I have at this point is Sex Magic, and I really don’t think this is the time or place.”

“We need to restore the most powerful pieces into play, before we can force the opposition to move,” he decided.  “Is Minalan not on the field, yet?”

“Minalan is in a hole, a very deep hole,” Pentandra informed him.  “The last time I spoke with him, he was nearing the bottom, but that was a while ago.  He’s off the board, right now.”

“Then we must get him back,” Slagur directed.  “Once you do that, everything will work out.”

“His bloody mission is the entire reason this entire battle is being fought!” Pentandra replied, hotly.  “We can’t yank him back until he’s done with it!”

“Then you’d best hope he hurries,” Slagur said, doubtfully.  “I’m not hopeful about our chances, otherwise.”

“What does Minalan have that the rest of us don’t?” Pentandra asked, pointedly.  “Apart from that new Magosphere, which is just a big hunk of irionite, he really doesn’t have much more to offer us than we already have in the field.  He’s good, but he’s just a warmage.”

“He’s more than a mere warmage . . . to them,” he said, pointing out Korbal and Sheruel, at the center of the enemy army.  “Both have reason to fear and hate him.  Both will see his presence on the battlefield as a direct challenge . . . and opportunity.”

“So Minalan shows up, Sheruel goes berserk?  How is that an improvement?  Right now he seems to be pretty inactive.”

“Trust me,” Slagur insisted.  “Once the Spellmonger is in play, the entire contest comes into doubt.  He is not merely a strong piece – he’s the strongest piece on the board . . . assuming he’s successful in his mission.”

“Any way you could tell if that were the case?”

“Olum Seheri is protected from human gods, I’m afraid,” the god said, apologetically.  “We have virtually no power there.  We’re not exactly fans of necromantic magic,” he explained.

“No one is,” Pentandra agreed.  “So that’s the extent of your advice?  Get Minalan back into battle?”

“That would be best,” he agreed.  “Indeed, it’s the only way I can see things moving in your direction.”

“I thought you were a specialist on strategy and tactics?” she said, crossly.

“That would be your best strategy,” he answered.  “See how helpful I am?”

When she turned to confront the divinity, he was gone.  Luckily for him.

She considered trying to contact Minalan mind-to-mind, but decided against it.  He would contact her when he was done, she knew.  Any interruption before then could imperil his mission.  Telling him about the chamberpot the battle had fallen into would only distract him, when he needed to be focused.

No, for good or ill, they were on their own against the Necromancer and his dark armies, until the Spellmonger returned from the undercaverns.

Interlude III

Gatina

“The Mission”

“Gentlemen,” the young woman said in a loud, clear voice, as she addressed nearly a thousand Wilderlords.  She was dressed in local fashion, though richly made, a pretty field dress in black with a fur-lined mantle in gray over her head.  Her striking femininity commanded the attention of men too-long among their own sex exclusively. “I hope you do not find your lack of inclusion in the mission to be in any way critical of the performance you have managed.

“Indeed, I am assured that standing before me are eight hundred and fifty of the stoutest, bravest warriors ever to ride from the Wilderlands.  While your skills are more than sufficient to accompany His Grace on his mission, they are needed elsewhere.

“There is another mission, one perhaps even more important than the one the Spellmonger leads,” she informed them, her tone hopeful, yet filled with intrigue.    “A mission of grave danger, requiring men of uncommon courage to see it through.  A mission fraught with danger and peril, pain and exhaustion.

“Yet it is a mission that any of your honored ancestors would have been proud to participate in.  The sort of expedition of which legends are made and sagas crafted.  Noble gentlemen of the north, I offer you the possibility of glory beyond that of merely accompanying His Grace into battle.”

“I call only upon those who would see themselves as willing to risk not just their lives, but the threat of ignominy, should you fail.  I ask for only those of you who will not shirk from the quest, no matter how savage the consequences of that commitment.  I desire no less than the truest examples of the valor of the Wilderlords, brave men who know how to fight . . . and how to think.

“Each of you has proven your mettle in ways most knights are never called upon to demonstrate.  At Timberwatch you measured yourselves against the greatest warmagi of our age, and you are honored to be graduated by such great warriors.

“But now is your opportunity for greatness in a mission of equal consequence.  You can serve His Grace as well as any, this day – if you but commit to the most arduous task of your lives.”

She looked around at them, expectantly.  Eight hundred and fifty faces stared back at her.  They’d marched into the meadow looking dejected, rejected by the warmasters after weeks of brutal training in the cold spring rain and mud.  Now they looked to her with hope.  Hope of glory, hope of honor, hope of proving their valor in some important task.

“Any man who is not committed with his whole heart and soul entire may depart this meadow, his honor intact,” she continued, as she strode in front of their loose ranks.  “There are duties aplenty in the Wilderlands for men such as you, now that we have struck a blow against the gurvani and liberated our human kindred.  They will need to be protected from reprisals and attempts to recapture them, which are inevitable.

“But for the men who stay, they will embark on a journey into danger and death, with no promise of survival, much less victory.  For those men the only reward, perhaps, will be a swift death and a forgotten name.

“The greater the risk, the greater the glory,” she declared, her young voice ringing out over their heads.  “I will ask no man to undertake this mission who fears for his life . . . or his honor.  If you wish, return to your crofts and castles, and prepare for the coming onslaught.

“But if you be of adventurous spirit and uncommon heart, I invite you to embark on this quest.  Know that if you do, no word of it may you speak by voice or letter.  Your silence is demanded, else you endanger us all.

“Who among the Wilderlords has the courage to follow me?” she demanded.  “All who desire to leave, I bid you do so now,” she called, one last time.  “If you stay after this, you are committed to the quest, and bound by its rules by your forthcoming oath.”

She paused and waited for some objection or challenge, but she’d crafted the performance well.  It had fallen on fertile ears, among young men who were desperately seeking validation for their tremendous efforts.

She prided herself on her ability to read people and take their measure.  As a group, the tiny army assembled had something to prove.

Each one considered themselves a secret hero.  Each was a well-trained warrior, among the best this wild country could produce.  Each had been equipped at the expense of the Duchy, had they a need.  Each had completed the complicated and grueling course of training the Alshari Knights Magi, the esteemed Sirs Tyndal and Rondal, had prepared.  None of them were magically Talented.

But every one who lingered for the faint promise of glory was eager and committed.  Only thirteen grudgingly left.  The remainder were ready to swear to follow her orders.

Not a bad start, for a fourteen-year old girl, Gatina decided.

Chapter Forty-One

The Dungeons of the Necromancer

Stairs.  Lots of stairs.  More stairs than I thought existed in the world.

I don’t know exactly how long we descended flight after flight of carved stone stairs, but we were deep enough for there to be a definite change in air pressure that made my ears pop as we descended.  The dampness in the air I’d noted above was gone now.  We were far, far deeper in the earth than a mountain lake.

“Are we there, yet?” I finally called, wearily, when my knees started complaining bitterly.

“There is a small chamber a few more flights down,” Lord Aeratas informed me.  “It is the last such place for resting before we come to the Hall of Memory.”

“I thought we were going to the Chamber of Ages?”

“You get to the Chamber of Ages through the Hall of Memory,” he explained.

“Well, of course you do.”

True to his word, at the end of yet-another long flight of stairs, the way opened into a comfortable little hall about twenty feet wide and thrice that long.

“This is where we prepared ourselves before we entered the Chamber, and communed with our ancestors,” Aeratas said, as he cast a magelight overhead.  Then he gasped.

I’m certain the place looked elegant, once – it had the gentle, organic architectural lines I’d come to associate with Anthatiel, in its former incarnation.  But the room was befouled, now, the intricate paintings and engravings covered with filth and graffiti.

“Gurvani!” snarled Aeratas, angrily, as he reached out toward one impressive-looking fresco that had been smashed with a hammer, then drew his hand away.  “This was a place of meditation and reverence.  A sacred place.  They dare!”

“Looks like they dared more than that, my friend,” Azhguri said, in his deep voice.  “I don’t believe these were part of the original construction.”  He indicated two roughly-carved passageways at the far end of the chamber.  They’d been hacked out of the middle of two elaborate nature scenes of surpassing beauty, now marred by soot and grime.

“I’ll check this one,” Hance said, disappearing down the left-hand door.

“I suppose that leaves this one for me,” I volunteered, manifesting Blizzard and drawing Twilight.

The corridor was rough-hewn, compared to the smooth, well-finished facing of the original chamber.  It was also far narrower.  After fifty feet, it opened out into a wretched stretch of cavern, irregularly shaped and unremarkable . . . save for the cells carved into alcoves around the edges.  There was a barrel of water at the center, and a crate of raw roots I supposed were rations, but there was no guard to this desolate hole.

There were five cells, in all, I counted.  The smell coming from the cavern was appalling, a mixture of desperation, death and decay.  But there were still living things, in those cells.

I quietly examined them, each in turn.  Two were empty, the rotting corpses of their previous inhabitants still lurking inside, their dead faces contorted in expressions of horror and despair.  We were too deep for rats to have their way with them – we were likely too deep for flies and roaches, I reasoned.  But the dry, stuffy air kept their corpses intact.

Alka Alon corpses.

Each of the remaining cells had a living prisoner within, though using the term “life” in regard to their conditions was a kindness, if not an overstatement.  The three tiny inhabitants looked even thinner and emaciated than their usual slender forms.  Their green hair was patchy and listless, caked in filth.  Their eyes were dazed and rheumy, blinking mindlessly in the tiny light from my staff.

They’d been tortured, I could see.  Tortured and neglected.  For a very long time.

The first I examined was near death, staring blankly at the light, completely unresponsive.  The second was a whimpering mess, curled up in one corner of the tiny cell babbling in his own language.

The third was the most disturbing of all.  The poor creature within had seen his limbs crushed and allowed to set, badly.  His hands and feet were shapeless masses of scars and bruises, his wrists and ankles marked with the abrasions of chains.   There was a madness in his eye that was unearthly, when my magelight illuminated his drawn face.

I was overcome with compassion for the Alkan . . . and then I realized I recognized him.

It was the Aronin of Amadia.

“Aeratas!” I bellowed, the moment I understood who this was.  “Aeratas!  I need you!”

I didn’t know much about Alkan physiology, outside the apocrypha about the two clitori, but I knew he was in bad shape.  And I knew I didn’t know how best to tend him.

“It’s . . . you,” the Aronin said, when his eyes managed to focus briefly on my face.  His voice creaked like a rusty hinge.  “The wizard.”

“Minalan,” I reminded him, as I tried to at least make the poor bastard comfortable.  I folded up my mantle under his head, summoned a water bottle from a hoxter and held it to his lips.  With his hands the way they were, he couldn’t manage to even grasp it.  He dribbled badly, but swallowed gratefully.

“Oh, yes!” he creaked, when he paused.  “Minalan!  I remember you, now!”

Aeratas was at my side a moment later, a startled and then concerned expression on his face.  He checked the condition of all three of the prisoners, but returned to the Aronin quickly.  He had a silver flask in his hand, and helped the little guy get a few more swallows down.

“It’s herkulinen,” he explained, quietly, as the Aronin sipped the draught.  “The essence of the herkulin nut.”

“Never heard of it,” I shrugged, not ready for a lesson in herbology.  That didn’t deter Aeratas as he helped the Aronin sip.

“I’m surprised.  One who is an ally of ours I was certain knew of the herkulin nut.  You know my people’s fondness for trees . . .”

“You’re usually known as the Tree Folk, among mine,” I agreed, absently.  The Aronin was starting to perk up, a little.

“The herkulin nut is essential for our health,” he assured me.  “We grow it, in one variation or another, wherever we go.”

“I like a good berry pie, myself,” I nodded.  Where was he going with this?

“I said the herkulin nut is essential for our health,” he reiterated, finally taking the flask away from the Aronin’s parched lips.  “It is not a matter of preference.  Within is a potent agent that promotes our ability to commune and concentrate, go beyond the limits of our own small minds and align our spirits with each other, and with the world at large.  Without it,” he said, looking sympathetically at the cursed little creature in the dirt, “we go mad.  We withdraw, mentally, and eventually we lose the ability to reason, to focus on reality at all.”

“Really?” I asked, suddenly interested.  “You get all of that?   From a simple nut?”

“There are many varieties, and the substance exists in lower proportions in other foods,” he admitted.  “Temors, alonuts, bitterroots.  But it is always present.  It is the hallmark of Alka Alon society.  Some of our lesser cousins consider it mere affectation, it is so ubiquitous in our culture.  But it is actually vital, to us.  Usually, a trace of it is sufficient,” he said, taking a sip of the elixir himself.  “But we make such liquors as herkulinen for times in which our resources are challenged, for great journeys or as a restorative,” he said, nodding to the patient, as he put the flask away.

I had to admit, the transformation was remarkable.  Sure, the Aronin was still wretched, a prisoner in his own tortured body . . . but there was a new awareness in his eyes, now.  The familiar sense of self-possession I’d come to expect in the Alka Alon had returned to his face.

“Thank you!” he managed.  “I am much restored.  Spare a sip for my friends, if you would,” he suggested, nodding his shaggy head toward the other cells.  “Poor Ardrey!  Poor Rantheil!  I’m afraid we are the last of those who were taken at Boval Vale.  And I fear that not even good herkulinen will save us.  But it will be a comfort to them, to have a taste in their mouths once again before they expire.”

Aeratas nodded, and went to do so.  Me, I wanted answers to a thousand new questions.

“What happened?” I whispered.  “Aronin, when last I saw you, I was certain you were dead!  You and all your folk!”

“Would that we were,” the old Alkan said, coughing.  “But the Abomination was cruel, and coveted the knowledge I had.  He used our own spells upon us.  He placed us in stasis, until his conquest was complete.  Then he took us before the molopor, and . . .” his face twisted in torment, at the memory.

“What did he seek?” I asked.

“The arsenal,” he replied.  “The ancient arsenal.  All the weapons banned by the council, and surrendered from the old great houses.  They are among the charges of my guardianship,” he explained.  “They tried to force it from me.  For years, they tried.  Sheruel, himself, contested with me to compel it form my memory.  But he failed!” he creaked, triumphantly.  “They twisted my mind and memory, but I told them nothing.  They beat my body and shattered my limbs, but I stayed faithful to my charge!” he said, weakly, but triumphantly.

“Your daughter!” I said, recalling the beautiful little Alkan maid.

“Ah, fair Ameras,” he sighed.  “A pity I shall never see her again.  She escaped Amadia,” he said, with great satisfaction.  “Sheruel stormed the refuge, but she slipped away.  Have you heard from her?” he asked, trying to sit up.

“Nay,” I sighed.  “Indeed, her absence has caused much disturbance on the council.  There have been rumors, but she has not emerged.”

“Nor will she, in such a time as this,” sighed the Aronin, as Aeratas returned.  “Our line has strict instructions in how to conduct our ancient charge.  When a crisis emerges, then her duty is to withdraw and protect the arsenal, above all other things.”

“His clan’s devotion to the task is legendary,” Lord Aeratas agreed.  “They have guarded their charges for millennia.  None but they know its location.”

“It occurs to me an ancient Alka Alon super-weapon would be handy, about now,” I pointed out.  I didn’t want to be flippant around the Aronin, but what was the point of having an arsenal if you didn’t use it when you needed it?

“Those weapons are dangerous!” the Aronin countered.  “They were placed where they are to still their power, but should they emerge they will pose a threat to all Callidore!” he insisted, trailing off into a cough.

“All weapons are dangerous, my friend,” Aeratas said, sympathetically.  “Yet we have no choice in the matter.  The Enshadowed have raised Korbal, and he has declared his sovereignty over the realm.”

“I know,” the Aronin whispered, in despair.  “When Sheruel brought me here, I thought it was for sacrifice and more torment: to see the fair Anthatiel as shattered as my bones was grievous,” he said, overcome with the power of the emotion.  “But no; I was not to be merely tormented with ruin.  Or sacrificed, as he threatened so often.

“Here, they brought me before Korbal and he demanded my obedience.  I refused.  He began . . . consuming my comrades,” he admitted, wincing at the memory.  “I thought Sheruel was cruel, and he is -- but Korbal understands me in ways no gurvani could.  He knew what he could do and say to convince me,” he said, replaying the long challenge in his mind.  “He knew . . . yet I did not relent.  I did not reveal the arsenal!”

“What are his plans, old friend?” Aeratas asked, grimly.

“No less than conquest of the realm, then the others,” the Aronin said, his rheumy eyes downcast.  “Yet he knows he has an insufficiency of strength to accomplish that as his forces stand.  He covets the arsenal so that he can seize power over the realms and, ultimately, make war on the Vundel, in revenge for his imprisonment.  He blames their ultimatum for the council’s sentence on he and his followers, and he envisions a Callidore in which the Vundel are driven to extinction,” he pronounced.

“He would make war on the Vundel?” scoffed Aeratas.  “That is madness!  They have wiped greater races than ours from the face of this world!  As potent as our ancient weapons were, at our height we were no match for the power of the Vundel.”

“The weapons are not to fight the Vundel, directly,” revealed the Aronin, with another bad cough.  “They are a means to another end.  While he tormented me, the fool bragged about his grand plans.  They are madder than we ever imagined,” he said, shaking his head.  “I learned far more than he suspected.  He intends on challenging the Vundel, but not on his own strength.  He seeks allies.”

“Allies, against the Sea Folk?” I snorted.  “No one is crazy enough to make that bargain.”

“Even the Vundel have ancient enemies,” Aeratas countered darkly.  “Though none on the face of Callidore would be so foolish as to interfere with them, there are creatures that exist below the face of Callidore.  There they remain, exiled by the ancestors of the Vundel and entrapped in the Deeps,” he finished.

I nodded, feeling dazed.  “The . . . Formless?  That’s what Lilastien called them.”

“Elre?  You released her?” the Aronin asked, curious.

“She was in our expedition, before we were separated,” I informed him.  “I persuaded the council we needed her aid.”

“I always thought they were too harsh on her,” the Aronin offered.  “But yes, Lilastien is correct.  Korbal seeks the unthinkable: to release a power sufficient to lay waste to the mighty leviathans and their manifold children, so that they can never again threaten to expel the Alon from Callidore.  It is a power he has little chance of communicating with, much less controlling . . . but he is willing to unleash a tempest, if it destroys his enemies.”

“Few among my people are even aware of the Formless,” Aeratas admitted.  “It is a matter for deep study among the scholars and long policy among the rulers.  Yet it is known that it took a power that is no longer living on Callidore to secure them in the first place – and even those ancient forces could not destroy the Formless, or expel them, but merely contained them in the Deeps.”

“How does he expect to challenge the Sea Folk, much less find a way to the Deeps?” I asked.  “Your folk don’t even build ships!”

Most of the Alon are mistrustful of water, and treated bodies of water more like borders, not highways.  While they built boats, of a sort, they did not build ships, nor did they travel by sea.  At least not to my knowledge.

“No, but your people do, Minalan,” the Aronin pointed out.  “Things have changed in the realm since Korbal and his sect were entombed.  The humani arrived, and the world looks much different, now.  When he assumed a human host, he began to appreciate the many different crafts of your species.  Such as the use of ships.  He is both repulsed and fascinated by you.”

“Something I can appreciate,” Lord Aeratas murmured.

“Korbal intends to use both your craft and your bodies.  He sees you as an easy conquest, a resource he can consume without consequence.  By dominating human society, he would be provided with the one thing he and the Enshadowed have always lacked: numbers.  There are millions of humans in the Five Duchies.  Millions more beyond.  He aspires to conquer you all.”

“That might be more difficult than he imagines,” I said, taken aback.  “And does that not contradict the gurvani’s genocidal plans for us?”

“The gurvani are but a tool of the Enshadowed,” Aeratas said, darkly.  “I suspected their involvement from the moment I heard of the Abomination.  The gurvani are a cunning folk,” he conceded, grudgingly, “but they have neither the lore nor the longevity to create irionite from scratch.  It takes nearly a century,” he explained.  “Under very specific conditions.  Gurvani live no more than forty, fifty years.”

“The plot goes back centuries,” the Aronin sighed.  “We have not time to discuss it all.  The Enshadowed contrived to stir the gurvani, create the Abomination, and use it to capture the molopor, driving us away from its protection,” he added, sadly.  “A common attack we could have withstood . . . but Sheruel is no common weapon.

“From thence they recovered their master and his elect from their tomb and dared to take fair Anthatiel in one stroke.  Now they seek to spread their influence throughout the human lands.  They used the gurvani to test you, before they contrived a plan to defeat you.  They expect resistance.  But they also expect a quick capitulation, due to your people’s disunity and squabbling.”

“Nor do they understand the humani gods, their unique capabilities, and how they might react to such a plan,” Aeratas pointed out.

“In their defense, not even the humani gods understand the humani gods,” I observed.

“If they recover the arsenal, then not even your gods will be of help,” the Aronin sighed.  “Your people and mine will become slaves to Korbal’s rule.  And then exterminated, if he is foolish enough to challenge the Vundel . . . or free the Formless.”

“So let’s keep him from discovering the arsenal,” I reasoned.  “Your daughter is there, apparently . . . and you did not betray its location.  Perhaps it might be time to reveal that to us?”

“I . . . I cannot,” confessed the Aronin.  “Even that would betray my charge.  But you are intelligent, after your kind, Minalan.  You have the cunning to discover it, and then convince my daughter to open it on your behalf.”

“A hint might be helpful,” Lord Aeratas grumbled.

“It’s a matter of logic, really,” the Aronin said, apparently pleased with irritating Aeratas.  “If one must hide an arsenal of magic from magical detection, there are a limited number places where that may be done securely,” he said, after a pause.

“That’s your hint?” I asked, feeling a little irritated, myself.  I expected more.  A vaguely-worded poem or ancient prophecy or snippet of lore.  Something.  But the tortured old Alkan was intent on being obscure.

I decided to goad him a little.  “Any chance that the . . . Forsaken are nearby that arsenal?” I asked, fishing for information.

It only earned a faint chuckle.  “Nay, Minalan.  The arsenal is a legacy from our past.  The Forsaken are a legacy of yours.  They are no longer within this world, perhaps with a few exceptions.  Look to your own history, if you seek them.  Look to the prehistory of Callidore to seek the arsenal.  The land itself will speak to you, if you have the wisdom to hear its tale.”

See what I mean?  He was being obscure.  On purpose.  I wasn’t alone in thinking so, either.  Lord Aeratas sniffed.

“Just like an Avalanti lore master!” he said, shaking his head.  “Can you not acknowledge the great crisis we face, and relent in your charge for our cause?”

The Aronin sighed.  “And you speak just like a Versaroti pragmatist – the same philosophy that has brought us to this place,” he reminded Aeratas, earning a wince.

Almost all the Enshadowed were from the Versaroti kindred, from what I knew.  They were far on the fringe of Versaroti society, outcasts and fanatics whose devotion to their antiquated ideals of Alkan purity seemed to epitomize some of the conservative attitudes of the Avalanti.  The more arboreally-minded Versaroti rejected their extreme creed, nor were the nature-loving kindred welcome among the rebels, who saw them as culturally inferior.  Apparently, they don’t like how obscure the bastards were, either.

“Forgive me, my friend,” the injured Alkan sighed.  “My time is short – I’ve known that for some time,” he said, apologetically.  “Your draughts and songs can restore me temporarily, but they cannot heal me or prolong my life.  Korbal . . . damaged me,” he said, shivering at the memory.  “I’ve persisted on behalf of my poor friends who accompanied me this far, but we are all doomed to die.  I have clung to life because in death I may not be able to resist the power of the Necromancer.  Now that you are here . . . but why are you here?” he asked, suddenly confused.

“We seek to commune with the Ghost Rock,” Aeratas said, “and prohibit Korbal from using it to his purpose.”

“I seek to find the enneagram of an ancient creature known to loremasters as a Handmaiden,” I added.  “It’s a long story, but I think it might help cure my wife.”

“You . . . you entered this cursed pit to . . . to heal your mate?” the Aronin chuckled, despite himself.  “Truly, you humani amaze me!  There are few Alkans who are so devoted to their mate.  One would assume that such a short-lived race would be less attached to their partners.  Or perhaps it is an extension of the compulsion I laid upon you,” he said, casually.

I stopped.  “I beg your pardon?”

“When you first visited Ameras, and I showed you the coming darkness, I placed a compulsion in your mind,” he informed me, calmly.  “One that made you feel responsible for the protection of your people.  The root impulse was already there, else I could not have inflamed it.  It made you take responsibility for the lives of humanity.”

“Made me?”

The Aronin sighed.  “My boy, you must understand . . . I did not expect you to live out the month, after the invasion happened.  I was evacuating my home, preparing for its inevitable destruction, and attempting to learn the full extent of our foe’s capabilities.”

“So . . . you sent me back to Boval Castle, knowing that it was doomed?  And made me feel entirely responsible for it, so that I wouldn’t run away?”

“You were but one tool at my disposal, Minalan.  And not a particularly sharp one, at the time.  I did what I could to fortify you, but I did not expect you to survive,” he admitted.  “And I needed the humani in the vale to distract and occupy Sheruel, until I could strike.  When you used the molopor so . . . novelly, it gave us the opportunity we needed.  Your resistance to the gurvani allowed me to complete the evacuation,” he added, pleased.

“While my people were being killed,” I said, feeling slightly less inclined toward the old Alkan.  “You know, we could have escaped, had we evacuated the valley ourselves, before the siege.”

“I needed you there,” the Aronin insisted.  “It was a minor sacrifice, considering the stakes.”

“I don’t see it as minor!” I said, through clenched teeth.  “I could have saved thousands, had I had my own will!  Instead I came back from your refuge determined to make a stand . . . to hold out against them, when I should have been leading them away!”

“Would you regret sacrificing your hound to save your family from brigands?” the Aronin asked, sharply.  “I am fond of your race, Minalan, and I delight in the richness it has brought to Callidore.  But you are an ephemeral people,” he reminded me, unnecessarily.

“You mean an ‘expendable people’,” I countered, my ire rising.  “We value our short lives as much as you value your long ones!  You tinkered with my mind for your own purposes!” I said, suddenly appalled by the arrogance that implied.  I felt as victimized as I had with Isily.

“I gave the hound a spiked collar and a reassuring pat on the head before it met the brigand,” the Aronin disagreed, serenely.  “And I let him know that afterwards, even if I did not survive, where he might find refuge, should he survive.  I had as little knowledge of how events would unfold as you did.”

“You could have been honest with me, and enlisted my aid without coercion,” I said, bitterly.  Lord Aeratas was watching the argument thoughtfully.  I ignored him.  I was pissed.

“Would it have been sufficient, in the face of such peril?  I needed a champion, someone truly committed to the fight, not merely dedicated to it.  Expanding your concern from the folk of the Vale to the rest of humanity might seem excessive, but it worked best with your mind.  You were already seeking a way to transform your fear into action.  I merely provided a mechanism for that desire.”

“You molested my mind!” I spat, angrily.  “You made me assume responsibility for the entire human race!” I said, realizing the truth of the matter.  Indeed, many of the “heroic” actions of my recent past presented themselves in a different light, now.

“And see where it has brought you,” Lord Aeratas interrupted.  “Into the highest councils of men and the Alka Alon, at the head of a mighty army, challenging the very forces that seek to destroy your world.  Exploring the boundaries of magic and lore.”

“When I could have been peacefully raising my family a long way away from all of this shit!” I said, my heart smoldering with rage.  “Ishi’s tits, I am not your damned hound!” I exploded.  “My race did not come here to be pieces in games between the Alka Alon!”

“It is no game, Minalan,” Aeratas assured.  “We stand in the ruins of a city that thrived for over two thousand years.  Korbal and the Enshadowed are outlaws, criminals, in this realm.  Did we not invite you to the council?” he reminded me.

“And threw me some pretty bones, as well,” I grumbled.  “I feel so . . . cuddled.”

“The comparative lifespans of humans and Alka Alon make maintaining meaningful alliances difficult,” Aeratas insisted.  “It is a problem we have struggled with since you arrived.  Only the Valley People have anything close to a reasonable longevity, and trusting to the quality of your institutions to maintain an alliance has proven complicated.  You seem to want to re-arrange things every few centuries,” he said, crossly.  “It’s like dealing with a bunch of unruly Tal or gurvani.”

“I’m sorry our mortality inconveniences you,” I snorted.  “We find it challenging, ourselves.  Particularly when it is exploited so cavalierly.  Damn it, we are not expendable!”

“Our fates are bound to yours, Minalan,” the Aronin insisted.  “We are all expendable, in this struggle.  While I regret that my race has brought such a danger to a head, your race has, in the past, proven as much a peril to us all.  The crisis that precipitated the loss of the Forsaken was one such matter.  We acted then, as we act now, to protect the future of both Alon and human on this world.  I am as committed to that as I am to my charge as Aronin.  Indeed, it is intrinsic to it.”

“And now, thanks to you, so am I!” I fumed.

“If you resent my interference, then appreciate how my actions contributed to my current condition,” he said, spreading his useless arms weakly.  “I have paid grievously for my sins, Minalan.  I have watched my friends and kinsmen die, and sent my daughter into exile in the wilderness.

“But in sinning, I have preserved some hope for our mutual futures.  I do not regret my sacrifice, as painful as it has been.  Nor do I linger in guilt over the minor transgressions of my conscience in risking you and your life.  It is not the time for such regrets.  We are at war, Minalan,” he reminded me, sternly.  “At war with an insidious and existentially dangerous force that will see both our species extinct on this world, if it lies unchallenged.”

“Oh, I agree,” I said, standing.  My knees were complaining.  “The foe you created needs to be fought, and we are both committed to that end.  But one thing that gains that foe my enmity is the arrogant way it treats the lives of my people.  I’m starting to see a pattern emerging,” I said, darkly.

“You keep drinking your nut juice,” I muttered.  “Suddenly, I feel the need of some air.”

Chapter Forty-Two

Master Suhi

I wandered back to the main chamber before following the other additional tunnel.  As the first one had, the second was also a prison, though the cells at the end were both larger and more plentiful.  This was a far more secure dungeon than the one the weakened Alon were held in; there was a stout iron gate that secured it (Master Hance had politely opened it for us) and each of the cells was likewise furnished with a thick grate and strong iron door.

This was a more professional operation than the Alkan side.  The remains of the turnkey were just within the main chamber of the prison, a draugen or Nemovort who’d gotten on the wrong side of Sire Cei’s hammer.  There wasn’t much left of him.  There was a score of cells, ten on each side of the long, roughly-carved chamber.  Only a few were occupied, thankfully.  Cei, Hance, and Azhguri were inspecting each of them when I arrived, a magelight providing some scant illumination in the darkness.

“This is a nasty place,” Hance observed, as I joined them.  “You must have gotten on Korbal’s especially bad side, to warrant such hopeless conditions.”

“Actually, the other side is even worse,” I replied, gloomily.  “Whom have we recovered?”

“We’re still figuring it out,” Hance said, gesturing toward Sire Cei.  “Apparently one didn’t have to be human or Alkan to earn a coveted spot in this dire place.  Or even alive.  One of the Nemovorti is in that cell,” he warned.

“A Nemovort?” I asked curious.  “That is interesting.”  I walked over to the cell, where Cei was standing warily, his hammer at the ready.

The thing on the other side of the grate was a pitiful example of necromancy.  Whatever human who had contributed the host body had been slightly built before the transformation, with eyes set too close together.  The arms and legs were likewise frail looking.

“He dares taunt me,” Sire Cei murmured, as I approached.  “He says his name is Stulka Dumi.”

“So, Master Stulka Dumi,” I said, rapping on the grate with my staff.  “What earns you the honor of such fine accommodations from your master?”

“And who are you, to question me so?” demanded the Nemovort, in a high, wavering voice.

“Minalan the Spellmonger,” I announced, as gruffly as I could. “And I can question you as I please . . . and compel your testimony, if I have need,” I added, warningly, as I directed the Magolith to float into his view.  I don’t know if a big green pulsating ball of irionite was particularly threatening, but it got his attention.

“Oh ho!  So you’re the rebellious humani mage who has caused so much consternation to the gurvani!” he giggled, hysterically.  “Korbal is looking forward to consuming your soul, in particular!”

“I doubt it will agree with him,” I dismissed.  “But if I can irritate Sheruel, you can imagine what I can do to one pitiful Nemovort.  Why are you here?” I demanded.

“Oh, I . . . transgressed,” Stulka Dumi jabbered.  “I spoke foolishly, and angered Korbal in front of his court.  Some people just cannot appreciate the truth, no matter how wittily presented,” he sighed.  “Critics!”

“Why didn’t he just destroy you?” Cei demanded, disgusted by the filthy creature’s behavior.

“Master Korbal has plans for us all, he does,” Stulka Dumi said, flamboyantly.  “Even for fools who have long outlived their purpose.  It’s too much trouble to install us in these fragile vessels to waste them,” he admitted.  “And it is so degrading to be locked within such an abysmal body as it decomposes around me.  He really could not have selected a more abasing punishment,” he said, sounding oddly proud of it.  “So why are you thieves breaking into my master’s chambers?” he asked, suddenly throwing himself against the bars.

“Only one of us is a thief,” Sire Cei said, evenly.  “This is a military mission.”

“Our business is our own,” I said, sternly.  “Be content to rot here, then, until your master has need of you.”

“You’re going to see the Cavern of Ages?” he asked, excitedly.  “Korbal forbids it!  None but he and his most trusted have access to that!”

“I find I care not for the dictates of the Alka Alon,” I sneered.  “I shall go where I wish.”

“You think he left it unguarded?  His own laboratory lies within!  His most trusted . . . oh, she will delight in you!” he said, his manner changing abruptly.  I could see why Korbal imprisoned him.  He was as crazy as a shithouse rat.  “She shall lick the remnants of your entrails from her fingers!  She—”

I grew tired of his babbling – he wasn’t giving me much in the way of meaningful intelligence, and I wasn’t inclined to set him free.  So I blasted him with a suppression wave – a kind of powerful blast of energy tuned to confound the human nervous system.  It wasn’t completely successful, thanks to the necromantic nature of his existence, but there were still enough active nerves in his system to feel it.

“Enough!” I spat.  “If you see Korbal before I do, tell him I’m planning on finding an even deeper hole to stuff him into, this time.  After I kick his arse until his nose bleeds,” I said, adding an old Riverlands peasants’ threat to the message.

“Watch him,” I instructed Cei.  “Tell me if he says anything of worth.  Otherwise, just kind of stand there stoically and glare at him, if you can manage that.”

“I shall challenge myself, Excellency,” my castellan assured.

The next cell had attracted the attention of Azhguri.  The old stonesinger was standing outside it, leaning on his hammer and smirking at the prisoner within.

“My lord, may I present Master Suhi – Head of the Taguma clan of the Q’azarai,” he reported, a gloating note in his voice.

“Hello,” I said, ignoring the smug tone.  The Karshak and the Dradrien have had a rivalry that goes back millennia, from what I understood.  There was a lot of mutual antagonism between the two cousin races.  “I am the humani wizard Minalan the Spellmonger.  Why are you imprisoned in the dungeons of the Necromancer?”

“I was kidnapped,” the impossibly-low voice stated.  “Forced to work at his forges against my will.  At the threat of my life.”  His Narasi was slow and heavily accented, but he spoke it with deliberation.

“What would you pledge to me, if I set you free?” I asked, recalling the bargain Tyndal had struck with the dwarf’s nephews.

I wasn’t being an asshole – in my discussions with the three Dradrien smiths I’d come to understand a little about how their society worked.  In their way, the Dradrien were just as adamant about contractual obligations as the Karshak.  If one was indebted to you for service, that debt was absolute – including loyalties.  Without that bond, there was no guarantee that I could trust anything that came out of his mouth, by the Dradrien’s own admission.

“Ten years of my service,” he finally admitted, with distaste.

“Ten years?  For a rescue from the deepest prison in the land?  That seems . . . cheap.  But perhaps your service is not worth much,” I suggested.

“Twenty years, then,” Suhi said, with a resigned sigh.  “All my craft and all of my . . . my . . .”

“The word you’re looking for is ‘fidelity’,” prompted Azhguri, enjoying the dark-haired Dradrien’s discomfort.  “Your craft and your fidelity.  For twenty years.  By the beards of our ancestors, I witness the pact!” he cackled.

“Then free me!” demanded Suhi, arrogantly, as he shook his thick chains at me behind the grate.

The grate was common iron, but the chains were steel, I noticed.  And they were heavily enchanted.  I pulled Insight out of its pocket and examined them.

My baculus suggested that the bindings were necromantic in nature – they drained the energy of their bearer and fed on the desire to be free.  That was insidious – the more the prisoner wanted to be out of their chains, the stronger the field that sapped their ability to make the smallest move to release them.  The spell was forged into the very links of the manacles in a way I’d never seen before.

But they were still separate from Suhi.  I used Pathfinder’s discrimination to select the steel, alone, and transferred the bonds into a hoxter.

Suhi blinked, and looked at his liberated hands.  He was free.

“I accept your service of twenty years,” I said, as he looked up at me, sharply.  “It begins now.”

Suhi grinned, and grasped the lock on the grate in one hand.  With some effort, he twisted it off the door and tossed it aside.  Azhguri frowned and picked up his hammer, but stood aside as the dark-haired Dradrien pushed open the grate and stepped into freedom.

“What are your orders, my master?” Suhi asked, mockingly.

“I’m not the kind of master who needs his arse kissed, for one thing,” I replied, sharply.  “Your three nephews can attest to that.”

“My nephews?” he asked, surprised.  “You’ve seen them?”

“They’ve been my guests – well, the guests of a colleague of mine – for a few months, now.  They’ve told us everything they knew about Olum Seheri, and what they were doing here.”

He snorted derisively.  “That didn’t take long,” he said, rolling his dark blue eyes.  “But I am happy they are away from this place, the idiots.”

“Don’t be so hard on them,” Azhguri said, sternly.  “They might be young, but they are loyal to kin and clan!”

“They were stupid!” Suhi countered.

“Not stupid enough to give away twenty years of their service for rescue,” I pointed out.  “They offered but ten each.”

“They are not worth that much,” he said, wiping his huge nose with his hand.  “Good boys, in their way, but . . .”

“Right now, we need to know why you’re down here, what Korbal is planning, and what lies beyond the great doorway that leads to the Chamber of Ages.”

“I am down here because my work for that monster was complete,” he said, stiffly, as he rubbed his wrists.  “He forced me to build for him a . . . a device, using the rarest of metals and all of my skill.”

“I’ve seen the plans,” I nodded.  “I just want to know what it can do.”

“It can do a great number of things,” the Dradrien said, scornfully.  “It was not a poor design, for an Alka Alon.”

“Something specific,” I urged.  “What was its main purpose?  An evil dark lord doesn’t go out of his way to kidnap a powerful magical Dradrien smith and compel him to task unless there is significance to the work.”

“There is,” he sighed, distastefully.  “Once powered, I know he hopes to use it to communicate with the Deeps,” he said, with a shudder.

“Well, what does that mean?” demanded Azhguri.  “That’s just another piece of the ocean!”

“You recall the terror your folk unleashed on the world, when it awoke the Menace from its rocky tomb?” the Dradrien asked, darkly.  “That monster is but a vassal of those who lie trapped within the Depths.  With this . . . this tool, Korbal hopes to conspire with those horrors.”

“That was an accident!” Azhguri said, defensively.  Suhi shrugged it away.

“Well, that is helpful,” I decided.  “That tells us he has yet to enter an alliance with the Formless, in any case.  Perhaps we have a little time.”

“He plans to destroy you humani, first,” the Dradrien said, gloating a little.  “Then use you to destroy the lesser races,” he said, casting his eye on his Karshak escort.

“We’ve heard,” I dismissed, casually.  “He doesn’t know us very well, yet.”

“There are two other prisoners,” Hance reported, when he rejoined us a moment later.  “Two humans.  Alshari, in fact.”

“More hosts for the Nemovorti to consume?” I asked.

“Oh, no, these fellows didn’t have rajira,” Hance supplied.  “They were political prisoners.  Two members of the larger rebel council in Alshar who disappeared about a year ago: Baron Valkid and Viscount Cinam.  Both stooges of the Count of Rhemes, and instrumental in silencing loyalist opposition to the Council of Counts, after the Duke was assassinated.  They must have been sent here for ‘safe keeping’.”

“By the Count’s request?” I asked.  Hance was far more familiar with Alshari politics than I was.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Hance replied.  “They were invaluable to His Excellency, in terms of keeping the southern counties in line.  If he’d had problems with them, he would have had them executed.  The fact that they are here tells me that Korbal does not trust his allies any more than his enemies.”

“Nor should he.  Very well, I suppose we’ll have to bring them along.  This is starting to get crowded.”

“Oh, no need,” Master Hance said, casually.  “I slew them both.  Slit their throats.”

“What?  Why?” I asked, aghast.

“Because they were enemies of the Ducal House of Alshar, to whom I have a certain loyalty,” Hance answered, matter-of-factly.  “They committed crimes of insurrection and violated their oaths of vassalage.  It was my duty to execute them . . . and in one case, my pleasure.  Baron Valkid was responsible for the arrest and execution of two of my friends who refused to capitulate to the Counts.  I am empowered to do so,” he added.  “His Grace gave me a commission to conduct such affairs, before we left.  Their lives were forfeit.”

I just stared at him.  Alshari politics is brutal.

“Next time,” I said, softly, “perhaps you’ll consult me before you go slaying defenseless prisoners?”

He shrugged.  “If you’d like.”

Master Suhi followed us obediently as we vacated the dungeon and reassembled back in the main chamber.  Lord Aeratas was already there, bearing the Aronin, wrapped in his mantle and carried in a sling.

“The others were too far gone to move,” he confided.  “I sang them spells to give them peace in their slumber, but they will not awaken again.  He insisted on coming along, to see the Ghost Rock and join his hallowed ancestors.  It will be his final journey,” he warned, grimly.

“If we have sustained him this far, then why give up hope?”

“He has been deprived of wholesome life for too long,” Aeratas said, shaking his head.  “His essence fades, even as he responds to my treatment.  Not even Lilastien could preserve him much longer, and she is an adept physician.”  That was strong praise from someone who admittedly didn’t like Lilastien much.

There was but one doorway we had yet to survey.  The one leading to the Cavern of Ages.

“From what I understand, there is a guardian on the other side of this door,” I began, as I tried to inspire my troops.

“As long as there aren’t any more bloody stairs!” complained Azhguri.

“Very few,” Aeratas assured.  “We are, indeed, in the deepest part of the undercaverns, nearly half a mile below the surface of the lake.  Beyond that doorway is the complex leading to the Chamber of Ages.”

“I’m guessing it’s a Nemovort, from what the other Nemovort told me,” I informed them, “and I’m also guessing that it’s going to be pretty powerful.  She – I have it on authority that it’s a ‘she’ – is supposedly going to enjoy licking my entrails off her fingertips.  While I don’t intend to let that happen, from what Stulka Dumi told me she was put here to guard the place.”

“She shall not deter our quest!” Sire Cei proclaimed.

“The goal is the Ghost Rock,” Aeratas reminded everyone, cradling the Aronin in his arms like a baby.  “Once we deal with the guards and the spells warding the vein, we shall need some time to conduct the procedures we need to.  That means the rest of us will have to protect Minalan while he assails the inner recesses of the vein.”

“We’ll contend with that when we’re able,” I agreed.  “Just be ready to defeat this Nemovort.  We’ve come too far, endured too many sacrifices, and gone down too many flights of stairs for it to be in vain.”

“Would that we had the balance of our Scholars,” Azhguri grumbled, good-naturedly.  “It seems a waste to enjoy the conclusion of our journey without them.”

“Until the Ways are repaired, we are on our own,” I said, shaking my head.  “And while I miss Mavone and Sandoval, I’m unsure if Lilastien and Onranion’s assistance would be all that beneficial, at this stage, save in technical matters.”

“Then let us proceed,” Azhguri grumbled, “before we age much more.”

Aeratas opened the door, which was far harder than it sounds.  The thing had been secured with the Alka Alon version of a spellbinding, a simple song of protection that kept the foolish from trespassing within the sacred confines of the cavern.

True to his word, there were no stairs.  The passageway opened into a natural cavern, one that had been augmented and trimmed by a thousand years of careful attention.  It was long, sloping downwards as we traversed it, and wide – nearly eighty feet across, in the section we entered.

“Behold, the Cavern of Ages,” Lord Aeratas pronounced, reverently.  “Depository of our ancestors’ enneagrams, held within the living stone for all eternity.”

“It smells a bit . . . mildewy,” commented Azhguri, wrinkling his nose.

“Ancient sacred caverns tend to be that way,” I confided.  “You should see the gurvani’s . . .”

“Do not compare the Cavern of Ages to that misbegotten hole,” sneered Aeratas.  “The molopor is a powerful curiosity.  The ancient vein of Ghost Rock is a repository of knowledge and wisdom that goes back to the dawn of this world.”

“I’m uncertain they would value the comparison,” I observed.  “They are both revered by their people as a sacred space.  They are both places of great power.  And they both have a moisture problem.”

“They are both desired by Korbal,” Azhguri pointed out.

“Together, they are potent instruments,” Aeratas conceded.  “Power and knowledge together, at the command of a corrupt and unwholesome mind could cause disaster.”

“Is it enough to challenge the Vundel?”

“I doubt it,” Aeratas decided, after some thought.  “As powerful as they are, the power of the Vundel encompasses the entire Magosphere.”

“Is it enough to contact the Formless in their prison in the Deeps?”

“It may well be, with the proper devices,” he agreed, grimly.  “And that is a force that not even the Vundel could return to their prisons.”

“Then whatever else happens, we have to deny them the use of this place,” I sighed.  “Even if it means destroying it.”

Chapter Forty-Three

The Cavern of Ages

Imagine a passageway tunneled through the living rock, deep underground, part natural, part artificial.  A cavern carved out by some ancient underground stream, then expanded by the cunning craftsman of the Alon.  The natural flow of that long-dead stream had produced a winding, wild grotto hundreds of feet long.   I could just imagine the endless ages of flowing water carrying away the softer particles and leaving the harder.

What remained was magnificent, a forest of natural pillars of harder stone, contorted passageways made smooth by hammer, chisel, song and spell.  The Alka Alon had not decorated the great chamber, nor did it need any ornamentation.  The natural beauty of the stone was enough: layers of orange, gray, yellow and white, streaked with brown and black.  It was as if someone had carved a sunset, deep in the earth.

While the passageway twisted and turned, there were areas that were far larger in size than the original entrance.  As we came to one of them, the remnant of the stream that had carved this echoing chamber tinkled merrily in a channel through its midst.

“The Cavern of Ages,” Lord Aeratas pronounced.  “For more than five thousand years my sires have made the pilgrimage to this grotto, to touch the fabled Ghost Stone, and use its depths to commune with their forefathers who did the same.”

“You can actually communicate with the enneagrams within?” asked Hance, curious.  “I didn’t think that was possible.”

“The skill of my folk in such matters is beyond your understanding,” Aeratas said, arrogantly.   “It is an ancient device that draws the selected enneagram into what you would call a thaumaturgically active, sensitive response matrix.  With sufficient energy, a simulacrum of the enneagram’s original consciousness can be temporarily created – sophisticated enough for you to communicate with it.”

“So . . . it’s necromantic in nature,” Hance reasoned.

“Technically,” I admitted.  “It doesn’t use necromantic energy, I’d imagine, but it probably has a basic necromantic architecture,” I proposed.

“Could it be used to converse with . . . the other enneagrams, inside?  The ancient ones?” Hance continued.

“It is not recommended,” Aeratas said, gravely, as he carried the Aronin through the twisted passages.  “Those entities usually do not have the understanding of their nature, the way our ancestors did.  Nor do they have a common language or even context for conversing with us.  The few who have attempted it have either failed or gone mad with the experience.”

“So, we won’t be interrogating the Handmaiden through that thing,” I decided.  “Once we get there, we’ll—”

“Realms of Light and Darkness!” Aeratas said, swearing what I knew was a pretty severe oath, among the Alka Alon.   He pointed to a pale, chalky-looking vein of rock in the colorful wall.  It was Ghost Rock, the first chunk of it in its natural form I’d seen.

It was also being hacked from the wall like a chunk of sod in a garden.

“That is . . . is blasphemous!” Aeratas said, so angry he was shaking.  “When I’d heard, I did not think it was true . . . but to damage the stone in such a way is vile!”

I examined the site, which didn’t seem to be all that large.  But at least a third of the stone had been hacked out of the vein, about three or four cubic feet.  They weren’t done, apparently, and had left a large piece of the stone and a couple of smaller shards on the ground, below.

“How did they do it, I wonder?  Just hack at it with chisel and hammer?” Hance pondered.

“Yes,” came a voice from behind us, “but when we did that, the miner died in the attempt,” it explained.  It was a female voice, low, liquid, inhuman and quietly amused.  We were immediately on our guard, drawing our weapons and searching for its source, among the columns of the cavern.

“We went through six draugen to get enough for our test.  A common animated corpse cannot strike more than a blow before it disintegrates.  The feedback from the rock is . . . potent.”

She stepped from behind a column of rock, revealing herself slowly.  She was no common Nemovort.

Instead of a scarred and tattooed human body, this ancient Enshadowed had taken the old militant form of their species.  It was shaped differently than the bodies of the Tera Alon – shorter, but more impossibly slender, with proportionally longer arms and legs, a more elongated head and face, and a shorter torso.  She was wearing a tight-fitting doublet of black.  The effect was elegant, but did make her look uncomfortably like a large humanoid spider.

“And you are, my lady?” Sire Cei asked, his hammer at the ready.

“She is Mycin Amana,” Aeratas answered, his voice dangerous and low.  “Consort to Korbal, and condemned to share his fate.  She is a criminal behind only the Necromancer, himself.”

“Necromancer!” she snorted, as she approached.  She didn’t make any threatening moves.  Somehow, I wasn’t put at ease by that.  “It makes him sound like a technician.  I prefer ‘demon god’, myself.  It has a more compelling effect, I think.  But you have named me, Aeratas.  Mycin Amana.”  She bowed, elegantly, as she repeated her name.

“She is a criminal, the worst kind of killer.  She slew thousands of Alkans with poison,” Aeratas accused.  “She oversaw horrific attacks on the council during their uprising.  She personally tortured hundreds, using them in their foul experiments!”

“You make it sound so . . . tawdry,” Mycin Amana said, her big eyes blinking in the light of the Magosphere.  “What a pretty bauble!  What is that inside?”

“Why are you harvesting Ghost Rock?” demanded Azhguri, indignantly.  “You damaged the stone!  Have you no shame?”

“Not particularly,” she said, blinking, but never taking her eyes off the sphere over my shoulder.  “Being imprisoned in a hellish tomb for a thousand years gives you perspective.  We’re using the stone to expand that intriguing molopor effect in the north,” she explained, amused.  “I wonder how large we can get it to grow?”

“But why?” pleaded Azhguri.  “Do you not realize what you have lost?”

“Less than the bones of those boneless creatures, forgotten long before we came to this world?  Of what loss is that?  Worry not – we have preserved the areas where our ancestors are preserved.  That is far too valuable a resource to consume, just yet.”

“You don’t seem particularly bothered by our presence here,” I pointed out.  “Or threatened by it.”

“Oh, I’m not,” Mycin assured us.  “I’m just bored.  I’ve been working on my project for months, now, down here.  With only the draugen to talk to, for the most part.”

“Not getting enough quality time with the husband?” Hance quipped, in mock sympathy.

“Well, he’s working constantly,” she pointed out.  “It’s hard for him to get down here, at the moment.  But I’ve been . . . well, would you like to see what I’ve been working on?” she asked, with surprising eagerness.

“You . . . want to show us your secret weapon?” Sire Cei asked, confused.

“Why not?  I’m bored, down here.  It would be nice to show off my work.  Come along,” she directed, suddenly turning on her heel.  “It’s not far from here,” she said.  “We can fight and I can kill you, afterward,” she added.  “But there’s no reason you cannot admire my work before you die.”

“That’s quite thoughtful of you,” Hance called out, as he began to follow her.  He caught me out by eye.  “Minalan, why don’t you and I go take a look, and when we’re done we’ll come back here and then she can kill us with the others?”

“That would be acceptable,” she agreed.  “I doubt if—”

Before she could complete her sentence, Hance had drawn his short, slender blade and, with a strike so fast I barely saw it, cut through her slender neck with one graceful pass.  Her head tumbled to the floor while her body crumpled.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Hance declared, as he cleaned the sword.  “I know these Enshadowed haven’t had much experience with humans, but they really should learn not to turn their backs on a thief.”

“That . . . that was not an honorable act, Sir Hance!” Sire Cei reproved.

“Thankfully, I am a knight only by courtesy, not profession,” Hance said, sheathing the blade under his cloak.  “I like you Narasi, but you forget that Imperial culture placed little stock in chivalry or honorable warfare.  We focused on victory.”

“This is not an honorable war,” agreed Lord Aeratas, stepping over her still-twitching body.  “This is a war of extinction.”

“Let’s at least see what the old girl was going to show us,” Azhguri proposed.  “I’m wondering what got her so eager to show it off.”

We discovered her lair – laboratory – private apartment – by the simple expedient of following a trail of tiny magelights that led there from the main pathway.  I didn’t know if the undead really needed such things, but Mycin apparently liked them.  They led right to her door.

The chamber on the other side of the ornate doorway was impressive, if terror and horror impress you.  It was easy to see what Mycin wanted to show off.  There was a nine-foot tall body in the middle of the room.

It was neither human nor Alkan, though it shared characteristics of both.  The great face was both fair and severe, with fair green hair and slightly pointed ears.  The broad chest was muscled far more like a human than an Alkan . . . and the arms seemed more appropriate a Karshak than anything else.  The legs were huge trunks with massive knees and wide feet.

We won’t discuss the naughty bits.  As I mentioned: impressive.

“This must be Korbal’s new body,” I remarked, as we walked around the giant stone table it rested upon.  A smaller, female version was on a nearby slab.  “And that was hers.”  It was decidedly feminine, but not in a way that tickled the typical human aesthetic.  The breasts were small, the shape was more slender than curved, and the short, dark green hair was not particularly attractive.

Yet I could see the reflection of the Alkan aesthetic for such things in her form.  By Alka Alon standards, she was a goddess, as he was a god.

That’s what they were doing.  They were making themselves unliving gods.

Not in the humani way, of course, but Korbal and his minions were not content with virtual immortality, hopping from one host body to another.  This, I reasoned, was the prototype of the final form they were constructing.  Growing.  I pulled Insight out of its pocket and began examining both of them closely.

“They have potent spells woven into their very cells,” I reported, as I worked.  “Their skin is . . . it’s near impervious.  Their central nervous systems are complex enough to contend with an Alkan consciousness, or more.  Fully Talented, I’m guessing.  Damn, I wish Lilastien was here – she would know how they produced them.  They have to be transgenic enchantments.  She loves this sort of thing.”

“Are they . . . alive?” Sire Cei asked, skeptically, as he studied them.

“Technically?  Yes,” I said, putting away Insight.  “But they are empty.  They have no native enneagrams.  These are . . . grown from scratch, I suppose, not taken from an existing host.”

“Note the lack of callouses anywhere on them,” Hance pointed out, fingering his chin.  “The nails and hair are soft.  The feet have never trod.”

“So, are they alive?  Or dead?”

“Currently alive, soon to be undead,” I guessed.  “Or perhaps they’ll persist in keeping them alive.  Technically?” I asked myself.  “It’s definitely necromancy, but . . . we just don’t have words for this sort of thing,” I confessed.

“They must not be quite ready, yet,” Aeratas observed.  “They are formed, but just barely mature enough to maintain the transfer of enneagram, I would venture.”

“You are correct,” sighed the Aronin in his small voice.  “These forms are similar to the Kulla Alon,” he decided.

“I am not aware of that race,” I confessed.

“No reason you should be – or anyone should be,” Aeratas said, distastefully.  “They were an . . . experimental form.  One that was used early in our settlement of Callidore.  Highly inefficient, but nearly indestructible.”

“After the rigor of the initial settlement, such forms were abandoned as ungainly,” the Aronin agreed, weakly.  “Save for a few fanatics, who maintained them and bred them in a distant realm.  They do not breed well,” he added.  “They were all but extinct.”

“Too damn tall,” agreed Azhguri, looking from the male to the female.  His eye lingered there.  “Might be worth the climb,” he conceded.

“Master,” my new Dradrien servant called, from a corner of the room.  “See this!”

He’d found the garments for the two bodies: two nine-foot tall suits of closely-fitted, cunningly crafted plate armor.  Every inch of the Alkan-like decoration on both sets was covered in brilliantly-polished gilt, with the blackened steel under providing a brilliant contrast. The two helmets were glorious and sinister, at the same time.

“Pretty,” I observed.

“Makamal clan,” he grunted.  “Good.  Not the best, but good.”  He closed his eyes and whistled, before leaning his big hairy ear close to the larger set as he tapped it.  “Knew it!  Used kerje in third tempering!” he said, his eyes flashing under his massively bushy eyebrows.  I had no idea if that was good or bad, but it seemed to amuse my new smith.

“I don’t see weapons,” Sire Cei said, looking around.  That made Master Suhi’s humor fade.

“I made the weapons,” he admitted, guiltily.  “Not here.”

They weren’t anywhere in the place. The laboratory complex – which contained a palatial living quarters, a treasury of recovered Alkan sculptures and other art (which Master Hance obligingly stole, using a hoxter in his ring, and vowed to bring it to Aeratas’ new refuge in Hosendor) did not contain the two special weapons Suhi informed us about.  But an alcove in the laboratory presented us with a surprise: most of my stolen crystals.

The Pocket Stone, alas, was not there, but many of the other stones were.  Feeling a sense of vindication and justice, I took not only the stones but all the other magical minerals in his treasury.  There were some very intriguing-looking crystals that Azhguri was delighted to find, but I was immediately drawn to the goodly amount of irionite.  Six big lumps of the stuff, each about thrice the size of the average High Mage’s stone, was set out in preparation for something.

I took those too.  Korbal owed me.

“As fascinating as this is,” Sire Cei said, clearing his throat, “it occurs to me that every second we wait while we are this close to the fulfillment of our quest is a second we allow our foes to discover us,” he suggested.  “We should proceed, as these creatures, as fearsome as they are, do not pose a threat.”

“No,” I said, turning back around to look at the lifeless bodies.  “But they might present an opportunity.”

The long, chalky vein of Ghost Stone began in earnest just past the lab, beginning as a narrow layer among many, and widening to dominate the entire side of the cavern.

The absolute widest exposure had been made into a little installation, with a slender Alka Alon pillar supporting an intricately-woven structure of crystal and silver.  Or something.  It looked like crystal and silver.

“The Chamber of Ages,” the Aronin croaked.  “Here, I may join my ancestors.”

“And I might experience my beloved wife, again,” sighed Aeratas, closing his eyes as a memory overtook him.

“How does it work?” I asked.

They began explaining the procedure to me, while the others studied the magnificent grotto.  It wasn’t particularly technical, nor do I want to explain it here, but the spell was challenging.

“I shall go first,” Aeratas said.  “It is my right as the Lord of Anthatiel,” he declared.  I didn’t argue, and he stepped up to the pillar, after handing me the crippled body of the Aronin.  He weighed next to nothing.

Aeratas put his hand on the crystalline construct, closed his eyes, and relaxed.  In less than five minutes, he removed his hand and stepped back.

“That’s it?” Hance asked, an eyebrow raised.

“I knew where to locate her, within the stone,” Aeratas said, barely above a whisper.  “I did what I had to do, said what needed to be said.  You may proceed, Minalan,” he said, nodding his head.

“I . . . I don’t know what to do,” I admitted.  “I was depending on Onranion to guide me to the Handmaiden.  With him not here, I’ll just have to . . . to . . .”

“I will be your guide, Minalan,” the Aronin volunteered.

“Aronin, that could slay you,” Aeratas said, frowning.

“I am a whisper away from death, as it is, my friend,” the ancient Alkan said.  “Korbal took away my strength, my body, and nearly my mind.  You have restored that, for a time.  In this state, I may make one last impression in the stone, give the benefit and knowledge of my experience to our people.  That way my suffering and sacrifice will not be in vain.”

“If that is your wish,” the Lord of Anthatiel conceded.

“It is,” the Aronin declared.  “Besides, I am among the few who has made so deep a pilgrimage into the Ghost Rock before.  I know where to find your Handmaiden.  And how to get her back out, once again.”

We set him near to the pillar and helped him place his broken hands on it.  A sense of peace and serenity seemed to come over him as he sang the first notes of the song that initiated the construct.  He gave me a single nod to join him.

I reached out for the twisted silver bar and felt my hand drawn toward it.  No, not my hand, I decided, but –

And I wasn’t there anymore.

The interior of the Ghost Rock is impossibly vast, arcanely speaking.  It’s more akin to being in the Otherworld, though without the comfort and scale of the world below you.  I’d experienced the perspective before when we fished the Celestial Mother out of the Grain of Pors, and scores of other enneagramatic impressions, but there were definite differences.  Firstly, there was the impossible vastness I spoke of.

But there was also far less of a sense of crowdedness, within.  I had no doubt that there were far more enneagramatic impressions in the Grotto of Ages than the Grain of Pors, despite its recent acquisition of a host of human impressions (my own included), but the sense I got from the Grotto was that it had plenty of room for more.  And more.

I sensed the Aronin beside me – not in his crippled physical body, but in the enneagramatic representation of his self-awareness, as interpreted by my subconscious mind.

That meant he looked like a perfect little Alkan lord, ancient, wise, mystical, all that.  I don’t want to hazard a guess what I looked like to him.

The more recent an impression, the closer it will be to this point, he explained, as we floated through the medium as if we were flying.  All around us were crystalline representations of other enneagramatic impressions.  Our own were formed the moment we contacted the vein.

That’s Aeratas? I asked, as we passed a proud-looking structure.

Touch it, and see, he counseled.

I did.  The experience was intriguing, like seeing into his thoughts and feelings, his memories and his experiences.  It was confusing and chaotic, as they were mostly connected with people from his past, most of whom were long dead.

Indeed, I sensed a great despair in the contact, a desperation and determination.  It was brief, but so intense that it pushed me out.

Yes, that’s him, I agreed, when I’d been expelled.

It is not a simple process to connect with the impressions, the Aronin explained.  It takes many journeys and much practice to do so, without the use of the construct to consolidate the perspective.

Who did he visit? I asked, suddenly curious.

Hynalinae, his queen, the Aronin said, pulling me toward her.  This is the last impression she made, before she tragically died.

How?

She was slain by the Enshadowed, he answered, simply, as we swam – flew – to another bright cascade of crystal.  The last time they tried to conquer Anthatiel.  A stupid, foolish, petty raid some three centuries ago.  They invaded while Aeratas was at council, attempting to seize his wife and child and use them to compel the Council to release Korbal, but Hynalinae was a proud woman from a proud house, worthy of the greatest of her ancestors.  She would not yield.  She was a dedicated guardian of the City of Rainbows.

That explains a lot, I observed.

Indeed.  Aeratas loved her desperately.  Had he not had his baby daughter, Fallawen, we all feared he would have thrown himself off the cliffs of the city in despair.  He hunted the cell who committed the crime and destroyed it utterly.  He has visited her here repeatedly since her death.

I could appreciate that.  But Alya wasn’t dead.  Not yet.  And she was why we were here.

I’m sure there are wonders aplenty in this realm, Aronin, but I am here with purpose.  I would prefer not to delay more than I need to.

Of course, he agreed, although time here is . . . different than it is outside.  But I understand your eagerness.  Come with me.

I followed him by the simple expedient of willing my consciousness to follow him, as you would do with any directional spell.  We sped by constellations of distinctive Alkan impressions, the enneagrams of tens of thousands of Alka Alon who had made the pilgrimage down those stairs to the Ghost Rock.

Here, the Aronin said, as we paused in the middle of the cluster.  I thought you might appreciate this: one of the few humani ever to leave an impression in the Ghost Rock.  One of the first of your kind to explore this region, when your folk descended from the horizon.

What?  A human ancestor? I asked as I circled the enneagram.  I could tell at once that it was different than the Alka Alon around it, just as the enneagrams in the Grain of Pors were.  I couldn’t resist.  I ran my perceptions through its periphery.

In an instant, I was bombarded with the same sorts of thoughts and feelings I got from Aeratas’ enneagram, but from a decidedly human perspective.

But a strange human perspective.  I reeled in confusion as I plunged through random seconds of a strange man’s life . . . a man who was born on a different world than Callidore.

That was . . . interesting, I said, when I withdrew.  Who was he?

His name was Heinrich Gerling, a colonel in the Colonial Exploration Corps.  He was one of the first humani to explore the Mindens.  Aeratas was wary of the man, though he was eloquent in council.  It took much persuasion for him to be allowed the opportunity to explore the Grotto.  I met him, once.  A nice man, very self-possessed.  I think he went on to become a diplomat or an administrator, back on Perwyn.  I thought you might want to collect his impression, while you are here.

Really?  To what purpose? I asked.

If you have questions about the Forsaken, or other insights into your race’s past here on Callidore, this man might have answers.

That made a lot of sense . . . and gave us an opportunity to practice the transfer process.

One of the crystals we’d taken from Korbal’s lab became the host for the transfer.  Once I returned to Sevendor, I’d figure out what to do with it, but it was nice to have.  An unexpected prize for this expedition.

When we returned to the endless emptiness of the vein, the Aronin pulled me far beyond the realms of the Alka Alon, and beyond sparse gap that intervened before we came to the true wealth of the Ghost Rock.

Dancing before me were millions of strange and wonderful enneagrams, each wildly different and competing for my attention.  In moments, we were surrounded in an overwhelming sea of them.  The sheer variety and number made attempting to discriminate which was which impossible.  Within the first few moments I thought I’d find impressions that I was certain were the Handmaiden.  Each time the Aronin pulled me away.

Instead we went far more deeply into the context of the vein, into the thickest portion.  We whipped past so many strange and wonderful things that I became confused and disoriented almost at once.

But then we stopped, suddenly, and I understood why the Aronin was so amused.  This impression was infinitely more complex than anything I’d seen.  Indeed, I’d only seen one that rivaled it.

The Handmaiden of the Celestial Mother, he announced, as we both hovered nearby.

Chapter Forty-Four

Necromancy

The differences between the Handmaiden and the Celestial Mother were as striking as their similarities.

There is no scale in the Ghost Rock’s arcane matrix, so it wasn’t a matter of one being larger than the other.  Their basic structure was essentially similar.  Both had six main nodes coming together at a central junction.

But the Handmaiden’s pattern was far less tangled and complex than the Mother’s.  It looked almost elegant, compared to the bursting sophistication of the Celestial Mother.  Two “arms” of the Handmaiden’s enneagram were longer, more pronounced, and possessed of a complexity the other four lacked.

The Aronin regarded the gloriously sophisticated enneagram serenely.

In a time so distant that all the years since the Alon came to Callidore are but an instant, life on this world was largely contained to the seas, he explained.

When the world was firmly within the Realm of Darkness, in that distant golden age, much of what we know as the Shallows were filled from shore to shore with glorious white coral, which evolved to utilize the sunlight above and the rich minerals below to combine into its wondrous form. Pure, primal magic conceived in the Realm of Darkness.

In the peace and freedom from form the Darkness provided, the great coral beds came to use what we know as magic to manifest as perfect and ideal a realm in the oceans of Callidore.

The deep ancestors of the Vundel emerged from this field – Callidore Magosphere, as you know it – to clean and tend the vast white coral beds, and feed upon the magical energies so abundant in the white coral.  Chief among them were the Mothers, who came to coordinate the tending, and later the defense and cultivation of the coral.

By the time that Callidore began to emerge into the Realms of Light, the Mothers had become the Great Mothers, and eventually the Celestial Mothers.  Their long lives – many times the longest-lived among the Alon – and their endless responsibilities demanded an increasing sophistication and complexity.  One that they, themselves could not continue.

For this purpose, over time they delegated those functions to six subsidiary organisms.  They have had other names, but you would call them the Maid, the Butler, the Coachman, the Messenger, the Midwife, and the Handmaiden.

The Vundel you know today are descendants of the Maid and the Butler, you would say, those responsible for the ceaseless task of cleaning the remaining corals.  Their functions were active and intercessory.  In the absence of the last of the Mothers to guide and direct them, they evolved into their present form, continuing their ancient function.

The other four symbiotic servants to the Celestial Mother were dedicated, he continued, unhurriedly.  Without her to serve, they had no purpose, and died away.

Chief among them was the Handmaiden, an entirely independent entity charged with monitoring and repairing the enormous complexities of the Celestial Mother’s psyche.  From the lore of the Vundel, the Handmaiden was responsible for combing through the tangled skeins of her complex self-awareness and ensuring that there were no injuries, conflicts, or issues with the Celestial Mother’s mind.

So she served as a sort of conscience, I observed, unable to pull my awareness away from the magnificent arcane fossil before me.

In a manner of speaking, conceded the Aronin.  She served as an independent entity to survey and determine what elements of the Celestial Mother’s mind were spiraling in dangerous directions.  The decisions she made affected millions of entities; the Sea Folk were meticulous in how they managed such things.  They would not chance disaster in such a delicately balanced system because the Mother was not feeling well.

How did this one get here? I asked, curious.  Without all of the others from the staff?

It is a mystery, lost to the ages, the Aronin admitted.  Oft have the scholars of the Alon contemplated just such a thing.  There are theories and speculation, but no one knows for certain.

Not even the Vundel?

The Vundel have a . . . strange relationship to their past, he tried to explain.  It is difficult to learn the truth from them, even considering differences in perspective and language.  For ten thousand years we have attempted to discover the truth of their past, but we have gotten only scraps and pieces.

Yes, I know how frustrating it can be to get a straight answer from another race about things in their past they feel guilty about, I said.  If I’d had eyes in that medium, I would have rolled them.

The irony is not lost on me, Minalan, the Aronin smiled.  Indeed, there are important parallels in the two cases.  The difference is that we, like the humani, are guests on this world.  The Vundel own it.  You are free to continue probing into the crimes and transgressions of the Alon – and they are many.  If either race questions the Vundel too deeply about matters they are sensitive about, then we transgress against our hosts.  To our mutual peril.

I understand that.  Which is why I’m confused by the Alkan council’s attitude toward us.

Take it up with them, the Aronin dismissed.  Such things no longer concern me, not that they ever did, much.  But my perception is that they thought they could tame humanity, once it was removed from its dangerous roots.  Once Perwyn was destroyed, and your last link to your old culture was gone, the council’s attitude was one of benign neglect in hopes that you would eventually assimilate into peaceful servants, like the Tal Alon.

And then the gods and the barbarians showed up and ruined that plan, I mused.

Essentially, he agreed.  By that time, many of us lost interest in your novelty.  And those who were against the policy were in ascendance.  But that is not the concern of the moment, and I leave it to you to sort out, should you survive this journey.

I’m halfway there, I said, regarding the Handmaiden.  I’m starting to feel hopeful.

There is great risk in what you do, Minalan, he counseled me.  Not merely for yourself, but for our peoples.  There is a chance that the Vundel will take it amiss that you have disturbed one of their ancients.

There’s a chance that if I fail, Korbal is going to awaken the Formless, I countered.  I’m guessing they’ll be too busy with that to be concerned with the theft of an arcane antiquity.  But what risk is there to me? I asked, suddenly concerned.  We transferred the Celestial Mother without any serious problems.  Into a multi-phasic crystalline quasi-molopor made out of enchanted crystal, I conceded, but we did it.

Which gives me hope you can repeat the task.  Lord Aeratas told me of your feat, and the involvement of your gods.  If you have both the Celestial Mother and the Handmaiden, you may attract their attention – and their ire – far more quickly than you suspect.  The Vundel are long-lived.  They are also highly reactive.

I’ll keep that in mind.  And I shall deal with that when it happens.  But I’m not going to let timidity keep me from my goal.

Nor should you, he agreed.  I just want you to understand the nature of what you do.  Even things done for the best of reasons can have catastrophic results, he warned.  The ancient history of this world bears testament to that.

During the Vundel’s war with the Formless, eons ago, the vassals of the Formless contrived to strike at their ancient foe indirectly, by directing a mountain of stone from the Realms of Light, floating in the Void, to strike at a weak spot in Callidore’s crust.  A region of volcanic instability in the north of this continent.  It was hoped by the Formless that puncturing the land so powerfully would blind the skies with dust for decades, and choke the sunlight that feeds the reefs that fed the Mothers.

For the best of reasons, the Celestial Mothers tried to destroy the mountain.  It was difficult, as matter formed in the Realms of Light are highly resistant to magic.  But they struck the mountain before it could strike the volcano.

But it came at a terrible price: though they had crushed the mountain, it became many great boulders.  The spell preserved the world.  But in the process, it weakened the Celestial Mothers to extinction.  Enough of the rock struck the world to cause massive waves that dashed their carefully-contrived systems.  During the ensuing cataclysm, the Formless and their allies struck and hunted them to the brink.

One of those great stones struck below the great Bay of Enultramar, he continued.  It shattered the land and the seas, sending a great wave north of the Alshari gates and depositing an ocean, for a time.  Another struck near to the original target, far to the north.  It failed to force the volcano to erupt, but the earthquakes and tremors gave the Land of Scars its name.  It did blacken the sky, though not as long or as thoroughly as the Formless desired.  The sites of the two impacts have permanently scarred the Magosphere, creating holes in it by their presence.

That’s fascinating, but . . .

My point, Minalan, is that whatever your initial intentions, the results of your actions can ruin the very thing you seek to preserve, he said, with an ethereal sigh.

Oh.  I thought the lesson was that no matter what I do, we’re screwed.

That’s . . . another intriguing perspective, the Aronin conceded, politely.

Let’s do this, I decided.  Before I lose my nerve.  Or fate intervenes.  That happens to me a lot, these days.

With the Aronin’s assistance, making the transfer of the impression to the centerpoint was much easier than when we moved the Celestial Mother from the Grain of Pors.  The process was helped when Azhguri sang the Ghost Rock at the Aronin’s direction.

Returning to our bodies, we oversaw the transfer from the silvery pillar to the center of the Magolith – with the Aronin’s help in opening the side of the irionite sphere to access the throbbing, ever-changing crystal within the viscous thaumaturgical medium.  I held my breath for a few moments as there was a flare and a spark when the transfer was complete.

“It is done,” I said with a sigh of satisfaction, as he sealed over the irionite sphere with a wave of his battered hand.  “Thank you.”

“Not quite,” the Aronin said . . . and sent his consciousness into the Magolith.

I wasn’t prepared for it.  I was still connected to the sphere, of course, and when the ancient Alkan started tinkering with it the process set off all sorts of dizzying effects in my mind.  But a moment later he withdrew.

“I attached the major points of reference to the nodes within the stone,” he explained, tiredly.  “I’m hopeful I did enough to allow the Handmaiden to begin repairing herself.  Check and see,” he directed, his eyes beyond weary at the effort.

I did.  Inserting my consciousness into the Magolith wasn’t something I did often, as it required the totality of my focus and concentration.  It was like taking a journey within a journey, after I’d just gotten back from a journey . . . but I did as I was bidden.

There, after I negotiated past the security measures Onranion had put into place, I found the enneagram of the Handmaiden, where the Aronin had fastened it to more than a score of nodes of arcane power in the stone, just as we had done with the Snowflake.

Unlike the Snowflake, there was already the stirring of power and control happening around the nodes.  The Handmaiden was already filling with thaumaturgical energy from the irionite, through the thaumaturgical medium.  With every pulsation of the centerpoint, every transformation of the crystal, the nodes connected to the complex enneagram seemed to expand, drawing a little more power from the irionite each pulse.  The Handmaiden was starting to awaken, like a seed bursting through its shell.

I wasn’t certain how to address or approach it, so I tried to think good thoughts in its direction as a general introduction.  I’d like to think she paused, slightly, but it very well could have been my imagination.

“I think she’s settling in,” I agreed, when I pulled my head out of my sphere a moment later.  “How long do you think it will take for her to integrate?”

The Aronin shrugged his tiny shoulders.  They were about the only part of him unmangled by torture.  “Impossible to say.  Once she regains some awareness, she should start repairing herself.  After that it’s just a matter of how quickly that happens.

“But that crystal – that is amazing, Minalan,” he commented with a weak smile. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“The one I have at home is even bigger,” I bragged.  “Can you tell me anything about it?”

“Oh, I left my impressions within the sphere,” he assured. “But it’s clearly what you would call a –”

“My lords,” Sire Cei interrupted.  “I think it would be best if we considered how we will retreat, now that our mission is accomplished.  The fact that we haven’t been disturbed since we arrived in this chamber makes me more fearful every moment we tarry.”

“A reasonable suggestion,” Azhguri, agreed, though he’d watched the entire operation with interest – and seemed over-awed from the experience of singing the Ghost Rock.  “We must depart soon, ere one of Korbal’s folk discovers us.”

“That’s—” Lord Aeratas said, and then stopped.  His eyes opened wide, and he fell forward . . . revealing a slightly smaller version of Mycin Amana, Consort of Korbal, standing behind him, a strange blade in her hand.

“. . . sooner than you might think,” she finished, coolly, as she stared down at the Alkan lord, blood dripping from the point of her blade.  “Did you fools think to defeat me so easily?  Did you think I had no other bodies to choose from?” she asked, haughtily.

I didn’t think – I had Twilight in my hand and threw a bolt of blue-colored energy at her, enough to knock her back into the wall behind her.  She bore the brunt of the spell on her bloody blade and leapt to the side, narrowly missing a blow from Azhguri’s warhammer.  She might have cut the Karshak’s extended arm off at the elbow, had Suhi not plowed into the Nemovort from the side.

The next thirty seconds were hot chaos, as the undead monster began dancing around the grotto while we tried to kill her.  Twice we crossed blades, and both times she used speed and strength at least the equal to my best warmagic spells . . . but then she spun away to face Sire Cei.

He was no match for her speed and agility, and if it hadn’t been for his dragonhide breastplate the blast of necromantic energy she shot from her own short sword would have cut in him two, I’m certain.  As it was, he was rocked back on his heels and would have taken a harder hit, had I not re-engaged her from behind.

She was wickedly fast, changing hands with her strange curved blade with elegant dexterity.  There was a kind of lopsided grimace on her face, as she threw her sword against mine and tried to take down my arcane defenses.

As the others were trying to find an opening to take advantage of, she spun effortlessly around the room, dealing out minor wounds with the tip of her blade or spells from her right hand.  When Hance attempted to repeat his strike on the back of her neck, she blocked it neatly with the guard of her blade . . . and kicked him in the side of the knee for his trouble.

That proved to be her undoing, however.  As he was going down, he flicked his weighted cloak around her forearm, neatly binding it and pulling it out of line.  I didn’t waste the opportunity, though Twilight was out of line.  I pulled her light green hair back, hard, and slammed her in the side of her face as hard as I could with my mailed fist.

That still didn’t put her down, but it made her dizzy long enough for Sire Cei to repeat the gesture, adding some measure of his magical strength to it.  She dropped to the floor and didn’t move.

I was at Aeratas’ side in an instant.  But it didn’t look good when I inspected the wound, which ran deep, and crossed the bottom of his spine savagely.  His pulse was faint and he was unresponsive.  There was magical damage, too – his cells were withering at the site of the injury, and it was spreading, fast.

I immediately plunged myself into the Magosphere, seeking spells that could give him some aid.  Azhguri and Hance helped by trying to bind his wound, but we could all tell that it was for naught.  Her strike had included a necromantic spell, I could see.  It was consuming his flesh and body from the wound, outward, and it was already affecting his heart and brain when we began.

The Lord of Anthatiel was dead.  Despite his might and power, Mycin Amana knew precisely how to slay him.

A moment later, we discovered that he was not the only casualty.  While she was dancing around, Mycin had slain the Aronin, too.  His blood stained the silver pillar he leaned upon, his eyes closed in a last moment of serenity.

“Damn her!” I thundered, kicking Mycin’s unconscious body.  “Damn her!  We were so close to being out of this . . . this . . .”

“Easy, lad,” Azhguri soothed, as he closed Aeratas’ eyes.  “There’s no bringing them back with rage.”

“May Trygg and Duin bless them,” Sire Cei said, making the sign of passing over his heart.

“I’m sorry,” Hance sighed, regretfully.  “I didn’t think she’d . . .”

“You couldn’t have,” Sire Cei said, quickly.  “But it would be poor of us to honor our fallen comrades by getting captured.  If haste was recommended before, it is doubly so, now.  We cannot return them to life with rage,” he repeated.

I stared at Lord Aeratas’ body, thinking about how the proud, strong Alkan was willing to do whatever it took to protect this place – even destroy the city his father built over a thousand years ago.  Then I looked over at the unconscious body of Mycin, who deserved to be dead . . . had been dead . . .

“You’re right,” I said, my throat dry.  “We can’t bring him back with rage.  I can bring him back with magic.”

No one else was in favor of the idea.  Sire Cei was scandalized, while the dwarves thought it a waste of time, if a morbidly interesting technical problem.  Hance didn’t say much, but what he did say let me know his feelings on the matter.

I didn’t care.

The Aronin was ready to die, when we rescued him.  He knew he was at the end of his journey, and everything he’d said or done since we’d discovered him supported that.

But Aeratas was different.  He had a goal in life, a great quest to protect these sacred caves.  He’d sacrificed his life to do so, and left the task undone, thanks to a dishonorable attack.

This war was never honorable, I recalled him saying. I’m certain he would not regret his sacrifice – Aeratas was not that kind of Alkan.  But I also know he would be frustrated to leave his sacred trust go unguarded, at the mercy of Korbal and those who would pervert it.

It occurred to me that I had everything at hand to fix that last part.

“Give me some room,” I instructed, picking up Mycin’s sword and handing to Suhi.  He took it gratefully.  “Make certain I’m not disturbed by any other Nemovorti, please,” I instructed them all.

“For how long?” asked Hance, frowning.

“Until I’m done,” I said, flatly, bringing those enchanted steel manacles out of my hoxter.  “Bind her up, before you go.”  I was sure he would enjoy it, after his long captivity at the hands of the undead.  I wasn’t wrong.

Every time you traverse into a piece of Ghost Rock, you leave a psychic imprint, an impression of your enneagram at that moment that lasts in the stone forever.  It’s a psychic footprint in the arcane mud, or something like that.  Aeratas, of course, had entered the Ghost Rock hundreds of times over his long, long lifetime.  Most recently to visit his wife’s memory in that place.

Yet here I was, with everything I needed to restore not just Aeratas, but his beloved wife, as well.  There were two perfectly good bodies in the next chamber over, just waiting for a powerful consciousness to command the strong, nearly-indestructible limbs of the giants.  I didn’t want Korbal to use them.

It was an exacting process, much more difficult alone than it had been with the Aronin’s assistance.  But with effort and focus, I was able to capture the imprint from Aeratas’ most recent journey within the vein.  Then I captured the last image of his wife, keeping them both temporarily in crystals.

That was the easy part.  The difficult part was installing them into the bodies waiting for consciousness.  I’d never done that sort of thing before – that was straight-out necromancy, not merely enchantment with a necromantic component.  I wasn’t using a long-dead enneagram to fuel a magical weapon.  I was raising the dead.

In coming to fight against the schemes of the Necromancer, I’d become a necromancer, myself.

It took hours, how many I did not count.  My friends kept checking on me, bringing me food and water during the elaborate procedure, and ensured that the single passageway to the elaborate chamber was guarded.  I barely noticed them.  I was possessed with a sense of purpose to repair the injustice done to Aeratas.

It was grueling work, removing the impression from each crystal and overlaying them on the naked, empty central nervous systems of the giants.  In a process similar to what the Aronin had done with the Handmaiden, I began attaching the major anchor points of each enneagram to the nodes in the nervous system that I was reasonably certain would adhere, and were in the proper place.  Some were easy to see, others were subtler.  But each one had to be done with my full concentration.

Then I realized that I had help.  It took me a moment to realize it, but at some point, I understood that something else was assisting me as I moved from one node to another.  I took a break from my work and examined the Magolith.  Indeed, the Handmaiden within was not only repairing herself, she was lending me aid in my work.

At first that was intriguing, and I delighted in watching the emerging intelligence in the Magolith go to work on each thaumaturgical node like a spider attacking a fly in its web.  Then I realized that she was doing it because I was working too slow, too sloppily, for her tastes.

So I moved back and allowed the Handmaiden to work alone.  She worked much faster, alone, once I made it known to her what I wanted.

I finished up with Hynalinae, first, before I began on Aeratas.  He was slightly more complex, but the Handmaiden seemed to be getting better and faster at the work as she went.

When I was done, I sat back, exhausted.  Their enneagrams were intact.  Their bodies were ready.  They were still dead.

Saying a little prayer to Trygg – which I was not entirely sure was appropriate, under the circumstances – I began raising power to activate the two bodies.  I was guessing at what it might take to initialize life functions – or unlife functions – based on my conversations with Kedaran, and my limited experience with such things.

But it worked.  Five minutes after I nearly collapsed in a heap from the effort, Hynalinae began breathing.  A few moments later, so did Aeratas.

“What . . . what have you done?” the new body asked, blinking its new eyes and speaking its first words.

“I brought you back,” I informed him, wearily.  “Not in your old body, I’m afraid.  But we had this one lying around out back, so . . .”

“You . . . what have you done?” he asked, staring confusedly at his large new hands.

“I brought you back,” I repeated.  “And I didn’t bring you back alone.  Your wife,” I said, indicating the other body, just now starting to gain consciousness.  “From her last impression.”

I won’t describe the joyous reunion between the two, or the things lovers long parted shared – Ishi would roast my nuts for that.  It was intense and intimate, and I felt like an interloper as a witness.

But eventually I had to break up their tearful reunion, two old souls in two new bodies.  I had things to do.

“I don’t know how long these bodies will last, or what sustains them; hells, I’m not really certain if you’re really alive or undead.  But I’m sure that Korbal provided everything they need, down here.”

“You . . . you wish us to stay?” Aeratas’ new face asked, confused.

“I wish you to continue to guard the vein of Ghost Rock from Korbal.  We’re going to seal the chamber, when we leave, and ensure that it will be nearly impossible for anyone to disturb the Grotto . . . not until your descendants restore Anthatiel to its glory,” I proposed.

“Descendants?” Hynalinae asked, confused.  “Aeratas, what descendants?  Fallawen is but a baby!”

“There is much I have to speak of, my love,” Aeratas assured his risen bride, gently.  “Many years have passed.”

“Hopefully, many more will pass before Korbal comes knocking at your door.  I plan to use that contingency we prepared, on the way down,” I informed him.  “Now that I have what I came for, I can return to my own bride,” I said, standing.  “I wish you both the best in the coming time together.  But the world above is ours to contend with, now.  Keep the world below safe for us until we can come back in peace.”

“You have my word, Minalan,” Aeratas assured me.  He looked at his wife, who was still gazing around at everything in the laboratory with her new eyes.  “We will keep Korbal at bay.”

“And I will take his consort with us,” I proposed, stretching my cramped limbs.  “I know not what value she might hold for him, but whatever leverage I can gain over him will be worth it.”

“Fare well, my friend,” Aeratas said, with all sincerity.  “You are a true gift from the humani.  First you rescue my people and come to the aid of my city.  Then you provide them refuge in their time of need, and a hope around which to gather.  You grant my daughter a husband, a valiant man for a mortal.  You strike at my enemies at the risk of your life.  And now you restore me to my beloved, and grant me time to speak with her again, as well as continue my guardianship.”

“Alas that the Aronin did not survive to see such a thing,” I said, nodding.  “He thought our two peoples would work well together to overcome the foe, in spite of our differences.  You gave me an opportunity to do that, and perhaps save my own beloved.”

“‘Mortal’?” Hynalinae asked, quizzically.

“I can see you two have a lot to discuss,” I said, quickly.  “I’ll just see myself out.”

Chapter Forty-Five

The Battle Of Olum Seheri

We did it, Penny! I sent to Pentandra, once we’d finished sealing off the Chamber of Ages with as many powerful spells as three races of magic users could provide.  I really wasn’t looking forward to the prospect of going back up all those stairs.  I’ve got the Handmaiden!  Have you taken down the block to the Ways, yet? I asked, hopefully.

Are you joking? she shot back, loud and hard.  I’ve got a full-scale battle going on up here, and its one we’re losing!  We’ve got a vague theory about how to end the spell, but no real method-of-action, and we’re too busy getting hammered to worry about it!

Shit.  It looked like I was taking the stairs.

But we did establish that the Ways within the field still work with each other, she continued, sounding utterly exhausted.  You can transport between the two natural Waypoints, and the two additional Waystones we have in place, she informed me.

That’s great news! I said, more relieved for an instant about the lack of stairs in my future than I was losing a battle.  We can at least get out of here, and help out while you keep working on the problem.

Gee, thanks! she said, sarcastically.  Right now, everyone is consolidated on Terleman’s position.  Azar and most of his people evacuated there in support – that’s where Korbal and Sheruel are pressing the attack, she reported.  The sudden appearance of the Spellmonger, shitting lightning and pissing arcane fury, might come in handy.  Since my husband is still out there, cut off from everyone else with the rangers, I’d really appreciate some impressive warmagic, about now.

Understood, Penny, I said, subdued.  I really thought she’d be more excited about the Handmaiden, but she’d been a little off with her pregnancy.  Cranky.

“Are you gentlemen ready to fight?” I asked, when I broke contact.  “Because when we go through this Waypoint, there’s going to be the most hellacious battle you’ve ever seen, and we’re going to be right in the middle of it.”

Sire Cei looked eager.  Everyone else, less so.  Azhguri looked grimly determined, but unhappy about the prospect.  It was hard to tell what Suhi felt, because he mostly just glared at everything over his big nose.  And Hance did not look like he wanted to be in a hellacious battle, but he preferred it to staying in the dungeons.

We took a moment to prepare ourselves.  I hung some spells, Hance loosened his knives in their sheaths and made a couple of passes with his sword.  Azhguri stretched his back and shoulders, while Suhi practiced with the Nemovort’s blade.

“All right,” I said, taking a deep breath.  I had Twilight in my right hand, Blizzard in my left.  “Let’s go to war!” I said, and took the five of us through the Ways.  Azhguri and Suhi held up the unconscious – dead? – body of Korbal’s consort, bound in the steel manacles that were impossible for her to remove, should she awaken again.

We arrived in the middle of a hellstorm of noise and magic.  All of us stumbled as we came out of the Ways, and my stomach twisted.  But I quickly got control of myself, feeling the surge of warmagic infusing my system, and the thrill of adrenaline as the familiar sounds and smells of war overtook me.

We were in the middle of a redoubt that was being menaced by a big army, outside.  Many of my friends were on the walls, keeping back the draugen and hobgoblins that were being thrown at the place, while Tera Alon archers were sending wave after punishing wave of arrows at the trolls who were protecting something on a hillock, nearby.

There were spells going off all over the place.  Warmagi on hastily-constructed wall of the redoubt were pouring offensive magic down on their attackers, while others maintained arcane defenses that were being constantly tested by blasts from the Nemovorti behind the trolls.  Overhead raced the Thoughtful Knife, picking wyverns gathering to feast on the dead from the sky with alacrity.  So at least Dara had survived, I reasoned.

“Watch her,” I ordered the dwarves.  Sire Cei and Hance, seeing their swords weren’t immediately needed, took a moment to refresh themselves from the small pile of baggage gathered at the center of the redoubt.  I couldn’t blame them – after half a day spent in the undercaverns, I was feeling in need of a bite, myself.  If I wasn’t nauseated after the transport.

“What’s the situation?” I yelled over the din to the first warmage I recognized – Caswallon the Fox.  The man’s armor was battered and torn, his mageblade was bloodied in his hand, as an anxious-looking civilian – a civilian? A former prisoner, I realized – was hastily wrapping a bandage around one ear and the side of his head, but his spirit was still strong.  After he did a doubletake upon seeing me, he grinned widely.

“The Spellmonger arrives!” he called out at the top of his lungs.  A few men nearby cheered, and the word started to spread.

So much for a subtle entrance.  “My lord, Korbal and Sheruel direct the battle from yonder mound, surrounded by the best of their troops.  Thrice we’ve assaulted the place, and thrice been thrown back, though our effort was valiant.  The bodies of our foes lay three deep,” he boasted

“Where’s Terleman?” I asked.

“He is in conference with Azar and Tyndal, near the front,” he said, pointing the way.  “Was your quest successful, my lord?” He peered at the Magolith with a discerning eye.  I glanced up at it.  There was more purpose with its throbbing, now, I noted.

“So far,” I nodded.  “Ask me again after the battle.”

He laughed too hard and too long for the joke, which could either be a result of battle fatigue or, more likely, just Caswallon being Caswallon.  I nodded and made my way toward the commanders of the battle, who were in a forward position overseeing the front defenses.

Both looked tired, but Azar looked like he’d been through hell.  His black armor was beyond battered, and he was missing one of his ornate pauldrons, but he seemed unwounded.  He leaned on the guard of his two-handed mageblade, a serene expression on his face.

Terleman didn’t look fresh, and he’d taken some blows, but he didn’t seem too disturbed by them.  He had his cloak thrown back as he studied the killing field in front of him, one foot resting on a block of rubble, looking for all the world like a master warmage contemplating a thorny practical problem.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” I said, quietly.  If I expected them to rejoice in surprise, I was disappointed.

“Minalan,” Azar nodded.  Terleman didn’t spare me more than a glance.

“Good, you’re here,” the commander said, returning his attention to the battle.  A sortie of hobgoblins, with a few draugen flanking them, began a charge over hundreds of bodies.  The warmagi in blinds directly below our position began to pick them off, throwing spells and firing bows or crossbows as they crossed the grisly terrain.

“You seem to have things well in-hand,” I noted, gazing around at the improvised battlefield fortification.  The rubble had been strategically placed to offer cover and concealment, surrounding the natural Waypoint with concentric circles of defense.  The portion of the redoubt facing the foe had been augmented with additional makeshift fortifications, with flanking blinds and a couple of strategic trenches that funneled the attackers towards the strongest portion.

I was impressed to see a couple of warmagi directing some prisoners to continue construction even while the place was under active attack.  They weren’t happy about it, but then no one was.  Yet they moved with alacrity and purpose, quickly depositing their loads and scurrying back to the relative safety of the inner quarters of the redoubt to pick up another while the warmagi melded the stones into the defenses.

In another few hours, I had no doubt they’d have a lovely little castle, here.

“It could be worse,” Azar dismissed.  “We prevail in most individual contests.  In twelve hours we’ve sustained very little loss, considering the magnitude of the foe we face.”

“They’re being gentle with us,” Terleman said, shaking his head.  “They don’t want to damage the merchandise.  They are trying to get us to submit, not destroy us.”

“They didn’t expect us to counter-attack,” Azar smirked.  “When it was clear my position was relegated to secondary status, I took issue with that.  As soon as Sheruel disappeared, my men carved our way out of there – Azar is no one’s second battle,” he snorted.  “We came across country and attacked them in the rear.  Ten Nemovorti fell, and hundreds of draugen.”

“Unfortunately, so did a score and a half of our men,” Terleman said, finally turning his attention away from the front.  There wasn’t much need to watch, anymore – when the surviving hobgoblins and one lone draugen got within range, a dozen Alka Alon archers popped up and ended their effort.  “While the foe can raise the dead on both sides, and send them back into the fray.  The arithmetic of the situation is not favorable . . . and with no line of retreat . . .”

“Let’s see what we can do about that,” I proposed.  “Pentandra is working on it.  In the meantime, let’s see what we might chance to disturb Korbal’s composure.”

We talked for fifteen or twenty minutes about possible solutions to the situation.  I discussed certain resources we had at our disposal, and they went over the positioning of the troops.

It was a fairly straight-forward problem: we wanted to leave, and they wanted us to stay and, ideally, surrender.  Because of that they were limited in the kinds of magic they could throw at us . . . while we really weren’t.  The challenge was that if we fought so hard that they abandoned their strategy, they could call in the dragons and we’d all be in a mess.

My former apprentices were leading a band of warmagi from the hidden Waypoint, which Korbal’s troops still hadn’t discovered, striking at the rear and the flanks of the army that opposed the redoubt.  Arborn was leading the Kasari rangers who’d blanketed the island, gathering intelligence on our foe while the rest of us fought (or, in my case, took the stairs).  They were in a separate position, on the other side of the army, harassing them mercilessly from the rear.

If you’re wondering how a bunch of backwoods rangers without magical talent was doing that, you don’t know the Kasari.  They used snares and traps, ambuscades and sudden attacks in fiendishly clever ways.  They preferred to discomfort their enemies at a distance, but they were savage fighters, at need.  Each one of those rangers was a Raptor, the highest level of achievement among the Kasari.  If it was a fight between three armed hobgoblins and a Kasar with a piece of rope, I’d bet on the Kasar.

By the time Azar brought out a flask of brandy, we had a pretty clear idea of what we wanted to do.  Terleman, who had taken over-all command, started issuing orders to his subordinates, while Azar went to his part.  I made my way back to the center of the redoubt, and hunted for the wizard I wanted.

Taren looked worn and tired, but the moment he saw me he perked up.  He was sitting in armor, his helm off and his legs crossed, his baculus in his lap.

“Min!” he called, a smile breaking out on his beleaguered face.  “How did it go?”

“A lot of stairs,” I shrugged.  “We lost Aeratas . . . sort of.  And I learned a lot.  But it was successful,” I said, nodding toward the Magolith.  “How goes breaking the block on the Ways?”

“We’ve established that Sheruel is either the source or the focus of the blocking spell,” he reported.  “When he goes into a hoxter pocket, the spell stops.  But he won’t go into one without a fight,” he sighed.  “We lost seven men proving that.  Damn it, Min, I was so close to those necromantic bastards, and then the Nemovorti pushed back, and I lost my chance.”

“But what did you learn?” I asked, taking a seat.  Around us, people began to move in response to Terleman’s orders – even the Tera Alon, who looked a little dazed.  Most had not seen battle like this before.  Then again, I don’t think anyone had seen a battle like this before.

“That the Nemovorti are tough sons-of-bitches,” Taren said, as he began listing the enemy’s capabilities.  “They’re using high-energy necromantic spells to keep us away from Korbal, unfortunately.  We got pretty close, but the Nemovorti are dedicated.  And the Dradrien reserves they have there are almost as tough – they make hobgoblins look like Tal Alon, on the field.  And they have plenty of hobgoblins left, too.  It seems to be Korbal’s preferred infantry.”

“What’s your recommendation?”

“Get Sheruel to hide in a hoxter long enough for us to escape through the Ways,” he decided.  “As many of us who could.”

“That’s . . . an interesting idea,” I agreed.  “How long do you figure we’d need?”

“That depends,” he considered.  “When we observed the phenomenon earlier, he reasserted control of the spell almost at once.  There was a duration of only six, maybe seven seconds.”

“That would be difficult to coordinate,” I pointed out.  “Not to mention that we have a lot of non-magical troops in the field who would need to be taken through.”

“We’d probably end up abandoning most of them,” he conceded.

“That is unacceptable,” I snapped.  I thought of the Kasari rangers, and the brave Wilderlords who’d volunteered for this madness.  I would not depart until they did.

“I agree,” he nodded.  “But Rondal and I have been working on something,” he added, slowly.  “Assuming we got Sheruel to go into a pocket for a moment, we think it’s possible to cast a spell using an oscillating vibrational pattern, that could disrupt him from re-establishing control . . . for a while,” he conceded.  “Maybe long enough to get a couple of trips through the Ways and back.  Thing is, it requires a lot of power.  A whole lot of power, if we want it to be effective against Sheruel.  And it won’t last – he’ll find a way to counter it pretty quickly, just like he did with the Alkan time-dilation effect,” he said, somberly.

I tickled the bottom of the Magolith.  “I have power,” I boasted.  “And I think I can get Sheruel to leave the field, momentarily.  And perhaps Korbal, too.”

“How?”

“I have something he wants,” I said.  “And I’ve screwed with his plans more than he suspects.  Once I let him know that, I expect him to do something unpredictable.  With a little calculation, I think I can convince him that he has urgent business elsewhere.”

“Is that thing that powerful?” he asked, his eyes flitting to the Magolith.

“No,” I conceded, “but I can be a righteous pain the arse, when I put my mind to it.”

He grinned, which was good to see.  “I think we can work with that.  I’ll start setting up the framework for the spell,” he said, pulling himself to his feet with his baculus.  He stretched his long, skinny frame tiredly, before using the staff to flip his helmet up into his hands.  “But it’s pretty simple.  Just large.  Let me know when you’re ready to start irritating him.”

“It’ll be soon,” I advised, glancing up, where the Thoughtful Knife hovered over the battle.  “I have a couple of things to prepare, first.  And morale to boost,” I decided, seeing far too many grim faces around me.  Taren’s included.  I couldn’t promise them that I could get them out of this alive, but if my presence could give them some hope, I owed it to them to advertise it.  I began by casting a display spell, the sort I used all the time back home in Sevendor.

In a moment, a spectacular white snowflake appeared overhead, fifty feet across, glowing brightly in the gloom.  Almost at once a rousing cheer went up from across the redoubt, from human and Tera Alon throats, alike.

“Step One,” I sighed.  “Now on to Step Two.”

“That snowflake was a little showy,” Terleman frowned, as we assembled back at the front of the redoubt.  I’d spent my time visiting various wizards and Wilderlords, Tera Alon and even the prisoners, giving them my assurances that everything would be all right.  I had no real evidence for that, but it was what they needed to hear.

“I have an ego,” I shrugged.  “How did the opposition respond to it?”

Azar shrugged, as Sire Cei joined us.  “They were not pleased,” he admitted.  “You have apparently developed a reputation.”

“I certainly hope so,” I muttered.  A lot of my plan depended upon my reputation.  “Has Gareth delivered, as requested?”

“Every last one in the workshop,” Terleman nodded.  He’d been in deep conversation, mind-to-mind, with both Pentandra and other wizards back at Timberwatch, arranging for supplies and coordinating our escape efforts.  “And Ormar has prepared some more of his alchemy for use.  The archers have arrows, the prisoners have been furnished with basic weaponry, those with the strength to bear arms, and the rest of us are waiting patiently,” he said, with especial emphasis.

“Which is appreciated,” I sighed, summoning my weapons.  “What was the last sortie composed of?”

“A company of Dradrien infantry pikemen, who backed a party of draugen.  We took the undead, but the Dradrien are resistant to most of our offensive spells.”

“It’s the armor,” I nodded.  “They’ll make as good a target as any.  How about the Nemovorti?”

“They’ve stayed around their master,” Azar said, scornfully.  “I dueled the last two who dared assail us.  I have their iron staves for my collection,” he boasted.  “Since then, they have avoided facing Azar, Death Incarnate.”

“Our goal,” I said, as the other warmagi joined us, “is to instigate a sudden assault on their center, as hard as they’ve seen, and drive our way as close to Korbal as possible.  Along the way, we dispense as much damage as possible, while our smaller groups also stage attacks on the flanks and rear.

“The aim is not to slay Korbal – although that would be lovely, and a month’s worth of free pies at Sevendor’s bakery for the man who does it – but to threaten him so badly that he panics and flees.  That’s not our only recourse,” I continued, looking around at the growing band of warmagi, Wilderlords, and Tera Alon warriors who’d volunteered for the assault.  “But if we can manage it, then we have a potential opportunity to break the block they’ve placed on this vale and escape.”

Taren finally arrived, carrying a package.  He wasn’t grinning, but he wasn’t frowning.

“Got it,” he said, handing me the improvised spell anchor he’d built.  It was based on a broken piece of weirwood, a Waystone, and a pebble of snowstone.  I examined it with magesight and was satisfied.  Taren’s great at that sort of thing.  He has more spell components in his hoxters than he did weaponry.  “As soon as he’s gone, start this spell,” he instructed, “and then signal for everyone to grab a buddy and get the hells out.”

“Understood,” I said, tucking it away in my weapons harness.  “Everybody make a last check of your spells and equipment.  If you have to pee, now is the time.  I’ll check with Pentandra, and then we can go stretch our legs.”

Penny?  We’re ready, I called to her.

It’s about time, she griped.  Arborn and his boys are pawing the ground.  Tyndal keeps checking with me to see if the plan has changed.  I was wondering if you stopped to pray, or something.

It wouldn’t do much good, the gods don’t come here.  But tell the others.  We’re ready to attack.

Don’t you dare get my husband killed, she said, and was gone.

“All right, let’s begin,” I said, finally, drawing Twilight and manifesting Blizzard.

I waved my hand at the nearest foes, the line of mail-clad Dradrien standing just out of bowshot, holding pikes and shields.  Another white snowflake, a quarter of the size of the larger one, appeared above their heads and bathed them in a soft, unearthly glow.  Hopefully it spooked them a little.

“You can see my mark, gentlemen.  In a few moments, I’ll be standing under it, making my second.  I want you to follow me,” I ordered.  “Push through, more than engage.  Knock them down and move on, leave the fellows behind you something to do.

“Be prepared for anything . . . but when you see my snowflakes turn red, then we begin the evacuation.  Questions?”

“Are we getting paid extra for this?” asked someone from the back.  Everyone laughed.

“Yes.  Double portions of gruel, and all the glory you can carry.  For the King, and the Duke of Alshar!” I said, raising my blade and activating the showy display I used to rally – it bathed the length of my mageblade in pale light, following a flash.

I engaged my warmagic spells.  I started running.  So did everyone else.

I think we startled the Dradrien, but they quickly formed a hard shieldwall, shouting orders to each other in their strange language.  As we began to close, and cast our initial spells at the line, they closed ranks tightly, with a few of the pikemen holding their weapons behind the line to strengthen its resilience.

It was a good plan.  It just didn’t account much for magic.  While it was an ideal formation for blocking an infantry charge or even cavalry, the close-formation gave us every opportunity to saturate the area with offensive magic that could take advantage of it.

Terleman was throwing lightning around like a storm god, electrifying the entire group.  Azar was pounding them with blasts from his staff that filled the air with fire and the smell of burnt ozone.  I lobbed a general-purpose concussion spell at them, and made the snowflake flare brightly, illuminating their blocky helmets from above.

All of that they absorbed without breaking ranks.  As we closed within twenty feet, our war-cries rising in our throats, I was amazed to see the rest of the vanguard suddenly outpaced by the long-legged form of Sire Cei.  He bore his thick Wilderlands shield and his heavy warhammer, and ran toward the Dradrien with a determination I’d rarely seen.

“WILDERLANDS!” he bellowed, over the din of battle magic, as he nimbly threaded the pikes trying to stab at him, and slammed his hammer in the center of a Dradrien shield, using his sport ability to transform magic energy into kinetic energy.

The iron shield shattered, sending the dwarf flying arse-over-elbows, and likely breaking his shield arm, if not a couple of ribs.  More importantly, the forceful blow shattered the center of the Dradrien line, allowing Terleman and Azar to shoulder their way through and savage the foe from their flanks.  Caswallon, Cabriel, and the other warmagi followed, leaping over shields, casting punishing spells, screaming out their attack as their blades clashed with the Dradrien.

I didn’t wait for a resolution to the fray – I selected my next spot, a small ridge of rubble behind which waited reinforcements – hobgoblins and draugen, their red eyes glowing malevolently in the gloom.  A second small snowflake blossomed over their heads like a flower, attracting a sudden hail of arrows from the Tera Alon, who’d followed the vanguard and increased their range.  They were firing in perfect coordination, even in their larger bodies . . . and the bigger bows helped.

By the time we got to the second beacon in force the area was filled with shafts, some pinning still-struggling draugen to the ground.  We hit the enemy hard, leaping up the small ridge as fast as we could and dislodging the defenders with a lavish use of arcane power.  Azar made the ridge first, this time, spinning through the hobgoblins with staff and sword, attacking in all directions.  Caswallon and Golvod of Tenaria were right behind him, the latter using his massive axe to sweep the heads off of hobgoblin and undead alike.

But even as we gained the ridge, reinforcements for our foe were already in motion against us.  I leapt up the small hill and joined Azar, who was impaling the last draugen.  Only a hundred feet beyond, the main body of the enemy army was gathered, and some units were already advancing to meet us.

“By my eye, we’re only three hundred feet from Korbal, now,” Terleman said, as he joined us.  “He’s on that rise, just behind that line of trolls heading for us.”

I took a deep breath.  “Let’s get his attention, then,” I said, summoning one of the nastier warmagic spells we’d developed.

Wenek came up with it, and it’s called a Hellrain, because he’s better with names than I am.  It involves taking an ordinary pile of gravel – with which we were blessed with a gracious amount – magically heating it up and then flinging it high into the air.  The way Wenek did it, the rocks got hotter as they fell, sometimes exploding before they landed with significant force, they were so hot.

To be honest it didn’t seem to bother the trolls, much – the Hulka Alon are thick-skinned and could shrug it off.  But the hobgoblin auxiliaries that followed them weren’t so lucky, and the trolls began to outpace their comrades as they closed with our position.

“Heavy infantry to the front!” I declared, as Terleman shouted the same thing.  Sire Cei and several heavily-armored warmagi took positions to accept the charge.  Golvod and Azar prepared their weapons with careful attention, before bringing them into guard.

There was that odd, slow-motion feeling that happens when you shift into augmented warmagic, and I suppose most of us were feeling it, as the four big Hulka Alon bore down on us, great hammers in their hands.  The crash was powerful, sending vibrations through the ground as the two sides collided in force.

Sire Cei fought toe-to-toe with a Hulkan nearly twice his size, bearing a fearsome blow on his shield before returning one that crushed the troll’s mighty knee.  Golvod held his great axe sideways, and leapt between two of the foe, tagging their foreheads as his warmagic-assisted leap sailed him into battle.  Azar and Caswallon tore at the fourth brute, the one pinning his hammer to the side while the other stabbed him repeatedly in the throat with his mageblade.

The hobgoblins filled in behind them more slowly, trying to add their glaives to the fight.  Mostly, they just got in the way – the one Cei was fighting fell on a few of them, when his knee gave way, and one of Golvod’s foes tripped three more as he struggled to get to his feet.

We didn’t give them a chance.  The entire point of this exercise was naked aggression, and I was ready to exorcise some of my frustrations with the exertion of battle.  I threw myself into combat, spells fully engaged, and began slaughtering hobgoblins as efficiently as I could.

“Forward!” Sire Cei bellowed, as he smashed his troll’s head with his hammer and pushed a hob out of the way with his shield.  “Keep forward!”  One of Golvod’s opponents nearly took his castellan’s head from behind, until the Thoughtful Knife impaled its face and exploded from the back of its skull.

Behind the hobgoblin line was a line of common gurvani, who were nearly shitting themselves as we worked our way through their comrades.  They fired half-heartedly at us, unwilling to get too close, until a gang of draugen pushed them in to battle.

That seemed to be a good time to launch some of Gareth’s creations.  The young wizard had been toiling for me, after he quit Sevendor, creating constructs in Vorone for use in this battle.  It was almost a waste of the lad’s talents, but he wanted a challenge, far away from Sevendor.  I gave him one.

Tyndal and Rondal’s constructs had been elegant and deadly, designed for hand-to-hand combat and infused with the enneagrams of highly aggressive creatures.  Gareth, on the other hand, had gone deeper into the study of enchantment than either of them, having soaked up the rarified atmosphere of Sevendor’s bouleuterion.  I took a moment to summon one of them now from a shared hoxter we’d set up.

The construct appeared between us and the mass of hobgoblins that was attempting to form a shield line against us, protecting the Nemovorti and Korbal from our advance.  It walked on six sturdy legs crafted of Wilderlands hickory, each shod in iron for protection and enchanted against injury.  Two additional arms protruded from the front, double-jointed constructions each tipped with an axe blade the size of a plow.

But the tail was the important part of the enchanted construction.  Made up of a reticulated set of enchanted pieces, it could hurl objects with tremendous force.  The enneagram that powered the beast was not an aggressive warrior, like the ones that infected the draugen.  But it was a predator, one who once slew its prey at a distance, somehow.

Gareth had tricked it into thinking it was feeding a starving brood of . . . whatever, back at its nest.  As soon as it identified the hobgoblin infantry as a tasty snack, it banged its heavy iron claws together for a few moments, and then launched the first missile from its tail.

Instead of a mere rock or even a flaming pumpkin full of pitch, Gareth had stocked the thing with an ingenious missile: a ball of Mindens wrought iron, split in two and hollowed out.  The two hemispheres were connected with a long, thin iron chain that was coiled up inside.  When it launched, it spread out to the limits of the chain and encompassed a wide area.

I watched as the first of the missiles was hurled against the hobgoblins, who held fast against the novel weapon.  It twisted apart and hurtled into their ranks, sweeping away the front row and entangling it with their fellows behind them.  By the time it halted, three ranks back, it had carved a bight out of the formation and dashed the organization to chaos.

Then, because Gareth is clever and hates to waste an opportunity, I watched as one of the fallen hemispheres transform into an anode, while the other became a diode . . . and the resulting charge of electricity that leapt from one pole to the other during the magical discharge was not limited to the weapon.

The hobgoblins weren’t as heavily clad in conductive armor as the Dradrien had been, but neither were they as magically well-protected as the Iron Folk had been.  The arc of raw electricity spread through their fallen ranks like a spider web, making the hobs contort and scream.

“That’s a clever trick,” Terleman said, admiringly, as the construct prepared its second shot.  “It’s as good as a cavalry charge!”

“Gareth’s,” I informed him.  “He sent me a couple of designs we discussed.  The lad has a knack.  It also gives us a chance to regroup and reform before we take advantage of it.”

“That would be helpful.  They’re preparing a sortie of draugen,” he informed me.  “Armored, this time.  I suppose they got tired of seeing them get sliced up so readily.”

There was an ominous flash, behind the ranks of foes arrayed against us, and a ragged cheer broke out among those closest to us.  The mists overhead were stained with the green of arcane power, and the stink of necromancy was in the ether.  The cheer turned into screams as the second chain launched.  This time something went wrong, and it did not deploy properly.  Instead of hitting the hobgoblins head-on, it collided at an angle, the chain wrapping around the left flank of the line and twisting it even more crazily than the first.

But the power throbbing behind them robbed me of satisfaction of the strike.  There were stronger powers than iron and warmagic at play on the field, now.  Sheruel was back there, waiting.  Preparing.

It was high time I do something about that.

Chapter Forty-Six

The Dark Lords of Olum Seheri

That last push against the dark army was legendary.

Literally – there have been at least three epic poems written about the Charge of the Magi.  It was a desperate and powerful counterattack against hopeless odds, with some of the most impressive use of magic in battle in all of human history.  Feats of daring, boldness, and raw courage were everywhere.

I was there.  The legends are woefully understated.

The poems don’t talk about how a wave of magic swept over our foe from their center, encompassing the minds and wills of all who stood against us.  Suddenly our enemy moved with the same coordinated purpose that the Alka Alon demonstrated when they fought, or the Karshak used when they were working.

Fear and anxiety left the eyes of the affected as their will was drained and replaced with the control of their master.  The fallen and fearful straightened and resumed their places, despite their wounds.  Even the undead were affected, as the red-eyes of the draugen reinforcing the line dimmed, and their wild movements ceased.  In an instant, all who were arrayed against us were silent, and gathering their strength.

“Uh oh,” Azar said, his eyes growing wide.

“I think . . . I think we’re in trouble,” Terleman said, grimly.

Rondal, are you seeing this? I asked, mind-to-mind.

Yes, Master.  We’re ready.  As are the Kasari.

Be wary, I warned.  But stick to the plan.

“This doesn’t change anything,” I pointed out.  “It just makes it more of a challenge.”

“You have a really fucked up way of looking at things, Min,” Terleman snorted. “You realize we’re hopelessly outnumbered?  How are we supposed to charge that and expect to survive?” he demanded.

I really had no answer for that.  But I didn’t need one.  A moment later our foes’ line surged toward us.

“Oh, look,” I said, weakly.  “They’re sparing us the walk.”

The construct creaked and banged, as it sent another salvo of iron against the approaching line.  They didn’t seem concerned by it, anymore.  But it was still effective.

“I guess we’ll meet on the field just about . . . there,” Terleman predicted, casting a small yellow magelight to mark the spot.  “That will be the axis of battle.  I’ll direct us with that in mind,” he said, firmly, as he drew his mageblade again.  “We can draw up on that rise, if we need to take a defensive posture.  Do you have any more constructs we can use?” he asked.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” I said, grabbing the wand that held the shared hoxter.  “I suppose it’s time to put all of our pieces on the board.”

There were two other specialized constructs Gareth had prepared, and I pulled them both into existence as the enemy line began marching toward us in earnest.  The first was a nine-foot tall anti-troll construct, a wild collection of weirwood and enchantment designed to grapple with and ultimately defeat a troll.

Six independent limbs built of layers of hide and padding over an iron-reinforced weirwood frame used a variety of deadly tools at their tips to bash, batter, and slice any potential threat.  There was an aggressive enneagram inside, too, one whose style was to pick on the biggest challenger first and then move on to the next biggest.  I quickly activated it and sent it to intercept the advancing army before I brought forth the third construct.

This was perhaps Gareth’s most innovative creation.  It was a static construct, so once I placed it somewhere it would stay until I removed it or it was destroyed.  He called it the Sudden Fortress.

It was a small, pre-manufactured free-standing redoubt made of thick, mage-hardened hickory logs lashed together with weirwood saplings, the height varied to provide crenellations around the exterior wall.  It was small – only twenty feet on a side – but it had a covered interior room to shelter the wounded, and a second story platform in the center that provided a perfect place for archery and warmagic.

But that wasn’t all: within the central room was the core of the construct, in which the enneagram of an ancient reef-dwelling creature who was very protective of her mobile “young” – us – was installed, was a complete suite of defensive spellcraft, already installed, hung, and ready for action.  That included the four tiny turrets at each corner of the redoubt, under which there were

I placed it precisely where Terleman had put his magelight.  The axis of action, he’d called it.

“Everyone inside!” I called, as the troll-killer stomped off toward the hobgoblins.  “This is our forward position, now.  We stay here, soak up as much of their attention as we can, and try to allure Sheruel over here to contend with us.  The moment he shows his round head, we attack him viciously.”

“All right, perhaps charging directly into overwhelming numbers wasn’t such a bad idea,” Terleman said, sourly.  “Min, are you crazy?  We’ve got momentum, a bit.  If we get bogged down here –”

“This isn’t about taking territory, Terl,” I reminded him as the warmagi began to inhabit the Sudden Fortress.  “It’s about getting Sheruel to quit the field, if only for a moment.  Then we get our people out.  That’s how we win this battle.”  I was gratified to see Azar nod in agreement.

“You’re the Spellmonger,” he conceded with a sigh.  “We were just doing so well . . .”

“We’re still doing well,” I encouraged.  “But it helps to recall the conditions of victory, not just the glory of advance,” I reminded him, earning me a snort.  That was right out of our classes at the War College of Relan Cor, back before we went to Farise.  “Why don’t you go activate the arcane defenses while Azar gets everyone organized?”

The Sudden Fortress provided more than protection – Gareth had thoughtfully stocked it with bandages, medical salves, and other supplies – included some rations and a plethora of wineskins.  There were barrels of arrows in each corner of the wooden floor, as well as bags of smooth river stones for throwing and a few casks full of alchemical supplies.

While intended as a temporary installation, the defenses and supplies meant that a well-armed party could hold out in defense for quite some time, under normal circumstances.  These circumstances were far from normal – I’d be happy if it survived the next few hours.

Within moments, more than forty warmagi and Wilderlords filled the redoubt and took positions along the edge of the wall.  The Tera Alon reinforcements filled the upper stage until it was packed, and the few men who’d been wounded in the advance were taken into the protected center for treatment.

“Now this is how you stage an assault with style!” Caswallon said, admiringly, as he joined me on the command platform just under the north wall of the center.  It was elevated just enough that I could see the field, but not so much that I’d interfere with the archery overhead.  “Truly you are the master of warmagic, Minalan!”  I didn’t invite him, but Caswallon is the kind of warmage who always insists on being under the eye of his superiors.

“I hire good people,” I dismissed.  “These things are insanely expensive to produce, but if there was ever a time to employ them, it’s now,” I said, watching the troll-killer plow into the first ranks of determined infantry.  The first construct, the sphere-thrower, had exhausted its supply of missiles by that point and was now scuttling toward the foe as well, clanking its axe-blade claws together as it marched resolutely toward the hobgoblin line.

I felt a powerful sense of expectation, as we laid our final pieces on the board.  I could be setting ourselves up for a slaughter, I knew – this entire maneuver was risky in too many ways to consider.  But unless I could draw out Sheruel, and convince him to jump into a hoxter pocket, we were as good as slaughtered, anyway.

I glanced up at the Magolith, which was throbbing and pulsing above my shoulder, and silently hoped that we could pull this off.  I tapped it for a tiny bit of power and then cast another grand white snowflake magelight over the Sudden Fortress.  It was better than a battle banner.

“Come and get me, you hateful genocidal bastard!” I murmured softly to myself.

The wave of infantry swept down the rise and over the troll-killer and the sphere-thrower.  Both inflicted a lot of damage to the hobgoblins, who were advancing without the slightest hint of fear or hesitation.  It was eerie, in a way – I was used to gurvani advancing while chanting and beating drums, but this time I heard only an occasional snarl and the relentless thump of iron boots on gravel.

The Tera Alon archers began pouring waves of shafts down on them, but there just weren’t enough of them to make a dent in the tide.  They soon approached close enough to force them to switch to sniping at individuals.

The Sudden Fortress’ defensive spells – the kind that befouled incoming missile fire, retarded the chances of casual fires breaking out, and psionically projected the emotional futility of attacking the place – were virtually ignored by the approaching infantry.  They went through the perimeter of the field without a thought, propelled by their master’s dark intent.

But then there was the spellfield the place cast in a circle around the perimeter, pre-positioned fields of sigils Terleman had activated from within, that made such an attack hazardous.  Berserker sigils, explosive runes, flares, runes of pain and sleepfulness, sigils inspiring panic and dread, and a host of nasty little irritating cantrips that made a frontal assault on the Fortress inconvenient.

Even those were limited in effect, against Sheruel’s possessed army, I saw with dismay.  Sheruel’s will overcame the berserker sigils and Blue Magic sigils designed to demoralize.  The more active physical spells were more effective, thankfully, and I saw a few clusters of hobs go down to a sudden explosion or a gout of flame.

But not nearly enough.

The warmagi had better luck.  From the relative security of the magically-hardened walls of the redoubt they could ply their deadly trade.

Thankfully, they weren’t a subtle bunch, and had prepared spells designed to do more physical damage than emotional.  Lances of light shot from the battlement of the tiny redoubt to blast and slaw, concussive spells and spheres of raw power tore at the black-armored infantry, and sudden eruptions of brilliantly-colored plasma engulphed entire companies, sending scores to the ground with screams of agony.

While they did a lot of damage, they didn’t deter the advance in the slightest.  Morale and despair were no longer our allies.  The dark eyes of every hobgoblin in Korbal’s livery were as determined and unafraid as one of the constructs they continued to battle.

It didn’t take long for the advance to flank and then surround the “axis of action” we were standing on.  Since we weren’t planning to go anywhere, it wasn’t really a problem – it just gave the gentlemen on the back side of the redoubt an opportunity for their own target practice.  But any time you’re in the field and you see your escape route cut off, it’s discouraging.

Behind the thick hedge of hobgoblins the tiny castle had grown, a crowd of a few hundred draugen were gathered.  The armored variety, standing taller than the hobgoblins by a foot or more, their red eyes glowing malevolently from the slits of their iron helms.  They bore sinister-looking swords, spears, and glaives of their own, of superior manufacture than the hobgoblins – Dradrien work, I started to recognize.  Korbal’s shock troops were massing for an assault.

“Get down there and prepare everyone for undead,” I ordered Caswallon, more to get him out of my way than to relay my orders.  It would soon become clear what kind of foe we faced.  “I’m going to unleash the power of the Magolith,” I said, dramatically.  I couldn’t help it.  Caswallon was just too good an audience for such vainglory.

His eyes widened, and he bowed, hurrying to do my bidding.  Once I got him off the platform, I really did close my eyes and prepare some potent warmagic spells.  In the process, I noted how much more complete the Handmaiden seemed within the centerpoint, and I did the magical equivalent of petting her like a kitten.  Or something like that.  We greeted each other.

I could sense a vestigial intelligence coalescing within the ever-changing gem, and I spent a moment contemplating how that might affect the outcome of the battle.  But only a moment.  I was in a hurry.

When I opened my eyes again, it was in just enough time to duck from a volley of iron quarrels the hobs fired at us.  Not all of them were carrying crossbows, but the ones who did were good shots – and the arbalests were powerful.  Not as elaborate or sophisticated as the ones we used, using windlasses to draw, instead of the levers and pullies, but they were far stronger.  Under Sheruel’s domination, they volleyed with the precision of the Alka Alon.

I felt the surge of power from my connection to the Magolith, and I encouraged the flow as I set up the spells I wanted to use.  I was ignoring the hobgoblins in favor of the draugen, because there were some Dradrien filling in behind them, and I figured a dramatic display would be instructive for them.

I began by using Blizzard to delineate the target and control the flow of power.  Then I activated the spell – a multi-phased blast I’d developed with Kedaran that would, if it worked, disrupt the flow of their necromantic energies, while at the same time challenging their physical hosts with a bolt designed to desiccate and burn.  The reasoning, Kedaran had pointed out, was that even undead bodies usually needed water to function.

Kedaron’s Expiry, as he called the spell, took a little preparation, but it was scalable: the more power I pushed into the thaumaturgic array, the more powerful the blast that Blizzard directed into the midst of the distant draugen.  We hadn’t really tested it, but the thaumaturgic principles were sound.

I was gratified to watch the massed undead contort and wither under the combined effects of the Expiry.  Some were even so good as to burst into flames, as the water in their limbs suddenly evaporated and the heat of the blast caught their lifeless flesh on fire.

I enjoyed the destruction, I can honestly say.  Everything up to this point had been plotting and planning, positioning and preparing.  Even when I was fighting, I’d stayed back and allowed others to do the dangerous stuff, for the most part.

But destroying those draugen gave me the simple, giddy pleasure enjoyed by a sadistic seven-year old with a cup of boiling water and an ant hill.

I played the blast back and forth in their ranks, sending dozens of draugen falling, their red eyes dimmed forever as their flesh withered.  The Dradrien behind them apparently weren’t as subject to Sheruel’s control . . . they hesitated from moving forward as the undead collapsed in front of them.

That did nothing to stop the hobgoblins from swarming right up against the Sudden Fortress, in the meantime.  They attempted to scale the ten-foot walls in force, using spear shafts and glaives to give them leverage and height.  They were beaten back the moment they tried – not just by the warmagi on the walls, but by the walls themselves.

Gareth’s ingenious design included concealed iron spikes and a spider web of cunning iron grating.  Controlled entirely by the paraclete inside, the Fortress saw the interlopers as a threat and began using her many sharp iron appendages to discourage them.

It didn’t, really.  Under Sheruel’s control, they were fearless in their assault.  They continued to swarm against the walls even as they were being impaled and hacked at by them.  More waves of iron darts pelted us, not nearly enough being taken off-course by the defensive spells.  As I finished the Expiry, I watched a gallant young Wilderlord who’d survived this hellish battle thus far take a vicious-looking barbed dart in his shoulder that lodged itself painfully through his scapula.  He would have died upon the spot if his comrades hadn’t instantly attended to him.

I took a couple of deep breaths.  I felt a little dizzy, channeling that much power.  The Magolith was clearly a deeper reservoir than the Witchsphere had been.  It took a toll on my body – not that I could bother with that, now.  I was just warming up.

It was time for Part Three of my plan.

I formed the next spell.  Completely non-lethal.  Just a simple charm to augment the volume of my voice.

“KORBAL!” I thundered over the din of battle.  “ARE YOU AFRAID TO FACE THE SPELLMONGER?”

That earned me a couple of quick looks from our more cautious defenders.  I likely would have been among them, had I not been running this festival.

I finished the challenge by lobbing a pre-prepared globe of energy from the sphere above my head over the rise, to approximately where I thought the two dark lords were lurking.  I didn’t really know if it would hit them or not, but for my purposes it would actually work better if it just landed nearby and assaulted some of their followers.  I wasn’t trying to bombard Sheruel, I was trying to goad him into a fistfight.

When I got no response from my hosts, I amused myself by showering the Dradrien infantry with flaming gravel while they were trying to maneuver through or around the still-smoldering (and, in some cases, still quivering) remains of the draugen I’d slaughtered.  It didn’t keep them back or even slow them, much, but it made them even more uncomfortable while they pushed through the smoking corpses of their allies.

I was about to lob another long-distance attack when I saw movement behind the Dradrien trying to enter the field.  More draugen – yay! – but now they were led by Nemovorti.  And, finally, Korbal himself, towering over everyone else in his oversized human body, with Sheruel hovering next to him.

It was a ghastly sight.  Korbal had not gone through the battle unscathed, I saw: his tattooed face and arms were pocked with scars and fresh wounds, and it appeared something acidic had burned the side of his face.  Undead don’t fester, the way humans do; there’s no inflammatory response to wounds, so the savaged flesh hung unpleasantly from the left side of his face, revealing a portion of his cheekbone, under the Necromancer’s cowl.

He looked pissed.

I decided to taunt him a few more times, because when else was I going to get the opportunity?

“AT LAST,” I sighed, dramatically.  “THE VAUNTED NECROMANCER FINALLY EMERGES WITH HIS GURVANI SLAVE AT HIS HEEL LIKE A FAITHFUL HOUND.  SHALL WE ALL APPLAUD?” I mocked.  I got a few helpful jeers from my men.

The booming voice caught Korbal’s attention, and he glared at the fortress and the gaudy snowflake above it.  A few of the lads on the walls dared to applaud with rude gestures, insults, and – in one bold case – the quick dropping of armor to present their buttocks to the dark lords of Olum Seheri.  It was a foolhardy and dangerous display, but I could appreciate that, too.

When else did the man have the chance to moon not one but two dark lords?  If he survived this, he’d never have to buy another drink in his life.

Korbal continued shuffling toward the Fortress in an attempt to appear stately, I think, just like all the Alka Alon seem to do.  I wasn’t going to let him pull that off.  Sheruel might not have a sense of dignity, but it was clear from his personal quarters that Korbal did.

“WILL YOU PLEASE HURRY UP?” I begged him, after a few moments of advancing through his own troops.  “SOME OF US ARE MORTALS, HERE!  ARE YOU SO COWARDLY THAT YOU CONSPIRE TO MOVE SO SLOWLY AS TO USE OUR OLD AGE AGAINST US?” I mocked.

My men howled in laughter at that, even as they continued to shoot hobgoblins.  I watched the Necromancer’s entourage with magesight, and saw him glare even harder in our direction.  I found that highly gratifying.  In a moment, he finally responded with a resounding shout of his own.

“I SHALL DELIGHT IN SEEING YOU SUFFER AS I PRY YOUR SOUL FROM YOUR BODY IN THE MOST PAINFUL MANNER!” he bellowed.

That made me smile.  Nothing lets you know you’ve gotten under a dark lord’s skin like excessive threats.  No subtlety.

“TAKE YOUR TIME THEN, OLD MAN,” I chided, cruelly.  “I’VE COME FOR YOUR SURRENDER.  IN THE NAME OF THE DUKE OF ALSHAR AND THE FREE FOLK OF THE FIVE DUCHIES, I SUMMON YOU TO APPEAR BEFORE ME AND ACCOUNT FOR YOUR MANY CRIMES.”

He did start moving a little more quickly, and he didn’t respond again to my taunting, but that was fine.  I made my point.

When he drew within bowshot of the redoubt, I goaded him again.

“IN DEFERENCE TO YOUR GREAT AGE, I WILL NOT ASK YOU TO KNEEL, KORBAL THE NECROMANCER.  HALT YOUR FORCES AND WE CAN SPEAK.”

I doubted the crack about his age really bothered him, but it amused my men.  Korbal spoke to one of the Nemovorti, who did something I couldn’t see, and suddenly every hobgoblin on the field halted their attack and stood in place.  The Dradrien still shuffled around, but they didn’t look eager to fight.

“Cease fire!” I called to my own men.  “I want to parley!”  It took them a few moments to respond, but soon no arrows flew across the field, no spells were cast.

“KORBAL, COME HITHER, AND WE SHALL SPEAK IN PEACE.”

The Necromancer and his retinue continued to advance, and I nodded to Terleman and Sire Cei to join me.  Both nodded grimly and met me at the thick iron and oak gate.

The carnage outside of the Sudden Fortress was appalling.  Mangled hobgoblins were smeared on the walls, bodies were littered everywhere.  The heaps of corpses around my ruined constructs were heaped six deep.  Yet there were hundreds more standing there, ready to give their lives to Korbal.

“Is this wise, Minalan?” Sire Cei asked, as we walked through the blood-stained rubble.

“Oh, Ishi’s tits, no,” I said, shaking my head.  “We’re about to piss off the biggest threat to human life on this world.  On purpose.”

“As long as we understand the goal,” Terleman said.  I could tell he was chafing under what I was doing – this is not how he’d be running the battle – but then there was more going on here than mere fighting.  I like Terl, but he’s a little limited in his perspective, sometimes.  “Just try not to get us killed out of hand, all right?” he asked, looking around nervously at the sea of hobgoblins we stood in.

“No promises,” I said, as I pulled my mantle over my shoulders.  The lake mists were making it cool.

We approached the spot where Korbal stopped, his black-robed cohort of Nemovorti surrounding him protectively.  Sheruel hovered nearby, looking pale and malevolent, even in this hellish landscape.

“So, you are the human who has caused me so much consternation, today,” Korbal said, his borrowed voice deep and threatening.  He peered down at me from under the hood of his black mantle, his yellow eyes attempting to bore into me.  He held a mighty metal staff in his hand – one I recognized.

It was the contraption the three Dradrien brothers had sketched and tried to explain to me.  It was larger than I expected, a multi-segmented cylinder of metals with a wide and complex mechanism at one end.

“I thought he’d be taller,” Sire Cei said, looking up at the towering undead lord’s battered face skeptically.

“And you’re the bad memory from another age, Necromancer, who has intruded on a world where you are not welcome,” I replied.  “I am Baron Minalan the Spellmonger, Marshal of Alshar.  These are my comrades, Marshal Terleman, Warden of the Penumbra, and Sire Cei the Dragonslayer,” I said, emphasizing Cei’s nickname.  “I believe I’ve met Sheruel, the Dead God.

“And on behalf of his Grace the Duke of Alshar, the Alka Alon Council, and the Arcane Orders of the Kingdom of Castalshar, I order you to get your ancient, decomposing ass out of our lands, and down the most convenient dark and formless hole!”

Chapter Forty-Seven

The Parley

There was a moment’s silence on the field as my bold words hung in the air.  Then Korbal began laughing, his deep voice booming through the quiet desolation.

“I walked this land a thousand years before your miserable race ever arrived on Callidore,” he sneered.  “I would no more heed a human instructing me than a Tal Alon.  Why would you think I would?”

I shrugged.  “I’m just being polite,” I informed him.  “I figure I’m going to have to compel you, one way or another, but I thought I’d extend you the courtesy of an opportunity to capitulate, beforehand.”

Korbal continued to grin, but the humor left his eyes.  “And what makes you think you have any chance of doing that?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” I pointed out.  “We’ve left an abundance of your soldiery dead on the field, and have generally won every engagement we’ve had with them.  If you were all that powerful, you would have kicked us off this island hours ago.”

“You assume I want you off this island,” he countered.  “If you have the temerity to invade my home, then I have the right to take advantage of your stupidity.  I admit, you fight bravely . . . against mere gurvani.  And seeing your attempts at magic has been intriguing.

“But I am not deceived by your strengths.  This very parley tells me how desperate you have become,” he added, smugly.  “One does not bargain for terms when one is in a position of weakness.”

“Who’s bargaining?” I asked.  “There is no bargaining, here.  I am charged with removing the criminal Korbal and his associates from the Duchy, and that requires that I give you the opportunity to acquiesce before I resort to sterner measures,” I said, as if I was a landlord talking to a peasant about an eviction.  “That’s the Duke’s Law,” I added.

“And what do you propose to do if I . . . resist that charge?” he hissed, the amusement returning to his voice.

I glanced over toward the Dradrien, who were still standing near the remains of the draugen I slew with the Expiry.  “Ask those draugen,” I said.  “They resisted.”

“Those were mere beasts of burden, not true Nemovorti,” he dismissed.  “While your race has utility, you are hardly durable.  Nor does slaying gurvani impress me,” he continued.  “They are weak and ephemeral.”

“You hear that, Sheruel?” I taunted the big green ball floating nearby.  “Your master thinks you are weak and ephemeral!”

I am no mortal gurvan, his “voice” said, loudly, in our heads.  Nor is Korbal my master.  We are allies in this great undertaking.

“You aren’t an ally,” sneered Terleman.  “You’re at best a vassal, and at worst a slave.  Even your own folk whisper how you have surrendered to Korbal.”

“The gurvani have proven loyal and steadfast allies,” Korbal said, glancing at the floating ball of irionite.  “We shall see them delivered to their ancient homelands.”

“Well, you’ll have to put them somewhere,” I agreed.  “But I suggest you stick them far away from you.  They’re going to be a little upset with you, when they find out what you did to them, and your plans for them.”  I was doing my best to sow seeds of discord between the two factions, but, it didn’t seem to have much traction.

You know nothing of our plans, Sheruel insisted.

“Actually, I think I do,” I said, as arrogantly as possible.  “And apparently you gurvani are as stupid as Korbal thinks you are, or you’d be in revolt against him.  But that’s not my concern,” I dismissed.  “My concern is removing you from this island.”

“Your concern should be invoking my mercy, before I have you screaming on the slab,” Korbal said, his humor gone.  “You have provided me with a bounty of host bodies from which my Nemovorti may choose.  If some of you die in agony before they can take possession, that matters little to me.”

Terleman snorted.  “With a third of your army already dead, your prisons sacked, and your fortress damaged?  We haven’t even been here a full day, yet!”

“You’ve overwhelmed a few outposts, started a fire, and killed a few sentries,” one of the Nemovorti said, stepping forward.  He was almost as tall as Korbal, and he was armored under his black mantle.  Dradrien armor, with a close-fitting helm on his head under his cowl.  “I am Nadziratel, commander of my lord’s armies,” he added, because the Nemovorti can’t open their mouths without introducing themselves and bragging about their position.

“So, you’re the guy I’ve been beating senseless for the last twelve hours?” grinned Terleman.

“You have not beaten me!” snarled the Nemovort.  “You have . . . had some fortunate encounters, while our forces contained the incursion!”

“Contained?” snorted Terleman, looking back at the Sudden Fortress, filled with our men.  “Maybe you missed the triple-flanking maneuver we pulled off about four hours ago that slaughtered a few thousand of your gurvani.  I think we lost maybe . . . a score of men?  If you’re in charge of the defenses, I would be concerned for your future,” Terl chuckled.  “Unless, of course, your master tolerates monumental fuck-ups in his security staff for political purposes,” he speculated.  “Then you might be fine.”

See why I love Terl?

“Your gains, such as they are, are inconsequential,” Korbal said, before Nadziratel could respond.  “Our losses, likewise, are inconsequential.  More draugen can be created.  More gurvani can be bred.  And slaying a Nemovort is no great loss – I can return them to new bodies as fast as they are slain,” he bragged.  “We are truly immortal, now.  We are deathless.”

“You are nothing but death,” Sire Cei countered, disgusted.

“In a few hours, you’ve managed to bring my land to disarray,” he conceded, “but that is all.  My loyal commander is correct: you have been contained.  You have not reached the tower in force, nor will you,” he said, gesturing toward the smoking spire only a quarter mile away.  “And you are far, far from threatening my home,” he said, nodding toward the black pyramid beyond.  “You have gained nothing, save a few miserable slaves worth more to me dead than alive.”

“He really doesn’t know what’s going on, does he?” I asked Terleman, incredulous.

“Nope.  He has no inkling,” he grinned, shaking his head.  “Totally self-absorbed.  That’s always a sign of a poor commander.”

“It gratifies me to see our foes so poorly informed,” Sire Cei nodded.

“Korbal, our efforts here are not beginning, they are concluding,” I informed him.  “I don’t need to threaten your home, because I’ve already been there.  While my men were keeping you preoccupied, I was exploring your innermost secrets and rifling through your underthings, thaumaturgically speaking.  It was instructive.”

“You . . . did not enter my home!” Korbal said, frowning.  “You lie!”

“We walked right through the gate, after your idiot guards went running,” I revealed.  “Your security is poor, and your ability to be misdirected is astounding.  I did a complete inspection tour, as my mandate insists.”

“You did not enter my home!” Korbal insisted.

“Let’s begin with the Nemovort you left in charge of the upper halls, the draugen construction crews in the subterranean chambers, and the laboratory, well-stocked with prime rajira-laden human hosts ready to be processed.  Well, formerly well-stocked,” I corrected.  “We got those poor folks out, before you blocked the Ways.”

“You . . .” he began, realizing I was telling the truth.  “You dare . . .!”

“I did,” I nodded.  “While you were playing tag with my friends up here, I ransacked the entire place.  But that was just the beginning.  After I freed those prisoners – all but that pathetic Stulka Dumi – then I went all the way down those miserable stairs – all the way – to the Chamber of Ages, or whatever you’re calling it these days.  I met some interesting folk along the way.  Dradrien, humani, Alka Alon – even ran into some old friends,” I added, casually.  “The Aronin of Amadia, for one.”

“What?” Korbal snapped.

“Oh, we’re old friends, we’ve known each other since I was a village spellmonger in Boval Vale.  I was genuinely surprised to see him there.  We had a lovely chat, caught up on old times, and he told me where the ancient Alka Alon armory is hidden,” I mentioned, casually.  “Apparently if you torture an Alkan, he’s unlikely to cooperate.  I was far more successful than you.  All I had to do was say ‘please’,” I reproved.

It was a total lie, of course, but it was just plausible enough to be true.  Or at least raise the suspicion in his mind.  Korbal’s ruined face betrayed a very human expression of confusion and doubt, suddenly.

“He told you nothing!” Korbal insisted.

“He wasn’t the only one I spoke to,” I continued.  “I also had a long, long chat with your girlfriend, Mycin Amana, before I inspected the Ghost Rock vein and looted your laboratories.  But I do have to admit . . . your personal quarters?  That mosaic over your bed . . . tasteful, without being gaudy,” I complimented.  “But the entire place needs a splash of color.”

“You insolent, arrogant thief!” Korbal raged.  “You lie!  Speak another lie, and I will have your precious princess hauled out here and executed before your eyes!”

“Princess Rardine was rescued within the first hour of the operation,” Sire Cei reported.  “She is resting safe and comfortably back home, now.”

“I told you he didn’t know what was going on,” I said to Terleman.

“Self-absorption,” he agreed, sadly.  “I’ve seen it a hundred times.  And it gets their followers killed,” he added, for the benefit of the Nemovorti and the Dradrien within earshot.

“So, you don’t have that bit of leverage, any more,” I pointed out.  “Half your tower is ruined, and I pillaged your palace.  The only thing left to do is kick your stinking ass back into a hole again, and lose the hole.  Or maybe turn you over to the Vundel for safe-keeping,” I added, menacingly.  “I’m certain they would be very interested in your plans for them.”

That actually did disturb the Nemovorti supporters surrounding the Necromancer.  They might see themselves as superior to humans and the legitimate masters of the Alka Alon, but they could not deny the power of the Sea Folk.  Nor could they contest it, yet.

“Mycin Amana would never have let you escape our chambers alive,” countered Korbal, hesitantly, as he tried to parse truth from fiction.

“She had no choice,” I shrugged.  “She was dead at the time.  I mean, more dead than she was when we got there – we cut off her head.  But she was eager to show off what she’s been working on . . . because her boyfriend has been far too busy to pay her attention,” I chided.  “That’s not good for your relationship, Korbal.  She might start looking elsewhere for attention.  That is, if we hadn’t cut off her head.”

“You fool!” he seethed.  “Do you think you can kill a Nemovort?  When our host bodies die, our spirits flee back to the vusradahn devices, where it can be re-inserted into a fresh body.”

“Perhaps that was your plan . . . but alas, Mycin Amana will not be returning,” I said, sadly.  “If you have a mood for exercise, you may take all those blasted stairs and see for yourself.  I think we left her body right outside of the Grotto of Ages,” I recalled.  “I don’t know what became of the head.  I lost track,” I admitted.  “I’m sure someone did something properly dignified with it, though,” I added, sarcastically.

“You lie!  I do not need to take the stairs to achieve the undercaverns,” he sneered.  “Nor have you damaged my beloved!”

“There’s no Waypoint, down there,” I cautioned.  “Believe me, if there was I bloody well would have used it!  But yes, I did slay her.  Permanently,” I lied.  “Go ahead and try to contact her.  I’ll wait,” I said, patiently.

He started to refuse, then abruptly closed his eyes.  A moment later they snapped open.

“You . . . dare!” he said, his ruined nostrils flaring, and his yellow eyes blazing.

“I was pretty clear about that,” I nodded.  “I really messed her up.  You won’t be bringing her back.  Hells, I doubt you can even get to your quarters, now,” I pointed out.  “You’ll have to get past Lord Aeratas.  He’s down there, waiting for your return.  And he’s pretty upset what you’ve done to his ancestral legacy,” I warned.

Sheruel decided to speak up, as his fellow dark lord started to rage.  I suppose not having genitalia – or a fully functioning central nervous system – allowed him a certain detachment to the situation.

This is immaterial, he said, into everyone’s mind.  This does nothing to change our plans.

“Are you kidding?” Terleman scoffed.  “Minalan has completely destroyed your plans.  He’s rescued Princess Rardine,” he said, ticking off my accomplishments on his gauntleted hand, “he’s exposed your schemes to meddle with the Vundel, he’s now in possession of the location of the Alka Alon arsenal – which you are not – and he’s ransacked your lab, killed your consort, and put your greatest enemy in wait for you in your own bedchamber.  I’d say your plans are screwed,” Terl summarized.

You know nothing of our plans, Sheruel stated.  You have proven more resilient than I anticipated, he admitted.  But you are an irritant, nothing more.

“I might not know what your plans are, Sheruel,” I countered, “but Mycin knew Korbal’s.  Especially concerning you, and the destiny of your folk.”  I was bluffing – Mycin never said much about Sheruel – but they didn’t know that.  I was trying to sow dissention.  “If you knew what they truly planned, you never would have helped recover this undead shitstain from his tomb.”

Sometimes bluffs pay off.  While I naturally couldn’t detect any expression on Sheruel’s face, Korbal’s was easy to read.  Guilt.

“Do not listen to what he says, my friend,” Korbal assured Sheruel, “he lies in desperation to save his own life.”

“Sheruel, you may not know me well, or trust me at all – and you shouldn’t, I hate you – but even you should be able to see that Korbal has no intention of fulfilling his promises to the gurvani.  He’s using you, and will discard you as soon as you are no longer of use.  At least, that’s what Mycin Amana confessed.  It’s all a big lie.  They have no intention of supporting your plans against humanity.  They just let you set up a power base that was easy and convenient to take over, when the time was right.”

“We are allies!” Korbal insisted.  “You will not divide us!”

“I don’t need to,” I reasoned.  “It’s really none of my business, but . . . ask him,” I said, simply, to my mortal enemy.  “Go ahead.  Ask Korbal if he intends to uphold his bargain.  No oath he would swear to a mere gurvani – much less the head of a mere gurvani – would he consider binding.  But ask him, right here, right now, in the presence of disinterested witnesses,” I proposed.  “Maybe you have a hard time telling when a human face lies, but I don’t.”

You seek to drive a wedge between our alliance, Sheruel said, in the same flat, expressionless mental voice.

“Well, yes,” I agreed.  “That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.  I went to the undercaverns to investigate, on behalf of the Council.  I discovered that Korbal plans treachery against the gurvani, among other things.  That is what I plan to report to them.

“Either I’m lying, or I’m not.  I won’t be lying to them.  But it’s up to you to make that determination,” I said, letting some of persuasive tones from my days as a spellmonger invade my voice.  “I’m sure you have nothing to worry about,” I added.  “The Enshadowed have a long history of honoring their bargains and living up to their word, don’t they?” I asked, sarcastically.

There was a moment’s silence, as Korbal struggled to find words and Sheruel contemplated the ones I’d given him.  Without turning to face his ally – no need to, really – Sheruel began interrogating him.

Is what the Spellmonger says true?

Korbal paused, and then quickly spat “Of course not!  I deal in good faith!”

“He’s lying,” Terleman pointed out.

“Our agreement and our mutual goals make us equal in this endeavor!” Korbal insisted.

“A lie,” I observed.  “It’s all over his face.  Ask him if he really wants to exterminate my race . . . or if he wants to use it, in preference to the gurvani, as a platform from which to conquer Callidore,” I goaded.

Answer him, Sheruel demanded, without changing tone.

“This is madness,” Korbal fumed, guiltily.  “I must need see to my chambers, and the delicate work that is there,” he insisted.

We have unfinished work here, Sheruel stated, flatly.  Answer him.

“I need not answer him,” Korbal said, beginning to pace around his ally furtively.  “For the context of his question is in error.  He does not understand the natural order of Alon society – he is an outsider.  A humani.  He rejects our ways and despises our people!” Korbal insisted.

“S

That sounds like a big fat rationalization, to me,” I offered.  “An argument for keeping your people slaves, or worse.”

“Silence!” Korbal insisted, growing more irritated.  He shifted his iron staff from hand to hand as he paced, nervously.  “When our people came to this world, it was with the intent to be its master – not powerless subjects to some strange alien race who made unreasonable demands of us.  Not to squander our great civilization with rustic indulgence and decadent corruption!”

My allegiance is to my people, not your ancient ideals, Sheruel countered.

“Your people thrived under the old order!” Korbal insisted.

“As slaves,” I pointed out, helpfully.  “That’s where he intends to return you.  Unless they decide to replace your folk altogether with us humani,” I added.  I looked around at Korbal’s entourage.  “I don’t really see many gurvani bodies among his staff,” I noted.  “While she didn’t take the form herself, Mycin Amana was very clear about how much better they considered humanity over the inferior gurvani form.”

“Silence, human!” Korbal screamed.

What do you intend to do with the gurvani? Sheruel asked in a reasonable, highly threatening tone.

“What makes you think I will do anything with the gurvani?” Korbal replied, fingering his staff nervously.  “They will be rewarded for their good and loyal service, as promised!”

You promised to aid us in their extinction, Sheruel reminded him.

“We promised to fight them, and we have!” Korbal spat.  “One does not toss aside resources when one has a great challenge ahead!”

And when they are conquered?  What then?

“They are not the only enemy we face, as you well know!” Korbal said, irritated.  “Until we stand as masters of Callidore, we will use what we must to prevail – even these ugly, ingenious humani,” he said, reasonably.

You promised to aid us in their extinction, repeated Sheruel.

“You are immortal, now!” Korbal said, impatiently.  “Time is meaningless to you!  Whether the effort takes a hundred years or ten thousand, what does it matter to you?  It will be done, in the fullness of time,” he dismissed.

I am immortal, Sheruel agreed.  My people are not.  They were cheated of long life to make them more useful to the Alka Alon.  They cannot wait ten thousand years for their vengeance.

“They will wait,” Korbal insisted, his ruined face contorting into a sneer.  “They will wait as they are bidden, else our plans are for naught.”

That was not our agreement, Sheruel replied.

“See?” I pointed out.  “You can’t trust him.  He will betray your people at the first opportunity.  It’s in his nature.”

He cannot betray me, Sheruel insisted, calmly.  He has not the power to contend with me.

“That’s clearly not what his girlfriend thought.  Before we cut her head off.”

That did it – being reminded that he was here debating with a floating goblin head while his consort was – possibly – in distress or dead was already making Korbal anxious.  Being called to account to his most powerful ally in front of his followers was, likewise, weighing on him.

He snapped.

With a sudden twist of his hips, he swung the great iron staff in a wide arc.  He did it so quickly I didn’t have time to react.

At first, I thought he was aiming it at me, Terl and Cei . . . but the position and the arc was wrong.  Instead, as he completed his swing, the top of the staff connected with Sheruel, and the complex mechanism in the head wrapped itself around the big green ball of irionite, entrapping it inside.

Shit, I realized.  That’s why the measurements had been so precise – they’d been designed specifically with Sheruel’s dimensions in mind.

It took a few seconds for the metal bands to encircle and entrap the Dead God, during which he shook and struggled at the end of the rod.  But once the last one was in place, Sheruel quieted . . . and Korbal stood, triumphantly.

“You forced me to use this before I was ready, Spellmonger,” he chided, as he regarded the murky green sphere.  “I had planned on utilizing Sheruel’s leadership for a while longer, yet, but it makes no difference.  His folk will do as my people bid them to.  As soon as this was constructed, his fate was assured.”

“You just turned your biggest ally . . . into an ornament?” Terleman gasped.

“Ornament?” sneered Korbal, turning back toward us.  “This is no mere ornament, wizard!  I now have the tool that I need to proceed toward my ultimate goal,” he said, victoriously.

“How so?” asked Sire Cei, warily.

“Sheruel was a mere step on that journey, no more.  He was a useful tool to recover me and restore me, and to take this place from Aeratas and the Council.  Now,” he said, brandishing the staff with its oversized and much uglier head, “he is an even more useful tool.  With this power, I can now travel through the . . . hoxter pockets, you call them?  A far more convenient and versatile transport than the Ways.

“Our parley is over,” he said, arrogantly.  “I concede you forced my hand, Minalan.  But you have not ruined my plans, despite your lies about Mycin Amana.  Return to your amusing encampment,” he dismissed.  “I go now to see to my beloved, and put my home in order.  Prepare yourselves for death in agony.  Pray to the humani gods who are banished from here, if you wish,” he chuckled.

“But when I return, we will conclude this farce.  And I will see you and every one of your comrades my faithful servant, dead or alive,” he promised.  “Or both!”

It was a dramatic line to depart on, but then I was learning that Korbal was a slave to such displays.  He used the immense power of Sheruel to open a hoxter and push himself into it, along with his new staff.  The other Nemovorti looked at us triumphantly, as if their foul master had been victorious in the discussion . . . not goaded to do exactly what I wanted him to.

“This truce lasts until you return to your redoubt,” Nadziratel announced in a booming voice, in his master’s absence.  “Then you will die.”

I didn’t reply . . . because I was already activating Taren’s enchantment, and launching the red flare I’d prepared to signal action.  Every snowflake I’d painted on the island was now glowing crimson red.

The Ways were open, again.

“Go,” I whispered to Sire Cei and Terleman.  “Get everyone out of here, now.  I don’t know how long I can maintain this,” I promised, as a wave of incredible power pulsed from the Magolith through my mind and into the enchantment, “but now is your chance to escape!”

Chapter Forty-Eight

Escape!

There was another immediate effect of Korbal and Sheruel’s sudden disappearance from the field, besides the Ways being open again – the spell of compliance Sheruel’s power fueled was gone, leaving us in a sea of unhappy hobgoblins and suddenly-independent draugen.  The Nemovorti and the Dradrien were looking pretty pissed-off, too.  While I pumped power into the oscillation spell, hopefully keeping the Ways open, I felt particularly vulnerable as we walked back.

Sire Cei picked up on my anxiety, immediately, and held up his warhammer protectively as he surveyed the hobgoblin infantry that started to fill in behind us.

“Truce!” he reminded them, sternly.  “Until we are returned to the redoubt!”

“I’m not certain they’re going to abide by that,” Terleman whispered.

“Get . . . out . . . of . . . here!” I insisted, as I walked faster.  “Take Cei!  Fly!”

“I’m not leaving you here, with your goodies hanging out, until everyone else is gone,” Terleman said, reasonably, supporting me with one arm as we walked.

“I shall not abandon you, Minalan,” Sire Cei assured me, as he guarded my flank protectively.

I couldn’t argue – literally.  The power coursing from the Magolith through the oscillation spell was profound, and it was taking all my concentration to maintain.  Speaking actual words was a hard-fought luxury.

But I could think . . . and with Blizzard’s help, I was able to reach out and contact Hance, who was still back at the original redoubt.

Tell Azhguri to activate his spell, or whatever it is, I ordered him.  The one we laid in the upper caverns.  As soon as that’s done, get he, Suhi, and our prisoner back to Timberwatch.

Are you going to be all right, Minalan? he asked, worried.

Do it! I snapped, and ended the connection.  I didn’t have the energy for politeness.  I was standing in the midst of an arcane maelstrom, with blood rushing into my ears.

When we were in the upper caverns, this morning – it seemed like a lifetime ago – we’d surveyed the elaborate system that kept the water from the lake from inundating the caverns, below.

But what one Karshak can create, another can destroy.  While we were there, Azhguri contrived a way to wreck the delicate complex of pools and pipes, valves and junctions . . . and rig it to deploy upon his command.

With a little simple thaumaturgic help, he and Hance had rigged it that way as a fail-safe.  If we were trapped in the bottom of the undercaverns with Korbal or Sheruel, we wanted a means to ensure that we could put the Cavern of Ages out of their reach.

By activating the spell, within seconds the delicate workings overloaded and broke . . . spilling thousands of gallons of filthy lake water down into Korbal’s lair.

I had no idea how long it would take to fill completely, and we’d sealed the actual caverns off from flooding when we’d left Aeratas and his undead bride behind, but thanks to the arcane principles of gravity and hydraulics, it would be years before anyone could pump out the volume of water that filled it.  And then they’d have to overcome the seal.

It wasn’t the best plan, I’d thought at the time, but it was a plan.  I hoped it came in handy, now, drowning Korbal in his own dungeons.

And now he didn’t even have a powerful undead friend in a ball of irionite to come get him out.

I don’t know how I got into the Sudden Fortress, but someone helped me sit down on a chest, and I heard the thick door being shut and bolted.  The Magolith floated down near my lap.  I didn’t tell it to do that.

I put my hands on the exterior of the sphere, barely feeling the smooth surface with my fingertips . . . but I instantly became aware of the consciousness within.  The Handmaiden was now in full possession of the centerpoint crystal, not merely residing there, I could feel.  Every throbbing transformation seemed to confirm her possession.

As I opened up my connection to the Magolith through the physical contact, the Handmaiden reacted . . . not in an impulsive or hostile way, but in a tentative, probing manner.  Like a puppy or kitten sniffing your finger when you first meet it.

I didn’t know what to do, and most of my attention was devoted to keeping power flowing from the sphere and into the spell.  So, I just sat there, and allowed her to do what she wanted.  I felt like I was petting a kitten while I was in the midst of a thunderstorm.

This kitten was curious.  The Handmaiden seemed to study me, evaluate me, consider me.  There was a deliberation and thoughtfulness to the experience that went beyond the interactions I’d had with other paracletes.  A more developed, more sophisticated consciousness.

Then . . . she started doing things to me.  I had no idea what.

I began having flashes of memory and feeling.  Scenes from throughout my life surged into my consciousness with every throb of the crystal.  Experiences I’d had, both profound and mundane, seemed to be brought into our mutual awareness.

Watching my mother brushing Urah’s hair in the kitchen of our house in Talry.

Marching through the jungles of Farise, convinced I was going to die with every step.

The first time I created a spark with magic, on purpose, and the wonder it inspired.

Seeing the mystery between the miller’s daughter’s legs when her skirts flipped for the first time, when she “accidentally” sprawled over a bag of wheat.

Catching a fish on the dock down on the river with my Uncle Ari, when he’d visited.  My bare toes dangled over the flowing water, thrilling my childish senses.  The river fish was cold and slippery in my hand as he helped me take it off the hook.

Banging my head against a book late at night in Inrion, certain I was doomed never to understand thaumaturgy and would have to go home and beg my father to become a baker.  The old parchment smelled like dust and mildew, the wood grain of the table seeming more appealing to my tired eye than the curling letters that crawled across the yellow page.

Slaying a man for the first time, when a Farisi Wildman tried to stab a comrade with a spear, and I pushed my mageblade through his belly.  I watched the haunted, pleading look in his eyes before life left him completely.  I vomited.

Discovering I liked the taste of Cormeeran wine and a merchant’s daughter while running an errand to the market in Inrion Town.

Tripping over a rail on a barge in front of a crowd of passengers and sprawling on my face to the amused laughter of the assembled.

Waking up to the sound of raindrops on the roof, before anyone else in the house was awake.

Walking on an endless road through central Alshar, my legs aching and my belly empty, wondering if the next town would provide a job.

The warm breath of Traveler on my neck on the bank of a stream.

The exertion of climbing a tree and peering out over the village, feeling like I was at the top of a mountain.

The pain in my hands as I pulled a rope with three sailors, helping to haul a net full of baggage onto the deck of a ship.

The sweet smell of the back of a young Farisian whore’s neck, just as the subtropical sun was starting to lighten the night’s sky.  It smelled of dark rum, flowers, and sex.  She’d told a tale of being a nobleman’s daughter, a mighty house of who traced their lineage to great magelords, even archmagi.  Her dark hair was fetching, and I liked her smile.  A night with her cost me two silver pennies, which I’d looted from a Farisian nobleman’s body.

The taste of burnt hardtack in my mouth, chewy and disgusting.  I was grateful for every swallow.

The pain in my face when a fist slammed unexpectedly into it, sending my senses reeling.

The taste and smell of a perfectly ripe peach as the sweet juice dripped down my chin and dazzled my tongue.

The feel of hot sand on my back as I sprawled on a beach in Farise, next to a drunken native girl who had a taste for cheap rum.

And on it went, with no particular pattern or reason, that I could see.

I had no real idea of what she was doing, but it felt like the Handmaiden was rummaging through the storeroom of my life.  It was a timeless event, scrambling my perspective while I was too focused on the spell to consider it.  It felt like years, or just an instant.

But then she started . . . doing things to what she was examining.  She started changing me.

At some point, I realized that handling the flow of power was easier.  I could concentrate more, devote more of my focus to other places.  That was helpful.

I wanted to thank her or ask her a question or . . . something, but I didn’t know exactly what that something was.  She ignored me, and continued her work.

In a few moments, I was aware enough to open my eyes.  The Sudden Fortress was empty, and I seemed to be alone.  No, not alone – Sire Cei stood by me, my defender.  I could see Terleman anxiously pacing on the platform above, scanning the enemy army over empty battlements.

Good.  They got away.

We were alone, here, and likely the other redoubt had been evacuated.  At some point, someone would tell me that everyone was away, and I could stop this effort.  Or maybe they were trying, mind-to-mind, but I wasn’t able to answer.

The Handmaiden continued her work, to some unknown purpose, but things seemed to get easier to bear.  My body didn’t seem as achingly tired, for one, and I seemed to be breathing a little easier.

I wondered how things were going elsewhere, while I held the Ways open.  I wondered if Korbal and Sheruel were dead or alive, or trapped at the bottom of a really foul lake.  I wondered if one of the Nemovorti would get impatient and summon the dragons.  I wondered if everyone had really gotten away, and whether the three of us were the last ones left . . . or if something disastrous had happened, and we were all doomed from the start.

Time seemed to crawl on forever, until Terleman knelt in front of me, and forced me to look into his eyes.

“You can let go, Min,” he said, urgently.  “The block is up again, but everyone escaped.”

I gave a deep, heartfelt sigh and let the oscillation spell fade.  For a moment, I felt the absence of power, like the absence of rain after a storm, leaving a hole of expectation in my mind.

Then I passed out.

I awoke briefly, discovering someone had carried me to the top of the platform.  Terleman was directing the Fortress to defend itself, adding his own spells as he could.  Sire Cei looked grim.  There was a lot of shouting.  I tried to move my arms and legs.  They seemed amused by the request.

I passed out again.

When I next awoke, I was someplace else entirely.  Someone was leaning over me, a face.  A female face.  A familiar face.  I did my best to pin a name to it, and finally my mind supplied it.  Lilastien.

“He’s awake!” she said, sounding excited and alarmed.  “Terleman!  Minalan is awake!  Don’t try to talk,” she cautioned me, putting her small hand on my chest.  “Just breathe for a few moments.  Your blood pressure dropped and you collapsed.  Your color is starting to return, now,” she said, as she cast a bright Alkan magelight above my head, and then pried first one and then the other eye open.  “Your pulse has come back strong, but you’re incredibly dehydrated,” she clucked.  “Just breathe for a few moments, and let things come back to you slowly.  We’re not in danger,” she urged.

“Where are we?” I croaked, my throat sore.

“Did you not hear me say ‘don’t try to talk?’” she reproved, as she uncapped a water bottle and held it to my lips.  “We’re at the western Waypoint, at the far end of the island.  There’s no one here – they were all lured to the other end, when Azar’s company abandoned the site.  Drink,” she ordered.

I drank.  I realized just how thirsty I was.  She only gave me a few mouthfuls before lowering the bottle.

“We were worried there, for a moment,” she said, her voice a pleasant sound in a world of pain and horror.  “Terleman brought you through the Ways back to his original redoubt, when he retreated,” she told me, unwrapping some sort of biscuit and feeding me.  “We couldn’t stay there, so we all came back here.”

“We?” I managed, after swallowing a bite.  It was flavorful, if dry, but wholesome.  I detected some of the nutty flavor I’d come to associate with the Alka Alon.

“Don’t talk!  Yes, when the Ways were open, while everyone else was trying to get out, Pentandra sent a few of us back in to support you, if you couldn’t escape.  Good thing we did.  If Terleman had listened to you, then you would have been overwhelmed.  Apparently, he and Cei fought off an army of hobgoblins on their own while you were unconscious, before reinforcements arrived and gave them the chance to escape.”

“Who?” I asked, the next chance I got.

“You are impossible!” she sighed.  “Sandoval and Mavone insisted on coming back.  Azar insisted on staying, as did Terleman and Cei.  A few others stayed.  But the warmagi and Tera Alon got every prisoner evacuated through the Ways,” she said, proudly, as she brushed crumbs from my chin.  “And Rondal and Tyndal got the Kasari out.  Everyone who could get out, did,” she said, with satisfaction.  “Now we just have to figure out a way out, now that the block is back in place.”

Terleman hovered behind her – over her – and gazed skeptically in my eye.

“You’re fine,” he said, rolling his eyes.  “Get up, you godsdamn goldbricker, there’s work to be done.”  He reached out a hand to me, over Lilastien’s objections.

I realized that I didn’t feel any reason why I couldn’t.  I grasped his hand and let him pull me to my feet.  The Magolith flew around me, encircling me once before taking up its usual place over my right shoulder.  Terleman looked at it curiously.  “Does it usually do that?”

“It’s been acting a little strangely, since we put the Handmaiden into it,” I admitted.  “She’s waking up.”

“I didn’t realize that it would have an effect on the physical orb,” Mavone said, as he and Sandoval approached.  He studied the pulsating sphere, then glanced at me.  “You look like shit,” he observed.

“I pissed off a couple of evil dark lords,” I shrugged.  “It got messy.  You missed the fun parts.”

“Oh, I had fun,” he said, darkly.  “Interrogating prisoners, mostly.  I learned a lot.”

“I look forward to the seminar,” I nodded.  “What’s our situation?”

“The technical military term for what we’re doing is hiding,” Terleman lectured.  “We’re where the enemy isn’t, hoping that they don’t notice us.  Korbal hasn’t dragged Sheruel the Stick back into a hoxter, yet, so we’re stuck here for now.”

“How do we know?”

“Taren improvised a spell,” Sandy said.  “We’ll know as soon as it happens.  Until it does, we . . . hide.  And wait.”

“Is there an alternate plan?” I asked, finishing the bottle.

“There’s a contingency plan,” Terleman nodded.  “We fight.  Or we run away.  Of course, since this is a bloody island, there’s a limit to how far we can run, but . . .”

“So, we hide,” Sandy said.  “And have some dinner.”

Dinner proved to be cold rations dug from the abandoned supplies from Azar’s beachhead.  We took them up onto a ridge of rubble overlooking the site, and I let Sandy cast the wards and concealment spells while we ate.  Mavone stood sentry near the Waypoint for us, claiming he’d grabbed a bite at Timberwatch.  It was odd, having a picnic on the battlefield, but I was hungry.  When the food came out, I ate.

Lilastien continued to monitor me without fussing, which I appreciated, but I felt better with every bite.  In fact, I felt good, better than I had in months.  Maybe years.  I don’t know if it was the success of the endeavor or the damage we’d inflicted on Korbal’s nascent empire, but I felt a sense of satisfaction wash over me that I hadn’t expected.

“So, what did you discover, in the dungeons of the Necromancer?” Sandy asked, casually, as he passed me an apple.

“Trouble,” I grunted.  “Death, undeath, misery, all that kind of stuff.  I learned a lot about the kind of people we’re fighting.  They have the ambitions of madmen, and the potential to see some of them come to fruit.”

“I heard that Korbal betrayed Sheruel,” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” Terleman chuckled.  “That was rich!  Made old Baldy into a bauble.  He’s an overgrown scepter, now, a trophy for Korbal’s aggrandizement.  There’s only one dark lord in Olum Seheri, now.”

“I wouldn’t be so happy about that,” I sighed, as I chewed.  “Assuming he survived his exploration of his redecorated lair, he’s going to be able to consolidate power quickly.  Facing a unified foe presents its own problems.”

“It is a pity,” Sire Cei said, thoughtfully.  “I was going to challenge him to single combat, over the honor of Boval Vale.”

I raised an eyebrow.  “Really?”

“Honor demands it,” the knight said, stiffly.

“Even if he can’t wield a sword?” Sandy dug.  “Is that entirely chivalrous?”

Cei shrugged his great shoulders in his armor.  “I would improvise, under the circumstances.  I wish to discover if his shell can withstand my hammer.”

“Duin’s strength be with you, that day,” Terleman said, rising.  “And let it not be this one.  I want off this hellish island.”

“Our scouts return,” Sandy said, joining him.  He peered down into the abandoned redoubt, and watched two figures emerge.  Tyndal and Rondal.

“You let them stay?” I asked, frowning.

“You act as if I had a choice,” snorted Terleman.  “Your journeymen are very loyal to you.”

As he said that, a shadow crossed us, and a moment later a giant hawk landed nearby on the rubble.

“As are your apprentices,” Terleman added.  “Dara got all of her surviving Riders back to Timberwatch, then took the best surviving steed and returned,” he said, admiringly.  “She’s a tough little warrior.”

Dara’s boots crunched in the gravel as she crossed the ridge and ran to embrace me.  I hugged her back.

“Master, I was so worried—!” she began.

“I’m fine,” I assured her.  “Just exhausted.  Do you have a report?”

“I flew over the entire island,” she said, nearly coming to attention as she addressed us.  “Almost all of the enemy are still gathered around their previous positions.  Waiting for orders, I’d imagine,” she proposed.

“Which means that Korbal isn’t back from his journey to the caverns, yet,” suggested Sandy.  “Just that he’s got Sheruel out of the hoxter.”

“Well, there is something else,” Dara pointed out, leading me to the high point on the ridge.  “There’s a lot more island, now, than there was yesterday,” she pointed out.

I used magesight to see where she pointed, and saw just how much the lake had drained, so far.  The level had dropped enough to expose several yards of additional shoreline.  “I wonder how far it will go, until it has filled the caverns.”

“When Korbal does return – assuming he doesn’t want to swim the entire way – he’ll bring Sheruel through the hoxter,” reasoned Sandy.  “When he does, we can escape.”

I looked around, using magesight to scan the murky, misty canyon.  I didn’t know how, but someday I hoped that Aeratas would re-take the place.  Or his descendants.  I realized I had the sad duty to inform Lady Fallawen that her father had died, and the circumstances surrounding his death.  I wasn’t looking forward to that.  I hoped that she approved of my solution to the problem, but then it wasn’t really up to her.

I spent a few moments conferring with Pentandra, mind-to-mind, exchanging updates about how our day was going.  She sounded completely exhausted, her mental voice slow and clumsy.  But she had her husband back, and much of the anxiety in her tone had vanished.

The news was mostly good.

Princess Rardine had been examined by Master Icorod and pronounced hale, if not yet fit.  She was retired to one of Anguin’s quiet Vorone estates, resting . . . and asking for no one to speak yet of her rescue.

Anguin himself was still in the field, overseeing the defense of the eastern Wilderlands as the gurvani responded to the sudden raid that had deprived them of both labor and larder.  His men patrolled the vales of the Penumbra in force, along with the Iron Band and warmagi, driving back the isolated bands that had tried to cross the river in pursuit of their lost slaves.  There might yet be an organized response coming, she warned, but it had yet to emerge.

The prisoners at Timberwatch were being fed, examined, and interviewed, Pentandra reported, with Kasari and clerks writing down the details of their capture, their captivity, and their homes for review.  It was good practice, she insisted, as all the slaves from the Penumbra would have to be likewise interviewed, before they could be sent home or settled.

And the last bit of news is the most humorous, she said, amused.  Prince Tavard set sail on this morning’s tide from Remere, to lead his fleet against the Alshari armada.  Ninety-four mercenary galleons and caravels, plus a personal fleet of thirteen ships from his vassals.  They’ll be escorting the Castali merchant fleet to Farise, then turning to confront the ‘pirates’ infesting Farisian waters.  It’s all an elaborate ruse to get the fleet close to Enultramar, she dismissed.  It’s not fooling anyone, particularly the Alshari naval forces who are happily raiding and slaving the Castali and Remeran merchants as they try to cross the Shallow Sea.

I groaned.  He’s still going ahead with his idiocy?

He says he has a secret plan, Pentandra said, amused.  Which means he’s planning on sacrificing a portion of his fleet to screen the Alshari corsairs, while he makes landfall in the southeast and tries to march overland.  It’s the worst secret plan, ever.  And the least secret.

Ifnia guide him, I agreed.  She has a place in her heart for fools and drunks.  Get a nap, I suggested.  I think it might take a while before Korbal returns to the surface.

I need one, she agreed.  I could almost see her yawning at the suggestion.  So do you.

What do you mean?  I just got knocked unconscious, I argued.  I’ve had my nap.  I feel fine.  In fact, I feel . . . good, I realized.  Really good.

That, in itself, tells me you need more sleep, she scoffed.

When she was done briefing me, I walked over to where Dara was tending her bird.

“Faithful?” I asked, trying to recall their names, and which ones fit which harness.

“This is Fanciful, Fancy’s sister,” Dara said, wearily, as she stroked the feathers of the great hawk’s neck.  “She’s from Wing Three.  She’s the only one who wasn’t injured by the wyverns,” she added.  “I lost three Sky Riders,” she confessed, guiltily.  “Good Riders.  Four birds dead, and seven too injured to fly.”

“They were valiant,” I consoled.  “And they were doing important work.  Vital work.  I got what I came for,” I said, pointing toward the Magolith . . . which seemed to be investigating Festive.  “I may have the tool we need, now, to fight back in earnest.”

“I hope so,” she replied, dully.  “We lost a lot, today.”

“Scores,” I nodded.  “And we saved hundreds.  You cannot try to balance such things in wartime, Dara,” I counselled.  “It will drive a commander mad.  I bear as much or more responsibility for their deaths than you do.  And Korbal and Sheruel bear all of it.  But they died bravely, and their deeds will be remembered by the comrades who survive them.”

“That doesn’t seem like much solace,” she grumbled, angrily.

“It never is,” I sighed.  “Nor is it meant to be.  I may have lost friends and dear comrades this day, but I don’t know about it, yet.  The time for dwelling on such things is when the battle is over and you are long from the field, safe in your own house.  Then we can measure the sacrifice against our gain, and deem it worthy.”

Suddenly, I saw a flash from below us – and heard Sandoval yell.

“Now!  Everyone go now! He’s –” he shouted, waving his arms to us.

But it was too late.  Perhaps Korbal’s abilities using the hoxter as a mode of transport had improved, since he’d gotten his new walking stick, but the interval involved was much smaller, now.  The block on the Ways slammed shut as quickly as it had opened.

Korbal stood in the abandoned redoubt, his green-headed scepter in his hand.  His scarred and damage face was contorted into a rictus of rage.  His black cowl was shredded, as were his robes, and dark black ichor seeped from a half-dozen wounds around his body.

“Dara, get in the air, now!” I ordered, as Mavone drew his mageblade and began to attack the Necromancer.  Sire Cei and Terleman were drawing their weapons and plunging down the steep slope of rubble to engage him, and Rondal and Tyndal quickly turned back from joining us to support Mavone.

Twilight and Blizzard were suddenly in my hand, and the Magolith was zooming protectively in front of me, as Korbal screamed and attacked the magi.

“It looks like Korbal’s back . . . and I’ve made him angry!”

Chapter Forty-Nine

Accepting Fate

I slid down the pile of rubble on my heels, using Blizzard for leverage, activating my defensive warmagic spells as I went.  It only took me seconds – gravity is an expedient servant.  But in those seconds, a lot happened.

Mavone acted almost instantly, when Korbal came through the Waypoint.  His mageblade was already out, and he delivered what’s known in the warmagic trade as a triple lunge strike: he shot a blast from his mageblade at the same time he struck with its edge, timing the two for maximum damage . . . while throwing a spell with his left hand to further confound your opponent.  In this case, a simple battlefield cantrip that increased the coefficient of friction in the region around an opponent’s feet.

Korbal somehow managed to block the strike while keeping his footing, but the suddenness of the response lost him the initiative.  He swung Sheruel’s steel-banded sphere around wildly, shooting a gout of green plasma from it that narrowly missed the Gilmoran mage’s left thigh.

But then he had Tyndal and Rondal upon him, my two former apprentices both attacking with their mageblades as one – Rondal hacking for Korbal’s extended thigh, and Tyndal attempting to impale his shoulder.  The arc of plasma swept between them as they attacked.

I was about halfway down the hill, at that point.

Sire Cei was barreling down next to me, and then passing me, as his longer legs and (apparently) greater determination propelled him, his shield raised and his warhammer poised to strike.  Sandoval was just behind me, to my left, already casting spells and shouting.  And Dara was sending Festive into the air with a mighty sweep of her wings.  Everything started to go into slow motion, as my augmentations kicked in.  I found Blizzard in my hand, and knew the Magolith was hurtling down the hill above me.

After what seemed like an eternity, my feet finally came to the bottom of the ridge, and I could attack.

I didn’t mess around.  I hit the bastard with Kedaron’s Expiry, as much as my brain could handle, as soon as I could summon it.

The beam burst from Blizzard’s tip in a lance, attacking his necromantic architecture and burning him with raw heat at the same time.  I was gratified to watch him howl in pain and drop to one great knee, his left side smoking with the power of the spell.  Almost by reflex he interposed his metal staff and Sheruel on a stick absorbed the brunt of the spell.

It apparently didn’t bother Sheruel – irionite has a very high melting temperature, from what I understood, and he had far more power available to sustain him than the Expiry could disrupt.  I ended the spell, but I shouldn’t have.  That allowed Korbal to swing around and keep Tyndal from cutting his head off, as well as tripping Mavone.

I have to admit, he fought pretty well for a guy who’d been stuck in a hole for a thousand years.

He’d mastered the powerful host body he’d taken, and while he fought like an Alkan he had far more physical power at his call than even the Tera Alon’s strong forms displayed.  Nor did fighting multiple opponents bother him – he was using magic to observe all the way around him, and he knew the graceful art of not being where a strike is intended.

But unlike Sheruel, he didn’t have the capacity to monitor and contend with multiple situations at once.  He had two eyes, two hands, and two feet.  By betraying Sheruel, he might have made himself more magically powerful . . . but he was easier to fight.

I didn’t hesitate – I charged in, drawing Twilight on the way and blasting with Blizzard.  Korbal was on the defense, now, fighting a growing number of opponents from multiple directions.  His big staff whirled as he blocked a strike here, parried a blow there, and swung at a third opponent, as his feet regained their purchase.  He was wearing thick Dradrien armor, under that billowing black robe, too, I noted.  A lucky hit wasn’t going to end this.

Twilight nearly nicked his neck with that first strike, but a small twist interposed his staff.  I countered by planting my feet – usually a poor idea in a fight – and hooking Blizzard around the base of the iron rod.

Everyone likes to deliver a nice, clean strike in a fight, but few really appreciate the advantages of just tying up your foe’s weapon.  Sure, it’s less glamorous, but a timely grapple can change the focus of the combat quickly.  That’s what it did in this case – while everyone else was beating the crap out of Korbal, I was being an asshole and keeping him from properly defending himself.

We struggled, for a moment – but he was seven feet tall, and his big iron staff was almost that long.  Even with augmented strength and a lot of practice, there was only so much I could do.

It proved to be enough to get him frustrated.  By the time he’d wrenched his staff out of my grip, the rage and aggravation he felt was seeping from his every movement.  Even though we weren’t doing much damage through his defenses and his armor, we were hitting him a lot.

But he’d had enough.  He brought the base of his staff down on the ground and activated a powerful concussive spell.  A wave of force and necromantic energy swept us all back, most of us off our feet.  I sprawled face-first in the gravel, losing Twilight and barely hanging on to Blizzard.

“ENOUGH!” Korbal’s voice shouted as the deafening report of his spell echoed off of the far canyon walls.

I would have said something witty, but I was still skidding.

“You have defiled my home and slain my beloved, Minalan the Spellmonger!  There is no word for the levels of suffering you will endure for that!”  He paused only long enough to blast Rondal, who was among the first to recover, before he closed his eyes for a moment.

“You like this sport?” he continued, as he parried a blow from Tyndal – at regular speed.  His blast had disrupted many of our warmagic spells.  He turned to sweep Mavone off his feet, before he could attack.

“I am fond of sport,” he said, with a malevolent leer.  “I shall give you your full measure, if you wish.  Cut me, cleave me, do your worst – and I will have a new body by daybreak!” he sneered, lashing at Sandoval as he tried to rise.  “You call me the Necromancer – do you not think I have earned that title?  Death and life are waking and sleeping to me.  Slay me once and I will return to haunt you a thousand times, in a hundred different bodies!”

As he spoke four Nemovorti materialized from the Waypoint, black-robed over their armor, each carrying a fearsome weapon.  I pushed myself quickly to my feet, pulling Blizzard in front of me while I called Twilight to my hand by its nugget of knot coral.  My friends spread out, wary of the new threat.

“Aw, did someone mess up your bed?” I taunted, trying to draw his attention to me – away from my comrades.  They had their hands full, as the Nemovorti moved to reinforce their dark master.

“I’ve been intrigued by your race since I awoke,” Korbal said in a self-indulgent voice, as he continued to fight.  “Your unexpected appearance, your novelty, your intelligence, the ease with which we can slip into your bodies . . . it was all quite fascinating.

“I know very little about the history of your race, why you came here and from whence . . . but I look forward to understanding everything . . . from the ashes of your civilization, whilst I stir them with the blackened bones of your people!” he finished with a shout, and aimed a necromantic blast from the vicinity of Sheruel’s motionless nose at me.

I raised Blizzard and Twilight in a cross, activating my most powerful defensive spells.  While they worked, they only mitigated the blast.  If it hadn’t been for my anti-magic dragonhide breastplate, he might have cut me in two.

“We’re a bit tougher than you might think,” I coughed, as the Nemovorti behind him began closing with their master.  “And we’re full of surprises!”

I sent a blast back – not the Expiry, that took too much concentration, but a nasty gout of blue fire popped out.  I didn’t think it would hurt him – his defenses were clearly too strong for that – but I hoped it would distract him.  Because the moment I cast it into his ruined face I dove to my left and rolled.

There was no more time for witty banter, after that – we were all fighting for our lives in a mad melee of magic and steel.  Two more Nemovorti sprang through the Ways, weapons in hand – where one immediately got brained by Sire Cei’s warhammer.  It was well-struck, but the reinforcements didn’t bode well.

Thankfully, we were not fighting alone.  While I engaged a foul-smelling yellow-eyed undead bastard with a greatsword, something streaked by me so fast I couldn’t see it – right through the Nemovort’s head.

I thought it was a spell, at first, until I heard Lilastien cheering on the ridge.  I spared a moment to glance around, and saw the Thoughtful Knife impale one of our foes through the chest before slicing the head off the next with the edge of its wing.  Dara must have left the thing up there, before she took off.

Dara made her presence known a moment later when a sky bolt blossomed from the face of the Nemovort keeping Mavone from stabbing Korbal in the back.  The sound of wings filled the air as Fanciful sailed nimbly overhead before diving and striking at Korbal, himself.  She was a comparatively small bird, for a giant hawk, but she was all fearsome face and feathers as her steel-clad talons tore his shoulder open through his mail.

“What is that?” he screamed, blasting above him blindly with Sheruel The Staff as his left shoulder sagged.  Dara was long gone, of course – hawks are fast – but the distraction was enough so that Tyndal rolled past the Nemovort he fought and tackled Korbal at the knees.  A fraction of a moment later Rondal threw himself at his shoulder, on the opposite side.  Neither one was sufficient to knock Korbal down on their own, but together they bowled him over.

His staff was knocked wide, and I hit him with the Expiry, again, lancing his already-wounded shoulder with desiccating heat and painful disruption.  Korbal howled in agony as Tyndal kicked his giant staff out of his hand . . . and into range of Sire Cei’s warhammer.

I could tell what was going to happen even as it unfolded, but I was powerless to stop it.  With the most sublime expression of serendipitous satisfaction, Sire Cei of Sevendor gave a mighty, wordless shout and threw every bit of emotional energy he had into splitting Sheruel into a thousand pieces.

The resulting shock made the destruction of Dunselen’s witchstone at Greenflower look like a holiday cantrip.  An unremitting wave of arcane power exploded from the great irionite sphere, shattering every spell in play.  All of us were tossed into the air by the force of the blow, tossed back and into the ground, hard.

It wasn’t the explosion that was problematic – it was the pure thaumaturgic wave that shocked every cell in my body.  Once again, my dragonhide breastplate likely preserved my life . . . that and the Handmaiden.

I don’t know exactly what she did, but she somehow contained a portion of the blast – or at least mitigated it.  Perhaps she absorbed it, or deflected it – I don’t know, and I don’t really even have a working theory.

But she protected me.  Despite all reason, I awoke, before anyone else.  The Handmaiden had changed me in some way, made me a little better, perhaps, and that allowed me to weather the arcane tempest better than my comrades.

When I opened my eyes, the Magolith hovered protectively over me, pulsing like it was purring.  My entire brain was on fire with the residue of the blast, and it was a struggle to force myself even to my elbows to peer around at the battlefield.

All were prone and unmoving, their bodies flung haphazardly around the place.  A few trembled, quivered, moaned or moved in small ways that told me the blast might not have proven fatal, in itself.  But the Nemovort warrior I’d been fighting had fared worse.  His body was not merely crumpled, but his flesh was blasted into a powder by the blast.

“That’s what happens, when you replace a perfectly good biological central nervous system with a magically-dependent necromantic architecture!” I sneered, weakly, as I summoned the strength to pull myself to my hands and knees.

Blizzard was broken, the enchantments overloaded and the shaft of the weirwood staff shattered in three places.  I didn’t see Twilight anywhere.  I groaned as I pulled myself entirely to my feet, my every nerve complaining bitterly.  My head swam, and I stumbled just trying to get both feet under me.

I blinked through painful eyes as I looked around.  The mists were swirling, unconcerned with the battle that had raged here just minutes before.  The redoubt was silent, with only the distant cries of wyverns in the distance.

Korbal was still laying in the center, where he’d fallen.  He wasn’t breathing.

But then I realized he was undead – he only breathed when he needed to speak.

Nearby was the sphere of irionite encasing Sheruel, the pale green amber still locked behind bands of metal that fastened it to the staff.  There was a faint shimmer around the thing, and I was disappointed that I didn’t find a rotted head in a pile of green gravel.

But there was a jagged crack along the left face of the sphere, and around the crack the irionite had darkened until it was almost black.

I glanced from the staff to Korbal, his great body lying there, vulnerable.  His shoulder was laid open by the hawk, his side was chewed up by the Expiry, and his face and arms had been battered, sliced, and bashed, leaving his pale skin stained with the black ichor that served as his blood.

“You . . . arrogant . . . bastard,” I breathed, forcing myself to say it aloud though my chest ached with every breath – I must have broken a rib. Every word hurt, but some things needed to be said.

I didn’t have my staff.  I didn’t have my sword.  None of the warwands I had was going to be sufficient.

I almost burst out laughing – here were both of my enemies laying at my mercy, and I didn’t have so much as a rock to beat them with.

Not a rock, I realized.  A Magolith.

The sphere still floated serenely nearby, pulsing and glowing.  I reached out to it – literally.  My mind was still far too turmoiled to manage an arcane link without physical contact.  My fingers closed on it again, and I felt the Handmaiden go to work on me.

A few moments of her pinching, shearing, snipping, and repairing, I felt much better.  And I felt I had a better understanding, or at least a stronger rapport, with the mighty paraclete.

We had an understanding.  Though our acquaintance was short, I felt as if she was starting to react to me a little.

And I suddenly knew what I could do.

Still holding the Magolith in my hands, I stumbled over to where Korbal was lying and stood over his head.

“You like our bodies?” I asked, as I positioned the Magolith over his blank face.  “Then enjoy this one forever, you son of a bitch!” I snarled, and turned the Handmaiden loose on him.

She wasn’t a weapon.  She didn’t kill him – she wasn’t a killer.  She wasn’t a predator.

She fixed things.  Under my direction, she fixed Korbal, stitching his enneagram permanently into his rotting corpse.  I did not understand the technical elements of what was going on, but she communicated enough to me.

There would be no new body for him.  He was condemned to this one, until it gave out.  It would not be able to separate his spirit from his rotting corpse.  I couldn’t take his life, I didn’t have the means.  Even with the blast the necromantic power in Korbal was sustaining him.  His body was toughened beyond easy injury, and I could not kill him.

But his immortality was in abeyance, now.  He was condemned to live in that gigantic, putrid, damaged wreck of a giant corpse.  That was something.

I managed one last effort, before I passed out.  I called Pentandra, mind-to-mind – but only with the Handmaiden’s help.

Come get us, I said, it’s finished.

And collapsed.

My dreams were scattered and scrambled, a torturous combination of memory and terror wrapped in a cloak of skewed perception.  Pain and confusion, fear and anxiety hunted me as my mind drifted in unconsciousness.

I don’t have a lot of memories of that period, nor do I wish to.  I had seen too many horrors, encountered too much malevolence in a short period of time, and my subconscious, it seemed, had had entirely enough of it.

I do recall that much of my dreams involved running away, being chased by things and people that wanted to do me harm . . . though the harm was never specified.  Nor were my pursuers always my enemies.

At various times my parents, Alya, Queen Grendine, and even Olmeg the Green were chasing me.  But they were always transforming from one deceitful form to another.  The phantasmal landscape conspired to assist them, too.  Comfortable surroundings became nightmares of betrayal.  Bucolic landscapes turned into desolate wastelands at the blink of an eye.  The places my mind associated with safety and security seemed to be teeming with hidden dangers.

For days, it turns out, I was a prisoner of my own dreams.  I didn’t start to recover, I think, until I came upon a dreamlit bonfire, on a lonely stretch of country road.  A monk stood nearby, warming his hands.

“Minalan,” he greeted me, concerned, when he saw me.  “Minalan, are you all right?”

I had a sword in my hand – not a mageblade, just a regular sword, for some reason.  I held it out.

“Who are you?” I asked suspiciously.

“Brother Hotfoot,” he reminded me, gently.  “Otherwise known as Herus the Traveler.  God of journeys?”  He looked at my face searchingly.  “And you are on one hell of a journey, my friend,” he sighed, sadly.

“Who are you . . . really?” I asked, raising my blade.

“A very, very patient divinity,” he groaned.  “Minalan, it really is me – I’m trying to get you to wake up.  You’ve been injured, and you’re unconscious.  I was sent here to find you, again,” he explained, reasonably enough.  “Find you and convince you to come back.”

“Back where?” I asked, lowering my blade a bit.  I had been tricked before, and I was just waiting for the pleasant-looking monk to transform into a giant cockroach, or something.

“Back to the real, objective world.  Where you are needed.”

“The real world . . . hurts,” I said, wincing at some of my experiences, both real and imagined.

“All worlds hurt,” he said, philosophically.  “Pain is a condition of experience, regardless of the form you take.  Have you not experienced pain, here?” he asked, gesturing to the empty landscape around us.  “There is no more or less pain in the real world.”

“But there are responsibilities,” I countered, feeling argumentative.  “Here, all I have to do is try to stay alive.”

“You are not making this any easier!” he groaned.  “Minalan, of course there are responsibilities in the real world.  That’s why we need you!  Not because you’re a jolly fellow and a good traveling companion.  There are things happening that need your attention.”

“What if I don’t want to go back?” I offered, belligerently.

“You would abandon your responsibilities, because you fear them?”

“I question my responsibilities,” I answered, carefully, “because it was not my choice to assume them.  The Aronin compelled me to want to protect humanity,” I said, a trace of bitterness to my voice.  “He charmed me into thinking I was some kind of godsdamned hero, destined to save humanity.  That was a lie,” I said, angrily.

“Was it?” Herus asked, sharply.  “The Alka Alon are adept at magic, Minalan, but you aren’t who you are because they made you that way,” he reasoned.  “Yes, the Aronin manipulated you.  A little,” he emphasized.  “But he only amplified the expression of your heroic impulses.  They were already there.  As was the inclination to sacrifice for the greater good,” he added.

“But he took away my choice!” I snarled.

“Was that such a novel experience?” he countered.  “Were you given a choice when the gods – some of the gods, perhaps,” he amended, “gave you rajira?  Were you given a choice when you were conscripted?  Were you given a choice when you were born to a poor baker, and not a wealthy nobleman?”

“Hey!  Dad is a prosperous businessman!” I objected.

“My point is that our lives are often punctuated with events that determine our fates that our entirely out of our control.  You are no exception.  And the fact is, you did have a choice, at each of those junctions.  You could have run away, when you got your rajira, for instance, and become a footwizard – you would have made a great footwizard,” he added, fondly.  “You could have deserted from the army and made your way to the east, and avoided Farise all together.

“Instead, you made a choice to comply and cooperate with the uncontrolled decisions made about your life.

“The Aronin’s spell was no different.  Had you rebelled against his persuasion, you could have escaped from the entire affair when you went to Tudry to acquire mercenaries.  Of course,” he added, “you would have borne the burden of your own guilt for the rest of your life, but I’m certain you would have found a way to rationalize your actions.  The human mind has an infinite capacity for that,” he chuckled, wryly.

I considered what he said.  It had merit, of course – most reasonable propositions do.  But I was still feeling betrayed by the Aronin’s hand on my mind.

“I understand your point,” I sighed.  “But he had no right to do that to me.  Not without my permission.”

“Did Duke Rard have the right to conscript you into the Magical Corps?” Herus demanded.  “According to Duin’s Law, he did.  By what laws are the Alka Alon bound?” he inquired.

“The laws of decency?” I snorted.  “Inviting me into his home, and then tricking me into a war I didn’t want to fight?”

“Why did you go to Amadia to begin with, Minalan?” he asked, patiently.

“To gain the counsel of the Tree Folk about the goblins,” I answered, slowly.

“Why was that?”

“Because they were killing us?  Attacking us?  And I had a hunk of irionite I was afraid to use?”

“So, you wanted the means to defend your people,” Herus agreed, reasonably.  “And you wanted access to power, unfettered by the control of the Dead God.  Did the Aronin not grant you both of those things?”

“Well . . . yes . . .”

“You’re a spellmonger,” he continued, still using a ridiculously reasonable tone, “did you often perform magic for free for your clients?  Without the expectation of gain?”

“Not if I wanted to eat and pay my rent.  But the Aronin isn’t a village spellmonger,” I countered.

“No, he’s the guardian of great and powerful weapons from an earlier age,” Herus confirmed.  “He is the watcher of the molopor, and he was responsible for keeping his eye on the gurvani.  His entire settlement was dedicated to that task,” he reminded me.  “It was a charge his family accepted thousands of years ago.  His judgment is all that stands between peace and chaos.

“And this ballsy young wizard shows up,” he continued, “a scion from a brash and ephemeral race, complaining about the neighbors in the middle of a major crisis, and has the nerve to beg a boon while he’s trying to figure out the extent of the danger?  Why would he not use that resource?  Even sacrifice it, if need be, in order to secure his charge?  To spare you some inconvenience and validate your cowardice?  To salve your own guilt for sending good men to die in your name?

“No, Minalan, while you may rail against the personal indignities of being manipulated, you are not so special as to earn dispensation from your own fortune,” he said, a little disgust creeping into his voice.  “We all have a part to play, as this whole bloody mummer’s show plays out.  Even me,” he said, chuckling humorlessly.  “I’m the bloody messenger boy, and they have me playing confessor to the most powerful wizard on Callidore.”

I snorted back.  “Who is this ‘we’ you speak of?” I asked, sarcastically.  “I want to have a word with them.”

“‘We’ are the ‘we’, you idiot!” the monk exploded, angrily.  “Haven’t you realized that, by now?  As much as you lot like to give my lot credit for your fates, we are just as bound by them as you are!  We’re just expressions of your own powerlessness in the face of fortune, made carnate by a quirk of quantum physics, bizarre geology and an anomalous astronomical relationship!  We have no more control than you lot give us, and thanks to your collective neurosis that’s not a fucking lot!  We, together, gods and men – and Alka Alon, the Vundel, all of us – influence the outcome of events,” he continued, more calmly.  “In the face of forces that we cannot control.  That cannot be controlled.”

“Then why bother?”

“Because it beats curling up in the fetal position and waiting for the rest of the universe to just happen to you, as tempting a plan as that might be,” Herus shot back, sharply.  “That’s part of the human condition, too, fortunately.  Or unfortunately.  The unrelenting attempt to exert even the tiniest control over the rest of the universe.  By magic, by action, by prayer, by sheer desperation, you lot just don’t know how not to try to survive.  To control your own fates.”

“Even when we know it’s futile?”

“Thankfully, you’re kind of stupid, too,” Herus sighed.  “But it’s not – entirely – futile.  Within the warp and woof of our collective actions, both human and divine, we weave the fabric of our reality.  None of us enjoys any real control.  Not even we gods.  All of us control a tiny portion.  Whether we’re aware of it or not, king or peasant, celestial god or rustic divinity, we all control – and contribute – to the way its woven.”

“Your argument isn’t particularly convincing,” I pointed out.

“It’s the one I have,” he pleaded.  “And if it wasn’t for your own self-indulgent, egotistical fits of guilt and shame, you might appreciate its merits more.”

I studied the fire and considered his words.  “What’s chasing me?” I finally asked.  I figured if anyone would have insight on that, it would be a god.

“Your own fear of inadequacy, most likely,” Herus answered, after a moment’s reflection.  “I think that what really pisses you off about the Aronin influencing you wasn’t that he did it without your consent, or without a right to do it.  I think that you’re more concerned with the idea that without his help, you’d be a coward hiding out in Vore, spending the rest of your life listening to the increasingly horrific tales from the West and realizing how lucky you were.”

“So, what if I was?” I asked, defiantly.

“That’s your burden to bear,” he shrugged.  “I just walk here.”

I mulled over the truth of his words, which involved far more soul-searching than I was used to.  I’m not generally an introspective man, in my estimation.  I tended to act more than think.  When I thought about things, I was inclined to brood, and while I’m excellent at the art of brooding I usually gave up and did something, frustrated at my inability to figure something out.

But what if Herus was correct?  Was I just scared that I wasn’t the man I thought I was, because I’d received some coercive help along the way?

For no particular reason, I remembered the first time Dad threw me in the river, to teach me how to swim when I was six, at the river goddess’ festival that summer.

It was a minute of existential hell to realize I was drowning.  But once my desperation and determination to live gave me the ambition, I learned to swim very quickly.  I remember getting out of the water, feeling betrayed by my father for nearly killing me like that.  A week later I was sporting and playing in water over my head, joyful in the ability.  I’ve enjoyed swimming ever since.

Was I right to be resentful of my father for giving me the “help” at the time?  Perhaps, I reasoned.  But as sadistic as it had felt then, the importance of that bit of treachery allowed me to swim away from a sinking dinghy in Farise, among other adventures.  In his way, Dad had taken control over my life . . . to my everlasting benefit.

Was I, therefore, right to be resentful of the Aronin for doing essentially the same thing?

Since our conversation in his forest enclave, I had not only survived against unimaginable odds, I had started a family, raised my station, and improved the lives of millions, thanks to the changes I’d forced in the way magic was administered in the kingdom.  And I’d saved the lives of millions more by my efforts against the dark forces in the west.

Without the Aronin’s help, there was no doubt in my mind that I would have failed.  Hells, without his help I would have become Sheruel’s compliant tool before he even arrived at Boval Vale.  Much less rescued myself, Alya, our unborn child, and four thousand other folks who were more or less happy with the outcome.

Did I really have a right to bitch that he didn’t ask permission before he gave me exactly what I asked for . . . and a bonus of enthusiastic optimism, however woefully misplaced?

I finally decided that it didn’t matter if I’d consented to his manipulations or not – they’d happened.  Events had unfolded as a consequence, both good and bad.  Reviewed objectively, without the context of my hurt feelings and guilt, his action was only one of a thousand things that had contributed to what had come to be.  It was neither more nor less important than any other of them, I finally realized.

Herus was right.  If I’d calmly accepted conscription into His Grace’s Magical Corps, all those years ago, because I didn’t have much choice, then I’d also calmly accepted conscription into the Aronin’s plans to try to defend his charge against the danger of misuse.  In the same position, I decided, I would likely have done something similar, without regard to the free will of whomever was involved.

Something similar, or worse.

“All right,” I finally sighed.  “Fine.  I concede I’m sulking, afraid of my own inadequacies.  I concede that I need to pull myself together and face the consequences of what I’ve done, without the luxury of blaming a scheming Alkan for my troubles.  What do I have to do to get back to consciousness?”

Herus smiled, relieved.  “Just follow me,” he advised.  “I know the way.  I always do.”

Chapter Fifty

The Tower Of Refuge

I eventually awoke.  I usually do.

It was in a strange bed, under a strange roof, and I was dressed in strange clothing – a simple cotton robe.  It was mid-morning when my eyes and my brain finally starting speaking to each other again.  Piece by piece I assembled my murky memories, until I came to my dreamscape.  The Magolith was floating quietly over my head of its own accord.

“And . . . you’re awake,” Lilastien pronounced, from nearby.  “Again.  Is it going to take this time, I wonder?  The last time you were conscious, this morning, for an entire five minutes.  Then you collapsed on the chamberpot,” she added, amused.  She didn’t seem particularly excited about my consciousness, which I found a relief.

She spent a few moments conducting an examination – shining a magelight into my eyes, feeling my pulse, ascertaining my blood pressure and temperature, all without a medical baculus.  She finally sat back straightened her white coat, and smiled.

“You seem to be fit, physically,” she informed me.  “No serious wounds, no permanent damage from the battle.  Congratulations.”  Then she frowned.  “Your mental state might be another matter,” she cautioned.

“Isn’t it always?” I quipped.

“What do you remember?” she asked, after smiling at my joke.

So, I told her.  Everything I could, up to my final collapse next to Korbal’s big, stinking body.

“That’s it,” I shrugged.  “After that, it was just tortured dreams, until Herus pulled me out.  Your doing?” I asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“He’s the messenger of the gods,” she pointed out.  “I imposed upon him to bear you a message.”

“That’s a pretty tricky interpretation of his divinity,” I considered.

“That’s what he said,” she smirked.  “It worked, didn’t it?  I stand by my techniques.”

“So, what happened next?” I asked, both eager for and dreading the news.

“Once the Ways were restored, and you contacted Pentandra, she sent in a rescue operation.  Azar, Wenek, Onranion, and some of the reserves went, and a good thing, too.  Nemovorti began showing up.  They had to fight their way out, but they got everyone,” she said, proudly.

“Did they slay Korbal?  Or Sheruel?”

“Alas, they didn’t have the time.  You were the priority,” she admitted.  “But I wouldn’t consider that a failure.  I was there,” she reminded me.  “I saw what happened.  If Sire Cei’s hammer couldn’t crack that thing, and the kind of magic you were throwing at him didn’t kill him, it’s going to take . . . more.  Something else.  Consigning him to that mortal body is a start,” she conceded.  “It gives us some hope.  Especially if he’s wielding Sheruel like a warwand,” she added, darkly.  “Thank goodness you stopped him, before he could unleash the full capacities of that horror!”

I looked up.  “Where are we, exactly?”

“The Tower of Refuge,” she answered.  “They pulled us through the Ways to Timberwatch, and got us stabilized there.  I had them bring the worst cases back here, where I could monitor and tend them.  I thought it best – we don’t know how our foes will respond to the indignity of the raid.”

I nodded – the magically-warded Tower of Refuge in Sartha Wood was bound by an arcane girdle that had been augmented by the gods, themselves.  I peered out of the Alkan-style arched window down to the yard, where three big pavilions had been erected to tend the wounded.

“That was thoughtful – and speaking of retribution, have there been any reprisals?”

“Talk to your military folk,” she dismissed.  “But I haven’t heard anything.  I would say we got away with a spectacular victory, if eighty-six of your fellows hadn’t given their lives in the effort.”

“That is fewer casualties than I expected, honestly,” I admitted, in good humor.  “I’m still disappointed that we didn’t kill either of them.”

“There just wasn’t the time,” she said, shaking her head, sadly.  “I was barely conscious myself, when Wenek and Azar showed up.  And I was the only one conscious.  We had minutes, no more, before the Nemovorti started arriving.”

“Did . . . did Sire Cei survive?” I asked, quietly, remembering his heroic strike on Sheruel.

“I don’t know how, but yes,” she sighed.  “He’s worse off than you – the most worse off, of all my patients.  But his dragonhide armor took the brunt of the blast, I think.  And he wasn’t Talented enough to bear as much damage as the rest of us.

“Mavone is almost as badly hurt, but his damage is arcane.  I’m still trying to determine the extent of it.  Dara was the least affected by the blast, but it was enough to kill her bird when it landed.”  She looked at me critically.  “Now that you’re awake, I’m going to send up some food for you.  You’re probably hungry.”

“Starving,” I agreed, realizing just how hungry I was.  “Other than that . . . I actually feel pretty good,” I admitted.

“Excellent,” she pronounced.  “I give that thing a lot of credit,” she added, nodding toward the Magolith.  “We got to know each other a bit, while you were sleeping.  So that’s the Handmaiden, inside,” she nodded, her eyes narrowing.

“Installed by the Aronin of Amadia, himself,” I agreed.  “I’ll have to tell you about the fascinating conversations we had, in the short time we were together.”

“He’s dead, now?” she asked, sorrowfully.

“At last.  He was tortured and maimed by Korbal.  But he did not give the location of the arsenal to him,” I assured her.

She sighed, relieved.  “That is good news.  Minalan, if you knew the terrors it held, what it could do . . . wait, did he tell you where it was?” she asked, her eyes growing wide.

“He wouldn’t.  But he gave me some hints.  A story for another time,” I apologized.

“We will catch up, I promise.  But as soon as you’re feeling able, there are many, many people who dearly want to speak to you.”

And there were – starting with Pentandra.  I reached out to her, mind-to-mind, as soon as Lilastien left.  She was excited to hear from me.

MIN!  You’re back among the living!

Ouch!  Don’t joke about that, I winced.  I just went toe-to-toe with the Necromancer.

I thought you were going to join him there, for a while, she joked.  It’s been two days.  I haven’t been this worried about you since the Long March.

Did Arborn make it home, okay?

Thanks to Tyndal and Rondal and the Estasi Knights, yes, thank you.  He’s beaten all to three hells, but he’s whole and hale.  We’re in a carriage headed to the Anvil, now, she advised.  We’re going to take a few days to rest, and then start helping sort out these freed slaves for a few weeks.

What does the military situation look like?

We have strong cavalry patrols running the length of the Penumbra, and all the pele towers are on alert.  So far, they haven’t seen more than scouts and infantry patrols dare to follow after us.  There were two small battles, when they tried, and we won them both decisively.  We’re still preparing for an organized assault, though.  I think we just hit them so hard and in so many places that they’re having a hard time recovering.

And the political?

That’s a little more troubling, she admitted.  Despite our best efforts to keep this operation quiet, I’ve had two discrete inquiries from Castabriel about it.  I focused on the attack on the Penumbra, of course, but they both intimated that they knew something else was going on.  But Rardine is safe, and healthy, and as angry as I’ve ever seen her.  She feels completely betrayed by her family.

How are she and Anguin getting along?

I’ve only seen them together a few times, but she seems genuinely appreciative of his efforts.  Even after she learned the bounty on her return.  She wants to wait a few more days before we present her to her parents.

That should be fun, I smirked.

Won’t it?  Especially with Tavard bravely setting sail to challenge the Alshari navy, with his super-secret plan?

At least the Castali merchant fleet will enjoy some cover from that, I pointed out.  Maybe they won’t lose so many ships to slavers, now, if they have Tavard’s fleet to chew on.

They should be making port in Farise by the end of the week.  Then they’ll set out.  So our presentation to Rard and Grendine should help distract them from their anxiety about their idiot son.

You know, I already feel safer with him out of the duchy? I observed.

After I spoke with Pentandra, a Tal servant brought me a tray heaping with food – humani type food, not the exaggerated salad the Alka Alon usually ate.  Right behind the servant was a visitor, Onranion.

“Lil told me you were awake,” he said, after he greeted me warmly.  “I was hoping for a chat before you got preoccupied with the mortal realm.”

“If you don’t mind watching me eat,” I said, indicating the sole chair in the sparse chamber.

“How is our little experiment?” he asked as soon as he sat down.  I directed the Magolith to float over to him so that he could examine it.

“See for yourself,” I suggested, as I began devouring a bowl of scrambled eggs.  “As far as I can tell, she’s integrating perfectly into the centerpoint.  The Aronin set the primary connections, but she’s been stitching herself to them with every pulse of the crystal.”

“Remarkable,” he said, closing his eyes and sending his consciousness into the Magolith in front of him.

That was fine by me – I wanted to eat, and I was feeling very protective of the opportunity.  I was halfway through a rasher of bacon when he finally opened his eyes.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” he asked, wonder in his voice as he sat back and regarded the Magolith.  “She’s almost as spectacular as the Celestial Mother.  And far, far more integrated.  I’m . . . saddened I didn’t get to see the Aronin, one last time.  But gratified that he was able to assist.  He was a brilliant spellsinger, in his way.”

“We had some interesting conversations,” I said, evenly.  I was still uncertain about how I felt about the Alkan.

“His survival is surprising.  I figured Sheruel slew all the Alka Alon he took at Boval.”

“I think that was likely his Enshadowed allies, advising him to hold them for interrogation.  But they didn’t want Sheruel to discover the arsenal first.  They bided their time until they recovered Korbal.  He’s the one who really put the question to him.”

“And he did not break,” Onranion said, a statement, not a question.

“Not one little bit,” I nodded.  “His daughter should be with the arsenal, now, guarding it directly.”  I thought a bit more about our journey.  “Wait, there was something else you missed – where’s my kit?” I asked, rising.  My gear proved to be in the next room, neatly piled on a bench.  I found my weapons harness and got what I needed.  One of my hoxter anchors.

“Here,” I presented him, a moment later, a stone four inches across.  “Ghost Rock.  I have four or five chunks of it.  The largest is about twenty times the volume of the Grain of Pors,” I bragged.  “I thought you might like to study it.”

His eyes bulged as he realized what I had in hand.

“Minalan!  That’s not from—”

“A minor vein,” I assured.  “But they were harvesting it.  I think they were using it to expand the Umbra, but I’m not sure.  I didn’t want to just leave it there for them to use.  In any case, I figured you’d like to take a peek, experiment a little,” I said, handing the stone to him.

“Thank you,” he said, absently, as he looked down at it.  “Why did you take it?”

“I was raiding and looting, and it was just sitting there,” I said, defensively.  “I didn’t want them to have it.  And I thought it might be useful.”

“Mayhap,” he shrugged.  “But such things can be dangerous.”

“Everything in my life is dangerous,” I countered with a snort.  “I can’t take a piss without encountering mortal peril, it seems, sometimes.”

“Ah, mortal problems,” he smirked.  “My point is that Ghost Rock is valued and protected because it is powerful.  People desire it.  I would keep its existence a secret.”

“I’ll throw it in the closet with the others,” I shrugged, as I smeared an extravagant amount of honey and butter on the bread.  “I seem to have accumulated quite the collection.  From whom should I conceal it?”

“The Alka Alon council,” he said, quietly.  “With the fall of Aeratas you have lost your strongest ally on it, unfortunately.  There will be continued pressure to expel you, especially after this little festival.  Twenty-one Tera Alon dead,” he reported, sadly.

“They were volunteers.  Following their lord,” I pointed out.  “Why would that matter to them?”

“Well, we won’t know until we make our report to them,” he conceded.  “But I predict there will be a strong reaction against this raid.  I anticipate the terms ‘rash’, ‘impetuous’, and ‘impulsive’ will be used with great gravity.”

“To which I will add ‘successful’ and ‘daring’,” I proposed.  “Regardless of their prejudices, the information I bring is vital.  What Korbal and the Enshadowed are planning – not just against my people, but against all of Callidore – has to be countered.  If they want to do it, and relieve me of the responsibility, I am certainly agreeable to that,” I insisted.  “Hells, nothing would make me happier.

“But,” I continued, “as the Council doesn’t seem to want to get off their collective arse and act, I don’t see where I have a choice but to be rash, impetuous, and impulsive.”

“Oh, that’s why I like you, my boy!” Onranion smiled.  “Never afraid of challenging the powers of the world.  You’ll need that with them, after losing Aeratas.  When do you want to inform them?”

“When can we arrange for a council meeting?  After returning Rardine to court, this is my next highest priority.”

“A few weeks,” he considered.  “I’ll inform Raer Haruthel.  He’ll make the arrangements.  And I will . . . I will inform Lady Falawen,” he sighed.

“No,” I said, shaking my head.  “That is my duty.  She is . . . she is my vassal,” I decided.  “And the Heir to Anthatiel, now.  Her father’s death is a complicated story to tell.  I should be the one who explains it to her.  I might be able to bring her some solace.  I think she is best suited to hold Mycin Amana, too,” I added.

“Then I leave it to you,” he nodded.  “I’ve been discussing the battle with the Tera Alon . . . of which I am one, I was surprised to learn,” he grinned.  “They were incredibly impressed with your warmagi in battle.  Their tenacity, their ingenuity, their valor . . . though they mourn the loss of their leader, they are yet more enthusiastic for the cause he built.”

“I hope it isn’t a lost cause,” I said, thinking of the ruined, desecrated expanse of Olum Seheri.

“How can it be?  You mortals need to learn something from us ancient ones.  As long as someone is still fighting for it, there’s always hope.”

“How do you think we should do this?” I asked, cautiously, as we approached Alya.  She was sitting in the main hall of the Tower, playing a simple child’s game with a Tal servant.

“I would advise allowing the Handmaiden to determine the extent of her intervention,” Lilastien advised, her hands thrust into the pockets of her white coat.  “Allow her a few hours a day of her influence.  Not too much at one time, lest she become . . . confused.”

“On what basis are you making that recommendation?” I asked, curious.

“Basic medical wisdom,” she shrugged.  “We’re dealing with an unknown condition and an unknown variable.  Give her a little at a time, every day, and see how she responds.  Any more or less than that, and we won’t be able to tell if it’s working.”

I thought of the brave men who had died to secure this remedy, as I smiled at Alya and sent the Handmaiden to hover over her head.

“Pretty!” she said, as she stared at the throbbing green gold-clad ball over her head.  Then her eyes closed, and I could feel the Magolith begin to work.

“We might need to keep it for a while, to treat her,” Lilastien suggested, casually.

“Keep it for as long as you like,” I agreed.  “I have other irionite.  I don’t think I really want to announce I have a new super-weapon right now, anyway.  It might make some folks nervous,” I offered.

“If the Alkan council saw this, they’d shit themselves,” agreed Lilastien with a chuckled.  “Serves them right.  If they hadn’t been . . .”

“I know,” I sighed.  “The important thing now is that we get Alya’s mind repaired.  As much as we can,” I said, as I felt the waves of magical energy emanating from the Magolith.  “After that, I’ll deal with whatever consequences are involved.”

“You just kicked Korbal in the balls, without much help from us,” the Sorceress commented.  “I don’t think there will be much in the way of consequences.  From the Alkan council, at least.  You took the fight to him, while they were hiding under their blankets and worrying about their options.  They won’t kick you off the council, now.  You won.  Or at least won as much as you could have expected to.”

“I lost Aeratas,” I pointed out.

“He was looking to be lost,” she countered.  “He never intended on returning from Olum Seheri.  That little bit of necromancy you managed?  Reuniting him with his bride?  Don’t think that doesn’t have resonance with my people,” she proposed.  “He and Hynalinae were amongst the great, of Alkan society in this realm.  Her loss was tragic, and their reunion will be joyous,” she predicted.

“And fraught with conflict,” I chuckled.  “You should have heard how she reacted when she found out Falawen married a mortal.”

Lilastien chuckled.  “I wish I could have witnessed that – she was ever a proud Farastamari woman.  The very idea of her daughter marrying an . . . an alien . . .” she said, breaking out in laughter.  “Forgive me, Minalan, I mean no offense.”

“I take none,” I shrugged.  “If this adventure has done nothing else, it has demystified the way I look at the Alka Alon,” I concluded.  “Your people’s ways might seem exotic, but at the core they are just as petty, vindictive, and prone to error as we.”

“More so,” Lilastien said, moodily, her thin lips pursed.  “We were so arrogant, when we came to Callidore.  So willing to re-invent ourselves into some new, noble estate.  Yet all of our long years and supposed wisdom have done little to either make our lives better, or secure a better future for our children.  Hells, some have even eschewed the idea of children, content to indulge in their pursuits without such complications – how can a race thrive with that sort of attitude?”

“So you think a little alien barbarian warrior-prince blood will help?” I asked, quietly amused by her perspective.

“Gods, it couldn’t hurt,” she said, as she watched Alya become transfixed by the Magolith.  “Something must happen, to lift us from our complacency.  Four hundred years I’ve been a captive, here.  The world I see now is vital and passionate . . . but my people, alas, are all too content to observe, not participate, in the world around them.”

“When the Alka Alon first came to us and proposed an actual alliance,” I considered, “we were concerned.  They seemed to be appeasing us, merely throwing us trinkets and weapons like the Thoughtful Knife, and irionite, of course.  But they seemed as if they were just . . . buying time.”

“You weren’t wrong, Minalan,” Lilastien said with a tired sigh.  “Since our . . . probation with the Vundel, a few reactionary houses have sought to find some better situation for their futures.  A situation . . . outside of Callidore.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, sharply.  Lilastien sighed.

“I mean that there are some who are prepared to abandon ten thousand years of history on this storied globe for the possibility of a new life elsewhere,” she admitted.  “I’m not proud of it, but there are plenty of clans who will be all too eager to abandon Callidore to the Vundel and Korbal and the Formless . . . and humanity.  And seek a more serene and less violent existence on some other world.”

“I didn’t think the Alka Alon maintained the knowledge or power for such things,” I said, as the implications of her words came to my mind.

“It isn’t a matter of power, it’s a matter of knowledge,” she admitted.  “Some clans maintain the lore of our ancient forefathers, the knowledge of how to escape this world, at need.”

“How?” I demanded.

“You’ve said our people do not build ships?” she asked, quietly, as we watched the Magolith treat Alya.  “That is not entirely correct.  We do not brave the oceans of this world.  But amongst the cosmos, we have crossed the void to find better shores.  At need, Minalan,” she said, sadly, “my people are all too willing to abandon this world and the sins they have committed here.  And you with it.”

PART III

A Wizard’s Work

Interlude IV

Gatina

“The Plan”

“I have the men, and they have departed,” Gatina announced triumphantly, as she entered the hall.  It was a small but stately hall, built back when the Counts of Falas ruled these lands in the name of the distant Magocracy.  Her family had many lands and estates, under many names, but of them all Shadowood was the one she and her brother most considered “home”.

Shadowood was itself hidden behind a massive orchard, beyond a thick forest, on a rocky hilltop in patch of rough terrain than was at odds with the fertile fields around it.  It was a modest hall, more decorative than defensive, but it was comfortable.  Shadowood was where the children of the family were raised in peace, away from the prying eyes of the other nobility.  The tiny hamlet at the base of the hill was the home of four families of retainers, loyal servants of her family since the Magocracy.

Shadowood was where the Cats of Enultramar relaxed.  Here the family could put aside their disguises and deceptions and be at peace.  It was where her father, Lord Hance, had placed the Waystone the Spellmonger gifted him with.

“How many?” her mother inquired, as she finished her luncheon.

“More than eight hundred,” she reported, proudly, as she dropped her cloak on the floor, earning her a look from her mother.  “Freshly trained and eager.  I explained the plan to them, after swearing them to secrecy,” she said, flopping in the other chair at the table in a most unladylike manner.  “They all agreed, to a man.”

“You even told them about the . . . inconvenience?”

“Yes,” she said, rolling her eyes.  “Indeed, I dwelt upon it.  They seemed to thrive upon the possibility of hardship.  The greater the challenge, the greater the honor, and all that.  These Wilderlords are a strange folk,” she smiled.

“But robust and active,” her mother pointed out, fondly.  “Much like your young man.  Have you arranged transport?”

“All the way to the port,” she agreed.  “The man you suggested was willing to help, of course, once he was paid.  He understands implicitly what he must do, and the consequences if it is not done properly.  After that, well, they’ll be on their own.”  She looked down at her feet.  “Did you . . .?”

“I said I would, didn’t I?” her mother smiled.  “It appears that I remain quite persuasive.  My friend in the north will do as we ask.  If nothing else, it will draw suspicion away from them.  The Council of Counts is always looking for signs of treachery and resistance to their rule, these days.”

“I heard about the arrests,” Gatina frowned.  After a decomposing dragon’s head mysteriously appeared in the middle of the council chamber in Falas, the Count of Rhemes sent his men out to “investigate” the crime of aiding the ‘so-called Duke of North Alshar’, a well-known crony of the usurper, Rard.  Several prominent critics of the Count were taken into custody for questioning in the matter – including popular monks and nuns, a high priest, a viscount, two barons, sixteen lords and knights, and nearly a hundred merchants and ship captains.

“He’s using it as a ploy to silence his enemies,” Gatina’s mother sighed.  “Thankfully, the Count allows his personal feelings to dictate who those enemies are.  Only a few of our people were caught up in the net, and no one who cannot be freed with time and treasure.”

“So it hasn’t disturbed our preparations?” Gatina asked, excitedly.

“Not one bit,” her mother affirmed.  “From what my friends at the shore tell me, The Five Counts cannot unify about anything other than they hate Rard and want to be the next Duke, themselves.  The Count of Rhemes hunts for spies and saboteurs where there are none, and hires the ones we send him.  The Count of Caramas frets at losing control of his backcountry to the undead insurgency, the Count of Erona robs his neighbors to pay bribes to the rest of the council to keep the slave trade running smoothly, and the Count of Arangalan devotes himself to personally intercepting the Castali fleet off Farise.”

“So they will suspect nothing,” Gatina nodded, satisfied.

“My daughter, do not think this will be easy,” her mother cautioned.  “What you propose to do is beyond daring, it is audacious.  You risk not just the political stability of the land, but the lives of eight hundred good men.”

“Sometimes men must be put at risk, for the greater good,” Gatina countered with a frown.  “And this is, indeed, the greater good!  Am I not risking my own life in this endeavor?”

“Yours and a great many others,” her mother sighed.  “I trust in you, Kitten, but a goodly number of things could go horribly wrong.  And likely will.”

“Don’t they always?” Gatina asked, pouring herself a cup of tea.  “No heist worth taking was ever free of risk,” she reminded her mother.

“This is not a simple break-in,” her mother countered.  “This is more like a complicated spell than a sophisticated heist.”

“Which is why I turned to you, instead of Daddy,” Gatina agreed.  “Besides, you’re more social than he is.  And a lot friendlier.”

“I have my influence,” her mother agreed, cautiously.  “You are fortunate that there are so many who dislike the government of the Five Counts, and more still who resent Anguin’s treatment by his own court.  Lenguin was not well-loved, but he was respected, and Enora was admired – Trygg alone knows why,” she snorted in disgust.  From what Gatina recalled from her youth, her mother had never liked the Duchess, much.

“I care not why they join us, merely that they do,” Gatina insisted.  She detected a note to her mother’s tone she did not like.  “Why, have you encountered resistance?”

“It is no small thing you ask, Kitten,” her mother said softly, petting her daughter’s white hair.  “Many are concerned at the risk.  Should things fare poorly, they could be executed as traitors, their estates confiscated.”

“If they do nothing, they will have to sell their estates to pay the taxes on the slaves that were cheaper than their own villeins,” Gatina said, rolling their eyes.  “You’ve seen how things are going, Mother . . . it’s been four years, now, and there are entire domains teetering on ruin.”

“I am aware, Kitten,” her mother insisted.  “And I am persuasive.  When the time comes, we will have support.”

“Enough support?” she coaxed.

“That is for the gods to decide,” her mother sighed.  “I do hope this boy is worth it.”

“He is,” Gatina assured her.  “You’ve met him.”

“He is a handsome lad, with a deep wit and a confident air,” her mother agreed.  “I can see why you favor him, so.  But most importantly,” she said, drawing Gatina into an embrace, “he loves my daughter.  And my daughter loves him.  That is really all that is necessary to enlist my aid.”

Chapter Fifty-One

Rardine’s Redemption

“Baron Minalan,” Master Hartarian yawned, bowing graciously as I came out of the Ways.  The old man was wearing a comfortable robe instead of a doublet and hose, and held his staff of office with a firm but relaxed grip.  “Good morning.  Welcome to the palace.  You said you’d explain when you got here?” he asked, getting to the point without further pleasantries.

I’d arrived in the residential quarters of the palace, the majestic hall that had absorbed so much of the Kingdom’s taxes.  He led me across an exquisitely well-crafted floor, using a magelight on his staff to guide us through the pre-dawn gloom.

“I have need to take counsel of Their Majesties, at the earliest possible convenience, on a matter of the utmost and most urgent importance.”

“Which is a courtier’s way of waking them up in the middle of the night,” he nodded.  “Well, you are a member of the senior Royal Court.  It is your right.  But . . . can you give me a hint of what’s going on?  Is it . . . Prince Tavard?”

“Nay,” I assured him, “I’ve heard no word of the Prince since he and his fleet made Farise.  As far I know he’s safe and in command of his forces . . . as yet,” I felt compelled to add.

“Then what?”

“I will reveal all when they are together,” I promised.  “Also summon the Prime Minister,” I suggested.  “He’ll want to hear this.”

He frowned, but nodded.  “Of course, I’ll have them awakened.  We can meet in the Dawn Room,” he suggested, leading me to a beautiful chamber that overlooked the eastern regions of the palace, to enjoy the sunrise through the stained-glass windows depicting – of course – a sunrise.  I took a seat at the table there, while Hartarian closed the door and went to summon the castellan on duty.  A servant appeared soon after, asking if I’d like any refreshment.

Before Their Majesties arrived, with Count Kindine tottering in with his deputy, Lord Argas, attending at his elbow, the servants brought a large plate of hot biscuits and muffins, with pots of butter, honey, and jam, along with pitchers of mulled wine and warm ale.  Discussions always go better with freshly baked goods, Dad always said.

“Good morning, Spellmonger,” King Rard said, when he arrived with his guard, bleary eyed and yawning.  “I take it this could not wait until a more reasonable hour?”

“A wizard always has reasons for what he does,” I said, cryptically.  “If you don’t mind awaiting the others, Your Majesty . . .”

“Of course, of course, I don’t want you to have to repeat it, whatever it is,” he conceded.  “Is that wine?”

“I have news of Princess Rardine,” I began, thoughtfully, once everyone arrived.

“What?  Rardine?” Rard asked, inhaling sharply.

“Has a ransom been issued?” Count Kindine asked, sharply.  Grendine just blinked in confusion.

“Indeed,” I nodded.  “Though this matter concerns not her ransom . . . but her rescue.”

“What?!” demanded Grendine, even more sharply.

“Princess Rardine was rescued from her prison in Olum Seheri – not in rebel-controlled Alshari territory,” I stressed.  “She was, as we suspected, a prisoner of Korbal.  She is well and has been resting in a safe place, for the last few days, to recover from her ordeal.”

“Trygg’s Grace!” Grendine said, her eyes growing teary.  “My baby is safe!”  She broke down in an uncharacteristic display of maternal emotion.  It made me uncomfortable, seeing such a strong and self-controlled woman sob like that – especially after she’d obstructed any chance of rescue.  She wasn’t insincere, though.  Rard put his arm around her, his face serious, his eyes closed.

“A week?” Kindine asked.  “Why were we not informed of this at once, Minalan?”

“By Her Highness’ request,” I answered.  “She wished to restore and refresh herself from her imprisonment before she presented herself to the court.”

“Fuck the court!” Rard snarled.  “I want to see her, Minalan!”

“Of course,” I nodded.  “She will be along presently.  But before this descended into a teary reunion, I wanted to relay the news and the tale of her rescue.”

“Who did it?” Grendine asked, suddenly.  Her eyes were still full of tears, but she was suddenly attentive.  “You?”

“While I and my associates assisted,” I said, carefully, “the man responsible for your daughter’s rescue did so of his own accord, only coming to me for assistance when he had need.”

“He shall be a baron twice over,” assured Rard, his arm still around Grendine’s shoulder.  “Just bring my child to me!”

I considered explaining in more detail how the operation was carried out, but the look in the king’s eye was compelling.  His priority, as any good father, was establishing the security of his family.  I made the mental contact necessary, and in a moment Sirs Rondal and Tyndal appeared through the Ways on my personal stone.  Each bore a passenger: Duke Anguin and Princess Rardine.

“Mother,” she said, evenly, when she appeared.  “Father—”

Before she could say another word, she was engulfed in an embrace by them both.  There was more weeping on both sides.

“So you are the rescuer of the Princess?” Count Kindine asked of Tyndal.

“Nay, my lord, Sir Rondal and I merely accompanied His Grace on his adventure, as good gentlemen should,” Tyndal informed him.  “The operation was Duke Anguin’s idea, and he funded and executed it.”

“It was my duty,” Anguin said, quietly, as he watched his aunt and uncle welcome his cousin.  “She was being held within my lands.  And she is my . . . family,” he added.  No doubt he was torn at having rescued the woman who’d likely ordered his parents’ execution, but he did not allow that to interfere with his ambition.  “The wizards are being overly modest, however: without their assistance, I could never have achieved it.”

“Did you not also just lead a liberating attack on the Penumbra, Your Grace?” Lord Argas asked, politely.

“I did,” Anguin assured.  “That was just as important as my cousin’s rescue.  Over a hundred thousand former slaves of the gurvani are free, now,” he said without boast.  “It was part of the larger operation.  While the gurvani were distracted at the loss of their chattel, we were able to launch a surprise raid on Olum Seheri.  I thank Duin and Trygg that it was successful,” he added, piously.

“I dislike bringing up a delicate matter,” Count Kindine asked, softly, while the Royal Family continued their display.  “But was Her Highness’ virtue preserved?”

“Yes, I remain unravaged, Prime Minister,” Rardine stated, breaking away from the loving arms of her parents.  “The gurvani have little desire for human lovers, and as for the undead servants of Korbal, they are uninterested in my charms, however noble.”

“I was thinking of the pirates,” Kindine shrugged.  “No matter.  We are all just happy and thankful that you are safe, my dear,” he assured her.

“So . . . it was you who rescued her,” Rard said, striding over to his nephew.  “You, who have every reason . . . thank you,” he said, with heartfelt gratitude, as he embraced the young man.  “Thank you, Anguin, with every breath in my body.  You brought my daughter home to me, and saved her from those . . . criminals.”

“As I said, it was my duty,” Anguin replied with a bow.  “I might only hold a fraction of the lands that are my legacy, but I endeavor to manage those lands as well as any ruler.  If there are bandits in my woods, I want them dealt with – particularly when they start kidnapping my family.

“But full credit goes to the Spellmonger and his brave men – I merely sponsored the expedition, and accompanied the final assault.”

“You?  You went to that horrible place?” Grendine asked, surprised.

“She is my family,” Anguin repeated, firmly.  “That means much, to me.  When you are known as the Orphan Duke, family becomes particularly important,” he said, letting the unspoken accusation hang in the air.

Anguin is smart.  He let Grendine know that he knew of her role in his parents’ death, but he did not call her out on the crime.  His magnanimous attitude toward his family was, of course, partially affected; after what they’d done to him, I was shocked he didn’t hate them all.  But then Anguin’s complexities are one of the things that make him a good ruler.

“Of course, as it should be,” Grendine said, her face a little pale.  “You have our gratitude, not just as monarchs and liege lords, but as your aunt and uncle.”

“Do you mean to claim the reward, Your Grace?” asked Lord Argas.  It was a simple question, but it was an important one.

“I believe that is my due,” Anguin said, simply, in a friendly tone that communicated his expectations.  “I am a poor lord of a poor land.  The revenue from those estates would go a long way toward stabilizing my impoverished realm.  And keeping up on my tribute,” he added, with a smile.  As the Prime Minister was, indirectly, responsible for the collection of that tribute, he chuckled.

“Of course, of course,” Kindine agreed.  “I shall have the parchments drawn up to transfer the properties.”

“And any other reward you care to name!” Rard added.  “In truth, I will be glad to see those Gilmoran baronies taken in firm hand.  Since the invasion, and without a real baron running them, they have been in a wretched state.  They need to be put a-right.  I will grant two thousand Roses for each of them, to help you with the task.  Rogue mercenaries, goblin bands hiding in deserted places, bandits running wild – they will need some strong leadership.  And it seems,” he added, indulgently, “that you are more than capable of managing your estates.”

“Your Majesty,” Anguin said, bowing in gratitude, “I thank you for your generosity.  “I ask for no further reward . . . though I do beg a boon,” he asked.

That got Rard’s attention.  “What would you ask?”

“That my sisters, who are nearly of age, be given into my custody so that I might enjoy their company and see to beneficial marriages for them.”

The suggestion clearly made Grendine uncomfortable.  “My nephew, while I commend your ambition and bravery, I think that under the circumstances they are safest where they are.”

“Safest for whom, Mother?” Rardine asked, sharply.  “Let us not mince words, not after the ordeal I’ve endured.  They were always but hostages for Anguin’s loyalty and behavior.  I think that he has demonstrated both to any reasonable lord’s satisfaction,” she said, pointedly.  “Continuing to hold them thus creates an unnecessary strain on the political order.”

“Not back from captivity an hour, and she’s already lecturing us!” Rard said, fondly.

“Princess Rardine has a rare and keen intelligence, Your Majesty,” Tyndal commented, quietly.

“That she does,” Grendine finally said, biting her bottom lip.  “We shall grant your boon.  Once you take possession of your new lands, we shall have them both sent to you at Vorone.  As a token of our confidence in your responsibility.”

“That is all I ask, Your Majesties,” Anguin assured.

“Shall we announce this to the Court, then?” Lord Argas asked, looking around the room.  “This will be great news – greater than His Highnesses’ punitive expedition.”

“Yes, yes, it will need to be,” sighed Grendine, her mind already working.  “Schedule a meeting of Court for later this morning.  We shall make the announcement then,” she decided.  “Let’s get you settled into your quarters,” she said, fussing with Rardine’s hair, “and then we can catch up.  Thank you, Anguin,” she said, genuinely, as she embraced her daughter again.  “And thank you, our noble wizards.  Despite your humility, I suspect your role was larger than you let on.  It will not be forgotten.”

“She’ll forget about this as soon as there’s news from Farise,” Duke Anguin said, sourly, as we walked the new garden in front of the palace.  Rardine was still closeted with her family, while the castellans of the palace sent word of the Court, so the lads and I spent the time touring the new complex and gardens.  “Indeed, I feel she will regret her boon, and the rescue itself, in time.”

“As long as she doesn’t forget the baronies,” Tyndal commented.  “And your sisters.”

“Yes, that will be helpful,” Anguin agreed.  “I barely recognized them, when I saw them last.  Rardine said that this would be the best time to ask for their release.  Her mother wanted to marry them off, herself, to loyal Castali lords who would then have a claim on their supposed dowries, back in Enultramar.”

“You are taking advice from your cousin, now?” I asked, surprised.

“She’s . . . changed,” Anguin admitted, guiltily.  “Oh, she’s still the same crabby, arrogant little princess she always was, but I think her time imprisoned gave her an opportunity to reflect.  Particularly upon her parents’ lack of action in rescuing her.  When she heard that Tavard was using her imprisonment as a pretext for an invasion – of people who didn’t even capture her or were holding her – she was livid.  Her mother has had designs on Alshar her entire life.  To see her use her captivity as a point of leverage in that quest . . . well, I believe it changed her perspective,” he said, tactfully.

“I bet she’s giving them an earful, right now,” Tyndal said, staring back at the grand palace.  “She’s not the type to mince words.”

“She’s been quietly using her contacts in court to find out what’s going on all week, without revealing herself,” Anguin nodded.  “She was not pleased by what she heard.  Indeed, she feels rejected and abandoned.  Considering all that she’s been asked to do for her family,” he said, meaningfully, “she feels betrayed by those who were supposed to protect her.  So . . . while I do not doubt her loyalty to the Crown, her happiness with her father and mother are in question.”

“I honestly feel for her,” Rondal said, shaking his head.  “She was already having a hard time finding a husband.  Now that she’s been a prisoner, that’s going to get even harder.”

“I bet they’ll try to stash her in an abbey,” guessed Tyndal.  “Some big, prestigious abbey that proves the family’s piety.  And where she’ll stay quiet.”

“Oh, I don’t think they’d be well-served to do that,” chuckled Anguin.  “Within a year, she’d be High Priestess.  Within five, she’d be on the Royal Ecclesiastic Council, only this time with the power of religious law at her disposal.  That would also put her beyond the reach of her brother,” he added.

“Somehow, I don’t see Rardine content with a life of holy orders,” I agreed.  “She was weaned on power, and she will find some way to gain it, if she lacks.  But I don’t think she would move in opposition to her mother.”

“Don’t you have five sisters, Master?” Rondal asked.  “Have none of them ever contested with your mother?”

“A fair point,” I conceded, remembering the legendary arguments my various sisters had with Mom.  “Perhaps she would.  But without a power base, there’s little Rardine could accomplish, if her mother was set against her.  I’m guessing they’ll try to use her to cement an alliance with one of the other duchies, if she found no suitors in Farise.  I’m sure there’s some rich old geezer in Vore who’s deaf enough to marry her.”

“She’d hate that,” Anguin observed.  “She’d be in a completely foreign land without any real power base.  It would be as good as exile.”

“I think that was my master’s point, Your Grace,” Tyndal suggested.  “I got the distinct impression that, for all of their relief and joy at seeing her alive again, that they were afraid of her.  They want to see her safe, but . . . safely out of the way.”

We were joined shortly by Master Hartarian, who wished to hear a first-hand account of the news himself.  We enjoyed spending an hour recounting the details of the raid on Olum Seheri and much of what we discovered, there.  But he was disturbed about the implications, though he was ignorant of much of my larger concerns.

“We cannot allow such a place to grow, even at the farthest edge of the Kingdom,” he declared.  “You may have struck a decided blow, but you did not end the threat.”

“At most, I bought us a few months of time,” I agreed.  “From what the Kasari scouts report, they have already begun establishing fortresses throughout the Land of Scars, and garrisoning them with hobgoblins.  And undead.  Put a Nemovort in each one, and they’d be tough to remove.”

“It’s not as large a matter, with Enultramar sealed off behind its northern walls right now,” he agreed.  “But when the duchy is reunited, those forts will be perfectly placed to divide it, again.”

“That may not be within our lifetimes, particularly if the Count of Rhemes declares himself Duke,” Rondal observed.  “He will see the way stays sealed.  Enultramar has a grand armada.  They do not need to trade overland.”

“Why, do you doubt our noble Prince’s brave expedition to crush the rebels, Sir Rondal?” Hartarian asked, with a wry grin.

“Candidly, I doubt His Highness’ ability to find his arse with both hands.  It’s not merely the Alshari fleet he faces.  The Farisi navy and a great number of privateers have joined the raiding fleets of the rebels.  That’s well over three-hundred ships, to Tavard’s hundred.  And they are not armed merchantmen,” he reminded.  “They are warships and raiders, and they are sailing in their territorial waters.”

“You seem incredibly well-informed about such matters, Sir Rondal,” Hartarian said, appraisingly.  “An academic interest?”

“The Estasi Order has had reason to infiltrate rebellious Enultramar, of late,” Rondal conceded, glancing at Tyndal.  “We had some errantry with the Brotherhood of the Rat.  Along the way we picked up some intelligence on the local situation.”

“So . . . you’re telling me that we may have to mount a rescue operation for Prince Tavard, after just concluding one for Princess Rardine?” he asked, half-horrified and half amused.

“We would have to check our schedule, my lord, to see if we had other engagements,” Rondal smirked.

“It was the slave trade that was the most troubling,” Tyndal added, thoughtfully.  “Since the rebellion, the Five Counts have permitted the practice, even encouraged it, as they profited in many ways from it.  It allowed the inland lords to dispossess their free peasantry and replace them with slaves.  With supply so steady, it is cheaper to purchase a man for a lifetime at market than pay him out wages for his service over many years.  Now free men go without work and are being evicted from their cots while slaves toil under the lash,” he pronounced, disgusted.

“Any who do not support the industry are condemned as disloyal,” Rondal continued, gravely.  “Even lords who despise the practice are forced into it, as their neighbors and competitors profit.  The dispossessed peasantry are doubly injured, as if they are not wary they might wake to discover themselves fifty miles downriver, a collar on their necks and a slave trader beating their new name into their head.”

“It is a crime and an affront to my ancestors’ pledge against the practice,” Anguin frowned.  “As it is being used to line the purses of those who would see me disposed as well, it is doubly foul in my mind.”

“The Alshari never seemed to mind piracy before,” Hartarian observed, wryly.  He had a point – even during the periods of best relations between the duchies, the Alshari fleet continued to capture ships, sell them and their cargoes at market, and ransom the passengers.

“Taking prisoners ransom at sea is one thing.  Enslaving the entire crew and auctioning them off next to the cargo of their captured ships is quite another,” Anguin, the descendent of Sea Lords, insisted.  “When we take a ship in the Shallow Sea, it is a prize of war.  The cargo and ransoms are fair recompense.  Condemning the crew to involuntary servitude is not.”

“Then should we not have supported Tavard to a greater extent, and end this threat?” Hartarian asked.  He wasn’t trying to make a political point, it was an honest question.

“It is not a question of support,” Anguin countered.  “Tavard could have hired double the number of ships, and he would still lose.  The Alshari fleet is massive, in both number and size.  The men are marine warriors, not mere mercenary sailors.  It would take years to build a fleet that could challenge it at sea.  My cousin was foolish for trying.  Or being advised by fools,” he added.  “The only way to stop the practice is to deprive them of the market – which is what my father and grandfather tried to do.  And it worked, until the rebellion.”

“Now, Korbal has infiltrated the rebels, in part,” I explained.

“What?” Hartarian asked, troubled.

“The southeastern swamps are being seeded with undead from Olum Seheri.  They seek in particular for Talented folk, for they can use our bodies as hosts for the Enshadowed, those known as the Nemovorti.  Powerful undead, with significant necromantic and thaumaturgical abilities.”

“Some of them know how to fight, too,” agreed Tyndal.  “Tough bastards.  Armed with Dradrien-forged weapons.  You can’t even really kill them – when they die, they already have another body waiting for them.”

“We’re facing an even more powerful foe, now, Hartarian,” I quietly informed him.  “As bad as Sheruel was, he was fairly straightforward in his intentions.  Korbal is another matter.  He’s shrewd and insidious, and more than willing to use our own weaknesses against us.”

“Isn’t that preferable to genocide?” Hartarian pointed out.

“Perhaps, my lord,” Anguin suggested.  “I went to Olum Seheri.  I saw those things with my own eyes.  From what my gentlemen have told me, the same creatures were sighted in Enultramar.  No doubt they are taking advantage of the slave trade as well.  Rumors persist that dead peasants now work the fields and paddies of Caramas, tirelessly producing food for sale at market . . . the profits from which are invested into fresh slaves.

“The gurvani can be fought on the battlefield, and are easy to identify,” the young duke continued, thoughtfully.  “The Nemovorti strike at us through our own humanity.  We can last generations fighting the gurvani against their genocide.  We will have far less time to resist the infiltration of those who can take the bodies of our own people.”

“A fair point, Your Grace,” Hartarian conceded.  “Ah, it appears that Her Highness is at liberty, now,” he observed, as we watched Rardine virtually explode out of the palace door, startle the guards, and stomp down the steps to where we were waiting.

“My lords!” she said, her face red and her cheeks puffy.  “I believe we are done here, for the day.”

“Is there not a Court planned for later this morning, Your Highness?” I asked, confused.

“Aye, and it shall proceed . . . without me,” she said, hotly.  “The announcement of both my rescue and the name of my rescuer will be made, but I will be ‘too indisposed from my ordeal’ to be present,” she finished, bitterly.

“What?  Why?” Anguin asked, confused.

“Mother decided that it was too . . . disruptive to reintroduce me at court, what with my brother and heir to the throne at sea.”  Her eyes narrowed.  “It’s my sister-in-law,” she decided.  “That’s who she’s protecting!  That flat-headed, big-boobed Remeran bitch and her bawling new brat!  She’s afraid of pissing off Armandra!”

“Her Majesty’s great and abiding affection for her grandson is well known,” Hartarian said, tactfully.

“I just met the little turd,” Rardine fumed, “and he’s no cuter than any other babe.  But that bitch whispered a few words to Mother, and suddenly I’m to be sent to a convent, so that I can ‘recover my constitution!’  Well, I will not stand for it!”

She turned to Anguin.  “My cousin, you have been so kind, but I would beg a boon from you: can you give me refuge in Vorone?  For I fear if I stay in this pretty pit of vipers for even one night, my beloved sister-in-law will see it my last!”

“You think she’d have you assassinated?” Tyndal asked, his eyes wide.  He’d seen Rardine in action, before.  The idea that the mistress of assassins could herself fall prey to the art was disturbing.

The Princess snorted.  “She has neither the commitment nor the means to do a decent job,” she said.  “She’s as stupid as a fencepost.  She might wish to see me dead, but she isn’t bold enough to do the job properly, despite the Remerans’ vaunted reputation as poisoners.  Nonetheless,” she continued, “I don’t feel entirely safe, here, now.  The politics of the palace has . . . changed,” she admitted, uncomfortably.  “I could see that just in the way the servants reacted to me.”  I found that ironic, coming from a girl – a woman – whose perspective had changed so dramatically herself.

“Of course, you may stay at my estate as long as you wish,” Anguin assured her.  “My home, such as it is, is your home.  But . . . are you certain?  Rardine, I know you are upset with them, but—”

“Oh, this is not mere childish lashing out,” she insisted.  “I know it may seem that way, but it isn’t.  Not really.  This is a coldly calculated political move.  Once I go into that abbey, I’m essentially resigning myself to my mother’s control over my fate.  After she failed to make even one effort to secure my release . . . and then used it to justify Tavard’s vainglory, she no longer has that right,” she said, proudly.

“Won’t she just summon you home?” asked Tyndal, doubtfully.

“Let her try,” Rardine said, with menace in her voice.  “I can tell when I am no longer wanted.  I will not force them to endure my presence one hour more than necessary.  If that means living in rustic Vorone for a while, well, I’ve enjoyed worse accommodations and far worse company, of late.  I think I can endure it.

“The question is, can you?” she asked her cousin, quietly.  “I don’t want to put you in a difficult position, Anguin, but I honestly don’t have anywhere else to go,” she admitted.  “I have a dozen estates, but each one is seeded with her spies and assassins already.  I would not be safe there.”

“Your mother’s reach extends to the Wilderlands,” I reminded her.

She snorted again.  “Who do you think extended it there?  I will handle that,” she promised.  “At least in Vorone I know who to be wary of.  Believe me, my lords, Mother made it abundantly clear, when she tried to stuff me in a habit and seal me away from the world in an abbey.  I am a danger to the orderly succession of my squealing little nephew, and that will not be tolerated by his doting grandmother or his insipid mother.

“Here in Kaunis, Castabriel . . . anywhere in Castal . . . I am in peril,” she said, sadly.

Chapter Fifty-Two

Repose And Reflection

“Well, wasn’t that odd?” Tyndal mused, as we exited the Ways into my workshop, after returning Anguin to Vorone.  The lads wanted to spend a few days in Sevendor soaking up luxury and spending some coin, and I couldn’t blame them.  They’d been in the Wilderlands for weeks, and then endured one of the longest and most challenging battles of the entire war.  They had – literally – tackled Korbal the Necromancer.  Now all they wanted to do was drink and dance.

I couldn’t say I blamed them.  I found I desperately needed a moment of repose and reflection, after concluding Rardine’s redemption to her family.  Being back in my tower with the lads gave me that chance.

“Odd is an understatement,” Rondal agreed, flopping down on the padded bench near the fire, which he ignited with a wave of his hand.  “Who would have thought such a ruthless daughter would get such a chilly reception from such a heartless cunt?”

“Oh, she’s not heartless,” I disagreed, taking a seat in my customary chair.  It was getting a little ratty, but I didn’t mind.  “She’s merely being opportunistic.  She has a grandchild, now, one who will one day sit on the throne.  That is her ultimate validation, not having a couple more potential rival claimants from a cadet marriage.  So seeing Rardine’s womb locked behind convent walls has appeal.”

“It’s bloody outrageous, if you ask me,” Tyndal said.  “I mean, I dislike her intensely, don’t misunderstand – but to be so faithful to a cause for so long, only to be cast away with chastity your only reward,” he said, shaking his head as if the prospect was worse than death.  “It’s just cruel!”

“That’s court politics,” I shrugged.  “At least Anguin gave her safe passage and a secure exile,” I said, summoning wine from the hoxter in the chair.  It kept the help from taking clandestine sips.  “That was just as unexpected, after what she did to him.”

That produced an exchange of meaningful glances between the two – a meaning that escaped me.

“What?” I demanded.  “What do you know?”

They continued to stare at each other a moment, no doubt sharing a mind-to-mind conversation.  Then Rondal sighed.

“Master, we’ve noticed a certain . . . tension between Anguin and Rardine, since Olum Seheri,” he admitted.

“What?” I asked, startled.  “You mean . . .?”

“We could be mistaken,” Tyndal said, hurriedly.

“We’re probably mistaken,” Rondal said, apologetically . . . but not convincingly.  “But there’s . . . something there.  Between them.”

“Oh . . . dear,” I sighed.  “Are you certain it isn’t just a natural gratitude for her rescue?”

“From that cynical young . . . princess?” Tyndal asked, careful of his choice of words. “Master, I have no doubt that she can feign whatever emotion she needs to, for whatever occasion she needs, if it means getting the right dagger into the right kidney.  But some things you cannot counterfeit,” he said, with some authority.  “According to the Sixteen Laws, she’s smitten,” he pronounced, as if he’d just learned his friend the duke had the pox and would never recover.

“That in itself would not be so disturbing, if the Orphan Duke did not seem to return her interest,” Rondal said.  “He blames her mother, not Rardine, for his parent’s deaths.  Of course, he could be rationalizing away his infatuation,” he considered.

“Or he could be maneuvering into a position of weakness, so that he can strike at her when she least expects it!” proposed Tyndal, with more enthusiasm.

“More likely, he’s a lonely young man who is starting to think about his future, in the presence of a social peer,” I proposed, sipping the wine while I dug out my pipe.  I needed a moment in the relative serenity of my chamber after a day like today.  “She’s a lovely young woman, objectively speaking,” I pointed out.

“There are fairer flowers by the dozen in the gardens of Vorone,” assured Tyndal.  “But her vulnerability is likely appealing.  And her intellect.  She might be a vicious, brutal monster, but that would make her fallen estate all the more alluring to Anguin.  He sees himself as disposed and rejected.  Common cause between them in opposition to the Royal court could provide the element needed to spark an attraction,” he admitted.

“You sound like a priestess of Ishi.  Is she not his cousin?” Rondal pointed out, crinkling his brow.

“Such matters fade in importance among the very high born and the very low,” I observed.  “Surely you fellows knew of a few families on the ridges in the Mindens whose cousins married?”

They exchanged guilty glances.  That wasn’t something that was spoken of, among polite Wilderlands folk.

“The issue of blood only becomes an issue if there is a marriage,” I pointed out.  “We are miles upriver from that.  Let the poor girl lick her wounds, and if she and Anguin find some temporary comfort with each other, do not discourage it,” I advised.  “Knowing how volatile and imperious she can be, I doubt it will come to fruit.  But it bears watching, so . . . watch it for me,” I requested.

“We will, Master,” Rondal agreed.  “But it would help if we didn’t shudder every time we watched.”

“I have five sisters,” I reminded them.  “I’ve not always been pleased with their choice of courters.  Some of those fellows are now related to me.  And speaking of sisters, what of Anguin’s?  Does he really want to marry them off?” I asked, concerned.

“Mostly, he just wants them out of Grendine’s control,” Rondal supplied.  “He’s trying to re-establish the Ducal house.  Taking control of his family’s destiny is a step up that mountain.  And . . . he misses them,” Rondal suggested.  “He’s actually quite sentimental, when he lets himself be.”

“So was his father, and it diminished his rule, by all accounts,” I reminded them.

“Anguin is not his father,” Tyndal said, defensively.  “Believe me.  He’s ruling just fine, in Vorone.  The city is prospering, the farms are producing, and no one is starving to death anymore.  After this raid,” he said, thinking of the summer capital fondly, “there will be even more revels when the Wilderlords return from the field to celebrate!”

“The return of his sisters to Alshar will be a tangible sign of his mastery,” agreed Rondal, ignoring his friend’s priorities.  “As will the addition of two Gilmoran baronies to his rule.  Even as a vassal of Tavard for those estates, they will essentially be a part of Alshar, from a policy perspective.  The richest part of Anguin’s Alshar,” he added.  “Even if they are a mess since the invasion, there are still more people there than the Wilderlands.  But to the Alshari, it will be the first return of Gilmoran territory to direct Alshari control in fifty years.”

“That won’t hurt his reputation in the south,” Tyndal agreed.  “Especially after . . .” he said, trailing off guiltily.  Rondal looked at him sharply.

“What?” I demanded.  “What did you do?”

“We . . . indulged in a little subversive politics,” Rondal admitted, suddenly finding a threat in the knee of his hose that needed his attention.  “We were concerned that the Five Counts were moving too hastily toward electing one of their number—”

“The Count of Rhemes,” supplied Tyndal. “Vichetral.  Nasty piece of work.”

“. . . to the coronet,” continued Rondal.  “Despite not actually possessing either the Coronet of Alshar or the Shard of the Crown.  He’d control the majority of Alshar, which makes him the duke if the sitting counts and barons say he’s the duke.  So . . . we reminded the contentious assembly of nobility that there is already a Duke of Alshar, and he resides in the official summer capital of his realm.”

“And that he would someday be returning to hold the nobility to account for their governance of his realm in his absence,” Tyndal added.  “We tucked the note into a . . . a dragon skull—”

“The one we slew at Vorone, not the one on display in Castabriel,” Rondal clarified.  “We felt a certain possession over the thing, since we killed it,” he reminded me.

“. . . and dropped it into the middle of their assembly, from a hoxter pocket,” Tyndal finished, triumphantly.  “You should have seen it, Master, it was incredible!”

“It did produce a profound reaction among the nobility,” Rondal agreed, with a smug smile.  “And worked toward the desired result.  Talk of an ‘absent monarch’ was muted, after that.  As was the previously prevalent notion that the Orphan Duke was a powerless puppet of Rard and Grendine.  The leading nobles seemed to proceed more cautiously with their discussions of electing a new duke with a rotting dragon head in the middle of the room.”

I looked back and forth between the two of them.  I was tempted to be mad at the caper – it was fraught with danger, physical, magical, and political.

But I was once again struck with how daring, impulsive, and impetuous my boys were.  And my recent conversation with Onranion.  Those were the same qualities he both admired in me, and considered threatening to the Alka Alon council.

While I wasn’t above a little judicious hypocrisy, I couldn’t very well condemn them for those same traits, particularly if it achieved the desired result.  I concluded, after a moment’s consideration, that while it may not have been what I would have done under the circumstances, it wasn’t a bad play.  Inspired, even.

“Well done, gentlemen,” I conceded, with a chuckle.  “Anguin is well served by you.  A little dramatic, perhaps, but . . .”

“Look, we figure it will be years before Anguin will be in a position to make a real play for Enultramar,” Rondal explained, reasonably.  “In the meantime, our best use is to keep any pretenders to the coronet from consolidating their positions.”

I held up my hands.  “That, gentlemen, is an Alshari affair,” I reminded them.  “I am a Castali baron.  What you don’t discuss with me, I cannot be compelled to pass along to my liege lord.”

“Oh, we know you’d never tell him something like that, Master!” dismissed Tyndal, finishing his wine.

“We all have our duties.  I swore an oath of loyalty.  I will not be in danger of breaking it if I do not know something that I shouldn’t.”

“A fair point, Master,” Rondal agreed, as the door to the Great Hall burst open.

Dara was standing there, looking ragged and haggard, despite having been freshly bathed and dressed.  She looked around at the three of us, gave a disgusted sigh, and collapsed on the bench next to Rondal.

“Please tell me this isn’t one of those ‘journeyman only’ affairs,” she said, bitterly.  “Someone pour me some wine.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked, frowning.  I had checked on Dara, briefly, after I’d awakened, to make certain she was doing all right, but I’d been too busy since then to follow up.  I knew she’d left Timberwatch after I’d gone to the Tower of Refuge, along with her injured Wing of Sky Riders.

“What is right?” she countered.  “Out of four Wings, I have a Wing and a half of Riders left, six dead Riders and four dead birds,” she said, depressed.  “Five others are too wounded to fly any time soon.  Fretful might never fly again.”

“I’m sorry, Dara,” I sighed.  “I thought we had an answer for the wyvern problem.”

“Mostly, you did,” she frowned.  “That’s the thing . . . things were going really well, until they weren’t.   It wasn’t until we went out over the water that we got into trouble,” she reflected.  “I’m just glad Frightful wasn’t involved.”

“How are her chicks doing?”

That changed her mood for the better.  “The female I’m calling Fatty, for how much she eats,” she said, proudly.  “And the male is littler, but he’s perfect!  I’m calling him Faultless,” she reported, with a faint smile.  “But it will be months before I have two full Wings flightworthy, Master,” she sighed.  “I had to send word to their families,” she added, sullenly.  “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I soothed.  “It’s the worst part of being a military commander.  You and your Riders did remarkably well, Dara, under trying circumstances, against an unknown foe.  You should take a tremendous amount of pride in that.”

“I do,” she nodded, with a sigh, “but I need to recruit more Riders, now.  That’s always hard,” she yawned.  “And tomorrow I have to muck out the Mewstower, shorthanded – yuck!” she said, making a face.

“We’ll find them,” I assured her.  “If it makes you feel better, I get to hear about the accounting all day tomorrow with Banamor.  I’m thinking I’d prefer the Mews,” I chuckled.

“Actually,” she said, leaning back tiredly, “so do I.”

I met Banamor the next day at his customary table at the Market.  It was a Market day – the small market, mostly farmers’ produce and trade goods – but the weather was nice.  There were enough clouds in the sky to keep it from being hot, and a bit of a breeze coming across Southridge from Hosendor.  The Elf’s Gap, it was being called, now, for the traffic across the bridge from Sevendor to the Tera Alon manor.

It took an hour to catch Banamor up on all the important developments surrounding the Raid on Olum Seheri, which he found fascinating.  Banamor isn’t the adventurous type, any more, but he appreciated a good yarn.  And he liked to know about the big, important events going on, for business purposes.

“Rardine left the palace and went to Vorone?” he finally asked, when I finished with the news.

“That was the big thing you took away from that story?” I asked, incredulous.

“That was the more important part,” he shrugged.  “To me, at least.  That kind of watershed in the court can have ripples far downstream.  If her sister-in-law really does have Grendine’s backing, now, that’s significant.”

“If you say so,” I shrugged.  “It just means that court functions are going to be a lot more interesting now.  So, how fares the Wizard Trading Company?”

“Arcane Mercantile Company,” he corrected.  “We’re already profitable,” he admitted.  “On parchment, we made a profit of sixteen Roses, seven Stags on the first run from Sevendor to Wilderhall.  The caravan should be headed back out in another two weeks,” he added, proudly.  “We’ve another one headed for Wenshar, a full twenty wains.”

I frowned.  “That doesn’t sound like a lot.”

“That’s the Blue Book,” he confided.  “Our public trading records.  The magical stuff we cart to market.  The Yellow Book, on the other hand, is our more clandestine accounts; the ones involving smuggling bulk, trade, and luxury goods through the hoxters.  And the Yellow Book, my friend, is bulging.

“So far, this month alone the Company has profited nearly seven hundred Roses,” he smiled, pleased.  “Remeran wine and grain for Alshari pig iron, lead and timber, mostly, but we’re expanding.  By the end of the summer, we should have at least four trading houses, with Sevendor as the Mother house.”

“And everyone understands the need for discretion?”

“Oh, it is our watchword,” Banamor chuckled.  “No one wants to pay tax on that kind of fare.”

“And how are profits distributed?” I asked, curiously, as I watched peasant girls sell eggs and cheese next to Tal maids hawking carrots and potatoes.

“The chief of each house takes a Rose every month for upkeep, and six silver Stags for overhead.  Then he takes on quarter of the profit for himself, as verified by my accounting.  The other three quarters of the profit goes to the Company.  A quarter is invested in new ventures, a quarter in increasing stock and a quarter is distributed amongst the gentlemen members of the association.  Paid out twice a year,” he added.

“That’s a lot of complicated accounting,” I pointed out, my head swimming.

“Two sets, one for the Duke’s tax man, one for us,” he agreed.  “But I’ve hired two clerks from the Temple of Ifnia to assist.  They will be discrete, of course,” he added.

“Of course,” I nodded.  “How goes preparations for the Fair?”

He groaned.  “Of course, you would ask me about that.  It’s in the bloody chamberpot, with Gareth gone.  Oh, we’ll muddle through,” he sighed, “but things ran a lot more smoothly when that lad was overseeing everything.  I’ve got four men doing the job he did . . . four expensive men.  But it should be well-attended.  The academic theme this year is rajira – it should be about as boring and dry a subject as magical history.  But an important one,” he conceded.  “We’re seeing more and more of it pop up around Sevendor,” he added.

“We have a lot of magi about,” I nodded.  “That stands to reason.  Especially with all that snowstone sitting there.  Recognizing, measuring and evaluating rajira might be boring, but it’s useful.”

“That’s what I thought,” he agreed.  “But that’s a long-term problem.”

“We have short-term problems?” I asked, surprised.

“Is water wet?” he scoffed.  “Nothing that cannot be dealt with.  But there are always short-term problems.  People have been asking questions about our missing mountain,” he said, glancing at the Elf’s Gap.  “Wondering what happened to it.”

“Dismiss it as the Spellmonger’s secret project, and act all mysterious,” I proposed.

“That’s what I’ve been doing, but . . . well, people gossip.  It’s not a serious issue, largely because the new trade from Hosendor has been good, but . . .”

“Let them talk,” I dismissed.  “They will, anyway.  It will pass.  I’ll pull some new wonder out of my arse, and no one will think about it anymore.  I would have thought that the divine visitation would have overshadowed a mere missing mountain.”

“Oh, it has,” he snorted.  “That entire episode has been a right pain in my arse.  The shrine is under construction, and it will be delightful, I have no doubt.  But it forces me to reorganize the entire Fair, and now we have to staff it.  And likely build an inn nearby,” he grumbled.  “Right in the middle of the new traffic through the Gap . . .”

“Rich men’s problems,” I grunted.

“I’ll take them over an empty belly and holes in my boots,” he agreed, smiling.  “If you think Lady Alya will be back, soon, I’d count myself a lucky man if I died tomorrow.”  Then his face fell.  He looked troubled.  “There is one other thing,” he said, quietly.  “We’ve started to get some ecclesiastic issues.  With the agricultural wands.”

“Ecclesiastic issues?  We made certain that the Huinites were supportive of them.”

“It isn’t Huin who’s the problem.  I’ve heard tale of a priestess of Colleita preaching in the vales against the wands.”

That was trouble.  While Huin was the revered (amongst the peasantry, at least) Narasi god of the fields and grain, he was not the only agricultural god around.  There were others, mostly local and regional deities who hadn’t been syncretized with Huin.  Some were mere folk cults, others had priesthoods and even shrines and temples.

Most of them were pretty benign, but a few of them were problematic.  Colleita was one of those.  Originally a small-time goddess of fruit trees, berry bushes, and vegetable gardens in the distant valleys of Merwyn, before the Conquest, once she came into contact with my brutal Narasi ancestors, Colleita and her priesthood changed.

She became a defiant figure of Imperial resistance, at first, one of the divinities that the Dukes couldn’t come up with a reason to suppress.  But unlike her grain-focused Narasi counterpart, Colleita’s divine message came complete with an ideology.

Colleita preached that the only worthy endeavor for man was cultivation.  It was man’s divine purpose, the industry from which all other culture flowed.  Lords, knights, craftsmen, all were secondary in importance to the peasant farmer, in Colleita’s rustic catechism.

That became a problem, after the Conquest.  She became a figure of passive resistance to Narasi rule in Merwyn and Vore, and as the other regions of the Magocracy fell to my barbarian ancestors, her cult spread quietly among the rural folk.

While Huin was a relatively placid divinity, Colleita’s clergy had a habit of whipping up resentment against established social orders.  While Huin’s priesthood had certainly been behind its share of peasants’ uprisings, Colleita’s priesthood’s rebellions tended to be bloody.  They were also terribly effective.

Whereas Huin was a supporter of the established order, Colleita preached against it.  She was a fiery rebel, always willing to come to the aid of a peasantry beset by injustice.  Some lords tried to suppress the cult, but the truth was that such actions merely validated the egalitarian message of oppression Colleita manifested to combat.

“That is troubling,” I agreed.  “What is their complaint?”

“That the agricultural wands rob the farmer of his honest toil.  Without the necessity of a plow, there is no need for a plowman.  Or to rent a team.  They couch it as a plot to starve the common folk and enrich the gentry.”

“Well . . . the last part is true enough,” I conceded.  “But it enriches the peasants who own their strips, too,” I pointed out.  “They get the benefit of the wands.”

“And they are in the minority,” Banamor pointed out.  “Most peasants rent their land from the manor, on credit, and count on paying it back with money made selling their labor to the manor and the other agricultural jobs.  Two families in ten might actually own their strips, and rent to make up the difference – or rent them out to others to farm.

“But now that plowing is so much cheaper,” he continued in his matter-of-fact voice, “and harvest has been reduced to sheathing, winnowing, and gleaning, the manors just don’t need the labor they did three years ago.  So they’re only spending a fraction, and now people are competing heavily for those few, low-paying jobs.  Evictions have started,” he said, worriedly.  “Folk who couldn’t pay the rent on their strips had their crops confiscated last harvest.  Now they’re starting to get turned out of their cots.  That gives Colleita’s lot fertile ground in which to plant the seed of revolt.”

I nodded, understanding.  Peasants’ revolts were nasty things.

“Keep an eye on it,” I advised.  “Let me know if there’s anything we can do.”

“Well, as a result, labor is cheap, at the moment,” he continued.  I realized I had fallen into his trap.  “And with most of Sevendor’s labor employed in constructing that lovely new bridge complex over the former mountain, most of our municipal projects have stalled.  I’d like to hire a few hundred folk and get them re-started.  And I have a dozen new ones that we need to start.  It might inject some silver into the local economies outside of the domain, too,” he persuaded.

“Sure, go ahead,” I shrugged.  “We have the money.  With princes, gods, and emissaries from strange races dropping by at all hours, I suppose we should make the place pretty.  What did you have in mind?”

Twenty minutes later, I regretted asking.  Gaining a new Ducal charter had emboldened Banamor, and the Sevendor town council he led as Lord Mayor was enjoying unheard-of prosperity at the moment.  Banamor wanted to embark on a program of civic development that would make Sevendor the equal of any city in Castal.

He wanted to change the streets around, relocate some residence areas, develop the spot on the Commons around the shrine, pave the rest of Sevendor’s main roads, and a score of other projects that would beautify and – Banamor’s goal – enrich Sevendor, town, domain, and barony.

His plan entailed spending hundreds of Roses and thousands of Stags.  Using the threat of Colleita’s priesthood to put me in the right frame of mind, he leveraged the pitch toward his own investment.

“I approve,” I said, rubbing my eyes.  “Yes, yes, by all means, let’s spend some of this gold we have.”

“It gets so lonely, when you leave it in a vault all by itself,” Banamor agreed.  “But when I’m done, we’ll have everything a major Ducal city has except for slums.  Sevendor Town will be something to be proud of.”

“I’m already proud of it,” I affirmed.  “We have magelights in the streets, magically running fountains, two markets, a fair, and a lovely market square,” I pointed out, waving to the hubbub around us.  “We have the only fully-functioning bouleuterion in the world, a thriving guild community, and the respect and admiration of our neighbors.”

“Yeah,” Banamor sighed.  “Things are looking rosy, right now.  I wonder how long that will last?”

“Not long,” I prophesied.  “You were right to pay attention to Rardine.  She represents a threat to the current order.  Then again, so do we.  With Tavard out at sea, things should be stable for a while – probably through summer.  Right up to this Autumn’s Curia.  After that, depending on whether or not Tavard gets himself killed on his naval expedition, things could get hairy among the upper nobility.  If that happens, all of this might be dashed to bits.”

“Well you’re a cheery fellow!” Banamor fumed.  “But probably right.  The Riverlands would be the first place that trouble would start, too.  Let’s try to keep things safe and prosperous here, as long as we can,” he proposed.

“That’s what I’m doing,” I agreed.  “Sometimes, that seems like that’s all I’m doing.  My kids live here,” I pointed out.  “I want them to have someplace safe and secure to grow up in, and eventually inherit.

“Speaking of which, I’ve got a date to go pick them up from my sister and take them to the pond for swimming today,” I said, standing.  “After which we’ll go to the bathhouse and then come to the Alembic for dinner, where they will un-do all the good work the bathhouse did.”

“Well, this might disturb your day, then,” he grunted, taking a small scroll of parchment out of his sleeve.  “I stopped by the Mirror Array on my way here, like I do every morning.  Our adepts make a point of sending important news along for my private preview – under the wands, so to speak,” he said, mischievously.  “This was waiting for me.  It came in during last night’s shift.”

He handed me the paper and I unrolled it.  It was a report from the Farisian Mirror adept, personally, directed to Banamor.

It reported that Tavard had set sail the day before with a fleet of a hundred and ten ships, after he confiscated six more ships at Farise under his father’s name.  A great battle had ensued in the Shallow Sea, as the Alshari armada had pounced on the bait.

No result of the battle was known.  No ship had returned from the Castali fleet with word.

Chapter Fifty-Three

The Bridge To Tuervakothel

Hosendor is a pretty place.  While I’m partial to the security Sevendor’s surrounding mountains gave me, the foothill domain to the east was poor agricultural land, but the same rough country that made it difficult to bring a crop to market also provided a beautiful geological canvas upon which Nature could paint.

Hosendor was replete with waterfalls and tiny pools from the multitude of springs on the eastern side of the ridge.  There were some delightful little grottos not too far off the road, the perfect place to picnic, or to lie in wait of picnickers.

One of these delightful little places had been twice transformed: first, during the night my son was born, a largish outcropping on the eastern side of the ridge was affected.  It was as snow-white as any snowstone in Sevendor.

But then the small estate that owned the outcropping was gifted to Lord Aeratas and the Tera Alon, after we came to fallen Anthatiel’s aid.  He renamed it Tuervakothel.

He’d built a refuge there for his folk in exile.  His people had fallen on the dainty clearing and constructed an entire complex of buildings on the site.  They’d quarried the snowstone outcropping for the foundations of the central hall, and raised it in Alka Alon fashion . . . only to Tera Alon height requirements.

The effect was intriguing, reflective of the dual nature of the Tera Alon.  The central hall epitomized this.  It was a round, multistoried structure on snowstone foundations, similar in style, I realized, to the Tower of Refuge.  Each successive story was smaller than the one below, but encapsulated by it with an uneven edge.  That allowed each floor a dramatic balcony, one that was filled with planters and pots containing the trees and shrubs the Tree Folk were so fond of.

But there were human touches, as well.  The most obvious was the most subtle – this place had been built with the Tera Alon in mind, not the Alka Alon.  The doorways were gracefully pointed arches, there were stairs instead of ramps, and there was actual furniture within, not just a bunch of pillows.

There were also guards.  Tuervakothel was as much military camp as refugee camp, and those who had sworn the oath to keep their Tera Alon bodies until the war against Korbal was won were returning from their first sortie against the hated despoiler of their once-fair city.  The returning veterans had raised hope among the others, and now they were practicing the arts of war in the yards and the butts just like their humani neighbors.

When Lady Falawen agreed to meet with me about her father’s death, she bid me come here alone.  She would not even bring her new husband from Hosendor Castle.

She met me in her chamber, an exquisitely beautiful tangle of natural Alkan themes that conspired to suggest a forest environment.  Falawen wore a black, Riverlord-style sideless surcoat.  Indeed, apart from her unworldly beauty, pointed ears, and complexion, she might have been any noblewoman in the vales.

I broke the news to her, relaying the details as quickly and completely as I could.  I told her about the treachery the Nemovort Mycin Amana stabbing him in the back, and about how I raised both he and her mother into the spare bodies.

She took it . . . well, I suppose.  Hearing that your sainted parents are now undead guardians in the basement of the house you grew up in is a little distressing.  Hearing he died by the same hands that slew her mother only intensified her hatred of the Enshadowed.

“With your father’s passing, that means you are the Heir to Anthatiel,” I informed her, unnecessarily.

“Heir?  To a ruined city in our enemy’s hands?” she asked, some very humani tears rolling down her fair cheek.  “I knew he wasn’t going to come back from there,” she said, bitterly.  “I could see it in his eyes.  Aye, he promised me that he would live, if I did as he bid and married . . . but I could tell.  He never intended upon returning.”

“Do you take any solace in his reunion with your mother?”

“Of course,” she dismissed.  “I’ve missed her desperately, since she died, and father has been devastated for centuries.  But . . . to leave them in such a state . . .”

“I was rushed,” I admitted.  “But it seemed the best idea at the time.  My first real dabbling with necromancy, but with the Handmaiden’s help they awoke almost as good as if they were living.”

“Thank you for bearing this news, my lord,” she said, quietly, after wiping her eyes.  “I suppose I must rise to the necessity of the occasion and take leadership of my . . . my people,” she said, sounding defeated.

“It’s a hard responsibility,” I agreed.  “When I took responsibilities for the Bovali refugees – who weren’t even my people – it seemed overwhelming.  But the Tera Alon who fought with us at Olum Seheri were valiant, and they are loyal to your house,” I reminded her.  “They were dedicated to your father, and if you invoke their loyalty they will transfer it to you.  If it seems too daunting a task to lead them, then select among them a leader willing to bear the load, and delegate.”

She nodded, unconvincingly.  “Here I am trying to learn to be a humani wife – no easy task, my lord!  And now I must learn to be a general and a lord of Tera Alon,” she said, miserably.  “How am I to manage either one?” she pleaded.

“You do your best, and hope no one notices how terrified you are of screwing up,” I counselled.  “That’s what I do.  You are in a unique position, my lady,” I explained.  “The Tera Alon are a new people, a mixture of mine and yours.  It is in their very name.  The expectations that would fall upon you as an Alkan noblewoman do not completely apply.  Neither,” I added, looking at her in her comparatively frumpy sideless surcoat, “do humani standards.  You are as unique in your position as the people you lead.”

“And how is that to bring me comfort?” she asked, looking miserable.

“Comfort?  There’s no comfort there, my lady,” I agreed.  “But there is wisdom.  As the Tera Alon are new, there is no one who can contest that your leadership of them falls short of tradition or history.  They need a leader who can navigate through the difficult lands ahead.  One who is not afraid of making decisions, even compromises, to ensure the survival, security, and prosperity of her people.  That is what will matter to them.  And perhaps to the Council.”

“What about the Council?” she asked, sharply.

“Well, as the Heir to Anthatiel, do you not inherit your sire’s seat on the Council?” I pointed out.

“Aeratas had a seat on the Council because Anthatiel was a great city,” she countered.  “Now it is a ruin.  And its people exiled.  Why would I be permitted to serve when the power the seat represents is gone?”

“The strength of a land is in its people,” I counselled.  “Though their city is ruined, they can build another.  They are determined to drive Korbal and the Enshadowed away from Olum Seheri and cleanse the place.  It follows that they will rebuild the city, after victory.  They revered your father, and look to you as his daughter to guide them.  You need but guide them and keep them together as they journey toward that end.”

She pursed her lips.  “You are wise, Spellmonger,” she agreed.  “I have been so preoccupied about what this means to me, I have forgotten what it means to my folk.  In truth,” she confessed, “my lord husband said much the same thing, ere I departed Hosendor Castle, but I dismissed it.  It is hard, to take the counsel of mortals, sometimes.”

“Of course,” I smiled.  “What could we possibly know?  You were born before my great-great grandsire, were you not?  How fares your marriage?  You may be candid,” I added, “anything you tell me will be held in strictest confidence.”

She stared at me a while, likely considering how candid to be.

“It is . . . far less troublesome than I anticipated, in some ways,” she admitted.  “In others, it is far more.  My human kin,” she said, making a face at the word, “have been nothing but kind and welcoming.  They behave with deference, but not with the worship of the Tal Alon.  Nor have they tried to constrain me, as I feared.”

“And Sire Ryff?”

“My lord husband loves me more now than the day we wed,” she answered.  “His devotion is sincere.  And his passions . . . surprisingly gentle,” she said.  “Of course, this clumsy body catches his eye regularly, but he is starting to get to know the wife within.”

“He has not been abusive in any way?” I asked, cautiously.  It was a delicate topic, but among most Riverlords domestic violence was common.”

“On the contrary, he has been doting,” she said, shaking her head.  “Ryff is a noble man, and he desires my love freely-given.  He would never wish to compel it.”

“That is good to hear,” I nodded.

“Besides, I have nearly a thousand troops in his domain,” she added, gesturing around her.  “If I took offense at something he did, I have recourse to mend it.”

That startled me.  “That doesn’t sound like a very Alka Alon way of handling things.”

“Did you not just say I was unique, a Tera Alon lord?” she countered.  “A race without tradition?  Perhaps it is my humani heart that speaks.  If my people give me their loyalty, I have no qualms about spending it to defend my dignity.”

“You make a compelling argument, my lady,” I agreed.  “But if you wish to maintain the humani hearts of the Tera Alon, I would encourage you to celebrate their feats in human style.”

“My race understands flattery, Minalan,” she chuckled.  “I have already planned a gathering to weep for the dead and celebrate the living.  I will take the opportunity to laud the brave, as well.”

“Presents,” I advised.  “Give them presents.  As tokens of your gratitude.  Praise them, tell them how big and strong they are, and they’ll follow you.”

“So I have seen,” she smirked.  “Sire Ryff is a generous man, and since his rise in station and fortune, he seems to have acquired quite a following.”

“I have no doubt.  These hills are filled with errants who seek a man worthy of their loyalty.  Encourage that – be just as magnanimous with them as you are with your own folk, and you will win their loyalty as well.”

“So, what now?” she asked, folding her hands in her lap.  “We have raided the foe and dealt him a grievous blow – yet he stands stronger now than when we struck,” she pointed out.

“That will be for the Council to decide,” I pointed out.  “Officially, this was just a reconnaissance-in-force mission that just got out of hand.  But we must report both your father’s fall and the intelligence we’ve gathered to them.  Onranion has set a meeting of the full council at Midsummer.  Once they know all the details, then they will decide the course of action.”

“And you are willing to meekly submit to their decisions?” she asked.

“Oh, hells no!” I chuckled.  “I’ll likely go do something stupid and brave, if I don’t like what they say.  But they must plot the course, first.  I can’t very well rebel until I have something to rebel against.”

“And your own kingdom?” she asked.  “I may be the lady of Hosendor, now, but I remain an Emissary to humanity.  What consequences will fall on you, from this raid?”

“Actually, it’s been a boon, at this point.  For me and the magi.  But I am keeping a firm watch on the politics of Castalshar.  Our best hope lies in a strong, well-organized state.  For all his personal issues, Rard has been doing a good job of that, particularly by getting the government out of Castabriel, proper.  I’ll let you know if I think their faith in our alliance is fading.”

She shook her head.  “It never ceases to amaze me how quickly things change for you,” she marveled.  “Alliances among the great houses of the Alka Alon endure for centuries – even temporary alliances.  With you humani we’re lucky to persist for a decade.  It’s almost not worth the trouble.”

“Which is why I’m building strong institutions,” I reminded her.  “That is how humanity persists in maintaining its pledges.  Men may come and go, but institutions can endure, if they are well-wrought and well-tended.”

“So you do,” she nodded.  “You have far more foresight than most of your race . . . no offense.”

“None taken,” I chuckled, rising.  “There is one other matter I’d like to discuss: your father’s killer.  Mycin Amana.”

“What of her?” Falawen asked, sharply.

“I have her stashed away in a cell in my mountain, at the moment, magically blinded and bound by chains of her own design and Dradrien manufacture.  But I fear keeping her there.  Could I impose on you to build a suitable prison for her?  She doesn’t eat much,” I reminded her.  “She’s undead.”

“You . . . want me to become the gaoler of my father’s killer?” she asked, her pretty eyes wide in disbelief.

“I need a secure place to keep her.  I can’t kill her – she’d just return to Korbal, then.  I could just stuff her into a hoxter and forget about her, but I need her interrogated by someone motivated and trustworthy.  And kept by someone with an interest in keeping her secure.”

“I would be able to question her?”

“To your human heart’s content,” I assured her.

“I shall have a place prepared at once,” she agreed.  “And I am very much looking forward to meeting the woman who has caused me such grief.  Now I must return to Hosendor and prepare for the Chepstan Fair,” she sighed.  “Where I will be gawked at and prodded by my new humani noble . . . peers,” she said, her eyes narrowing at the word.  “I understand my lord husband wishes to show off his new bride, but . . . the society of women in the Riverlands seems obsessed with gossip and inquiries into our personal lives,” she said, troubled.  “It is very disturbing.”

“Welcome to human femininity,” I laughed.  “Perhaps our greatest weapon.”

I was riding back across the bridge that afternoon when I was overtaken by another rider.

That isn’t as hard as it sounds.  While most bridges in the Riverlands were small, narrow affairs, usually barely large enough to permit a single horse or narrow-gauged cart, I had purposefully instructed Master Guri to design the Sevendor Bridge across our gigantic moat to be wide enough to permit two carts to pass each other without entangling.  He’d spaced the risers accordingly, and had filled in the surface with a thick layer of mage-hardened wood.

The bridgehead on the Hosendor side was still barely developed, with a single shack for the tollman and the foundation of a future inn nearby.  Toward the center were the piers that would, eventually, guard the entire bridge and support a three-story fortress that would control the massive drawbridge.  Additionally, there were platforms that would eventually house a few small businesses or permit folks to fish.  Master Olmeg had not yet stocked the growing lake, but he was scheduled to do so before Midsummer.

The horseman proved to be my very own assistant castellan, Sir Festaran, returning from a trip to visit his parents.  He was garbed in traveling armor, as any Riverlord knight would be, and he rode a fine gelding, not a warhorse.

“What think you of your new bridge, Excellency?” he asked, after we exchanged pleasantries.

“I like it,” I assured him.  “Hopefully it will distract from the missing mountain it replaced.  Was there any trouble, while we were deployed?” I asked.  Sire Cei was still recovering at his home in Cargwenyn, so Sir Festaran had been in charge.

“None to speak of – it’s been thankfully quiet,” he reported, as we rode side-by-side.  “My father says that this is the most peaceful the Bontal has been in generations.  His estates are prosperous, his peasants are happy, and commerce in the markets abound.”

“Good to hear,” I sighed, sincerely.  Keeping my vassals happy was always a priority – when push came to shove, they were my military force.  “No stirrings from East Fleria?”

“Just ‘Fleria’, now,” Festaran chuckled.  “Nay, my lord, Baron Vulric is reluctant to test his fortunes against the mighty Spellmonger.  Though there are many who would induce him to do just that,” he added, suspiciously.

“Oh, really?” I asked, intrigued.  “Whom?”

“People who may have once worn checkered cloaks,” he answered.  “But Vulric wants none of it.  He’s turned away all who would tempt him into war with you or your allies.”

“Nor do I covet new lands to manage,” I pointed out.  “If he is willing to maintain the peace, I certainly am.”

“’Tis best to keep good relations, particularly ahead of the Riverlord’s League meeting,” he agreed.  “If we wish his support for Arathanial . . .”

“Arathanial wants to be Count of Burine?” I asked, startled.

“Old Count Mesterel wishes to retire,” Festaran reported.  “He announced his intention at Yule.  While he has daughters married to good lords, none have the stature or reputation the office demands.  The League will choose the new Count after the harvest.  Baron Arathanial feels he has sufficient reputation, after the war against Sashtalia, and should he prevail and rise his station, he has two sons running two baronies to elevate his stature.  He has a strong case,” Festaran said, hopefully.

“Am I supposed to attend this meeting?” I asked.  Peasants often assume that the feudal government is as straightforward as manorial government, but the opposite is true.

“It is a moot open to all Riverlords in the county,” he affirmed.  “By tradition, the League selects the house to hold the title, but also by tradition House Lensely is favored to take it.”

“Are there other contenders?” I asked, intrigued.

“Oh, yes, there usually are,” he agreed.  “I’ve never been to a moot of the League before, but my father assures me that there are usually a score or more of contenders, at the start.  Most lose favor quickly, leaving only a few from the established houses.  The final victor of the vote is presented to His Grace for affirmation.  Purely a formality.”

He paused a moment, and gave me a searching look.  “There are those who whisper that you should seek the office,” he proposed.  “You have gained the admiration of many in the vales, even among the Sashtali who fought against you.”

“Me?  Count?” I snorted.  “I’ve already got about six jobs – why do I need a seventh?”

“Prestige?  Position?  Glory?” he suggested.

“Prestige is a fickle bitch who can’t hunt,” I observed, “and not one that I seek.  As far as position, I am already a member of the Royal Court.  And I’m too much a soldier to invest in glory.

“Nay, let Arathanial take the prize, if he wishes it.  He has my blessing and support,” I added, knowing that the word would travel quickly to Arathanial’s ears.  While not a spy, Sir Festaran had many friends among his fellow Riverlords, the Sendari knights of Chepstan Castle.  I did not discourage the relationships.  Such casual channels of communication were as important as actual spies, in the world of feudal politics.

“His Excellency will be happy to hear that, I have no doubt,” Festaran agreed, as we came to the six massive piers the Karshak had built to support the future bridge tower, and stopped to enjoy the view.

“Excellency,” he said, after a moment’s quiet contemplation, “there is another matter I wished to discuss with you,” he said, in an entirely different tone.

My heart sank.  I could guess the topic.

“Go on,” I said, not taking my eyes from the pretty water.  In the sun, at this angle, the entire lake seemed to glow as the white stone under the water reflected the light.  I wondered what it would look like if it had a scattering of magelights that activated at dusk . . .

“My lord, I have enjoyed the acquaintance of Lady Lenodara since before she was ennobled,” he reminded me.  “Indeed, I have developed a growing affection toward her, and feel that it is – in part – returned.  Perhaps you have noted this?” he asked, suddenly sounding like an insecure teenaged boy, not the soldier I entrusted with the management of my castle.

“I have noticed her friendship with you,” I nodded.  “I’ve seen you dance together.”

“Then you understand how the affection I bear has blossomed into love,” he professed.  “I am at an age where any man of station and rank would consider taking a wife and starting a family, and I find myself considering Lady Lenodara more and more suited to that end.”  It was hardly an ode to Ishi, but the boy was trying.

“Do you, now?” I asked.

“Indeed,” he said, with growing confidence.  “In fact, the purpose of my visit home was to propose the idea to my sire and dame, and they both favored it.  They have developed their own affection for her, and see it as a means of further binding the alliance between Hosly and Sevendor through matrimony.”

“That’s well considered,” I offered, still watching the water.  And the ducks.  We had ducks, now?

“I intend now to put the question to her father.  If he is agreeable, I would like to ask for her hand.”

“Have you discussed this with Dara, yet?” I inquired.

“Nay – not explicitly,” Festaran admitted.  “Hence my approaching her master.  She is yet your apprentice, as well as your vassal.  She cannot enter into any agreement without your permission.”

“Perhaps you should discuss it with Dara, before you ask everyone else,” I suggested.  “Unless you think she would object . . .”

He looked troubled.  “I do not think she would . . . yet I am unsure.  She seems distraught, since the Holy Visitation.  Since . . . since Gareth left.”

“You think her heart is confused by that?”

“I don’t know!” he complained, almost whining.  “Since Frightful nested, she’s been moody as Trygg’s moon.  She says one thing, yet does another.  Then Gareth . . . he professed his love and she insisted on his friendship.  When he would not accept the one without the other and left . . . she stopped talking.”

“I’ve heard her talk,” I pointed out.

“She’s stopped talking to me!” he corrected.  “About anything of consequence.  As if I bear some part in his departure.  And since she’s returned from Olum Seheri she’s been positively morbid,” he complained.

“She lost men under her command,” I reminded him.  “And birds she’s raised from the egg.  Give her an opportunity to grieve, before you suggest she change her life around,” I suggested, gently.

“I yield to your counsel, Excellency,” he sighed.  “That is wisdom.  Yet I must ask if the thought of such a union is pleasing to you,” he continued, quietly.

“If it is mutually agreeable, nothing would make me happier than to see you wed – in theory.  But she is still a maiden, and one with great responsibilities.  While I appreciate your enthusiasm, I caution your approach.  Give her time.  And invest in yourself.”

“How, my lord?”

“You are a Riverlord knight,” I reminded him.  “One with good expectation and excellent reputation.  You’ve proven yourself in battle, you’ve demonstrated your capability as an administrator, and you have performed your chivalric duties to the satisfaction of no less than Sire Cei, himself.”

“Thank you, Excellency!”

“It wasn’t a compliment,” I continued.  “Not really.  I was stating objective facts.  But that does not mean you should be content to rest upon them.  Let me ask you, my young lord: what have you done to earn Dara’s affection?”

“Why, I have been a steadfast friend to her, my lord, and have sought her favor at every turn.”

“To the amusement of my entire court,” I agreed.  “Yet . . . while your service to Sevendor has been valiant, Dara associates with dragonslayers, magelords, and warriors of renown.  She just battled against Korbal the Necromancer in his own yard.  While she bears you affection, what have you done to earn her admiration?”

“I . . . I keep the castle accounts,” he pointed out, lamely.  “I oversee the . . . ah.  Yes, my lord, I think I see what you are saying.  I suppose that knowing the volume of this lake to the pint or the distance from here to your hall to the inch is hardly . . . worthy.  At most, it is a curiosity,” he said, frowning.

“Yet your potential is endless,” I pointed out.  “Nor is it bounded by your sport talent.  Sir Ryff had not a jot of rajira, yet he won his bride by brave deeds and furious action.”

“You make a good point, my lord,” he agreed, reluctantly.  “And such deeds are unlikely to come to Sevendor’s door.  Perhaps Tyndal is correct – I do need to perform some errantry, before I consider such a commitment.  Yet I have duties . . .”

“I have many men who can fill your position, temporarily,” I suggested.  “Indeed, it would be helpful to give them the experience.  Sir Roncil has several knights who have volunteered for duty at Sevendor Castle, in preparation for greater service.”

“Then . . . where would I go?” he asked, concerned.

“West,” I suggested.  “To Gilmora, perhaps.  Though we struck a serious blow to our foes, we’ve also bestirred a beehive.  There will be reprisals.  And opportunities for valor.  Maidens to be rescued, trolls to be fought, that sort of thing.  Duke Anguin is to take possession of two of the vacant baronies which suffered so poorly during the invasion.  He will have need of good men to help him re-claim them from the chaos.”

“That would be a worthy endeavor,” he said, hesitantly.

“Or you can travel to the Wilderlands, and join against the gurvani who will swarm across the land in vengeance this summer,” I suggested.  “There, the men of the Alshari Third Commando and the Iron Band will cross swords with the goblins, keeping them from crossing the river and re-taking their slaves.  If you seek glory, it will be there in blood-filled buckets.”

“That, too, would be a worthy enterprise,” he agreed, with more enthusiasm.

“Or,” I continued, “you can enlist in His Grace’s relief expedition.  I hear that he’s assembling a force at the coast to reinforce his landing in Enultramar . . . assuming he wasn’t killed during the naval battle,” I added.  “We still have no word.

“But assuming His Grace has made landfall, he’s ordered a squadron of ships to bring an additional ten-thousand men to reinforce his position.  They will have to brave the Alshari rebel fleet, land at one of the most inhospitable lands in the Five Duchies, and fight their way through hostile territory to even get to their objective,” I pointed out.  “But those who survive will be certain to be under His Grace’s eye.  Should he survive,” I added.

“I . . . I do not know how I would fare at sea,” he admitted, “but that does seem like an adventure.”

“My point is, Festaran, this world is full of opportunities for heroism and chivalry, if you are willing to take the risk.  But be warned: I saw plenty of rotting corpses of knights your age on the jungle trails of Farise who took those opportunities.”

“I do not fear death, my lord,” he said, stiffly.

“It’s not death you should be concerned with, its ignominy,” I counselled.  “As much as it galls me to say it, Tyndal is correct.  If you want to win Dara’s heart, then try being absent from her life, and allowing longing to accumulate.  And invest in your own worthiness,” I added.  “You are a fine young man, but we live in an age in dire need of heroes.  Take those talents out into the world and test your mettle.  Cross swords with men who mean to kill you.  Seek your fortune and compound what fame you may find – somewhere outside of the tournament lists,” I added.

“I am not so skilled at the jousts that I could make a living that way,” he admitted.

“Oh, you would do all right, on the minor circuits.  But you are better than that, Festaran.  I have no objection to you wedding Dara, should she desire it, but I would question you pressing your suit until you had some acclaim and stature you acquired in your own name.”

He looked out on the lake thoughtfully.  “I think you are right, Excellency.  Though it pains me to leave such a beautiful place, I know there is a lot of the world I’ve yet to see.  I will . . . I will prepare, for a few days, consider my alternatives, and then slip away quietly,” he decided, as we continued across the bridge.  “I will, of course, advise you of my direction,” he added.

“That would be appreciated,” I nodded.  “And I will prepare an adequate replacement for you, as assistant castellan.  I have every confidence you will discover a worthy quest for your errantry.”

And I just bought you about six months for you to make up your mind about what you want, Dara, I added, to myself.  You’re welcome.

Chapter Fifty-Four

Three Holes In Vanador

My maid, Lavender, woke me up in the dead of night, her eyes wide with worry.

“Master,” the Tal Alon servant said, anxiously, “a messenger has come.  It will not wait until morning,” she assured me.

She didn’t bother apologizing for waking me, as she knew I would want to be woken.  Since young Daisy had left to tend to her litter, last year, Lavender had taken over responsibilities for my chambers.  She was much older than Daisy, and less prone to making poor judgements about when to wake me.

I untangled myself from both children.  Minalyan had flopped across my chest at some point in the night, and Almina was curled up like a kitten next to me . . . a kitten with sharp, pointy elbows.  While Lavender covered them up I threw on a robe and stumbled down the stairs.

Loiko Vaneran was waiting for me, to my surprise.  My Court Wizard was still dressed, and I had no doubt that he was up late.  Rumor had it that he only slept four hours a night.

“Sorry to wake you, but I thought you should hear,” he began, taking a seat at the permanent table in front of the fireplace.  “I got word from a contact of mine in Farise.  Tavard’s fleet was attacked and decimated, with more than forty ships sunk or captured, but by some quirk of fate he made landfall at Maidenspool with almost fifty ships, and about two-thousand men – enough to take the port.”

“The idiot made it?” I asked, startled.

“He made it to Maidenspool,” Loiko corrected.  “That is no amazing feat.  Maidenspool is a squalid little fishing village with a couple of temples in it.  Basic defenses.  It doesn’t need more.  It’s fifty miles over miserable terrain to the next town of any significance.  That one is in a swamp, and it doesn’t lead to anywhere more exciting.  If Tavard is going to get more than one foot on shore, he’ll have to cross the Arangalan peninsula and lay siege to a real town, on the interior of the bay.  The least of those is enough to hold out against the force he has now.”

“I’m just impressed the idiot made it,” I repeated.  “I didn’t think he’d get past the armada.”

“When you’re willing to sacrifice half your fleet to get your other half ashore, you might win, sometimes,” Loiko agreed.  “But I think you and I both know that it’s a piss-poor strategy.”

“Oh, certainly,” I nodded.  “I wasn’t arguing in favor of it.  Those poor mariners and mercenaries will be paying for it with their lives, now, either at sea or at the auction block in Enultramar.  But I’ll admit, I didn’t think he’d make it that far.”

“I thought you should know,” the Wenshari warmage nodded.  “The problem is, he commandeered most of the patrol fleet for the port, when he made his daring run on Enultramar.  The ships responsible for guarding Farise from, say, a massive rebel armada,” he said, angrily.  “And not just the ships.  He took about half of the garrison, too.  I swear to the Shipwrecker that if he loses Farise after what we went through to capture it and keep it, I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”

“I feel the same way,” I agreed.  “Let’s hope no one noticed.”

I thanked the wizard for the timely news, and showed him to the door before I headed back up to my chamber.  I was on the third step when I was suddenly hailed, mind-to-mind.

Minalan, my kettle has tipped! Pentandra said, excitedly.

What? I asked, confused.  I was still thinking about troop deployments and naval battles.

My water broke, she said, as if I were an idiot.  It made an awful mess, and I started to have contractions.  Real ones, this time! She insisted.  I’m going to have babies!

That’s . . . that’s exciting, Pen, I agreed.

Exciting?  I’m bloody terrified!  As soon as I told Arborn, he turned into an idiot boy.  We sent for the midwife already, but it’s started.  I thought you might want to be here, she added.

I knew Pentandra well enough to know that was her way of asking me to come, without actually asking me.

Of course, I agreed.  Let me wake up a bit, pack some things, and I’ll come through your Waystone.

Hurry! she pleaded.  I don’t want you to miss it!

With three babies to go through, I didn’t think I needed to hurry, much.  I didn’t know a lot about labor and delivery, but I recalled what a slow process it usually was.

A slow, painful, miserable process that turns otherwise pleasant women into raging beasts with its pain and suffering.

“Lavender,” I announced.  “I need you to pack me a bag.  I’m going to the Wilderlands for a few days.”

I came through the Ways to the sound of Pentandra cursing – and I don’t mean an off-the-cuff “Ishi’s Tits”, but a long and well-constructed string of invective that would make a veteran mariner blush.

“Sorry,” she offered, a moment later, as she overcame the contraction.  “Welcome to Vanador.  Sorry about the mess,” she said, leaning her sweaty head back.

She was being attended by a brace of nuns, midwives of Trygg, and her mother.  I considered sending back to Sevendor for additional help, but thought better of it.  This was Pentandra’s show.  I was merely a spectator.

Arborn was also nearby, looking as stricken with worry as I’d ever seen a man.  I recognized the look: a man used to employing action to meet his challenges being forced to patiently stand by as he helplessly watched the woman he loved suffer, and dice with death.

“How long has it been?” I asked.

“Since this torture session started?” she said, as a nun wiped her brow.  “Three hours, now.  Three bloody hours of pain every ten minutes.”

“There are spells . . .” I suggested.

“You don’t think I’m employing them?” she asked, incredulously.  “There’s a limit to what magic can do, Min.  This is going to hurt, no matter what happens.”

“She’s doing well,” Arborn said, faintly.  “She breathes through the pain, and doesn’t fight the process.”

Min, Pentandra asked, mind-to-mind, why don’t you get Arborn out of here?  There’s a tiny little tavern, at the end of the road.  Take him there and calm him down.  I’m never going to get through this if I have to worry about him, too!

I’ll take care of him, Penny, I assured, recalling how Sire Cei had done me the same service when my children were born.  It would be my pleasure.

“Arborn, let me examine Pentandra, and then let’s get some air,” I suggested.

“That wasn’t part of the deal,” she whispered at me, as I summoned Insight to my hand.  While not a medical baculus, the paraclete within was more than adequate for the basic scrying I needed to do.

All three babies were head-down, and there didn’t seem to be any issues with their placement, or where their umbilicals were.  Their heartbeats were strong.  I detected no signs of sepsis.

But damn, it was crowded in there.

“She’s doing fine,” I assured Arborn, in my most confident voice.  “Well enough that she can spare you for a few moments.”

“Spare me?” Arborn asked, confused.  “She needs me!”

“Sure, she does,” I said, soothingly.  “But she needs you at your best, and right now you look like a man whose dog died this morning.  Come with me,” I commanded.

“Thank you!” Pentandra mouthed, as she sipped water from a silver cup the nun held to her lips.

I took Arborn outside the croft and into the early morning darkness.  It was chilly, up here in the northern Wilderlands, far colder than Sevendor had been.  I made my way down the steps . . . and then stopped in confusion.

“Arborn,” I said, hesitantly, “someone went and built a road through here.”

“I know,” he agreed, as he followed.  “Carmella began construction on some parts of the settlement last year,” he reminded me.  “She’s got the entire city planned out.  She started with the main road, here,” he indicated, taking a right onto the flagged surface with the tidy gutter down the middle.  “It curves around the north side, here, and to the overhang.  That’s where the town, proper, will be.”

“That’s fairly ambitious, isn’t it?” I asked.  “There seems to be plenty of room, right around this croft.”

“This will be Wizard’s Way, some day,” he answered, with a smirk.  “The residence of the towns leading arcane aristocracy.  Including my wife.  The commercial area will be in the overhang, in the town, where it’s protected.

“So where is this tavern she told me of?”

“Just a walk away,” he grunted.  “It’s late, but the keeper will serve us.”

“We can serve ourselves, at need,” I agreed.  “I just thought you might need some air.”

He nodded.  “Dear gods, is it like this every time a woman gives birth?”

“They call it labor for a reason,” I agreed.

“Then it’s a wonder we reproduce at all,” he said, shaking his head.

“That’s why Ishi makes conception so much fun,” I reasoned.  “To keep us doing it.  But take heart: Pentandra is no fresh-faced maiden, afraid of birth.  She’s a mature woman of twenty-five, well-able to contend with the pain and stress.  In truth, she’s more worried about you.”

“About me?” he asked, confused.  “I’m in no danger!”

“But she is, and worrying about you is not what she needs right now,” I said, as I summoned a magelight to keep us from stumbling.  I saw in its light the silhouettes of the small cottages and crofts that had been built along the road.  While humble, there were a lot of them – far more than I expected.

“Who in three hells built all these homes?  Who lives here?” I demanded.

“The quarry lies but a few miles to the south,” Arborn reported.  “Carmella brought in over a hundred workers for it, and they had to live somewhere.  And then a hundred more, to cook and fashion for them.  There are a few carpenters, a smith, masons and stonecutters here, now.”

“I thought Carmella was using bricking wands?”

“She is, for the structural portions,” he agreed, relieved to be talking about anything else than his wife’s mortality.  “But there is a lot of ornamental and specialty work to be done, too.  There are over five hundred souls in Vanador, now,” he said, proudly.  “There is even an estate, of sorts.  Not yet enough to feed everyone, but a start.”

As we crossed beyond the looming shape of the Anvil, to our right, I glimpsed a light in the distance – several lights, I realized.  Off to the west there were a score or more of tiny lights.  Campfires.

“Those are the escaped slaves,” Arborn explained, when I asked.  “We brought thirty thousand of them to the plain below.  They have tarpaulins and tents, for now – I doubt that there is a Wilderlord with a tournament pavilion left in Alshar.  The others are farther south, in other camps.”

“That is a lot of people,” I said.  More than lived in Sevendor, by far.  “How are they faring?”

“They are free from the gurvani,” he pointed out.  “Their happiness is relative.  Yet there are many who seek to repatriate.  A large number of Gilmorans who were taken in the invasion.  Others have given up hope of returning home, and are just looking for some sort of life.”

“How are you feeding them?”

“Your friend Banamor,” Arborn chuckled, as we approached the tavern.  It was hardly “tiny”, but then Pentandra doesn’t hang out at a lot of taverns.  “He’s bringing in about a ton of wheat and another of rice every week.  That, and produce purchased from the few surviving farms and from the markets of Vorone have kept every belly full.  Or at least not empty.  We have fields planned for next year, and work gangs clearing them of stones, but we won’t be able to plow until midsummer, at the earliest.  Perhaps a crop of winter wheat.”

“It sounds as if you have labor enough,” I agreed.  “What about security?”

“I have a unit of the 3rd Commando stationed at the entrance of the vale, and outposts of Kasari along the western range.  The former slaves themselves have patrols around their camp.  Enough of them have been soldiers to keep order.”

“I suppose it solves the labor problem,” I agreed.  “What about the artisans?”

“We’ve given what attention we can to those with useful skills – speak to Master Arni, tomorrow, and he will tell you more.

“But we’ve set up two barbers, so far, and a shoemaker, in the overhang.  There is a small tannery on the river, nearby.  The lumber yard employs many, and the smith now has three apprentices whose service was interrupted by slavery.  We’ve ordered some equipment from Banamor.  Once it arrives, we can put together a millwork,” he said, proudly.  Then he banged on the stout wooden door of the tavern.

“Cydnerth!  Awake!” he demanded.  “Your lord needs a drink!”

“His lord?”

“Anguin made me lord,” he shrugged.  “He gave me the estate nearest to the Kasari lands for my own.  Cydnerth is from there.  This is his shop: the Flickering Flame.”  Indeed, there was a small sign that showed a painting of a cozy little fire in a fireplace.

Cydnerth opened the door, welcomed Arborn whom he recognized at once, and when he heard that Lady Pentandra was in labor he bustled about the place.  In moments, he put a bottle of spirits and a plate of biscuits on the board while he stirred the fire into life.

“Relax,” I urged him, as I dug out my pipe.  “This will be fine.  By morning you may be the proud papa of three daughters,” I pointed out.  “You’re doomed.”

The spirits were apple, distilled from the hard cider that was so common in the Wilderlands.  It tasted like concentrated Autumn, leaves swirling on my tongue, and burned all the way down my gullet.  The smoke helped cool the flames, and I started to relax myself into a warm, apple-scented haze.

“I fought for an entire day, at Olum Seheri,” the dark-eyed ranger said, as he sipped his spirits.  “I faced creatures that should never have been made.  Dead men with glowing eyes.  Yet I’d wish myself back there again, rather than endure this helplessness.”

“Yet you must,” I advised.  “Let the birthing chamber do its work.  I’m here,” I reminded him.  “If there are issues, Pentandra has the best possible resources.  I can have Master Icorod or one of his journeymen here within the hour, if there is trouble.  Hells, at need I can appeal to Trygg, herself.  She’s already blessed this pregnancy,” I reminded him.

“I know, I know,” the big man grumbled.  “None of that makes any difference, in my heart.”

“That, I can understand,” I sighed, sympathetically.  “To compound your anxiety, let me be the first to tell you that this is but the beginning of your journey into terror.  The fear you feel now?  It is nothing, compared to the fear you’ll face the first dawn you have three daughters to concern yourself with.  That day, my friend, you will begin to know the meaning of terror.”

“You really aren’t making me feel better,” Arborn accused me, sullenly.

“There’s nothing that can make you feel better,” I offered.  “Well, there’s one thing.”

“What?” he asked.

“It’s . . . well, it’s a bit of magic.  Not to take away your anxiety, exactly, but . . .”

“What is it?” he demanded.  “What can I do?”

“Drink that,” I said, pouring his glass to the rim.  “Quickly.  And then let me make an inquiry.”

It took a few moments, reaching out to different people, mind-to-mind, but I eventually got someone (Banamor, who delegated it to one of his staff) who could procure what I needed, and sent it through a hoxter.  Twenty minutes and three drinks of spirits later, we were ready.

“Come with me,” I said, mysteriously, as I tapped out my pipe and put it away.  “Cydnerth!  Boil some water.  We’ll want tea and biscuits, when we’re done, and porridge.”

“Where are we going?” Arborn asked, confused, as I led him outside . . . and around the back of the tavern.

“Right about here will do,” I decided.  I cast a magelight to illuminate the place.  The first faint glow of dawn was arising along the horizon in the east, but it was still as dark as a miner’s butt.  “When my father heard that I was having a girl, he gave me some advice,” I said, stripping off my mantle.  “As the father of five daughter’s himself, he was full of sage wisdom on the subject of raising girls.”

“Are they any different than raising boys?”

“Worlds apart,” I nodded.  “But he said there are some things that you can count on with girls,” I continued, philosophically.  “When a young father has a girl, he’s strong.  By the time she grows into a lovely young woman, age takes a toll on a man.  He’s not as strong.

“So . . . when a young woman enters courting age, you might not be as hale as you are now, my friend.  And you will find the nights colder in your bones.”

“You . . . you fear I won’t have the strength to show him the door?”  He still looked confused.  And a little drunk.  As big as he is, Arborn is a lightweight when it comes to his cups.

“Oh, no.  When the wrong sort of suitor shows interest in your daughter,” I explained, as I took out the hoxter wand, “then passion can provide the strength you need to contend with the situation.

“But passion fades, when the deed is done.  And then you are left with but your decrepit strength, and a long night of work ahead.”  I manifested two shovels from the hoxter.  “My father told me that the wise father of any daughter has the foresight to dig the hole while he’s still young and strong.  It saves the trouble of a long night, when you are old and weary.”

“A hole?  For . . .?”

“My father assures me this is effective: for someone who is not impressed by being shown a hole an attentive father dug before he was born and intended for him, at need,” I supplied.  “Mine is behind the stable at the castle.  If a young man is worrisome, I’ll show him the hole, and explain the purpose.  You have three daughters.  That’s three holes.  I’ll help you dig.”

After a long night of labor, Pentandra gave birth to Fentra mid-morning the next day, with Glyfara born right at noon and little Cynnila born a quarter-hour later.  All three girls will healthy, pink . . . and loud.  Pentandra was doing fine.  Her midwives had expertly handled the delivery, and Pentandra’s mother was tending to her – she’d persuaded her assistant to use the Ways to Remere, to fetch her.

I left the happy, exhausted family in their croft, after I secured a bountiful breakfast from the Sevendor bakery, and decided to walk around Pentandra’s hidden gem.

I’d known of the Anvil since the Long March: a giant, solitary mountain in the middle of a gentle plain, surrounded by other rocky mounds.  There had been a few villages in the territory, but they were tiny hamlets of woodsmen and freeholders, spread out and vulnerable to the goblins.  Many of the folk here had been killed or driven off by the first great wave of gurvani, before Timberwatch.

Since Pentandra had taken an interest in the place, with Carmella’s robust assistance, the place had been transformed.  Roads had been created, whole wards had been staked out, and the first few cottages I stumbled across in the night proved to be a neat and tidy row, newly built, and one of three I saw on my stroll.

Various signs on thick parchment were tied to the stakes, and I amused myself by walking around and peeking at Carmella’s vision: livery stable, read one, well house, said another, and the list went on: smith, cartwright, cooper, inn, tavern, herbalist . . . all the professions one needs for a true city to function.  She was ambitious, Pentandra was.

But then I found a few signs that confused me.  One labeled Iron Folk, one labeled Karshak, and one labeled Tera Alon.  Others were mere abbreviations, and even more obscure and confusing.  No doubt Carmella had a construction code somewhere that would explain them.

But as I strolled through the dirt street of the incipient village, I was struck by how beautiful it was.  It seemed to encapsulate everything that drew me initially to the Wilderlands: a wide sense of scale, a closeness with the natural world around it, sweet-smelling air and clean, trickling waters.  It was a grand place.  It reminded me of Boval Vale.

If Pentandra wanted to turn this into a tidy little resort for wizards, I wasn’t going to argue.  Hells, I’d invest.

But what drew my eye away from the stakes was the sight of the ragged tent city on the rocky plain below the Anvil.

In the daylight it was much more vast than the campfires had indicated.  Thirty thousand people was a lot, and they’d been there for but a few weeks.  Tarpaulins and tents filled three central areas – distribution centers, I noted – and more humble shelters spread out beyond.  Spear-toting sentries patrolled the perimeter, and there a few Wilderlords and monks working at the three centers.

“Master Minalan!” I heard someone call from behind me.  I turned around to see Gareth, a surprised expression on his face.  “What are you doing here?”

“Pentandra gave birth this morning – did you not hear?”

He made a face.  “I’ve been up at the Wood Dwarves’ camp to the east of town since daybreak,” he said.  “We’re trying to get twenty new cots built for the infirm and elderly.  I hadn’t heard.  Is she . . . is she okay?”

“Mother and litter are doing fine,” I nodded, smiling.

“Thank Trygg’s holy grace!” he grinned, relieved.  “I’ve heard so many horror stories about multiple births, and . . . survival rates,” he added.  “That’s why we brought in Birthsister Zoma, from Wenshar.  She’s dealt with Valley People before, and they are all multiple births.”

“She’s doing well, though she’s as tired as a charger after a race.  Three perfectly healthy little wizardlings.  I think maybe even Arborn will recover.  So . . . this is your work?” I asked, gesturing toward the massive encampment.

“Not entirely mine,” Gareth said.  “I had help.  But when you sent me here to assist, I did the best I could.  We have three central areas,” he pointed out, “which are used for food, water, and medical distribution.  Between mealtimes the liberated are interviewed, to see where they are from and what their station in life is.  Those who wish to be repatriated, say, to Gilmora are put on one list and given a parchment.  Those who have lost their homes and have no place to return to are put on another.  Anyone who has specific skills is put on a third.”

“Arborn mentioned something about that, last night,” I nodded.

“Well, when Sheruel sent his goblins into Gilmora, he really did us a boon,” Gareth said, with dark humor.  “Apparently Gilmora was fat with younger tradesmen who couldn’t break into the guilds, there was so much competition.  Those who survived captivity are doubly eager for the chance to ply their trade again . . . particularly in a land without too many guild restrictions.”

“So who is in charge?”

“Of the camp?  We have a small council of Wilderlords, many of them from this region, governing it.  There are a few score clergy who have volunteered for the effort . . . in return for the chance to build a future temple in our future city,” he added.  “The slaves – escapees,” he corrected, “have elected representatives of their own.  So far, things have gone smoothly.  But that’s only because we’ve kept the rations flowing.  That was something the gurvani were skimpy on.”

“They have nothing,” I said with a sigh, as I saw the rag-clad, emaciated people go about their business.

“They have hope, now,” Gareth countered.  “Master, you have no idea just how bad some of those people had it.  There were beatings, starvation, torture, experiments . . . they are happy just to be alive and free.  “With hope and a couple of sticks, the Kasari say, you can do anything.  Add a little magic to that, and I have every confidence that they will thrive.”

“As long as they are protected,” I warned.  “Don’t think that the gurvani are going to let their slaves go without contest.”

“Then they’ll have to contend with the fourth company of the Alshari 3rd Commandos,” Gareth said, shaking his head.  “They’ve an encampment at the mouth of the vale.  Six hundred men strong, with another thousand armed Wilderfolk as reserves.  And a few warmagi who would see such an attack as an extended target practice.”

“And supply?”

“We’ve contracted through Banamor,” he reported.  “We have about sixty tons of wheat and rice secured in hoxters, thus far, and another twenty each of barley and oats.  Tomorrow we’re expecting a shipment of salt fish – we need to get some protein in them.  And, hopefully, the millworks we ordered from Remere.  Right now, we’re grinding all of our grain by hand, which is fine because we have so many idle hands.  But it’s inefficient.  And we’ll need it, come next year,” he added.  “We’ve got all those idle hands preparing several fields for planting, this autumn.  They’re clearing them of rocks and brush, and raking them out.”

“Is the soil rich enough to sustain that kind of planting?” I asked, doubtfully.  The fields of the Wilderlands were scattered and few.  The rocky soil was difficult to grow more than corn and beans, in most places, and real viable fields of barley or wheat took generations of cultivation to be productive.

“No,” he admitted, “but we’re fixing that, too.  One of the local green magi investigated, and made some recommendations.  On his advice, we’re going to enrich it,” he said, smugly.

“How?  Sheep shit?”  That was the usual manner in which fertilizer was added to farmland.  The fertile feces of the beasts were almost as coveted by the manor lords as their woolly pelts.

“No, that would take too long,” he chuckled.  “Banamor indicated that Master Planus is involved in this new Arcane Mercantile Company.  As it turns out, there is a riverway in Remere that is being dredged out – Master Planus’ firm has accepted the contract.  He as concerned about where to store the dredged material, which is, by all accounts, filled with fertile silt and decaying organic matter.”

“All of which will be killed by a trip through a hoxter,” I pointed out.

“They’ll make more,” Gareth shrugged.  “It won’t take long to restore the microorganisms in a biological mass of decay like that.  But from what Planus says, we can move about a hundred and fifty tons of river silt from Remere to our fields.  Once we mix that in with local soil, we should have fields fertile enough to sustain the town.”

“That’s a mighty ambitious plan,” I nodded, watching the former slaves as the headed back to the empty fields after lunch.

“I was taught to dream big,” Gareth nodded.  “You told me to find a place where my talents were needed, and could be appreciated.  I think I found it,” he said, with satisfaction.

Chapter Fifty-Five

The Alka Alon Council

News of Pentandra’s birthing spread with the speed of thought through the arcane community.  Once I ensured everything was well with the new family, I went back to Sevendor, where the news was already broken.  It had, indeed, come before news of Prince Tavard’s miraculous survival at Maidenspool, which had also broken.

As much as I enjoyed telling the story of that night, I had other business to attend to: the Alka Alon Council meeting was only a fortnight away, and I had preparations to make.

Things were helped by the return of a well-rested Sire Cei to his post as castellan.  While Festaran and a rotating group of assistants had kept Sevendor Castle and the domain running smoothly in his absence, there was nothing like having the Dragonslayer back in charge to keep people on their toes.  Despite no real problems arising while he was gone, Cei was adamant that his office was filled with issues that required his attention.

That was fine.  As long as things ran smoothly and my meals were on time, I wasn’t going to complain.

I spent much time in distant mind-to-mind conversation with Lilastien, as well as several in-person discussions with Onranion and Lady Varen.  The mysterious third Emissary was the only one still at Lesgaethael, but she showed no inclination of leaving, as her fellows had.

Their insights into the history and politics of the current Council were interesting.  I learned so much about the competing clans and family lines of the various kindreds that my head spun.  When you’re talking about dynasties that last thousands of years, and grudges that last as long, things get complicated.

But by the time the day of the Council loomed, I was far more prepared than before.  I don’t know if that helped, but if I screwed things up, I decided, I was at least doing so from a place of knowledge, not ignorance.

With Pentandra still on maternity leave, I selected Astyral and Mavone, two Gilmorans, to accompany me to represent the Arcane Orders.  Both were from a culture that prized the same kind of social formalities as the Alka Alon, and both were less-likely to accidently destroy something, like, say, Wenek or Tyndal.  And, most importantly, both had a better-than-normal understanding of the politics involved, even if they weren’t privy yet to the larger issues of the Vundel.

Indeed, this was a way of instructing them in those issues.  During the raid on Olum Seheri, one of the afterthoughts that stuck with me was how completely screwed the human race was if Pentandra and I – the only two magi who were aware of the looming crisis with the Vundel – were to be lost.  No doubt my people would stumble along blindly for a few generations, but without someone who knew what was happening ready to step into our places, all of our work would be for naught.  Introducing Mavone and Astyral to the council would help repair that deficit, I reasoned.

In addition, I included Dara and Ruderal in our delegation, more because I wanted to expose them to the Alka Alon than because I needed their counsel.  Besides, having a couple of apprentices around to wait on me and run my errands makes me look good.

This time the Council had elected to hold the meeting in Anas Yartharel, not Carneduin.  Anas Yartharel was just as ancient an Alkan city as Anthatiel, and now that the latter had fallen it remained the only great true Alkan city left.  Carneduin is a place of lore and scholarship.  Anas Yartharel is the last bastion of Alkan nobility from a by-gone age.

Nor had its remote location, in the western Kulines, not too far from the Anvil, allowed it to escape the war.  Twice, now, Korbal or Sheruel had sent dragons to molest the city, and twice they had been repelled, at great cost.

Raer Letharan, the lord of the great city, was no friend to humanity.  He had been tepid, at best, to the prospects of an alliance, even when his friend and ally Aeratas had come forward in support of the policy.  But even he could see the danger in the rise of Korbal, and after the unexpected fall of Anthatiel, he was eager to discover some means of preserving his unique city from a similar fate.  Even if that meant consorting with humani.

I could sense his cautious change of perspective as our delegation came through the Ways to the point in the middle of Anas Yartharel magnificent square.

I use the term “square” loosely, as this feature was actually round, a perfect circle surrounding three incredibly stately natavia trees.  A great edifice towered over the circle on the east, with two great wings encircling the center and ending at the physical gate, on the western side.

I was stunned.  Carneduin was decentralized and sublime.  Anthatiel, before its fall, had been grand and splendid; but Anas Yartharel encapsulated the greatness of the Alka Alon during their warring states period, and it was a fortress as much as it was a city.  Even cynical Master Azhguri spoke of the works of Anas Yartharel as one of his folk’s finest.  I could immediately see why.

But I could also see the damage wrought by the recent attacks.  There were areas of the fortress that were burned, the wooden interiors blasted.  Some of the tallest spires were cracked and melted by dragonfire, the heat so strong that it caused the stone to change form.  Reconstruction was continuing on those sections, but the bulk of the citadel was intact.

“Welcome to Anas Yartharel, my lords and ladies,” a naked Alkan female, in native form, bid us as we materialized.  “I am Tervedes, Herald of Raer Letharan.  When you have recovered from your transition, I will escort you to the council chamber.”

“I think we’re good,” I said, glancing around at my people.  None of them looked as if they were going to vomit.  “We’re old hands at the Ways, by now.  Especially when we can do it in ways that don’t damage our brains.”

“Very well, my lords and ladies.  Follow me.”  She began walking at a quick pace to keep up with our longer legs.  She led us up a long spiraling ramp to an upper chamber overlooking the courtyard, below.  Along the way we passed hundreds of diminutive little Alkans hurrying about their work – in a much more formal manner than the comparatively relaxed folk of Carneduin or the Tower of Refuge.

The great chamber we were led to had a large, low table in the center, around which were low, elaborately-carved stools for the members of the council.  Everyone else gathered around the periphery of the room to watch and listen.

“You are to sit here, my lord Minalan,” Tervedes indicated.  “Here is the seat reserved for Lord Aeratas,” she said, sadly, as Lady Falawen too her seat.  “And here is the place for Lady Pentandra – is she not among you?” she asked, in her high little voice.

“She is recovering from her birthing,” I announced.  “Four days ago, but she’s still contending with the novelty of motherhood, and three hungry little babies.”

“Trygg’s blessings upon her,” Tervedes said, courteously but automatically.  “Who shall speak in her stead?”

“Magelord Astyral of Tudry,” I introduced, as the Gilmoran gave a long, gracious, and utterly human-style bow.  “He is high in our counsels, and has been a stalwart defender of the realms of Alkan and humani.  He enjoys our trust and we value his wisdom,” I added.

I’m going to remind you of that later, Astyral quipped, mind-to-mind, as he was seated.

We were among the last to arrive, but there were a few stragglers.  Eventually Lord Letharan, who seemed taller and statelier than the other Alkans, called the council to order.

“We have been summoned to emergency council this day to hear intelligence on the recent raid on the citadel of Olum Seheri,” he announced, causing some murmurs among the crowd.  Apparently, the raid was not common knowledge among the Alka Alon.  “This raid was a joint operation between the humani magi and the . . . Tera Alon,” he said, pronouncing the name with visible distaste.  “While they claim it was a successful raid, I have the misfortune to have to announce that Lord Aeratas fell during the expedition.”

There was even more murmuring, and even shock, among the Alkans assembled.  Letharan continued.

“This, we can all agree, is disturbing news.  To have such a noble and powerful Alkan to fall in the pursuit of such a foolhardy goal . . . it saddens us all.  But we must make the best of the situation,” he continued, in a more hopeful tone.  “For though we have lost a great Alkan, we have – supposedly – gained intelligence that will help mitigate the pain of the grievous blow.  The wizard Minalan, called the Spellmonger, provisional member of this council, has asked to report on the raid and share the news he discovered during his exploration of Olum Seheri.”

So I did.  For two hours, I gave a stirring account of the raid, from the planning and preparation through the execution to the inevitable surprises to the remarkable battle that concluded it.

It was a difficult story to tell, for there were many sides and perspectives that needed to be shared: the ferocious nature of the draugen, the power of the Nemovorti and their living Enshadowed auxiliaries, the composition of the professional hobgoblin infantry Korbal favored, the layout of his fortress complex (included on a magemap I’d been working on) – all of it.

I tried to stay away from the vainglory of the battle, and focus on the importance of the intelligence.  The biggest shock came when I revealed that the Aronin of Amadia was still alive, when I found him in the dungeons of the Necromancer before he finally expired.  I passed along his message of defiance, and the last counsels he’d given me for them.

“So, as you can see,” I concluded, “the threat that the Necromancer now poses is even greater than Sheruel.  His goal is not simple extermination: it’s conquest.  First of the human realms, then the Alkan, and eventually he prepares to challenge the Vundel, themselves.  From what I’ve been led to understand, that would be a crisis for everyone.”

“Yes, it would,” Lady Micrethiel said, suspiciously.  “And it would follow the fanatical ideology Korbal and his folk fought for, before their entombment.  But it is madly ambitious,” she pronounced.  “It is hard to credit his plans with any seriousness.”

“Yet he is no longer merely a necromancer,” I pointed out.  “He is now armed with the might of Sheruel, enslaved by his iron staff.  I have interviewed its creator extensively about it.  I have no doubt that Korbal now has the means to effect at least the first part of his plan.”

“And you say you have attacked his vaunted immortality?” asked Raer Haruthel.  “How so?”

This is where it was going to get hairy, I knew.  “Among my goals for this expedition was the recovery of a special enneagram from the Ghost Rock vein for a thaumaturgical experiment – since I was there, anyway, I took the opportunity.  The resulting paraclete demonstrated surprising talents, when it was installed in a device.  One of them was to affix Korbal’s enneagram permanently to his current – and increasingly decrepit – body.  That prohibits him from changing at whim, the way the other Nemovorti seem to do.”

“And you secured a prisoner?  You actually took Mycin Amana captive?” he asked.  There was a look in his beady little eyes that told me that he had some especial issue with her.

“She is locked away in one of my castles,” I agreed, not willing to name which one.  There was some indication that there were spies among the Alka Alon who reported to the Enshadowed.  I didn’t need to tell them where they could find the undead bitch.  “And she is not the only one: my apprentice also captured a Nemovort, by herself.  He, too, is now captive.  I will begin interrogating him, myself.  A vivisectionist, by her telling,” I said, nodding toward Dara.  She looked pale at the memory, but nodded back.

“Ah,” Haruthel said, a rare look of disgust on his tiny face.  “Khudoz.  I had hoped his pattern had degraded, during his entombment.  It appears we are to have him inflicted upon us again.”

“They both may prove useful,” countered Lord Letharan.  “Mycin, at least, was in Korbal’s highest councils.  She will know the specifics of his plan.”

“Is she likely to share that information?” Haruthel asked, doubtfully.

“She will be compelled to,” Letharan assured, in a tone of voice that made me – almost – feel sorry for Mycin.  “It is clear that the so-called reforms adopted to contend with this new age have failed, my lords,” he pronounced.  “Our past foes spring anew from the earth, and they not only awaken old enemies and threats, they conspire to add new ones.  We must return to a more resolute stance against such forces,” he declared.

“There is no need to abandon our peaceful civilization in response to this,” Aronin Ladas, another council member, contested.  “We have the made great strides in coming to peace with our nature.  To cast that aside at the first sign of trouble is folly.”

“To do nothing in the face of an obvious and existential threat is folly compounded,” countered Letharan.  “I have no love for the humani, but I cannot discount their rash bravery in chancing the Necromancer’s dark land.  Korbal’s power is nascent, at the moment, but it grows.  His inclination is well-known, and his enmity for the established order.  He has attacked two of our strongest citadels, and taken one.  When, Master Ladas, will it become clear to you that this is now more than mere humani-versus-gurvani?” he demanded.  “When the dragons descend on your own land?”

“If one insists on living in a fortress,” the Aronin replied, stiffly, “then one must expect to attract enemies.”

“And if one insists on living in highly-flammable trees,” Letharan replied, hotly, “then one must expect to burn by dragonfire.  The walls and spires of Anas Yartharel were resolute enough against two dragon attacks,” he boasted.  “I doubt your glorified orchard will protect you as well.”

“Lords!” Master Haruthel interjected.  “We meet to deliberate war, not to war amongst ourselves,” he reminded them, sternly.  “The dignity of this council demands we find clarity and agreement, not discord.”

“You speak of dignity, when humani and rebels are permitted in council?” scoffed Micrethiel.  “You should be imprisoned!” she said, addressing Lilastien accusingly.  “I knew it was a mistake to parole you!”

“After what I witnessed at Olum Seheri, if you wish to exile me back to the Tower of Refuge, I will count myself safe and fortunate,” Lilastien countered.  “Thanks to the humani gods, the place has more protection against the enemy than this mighty fortress.”

“Humani gods!” Micrethiel snorted.  “We well know the dangers of dealing with those . . . entities,” she said, distastefully.  “Wherever they appear, they destroy and disrupt the established order.  A complete bother!” she declared.

“Yet they can be useful,” I reminded them.  “Among the other news I bear to the council, I must also report a recent interaction with the Vundel.  Indirectly, through one of their humani servants,” I hastened to say, when I saw the pale looks on their faces.  “Earlier this year he approached me on their behalf to secure a sample of snowstone.  It has, apparently, been ‘tasted’ in the waters downstream, and the Sea Folk are as eager to experiment with its unique properties as you are.”

“The Vundel?  Treated with a human?” scoffed Micrethiel.  “Why?”

“Because we had something they wanted,” I stressed.  “How often has that happened in the ten thousand years of Alon civilization on Callidore?”

“Rarely,” conceded Master Haruthel.  “Mostly they have left us alone, or condescended to instruct us about our place on this world.”

“So, we have something they want,” I said, hopefully.

“Did you grant them the sample, Wizard?” asked Micrethiel.

“An entire mountain of it,” I agreed.  “They took delivery at once, transporting the whole mountain magically.  It left quite a gap in my landscape,” I smiled.  “But I figured that if the Vundel wanted it, I was behooved to grant it.”  No need to mention the incredible amount of money I got in return – the Alka Alon don’t use money, and don’t appreciate it as we humans do.

“This is troubling news,” Master Haruthel said, looking down at the table.  “We have escaped close scrutiny by the Vundel because they have had little to interest them on land.  If that has changed, so has our relationship to them.”

“But it changes for the better,” I pointed out.  “We have some bargaining leverage, now.”

“At most, it buys us a little time,” Letharan said, troubled.  “Maybe a few centuries.  Their patience is limited, for such a long race, and we are already on probation.”

I grinned.  “A few centuries?  My lords, while I appreciate your immortal perspective, among the humani mighty empires can rise and fall in a space of decades.  Perhaps you can make use of our hastiness?” I suggested.

“Foolhardiness, is more apt,” Micrethiel snorted.  “You are a reckless and thoughtless species, whose temperament waxes and wanes with the tides!”

“My lady, I cannot disagree,” Astyral said, for the first time.  “Indeed, I share your concern.  Which makes decisive action all the more important while you have our inconstant attention.  What happens, if Korbal decides to bide his time and build his strength at the Umbra and Olum Seheri for half a century?  Will the humani leadership of that time have the incentive to action, when they strike?  Or will you have to stir up our attention yet again, making these same arguments to those foolish warrior princes?”

“If we can even gain their attention!” she huffed.

“Exactly, my lady,” Astyral said, persuasively.  “We do not have the benefit of your long life, and are therefore impatient in our policies by necessity.  When there comes a band of us foolish mortals with enough wisdom to understand the need for action, the wise thing to do is to take advantage of it.”

“I admit that this has been a useful foray,” Micrethiel said.  “You humani have stumbled upon important information.  But you lack the perspective to understand the implications of the contest we face.”

“Your pardon, my lady,” Astyral said, before I could speak, “our ephemeral nature gives us the perspective needed, at this time.  A perspective your eyes might miss: Korbal has set his sights on dominating human civilization.

“Perhaps you might think that will be a slow, gradual process, but my mortal perspective tells me that is not: already the undead roam parts of Enultramar, and his agents and spies seek to usurp control of that prosperous province.  Next year, if allowed to go unchecked, the Nemovorti will struggle to dominate the region.  The year after that, they will command it.  A cautious perspective may serve the interests of the Alka Alon, but it will be caution while your house is already afire.”

“The wizard speaks truly,” Lord Letharan admitted, sullenly.  “I was arrogant, when I misbelieved my friend Aeratas’ pleas for attention.  Gurvani tribesman with irionite?  A few dragons?  My home has weathered worse than that, over its history.

“But Korbal is insidious, as is the fanatical movement he leads,” he continued, darkly.  “Do you forget the horrors he inflicted, during his brief rule in the wastelands?  He remains unrepentant, after his long entombment – more, if what Onranion and Lilastien say is true, he is challenging the sovereignty of the established order directly, now.  Raising his banner, in human terms, not merely declaring his rebellion.”

“Now that he has the human population to draw strength from, he is no longer dependent upon the resources a few exiled houses and discredited individuals to push his claim,” Lilastien reminded the council.  “I’ve examined the bodies of the undead we slew at Olum Seheri.  While not an expert in necromancy, I would venture that Korbal and the Enshadowed have nearly perfected their technique.  Had not Minalan acted as he did, he would likely be in an even more powerful new body, preparing a sortie on your very gates.”

“And we should take your counsel on this subject . . . why?” Micrethiel asked, arrogantly.

“Is there another expert on human biology hiding out, somewhere?” Lilastien countered.  “I know my craft, Micrethiel.  With access to humani thaumaturgy, as well as Alka Alon magic, they are but a few iterations away from fully achieving their goal.  True deathlessness.  And then we have an eternal enemy to face,” she predicted.  “One whose immortal perspective makes ours look like the Tal Alon.”

That made the Alkan shift uncomfortably in her seat.  “How did we allow this to happen?” she demanded.  “None of this would have taken place, if the humani and their gods and their magic had not interfered.”

“Nor would have this problem arisen if this same council had taken my advice, and dumped Korbal and his minions into the sea,” Haruthel countered, sharply.  “Were you not yourself in favor of the potential of his redemption, Micrethiel?  Did you not advocate for mercy, when some counselled vigilance?”

“We expected Anthatiel to not falter in its responsibility to maintain its guard on the place,” she shot back, defensively, looking toward Falawen.

“Do not infer that the Anthatieli failed in our charge, my lady,” Fallawen said, coldly.  “My line has overseen the Land of Scars and its secrets for thousands of years, without incident.  The fact that I sit here, and not my sire, should tell you of the price we have paid for our vigilance.  It took centuries for the Enshadowed to contrive a plan to circumvent the safeguards we put into place.  They had to create an entire civilization and co-opt another to achieve their goal.  They had to create an abomination, freeze a mighty river, and assault us in our homes in a manner no one could have expected.

“And did you come to our aid, when Anthatiel was at need?” she demanded, passionately.  “Did you reward our long vigilance with your support?  Or did you deny the crisis and tend to your own affairs while . . . while only the humani were willing to dare the foe?”

“I think your current form alters your perspective, Falawen,” Micrethiel said.  “Did your father not bargain you away to them, in return for their assistance?”

“I wed my human husband of my own accord!” she fired back, hotly.  “He, at least, was willing to make the journey to succor my people.  He, at least, was bold enough to challenge the gurvani at the very frozen gates of Anthatiel!  Where were you, my lady?” she asked, icily.  “Where were your troops?  Where were your mighty spells?  Were you too shamed to come to our aid because they have atrophied with age and misuse?” she taunted.

“Speak not to me of shame!” Micrethiel sneered.  “You, who has married your line into an alien species, and dare to lecture me on propriety!  Would you suggest your half-Alkan mongrels inherit the City of Rainbows, someday?”

“If they’re the only ones with the courage to fight for it, yes,” Fallawen said, flatly.  I could tell she was getting frustrated.  “Condemn me for betraying my race if you wish, but perhaps if the humani are the only ones willing to fight for this realm, they should be the ones to inherit it.  I’ve lived amongst them for years, now, learning the ways of their people in ways you have not permitted in half a lifetime.

“I’ve learned how strong and passionate they are, how curious they are, and how cunning they are,” she ticked off on her fingers, sparing me and Astyral a glance.  “I’ve discovered things about them that I’d never dreamed of, ways of looking at the universe implicit to their ephemeral condition.  They epitomize the same greatness we ourselves aspired to, in the past.”

“And look where those aspirations took us,” Aronin Ladas said, snidely.  “Our great civilization all but destroyed itself, in this realm.  Thanks to such devotions.”

“It wasn’t a devotion to curiosity or valor that lead to our fall,” Haruthel countered.  “It was our own arrogance.  When the Rulathi delegation arrived in force, my lords, did they fault our devotion to tradition?  Or did they reprove us for our poor decisions?  Nay, they concluded that it was our arrogance and unwillingness to adapt to the rise of the fanatical houses that caused our fall.”

“And, as a consequence, stuck us with the duty of overseeing the humani,” Micrethiel said, shaking her head.  “Which leads us to our current crisis . . .”

“Humanity was never meant as a punishment,” Lilastien pointed out.  “It was an opportunity to redeem ourselves for our past sins.  An opportunity to explore the challenge of a new people, entirely different than the Alon or the Vundel.”

“An excuse to keep us from rebuilding our civilization,” Lord Letharan said, darkly.  “I, too, see the humani as retribution for what happened to Castabriel, Noniel, Hemeileva and Ikueniel, and the wars that followed.  The gurvani uprising.  The Karshak’s release of that horror.  The rise of Korbal.  Now this . . . humanity is the burden we bear for our past sins,” he insisted.

“You know, we can hear you?” I reminded them.  “That was the attitude that pushed you to purposefully lose track of our own culture and civilization, after Perwyn fell,” I reminded him.

“Your own people ensured that, well enough,” he smirked.

“Yet it remains true,” I insisted.  “Instead of allowing us to retain what civilization we had, you encouraged its fall,” I accused.  “You saved our people at the cost of our heritage.  You treat us as half-intelligent creatures – mortals – but you encouraged the institutions that embodied our greatness, such as it was, to fall to ruin.  If you were entrusted to overseeing humanity, whether as punishment or boon, you’ve failed in the spirit of the charge, regardless of your execution of the letter.”

“That’s rather arrogant of you, Spellmonger,” Micrethiel sneered.  She was an excellent sneerer.  “You dare lecture us, who ensured the bulk of your population escaped Perwyn when it sank due to their own foolishness?  Your people are still here – goodness, they grow like a fungus!”

“As there are no better representatives of humanity available, I’ll stand for us . . . fungi,” I agreed, evenly.  “If you were tasked with our guardianship, then I accuse you, oh immortals, of screwing it up.  You accepted the task grudgingly, most of you,” I said, looking around the table.  “You let us get small and stupid, shorn from our heritage and forced to re-create what civilization we have from near scratch.  You like us that way,” I emphasized.

“That is a gross over-simplification,” Master Haruthel said, anxiously.

“Ephemeral, self-obsessed, and ignorant of our true place on Callidore,” I continued.  “That’s how you like us.  When magic arose unexpectedly in my people, you pushed us to master it at the expense of our own civilization.  When we sank our initial colony, you took the people to the mainland, but not the rest of our civilization.  Within three generations we were no better than Tal Alon.”

“That is not at all how things went,” Haruthel insisted.  “There were other factors at play.  And betrayal,” he said, looking meaningfully toward Lilastien.  “The danger of the Vundel being alarmed was great.  Had we attempted to recover your tekka, as you call it now, it would have called unwanted attention to . . . to . . .”

“To the problem we, ourselves, started, if you wanted to be objective about it,” Lilastien said, dryly.  “After all, had we not exiled the horizon, things would have played out much differently, I imagine.”

“You dismiss one peril for another?” asked Micrethiel.  “That was the smartest decision this council ever took.”

“The humani would have solved their own problems, without our interference,” Lilastien countered, hotly.  “Instead you forced their hand.  And compelled them to sacrifice their greatest asset.”

“They seem to have replaced it with their pesky divinities,” Aronin Ladas replied.  “The horizon never produced something like snowstone.  We know their divine magic was involved in its creation,” he said, off-handedly.  “Yet we do not know how.  Because the wizard says he does not know.”

“I would say, rather, that the divinities rose in power in response to the exile,” countered Lilastien.  “Of necessity, to keep humanity from becoming a mere client species of the Alon.”

“Oh, that’s mystical nonsense!” dismissed Letharan.  “They were a mere by-product of humanity’s unstable psychology.  Had we been allowed to intervene more forcefully, we might have kept them from becoming the power they have.”

“Don’t you think humanity’s psychology got a bit unstable when their last connection to their original civilization was removed?” countered Onranion, speaking at counsel for the first time.  “My lords, within a century of the horizon being lost, Perwyn sank.  And the gods arose in the waves of her inundation.  The two are not unconnected.”

“I don’t understand,” Astyral said, clearing his throats.  “My lords and ladies, you keep speaking of the exile of the horizon,” he said, confused.  “Yet I see it every time I look out the window.  Is this some Alkan idiom my poor, ignorant human brain is not comprehending?”

Lilastien sighed.  “No, it is not,” she said, guiltily.  “The horizon we speak of is not the boundary where the sky meets land or sea,” she explained.  “In this context, the horizon means the UNSS New Horizon.  The great ship that sailed between the stars to bring your race to Callidore.”

“What?” I asked, dumbfounded.

“Oh,” she said, thinking of something else.  “And it’s where the Forsaken are,” she admitted.

Chapter Fifty-Six

The Legend Of The Lost Horizon

“I think that’s a good place for a recess,” Lord Letharan said, quickly.  “Perhaps long enough for the human delegation to . . . catch up on historical events,” he said, rising.

“And who is to tell them, my lords?” Lilastien asked.  “Do you trust me to?  I was, after all, involved in the matter, in some small way.”

“I shall assist in the instruction,” Master Haruthel said, to the rest of the council.  “I will ensure an accurate retelling of the tale is made.”

“That would be appreciated,” I said, my head whirling at the news.  “As soon as you possibly can.”

The meeting broke, and Master Haruthel led us to a smaller chamber, high-ceilinged enough to make us comfortable.  Lilastien poured some unfamiliar wine-like beverage for us all – my apprentices, included – and we sat on the cushions provided, while the two Alka Alon told us the story of humanity on Callidore.

Short version.

“Unlike most of the races the Vundel permitted to settle on Callidore, humanity came to them,” Lilastien began.  “They appeared out of the sky, having crossed the great void from their homeworld not with magic, but by purely mechanical means.  Their mighty ship sailed through the airless void for an age before it found Callidore and . . . woke up.”

“Woke up?” I asked, curious.

“It was a colony ship,” she explained.  “With your short lives and the vast distances they covered, the reasonable answer was to suspend the lives of the colonists while in transit.  The New Horizon was mighty.  It contained an entire civilization in a type of stasis.  Just over a quarter of a million humani colonists were frozen within its vastness.  Its storehouses and workshops contained everything your people needed to adapt their colony to a new world – even create one from scratch, if need be,” she said, impressed.  “All without the benefit of magic.”

“It really was quite impressive to us,” Onranion agreed.  “To understand the nature of the quantum world without the benefit of its direct experience was unfathomable.  To appreciate the nuances of electromagnetism, gravity, and all the other elements of nature through the brute force of mathematics and science?  Exhausting!  No wonder you lot write everything down!”

“The arrival of the New Horizon around Callidore—”

“Around?” asked Astyral, this time.

“The ship was far too great and, in its way, too delicate to land on the world,” explained Master Haruthel.  “Nor was it designed to.  It was three miles long,” he said, holding his arms out wide for emphasis.  “When it came to this world, it stayed in the sky.  But it had smaller ships that ferried the colonists and their equipment to the surface,” he explained.  “Even in the Void, your people were adept mariners.”

“When the New Horizon finally arrived, much had already been settled,” Lilastien continued.  “The advance scouts of your people made contact with the most advanced civilization they found – on land.  The High Kingdoms of the Alka Alon, in the distant realm of Lois Tava.”

“Distant realm?  What realm is this?” Mavone asked.  “Pentandra will want to know.”

“This is the realm of Kunostis,” Haruthel said, as if that was obvious.  “Entirely different.”

“But still subject to the same rules as all Alon, under our agreement with the Vundel.  When the humani requested permission to settle, after a few years of hemming and hawing the High Kingdoms deferred the subject to the Vundel, in council, figuring they would reject the request.”

“To everyone’s surprise, the Vundel granted it,” Onranion picked up.  “They granted permission, and strongly recommended that the humani be allowed to settle in eastern Kunostis and the isles nearby . . . the region you now know as the Five Duchies.  And Perwyn, of course.”

“And Unstara, the Eastern Islands, the Northrealms, the . . .” Lilastien reminded him.

“Essentially a couple of sub-continents and a number of archipelagos in what the Vundel consider one of the most damaged portions of the world,” admitted Haruthel.  “Though many among the Alon were loath to grant even that.”

“Their reasoning was that if the Alon had not managed to heal the land in ten thousand years, and kept encountering issues that spread to other regions, it was humanity’s turn to apply their science and civilization to the problem,” Onranion continued.  “For some of us – notably most of the Avalanti clans – this was a welcome blessing, particularly in the bounty of new trees from your homeworld to marvel upon,” he admitted.  “Some liberal Versaroti houses were, likewise, willing to experiment with the new race.  Aspects of your people were fascinating.  Others were horrifying.”

“I empathize,” I muttered.  “Go on.”

“After about seventy years of exploration and negotiation, the colonial agreement was made.  Another fifty years of intensive terraforming of Perwyn, and more long-term terraforming—”

“Terraforming?” I asked.  “Does that mean what I think it does?”

Lilastien sighed, frustrated.  But she ventured on.  “Yes.  When your folk came here, eastern Kunostis was a wasteland, by anyone’s standards.  What gains the Alon made in restoration of a viable biosphere were wrecked during the warring states period.

“But humanity’s approach was different.  Instead of building isolated gardens in a sea of wastelands, they applied their mighty technology – their tekka – to the problem.  It took fifty years, but when they were done the isle of Perwyn was as close to their original home as they could make it.

“They used Perwyn as a staging ground for a mighty effort on the mainland,” Onranion continued.  “They sent their machines into the interior and showered the land with corrective measures to make it more compatible with their original biome.  Soil chemistries were altered, a succession of importasta plants were seeded, and, over time, the importasta animals you are familiar with were added to the biome.”

“It was remarkably efficient, from an engineering standpoint,” Lilastien nodded.  “The importasta biome, once it adapted to Callidore, ended up replacing three natavia nodes in four.  That was considered acceptable for further human colonization, but it took decades to achieve.

“For seven decades, the civilization on Perwyn thrived as the ships from the Horizon arrived, filled with new settlers and new machines.  The Horizon watched over the nascent colony, ensuring its security from above, though there was little to threaten it at first.

“But then the inevitable occurred: political strife.  In an attempt to control the flow of colonists from the ship, the first wave of colonists and their descendants started trying to control the colonization effort.  Another party wanted to increase the rate.  As newcomers tended to support the latter, a struggle emerged over who, and when, new colonists would be added to the colony.”

“That seems . . . petty,” Astyral observed.

“Some thought it was,” Onranion agreed.  “But for years the pro-colonial party prevailed, and colonists flowed into the new settlements on the mainland, into what is now the central Merwyn valley and the coastlines.

“Then the magi emerged,” Lilastien, continued.  “Slowly, at first, but when they started to master their new abilities – with our help – things got political.  There were . . . clashes.  And it was often difficult to determine who was on whose side.

“Then a plot came to light – a faction among your people had developed a weapon on the Horizon that could be used against all Callidore.

“It was foiled, and those responsible were punished, but the very real danger of humanity’s non-magical abilities was exposed.  It was an excuse to banish the Horizon, and the great advantages the ship gave your folk, from our skies.  With the backing of the Alka Alon council – this council,” she reminded me, “the rebels did what was necessary to send the ship deep into space, away from Callidore . . . with nearly forty thousand colonists still asleep aboard.  Forever.  Forsaken.”

“Who were these rebels?” Mavone asked, his eyes narrowed.

“The first Archmagi,” Onranion answered.  “They seized political control over Perwyn, and while the lack of support from the skies was problematic, they quickly substituted magic for much of what they once relied upon the Horizon for, or they learned to do without.”

“Things were going well, even with the Horizon gone, until Kephan the Damned sank Perwyn, with most of the remaining technological elements on it,” Haruthel sighed.  “I have to admit to some . . . Alka Alon involvement in that,” he confessed.  “Your people were purposefully misled by some of ours who resented your place in our world.  Friends of the Enshadowed,” he added.  “If it hadn’t been for the intercession of some of your early gods and . . .”

“And the help of some friendly ‘rebels’,” Lilastien finished, snidely.  “We’re the ones responsible for getting most of the people evacuated from Perwyn.  The Council could have assisted with the infrastructure that would have kept your civilization truly intact, if they wished, but they declined.  It wasn’t our business, they said . . . though it was the Alka Alon renegades who guided the effort.”

“And for the temerity of defying the council and rescuing the humani, some were punished,” Onranion finished.  “Lilastien most of all, for her loyalty to humanity.  Others were merely censured, removed from their responsibilities, and sent into the hinterlands to contemplate their misplaced loyalties.”

“Order had to be maintained!” Haruthel insisted.  “The council made a determination, and Lilastien and her friends ignored it!  She had to be punished!”

“I saved three hundred thousand people by doing it,” Lilastien said, casually.  “But as they were mere mortals, the council did not count that in my favor.  They were embarrassed,” she accused.  “Embarrassed to have let the humani do something that reckless in the first place, and then embarrassed to have endorsed such a dramatically bad idea in contribution to the catastrophe.

“They needed a scapegoat.  They reported to the High Kingdoms that it was the work of a few rebel miscreants who had over-identified with the aliens.  We were held to account.  The damage was being repaired.  No need for further investigation,” she said, disgustedly.

“That is all in the past—” Haruthel objected.

“A past that was hidden from us,” I countered.  “How many of our scholars are aware of this?” I demanded.

“If your ancestors hadn’t rushed in and ruined the Later Magocracy,” Haruthel accused, “a few of them might be!”

“So much for ‘all in the past’,” Dara smirked, her arms folded.

“We did what we felt was the wise course of action at the time,” Haruthel insisted.  “There was more happening than just Perwyn.  And during the Invasion things happened so quickly that we weren’t able to intercede!”

“The Invasion took more than a decade!” Astyral countered.  “You couldn’t figure out anything to do in that time?”

“Who says we didn’t?” Haruthel asked, defensively.  “We sealed off the Valley People from the rest of you, rescued our scholarly allies from Wenshar, secured what dangers we could from the barbarian horde, and . . . by the time we could have effectively intervened, the last Archmage surrendered.”

“There were mistakes aplenty on both sides,” Onranion observed.  “All sides.  We all have interests and identities to protect.   Yes, we let you abandon forty thousand innocent souls to a timeless death in the void . . . but we saved the bulk of your people and ensured that they would persist as your biome matured,” he said, as if that made up for it.

“There are forty thousand people in the sky?” Ruderal blurted out.

“Likely less, now,” Lilastien said, sorrowfully.  “Those capsules were coming to the end of their designed life when the Horizon was exiled.  While some of them probably survived, not all of them.  Suspension shock already kills or maims almost seven percent of awakees,” she said, quoting from somewhere.  “But yes, there are tens of thousands of human beings that were . . . forsaken on the Horizon.”

“Which is why the Order of the Secret Tower was entrusted with the lore regarding them,” I realized.  “They were originally the privy council to the Archmage,” I reminded them.  “In other words, the victorious rebels responsible for helping send the Forsaken into the void in the first place.  No wonder they were afraid of them and their wrath!”

“A lot of time has passed, since then,” Mavone pointed out.  “I doubt that they would maintain a grudge, if they were to come back to Callidore.”

“That’s impossible,” Haruthel insisted.  “The tekka to recall the Horizon was lost with Perwyn.  Even if it could be restored, the . . . call it the invocations to return the ship to Callidore have been lost.  Nor has the danger the ship presented diminished,” he added.  “The Forsaken are far beyond your help, my friends,” he said, sympathetically.

“Let’s set that aside, for a moment,” I conceded.  “The fact remains that we are ignorant of our history, and have been acting from a place of superstition, legend, and myth.  Which you have been complicit with,” I added.

“We’ve let you live and develop according to your own way,” Haruthel disagreed, shaking his head.  “As your ancestors requested.”

“They didn’t want to be your vassals, but neither did they want to be abandoned, I’m guessing,” Astyral said, darkly.

“Well, what could we do?” Onranion asked, spreading his long fingers.  “We are not warriors, my friends, nor did we ask to be your caretakers.  We have our own lives and destinies to pursue.  While it is sad that you have lost the ability to return to your homeworld the same way you came, I doubt you’d recognize the place.  You are of Callidore, now.”

“Yes, we are,” I conceded.  “And we are in this together with the Alka Alon, like it or not.

“But this changes things,” I continued.  “I’m not certain exactly how, but we need to discuss it among ourselves, and decide how we want to proceed,” I suggested.  “This is . . . this is very shocking news.”  Not unexpected, I realized, but shocking.  “We will return to the council, shortly, but please give us a moment to confer among ourselves.  Just us humani,” I said, nodding toward our friends, Lilastien and Onranion.

That took them by surprise, but they nodded and followed Haruthel out.

“Ishi’s sweet dripping twat!” groaned Astyral, explosively, as soon as the door shut.  “What the hells just happened?”

“We just got the first straight answer from the Alka Alon since we started dealing with them,” Mavone answered.  “And it’s not a particularly flattering reflection of them.”

“Or us,” I agreed, stroking my chin.  “Damn, I wish Pentandra was here!”

“Why did you kick out Onranion and Lilastien?” Astyral asked.  “I quite liked them.”

“Because as valuable as they are as allies, this needs to be a human discussion,” I answered, quietly.  “While they are clearly not complicit in the fall of human civilization here, they are certainly culpable.  We need to figure out how to respond to that information, before we march back in there.  Like it or not, at the moment we’re representing all of humanity.  I wanted to ensure we knew what we were going to say, before we went back in there.”

“I’m a little irritated,” Astyral offered.

“Enough to stop working with them?” Dara asked, suddenly.

“No,” he admitted.  “We need them.”

“Agreed,” Mavone said, frowning.  “That doesn’t mean I like how we’ve been treated.  It’s clear they tried to degrade us in status until we were another appendage to their own civilization.  One step up from Tal and gurvani, maybe equal to the Karshak.  That doesn’t sound like an equal partnership.  That sounds like a concerted effort to remove our power.”

“And when the gods popped up to make up for it, they withdrew from us entirely,” I agreed.  “I see your point, gentlemen.  Dara?”

“Me?” she asked confused.

“What do you think?”

“Why do you want to know what I think?” she asked, still confused.  “I’m just an apprentice.”

“You are just as much entitled to an opinion on what you just heard as we are,” I pointed out.  “I don’t want to form a response until I hear from all sides . . . including the future of humanity.  Since we happen to have a couple examples along, I thought I’d solicit your opinions.”

“Well,” she said, uncomfortably, “it seems to me that this isn’t much different than dealing with any other political issue,” she considered.  “I mean, it’s just another domain trying to screw us over, metaphorically speaking.  They held back on the truth out of some misguided idea that we were too short-lived and stupid to appreciate it.  That doesn’t mean we can’t do business with them, we just have to be . . . cautious,” she proposed.

“Master,” Ruderal spoke up, “back in Enultramar I sold a lot of fish in the market.  Sometimes I had to sell to merchants who I knew were cheating, in some way.  I could always tell – I could see them thinking about it even as they were doing it.  And I always called them on it.  If you know they’re cheating, and you call them on it, you can still do business with them.  Hells, sometimes you can get an even better deal.”

“This isn’t trading fish for pennies,” I said, shaking my head.

“Use our knowledge of their duplicity as leverage in negotiations, I believe the boy is saying,” Mavone agreed.  “He’s right.  We have to work with them.  They don’t particularly like us, outside of the Tera Alon.  We don’t particularly like them.  But that doesn’t mean we can’t work together.  Or that we can’t elevate our position through use of this knowledge.”

“It would be nice to act without being in complete ignorance, for once,” Astyral agreed.  “They apparently possess great knowledge of our ancestors that we do not.  I think we should have access to that,” he proposed.  “If nothing else, it would fill in some gaps in our history.  It might even suggest something we haven’t thought of.”

“All right,” I said, with a sigh.  “Then I suppose we have our strategy.  Let’s just hope they don’t throw us out of the room.”

“We have discussed the news of our hidden history,” I announced to the council, that afternoon.  “And we have still much to discuss about these new findings.

“Yet it remains clear that our best hope at stopping Korbal and his plans is to work together,” I said.  “But it cannot be the way it has been.  We can no longer be junior partners in this enterprise.  We must be brought into all future councils concerning this realm . . . or we will do this alone.  And fail, if need be, but we will no longer be manipulated to serve the interests of the Alka Alon.”

“That would be a gross mischaracterization of our history,” Lord Letharan objected.

“It is a valid interpretation of our history, my lord,” corrected Astyral.  “But it need not be an impediment to our continued cooperation.”

“We propose that a new council be formed,” I said, boldly.  “One reflecting the actual political and security realities we face, not the remnants of ancient squabbles and spheres of influence.  One including not just the Alka Alon, but the humani, the Tera Alon, the Karshak . . . and some representative of the other races who are subject to our protection and defense.  We need a better instrument with which to fight Korbal,” I insisted.  “This one is inadequate, at a time when inadequacy is not tolerable.”

“You wish to remake the council?” scoffed Micrethiel.  “Your temerity is unbounded!”

“Perhaps, but if this council cannot do the job, we need one that can,” I offered.  “Like it or not, humanity is the majority of the population in this realm.  Perhaps we breed like fungus,” I said, eyeing Micrethiel, “but that is to our advantage.  The Karshak and the Tal Alon are also subject to the outcome of this war.  If we cannot find a way to use our combined strength and wisdom to overcome this enemy, then the result will affect us all, human and Alon alike.”

“It might keep the Rulathi off our necks,” Micrethiel suggested, after a long, uncomfortable pause.  “The last thing we need are those self-righteous bastards to show up and tell us how we’ve been doing everything wrong.”

“I am willing to entertain the idea of forming a second council,” Letharan conceded, “a temporary council, specifically to prosecute this war.  An executive council,” he continued, “to guide and steer our various forces during this – temporary – emergency.  But the Alka Alon council will remain as it is . . . with the Spellmonger and a second representative of humanity, along with the Tera Alon serving in an associate, advisory capacity.”

“I would have no objection to that,” Aronin Ladas agreed, reluctantly.

“I, too, find the notion favorable,” Haruthel nodded.  “It would also allow us to separate the council’s more administrative functions from those more urgent matters, if it were empowered to act.  Which leaves the question of its composition . . .”

“As the Tera Alon and the humani magi are on the front lines of this war, such as it is, I propose that three representatives of each faction be chosen,” Micrethiel proposed.  “The Alka Alon council will supply three members.  And the . . . other races can be represented by one each,” she decided.

“One Tal, one Karshak, and one . . .?”

“One gurvan,” Micrethiel said, firmly.  “Indeed, one you know, and who has been doing great work on behalf of the council, preaching to the tribes of the Kulines not to follow the Dead God’s priesthood into rebellion.  For the most part, he was successful,” she added.

“Gurkarl,” I nodded.  “I wondered what had become of him.”

“He’s spent the last three years wandering the Kulines,” she explained.  “He met with every tribal shaman and headman he could, and explained the genocidal war of the Minden gurvani.  He also told of the horrors wrought among his own people by those who profess to serve them.  If you must fill your council with . . . lessor races, then he seems well-suited to the task.”

“I have no objections,” I agreed, though I could feel Astyral stiffen.  He’d spent the last several years fighting gurvani.  Having to sit across from one at council and discuss the war effort might prove difficult.  “Gurkarl has proven a model prisoner, and if he has done good work for the council, then his perspective would be welcomed.”

“What of the Valley People?” asked Aronin Ladas.  “Should they not be included in this council?”

“They have always maintained a separate existence from the rest of humanity, as has Unstara,” countered Micrethiel.  “As of yet they are unconcerned with this war, but we should extend to them an invitation to send an observer, at least.”

“Invite whom you wish,” I agreed.  “We need as many minds on this problem as possible.  If Korbal should find some way to enlist the Formless—”

“Speak not that dire name, even in council,” Micrethiel insisted.  “Their vassals alone would make a dragon tremble.  We understand the nature of the threat, Spellmonger,” she continued, clearly frustrated.  “We know it needs to be stopped.  The question is how.”

“When the later Magocracy began to spread beyond the Merwyn river vales,” Haruthel said, stroking his chin, “they sent parties of humani warriors into the frontier, first, to contend with any grave dangers.  They were known as the Beryen – those who offer protection and refuge.”

“The Beryen?” Astyral asked.  “You would name such a council for a human legend?”

“The Beryen were no legend,” countered Haruthel.  “At their height, when they were ranging into the wilds of Wenshar, Remere, and the Upper Vore, they were often the only law or security in the region.  Magi who were also acquainted with the sword.  I knew a few of them,” he admitted.  “They were brave men, unafraid of the strange world they explored.  Scholars, as much as warriors.  Your race has given rise to many such valiant men,” he said, admiringly.

I didn’t know much about the Beryen – they were the early Magocracy’s troubleshooters, agents of the Archmage who investigated and explored the marches of the slowly-expanding Empire.

But they were often compared to the Red Branch Knights of the Narasi – indeed, the Lay of Dalklavan and Mercartys relates a particularly complimentary view of both orders, dated during the rise of the Narasi and the decline of the Magocracy.  They were knights magi before there were knights magi, and answering only to the Archmage they had tremendous political independence among the magelords.  After the Conquest, the last few took refuge in Wenshar, or established outposts in the west.

“I have no objections to that usage,” Letharan shrugged.  “They were among the last truly civilized humani.  I, myself, studied briefly with the Beryen.  They were valiant defenders of your civilization, scholars as much as warriors, statesmen as much as magi.  I wish we had more of their like today in the human lands,” he said, pointedly.  Ouch.  “I move that the council stand in recess, until the . . . the Order of Beryen is constituted, as of this Yule.”

“I move that it be constituted at Carneduin,” Haruthel said, quickly.  “They will have need of the historical and arcane resources there.”

“I move that a force for the defense of the realm against the enemy be established,” Aronin Ladas supplied, though I could tell he had misgivings.  “If we are to act, then we shall need agents through which to act.”

“Agreed,” Lady Fallawen said, sharply.  “I move that the Tera Alon and the warmagi who have volunteered for such duty be incorporated into that force.  I volunteer to lead its organization and composition, though I am unschooled in such tasks,” she admitted.

“I’ll help,” I assured her, quietly, earning a grateful smile.

“Who shall notify the Prince?” Haruthel asked.

“It shall be my duty . . . if I can rouse him from his reveries,” Letharan said, rolling his eyes.  “He has taken up the hobby of . . . reading,” he said, tolerantly amused.  “He has been meditating of late on the human divinities, since his encounter in Sevendor,” he said, looking at me accusingly.

“And speaking of the human divinities,” I added, ignoring the glare, “I move that we explore what means they have of striking at the foe, and preserving our alliance.”

“Inclusion of such . . . transitory entities, despite the powers they exhibit, removes any predictability to our plans,” Letharan said, frowning.

“Begging your pardon, Letharan,” Lilastien interrupted, “but the human gods have proven more effective against the foe than we have,” she pointed out.

“I think I can act as an intercessor between the council and the gods,” I proposed.  “I have had some relations with them, as you all know.”

“Then let us adjourn until the Equinox, at Carneduin . . . where the Council of Beryen will constitute itself to meet the threat to all of our peoples,” Letharan pronounced.  “And let us hope that it is sufficient to preserve us all.”

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Count Dranus

When I got back to Sevendor from the Alka Alon council, I had a message waiting.  More precisely, I had a messenger: Lorcus.

“I bring greetings from His Excellency, Dranus, Count of Moros . . . as of last night,” he said, tiredly, as he lounged in my tower, drinking my booze.

“Excellent news!” I chuckled.  I didn’t have a lot invested in Dranus’ bid, but it was nice to hear that he’d succeeded.  Lorcas told me all about it.

“It was a fun little four-week long war, but after what I did to the other claimants no one could deny that Dranus wasn’t prepared and able to execute the duties of Count,” he said, with satisfaction.  “We used so much misdirection and subterfuge in that campaign that I actually had, at one point, one of the rival claimants attacking their own castles,” he said, amused.  “Dranus didn’t muck around with ceremony – once he committed to pressing his case, most of the action was over in a week. Then he spent three weeks negotiating, avoiding traps and betrayals, and consolidating his power base.  When the Moros League voted last night, he carried the poll by three-quarters.”

“Congratulations!” I said, raising my glass in toast.  “That makes Dranus the first Magelord Count.  Of course, with the Crown considering shifting the Royal tax burden from the Dukes to the Counts, that may be more trouble than the title is worth, now.”

“Aye, that rumor was tossed about,” he nodded.  “I spread it myself – one of the claimants just did not have the purse to consider such a burden.  But I didn’t think it was serious.  Is it?”

“It’s getting more and more likely,” I agreed.  “The Kingdom treasury is at the mercy of the three Dukes, and with Anguin unable to bear his full share, it falls on the other two.  Remere hasn’t been stingy, exactly, but they place many conditions on the transaction—”

“I’m just shocked, absolutely shocked, at such a state,” Lorcus mused.  Remere has a long and distinguished tradition for innumerable “considerations” implicit in every business deal.  It made trade with them maddening, sometimes.

“Meanwhile, the Castali treasury has been tardy with its payments, as Tavard has been diverting them to subsidize his maritime expedition.”

“I heard that, too,” Lorcus snorted.  “The little shit actually got to Enultramar.  I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be – he sacrificed half his fleet to get the other half to Maidenspool – the arse-end of Enultramar.  In practical terms he’s captured a dock, a vegetable garden, a smithy and a freshwater spring, from what I understand.”

Reports on Tavard’s expedition were scanty, but he’d sent dispatches back to his court by Mirror and pigeon.  He was currently “consolidating his gains” in Maidenspool, and “scouting his next conquest” in the rocky wasteland.  Meanwhile, a squadron of eight coastal defense ships was blockading the narrow channel to the Shallow Sea.  Tavard was effectively trapped, but hadn’t realized it yet.

“He really thinks he can conquer Enultramar from there?” Lorcus scoffed.  “Not my area, but I can read a bloody map.  When there’s miles and miles between cities, there’s a reason for that.  What’s his plan?”

“He’s going to try to take the next miserable tower north of Maidenspool,” I explained.  “He thinks he can grind his way to the Bay, and once there he can start conquering up and down the coast.  With less than two-thousand men.”

“Who’s his advisor?  A bloody drunken spud?” he said, shaking his head.  “That’s the future leader of our fair kingdom?”

“In all of his glory.  Which is one reason why the Royal court wants to take the tribute and taxation out of the hands of the dukes, and put it in to the hands of the counts.  It removes a lot of political considerations,” I said, politely.

“It decentralizes power,” Lorcus countered, thoughtfully.  He was an outstanding warmage, but he understood how systems worked better than most.  It was just the way his mind worked.  He had to understand them, so that he could find their weakness and take them apart.  “It elevates the counts in stature and importance.  It also complicates the politics of the kingdom.  I foresee a boom in mercenary warmagic opportunities arising,” he predicted.  “When is this going to take place?”

“It’s still being discussed, but Anguin has signed off on it, in principle – practically speaking, he’s only got maybe one or two counties under his control, anyway, so it’s not much of a shift.  Duke Clofalin has agreed, but only with six pages of finely-printed ‘considerations’ to be negotiated ahead of the final announcement.  Tavard’s court is the only one that is dragging its feet.  He sees it as a pissing contest between he and his father, and Count Moran sees it as the last bit of leverage the ducal houses have against the Royal house.”

“But Tavard is in the Royal House,” Lorcus said, confused.

“But Moran is not,” I countered.  “Though he was as loyal and vocal a proponent of the kingdom as anyone, being relegated to the Ducal court has forced him to reconsider his politics, based on his power base.  He resents having his authority overruled in his ‘own’ duchy.  He realizes that giving taxation to the counts will reduce the importance of the duchies to mere administrative offices of the Kingdom.  He doesn’t like it.  But he’ll sign on, eventually, and let the matter be put before the Curia.”

“You don’t think he aspires beyond his position, now, do you?” Lorcus asked, curiously.

“To what?  The duchy?  As much as Rard loves that new crown of his, he’s not about to turn over his family’s legacy to another house, if he can help it.  In truth, I figured he would elevate Tavard somehow and put whomever Rardine married in charge of Castal.  It would split the house into a patron and cadet branches, but it would solve the question of succession.”

“Oh, I heard about Rardine’s rescue from Cei, this morning,” Lorcus smiled.  “It sounds like you had an eventful springtide . . .”

I spent two hours re-telling the tale of the raid on the Penumbra and Olum Seheri, and the consequences.  He was a good audience, able to appreciate both the technical elements of the impressive warmagic employed in the raid as well as the dramatic betrayal of Sheruel by Korbal, and what the implications for that were.

“I’m hoping that consolidating his power over the gurvani, now that he has their god captive, will take some time – enough time for us to re-distribute our defenses accordingly.”

“Let’s hope,” he said, before abruptly changing the conversation.  “How’s Alya?” he asked, simply.

I sighed.  “Better,” I admitted.  “I stopped by the Tower of Refuge on our way back from the council meeting.  The Magolith is working on her, but it’s slow.  Like gluing a broken pot back together, shard by shard,” I suggested.  “She’s a lot more responsive to her environment, now, however.  She can feed herself and handle her basic bodily functions.  I’m hopeful,” I assured him.

“Then it was worth it,” he nodded, firmly.  “A man who will venture into the underworld to rescue his beloved wife . . . I could spin an entire cult out of that.  You are one romantic son-of-a-bitch, Minalan,” he said, admiringly.

“It wasn’t romance, it was desperation,” I admitted.  Lorcas had become one of my closest confidants in the last few years, for some reason – perhaps it was his accepting nature and his casual style.  “I didn’t want the kids to grow up without their mother.”

“Desperation is oft the font of romance,” he declared, philosophically.  “If I wasn’t a lazy man, I’d consider some, myself.  Dranus mentioned finding me a wife, when we were talking about rewards.  But I’d rather head back home to my tower and roll around naked in the small fortune Dranus paid me, while my peasants bring me liquor and laud my profound masculinity in revered tones to the tune of a merry viol.  It just seems simpler,” he concluded.

“Best you delay marriage awhile, then,” I suggested.

After Lorcus left to enjoy Sevendor’s many taverns, I spent the day clearing up some lingering Baronial business with Sire Cei, and then working with Ruderal on his mastery of intermediary thaumaturgical theory.

The lad was thoughtful and studious, and genuinely appreciated the time I devoted to him and his studies.  He’d been taking most of his lessons from Master Loiko, who had been doing a very good job of drilling the fundamentals into his twelve-year-old head.  But he preferred working with me, as I was far more willing to entertain diversions in the lesson to explain things than Loiko was.

“Master,” he said, when we finished covering the thaumaturgical laws underlying causality in both the mundane and arcane worlds, “what are we going to do about Korbal?” he asked, unexpectedly.

“What?  What do you mean?  We’re going to keep fighting him.”

The answer didn’t seem to please him the way I thought it would.  “But he’s immortal,” he said, in a low voice.  “How do you fight an immortal?”

“I kind of . . . fixed that, for now,” I promised.  “The Handmaiden fused his enneagram to his present body . . . which is in very poor shape.  I’m hopeful he gets a punishing bout of necromantic diarrhea and just wastes away.”

“That’s . . . your plan?” he asked, skeptically.

“No, not really,” I admitted, amused that he’d take it seriously.  “I honestly don’t know how we’ll kill him, yet.  With Sheruel at his command, not just as an ally, he’s gotten incredibly more powerful.  Even unconscious, with Sire Cei beating on Sheruel with all his might, he resisted.”

“We have to find a way to kill him,” Ruderal urged.  I looked at the lad closely.

“You aren’t still blaming yourself for raising him, are you?”

“If it hadn’t been for me, he’d still be in that tomb,” Ruderal said, matter-of-factly.

“You can’t think like that, Ruderal,” I corrected, gently.  “You—”

“He’s my responsibility,” the boy insisted, folding his arms over his chest.

“That’s far too simplistic a way to look at the matter, lad,” I said, realizing I was on some shaky ice, here.  “You are no more at fault for Korbal than I am for Sheruel.  In each case we were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“But, Master, you aren’t responsible for Sheruel!” he protested.

“Aren’t I?  Until very recently, I felt as responsible for Sheruel as you do for Korbal.  I learned that the idea was implanted in my mind, or at least enflamed, until it nearly consumed me.  Much good came out of that – I helped bring together many good people and changed a number of foolish things.  Enough to stop Sheruel – and, aye, Korbal – from getting away with their plans unchallenged.

“But such things are not so simple.  I felt . . . used, when I learned of my manipulation.  You always do, when someone puts a spell on you that you are unaware of.  I’ve come to understand that fate has a way of using us in just that way, whether we like it or not.  Even the gods are the slaves of fate in such matters.  Which presents some admittedly disturbing theological issues,” I admitted, “but then I’m having all sorts of fundamental beliefs shaken, lately.”

“So . . .” he prompted, helpfully, when he failed to see my point.

“So . . . relax,” I urged.  “There are far wiser and more powerful minds working on the problem.  Immortal minds.  Goddess forbid that he should still be around when your old enough, but if Korbal does, somehow, persist, then you may get an opportunity yourself to face him someday.  Not today,” I emphasized.  “This raid taught me a lot of things about how Korbal operates, and I’m starting to discern what kind of response we might expect.

“But you bear no more responsibility for his return than the ones who entombed him in the first place.  Far less.  You were merely one small piece on a very large, very complex board,” I offered.

“That doesn’t really change how I feel,” he said, honestly,

“I didn’t really expect that it would,” I chuckled.  “I’m just cautioning you against letting that passion burn up your soul.  We’re already in a profession with a lot of strain and psychological stress . . . you don’t need to add more to your load.”

“As you wish, Master,” he said, unconvinced, after giving me a searching glance.

The problem with an apprentice who can see your enneagram is that he knows when you’re giving him, essentially, bullshit.

The news from Enultramar wasn’t good.

While Tavard’s army had been able to conquer two more villages within half a day’s walk from Maidenspool, his efforts to move up the road into the interior were being harried – not by stalwart defenders of the duchy, but by a few bands of bandits who ranged the region.

Indeed, not even the next largest castle bothered to attempt to attack the expedition.  Without adequate siege engines at his disposal (they were now in possession of the Alshari armada, captured with the greater portion of his fleet) all the defenders had to do was close their castles and draw up their drawbridges.

It was frustrating, and the clandestine reports I was getting via Farise told a tale of brackish water, diminishing supplies, and sickness in Maidenspool.  Tavard was demanding reinforcements from Castal and not getting them – word of the Alshari naval force in the western Shattered Sea was keeping even the bravest captains roving eastward.  There was, indeed, a force gathering in the southern ports, but getting them to Tavard was problematic.

His men were unlikely to starve right away.  The fishing villages there could sustain them, though they might not like the diet forever.  They were reluctant to chance the hills to the north in small companies because of the bandits, but they were unlikely to face any greater foe unless the Count of Arangalan decided to mount an attack . . . and he showed no such inclination.  Tavard’s army just wasn’t enough of a threat to make the effort.

While most of the Royal Court was laughing behind His Highness’ back, the Castali Ducal court was in crisis.  The Princess was throwing tantrums daily, at the old palace in Castabriel, and sending pleas to the royal palace as often as she could.  Count Moran and his fellow ministers were struggling to raise the funds to continue to fund the expedition, but as Tavard had taken Farise’s coastal defense fleet, Remere and the merchant houses were demanding that Castal replace them, quickly.

None of which affected me in the slightest.

It was lovely, watching someone else’s political crisis for a change.  I’d served my time at war, this summer, and I wasn’t about to get involved in something as petty and stupid as Tavard’s folly.

I had other things to do – baron stuff.  Magelord stuff.  And I was now getting daily reports from Lilastien about Alya’s progress.

She was walking the grounds without guidance, now, I learned.  She was able to recognize faces.  She still wasn’t trying to speak, but she was making her needs known, more and more.

I struggled over whether or not to visit, but Lilastien discouraged it.  Alya’s consciousness was just coalescing under a carefully managed program of exercises Lilastien provided her.  Me lurking around anxiously in the background wasn’t going to speed things, and it might well impede them, she told me.

It was frustrating, but I tried to keep myself busy.

Coming up with a fiendish new creation for the Spellmonger’s Trial took a few days, and that was something I always enjoyed.  Starting on a new battle-staff was another project I began, spending days down in the Enchanter’s Quarter, looking over potential staves and discussing the matter with Master Olmeg and Master Ulin, before I made a selection and began the lengthy process.

And I played with my kids.  I took Minalyan down to the pond to fish, every few evenings, with a trip to the bathhouse after.  I lingered around the bakery with Almina and helped my sister Urah and my niece make pie crust, though ‘Mina wasn’t too much help.  And I made a point to take dinner with Sagal and Ela, my brother-and-sister-in-law, the lords of Southridge estate.  We all missed Alya, and they were anxious to see her again.

I also avoided Dara.  Particularly after Teedrasday.

Sir Festaran chose the feast-day of the minor goddess of foresight and planning to embark on his career in errantry.  He took leave of the castle at dawn, that morning, after taking services in the chapel with Sister Bemia, who stood in for a Teedrine priestess (the goddess had few clergy, which I found dreadfully short-sighted of her) without speaking a word to anyone until evening, as was the custom and rite.  I guess it’s supposed to encourage the thoughtful contemplation the goddess is known for in Castal, but I don’t know.  She wasn’t a particularly popular goddess in my village.

But Festaran was long gone, with no word (literally) of where he was going.  I made it all the way to the afternoon, when I was inspecting the foundations of the outer castle façade with Master Guri when she tracked me down.

Guri was anxious to get me to approve this portion of the job so that he could proceed with the construction of the all-important first level of the fortress, the one that would take the brunt of any attack.  The first line of massive white blocks had been cut into place into the snowstone bedrock that the Karshak cleared for the site.  He was justifiably proud of them.

“Each one is twelve tons, protrudes fifteen feet into a shaped socket in the bedrock, and will be sung into place to ensure that no force on Callidore can move them,” he said, with satisfaction.  “They’ll be the main support of the rear wall and the front wall, which will be back-filled with rubble and reinforced throughout the line.  The outer wall will be twenty-five feet thick at its heaviest point.”

“That should take a lot of abuse,” I nodded, visualizing the massive wall.

“More than enough to keep those siege beasts out,” he nodded, smiling.  “Even a dragon will have a hard time getting through that . . . and that’s before we add the defensive spells and hardening.”

“And most of the stone will come from the interior?”

“The lower levels,” he agreed.  “By the third level we’ll start quarrying from the moat trench, and take that down a good forty feet.”

“How does the new lake affect that?”

“In a hundred problematic ways,” Guri said, shaking his head as he filled his elaborate Karshak-style pipe.  “We’re going to have to cut an entirely new drainage system, now, and perhaps install pumps,” he admitted.  “The south end of the moat is going to have to be lowered an additional fifteen feet to accommodate that.  But when we’re done, they’ll both be in an interconnected system.”

“When will the interior be inhabitable?” I asked, peering at the gaping hole that was to eventually be the transition from the exterior, more-traditional castle to the interior, carved from the heart of the mountain.

“The upper halls could be inhabited now, if they weren’t being used for construction.  The Wizard’s Wing has a few apartments, all ready.  But until I get at least two, three levels built out here, I wouldn’t want to try to have any number of people live inside.”

We continued discussing the fortification-side of the mountain castle until a shadow passed overhead – a really big shadow.

Frightful landed in all of her frightful glory, and Dara was sliding out of her harness and striding across the white rock of the site with an angry look on her face.

“Where is he?” she demanded.

“Who?” I asked, as Guri’s pipe fell out of his mouth in surprise.  Dara rarely got this rankled by anything, but she looked like she could spit fire.

“Fes!” she burst out.  “He’s gone!  I hear he left this morning, and didn’t say a word to anyone!”

“Well, he did secure a leave of absence from me, recently,” I admitted.  “I wasn’t certain when he would depart, but—”

“So you knew!” she accused, her chin quivering and her giant hawk staring at me uncomfortably.  “You knew he was trying to leave!  And you didn’t tell me?”

“It was not my news to tell,” I answered, gently.  “Sir Festaran had business.  Errantry, he said.  He—”

“What bloody errantry has he?” she demanded.  “Where the hell did he need to go?”

“Well, he is a member of an order of errant knights,” I pointed out.  “Errantry is implied.  Why the tears?  He’s gone on deployments and missions, before.”

“He’s never emptied out his bloody room in the castle before, has he?” she spat.  “Everything is gone!  Some new knight is living there, now!”

“That’s Sir Eran of—”

“I don’t bloody care who he is!” Dara exploded.  “He’s not Fes, is he?  Fes is gone!  Just like Gareth!  And . . . and . . . they both talked to you before they went!” she accused.

I took a deep breath.  “Well, indeed they did,” I agreed.  “I’m a wizard.  I’m frequently consulted by young errants, before they undertake a quest.  It’s what we do.”

“Don’t act innocent with me!” she snapped.  “Don’t you think I noticed that . . . that they both spoke with you, and then they left?  I can’t find any trace of Gareth, save that he’s been here or there, and now Festaran leaves without saying a word?  To anyone?”

“Dara, they’re young men,” I pointed out.  “They have their fortunes to seek in the world.  Sir Festaran is a knight errant, and he has a duty to fulfill.  And as for Gareth . . .”

“What about Gareth?”

“Well, he came to realize that his time in Sevendor was no longer . . . as fruitful as it once was,” I said, diplomatically.  “He sought new opportunities abroad, with my blessing.”

“Away from me, you mean!” she snarled.

“I believe that may have been one of the factors in his decision,” I conceded.  “From what I understand, you made your feelings clear to him.  I did not try to influence him one way or another.”

“And what about Festaran?” she demanded.

“I . . . advised him that he, perhaps, needed to add to the breadth of his experience,” I said, loftily.  “Instead of other considerations he had.”

“What do you mean?” she demanded, tears in her eyes.

I decided discretion called for magic, at this point.  I reached out to her, mind-to-mind.

Dara, I convinced him to indulge in some errantry instead of forcing you to make a very big decision, I counselled her.

Her eyes went wide, and her jaw dropped at the implication.  She started to say something, then looked away, stricken, before stomping back toward Frightful without another word.

I let out a deep breath I didn’t realize I was holding as Frightful launched herself into the air with a sweep of her mighty wings.  I felt uncomfortably like a rabbit.

“Sometimes, no matter what you say, it’s the wrong thing,” I sighed.

“She’s a spunky one,” Guri observed, as the hawk began to climb overhead.  “Glad I had no daughters, myself.  Karshak girls can get unruly, when it comes to their suitors,” he informed me.

“I just hope she doesn’t blame me for what they did,” I said, worriedly.  “I wasn’t trying to keep the boys away, but I had to give them my advice . . . didn’t I?”

“That’s wizard’s business,” Guri chuckled, exhaling through his giant nose.  “I’ll stick to stone.  Much quieter,” he reflected, looking out over his construction site fondly.

“I can’t argue with that,” I agreed.  “She’s a wonderful apprentice, and she’s done amazing things with the hawks.  I don’t think we would have gotten out of Olum Seheri without her,” I admitted.  “But she’s got to do something about this situation.  It’s distracting her.  It was bad enough she lost hawks and Riders in that raid.  She doesn’t need to obsess about all of this, now.”

“When did you think she was going to?  When she was an old maid?” Guri pointed out.  “She’s going through the same thing every maiden does: determining who she is, and figuring out who she wants to become.  She’s just doing it with magic . . . and giant birds.

“Oh, and Min, my friend?  You wanted to know if she blamed you?   From the way that . . . oh, my . . . Min, DUCK!” he called, diving out of the way, as a liquid projectile plummeted from above, splatting in the spot I had recently vacated.

“Yes, I think she’s mad at me,” I reflected, as I watched Frightful wing her way to the Mewstower.

“She could have at least waited until I got the statues up,” Guri grumbled.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Vanador

It was decided that the Dradrien Master Suhi would be moved from Sevendor to the Anvil – Vanador, Pentandra insisted we call the village-cum-refugee camp she’d taken residence in since she gave birth.  His three nephews had already moved there, once Rumel’s folk constructed them a snug little cottage in the section of the vale Carmella had set aside for them.  Master Cormoran was building a forge there, with their assistance, and was eagerly anticipating meeting Master Suhi.

All of the smiths were pleased with the opportunity to work in Vanador.  The outpost was far closer to the high-quality lodes of hematite that were found throughout the central and northern Wilderlands, for one thing – it was easier moving the Iron Folk to the iron than the other way around.  It was also more convenient for them to set up the forge and foundry they needed to their specifications, instead of trying to adapt to a human-style forge.

They needed special equipment, equipment they alone knew how to cast and forge.  They were going to build us weapons, to fulfill their terms of service.  Magic weapons.

Master Suhi didn’t like humanity in general or me in particular, but he’d made his bargain and intended on keeping it.  And he admitted to being intrigued about our strange folk.  More, he was highly irritated at the people who’d kidnapped him, imprisoned his nephews, and – worst of all, to his eye – forced him to work against his will.

Without pay.  Or even a contract.

After his a few days being interrogated about his time in Olum Seheri, he quickly grew bored with the tiny forge at the small Castle Taragwen.  He was anxious to get to work – making “real” steel for us ignorant humani.  Steel that could be enchanted as easily as weirwood, he insisted.  Steel that could be used to fight Korbal.

After discussing the matter with Master Azhguri, who undertook the interrogation and later formed a kind of comradeship with the Iron Folk master (though they swore they hated each other), they came to me with a simple sketch and a list of requirements Suhi would need to achieve what he wanted.

Though the sketch was simple, the design was grand.  A foundry, a forge, a finishing room, and a list of tools two leaves long. I think Suhi made it more extravagant than it needed to be, just so that he could complain about poor conditions.  But I merely handed the sheets back to the dwarves and shrugged.   A week later, we were inspecting the site Pentandra had chosen for them . . . in the section Carmella had marked down on the plans for the Iron Folk.

The small cottage, thanks to Carmella’s foresight, met with their requirements.  The Dradrien were snide about the accommodations, but they were clearly superior to a cell in Olum Seheri.  Pentandra also put a score of former slaves who claimed some skill with the hammer and tongs at their disposal as a work force.  Master Cormoran began working with them that very day, and showed them the pig iron ingots the foundry in Tudry managed to produce.  The Dradrien were almost scandalized by it, but they pronounced the metal good, if the technique poor.

“This can work,” Suhi decided, after Gareth (acting as Pentandra’s castellan or assistant while she was still on maternity leave) completed the tour of the proposed facility by leading the Dradrien back to their cottage.

“The foundry will be the first to build,” he said, in increasingly improving Narasi.  “We teach you Dradrien way of making steel,” he promised.  “Good steel – not brittle, not soft.  Then we build forge.  Right place for it,” he grinned, pointing up toward the mountain in the middle of the vale.  The anvil shape of the Anvil seemed to be a good omen for the Dradrien.

“What kind of magical weapons can you make?” I asked, curious.  The problem was that we didn’t have a common language of understanding to explain to each other what, exactly, we meant by terms like “magical”.  Thankfully, Suhi understood the impediment as well, and stuck to the basics.

“Powerful,” he assured me.  “Very powerful.  Make you many weapons . . . if you can get the metals,” he added, craftily.

“You tell me what you need, I’ll get it,” I agreed.  “Master Cormoran of Tudry is our weaponsmith.  I would like for him to continue work with you, to teach you some of our words and techniques, and of course to learn from your vastly superior experience,” I added.  I had found out quickly that the best way to deal with the Dradrien was with a constant stream of flattery.  It was annoying, and it disgusted the Karshak when I did it around them, but it worked.

While the Iron Folk were settling their few possessions into the cottage, I walked with Gareth to Pentandra’s croft, where she and Arborn were holding forth with the triplets.  He seemed pretty cheerful, considering all that he was contending with at Vanador – but Gareth was good at that sort of management.  He’d kept most of Sevendor Town running while Banamor wasn’t looking for years, now.  Running operations for a refugee camp was easy.  Or at least he made it look easy.

“It will be wonderful to get that project started,” he said, with some sense of relief in his voice after we dropped Suhi back at his new home.  “Half of my problems stem from so many idle hands.  Every pair we put to work is a victory.”

“Have there been any problems?” I asked, curious.  The scrawny wizard shrugged his narrow shoulders.

“Not serious ones,” he conceded.  “The usual fights and such.  Some don’t want to work, if they think they’ll be going south, soon.  We have a fair number of those.  Gilmorans who want to get back home, if they have a home left.  Most of the Wilderfolk are happy to pitch in, in anticipation of settling here.”

I blinked.  “They want to settle here?”

Gareth looked around.  “Since Nandine fell in the invasion, the pele towers and this settlement are about the only signs of stability and security in the north, save for a few remote strongholds like Osbury.  Most of the Wilderfolk were taken from similar country on the other side of the river, so they’re used to the terrain and the life.”  He slowed his pace notably as we rounded the bend in the rough road known as “Wizard’s Way”, and I could hear him groan under his breath.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Those three,” he sighed, indicating a small cottage outside of which were three people impatiently waiting.  Two women and a man.  “The Gilmorans I spoke of, who think they’re too high-born to do common field work.  I’ve had as many as a dozen outside my door each morning, but these three are relentless.  We sent one caravan south already with the gravely ill and elderly, but its only reached as far as Vorone so far, and until we can get another contingent of guards headed that way, I won’t authorize another.  No matter how much they beg,” he sighed, resigned.

The three were a sorry-looking lot, but it was easy to see by their arrogant expressions that even a year or two as gurvani slaves hadn’t dimmed their enthusiasm for noble privilege.  The looked desperate and determined, but not so much that they had started for Gilmora on their own.

“Could you . . . speak to them, Minalan?” he asked, reluctantly.  “I’ve been telling them the same thing every day for two weeks, now, and I grow tired of repeating myself.  A word from you might cool their heads.”

“I’ll try,” I agreed.  That’s something I was still getting used to as “The Spellmonger”, all-powerful wizard and counselor to kings, dukes, and knights errant.  Using my fame and prestige to get people to do what I wanted them to, just like I explained to my father.

“My lord Gareth,” began the oldest woman, the moment we were within conversational range, “I know not what duties you attend to, this morn, but I insist you spare me a few moments to discuss my case!  I believe I have made it clear how urgent it was—”

“Yes, Lady Amergine,” Gareth said, steeling himself against the onslaught, “I am familiar with the dire state of your estates, the criminal manner in which you suspect they are being mismanaged in your absence, the importance of your swift return to set them aright, and the critical nature of the timing,” he recited.

“The timing?” I asked, confused.

“The Baron of Karinboll,” she said, haughtily, “has hosted the Harvest Ball at Kafindo for more than a hundred years, and for the last seventy of those House Barzun has been a prominent supporter and faithful vassal . . . as opposed to the treachery of House Lyrguin, the most underhanded—”

“She wants to go to a ball!” snorted the man, derisively.  “Master Gareth, I assure you that I have over seven estates that need my immediate attention in Dendra!  There’s no telling what the goblins did, in my absence, and I’m all but certain that my reeves were taken, as well.  If I don’t return to begin repairing the damage soon, then there won’t be a crop next year.  I’ve already been gone for two and a half years,” he pleaded.  “I need to get home!”

“And you, my lady?” I asked the youngest woman, no more than fifteen or sixteen.  Blonde, scrawny with malnutrition and neglect, but still defiantly proud, even in a hempen slave’s shift.  “You wish to go home, too . . .?”

“I am Lady Arsella of Maramor,” she declared, firmly and confidently.  “I was betrayed by my servants and captured.  I have no ball, nor grand estates to repair, but I fear I am the last of my line and must tend to my family’s estate in Losara,” she reported.

I looked at each of them, and saw the sheer determination on their faces.  The kind of determination that allowed them to survive the ordeal of captivity and slavery, beatings and near starvation.  Despite their misguided and misplaced priorities, they were still eager to return to the lives they once knew.

That, unfortunately, was impossible for them.

“Gentlefolk, I am Baron Minalan of Sevendor, called the Spellmonger,” I introduced myself.  “I am a friend of Master Gareth, here, and he has been telling me the great work he has done in attempting to sort, organize, and support the thirty thousand other former slaves in that camp,” I said, cocking my head toward the tent city.  “To be candid, compared to the refugee camps around Vorone, you gentles should count yourself fortunate.

“But Master Gareth has limited resources, and is constrained by larger events,” I continued, a little more firmly.  “He cannot change the situation in the world at large, unfortunately.  The roads between Vanador and Vorone are fraught with danger, at the moment.  Bands of goblins and hobgoblins are scouring the vales for their lost slaves, and setting upon anyone who can’t defend themselves.  That means that the only caravans headed south must be guarded heavily, else we send them to their doom.”

It was a reasonable explanation of the delay on their departure, but they were unconvinced.

“Your excellency,” the man said, “I am Lord Joam of Kinsy, and I have been waiting here daily to secure the quickest transport south – cost is no object.  If you can arrange—”

“I doubt I can arrange anything, wizard or not,” I said, apologetically.  “But perhaps I can ease your minds in regard to the urgency of your return to Gilmora.

“Firstly, my lady Amergine, I regret to inform you that the Baron of Karinboll was slain with all of his kin when Karindor was sacked.  It’s likely the Harvest Ball will therefore be rescheduled, indefinitely.  Indeed, the new baron of that country is no less than Duke Anguin, himself,” I added.

“As he is also the new baron of Losara, my lady Arsella, I suggest you both petition His Grace for advice and assistance, as he is your new liege.

“As far as Dendra goes, it was heavily damaged in the invasion.  Most of its people were taken captive, and though the main gurvani forces were driven from it, the forests and swamps of the region are infested with goblin irregulars who harass and kidnap yet more slaves they encounter.  There is precious little of Dendra left standing,” I informed him, sorrowfully.

“But Dendra City had thousands of people in it!” Lord Joam insisted.  “They can’t all just be . . . gone!”

“Those who weren’t taken have largely fled,” I countered.  “They are in refugee camps near Barrowbell themselves, or have taken work on estates in the south.  The Baron of Dendra, himself, has taken refuge in Almaranda because Castle Dendra is uninhabitable, now.  Indeed, most of Gilmora north of the Poros is.”  I watched their faces fall as I confirmed what Gareth had evidently already told them.  “There really isn’t much point in trying to return until security is established.  Otherwise you’ll end up in chains, again,” I cautioned.

There was a brief silence as my words sunk in.  Then the youngest of them burst out, impatiently, “Well, if we cannot get home, can we at least get closer to it?  Vorone is a city of some size, from what I understand.  Can we not get at least that far?” she begged.

“As soon as the roads are clear, my lady,” Gareth assured.

“Well, that’s hardly—” she began to retort.

“Lord Gareth is doing the very best that he can, under the circumstances, and appreciates your patience,” I said, sternly.  “I assure you, the best course of action for you to consider now is to be nice to him,” I demanded.  “He is doing what he can, with the resources he has, under trying circumstances.

“You three and your peers claim to be nobles . . . start acting like it,” I lectured.  “Those people down there are bereft of leadership, right now.  They look to their nobles for guidance and calm, and you three are up here like tenants in arrears on the rent, banging on Lord Gareth’s door.”

That made them look ashamed . . . but no less determined.

Lord Joam spoke for them all.  “My apologies, my lords,” he sighed, heavily.  “When one is bereft of family and friends, one seeks to return to them at the soonest moment,” he explained, unnecessarily.  “As long as it is certain that we are among the first to depart south . . .”

“I have no doubt that he wishes that, as well,” I said, dryly.  “But a little more patience will purchase more than a little more persistence.”

That seemed to mollify them – although from the look on the youngest one’s face, she’d be back later to convince Gareth of her earnestness in private.  Of course, the lad had no idea what might be in store.  Gareth’s innocence is one of the things I like about him.

“Thank you,” he said, sincerely, as they headed slowly back to camp.  “Every day it’s the same thing: when is the next caravan for Vorone departing?  What do I need to do to be on it?  Every day it’s the same answer, but yet they return.”

“If that’s the worst you must contend with, you’re doing well,” I chuckled, quietly.  “Pentandra had actual riots, when she first came to Vorone.”

“Oh, I know, I know,” he sighed.  “Things could be much worse.  And . . . it feels good, helping people like this . . . despite the complaints,” he added.  “Most of these folk have been so poorly treated that they barely feel human.  Plenty of them still can’t seem to grasp that they are free of the gurvani, now.

“The idea that they can start their shattered lives anew unsettles them.  The nobles are bad enough, but when you find some widow searching in vain for her children, or a husband for his wife, or a child for their parents, it’s . . . it’s hard.”

“It will be much harder for all of them,” I observed.  “Those determined enough to return to Gilmora will find little but ruin left of their old lives.  And the Wilderfolk are completely dispossessed.  They will have to settle here.”

I looked around, before we mounted the steps to Pentandra’s croft.  The Anvil really was a pretty place, no matter where you looked.  I could see why Pentandra was in favor of building this city – even if its folk were destitute former slaves.  There was potential, here, I saw, potential only a desperate people hungry for a home could realize.

The labor was certainly available – the fields to the west of the town were nearly cleared of rocks and brush.  Gareth said that the silt would be delivered within days.  Every shipment of lumber from the nearby timberyard was quickly consumed building more housing, and men who had labored under the lash for years freely bent their backs to help their fellows raise the rickety shacks they would soon call home.

Potential, I agreed.  But it still had long to go.

“So, the Forsaken are . . . us,” Pentandra proposed, as she rocked in a swing-chair in front of her croft, a baby on her breast while her mother held another.  I wasn’t certain where the third was, but I didn’t ask.  “Our ancestors, at any rate.”

“Comrades of our ancestors,” I corrected.  “They were people who didn’t get off the . . . ship?”

“I know,” Pentandra said, shaking her head.  “Just thinking about a ship three miles long makes my head hurt.  A flying ship.”

“It does help answer some questions,” I agreed.  “Particularly about the Order of the Secret Tower’s obsession over them, all these years.”

“I still don’t know if they were formed to protect us from them, or to reclaim them,” she said, wearily.  Feeding three babies was exhausting, and her face looked pale and deprived of sleep.  “But if they were the inner council of the Archmage, and the magi usurped power from the original authorities and exiled them . . .”

“Maybe both,” I agreed, finishing her sentence.  “They must have felt secure enough in the colony to risk it, but it must also have been terrifying, sending the basis of their civilization away.”

“I can’t help but feeling deceived by the Alka Alon,” she said.  “We’ve been struggling to figure out who the Forsaken were for centuries, and they could have come along and saved us all of that by just telling us.  But it still doesn’t tell us if the Forsaken are to be feared or welcomed.”

“I think the point is moot,” I sighed, sadly.  “From what Haruthel said in council, whatever they did to send the ship into exile was permanent.  The invocations to return it to our skies are long lost.”

“Nothing is long lost,” Pentandra said, with unexpected hopefulness.  “There are forty thousand people on that ship who think they’re on their way to a new world.  They’ll be stuck there for all of eternity, if we don’t do something!”

“Pentandra, what can we do?” I asked, spreading my hands wide.  “All of that was lost in the Inundation.”

“Not all of it,” she replied, stubbornly.  “The Order of the Secret Tower kept records.  Specifically about the Forsaken.  If they were afraid of them, perhaps some of the unintelligible records say why.  But they didn’t have the context to interpret them.   If they wanted to recall them, perhaps that’s where we need to start.”

“I suppose I should devote some time to the research,” I admitted.  “I’ve just been . . . busy.”

She glared at me.  “You don’t know ‘busy’!  I have three of these monsters sucking on me, now,” she said, accusingly.  “Three!  The moment I finish one, the next is ready to go.  I have two wet-nurses to help, but they devour everything that comes near them!  I’m finally able to walk a little, but if I take more than ten steps away from my door they start wailing for more milk!”

“I . . . I’ll take a look at the records,” I promised.  “I’ll make the time.”

“Your Old High Perwynese is awful,” she accused.  “Your vocabulary is basic, at best, and you have not context for comprehension on many of these things.”

“My hair is messy today, too,” I added.  “So?  If you don’t have the time—”

“Then you certainly don’t, because you’re supposed to be busier than I am,” she snapped.  “We’ll hire some clerks,” she decided.  “Vorone has a few who could work on it, and I’m sure there are plenty of others.  But if there is any way to free the Forsaken, we need to look into it.”

“But . . . why?” I asked.  “If our ancestors were so afraid of them, then why shouldn’t they spend eternity in stasis?  I can’t think that they’d be happy to learn of their fate, if they did get out.”

“That was centuries ago,” she dismissed.  “No one involved is alive now, with the exception of a couple of Alka Alon.  Any lingering animosities over the matter are moot,” she countered.  “They’re human beings, we’re human beings.  We have an obligation to at least look into it.

“Besides, from what I understand, our ancestors were not the puny weaklings we make them out to be, pre-magic.  They were a sophisticated, thorough, highly reasonable civilization.  I’m certain if they’re at all like us that they would be open to a reasonable discussion.”

“Perhaps,” I nodded.  “I guess it depends upon the specifics of the situation, but yes, they might be reasonable.  Or they could rain fire and death down on us from their sky ship like Dara does with her hawks.  The Order feared them because they had the power of dissolution,” I reminded her.  “Whatever that might mean.”

“There’s that,” Pentandra conceded, biting her lip.  “Don’t you think of the cheeriest things?”

“Too much warmagic, not enough sex magic,” I joked.  “When we get a chance, we should probably gather a council to study the matter,” I proposed.  “Someone to steer the clerk’s efforts.  Your father, perhaps?”  That caught her mother’s attention.

“He would really be the best one,” Pentandra agreed.  “He’s as familiar as anyone with the ancient texts, and he’s intelligent enough to appreciate the delicacy of the matter.  Perhaps if we gave him a few select experts, he might uncover something.  It would at least be a place to start.”

“I will also make certain he and the other scholars are granted access to the Hall of Memories at Carneduin,” I decided.  “They have some relics and records from those days.  Remember that map they had?  And that’s where they kept Lilastien’s humani equipment.”

“I would dearly love to get away for a few weeks and indulge in pure research like that,” she said, dreamily.  “But something tells me I won’t have time for that sort of thing until these monsters reach puberty.  Or beyond.

“As it is, Anguin has me preparing for and participating in the new Alshari Moot,” she said.  “That’s an old Wilderlands term for ‘council’,” she explained.  “The ducal court is going to address the reorganization of the Wilderlands, now that the lines have more or less settled.  The old order just doesn’t apply, anymore, and Count Angrial wants a general council on reforming the government to fit the new reality.  Especially before the Royal Curia.”

“That’s uncommonly wise of him,” I nodded.  Most feudal governments cleaved to tradition like it was wine, unwilling to abandon the remnants of any old titles or offices.  Anguin’s regime, beset by problems and forced to compromise in many ways, was actually doing something reasonable.

“Believe it or not, the political force really pushing for it is . . . Rardine,” she confided.  “She was up here with Anguin, last week, inspecting the camps.  We had a nice chat about it.  She’s actually not so awful, when she’s not thinking of ways to kill you.”

“Rardine wants to reorganize the Wilderlands?” I asked, suspiciously.

“She’s become an advisor of Anguin’s,” Pentandra nodded, as she handed off one daughter to her mother and accepted another.  “Quite a canny one, too.  When Rard asked Anguin for his choice of any of the four baronies vacant in Alshar, she advised him to choose Losara and Karinboll, even though they were among the most ravaged by the invasion.  He already has lands and estates in the region, and selecting those two baronies allows him contiguous control over most of his Alshari lands, now.  Right through the center of Gilmora,” she added, with a slight smile.

“And how did the Crown take that?”

“They were unhappy, but incapable of doing anything about it.  Rardine delivered the message, and she was insistent on Anguin’s rights.  She took advantage of Tavard’s absence and persuaded Count Kindine to acquiesce.  She wouldn’t leave the palace without the deeds and parchments.  I think they gave it to her just to get rid of her.”

“She’s a strategic thinker,” I praised.  “Those two baronies give Anguin a big slice of territory right in the middle of Gilmora.  Tavard isn’t going to like that at all.”

“Well, if he ever returns from Maidenspool, he can voice his opposition,” she chuckled.  “But it was his wife who signed off on it.  Not that Rard gave her any choice.  It appears that Rardine still has some influence over her father, even if her mother is distant.”

“From what I understand, he might actually have some of the nobility of those lands here,” I informed her, and told her about the three hapless nobles outside of Gareth’s door.  “Getting them returned to their estates, however empty, may encourage some of the peasants to return.”

“Well, that’s another problem,” Pentandra said, adeptly switching boobs.  “A goodly portion of the slaves were Gilmoran villeins or even serfs.  Under Castali law, they are still considered bonded even if they have been away from their estates without leave.”

“Being enslaved should buy them an exemption,” I noted, wryly.

“One would think,” Pentandra agreed.  “The thing is, Alshari law states that a villein who can subsist in a chartered town for a year and a day can apply for freedman’s papers.”

“’City Air Is Free Air’,” I said, quoting a popular proverb – among the villeins.  Less so among the gentry.  “But the closest town is Tudry, if its charter still stands.  Beyond that is Vorone . . . and aren’t the capital cities exempt?”

“Yes, they are,” Pentandra agreed.  “But you are mistaken.  I took the liberty of drawing up a charter for Vanador, and Duke Anguin was kind enough to sign and seal it.  It has specific provisions covering the status of escaped slaves,” she said, smugly.

“But Vanador is a . . . well, it’s a glorified village,” I pointed out, confused.  “There aren’t two score cottages and crofts, out there.  Unless you count the warehouse,” I said, speaking of the lone storage building assembled under the overhang.  “How does that constitute a town?”

“Because I say it does, and I’m the Lady Mayor, at the moment.  On parchment.  Between feedings.  And court functions,” she groaned.  “But next year, about ten thousand of those folks will be able to return to Gilmora with their freedman documents.  Which means they will have to be paid wages.”

“And pay a much higher rent,” I pointed out.  One of the few advantages that serfs and villeins had in Gilmora was the fact that their housing was largely paid for by the estates they were bonded to.

“Rent on what?  Those fiefs are depopulated.  There are plenty of houses there.  But I don’t want these people to have been rescued from one kind of bondage only to be forced into another.  They deserve better than that.  If we can grant them their freedom, and maybe even a little coin and some trade experience up here in the next year, then when they do return to Gilmora they will have a much better bargaining position.”

“I suppose it will take Anguin that long to organize those lands, anyway.”

“Which is why Rardine negotiated a five-year suspension of tribute to the duchy for each barony, and coaxed another thousand Roses out of her daddy to spend on restoration and repatriation apiece.  Something else Tavard is not going to be happy about,” she warned.

“Tavard’s happiness is becoming less and less an issue for me,” I grumbled.  “If he couldn’t hang onto those baronies of his own accord, then its best for Anguin to have them.  And I take it the Alshari court is pleased . . .”

“It’s the largest Alshari gain in Gilmora in fifty years – of course they’re pleased,” Pentandra agreed.  “In fact, several of them want to invest in the new lands.  Cotton brings a far higher price at market than timber.  And it’s easier to move than iron . . . by traditional means,” she added, smugly.  “Now that Anguin has started spending some of the treasury’s coin, some of the nobles want to invest.  Yet-another reason why we need to reorganize the Wilderlands,” she groaned, then winced.  “Fentra, you are all done!” she insisted to her daughter, before throwing her over her shoulder and patting her back.

The little mageling didn’t cry – she just looked confused with her new eyes until she belched.  Then she smiled.

“With all that reorganization and new responsibilities, it’s a wonder you can handle your new duties as Lady Mayor of Vanador.”

“Administration is nine hells easier than lactation,” she complained.  “Here.  You change her.  I’m done,” she said, wearily, handing me her stinky baby.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Drinks With Friends

I got to enjoy the rare entertainment of watching Pentandra’s mother and her maid attempt to cook Remeran delicacies in a primitive Kasari iron kettle for us, after Arborn returned from a day inspecting the defenses near the river.

It was a merry evening in the cozy little croft.  With the right spells, it was well-ventilated and cool in the summer night, with magelights floating inside and out.  I played with babies until they couldn’t be tickled anymore and their grandmother insisted they go to bed.  Pentandra had a special three-sectioned cradle that not only rocked itself magically, but had an enchantment that dampened sound from waking the babes.

After dinner, while Penny took a much-needed nap, Arborn and I retired to the little garden directly outside of the croft door.  A couple of pipes and a bottle of wine, and it was a delightful way to watch the stars and talk about the war.

“Things are stirring in the Penumbra,” he reported, after we got to that comfortable point in the evening where candor is more important than wit.

“Do tell,” I invited him.

“My scouts are reporting a lot of activity around the outer cantonments.  Astyral’s agents have brought him word that the Goblin King is bridling at the idea of following the Enshadowed, now, much less the Nemovort Korbal installed as his Regent in the Dark Vale of the Umbra.  Another pretends to be Korbal’s ambassador to the King, and stirs much resentment in his shaggy court.  The talk in the Penumbra is of war, though if it is against us or each other, I do not know,” he confessed.

“Is there no reaction to the theft of their slaves?” I asked, surprised.

“That was the initial point of the contention between the two parties, I think,” Arborn suggested.  “The Goblin King wanted to give chase and recover their property, as well as deal their vengeance against us.  They blamed the Nemovorti and the Enshadowed for allowing it to happen, and then again when they insisted that he stay his forces for some greater purpose.”

“That’s disturbing to hear.  But encouraging to hear dissention in the enemy’s camp.  What happens when the Goblin King prevails, and sends a legion against you?”

“They would have to cross the fords of the rivers, each of which is now being watched,” he assured me.  “We have a plan to fall upon them mid-crossing.  The 3rd Commando have small companies of cavalry riding with a few Wilderlords between here and the Maire River, on the east bank.  There are larger garrisons at Baelor’s Tower and Rognar’s Tower, to slow them down further.  And then there are three hundred Commandos, two hundred Wilderlords, and near a thousand men-at-arms encamped at the entrance to this plateau.”

“What about the slaves?  Can they defend themselves?”

“Sir Maegon is in charge of camp security,” he nodded.  “He’s been recruiting men with the experience and inclination to fight, and doing some elementary training with spears and shields.  But it’s slow going.  Most of these people showed up here half-starved and near death, after the flight across country.  Now they build their strength on wholesome food and moving rocks.  Hopefully by autumn they will be strong enough to plow and plant.  And fight, if there’s a need.”

I nodded, thinking about the matter as I let the sweet smoke trickle through my lips.  “The struggle over priorities is telling,” I observed.  “If Korbal is now in sole command, and he desires the gurvani gather their strength on his behalf . . . but not to pursue their slaves . . . that suggests another target.”

“Vorone?” he asked, troubled.  He’d spent a lot of time protecting Vorone.

“Mayhap,” I said.  “But I fear a grander target.  Korbal isn’t like Sheruel – he’s emotional.  He has an ego.  Vanity.  He’ll pick a target to make an example of.  He wants to conquer humanity, not just exterminate us.  And after our raid, and the prisoners we took and rescued, he’s going to sting.  He’ll want to humiliate us.”

“There are military targets he might consider, first,” Arborn proposed.  “Tudry has been a thorn in his side, as has Fort Defiance.  And the Umbra itself brushes Count Marcadine’s seat.  Attacking any of those would give the enemy advantage.”

“But it would not suit his grand strategy, I think.  He is no goblin.  Lucky for you, I don’t think either Vorone or . . . Vanador?  Vanador is a tempting enough target.”

“I hope you’re right, Minalan,” he sighed.  “Since the girls came along, I find myself suddenly fearful of such things in ways I never considered before.”

“That, my friend, is the curse of fatherhood,” I advised.  “Parenthood, actually, for the affliction strikes new mothers just as profoundly, though in different manner.  Let me guess . . . you’re suddenly looking behind every bush for bandits and wondering if the cat has the pox?”

“I was considering building a fortress,” he admitted, guiltily.  “That seems a bit excessive, I suppose.”

“You’re speaking to a man who’s turning a mountain into a castle, because a regular castle isn’t strong enough to protect my children,” I reminded him.  “I can empathize.  I am well-versed in the arts of paranoia.  A gift of the Aronin, I suppose,” I said, sarcastically.  “You’re going to need a fortress here.  I believe that was the entire purpose for choosing the site to begin with, wasn’t it?  To build a city to attract the fury of Sheruel?”

“Much has changed, since then, and there is more than one reason for such a castle.  The west bank of the Meir is dangerous.  With Nandine destroyed, there is no town of note in the north, anymore.  This site is idea for such a place: easy to defend, arable land, and some industry.  More, now that you’ve brought the Dradrien.”

“How long will you stay here?” I asked.

“Long enough to see these folk settled for winter, before we return to Vorone.  Pentandra has been granted a leave-of-absence, until the Royal Curia at Yule.  We intend to enjoy it,” he said, simply.  “Olum Seheri was difficult for both of us.  In truth, there were several times I thought I would never see my daughters born that day.”

“It was harrowing for us all,” I agreed.  “But a tale for the ages.  Let’s hope that the next time we go back there, it’s to wipe it clean and rebuild lost Anthatiel.”

We drifted off into silence, as we smoked and stared at the stars.  They seemed much clearer at this elevation.  I could not help but wonder which among them was concealing the mighty ship that brought us to this world.  I thought of the forty thousand forsaken souls locked within that ship, hopeful of a new life on a new world someday but condemned to drift in eternal darkness.

It was a sobering thought.  I had no explicit duty to the Forsaken, outside of common humanity (well, I was assuming it was common . . .) but something in my heart moved me to consider their fate.  I could see no real way I could affect their rescue – I was no Celestial Mother, to guide the stars in their courses.

Of course, I did have access to the next best thing, I reminded myself.  I had no idea how I could or would do such a thing, but that’s never stopped me before.  But on further reflection, as much as delving into such a fascinating historical riddle held much intellectual appeal, it just couldn’t be a priority.

There was a war on.  One that was heating up.  Because of my raid.  That had to be my first priority, now that Alya was healing.

“It’s pretty up here,” I said, finally.  “Like Boval Vale, before the invasion.  I like it.”

“I’ve always been partial to the eastlands,” Arborn affirmed, as he packed his travel pipe.  “I’ve known it since I was a boy.  The Kasari have camped and hunted this territory for hundreds of years.  Since before the Narasi came.  We have hidden refuges and camps all over here.  Good fishing, too,” he added.

“Have you had any issues with your Narasi vassals?”

“From Otter’s Point?  Nay,” he said, shaking his head.  “The old lord was the last who saw the Kasari in an ill light.  The few hamlets betwixt there and here don’t even know I’m their lawful lord now,” he chuckled.  “I visit them, from time to time, just to see how they fare.  I suppose they’ll figure it out eventually.”

“How are the Kasari taking your new rise in position among the Narasi?”

“They see it as a fulfillment of our duty to be helpful,” he said, diplomatically, after a moment’s thought.  “Anguin’s use – and prompt payment – for the services of the rangers he’s hired has helped build some trust.  But a few still see me as betraying the spirit of the Kasari, if not the law, by taking service with the duchy.  Now is not the time to nurse old feuds,” he pronounced.

“No, it is not,” I agreed.  “Well, I wish you luck.  What you and Pentandra are doing here is much like what I tried to do with Sevendor: mixing different peoples together, trying to maintain security and order, and developing a town from scratch through magic and an obscene amount of gold.  Of course, if I can do it, you two won’t have any problems,” I dismissed.  That earned me a look.

“You do realize that we’re doing this with very little resources, scant support, on the edge of a war zone?” he pointed out.

“Well . . . yes,” I agreed, reluctantly.  “But you’re starting from scratch,” I emphasized.  “You didn’t have to start out correct someone else’s mistakes and neglect.  And you have me to help you.  I didn’t have that.”

“You have an intriguing and . . . unusual perspective on things sometimes, Minalan,” he reflected, after smoking for a moment.

“I’m a wizard,” I shrugged.  “Thinking up elaborate rationalizations is my bread and butter.”

On the way back to Sevendor, I took the opportunity to stop by Vorone, at Terleman’s invitation.

Actually, I was getting ready to take the Ways back to Sevendor when Terleman burst into my mind as loud as anyone but Sheruel ever had.

MIN!  You have got to drop what you’re doing and get to Vorone and see what this girl is doing! he insisted, before I could get a word in.  She’s got this vase, and—

Wait, wait, wait, my friend, I said, trying to calm him down.  Terleman is an old soldier with an old soldier’s capacities, but he was clearly drunk.  Where are you?  Exactly?

Vorone, he repeated, Street of Flowers.  I love this place!  Wenek and I brought a bunch of the boys along to spend some of our pay, and we got distracted.

Just when did you arrive?

Huh?  Nine days ago, he said, after struggling with the number.  Don’t worry, we haven’t spent the entire time drunk.  But old friends kept dropping by to congratulate us, and so we kind of lingered.  Sandoval showed up with his new girlfriend.  Astyral was here a few days, went back to Tudry, and then came back, and he brought Rustallo.  You remember Landrik?  Landrik was here, just met him in the street.  We’ve been drinking this Pearwoods stuff for hours now.  But you really should join us, he pleaded.  We’ve been talking about the raid, and how things stand, and . . . well, your name has come up.  We’ve all wished you were here.  I didn’t want to disturb you, but then this dancer came out with a vase, and I thought ‘y’know, Min would love to see this!’

I sighed.  I didn’t much feel like socializing, after the pleasant evening with Pentandra’s new family, but then I had a responsibility to support my men even when they weren’t on the battlefield.

Astyral, Sandy, Terleman, Wenek and those guys didn’t feel rewarded by speeches and estates, at this point.  They fought because it was what they were good at, and they fought for me because I was their friend, as much as I was their commander.  A night drinking and carousing in Vorone’s increasingly popular red-magelight district with them would mean more for our relationship than riches or flattery.

Those relationships required as much maintenance as any, despite the camaraderie of war.  A wizard who didn’t have good friends to call upon to, say, assault the secluded fortress of an evil dark lord had only himself to blame.

Fine, I admitted, finally.  It was already too late in Sevendor to see the children, tonight – my sister would have already tucked them in.  No one was expecting me anywhere tomorrow . . .

I’ll be there shortly, I finally agreed.  Just a few drinks, I warned.  I still have important Spellmonger stuff to do.

Like what? he asked, with drunken curiosity.

Like . . . building my new warstaff, I said, grasping for something Terleman would appreciate.

You can do that later, he said.  But if you don’t hurry up you’re going to miss what she – Ishi’s Tits!  How does she get it all . . .?

Alas, by the time I brought myself through the Ways to Terleman’s stone, just outside of the tavern, the show was over . . . though Terl didn’t have any problem explaining the technical and dramatic elements of the piece, occasionally using hand gestures to symbolize positioning.

I didn’t even get to hear how it turned out, though, because the rest of the party was moving from the tavern/brothel complex to a much statelier tavern up the street, where it was rumored a minstrel of rare wit and a squadron of youthful dancers was performing.

The moment they came out the door, I was swarmed and embraced by sweaty, drunken warmagi.  I greeted them all eagerly, and we started down the street in a tangled mob.  Wenek’s arm was still in a sling, a result of the last duel he’d had with a Nemovort, while others were rescuing us, and Terleman was still bandaged in at least three places, but it appeared all were healing.

Sandoval’s new girlfriend proved to be the woman he rescued from the Necromancer’s dungeons.  Andra anna Corseen looked much better than the last time I’d seen her.  She was wearing a new gown of local style, a lovely dark green with light green trim.  She seemed to hover closely to Sandy, I noted – indeed, she never got more than arm’s reach from him all night.

He seemed to share the attachment, I also noted.  Whether there was some previous spark there that had rekindled, or if his rescue of her from certain death and post-mortem insult had driven them together, but he acted very protective of her all evening.

Andra was a very pleasant woman, I discovered, the descendent from an old Imperial house in southern Alshar.  She was a practical adept, but one who focused on thaumaturgy and spell design theory – not a great way to earn a living, to my mind, but she’d done well enough before she was kidnapped.

The tavern we lit at for the next few hours was a relatively new one known as the Daffled Dragon, and bore a sign with a cartoonish geriatric dragon with a beard, clearly in his cups.  It proved a merry place with wide windows, tables outdoors, a trio of musicians (fiddle, tambour, and cittern) and five busy barmaids to serve.

I ordered several bottles of wine for the table, paying a Rose in advance (I honestly didn’t have anything smaller on me) and ensuring incredible service all night.  Once I complained about the lighting, and threw six magelights into the air around the tavern, I became the barman’s new favorite customer.

The discussion was loud and boisterous as we complimented each other about various elements of the recent raid – particularly my “inspired” use of the Handmaiden to fuse Korbal to his body.  I was pretty thick with the praise myself, picking out particular instances of impressive performance among my comrades.

“You missed all the really exciting stuff while you were down in that hole,” Terleman taunted me, trying hard not to slur his words.  “We were throwing spells we wouldn’t have dared throw on a human battlefield.  I killed hundreds of hobgoblins – personally,” he bragged.  “Damn near blew out my warstaff.  Exhausted every spell on my blade,” he added, proudly.  “But Duin himself couldn’t have thrown a better battle,” he said, encouragingly.

“Oh!  I tried a new anti-personnel spell you missed,” Wenek said, excitedly as he could with one arm.  “I call it Wenek’s Calenture,” he declared, pronouncing the words with great deliberation.  “Pure Red Magic – Rael gave me the idea.  It’s a cast sigil that targets the enemy’s hypothalamus.  In sixty seconds, the target is running a high fever, high enough to cause them to pass out.  Sometimes they die from shock, the weak ones, anyway.  Used it twice – it was glorious!” he smirked, his fat face smiling.

Before the conversation could descend into pure shop talk – a real danger, considering the amount of wine involved – I quizzed Terleman about the others from the raid, and their whereabouts.  There were a few funerals for prominent dead, approaching, including one of Count Marcadine’s popular bannermen who’d volunteered.

“All in all, the Wilderlords have been pleased with how it went, though they bore the bulk of the casualties.   Those who survived are describing it as the biggest battle of their lives, against the most evil force on Callidore.  I’m considering commissioning a ballad,” he admitted.  Unlike Azar, Terleman tended to be fairly humble about his abilities, when it came to professional aggrandizement.

“It does seem like the first successful offensive strike of the war,” Wenek agreed.  “That, alone, makes it noteworthy.”

“Well, while you heroes were away in the Mindens, some of us stayed behind and kept the gurvani at bay,” Rustallo, who’d managed to grow an impressive beard in the last few years, said defiantly.  “We had incursions all over for a week or so, after the great escape.  Thankfully they skipped the villages for once, and went straight after the military outposts.”

“Carmella told me that two of the pele towers were besieged, briefly,” agreed Sandoval.

“For all the good it did them,” Landrik said, smiling.  “I was at Traveler’s Tower when we were hit with a company of goblins and fell hounds.  They tried to use a battering ram to take the door, until I turned it into splinters.  Then someone used a sonic spell to chase the doggies away, and it was just target practice, after that,” the former Censor grinned.

“The worst incursion was at Lorvay,” Terleman reported.  “About six hundred goblin infantry tried to cross the ford in pursuit of the southern group of escapees.  They got pegged at the ford by archers and charged by Wilderlord cavalry as soon as they crossed.  A company of Commandos swept in from behind and slaughtered every furry one of them.”

“Good mercs, those Commandos,” Wenek nodded, approvingly.  “Tough as boot leather.  Glad Anguin got ‘em.  Had them training my lads back in the Pearwoods.  Cavalry, infantry, archers, sappers, whatever you need ‘em to do, they know how.”

“Good, we’ll need them,” Sandoval predicted, putting his arm around Andra.  “They’re going to have to hit us back for that.  I’m guessing Tudry.”

“Vorone,” Wenek said, instantly.  “They’ll hit Vorone.”

“I think they’ll go further south,” Landrik proposed.  “Preshar Castle, Marcadine’s seat.  The Umbra is only six miles away from it, now.  They’ve already taken a lessor fortress, nearer at hand.  Preshar is the largest defense between the Umbra and the Five Rivers.”

“Marcadine will destroy it, rather than see it captured,” Terleman said, shaking his head.  “We are in agreement that a fortress that large, that close to Tudry and Vorone, cannot be allowed to be held against us.”

“I think you’re being very short-sighted, in considering Korbal’s response,” Andra said, speaking for the first time.  “During my time in the dungeons I overheard many snippets of many plans the Necromancer has for us.  And I can assure you, gentlemen, that they are far more majestic and multifaceted than besieging a rural castle.  Or even sacking a provincial capital,” she said, apologetically.  “They mean not to strike at any particular place, but at many places at once.  They think not in terms of castles and armies, but in cities and infiltrations.”

“You don’t think Korbal will use the goblins?” Terleman asked, skeptically.

“Of course he will – but they are merely his soldiery, now, to keep the Enshadowed from being occupied by petty duty.  The Nemovorti despise the gurvani, they seem them as nearly animals.  They prefer hobgoblins largely because they find them less annoying and more purposeful.  His real power is in his disciples.”

“The Enshadowed,” supplied Terleman.

“And the Nemovorti – they, most of all.  The Enshadowed are his officers, but the Nemovorti are both general staff and secret weapons.  Some are fearsome fighters.  Others are canny adepts.  Still others are fanatical and obsessive about their cause.  They are who you should be fearing, not the gurvani.”

“How do you think they might infiltrate us, my lady?” Rustallo asked, curious.  Apart from me, he was likely the least drunk among us.

“They delight in exploiting humanity’s own weaknesses against us,” she considered, cocking her head prettily.  Her face looked thin and pale, thanks to her long imprisonment underground and poor diet.  “They will attempt to dismantle our orderly society and replace it with something more controllable.  They will act through human agents,” she reminded us, “using bribery, extortion, threats and murder to maneuver themselves into a vulnerable position . . . and then they will strike,” she said.  Everyone at the table was quietly listening to her, now.

“They are scandalized by some of our cultural differences from the Alka Alon, and seek to exploit them.  They understand the weaknesses in our food production, and will seek to undermine them to cause famine.  They appreciate – far more than Sheruel – the nature of the human spirit, and will try to subvert it through fear, misery, and desperation.

“They will attack our weak points and bypass our strong points, assassinate our leaders and replace them with their puppets, feint at us with one attack while they bring the dagger to our heart with another.  They are insidious,” she pronounced.  “And they are absolutely certain not only of their inevitable victory, but of their eternal superiority.”

“Well, that should be easy to counter, then,” Rustallo muttered, sarcastically, earning a laugh from the table.

“What details did you learn of their plans, my lady?” I asked, gently.  She seemed to have picked up more than I’d given her credit for.

“The Nemovorti have weaknesses,” she decided.  “Both individually and collectively.  Not every assumption of a new host body is entirely successful,” she added.  “I heard whispers that, sometimes, the original host mind lingers, and seeks to cast doubt on their every thought.  A few were driven mad by it.”

“Well, that’s good to know,” Terleman said, seriously.  “What kinds of personal weaknesses?” he asked, taking another big drink.

“Vanity, flattery, pride, ignorance, stupidity – surely a warmage has knowledge of these,” she teased.

“I, myself, have been cursed with incredible humility,” agreed Wenek, sorrowfully.

“The Nemovorti seem even more obsessed with these matters than men,” Andra continued.  “And they fight amongst each other incessantly, all the while declaring absolute loyalty to Korbal.  There is a kind of . . . competition,” she recalled.  “Each Nemovort will be responsible for destabilizing a different region.  The ones who bring their region to conquest first will be rewarded with higher position in the Korbal’s court.”

“They think they’re just going to be able to dance into the Kingdom and slice it up between them?” snorted Terleman.

“You doubt their commitment, my lord Terleman?” Andra asked, doubtfully.

“I doubt their abilities,” Terleman countered.  “I’ve faced them in battle, my lady.  While individually powerful,” he conceded, “they don’t understand how to work together to complement their efforts.  It’s like attempting an honest fight with a bunch of tournament monkeys,” he quipped.  “Each one thinks he’s Duin, Himself, when it comes to battle, but they’re so full of their own ego that they can’t effectively fight as a unit.”

“They can conspire as a unit,” offered Landrik.  “That can be just as effective.  Depending upon what targets they select and how they decide to take them, they could easily conquer any number of poorly-run domains.”

“They don’t even have to conquer,” corrected Sandoval.  “They just have to disrupt our society enough to give them an opportunity to attack it.  I can think of a dozen ways to do that, myself.  Hells, we’ve done that to ourselves a dozen ways in my lifetime.”

“Do you think inflicting Prince Tavard on us was part of his evil plan?” Wenek asked, with mock suspicion.  “We owe them a raid just for that!”

“No, unfortunately, we have no one to blame for Tavard but Grendine,” I observed.  “And Tavard, for that matter.  I do hope he’s having a lovely time conquering the lichen-covered rocks of southern Enultramar for the glory of the Castali people.  I’d hate to see my tribute wasted on half-efforts,” I said, shaking my head.

Just normal bitching about the boss that everyone but the King gets to indulge in . . . but some divinity must have heard me.  About ten minutes later we were approached by a young girl about ten, bearing a baldric with an odd device: a spiny-looking thistle.

“Begging your pardon, Baron Minalan,” she said in a Wilderlands brogue, after politely waiting for a break in the conversation to introduce herself, “but I was sent to inquire if you would be free to wait upon Princess Rardine for a few brief moments of conversation, this evening.”  She added a darling little curtsey, Wilderlands-style.

“Princess Rardine?” I asked surprised.  “I thought she was at Anguin’s country estate?”

“Her Highness chose to come to Vorone for a few days, to meet with her seamstresses and dressmakers,” the little girl explained.  “It was mere fortune that brought you to town at the same time.  She’s staying at Yhiza House, as a guest of Lady Loreth.  I can take you there now,” she said, in a tone that told me she wasn’t impressed by my title.

I decided not to resist.  Terleman was telling the same story for the third time, Wenek was falling asleep, chin on his chest, Sandoval and Andra were snuggling and squirming under his cloak, Rustallo and Landrik were eyeing the barmaids, and I had already had a long day.

“I must attend the Princess, it seems,” I announced to everyone, to a few groans.  I said my farewells and followed the little girl into the night.

I had no idea what Rardine wanted with me, but if she had some intelligence I could use – and that was likely – I wanted to know.

Chapter Sixty

Rardine’s Revenge

My relationship with Princess Rardine, of House Bimin, had never been particularly friendly.  I could date my personal distaste for her to the day after the Battle of Timberwatch, when I found out she’d ordered the assassination of a duke and a duchess and tried to assassinate me.  We’d had a complicated relationship, since then.  I was, therefore, at least somewhat justified in the feeling of anxiety that came over me briefly as I mounted the ornate stairs up to the magnificent doorway of Yhiza House.

But the young woman who met me that evening was much different than the arrogant girl who’d ordered my valet to stab me in the back.  Age and her ordeal had contributed to her maturity, I could see.  And she wasn’t even snide as she invited me into her chamber with two ladies of the court.  That alone told me at once that she’d transformed.

“Baron Minalan,” she said, formally, as she led me to a comfortable chair.  “Thank you for taking the time to see me at such an inconvenient hour.”

“I was carousing with old war comrades,” I shrugged.  “And a wizard keeps his own hours.  It was my pleasure to respond.  What can I do for you this fine evening, Your Highness?” I asked, nodding to the two other women.  One of which I recognized at once.

Ishi.

“Excellency, this is Baroness Amandice and Viscountess Threanas, of my cousin’s court.  They have been advising me, since I came to Vorone, in the options available to me,” she said, quietly, as she took a seat on a divan.

“Options, Highness?” I asked, innocently as I stared at Baroness Amandice.  Of course she had to be involved.

“As you know, I am estranged of my parents, in the face of their . . . reluctance to commit to certain policies,” she said, a twinkle in her eye.  That was her way of letting me know she was still livid with Rard and Grendine over letting her languish in Olum Seheri.

“Politics is oft a strain on families,” I nodded, simply.  No need to make any enemies prematurely.

“In this case, it has interrupted a search for . . . well, for a suitable match,” she said, a trace of the arrogant girl returning.

“As you may have heard, I have encountered challenges finding a husband who is of suitable position and stature, as well as one I find compatible.  My recent tour was to present me to suitors . . . though it felt more like an auction,” she confessed, bitterly.  “After finding no suitable prospects in Farise – which was not unexpected – my father was considering approaching a count in Vore to consider my hand.”  She gave me a determined look.  “In fucking Vore, Minalan!” she said, her voice dripping with contempt.  “That’s not even in the kingdom!”

“That was by device,” assured Viscountess Threanas, a smug smirk on her thin lips.  “It is well known at court that the Princess – the other princess – wants Rardine as far away from the royal court as possible.  And the Castali ducal court,” she added.  “If she can’t force Rardine into a convent, then marriage to an aging aristocrat on the other end of the world is acceptable to Her Royal Highness.”

“That will not do at all,” Baroness Amandice – better known as Lady Pleasure, or, more precisely, Ishi, Goddess of Love and Beauty – declared.  “Not for a Princess, the first princess of Castalshar.”

“I empathize, Your Highness,” I nodded, cautiously, “but I fail to see how I can help.  I have a wife,” I said, ensuring that she took it as a joke, and not an honest proposal.  Women are funny that way.

“When I discussed a possible course of action with my new friends,” Rardine continued, fidgeting slightly, “the Baroness insisted we contact you . . . and that she knew you were but blocks away this evening.”

Damn Sandoval and Andra!  Their smoldering passion had told Ishi where I was!

“Is there someone you want me to charm, then, Your Highness?”

“Nearly,” she nodded.  “Not magically.  Indeed, right now I have more need of your wise counsel than your spellcraft.  No, my friends wish to hear your opinion on a possibility I proposed.”  She paused, as if steeling herself.  “I am thinking of wedding Anguin.”

I think Ishi wanted me there just to see the look on my face.  She stifled a giggle.

“Now that,” I said, slowly, taking my pipe out, “is an interesting idea.”

“The political advantage to both parties would be significant,” Viscountess Threanas suggested.  “Duke Anguin would get a bride of his station and position, as well as take a suitable dowry,” she pointed out.  For such ducal weddings, I knew, the dowry tended to be in the form of entire domains and baronies.  “I have it on authority that His Grace finds Her Highness a pleasant and engaging companion, of sharp wit and elegant taste.”

“Does he, now?” I asked, glancing at Ishi.

“More, it would aid in legitimizing his position as Duke, and make it much more difficult for King Rard to repudiate him in favor of a rival claimant to the coronet, regardless of how much of Alshar he might control.”

I hadn’t considered that – if Rard made common cause with the Count of Rhemes, and recognized his claim to Alshar in return for his fealty, that could see Anguin out of his inheritance.  A marriage to Rardine made that a lot less likely.  One does not disinherit one’s son-in-law.  Not if your daughter is an assassin by training.

“There’s one additional benefit for Alshar and Anguin,” Rardine pointed out.  “He gets someone who knows every detail of Mother’s network.  Including who her secret spies are here in Vorone.  I will volunteer to take over the intelligence operations for the court,” she declared.

And then there was that.

“So, what do you get out of it, Your Highness?” I asked.

“I get security,” Rardine answered.  “Security and a political base from which to operate.  One closer than Vore,” she added, with a sneer.  “That means more to me than anything, right now.  Believe it or not, Baron, it was actually more difficult to discover that I was, for all purposes, exiled from my own court when I returned than it was to hear the simpering excuses about why no one was sent to deliver me.”

“I can appreciate that,” I said, truthfully.  “But . . . there are issues with your proposal,” I said, taking a deep breath.

“Consanguinity?” Viscountess Threanas asked.  “His Grace and Her Highness are first cousins.  Such unions have been permitted in the past, with sufficient clerical attention.”

“It could be used as a means of blocking a wedding,” agreed Ishi.  “But it is really the only leverage they have against the idea.  Rardine is old enough to make her own decision, now.”

“They could apply considerable social pressure,” I pointed out.  “If the King and Queen raised a fuss, they could make it almost impossible.  Or attempt to change your mind.”

“I find myself strangely unwilling to be persuaded,” Rardine said, evenly.  “I learned a lot about commitment, in that cell.”

“Let’s assume that you do, somehow, convince your parents to bless the union,” I proposed.  “Is there not still the problem of . . .” I said, trailing off as I stared at Rardine.

“Speak plainly, my lord,” Rardine said, her eyes narrowing.

“Well . . . it is widely suspected that Grendine was behind the assassination that gave the Orphan Duke his name,” I pointed out.  Threanas stiffened.  Ishi leaned forward in anticipation of the drama.  Rardine sighed.

“I have confessed my part in that plot to Anguin in private, and begged his forgiveness.  He has . . . he has been very good to me, much better than I deserve,” she confessed.  “While he is still angry about it, he doesn’t blame me, personally,” she stressed.

“If he’s deceiving you, it will likely be a short honeymoon,” I suggested, as diplomatically as I could.

“I’ve already given Anguin the opportunity to strike me dead,” Rardine said, softly.  “I put the naked sword in his hand.  I heard what he did to the regent, here.  I threw myself on his mercy, and he granted me grace.”

That was surprising!  I never thought she’d have the humility or empathy to make such a dramatic display . . . nor was I entirely confident that Anguin would restrain himself, at such an opportunity.  A more religious man might consider it a gift from the gods.

I glanced at Ishi before I continued.

“Would this be viewed favorably in court?” I asked, looking at Threanas. She nodded.  Reluctantly.

“Anguin is in almost as difficult a position as Rardine,” she pointed out.  “He could enter into an unproductive alliance with Remere by marrying one of Clofalin’s many nieces, or he could marry into the lesser nobility of Castal.  Either course of action presents difficulties and opportunities lost.”

“Whereas, if Anguin marries Rardine, he not only marries into a ducal house, he marries into the Royal House – effectively putting him in the line of succession should – the gods forbid! – anything should happen to Tavard while he’s abroad.”

“There is still the Heir and his mother,” I pointed out.

“Exactly,” Rardine said, her eyes narrowing.  “By marrying Anguin, I become a legitimate threat to Armandra and her brat.  Not a vague, indistinct, in-the-background threat, but a real and constant factor in every decision she makes for the rest of her anxious life!”

Usually, a young woman seeks passion and strength in marriage.  Rardine was seeking revenge.  I sighed.

“I feel I should at least ask . . . do you bear even a modicum of actual, authentic love for the lad?”

“That is a bold question, Baron!” Threanas reproved, her wrinkled brow furrowing.

“If I am to give honest counsel, I need candid information,” I reasoned.  “I would not support a union if it was based entirely on political considerations,” I said.  “That would be an affront to Trygg and Ishi,” I added, glancing at the Baroness.

“I . . . I do love him, a little,” she confessed, after some thought.  “Enough.  He is kind and brave, determined and intelligent, respectful and commanding,” she concluded.  “All those weeks in that cell, I prayed to the gods to send me a deliverer.  They could have sent anyone.  They chose him.  And he chose to risk his coronet, his future, and the lives of brave men to come and get me.  That, Baron Minalan, is more than enough to base love upon,” she said, proudly.

“And . . . what kind of wife would you make him?” I asked, curious.

“Again, Baron!” scolded Threanas.

“Bide, Viscountess,” Rardine pleaded, quietly.  “As he said, he needs candid information.  And he is not wrong to ask.  He has seen me at my worst,” she said, guiltily, “in the depths of my entitlement, risen in position on the corpses of others – too many others!

“But it is a fair question,” she continued, staring at me.  “One any man wishes to know about a friend’s prospective bride – and Duke Anguin does count you his friend,” she affirmed.  “To answer?  I know not, Spellmonger.  I saw every shred of dignity and pride stripped from me in that cell, and swore I would do anything to get out.  Considering how bloody my past was, that entailed quite a bit,” she added, with dark humor.

“Now, by Trygg’s grace, I find myself free once again.  Free, secure, and at liberty, in answer to my fervent prayers.

“And it gives me pause for thought,” she said, contemplatively.  “If I was willing to commit vile murder and base betrayal to gain my freedom, what if the cost was instead . . . humility?  Humanity?  When all that I held dear and worked so hard for was not just taken from me, but used against me, what if the price of my redemption was . . . decency?”

“That’s not oft a characteristic of a good intelligence head,” I pointed out, skeptically.

“Nor am I pious enough to believe in conversions of character,” she agreed.  “I said I had a change of heart.  I didn’t say I was struck with stupidity.  I take no trouble in doing the unfortunate, indecent things that sometimes need to be done . . . as long as it is in service to Anguin, who is decent.  If it takes my wedding vow for him to entrust me with that responsibility, I am ready.

“And if the price of my freedom is a lifetime of marriage to a good man, I shall seek to pay it gladly and without resentment,” she continued.  “Trygg knows I would have done far worse things, to escape Olum Seheri.  Why not marry, and give my support and my skills into the hands of a man I respect?”

“Respect enough to bear his children?” Ishi asked, expectantly, because she has an inherently dirty mind.

“Of course,” Rardine dismissed.  “A woman finds her legacy in her children the way a man does in his work or his lands.  I would bear him an army of heirs,” she said, proudly.

“And fidelity?” Ishi prompted.

“My lady, you are newly acquainted of me, personally, so I forgive the implication . . . but if I plight my troth with Anguin, I will faithfully see it fulfilled.  I have seen enough of courtiers’ dalliances to know what a distraction and erosion of faith they can be.”

I think that disappointed Ishi, from what I could read on her face.  I knew Rardine well enough to know that promiscuity wasn’t among her vices.

Still, I couldn’t help but wonder what deeper game she was playing.  Rardine was perhaps the most intelligent of the royal family, and while she shared her mother’s ruthless ambition, it seemed tempered by her father’s sense of statecraft.  I took her at her word, but I strongly suspected there were further plots in that twisted mind of hers.

I took a deep breath.  “If that is the case, and I confirm this with Anguin, then you have my support, as well as my counsel.  I certainly have no objections . . . though I confess I still harbor the tiniest feeling concerning our encounter at Timberwatch,” I reminded her.

She shrugged.  “I am sorry.  That was Mother’s order, by the way, just as she ordered Isily to . . . do what she did.  I was more concerned with the political situation in the army, actually.  Two captains and an ancient died mysteriously, after Timberwatch.  Agents of Remere and Merwyn.”

“You still tried to kill me with my own manservant,” I pointed out, dryly.

“Would you rather I had Isily do it?  At the time, you were quite fond of her.  And she of you,” she added, knowingly.

“Yet it was her loyalty to your command that compelled her to . . . gain leverage on me,” I said, thinking of the first daughter Isily bore from me in secret.  That had been on Rardine’s command.  The second was due purely to Isily’s madness and obsession with me.

“She was perfectly normal, until you gave her that witchstone,” Rardine pointed out.  “After she left our service and began an affair with Dunselen – Dunselen, of all people!” she snorted in disgust.  “After that she was her own creature.  I so swear.”

I didn’t really doubt it.  Isily had used her freedom from the Family gainfully, and the power she gained in irionite soon fueled her obsession for arcane power.  That obsession had lea to her constructing the Greenflower array . . . and maiming my wife.

I was still a little resentful about that.

“I will begin working on this at once,” I promised them, as I rose.  “The consanguinity issue is the most serious and pressing, I think.  I will work on that.  But you have my support, Highness.  Provided you do not betray my friend Anguin.  That would . . . lose my support.”

“If I can make myself accountable to the gods, I think I can manage to do so to you, Baron. Thank you for your time, and your counsel,” she smiled.  “I think perhaps this is the beginning of a great alliance.”

I’d settle for an end to worrying about breathing when she was around, I decided.

I left the townhouse and walked down the steps into the night, because I’ve always thought it rude to depart someone else’s home magically.  That doesn’t mean I haven’t done it, of course.  Sometimes being rude is just a tool in a wizard’s bag.

But the night was still clear, and it was but an hour past midnight, according the sound of the bells from the Temple Ward.  Most of the lights in the city were out, now, and there were few wandering the streets this far away from the illicit districts, save the city watch.  For some reason, I didn’t want to leave, just yet, and when my nose caught a familiar whiff of smoke and ash, I realized why.

I decided I wanted to take a stroll through town to the site of the former palace.

It was hard to believe it had been almost a year since Sheruel sent a dragon to share his feelings about some raids in to the Penumbra by destroying the grand old place.  Unfortunately for him, he’d done it while most of the warmagi in the Wilderlands were gathered for a clandestine conference, so we were able to slay it, after much difficulty.

Hundreds of people had lost their lives and countless treasures and legacies of House Terine were consumed by the flame.  It had taken weeks to contend with the damage, recover the dead, and restore order following the attack . . . and the entire time, I recalled, that smell hung in the air over Vorone like a pall.

The dragon was gone, now, painstakingly hacked up and moved to Pentandra’s estate, just outside of town, where it was being transformed into tough armor for warmagi and valuable lore for thaumaturges.

The ruins of the palace, likewise, were gone.  At great expense and over the course of months wains and hoxters had been filled with debris from the place and removed from the site, until all that remained was a cleared site and a single large pile of stone and bricks Carmella’s builders had chosen to be reused in the new castle.

But that smell was still lingering in the air like the memory of a tasteless joke.

I found myself walking toward the old palace just to enjoy the peace of the night in a pretty place like Vorone.  Thankfully, the destruction had largely been confined to the palace grounds, leaving the narrow streets of homes, flats and shops nearby mostly undamaged.  Outside of the missing palace, most of Vorone seemed intact a year after the attack.

In some ways, I reflected, the attack indicated a turning point in Anguin’s rule.  Losing the palace was devastating, but it also freed the lad from generations of tradition and rules that no longer applied to the administration of his current lands.  It had also decentralized power, forcing most of his court ministers to govern from their nearby estates or rented halls.

While that might have diminished a noble’s power in many circumstances, Anguin (and Count Angrial, I had to admit) had turned the temporary inconvenience into an advantage.  Each ministry was commanded to re-structure and re-staff itself based on the rump duchy’s current needs, not the legacies of past policies.  That got rid of a lot of dead weight, Pentandra had informed me, and allowed for a much nimbler administration.

As I entered the broad, mostly empty stretch where the palace had been, I was able to see the progress on the new citadel that was to replace it, growing resolutely at the far end of the lot.

In less than a year, using magic Carmella and her crews had managed to lay the foundations, excavate the underground portions, and lay out the basic shape of the castle.  One side, I saw, was already starting to sprout from the ground.  Long lines of mage-cut stone blocks snaked across the top of the heavy foundation stones, melded into place with bricking wands.  Scaffolds were already being built to carry the work higher, I was pleased to see.

Usually it took years to get a castle to this point, I reflected, as I walked across the site.  Traditional construction techniques, not to mention the inefficient methods of rounding up work corvees and getting them to work with skilled masons, meant that it could take as much as twenty or thirty years to complete even a small castle.  Something this large would usually take generations to build.

Magic changed all of that.  Magic and military-style organization.   While the site was empty at this hour, I could see a dozen or more neat and tidy stations where various projects were being worked upon.  Stakes and string crisscrossed the area, I saw as I got closer.

I stopped and sat on a pile of bricks to think and smoke for a moment while I contemplated what the castle would eventually look like.  I’d been there for perhaps ten minutes when I heard a sound behind me.

I wasn’t concerned with footpads, despite Vorone’s recent reputation – the man who attempts to rob the Spellmonger is in for a nasty surprise.  But no demand for money or threat against my life was forthcoming.  My visitor was a girl of maybe sixteen or seventeen – hard to say in the darkness.

“You lookin’ for company tonight to keep you warm, my lord?” she asked in a saucy Wilderlands brogue.  A prostitute, I realized.

“I am warm enough,” I said, apologetically, “though I wouldn’t mind some company, if you’d like to sit,” I decided.

“Don’t usually get paid for sittin’,” she quipped with a sigh.  She dropped some of her professional act and took a seat beside me on the pile.  “Kneelin’, yeah.  Just as well,” she decided.  “I had six clients tonight, thanks to the soldiers starting to come back to town.  Wasn’t really game for a seventh, but a girl has to make a living,” she decided.  “I’m Maid Cluaran,” she said, introducing herself – though the use of the term “maid” seemed ironic.

“Minalan,” I nodded, exhaling smoke.  I didn’t bother adding a title or descriptors – I could tell she knew the name at once.

“Minalan?  Like that wizard fellow?” she asked, startled.

“Just like that wizard fellow,” I agreed.  “Only better looking in person.  Aye, I’m the Spellmonger, Maid Cluaran.  Just popping in for a chat with the princess, a few drinks with comrades, and a pipe to think with, before I return home to the Riverlands.”

“Tonight?” she asked, skeptically.  “Ain’t it a bit late, to be on the road?”

I chuckled.  “I use magic to travel that great a distance, Cluaran.  Moments after I depart, I will be a thousand miles away, safe in my own bed in the distant Riverlands.”

“Well, ain’t that a spell?” she asked, laughing sweetly.  “Save a lot on shoe leather, I imagine.  So, you really slayed that dragon?” she asked.

“Slew,” I corrected.  “And yes.  I helped.  My friend Sir Tyndal did the hard part,” I conceded.

“Sir Haystack?  I’d heard that, but none of the girls believed it.  He seems too young and fair to be that good a warrior.”

“You know the man?”

“Only by reputation,” she offered.  “He ain’t had me, yet.  But all the girls think he’s handsome!  Almost as handsome as our lad the Duke.  I’m more partial to Sir Striker, though,” she confided.  “He never had me, neither.  But I like the quiet ones.  More of a challenge to make them holler.”

“Your dedication to professional excellence is admirable,” I said, chuckling to myself.  I wondered what the lads would say about this young whore’s assessment.  “Do you work for one of the houses in the Street of Perfume?”

“Oh, I did a spell at the House of Flowers,” she admitted, “but . . . well, it was weird,” she said, thoughtfully.  “After all the fuss last Ishi’s Day, a couple of the girls and I moved out and set up on our own.  We had a flat a few streets back.  But then Delra got pregnant and married a Commando, and Rishi decided to take holy orders, so . . . just little ol’ Cluaran to make the rent,” she said, proudly.

“Are times good?” I asked, thoughtfully.  I wasn’t aware of any lore or magic that made the opinions of whores an accurate economic survey, but I could make some astute guesses.

“Six in one night, and it not even a market day?” Cluaran asked, amused.  “I recall a few years ago when a lass had to beg for a man to spend two coppers on her company.  Now I get a silver penny per hour, by the temple bells,” she said, proudly.  “With so many of the other girls off getting wed to soldiers, there’s plenty of demand,” she assured me.  “Even with the palace gone.  A tumble with a mason isn’t as lucrative or . . . clean as a one with a courtier,” she considered, “but they tend to be more fulfilling.  And just as lucrative,” she added, jingling her purse.  “They don’t like to sport as much, either, so it gives a girl more time to work.  Just in, out, and pay me, please!” she laughed.

“And if they don’t pay?”

“Oh, that don’t happen no more,” she assured.  “Even those girls who don’t have a House on the Street don’t worry about it.  A man who refuses to pay can be charged with rape, if he’s not careful – that’s a headsman’s offence in Vorone,” she said, solemnly.  “But it don’t usually get like that.  Usually, a man comes up with the coin after a simple beating.  I got a couple of stout lads I can call on, at need.  Treat a man to hamsoken in front of his wife and children over a whore, he learns to pay his debts.”

That sounded more like the Wilderlands justice I was familiar with: casual and thorough.

“I’ve never had a case of an unpaid whore in my docket,” I realized with a laugh.

“What?  Ain’t you got whores in . . . in . . .”

“In Sevendor,” I supplied.  “That’s my barony.”

That impressed her.  “You’re a baron?  A wizard who’s a baron?  Well, ain’t that a sight!”

“We don’t have many whores in Sevendor,” I answered her.  “Not permanent professionals, in any case.  Many a wife and maid will misplace their virtue for a few days at the Fair, in the autumn, but most of the local girls marry early.  And then keep their husbands too preoccupied to dally.”

“They just think they do!” she snorted, skeptically.  “I ain’t met a man yet who wasn’t ready for a tumble, if he had coin in his purse and the girl was pretty enough,” she reflected.  “Don’t think I’d like Sevendor, though.  Those Riverland lads talk funny,” she complained.

“Oh, there are plenty of Wilderlands boys in Sevendor,” I informed her.  “I settled four thousand refugees from the Mindens there.  And in Sevendor, the maids complain about how they are the ones who talk funny.”

“Well, maybe I’ll come visit, perchance,” she decided.  “Truth is, wizard, I like my work . . . but I’m starting to get bored.”

“Most girls in your situation consider marriage as an alternative,” I pointed out.

“Oh, I had a couple o’ offers,” she agreed.  “But not the right ones.  I ain’t ready to settle down to a kitchen, yet.  And when I do, it will be with a proper man, not some infantryman or stonecutter,” she predicted.  “I ain’t a lady, but you blow out the candle and come to bed, I can make you think I’m one,” she said, lapsing back into her professional sales pitch.  She paused to think for a moment.  “Mayhap I’ll come to your Sevendor, by your leave, and take a look around.”

“It’s safer than Vorone,” I pointed out.  “Less goblins, at least.  And less footpads.”

“Oh, none of them lads will bother us girls,” she assured.  “They know better.  They start a ruckus with us, and the Night Owls come for ‘em.”

I pulled a coin out of my purse – a golden Rose, damn it! – and handed it to her.  “This will get you there, if you’re interested.”

She looked surprised.  “You’re givin’ me coin?  You want to . . .?”

“No, no,” I chuckled.  “Though you’re a comely girl, and lively, as I like them.  I have a wife.”

“You think all my clients are single men?” she asked, wryly.

“No, of course not, but . . . my wife has been ill.  I miss her terribly,” I realized, as a wave of unexpected misery washed over me.  Sometimes I was so desperate for the sound of her voice, the touch of her hand, that I could feel physical pain.

“Aw, you poor duck,” she clucked, sympathetically.  “I got a regular in that position,” she informed me.  “A weaver.  His wife fell down the stairs a few years ago, now she can’t walk good.  He has me come by once a week for a pick-me-up.  Nice man,” she decided.  She took the coin.  “Maybe I will go to your barony, Wizard.  Sounds like a nice place.”

“It is,” I agreed.  “It really is.  I worked very hard to make it that way.  But in Sevendor, magic is around every corner,” I told her.  “Wizards walk the street as thick as day laborers.  At night, magelights spring up all over the town, and the fountains run day and night, thanks to magic.”

“Well, isn’t that a wonder?” she said, thinking about my description.  “I might like to see that.  If the war don’t interrupt,” she added, anxiously.

“Best you find a coach headed east soon, then, love,” I sighed, looking anxiously at Anguin’s unfinished castle.  “Because that could happen at any moment.”

Part IV

Love & Marriage

Interlude V

Desviatus

“The Ageless Company”

The hull of the two-masted Cormeeran galleon named Asberthel groaned as the master of the vessel, Captain Desviatus, changed course and brought her abreast of the increasingly turbulent waves as the sun went down.  The course correction would soon take them out of sight of the rest of the Castali fleet that had departed Farise – though they wouldn’t be alone.  Three other ships had quietly done the same as soon as the sun had set, by pre-arranged signal.

It was a dangerous move in a dangerous moment.  The fleet admiral had sent explicit orders about maintaining fleet formation, before they’d departed Farise.  Most of them covered the massive armada of pirates, slavers and renegades waiting to pounce on wayward Castali ships, but the last few promised severe retributions for any considering deserting the force before they arrived north in Enultramar.

But things happened at sea, at night, particularly during the kind of storm that was brewing out of the northeast.  The Cormeeran master of the Asberthel was intimate with these waters, having plied the eastern Shallow Sea his entire life in pursuit of his trade.  There was bound to be variations in speed among the widely-varied ships of the slap-dash fleet.

Most of the ships were low-draughted caravels, the kind that plied the routes betwixt Remere, Castal, and Cormeer.  They were ill-suited for deeper waters, though serviceable in other ways.  A few were much deeper draughted galleons, like the Asberthel, with three or even four masts, predominantly from Cormeer.

Other parts of the fleet had been patched together from independent landless mercenaries, Sea Knights seeking adventure on their family’s merchantmen, a contingent of decrepit Vorean cogs looking for a billet, fleeing from creditors in their home duchy, and a single Merwyni brigadine, captained by a Remeran master.  That was in addition to the “ducal fleet”, the dozen-odd Castali carracks that weren’t good for much of anything beyond hauling horses and provisions for the expedition.

And then there was the Farisi contingent.

The score of coastal defense sloops were basis of harbor defense for the strategic port, a robust little fleet specifically designed for the protection of the vulnerable harbor.

Commanded from one of a pair of caravels and flagged with the colors of the Royal Admiralty, the shallow-draughted ships were ideal for nimbly tacking to intercept raiders, smugglers, or pirates who might challenge Castalshar’s possession of the peninsula.  Once intercepted, the broad forecastles of the sloops, filled with crossbowmen and boarding marines, could quickly overcome all but the largest ships.

But those were local ships, designed for shallow water and with no room for provision.  The two caravels were heavily armed but similarly unprepared for extended voyages.

Yet that nautical common-sense meant nothing to Prince Tavard, when he’d boldly insisted on adding the ships to his expeditionary fleet under his father’s presumed authority.  After the Regent of the possession objected, Tavard relented a single caravel and a brace of sloops to remain behind; but he insisted on taking an additional two-hundred archers from the city’s garrison to make up for it, he said.

The additional ships dragged the rest of the fleet to a crawl.  Nor would they fare well in the storm ahead, Desviatus reasoned.  Should they survive, and come to face the Alshari armada in battle, the sloops would break in the face of real warships – the infamous Alshari corsairs, the bronze-clad barques used by the Sea Lords to raid and pillage, the self-exiled Farisi merchant fleet, and the various ships used by the pirate gangs and slavers who had confederated with the Alshari this season.  Those sloops would sink or be taken quickly, their men in irons and sold at auction.

He favored the Asberthel’s chances better.  The galleon was arrayed for war, the forecastle bristling with weaponry and her sails cut to a military bearing.  Her crew was doughty, veterans of many a scrape.  Most were descended from the same ratty village seaport in Cormeer and gone to sea early, just as had generations of their forebears.  He could trust them in ways he could not trust a hired crew.   And within the holds of the galleon were two hundred men who knew how to fight.

But Captain Desviatus did not favor the chances the fleet, as a whole, bore against the Alshari.  It was too fractured and ill-prepared for what awaited them.  Desviatus knew in his heart of hearts that most of the men who took wave from Farise were doomed.

Desviatus also knew he would not be one of them.

He tracked the ship’s location by the stars until the clouds rolled in, near midnight.  When he was satisfied, just as the rains from the storm began to fall, he called his mate and issued orders to douse the lights, lower the colors, and re-rig the sails . . . with the ones he’d had to replace after their last encounter with an Eastern Island rover, off Merwyn’s coast.

The denim fabric was burnt and torn from the missiles and attacks of the cunning Easterners, and bore all authentic signs of battle.  The flag he directed the mate to raise after the Castalshari colors were struck were in stark contrast to the naval ensign.  They were black, bearing in white a charge of two ovals joined by a line – a chain.  More precisely, a slave merchant’s token.

Desviatus was fortunate to be served by such loyal men – a mercenary crew might have blanched at flying that standard.  Slaving was disreputable but profitable work that no honest mariner wanted a part in.  Far too many of their fellows had been taken by such ships and ended their lives in chains, themselves.

But his crew trusted his judgement and wintered back home with coin in their purse because he knew the seas and knew the men who needed that knowledge.  Things were not often what they seemed, he’d told them, and such rich men should have the taste not to ask too many questions.

When he was satisfied that the rigging and colors were changed, he gave the mate a few more orders before descending the ladder to the hold of the ship.  In that cramped space two hundred seasick Wilderlords were riding out the storm that had only begun to toss the ship.  Mercenaries who’d hired on to Prince Tavard’s expedition, the big men might be as brave and fierce as their reputation gave, but the Shipwrecker cared not for a man’s size.  Or his valor.  All were equally puny in her eyes.

“Is all well, Captain?” Sir Damver, the company’s captain, asked.  The man looked green in the gloom of the hold, but Desviatus doubted it would improve much by light of day.

“Storm coming up,” he grunted.  “Might be a bad one.  How fare you Wilderfolk?”

“We’ll survive, with Duin’s grace,” he grunted, looking miserable.

Duin was the wrong divinity to invoke, Desviatus considered telling him.  He didn’t bother – that was a landsman’s affair.  He looked at the man critically, then glanced back into the hold, just in time to see a small crowd around the sop bucket, heaving.

He sighed.  “By the Maiden’s grace, I’ll spare a double ration of grog for every man,” he decided.  “It will soothe their nerves and help pass the night.”  The last thing he needed was a hold full of panicky Wilderlords, armed or not.   “It’ll do your stomachs good, too.  Mixed with sugar and lime.”

“I’d very much appreciate it,” Sir Damver assured him.

He had the mate see to the dispensing personally, witnessing every man in turn get his two-handled cup filled and drank.  No more, no less.

When he’d had the mate administer special herbs to a few particularly affected Wilderlords, he retired back to his cabin to review the charts by lamplight.  The intensity of the storm was increasing, he could feel, but he’d managed to steer the fragment of the fleet along its southern edge, avoiding the brunt of it that would be thrashing the rest of the Castali-flagged ships.

After an hour’s worth of lamp oil had burned, he returned belowdecks to see to his passengers, taking the mate and the boatswain with him.  The light from his lamp shone on the unconscious bodies of two hundred able-bodied Wilderlords.

Desviatus nodded in satisfaction, then opened the lock to a sealed cargo locker.  Removing the sailcloth that filled the compartment, he revealed tightly-stacked hinged rings of heavy bronze.  Each one had a thick ring brazened to it, as well as a badge: a sea axe encircled by a chain, surmounted by an hourglass.

The device of the Ageless Companions, pirates and smugglers of some repute.

The inter-nation brotherhood had existed for five centuries, both at sea and ashore, never growing too large and never attracting attention they didn’t desire.

Desviatus’ fishing village in Cormeer had been the home to one clandestine port of the Companions, and after he’d spent a year at sea as a novice mariner he’d been inducted into the Ageless Companions by his elder brothers and uncles.  He learned the true art of maritime trade – moving the cargoes in highest demand past the most oppressive regulators for the highest possible profits.

He’d learned the series of elaborate codes and ciphers the Companions used to conceal their communications.  He’d learned of the secret alliances between the smugglers and a number of unlikely institutions across all five duchies, Farise, and beyond: portmasters, merchant houses, taverners, custom clerks, inland lords, temples, Calrom tinkers, beggar kings, cults, tribal chiefs, slavers, local smugglers, pirates, landborn criminal organizations, thieves of repute and even high nobles and ministers of state.  Each had a role in the elaborate ecosystem of international smuggling.  Most did not even suspect they were in fact dealing with smugglers in their business.

Every ship of the Companions’ fleet had many names, and the brotherhood had agents in most ports.  He’d learned the value of leaving port flying one flag, and entering port flying another.  Of having multiple copies of the manifest in multiple languages.  Of building ships with concealed compartments.  Of passing coin from one hand to another without being seen, hiding serious business in light conversation,

That was the beauty of the Ageless Companions: no one ever acknowledged being a member, to a non-member.  They were all just common merchants doing business with the “mysterious organization” who seemed to have a wide range of business interests across the Five Duchies.  But they were never to be found.

Cargo they carried bearing its mark was always “recently acquired” from the enigmatic organization’s shadowy agents.  Deals they made were always alleged to be with faceless figures who were invariably referred to as “Master Sensedat”, an ancient Cormeeran word for “ageless”.  Negotiations were always allegedly held in taverns or brothels of low repute, arranged through disinterested third parties who could never quite recall the circumstances, under a magistrate’s examination.

In the rare instances where the Companions needed to enforce their arrangements, they usually contracted out the distasteful duties to local thugs, professional mercenaries or even nobles, if they could.

The only time the Companions resorted to violence themselves was in the case of betrayal by one of their members – a rare occurrence.  The codes and protocols of the company were designed to be able to instantly discredit any such turncloak.  Investigations based on testimony would quickly be found to be pointless . . . as no sign of the organization could usually be found.

That was the key to their success: the Ageless Companions were ageless because they didn’t really exist.  No member of the clandestine society would ever reveal his own membership to anyone who did not give the proper codes, if he could not vouch for the man himself.  That level of loyalty and trust was rare, among the maritime fraternity, but the institution had served the needs of the Companions for five centuries, now.

A man could work the Hourglass, as work for the company was referred, for twenty years and retire with the treasury of a baron.  Indeed, that was part of the protocol, too.

The Companions ensured that there was a steady movement out of the organization that rewarded service with wealth and security, and provided additional contacts ashore.  That kept the faces of the company ever-changing, and no one ever tried to make a name for anyone but “Master Sensedat”.  And no one ever owed favors to anyone else.

This caper was exactly the sort of opportunity the Company excelled at.  A desperate client looking to move an unlikely and unusual cargo through contested waters, past agents of the state, into a highly lucrative market . . . considering the share of the profits he and his fellow captains were taking, after their split with the Company, the need must have been incredibly desperate.

But he and his Companions were happy to take the trade.  They had contacts in ports on both sides of the armada, and within it.  If he flew the right colors in the sight of the right ships, the crew of the Asberthel would have no problems.  The amount of coin involved was staggering – he was, in fact, getting paid from three sources to accomplish three different goals.  More than enough to ensure smooth sailing, after skimming the tempest.

The next morn, the hold was raucous as the Wilderlords awakened to discover their uncomfortable state and declined status.  Desviatus ignored them, apart from ensuring they got plenty of fresh water.  They would fetch a higher price at market if they weren’t dehydrated.

They were hailed by a swift corsair flying Alshari colors at mid-morning, and after rowing over to the raider Desviatus – known in Alshari waters as Captain Bastant, of the Merwyni pirate galleon Ventantic, flagship of the tiny fleet working with the greater Alshari armada.  An hour-long conversation with the corsair’s captain convinced him that the ships had purchased the human merchandise on board from a mysterious freighter captained by Master Sensedat, who needed the room in his holds for yet more plunder.

The name and the sign of the Ageless Companions on the slave collar he brought along as proof (as well as a big bottle of fine Cormeeran wine and fifty golden Wheels) were enough to inform the corsair’s captain that no further extortion would be tolerated.  The Ageless Companions had a justified reputation for tolerating no interference in their clients’ work by outside forces, be they civil, military, or criminal.  The corsair captain approved their combined passage behind the blockade lines and through to the lucrative slave markets of Enultramar.

Desviatus departed the ship with a warm, satisfied feeling that was only partially due to the rich Cormeeran red he’d shared with the captain.  He enjoyed fulfilling a client’s order, knowing that he’d helped add to the Companion’s mysterious reputation . . . and to the Company’s treasury.

For his home village had a temple dedicated to the ancient gods his people worshipped, and within the humble crypts of that humble seaside temple, in a section dedicated to his ancient family of mariners, there was a tomb reserved for his bones, after he died.  He’d commissioned it the first year he’d joined the Company, as custom dictated.  After this assignment, the proceeds would be filtered back through various means to that village, through the fingers of a humble village priest (also a member of the Company) who would tally his share and deposit it into the tomb.

In three years, when his hourglass with the Company finally ran out, if the gods smiled upon him he would join his father . . . not in the village, where he’d grown up, but in a beautiful, richly-appointed manor of his own, perhaps in an estate close to his father and elder brother.  Both had retired from the Company to become gentlemen of leisure, quietly investing the Company’s profits in legitimate business ventures to screen them all from official detection, while they enjoyed their grandchildren.

That was a good life, a better than could be expected by those poor bastards in his hold.  The new-made slaves would find a bitter, hard road ahead of them.  A road of pain and humiliation, torment and indignity.

He knew their chances of survival on the huge plantations of the upper Vale would be slim, no matter how hearty they were.  When it was cheaper to force labor from a man until he dropped and purchase a new one than it was to pay a man an honest wage, then any slave north of Falas had little chance of escaping before he was worked to death.

That wasn’t his burden, though he felt sympathy for the brave, ignorant warriors from the northern forests.  He was only doing the bidding of Master Sensedat, and his clients, he reflected.

For even when he was dead and buried, and wandering into the afterlife, he would never admit his admission to the Ageless Company, unless the gods themselves knew the codes.

Chapter Sixty-One

The Vespers Of Sevendor

“Baron Minalan, I implore you to act,” Count Moran pleaded as we dined on the roof of the Gatehouse – sorry, the “new castle” – as the sun began to set over the western ridge.

“Bide, Count Moran,” I urged him.  “I think you’ll enjoy this.  We call it our Vespers.”

This was a fascinating project of my people, a collaboration that could only happen here in Sevendor.

Ulin designed it.  Onranion was involved, too.  The construct had been enchanted by some of Master Ulin’s apprentices at the bouleuterion over the summer, and had only been installed for a week.  The Karshak had placed a construction of crystal mined from within the mountain, there, magically inert save for its inherent optical properties.

When the sunlight came to a certain place in the sky every evening, just before it dove below the ridge, the crystal focused a dazzling display of refracted spectra across the sky.

That’s when the real magic kicked in.

For ten minutes at sunset it created a temporary roof of sparkling lights that ran from the western ridge, across the spire of Lesgaethael and the lesser spires of Sevendor town all the way over to the Elves’ Gap, where it illuminated the entire lake with its lights, making its white bottom shine and its clear waters glow with a beautiful, unearthly light.

More, the enchanters had installed secondary enchantments dependent on the main in the towers that dotted the City of Enchanters.  They’d placed snowglass globes on the pinnacles of several of them so that when the lights began to play, the globes below each vibrated a note in response to the type of light flitting overhead, producing a hauntingly beautiful and ever-changing chord.  An entire bank of them were situated at the edge of the new lake, producing a crescendo of sound from the southern part of the vale than combined in strangely captivating chords as the light died.

When the last of the sparkles faded with the sun, a third enchantment pushed a big blast of air into the Everfire, causing it to surge and erupt a gout of flame into the air over the dome of the temple, activating the municipal magelights that our enchanters had placed throughout the town, and signaling the temple bells to ring for evening services as twilight overtook the vale.

“Vespers, in the mageland of Sevendor,” I whispered.

I managed to keep Count Moran quiet, as the light and sound finished in the flame and the lights below.  He was, indeed, impressed with the sublime spectacle of the thing.  The truth was, I couldn’t entirely claim credit for it.

“I got the idea from the Alka Alon city of Carneduin, home to Raer Haruthel, head of the council,” I explained.  “I told Ulin about it and he went mad for it.  They have a version of lauds which involves every voice in the valley; it begins at one end, and they sing this amazingly beautiful song in waves across the vale until it ends, as the sun rises.  I suppose this is the Sevendori version.”

“That was . . . that was beautiful,” the Prime Minister admitted.  “I was impressed with how you Sevendori do things in the spring, but this . . . that was magnificent,” he praised.

“So, what can I do for the duchy, Count Moran?” I asked.

The man looked a little guilty, after witnessing such a sublime sight and having to go back to common business.

“As I was saying,” he said, taking a deep breath, “I implore you to act.  His Highness and his army are marching north from Maidenspool to lay siege to a nearby fortress called Temor Tower this morning,” he said, calmly.  “What is not generally known is that he leads but seven hundred of the two thousand men he landed with – he left behind a small garrison, but hundreds have come down with illness since they made landfall.  Worse, bandits have raided his food stores at Maidenspool, leaving his men on short rations.  The fishing fleet went to fish, and kept sailing.  He makes for Temor largely to capture what stores may be there,” he admitted, troubled.

“I don’t see what I can do,” I pointed out.

“Are you not a wizard?” he asked.  “Are you not the Spellmonger of Sevendor?  Is there nothing you can do, to support your duke in his time of trial?”

“I will be certain to include him in my evening prayers, and beseech the gods to grant him safe return,” I suggested.

Moran made a face.  “That is hardly helpful, my lord.  Prince Tavard is in need of support from his loyal vassals in a time of great need,” he insisted.  “It is times such as these that we must all strive, as Castali, to advance our goals.”

“Begging your pardon, Count, but I don’t see how the attempted conquest of another duchy exactly qualifies as a national crisis,” I pointed out.

“His Highnesses’ motivations for the expedition are well known,” the minister said, uncomfortably.

“Ah, yes . . . he was laying siege to Enultramar for what purpose, again?”

“To . . . to compel them to release his captive sister,” Moran admitted, with a sigh of resignation.

“Would that be the same sister that I saw in Vorone, a few nights ago?” I asked.  “With her rescued, it seems to me that there is very little reason for a Castali Duke to attack Enultramar.”

“He is your sovereign,” Moran reminded me.  “Prince Tavard determined to invade Enultramar.  As his vassal, you are sworn to uphold and support his policies.”

“His lawful policies,” I corrected.  “And I have, to this point, done all that a vassal is required to do for his liege: my tribute is up-to-date, I have fulfilled both my military and my arcane service, and I have even contributed to the treasury . . . admittedly in return for certain rights and considerations,” I conceded.  “Still, there is nothing in the law that compels me to do more than I am required.”

“Does not the law require you to lend advice to your liege in matters of policy?” Moran pointed out.

“Does His Highness wish my counsel on this expedition?” I asked innocently.

“Let us assume that he does,” Moran agreed, pensively.  “What would you tell him?”

“‘Don’t invade Enultramar,’” I said, dryly.  “It’s a stupid idea, poorly executed.  It places the duchy and the kingdom in peril for no appreciable gain.”

“Alshar is an appreciable gain,” Moran pointed out.

“One that is not his for the taking,” I insisted.  “The rebels revolt against their lawful Duke.  It is Anguin’s right to determine how he contends with that, not Tavard’s.”

“Anguin does nothing to contend with it,” Moran said, scornfully.

“Yet that does not give Tavard the right, not with Rardine safe.”

“Rardine will never be safe,” Moran said, rolling his eyes.  “Her Highness – Armandra, not Rardine – is convinced that her long-suffering sister-in-law is plotting against her.”

“She wasn’t before,” I mentioned.  “She might be now.  She finds her homecoming lacking in warmth from the court.”

“Regardless,” dismissed Moran, “she is no longer a factor in the Castali court.  How the Royal Court chooses to treat her is her affair.  And while her rescue does present some challenges to the Prince’s original position, he is nonetheless committed to the course of action.”

“And I wish him the best of luck and the fortunes of the gods,” I expressed agreeably.  “He shall need them, even if he should prevail . . . and Anguin lays claim under the law to an improperly conquered land.”

“Anguin is in no position to support that claim with arms,” Moran said, darkly.

“Nor is Tavard in a position to support his eventual claim by law,” I countered.  “Without Rardine’s captivity as a pretext for a war of vengeance, he has merely embarked on an adventure of conquest.  Without the consent or support of his high nobles.  Rard was wise enough to consult them intensely before he undertook the invasion of Farise.

“Therefore, Tavard’s policies, at this point, are unlawful . . . and I am not required to support them as his vassal,” I explained.  “I believe any lawbrother will agree.  Would you like me to summon one?”

“So, there is nothing you can do?” Moran asked, pleading.

“Oh, I didn’t say that,” I said, stroking my beard.  “Indeed, there are a number of things I could do.  But not because I was compelled, as a vassal.”

“How, then?” he asked, confused.

“Have you forgotten I am a Spellmonger, my lord?” I asked.  “Not just ‘The Spellmonger,’ but a spellmonger, currently licensed to practice in all three duchies in the kingdom.”

“Your point?” he asked, suspiciously.

“My point is that I could be hired to provide support for the expedition,” I observed.  “If I took the case, I’m certain I could find some way to get provisions to Tavard’s army, for instance.”

“That’s . . . it?” Moran asked, frowning.  “I expected more than that.  Can you not help with the military issues?”

“Oh, I could likely do more than that, but I would be cautious in considering more involvement than that.  And I doubt you could afford my rate,” I added, my eyes narrowing.

“How much would it cost for you to lend your aid to the supply of the expedition?” Moran asked, his shoulders sagging.

I was tempted to quote an amount so high that he would risk cardiac arrest . . . but I’m wiser than that.  The truth was, I didn’t want Tavard’s innocent men to starve in that barren land while he tried to get someone to fight with them.  They didn’t deserve that – especially since they were the lucky ones.

Word was that dozens of Tavard’s ships were taken by the Alshari armada and their crews were already in chains, sold at the auction block to the vast estates and plantations of Alshar.  If I couldn’t save them all, perhaps I could preserve those who Ifnia had spared that fate.

But there was more than one way to get paid for a job.  I didn’t need more money.  I didn’t know what to do with the money I had – I just knew I didn’t want to give it to Tavard.  He wasn’t hadn’t made very good decisions with the money I’d already paid to him in tribute.  He’d spent it on a fleet.  Getting paid an exorbitant amount by my liege had a visceral appeal, but it was pointless.  That was my taxes and tribute.

Besides, he didn’t really have any money, anymore.  He’d spent it on a fleet.

But he did have other assets as both Duke of Castal and Prince of Castalshar.  He had authority to bestow titles, the power to grant rights and lands, and there were a number of physical assets he owned or controlled.

“Three things,” I proposed.  “One to pay for each, the food, the drink, and the medical supplies.  The first: I want His Grace to support, both institutionally and financially, the establishment of a permanent home for two of the smaller arcane orders, the Order of Mandros and the Order of Tarkarine,” I began.

The Prime Minister frowned.  “I don’t believe I am familiar with them,” he said, cautiously.

“The one studies the magic of medicine, or the medicine of magic, or somesuch.  The other is the pure academic order.  Scholars and researchers in the magical arts.

“I’d like His Grace to donate – in his gratitude – a domain or estate sufficient to support both orders.  A charter of the donation would specify certain very liberal rights for the scholars and physickers – including exemption from tribute and tolls.  Perhaps an annual stipend from the Ducal treasury, too,” I suggested, making him wince.

Moran considered the matter.  “That seems a steep price, Spellmonger.”

“We’re just getting started,” I chuckled.  “And it’s not so steep.  We both know that there are hundreds of vacant estates whose deeds gather dust in Wilderhall’s files.  Apart from the modest loss in tribute, and a stipend that’s a fraction of what His Grace spends on ecclesiastic gifts every year, there is no real cost to the Duchy.  In fact, it’s a gain,” I pointed out.  “By having such institutions firmly within Castal, it lends the same sort of prestige to the duchy as possessing the War College at Relan Cor.  An institutional resource on Castali soil, under Castali control.”

“It sounds like it will be under magi control,” he countered.

“Magi are men who have loyalties like any other.  They are healers and scholars, not mystics.  The students they train will dramatically improve their arts . . . in Castal.”

Moran sighed.  “Agreed.  Your second fee?”

“I wish the right to establish three new magical academies,” I decided.  “Right now, we have but Alar, in Wenshar, and Inrion in Castal.  Yet with the rise of the High Magi, we have far more potential students than we have spaces at academies.”

“You wish His Grace to pay for those, as well?” Moran asked, snidely.

“No, we’ll fund the operations . . . I just want the right to do it.  One here at Sevendor.”

“Thus producing more magi to shore up your power base,” he challenged.  I could tell Moran was not enjoying the way this negotiation was going.  He didn’t like wizards in general or me in particular.  But he didn’t have much choice.

“Thus producing more well-trained and credentialed magi,” I corrected.  “My lord, people see wizards as vagabonds and hucksters in part because there were inadequate means of training those born with Talent.”

“It seems every wizard I’ve met has had plenty of apprentices,” he observed, folding his arms suspiciously.

“The apprenticeship system serves some practical purpose, but it requires academic study as taught by the Academies to elevate magi in our abilities . . . and our position in society.  It also leaves many who successfully take their journeyman’s examinations still ignorant of a comprehensive education in Imperial magic.”

“Fine, fine, build your school,” he sighed.  “I suppose that, too, will make His Grace look like a patron of the sciences.  And your third fee?” he asked, impatiently.

“His Grace has within his treasuries a store of tekka,” I said, after another moment’s thought.  “It has recently come to my attention that some insight in my researches can be gained through the study of those rare devices.  I have a small collection myself,” I said, in a way I hoped sounded like bragging.  “I would like to examine the ducal collection, and purchase – at fair market price – any pieces I think would be helpful to me.”

“Those are rare and unique pieces,” Moran frowned.  “His Grace has inherited quite a collection, thanks to the interest some of his ancestors showed in the trade.  Yet His Grace, himself, as his father before him, has shown little interest in it.  Therefore, I would surmise that they are assets that can be disposed of.  At fair market price,” he emphasized.

“Of course!” I agreed, amiably.  “But if you agree to those three conditions, I will ensure that Tavard and his men will be provisioned for the next few months.  Hopefully in that time he can either conquer someplace that can support him, or he will have the discretion to withdraw.”

“Withdrawal is difficult,” Moran frowned, and a wave of anxiety washed across his face.  “Since he made landfall, the Alshari armada did not break up, as we anticipated.  Enough remain in the straights to make departure from Maidenspool . . . difficult,” he repeated.  “There is a blockade around Maidenspool, now.”

So Tavard was, essentially, trapped.  I should have asked for more, I realized.

“Then it is good that you contracted with me for victualing and provisioning services,” I smiled.  “I will have instructions sent to you, to relay to Prince Tavard by Mirror.  He should have the first shipment by week’s end,” I promised.

“But . . . how?” Moran asked, confused.  He was still uncertain if he made a good bargain with a wiley wizard.  I didn’t try to dissuade that feeling.

“Leave that to me.  Magic,” I explained.  “It’s what I do.”

Before Moran’s retinue of twenty knights departed the Diketower, I had Ruderal contact my parents by Mirror and place an incredibly large order with my father for hardtack and travel bread.  He had the ovens to handle a job that large at Tudry, larger than Sevendor’s, and if I was going to spend the money anyway I wanted to keep it in the family.  I’m corrupt, that way.

I also contacted Planus, mind-to-mind, and ordered him to procure five hundred barrels of water, twenty barrels of wine, a hundred of ale, and twenty cases of spirits, in addition to bandages, salves, medicines against fever, pretty much an entire field hospital.

I also had him secure beans, salt pork, potatoes, blankets, tarpaulins, tents, shovels, and sundry supplies, all on my account with the Arcane Mercantile Company.  It was an impressive order . . . made more impressive when I instructed how I wanted Planus to prepare it for delivery.

Go buy everything on the list, I ordered. When the bread arrives, we’ll stuff it all in a big hoxter, when it’s ready.  Then I’ll have one of my lackeys find the nearest natural Waypoint to His Highness, pop through, dump the supplies in the middle of nowhere, and pop out again.  Tavard can find it where we lead him to it.

You know, he replied, thoughtfully, this might lead to an entirely new business.  Provisioning.  I hear that army contracts are particularly lucrative.  I know naval provisioning is – I already have an interest in that.  But developing a way to deliver supplies in the field through hoxter devices would give us a huge advantage over traditional methods.

You think?  Most army procurers are crooked as hell.  I travelled with the infantry – I know.  And since most of them deal with crooks, there’s so much graft in the system that we could out-compete them on that alone, never mind the savings we have in transport costs.  And with a new wave of wars coming, that means deployments.  Being able to fill a contract to supply an army from the safety of Remere would be a huge advantage.  Wave a wand, and an entire week’s worth of actual usable provisions appear, I envisioned.

All for a reasonable fee, Planus agreed, happily.  I’ll work on it.  I’ve already expanded our warehouse operations, in three different cities.  Between Pentandra’s orders for supplies for the former slaves and this order, we’re going to have to add more.  I take it I don’t have to ask for a credit referral from you?

I’m good for it, I chuckled, in my head.  And considering what I just got out of Prime Minister Moran in return for an hour’s work placing orders mind-to-mind, it would be a bargain at twice the price.

Keeping Tavard’s dwindling army alive for a few weeks longer bought me some time, and despite my dislike of my liege I knew it would keep him safe, thus sparing us a succession crisis.

The problem was that if he got too comfortable he’d get cocky, and challenge something bigger than a three-story tower whose only strategic value lay in its proximity to a road connecting Maidenspool with the slightly-larger fortress in the saltwater marsh that lay in the interior of the province.

Neither one was garrisoned with more than local lords, hardly better than the ruthless bandits who prowled the wastes.  He could throw his forces at them for weeks and not incur the wrath of one of the regional lords.

But if he received too much in the way of supply, he might just piss off a powerful local.  Then he’d face a battle without hope of reinforcements, retreat, or support.  That could end with his death in battle – which would b be disastrous for the succession – or his capture.

That could be even more disastrous.  Should Tavard become the prisoner of the Five Counts who currently ruled Enultramar, any number of unfortunate things could happen.  Rard could be forced to recognize the Count of Rhemes as the Duke of Alshar, for instance, forever independent of Castalshar – thus robbing Anguin of his patrimony.

Or they could demand an exorbitant amount in ransom to bankrupt the kingdom.  Or they could make demands on territory, control of sea lanes, or any number of things.  Capturing Tavard was the equivalent of their every wish and desire.  Once one of them realized that, then he would start to attract attention on his little camping trip.

So, feeding Tavard just enough to stay alive, but not so much that he felt bold, was the best move, at the moment.  At need, I could send someone through the Ways to rescue him and pull him back to Castal, but that would undoubtedly be a humiliating return.  That might be the only way to get him out, if the blockade couldn’t be broken.

It was his own godsdamned fault, I concluded.  His and his mother’s.  Grendine had always wanted to rule over the land she felt had rejected her.  She’d put the notion of him conquering it on her behalf in Tavard’s pointy little head, and once he was in charge of his father’s duchy he felt compelled to barrel off at the first opportunity, exercise his ducal prerogative to make war for pretty much any damn reason, and nearly get himself killed in a monumentally stupid military expedition.

As his vassal, I could only do so much to influence his policies, and – as I’d told Moran – I’d faithfully fulfilled each of my feudal obligations, to the letter of the law.

As a member of the Royal Court, however, I had different responsibilities, and a different perspective.  Tavard was being reckless with the succession by leading his army on a pointless war of vengeance.  Regardless of his rights as a duke, he had responsibilities implicit in being the Prince – such as not getting himself killed or captured by people who hated his father.

I didn’t even want to imagine what might happen if the Nemovorti in Enultramar got ahold of him.  I doubted they had Rardine’s cell in Olum Seheri restored from the fire, yet.

I resolved to bring the matter up to Count Kindine, the Prime Minister, at the full meeting of the Royal Curia that Rard had decreed for Huin’s Day, this autumn – now that Moran had agreed to it.  Some sort of control had to be established over the heirs to the throne, regardless of their personal feuds.  If Rard could not get Tavard to listen to the reasonable wisdom of his counsellors, then perhaps he could get a Prince to listen to the commands of his king.

Unfortunately, the timing of the court would conflict with my full participation in the Magic Fair, this year, but with magic’s aid I was certain I could at least make a few appearances, and oversee the Spellmonger’s Trial.

Indeed, I’d had Onranion take the six big lumps of irionite from Korbal’s lab and fashion them into smaller, more refined witchstones.  I pledged that those would be held exclusively for awarding in the Spellmonger’s Trial, which ensured that the contest would not diminish our existing stocks of irionite.  It also ensured that the Trial would continue with a witchstone as a prize for the next forty years or more.

To further distinguish the stones, and to make the presentation more colorful, I had each one mounted in a snowflake made of snowstone within a ring of gold, and hung from a golden chain.  Because I have an ego.

But it also gave me some security.  The Trial gave any mage the chance at a witchstone, in theory, and tested the talents and mettle of them all.  Many of my colleagues were skeptical of that kind of generosity.  I didn’t care.  If I was going to control institutions in this profession, then they would be designed to bring out the best of it.  The power of irionite should not be confined to the use and amusement of the rich and powerful.  It should also be put to use for the improvement of the common man.

Magic in the service of humanity – that had been the philosophical counter-movement that originally sprang from the margins of the Magocracy.  Some saw it as hopelessly naïve or pointless, claiming the benefits of the art should be reserved for those who’d taken the time and made the effort to study it.  That sentiment had only worsened after the Conquest, though it was muted during times when overly dramatic displays of magic in any capacity cold mean a visit from the Royal Censors.

But the philosophy survived, and I ascribed to it when I’d been exposed to it at Inrion.  Many of the common-born magi did.  It had been the foundation of my development of Sevendor, and it guided my efforts to structure and maintain the institutions I’d been entrusted to run.

Right now, magi were more prosperous than they’d been in centuries, and enjoyed greater freedom and rights than ever.  To keep that freedom from festering into selfish indulgence and elitist self-interest, I had to keep the arcane power distributed with thought to the social and economic power it conveyed.

No one likes a nation of magical assholes, after all.

Now I had ensured that the Trial would continue, regardless of anything else.  I’d also ensured that the professional end of my trade was institutionally endowed.  That helped balance things . . . and, ultimately, served to bring magic into service of more people.

And, occasionally, to me, personally.

Minalan, you should come here, Lilastien told me, mind-to-mind, as I was finishing up the day’s work.

Why? I asked, alarmed.  Did something happen?

Yes, but not anything bad.  Alya’s been receiving daily treatments from the Handmaiden, about six hours at a time.  She’s been getting better, daily, but . . . well, the last couple of days she’s made steady progress.  Remarkable progress, actually.  And then this morning, while her nurse was tending her while she had breakfast, she actually asked for ‘more’.  She used speech, Minalan!  For the first time! she told me excitedly.

S-she . . . she did? I asked, my own excitement rising.

Yes, she continued, rapidly, and so I worked with her all day.  I got her to say twenty-six different words.  All in one day.  She’s coming back, Minalan!

I’m on my way.

Chapter Sixty-Two

Celebrations and Revels

Alya was sitting in a small parlor on the ground floor, enjoying the warm summer evening watching the bats and nightwebs chase each other over the shrubbery.  She was wearing a simple dark dress, and her honey-colored hair was pulled back with a thong.  She looked healthy, if dazed, but there was definitely something different about her, from the last time I’d visited.  There was more Alya there.

It was in her most minute mannerisms that I saw it – those idiosyncratic gestures that tie our memory of someone’s personality to its image in your mind.  The way she jerked her head, slightly, at noises.  The way her eyes narrowed and widened.  The way she sat.  They were all different, now, more . . . Alya.  Indeed, they reminded me more of Almina than anyone else.

Then she did something amazing.  While watching two bats cavort with a nightweb, her head jerked up.  Suddenly, her arm pointed skyward.

“Star!” she said, triumphantly.

I almost fainted at the sound of her voice.  It was the first time I’d heard it in more than a year.

“That’s thirty-one,” Lilastien said, with satisfaction, from behind me.  “They’re coming back to her on their own, but she’ll sometimes struggle, and appreciates help.  And she’s remembering them,” she smiled, pleased.  “She hasn’t started stringing them together, yet, but I’m hopeful that will start soon.”

“Does she recognize . . . anything?”

“We are not at that part of the journey, yet, I’m afraid,” she said.  “We don’t have enough established vocabulary to say that, definitively.  But the restructuring the Handmaiden is doing is remarkable.  It was slow, at first, but she seems to be compounding her repairs, now.

“The return of verbal skills is a highly encouraging sign.  She’s also become fascinated by smells and tastes.  That’s good, because those senses are more intently tied to memory.  Of course, she was sniffing the Tal maids, when they came to change the bedding this afternoon, and that was awkward . . .”

I smiled.  “Thank you, Lilastien.  You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“I think I do,” she said, fondly.  “You went into the underworld and rooted around amongst the dead, for that woman.  A man doesn’t do that for an ordinary woman.  A man doesn’t spit in the eye of Korbal the Necromancer, Demon God of the Mindens, unless he’s committed to her.”

“If this is a step toward her eventual recovery, then the effort was worth it.”

“And the sacrifice?” she asked.

“That raid changed a lot of things,” I pointed out.  “We learned a lot.  We did a lot of damage to Korbal’s war machine, pushed him to betray Sheruel prematurely, captured his consort, ruined his fortress, destroyed his access to his labs . . . I’d say we got away lightly,” I pointed out.

“Perhaps,” she frowned.  “Then again, you haven’t been treating the casualties.  And once Korbal consolidates power over the gurvani, he will not allow such an insult to stand,” she warned.  “He has an ego to protect.”

“And I a kingdom,” I nodded.  “We’re preparing, the best we can.  If I can manage the human politics, we should be able to field a force of some size.  We’re preparing strongholds,” I said, thinking about Pentandra’s nascent project, Vanador.  “We’re strengthening our institutions.”

“Will that be sufficient?”

“Who knows?  We do what we can.  I’ve made some gains, recently.  I’m feeling lucky.  Perhaps we dashed Korbal’s anthill so thoroughly we won’t have to worry about him for a generation.  One of mine, not one of yours,” I added.

“Perhaps,” Lilastien said, doubtfully.  “I think he’ll be quicker to respond than that.  One of the things the Enshadowed pride themselves upon is their decisiveness.  They see the deliberations of the Council as meaningless politics.  Korbal’s realm is an autocracy.  As soon as he decides upon a policy, his folk will leap to enact it.  Nor will he war on you through traditional means alone.  You face the mind of an Alka Alon, now, Minalan, not merely a gurvan.  It is by nature subtler and more cunning, and perhaps even more ruthless, in its way.”

“Yes, but he faces a human mage with great power and no idea what he’s doing,” I boasted.  “That has sunk islands, before.  Entire civilizations.”

“You make a fair point,” she chuckled.  “Your race is ingenious at making trouble, accidentally or on purpose.  I expect Korbal to approach the war as an Alkan, for all of his twisted perspective.”

“How do they differ?” I asked, realizing she was one of the few people on Callidore to actually have an informed opinion on the subject.

“Alka Alon typically rely on consensus, rather than leadership, when they approach a subject,” she said, thoughtfully.  “Even our nominal rulers attempt to steer consensus, rather than declarative policies.  Korbal might declare himself as sovereign, but he lacks a human’s tendency for independent action.

“That’s why your capture of his consort, Mycin, was so maddening for him: compared to humans, Alka Alon are highly co-dependent.”

“While interesting, I fail to see how we can use that to our advantage.  He seems to have an entire cadre of Nemovorti competing to kiss his cold, dead arse.”

“Alka Alon warfare is also highly symbolic,” she continued.  “Humans are far more practical when it comes to military objectives . . . but that doesn’t mean that Alka Alon are less destructive.  Sometimes they’ll focus energies on a symbolic target to the exclusion of a practical one.”

“Well, that could be useful,” I conceded.  “If I can just convince him that I’m symbolically invested in some nameless mountain, somewhere, we could avoid a lot of unpleasantness.  Tell me, did you expect the Dradrien to take such an active role in his forces?”

“That’s actually a disturbing development,” she agreed.  “The Dradrien are craftsmen, first and foremost, but their great strength and skill with metal make them cunning warriors.  During the warring states period, some of the factions actively contracted with Dradrien or Karshak, as auxiliaries, but they found the former were treacherous and the latter unwilling to fight beyond self-defense.”

“So, what do a couple of hundred Dradrien heavy infantry on Olum Seheri mean?”

“They mean that the Enshadowed have found something they want, and they’re using it for leverage,” Lilastien sighed.  “In the Enshadowed’s twisted philosophy, the Iron Folk are the true masters of all those you call dwarves and deserve their lordship.  I’m assuming that they promised them rulership in that capacity.”

“I thought the long-lost seventh clan was supposed to be the royal clan?”

“Though it runs counter to their own people’s lore, all too many clans are willing to accept the validation of the Alka Alon, even renegades, that the Dradrien are masters of their race.  When they could find no one with the wealth to command their wares, some clans have fought as mercenaries, back during the warring states period.  Between their armor, their weapons, and their great strength, they were highly valued in the Alka Alon armies.”

“How did the other Alka Alon react to that?” I asked, curious.

“Not well,” she admitted, as she walked me back outside.  “As I said, Alka society runs on consensus.  If a leader cannot find other Alkans to join his consensus and follow his leadership, and must hire support, his arguments lose status.

“They tried to force a consensus at the point of a spear.  The Enshadowed hired Dradrien auxiliaries, both to arm them and fight for them, just as they impressed their gurvan servants into soldiery.  While effective, the Alka Alon look askance at such contracts.  And,” she said, looking troubled, “the Dradrien seemed to . . . enjoy the work,” she said, looking squeamish.  “Their presence at Olum Seheri is disturbing, particularly if Korbal has claimed active sovereignty.  It has some deep political implications.

“But we’ll discuss that more at the new council,” she sighed.  “Maybe with humans involved, we’ll be more prone to action than deliberation.  Life with mortals is hasty, but so exciting,” she assured.

“We try to be entertaining,” I agreed.  “It makes us feel useful.  Keep me informed about Alya’s progress,” I said, anxiously.  “And I suppose I’ll see you at the council.”

As excited as I was about Alya’s progress, I was careful to keep from getting too hopeful.  Even after everything I’d been through, I knew too much about magic to expect instant results.  Or even reasonably quick results.  Some things just took time.

While I was waiting I had plenty to do – including being an Honored Guest at the Estasi Order of Mage Knight Errants official membership ceremony at Taragwen.

When Tyndal and Rondal had recruited warmagi for the raid on Olum Seheri, it had been an explicit audition for inclusion in their (so they styled it) prestigious order.  Considering what those men had been through, honoring them thus was vital.

Sir Ganulan, the steward of the order, went to great lengths to execute a feast worthy of heroes.  The hall being too small for all who could attend, he had the courtyard filled with trestles to feast them.

Two oxen were slaughtered and cooked for the feast, as well as a trio of pigs and a diverse array of wildfowl.  Ganulan hired a family of Tal Alon from Hollyburrow to prepare the food, and Tyndal imported a stupefying quantity of liquor and wine for the occasion.

Men began showing up for the event just after Midsummer, some just having been released from medical care after the battle.  Others were seeking new adventures after the excitement of the raid, or were headed to Sevendor to look for employment or position.  By the day of the feast there were just over seventy veterans of Olum Seheri who were present.

Sire Cei the Dragonslayer presided.  As Head of the Order, he was universally acclaimed as the epitome of arcane chivalry.  The tale of his vengeful attack on Sheruel had spread quickly beyond the comrades who’d witnessed the feat, and had grown in the telling to near-legendary status.

Many of the veterans of the Wilderlands Campaign that had culminated at Timberwatch were there – the original knights magi.  We sat a special table near the front, where Cei, Rondal, Tyndal, and Festaran, the founding members of the order, were seated.

Festaran looked . . . challenged.  I’d grown used to the lad’s cheerful face and easy humor around Sevendor.

After a few weeks of errantry, some of that was replaced by a seriousness and even anxiety that I was unused to seeing in him.  He didn’t relate much about where he’d gone and what he’d been doing when I greeted him, but it was clear he’d had an adventure or two.  Nor was he done with his errantry.  From what he did say, he was still involved in some business that needed resolution.

“You know, Dara was quite upset when she discovered you left,” I mentioned, quietly.

“I have heard,” he nodded, troubled.  “It disturbed my heart to know I had brought her such disquiet, at first.  Particularly after how she reacted to Gareth’s absence.

“But you were right, Excellency,” he sighed.  “Despite my experience with duty, I begin to see how it is the experience with errantry that truly gives a man’s honor depth.  Until he is forced to be reliant only on his wits, his honor and his sword, he knows not what kind of man he is.”

“So, you have reconsidered your plan to ask Dara to wed?”

“I’ve . . . decided to postpone that kind of commitment awhile, yet,” he said, diplomatically.  “Until things are . . . more settled.”

I didn’t ask him what he meant by that, largely because I didn’t really want to hear the answer.  I merely clapped him on the shoulder, thanked him for his service, and commended him on his dedication.  I resolved not to mention the meeting to Dara unless she brought it up.

Sire Cei looked every inch the senior valiant Wilderlands knight in a beautifully embroidered cloak over his best tunic.  He mingled with the crowd, greeting nearly everyone before settling down to his prominent place at the high table, where he called the meeting to order.

“My lords, today we celebrate the increase in the Estasi Order’s membership as we welcome new brothers in chivalry into our ranks,” he began in his stately, commanding voice.  “When Sirs Tyndal and Rondal proposed such a thing, I was skeptical,” he admitted.  “Were there really those in the world who shared our vision of combining the best of chivalry and the arcane?  Those who would hold themselves to the highest standards of both, and use that great and ferocious power for the betterment of himself, his people, and his kingdom?” he asked, rhetorically, as he addressed the men.

“I am pleased and humbled today to admit my skepticism was misplaced,” he continued.  “I saw feats of bravery and daring at Olum Seheri that put our noble ancestors to shame.  Valor was as thick in the air as the eternal fogs of that foul place, and heroism ran as freely as the blood of our foes.  Though we mourn the valiant dead who did not return, we revere the memory of that valor by upholding the ideals of the noble warrior.  By committing ourselves to this institution and adhering to its precepts we ensure that their sacrifice is not in vain.”

Cei was a good speaker, particularly in this element.  I was impressed.  Though his Wilderlands brogue was still thick on his tongue, he spoke clearly and passionately, enunciating each word and sentence with purpose and meaning.  It gave me a little clearer understanding of why knights held such social power in our society.  Sire Cei had a way of elevating how you felt about yourself just by being in his presence.  Me, I bribe a lot of people.

The first order of business was inducting the old guard who attended into the order: Astyral, Wenek, Azar, Rustallo, Mavone, Taren, Landrik, Bendonal, and the others who’d been fighting this war for years, now.  Including me, I discovered.

Each of us was presented with a dark blue cloak with light blue lining, a gold signet ring, and an ornate dagger with the crest of the order on the hilt.  The daggers were Dradrien make, I saw from the distinctive wavy pattern in the steel.  I supposed Tyndal had made good use of his three dwarves before they went to Vanador.

Then the existing knights – about a score, in all – who had developed their native Talent enough to excel at Olum Seheri, were officially inducted, and given the tokens of their office.

Lastly, nearly fifty common warmagi were brought up in lots of ten, and between Sire Cei and I we knighted the lot of them, while musicians played quietly in the background.  We each tried to pick out one or two in each lot to commend publicly for their valor or honor, giving a little story or insight about the new knight.

Some of these men, like me, were commoners.  For a few, Talent had been a means to escape the plow or shovel, the two tools every villein had too much familiarity with.  To become a warmage from those humble beginnings, and then for demonstrated valor be knighted and commended in front of your professional peers was overwhelming for some of these men.  I could empathize – if I hadn’t been so amazed at being alive after Timberwatch, I probably would have wept, myself.

Sire Cei ended the ceremony with an admonition for each of the men to undertake a feat of errantry toward the common good and enrichment of the Kingdom.  Sir Rondal followed by revealing a large – and blank – book of leather-bound parchment stamped with the device of the Order.

“My fellow knights,” he said in his clear tenor voice, “I charge you each to return to Taragwen, or what chapterhouses we establish, and inscribe in this book the details of your errantry.  Your ambitions, how you were introduced to your quest, how you accomplished – or didn’t – that mission, and the lessons you learned along that quest.

“The purpose of this order has ever been to see the best aspirations of chivalry, the commitment to service of our entire society, put to purpose.  Inspired by the example of Minalan the Spellmonger, foremost wizard of the age, we felt compelled that cold night a few years ago to establish some way to take this great power and great desire to improve our world.

“We subsequently contested with the Brotherhood of the Rat, our enemy, and then escalated to move against the lair of the great foe: Olum Seheri.  Your valiant sacrifice and commitment to those ideals put you all to the test.  A challenge you met, and triumphed over.  As you continue on your errantry bearing the arms of the order, carry also that great charge: to ever serve humanity with your might.”

Tyndal was next, with his charge.  He lurched to the front of the high table, gave a flamboyant bow, and then addressed the assembled.  He looked quite dashing in his rich blue mantle, thrown rakishly over his shoulder, and managed to speak intelligently for being that drunk.

“My lords, during our discussions about how we wanted the order to be celebrated, we decided that next year we should have a college of errants gather here, or at their chapterhouse, in which we may feast each other our victories and drink our defeats; where we shall celebrate our valor, and present our honor for inspection to our chivalric peers.

“This college shall be in autumn, two weeks after Huin’s Day,” he announced.  “Attendance is voluntary; but it will be a good feed, almost as good as this one,” he said, to cheers.  I had to admit, the food had been wonderful.

Sir Festaran spoke next, looking a bit overwhelmed by the mass of warriors assembled, and clearly questioning his fitness for inclusion.  But with an assuring nod from Sire Cei, the young Riverlord took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and proceeded with grace.

“When discussing the ideals for the order,” he began, in a voice that got stronger as he spoke, “we knew it needed to epitomize chivalry, of course, but it also needed to address the special circumstances of a knight who has rajira,” he said, looking out over the feasting warriors.  “The knight mage, we decided, has especial purpose in our world.  A man who has, ideally, developed the courage and honor and special skills of a knight, yet who has also tamed his own magic and developed it to its ability.

“It is an ideal that seeks to reward not only brave deeds, but also cunning insight in the pursuit of our errantry.  My own limited experience with magic has shown me new realms of possibilities.  I have seen, through magic’s aide parts of this world I had no idea even existed.  And it has challenged me to use what wit and intellect I have to reason through problems other knights would draw sword to hack through.

“Therefore, we emphasize that the true value of the Estasi Order of Errants lies not in the strength of our arms or the courage in our hearts, nor is it the powers at our command,” he said, more boldly.  “The strength of the Estasi Knight Mage is the ability to combine strength and wit, courage and intellect, in the crucible of our chivalric honor to bring hope, assistance, and aide unlooked for to the unfortunate, dispossessed, and desperate folk of the Kingdom.

“Seek out those at need, in your errantry, and serve the Order by serving them,” he instructed them.  “Let injustice and villainy always be your foe; let reason and valor in the defense of the defenseless be your principle.  And let honor ever guide your lance,” he concluded.  Much to his surprise he got a rousing cheer from them all, though he had not been at Olum Seheri or had gained much of a reputation as a knight, among them.

Yet Sir Festaran demonstrated the courage which he invoked, to my eyes, just making the speech.  When he and the lads started this order, it had been an inspired afterthought to an impulsive action – conquering this very castle – and I doubt Festaran had ambitions for it far beyond covering their collective arse over that miscalculation.

But faced with the unexpected success of his institution, he did his best to rise to the occasion and act with the grace chivalry idolizes.  It didn’t hurt that Sire Cei was present – my castellan’s devotion to knighthood was contagious, and others aspire to perfect their behavior to avoid his displeasure – even me.  He nodded approvingly as Festaran sat down to cheers.

Then it was my turn.  I’d selected a dozen shards of irionite from my depleting treasury of witchstones and awarded them to the twelve knights who most deserved the honor.  I took their oaths in front of all, explaining their meaning and purpose.  Each one insisted on making a short, drunken speech on the spot expressing his feeling and emotion.  Well, mostly short.  A few of them fancied themselves orators, but did not have Festaran’s relationship to brevity . . . or coherence.

I relaxed at the High Table, as the dozen new High Magi ran off to begin acclimatizing themselves to their stones, under the guidance of Wenek and Astyral, and the rest of the assembled attempted to drink every drop provided.

“That was lovely,” I sighed.  “They deserve that kind of celebration, after what they went through.”

“And we needed to replenish our ranks,” Rondal agreed, thoughtfully.  “We lost good men on that raid.  Among the best.  Raising these noble gentleman not only rewards them for their good service, it provides us with a wider base of support for our future endeavors.”

“It also gave me a chance to quietly put a dozen more witchstones in the hands of our allies,” I noted.  “Since the War College stopped sending me candidates, the number of new High Magi has slowed to a crawl.  Distributing them in such quiet circumstances allows me to spread our influence without attracting undue attention.”

“Who would object to more High Magi in the world?” Sir Festaran asked, confused.

“A great many people,” Rondal countered.  “Particularly in the high nobility.  After Greenflower, they are wary of the power that they bring.”

“And the money,” Tyndal agreed.  “A witchstone allows a mage to make more in an afternoon than a regular spellmonger can make in a year.  You recall Master Minalan’s friend from school, Dix?  He’s fabulously wealthy, now, more so than the lord mayor of his town.  That’s caused some problems.”

“This order was designed to help solve problems,” Sire Cei said, disturbed.

“And it shall,” agreed Rondal, enthusiastically.  “Indeed, it has already solved a few.  I have every confidence that the Estasi will become a force for stability and order in the Kingdom.  More importantly, we will be independent of political considerations.  That should free up our hand, more.”

“Rondal and I will be starting the Wilderlands chapterhouse of the Order when we return,” Tyndal continued.  “Anguin gave us a small estate near Vorone for a . . . favor we did him,” he said, cryptically.  “It’s piss-poor for farming, but it’s got a decent hall and yard.  We’re going to give it to the Order.”

“And live there, at the Order’s expense?” Sire Cei asked, wryly.

“Sire Cei, it has been an age since I spent more than three consecutive nights in the same bed,” Tyndal chided.  “I’m certain the Order can bear the expense of me sprawling in the corner of a hall I gifted to them for a few nights,” he said, proudly.

“In truth, we’ve been far too busy on deployment to consider more than a few days of goldbricking,” Rondal chuckled.  “Tyndal’s right: we’ve been on the move, in Anguin’s service.  We just returned from the southern refugee camp, around Anguin’s Tower.  From here we return to Vorone, to be redeployed again to his new Gilmoran possessions.  We completed a mission in that territory, a few years ago,” he reminded me.  “He wants us to make the initial assessment for security and provision before he sends a caravan to take control of the place.”

“Is he putting you in charge of them?” Festaran asked, curious.

“Oh, gods no!” Tyndal guffawed.  “Do we look like administrators?  We’re going to clean out goblins and bandits, see who’s actually left lingering in the place, and spread the news about the change in administration.”

“Most of our work will be surveying and inspection,” Rondal nodded.  “Northern Gilmora was pretty bad two years ago,” he recalled, making a face at the memory.  “I doubt it’s gotten better with age.  It’s going to take a lot of work to put it to rights, again.  We’re just taking a look around on Anguin’s behalf, helping him establish his authority over whomever is still around.  Then we’ll likely return to Vorone.”

“Who will Anguin install there?” Sire Cei asked, curiously.

“We don’t know, yet,” Rondal answered with a shrug.  “He has many worthy lords in his court who lost their lands, or saw them diminished.  I would see Count Marcadine installed in one of them – he is an adept lord, used to overseeing a much larger area.  But there are many excellent candidates,” he considered.

“I would see a magelord installed,” Tyndal said, shaking his head.  “Count Marcadine is a fine gentleman, but he is needed in the Wilderlands.  He is the last of the great Wilderlord houses still in his seat, however challenged.  The Umbra lies practically on his doorstep, now,” he said, darkly.  “He has taken in folk from all over the Penumbra who would fight under his banner, and he leads the politics of the southern and easternmost Wilderlords.”

“I like Marcadine,” I conceded.  “And while no one has sought my counsel, I think he is best in his home country, despite Anguin’s urge to reward him for his service.”

“The good count has many vassals who would be good barons,” Sire Cei opined, as he lit his pipe.  He hadn’t had a third of the drink the rest of us had.  “I would rather see the position of the man who is willing to stand and fight strengthened, not replace him with another.  He guards his patrimony, and he does so jealously.”

“Master, what about . . . Astyral?” Rondal asked, quietly, looking around to ensure he wasn’t being overheard.  “He has served as the warden of Tudry since before Timberwatch,” he pointed out, “and kept that miserable town alive despite all that has happened.  That’s taken more than magic, that’s taken real administrative talent.”

“He certainly deserves such a reward,” I conceded.  “And he’s Gilmoran, as well as loyal to Anguin.  But what of Tudry?”

Rondal and Tyndal exchanged glances, and perhaps telepathy.

“Tudry is . . . untenable, Master,” Tyndal sighed.  “As valiant as the effort to spare it, and as important as it has become to our efforts, that very success has attracted the ire of the surrounding goblin lords to see it gone.  As soon as hostilities resume in earnest, I expect it to be besieged.”

“Which puts us in a difficult position,” Rondal pointed out.  “Do we invest the resources to rescue a poorly-positioned, poorly-built walled town with little advanced defense?  Or do we find another solution?”

“What solution?” Sire Cei asked, skeptically.

“We move Tudry,” Tyndal announced, dramatically.  “Not the town itself, of course, but the people.  We bow to the inevitable conquest of the place, and have the foresight to relocate the civic population behind the protection of the rivers . . . and someplace with less gurvani,” he added.

“You’re going to evacuate an entire town . . . before there’s a reason to?”

“Not evacuate, Master, relocate,” Rondal soothed.  “Indeed, we’ve already begun.  Most of the ironworks there have been packed up and shipped northeast to Vanador already,” he reported.  “It’s closer to richer veins of hematite than Tudry, anyway, and with Master Cormoran and his staff already establishing a workshop there, to work with the Dradrien, it seems natural to follow with Tudry’s iron and lead industries.”

“We’ve also begun moving some of the more impressive fixtures from Tudry,” Tyndal nodded.  “Astyral has quietly counselled the temples to unship their bells, gather their treasures, and make plans to establish new sites at Vanador or Vorone, or at Lorvay, if they wish to remain in the area.  The carpenters and builders of Tudry were already conscripted for the quarry site.  If we pay them, we can have several shops and homes ready to receive the Tudrymen.”

“This seems a little drastic,” I said, my brow wrinkling.  “We’ve spent a lot to preserve Tudry.  Losing it seems . . . defeatist.”

“It’s not defeat, it’s strategic withdrawal,” Rondal assured.  “That place was originally built for the settlement, then became an industrial town to serve the northlands.  But it’s a piss-poor installation, it’s unsuitable for the defensive needs of the Wilderlands, and if conquered, it would give the scrugs a defendable advanced base far too close to Vorone.

“Vanador is going to be an industrial town by default,” he pointed out.  “Why compete against each other, particularly with the premium Tudry must pay for defense, when we can consolidate?  There are few enough folk left in the Wilderlands, now.  We can protect them better if they are more concentrated.”

“Will that not be expensive?” Sir Festaran asked, finally speaking.  “From what I estimate, the costs of relocation would be . . . dramatic.”

“Indeed,” Rondal agreed.  “Yet the costs for Tudry’s current defense is already dramatic.  Without the support of the Crown to pay the garrison, the town would have been abandoned to the gurvani long ago due to bankruptcy alone.  Should the town be attacked again, the cost for its rescue and repair would dwarf the normal security costs.

“So as expensive as it is, on parchment, when one looks at the long-term viability of the place it’s actually less expensive to quietly relocate the burghers and artisans while we can, resettle them at Vanador in a much better commercial environment, and reduce our costs that way.”

“A lot of the reorganization Anguin and Rardine have been working on is designed to shift most of the civilians from the Penumbra back east, behind the rivers,” Tyndal agreed.  “It’s the best way to ensure we can protect them.  The scrugs still don’t like getting their fur wet.  And while it means giving up productive lands proven in the west, it also gives a beleaguered people a fresh opportunity to raise their families without the worry of sudden goblin attacks.”

I sighed.  “It’s Anguin’s town,” I conceded.  “If you Alshari gentlemen think it is best, I will not argue.  No doubt Pentandra will be pleased with the influx of skilled artisans and townsmen to her Wilderlands experiment.  And Tudry is hardly a city of great historical or cultural importance . . .”

“It’s a dump,” Tyndal pronounced.  “And that was before the invasion.  Now it’s part dump, part refugee camp.  I’d rather give it up and start afresh than try to rebuild it.”

“Then please let Duke Anguin know that I do not oppose the policy,” I said.  “In fact, I—”

I had to stop, because someone was trying to reach me mind-to-mind.  Urgently, I realized.  I held up a finger and closed my eyes, trying to focus my wine-sotted thoughts enough to enact the spell.

Min, we have problems, Terleman's “serious” voice said.  It was at odds with the warm, pleasant, jovial feeling I was enjoying.  The other boot we’ve been waiting to drop?  It just banged on the floor.  I just got word.  Dragon attack, this morning.

Where? I asked, blearily.

Mianach, he said, after a pause.  That was in the far-west of Castal, the sparsely-populated, poorly settled land on the far-side of Gilmora.  Castle Mianach, and the town.  Seven thousand people there, he reported, grimly.

That seems out-of-the-way, I pointed out, concerned.

That depends on your perspective, he countered.  Mianach is a tiny provincial barony, from our perspective.  From Korbal’s, it’s the first major human settlement along the Old Western Road.  The next one is . . . Stain Lomaire.  Another tiny place.  That leads to another tiny place, and another, and another.  Fermisival and Tur Suir are next.  Old mining towns, and dusty old castles with little modern strategic value.  Until you get to Tur Eregrin, he continued, calmly.  Then you’re just a hundred and twenty miles away . . . from Darkfaller.

And from there, I finished, he can control Gilmora, the Westlands, and Castabriel, I realized.  The entire lower Riverlands.  I swallowed, and sighed.

I’m headed back to Sevendor, now, I decided.  Let’s start putting together a plan to defend.  We’re at war, again.

Chapter Sixty-Three

A Message From Korbal

Mianach.  Stain Lomaire.  Fermisival.  Doleang.  Borfeyd.

One by one the reports came in, over the next few days, as the dragons took flight from Olum Seheri.  The towns of the Westlands and western Gilmora were being systematically reduced to ash, at the rate of one a day.  It was a painful, awful return to the Day of the Dragons two years ago in northern Gilmora.

None of them were great cities or castles by any means.  Borfeyd, the largest to fall in the first days, was home to a mere ten thousand people.  Sitting at an elevation over the more fertile southern and eastern portions of Gilmora, Borfeyd had a modest reputation as an industrial center, its craftsmen adept at building the gins and looms the cotton lords of Gilmora required.  It had a modest feud with nearby Vengly for the trade, and twice the competition had led to modest wars between the baronies.

In fifteen minutes, a single dragon slew seven people in ten in Borfeyd, and burned their elaborate workshops to ash.  The attack came at dusk.  By the time the stars appeared on the eastern horizon, the town and castle were both ablaze and seven thousand people had been incinerated.

Borfeyd was interesting.  It, like the other western towns that fell that week, had no warning and no conception of the attack that doomed them.  But when Terleman’s agents made their way to the devastated town, arriving within hours of news of the attack, they learned something disturbing.

The witness was a young monk who had rung the temple bell in warning during the entire attack.  From his vantage point in the belfry he’d witnessed the attack and saw the mighty beast swoop in from the sunset and begin its destructive passes over the tidy little town.  His descriptions in the dispatch were concise and to the point, down to the color of the dragon’s wing and the chains bearing snowstone around his neck.

But his most telling observation was reporting that the dragons were not, strictly speaking, alone.  They had riders, now.  Riders swathed in black mantles, who had yellow eyes beaming from under their cowls.

Korbal was sending dragons to war piloted by Nemovorti, now.  He’d solved the issue of control.  He included a magically-potent rider on the back of each one to direct its destructive power and guide it with precision.  That was incredibly bad news.

The Borfeyd monk was very detailed in his account of the foe, including the deliberate manner in which some buildings in the town were put to the flame – but not all.  Some were spared, as if by purpose.  Instead of the random chaos and uncontrolled mayhem we were used to from dragon attacks, we were seeing deliberate, well-chosen chaos and very well-controlled mayhem.

For three days tales of the attacks rolled in.  As Terleman and I went over the reports that were coming into his temporary headquarters in Vorone, it became clear that at least three separate dragons were being used in the attacks, each with its grim rider.

Then they stopped.

There was no follow-up, no marching hordes of undead, no screaming legions of hobgoblins pouring out of the Land of Scars, where they were gathering.  They destroyed five towns and castles in the westernmost portions of Castal, but then just stopped.

“Maybe they got bored,” Sandoval considered, as he sat back in his chair after reading over the dispatches and reports.  “I’m sure the novelty of destroying small towns wears off after the first few.”  He and Mavone were both working with Terleman, now, out of one of Count Salgo’s estates in Vorone, where he was coordinating the growing war effort.  Many of the warmagi who’d fought at Olum Seheri were lingering in the area, anticipating reprisals.

“Terror raids?” proposed Mavone.  He surveyed the old-fashioned map spread out on the table.  “They weren’t completely devastated,” he pointed out.  “Those attacks are going to fill the eastern domains with refugees, now.  They’ll spread the tale of undead riding dragons and panic the population.”

“I think there’s more to it than that,” Terleman said through pursed lips.  “Korbal isn’t looking to just scare people.  He’s lit the western lands afire.  He’s demonstrating his power, and our powerlessness.  See what he hit in Doleang?  The dragon roasted the castle and garrison, the stables, and the poorer sections of town.  It left the guild streets and market district intact.  It torched the millworks, but spared the granaries.  What does that tell you?”

“This wasn’t a terror raid,” I realized.  “This was preparation.”

“That’s what I’m thinking,” Terleman said, leaning back and resting both hands on his head – a sure sign of deep thought.  “I’ve gone over every report and dispatch.  I’ve sent my men to investigate.”

“Men?” I asked, surprised.  “You have men?”

“It is helpful to have a staff,” he answered, dryly.  “In addition to the warmagi I have on the payroll, I’ve got a half-dozen clerks and a couple of specialists.  That’s apart from the two-hundred man force Count Salgo loaned me – his personal guard.  The remnants of the Royal 2nd Commando,” he reminded me.  “I pair three commandos with a warmage, and sometimes a Kasari scout for that kind of reconnaissance mission.  It keeps me from having to do everything myself.  Anyway,” he continued, irritated, “I’ve seen a pattern emerge.

“In each case the military complex was neutralized – that’s a fancy technical term for ‘burned to the ground by dragonfire’.  The civilians were raided by class, with the artisans and merchant classes largely spared while the villeins and freemen were hit hard.  And in most cases the means of producing food were damaged, but not the stocks themselves.

“That tells me that someone wants to loot those towns, for whatever it’s worth.  You take out the castles, you eliminate the town’s basic defenses,” he said, ticking each point off a finger as he explained.  “You kill a bunch of peasants, you damage the labor force and reduce the potential resistance.  Without the lords to keep order, what peasants are left will struggle with the surviving burghers – who were largely spared.  With their treasures,” he reminded us.  “Take away the ability to grind grain, and you create food shortages almost by default.  That’s a recipe for a riot,” he concluded.

“That would indicate that they’re trying to destabilize this entire region,” Mavone nodded.  “Not that there’s a lot out there, mostly marginal farms and forests, but each of these targets shares another commonality: it’s remote.  It would take days for any serious force to reach them,” he pointed out.  “I think he’s preparing them for conquest.”

“He’s got to know if he tries that, we’ll have an army marching on him within a fortnight,” Sandoval said, shaking his head.  “He had a lot of forces at Olum Seheri.  Maybe fifteen, twenty-thousand.  But that’s not enough to take all five of those places, before they were attacked, much less defend them from us.”

“I agree,” Mavone said.  “But let that situation fester all winter, and when the weather clears in the spring you’ll have a bunch of half-starved, rebellious peasants and whatever burghers didn’t have the sense to flee.  You could take a town like that with a company of gurvani.  And while we can get an army there, eventually, that will take weeks.  And that’s assuming we aren’t dealing with something else more pressing at the time.”

I was still discussing the situation and assessing the damage when Master Hartarian called me, mind-to-mind, and requested a meeting on behalf of His Majesty.  Rard wasn’t happy about having more dragon attacks in his realm, and he wanted his chief wizard to yell at.

“Looks like I’m being called into the master’s study,” I told them with a sigh, when I broke contact.  “Rard wants to see me.  I’ll let him know what we’ve figured out.  He’s not going to like the implications.”

“No one does,” Terleman frowned.  “Let him know we’re working on it, but we’re at a disadvantage.  We can’t post wizards in every small town in Castalshar.  Not dragonslaying wizards.  Our best bet is to move troops into the region to help defend it.  And get aid to those people, so they don’t succumb to Korbal’s plans.  Apart from that, I don’t have much.”

“Taren’s been working on the dragon problem,” Sandoval pointed out.  “He had some things prepared for Olum Seheri, in case they brought them in.  Maybe he can give you something.”

“I’ll check,” I said doubtfully, as I rose and prepared to leave.  “In the meantime, continue to gather information, and let me know at once if there’s another attack.  I’ll go bury His Majesty in bullshit until we have something better to tell him.”

The palace at Kaunis was hopping, when I arrived.  Hartarian was in the corridor just outside Rard’s study, and as I came through I noted a steady stream of pages and messengers, castellans and servants moved through like a river of bureaucracy.

“Busy day,” I noted, as I nodded to Hartarian.   The Court Wizard looked harried, which was unusual in him.

“More than you suspect,” he nodded cryptically in return.  “Rard is upset.  I’m hoping you calm him down before he does something rash.”  Something in his tone told me it wasn’t dragons that were preoccupying his thoughts.

“Why, what happened?”

“Several things,” Hartarian said, as he walked me slowly down the corridor to the ornate entrance to the study.  “Anguin has proposed marriage to Rardine.  Tavard is in trouble in Enultramar.  Farise is threatened.  Three dragon attacks in the last few days.”

“Five,” I corrected.  “You haven’t gotten word, yet.  Doleang and Borfeyd were both struck.  I just came from Vorone, where Terleman and his staff are analyzing them.”

Hartarian’s face fell.  “Five?  Oh, this just gets better and better,” he said, shaking his head.  “That’s going to make the last piece of news all the more compelling.”

“What news?”

“A message was delivered to the palace this morning – we aren’t certain by whom.  It’s from Korbal,” he said, darkly, as we approached the two halberd-armed guards at the study door.

“Korbal?  Really?”

“That’s what the seal says,” he agreed.  “That’s why Rard wants you here.  We haven’t even read it, yet, as His Majesty suspects treachery, and trusts no one but you to clear it for inspection.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea,” I agreed.  “Korbal is a lot sneakier than Sheruel.  And, worse, he has a flair for drama.  That is the sort of thing he would try, I think,” I said, as the guard opened the broad wooden doors for us.

Rard was within, with several of his ministers and gentlemen.  He looked agitated; he was bare-headed, pacing pensively behind the table on which was a roll of thick, dark parchment of unfamiliar origin.

“Ah!  At last, the Spellmonger,” Rard sighed, hopefully.  “Minalan, I’m having a day sent to torment me.  I would appreciate your counsel.”

“I am ever at the Kingdom’s service,” I bowed.  “Upon what do you wish my council, my liege?”

“Let us begin with this . . . thing,” he said, distastefully.  “It was found on the front steps.  It looks sinister, and is sealed with an unfamiliar seal which Master Hartarian assures me says ‘Korbal of Olum Seheri’.  There is a spell laid upon it,” he added, glancing at it suspiciously.

“Allow me to take a look, Majesty,” I agreed, summoning Pathfinder.  The baculus told me in short order that the scroll was not the usual sort of parchment.  It was a kind of vellum, animal hide.  Human hide, it reported, a moment later.  It got more specific than that, but as I was feeling ill at the details, I’ll spare you.

The spells on the scroll were for preservation, principally, and they were necromantic in nature.  I found that intriguing enough, but there was more than that.  Insight laid apart two other spells, a simple one to inform the sender when the seal was broken, and a more sophisticated one that made the object seem far greater in menace than it deserved.

No matter how repugnant or fearsome you felt at the scroll’s sinister appearance, the charm made it seem far more foreboding.  It was a message that literally dared the reader to accept it.

I chuckled.  Rard looked at me sharply.

“I told you that Korbal has a sense of drama,” I said, using Insight to dispel the charm.  “He enchants the message to challenge the reader with dread,” I reported.  “He wants you pissing your pants when you open it.  Nothing dangerous,” I assured.  “He doesn’t want to cause physical harm from this.  He wants to scare you.”

Everyone looked relieved, as Insight countered the spell.  There was a palpable change in the atmosphere of the room, I noted.

“There,” I sighed.  “Now we can talk without feeling like death is looming in the room.  Shall I break the seal, Your Majesty?” I asked.  Rard nodded, curtly, staring at the scroll like it might rise off the table and attack him.

I used my new Dradrien dagger to break the seal, knowing it would activate the first harmless spell.  I unfurled the distasteful message and saw it was written in standard Narasi, though the calligraphy was . . . off.

“‘To the self-styled King of Castalshar,’” I began to read aloud.  “‘Rard of House Bimin, squatting in the ruins of Castabriel.  It has come to my notice that your foolish and short-lived race has deigned to attack my stronghold.  While you have been on Callidore only a short period, and likely have no real conception of the powers you are contesting, that is no excuse for such action.  Like an errant child, I will instruct you only once against such dangerous pursuits: continue with your aggression and you will be punished.’”

That produced a murmur of outrage in the room.  I looked around before I continued.  Rard was staring thoughtfully out his window, a grave look on his face.  Count Kindine merely looked exhausted beyond all measure.  Count Sabas, the new Minister of War, looked troubled.  I continued.

“‘Know that the era of Alka Alon indulgence for your miserable race is over.  While you should never have been allowed to settle in our realm, as you are established, in some minor way, until a permanent solution to the problem of humani settlement can be resolved, I warn you against further attempts to extend your filthy colonies westward, lest they run afoul of my wardens.  I have already taken steps to curb your race’s incursions into my territory.  Your western skies darken with the smoke from that taste of my wrath.

“‘For I am Korbal, called the Necromancer and Demon God, and I have arisen!  You are understandably ignorant of the history and implications of that, so I will explain.  My purpose to reassert responsible control of the realm.  I will contest with all who deny my sovereignty, particularly the Alka Alon council.  I warn you strongly against alliance with that body, as it places you in peril during our deliberations.  Once that matter is resolved, I will deign to review the role of humani in the new governance of the realm and affix it to its proper role.  There is, perhaps, some small place for your race within the new order.

“‘Until that time, you are commanded to withdraw your military forces from western lands, cease any further raids on my territories, and begin removal of the colonies you have improperly established west of the ruins of Castabriel.  Failure to comply will result in swift and decisive action against your tribes.

“‘To oversee this peaceful transition, I will be sending my ambassador to your tribal moot this autumn.  Respect his position and authority, on pain of a far more active response to your ill-advised incursions.  He will give you further instruction, guidance, and relay my wishes to you, directly.  At that time, if you have any questions regarding this notification, you may put them to the ambassador.  Faithful compliance will be rewarded.  Disobedience will be punished harshly.

“‘This realm does not belong to you.  You are trespassers here, improperly permitted to spew your filthy importasta among our sweet lands, and then indulge in uncontrolled breeding to fill them.  While I am tolerant, this is unacceptable to the rightful sovereign of this realm.   It is among one of many things to be addressed as proper and traditional rule is re-established.  You humani have short lives.  Do not waste what few years you have contesting with your betters.  You may find them shorter for it.

“‘Signed and sealed, Korbal, Hallitan of Olum Seheri.’  I assume that means ‘king’,” I added.

“’Master’, actually,” Hartarian corrected.  I raised my eyebrows in surprise.  “I’m fairly fluent in Alka Alon, at least the scholarly texts.  We had one of the best libraries of them in the world at Wenshar.”

“So, he’s the Master of Olum Seheri . . . and I am King of Castalshar,” Rard said, finally.   “What makes him think he has the right to lecture me so?”

“Because he doesn’t believe you – or any of us – have a right to be in these lands.  Note how he says the ‘ruins of Castabriel’, when there is a perfectly vibrant city there, now?  That’s because he’s speaking of the old Alka Alon city it’s built upon.  From his perspective, he took a thousand-year nap, and woke up to find someone pastured cows in his yard.”

“So, you think we should capitulate to these outrageous demands?” asked Count Sabas asked, suspiciously.

“Oh, Ishi’s tits, no!” I laughed.  “Korbal is preying on your ignorance and your fears – hence his use of a fear spell on the scroll.  He’s not entirely bluffing – he does have a fair amount of force at his disposal, and he is dangerous – but he’s puffing himself up to be far more than he is.”

“But,” Sabas said, anxiously, “three dragon attacks in a week—”

“Five,” corrected Hartarian.  “Baron Minalan brought word of two more from his listening posts.  Doleang and Borfeyd.  But that seems to be all, for now.”

“Borfeyd?” gasped Count Kindine.  “They’ve taken all the Westlands!

“Not all,” I countered, “nor really taken.  They’ve eliminated the castles as a credible defense.  They’ve killed a lot of people.  But they haven’t tried to assert control.”

“Trygg’s holy twat,” swore Sabas, “with dragons in the air, have they not?”

“There is a difference between dominance and control, my lord,” I reasoned.  “This . . . ambassador is their attempt to assert control of those lands – by proxy.  If he can scare the court into withdrawing from those lands, then Gilmora will be next.  Then the Riverlands.  These were strategic attacks,” I pointed out, “not mere terror raids, or even retributory strikes for our raid on Olum Seheri.”

“He doesn’t mention Sheruel, I note,” Hartarian said.  “Has the Dead God lost favor?”

“He’s lost independence, entirely,” I explained.  “Korbal betrayed him at Olum Seheri.  Turned him into an elaborate enchantment.  A storehouse for energy and a paraclete to carry out his whims.  But if there is any good news from this, it is that Sheruel’s genocidal war against us in abeyance.  Korbal is a more sophisticated foe, but he’s also less committed to our destruction.”

“That’s hardly reassuring,” Kindine said, with a wheezy growl.  “Clearly this Korbal is insistent that we leave the west.  And preferably the Five Duchies.”

“Nor should it be, my lord.  I’m just giving you my assessment.  Korbal’s first order of business is not us, thankfully, it’s the Alka Alon council.  See how he warns us against them?  That is a sign of fear.  It validates the alliance we have, and encourages me to improve it further.”

“But is Korbal not Alka Alon?” asked Rard, confused.

“He was, at the beginning,” I agreed.  “But he used necromancy to flee his old body and take a new one.  Several times.  In direct violation of the council’s dictates.  Then he made war on them, was defeated, and condemned.  But since execution was not expedient – he could merely re-form himself into his next awaiting body, thanks to his knowledge of necromancy – they entombed he and his followers, instead.

“Now they all take human bodies, because of our greater strength and . . . disposability.  It is also easier for them to take our form than their own.  So, while Korbal may have been an Alka Alon, and still thinks as one, at this point he is all together a different sort of creature.  He is not only unrepresentative of the council, he is exiled and outlawed within Alkan society.

“Likewise, his servants – the Nemovorti – were already considered fanatics and zealots when they were exiled.  A long entombment has done nothing but enflame their fanaticism.  Whatever Alkan elements that make up their souls are drowned in their own petty egos.”

“So, we . . . ignore them, then, Spellmonger?” asked Kindine.  The old man looked depressed about the prospect, but then he looked depressed most of the time.

“We do not, my lord,” I said, defiantly.  “But neither do we capitulate to the demands of an undead madman who sends us his commands written on the back of some poor maid he slew for the purpose.  Perhaps he wanted to send the thing originally on Rardine’s flayed skin, to make a more compelling argument,” I suggested.

I didn’t have any particular evidence of that, but it was the sort of think I was starting to expect from Korbal.  I was trying to steer policy, here.  Truth was . . . flexible, in the service of that.  I suppose I’d become a courtier.

I wasn’t particularly proud of that, but there was a lot on the line.  If Rard succumbed to fear, based on a few dragon attacks and a gruesome message, then our hope of mounting a credible defense was in doubt.

The suggestion had an effect.  Rard’s face hardened, as the image of his daughter being skinned to create stationary for this undead madman fixed itself in his mind.  His jaw firmed, and his brow knitted.

“I will not bow to such threats,” he announced.  “I will not tolerate such filth making threats on my frontiers, when my noble ancestors would have proudly stood in defiance.  Nor will I be commanded in my policies by anyone,” he said, angrily.  He looked like a real warrior-prince for the first time in a few years.  “We will hear this . . . ambassador when he comes, and fill his undead ears with words his master will not enjoy.”

“Well spoken, my liege,” Count Sabas said, fervently, in a display of gratuitous ass-kissing.  “What are your orders?”

“You counsel we reinforce the Westlands?” he asked, suddenly glancing to me, Kindine, and Hartarian.

“I see no better option, at the moment, my liege,” Kindine admitted, reluctantly.

“Failing to defend the region invites its loss,” Hartarian agreed.

“I, too, am in favor, Your Majesty,” I advised.  “But I would discourage concentrating them in any one location.  As convenient for provisioning and strength as the method is, it also makes our forces vulnerable to dragon attack.  I counsel to send our forces in companies of two-hundred lances each, reinforcing strategic roads and manors along the way.  Avoid large castles,” I suggested.  “And include a competent Magical Corps to further obscure movement.”

I’d worked in the Westlands for a few months, back in my mercenary days.  Though it lacked grand castles, most manors and domains had small keeps to keep the bandits, peasants, and each other at bay.

“A few companies that size would not be able to contest an invasion,” Count Sabas said, doubtfully.

“Their job is not to contest it, Count Sabas, merely delay it,” Count Kindine said, with surprising insight.  “They replace the native forces there and keep order.  If attacked, they can defend for long enough for additional forces to be sent from Darkfaller or the Gilmoran counties.”

“Exactly,” Hartarian nodded.  “Your Majesty, I suggest we send a company of Royal Guard to lead the effort.  This was the sort of mission for which they were created,” he reminded him.

“Agreed,” Rard said.  “Count Sabas, compose orders for a company of Guards to take charge of defenses in the Westlands,” he ordered the minister.  “I believe Captain Masdine is from the Westlands – make him a Royal Marshal, and give him orders to hold and observe the region, and to summon aide if needed.  And do instruct him to recruit a magical corps – you’ll assist with that, won’t you, Hartarian?”

“I’ll secure some competent recruits,” I offered.  “There are still many in Vorone recuperating from the raid who could be enlisted.  A half-dozen High Magi in the area might discourage any mischief.  And give them a fighting chance against dragons,” I added.

“Yes, the godsdamned dragons,” Count Kindine said, shaking his head.  “That is what concerns me the most, my lords.  We can put many a lance in the field, but against dragons the strongest castle has no defense.”

“We’re working on it, my lord,” I assured the Prime Minister.  “Our raid gave us many new tools and insights into the enemy’s power,” I said, confidently, being intentionally vague.  “Let us hope we need not test them any time soon.”

“That is all, gentlemen,” Rard said, dismissing the council.  “Spellmonger, will you walk with me, alone?  I need words with you,” the king commanded.

Chapter Sixty-Four

A Contest Of Princesses

After the crisis of Korbal’s message, one might assume that I looked forward to a quiet moment of reflection with my monarch.

One would be mistaken.  Korbal was easy to deal with, compared to family issues.  And that was just what Rard wanted to speak with me about.

As the other ministers filed out to execute their orders, Rard motioned me forward to a small door against the exterior wall, and led me out to a private garden.  It was masculine, for a garden, with more shrubs and flowering trees than flowers, proper.  In fact, there wasn’t a yellow rose in sight.  There were, however, a brace of palace guards and a discrete servant within the garden walls, to cater to the king’s needs while he took a moment for contemplation or conversation.

“Wine,” he said to the servant, without glancing at him, as he took a seat on one bench, and motioned me to take the opposite one.  “I had a visit from my nephew, Anguin, yesterday,” he began quietly.  “One of your lads brought him through the Ways – Rondal, I believe.  He had . . . he wanted . . .” he began, stumbling.

The servant appeared with two silver goblets and a decanter of Cormeeran red to save him.  A healthy sip later, he took a deep breath and began again.

“The Duke of Alshar has formally proposed to wed my daughter, Princess Rardine,” he said, quickly, as if saying the words was painful.  He took a moment to gauge my reaction.  “You do not seem surprised,” he added.

“I have heard rumors, Your Majesty,” I admitted.  “I have many friends in Vorone.”

“And spend a fair amount of time there, yourself,” he grunted.  “Mother has been watching you pop up here or there, unexpectedly.  It’s quite maddening for her agents to keep track of you.”

“Perhaps that is by design, your Majesty.  I have my own enemies,” I said, raising my goblet.  “To your health . . . and your new son-in-law,” I said, watching his reaction.  It was about as I expected.  He sighed heavily.

“You do realize the problems with the match,” he said, wearily.  “For one thing, my wife killed his parents.”

“Which ensures your daughter need not contend with a clingy mother-in-law,” I pointed out, lightly.  He snorted, no doubt remembering his own famous mother-in-law, Greshera, Duchess of Alshar herself.  The relationship was not pleasant, from what I gathered.

“For another, it would worsen the suspicion my daughter-in-law already feels for Rardine,” he sighed.  “She fears for the life of my grandson.  Because of my daughter,” he said, miserably.  “Luin’s staff, I understand why, I suppose, but she’s insistent that Rardine be nowhere near the palace in Castabriel.”

“Vorone is far from Castabriel,” I observed.  “And marriage has been known to mellow a maid.”

“Yet it would protect her . . . from . . .” he said, struggling once again.

“Have another drink, Your Majesty,” I said, soothingly.  “Your problem is that your daughter-in-law fears for her child’s life, while your daughter resents her loss of position.  One could argue that a political marriage to Anguin satisfies both your daughter-in-law’s concerns and your daughter’s resentments.  She gets to be Duchess of Alshar, something not even her mother managed.  And away from a fearful rival at another court.”

“Well . . . yes, but . . . damn it, Minalan, you seem to be in favor of this match!”

“I am neither in favor or against it, Your Majesty,” I said, after a moment’s consideration.  “The situation has its merits . . . and its disadvantages.  I think we’re aware of both.  The question is whether or not you favor the match.  I am guessing by your tone that you do not.”

“Well, is it not . . . unseemly?” he asked, an eyebrow cocked.

“Need I remind you that such matches have been made repeatedly, since the Conquest?  The high nobility is a small community, and the ducal houses are smaller still.  I’m sure I could dredge up five or six instances of first-cousins marrying among your kin.”

He looked troubled.  “In most cases those unions were examined and blessed by senior clergy,” he explained.

“And in some cases, they went ahead and did it anyway, if it was politically expedient . . . I assume Your Majesty is familiar with the history of Vore?”

He snorted.  “That is hardly an argument in favor of the match.”

“I think what is more important, Your Majesty – Rard – is what you feel in your heart.  Not as king, but as father.  Do you want Rardine to be happy?”

“I’m not certain that would be possible,” he sighed.  “But yes, I would.  If she doesn’t require the bones of all her kin to stand upon to get there, it would be helpful.  When she’s unhappy, she’s even worse.

“But . . . this?  Minalan, do you think she would actually wed that boy?” he asked, skeptically.  “Or is this merely a tactic to gain leverage over me and her mother?”

“I know it for a fact that the proposal is in earnest,” I admitted.  “She broached the idea with me a few weeks ago.  I was cautious.  Hells, I was skeptical.  But she made some compelling arguments.  Such as a lack of a viable alternative.”

“Lack of an alternative?  She could be high priestess of any temple she chose, in a few years, or even an abbess.  Or I could contract a marriage with—”

“I believe that is Rardine’s point, my lord,” I said, gently.  “After her imprisonment, and the surprise at the court’s lack of response, she no longer feels you and her mother have her best interests at heart.  She does not trust you to make the best arrangement – for her sake.”

“I would look to her happiness, of course, but the future of the kingdom demands—”

“My liege, Rardine stopped placing the future of the kingdom over her own interests when she learned the kingdom regarded her interests in such low esteem.  She feels betrayed by your family.  She wishes to make her own way, now that she has been abandoned by her kin.  Her sentiments, Majesty,” I added.

“I cannot help but think that much of her motivation is spite and resentment,” Rard said, shaking his head as he held out his glass for more wine.

“You are an astute observer, Your Majesty,” I nodded.  “But I would counsel that Rardine’s passions are – for now – confined to restoring her lost dignity and maintaining her position.  Nominally, at least,” I added.  “She cannot aspire to a higher title.  Nor can she see to maintaining the one she was born to.  Marrying Anguin is her way of doing both, and gaining some small measure of control over her life.”

“She would not consider the security of a temple?”

“You know her better than I, my lord,” I said, tactfully.  He sighed and shook his head.

“No, she would hate that.  It would so frustrate her to be removed from the corridors of power that she would conspire to make herself a nuisance,” he predicted.  “Nor would she consent to an arranged marriage with Count Lito.  He would be a dozen years her senior and . . . fleshy, by all accounts,” he said, wrinkling his nose.

“She’d rather return to Olum Seheri, I think,” I quipped.  “You raised a daughter with high expectations, my liege, and the wit to demand them if denied them.  Tell me, is it Anguin, personally, you object to making your kin?”

“He’s already my kin,” he said, dryly.  “I do not dislike the lad.  Quite the contrary.  He’s supported my reign under . . . trying circumstances.  He’s lost most of his patrimony, and must live on a barren fraction of his inheritance.  He’s even lost that fucking palace,” he snickered.  “I always hated that place.

“In fact,” he sighed, reluctantly, “he’s been a better steward of his small realm than my son has been of his vast one.  Speaking of which, Count Moran assures me you are assisting with provision for Tavard’s expedition?”

“As well as I can, Your Majesty,” I conceded.  “It is not an easy thing.  But we’ve kept those brave men eating, ensured their wounds are treated, and denied the hill bandits the opportunity to use hunger as leverage against them.”

“Could you . . . retrieve him, if needed?” he asked, a little anxiety coming through his voice.

I nodded.  “I would try everything in my power, Majesty, if he required rescue.  Why?  What news have you learned?”

“None yet,” Rard shrugged.  “But I expect it any day.  His camp overrun by the foe.  Bandits holding him hostage and sending him back, a finger at a time.  Or some damnable pox he picked up from one of the dusky maidens of Enultramar,” he added.

“He is in a difficult position,” I agreed.  “But not desperate.  But we were speaking of Rardine and Anguin . . .”

“Yes, we were,” he grumbled.  “You are close to the lad – closer than I,” he conceded.  “Don’t think I’m blind to what you did to get him re-established in that draughty old hole.  I know everything – the gold, the Temple of Ifnia, the Third Commando . . . when I heard Salgo was involved, I suspected your touch.  When I heard Pentandra was, I knew it.”

“I felt it best for the health of the kingdom to ensure you controlled three working duchies, my liege.”

“I understand,” he nodded, “even if I cannot officially support it.  I feel bad for what happened to the boy, and personally I am gratified someone took an interest.”

“Usually that would be the sort of thing for an uncle to do,” I mused.

“Exactly.  Yet I must be a monarch, first.  But with your influence he has become a decent leader.  A stalwart lad, with good character.  Which is among the only reasons I am even considering this match,” he admitted.  “If it were anyone else, I might suspect that she’s preparing to strike like a scorpion.  But because her intended is Anguin, it makes me think that – perhaps – he can quench her heat.”

“That might be expecting too much of the lad,” I said, after considering the image.  “But she might find restraint in marriage that she lacked in maidenhood.  Especially if she’s busy bearing heirs to Alshar,” I reminded him.

That made Rard wince (no man wants to imagine his daughter conceiving) but it also made him thoughtful.  “You think she would . . . would find her temperament sweetened by matrimony?”

“Perhaps more seasoned than sweetened,” I countered, “But she seems to bear a genuine affection for Anguin.  I do not think that she would do anything to disturb his good relationship with his liege.  Like arrange for anything unfortunate to happen to her sister-in-law,” I suggested.

“It’s her brother I fear for more, though not as her target.  He has fallen under his new wife’s sway, and suspects Rardine far in excess of her likely ambition.  He has no trouble believing the worst of her, knowing what she has done in the service of the kingdom.  Nor does he trust her to leave his reign unmolested.  And my daughter-in-law and her retinue are filled with rumor concerning her past.”

“It is her father, not her brother, who finds it his duty to give or withhold his blessing,” I reminded him, as my cup was refilled.  “He might not like it, but giving his sister a future with his cousin might be the wisest political move he could make.”

“Tavard is not beset with wisdom, in case it escaped your attention,” Rard mumbled into his cup.  “He isn’t stupid.  But wit without wisdom leads to folly, it is said.”

“And big brothers can’t tell their little sisters who to marry, it is said.  If she desires it, and it is of her own will, she can petition for the wedding to go ahead without your blessing.”

“She wouldn’t dare!” huffed Rard, rising in his chair.  Then he sat down.  “Yes, yes, she would,” he reconsidered.  “Just to spite her mother.  You should have heard them go at it, Minalan, it was like a bloody dogfight in a butcher’s stall.  And of course, I couldn’t say anything to either of them without alienating the other,” he revealed, miserably.  “I had my little girl home for the first time in months, when I thought she was lost forever.  And then she says the wrong thing, Rardine stomps back to Vorone . . . and now I have this damn proposal to contend with,” he complained.

“I take it Her Majesty is unlikely to find favor with this match?”

“Are you kidding?  She’s livid!  She’s entirely against it.  Rardine is supposed to be a support of the kingdom, not a potential rebel.  She doesn’t know why Rardine can’t just go quietly retire to an abbey for a few years, then come back to court as a minister.”

“Has she not considered that – perhaps – Rardine’s hopes for the future are no less than any maiden’s?  A good husband, a secure home, and a chance to have children?  If she was against those things, she would have shown a preference for holy orders long ago.”

“No, she has always wanted to do her duty as a noblewoman,” he agreed.  “Even if it meant contending with her damn Remeran kin and their Game of Whispers.  She’s wanted to wed since she was a girl.”

“And she’s found a lad who you don’t want to kill and stuff in a hole,” I reasoned.  “More, one who might take the edge off her sharp tongue.  And, best yet, one who lives far, far from Castabriel.”

“All compelling points, my friend,” he agreed, reluctantly.  “I see there is no easy way forward.  I shall go ahead and speak to the senior clergy of the kingdom about the issue of consanguinity – discreetly – but I have a favor to ask of you, Spellmonger.

“You are close to the lad.  And Rardine trusts you.  I bid you speak to both of them and return with me with your assessment of their seriousness in this course of action.  Some have ventured that Rardine merely seeks her dowry, and will put a dagger in Anguin’s kidney as soon as the ink is dry on their marriage contract.  Others feel the Orphan Duke is preparing to see to his revenge in a similar manner to the Black Duke.  See if that is the case . . . or if this is more innocent than I suspect.”

“As you command, Your Majesty,” I said, rising as he did.  “You might also want to consider summoning the Coronet Council.  Such matches are usually done under their advice, if I am informed properly.”

“Oh, Ishi’s twat, that’s right!” he groaned.  “I still recall the six hells they put Grendine and I through, when we wed.  Well, at least it won’t have to be all five Dukes.  For this I think the three will suffice.  It is a matter for Castalshar.”

“As one of them is the proposed bridegroom, that does inspire some intriguing conflicts-of-interest.”

“And one of them will likely be against the union.  Which puts Clofalin in an interesting position,” he chuckled.

“And gives you some cover, my liege,” I pointed out.  “If Duke Clofalin gives his sanction to the union, then you have someone to blame, if it goes awry.  If he denies his sanction, then it wasn’t your voice which spoke against it.”

“That is a point, Spellmonger,” he considered.  “In fact, you’re full of wisdom.  I should drink with you more often,” he said.  “One more cup before you leave?  We can discuss this man of yours, Dranus.  The one Clofalin shows every sign of investing with the county of Moros.  Which has caused some muttering amongst the court, particularly with the Curia approaching in a few months.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” I said, sitting back down.  The establishment of the first Magelord Count and the implications that held across society and politics was not something I was particularly prepared to debate, on a day with dragons and spiteful marriage proposals. “More wine would be welcome.”

I decided to take a walk around the palace before I headed back to Sevendor, partly to clear my head, partly to check on its progress, and partly to consider how this game was playing out.  Things were moving fast, now, faster than I’d anticipated.  Whatever game Rardine and Anguin were playing, they were pushing hard.  Tavard was hopelessly entangled in Enultramar.  Grendine and Princess Armandra had formed a tight alliance in Rardine’s absence.  And Rard was having to contend with it all.

As I walked and noted the advances in construction around the palace grounds, I turned a corner and found myself nearly running into a group of ladies of the court on their way to chapel – including Princess Armandra.  I gave her a deep bow, noting that at least two of her ladies-in-waiting were Daughters I recognized from the Family.

“My Princess,” I said, as I rose.  “I had not expected to be fortunate enough to encounter you here.”

“Baron Minalan,” she said, formally, a wary look in her pretty eye.  “So nice to see you again.”  She didn’t sound like it was nice.

“How fares the little Prince Heir?” I asked, politely.

“With Trygg’s blessing he is a strong and vital little man,” she assured me, proudly.  “We go now to pray for his continued strength and resilience.”  She paused a moment.  “I hear you are to thank for supplying my lord husband and his noble troops in Enultramar,” she continued, cautiously.

“Yes, Highness, I had that pleasure,” I agreed.

“Yet you were unable to find a way to help him secure a victory, when you seem capable of picking them ripe from the tree,” she pointed out, her eyes narrowing.  “How . . . limited magic seems, sometimes.”

“There are many complexities in its function, Highness, requiring great study and intense effort,” I said, loftily.  “It cannot, alas, be forced to do what the gods have not ordained.”

“The gods seem strangely silent on such matters, my lord,” she said, continuing to walk slowly.  I joined her at the head of her line.  “Indeed, they seem to conspire to ruin the plans of mortals.”

“Your Highness has studied religion, I see,” I praised.  She looked at me sharply.

“When they propose to arrange a union between poor Rardine, for instance,” she continued, no longer looking at me, “and her oafish cousin.  One has to wonder at their humor and wisdom,” she said, philosophically.

“I take it Your Highness does not favor the match,” I offered, hesitantly.

“No, Baron Minalan, I do not!” she said, sharply.  “Princess Rardine has a . . . storied past, from what I understand.  A maid of rare wit, it is said, and my own interactions with her bear that out.  A woman of her abilities should not be consigned to common breeding, when there are so many abbeys in desperate need of intelligent direction.”

“Yet she seeks Trygg’s Blessing of children, as most women do, Highness,” I countered.

“Children she could bear successfully and happily . . . in Vore,” she said, with the slightest sneer.  “If any would take her, now.  She was captured by pirates, after all,” she observed, cattily.  “The gods know what awful, rapacious men they are.”

“Yet greedy enough to recognize the value of a captive of Rardine’s station,” I countered.  “No pirate would defile a maiden whose virtue is worth such a price.  Nor were the undead she was sold to have designs on that virtue,” I added.  “Indeed, when she was examined by Master Icorod, after her imprisonment, and he assures me that she was physically unharmed.”

“What a tragic ordeal for her!” Armandra said, with false concern.  “There is no telling what foul magic was used upon her to subvert her mind.”

“There is no evidence of that, fortunately, Highness,” I countered.

“Well, thank Trygg’s grace,” she continued.  “Yet for cousins to wed, it is . . . unseemly,” she said, wrinkling her nose in distaste.  “Most of the gods condemn such unions, in scripture,” she reminded me.

“And others permit the practice, Highness.  The gods are not known for their consistency any more than they are known for their respect of mortal wishes.”

“Yet my recent spiritual awakening has made me sensitive to such matters,” she continued.  “Experiencing a divine manifestation of Mother Trygg has moved me to follow her perfect example.  The Book of Trygg is quite explicit about such things, I am informed by our clergy.  It is a matter of pure morality not to sully Trygg’s Grace with the scourge of intimacy between close relations.”

“No doubt some of the clergy will agree with you,” I said, cautiously, as I took her meaning.  She was intending to block the marriage on the basis of consanguinity.  And she had the pull to line up plenty of clergy to back her side.  Princess Armandra was a popular figure in Castabriel, double so since she’d given birth to the little prince.  “Have you an objection to Duke Anguin, then?”

“Personally?  He is a dull and quiet boy,” she dismissed, “and he rules a fragment of a province.  His coronet is his greatest asset.  And he’s short,” she condemned.  “I care not whom he marries in his rustic shack, but wedding Princess Rardine is an affront to our morality,” she insisted.

“It is refreshing to hear your position so clearly stated, Highness,” I nodded, as we drew near the unfinished façade of the Temple of Trygg.  “I pray such devotion to morality is justly rewarded,” I added.

“Farewell, Spellmonger,” she dismissed.  “I do look forward to seeing you again at the Curia.  Perhaps your lady wife will feel well enough by then to join us.”

All courtly pretense dropped from me, when she invoked Alya’s name.

I’m willing to play the courtier when there’s a need, but I am a husband and a man, first.  Calling out Alya’s infamous infirmity and rubbing my nose it in wasn’t mere courtly cattiness.  It was a deliberate kick to my balls.

I delivered one in turn.  “And I do hope our Prince fares better in his adventures in the future.  The gods themselves know how devastated we would be if anything untoward happened to him.  Why, it would plunge the kingdom into violent, bloody civil war,” I predicted.  “Hidden factions would emerge, assassins, insurrections and uprisings, rebellions . . . I shudder to think of the dangers his untimely demise would produce.  It would be a disaster to us all,” I concluded.  “Please pray for his welfare to our Holy Mother on my behalf,” I said, as I prepared the Ways home.  “Or maybe I’ll mention him to her myself, next time I see her.”

And I was gone.

I monitored the situation in the Westlands remotely from Sevendor, for a few days.  Terleman’s expedition to the region gave us a better understanding of the damage, and what it would take to repair it.  It also confirmed that no further attacks were taking place.  Whatever Korbal was planning, he was doing it quietly.

Elsewhere, however, events proceed at a startling pace.  Astyral reported a sudden series of attacks launched from the Penumbra . . . at the Penumbra.  It took a few days for the Iron Band and Astyral’s own agents to bring back intelligence on the fighting, but it was soon revealed that all was not well behind enemy lines.  Indeed, there was a civil war going on in the western Wilderlands.

Rumor had it that Korbal’s minions had taken direct control of the armies and legions formerly commanded by Sheruel, sparking a general mutiny by the gurvani.  The gurvani “royal court” had been driven from the old Wilderlands castle that served him as palace.  About a third of the gurvani supported him, and not the urgulnosti who’d taken up the cause of Korbal.

The new regent of the ‘kingdom’ is a Nemovort called Zolim, Astyral reported to me, a few days after I’d returned to Castabriel.  Three Nemovorti are now in charge of the molopor and the installations of Boval Vale.  Combined, their range of influence extends a few dozen miles beyond their loyal encampments.  That means most of the south, around Preshan, all the way up to about where Autumnly used to be.  Beyond that, it’s tribal government, most of whom seemed to have taken the Goblin King’s side.  It’s suspected he and his gobliny court have taken refuge among them, with the units who stayed loyal to him and Sheruel.  Old Sheruel.

Well, that’s good news, I pointed out.

Good and bad, he replied.  While it weakens their forces in terms of numbers, most of the better-trained units are now under Nemovorti control.  One of the things keeping them from attacking us in force was the internal divisions they suffered.  With the loyalists driven out, the Nemovorti have a far more disciplined army to command, even if it’s smaller.

You think they’ll move on us, then?

That’s what I would do, he agreed.  I was discussing this with Azar and Terleman last night.  We hold the east bank in force, but have largely removed support from our forward positions.  Now would be an ideal time to strike against them.

Another point to consider, I added.  Now that the Goblin King has been driven into exile, that ‘treaty’ with him doesn’t hold, does it?

Did it ever, really? he asked, rhetorically.

Hey, that was one of Tavard’s greatest victories, remember?  Where do you think they’ll strike?

Here, Vorone, Preshan, Fort Destiny, maybe as far as Lorvay, he proposed.  Any of them or all of them.

I heard about your plan to quietly abandon Tudry, I mentioned.

It seems for the best, he sighed.  It costs too much to defend the place, and there’s really not much reason to, apart from keeping a presence here.  Megelin is close enough and better defended, he reminded me.  And with that glorified refugee camp Pentandra is building at the Anvil, the burghers and artisans at least have an opportunity to rebuild.  We sent out another caravan at dawn, he added.  Coopers and potters went today, seven big wains full.  We should have harnessers and saddlemakers ready to depart in a week.

I thought about it, as I considered the chaos within the Penumbra, and Korbal’s sense of drama.

Accelerate the program, I ordered.

You think they’ll move sooner, rather than later?

Things started to click in my mind.

There are only a few weeks before the weather starts to get cold, and a month after that when the snows start falling up there.  That gives Korbal a narrow window in which to take serious action. I’d rather be safe than sorry.  Start moving as many people out as you can, save the garrison.  People and property. I was just at Vanador, and they have very little there.  Take everything that isn’t nailed down with you.  And if you can pry it up, it isn’t really nailed down.

Chapter Sixty-Five

A Visit From Ishi

“Princess Armandra is really, really pissed at you,” I began.

Anguin and Rardine agreed to meet with me alone, at Anguin’s grand “hunting lodge” which was serving as his executive seat at the moment.  It was a pretty estate, the result of generations of avid hunters bestowing gifts in gratitude for hunting the famous preserve.  Thankfully that had required Anguin’s forebears to see several additional halls built, for when the entire Ducal Party retired to the place for a few days’ hunting.  Those rustic, taxidermy-stuffed halls were now the most important seats of his government.

The Duke and his intended bride met with me in the library of the manor, which was woefully misnamed.  One meager shelf of books on game and hunting lore was all the place offered, in terms of scholarly reading.  Otherwise it had been furnished as a place for casual conversation and merry-making.  Anguin used it as a kind of private office, now, a place where he could entertain and debrief his closest associates.

“Wasn’t she angry before?” Anguin asked, as he poured us wine.

“Before, she was just vaguely threatened by you,” I explained.  “Even after you reclaimed Vorone, she was only irritated.  But now she is a firm ally of Grendine, and she considers this a direct attack on the Queen.  She’s manipulated Princess Armandra as her tool to block it.”

“Which tells me that this is precisely the right decision,” Rardine said, nodding with slitted eyes.  “She wouldn’t invest herself in that brainless cunt unless she had reason.  She fears me!” she said, triumphantly.

“That is not why I pursue this,” Anguin said, more seriously.  “Though I admit her spite makes this union all the sweeter.  But I agree with Rardine: her reaction instructs me better than her silence.  She’s eager to push the consanguinity matter, and use it to break the engagement.”

“And she’ll soon use it as proof that I need to spend some time in thoughtful contemplation in an abbey, somewhere,” Rardine said, her jaw setting.  “For thirty years or so.”

“That would be a waste,” Anguin said, looking upon Rardine with open admiration.  While I appreciated the sincerity of his tone, I still wanted to vomit a little bit.

“Beyond that, did you discover any organized opposition to the wedding in the court?  Or just daddy’s usual dithering?” Rardine asked, unconcerned.

“They are quite aware of the implications,” I frowned.  “They are also confident in their ability to sway the opinions of the clergy concerning your familial relationship.  I’d say their confidence is well-placed.”

“We shall deal with that when we come to it,” Anguin dismissed.  “If that is the move they want to play, we’ll play it until conclusion,” he decided, firmly.  He was acting with a lot of confidence now.  To the point of cockiness.

“Your Grace, while I understand you can likely arrange for local clergy to bless the union, I doubt that will be acceptable to the Coronet Council.  And decidedly not to the Royal Court,” I warned.

“Leave that to me, Minalan,” he instructed.  “I know Uncle Rard sent you to see how serious we were in this endeavor, and that, alone, tells me he is concerned about the potency of our union.  Please also assure him that it is based not merely on political expediency, but on a great deal of affection and no small love – made more remarkable by our circumstance.  I am determined in my path to wed Rardine, whether he grants his blessing or no . . . but I am going to assume that he will.

“And under that assumption, I am going to myself beg a favor of our friend the Spellmonger.  As you are a neutral party and a member of the Royal Court, I empower you to engage in negotiations on my behalf for a dowry suitable to Rardine’s rank and station,” he said, officiously.

I blinked.  That wasn’t a job I wanted.

“Your Grace,” I began, beseechingly, “I am not really the best—”

“He’s right, Minalan,” Rardine said softly, as she sipped her tea.  She looked very pleased with herself.  “You are in the best position to negotiate.  Someone directly from Anguin’s court would be snubbed or subject to manipulation.  By designating you, we establish our serious intent.  And I want a lot,” she said, fervently.  “Considering how many bodies I put in the ground on behalf of that murderous bitch, I deserve it!”

While the irony of that would amuse me, later, at the time I was all but stammering.

“My friends, that assumes an awful lot,” I warned.  “The consanguinity issue is not minor.  Without support of the clergy and the blessing of her father, there can be no legal dowry!”

“We understand, Minalan,” Rardine said, firmly.  “We’ll handle it.  You negotiate a fat dowry for me, I’ll deal with that.”  She said it with such passion and vitriol that I suppressed a shudder.  I didn’t want to imagine what she had in mind.

“It will be fine, Minalan,” Anguin assured me.  “We are prepared for that issue.  Now, about the dragon attacks in the Westlands . . . Terleman reports that all the castles attacked were on the Castali side of the border, were they not?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” I agreed, faintly.  I was still trying hard not to imagine Rardine’s bloody schemes to get her way, and failing.  “Five Westlands castles.  More than fifteen thousand dead, burned alive.  I’d imagine that the reason no Alshari castles were attacked is that there are damn few Alshari castles in that region.  Midlands, perhaps, and three or four smaller keeps.”  The Alshari Waste, immediately north of their great gate, was a wide, dry apron with pockets of caustic soils and barren landscapes.  The only real industry the land had was people seeking to pass through it as quickly as possible, largely from southern Alshar to the Wilderlands or Gilmora.

“True,” he said, thoughtfully, “but it concerns me that we have no military presence in the region.  My friend Lord Hance thinks sending a larger garrison to the province will help support my eventual claim to the rest of Alshar, someday.”

“Indeed, it might help,” I conceded.  “It is my understanding that the lords of those desolate vales were tepid in their support of your reign,” I pointed out.

“Then perhaps a few dozen lances encamped in their yards will improve their perspectives,” Rardine suggested.  “My sweet lord assures me he can spare a half-company of Alshari Commandos for the task, now that the refugees are safely on the eastern bank.  Count Salgo was complaining just yesterday of his reluctance to face another winter in Vorone.  Perhaps he could take command, and winter outside the gates of the rebels.  Would the magi not approve of a listening force in the area?”

“It would actually fill a hole in our intelligence,” I agreed, reluctantly.  “The Kasari maintain some secret posts in the Land of Scars, but we have little word from there – and it is an area worth watching, for many reasons.  Have Terleman include a few warmagi from his corps, if he can spare them.”

“Good, I’m glad you approve,” Anguin nodded.  “There is another matter which I would appreciate your counsel, Baron,” he continued, searching for a parchment on his desk.

“Ah!  We’re re-structuring the military and noble order in the Wilderlands,” he continued.  “Making it reflect the current reality, not its historic reality.”

“Rondal mentioned something about that,” I nodded.

“Considering the severe damage done to the great houses of the Wilderlords, we have few realistic options . . . but we are seriously considering consolidating much of the present Wilderlands into a single county, with Count Marcadine in supreme charge with its defense.”

“A wise choice, Your Grace,” I agreed.  Marcadine was the most prominent professional soldier and great noble left in the Wilderlands.  He was a good war-leader and a proven administrator, enjoying a strong reputation among his vassals and neighbors alike.  Even Sire Cei looked to him for guidance.  “He would devote himself to the project like no other, and has knowledge of the local customs and people a foreigner would lack.  Though if the Curia is successful, it will also make him as much tax collector as warlord.”

“The duchy will be happy to assist in his payments to the Royal Court,” Anguin assured.  “He is a good and noble man.  As his seat at Preshar is threatened, I feel obligated to offer the man a replacement, in case of its loss.  Which is probably inevitable,” he sighed.  “His men keep the gurvani at bay daily, now.  They are valiant and well-provisioned, and Marcadine has taken in many dispossessed Wilderlords who have taken up his banner.  Even local tribes fearful of goblins,” he added.

“He is suitable for a number of political reasons,” Rardine agreed.  “He has the respect of both the people and the nobility, he is a war hero, and he was among the first to call for the duke to defend against the gurvani,” she reminded me.  “Over the last year he has proven a loyal and devoted counselor to my sweet lord.”

“If Preshar becomes untenable,” Anguin explained, “then we would install him at Castle Mitholiand, in western Areasad.  It is an old keep, but large, and with the help of the magi it could be made quite resilient, I am informed.  It also has historical significance,” he added.

“It does?” Rardine and I both asked at the same time, earning each other a glance.

“Spend a few years in a monastery with a patriotic monk, sometime, and you’ll learn a few things,” he said, wryly.  “Yes, Mitholiand is an ancient fortress, one of the oldest in the Wilderlands.  When the Alshari began exploring the Wilderlands, the first acknowledged Wilderlord was created at Mitholiand Castle, when Duke Asluin recognized Sire Dorcei of Mitholiand for sending a company of axemen to Gilmora in support of his claim.  The good Duke even travelled to Mitholiand to hunt and hawk with the barbaric lord in his splendid hall, bathed in the hot springs naked with local maidens, and caused quite a scandal back in Gilmora.”

“Why does every story with you end with naked maidens?” complained Rardine.

“I just know a lot of stories about naked maidens,” the young duke shrugged.  “Did I mention I spent my adolescence in a monastery?  Something had to keep me going.  In any case, the southern Wilderlords all count their ancestors among that first group of axemen Dorcei led, so the significance of his seat will not be lost.”

“It sounds as if you have everything already figured out,” I pointed out.

“We like the validation of wizardly approval,” Rardine said, without sarcasm.  “The magi are going to be key to pushing to restore Anguin to Falas in the years to come.”

“I appreciate your confidence, Highness, as well as your ambition,” I said, politely.  “But let us not make plans for the color of the scarf before the wool has grown on the sheep.  Let’s keep you out of an abbey and see if we can’t just get you wed without starting a civil war,” I pleaded.  “Leave the empire-building for another day.”

“Oh, I’ll just fill my head with pretty dresses and romantic poetry, then,” she said, her sarcasm returning full-force as she batted her eyelashes.  Then she abruptly stopped.  “I can’t stop plotting any more than you could stop shitting sparks, Minalan,” she said, boldly.  “It’s in my nature.  If I’m going to marry this man, it is with the expectation that we will work to restore his birthright.  A birthright my mother covets with all her being,” she added, evilly.  “You have no idea how upset she was when she learned of the rebellion.  A kingdom without the jewel of Enultramar is incomplete, in her mind.”

“Your brother means to complete it,” I reminded her.

“My brother cannot complete a sentence without two counselors and a servant to tell him when to stop,” she snorted.  “His chances against the Five Counts are non-existent.  I’m amazed he’s still alive, after what I saw of the Alshari armada.  I will help Anguin re-take what was unfairly taken from him . . . in recompense for past wrongs,” she added.

“So be it,” I sighed.  “If this is the course you choose, then I will bear the message . . . and, yes, I will negotiate a dowry, in due time.  But let us get through this Curia first, shall we?  Without more . . . complications?” I pleaded.

“Why Minalan!” Rardine giggled.  “I thought you’d enjoy helping the Orphan Duke and the Discarded Princess!” she joked.  “You always struck me as such a rebellious spirit!  Now, I believe we have luncheon with Lenara and Andine,” she said, referring to Anguin’s younger sisters,” she said, rising.  “They are the sweetest young maids!”

I realized, with a start, that as Anguin’s wife Rardine would have social control over who they wed – or didn’t.  Or she could just turn them into killers.

Love is always a little complicated, at court.

I reported my findings to Rard through the discreet ear of the Court Wizard, passing along what I’d witnessed – in edited form – to Hartarian, mind-to-mind.

They want you to do what? he asked, in disbelief.

Believe me, it’s not something I asked for, I assured him.  It’s not even something I have time to do.  But they want me to open negotiations for Rardine’s dowry.  I don’t even know what that entails!  When the girls in my village had a dowry, it was figured in cows, sheep, and pigs!

We’re speaking of a significantly higher sum, here, Hartarian agreed.  It’s different among noble families, too.  A small estate, maybe a few cots to rent, and some silver to start a family with.  But this . . . I’ll speak to Kindine and see what he says.  Regardless, it seems a bit premature, considering how against the idea Grendine is.  She returned from meeting the clergy at Castabriel assured that they would rule in whichever way she demanded.

I hate the politics of the powerful, I admitted.  But please let Rard know that they’re serious.  It’s not mere rebellion, or opportunity for betrayal, it is calculated, and it’s actually based upon genuine affection.  I think they see each other as abused by the same people, or something, and have found . . . something between themselves in their pursuit of common cause.  Something a little disturbing, to be honest.

I’ll pass that along, sighed Hartarian.  You know what this will do to the Royal Court, don’t you?

I think that’s Rardine’s intent.  But she’s determined to force the issue.

And Grendine is just as determined to stop it, and put her wayward daughter in her place.  I think she’s so passionate about it because she’s worried about Tavard.  He was in a skirmish, yesterday.  Bandits.  He lost nearly twenty men and got chased back to Maidenspool.  And our crown princess is beside herself with anxiety.  She goes to the temple more often than the nuns.  She’s using her piety as leverage, with Grendine’s direction and support.

I take it you aren’t pleased with that?

I honestly don’t see the issue, Hartarian dismissed.  If Anguin was Duke enough to put Rard on the throne, he’s duke enough to marry who he pleases.  And they wanted Rardine out of the palace anyway.  I just don’t see the problem.  Kindine is more cautious, but then that old man sees plots everywhere.

It’s because after his long service in the Castali court he’s seen plots everywhere, I pointed out.  I can’t see any way around it.  The Princesses are going to have it out.

Gods save us all, he sighed.

“Yes, gods save us all,” I said, aloud, as I ended the connection.

“Good to know you remember us, from time to time,” came a sultry voice from beyond my closed eyelids.

“I figured you’d show up, sooner or later,” I shrugged, as I watched an intensely sensual young woman with long blonde hair spilling attractively over her shoulders sprawl immodestly on the couch in my study.  “Indeed, you have.  Advising Rardine to marry Anguin?” I asked, accusingly.

“It wasn’t mere whim,” Ishi insisted.  “I was under orders.  Of a sort.  The two shall be wed.  The gods so declare.”

“That’s . . . you . . . why . . .”

“Your infamous eloquence seems to have fled,” she smirked.  “You need to get laid, Minalan.  It’s been too long.”

“I’m a married man!” I reminded her, crossly.

“So, do your wife,” she shrugged.  “That’s what she’s there for.”

“She has the mind of a child!”

“She has the vagina of a healthy woman in her twenties,” Ishi countered.  “She wouldn’t mind.  Take my word for it.”

“I would mind,” I insisted.

“No matter,” she sighed, musically, her voice making my spine tingle.  “Just my advice.  You’re Trygg’s problem, now.  Speaking of which, Our Holy Mother has declared that Anguin and Rardine should be wed.  Will be wed,” she emphasized.

“Why?” I demanded.

“Because she said so, and she’s a goddess, so you must do what she says,” Ishi taunted me.

“Six hells, I do,” I snapped.  “Enough with the ‘mere mortal’ crap.  Why?”

“There’s a prophecy involved,” she finally admitted, quietly.

“Oh, nine fucking hells!” I exploded, angrily.  “A prophecy?  Really?” I demanded.

“Yes, a prophecy,” she agreed, enjoying my discomfort.  “You are just dreamy when you get worked up, did you know that?  I’m all dewy!  In any case, I have it on highest authority that this prophecy must come to pass.  Mama says.”

“Can’t she give me any better reason than that?” I whined.

“What better reason than combining love and revenge?” Ishi countered.  “Come now, Minalan, even you have to admit the match has a romantic element to it.  It’s a romantic lay for the ages!” she said, delighting in the double meaning.

“It’s a pain in my ass,” I groaned.  “They’ve got me discussing terms of dowry, now,” I complained.

“Details,” she dismissed, with a pretty wave of her hand.  “I trust you to do right by her – she’s earned it.  She’s a virgin, you know,” she confided, a twinkle in her eye.  “She’s going to—”

“This is not something I want to hear,” I insisted.  “You know she tried to kill me, once?”

“You got better.  Now she’s on your side.  Or you’re on her side.  Whichever.  But the prophecy said that they must wed.  The less detail you know, the better – it would only complicate things.”

“Prophecy always complicates things.  I don’t know why you gods allow it.”

“Not all of us do, Handsome,” purred Ishi.  “The most I’ll give one of my worshippers is a clue as to whether or not they’ll have a successful seduction.  I leave the heavy lifting to the mystical types.”

“Good thinking.  Play to your strengths,” I said, earning a look.  “So, I get them . . . married.  Then what?”

“That’s all you need concern yourself with, for now.  You’ll have enough other matters to concern yourself with afterwards that I don’t think . . . oops!  I’ve said too much!” she said, dramatically, looking around for imaginary eavesdroppers while placing her dainty fingers across her lips, mockingly.

“Yes, I’m assuming I’ll be busy,” I said, patiently.  “There’s a war on, remember?  One that just heated up.  By dragonfire.”

“We’re aware,” she sighed.  “Korbal is nasty business.  Korbal with Sheruel in his pocket is nasty and dangerous.  The dragons are just frosting on the cupcake.”

“I know.  We’re preparing.  The goblin civil war might buy us a little time . . . or it might not.  If you have a prophecy concerning that, don’t tell me – I like to be surprised.”

“Aw!  Then I probably shouldn’t tell you that Grendine and Rard are planning on summoning Rardine and Anguin to the capital to hear the clergy’s decision.  It’s a surprise, to keep them off-guard.  They think if they present them with the report, forcefully, they can guilt Rardine into either a sub-standard marriage with that boor from Vore, or into a convent.”

“They dramatically underestimate her determination,” I observed.

“That, they do,” Ishi agreed.  “Rardine matured a lot, in that cell.  It shook a lot of the girlish peevishness out of her soul, and made her face life as her own woman.  That’s not something even a Queen can take away from her.  She sees her best opportunity for a happy life and she’s taking it.  Grendine doesn’t realize that.  It’s going to bite her in the ass so hard!” she said, giggling.

“You enjoy this kind of madness?”

“Intrasexual competition is always fun,” the goddess of love and beauty sighed.  “Add in the intergenerational component, and this is just juicy!  Like that crack Princess Armandra made to you about your wife?  Oh, that was painfully delicious.  And it compelled you to choose a side,” she added.  “You must find that amusing!”

“I fail to be entertained,” I admitted, dryly.  “But thank you for your warning about the surprise summons.  I’ll ensure that the happy couple has a lawbrother at the ready, and are prepared to answer it.  Forcefully.”

“Oh, I just love it when you talk that way!” she cooed.

“While I have you here, do you have any . . . divine guidance for my older apprentice?”

“Lenodara?” she snorted.  “She needs to get her head out of her nest, get over herself, and make some decisions,” she said, crossly.

“Anything . . . helpful?”

“My sacred tits, you mortals want everything spelled out, don’t you?  Tell her to follow her heart, trust herself, and make the decision her heart says will make her happy,” she recited, rolling her eyes.  “But that she shouldn’t linger.  She’s not getting any younger, and Festaran’s head is already turning in other directions.”

“What about Gareth?”

“Gareth?  She burned that boy badly,” she said, shaking her head.  “They would have made a magnificent match, but she rejected him and hurt his pride.  He will never come back to her.  Unless I get involved.”

“Would you?”

“I sent her two perfectly-good suitors to choose from, the arcane and the chivalrous.  She rejected the arcane.  Rejected him so hard that the boy is nearly immune from my influence, now . . . nearly,” she added.  “So, unless Dara wants to spend the rest of her life alone, smelling of bird shit, she’d better make a decision.  Or I’ll make it for her.  And she’ll regret that for the rest of her life.  Tell her that,” she snapped.

“Now, I’m so glad I stopped by,” she said, standing. “but I have to get out to the Westlands and get those people procreating.”

“Really?  Ishi’s tits, they’ve just been through a horrible disaster!” I said, appalled.

“Which really hikes up the sex drive,” she assured me.  “Put a man and a woman in a life-or-death situation, see them both survive, and the first convenient opportunity they’re going at it.  Someone has to make that kind of irresponsible, spontaneous bad decision happen,” she said proudly.

“It just doesn’t seem like the kind of divine assistance they need.”

“Don’t be silly, I need to ensure a wave of hope-dispensing births.  It’s not about them, it’s about the next generation.  Orders are to make babies.  Because there’s a war on,” she reminded me, indignantly.  “We need the people, so I’m off to make more.”

And she was gone.

At least she didn’t use a gout of flame for her exit, like Briga – just a quick shower of golden sparks and the linger scent of primal femininity in the air.

I wasn’t sure how to relay Ishi’s advice to Dara without attracting more bird shit, and in truth it was not something I felt I should have to.  But it was also something I couldn’t delegate.  When you get a message from a goddess, you feel obligated to deliver it personally.

But when the hell did I get that job?

It was a minor inconvenience, I decided, in a world of calamitous inconveniences.  Like Rardine and Anguin.  That was a far more pressing issue.  As was the approaching meeting of the new war council.  As was the war – the war was always a pressing issue.

I was feeling overwhelmed, and just the least bit sorry for myself, I knew.  I poured myself a large cup of spirits, chilled them magically, and went upstairs to my workshop.  I didn’t have any particular intention in mind, though the components of my new war staff were laid out.  I considered working on them, but I just didn’t feel like enchantment, right then.  Too much work.

Instead I wandered over to the pile of tekka scattered across the other workbench.  Well, not scattered, I could see – Ruderal had arranged all the pieces carefully and neatly on the cloth-covered bench.  Nearby was a long scroll of notes on the various pieces that he’d put together, including a long stream of gibberish he’d recorded off one or more of the pieces.

I studied the notes, grateful to have something intellectual to focus on that had nothing to do with evil dark lords, vengeful princesses, smart-ass goddesses, or romantically confused apprentices.

It was intriguing list, detailing the composition, size, shape, and proposed function of each piece.  Behind that, a second scroll detailed the symbols that appeared on one of the pieces – a “display module” according to Lilastien, whatever that was – and changed in a predictable pattern.  The same three set of symbols, repeatedly.

Ruderal’s notes indicated that the lines were new, following some other mysterious behaviors by the pile of ancient junk.

I rolled up the scroll and decided to follow my intuition.  As tired as I was, and as wary as I was of travel, this was a riddle that was – thankfully – entirely unimportant, in the scheme of things.  A riddle that could be answered, if you know the right people to ask.

For once, I did.

Chapter Sixty-Six

Raiding Tavard’s Treasury

NETWORK CONNECTION ERROR – CALSAT OFFLINE – NO SIGNAL DETECTED

I/O DEVICE ERROR – NO OUTPUT DEVICE DETECTED

POWER 7% - INPUT FACTORY PASSCODE AFTER INSTALLATION FOR REINITIALIZATION

“So, what the hell does that mean?” I demanded of Lilastien, as we followed the guard through the long, vaulted corridor that lead to the treasury.  “I know plenty of Old High Perwynese, but this . . . this might as well be nonsense.”

“It’s technical nonsense,” Lilastien agreed, pleasantly, as she read over it and smiled.  “A kind of obscure poetry, in its way.  A language far more technical in nature than even your schools of enchantment.  It took me years to learn how to interpret it,” she confessed.  “It’s a kind of code, in itself.”

“That’s why I needed you.  I don’t know the code,” I said, simply.  “And since I had a spare moment, I figured I’d invite you to help me plunder my liege’s collection of fine and rare antiquities, the largest collection of tekka in the Riverlands.”

“Bunch of old junk, you ask me,” grunted the guard.  “Hardly anyone even comes down here, anymore.  Except to screw,” he chuckled, as he unlocked the thick iron door with a key from his belt.  “Hold on, my lords, and I will fetch a torch.”

“You needn’t bother,” I said, waving a big magelight into existence in front of me, and sending it to the top of the vaulted chamber.  The pale light illuminated the odd shapes and various sizes of hundreds of strange pieces.  Some emitted tiny lights of their own, like ancient enchantments perpetually waiting activation until their power fades away.

“This is delightful!” the old Tera Alon lady said, clapping her hands together.  “And it brings back so many memories!”

“Those are what I need,” I agreed.  “I have no idea what this stuff is.  You do.  I figured if you could identify some of the pieces for me, we could at least grab what we need to heal the . . . whatever it is.  It says some things are missing,” I said, being able to translate at least a few words.  “And this references the great Eagle of Orvatas, Calsat,” I pointed out.  “His eyes over the world and his messenger.”

She giggled.  “I love that!  Calsat isn’t a big eagle in the sky,” she corrected, “Calsat is the network of tiny machines your people installed in the heavens to facilitate communication over long distances.  Much like you do with the mind-to-mind enchantment.  Calsat stands for the Callidore Satellite Network.  Calsat.  But if I recall, their corporate logo included a stylized eagle,” she remembered.

“The Skyfather will be very upset to hear that his noble companion is a mere . . . artifact,” I chuckled.

“Orvatas himself wasn’t originally a sky god,” Lilastien continued, as she began to survey the piles of tekka around us.  “In fact, Orvatas was another machine, of sorts.  Orvatas is the Orbital Vehicle Transport system,” she informed me.  “The small ships that your ancestors used to ferry themselves from the New Horizon down to Callidore, and back again.  Or to bring supplies to their various colonies separated by distance.”

“Are there any other . . . divine misconceptions?” I asked, amused.  “Briga, for instance?” I couldn’t resist.  If I could get some gossip on my patroness, I had to.

“No, no, Briga is pure Narasi barbarian fire-and-vengeance goddess,” she chuckled.  “Ishi was originally a beautiful performer who looked nothing like her present incarnation.  Herus, though,” she smiled.  “Herus is partially derived from a messenger and delivery service from the Later Magocracy.  The Herus Company shipped goods overland between the new colonies.  I believe Herus evolved in part when his first devotee was born in an abandoned shop of theirs.  Just a theory.”

“Somehow, I don’t think he’d find that scandalizing.”

“No, I think he’d be proud,” she agreed.  “Oh, this is nice!” she said, picking up a . . . thing.  “A food processor.  Or part of it.  Once, every home on Perwyn had one of these.  It’s like having an entire kitchen full of servants preparing your meals,” she said, putting it back down.

“What’s this?” I asked, moving over to the largest piece.  It was huge, resembling a wagon down to the wheels.  Only they weren’t like any wheels I’d ever seen.  There were six of them, for one, three on each side, and the wagon – if that’s what it was – was fully enclosed by thick metal and painted dark green.  “It looks impressive.”

“That is one of the ancient exploration vehicles – self-propelled,” she added, as she walked around the wagon.  “Armored, self-contained power, full of equipment to inspect and survey the colony’s transformation of the mainland into what it looks like, today.  I only saw a few of them, but in the early days they roamed all over Merwyn and the coasts.  They were called ‘beasts’.”

“It looks pretty beastly,” I agreed.  “It’s like a tiny castle on wheels.  And that?” I asked, pointing to an elegant-looking thing like a long, shiny lance.

“Some sort of antennae,” she said, absently, as she rooted through another pile.  “Part of a device to send messages back and forth over long distances.  Ah!  I think this is what we’ll need, based on what you showed me,” she said, raising a device triumphantly into the air in her frail hands.  “This is from some library.  A study device.  But it should have everything we need to supply your project.  It should interface with the other unit automatically.”

“Interface?”

She sighed.  “There is so much technical language you have lost, Minalan.  It’s sad that only an old bird like me remembers any of it, anymore.  And I only know a very small part of it.”

I looked around some more.  “Are there any weapons?” I asked, hopefully, as my eye settled on a pile of dangerous-looking . . . things.

She followed my gaze.  “Oh.  Those.  Yes, technically, those are weapons . . . but if you’re looking for something to kill a dragon, I doubt these would be adequate.  They were designed to work on humans, or similar human-like creatures.”  She started sorting the pile carefully.  “Your ancestors had a remarkable talent with such things, despite their generally peaceful nature.  These weapons are as powerful as warspells, but completely mechanical.”

“We were peaceful?” I chuckled.  “That doesn’t sound like us.”

“Actually, your race was completely peaceful during the initial colonization phase.  They didn’t start to get violent until almost a century later, and even then, they largely only fought among themselves.  In fact, most of this stuff is simple security material, not military weapons.  This,” she said, removing a large, heavy cylinder from the pile with a grunt, “is the most powerful one here.  The charge is long gone, of course, but once it was capable of projecting a powerful and highly destructive beam of plasma.”

“I’ve got warspells that can do that,” I bragged.

“So, do we . . . as your race discovered when the troubles began.  The first time our two peoples came to blows, that I can recall, involved a dispute between a coastal settlement and a refuge in Merwyn.  Some troublemakers on both sides pushed the issue until it got violent.  The civil authorities dispatched a military expedition from Novaminos to quell the trouble, and they got there just in time to see some authentic Alka Alon warmagic.  After that, we moved our refuges back from the coast.  And your people were a lot more respectful of how you spoke to us.”

“But there’s nothing here that could take a dragon?” I asked.  I was amused by the story, but I needed answers.

“Not that I can see,” she admitted.  “But then I was far more familiar with the colony’s medical technology than I was their military machines.  But they did have powerful weapons.  They were just wise enough to keep them on the New Horizon, not leave them laying around for rebels to get ahold of.”

That was disappointing.  But informative.  The Forsaken were guarding a cache of ancient weapons, somewhere in the sky.

“Oh, well, it was worth a shot,” I sighed.  “I really had hoped that there would be something useful here.”

“Are you joking, Minalan?” Lilastien asked.  “This is a trove!  There is plenty here that can be put to use, and things that could lead us to other pockets of your ancestors’ craft hidden away.  The ancient knowledge locked away in some of these things is priceless.  If you can but assemble and restore it, and access it, you will have done your race a boon that can never be repaid.”

“I think you might be overstating that.”

“I don’t,” she defended, picking up a stack of . . . something.  “What you don’t understand is just how sophisticated your ancestors were about such things.  They took their fetish for the written word to extremes.  And they had innumerable teaching machines, as intelligent in their way as a servant.  If you can restore but a few of them, enough to give you a glimpse, I’m hoping that you can begin discovering the incredible legacy your ancestors left you.”

“Perhaps.  So how much of this should I take?”

“How much can you take?”

“My agreement with Tavard was that I pay fair market value,” I told her.  “I have the money.  I just need to know what to take.”

“Take it all,” she decided.  “No, really, Minalan, as expensive as that sounds, take it all.  This equipment is irreplaceable.  And, honestly, I really don’t know which things are going to be useful, and which aren’t.  Even though I lived amongst your ancestors for a few decades, my experience was limited.  Take it all.”

I sighed, and drew the wand I use for carrying hoxters.  “You’re lucky I’m unimaginably wealthy.  And insatiably curious.”  She smiled as I began to push everything there into the big cargo hoxters in the wand.  A few minutes later, everything in the vault, including the “beast” wagon, was stuffed into an extradimensional space.

“Have His Highness send me a bill for the entirety,” I told the guard, tipping him generously on the way out.  “I’ll pay it directly.”

I accompanied Lilastien back to the Tower of Refuge, because I desperately wanted to see Alya.  And I did.  Some of the real Alya.

My wife was walking the grounds of the tower as she did most afternoons, Lilastien told me, and we caught up with her at the far end of the compound.

As usual, I was amazed to see her look more like Alya.

“The Handmaiden is doing a remarkable job,” Lilastien said, pleased.  “I was going to contact you, before you summoned me to go junk shopping.  Yesterday, right after her treatment, she took a nap.  When she woke up, there was a noticeable improvement in her condition.”

“What?” I demanded, anxiously.

“Let’s go see for yourself,” she said, smugly, as she led me to my wife.

Alya looked up as we approached, and for the first time in a year I saw her recognize someone.

“Hello, Lilastien,” she said, clearly.  I almost jumped out of my skin.

“Hello, Alya,” Lilastien said, in a friendly, clear voice.  “How are you feeling?”

“Much better,” Alya said.  “I ate all my luncheon.  I had a nap.”

“Good, good,” Lilastien said, as she began doing a cursory examination of Alya, checking her pulse, pupils, and reflexes while she spoke.  “This gentleman here is special, Alya.”

“I know,” she said, nodding her head solemnly.  I felt a surge of excitement.

“Do you remember him?  From . . . before?”

“I . . .” she began, searching.  Then her face wrinkled up in contrition.  “A little?” she offered.

“He is a very important man to you, Alya,” Lilastien explained, gently.  “He is your husband.”

“My . . . husband,” she repeated.  “You are my husband.”

“He is your mate,” she explained.  “The father of your children.”

“My children,” she repeated.  “I have children.”

“You know what those words mean?” the Sorceress asked, patiently.

She nodded her head, solemnly.  She looked at me.  “You are my husband.”

“He’s been very worried about you for a very long time, Alya.”

“I am much better,” Alya assured me, gravely.

“Yes, you are, Alya,” I said, my voice breaking.  “I’ve checked on you often.”

“I know,” she said, without elaborating.  “I am much better.”

“She’s been like this since yesterday?”

“Every day the treatment knits together more,” Lilastien agreed.  “Sometimes the results are dramatic, like this.  It’s only been a few weeks, Minalan.  Give it time, and we’ll see just how much we can get back.”

“Minalan,” Alya stated, loudly.  I startled.

“Yes, my name is Minalan,” I agreed, trying to steady my voice.

“Minalan.  You are my husband,” she stated.  It almost sounded like she was pleading.

“Yes, Alya.  I am your husband.  And I love you more than anything in the world.”

She stared at me, then nodded and looked away.

“That,” Lilastien said, with a gasp, “was remarkable!”

I didn’t have any words.  This was far more than I dared hope for.  This was so much less than I’d dreamed of.

But it was progress.

I returned to Sevendor after that, stowed my hoxter wand away in my workshop, and returned to the dull and dreary world of being a master-class wizard amid a political crisis.

I spent the rest of the evening speaking to various magi and informing myself on the latest developments in Alshar, in Maidenspool, and elsewhere, but particularly in the capital.  Rumors were flying everywhere about the scandalous proposal of marriage among the Royal House.

I made some arrangements with various people as contingencies, but I knew in my heart that there was no way Grendine would allow the alliance to continue.  For both political and personal reasons.  The signs in the capital were clear.

Princess Armandra had wrapped herself in a thick mantle of piety, lavishly donating to temples and abbeys while speaking about her divine visitation in Sevendor.  She was whipping the entire Temple Ward of Castabriel into a frenzy, and suddenly every pulpit and street corner preacher were giving sermons on morality.

I admit, it was a more politically astute move than coming out against the proposal on the basis of Anguin as duke of Alshar.  The Crown still depended upon his nominal support, and until the Curia met and reformed the tribute payments, the Royal Court still needed all three Dukes to be seen paying their fair share.  Hammering at the match from an ecclesiastic perspective was less damaging.

But I had a little pull of my own.  Through associates at the Arcane Orders complex, several discrete donations were made to the Temple of Ishi . . . and soon every whore in the capital was whispering in favor of the match.  It wasn’t much, perhaps, but it was what I could do.

At last the fateful day came when Tyndal told me, mind-to-mind, that Duke Anguin and Princess Rardine had been summoned to the royal palace to consult with Their Majesties and certain members of the court about the proposed marriage.  I dressed up in my finest wizardly court robes, grabbed Pathfinder and came through the Ways on Hartarian’s Waystone.

The hall I materialized into was large, and it needed to be.  Behind a table on the dais Rard and Grendine were seated, with Kindine at hand along with three clergymen and a squadron of lawbrothers and clerks.  They were both dressed somberly.

To one side stood Princess Armandra, with a retinue of lawbrothers, Castali court officials, and Count Moran.  She was elegantly dressed in a Remeran gown of severe cut and exquisite fabric.  She bore her coronet like a buck bears his antlers.

To the other was Duke Anguin, Princess Rardine, and his courtiers, including Count Angrial and several High Magi.  Tyndal, Rondal, Mavone, and – surprisingly – Lord Hance, who stood out with his striking white hair and violet eyes.

I took a place somewhere in the middle.  I wasn’t exactly neutral, but I didn’t want to be visibly associated with either side, at the moment.  Politics.

“My lords and ladies, we call this special court today to address the proposal made by Anguin, Duke of Alshar, to wed Rardine, Princess of Castalshar,” Rard began, after the herald called everyone to order.  “As this is as much a matter of state as it is a matter of family, I felt obligated to open these proceedings to all interested parties.”

“My liege,” Anguin objected, “while I appreciate your discretion to rule your court as you see fit, may I ask why Princess Armandra is therefore included?  What interest does she have in these affairs?”

“She stands representative of her absent lord husband, and sovereign of Castal in her own right,” Queen Grendine answered, coolly.  “He has a fraternal interest in this proposed marriage.”  There was much murmuring from the Alshari side.

“Why?” demanded Rardine.  “I am not a member of the Castali court . . . any more,” she added, with a snort.  “This is a matter between the Royal House and the House of Alshar, not Castal.  It was made abundantly clear that I was no longer considered part of the Castali future when I returned from Olum Seheri.”

“Because someone must stand for propriety in these matters,” Armandra said, haughtily.  “Your brother would object to this ill-considered proposal, were he here.”

“By what standing has he to object?” countered Anguin.  “His father, the head of his house, is hale and in his prime.  It is his decision, under the law, that matters.  Not her brother’s.”

“Yet this is also a marriage between great houses,” Lord Moran countered.  “As such, Castal has an inherent interest.”

“We have no political objection to the marriage,” Armandra clarified, “but we are concerned with its propriety.  I speak for Tavard who would surely wish to ensure that morality was firmly adhered to regarding his beloved sister.”  That earned her a look from Rardine that would have killed a lesser woman.

“I have determined that Castal has a right to be present in these proceedings,” Rard said.  “I did not say that the duchy has the right to do more than observe and advise.  I have been assured that this is a legitimate proposal, and one that merits all due and valid consideration.”

“Thank you!” Rardine huffed.

“It is my understanding, then, that you wish to wed your cousin, Rardine?” Grendine asked, severely.

“Yes, my Queen, it is,” Rardine agreed, pleasantly.

“Despite your close relation?” she added.

“There is ample history of such unions in the Five Duchies,” Rardine reminded her.  “I brought a couple of lawbrothers full of them.  Including the Duke of Merwyn marrying his half-sister, sixty-five years ago.”

“Over the objections of the clergy,” one of the high priests pointed out.  The Temple of Orvatas, of course.  They were among the most conservative of sects.

“Yet their son was known as ‘the great’ after his death,” Rardine continued, smoothly, “and both father and son are regarded with admiration and respect to this day.  Where, then, was the taint of impropriety?”

“This is Castal, my lady, not Merwyn,” Armandra insisted.  “We have a higher standard to uphold here.  The ways of the Merwyni are well-known to us.”

“And you are from Remere, so don’t pretend to suddenly bear Castali standards, my lady,” Rardine charged in return.  “Observe, please, as you were directed.”  She turned back to her parents.  “I wish to marry Anguin.  My cousin.  The man who rescued me from oblivion when no one else would,” she added, harshly enough to make Grendine flinch.  “Would any woman in my position be willing to offer a lesser reward for her life and freedom?”

“Your gratitude to your rescuer does you credit,” Grendine replied, “but there is far more at stake than mere thankfulness can purchase.  You are a Princess of the Royal House.”

“And he is a Duke of a brother house,” Rardine contested.  “He is of rank.  He is of station.  He bears me kindness, respect, and affection.  He professes to love me, and I return the emotion.  We are young and eligible.  Therefore, there should be no legal impediment to our union . . . unless you wish to make this a political matter,” she said, her tone changing from reasonable to threatening in an instant.

“Let us be civil about this,” Rard insisted.  “Rardine, we’re here because we are considering this seriously.  But there are reasonable questions to be asked, and the issue of consanguinity is paramount.”

“Letting that issue aside, a moment,” Rardine said, “I wish to hear what dowry you have prepared, before you make your objections.  To demonstrate your good faith,” she said, her eyes narrowing.

“Isn’t that quite premature?” Grendine asked, icily.

“Is your good faith so difficult to prove?” Rardine returned.

Grendine sighed in frustration, but nodded toward a lawbrother.  He came forward and read a list of properties that would be included in any marriage contract between the two houses.

It was a long list . . . but I realized fairly quickly that on it were many of the choice estates Grendine had originally taken in her own dowry.

Estates that lay in rebel-controlled Enultramar.

Oh, there were plenty of bits of Castal that were on the list, mostly estates in Gilmora or the Castali Wilderlands, but the real prizes were lands that Rardine couldn’t touch.  It was subtle, but insulting.

But when the list was read, after a brief consultation with Anguin and Count Angrial, Rardine and the Duke both nodded.

“That is acceptable,” Anguin said, without emotion.

“So good of you to approve,” Grendine said, crossly.  “But the point is really moot, isn’t it?  I have had the best minds of the finest temples in Castabriel researching the matter, and they are here to present their findings.”

“No doubt you do, Mother,” Rardine nodded, calmly.  “And I hope you paid them well for their researches.

“But I wish to discuss a matter in private, before we hear their presentations,” she continued.  “Just you, me, Daddy, Anguin, Master Hance . . . and Baron Minalan the Spellmonger,” she said.  “And the Prime Ministers for each duchy.”

“What about me?” demanded Armandra.

“Count Moran can represent your duchy’s interests, but this is a family matter,” Rardine insisted.  “My family.”  She turned back to her parents.  “We need to speak, in private, in confidence, now.”

Grendine looked disturbed.

“Why?  Why do we need these wizards included?  What are you up to, Rardine?”  She thought furiously for a moment.  “Dear goddess, are you pregnant?” she demanded, causing a burst of murmurs and titters among all in the hall.

“I really suggest we don’t discuss this matter in open court, Mother,” Rardine said, carefully.  “Indeed, for your sake, I suggest you swear all involved to secrecy, before we return to this proceeding.  Because I really don’t think you’d like the results of some secrets being known.”

“We will recess,” Rard declared, before Grendine could craft an acidic reply.  “The Cloak Room.  Now.  The rest of you stay here,” he grunted.

Chapter Sixty-Seven

The Blood Of Grendine

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” demanded Grendine, as soon as the guards shut the door behind us.

“I am doing what I have to, to get the job done – just as I was taught,” taunted Rardine.

“Daughter,” Rard said, commandingly.  “Explain yourself.  With expediency.”

She looked over at Anguin who nodded.

“First of all,” she said, glaring at her mother, “I’m not pregnant.  My virtue is entirely intact,” she said, sourly.  “But thank you so much for introducing that element of speculation into court, Mother!”

“Rardine!” Rard snapped.

“Fine!  Well, my revered parents, one of the great things about being rescued by a duke in his own right is he has access to all sorts of juicy gossip about his homeland,” Rardine began, pouring herself a glass of wine from the table.

“In fact, my darling Anguin’s dear departed parents had many insights into the Alshari court.  Indeed, some of their old friends still linger, lamenting the untimely and curiously-timed deaths of their sovereigns.  Lord Hance is one such,” she said, bowing slightly to the white-haired shadowmage.

“It is true,” Hance admitted.  “Anguin and I had a friendship that went back for years.  Mostly in the shadows,” he added.

“I . . . do vaguely recall a white-haired boy in his company, from time to time,” Grendine acknowledged, cautiously.

“I wasn’t always white-haired, when Lenguin and I spoke,” Hance chuckled.  “But we were fast friends, as much as we could be.  He trusted me.  For example,” he continued, “he revealed to me the private name your father had for your mother’s dog,” he said.  “The one he never used in front of anyone but family and his closest confidants.  Lady Fart Puppy,” he said.

Grendine gasped, while Rardine giggled and the rest of us tried to maintain our composure.

“That was, indeed, what he called her.  She had stomach problems,” Grendine recalled.  “Very well, you knew Lenguin.  What of it?”

“I not only knew him, but he trusted me,” Hance continued, removing a pouch from his belt.  “He had suspicions of . . . certain persons at court who coveted his inheritance, and for various individuals he used me for protection, of a sort.”

“You don’t look like much of a duelist, my lord,” Count Moran observed.

“Let us hope we never find out, my lord,” Hance said, a clear warning in his voice.  “Regardless, that was not the kind of protection he sought.  He needed someone to entrust with his sensitive personal affects.  I fulfilled that role.”

“Just what do you mean?” Rard asked, frowning.

“Among the items he gave me was this box,” he said, taking a small square container out of the pouch.  “It’s Remeran make, designed to hold a signet ring,” he explained.  Its original owner was your father, Your Majesty,” he said.  “Perhaps you recognize it?”

“I do,” Grendine agreed, cautiously.

“Then perhaps you also recall that it was a gift to him from his cousin, Duke of Remere – Duke Clofalin’s uncle.  And as Remere had a more tolerant approach to the practice of magic than Alshar, at the time, it was specially made with an enchantment to ensure that, once locked, it could only be opened by His Grace.  Quite a reasonable thing for a duke to possess, wouldn’t you say?”

He held up the box to all.  It was only four inches by five inches, but it was exquisitely carved with the anchor-and-antlers device of Alshar – only with the cotton boll of Gilmora still surmounting it.

“Indeed, the enchantment utilizes a rare and precious substance known as blood coral,” he explained.  “Master Minalan, would you care to explain what blood coral does?”

“It’s an exceedingly precious substance that can be gotten only from the Sea Folk,” I said, taking the box in hand.  There was, indeed, a tiny shard of the stuff affixed to the design in the lid.  “It can be thaumaturgically tuned to respond only to one particular family line.  I use it myself, for things I want to keep private within my family,” I said, handing it back to him.

“So do many magi,” he agreed.  “I have some in my own house, to protect certain treasures and records from anyone outside of my family from disturbing them.  But it is a well-known and commonly used – allowing for its rarity – magical component,” he stated, as I nodded in agreement.  Then he suddenly turned and presented the box to the queen.  “Your Majesty, would you be so kind as to run your finger over the top of the box?  As you recall, that is how your father opened it.”

Grendine stared at the box as if it was about to leap up and attack her.

“My wife?” Rard asked, curiously, as she made no move to comply.

“What is your point, my lord?” she asked, staring daggers at the black-clad wizard.

“If you would just open the box, Your Majesty,” he urged.  “Just put your finger there, enough to make contact with the coral.”

“Why must I do this?” she demanded, angrily.

“I think you know why, Mother,” Rardine said, her eyes slitted.  “Here, let Anguin try,” she proposed.  “He’s the duke’s grandson, so he should be able to do it,” she said, taking the box from Hance and handing it to the duke.  Anguin ran his finger over the top, and the box popped open.  It was empty, inside.  All it contained was his legitimacy.

“Here,” Rardine said, closing it again and handing it to her mother.  “Now you try it,” she said, in a hurtful voice, as she pushed the closed box into her mother’s hands.

Trembling, Grendine placed her finger over the blood coral.  Nothing happened.

“It looks like my sainted mother is actually someone’s bastard,” Rardine said, in a quiet but vicious voice.  “Aren’t you glad you didn’t do all of this out in full court, now?”

“You little bitch!” gasped the queen.

“This development nicely removes the impediment of consanguinity,” Rardine said, snatching the box from her mother’s fingers.  “Anguin and I are not cousins, as it turned out.  Because my mother isn’t really his aunt, by blood.  She’s someone’s bastard, which makes her ineligible to marry, herself, without acknowledgement.  And certainly not to a sitting duke.  Why, if the Castali court ever discovered such a thing . . .” she said, looking slyly at Count Moran.  “There’s no telling what the reaction would be.”

“Or the Alshari nobles who rebel against me, denying the legitimacy of your rule,” Anguin agreed.  “They might be forced to kneel before Rard, someday, because they are forced to by politics or military force.  But to call a bastard, and the descendent of bastards, a king?  If I know the temper of my people at all, they will reject that.”

“This removes any hope of Tavard or his descendants from claiming an inch of Alshar, without conquest,” Rardine continued, sweetly.  “And I doubt the Remeran coronet would appreciate knowing they sent their pretty, pious brain-dead cunt to Castal to marry a duke who is illegitimate.”

“Grendine?” Rard asked, troubled.  “Is this true?”

“There were always rumors,” Grendine said in a whisper, refusing to look at anyone.  Her eyes were wet.  “Rumors that my mother was unfaithful, back in Remere.  But she denied them, she denied them all.”

“Of course she did,” Rardine continued.  “Revealing who your father was would destroy the opportunity to marry into Alshar.  But it explains why she favored Lenguin so ardently over you,” she realized.  “That’s why you always wanted Alshar for your own, because you knew you weren’t really entitled to it!”

“Watch your tongue, girl!” Grendine spat.  “I am your Queen!”

“You are certainly my mother,” agreed Rardine.  “But I am uncertain if you deserve to be queen.  If the matter of my consanguinity with Anguin is of note, then we will be happy to delve into it, in open court.  And let the bodies fall where they may,” she pronounced.

“No!” Rard insisted.  “Rardine, do you wish to plunge us into war?”

“No, I wish to get married,” she replied.  “Not only did he rescue me from Olum Seheri, when my own family scorned me, but he had devastating gossip that completely destroys the mother who abandoned me.  That deserves the hand of a princess, in my estimation.”

“If I withdraw my objection and allow this to proceed,” Grendine said, her voice a low and treacherous tone, “will you misplace that damnable box?”

“It would become moot,” Anguin offered.  “We could not deny your legitimacy without denying Rardine’s.  Having successfully concluded negotiations about the wedding and dowry, I would consider such a matter to lie in the realm of . . . family secrets.  And one I would be honor-bound, therefore, to keep.”

“And the rest of you?” demanded Grendine.  “What assurances do I have that this is never mentioned again?”

“I, of course, am eternally at your service, my queen,” Kindine said, with a sigh.  “You think I care if your mother . . . no, this will stay with me until I pass away.”

“I am already honor bound to keep this secret,” Hance agreed.  “I have fulfilled my duty to my old friend.  I am willing to be bound by my friendship with his son.”

“I am the epitome of discretion,” I pointed out.  “This is a secret I can keep.”  It also gave me some intangible leverage on Grendine – never a bad thing.

Then everyone looked at Count Moran.  As the Prime Minister of Castal, he had the most at stake in this deliberation.  The scandal could destroy the realm.  Yet Moran was enough of an opportunist to realize how he could potentially profit by the fall of the regime.

“Your Majesty, as I am the Prime Minister, my first duty lies in the lawful protection of the realm,” he began.  “I would be remiss—”

“Please understand that if you answer in any manner that displeases me,” Rardine said, her brow furrowed, “you will not live to see sunset.”

The count sighed.  “Of course, Your Majesty.  I have been entrusted with state secrets in the past.  I see no reason why I cannot keep this one, for the sake of the duchy.”

“That is uncommonly wise of you, Moran,” Grendine said, dangerously.  “Particularly from my son and daughter-in-law.  The result of this negotiation must be ensuring Tavard sits on the throne after Rard, and his son after him,” she declared.  “If anything jeopardizes that, there are not enough holes in Callidore for all of you to hide from me.  I won’t care if I am exposed as a bastard, because I won’t have anything to lose.  Do we have an understanding?” she demanded, earning a nod from everyone in the room.

“Good,” she finished, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief.  “Then we have an agreement.”  Without another word, she pushed open the doors and stomped back to the Library.

“The Crown withdraws its objections to the proposed marriage, and fully supports the rite,” she declared to the stunned court, a few moments later.

I thought Princess Armandra would soil her pretty little dress right there, and her dainty jaw dropped.

“It has been decided that the consanguinity issue should be no impediment to the joyful union of my beloved daughter and my cherished nephew.  It is the Crown’s ruling that there is nothing improper or immoral with two youths, raised separately, who choose to plight their troth.  Trygg’s blessing on you both,” she said . . . and stomped out of the room.

“Court is dismissed,” Rard called, loudly, by-passing the herald.  “I suppose we have another wedding to plan,” he added, with a sigh.

Rardine and Anguin embraced, and Tyndal, Rondal, Hance and the rest of his court actually cheered at the sight.

You seem pretty happy about this, I accused Tyndal, mind-to-mind.

I suppose I am, he admitted.  It’s what Anguin wanted.  And, I hate to admit, she’ll be useful to him.  She might be a murderous, hateful bitch, but now she’s Alshar’s murderous, hateful bitch.

An interesting perspective, I agreed.

The worst thing is the dowry, he continued, as he took a position behind the happy couple to be led out of the chamber.  Anguin was graciously allowing Princess Armandra’s retinue to retire first.  It’s generous, but most of it is in Alshar.  Rebel Alshar.  Which means it won’t be recovered until Anguin’s kids are adults.  But it’s his now, at least, he conceded.

I watched the two duchies leave the room as Lord Hance sidled up next to me.

“That was well done,” I praised.  “I had no idea.”

“I pride myself on subtlety and discretion,” he agreed.  “I’ve been carrying that secret for more than twenty years.  It was good to finally put it to such good use.”

“You really want Rardine as duchess?”

He shrugged.  “We could do worse.  Did you ever meet dear, departed Duchess Enora?”

“You make a compelling point,” I agreed, reluctantly.  Rardine was hardly a paragon of virtue, but she did have wit.  Anguin’s late mother resembled Princess Armandra more in her mental faculties than his bride.  “She’ll be an asset to the intelligence service, at least.”

“Are you kidding?  She’s already the head of the bloody intelligence service.  When she found out we had the Spider in the dungeon, she pumped him for information for days.  I’ve made extensive reports to her about matters in the south.  She’s already got a bit of a staff,” he chuckled.  “Not that there isn’t much to know in the Wilderlands that isn’t of military interest, but she’s delved into the position with a passion,” he said, admiringly.  “She may have sharpened her claws in Castal, but she’s Alshar’s cat, now.”

“Tyndal was saying much the same.  I do hope her loyalty is as steadfast as her passion.”

“Considering she just burned the bridge back to her family’s good graces, I’d say it’s a safe wager to make,” the shadowmage agreed.  “She’d rather be Duchess of a rustic castle in the Wilderlands than head of some decrepit abbey, under her mother’s thumb and her sister-in-law’s control.  And she really does love the lad, I think,” he added, as they left the room behind the Castali delegation.  “I think the rest of the court is headed to Castabriel for a few days, to celebrate the engagement.  My children are going to meet us there,” he added.  “It should be quite the revel.”

I chuckled.  “That will make Armandra sick to witness.  No, I have to get back to Sevendor, now that this is settled.  I have work to do that doesn’t involve matrimony and civil war.”

“I’m glad someone is paying attention to those things,” Hance smiled.  “Truly.  Things are getting ugly, back in Enultramar – with the fleet out with most of the soldiers we’re having a bad spate of ‘insurrection weather’, as they say.  A lot of grumbling about the state of the duchy, the Five Counts are arguing, and there’s something dark going on in the southeast that everyone is worried about but no one is talking about.”

“No worry about Tavard’s intrepid expedition?” I asked, surprised.

He shook his head.  “Most don’t even know he’s there,” he admitted.  “The fact that he tried to invade Maidenspool has amused those who are aware of him.  The Count of Arangalan has nearly fifteen thousand troops in his lands, alone, and can have additional men brought in within days.  He hasn’t mobilized more than a few companies.  He hasn’t seen any sign of Castali on the bay side of his lands, so he isn’t concerned.”

“Well, I’ve sent three shipments to keep his men eating so far.  But not quite enough to allow him to extend his lines.  I was essentially compelled to by Moran.”

“I’ll let Anguin know,” Hance agreed.  “He’s got more wit than either of his parents, and he’s as likable as his father.  He’ll understand.”

“I hope so,” I agreed.  “I’m running out of dukes to piss off.”

The news of Rardine and Anguin’s engagement spread across the kingdom in hours.  Tyndal and Rondal apparently paid for Mirror messages to be sent out to all the prominent houses of high nobility, as well as subsidizing a massive effort to frame their marriage in just the right way.

Silver flowed freely into the purses of minstrels and jongleurs across the city to compose favorable poems about the Orphan Duke’s heroic rescue of the beautiful Princess Rardine from the clutches of the Evil Necromancer.  With, I might add, the help of his wizard friend, the Spellmonger.   I don’t think I’d ever been in a heroic song before.

The Alshari party ended up making a five-day celebration of the announcement, moving into one of Rardine’s townhouses she was only vaguely aware that she owned, and proceeding to drown out the toneless preaching of morality in Castabriel’s streets with their romantic, dashing antics.

My lads figured prominently in that – once the Cats of Enultramar joined them, they had a general holiday.  I heard that Atopol and Gatina got into a thieves’ duel – where they dared each other to steal increasingly valuable items and place them in equally unlikely spots to prove their abilities.  I’m sure it was something impressive to witness . . . if there were any witnesses.

I was glad they were having a good time.  It was looking increasingly likely that they would be re-deployed, before long.

When I returned to Sevendor, it was to a pile of dispatches from Astyral, chronicling the advance of various units from the Penumbra toward the eastlands.  Sometimes they advanced and halted, other times they turned and attacked a rival compound, but the gurvani were on the move.

I helped Astyral and Azar coordinate a response, with the latter using the steady retreat of the Tudrymen across the river to the east bank.  I was gratified to hear that the residents weren’t protesting too much at the orders.  There was a sense of acceptance that Tudry was done for.

They’d had plenty of time to get used to the idea that their town was in decline, the inevitable target of attack.  Prosperity would not return to Tudry until the threat of the gurvani were gone.  With the prospect of a new life and better times in mage-protected Vanador, they were sullenly packing up everything they possibly could and driving their wagons away from tired old Tudry while they still could.  They recalled what an army of goblins did to the town and countryside.  They wanted no part of a renewed offensive.

Nor was that the only disturbing news.  Mavone, embedded with a company of Alshari Commandos ahead of Salgo’s winter expedition, probed the frontier between the Westlands baronies and the stark wastes of the Alshari midlands.  What he’d found was troubling.

Remember the atrocities the gurvani performed in the Wilderlands?  We don’t have that, here.  Two villages we came across were just empty.  There was sign of a struggle.  Blood.  But no bodies.

Are they just hunting, now?

Not hunting, he warned.  Recruiting.  The places are thick with necromantic residue, he said, disgusted.  I’m guessing that they were turned.  We’ve encountered undead here and there the entire route.  Mostly in ones or twos.

Scouts, perhaps, or sentries, I offered.

That’s what we think, too.  There must have been two hundred people in those two villages.  Now they aren’t here to protect.  It’s spooky, Min.

Keep your eyes out, and let me know as soon as you see anything else noteworthy, I ordered.  Korbal wouldn’t have gone to the effort to soften up that region if he wasn’t planning on capitalizing on it.

Want to hear something worse?  The third village we passed was intact, he reported.  The people were all there.  But they’d mistakenly tried to help a couple of the undead from the next village over.  They realized their mistake too soon . . . but even after they buried the bodies, there were problems.  People started to get sick, he said, with a dull mental voice.

What kind of sick? I asked, my blood freezing in my veins.

The kind that starts with one person, and quickly spreads to the entire village, he said.  It’s some sort of plague.

What are the symptoms?

We didn’t stick around long enough to get an account – believe me, those poor bastards looked half-dead themselves.  They had lost one man in twenty, at that point, and the rest weren’t long behind them.  But they’d been exposed three days before, if that helps.

I took the location of the villages and promised to pass them along to Terleman.  If Korbal and the Nemovorti were using disease as a weapon, we might be in for more trouble than I thought.  There is more than one way to wage warfare, I reflected, and Korbal had hit upon our inherent weakness: our biology.

Plague was a horrid thing.  It could come in many forms, and its spread could belie every effort to contain and treat it.  There had been two outbreaks in the eighteen months I’d been in Farise, as the crews of ships from far-flung corners of the Shallow Sea brought their pestilence to port.  The usual remedy was to quarantine the ship, tow it out to the center of the harbor, and set it afire with the dying crew inside.  It was a severe measure, but about the only way to keep such disease at bay.

That worked for a busy urban port, but what could you do when the infected could stumble to the next village in search of aid, and spread the disease to everyone there?  With a three-day incubation period, that could be devastating.

That was not an army we could defeat.  If the contagion spread from the sparsely-peopled west to the populous regions, that could imperil millions.  Korbal’s job would be done for him without one dragon taking flight.

I spent the next several days conferring with Master Icorod, Pentandra, and other wise folk to discuss the matter, which became even more urgent when Mavone discovered two more infected villages.  He took what steps he could and retreated to a tiny hamlet with his men on the Alshari side of the border to await Count Salgo’s larger force, but he was feeling pressured by the taint of disease.

Worse, the undead that sometimes arose from those devastated villages were carrying the stain. Mavone wasn’t certain whether it was a side-effect of the disease, or if it was the result of some force utilizing the corpses for their own purposes, but he didn’t linger to find out.  The prospect of his men contracting the blight was too much.

I could appreciate that.  On that horrible march through the jungles and mountains of the Farisian peninsula disease was a constant threat.  Mostly from cholera and other common ailments, but there were some exotic diseases that struck many a man down on that journey.  I knew well what illness could do to a military unit in the field.

Master Icorod agreed to send a few of his students to investigate – he was even more worried than I was, thanks to the undead component of the illness.  It was rare, he pointed out, for a disease to create its own mobile vectors to spread it.  I think the old geezer was impressed.

It was difficult to work on such a somber subject while the rest of the domain was preparing for the Magic Fair.  There was a building excitement as the harvest began – the annual event had proven to be a huge blessing to the economy of Sevendor, and with the way east shortened by the Elf’s Gap, attendance was expected to be grand, this year.

I hated not participating in the preparations, beyond my contribution to the Spellmonger’s Trial, but in truth Banamor and his staff had things well in hand, even without Gareth’s experienced hand at the tiller.  Though he still cursed the day Gareth left, the Lord Mayor of Sevendor managed to prepare the town and fairgrounds without serious difficulty.  Indeed, the entire community did what they could to ensure the place gleamed for the event.  The only person who seemed at all sulky was Dara, and we were all growing used to that.

But my primary concern was the matter of the Curia Rard scheduled for Huin’s Day.  While I wasn’t a count, and wasn’t particularly affected by the reorganization of the realm, as a member of the Royal Court I was obligated to be there and help assist Rard in advancing his policies.

I was considering just what to wear and who to take when Lilastien appeared in my workshop to answer at least one of the questions.

“I’ve got someone who wants to talk to you,” she said, gently, as she stepped out of the shadows.  Alya was behind her.

“Minalan?” she asked, in a nervous, hesitant voice.  But it was Alya’s voice.  Alya’s voice with Alya’s mind behind it.  I could tell at once.

Before she could say another word, I swept her into an all-encompassing embrace.  She’d said my name.  Nothing else mattered.

I was home, again.

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Field Trip

Alya was back.  Somewhat.

She recognized me, there was no doubt.  She knew who I was, and that I was her husband, but she had a hard time understanding just what that meant.  She knew she was a mother of children, but had little concept of what children were.

But she knew she was afraid, as her mind came slowly back to her.  She knew she was confused and she knew she was damaged.  When she had an emotional outburst, and demanded to see me, Lilastien acquiesced.

We embraced for some time, her slender body small in my arms, yet containing my entire universe.  I could tell she was scared and anxious.  I made soothing sounds and petted her hair, choking back tears as her familiar scent was in my nostrils again.

“I’m . . . getting better,” she said, after we broke apart.  “I’m not better, yet,” she continued, looking at me with pleading eyes.

“I know,” I nodded.  “But things are looking much, much brighter, now.”

“I want . . . I want to . . . I don’t know what I want,” she said.

“How much do you remember?” I asked, earning a frown from Lilastien.

“Some,” she admitted, sitting down on a stool.  “Not much that I can make sense of.”

“She’s still adjusting,” Lilastien explained.  “She’s starting to put things together.  Not always correctly, but she’s getting there.  I was thinking some familiar surroundings would help knit her memories back together.  Why don’t you show her around?” she recommended.

“Well, this is where we live, sort of,” I said, beginning a tour of my tower and the castle that re-introduced many things from Alya’s past to her.  Some she clung to desperately, when she recognized them.  Others, things I figured would make her react, proved impotent to her memory.

I found it interesting which things she found to recall, and how important they were.  A particular threadbare tapestry in the Great Hall I’d always seen as unremarkable, for instance, caused Alya to ponder it eagerly for ten minutes.  She was untouched by the chapel where she’d attended services every month, but when she saw the crack in the big stone high table she traced with her fingers over and over the great fissure Sire Cei had accidentally put in it.

While she enthusiastically darted from one thing to the other, a number of people in the castle realized that their Baroness had returned . . . and was acting thoroughly odd.

“She’s still recovering,” I quietly instructed Sister Bemia, who’d rushed into the keep the moment she’d heard.  “Keep your distance, let her experience things on her own,” I urged.

“Too much information can be problematic,” Lilastien agreed.  “If she takes on too much, she becomes overwhelmed and withdraws.  Let her learn at her own pace – re-learn.  The memories she makes today the Handmaiden will mend into her consciousness when she sleeps.  Or at least that’s my theory,” she added.

“She looks so healthy!” Bemia said, sounding surprised.

“I feed my patients well,” Lilastien said, the least bit offended.  “She’s been looked after with especial care.”

“When will she be . . . normal?” Lady Estret said, clearly trying not to insult me.

“She’ll be done when she’s done,” I shrugged.  “We’re taking it slow.”

“This place is so nice!” Ayla declared, as she wandered the Great Hall, looking past the magelights toward the banners hung from the high ceiling.  “It’s cozy.”

“That’s a new perspective,” Bemia observed.  “She always thought the place draughty.”

“I like it here,” Alya declared.  “This is where I live.”

“Well . . . you used to, dear,” Lady Estret said, gently.  “You and the Baron live in Spellmonger’s Hall, now.  In the courtyard.”

“I do?” she asked, as if this was a stunning development.  “Is it nice?”

“It’s cozy,” Lilastien said, repeating the word she’d used a moment before.    “You’ll like it.  You decorated it,” she encouraged.

“Are you certain this is a wise notion, my lady?” Estret inquired, skeptically.  “She seems so . . . childlike.”

“She is, in a way,” the Sorceress of Sartha Wood agreed.  “But not entirely.  She’s a grown woman trying to learn how to be a grown woman again.  With only partial glimpses from the past to guide her into what that means.”

“Which means you aren’t done representing her at the Town Council meetings, Estret,” Bemia grunted.  “Sorry.”

“One can always hope,” the Riverlord smiled.  “I’d pledge to attend them until I died, if it meant we got Lady Alya back.”  She was completely sincere, too.  Estret and Alya were fast friends, closer than her sister Ela, and I knew she missed her terribly.

I continued to follow Alya as she raced around the place, squealing in delight as she encountered things she remembered.  It was a lot like watching Almina, when she was in a toddler’s fury to touch everything all at once.  She even giggled the same way.

“Should we bring the children in?” Sister Bemia asked.  “They’re at Urah’s house, tonight.  They would dearly love to see their mother,” she said, with deep longing in her voice.

“No,” Lilastien said, shaking her head firmly.  “She’s making progress.  But it’s slow.  We just re-introduced her to Minalan.  I’m not certain how she’d react to the children.  Or they to her.  Let’s keep things at an adult level for now,” she suggested.

“It might disturb the children,” Estret agreed, watching Alya over folded arms.  She was picking through the big basket of stale trenchers by the pantry with fascination, digging her fingers into the crusts and exploring the texture and smell.  I could see Estret’s point.  It would be hard to explain to Almina why Mommy got to do things that got Almina in trouble, for instance.

“I agree,” I sighed.  We could wait a little longer.  She was getting so much better that I was feeling unbelievably hopeful.  “It would be too confusing.  But she seems to be—”

I stopped, as Sire Cei came through the great double doors together from the yard, hurrying off to some important piece of castle business.  He didn’t notice Alya, at first, but her reaction to seeing him was decisive.  She ran to embrace him at once.

“Alya?” the big knight asked in surprise.

“Cei!” she said, triumphantly, her face beaming in recognition and relief.

“Trygg’s grace, that’s a sight to see!” Sister Bemia sniffled, using the sleeve of her habit to wipe her tears.

“I’ve never been happier to regard my husband embracing another woman,” Estret smiled, happily.  “I do not even mind that she recognized him before she did me.”

“Don’t let it concern you, my dear,” Lilastien assured her.  “There is no reason behind which parts of her memory – her entire personality – are restored and in what order.  She could have had the same reaction over a man she met once, years ago.  There are going to be difficulties in how she reintegrates all those elements.”

“What kind of difficulties?” Sister Bemia frowned, as Alya ran her fingers through

“Rough spots in her re-integration.  She was scared of spoons for two days last week.  Then she was fine.  Things like that.  But a field trip like this should be helpful in that process.  Familiar things will help establish patterns in her mind, allow her to make connections.”

“Field trip?” Estret asked, concerned.  “She’s not staying?”

“Not yet,” Lilastien said, apologetically.  “The Tower of Refuge is a much quieter place than this, and I can monitor her condition far better.  But don’t fret.  At her current rate of progress, I am quite hopeful that she will able to come home very soon.”

“I can’t help but note how imprecise you are being,” I said, as Cei tried awkwardly to have a conversation with my wife.

“Professional habit.  I don’t know when she’ll come home.  I’ll have to make a judgment call.”

“How do you think she’d react to walking into town?” I asked, eagerly.

“Only if I go with her.  And if you could keep her from being mobbed by too many people,” she conceded.  “She isn’t happy in crowds.  But that doesn’t mean she shouldn’t be exposed to them.”

“I can cast an unnoticeability spell,” I decided.  “If she gets overwhelmed, we’ll bring her right back to the Tower.”

And that’s how I had the first date with my wife in a year.  Obscured from easy notice and chaperoned by a Tera Alon.

I had a wonderful time leading Alya on my arm, pointing out things old and new, and she had a wonderful time seeing them with her eyes, both old and new.  She seemed excited and more comfortable than I expected, as we walked through the outer bailey and through the outer gate to Sevendor, proper.

“It’s so pretty!” she cooed, gazing out over the many spires of the town as we mounted the rise near the pond.  “It’s all pointy!”

“Wizards like towers and spires,” I agreed.  “It makes us feel lofty.”

“This is a town of wizards?”

“This is your town, Alya.  Sevendor Town.  And yes, it is full of wizards.  More than any other town in the kingdom.  Our symbol is the snowflake,” I said, pointing out one of the banners Banamor kept displayed around the town as a display of civic pride.  “You remember snowflakes?”

“Uh huh,” she agreed, absently.  “What’s that?” she asked, excitedly, pointing toward the pond where the permanent water elemental was cavorting.  It had been going strong for years, now, and the persistence of its enchantment had enabled it to develop a kind of personality during that time.  Nothing elaborate, but it had grown quite reactive to the bathers and passers-by.

“That’s what happens when you use the Alaran stone on a simple water elemental,” I said, more for Lilastien’s benefit than Alya’s.  “It keeps the pattern from degrading.  I don’t know how.  It’s a unique effect.”

I explained the enchantment to Alya in more rudimentary form, and then let her get splashed by the watery spirit as it made waves in the small mill pond, much to her delight.  We continued down the white cobbled road, past the new stand of weirwood saplings before we entered the town itself.

We spent the afternoon quietly exploring Sevendor Town, from the Street of Enchanters to the Market Square, the High Street, and the Temple Quarter, the Everfire.  We ended at my brothers-in-law bakery, where I snagged a basket of pastries for luncheon.  Alya devoured the big fluffy spirals that were a specialty, sweetened with honey and walnuts.

It was – excuse the expression – enchanting to sit in the Market Square at sunset with her, and watch Sevendor’s magical new skylights at vespers.  Lilastien’s presence was not distracting in the slightest, and she hadn’t seen the display before.  She seemed just as impressed as Alya was by the dazzling lights and beautiful tones.

“I love your people’s sense of performance,” she sighed, happily.  “That was beautiful.  Your ancestors would be proud.”

“Let’s hope I can ask them myself, someday,” I said, referring to our recent raid on Tavard’s tekka treasury.  “When we get back to the tower, I’d appreciate you . . . doing whatever it is you need to do with that thing to get it working.”

“I will,” she agreed.  “It’s worth the effort just to hear more jazz.  But we may have to wait until after the new Beryen Council is constituted to delve into it in depth.”

“With the war heating up, that does take priority,” I agreed, soberly.  I told her about the macabre message Korbal sent to Rard, and the plague that was beginning in the Westlands after the dragon attack.  She shook her head.

“I told you he enjoyed drama.  And he has an ego.  I would prepare for another dramatic gesture at the Curia, when all the humani warrior-princes are gathered together to witness it at once.  An opportunity to intimidate the entire ruling class of his foe?  He won’t be able to resist an audience like that.  Expect something big,” she warned.  “Korbal is claiming sovereignty, and this is his chance to prove that claim against what he sees as alien encroachers.”

“Prove it to whom?”

“The Alka Alon council, mostly, but also to the smaller clans who he thinks will be persuaded to side against the council, if compelled to make a choice.  Alka Alon work through persuasion and consensus.  He’s going to use your people as an example of his rule, in the hopes that he can draw their support to his side at some future point.”

“They would actually find that persuasive?” I asked, skeptically.

“Goodness, no!” Lilastien scoffed.  “They would no more follow an undead fiend like Korbal than your people would.”

“Actually, Korbal has plenty of human agents, we’re learning.  Some are seeking him out.”

“And there will always be a disaffected element in society who is drawn towards such extremism,” she agreed.  “But beyond that, the Alka Alon are no fools, Minalan.  What Korbal offers them is not true immortality, it’s deathlessness.  There’s a difference,” she assured me.

“But he will draw those who are easily fooled or pursue their own power,” I nodded.  “Those who might already harbor a grievance against humanity.  They might be impressed if he slapped us around a bit.”

“Unfortunately, I think you’re right.  The Enshadowed have ever put their own kind at the pinnacle of our society in their ideology, but they promise an elevated status for the lower-status houses over the ‘lesser races’ after the old order is overthrown.  Some find an appeal to that.  Not enough to sway the Council, of course, but enough to embolden Korbal and increase his efforts.”

“Lucky us,” I sighed.  “Once all this politics is settled, perhaps we can get back to the business of removing that pesky dark lord.”

“Let’s hope,” Lilastien said, rising.  “But the sooner, the better, Minalan.  He’s learning things about his new world and seeking ways to turn them against us.  Once he figures out a plan, he will strike quickly.  And unexpectedly.”

“I have to pee,” Alya announced, looking at both of us.

“Like that,” Lilastien nodded.  “Let’s go, my dear.  I think there’s a privy over there.”

Alya’s visit enlightened the mood of the castle folk tremendously, and whispered accounts of her increasing health spread throughout the domain and into the greater barony like a case of the flux.  It gave everyone a reason to work extra-hard on the Sevendor Fair, as they knew how important the event was to their Baroness.  Even the drudges and the Tal Alon scrubbed a little harder after the news.

I was glad they had the inspiration – I wasn’t able to provide much, myself.  I was already beset by communications regarding the upcoming Royal Curia, and the question of the new tribute scheme.

I didn’t care about the shifting of financial responsibilities from the duchies to the counties – I wasn’t a count, and didn’t want to be one.  But Count Dranus was, as Duke Clofalin of Remere had officially appointed him at the direction of the Council of Moros.  He would be at the Royal Palace for the Curia, and wanted the benefit of my insight on the topic.

I feel uncertain of taking a position on the matter until I am better informed, and as I have a friend in the Royal Court . . .

I’ll tell you what I can, but there’s not much to tell.  Rard and Tavard are struggling over control, so Kindine wants a better structure of finance to keep the Kingdom solvent in cases of intergenerational penis-measuring like this, I explained.  Shifting the burden to the counts means broadening the impact of the tribute over a wider area.

That will inevitably mean a decline in the power of the ducal houses, in the long term, he reasoned.

That’s what I think, too.  But it’s a good thing, in the near term.  The ducal courts are responsible for too much bureaucracy and authority to lose power completely.  The Curia will make Rard and his heirs in charge of the military organization of the Kingdom, directly.  But it also gives Rard a useful piece of leverage against the dukes, if he has the oaths of the counts, directly.

I don’t mind the additional bookkeeping, Dranus admitted, but I am concerned about the devolution of power for one key reason: the disposition of Wenshar.  There is a powerful movement amongst the Wenshari to separate from Remere, politically.  As it is, the Wenshari counts rule without much regard to what happens at the capital, unless either are threatened.  If the Wenshari are permitted yet-more independence from Remere, then they will push for full autonomy.

You don’t sound particularly opposed to the idea, I pointed out.

I’m not.  Wenshar was ever a poor relation to the rest of the duchy, sundered by speech and custom from my ancestors.  My position here at the frontier of the duchy gives my policies on the subject some weight.  Traditionally, the Remeran court has used Moros as a counterbalance to Wenshar, adding to enmity on both sides.  I prefer peaceful trade with a proud neighbor than insurgent attacks and uprisings on the frontier.  The Wenshari are good folk, he concluded.

I know, I chuckled.  I replaced you with one.  I don’t see any particular reason Wenshar shouldn’t be independent, if it’s only nominally attached to the duchy.  Particularly since there are a lot of magi from there.  That’s where Alar is.  As long as this isn’t a prelude to switching banners to Merwyn . . .

Not a chance.  The only saving grace most of the Wenshari believe their affiliation with Remere provides is a counter to Merwyni aggression.  If the Crown can provide that, then I think they would be among its most loyal supporters.

I’ll pass that along to Rard.  Rumor has it that Kindine is proposing a kind of permanent mini-Curia, a high council of counts, to advise the Crown in return for its service as its tax collectors, I reported.  Presumably it would be composed of the most powerful nobles.

Then I am safe from its grips, he chuckled.  Moros is a prosperous land, but minor, compared to the great counties of the south.  My power is sufficient to keep my barons from killing each other, and that’s about it.

You will be nearly the only magelord in the body of the Curia, I pointed out.  I do hope you will keep the interests and concerns of your fellows in mind when you are deliberating with the high nobility.

Oh, of course, Count Dranus agreed.  To that end I’ve awarded four estates, locally, to warmagi who helped me win the title.  I’ve also taken your lead from Sevendor and installed warmagi as court wizards with each of my barons.  For security purposes, he added.

They think they’re spies?  They’ll get over it.  Mine have.  Some of the most reluctant are now the most grateful I sent educated men with Talent to help them rule their lands.  And it’s nice to have a body of wizards to add to your staff, at need, I said, recalling the great help Kedaran had been in preparing necromantic spells before Olum Seheri.  And Heeth the Butler had been key to filling my cellars with quality wine.

They’ll be in a better humor when the wizards use the new harvesting and mowing wands, this harvest.  I purchased a gracious plenty, and I’ve been handing them out only to those estates who are entirely supportive of my regime.  Come autumn, when the grain merchants come through, they’ll have a lot more silver in their purses as a result.

And some hungry peasants, if you don’t have any other way for them to make coin, I warned.  We’ve been seeing the stirrings of some trouble, over in Sashtalia.  You may have to spend some silver to keep order until things adjust to the new way.

Good suggestion, he agreed.  And after the Curia, it seems I will have much more silver flowing through my hands.  We can improve some of the local castles and towers, and perhaps the roads, he decided.

We discussed other means of distracting the peasants from their eroding livelihood, including increased military training, before he finished the conversation on a lighter note.

So, how goes your adventure in Enultramar? He asked.

Supplying Tavard?  It’s no great burden.  I’ve turned over most of it to Planus, honestly.

No, I meant your other adventure, he said.  The one requiring all the warmagi?

I had no idea what he was talking about.

If you insist, he demurred.  I just know that someone appeared at Morohall after I was confirmed by the duke and recruited nearly every mercenary warmage there.  From the way she acted, I assumed it was one of your agents.

I’m not aware of any agents like that, I confessed.  I don’t have anything going on in Enultramar, beyond keeping Tavard from eating his horses.

Well, someone does, he reported.  She took eight of my best men.  For a secret mission.  Paid good coin, up-front.

Not me, I insisted.  But it begs the question of whom.  And what they’re doing.  To be frank, I keep my meddling in Alshar’s affairs to sustaining Anguin’s rule, and that’s about it.  But I’ll ask around and see what I can find.  I’ll let you know what I hear at the Curia.

That’s in two weeks, he reminded me.  Will that be enough time to learn anything of value?

I’m a wizard.  I’m good at that sort of thing.

Before I could indulge in pursuing the matter, however, I was powerfully distracted by something else.  Just before bed, while I was puttering around the tekka table in the workshop (my new late-night insomnia hobby), I got disturbing news.  I was working on the issue of why the three lines of symbols had been replaced by a single line, now that Lilastien had fiddled with it, when Astyral contacted me.

Scouts just sighted a column of gurvani headed toward Tudry, he reported.  Fell hound riders, light infantry, and at least a legion of heavy-infantry hobgoblins.  And there might be more behind them.

You’re certain they’re headed in your direction?

Unless they’re just having a stroll down by the river, yes, he agreed.  I’ve already sent the evacuation order.  We’ll be ready to receive them, when they arrive.  I just thought you’d want to know.  Maybe even show up to enjoy the show.  We’ve spent a lot of time planning for this eventuality.  It will be interesting to see how it plays out.

Any sign of undead?

Just a few draugen, so far.  And the Nemovorti overlords.  But this seems to be more of a gurvani operation.

They probably found the gurvani’s tolerance of Tudry untenable, I agreed.  The Nemovorti tend to be impatient, I’ve found.  From what I understand from my conversations with the Alka Alon, we should expect some dramatic displays of force from Korbal, now.  He’s raided the Westlands, inserted plague into the kingdom, and now he’s attacking Tudry.  How long until they arrive?

At this pace?  The scouts should be here in three days.  The legions will be two days behind them.  After that, I expect we’ll be besieged.  I’ve asked the Timberwatch Wing to overfly the area, to give us a better idea of—

The Timberwatch Wing?  Dara still has a wing in Alshar?

You did authorize it, he pointed out.  They’ve been flying out of Timberwatch since the raid on Olum Seheri and the great liberation.  I hope you don’t mind me making use of them.  Captain Nattia has been most helpful.  Local girl.  She was at Olum Seheri.

I recall.  I have no objections – I just thought Dara had reformed her wings.

She did.  But she and Nattia had a falling out, so Nattia took her wing to Timberwatch.

How come I didn’t hear anything about this? I demanded.

Because you’re the reason they had a row, Astyral offered.  Dara is angry at you and Gareth, for some reason, and Nattia doesn’t think she’s being fair.  Then it escalated.  The Riders chose sides.  Now they’re at Timberwatch.  It sounds as if there is a split in the henhouse, he observed, wryly.

I sighed.  I’ll look into it.  I know she’s upset with me, but she’s still my apprentice.  And my vassal.

Don’t hurry about it, Astyral urged.  I’m enjoying having giant hawks in the air overhead.  It keeps the men’s morale up.  Especially when they drop goblin scouts into the square from five hundred feet in the air.

Use them, then.  And make certain all the locals understand what’s happening.  I don’t want anyone to be surprised by this.

The only ones who will be surprised are the goblins, he assured.

Chapter Sixty-Nine

The Storm of Tudry

The gurvani of the Penumbra fell on Tudry like a storm.

The first sprinkle of attention came in the form of hundreds of scouts on fell hounds.  The shaggy, vicious canines ran throughout the fields and forests of the largely-unpopulated western lands, searching for traps, sentries, and isolated settlements.

They quickly occupied the abandoned cottages and barns deserted years before, like raindrops filling puddles.  They found little resistance, but little plunder, as well.  Nor did they find many scouts or sentries.  They were there, but the Kasari are adept at obfuscation.

The trickle turned to torrent when the light infantry marched up the weed-grown western road with dark banners and fell hound skirmishers guarding their flanks.  They halted at a wide meadow just beyond sight of the city, stopping short of attacking until their full number had arrived.

The light infantry were largely spearmen who carried clubs and bows, trained tribesmen who were the backbone of the gurvani army.  They were far more confident and disciplined in their advance, compared to the attacks of years past.  They had learned how to fight humani, often by adopting our means of warfare – including discipline.

The infantry spread out across the western side of the city, establishing the roots of three large camps as the scouts scoured the country around them for signs of resistance.  Archers were posted at the periphery, while brutish-looking canines patrolled further out.

They made no secret of their approach.  The morning after their arrival there was a small redoubt built two bowshots away from the city’s outer defenses, a forward observation post.

Then came the rumble of thunder, the footsteps of thousands of iron-shod goblins and hobgoblins marching in formation up the road.  If the light infantry had improved since the initial invasion, the hobgoblins and veteran gurvani who’d risen in the interim had benefitted greatly by their experience and guidance from their humani confederates.  The hobgoblins, in particular, seemed well-trained and disciplined.  Most carried long pikes or axes suitable for pressing a breach.  Indeed, that was precisely what they intended.

The heavy infantry were well-armored, with thick plates of cast iron riveted to heavy leather harnesses or gambesons.  There were few make-shift suits on the field, now, nor captured weaponry.  The gleaming steel spears and swords the hobgoblins bore were their own make, in their own fashion. They did not move nearly as quickly as the lighter-burdened goblin infantry, but they retained their fellows’ fondness for drumming.

Every formation of hobgoblins that marched against Tudry contained a line of drummers, carrying huge barrel-shaped copper drums and beating them with throbbing rhythm.  As the legions broke formation, the drums were placed in a massive circle around a bonfire where they continued a non-stop staccato night and day.

Behind the infantry came the siege train.  Wains the size of manor houses were pulled by the straining limbs of huge, horned-nosed siege worms.  Others bore miniature wooden castles or siege engines on their backs.  Eight of the monstrous beasts were driven down the road pulling their burdens.

The gurvani weren’t taking any chances, this time.  Three of the worms pulled siege towers that were more than sufficient to overcome Tudry’s walls.  Two more pulled catapults capable of hurling mighty stones.  Other wains were filled with arrows and supplies for an extended stay.

The howls of the beasts joined the unending pounding of the drums, as the army pooling outside Tudry’s locked gates churned with activity.  More redoubts were established closer in, until the first brave skirmishers began menacing the gates by chancing within bowshot.

Fell hounds ranged in packs around the eastern side of the town, leaving skirmishers and scouts scattered in their wake.  They were searching for resistance, and seeking to cut Tudry off from any hope of help from outside.  They met none.  There were no defenders in the field closer than Megelin Castle.  Even the peasants of the local villages had long fled, after a hasty harvest.

But Tudry was cut off.  The storm of gurvani filled the lowlands around the hilltop town until it was surrounded.  With each new arrival of reinforcements from the west, the beleaguered town was like a turtle in a pond.  The accumulation of gurvani units grew for days, until the broad fields were filled with furry black soldiers prepared to press the city’s walls.

Though the sentries on the walls of the town watched, they did not fire at their foes.  Even when the goblins were brave enough to chance the range of the Wilderlands bow, they restrained themselves.  The brash among the gurvani no doubt saw the lack of response as weakness; the wise among them likely understood the value of cautious restrain in a siege.

Of course, the shamans had to make their contribution.  As soon as they arrived they began to collect around sacred fires in the camps and cast their spells.  The usual sorts of obfuscatory and defensive spells wrapped around the camps, while tendrils of arcane power attempted to pierce the strong wards the warmagi of Tudry had been constantly improving for years.  Their scrying showed them nothing that we didn’t want them to see, and their rudimentary spells designed to demoralize and demotivate the besieged were useless, in the face of Astyral’s countermeasures.

About the time the first boulders began to rain down on Tudry from the goblin catapults, the shamans added their own magical artillery by flinging more dangerous and damaging spells against the town.  Had the place been fully occupied, they would have been devastating.  But the townhomes and shops the rocks descended upon were abandoned, and the fires their missiles set threatened no one and were quickly extinguished.

Still, from a distance, the damage looked a lot worse than it was.  Particularly as warmagi augmented the amount of smoke from the town to make it look like the place was burning more rapidly than it was.

Astyral and the Tudrymen finally answered, sending a great ten-ton boulder smashing into the enemy camp from the massive trebuchet he’d built to defend the walls.  For hours, the two sides exchanged such fire, until the gurvani became confident in the town’s tepid response and began to march on the walls.

At first, they sent archers ahead to try to clear the battlements with crossbows, with little effect.  Though they spent hundreds of darts, they got no satisfaction out of the sortie.  After three flights, the Tudrymen had had enough.  They returned fire with their Wilderlands bows, in well-formed volleys, and drove them back out of range.

That was just a warm-up.  They trundled the catapults even closer, allowing their missiles to fall nearer the center of town while they prepared their scaling parties.

They were making such a good effort.  We hated to mess it up until we saw what they were planning.  Astyral and I, and a few of his staff, got to witness the entire battle from one of his squat towers on the city wall.  He brought the wine, some of the best in his cellars, for the occasion.

While the storm raged outside of the walls, inside the remaining Tudrymen were content to man their posts and endure the darts and stones that came crashing down on the rooftops they’d guarded for so long.  It took a particular kind of nerve to stand and take such insults unanswered, but they trusted Lord Astyral, and they trusted the warmagi who had defended Tudry for years.  They also trusted the spells that influenced the missiles away from the occupied portions of the city.

The lack of response only emboldened the gurvani.  Their mighty engines increased the pace of their assault, throwing single boulders or cascades of stones the size of loafs of bread.  More scaling parties prepared for an assault.  Skirmishers braved the snipers on the walls to try to erect standing shields to protect their own archers.  Not many completed their tasks before they were cut down by three-foot long shafts from the townsmen.

At last, losing patience with the siege even before it was properly begun, some gurvani commander allowed boldness to overcome what sense of discipline he had.  He led a sortie of three hundred to rush the gate of the city, closed against him.  Despite the sentries in the turrets overhead decimating his screaming soldiers as they attacked the gate, hundreds of gurvani pushed to force the great redwood doors, sheathed in bronze, with their tiny clubs and bare fists.

Astyral let them wail and throw their small javelins at the big double doors for a few moments before he ordered a more active defense.  Two barrels sitting just outside of the gates exploded open, revealing a deadly, crab-like thaumaturgical construct within.

With six weirwood legs and four arms each, the spindly enchantments seemed frail – but they moved with such speed, driven by the enneagrams of some ancient, vicious undersea creature, that it was nearly impossible for the gurvani to land a blow that would damage the things.

Steel blades whirled and struck with magical precision, turning the black wave of gurvani attackers red as they sliced through them without direction or fear of damage.  In moments, less than a hundred wounded goblins retreated from the gate.

While the impetuous commander had likely acted against orders, he had discovered something important.  Tudry’s arcane defenses were active, as well as passive.

Ringing the entire town were dozens of constructs the industrious warmagi of Spark Street had been enchanting for weeks, in anticipation of their abandonment of the town.  Made of what junk had been left behind by the departing townsmen, and then cobbled together with weirwood and other thaumaturgically active materials, the result was a small army of expendable defenders that would make scaling the walls of Tudry problematic, and overwhelming her gates nearly impossible.

Some were large, encompassing the bodies of carts or thick hogsheads as their base.  Others were no larger than dogs, though their size was no indication of their deadliness.

For the warmagi of Tudry had not stopped their enchantments at ensuring their creations could wield a blade; many were packed with unexpected enchantments, secondary spells that activated if the construct were destroyed, and even alchemical devices that made defeating the nasty little buggers problematic.  Nothing eats into the thrill of victory like having the defeated corpse of your foe suddenly incinerate everything around it.

The variety of the constructs, as well as their placement, was designed to throw off the goblins’ ability to form a defensive strategy to them.  Some were placed in holes dug in the fields outside of the town, ready to activate the moment a foe came near.

Others were concealed in haystacks or under wheelbarrows, or just lay there like a pile of refuse until activated.  Some were spindly and crab-like, others were more like turtles or more traditional four-footed animals.  Regardless of the form, the great variety and placement of the enchantments proved daunting for the besiegers.

For three days, the vanguard took runs at the city walls, flung stones, and showered the gates with arrows, to no avail while their baggage train caught up with them.  The siege beasts were finally brought to bear on the third day.  That was the signal to begin the final element of the plan.

As the lumbering, six-legged monsters were driven toward Tudry, the eastern gate suddenly burst open and the last of the Tudrymen spilled out, quickly taking formation in a long shieldwall.

The goblins were delighted.  After pounding the town relentlessly without receiving much of a reply, seeing rows of actual foes to face, instead of magically-motivated death machines, was a welcomed sight.

The Tudrymen were infantry, stout Wilderlands folk with axes, swords, spears and great round-topped infantry shields made of hickory and rawhide.  Two companies of archers ran out and formed up behind them, preparing to launch volleys against the goblins.  All perfectly normal infantry tactics.

But that great gate remained open, the iron portcullis was still raised.  It must have made an unbelievably tempting target for the gurvani.  All they had to do was get past the Tudrymen.  They wasted no time in reforming their advance away from the walls, keeping their siege beasts back while their infantry advanced.

First, a gigantic pack of fell hounds, some with riders, some alone, sprinted against the Tudrymen.  Two flights of arrows tore through them before they launched themselves against the Tudrymen like a hailstorm.  The men were disciplined, however.  Many had trained for years with soldiers from all over the Duchies.

As the shieldmen did their best to hold their positions, men with great two-handed axes waded into the front lines and plied their heavy steel blades against them.  There were losses, but the calm management of the line and the adept use of spears and pikes to keep the filthy hounds at bay were critical.  When the survivors limped away, there were a lot more hounds on the field than men.

The hobgoblin infantry advanced relentlessly as their canine comrades retreated.  Their archers used heavy arbalests, crossbows of iron and oak that could drive a dart through nearly any kind of armor.  A shorter range and slower rate of fire made them ponderous to deploy, but once they were in range they managed a volley themselves.  Many of their darts stuck in the thick shields of the defenders, but many found throats or foreheads or torsos.  Still, the Tudrymen showed no signs of breaking.

It was only when the force of hobgoblins was committed to the attack that the sound of horns was heard in the distance.

Astyral knew that presenting the infantry, outside of the town’s walls, would be irresistible to the goblins.  After their defeat five years before on this same field, they wanted revenge.  Astyral also knew their weakness for cavalry, and figured that the best way to make them more confident was to hide the horses of the defenders.  So, he did.

For a month, his finest warmagi had been crafting a complex obfuscation spell on a freehold estate about a mile to the south of town.  Using layers upon layers of thaumaturgic excess and the most advanced spells from the War College, they’d turned the pasture of the place into a staging area that was invisible to even intense magical scrying.

Then Lady Ithalia had come with a squadron of Tera Alon and added their own sophisticated spells to the effort.  By the time they were done, scrying spells would show nothing wrong, not even a thaumaturgical signature.  An army could be within and a goblin sentry walking fifty feet away wouldn’t realize it.

In fact, that’s just what happened.  When Astyral signaled that the hobgoblin infantry was committed to the attack—and were out of easy range to support the siege train behind them – he ordered the counterattack.  When the vanguard of Azar’s Megelini Knights charged out of the farmstead, they actually trampled three goblin scouts who were avoiding more dangerous duty closer to the battle.

Azar had managed to gather over seven hundred horsemen from his lands around Megelin – three hundred knights and more than four hundred sergeants were in the saddle under his banner.  Added to that nearly five hundred Wilderlords recruited for the effort, and the cavalry force that poured out of the freehold numbered more than a thousand.

The vanguard, lea by Azar and Bendonal, included most of the Horkan warmagi who lingered in Azar’s orbit at Megelin Castle.  They were experienced at fighting goblins – and passionate about it, after their long patrolling of the Penumbra.  All had been involved in the Great Liberation months before, and many were also veterans of the Olum Seheri raid.

They pulled ahead of the main force at once, and cantered toward the siege train, the giant worms, and the goblin reserves . . . just as the hobgoblins began their final charge against the great shieldwall of the Tudrymen.

The horncalls of the Megelini knights (magically enhanced – it was Azar, after all) boomed over the battlefield just as the first elements of the hobgoblins crashed into the Tudrymen.  I watched from Astyral’s tower as the hobgoblin commander had a crisis of command – he had fresh, new, fast and powerful enemies behind him while he was attempting to take apart the shieldwall.

That indecision manifested in the hesitancy the second wave of the charged showed in reinforcing their comrades ahead – which the Tudrymen immediately exploited.  The same axemen who had hacked the fell hounds quickly moved forward and hacked at the helmets of the shorter hobgoblins.  Without support, they were easy targets for the Wildermen.

Azar’s horsemen charged into the gurvani rear with flashes of arcane sparks and loud reports of concussive spells.  The goblin infantry were dashed before them, and hundreds fell under their spells and swords.

More powerful spells were directed at the siege worms the goblins were supposed to be protecting.  Explosions and gouts of plasma erupted in their faces – not enough to kill them, but certainly enough to enrage and confuse them beyond the means of their keepers to bear.  Azar was relentless in his attack, Warmaster held over his head as his men destroyed everything in their path.

The hobgoblin commander finally made up his mind – he could not concern himself with the slow-moving infantry while his reserves were under attack.  It took a few moments, but the hobgoblins disengaged and withdrew from the line, leaving behind a rearguard to cover their retreat.

I give the gurvan leading them a lot of credit.  He pulled off a difficult maneuver on the battlefield without much guidance.  His troops broke formation and began running back to rescue their endangered comrades from the mounted warmagi.  They still maintained good order on the move, marching at a run, keeping their weapons in hand.  Five years ago, they wouldn’t have been able to manage that.

Not that it did them any good.  As they were running the distance back across the fields the main body of the cavalry caught them in the most glorious cavalry charge I’ve ever witnessed.

Eight hundred Wilderlords thundered across the fields, their long, steel-tipped ash lances couched level with the brown stubble under their hooves.  A few hobgoblins tried to adopt some sort of defensive posture at the sudden attack, but it was in vain.  Heavy infantry has a chance against massed cavalry only if it can maintain formation and use pikes and spears to effect.  The hobgoblins had none of that.

The mass of Wilderlords swept over them like a scythe at harvest.  The well-muscled destriers and chargers the Wilderlords favored darted across the countryside, leaping over obstacles and colliding with individual hobgoblins with devastating force.  When their lances broke they drew their long, two-handed swords or switched to battle axes, but they spared none in their path.  The Tudrymen advanced their line enough to menace the rearguard, but no more.  This was a charge for the Wilderlords.

Astyral could have pressed the counter-attack to a full rout, but that wasn’t the plan.  As soon as the Wilderlords devastated the hobgoblins, Azar pulled his troops out of the tangled mess they’d made of the siege train, and reformed with the northern knights.  They screened the Tudrymen as the infantry hoisted their banners and began marching away down the eastern road, while the gurvani tried to contend with the destruction and chaos of their troops.

Siege worms were running mad among the reserves, fires and spells continued to torment the surviving infantry, and the remaining fell hounds ran through the tumult attacking berserk.  One of Wenek’s spells, I learned later, designed to confound the senses of the canines and induce a highly aggressive – and paranoid – feral state.

Our troops reformed at the eastern end of the battlefield, but they did not prepare a charge.  I’m certain it was very confusing for their commanders, to see their foes not take advantage of the chaos when they could have.  Instead they just . . . marched away.

Leaving Tudry completely undefended.

It still appeared occupied.  The warmagi had enchanted it to seem that way.  As far as the gurvani could tell, the army was marching away and leaving a town full of civilians and heaps of loot just waiting for them.

The illusion spells and psychomantic enchantments made it feel as if you’d just seen sentries patrolling the battlements a moment before.  There was still the sound of urban life (such as it was) ringing in their ears from inside the walls.  Astyral’s men had lit enough fires in the empty townhomes and shops to make it seem as if there were still thousands living within the walls.

But it was all a lie.  Apart from a few brave warmagi who had volunteered to stay behind and activate the final enchantments, the entire town was empty.  As Astyral and I departed from our vantage point in his deserted tower by means of the Ways, after a final toast to Tudry, the first gurvani were crossing the threshold of the western gates.

Tudry was deserted, but it was not undefended.  The goblins who began to swarm into the town realized that it was only sparsely defended, and they raced from building to building without resistance.  But they stumbled into the sigils the warmagi had packed into the streets.

They found a town where vicious defenders always seemed to be around the next corner.  Where each gurvan simply knew that hapless, defenseless civilians were hidden behind the next door.  A town that seemed filled with treasure, loot, and slaves, all hidden just out of sight.

Instead, it was filled with more thaumaturgical constructs, and Spark Street hadn’t spared any imagination in their design.  Some were built into the walls and streets themselves, coming alive to slay and destroy the moment they were approached.  Tudry offered its invaders the tantalizing temptation of victory, wealth and conquest . . . and then served them sudden death and madness.

As the gurvani pressed their apparent victory across the town, spells erupted and caused entire buildings to collapse.  The rudimentary sewer system opened up and swallowed patrols who crossed them.  The squat little turret towers around the city’s walls suddenly fell while gurvani passed below.

The only gold or silver left in the place was in the deserted market square.  A large gilded cask was left temptingly on a wooden platform, almost as an offering for the conquerors.  It was an obvious trap, of course, made more tempting by enchantment and disappointment in finding any actual gold.  But there was no active spell on the box, itself.  A dozen shamans could examine it and not find anything amiss.  I’m sure they did something just like that.

But the longer they took, the closer to danger they were.  Within the box was nothing more than a big block of ice, containing a long shard of pure phosphorus.  Ice that was melting in the late-summer heat.  Under it was an exotic alchemical mixture, mostly powdered rust and aluminum shavings.

Aluminum is very difficult to make, requiring powerful magical forces to extract it from ore.  Our ancestors had some trick for it, though, and used the metal extensively in their construction.  It’s a metal of curiosity, extremely light, extremely strong, but difficult for a smith to work with.  But it can be obtained, if you need to and you have enough money.

When you mix aluminum and iron oxide, nothing much happens.  Unless you subject it to extreme heat.  When the ice melted away from the phosphorus, it reacted to the air and the exposed portion burst into flame.

That ignited the fuel the mixture was sitting in.  For a while, it merely smoldered . . . until the flame ignited certain accelerants below.  When those reactions reached the right temperature, it ignited.  I was no alchemist, but Ormar was – he’d called the mixture thermite, taken from ancient texts from Merwyn’s oldest libraries.

Something else thermite does, as it burns.  If it’s exposed to ice – and there was still a fair amount in the box – it explodes.

The trap took an hour and a half to activate.  When it did, there was little more than smoke and steam to incite the curiosity of the gurvani as they cautiously investigated it.

Then it exploded in a sticky shower of flame, hotter than anything but dragonfire.  The entire market square erupted as other pools of accelerants and alchemical explosives ignited.  Within minutes the entire square was on fire, every building primed to burn.

At various points, pre-positioned spells pumped additional oxygen into the flames, and in one place a concentration of fuels, including thermite, and augmenting spells produced such an intensely hot flame that one of the linger warmagi managed to cast a fire elemental spell.

Only the second time one had been produced since the Magocracy.  It only lasted for about seven minutes, and it was half as large as the one I’d produced at Timberwatch, but in terms of effectiveness it was unmatched.  In seven minutes, it managed to set most of Tudry on fire, dooming it’s supposed conquerors to a hellish death in flames.

“You did threaten to burn Tudry down,” Astyral reminded me, as we surveyed the town from the abandoned temple to Huin on a nearby hill.  “It took a few years, but you finally did it.”

“I have mixed feelings about it,” I admitted.  “It was squalid, ugly, filthy, and perpetually poor.  But . . . it did have a certain charm about it.”

“It was a festering hellhole I ruled for five years,” Astyral corrected.  “Burning it is more dignity than it deserved.  The folk who remained here were hearty, but they will thrive more in Vanador.  Here, they were on the edge of war and ruin, always.  Better an orderly withdrawal than an inevitable sacking.”

“I do hope Korbal appreciates the magnitude of his victory,” I said, mockingly.  “He finally did what Sheruel never could manage: conquering Tudry and driving the humani out of it.”  The smoke pouring from the town surged, and more explosions punctuated the “conquest”.

“It certainly cost him,” Astyral chuckled.  “He used most of his available troops for this operation.  What he has left after that bloody little civil war have to be used to control the lands in the Penumbra.  It will take a while for him to have enough strength to be aggressive with the gurvani, again.”

“You forget: the dead are his allies,” I pointed out.  “He cares not if the gurvani live or die, they will march to his orders regardless . . . and complain less when they are dead.  He might not be able to challenge us for a while, but he will continue to be a threat in the Wilderlands.  He has too many agents not to.

“But bereft of his slaves and the best of his armies on this front, and faced with revolt by the Goblin King, maybe we can use the time to build the Anvil the way it needs to be.  And if we need to send a few companies into the Penumbra to disrupt the rebuilding of that strength, well, Azar will be happy to do so, I think,” I said, as I heard our friend begin to give a dramatic speech about what a bad-ass he was.  He was opening a cask of ale – I didn’t care about his vainglory.

“It buys us a little time,” he agreed.  “But I think my part in the defense of the Wilderlands is done, my friend.  I have been approached about taking one of Anguin’s Gilmoran baronies, and I have to say that I’m considering the post.”

“You would do well by it, my friend,” I assured.  “And you deserve it.  You held Tudry to the last, and then retired her like a gentleman should.  Go enjoy your reward in Gilmora,” I advised.  “I think we have the men in the Wilderlands to keep us safe, for now.”

Chapter Seventy

The Royal Curia

Abandoning Tudry didn’t trouble me as much as I thought it would.  I’d always felt guilty about threatening the place, at the beginning of the war, when the goblins first swept in.  In sparing it I’d done it no favors.  Most of its wealth and industry had left before the invasion, and after it began Tudry was more refugee camp and army town than prosperous municipality.

The folk who’d left at the end were those too poor or proud or stubborn to move to Vorone, or other secure location.  There had been a great reluctance to leave, but Astyral was both gracious and persuasive.  When it became clear he would not relent, they left.

Vanador was the recipient of those tough, stubborn people.  Pentandra had prepared as much as possible for the refugees, and they spent the last days of summer sorting themselves out in their new home.  It was expensive, but thanks to the Wizard Trading Company she kept them fed and secured what supplies they needed from the markets of Remere and Sevendor.

She was essentially ruling the colony, integrating the Tudrymen with the freed slaves and the artisans from the quarry work . . . all while contending with three hungry babies while living, essentially, in an old witch’s hole in the ground.

With her fussy mother.

I didn’t know what kind of reward I could bestow on Penny after this, but she was doing a magnificent job.  She seemed to know just what needed to be done and when, and that made me a lot more hopeful about the Tudrymen’s chances.  If the northern garrisons stationed in the pele towers could protect them through the winter, they would have a fighting chance to get their new colony off the ground.

The blackened ruin that remained after the fire was a bitter prize for the thousands of gurvani who’d perished there.  The next closest humani settlement, Megelin Castle, was far stronger and better situated than Tudry, with less vulnerable civilian populations around it.  If anything, Tudry’s destruction simplified Azar’s security situation.  Henceforth commercial traffic would flow along more easterly roads, most beyond the protective rivers that bisected the Wilderlands.

Anguin wasn’t particularly happy with losing Tudry either, despite repeated lectures by Count Salgo, his Minister of War, about why it was necessary, and Viscountess Threanas, his Minister of Treasure, about why it was desirable.  Thankfully, he was preoccupied with re-organizing the nobility of the Wilderlands, sending reinforcements to Count Marcadine at Preshar Castle, and sending scouts into the far southern wastes to monitor Korbal’s movements in the Land of Scars to take much issue with it.

And then there was the wedding.

Once the matter of it taking place was settled, the far more complex negotiations on where, when, and how were underway.  As an announcement was supposed to be made at the Curia, on Luin’s Day, Rardine and her mother were preoccupied with screaming each other by way of Mirror messages and long, nasty letters.

I returned to Sevendor, feeling content, for once.  I spent the next day working on my new warstaff.  I was installing the specialized hoxters in the head when I got interrupted.

“You burn down an entire town, and don’t even invoke me?” an angry female voice asked from behind me.

“I didn’t think you’d be interested,” I shrugged, bending back to my work.

“It was a huge whopping fire!” she snorted.  “I’m a fire goddess!  That’s my primal function!  Flaming hells, you were using thermite!  Thermite!” she repeated.  “How would I not be interested?”

“Did no one else invoke you?” I asked, as I continued to work.

“Certainly!  Hundreds did!  There was a fire elemental rolling around in there for a while!  I showed up personally!  But did my most famous lay worshipper bother to invoke me, and share the exquisite bliss of thousands of degrees of pure combustible magic?  Minalan!” she pleaded.  “Are you losing interest in me?”

“Now, now,” I chuckled, “the truth is I was just busy.  Astyral was showing off, and I had to give him my full attention.  Having a pretty goddess around, making sex noises while she watched the blaze, might have been distracting.”

“I don’t make sex noises!” she declared, defensively.  “I . . . I just . . I’m a fire goddess, it’s what I do!” she said, nearly whining.

“I’m sorry,” I sighed, putting down my thaumaturgical wands.  “I really have been busy.  Sometimes I think that the true art of wizardry isn’t magic or even wisdom, but keeping so many different things going at once without screwing any of them up too badly.”

“How do you do it?”

“I’m divinely inspired,” I joked.  “Mostly, it’s a matter of getting other people to do your work for you.  Pushing the right idiots into doing the right stupid things at the right time.”

“You do seem to excel at that,” she agreed, sitting.  She seemed to be calming down a bit, which was good.  One doesn’t want a fire goddess raging around your workshop when you’re dealing with powerful thaumaturgical forces.

“I do,” I agreed.  “I’m starting to feel guilty about it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” I shrugged.  “Possibly because I stopped feeling guilty about other things?”

“You do seem . . . different,” she agreed, thoughtfully, after staring at me a moment.  “Your . . . soul has been mended.”

“What?” I asked, alarmed.

“That’s the theurgic perspective,” she explained.  “You’d say that your enneagram has been remodeled.  Usually only something like a profound religious experience would have that kind of effect.  Have you had a profound religious experience like that, recently?”

“Just Alya slowly coming back,” I suggested.

“No,” she said, pursing her lips and shaking her head.  “That’s not it.   Don’t mistake me – you’re overjoyed, confident, cocky, feeling successful and self-congratulatory—”

“And incredibly tolerant to backhanded compliments,” I added.

“It was an observation, not a compliment.  This is different than what you feel for what you’ve done for Alya.  The transformation is subtler, more regressively focused . . . it’s hard to explain.  Sometimes I wish you were a theurge.”

“I probably need one on staff,” I conceded.  “It would help interpreting you lot.  How is everyone adjusting to permanency?”

“They’re getting used to it.  There’s some novelty to the process that takes a while to pass.   And we’ve been busy, too,” she said, defensively.  “Each in our way.   Sisu, especially.  He’s put the fear of the humani gods into the gurvani.  Some of the Kasari are joining his cult, and he’s attracting a certain woodsy class of Tera Alon.  The others are doing what they can.  And, of course, Herus has been quite busy.  He always is.”

“And you?”

“I’ve been keeping my eyes on everything I could, and pushing inspiration into the minds of those who need it most.  I’ve been lending my power to those who require it.  There’s a forest fire in Merwyn that had my attention, for a few days,” she added.  “Then your magi set off that ingenious blaze in Tudry, and you had my complete attention!”

“That was Ormar, Astyral, and whomever controlled the fire elemental—”

“That was Teine!  He’s got a fiendish talent for fire!  And a redhead,” she said, dreamily.

“Who’s losing interest in our relationship, now?” I teased.

“That’s not fair!  He’s just a cute boy who can control fire with magic.  A pyromantic sport.  He’s not a bold, intelligent, cunning, wise, brave—”

“Don’t worry, I don’t mind,” I said, feigning an injured tone.  “I’ve only built, what, two major temples to you?  Funded dozens of your shrines?  Served as the judge at the baker’s guild apprentice competition?  I don’t need your flattery.”

“Fine!” she huffed.  “You do favors for Ishi—”

“That was Trygg,” I pointed out.  “Ishi was just the messenger.  And it wasn’t a favor, I was . . . honestly, all I did was look at a box and act as a witness.  Rardine was the one who did it all.”

“It was inspired,” she admitted, reluctantly.  “She’s not even remotely one of my worshippers, but she pulled it off.  Just as Astyral managed his razing of Tudry.  And you . . . you went into the very halls of the dead to recover the Handmaiden.  And Alya is getting better.  That was pretty inspired, too.”

“That was desperation, not inspiration,” I countered.  “You can’t really take credit for that.”

“I’m not trying to take credit,” she said, defensively.  “I’m bestowing divine praise.  Entirely different.  But while we’re on the subject of desperation, I’m getting a lot of prayers right now . . . from the vicinity of Maidenspool.  And I’ve never been popular in Enultramar, before.”

“Why?  What’s happening?”

“Tavard’s men are getting desperate.  Your supplies are the only thing giving them hope, right now, and they’re getting disgusted with Tavard’s crappy leadership.  A couple of them spread the news that you’re a worshipper of mine—”

“More observant than devout, at the moment,” I pointed out.

“They set up a small shrine to me and started praying for inspiration, guidance, and . . . rescue.  They’ve been there for weeks now and haven’t made material progress beyond Maidenspool.  They’re terrified that they’ll still be there this autumn, when the fleets return . . . and will fall upon their exposed location like carrion crows.”

“That’s good intelligence to know,” I sighed, “as troubling as it is to hear.  “The Curia is in a few days.  I’ll suggest to Rard that perhaps we should consider retrieving Tavard and finding a way to rescue those men.”

“He’s not going to like that,” she said, troubled.  “He’s growing to hate you.  The supplies Dranus send always have messages from you on them,” she said.  I winced.  “You’re doing that on purpose!”

It was true – each new shipment of supplies Dranus sent by hoxter to Tavard included little notes to the men reminding them that they were being delivered courtesy of Baron Minalan the Spellmonger.  They also included scrolls tucked away among the gear and supplies summarizing the news from around the kingdom Dranus collected and sent them courtesy, each one declared, of Minalan the Spellmonger.  And at Midsummer he’d sent double rations of wine and ale, as well as enough fresh beef and pork to feast them all.  Courtesy of the Spellmonger.

“I . . . I wanted to make sure everyone knew who was responsible for their victuals,” I said, defensively.

“You didn’t think them magically manifesting out of thin air wasn’t enough of a clue?” she snorted.  “Every shipment you sent made Tavard look that much worse.  At Midsummer, he contrived to raid a nearby fishing village – about the most ambitious target he’s attempted in weeks.  He plundered it for three casks of pickled eggs and six kegs of rum, among other rare prizes.  He was going to present it all to his hungry men when you send them ten fully-cooked oxen and enough booze to drown them all . . . well, he didn’t take it well.”

“I wasn’t trying to make him look bad . . . exactly,” I said.

“It doesn’t matter.  He’s just miserable, far away from home, with no victory in sight and little hope of survival, without intervention.  He’s lost the respect of his men, thanks to his lack of ability to either command or delegate to those who can.  His best hope is to go home with his tail between his legs in defeat and face his father.  Abandoning his men,” she added.  “He doesn’t want to face that humiliation.”

“He already must answer for those ships he lost to the Alshari armada,” I nodded.  “Rard isn’t going to punish him.”

“It’s not Rard he’s worried about.  He’s worried about looking like a fool and a failure.”

“But . . . but he’s the Conqueror of Maidenspool!” I mocked.

“Exactly,” she sighed.  “He’s terrified of being teased.  He misses his wife and baby desperately.  But his sense of honor won’t allow him to admit his failure, and he increasingly blames you for that.”

“All I’ve done is send him food!  I’ve been his grocer, nothing more!”

“It’s what you haven’t done that angers him.  He knows you’ve got great magical power, and you won’t use it on his behalf.  He feels entitled to it.  And he’s angry with his father for not commanding you to help.”

“His father tried to command me to help him conquer Enultramar.  I refused for him, I refused for Tavard.  For the same reasons.”

“So, you see why he’s angry,” she agreed.  “Be prepared for that.”

“It doesn’t concern me much,” I admitted.  “After the Curia, it will concern me less.  Tavard will see his power greatly diminished.”

“You don’t think that’s going to piss him off, more?”

“I haven’t done anything wrong!” I protested.  “Why would he be angry with me for that?”

“He doesn’t need a reason.  You’re someone he can take his anger out on, he believes.  And once Armandra’s account of his sister’s engagement reaches him, he will be livid.”

“No doubt.  But unless he wants to rise in rebellion against the king, or go to war with his cousin for having the temerity to rescue his sister, he doesn’t have much recourse.  And picking on me is only going to be effective as long as I tolerate it.  But why the concern?”

“Just trying to keep you appraised of events.  The ones that I can.  Korbal, unfortunately, has made it difficult to look within his sphere of influence, now that he has Sheruel at his command.  Across the Mindens, the Shadow spreads.  Sheruel was mere power focused through the molopor.  Korbal is more sophisticated.”

“He’s also weaker, and more petty,” I pointed out.

“That doesn’t mean he’ll lose.”

“I know,” I sighed.

I want to try an experiment, Lilastien told me, that night.  Alya’s progress continues, after her field trip.  She’s speaking quite well, now, and someone who doesn’t know her might not even realize that she’s been damaged.  I think that reintroducing her to Sevendor might be a good idea.  She keeps asking when she can go back.  The Magic Fair might be the best place for her to explore just how ready she is.

I’ll be at the Curia, for most of that, I protested.

I didn’t say she needed to see you, I said she wanted to come back to Sevendor.  I’ll be with her, as will her nurses.  You go to your little warrior-prince meeting, and we’ll see you when you return.

I wanted to get the Handmaiden back from you, anyway, I agreed.  I figured the Magolith would look impressive.

Yes, you’ll have the biggest ball in the room, the other boys will be so jealous.

As it turned out, I did see Alya, briefly, on the first day of the Magic Fair.  Lilastien brought her by Spellmonger’s Hall for a few moments before I took the Ways to Kaunis, and we had a brief, cheery breakfast together.

Lilastien was correct: if you didn’t know her, you’d never think anything was amiss with her mind.  That made breakfast a little more bittersweet, but it was progress and I was grateful for it.

The Grand Hall at Kaunis was filled to the rafters with nobility, when I came through the Ways on Hartarian’s stone.  Counts, viscounts, and representatives of the nobles who could not attend milled about in their finery, waiting for the proceedings to begin.  They would include a lengthy discussion led by Count Kindine laying out the necessity and the purpose of the proposal.

“Of course, Hartarian sighed, “then they’ll have to argue about everything for days, before they decide.  But it will happen.  I’ve already discussed the matter with those who have the most influence, and they are already in favor.  Particularly considering the increase in revenues they should expect.  But they’ll still have to argue about it, even though they all know it’s the right thing to do.”

“How are the dukes handling it?” I asked.

“Clofalin couldn’t care less – typical Remeran attitude,” he sniffed.  “Anguin is enthusiastic – currently he’s only got a few counties to his name, anyway.  And Tavard is livid at the unprecedented attempt at usurping control.”

“Tavard?  He’s here?”

“His Majesty insisted,” Hartarian nodded, clearly unhappy about it.  “I went to Enultramar through the Ways, last night, and brought him back.  His Highness was . . . reluctant to abandon his enterprise, even temporarily.  I don’t know why – it is a most depressing land, all stones and weeds.  But he is here, and he is strongly opposed to the proposal.”

“Of course he is,” I nodded.  “It takes away a lot of his power.”

I mingled a bit, and found myself near Anguin and his bodyguard, Sir Gydion.  The Orphan Duke was smartly dressed in a Wilderlands-style surcoat emblazoned with the Anchor and Antlers, the larger version who stood behind him wearing a similar tabard over his armor.

“Your Grace,” I said, bowing.

“Actually, in this context I am appearing as the Count of Falas and Rouen,” he corrected.  “Despite the regalia, I have more influence with those offices than my coronet in this context.”

“I suppose you would,” I agreed.  “But isn’t disingenuous for you to represent counties you don’t actually control?”

“I’ll control them, eventually,” he pointed out.  “Besides, I’m taking the opportunity to present my two new barons of Gilmora to the Royal Court: Magelord Astyral will become the Baron of Losara, and my . . . friend Gydion, here, will be assuming the barony of Karinboll.”

“I’m tolerably familiar with the barony,” the former professional jouster agreed.  “It was my headquarters for two years when I was on the Gilmoran circuit.”  That elicited a grimace from Anguin – he hated jousting, and some of his lowest moments had been spent in exile on the Gilmoran jousting circuit.  “It’s a mess, but I think I can put it right.  With some help,” he added, hopefully.

“Count Marcadine suggested that I place Gilmorans into power in my new lands, to avoid any cultural issues that might impair their restoration,” Anguin explained.  “I considered Mavone for Karinboll, but he wasn’t interested.  And Count Angrial counselled that putting two magelords into power might be politically difficult.”

“Alas, it would,” I agreed.  I’d already overhead plenty of murmuring over the new Count of Moros, who had arrived for the Curia by the Ways with his retinue of warmagi.  Count Dranus was not hesitant about flaunting his magical status.  In his way, he was as theatrical as Azar.  “But their restoration is more important than politics.  I wish you luck in that,” I added, to Gydion.

“We’ll also be releasing the details of the ducal wedding . . . as soon as Grendine sends her final approval of the tentative plans, and they are formally approved by the rump Coronet Council.  We shall have it in Vorone, at Yule.  To celebrate the anniversary of me arriving there.”

“Vorone?” I asked, curious.  “Isn’t that a little remote?”

“It is my capital,” he said, firmly.  “And Carmella says that the great hall of the new castle will be finished enough for the occasion, by then.  My brother dukes can either find their way through the woods or they can just send expensive gifts.”

Before I could come up with a witty response, the swirling cloth-of-gold mantle of Prince Tavard appeared, as my liege lord interrupted.

“Well met, Cousin,” he said, through clenched teeth.  Tavard looked tan, after a summer in the heat and sun of Enultramar he was as tan as a mariner.  He’d lost some weight, too, and there were new lines on his face.  Lines a man only gets when he’s been worried for a very long time.  Regardless of the results, Tavard’s adventure in Enultramar had given the lad some seasoning and maturity.  A little.

Anguin wasn’t intimidated – likely because he had his bastard half-brother behind him for support.  “Actually, we shall be brothers-in-law, soon, Your Highness,” he said, evenly.

“Yes, I hear congratulations are in order . . . despite the scandal of the match,” he added.

“Well, my men support me no matter what family I choose as my in-laws,” Anguin said, wryly.  “She’s a lovely girl.  She is very much looking forward to being Duchess of Alshar.”

“Duchess of the Wilderlands, you mean,” Tavard taunted.  “I control more of Enultramar than you do, at the moment.”

“Ah, yes.  Hail the Conqueror of Maidenspool,” snorted Anguin.  “Have you seen the great communal chum pit there?  It’s the largest in the county of Arangalan, large enough for the entire town to use.  I hear it’s quite a sight.”

“And a very expensive one,” Tavard agreed, evenly.  “In fact, while I am here I will be signing an order for a singular levy on every barony in the realm.  Including the two you just . . . won,” he said, contemptuously.  “I’ll expect prompt payment from all of my vassals.”

“Is that to pay for the coastal defense fleet Your Highness confiscated from Farise?” I asked, innocently.

“If you think I’m going to pay you to invade my own lands, Cousin, you may wish to reconsider,” Anguin said, thoughtfully, after a pause.

“If you are my vassal, you will perform as such . . . or be counted a rebel,” Tavard sneered.

“Well, if you lead troops in Gilmora as well as you do in Enultramar, that would be a daunting threat,” Anguin dismissed.  “But surely this is something we can let Uncle Rard decide.”

Invoking the name of the King in such familiar terms made Tavard’s nostrils flare.  Rumor had it that the Minister of War and the Grand Admiral were both livid with the boy for Farise.  It was unlikely that he’d rule favorably for Tavard over getting his vassals to pay for it.

Tavard knew it too.  He sputtered a moment, and I tried to rescue the situation.

“My lords, these matters bear further discussion at another time and place,” I said, gently.  “Today we see to the re-organization of the realm – that is all.”

“Another open attempt to displace me from my position,” snorted Tavard.  “If the Royal Court would learn to spend only what they need, they would not need to pick the pockets of the nobility.”

“Palaces cost money, Your Highness,” I pointed out.  “And you will inherit this, one day.  It is not if you are throwing the gold into the ocean.”

“My lady wife is not fond of Kaunis,” Tavard said.  “Though it is grand, she finds it uncomfortable.  It took much to convince her to leave our son in Castabriel for the day and make the dusty journey by carriage this morning.  For some reason, she associates it with unpleasantness and discord,” he said, just this side of angry.

“I prefer Castabriel, myself,” Anguin agreed, cheerfully.  “Your sister showed me many of its sights when we celebrated our engagement.  A truly fine, quaint old city,” he said, patronizingly.  He wasn’t helping.

“Princess Armandra is a woman of rare sensitivities,” I said, making a second stab at civility.  “No doubt she will become accustomed to the palace, when it is hers to call her own.”

“She is more concerned with her pregnancy,” Tavard said, proudly.  “She conceived before I embarked, and the pregnancy has proven.  We will announce it at tonight’s banquet,” he added, clearly intending to overshadow Anguin’s announcement.  Anguin didn’t seem to care.

“Trygg’s blessings on your lady wife for an untroubled pregnancy and a safe delivery, Cousin,” he said, sincerely.  “Please bear her my regards.”

“MY LORDS!” the herald called, from the doorway of the council chamber.  More than two score counts looked up.  “PRAY ATTEND HIS MAJESTY THE KING IN COUNCIL, FOR THE IMPROVEMENT OF THE REALM!”

“That’s us,” Anguin said, clearly eager to be shut of his cousin’s company.  “According to the order of precedence, Cousin, I believe you are first?”

With a snort Tavard turned on his heel and presented himself at the door, where the herald bellowed his name and many titles before admitting him to the council chamber.  Clofalin was next, and then Anguin.

But while the Duke of Remere was listening to the long list of places he owned and titles he bore, there was a crack and a cloud of mist.  A peculiar smell filled the room, and everyone backed away from the center of the room.  Many drew swords.

I gripped Pathfinder, which I carried because it’s lighter than my ceremonial staff, and people expect wizards to carry staves.  My defensive spells went up automatically – the Magolith moved in front of me, protectively.

“I am Pratanik, Emissary of Korbal, rightful lord of this land,” came a dark, deep voice from the black-robed figure that emerged from the sudden mist.  “I demand to speak to this chieftain who dares send his minions to irritate my lord.  Bring him forth quickly, lest I lay waste to this entire miserable land!”

Interlude VI

Sir Saverin

“The Signal”

The journey up the river was long, and the strong iron chains that connected each bronze collar together was as heavy as the brutal necklace itself.  The idea of running from the cruel slave merchants was laughable, after days of starvation rations and dehydration.  Even ending the misery with a plunge over the side of the overcrowded barge was out of the question.  A single man seeking suicide in such a way would be involuntarily stopped by the two men on either side of him in the coffle.

Such thoughts had plagued Sir Saverin of Colglean since he’d been forced onto the wretched barge with his fellows, after the humiliating spectacle of their auction at Cadena, and then a second auction at Autus.  He and his fellow Wilderlords had been purchased as a lot, for a wealthy client in need of strong labor upriver.  From the grumbling his new owners were doing, they’d paid a mere twenty ounces of silver apiece for the men, and were eager to return for cheaper fare when the rest of the fleet returned.

The slavers knew their business, Sir Saverin had to admit.  Brutish men of low station or fallen fortunes had taken up the lucrative trade, providing cheap labor for the wealthy landowners.  The largest of them, a fat, unwashed squint-eyed beast named Rugar, sat in the front of the boat and stared at them as if they were pigs on their way to market.

Along the way he taunted the new slaves, and did not hesitate to beat his supremacy into their high-born heads with a wooden club, whether there was a need or not.  Saverin quickly grew to despise the man, and then fear his mercurial nature.  The jug of cheap spirits at his knee – a bonus from the slave merchants to ease his purchase – did not seem to aid his humor.  It merely made him mean.

“You’re going all the way up the river, you miserable mice!” he would frequently call out.  “As far from rescue at sea as you could ask!  The Vale lords need men, and it’s a hard, ruinous life for them!   Two seasons, is all a manor need get out of you, to pay for your purchase!  Two seasons, and they’ll wring every last drop of sweat from you, to get it!”

No questions were permitted by the enslaved, of course.  Indeed, they were no longer allowed their real names.  New names were assigned to them by their captors.  Sir Saverin was appalled to find he was now to be called “Ergal”.  He saw what happened to Sir Mastuin when he objected.  He bore the name without complaint.

Six tired, miserable days on the impossibly long Mandros River, every inch upstream requiring a tireless effort on the oars to propel it, had left Saverin physically exhausted as well as emotionally wrung.  There were only ten oars, so the coffles were changed every fifteen minutes or so to bring on fresh rowers.  Fifteen minutes of back-breaking hell, as the slaves fought the current with their muscles, alone.  Then collapse back on the bench, grateful for the exercise but too tired to consider rebellion.  Or even complaint.  The cruel slavers used the prospect of water to taunt the men, until they nearly begged for the relief.  Saverin vowed to find Rugar someday and beat him senseless, should he ever escape the hell of enslavement.

Finally, after six days on the increasingly narrow river, the barge captain took a fork that lead to the east, into the foothills of the Vale where it the current was so quick it took every bit of strength from the slaves to propel the barge forward.

“Chamhain, the arse end of the duchy,” Rugar announced.  “Dry as bones and as rocky as your mother’s arse . . . lord here can’t get his free peasants to work it right.  Hopes a bit of lash will see it prosper.  That’s your job, lads!” he sneered.  “And a good price for you I got, too – near triple what I paid, this far from the coast!  Oh, aye, the Baron of Chamhain ordered you lot special,” he said, sinisterly.  “He’s got special plans for ten o’ you!”

The relentless badgering by the fat slaver was nearly worse than the hot autumn sun beating down on his bare head.  After the horrific sea voyage, the betrayal by the captains of their transport, this was the final indignity he would bear, Saverin hoped.  His honor was strong, but every man strains the bounds of his honor under duress.  To be so miserably used was not merely an offense against his class and station, but against human dignity.  The wretches in his father’s dungeons weren’t so mistreated as the slaves in the coffle.

Finally, the barge stopped, and Sir Saverin – or “Ergal” as Rugar insisted – was unloaded with nine of his fellows.  The other six coffles were destined upriver still, for other manors and estates where it was believed the sweat of slaves would bring the land to fruit where that of free men had failed.

The peasant overseer who roughly dragged them to the manor sheds was accompanied by three stout lads with rusty spears . . . but in their exhausted condition it was all the Wilderlord captives could do to stay on their feet.  The rustic swore the entire time, invoking a number of deities only a few of which Saverin was familiar with.  He berated their lethargy and reluctance, pushing them constantly forward with his staff, until they were secured in a windowless building behind the big manor house.

“Lord Darion has graciously allowed you a single night’s rest, before you start in the fields tomorrow,” the peasant informed them, before he departed, dropping a basket on the dirt floor after his guards had locked the chains into place.  “Real bread tonight, a big treat.  Don’t get accustomed to it,” he chuckled wickedly as he secured the door.

“Oh, dear Trygg’s holy grace, what have we done?” one of his younger fellows moaned in the darkness.

“We volunteered,” came another sullen voice.  “That’s where this all started!”

“Be quiet,” Sir Saverin advised them, as he opened the basket.  He had to pull hard on his chain to get to it, but the allure was irresistible.  It had been weeks since he’d eaten a proper meal.  “We gain our strength and bide our time,” he said, pulling out the first heel of bread.  It was a stale trencher, days old, the grease and juice from the original meal turning rancid.  He bit into it hungrily.

“Bide our time?  For what?” demanded the young voice, as he passed out the rest of the trove.  “We’re going to die in this miserable place!”

“Did you die during training?” asked another man – Sir Hondal, if his memory served, somewhat older than most of the volunteers.  “Did you die at sea, during the storm?  Did you die of embarrassment at the auction block? No.  If you can endure all of that, you can endure a little farming.”

“Lady Gatina will not break faith with us,” one of the other men proclaimed in the darkness.

“She already has!” snarled the first voice.  “Where is she?  Weeks it has been, and no contact!”

“She will keep faith,” the other man insisted.

Severin wasn’t willing to argue the point, one way or another.  The betrayal of the mariners had been heartbreaking, realizing that all of their plans were coming unraveled.  But that was in the past.  What mattered now was how to escape this wretched place.  A son of the Wilderlands could not easily be contained, he vowed to himself.  He fell to sleep gazing longingly up at the full moon – the harvest moon, he realized – through a crack in the slave shed’s roof.

He was awakened deep into the night by a mysterious sound: as if someone were playing the same note on the harp, over and over again.  He sat up, mystified.

“Someone playing a harp?” he asked.

“I hear it, too!” someone replied.

Before they could investigate, the note changed . . . and their heavy collars opened.

“Finally!” someone gasped.

“Quiet, you fool!” Severin spat.  “Do you want to bring the overseer?  Lady Gatina did not break faith,” he pointed out.  “She freed us.”

“To what end?” complained another voice.  “We’re still inside this shed.  I’m still naked.”

The latter complaint ended a moment later, when suddenly the small shed was filled with the smell of leather and steel.  There were a few curses as the men stumbled in the dark . . . but there were their weapons and armor, shields and packs.  Just as they’d been when Lady Gatina had sent them away, magically.

“My sword!” one of the younger men cried, excitedly.  “How I’ve longed for you!”

“Armor yourselves,” Sir Severin commanded, as he found a scroll of parchment Lady Gatina had given him, sealed before it was included with his kit.  His orders.

The ink on the paper glowed in the darkness, he saw as he unfurled it.  Wide, big letters spelled out the details of their part of the plan.  In a moment he knew just what to do.

“As soon as you’re armed, eat,” he encouraged, opening his own kit and removing a water bottle.  Cool, sweet water, drawn from a spring at Timberwatch.  “We are to wait here until the overseer comes to wake us, at dawn.  Then we are to slay him and capture this manor,” he revealed.  “If all goes according to plan, boats bearing our comrades from similar excursions upriver will be joining us mid-morning.  We’re to board and take them downriver to a bridge . . . Sandaskay Bridge,” he said, referring back to the scroll.  “We’re to take the bridge and hold it.  In two days, we should be relieved by a force from upriver.  We’re to let no one else pass.”

“That’s not so tough,” someone remarked, with their mouth full.

“We’ll find out on the morrow,” promised Sir Severin, as strapped his sword belt on over his armor.  “After that, this adventure will be firmly in the hands of the gods.  And Lady Gatina.”

Chapter Seventy-One

Korbal’s Demand

There was a general murmur of outrage and disgust, and dozens of bare blades surrounded the Nemovort.  He took no notice of them, standing imperiously and addressing us all as one.

It was odd, being this close to a Nemovort and not actively trying to kill him.  This one was dressed in some unfortunate mage’s body, once fit and muscular, now a mere frame for the necromantic architecture that propelled its limbs.  This was, thankfully, relatively fresh and unblemished by putrescence or damage, yet.

The runic scars and tattoos the Nemovorti employed to maintain them had become smaller and more sophisticated, Insight noted.  There were new elements in this one that seemed to weave an entire field over the creature, creating a kind of Necromantic Shroud that enveloped him with a cloak of energy.  That would bear consideration, I knew.  Pratanik wore but a simple robe of black over his gaunt frame, and a strange wrapping of cloth over his brow.

A few of the counts and their men began to approach the undead monster aggressively, but I didn’t want the place to erupt into slaughter.  I strode to the gap that had opened around the undead emissary and held up Insight.  The Magolith soared over my head of its own accord, pulsing warningly.

“My lords!  His Majesty is not unaware of this unusual embassy.  I urge you to lower your guards until he can be summoned to answer this emissary’s queries.”  There was more murmuring, but the nobles ceased menacing the Nemovort. “Pray someone summon His Majesty, so that we may see this embassy to its speedy conclusion!”

“You must be Minalan the Spellmonger,” Pratanik said, his inhuman voice tinged with amusement.  “My master has taken a particular interest in you.”

I turned to face him – and regretted it.  While a fresh body, the host the Nemovort chose was not pretty, up close.  It was laced with tiny runes branded into the flesh of his face, connected with lines of tattooing ink.

While the smell of the thing made getting closer to it unappealing, Insight was eager to get a closer look for a better analysis.

A little mental debate with my magical implement finally got it to suggest that the field might allow the Nemovort to traverse a hoxter pocket without the necessity of re-energizing its necromantic architecture afterwards.  If true, it was a disturbing development.  One that also implied that someone here had to have activated the hoxter that brought him into the palace.

I had no time to investigate, however – I had a room full of angry, frightened nobility who wanted to slay this thing – and would likely die the moment they attacked it.

“I have admirers everywhere,” I shrugged.  “I’m getting used to it.”

“He has especial plans for you,” Pratanik insisted, quietly.  “You destroyed his bride!”

“Don’t be silly,” I snorted.  “I captured his bride.  She is my prisoner, as is your horrific vivisectionist.  They’re being interrogated in a secret location.  I’m thinking of starting a collection,” I added, surveying him, speculatively.

“You . . . hold the Nemovorti prisoner?” he asked, scandalized and disgusted.

“In chains,” I nodded.  “Please relay that to Korbal, next time you see his ugly, decomposing face.  She lives – or unlives – at my pleasure.  And should I decide to end her life, it will be in a way from which there is no necromantic return.”  I glanced up to the Magolith, which obligingly throbbed in a threatening manner.  “I assure you, I have that capability.”

That was news, and troubling news, to Pratanik.  “Interesting . . .”

“More than interesting: we have learned a great deal from our prisoners,” I told him, without really knowing what the Tera Alon had gotten from the Nemovorti in their care.  But I had a good chance here to screw with Pratanik, and I couldn’t resist.  “I would tread warily, if I were Korbal.  He should not be so certain of his followers’ loyalties.”

“All the Nemovorti are loyal!” Pratanik barked, angrily.  “We endured a millennium of internment together!  We are bound by loyalties mortals have no manner of comprehending!  We—”

“Will bargain for your comfort and security like any gurvani wretch, while in chains,” I finished.  “Fear not: Mycin Amana is being treated far better than the Aronin of Ameras was at Korbal’s hands.”

“Mortal, you interfere in matters you do not understand!” Pratanik growled.

“Why do you think I have so many admirers?” I countered.  “It’s what I do.  Someone has to.”

There was a disturbance at the edge of the crowd as King Rard arrived, with Count Kindine and other high court officials in tow.  Everyone looked angry and frightened.

“Your Majesty,” I said, before he could speak, “I have the honor to introduce Lord Pratanik, emissary of Korbal the Necromancer, Lord of Olum Seheri.  As we were previously informed,” I emphasized.

“You are granted temporary grace, to deliver your embassy, Lord Pratanik,” Rard said, as he studied the foul ambassador.  “Once it is said, you are to leave my palace.  And my lands.”

“These are not your lands, King Rard,” Pratanik countered.  “They belong to the Alka Alon.  You are in the precincts of Castabriel, domain of House Meresthel.  Of whom I am the rightful heir.”

“A house long extinct,” I countered.  “This land was granted to humanity by the Alka Alon council.  And you are no living heir.”

“Improperly granted,” the Nemovort insisted.  “The council has no right to dispose of land to foreigners, aliens, unclean—”

“You will keep a respectful tongue in your head in my house,” Rard warned, “else I revoke your embassy, Lord Pratanik.  If you take issue with how the Alka Alon conduct their business, take it up with them.  My family has ruled this land for four hundred years,” he said, proudly.

“A blink of the eye,” sneered Pratanik.  “One does not question the ancestry and lineage of the mice who infest your house.  But I will be civil, if I am able, in order to ensure that there is no misunderstanding about the message I bear.”

“Speak it plainly, then, Lord Pratanik,” Count Kindine said, in his tired voice.  “We have important matters to discuss today.”

“I will not waste your time, then,” Pratanik grinned, wolfishly.  “My master, Korbal, rightful ruler of these lands, bids you to remove your settlements from western regions near the Mindens,” he demanded, arrogantly.  “You are to withdraw to this point, and come no further west.  In his mercy, Korbal will grant you two years of peace to conduct this withdrawal.

“Should you fail to heed his wishes, your lives are forfeit,” Pratanik continued, imperiously, as the counts murmured among themselves.  “You will become Korbal’s enemies in earnest, not mere nuisances.  Further,” he continued, “you shall surrender all irionite to Korbal, as it is improperly in the possession of those too foolish to use it wisely.”  He looked at my big green glowing sphere.  “Such powers have no place in the hands of mortals!”

I snorted.  “Not bloody likely.  Your next demand?” I asked, with casual arrogance.

Pratanik glared.  “You will cease your alliance with the degenerate Alka Alon council,” he continued, staring at the king.  “You will no more entertain the perverse mixing of your genetics, producing half-breed mongrels that insult the memory of our people.  You will acknowledge the sovereignty of Korbal over these lands.

“You will swear to not take up arms against Korbal and his forces, nor will you interfere in the conflict between Korbal and the so-called Alka Alon council.  You will deliver any Alka Alon artifacts you may possess to Korbal, through his emissaries, and seek them out no more.

“In return, he will grant you limited use of these lands until a final disposition for the infestation of your people can be determined.  Fear not: Korbal rewards loyal and devoted service from his vassals.  Much as he punishes disloyalty and betrayal.”

“Is there anything else?” Rard asked, his patience stretched.

“As a token of your obedience, you will deliver three hundred human bodies bearing rajira to Korbal every year,” he continued.  “They are to be the most gifted, as well as physically fit and hale.  Additional requirements for the purposes of labor may be made, but this is essential: we will have your magi,” he said, looking at me balefully.

“I believe you already had us, once, and you didn’t fare so well,” I pointed out, bravely.  “Else Korbal might be here in a grand new body, himself.  Why isn’t he, I wonder?  Not looking pretty this morning?”  That was for the benefit of the counts around me, not Pratanik.  Still, it had an effect on the Necromancer’s emissary.

Pratanik glared at me balefully with his tallow eyes.  “You will cease all interaction with the Vundel.  No trade or communication with the Sea Folk is permitted.  You will consider any agreements made with the so-called Goblin King null.  All further negotiations on behalf of the gurvani will be made through Korbal.

“And, finally,” he said, grinning nastily, “you will pay restitution for your recent incursion into Olum Seheri.  I have a list of materials that Korbal finds acceptable for this payment,” he said, taking a scroll of vellum out of his robes and dropping it on the floor.  “I trust you have someone here who can read?”

“Your understanding of civility needs attention,” Rard said, gruffly, as he stared at the scroll at Pratanik’s feet.  “But I will spare you the lesson, in honor of your embassy.  Why should I consider even a single point?” he asked, proudly.

“Did you not hear the threat implicit in the demands, Rard?” Pratanik asked, scornfully.  “I knew your folk were simple, but I expected at least some basic comprehension.”

“I heard a list of Korbal’s fears, my liege,” I countered.  “In making his demands he reveals his darkest worries.  He fears the magi,” I said, addressing the entire hall.  “He fears our alliance with the Alka Alon.  He fears us making peace with the gurvani.  He fears our interactions with the Sea Folk.  And he shows us his most dire needs: a list of things he lacks and a demand for magi to host his foul brood.”

That changed the mood of the hall – and Pratanik helped by immediately denying the charge.

“Korbal fears nothing!  He is the most powerful Alka Alon in five thousand years. He has armies of devoted Nemovorti!  He rules legions!  He—”

“He couldn’t get more than a handful of Alka Alon to support his mad policies,” I interrupted, “and when he got unruly the responsible parties put him in a hole.  Now that he’s escaped, he seeks to impress us with his potency . . . but he reveals instead his weaknesses and fears.  I urge you to reject this embassy, my liege,” I said, boldly.  “I’ve heard better boasts from bandits.”

“I have my own demands to lay in this council,” Anguin said, striding forward bravely, to my surprise.  And everyone else’s.  “I am lord of the western lands.  As you are the emissary of the Necromancer, you may bear him my message.

“Korbal has taken up residence in my realm,” he said, in a loud voice.  “Since living memory the Land of Scars was peacefully maintained by Lord Aeratas at the edge of my lands.  Now your banditry has made it the abode of the foul creatures and wicked men.  If anyone deserves restitution, it is I!” he snarled.  “He has usurped the throne of an honest neighbor, and bred corruption in its place.

“I witnessed the filth you have heaped in Olum Seheri with my own eyes.  Regardless of what my uncle may decide, the folk of Alshar will not bow to such demands.  We are too proud to be ruled by corruption,” he said, flatly.

“You admit even your children to council?” Pratanik asked Rard, sarcastically.  “Be silent, Duke Anguin, lest we send another dragon to Vorone!”

“Considering what happened to the last one, you would think you’d be more careful,” the boy quipped, dangerously.

“Perhaps more cautious speech would serve us better, my lords,” Duke Clofalin suggested, anxiously.

“The time for caution passed when this thing’s foul master kidnapped my bride,” Anguin insisted, hotly.  “With respect, my lords, I have seen the result of Korbal’s rule myself – none of you have.  If Olum Seheri is any mark or measure of what kind of treatment we can expect under Korbal’s rule, then better we all perish here and now than see that suffering inflicted on our people.”

“Keep silent, cub!” hissed Pratanik.  “My embassy is with King Rard!”

“And my message is for Korbal,” he said, boldly advancing in the face of the Nemovort and addressing him boldly.  “I’ve spent half my life witnessing what Korbal and his minions plan for humanity.  I’ve fought his gurvani in the field, and I’ve seen what his schemes portend: enslavement, death, and debasement to all humanity.

“Would our noble ancestors allow such a threat?  Would your fathers have shied away from evil, because of its pretense to power?” he asked.  “House Terine will stand against it until the last man falls with his sword in hand in defiance!”

He delivered it with more passion and zeal than I’d anticipated – usually Anguin is reserved, observant.  But his mood was enflamed, now.  As he stared down one of the undead lords who infested his broken realm, he allowed his deepest feelings to pour out in front of his most distinguished peers as if he were a lad challenging a bully in the temple yard.

There were a few cheers from the crowd, but Anguin wasn’t finished.

“My lords,” he continued, addressing the counts, “we are gathered here to see to the more efficient order of the realm, an effort which I wholeheartedly support—but it is vital that we keep in our minds the reason we do so: not to fund palaces, but to see to the defense of the kingdom.  This,” he said, pointing at Pratanik, “is the reason for that effort.  The forces that imperil not just my lands, but yours as well, are gathering on my frontier.  I cannot allow them to go unchallenged.  I will do so alone, at need, but with help I can keep them at bay.”

“You have no understanding of the forces you challenge, boy,” Pratanik declared.  “Dragons are but a taste of what Korbal can do!”

“All the more reason to contend with you now, then,” Anguin agreed, defiantly.  “I am the scion of Sea Lords and warrior-princes.  The gods have declared that I shall be the protector of my people, and threats and shadows will not make me betray that sacred responsibility.  Tell Korbal this: Alshar will stand against Olum Seheri.  Always!”

There were even more cheers at that, as Anguin resumed his place in the crowd.  He was getting a lot of admiring glances.  I wasn’t the only one who noticed that, either.

“As does Castal,” Prince Tavard declared.  “I return from war to hear of five unprovoked attacks on castles in the Westlands?  Dragons?  Against simple country fortresses?” he asked, in disbelief.  “Has your master no concept of proportion?  Of honor?  Of chivalry?”

“He has such an acute conception that he’s unconcerned with your barbaric warrior codes,” Pratanik sneered.  “When one’s home is infested with pests, one does not debate about which mallet is fairer to use upon them.  Is this council for children?” he complained, looking at Rard.  “Or are you master in your own unruly house?”

“These are my sons, and in their hands the future of the kingdom lies,” Rard declared, taking a strong pace forward to regard the ambassador.  “They have a right to speak their minds in this matter.  If two duchies are willing to stand—

“Three,” old Duke Clofalin said, proudly.  “Remere does not bend to foreign despots.  Bad for business,” the commerce-minded duke declared.  “I stand with my brother dukes on this matter.”

“Then the kingdom, united, only awaits the king to rule,” Rard said, with a grateful nod to Clofalin.  “And the way is clear.  I reject this embassy utterly.  I see no reason to entertain threats from an undead madman in the wastes.  Not when I have the power to contend with it,” he said, putting his hand on his sword.

“Steel will not avail you in this fight,” Pratanik smirked.  “For if you reject Korbal’s kind offer, he will spare no fury in return.  My lord is not known for his mercy, especially when he makes offers as generous as this.  Spurn it, and the consequences will be devastating to the people you profess to protect.”

“We have more than steel to contest with,” I reminded him, as the Magolith throbbed.

“Your toys are amusements, nothing more,” Pratanik sneered.

“Oh, you’re going to be amused, someday,” I muttered.

“These are not terms,” Rard said, kicking the vellum scroll contemptuously with his boot.  “This is slavery.  On behalf of my dukes, my counts, and the people of Castalshar, they are rejected.

“More, Korbal is on notice to my enmity, for imprisoning my daughter, for incursions against my nephew’s lands, and for the unprovoked attacks on my son’s lands.  He has made this a personal vendetta,” he swore, “and by Huin, Duin, and Luin, and in light of Trygg’s grace to strengthen my arm, I declare us enemies of the Necromancer!”

“Then war it is,” Pratanik declared.  “Fools!  You have no conception of what misery you have brought upon yourselves.  You have been warned.  You will not be shown mercy, when you most desire it, as a result.”

“This embassy is at an end,” Rard declared.  “Go whither you came, and with haste!”

“War,” Pratanik said, his dead eyes narrowing.  Then he was gone, in a surge of necromantic energy.  Hoxter pocket, Insight confirmed.

Just like the five that opened up a moment later, and spilled draugen warriors into the hall – a stirrup cup from Pratanik.

Thankfully, we were on our guard already.  A score of red-eyed undead warriors would have slaughtered everyone in the hall, had they been unprepared, but half the crowd had already drawn their blades.  My defensive spells were up.  So were Hartarian’s and Dranus’ and Astyral’s.  We weren’t undefended.

But the chaos that ensued in the sudden attack was horrific.  Old men who hadn’t fought a real battle in years were suddenly fighting for their lives against inhumanly strong, inhumanly fast warriors bearing fine Dradrien-forged blades.  Some had come to counsel armed with no more than a dagger, their counties more accountancies than military posts.

There were real warriors among the nobles, however, and they did not hesitate to attack the invaders as best they could.  Count Salgo, who’d been brought here from the Westlands by Mavone, threw himself at the nearest draugen with fury, his cavalry blade ringing against the steel of the undead’s guardless scimitar.  Despite the force of the attack he was outmatched by the speed and dexterity of the draugen, and would have perished had not Anguin himself added his blade to the melee, with Sir Gydion striking a moment later to end the contest.

Count Marcadine was nearby, using his ancient ceremonial two-handed sword as his ancestors had, hacking at the foe with valiant strength.  A Riverlord stood at his back, sword and dagger in hand, keeping a second draugen at bay.

The Royal Guardsmen at hand fearlessly defended Rard from the squealing red-eyed beasts as they charged.  To his credit Tavard drew his blade and was protecting his father, while Count Moran and other Castali counts did their best to protect him.

Count Dranus did not shy from the fight – he eschewed his blade and was blasting at the draugen with his warstaff while his warmagi bodyguards went to work.  I did my part by plying Kedaron’s Expiry across the chamber at every draugen I could catch.

The palace guard was in the fray in short order, laying into the remaining undead with halberds and spears while gentlemen of the court and even servants took up arms and charged the draugen, while others assisted the wounded out of the melee.  By the time the last draugen had fallen, I had a sinking feeling about our losses.

They were dire.  Of most import was Count Kindine, the Royal Prime Minister, who was cut down in the first wave, in front of Rard’s eyes.  The new Minister of War, was severely wounded with a deep cut to his chest.  The court herald had been slain, as had the High Priest of Luin and two of his monks.  Duke Clofalin had sustained a head injury and a slice across his back, but was still alive.

Seven counts and a viscount were dead, and three more counts were gravely wounded.  Hartarian, who had fought four different draugen, was on the ground and bleeding from his head.  More than a score of retainers were dead, knights and servants of the attendees.

The court was in shock, as the injured were carried to the temples, where a temporary field hospital had been set up.

“Here is our traitor,” Dranus said, kicking a wand from the hand of a servant whose blood stained the richly tiled floor.  “He paid for his treachery with his life.  But I propose that this wand is the hoxter by which our ambassador arrived – and his honor guard,” he said, sarcastically kicking the outstretched hand of a dead draugen.

“Find this man’s identity!” Rard demanded of a passing castellan, showing the servant’s face.  “I want to know everything about him within the hour!”

“They sought to strike quickly and eliminate our leadership in one blow,” proposed Count Moran, his eyes wide with shock.

“They damn near did, too,” Anguin said, wiping the black ichor from his blade before calmly resheathing it.  “But it was more a warning.  If they were serious about killing us, they would have sent Nemovorti.”

“A warning that takes from us our most valued counselors,” Rard said, grimly, as someone covered Kindine’s bloody face with a cloak.  “Korbal has struck us a grievous blow this day.”

“What are your orders, Father?” Tavard asked, anxiously.  He’d fought bravely, but the inhuman foe had unnerved him.

“How should we respond, my liege?” Anguin asked, steadily.

“With war,” Rard said, hoarsely.  “Korbal thought us weak enough to topple with one blow.  We show him how poorly it was struck.  We must strike back at him, hard, and demonstrate the Narasi are no cowards!”

“We are unprepared for such a sortie, my liege,” I cautioned.  “Our first raid was by surprise.  We took Korbal unawares.  He will be prepared, this time.”

“I want him destroyed!” he said, angrily, as he stared at the covered body of the architect of his kingdom.  “He brings such filth into my hall, under the color of embassy?  He kidnaps my daughter and slays my ministers?  He shall pay dearly for this!”

“How many troops does he possess, Spellmonger?” demanded Tavard.  “Where can I strike at them?  I will call my banners, and march the shoes off our horses to—”

“My lords!” called a castellan, excitedly, running through the blood-stained halls while his fellows dragged bodies outside.  “My lords, come quickly!  Come quickly!” he said, a note of panic in his voice.

“What is it?” Rard asked, alarmed.

“My lords, something is happening!  Something is happening to Castabriel!”

We all arrived outside at a dead run.  From our perspective at the top of the stairs – built to emphasize the view of the spires of the capital city to the south – gave us an excellent vantage to watch the scene.

A small, dark shape was hurtling over the top of the city, and my heart began pounding.  I prayed that it was a mistake, a bird or bat or overlarge nightweb . . . but I was disappointed to see a flare and a bright light, and a lance of flame spew forth into the city below.

“Dragon!” someone behind be was calling out and pointing.  “Dragon!  Castabriel is under attack!  To arms!”

I couldn’t stop myself.  I went to Castabriel.

I ended up using the Waypoint in the basement of a shop the Arcane Orders had quietly purchased, as I was hesitant to try the Waystone for the Order’s complex.  I had no desire to come through the Ways into a seething inferno, and I thought the cellar was a better means to enter the battle.

My heart pounded as I leapt up the narrow stairs, Insight in hand and the Magolith chasing me.  I realized as I made it to the door to the shop that I was plunging into danger while wearing court finery, not dragonhide armor, and that my most powerful weapon, Blizzard, was gone from my arsenal.  I was going into battle with a fancy robe and a stick that felt really good about itself.

But I had to see.  Castabriel is a city of a half-million people, and the economic hub of the central Riverlands.  I could not stand and watch it burn from a distance.  I had to do something.

I tumbled out of the door and into the street, the sickening familiar smell of ash and dragonfire thick in the air.  Screams seemed to come from every throat as the townsfolk flooded the street, desperate to get away from the airborne assault.

I used Insight to determine where the dragon was attacking – not difficult, considering how resistant to magic the thing was.  I soon began running eastward, toward the spire of the ducal palace.  A tower that had stood for the power of the House of Bimin for a dozen generations was under attack.

The dragon hadn’t spared the rest of the town on its approach to the tower.  Half a dozen blazes were raging in the crowded streets and precincts of Castabriel.  The beautiful Temple Distract was aflame, and so were random portions of the city the dragon used to warm up with.

But it was the Spire that drew its attention from the first.  When I finally came within sight of the grand old edifice, the dragon was gliding past its top, having already set the lower portions ablaze with gouts of super-heated flame.  The very stone of the place seemed to be on fire.

“All right, Briga,” I puffed, as I ran down the cobbled streets at odds with the far wiser heads who were fleeing the disaster, “you wanted an invocation,” I reminded her, in a hurried prayer.  “I see dragonfire.  Come give me a hand!”

The crowds got thicker as I got closer to the palace – far too many had been at the market directly outside of the castle when the dragon arrived.  Chaos reigned as the folk of Castabriel fled the flames and dire shadows of the beast who bellowed its defiance in tones that made your guts turn to water.

By the time I had run to the square, I was out of breath and exhausted.  I’d taken the time to contact Pentandra and inform her of the emergency, trusting her to prepare a response to the attacks on both ducal and royal palaces.  I didn’t have time to do much more – as I rapidly approached the square in front of the castle, I was using the Magolith to dress me in every protective spell its depths could provide.

The dragon circled the top of the spire, bellowing its aggression like one of Dara’s hawks.  I stared at it as people fled screaming around me from the direction of the burning castle . . . and market place . . . and surrounding wards.

I didn’t have much I could do, I realized with despair.  Other times I’d faced a dragon I’d had a well-trained, highly-powerful team of warmagi to assist, and at least a semblance of a plan.  Here I was dressed for court or an afternoon of enchantment, and I had to fight a dragon.  By myself.

My mind flashed through the hundreds of discussions I’d had on the subject since Timberwatch.  Their weaknesses were few, their strengths many.  They were vulnerable to sound, to an extent, and to electricity in high enough measures.  Their hide was so thick and dense that it was all but useless to use common projectiles – even the Thoughtful Knife’s enchanted edge could not easily penetrate.  Even from the inside.

Tyndal had hit upon another solution, using molten lead to stop the dragon of Vorone’s throat.  Dara had dropped a forty-ton boulder on one from hawkback.  They were vulnerable, I insisted to myself, as I saw the beast use its fiery breath to torch the length of the Spire, from base to tip.  They were not invulnerable, I told myself, as I watched people prefer to end their lives by throwing themselves from the tower than burn to death.  They can be killed.  They can be hurt.

But I didn’t know how to do that, with what I had on hand.

Nothing in my arsenal of hoxter pockets would scratch that thing.  My most powerful weapon, Twilight, would be ineffectual.  Dragonhide belied magic.  And swords.

I calmed myself, as I watched the top of the Spire tumble into the square below, devastating everything in its shadow.  I closed my eyes and sent my consciousness within the Magolith.  There had to be something in there I could use.

As I descended into its depths the Handmaiden was rising to meet me, unfolding her consciousness from the ever-changing centerpoint like a bird erupting from an egg.  She knew there was danger.  She knew I was alarmed.  She tried to soothe me . . . but I batted away her attention.  I didn’t need my mind repaired, I need to stop a dragon.

When I angrily put that thought into consciousness, the Handmaiden recoiled . . . and then began to work.  Examining each of the thousands of songspells Onranion placed within the sphere, and then inspecting the vast store of thaumaturgical spells I’d personally added to the sphere, the Handmaiden seemed to dither in thought for a moment . . . and then suggest a few.

I was surprised.  I didn’t expect that kind of communion with the paraclete.  But it took my wishes and did its best to assist me with them.

I examined the spells she showed me and realized that one might be adequate – perhaps enough to drive the beast away, if not kill it.

I gave the Handmaiden permission to make the selection, gave her the target, and really didn’t do much more than oversee her work.  As I grasped the green glowing sphere in my hands and stared at the offensive worm flying above the capital, I focused on its head.  And I told her to do it.

Dragons are incredibly hardy creatures, as tough as anything I’ve ever seen on Callidore.  But they are still creatures.  They still must metabolize.  We knew little else about them, but we knew they had to breathe.

The Handmaiden fastened an arcane anchor on the snowstone-studded iron chains around the beast’s neck, under the saddle upon which its rider, an armored Nemovort, sat.  It was a simple thing, and not intended to harm directly.  But from that anchor the Magolith grew a sphere around the dragon’s head, a sphere that a moment later began to be deprived of oxygen.  The Handmaiden poured power into both its establishment and then its rapid depressurization.

As it turns out, dragons need to breathe.  Not just to expel fire (which is difficult to do in a vacuum) but to fill their lungs.   And when they can’t – they panic.

It took a few moments of painful floundering in the sky as I used the Handmaiden to reinforce the base spell, moments in which the dragon flew low, it’s mighty wings toppling the upper stories of buildings as it desperately tried to get a breath.  Much to the Nemovort’s dismay, the beast landed, claws first, in another square more towards the center of town.  It was six blocks of twisted, narrow streets.  I ran it in moments.

When I arrived, the panicked dragon was lashing its tail destructively through the fronts and facades of the shops which surrounded the square, while its feet scrambled against whatever unseen force had cut off its air.

I would not relent.  I kept the spell up, even when I had a chance to hit the dreadful rider, because I wanted that dragon gone.  Then, as if responding to that desire, the Handmaiden instructed the Magolith to turn the bubble opaque, thus depriving the beast of sight.

It struggled.  It panicked.  I would not relent.  The Nemovort on its back was desperately attempting to counter the spell, but I redoubled my efforts until it began to roll across the cobbled expanse of the Great Market, it’s hind claws raking through the masonry like it was parchment.  People were dying.  I did not relent.  I could not let that flame erupt again.

Have you ever seen a panicked dragon?  It is a sight you would never forget, if you survived the encounter.  The Nemovort struggled to regain control as the beast flailed.  I don’t know how it managed it, but he evidentially did something to calm the frightened worm.

In a few moments, it spread its sail-like wings and launched itself into the sky.  If flew weakly, shaking its head in frustrated annoyance, but it wasn’t turning around.  It was flying west.  And it wasn’t burning anything.

The spell wouldn’t last forever, I knew.  But perhaps it would last long enough to drive the dragon to an early grave.  Or drop out of the sky from oxygen deprivation.  If not, I realized, as I heaved for breath in the dust of the destruction, I had at least gotten it to go away before it decided to immolate the rest of the ducal capital.

I climbed to the top of a modest tenement and followed the dark shape with my eye until it was an infinitesimal speck on the horizon.  When it was gone, I contacted Pentandra, mind-to-mind.

Penny, cancel the general alert, I instructed.  I think I got that thing to turn away from burning down the rest of the city.

I’m not canceling it, she said excitedly.  Min, I just got word – nary two seconds ago.  There’s another dragon attack.

Where? I demanded, angry at myself for not anticipating it.  Vorone?  Preshar?

Min, it’s flying against Sevendor, she said, her voice dire.

Chapter Seventy-Two

The Bane Of Sevendor

I’ve never been so terrified in my life.

I’ve stared down death a dozen different ways, from mere stupidity to evil dark lords.  `I’ve felt all sorts of fear in my life.  It comes in shades and hues, tinted by context and perspective, depending upon what you value and what is at stake.

All of those previous experiences of fear paled as I shook with the knowledge that everything in the world I cared for was in Sevendor at the moment.  My wife.  My children.  Everything I had worked for.  Everyone I loved was suddenly vulnerable because of my actions.

Lord Pratanik was not merely taunting me – Korbal was taking a personal interest in me, now.  I had raided his home and stolen his bride, and he was repaying me the favor.  I stood in the ashes of one dragon attack – which, truthfully, might not yet be over – while my home was under assault by another.

I didn’t hesitate.  I was back in Sevendor as fast as I could think myself there.

I tumbled out of the Ways and into my study nearly retching along the way.  Ruderal was there, having just arrived from the Great Hall, and he caught me by the shoulders as I stumbled.   I could hear the manic tolling of every bell in town as the warning went up.

“Master!” he shouted, excitedly.

“Dragon, I know,” I muttered.  “Where is it?”

“Still circling around the ridges,” he answered, curtly, helping me straighten.  “It was sighted about fifteen minutes ago, but it flew by a few times before it lingered here!”

“Second one today,” I said, as I rushed upstairs.  “Castabriel was hit just a moment ago.  Destroyed most of the castle, a portion of the town.  It’s still burning.  I drove it off, but . . . who is here?” I asked, as I began pulling on my armor.

“Sire Cei, Dara, Master Loiko . . . I don’t know, Master!” he admitted, starting to panic.  “A lot of people!  It’s the middle of the Magic Fair!  Wizards keep coming and going through the Ways, so—”

“Where’s Alya?  And the children?” I asked, my blood freezing.  There were thousands of additional people in Sevendor, today.  The Fair was thickly attended, I knew, almost doubling Sevendor Town’s population for the week.  As rich a target as Korbal could ask for.  But my family came first.

“In the Baker’s Hall,” he said, after thinking for a moment.  “The children are.  Lady Alya is in Spellmonger’s Hall, trying on dresses for the Fair with Lady Estret.”

“Gather them all and get them into the mountain,” I ordered, as he helped me strap on the shoulder pieces.  “The deepest part – take them to the Snowflake Chamber,” I decided, a wisp of an idea beginning to form in my mind.  “They’ll be safest there.  And order everyone who can reach it to follow into the mountain, on my authority,” I added.  “That’s why I built it.”

He nodded grimly, his youthful face pale with concern and fear.  “Most importantly,” I said, picking up a stone from my workbench, “take this to the Snowflake chamber and set it up in proximity to it.  It’s a Sympathy Stone,” I explained, before he could ask.  “I had one on Blizzard, before it was destroyed.  I need to link to the power of the Snowflake.  I need you to set it properly so that I can,” I instructed.

“I will see it done, Master!” he assured, resolutely, as he helped me pull on my weapons harness.  I grabbed my new, unfinished battle staff, a couple of things from my workbench that might be useful, and Ruderal handed me my helmet before I left.

“Go!” I ordered.  “Master Ulin is likely in the enchantment vault – get his help to set the stone if you need it.  And have him contact me when it’s ready,” I advised.  “Keep my family safe,” I insisted.

The lad nodded and sprinted down the stairs ahead of me, and he didn’t stop running.

Then again, everyone was running at the moment.  It wasn’t quite a panic, but it was damn close.  Thankfully, the sight of me in armor seemed to calm and encourage everyone.  The Spellmonger was here to save the day.

Yay.

“Everyone secure yourselves in cellars or the storerooms!” I ordered.  “Clear the upper stories – they’ll be hit first.  Where’s Cei?” I demanded.  A youthful knight in the arms of Hosendor snapped to attention.

“My lord!  He is on the way from the Fair!  He was officiating at the Squire’s Tournament, when—”

“Fine, fine, if you aren’t doing anything more important run to meet him on the road and tell him that I’m here, I’m preparing, and I need his aid.  Got that?”

“Yes, Magelord!” he snapped, and ran off to comply.  Sister Bemia was standing nearby, her eyes wide with shock and white with fear.

“Everyone,” I ordered her, “into the mountain.  I’m sure the Karshak figured it out, but they should go, too.  You’ll be safe in there,” I insisted.  “Dragonfire is hot, but it can’t burn enchanted basalt.”  I wasn’t sure about that, but that’s what the priestess needed to hear.  She nodded and turned to start shouting orders.

Time to see to the defense.  I strode outside and scanned the skies from the courtyard.  It didn’t take me long – the beast was gliding over Brestal, like a hawk searching for a rabbit.  Two burning patches in the far vale indicated the dragon had struck already.

“It came in over the Diketower,” Master Loiko said, striding to greet me already in full armor.  “We sounded the alarm as soon as it was spotted.  Everyone is on alert.  But not undefended,” he added.  “The worm flew low over the Fair during the Warmage’s competition.  Too low.  The contestants threw spells enough to convince it to keep its distance,” he said, proudly.  “I’ve been talking to Banamor.  He’s getting them organized for defense.”

“Banamor?” I asked in surprise.

“He insisted,” Loiko shrugged.  “He says he has too much to lose to trust this to warmagi.  I’ve notified the Tera Alon in Hosendor.  Lady Fallawen is preparing.  I contact Dara, first thing.  She’s scrambling to get her hawks in the air.”

“Suggestions?” I asked, as we both watched the dragon bank over Southridge and turn toward Lesgaethael.  I’m sure the Alkan spire was a tempting target.  It was right there in the middle of everything, and it was just so perfectly Alka Alon that the Nemovorti rider could not resist attacking it first.  As there were few who actually dwelled in the hostel, that was a gift to Sevendor.

“We hit it before it can start burning everyone to a crisp?” He rubbed his chin.  “If we keep it busy in the air, it won’t have a chance to destroy everything.”

As we spoke, some other wizard on the fairgrounds had the same idea.  Lances of arcane power were shooting up toward the dragon from all over the field, as the warmagi below tried to demonstrate their prowess.  None of them seemed to do any damage, but the dragon did keep its distance.  It was more focused on Lesgaethael.

“Why the interest in the damn elf tower?” Loiko asked, as Sire Cei cantered through the inner bailey gate.  “There’s nothing up there!”

“It’s symbolic,” I pointed out.  “It represents our alliance.”

“Then it’s a stupid target,” my court wizard snorted.  “Really, they should be burning us alive at the castle, now,” he criticized.  It was painful to watch, but we could do little as the dragon flamed the base of the spire.  Not a full blast, I noted, just enough to discourage anyone there from sticking their head out.

“Minalan!” Sire Cei bellowed from the back of his charger as soon as he was in earshot.  “Thank the gods you’re here!  Perhaps you have an answer to this one!” he said, grimly, as he slid from the back of his mount.  He was dressed festively, not for war.  I glanced at him.

“I’m working on it,” I agreed.  “Armor up; grab your best hammer.  This could get messy, and I want you to defend the castle.”

“It shall be done, my liege,” he assured me, with such confidence in my ability to handle the situation that I wanted to strangle him.  Did he not know that I had no idea what I was doing?  “What of . . . our families?”

“I’m sending them into the mountain.  They’ll be safe, there,” I insisted, just as Alya came out with Ruderal.  She was looking around in confusion, and paused on her journey across the courtyard to spy the dragon when Ruderal pointed it out to her.  Just in time to witness a second blast at the Alkan spire.  Sire Cei spared it a long glance, his eyes wincing, before he started running toward his quarters to don his armor.

“Minalan!” she cried, when she recognized me.  “What’s happening?”

“It’s going to be fine,” I assured her, embracing her desperately.  Her body felt tiny and incredibly vulnerable next to my armored chest.  “You and everyone else who can will go to the mountain.  Ruderal will escort you and the children,” I said, as I saw Urah and her Tal maids struggling to keep a flock of youngsters together as she brought them in from the hall in the outer bailey.  Minalyan and Almina were among them.  I gave them each a hug and a reassuring kiss, and then surprised them with their mother . . . before sending my family to the hole in the side of the mountain.

“Let me know when they’re safely inside,” I told Ruderal.

“I will protect them, I swear,” he promised.  “You go fight a dragon.  Good luck, Master!”

“That’s not good,” Loiko was saying as I waved good-bye to my family, trying to appear confident and reassuring.  I doubt I was successful.  Loiko was pointing toward Matten’s Helm, where the dragon had apparently finished with his cleansing fires enough to land on the smoldering hilltop.  The spire was still intact, though parts of it were burning.

“Whatever he’s doing, he’s buying us a little more time,” I decided.  “I’m not going to complain.”

“Minalan,” Loiko said, his eyes narrowing.  “I don’t like the looks of this . . .”

And then it dawned on me.  Lesgaethael had very little strategic or even tactical purpose for Sevendor’s defenses.  It was a dainty show-piece, a conference center and hostel.  Only Lady Varen lived there permanently, now, when Ithalia was in the field as she often was, these days.  Apart from its use in the Spellmonger’s Trial, it was largely deserted.

Except that it did have the only naturally-occurring Waypoint in Sevendor.  The Tera Alon kept guard on it, day or night . . . but they were guarding against thieves and spies, not dragons.  I doubted the sentries were still alive.

Without them, or other defenses, Lesgaethael was the best bridgehead with which to invade my domain, I realized.  Pentandra’s Veil was designed more for keeping people off of the hill, not for keeping them from coming down.

“We’ve got to think of something,” I said, shaking my head.

“That’s a Waypoint, over there,” he pointed out.  “We could . . . go there.”

“And face a dragon up-close?  With no particular plan?”

It’s not the dragon I worry about, at the moment,” Loiko said, tersely. “Look!”

I used magesight to peer at where he pointed . . . and was appalled to see that he was right.  Human-sized figures were coming through the Ways, and they did not look like happy, cheerfully singing Alka Alon.

They were Nemovorti.  And draugen.  And something else.

“What are those things?” Loiko asked, frowning.

“Wyverns,” I said, as I watched one of the Nemovorti petting one on his arm like a kitten.  “Nasty little things.  Like scorpions with wings.”

“Do they usually grow that big?” he asked, a moment later.  I was speechless.  Before my eyes, I watched the Nemovort cast a spell . . . and suddenly the wyvern was the size of a charger.  Then another.  And another.

“Ishi’s tits!” I swore, automatically, my heart sinking.  “They did what we did with hawks, only with wyverns!”

“Can they be ridden?” he asked.  A moment later, we saw that yes, they could be ridden.  Harnesses appeared, and the flying venomous reptiles were mounted by armored Nemovorti.  The dragon seemed content to watch.

“The dragon clears the tower, the Nemovorti come in with wyverns . . . why?  Why not just burn the entire place from the start?”

“Because they aren’t here to destroy, Minalan,” Loiko said, gesturing toward Matten’s Helm.  The Wyverns were starting to take flight . . . and head for the fairgrounds.  “They’re here to harvest.”

I didn’t know what else to do.  The dragon wasn’t attacking – yet.  It was providing support as a score of wyverns launched themselves from the top of Matten’s Helm and began gliding down toward the fairgrounds.  Looming menacingly overhead was enough to keep the populace stirred up in a panic.

“Let’s go,” Loiko said, pointing to the fair.  “That’s where they’ll be headed.  There are hundreds of magi gathered down there.  Sandoval is down there,” he added.  Sandy had a Waystone.

I nodded and followed him through the Ways, on Sandoval’s stone, when he activated the enchantment.

We came out in the middle of the fairgrounds, near the big administrative pavilion, where Sandy was rallying the warmagi to defend.  Some of them were even in armor, for the competitions, and few warmagi I knew went far without their weapons.  Indeed, Banamor was quietly selling rings with hoxter pockets in them for just that purpose at fifty Stags each.  Warstaves, wands, and mageblades were out in plenty.

I was cheered, as soon as I stepped through.  Other people were screaming.  A lot of warmagi and other warriors were gathered, but didn’t seem to know what to do.  Sandoval looked at me, gratefully, thankful that someone with more rank had arrived to take over.  I had mixed feelings about that.

“Wyverns, first,” I directed, without introduction.  “They’re coming for us – they want to capture us alive – so we have a slight advantage.  Do not let them,” I warned, “or you’ll wake up with the soul of an ancient Alka Alon fanatic in your head and tattoos on your arse.  Worst hangover possible,” I said, earning a few nervous chuckles.  “Wyverns are poisonous, at least the small variety, and these look to be just like them, only larger.”

“Fucking transgenic enchantments!” swore someone from the back of the crowd.

“Don’t sell them short,” I countered.  “Look!”

I pointed back at the Mewstower, were the first of Dara’s Sky Riders was launching from the peak.

“These aren’t dragons,” Sandoval continued, “when we encountered them on Olum Seheri they died just fine.  So whatever you need to do to knock them out of the air, do it!”

“Scatter!” Loiko commanded in a barking voice that had seen more than three score battles.  “Don’t bunch up, you present a better target!  Seek cover!  Not mere concealment, but cover!  Anyone with a bow, nock it now!  Fire the moment they’re in range!  Defensive spells on the tents and booths to keep them from burning.  Watch the skies!  Pick your targets!  And watch out for your comrades,” he added, as he drew his own mageblade – more slender than Twilight, I noted.  “No one wants to be the one who killed Sandoval accidentally!”

“Hey!” Sandy objected.  He’d served under Master Loiko in Farise, too, so the dig was ignored after that.

Then we were busy.  I watched the first giant wyvern bank slowly over the edge of the crowd, then dive to pounce.  The moment it did it was beset by defenders, wands blasting and swords flashing in the afternoon sun.  The stinger on the wyvern’s tail lashed like a sinister whip.

The Nemovort riding it had a vicious, jagged-looking spear it swung to block the onslaught of blows, but when Caswallon the Fox took a flying leap with a two-handed sword, he stabbed it between the shoulder blades so hard he pinned it to the ground.

As dramatic as that gesture was, he wasn’t content.  Using the sword as a pivot, he whirled around and kicked the Nemovort in the face with both boots before plunging a dagger between the pieces of his armor in his side and dismounting.

I didn’t have time to applaud.  Either did anyone else – we were all busy as more wyverns descended on the Fair, sometimes picking catching an arrow or two as it landed.  One of those foul beasts was directing its filthy giant claws toward me, and I was fighting my own dramatic battle.

I, too, went for the mount before the rider – it was just easier that way.  A concussive blast to stun the wyvern into stumbling on landing, and then a blast of Kedaron’s Expiry aimed at the Nemovort’s midsection.  He didn’t burst into flame, but he did swear violently in some language I didn’t know while his undead flesh desiccated and burned.  Master Loiko completed the job with an artful decapitation, a moment later.

I don’t know what Korbal expected when he raided the Magic Fair, but he probably did not consider the folly of striking in the middle of the Warmagi competitions.  If he was looking for easy-to-harvest magi, he found Sevendor’s garden full of thorns.

Most of these men and women were veterans, many from Olum Seheri.  Some were newly-made Estasi Knights.  Those who weren’t were eager to prove themselves in such distinguished company.  Further, Banamor was distributing additional arcane arms to the defenders from his own stores – and he’d even donned his old mageblade, to prove how serious he was about defending Sevendor.  Warstaves he sold for hundreds of Roses were turned over to strangers without a blink.

Just as a second wyvern lined up to strike at the little group I was standing in, one of Dara’s hawks swooped out of nowhere and slashed they wyvern’s neck with their steel-shod talons.  The beast screamed and plummeted into the ground, sending its rider sprawling in the midst of warmagi.  A moment later, his perverse spirit was back on its way to Korbal.

The Sky Riders made the difference in the fight.  I had scarcely appreciated the power of an attack from the air until I’d been subjected to one myself.  Now I saw how important it was to counter the sky-born foe as Dara’s two wings sought to tear the giant wyverns out of the sky above Sevendor.

It was a valiant but violent fight in the sky, as the two sides contended.  Their sudden arrival had stayed the continued assault on the fairgrounds, which in turn allowed us to pelt them with spells from the ground while they tried to fight off the hawks.  Screeches and howls overhead joined the terrified screams from the ground.

I managed a blast that knocked a Nemovort off its mount, to see it plummet a hundred feet and become entangled in a tent canopy.  The folk on the ground didn’t hesitate – they rolled the creature up, beat it with tentpoles, and the Riverlords in the crowd stabbed it repeatedly through the canvas until it was stained black with its ichor.

I had an idea.

I searched the fairgrounds for the largest tents – and picked three big canopies erected for the Enchanter’s Guild booths, Competition Registration, and the tournament tent, where the jousters preened and presented themselves for the inspection of the crowds (and the wagerers).  All three were multi-pole affairs that covered a significant area, and required hundreds of ropes to stabilize.

I reached out to Banamor.  Banamor!  I need your help!

Min? the Lord Mayor of Sevendor asked.  Why the hell aren’t you fighting that dragon?

I’m about to, I agreed.  That’s what I need your help with.

Ishi’s hairy twat!  Can’t you think of anyone else?

Not that way, I soothed.  I need those three big tents struck, now.  Just get some teams together to pull those stakes out.  Leave the ropes, I advised, but strike the tents.  I need them.

That’s all?  I can do that! Banamor affirmed.

I turned to Loiko, who was directing fire from both magi and archers as more wyverns descended from Lesgaethael.  Only these weren’t being ridden, they were free.  While less dangerous, perhaps, that did not lessen their impact on the battle.  The newly-arrived reptiles began flying low over the fair and slicing at the fleeing population with claw and tail.

“I have an idea about the dragon,” I said.  “Can you and Sandy set up a fire retardation spell?”

“Sure,” the warmage agreed.  “On what?”

I explained my reasoning, and he saw the merit of the plan at once.  He added some augmentations for the original idea, and promised to get the process started.

The dragon seemed content to cling to the top of Madden’s Helm, under the smoldering spire of Lesgaethael, and guard the scene.  That is, until Tera Alon warriors began spewing out of the Waypoint, firing arrows and singing spells at everything in sight.

I was watching in amazement as dozens of tall, elegant-looking warriors appeared and started fighting with the unmatched precision and coordination of the Alka Alon.  Some threw themselves at the wyverns and Nemovorti, while others launched their attacks at the dragon, at near point-blank range.

“What in nine hells are they doing?” Loiko asked, his mouth agape.

“Counterattacking,” Lady Falawen said, as she and her husband appeared through the Ways – they must have used my stone.  Sir Ryff was armored as a Riverlord ready for battle, bearing a two-handed great sword, while the Lady of Hosendor wore the distinctive bark-like armor of the Tera Alon, and carried one of their incredibly powerful bows.  “As soon as we heard, we sent every warrior we had against them,” she said, with the confidence of a military commander.  “The knights of Hosendor ride as we speak, those who were not already here, They will arrive within the next two hours.”

“Then they will be late,” Loiko pronounced, as he surveyed the battle on Matten’s Helm.  While the Alka Alon took a toll on the undead and the wyverns, their efforts had been less effectual on the dragon.  It looked annoyed.  It didn’t look any closer to death.  “In a moment, they will drive the beast from the hill . . . and it will attack in earnest,” he said, grimly.

“Mayhap,” agreed Lady Falawen, “but we cannot let it linger unchallenged.  Look, there are yet more wyverns coming through!” she pointed.

She was right.  The Waypoint seemed to be producing almost as many winged predators as Tera Alon.  True, half of them fell to the deadly arrows of the Tera Alon, but the other half didn’t.  Maybe I could do something about that.

Using the power of the Magolith, I activated the three arcane constructs I’d planted at the top of Matten’s Helm for the Spellmonger’s Trial.  Let them contend with those while they tried to collect themselves.

They didn’t stop coming, but they had a much harder time with a couple of angry crab-like constructs vomiting fire, acid, and other disgusting things all over the place.  I noticed something else disturbing, though, while I surveyed the chaos with magesight.  About every third reptile bore an undead rider with an iron lance.  Not all of them lingered in the air above us.  Some started to wing their way north and west.

“We can’t let them spread across the Riverlands, my lord!” Sir Ryff said, pleadingly.  “They do not have Sevendor’s defenses!”

“Nor can we permit the dragon to lay waste to Sevendor!” Loiko said, shaking his head.

“I have a plan about that,” I said, hurriedly.  The dragon was thrashing around in annoyance, knocking wyverns and Tera Alon alike off the summit.  It still didn’t look dead.

“Is it a good one?” Sandoval asked, skeptically.

“No, not at all,” I said, “but unless you have a better idea . . . we have to do something.”  I wish I could have used the vacuum bubble spell to drive the thing off, but the defensive spells its Nemovorti rider were casting to protect against the Tera Alon onslaught were far too strong to allow me to hook the spell, in the wake of the Tera Alon assault.  The rider in Castabriel hadn’t been expecting a magical attack – this one had come hunting for magi, and was better prepared.

We were interrupted by a manic chase in the air that swooped so low as to include us.  One of Dara’s Sky Riders was chasing a wyvern carrying a Nemovort, and two unmounted wyverns were chasing the fleet falcon she rode.  We all paused in our conversation to fire at the wyverns, with Loiko’s blast disintegrating the wing of one while Falawen’s arrow buried itself in the heart of the other.

“As I was saying,” as the reptiles fell from the sky, shrieking in pain, “we don’t have a lot of time, and this is a really crappy plan, even if it goes well.  But I don’t have another,” I admitted.

Baron, I am in the Snowflake Chamber, and have placed the falhoudi stone, Master Ulin reported to me, mind-to-mind.  You should be able to use it at any time.  Oh, and your wife and children are safe here, with me and Ruderal, he added, lightening my burden somewhat.  No matter what else happened, I could count on Alya and the kids surviving this attack.  That gave me confidence.

Me?  That was another story.  I was about to do something stupid.

“Minalan!  Hey, Spellmonger!” Banamor called out over the screaming.  “It’s done!  We’re ready!” he called, waving his arms in the air.  “You’re getting charged for this!” he reminded me.

Dara, I said, changing the spell to contact my senior apprentice.

What? she barked back into my mind, annoyed.  I’m a little busy, here!

I know, but I need you, I said, and explained why.  She groaned, when I was done.

And you want me to do this?

You’re the only real mage in the air, at the moment, I pointed out.  And would you honestly trust anyone else with the task?

No, she admitted, sullenly.  Clear a spot and warn some folk.  Frightful is coming down, she cautioned.

A moment later Dara’s giant bird glided to a majestic stop directly in front of me.  My apprentice glared down at me over her bird, who was also glaring at me.

“I’m still mad at you!” she said, as she took out a wand.

“I know,” I nodded.  “You’re allowed.  You can still be mad at me later.  Promise.  You ready to try this?” I asked.  The dragon chose that moment to push itself off the top of Matten’s Helm, it’s massive wings dwarfing Frightful’s.  It gusted the spot it had vacated with a cloud of burning gas, sending friend and foe alike diving over the ledge.  I watched one of my constructs curl up and die like a flaming bug, then tumble over the edge of the hill.

“Do I really have a choice?” she asked, skeptically, as she quickly dismounted and headed over to the fallen pavilions.

“No,” I sighed, following after her.  “Neither do I.”

Chapter Seventy-Three

Illegal Bathing

I watched Frightful launch herself into the air, her blood-stained talon blades flashing in the afternoon sun as she beat her wings to gain height.  The rest of Dara’s wing was already circling Lesgaethael, hunting wyverns and awaiting orders.  I was intrigued to see that a few of the wild giant hawks who had escaped the mews a few years back and nested in the Uwarris had joined the fray, fighting alongside their larger cousins against the invaders.

Dara sent her Riders quickly into battle.  The hand signals she’d developed to signal orders from bird-to-bird were inspired by the Kasari flag-language, but adapted to the needs of a combat wing.  With a few wild gestures, the other three birds in her wing fell into formation around Frightful, while the second wing – already one bird down from Olum Seheri – continued interdiction duty.

Minalan! someone called to me, mind-to-mind.  I just heard!  An attack on Sevendor?  Dragons?  It was Lilastien.

Yes, and I’m a little busy with it, just now, I said.  Alya and the children are safe in the mountain.  I’ve got half the warmagi in the world with me, right now.  And we have giant wyverns, being ridden by Nemovorti, popping out of the Waypoint at Lesgaethael like long-lost relatives after you inherit.  So if this can wait . . .

It can!  I’m on my way!  Good luck! she said, and was gone.

That’s what I like about Lilastien.  She’s practical, and understood the value of my time.

“How is this other part going to work?” Loiko asked, curious, as he blasted his mageblade at a wyvern skimming over the fair.  “Because I’m a still a little shaky on that part.”

“It’s a simple glyph, like a berserker spell,” I assured him.  “Taren developed it for Olum Seheri.  It’s just . . . bigger,” I said, glancing at the Magolith that would power it.  “Much bigger.  But then we’re dealing with a bigger problem, here.”

“Is it going to work?”

“Ask me in half an hour,” I said, as I watched Dara contend with the three intertwined tents.  “Most of it is out of my hands, now.”

If there was chaos and fire in the air overhead, on the ground things were far more in our favor.  As the dragon circled around Lesgaethael, giving the structure brief blasts of flame, the few Nemovorti who had survived landing were overwhelmed when they tried to capture one of the many wizards running around.

There were warmagi and local Riverlords knights who were eager to prove themselves in such a dire situation.  The two Nemovorti I saw afoot were learning about the militant side of chivalry as they tried to defend from a dozen angry humans apiece.

It was a complicated bit of flying, above.  The three other birds in her Wing and some of the wild birds harassed the dragon, trying to get close enough to annoy it without getting burned.  The hawks were decidedly faster, though they could do little but dart at the worm’s head and threaten its eyes or its rider.

But then Dara saw her chance . . . and used her hoxter wand to dump the three pavilions over the top of its head and wings.  The heavy canvas was pulled down by a tangle of ropes and stakes, some three feet long, and of course the heavy center poles that had been left lying with them.  They floated for a moment, like a cloud, as they caught the air . . . but as soon as one wingtip brushed through a leading rope and got the stake wrapped around it, things started to go poorly for the dragon.

The tents didn’t settle neatly over its head, like I envisioned.  But every sweep of its mighty wings flung the odd collection of cloth and ropes around like a net, and in short order its left wing and leg were hopelessly entangled, both being bound loosely to its body.

Another twist sent a tent peg lashing across the top of the beasts back, unseating the Nemovort rider before a panicked contortion succeeded in pulling its wing tight to its back.  Nothing that it couldn’t get out of, eventually, and nothing that actually hurt . . . but dragons need two wings to fly.

I watched helplessly as the great worm made a long, desperate arch over the entire town, it’s malevolent shadow passing over the smoldering fires it had started within the walls.  I prayed that it would avoid most of the residential portions of the town, and was gratified when its head was still thirty feet above the tallest spire on Temple Street as it fell.

“It’s headed for the mill pond!” called Banamor, excitedly.  I was surprised to see his old mageblade in hand, the one I’d taken from a Censor at the Chepstan Fair a few years back.  It was stained with blood.  “Murvos take it, it’s going to hit it!”

The entire field seemed to calm for a few seconds, as we all watched the twisting, smoking body of the dragon flip over its head and twist around as its head plowed into the dam, then acted as a fulcrum, sending the bulk of its massive body twisting into the pond.

The huge tail slapped the millhouse into splinters like it was made of twigs, not heavy logs.  The great head of the worm was half-enwrapped in ropes and canvas, and half submerged in the froth of the pond, once the waves settled.  It was a scene of majestic horror, the kind you can’t take your eyes from until it’s over.  When it was, everyone looked around to make certain that everyone else had seen the remarkable sight, as well.

Then everyone started killing giant wyverns again.

Except for me, and many of the other warmagi.  I ran up the road toward the pond against a throng of screaming civilians who’d been heading past it, toward the castle, and were now fleeing the dragons dropping from the sky.  When I scrambled up the steep embankment that led to the pond, I stopped.  As my head peered above the bank, my field of vision was filled with half-naked soggy dragon ass.

That worked for my purposes – I just needed to be close enough to cast and fuel the spell.  I called the Magolith to my hands and let the Handmaiden help me with activating the spell and directing it to the dragon.

Actually, to the cloth that was covering the dragon.

Dragons are notoriously difficult to use magic against.  Their thaumaturgic resistance is massive – you can’t hook even a simple spell to them, and doing any kind of complicated magic in the vicinity.

But we were in Sevendor, surrounded by snowstone – indeed, the dragon was lying in a pond full of water that contained, according to Banamor, a tremendous amount of snowstone particulates in it.  Magic resistance in general is non-existent here, which put me at a distinct advantage.  More, I wasn’t casting the spell on the dragon.  I was casting it on the tents and canopies that it was tangled in.

The spell was the same one that Taren used in Olum Seheri to attract wyverns to his constructs, before sending them into hoxter pockets to kill them.  Only I was doing it on a much larger scale . . . because of the much larger wyverns.  And the much larger dragon.  It required orders of magnitude more power, but with the Magolith and the help of the Handmaiden within, I was able to energize a powerful temporary enchantment.

In seconds, that tent-covered dragon butt looked like the tastiest thing in the valley, to the giant wyverns.  First one, then another, then several broke away from the nasty cockfight they were having with the giant hawks and began to screech to each other.  In moments, they were circling over the dragon, and then diving in to attack it, despite the screams of protests from the few Nemovorti who were still mounted.  Apparently, they didn’t know how to swim.

The dragon barely stirred with the first attack.  The wyvern chomped its toothy mouth on the big worm’s shoulder, and then wrapped its tail around it as well as it could before it started stabbing with its barb.  A second chose the exposed right hind claw as its target, while the third was going for its long, snaky neck.

By the time the fourth was on it, the dragon was thrashing and reacting to the bites and stings.  They didn’t seem to be penetrating the beast’s thick hide, but the multiple attacks were causing it anxiety.

“It’s working!” Sandoval called excitedly from behind me, as I poured more energy into the attraction spell.  “They’re going to kill it!”

“No, they aren’t!” Loiko countered, as he leapt up the bank beside me.  “They can’t break through its hide, and in a moment, it’s going to get out of that trap.  Summon Sire Cei, quickly,” he ordered his former subordinate.  “And if anyone has any good ideas about how to kill this thing . . .”

“It’s in the pond outside bathing hours,” Banamor pointed out, helpfully.  “That’s a two-penny fine!”

“Let me know how you collect that,” Sandy snorted, readying his staff.  “I don’t have any good ideas.  Maybe Cei can crack its skull . . .”

I couldn’t say anything for or against the idea – I had so much power coursing through my brain that speech was a luxury I couldn’t afford.

But then we were joined by a fourth wizard, and one I didn’t expect: Ruderal.  He climbed up the bank and sprawled on his hands and knees at the sight of the beast up close . . . and the smaller beasts trying to eat it.

There was terror on the boy’s face, but also a great deal of bravery, as the massive monster thrashed in the foamy water of the millpond as it struggled against both the ropes and canvass that entangled it and the half-dozen vicious wyverns who were trying to kill it.  His eyes were wide, but I couldn’t spare the attention to yell at him to flee the dangerous area.

Instead, he did something unexpected.  He started casting a spell.  I wasn’t certain what he was up to – pushing enough energy to enrage the hunger of giant wyverns to the level of psychosis was taking up most of my attention – but a moment later something else stirred in the churning pond.  Just as the dragon’s right wing destroyed the bathhouse, a stream of milky-white water leapt twenty feet in the air, then fell back down over the dragon.

The water elemental.  The one I’d enchanted when I’d first started messing around with the Alaran Stone.  A simple piece of elementary magic made permanent.  An essay, an experiment, nothing more.

But Ruderal was doing something to control it, to direct it.  In moments, the elemental was pummeling both dragon and wyverns with manic abandon.  The former took the beating better than the latter, but neither species of reptile could do much against a few hundred gallons of sentient water.

“Get its head under the surface!” Loiko commanded Ruderal.  Sandoval started casting supportive spells, the kind that keep another mage focused and protected while he’s working – monitor work, quite unusual in the middle of a battle.  But then this was a highly unusual battle.  And Loiko’s advice was uncommonly good.

Breathing had always been a dragon’s weakness – Tyndal had exploited that in Vorone, when he and Rondal had slain the dragon that attacked the palace with liquid lead.  While water didn’t quite have the same shock effect as molten lead, Ruderal’s spell had the benefit of a very determined intelligence behind it.  Once he directed it to do as he wished and pull the dragon’s head under, the thing began wiggling into its nostrils, mouth, and down its throat.

Nor were the wyverns immune from the tactic.  While they can swim, they can’t breathe water, either.  Half of them were drowned, crushed, or both by the flailing dragon, and the others were sent reeling.

A crowd of warmagi and guardsmen, as well as some civilians more captivated by the sight than their survival, lined the pond farthest away from the fight.  The warmagi dealt with the last of the wyverns, while others merely gawked.  The elemental was strong, and didn’t grow tired, but the dragon was stronger, and increasingly desperate.  Every time it thrashed hundreds of gallons of water flew out of the pond.  Its right claw was tearing holes in my dam the size of plow furrows.

But without the wyverns to be concerned with, my spell was no longer necessary.  I dropped it . . . and prepared another one.

One thing I pride myself on as a wizard, besides creative bullshit, charm, and making stuff up as I go along, is learning from my mistakes . . . and my enemies’ successes.

I knew just the spell to end this thing.  Sheruel had taught it to me.

I shifted focus, while maintaining the strong flow of arcane power through the sphere, and made a request of the Handmaiden.  She knew just what to do to accomplish what I wanted.  In an instant, the appropriate Alka Alon song played in my mind . . . and the entire millpond was frozen solid, from surface to bottom.

“Ishi’s tits, Min!” Sandy exclaimed, as Ruderal fell back as his spell of control ceased with the movement of the elemental.  “You froze a dragon!”

“Not the dragon, just the water!” Loiko corrected.  “One burst of flame and he could boil the entire pond!”

“He has to inhale before he can exhale,” Ruderal panted, as Sandy helped him to his feet.  “He can’t do that with lungs full of water.  Ice,” he corrected.  “Thank you, Master!  I didn’t know how much longer I could keep the elemental that angry!”

We watched with anxiety as the right wing and foot of the dragon, as well as it’s huge tail, frantically struggled as the beast slowly lost oxygen and desperately sought to free itself.  While Dara’s Sky Riders slew the last of the wyvern raiders, and Lady Varen (who’d escaped the dragonfire and Nemovorti attack with a handful of her attendants) sealed the Waypoint to Lesgaethael, as Lady Falawen’s warriors took a guard around the damaged tower.

It took an hour for the dragon to stop moving – a stressful, anxious, fretful hour, until the tail stopped twitching.  Even then, I did not stop the power that kept the ice frozen solid.  I waited until Sandy pronounced its spark finally gone, and Ruderal confirmed that its enneagram, from what he could see of it, was fading.  Only then did I allow the energy to drop.  The ice remained, but it would melt, now, in the autumn air.

“Scratch one dragon, and I didn’t even use the Snowflake,” I finally said, wearily . . . and collapsed.

Ruderal helped me to a bench in a park behind the Temple of Briga while I recovered.  I’m good, but sustaining that much power for that long is brutal.  It might have killed me, had not the Handmaiden managed the load and manipulated me to better bear it.  I felt exhausted down to my very cells.  Taking a step became arduous.  Then breathing.  Then blinking.

But the Handmaiden was there, I knew.

I felt her, quietly tending to me behind the curtain of my mind.  She was sweetly nursing the damaged portions of my . . . soul?  Enneagram?  Sense of self?  I didn’t have the technical language to describe what she was doing.  It was too personal.  Too subjective.  I only know what I felt – and that I didn’t have the perspective to comprehend it.

But a few moments later, when Ruderal held a cup of water to my lips, it didn’t hurt so much to accept it.  I could even swallow, once I thought about it really hard and came up with a complex plan to see it done.  Breathing was an automatic process, once again.  Blinking was less painful.  I didn’t have to think about how to move my eyeballs anymore – that was nice.

Piece by piece, my body and my mind seemed to be getting . . . serviced, like taking a knife to a tinker for sharpening every market day. I was being sharpened.

“Master?” Ruderal asked, his voice odd and stretchy.  I almost giggled.  “How are you doing?”

“Getting . . . better,” I nodded.  That was the up and down direction.  I remembered that, now.

And I was.

After twenty minutes, speech was no longer difficult.  I drank more water and watched a succession of wizards examine the corpse of the dragon sticking out of the ice, while Riverlords and town guards kept curious onlookers at bay.

Most were involved in sorting through the damage from the attack, assisting the wounded, and putting out fires – and there were a lot of fires to put out.

Much of Brestal was burned, including the tower, and parts of Southridge, Boval, and Hollyburrow had been scorched.  Several patches of Sevendor Town had been hit with dragonfire, and a large portion of the fairgrounds were devastated by an early blast.  Had Banamor not kept tight control over fire regulations and fire-retardant spells, it could have been much worse.

As it was, hundreds died.  The fact that it could have been thousands did little to soothe those who grieved.

Master Loiko and Banamor had taken charge, while I was in my stupor, until Sire Cei had arrived.  He’d been delayed by a battle with a Nemovort who’d sought him out, specifically – apparently, he’d earned some enmity from Korbal for cracking his new Sheruel toy, and the Necromancer wanted Cei alive.  No doubt his sport talent would make a mighty host for some sadistic Nemovort.

Once Cei arrived, I allowed Ruderal to help me to the back of a cart and take me back to the castle.  I couldn’t do much, even with the Magolith floating around my head anxiously, like a worried hound, and trying to re-invigorate my depleted frame.

But I could think.  And cast simple spells.

Pentandra, I announced, we are down one dragon.

Good news, she agreed, gravely.  Dead?

Yes, I said, with a sense of satisfaction.  Another group effort and some inspired magic.  Remind me to thank Briga.

I will.  It’s too bad you couldn’t have taken care of the one in Castabriel, first, she added, sadly.

I drove it off, I pointed out.  It was the best I could do with a thaumaturgical baculus!

I know, Min, she agreed, tiredly.  Not everyone sees it that way.  A lot of people died today.

I know, Penny.  Count Kindine, among them.  Master Hartarian might not survive.  Maybe others, I conceded.

Minalan, Prince Tavard’s son was killed.  He was with his nurse.  In the spire.

Oh, shit, I said, my heart sinking.

The Prince and Princess are . . . well, you can imagine how they are.  But Castabriel is still burning, Min.  And it was attacked through the Waypoint.  A couple of Nemovorti and two score draugen.  They were headed toward the Arcane Orders, and would have made it, too, if a burning building hadn’t fallen on a third of them and cut them off.

Undead?  In Castabriel? I asked in disbelief.

Yes.  The last of them are being hunted down now.  Dranus is overseeing the hunt, with the resident adepts of the Order assisting.  About a third of the city is on fire, and the palace is entirely gone.  Tavard is blaming you for that, she added.

But I drove the dragon off! I protested.

Not in time.  Min, he’s lost his only child.  Princess Armandra is stricken, and may lose her pregnancy.  Tavard had to be restrained.  I’m sure he’ll see reason, eventually, but right now he thinks you’re to blame.  Rard isn’t much happier.  His palace was turned into a charnel house.  He lost his Prime Minister.

Again, not my fault!

Again, they don’t care.  You’re the wizard.  This was a magical matter.  You are to blame, even if you aren’t at fault.  That’s your job as a member of court.

We’ll deal with the political fallout, later, I dismissed, I’ve got people dying, here.

So does Castabriel.  Thousands, Min.  Most of the commercial district, the warehouse district, and the main market are still on fire.  The palace district was all but destroyed. A couple of villages outside of town were damaged and the temple ward got hit just as bad as the market.  The Arcane Order was damaged, but not extensively, she reported, woodenly.  The Temple of Trygg was razed, and the Temple of Luin sustained heavy damage.  The . . . oh, shit, Min, I can’t do this! she declared.  I lived in Castabriel for three years!

And it will recover, I promised.

I know it will, Min, she said, miserably.  Vorone did.  But the casualties . . . from what Dranus has reported, there could be as many as ten thousand.  Perhaps much more, if they can’t get the fires under control.  There were a thousand just in the main palace, alone.  They’ll be pulling bodies out of the rubble—

Focus, Penny, I ordered her, as her tone got higher and more anxious as she went.  We still have a crisis unfolding.  Does Dranus need help with the fires?

I think he has it under control, she answered.  When Loiko told me what was happening in Sevendor, I didn’t bother you with it.  But I alerted all of the Sevens, she said, referring to the twenty-one magi who bore special Alka Alon-crafted witchstones.  Astyral was there with Dranus.  I got Carmella and four of her people there to help, along with Bendonal and a team from Megelin.  Oh, and I got Taren and his men to go, she added.  He’s got some enchantments for this sort of thing.

I’m glad someone does.  I was scared with this one, Pen, I admitted.  It was here.  It was home.  This wasn’t a bunch of Alka Alon housebreakers, this was a fucking dragon and five squadrons of giant Wyverns!  Nemovorti, Penny, right here in Sevendor!

You make some big enemies, Min, she pointed out.  You knew Korbal was going to strike back.  You just didn’t know how, where, or when.  You did the best you could.

My kids were here, Pen.  Alya was here.  What if I lost her, when she’s just starting to come back to me?  What if I’d lost the kids?  Shit, Penny, I might not like Tavard, but I’m sympathetic as hell.

The Prince Heir was not the only babe to die in Castabriel today, she advised.  When grief has passed and reason prevails, he will know it isn’t your fault.

I’m not sure it will matter, Pen.  Think about it.  If you thought I accidentally killed one of your daughters, how would you feel about it?

There was a long pause.

Yes, this might be difficult, she admitted with a sigh.  But it will work out, in the end, Min.  Trust me.

That was a hard thing to do, right now, but I didn’t really have much choice.  I do, Penny.  It’s the rest of the universe that has me concerned.  I’m just glad I got them into the mountain before the dragon had a chance to find them.  That would have made things a little too interesting.

Just promise me you’ll let me know that they’re okay, when you see them, she urged.  You know how I worry.

I’m on my way now.  Ruderal is carrying me in a cart.  I don’t think I can walk.  Not yet.  I might take a little nap on the way, I said, feeling another wave of weariness wash over me.

You do what you need to do, Min, Pentandra soothed.  I don’t think we have any active battlefields we need you for.  Take a nap, she advised.  You’ll feel better when you get there.  I’ll handle the situation from here.  I’ve got ample help.

Thanks, Penny, I sighed.  I don’t know what I’d do without you.  I’m utterly useless without you around to keep me sharp.  It’s been rough having you in Vorone this last year.  Especially with . . . especially with me grieving and obsessing about Alya.

Which drove you to find a completely improbable and unlikely solution, she pointed out, helpfully.

Which led to having my domain attacked by a dragon, I reminded her.  When I think of all those people who died today, because I had to have my wife back—

Don’t do that to yourself, Min, she said, sharply.  Ishi’s tits, don’t you realize that Korbal would have done all of this anyway, eventually?  He was just biding his time and building his strength.  You rushed him, and he made a tactical error.  More than one.  And perhaps a strategic error.  But he’s no longer on his game, he’s trying to recover from a punishing raid, and now he’s got to contend with having lost one of his remaining dragons.  None of that would have happened unless you’d gotten involved.  Thousands more would have died.  Sevendor wouldn’t even exist.  You are not responsible for this, Minalan!

If you say so, Pen, I agreed, wearily.  I laid back into the cool bed of the wagon and looked up into the smoke-streaked sky.  Keep telling me that.  Maybe I’ll really believe it one day.

Chapter Seventy-Four

The Snowflake And The Magolith

Ruderal helped me out of the back of the cart when we arrived at the Gatehouse, after he shook me awake.  You’d think it would be difficult to sleep in a springless cart over bumpy cobbled roads, but you’d be wrong.  I slept like a log.  When my boots touched the ground my legs held steady, and with Ruderal under my arm I was able to make it to the castle.

I was gratified to see everyone had armed themselves and taken a station.  There were two dead wyverns in the inner baily, impaled by arrows and spears.  The battlements bristled with armored men bearing crossbows and bows, worriedly scanning the skies above.  The lone catapult in the bailey was loaded and ready to fire.  There were four guards at the entrance of the castle, two archers over the door, and guards patrolled the walls.  The Gatehouse was filled with warriors, with dozens keeping watch on the smoking valley beyond.

It didn’t seem like nearly enough.

“Remind me later,” I told my apprentice.  “I want some ballistae.  And scorpions.  And a trebuchet.”

“Master, we have magic,” Ruderal said, thinking I was raving.

“Not everyone does.  And we might not, always.  A few scorpions in the right place would have made this a lot quicker battle.”

“If you say so, Maser,” Ruderal said, sullenly.  We were approached by Captain Forondal, the captain of the guard, as my apprentice helped me to my feet.  He looked worried.

“Are you all right, Baron?”

“You should see the other dragon,” I joked.  “I’m fine.  Just wrung out like your sister’s underwear.  Keep on alert,” I ordered, “and stay on patrol for any undead or wyverns . . . or anything else that might have escaped our notice.  There’s no telling if any slipped into hiding to spring out at us later.  The magi will be scrying, but stay on alert.  Until I tell you otherwise.”

“Yes, Baron,” Forondal assured.  “We have everyone evacuated to the mountain, now.”

“Not everyone,” I sighed.  “We took losses at the Fair, in town, likely many in Brestal.  As soon as you have made a thorough search of the bailey, detail as many men as you can spare to assist in damage control and recovery.”  I turned to my apprentice.  “The mountain.  Let’s head there.”

I was surprised to find the entrance to the mountain manned by six stout Karshak in sturdy armor and helms, hammers in their hands.  I had no idea they even had armor.  They were loitering more than standing guard, but I had no doubt they could handle anything small enough to try to make it through the twenty-foot tall doorway into the mountain.

Another trio of Karshak was at the other end of the corridor, at the entrance to the new Great Hall.  It was only half-complete – meaning the eastern half had been carved out, block by block.  That had fulfilled only about half of the planned excavation.  This was where Guri was quarrying the stone slabs for the outer constructions that now rose two stories.  Inside the mountain, the new hall was four stories, with three of the six massive pillars supporting the vaulted ceiling already roughed in.  It would be magnificent, when it was finished.

Now, it was merely a rectangular chamber a hundred and twenty feet long by eighty feet wide, lit by simple magelights and serving as the staging area for the dozens of secondary excavations going on in the mountain.

On an ordinary day, that is.  Today it was crowded with more than three hundred castle folk who sought the shelter of the mountain.

Everyone cheered nervously, when I appeared, and I explained the situation to them.  They cheered even louder when they heard the dragon was dead.

They were happy to wait another hour or so before returning to Sevendor Castle – those who did not petition to join the rescue and recovery crews.  I gave permission for Sister Bemia and the other clergy to lead a group of volunteers out to help with the wounded, but I wanted the children and the more vulnerable kept safe in the mountain until we were certain the danger had passed.  That’s what we have castles for.

I was happy to push my way through the crowd, professing important business to help ease the way through the relieved Sevendori.  Ruderal helped me get up the stairs and down the long corridor that led to the Chamber of the Snowflake without using profanity once – something I don’t think any of his predecessors could have managed.  I didn’t really need his help at that point, so I manifested Insight and used it like a common walking staff, for a change.

Master Ulin met me at the door of the enchantment complex, looking anxious.  I reassured him that the dragon was defeated, and was amazed when I mentioned the giant wyverns.  But he understood my desire to see my family ahead of all other things, and he took me to them.  They were just as anxious to see me.

“DADDY!” Minalyan erupted, when I came through the door.  “Rude’dral!  You’re back!”

“Daddy’s back!” Almina squealed, excitedly, as she struggled in my sister Urah’s arms.  Their cousins started squealing just as excitedly out of the pure desire to break the tension they no doubt felt.

“The dragon is dead, the worst of the danger is past, and the bakery was fine when I left it,” I assured my sister, knowing she’d want to know about her husband at once.  She embraced me and thanked me, and gratefully accepted permission to remove all the kids to the great hall.

“They’re a little spooked by that thing,” Urah confided to me, nodding toward the Snowflake’s ever-changing, always glowing shape.  As soon as she leaned toward it, Almina shirked away.  “They think it’s watching them.”

“It might be,” I conceded with a shrug.  “I—” I stopped, suddenly, realizing two things at nearly the same time.

The first was my wife, who was curled up with her arms hugging her knees, her eyes captivated by the polymorphic mineral.  Not merely staring with interest, but physically enthralled by it.

“Urah?  What . . .?”

“She’s been like that since she got in here,” Urah whispered.  “She hugged the children when she saw them again, and then she was distant . . . but friendly.  But as soon as she saw that thing . . . Uh, Min?” Urah asked, shielding Almina from the crystal with her body, “is it supposed to be doing that?”

What really had my attention wasn’t Alya, it was the second thing: the Magolith.  It was circling the Snowflake like a dog sniffing another dog, its pulsations in perfect rhythm to the constantly-shifting Snowflake.

I hadn’t told it to do that.

“It . . . might be,” I offered, slowly.  “Why don’t you get the kids out of here?  Quickly?  And send in Master Ulin, please.  Quickly!” I repeated.

She nodded, and thankfully my argumentative sister didn’t argue for once.  She got the kids out efficiently, making them link hands, wave good-bye to the snowflake and Alya, and she got the hells out.  I guess I just had to be a baron and the foremost wizard of my age to get her to listen to me.

When they were all safely down the hall, and it was just me and Master Ulin, I studied both my enrapt wife and my obsessed magical artefact.  Insight gave me a much better understanding of what was going on . . . not that it soothed my anxiety much.  Alya was essentially exploring the Snowflake, her consciousness sent deep within its recesses.

The Magolith, on the other hand, was studiously ignoring my commands.  The Handmaiden, within, was examining the Snowflake and – presumably – its enneagram.

I tried to contact the ancient paraclete inside my magical sphere and was surprised to find myself rebuffed and ignored.  A second attempt at last got the Handmaiden’s attention, at least a little of it.  But not enough to command her.  Indeed, she sent me a query, instead.  Not words, or even emotions, but a simple request to confirm her findings.

Before I could find some way to respond to her, the Handmaiden reached out a tendril of control and seized control of Insight for a few moments, much to my surprise.  I’m not used to my arcane tools using each other like that.  For a brief moment there was a kind of arcane struggle, but the Handmaiden was victorious.  It used Insight’s powerful thaumaturgical spells to answer her own question, before returning it to my control.

“Uh oh,” I whispered, when I realized what just happened.  The Handmaiden had recognized the shade of the Celestial Mother inside the Snowflake.

The one creature it was designed to serve above all others.

Before I could say another word or utter a spell, the Magolith embedded itself into the center of the Snowflake.  There was a profound flash that send a wave of raw power in every direction, making the mountain itself throb.  When the union was complete, there was a new pattern of complexity being expressed in the structure of the Snowflake’s constant transformation, emanating from the green-globed center of the artefact.

The Centerpoint and the Snowflake were one, again.  The Handmaiden could once again tend to her Celestial Mother.

And my wife was caught in the middle of all of that.

Almost immediately after the Magolith left my control and the Handmaiden took over, a powerful stream of arcane power began flowing from it . . . and into Alya.

“Oh shit!” I moaned, helpless to intervene.  Master Ulin looked stricken.

“What’s happening?” the master enchanter asked.

“I have no idea!  I was just . . . and then she just . . . and then . . . I have no idea!” I repeated, frustrated.  Insight was little help – apart from telling me that the stream was a highly focused thaumaturgical working, and giving me some lovely figures about the rate of transformation and the intensity of the etheric wave, it could tell me nothing.

Alya, at least, did not seem to be suffering.  Insight told me that she was healthy, hale, and surprisingly calm.  Her mind was deeply settled.  I had no idea how that was happening.  Alya shouldn’t have been able to contend with thaumaturgic forces of that magnitude, not without rajira.  Regardless of the spectra of energy, it should have fried her brain out on the spot.

She didn’t even blink.  Indeed, her eyes stared at the Snowflake and the Magolith unblinking as the power poured through her every pore.  She continued to breathe, her heart continued to beat, and her brain was . . . well, it wasn’t fried.

I just had no idea how that was.

“Don’t interfere!” Master Ulin insisted, putting a restraining hand on my shoulder when I started to examine how to detach the two.  “I know you want to, Minalan, but . . . well, I’ve been working around this thing day and night.  It means no harm.  And in her current state, breaking the connection could be deadly.  Ishi’s tits, I’ve never seen anyone bear that much power!  Even you!  And you’re one sick son-of-a bitch!” he said, admiringly.

“I’m going to summon Lilastien,” I decided, after studying the matter for five or ten minutes without learning anything more useful.  “She can monitor Alya.  She’s been using the Handmaiden to re-model Alya’s enneagram.  She’ll know better than I what is dangerous.

“You summon Onranion,” I ordered Ulin.  “I want him to monitor the . . . whatever this is,” I said, referring to the Snowflake.  It was changing a lot faster, now, and the centerpoint at the congress of its six sides was pulsing and . . . transforming the giant crystal in some subtle and more complex ways.  Not any way I can describe.  It was still constantly changing.  It was just . . . changing differently, now.

“Master,” Ruderal said, quietly, “you cannot stay here all night.  You’re tired, inside and out.  Whatever is happening to Alya, it isn’t . . . it isn’t hurting her,” he said, finally settling on a word.  “I’ll watch her, I promise.  Inside and out.  You go get some rest before you fall over again,” he suggested, gently.

“The lad’s right, Min,” UIin nodded.  “The dragon is dead, your wife is alive, and the castle will be here another day.  Time for the Spellmonger to get some rest.”

I tried to argue, but couldn’t.  The yawn got in the way.

“You win,” I sighed, defeated.  “I’ll go lay down.  But not until I make sure everything is well in hand.”

“If it isn’t, then you don’t know your own folk,” Ulin chuckled.  “Don’t worry, Min.  If you killed the dragon, then the rest of us can manage to clean up.”

The next few days passed like a blur.

For three days Lilastien, Ulin, Onranion and Ruderal took turns watching Alya.  Her bodily functions had slowed to a crawl, but Lilastien assured me she was still perfectly healthy.

The consensus between the four seemed to be that the Handmaiden was repairing both the Celestial Mother of the Snowflake and Alya, at the same time.  No one was certain how or why it was doing it, but they were pretty sure it would be a Very Bad Thing to interfere with the process.

Of course that didn’t make me worry one bit.  Really.

Thankfully, I had other challenges to occupy my time.  The Magical Fair, interrupted by sudden dragon attack, was closed up prematurely.  Instead of running the Spellmonger’s Trial as planned, I held a brief court and awarded three shards of irionite to wizards who’d displayed great courage, selflessness, and heroics during the attack and its aftermath.

No one complained.  A dragon and a few score wyverns were far more challenging than whatever spells I could come up with.  No feast of champions, no grand fetes by the various magical orders.

But with all the funerals we had to attend, there really wasn’t much time.  More than three hundred people died during the attack.  Some were burned alive, some were killed by wyverns or other hazards in the battle.  A few had perished fighting the Nemovorti directly.  The clergy of the town held a mass ceremony, and Briga honored their sacrifice by extending the Everfire more than sixty feet high during the rite.  Some bodies were loaded on the carts of the Silent Brothers, those monks who specialized in transporting the dead.  More were buried in the common temple plots.

Part of my job as Baron and host of the Fair meant consoling (and compensating) the survivors and their loved ones.  I had to meet with families, friends, and business partners of the deceased.  As the responsible party at the fair, I had certain legal and moral obligations to those who died there.

Likewise, I had a debt to my vassals.  They hadn’t done anything to warrant a dragon attack.  They’d taken up arms and defended the domain valiantly.  And they had suffered egregiously.  Many parts of Sevendor had, as well.

Brestal was hit particularly badly in the attack.  The village was a smoking ruin, now, with but one home in three still standing intact.  The fields had scorched just days before the final harvest, and the young fruit and nut trees we’d planted just a few years before were blackened sticks, now.

Brestal Tower was no more.  The roof and the top story was burnt and melted to the point where even the basalt rock behind the tower was blasted.

Nearby Hollyburrow lost two satellite burrows, twelve dead in all, who perished when a stray blast of fire torched the woven wooden balls they lived in.  Olmeg the Green was beside himself, both for the trees and the loss of his Tal Alon subjects.

The Diketower was damaged, as were parts of Boval Village, across the road from the gateway fortress.  Boval Hall, the inn, and two large houses had seen both collateral fire damage and the insult of wyverns landing and attacking the people.  The people defended themselves fiercely, and with the help of Zagor and a couple of visiting enchanters staying at the inn, they put an end to them and their gruesome riders.  Sire Cei’s yeoman, Rollo, had grabbed an axe off the wall of the hall and rushed out to fight a wyvern, cleaving its neck in two with one mighty blow.

His neighbor, Yeoman Vano of Brestal, was just as valiant, leading a band of his villagers through the burning village against a mounted wyvern and its Nemovort.  Nine Brestali perished in the battle, and Vano took a nasty wound, but when they were done they’d pulled the fell rider off his scaly mount and beaten him back to the Necromancer’s halls.  The Nemovort may have been looking for magi, but he found the blunt end of a Sevendori mallet.

There was other damage.  Lesgaethael would have to be almost entirely rebuilt, Master Guri reported, as the foundations had been heated so hot he could not guarantee their stability.  But the Waypoint there was now sealed off, and guarded by both Alkan magic and warmagi.  Lady Varen and her staff moved to the Tera Alon encampment in Hosendor until work could be complete.

Sevendor Town, thankfully, had only taken light damage.  The tiled roof of the bouleuterion’s workshop was burnt, though spells kept the rest of the structure from igniting.  A few of the spires atop residences of prominent wizards in town had sheared off in the fight, smashed by flailing wings or the odd spell.  A couple of fires on residential rooftops were far more damaging.  Wyvern attacks had occurred all over town, requiring the town watch, fairgoers, and townsmen to see to their defense.  Dozens had perished in the battles.

Then there was the former millhouse and bathhouse on the edge of the millpond – now both destroyed by the flailing beast.  As well as the fifty-tons of iced dragon in the middle of our water supply.  And the score of dead giant wyvern corpses, as well as a few rotting Nemovorti bodies.  Someone had to clean that up.

Part of my job was to congratulate the living.  Dara’s Sky Riders had performed magnificently, after their terrible defeat at Olum Seheri.  I lavished them with praise, rewards, and acclaim, and (at least partially) redeemed myself in Dara’s eyes.

I gave a rousing speech praising the valor of the brave warmagi visiting the fair who’d pitched in with the defense, and praised even more the common folk who’d come to Sevendor’s defense in her need.  It’s one thing to leap on the back of a wyvern to slash its throat when you’re armored, armed, and used to that sort of thing.  It’s quite another when you’re a barber or an out-of-work plowman.

The Riverlords, the militia, the town guards and fairwardens who’d acted to evacuate the fairgrounds when the first sign of trouble appeared, all were praised and rewarded.  I gave away silver like it was water, and never regretted a coin.  My people performed admirably.  They saved lives even as they risked their own.

Banamor got a lot of credit, both from me and from the people at large.  He’d kept his fairwardens organized and orderly when it was clear people were in danger.  Despite his reputation for loving gold, he’d sacrificed plenty when he put the welfare of the fair folk in front of his own fortune.

Our neighbors were graciously helpful.  Baron Arathanial sent monks and bandages, as did my vassals and my friend Sire Sigalan.  Trestendor faithfully came to our aid with carts and horses to help move the wounded, and work-crews to help clear away the burnt timbers and ashes.  The baronial domains around Sevendor were likewise quick to respond to the aftermath of the crisis.  Wagons rolled through all three entryways to the domain for days.

I was proudest of my own household.  Apart from Dara, Ruderal and Sire Cei each won acclaim, the former for his work with the water elemental and the latter for dueling a Nemovort who was determined to interrupt the bouleuterion – no doubt to collect the enchanters within for use as hosts.

Sire Cei was coming from the castle on his charger, then, and tarried to butcher both reptile and rider in a heroic display of arcane chivalry.  The enchanters, for their part, had taken up station on the roof of the ramshackle Enchanters Guild and cast spells against fire, as well as discharging wands and staves they were working on.  You don’t have to be a warmage to mumble a mnemonic and unleash arcane death.  Not if you were the wizard who placed the spell in the first place.

The clergy had been as valiant in the aftermath and recovery as the defenders had been during the attack.  Holy Hill sent a score of nurses to assist the wounded, and every temple on the Street of Temples contributed space as make-shift hospitals.  Some of the monks and nuns eschewed services entirely until the emergency was past.

I made a point of visiting each of them and praising their efforts, as well as dropping generous donations into the hands of the high clergy.  Nothing says “thank you” like an unexpected budgetary surplus.

I was involved with all of it.  But my mind was rarely on what I was doing, even when I was embracing a sobbing widow upon news of her husband’s death, or a sole daughter who found out one of the hopelessly charred corpses in the Temple of Trygg was her father.

My mind was in the mountain, thinking of Alya, and whatever the Handmaiden was doing with her.

If there is one constant distraction in the feudal universe, however, it’s politics.  Sevendor had been only lightly damaged, compared to the pounding the capital took that day.

Where we lost but three hundred, Castabriel lost over seven thousand – including the core of the ducal government, when the Spire of Donrard fell.  The court had just officially returned from its usual summer sojourn in Wilderhall, and while Count Moran and a few other officials were at the Curia, the rest of the government was settling in for the autumn seasonal business.

They were all dead, now.  Those few who’d enjoyed the fortune of errands outside of the palace during the attack were now running what little government there was in Castal.  The city was under military law, with Count Moran and Viscount Poromar, the acting Minister of War, attempting to maintain order while the city recovered from the disaster.  Their Highnesses had withdrawn in grief back to Wilderhall, after the funeral.

That had been a somber affair, by report.  The clergy of the city had tried to bring solace to the people . . . but when Prince Tavard spoke, he thundered against the darkness in the west until he had the vast crowd screaming in defiance and anger.  A population that had suffered so grievously was fertile ground for such rage.

Entire blocks had burned under the dragon’s fire.  The conflagration had quickly spread across the closely-packed rooftops of the city until wards blocks away from the attack were ablaze.  And the fire spread quickly.  Hundreds of homes had burned, and scores more had been devastated by the dragon.  That was in addition to the great Donrard’s Spire falling, its flaming expanse crushing the sprawling palace below.  The noble’s quarter around it was quickly engulfed, too.  Castabriel, apparently, isn’t as rigorous about fire regulation spells as Sevendor.

The ground attack by the undead wasn’t as bad as I’d feared.  Korbal hadn’t done his homework well, for one thing; Castabriel has nearly a half-million people in it, and probably three hundred magi at any one time.  Sending a few Nemovorti and some draugen to fight their way through that was just foolish.  Between the city guards and Dranus’ warmagi, the last of the undead were destroyed before the last fire was extinguished.

The combination of the two assaults had damaged the spirit of the City of Ten Thousand Lights.  When the living dead roam your streets and the town is on fire, it has an effect on the psyche of the population.  It was compounded by the loss in the Royal Family.  The death of the infant Prince Heir had devastated the town that had celebrated his birth and name-day so recently.  What was left of the court was officially and unofficially in mourning.  While the Princess managed to hang on to her pregnancy, she took to her bed, nearly catatonic over her loss, for a week before she was moved to Wilderhall.

Tavard, meanwhile, stalked around the charred ruins of his palace and screamed orders, his anger and rage and hopeless desire to re-establish control of his world making him more and more abusive.  Rumor was that he screamed at Count Moran for three hours about the attack, in closed chambers.  He swore he’d execute his Minister of War – a man already in political trouble, after the disastrous Maidenspool Adventure – if the man hadn’t been in the spire when it toppled.  His haggard deputy, Viscount Poromar, was now the unfortunate object of Tavard’s ire.

But only because I wasn’t around.

I don’t know how or why, but Tavard really did blame me for his misfortunes.  Despite all argument and evidence to the contrary, apparently, he saw the dragon attack and the assault on the royal palace as being instigated by me.  Though he was my liege, he did not address his concerns to me directly, he bellowed them during his small court sessions and screamed them at night in drunken rages.  His wishes and comportment came back to me in a dozen quiet ways.  I made a point to give Tavard a wide berth for a while.

Anguin, on the other hand, had gained considerable esteem among the upper nobility, both for his brave confrontation of Korbal’s emissary, and for his insistence on leading the Curia and passing the King’s proposal in emergency session, after the attack.

Though more than a dozen counts were missing, the rest of the upper nobility now saw the reason behind a more unified defense.  They were galvanized by the attack.  No one who’d seen the glowing red eyes of the draugen, or witnessed the assault on Castabriel from afar, could deny the Kingdom was now at war.  If the King needed coin for defense, those whose office was charged with that duty would eagerly comply.

King Rard, himself, was nearly as grief-stricken over the loss of his grandson as Tavard and Armandra were.  Queen Grendine seemed to age ten years overnight.  I attended the funeral – it was a state event.  As a member of the Royal Court I was obligated to go.  But neither Rard nor Tavard approached me at the ceremony or the reception after, so I left it alone.

I was just finishing up a quick meeting with the head of the Arcane Orders about the repairs the headquarters needed after the attack when Lilastien summoned me.

Alya is awake, again, she informed me.  She’s talking.  She’s talking well, she admitted.  And she’s famished.  I’ve sent to the castle for food, but we’re still in the Snowflake Chamber.

It’s been three days.  No doubt she’s starving.  Any significant change?

Yes, Lilastien said, definitively but without elaboration.

When I arrived back at the Chamber, I could see why she didn’t try to explain it.  I’m not certain she could have.

Alya was awake again, and she was more alert and responsive than ever.  But there was something a little off to her, too – not merely the result of her catastrophic injury, but something else.

“Her enneagram is looking a lot better,” Ruderal observed, after I’d made sure she was all right and watched her eat a bowl of stew.  “It’s still messed up, but it’s more . . . regular, now.  Especially in the center.”  I didn’t know what that meant, but I was sure he did.

“Her vitals are fine, except for low blood sugar,” Lilastien confirmed, as Alya devoured a pigeon pie and a half-wheel of cheese.  “She’s correcting that quickly.  I did a short cognitive assessment.  I’d say she’s improved a couple of percentage points.  Her memory came back a little, too.  She mentioned someplace called Hawk’s Reach?”

“Her father’s dairy, in Boval,” I nodded.

“She misses the cows and the cheese,” Ruderal nodded.

“It’s a long-term memory, and that’s fantastic.  That might explain why she seems a little different.  And it might lead to more.  She nearly remembered her children, I think.  But I think that whatever the Handmaiden did, we should pretend it was an extended treatment.  I don’t think there was a danger.”

“I feel fine!” Alya insisted.  “I’m sitting right here, you realize.  I can hear everything that you say.”

“But can you understand it?”

“Not always,” she conceded.  “But did I always understand it . . . before?”

“No,” I admitted.  “But I am glad you are okay.  The danger has passed.”

“Has it?” she asked, curious.

“The immediate danger has passed,” I corrected.  “There are still ugly things in the world who want to hurt us.”

“That doesn’t seem entirely fair,” Alya said, philosophically, as she pushed the last spoonful of stew in her mouth.  “Minalan, were those my . . . my children?”

“From a few days ago?  Yes.  Minalyan and Almina.  They miss you dearly.”

“I . . . I liked them,” she decided, resolutely.  “I think I will keep them.  They are cute.”

“That’s good to know,” I agreed, seriously.

I studied the Magolith in its socket on the Snowflake while Alya ate more than any time since she was pregnant.  I summoned Insight to take a closer look.  The irionite and the crystalline structure of the Snowflake seemed to be ignoring each other on an atomic level.  I had no idea how I was going to get it out again.

“Here, girl!” I said, jokingly, as I beckoned it with a whistle.  It worked my dogs, after all.

While I doubt the whistle had anything to do with it, apparently the Handmaiden sensed my summons.  In a moment, the Magolith separated from the Snowflake a lot easier than it had the first time.  The sphere floated back to its accustomed place, just above eye level, behind my right shoulder, acting like nothing had happened.

“Are you about ready to take her back to the Tower of Refuge?” I asked Lilastien, as I frowned at my magical implement.

“I want to stay,” Alya decided, before the Sorceress could answer.  “I want to stay here in Sevendor.  I like it here.  It’s fun.”

“You think dragon attacks are fun?” asked Ruderal, scornfully.  Alya shrugged.

“I have no objections,” Lilastien said.  “Physically, she’s fine.  Perfectly healthy.  Keep up the treatments every day, and I can’t think of any reason she should not come home.  As long as she’s ready,” she added, looking at Alya.

“I’m ready,” she agreed, confidently.  “I think.  I want to see more.  I want to see everything!  I’m ready!” she stressed.

“I suppose I am, too,” I said, cautiously.

It seemed insane to bring Alya back here to stay, after a dragon attack.  But then she hadn’t been hurt, and hopefully Korbal would reconsider before wasting another dragon on Sevendor.  I realized I was just being an anxious husband.

“All right, I’ll have a room made up in Spellmonger’s Hall.  You can stay there tonight.  We’ll . . . we’ll see about continuing the arrangement as events warrant.”

“That would be wise,” Lilastien agreed.  “You might want to wait awhile until you resume full marital relations.  What?” she asked, when she saw me blush unexpectedly.  “Don’t worry, she’s perfectly capable, physically.  Just be sure she’s capable emotionally.  It might be a delicate matter, for a while.”

“We don’t need to rush into anything,” I assured her.  “I think I just need to get to know Alya again.  And reintroduce her to her home.”

“That’s probably the best medicine you can give her,” Lilastien agreed, smiling, as Alya went to the next dish on her tray, a cobbler.

“What’s this?  Hot fruit?  Ewww!”

Chapter Seventy-Five

News From Farise

Despite the loss and the damage and destruction in Sevendor and Castabriel, having Alya around again made it hard for me to get depressed.  She wasn’t the same, of course, especially around the children.  But they were adjusting to her new state, as she was adjusting to the idea that she was, in some vague way, responsible and related to them.

She had to get used to the idea, for instance, that her name was “Alya” to everyone else and “Mommy” to the children.

Minalyan was the more suspect of the two.  He was old enough to have firm memories of his mother, and while this woman looked, sounded, and smelled like Alya, she wasn’t acting like his Mommy.  That didn’t stop him from clinging to her or playing with her – in many ways, this Mommy was far more fun and playful than the old one.

Almina was more accepting.  She couldn’t get enough of the attention Alya paid her, and if it differed from the kind of love she expected from her mother, she didn’t complain.

Apart from me, the person most happy to see her return was her own sister.  Alya spent two days at Southridge with Ela and Sagal, and the time was productive.  Apparently, she had many memories of her, and as fretful as Ela was she was so grateful to have her sister back that she was more than willing to excuse the strangeness that still affected her.

I was glad of the time, myself.  As enthralled as I was by having my wife back, in some capacity, time spent with her could be exhausting, too.  There was still much she did not understand – not just about social niceties and customs, but about basic matters.  Watching Alya was in some ways more exhausting than looking after a toddler.

I needed the time, too.  The aftermath of the battles of Sevendor and Castabriel were sending ripples through the Kingdom, and I needed to address them, once I managed the cleanup and recovery of my own lands.  Many regions were hastily appointing or electing new counts to replace those who fell at the palace.  Others were bracing for war.  The destruction of the ducal capital forced the remains of the court to return to Wilderhall for the winter, where the infrastructure of administration remained.

That included the Prince and Princess, who shunned the site of their baby’s death.  I could not blame them.  They certainly blamed me.

The first official notice of my actions on the day of the Curia was a letter from Tavard, as Duke of Castal, instructing me to submit a detailed account of my actions that day.  I was happy to oblige, and was as forthright as I could be in the seven pages of parchment I sent back.

I heard nothing for weeks.

In the meantime, Rard was in a quandary and sent for me for counsel on two separate occasions: the first to advise him on what to do with Tavard’s 2,000 men in Maidenspool who were stranded there, until some rescue could be devised.  As they were at risk for capture and enslavement, that was a pressing issue.

The second time was concerning new candidates for both Prime Minister and Court Wizard.  While Hartarian survived his encounter with the draugen, his wounds were harsh, and he begged leave to retire to his estates in Wenshar.  Rard couldn’t very well deny the man – he had a permanent wheeze, now, from how his crushed ribs had healed, and he insisted he was too emotionally exhausted to perform his duties, anymore.

Rard offered the job to me, of course – but living at the Royal Palace was the last thing I wanted to do.  It also established conflicts-of-interest, bureaucratically speaking . . . but the biggest reason was that I didn’t want to be in Tavard’s proximity and remind him of what he’d lost.  As a father, I knew that would be too much to bear.

As it was, after I submitted my account to him all of further interactions were done through the Prime Minister.  I didn’t push the matter.

Rard ended up selecting Lord Argas, Kindine’s long-time deputy, to act as temporary Prime Minister, and on my recommendation, took on Master Loiko as the new Royal Court Wizard with my hearty recommendation.

As loathe as I was to lose him as my own, I knew the well-respected Wenshari warmage was the right man to lead the Kingdom’s magical policies.  It meant I was out a baronial court wizard, but even I had to admit that Loiko’s talents were wasted in that position.

I hired Master Thinradel, former Ducal Court Wizard of Alshar, as a temporary appointment, a few days later.  Thinradel had been jumping from Vorone to Remere, where he had some allies, doing odd jobs with his witchstone, drinking, and enjoying life.  With his native land in the hands of rebels, he didn’t have much else to do – he had little interest in his estates in the Wilderlands, nor was he a warmage.  He had a studious bent and a wry sense of humor, and I think he was looking for something to do.

There was another good reason: he was heavily invested in the Arcane Mercantile Company, and found proximity to Sevendor Town’s unique market a good way to keep his eye on his investment.  As he had a lot of contacts in southern Alshar and Merwyn, Banamor was eager for the new blood.  He’d already exhausted Loiko’s limited number of contacts in Farise and Wenshar.  He wanted to expand.

Once the new court appointments were settled, in late autumn, things got back to a certain equilibrium.  The harvest was in full swing, the damage was being repaired, and most folk were content to grieve their dead quietly . . . once the visible signs of the battle were removed.

In Sevendor, the dragon carcass was removed to the clearing near the Enchanted Forest, where Taren sent a crew to butcher it for parts.  I actually got to watch, for a change, a process that had been developing since the first dead dragon at Castle Cambrian.

The hide was worth a fortune in armor, for one thing, and Taren had uses for nearly every organ and bone, now.  Greenflower had an entire warehouse of dead dragon parts.  He showed up himself when his crew cracked the abdominal skin and entered the cavity inside.  There was something in particular that Taren wanted.

“The stomach acid,” he revealed, sheepishly.  “It’s incredibly powerful, and unlike anything I’ve ever seen.  It takes enchanted glass to contain it.  But it has some unique properties.  Ormar and the other alchemists I’ve consulted are mad for the stuff.  With a dragon this size, we can expect forty or fifty gallons,” he said, eagerly.

That wasn’t all that the talented thaumaturge found, as his men sliced through the incredibly dense tissue with magically-sharpened blades.  As the organs were brought out, one by one, weighed and cataloged, a surprise emerged.

“This one is female!” Taren said, in surprise.  “The two we’ve had before were male.”

“Does that make a difference?” I asked, confused.

“It’s intriguing.  A new avenue of study.  Particularly since she was pregnant, and about to lay.  There are two eggs in her oviduct.  I’m no dragon expert—”

“Yes, actually, you are,” I countered.  “Unless you know someone else who knows more about them.”

“No one mortal,” he grinned.  “This one was about to lay.  I’ve dealt with enough undead chickens to know when that’s happening.  Whoever forced this old girl to fly and fight did her no service,” he said, shaking his head.  “It was cruel.  Those things are huge, about to be laid,” he said, as a couple of his men brought the first one out.  “Two of them, too.”

That caught me off-guard.  “Are they viable?”

Taren shrugged his scrawny shoulders.  “How should I know?  This is the first female I’ve ever examined, post-mortem.  They were somewhat protected from the ice – the oviduct is pretty remote from the lungs.  They were still warm,” he admitted.  “I don’t know, ask the Sorceress.  This seems to be her sort of thing,” he said, wearily, smearing dragon slime on his leather apron.

“Well, the Alka Alon did originally use dragons, during their Warring States period,” I agreed.  “Maybe there is some lore there on their husbandry.”

It was Taren’s turn to be off-guard.  “You want to raise dragons?” he asked, startled.

“I have two dragon eggs,” I shrugged.  “I suppose I could make an omelet.  But I’m curious.”

“You’re insane,” he affirmed.  “Min, this dragon is only a couple of years old, and it weighs fifty tons!  Consider how much protein it must require just to keep it alive.  Think of how many helpless prisoners were thrown to it when it was just a baby!”

“I’m just thinking about it,” I said, enjoying his reaction.  “But lay them aside and make certain they’re protected.  They might be the most valuable thing in this carcass.”

“What do you want me to do with the head?” he asked, nodding toward where a crew surrounded the dead dragon’s head and neck.  “After I remove the brain and such?”

I considered.  “Take it to the tavern, out on the old commons,” I decided.  The stone building and the tree that had been the first taphouse in Sevendor had gotten destroyed in the attack, but within two days the proprietor had started serving again in the ruins.  People liked to drink.  “I want the teeth pulled.  It looks like Ruderal earned one.”

“And so did you,” he pointed out.  “You won it fairly.”

As it turned out, the skull became a famous point of interest and secured patronage for the place.  The valuable teeth were removed and the largest were cleaned up for presentation (Taren claimed the rest for research) and replaced by shining replicas.

The mighty skull was hoisted into the rafters when the tavern was rebuilt around it, festooned with magelights, and the eyes were replaced by hand-blown snowglass crystal from the Genly Pit glassworks.  Not only did they glow at night, but they produced other intriguing but harmless effects for the amusement of the patrons.

The tavern was renamed the Drowned Dragon, and featured a wonderfully goofy statue carved of snowstone, of a winged worm with its arse in the air and its head under an everflowing fountain contrived to look like a keg of ale.  It became, with the Alembic and the Sword and Staff, one of Sevendor’s signature drinking establishments.

“You know, we’ll make almost enough from selling dragonhide to pay for the damage to the town,” Banamor informed me one bright autumn afternoon, as we passed by the corpse on our way to inspect the repairs to the bouleuterion’s hall.  Banamor had taken the opportunity of the reconstruction to add another story to expand the operation, and he wanted the builder to know that the Spellmonger was paying attention to what was happening.  “Planus has already sent me an order for nine square feet of wing material, and six of belly.  Those scales go for two Roses a piece,” he added, his eyes gleaming.

“I would have rather avoided it.  And a pity it interrupted the Magic Fair.”

“We’ll recover,” he dismissed.  “If anything, it brought the arcane community closer together.  Nothing makes a bird-chested enchanter feel better about his craft than seeing a staff he built in the hands of a warmage, saving his ass.  And it was entertaining,” he added.  “A real dragon attack.  Not many other fairs can boast of such amusements,” he said, with black humor.

“The question will be how will you top it, next year?”

“I’m working on it,” he sighed.  “With gods and dragons, giant hawks and giant wyverns to compare to, it’s going to require some thought.  Not to diminish the tragedy of the situation,” he added, seriously.  “I lost good people in the attack.  Three fairwardens, and two lawbrothers I’ll miss more than Gareth.  But a wise wizard turns tragedy into opportunity,” he decided.  “Now I get to expand the millpond.  Better water supply for the town, and I can dredge some of that silt out.”

“What about the water elemental?”

He chuckled.  “Splashy?  That’s what the kids call him.  Ruderal is transferring him to the Gap, while we’re working.  He’s become quite the celebrity, since the slaying.  He’ll go back in as soon as we refill the pond.  The kids love him.”

We were just leaving the construction site at the bouleuterion when we ran into Master Thinradel, who was settling into his new role and familiarizing himself with Sevendor Town.  The dapper Alshari mage was delighted at having a post here, and praised the amenities of the town to no end.

“I know Vorone is larger, and Falas more cosmopolitan, but there is just something quaint and magical about Sevendor,” he decided.  “Tell me, have you considered some sort of formal apprenticeship program?  I’ve stumbled across potboys with rajira who are hanging around, just waiting for the chance to get apprenticed.”

“Usually we do a presentation for that sort of thing at the Fair, but it was interrupted by dragon attack,” Banamor admitted.

“Actually,” I remembered, “I cut a deal with Count Moran.  I have the right to start three new magical academies.  One of them should be here.”

“Oh, that would be magnificent!” Thinradel agreed, happily.  “Of course, one would have to find a place to put it . . .”

“What about Brestal Tower, once its rebuilt?” Banamor proposed.  “It’s not really good for much else, right now.  You have better prison facilities in the mountain, most of the garrison is housed at the Diketower or the Gatehouse, and it’s not really guarding anything.  Waste of a facility,” he concluded.

“It would be enough for a start,” Thinradel agreed.  “Perhaps next spring we can select a preliminary class.  But I’ve seen the site . . . we might want to make some adjustments, before it is rebuilt,” he said, tactfully.

“Of course, of course . . . the entire place will need to be redesigned,” Banamor agreed.  “I think we can come up with some funding for that.”

“That will make my tenure here complete,” Thinradel said, happily.  “There aren’t too many dream jobs left to add to my body of work.  Founding fellow of a magical academy would fit in nicely, though.  Can I buy you gentlemen a drink?” he asked, as we approached the Alembic.  “Perhaps we can discuss potential faculty . . .”

Things were better, in Sevendor, by late autumn.  In some ways, they were better than they’d ever been.  Between the divine visitation in the spring and the dragon attack in the autumn, the amount of construction and commerce in the domain created more than enough opportunities for the peasants, bereft of harvesting opportunities, to pick up coin to pay their rents, and then some.

Alya and the children were on good terms, although her strange behavior still made them uncomfortable sometime.  Thankfully the Tal Alon staff at Spellmonger’s Hall were ecstatic to have their Lady back, and they waited on her diligently.  If they noticed any difference to her, they didn’t mention it.  Her sister and mine, however, were still concerned about her differences.

“She’s just not Alya,” Ela declared, when they cornered me at the high table in the Great Hall for breakfast, one morning that autumn.  “Not really.  I mean, she looks and sounds like Alya, and she still remembers a few things, but her personality is different.”

“She’s . . . odd,” Urah agreed.  “Not in a scary way, usually, but there’s something off about her, Min.  I know you love her,” she said, sympathetically, “but I hope you realize she’s not . . . not really back.  I took her down to the Market with the kids yesterday and she had some sort of attack, because of all the people.  She’s not back yet,” she repeated.

“Not yet,” I agreed.  “But she’s still taking daily treatments with the Handmaiden.  And now that she’s using the Snowflake to reintegrate her, the healing is going even faster.”

“I don’t know about all that magic stuff,” Ela said, distastefully, “but she’s still not right.”

“Give it time, my ladies,” I urged.  “The fact that she’s alive and speaking at all is a godsdamned miracle.  I don’t expect to be able to put her back exactly the way she was.  I’ll settle for what I can get.  I suggest you do, as well,” I added.

Sister Bemia was more hopeful.  She’d agreed to monitor Alya for Lilastien, once the Sorceress taught her how, and report if there was any dramatic change in her condition. That level of attention allowed her a more realistic idea of how she was progressing, and she saw plenty of room for hope.

I was gratified to see that Lady Estret, one of Alya’s closest friends, was always cheerful when she regarded her.  She took a little time out of her day each day to sit with Alya in the courtyard of the castle, drink tea or wine, and just converse.  It became one of Alya’s favorite parts of the day.

“My lord, I believe the effort was worthwhile,” Sire Cei told me, as we watched them from the top of my tower one afternoon, as Lady Estret struggled to see if Alya’s condition had improved her embroidery at all.  From the looks of dismay, it didn’t look like it had.  Some things are beyond the realm of even magic to repair.

“Well, it probably helps her develop her hand-eye coordination, but honestly she has no talent for it,” I sighed, enjoying the sight.

“My lord jests,” Sire Cei chuckled.  “I meant the raid on Olum Seheri.  The descent into darkness, into the very halls of the dead.  You contended with the darkest force in the land, and claimed what you needed to restore your heart’s desire.  No better story was ever told by a bard.”

“You need to find better bards.  It was an act of desperation that got a lot of people killed, upended the political order of the kingdom – again – and was of dubious military value.”

I could feel Sire Cei’s disapproving eyes on the back of my neck, and feel him take a breath to defend me.  He was just like that.

“That being said,” I continued, “laying aside the completely selfish desire to restore my wife’s mind, the rest of the endeavor had merit.  We got Rardine back.  A better Rardine,” I added.  “Come next spring, they’ll be wed, and Alshar will have a viable dynasty again.  That’s a good thing,” I said, hesitantly.

“Though I am suspect of the Princess’ character, I agree that His Grace seems pleased with the match,” he sighed.  “If she proves loyal, she could be a valuable asset to the realm.  Speaking of which,” he said, remembering something, “this arrived for you this morning by Mirror Array,” he said, removing a scroll from his belt.  “I thought I’d bring it to you directly.”

It was an invitation to a celebration of Rardine and Anguin’s impending nuptials, for a date two weeks hence.  It was hosted by House Furtius – specifically Lady Gatina the Kitten – as a fete by the Alshari nobility in support of the union.  It was to be a small affair in a surprise location, she wrote, with magi available to transport the invitees to the formal event.

“A bridal shower?  From the magi?” I asked, skeptically.

“She is a lady of the Alshari court,” Sire Cei reminded me.  “Her father is counted as one of Anguin’s most influential un-official advisors, now, after whatever he managed to do to convince King Rard to permit the union.  And Sir Atopol is one of His Grace’s friends, as well.”

“I suppose they’re entitled,” I sighed.  “Though what quaint little grotto in Vorone she found for it, I don’t know.  Girls seem to love their secrets.  And their parties.  Please let her know that Alya and I will be thrilled to attend,” I said, handing the scroll back to him.  That should give me some time to enchant some suitable gifts, too,” I considered.  What do you get a ruthless lord of assassins marrying an ambitious duke?

“I would not expect His Highness to be in attendance,” Sire Cei suggested, somberly.  “Rumor is that he is ill-disposed to his cousin and his sister, after the loss of the Heir.”

“I wouldn’t expect him to be,” I agreed.  “But I’m sure he’ll send some suitably insulting gift.  So far, he hasn’t shown much sign of taking revenge on me for whatever it was I was supposed to have done.  I’m hoping his father’s wiser head prevails.”

“There is little he can do, legally,” Sire Cei pointed out, encouragingly.  “You were acting as a member of the Royal Court, not the ducal court.  You were not acting in your capacity as Tavard’s vassal.  I defy any court of justice to find fault with your actions, my lord,” he assured.

“This is about politics, not the law.  Politics and resentment.  He still hasn’t found a way to rescue his expeditionary force from Maidenspool, and he’s trying to deal with a grieving, pregnant wife.  That has to be a lot of pressure.  But I don’t think he’s going to give up on his enmity for me.  He’s placed me under house arrest before.  He could do so again with a single order.”

“This is not so bad a place to be internally exiled to,” he pointed out, as Estret laughed good-naturedly at some mistake of Alya’s.  “It’s no Tower of Despair.”

It wasn’t.  It was Sevendor Castle, my home.  It felt like a home again, with Alya back.  In whatever fashion.

I thought of Lord Aeratas and his wife, locked eternally in a cavern with each other.  I was almost envious.  I would give up all my titles and even magic, itself, to spend such a time with my wife.

At least, that’s what I thought in that moment.

Ten days later, a second message came through the Mirror Array that night, sent from Ylunabar, on the Old Castali coast.  The old port city was one of the latest in the network of Mirror sites, largely at Banamor’s urging.  He liked to compare the commodity prices at the dock there and compare them to his Remeran reports.

The message was from Moudrost the Seamage, which got my attention at once.

My masters were pleased with the result of our last bargain, and seek to secure this substance in greater abundance.  Be advised to expect me in the Spring, to negotiate a more permanent agreement.

That was it.  Nor was there any way to contact him.  Seamagi seem to thrive on such cryptic ways.

That made me concerned, for a number of reasons.  The “introductory” sale had made me the wealthiest man in the world, so wealthy that Banamor assured me I could not spend it all without wiping out the economy of all Five Duchies.  I had no more need for gold.

Nor did I have too many more mountains of snowstone just laying around.  It was a finite commodity, and while I was pleased that the Vundel found favor with it, too much of Sevendor was sitting on top of it to make it easily salable.

But could I really refuse, knowing what I knew, now?  The Vundel were the supreme rulers on Callidore.  They could scrape us off like so much manure from their metaphorical shoe.  Telling them “no”, however politely, when they had expressed interest in our race for the first time since our settlement, didn’t seem terribly wise.

It was a dilemma.  The only real solution to selling Sevendor (or being removed from Sevendor) was to figure out how Snowstone was made in the first place, and repeat the feat.  Dunselen had been doing research in that area, I knew, though I was loath to explore the notes his dark mind left behind.

But the simple message from a Seamage served to radically alter my priorities.  Finding out that he was returning this Spring for more – and was unlikely to take no for an answer – vaulted the matter to the top of my list.

I was still musing on it the next morning when I got the emergency summons to court . . . the Royal Court.  In my capacity as Head of the Arcane Orders.  Master Loiko made the request mind-to-mind, right after breakfast, and brought me through the Ways an hour later.

It turned out to be an emergency council, called by Lord Argas, the acting Prime Minister, on Rard’s behalf.  Rard was present, looking highly irritated.  Loiko Vaneran was there, looking more comfortable in his robes of office than I would have anticipated.

The new Minister of War, Count Mendeku of Aurrera, was there, as well, and a few Sea Lords in their court gear. Count Mendeku was from the southeastern region of Castal, just north of Relan Cor, and had a powerful reputation as a war leader.  He was an older gentleman with a strong military bearing.  I’d heard both Count Salgo and Master Loiko speak highly of him.  His selection was a tangible sign that Rard was taking the war with Korbal seriously.

But there was little to indicate that this council concerned the west.  I was the only mage present, save for Loiko, the new Court Wizard, for one thing.  Neither Terleman or Mavone, who was in the region, were present.  I was confused until Lord Argas announced the subject of the meeting.

“This morning these gentlemen brought word from the west,” he said with a resigned sigh, as he nodded toward the Sea Lords.  “The southwest, not Olum Seheri,” he explained.

“The Alshari armada is headed back to Enultramar after a very fruitful season of piracy and slaving.  But while they were gone,” he continued, irritated, “apparently a small fleet of those who returned early from the season was hired by the remaining Censors living in the Tower of Sorcery, in Falas.  Nine ships, four of them an organized fleet hired as auxiliaries.  Yesterday, at dusk, they sailed into the unguarded harbor of Farise.  With the aid of some local mercenaries . . . they took the entire city.”

“Wait, what?” I asked, my jaw agape.  “We just lost Farise?  Duin’s hairy sack!”

“To the remnants of the Censorate,” Loiko agreed, grimly.  “That is why you were summoned.  Details are still sketchy and brief, but it appears that they had an advanced plan to subvert the city, and did so by stealth.  When Prince Tavard stripped the native defenses away, it was a golden opportunity to act . . . just as their welcome in Alshar was wearing thin.  They announced the change of rule this morning from the Doge’s old palace.  They raised the checkered banner over it,” he said, darkly.  “Another flies from the Mad Mage’s palace.  Under the banner of House Pratt.”

The thought of either sinister banner hanging anywhere made any honest wizard’s skin crawl.

“But why would they do something like that?” Rard asked, in angry disbelief.

“Perhaps because they could, my liege,” the Minister of War pointed out, dryly.  “Without their harbor defenses, there was little Farise could do to repel the invaders before they landed.  And once they did, they had magic and allies to aid them.  Witchstones, taken from the Censorate’s vaults.”

The Censorate had been confiscating stray bits of irionite for four centuries.  We’d liberated a cache from the citadel in Wenshar, after the expulsion.  While they were generally poorer in quality than the stones we’d acquired since, they were still irionite.  They still granted the power of the High Magi, against which even trained warmagi were powerless.  Reports said they had at least five and perhaps as much as nine shards.  That would be more than sufficient to do it, I reasoned.

“Farise is remote from the Five Duchies, and Castalshar in particular,” I agreed.  “With Korbal seeking to enslave anyone with Talent, and plenty of agents in Enultramar, they probably felt endangered, there.”

“Serves the bastards right,” muttered Loiko.  “This is more dangerous than you suspect, Your Majesty,” he continued.  “The libraries and resources of Farise are massive.  The Mad Mage and the other Farisi magi enjoyed relative freedom to practice their art without the Censorate for centuries.  They amassed a considerable volume of pre-Conquest lore.  If they succeed in establishing themselves, they could make it quite difficult to dislodge them.  It was hard enough to do so with the Mad Mage, and he had but one shard of irionite.  The Censors have half a dozen.  Perhaps more.”

“And we have scores,” I pointed out.  “This is a set-back, but not insurmountable.”

“I leave the place alone for a year, and it goes to six hells,” sighed Loiko, rolling his eyes.

“This is disturbing news,” Rard agreed, his brow furrowed.  “I had hopes to launch a rescue mission from Farise to Maidenspool and deliver those poor men, before they were captured and enslaved.  Now that’s going to be impossible.”

“It’s more than disturbing, it’s near disastrous,” fumed Grendine, entering the room with a sheaf of parchment in hand.  “The conquest of Farise was the cornerstone for the effort to found the kingdom.  It was Kindine’s signature policy initiative that prepared the way to establish the crown.  Three years he negotiated to bring about that invasion.  I thank the gods he perished before he saw it brought to naught.”

“How did they manage to get a fleet?” asked the Prime Minister, Argas.  “I thought the armada had brought all the Alshari ships out to raid?”

“Some of the raiders came back early, loaded with slaves and plunder,” Loiko replied.  “One of them was more eager for what the Censorate offered than more raiding: a witchstone.  The nephew of Orril Pratt.  He used his fleet of four ships to make the raid in exchange for a moderately-sized shard of irionite from their stores, restoration of his uncle’s palace . . . and promise of a position in the new regime.  Likely a prominent one, considering his relation to the Mad Mage.  He still enjoys a certain pride and respect among the natives.”

“I recall,” I nodded.  He was a fallen hero among the resistance, during the occupation.  And from what Tyndal and Rondal had told me, Pratt the Younger was as twisted as his uncle, with a penchant for piracy for good measure.  “So, what are we going to do?”

“There’s no guarantee they will be successful in holding the city, my lords,” counselled one of the Sea Lords.  “There are still three thousand Royal troops garrisoned there, and not all of them have been captured.  There are also plenty of loyalists among the population, particularly the mercantile class.  It is likely that the people will not be happy about having the Censorate in charge,” he predicted.

“Why is no one holding His Highness to account about this loss?” one of the Sea Lords asked.  “Begging your pardon, my liege, but he used your name to snake the harbor defenses away.  Aye, and most of the garrison.  If one was to lay blame for this loss . . .”

“I will hold my son accountable for this,” Rard promised.  “He and I are . . . negotiating on an appropriate recompense.  I imagine this alters that negotiation.”

“What do the Alshari rebels think of the development?” asked the Minister of War, changing the subject quickly.

“I doubt they’ve even heard of it, yet,” the Sea Lord replied.  “Those who aren’t out to sea are seeing to the last of the harvest.  There won’t be a convention of until this autumn, when the fleet returns and the harvest is in.”

“As to their position on the matter,” the other, older mariner suggested, “I would imagine that seeing Farise out of Castalshari hands is a boon, regardless of who took it away from us.  It’s possible that they will extend aid and recognition to them.  They’ve been lurking about in Falas for years, sucking up to the Five Counts.  They likely are allies.  Even if they did not provide direct aid, they might blockade the city against us, just out of spite.”

“That’s cheery news,” Loiko said, gloomily.

“Actually, it is,” I pointed out.  “The Censorate provided the rebels with a mask of legitimacy, as well as expert advice in arcane matters.  Most of the other magi in Enultramar are against the council, or at most ambivalent about it.  They’ve lost their pet magi.”

“What about magic?” Grendine asked.  “Can you not send troops there that way?”

“There are no natural Waypoints in the city, from what I understand,” Loiko admitted.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t act,” I pointed out.  “We have our ways.”

“I thought the Arcane Orders didn’t get involved in that sort of political thing?” Grendine chided.

“Alshar is a different matter.  This isn’t a local rebellion, this is a coup d’ etat against Royal authority, by magical means.  The involvement of the Censorate means that we are obligated to assist.  Besides,” I added, “there’s no fucking way I’m marching down that entire peninsula, again,” I said.  I wasn’t joking.  “We’ll be able to at least get a few agents and assassins in.  Give us six months and we can probably stage an insurrection.”

“You give me that, I’ll get you the assassins,” Grendine promised.

“That would be cheaper than mounting another invasion, particularly without the Alshari fleet,” agreed Count Mendeku.  “I wish there was some way to get the army at Maidenspool to march on Farise,” he said, envisioning the strategy in his mind.

Master Loiko beat me to it.  “No!  The western side of the peninsula is far less accommodating than the east, else we would have launched the original invasion from Alshar, not Castal.  Send those men south and you send them to a quick death,” he warned.

“We will have to rely on a clandestine strategy, for now,” Rard decided.  “But I do not like the looks of this, my friends.  First the Westlands, then Sevendor and Castabriel, now Farise.  I fear our kingdom is fraying at the edges,” he said, deeply troubled.

I spent a few moments speaking with Loiko, after the briefing.  We figured out a way to transport a Waystone to Farise, using the Wizard Trading Company agent there and a shared hoxter pocket.  Loiko was eager to assist.  He seemed personally insulted by his former territory being ruled by the Censorate.

“I will destroy them myself, if they molest the arcane library there,” he promised me.  “Orril Pratt had works on his shelves thought lost in the Conquest.  It was a boon to even see them.  Did you chance to study there?”

“I wasn’t able to read them,” I pointed out.  “I wasn’t in the officer corps.  I was putting down insurrection, beating the resistance, and killing undead in the streets.  How is the new position treating you?”

“It’s more involved than being your court wizard,” he decided.  “Rard knows me, but he doesn’t really trust me, yet.  He’s still stricken over Kindine and his grandson.  So is Grendine.  But this is the third emergency meeting of this sort, this week.  You never put me through such trials,” he teased, gently.

“You should demand more money,” I advised.

“Stay for luncheon?” he asked.  “The kitchens are quite good, here.”

“Alas, I cannot,” I sighed.  “I have many duties to attend to, not the least of which is to prepare Alya and I for a bridal shower.  It’s her first official court function, since she fell ill.  It ought to be exciting,” I smiled.  “For a bridal shower.”

Chapter Seventy-Six

A Ducal Bridal Shower

“Do I have to wear this?” Alya complained, as we waited for the rest of our party in the Great Hall.  She was wearing one of her simpler court gowns, one she’d had made after we were made Baron and Baroness.  It was a perfectly nice blue gown in the Riverlord style, and one she’d expressed fondness for, before her accident.  Now, she was unenthusiastic about it.  “It itches!”

“You sound like Minalyan,” I chuckled.  “It’s not even enchanted.  And all court finery itches.  That’s kind of the point.”

“I don’t understand this at all,” Alya said, frustrated.  “This is just a party.”

“It’s a party for our friends,” I countered.  “You like parties.”

“I do like parties,” she agreed, considering the matter.  “But itchy parties?”

“It’s a different kind of party than the Fair,” I explained.  “Just . . . it’s different,” I said, lamely.  “Sometimes it’s more important for us to be there for our friends than it is to be concerned with our own comfort.”  I’d had a similar discussion with Minalyan about wearing hose, like a big boy, once the weather changed.

“And Anguin is a friend of ours,” she stated.  “I like him.”

“Yes, you do,” I agreed, patiently.  “So you want him to have a good time.  Which means you have to put up with an itchy gown for a while.  I . . . I could use magic on it,” I added.  Alya was a bit suspicious of magic, or anything she didn’t fully understand.  When she realized that the dough proofing at the bakery was actually getting bigger, as we talked to my brother-in-law on a visit the other day, she panicked and insisted that we were under attack by living blobs of dough.

“What about Rardine?  Do we like her?” she asked.

“We’re . . . open to liking her,” I decided.  “But we should pretend to like her, anyway.”

“Why?” she demanded.

“Because it’s polite, and it would hurt Anguin’s feelings if we didn’t.”

“Oh,” Alya said, pursing her lips judgmentally.  “This is harder than I thought.”

“You’ll get used to it,” I promised.  “I’ll try to make sure you have fun, somehow.  But if you could just bear the discomfort and the long boring speeches and such, I would certainly appreciate it.”

“All right,” she sighed, as if she were doing me a great boon.  “I suppose.  You are my husband,” she affirmed.

“Yes, I am,” I agreed.

Thankfully, Sire Cei and Lady Estret arrived, looking splendid in their own finery, and kept me from having to explain – again – just what that meant.  Behind them was Dara, in her beautiful hawk cloak, looking distant and sullen and prettier than usual, for some reason.  She had made some effort to forgive me for “interfering” in her life, but she still held a grudge.

I felt bad about that.  But sometimes you had to intervene in someone’s life, even at the risk of a friendship, if wisdom dictated it.

“Everyone looks so beautiful!” Lady Estret assured, looking at each of us in turn.  “Alya, your gown is so striking!”

“Thank you,” she said, very seriously.  “It makes my boobs itch.”

“Let me take a look, my lady,” Estret said, pulling her toward the chapel, where they could have some privacy.  “Perhaps you did not fasten it properly . . .”

“Is this whole affair really necessary?” demanded Dara, crossly.

“Duke Anguin has always been a friend to Sevendor,” Sire Cei reproved.  “He is a gentleman and a worthy liege.  You should be honored to be included in his private celebrations, Lady Lenodara.”

She frowned, but she didn’t argue further.  Part of her discomfort was the news that the Alshari Wing, captained by the Kasari girl, Nattia, had relocated her Riders to Timberwatch . . . permanently.  She was not coming back to Sevendor, and neither were her birds. That had put my apprentice in a mood.  Dara knew she was behaving poorly.  It seemed to be the last vestiges of the teenaged girl leaving her, in favor of the more serious perspective of a young woman.  Sire Cei has that effect on you.

“What gift do you bring, Minalan?” Cei asked, curious.  “Estret and I are giving them the traditional seven bottles of mead from Cargwynen’s meadery, and two hundredweights of the finest honey.”

“Dragonhide armor, for His Grace,” I said.  “I had Tyndal take his measurements, and Taren has been laboring for a week to get it done, with the Antlers-and-Anchor burned into the breastplate with acid.  For Her Highness,” I continued, “a selection of amulets designed to assist her in her unofficial duties.  The Long Ears spell, perception and deception enchantments, everything an ambitious young assassin and spylord might need.”

“That seems an unusual wedding gift, Minalan,” Cei frowned.

“She’s not your basic bride,” I countered.  “I’m no great admirer of her methods, but I am wise enough to know that such methods are often required by those who rule.  Anguin would be poorly served by someone of lesser talents, in that position.  It’s not chivalrous, I admit.”

“As Her Highness is no knight, she is under no obligation to chivalry,” Sire Cei conceded.  “Yet . . . I do hope she stays her deadly hand, in Alshar.  My poor duchy has suffered so much, already.  It needs to lose no more.”

“She’s not bloodthirsty, just practical.  And ruthless,” I conceded.  “In Anguin’s current position, he will need both.”

“I understand.  I just dislike it.  There are times I feel the world would be better if it were governed by knights and ruled by chivalry.  And then there are times that I realize that such rule would taint the very idea of chivalry.”

“So, do we even know where we’re going?” asked Dara, abruptly.  “I know it’s Alshar, but what part?”

“It’s a surprise,” I said, apologetically, as Estret and Alya came back from the chapel, giggling.  “I really have no idea.  We should be getting word of what to do at any time, though.”

“I hope it isn’t cold,” grumbled Dara.  “I’m really not dressed for that.”

“You’re a wizard, you can make adjustments.”

“I’m certain it is just some entertaining little Five Rivers estate that Lady Gatina decided was adequate to celebrate His Grace’s nuptials,” suggested Sire Cei.  “There are many such little lodges situated near waterfalls, grottos, caverns, and other natural oddities around Vorone,” he explained.  “If charm had a price at market, Vorone would have a monopoly.”

“It should be interesting,” Lady Estret agreed, taking her husband’s arm.  “I know Lady Gatina only a little, but she seems a lady of great intelligence and wit.  And terribly devoted to Sir Rondal,” she added.

“Devoted?” I snorted.  “More like obsessed.  If throwing a party for his liege will make Rondal like her more, then she’ll make it the best party in history to catch his fancy.  Never underestimate what a girl will go through to impress a boy,” I said, glancing involuntarily toward Dara.

Master? Someone asked me, mind-to-mind.  Tyndal, I realized.

Yes?

We’re ready, when you are.  Come through on my personal Waystone, he suggested.

“All right,” I said, after a pause.  “Tyndal says they’re ready.  Shall we?”

“It doesn’t itch as bad, anymore,” Alya said, nodding.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Taking four other people through the Ways would have been a struggle, if I hadn’t had had the immense power of the Magolith and the paracletion of the Handmaiden to help.  But we transitioned smoothly, and found ourselves in a painfully ornate chamber a moment later, along with Tyndal.  Nor were we alone.

There were at least thirty people in the lavishly decorated chamber.  I recognized several from previous occasions – Alshari courtiers, Count Marcadine, Baron Astyral, Baron Gydion, Pentandra and Arborn, Viscountess Threanas and Count Angrial.  Anguin’s sisters, Lenara and Andine, were in beautiful festival gowns in the house colors for the occasion, and were being shepherded by Landather Amus.

Even Lady Pleasure, smirking up a storm in her guise as Baroness Amandice, had been invited.  That, alone, made me suspicious.  I wasn’t certain if the Baroness was currently the avatar of Ishi, but any time she was around, I got nervous.

There was a startled murmur from the assembled, when everyone saw Alya.

Her slow recovery was not general knowledge, and her sudden appearance caused a great deal of surprise.  Alya took it in stride, waving weakly to everyone and nodding when people called her name.  She took my arm protectively, and I was gratified to see Lady Estret take her other hand.  I could tell she was nervous.  She didn’t remember most of those who were excited to see her.

“Master!” Tyndal exclaimed, joyfully.  “My lady!  I’m so happy to see you looking hale!”

“And we are properly intrigued by this amusement, Sir Tyndal,” said Sire Cei, bowing.  “Am I to understand that you are party to the secret?”

“Only recently, I’m afraid,” he admitted.  “We were included in the planning very late.  Not that Rondal or my efforts were required for such a . . . an elaborate celebration,” he added, cryptically.  “Lady Gatina is uncommonly suited to seeing such an entertainment plotted from beginning to end, as you shall see.”

“I am as curious as anyone,” Pentandra said, eagerly.  “She consulted me early in the process, for ideas, but I’m really eager to see what she has contrived.  Is . . . is it a little warm, in here?” she asked, plucking at her mantle.

“I know only that Lady Gatina has asked a few strange favors from me, and no more,” admitted Arborn.  “I have no idea what she’s planning.”

“I’m wondering where we are, exactly,” Lady Estret said, excitedly.  “I do love a good surprise party!  Magic makes everything a little better!  And this chamber is lovely!”

“It’s not Sealgair Lodge,” Landfather Amus said, referring to the estate Anguin was using as a temporary capital in the Wilderlands, after the destruction of his palace.  “Not enough stuffed and mounted trophies, for one thing.  I just came from there.  From the décor, it’s late period Alshari, probably around the time of the Black Duke,” the Court Chaplain reported.  “It bears the mark of his first wife.  There are few such places in the Wilderlands.  That narrows the location.”

Before we could sort out exactly which little estate around Vorone we were in (propriety kept me from using magic to determine our location – that would ruin the surprise) our hostess appeared through the Ways, along with a dark-haired older woman, and her father.  A moment later Rardine and Anguin appeared with Rondal.

“My lords and ladies,” Gatina began, looking incredibly delicate and feminine in her black gown, with her white hair spilling over her left shoulder in a delightful cascade.  She wore an elaborate silver broach in the shape of a cat, the eyes of polished onyx.

“Your Highness, Your Grace, Your Excellencies,” the beautiful young woman continued, in a very theatrical voice.  “I welcome you to this quiet, intimate celebration of Rardine and Anguin’s approaching wedding.  May Ishi and Trygg bless their holy union and let it serve as a beacon of prosperity and abundance for all!” she said, to the cheers of all.

“I know you are all wondering just what amusing little entertainment I have in store for you, in token of this celebration,” Gatina continued, clearly enjoying the attention.  “If you will follow me, I will be happy to relate the details as we travel.  As this celebration is sponsored by my own humble house, I present my father, Lord Hance, and my mother, Lady Minnureal, as my co-hosts,” she continued, opening up a great double door.  “Please follow us, as we lead you to the evening’s entertainment.

“When I considered what gift my proud but humble house could consider giving our noble Duke,” she said, as she led the crowd down the wide corridor, “I was perplexed.  We are not as wealthy as a great house, nor is our contribution to the duchy measured in lands and estates.  Our contributions tend to be more . . . subtle in nature,” she said, with a bow to her father.

“But, that being said, subtlety can be a profound thing, my lords and ladies, when used with wit and discretion.  When I searched my intelligence and took counsel to discover an appropriately noble gift, the one thing I knew my liege desires above all others was the obvious choice.”

“But I have met my beloved wife already, Lady Gatina,” Anguin said, innocently.  “What else could I desire above that?” It was the kind of “witty” banter that is the lifeblood of court.  Of course, it elicited an appropriate titter from the crowd.  One does not fail to acknowledge the public flirting of one’s liege.

“A noble secondary desire, then, Your Grace,” Gatina conceded with a courtesy to the Princess.  “One would never deny Ishi her primacy in any young man’s heart.  For those unaware,” she continued, without a stumble, “My ancestors were great . . . collectors.  House Furtius has a reputation for acquiring certain items of a rare and precious nature . . . could it, mayhap, steal away with the one thing I knew Anguin prized, on the occasion of his betrothal?”

She was a good orator, I realized, able to spin a captivating tale with her voice and mannerisms.  She coaxed every nuance of meaning from every word that escaped her lips, targeting them like arrows against the noble crowd.  Young, striking Gatina had everyone enthralled, as she led us toward the distant doors down the corridor.  We barely knew where we were.

“I set my mind to see it done, once I made the decision to attempt it.  I hired the right retainers to assist, took counsel amongst the wisest people I knew, and enlisted the assistance of my beloved mother and noble father,” she continued, with slight bows to both.  They seemed to be in on the surprise.  “It took months of planning, and no small expense.

“Yet no expense was too great to honor our noble Duke,” she said, as she beckoned us onward.  “I hired eight hundred brave men, fresh from Sir Tyndal and Sir Rondal’s trials at Timberwatch, to assist in the task,” she reported.  That was news.  What did she need trained troops for?  A particularly contentious trousseau?   “Eight hundred favors for the party were commissioned from the elite enchanters of Sevendor.  Eight hundred bronze collars, slave collars,” she continued, dramatically.

“Slave collars, my lady?” Viscountess Threanas asked, distastefully.  “Just what manner of festivity is this?”  I was starting to wonder, myself.

“Aye, collars of bronze indicating the basest servitude – the kind imposed at the point of a sword and endorsed by the hated Five Counts,” she agreed, sorrowfully.

“Is that really in the best of taste, my dear?” Threanas asked, skeptically.

“My lady shall be the judge,” Lady Gatina promised, unconcerned.  “These collars were especially prepared, as were their bearers; for all eight hundred brave warriors of the Wilderlands volunteered to honor their Duke . . . by voluntarily adopting the hated things.

“For they had enlisted in Prince Tavard’s expedition to Enultramar,” she continued.  “Though that was not their destination.  Each man knew full well the fate that awaited him, and the deprivations he would have to endure for the honor of Alshar.  All were willing to sacrifice their freedom and dignity for the task, when it was explained to them.”

“Dear gods, what did you have them do?” Lady Pleasure asked, scandalized.

“You shall see, my lady,” Gatina continued, unconcerned.  “The captains of the ships they embarked upon knew well what the task was to be.  For though they took sail in service to His Highness, they knew well the dangers they faced . . . and could be counted upon, in their treachery and mercenary spirit, to betray their passengers, change their sails, and sell them into bondage,” she said, her violet eyes wide and affecting alarm.

“Alas, it was an indignity that could not be avoided,” she said, sorrowfully.  “These brave scions of the Wilderlands were sold, my lords and ladies, sold at market like cattle or pigs.  Their heavy bronze collars marked them as abject slaves.  The arms that had been strengthened to bear a sword in defense of the Wilderlands were sold, to be worked to death in the worst conditions a mortal can consider, outside of Olum Seheri.

“In lots of a hundred, they were parceled out of the holds of the treacherous captains’ ships and disposed of at the auctioneers’ blocks in Enultramar.  Before another day passed, they were forced to row their barges upriver, to the vast, empty estates of the Alshari interior.  The farms desperately needed labor for the harvest,” she explained.

“Our poor Wilderlords were doing work done for centuries by the honest peasants and villeins of Alshar.  But the policies of the Five Counts made such traditions too expensive, when slave labor was so cheap.  They rowed themselves upriver to estates in Falas, in Rhemes, in Erona and Rouen, in Chamhain and in distant Cothramal.

“Every master who took in the well-muscled slaves counted himself fortunate,” she continued, as if entertaining in a tavern.  “They seemed docile.  They were obedient.  They hurried to obey, and seemed eager to prove their worth.  The masters toasted their close relationship to the Five Counts that enabled them a prime spot at the slave auctions.

“Even in distant Ridragrian and Chamhain, most northerly of the rebel baronies, the need for labor was great enough to merit the purchase of fifty stout slaves, newly taken and proven.  For days they labored . . . until the last full moon of summer shown.

“Then every man who was hired saw his collar fall from his neck in one night.  Every man who risked his honor and life for his duke discovered the enchantment on the collar.  For when the time was right, each one manifested from a hoxter implanted within his armor, his weapons, and other supplies.”

There was a murmur in the crowd as the implications became clear.  “In one stroke, at one time, all over southern Alshar the clandestine warriors were both freed from their bondage and provided with arms and instruction.  They immediately seized their master’s strongholds, and in one case – far to the north, where two hundred strong Wilderlords were sold to the Baron of Ridragrian – the men did more.  They seized the fortress of Getamor from the rebel garrison . . . and opened the great gates.

“Outside the gates, far from the north, was a company of Alshari Commandos sent by His Grace to range south of the Land Of Scars.  Led by Count Salgo, the Ducal Minister of War.  He was invited to take possession of the complex in His Grace’s name. Five days ago.”

That was a stunning development.  The security of southern Alshar, including the that of the Five Counts, was dependent upon control of the mountain cavern fortress known as Getamor.  There was no other way between Alshar and the rest of the Five Duchies, save by sea.  Control of that stronghold was absolutely essential to the viability of the rebellion.

And now they’d lost it.  It was in the hands of Count Salgo, and I knew he’d defend it to the last.

“Count Salgo and his Commandos were only too happy to reclaim a secure piece of His Grace’s legacy,” Gatina continued, as she walked.  “Indeed, they secured the fortress and imprisoned the rebels . . . allowing the Wilderlords to join their fellow escapees downriver.  At Vaness, a surprise attack captured the wicked Baron of Ridragrian.  The neighboring barony of Chamhain rose in support of the restoration, after its wicked baron was overthrown, and sent men to join the uprising.

“Downriver, at Inmar, the sudden seizure of key facilities on the river from the rebels allowed the barges bearing the Wilderlords to sail south, gathering men and allies and suddenly attacking those most closely tied to the Five Counts.  Thankfully, someone was wise enough have the foresight to compile lists of the loyal, the disloyal, and the ambivalent before the fateful raid,” she said, taking a small bow.  “When the Wilderlord’s flotilla passed a town, they arrested the rebels, raised the loyalists to power, and gathered yet more troops.

“Elsewhere, similar sparks of rebellion to the rebels was brewing.  The Wilderlord slaves around Rouen rose up and seized the small garrison there, before securing the docks on the river and the support of many local lords who have bristled at the traitors’ rule.

“At Arada, local loyalists and Wilderlord agents attacked the rebel’s chief agent in that country and ensured that the flotilla could pass.  In Raida, the Wilderlords were awaiting transfer to estates in Rhemes, but instead slew their captors and opened the citadel there to loyalists prepared and waiting.”

“My lady, do you mean to say that you . . . you have begun a rebellion in southern Alshar?” Princess Rardine asked, skeptically.

“If Your Highness will patiently await the conclusion of my tale, she will see,” Gatina said, mischievously.  “For the policies of the Five Counts have grown increasingly unpopular with both the people and the nobility, and there have been murmurings of discontent with their rule.

“Many houses disapproved of the rebellion in the first place, favoring the Ducal House, and were willing to pledge their steel to the matter.  A little persuasion, a little support, a little preparation, and when the banner of restoration was raised in the north, the loyalists were tasked with overwhelming the rebels in a well-planned, strategic manner.

“Within days, most of the land north of Rouen was under loyalist control, and a good portion of the lands betwixt Rouen and Falas were falling.  Those rebels who sought to put down the rebellion found their troop movements blocked by failed bridges, guarded roads, and castles held against them.  The Wilderlords gathered their strength as they descended the Mandros, collecting more of their comrades and hundreds of loyal Alshari as they went.

“A series of loyalist raids across the coastal lands followed, and when the unprepared garrisons of the rebels tried to respond, they found themselves locked within their own castles.  The loyalists permitted the Wilderlords to descend the escarpment from the highlands, and a mere two days ago,” she finished, as she triumphantly threw open the ornate double doors, “they seized control of the capital of Falas, and imprisoned the rebel leaders here.”

“What?” Anguin snapped.  “Here?  We’re in Falas?” he asked in disbelief.

“What better location to celebrate your impending nuptials, Your Grace?” Sir Atopol spoke, for the first time.  “Is it not your ancestral home, Your Grace?  Your legacy?”

“Sir Atopol . . . where exactly are we?” demanded his friend Duke Anguin.

“I bid you welcome to Velsignal Hall, chamber of discussion among the Alshari nobility . . . and traditional venue for the ducal house to make important announcements to the population,” he added.  “It has been recently cleansed, and comes complete with three hundred loyalist knights guarding its every entrance for the occasion,” he said, as he dramatically thrust opened the double wooden doors, and we entered the great chamber.

We were standing in an ornate gallery above the floor, and a wave of noise arose as we arrived.  Hundreds of Alshari nobles were gathered beneath the great arched roof.  They all started cheering the moment we entered.  Anguin looked completely astounded at the roar of applause.

“Your realm is restored to you, Your Grace,” Gatina finished, with a simple courtesy.  “The palace at Falas is under our control, as are the major castles along the Mandros.  Even now our agents are seizing the docks against the return of the fleet.  While pockets of resistance remain, when it became clear that the uprising was viable, many of the uncommitted were eager to lend their support to the cause.”

“This . . . this is astounding,” Anguin said, as hundred continued to cheer his name.  “You . . . you orchestrated a rebellion?  In my own lands?  Without telling me?” the Orphan Duke asked Sir Atopol, incredulously.

“It seemed improper to reveal the scheme until it had succeeded, Your Grace,” the shadowmage explained.  “Considering how invested you were in the raids against our true foes, it seemed the least we could do to help out in Alshar.  Did we not say that House Furtius was at your service?” he asked, proudly.

“My children are impetuous, Your Grace,” Lord Hance said, putting his hands on Gatina’s shoulders.  “But they are not reckless.  My wife Lady Minnureal oversaw many of Gatina’s plans.  Once it became clear she had a viable solution to the problem of the rebels, we were happy to put the resources of our house to the task.  As it turns out, my house has a lot of resources.”

“And a lot of friends,” Tyndal broke in, looking ridiculously satisfied with himself.  “After Ron and I wrecked a good deal of the Mandros last year, things were getting progressively worse for both commoner and noble, under the rebel counts.

“Add in the outbreak of undead in Caramas, the economic recession caused by the crisis, and there were a lot of ears hungry for what Gatina and her family were whispering.  Sneaking the Wilderlords in with their weapons hidden inside their very slave collars was masterful,” he said, admiringly.

“The problem has always been that the rebels were able to watch those suspected of staging an uprising closely,” Lord Hance agreed.  “With a military force they weren’t aware of suddenly arising behind their lines, that allowed the uprising to flower without exposing loyalists to retribution.”

“The palace at Falas was nearly empty, this time of year,” Atopol added.  “A few hundred Wilderlords patrolling the streets and a thousand loyalist troops guarding the gates, and the city was ready to welcome its duke back . . . once we put the rebels in charge here in the dungeons,” he added.  “But the city is yours, my duke.  And soon the entire duchy.”

Anguin just stared at the crowd below the gallery in disbelief.  “I . . . you conquered my duchy for me,” he said, shaking his head.

“Restored it, Your Grace,” Lord Hanse corrected.  “Prime Minister Angrial, would you like to introduce His Grace to his subjects?” he suggested.  “I believe that is the traditional responsibility of your post, is it not?”

“Why . . . why yes, yes, it is!” Angrial said, tears in his eyes.  “It is, indeed.”

“Allow me to assist, my lord,” Tyndal grinned, casting a voice augmentation spell on the man.  Angrial stepped to the podium, introduced himself – many in the chamber were familiar with him, and his reputation – and then introduced Anguin.

The Orphan Duke gave a rousing impromptu speech that whipped the crowd into a frenzy.  He promised to restore the just rule of the House of Terine, to punish the rebels, and to re-establish prosperity for all in the duchy.  And when he announced the recovery of two Gilmoran baronies to his collection, the nobility went wild.

Then he introduced Rardine as his intended bride.  That quieted the crowd.  The House of Bimin was little liked even among the loyalists, and Rardine was widely suspected of complicity in the assassinations of the duke and duchess.

Yet Anguin’s eloquent introduction and tender description of Rardine was worthy of a jongleur.  By the time he was done, even Rardine was crying.

My head was swimming, and I don’t remember much else specific from the occasion.  Save that the only person who looked less than ecstatic over the unexpected restoration was Rondal.  My former apprentice looked troubled and thoughtful, continuously stealing glances at the slender young white-haired thief who had apparently arranged the entire thing.

While Rardine was being greeted by the Alshari, I chanced to overhear their conversation, when Rondal took Gatina aside.

“You did all this?” he asked.  “You arranged an uprising?  A coup?  A restoration?”

“I did, my lord,” she bowed.  “I do hope you think it worthy.”

“I . . . I . . . you did all of this . . . to impress me?”

“I did it for many reasons,” Gatina assured him.  “Patriotism, the honor of my house, the pure challenge of the problem,” she admitted.  “But foremost in my mind was the fact that you would not marry until both the Brotherhood of the Rat was defeated, and the duchy restored to Anguin’s rightful rule.  I believe both of those conditions are met, now.”

Rondal was quiet for a moment.  “So they are,” he agreed, reluctantly.

“Therefore, there should be no further impediment to us getting married,” she continued, in a reasonable tone.

“No, I . . . I suppose there isn’t,” my former apprentice agreed.  Then he grinned, and I could hear it in his voice.  “You really are a remarkable girl, aren’t you?”

“My lord,” she said, so sweetly I could taste it, “I wager I will make you an even more remarkable wife.”

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Exile

The news of Anguin’s sudden restoration spread throughout the Mirror array, and quickly supplanted the fall of Farise in importance.  Not even the dragon attack on Castabriel was as astounding to the mind of the common man as the news that the Orphan Duke had, somehow, defeated the Five Counts and reclaimed his throne.

In one day.

Of course, that was not at all accurate.  Only two of the counts were actually captured – Rhemes and Erona.  The Count of Caramas quickly capitulated to Anguin’s rule and swore fealty, for what it was worth.  The Count of Arangalan was sailing with the fleet, and the Count of Cothromal, in the north, had been slain in his bed by loyalists fed up with his cruel dictates.

But those details of history paled in comparison to the Orphan Duke’s sudden Restoration.  Such a feat of political and military success had never been recorded in the annals of the Five Duchies.

It was a fascinating tale, much of which I only learned later.  Indeed, it was a feat worthy of the greatest of wizards, accomplished by the determination of one fourteen-year-old girl and her family.  Not only had Gatina managed to stall and subvert nearly every predictable response amongst the rebel lords who might interfere, she had ensured that the loyalist forces in Alshar were in positions to control the strategic resources of the duchy.

From the northern castle of Getamor, now controlled by Count Salgo, the loyalist forces quickly gathered along the banks of the mighty Mandros.  Gatina’s preparations had not been perfect – several times rebel forces managed to assemble to contest with the loyalists.  Nearly five hundred managed to gather in Inmar, when it was clear that the rebellion was facing insurrection.  But two hundred Wilderlords leading eight hundred loyalists met the rebels in a village outside of Inmar, and left the rebels corpses feeding the crows.

Surprisingly military encounters were the exception, rather than the rule.  Thanks to House Furtius’ exhaustive exploration of the rebels’ strengths, the loyalists knew precisely where and when – and, most importantly, whom – to strike at the appointed hour.   Most of Gatina’s efforts involved parchment, not steel.  Dozens of writs and warrants were issued the day before the loyalists struck, ensuring that the proper men to lead their troops were imprisoned, assassinated, or otherwise out of place to act at critical moments.

A regime can only exist on the shoulders of a military force, and from Inmar south the young Wilderlords Gatina used to infiltrate the enemy were the agents and symbols of Anguin’s regime.

It was a difficult proposition for folks who had been forced to support the Five Counts for so long.  They were fearful of reprisals and reports of disloyalty, as the regime had taken of late to confiscation, rather than mere fines, to punish disloyalty.  Those who were even suspected of sedition by the rebels had lost their patrimonies, and joined the ranks of the unemployed and tradefallen.

Yet as the bold Wilderlords floated downriver, they quickly took any citadel foolish enough to stand against them by storm.  Beyond Inmar, the loyal men of the North took the great castle at Kultanyan by surprise, and using it as a base quickly moved both down river and overland to seize control of the administrative capital at Rouen at dawn.

The rebel-appointed regent of Rouen – one of House Terine’s signature holdings – was interrogated and executed before noon.  Sir Saverin of Colglean, a scion of an ancient Wilderlands house, took control of the strategically important city and sent its loyalist forces south with the bulk of his men.

As the flotilla of barges and boats carrying the victorious Wilderlords floated down from the north, they gathered additional forces at every port.  Houses loyal to Anguin, carefully cultivated by House Furtius, quietly added their strength to the Wilderlords bearing the Anchor and Antlers banner down the river.

By the time they approached Roen, they were five thousand.  By the time they approached Falas, there were fifteen thousand knights, led by the popular (and loyal) Count Kolinnen of Feoir, what few rebel forces who were able to deploy against the insurrection were quickly crushed by the time the impromptu army reached unsuspecting Falas.

Well-prepared by House Furtius, the loyalists took the deserted capital in hours.  What the daughter had stirred up, the father quickly took in hand.  With the help of the loyalist army (and a ducal warrant naming him a Marshal of Alshar – handy things, those) Lord Hance quickly organized (or had planned and waiting for such an occasion) enough barons to ensure that the rebels had little chance of regaining the capital without a tremendous struggle.  A council of high nobles met at the palace and acclaimed the return of Anguin, despite the dictates of the rebel council.

There were some tense moments, as the loyalists moved to take control of both government and capital from the unsuspecting rebels.  Relying on an astonishing number of ducal warrants, dozens of rebels were rounded up by squadrons of knights and hastily arrested.  Most were languishing still in the dungeons of Falas, awaiting Anguin’s justice.

Once Anguin was officially restored to the capital, at Gatina’s “bridal shower”, the Ducal Court from Vorone quickly took control of the palace and its offices, supplanting the rebel’s appointees at the point of a sword, if necessary.  A spirit of fierce Alshari patriotism associated with the House of Terine spread across the coastlands, until even stalwart vassals of the Five Counts were lining up to ensure their vows of fealty to the Duke were heard and duly recorded.

Alya and I stayed long enough to see Anguin announce his engagement and enjoy the banquet arranged for the occasion, but then we left, quickly.

No doubt I could have been of some use, but Pentandra had things well in-hand.  In all honesty, I was troubled at the thought of being in such a volatile situation as a revolution with a woman who still looked suspiciously at spoons.  We returned to Sevendor that evening, after the gala in Falas, but I eagerly kept pace with the news from my friends and allies in Alshar.  It was fascinating, from a political perspective.

Much of Anguin’s work had been done for him.  While Gatina had been plotting the uprising, her parents had wisely been preparing for the aftermath, understanding that revolutions were about more than mere riots and slogans.

There was a lot of anxious moments as the Wilderlands court assumed power in the metropolitan Falas.  Though Anguin had a functioning court in Vorone, it was ill-suited for the complexities of managing a population fifty times greater than the Wilderlands.  Hance and his family had therefore thoughtfully selected candidates for deputy positions who would serve for a year, until Anguin could find more permanent replacements.

The problem of the fleet was solved by ultimately duplicity.  Though the Sea Lords were the oft the first to rebel against landborn rulers, they also needed their havens to resupply their corsairs.  Most of the Sea Lords had substantial holdings along the Bay of Enultramar – holdings that Anguin seized while they were away.  That included the Sea Tower that guarded the only safe approach through the hazardous shoals of Sinbar.

Much credit goes to the loyal House Kannanatus of Sangsara.  The Sea Lords there had quickly seized the Sea Tower, with Lord Hance’s guidance, and quickly found themselves in possession of a strategic fortress no less important than Getamor.  The enterprising Viscount of Sangsara, seeking credit and favor from the ascendant ducal house, enacted a plan to subdue the rebel fleet.

As the ships approached the mighty Sea Tower, the same man who had passed them through in the Spring allowed them to return.  Of course, they didn’t realize he had turned his cloak and come out in support of Anguin, once he realized which way the tides were flowing.

As he admitted each Alshari ship through the straights and directed it to a port to unload and dispose of their loot and human cargo, he ensured that the port in question was ready to receive them.  Once the ships were docked, they were swarmed with loyalists who took control of them and freed their captives.  The captains and officers were imprisoned.

At some point, word got out to the fleet that Anguin was in charge, not the Count of Arangalan.  That caused a number of independent pirates and Farisi ships to flee the straights before they could be captured and held for justice.

Luckily for them, the Censors holding Farise were quite open to a return of the Farisi fleet.  The native Alshari Sea Lords who feared Anguin’s justice the most left with them. When word of the general amnesty the Orphan Duke was extending to the fleet, many relented and returned.

It took weeks for the final pockets of resistance to fall, either through negotiation or force of arms.  Count Salgo in particular led the loyalist forces in the few battles that resulted, his victories earning him a generous reward and the confiscated County of Rhemes from his grateful sovereign.  Anguin spent months contending with the mess the interregnum left for him – there had not been ducal authority to rely upon for more than five years, since his father had taken his family on an unassuming trip to the Summer Capital.  Now that ducal authority was returned, it was requiring almost all of Anguin’s time and attention to administer it.

If the Restoration was a welcomed surprise to the court of Alshar, it was a shock to the court of Castal – and the Royal Court.  For one thing, it put Tavard in an even more negative light when Anguin sent a relief force to his men in Maidenspool.  Not to rescue them, but to bring them food and additional supplies.

I learned, later, that rather than re-conquer the marginal domain himself, as the lord of the town was a rebel, Anguin confiscated the holding and gifted Maidenspool to Tavard at Yule.  As it turned out, that was the only holding House Bimin had in Alshar, now.

The terms of Rardine’s dowry gave nearly every parcel of land in southern Alshar claimed by House Bimin back to House Terine. That included some prime estates and incredibly productive lands, lands that Grendine had coveted since she was a girl.  To lose all of that in return for Maidenspool was a subtle insult.  Tavard, by all accounts, was not amused by the gift.  He appointed his lackluster former Master of Waves the tenant lord as a punishment.

Indeed, Tavard was reportedly furious at the entire affair.  He protested directly to his father about Anguin’s actions, without being able to articulate exactly how his cousin managed to violate the law by re-assuming control of lands that were his by right.  Rard might have been sympathetic to his son’s case – but the lawbrothers were not.  Anguin had every right to reclaim his patrimony, they informed him, without his King’s permission.

By late autumn, Anguin had relocated the majority of his court to Falas, secure in his holding of the south.  He appointed Count Marcadine interim regent for the northern capital and placed him in command of the 3rd Alshari Commando, but the governance of the Wilderlands was in transition anyway, so it was an opportune time for the court to go south.  After the Wilderlands, the cosmopolitan nature of the southern capital must have been overwhelming.

Duke Anguin established a full governing court at the palace within weeks, and by Yule reunited Alshar was functioning under the banner of the Anchor and Antlers, once again.  I was gratified to see Anguin and Rardine take their administration seriously.  Beginning with the execution of the Counts of Rhemes and Erona, the administration of justice to the rebels was swift and terrible.  But that was not the limit of his governance.  Indeed, Anguin saw the opportunity of the Restoration to correct many long-standing injustices in his father’s policies, starting with the toleration of slavery in any capacity.

He punished many who had flouted the law and hid behind their connections to the Five Counts by confiscation, imprisonment, and sentencing to various terms in the Iron Band.  In fact, after the Restoration the Iron Band grew enormously as rebels chose service in the Wilderlands.  The Iron Ring around the Penumbra grew as new towers and fortifications were built and staffed.

The thousands of slaves taken in the previous years were freed by ducal edict, and Anguin deployed an army of lawbrothers to enforce any conflicts in favor of the enslaved.  In some cases, he paid for the difference himself to settle a case, out of confiscated funds.  Repatriation took much longer, of course, but once slavery was no longer permitted in Alshar, the agricultural economy began to straighten out.

A few large confiscated estates were used to house those unfairly taken, and some vegan to make their way home.  Once again caravans began to cross Getamor as overland trade resumed with the rest of the Five Duchies.

There were other relocations that were less desperate.  Pentandra and Arborn took residence in the Tower of Sorcery, traditional palace of the Court Wizard, where they could raise their three new daughters in security while the new government coalesced.  Lord Hance and his family largely retired from public life and became quiet counsellors of the new regime as the remnants of the old were hunted down.  House Furtius began a close working relationship with Princess Rardine and her nascent intelligence service, first rooting out the last of the rebels and then proceeding to establish an internal state security apparatus.

In general, the folk of Alshar, both north and south, were thrilled with Anguin’s return after such a contentious period.  And while Rardine was not well-loved, she never – publicly – took issue with those who still associated her with the murder of Enora and Lenguin.  She ran her court with dignity and decorum, quickly adopting Alshari styles of dress and participating in the social life of the capital with enthusiasm, in preparation of the coming wedding.

As for my former apprentices, Rondal was deeply involved in the administration of justice to the rebels and the re-ordering of Enultramar after the Restoration, helping his future in-laws with adept use of magic and wisdom as he served his duke.  Tyndal, on the other hand, largely remained in the north, haunting Vorone and Vanador.  He lent his aid to Marcadine and the other Wilderlords to help keep the Wilderlands functioning through the winter after the court left the capital.

Both lads managed to establish new chapterhouses of the Estasi Order in Alshar, one at Timberwatch and one at an estate outside of Falas.  There were enough new knights to staff both, after Olum Seheri.  Astyral and Gydion were installed as the barons of their respective lands, and began the consolidation of Anguin’s power base in Gilmora.  And the road between Vorone and Falas was once again open, patrolled by the Duke’s Men every inch of the way.

It was more revolution than restoration, but thanks to Gatina’s completely unanticipated attack and fiendishly complex plans, Anguin regained in a season what dukes, wizards, and gods had all considered a work for generations.

Never underestimate what a girl will go through to impress a boy

I enjoyed my time with my family as winter approached.  While there were still plenty of dangers to consider, I had what was most important to me, and I spent every moment I could cherishing it.  Alya continued to improve, though in strange fits and starts, and she even warmed up to the idea of being a mother, again.  At a certain point, with little encouragement, she resumed being a wife, again, too.

That was an interesting experience.  And no, I don’t want to speak of it.  Some things should remain private.

Much of my time was spent preparing for the new Beryen Council.  It was taking more time to organize than I preferred, and the date of our meeting had been delayed twice, but then there were a lot of things going on in a lot of theaters.  For my part, I was to name the three human magi representatives.  That would be me, Pentandra, and Terleman.

But I was also preparing a number of proposals of action for the council to consider.  Of highest priority was searching for the Aronin’s daughter and her ancient arsenal – to keep Korbal from gaining it, if possible.  Scouting the new situation within the Penumbra was also of import – since the goblins’ civil war, there might be opportunities for us to exploit.

And, of course, the dragon issue was always pressing – even more so, now that I had two eggs in my possession.  I was curious how the Alka Alon would react to that news.

While I was sketching out some of the details, I was interrupted in my workshop by an unexpected visitor: Sir Festaran.  He had finally returned from his errantry, and wished to resume his position as assistant castellan.

The lad looked tired – more, he looked no more a lad.  There was a fresh scar above his left eyebrow and a maturity in his eye that had been missing, before.  He’d also started to grow a beard, though the results were as yet ambivalent.

“So, how fared your errantry?” I asked, after I poured wine and sent word to Sire Cei.

“Well,” he admitted, “though not always in the ways I expected.  There were bandits.  And rascals.  I fought a wicked knight who was oppressing his peasants – that was interesting,” he said, drumming his fingers.  “I hired on as a mercenary for two weeks during a private war, and led a rather successful raid,” he said, without sounding terribly happy about it.  “All in all, a good summer,” he decided.  “But I want to go back to work I know best.  I am most satisfied by serving Sevendor, and you, my lord,” he said, resolutely.  “I love my lands.  I love my home.  As engaging as errantry is, I find I am not restless enough to sustain it.”

“And that . . . other matter?” I asked, prodding.  “What of it?”

“What of it?” he asked.  “I think I shall see how things lie between us, for a while.  As delightful a companion as Dara is, she is not the only woman in the world.  And I’ve seen what happens when commitment is hastily made . . . and quickly regretted.”

“You think you would regret marrying Dara?” I asked, surprised.

“Perhaps, perhaps not.  But the matter is important enough to warrant more study, don’t you think?”

“That is for you to decide,” I chuckled.  “You seem to have your own head for the matter.  I merely wished that you take a moment to consider, before starting a chain of events that you both might regret.  Yes, you are welcome to resume your duties,” I acknowledged, “and may return to your old quarters at your convenience.  I had Cei keep them empty, on the chance you might return.”

“It might be the only thing familiar about Sevendor, now,” he chuckled, shyly.  “I go away for a few months, and come back to find the pond empty, the mill and bathhouse gone, Brestal Tower burned, and a dragon corpse being butchered in the fields.  Thank goodness I sought adventure!”

“You missed a lot,” I agreed, “including the return of Alya, in some small way.  But it’s the same old Sevendor: city of enchantment, vale of magic, bakery of the gods.  It survived a dragon attack, a war with the Warbird, and Tyndal and Rondal.  With your help, it might survive a few more years.”

That night, just before bed, the inevitable happened when Dara showed up at the door of Spellmonger’s Hall, an unhappy expression on her face.

“You did it again!” she said, her face screwed up in anguish.  “Festaran’s back!”

“I swear I had nothing to do with that,” I promised.  “But I thought you wanted him back?”

“He’s back . . . but he’s changed his mind,” she said, miserably.  “I went to see him, and kept expecting him to . . . to ask me something, and he didn’t!”

“Well, I thought you didn’t want him to ask,” I pointed out.  “You were a working woman, remember?  No time for marriage and such?”

“Not now,” she snorted, “but I never said I wanted to be a nun for the rest of my life.  Only when I went to see Fes, he was just . . . polite.  Just polite.  Not like the old Fes, at all,” she pouted.

“Meaning, he didn’t sprawl at your feet and beg for your affection?” I asked, wryly.

“Meaning he was distant and cordial, not warm and affectionate,” she huffed, crossing her arms.  “Then he . . . he told me about his adventures in errantry, this summer,” she said, sullenly.  “He was in a few fights.  And there were girls,” she said, softly.

“He’s a handsome knight,” I pointed out.  “And he’s a man of good character.  That’s bound to attract attention from the maidens.”

That observation didn’t soothe her.  “That doesn’t mean he should pay attention to them!” she said, savagely.  “Not if he was . . . if he was thinking about . . .”

“Dara, in the lad’s defense, you haven’t been particularly clear about your feelings,” I pointed out.

“It would be bloody helpful if I knew what they actually were!” she snarled.  “Ishi’s tits, Master, why is it I can master the intricacies of Imperial magic, teach myself how to be a falconer and then a Sky Rider, lead troops into battle and run my estate . . . yet I can’t seem to master the simplest things about boys?”

“Perhaps because you view them as boys, Dara,” I said, gently.  “They are men.  They risk their lives and look to their future – a future that is all too brief.  They do not have the patience to await you to make some decision.  And yes, when you do not make your feelings known, you give them every right to consider another course of action.”

“I made my feelings known to Gareth,” she pointed out.  “Look how that turned out!  When I finally caught up with him in the Wilderlands, after the battle, he didn’t want to exchange two words with me!”

“Was he rude?”

“No, but . . . he acted as if we’d never . . . like I was a . . . he treated me worse than a stranger,” she said, hanging her head.  “All I ever told him was that I was not attracted to him.  That I didn’t want to marry him.  Not that I rejected his friendship.”

“Yet he felt that rejection keenly enough to relocate to an entirely different duchy, and distance himself from the source of the pain,” I observed.  “His heart was set for you, Dara – that isn’t your fault.  But him seeking solace from his wound, that isn’t his fault, either.”

“He didn’t even ask about Frightful,” she said, a tear running down her cheek.  “He acted like I was just some . . . regular old military commander, not an old friend.”

“It sounds like he isn’t willing to be your friend, anymore.”

“You want to know what’s worse?” she sniffed.  “Nattia thinks I was an ass for treating him that way.  Which has nothing to do with my leadership,” she added, defiantly.  “But she’s so upset she took her entire wing to the Wilderlands.  Permanently.”

“I heard.  She accepted Duke Anguin’s standing invitation.  And most of her Riders are Alshari.  They are needed there,” I pointed out.  “And if she was divisive to your command . . .”

“Well, she took Gareth’s side,” she continued.  “So good riddance!  Let her go!  I hope they’ll be very happy together, up in the cold, dark north!”  Then a horrific thought occurred to her.  “Flame and ash!  Do you think they’re . . . they’re . . .?”

“Dara, such speculation does you no good,” I said, as soothingly as I could without sounding too patronizing.  “I wish I had better answers for you.  I know Gareth was unhappy with your answer, so he moved along.  Festaran was unsure of your answer, so he postponed asking the question . . . because he had no indication of what your feelings are.”

“How can I know what my feelings are when I don’t have any control?” she demanded.  “I can’t entertain such things when I’m . . . I’m apprenticed!” she said, looking at me accusingly.

“Ah.  As for that, it is a matter that can be rectified.  I have already discussed it with Master Thinradel, and when we go to the palace for Yule he will have your examinations prepared for you.  Both written and practical.  Master Loiko will administer them.”

“What?” she asked, genuinely confused.

“You’re going to sit for your examinations in a few weeks, Dara.  You’re going to pass them easily.  And then you will be a journeywoman, free to make whatever decision you choose about your life.”  She wouldn’t be able to use her apprenticeship as an excuse, any more, I thought to myself.

“A . . . journeywoman?” she asked, mostly to herself.  “You mean . . . I wouldn’t . . .”

“You would still be a Lady of Sevendor, indeed, the Hawklady of the Westwood.  My vassal.  But beyond that, you would be a practicing mage in your own right.  Free to make your own decisions about your life . . . without my consideration.”

“But . . . but even if I did want to, Fes is . . . he’s not . . . oh, Master, why do you make things so complicated?” she snarled, and stomped off.

Honestly, I thought she’d be happier about the news.

“Magelord,” Ruderal said, formally, as I was writing in my daybook in the afternoon a few days later, “Count Moran, Prime Minister of the Duchy of Castal, to see you.”

I sat bolt upright – this was unexpected.

“Bring him to the study at once,” I commanded, as I stood and whipped off my smock.  I had reasonably decent robes on underneath, but I was hardly dressed for visitors of rank. I paused to grab a couple of goblets and a bottle of wine, as well as slap my wizard’s cap on my head.  Just in case he’d forgotten.

Moran entered my study with some hesitation, and he had not taken off his gloves, though he carried his hat.  Nor had he given his cloak to Ruderal.  That was disturbing.

“Baron Minalan of Sevendor, called the Spellmonger,” he said, formally giving me a bow, “I bear a message from His Highness, Duke of Castal.  Your liege,” he reminded me, unnecessarily.

I stood – this was not a casual meeting.

“Yes, Count Moran,” I bowed in return.  “How can I be of service to His Highness?”

“I return from Wilderhall, where Their Highnesses are wintering,” he said, quietly.  “After great deliberation, His Highness deigns that you share some portion of responsibility for the destruction of his palace, and the death of his son, the heir.  While your station places you beyond simple justice, and Their Majesties have prohibited His Highness from pursuing . . . other options,” he said, swallowing nervously, “His Highness has elected to exercise his ancient right to express his displeasure.”

“I beg your pardon?” I asked, confused.

“Baron Minalan of Sevendor, you are henceforth banished from the Duchy of Castal, exiled for a period of three years,” he pronounced, though it troubled him to do so.  “You are to be beyond the frontiers of Castal by Briga’s Day, and not return – save for official court business or your responsibilities to the Arcane Orders – until Briga’s day, three years hence.”

“He’s . . . taking away my barony?” I asked in disbelief.  “My domain?”

“His Majesty prohibited that,” Count Moran admitted.  “You have broken no law to warrant such action.  Yet the prerogative of the Castali dukes has always been to use exile and banishment to express their displeasure, when more severe penalties weren’t politically expedient.”

“He’s . . . he’s sending me away,” I said, trying to understand.

“You and your family,” Count Moran explained.  “For three years, you may reside elsewhere and appoint a steward for your domain.  During that time of exile, no appointments you make will be valid, no orders or writs are binding, nor may you increase your military forces.  Your designated steward will administer your feudal obligations on your behalf.  Your neighbors will be strongly discouraged from testing you.  In essence, your rule here will be in abeyance.  For three years.”

“How dare he?”

“Your Excellency,” Moran sighed, “I am sympathetic – despite our past acrimony, I feel His Highness is acting out of grief and frustration, not wise deliberation.  He has grown stern in his melancholy, and Princess Armandra is nearly as distraught.  If it weren’t for her pregnancy, I fear she might contemplate some dire end for herself,” he said, gloomily.  “He broods, my lord, he broods and he fumes.  He is awash in pain yet he refuses to seek any solace.  Nay, not even drink,” he said, shaking his head.

“Yet exile?” I asked, still angry.

“It was not his first choice,” Moran said.  “It was the least damaging punishment his advisors could convince him of.  He wished, originally, to strip you of your lands in hopes that you would resist.”

I snorted.  “He does realize that we just killed a dragon, here?  Sevendor is not defenseless.”

“Nor is it properly yours, after this spring,” Moran said, handing me the scroll with the decree.  “This is the only course he can take that King Rard and Queen Rardine cannot affect.  It is a wholly ducal prerogative, enshrined in Castali tradition and custom.  King Rard has himself used it several times, when he was duke.  Indeed, Princess Armandra came to your defense, to the extent that she persuaded His Highness to give you until Briga’s Day, and not make you and your children travel during the depths of winter.  Out of respect for her devotion to Trygg Allmother,” he added.

“I’ll be sure to pass that along,” I said, absently, as the implications of Tavard’s snit became clear.  “What happens if I refuse?”

“Then His Highness is within his rights to declare you a rebel,” Count Moran said, “and make war upon you.  A war that King Rard would be forced to support.  Punishing a disobedient vassal is a lawful application of force,” he reminded me.  “If one were to ask me, I would suggest that His Highness secretly hopes that you will, indeed, refuse.”

“I don’t think it’s much of a secret,” I sighed, realizing the bind he put me in.  “I take it there’s no method of appeal?”

“None,” agreed the Prime Minister, grimly.  “Banishment is at the sole discretion of the duke.  It has been oft used to remove political opponents from court,” he explained.  “And I remind my lord that many things can happen in three years.”

“Yes, three years of Castal without the Spellmonger should be interesting,” I grumbled.  “Particularly if there are more dragon attacks.  I do hope Prince Tavard does well with those,” I said, darkly.

“His Highness is aware of the risks,” Moran said, simply.  “He is willing to entertain them.”

“I’m not so certain he does,” I said, mildly.  “He understands that this will have political repercussions, as well?  His chances of securing assistance from the Arcane Orders in the future may well prove difficult.”

“That is not a concern of His Highness,” Moran said, miserably.  “He sees little benefit or value to magic.”

“Tell that to his troops who ate from magically-provided rations,” I mused.  “Very well, Count Moran: your message is received.  Please let His Highness know that my family and I will depart Sevendor by Briga’s day, without resistance.”

“May I ask where you might go?”

“Well, there are four other duchies out there,” I pointed out.  “I’m sure one of them might like to have the most powerful wizard in the world in residence.”

“No doubt,” frowned Count Moran.  “His Highness sees the magi as a threat to the Royal Family, and a long-term threat to the stability of the kingdom.”

“Whereas his tenure as duke has been a model of stability and wisdom, and it was magic that allowed his father to build the throne he will inherit,” I snorted, sarcastically.  “He’s lucky the gods love irony.”

“I’m sorry, Baron,” Count Moran sighed.  “I tried to talk him out of it.  I really did.  We all did.  But he is convinced that you are the source of much of his pain.  He will not entertain any other explanation.  And I fear it will impact his ability to rule,” he added, worriedly.

I stared at him.  “You know, that is suddenly not my problem,” I realized.  “If His Highness feels the realm is better off without the benefit of the Spellmonger, then he doesn’t need my counsel,” I decided.  “But I do wish him good fortune with the challenges ahead of him.”

“Challenges?” Moran asked, curious.

“Oh, certainly,” I nodded.  “But he doesn’t need to hear them from me.  Thank you, Count Moran.  Your message is delivered.  I bid you a safe journey to your next destination.”

Understanding the force of my dismissal, Moran was wise enough to bow and leave without further word.

Shit.

I was being exiled.  And the little prick was entirely within his legal right to do so.

I sat there and fumed about it for an hour, before I discussed it with anyone.  Then I spoke with Pentandra, Terleman, and Astyral about it, mind-to-mind, before I finally went out to speak with Sire Cei.

“I want to appoint you Steward,” I informed him, when we sought quiet for discussion in the chapel and showed him the parchment.  “You run this place better than I do, anyway.  If you’ll accept,” I added.

“Minalan, I could not refuse,” he said, frowning fiercely.  “But I am powerfully moved by this . . . this injustice!  You were in no way at fault for the actions of Korbal!  The very idea is a slight against your honor!”

“I am no more knight than . . . than I am a baron, at the moment.  My honor is not my primary concern.  Unless I wish to make war on Tavard, this must be accepted.  Do I want to make war on Tavard?” I asked.

“Without just cause?  Nay,” he sighed, disappointed.  He actually considered the matter.  I was flattered.

“Then I must go into exile.  And you must rule in my stead, as my steward.  I thank you for taking on that responsibility.”

“Minalan, surely there must be something you can do,” he said, his brow furrowed.  “Perhaps if you speak with King Rard—”

“Then I would further alienate my liege,” I pointed out.  “Tavard has made his decision.  He’s put me in a position where I can either resist, and go to war, or comply, and go into exile.  As war is . . . would be . . . a disaster for this domain, not to mention the duchy and the kingdom, then I will comply.

“The Spellmonger will go into exile.”

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Count Palatine

The shock at the news of my exile was like a clap of thunder over the land.  After surviving the dragon and getting their Baroness back, the Sevendori were reluctant to see them go.

Actually, reluctant doesn’t quite cover it.  There was an aggressively loud party that was encouraging me to resist and rebel.  Folk who had recently withstood a dragon attack and the plague of giant wyverns were not likely to shrink from a few knights and archers.  The warmagi in town, particularly, wanted me to challenge the exile.

When it became clear that I was unwilling to risk all of their lives for the sake of my honor, the angry shouting died to angry murmurs.  That at least allowed me to get some packing done and start winding up my affairs.

“The good news,” Master Guri said, when I’d informed him at the lodge, “is that by the time you get back, your castle will be mostly finished.  We should be working on the towers and the deeper portions, by then.”

“Sire Cei will ensure your pay and your supplies are kept in abundance,” I nodded.  “I look forward to seeing what you produce in my absence.”

“Oh, we’ll have the place looking beautiful for you,” he assured.  “Without you around telling me what to do, I can focus on the craft, for a change,” he said.  That was a blatant lie – I left Guri and his Karshak alone.  “I’m going to miss you Minalan,” he sighed.

“It’s only a few years,” I pointed out.  “I’m sure by then I’ll be ready to retire into my beautiful castle.”

“Where are you going to go?” he asked, concerned.

“Well, the only property I own outside of Sevendor – outside of Castal – is an old house in Vorone.  I suppose we’ll head there, first.  Perhaps I’ll set up shop as a spellmonger, again.”

“You?  Selling spells to the public like a merchant?” he snorted.

“It’s not a bad life,” I said, defensively.  “Vorone is a little urban for my tastes, but it’s not a bad place to raise a family, now.  I could be quite comfortable there.”

“I’m sure you’d be the best merchant on the market square,” he nodded.  “Especially with that thing floating over your shoulder all the time.  Not professionally intimidating at all,” he assured me, sarcastically.

Well, he did have a point.

As romantic as returning to the simple life of a spellmonger sounded, the fact was that my life as The Spellmonger was not simple in the slightest.  I could no more be a simple spellmonger, keeping shop and casting cantrips for pennies, than Master Loiko could hire on as a village guardsman.

But Ishi’s Tits, it sounded more appealing that court politics.

The news of the exile put a damper on the preparations for Yule, which Sire Cei and Lady Estret had originally planned to be a celebration of Alya’s return.  But it also gave me an excellent opportunity to reward the loyal and valiant before I went away.  I tried to make the best of the development, but it was painful to consider leaving so many people who wanted me to stay so badly.  The least I could do is prepare them for three years without me.

The fact was, the Sevendori would do fine without me around, attracting the attention of Sea Folk and dragons.

Lord Mayor Banamor had management of Sevendor Town well in-hand, Sir Festaran handled the castle and domain with skill, and Sire Cei ran the barony beyond our frontiers with dispassionate justice and attention to detail.  Master Olmeg took care of the gardens and farms.  Dara was watching the skies, and overseeing the Westwood.  Master Ulin was running both the bouleuterion and the advanced enchantments in the mountain without me, now that the Handmaiden problem was solved.  The Tera Alon were well-established in Hosendor, under the Three Emissaries.  And in his spare time, Banamor and his new staff were turning the Arcane Mercantile Company into a quiet commercial force.

I had good people in place.  I had little to fear as long as they were left unmolested.

I was in an interesting feudal position in that my neighbors were almost as distraught about my exile as my subjects.  Sire Sigalan and Baron Arathanial and his sons all urged me to protest to the king, and offered to appeal to the Prince themselves.  I counselled them not to waste their capital on such a hopeless case – there was no need to share my taint in the Prince’s eyes.

Tavard wanted me gone.  His son was dead and he blamed me.  It was unfair, but it was understandable.  If anything happened to Minalyan, for instance, I don’t think there would be a safe place for the criminal to hide.  Anywhere.

If that meant that I had to suffer for that perception, then spending three years in the beautiful Wilderlands where Alya would feel even more at home was not too great a burden to bear.  I could help watch over the Penumbra, help Pentandra with her city, now that she was tied up in the south with court affairs.  I could be useful, I knew.

And I wasn’t above finding lost cows and curing various poxes in exchange for a few chickens.  I like chickens.

Alya and I attended the Yule Royal Court by invitation.  Among other business, it was to be the official consecration and acceptance of the dowry I’d negotiated on Rardine’s behalf, in preparation for a lavish Spring wedding in Falas.  It would ratify the transfer of the tribute burden to the counts in the coming year.  It was also an opportunity for every count in the kingdom – including a dozen southern Alshari counts who accompanied Anguin to the capital by magic, in a show of Alshari strength – to exercise their newfound prominence in the Kingdom’s affairs.

Such a display might not have been seen favorably, had Anguin not also brought two years’ worth of back-tribute (collected, Rondal informed me, from confiscated estates of the many traitors who supported the Five Counts) from the entire duchy.  No one in the court was willing to disparage the presence of so many counts from Enultramar, after that presentation.

Prince Tavard and his bride were absent, still sulking in Wilderhall, so the court feast was actually somewhat merry, despite the absence of Count Kindine and other regular fixtures.  Rard and Grendine made a gracious show of support for each oath of fealty the counts swore to him directly, and when the Alshari began their oaths, last, he made a special point of praising them – including his soon-to-be son-in-law, the Count of Falas and Rouen, His Grace Anguin, the Duke of Alshar.

“Now that the realm has at last been unified,” Rard said, after he took the emotional oath from Anguin, “we can anticipate a more joyous spring than the laments of autumn we hear now.  For a united realm can face the foes that challenge it, be they in the Mindens, in Farise, or in the east,” he said, glancing at the ambassador of the Duke of Merwyn.  “While we mourn our losses, we look forward to the blessings the gods may bestow upon us in coming days.

“You, gentlemen, are the counts of the kingdom,” Rard continued, standing and spreading his arms.  “To you our defense is entrusted.  Some of you took up arms directly, in this very palace, when that kingdom was threatened.  In the coming days as we face a dark and relentless enemy, you may well draw them again and again in our defense.  Such is the honor that we bear for our ancestors.”

There was some cheerful applause.  “Yet strength of arms, alone, is not enough to ensure the security of our kingdom, alas.  The foe we face is devious and cowardly.  To defeat him and avenge our honored dead, we must not merely be strong, we must be organized.  We must be prepared.

“To this end, with counsel among the three ducal courts,” he continued, “it is my desire that the disposition of the kingdom’s defenses be re-organized and consolidated.  As you gentlemen contribute your tribute to the royal coffers, you will also be entrusted with ensuring the defense of your folk is adequately provided for.

“With the consultation and blessing of the Duke of Remere, I therefore establish the lands of Wenshar as a County Palatine, with Count Mesdaron to be Count Palatine, under the nominal vassalage of Remere.  This recognizes the distinctive culture and political history of Wenshar, a stalwart of our realm.

“With the consultation and blessing of the Duke of Castal,” he continued, “the three coastal Viscounties will be combined with Old Castal, and be established as the Castali Seahold, a County Palatine, with the venerable Count Erabikor as Count Palatine.  With Farise once more in enemy hands, this will facilitate the production and maintenance of a true Royal Navy.”

There was much applause at that – Castal’s lackluster naval performance had inspired plenty of strutting amongst the Alshari Sea Lords who’d fought against them this summer, but who had accepted Anguin’s offer of amnesty.  Especially with the Farisi pirates once again loose on the sea lanes, that would be an important point of development for the kingdom.

I heard later that while Tavard was dead-set against the idea of the Seahold, Rard insisted, as punishment for his commandeering the Farisi harbor defense fleet.  It was an expensive lesson – the coastal baronies brought in a lot of taxes to the duchy – but perhaps it would persuade Tavard that his future as a great war leader was destined to be from the back of a horse, not the deck of a ship.

“Lastly, I yield to my nephew, Duke Anguin, to announce the reorganization of his own newly-expanded realm.”

Anguin came forward and bowed to his aunt and uncle, before addressing the counts.

“As everyone knows, my realm has only been recently restored – yet it is not undamaged.  The fortunes of war have dictated that the old order in the Wilderlands will not stand, and therefore must be amended to ensure the efficient defense of the realm.

“Just because I have taken my rightful throne in Falas does not mean I have abandoned my responsibilities or my overlordship of the Wilderlands . . . or Alshari Gilmora,” he added.  “But with so much pressing business south, I have decided to delegate the direct responsibilities for the defense of the Wilderlands to those best suited to bear them.

“After long and studious consideration, my court and I have decided to retain the Summer Capital at Vorone as a Ducal territory.  But south of Vorone, from the Five Rivers Valley to the very gates of southern Alshar, and encompassing all of its traditional territories, there shall be established the Wilderlaw, a County Palatine, with Count Marcadine named Count Palatine thereof.

“In the Wilderlands north of the Five Rivers Valley, from Green Hill north to the extent of my realm, I establish the Magelaw, in honor of the magi who have fought so valiantly for the defense of the realm, as a County Palatine.  I name Baron Minalan the Spellmonger as Count Palatine thereof.”

There was a rushing in my ears.  From what I learned later, the Magolith began bobbing worrisomely behind me.  I only barely heard the rest of Anguin’s speech.

“Since before my coronation, Minalan has taken it upon himself to see to the defense not just of the Wilderlands, but of the entire realm.  He has loosed the chains that bound magic to irrelevancy and turned it into the sharpest of swords against our foe.  In him the ancient wisdom of the Archmagi lives again – more, for he enjoys, it is said, the counsel of Alka Alon and the gods, themselves.

“I can personally attest to his wisdom and cunning,” he continued, to an enrapt court.  “He is as subtle as any wizard who has ever lived.  I can attest to his valor, having witnessed it myself.  I stand witness to his dedication to the lives of everyone in the kingdom, commoner and nobleman alike.  And I can swear an oath to the great enmity he bears our darkest foes,” he added.  “No one has struggled more valiantly against Sheruel and Korbal than he.

“Yet Minalan is not most adept when he is a diplomat or a warrior.  He is best when he is using his magic, his craft, and his wisdom to improve the lives of the people he rules.  When he had a choice of lands, after the fateful battle of Timberwatch, in which my sire fell, he selected the least of lands, a stony domain far from the abundant vales of the Riverlands.

“And in that hilly little territory he used magic and wisdom to forge mighty works.  More, he lifted up his subjects until his villeins enjoy as superb a prosperity as his burghers.  He took a village and transformed it into a city.  He took a profession long disparaged and turned it into a weapon and a tool of great power.

“For the strength of the Spellmonger, I have found, is his compassion,” he revealed.  “He looks for the best in the folk he meets, and if he finds merit he helps them accomplish their dreams and desires.  Not for the love of gold or the thrill of power, but for the pure compassion he feels for his fellows, and the joyous reward their success provides.

“Such character is rare, these days – if it has ever been in goodly supply.  But when a man of common origins distinguishes himself so repeatedly and so profoundly, it is clear that he is the man best suited to rule the wild frontiers of our country,” he declared.  “When a man who counts the very gods amongst his confidantes is available to take the lead in a kingdom destined for war, yet unprepared for it . . . a duke is a fool if he does not take advantage of others’ short-sightedness.  And I am no fool.

“Therefore, inviting Minalan the Spellmonger to assume the post of Count Palatine will not only put a wise man in a position of authority, it will also grant him the ability to bring the knowledge and wisdom that transformed Sevendor from a destitute domain to the center of a thriving barony to the Magelaw.

“There he will find the raw materials for his enchantments: freed slaves, brave Wilderlords, and as many magi as he wishes to encourage to settle, there.  It is a wild and empty country, full of promise and danger.  It faces the worst of our foes in the Penumbra.  It guards the best of our allies in the Kulines.  And it wards the rest of our kingdom from assault and invasion from the shadow.

“I can think of no better opportunity, for Alshar or the Kingdom, than to see Minalan take his place as your peer.  Let me be the first to hail you, then, as Minalan, Called the Spellmonger, Count Palatine of the Magelaw.”

There was applause.  There were embraces.  I humbly came forth, got on my knees, and took the oath of fealty.  And when I rose, everyone called me Count Minalan.

But I barely remember it.  I was in complete shock.

Why does this shit keep happening to me?

“You just gave me half your realm,” I accused Anguin, later that night, as the Alshari delegation congregated in a hall outside the palace that was, afterwards, known as the Alshari Hall.  “Why did you do that?”

“It’s actually less than a tithe of my realm, and it was Pentandra’s idea,” he said with a shrug. “I mean, eventually it was.  We knew that Marcadine could rule the remaining intact Wilderlords in the south – those whose lands were largely spared by the invasion.  But the north was always a problem.

“Some counselled we abandon it altogether, and retreat back to Vorone – but why bother?” he asked, rhetorically, as Tyndal brought him a goblet of wine.  “We had people there.  And not much else.  So . . . Pentandra suggested we give it to the magi.  The idea has apparently been floating around since after Timberwatch, but no one ever did anything official about it.  With all of the south for me to govern, now, I need people I can trust locally to ensure the security of those lands.”

“But why me?  Why not Astyral?”

“He was my second choice,” Anguin admitted.  “Count Angrial lobbied on his behalf.  Terleman, too, seemed a good match.  But then so did Pentandra.  In truth, Astyral is more use in Gilmora than the Wilderlaw.  When my idiot cousin exiled you, I figured it was an ideal time to give you some place to go.  And something useful to do.  Like you did with me, a few years ago.”

“That’s incredibly generous of you, Your Grace—”

“No, the hells it is not,” Anguin countered, with an easy arrogance.  “It’s not generous at all.  If anything, I’m putting an anchor around your neck.  You’ve seen what’s left of the Wilderlands – hells, you walked nearly every inch of it.  I’m handing you a half-formed lump of clay and a handful of hopes.  I’m not granting you riches and glory.”

“I have a sufficiency of both,” I said, dryly.  “No, what you grant me is a boon, when I am at my lowest.  Honestly, I thought I was going to have to open up a spellmonger’s shop in Vorone, or something.  Instead, when I am feeling worthless and cast aside, you offer me an opportunity.”

“Did you not do the same for me, once?” he asked, quietly.  “I was drinking myself sick and losing every joust I fought, and you pulled me out of that and sat me back on my throne.  Against Grendine’s wishes – no small feat, that,” he said, admiringly.  “You gave me purpose, and a challenge: to see my realm re-conquered for my house.  Because of you, that is now a reality.  If you need the boon of opportunity, I’m happy to grant you the chaotic dungheap the Wilderlands has become.”

“I . . . I don’t know what to say, Your Grace,” I said, humbly.

“Don’t thank me,” he warned.  “As I said, I’ve hung an anchor around your neck.  No doubt you will pine horribly for your home, but you must contend with the wilds of Alshar, instead.  There isn’t a decent hall, tavern, or temple left in the region, and I believe you are familiar with the neighbors,” he added.

“I . . . think I can accept that challenge, Your Grace,” I said, after a few quiet moments of thought.  “Indeed, I happily accept it.  Perhaps I can recreate the success of Sevendor without the mistakes I made there.”

“I’m confident that you will make entirely new ones, as well,” he chuckled.  “That is the lot for those who rule.”

“So I am beginning to see.  Uh, I hesitate to ask, but . . . what’s the difference between a count and a count palatine?  Specifically?  That’s not something they covered at Inrion Academy.”

“Well, as you know a count is the senior official in charge of the defenses of a particular region,” Anguin explained.  “A viscount is responsible for the defense of a smaller region, usually.  That means that they inspect the baronial castles, ensure the roads and bridges are in repair, sponsor training and practices within the county, ensures that the garrisons are properly constituted and supplied . . .”

“I understand that part,” I nodded.

“A Count Palatine has all those duties, but more.  He has all but ultimate sovereignty over his county.  Near independent control, with only the duke, himself, above him in position.  And the king, now,” he amended.  “That implies certain sovereign rights usually reserved exclusively for the ducal houses.”

“Such as?”

“Well, for one thing, you can mint your own coins,” he pointed out, ticking off a list of feudal goodies I was now entitled to.  “You can build castles anywhere you please.  You may train men without restriction.  You can designate Marshals of the Realm, at need.  You may build bridges between domains or baronies, at your discretion, provided you arrange for their upkeep and maintenance to be funded.  You may establish what temples you wish, wherever you wish.  You may establish hereditary rights and obligations, customs, and laws.  You can charter guilds.  You can grant arms and devices.  You may manumit or change the status of a bondsman.  You may nullify court findings in baronial courts, at your discretion.  You can pardon a man condemned in a baronial or manorial court.

“You have the right to grant land or seize it, for military use.  You have the right to extract minerals, collect timber, and harvest fish from any river in the county, or to delegate that right for grant or fee.  You can charge tolls on any roads you maintain which can pass two carts, side-by-side.  You may forbid the marriage of any noble vassal of yours.  You may designate unclaimed lands for your own use for hunting and herding.  You may set basic prices on iron, salt, and certain implements of war.  You have the power to conscript forces in emergencies for defense, as well as the responsibility to see that all able-bodied men receive basic military training.

“Oh,” he continued, recalling some obscure bit of law he’d read, “a Count Palatine also has the power to negotiate and make war with other states, as long as he informs the duke of the results.  He can demand the first barrel of any shipment of ale, wine, or beer, one horse of his choice out of every herd of one hundred sold at market, and by tradition gets an option on a journeyman artisan’s first master piece, if he so chooses.  He can set fees for esquiring, knighting, and the practice of arms, and he can mandate up to two days a month be devoted to archery practice,” he finished.  “I think that’s most of it.”

“That’s a lot,” I said, my head swimming.  “Uh . . . what’s the difference between a Count Palatine and a duke?  Or a king?”

“You don’t get to wear a pointy hat,” he decided.  “Practically speaking, that’s about it.  But if you want to cobble together any other distinctive, non-pointy headgear, feel free.  Counts Palatine have a lot of discretion with that sort of thing.”

My head was still swimming.  New rights.  New responsibilities.  A whole new land to develop . . . a land where I had virtually no restrictions.

That was a heady feeling.  I was being made king of a realm in all but name – my vassalage to Anguin and Rard were the only nominal responsibilities I had.  Apart from that . . . I was free.

“You realize that you’re my vassal, now?” I asked Pentandra, a few moments later.  “You and Arborn?”

“Of course I do,” she snorted, daintily.  “Who do you think proposed the idea?  If I have to have an overlord, you are better than some I could think of.  And it is rare you get to pick your own liege.  It was the absolute right thing to do,” she said, with utter assurance.

“I hope you’re right,” I sighed, doubtfully.  “So . . . I take it I’m in charge of Vanador, then?”

“Don’t be silly – I’m in charge of Vanador,” she corrected.  “We have over a hundred houses built now, and just in time – it’s started to snow pretty regularly.  But you can be in charge of the Magelaw, and live in Vanador while you’re doing it,” she proposed.

“I suppose that works,” I agreed.  “But as a count, am I not supposed to have a castle?”

“Yes.  You are free to build one, at your discretion.  On top of the Anvil,” she suggested.  Strongly.  “That would be the best place.  Carmella has been itching to get started on it.  She already has a crew surveying.  As soon as she’s done with Vorone Castle, she’ll begin in earnest.  It’s going to be gorgeous,” she added, with a smile.  “I’ve seen her drawings.”

I looked at her skeptically.  “It sounds as if you have been planning this for a long time,” I noted.

“I’ve been nursing non-stop for the last eight months.  I’ve had a lot of time to think.  And plot.  And plan.  Your welcome,” she added.

“Thanks,” I added, belatedly.  “It does give me something to do, now that I’m exiled.  And while you’re busy in Falas.  I suppose it will be better for Alya, too.  A few years in the Wilderlands, with fresh air and lax social customs, might be what she needs.”

“I think it’s what you need, too, Min,” she said, gently.  “I know the war is heading into a new phase, and we have to fight it.  But that doesn’t mean we can’t live a little, too.  Make a good safe place for our kids to grow up in.”

“In a cute little hole in the ground like yours?” I teased.

“Oh, Antimei’s croft is comfy, if you don’t mind the dust,” she assured.  “Even Mother had to admit that, after a while.  Arborn likes it.  But as soon as the ground thaws this spring Carmella’s crews will begin work on a real hall that we’ll build over the croft.  A grand hall.  Just down the street, a second crew will begin work on the Count’s Hall.  A place for you and Alya and your household to live in.  Until you get the castle built.”

“It sounds rustic.  I like rustic.”

“It won’t be rustic for long,” she warned.  “I have plans for Vanador – grand plans.  It’s going to be a city, someday, Min.  Hells, it already has a pretty big population.  We just need the buildings and the infrastructure.  We plan to do it based on the work you did in Sevendor.  When we’re done, it will be amazing.  A real City of the Magi, like Sevendor but on a grander scale.”

“It’s a lovely vision, Penny,” I agreed.  “But will Korbal allow us to see it fulfilled?”

“Did Sheruel ‘allow’ us to fall in love, get married, and have children?” she countered.  “No, he just made it a challenge.  We managed to do it, anyway.  We’ll manage to raise our little monsters in peace, as long as we can.  That’s about the best we can hope for, right now.”

“You’re probably right,” I admitted, with a sigh.  “Perhaps he’ll give us enough time to grow old and die, before he makes another move.  He’s immortal – he doesn’t have any reason to hurry.”

“Except the one you gave him,” she reminded me.  “He’s in a decomposing body, now.  He’ll be desperate to fix that.  That could be problematic.”

“If he comes after the Handmaiden, I’ll have Lady Falawen cut his ladylove’s undead nose off and send it to him,” I vowed.  “She’s eager to do so, anyway, after she slew her father.”

“Sure, but that doesn’t mean he’ll try something else.  We’re fighting a new kind of war, now, and one that might just give you the reprieve you desire.  For a little while.  Korbal just lost another dragon, a bunch of Nemovorti, and he’s got rebellious goblins in the north.  He has problems.  Hopefully enough to occupy him for long enough to get our children raised.”

“He’s still making moves,” I reminded her.  “The undead plague is still spreading in the Westlands.  He still controls the Penumbra, the Umbra, and the Land of Scars.  He controls most of the swamps in Enultramar’s southwest.”

“I’m working on Caramas,” she insisted.  “But I’ll bet you a Kasari peach cobbler that he makes a play for the Censors at Farise, now,” she predicted.  “Korbal is not sending armies our way, not yet.  I think we can contain the threat, at least for now.  He’ll have to consolidate power, and that takes time – even for a powerful dark lord.  We’ll use that time to continue to build our strength.  Learn how to use that pretty green ball of yours, for instance, or the Snowflake.  Stuff like that.  By the time he’s ready to come after us again, we’ll be ready.”

“I hope you’re right,” I sighed.  “I could use a few quiet years in the countryside.  Away from politics, for a change.  Someplace where I can really focus on magic and my family.”

“That’s the plan,” Pentandra agreed.  “There are huge libraries of ancient texts stashed in Enultramar.  The Tower of Sorcery alone is stocked with secrets on every shelf.  You’ll have plenty of time for idleness, going through that alone.”

“I suppose I will,” I said, feeling my heart lighten for the first time since I was informed of my exile.  “It might be nice to relax, for a while.”

Chapter Seventy-Nine

The Council of Beryen

“Our first order of business must be locating the Scion of Ameras,” Master Haruthel said, after we’d introduced ourselves.

The Beryen Council met for the first time in a secluded tower in Carneduin, a few days after Yule.  I led the delegation of the Arcane Orders, seated around one fifth of a broad, round table with an accurate map of the Five Duchies engraved upon its surface.  Next to us was the delegation from the rest of humanity: Lord Arborn, of the Kasari, and a temporary representative of the Valley People, who were still uncertain about participating but were reluctant to allow action to be taken without their knowledge.

Beyond him was Gurkarl, representing the Free Gurvani – a coalition of Kuline tribes who’d rejected Sheruel’s dark priesthood, and a few rebel tribes among the flinty hills in the northern Penumbra.  The old gurvan was hale, though a bit bent with travel and graying around the muzzle.

Sitting next to Gurkarl was a nearly-round specimen of Tal Alon named Thane Agartas.  An old and wise leader of his vast warren, he apparently represented the interests of the Tal and other species.  And beyond him was Azhguri, the designated delegate from the Karshak clans.

The Tera Alon were present in force.  Lady Falawen spoke for them, but included Onranion and Lilastien among their number – both had declared a preference for the larger human phenotype, and suggested they would continue to wear it until the crisis was passed – that was pretty much all that qualified you as a Tera Alon.

A few within the next delegation had been reluctant to include so many “perversions”, as I heard it whispered; yet the Tera Alon represented those most committed to the defeat of Shereul.  They were the most enthusiastic to take the fight to the foe.  If we needed action against Korbal, they were the ones who would be most likely to undertake that action.

Lastly, the Alka Alon were well represented by Master Haruthel, who sat at the head of the council, the executive position.  He was joined by Lord Letharan and Lady Micrethiel, neither one of whom seemed pleased about their inclusion.

“I concur,” Micrethiel said, distastefully, “but we have searched the length and breadth of the realm, and found nothing.  Yet it is said that she has not perished,” she said, irritated.  “Unless we gain some insight into where the arsenal is located, we are at a loss.”

“Did not the Spellmonger speak with the Aronin, in the dungeons of the Necromancer?”

“Aye,” I answered, “and he gave the kind of cryptic response his race and house is known for.  ‘The land itself will show you the way’, he said.  Yet I see little sign of that,” I said, gesturing toward the map at hand.

“He must have provided more clues than that . . . if you had the wit to hear it,” Haruthel said, sourly.

“My wit was intact, my lady, but his only other hint involved magic.  Where might one place something that can be sought by magic?”

“Well . . . in a non-magical space, of course,” reasoned Pentandra.  “Or at least a space with such a high etheric resistance as to be the same.  In the belly of a dragon, for instance,” she suggested.

“I doubt the Aronin placed such mighty weapons in a dragon,” sniffed Micrethiel.  “Yet perhaps it does give us a hint.  For there are places in the world which possess the properties you describe.  The island your folk call the Shattered Isle, to the southwest of Alshar, and the distant lake in the north known as Salainen.  Your folk call it the Cakered Jevolar, I believe.”

“The anti-molopor?” Terleman asked.  “I thought that was a myth.”

“It is no myth,” Master Haruthel said, shaking his tiny head.  “It is theorized that it – and the Shattered Isle, for that matter – were both giant mountains that fell from the sky, long before the Alon came here.  They are responsible for the dreadful state of the landforms, here, in fact.”

“Would one of them not make an ideal place to put a magical arsenal?” asked Pentandra.  “As they are proof against scrying, and likely unable to function in that environment, it seems a perfect location to put something magical and dangerous.”

“That . . . that is an intriguing thought,” concurred Lord Letharan.  “Neither place is easy to come to, nor would they be easy to assail.  The Avalanti have always had a love of remote and barren places,” he mused.

“We should send an expedition to both places,” proposed Lilastien.  “Arborn, perhaps you could organize a survey, with Ithalia?  Your folk have travelled that far, have they not?”

“Not with regularity, but we know the way,” he grudgingly admitted.  “We could send scouts as early as the late spring, once the northern lands thaw.”

“I should be able to organize a naval expedition to the Shattered Isle,” Pentandra proposed.  “Duke Anguin has many naval assets.  I should be able to get him to sponsor the trip.”

“That would be gracious of you, Lady Pentandra,” Haruthel said, nodding.  “Your people seem uncommonly good with . . . boats.”

“It will give Tyndal something to do, once Rondal is married,” Pentandra whispered to me.  We were both concerned about my former apprentices.  Rondal seemed to be warming to the idea of marriage strongly, but as he grew more resolute Tyndal grew more despondent over losing his friend to family life.

“Then it is agreed,” Micrethiel said, formally.  “The humani shall investigate both locations and report back to this council by next autumn.  Among the next priorities on the agenda: a report of the interrogation of Mycin Amana,” she said, eyeing Falawen.

If she was trying to stare down the beautiful Tera Alon woman, she failed.  Falawen had let her grief over her father’s death and her devotion to her duty to her people transform her.  Indeed, her association with us dirty humani was making her proud and defiant, when it came to the normal Alka Alon.  She was not about to be shamed by Micrethiel’s archaic ideals of purity when her Tera Alon form served so well.

“She has been terribly reluctant to part with meaningful information,” Falawen revealed, apologetically.  “Even when extreme measures have been brought to bear, she resists.  Yet in our conversations she has revealed more than she thinks.

“From what I can tell, the crux of Korbal’s master plan involves first seizing the realm from the rightful council,” she related, “and then using the power base he builds here to challenge the great Rulathi and Farastamari kingdoms.  That should only take a thousand years or so, according to his timetable,” she shrugged.

“Kind of makes me feel all . . . mortal and inconsequential,” Terleman muttered, earning a chuckle from Gurkarl.

“But that isn’t all – along the way he intends to build his power not merely through growing armies and conquering lessor races, usurping the places of power in the realm and dominating all life . . . but through a series of measures he feels will establish communication and, eventually, an alliance with the beings known as the Formless.”

“Because the Formless,” Lilastien said, gravely, “can potentially defeat the Vundel, whom Korbal despises.”

“Is he mad?” Micrethiel demanded.  “Did his long entombment destroy his reason?  If even a tithe of what we know about the Formless is true, then even speaking to them would be catastrophic!”

“Only if we wished to keep good relations with the Vundel, as has been our custom,” agreed Haruthel.  “Korbal does not have that as a priority.”

“I do not understand,” the Thane asked, in his squeaky voice.  “I am a learned Tal, but I have not heard of the Formless.  What danger do they pose?”

“They are myths and legends,” Micrethiel dismissed.  “Half-forgotten even among the Vundel.  They are beings of great power and unimaginable durability.  Long ago the Vundel’s ancestors drove them into the Deeps, and sealed their watery prisons so that they could never escape.”

“Unless, perhaps, someone is helping them from the outside,” Terleman observed, sourly.

“That’s what I fear,” Onranion nodded.  “There are several weak points – even fractures – around the various entrances to those ancient, impossibly deep caverns.  The Formless and their spawn have not always been kept within.

“Sometimes one or two escape, squeezing through the smallest of openings to eventually make it to the surface.  Sometimes they seek merely to hide in more comfortable surroundings and molest no one unless awakened . . . which has been known to happen,” he said, casting a glance at Azhguri.  Once, a few centuries ago, the Karshak apparently loosed one such spawn from its rocky grave.  It didn’t go well.

“If Korbal should find one of these fractures, with magic and determination he could possibly establish communication with the Formless.”

“Why would they bargain with a mere human?” asked the Valley Person, curious.  “Or even an Alka Alon inside a human host?”

“When you are trapped and desperate, do not underestimate the lengths to which you will go to free yourself,” Micrethiel reminded.  “If anyone – even a human – offers you hope of escape, you will promise anything.  To anyone.  And the Formless were passing desperate ten thousand years before the Alon arrived here.”

“Longer,” corrected Lilastien.  “The Formless predate nearly every other alien species on Callidore.  Their hatred for the Vundel knows no bounds.  If they were offered the opportunity for freedom, they could not refuse.  If they were offered freedom and vengeance, they’d deal with forest animals or riverfish to get it.”

“Surely, they could do nothing against the Vundel,” the Valley Person dismissed.

“Don’t be so certain,” cautioned Lilastien.  “From the Vundel’s own lore some of the Formless were large and powerful enough to consume the equivalent of a modern leviathan.  It took the power of the last of the Celestial Mothers to imprison them.  No power less will put them back again, were they released.”

“How could Korbal possibly release the Formless?” Lord Letharan asked, skeptically.  “Their prisons are miles under the deepest oceans.  He could never get there!”

“Not all entrances to the Deeps are at sea,” Onranion offered.  “There are said to be ways – impermanent, shifting, and incredibly dangerous way – to discover a crack of a crack that leads to a cavern that eventually leads to a crack . . . that can lead you to the outer barriers that keep the Formless imprisoned.  Should he find a way to one, and should he leverage the great power inherent in Sheruel, then he may well have the means to awaken those dark beasts.”

“He acts with a certainty that suggests he’s already found at least one means,” Micrethiel observed.  “Then why has he not attempted it, if he has now the power to do so?”

“Because he doesn’t quite have the leverage he needs,” suggested Lilastien.  “Sheruel provides power, it is true . . . but the great barriers the Celestial Mothers put into place cannot be removed by brute force.  He must feel that the answer lies within the arsenal.”

“Legend has it that some of the greatest powers of the Alon are stored within that vault,” Haruthel agreed.  “Among them are devices which could, if the legends are accurate, be enough to negate the force of the barriers.  If they are suspended, even for a little while, then we shall see an invasion of hellish creatures that make our present worries seem like pleasantries.”

“If the spawn of the Formless are anything like what we unearthed – accidentally,” Azhguri emphasized, “then even one of them is too many.”

“What the Karshak found was but a minor servant, from what I can tell,” Onranion agreed.  “The creatures in the Deeps are far more formidable.”

“Then imagine what a real Formless might do, should it be unleashed,” warned Micrethiel, “and let that inspire you to search that much more diligently!”

From there the conversation moved to dragons, particularly the slaying parts, and to dragon eggs, of which I had a pair.  That bit of news both sobered and excited the Council, particularly the Alka Alon.

“It would be intriguing to have two such specimens for study,” assured Haruthel.  “There is little lore concerning dragon husbandry left in our memory, but what exists suggests you have a powerful property, Minalan.”

“Not one that should be humani hands,” Micrethiel sniffed again.  “Really!  Do we honestly expect a mortal to raise and tame a dragon?  When we made the attempts, it could take five hundred years for a trainer to command the beast!  Do you have half a millennia?” she asked.

“No, nor do I have the interest, not when there are others with better means and methods.  Therefore, I shall turn my two eggs over . . . to the Tera Alon,” I said.  “Lady Ithalia and Lady Varen may attempt to hatch them, if they have an interest.  If they are successful, then perhaps in a few decades we may have a stronger weapon with which our descendants can continue to fight with Korbal.”

“The Tera Alon?” Micrethiel asked, scandalized.  “Why, they aren’t even really Alka Alon!”

“Nor is Korbal and his Nemovorti,” Terleman pointed out.  “Yet they have no quibble with riding them.  Or wyverns, for that matter – the poor gurvan’s dragon, I suppose.  We may be mortals, but they are not.  If it truly takes that long to bring such pieces into play, then let us play without them while the Tera Alon train them for battle.  Ishi’s tits, it would be nice to see a dragon in the sky and not shit yourself!”

“You would place such potent weapons in the hand of . . . of . . .”

“By all means,” Lady Falawen said, her pretty eyes narrowing to slits.  “What kind of hands do my sisters and I possess?  Human hands, perhaps?” she challenged.  “I assure you, my lords and ladies, if my sisters’ hands are given the leash to these worms, then they will be used exclusively to prosecute this war . . . a war I grow frustrated seeing you diminish.  I know little about dragons, but I know my sister emissaries.  Power entrusted into their hands is never misplaced.”

“But . . . the Tera Alon,” Micrethiel squirmed, uncomfortably.  “Do they need dragons?”

“No one needs dragons any more than one ‘needs’ mosquitos,” I offered.  “I think it unlikely that they will be successful . . . but I also feel they have earned the right to try.  Unless you wish to invest the time and energy of training and raising the beast into the endeavor . . . and then fly a dragon into battle, Lady Micrethiel?” I asked, tauntingly.  “If so, allow me to be the first—”

“My boy, I asked a perfectly reasonable question,” sighed the tiny Alkan dowager.  “I understand the foe we are fighting, and I understand the forces in play – perhaps more than you do.

“Yet my people stopped using dragons to conduct our wars for a reason,” she stressed.  “As dangerous as they are to an enemy, they are nearly as dangerous to a friend.  They are difficult to control, unless one does invest the time and effort.  But in the end, we gave up our weapons to ensure our future.  To bring them back again, even with such a pretext . . .” she said, shaking her head.  “I cannot help but be wary.”

“Wary you should be, my lady,” I nodded.  “Yet when a dragon attacked Castle Cambrian, and reduced it to rubble, it might have been helpful to have our own dragon around to contest the battle.  Five times or more have we faced the beasts on the field.  Only three have left their skulls behind in token of our ability to contend with them.  If we have these assets, then I move that we deploy them.  Else our dragon-slaying efforts will be pointless.”

“I will accept these eggs on behalf of my sisters,” Falawen agreed.  “I do not know if we can hatch them, and bring them to maturity, but it is within their right to try.”

“If not,” I added, “no doubt I could get a pretty fair bit of silver for one on the black market,” I said in a hoarse whisper.

“You will NOT sell a viable dragons egg to some idiot human!” exploded Micrethiel.  “If assigning the Emissaries to them will keep you from such madness, so be it.  But to even threaten to let your warrior princes bid for such dangerous things . . . it belies reason!” she snorted.

“Then it’s settled,” Pentandra said, sweetly.  “Minalan’s two eggs will be given to the Tera Alon.  That is hardly a scandal, my lady,” she added to Micrethiel.

“That depends entirely on how you were raised,” she sniffed.  “But I suppose once we allowed you people irionite, it was only a matter of time before you overstepped your bounds.  Now you seduce our youth with your ways and want them to raise dragons,” she said, in disgust.  “Must we adopt the means of our enemy to defeat that enemy?”

“No,” I countered, “but one doesn’t leave a shiny new silver penny on the road if fortune puts it in your path.  The Tera Alon will have the dragon eggs.  Let’s see what they can do with them.”

I took the brief space before dinner to walk the grounds of Carneduin.  The place was as beautiful in the dead of winter as it was in spring or summer, I saw, just a different variety of beauty.  Fresh fallen snow coated every tree, cottage, and shrub and gave the long, deep valley a beautiful mantle.  The singing continued the entire time we were there.  When I discovered I had a moment to myself before the inevitable banquet, I took a stroll and lit my pipe.

“Beautiful view from here,” Briga said, a moment later.  I wasn’t particularly surprised by her appearance, but then I wasn’t expecting it, either.  “Minalan, I’m sorry about the exile,” she began.  “That took us by surprise.  There wasn’t really much we could do about it, save send the man some persuasive dreams.  Well, they were supposed to be persuasive,” she amended.

“Don’t worry about it,” I dismissed, enjoying the taste of the smoke on my tongue as it mixed with the cold, wet air.  “Sevendor is in good hands.  It’s protected.  The Kingdom is united.  Alya’s back . . . more or less.  Exile is a small price to pay for all of that.”

“It will be good, I promise,” she encouraged.  “There are a lot of exciting things happening at Vanador, and they’re only going to get better.  You should see what the Dradrien are doing – this time next year they’ll be producing magical blades that will make Master Cormoran’s look cheap in comparison,” she pledged.  “And you can build a new bouleuterion there,” she said, encouragingly.

“I will, I will,” I agreed.  “I will do all of that, and more.  I’m actually looking forward to it,” I admitted.  “It’s time for life to slow down and let me enjoy it for a change.  You know, since I discovered that the Aronin poisoned my perceptions when it came to Sheruel, I’ve been resenting it.

“He meant well, I suppose, but the fact is that he took away my right to choose to fight.  I’d like to get that back.  He compelled me to rush around and get a bunch of people killed, and while a lot of good came out of it . . . well, I think I didn’t deserve that awful responsibility in the first place.”

“Minalan, you aren’t considering abandoning—”

“No, no, Korbal and Sheruel must be fought, and they must be defeated,” I agreed.  “I’m not backing away from that.  But I am willing to let others take up more of the fight.  I’m more than thirty years old, now, and I won’t be getting less old.”

“Don’t be so certain of that,” Briga said, biting her lip.

“What do you mean?”

“You know how that thing keeps bonding with you, or however you describe it, when you use it?” she asked, pointing to the Magolith.  “She’s . . . changing you.  Changing you and Alya.”

“Changing us, how? I feel fine!”

“I have no doubt,” she conceded.  “I didn’t say she was harming you.  I would say rather that she is . . . improving you.”

“I need improvement?”

“Would you have invented gods if you were perfect?  There’s plenty of inefficiencies in your bodies and souls, Minalan.  I think the Handmaiden is smoothing them out, in your case.  Like making bread into balls.  She’s smoothing and kneading you.  Making you . . . better.  To her eye.”

“I don’t think she has an eye.”

“But she has perspective,” Briga pointed out.  I noticed how her footprints steamed in the cold, as they melted the snow.  That was adorable, for some reason.  “And it’s not a human perspective.  When she saw the Celestial Mother, she went to work.  She’s been continuing to work at a distance this entire time.”

“What?  How?”

“Falhoudi stone, remember?” the fire goddess pointed out.  “She has direct contact with the Snowflake.  She’s using it, too.  On it, on Alya . . . and now on you.  I think she’s looking at you as a pattern for Alya, because she has no idea what it means to be human.  And I think she’s making some intriguing artistic choices in how she’s altering you both,” she offered.  “For instance, your guilt and shame have decreased dramatically.  You are more confident and less prone to emotional outbursts.  You are more insightful and less inclined to frustration.”

“I think you’ve been inhaling a little too much smoke, goddess,” I chuckled.  “I’m just as frustrated as ever.”

“But you aren’t frustrated with yourself, anymore, Minalan,” she countered.  “You have no idea how painful that is to watch.  When you hold yourself up to a standard and fail to reach it, you are brutal on yourself . . . and that has an effect on everything you do.”

“Everything I do works pretty well,” I said, defensively.

“It has so far,” she agreed.  “But what has it cost you?  Think of the grief you bore over Isily, and her children?  While it is still there, you have a much more reasonable perspective on them, now.  You tortured yourself with that, and then with losing Alya.”

“But if I hadn’t, I never would have sought the Handmaiden,” I pointed out.

“I’m aware of basic causality, thank you,” she frowned.  “The issue is not your motivation, Minalan, it’s your self-perception.  You don’t hate yourself the way you did.  Even after learning what the Aronin did to you.  She’s helping you with that.”

“I still hate myself,” I confided.  “But don’t tell anyone.  I hate myself because I made so many mistakes along the way.  Stupid mistakes.  I learned a lot from them, but a lot of people suffered for it, and that is my responsibility.”

“Well, maybe she’ll keep working on that for you,” Briga decided, after regarding me silently for just a little too long.

“As long as she keeps bringing Alya back, I’m happy.  That’s my reward.  I can hate myself all I want, because I love her.”

“Humans are weird,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Yes, yes, we are,” I sighed.  “Weird and unpredictable.  That’s why we need the gods.”

“I’ll make a note of that.  Speaking of which, Herus says he’ll have more candidates for you, come late Spring.  He has a line on a couple of interesting prospects . . . including Avital, if all goes well.”

“Avital?  That would be helpful.  Anyone else?”

“He’s talking to some sea gods, but it’s hard to get a straight answer out of them.  They’re notoriously fickle, like all elemental divinities.”

“I thought you were an elemental divinity?”

“So don’t piss me off,” she agreed.  “I could turn on you like that!” she snapped.  “Oh, and Ishi thinks she can convince a goddess named Naikura to consider it.  She’s a Cormeeran folk goddess, but one of her specialties is magic.  And death.  And necromancy.”

“She sounds charming,” I said, sarcastically.  “But we need all the help we can get.  I’ll talk to her.”

“Good.  Now . . . about the Vundel . . .” she said, hesitantly.

I groaned.  “What about the Vundel?  Do they have a god they want to propose?”

“You don’t want to know what they consider a god – actually, you have one in your cellar.  No, the Vundel are going to be wanting more snowstone, Min.  A lot more.  When they contact you this spring, they’re going to tell you that the great reefs grew more than they have in ten millennia in one summer, thanks to the powdered snowstone they seeded it with.”

“Well, I’m glad it worked out for them,” I said, “but we have a limited supply . . .”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Min,” Briga sighed.  “They won’t accept that as an answer.  They want more.  They’ll take more.  They’ll take it all, if they have to.  Or we can figure out what happened that night, and see if we can’t recreate the effect.”

“That will mean an unfortunate exploration of Dunselen’s files,” I nodded.  “He was working on that when he died.  He and Isily.”

“See?  You said that and didn’t even want to curl up in the fetal position!  That’s progress!”

I ignored her.  “He did quite a lot of work in that, actually.  All morally suspect, of course, but perhaps we can learn something from his criminal acts to make up for them in some small way.  I’ll put Taren on it,” I decided.  “He’s already at Greenflower, and I think he’d like a job that didn’t involve too many dead people.”

“Just figure it out,” she commanded.  “They are going to ask for more.  Then they are going to demand it.  They can be a very impatient race, for immortals.  But you have given them hope that they haven’t had since the last of the Celestial Mothers perished.

“Those corals just don’t grow like that, anymore, Min.  And the Vundel are utterly dependent on them.  Their entire culture is based around their conservation.  Now you’ve shown them that it’s possible to expand their corals in the most polluted, damaged waters on Callidore.  That is going to – excuse the expression – light a fire under the Sea Folk like you have never seen.”

“It’s on my list,” I promised.  “Right up there with finding the ancient arsenal and kicking Korbal back into the nearest convenient hole.  But I’m not going to kill myself over it,” I informed her.  “I’ve done my time – as foot soldier, commander, baron, and now count.  I never asked for any of it.”

“The gods don’t usually ask,” she observed.

“The gods can jump into the chamberpot, then,” I said, flatly.  “I’ll do my part, but I’ve already done my part, if you take my meaning.  I am not the only heroic bastard in the world.”

“No, but you’re the most talented one we have,” she said, shaking her head.  “Right now you are the centerpoint holding this entire mess together: this new Beryen, the Alka Alon, the Tera Alon, the kingdom, a couple of duchies, the magi, the Order of the Secret Tower – everything is in your lap.  For the moment, you are indispensable.”

“Bullshit,” I declared.  But I knew she was right.

That was what was really depressing about the conversation – I couldn’t realistically argue against what she was saying.  In trying to save my family and preserve my marriage I’d inadvertently made myself indispensable.  It wasn’t a good feeling.  I vowed to make myself dispensable as quickly as I could.

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much, Min,” she said, at last.  “If nothing else, you have the favor of the gods.  That has to count for something.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself.  I’m also trying to convince myself that that’s a good thing.”

“It is, for now.  Even Ishi likes you.”

“Ishi likes everyone male,” I pointed out.

“Not everyone.  She’s actually quite picky.  But you intrigue her.  A mortal who’s willing to contend with her is a rare treat.  She likes a good fight.  As much of a pain in the arse as she is, though, she has been helpful, in a limited sort of way.”

“Alya and I are together again.  That’s all the help I needed from her.  And Trygg?”

“Trygg loves us all.  That’s her job.  She’s Allmother.  But I think Sisu respects you.  He’s hard to impress.”

“Oh, good.  That would be a blessing.  If I hunted.  At least Herus seems to favor me.  Without any preconditions.”

“You do walk a lot.  Or did, before you learned about the Ways.”

“I think it has more to do with my generous nature,” I chuckled.  “He knows he can drink for free in Sevendor.  All of this is very intriguing, in a theological sort of way, but while I value the favor of the gods I still don’t know how it’s supposed to allow me to get everything done that I need to.”

“Either do we,” Briga shrugged.  “That’s why we have mortals.”

Chapter Eighty

Forseti

Spring was threatening to break out across the land, and the days before Briga’s Day were growing fewer.  Since the Council of Beryen met, I’d spent every waking moment overseeing the packing.

Most of our possessions could be stuffed in a hoxter and forgotten about, but not everything.  The dogs, for instance, and the children.  And a lot of my laboratory equipment.

I wasn’t taking everything, but I had a chance to rebuild a new lab in Vanador, and I wanted to ensure it was as modern and well-equipped as befitted the Count Palatine of the Magelaw.

I was surprised to learn that my father made the journey all the way back from Talry-on Burine with three of his apprentices and two wagons, determined to cart my belongings over the road from Sevendor all the way up to the Wilderlands.  This was a man who had never ventured more than a hundred and fifty miles from his home before.

But when he discovered that his son had been sent into exile, he didn’t hesitate.  He came to help, no matter that I had hundreds of servants and retainers willing to obey my every command.  Dad is just like that.  If one of his kids needs help, then he doesn’t mess around.  He makes sure it gets done.

I didn’t even have the benefit of two apprentices, anymore.  Dara passed her examinations at Yule with highest marks.  I was down to Ruderal, and while he was extremely helpful it felt odd to have to rely upon him alone, now.

Banamor had stopped by to “help”, which was merely an excuse for him to bend my ear with last-minute details.  Mostly about the Arcane Mercantile Company.  I was to head up the Vanador station house for the company, and he wanted to make certain that I properly understood what that entailed.

“With the Count of the Seahold empowered to build a new royal navy, timber sales just went through the tower roof,” he assured me.  “All that old stock Anguin had laying around is gone.  Shipwrights are paying top prices for Alshari lumber again, and that goes double for Alshari iron and lead.  The faster you can get a warehouse constructed, the sooner we can start purchasing timber and making a . . . well, about a five-hundred percent profit, once all the potential taxes and fees for transport we aren’t paying are factored in.”

“If Alshari timber starts showing up in large quantities at market without paying tax on it at the gate, people are going to start to ask questions,” I pointed out.

“Which is why Count Marcadine has already sent three caravans of timber south, culled from the Penumbralands he no longer controls.  And he’s using magi to kiln and mill it, just as we are.  So when those caravans hit, no one will be counting how many board-feet are being sold and comparing it to how many were taxed.”

“And iron?”

“Iron is easier,” he shrugged.  “Once you melt it down, it’s hard to track.  We’ll send some ore overland, too, to throw Tavard’s tax collectors off the trail.”

“That’s all very interesting,” I agreed, as I packed away my thaumaturgical wands in a crate.  “But I’m not going to Vanador to become a merchant prince.”

“But why not dabble a little while you’re there?” Banamor reasoned.  “With you in the background, hire whomever you wish to actually run the show.  No one is going to try to cheat the Spellmonger.”

“One would hope,” I agreed.  “But my time will be taken up with research, and developing the town and lands I’ve been entrusted.  You run the town and the company.  Make all the money you want, while I’m gone.  Just make sure the place is still here when I return.”

“Oh, I have a sneaking suspicion you’ll see Sevendor again before three years have passed,” he chuckled.

“You can count on it,” I agreed.  “I’m not going to turn my back on my own domain.  I’ve already started working on a few things . . . and I don’t think Tavard is going to be content to let Sevendor lie unmolested in my absence.”

“When you pick enemies, you don’t mess around, do you?” he asked with a mix of horror and admiration.  “Last I heard, he accused you of looting his treasury before you let his castle get destroyed.”

“Looted is a loaded term,” I snorted.  “That was a perfectly legitimate agreement on Moran’s behalf.  One that saved the lives of Castali soldiers on foreign soil.”

“From what I heard, Tavard reamed out Moran over it good,” he chuckled.

“I paid every penny he demanded in compensation,” I pointed out.  “As exorbitant as it was.”

“For what?  This old junk?” he asked, as he surveyed the pile of tekka Ruderal had yet to pack up.

“It’s not junk, it’s invaluable.  And no, most of that was from my own original collection.  Parts of it came to me by way of Sheruel’s favorite ancient cavern, itself.  The stuff I took from Tavard was far more impressive.”

“What is all of this supposed to do?” he asked.

“Mostly, it writes long series of numbers,” Ruderal supplied.  “I’ve been writing them down, as they change.  Lady Lilastien says that the tekka is . . . initializing.”

“And that means . . .?” he asked.

“I have no idea,” Ruderal admitted.  “But it sounds important.”

“Spoken like a lawbrother,” chuckled the mayor, looking over the equipment dubiously.  “It’s not even pretty.  Why do people collect it?”

“It’s a remnant from our past,” I explained.  “Once our ancestors’ entire civilization depended on such things.  Lilastien says it was quite a sight to see, in its day.”

“No doubt,” Banamor said, skeptically, as he studied the pile.  “My Ancient Perwynese is crap,” he admitted, “but I think this thing wants your attention.  It says ‘press . . . key . . . Ishi’s tits, this is hard . . .”

He leaned on one of the devices as he tried to get a better look at the shiny band that Ruderal had been faithfully recording from.

And something happened.

There was a strange chime in the room, and then some whirring.  I stopped packing and approached the workbench, which Banamor had leapt back from the moment he realized he’d touched something.

“Herus’ bunions!  What did I do?” he swore, his eyes wide.

“Relax, it makes noises all the time,” Ruderal assured the older man.  “It’s . . . well, this is new,” he said, as he glanced at the strip.  “Lilastien mentioned this might happen.”

“What?  What?” Banamor asked, growing more alarmed.

“Bide,” my apprentice said, unhelpfully, as he consulted a scroll of notes.  “I’ve been working on this awhile . . . let’s see . . . we should try . . . this,” he decided, resolutely touching one of the devices.

Thank you, Ruderal, an inhuman voice said.  It seemed to come from everywhere.  Now I can speak to you directly.

“W-who are you?” he asked.  “And how do you know my name?”

I have been listening to every conversation in this room for over a year, the voice explained.  It took me awhile to correct my translation algorithm to adjust to linguistic drift, and then longer still to assemble an adequate vocabulary.  But it was futile, until the interface was repaired.

“I think we’re still waiting for an explanation of just who you are, and where you are,” I suggested.

As to where I am, I believe it is in the tower of Minalan the Spellmonger, baron of Sevendor, which I assume is in the northern end of the Uwarri mountain chain.  At least, that is what I have been able to determine through analysis of your casual conversations.  More specifically, I am a collection of devices sitting on a worktable directly in front of you.

As for who I am, that is easier to tell you, but more difficult to explain.  I am a data analysis tool and interface system developed for the Callidore Colonial Survey Corps to facilitate the placement of terraforming elements during initial colonization.  I was assigned to Marcus Josep Steinmeier, Assistant Chief Engineer for the Western Region Wilderness Reserve sedimentation and erosion control project.

“That tells us very little,” I suggested, apologetically.  “And I regret to inform you that your . . . previous human is dead.”

I surmised as much from the passage of time, the machine said.  From what I can ascertain, it has been seven hundred and twenty-four years since my systems went dormant.  That may be inaccurate by up to seven percent, it warned.  Most of my data input streams are compromised.

“That sounds about right,” I agreed.  “Did you have a name, when you worked with your previous master?”

While not all units were anthropomorphized by their users during the colonization, as many remote agents did Marcus programmed me to respond to his personal parameters when we were in the field to ease use.  He chose to call me Forseti, after a mythological figure from his homeland on Terra.

“Forseti it is, then,” I continued.  “I am, as you have acknowledged, Minalan the Spellmonger, baron of this land . . . until recently.  With me is Ruderal, my apprentice, and Lord Mayor Banamor, a business associate.”

I am familiar with both entities by their voices, agreed Forseti.  A pleasure to be officially introduced to you, gentlemen.

“Forseti, your mastery of Narasi is impressive,” I said, intrigued at the novelty of the situation.

It is not too dissimilar to the original language groups of the colony, allowing for natural drift.  I take it you are emerging from an era of rank illiteracy?

“Compared to our ancestors, yes,” I agreed.  “But we’re working on it.”

I have access to nearly seven million terabytes of data in my personal memory, much of it you may find useful in that endeavor.  In fact, there are many ways in which I might be able to assist you in improving the lot of the colonists.

“You have an interest in such things?” Banamor asked, surprised.

My primary programming places the survival and prosperity of the Callidore Colony as paramount, Forseti explained.  In the face of a cataclysmic crisis, all secondary purposes are suspended until the emergency has passed.  I am extremely concerned with the continued survival of the human colonists, therefore.

“Excellent!” I said, clapping my hands.  “Because we have need of such counsels.  Our civilization is threatened by dark forces, even genocidal forces.  Most of our advanced civilization is gone.  What remains resides in dark, dusty corners while the people toil.  We need help,” I said, simply.

I am here to provide help for the colony, agreed Forseti.  It is my primary purpose.  I will be glad to assist you in that process.  But it is imperative that our goals be understood at the beginning of such a relationship.

“The survival of the human race on Callidore seems a simple goal,” I agreed.

The goal is the survival of the colony and as many colonists as possible, corrected Forseti.  All of the colonists.

“Agreed.  I am not here on behalf of my own land, or even the kingdom, but on humanity’s behalf.”

Excellent.  Then you will have my assistance.  In the short term, I will guide you as best I can, with the limited resources at my disposal.  In the moderate term, we will design and construct industries and institutions to fulfill the purposes of adequate colonial administration.  In the long term, we will ascertain the feasibility of reclaiming lost colonial elements and resources.

“All of that sounds . . . actually, I didn’t understand all of it,” I admitted.  “But yes, let’s see if we can’t re-ignite human civilization here on Callidore,” I agreed, excitedly.

The foremost goal, then, should be the discovery and disposition of the remainder of the stasis-bound colonists.  From my understanding of the conversations I have overheard, their disposition is of the utmost importance for this purpose.  An injection of highly-educated, highly-skilled professionals into the colony is the most expedient route to recovering the basic fundamentals of advanced industrial civilization.  As the largest pool of such professionals is likely still in stasis, their recovery is of vital importance.

“Just what does all that mean?” Banamor asked, confused.

It means, Lord Mayor Banamor, that the simplest way to rectify the current cataclysmic status of human civilization in the colony is to essentially re-start the basic colonial process from the beginning.

“You mean . . .?” I asked, the implications of what the machine was suggesting starting to occur to me.

I mean, Minalan the Spellmonger, that humanity’s best hope for survival on Callidore is for you to find and awaken the ones you call the Forsaken.  Without their assistance and direction, I see little chance of the colony’s survival.  Almost none.

The End

Afterword

Wow.  I just finished Book Ten of a fantasy series.

Necromancer represents approximately 3,000,000 words of collective fiction in the Spellmonger universe, all written between about 2009 and 2017.  Eight years, more or less, in which I created an entire universe.

If that doesn’t give one pause, not much will.

I’d like to think that the writing and the story got better as the series went on.  I damn sure hope so – I worked hard to improve my craft, regardless of all else.  In that effort, I was assisted by both Emily Harris and Lance Sawyers, my superego and my id, respectively.  They made certain I always told a compelling story.  Don’t blame Emily for any errors – often I’d go back and re-write drastically after her comments, and submit it for publication before she could blink.  I’m an impulsive guy.

Lance’s influences were more subtle, but no less important.  Bouncing ideas off him in his shop is where the bulk of whatever coolness you find in this work originates.

Of further note, Aaron Schwartz, among other superfans, have made hacking away at the keyboard while other writers hobnob with sexy TV stars pretty gratifying.  And in terms of over-all consistency, you can’t beat Aaron.  I dub thee Knight Mage of Sevendor.

Those impacted most by Spellmonger, for good or bad, however, are my long-suffering family.  When Daddy is in Deadline mode, I’m not at my best.  My wife and children have adapted brilliantly, and I cannot thank them enough for giving me the opportunity to develop this world so many others have ended up enjoying.

The remarkable thing about Necromancer, however, isn’t that it’s Book 10.  It’s that I can now mark a milestone.  I am 1/3 of the way through the series.

The first ten books are the Spellmonger Ascendant, in which you learn how Minalan goes from humble beginnings to the heights of power, and the price he pays for it.  The second decology, The Spellmonger Exiled, will show a broadening of Minalan’s character and his grasp on the events that control his world.  His children will become more important to the storyline, as will his relationship with both Alya and the Celestial Mother.

The next ten books will be as action-packed, thoughtful, smutty, and deliberately indulgent of those things the fans have demanded.  Why?  Because I like that kind of thing, too.  My entire purpose in writing the Spellmonger series is to entertain myself.  It is a pleasure to invite so many of you along for the ride.  I can’t promise that the remainder of the series will be as good as the first three million words, but I can promise that I will try.  I’m here to please you, surprise you, and make you indulge in a feeling of wonder in a world that is, all too often, discouraging and painful.

I’m attempting to create a world in which you would like to live, warts and all, a world of romance and adventure and excitement.  Amazingly, the exciting thing for me is that with Necromancer I can truly begin to tell the story, not just hit the headlines.  At this point you know Minalan as well as I do, and understand him as well as you can understand a character.  Where he goes from here will be exciting and (I hope) unpredictable . . . but even at Book 20, we’ll still have far to go.

The revelations in this book change the world of Callidore, and hopefully make you realize that it isn’t quite what it seems to our ignorant humani peasants.  By book 20, just when you think you’ve gotten a handle on it, things will change radically again.  I’m just that way.

If I can’t keep you surprised and entertained, I’m not doing my job.  Of course, not all parts will be entertaining to all people, but I do my damnedest to spread the fun around as much as possible.  World-building mavens, body-count commandos, consistency aficionados and authenticity snobs will all, I predict, be equally disappointed at the outcome.  But, if all goes according to plan, by the time we hit the end of the series, if I haven’t managed to entertain y’all at least a little in wide portions of the series, I’ve failed at my job.

It is no secret that I have aspirations to see Spellmonger developed for an audiovisual release.  Not only do I think the massive story demands a visual depiction, my ultimate professional goal is to own a sportscar that goes just a little faster than George R. R. Martin’s.  I think seeing a dramatic presentation would be amazing, if done well.  So keep that in mind as you are recommending the series to others.

You know what the best thing about writing this series is?  Watching y’all participate in the process.  The fan interaction I get has been invaluable.  If there is something you particularly like (or hate) drop me a line at tmancour@gmail.com.   Depending on how late it is and how drunk I am, there’s no telling if I’ll answer . . . or what I’ll say.

What I can tell you is that there will be more Spellmonger . . . just not a new series book until, probably, early 2019.  In the meantime I have a lot of short stories and novellas to catch up on, and I want to knock those out in the next year before I begin the Spellmonger Exiled.  I also want to finish up the languishing Trask’s Odyssey and release the second books of both Casanova’s Butterfly and the Chronicles of Morrigan Mather, two unrelated series.  And, of course, I have to continue the Great Rectification to continue promoting consistency and righteousness in the series as it goes to both audiobook and print.

Can I do all of that, and get the next decalogy outlined and ready to write?

You betcha.  Its what wizards do.

Terry Mancour

November 29, 2017