Magelord

Book 3 Of The Spellmonger Series

By Terry Mancour

Copyright © 2013

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The Spellmonger Series

(In chronological order)

Spellmonger

“The River Mists of Talry”

Warmage

“Victory Soup

“The Spellmonger’s Wedding”

Magelord

Table Of Contents

The Domain Of Sevendor

The Dismissal Of Sir Erantal

Housekeeping

Affairs of State

In Which I Meet A Neighbor

The Yeomanries Of Sevendor

The Reconquest Of Brestal Vale

The Emissary Of The Warbird

Winter Court

Breakfast With A Footwizard

I Fight My First Duel Of Honor

The Blizzard and the Birthing Chamber

The Snow That Never Melted

Sire Gimbal Pays A Call

Olmeg the Green

A Ransom In Poultry

I Collect A Debt And Visit A Spellmonger

The Robinwing Conclave

The Arcane Orders

The Legend Of The Forsaken

The Bovali Migration

Spring Homecoming

The Many Wizards of Sevendor

Chepstan Spring Fair

The Censorate Of Magic

Lunch With The Baron

Sir Cei At The Lists

Lady Estret Of Cargwenyn

The Alliance Over Cargwenyn

The Growth Of Sevendor

Brother Mison

High Summer In Sevendor

Lady Pentandra of Fairoaks

The Coronet Council

The Coronation of Rard I

The Kingdom of Castalshar

Sevendor Under Siege

My New Neighbors

An Embassy From The Alka Alon

The Wedding Of Sire Cei And Lady Estret

The Sevendor Magic Fair

The Spellmonger’s Trial

The Siege of Castle Cambrian

I Call The Banners

The Great Transportation

The Relief Of Castle Cambrian

I Charge Bravely Into Battle

Dragonfall

The Dragonslayers

The Joy Of Barrowbell, The Sorrow Of Gilmora

King Rard Arrives At Barrowbell

The Mageland of Sevendor

Chapter One

The Domain Of Sevendor

“What a shithole,” my brother-in-law Sagal said, as he surveyed my new fief from horseback for the first time.  “What an utterly destitute, deserted shithole.  Begging your pardon, Min,” he added as an embarrassed afterthought.

After all, this was my shithole now.  My reward.  My . . . happily ever after.  And as much as I wanted to take issue with his statement, I couldn’t argue.  Sevendor was a mess when we got there, with a pall of neglect as potent as any spell hanging over the entire domain.  You could tell long before you rode into the main village.

Now, I’m not the kind of spellmonger  – or newly dubbed Knight Magi, or even a Magelord – who looks a gift horse in the mouth, but when His Grace, Duke Rard of Castal (and about half of Alshar) granted me an estate along with my knighthood and other honors to reward me for stopping (or at least slowing down) a goblin invasion, I had assumed it would be a picturesque feudal land with jolly peasants, green fields, a stout castle and a treasury full of coin.

I suppose I could have found that, during my search of the available, vacant estates.  It’s not that I chose my boon poorly – quite the contrary.  I spent almost a week researching my options in the dusty corridors of Wilderhall, under the gimlet eye of Lady Arnet, the Mistress of Lands and Estates for the Duchy of Castal.

The Duke had specified the exact level of landed fief from which I could choose – rated by some mysterious system the Ducal Court alone understood – and Lady Arnet had presented me with dozens of qualifying holdings on the Duchy’s books, each folio wrapped in leather and sealed with her official seal.

After researching each one and then agonizing about my choice, I finally made what I thought was the best one for my purposes: a small domain in the northeastern Castali Riverlands, along the Bontal River, only four hundred miles away as the gull flies (and six hundred miles as the river barge sails) from Talry, the town of my birth.  My new fief was situated in the northern foothills of the Uwarri range, near the frontier with Remere.

As far away from the goblin hordes as I could safely get, in other words, and still be close enough to the war front to be of some use.  And it had . . . other advantages.  It had been one of the regions helpfully suggested by the Tree Folk, for one.  I still wasn’t certain why, but I assumed they had a good reason.  But I had been far more interested in other factors at the time I selected it.  Sevendor was quite the prize estate . . . on parchment.

According to the meticulously kept tax records, biannual reports and correspondence from the Ducal caretaker, the Domain of Sevendor was supposed to be a well-tended, prosperous little estate, snug in the charmingly-rugged foothills, with a sturdy little castle, a secondary tower fortress, a border tower, three prosperous villages and five hamlets within its limits.  Sevendor had been developed for three hundred years, and was one of the former cadet estates of the famous House of Lensely.

House of Lensely is one of the wealthiest families of the eastern Castali Riverlords.  Once they ruled the entire Bontal in fief to the Duke, but despite the honor and prestige attached to the name their power peaked about a hundred years ago.

There’re still plenty of Lenselys around of course, despite the House’s proclivity for killing each other off in spectacular dynastic duels.  But while Lensely, was a rich and prosperous noble House (The Count of Lensely is the traditional head of the Riverlord’s League, and there are still a couple of powerful local Lensely barons still lingering around the Bontal) Sevendor hadn’t been under Lensely control for two generations, thanks to an inheritance dispute between rival branches.

That was the reason the Duchy had taken control of it in the first place.  It had been confiscated by the Coronet as a fine to one of the younger Lensely barons for killing someone he shouldn’t have at the wrong time and in the wrong place.

Lady Arnet patiently tried to explain the history of Sevendor’s lords to me while my patent of nobility was being drawn up, but in truth I hadn’t paid much attention.  I was the first wizard in four centuries who held land in service to a noble lord, breaking the Royal Bans on Magic.  I was excited.  I wasn’t interested in the history.  I wanted to hurry up and get to the tiny little sliver of property she carefully removed from her dusty old books, not listen to a long droning recitation of the colorful history of the domain.  Perhaps I should have.  I might have been better prepared.

Sevendor was never any great prize.  While technically in the Riverlands, it was seventy miles south of the nearest navigable river,  A hill-country fief that hugged the valleys of the small but respectable mountains to the south (hardly mountains at all, compared to the majestic Mindens or the grand and rugged Kulines).

It was one of those odd slivers of territory that doesn’t quite fit neatly into a region, a marginal property unblessed by the bountiful croplands of the river valleys below. There was another parcel two hundred forty miles northwest I could have chosen, the Domain of Ormacar, and I had been sorely tempted.  It was twice as large as Sevendor, half as fertile and had two castles and six villages.  But I had my reasons for choosing Sevendor.

The folio described the estate as a strip running east to west about six and a half miles long and three and a half miles wide at the widest point.   It was a kind of double-blind vale, two valleys stretching to a common gap to the northeast, separated by a low ridge and a big mountain.  I had studied the map included with the folio, required for proper tribute filing, until I felt I knew it by heart.

The smaller eastern area, known as Brestal Vale, had the better croplands for grain, while the larger western vale, Sevendor Vale, boasted an itinerant stream through its midst and several hundred acres of timberlands.  Neither lobe was particularly fertile, compared to domains closer to the river, but the peasants farmed corn, barley, wheat, beans, rye, millet, oats, garneth, goats, turkeys, and the occasional cow or sheep or llama.  Both Brestal and Sevendor had a central village and a fortification for defense.  And there were attendant hamlets and yeoman estates in each vale.

About all the apocrypha I could recall from Lady Arnet’s briefing domain itself was that Sevendor once had a modest fame for horse breeding and there was a substantial nut grove, pecans in particular, within the domain.  The cadet branch of the Lenselys who had ruled there exported a significant, though not substantial, amount of produce before they’d lost it.   According to the lackluster historical record, in its prime, Sevendor produced over three-hundred bushels of corn for export, seventy bushels of nuts, and two-hundred turkeys, chicken, and assorted fowl.

But yields weren’t what they used to be.  Sevendor’s prime was over a century ago.

The geography was what sold me on it, but not for the usual reasons.  The stream wasn’t very large, certainly not navigable by anything bigger than a canoe.   It ran cautiously through the center of the vale throughout most of the year and flooded spectacularly every spring, according to the dusty reports.  The croplands were marginal, and wouldn’t support more than a few thousand people without importing grain.  It abutted several larger domains, mostly local nobles of distinguished lineage and honorable repute – which didn’t impress me in the slightest.

Militarily, there wasn’t much there.  I knew that it had provided a modest twenty conscripts for the recent Farisian campaign. In its prime it had sent over three hundred militia to the disastrous Battle of Gommal, one of the innumerable frontier disputes between Castal and Remere.  Three generations of the Lensely line of Sevendor had perished in that war; along with every man the vales had sent.  Title had passed to a distant relative who had never visited the domain, and whose son lost it to the Coronet because of his hasty temper and quick sword.

The little domain never really recovered from that.  Besides the sudden lack of Lenselys, the drain on the people of Sevendor had been critical.  Not one of the Castali at the Battle of Gommal survived, Lady Arnet told me, and that had left Sevendor sadly depopulated, with fewer and fewer peasants on the rolls every year.  Or, at least up to six years ago, the last time any reports were received by her dusty office.

I liked Sevendor partially because it was remote, and out of the way, naturally protected by mountains, yet but a quick two-day ride south from the river port of Sendaria-on-Bontal, should I feel like doing any trade or need to get back to more civilized parts in a hurry.  That was important.  The Bontal River was thick with river barges, and was the central highway of the Riverlands on this side of Castal.  Go downriver a hundred miles south to the Vennlands, and you could ride to any of three other rivers within a day.  That put Sevendor about a week to a week and a half from most of the Riverlands, if haste was needed.

I liked Sevendor . . . on parchment.  It wasn’t a large land, it was easily manageable, yet I believed it had great potential for development.  I was also counting on its modest size and productivity to keep it from seeming too alluring to my neighbors.  Property rights in a feudal society usually get settled with lances, in which I was poor, and I didn’t want to waste my entire surplus on keeping my neighbors at bay.  It was too far from civilization to be considered more than a wardland, and its complete lack of strategic value left it unhampered by growth.

It was an utterly average country knight’s estate.  It had been governed from afar for generations, appended to various high lords’ titles as an afterthought, traded in dowries and weregilds, and administered by proxy once it came under the Coronet’s ownership.  No sitting Lord of Sevendor had set foot on the property for over sixty years.  And no Lord of Sevendor had been in residence there for a century and a quarter.

It showed.

The neglect was obvious, from the moment we crossed the unwarded, unguarded, overgrown frontier through the low pass, Sevendor’s “front door”.  The country was pretty enough.  Indeed, it was gorgeous – a tall protective ridge of mountains enclosing pleasantly-forested hills, the tallest of which, a giant fist of a mount directly in front of the low pass rising just under the height of the ridges, grew bald and rocky at its summit, and it was majestic to behold.

But once the caravan crossed the point where the map included with my patent indicated we should be there, after gazing admiringly at the central mountain I started to realize that things were amiss.

I pulled Traveler’s reigns to stop him, while Sir Cei and my brother-in-law Sagal both rode up beside me.  I stared at the derelict, burned-out pile of rocks that was supposed to be the watch tower to my fief, noted the weeds growing thick within, and I started to get anxious.

“What a shithole,” my brother-in-law Sagal said, as he surveyed my new fief from horseback for the first time.  “What an utterly destitute, deserted shithole.  Begging your pardon, Min,” he added as an afterthought.

“This is Sevendor’s frontier,” I said, quietly.  “That’s supposed to be a three-story stone tower known as . . . Hyer’s Tower,” I said, consulting the map.

“Hyer really needs to do some maintenance,” quipped my brother-in-law, shaking his head sadly.

“That tower was taken in battle,” Sir Cei’s experienced eye informed him.  “Four, five years ago.  Sire Minalan, I mislike this.”

“You think you mislike this?” I asked, with a mirthless chuckle.  “This is my reward for saving two duchies.  I’m starting to wonder if it was worth the trouble.” There was a distinct scent of decaying vegetation that cut through the crisp winter air.  I wondered if that was the smell of neglect.

“Where to?” asked Cei.  He glanced at the split in the road – and “road” is a generous term.  It was a roughly-worn path overgrown with weeds and only occasionally flagged.  But it split, the left road going south and the right fork heading west.

“Sevendor Castle is south,” I nodded, as the rest of the caravan began coming into the vale.  “East is Brestal Tower, the other estate.  We’ll start at the main castle.  It’s further, but I’d rather reach there by this afternoon, if possible.  I only hope it’s in better repair than the outbuildings,” I said, as I nudged Traveler to the right, past the ruined tower.

“May the gods grant it so,” Sir Cei said, automatically, and followed.  He didn’t sound encouraged.  But then Sir Cei rarely sounded encouraged about anything.

The next indication that something was wrong was the boundary stone that indicated where one domain ended and the Sevendor began.  Two hundred yards past the ruined tower the west road took a turn for the worse, with rampant weeds growing through the pavers indicating a lack of regular use.  That’s where we found the stone, overgrown by weeds but noting the official location of the frontier.

“This seems to be out of place,” I commented idly.  “Remind me to move it back where it belongs later.”

“Magelord Minalan, traditionally such stones are used—”

“I know what they’re used for, Sir Cei, and I know what it probably means.  But it’s getting late and I don’t like the look of that sky.  Feels like snow.”  He couldn’t argue with that – he was used to Bovali winters, which start much earlier than in the Riverlands and rage much harder.  But there was no mistaking the smell of snow in the air.

It was a good ten minutes on that rough road before we saw any sign of humanity.  Peasants, of course, bundled up in homespun, threadbare cloaks of undyed wool and ratty furs against the chill, dutifully trudging about their business, herding goats or moving dirt or chopping wood.

There weren’t very many of them, though, and they didn’t look very jolly.  They wore uniform gray homespun, hemp or linen, and crudely woven straw hats.  A few had cloaks of wool, leather or fur.  No one waved or bowed.  They didn’t look frightened of our party, or even curious.  Growing up a commoner, I did more complaining about the nobility than cheering, but I also knew that a good Lord can make a land and its people prosper, and a poor one doom it to misery.  These people had misery by the bucketful.

“I’m glad we packed rations,” Sagal said, his eyes wide as we rode past a peasant woman hacking at the dry earth with a fire-hardened stick.  She was as thin as a bare blade.

“Don’t stare,” I chided.  “It isn’t polite.” I nodded to the collection of huts on the north side of the road, enclosed with a low hedge and wooden fence, not even a proper stockade.

The huts within were in two varieties, the more-common round hut half sunk into the earth, the walls of wattle-and-daub and a roof of thatch.  There were a few proper longhouses of timber and stone; likely barns or the homes of wealthier peasants, but none were in good repair.  A single, lonely-looking grain silo of stone stood in the center of the hamlet.  There were a few scrawny, wide-eyed children playing in front of the huts, but they scattered and hid as soon as we approached.

“This is the Magelord’s hamlet of Gurisham,” Sir Cei informed me, helpfully.  “A bonded commune.”  I didn’t need to be reminded; I’d studied the map for hours.  But according to the reports there should be thirty to forty families here.  If there were more than seven or eight then I’d forgotten how to count properly.  We passed by the depressing little settlement without interacting with anyone – I wanted to get to the castle, proper.

The road had evolved into a simple track through the brush only wide enough for a single horse or light wagon.  The brush on the sides was browner than green, and the prevalent form of plant life seemed to be rocks.  They grew everywhere.  The few frozen cultivated fields we passed were full of them.

“This looks like . . .” Sagal began, quietly and darkly.

“. . . an excellent opportunity to prove what magic can do for a mageland,” I finished.

He chuckled wryly.  “That’s one way to look at it.” It wasn’t quite as depressing as Terrorhall in the Penumbra, where the Soulless pantomimed real life under the eyes of their gurvani masters and human proxies, but it was beginning to remind me of that grim domain.

As we followed the road across the little dale towards the village, we began to pass a few humble cottages, the homes to individual farmers or laborers – only slightly better than the peasant huts, really.  They were separated by discouraged looking groves of pines, raethwood, and hawthorns, or untrimmed hedges.  Each had a small garden, or a pen for a pig or sheep, or a chicken coop or dovecote of some sort, but the gardens were barren at this point of the season.  The people we passed barely looked up from their fieldwork as they hacked at the near-frozen soil, and I saw only two or three draft animals in evidence.

“They can’t be farming all of this by hand,” Sagal said, confused.  “There are no oxen or horses or even mules.  Even a hill farm needs a beast or two to . . .” He was right.  I’d seen one donkey and two llamas, but that was about it as far as beasts of burden went. No oxen.  No horses.

“These people can’t afford the silage,” I noted, in a quiet voice.  “Goats are about the best they can manage, and you can’t plow a field with a team of goats.  Look at how few fields they’ve planted.  Even allowing for fallow lands, they aren’t farming a tithe of what they could be.  Look how steep the hillsides are.  Not much possibility of a lot of hay.  Maybe some vetch, but you need oats for horses.”

We passed a few more lonely crofts and cottages along the way, smallholders even poorer than their neighbors in the hamlet but I didn’t really start to get depressed until we hit “town.”

The tiny village outside of the castle was essentially a ring of ancient huts, about fifteen or twenty families, and some smaller wooden shacks, sheds, and a couple of barns.  There were three proper timber longhouses, but the rest were conical waddle-and-daub huts.  I counted at least four that had been burned out and not rebuilt, and there were foundation pits for easily another dozen.  There was no wall, no wooden stockade, not even a ditch to surround the village.

This was the largest settlement in Sevendor.

The tax records had indicated that Sevendor paid tribute for seven hundred hearths, although there hadn’t been an actual tribute payment since the Duchy took over the estate.  Each hearth meant someone was paying for the privilege to bake their own bread, the primary form of direct taxation on the common people.  Each “hearth” could mean a family of anywhere from three to thirty, but on average it meant about five people, in my experience.  There should be thirty-five hundred people in the domain, therefore, at that tax rate.

But there couldn’t be, not based on what I was seeing.  The village may have held seventy hearths at one point, as the records indicated, but there was just a fraction of those now.   And it appeared that those were all peasants, too, not tradesmen.  No smith, no carpenter, no woodwright, no bakery.  No taphouse.  No inn.  No barber.  No cooper . . . and certainly no spellmonger Just peasant farmers scratching the barest existence from the frozen fields we’d passed.

Between them they farmed about three-hundred-twenty acres, one third of it “mine.”  But less than half of that had looked under cultivation.  Sevendor Village was a ghost of its former self.

As we rode through Sevendor Village for the first time I watched the furtive glances of the adults and the curious stares of the children, their eyes downcast and their faces grown gaunt with malnutrition.  There was no central building, although one house seemed a little sturdier than the others.   Rugged-looking goats avoided the rangy dogs that loped wolfishly between the huts.  The well in the village “square” was ringed with cobbles and frozen mud.  The smell . . .

“This place is disgusting,” Sagal noted under his breath.

“Someone has some things to answer for,” I agreed, my ire rising.  “This place has had the life and vitality ripped out of it by someone.”

Sir Cei sneered in contempt as he nodded.  “Malfeasance or simple incompetence, its still neglect, Magelord. There is no excuse for this.”

“This place is . . . awful,” Sagal noted, shaking his head in amazement.

I thought about telling him to shut up about our new home, but my ire would have been misplaced.  “I think we should go speak to this knight,” I agreed.

The presiding steward of Sevendor, I’d learned at Wilderhall, was one Sir Erantal, a landless knight who had a few powerful friends at court, and who apparently took the job to enjoy the perquisites of lordship without any of the real responsibility.  All he had to do was make sure no one walked off with the place and keep it running.  It should not have been too difficult.

Officially he oversaw taxation, local justice, and was in charge of keeping the castle and lands in good repair – everything a legitimate lord of the land would do.  Since the bridge we crossed on the way into the village was damn close to rotting out under our horses’ hooves, the stocks on the other side occupied by two half-frozen emaciated rogues, and every piece of homespun we saw was threadbare, I could surmise that Sir Erantal was better at the first two tasks than he was the last.

I would have to have words with him.

After the appalling state of the village, I wasn’t surprised by the fortress.  I was actually more surprised that things weren’t worse than they were.  Sevendor Castle was also a disappointment, but it wasn’t a ruin.  Not . . . quite.

I’m used to castles, having lived in a few over the years as a warmage, but what appeared out of the thick overgrowth was not the kind of military fortification I’d come to expect in my travels.

Sevendor Castle sat in the southwest corner of the vale, on a rocky plateau overlooking most of the valley.  Behind it was a thousand-foot high bare rock cliff of imposing gray stone, the northern escarpment of what passed for a grand peak in the Uwarris.  The castle had been quarried almost on the spot, so it was built from the same gray basalt.  From a distance it looked adequate, at best.

There was an outer and inner bailey, and a shell keep at the height, most remote from the valley, behind two gates and a moat.  The keep was a single square, four-story crenellated basalt shell on a modest earthen mound, with a rounded turret attached at each corner.  One of the front turrets was visibly crumbling.

There was smaller square tower, also four stories but half the size of the keep, added on in the shadows to the east, with a walled courtyard joining it to the main keep.  The newest construction (only a century old) was a round five-story tower that peeked over the rear of the castle.

It was what had once been known as the Lord’s Refuge, the last-ditch defense a noble family could take shelter within if the main keep fell.  It was attached to the main hall by both a thick stone portico and, on the third story, a railed wooden bridge that could be burned or destroyed to isolate the tower.  The conical wooden roof, I could see without magesight, was decrepit and falling in.  A smaller square three-story tower guarded the gate of the inner bailey, and another overlooked the village itself, although both appeared deserted.

Surrounded by a crumbling stone wall and a muddy ditch, Sevendor Castle had all the charm of the ugliest girl at the ball.  In my professional opinion as a warmage, I could have taken the damn thing out all by myself.  With one wand tied behind my back.

It was old, of course.  Maybe it had been cozy, for that first lord and his kin.  But it was built with petty squabbles with like-minded neighbors in mind, not pitched battle or prolonged siege.  Certainly not proof against an army of goblins.  Sevendor Castle could keep marauders at bay, and discourage the neighbors from coming over uninvited, but I’ve seen privies with better security.  And better designed.

I won’t even discuss the smells.

We crossed the ancient drawbridge over the ditch at the gatehouse, and for a moment I thought we’d have a problem.  One of the massive iron chains was broken, making the thing impossible to lift.  Not only was that a serious breech of security, it also meant that the bridge wobbled when Traveler came across, and by the time the enclosed wain with my wife started through, I saw it tilt dangerously to one side.  I patted Traveler reassuringly, but I was anything but assured.

I could feel the team start to panic as the driver lost control.  The coach slid six inches towards the side.  Instantly, I sent out a tendril of force to magically shore up the bridge.

The drover looked around wildly, then spotted me waving my hand meaningfully in the air, and understood.  He nodded his gratitude.  He calmed his team and coaxed them the rest of the way across the bridge, the carriage rolling safely behind.

“Show off!” came the irritated voice of my wife from within.

“I wouldn’t mind you taking a bath in that reeking trench,” I responded, “but that’s my son you’re carrying in there.”

“Who said he was yours?” she shot back quickly.

I smiled, while the coachman turned pale.  Usually the aristocracy doesn’t joke about such things in front of servants, but seeing as how I had only been ennobled for a month, well, he’d just have to understand that we still retained our peasant-ish sense of humor.  The truth was I was absolutely sure that the child in Alya’s womb was mine.  Magic is good for that sort of thing.

Something would have to be done about the bridge, though, I realized.  I told off two of my men to find a way to brace it up before I proceeded any further.  I don’t like to be anywhere I can’t leave from when I want to.  And we had twenty more wagons to pass over that bridge tonight, alone.

The guards at the gate had the good sense to come to attention, or their best guess of the position, bringing their rusty pikes across until my herald – who was also my brother-in-law – rode forward.

“Make way!” Sagal insisted, a little louder than necessary.  That’s always good in a herald.  “Make way for the Lord of Sevendor!”

“Uh . . . what?” asked the older of the two, confused.

Both were equally filthy and unshaven, but this one had a few years on his comrade, by the length of his beard.  Both wore rusty steel pot helms and leather jacks with rusty steel rings riveted to them.  The older one was barefoot.

“Ain’t no Lord of Sevendor here, milord,” he replied, apologetically.  “Sir Erantal rules here.”

“No, actually, the Duke ruled here,” I corrected.  “Sir Erantal was hired as caretaker for the estate.  Please summon him.  I am now Lord of Sevendor, by Ducal decree,” I said, nodding to Sir Cei.

My new castellan nodded and pulled out a long vellum scroll from a waxed leather tube in his saddlebag.  He opened it and showed it to the guards.

“Authentic patent of nobility . . . gentlemen,” he explained.  “Signed and sealed by His Grace, Duke Rard, himself.  Assigning ownership of Sevendor to Sir Minalan the Spellmonger, Knight Mage of the realm, and the heirs of his body, in perpetuity, for good and meritorious services rendered unto the Coronet. All perfectly legal, on my honor as a knight.”

Sir Cei seemed to relish the sound of the big, legal words he had only just learned.  They sounded a little odd, due to his thick mountain accent, but he said them with enough precision to be effective.

The older guard examined the documents, then shrugged and grunted.  “Hells, I can’t read.  But you look lordly enough.”  He added a hesitant bow as an afterthought.  “Uh, what are your orders, milord?”

“First I’d like to meet the . . . steward,” I said, coolly, “and have him give account of my estate.  Then I’d like for rooms to be made available for my wife, who is great with child, and my men, who have been marching for two days.  Dinner should follow at a leisurely pace.  But first I want that godsdamned knight out here,” I insisted, “and before too many more heartbeats pass.”

The tone of my voice was unmistakable, and the older man, after the smallest moment’s thought, nodded to the younger, who scampered off through the gate and ran as fast as he could up the rise to the castle.  Halfway there he abandoned the pike so he could run faster.

Chapter Two

The Dismissal Of Sir Erantal

“Beggin’ your pardon, Milord . . . Minalan?  Guess I’d better learn that.  Yes, well, ‘tis likely Sir Erantal is . . . indisposed,” he explained, attempting to be tactful.

“Drunk or whoring?” I asked.

The man shrugged.  “I dunno.  Could be both.  I don’t keep track.  I know he took ‘Lina back to his chamber last night, though she was loathe enough to go.  And there was a barrel of wine sent from the river port last week.  If I was a bettin’ man,” he decided, “I’d say both.”

“Good to know.  Your name, soldier?”

“Gorker, Milord.  Been head guard here since the war – uh, little war we had a few years back.  Me an’ my boy – that was him as went for Sir Erantal, Gurk, good lad – we tend the gatehouse.”

I glanced at the rough stone building and saw laundry hanging from a line and a discouraged fire smoldering in the middle of the floor, a battered tin kettle hanging over it.  Obviously they lived at the gatehouse, too.

“How has Sir Erantal’s stewardship been, in your opinion, Goodman Gorker?”

“Oh, milord, I couldn’t say – well, he’s outta a job, now, ain’t he?  So no reason for me to hold back is there?” the peasant reasoned.  He broke into a crooked smile.  “He’s right awful, Milord.  Sports with the village girls whether they want to or no, plays dice with all manner o’ highwaymen, drinks like a leviathan, all the while the whole vale is fallen down ‘round his ears.  Disgraceful, milord,” he added, overselling it a bit.

“Much as I suspected,” I admitted.  “Who actually runs the place, while the good knight slumbers through his stupors?”

“Ah, that would be Old Peg.  Matron Peg, if you want to get particular, though she ain’t much of a midwife and she’s not better at leechcraft.  But she knows the laundry and cooks, and takes the rents.  She sees to the runnin’ o’ things.”

“I’d like to speak with her, as well.  But first things first: I cannot legally enter until your master appears, and I believe I see him approaching, now.”

It wasn’t hard to.  He made a lot of noise as he stumbled down the steep slope.  A portly, mustached figure who was visibly different from the peasants around him only by the tattered finery on his back and the battered sword he wore at his side was stomping across the outer bailey, the younger guard in tow.  As he walked he was uttering an impressive string of invective, invoking gods I’d only read about.  He came to the gatehouse, looked at my party, then at Gorker.  His face was deciding whether to be afraid or angry.

I decided to take the initiative from him and let him be fearful.

“Sir Erantal of Hean,” I pronounced, not even bothering to magnify my voice with magic, “You are hereby discharged from the service of the Duke, effective at once, in favor of Sir Minalan the Spellmonger, Magelord of Sevendor.  That would be me,” I added, when his eyes started shifting.

“By what authority—” he started to say, when Sir Cei waved that blanket-sized scroll in his face.

“By the Duke’s authority.  I am Lord of Sevendor, now, as of this moment.  You are relieved, Sir.  Further, you are granted severance,” I said, producing a small purse and tossing it at his feet, “and I command you to be gone from my lands by sundown, less you desire a stay in the stocks.”

“You can’t—” he started, and then stopped.  “I am–  The Duke –l”

“—has given me title of this estate in fief to His Grace.  Personally.  If you have a complaint, you know where he lives.  Get your belongings and your horse and whatever treasures you hold dear and leave.  Now.  Before I have a chance to delve too deeply into your accounts,” I added.  He went pale at that, and put his hand on his sword.

“I wouldn’t, Sir Erantal,” Sir Cei advised him.  Sir Cei is a big man with a deep voice.  He knows how to be intimidating.

My men were already milling around anxiously on their horses, their own hands on their swords, and more than one had a long Alshari Wilderlands bow strung. Compared to his guards, or even his noble self, every one of them looked a professional soldier.

“Your cushy billet is over, Sir Erantal.  Time to pursue the romance of the open road and be gone on some errantry.  Now move, so that I can start to clean out this sty and make it livable again.”

“You dare question my stewardship?” he asked, indignantly, after struggling a moment.  I could tell by how red his eyes were how hungover he must be.

“No,” I said, shaking my head.  “There would have to be actual stewardship for me to question, and I can see that you’ve been more interested in the bottoms of cups and peasant girls than keeping your charge in order.  It is disgraceful, Sir.”

“Of all the impudent— Just who do you think you are?” he snarled, finally committing himself by drawing his sword.

Oh, I was so hoping he would.  I had been looking forward to it.

“I am Sire Minalan the Spellmonger, Magelord of Sevendor,” I reminded him, altering my title to indicate I was landed nobility for the first time.  My fingers twitched, and I accessed power through my sphere, and suddenly his sword flopped from its guard as if it were made of leather.  It’s a simple spell, once you know it.  And have enough magic power to pull it off.  “And I am the first landed magelord made in four hundred years.  So get the fuck off my property, and if you value your skin your shadow won’t darken this land again!”

The fat old knight looked like his head was going to explode.  I fingered the silken bag around my neck, where my oversized witchstone lived.  If he didn’t watch his tongue, his head just might explode.

“But that’s against the Bans!” he sputtered.  “No mage may take lands in arms!  That’s the law!  Has been for—”

“—Four hundred years,” I finished.  “And what law a Duke may make, another may break.  His Grace has seen fit to do so in my case, as a reward for a service I did the Duchy.  So if you take issue with my appointment, I suggest you direct your complaints to His Grace, who is presently encamped in northern Alshar.  Now, are you willing to depart gracefully, or shall I have my men tie you to your horse and leave your peasants to speed you on your way?”

The man looked down at his floppy sword, defeated.  “I . . . I shall depart.  After nine long years of faithful service—”

“That’s enough of the farewell speech,” I interrupted.  “My men will see that you have anything you need on your way out.  But now that I have presented my patent, I now claim this keep and all of its lands as my own by right.”  I looked up at the carriage, where Alya was watching me, amused.  “And now I will take my lady and we’ll go inspect what’s left of my hall.”

Sir Erantal looked like he might do something stupid, but Sagal put three attentive Bovali boys on him with instructions to keep him from running away with anything valuable.  Not that there was anything of value there.  He spent the next two hours stomping around and muttering darkly, but before dusk he was on his way down the road on his ancient sway-backed destrier, looking ashamed and defeated.

Meanwhile I led the party through the gate and up the hill and into the inner bailey, which was just as shabby as the rest of the estate.  The inner walls had several sheds and workshops built up against them – smithy, tannery, fletcher, storehouses – but none of them looked like they had seen recent use.  The odor of privy and stable mixed with woodsmoke in the winter air, and I considered conjuring a small breeze to keep our noses safe.

Time enough for that sort of thing later.  Gorker had gotten the “staff” quickly assembled in the bailey for my inspection.  They looked like they were made for this place.

Old Peg was instantly recognizable, a wrinkled old matron in a shabby old dress, her shifty eyes guiltily downcast.  Gorker introduced the cook, the stablemaster, the “armorer,” the kennelmaster (Sir Erantal was fond of hunting), and a half-dozen guards to whom I wouldn’t have entrusted the care of a five-day-old pie.

Thankfully I wouldn’t have to depend on them for security overmuch.  I had brought five times their number of Bovali men-at-arms with me, and there were many more on the way.  But as I inspected them, I assured them that under the new lordship any who committed loyally to their work would be retained, at an increase in pay, and I invited any who would take their leave to do so with a generous bonus.

None did.  Why would they?  Where could they go?  This shithole was their home, after all.  The increase in wages was welcome, though.

I spent the rest of the afternoon touring the castle with Sir Cei and Sagal, while Alya was inspecting the kitchens.  I liked Sagal, and not just because I was married to Alya.  He was a smart fellow, for a mountain peasant, and had become as comfortable with a sword in his hand as he had been with a spade.  He was utterly loyal, which is rare in retainers, and I valued his unvarnished opinion.

“Looks like its haunted,” he said warily as we entered the dark doorway into the keep.  The Bovali are surprisingly un-superstitious for a mountain people, but that probably has more to do with the utter lack of professional priests and real temples in Boval than any native sensibility.  Long story, that.

But if the castle that first day inspired that kind of reaction in a pragmatic Bovali peasant, that was telling.

“Haunted by neglect,” I said.  “Not spirits.  If there was any real spirits, I expect I would know it.”

“Aye, I suppose you would,” he conceded with a sigh.

The first few chambers inside the keep were dark and damp and smelled of dog shit and mildew.  The rushes on the floor hadn’t been changed in months, if not years.  I conjured a magelight to illuminate the way, and almost regretted being able to see the scope of the mess in the great hall.  Things crawled, in there.

The Great Hall had been turned into sort of a catch-all storage room and was completely cluttered with bales, bags, and boxes with no rhyme or reason about them.  The fire on the great hearth at the rear of the hall was a sputtering, disheartened flame that did nothing to heat the place, it was buried in a pile of ash, and the chimney was dangerously choked with decades of creosote.  There were no tapestries on the walls, allowing a nasty draught to blow that made it almost as cold as outside.  Torches and lanterns were few and far between.  There were two banners there I didn’t recognize, but they were mildewed and ratty beyond repair.  I ordered them burned.

The lower chambers of the turrets looked like bandits had lived there and moved out in disgust.  One room was filled with firewood long rotted and infested with termites. The door to the rear tower was broken, and the tower itself seemed to have been abandoned altogether.

The upstairs sections were likewise stuffed with trash and debris, though they were more livable than the Great Hall.  Matron Peg’s room was the neatest of them all, a sparsely furnished cell with a simple altar to Briga and Gorsa, a local goddess I was unfamiliar with, in an alcove.  There was also a well-locked box she seemed terribly attached to.

Sir Erantal’s room looked like the haunt of a barfly.  He hadn’t taken the time to be neat in packing his belongings, but even laying the clutter aside, the place was a sty.  The only thing that seemed at all cared for was the large wooden pegboard used to keep track of the debts the peasants owed.  He also kept the accounts here in two big books.  Looking them over, I saw that the last entry had been made a year ago, and the previous one no more timely. There was a treasury of sorts, an iron lock box at the foot of his rickety and foul-smelling bed, where the castle’s wealth was kept.  It was nearly empty.  So was the barrel of wine in the corner.  I wasn’t surprised.

The upper reaches of the keep were littered with fallen leaves and sticks, and the back side had become one long pissoir. The great stone cisterns were dry or topped with scum.

There were dungeons, but thankfully those sorry holes were empty.  Unfortunately, so were the storerooms.

The square tower acted as the barracks for the lackluster men-at-arms, and the men had enterprisingly stuffed moss and rags into the chinks of the stone to keep it warm. The courtyard in between was choked with weeds and overgrown, leaving only a narrow stone path to get from one section to the other.  I stood atop the square tower and looked over the rest of my fortress.

So I had a broken castle, a ravaged land, an empty treasury.

And it was all mine.  So much for my dream of a life of leisure.  As nobility went, this wasn’t the high end.

But I had resources at my disposal.  One was the grant that came along with the patent, five thousand ounces of gold from the Ducal treasury.  That was probably worth more than the entire domain, honestly.  Add to that my personal savings and about a dozen high-quality emeralds, and I had a decent nest egg.  Perhaps even enough to rescue this wretched estate. Maybe.  I’d spent plenty of that just paying for the Bovali refugees to make the journey upriver, but there was still a fair amount left.  I devoutly hoped it would be enough to rescue this ruin.

The fact that I was a mage might help with that, too.  When His Grace decided for reasons of his own (largely dealing with political expediency) to break with tradition, custom, and ancient law and give me this prize, it had been partially as an experiment.  I had sold him on backing my order of extremely talented and recently augmented warmagi partially by pleading with him how useful magic could be in the lives of ordinary people.  Sevendor was to be my experiment in how an enlightened magelord could be beneficial to his people.

I was the first magelord, but I wasn’t alone: there were a dozen-and-a-half new magelords after the bloody Battle of Timberwatch, and half of northern Alshar (the part that wasn’t owned by the goblins) was now run by High Magi.  That’s what wizards equipped with precious, powerful irionite were calling themselves with my encouragement.  Granting them lands on the edge of disputed territory was a sensible and low-risk proposition for the Duke.

But this was different.  Sevendor was smack in the middle of his feudal heartland.

But if I made this work, then other friends and colleagues stood a chance of gaining similar power.  If I didn’t . . . well, I owned this shithole, now, and it would be my own damn fault if I couldn’t do better than Sir Erantal.

Overall, things were pretty bleak, which Sagal never tired of pointing out.

“We’d be better off starting over and building from scratch,” he commented at one point, when we were traversing the rickety bridge between the donjon and the round tower.

“It isn’t totally hopeless, Magelord,” Sir Cei disagreed, making the journey across the plank a lot more nimbly than I’d expected.  “The foundations seem sturdy, at least.  No sign of recent settling.”

“Probably built directly on top of the bedrock,” I agreed.  “But beyond the foundations, I’m more inclined to agree with Sagal,” which pleased Sagal to no end.  “For one thing, it’s too small by half.  I want this castle ready to receive everyone in the valley, and that’s going to be a lot more people once the rest of the Bovali arrive.  And I want it in condition to defend against . . . well, against a lot.”

I didn’t have to say a whole lot of goblins because we all knew that’s what the possibility was.  We all survived the Siege of Boval Castle, where a half a million of the angry, furry little buggers tried to kill us.  Now they were still a thousand leagues away, but armed with mighty magic and a fanatical undead leader there was a distinct possibility that they could make it to Sevendor well within my lifetime.  Every Bovali understood that, even if most of the nobility of the Duchy still thought it far-fetched.  Hells, they could be here next year, if we really screwed up.

The round tower was actually in better condition than the rest of the keep, and had likely been abandoned simply because the space wasn’t needed.  It was a four-story affair, capped with a rotting wooden cone that provided cover for its crenellated top floor.  It was forty feet in diameter, tapering slightly as it rose.  There was a fireplace on every floor and a chimney that shot up beyond the rotted roof.  Only the top floor was really damaged.

“I think I could make this place kind of homey,” I offered, as we descended the stairs back down.  When I got to the jammed door, a simple spell broke it free and allowed access to the lower chamber.  “It’s private, it’s snug – well, snugger – and the top floor will make an excellent lab.”

“You intend to live here, Magelord?” Sir Cei asked in surprise.

“I don’t see why not.  Wizards are used to living in towers.  As much as knights are used to living in castles.  With a little cleaning, a little magic, and a lot of money, it won’t be so bad.”

“The Magelord is foresightful,” Sir Cei said, tactfully.

Sagal grunted.  “The Magelord is a bloody optimist,” he snorted.  “My sister-in-law isn’t going to be happy in this place, I fear.”

“I guess I’ll just have to keep her distracted, then,” I replied, as we entered the deceptively-named Great Hall.

When I was done with my inspection, I assembled my people back down in the inner bailey.  The day was fading already, and the temperature was dropping, but I wanted to address them before they fled in despair.  They were my other resource, and perhaps my greatest one.  They needed a lordly pep-talk.

First there was my new bride – Lady Alya.  Seven months pregnant, now, but no less a leader for her delicate condition.  Besides being beautiful and insatiable, she also had uncanny wisdom and intelligence – and that’s not just the crowing of a happy new bridegroom.  She had run her family’s prosperous farmstead and creamery up in the mountains of Boval Vale, and those skills would be valuable in organizing the castle and running the staff.

There was Sagal, of course, and Alya’s sister, his wife Ela – my new extended family.  He and his wife were one of six score of Bovali refugee families who agreed to take my service when I received my grant, joined by dozens of Bovali stragglers and mercenaries who were keen to forge a new life far from the Dead God’s hordes.  To them, even this shithole was welcome.

I had a genuine admiration for the resilient Bovali.  Strong, hearty mountainfolk, all, used to a lenient lord and prosperous times, they had handled the adversity of invasion, displacement, and relocation better than I could have hoped.  Most had some experience in arms, after the horrible siege, most had lost friends and family and all they held dear, and all were eager to start new lives far away from their old lands and old enemies.  The bulk of them would be here in a week or so, after we had settled in and prepared for them.  At least that was the plan.  I’d brought Sir Cei, Sagal and a few other stout, well-armed Bovali lads with me as an advanced party in case I ran into difficulties.

Also with us was Forondo, the mercenary cavalry captain who agreed to lead my garrison, once I’d offered him the position.  He wasn’t the finest soldier in the world, but then I didn’t need the finest to turn Bovali peasants into decent infantry.  I just needed a capable leader of men, one who knew his trade well enough to teach it.  Forondo was more than adequate for that task.

I liked the Remeran.  He was a good cavalry soldier, and a good leader of men.  He was also sick of fighting goblins and fleeing for his life, and had led his remaining thirty soldiers here with the promise of a good garrison billet.  He wasn’t much good as a cavalry captain now, anyway.  More than two thirds of his men had no horses, so I had the infantry guarding our baggage at the river port.  We shouldn’t need them right away.

As warriors, that is.  We’d need every man of them to help put this ruin right.

Finally there was Sir Cei.

Yes, that Sir Cei.  I assure you, he was quite surprised when I asked him to take my service in the aftermath of my wedding in Talry.   I could understand why.  Sir Cei had been the castellan of Boval Castle, under the notorious Sire Koucey, as loyal a knight retainer as one could ask for.  He’d also been in charge when I’d overthrown his boss and taken control of Boval’s defenses in the final days of the siege, so the possibility of resentment on his part was high.

A lesser man might not have been able to rise from that humiliation, but that demonstrated what kind of character Sir Cei possessed.  He’d spent the last three months playing sheepdog to a few thousand Bovali refugees in an old Ducal castle thousands of miles from their homeland, while I was off fighting the goblin hordes in Alshar, and he’d managed to keep them together.

He’d done his best, after Koucey’s brother died of an infection acquired during the siege, to keep the frightened peasants fed, clothed, sheltered and protected with the assistance of a few other of Koucey’s gentlemen knights who’d escaped the siege.

The Bovali looked to Sir Cei, and he would be instrumental in installing them into their new homeland.  He was the last vestige of order left from their old lives, and the Bovali peasants looked to him fiercely, I’d found, despite his dour character and reputation for hard-dealing.  Sir Cei and I had never gotten along well in Boval, but we respected each other professionally, and that was a sufficient foundation to base our arrangement upon.  I needed an experienced castellan, and he needed a job.  Once he recognized my patent of nobility and my knighthood, he dropped much of his attitude towards me and actually treated me with respect and deference.

I asked him about his change of heart on the road to Sevendor, one night a few weeks before, when we were deep in our cups.  He just shrugged and replied I was a brother knight, now, and thus he was bound by the rules of chivalry, which required him to treat me as a peer, not a tradesman.  He spoke about it as if it was a natural law.

I’ll never understand the nobility.

The respect he was accorded by the Bovali was important to me.  I knew from the moment I selected Sevendor that it was a thinly populated fief.  To do what I wanted to do with it, I’d need help – lots of willing, motivated help.   You can’t hire that kind of help.  You have to inspire it.  The Bovali were cut off from the only place they’d ever known.  They were lost and needed a home.

Sir Cei was the bridge to lead as many of them as would come to Sevendor.  He and Sir Roncil and a few others had accompanied Sagal and his wife upriver for my wedding, and I had asked him to join us after we sorted out the shenanigans that erupted. Say what you will about his taciturn manner, Sir Cei knew how to get the most out of the Bovali, and if they didn’t love him for it they did not hate him, either.

I felt I had chosen well.  He was well-suited for the task of Castellan.  Sir Cei was Bovali as well (or close enough), a landless Wilderlands knight, less-refined in culture and manners than even that sorry sack of sherry Erantal.  But what he lacked in sophistication he made up for with competence, common sense, fairness and sheer determination.

He was a proven castellan, having been in charge of Boval Castle before it fell to the goblin horde.  Apart from our political issues, he’d run the siege as admirably as anyone could have.  As such it had fallen to him to keep the place in as good repair as it had been.  Perhaps that was why he seemed so gloomy that first day in Sevendor, seeing what little he had to work with.

The Castellan is an office of high import.  Technically, a castellan keeps the keys to the fortress and lockbox, but practically the office also oversees most of the day-to-day affairs of a fief in the absence of the lord of the manor.  An estate lived or died on the competence of its castellan – he was the one who got things done.

Sir Cei knew how to keep a staff in line, organize a household, regulate local affairs and dispense petty justice.  He hadn’t been particularly well-liked in Boval Vale, but that doesn’t mean he was a poor castellan – the job doesn’t lend itself to making friends.  But that was the kind of determination I’d need by the wagonload if Sevendor was ever going to prosper.

He was efficient and professional.  He was also without a job.  Rather than take up the sell-sword’s trade, as he’d been considering, I convinced him to accept a post at my small castle, and I could see he was grateful for the opportunity.  I, at least, was a known quantity.  I looked to him gratefully as my people ringed around me.  He nodded, called everyone to attention, and I started giving orders.  I tried to be polite about it.

“First, let’s get milady’s tent set up here in the courtyard – I won’t let her in that place until every inch has been scrubbed down to the bare stone and wood and all vermin eliminated.”

There was a general murmur of agreement – everyone had been appalled at the state of the castle.  It was six weeks before the first official day of winter, but the weather was yet mild.  We’d slept in worse plenty of nights on the road and river, and to my eye the weather was likely to be fair enough for a few days, a light snowshower not withstanding.  We wouldn’t freeze out here any more than we would if we were in the keep.

“Second, Sagal take the two scrawny excuses for cows in the byre here and have some of your lads slaughter them.  Then take one down to the village with the compliments of their new lord.  Cook the other.  Take what’s left of that cask of wine we found in Erantal’s room, too.  Tell them they have a day of holiday tomorrow, which will give us time to get organized, and two days of work detail at the castle after that.  Sir Cei, escort the fare down there, introduce yourself, tell them how bright their future just became.  Pass out some pennies, even. Rollo, you go with him, try to see what the people think.”

Goodman Rollo – now Corporal Rollo – was another Bovali peasant who had taken up arms for the siege and who had forgotten to put them back down again.  He’d been a crofter until his wife and daughter had been slain at his home in the first wave of the invasion.  He and his brother had made it to Boval Castle and safety.  His brother had perished in the siege, leaving him all alone in the world.

He was a burly man, barrel-chested and well-muscled.  A peaceful man forced to arms by tragedy, his constant smile, mail shirt and sword masked the man who lost his family. . . but you could tell it gnawed at him powerfully within.

He would have made a good Ancient in an army, I think, but he would have made an even better family man.   I could give him a task and count on it getting done, without messing it up, so he’d acted as one of my aides along the journey.

“Oh, and let those two poor fellows in the stocks free in celebration of my investiture.  Unless they’re rapists or murderers, that is.”

Rollo nodded gamely.  He’d tend to it.

“Captain Forondo, post sentries tonight.  Your own men, not the . . . locals.  Take the spearholders who live here in hand and evaluate their fitness for duty.”  The Captain nodded, simply.  I could be sure it would be done.  He’d done well enough drilling the Bovali, back during the siege.  Putting the right people in the right job was the only way I was going to get anything done.

“Now, for the cleaning,” I continued.  “Starting at dawn, I want every man and woman who isn’t pregnant with my child to bring everything out of that castle and into the yard.  We’re going to attack the place with lye and water.  I want a full inventory and accounting, down to the last nail and button.  And clean out that floor!  Matron Peg, if you will show my people where fresh rushes may be cut, I’d appreciate it.”

“Yes, milord,” she said, wide-eyed.  She bowed way too low, unsure of how I would react.  She was frightened, I realized.  For all she knew, I could throw her out of the castle and make her a beggar.  It occurred to me that I might get a better response if they knew better what to expect.

“Um . . . let me tell you all my plans for this place,” I said to everyone, a little nervously.  Time for my speech.  I looked to Alya for support, and she favored me with a confident smile.

“I am the first mage to hold noble title and land since the fall of the Magocracy.  This little experiment of His Grace is to prove that the High Magi can be trusted as model subjects and not oppress their people or destroy their neighbors.  He gave us shit-all to do it with – this estate is a bad joke.  But I aim to prove him right, and I’ll need your help to do it.

“We all saw the same . . . conditions as we rode in.  Compared to what you’re used to, Sevendor will be hard, for a time.  But there is great possibility, here.  With hard work – and a whole lot of money – we can restore this little land to prosperity again.  It’s barely peopled, with plenty of room for more folk.  It’s near enough to the river, yet has little to trade now.  I intend to change all of that.

“We’ll get a smithy.  A tannery.  A creamery.  A temple.  A mill.  A bakery.  Whatever we need. Whomever we need.  Except a spellmonger – I think we’re fine on that account.”  That brought laughter from my Bovali.

“There is hard work aplenty in the days ahead,” I continued.  “And I think you all know I’m not the type to sit back and sup on sweetmeats when there is work to be done.  So all I ask is that you work as hard as I, and in the coming days we shall rescue this poor neglected estate from squalor and build Sevendor into the most prosperous little land in the Duchy!”

There were cheers after that, and I ordered a cask of cider breached for the occasion.

As I stood by and watched the tent go up in the twilight, Alya sidled up to me as sultry as a woman shaped like a watermelon could.

“Brilliant speech, Spellmonger,” she murmured.  “I think they even believed it.”

“Which part?” I asked, seeking her hand.  Her fingers were cold.

“The part about you working the hardest,” she whispered.

“Good.  That was the most important part,” I whispered back.

She stifled a giggle.  “How does it feel to be the lord of the land?”

“Hmm.  Well, my ass hurts from being in the saddle for too long, I’m starving, it’s cold, and I think I’m allergic to something in the castle.  Apart from that, pretty damn good.”

“Good enough to . . . service the lady of the castle?”

“What?  Already?” I asked, surprised.  Not that she had been at all demure during her pregnancy.  In fact, since our wedding night . . .

“It would be a propitious start to your rule if you should consecrate your new land by a life-affirming consummation,” she explained, as reasonably as any high-born lady.

“That’s the classiest case for a late afternoon quickie I’ve ever heard.”

“Good.  Did it work?”

“We’ll see.  I’ve only got about eight thousand details to see to before tonight.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.  As soon as the pavilion is set up.”  She leaned up and kissed me.  Thoroughly.

“Oh.  Okay,” I agreed, dumbly, when she broke it off.

“Men are so easy,” she said with a satisfied smile as Sagal and a few lads began assembling our portable home.

After Alya had gotten her lusty exercise and gone to sleep, I stayed awake and enjoyed the feeling of castle ownership far into the night.  It was peaceful, once the chill was chased away by a fire.   We sat up around the fire in the bailey late into the night and talked about everything that would need doing while we killed that cider.  We got to know our new retainers and learn a little about the people of Sevendor, such as they were.

They were suspicious, of course, with good reason.  After Erantal’s disgraceful governance, they had seen nothing but neglect and decay haunt Sevendor in their lifetimes. The idea of a local lord who was working in his own interest frightened them, as well as excited them.

That pretty much described my own feelings on the matter.  Excited at the prospect of the possibilities of Sevendor, but frightened of the amount of labor and effort and money it would take to bring to fruition.  With each passing cup it became alternatively easy and impossible to make it work in my mind.  All I had to do was make a List, and it would be done in no time.

Just before I went to warm my cold hands on my warm wife in my tent, I looked up into the night sky and saw a massive snowflake descending, the harbinger of a sprinkling to come.

I decided to take that as a good omen.  It was the Magelord’s prerogative.

Chapter Three

Housekeeping

The next morning dawned cold but clear, with frost and a light dusting of snow on the peaks of the pavilion over our traveling bed.  We were up before daybreak, and after a quick breakfast of biscuits, oats and dried apples, washed down with hot, strong tea, we got properly organized.  And it hurt a little.

My head was a little tender from the previous night’s cider, and I wasn’t the only one.   Perhaps to spite me Sir Cei and Sagal both seemed to take great pleasure in shouting their orders, but I very graciously refrained from having them executed on the spot.

One team of locals worked under Old Peg, cleaning the castle out.  They were a sorry-looking lot, scared half to death of the chaos and change, malnourished and dressed in rags.  The better rations were smoothing out any grumbling about working so hard in the winter – last night’s roast was the first time some had ever tasted beef.  And they did know how to clean, once they were properly motivated.  But most were sullen and resentful of the intrusion.

Another team of locals was working with my Bovali subjects to reinforce the drawbridge.  We had to.  We had more wagons coming, a lot more, and it was all too easy to break an axle or a mount’s ankle on that treacherous thing.  While it left us in a weakened state of defenses, I really didn’t think we’d have to worry about attack for at least six months.

See how optimistic I was?

Lady Alya oversaw the clearing of the great hall and the sorting of the merchandise, and took inventory of the stores and the weaving.  That was simple – there was no weaving.  Sir Erantal hadn’t kept a wife, or any kind of “lady” of the castle besides Old Peg, which meant no one to organize the constant industry required to produce adequate clothes for a large household.  Everything was purchased from outside of the estate, which explained the poor attire.

Alya was especially disgusted at the state of the kitchen.  It was a ramshackle wooden affair just to the west side of the donjon, a dark, filthy little hole from which the daily meals were prepared.  The chimney smoked badly, the midden pit was right outside the door, and there were vermin in all three bags of coarse flour in the stores.

Alya ran her family’s creamery, from the accounts to the cows, and she had a cheese maker’s contempt for dirt.  Perhaps it was a husband’s enchantment with a new bride coloring my perceptions, but she looked positively adorable as she fumed and waddled through the place – as if she took its foul condition as a personal affront.

Alya directed every bucket and pot in the castle be filled with water (which she then had me heat up to near-boiling with magic) and then every surface, wall, and floor was scrubbed to the bare wood and stone as their lord had commanded.   Great heaps of trash were hauled away, years’ worth of debris and rubbish embedded in the rotted rushes of the Great Hall’s floor.

Another party of Sevendori peasants began cutting fresh rushes for the floors. They were down in the marshy floodplain of the stream, no doubt thankful that they were avoiding their new lady’s ire.

Goody Nanily, one of the Bovali matrons who accompanied our advanced party, took over the kitchen and began re-organizing it to cook for everyone, which irritated Old Peg to no end.  Sir Cei had to break up an argument that looked as if it would come to blows between the two, and then gave Old Peg the job of cleaning out the round tower, instead.  I didn’t care who cooked, as long as there was food when it was time to eat.

Out of respect for my father and the craft he’d tried to teach me, I inspected the ovens personally. I found them disgraceful, poorly maintained and horribly inefficient.  I vowed on the spot not to eat so much as a crumb from them until I could have proper ovens built.

Captain Forondo inspected the fortifications and was unimpressed.  He got a gang of his men to begin clearing the concealing underbrush around the perimeter of the bailey.  He didn’t even bother inspecting the “garrison” – the slovenly gate guards Gorker and Gurk were apparently the cream of Sevendor’s native soldiery. He just put them to work, and when one gave him a poor attitude he released him from service on the spot.  There were no more arguments after that.

Gorker explained that most of the proper soldiers had been called to service in Farise, and then lost at sea.  Only a fever had spared him a similar fate – or so he said. He followed us everywhere, patiently telling us the history of various features of the crumbling old heap.  He didn’t hesitate to heap scorn on Sir Erantal for his neglect, and I soon got the feeling that he genuinely cared for the place.  He expressed excitement over having a proper lord, and looked forward to going into battle beside me.

I hoped for both our sake that would be a while.  As it was, the castle was barely defendable.  Walls were in need of repair, wooden stairways were rotten or broken, roofs leaked, chimneys smoked, vines overgrew large portions of the walls and donjon.

That afternoon Captain Forondo reported what he’d discovered.  The newer tower on the wall overlooking the village was in the best shape, he indicated, but that wasn’t saying much.  I detailed Gorker to remove his residence to it and prepare it for proper garrisoning; pointing out that the work on the drawbridge would make his old post uninhabitable for a few days.  Out at that lonely tower he and his boy could do no mischief, and they might even actually get it into reasonable shape.

The armory in the eastern square tower was a pitiful collection of axes, rusty swords, and simple spears.  There were some bows, but few arrows.  There were only four crude crossbows with no more than a dozen iron bolts for each.  The armor was all but unusable, a few rusty old iron pot helmets and coats-of-plates with the leather rotted through.  Gorker seemed to have the best of the lot.

I wandered around and looked lordly all morning, giving encouragement, casting helpful spells where I saw a need, and making a List of everything that needed to be done.  It grew to gargantuan proportions almost immediately.

In addition to the sad state of the castle, I was anticipating the arrival of at least a thousand Bovali within the next month. They would have to be fed, clothed and sheltered through the winter.  So I sent Sir Cei and a few men to survey the village to determine just how quickly additional housing could be built.  The first caravans of Bovali could be arriving as early as a week and I wanted to be ready.

He and his men returned near lunch, sour expressions on their faces.  The news wasn’t good.  In a lot of ways. I led them down to the courtyard temporary kitchen where one of the Bovali wives was serving journeybread and lentil stew with beef and dried flosins.  I’d already had one serving, but I wouldn’t have felt right not joining my men in their meal.  Besides, doing magic makes me hungry.

“Magelord, there are no less than a score of foundations that could be put to proper service in short order,” Sir Cei began, “but even with dozens working through the winter I cannot imagine we could raise more than two or three homes before spring with the lumber we have.”

“You aren’t considering the advantages of spellcraft,” I pointed out.  “I think I can speed up the process.  But even twenty foundations won’t be enough for all of our people,” I said, as he held out his mug for me to charge with watered cider.

“There are four more cots that lie abandoned that could be put into immediate service, for the larger families, perhaps.  And there is some space in the outer bailey.  Perhaps other places I haven’t seen yet.  But for the rest, tents and wagons will have to do for now.”

“What about the other fortress, in the eastern vale?  Could that not be employed?”

I hadn’t seen it yet, but the state of Sevendor castle was not encouraging.  I was holding out the faint possibility that it was in better repair . . .

“That is the very bad news, Sire,” Sir Cei sighed.  “In speaking with the village headman, Railan, called the Steady, I discovered something disturbing.  Apparently the eastern vale is . . . occupied.”

“Occupied?  By whom?” I asked, not really understanding at first.  Sir Cei looked very serious, though, and then I realized exactly what he meant.  “It was conquered?” I asked in disbelief.

“Yes, Sire,” he sighed.  “Four years ago, by the Lord of West Fleria, Sire Gimbal, called the Warbird.  It was a private war, and technically illegal.  And it was hardly any great conquest.  If I inferred properly from what the man said, it seems Sir Erantal gave no more than a token defense of the fief.  Railan even suggested that Sir Erantal had taken compensation from West Fleria for his lack of valor.”

I nodded, my nostrils flaring.  “That wouldn’t be too far off the track, I’d say.  West Fleria gets the most fertile part of Sevendor, and Erantal has half as much fief to administer.  Pray tell why this development was not in the records at Wilderhall?”

Sir Cei shrugged.  “I know not, Sire.  But it is not unknown for accounts to be late, mislaid, or mysteriously vanish.  Sire Koucey sent his accounting with his tribute to the Duchy every year, but not all nobles are so fastidious.”

“Can West Fleria even do that?” I asked, my jaw clenching.  “Legally, that is?”

“From what I know of the law, Sire, an estate administered by the Duchy is prohibited from being attacked for conquest in a private war,” he related, thoughtfully, “but in practice, who would complain?  And to whom?  And expect them to do what?  At the most, the Duchy would hire troops to restore the conquered land, but I doubt it would be worth the cost in this case.  In a generation it won’t even be remembered as such, and the documents to counter West Fleria’s dominion would mysteriously appear.  Who checks the authenticity of such things?”

“I would,” I admitted.  “But then I’m a suspicious commoner.  Was a suspicious commoner,” I corrected.  “Now I’m a suspicious magelord.  And I’m not about to allow a third of my domain to be improperly and illegally taken from me before I even have a chance to defend it!”

“It occurs to me, Sire, that picking a quarrel with your neighbor before your people cross his lands to get to yours would not be wise.”

This was how Sir Cei told you that he thought you were messing things up, by saying “it occurs to me, Sire.”  I was learning that he was often absolutely correct when he said it.  That didn’t make it more endearing.

“Oh, I know,” I sighed.  “We wouldn’t be able to do anything until spring, anyway.  I guess we’ll just have to ignore it for now, but I will going to get my rightful fief back.”

“War, Sire?” Sir Cei asked, surprised but interested.  “So early in your tenure?”

“War if necessary,” I conceded.  “And if so, then on my terms.  But it’s also possible we can convince West Fleria to just give us back the valley.”

“And how does my lord propose to do that?” he asked, as close to amused as I’d ever seen him.

“Magic,” I shrugged.  “Or bullshit.  Probably a healthy combination of both.  But if I have to hire an army to take it back, I will.  That’s my land, by Briga’s sweaty brow, and I will have it back.”

“Spoken like a true knight,” Sir Cei said approvingly.  I shot him a look.  He looked even more amused.  “It occurs to me that acquiring property, title and position can change a man, Sire.”

“I’m not going to be one of those warmonger nobles whose neighbors always live in fear of, if that’s what you’re thinking.  But I’m paying tribute on the whole fief, I’d prefer to actually have possession of the whole fief.”

“I would never suggest otherwise,” Cei said, surprised.  “It would be an insult to your honor to let such a thing stand.”

Honor.  Great.  I had to worry about honor now.

I let it pass.  “As soon as we get settled here, we’re going to tend to that.  And if we have to get creative about it, then I’ll just add it to my list of unlikely things I’ve been forced to do.”

“It will take a lot of effort and coin before this place is ready to withstand even a modest war,” he said, nodding to the hulking gray stones of the keep.  “And a lot more men at your command.”

“Then let’s discuss what we’re going to need first, and put together a shopping list.  You’re going back to Sendaria Port.  I want you to head out before nightfall.  If you hurry, you can be back here with the first big caravan of Bovali settlers when they arrive.  As a matter of fact, you’d better be, or I don’t know what we’ll feed them.”

We spent the next few hours carefully writing out a list of things we desperately needed, another list of things we needed as soon as we could get them, and a third list of things it would be nice to have.  Then I gave Sir Cei a big bag of money from my steadily-dwindling supply and sent him on his way with five or six Bovali lads to go buy it.  Then he was to lead the rest of our people back here when they arrived, quietly, across our belligerent neighbor’s lands before he could realize that Sevendor was under new management.

I included plenty of second-hand clothes on my list – the people of the vale were dressed in rags – and I instructed Rollo to go with them to look around for a young smith or carpenter who might be persuaded to come to Sevendor.  And masons.  Without even studying the matter I knew I wanted to redesign some major parts of the keep, including the construction of a new outer bailey wall and a larger donjon.

But that was in the future.  For now I just wanted a clean, dry place to sleep.

It took three days to haul all of the litter, debris, and battered old furnishings out into the sun.  Most of the better stuff I gave away to the villagers, who were delighted to get it, as deplorable as it was.  Some I had burned or junked.  I kept very few pieces.

This was my new home, and I wanted the place to be new, inside and out.  So I sent a messenger over the high pass to Sashtalia, the fief to the northwest, to hire a woodwright from Jessep village.  He came to see me in person a few days later, not believing what my messenger told him I needed.

He was reluctant, at first, but when I paid him in advance he assured me he would have something suitable for a lord, and soon.  I commissioned a few good pieces of furniture and some specialized pieces I would need for my laboratory as well.  But a proper bed was at the top of the list.  I didn’t want my son born in a tent or my wife to sleep on an uncomfortable travel bed.  I paid him lavishly to deliver one as soon as possible.  The woodwright assured me he could procure a suitable tick – a big, soft, feather bed – with little trouble and would deliver them both as quickly as he could.  It might seem a luxury, considering everything else we desperately needed, but if I was going to be a noble, I was damn well going to sleep like one.

The three long, exhausting days we spent scrubbing and cleaning and repairing allowed me to get to know some of my new Sevendori subjects.  They actually warmed up to me significantly, after spending some time working with me and learning that, like they, my lady and I had been born commoners.

Most important in those early days was Railan the Steady, the Reeve of Sevendor Village.  He was a dour man in his late forties, and was vocally anxious about the change in administration, as if he was waiting for me to laugh and tell him it was all a joke at any moment.  He and Sir Erantal had butted heads repeatedly, apparently, as much as a reve and a lord can without loss of position.  In fact, after I got to know the man a little I found out that the conquest of Brestal Vale was in part in retaliation for a tiff the reeve had with the caretaker.

It seems Sir Erantal was too free with the wrong man’s wife, and Railan had to keep him from trying to murder the knight, four years back.  The knight lost face and began imposing harsh penalties on everyone in the vales.

Sir Erantal continued to covet her, until Railan was forced to officially petition the noble and humbly ask that he respect the laws of the gods and men about the sanctity of marriage.  Sir Erantal took offense, and ordered the man, his wife, and his entire family relocated to Brestal Farms, a hamlet once located by Hyer’s Tower, as far away from the castle as possible.

When the attack from West Fleria came, the hamlet the family had relocated to was wiped out to the last child.  Further, Flerian raiders had burned half of Sevendor village, and pillaged enough to force the peasants to flee to Sir Erantal for protection . . . only to find the gatehouse locked against them.  A hundred and forty people died, and Brestal was gone.

Since then the two had enjoyed a strong animosity.  After a couple of days of working with him, I found Railan to be a wise enough man, if utterly unimaginative, conservative, and ignorant.

He wasn’t terribly thrilled about a bunch of strange-talking Bovali settling in Sevendor, but he had a peasant’s resignation to the whims of his lord down pat.  And even he had to admit that things were looking a lot better for his folk since we arrived.  They’d eaten better the last three days than they had at the harvest festival.  The children were even starting to laugh again.

By the third day the Great Hall, at least, was clean enough to eat in, and the men billeted there at night.  We didn’t separate ourselves from them, as some nobles do – we ate communally every morning, and Lady Alya and I gave out work assignments and listened to people bitch over breakfast.

I made a point of making breakfast, at least, an informal family affair where people could complain without offending me or anyone else.  If there was something amiss with my people, I wanted to know about it.  And if I felt like grousing myself, that’s where I could do it.  Or at least that was the theory.  Mostly those first days, people just bitched about the hard work.

It quickly became obvious that I would have to have the kitchen completely rebuilt, and soon.  The castle’s population had more than doubled overnight, and the sodden shed with the smoky chimney just wasn’t up to the demand.  We had been cooking over open fires in the bailey, but that wouldn’t do all winter.

Nor would Old Peg do as a kitchen boss.  By the third day the old hag had taken to shrieking whenever we tried to move anything, and I had to send her to her room.  The Bovali goodwife, Nanily was a portly matron with an earthy laugh and a no-nonsense attitude.  She did well enough in the role, but even she was complaining that we had to have a proper kitchen after a week.  Added to the List.

The kennels were leaking and falling apart.  Added to the List.  The privies were disgusting and needed to be repaired.  Added to the List.  The roofs of just about every part of the castle needed to be sealed against rain and wind.  Added to the List.  The well house was falling over.  Added to the List.

Just at dusk on our eighth day the sentry I’d posted at the boundary stone blew three strong blasts on the summons-horn, letting us know our people were returning.  By moonrise a long line of over fifty wagons wound its way across the vale, full of tired Bovali and freshly purchased supplies.

Almost five hundred of the refugees came, mostly on foot and mostly in good order, marshaled by a few stout men on horses.  They were all grateful to be at their new home, and a party broke out in the inner bailey as soon as they were all accounted for.  And since Sir Cei and Rollo returned from Sendaria with them, there was actually something drinkable with which to celebrate.

Sir Cei had done plenty of shopping, securing five hogsheads of good Riverlands red wine, and twice as much hard cider and beer.

He’d also hired drovers to herd fifty head of cattle behind the main column.

And fifty goats.

And twenty sheep.

Thirty live chickens.

A dozen turkeys.

Four donkeys

Ten pigs.

Four hundred pounds of salt pork.

Fifty pounds of salt.

Two wagons of flour. (Sevendor had no mill and had to pay the miller in the next fiefdom over a hefty fee to grind their grist.  I put it on my List.)

Another wagon of seed wheat, rye, maize oats and barley.

A hundredweight of honey.  (No bee hives in Sevendor.  On the List.)

A wagon of assorted winter roots.

A wagon of clothes and blankets.

A wagonload of lumber and a journeyman carpenter.

A wagon packed with tools, from shovels and axes to picks and plows.

A wagon of sundries, such as sugar, oil, wax, tar, and dried fruit.

And wagons of stuff I had no idea about.

Sir Cei had spent almost a thousand ounces of gold, but Rollo told me later (with a hint of pride, I thought) how the knight had haggled over every purchase like a widowed goodwife selling eggs in the market.  We got our money’s worth.  Our biggest problem would be where to put it all – there just wasn’t enough room to store it in the castle, so we had to erect more tents and sheds.

That went for people, too.  There wasn’t room in the castle for the second wave of Bovali.  Not even if I encamped them in the bailey, not if we were going to be able to work on the castle.  After seeing no alternative, I had them pitch a temporary camp on the village commons, near the stream, as they arrived.  The goats could forage further afield for a few days.  The cows were herded into a long-abandoned field for the moment.

The carpenter was fresh from his dour master’s employ and was eager to make a name for himself, bringing a young wife and a younger brother as sawyer and assistant. He began work on the kitchen immediately.

Sir Cei brought other good news: a blacksmith was coming.  A young journeyman, also new to his trade, but he knew how to forge and weld and he could build the eight thousand other things you needed to keep a castle going.  Sir Cei would return to Sendaria in a fortnight to finalize the details, but he assured me we’d have a working forge by midsummer, if not long before.

The day after the big caravan arrived, the Bovali got their first good look at their new home.

It was a mixed reaction – it was not as fair a land as the Minden vale they’d been born in, but it was far more like home than the unfamiliar flatlands they’d traveled through to get here.  The ruinous condition of the land was a cause for much head-shaking, but the wide, vacant floor of the valley seemed to invite a hopeful disposition.  After what they’d been through, Sevendor would have had to be a real wasteland not to appeal to them.

There was a great bustle that morning as we got the families organized, assigning some to manage the herds, some to unload the wagons, and some to prepare the half-deserted village for new houses and sheds.

Almost immediately there were problems with the Sevendor natives, but Sir Cei adeptly intervened, ensuring that Railan the Steady would remain reeve, for the time being, with all of his traditional privileges and rights . . . as well as two of the new cows.  That kind of simple graft seemed almost refreshing after the nastiness I’d witnessed at court.

We spent the rest of the week figuring out who should do what, making sure everyone got fed, and everyone stayed warm.  The arrival of the new settlers meant we could finally guard the realm properly, too.  Captain Forondo now had enough militia to man the walls, the gatehouse, the donjon, and the border post.  He also had daily horse-mounted patrols of the de facto frontier – we’d deal with the issue of Brestal Vale in good time, but we weren’t ready yet.

The carpenter began building his own shop, after putting a kitchen together.  He and his brother took a party of Bovali timbermen into the forest to choose the right trees for lumber and they got to work.  Like all Wilderlands folk, the Bovali knew how to fell a tree.  Lumber was once the Alshari Wilderlands biggest export.  In the meantime, the carpenter was using lumber purchased from the woodwright in Sashtalia.

Makeshift houses little more than tents quickly went up in the village, and Alya and I donated our pavilion to the poor folks camped out on the commons when we finally moved into the round tower.  At the end of the week I felt settled-in enough to command a proper celebration.

The great hall of the donjon was now clean from top to bottom, and new sweet-smelling rushes were laid down for the . . . well, call it a feast, but it felt more like a picnic, as the Bovali saw their new lord’s home for the first time in an official capacity.  The hall, at least, was cheery against the night’s wind.  The chimney to the great fireplace had been repaired and cleaned now, bathing the hall in warmth and an insulation spell kept it that way.

Every night after our labors we repaired there for a morsel, a song, and a cup before bed.  I had already started formulating plans for re-shaping the room into something more comfortable.  The lighting was dreary.  And the chimney still stunk.  But some magelights, some wine, and a roasted pig added to the festive feel.

It was still three weeks to Yule, but it really began to feel a bit like home.  Alya even complained that she was too fat to dance, which kept me from revealing that I didn’t really know how.  We retired to the tower and our travel bed at the end of the evening almost feeling like real nobility.

The next day the List was back with a vengeance.  Even as we struck a few items off, more were added.

The outbuildings would have to be repaired, torn down, or re-thatched, depending upon the need.  The cisterns were cleansed and re-filled from the streamlet that sometimes filled the moat, but they were woefully inadequate for the population.  It had been a generation since any serious maintenance had been done on any stonework.  Weak spots in the walls were reinforced.  I added stars by a real stone mason on the List.  This was to be a proper castle, after all.

As far as my personal rooms went, I eschewed Sir Erantal’s quarters, which was one of the better ones on the third floor (after Old Peg and her crew had gotten through with it), leaving it to Sir Cei.  Captain Forondo got the other nice room in the square tower with his men.

Me, I had a lusty wife and a baby on the way – I wanted someplace safe and quiet.  We moved into the rearmost tower, the round tower, after I ensured it was relatively vermin-free.  Once our bed was delivered it was warmer than sleeping outdoors, particularly once I did a spell to keep it toasty.  And it gave us significantly more privacy.

The lower room of my tower served as a sitting room, connected to the rear of the Great Hall by a small covered walk, while our bedchamber was above it, reached by a stone staircase.  Above that was my lab and workroom.  The parapet above the lab was a good place to watch the stars, smoke, and contemplate the mysteries of the universe.

And once I decided on that, my work really began.

I had grown used to the ball of green magical amber I constantly wore around my neck.    I’d borne a pebble-sized stone for most of a year, and wrought great magics with it.

Now it was huge, grown to over thrice its original size by Alkan magic.  I won’t lie – I was nervous about the new, super-powerful sphere I now possessed.  It set me apart from my peers by giving me powers several orders of magnitude over even those High Magi armed with irionite.  Within the sphere swam a pattern the origin and purpose of which I had only the vaguest idea.  The old Alkan who had re-crafted it had made certain . . . augmentations, but had warned that the effects could prove dangerous, if I was not careful.

I endeavored to be careful.

It helped that this kind of support spells were my specialty – I had chosen the career of spellmonger, and charms of this nature had been my bread and butter for my glorious six-month career.  I liked charms and wardings.  You get a lot of personal satisfaction from them, like painting a wall.

More importantly, since I was acting as my own court mage, I was cautiously eager to see what the full power of my stone could really do.  My quarters seemed a good place to experiment.  When I was reasonably certain Sir Cei and Alya had the castle and lands well in-hand, I retired to the bare room that would become my personal lab and seated myself.

It was time to make some magic happen.

I started with the foundation of the tower, where I was gratified that the pilings, at least, were dug right to the basalt bedrock under the hill, and they were solidly made.  Still, I reinforced them, making the stones of the tower meld with the bedrock.

Then I began my journey toward the surface.   I sent my consciousness into each block of stone, feeling for stability, how it fitted together with the stones around it.  And then I melded the blocks together so well that it would have taken a mason’s hammer to scratch it.

One by one, I worked my way upward until every stone in the tower had been done.  It would have taken a real court wizard months of meditation to do even the foundations – with irionite I improved the structural strength of the rickety pile of rocks to the point where it would withstand all but the harshest of forces . . . in an afternoon

That’s why real court wizards (without witchstones) get paid lots of gold for the same service.   It takes forever.  I wanted this place, where my wife and child would sleep, to be the safest possible.  I had enemies, and not all of them had black fur and hated sunlight.

My recent rise to the nobility was likely to attract attention, too, and then there was the Royal Censorate of Magic who, if they didn’t have a price on my head already, were merely delaying until the debate about how high to set the bounty was concluded.  And at any time my erstwhile allies at court could decide to stick a knife in me.  Goblins were a concern, but they weren’t my immediate concern.

When I was finished it was easily the most secure part of the castle.  I celebrated by eating supper and then continued. The tower was now strong, but it wasn’t quite useful enough to me yet.  I needed more.  I went back into the stones and began erecting the magical architecture necessary to support the kind of heavy enchantment I wanted it to bear.  This isn’t as easy as it sounds, and I’d never done this level of enchantment before.

Imagine trying to keep your favorite thousand-phrase poem in your head while simultaneously remembering the Sacred Number of each of the lesser elements, in order, by name . . . while examining a rock collection to the point where you can identify each specimen by sight at a distance.  I wasn’t able to maintain that level of focus as well as I would have liked, but luckily the forces I was playing around with weren’t dangerous or overtly powerful.  I made mistakes, but I quickly learned from them.

The abundance of power made the execution much easier, but in some ways it actually made preparation more difficult.  Hard to explain, unless you’re a High Mage. For instance, sometimes a hotter fire will cook something faster, but most of the time it will just burn it up.

I took my time.  I was careful.  And I was lavish.  I began with plying the forces of the greater elements.  I ran a central line of force from base to peak, grounding it thoroughly in the earth.  The water table was near enough the surface so adding its influence was easy.  Tendrils of power lashed out like spokes of a wheel, fostering divisions of force and separation of purpose.  Seen with magesight, the tower appeared as a kind of bizarre tree, a lance of energy for a trunk and an ever-branching tangle of lines of magical force for the boughs.

The fruit of that tree was every protective spell I could think of.  Glyphs of warding against fire, flood, rot, insects, and vermin.  Spells of comfort for the sitting room, peace and passion for the bedroom, and my lab had the usual arsenal of wards every competent mage invests in his private space to keep the risk of accidental explosion at bay.  Passive and active defensive spells were the final touch, anti-spying spells, anti-dust spells, anti-intruder spells, I cast every glyph and rune I could to cover as much area as possible.

I ended by surrounding the entire thing in a magical cone of force which, when activated, would insulate the drafty old place from wind, weather, dampness and keep it pleasantly heated, too.  I’d have to power the spell myself, for a while – but eventually I could procure a piece of thaumaturgic glass tuned properly to make the spell permanent, even when I wasn’t around.

When I was done, near to dawn the next day, I had the most secure tower attached to the shakiest castle in the Five Duchies. My tower was tight against the elements, against fire, against gravity itself.

I stumbled into the rickety travel bed downstairs to snuggle under the covers with my increasingly large bride.  We’d managed to wrap our bed in furs and quilts which, with the help of magic and a well-laid fire, kept us warm and toasty against the chill of the winter’s night.  As I drifted off, bone tired, I couldn’t help but give a deep sigh of contentment.

This beat the hell out of fighting goblins.

Chapter Four

Affairs of State

I slept most of the day that followed, and indulged in a massive lunch of bacon and toast and dried fruit delivered to my room by my very anxious wife.  Alya’s face was lined with worry when she woke me.  She wasn’t used to the physical costs of doing magic, yet.  It was a little easier in some ways, with irionite, but I hadn’t done that kind of power-heavy work since Timberwatch.

I took her up to the lab and tried to explain what I had done to our new home, as best I could to a layman.  She understood the sudden lack of draughts in the place well enough, and was appreciative of the vermin and pests which had infested the tower suddenly being anxious to be elsewhere.

I also inspected the result of my enchantment.  The spells were still in place and functioning properly.  I should be able to tap into that font of power, should I need to, and it would help keep the simple enchantments I’d laid going indefinitely.  Possibly even without the need for thaumaturgical glass.

I had impressed myself.  It was painstaking work, and required long periods of intense concentration but I was reasonably happy with it.  It wasn’t artful by any stretch, but it was thorough.

When our new bed arrived by wagon from Sashtalia over the pass that afternoon, Alya and I tested both the magical and erotic capabilities of our bedroom, and were well-satisfied.

Twice.

After so pleasant an interlude with my new bride I felt guilty enough to catch up with what Sir Cei had been doing with my fief during my lengthy enchantment.

I found him at the big table in the Great Hall, where he chose to handle accounts and documentation.  The big table was actually a huge stone trestle I’d magically sliced off of a boulder and had carried inside, to rest on two massive rocks.  It was close to the fire, at the head of the hall, and it was reserved for members of my immediate household and senior retainers.  We had four wooden trestle tables as well, now, but usually only two were in use at any time, with the others packed away until needed.  As it was, the garrison and house staff ate first, and quickly, early in the morning before the senior staff and nobility broke their fast.

Eating at the castle was an important economic issue, with different classes of folk having the right automatically, periodically, or as a special favor or payment.  And since the main Bovali column had arrived with more food and Goody Nanily now had the help of a dozen experienced Bovali wives, that had started to mean something again.  The big table was impressive-looking, fourteen feet long, with space around it for a score or more, if they were cozy.  And unlike the wooden trestles, it was just too damn heavy to move around much, so it pretty much stayed there.

Cei had taken to handling the estate’s business at the great table every morning after breakfast.  He claimed it was both warmer and quieter than his room/office, which looked out to the militia’s practice yard.  It also allowed him to keep an eye on everything going on in the castle, since you pretty much had to go through the great hall to get anywhere else.

We’d started having these Lord-to-Castellan meetings regularly, every couple of days.  He’d report progress of various projects, bring me items of interest about the domain, and take instruction from me as to its governance.  The meetings were almost always casual affairs, “no one here but us aristocracy”, often over a pint of beer or cider.  It was the one time he felt entitled to speak with candor to me, and without excess politeness.

While I had been seeing to the magical architecture of the castle, he had been tending to my affairs quite admirably, I found.  He had a wax tablet with his notes written neatly on it and ran down each point with meticulous precision.  I valued his literacy – plenty a country knight saw such a thing as a foppish waste of time, an unmanly and un-chivalrous pursuit.

But then again most country knights are idiots.

“The village population has now more than doubled,” he reported patiently.  “Six new families have begun work on the foundations and framework of new homes, chosen by lot from them all.  I persuaded four families in Sevendor Village to relocate to the abandoned cots in Genly – that cost us a goat apiece, but it put four more Bovali families under a real roof.

“With your permission, I’d like to continue the effort.  Genly is half-populated, as it is, and has less potential than Sevendor.  But it is actually closer to the fields the villeins work, though not the freemen.  Railan the Steady protested.  He does not like having folk in his village that do not automatically respect his authority.”

“It’s my village, not his,” I reminded the knight. “By all means, continue the program.  See if you can’t persuade as many Sevendori as possible to relocate to Genly – offer even more incentives, if you must.”

He made an approving noise and a mark on his tablet with his stylus.

“We seem to have enough tents prepared for the Bovali on the commons, but its cold, Sire, and getting colder.  I can order more firewood issued, but even if we fell a hundred trees now they won’t be dry enough to burn until summer.  We’ve already depleted the deadwood on the castle grounds.  And we need the Westwood for timber.  Gods willing, it will be a mild winter and we can get the lumber we need for proper homes long before spring.  But until then . . .”

“We can’t let people freeze any more than we can let them starve,” I decided.  “This, at least, I can do: if the temperatures go below freezing and stay there, I can cast a spell that will give them some protection for a short time.  Say, keep it above freezing.  I won’t be able to do more than that, but if they keep their fires tended, they won’t freeze.  So issue additional wood to the commons, but remind folks that it’s a scarce commodity at the moment.  Let me know if you see anyone wasting it.  But the spell should make it bearable, at least.”

“Sire, you can do that?” Sir Cei asked, startled.

“It’s actually a simple spell,” I assured him.  “I just have to convince the air not to be cold.  But only in one spot.  And only for a night, at least for now.”

“That should bring solace to some, Sire,” he agreed, making a mark on his slate.  “Food stocks are adequate for our numbers, at the moment, but we are expecting the last of the Bovali in the next few weeks, and then they will not be.”

“Then we have a few more weeks to worry about it.  I’ll have Rondal pick up some more provisions along the way, too,” I nodded.  My junior apprentice was traveling with the main company of the Bovali peasantry as they rode up the Bontal in a string of hired barges.  “Another hundred head of cattle, two score sheep, maybe some goats.  And more grain.  We’ll be fine, barring complications,” I assured him, taking a bite of a breakfast roll that was barely passable.

“Magelord,” Sir Cei said, quietly, “will the state of your treasury permit it?”

“I’ll go penniless before I let one of my subjects starve,” I declared.  Many lords used hunger as a means of keeping their people docile and dependent.  I wasn’t going to be that kind of lord.  “It would be helpful if we had a real bakery, too.”

I’d rebuilt the ovens, passably enough for Goody Nanily’s use, but that wasn’t nearly a large enough oven to bake for the whole Vale.  We needed a baker.  I had to send to my father for assistance on that front.  Dad was a master baker who had intended me to take up his craft before I went and got all magically talented.  Luckily, I had five gorgeous sisters who had all attracted husbands who were into the bread business, one way or another.  Surely they could spare someone to rescue me from the cruel fate of mediocre baked goods.

“As you wish, Sire,” Sir Cei said, inclining his head slightly, and making another note.  He continued.  “The carpenter has surveyed the wood, the one they call the Westwood, and has agreed that there is good timber there aplenty.  He does add that the wood has been poorly managed, and is choked with underbrush and diseased trees.  Even if some of the older, straighter, and easier to reach trees would be cut, they would still not be dry enough to build with before summer.”

I thought about that.  I didn’t know much about lumber, but I knew that green wood had to dry before being used.  I’d seen shipyards on the coast use giant kilns to do the trick.  I didn’t see why that couldn’t be tried here, albeit on a smaller scale – only with magic.  I was pretty good at the thermomantic spells.  It would certainly cut down the expense of importing the lumber, and get homes built much faster.  It looked like I’d have to learn the carpenter’s trade as well as the mason’s.  I scribbled a note on my own wax tablet and motioned for Cei to continue.

“Word has spread of your ascension to the seat of Sevendor,” he said, respectfully.  “So has your openhandedness and your need of labor.  Peasants are already starting to arrive from neighboring domains seeking employ.  Both villein and free.  I’ve hired a gang of workers from the surrounding fiefs to permanently repair the bridge and road, and it’s just possible that some might not find their way home again after their term is up.  Some may have been bandits, afore now, but I cannot be certain . . .” he said, cautiously.  Obviously he was feeling me out – some lords were strict about hiring outlaws, but I just shrugged.

“If their crimes were not in Sevendor, why should I care?  Pay them an honest day’s pay for their honest work.  If any particularly catch your eye as industrious and smart, tell them they can make a home here, even.”

I could tell by his eyes that that was the answer he had wanted.  He nodded again, almost a bow, and continued.  This fief was still sparsely populated, even with the Bovali arriving.  There were plenty of bandits by misfortune who would be happy to give up the romance of the road for a secure cot in Sevendor.  Anyone who started trouble . . . well, they could be dealt with.

“I’ve toured the outlying lands, the old village site and its fields, and they are quite deserted,” he reported, unrolling a well-sketched map of our vale and holding it to the table with his dagger.  “Here is the castle in the southwest, the village of Sevendor below.  There are seven yeomanries under our control: The Westwood, Caolan’s Pass, Gurisham Hamlet, Jurlor’s Hold, Farant’s Hold, Southridge Hold, and Genly.”

When you think of a feudal domain, you usually think: Lord, castle, peasants.  But that’s not where the community of a well-run fief ends.  In between the free peasants was a class of bondmen, the poor cottagers who usually got a hut and a couple of rods of garden plot or meadow.  These villeins were day-laborers, usually a penny and a loaf a day.  Most of the year they did odd- jobs – it was only at plowing and threshing that their labor was really essential.  The rest of the year they did whatever they could to survive.

The next class up were the poor, free peasants who by tradition and right had a share of the common fields, usually ten to fifteen acres, in addition to working my third of the fields.  They paid their rents to the reeves, who in turn paid tribute to me.

Then there were the free peasants who owed especial allegiance and service to the lord of the manor in exchange for their own bit of land or a special commission endowed with privilege.  These were the Yeomen, and their rights and privileges were usually far in excess of the common freeman, including the right to sup at the castle’s table once a week, if they chose.  Yeomanries were districts, and their exact nature varied somewhat across the duchies.

In the Wilderlands they tended to be more military in nature, with a Yeoman being a commoner capable of raising a couple of dozen husky woodsmen to rally to the lord of the land.  In the Riverlands, Yeomanries were more of an administrative and economic post, although they were usually tasked with common military matters as well.

In agricultural communities, he was usually also the Reeve, as Goodman Railan was for Sevendor Village.  In woodland communities, he was often also the Woodward, and in ranching Yeomanries he was often the Hayward, as well.

Other times, it was a more direct grant of privilege, much like my father’s purchase of a baking license from Baron Lithar.  Sometimes a Yeomanry was just a farmstead with enough of a plot for a vegetable garden and a couple of small fields of millet or oats.  But the Yeoman was his own master, sworn to bear arms if he was able, render service upon demand, and act in the lord’s stead to protect the lord’s interests.  Sometimes the yeoman was also granted special rights associated with his yeomanry, such as hunting or fishing rights or keeping bees or doves, and would be obligated to supply a portion of his take to the lord as tribute.

In larger castles and more sophisticated fiefs it was possible to be raised to a Yeomanry without any land being involved.  It was not uncommon to have Yeomanries centered around a marina, for instance, or a busy toll road or bridge, a frontier gate or a mine.  And some lords appointed a Yeoman to fulfill a special function, like a particularly skilled smith or woodsman.

A Yeoman was essentially a free commoner or petty noble who had accepted a set of specific responsibilities from the sitting lord, and who in turn was accorded more respect and greater privileges than a regular commoner.  And wealth usually flowed along behind.  Consider it feudalism at the lowest end, where a family could agree to take your arms and support you in war time in exchange for protection and land or rights.

But the Yeomen were essential to a well-run estate.  They were a social step above common peasants (though usually below real artisans) and were seen by the peasantry as the lord’s men.  They even had their own badges in most places, associated with an animal or something that went with their lands.

Most prosperous fiefs had a few dozen Yeomen.  You didn’t want too many, Sir Cei explained to me, else petty politics would intrude overmuch on the system.  But too few meant that a lord could only rely on his personal household for organization, administration, and arms when there was need.  Fiefs with few Yeomen had a tendency toward peasant uprisings.  I didn’t want that.  I had been accused of leading one, once, by Sir Cei’s old master.  No one likes a peasant uprising, even the peasants.

Sevendor’s Yeomanries were a mixed bag, Sir Cei went on to inform me.  Three of them were out-right freeholds, small compounds of peasants who tended the Yeoman’s land in addition to their own and my portion.  Jurlor’s Hold, Farant’s Hold and Southridge Hold were all farming communities each run by a Yeoman who owned or leased the croplands or pasturelands.

Gurisham Hamlet was more of a communal organization, with Headman Brandine, the reve, standing for the Yeoman.  Gurisham was a hamlet where the majority of the folk were bonded villeins, not free men.  They couldn’t do much at all without my permission.

The tiny Genly hamlet, right under the castle walls, also had a majority of villeins.  It had no Yeoman currently: it was run by Railan the Steady from Sevendor, and only had a few families in its circle of tiny waddle-and-daub huts clustered around a common well and silo, surrounded by a fence and low hedge to keep the critters out.

Westwood and Caolan’s Pass were another matter. Yeoman Kyre of Westwood was responsible for administering Sevendor Forest in the western end of the vale.  Sir Cei told me that they were considered a mysterious folk by the other Sevendori, descendents of the original pre-Lensely settlers of Sevendor.  Their manor, Westwood Hall, was near to the castle by distance but separated by landscape and culture.

Carkan was the Yeoman in charge of keeping Caolan’s Pass, the only other way into or out of Sevendor Vale beside the northeastern low pass, open and guarded.

In addition to his tiny farmstead and patch of teabush, a rickety wooden tower allowed his folk to look out over the wood and see any signs of fire and ring a rusty old bell if they did.  He was in charge of all of the high-ridge cots that dotted the northern ridge.  Most of them barely scraped by on trapping, fishing, and small plots of maize and beans.

Neither one made it to the village often, and only occasionally sent their folk.  They preferred a remote existence, and Sir Erantal had not been plagued with enough ambition to confront them about it.

I’d only met the headmen of the Sevendor Village and Gurisham Hamlet.  Sir Cei had introduced himself to the other Yeomen, and he was refreshingly frank in his terms – something I appreciated more than his literacy.

“Yeoman Jurlor had no love for Sir Erantal,” Cei informed me, “indeed, he hated the man after the loss of Brestal.  He lost a lot of people, and was all but in rebellion against him.  As good a man as I’ve seen in this valley, though not a handsome man,” he admitted.  “His hall is sturdy and well-repaired, his walls were well-kept, his fields were the best tended I’ve seen, and he kept a proper guard.

“Yeoman Farant was similarly ill-disposed toward the knight, though his reasons were more personal: his wife apparently slept with the man in an attempt to become the lady of the land.  She had no more luck than a whore, however, and Farant took offense.  Sir Erantal threatened his position and he backed away, but they haven’t spoken face-to-face in three years, and that time nearly ended with bloodshed.”

As free landholders, yeomen were permitted to carry swords, just like any noble.  That didn’t mean that they were able to lawfully challenge with them.  That also didn’t stop them from doing so.

“He’s going to be a problem, Sire,” Sir Cei said, after gathering his thoughts.  “Farant is a schemer, if I am any judge of a man’s character, and he seems closer to the regime in Brestal than Sevendor.  But he claims he’s interested in seeing how you will rule, and he’s requested an audience at your convenience.  I would not trust him overmuch myself, my lord.  I found him mean-spirited.”

“I trust your judgment,” I nodded.  Well, about this at least.

“The Southridge Yeoman, Ylvine of Southridge, is also a schemer – but he was loyal to Sir Erantal.  He threatened to write to the Duke and protest your investiture, but when I invited him to take the message personally, he relented.  If Farant is close to the West Flerians, then Southridge is even closer.”

“And the other two?”

“Carkan of Caolan’s Pass prefers the remote nature of his Yeomanry, and sees doing his duty on the frontier as his primary purpose.  He is loyal to Sevendor, not to any lord – at least not yet.  But he keeps to himself and his folk do, too.  He could be well-disposed to a new lord, I believe, but his trust would have to be earned.

“And Kyre of Westwood, of all the Yeomen, seemed to be the most enthusiastic about your investiture.  He is a young man, newly raised to his position on his father’s death, but he seems as capable and as canny as he is eager.”

“Enthusiasm is rare in Sevendor these days,” I nodded.  “We should husband his carefully.  As for the others, Yule is but a few days away.  Command them and all their folk to come to the castle to feast at the expense of the Magelord . . . where they may also swear their oaths to me anew.”

That was a very specific requirement of a Yeoman: to swear an oath of loyal service to his lord, and to renew that oath every year, if possible.  A Yeoman who didn’t risked loss of position or even a removal and execution, if his offense was grave enough.

“Only Southridge, Sevendor Village and Gurisham swore last year, though all sent a token tribute,” Sir Cei nodded, scratching his beard.  “Of course Sir Erantal had neither the men nor the will to enforce his rule.”

“Then what better way to demonstrate that their fortunes have changed with their lord than a fine Yule feast?” I reasoned.  “The next wave of Bovali will be arriving about that time, too.  Promise them a feast as lavish as Erantal’s were miserly.  But get them to come.”

“I . . . can we spare the expense, my lord?” Sir Cei asked, troubled.  “We’ve already spent a thousand ounces of gold of the treasury to get our people here, and another thousand to buy supplies . . . and we will likely spend another ere the goddess of spring graces the valley.  I know that His Grace was generous, Sire, but surely he was not that generous!”

I smiled.  “Calm yourself, Cei.  I knew we’d be spending some gold.  It’s just gold.  I have irionite – that’s worth much more.”

“Then let us hope our creditors will take it in trade,” he mused.

“You just wait, Cei.  In a year’s time, Sevendor will be the prosperous envy of all the Riverlands.  The first of the magelands will be the most fruitful.  Even if we have to pour gold into it until we’re walking on gilded pavers.”

“It occurs to me that my lord is an optimist.”

Sir Cei wasn’t the only one concerned with the expense – Alya was getting uneasy about the state of the strongbox I kept in my chambers.  It had arrived abrim with silver and gold, and now it was near two-thirds empty.  She wanted a new gown, apparently, and didn’t feel right indulging when the people around her were often dressed in rags.  I told her essentially the same thing I’d told Sir Cei . . . and she responded just as he had.

“Look,” I told them both at breakfast the next morning, as we warmed ourselves by the fire, “this estate is never going to be prosperous selling grain.  We’ll have more people than we can grow wheat, barley, oats or maize for.  But I never intended Sevendor to be a farming estate.  The wealth of this land will be its people – and magic.  I chose it very carefully,” I added, smugly.

They weren’t convinced.  But they did both concede that an abundantly festive Yule celebration would go a long way towards breaking the months and months of terror and confusion the Bovali had suffered through, and the Sevendori natives had not seen the kind of grand entertainment I envisioned in their lifetime.

“Sir Cei, you mentioned the fallow lands yesterday, particularly the ones between Sevendor Village and Gurisham.  What kind of grain could be grown there?”

“Oh, the land itself might someday be suited to crops, if well managed,” he admitted.  “But the gods’ truth my lord is that I am no farmer.    And the Sevendori are of mixed mind, as well.  I am soliciting advice on just what to grow – the locals favor corn and barley, of course, but they say the soil is too fair for wheat.  We can use it as cow pasture for a while, of course, but there must be something . . .”

Alya snorted.  I always included her in these meetings, if she wished to attend, and as the days got colder and she got fatter, she had done so more and more.  From the very first I had made it clear to Sir Cei that while I was Lord of Sevendor, Alya was the Lady of Sevendor, head-of-household until I returned.  She therefore needed to be included in these briefings.

For the most part Sir Cei paid Lady Alya the respect her title was due, in addition to some grudging admiration in her ability to administer.  They weren’t close, by any means, but they were developing a cordial working relationship.

“That’s the worst possible place for a cow pasture,” she said, authoritatively.  “I’m no farmer, but I know cows.”

“Consider orchards and nut groves,” I suggested. “And pigs.  A few years as a piggery, that soil will be a lot richer.”

I could tell the suggestion intrigued him – there were few swine in the valley, and only a few groves of fruits and nuts.  Those sorts of trees were usually among the first to be burned in a raid, and Sevendor had had several.

But then something occurred to him.  “My lord, if we have orchards, we’ll also have to find some bees.”

“It’s on my list,” I agreed, disparagingly, “right under a potter.  The stream bank has a decent clay deposit, if I’ve been informed correctly.” Since it was a spell that told me, I was pretty certain I could trust it. “I’ll try some experiments this spring and see if it’s worth trying to fire.  A pottery industry might help improve prosperity.”

“It might,” Alya agreed.  “But that enterprise will likely have to wait until next year.  And the Bovali are herders, Min, not potters.  And these are not the best pasturelands for cows,” she said, reluctantly.

Boval Vale had been famous across the Five Duchies (well, the western half, at least) for its delicious cheese, of which there was now none left in the world.  It had been their chief export, their staple food, and their pride.  The Bovali knew cheese the way a sailor knows the tides.

“The Bovali will find a new cheese,” I promised.  “If not with cows, then with sheep or goats or llamas.”

“It won’t be the same,” she sulked.

“Of course not,” I soothed.  “It won’t be the same.  That doesn’t mean it will be bad.  It will just be . . . different.  Maybe even better.”

“How is this place better than Boval?” she asked, almost a snarl.  “Before the Dead God moved in, that is.”

I shrugged.  “You’re sleeping with the lord of the land, now.  That’s got to be some kind of benefit.”

“But is it worth giving up the cheese?” she asked with mocking exaggeration.  “Yes, I know, it will be different and it might be better.  I just . . .”

“It could have turned out a lot worse,” I observed.

She shuddered, and I regretted bringing it up at once.  “Yes, this place isn’t too bad, I guess,” she nodded, her face more ashen than I’d prefer.

“If the Bovali need to learn to make cheese from goats and llamas, so be it,” pronounced Sir Cei.  “If they must learn to craft pots, then so be it.  We are alive, and by all rights we shouldn’t be.  They learned the soldier’s trade at need, easily enough.”

“Well, those who survived,” I pointed out.

He shrugged, as if it hadn’t made a difference.   “They will adapt.  The folk of the Mindens are hardy.  They will do well in these mean little mountains.  It is a fair land, if not yet bountiful.  And it is an empty land, in need of a people.  But before we get any more refugees, we must see to housing the ones we have.  Will you be joining me to visit Journeyman Baris, my lord?” Sir Cei asked, deftly changing the subject.

“I’d like to – saving my lady has need of me.”

“Oh, I can spare you,” she sighed in resignation.  “Goody Hela is going to help me set up the nursery in the tower.”

“We have a nursery in the tower?” I asked, not recalling us building one.

“Well, we can’t very well hang the baby on a hook until it’s ripe, now, can we?” Alya asked, a little viciously.  “We’re setting up a cradle and table on the far side of the bedchamber.  We’ll hang a few tapestries to divide the room, and it will just have to do for now.”

“When is the baby due . . . my lady?” Sir Cei asked, hesitantly.  He was only slowly growing used to treating the peasant lass he’d watched grow from a bratty girl as a noble of his own rank – and his employer.  Still, he always remembered to add her title now, I’d noticed.

“Between Yule and Briga’s feast day,” she sighed.  “This is only two or three hundred years away.”  She’d enjoyed being pregnant, when she wasn’t in fear for her life.  But the last few weeks had been steadily more challenging for her.  She was at a point where she could not get comfortable no matter what position she was in.  “Unless Min has a spell to speed up the process,” she grumbled.

“What?  And miss out on even one day of this glorious blessing from Our Mother Trygg?”

Before she could react, Sir Cei quite adeptly changed the subject yet again, this time steering it toward my duty.  “Lord Minalan, we should depart for the carpenter’s.  We simply cannot house people any faster than we are unless we get more wood.  The commons already looks like an encamped army.  The locals are starting to get nervous.  Some of that is natural suspicion, of course, but they will be clearly outnumbered with the arrival of our next caravan.”

“More bribes,” I instructed, after considering the matter.  “No one gets too suspicious with a full belly and a dry cot.”

“There are the rumors that you will require them to sacrifice village maidens to you,” he added, dryly.  “I’ve done my best to squash such rumors, of course, my lord, but you know how the common folk gossip . . .”

I grimaced.  I knew he was teasing, but still . . . “Anyone who has a serious problem, we can deal with it.  I’m too busy to handle rumors.  Until a fight or two starts, I’ll leave it for you to handle.”

After that Alya and I quit baiting each other, and Sir Cei was able to get through breakfast.  We were just teasing each other good-naturedly, but the intimacy embarrassed our Castellan and amused me.

“Cei needs to find a woman,” Alya whispered to me, after the knight rose to gather his things for the ride into the village.

“I’ll add it to the List,” I whispered back, grinning.  “Would he know what to do with one?”

“He’s never touched a peasant girl, to my knowledge,” she agreed.  “Too stinkin’ noble to dip his wick in common oil.”

“You have a common and dirty mind, for a noblewoman,” I murmured back.  “I like that.”

*                            *                            *

Traveler and Sir Cei’s mount were brought around to the front door, and Alya made a point of wrapping an unnecessarily large fur cloak around me before kissing me and sending on my way into the chill.  If Sir Cei was envious, he concealed it adeptly.

Our business meeting wasn’t ended by the short journey down the hill.  As I waved at the two attentive-looking sentries in the gatehouse huddled around a stone brazier for warmth, their bows sheathed against the cold, Sir Cei brought my attention to matters of defense.

“Captain Forondo has completed his assessment of the castle defenses, Magelord,” He began.

“And?”

“He believes that it can be brought up to minimal standards by late spring, if he’s given a free hand and a large purse.  That would not include preparations for a prolonged siege, of course . . .”

“I’ve had all the prolonged sieges I care to, actually,” I said, dryly.  “What does he need?”

“Oh, some weapons, mostly arrows and spears, armor, helms, boots . . . he has proposed a full castle garrison of twenty, with another ten men serving as guardsmen in the village.  And then a squad to guard the frontier with our neighbors . . . perhaps five more.  That does not include any knights the Magelord should wish to retain in his service,” he added.

“Fifty men? Not a bad plan,” I agreed.  “We’ll need guards in Sevendor, before long.  And more frontier guards, eventually.  And after we take back Brestal, we’ll need a garrison of at least fifteen there, as well.”

“We may have more than that, if we can’t find sufficient employment for the new Bovali,” he added, darkly.  “I did not want to broach such a delicate subject in the hall in front of Lady Alya, but it occurs to me that even with all of the new projects, we will have far, far more manpower here than we have positions for.  If we put spears in those hands, it could be we take the Brestal fort back sooner than planned.”

I could tell the prospect pleased him.

And why wouldn’t it?  Castellans and country knights lived for the constant warfare that characterized feudal life in the Duchies.  It was what they were trained for – hells, it was what they were bred for, a sport as much as a career.

After fighting goblins and herding peasants, I’m sure that a nice clean scrap against fellow knights and men-at-arms had a lot of appeal to Sir Cei.  A scrap in the name of a righteous cause was even better.  And a scrap that combined a righteous cause with the redress of an injustice?  That was like putting a kid in front of a candy jar, to a knight.

“Those plans will have to wait,” I said, carefully – I didn’t want to dampen his enthusiasm.  “Let us secure the administration of this vale before we add another.”

“I only seek to restore what is rightfully—”

“We’ll get to it, Sir Cei,” I interrupted.  That was a noble’s prerogative, and one I didn’t use often enough sometimes.  “I am as eager to re-take the Brestal Vale as you are.  But we must have our pieces in place, or even a victory could prove disastrous.”

“My Lord is wise,” he murmured, clearly unconvinced.  I chuckled.  Somehow I don’t think that was the first word that sprung to his mind.

We made our way down the grade and east along the track that passed for the road, across the small, recently-repaired stone bridge that spanned the stream, and into Sevendor Village, proper.  It hadn’t gotten much better than it had been when we’d ridden in a few weeks ago, but there were beginning to be some signs of life.

Three of the abandoned foundations already had the beginnings of framework being erected around them, and there were crews of two or three working on each, but it was a slow process even in good weather.  The cold, rocky ground made digging a struggle. We stopped so I could magically warm the earth to help out, which drew cries of appreciation and thanks.  It’s good to be a magelord, sometimes.

The village’s common green was down on the floodplain of the stream, a broad, relatively flat stretch of fertile land that provided pasturage of the village’s beasts in summer.  Now it provided a place for the first thirty Bovali families to camp.

Most had stretched sailcloth over poles stretched between wagons, heating them with tiny fires inside.  Some had overturned their wains, using them as makeshift lean-tos against the cold.  It wasn’t ideal, but then Sevendor’s winter was mild compared to where they were from.  In Boval there would have been at least six inches of snow on the ground by now.

I hoped the goblins were enjoying that.

We were almost immediately mobbed when we rode into the commons – most of the Bovali hadn’t seen me in person since they arrived, and my sudden appearance caused a crowd to form almost at once.  We were delayed for nearly half an hour as I exchanged greetings with them.  Some of them I didn’t even recognize, but I felt obligated to speak with anyone who wanted to see me.

I even made a little impromptu speech about their glorious future, and then another one about how the winters here weren’t nearly as bad as in Boval, and how more supplies and such were on the way.

It’s not that they were an angry mob or anything – they just wanted news, and guidance, and a little inspiration.  As I was speaking, however, it began to occur to me just what a weighty responsibility nobility – when done properly – can be.  Each of these people was ultimately depending upon me for their security and safety.  In a very real way I held the power of life and death over them, and as I finished up I felt a chill of dread go up  my spine for no particular good reason except that I was dreadfully worried that I’d fail them.

Once the crowd broke up we finished our journey to the carpenter’s tent, where the young man and his brother led a couple of Bovali assistants in shaping timber.  They all stopped – and bowed – when I entered the room.

The carpenter’s name was Baris, and his brother was Daris, and though two years separated them they could have nearly been twins.  Sandy-haired and well-muscled, the two handled the timber on their sawhorses with respect and reverence.

I introduced myself, waved to one of the Bovali I knew, and then listened to Baris while he complained about the amount of work he had to do and the lack of decent lumber.  The wagonload Sir Cei had procured in Sendaria was nearly gone, thanks to the repair work on the castle and the raising of the new homes in the village.  Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough left to finish even one of them.

I studied the problem, and then asked about the timber they had recently felled from the forest and dragged here, a specimen of which was dressed and laid out across the back of the tent.

“It’s stout enough timber, milord,” Daris – the sawyer – assured me.  “Fine white oak, some reds, some hickory, plenty of pines.  It’s a beautiful stand of forest, thought woefully kept.”  He sounded mournful about it, which encouraged me.  I can appreciate a true craftsman, regardless of his trade.  “Once this dries and cures, it will make ideal timbers, but that won’t be until Midsummer, at best.”

“Did Sir Cei not inform you that you would be serving under a Magelord?” I asked.  Daris paused, confused.

“Begging your pardon, milord, but I don’t see how that will—”

“Watch,” I said, as I took out my sphere.  It was fully recharged from its heavy use, and it responded nimbly to my commands.  While Daris and his men watched, I enveloped the big log within an invisible bubble of magical force.  Motioning them to stand back, I began lining up the symbols in my head that transformed the object in front of me.

First, I used a charm to draw the moisture in the wood towards the surface, which took a good five minutes to do to my satisfaction.  Of course, to eyes not using magesight it didn’t look like I was doing anything.  The effect was too subtle to notice with the naked eye.

But the next one was not.  I raised the temperature of the bubble slowly but steadily, until it was far in excess of boiling.  The log appeared to turn gray, and a white mist of water vapor coalesced around it, lit by the faintest of glows from the residual energy.  The bark shrunk and some fell away.  The pungent odor of steaming green wood filled the tent until we were coughing and Baris had to open the flap to let the fumes out.

In ten minutes the wood was completely dried, and cured enough for use.  But it seemed a shame to let the sawyer just hack at it when I was already right there.  Sketching the shape I wanted in my mind was easy – I needed wide flat planks, and I could see that this log would provide several.  When I had established the dimensions I wanted firmly in mind and was satisfied, I cast a sophisticated separation glyph, one particularly useful on wood.

While the carpenter and sawyer watched in amazement, the bark of the log suddenly fell away revealing a stack of perfectly-cut planks, ready to be used.

“Dear gods,” Baris said, making a sign.

“That’s . . . Sire Minalan, you just accomplished in ten minutes what it would take my men weeks to do!” Daris agreed, respectfully.

“Is this the sort of wood you need to build the houses?”

He nodded.  “Well, a hundred times as much, but yes, milord.”

“Well, the drying spell is as easy to do on several logs as it is on one.  Pray gather all the timber you have cut and trimmed and I’ll dry it all, at least, and cut as much of it as I can to get you started.”

They looked astonished, Sir Cei looked impressed, and I looked smug.  Once Daris realized I was serious, he hurriedly ordered his assistants to tear the tarps off of the other logs, and for the next three hours I dried, trimmed, and cut the wood.  Scraps were hauled away for firewood – there was a shortage of that on the unwooded commons – and the planks were carefully stacked inside the carpenter’s tent.

By the time the sun was beginning to make its way to the peaks of the western ridge, there was easily five times as much lumber ready to be built with than we had purchased in Sendaria.  Enough to finish every home started, and build three more from scratch.  We would have had more, but we ran out of logs.

I stuck around long enough after we were done to drink a couple of mugs of beer with Daris and his men, getting to know them and letting them get to know me.  I filled them in on just a few of my plans, which caused their eyes to widen with amazement, and then I paid them each five silver pennies for their good service.

“That was nobly done, Magelord,” Sir Cei nodded approvingly as we took to our mounts again.  “Not many nobles would have assisted in such a way even if they had the ability.”

“The faster the village gets built up, the sooner my castle can be renovated,” I reminded him.  “This should be enough lumber for him to use until the end of the week.  By then he should have more trees harvested.”

“I spoke to Lateal the Woodsman, one of our Bovali, about just such a thing.  He will lead a crew up to the slopes tomorrow and begin timbering in earnest.”

“Then I can come back and spend another afternoon on this, and we should have all the wood we need to begin work on the other homes . . . and some shops.”

“Shops, Magelord?” Sir Cei asked, amused.  Most nobles thought about things in terms of peasants and acreage and rents and duties and customs.  I’d been a merchant, I knew where the real money was.  I had paid more in taxes to Sire Koucey, back when I ran my shop in Boval, than a peasant farming a hundred acres did.

“Daris and Baris will need a shop.  So will the smithy. I dearly want a proper alehouse in the village.  There will need to be a tanner, a wheelwright, a cooper, a common hall, of course, and a livery stable.  And we’ll need an inn, an inn capable of housing anyone from a beggar to a baron.”

“That seems quite ambitious for a man who has yet to take possession of his entire fiefdom yet,” he pointed out.

“Of all things, I am wealthy in ambition,” I chuckled as we re-crossed the stone bridge.  I suddenly stopped Traveler, half way across.  Sir Cei pulled up beside me, and looked at me curiously while I stared at the streambed as it tumbled down the rocky slope of the valley.  Apparently I was chewing my lip.

“Magelord?” Sir Cei asked, concerned.  “Is there anything wrong?”

“You know,” I said, slowly, as I observed how the stream fell across the land, “this would be a great place for a dam!”

Chapter Five

In Which I Meet A Neighbor

After my magic trick with the timber, the houses in the village nearly flew up.  There were plenty of willing hands, hammers, and two kegs of nails, and the cold north wind was all the incentive the Bovali needed.  When work stopped two days later it was because we had run out of nails, not because we lacked wood.  We wouldn’t lack for lumber for a while.

The timbermen were doing an excellent job of bringing down more wood to the commons, and it only took me three or four hours to knock the logs into lumber.  In three days the first thatchings were done on the new homes, and by the end of the week the first three were being lived in.

The gatehouse and the drawbridge also got immediate attention.  So did some of the desperately-needed repairs to the keep. That made me feel better, simply because a drawbridge you can’t draw is just a bridge.  And a good lord did not slack on the defenses of his domain, or he wasn’t a lord long.

There was actually quite a lot to this nobility stuff that I hadn’t anticipated, and I was feeling a bit out of my element.  Lady Arden had given me a crash-course, but that had mostly dealt with my responsibilities towards my subjects and towards the Duchy.  The tutoring hadn’t included a lot of the stuff that the nobility know just because they were raised to know it.  And I kept tripping over those things.

Sir Cei brought up one problem as we headed out to tour Gurisham and other points, which had kindly taken in three Bovali families.

“There is the matter of your device, my lord,” Sir Cei was telling me as we took our tour.  In the five weeks we had been here, there had been a lot of progress, but it seemed achingly slow.  “His Grace has granted you arms, along with your estate, but you have yet to choose them.  It would be prudent if the Lord of Sevendor had a recognizable badge.”

“I suppose it would,” I admitted, watching two husky young men from West Fleria lifting a heavy block into place with long levers as we left the inner bailey.  I was tempted to assist them with magic, but I know how irritated I get when I am given help without consultation, so I decided to leave well enough alone.  “What were the original arms of Sevendor?”

“Before the lands and title came into dispute, the original arms were three ravens over a mountain.  A simple device for a simple country knight.”

“So it is.  Yet not quite sufficient for the first magelord in living memory.  How about ravens with stars?”

“Too similar to the Lords of Fiquin, I’m afraid,” he pointed out.

“Ravens with wands?”

“Very much like the arms of House Vorokuna of Tandoria, in Remere,” he said, a trace of a smirk crossing his face.  “Descended from the last Imperial magelords, and fiercely proud of it.”

“Ravens with . . . a tower?”

“The arms of the Baron of Dassal, My Lord,” he said, patiently.

“Ravens with arrows?”

“House Homborus of Southern Alshar.”

“With axes?”

“Sir Dalt of Congreeria-on-Blin, in the Remeran delta.”

“Roses?” I asked, desperately.

Sir Cei shook his head sadly.  He was enjoying this.  “I believe the one of the knights of the Roseling Hall line have the honor of that device.”

“Fine,” I finally said, frustrated.  “I don’t like the current political symbolism anyway.  I’ll keep thinking about it.  Maybe Alya has some suggestions.”

“Magelord, we must find some symbol for your lands,” he insisted.

“I think using the plural might be overstating it a tad,” I grumbled.  “One crappy village, two crappy hamlets, one even crappier castle.”

“My lord could always extend his lands through conquest,” he pointed out airily.  “Indeed we must, to recapture Brestal.  After that . . .” he trailed off, meaningfully.

“Not any time soon,” I snorted.  “Four dozen peasant militia and thirty real soldiers hardly make for a conquering host.  Besides, which of my neighbors would I go after?”

“Sir Gimbal of West Fleria, actually,” Sir Cei said mildly.  “He’s the one who took Brestal, to give a bastard son of his a fief a few years ago.  Or Lord Trefalan of Sashtalia.  He was a good friend of Sir Erantal.  Indeed, the forest on the other side of the north ridge was once owned by Sevendor, but lost in a ‘dispute’ with House Sashtalia over three generations ago.  Needless to say, Sir Erantal did nothing to reclaim it for the estate.”

“How about our third neighbor?  The lord of . . . Trestendor . . .?”

Sir Cei looked at me in surprise.  “The poor fief in the hills just on the other side of the West Flerian gap?  Yes, I learned a bit about him when I was passing through.  Sire Sigalan of Trestendor.  His holding is smaller than Sevendor, if you add Brestal back in.

“He used to have more of it, but he had a long-running border dispute with West Fleria over a crossroads village on their common border, Ferrendor Village.  Or did, until Lord Trefalan and Sire Gimbal conspired to attack it, burned it to the ground one night, and split the land between their realms ten years ago, when Gimbal first came into his estate.  Then Gimbal took the domain of Gosset from him within weeks.”

“Ouch,” I winced.  I remembered that burned-out village, just inside Sashtalia.  “That’s an ambitious start.”

“It occurs to me that oft does a young lord newly come into his inheritance seek to improve it through conquest.  Within a year of his investment, so I have been told, he took the cadet fief his brother gave him and added three domains to it.  Since then, he has taken five more, not including Brestal.  Ambitious, indeed.”

And it occurred to me that knights liked to gossip like old hens around a quilt.

“Trestendor has had little time for meddling in Sevendor’s affairs, but they might prove an ally someday, against Sire Gimbal, if needed.  There’s likely enmity there, at least.  But few swords.” I trusted Sir Cei’s judgment on such matters.  That’s why I paid him.

“We might not need them.  If we re-take Brestal this spring, what do you think the chances are that he’d just let it pass?”

“I could not say, Magelord, but it occurs to me that a man who has already conquered several of his neighbors is unlikely to allow such a slight to pass unanswered.  It would make him seem weak, and he would lose the respect of his vassals.  Nor would his liege likely permit it, even if it would amuse him.”

“His brother,” I remembered.  “Vulric, the Baron of East Fleria.”

“Technically the Baron of all of Fleria,” Sir Cei corrected as we finished our rounds back at the gatehouse – which looked like a proper military post now instead of a bandit’s squat.  “But when their father divided the realm to keep them from killing each other, Gimbal insisted on near total independence, and began calling his brother’s lands ‘East Fleria’.  He pays only a token tribute, and rules West Fleria as he was himself a baron.”

“You seem awfully well-informed for a country knight from the Mindens,” I noted, as we rode through the outer bailey.  On the south wall there were four or five little cots, each with a garden plot.  North of the road was rocky and wooded, covered in blackberry briars.

“I spent three days in the riverport before you arrived, Magelord,” he reminded me.  “A few coppers worth of wine can reveal volumes of history, provided it cross the right tongue.  I listened more than I spoke.  It occurred to me that I should become familiar with the region, if I was to administer a part of it.”

“We’re going to have to take back Brestal,” I sighed, pulling my cloak back around me as I got to the bottom of the ladder.

“Your honor demands it,” he said, apologetically.

“But when we do, we’re going to start a war with the local bully,” I reasoned, “A bully with an even more powerful big brother.”

“It seems unavoidable, Magelord,” he agreed.

“So my very first year of nobility, I’m going to have to fight a feudal war and endanger the domain I just got as a reward.”

“It behooves a lord to defend his own,” he agreed.  “And a good knight always seeks a challenge.  But not all is as gloomy as it seems.  Rumor says that the Baron of East Fleria hates his brother so badly that he’d swear the sun with the moon to spite him.  So if we re-took Brestal Vale, it is possible that he’d receive no help from his liege to reclaim it.”

“I’m starting to think I’m not going to like Sire Gimbal,” I said, thoughtfully.  “He sounds like the worst kind of noble.”

“According to the natives, he is not well-loved,” Sire Cei smirked.  “He rules . . . resolutely.  And he’s willing to take what he wants.  Sire Gimbal, from what Railan has told me, has long coveted this land.  Indeed, Railan spoke almost admiringly of the man, although compared to Sir Erantal, I can see why.  Sire Gimbal would have taken it when he took Brestal if that would not have brought the fury of the Duchy down on him.

“But that is no longer a concern for him.  Over the years he has used intimidation, raids, and threats to gain seven or eight estates along his borders, as well as the crossroad’s village of Trestendor’s, Gosset, and his men have been hunting in the eastern quarters of Sevendor for years.  Without anyone’s leave,” Sir Cei said, mildly.

I knew what Sir Cei was getting at.  A lord who could not defend his lands from such unauthorized use would soon gain a reputation for weakness.

“Good to know,” I agreed.  “As soon as my castle is complete, I’ll unleash the full force and might of my army upon them,” I said as we walked past the dirty square in front of the keep styled ‘the parade ground’.  Forondo was trying to get his men to go through the most basic of drills, and one of the Sevendori natives kept dropping a spear.  I tried to imagine them ruthlessly scaling the walls of an enemy keep, and presented the idea to Sir Cei.  We both shared a laugh at that.

The attitudes of my neighbors would have to be addressed, sooner or later.  Sevendor had escaped much abuse due to its indeterminate status, but now that there was a sitting lord without a nearby liege to come to his aid, the two rowdy knights to either side of me would start probing my lands soon enough.  I was almost looking forward to it, actually – once my baby was safely birthed and my castle walls were rebuilt.  Until then I’d just have to keep an eye on things myself.

We continued going over the long, long list of projects that we had undertaken to bring the fief back to life as we headed out of the keep.  In five short weeks we had actually gotten a lot accomplished, but like most worthwhile projects, every time we thought we had a problem solved it produced three new problems.  As I had our horses saddled up for the day’s business, Sir Cei ran over some of the new problems.

One issue was how the original Sevendori villagers were coping with scores of odd-sounding expatriate Bovali inhabiting their village commons.  Not that the villagers were hurting – since my arrival, they had enjoyed an unprecedented amount of prosperity.  But they were an insular people by nature, despised and derided in the surrounding fiefs as stupid, lazy and slow, thanks to Erantal’s neglect.

Now they had to deal with total strangers who had grand ideas about their future, and they just weren’t happy about it.  There had already been one little scuffle over grazing rights on the commons, and by Yule there was likely to be more as  more Bovali families would be arriving to join those already here.

The plain fact was, Sevendor Village was just not going to be big enough to accommodate all of those folk, not until it had been substantially built up.   Even then, we couldn’t keep them all in one place.  We had to split them up.

That was where we were starting the tour today.  We rode through the newly-repaired gate and over the drawbridge – both of which would be completely replaced before I deemed the castle finished – and eastward through the bare earthen track that led to the village, proper.  I acknowledged the number of bowed heads I saw with a self-conscious wave.  I was learning.

We took the road through Sevendor village up towards Gurisham hamlet, and passed a levy working to build a circle of low, simple, half-buried waddle-and-daub huts that would allow folks to stay warm during the rest of the winter.  Each one was a primitive affair, dirt floors and pole-and-thatch roofs, but they would stay dry and warm.  Theoretically.

Our real goal wasn’t the shelters as much, but to inspect the land and survey the site of the old village near the frontier with Brestal Vale, near the ruin of Hyer’s Tower.  Actually, on the other side of the frontier, a half-mile past the misplaced boundary stone.

We talked along the way, each step of the journey suggesting hundreds of possibilities for the future – an inn near the road, perhaps, or a willow grove in a marshy area.  We were headed for the entrance to the Vales, however.  The site of the old village, on the northern side of the big mountain the middle of my domain, was already level, had a good well, and was close to where our eventual frontier would be.  Our ultimate purpose was to establish a whole new village where the Bovali could settle without disturbing the native Sevendori overmuch.  Possibly even a proper manor house.

Sir Cei was becoming a better companion on such tours than I would have thought, and he had already repaid my trust in his abilities as Castellan a hundred times – he was good at finding solutions to problems that didn’t cause an administrative nightmare.  I’m more of a “follow me!” kind of leader, which frequently gets me in trouble.

“So tell me about this scuffle in the village?”

“It was nothing, Magelord, really, more of a misunderstanding than anything,” he demurred.  “A matter of goats and chickens.  No real blood was shed, and I sorted out the dispute.”

“Still, I don’t like it,” I said, shaking my head.  “I don’t want to have to keep them separate – they have to share the valley, after all – but I don’t want the natives to think that they’re being displaced, either.  We aren’t going to get a new village started soon enough to keep more problems from arising.”

“Perhaps the Yeomanry could use a shake-up,” suggested Sir Cei after some thought.  “If we were to move the rest of the native Sevendori peasants to Genly, say – with generous stipends – then the additions in the village could progress without the conflicts.”

“Wouldn’t they object to all leaving their homes in the village?” I asked, concerned.  Sir Cei scowled.

“Have you seen those stinking hovels?” he asked, pointedly.  “Sir Erantal had established a ban on harvesting timber for domestic use, so they’re mostly mud and thatch, barely suitable for beasts.  Hovel is too polite a term.  Give them each an additional three acres in the open fields and a few silver pennies, and they would vacate the village before the words die in your throat.  The first Sevendor villagers who moved to Genly are the envy of the hamlet.”

“And that would free up more room for new Bovali,” I noted. “That is not a bad idea,” I nodded, impressed.

“The Magelord continually astonishes me with his keen observations,” Sir Cei said, dryly.

“Do you think Railan the Steady would take a demotion like that?”

“The Reve of Sevendor Village will do as the Magelord of Sevendor Domain instructs him,” Sir Cei replied, as if there was never any doubt.  “His happiness in the matter is not a concern.”

“Still, Railan is about as close to a unifying figure the Sevendori have.  I don’t want to piss him off any more than I have to.”

“What if we built him a residence?  The nicest one in Genly—”

“That wouldn’t take much,” I quipped.

“—and grant his Yeomanry the right to mine clay from the riverbank, in addition to the grain revenues,” he suggested.

“We don’t even have a potter yet,” I pointed out.

“The soil is too cold to mine in winter anyway,” Sir Cei countered.  “But this summer it will not be.  And the clay is of sufficient quality, I am told, to have a market.  Should it prove lucrative, then a monopoly on mining it would be likewise lucrative.  And that would satisfy Railan’s hurt feelings.”

“Money does that,” I agreed as our horses began to climb the gentle slope of road that lead to Gurisham.  “Feel him out on the subject.  Let him know that any Sevendori villager who wants to make the move will get help building a house, three acres in the common fields, as well as two goats and five chickens.”

Sir Cei paused.  “That seems like an abundance of fowl, My Lord.”

“I like eggs,” I reasoned.

“As the Magelord wishes,” he said, noncommittally.  “Sevendor has seven Yeomanries.  But there is plenty of room for more.”  Boval Vale, the far western valley that Cei had administered before it had become the center of a new goblin empire, had been replete with Yeoman – indeed, it had been one of the ways the old lord Koucey had populated the remote valley, by promising land and rights to enterprising peasants.  Malin, Winakur, and plenty of other estates had been cared for by his deputies.  “We could easily set six new yeomen from the Bovali,” Sir Cei pointed out, as we rode through Gurisham hamlet.

I waved at some kids, and threw a few pennies.  The kids just looked at me dumbly.  I don’t think they had ever seen real money before.  “I have the fellows in mind who would be best,” I agreed.  “And we can elevate another Sevendori, if we have to.  To do that, and raise their status thusly, would go far to alleviate the need to keep my subjects separate . . . and peaceful. ”

“Likely my countrymen would object to taking residence in those huts, as they are, but they will do in this mild clime until they can be rebuilt well-enough.  Compared to a Bovali winter, this has been almost pleasant,” the knight observed, looking at the overcast sky.  “Our people won’t have a problem with that, at least.”

“It is pleasant,” I agreed.  “What’s next?”

“The new blacksmith, Goodman Gowal, is also due to arrive by Yule.  ‘Twould be nice if he had a shop ready to conduct business in.  I am having a forge built on the western edge of Sevendor, near to the bridge, for him.  That way he can service either castle or village as needed.”

“I concur.  Make it happen.”

“The Magelord is wise,” Cei murmured.

“The Magelord is learning,” I corrected.

We continued our ride past the “real” houses and came to the Gurisham “commons” – a small, mostly-level grassy field where the villagers could graze their goats and sheep.  I saw another knot of kids, I threw another handful of coppers.  These were older, and apparently knew about money, because they scrambled for it in the cold dirt.  I saw one of the older boys grab a copper sliver out of the hand of his younger brother and stopped my horse.

“You!” I called out in my best lordly voice.  “Come here!”

The boy – no more than ten – approached me wide-eyed, his brother even more wide-eyed behind him.  The ten-year-old gave a rough bow.  The brother (about seven, probably) just stood there.  Both were as dirty as any peasant kid ever gets.

“What is your name, son?” I asked, quietly.

“Feleg, Lord!” he squeaked.

“Feleg, I am the new Lord of Sevendor.  Magelord Minalan.  Do you understand what that means?”

He nodded, gravely.  He was frightened, but he wasn’t running.

“That means that my word is law, here,” I growled.  While that wasn’t precisely true – I ruled in the name of the Duke, and enforced his laws first – it was true enough as far as Feleg was concerned.  “And if I toss a copper to a child, I fully expect that child to keep it.  I detest bullies,” I said, severely.  He shrank.

“But I’m also a pretty forgiving lord,” I added.  “Now that we’ve had this talk, I don’t expect we’ll ever have to have it again, will we?”

“Nay, My Lord!” he said, swallowing hard.

“You may keep your penny as a reminder of that.  As for your brother . . . ?”

“Nat.  Short for Natgig.”

“Well, little Nat there gets a whole silver penny for his trouble, today,” I said, tossing it to the boy.  The glint of silver in the winter sun was unmistakable – and rare enough to these poor folk as to be legendary.  He scrabbled it out of the dirt and clutched it triumphantly in his hand.

“I would be very concerned if young Nat didn’t keep his new riches,” I said to the children at large.  “For while I am a forgiving lord, I am also a just lord – and pray you never have to face my justice!” I said, and added a loud flashing cantrip at the end for effect.

I made my point.  The kids squealed and scattered, all except Nat and his brother Feleg.  The latter was eyeing me suspiciously.

“You’re really a mage?” he asked, as if my rank didn’t matter.  Hells, to a ten year-old, how could it?

“I am really a magelord,” I agreed.  “The first in four centuries.”

“And you rule Sevendor, now?” he asked, as if he was still skeptical.  “Not ol’ arse-face Erantal?”

I had to chuckle at his apt description.  “I truly do,” I assured him.  “My Lady beside me.”

He gave me an even more searching look.  “I guess you’ll do,” he grunted, and led his brother – who was still staring at his coin – away to tell his parents. Sir Cei and I continued through the hamlet toward the ruins.

“Very well done, my lord,” he murmured when we were out of earshot.  “You have made a powerful impression on them today.  It is best if a lord is seen frequently, but does not over-stay his welcome.  Always leave their hearts longing for more.”

“That doesn’t seem like a lot of fun,” I grumbled.  “And that was just a bit of showing off for the kids.  I doubt I’d be so bold with their parents.”

“Being a noble is rarely fun,” he pointed out.  “It might seem so, from a commoner’s perspective.  But a noble should always feel the burdens of his office before he seeks his own pleasures.  You have a higher duty, now, Sire.”

“So I’m learning,” I sighed.  “But that was fun.  Good peasant relations.  And don’t tell me the family couldn’t use the alms.  Besides, they’re going to have a whole brand new village just over that rise, come spring.  That’s going to put some stress on this place.”

We talked a while more about the plans for the village, and then we came to the far end of the hamlet’s commons, where the land fell off a little.  I stopped us at the top of the rise, so we could overlook the big mount in the center of the vale – actually, it was the main reason Brestal and Sevendor weren’t one valley.

Compared to the surrounding peaks, it was small and cute.  But it rose at least five hundred feet over the next highest hill in the vale and was capped with a firm crown of mostly bare rock three hundred feet wide at the top.   The lower slopes were either forested or pasturelands.

“That rock is just begging for some adornment,” I said, finally.  “Why wasn’t the castle built there? It seems like a naturally defensible point.”

“It would be, if Sevendor Castle’s position wasn’t better,” Sir Cei reminded me.  “Here you could be surrounded by armies on all sides.  There, you have the cliffs to your back and need face them on only three sides.”

“A good point,” I conceded.  “Still . . . I just have to put something there.”

“A watchtower, perhaps,” he nodded.  “From that point you could see through the frontierlands deep into West Fleria.”

“Not a bad idea,” I said, not totally convinced.  “Right now it’s the border of my domain, and it should be in the center of my domain.  That bothers me.”

We continued down the road until it re-forded the stream before it ran through the gap into Fleria.  “I’ve been thinking about this,” I said, thoughtfully.  “We do need a mill.  Not a huge mill, but a mill would be good for the vale.  And so would a millpond.  Most importantly, it would act as a reservoir.  I’m thinking we put it on the west side of Sevendor Village, in front of the castle.  We raise it level with the wide bank of the flood plain, and create a pond . . . about six, eight acres, eventually, I think.”

“Intriguing plan, Magelord,” Sir Cei agreed, thoughtfully.  “That will take considerable effort, however.  A few hundred men, a few dozen oxen, wagonloads of soil and rock . . .”

“Or two really good wizards with witchstones,” I reminded him.  “I was going to have Rondal l and I do the hard parts, when he gets here at Yule.  Moving boulders and such.  He’s good with earth magic.  But the pond will not only have enough fall for a real mill, the water will work well as irrigation for the upper fields.  I think lack of water is one reason this dusty vale hasn’t performed well.”

“The soil is poor, my lord,” Sir Cei reminded me.  “That will have to be addressed as well.”

“Yes, well, I can’t magically crap everywhere yet, so we’ll have to deal with that after we have adequate water supplies,” I grumbled.

Sir Cei studied the terrain and made a few suggestions, which I countered as we continued down the increasingly rough road.  On either side were empty, increasingly overgrown fields.  It was a long fallow stretch of marginal land.

Once those fields had been prosperous, or at least a step above subsistence level.  Now they were choked with weeds and small trees, unused for a generation.  If I had my way, they would be planted by canny Bovali farmers by next year.

We had gone about a half-mile from the village when I stopped at a rough patch between the fallow lands and an overgrown, sloping pasture land on the north side of the road.  The rough area was only a few hundred feet wide, a little raised above the road level, and rocky.  We had crossed the misplaced border stone a hundred yards back.

“And what shall the Magelord place here?” Sir Cei asked, patiently, as he slipped his horse a carrot.

“I’m thinking a shrine,” I answered.  “Or perhaps a temple.  I know you Bovali don’t hold much with priests, but a real temple would inject some very useful skills into the estate.  A priestess of Briga, Luin, or one of the other folk gods, perhaps.  Trygg.  Huin, even. Keep your eyes out for a likely candidate. Maybe more than one.”

“I shall make a note, Magelord,” he agreed.   “The prohibition against temples was the idea of Sire Koucey’s house.  Where I grew up in Ganz, there were several shrines and a temple.  I had always encouraged Sire Koucey to reconsider, for precisely the reasons you name, but he said he had his reasons.  A small shrine would be most welcome in this desolate land.”

I grunted, wondering how sincere he was being.  Five weeks working with him on a daily basis, and I still didn’t know when he was joking.

We continued along for another half hour, through ostensibly “foreign territory”, until we came to the ruins.

I had seen the ruins of the old village on the eastern end of the fief when we’d first arrived.  Sire Gimbal had put it to the torch during his conquest of Brestal.

It was a good location for a hamlet, better than most of Sevendor boasted, really, with clean water closer at hand and plenty of arable land gone fallow around it.

Whoever the lordling in Brestal was, he hadn’t done much with this stretch of his ill-gotten fief.  None of the original buildings still stood, but there were two or three stone foundations that could be recovered, given sufficient effort and money, and spaces for dozens more.

It could easily hold a lot of our refugees.  The ruined border tower on the eastern side of the road would also have to be repaired and put to proper use.  After I recovered Brestal.

But as I stared out at the border with West Fleria, a thousand feet away and marked only by a roughly shaped rock, I couldn’t help but wonder when Sire Gimbal would decide to burn it down again.   I began to get angry at losing a village that wasn’t yet built to a man who wasn’t yet at war with me over a fief I had yet to regain.

“Let’s start with the guard tower,” I muttered to myself.

“What?” asked Cei, as he rode behind me.

“Before we nail one stick to another on the new village, let’s rebuild the guard tower – nothing elaborate, just two or three stories – to keep the Flerians from just walking back in.  Just an outpost, at first, where a few men could shelter a beast or two, and rain down arrows on anyone who dares enter my domain.”

“Why, Magelord Minalan, you sounded positively bloodthirsty just then,” Sir Cei said, appreciatively.

“Just anxious to protect my investment,” I replied, matter-of-factly.  “We can use the old foundations and build it up with lumber until we can get dressed stone.  Something a little more substantial than the bell tower in Minden’s Hall, but not much.  Not yet.

“But I want to be able to billet a full guard detail there constantly.  This is our frontier, or it will be, and the most natural point of defense of the vale.  The gap between the ridges is only two hundred fifty, three hundred feet wide.  Once we recover the rest of what is rightfully ours, I want it – and my people – protected.”

“The Magelord is replete with wisdom,” agreed Sir Cei.  “I think we might be able to begin work on both the tower and the first homes concurrently, once we retake the estate.  But is that not selling the honey before the bees have come back to the hive?”

We were riding out towards the border when we heard the noise.  A sound of someone or something rushing through the brush, and then the sound of dogs and horses.  Sir Cei and I looked at each other curiously, and then silently we agreed to investigate.  It didn’t take long.  As we topped the gentle rise before the border, they came into view.

There were four of them on horseback, and another two on foot, handling the dogs.  They were armed, of course – one didn’t wander the hinterlands without an argument at hand – and at least one of them wore the raiment of a noble.  He was a young snot of sixteen or so, sandy hair, broad face, a belly a merchant would envy, and a noble’s sneer on his wide mouth.  The other three horsemen were deferent to him, and decidedly his social inferiors.  One bore a hawk on his arm.

“We’ve lost the scent, My Lord!” one of the kennel masters said, as the hounds had changed course to investigate our horses.

“Damn!” exploded the boy angrily.  “We were so close!”

“Might I ask what you were close to finding?” I asked, politely, as we approached.  We made no move toward a weapon, and neither did they.

“You!” the boy said, whirling his head towards me angrily.  “You have ruined our hunt!  Who is your master?” he demanded, imperiously.  “I shall have you beaten for your disturbance!”

“I believe introductions are in order,” Sir Cei said, after a moment’s pause.  “You are . . . ?”

“I am Sire Ganulan, son of Sire Gimbal, Lord of West Fleria!” he responded, fire in his eyes.  “And I am in the middle of a hunt, damn you!”

“You are in the middle of a hunt, perhaps,” I agreed, “but you are no longer in West Fleria.  Welcome to Sevendor.”

“What matters that?” he said, scornfully.  “Sir Erantal knows who my father is.  If he has wits about him today, he would give me leave – though we in West Fleria don’t need his leave.  We take what we want from Sevendor.  Now apologize, churl, and perhaps I’ll spare you the lash for your insolence!”

Sir Cei and I shared a laugh about this stripling threatening us.  True, we wore our swords under our cloaks – it was still winter, after all – and there was little about our cloaks to suggest our station in life.  But he should have realized that peasants rarely go upon horseback.

“Your information is out of date, I’m afraid,” I said at last.  “Sir Erantal has been discharged from his duty by a new lord.  He no longer rules in Sevendor.”

“So?” he said, sneering.  “About time that stinking old sot got the sack.  That doesn’t change anything, though.  West Fleria takes what it wants from Sevendor.  And when this new lord arrives, he can take it up with my father if he doesn’t like it!”

“The new lord has indeed arrived,” I said, slowly and deliberately.  “And he has ruled that no one shall traverse his domain without his leave.”

“Well, we are in the domain of Brestal Vale, not Sevendor Vale, rightfully taken in conquest.  My father gifted it to me on my twelfth birthday!”

“Yet it was not his to give,” I replied, calmly.  “And it is not his to hold – or yours.  The Lord of Sevendor has decreed no one shall ride in his lands without his leave – and you do not have his leave.”

“And how is he to enforce such a ruling?” the boy scoffed.  The other men laughed with him.  Idiots.  “With the likes of you?”

“You, Sir Ganulan,” I began slowly, “are a rude and impetuous boy, knowingly trespassing on lands where you are not welcome.  I will give you this one last opportunity to turn for your own lands without harm.  Should you fail to avail yourself of that opportunity, then you will bear the consequences.”

“I . . . will bear the consequences?” he laughed, feigning shock.  “It is you who shall bear them, churl!  Give me your name before I take your insolent head!”  He whipped out his sword in one practiced motion – I give him credit for style.  But not much else.  I didn’t touch my mageblade, but Sir Cei and I did throw back our cloaks in readiness, revealing we were armed.

“My name?  I am Sire Minalan, Magelord of Sevendor,” I pronounced.  “My master is Duke Rard of Castal, and even that is open to debate.  In my own name I give you one final opportunity to retreat from my lands before I treat you to my justice.”

It took the young scamp a moment to realize what he had done – insulted a lord in his own lands – and the look of anger changed at once to one of confusion and fear on his fat face.

But he was used to being the heir in a small country, and he expected deference, not defiance.  He reminded me of a number of noble prigs from my time at the Academy, the ones who somehow thought commoners and the nobility were separate species.  I never liked them, much.  I wasn’t getting a friendly feeling about Ganulan, either.

“You dare threaten me?” he laughed.  The others joined in, but not nearly as readily or as loud as before, more aware of the danger they were in.  One actually grabbed Ganulan’s sword arm and whispered harshly to him, but the young idiot shook him off.  “Look at you,” he sneered.  “If you’re a lord, I’m a goatherd!”

My eyes narrowed, and I could feel an involuntary surge of emotion matched with a surge of energy from the witchsphere.  I calmed myself – no need to destroy the boy.  Instead I focused my attention on his sword, quivering in the morning gloom.

Making it limp, like I had Sir Erantal’s, would have been a passable trick on one of his lackeys, but I didn’t think it would have much affect on this hellion.  No, I wanted a more enduring humiliation for him.

Instead of simply loosening the bonds in his blade in one region, I took more active control of the atomi within the entire length, and manipulated them until his blade was bent and tangled like over-risen bread.  It was useless as a weapon, now.

He stared at it in disbelief as it wriggled and then was still, and then he dropped it like it was hot.  He looked up at me in shock.

“I warned you,” I said, evenly.  “Now get moving, or I’ll deal with you as lord, and not just as your better.”

“This is war!” he shouted.  “If you are a lord, you have brought down destruction on your house, churl!”

“Take him home and have his nappies changed by his nurse – I think he’s cranky,” I snorted to his companions – one of whom was brave or stupid enough to guffaw briefly.  I raised my hand, extended a tendril of force, and the boy’s sword flew to me.  “And tell his father that he can have his toy back when he apologizes to me.  Oh, and if I catch you on my land again unbidden, Sir Ganulan, you will be treated like a commoner.”

“War!  This is war!” he bellowed as his frightened companions led him back over the border.  We didn’t move until he and his men and his hounds were completely gone out of our hearing.

“I think that went well,” Sir Cei finally said, when they were gone.

“Not exactly the way I wanted to introduce myself to the neighbors,” I sighed, “but I suppose it was inevitable.”  I looked at the blade.  It was an antique, clearly a treasured heirloom, even if it wasn’t the best weapon even before I cursed it.  The sort of thing you give a new-made knight before he earned a proper fighting blade, or an accessory for a peaceful man to adorn his hip while he managed his estates.  But the gilt and the two small jewels on the guard told me it had value.  He would be back for it.  Maybe even with some sort of army.

Personally, I figured that his father would punish him for his error – that’s what I would have done.  But then again I was raised by respectful commoners, not by arrogant petty nobles.

“I was actually serious, that did go well, Magelord,” Sir Cei insisted.  “This land has been so poorly managed for so long that it was inevitable that we would come into conflict with them over their presumptive use.  I anticipated something a bit bloodier.

“As it was, you handled yourself with calm and restraint.  You didn’t kill the boy, didn’t imprison him, and didn’t do more than send him and his friends on their way, less one sword and with a little humility, perhaps.  It could have gone much worse.  And now you have a proper pretext to reclaim the Brestal Vale.”

“But no proper force to do so,” I pointed out.  “Nor one to defend against a retributive force.”

“Ah, but you do have one underway,” he reminded me.  “Nearly two thousand Bovali, by Yule.  And your apprentices.  That is less than two weeks.”

“And yet my new enemy could move well before then, and have my Bovali arrive to a devastated vale.”

Sir Cei shook his head.  “Nay, My Lord.  It occurs to me that Sire Ganulan could not make more than a token sortie against us ere they arrive.  It would take weeks for him to call his banners in the midst of winter.  We risk at most a raid, one which must come through this pass by necessity.  Which makes defense against it a simple exercise.  We need only be prepared and vigilant against the attack, and we can rebuff it.  By the time a more resolute argument is prepared against us, we shall be reinforced and resupplied.”

“If you say so,” I answered, doubtfully.  “I just hope he was being brash when he spoke of war.  I haven’t been here two moons yet and already I’m getting involved in another war.  People will talk.”

“I don’t think his father will be anxious to defend his son’s rash behavior, when he clearly is in the wrong.  But then that depends on what kind of knight he is.  If he does . . . well, we shall have to face him.”

There wasn’t a trace of fear or reluctance in his voice.  I was impressed by his bravery.  But then I couldn’t imagine any mere human army being worse than what the Bovali had faced.

I remember watching Sir Cei and his knights gazing out over castle walls at a hundred thousand black furry goblin faces, prepared to fight every one of them to the death.  Compared to that, this lordling had maybe a hundred, a hundred and fifty men?  Thrice that, if he levied his peasants?

“Let them come,” I agreed, cheerfully.  “We could use the practice, I suppose.”

Sir Cei grinned.  “Perhaps we could, Magelord,” he said, and turned towards the road again.

I tucked the sword into my saddle.  It would make a good conversation piece for my hall.

Chapter Six

The Yeoman Of Sevendor

I had almost forgotten about our run-in with Sir Ganulan by the next day.  I was a little distracted.

Alya wasn’t feeling well, and I spent most of the morning wrapped up in magesight, ensuring there was nothing wrong with the baby.  It turns out she was just constipated and cranky.  In truth, her sweet disposition was beginning to slip as her girth made her more and more uncomfortable.  She was also eating hardily . . . past hardily.

She put Gorker to shame at board the night before, devouring everything in sight.  My son was healthy enough, it seemed, although I knew little enough about the intricacies of magical medicine.  Luckily Nanily, the new kitchen mistress of the castle, knew what herbs would ease her frustrations.  She had raised a brood of her own children, and if not a midwife or birthsister, she was filled with the rustic lore that old wives seem to collect, a magic of their own.  She did warn me that the crankiness was more likely to worsen before it got better.

That seemed like an opportune time to be elsewhere.  Visiting my Yeomen across the vale, for instance.

I stopped by the village, and watched Sir Cei overseeing the construction efforts while I got Sagal and a few other armed Bovali lads together.  I wanted to take advantage of the clear, mild weather and ride out to visit my Yeomen.  Two Yeomanries in particular, the holdings of Jurlor and Farant.

Both were farming households, and both had left an impression on Sir Cei, one positive, one not.  But since I wanted all of my Yeomen present at my hall at Yule, I thought it might be a politically wise thing to extend the invitations myself, and introduce myself in the process.  Sagal and the Bovali were along to make me look important.   Besides, his wife Ela was only a few months behind Alya with her pregnancy, and he needed to escape the modest hut he lived in at the moment as much as I needed to get out of the castle.  He put the call out for volunteers, and the men who had horses began to get ready to accompany their lord.

It was gratifying to see how quickly the new houses were going up, now that more nails had been procured, and I was pleased to see another would likely have enough of a roof to dwell in before nightfall.   One more Bovali family sleeping indoors was a victory.

When Sagal and a half-dozen other fellows I knew had mounted,  we crossed the commons, kept north of Ketta’s Stream, and left the “road” to follow an even less-road-like track that led down the geographic center of my domain.

Our first stop was Juror’s Hold.  It was nestled on the southern slope of the broad hill that lead up to the central peak (Matten’s Helm, the local’s called it).  Most of the northern part of the hold was pastureland, although we saw few beasts.  To the south were grain fields, the brown stumps of maize stalks still visible through the light snow. There was also a healthy grove of pecans and apple trees behind protective fencing.

As we came to the rough, homemade gate, tied open for the day’s business, the courtyard within stirred with activity – mostly chickens and dogs, but a few people came out to greet us. The manor itself was a large, simply-built one story stone hall boasting at least two waddle-and-daub bays that I could see, with a stout wooden palisade and thorny hedgework around it.

To one side the building extended to a second story, likely where the Yeoman lived.  A single modest grain silo, three-quarters full, was all the harvest had brought the hold this year.  There were seven or eight other outbuildings, shabby but in decent repair, and a cluster of six frame-timbered homes just inside the wall, not the regular round peasant huts.  Everything was neat and orderly, and the folk of Jurlor’s hold barely looked up from their labors when we rode in.  This was the home of a man who worked.

They looked more or less like the peasants of Sevendor Village or Gurisham, but they each had undyed woolen cloaks around them, something the villagers lacked.  A lad took my horse’s bridle while I dismounted, and it didn’t take long for someone in authority to approach – the Yeoman Jurlor, himself.

Jurlor was in his late thirties, a mature man with a dark beard and bushy black hair.  His left eye was significantly lower than his right, which made him look surprised most of the time.  He was fit and well-muscled, though as lean as all the Sevendori were.  And instead of a woolen cloak he wore a great ox hide cloak with a crude rendition of some sort of flower on the back.

“You must be the new lord,” he said, without preamble.  “Minalan.  The wizard.  Spellmonger.”

“You must be Yeoman Jurlor,” I said, with a nod.

“Aye.  You’ll be wanting to talk, then, eh?” he grunted, reluctantly.

“If you have time,” I chuckled.  I held up one of the skins I’d filled before I’d left.  “I brought wine.”

That improved his disposition immensely.

We ended up at his board in front of the fire in his hall.  It was a rough table of indeterminate age, worn smooth with endless cleanings.  The interior of the hall was neatly arrayed, and proved well-heated and cozy.  Jurlor ordered the embers stoked to life at once, and graciously offered the largest chair (there were three) to me.  I tried to accept the honor just as graciously.  A hard-looking woman brought a wooden tray with mismatched leather mugs, as well as a loaf of bread and a pot of cheese.

“Enough, woman!” Jurlor bellowed, unnecessarily.  “Leave the fussing!  We’re going to drink, by Fricka’s nips!”  Fricka was a local goddess, apparently.  The woman gave him a sour look, smiled at me (which did little to improve her looks) and slunk away.

“My wife,” he muttered after she left.  “Durtha.  Face like an anvil, but she’s got a heart o’ pure gold.  Now, Lord Minalan, you’re who my lads have been all talking about.  Saw your man Sir Cei, few days back.  He said you were the type of man to drop by for a surprise inspection.”

“I am,” I nodded, opening the skin of rough red.  There were four more on the horses outside.  I like to be prepared.  “No doubt you’ve heard all sorts of things about me by now.”

“That you’re generous, virtuous, and handsome,” he grunted.  “My eldest daughter is smitten with you.”

That was unexpected.  “I’m sure she’s a comely lass,” I lied, thinking about her mother’s face.  “I’ve been here more than a moon, and yet you’ve paid no visit to me.”

“I figured you’d come see me when you had a mind,” he shrugged, watching the wine pour into his mug with undisguised enthusiasm.  “Figured you had your hands full, with the mess that idiot Erantal left you.  Good thing you’re a bloody wizard,” he said, taking a drink of the wine like it was beer, “you’re gonna need a magic wand.”

“I have some.  And we’ll get to that.  I hear you were not well-disposed to Sir Erantal?”

“I hated the man,” he admitted.  “Sorry waste of skin . . . gave half of the bloody fief away to that pimple Gimbal.  Peasants was gettin’ rowdy, but he didn’t have the men to quell it.  So he gets Gimbal to ‘raid’ us into submission, and then hands over Brestal to ‘im like a name-day gift!  Disgraceful!  If you do nothin’ but tax us to death and rape our daughters, you’re still a hero t’me for sending that sotted goat packing!” he said, roaring with laughter.

My Bovali escort laughed, if a little uncomfortably.  They weren’t used to such harsh language about the nobility – but they had lived under a fairly kind and indulgent lord in a prosperous domain.  I could understand Jurlor’s perspective.

“I’ll try to keep the raping to a minimum and the taxation gentle – for now,” I added.  I was warming up to Jurlor, in spite of the man’s coarseness.  “But getting rid of Erantal was just the first of many changes I intend to make to Sevendor.”

“Aye, that’s the truth,” he said, almost exasperated.  “Every day my lads come back from the village with more brass in their pockets than I seen in a year, from puttin’ up houses.  Sold every damn goat I had to Sir Cei to feed you lot, so I got plenty now myself,” he added, proudly.  “If that’s the kind of change comin’, bring me a double portion!”

That was encouraging to hear.  From the baleful stares I’d been getting from Railan the Steady every time I saw him at a distance, I was beginning to wonder if any of the native Sevendori would appreciate the improvements I was making.  Jurlor certainly did.  I decided to give him a taste of what was to come.

“Oh, it is,” I assured him.  “But the new houses and the new people – and the money – are just the beginning.  As the first magelord in four centuries, I plan on using magic to better the lives of everyone in the vale.  But I may ask for you to do some things – even give up some things – that you’re used to in exchange.  Now, Railan the Steady has cooperated thus far, though reluctant, and has continued to profit despite the anguish he feels over the changes to the village.  And just yesterday I was considering what to do with that peak in the center of the valley—”

“Matten’s Helm?” he asked in surprise.

“That’s what it’s called?” I asked, curious.  “I’d heard that.  That’s a strange name for it.”

“Oh, it’s been called other things – Briga’s Teat, the Highland, Bald Rock, Seven’s Peak – but it’s properly known as Matten’s Helm. Legend has it that when Lenselys men first came to Sevendor, besides the Westwoodmen there was only a Stone Folk hermit living in the Vale, up there on the peak.  Real feisty fellow, name o’ Matten – or at least that’s what the human folk called him.

“Matten kept to hisself, mostly, but would come down from the peak and trade trinkets with the peasants for ale and mead.  Crazy ol’ creature, legend says.”  Jurlor took another ale-sized swallow of wine, unaware of its potency, and continued, clearly enamored of the sound of his own story.  I didn’t mind – this was just the sort of local folklore I was seeking in order to understand my new domain and my new subjects.

“Well, from the top o’ that peak you can see most of the vale, both Sevendor and Brestal.  In particular, you can see into Mishi’s Spring.”

“Mishi’s Spring?” I asked, intrigued.  I knew the Stone Folk had settlements in the Uwarris – that was one of the main reasons I chose Sevendor as my domain.  But this was the first sign I’d seen that they’d actually been here.  There was a lot about this little land I still didn’t know.

“Oh, that’s right, you wouldn’t know,” Jurlor realized.  “There’s a spring away over in Brestal Vale, behind the ridge, between two woods.  Secluded, like.  Legends say the goddess Mishi, one of Ishi’s daughters, bathed there once.  Some say it has magical properties, or is blessed by the goddess, or something.  But the local maidens were like to bathe there thinking it would make them more comely.”  He guffawed.  “My Durtha done been in it nine times, it hasn’t worked yet!”

Enough wine had been consumed by then to earn a peal of laughter from my Bovali – and it seemed as if Durtha didn’t mind the dig.  Somehow I suspected it was delivered with great fondness, not out of meanness.  A sign of a good marriage, not a troubled one.

“Anyhow,” he continued, when he’d collected his wits, “This Matten used to sit up there and watch them sport naked in the spring.  Now, never heard o’ one of the Stone Folk goin’ for a human woman before, but legend says that one lass was so beautiful to him that he began pining for her.  She weren’t much to look at, in human terms, but I guess them Stone Folk got other ideas of beauty.

“So he starts courtin’ her, bringin’ her father all the treasures them folk are supposed to have – rubies, diamonds, jewels, that sort o’ thing.

“But her Da wasn’t havin’ it.  Threw them jewels back in the poor creature’s face.  So Matten conspired to kidnap his light o’ love one night, and took her with him up to the Helm.  It’s powerful treacherous to get there, if you don’t know the way.

“Her Da sent her brothers up, but Matten stood in the way with a cudgel and a great iron helm.  Said that he’d let them take her back if they could knock him out of the way.  Well, they tried.  They were all stout lads, but every one of them couldn’t match Matten’s skill.  They tried staves, they tried throwing rocks, they tried spears, but they couldn’t move Matten.  That great bloody helmet kept his head safe, and no blow got past his staff.

“So they go find a knight up at the castle, and he tries with a sword, and he fails.  Then they tried arrows, but the path is so twisty that they couldn’t get no range.  Finally, her Da has had enough, and comes up to parley.

“He meets Matten, and says if he hears from his daughter that she’s happy, he’ll leave.  Then he hears this voice calling “Da, I love him!” from the heights and the Stone Folk makes him keep his word.  From that day forth, they lived there as husband and wife, lookin’ out over the vale and keeping it safe.”

I looked at Jurlor for a moment, and then blinked.  “They don’t seem to have been doing a very good job.”

“That were hundreds of years ago,” Jurlor laughed.  “And it were a legend, is all.  But that’s how the peak took its name.  You can still get up there, if you know the way.  Some o’ the young folk, they repair to there sometimes to court in secret.”

“Might have to try that myself – after my lady delivers, in late winter.”

“Oh, you’ve a young one on the way!” Jurlor grinned crookedly. That also earned a smile from his ugly wife. “Got nine myself,” he said proudly.  “Gonna marry off the oldest this spring to my man Parmel, he’s my reeve.  That first one . . .” he said, shaking his shaggy head nostalgically, “that first one will drive you to drink and swear against the gods themselves.  But there’s nothing like it, nothing like it,” he repeated, fondly.

I tried to change the subject – I was quite aware of my impending fatherhood, and right now I was trying to escape the anxiety by plunging into work.  “So will you bring your folk to the castle for Yule, then?  I promise a merry occasion.”

“It would be my pleasure, Lord Minalan,” he said, with exaggerated grace.  “I favor the change you’ve brought, and would like to see more.”

“Would you like to see more Sevendor, too?” I asked cautiously.  “I’ll hold you to your vow to keep it a close secret.   Because come spring I’ll be adding Brestal back to my domains.  If not before.”

That pleased Jurlor more than the prospect of a jolly Yule.  He pledged five swords and twelve spears to the effort, and promised his House would be the first in support of such a move.

I wanted to finish with something magnanimous, so as I made to depart I asked the Yeoman, “Jurlor, what would you say your biggest problem holding this land is?  Besides the taxes,” I quickly amended.

He chuckled at that and scratched his beard.  “Biggest problem?  You took care o’ that when you sent Erantal away.  Now my daughters can go to the village in peace.  But next to that . . . a market day would be welcome.  Ol’ Urine-Tail declared only one market every five weeks, in season, and then doubled the fees.  Eggs and such won’t keep five weeks, Lord Minalan.”

“Then I pledge that we shall have market every two weeks,” I nodded, “and I will waive all fees for six months.  In less than a moon there will be many more settlers coming, Jurlor – I promise, you’ll be taking top coin for your produce.”

“Then I can’t ask for more,” he sighed, as he called for his stable boy to bring our mounts.  “Thank you for this visit, My Lord,” he said, placing his hand on his breast and bowing.  “You hear much about a man, but you don’t know him until you’ve passed a few cups with him.”

I couldn’t disagree with that.  We departed Jurlor’s hold and continued down the path toward the most eastern of Sevendor Vale’s current Yeomanries, Farant’s Hold.  Sagal made a point of riding next to me.

“So what did you think?” I asked my brother-in-law.

“Crude man,” he admitted, “but no less so than most Bovali.  He kept a well-run farm.  Poor, but well-run.  And he seems quite genuine.  You?”

“Best looking manor I’ve seen in Sevendor, and it’s worse than the worst of Boval Vale.”

“This next district may seem a potent contrast.  From what Sir Cei has told me, Farant is more a friend to Fleria than Sevendor.  And he had a poor opinion of the man’s character.”

Sagal chuckled.  “Sir Cei has a poor opinion of every man’s character.”

“Now, be fair,” I countered.  “I remember when he was the administrator over Boval and how tough he was with tribute, taxes and fees.  But he was never unfair.  He was never generous, but he was never unfair.  Which means that now that I’m lord, he’s perfect for the job – including his character assessments.

“I guess things look different when you’re the lord,” he conceded.

“It’s not all silver cups and dancing girls,” I said, rolling my eyes.  “It’s like running a very large farm, I suppose.  A farm where the chickens can stage an uprising and the goats can plot against you with your neighbors.”

After Jurlor’s Hold’s boundary stick, the path got progressively more overgrown and less distinct.  The peak of Matten’s Helm loomed overhead, and the air seemed to get damp, even in the cold.  The stream was nearby, and according to the map it would continue until it tumbled through a narrow waterfall before it continued on into northern Brestal, and joined a few smaller streams.  There were more trees and tangled underbrush, and toward the end of the path we were riding directly on the stream bank.

Huddled on the bank of the stream was an old, ramshackle wattle-and-daub structure that made Jurlor’s hold look like a palace.  It was surrounded by a primitive stone fence unsuitable for defense but almost adequate for containing chickens.  The expanse of ground around the hall was worn smooth of vegetation and had been pounded into hard clay by many feet over many years.  The shutters were hanging.  Moss and lichens grew on every surface.  There was a faint but foul smell, something worse than the usual peasant odors.  And the courtyard of the manor had nothing resembling the hustle and bustle around Jurlor’s Hold.

Two wiry-looking boys of fourteen or fifteen were splitting wood in the poorly-defined axe-yard. They stopped the moment they saw us, pulled their threadbare cloaks over their shoulders.  The one with the axe didn’t put it down.  The one without the axe picked up an axe.  Both of them started toward us with a mixture of caution and aggression.

“Who the hells are you?” demanded the elder.  He had dark hair and a wide face, just a suggestion of beard on his chin.  His brother had dark eyes and a narrow jaw, and no chin to speak of.  He tried to make up for it – unsuccessfully – by growing a mustache.

“I am Magelord Minalan, Lord of Sevendor,” I said, booming my voice as loud as I could without resorting to magic.  “Who the hells are you?”

“Sir Erantal rules Sevendor!” the younger one said, angrily, his knuckles going white on the axe handle.

“Sir Erantal has been replaced.  I was given this land by the Duke, himself.  I’ll even produce my grant for your inspection, if either of you know more than three letters between the two of you.  But I rule here now.  Your names.”

There was a long pause as they glanced at each other for support or permission.  Finally, the elder said, grudgingly, “I’m Korl.  This is my brother Tid.  We look to Master Farant.”  There was a note of fear in their voices when they named him.

“It is Master Farant with whom I have business today,” I said, trying to sound lordly.  “Where might I find him?  And where is everyone else?”

“He’s gone,” Korl said, sullenly.  “Been gone two days, now.  Most o’ the others are cutting trees or hunting.  Or running errands.”  There was a note of guilt in his voice.

I summoned some patience.  “And where has he gone?”

Korl looked annoyed.  “Well, to Brestal Tower, he has.  At least, that’s where he usually goes.  He’s friends with one o’ the guard, there.  A real warrior, he is,” sneered the boy.  “Not some dainty mage.”

He was brave, I’ll give him that.

“And what business does your master have with Brestal?” Sagal asked, dismounting.  Sagal is a big man, tall and stocky.  Years working a creamery and herding cows had given him huge biceps and massive forearms, which he made even more imposing with a couple of leather bracers.   The sword at his hip was almost as intimidating.

“He’s . . . he’s tellin’ . . .” Korl said, clearly intimidated by my brother-in-law.  Then he remembered that he had an axe in his hand, and he held it in front of him like it was a magical talisman.  “He’s tellin’ his friend about the usurper in the castle that’s messin’ things up!”

“That would be . . . me, then?” I asked, a little amused.

“If you’re that wizard, then yeah,” Tid sneered.  “When Master Farant gets his Brestal friends up, he’ll set you to rights!”

“Set me to rights?” I asked, surprised.  “What harm have I done Farant or his folk?”

“You brought all o’ them dirty foreigners here, for one,” Korl accused.  “And you gave away all that beef, and so no one bought at the market this week, and you turned out noble Sir Erantal like he was a common thief, and you’re gonna start raisin’ taxes and keepin’ folk from making their rightful livin’—”

“Just how does Master Farant make his living?” I asked, looking around.  I nodded toward the small patch of field to the south – not more than forty or fifty acres on a slope, more of a muddy pit than arable land, cut up into the usual patchwork of plots to be farmed by the manor.   Most of it had not been planted last season, I could see.  “It certainly isn’t from his skill with agriculture.”

“We . . . I don’t have to tell you nothin’!” Korl yelled defiantly.

“Actually, you do,” I said, apologetically.  “And you’d better do so soon, or there will be consequences.  I’ll ask you again, but not a third time: how does Master Farant make his living?”

“He . . . he makes liquor,” Korl admitted, once Sagal provided sufficient menace.  “He makes it for the castle, for Erantal.  He don’t have a permit, though, so he makes it secret.  Erantal took some o’ every batch and paid a fair price for it.”

That made sense.  Distilleries are taxed under the Ducal code, and are taxed rather heavily in Castal.  Most are chartered directly from the Duke, or from a powerful count or baron, and the taxes involved were stiff enough to ensure that only a distillery large enough to produce and sell hogsheads of liquor a year would find any profit in it.  That kept distilled liquors a luxury for the wealthy, and theoretically kept them out of the hands of the peasants.

Only there’s more than one way to distill alcohol, and peasants like to drink spirits as much as nobles.  There’s almost always some enterprising artisan who finds a way to feed this market.  In the village I grew up in it was my father’s woodcutter who provided small bottles of the precious liquid for his private office . . . without mentioning it to taxing authorities.  Or my mother.

In Sevendor, apparently, Farant was the supplier.  And he sold most of his stock to Erantal, at a discount to keep him from intervening in the untaxed enterprise.  And without the worry of the authorities showing up and hauling him away for tax evasion and distillation without a permit, Farant was probably supplying the whole valley.  Until we showed up, started bringing wine and beer in, getting rid of his biggest customer and imperiling his entire operation.

“So Master Farant is running a clandestine still,” I nodded.  “This puts him in violation of his oath as Yeoman.”

“You can’t do nothin’!” Tid said, angrily.  “You can’t do nothin’ if you can’t find the still—”

“It’s over there,” I said, casually, pointing towards the wood pile.  “Likely in that dead tree, or perhaps in a cache under that largest log.”  I brought up magesight just to confirm.  It took a little adjustment, but it didn’t take me long to figure it out.  “Or both.  It looks like you have the condenser in the tree and the boiler pot in the hole.”

The two boys looked at me like I was a demon.  “I’m a mage, remember?”

They looked terrified.  But one of the dubious advantages of youth is more bravery than sense.  They both took defiant stances, and raised their axes.  I sighed, drew one of the two warwands I’d brought, and pointed it at the old tree that concealed the condenser.  That was the hardest part of a still to replace.  I spoke the word of command, and the tree exploded in a shower of rotten wood.  The terminally battered condenser, a delicate network of brass tubing in the shape of a falcon, flew a dozen feet away.

Both boys took to their heels before it landed.  I sighed.

“I hereby revoke Farant’s warrant for this district.  Sagal, could you take charge of this place?  It’s a mess, and somehow I don’t think that liquor is the only vice Farant catered to.  Tear the place apart.  Put it back together again.  As bad shape as it’s in, we could quarter five or six families here, come Yule.”

“More,” he admitted, looking around doubtfully.  “Can I keep the lads here?” he asked, gesturing toward our armed escort.  “I don’t want more trouble than I can handle.”

“Take three for now, and I’ll have one of them ride back to the castle for more men and some supplies,” I agreed.  “And to tell your wife what you’re up to, so she won’t accuse you of running off.  But take charge here.  Question everyone.  From the peg board back at the castle, Farant owes over five ounces of silver for his rent, and he’s also in arrears on his reeve payments by another eight silver.

“If we can recover any of that, I’ll be happy.  Destroying the still was a pretext for cleaning this place out, but I want you to put enough pressure on everyone who’s left to make the guilty flee before they can face the goddess of justice.  Whoever is left is likely going to be fine, but shake the fleas off of this dog for me.”

“Min, it would be my pleasure,” Sagal agreed.  He looked around at his new responsibility with disgust.  “Look at this place!  Garbage everywhere!  That smell—”

“Discarded mash,” I observed.  “Lots of it.  It molds.  I should have recognized it when we got here.  I wonder how Sir Cei didn’t . . .”

Sagal chuckled.  “Oh, that’s because Sir Cei never had to deal with illegal stills in Boval.  If a fellow wants to make liquor, he just ferments cider all autumn, and then lets it freeze come winter.  Chuck off the ice, you have the spirits underneath.  Don’t need all the ironmongery,” he said, almost proudly.

“Ice distillation,” I nodded.  “That makes sense.  Put this place to order, and if you have any trouble send word and I’ll bring the whole garrison.  This little hold doesn’t look like much, but if anyone can set it to rights, it’s you.  Just let me know what you need.”

“My pleasure, Min,” he said, his eyes narrowing as he began to plan.  “My pleasure.”

*                            *                            *

I almost called it a day and rode back to the castle – it was already early evening.  Then I recalled Alya’s mood this morning, and I decided I would be remiss in my duties if I didn’t call on the other Yeomanry in the eastern end of the vale, Yeoman Ylvine of Southridge Hold.  I had left my escort with Sagal back in Farant’s Hold – we’d have to come up with a new name for it now – so I was proceeding by myself, but I figured I could handle it.

I really enjoyed the ride across the valley, once I left Farant’s land.  Even in winter, Sevendor was a pretty vale.  The setting sun made magnificent colors across the face of the exposed rocks of the cliffs to the southeast, and the rolling pitch of the bottom lands made the whole land seem as active as a seashore.  I took my time as I crossed the pasturelands that lead to Southridge, and by the time I arrived at the wooden palisade near twilight, I had a warm, homey feeling.

That lasted until I spoke to Yeoman Ylvine.

He could have been distantly related to Jurlor, as he had the same shaggy head and beard, and his eyes were similar.  But he did not have Jurlor’s broad shoulders, and his lips were thinner and his nose longer than the other Yeoman.  When I pounded on the closed gate of the palisade, Ylvine was the second person I met, after the boy who answered the knock ran off to get him at my summons.

I hadn’t given my name, just that I was from the Castle.  Ylvine came out, sword at his belt but unarmored, and gave me and Traveler a long look.

“You’re from the castle?” he asked, surprised.

“You’re Yeoman Ylvine?”

“I ask the questions in my own hall,” he barked back.

“Which means you are Yeoman Ylvine,” I pointed out.  “Excellent.  I bear a message from the Lord of Sevendor.”

“The upstart?” he snorted.  “This should be good.  What does his lordship say?”

“You seem ill-disposed toward your new lord,” I observed.

“Don’t really matter who I pay taxes to, does it?  Erantal I learned to do business with, the black-hearted bastard.  Who is this new lordling?  I hear he was a miller’s son – and now he wishes to command a man of my station?”

Oh, this was amusing.  I wondered just how far he’d go.  “He was knighted for his valor and granted this estate in gratitude from the Duke, himself.”

“Well, goody for him!” exploded Ylvine.  “Some stranger coming in and upsetting the whole vale . . . bringing those queer folk with him . . . and a wizard, too!  From all the tales I heard, it’s never good to serve a Magelord.  It’s not proper to bend a knee to a man who—”

“You know,” I interrupted, before he said something I’d have to take official notice of, “it’s a little dark out here.”  I waved my hand and summoned a magelight into being between us, a little thing not larger than a hen’s egg, so that it illuminated both of our faces in the gloom.  “There, that’s better.   Now, you were saying something about magelords?”

It took a few moments for him to catch up, but he eventually nodded his head.  “You’re him, aren’t ye?”

“I am,” I nodded.  “Sire Minalan the Spellmonger, Magelord of Sevendor.  And I’m a baker’s son, not a miller’s son.  And I aim to set this realm to rights, after Erantal’s disgraceful neglect.  I’ve just discharged Farant from his Yeomanry.”

“You what?” Ylvine asked, surprised.  “That sorry rat?  Good riddance!  Maybe you aren’t so bad after all.”

“You didn’t mind Erantal, but you hated Farant?” I asked, in surprise.  “Can I ask why?”

“Erantal just wanted his rightful tribute, and to tap one of the maids every now and then.  Like I said, I could do business with him.  But Farant?  He’s in the purse of Fleria.  I might not like bending a knee to a wizard, but I’m a loyal Sevendori.  I don’t sell my loyalty.” He said it proudly, if reluctantly.

“Well, I ask that you and your household come to a special Yule celebration at the castle,” I said, gently.  “I discharged Farant for cause, but I won’t turn a man out for speaking his mind, especially if he’s loyal.  Of course, if he proves disloyal, then that is another story.  But all I ask is that you give me a chance to earn your loyalty.  Fulfill your warrant faithfully, and I’ll have no cause to interfere . . . past a certain point.  There will be some changes,” I warned.

“Well, stands to reason there would be,” Ylvine admitted.  “But bringing in all those queer folk—”

“Those ‘queer folk’ are refugees from the Mindens, from the western Alshari Wilderlands.  Boval Vale, particularly.  And yes, their accent sounds strange and their customs are going to be different.  But they are a good and sturdy folk, as honest as you could ask for in neighbors.  I’m Riverborn myself.  My folks hale from Talry.  But I’ve lived with them for a while, now, and I tell you they are good folk.  I ask that you give them a chance to earn your friendship, and in the long term I can see you profiting from that.”

He seemed to consider the matter, but in the end he made a sour face and shook his head.  “I’ll swear to you as lord,” he conceded.  “That’s only right.  But you don’t interfere with me and mine, and I’ll do as my warrant bids.”

“That’s a pretty brave attitude to take with your new lord,” I pointed out.

“You can turn me out like Farant, or you can kill me,” he declared, “but I don’t kiss no man’s ass.  Never have.  Not Erantal, and not you.”

“Fair enough,” I conceded.  “So we can count on your household at Yule, where you will re-swear your oath?”

“We’ll be there,” he said, warily.  “Count on two score.  And we’ll be bearing arms . . . in honor of our new lord,” he added.  Apparently Yeoman Ylvine didn’t trust me.

“Then I’ll make arrangements for that many,” I replied, evenly.  “Good evening, Yeoman,” I said as I gathered my reins.  I was glad I didn’t bring wine inside.  I didn’t want to prolong this engagement.

“Lord,” was the curt reply I got – the first tangible acknowledgement of my rank from his lips.

I got back to the castle long after dinner was over, so I cajoled Nanily to bring me a plate in my quarters . . . where Alya was waiting.  She was under the thick blankets we had gotten as wedding gifts back in Talry, looking tired and a little miserable.  There would have been a lot more blankets, had I not placed a warming spell on the room.  The enchantment made it as comfortable as a cool autumn evening, not cold enough to freeze water in the wash basin as it was elsewhere in the castle.

“Were you avoiding me today?” she accused, her pretty eyes peering out at me tearfully from beneath the blankets.

“I had some business to attend to,” I said as I took a seat at the little table in our room.  “I visited three of the Yeomanries today.”

I filled her in on events as I ate, and that distracted her a little from the fact that yes, indeed, I had been avoiding her all day.  She was particularly interested in the sudden raising of Sagal’s station.  Her pregnant sister had been giving her grief about living in a mud hut while she got to live in a castle.  Now she’d get to live in a manor hall.

“Well, Sagal is the right man to order a place,” she agreed, abandoning her ire for the moment in order to promote her brother-in-law.  She and Ela, her sister, were not at all alike, and seemed to work best when there was sufficient distance between them, but she liked Sagal like a brother.  “Marrying him was the smartest thing my sister ever did.  But aren’t you worried that people are going to start thinking he got the position by nepotism—?”

“He did,” I agreed.  “If he wasn’t my brother-in-law, he might not have gotten the opportunity.  But this isn’t a village festival we’re organizing here, this is our domain.  I need people I can trust in places where they can do the most good.  Farant’s Hold is just this side of the ridge from Brestal, and I didn’t want to leave a rotten spot on my frontier.  When your sister arrives at Yule, if he’s done a good job I’ll raise him to Yeoman and she’ll have a comfy little estate all her own.”

“And how is that not nepotism?” she asked, pointedly.

“It’s exactly nepotism,” I agreed.  “That’s my point.  This way, if he messes things up worse, I can say ‘hey, I had to appoint him; he’s my brother-in-law.’  And if he does well – which I fully expect, Sagal is no idiot – then I can say ‘see?  I know talent when I see it.’  Win-win.”

“That’s . . . that doesn’t seem . . . oh, I don’t really care.  I just don’t want people to think . . .”

“Think what?  That you are Lady of the land, and that being related to you is a good thing?”

“Think that I’m the type of Lady who’s ready to cram her relatives down the throats of the people,” she finished.

“We’re going to have to stop worrying so much about what people think,” I said, kicking my boots off tiredly.  “If we do that, then we won’t be able to get anything important done.  I could have waited until Yule to strip Farant of his holding, because the other Yeomen would have seen that as a more appropriate time to do it.  But I decided it couldn’t wait, and damn what they might think.  I’ve got a domain to rule, and if someone is getting in the way of that, I have a responsibility to deal with that first.”

She smiled at me, which I wasn’t expecting – I was prepared for her to pick a fight.

“What?” I demanded.

“You look really cute when you get all resolute and lordly,” she giggled.  “Sorry, didn’t mean to offend your dignity.”

“That’s something else I’ve got to be willing to part with, at need,” I shrugged.  “I’m serious about wanting to be a different kind of lord – I’m committed to proving that magelords can benefit their subjects, not just exploit them.”

“I know, Min,” she sighed.  “But don’t get so involved in all of Sevendor’s troubles that you ignore . . . well, things at home,” she said.  “I’m not feeling ignored just yet, but I got really lonely today.  Really lonely.”  She began to weep.  “I know I’m just having . . . pregnancy stirrings, but damn it!  They feel real enough!”

“Come here,” I said, sympathetically, sliding into bed next to her.  “I’m sorry I was gone, but it couldn’t be helped.  I’ll try to spend a few days around the castle and make sure you don’t get too lonely.  But there are going to be times . . . especially until I can get this relic livable and the Bovali settled . . . there are going to be times when I’m going to have to be away.”

“I know,” she sniffed.  “’The duty of a lord is to his people.’ That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“Me either,” I said, soothingly.  I held her while she wept until she started snoring, and I felt safe drifting off myself.

Of course that’s when someone decided they needed to talk to me.

I felt the stirrings of mind-to-mind contact, and the symbols for the spell swam before me.  Reluctantly I activated the request and established a link.  I felt obligated.  I’d been so involved in Sevendor that I had not only been neglecting the comfort of my bride, but I hadn’t given much thought to the greater war effort in weeks.

Thankfully, I had good competent people to handle that.  One of them was Terleman, the Warden of the Magelands, and military commander of the warmagi and magelords in the Alshari Wilderlands who still faced the armies of the Dead God.  And thankfully the news was good.

Things have been pretty quiet, he admitted, after we exchanged greetings.  I actually contacted you partially out of boredom.

That’s encouraging, I agreed.  So no more sorties from the Penumbra?  That was the region adjacent to the Dead God’s sphere of direct influence, known as the Umbra.

Not on this side of it.  But they’re reinforcing that last big castle in the south they took, Persalan Castle.  There’s at least ten thousand wintering there.

Ten thousand doesn’t sound like that many, I observed.

If they were all infantry, I’d agree.  But there are at least a company of trolls, and what appears to be the bulk of his engineer corps.  And at least twenty shamans.

All right, that does seem like an abundance, I admitted.  What are they doing?

Gathering their strength is all, right now.  The gurvani don’t seem to want to fight in the snow any more than we do.  They haven’t done more than a few raids against isolated settlements.  But come spring, a force that large in Persalan can only mean that they plan on continuing a southern push.

What’s the next large castle they’d have to face?

Droverdal.  Count Morlad of Droverdal, to be exact.  It’s not the strongest castle in the Wilderlands, but then it’s only barely in the Wilderlands.  Sixty miles south you come to the Riverlands.  And once there . . .

Let’s hope the gurvani don’t discover boats, I agreed.  The Riverlands could be traversed pretty quickly, by barge.  You should send word of this intelligence to the good Count.

Already done.  And I’ve also requested that His Grace consider ordering a levy in Gilmora.  Problem is, Count Morlad is not, shall we say, a friend of His Grace or his ambitions.

Dissent already?

There are a lot of Alshari who resent the mysterious death of Duke Lenguin in the field, and a lot of opportunistic great nobles are using it as a pretext for their own ambitions.  Nothing surprising.  Working as a warmage could make you jaded about politics, and permanent prohibition against playing in politics allowed us to make judgments about it without being overly involved in it.

We had all seen how opportunism had influenced the outcome of the wars we fought in.  Terleman’s ability to understand it without being drawn into it made him an excellent man to command the High Magi in the field.

Unfortunately, he was all-too-willing to rely on rumor, and not get his facts certain.  I had to keep nudging him to take a broader view of military intelligence.  Keep an eye on him.  See who he’s talking to.  When I spoke with Mavone and the other Gilmoran magi, they indicated that their countrymen’s proclivity toward revolt would likely be tempered by the threat of goblin invasion.  If Morlad truly understood what he’s facing . . .

I’ll see if I can’t give him a private tour, Terleman said, thoughtfully.  I need to go inspect the garrisons in that region anyway.  We have a sprinkling of High Magi in the area, but I’m sending more.  I’ll stop by and tell some tales, give him something to think about.  Somehow I don’t think the gurvani are going east, this summer.  They’re heading south.  Into the heartland of the Riverlands.

There was more, but that was the cheery thought I went to sleep on that night.

Chapter Seven

The Reconquest Of Brestal Vale

The next week was very busy.  I barely slept at all.

Tyndal started contacting me magically every night to report on the progress of the next wave of Bovali – there was a final one, after this, that wouldn’t be able to travel until the weather cleared, mostly dotards, babies or the sick and wounded.

They were still in the care of Sir Roncil, one of Sire Koucey’s other gentlemen-knights who had elected to stay on with the refugees.  But the main column of Bovali was coming up the Bontal River on four massive barges.  More than fifty families and hundreds of straggling, lonely displaced survivors of Boval were arriving, at my expense, to begin their new lives.

My two apprentices, Tyndal and Rondal, were herding them along, with the help of a dozen community leaders.  They had found their welcome increasingly cold at the old Ducal castle where they had been quartered, and while some of them found a new home in the coastal  region, the others were anxious to take me up on my offer of a new start.

But getting ready for a thousand new people in the middle of winter wasn’t easy.  Feeding them and keeping them warm were the biggest headaches.  We had prepared as many shelters as we could, but even with the castle stuffed to the battlements and all my Yeomanries packed to the rafters, we still lacked a place for over twenty families.

A place in Sevendor, that is.

Sir Cei, Captain Forondo and I had been plotting and planning this entire time to kill two goblins with one arrow.  We had people to quarter and no good shelter to do so.  We also had a third of my realm that had to be recaptured, eventually, and unfriendly neighbors who would object to that.

But the thing is, feudal states just do not make war in the winter.  It’s too cold and too difficult to forage for warhorses and oxen teams, so only professional mercenaries will usually fight after the Autumnal Equinox – peasants and knights would rather stay drunk by the fire all winter.  Considering any kind of military action before the thaw was just unheard of.

That gave us a big advantage over Gimbal of West Fleria.  He wasn’t expecting us to move on Brestal until spring, at the earliest.  We needed it now.

I hadn’t been to tour the tower there myself, but I’d sent several native Sevendori to scout on one pretext or another.  I’d even climbed half-way up Matten’s Helm to peer at the squat stone structure through magesight, until I was satisfied I had a good idea of the place’s defenses.  And, of course, I tapped Sir Cei’s ability to gather rumor and gossip, until I knew the names of just about everyone in Brestal, as well as what they did.

The eastern lobe of my fief had been taken in conquest and given to Sir Ganulan, the pimply-faced sixteen-year-old bastard of Sire Gimbal.  But the boy rarely stayed in Brestal, leaving it in the charge of his uncle on his mother’s side, Sir Lanulan.  And from what I heard about him, he and Sir Erantal could have been twins.

Sir Lanulan was in his forties and was missing two fingers on his left hand, thanks to a bad dog bite in his past.  He stayed drunk most of the time and ran Brestal like it was his own.  He had a tiny garrison of ten men who were usually as drunk as he was, and they oversaw a single village (actually, closer to a hamlet) and a few dozen isolated subsistence farmsteads.

The peasants of Brestal were singularly worse off than their Sevendori kin, with higher taxes and greater fees than even Sir Erantal had levied.  Sir Lanulan apparently prided himself on his ability to squeeze every iron penny he could out of the land, and if that meant slowly starving his workers to death, he didn’t mind.

That meant that the few people left in Brestal likely wouldn’t protest a change in management.  In fact, Jurlor was kin to one family there, and indicated that they would welcome a reconquest.  I found that encouraging.

Something else interesting came to me during that time: a wandering footwizard named Banamor found his way to my gates, having heard the rumor of magelord . . . and irionite.

Banamor was a common sort of unregistered footwizard, more rogue than mage, but he did have more than a lick of Talent and a truly entertaining patter – enough to impress peasants and artisans, and more than a few nobles.  He had tarried at Gimbal’s seat in West Fleria  for a few days, and during that time he had learned that Gimbal, too, was planning a big Yule celebration for his vassals.  Banamor was more than willing to tell us all he knew, in exchange for dinner in the great hall and a few cups of wine.

As it turned out all of Sire Gimbal’s vassals and Yeomen were all bidden to ride to their lord’s fortress with their castellans, as Gimbal desired to receive their oaths personally, and not by proxy this year for some reason.

It occurred to Sir Cei that the main reason to do so would be to evaluate how many men Gimbal could rally for a spring campaign against Sevendor.  Banamor (who wasn’t nearly as magically Talented as he was observant) agreed, and added that the prevailing rumor in West Fleria was that a depraved mage had enchanted the Duke into giving me Sevendor, and how I was sure to unleash magical hell on the folk of the Riverlands the way I had destroyed the Alshari Wilderlands.

The fact that I was also reputed to be rich and buying up grain so fast that the price was rising in the region beyond reason wasn’t helping.

That wasn’t quite true, but four times so far I had to order oats and corn from Sashtalia and elsewhere, not to mention a few wagonloads of silage. Enough, apparently, to affect local supply and drive up prices in some districts.  The West Flerian cottagers who had returned after working in Sevendor had been telling tales of wonder far beyond the modest spells I’d been able to cast, and as such things do, the tales had grown in the retelling.

That could be a good thing or a bad thing.

But the general tenor of the people of those lands – as opposed to their lords – was cautious, not antagonistic.  While they were scared of magic, they were more worried about higher flour prices and the prospect of a new tax to pay for a war against me.   Gimbal’s “popular” support for a war was limited to his vassals and Yeomen, most of whom he was related to.  His subjects in his conquered territories weren’t very happy with the idea at all.

About a week before Yule, Sir Cei and Captain Forondo came to me with a plan – a simple, elegant, and highly effective plan.  I loved it, and gave it my most heartfelt support.  It turned our weaknesses into advantages, and simplified our security situation admirably.  Just the kind of magic – and military action – I like.

First, we posted a permanent watch on Brestal Tower, which was easy enough.  You could see nearly everything that happened in the eastern vale from the ridge top overlooking Sagal’s new holding, and for days we had a lad or two concealed in the underbrush, just observing.  They watched messengers on foot and horse come and go, mostly, and just a hint of activity with an eye toward celebrating the winter solstice.

Then we sent three small parties of Bovali bowmen into strategic locations overlooking the split in the road at the entrance of the valley.  It didn’t take long (with the help of some magic) to build two small redoubts in the highlands overlooking the stream and road.  With their big Alshari Wilderland longbows, Bovali could hit anything that came through from either side.  They stayed concealed for the most part, and I didn’t mind throwing a couple of spells to discourage anyone from actually seeing them.

The third party was stationed in the ruined old border tower, using the burned-out husk and the fallen rubble around it as cover.  That tower was well-placed, commanding a view of the entire entrance to the vales.  They were instructed to lay low and observe until they were signaled.

So when Sir Lanulan and six of his men rode out of Brestal Tower three days before Yule, dressed in what passes for finery among drunken men-at-arms, there were only five soldiers guarding Brestal tower.  The five who hadn’t been able to talk their way into the party.

I could have taken the damn thing myself.  In fact, I nearly did.

Instead, we waited until Sir Lanulan and his men had passed beyond our sight into Fleria, and then we attacked the next morning, an hour before dawn.

Taking an escort of five men, I crossed over into Brestal Vale just as the Morning Star was rising.  One of the bowmen killed the lone sentry (who was apparently sleeping at the gate and was unloved by his fellows). I kept the others from waking with another spell over the top floor of the squat tower, where the barracks was located.  I used a cantrip to part the rusty chain that raised the portcullis, and we had effectively re-taken Brestal Vale.

Hardly a battle for the ages.

I had the four surviving soldiers stripped and taken to the dungeons of Sevendor Castle, to await my judgment.  Then five wagons from Sevendor arrived with fresh supplies culled from our own.  By midmorning the makeshift banner I was using as a device (the stars-and-wands figure I had sketched to Sir Cei a few weeks earlier that neither of us was satisfied with) flew from the sole battlement of the tower.  Sevendor Domain was whole again.

I detailed Sir Cei and Captain Forondo to interview the peasants from the village, as well as distribute gifts of blankets, furs, bread and meat (the first they’d had in months).  I personally gave them a keg of decent cider, a couple of hams and a slaughtered goat and passed out a few dozen copper pennies.  They were far more wretched than their peers in the western vale, with even more threadbare clothes, less sturdy dwellings, and an abysmal amount of firewood laid in for winter.  Almost all of them were villeins.  Less than a quarter were free men.

The folk of Brestal were confused, until Sir Cei informed them that Sevendor had re-taken Brestal, and then they were ecstatic.  When they saw the new banner and a few dozen armed soldiers wandering around, as well as some freely-distributed food and clothes, you would have thought we were the gods themselves the way the Brestali treated us.

If the village was worse off than Sevendor, Brestal Tower, at least, was better than Sevendor Castle had been when we’d arrived.

It was a single square tower four stories tall, including the wooden tower that rose from the top and the storage room under the keep.  Following the fashion of the time at which it was built, instead of the more modern square merlons, the crenellations were triangular and much larger than necessary.  Brestal Tower kind of looked like it had cat ears.

The keep was surrounded by an uncrenellated curtain wall of dry mortared stone, within which were several outbuildings, a half-dozen cottages built against the wall, the kitchen and the stable.  The bailey in turn was surrounded by a wooden palisade that supported the mound.  Finally, a ditch acted as a dry moat, without a drawbridge but with the wooden bridge over the expanse well-covered by emplacements where, according to our prisoners, invaders such as we would have been stopped with crossbows.

Sir Lanulan might have been as much of a sot as Sir Erantal, but he also had a master close at hand to oversee him.  We found the tower moderately well-provisioned, and two rooms on the second story were almost homey.  The actual defenses were laughable, and the soldiers only suitable for bullying peasants.  But the interior and the few outbuildings were sufficient to house ten families comfortably, twice that in a pinch.  And with the Bovali due to arrive in two days (they were about to make port at Sendaria) we were in a pinch.

While Sir Cei and the others straightened things out at the tower, I took my escort (augmented by a dozen ecstatic Brestali) north along the road to the low pass.  By lunch time I had moved Sevendor’s misplaced boundary stone back into its proper position in the pass to the cheers and applause of my new subjects.  Okay, maybe a few hundred feet past its original position.

I needed to make a statement, a very powerful visible statement, that demonstrated that things in Sevendor were different, now.   The gap between the ridges was too wide to defend adequately, I decided, even if the tower was rebuilt.  I decided a protective dike would be a wise idea, to at least limit the entry to something we could control.  Digging ditches isn’t too hard, magically speaking, even in this rocky territory.

I summoned an earth elemental and spent another hour re-arranging the many boulders in the pass in a line at its narrowest point on each side, making it a bit more defensible.  The gap between the two ridges was over three hundred yards wide, but that just made it a challenge to my new abilities.   Seeing just how much I could accomplish with the Witchsphere, I directed the elementals to scratch a deep trench on either side of the river and road, piling the fill behind it.

It was the crudest of defenses, two big, long piles of dirt and rock that narrowed the neck of the pass to fifty feet, enough to permit the stream egress and to let a man walk from one side of the pass to the other and always have cover from the Flerian side.  The Brestali peasants were awe-struck.  The Bovali men-at-arms were impressed.  When I was done, I posted a half-dozen stalwart Bovali with longbows and swords at the dike, and ever after it was so guarded, day and night.

My men’s mission was simple: no one got into or out of Sevendor without my leave.

As such, news of the re-conquest didn’t reach Fleria until three days after Yule.  And by then it was far too late for them to do anything about it.

*                            *                            *

The night before Yule, just as the full moon rose, the first of the new Bovali settlers’ wagons came through the narrowed pass and passed through the new dike fortification to see their new land for the first time.  Compared to how we had found it, six weeks of hard work, a small fortune in gold, and a powerful amount of magic had transformed my domain into something they could – someday – be proud of.

Sir Cei and a score of native Sevendori greeted them at the watchtower and offered mulled wine and sweet biscuits against the chill as a welcome.  Luckily the nights had been dry of late, with little snow, allowing them to make good time over the hard frozen road through West Fleria – enemy territory, now.  As they came through Sir Cei and his assistants directed them to various points for the night.  Some went to the shelters put up in the Commons, some were to encamp on Gurisham’s tiny common, some went to Brestal Tower for the night, and many went directly to Sevendor Castle, where Alya and I greeted them before settling them in the outer bailey.

It was a happy reunion.  I saw many good people I’d made friends with, and who I hadn’t seen since that fateful day my ex-girlfriend and I used sex magic to open a magical portal and rescue them from the Dead God.  I saw people I’d helped find wandering cows for, or driven the rats from their barn.  They were footsore and tired, but happy to be in their new home.

Farmers and herders, artisans, their wives and families. And children, lots of children.  Most of the children were in this caravan, and their laughter and squeals of joy abounded, a sound which was pleasant to hear in the castle.

At first it was pleasant.  And then people started to thank me.  And thank me.  And thank me.  For saving their lives, for running the siege, for standing up to Sire Koucey . . . and for giving them a home when they were lost and dispossessed.  It didn’t take long before it was overwhelming.  I sat in the chair at the head of the hall, a small canopy overhead letting everyone know I was the lord, and I got aggressively thanked all evening.

One grown man after another broke down in tears and bowed like I was a Duke.  Proud men, strong men, crumbled in front of me and wept like children in gratitude.  Women wailed tearfully, begging for my blessing on their children.  Entire families fell to their knees and sang praises to the gods in my name.  It was overwhelming.

Thankfully, Lady Alya intervened.  She looked radiant, wearing a white gown and a light blue mantle as big as a tent.  She wore the big green emerald I’d given her for our wedding day on a golden chain, augmented with a spell to make it sparkle and glow when she wore it.  She looked as regal as a queen, and her gentle smile, familiar face, and beautiful laughter helped soothe and cheer the exhausted and overwrought Bovali.

Lady Alya excused us both at one point, claiming she needed my magical assistance to make her more comfortable with the baby.  She did have to pee – she always had to pee – but that’s not what she needed help with.

“Min, you’ve got to stop getting so worked up, you’re making people uncomfortable,” she said, when she came out of the privy.

“Making them uncomfortable?” I gasped.  “Weren’t you paying attention?  They’re nearly deifying me out there!”

“They’re just grateful, is all,” she soothed, rubbing her hand across my chest.  “You – and you alone – saved them from the goblins.  That would have been enough.  But then you invite them to come to Sevendor to live as free men, keeping them all together, and you paid for them to come, fed them, clothed them, and greeted them with a warm hall and a friendly face of a kind lord.”  She shook her head.  “Min, if it wasn’t for you . . .”

“I just did what I had to, Alya!” I said, desperately.  “I wasn’t looking for adoring followers!  Sweet Briga, they’re acting like a cult!”

Her attitude changed.  Quickly.  That was happening a lot lately.  “So . . . you’re basically complaining that your new subjects, upon whom you and your family’s security and welfare will ultimately depend, are too loyal and devoted?”

“Well, they don’t need to treat me like a demigod!  That’s a hell of a lot to live up to!”

“They’re grateful,” she repeated.  “Worse, they are grateful, they’re beholden, and they have nothing but the clothes on their back.  They feel miserable for being away from home and terrified of being in a strange land.  They are here by your grace alone, and that is a terrible burden on them.  They have nothing left to offer you but their lives.  So that is what they are offering you.  You must give them the opportunity to express that gratitude, and by your grace accept it.”

“It makes me feel naked,” I said, shaking my head.  “Not in the pleasant way.  The naked-in-the-middle-of-temple-services way.  They want to name babies after me!”

“Let them,” she insisted.  “Believe me, Min, this is all very frightening to me . . . leaving home, the siege,  getting pregnant, fleeing for our lives, living with your parents, getting married, getting ennobled, coming here, trying to put this place into shape . . . and to be honest, tonight is the first time I’ve felt like this might be home.  I feel just as they do.  I feel frightened.

“But you make it go away, Min.  You’ve got that idiot boyish smile, that confident bearing, and you treat everyone, villein or lord, with respect and thoughtfulness.   And so I’m grateful, because you didn’t have to do that and you did, as grateful as they are and eight thousand times more, but the only thing I have to offer you is myself.  And if you don’t let me do that . . . well, then that just leaves me frightened.”

“Offer yourself?” I asked, surprised.  “Do you think we have time?”

She slapped me playfully.  “No, we really don’t.  Unless you command it, Magelord,” she added, saucily.  “But I understand how you feel, too.  They’re treating me almost as much like some divine heroine as you.  I’ve had two hundred hands on my belly tonight, and old ladies cry on me and give me advice.  I’m a gods-damned living symbol of hope, and my biggest claim to it is the fact that I’m sleeping with the lord of the domain!

“But I’ve got to smile serenely and let them paw me . . . because we’re all they’ve got.  We’re the only ones in all of Callidore who give a damn about them, and they know it.

“So shut up, conjure up a smile on your face, and let these people weep in gratitude for an evening.  We have to be the lord and lady they need, or they’re going to go mad.”

“How did you get so wise?” I asked, shaking my head and kissing her forehead.

“I don’t have to be wise.  I’m pregnant.”

The rest of the evening I did just that.  I wandered the hall and shook hands and laughed and drank with my new subjects.  I did my best to play the lord for them, and even consented to do a few colorful cantrips in the air for their amusement.  It also got their attention.  So I decided to address them.  I blame the wine.

For the newcomers, I brought them up to date.  I told them about my raising an army in Alshar and convincing Castal to bring another to face the hordes, and how we had triumphed and kept the heart of the Five Duchies from the clutches of the Dead God.

I told them how I had met Sire Koucey in his dark visage on the field of battle.  That produced some terrified looks.

I told them about how poor the state of Sevendor had been when we arrived, and all the work we had done and all the work yet to be done.

I told them of the fractured state of the domain and of our recent recapture of Brestal.

And I told them that it was possible that some other lord would try to wrest those lands from me, if I did not defend them.

Before I was done speaking, three dozen swords had flashed out of their scabbards and were laid at my feet.  So did a pile of daggers and bows from those who hadn’t thought to arm themselves better. The growl from the Bovali was intimidating, and between that and the sudden display of naked steel, the few native Sevendori in the hall blanched.  I hadn’t really expected the spontaneous show of support, and it took me aback.

It’s a Wilderlands custom; the Riverlands equivalent was to take a knee and offer your hand to your lord symbolically.  It’s more “civilized”, but the gesture is usually reserved for the gentry.  The Bovali were commoners, free Wilderland peasants who technically could not bear arms without leave of their lawful lord.

I saw that most of the swords that were solemnly placed at my feet were the plain sort issued to them during the siege from the armory of Boval Castle – serviceable for defending a castle’s walls, but hardly blades of any note.  They had not given them up when they went through the portal.  They had used them to protect themselves on their long, difficult journey.  I had already heard about a few altercations with locals and bandits along the way, where only their swords had kept them from being imprisoned, enslaved or robbed.

They were rough blades of poor steel.  But they had been earned by their blood at Boval Castle.  Their pledge of loyalty was as heartfelt and sincere as any oath of fealty from a knight to his liege.

One of the several unofficial leaders of the caravan, Goodman Loas, stepped forward and vowed to be my man, defend my land with his blood, and submit himself to my rule.  Loas was a popular man, a prosperous shepherd from the south of Boval Vale.  He had led the men of his village on the walls during the siege, and done it well and bravely.  He’d lost a son and a brother in the battle, but had two more sons and a daughter who were with him today.  He raised his voice so that everyone could hear.

“We’re your men, Lord Minalan,” he said, passionately, “by all the gods and all that’s holy, we’re yours, now and forever.  You saved us from the goblins when Sire Koucey wouldn’t.  You got us the hells out of there when there just weren’t no way.  You got the Duke to put us up at that manor down south.  And then you brought up here, back to the mountains.  No one else looked out for us, but you,” he said, reverently.  “You need to keep some ruffians out?  Well, we Bovali learned how to fight in the siege, and a few knights are nothing compared to what we’re used to,” he said, earning a chuckle from the crowd.  “By fire and blood and stone, Sire, we’re yours to the death!  Are we not?”

There was a deafening cheer that nearly frightened me.  I stared at Alya, my eyes wide, who emphasized her own broad smile to encourage mine.  I inhaled sharply, and stood on the stone table under the largest magelight.  One after another the men of Boval Vale stood forth in my hall and promised to defend me, my heirs, and my lands.  The Sevendori were anxious, when they saw so many weapons among those of obvious common blood.  I felt the act demanded a response, so I gave one.  And I chose my words carefully.

“If you’re offering your service, I accept.  If you’re offering your loyalty, I gladly take it.  The fact is, I’m as new at this as all of you are, and I cannot promise I will always be the wisest of lords.

“But know this: if you offer me your swords, I shall not use them lightly.  This is my home, I invite you to make it yours as well.  There are already people here, of course, and the Sevendori are a sturdy, hard-working folk.  Respect them, their customs and traditions.  But they’ve been used to a neglectful lord and a hopeless life.  They have just had their land invaded by strangers, which I know you all can sympathize with, and they are likely to be . . . cautious.

“But tomorrow is Yule, the day of the Winter Solstice.  The day that legends say the gods came to Callidore.  A day of celebration, of new beginnings.  A day of hope in the darkness of winter.  Tomorrow, by tradition, the lord of the land takes oaths of fealty from his vassals.  If you wish to swear to me at that time, I will gladly accept your swords.  I ask but you spend one day in Sevendor first, so that you make your oaths knowing what you’re getting.”

“It’d have to be a damn sight worse than . . . some of the places we’ve been,”  Loas said, shaking his graying head.  “I’ll spend a day before bending my knee, Magelord, but where the hells else would I go?”

There was a guilty laugh that ran through the hall at the remark.  It was funny because it was true.  And uncomfortable because it was true.  I didn’t know what to say to that, so I called for more wine and more ale, neither of which was ever unwelcome.  And it distracted everyone from noticing the tears in my eyes.

Sir Cei came in, long past midnight, with the last of the wagons.  He was exhausted, as was everyone else.  I made a point of gathering the leaders of the caravan, including my two apprentices, and drinking a toast to them all before retiring.  Things wound down after that, and I found myself being dragged to bed by Alya just as the sky was getting pink in the east.

“All that, and we still have to face Yule, tomorrow,” she yawned as we entered our tower chamber.  “I thought you did very well, for your first night playing the lord.  You have them all fooled,” she teased.

“And if I had them fooled, so did you, milady,” I said, aping a thick Alshari peasant’s accent.   “Hard to believe we haven’t been doing this all our lives.

“It certainly feels like we have,” she yawned.

I fell asleep the moment my head touched the pillow.

*                            *                            *

The day of the Winter Solstice dawned just after I went to bed, cold and clear, a light wind out of the west mitigated by our protective hills.  I didn’t awaken until near noon, and then only grudgingly and because I find the smell of bacon intrinsically enchanting.

But it was Yule, and I’ve always loved the season.  I dragged myself out of bed, ate, and then threw myself into the festivities.

The hall of the castle was decked out with evergreen boughs and winter berries, gathered that morning from the grove in the outer bailey.  A huge fire roared in the fireplace, heating the place nicely (once it was augmented by magic – the Great Hall was still draughty as a beggar’s purse – we needed to invest in some tapestries).  The noise was outrageous.  The Hall was packed with hungry travelers and the regular staff, all eating from an enormous pot of spiced oatmeal laced with nuts and dried fruits.

A few folk had managed to scrounge instruments, and a viol or a pipe or a drum-and-whistle or guitar was playing nearly the entire day in the hall while people worked and prepared.  Fresh rushes mixed with evergreen sprigs had been added to the floor.  And I cast more magelights to crowd the ceiling above, this time casting them in festive colors instead of just a soft white glow.

And the food . . . our gallant women had out-done themselves, creating a true feast in that ramshackle excuse for a kitchen.  Nanily ordered around her staff, freshly augmented by the newcomers, until there were a dozen fires being tended around the kitchen to accommodate all of the food.

The feast was open to all in the Vale, and to the folk of Brestal.  I counted three oxen, four sheep, nine goats, and countless fowl, from turkeys to doves; a brace of deer had been hunted, dressed, and roasted whole.  Steamed roots and dishes of winter herbs, candied fruits and preserves simmered in pots.  There were even cakes, from our recently-repaired but still woefully inadequate oven.  And two casks of ale were breeched and left open in the hall for all comers.

Wine was limited to the nobility and the Yeomanry, as we were running low and I don’t mind abusing my privilege like that.

Perhaps it was not as fancy as the Duke’s Yule, but everyone got plenty to eat . . . and that was saying a lot.  Literally overnight, the population of Sevendor had grown dramatically, and that was a lot of mouths to feed.  The Brestali who made the long trip were amazed at the transformation of the hall, and the way they looked hungrily at the food made me want to weep.

I made certain everyone knew who Tyndal and Rondal were – Sir Tyndal and Sir Rondal – and let them demonstrate a few of the spells they had learned since I last saw them.  Both were growing like weeds, too.

Tyndal, who had been a skinny kid last Yule, when I’d chosen him to be my apprentice, had put on at least twenty pounds, all of it muscle.  Rondal, on the other hand, seemed just as slender or more so, since he’d gained two inches in height.  There wasn’t a year’s difference between them, and they did not seem like natural friends, I noted.  But there was a grudging respect, even admiration, in each of their eyes when the other was given leave to show off.

And both, they soon discovered, developed many eager young admirers among the Bovali maidens.  Tyndal accepted their attentions eagerly, while Rondal didn’t quite know what to do with them.  When the dance music started, both were dragged repeatedly out into the midst of the hall by enthusiastic partners.

I was glad to have the boys there.  Now there were three High Magi in Sevendor, and I felt some of the pressure on me abate.  While neither one of them was even half-trained, they both had picked up a few spells on their own, it seemed, and both were anxious to impress me.

By nightfall, the entire fief seemed crowded into my hall, and as the longest night of the year began with the ritual bell sounding. I convened my first official Court.

It had been explained to me in one of my exhausting sessions with Lady Arnet that every landed noble has among his responsibilities the duty to render justice and honors to his subjects.  Most high ranking nobles delegate the duty to an underling, usually the seated lord of the domain, and some even hire actual trained lawbrothers for the job, if it proves complicated.  But every petty noble and country knight who controlled the smallest hamlet has the responsibility to hold court for his lands at least once a year.  This was my first as seated lord of Sevendor, and I was a bit nervous about it.

Sir Cei had placed two chairs for me and Alya at the head of the hall in front of the stone table, and hers even had a cushion.  They were plain and unadorned, not even stained or finished yet, but they were big, heavy, and imposing.  Over each one a nominal fringe of canopy was hung, denoting our status as sitting lord and lady.

A horn blew, after the final toll of the twilight bell rang, and Sagal – acting as my herald for the occasion – proclaimed loudly into the hall,

“Before The Gods And His Subjects Sire Minalan The Spellmonger, The Magelord Of Sevendor, Now Sits At Court!  All Those Who Seek Judgment Or Consideration Come Forth And Be Heard!”  For his first time at the job he did a pretty credible job.  It helps to have a voice like a bull.

The first items were the most important: the swearing of fealty by my Yeomen.

First Railan the Steady came on behalf of Sevendor Village and duly swore his allegiance and that of his district.  He had no sword, of course, but he laid a staff of some apparent symbolic importance in front of me as he swore.  I accepted his allegiance, and then surprised and startled him by granting him the Yeomanry of Genly, including a charter for the right to mine clay and a three-year abeyance in taxes, as well as the fief’s subsidy of a suitably impressive home.

Railan got choked up at the honor, particularly after I recounted to the crowd some of the things he’d done to stand up against bad old Sir Erantal.  I suppose a lord with more experience would have shied away from praising a peasant who resisted his rightful lord, but I was quickly learning that political expediency counted for more than I had thought it would in this job.  I needed Railan and most of his folk out of Sevendor Village, and I needed him to see it as a promotion, not a slight.  So praising him as the first of my Yeomen was politically astute, even if it ran against convention.

The next Yeoman to come to pledge to me was Jurlor, who actually cleaned up pretty decently.  He still wore a mantle of ox hide, but his tunic and boots were bright and clean and almost festive.  His unfortunate-looking wife held on to his arm like a queen to a king, and I noted that she was paid significant respect by the native Sevendori.  She was a bawd of rare humor, too, and later, after a few cups of wine, she had everyone laughing, describing the time she had the misfortune to see Sir Erantal in the buff.

Jurlor placed his sword at my feet, as Sir Cei bade him, and I swore him to my service and to hold his lands in my name – basic feudal stuff.  He presented me with a gift, a cunningly-wrought wooden rocking cradle, and his wife gave us three blankets for the infant.

I was touched, and so was Lady Alya.  I confirmed Jurlor’s present position, thanked him for his wise counsel, and gave him three gifts in return: first, the right to build on three lots nearest the village along the stretch of road closest to his holding, a boon Sir Erantal had continuously refused the man.  Those lots could be used to house his children, or rented, but once improved they would increase his revenue dramatically.

Secondly, I reduced his tributes to their proper level.  Sir Erantal had done all he could to press Jurlor enough to goad the man into something rash, including doubling his tribute on a pretext.  Jurlor had struggled to pay it, but for the last five years he had paid every penny due.  As a result, his own people had suffered, and he hadn’t been able to turn his hold toward prosperity.

Lastly, I gave his house a sheaf of twenty new spears, brought with the caravan’s supplies.  He accepted it graciously but the implication was clear: I expect you to be able to lead at least twenty men from your district if I raise my war banner.  Jurlor had maybe eleven, if you counted his stripling of an oldest son.  That meant that Jurlor would have to recruit more men to fill that quota.  Now that he had increased revenue and half as much tribute due, he might be able to do that.  Especially with all of these landless Bovali wandering around.

Carkan of Caolan’s Pass was next.  He was a short, rotund man in his middle years, with a fleshy face that turned red in an instant if he got excited, and an unruly shock of blonde hair that resembled a fir bough.  He had come alone save his eldest daughter, a lean, rangy-looking woman near Alya’s age.  She eschewed a gown for leather pants, but her height and bearing gave her plenty of notice among the men in the hall.  Neither of them spoke much all evening.   He placed his bow and sword at my feet and mumbled his way through the oath.

I gifted Carkan with a small keg of brandy and a huge wheel of cheese, as well as a fine Wilderlands longbow with a quiver of arrows.  It was nearly twice the length of the bow he carried, but it was such a fine weapon he cradled it like a baby all night.  I assured him that I would have one of my Bovali come up to his croft to teach him to shoot it properly.

In addition, I gave him permission to charge a toll of one copper penny for each man who wished to cross his pass, with my leave, save those who went on my business, and one silver penny for every cart that made its way up the pass.  Since he was effectively guarding Sevendor’s back door, I thought that letting the man profit from the service was only proper.  Sir Erantal had insisted on half of the tolls.  I reduced that to one in four.  Carkan seemed grateful enough, although his hawk-like daughter stared at me thoughtfully all night.

Then Brandine the Reve and a delegation of the villagers of Gurisham came and pledged their loyalty – for what it was worth.  As the Gurishamen were mostly villeins, bondsmen of one sort or another, and collectively the hamlet was deeply in debt to the castle, according to the pegboard.

They had also worked tirelessly at our direction, mostly without complaint, and compared to the resistance Railan and his folk had been displaying they seemed eager for the changes I was making.  They had welcomed the few Bovali they’d been able to settle, even though they were all freemen, and Brandine added that the commune had agreed to set aside up to five more lots for settlement, if they could get assistance in rebuilding their aging, decrepit silo.

That was very generous, for a poor hamlet like Gurisham, where every rod of land was jealously guarded.  Sure, they were kissing my ass, but they didn’t have to.

I felt a grad gesture was called for.  Although the sum of their debt was substantial – amounting to eighteen ounces of silver and change – I forgave it utterly as a gift to the hamlet, which shocked the hall and inspired more tears.  The villeins I gave a one-year stay on their taxes, and to the few freemen I gave permission to hunt south of the road and as far up it as the gate tower, something that had been denied by Sir Erantal.  I promised that, come spring, every family in the hamlet would get a she-goat and two laying hens.  You’d think I’d given them riches.

I also gave them twenty spears.  Those were less welcome – the Gurisham villagers were a timid lot.  But in addition, I gave them twenty ounces of silver to fund the construction of a common manor hall for the hamlet, including the right to build a shrine within if they so chose.  And since that would also serve as the reeve’s residence, Brandine was beside himself with gratitude.

Next came four stern-looking young men led by an even younger man – a lad of seventeen, if that.  He had just a hint of fuzz on his cheeks, but he had a regal bearing and carried himself well.  He and his comrades all wore an embroidered wolfs head badge on their cloaks, and all carried bows and swords.  His wolfs head hung on a pendant around his neck, and was of silver.

The lad turned out to be Kemlan, son of Kyre, Yeoman of the Westwood.  The men were all part of his extended family, apparently, cousins or uncles or such.

The Westwoodmen had been the original inhabitants of the Vale, according to legend, present here long before the Lenselys had led the conquest of the valley.  They looked differently, from their dark shiny hair and olive complexions to their rustic clothing.  These men were hunters and warriors, the best I’d seen in Sevendor thus far.  They were an insular lot, but they seemed open enough to their new lord.  They had damn sure hated the old one enough.

In strong, clear tones young Kemlan pledged his family’s loyalty and fealty in his father’s name, and begged my pardon for his absence, as he had fallen and broken his leg.  In token of his pledge, he brought three magnificent bucks taken in the forest, well-aged and salted, and a bushel of pecans.

I’d taken some counsel with Sir Cei before choosing his gift, and gave him another fine Wilderlands bow and quiver, which he took with great interest.  I also gave them a keg of brandy and a thick woolen blanket for his ailing father.

The Westwood was actually not all that far from the castle, but it wasn’t easy to get to.  Westwood Hall was a relatively unfortified manor hall of simple design . . . but it lay on the other side of a great crevasse, and could only be reached by a long, rickety bridge.  A single Westwood lad could sit at one end and snipe at anyone who tried to cross it, and the last section could be collapsed in an instant, at need.

No one forced the Westwoodmen to do anything they didn’t feel like doing – and they didn’t like kissing a lot of noble ass.  Apparently after Sir Erantal tried to send a man to collect extra tribute the first time, the poor man lost his footing and fell to his doom.  So did the second one.  After that, he quit worrying about the Westwoodmen and left them alone.

They seemed very curious about me, however, and asked Sir Cei many searching questions about me and my story.  Sir Cei in turn reported that young Kemlan was a lad of quick wit and piercing intelligence, as well as confident without being cocky – a difficult balance for anyone, much less a seventeen year old.  Tyndal sure as hells hadn’t managed that yet.  Kemlan’s men were his men – they obeyed him as they would a military commander.  And they drank only sparingly, though they enjoyed the feast as eagerly as anyone else.

Yeoman Ylvine of Southridge came forward with his wife and children all of them looking scrubbed, dour, and disapproving.  He seemed to leer evilly at everyone in sight, as if he suspected them all of being ready to murder him.  He kept glancing up at the cloud of spherical magelights overhead as if they might smite him.  His hand never strayed too far from his sword, either, something of which I took note.

“Yeoman Ylvine, of Southridge Hold, do you stand ready to swear your oath to the Magelord?” asked Sagal, according to rote.

“What difference does it make?” he complained, looking around at all of the strange Bovali faces.  “Southridge Hold is all that’s left of Old Sevendor, and now my lord’s rash actions have put us at odds with one of the most powerful nobles in the Bontal Riverlands! “

There was a sharp murmur of outrage at the man’s affront, during what was supposed to be a solemn and festive occasion.

“I speak true!” he shouted, above the din.  “You took Brestal Vale from Sire Gimbal of West Fleria, and it will be all our doom!  I pray you return it with an apology, my lord, and restitution!”

The murmur arose again, and Sirs Cei and Tyndal laid hands on their own swordhilts.  I held up my hand to stay them.

“Let him speak,” I invited.  “I wish to hear how reclaiming what is rightfully mine, granted by the hand of the Duke, himself, is a matter for apologies and restitution.”

“My lord – if indeed you be a lord,” he challenged, boldly, inspiring another round of gasps.  “You are newly come to our land.  You say that you were given Sevendor.”

“I will be happy to produce my warrants and patents from His Grace, if you wish to read them,” I offered, reasonably.  “If you cannot read, then surely Lady Arnet’s seal on the documents will be easy to discern.”

“Whether they are or not, the truth is you have given grave insult to Sire Gimbal,” he accused.  “I am loyal Sevendori, but you court folly in your rash actions.  Sire Gimbal is a powerful, powerful man.  He controls the—”

“I care not what he controls,” I interrupted.  “The important thing is that he no longer controls part of my lands he illegally stole.”

“He took Brestal by legal right of conquest!” Ylvine protested.  “I was there!  I watched the farms of Brestal and Sevendor Village and Hyer’s Tower burn, and lost six men defending my holding – where were you?” he asked, accusingly.

“I was loyally serving His Grace on campaign in Farise,” I said, darkly, “while Sir Erantal ran this fief into penury.  As to right of conquest, as of two months ago Sire Gimbal had not filed any Writ of Conquest with the Duchy.  Nor could he, as Sevendor was a property of the Coronet, inviolate of private wars.

“So tell me again, Ylvine, why should I give back what was never his, and pay restitution in the bargain? Shall I buy a drink for the man who robs my purse?”

The moral argument did not sway the man.  “Sire Gimbal has twenty knights at Castle Kest alone!  Should he raise his banners against us, he could field as many as fifty in just a few days!  And hundreds of men-at-arms!  He is not known as the Warbird for nothing!  You bring us to ruin, Mage!”

“MageLORD,” I corrected, darkly.  I turned and addressed the rest of the hall, where there were plenty of outraged murmurs.  “My Bovali, Yeoman Ylvine says that this lordling . . . Sire Gimbal?  Sire Gimbal could bring as many as a hundred and fifty men against us.  A hundred and fifty.  That is a powerful number.  Sir Cei, can you recall how many goblins attacked Minden Hall, the first night of the invasion?”

“Well over a hundred, My Lord,” my castellan replied, smoothly.

“Goodman Sagal, can you recall how many goblins you faced the first time you had a sword in your hand?”

“Why, there were easily two or three thousand, Magelord,” he assured me.  I turned to my wife.

“My Lady, how many goblins did we face for weeks in the siege of Boval Castle?”

“Oh, at least five or six hundred . . . thousand, My Lord husband,” she smirked.  “Of course you were killing them in such great numbers that it was hard to keep track.”  See why I love Alya?  She always knows just what to say.

“So tell us again, Yeoman Ylvine, what we have to fear from a hundred and fifty human warriors?”  With that, the entire hall burst with laughter from the defiant Bovali.  “Let them come,” I continued, my eyes narrowing.  “Let them come, and bring their kin, and all of their men-at-arms.  Let them empty all of West Fleria and bring them against us.

“And when they do, they still will be less than a pittance, compared to what the Bovali have faced.  Let them come.  Perhaps Sire Gimbal found the Old Sevendor, poorly armed and disgracefully led, to be an easy conquest, but let him raise his hand against the New Sevendori, and he will draw back a bloody stump!”

The laughter quickly turned to loud, bold cheering.  Ylvine looked terrified.

“Yeoman Ylvine, clearly you fear the consequences of me taking what is rightfully mine.  And clearly you have a deep and abiding respect for Sire Gimbal.  I hereby discharge you from your duties as Yeoman, forgive your debts to the domain, and release you and your family to the frontiers.  Please be on your way by sunset tomorrow.”

The Yeoman’s wife looked shocked, as did several of his henchmen, but Ylvine looked as if he expected it.  Perhaps he had already started packing.  Two sturdy men escorted Ylvine and his family out of the hall.  I wasn’t exactly sad to see him go – I hadn’t liked the man from the moment I set eyes on him – but I didn’t bear him any ill will, either.  He disagreed with me, he didn’t like me . . . he could find employment elsewhere.

“I seem to have a few vacant Yeomanries, now,” I said, looking out at my subjects.  “That is not proper for the domain’s defense and support.  So let us rectify that.  I hereby designate Goodman Sagal to be the Yeoman of Farant’s Hold – now to be called Sagal’s Hold, or whatever name you wish.”  My brother-in-law quickly drew his blade and placed it at my feet, while my very-pregnant sister-in-law, Ela, was crying tears of joy.  From what I’d heard about her brief tenure at the manor, she had done a good job of restoring the hall it its proper state – or at least as much as could be done.

I gave Yeoman Sagal leave to hunt the ridge between the vales at his leisure, fish his section of Ketta’s stream (an important prerogative) and adjust the rents of his tenants as he saw fit.    In addition, I granted him twenty ounces of silver, forgave the manor’s debt to the castle, and gave him a sheaf of only ten spears.  Farant’s – Sagal’s Hold was sparsely populated.

“And to oversee the Yeomanry of Southridge I name Goodman Guris, late of Boval Vale, temporarily to the post.”  I turned to speak directly to the Southridgemen who had remained in the hall after Ylvine’s departure.  “Goodman Guris is a fair man, a brave man, and a good administrator.  If in a year’s time we’re both amenable, I shall make the appointment permanent.”

Guris came forward with his wife and son, Gusdal, and together they humbly swore fealty to me.  I gave them a small herd of goats and two breeding llamas, as well as fifty pounds of flour and twenty spears.  I didn’t have to worry about Guris finding able bodies to fight with them, either.  He’d been my neighbor in Minden’s Hall, and he’d gone from being somewhat timid to a fierce goblin fighter – and escaped with his entire family intact.  If I wanted a loyal man in Southridge, I couldn’t have asked for better.

I made a few more appointments along the way, including making Goodman Vano, another herdsman from Boval who had once had the prized herd of the vale, to the Yeomanry of Brestal Village, in the absence of a local leader of note.  The Brestali present were suspicious, but the night had been so full of wonders for them that they did not seem to mind a new, strange reeve.

Lastly, I appointed Goodman Rollo as Yeoman of Brestal Farms, as the fertile plot in the northern end of the vale near to the ruined Hyer’s Tower was being called.  I instructed him to build a village for his folk, to farm the croplands and tend the meadows, and support the re-built guard tower.  That surprised and perhaps disturbed the former peasant.

Like Sagal, I trusted Rollo’s good sense and wisdom.  He had once run a highly prosperous croft holding in Boval, before the invasion.  That life was far behind him now, buried with his wife and child.  He had become a competent man-at-arms, and had seen his future in those terms.

But he had the capability of managing and leading men, he was well-respected among the Bovali, and since the new holding was the closest to the valley’s mouth, I wanted a man capable of defending it as well as leading it in peacetime.  I could see that the new responsibility fit uncomfortably on his shoulders, but I also knew that he was a good man who needed purpose.  I granted him fifty ounces of gold for the effort, two plows, five oxen and twenty goats and hens for his maintenance and support while he oversaw the construction of the village.

I appointed Captain Forondo the commander of Brestal Tower, where I instructed him to move the bulk of the garrison.  The tower was better equipped to deal with that many soldiers, and we needed the room here in the west tower where they were currently billeted as we started rebuilding the place.

I wanted Brestal Tower to be Sevendor’s militia training installation, where the professionals could instruct my peasantry in basic defense.  It was also almost half-an-hour closer to the gate tower and dike, so having the garrison there would be wiser.  Captain Forondo was pleased.  It was the first time someone had given the bastard son of somebody important an actual landed post, and he seemed very grateful.

After that, I ended court and bade everyone to eat and drink as much as they could, and led a few drunken choruses of traditional Yule songs before pouring myself into bed.  Apparently Alya wanted to take advantage of the longest night of the year.

The holiday was well and truly over a few days later, and folk started getting to the business of finding their new positions as best they could.

But there was trouble in the wind.  Ylsine hadn’t just been advocating on behalf of Sire Gimbal, despite his protests of loyalty to Sevendor he was reporting to the Warbird.  Three days after Yule I got a message just as I came down to breakfast, from a Bovali lad on a pony who had ridden hard to get here fast from the dike.  There was a delegation from West Fleria at our new gate . . . and they were not happy.

Chapter Eight

The Emissary Of The Warbird

I made the bastards wait.

Sir Cei had emphasized the importance of making a proper impression, the first time a lord met his neighbors.  That required rather more attention to detail about my dress and arms than I usually paid.  For the last several weeks as we had labored so mightily to restore Sevendor, I had usually donned no more than a simple tunic over leather riding pants, riding boots, and a cloak against the chill or weather.  If you encountered me on the road you’d probably conclude I was an artisan of some sort, not a magelord.

But Sir Cei had planned on this, and had actually conspired with Alya, which was unusual for both of them.  Unbeknownst to me they had commissioned some special clothing for me from a tailor in Sendaria, we had first arrived.  I had given Alya some money to spend the two days we’d been there, but I’d figured she’d be buying things for the baby or herself, not me.  But at Sir Cei’s urging she had some lordly raiment stitched up for me, which had arrived with the main Bovali caravan.  She had gifted it to me on Yule, and I was impressed.

I’ve rarely purchased clothes for myself that weren’t strictly utilitarian.  Back in my army days I’d pick up a few things after battles from the camp followers who looted the slain and had them ritually cleansed before reselling.  In Boval my wardrobe was largely the result of my client’s ability to pay – I’d taken new clothes as payment almost as often as I’d taken chickens, cheese, or ale.   And I did have two modestly-noble outfits I’d bought in Wilderhall, but they weren’t suited to country living, they were courtier’s clothes.

But Sir Cei was an adept castellan serving an untutored lord and lady, and it would have been a betrayal of his office to let me meet my noble peers robed as an artisan.  Hence the trunk of stylish finery befitting a country knight I rooted through to dress.  There was so much, and it was all so new, I became perplexed at the possibilities.

I had a sudden uncomfortable flashback to my childhood, watching my sisters fight for space in front of the looking glass as they changed from one embroidered frock after another before a festival.  I shook away my perplexity and looked at my lady wife.

“Dress me,” I pleaded.

She chuckled, but began sorting through the mess of garments on our bed.  She selected a splendid white linen under tunic, a deep blue velvet doublet, black leather trousers of a military cut, and my best riding boots that I hadn’t even gotten to wear, yet.  While I was struggling to pull them on, Sir Cei arrived.

“Traveler is saddled and ready, Lord Minalan,” he said, his eyes sparkling with the coming confrontation.  “As is your escort.”

“Escort?” I asked, as Alya slipped her emerald around my neck.  The enchantment that made it glow did add a good mystical effect to my presentation, and it was not so feminine a chain as to be unmanly.  The emerald’s setting fell just under the pouch containing my witchstone, and the proximity to such a powerful source of energy made it brighten and pulse in a way I hoped would be impressive and intimidating.  Besides, I felt closer to her when I wore it.  And it did look flashy as five hells.

“Of course, Magelord,” my Castellan said, as if it were obvious.  “It wouldn’t do to arrive less than properly represented.”

I noted that he was dressed for the occasion, too – in full armor.  His leather jacket was covered by a sturdy steel hauberk, and his sword arm was clad in plates from shoulder to wrist.  His sword, usually dangling on his belt more as a symbol of his office than anything, was now strapped in a quick-draw position.  Sir Cei looked every inch an imposing knight ready to ride to battle.

Me, I felt like a dandy on his way to a dance.  I felt a little less foppish when I strapped on my new weapons harness.  It had been presented to me as a wedding gift by Rogo Redshaft, a mercenary captain I was fond of, and it was designed to be impressive.  Black leather with silver fitting, it had straps for wands, daggers, pouches, and a scabbard for my new mageblade, Twilight.  Once I had that sweet sword hanging over my shoulder, I actually did feel a little lordly.

“All right, this is my first time; I’ll trust your judgment.  Should I wear a circlet?  Or a helmet?  Or my hat?” I fussed.

“The . . . wear the circlet,” Alya decided.  “You’re appearing as Magelord, not a spellmonger.  And not as a warmage.”

“And you agree?” I asked Sir Cei.  My Castellan gave me an appraising look as Alya settled the pretty silver circlet on my temple.  Technically only the nobility could wear them, so it did emphasize my noble station.

“The Magelord is as pretty as a summer’s day.  And now if he is done preening, perhaps he could attend to our visitor?”

“Hey, the lordly attire was your idea,” I pointed out, pulling on my boots.  “But I’ll concede it was a good one.  I know the importance of impressing the locals.”

“I recall your shop in Minden Hall,” he said, drolly.  “It wasn’t as bad as Garkesku’s, but it did seem overly macabre.”

“If you want good magic, then you want a spellmonger who knows all the secrets of the universe, one who has a lot of mystical-looking crap in his lab.  If you want a powerful magelord with a resolute militia at his back to intimidate the neighbors, then I should look the part.  The question is, do I?”

“You are by far the most intimidating magelord I have ever seen,” proclaimed Sir Cei, diplomatically.  “Shall we depart?”

“This might take a while,” I murmured to Alya as I kissed her good-bye.  “Don’t wait on dinner for me.”

“You boys play nice,” she warned us as we headed downstairs, “you just got those clothes, don’t mess them up.  They cost a fortune.”

“What a delightful mother she will make,” Sir Cei said, tactfully as my cheeks colored.

“So it seems.  So,” I said, desperate to change the subject, as we headed for the door, “what plan would you suggest?  Ride in and start killing, or talk first?”

“It occurs to me, Magelord, that you need merely appear, assert your claim to the vale, reject the claim of right-of-conquest due to the illegal nature of the deed, and then stand there and look defiantly at them until they slink away in defeat.”

“And you think it will be that easy?” I asked as we crossed through the Great Hall.  There was a young Bovali girl peeling boiled eggs at the table, and I stopped to grab a few for breakfast.

“I think it likely,” he agreed.  “A strong and defiant stance, delivered with the confidence of arms, is often enough of a display to end these territorial disputes.  If the other lord feels that you are too strong for him to overcome, then he will find some way to rationalize the reality of the situation to save face, and accept the results even if they do not favor him.”

“And if they don’t just slink away?” I asked as we came out of the main gate to where our horses were being held for us.

“Then we ride in and start killing, Magelord,” the knight assured me.  He sounded confident – and when I stepped out of the gatehouse and into the bailey, I could see why.

Behind Traveler and Sir Cei’s horse – both well-groomed and looking splendid in the winter morning sunshine – were twenty more horses.  Sir Forondo and his garrison were mounted, and even if some of the mounts were more suitable for pulling plows than charging a foe, when you put them all together like that they looked formidable.

And behind them were easily two hundred Bovali.  Most were armed with spear or bow, and some were quite well-armed.   Quite unexpectedly they all cheered and blew horns the moment they saw me, my mouth stuffed with egg.

I swallowed quickly, wiped my mouth, and waved to my men – my men.  Not mercenaries (or at least not most of them), not paid soldiers, but men who had taken a knee and placed their weapons at my feet in token of their loyalty and service.

“This seems a little large for an . . . escort,” I whispered hoarsely to Sir Cei.

“I asked for volunteers,” he explained, also taken aback by the display.  “Perhaps I should have been more specific.  But if the goal is to intimidate through a show of arms, it occurs to me that the more arms shown, the greater the intimidation.”

“A couple of hundred well-armed peasants and two dozen knights, that might do it,” I agreed.

“Don’t forget your own puissance, Magelord,” he said, just mockingly enough to keep from being disrespectful.  “You are, after all, a Knight Mage, a warmage of repute throughout the Duchies.  And your two apprentices are also Knights Magi.”

“And one of them doesn’t know which end of a sword to hold,” I reminded him, dryly.

“Sir Tyndal more than makes up for Sir Rondal’s lack of experience,” he soothed.  “And both await you in the village.”

I pulled myself into Traveler’s saddle and dug my feet into the stirrups.  “At your convenience, Sir Cei,” I nodded.

He nodded back and called the line to order.  Once again I was leading men to – or perhaps just toward – battle.  Somehow I felt less grim about it this time.

Perhaps because I was defending my own lands or perhaps because I was doing so with the Bovali who had come to depend on me, but as we led the column of troops at a walk down the road, and despite my class consciousness I found myself sitting taller in the saddle and feeling positively . . . lordly.

“The key to this will be presenting such an irresistible posture of strength that the opposition cannot conceive of a successful engagement,” Sir Cei continued to lecture me as we led my escort down the hill.  “The petty nobility are like dogs,” he added, unflatteringly – an uncharacteristically candid observation from Sir Cei.  “They sniff each other’s asses to see if they could win,” he explained, “and if there is no doubt that they cannot, they assume a more servile posture.  They respect only two things: military strength and gold.”

“You forgot honor,” I reminded him.

“I did not, Magelord,” he countered.  “They respect arms and gold.  Honor is only a factor in relation to that.  A poor knight might be as honorable as Huin, but that will not earn him respect.  If he commands many men, or has a wealthy estate, then his honor will compound the respect they feel for him.  But weakness and penury are ignoble,” he said, as if it were the law of nature.

“So it doesn’t really matter if I treat with them honorably, as long as I impress upon them that Sevendor is under aggressive new management?”

“So it occurs to me, Magelord,” he agreed.  “Grace without strength is posturing.  If you cannot demonstrate your ability to resolutely defend your lands, then it will not matter how gracious and honorable you are.  Other people will try to take them from you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I agreed as we clip-clopped across the wooden bridge over the stream.  Come spring, that would be replaced with a proper stone bridge.  That was on the List.  “What if it does come to blows?”

“As long as they are the aggressor, and you are defending, then the law is on your side.  But they must strike first, or endeavor to cross your frontiers against your will.  Once that happens . . . then whatever happens will be up to the Magelord and the gods.”

“Well, at least someone responsible will be involved, then,” I griped.  “It’s going to take the infantry a while to cross that bridge.  Shall we ride ahead and meet my apprentices?”  I didn’t wait for his agreement – one of the perks about being a lord is not asking for permission.  I gently spurred Traveler into a trot and then let him run for a stretch until we started passing a stretch of new houses that was being laid out on the north side of the road.  I slowed and patted my mount’s neck.  I don’t exactly love riding, but Traveler is the best horse I’ve had, and I enjoyed letting him have a bit of a run.

As Sir Cei caught up with me, there were two things I noticed immediately about the village: first, it was overcrowded, with wagons and tents and campfires surrounding the few huts and houses.  The commons swarmed with children, their breath misting in the cold as they ran around screaming and shouting merrily.  I figured they were still enjoying the recent memory of the best Yule of their lives.

But they were excited because of the other thing I noticed:  what seemed like every adult male in Sevendor milling around the area where the commons met the road near the village.  Another three hundred or four hundred at least, and not all Bovali.

I noted a few scrawny-looking folk from Genly, Southridge and Gurisham, as well as Jurlor and his men, brandishing their new spears.  There were three or four horsemen, on the road.  Sir Tyndal was one of them, riding a strong brown stallion that looked like far more horse than he could handle.  But then Tyndal wasn’t the lad he was last year.

My apprentice had grown even more in the last few weeks.  He had been faithfully doing his job at my direction, helping to herd the Bovali refugees up river and across the Riverlands to Sevendor, and he had been keeping in near daily contact with me magically.  But even though I felt like he was never more than a thought away, I hadn’t been prepared for what his body had been doing.  He had grown another inch in the last few months, and his chest and shoulders were filling out under his armor.   I saw my old mageblade, Slasher, peeking out from over his shoulder.  Somehow that made me feel better, too.

Rondal – sorry, Sir Rondal, Knight Mage – was a shorter lad who was far more comfortable on foot.  He was wearing armor, too, a ratty loose-fitting ring mail over a black gambeson, and there was a nameless mageblade over his shoulder.

Unless he had been practicing on the sly, I didn’t think he knew the first thing about how to use it.  His involvement in the Battle of Timberwatch had been high atop Timberwatch Tower, doing reconnaissance and scrying work.  He had not struck a blow in earnest until we encountered a band of aggressive gurvani on the way back to Wilderhall.

Tyndal had the makings of a good warmage, I knew – he just had the right instincts and a low regard for other people’s property.   Rondal was more suited by both temperament and experience as a future court mage, or perhaps an enchanter or even a thaumaturge, with more training.   He had listened and retained far more than his former master, Garkesku, had realized, and he was far more accomplished in Imperial style magic than Tyndal.  Tyndal was just getting used to reading.

But both boys were ready to follow me into battle the moment they saw me, and the crowd cheered us all on by shouting “Magelord!  Magelord!”

“How many other, uh, volunteers do we have here?”

“At least three hundred,” he said, grimly.  “Most aren’t fit for much fighting, but some of the Sevendori came out and want to help.”

That was encouraging.  Showing up with five hundred men couldn’t hurt my bargaining position.  Railan didn’t all look very eager for a fight, but his men were here unbidden.  Jurlor was enthusiastic.

“Here’s what I want to do,” I said, calling in my apprentices and Sir Cei to converse.  “These folk are brave, but they’re under-armored and mostly untrained.  I don’t want them slaughtered.  Still, I want to reward them for being willing to show up without compulsion

“Sir Rondal, I want you to stick with the infantry.  They won’t be expecting another mage to be afoot.  I want Rondal to march with the Yeomen, here, to Gurisham, to act as reserves.  I don’t expect that you’ll be needed, but if things go badly that will put you within a half a mile of the gate tower.  After that, Rondal move forward with the archers, behind the dike, and await my orders.”  My bookish apprentice nodded, his head swimming with the responsibility of sudden command.

“Tyndal,” I ordered, “I want you to ride ahead and act as my herald this time. Announce that I have deigned to deal with this matter personally and will be along presently.”

He grinned at the special commission and stood in his stirrups to respond.  “I would be honored, Sire Minalan!”

“The better-equipped infantry and the cavalry will move forward with me, Sir Cei, and Tyndal—”

“Sir Tyndal,” he corrected with a grin.  I shot him a look.

“We will move forward to the frontier with the first-line infantry, and half of our archers.   I want them to be seen from the top of the dike.  Bows strung, but no arrows nocked.  We’ll talk, but we’ll talk under cover.  That’s my plan.  Any suggestions?”

“A good, simple plan, Magelord,” Sir Cei assured me, thoughtfully.  “Appropriate to the occasion.”  I really hoped he wasn’t just kissing my ass.

It took another twenty minutes for the infantry to march past the village and up the road toward Gurisham on their way to the dike.  We let them rest for ten minutes in Gurisham and pressed on with the horsemen.

By the time my mounted escort and I had come to the gap in the newly-made ditch-and-dike guarding my frontier, the emissaries from West Fleria had been waiting close to three hours in the cold.   We were met by Tyndal, who had ridden ahead with my instructions, and Ancient Dalcalan, the mercenary petty officer who Captain Forondo had charged with overseeing the gate that day.  Six or seven other men in armor and bearing bows were milling around the dike, looking antsy.

“How many in their party?” I asked the Ancient, without preliminaries.

“Twenty, Magelord,” Dalcalan said with a slight bow.  “All armed.  Light cavalry, round shields and lances.”

“Who leads them?”

“He says his name is Sir Bromul, an emissary from Sire Gimbal, Lord of West Fleria.”

“Just a knight?  No other title?”

“Not that he mentioned,” Tyndal shrugged.  “He seemed to think that was sufficient.”

“Well now you know in what esteem Sire Gimbal holds you,” Sir Cei reasoned.  “He sent a lord, and not a commoner.”

“I would have dealt better with the commoner,” I observed.  “Where are they now?”

“A bowshot beyond them new hills you conjured, Magelord,” Dalcalan said, pointing with his spear.  “They sent a man closer to call for parley, but then moved back.”

“Well, let’s go see who’s knocking at our door, gentlemen,” I said, pulling my cloak around me as I the other riders formed up.  “Ancient, if your bowmen will be so kind as to cover us from their blinds and redoubts?”

“Of course, Magelord,” he grunted, and began shouting orders.

I rode abreast with Sirs Cei, Forondo and Tyndal, and the other cavalry filled in behind us in reasonably neat order.  I rode about a third of a bowshot toward the West Flerians and halted.  The other riders formed up on me, their lances posted.

“Not much to look at,” Sir Cei remarked in an undertone as we closed.

“Them or us?” I asked.

“Them,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation.  “Although if I was leading them, I might have a hard time deciding,” he admitted.

Apart from the decently-armored man in the middle, the score of West Flerian horsemen who faced us were decidedly second-stringers.  Rural men-at-arms in leather ring mail, each bearing a round shield with the hawk device of West Fleria on it.  They seemed to ride well enough, but not as if they were used to fighting from horseback.  The round shields gave that away.  These were infantry on horseback, not true cavalry.  You don’t fight from horseback with a shield that doesn’t cover your leg – round shields were better for fighting on foot.

Sir Cei noticed it too.  “Nobly led, but basely born,” he nodded.  “The one near to the knight is the former castellan of Brestal Tower, I believe, Magelord.”

“That would make sense,” I nodded.  The men on the other side were conversing, and the four in the center finally started to walk their horses toward us.

“I wonder what they’re saying,” Sir Cei speculated.  It was just idle conjecture, as one soldier will say to another while waiting around for something to happen.

But I’m a mage and I just happened to have a spell for that.

“Let’s find out,” I said.  “Tyndal, this is an easy one.  Start with a rayleth rune, and surmount it with an anoreth sigil . . .”

“I know the spell, Master,” he grumbled, and began hanging it.

Both of us cast the spell, known as Larsil’s Gift or the Long Ear or by many other names in many minor variations.  It allowed us to hear every word the approaching West Flerians were saying as if we were riding next to them.

“. . . cut their bloody throats where they stand, the impudence of this!” the former master of Brestal Vale, Sir Lanulan, snarled to Sir Bromul.  “Making me stand at my own gate—”

“I tire of these complaints,” the knight said, testily.  “If you had seen to your proper duty to defend your fief for your liege, then this upstart would never have taken it so easily.  Really, Lanulan, leaving five men to guard it –? ”

“Who attacks at Yule?” Lanulan asked, incredulously.  “It offends the gods!”

“It offends your nephew, is what it does,” Bromul said.  “And he went crying to Gimbal.  And now his dad is spitting mad, and you’re in the chamberpot for it.”

“Gimbal should have given me the keep, not the brat,” Lanulan growled.

“What, so you could now be the lord who lost his sworn holding, and not merely a castellan caught away from his keep during a surprise attack?”

“And now I have to go fight to bring it back to that . . . that . . . nephew,” he finished.

“Hope to the gods it comes not to fighting,” Sir Bromul said.  “Four men sick and barely on horse, five horsed for the first time, and the nearest reinforcements six hours away . . . bide, put on your best war face, Lanulan – gods, they look like they know their business!

“Where in seven hells did that ditch and wall come from?” Lanulan asked, shaking his head.

“I was here at spring to collect tribute, and there was no such defense!  Lanulan, did you . . . ?”

“I was here a week ago, and it wasn’t here!  Duin’s sack, where did it come from?” he swore, coming to a stop a dozen yards away.

Tyndal and I dropped the Long Ears at the same time and looked at each other.  The implications of the intelligence were obvious.  We had far more advantage than we’d suspected.

“Sir Cei, Sir Tyndal, Captain Forondo,” I called, “let’s go see if they’re just collecting alms for Trygg’s temple houses for the blind.”  We walked our horses forward until we were within speaking distance.

“My lords,” Sir Cei began, with a nod.  “Might we inquire your names?”

“Our names?” Sir Bromul asked.  “Very well, Sir.  I am Sir Bromul of Bulmont, currently in service to Lord Gimbal of West Fleria as his Warden.  This is Sir Lanulan . . . of Brestal Vale.”

“I am Sir Cei, Castellan to Sire Minalan, called the Spellmonger, Magelord of Sevendor,” Sir Cei said, formally gesturing to me.  I bowed accordingly.  “With him are his Captain of the Guard, Sir Forondo, and his gentleman herald, Sir Tyndal, Knight Magi, formerly of Boval Vale.”

“Magelord?” Sir Bromul’s eyes went wide.  “Knight Magi?  What devilry is this?”

“By the hand of His Grace, Duke Rard,” Sir Cei assured him.  “His Grace chose to break with tradition, but the warrant is legal and attested.  As is the enfiefment of Sevendor.”

His eyes narrowed a bit, and I could see him resolve to put the matter of my title aside for the moment in favor of the matter at hand.  “Gentlemen,” Sir Bromul said, nodding his head in a perfunctory bow.  “You seem to have a wall and ditch blocking the way to Sir Lanulan’s holding, Brestal Vale.”

“That holding is Magelord Minalan’s, according to his warrant, signed by the hand of His Grace, Rard of Castal and attested to by Lady Arnet, Mistress of Lands and Estates,” Sir Cei countered.

“That holding is West Fleria’s, by right of conquest!” Sir Bromul said, defiantly.  “It was taken by Sire Gimbal himself, just a few years ago.”

“Except that domains held by the Coronet cannot be legally warred upon, as every gentleman knows,” Sir Cei said, smoothly.

“Yet West Fleria was provoked,” reasoned Sir Bromul.  “We have the right of defense.”

“And I encourage you to plead your case against the former caretaker,” I agreed.  “After meeting the man, I have no doubt you have an excellent case.

“But the fact is Brestal Vale is not West Fleria’s.  It is Sevendor’s.  It is mine.  Apart from its ownership by the Duchy, Sire Gimbal also failed to file a proper Writ of Conquest with the Office of Lands and Estates within two years, as the law requires, nor has he paid tribute on the land in that time.  You have no legal claim to Brestal Vale.  And now you have no Brestal Vale.”

“That is outrageous!” spat Sir Lanulan.  “What kind of lord fights on a holy feast day?”

“Actually, I took Brestal Tower back hours after you left it.  Two days before Yule.  So there was no offense against the gods, if the gods get offended about such things.”

“And took it while it lay poorly defended – have you no honor, Sir?” asked Sir Lanulan, struggling for an argument.  Sir Cei and I exchanged glances.

“Honor, My Lord?” I asked.  “I saw the condition of the estate when I took control.  I would say little of honor, if I were you.  It was nearly as bad as Sir Erantal left Sevendor.”

“Aye, he was the one who warned us about you,” Sir Lanulan said, before Sir Bromul could stop him.  “How you rousted him from bed with a crew of thugs and cast him out.”

“He was properly dismissed from service to the Duchy, and paid for his services,” I countered.  “Whither he went when he crossed the frontier, I care not.”

“This is getting us nowhere,” sighed Sir Bromul, impatiently.  “You are newly come to this region, it is clear.  So you may not yet have heard of the honor and puissance of Sire Gimbal, the Warbird of West Fleria.”

“’Tis true,” I conceded.  “I’ve been otherwise occupied, and haven’t kept up on the news.  Tell us, wasn’t it he who was responsible for the rescue of Tudry, in the Alshari Wilderlands, against the goblin hordes this summer?”

“Uh . . . no,” Sir Bromul said, confused.  “But Sire Gimbal—”

“Wasn’t he the one who convinced the Dukes of Alshar and Castal to raise their banners in common might against the gurvani hordes?” asked Sir Tyndal innocently.  I could tell he was enjoying this.  Well, I suppose we all were.

“Nay, that was another,” Sir Bromul dismissed.  “But the Warbird of West Fleria is renowned for his—”

“Was he perhaps the man who valiantly and brilliantly led the defense of Boval Castle against said invasion?” Sir Cei asked, pointedly.  “I hear that was a hard fought battle, where he slew thousands . . .”  I was surprised by the admission – it was the first time I had heard Sir Cei’s critique of my leadership during the siege.  Valiant, from him, was quite the compliment.

“No!” Sir Bromul said, testily.  “My lord of West Fleria is reputed throughout the Riverlands as a great captain of war.  He is mighty at arms himself, a demon on horseback with lance and shield.  Those who face him on foot, sword in hand, feel their ancestors flee them, so certain is their doom—”

“He sounds like a pretty strong fellow,” I observed, thoughtfully.

“Perhaps we should just give it back, Master,” Tyndal said, clearly joking.  “I wouldn’t want to provoke his ire.”

“Best you don’t, young knight,” Sir Bromul said, darkly, missing my apprentice’s sarcasm entirely.

“Then your lord leads many men?”  Sir Cei asked, curiously.  “Fighting men?” he amended, pointedly looking at the troops we faced.  One actually looked like he might spill out of his saddle.

“Well, certainly, all the brave men of West Fleria would rally to the banner of the Warbird!” he declared.  “He has the command of at least twenty strong knights of his own household, many vassal knights, and four score men-at-arms!”

“That is a lot,” Tyndal nodded, sagely.

“Over a hundred,” Sir Cei agreed.  “A hundred fighting men.  Or more.  And they could be summoned quickly, no doubt.”

“Within days,” Sir Bromul assured us, pointedly.  “Days.”

“And he has allies,” Sir Lanulan said.  “Should he call upon them, you can safely add fifty or more, good knights all.  What say you to that, Sir Mage?” he asked, boastfully.

I reached out and contacted Rondal, mind-to-mind.  Are our troops in position?

We’re set up just behind the dike, he assured me.

When you see the signal, march the archers and infantry out, quickly, to fill in behind the horsemen.  But hold formation.  No one nocks, no one draws without my say-so.

Of course, Master.  Would the Horn of Perundara be appropriate? I’ve studied it, and I’ve even attempted it successfully.

That’s a very good suggestion, Rondal!  Just the thing.  Yes, when they emerge from behind the barricades go ahead and cast that one.  Good thinking.

I could tell he was pleased – his former master, Garkesku, had been intimidated by Rondal’s intelligence and had discouraged his curiosity with learning new spells.  And when he had succeeded, he was stingy with praise.  But the lad deserved it for this idea.

The Horn of Perundara was a flashy spell, and one that had actually played a role in history a few times.  Developed in the early days of the Later Magocracy, the spell involved expelling air rapidly between to planes of magical force in such a way as to cause a low, deep rumble to sound.  If you did it just right, and managed to project a sonic vibration of the right frequency, all sorts of things could happen.  Like shattering Archmage Fisandulas’ legendary glass pavilion, or bringing down the seawall of Gotha Bor.

But mostly it just made a low and intimidating noise, like a giant blowing his nose or a dragon farting, or something else equally as dreadful and harmless.  There were variations on the spell that could manage two or more “horns” at once, creating harmonies – or disharmonies – that could drive men mad, or to soil themselves, or to flee in fear.  But the sheer volume and mysterious nature of the noise was reputed to be very disheartening.  Just the sort of thing you want to use on unwelcome guests.

“What do I say about it, Sir Lanulan?  I say that raising a force of two hundred – or even half that number – in a few days is, indeed, a notable achievement for a jack baron like Gimbal,” I paused to let my words sink into his thick skull.

“But I am a Magelord,” I continued, casting back my mantle and rising in my stirrups, much to the annoyance of Traveler.  “What your lord can do in days, I can do in moments.”  With that I launched a bolt of light from my fist.  It shot up in the air a hundred feet.  The Flerians cowered uneasily under the bright display against the gray winter sky.  No doubt they expected some deadly bolt to emanate from it – and were surprised when it just faded away without apparent effect.

Sir Lanulan was about to say something snide about the spell, when a hundred Bovali – no, they would be Sevendori, after today – marched through the gap in the embankment brandishing swords, spears, and shields, while another fifty or sixty bowmen climbed up the berm behind them, their great Wilderland bows visible.  In conjunction with the sudden appearance there was a low, rising blare, the Horn of Perundara filled the air around us until all of the horses were annoyed.

“Dear gods!” Sir Bromul said, his eyes wide in wonder.  “That’s . . .”

“That is the new Sevendori militia,” Captain Forondo said, proudly, as the invisible horn’s call faded away.  “The first company, that is.  They will be settling in the Brestal Vale, just on the other side of the pass, and they are not likely to yield easily.  Vicious, half-wild Wildermen.  They will also be garrisoning Brestal Tower, and patrolling our frontiers.  If provoked, they will be the ones raiding West Flerian territory, and defending Sevendori lands with their lives.  This is their new home.  They will not lightly yield it.”

“You dare arm your peasantry?” Sir Lanulan said, fear in his eyes.  The threat of peasant revolt was a constant worry for the nobility, and keeping the commoners unarmed was the gentry’s best defense against them – apart from actually treating them decently.  “Are you mad?”

“I’m getting there,” I promised.  “Yes, I have armed my peasantry – that’s how we do things in the magelands.  You bring war to our doorstep and you will be taking a portion home with you.

“Now, all of those deeds we just asked if your precious Warbird had done?” I said, trying to get just the right amount of arrogant contempt in my voice – they were already shocked out of their boots by the sudden appearance of a company of soldiers.  Time to remind them whose land this was.  Time to brag like I was trying to get into their skirts.  “Those are things that I’ve done. “ I paused a moment, making sure I had their attention.

“I’m a damned good warmage.  I’ve incinerated goblins by the thousands.  I’ve survived a hundred engagements.  If that was not worthy enough for you, I fought down every inch of the Farisian peninsula, on foot, back during the campaign.  And if even that isn’t worthy enough for you, my lord, I’ve pissed off two dukes, held a warwand on a countess, and threatened to raze a populated town . . . since Midsummer.

“So I’m not worried about Sire Gimbal or his mighty warriors.  In fact, I’m giving you a warning that you should find some diplomatic way to pass along to him: if West Fleria dares to interfere in the affairs of Sevendor again, then I will not hesitate to teach the Warbird a lesson in the art of war the likes of which he could not possibly imagine.”

I fixed them both with a steely gaze, trying my best to emulate the look of stern defiance Duke Rard practiced so well.   If I needed to intimidate them, then I succeeded.  Sir Bromul looked pale and Sir Lanulan looked anxious and afraid.  I think Rondal’s spell was helping, but the naked threat of a small army at my back probably had something to do with it, too.

“The Warbird will not look kindly on this,” Sir Lanulan said, darkly, spitting insultingly at my feet.  “You’ve stolen away the estate of his son.”

“Which he stole first.  I don’t care.  If I even suspect you’re molesting my domain, then I shall take notice.  If he wishes, Gimbal may steal another – but if he comes against Sevendor again, he’ll regret it sorely.”

“Sire Gimbal—” Sir Lanulan began, loudly.

“Shut up, Lanulan,” growled Sir Bromul.  He, at least, understood what was happening.  “It’s bad enough you’ve lost the vale, do not compound your folly by getting us killed during a parley.  This news must be brought to Gimbal, at once.  Then the matter will be in the Warbird’s hands.  Let us depart, before your mouth sees your heart stopped.”

Sir Lanulan sneered at me.  “By sorcery, perhaps.  But in honorable combat?  I think not!  Magelord or not, this stripling could not stand up to a fight with a real knight.”

I ignored the provocation.  “I’ve told you how it’s going to be, from now on.  The law is on my side.  The Duke is on my side.  And all these seasoned warriors are on my side.  My side wins.  Relay that to your master. “

Sir Lanulan started to speak again but stopped at Sir Bromul’s harsh look.  The two men turned their horses and rode back to their escort without another word.

Well done, Rondal, I said to my apprentice, mind-to-mind.  That was a focused execution.  The spell and the troop deployment.

“So, I suppose we’ve seen the last of them,” Tyndal smirked, sarcastically.

“We established our dominance,” Sir Cei nodded.  “That was what was needed.  No doubt we will have more trouble with West Fleria, but not before spring, I think.”

“And I think that we need to raise that embankment another five or six feet, and start firming it up into a real, properly dressed stone wall,” I decided.  “In fact, I envision a proper gatehouse there, eventually, an iron culvert in the stream, the dike faced with stone, the tower rebuilt and a full watch, regardless.  If Sire Gimbal is anything like his brat, then he’s not going to be very happy about this at all.”

“It occurs to me to expect a raid soon, Sire,” Sir Cei agreed, thoughtfully.

Captain Forondo nodded.  “At the very least, Magelord.  He’ll try to slip a few dozen men past our defenses and to burn as much as they can.  Kill a few peasants.  Slaughter some stock.  That’s about all he can do, between now and spring.  And the worst of the winter is yet before us.”  He glanced warily at the sky.  It looked snowy.

“Then I want the watch doubled.  Until we can settle in properly, that’s about all we can do.  But maybe we can augment the defense magically . . .” I said, trailing off in thought.

We spent the rest of the afternoon doing just that, after I thanked my troops and dismissed them.  They marched back to the castle proudly, Sir Cei and Captain Forondo leading them.

I made the defensive effort a practical exercise for my apprentices.  It’s not often you get to play around with such things, and for a few glorious hours we were like boys in a sand lot.  It was an excellent opportunity for teaching my apprentices the basics of summoning earth elementals to move dirt and rocks around, how to prepare alarm spells, and how to cast sigils of foreboding in the areas nearby the gate.  I wanted anyone who was considering crossing the gap to feel deep in their heart that it was a very bad idea to consider doing harm to Sevendor.  It wouldn’t stop them from doing it, perhaps, but they’d feel really bad about it, if they came with the intent to harm.

The boys picked up on the defensive magics quickly, too.  They were both smart lads with ample Talent.  But they were still lads.  I could detect some rivalry starting to build between them, but I didn’t discourage it.  That kind of thing could force both of them to strive a little more.  Tyndal was bold, ambitious, and audacious.  Rondal was thoughtful, subtle, and cautious.  All traits valuable to a mage, regardless of his position.

But convincing each other of the advantages of the other’s strength would be difficult, I quickly learned.  Tyndal seemed to attack everything he did like a dog pouncing on a nest of silksnakes, and was openly contemptuous of caution as an unmanly vice.  Tyndal was addicted to excitement and adventure, but cursed with rashness and bravado.

Rondal, on the other hand, preferred to thoroughly consider the implications before he acted, like a cat watching a mouse hole, and considered impetuous action a sign of stupidity.   He liked to study a spell and know it thoroughly before he tried it, and then only with the minimum power.  If Tyndal’s failing was too much confidence with too little merit, Rondal’s was the opposite.  Indeed, they were opposite in many ways, and that became a problem.  Before an hour had passed they were both angry with each other, and forced me to intervene.

I didn’t mind – they needed guidance as much as instruction.  After I had finished the technical lesson, I sat them down and gave them a stern lecture on the importance of teamwork and complementary styles.  I’d like to think they listened to me.

As it was, we got some good work accomplished that afternoon.  While the curious guards looked on, we directed a trio of earth elementals to continue to excavate a deeper ditch in front of the dike and used the material to raise the height of the embankment.  That’s trickier than it sounds, particularly in this stony environment.  The earth elementals were strong, but difficult to control, particularly for the boys.  They really had to push to get them to work, and twice Tyndal lost his focus enough for the magical template to break up, forcing him to re-cast the spell.  Tyndal doesn’t have the same affinity with earth that Rondal does, and it showed.

By late afternoon the earthen wall was a relatively level ten feet high, with a ten foot deep ditch directly in front of it.  An earthen causeway behind it allowed archers and defenders to get to the top of the dike quickly, once proper wooden stairs or ladders were added.  And we strengthened the two tiny archery redoubts the watch had built at either end of the dike.  No more than a slightly raised platform, protected by a berm of earth, I could envision small stone turrets providing covering fire in the future.

“This will have to do for now,” I nodded, finishing my thought out loud.  “I wish I knew more about earth magic, engineering, or construction.  I mean, I can dig a hole, I can pile up dirt just fine, but we’re going to need something a little more substantial to guard this pass, eventually.”

Tyndal looked at me surprised.  “You think that we’ll keep having trouble with West Fleria after we just sent them running?”

“No, he thinks that the Dead God isn’t going to be stopped, and eventually the Penumbra could extend to here,” Rondal said, a little scornfully.  “Isn’t that right, Master?”

“That . . . is correct . . . but I expect we have years, perhaps decades, before that comes to pass, and I hope we can find a way to stop him long before then,” I said, philosophically.  “You have to prepare for the worst and hope for the best.  Even if all you have is a pile of dirt to work with.”

“That was quite philosophical, Master,” Rondal observed, diplomatically.

“It was quite practical, Master,” Tyndal said, with a glance.

“Oh, stop it, the both of you.  You both did splendidly today, quit trying to compete for my favor.  It’s . . . ignoble.  And that’s something we have to start paying attention to.  Today proved that.”

“If those idiots were nobles, I’m not sure I want to be,” Rondal griped.

“You didn’t even have to talk to them,” Tyndal dismissed.  “But they were a bunch of bone-heads,” he admitted.

“Well, you two aren’t,” I reminded them.  “I know how intelligent you both are, so there’s no excuse for you acting like a couple of peasant kids.  You’re both Knights Magi.  You need to act like it.  But you’re also my apprentices, and you still have a hell of a lot to learn before you’re ready to take your exams. “

“Huin’s hairy sack!” Tyndal burst out.  “Ten minutes ago we were preparing for the future goblin onslaught, and now you want us to study for exams?”

“No one said that being a magelord was easy.  Or fun.”  I looked at them, maybe a little harshly.  “We have a lot of people depending on us.  And now we have another enemy.  Need I remind you how many others we already own?   I’m not particularly concerned about Sire Gimbal, but that’s no excuse to get lazy about the important stuff.  We’ve got a lot of winter left to get through, and we’ve got a lot of work to do before spring.

“For one thing, I want one of you two to be at the watchtower as much as possible, so you can warn me mind-to-mind if we have any invaders.  And while you’re here, I want you to take turns making this place more defensible. Its good practice and we need the stronger defense.”

“You want us . . . to stay in that ruin?” Rondal asked, incredulously.

“It’s not the worst place I’ve slept, Minalan,” Tyndal whined, “but—”

“That’s ‘Master Minalan’,” I reminded him.  “I could care less about titles of nobility, but in matters of craft I insist on respect.  Understood?”

“Yes, Master,” they both said, properly chagrined.   The wind picked up, and I realized how chilly it would be tonight.  I felt a little guilty about consigning them to the tower like that, but . . . damn it, we needed someone there.  A High Mage.

One of the advantages we had was our ability to communicate.  I wanted to be able to react swiftly in case of a raid, and having a High Mage at the gate was my best way to do that.  Besides, I hadn’t been lying – they did need the practice.  Perhaps if they had to live out here, they’d be inspired to improve the place a bit, too.

“All right, Rondal, you take watch for now—”

“Aww!” he groaned, throwing his head back expressively.

“—while Tyndal goes back up to the castle to pack.  He’ll be back here at dusk to relieve you.  After that, it’s one day on watch, one day off.”

“Master!” complained Tyndal, “I’m senior apprentice!  Why do I have to—?”

“Because, as senior apprentice, I could not deny you the honor of the inaugural watch,” I said, with a smirk.  “Rank hath its privileges, but it also hath its duties.  Don’t worry; it’s temporary, just until we can stabilize the frontier a bit better.  But for the next few weeks, this is home for half of your time.  Got it?”

“Yes, Master,” the moaned in unison.  Neither one looked very happy.

“Just to prove I’m not truly evil, I’ll give you a flask of spirits to help keep you warm.  And you’ll be in charge out here, nominally, as the nobleman.  But I expect you to defer to the guard captain in most matters.  Understood?”

“Yes, Master,” they said, gloomily.

I smiled as I motioned for Ancient Dalcalan to bring Traveler to me – I’d had him stabled at the little enclosure behind the dike while we worked.  “I’m so glad we could have this little moment of instruction.  It is times like this that I really appreciate having apprentices.”

Chapter Nine

Winter Court

We didn’t have to worry much about raiders for the next few days, because a nasty, wet snowstorm buried the valleys under six inches of snow.  That was just barely respectable to the rugged Bovali, who were used to the capricious snow gods of the Mindens, Disa and Usa, dumping more than that on the Minden vales sometimes before the harvest even came in.  Six inches barely got their feet cold.

Here in the northern Uwarris, there was the Frost Princess Enulinda, a corruption of some Imperial goddess of yore.  The snow she brought was considered a blessing – big snow, big thaw, lots of water in the streams come spring, and a goodly harvest come fall.

Blessing or not, six inches of snow effectively shut down most of our construction projects and forced people to stay indoors – those who were fortunate enough to have an indoors.  We still had a couple of hundred people in makeshift camps on the Commons.  Thanks to our magical lumber operation, we had a fair amount of firewood to go around, but the Bovali hadn’t brought their winter gear with them through the molopar.

Sir Cei knew exactly what to do, and Lady Arnet’s advice about a good castellan came back to me often.  The morning after the snow, he had men and horses stomping their way through the snow between castle and village and from there to Gurisham and beyond.  By noon every family in the vale had been visited by one of my men, to see if they were in need of food, firewood, or clothing.  A few were in need, and Sir Cei had wagons dispatched without my order.  I was impressed.

But while being a magnanimous and generous lord is fun, the stores would not last forever, we quickly realized.  Between Yule and the new arrivals, not to mention the few hundred peasants of Brestal Vale we were now responsible for, we were going through our stocks very quickly.

We had gone through an impressive volume of food since we’d been here.  We still had some livestock, but we had culled every beast we could spare without eating into our spring flocks and herds.   We still had some roots in storage, and some feed corn for the animals, but our flour and preserves were dwindling rapidly.  We’d need to arrange for more as soon as the snow cleared.

In the meantime, we stuck close to the fire and kept pleasantly drunk during the day, and I even managed to teach the rudiments of playing Rushes to Alya – hard to do without a proper set.

But I had to do something to distract her.  She was only a month or so away from delivery, and she simply could not get comfortable . . . anywhere, in any position.  Our bed became festooned with pillows as she tried to elevate various limbs or her back or her neck or head.  Every night was a constant quest for the perfect arrangement, none of which lasted very long before they became uncomfortable.

Nothing seemed to work.  And she was becoming less and less gracious with every passing moment.  I tried to put a good face on it, but every attempt I made to make her comfortable not only failed, but seemed to frustrate her further.

The only time she stopped groaning and complaining was when she was eating.  Fortunately, that was frequent, allowing me to tend to the business of the realm in my spare moments.  But my wife’s growing appetite was also a factor in the decline in the stores.  I would not have the mother of my child starving, so I ensured she always got a noble-sized portion of whatever stew we were having that day.

Thankfully she was being helped by a group of Bovali women, including Alya’s sister (who found our castle a better wintering spot than her husband’s rickety hold), who had appointed themselves her nurses and maids and . . . sympathizers.  They had all been through pregnancies and had plenty of experience with labor and delivery, and they insisted on sharing it with my wife.  One, a matronly old biddy called Mother Vika, had brought nine children into the world and raised five of them to adulthood.

She alone had lifetimes of experience to pass on to Alya, and she never hesitated to relate an instructional tale or two with every other breath.  The others chimed in with their own horror stories, acting as a depressing chorus for Mother Vika.

All of this sage advice had the effect of informing Alya of every horrific and painful thing that could possibly go wrong in the birthing chamber, which did nothing to improve her mood.  In fact, she started spending an hour or so every day in our bed, sobbing and weeping.  At first I tried to comfort her, until Sagal pulled me aside.

“Just give her room, lad,” he assured me in the Great Hall the second day of the storm.  “The goddess saw fit to gift women with all they need to prepare for themselves for birth – but it isn’t all flowers and rainbows.  She gives every woman a trial with every pregnancy, and they just have to get through it.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, skeptically.  Alya had just suggested – strongly –  that I take a walk after I tried and failed to adjust the temperature in the bedchamber to her liking several times.  It was too damp, she insisted, and I couldn’t deny that.

But every time I removed the humidity from the air by magic, it seemed to creep back into the tower a few moments later.  Or so she said.  Then she brought my competency as a mage into question, and that’s when I’d retreated to the Great Hall and ran into my brother-in-law.

“I’ve seen it happen over and again,” he nodded as he poured himself a cup of hot tea from the huge kettle on the fire. “If they need to cry, let them cry.  If they need to eat, let them eat.  If they need . . . tenderness, then give it to them.  The goddess gives each mother a trial with each babe, and that shapes the child’s character.  Or so the priestesses say.  This is the one time of your life you just have to shut up and ride it out gracefully, if you value your peace.  She doesn’t really mean all of that, you know.”

“I know . . . I think,” I said, hesitantly.

“Trust me,” he said, slapping me on the shoulder.  “When she gets like that, just find somewhere else to be.”

So I spent a lot of time up in my lab, which didn’t have much in the way of equipment or furniture yet.  It was empty and almost useless . . . but it was quiet, and not even Alya would disturb me there without great cause.  It might have been a cowardly move in the face of a mere pregnant woman . . . but I will accept that judgment gladly, rather than argue for a confrontation.  I love my wife dearly, and my love for her grows every day.

But some days it grows a little slower than others.

*                            *                            *

As my apprentices trudged through the snow back and forth to the guard tower, I put whoever was on duty to work re-building and organizing the place.  I made them practice their craft on the place.  I’d run lessons with them at the castle, on their day off -- basic stuff.  But with irionite, even basic stuff could be powerful.   The other one improved the gate tower.  I used each of them according to their talents.

When Rondal was at the castle, I had him organize my notes and books (what few I’d been able to purchase), as well as assemble lists of basic components we’d need.  Some he could gather around the valley, but others would have to be sent for or purchased.  Things like yellow and red knot coral, thaumaturgic glass, weirwood, that sort of thing.

Tyndal, on the other hand, I put to work building some basic furniture.  The boy had a knack for lumbering, we’d discovered, and he had an affinity for wood.  I watched with pride as he used some basic binding spells to whip up a couple of trestle tables that had been trees three days before.  One eventually developed a wobble as the imperfectly kilned wood warped, but otherwise they were quite serviceable.

Rondal, on the other hand, had an affinity with stone I did not hesitate to exploit.  He felt compelled to match Tyndal’s carpentry by re-crafting the stone in my lab, knitting the blocks together and smoothing the interior walls to a glass-like finish.  He also shaped the narrow windows into rather artful arches, and attacked a number of additional stones in strategic places, creating shelves and hooks.

Further, in a rare display of artistry from my normally-reserved apprentice, he collected stones and knit them together to create an impressive-looking fireplace bearing a striking resemblance to a dragon’s head, down to the fanciful fangs made from splintered flagstones.

Tyndal, not wanting to be outdone, turned a trimmed crown of oak branches into a cunning rack for weapons, wands, staves and such.

And it wasn’t just my lab that benefited.  Both used their time away from the tower to curry favor with Lady Alya, too.

Tyndal presented her with a clever hanging cradle on a wooden spring to help bounce a little tyke to sleep.

But I have to give Rondal the most credit for winning my wife’s affections.  He turned a spare corner of our bedroom (and yes, a round tower room can have corners, spare and otherwise) into a deep basin crafted of broad sheets of slate and magically vitrified clay.  After he sealed it tight and smoothed it down, it was larger than a coffin.

He’d built my pregnant wife a bathtub.

“I got the idea from reading Cullet,” he explained to me, when he demonstrated it for the first time.  “When Empress Olifera of the Valley People bore the twin future archmagi Tesnaras and Tarsus, she prevailed on Archmage Andrus II to build a giant bathing pavilion outside her bower, so that she could suspend herself in the water and relax the great strain on her back.  I thought that Lady Alya might benefit from such a device.”

“Let’s find out,” I shrugged.  Like everyone else in the castle I didn’t really expected a proper bath until after the Equinox, when the water outside was warm enough for a quick one.  But there wasn’t any reason that Alya had to wait.  I had a couple of servants fill the basin with snow and used spells to warm it until the melted water began to steam.  I inspected it carefully for leaks – none, not even around the wooden stopper in the drain.  He had wisely positioned it to exit through the exterior wall and into the courtyard.

Alya was skeptical when she saw it, and spent a long time on the edge of it just trailing her hand through the water.  I finally convinced her to hang her feet in the water, and after that she quite immodestly threw her clothes off and plunged in.

“Oh, dear Ishi’s beneficent grace, Rondal, after I’m done bearing Min’s brat, for this pleasure I’d consider bearing one of yours!” she exclaimed, causing the poor boy to stutter unbearably.  That led to my highly embarrassed apprentice switching up with Tyndal and spending the next two days at the tower.

Alya didn’t care – the tub was the first hint of comfort she’d enjoyed since she came to Sevendor.  After that she’d spend an hour resting in the water a couple of times a day, surrounded by her matrons-in-waiting . . . while I was safely elsewhere.

Sir Tyndal abandoned the effort to curry favor with her after that, but that did not end their competitive nature.  I learned that both boys had spent their time at the guard tower just as busy attempting to show each other up.  There, out of my sight, they had rivaled each other with less restraint.

First, Rondal had reinforced and strengthened the stone facing of the tower’s foundation and remaining walls to a sturdy (if unattractive) condition.  In some cases he had to raise fallen stonework into position before sealing it, in others he had to replace the stone with near-by rock (thankfully we had an abundance from excavating the dike).    It only took him a week to get the lower two stories of Hyer’s Tower into defensible (if not livable) condition.

Then Tyndal had turned a nearby stand of pine trees into tight-fitting flooring and a spiral staircase for the tower.  Rondal countered by grafting slate merlons to the edge of the roof, which Tyndal rendered even more useable by constructing a rough third story, open to the elements but roofed with tightly-woven (and tightly spellbound) boughs on a stable wooden frame.

Rondal riposted with a three-story chimney with a small fireplace on each floor.  Tyndal volleyed back with a trestle table and three chairs, and further shaped the wood to look like hideous faces.  Rondal (during his two-day self-imposed exile) began the foundations for a secondary building attached to the tower, which eventually became the guardhouse, proper.

They also took to advertising when they were on duty, after that first week.  Once Tyndal had capped the tower with his pavilion, the lads took to casting a bright magelight at the peak: Tyndal’s was a bright, fiery red, while Rondal’s was a deep blue.  Either one could be seen across the vale, all the way to the castle.  And after they had done that for a week I began floating a similarly bright magelight above my tower, in bright irionite green.

In case you haven’t noted, most magi have egos.

Using magelights thus, so casually, had an unintended effect, Sir Cei informed me three weeks after Yule.  The Bovali and even the suspicious native Sevendori saw the beacons as both marks of security and badges of pride.  Sir Cei claimed that the common folk felt safe and protected by their magelords when they saw the lights, so I encouraged the practice.  Since food stocks were beginning to wane, and tensions were beginning to build between the Bovali and the native Sevendori, I needed everyone to feel as secure as possible.

“And it’s not just the stores that are declining, Magelord,” Sir Cei informed me quietly when the subject came up at breakfast one morning.  “Our treasury is much depleted.”

“How depleted?” I asked, worried at the answer.

“There are, perhaps one thousand ounces of gold, four thousand ounces of silver,” he said, after ensuring no one else was listening.  He would know – the castellan was the keeper of the lord’s vault, which in this case was located in Sir Cei’s private chambers.  I had been considering building a more secure treasury, but from what he told me I would have to worry less and less about robbery.  “It occurs to me that it will cost at least six thousand ounces of silver to feed the people of the two Vales through the winter, Magelord.  No less.  Perhaps more.”

“And my emeralds?” I asked, my heart sinking.

“You have but two, save for the one your Lady bears,” he admitted.  “Together, uncut, we could fetch a thousand ounces of gold.  Perhaps.  In a large city.”

I was getting the message.  I could get my fief through the winter, he was saying, but I’d be broke if I did.

“What about revenues coming in?” I asked.  “Rents and such?  Don’t I get those?”

“I’ve re-worked the accounts, since Brestal was included and we made such a dramatic change in administration among the estates.  Our revenues from all of them, at present level, will bring us between two hundred to five hundred ounces of silver.  Of which a third will go towards paying the garrison for the season, a third to maintaining the castle’s household, and a third to pay for essential services.”

“Essential services?” I asked, dumbly.

“Yes, Magelord,” Cei said, patiently.  “The men who tend the roads and fences for the fief.  The men who repair the roads and bridges.   The men who keep the underbrush cleared from around the castle.  In truth, My Lord, we’ve hired three times as many such laborers as Sir Erantal had, and yet we need thrice as many to do a proper job.  If Magelord wishes to see the fief prosper,” he added.  “Oh, and one more thing, Magelord.”

“What?” I asked, dazed.

“The expenditures I mentioned . . . those were all after the month’s tribute to the Duchy.  Thankfully that bill will not be due in full until midsummer.”

“We’re really spending that much on services?” I asked.

“Yes, we are,” he said, dropping the formality.  “And we need to.  You can’t properly defend a land without keeping the roads passable, the bridges crossable, and the defenses in good repair.  You can’t.  And that takes money.  And a fief’s only certain revenues are fees and rents and taxes.”

“But the taxes are . . . they aren’t enough to cover our expenses, are they?” I observed.

“Exactly, Magelord.  This means we have only a few means of recourse.  First, we can raise the rents and fees and taxes.”

“That’s hardly going to be popular,” I said, my throat dry.  The rent-raising landlord was a fixture in the lore of the common folk – and one rarely portrayed in a good light.  Indeed, tales that began with them often ended in peasants’ revolts.

“But not unusual,” he countered.  “Don’t forget, there are a lot more people here now than there were last year.  I think we can expect a jump in our revenues, once we get everyone settled.  By this time next year, we could have rents and taxes in excess of eight or nine hundred silver pieces a month.  Of course, to sustain that rate we will have to increase our expenditures accordingly.  In the long run we stand to make a small profit, with careful management.”

“That’s in the long run.  You said that raising rents was the first thing we could do.  What’s the second?”

“You could collect ransoms and extort money from your fellow lords,” he suggested.  “Baron Distine of Gilmora made a fortune by engaging his peers in duels and wars, and ransoming them back.”

“That has some appeal,” I agreed, after consideration.  “But we’re not at war at the moment.”

“There are tournaments and fairs, Magelord” he offered.

“I’ve never used a lance in my life.  I might be able to win a tournament,” I agreed, after consideration.  “If I cheated and used magic.  A lot.”

“Even then the outcome would be in doubt,” chuckled my castellan.  “There is a high art to the magic of balancing rider, horse, lance and shield to each do their part.  To persuade a warhorse to charge into another while you hold a lance as steady as a feather is a rare skill, Magelord.  To do it in war is one thing – if you miss, you merely allow an enemy to live.  But to do it squarely, over and over again, in front of a crowd of hundreds . . . it is beyond skill, it is an art.  An art beyond the ability of sorcery to mimic.”

“I think that’s arguable,” I challenged – he didn’t know what magic was capable of.

“But that’s not what I meant,” he continued, unwilling to be baited.  “While there are plenty of knights willing to ply their lances on the field for glory and gold, the real money is for the lord who throws such an event.  Not only does he collect an entry fee from every contestant, and a rent from every merchant who wants a booth, but a fee for entry to every event.”

“But don’t most of the tournaments put up large prizes?”

“The larger the prize, the greater the repute of those who vie for it,” he agreed.  “And the larger in stature the contestants, the larger the crowds.  The larger the crowds, the larger the take.  The travelers will be eating in your inns—which we don’t have at the moment – and buying food from your market – which doesn’t have any food at the moment – and making your people prosperous – who are fairly poor, right now.  The prizes are an investment.  If you have enough seed money, you can often turn a very handsome profit.”

“But tournaments and fairs take months or years to plan and prepare for.  And we have long to go before we are prepared for that sort of event.” I didn’t want to dampen the man’s enthusiasm or creativity, but dreaming of a tournament when we needed money now and there was six inches of snow on the ground seemed fanciful.

“Indeed,” he sighed.  “Then perhaps the Magelord will consider the other traditional means of raising revenue for the nobility.  Run your docket.”

“My docket?” I asked, confused.

“Every lord is responsible for matters of high and low justice in his legal domain,” he explained.  “And criminal cases do, alas, accumulate over time.  A lord who curries favor with the gods by applying justice and order to his lands often finds doing so carries a healthy remuneration in court fines.”

“We have criminal cases?” I asked, surprised.  To my knowledge, outside of a few fights on the commons, things had been relatively peaceful.

“Several, Magelord.  Most have already paid a token bail to avoid the dungeons, but there are eleven cases active at present.  Four are matters from Erantal’s tenure, but still serious enough matters to need the judgment of a lord.”

“Great.  I have to hear criminal cases, too, and decide punishments,” I repeated, dully.  “No one tells me these things.”

“Did you think the gods or the lawbrothers were the only ones responsible?  You are obliged to render your judgment and wisdom on serious matters of concern for your domain,” corrected Sir Cei.  “That is, to use the power of your position to render justice. “

“I don’t think I’m going to like that part of the job.”

“Many lords don’t,” he agreed.  “They often appoint a seneschal or magistrate to handle them in his stead.  But then there are matters of civil law, in which one subject brings suit against another.  Or asks for you to use your influence to compel payment from someone outside of the realm.”

“And I get to charge a fee for that,” I nodded.  That seemed a little more reasonable.  “That assumes I have any influence outside the realm.”

“We’re working on that, Magelord,” Sir Cei assured me.

*                            *                            *

The next day, while the clear weather still held, we informed all parties listed in the docket that we would be hearing court in the great hall the following day.   I got my first direct taste of dispensing justice – thankfully, of the “low” variety.

We set up the largest table in front of the fireplace, behind which I and Sir Cei were seated.  Rondal had castle duty that day, thankfully, so he acted as scribe and treasurer.  Yeoman Sagal acted as my sergeant-at-arms, bailiff and herald, backed up by a couple of husky lads from the garrison.

It was odd, sitting in judgment of other people like that.  My only qualification was my position and title, a position that granted the responsibility – even obligation – to exercise my authority without much in the way of guidance or training.  Sir Cei was no help – he told me to use my noble judgment.  Luckily, my first few cases were fairly simple.

We began with the oldest crimes, the four that remained from the previous management.  Two of them were offenses against the dignity of Sir Erantal (two men who had gotten drunk and mouthed off in public about Erantal’s character).  I fined them one day’s labor at the Dike in service of the fief and had Sir Cei return their bond prices from the big chest on the table.

The third case was more serious.  A landless peasant named Togan, from a destitute family in Genly, had been caught stealing from the castle when he had been there on an errand.  Erantal had prescribed the loss of a finger for the crime but hadn’t gotten around to it.

When I asked him what he had stolen, it turned out to be a copper figurine of Herus, god of luck, thieves, and travelers.  He claimed that Erantal’s thugs had taken it from him in lieu of rent, when he had paid nearly all of his rent due and was behind only a little.  The figurine was from his father, Togan claimed, a relic of a pilgrimage taken to some temple I’d never heard of.

Under the circumstances, I felt that a little mercy was in order.  Sir Cei had discovered the figurine in question in a box taken from Erantal’s quarters as evidence, and long forgotten there.  I returned it to Togan, rescinded the sentence of maiming, and fined him a silver penny instead.

He gratefully thanked me, and promptly paid his fine – he had been working in the lumber yards and had been making a little coin, he said, and a silver for a finger was a bargain.  Apparently the patron of thieves, Herus, had been with him after all.

The last old case was an assault.  Goodman Dronier of Gurisham, a gaunt-looking farmer with a pronounced limp, approached, accused of beating Goodman Joppo, a neighbor, after discovering him between the thighs of his wife, one Goody Fera.

Sagal called all the parties involved to the bench, and I appraised each one.

“So let me understand this properly,” I said, scratching my beard.  “Dronier was at market in Sevendor, selling eggs—”

“And onions, milord,” Dronier interrupted, earning a harsh look from Sir Cei for interrupting.

“Eggs and onions.  When he sold all his produce early, he went home and discovered his wife Fera— that’s you?” I asked of an unfortunate, dumpy-looking farm wife who stood cowering next to Dronier.  “You’re the seductress?” I asked, surprised.

“She’s got right nice hams, Milord,” Joppo pointed out, gesturing at the hams in question.

“You leave her bloody hams out of it!” screamed Dronier, grabbing his wife’s arm protectively.  Joppo laughed, and then tried to recover his faculties.

“The proper form of address is ‘Magelord’ or ‘Sire Minalan’, churl,” reminded Sir Cei, sternly.  I let him.  That was the whole point of having a dour castellan.

“So you found them . . . involved, and you grabbed a planting tool and proceeded to beat Joppo.”

“Aye, Magelord,” Dronier said, solemnly.  “Until me neighbors pulled me off.”

“So it seems like you admit your guilt?”

“Aye, Magelord,” he said, sorrowfully.

“Yet you don’t have a petition on the docket against Joppo for that?”

“I . . . it don’t matter, Magelord,” he said, his eyes downcast.  “And it wouldn’t do no good.  ’Twas the third time I caught ‘em.”

“Third?  And you didn’t beat him the first two times?” I asked incredulously.

There was a long pause.  “He were faster than me, the first two times.  I been runnin’, though.  Practicin’.  Caught the bastard this time,” he added, a little triumphantly.

“Thus the gods reward healthy exercise,” I quipped.  “Fine of two silver pennies, deducted from your four penny bail.”

Dronier grinned.  “If I let you keep the other two, Magelord, can I beat the bastard again?” he asked.

Joppo quit smiling when I didn’t immediately say no.

“That’s an interesting question,” I said, thoughtfully.  “If this is the third time this has happened, then it will happen a fourth, unless something is done.  Now that the criminal aspect of this is satisfied, let’s address the civil.  Goodwife – if that term is entirely appropriate here – Goodwife Fera, do you not love your husband, Dronier?”

The chubby little farmwife looked up at me, her eyes wide with indignant shock at the question.  “Aye, Magelord!  With all my heart!”

“Then why do you persist in bedding Joppo?” I asked, curious.  “Is he taking you without your consent?  Because that would be rape, and that would involve a hanging,” I said, darkly.  Joppo wasn’t smiling at all, now.  Indeed, he looked terrified.

Goody Fera looked almost as afraid.  “No, Magelord!  Not at all!  It’s just . . . it’s just . . . he has a mighty root, Magelord, a mighty root, and I can usually say  ‘no’, but . . . every now and then . . . I just can’t!” she said guiltily, blushing.

Joppo looked instantly relieved that he had avoided hanging, but properly embarrassed by having his manhood discussed in open court.

“And Joppo, why do you persist in . . . “ I searched for a metaphor they would understand, “. . . plowing a field not yours to plow?”

“Well, Magelord,” he said, grinning sheepishly.  “I’m a man o’ the world, you know.  I get around.  The ladies have always liked me company.  Man o’ the world,” he repeated.

“Well . . . I suppose if Joppo’s ‘mighty root’ is the root of this problem, then the simplest solution would be to shorten it,” I suggested casually.  I wasn’t serious – a lord does have that right, in a criminal case, but I wasn’t given to careless mutilation.  I wasn’t above threatening careless mutilation, on the other hand.

“No, Magelord!” Joppo screamed, looking even more afraid of being shortened than stretched by a noose.  “I’d take holy orders as a, a riverbrother or a landbrother, instead, and ne’er ply my root again!” he pleaded.

“I’ll volunteer to do the shortening!” Dronier said, as the crowd roared with laughter.

“Calm yourself, Goodman Dronier,” I said, holding up my hand.  “I think we can find a less permanent solution to this problem, if we try.  Are you willing Joppo?”

The wide-faced peasant was visibly relieved, his initial triumph at winning his criminal case long gone as he nodded anxiously.  “Whatever the Magelord wishes,” he begged, desperately, “just . . . spare me root!”

That brought another roar of laughter.  I waited for it to die before I continued.  “First, a fine of three silver pennies for each carnal offense against Goodman Dronier,” I said, sternly.  “Seducing another man’s wife might not be a criminal matter, but it disturbs the peace of the village.”

“Thank you Magelord!” Joppo said, fervently.

“Oh, I’m not done,” I said.  “You have the fortune to be the subject of a magelord, Joppo.  Which means I have more means at my disposal than a common lord,” I pointed out.  “One suggestion would be to magically sever the nerves connected to your . . . root,” I offered.  “That would leave you impotent without the need to hack off anything.”

“Nay, Magelord!” Joppo squirmed.  “If I can avoid it,” he added.

“Another solution would be to remove you from the village.  Has any other man here found Joppo in his bed?  Or suspected it?”

From the murmurs, there had been a few.

“Then it seems you’re a moral hazard to the entire community.  Tell me, Joppo, are you wed?”

“Nay, Magelord!” he said, a new kind of fear creeping into his eyes.

“Why not?  You seem more than equipped to handle a wife.  Several, even,” I added, gaining more laughter at Joppo’s expense.

“Because . . . because I don’t want to pledge my plow to just one furrow when they all need a-plowin’, if you take my meanin’, Magelord,” he admitted, guiltily.  “The ladies like me.  I like them,” he added, guiltily.

“I daresay you’ve had your chance to try a fair number,” I pointed out.  “Far more than most men your age.  You’re twenty?  Twenty-two?  Then it is past time you had a wife.  You work the common fields of Gurisham?”  He nodded.  “No more,” I decided.  “You are released from service in Gurisham, Goodman Joppo.  You are to report to Yeoman Rollo, in the new village we’re building in northern Brestal, near to the gate.  There you will begin service as a drover.  We’ll be sending out wagons to Sendaria-on-Bontal within the week.  You should be driving one,” I sentenced.  “Perhaps if your root has more room to roam . . .”

Joppo looked uncomfortable.  “S-sendaria, Magelord?” he asked, nervously.

“What, you haven’t been to Sendaria, Goodman Joppo?”

“Nay, Magelord.  I went with my Dad once o’er the pass to Sashtalia, but that’s as far as I been.”

I inspected him closely.  “I’m sure a ‘man o’ the world’ like you will find the experience broadening.  And I expect that Goodman Dronier would appreciate the opportunity to lay with his own wife without fear of being cuckolded.   Of course, if you would prefer the alternative of magical impotence—”

“I always wanted to try my hand at handling a team, Magelord,” Joppo assured me quickly, nodding emphatically.

“Excellent.  Pay your fine to Sir Cei, and off you go.  Next case?”

The rest of the criminal cases were more recent, and involved everything from petty theft to fighting in the commons to disturbing the peace.  Most of the accused were Bovali émigrés.  I appeased justice with a few hefty fines for the worst cases, and dismissal in those I felt warranted it.  None of them were particularly interesting.  At the end of the criminal session, the fines for the day had ended up being twenty-eight silver pennies and fifteen copper ones.  Not bad for a morning’s work sitting on my arse, not lifting a wand.

But the day wasn’t done yet.  There were the civil cases to get through, and those were more time-consuming.

The court process was simple, I learned.  The plaintiff came forward and told his story, then the defendant told his; I asked a bunch of questions, and then I decided the matter.  My judgment was final and absolute, unless the parties both wanted to appeal to my liege – Duke Rard.  From what I understood, the Ducal docket for such smallholding cases had a waiting list going back decades.  For good or ill, I was the last word, practically speaking, in each case.

The first two cases involved livestock, the third a vegetable garden, but the fourth and fifth cases on the docket were matters of inheritance, one in Jurlor’s Hold and one in Sevendor Village, proper.  Each took near an hour to get through, and both were difficult cases.  One involved a breach-of-promise combined with an early death, and the other concerned the disposition of two choice pieces of property that had suddenly become very valuable with the sudden population explosion in the valley.

At the end of the session, both got settled, and if the decisions didn’t please everyone involved they at least cleared the docket.  The fief received over a hundred silver pennies in each case as our fee for deciding the matter.

Considering the value of the property in question, that seemed a small price for the victors.

Lastly, there was the matter of High Justice, namely dealing with prisoners of war.  The four prisoners in the dungeon, the garrison of Brestal Tower we captured when we reconquered the province, were brought before me, after being fed and clothed, and I gave them a choice to either take up arms for Sevendor or to pay a ransom of two ounces of gold each, within a year, and never darken Sevendor’s vales again.

Two of the men proved to be native Sevendori, and were happy to take an oath and enlist in the garrison – ironically, they would be guarding the same tower they had lost to me.  I required three months of free service from them in lieu of ransom, and they were grateful for the chance.

The other two were mercenaries who had been expecting execution (technically illegal, but widely practiced with sellswords who had no liege to advocate for them).  They were pleased to pledge gold for their lives, and swore on a statue of Duin the Destroyer, patron of soldiers, that they would make good on their pledge.

“Do you think they will?” I asked Sir Cei, as Yeoman Sagal closed the court session in his booming voice.

“It depends on their honor and their fortunes,” he admitted.  “I’d say it’s about a fifty-fifty chance.  And we don’t have to feed them anymore,” Sir Cei pointed out.

“That’s not too bad,” I nodded.  “We’ve raised a little more coin than I’d thought.”

“But still not enough, Magelord,” he said, quietly.  “At this rate, even with this influx, we will be broke by the Equinox, if no other income is forthcoming.”

“I could always raise taxes,” I pointed out.

“You don’t want to raise taxes,” he reminded me.

“I don’t want to raise taxes,” I agreed.  “Is it too early in the season for conquest?”

“It would be difficult to manage at this time of year,” Sir Cei agreed.

“Well,” I sighed, “there is one other way I could raise some quick cash.”

“And that would be what, exactly, My Lord?” he asked, a little warily.  No doubt he thought I was considering proposing cutting back on personnel costs, limiting our expenditures through austerity.

But I’m a baker’s son.  I don’t like austerity.  It’s bad for business.

“I can go to work,” I said, grudgingly.  “I’m not just a spellmonger, I’m a High Mage.  A magelord, too, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still work.  If I do a couple of quick jobs, I can probably raise a little cash to get us through the spring.”

“And who might wish to hire a High Mage?” he asked, pointedly.  “Save perhaps for Gimbal of West Fleria, to deal with his new problem neighbor.”

“That’s a good question,” I nodded.  “Let’s find out.  Have that footwizard who wandered in here a few weeks ago report to the castle tomorrow morning.  I’m feeling a need for gossip.”

Chapter Ten

Breakfast With A Footwizard

Banamor appeared at breakfast the next morning looking like . . .  well, like an itinerate footwizard.  That meant a threadbare cloak, plain but serviceable travel boots, leather breaches and a thick woolen tunic.  A large pack accompanied him to complete the look.

Banamor’s story was pretty typical.  I listened to it with great interest, because apart from a little luck in my case,  I could have been him and he could have been me.

The son of a peasant in the western Riverlands, he had displayed flashes of Talent at puberty (he started being able to direct chickens with his mind).  He was tested by a spellmonger in Dorsot but was found too weak in his Talent to warrant official training.  Not enough for the man to invest in him, apparently.

The spellmonger liked him, and did have an opening for a drudge, so Banamor served an unofficial apprenticeship.  During his drudgery, he picked up the rudiments of Imperial magical theory, a few well-practiced skills, a couple of enchantments, some basic spellwork, and scores of minor cantrips well within his abilities.  He was forced to flee his position in Dorsot ten years before when the Censorate came through town on an inspection tour.  He had been wandering ever since, using his meager skills in trade with peasantry across the Bontal Riverlands as best he could to make a living.

And it actually wasn’t that bad a living, he admitted over muffins that morning.

“Mostly I work for peasants and artisans, the poor,” he said, as he ate hungrily.  “Summer time is best, of course.  That’s when everyone needs charms on their plows, finding lost llamas, pigs, and goats, protection runes against vermin -- my bread-and-butter.”

“There are many footwizards who claim to be able to all sorts of things,” I said, idly.  I wasn’t accusing the man, but I did want to know the kind of man I was dealing with.  The point did not escape Banamor’s notice.

“I promise you, Magelord, I am not a charlatan.  I never promise more than my spells can deliver,” he said, as if it were a professional point of pride.  “Hells, I could make thrice as much if I did, and I didn’t mind a flagging reputation.  But I’m an honest man.  It’s during the winters things get rough.  I usually find some hamlet to hole up in, casting runes and sigils in exchange for room and board until they get tired of me – or the Censorate gets close.”

He sort of looked like a mage, without violating any of the rules regarding our proper regalia.  He wore a pointed hat, for instance, but it did not have the three smaller points sewn to the sides, the way an official mage’s hat looks. Instead he had a broad brim, suitable for keeping the sun out of his eyes and the rain off of his head.  His cloak was embroidered with stars, but not with seven points and not in the traditional pattern . . . quite.  Yet it was still suggestive.

He wore a short woolen tunic and leather pants underneath, and a pair of good, stout boots.  He wasn’t destitute.  He apparently made (or stole) enough at his trade to afford decent clothes and the occasional trip to the barber.  Or took his fees in common trade, as so many of his profession were forced to do when coin was scarce.

“Is that why you chose Sevendor to hole up in this winter?” I asked, surprised.

“With the short rations and the chaos, I’d think you’d have better prospects elsewhere.”

“This isn’t so bad,” he shrugged.  “The food is decent, the people are friendly to magi – even me – and for the first winter in memory I don’t feel like I have to look over my shoulder every time I bed down.”

“Because if the Royal Censorate shows up, they’ll be focused on me,” I said, uncomfortably.

“Well . . . yes,” he admitted.  “And of course there is the allure of acquiring a witchstone,” he added, hungrily.  “I know you don’t think I have the Talent for it, but . . . well, I’m hoping I can change your mind.”  He sounded very confident about it.

“That’s a bold position to take,” I observed, as I finished off the last of the baked apples.  I was getting them for breakfast more and more and they were getting smaller and smaller.  “You know, I could have you thrown out.  Or worse.”

“I know that.  But I did my research, Spellmonger.  You’re a decent man,” he said, as if it was common knowledge.  “In fact, you’re a hero.  And your people love you.  The whole village was abuzz last night about how fair and just you were in court – and I haven’t heard that about a lord very often at all.”

“I just haven’t gotten jaded and cynical yet,” I dismissed.  “I’m still new at this.  Fair enough, you’ve made a good case, and assuming you are as honest a man as you are ambitious, I’ll also assume that you’re willing to curry my favor if given the opportunity.  This is your opportunity.  I’m a stranger to this region, and there are things I would like to know.  You seem like you might know things I’d like to.”

“I am at your disposal, Magelord,” he said, nodding gravely.  “What do you wish to know?”

“I need to know who among the local lords – saving the West Flerians – have need of a powerful mage in their realms.  Contract work, not a permanent position at court, of course.  I just need to find a few lords with ready cash and a need for magical assistance.”

“An interesting question, Magelord,” he nodded.  “I know of three such, at first thought, though only one will be at all simple, I think.  And only one will be richly remunerated.”

“And it would be unlike the gods to situate both of them in the same job.”

“The gods are capricious that way I’ve noticed,” he agreed.  “The easiest work would be for Sire Sigalan of Trestendor.”

“The fief on the other side of West Fleria,” I nodded.  “I’ve heard of him.”

“He has lost half of his domains to West Fleria and Sashtalia, and deprived of those revenues he has little means of seeking redress.”

“I’m not of a mind to get involved in my neighbor’s real estate disputes,” I warned.  “That’s bad precedent.  At least until I can secure my own lands.”

“I understand, Magelord,” Banamor agreed.  “That’s not why I mentioned him, however.  The small fief Sire Sigalan has left is high in the hills, a lone castle and a few scattered hamlets.  But there is wealth there, if he had means to secure it, or wit to recognize it.”

“What kind of wealth?” Actually, I had an idea about that.  I just wanted to hear what he knew. The mountain range Sevendor lies at the northern skirt of is part of the Uwarri range, and compared to the majestic Mindens or the stately Kundines they weren’t much to look at.   But that didn’t mean they lacked in mineral riches.

I read up on them when I was doing research on my choice of domains in Wilderhall, thanks to a dusty old folio I found in the palace library that likely had only been read three or four times since it was written.  It was by one Gerdaran the Sage, a natural historian of some repute in his own time but whose legacy, as far as I could tell, extended to A Discourse On The Uwarri Hills With An Examination Of The Land, Its History And Its People.

The archaic style of High Perwynese of a century ago made it quaint, but nothing could make it any more entertaining.  That book was better at inducing sleep than a well-cast Aon’s Dream charm.  But it was filled with facts about the hills in meticulous Imperial style, which made it terribly useful.

The tallest peak of the range was Mount Anrvil, three hundred miles southeast of Sevendor in Cararosa, and it rose a barely respectable forty-two hundred feet above the rivers below.  The range was mostly gray basalt with outcroppings of granite and deposits of sedimentary rock.

There was no iron, tin, silver or lead, but there were veins of copper and occasional deposits of gold, pockets of coal and, in several places, you could find emeralds, sapphires rubies, and other semiprecious stones.  There were also rarer minerals, useful in alchemy and exotic enchantments but otherwise useless.  There were plenty of natural caverns throughout the range.  And that’s what attracted the original inhabitants to the region.

Once, long before humans ever settled the rich Riverlands of Castal, the Uwarri hills were part of the domain of a species of nonhumans called the Stone Folk, known to the learned as the Karshak Alon.  They are, apparently, distantly related to or derived from (things get pretty murky when you speak of such histories) the Alka Alon, and were seen in import just behind the Tree Folk.

Like most nonhumans, they are shorter than we, the tallest a mere five feet.  They usually have a long, shaggy mane of hair, light brown to dark brown – very different from the furry black pelts of the gurvani or the soft brown fur of the River Folk.  It encircles their heads and covers their faces, unlike the Alka Alon or the Tal Alon, who grow no thick facial hair.

They are reputed to be very strong, able to endure great hardship, and are legendary for great feats of endurance.  Though they are fierce and doughty warriors, according to legend, they were not themselves warlike, and usually only fought in defense of their mines and grottoes.

They were closely related to the Q’Zahrai, known as the Alon Dradrien, the Iron Folk.  Indeed the two species were often indistinguishable to humans unless they knew the subtle differences.  The main one was their hair: the Alon Dradrien had black, gray or golden-blond hair, typically, while the Alon Karshak ran to red or brown hair, or a kind of mottled mixture of the two.

According to scholars the Alon Dradrien often ruled colonies of the more-numerous Alon Karshak, acting almost as a ruling class.  And while the two races could and did sometimes breed, the crossbreeds were almost always sterile mules.  The Karshak Alon weren’t always happy with the rule of the minority Iron Folk.  Occasionally, they rebelled, founding their own colonies or kingdoms deep underground or in very remote mountain cities.

I knew one more important thing about them: there weren’t very many, if any, left around Callidore.  Or at least around the Five Duchies – there were rumors of secret colonies in the central Kulines and the southern Mindens, and perhaps they were more numerous elsewhere, but their subterranean lairs were as elusive and difficult to find as the tree cities of the Alka Alon.

But they had lived here, once.  A largish mining colony had been delved into the living rock . . . somewhere in the mountains south of Sevendor.

I can’t really explain how I came by the information, for other reasons that I can’t explain, but I knew that colony had the potential to be a valuable resource to me some day.   Somewhere behind my castle, behind the cliff, was a long-forgotten city of the Karshak Alon.  I even had a name: Askeorast.   For over a century a clan of Karshak Alon had ruled there during the early days of the Magocracy.  By the time my ancestors invaded and conquered the Empire, Askeorast was long-abandoned for reasons unknown.

And it was out there . . . close to my fief . . . somewhere.

The Karshak Alon practiced some very sophisticated magics, some as complex and elegant as the Alka Alon.  As the technicians of the great Alon empires of ages past they had developed immense technical knowledge and thaumaturgic skill.  They were enchanters of surpassing excellence.  They were adept at metallurgy (though not as much as the Iron Folk), mineralogy and stone masonry (in which they far surpassed the Iron Folk).

Being a reclusive and cautious species, as well as slow to reproduce, they naturally sought out remote, geologically rich areas that were easily defendable, like the Uwarris.  They came for the bauxite deposits and the lode of gold that once ran through the range, as well as a few modest deposits of precious stones.  They stayed because the place was far away from the other Alon kingdoms, who frequently warred with each other.  After the violent rebellions of the gurvani and a wave of wars between Alka Alon kingdoms, the Karshak Alon had hidden themselves.  They had had enough.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough to keep them out of the brutal class war of the gurvani.  The Alons' servile class was poorly disposed to the Karshak Alon (they viewed them as part of the ruling class).  Though they had allied with some rebel clans of the Alon Dradrien, they usually slew the Karshak Alon wherever they found them.

The gurvani workers fought for their freedom, destroying the Alon kingdoms one by one, until the two races were forever sundered.  The other nonhuman races simply fought for their lives, but the Karshak clans were forced by circumstance to choose sides based on their own interests.  And they didn’t always choose wisely.

Legend says that a seventh of the Stone Folk were wiped out in seven-year campaign (the Stone Folk like a lot of sevens), and that blow was too grievous to bear.  They regrouped deep within the larger mountain ranges in heavily fortified underground cities, abandoning their lesser works.  The Uwarri tribe who had built and lived in Askeorast was absorbed by one of the larger tribes, and the Stone Folk faded from local memory and into legend when humans came here.

I had met two Stone Folk in my life, both odd little fellows in the employ of the Duke.  They were difficult to talk to because their attention always seems to be elsewhere, and they can be obsessive perfectionists to the point that is maddening to a human.  But the things they did . . .  I had wondered if Banamor had any hint of where I might find their ruins.  It turns out he had more than I expected.

“It is said that once the Uwarris were a kingdom of the Stone Folk, before the invasion, and they tarried here in part because of the minerals in these hills.  Among the more exotic are veins of a red chalky mineral known as lourdin.  Do you know of it?”

“No,” I admitted, chagrined.  I had always hated alchemy.

“Lourdin is highly prized by the weavers of Merwin, as it makes a deep, rich red dye when fixed with lye, and the color is much in demand along the coasts.  Indeed, from what I understand most of Merwin’s lourdin comes from Farise, one reason why the Merwini did not object to the invasion.  A brick of well-refined lourdin can fetch a handsome price at market.”

“How handsome?  And how well-refined?”

“Magelord, I do not pretend to be a merchant, but I am given to understand that it runs to fifty ounces of silver and up.  Per one-pound brick.”

“That is impressive,” I agreed.  Considering the distance it had to be shipped, and assuming a “brick” of the stuff was more or less the same size and weight as a brick of clay, then even after transport costs that would be a tidy profit.  “And Sire Sigalan has no idea of his riches?”

“He knows he has red clay,” Banamor shrugged.  “He knows it is called lourdin, in the East.  But his knowledge ends there.  It seems to me, however, that a High Mage well practiced in earth magics could assist in extracting the valuable commodity from the lands, splitting the profits with Sire Sigalan.”

“An intriguing idea,” I agreed, without much enthusiasm.  I was busy trying to fix my own domain, after all.

“But there is more, Sire,” he continued, insistently.  “What is not generally known is that within the chalk can be found, occasionally, these,” he said, placing a small stone on the table.  “I believe they’re called falohaudi in High Perwynese.”

“Yes, yes they are!” I said excitedly, instantly enchanted with the uninteresting-looking rock.

Falohaudi are magically sensitive stones.  They don’t provide power, like irionite, and they aren’t heavily regulated by the Censorate, but they do have some impressive uses.  They’re one of a few dozen substances that are absolutely required for some kinds of enchantments – and not the kind that keeps your wagon axle from breaking.

Falohaudi, or “sympathy stones” are curious mineral formations that look like a kafa bean or a walnut.  There’s a very clearly discernible equator between the two hemispheres, and if you know what you are doing and use the right spells and are good enough, you can split the stones just right.  After that, whatever happens to one stone happens to the other.  Drop one in water, the other gets wet.  Put it in flame and the other gets hot.

But they can do so much more. Properly enchanted, you can do all sorts of impressive spells that require an agent or trigger from a distance, without having to go through the Otherworld or find another means of acting.  The stones maintained a magical connection upon separation as a natural property, and without any additional enchantment or expenditure of energy for the mage.  The two stones were forever tied, and the places in the universe where each half lie were also tied, according to the experiments in the early Magocracy.

“Remarkable,” I nodded, picking up the uncut stone and turned it over in my hand.  “And it’s authentic?”

“Oh, yes,” he assured me.  He pulled another stone, slightly larger, maybe three inches across, from his pouch.  Half a stone, actually.  He pressed it into my palm, and it felt hot to the touch.  “Its mate is lodged in the bottom of the fireplace of a busy inn in Sendaria Port,” he explained.  “For two years it’s kept my hands from freezing in the winter time.  About all I could manage with it, myself, but . . .”

“Those things are worth a fortune,” I nodded.  “How many do you have?”

“Four, counting this one,” he said, pocketing his hand warmer again.  “The other three are intact.  I traded for two and found two, all discovered around Trestendor in pockets of raw lourdin.  Mine the lourdin, find the falohaudi.  And then sell or use the sympathy stones.”

“That’s a brilliant idea,” I agreed.  “Let me look into it.  But Sire Sigalan’s pockets are empty, and I need cash.  Who else?”

He sighed.  “There is a knight, Sire Remeas, a lord of a prosperous estate in southwest Sendaria called Birchroot.  It lies on the banks of the river Sendra, twenty miles south of the fork with the Bontal.  Sire Remeas’ estate grows a number of quality smoking weeds, and while he sells a large part of them to a broker down river, he could make a lot more if he could sell them in the town of Jerune, just across the river.

“The problem is that the bridge that once made that an easy journey has failed – it’s an old Wenshari bridge, pre-conquest, and the spells failed.  Restoring that bridge would shorten Remeas’ journey to Jerune by two days and many tolls.  And that would be worth a lot to him.”

“Interesting,” I said, thinking about Rondal’s talent with stone magic.  “And the last?  I assume it’s the most remunerative.”

“In my estimation, Magelord,” the footwizard agreed.  “It concerns the Baron of Sendaria, Arathanial.  He is one of the last scions of an old and distinguished House Lensely still in possession of his ancestral lands.  Baron Arathanial’s seat is at Chepstan Castle.

“Chepstan Castle,” he explained, “was built on an island in the middle of the river, an impressive fortress, nearly impregnable.  One of the oldest in the land, dating from the very first decades of the conquest, it is said.  From its strategic position it controls both sides of the river, and it is ringed with smaller castles to support it.  It has never been taken in battle.  From its fastness the Barons of Sendaria have been able to hold all the riverlands below the cataracts to Sendaria-on-Bontal.”

The riverport was easily the most lucrative property in this region of the riverlands.  Control of it meant thousands every week in revenue for the lord.  I had paid a fortune in tolls to the Baron myself, thanks to the number of refugees who came through his town.  I didn’t mind the idea of recovering some of that wealth.  If he was a rich lord, I was interested in him as a client.

“The Baron represents the last of the landed Lenselys in the region.  House Lensely has mostly moved on to greater position or their possessions in the south of Castal.  Arathanial’s branch of the family mostly stayed out of the dueling last century, sticking to their estates like proper country gentlemen.  When the dust settled on the inheritance disputes, his line was the last one left in power in the region.  And their seat is at Chepstan Castle.”

“I appreciate the history lesson,” I said, patiently.  “I’m still waiting for the job.”

“A little background is required, Magelord,” he assured me.  “The upshot is that Arathanial is now caught between the ambitious barons to either side of him, with no clear allies in sight.  He can hold his own, thanks to the Sendaria Port revenues, Chepstan Castle, and a strong band of loyal vassals behind him – but if any one of those three things fails, then his land will be doomed by the next generation.  In fact his line’s motto is ‘Coin, Castle, Comrades.’  His neighbors will begin warring with his descendants, and soon the Barony of Sendaria will be but a memory, his line extinct.  This is the question that lies mightily on the baron’s head.”

“And magic can fix that?” I asked, confused.  “I don’t see how . . .”

“Simply, Magelord.  Every Spring Equinox His Excellency sponsors a great fair in Chepstan, a tournament in honor of his noble children held since the birth of his eldest son, Arlastan, thirty years ago.

“The Chepstan Spring Faire is famous in these parts, the first fair of the season.  Over the years it has grown to fill all the Chepstan commons, attracting thousands.  It’s highly lucrative for all involved.  It is where artisans show off their best work done in the darkness of winter, and folk are hungry for new crafts and often in need.  There are bargains aplenty in Chepstan Spring Faire.  It is how Arathanial demonstrates the famed greatness of the Lenselys to his neighbors, and even the local barons sometimes attend, so entertaining is the fair.

“But it is also a target for his enemies.  Last year there were brawls aplenty, seemingly mere drunks and rogues, the usual fare.  That despite the Coinbrethren of Ifnia taking fair oaths of every participant.  Last year the fights all seemed to do a lot more damage than usual – merchant stalls, artisans’ booths, many were affected, until the Baron had to pay out significant coin in recompense.  His men, investigating, discovered that some of the brawls were staged affairs by hired thugs.

“While the ringleader was never discovered, it is widely believed that the Baron of Bocaraton, Sendaria’s greatest rival.  He covets the port city, you see, and sees Arathanial as the last relic of an earlier age.  And Bocaraton plans a rival fair of his own for high summer, with a grand tournament of champions next year.   If the Chepstan Spring Fair is disrupted and Sendaria falls into ill repute, then Bocaraton’s fair will be packed, and next year Sendaria won’t draw enough merchants to cover costs – and the Baron will lose much respect in Sendaria-on-Bontal.”

“I think I see,” I said, reluctantly.  “So essentially you think that if I use magic to guarantee a peaceful – and prosperous – fair for the Baron,” I summarized.

“Exactly, Magelord,” Banamor, nodded.  “I think such a service would be worth considerable coin to His Excellency.”

“Not to mention potentially adding a powerful military ally in the region, should all go well.”

“I hadn’t considered that,” Banamor admitted.  “I’m looking at it from a mercantile point of view.”

“Yes, being a lord complicates things,” I grumbled.  ”I used to be a spellmonger.  All I cared about was the mercantile point of view.  I enjoyed it.  Now I’m responsible for stuff, and I’m not enjoying it as much as I thought I would.”

“If it makes you feel better,” Banamor said, conspiratorially, “you’re a gods-blessed hero to us on the road,” he said, meaning his fellow footwizards.

“Admittedly half of us don’t have half the Talent we think we do, and are only good for a handful of reliable spells, but it’s an honest trade – save for it being utterly illegal.  The Censorate is always after us.

“With that not being a problem, suddenly, we don’t have to look over our shoulders all the time.   Mostly we just avoid them anyway, but now that His Grace has effectively ended their power in Castal, it’s like we’re real folk again,” he said.  “And we all know who stood up for all magi, High and Low, at Wilderhall.  And then he went and became a magelord.  Minalan the Spellmonger.”

“I hadn’t much thought about how that would help you folk,” I said, although that wasn’t entirely true.  The Censorate spent half of its time running around terrifying such minor magi, the self-taught or folk-taught.  I knew just how much my papers as a professional mage had protected me from bitter harassment.

“Well, it has,” Banamor said, resolutely.  “I’m just surprised I’m the first one to come to your door.  But I won’t be the only one.  And even though you haven’t seen fit to gift me with a stone – and I understand, Magelord, I mean no disrespect – it’s clear to me that being close to you is better for my health than not.

“Since I don’t have the Talent to warrant a stone, then I’ll do the next best thing.  With your permission, I’d like to go into business in the safety of Sevendor, brokering such items as the sympathy stones and other curiosities that appeal to our trade.  Indeed, there will be several footwizards doing just that at the Chepstan Spring Faire, should the Baron favor us with a merchant’s permit.  Without fear of the Censorate we might just make a decent living, now.”

“Let me consider it,” I nodded.  “I can see the strength of your argument.  Since I have to protect myself and my apprentices from the fury of the Censors, you might as well be here, too.  Have you considered that being in Sevendor is the surest way to be in their path, should they go hunting?”

“I have,” he nodded.  “But you’ve got irionite.  They don’t.  Or if they do, they aren’t talking about it much.  In any case, a Magelord and a couple of Knights Magi should be more than enough to contend with them.”

I wasn’t as optimistic, I suppose, but it was nice being seen as strong.

“Besides,” he continued, his voice even lower, “no warmage in his right mind is going to go up against the first mage to conjure a fire elemental in the middle of a battle.  At least, that’s the rumor.  Is it true?” he asked, earnestly.

“It was,” I said, torn between not wanting to brag about it and wanting someone who understood what was involved to appreciate it from a technical standpoint.

“It was a very complicated spell and required hundreds, but . . . yeah.  I conjured one.  A huge one.  I kept it going for the better part of an hour.  It slew thousands,” I said, feeling a mixture of pride and shame in the admission.  “It was pretty impressive.”

“I can only imagine,” Banamor said, his eyes wide.  “So no, no warmage in his right mind is going to come knocking on your door lightly.”

“I can see your point,” I nodded.  “Now if only that idiot to the north would see it, I could sleep better at night.”

“I’m afraid Sire Gimbal is not impressed by such ‘tricks’,” Banamor smiled.  “He only sees the value in acres, horses, lances, and swords.”

“As to your earlier request . . . yes, you can set up shop here.  You seem like a reasonable enough fellow, and you haven’t caused any trouble.  Rondal even said that you’ve been hanging around the lumberyard, trying to pick up a few tips.  And you’ve helped out on the commons with small things.”  Yes, I listened to gossip.

“I do what I can,” he shrugged.  “Like I said, I’ve wintered in worse places, with worse company.  I like it here.  The Bovali are a jolly lot, considering what they’ve been through, and the Sevendori . . . well, they’re not so bad, now that they have a decent lord.  I was here three years back – it was a wasteland.  A damn shame.”

“I’m going to grant you a license to do business in my lands.  As a merchant,” I stressed.  “Any magic you do, that’s between you and your clients.  Call yourself whatever you like, spellmonger, mage, wizard, I don’t care.  But I’m encouraging you to begin brokering soon.  Because you’re right, I am going to be attracting both friends and foes at Sevendor, and my friends and I are going to need components from time to time.  I know I am.

“For the spellwork I envision here I’ll need a lot of unusual merchandise.  So there will definitely be a profit available.  Once the housing shortage is addressed, I’ll even loan you the funds to build a proper shop in the village.  The first of several,” I warned, “I’m not granting you a monopoly, here, but you’ll be the first and probably the largest vendor of such wares.  If you don’t get on my nerves,” I added.

“I’m a very easy-going sort,” he assured me.  “And I appreciate the opportunity.  You’ve been more than generous.”

“There’s something else I want, though,” I said, thoughtfully.  “If you’re correct about your fellow footwizards and they start drifting in, then I want you to be my unofficial liaison to them.  If you’ve been on the road as long as you’ve said, you know which are legitimate and who the crooks are.  Sort them out for me, will you?  Send any confidence men on their way, but any real footwizard can find sanctuary here as long as he obeys my rules.  And anything they happen to overhear on their journeys which might be of interest to a magelord would be well-rewarded.”

“With irionite?” he asked, anxiously.

“We’ll see,” I shrugged.  “But probably not.  You have to understand, as much as I’d like to hand out witchstones at will, there is a very limited supply and there is a war on.  My highest duty is to fight the Dead God.  So those with the greatest Talent, the best training, and who can fight get first priority.  Anyone else I think will aid the war effort gets second.  But I’m making this up as I go along, so you never know what circumstances the gods may bring.”

“Isn’t that always the case?  Then I remain your servant, Magelord,” Banamor bowed from the waist.  “Usually some sort of fee is customary in such a case . . . yet my purse is embarrassingly anemic.  However,” he said, lifting another sympathy stone from his pocket, “at current market rate, this should be more than enough to cover it, I think.”  He said it in such a way as to imply that any differing opinion would be wildly out of reason – I liked the tactic and resolved to adopt it.

“And more than enough to cover the cost of construction for a shop,” I agreed.  “And your taxes for the first . . . two years.”  I wasn’t exactly certain what an uncleft sympathy stone was worth, but I knew it was at least twenty ounces of gold.  Of course, as a footwizard Banamor wouldn’t have been able to provide the proper documentation, so he wouldn’t have been able to fetch that kind of price, so we were both coming out ahead in this bargain.

The footwizard took his leave after that, and a few days later Sir Cei brought me a request for a lot on the part of the village High Street – well, I was hoping it would be a real high street one day.  I signed it, and before a week had passed the enterprising Banamor had erected a ragged cloth pavilion on the site, and started doing business as a hedgewizard.

Sir Cei was naturally suspicious of the man – of all magi, actually – but accepted it as one of my lordly whims.  He couldn’t seem to get his head around the idea of another mage “in competition” with my apprentices and me, but the fact was that the three High Magi had so much work to do with restoring, ordering, repairing, and preparing the fief that we didn’t have time to do all of those little things a for which a village depends on a spellmonger or hedgewizard.  If Banamor could eke out a living filling that need, then gods love him – we just didn’t have time.

Sir Cei was a little more forgiving of Banamor’s shop as a paying tenant, and once I explained the value of the man’s information and the sympathy stone, he had the wit to see why I was interested at once.   Having been the castellan for Boval Vale, he had handled the tax and fee accounts for all of the major villages and the town.  He appreciated the role of merchants in terms of revenue better than most landed knights would have – they tend to see everything in terms of acreage and bushels of grain.

One of the first jobs I’d had as a professional warmage involved a snit between a baron and his vassal over – I’m utterly serious – six acres of farmland.  My fee alone would have purchased the parcel outright.

But this noble idiot’s honor wouldn’t let him see that sacrificing a prosperous hamlet, an inn, and a busy mill (not to mention risking his life, the lives of his men, and my own potentially dying in battle) was a poor trade for a lonely, mediocre “estate” of six acres and sixty bushels of corn.  At the time I had scoffed that if I were a lord, I’d not make such stupid mistakes . . . never for a moment dreaming I’d ever have the opportunity.

But here I was, looking at a rapidly declining treasury, a fief on the edge of hunger, unfriendly neighbors, uneasy peasants, inscrutable Dukes and murdering Duchesses to whom I’d pledged my fealty, and a pregnant lady who was due at any time.

Suddenly dying in battle didn’t seem like such an unreasonable prospect anymore.

Chapter Eleven

I Fight My First Duel Of Honor

Just when we thought that the sudden burst of warm weather we got a few weeks after Yule would take us gently into spring, Sevendor got hit with a blizzard.

Under the circumstances, we were as well-prepared as we could be.  It helped that I had foreknowledge of the storm, thanks to my duties as the Marshal of the Penumbra.  It was an official title that meant I had some oversight of the war effort (particularly the magical side) around northwestern Alshar, the area that would become known as the magelands.  I had decent subordinates who were doing the actual work while I took a break, became a father, and ordered my lands, but I still felt obligated to check in with them regularly.

I mostly haven’t mentioned such exchanges, because they were mostly of the “Yeah, it’s cold here, too,” variety.  The gurvani might be nocturnal, but they didn’t like trying to fight in snow any more than did the humani.  Less so: when you’re fur is all black, you stand out against an all-white background well enough for an archer to find you pretty easily, even in the dark.  And the Alshari are good archers.

For the most part, the gurvani had kept to their cantonments in captured castles and villages in the Umbra and Penumbra, as well as the fallen towers of the Northwatch.  Our forces were in the castles and villages on the other side of the line, centered on the town-turned-fortress of Tudry, where my friend and colleague Sire Astyral commanded, under Sir Terleman.  Or whatever titles they were using.

There had been half a dozen skirmishes or raids during the winter, but no one was moving troops around for more than patrols.  Even bellicose Azar had rarely ventured forth from Megelin Castle, due to the weather and lack of activity.  Most of what the army was doing these days was observation, reconnaissance, and rescuing the trickle of refugees that still made it out of the Penumbra.

But I was checking in one evening mind-to-mind, my mind preoccupied by the number of mouths to feed and the number of loaves with which to feed them, when Astyral mentioned the storm.

It’s been howling since noon, he mentioned in passing.  I called in the patrols and pulled in the pickets already, but if what the others with more weather knowledge than me are saying is true, then somehow the damn Umbra is making this one worse.  I don’t know if it’s on purpose or a simple accident of that monstrosity, but whatever is causing it we’re anticipating as much as three feet of snow.  Perhaps more.

Three feet.  That’s not completely unusual for a Wilderlands winter.  Boval Vale got a couple like that the winter I was there.

We’re hundreds of miles from Boval, he reminded me.  Mountain snows are one thing – by the time they move this far east of the Mindens, they’re usually friendly little snowstorms.  This is a blizzard.  High winds.  Ice and snow.  And it’s fucking cold!

That gave me a thought.  How long would you say it takes for a mountain snow to make it to Tudry?

Huh?  Depends on wind speed.  Look, I’m more of a water wizard, but I’d say on average – and I’m just guessing here – it takes about half a day, maybe less, for the gods to push the clouds across the sky from there to here.   This one probably took ten hours.  It’s a mighty storm.

So ten hours to cover a hundred, hundred and fifty miles, I reasoned.  I’m six or seven hundred miles east of you.  So we’re going to have to contend with this thing in . . . three days?

Yes, you poor thing, Astyral said, dryly.  Of course by the time it gets to you, it probably won’t be more than a whisper of what we’re getting now.

We couldn’t handle much more than that, I told him.  I hadn’t wanted to get into my personal business, but Astyral was bored.

Really?  Is the aristocratic life not to your liking, Magelord? He teased.

So I told him everything.  About the West Flerians, about the Bovali, about the weather and the obscene cost of being a lord, about the problems with the estate, the castle, the pregnancy, the coming flood of footwizards, the danger the Censorate still posed, everything.  I didn’t know Astyral as well as some of my other warmagi colleagues, but we’d been through a lot in the last year, and I found him surprisingly sympathetic.

Well, I can ease one of your problems, at least, he told me when I had quit complaining.  I’ll buy every sympathy stone that your pet  footwizard can find, and pay well for them.  Master Cormaran and Sir Lanse will want them – they’ve already given me orders for plenty of hard-to-find things.  Sympathy stones were on the list.  Now I can scratch them off.  And I can have an agent with a letter-of-credit sent to Wilderhall, where he’ll wait for the stones.

You know, that’s not a bad idea, I agreed.  So for two stones, how much do you think you can pay?

With my budget?  How about a hundred ounces each?

A hundred silver? I said, my heart sinking.  I had hoped for twice that.

Astyral laughed.  No, you idiot.  A hundred ounces of gold.  Believe me, I have the money.

Is being a garrison commander that rewarding?

Not in the slightest.  But Rard had the good grace to give us an open line-of-credit on the Ducal treasury . . . of Alshar.  And he’s instructed his bankers to accept any draughts I make on it, despite the fact that the ownership of the actual treasury is still in some dispute.

Oh, gods, what dispute?  I thought Rard had Alshar in his pocket?

A band of barons – is that what you call a group of barons?  Anyway, a bunch of southern Alshari lords didn’t like the way their Duke and Duchess mysteriously died just as Rard had an army conveniently on Alshari soil, so they are seriously discussing rebelling against him, and are trying to mount a rescue effort to recapture the Alshari heir, wherever Rard stashed him.  They’re discussing occupying the coast and the Riverlands against Castal.

I could see how that could cause all sorts of problems for all sorts of people.  I wondered what Mother and her minions were doing about it – that seemed their sort of thing.  I was just glad I didn’t have to deal with it.  Gosh, I forgot how much I love Ducal-level politics, I said sarcastically.  It’s making me not mind a belligerent warlord on my doorstep all that much.

That’s the proper attitude, Min, Astryal said, philosophically.  My esteemed father always said that a lord who neglects his estates to play politics deserved neither land nor position.  Of course, that doesn’t stop him from playing politics.  Or neglecting his estates.  But the good news is we can pay the garrison, buy food, supplies, whatever we need and charge the Ducal Treasury of Alshar with it.  A couple hundred ounces of gold toward spell components isn’t going to even raise an eyebrow.  And if they work as advertised, and you can get more, I can’t see a future in which we won’t need plenty of sympathy stones.  Useful sorts of things, from what I understand.

Indeed.  Well, this has been quite helpful.  Any other useful advice?

Don’t let your peasants go hungry, he counseled.  No matter what.  Some lords use low rations to control their people, and that’s all right as far as it goes.  But once people start starving, they forget all about such things as class and rank and social position.  If Father was every clear on one central piece of wisdom, it was to make sure the peasants have food.

I recalled my adventure in the wilderness of Alshar, after Timberwatch, in which I used that very fact to defeat a band of goblins and a couple of trolls.  Hunger could be a powerful weapon . . . but a very hard one to control.  That’s going to be a problem, and soon.  I’ve got far more peasants than I have food, and I’ve bought so much of the local surplus already to get us this far that prices are high, now.

So don’t buy local, he suggested.  You’re near enough to a river port – just have an agent procure you grain from up river and ship it to you.

That will take days, weeks! I complained.  Just to get someone out there and then to get the grain back!

So use magic.  You do know how to use magic, don’t you?  There are plenty of ways to work this.  You aren’t exactly isolated.  For instance, did you know that Taren went back to Remere with the Censor General Hartarian, to inspect the Censorate installations we’re going to inherit?  And Mavone is already at the citadel.  Master Dunselen returned to his estates, he doesn’t have much to do.  And what about Penny?

Damn it, he was right.  I thanked him and started contacting people.  Starting with Penny.

Lady Pentandra, for those who aren’t keeping up, is a friend, colleague, former lover, and presently my aide in organizing . . . well, all of magic in the western Duchies.  She’s uniquely suited for this because she doesn’t give a damn about anything but magic and sex and on a bad day she can skip the magic.  She’s from an old Remeran family of magi – and when I mean ‘old’, I mean that she’s descended from at least three Archmagi, two from the Later Magocracy and one from the Early Magocracy, back in the mists of time.  Now she was my . . . coordinator was probably the best word.  Advisor, perhaps.

She knew where everyone was, anyway.  She was back in Remere, herself, helping her father and brothers prepare the magi there for a life without the Censorate . . . under a new king.  Of course she was busy, but one good thing about being me was that I didn’t have to wait for her to get around to me.

She couldn’t help directly, not in time, but she did tell me that Master Thinradel, former Alshari Ducal Court Mage and now itinerate High Mage, was a mere three hundred miles upriver from me, wintering in a cousin’s Riverlands estate and practicing with his witchstone.

I liked Master Thinradel, perhaps even more than Master Dunselen.  He didn’t affect wisdom and age the way his Castali counterpart did, and he had a much more pragmatic approach to politics and power.  I contacted him mind-to-mind easily enough, despite my unfamiliarity with the man.  It turned out he was more than happy to help me out in any way he could, and it turned out he was able to arrange to have a shipment of foodstuffs put together at a decent price,  His cousin’s estate had done well last summer, and there was ample surplus for purchase.  Thinradel even insisted on paying for shipping the load downstream as a token of his gratitude.

I started to protest – I pay for what I get – but he insisted.  He had just taken two very lucrative commissions, it turned out, both valued in the thousands of ounces of gold, and he was feeling quite generous.  A few hundred here or there didn’t matter too much to him, now.  And he felt much in my debt.

The problem was, the shipment wouldn’t arrive at the Sendaria riverport for almost a week, at the soonest . . . and the blizzard would be here long before then.  And that would slow down transport even more.

I did the math, after I finished my order, and I felt depressed.  This was going to be tight.

So we did the best we could with what we had, and the foreknowledge that there was a blizzard on the way put some liveliness in our step.    No one else in the Riverlands had any idea that a storm was coming, but once I announced it to my hall at mealtime, no one doubted it for a moment, even the native Sevendori.  They might be suspicious of a Magelord, but weather prediction was a staple of every court mage and spellmonger.  Not that they were any better at it, usually, than anyone else (some seamagi and wind workers aside) but if you have a wizard around, the least you should expect out of him is whether or not you should put on your heavy cloak tomorrow.

It was a pleasure to watch my Castellan in action, after I made the announcement.  Sir Cei was masterful, calling out subordinates and rattling off orders as efficiently and quickly as if he was in battle.  He got work parties put together, inventoried supplies, and ordered more firewood distributed.  Runners went out to inform the manors and villages, and I ordered anyone still unfortunate enough to be living in a tent to be moved into the inner bailey, where they could at least have access to the heat and kitchens of the castle through the storm.  It would be tight quarters, but we’d all be warmer for the snugness.

Most lords, Sir Cei pointed out quietly after he had given his first round of orders, would have let their people suffer through the storm unassisted, as they considered their duty to protect their people as purely martial.  I took a broader view, and while Sir Cei clearly appreciated it, he also took care to observe my departure from the normal course of nobility when he saw it.  Such as going out and starting to slap spells all over the place to keep the inner bailey snug.  Most lords would have just ordered their court wizard to do it. Lucky me, I was my own.  But the work needed to be done.

Even Alya pitched in, as huge as she was.  Her squadron of harpies sat her in her chair in the main hall and she directed the placement of emergency bedding and such for the sick and injured.  I’m not sure how much actual help she was, but a lot of the common folk seemed pleased to see their very pregnant Lady being so industrious and involved in their affairs.

In truth, I don’t think I could have stopped her.  I was losing control over her, as her pregnancy progressed.   It was around that time that nothing in the castle or our personal quarters ever seemed clean enough for her.  She had drudges scrubbing every surface she could see, the bedding had to be laundered, the few tapestry hangings had to be taken out to the courtyard and beaten free of dust . . . all perfectly natural, according to the matrons who surrounded her.

I tried to stay out of the way.  She was feeling cranky nearly every moment, now, and even floating in her magnificent tub wasn’t providing her much comfort.  The day of her delivery was immanent – I just hoped she’d wait until after the snowstorm.  Not everyone was so patient.  Alya’s entourage seemed to take delight in reminding me just how soon it would be.  I had sent for a birthsister from Sendaria weeks before, but had no answer from the priestesses of Trygg, yet.

“It won’t be long now, Magelord,” they cackled, meaningfully.

It was probably a good thing that I had the blizzard to distract me.

I spent the day out in the Vale, where I inspected Sevendor Village, Gurisham Hamlet, and the gate tower and dike personally.  It was still clear, so I didn’t mind the outing, especially if it kept me a few miles away from the castle for the day.  I hadn’t been out there since we’d chased off the West Flerians.  Tyndal happened to have guard duty that day, his red magelight hovering over the peak of the tower, and was well involved with preparing against the storm when I arrived.

He looked quite lordly, for a youngster.  He was dressed in hardy riding leathers, a sleek leather coat-of-plates, wearing the new long black woolen mantle I gave him at Yule while parading back and forth across the road, giving orders like an Ancient.

There were almost a score of men on duty at the dike and gate tower at the time, ten armed guards and nearly as many Bovali peasants from the village site across the road, who were making a few extra coppers doing heavy lifting and tedious maintenance tasks around the dike.  I saw evidence of a makeshift butts built up against one section of the rear of the dike, and the scarecrow target looked positively peppered.

I was impressed by the combined progress he and Rondal had made in the dike, the gate, and improving Hyer’s ramshackle Tower, too.  Instead of a rough gap between dikes, the roadway now entered neatly-flagged threshold (it was still packed dirt on each side, but the threshold was well-flagged – it was a start) with what was nearly a proper gateway.

The stream had likewise been fortified, with a rough pillar of mage-melded stone begun on either side of it with an end towards securing it properly with an iron grate or culvert.  The two ends of the berm, where they faced each other across the threshold, were likewise dressed in mage-melded rocks the size of my fist.  It was the beginnings of a well-dressed wall, it seemed, sturdy, solid, and easily defended.

Above the gateway on either side were two well-wrought wooden blinds, roofed with thatch for now, with panels of tightly woven sticks keeping the winds at bay.  It provided ample sighting and great protection for the archers within.  I noted the blinds hose were in addition to the two miniature redoubts or turrets at either end of the dike.  I saw the wood-and-earth fortifications now boasted simple but effective canopies of tree limbs and sailcloth.  Not enough to keep out the cold, but enough to shed the rain.

But that wasn’t the best part.  The best part was seeing what the boys had done with that empty shell of Hyer’s Tower in such a short time.  Prompted by their own comfort (and eager to find favor with their master) the tower was now only second to my own residence when it came to comfort in Sevendor, I was amazed to see.

The three-storied affair with its mushroom-shaped roof not only provided the height needed for proper observation and ranging well over the dike, but a snug, dry, and homey place for this lonely and potentially dangerous duty.  Two native Sevendori peasant families had already erected crude huts nearby, the beginnings of the new hamlet that would arise in Brestal Farms on the site of the abandoned manor closest to the gate, come spring.  Tyndal told me they served the tower by providing firewood, bringing water from the well, cooking, and providing other support in exchange for a few silver pennies.

All in all, I couldn’t have asked for a better-kept watch, and said as much to Sir Tyndal over a hot mug of tea he poured for me in the guardroom.

“You can thank Rondal for most of it,” he grudgingly admitted.  “I helped with a lot of the spellwork, but honestly most of the organization and design ideas came from him.”

“Still, you’ve made it both defensible and livable,” I observed.  “And under great hardship.  That’s commendable.”

He shrugged – were his shoulders always that big?  “We were bored,” he said.  “Do you know how interesting that yonder piece of West Fleria is?  Less interesting than wondering about how interesting it is.”

“Whatever your motivation, I’m pleased.  I think that after the –”

“Sire Minalan!” an excited voice from the watchtower called out.  “Horsemen coming around the bend!”

“Wains?” Tyndal asked the lookout, before I could.

“Nay, Sir Tyndal!  Six horses, mounted for war! Six armored knights!”

Both Tyndal and I ran up the stairs in an instant, our hearts pounding.  Armored knights were rarely a good sign.  And here I was unprepared for battle.  I had a couple of small warwands I carried around by habit, but my weapons and such were back at the castle.

Using magesight from the peak of the tower, I could tell that calling them ‘knights’ was a courtesy.  There were six riders, but if any of them were over twenty I’m a poor observer.  Indeed, the one in the center was not only armed and armored, but in full tilting armor that didn’t seem to fit him properly.  The others seemed about as old, or younger.  One couldn’t have been more than fourteen, and the mail hauberk he wore fell all the way to his calves.  All of the boys were well-bundled against the cold.  And one bore a lance with a pennant on it.

“What is that thing on the banner?  A chicken taking a shit?” Tyndal asked, bemused.

“That’s a bird in a nest with an egg,” I observed when the wind caught it enough to show.  “A ‘warbird,’ whatever fowl that is.  That’s the Warbird of West Fleria, I’d guess, Sire Gimbal’s badge.  I’m guessing the egg represents his bastard son, Sir Ganulan of Brestal.”

“Shouldn’t that be ‘Sir Ganulan, formerly of Brestal’?”

“Perhaps,” I chuckled.  “Let’s go see what they want.”

They took a little longer to approach than I expected, perhaps because of the glow of the red magelight at the peak of the tower.  It was a little intimidating, if you didn’t know what it was.  It just hung there in the air and glowed, and didn’t move a bit no matter how hard the wind blew.  It was disconcerting.

They came within bowshot of the dike, but I’d ordered my men not to even nock a shaft.  I didn’t want to scare them off just yet.  This might be entertaining.

Sir Tyndal and I and four guardsmen awaited the knights at the threshold of the Dike.  Before the watch captain could approach them, the one bearing the pennant on his lance rested it, rode forward and shouted.

“Sire Ganulan of Brestal approaches for parley!”  His voice cracked.

“Let him come!” called the guard captain, Vren, gruffly.  “He will not be harmed.”

“I shall speak for him as his . . . his herald,” the boy said.  He didn’t seem used to the sound of his own voice yet.  “I am Sir Surbaral of Kest, ward of Sire Gimbal, the Warbird of West Fleria!” he proclaimed.

“Then speak, Sir Surbaral of Kest,” I called.  “What is your errand?”

“Sir Ganulan seeks to challenge the base-born rogue who stole from him his patrimony, the self-styled Magelord Minalan, to a duel to the death for possession of Brestal Vale!  Sire Ganulan has the courage to back up his rights with steel – has Sire Minalan?” he asked, a little too boldly for the occasion.  It was more like a sandlot brag, not a serious challenge.

“What the hells?” the Vren asked.  “Did he just . . . ?”

“Oh, this will be fun!” Tyndal whispered.  He closed his eyes for a moment, and I realized he was in psionic communication, no doubt with Rondal, back at the castle.  So much for downplaying this later.

“He’s challenging me,” I sighed.  “That . . . toddler is really challenging me.  Ishi’s tits.  All right, what do I do?”

“I dunno,” Tyndal shrugged.   “Isn’t he supposed to hit you in the face or something?”

“Maybe.  I’ve never fought a formal duel,” I confessed.  “I’m unsure about the protocol.  Particularly with children.”

“Wooden swords until the first owie?” quipped Vren, wryly.

“I think he’s looking for more action than that,” I observed.

“I don’t think he could handle more action than that,” Tyndal pointed out.

I sighed.  “Have Rondal dig up Sir Cei and ask him what the proper protocol is,” I ordered, quietly.  “Vren, ask him what cause Sir Ganulan – and be sure you say ‘sir’, not ‘sire’ – has to take such decisive action.  Be respectful, and for Huin’s sake don’t giggle.”  It’s unbecoming an officer.

“I’ll try, Min,” he grunted.  Most of the Bovali were still that informal with me, I was pleased to note.  “All right, Sir Surbaral, what quarrel has Sir Ganulan with the Magelord?” he called, loudly.

“He stole away the lands given to him by his father!” Surbaral replied.

“Whose father?” Vren demanded.

“Sire Ganulan’s father, the Lord of West Fleria!”

“And he wants to see who?” demanded Vren, feigning confusion.

“Magelord Minalan!” shouted Sir Surbaral.

“And this is in reference to . . . ?” Vren said, playing dumb.  He was terribly convincing.

“Sir Cei says that you are honor bound as a knight to meet his challenge or forfeit the land,” Tyndal whispered while Vren baffled the young knight.  “He suggests that you ignore him.  Unless there’s a baron or above in rank present, no one is going to care if he made a challenge or you accepted it.  He says it happens all the time.”

“But . . . I can’t just ignore him,” I whispered harshly.  “He came all this way . . .”

“What, you want to fight that kid?” Tyndal asked me, snorting incredulously.  “Let me!  I’ll stomp his—”

“No, no, he’s challenging me.  Or he thinks he is.  It’s a matter of honor or something.”

“It sounds like he wants to fight you over the possession of Brestal Vale.  Can he do that?” asked Vren.

“Well, I’ve heard of estates being gambled away over games of cards, dice and Rushes.  Sure, he can offer to fight me for it.  But I don’t have to accept.”

“But what if you do?” Tyndal asked.  “You’ll kill him!  And then you can say that you defended your claim to the territory with honorable combat, and the West Flerian claim goes away.”

“You think it would be that easy?  I don’t.  No, I don’t think the young master Ganulan’s sire or his uncle are aware that he’s here.  Every one of his retainers is as young as you, Tyn.  Looks like a couple of squires, a few men-at-arms, probably everyone Ganulan could scrape up for this quest.  And I doubt Gimbal would accept me kicking the crap out of his son as an end to our reasonable claim to the land we stole back.  In fact, it might just piss him off more, “I pointed out.

“Especially if he had to shell out a lot of ransom,” Tyndal observed.

Damn. I hadn’t thought about that.

“So how much do you think those chuckleheads are worth?” I asked, re-appraising the junior warriors in front of me for their market value, not their combat value.

“I dunno,” Tyndal shrugged.  “Who cares?  If we beat them up we keep their armor and horses, too, don’t we?  That’s a nice little Faro mare on the end, there.

Young, too.”  Tyndal was always as interested in horses as he was girls, a fetish I didn’t understand.  “I wouldn’t mind riding her about the valley,” he said, casually.

“Ask for their names and titles,” I said to Vren, too low for the boys to hear it.

“And which brave gentlemen are accompanying Sir Sibbyball today?” he asked sweetly.

“That’s Sir Surbaral!” shouted the boy, angrily.

“Ask Rondal to ask Sir Cei how much a young knight might be worth in ransom,” I ordered Tyndal.  “Ask about squires, too,” I added.

“He says you can expect maybe ten ounces of gold for a knight, plus the cost of his horse and armor, and twenty ounces of silver for a squire,” Tyndal replied a few moments later.  “But he cautions that those sorts of things are inexact and likely to fluctuate with local conditions.”

“So is my temper,” I muttered to myself.  I turned back to the boys, and suddenly I saw them as walking, talking revenue streams.  Their herald was nearing some sort of frustrated fit over Vren’s dogged determination to mis-understand just who was who and where they were from, and who their sires might be.

They ended up being Sir Ganulan, his ‘sworn sword-brother’ Sir Surbaral, a ward of Gimbal’s, a fifteen-year old Sir Festaran of Hosly, who had been knighted at Yule, and their three squires.  Surbaral was by far the largest of them, but none of them had been blooded, to my eye.  He was sputtering indignantly at Vren about the peasant’s apparent stupidity and my moral shortcomings.

“. . . and I don’t know if it is that you don’t have the wits to be able to relay a simple message to the castle or if it’s the cowardice of the evil sorcerer who corrupts this vale, but—”

“Enough,” I said, loudly, and stepped forward.  Vren stepped back deferentially.  I didn’t like that ‘evil sorcerer’ talk.

“And just who are you, churl?” sneered the boy.  “This idiot’s captain?  Then perhaps you have the mind to—”

“No, I’m not this idiot’s captain,” I said, interrupting him.  “I’m this goodman’s rightful Lord.”

“What?” Sir Surbaral asked, confused.

“I am Sire Minalan the Spellmonger, Magelord of Sevendor . . . and Brestal Vale,” I added.  “As it says on my Ducal warrant.  Which I offered to present to your esteemed uncle.   Are you seriously challenging me?” I asked.

“You lie, churl!” Sir Surbaral nearly shrieked – an un-knightly sound.  “Go now and fetch your master!”

He put his hand threateningly on his sword.  I cast back my woolen cloak.  I was wearing my warmest tunic and undertunic underneath, and didn’t even bother to bring a mageblade – who expects an attack right before a blizzard? – but I never went far without a warwand, and today I’d grabbed two.

“I do not,” I said, quietly.  “And apart from Duke Rard, I owe no man as my master.”

That took the young jay back a step – and his horse actually stepped back, as if for dramatic effect.  But his anger overcame his confusion quickly enough.  “Prove it!”

I shrugged, and then launched an impressive but harmless display spell, the kind you use to amuse the kids at Yule (which is why it was fresh in my mind and already hung).   The young knights weren’t amused, but they were impressed, and it took a few moments for them to calm their mounts.  I rather doubt they could calm their own hearts.

“Is that enough?” I asked, cheerfully.  “Or shall I turn you into a llama, Sir Surbaral?”

“What?” the boy asked, startled.  “Fine, you are a mage,” he finally admitted.

“Magelord,” I corrected.

“It matters not.  You have heard the challenge.  Do you accept them, Sir?”

“Well, this is my first duel over a matter of honor,” I admitted.  “Can you tell me exactly how we proceed?  Just what are the stakes?”

“Ownership of Brestal Vale, and the satisfaction of Sir Ganulan’s honor,” he demanded.  “The gods shall favor the righteous in a contest of justice!”

“The gods are notoriously unreliable in combat,” I noted, “but, as you say, it matters not.  Very well.  And since you challenged, do I not have the right to set the terms and weapons?  As well as the time and place?”

“That is your right, Sir,” the teenager admitted through clenched teeth.  “At your convenience, Sir Ganulan will be happy to provide satisfaction, as long as the combat be honorable.”

“If the gods are on your side, how could it be honorable and fair?” Tyndal pointed out with a snicker.

“No doubt you have some hellish god of magic to call upon,” the bully said with a derisive toss of his head.  “Let him do his worst.”

“Fair enough,” I decided.  “I assume that you are to act as Sir Ganulan’s second?”

“I have that honor,” he replied, gravely, all grown-up.

“Then let me introduce my second, my apprentice Tyndal of Boval Vale.  Wave to the boys, Tyndal.”  Tyndal waved and grinned wolfishly.  He’d worn his mageblade (he didn’t go anywhere without it when he was on duty, mostly because the girls loved it), my old sword Slasher, over his shoulder.

“Now, as far as the conditions, I will meet Sir Ganulan on foot, with whatever weapons each combatant chooses.  I deem that the contest shall go to first blood.  And I deem that before that fight happens, the rest of your party must engage my apprentice in honorable combat, one at a time, to first blood.”

Surbaral didn’t look pleased.  “We seek honorable combat, Sir, not a general slaughter.  I would not have it said that the noble warriors of West Fleria took advantage of a tradesman’s apprentice and mistook it for a matter of honor.”

“You won’t have to,” Tyndal said, before I could stop him.  “I was knighted last autumn.  I’m Sir Tyndal of Boval Vale, Knight Mage,” he said with too much satisfaction, and added a contemptuous bow.  “So if you think you can remove my head as first blood, then you may do so without fear of your precious honor enduring the stain.  Unless you fear to match yourselves against one older than you,” he said, nodding towards the squires who weren’t looking quite so tough in their armor any more.  “And one born a commoner,” he added.  He enjoys goading the aristocracy as much as I do.

“Then we shall satisfy your terms,” the young hothead said, savagely.  “Merely name the day and time, and—”

“We’re all already here,” I pointed out.  “Now will do.  If we make it quick.  I have work to do.”  I wasn’t just saying that, either.  I had planned to make it all the way to Brestal Tower before heading home before dark, but that looked like it was going to have to wait.

“What?” asked Sir Surbaral, alarmed.  “Now?”

“You seem well-arrayed for battle,” I pointed out.  “And it seems silly for you to have made the trip without any blood to show on your swords.  So let’s go ahead and get this over with . . .” I said, as Tyndal handed me his cloak and began warming up his muscles by stretching.

“My lord,” Surbaral said, haughtily, “it is customary to deal with such matters of honor in the eye of the world,” Surbaral informed me.  “Say at the next tournament, or the Chepstan Spring Faire.  To fight now would be . . . unseemly.”

“To fight now would be . . . convenient.  And since that is what I have chosen, and since that idiot wanted to challenge me, I’m exercising my right to set terms.  He can either accept them, or he can forfeit his challenge.”

“He accepts them,” Surbaral said, haughtily.  “The Warbird’s own is a man of honor.”

Tyndal snickered.  Surbaral whirled. “You doubt his honor?” the baby knight demanded.

“I doubt he’s a man,” Tyndal said, drawing Slasher without ceremony . . . and then cut the air decisively.  He enjoys swordplay, and spent every moment he could practicing at it.  Me, I study it because I have to, but I don’t enjoy it.  In two years, Tyndal will be a better swordsman than I.

Surbaral didn’t dignify the remark with a response, but rode back to his fellows and began explaining the terms to them.

I could see right away that they weren’t thrilled with his negotiations.  I glanced at Tyndal, and almost in unison we began magically eavesdropping on the boys as we had their betters.

“ . . . what do you mean, we have to fight his apprentice?” one of the squires said, anxiously.  “You said we were coming along for show, to witness . . . you didn’t say anything about fighting!”

“That’s right!” complained another one.  “I only borrowed this sword.  It’s an antique!  My uncle will kill—”

“Does that mean me, too?” asked the newest-made knight, his voice shrill.  “Or just the squires?  Because I think he meant just the squires, because it wouldn’t do for a knight of my stature to do battle on the field of honor with a commoner—”

“Well, the gods grant you fortune then,” Surbaral growled, “because that peasant said he was made a knight last fall.  So yes, it means you too, Sir Festering Cunt.  But don’t worry – once the lads get through with him, I doubt there will be anything left for you.”

“He’s bloody tall,” the shortest apprentice pointed out, worriedly.

“He’s a fucking up-jumped peasant!” snarled Ganulan.  “You did right, Sir Surbaral.  I want you to take him apart right in front of his master’s eyes – show them why the gods favored us to be knights!  As my sworn men, I command you to do this for me.  I’ll even grant an estate to the one who slays the boy.

“What bloody estate?” the tallest squire asked incredulously.  “You don’t have a fucking chamberpot of your own right now, do you?  Your dad told you to let him handle it, but you had to go and make that oath before everyone at Yule, that you’d be sitting in Brestal Tower on Briga’s Day, or take holy orders.  You’re an idiot, Gan!”

“That’s Sire Ganulan!” the teenager screamed.  “And I command you to do as I bid!  I swore that oath and I meant it!  Besides, you cowards, it’s only to first blood.  If you are that much of a pussy, take a scratch and lose your armor and mount.  But that’s your choice.  I’m going to stand up for my patrimony, and the gods shall see me triumph over this thieving bastard whether you will or no!”

“Your father is going to be angry, Gan,” Sir Festaran said so quietly I almost missed it.  “Really, he’s going to . . . he might send you away to a temple somewhere.  Or disown you.  Disinherit you, at least.”

“Oh, shut up!  This will be easy!  He’s a fucking mage, and you’ve seen how those guys look – all sickly and weak from reading books and such!  My uncle’s court mage in East Fleria can hardly make a candle light!”

“What about those lights?” the littlest squire complained.  “Those were real enough!”

“Tricks,” dismissed Surbaral.  “Did anyone get hurt?  If he was really as powerful as they say, then he would have killed us all then.  He didn’t, because he can’t.  Besides, no mage can stand against a righteous sword – remember the Conquest!”

“Oh, this is going to be so much fun,” whispered Tyndal eagerly.

And it was.  So much that I felt guilty about it later.  A little.

Tyndal was magnificent, playing the country bumpkin at first, mishandling his sword apurpose playfully while avoiding the youngest squire’s attempts to strike.  The boy struggled to even move in his over-large hauberk, much less defend himself, and in the end Tyndal took pity, tripped him, and pointed his sword at his throat.

“I yield!  I yield!” he squeaked.  Tyndal nodded, helped him up, and sent him over to me.  He was crying miserably, but otherwise unharmed.

The second duel was over almost as quickly.  The squire fought bravely, but stupidly, counting on heavy, broad swings of his sword to slice Tyndal in twain, while my apprentice danced around and parried when he felt like it.  There are great advantages to wearing armor in war . . . less so in a duel.  One great sweeping blow delivered as if to split a log buried his sword in the frozen ground, and Tyndal stepped on it, snapping the brittle metal in half.  Then he kicked the boy in the face, sending him sprawling, his nose bloody.

“First blood,” Vren called, cheerfully.  “O’er here, boy, you belong to us, now!”

The third squire was better matched to Tyndal in size and even in speed, but once again my apprentice’s skills were superior.  At least this one gave him an actual fight – and took a slice across the forearm for his trouble.  He joined his fellows, defeated and dejected.

That’s when Sir Festaran started to have second thoughts about his brand new armor, pretty new mare, and antique heirloom sword.  He solemnly took sword and shield and stood at guard . . . and did nothing.

“Aren’t you going to attack me?” Tyndal asked, curious.

”Aren’t you?” Festaran challenged.

The squires had all made aggressive attacks.  This boy knight didn’t want to commit himself.  I could respect that.  And because of his tactic, he forced Tyndal to work a bit.  A mageblade against sword-and shield is tough.  The shieldman has an independent attack and defense, and that made it easy to bind a warmage’s solitary blade.

But Tyndal had practiced against some outstanding shieldmen, the Orphan’s Band mercenaries at Timberwatch.  He knew very well the dangers of getting too close to a shield.  He also knew the shieldman’s weakness, his blind spot.  It took him nearly five minutes, but Tyndal finally managed to sail a cut from that blind spot up under Festaran’s helmet, slicing open a gash about an inch long over his eyelid.  The resulting wound bled horrifically, as all such scalp wounds do.

Festaran fainted.

The remaining two knights looked pale and disgusted.  Sir Surbaral growled.  “Are you now ready to face your challenger, Magelord?” he demanded.

“My apprentice still has one blade uncrossed,” I pointed out.  “Your own.”

“What?” Surbaral repeated his favorite word.  “I am Sir Ganulan’s second.  As such, it would be improper—”

“The agreement was for him to fight all the members of your party, before Master Minalan kills Ganulan – sorry, fights Ganulan,” Vren corrected him with a sheepish grin.

Tyndal smiled.  “I fancy that pretty armor of yours.  So are you going to draw your blade or do you forfeit?”

I could tell Surbaral hadn’t considered fighting himself, and didn’t like the idea, but I could also tell that he was the sort whose honor wouldn’t allow him not to undertake whatever bone-headed idea he desired.  And now that he had a real duel in front of him, for his armor and mount, he couldn’t very well back down.

“I stand ready!” he said viciously, drawing his sword.  It was a man-sized blade, a stout hand-and-a-half hilt he carried like a greatsword.  He made a few aggressive swipes in the air himself, and seemed much better with a blade than his fellows.

“You sure about this, Tyn?” I murmured.

“I’ve fought goblins meaner than him,” he reminded me, stretching his arms and back a little.  “Don’t worry.”

And I shouldn’t have.  I think he may have used a little magic here and there, but Tyndal took him apart.  I knew he was toying with the other boys, but when he went up against Surbaral I really got to see the result of all of the swordwork he’d practiced – and some of the warmagic.

Half way through Surbaral’s first strong attack the strap on his left vambrace broke and entangled with the hilt of his greatsword.  I suspected a cantrip, but I wasn’t using magesight so I couldn’t be sure.  Surbaral recovered sloppily, but managed to stop three quick strikes at his head from Slasher.  Then they settled into the traditional eyeball-to-eyeball circling contest that such fights often devolve into.

“You fight well for a mage,” Surbaral admitted, breathlessly, as he tried to repair his vambrace without dropping his guard, and ended up discarding it instead.

“You haven’t seen me fight as a mage,” Tyndal grinned.  “I’m trying to go easy on you.”

That just angered the young knight.  “Bring on your sorceries!  I’m man enough to stand them!”

“Idiot,” I whispered to myself.  Tyndal had just been waiting for a dramatic moment.  Now he had it.

“All right,” my apprentice said, stretching his Wilderland accent into a caricature of ignorance.  The next time he moved, it was with such blinding speed that I think I was the only one who saw what happened.

The warmagics used to accelerate reaction and improve speed and alacrity are powerful, and terribly useful.  It’s one of the most basic edges a warmage has in straight combat.  It was also one of the first pieces of warmagic I had trained him in.  Tyndal used it this time to rush his opponent and deliver a very shallow cut across his chin, and finished by tripping him as he tried to turn.  Surbaral sprawled in the dirt, but was on his feet again with impressive speed.

“It will take more than that to—hey!” the knight said, as Tyndal dropped out of his guard.  “Why did you stop?”

“Because I won,” Tyndal said, matter-of-factly.  “First blood, remember?” he pointed out, holding up Slasher’s shiny blade to reveal a long thin smear of blood decorating the edge.  He used it to gesture to Surbaral’s chin.  “I tagged you.  That’s blood.  I’ve seen it before.  I win.”

I was treated to the sight of a strong, enthusiastic young man bound to the codes of chivalry and four centuries of warrior tradition throw an impressive snit when he realized that he had, indeed, lost by the terms of the duel.

“That was not fair!” he howled.  “I was not in guard, and—”

“First blood,” I said, firmly.  “And I would not advise pushing the contest further, Sir Surbaral.  You might feel bad now, but you’d feel worse if he blasted your heart out of your chest.”  That calmed him down, a little.

But now it was time for the main fight, the duel of honor over the possession of Brestal Vale, between me and Ganulan.  The youth still looked angry, but there was fear starting to creep into his eyes.

“Hey, Tyn!  I left my sword back at the castle.  Can I borrow yours?”

“Of course, Sire,” he said, calmly and graciously.  “I went ahead and cleaned the blood off of it.”

“You’re so thoughtful,” I smiled.  I took the familiar blade (noting it needed a good sharpening) and immediately fell into the Sword Dance of the Magi.

It sounds a lot more impressive than it is.  It’s just the first eight forms of using a mageblade.  They aren’t that different than standard infantry slashing-and-poking, but there are subtleties of using a mageblade that the Sword Dance helps you realize.  My first week at War College, before shipping off to Farise, involved us doing the Sword Dance over and over every morning until we could do it in our sleep.   Its just three defensive postures, three strikes, and two positions that can be used for either. You practice it until it is done in a flowing, fluid movement.  There are two other parts to the dance, too, but I just did the first eight forms a couple of times.

And each time I increased my speed until I was doing it so fast the sword was singing in the thin winter air.

“I’m ready,” I said, when I folded myself back into first position.  Ganulan’s eyes were wide, and his pupils were tiny.  “Remember,” I said, as I confidently took my position, “the fight is to first blood.  Removing your head constitutes first blood.”   I wasn’t intending to kill him, just scare him.  I was successful.  His hands shook as he brought his sword into guard.

“Would one of you gentlemen be so good as to call for us to start?” I asked.

“Begin!” shouted the youngest squire, forgetting the ransom he now owed in his excitement.  The moment he heard it, Ganulan sprang at me swinging wildly.  Oh, he showed a decent amount of training, and he didn’t make any horrible mistakes, but that’s a long way from being a competent swordsman.

I let his swings slice the air, moving out of his way, keeping Slasher’s tip moving in counter-clockwise circles.  He feinted left and then tried a sweeping two-handed blow that would have beheaded me . . .  had I not kicked the young knight in the knee and sent him sprawling.

“Don’t neglect your footwork,” I instructed him.  “You fight like you have bricks in your boots.”

“I don’t need lessons in swordplay from the likes of you!” he snarled.

“Well, wherever you’re getting them, you’re being cheated,” I said, blocking two quick but uninspired strikes in quick succession.  “You keep throwing your elbows out, too,” I added, when he made another pass.

“Damn it!  Fight me like a man!” he snarled, throwing sand at my head in an attempt to distract me.  I stepped around it and blocked another desperate blow.

“You first,” I quipped,

“I’ll carve out your heart!” he shouted, and made another run.  This time he tripped himself up, going down ass over elbows, his sword sliding from his hand.  He scrambled to recover it and was back on his feet in moments.

“You couldn’t carve a chicken properly, the way you handle that blade,” I sneered.  “If you want to carve out my heart, you have to strike me, first.”

That’s how I spent the next five minutes, eluding Ganulan’s blade and making snide comments about his fighting style.  I actually won the duel by accident.  He threw a three-blow combination that seemed the limit of his sophisticated swordplay, and I responded with a half-hearted riposte that he failed to defend against.   Quite to my surprise, Slasher’s tip sliced the bottom sliver of Ganulan’s left earlobe.

“Oh! Sorry!” I said, involuntarily.  I don’t mind sparring, but I don’t want to injure anyone.  Then I realized that this was a duel over property, and I’d just won.

“Damn you!” howled Ganulan, looking at his own blood on his fingers.  “You cheated!”

“How can you cheat in a sword fight?” I asked.  “Besides, you threw sand in my face first.  And I didn’t cheat.  You didn’t block.  Big difference.”

“I say you cheated!” he declared, his voice quivering.

“And I say this contest is over,” I said.  “You lost.”

“I did not lose to a cheat!” he demanded.  “Admit your wrong or—”

“Or what?  You’ll challenge me to a duel?  You lost, Sir Ganulan.  You are now technically my prisoner, and your armor and mount mine.”

“I shall not give you my armor!” he said, nastily.  “Or my mount!”

“But you lost,” I pointed out.  “First blood.  Again.  Doesn’t it offend your honor that you are refusing to acknowledge your loss?  Or are you the kind of knight who is only honorable when his betters are watching?”

“I’m the kind of knight that refuses to treat with cheaters!”

“You have yet to tell me how I’ve cheated,” I said, sheathing my sword.  “So tell me, how did I?”

He didn’t have an answer for that.  So he sputtered and made more threats and promised to make me pay for my offenses against him and called me a villain to boot.  I let him spin down and then tried to get him to listen to reason.  He wouldn’t.  In the end, I had to magically render him unconscious.  Then I had the guards strip off his armor, and when he awoke Tyndal escorted them all on foot down to Brestal Tower, where they would be kept until suitable ransoms could be arranged.

“That was fun,” Tyndal sighed, before we parted.  I wanted to get back to the castle quickly.  I glanced at the sky – no clouds yet, but I could feel the wind starting to pick up.  “So how much do we ask for each of them?”

“Let me worry about that.  But first . . . Sir Surbaral, do you acknowledge that you were bested according to the terms of the duel, and that your property is forfeit?  That you are my lawful prisoner?”

“I do,” he said, haughtily.  “My father will pay a suitable ransom for me, I swear.”  He made the sign of Duin the Destroyer to ask the war god to witness the oath.

“Good,” I agreed.  “If you swear, then I release you to return to West Fleria to raise it.  There you can tell the Warbird of your ill-fated trip against the Magelord, and the disposition of your fellows.”

“But . . . but—” he said, suddenly looking more like a guilty teenager than a knight.

“That’s right, you get to explain to Sire Gimbal just why his son is a prisoner . . . and five of his fellows.  Then you get to explain whose brilliant idea the expedition was.  And then I want you to tell your master this: I am not pleased with the temerity of this duel, as I have full legal right to Brestal Vale and I resent having to take it back and defend it.  I am so angry, in fact, that I promise that I will call down a savage blizzard to bury West Fleria as proof of my anger.”

The lad looked properly frightened, but his anger was still dominating his manner.  “Only the gods control the weather!”

“Who says I don’t know a few?” I sneered.  “Just pass that along.  I’m angry, and when you anger a Magelord, there are consequences.  Now take your mount and leave your armor and sword, and get the hells out of here. ”

I turned back to Tyndal, purposefully dismissing Surbaral with my shoulder.  “I want you to personally escort these prisoners back to Brestal Tower and see that they are securely held, and fed and housed according to their station.  And make sure they get plenty of blankets.  It’s going to get cold tonight.”

Chapter Twelve

The Blizzard and the Birthing Chamber

The blizzard that swept in two days after my duel was brutal.  It started coming down innocuously enough, a friendly sprinkle of snow just at dusk . . . but by moonrise (if the moon hadn’t been obscured by clouds) it was snowing so hard you could hear it hit the ground.  These were big, thick, fat juicy snowflakes, the kind that take an age to leisurely fall and seem to pile up faster than creditors.  If this was what Astyral thought of as ‘less fierce’ than he got, I shuddered to think of just how deep Tudry was buried.

Around midnight the winds kicked in, as the storm began in earnest.  Howling winds from the west blew the bountiful snow into drifts that rose as high as the second floor of the castle.  It snowed for two days straight, and then rained ice and freezing rain, just to keep things interesting, and then more snow.

The entire time the winds never stopped blowing, and they were raging hard enough to knock a man off his feet.  Except for the storms off of the coast of Farise, I have never seen winds like that before.  Neither had any of the native Sevendori – and damn few of the Bovali.  It was a calamitous storm in everyone’s experience, and if it hadn’t been for the magic keeping the place moderately insulated, I’m not sure we wouldn’t have woken up frozen to death.

Everyone stayed put unless absolutely necessary – and after the first day, it was difficult just opening a door, so high had the drifts piled against them.  The great hall of the castle was packed with peasants, as was every cot and hold with a fireplace.  The sick and infirm were moved to the warmest places.

Thanks to our early notice, we were able to make sure virtually everyone in the valley had plenty of firewood and food to get them through a few days.  We had people bedding down in storage spaces, in the towers, in the stables, and in the kitchens.  Even Sir Cei opened up his room for three scrawny dotards who needed to stay warm, he moved himself in with the guards into one of the towers.  When he slept.

My private residence was kept private only because I demanded it.  Alya would have allowed it to be used if needed, but I needed at least one space I could get away from everyone who was suddenly crammed into my home.  And I didn’t want anyone crowding my wife when she was so close to term.  As it was, her matrons were constantly there, giving us little privacy and almost no peace.

Everyone else had to contend with crowded conditions, but apart from a line at the privies that ran day and night, it wasn’t too bad . . . for a while.  Indeed, with most of the Yule decorations still in place, at first it felt like an extension of the holiday.  People diced, sang, played games, had arguments, told tales, prayed, and slept.

It was almost like a miniature siege, which was good, in a way.  I was able to note some issues that could be addressed once we thawed out.  Like cisterns that didn’t freeze over – I could cure that by heating the stones of the things to just above freezing.  And the need for a much bigger hall.

I hadn’t figured out a spell that could give me that, yet, but it was desperately needed for the size population we had now.  If we were really under attack, and I had to put everyone in the Vales in here, I would have peasants encamped all the way to the outer bailey, and I doubtlessly would have lost many of them to the storm.  This way we were on each other’s nerves, cranky, and cold . . . but we were fed and we were warm enough to live.

I made a point of making the rounds to check on everyone in the castle at least a few times a day, and spent most of that time settling arguments or delivering stern warnings about poor behavior.  I also kept in regular contact with my apprentices, who were learning what it was like to be in charge of a bunch of panicky folks in an emergency.  I had Tyndal at Brestal Tower, with our prisoners, most of the garrison, and the peasants of Brestal Village.   Things were tense, but he managed to rule there without bloodshed.

Rondal had drawn the shorter straw, and therefore was taking an extended turn at the gate tower.   He didn’t mind – there were only a dozen and a half Bovali at the Brestal Farms site, plus a few nearby cotholders to fill the space.  Compared to the cramped quarters at Sevendor Castle and Brestal Tower, Hyer’s Tower – known to most now as the gate tower or diketower – was relatively roomy.

I checked on both of them mind-to-mind several times a day, and we all seemed to be weathering the storm well enough.  The biggest headache was keeping order, keeping them warm and getting them fed.

Apart from that, I mostly stayed in my tower lab, planning, plotting and going over accounts.

The forced lethargy of the storm also gave me time to catch up on news.  Apart from the blizzard that had ravaged the northern Duchies from the Penumbra to western Merwin.  Penny, safe in her family’s sunny estate in central Remere for the winter, was nonetheless a fount of information on the politics of the moment.

The big news is the Coronet Council, she told me, mind-to-mind, the first night of the blizzard.  I don’t know if you remember, but Duke Lenguin called an emergency council to address the gurvani invasion, only he died before it could happen.  Duke Rard, in his role as Regent for the young Duke, has gotten that postponed until the late spring.  It was set for Remere, but I just heard that it has been moved to the Capital.  It will be held just after the Solstice .  And its going to be . . . colorful.

How so?  I was only half-aware of Ducal politics, even when I was hip-deep in it.  Besides the whole issue of the Alshari succession.

There won’t be an issue, Penny promised.  Lenguin’s son will be confirmed as the Duke of Alshar.  But only after Rard declares himself King.  When that happens, he’ll invite the Dukes to pay him homage and fealty, and only then will he be confirmed: as the King’s vassal.  Along with the Duke of Remere and his own son, Tavard, who will become the Duke of Castal on his father’s coronation.  But I’d wager that the Dukes of Vore and especially Merwin aren’t going to take a knee just because Rard says to.  In fact, they might go to war.

Not my problem.

It might be.  Duke Rard wishes to have his new warmagi present to testify to the Coronet Council about the Dead God and the goblin invasion.

His new warmagi?

Min, quit getting yourself upset over political crap you can’t do anything about, she lectured.  From his perspective, you are his.  His problem, too.  Because the Censorate is a mess.

What?  I thought General Hartarian was going to yield? I asked, startled.

He is, she assured me.  And many of the Censors will no doubt agree with him.  But they are having their own Convocation in Wenshar this summer.  And right now the Merwini Ducal Censor is calling for Hartarian’s head for betraying the Order.  We might own Hartarian as an ally, but that doesn’t mean that Hartarian will remain Censor General.  In fact, it’s a safe bet he won’t.

The why did I give him a witchstone? I demanded.  The whole point of that was to bribe the Censorate to leave us alone!

You bribed the Censor General, not the Censorate, she reminded me.  They have their own systems and rules about who rises in office and how.  And some of them are quite fanatical.  That’s why they get them young, just out of school or apprenticeship, and indoctrinate them so heavily.  They’ve sworn a sacred oath.  Unfortunately, some of them take that seriously.  Luckily, enough won’t so that we might gain some really stout allies from their ranks.

Right, look how well Landrik is doing, I agreed.  The former Censor warmagi had, like Hartarian had eventually done, taken a bribe of a witchstone from me . . . and then fought valiantly and faithfully in the bloody Battle of Timberwatch.  He was rewarded for his efforts by being made a Knight Mage and Magelord, and he was one of the most steadfast Horkan warmagi I knew.  ”If we could get a few more like him out of the Censorate, it almost might be worth fighting them.

They really are quite tough.  I . . . well, your apprentices and I faced down a pair of them in Talry, just before we fled the town, and if we hadn’t had witchstones and low cunning on our side we’d be facing the pillory in Wenshar now.  Censors would be great recruits for the war effort.  But a lot of them are going to persist in trying to kill us.  The only way we’re going to stop that is to ensure that Rard takes the throne and hope that three-fifths of a crown is royalty enough to keep the Censors at bay.

I’m not particularly fond of His Grace right now, I replied.  Her Grace, actually.  And that power-hungry bitch of a daughter of theirs.

You don’t have to like them, she pointed out.  In fact, it’s probably best if you don’t like them, which would make things needlessly complicated.  But you do have to support them.  We all do.  We get them on the throne first, and then we can handle the details.

And you think presenting a bunch of shiny warmagi is going to do that?

It’s going to be a big step in that direction, she affirmed.  In fact, it would be wise for us to be organized before the Council.  Have a meeting, maybe in the spring, to figure out some organizational details and fix some policies.

I don’t know, Pen, I replied, doubtfully.  There isn’t much time before the Summer Solstice.

What are you talking about?  There’s plenty of time.  Most of the High Magi are in northern Alshar already, and the few who aren’t could make it back here in a few weeks.  And if they can’t, then we can get their opinions mind-to-mind.  But we need to all be reading from the same scroll, so to speak, because this autumn when Rard is crowned we will have a golden opportunity to get . . . well, whatever we want.  But until we know what we want, that’s not going to do us much good.  So we have a conference, a convention, a convocation, a coven, whatever you want to call it.  We get together and map out some policies and procedures and maybe talk about the future.

Well, I suppose that would work, I admitted.  But where to meet?  Tudry?

No! she said, adamantly.  That’s too close to the Penumbra.  I don’t want the Dead God overhearing anything.  We don’t know if he has human servants as spies in Tudry yet, but you can bet it will only be a matter of time.

Good point.  What about Vorone?

Somehow I don’t think we’d be too welcome there, she pointed out.  A lot of the Alshari are blaming us for Lenguin’s death.  And for the whole war.  Now they’re shy one Duke, and from what you and Mavone have said, he was the only reason anyone ever came to the damn place anyway.  And it’s still hip-deep in refugees.

Again, a good point.  That leaves Wilderhall.

That’s what I was thinking, she agreed.  But from what you’ve told me about the Family, that might be even worse than Tudry in terms of eavesdroppers.

Penny, we’re running out of Wilderlands, I said, patiently.

I know, I know!  Let me think . . .

It took us almost an hour of brainstorming, and in the end she had to contact a few other magi mind-to-mind, but we finally settled on a place from an unlikely source: Forandal of Scafford.

Sire Forandal was a scion of a coastal family of aristocrats, and had become a warmage of no small repute when he was recommended by Terleman, the military head of the order, to get a witchstone.  He had fought valiantly at Timberwatch and already had friends in the Castali and Alshari courts, so when the Dukes had been handing out honors, he’d gotten awarded an estate, just like I had.

Only he had chosen one about three hundred miles southwest of Wilderhall, near the Alshari frontier, a fief known as the Domain of Robinwing.  It was a small, out-of-the way land, much like Sevendor.  But unlike Sevendor it had been fully functional and even profitable when Sire Forandal had become its Magelord.  That was largely thanks to a big temple on his lands and ambitious villagers who had hoped to use their time without a lord to advance their own agendas.

But Robinwing Castle was spacious and roomy, the village had several good inns, and the temple could house our conference without fear of being overheard.  Forandal was delighted to be able to play host, too, and I couldn’t blame him.  I had been tempted to host the meeting myself in Sevendor, just to use the specter of the best warmagi in the world on my bellicose neighbor’s border, but in truth we didn’t have the facilities for that kind of meeting . . . yet.

We set the time for convening the Order as three weeks after the Equinox, which should be long enough after the snows to melt for the roads to be safe, but still too early in the season to take the warmagi on the front lines from their posts.

We were fairly certain we wouldn’t see any major gurvani offensives until at least a full moon and a half after the equinox.  Gurvani don’t like mud any more than we do, and they hate snow and cold weather.  The Robinwing Convocation should be relatively well-attended.

So the Censorate still wants us dead, and Rard wants us to show up and scare his enemies.  And the Family isn’t nearly as friendly to us as before.  Please tell me you have some good news.

I do, she agreed.  The Order of the Secret Tower is at your beck and call.  Daddy’s witchstone has already revolutionized the business here.  He’s become the most powerful mage on the Order’s council.  But they’re already lining up and wanting to know what they have to do to get one.

Well, if they’re warmagi then I’ll grant them a stone if they go to the Penumbra for a year, I offered.

They aren’t.  They’re wealthy old practicing adepts and court magi.  “Practicing Adept” or “Practical Adept” (or even “Resident Adept” in Vore) is a term that Eastern magi use when they sell their services and are associated with a magical firm.

If you’re wondering what the difference between a “Practicing Adept” and a “Spellmonger” are, so did I, the time I went to visit Penny’s family’s estate in Remere.  After days of argument, I still couldn’t see one.  But Practicing Adept apparently sounds more sophisticated and prestigious, and considering how much Penny’s dad’s firm charged for their spells, I suppose their clients were entitled to the very highest quality bullshit.

I don’t know, Pen.  The war effort has to be our first priority.

I agree.  I just don’t think it should be the only priority.  Are we going to only allow warmagi to have witchstones?

Of course not!  I’ve already given stones away to non-warmagi.  Master Icorad, the Mage healer.  Master Thinradel, Master Dunselen, Lanse of Bune, your dad, you . . .

I know.  That’s my point.  We’ve dealt with them haphazardly, and in some cases we’ve lost control of the situation.  We need to figure out a good, practical method of deciding who gets a stone and who doesn’t.  That’s going to become a political headache before we know it.  And that’s the sort of thing we need to decide at a conference.

How about every fourth stone goes to a non-warmage? I offered.

How about every third stone? She countered.  There are a lot of specialists out there who are eager to expand their abilities.  Some specialties that could prove quite useful.  Enchanters and healers, for example.

I’d be willing to give one to a decent Green Mage, I agreed.   If he was good enough.

Green Magic is, as you probably guessed, the magic of plants and growing things.  It wasn’t a very widely respected specialty, despite how useful it was.  Growing stuff just isn’t as flashy or impressive as warmagic or even common spellmongering.

But I’d seen a few talented Green Magi who could grow roses on a paver stone.  I thought about the desolate landscape of Sevendor and wondered what a well-trained, Talented Green Mage could do with the land to make it more productive.  In fact, you can put the word out that I will be willing to grant a stone to the Green Mage who impresses me most.

You’re going to be mobbed, she giggled.  I wasn’t actually thinking of Green Magi, but I suppose they could benefit.  Just think what a Seamage could do with a stone.  Or a Stonesinger.  Or an adept enchanter.  Or a really good thaumaturge—

Hey!  I am a really good thaumaturge! I protested.

And see how much you’ve been able to accomplish?  We’re going to need support magi, Min, and they’re going to need witchstones to do their jobs.

Agreed.  What about religious magic?

Theurges? she asked, surprised.   If you’re worried about the war effort that’s the last place I’d recommend spending our precious stones.  How could a temple mage be useful?

This was a common argument for us – Penny never thought religious magic was actually practical, whereas I had seen a few things that convinced me otherwise.

Come on, religious magic has accomplished some pretty amazing things, I countered.  I admit, it’s unreliable and problematic, but it’s also quite powerful.  There’s a reason that even the Censorate is careful in how they regulate theurgic magic.  You get one of the larger cults angry at you, and even without irionite you can tap on the raw emotional power of hundreds or thousands of the devout.  That could come in handy.

We can look into it, she said, compromising.  It’s always nice to have the gods on our side, I suppose.  What about selling the stones outright?

What? I asked, surprised.  Why would we do that?

To raise money, she said, simply.  The Order is running on a horsehair right now.  But it’s going to need resources, its own resources.  Selling a stone or two might be a way to do that.  To the proper people, of course, she added.

Like whom? I asked, dryly.  I knew Penny.  She wouldn’t have brought it up if she didn’t have someone in mind.

Like my cousin Planus, she offered.  You met him when you visited, remember?  The really handsome one?  He’s a very, very good practical adept, and he’s also got a good head for business.  He’s the one who got the family firm into commercial merchandise evaluation and assurance.

What?

He started offering to magically ensure that a shipment of goods arrives intact.  He uses a version of the Resitilan Grouping spell on a wagon or a bargeload of merchandise after it’s loaded.  When it arrives, the merchant has another mage verify that the entire load has arrived as promised, without any of it . . . falling off the back of the wagon.  He charges five percent of the merchandise total.

Does he make good money at it? I asked, incredibly impressed at the idea.  I grew up in a riverport – in Talry, you could always go down to the docks and trade a couple of fresh-baked pies for some of whatever the bargemen were loading, unloading, or hauling to distant ports of call.  By the time a shipment made it to its final destination, as much as a quarter of the merchandise might have disappeared.  Paying five percent to ensure that it didn’t was well worth the price.

It’s about a third of the firm’s revenues, now, and the best part is that the Resitilan Grouping is such a simple spell even second-year apprentices can do an evaluation.  Of course Planus wants a shard of irionite.  He asked me to ask you how much you’d sell one for, outright.

Ishi’s nips, Penny, how should I know?  They’re priceless!

Nothing is truly priceless, she countered.  And Planus’ side of the family is the really wealthy one.  They’ve had contracts in central Remere that stretch back two hundred, three hundred years.  So when he asked me to ask you, he also said he would pay you one hundred thousand ounces of gold for one.

One hundred thousand ounces . . . of gold? I asked, incredulous.

He’s got it.  Or his family does.  But he’s not worried about the expenditure.  With irionite he can make that back in two years with what he can do.  Probably less – Planus is terribly smart.  He was also handsome and as smooth and charismatic a mage as I’d ever met.  The sort that can make you feel like a hayseed hedgemage on your best day.

I don’t know, Penny, I said, after I’d recovered.  Is that a good precedent?

I don’t know, Min, she said, tiredly.  Maybe, maybe not.  But why not?

It just seems corrupt, somehow.

Someone has to decide who gets the stones, Min, and we all decided that it would be you.  How you dispose of them is your business, then.  But as your advisor – and Acting Steward of the Arcane Orders, may I remind you – let me advise you to think about it strongly.  I’d recommend you just give Planus one, except I know that seems a little too much like nepotism even to me.  The money makes that less painful.  And with so many other, older, more prestigious adepts around . . .

I’ll think about it, I promised.  Maybe it is a bad precedent, maybe it isn’t. I was thinking that we might want to set up a network of spellmongers and footwizards to encourage trade in knot coral and sympathy stones, weirwood and that sort of thing.  There are dozens of substances and items that are invaluable to magic, but they’re rare, exotic, and scattered.  If we’re really going to push the art, we’re going to need access to them.  We should start encouraging that, especially if we’re going to take a mercantile approach to irionite.  Maybe we can raise funds by taxing that trade somehow to pay for the Order’s upkeep.

That’s what professional fees are for, Min, she said patiently.  It isn’t unusual for someone to pay a fee for a position or a feudal right.

I did just take a sympathy stone from one of my people as a fee for setting up shop in the village, I admitted.

Then you understand that a small fee for a witchstone isn’t dishonorable or dishonest.  Consider it a feudal arrangement: you, the head of the Arcane Orders, control the witchstones.  You dish them out to worthies you know, she said, unselfconsciously, you take their oaths, just like an oath of fealty.  The fee is just another element of that arrangement.  And it keeps too many untrained magi from dogging you.

I still don’t like the idea of prohibiting someone, just because they’re poor.  Couldn’t we make that fee payable within two years?  That should be plenty of time, if the mage is good.  That will also help ensure that new members are on their best behavior.  If they owe us money, they’ll behave better.

That’s actually a good idea, Min, she admitted.  I’ll add it to the agenda.  Oh, and there’s another pressing item on the agenda.  The Order needs a permanent home.  At least some place where we can store records and construct a library, that sort of thing.  Someplace like the Citadel of the Censorate at Terrematon.

I thought we were going to take over Terrematon?  That’s the impression Hartarian gave me.

It might not be up to him.  If the rest of the Censorate prevails, they might burn the place down rather than allow it to fall into our unclean hands.  But even if we don’t take it, there’s a lot of stuff that we might be able to get from there, and we’ll have to store it someplace.  And the Order of the Secret Tower has a lot of books and scrolls that I want to move to Castal or even Alshar, far out of the Censorate’s reach.  Half of them I don’t even know what they do, but no one has been able to study them properly.  And a lot of them might prove useful against the gurvani.

I’d offer Sevendor, but at the moment the place is stuffed to the rafters and stinks to high heaven.

I wouldn’t want to put it there, anyway, she agreed.  You don’t need to be in charge of our headquarters.  I’ll find someone for that duty.  You’re in charge of enough, already.

You’re telling me?  All right, put it on the agenda.

We talked like that far into the snowy night.  At one point I even pulled on my fur mantle over my wool cloak and went to the top of the tower to smoke a pipe and watch the ferocious snow blow through the darkness.  And after we finished talking, I stumbled back to bed, thankful that Penny had had the foresight to create the mind-to-mind spell.

One of the things that I’d missed most about being up in Boval, or going from one little war to another was the lack of magi to talk shop with.  Now I could summon some of the finest minds in magic with a thought, and consult with them, trade information with them, or query them.

It was a wonderful improvement over hired messengers or pigeons, I reflected as I fell asleep.  But it also meant a lot more headaches.  It meant that I could – and would – have a hand in politics, even when I was in my remote vale, far from the corridors of power.  I disliked politics, particularly when they could end up with me dead.

*                            *                            *

I don’t know how long I slept, but at some point I came awake because someone was punching me in the shoulder.  I was naked under the blankets and furs, and as I came awake I realized two things: one, that my knee up to my waist was damp – no, wet.  And secondly, my wife was pounding frantically on me, and some part of my brain knew that was important.

“Min, get up!” she said, her voice thick with excitement and dread.  “The cauldron spilled!”

“Huh?” I asked, pushing the edge of the fur back sleepily.  I couldn’t recall that we had left one on the fire.

“The cauldron spilled!  At least, I think it did.  I woke up and . . . and . . . ow!” she said, rubbing her belly.

“What cauldron?  We don’t have a cauldron in here . . .” I realized, sitting up and gazing at the fireplace in the darkness.  I summoned magesight and inspected the room.  “I don’t see a—”

“Oh, you idiot!” she said, desperately.  “That’s right, you wouldn’t know.  The matrons told me to expect this.  My water broke – ‘the cauldron spilled’.”

“So . . . what does—” I started asking, wondering if I could go back to sleep and clean it up in the morning.  Then what she said started to filter its way through my brain.  But apparently not quickly enough.

“It means the baby is on the way!” she said, excitedly.

That got my attention.

Everything that happened after that is a kind of vague blur.  Before I was fully awake there were seven people in my chamber and more on the way.  My status as both husband and lord of the realm was suddenly insufficient to command anyone’s attention – I was in the way.

I stood near the bathtub and watched in amazement as my bedroom was quickly transformed into a birthing room by Alya’s attendants.  The fire was stoked, water was placed on it to boil (in an actual cauldron) , packets of herbs and oils appeared, and one of the older native Sevendori crones hobbled in and presented Alya with a wrapped bundle of instruments, the nature of which I could guess but did not really want to know.

I felt ill and dizzy at the same time.  Someone complained about the light, and I realized that there was something useful I could do.  I cast a small but bright magelight to hover over the bed, bright enough to read by.

There.  I contributed.

I tried several times to get near to Alya, and twice I actually got to hold her hand during one of the wracking contractions.  It was terrifying.  Her eyes went white with pain and fear, and the cramping was so harsh she couldn’t breathe, let alone scream.  I was about to panic – surely this wasn’t normal.

“She’s comin’ along nice, she is,” crooned a crone at the foot of the bed as she rubbed Alya’s broad belly.  “It feels like the lad’s in position: head down, face down, bowed in reverence of the goddess.”

I wasn’t so sure about the baby’s motivations, but then I recalled that Briga is not just the patroness of bakers, but the patroness of childbirth, too (don’t ask me how an elemental fire goddess specializing in baking, poetry and smithcraft also got that job), so I began praying feverishly to her out of instinct as Alya did her best to crush my hand.

“Are you all right?” I asked, gasping as the contraction ceased and she could breathe again.

“Yeah,” she grunted.  “That hurt.  A lot.”

“It looked like it,” I said.  “Can I get you anything?”

“Naught but ice or snow, now that the cauldron has spilled!” insisted another old biddy.  “That’s the goddess’ command!”

“Um, all right,” I said, unaware of such a command.  But then I only paid attention to the baking side of things, not the childbirth, when the priestess of Briga came to Talry when I was a child.  “What about . . .” I said, trailing off when I realized I didn’t really have anything else to do but stand there and be terrified.

“You!” Mother Varen said, pointing a bony finger at me.  “Out!  ‘Tisn’t proper to have a man in the birthing chamber yet!  These are sacred mysteries!”

“All . . . right,” I said, as they began to boil strips for bandages.  “Let me just look at him one more time,” I said.  Glancing at Alya for permission, I placed my hand on her belly and closed my eyes, sending my magical point of consciousness deep inside to view my son.

I had gotten pretty familiar with him and his snug little castle over the last few months, and while he was agitated, he didn’t seem distressed.  “He’s fine,” I reassured Alya.  “Heart’s beating, fists are clenched, and he’s ready to come out.”

“I love you!” she said, her eyes getting wider as the next contraction hit.

“Be gone, My Lord!” croaked Mother Varen, as someone grabbed my elbow and led me away.  “We must begin the birthing ritual!”  Alya had found the breath to scream this time.  And then I was on the other side of a door that had been designed and enchanted to withstand a battering ram.

Thankfully Sir Cei was there to take care of me.  He escorted me down to the crowded great hall, where I made the announcement to the folk who had been awakened by the fuss.  Then Sir Cei led me over to the main table and poured a glass from a flask.  It burned like a fire elemental, going down.  I barely tasted it.

The next two days – yes, two days – was brutal and exhausting.  While Briga did not see fit to bless Alya with a gentle birthing, it at least progressed without dire complications.  The third time one of the old biddies descended the stairs to inform me of progress, she smiled wanly.

“He’s a stubborn one – nothing in his way, but he doesn’t want to come out yet.”

“He probably knows there’s five feet of snow on the ground!” offered one peasant nearby, chuckling.  “If I’d my druthers between snow and stayin’ in some—”

“May I remind you that Lady Alya is your liege, Aguskan?  And referring to her . . . privates in front of her husband during this sacred time, her husband who has a reputation for slaughtering entire armies with magic, might not be considered the best way to advance yourself.”  Sir Cei said it calmly, but there was no mistaking the tone.

“Yes, milord!” he squeaked, and shut up.

“The truth is,” Sir Cei murmured as he poured another glass and began packing his pipe, “there is nothing more you can do.  It is up to the goddess, now, and every living man’s mother diced herself with death on the birthing couch.  You can do nothing, for all of your power.  Nothing but wait.”

So I waited.  Sir Cei was right.  I didn’t have anything else to do.  I waited, and I got drunk.  For two days.

It was a hellish existence, worrying about the wife I loved and the son I’d yet to meet, knowing both were in danger and I could do nothing.  Food was set before me, and I ate.  Someone was always refilling my wine glass.  I prayed.  I slept.  I walked the hall, I talked to people, I put on furs and walked the battlements and watched the blizzard rage . . . but nothing seemed to penetrate past the idea that my wife was in mortal danger.

A couple of times people tried to communicate with me psychically.  After I explained what was happening, they left me alone.  Penny was ecstatic and excited, so much so that I had to stop talking to her.  I didn’t want to be cheered up.  I wanted this to be over.

For two long days Alya struggled, and for two days I led a numbed existence.  But around midnight on the third day I was napping near the great fire (which was almost unnecessary, considering how many bodies we had packed in the hall) when something odd happened.

I couldn’t put my finger on it at first – imagine hearing a sound a long way off, like a horse approaching.  Only it wasn’t hoof beats, and it wasn’t sound.  It was magic.  Not a kind I was familiar with personally, but it screamed at me the way a witchstone would.  In my dream it got closer and closer, growing larger and larger, until it overtook me in a great wave of nasty darkness.

That woke me up.  I shook my head enough to be able to cast magesight, which revealed a powerful magical force in the vicinity of my bedchamber.  And since I was the only mage in residence at the moment, that was a problem.  A very powerful problem, apparently.

“Oh, shit,” I whispered, as I felt the power grow and grow and grow, uncontained and undirected.  It was akin to the kind of raw, naked energy that a young mage feels the first time their Talent quickens.  An energy without form or fashion.  Those, I knew, were very, very dangerous.

I considered casting some kind shielding spell, but I was unsure where to cast it or if it would even have an effect on the sudden, unknown spell being cast in my bedchamber.   It was huge, a primal blot of bright green power that flooded my bedroom to the point where it leaked out all over the castle.

Something strange was happening.  That spell had nothing to do with me.

I met Alya’s sister on the way to the tower, because she was coming to get me and she looked worried.

“He’s just not coming out,” Ela said, biting her lip nervously, her hand on her own very pregnant tummy.  “It’s like he doesn’t want to be born.  I don’t know what else to do.  The old wives are saying to cut him out of her belly but . . . that’s my fucking sister!  Do something, Min!” she exclaimed.

“I’ll take care of it – and her,” I assured her, giving her a kiss on the forehead and bounding up the stone stairs two at a time.

The scene in the birthing chamber was a lot more chaotic than when I’d left it.  Alya, thankfully, was either passed out or asleep, her face and bedclothes soaked in sweat.  Her belly heaved up and down with every labored breath she took, and one of the women, Old Peg, stood by with a knife.

“She’s having a hard time breathing,” Mother Varen said, placing a wet cloth on her head.  “I think it will come to her or the child.”

“That is not an acceptable finish to this story,” I said flatly, pushing the woman out of the way.  “I’m not a birthsister, but I can help.  Clear the chamber!  If you don’t need to be here, be elsewhere!” I commanded.  All but two of the women retreated.

I looked down at my new bride, struggling to bring our child into the world, and suddenly I felt horribly guilty for selfishly putting her in this position.

“M-min?”

“Right here, Alya,” I soothed.  “I’m going to try some magic to make you more comfortable.”

She passed out before I finished my sentence, she was so badly off.  I could watch how fast her pulse was racing by the tic on her neck.  I began by summoning a breeze to press against her face, encouraging her to breathe.  Then I abandoned simple magesight and began a more intense probing of her big belly with a suite of more advanced scrying spells.

I could see the problem at once.  My little boy really didn’t want to come out, that was apparent.  Alya, for her part, seemed to have “wrapped” tendrils of magical force around the infant, keeping it in place.   Alya wasn’t Talented (to my knowledge) in the slightest.  I don’t know how, but somehow my little boy had entangled his shroud’s natural energy with Alya’s, and he was resisting every effort of her womb to expel him.

That was nearly impossible.  Nearly.  Most folks with Talent don’t know until they go through puberty, not in infancy.  So how were both of them manifesting Talent like that, much less using it?

The spells had eased her breathing a bit, but she was still in a lot of pain.  I glanced at the big curved knife the old lady had in her hand.  That was not how I was going to lose my wife.

I pulled my sphere form its protective bag and placed it over the covers, between her legs.  Then I positioned my hands around it and began probing to see what precisely was wrong.  With the sphere’s help, I could tell pretty much anything about her body that I knew how to look for.  In this case, the knot of energy between her and the baby was just too powerful.  With the energy I summoned I began the biggest counterspell I knew, and then I realized it wasn’t what was required.

I switched to a more thaumaturgical perspective then, and approached the situation as a problem, not a spell.  The problem was, as I learned by scrying the site, the baby had the umbilical cord wrapped around one shoulder, and refused to let go no matter what.   He had manifested his power, raw power, unchained and untrained, on his limited world.  It was wild magic, and he was acting out of nothing but fear.

For her part, Alya was desperately trying to deliver the baby . . . but every push did not bring him successfully into the world, it just pissed him off.  I sank my perspective down and tried to commune with the kid, soothe him somehow.  I tried to reason with him by mind, but there were no words there yet.  I tried to project the empathetic idea that all birth is painful, but that it got a lot better afterward.  Again, nothing.

As my thaumaturgy revealed that there weren’t any outside forces involved, I began to get the idea.  If my child and my wife were bound, then the simplest and least destructive method of freeing them was an Unbinding spell.  At least that was my theory – and it failed.  Alya’s breathing became more ragged, and the baby was clearly unhappy, signifying the emotion by tap-dancing on my wife’s bladder from the inside.

I tried again, a more powerful unbinding this time.  To my surprise, the baby pushed back from my spell, and pushed back hard. My head hurt instantly, and I had to contend with a wave of raw magical power washing over me.

I wasn’t so easily defeated, however.  If a regular unbinding would not do, then I changed tactics.  I tried other thaumaturgical means to un-do what they had accidentally done.  It was a quandary, and I was running out of time.   I began to chant and draw in the air the Morath Sigil.

It’s an obscure piece of thaumaturgy, one of those spells you use if you are de-constructing a magically-augmented artifact.  It is supposed to be the most subtle way of parting two pieces.  Usually they meant, say, a stuck fence gate or a magic relic that needs investigation.  Most magi don’t bother to learn it, except as a component to other spells.

But the Morath Sigil has some unique properties.  For one, it’s scalable; that is, the more power you put in, the more you get out, very straightforward.  You can untie a knot in a string or an anchor chain with equal facility.  You can lift protective runes off of three-hundred year old artifact, if you know what you’re doing.  It’s a broadly-based spell that varies in intensity dependent upon the user.

I had no clear idea what I was dealing with here – Wild magic?  Baby magic?  Really, goddess?

“Magelord!  The time grows near,” the Old Peg reminded me, the knife in her hand.  “You must make a decision: the baby or your lady!  She cannot bear too much more of this!  It is cruel to make her suffer so!  Which one?”

“Neither!” I demanded, savagely – I was not about to give up.  “I shall have them both!  Clear the room,” I ordered, and most of the volunteer nurses slipped away in fear of my voice.  The brave stood near the fireplace, out of my way.

I built up the most powerful Morath Sigil I knew.  For the first time I used the full power of my augmented sphere of irionite, my witchsphere, and tapped into the flow of power I’d created at the axis of the building for good measure.  I poured every last drop into the Morath Sigil.

I can’t begin to describe the feeling of power I felt flowing through me.  It was beyond anything I’d tasted before, like downing a glass of water and finding out it was actually a glass of 90 proof spirits.  I didn’t think my body could sustain such a flow for any length of time by itself.

But . . . it was working.  Sort of.  The baby was still resisting, but Alya had relaxed.  I felt the baby move almost three quarters of an inch on the next contraction.  Alya was still out cold.  I shaped the massive power as best I could, jamming it all into the Morath Sigil, but that’s as far as he got.

The problem was, my son was resisting my efforts. Every spell I used to try to influence him was rebuffed, sometimes with great force.  Only the Morath Sigil had held.  I remembered the Tree Folk sending their blessing through me to her, and I tried to keep that in mind, moving the magically tangible symbol over the Morath.  That didn’t help much, but it kept them both calm, I noted.

Finally, when I felt the baby starting to slip from the grasp of my consciousness, I panicked.  I had been gentle, up to now, but now I didn’t have a choice.  I had to use everything I knew.  And I was running out of options.

I remembered a prayer I recalled learning in childhood, a simple rhyming phrase praising The Bright One, the fire goddess Briga.  It wasn’t a spell, just a prayer to the goddess that bakers’ kids and other devotees learn.  I held that prayer in my mind as a symbol, remembering mine and Penny’s endless discussions on the efficacy of theurgy, and pushed the rest of my power through it.

It was a lot of energy, but I was desperate.  My wife and my son were both in trouble.  I figured if I could just let the baby slide out a little more, perhaps I could find a better way to approach the problem.

Before I could decide what to do, the matter was taken out of my hands.  The big ball of energy burst, quite unexpectedly.

That caused several unusual things to happen at once.  The baby slipped his head out past the umbilical around his shoulder and his panic abated as he no longer appeared to be fighting for his life.  Likewise, when the energy from the sigil affected Alya, her own shroud faded in strength, giving Junior a little extra wiggle room.  I think I fainted.  I know I lost control.

But the spell had more power than I realized.  In an instant everyone in Sevendor was confronted with a bright wave of raw magical power emanating from my bedroom and sweeping out in a bright green wave in all directions.  I heard dozens of shrieks and screams, and everyone’s eyesight was blinded for a moment by a light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

I regained consciousness because I was suddenly throwing up.

I wasn’t the only one, I learned later.  Both of my apprentices had vomited, as had Cei, and a dozen or so others.  Alya did too, but I was told that was normal in delivery.  At the time I just felt wretched and heaved far too much wine into the rushes on the floor. While everyone else was looking around in wonder.

Every bit of rock, in every direction, was now a brilliant, shiny white.

“Oh, my,” I moaned, my head and stomach reeling.  “This is . . . this is . . . oh,” I said, as I felt another wave.

Someone eventually helped me to my feet and gave me a glass of water to rinse my mouth.  I sat there stupefied as I marveled at the incredible transformation.

It wasn’t just the castle rock – it was all rock, in every direction, we figured out later.  The castle stones, the natural stones, every rock and pebble, every speck of dust and clod of soil were turned white that day.

The cliff face to the south of the castle was affected as well.  In fact, the effect didn’t diminish in the castle, we discovered later, but covered everything for nearly two miles in every direction.  At the periphery, it faded out over the course of a hundred yards, until the stone was once again normal.  Sevendor Village, Westwood, Genly, even as far as Southridge, every scrap of rock was transformed into . . . what?  When I had recovered sufficiently, I looked around in wonder myself.

We did a lot of testing to determine what happened, afterwards – the basic chemical composition of the stone hadn’t changed, exactly, but it had been . . . augmented magically somehow, creating stone with some unique properties.  But at the time it was just white, white, white, as if the entre castle had been made out of huge blocks of ice and snow.

It was a mystery.  And honestly not the most pressing one.

“He’s past the worst of it,” Old Peg said, putting the knife away.  “I think we can take it from here now that you . . .” she said, trailing off.  She didn’t have any more of an idea of what I did than I did.

I gave the baby and Alya one last check – and noticed that it was suddenly ridiculously simple to do magic here now.  I stumbled down stairs and into the hall, where someone put a blanket over my shoulders and let me nap a few moments.  I studiously ignored the stares and the cries of wonder and astonishment because my head was throbbing.

Later one of the crones descended the suddenly-brilliant stairs and summoned me.  She said not a word – I was told later that it was tradition, that no one must inform the father of the fate of the wife and child until he’s seen them with his own eyes.  I don’t know why.  Just one of those traditions.

But what I saw put the wonder of the castle’s transformation to shame.  My son was in the cradle near the fire, a nursemaid hovering over him.  Perfectly formed, recently bathed, and . . . completely the wrong shape and color.

“My boy is purple?  Trygg Allmother and Briga the Bright One, what have I done?” I lamented.

The crone cackled.  “All babies are thus, Magelord.  Worry not, he’s a fine, healthy lad, blessed with a magnificent head and a fine set of lungs.  See for yourself!”  She moved out of the way, and I summoned a magelight without thinking.  Hardly necessary, considering how reflective everything was, now.

He was, indeed, magnificent.  I’d never been able to distinguish between various familial characteristics in babies before – one baby looked like every other baby.  But this one . . . suddenly I saw what other people did.

My father’s thick jaw.  His mother’s honey-colored hair and browline.  His grandmother’s ears, Alya’s lips, and, when he opened his eyes, I saw that they were mine.  “What a wonder you are,” I breathed.  He looked at me, curiously, and then began to cry.

“What’d I do?” I asked, confused.

“He’s just been born, don’t pay him any mind,” soothed the old woman.  “Go tend to your lady wife.  She struggled valiantly, and deserves your praise more than this little fellow deserves your wonder.”

I approached my bed cautiously, and seeing me near one of the other attendant crones pushed back the canopy to reveal my wife.  My very, very tired-looking wife.

“Isn’t he beautiful?” she said, dreamily.  “Oh, Min, he’s perfect!”

“He is,” I agreed.  “Thank you, Alya.”

“For what?” she asked, confused.

“For going through that,” I said, taking her hand.  “I’ve been in a lot of fights . . . but for two days straight?  I couldn’t do it.  You’re the toughest man I know,” I said, shaking my head.

“No man could have done it,” she dismissed.  “Min, it was . . . oh, I wished you were here, so badly, but they said it wouldn’t be a good idea . . . I think they’re right, in hindsight.  Some things a man should never have to endure.”

“Um,” I said, delicately, glancing up at the shimmering walls, “I see you redecorated.”

“Me?  I thought you did that!” she exclaimed.  “There I was, making the last push, and then wham!  Suddenly I passed out.  I don’t even remember the first few minutes – they say that’s a good thing – but when I woke up . . . this.  I thought it was some spell you’d planted to celebrate.”

“I’m not that cunning,” I admitted.  “Of course, the only conclusion that leads me to is . . . our son did it.”

“Our son?” she asked, her hand tightening on mine as her eyes got wide.  “How did he—?”

“I have no idea whatsoever,” I assured her.  “It’s a complete mystery to me.  But he’s fine, you’re fine . . . and all I want to do is celebrate and hold my boy.”

“Of course,” she smiled, her face looking a little hard after two days of labor.  “What are we going to name him?

“That’s right,” I said.  It hadn’t occurred to me.  He’d been “the baby” for so long, I hadn’t even thought about it.  We discussed a few possibilities, and found one we liked the sound of – one using elements of both of our names, in Alshari mountain tradition.

“So go tell everyone.  And then you can come back and make bug eyes at him while I sleep.  As soon as you bring me some food.”

“What?” I asked.  Who could eat at a time like this?

“Food,” she repeated, gripping my hand tightly enough to hurt.  “I haven’t eaten in two days, and I’ve been fighting with that little bastard the entire time.  He was relentless, Min!  I need food, and then I need sleep.  So be a dear and have some sent up, tell everyone the news, and then come back here, with as much food as you can carry.  And cider.  I want cider.”

“Anything you want,” I agreed.  I gave her a long, tender kiss, gave another to my son, and wrapped in a soft, glow-y cloud of contentment and peace, I stood at the top of the stairs, where I realized a couple hundred faces were staring back at me, expectantly.  And silently.

“I have a son,” I began shakily.  It somehow didn’t seem real until I announced it.  “Lord Minalyan the Snowborn, son of Minalan the Spellmonger. And Lady Alya is hale and resting comfortably.  Now, can someone bring my wife some biscuits and cider before she eats the poor lad out of desperation?”

The entire hall erupted in cheers.  And I fainted again.

Chapter Thirteen

The Snow That Never Melted

“It stretches through here,” Yeoman Guris grunted around pipestem clenched in his teeth, as he used his broad shoulders and long arms to indicate the front wall of his manor house.  “This end of the wall is pure white.  By the time it ends on the corner, you can only see flecks.  It was a wonder,” the Bovali-born Yeoman said, shaking his head.

“It was indeed,” I said, surveying the wall.  It was the best example I’d seen yet of the fading edge of the magical effect that had turned my castle – and apparently almost everything else in a two-mile radius – brilliant, unblemished white.

Whatever had happened two weeks before, it had extended to the middle of Southridge Hold, and had affected all the stone and clay in three quarters of his long home.  “Notice anything else strange about it?”

“Nay,” he said.  “Close your eyes and put a hand on it, you can’t tell it from regular stone.  It’s just . . . white.  You did it, Magelord?  Or one o’ your apprentices?”

“Actually, we’re still looking into it,” I said, cautiously but confidently.  I didn’t want to let him know too much – I didn’t know enough myself to tell him anything more definitive than “it’s white.”  “We’ll know more when the weather clears and I can order some special equipment.  But it wasn’t done on purpose, I promise you.  About the best I can tell you is that it happened precisely at the moment my son was born.”

The farmer looked spooked.  “You don’t say?  Imagine that.  A sign from the gods, perhaps?”

“That’s a better explanation than most,” I conceded.  “And I can’t rule it out.”  I felt a little guilty, every time someone mentioned the effect as “a sign from the gods”, since I had, actually, appealed to the fire goddess Briga that fateful night in a fit of desperation.  I couldn’t rule out divine intervention . . . but that was a damn hard thing to quantify.  Or even identify.

“Yeah, I think it’s a sign from the gods.  A good one,” he added, hastily.  “It’s white, after all.”

“More likely it’s some natural magical phenomenon,” I said, trying to steer clear of theurgy.  “But we’ll keep looking into it.  Apart from that, how did you and yours fare the storm?”

“Ah, we were fine, Magelord, snug as pigs in slop.  Enough to eat, if naught fancy, plenty of wood, an’ dry as a bone, now that the roof is repaired.  Apart from the sudden and mysterious magical transformation of my entire new holding . . . it was relatively quiet.”  We both chuckled at that.

“Well, keep an eye on it, and report any strangeness to Sir Cei.”

“Strangeness, Magelord?” he asked, curious.  “What kind o’ strangeness?”

“People suddenly bursting into flames, cows flying across the pasturelands under their own power, the sudden appearance of giant bees . . . you know, strangeness.”

“Is any o’ that likely to happen, Magelord?  Really?” he asked, skeptically.

I shrugged.  “It’s only been around a week and a half, and most of that time it was under snow.  But every bit of dirt and soil and rock and stone is like this, now.  The entire mountain and cliffs, too.  I figured the effect was temporary, but it hasn’t faded at all.  The truth is, I really have no idea.  But if you see anything like that, let us know.  So far nothing strange has happened at the castle, and we’re . . . surrounded by it.  I’m guessing if there are going to be any odd effects, they’ll likely happen either at the core, where it started, or out here where it ended.  So keep us informed.”

“Oh, I will, I will, Magelord,” he assured me, wide-eyed.

“So how are you finding life as a Yeoman?” I asked, smiling, as we walked back through the muddy slush.  There was still a foot of snow on the ground, but it was starting to melt.  Guris’ men had carved trenches through the snow between the main manor hall and the outbuildings, but the rest of the land was still buried.

“It’s a pleasure, and a far better life than we ever expected, Magelord,” he said, humbly.  “And I don’t mind saying I have you and the gods to thank.  Back in Boval Castle, during the siege, I figured that was the end o’ me and mine – the great goblin soup pot.  Then all those months at that castle, eating cast-off temple offerings and whatever the folk could manage to scrape up.  I thought we’d be turned out on the road, by now, bandits or worse.

“And now not a year later and we’re livin’ like lordly folk in this fine house . . . it’s a blessing from the gods, it is,” he said, starting to tear up.  “And you, o’ course, Lord Minalan.”

“It’s the least I could do for an old neighbor,” I dismissed, looking away uncomfortably, unwilling to embarrass the man.  “Besides, I think I borrowed your shears back in Minden’s Hall, before the invasion, and neglected to return them before I left, so we can call it even.  So how are you situated for spring planting?”

Guris looked thoughtful, puffing away at his pipe.  “There’s a sufficiency o’ seed, mostly maize and oats, with a little barley,” he admitted.  “Enough for twenty, maybe twenty-five acres.  The stock is decent, and I think we’ll have enough hay . . . but if the snow doesn’t clear in the east pasture soon, I’ll have bony beasts or fewer beasts when the fodder runs out.”  He sounded grim but accepting of the possibility, as any farmer was.  “Storehouse isn’t too bad, either.  Looks like ol’ Ylvine kept back more than he let on.  Found five hams in a compartment under the corn crib – five!”

“And the natives are getting on with your folk?” I asked.  That was the big question, and the main reason I wanted to come out here.  The white stone was just a convenient excuse.  Southridge had ten families and a bunkhouse full of farmhands, over a hundred and fifty people.  Twelve of them were Bovali.  I could handle finding more feed or more beasts for Southridge, but if the natives rebelled at the thought of a foreign Yeoman . . .

“Oh, they’ve been fine, Magelord,” he assured me.  “A little put-off, at first, but they loosened up a bit, once the beer came out.  We’ve got to know each other, thanks to the storm.  They’re a little rough, and there have been some disagreements, but I think we’ll do fine. Most are good folk, just scared.  As long as no one goes hungry, we’ll be in good shape when the thaw comes.  If we can keep the stock alive, that is,” he added, troubled.  “I was hoping to have the sheep on the east pasture by today, if there was enough cleared, but there’s still half a foot o’ snow on it.  Not much we can do about that.  I suppose it will be mutton for a few nights,” he finished, with some consolation.

I knew that was trouble.  Southridge was poorly suited for growing most grain crops, apart from some oats and maize, but what it lacked in hearty topsoil it made up for in pasturage.  It was once the site of a horse breeding operation, if the castle records were to be believed.  In more recent years it had been the holding that had supplied most of the vale’s wool.

Southridge had a small flock, but Guris was hopeful that he could grow it.  Having to slaughter stock before lambing to keep the rest fed was a big step backward in getting the place viable.  But I couldn’t conjure up hay the way I could light, or run time forward enough to expose the pasture.

Or could I?  A thought struck me.  “Actually, maybe there is.  Where is this pasture?”

I hadn’t tried any serious magic since the baby was born – I was too busy holding Minalyan and being a smitten daddy.  I was also still recovering from the big, nameless spell that I’d cast that night.  It hadn’t been without effect on me, and for a few days my sphere was touchy, if I tried to use it for anything serious.  That had mostly passed, now, but there were still some lingering effects of the exertion.

Today I felt particularly thoughtful about it, not just because of the white stone.  It was Briga’s Day, the feast day of the goddess of fire, baking, magic, poetry, midwifery, etc. who I had invoked during the working.

I felt obligated to get out of the old castle and see how Sevendor had held up, because part of Briga’s mythology involved all sorts of unlikely run-ins with other deities in which the goddess usually demonstrated compassion for the weak and vulnerable.

In some ways, this was my ritual to the Bright One, to thank her for sparing both my son and my wife.  The weather warmed on Briga’s Day.  Traditionally, it was when the ewes are milked for the first time, and all sorts of folklore surrounds observations made on this day concerning weather and crops.  Maybe I could show my gratitude to the fire goddess by helping graze her sacred animal.

We had been lucky – it was a major storm that had closed roads and passes for weeks across the Wilderlands, and we had no fatalities.  We learned that six people had died of cold just over the frontier with West Fleria, in the depressing district just to our north.  We had five times their population, and not one death.  I was proud of that.

But if we couldn’t keep our people fed, we’d be in trouble.   I surveyed the wide expanse of snow where Guris had led me.  It was peppered with the tracks of birds and animals and children, but you couldn’t see a single blade of grass underneath.

Guris watched with interest as I took out my oversized witchstone and began the spell.  I won’t go into technical details, but I heated up a mass of air in a disc three hundred feet in diameter.  Heated it up by ten degrees.  The snow started to melt at once.

It’s usually hard, heating up a stationary air mass in breezy outdoor conditions, so I increased the heat to quicken the process.  I figured it would take ten minutes or so to melt it . . . but oddly enough the spell only took a quarter of the time.  Mere moments later, a soggy, muddy field of brown grass and green shoots had replaced the field of snow.

“That should help,” I said, simply, putting my stone away.  I was tired from the exertion, but it was a good kind of tired.   The spell had hooked into place and worked as easily as a dream.   This was the kind of work I’d wanted to do as a spellmonger in the first place, good, helpful magic.

“Gods’ truth, My Lord!” Guris said, delighted.  “It will indeed!  Can’t you do that for the whole valley?”

I pointed to the bottom of the pasture, where it encountered a low hedge.  The lowest corner was already filling with pooled snowmelt.  “That’s going to flood – and it won’t be the only place.  If I did much more than this, then the stream would flood out . . . and right now I have almost a thousand people camped on the flood plain of the commons.”

“Oh . . . right you are, Lord Minalan,” he agreed, sagely, after I’d pointed it out.  “Still, every acre cleared by magic is one less we have to wait on.  We get these beasts grazing for a few days, we can stretch out our hay supply.”

“That’s a good point,” I agreed, reluctantly.  “But that causes more problems downstream.   That’s the problem with magic, sometimes.  You can’t do just one thing.”

“Aye, there’s wisdom in that, Magelord,” Guris said, solemnly.   “Come inside for a drink, Magelord?” he asked.  “To toast your young’un?”

I sighed.  My toes were cold, standing in that pasture.  It was warming . . . but that didn’t mean it was warm.  The idea of a nip of something sounded lovely.

“That would be much appreciated,” I agreed.  He led me back inside and called for someone to bring him his jug.  Guris’ oldest lad proudly brought his father an elegantly simple earthenware jug.  “Got it from . . . well, you’re brother-in-law,” he said, a trifle guiltily.  “Apparently Farant left behind a few gallons of his best, tucked away in the root cellar.  He sent me one for Yule, and it’s never been more welcome.”  He poured two glasses of the dark brown liquor.  “Takes a bit of getting used to the taste . . .”

I saw what he meant a moment later, when the fire hit my stomach.  It was awful.  Like something that goblins would pass up.

“Briga’s fiery nips!” I swore, “how in seven hells did Farant make a living off of this . . .”

“Aye,” Guris nodded, philosophically, “it does defy an easy comparison.”  He poured another.  “To your new lad!” he said, and added a folk blessing.  I had no choice.  I had to join him.

What the liquor lacked in flavor, it made up for in potency.  In a few scant moments I felt my whole body relax into a warm lethargy, as the fire seemed to suck both the cold and the energy from me.

“So, Magelord – Minalan,” Guris said, boldly switching to a more familiar tone.  He was entitled – for six months we’d been neighbors, just two goodmen working their trades.  Our mutual change in station hadn’t quite sunk in, or really affected our interpersonal relationship.  “How does it feel to be a dad for the first time?  Nothin’ like it, is there?”

I exhaled sharply.  “No, nothing at all.  Even leaving aside the magical shenanigans, it’s been a potent experience.  You look down on that helpless little face and . . .”

“Don’t worry,” he grunted in a fatherly tone, “ the li’l bugger will be talking and sassing you before you know it.  Messing up your work, getting into mischief, trying to drown themselves or their sisters in a well . . . enjoy the peace and serenity now.  And get some sleep while you can,” he added, wryly.  “Can’t say I slept proper since I was wed.”

Guris went on for almost an hour, dispensing invaluable advice about fathering I didn’t know what to do with.  I appreciated it, of course, but it was also a bit overwhelming.  Luckily his goodwife came in from the kitchen shed, where she and her daughters had been plucking chickens, and interrupted his ramblings.  I took the opportunity to excuse myself – I liked the snug little hold, but it was just a little too comfortable and warm on a day when I had miles to ride.

As I was taking my leave, Guris’ wife asked if I could cast a magelight in her hall.  While the stone underneath had been transformed, the carbon that comprised much of the dirt in the hall had not been . . . and now her home looked even dirtier than it had when she’d arrived, she was embarrassed to say.  She wanted the light to be able to send her brace of drudges into the corners to attack the dirt.

I chuckled, and realized that I’d have the same problem at the castle.  I was happy to help, and cast four quick magelights that would last for a day or so, and sent them to line up along the ridgepole, providing illumination across the hall.  That’s when I noticed something interesting.

I had used the same basic spell to cast all of the lights – in truth, with the witchstone – witchsphere? at my command I could now do it as easily as coughing.  I used the same measured amount of energy, the same series of symbols, and the same psychological components in each one.  But they weren’t uniform, I noticed.

The ones on the east end – the solid white end of the hall – were bright and substantial.  The one at the far end, firmly in the non-white western portion of the house nearest to the attached byre, was dimmer and less distinct.  It was still plenty bright, as bright as thirty candles, easily.  But compared to the others, it wasn’t nearly as distinct.

“That’s . . . interesting,” I mumbled, while I studied the matter.  Then I tried an experiment.

Ordinarily I would use a specialized magical instrument for this, but I didn’t happen to have one.  There are other ways to determine the magical resistance of a place, however.  The magelights had indicated a difference, perhaps – that was the only way I cold explain the discrepancy between the lights.

So I started at the west end of the hall, and walking slowly to the east I cast a special magelight between my fingers.  I barely gave it power, just enough for the surface to incandesce, producing a soft blue glow.  Keeping the power level steady and constant, I watched as the globe between my fingers faded out completely by the time I got to the mundane end of the place.

Guris, his wife, and several members of the household had watched with interest as I worked.  When I let the spell drop, they were all looking at me expectantly.

“It’s . . . I believe the stone affects magical resistance,” I explained to the ignorant peasants.  “It’s like . . .” I began, struggling for a metaphor.  Then I realized I had one at hand.  “Imagine the entire world is covered in three feet of snow,” I began.

“Trying to get back and forth is hard – not impossible, but hard, right?”  I saw several nodding faces.  “That snow resists you – it drags on your feet as you try to walk through it.  Doing magic is normally like walking through three feet of snow, even for magi.  If you’re really good, you can learn how to make . . . skis or snowshoes, or other magical stuff that can assist you getting through the snow.”

“Magical snowshoes?” one genius among the native Sevendori farmhands asked, eagerly.

“No, the snowshoes are a metaphor!” scolded a woman who might have been his wife or sister.  “Gods, you’re an idiot!  Go on, Magelord!”

“Well,” I said, a little taken aback, “Ever since the . . . the blizzard,” I said, since I didn’t have a convenient name for the spell or event or whatever it was, “every where you see this white stone, it is my belief that the magical resistance is lower.  A lot lower,” I added, as I glanced back at the four magelights.

“How low?” the woman asked, curious.  Not that it would make any difference to her, but it was a very good question.

“I don’t know yet,” I confessed.  “I’m still studying the matter.  But quite possible very low, from what I’m seeing.  Like there’s hardly any – metaphorical – ‘snow’ on the ground at all, thaumaturgically speaking.”

They all nodded sagely.  I doubted if any of them understood the implications of that.  I wasn’t sure I did myself.

Magic resistance is an important factor in most spells.  Every place is a little more or a little less resistant to your consciousness imposing its will on the rest of the universe through the agency of magical force.  There are all sorts of calculations for compensating for it, and there’s even an established average “constant” that’s often used when writing down spells in general.  And as we learned, the sheer magnitude of the Dead God’s use of the molopor under Boval Castle had somehow mitigated the natural magical resistance of the Umbra, and by extension the Penumbra.

But for the most part a mage is stuck with whatever the magical resistance happens to be at the place you’re casting the spell.

Until now.

Now, apparently, there was a way to lower the resistance.  That’s what the white stone seemed to do.  And in all my thaumaturgical studies, I had never seen anything like it.

Before I mounted Traveler, I made a point of prying a cobble out of the pile of rocks conveniently located outside of one of Southridge’s many sheds, and much to my horse’s dismay I brought it with me.  I headed straight west, out into the snow, which he didn’t like much, either.  I headed slightly south toward the far end of Ketta’s stream, in the direction of Matten’s Helm.  When I was halfway there, out in the middle of a wide-open pasture, I stopped Traveler, dismounted, and tried an experiment.  I dropped the pure white stone to the snow-covered ground and then began walking away.

For the next hour, while my horse got increasingly impatient with me, I tried a number of experiments closer to and further away from the rock.  Magic resistance in this part of the valley was more-or-less normal . . . until you got to the stone.  I found that it started to fall off dramatically the closer I got to it.  The field was normal up to fifty feet away, but by thirty feet it had fallen to less than half of normal.  While I was standing over it, it was as close to none as I’d ever seen.

Just to be certain, I picked up the heavy rock and moved it a quarter mile and repeated the experiments.  The field followed the rock, I saw, and left only the slightest residual lowering of resistance behind.

Excited at the prospects, I magically split the rock.  I found that both halves bore the special property, although it was apparently related to the mass of the stone – the halves only projected the field about half as far, although there was no diminishment of the strength of the effect.

It was as if I had grown up in an arid valley and suddenly learned how to produce a portable rain storm.  Or, more aptly, a snow storm.

I looked back across the vale toward the castle, situated on its plateau, rising high over the villages below.  From here I could see the snow covering most of the countryside, the mountain behind it, and the castle itself, from the wall to the peak of my personal tower.  To casual inspection, it looked as if the whole place was, indeed, still covered in snow.

But the massive gray cliff behind the castle was now pure white – in some cases whiter than the snow around it.  I could see other bare spots, nick points where rock shown through the tree cover.  From the castle outward, they were all white.  If all of that white stone portended a very, very low magical resistance, then . . .

I considered, and then tried.  At this range, even with my witchsphere, it should be pretty hard to control the green magelight that still glowed over the top of my tower.  Yet when I reached out to it with my mind, it responded as if it was simply across the room.  I played with it idly for a few moments, making it brighter, dimmer, flash, bounce, and cavort until I realized I was doing the thaumaturgical equivalent of drumming my fingers, and stopped.

I mounted Traveler and headed for Sagal’s Hold, next, and tried to understand just what the hell I had done.

Before I arrived at the remote holding, I lost patience.  I called on Penny’s knowledge and wisdom.

Pentandra, I kind of did something, I began, once I had contacted her mind-to-mind.  I kind of . . . enchanted my castle.

Your entire castle? She answered, intrigued.  Tell me about it.

Well, slightly more than just my castle.  Apparently I enchanted a ring around my castle too.  About seven square miles, actually.

Seven . . .square . . . miles?  Min, what the hells where you doing?

I was trying to encourage my son not to kill my wife, I said, defensively.  There were some complications.  Arcane complications.  And no, I don’t know why.  So I tried to help.

Did it work?

I have a son, I pointed out.  And, as a side effect, I have an enchanted castle.  And an enchanted mountain or two.  And a couple of villages, two Yeomanries, a couple of fields, pastures, forests, and a goodly portion of my stream.

I told her about that fateful night – I had purposefully been absent from my duties to oversee the war the last few weeks, citing the birth of my son as the reason, so this was the first even Penny had heard about it.  When I got to the part about the stone’s effects, she was floored.

That’s . . . that’s impossible, Min! she insisted.  I’ve studied magic for years, and there’s just no way to lower inherent magical resistance, not in any meaningful way.

I know, I know, I agreed.  Yet here it is.  From what I can guess, it appears Sevendor Castle likely has the lowest magical resistance of any place on Callidore.  And the effect seems to be portable.  It’s as if we got a magical snow that just will never melt.

That’s amazing, Min!  Do you realize what this could do for research?

I’m thinking of the practical elements, I said, reasonably, but yes, I do realize what this could mean.  I’m still studying it, and I want you to keep this confidential from our professional colleagues just now, but . . . this could be a major development, Penny.

I know, she agreed, solemnly.  Can you send me some?  I’ll pay for the messenger – double, if he can get it here in a week or two.

I’ll see what I can do.  I would another thaumaturge to take a look.  But right now I could fart in Sevendor Castle and do more powerful magic than the Ducal Court Wizard could do now.  Probably even without irionite.

I promised to send her a sample soonest, closed the connection, and then spurred Traveler on toward my brother-in-law’s holding.  My toes were achingly cold, and the liquor Guris had toasted me with had long worn off.   And Traveler was not happy with our extended stay in the cold.

*                            *                            *

Sagal’s Hold was far from the picture of efficiency Southridge had been, but then Sagal hadn’t had a lot to work with and little time to do it in.  Still, it was a far cry from the decrepitude I’d witnessed when I’d first rode into the holding.  The stock and the yard were much more neatly organized, the windows on all of the outbuildings were repaired and properly shuttered, and much of the debris that had littered the area had been consolidated near the gate.  Perhaps it was the snow covering everything that made it look better.

Sagal himself was suffering from a cold he’d picked up at Yule, but the rest of his folk were faring well enough.  They all hailed me warmly as I rode into the compound, and escorted me to their new master’s fireside, where he greeted me with a drink of some liquor far superior of that Farant had distilled.  I accepted it gratefully, inquired as to his health, retold the story of the night of Minalyan’s birth again, and tried to explain the mysterious white stone that resulted.  I skipped the thaumaturgical explanation this time.

“Mayhap it was the snow,” Sagal offered.  “I’m no mage, but snow seems almost magical itself.  Perhaps it absorbed something from it,” he suggested.  I didn’t want to dispute his layman’s assessment of a complex and sophisticated magical working.  Sometimes ignorance is bliss.

“Perhaps,” I nodded.  “I’ve always enjoyed snow.  I missed it when I was in Farise.  I think I’ve made up for it, after this blizzard.  And snow is an intriguing thing,” I admitted.

“Aye, always loved it,” he agreed, wiping his nose with a handkerchief.  “Like little tiny stars, all crammed into one giant blanket.  Or something.  I never was that poetical,” he confessed.

I grunted a laugh.  “Snow is pretty amazing.  If you look at it with magesight,” I explained, “you can see it at a more basic level, and then it really starts to get amazing.  Did you know that all snowflakes have six sides?  They’re all perfectly regular.  And no two is alike,” I pointed out.

Sagal nodded, impressed with my learning.  “Mayhap they’re small, but if you put enough o’ them together, you can start a snowball fight.  Or an avalanche,” he said, thoughtfully.  That was a big deal, back in the jagged peaks of the Mindens.  I’d seen them myself, thankfully from afar.

“And it’s all just water, slightly frozen,” I said, shaking my head.  “Tiny little specks of water.  Who knew water could be so beautiful?”  To emphasize the point, I sketched the shape of a snowflake in the air, using magical light like a paintbrush.

“That is pretty!” Sagal nodded.  “I never knew they looked like that.  Live and learn,” he said, shaking his head in wonder.

“Yes, it’s not a well-known mystery, outside of my trade.  Almost no one really knows what a snowflake looks like.”  That caused something else occur to me.

“You know, it’s not the sort of thing that would be mistaken from afar for something else.”

“Maybe a spider’s web?” he suggested.  “Or a wild star?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever recalled seeing a spider web on a shield.”

“Huh?  I mean, ‘begging the Magelord’s pardon?’” he amended, wryly.

“Oh, stuff the ‘lord’ stuff, we’re family,” I griped.  “I was just debating what the new arms of Sevendor should be with Sir Cei, not too long ago.  It occurs to me that a snowflake is not likely to have been used as a charge.”

“Seems a little plain,” Sagal said, critically, as he stared at the magical vision slowly rotating in front of his eyes.  “What color would the field be?”

“Green,” I decided.  “Green and white.  Sevendori green and white.  For official Magelord stuff.  But I’d need a recognizable badge, too . . .”

“Why not reverse the colors?” Sagal suggested.  “White snowflakes for the Magelord . . . green snowflakes for his servants.”

I magically turned the snowflake in front of us green.  We both liked it.  So we toasted the Snowflake of Sevendor several times, until I realized that twilight was falling.  I took my leave and headed back to the castle.  Along the way I sketched several designs for the flake in my mind, and tried them out.  I suppose I left a trail of glowing magelit stylized snowflakes hanging in the winter twilight all the way along the frozen stream bank, but looking back on them from the Sevendor Village commons convinced me how pretty they were.  The Snowflake of Sevendor it was, then.

Sevendor had a device, now.  The Snow That Never Melted had not just altered my domain; it had also altered my heraldry.

Chapter Fourteen

Sire Gimbal Pays A Call

“Somehow, anyone with appreciable Talent was affected by the spell,” I explained to Alya while we breakfasted in private, in the ground floor sitting chamber of our tower residence, a few days after my tour of the thawing vales.

She looked confused, as she hauled out a boob to feed greedy little Minalyan . . . who was eating every three hours.

Alya looked exhausted, enough so that Old Peg insisted on bringing in a young wetnurse, a native Sevendori woman from Brestal Village named Darishi.

She was a pretty little thing, and you wouldn’t think she’d be able to get enough milk for one infant out of her modest assets, let alone two.  But she tried valiantly, and was successful enough to really help ease the strain on Alya.  Darishi rarely spoke, and seemed over-awed by us both.  It was as if she was worried I’d turn her and her daughter into toads if she displeased us, at first – and considering the changes I’d made around the castle, I suppose a little trepidation on her part was understandable.

It took a few days to get her to relax a little.  And of course she was well compensated for her trouble – come spring, her husband and she would have five new goats, six chickens, and a work mule at my expense.  That was on top of the bushel of seed corn and two sheep – a ram and a ewe – that they would receive as part of the spring planting.  She was still asleep then, as my son had kept her up most of the night.

Alya said, thoughtfully, “I don’t understand; I thought you said magi discovered their talents in puberty,” she pointed out, as she rocked the baby at her breast and ate a muffin.

“That’s usually when they arise,” I agreed, “but everyone is different.  Talent is very poorly understood – it always has been.  Even in the Magocracy, it was difficult to predict which children would have it, even in families of Magelords.  And some actually found their Talent later in life, sometimes as old as thirty.

There was a whole class of magi in the Magocracy who specialized in finding and developing Talent, but most of their techniques have been lost since the Conquest.  Some of them really didn’t have Talent beyond the ability to spot other people with Talent.”  That reminded me of something else.  “And then there are what are sometimes known as ‘sports’.”

She nodded – she was familiar with sports.  “Like a three-headed calf?”

I agreed, as I buttered another biscuit.  They weren’t nearly as good as my dad’s, of course, but far better than those I’d enjoyed on campaign.  The ovens were doing far better work, now.  “Same principal, except instead of two additional heads, an arcane sport exhibits a profound but limited Talent.  A lot of Waterwitches and Beastmasters are like that: they’re outstanding about finding and channeling water, or taming and training an animal, but beyond that . . . nothing.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” she conceded, looking down at the baby protectively.

“Tell that to the Censorate,” I said, rolling my eyes.  “They have a lower tolerance for sports than most magi.  There’s a process for registration, if the sport is deemed harmless or impotent, but even that is difficult to acquire.  It’s easier just to kill you, imprison you, or burn out the part of your brain that can do magic.”

She made a face at that.  I’d described the process to her, once.  It sounded innocuous enough, until you realized that several of the parts of the brain that help you do magic also help you do things like talk, see, and reason cogently.  And control your bodily functions.  Madness was a regular result, and there were almost always some nasty side-effects.  Sometimes an execution was a more human alternative.  Yet another reason to hate the Censorate.

But it was an intriguing avenue of consideration, now that the power of the Censorate was broken.  “Sometimes sports can produce someone very useful, but more often than not they’re just curiosities.  Like a man who can plow a perfectly straight row, every time, or someone who can sense the feelings of animals.”

“But these sports – why don’t they have more Talent?”

“We don’t know,” I repeated.  “It’s not just a matter of a lot or a little, I think, it’s also what your mind and body have the capacity to handle – in some cases the effect does resemble the equivalent of a three-headed cow.

“Why does it happen?  There were a lot of wild theories thrown around the table at the Academy, late at night when the magisters were asleep.  My best guess is that it’s a combination of factors.  Your lineage would certainly have something to do with it, but so does environment.  How you grow, I supposed you’d say.  Just as every tree will have a different number of apples on it, every person has a different measure – and form – of Talent.”

“So what makes magi different than everyone else?” she asked, curiously.  She changed tits.  She was almost effortless with it, now.  Not everyone was, Old Peg had told me more than once . . . today.  It was tantalizing – they’d been among my favorite features of her, when we met, and now that they were being used for their intended purpose they were ever-present, but tantalizingly out of reach for the indefinite future.  I tried to distract myself with lore.

“Essentially, a mage is someone whose Talent is strong enough, and across enough forms, to allow the mage to employ a symbol system, combined with a profound concentration of will and mental acuity, to make the universe around them do what they want.  In its highest form it takes an understanding of reality and physics far deeper than most men.  If their Talent is compelling enough, they learn how to use it by necessity . . . regardless of what paperwork they fill out.

“Those are the people the Censorate usually goes after.  They’ll investigate a sport, and if they find the Talent dangerous or of sufficient strength to cause worry, they either burn out the parts of their brains that use magic, or they simply order them executed.  More rarely they’ll take them away toe Wenshar for study.  It’s happened.”

She shuddered.  “And you’re saying Minalyan is in danger of that?”

“He was.  He might still be.  Personally, I’m more worried about him choking to death on the huge volume of milk he’s eating a lot more.”

“At the moment, so am I,” she chuckled, and then winced.  “Damn, this hurts.  So, you were saying, about the spell . . . ?”

How much to tell her?  When I didn’t know much about what happened myself, at all?

“Right. The spell.  When I was summoned to help, there was a kind of magical attachment, almost like an umbilicus, between you and the baby.  That’s true with every mother and child, to a certain extent, from what I remember from school.

“But for whatever reason, Minalyan’s wouldn’t sever.  I guess he was happy and comfortable where he was.  More importantly – and this is my theory, now – when he was confronted with facing the world outside of your protective Shroud, he had the ability to somehow resist.  In force.  When the trauma of birth happened, he just latched on.

“I had no idea what to do, so I improvised.  It felt like a binding spell, so I tried a simple counter-spell,” and for good measure I added a prayer to Briga, I added, to myself.  I don’t know why, but I didn’t want to mention that to anyone just yet.

“There’s also the magical channels I’d already opened here, naturally, the lines of force I’d run through the tower when we first got here.  If that had any effect or not, I don’t know.  But whatever I did worked, and the separation occurred.”

“Thank you,” she said, quietly.  “I guess I never really said that.  At the time, I thought I was dying.”

I nodded.  I didn’t want to tell her she really had been dying, or it might upset her.  “So whatever happened upstairs in the birthing chamber apparently swept out over the valley like a wave.  You’ve seen what it did to every bit of silica—

“Silica?” she asked, confused.

“It’s what most rocks are made from,” I explained.  It was an overly simplistic explanation, but it worked for the moment.  “And sand.  The wave imbued the silica with a kind of energy, and transformed it.  Enchanted it.  I thought the effect would fade, but it seems to be permanent.  And no, I still don’t know why or how – I’ve never read anything about it, even in the Magocracy.  Believe me, that sort of thing would have been noted.

“That has big implications for Sevendor,” I realized.  “We have the only deposit of it known.  And I have a feeling it could be invaluable, as a means of lowering magical resistance in the field.   Even beyond the stone, anyone in the vale who had an undeveloped Talent – or just under-developed – reacted strongly to it.  By vomiting.”

“So . . . what does that mean, now?”

I shrugged.  “I have no idea.  But I have had Sir Cei make a list of everyone who reported throwing up that day.  I’m going to bring them all up here eventually and run tests on everyone.  In all of my abundant spare time,” I said, wryly.  I was already lingering far too long in my warm quarters with my wife and son, while Sirs Cei, Forondo, and my many Yeomen and attendants  were bustling about, actually getting things done.  I almost felt guilty.

“I threw up,” she pointed out, hesitantly.  “Are you saying I have Talent?”

“Maybe,” I conceded.  “But I discount your vomit.”

“Thanks!”

I snickered.  “I thought you’d appreciate that.  From what your attendants told me, it’s pretty common for a woman in labor to throw up, bleed, shit herself—”

“Yes, the dignity of childbirth,” she said, disdainfully, making a face.  “Our blessing from Trygg.  Now you know why men are usually banned from the chamber.  It becomes hard to maintain your feminine allure once you’ve seen your lady . . . that way.”

“Don’t worry about me,” I said, reassuringly, “I’d be willing to drag to bed right now, if you were up to it.”

“Five more weeks!” she warned me with a groan and a frightened expression.  “Really.  At least.”

“Calm yourself, I’m too busy to even think about sex right now.  Not only are we still dealing with the aftermath of the blizzard and trying to get everyone properly settled and fed, we also have those ransoms to negotiate, craftsmen to hire, militia to train, and eight thousand repairs that this castle needs before it’s even truly livable, much less defendable.  Believe me, you’ll be the first to know when I have time for the next erotic thought in my head.”  Sure, I was lying.  It was the polite thing to do.

“Just making sure . . .” she said, biting her lip.  “I know how you get.”

That stopped me.  We had only known each other for less than a year, even though we were married and had a child.  And considering that we were just now getting comfortable with each other as husband and wife, I was curious about her observations.  “How, exactly, do I ‘get’?”

She looked at me thoughtfully.  “Let’s revisit this later, shall we?” she decided, after another moment of consideration.  “So back to the spell, just how many threw up?”

I allowed her to change the subject – I wasn’t in the mood to pick a fight.  “About a dozen, maybe a dozen and a half so far.” I ran down the list Sir Cei had compiled from the districts.  The majority were Bovali, which I found intriguing.  It supported the theory that wild outcroppings of irionite could effectively enchant the soil and water in which the people lived, improving the strength of Talent.

Sir Cei himself was on the list, but only four native Sevendori.  The worst reaction had been a young girl in Westwood, who had become violently ill that night.  She had recovered, it was said, but she had a white streak permanently burned in her red hair as a result.

“But the one which this might affect the most is Sir Festaran, the young knight we’re holding for ransom at Brestal Hall.  The others I can watch, since their Sevendori, now.  But if he has appreciable Talent – or is even a strong sport – then he could be developed and trained.  And he would be a Magelord.  Or at least a Knight Mage.  Under the Censorate, even that much Talent would place him under jurisdiction of the Bans.  And it would lose him his inheritance and his title.”

“The Censorate . . . I still have nightmares of Talry, when those two almost caught poor Tyndal.  If it hadn’t been for Pentandra . . .” She shook her head to clear the vision, which disturbed the baby.  I was almost amazed to hear my wife speak so well of my former lover.  Pregnancy changes a woman.  “I don’t know how you could stand living with that danger looming over you all the time.”

“I didn’t like them much at all,” I agreed.  “That’s why I tried to find a place as remote from them as possible . . . like, say, Boval Vale.  As far away from the Censorate as I could get, off in the Alshari Wilderlands.  Quaint little mountain community.  Perfectly safe,” I said with a straight face.

Alya rolled her eyes prettily.  She was recovering from her delivery, but it was slow going.  The puffiness was subsiding, at least.

“But back to our current problems, I have a theory regarding the stone.  It’s now easier to do magic here,” I said, conjuring a bright red magelight for effect and distracting Minalyan from his teat.  “It’s more than just having access to power – that’s the irionite.  This just . . . makes it easier for your spells to hook, or grab, or flow, or whatever they need to do.  It’s like I’ve been exercising in a suit of armor, and got to take it off for the first time.  It’s a proximity issue, I think.  But I’m going to experiment with Sir Festaran, have him carry a few pieces around in his pockets – very quietly, so the other prisoners don’t get wind.  He’s isolated from the rest of the snowstone—”

“Is that what you’re calling it?  I like it.”

“So did Sir Cei.  So if he carries just a sample around, I can see if his Talent emerges at all, compared to how he reacts before he carried it.  And if that’s true . . .” I shrugged.  I really didn’t know what that meant.

“And how did the little guy here pull that off?”

“I have even less idea about that.  Guris wants to call it a sign from the gods.  I’d chalk it up to a freak magical accident due to a unique set of circumstances.  There are precedents,” I pointed out, and then realized that Alya had studied cows, not magic.  “The Citrine molopor, the Vale of Sorrows, even the sinking of Perwyn.  Crazy accidents or spells gone wrong that led to unexpected results.  Sometimes tragic.  Only this time . . . we, uh, redecorated a mountain.”

“Don’t you think that’s going to attract attention?” she asked.  “From those men in checkered cloaks who want to kill you?”

“Which ones?” I moaned.  “Why do you think I’m building this castle – rebuilding it?   So I have someplace to make a stand, some walls to hide behind.  But yes, they will know about it.  And they will come to see it.  And I will probably have to drive them away.  But I’m also going to put that off as long as possible.  So don’t tell any Censors about it, okay?”

“And all of these?  What if it turns out that these vomiting villagers will become sports, or more?  You’ll have a bunch of wild magi on the loose.  That’s going to attract attention, too, isn’t it?  Among other problems?”

“Again, I have no idea,” I sighed.  She was right.

She smirked.  “I’m starting to think that should be your noble motto.”

“Hmmm, what would that be in Old High Perwynese?—oh!  Bide,” I said, as I felt the beginnings of a mind-to-mind communication.  Alya nodded, and started burping the baby, who was starting to show signs of satiation.  I opened myself to the spell, and was speaking with Rondal, who was stationed up at the dike tower at the moment.

Master, I thought you should know: we have visitors.

Oh, really?  What kind and how many?

Quite a few, and a quite an assortment, he reported, wryly.  A delegation of six from West Fleria, two peasants from southern Sendaria, with a train of trade goods for market – they’ve been traveling for four days and got caught in the blizzard – and a green mage.

A what?  A green mage?

Yes.  That’s what he says.  He also says that you sent for him.  Or something like that.

I searched my memory.  Had I?  I’d summoned a number of tradesmen, and while I had been wishing devoutly for a green mage – or at least to know more green magic – I hadn’t really investigated the matter further than wishing.  Of course, I’d been wishing pretty hard.

Tell me, is he a footwizard?  Or is he chartered?

Chartered, Rondal assured me.  That was the first thing I asked.  He had his papers.  He’s out of central Remere, and he’s been a practicing journeyman for twelve years, apprenticed under a Master Ulmecinus.  He said he comes by the referral of one Planus, a practical adept in Remere.

Oh!  All right, now I know what happened.  I mentioned to Pentandra that I wanted one.  I guess wishing on a Penny is as good as a spell.

Very funny, Master, Rondal said, without betraying a trace of humor.

What about the West Flerians?  The hostage negotiations, I take it?

Three knights, two retainers, and a squire.  Among them is our old friend Sir Bromul.  But they are led by no less than Sire Gimbal, himself.  Only a token escort, but they are armed for a fight.  There might be more farther down the road.  At least, that’s what the peasants indicated.  The Flerians were upset that I dealt with them and the mage first . . . but they were here first, too.

Tell them all to bide, and that you have summoned the Magelord, I decided, after a few moment’s thought.  Make certain that they are treated courteously and offer them refreshments.

Yes, Master.  Anything else?

Keep the gate guards on alert, and pass word down to the construction camp at Brestal Farms.  That was the site of the new village and manor I was restoring in the northern part of the valley, closest to our gate.  There were at least fifty Bovali workmen there, even in the wake of the snowstorm – they were that eager to get homes built for their families.  While they didn’t have much armor, I’d made sure the guard tower was well-supplied with spears and bows and swords.  But tell them to be very quiet about it.  You may pass the peasants on through – what are they carrying?

Not much, he admitted.  Cheese, sausages, potatoes and carrots.  Some cowhides.  A couple of bags of random crap.  They probably have more that they aren’t mentioning.  But they seem harmless enough.

Let them through, I repeated.  Keep the green mage there, as long as he doesn’t start any trouble.

He’s just sitting there, like he’s got no place better to be.

All right.  I’ll be up there as soon as I can.

I ended the contact and then established a link with Tyndal, who was still on guard duty at Brestal Vale, long enough to give some orders.  Then I opened my eyes.

“I have to go to work,” I sighed.  “Sire Gimbal has come to negotiate for the hostages.”

“Tell him you need to be back by sundown,” she said, pouting.  “I swear to Briga, I think you make this stuff up just so you can get away from me and avoid unpleasant conversations.”

“Yes, that’s it entirely,” I agreed, sweetly, kissing her forehead, and then the baby’s.  I got my face burped in and spit-up on my shoulder for my trouble.

And that, alas, was the high point of my day.

*                            *                            *

By now Sir Forondo’s men were well-practiced at deploying from the garrison at Brestal Tower to the frontier dike at short notice, so by the time I had armored and armed myself and roused the rest of the household, then rode Traveler at a gallop to the gate, there were two dozen horsemen milling about, waiting for me.

For that matter, the Bovali camp at Brestal Farms had deployed themselves as militia unbidden.  The top of the dike bristled with Wilderlands bows, spears, shields and pragmatic peasants, as did the archer galleries atop the tower and the redoubts on either flank.  Sirs Cei and Rondal were also present, girded for war.

I was about as prepared as I could be.  I didn’t wear armor, but I had four or five warwands on my person, my witchsphere, and Twilight slung over my saddle.  And it beat fighting with Alya.

“How’s his mood?” I asked Rondal, as I dismounted and pulled off my gloves.

“He’s incredibly patient,” my apprentice said, with a grin.  “Indeed, his lordship reminds us just how patient he is being with every other breath.  Sire Gimbal is the very essence of patience.  As he has assured me.  Repeatedly.”

“I see,” I nodded.  “Have you scryed out their reinforcements?”  I asked.  It wouldn’t have occurred to Tyndal, but Rondal was more thoughtful that way.  He nodded.

“Two dozen mounted sergeants and about thrice that many light infantry.  They’re half a mile back, at the holding closest to the frontier, waiting for orders.”  Sir Forondo rode up and joined us, wearing his customary battered but still somewhat ornate armor.  He was remarkably calm, almost casual.

“We outnumber them heavily, Sire,” he reported.  “But I don’t think there will be fighting.  It appears to be a negotiation.”

“They seem to be prepared for either eventuality,” I said, and explained how Rondal had scried their reinforcements.  “Have a dozen stealthy archers sent to scout them – don’t fire, just observe.  I trust you know the men for the job?”

“Ancient Dalcalan, Horo, and Ganon,” he said at once.  “They can pick the rest of their men.  They’ve been doing a little poaching on the other side of the frontier,” he added with a twinkle in his eye.

I sighed.  That was dangerous – poaching within another lord’s domain was grounds for on-the-spot execution, if you were caught red-handed and the nobility was so inclined under the law.  Still, the temptation to add a little extra meat to the stewpot at the expense of a neighboring fief was too great for most peasants to resist.

“Then move the rest of the horses back beyond the tower, and have the men keep in readiness there.  They likely won’t be needed, but if they are I want them to have enough field to get up to a gallop.”

“Well thought, Magelord,” grunted Forondo, and he rode off to deliver my orders.  Sir Cei arrived with a blue bag, which proved to contain my ‘lordly’ regalia.  My circlet, the glowing emerald, the whole bit.  He’d even brought my staff, which I thought was a bit much.  I hadn’t really done much with it since I’d gotten my witchstone, but I suppose it did look imposing, if you didn’t know a thing about magic.  I had built it when I was a Spellmonger to impress the peasants.  Perhaps it worked on belligerent knights, too.  I took it without comment.  I was hoping that Sire Gimbal was the kind of man impressed by such things.

“This is your first dealing as a land-holding lord with another land-holding lord.  Remember, Sire, this is your domain,” Sir Cei prompted me unnecessarily, but enthusiastically.  “You have both the law and righteousness on your side.  And you are capable of defending your domain.  He will try to intimidate you, bait you, and try to challenge your honor, in order to gain advantage in the negotiations.  Do not lose your temper, and count to three in your mind before you speak.  It gives the perception of thoughtfulness and deliberation.”

“I don’t think I’ll have a problem,” I said, a little irritated at the advice.

But then again, I’d be a fool to ignore his advice, I knew.  This was my first time conducting inter-domain affairs, I realized as I put the circlet that signified my lordship on my brow.  If I screwed it up, a lot of people could die, including me.

That was a sobering thought.  Especially in light of my recent fatherhood.

When I was properly attired, I gathered my entourage.  I took just Sirs Cei and Rondal, three to match their three, though Forondo and the watch-captain of the guard hung back a bit, in case we needed anything, a horn around his neck to summon reinforcements.

Once we were in good order, we made our way through the gateway on foot through the snow.  Sir Cei continued to whisper irritatingly helpful advice in my ear until we reached the dike.  The archers on the berm wall perked up as we passed, and I tossed them a wave.  They looked eager for a scrap, too, though no arrows were drawn.

We found Sire Gimbal, Sir Bromul, and a third knight were sitting on portable stools around a portable table, drinking wine out of small silver glasses like gentlemen while we waited.  Tyndal was standing nearby, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched them warily.  He’d arrived here before we did, on orders, and had been tasked to be our herald and see to the comfort of our “guests.”  He wasn’t the best choice, perhaps, but if trouble started he was my best warmage.

The three knights stood as they noted my approach, and their attendants rushed forward to take their stools and stand at the ready.

Sire Gimbal, the Warbird of West Fleria was shorter than I imagined, the top of his head coming up to my chin – and I’m not particularly tall.  He had a lean face with a recently trimmed beard, and broad shoulders for his frame hiding under his rich red woolen mantle.  When he stood I saw he was a little bowlegged, too.

He was wearing a fine chain mail hauberk and coif over a leather gambeson, with a red-and-white surcoat over, and a broad red sash across his chest with the device, a warbird, whatever that was, embroidered on it.  Sir Bromul, who was dressed similarly, I was familiar with, but the third knight was a surprise.   Sir Erantal.

He looked little better than I’d last seen him – if anything the gin blossoms on his face were worse, and he didn’t look as well-fed as before.  He was also the least well-dressed of the three, wearing a plain leather ring mail hauberk that stretched to his knees, and no surcoat.  It was the kind of armor suitable for a senior sergeant or a very, very poor country knight.  He glared daggers at me the entire time, though he was extremely deferential to Sire Gimbal.

“I am given to understand that you are Sire Gimbal of West Fleria,” I said, without bowing.  Sire Cei had instructed me that, as ostensible host in this negotiation, I was not obligated to begin in a servile position unless I feared retribution.

Looking at this little man, I wasn’t particularly fearful.  “I am Sire Minalan, Magelord of Sevendor made vassal by the hand of His Grace, Rard. Duke of Castal.”  In a civil negotiation, as opposed to a military one, it would not have been proper to introduce myself for some reason, Sir Cei had told me.  It would have been impolite not to have my castellan or herald introduce me.  But since this was a military matter, I could introduce myself.  Who knew?

“I am Sire Gimbal, the Warbird of West Fleria,” he said, boldly but quietly, in a deep voice that captured your attention.  “And I am given to understand that you have kidnapped several of my knights.”

“Kidnapped?” I asked, feeling my men tense around me.  “Nay, Sire Gimbal, they were lawfully-taken hostages upon losing duels that they themselves sought.”

“Did not Sir Subural inform you of the circumstances of his and his comrades’ capture?” Sir Cei asked, curiously.

“Is not Sir Surbaral in your custody?” asked Sir Bromul, troubled.

“He was released upon pledge of ransom, for the purpose of informing his liege of his fellows’ predicament,” Sir Cei said, his lips twitching with a smile.  “Did he not return?”

“No,” Sir Bromul said, his eyebrows knitting together.  “No, he did not.  In fact, we would have had no word of our knights had not a peasant boy stumbled in four days ago, telling a tale of their kidnapping.  You swear you set him free, unharmed?”

“On my son’s life,” I nodded.  “He was free, if lightly armed, and on a horse when he departed Sevendor.  It was just before the blizzard.”

“The blizzard the peasants say you stirred up,” Sire Bromul murmured.  “We heard rumor of a duel, but we also heard of kidnapping.  Young Sir Surbaral did not return – for his sake, I hope he froze to death, rather than forgot his honor and fled.”

“It’s possible,” Tyndal said, shrugging.  “He’s probably feeling pretty ashamed.  I bested him in the duel.  Badly.  He’s got decent footwork and passable swordplay, but no instinct for the fight.  He attacks haphazardly and lets his anger direct his blows.  And it’s clear he’s never actually fought for his life before.”

Sir Cei, Sir Forondo and the other professional men-at-arms had been working with him since he arrived at Yule.  That gave him a far more traditional fighting style than mine, as warmagi don’t usually emphasize the knightly sort of dueling in favor of techniques more suited to our profession.  But his assessment was fair.

“That is, indeed, his fighting style,” Sir Bromul said, with a single nod.  “I trained him myself, and I have oft-said his blows were rash and ill-planned.  So there was a duel,” he sighed, heavily.

“Several, actually,” I conceded.  “But we did not instigate them.”  I was about to explain the whole episode, and thought better of it.  “Gentlemen,” I began again, calmly, “since we are of but recent acquaintance, I understand how you might doubt my veracity in this.  In an effort to be just, I have summoned the hostages here so that they may tell you the tale themselves, in their own voices.”

Sir Bromul’s left eyebrow went up, and the Warbird of West Fleria snorted and huffed . . . but then gave a curt nod.  I turned to Rondal and gave the barest of nods.  He departed quickly, but without haste.  Tyndal had brought all of the boys up from Brestal Tower upon my orders, where they were waiting behind the dike wall.

“While we are waiting,” Sir Bromul began after a moment’s awkward silence, “perhaps you can explain to us just how you came to hold Sevendor, as Sir Erantal assures us you do.”  Erantal looked a little guilty, but said nothing.

“Needless to say, we could not doubt the word of a gentleman, a faithful steward of the realm, who looked upon the charter with his own eyes.”  He said it as if he expected me to contradict the man – I was unsure of what tales Erantal had told his hosts, but that much, at least, was true.

So I told them a pared-down version of how I had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, defended the Bovali against the Dead God, escaped with our lives, and then weeks later led a powerful army against the goblin hordes, was knighted on the field at the head of my order, and was rewarded with Sevendor and a once-heavy chest of gold for my efforts.  They looked at me, mouths agape, as I told the tale.  At the end of it, not a one of them looked convinced.

“So,” the Warbird of West Fleria said with a sneer, “you are a common baker’s son!”

That’s what he was concerned with?  “My father is an uncommonly good baker, a respected master of his craft.  But I am not a baker.  Just a baker’s son. Among other things,” I shrugged.  “Spellmonger.  Warmage.  Knight Magi.  Magelord.”  I said the last with especial emphasis.

“So you say,” he said, his voice dripping with contemptuous disbelief.  “News came from the west that His Grace overturned the bans, and as outrageous as that sounds, I am advised that the news is legitimate.  Yet I never expected to see such outrageousness myself.  Of all the foolish edicts . . . I’ve never met a mage worth the cost of a cup of ale, myself.”

“And today you’ve met three,” I said, smoothly.  “And it is not yet noontime.  What other novelties will this day hold, I wonder?  Look, here come your men . . . and my hostages,” I said, before he had a chance to retort.

Rondal led the boys across the causeway, and they seemed all in good spirits.  Unarmed, of course, but unbound, wearing warm clothing and heavy cloaks against the chill.  Of course, Sir Ganulan had his hood over his cursed face and would not look up to face his father.

Sir Festaran spoke for the rest of them.  When prompted by Sir Bromul he told the story of the ill-conceived quest Sir Ganulan had declared against the evil, dispossessing magelord.  He related details I had not been privy to – how the entire idea had been the scheming young Sir Surbaral’s, who had bullied and shamed Sir Ganulan into the rash course, and then forced Sir Festaran and their squires to participate.

After that, he described each battle.  He spoke of the duels in simple terms, without elaboration, and left no doubt in any one’s mind who the victor was.  He then assured his liege that their captivity had been quite gentle and the hostages well-treated.

Sire Gimbal was not impressed – especially with the role his hotheaded bastard son had played in the scheme.  He was even less happy about losing the income that Brestal had provided, and livid about the ransom I was asking for the hostages’ return.

“It’s preposterous – you taking advantage of mere boys that way,” he growled scornfully.  “They’re no more than barely-weaned pups!”

“They are belted knights,” I reminded him.  “Grown men in their own right.  I tried to talk them out of it.  They insisted.”

“Magelord Minalan speaks the truth, Sire,” Sir Festaran said, earnestly.  “He attempted to dissuade Sir Ganulan and Sir Surbaral several times, but they would not relent.  In the end, he was forced to entertain them.”

“How could a gentleman not oblige such a challenge to his honor?”  I was actually starting to enjoy this, using the chivalric code against this gamecock.

That got under Sire Gimbals armor.  He snorted derisively.  “A baker’s son speaks of honor?  This is a day for novelty!”  I felt Sir Cei tense, but he did nothing.  He’s met my father.  There’s no one alive who could challenge his honor, commoner or not, and Sir Cei looked ready to defend the point on my behalf.

Thankfully, Sir Bromul was more diplomatic than his liege.  “We concede that you are, indeed, the lawful lord of Brestal Vale,” he said, not that they had any choice in the matter.  “And we acknowledge that the boys – the knights – were not kidnapped.  And that there was a lawful duel,” he said with a heavy and slightly exasperated sigh.  “You have bested them fairly, and Sir Ganulan quits his claim to Brestal.  You have made your point, Magelord.  Must you demand ransom as well?”

“Is that not the custom?” I asked, innocently.  “Sir Cei, you informed me it was the custom!”

“That is what I was taught,” Cei agreed, deferentially.  “But perhaps the Riverlords play differently than the WIlderlords.”  He had insisted that any problematic issues be blamed on his faulty instruction, even if it was a poorly disguised pretense.   I wasn’t thrilled about berating him like that in front of my foes, but I had to admit it was a pretty common practice for lords to blame their subordinates for such things.

“No, that is the custom,” agreed Sir Bromul, keeping his liege from saying something angrily.  “It just is unseemly for a new-made knight to . . .”

“Take advantage of other new-made knights?” I pointed out.  “They came to me, remember.  And all of us were belted within the last year.  Still, I might see my way clear to negotiate,” I said, heaving an affected sigh.  “In the interests of good relations.”

“And just how much will your ‘good relations’ cost West Fleria?” Sir Bromul asked again.

“I am not unreasonable.  We need not even resort to coin, if you wish.  Perhaps we could return the squires, their arms, mounts, and armor for . . . three wagonloads of grain?  And a hundredweight of salt pork?  A bargain, really.” Gimbal’s lip twitched, but Bromul spoke before his master could say something to un-do the peace.

“That would be a gracious compromise,” he agreed, hesitantly.  Actually, it was quite generous on our part.  Even a squire’s ransom was worth significantly more than that, from what I understood.  And right now I needed food as much as I needed cash.  More.  “And the two knights?”

“For Sir Ganulan . . .” I said, studying the cloaked figure with a calculating eye, “perhaps merely . . . a hundred chickens?  Laying hens, I’d prefer, but a few cockerels.  In honor of his device,” I added with a chuckle.  “I do enjoy eggs.”

“Chickens?” Bromul asked.  “You want to ransom back my lord’s son with . . . poultry?  Unacceptable!”

“Fine, fine, throw in as many additional goats as you think the boy is worth, and we’ll call it even.  But only if we keep his armor and mount.”  This really was fun!

“Goats and chickens?” Sir Ganulan said, irately, speaking for the first time.  “You wish to exchange me for goats and chickens?”

“Well, he was willing to settle for just the chickens,” Rondal pointed out.

“Shut up!  Father, you have no idea what hells they have put me through!  And now this . . . this outrage!”

“SHUT UP!” bellowed Gimbal.  “If you had had the sense to wait as I had bid you, boy, we would not be here!  Chickens?  Goats?  Two hundred chickens, then, a dozen cockerels, twenty goats, and five mules for the . . . good knight,” spat the Warbird.  “For his mount and sword, what would you have?  Potatoes?  Carrots?”  Clearly he was insulted by the idea of haggling for his son with livestock and produce.

“Cabbages?” suggested Rondal.  “Two wagons full, for the mount.”

“I do like cabbage,” I agreed.  “And for the sword – a lovely old antique, I was tempted to keep it for my collection,” I added, impishly.  “But I’m sure it has sentimental value.  For the blade, how about four barrels of ale?”  Bromul nodded, his face growing paler.  He couldn’t exactly say no.  The sword was worth thrice that, easily.

“And now for that pretty armor . . . well, my apprentice, Sir Tyndal has grown quite fond of it.  Still, I suppose he could let it go for . . . bide, if you will.”

I closed my eyes and spoke mind-to-mind with my apprentice.  Tyndal, what do you want for that armor?

What?  I want the bloody armor! he replied, shooting me a dark glance.

No, we have to ransom it back.  It’s the custom.  You can only keep it if he doesn’t agree to the ransom.  And we’re being generous, so don’t ask for the world.  Just tell me what you want.  And hurry.

Um . . . how about some clothes? He asked, plaintively.  I’ve got two sets, and one of them is torn all to hell.

Well, let’s see . . .  I opened my eyes and saw the West Flerian delegation staring at me curiously.

“My apprentice, Sir Tyndal, would be willing to ransom the armor for six sets of fine clothing, two sets of traveling clothes, two pairs of boots, a fur mantle and a light woolen mantle for summer.”  That was a princely sum – but still a fraction of what the armor was worth.  It took a skilled armor smith months, perhaps even years, to complete a set of riveted chain mail, and longer to properly burnish it.

In contrast, it usually took the ladies of a castle a month to produce one set of finery at their looms.  Of course, a professional tailor could produce a set in days, using professionally-woven cloth, but somehow I guessed Gimbal would not rise to that expense.

“As you wish,” Sir Bromul agreed, reluctantly.  He was still getting a bargain.

“Now, I will deal with the matter of Sir Surbaral when he surfaces,” I conceded.  “I would not have you pay ransom on a corpse or a bandit.  And then there is the matter of Sir Festaran.”

“Let me guess,” Sire Gimbal spat, “you have a sudden desire for a piggery?”

“Actually, I will only accept a money ransom for Sir Festaran.  Two hundred ounces of silver, or fifty of gold.”

The three knights looked at me like I had sprouted a third head.  “Two hundred?” scoffed Sir Erantal.  I think he was drunk. “Has the boy started shitting gold?”

“If he had, the ransom would likely be much higher,” Rondal observed.

“In fact, he is the most valuable of the hostages, in my estimation,” I said, smoothly.

“How so?” asked Sir Bromul.  “He is the son of a poor knight, more a glorified yeoman whose service was valuable to Sire Gimbal’s father, and rewarded by knighting him and his sons.”

“And he’s a bloody lousy fighter,” snorted Sir Erantal, earning a look of reproval from Bromul, a snort of involuntary laughter from Sir Gimbal and a look of pure hatred from Festaran.  “I saw him practice in the yard.  I could drop him half drunk,” he boasted.

“Which would make you twice as sober as you are now, Sir,” Sir Cei said with a cool sneer.  He had learned to hate Sir Erantal if for no other reason than the condition in which he’d left Sevendor. “If Magelord Minalan has deemed Sir Festaran the most valued prisoner, then he sets the ransom.  You may pay it, negotiate, or abandon him – with the knowledge that such an act by a liege to his vassal would violate the terms of their oath,” he added sternly.

“The lad is not my vassal, his sire is,” Sire Gimbal dismissed.  “I’ll ask the poor man if he has fifty ounces of gold to throw away on a youngest son.  Considering his tribute to me is no more than twenty ounces of gold a year, I think that we might have to consider a smear on my honor.”  He looked the young knight up and down, as if he was seeing him for the first time.  “He may have served in my household, but I bear the boy no love.  I’ll pay twenty silver – no more.”

“Then it seems Sir Festaran will remain a guest of Sevendor,” I pronounced.  “Since his liege will not meet my price, we will have to find some other way.  Send his father, and I will treat with him.  But the rest . . . I expect payment of all of it, save the garments, within two weeks.  Bring it to this spot by the next full moon and we will exchange the hostages and their gear.”

“That suits us well enough,” conceded Sir Bromul.  “You shall have your poultry, Sire Minalan, and your pretty clothes.  And you may keep Festaran, if you love him so.  My lord is a man of honor, and will see your groceries delivered in full.”

“We expect no less,” Sir Cei responded.  “We only ask that you do not task Sir Erantal to the job.”

“Why?” asked Sire Gimbal, suddenly interested.  “The man is but a guest in my house, but . . . I trust he discharged his duties in Sevendor and left with just his sword, mount, and the clothes on his back, as he has often told me.”

“As to his stewardship,” Sir Cei replied, fixing the man with a stare, “we expect to recover fully from it, with time and treasure.  But based on his stewardship, I would not trust the man to take a goat to market without counting the number of legs when it arrived.  Or even perhaps its virtue.”

Sir Erantal growled and reached for his hilt, though Sire Gimbal stayed his hand easily enough.  “Sir, if we were not in truce, I swear that we should have words for such an insult!” the decrepit excuse for a knight barked at my castellan.

“I look forward to the conversation,” Sir Cei said, his eyes narrowing.  “It would be a pleasure to cut the heart out of the man who raped this poor country for so long.  Indeed, the peasantry would celebrate for days.  And I haven’t killed a man in at least three months.  When was the last time you faced a fighting man with a sword, Sir Winesack?”

“You doubt my courage?” Erantal shot back.

“I doubt your ability to recognize which end of the sword to grasp, if you must know,” Sir Cei riposted coolly.  Sir Cei can be quite imposing, as my tenants knew, and when he was angry you could feel it.  Sir Cei may have acted an administrator, but that was secondary to his chivalric duties.  He had Sir Erantal by half a head in height, and his long arms gave his longsword quite a reach.  I knew from personal experience that he, at least, knew which end to grasp – and how to employ the blade to devastating effect.

“Our next opportunity, then,” Sir Erantal said, a little more reluctantly.

But it wasn’t Cei’s size that intimidated Erantal, I realized.  It wasn’t that Cei was larger, more fit, and had more recently seen combat.  It was the profoundly resolute manner in which he approached the incipient duel.

Usually, I’d noticed in my observations of knights and mercenaries dueling over stupid reasons on campaign (quite against orders, but you can’t stop them), there was a lot of bluster, combined with opportunities to back out from committing to the fight.   It’s all part of how the militant nobility and men in general let off steam, and usually it can be reasoned out without bloodshed, if the parties are willing.

But Sir Cei displayed none of that.  This was not bluster, nor was his insult idly given.  He had decided that Sir Erantal needed to be punished for his tenure as steward, and he was more than happy to usher the knight off to the afterlife on that basis, alone.  There was no redemption for what his mismanagement, in Sir Cei’s eyes.  It had violated his sacred duties as a gentleman knight.

I could have pointed him toward a dozen other lords I knew who were as bad or worse, but it wouldn’t have mattered.  Sevendor was Sir Cei’s charge, and like an adopted orphan he felt belligerent toward those who had abused and exploited it.

You can face a man who is angry.  You can face a man who is vicious.  But a man who is determined and certain of the righteousness of his course can scare the unholy hells out of you.  Or so it appeared by Sir Erantal’s face.

“I find I anticipate the discussion greatly,” Sir Cei nodded, graciously.  It was perhaps the most menacing thing I’ve ever heard him utter.  Best I intercede before someone stupid broke the truce.

“Until then, I trust you gentlemen can find your way back home.  And as a special gift, and a token of our good faith, I will release your son Sir Ganulan to you now.”

That took them all by surprise – on parchment, Ganulan was the most valuable bargaining piece.  But then the game I was playing wasn’t the same one they were.  They saw getting Ganulan back as a victory.  I saw Ganulan leaving as a victory.  He had bullied and harassed his fellow prisoners, and driven Tyndal near to cursing him further.  I had to intervene, riding all the way to Brestal Tower to keep there from being any bloodshed.

“A noble gesture,” Sir Bromul said, approvingly.

“It is my pleasure,” I bowed.  “As a new father myself, I understand how attached you can become to your son.  And I have no doubt whatsoever that you will fulfill your obligations honorably,” I added.

“Of course we will,” Bromul said, smoothly but unconvincingly.  I was guessing he would be willing to advise writing off the three squires and Festaran, the moment they were out of sight with Ganulan in hand.

“And to ensure his prompt attention to his duty,” I continued, as I reached over and yanked the hood off of Ganulan’s striped head, “I will be happy to remove the wizard’s mark on his face, the moment the conditions of our negotiations are met.”

Young Sir Ganulan’s pimply face was now adorned with a bright red snowflake across it.  It was a simple spell, a minor enchantment affecting the capillaries around the face, and it was easily reversed . . . for a mage.

It took a few moments of yelling accusations and demands and an impressive amount of swearing before Gimbal was willing to accept that the spell was not harmful, save to Ganulan’s vanity, and it could be removed in an instant.  He glared at me evilly after that.  I had to explain to him what the symbol was, and point it out as the new device of Sevendor and its Magelord.

Sir Gimbal saw it as insult, of course, and I could tell the move had changed the tenor of our negotiations.  I wasn’t just an up-jumped baker’s son playing at being a lord; I had affected his family line.  Until his sow of a wife gave birth to a son, this bastard was the only male heir he had at the moment – and I had branded him with my badge.

“When our business is concluded, Magelord,” he said in parting, “perhaps we shall have more.  The conquest of Brestal Vale was perhaps not technically legitimate, since the domain had no seated lord.  But it has one now,” he reminded me.  The warning was clear.  Sevendor was a legal target of conquest now.

“I would consider mightily before making such a . . . fateful decision, Sire Gimbal,” Sir Cei said.  “We Bovali have learned quickly how to fight, and in my experience we lack neither courage nor strength.  We’ve been exiled from one homeland – we aren’t likely to flee another for any agency less compelling than the Dead God’s legions.”

“I will speak not of war,” Sir Gimbal said, motioning for his retainers to clear away the table and stools.  “For only the gods know what the future holds.  But while I will not declare myself your enemy . . . you have not made a friend of me this day.  Now allow me to flee this miserable hole in the mountains.  I have seen the magelord everyone is talking about . . . and I am not impressed.”

He and his entourage stomped off, a dejected Sir Ganulan trudging behind them.  He had to ride double with a squire, much to his dismay.  We waited until they were out of sight before we escorted our remaining guests back inside.

“You know he’s honor bound to do something stupid now, don’t you Magelord?” Sir Cei observed.

“Was it ever really avoidable?” I countered.  “He was never going to be our friend.  Fine.  But I might have bought us more time.  And I certainly bought us enough food to ensure we get to the spring without famine in Sevendor.”

“If you don’t mind me saying, Lord Minalan,” Festaran offered, hesitantly, “you were not wrong about my lord’s character.  If anything, you underestimate it.  He will come at you, for he hates to be humiliated more than anything.  And you have embarrassed him more today than any man has ever dared.”

Sir Cei and I both looked at him thoughtfully.  “Well, that’s good to know,” I smirked.

Chapter Fifteen

Olmeg the Green

After the West Flerians had gone beyond bowshot, I dismissed the rest of my entourage, save my apprentices.  Sir Forondo took charge of the squires and Sir Festaran, while Sir Cei dismissed most of the militia after a snap inspection.

“Let’s go meet this green mage,” I said, heading over to where the man was sitting.  As Rondal said, he was just sitting there, observing the proceedings as if he had no better place to be.  No, rather, it was as if the entire spectacle had been arranged for his entertainment.

He was a very tall man, I realized, as he stood – easily a head taller than me, which made him seem skinnier than he actually was.  Indeed, his chest was as broad as mine, and better muscled for all of my exercise this past year.  His hair and beard were dirt brown without a trace of gray, and the battered mage’s cap on his head (all four points made of leather and stained a deep green) was slumped back, half limp with the strain of many rainstorms and heat waves.  His eyes were bright blue and he had a long, prominent nose and not quite enough chin to do it justice.  His ears, likewise, resembled wings on a bird in flight – but they kept that hat from falling off his head.

He wore plain, undyed leather traveling gear, trousers and doublet, over a thick, green woolen tunic that hung mid-thigh.  A pack that would have been monstrous for a lesser man huddled behind him, and a long, thick staff, as thick as my wrist, lay at his side like a faithful dog. It was of a dark wood, encrusted with runes and no doubt richly enchanted.

But the thing you noticed first about Olmeg the Green was his feet.  Not only were they enormous, almost twice as large as mine, but they were bare, though the snow still lay thick on the ground in places.

“Magelord Minalan, I present Olmeg the Green,” Tyndal began without prompting, “warranted mage of Remere.  Master Olmeg, this is Magelord Minalan the Spellmonger, Head of the Order of . . . High Magi,” he said, stumbling a bit – we still hadn’t agreed upon a proper name for the Order.  Orders.  But he continued undeterred, “holder of the Witchsphere, Defender of the Five Duchies, and Sworn Enemy of Shereul the Dead God and his goblin hordes.”

All of us just stared at him.  Finally, I spoke.  “That seems a bit much.  ‘Lord Minalan’ would have sufficed.”

He shrugged.  “I’ve been working on it.  Lady Pentandra has been coaching me.”

I rolled my eyes.  “Of course she has.  A pleasure to meet you Master Olmeg,” I said, almost bowing, and then catching myself, and nodding instead.  I was still getting used to my new place in the social hierarchy.  “Now, I was told that I had sent for you, but I don’t recall doing so.  Perhaps my friend and colleague, Lady Pentandra, was involved?”

“She was, Magelord,” he said, in a ridiculously deep baritone.  “I have consulted with her cousin, Master Planus, in the restoration of a vineyard estate in which he has an interest in southern Remere.  He was pleased with my success and so recommended me to her.”

That was interesting.  – I’d met Planus the summer I’d accompanied Penny back to her family’s estates – and he was actually a pretty decent fellow, once you got over the pretentiousness and pompousness that seems the birthright of every Imperial when dealing with their “barbarian conquerors”.

Once he realized that I had no romantic or dynastic aspirations for his little sister, he relaxed and even condescended to talk shop with me a bit.   And I knew he owned interests in a couple of different vineyards, as investments or payment for services.   I wouldn’t say we were fast friends, but I had confidence in his professional judgment -- about wine if not magic.  Remerans take their wine seriously.  They tend to be really picky about the folk they let touch their vineyards.

“I’ll verify that, of course, but it seems plausible enough.  Yet I only mentioned my need to her a few weeks ago, and only in passing.  How is it you came to my gates so quickly?”

“I was in Hamdara, near Master Planus’ estates, finishing a forestry job.  I stopped in to see if he had further work for me, and he mentioned the job . . . and the possibility of a rich payment.”  His words were laden with meaning.  I sighed.

“You mean irionite,” I said.

“Yes, Magelord.  As I had no other commission, I came here directly.”

“By Herus’ sore feet, you did at that!  Planus’ estate is hundreds of leagues from here!”

He shrugged.  “By road and water, you are correct, Magelord.  But when one travels cross country in a straight line, the distance becomes more tolerable.”

“You traveled across country?”  That was even more amazing.  The patchwork of fiefs and forests, not to mention hills, mountains, rivers, and bandits, between here and Planus’ estates must have been challenging – there was a reason merchants were willing to pay hefty tolls for the use of the roads and rivers.  “It seems you walked so far and so fast that you wore your shoes off of your feet!”

He shrugged and gave the barest hint of a smile.  “In truth, I have not worn shoes since before my Talent emerged, Magelord.  Though the cobblers drool when they see my feet.  I find I work best when I can feel the earth on them.  And as for how fast I travelled . . . well, we all have our craft secrets, do we not?”

I nodded.  All of the magical specialties had certain spells that they were loath to share, or which had little application outside of their realm of practice.  Beyond  the basic foundations of Imperial magic you learn in your first few years, much of what any particular mage knew came down to “craft secrets.”  I was well-versed in a few myself – not just warmagic, which is its own unique style, but thaumaturgy, sex magic and the kind of general practice spellmongering one does for a small community, plus a few elements of enchantment and divination that had interested me enough to pursue study.

That was one thing that irritated me about the way magic was administered and taught in the Duchies, the jealous guarding of craft secrets that could, if shared, prove vital to the war effort.

“Very well, then, Master Olmeg.  I have a mountain vale that has been desolate and sparsely peopled for a decade.  The soil is poor, the drainage is good—”

“If the Magelord will forgive me,” he said, interrupting me, thoughtfully, “I would rather not hear your insights, at this point.  I find I am most effective if my mind is uncluttered by perspectives outside of my discipline.”

“Fair enough,” I shrugged.  “When I was a warmage, there were plenty of times I wished my client would shut the hell up and let me work the way it needed to be done, not the way he wanted it to be done.  If you’re as good as you suggest, then I’ll extend you the courtesy I was rarely able to procure for myself.  Let me tell you instead what I desire to see, and then perhaps between what I want and what you can provide we can find compromise.”

“An excellent – and, as you say, quite rare – plan, Magelord,” he agreed.  “Tell me your vision for your domain, then.”

“I wish to see it prosper,” I said, with more feeling than I intended.  I suppose the last few months had seen me grow more and more attached to the place.  “The view is spectacular as it is, but I cannot feed my folk on scenery.  When I swore to Duke Rard that I could demonstrate what magic could do for a land, I had more in mind than building castles and defenses.  This valley once prospered, and I would see it do so again.  Let it feed my people, and even produce a surplus, and I will count myself a satisfied customer.”

“Satisfied enough for irionite, Magelord?” he asked, pointedly.

“A fair question.  I hesitate to name the price before I see what I will get for such a princely reward, but . . . I am open to being impressed.  And impressing me – not just with talent and craft, but with character – is the surest way to that end.  But I will pay you well for your trouble regardless.  I’m not the kind of man to cheat a tradesman.  I’ve been one too recently to enjoy it properly.”

Olmeg hauled his massive bag effortlessly to his shoulder, and when he held out his hand his staff leapt to it.  Knot coral, of course – I had some in my own staff to assist the flashy and only occasionally useful spell.  But it does impress the rubes.

“Then shall I consider myself engaged?”

“You have the commission, for now,” I agreed.  “Let’s retire to the castle for a meal, and to allow you to rest before you begin your labors.  I would not have a man in my employ go to work hungry and tired.”

He chuckled – an odd sound in his vocal range, kind of like a low-level earthquake.  Then he stooped and plunged his massive hand into the soggy, snowy ground at his feet and raised a handful of soil to his lips.  “Thus I accept the commission,” he said, “and in truth, I began my work the moment I arrived.”

“You cast spells in my land?” I asked, a little perturbed.  “Without my leave?”

“Nay, Magelord,” he said.  “But the bulk of my work lies not with spells, but with lore and craft.  And I need to learn much before I can even begin to heal your wounded land.”

“Then let me have a mount brought to you, and you can see our little valley on the way.”

He looked scandalized.  “No horse, Magelord.  Don’t worry; I shall be able to keep pace on foot.”

I didn’t doubt it.  His legs were uncommonly long.

The four of us headed back to Sevendor Castle, three of us mounted and Olmeg walking, and he didn’t even breathe hard at the exertion.  Along the way he seemed to observe everything.  His head kept swinging around, taking in every detail, and he repeatedly stopped to taste the soil or gaze at a rock.  More impressively, he began to tell me far, far more about the history of Sevendor than I had ever thought to learn.

He was a veritable fount of knowledge about all sorts of plant life, both natava and importasta.  “I see that the Stone Folk settled here, long ago – though there was some trace of them here not more than a century ago.  The skashalia shrubs, there, there, and there . . . you can tell they were cultivated until then, and then allowed to grow wild.  Humans have little use for them, but their berries are considered a sour delicacy by the Stone Folk.  Someone tried to grow onsgray here,” he said, as we passed by the long-fallow fields of Brestal Farms.  “It’s a southern grain, natava, but it requires both slightly alkaline soil – which you have – and almost constant sunlight.  See how they terraced the field to contour, and then returned to planting oats after a few years?”

It just looked like a snowy field to me.

“There was a great stand of oak and hickory there once,” he said, as we made our way through Gurisham.  “Then it was forested and burned, but they didn’t remove the stumps properly – that’s where those pits arose from that they plow around.  And see that little ledge up there, on the northern ridge?  There was once a goodly grove, likely sallowberry tree and perhaps some pecans, but someone hacked them down about twenty years ago.

“They’ve let sheep into that field, over there – that makes it a sweeter soil, but it prohibits it from being used for wheat or rye, at least until the soil stabilizes.  And that hedge there – the man has a fortune in drewnuts, if he has the sense to cut them back and properly cultivate them.  The Merwini are mad for drewnuts, and they rarely grow this well this far north.”

And on it went.  Every step of the way was a step into Sevendor’s natural history, and every bush and shrub seemed to tell a tale in its chapter.  By the time we made it to the castle, at mid-afternoon, Olmeg had managed to fill all of our heads with far more plant lore than we’d ever heard, and he had convinced us of his mastery of his craft.

But while he was lecturing the boys on the importance of proper attention to light, season, soil and water, I closed my eyes and quietly contacted Pentandra.

Penny, did you send me a green mage? I asked, after she answered my call.

Well, I mentioned it to my cousin, and he mentioned it to a contractor of his he liked.  I don’t know many green magi myself, but Planus has occasion to use them.  You know how much he likes wine.

I recall, I agreed.  So he sent me Olmeg the Green—

Yes, she confirmed, that was the one he spoke of.  Did he write to you?

Actually, he just showed up.  I just wanted to confirm that he wasn’t secretly a goblin in disguise.  You met him?

Only once.  Like a big green giant.  Voice like a bell-tower.  I couldn’t help speculating on the size of his—

Thanks, Penny, you’ve been very helpful, I interrupted.  If she got going on comparative phallusology, or whatever she called it, she’d never shut up.

While I’m talking to you, she said, before I could end the connection, I wanted to pass along some news.  Astyral contacted me this morning to tell me that the horde to the south of the Penumbra was reinforced just after the blizzard ended.  They lost a few thousands on the road, but he says there seems to be no end of them.  That puts more than sixty thousand within three days march of the Riverlands.

That . . . is problematic, I agreed.  How are the Riverlords responding?

Typically, she said, discouragingly.  Half want to go to war against Rard over Lenguin’s unfortunate demise, and the other half are screaming for additional troops to fight the goblins.  It looks like no less than five baronies are in the path of the horde.  Astyral can brief you on the details, but it looks like the Alshari Riverlands and the Gilmoran baronies are going to be in peril this summer.

Well, that should motivate our Gilmoran warmagi then, shouldn’t it?

They’re plenty motivated, she corrected.  They just don’t have the resources to reinforce the Gilmoran baronies and still keep the northern horde at bay.

Then we need more warmagi.  And more troops.  Any word what Rard is doing?

Master Dunselen informed me yesterday that he was already considering bolstering the Gilmoran defenses with fifteen to twenty thousand more Riverland levies, as well as those knights who’ve declared their loyalty to his ‘oversight’ of Alshar.  I don’t think it’s much of a coincidence that those lands in danger of the goblins in Alshar are also those most politically volatile.  Somehow I imagine that any lord who doesn’t see fit to acknowledge Rard’s control is also not going to be fit to receive reinforcements.

I don’t like that, I said, flatly.  We protect everyone in their path.  Not just those who are willing to kiss some Ducal ass.

Take it up with His Grace at the Council, then, she offered.  That’s between him and the head of the Order.  But I thought you should know.

Thanks.  I do need to know.  And you need to come visit your new godson.

She gave an exaggerated mental sigh.  What, another squealing barbarian brat?

She teased.  I suppose I could spare a moment on my way to Wilderhall.

Besides, I want to see what a real, live Magelord has done with his real, live mageland.

Give me some notice so I can clean up a bit, okay?

Not a chance, she said, and ended the communication.

*                            *                            *

Note 5: Alya was impressed with Olmeg, which said a lot.  She joined us for the evening meal, allowing the wetnurse to care for our child.  The big mage enchanted her with his voice and his gentle mannerisms.  And over the meal – bread, mutton stew, stewed carrots and fried potatoes (I noted Olmeg did not touch any dish with meat in it) – he explained how he worked, when I asked.  It came up when I offered him lodgings.

“Oh, nay, Magelord,” he said, shaking his big head.  “The sky is all the roof I need.  In fact, I plan on sleeping every night in a different location, until I’ve properly read the land.  It will take me a month, likely, before I have any definitive recommendations, but I should be able to make some preliminary recommendations in a week or so.  And just in time, too – plowing season is nearly at hand.”

I wrote him out a permission to lodge any place in my domain he chose, had the kitchen provide him with food and a sack of ale, and sent him on his way.

And as he said, we didn’t see him for two weeks.

We heard tale of him, though, and we occasionally caught sight of him striding across fields, or standing as still as a statue with his eyes closed, seemingly listening to the earth.  He avoided most of the human habitations.  And he never seemed to write anything down, although he was literate.   I’d almost forgotten about him by the time he returned to the Castle.

I’d been busy, you see.  Doing lordly stuff.  Like avoiding a peasant revolt.

There were starting to be grumbles among the peasantry.  As the natives of Sevendor Village were quietly consolidated at Genly, they began to feel enclosed and dispossessed, and turned their anxieties on the Bovali.

Two fist-fights broke out (providing a lucrative opportunity for legal fines) on the commons as the Sevendori tried to exercise their prerogative to graze sheep and goats there, where the Bovali happened to be living. Sir Cei ended up moving several Bovali families into the rough new hovels being built in Brestal and I cleared one half of the thawing field for pasturage.

That didn’t solve the problem, but it postponed it a while.  The Bovali kept to the northern end, the sheep and goats to the southern end.

Then the ale house opened.

It was a modest affair, at first, but since the end of the blizzard the Bovali in Sevendor Village had been congregating under one particular tree at the edge of the commons, a big, stately oak that didn’t seem to have any better purpose than to provide a place to drink under.

An enterprising young Bovali named Tirnard had procured a keg of reasonable ale and sold it off at a copper a pint, and kept a fire to warm their hands around as a bonus.  The workmen coming back from the construction sites or the fields would stop by and have a pint or so before returning to their shanties for the evening, and Tirnard would extend a man credit, or even spot him a pint if he was short.

By the second week of the thaw Tirnard had erected an awning over his keg, and a few rough stools appeared.  The keg was getting low, but a few bottles of hard cider took up the slack while Tirnard brewed more.  Business was good, though, and Tirnard paid a couple of young lads to start gathering stones in anticipation of building a proper fire pit and, perhaps, a wall.

The boys eagerly collected as many of the bright white river rocks from the stream as they could, amassing quite a pile in just a few days.  Around that time a few native Sevendori workmen or herders would wander in and actually spend a little of their new-found wealth.  I was paying out for work in coin, and there were far more coppers and silver pennies floating around Sevendor than there ever had been.

By rights I could have put a stop to the incipient ale house, but in truth I wanted people to have a place like that to congregate.  Besides, I like a good tavern, and Tirnard seemed to have a knack for the trade.  I stopped by one afternoon on my way to the lumberyards and got a complimentary pint, warmed to take the chill off – one of the perks of being the lord of the domain.  I enjoyed a few moments talking to the workmen around the fire, bitched good-naturedly about the weather and the mud, heard a few dirty jokes, and generally felt more at home than I had in a long time.

Sure, the men were deferent to me, but almost all of them had seen me when I was trading chickens for spells.

Then Tirnard  asked me for a boon.  This was another custom I was getting used to: any free peasant (and I didn’t have any serfs) who felt brave enough could ask his lord’s permission to do something – a boon.  Sometimes it was to take a child into service at the castle, or the right to grow peas on the roadside, or something equally simple.

A boon was a favor, granted out of the grace of the lord and according to his best judgment.  And as a favor, it was expected to be repaid, either in coin or in kind or in service.  Tirnard’s request was fairly simple: he wanted to build a tavern around the oak.

I said yes.  Hell, I liked him, and I like what he was doing to bring some cheer to the place.  Everyone cheered, and I got another free beer, and I went off to the lumberyard and cut slightly crooked boards for a few hours until I sobered up.

Two days later, his pile of stones had re-arranged itself into a single wall at the back of the camp, about four feet high and twelve feet long.  Tirnard started charging a penny and a fist-sized rock or larger for beer, and the wall grew.  And for some reason, that was the last straw for the dour Sevendori.

Just after I set Olmeg loose on Sevendor, I got an official visit from the Yeoman of Genly, Railan the Steady, who was not at all happy about the alehouse.

Railan was much more richly dressed than when I had first seen him, and quite a bit better fed, despite the recently short rations.  That meant that his homespun tunic was dyed a bright yellow, and he now wore both a leather doublet and thick fur mantle.  But his taciturn manner remained.

“Magelord,” he began with a bow “I feel that the ale tent in the commons has become a problem.”

“How so, Railan?” I asked, as he accompanied me to the barren space between the castle and the cliffside to the south.  The whole mountain was now glistening white snowstone, and the rough slope up to the steep escarpment cried out for further consideration.

I only had so much room inside the bailey – why not use the cliffsides to expand?  I wanted everyone in the vale to be able to take refuge in the keep at need, and there was no way that could happen unless I expanded the fortifications back into the cliffs.  Besides, that snowstone would make beautiful building material.

“It attracts drunkards and inebriates,” he said at last.  “The men of Boval may be fair laborers, my lord, but they are rough and uncouth.  Their laughter can be heard across the stream, all the way to Genly, and it disturbs the folk.”

“I can tell them to keep it down,” I conceded.  “That won’t be as much of a problem, once the tavern walls are built.”

“Magelord, I must question the wisdom of allowing such custom in our fair vale,” he said, judgmentally.  “The Sevendori have always been a temperate people.  The gods find virtue in sobriety,” he said, with conviction.

“Perhaps,” I said.  “But the people find virtue in ale.  Tirnard is a good host, and it keeps spirits bright.”

“There has never been an alehouse in Sevendor!” he said, as if it was holy law.  And there probably hadn’t been, at least not in recent memory.  Indeed, I had seen how scandalized some of the Sevendori were about the way the Bovali drank.  It wasn’t that they couldn’t hold their liquor – quite the contrary.  But the raucous behavior seemed very much at odds with the stern demeanor of the Sevendori.

Perhaps some lord in the past had been pious for one of those temperate sects like Oris or Fenea, and closed them.  Farant had been disreputable for supplying spirits, but even weak ale had been a rarity outside of Erantal’s quarters.

“There is one now,” I said, quietly.  “Say, do you think that the cliff face would hold if we cut back fifty or sixty feet?”

“My lord Minalan,” Railan said, pained, “such trade encourages other vices.  Dancing.  Singing.  Impious jests.  They demoralize the peasants and keep the tradesmen from their work.  And for what?  Nothing but sensual pleasures and immoral talk!”

“Some people like that sort of thing,” I shrugged.  “You are free to keep such things from spreading to Genly.  But Sevendor Village is governed by council, now.”  That was another new development and cause for complaint among the Sevendori.  Instead of confirming a new Yeoman for the village, as tradition dictated I had instituted a seven-man town council to oversee its affairs.  There was no set number, and though I appointed the members I did so taking the wishes of the people into account.

Currently Baris the Carpenter, young Gowel the smith, Andaron the carter (who made the trip from the village to Brestal Tower and back twice a week), Banamor the Mage, Burton the Broad (a popular Bovali farmer who had taken over managing the nascent Sevendor market), Goody Missa (a Bovali matron who represented the women of the village) and Nandol the mason were members.  They’d only met twice at that point, but they were making progress on properly ordering the new buildings I envisioned for the high street.

“That is another thing, Magelord – there are no Sevendori on the council!  You have Bovali and even foreigners, but there are none to speak for those who were born in the village!”

“True, but then you got a much better deal in Genly,” I pointed out.  “As soon as it thaws, you can start harvesting that clay – it’s probably white now, too.  And it’s possible that its new condition could make it very valuable.  But it’s yours, as is that new house, and whatever you can do for Genly, may the gods speed your hand.  Come spring, I’ll be hiring several of your people to help construct the new dam, and even more coin will flow your way.  Genly can become a productive, prosperous little community, featuring all the best that Sevendori culture has to offer.

“Sevendor Village, on the other hand, is going to be the new civil and commercial center of the magical world, if I get my way, and I’m not going to hamper that because you don’t like to drink.”

“It is far more than that, my lord,” he continued, just this side of respectfully.  “The Bovali in the alehouse, they . . . entice our girls there.  And dance.  I’ve seen it with my own eyes,” he said, as if they’d been consorting with goblins.

“I’m sure you did,” I said, soothingly.  “Railan, you’re going to have to get used to the idea that your girls and Bovali boys are going to make the new generation of Sevendori babies.  Alehouses have been used to facilitate that for centuries.

But,” I said, as I saw a new argument begin to form on his face, “I am open to compromise.  I gave Tirnard a boon, I’ll grant one to Genly to balance it.  I give you the right to construct a shrine to the god or goddess of your choice in the village center.

“In addition,” I continued, not wanting him to argue, “I will tax the alehouse one silver penny per cask of ale they sell, the proceeds to be given to the support and maintenance of the shrine.  If people want to get drunk in Sevendor and pay for the privilege, the least I can do is let them go to Genly to pray for sobriety.  And as the Yeoman, you’d be compensated for administering the shrine.”  I watched his expression.

“I . . . think that would be acceptable, my lord,” he said, finally.  It had better be.  It was the best deal he was going to get.

I was starting to understand that bribery works on just about everyone, regardless of class.  I wasn’t above using it to keep the peace.  Besides, a shrine would give people a reason to go to Genly, because there was damn little reason to go now.  “Now,” I continued, “I’m thinking of putting a whopping big keep back here, all in gleaming white, of course, with a three-hundred foot tall pinnacle tower at the center.  What do you think?”

He looked up at the mountain he had seen every day of his life.  “Are you proposing . . . building into the mountain, Magelord?” he asked, astonished at the prospect.

“With magic, yes,” I answered.   “And the more I think about it, the more it seems reasonable.  I mean, this keep is hardly adequate as it is, and if Sevendor becomes the kind of place I envision, it won’t be remotely sufficient.  So we’ll have to build.  But let’s build big, while we’re at it.  Maybe a four-story keep and an inner wall.  Something extremely defensible, but big enough to be comfortable.”

“My lord,” he said, shaking his head, “It’d take a dozen stone masons a dozen lifetimes to build what you propose.  I know you have been free with your coin, but . . . on whose backs will this great castle be built?” he asked, suspiciously.

“Oh, relax,” I soothed.  “I’m not about to raise taxes to pay for it.  No, if I can build it, I’ll have to raise the funds some other way.  Don’t worry, Railan, I have only the best interests of the Sevendori – both old and new – in mind.  I want everyone to prosper.  And believe it or not, if I can build what I envision then everyone will prosper.  Mage folk from all over the Duchies will come here, and they’ll need stables, inns, taverns, and food.”  I saw the man visibly shudder at the thought.

“So many changes,” he murmured, shaking his head.  “My Lord Minalan, I hesitate to speak of it, but it is my duty.  There are those who fear serving under a Magelord.  The . . . transformation, the strange lights, they feel it is too much.  Just a few,” he added, being sure that I understood that he did not share their feelings.  “But they agitate, my lord.  Agitate to leave Sevendor.”  He said it like it was a death sentence.

“Let them, with my blessing,” I nodded.  He looked shocked.  “No, really, if they are not happy here –” I stopped myself.  It felt like time for a lordly proclamation.

“If any man should fear for his safety or his family for holding me liege, he shall be released from his obligations and paid a sum before he leaves . . . never to return.  I want no man under me who is not here freely.  Tell that to those people.  I’ll give them enough to hire wagons and seek their fortunes elsewhere.   And no, this is not some wicked noble’s trick – I’m in earnest, Railan.  Understand?”

“Y-yes, milord,” he said.  “I shall let them know – who is that strange fellow?” he asked, interrupting himself as he pointed back toward the castle.  “I’ve seen him skulking about Genly, and over to Southridge.  One of the boys asked him, and he said he had your leave and the letters to prove it.  My lad couldn’t read none, of course, but . . .”

“That’s Olmeg the Green, a master of the magic of growing things.  I’ve retained him to advise me on what to plant this season.”

“Aye, some decisions have to be made,” he agreed, safely back on a subject he knew.  “Two weeks and the first furrow can be plowed.  A lot will depend on what the castle asks in tribute.”  That was, indeed, what regulated the agricultural economy.

Individual peasants had small plots of garden next to their homes, and a larger plot in the commons greenery.  But their allotment of tillage would determine who planted what, and until the castle let it be known in what form rents would be allowed to be paid, they couldn’t plant.

If the lord of the manor demanded wheat, you planted wheat.  If he wanted oats, you planted oats, at least in the fields you planted with rents in mind.  His decision usually relied on the relative price the grain merchants who plied the Riverlands would pay for the surplus.  It’s all very complicated, and the details vary from fief to fief, but that’s essentially how it’s done.

“He comes highly recommended,” I said, as the big man approached.  “I’m hoping he can put Sevendor on the path to prosperity.  Or at least keep the people fed.  I’d settle for that.”

“A mage for corn and onions, eh?” Railan asked, genuinely amused.  “Never thought I’d see that!”

Master Olmeg smiled gently, and waved as he came near.  His feet were unshod, of course, and he had shed his mantle in the heat of the afternoon sun.

“Magelord, I hesitate to disturb you, but . . .”

“Not at all.  Do you know Railan the Steady, Yeoman of Genly?” I asked, adding a little emphasis to the title to glorify the man.  It worked.  He looked positively important after I said that.

“Of course,” Olmeg nodded, politely.  “Magelord, you said to speak to you when I had completed my assessment.  I’m ready to give you my preliminary suggestions.”

“Yeoman Railan here will be one of the men administering the allotments, so I would appreciate his counsel, too.”

“As you wish, Magelord,” Olmeg said, deferentially.  “First, you said you wanted the people of Sevendor to be able to support themselves on the land, without importing food.  Right now they are growing oats, barley and wheat, with corn and beans in the summer.  The oats and corn get used for feed, barley and wheat gets used for bread and beer.

“The thing is,” he continued, taking out his pipe and lighting it so smoothly with a cantrip I might have concluded he was a High Mage, “oats and corn are all very well for pigs, cows, llamas and horses, but they lead to a meager diet for men.  Bread, a few vegetables, maybe a cockerel on a feast day.”

“Aye, that’s about it,” Railan agreed.  “For most, at least.  Some are fortunate enough to have a bit of milk or cheese.”

“Exactly,” Olmeg nodded.  “Plenty of starch, not much protein.  A few vegetables.  And they pay dearly for the starch: these lands are not ideal for the wheat they grow.  Nor the corn. “

“Now you just wait a moment,” Railan began, “we’ve been planting wheat in this vale for nine generations!  I think we know best what to grow!”

“Then why are you growing a variety which requires more water than it can get here in the dry season?” Olmeg asked, conversationally.  “I’m guessing your yields are small – no more than a hundred and fifty bushels per acre, at three rings harvested for every one sown.”

Railan looked guilty and indignant at the same time.  “In a good year,” he conceded.

“By switching to a different type of wheat, you can nearly double that,” Olmeg promised.  “And if you get the proper varietal for the sandier soil in this valley, your maize yield will more than double.  But even then, you will be hard pressed to feed so many.  You say there are more coming?”

“A thousand, at least.  The last of the Bovali refugees from the south will be arriving in six or seven weeks.”

“Then you will not be able to feed them all on wheat and corn.  Or not well.  But I have a solution, Magelord.  Potatoes.”

“Potatoes?” asked Railan, confused.

“Potatoes?” I asked, intrigued.

“Potatoes,” he affirmed, blowing a smoke ring for emphasis.  “They are incredibly healthful, and come in infinite varieties.  They can be grown quickly in any kind of soil.  They don’t need to be grown in rows.  They don’t require the same amount of water as grain.”

“But potatoes are not a proper food,” protested Railan.  “I like potatoes fine.  But you can’t feed a family on potatoes!”

“You’re thinking of the small red variety you grow now.  I’ve another two in mind.  The first is a firm brown russet, a good hearty line that grows fast and has a good texture for baking or boiling.  The second is a small high yellow from the piedmont of Alshar.  It’s grows well but slow in higher altitudes, but its main virtue is it can be dried and stored.  Up to a year or more.”

“Bah!” dismissed Railan.  “Potatoes are no proper crop for a man!”

“Actually, they’re the best choice you have.  A third variety – a yam – provides wholesome nutrients, and is sweet on the tongue.  Yeoman, you’re a planter of some experience,” he continued, smoothly.  “Tell me, why do the grain merchants not buy potatoes on the docks?”

Railan blinked.  “Why, they’d rot before you took them a hundred miles!”

“They don’t travel well and they don’t preserve well, not like grain,” affirmed the mage.  “Therefore they are not a good crop for trade.  They are, however, a very good way to put food in hungry bellies right here in Sevendor.  Grow your grain, Yeoman, if you grow the seed I suggest.  But every potato you eat instead of bread is more wheat you can sell.  Am I wrong?”

“Nay,” grunted Railan, his eyes swimming.  “And you say we can store these potatoes through the winter?”

“If you do it properly, and I’ll show you how,” Olmeg agreed.  “With magic, it’s even easier to control temperature and humidity.  But there is more.”

“I’m listening,” I grinned.  I was impressed how well Olmeg was handling Railan.

“How do you feel about the River Folk, Magelord?” he asked, hesitantly.  Railan’s eyes grew wide.

“I’m well-disposed to them,” I nodded, thinking of my recent encounters with them on the road to Wilderhall.  They’d helped me out, and I found them a helpful folk.  Of course three years ago I might have said the same of the gurvani.

“Then I propose we recruit a burrow or two,” Olmeg said, carefully stalking the idea with his words.  “The shady vale of Farant’s Hold is poorly suited to growing grain of any sort, and the fields are poor.  The genius of the little folk is how they build soil.  And they can help you cultivate potatoes, as well as some herbs and vegetables you can profit from.”

“I heard them puds were trouble,” grunted Railan.

“Some are, some aren’t,” I said.  “Same as any folk.  Some are nearly civilized.  Sagal isn’t having much luck down there.  I doubt he’d mind help from pint-sized vassals.”

“Then there are the cows, Magelord,” Olmeg continued.  And after the cows were the goats and sheep – he wasn’t a husbandman, but he understood which plants fed which animals the best.  The Bovali were anxious to get more cattle, he knew, so that they could go back to the cheese making they knew so well.  We discussed different breeds that might thrive better here, and then discussed sheep, mules, llamas, and horses.  Olmeg suggested two varieties of chickens and one type of turkey he thought would do well here.

“And lastly, the idea about the pond was an excellent one, Magelord.  A well-stocked, well-tended pond can add more protein to your peoples’ diet.  And the water can be used for the fields through the dry season.”

“I’m working on that,” I promised.  “But building a dam isn’t like digging a ditch with an earth elemental.  The pressures are enormous, and without sound engineering . . .”

“I understand,” he said, considering the problem.   It seemed to perplex him for only a few minutes.  “So you’re saying the biggest obstacle to building a dam is you need to move a bunch of big heavy rocks into place,” He said, matter-of-factly.

“Well, you can’t do it with just an earth berm and log palisade.  Not for the size of lake I envision.  I checked,” I promised.  I had, too.  Carmella had been adamant: try to keep that much water dammed up with just an earthen hill would mean an eventual catastrophe downstream.  At a minimum, the base of the dam would have to be fortified with stone.  We had the stone, but . . . well, earth elementals can move earth, but stone is rigid and heavy and when you’re talking about that much of it, it takes more power than . . . let’s just say it’s really, really hard and not worth doing.

“I can see that,” he reasoned, nodding his shaggy head.  “About how many boulders would you need as a base?”

“Eh?”  That was engineering.  Green magi aren’t supposed to know anything about engineering.  “Well,   five or six big ones.  We can probably harvest them from right here, easily enough, and rough them out with magic.  But to get them all the way down to the site of the dam, well, we don’t have the oxen, the manpower, or the time.  It would take weeks to inch each one down the slope.”

Olmeg didn’t look disturbed.  “Oh, if you can cut them, I can get them down there easily enough.”

I blinked.  My mouth may have been open.  “You know a spell to get the plants to carry it down?” I asked in disbelief.

“No, no, although that would be handy,” he admitted with a chuckle.  “If you can cut the stone, lend me a dozen strong men, and the use of your carpenter, I can have all the boulders down there that you need in a week.”

“Without irionite?” I asked in disbelief.

“That’s some broad shoulders you have,” Yeoman Railan said, skeptically.  “You wouldn’t be trying to hoodwink Magelord Minalan, would you?”

“Of course not,” Olmeg said, gently, puffing away at his pipe completely undisturbed by the accusation.  “I meant what I said.  Should I do that – in addition to greening this vale, Magelord, then shall I have made myself worthy of a stone?”

“And then some,” I agreed.  “Olmeg, if you can get that dam built that quickly, I’ll grant you any spot in Sevendor for your nursery.  I can have the blocks cut tomorrow – Rondal is best for that.  After that . . . it’s up to you.”

“Fair enough, then, Magelord,” Olmeg agreed, satisfied.  “And I’ll take you up on your offer for a nursery, as well.  I’ll need one, for the task ahead.”

I felt the brush of psychic contact, and raised my hand to ask them to wait.  It was Tyndal, who was on duty at the gate.

Wagons, Master, he said.  Right on time.  Seven of them.  And it looks like Sir Ganulan the Snowflake faced is riding escort.  You may want to come see this.

Thanks, I’ll be right there, I assured him.

“Well, gentlemen, I’ve got other business at the moment.  But Railan, see to that shrine – whichever deity your folk wish – and Olmeg, build me a damn dam.  I’ve got to go see a man about some chickens.”

Chapter Sixteen

A Ransom In Poultry

“It seems to all be there,” Tyndal admitted, as he surveyed the wagon train.  “Chickens, sheep, goats, ale, and all.  And the grain seems like decent quality.”

“Of course it is!” snarled Sir Ganulan from horseback.  “My father is an honorable man.  He would not demean the price of his son’s ransom by trying to cheat you of my worth.”  He had thrown the cowl of his cloak back, displaying his spell-striped face almost defiantly.  “Every penny’s worth.  Oh,” he added as an afterthought, digging into his saddle bag and withdrawing a roll of parchment.

“This is a letter of credit to Feron the Silversmith, in Sendaria-on-Bontal, instructing him to pay on demand any tailor’s bill presented to him in your name.  Enjoy your new finery,” he said, bitterly, tossing the roll to Tyndal.

My apprentice caught it with a wide smile.  “By Ishi’s comely eye, this is welcome!  Bah, if I have to wear these warspun clothes even one more month . . .”

“Now, Magelord,” Sir Ganulan said, addressing me formally but warily, “have the terms and conditions of the ransom been met?”

“They have, Sir Ganulan,” I agreed.  “And it’s a credit to your sire’s honor.  I’m glad we could settle things for this pittance, among gentlemen, instead of resorting to base coin.  And I do hope this will end any ill will between our domains.”  By Briga, I was being sincere.  I swear it.  But Sir Ganulan’s ears were poisoned against me.

“As for that . . . we can speak of it when my face is freed from your spellmongery!” he nearly shouted.

“Oh . . . that.  Yes, of course.  Tyndal?  You put it there.  It seems only proper.”

“Of course, Magelord,” he said, bowing obsequiously.  He motioned for the belligerent knight to dismount.  He was unarmored, but still bore his ransomed blade.  His hand brushed it for the barest second, and I could see the notion cross his face, but he came to his feet and stood calmly before Tyndal.

“All right,” the boy mage said, clapping his hands together.  “Hold still . . . this might hurt . . . if you get the urge to gouge out your own eyes, go right ahead—”

“Tyndal!”

“Oh, all right!” he said, annoyed but amused.  He waved two fingers.  The red snowflake began to fade.  “I’m done,” he said, when Sir Ganulan looked at him expectantly.  The knight hurriedly removed a lady’s looking glass from his pouch and surveyed his face, touching the fading lines.  He began to smile . . . but it was not a happy smile.

“The effect will take a few days to fade completely, and it’s possible that it will recur for a few months in times of stress, but by year’s end it should be gone.  If you have further problems with it, come see me, and regardless of our state I will address the issue in good faith.  You have discharged your commission honorably.”

“I will indeed hold you accountable.  As for the state of our domains . . . my father, Sire Gimbal, the Warbird of West Fleria, has determined that our realms are not on terms of friendship, as you have used legal technicality to usurp what was by right of conquest of arms his own  Brestal Vale—”

“Yes, well, remember we conquested it right back,” reminded Tyndal, who was not enjoying Sir Ganulan’s tone one bit.

“Through treachery!” he nearly squeaked.  His voice had not quite settled.

“Through guile,” corrected my apprentice indignantly.  “And then Master Minalan won the duel you insisted on for possession.  So it’s ours by law, by right of conquest, and by right of honorable combat,” he counted on his fingers, and then displayed the three to the West Flerian knight.

“Yet we still bear a grudge for the way in which you took it!” Ganulan shouted.

“Grudge all you like, it’s still ours,” Tyndal said, defiantly.

“So it is,” he continued coolly.  “Yet the grudge of a neighbor can be like Jezdeel’s third hell.  My father mislikes having a magelord for a neighbor – that is an abomination against which our ancestors fought the Magocracy, and it should not be borne by their noble descendants.  Whatever sham knighthood the Duke insisted on giving you, Lord Gimbal will not treat with the son of a baker as a peer.”

“At least his father married his mother,” Tyndal pointed out.  Ganulan blushed, and the snowflake on his face came back across his face briefly.  Even being an acknowledged bastard was still a step down from being a legitimate son, entitled to inherit the estates and titles of his father in their entirety.

“I’ll not take offense from a stableboy – former stableboy,”

Tyndal shrugged.  “It’s honest work.  I didn’t feel like a thief until I was ennobled.”

Sir Ganulan ignored the jibe.  “From this day forward, all traffic on the road to Sevendor Vale shall pay triple the toll.”

“You can’t do that!” Tyndal swore, reaching for Slasher.  I put out a hand to stop him, but he stopped himself first, and took his fingers away from the hilt as Sir Ganulan reached for his own.

“Truce,” I reminded them both.  “Your father maintains the roads in the name of the Duke.  Those tolls are set by the Duchy, and can only be raised by the Duke.”

“So it would be,” the lad said, his eyes narrowing with satisfaction, “if the road went through Sevendor to another domain, or part of the realm.  But it does not.

Therefore, from Lisney south, the road is by law a local road, controlled by the Baron, not the Duke.  And the Lord of West Fleria says the toll just tripled!”

I sighed.  “Very well, Sir Ganulan.  I had hoped we could put this silly feud to bed, but if you insist to try the patience of a Magelord when you have been oft-warned, then I cannot pour wisdom into your head.  Go, then.  If you bear a grudge, then know that the expression of that grudge will be paid in kind by Sevendor.  I’ll say no more than that – I am not given to threats, and idle threats least of all.”

Smiling triumphantly he returned to the saddle, and gave an obnoxious, mocking bow before he rode off to speak to the lead guard of the wagon train.  Just as he was about to ride off back to West Fleria on his own, Tyndal cast a cantrip and augmented his voice, so that it was easily twice as loud.

“Sir Ganulan!” he said, with a leer, “what do you think of the new device for Brestal Vale?  The banner flies from the tower!”

Every head in the gate yard turned towards the spire at the top of the gate tower, where a pennant fluttered in the spring breeze.  It was a green banner with a black tower on it, as the previous device had been.  But where the warbird and spherical egg had been was now an irregular white blob with a single round yellow disc in the middle.

A fried egg.

“Ishi’s tits!” I swore under my breath.  About that time he launched another cantrip, a snap-and-bang aural spell that set every chicken in the wagon clucking in panic at once.

Sir Ganulan gave the most livid stare I’ve ever seen at my apprentice, who was bent over double with laughter.  And he wasn’t the only one.  More than half of the dozens of men on both sides of the frontier were howling.  Without another word or even a backwards glance, Sir Ganulan galloped down the road.

“Magelord,” another one of the West Flerians – an older man, his hair touched with gray at the temples, with a sword at his hip and a knight’s chain on the breast of his doublet.  “I beg a word.  I am Sir Fetalan of Hosly, father of your hostage Sir Festaran.  Is there any way you would consider treating with me in private?”

I nodded, while staring angrily at Tyndal.  I opened a telepathic link as forcefully as I could, and after a moment’s hesitation he answered.

We will speak of this later.  It was all I said.  I ended the conversation without waiting for a response.

“By all means, Sir Fetalan, why don’t we repair to the gate tower and discuss the matter over cups.  I feel the need to be away from all of the livestock at the moment.”  The man looked genuinely grateful at the cordiality of the reception, especially after our treatment of young Sir Ganulan.  “I’ve gotten to know your boy over the last few weeks.  Good lad.  A good heart and a keen mind.”

“It’s kind of you to say so,” Fetalan said, hesitantly, as I led him to the gate tower.  His eyes got wider as he stared around in confusion.  “Pardon me, my lord, but I was here but a year ago, and none of this—”

“This is a mageland, now,” I pointed out, gesturing toward the blue magelight suspended from the top of the tower, “things move at a different pace in Sevendor.  I had refugees from the Wilderlands to settle, and they are an industrious people.”

“So they are,” he nodded, as he saw the progress the Bovali were making with the new village at Brestal Farms.  “I’ve heard rumors of war in Alshar . . .”

“All true, and far worse than you can imagine,” I assured him grimly, as we entered the cozy guard room of the tower.  “The Bovali here were at the center of it.  But Sevendor is safe, at least for a while, if I have anything to say of it.”  I poured wine in two cups taken from the common service and shooed a militiaman up to the heights while we conversed.

“I wish to beg for my son’s life,” Sir Fetalan said, quietly.  “I understand that he was involved in some foolishness—”

“Let me assure you, he was coerced by those fortune placed above him – a position every man finds himself in, at one point or another.  He was against the idea from the beginning, and it was only attention to his honor that compelled him.”

“It is good to know I did not raise a fool, then,” sighed Fetalan.  “Yet when I heard that you were willing to allow Sir Ganulan and the squires to return with but a token ransom, but not my son . . .”

“It’s a sophisticated matter,” I said, smoothly – as smoothly as I could, considering this man feared the power I held over his son.  “And a political one.   And when you are dealing with either politics or magi, subtlety and deception are the rule more often than the exception.”

“I confess you confound me,” Fetalan said, shaking his head.  “I am but a simple country knight, Lord Minalan—”

“Magelord Minalan,” I corrected, “and I say it not as a point of pride or vainglory, but to call attention to the fact that normal feudal rules do not necessarily apply when dealing with magelords, especially at this moment.  As I said, I’ve gotten to know your lad in the last few weeks, and I can see the influence his father had on him.  Therefore I feel I know you, in part, already.  Tell me, Sire Fetalan, how are your relations with your liege?”

He looked at me, surprised.  “You ask me to betray—”

“I speak not of betrayal,” I said, quickly, “I’m merely curious.  The Warbird of West Fleria . . .”

“Sire Gimbal,” he sighed, heavily.  “I took my lands two years before his father died and he and his brother parted the barony, east and west.  Gimbal’s father was a stout knight and a decent lord, but his sons . . . they were trouble.  And Gimbal in particular was ambitious.  My domain ended up in West Fleria, and I faithfully executed my duties to the man.  Including participating in that nasty business at the crossroads, although I was spared the sack of Brestal.”

“So you are not an admirer of his military ambitions?”

“A lord who looks to war is not looking at his estates,” Sire Fetalan said, boldly.  “I am no coward, but nor do I seek to thrive at the expense of my neighbors.”

“And your personal opinion of Sire Gimbal?  Aside from your feudal obligations?”

The older knight looked at me, understanding the risk he was taking.  “He’s a pimple on the ass of chivalry,” he sighed, heavily.  “The kind of mean, petty little man who seeks glory at the expense of—”

“Say no more,” I chuckled.  “You needn’t compound any guilt over stating the truth about your sworn liege.  Still, I felt I had to be certain of your character, even though I guessed well from speaking with your son.  I thought as much.  Fes has told me about the taxes and regulations and demands he’s made on your domain, and I didn’t think you would be happy about that – or serving the kind of man who would make them.”

“Yet despite my personal feelings, if you ask me to betray my sworn lord—”

“I would hesitate before putting a man of honor in such a position.  It’s not my style.  But first let me assure you that Sir Festaran is in no danger from me or my men.  Indeed, he is quite at liberty within Sevendor, and he has lived up to the letter of his parole.”

“That’s very gracious of you,” Fetalan said, looking instantly relieved.  “He is my only son.”

“I just had my first child, a boy, myself.  I understand what you mean.”

“Yet, the price of ransom is so high . . .”

“Nor do I mean to beggar your realm,” I chuckled.  “Indeed, I don’t want you to pay the ransom.”

“What?” he asked, alarmed.

“Your son appears to have Talent, Sire Fetalan,” I explained.  “magical Talent.  Enough to consider training him.  And due to some . . . unforeseen but fortunate events recently, Sevendor is allowing his Talent to manifest more completely.”

“But . . . if he is to become a mage, then—” he said, struggling with the all-too-common reaction of the petty nobility when they discover their heir has Talent.  No noble title, no holding land, no inheritance, doomed to a life of quiet service as court magi or spellmongers.  A fate worse than death for a country knight.

“Last year? Perhaps he might have been in danger from the Censorate.  This year?  The issue is in question.  And next year?  He should be able to both receive training to develop his Talent and still inherit his patrimony.  But until then, the news of his Talent should be kept quiet… for his own safety.”

“Eh?  Of course!” Fetalan agreed, as a number of confusing thoughts collided in the vicinity of his bushy eyebrows.  “I see your stratagem, now, Magelord: if my son is a hostage, then he is under your care until ransom is paid.”

“Where I can teach him, clandestinely.  Not that it will be much of a secret here – but as long as he is a prisoner, he will not be subject to any more of Gimbal and Ganulan’s idiocy.  He’s just the kind of young, brave knight who gets sent off on stupid suicide missions.  And by that I mean no disrespect to him – but Gimbal strikes me as the kind of man who delights in that kind of vainglorious foolishness.”

“And my son would be honor-bound to do as he was bid.  Only as a prisoner . . .”

“Exactly.  He cannot honorably serve until his ransom is paid.  Would you like to see him?”

“By the Allfather, yes!” the man said, gratefully.  “His mother is worried sick that he’s in irons in some dungeon hole.  She won’t be content until I’ve told her I’ve laid eyes on him.”

“I’ll do better than that – it is a long journey back to your home.  Please be our guest, have dinner with us, and enjoy your son’s company.  You may return on the morrow after witnessing the ease of his captivity yourself.”  That eased the knight’s mind tremendously.

I escorted Sir Fetalan all the way back to the castle, noting with satisfaction the astonished look on his face.  He was the first real outsider familiar with the vale to come to Sevendor since we’d begun our work.  I was pleased to see we had impressed him.

“How many people do you say you have now?” he asked, in wonderment, as we passed no less than four wagons and two full work levies just outside of Gurisham.

“I brought nearly two thousand, with near another thousand and more on the way,” I explained as we walked the horses at a leisurely pace.  I told the briefest of tales to explain how they had come here.  I don’t believe that their origin impressed Sir Fetalan as much as their numbers.

“You realize I’ve seen more men of fighting age in the last half hour than I have in West Fleria in a two-day ride?” he snorted in disbelief.  “Between Farise and this latest levy, it’s amazing there’s a peasant lad of age anywhere in the vales.”

“These men have done their service in defense of the Duchies,” I said, diplomatically.  “They need a safe place to rest and recover.  Sevendor is their new home.”

“My point, Magelord, was that should the Warbird decide to raid your busy little land, he may well find far more resistance than he suspects.”

“I dare say he would,” I smiled.  “Do you think it likely?”

“I am not deep in my liege’s councils,” admitted Sir Fetalan, “he mistrusts my loyalty to honor over my loyalty to him, and the gods have spared me that, at least.  But if I know the man’s temperament; he will not let a threat like Sevendor stay on his frontier without challenge.  He has been preparing to harass his neighbor Baron Arathanial for two years, now, before he was distracted by Sevendor.”

“I was hoping that the new gate fortifications would prove discouraging,” I admitted.

“They are formidable, and they have the entire Bontal valley abuzz, so quickly and solidly did you raise them.  In truth they are advanced beyond the point of all rumors.  But some assure Sire Gimbal that they are but illusions of magic, and will fade with the first blow struck.”

“He’s welcome to lead a cavalry charge against those dikes if he wishes,” I chuckled, imagining such a debacle.  “Though they were raised by magic, they’re as solid as—”

“Great Ishi who birthed us all!” swore Sir Fetalan, his eyes wide with shock as the afternoon sun hit the white stones of Sevendor Castle just right in the distance.  It shown like a beacon.  “What happened to your castle?”

“There was a slight . . . mishap,” I said, quietly.  “It’s perfectly safe – merely a color change.  But it affected every bit of stone for two miles.  One gets used to that sort of thing,” I said, casually, despite the fact that I still wasn’t used to it.  I let the matter go at that.  No need to start spreading even more rumors, some with the truth about the stone.  I had enough problems.

We continued to chat about small matters like gentlemen as we passed through Sevendor Village and up to the castle.  If the change in the latter had provoked him, the change in the former impressed him mightily.  “Why, you have the beginnings of a small town, here!” he remarked, shaking his head.  “Last summer there couldn’t have been more than a hundred people here, and now you have ten times that!”

“And they eat a lot, too,” I groaned good-naturedly.  “But come autumn this year, we should be able to feed ourselves, at least.”

“Is that a tavern?” he asked, gesturing excitedly over toward the growing ale stall on the commons.

We went directly to the practice yard, after the stable boy who took our mounts (when did we get a stable boy?) directed us to Sir Festaran’s location.  There, a half-dozen guards were wearing padded armor and using blunted swords to spar with each other, or against the half-rotten pell.  Among them were Sir Festaran and a couple of Bovali lads who fancied themselves warriors and wanted to practice.

I’d encouraged that, offering prizes for the best of them.  I’d also mandated weekly archery practice at the butts on the common for all lads between twelve and sixteen.  I wanted my folk to be able to defend my realm.  The aggressive way the boys were going at it, I didn’t think that would be a problem.

Festaran, at least, was giving a good account of himself.  Now that he was not fighting for honor or his life, he had reasonably good form and was able to land several sound blows on the peasant boys’ helmets before he realized he was being watched.  He waved to me, and as I was returning the gesture he recognized the man next to me.

“Father!” he bellowed, tearing off his helmet and running to embrace his sire.  Sir Fetalan looked profound grateful, and if there was a tear and a prayer involved, I wouldn’t be the one to notice.  When the older knight had assured himself that his boy was in one piece and in good health, he relaxed visibly.

“I’ll leave you two – listen out for the supper bell, and I’ll join you in the Great Hall.  I trust that I have your parole, Sir Festaran?”

“You’d have to tear me away, Magelord!” he agreed, enthusiastically.  “Father, come meet my new friends . . .”

I watched with satisfaction as the relieved father went off with his son.  I wasn’t worried about him trying to run off – I was pretty sure we had an understanding on that count.  And if they did, they’d miss dinner, and it was boar tonight – thanks to Kyre of Westwood, who had sent three of them to the castle the day before.  Nanily knew her way around a pig.

I was about to head back into the great hall and up to my apartments to play with the baby when I could feel the call of another’s mind.

It wasn’t who I expected.  It was Mavone.

Min, we’ve got problems, he said, tersely.

What kind of problems? I asked, stopping in my tracks.

The Censorate kind.  Hartarian was in a meeting with the representatives of all the ducal Censors until late last night.  This morning, his two biggest opponents turned up dead.

Oh, shit! I said, eloquently.  How?

One had a heart attack.  One fell out of a window.

I considered.  That seems awfully convenient, I pointed out.

That’s what the rest of his opponents thought.  The hang-the-high-magi-now party is real quiet right now, but they aren’t happy.  Hartarian’s local people are loyal to him, and a troop of heavy infantry mercenaries just conveniently camped out across the way from the citadel, so I doubt there will be an attempt to overthrow him, but the Merwini and Vorean delegations are livid, and they’re collecting support from the Castali, Remeran and Alshari Censors who don’t agree with Hartarian.

How many? I asked, my heart sinking.

Probably three-fifths, and a lot of the younger Censors.  Many of the older, more experienced seniors are open to listening to Hartarian.  Or they were.  Before the deaths.

Was it murder?

What do you think?  The one with the heart attack was old and gray, and fat as a baker—

Hey!

Sorry.  Anyway, the other one was praying in a locked room, by himself, and then just fell over the balcony.

So there were plausible explanations for both deaths, I reasoned.  They may not be murder.

Of course, Hartarian’s niece showed up four days ago with a few comely servant girls, Mavone said, casually.

Lady Isily?  Then it was murder.

Assassination, he corrected.  Her fingers were all over it.  I think she and her sewing circle and those mercenaries are Duke Rard’s tangible show of support for Hartarian.  But from the way he reacted this morning, Hartarian wasn’t happy with the result at all.  Now there are warmagi from both sides skulking about the place, waiting for someone to make the first move.

Did Hartarian bring you before the council? I asked, curious.

No, they wouldn’t allow it, he chuckled.  But I met with seven of them privately.  I told them about the Dead God and did my best to scare them shitless.  I think it worked on three of them.  The other four were either skeptical or fanatics or both.  Of course, two of them are dead now, he reminded himself.

Did Hartarian—?

No, he had no idea they were going to die, I’m sure of it.  And he suspects Isily as much as I do.  But that doesn’t matter.  He’s expelled all those who refuse to follow him from the citadel, and he’s handed the keys over to me in trust to you.

How did they react to his new witchstone?

The General did not enlighten his subordinates about it, Mavone said, diplomatically.  I think he wanted to avoid the appearance of being bribed—

--which is exactly what we did, I interrupted.

--and thought that it would be needlessly provocative to flaunt such a powerful bauble.  Of course, after my tour of the vaults, a witchstone is almost redundant.  Min, this place is loaded to the rafters with all sorts of confiscated stuff!  Stuff we can use.  And the library . . . I found works I had thought were long lost.  The early Censorate confiscated entire estates, and had a lot of the libraries shipped here for ‘academic study’.

Do what you can to take inventory, I advised.  I want to know just what we’re going to be responsible for.  You don’t think you’ll have any problem holding the place, once Hartarian leaves for Castal?

No, the Censorate’s castellan and I have become fast friends.  And the Captain of the Guard understands the change in regime better than anyone, I think.  But I’d like to rig the dice.

How so?

How many spare witchstones do we have?

Maybe five.  Why?

Because there’s a warmage I’d like to recruit to help out here.  He was a baronial Censor in Remere before Farise, when he joined up.  But he’s an outstanding warmage – Gerendren.

I had heard of him.  He was a combat mage, but not the usual hack-and-slash commando.  Gerendren specialized in small unit tactics and command magic.  If you’re wondering what that is, so do I.  I’ve never gotten a satisfactory explanation for it.  You think he’ll be helpful?

Oh, yes.  If he’s on our side.  But he knows the Censorate already, so there won’t be any crap about an outsider overseeing security.  And he’s really good at building the kind of unit we’re going to need here.

What kind of unit? I asked, hesitantly.

Well, we’re going to need someone to replace the Censorate, in terms of civil enforcement of the Low Magi, right?  And policing the High Magi, not to mention defending Order assets like this magnificent citadel.  We need a school for warmagi, Knights Magi, whatever you want to call them, and this place is it.  Once we clear out some of the garbage and re-arrange the living quarters, I think this would be an excellent war college for that sort of thing.

I’ll consider it, I agreed.  Right now I just want to make certain it’s secure.  But we’re supposed to be meeting in just a few weeks at the Robinwing Conclave – if you can convince Gerendren to come to the council, then I’ll evaluate him.  It’s probably just a formality – he has a reputation.  And I’ve never heard anything bad about him.

He’s a professional, Mavone assured me.  And he’s just the kind of iron-balled bastard we need to crack the whip for us.  I’m really too delicate for such base pursuits.

If you need him, I’ll consider it, I repeated.  Anything else?

He paused – not the “oh, let me see, was there something else?” kind of pause but the “I don’t know if I should really tell you this, and if I do, how can I put it most diplomatically?” kind of pause.  My heart was sinking with dread before he ever “spoke.”

There was one thing, Min, he said, casually.  There was a reception the other night, the day Isily arrived.  She looked a little . . . . well-fed.  And she’s usually so slender.  So I had a hunch, and I checked, and . . . Min, she’s at least two, three months pregnant.  And by my calculations, that puts the date of her conception right around the time of the Battle of Timberwatch.

I paused.  My world was shaking itself around me, and I was struggling to bring it back into focus.  An army of emotions encamped in my heart, and blind rage was leading them.

Tell no one, I ordered him.  Not even Pentandra.  Not yet.  And find some way to confirm it’s mine.  It very well might not be – the lady’s virtue is at the service of her master, and there’s every chance that I wasn’t the only wand in the wench.

But . . . don’t mention this to anyone, Mavone.  I’m serious.  This complicates things at a level I hadn’t even considered.  Until I do . . . keep it a secret.

Chapter Seventeen

I Collect A Debt And Visit A Spellmonger

“I don’t want you to leave!” Alya sobbed in my lab as I packed my traveling trunk.  “What will I do without you?”  She really did look stricken . . . and that was upsetting the baby in her lap.  He was already starting to pay attention to her moods, I’d noticed.  But best to keep her calm – upsetting one would upset the other, and that would make leaving that much harder.

“You’ll be fine,” I said, encouragingly.  “I have every confidence in your ability to run this place without me.  You’ve got Sir Cei,” I reminded her.

“It’s not the same,” she wept.  “Why?  Why do you have to go now?”

I stopped, looked at her, and sighed.  “I’ve told you, Alya: the Order has to meet before the Coronet Council this summer.  We have to get our Order – our Orders,” I corrected, “in order before we go before the Duke and act like we know what we’re doing.  I mean, the King.  So it’s important.  We have to make some decisions about how things need to run, now that the Censorate isn’t keeping an eye on everyone’s shoulder, and we have to do it before the forces of chaos interfere.”

That caught her up short.  “The forces of chaos?”  She looked frightened.

“They’re not an actual army,” I tried to explain, patiently, “just the tendency for someone in an important position to really muck it up at a critical time.  That happens to every organization, if you don’t do it right first and then keep doing it right.  I saw it in the Army often enough.  Miscommunication, lack of oversight, lack of instruction and training, lack of accountability – those are the Forces of Chaos we have to fight.”  I was quoting Penny, but I hope I made it sound authoritative.  “Even the Magocracy collapsed more from inattention to administrative detail than it did the barbarian hordes.

“In any case, if we don’t get organized and figure out how we want to run magic in the new kingdom, then the forces of chaos are going to be joined by a real army – the Censorate.  And they are organized, well-funded, and well-supported.  So . . . yes, I have to go.”

“I just hate to think of you so far away,” she pouted.  “And for so long!”

“Three weeks,” I said, shrugging, trying to be casual about my departure.  It didn’t seem to be working.  “I know it sounds like a long time, but it’s just a week there, a week for the meeting, and a week back.  It’ll be over before you know it,” I assured her, unconvincingly.

“You’re right, I know,” she said, blinking away tears after staring at me unflinchingly for several silent moments.  I tried very hard to be patient with her, knowing that she was still recovering from the difficult delivery.

But another part of me was a little angry that she was being so . . . so unreasonable about the whole thing.  I didn’t know what she was trying to accomplish – we both knew I had to go.  And it wasn’t any easier on me – this was the first time I’d be gone from little Minalyan, ever, and the first time I’d been away from her even one night since our wedding, and the thought depressed me greatly.

I continued packing while she continued to mope.  It was the first time she had ventured up to my lab since she had Mal, and she teetered on the one stool, our boy in her lap.  She looked down at him and studied his face.  “He looks so much like you I could spit.  You and my father.  I don’t know, Min, I just feel a lot safer with you around – for both of us.”

“Well, I’m leaving Sir Tyndal here to watch over you both,” I reminded her.  “And more importantly, I’m leaving Sir Cei to watch over Sir Tyndal.”  I closed the big shapeless leather satchel and spellbound the knots with a charm.  “I’ve got the whole valley warded up tighter than a mournsister’s arse, Captain Forondo has a full complement of lancers in addition to his infantry to patrol the frontier now, and the Bovali militia is just itching for an excuse to muster in case of trouble.  But I just don’t see any on the horizon.  I think you should just relax and enjoy the spring weather.”

“Hard to do with all that snow still hanging around,” she grumbled.  That was another sore spot.  A good third of the north-facing slopes were still covered in snow a foot thick, kept artificially cool by magic.   It’s not like we needed the pasturage right now, as the low-lying meadows in the vale had thawed weeks ago.  We needed the water locked up in that snow.

I’d put the entire area under an enchantment to keep it frozen.  As soon as the dam was completed, we’d be able to let it melt, but until then the southern ridges of Sevendor were two months behind the seasons.

“But I suppose you’re right.  I’ll manage,” she sulked.

“I know you will,” I smiled, and kissed her forehead.  “And from what I understand from the old biddies, by the time I return, you’ll be ready for a return to a healthy marital life, too.  That’s got to be alluring.”

She rolled her eyes.  “Far more for you than me, My Lord,” she said, snidely.  “You heard what the old wives said: the first time is going to be dreadful—”

“—followed by several weeks of just ‘really bad’,” I agreed.  “This will pass, Alya, I promise.”

“It’s not like I’m even really feeling . . . randy,” she said, frustrated.  “It’s just that I feel like it’s been forever and . . . now you’re going away!”  And the tears were back and we were back where we started.

I spent the next ten minutes soothing her until we were interrupted by Stacsid, my new valet.  I didn’t really think I needed a valet, but since we were nobles now and suddenly had far too much crap to take care of ourselves, I suppose a valet made some kind of sense.  Personally, I think I can manage to put my own boots on.

Stacsid was a Bovali man, about thirty, who had a bit of a limp he picked up during the siege when one of those gurvani clubs crushed most of his knee – that’s why he wasn’t building houses or tilling fields or manning a post.  He was smart enough, and had some idea about service.  He needed a job, and I was told I needed a valet, because every lord has a valet, no matter what I or my boots thought about the matter.

Perhaps I was prejudiced, since my last manservant had ended his tenure by trying to kill me.  I did have to admit that Stacsid didn’t seem the assassin type.  He just wasn’t that bright.  But he was attentive, and loyal, and he knew when to leave me alone.   He glanced at my wife, her tears, my state, and he quietly picked up my leather trunk in both arms and took it downstairs.

Alya turned over Minalyan to Darishi, the wet nurse, when we followed him down, and came with me as far as the courtyard where Traveler was saddled and waiting with the rest of my men.  I gave her one last kiss and embrace, and she called for a stirrup cup, and there may have been tears in my eyes or maybe it was just the early hour, but we spent another few tender moments before I got on my horse.

Dawn was just breaking in the east over the forest ridge.  I gave a final wave to my wife, nodded to Sir Cei, who was peering down at us over the battlement, already on watch, and rode to join the rest of the party at the bailey gate.

It was a relatively small party, as I wanted to get to Robinwing and back as quickly as I could.  Besides me, I was taking Rondal, Banamor (representing the footwizards at the council, at my request), a half-dozen mounted sergeants from the garrison commanded by Ancient Dalcalan, and lastly Sir Festaran.

The captive knight had been granted use of his arms and armor, and despite his status as prisoner he accompanied us as any faithful retainer knight might his lord.  He seemed excited by the adventure of it all – this would be the farthest journey he’d ever taken from home – and he was doing his best to impress me with his puissance and his chivalry as we departed.  That was annoying.  Once we got on the road, however, he quieted down a bit.

Sevendor village was astir, as the peasants began the arduous task of leading the oxen and mules out to the waiting plowshares.  As lord of the domain I had plowed the ritual First Furrow in my own demesne (or at least Sir Cei said it was mine – there were dozens of strips of land in the fields of Sevendor) only a week before, and the new plows I had purchased and rented to the peasants were seeing constant use.

The artisans were getting about their day, and cotters were beginning their daily rounds, selling ale and barley pottage for a copper on the commons for breakfast or asking for work at construction sites in town at three pennies a day.   Thankfully there was more work than there were cotters.  We trooped through the village and up the rise toward Gurisham at a goodly pace.

I wasn’t in any hurry to get there, but I did not want us to tarry in West Fleria any longer than we had to, even if it meant speeding past perfectly good inns and spending the night on the road.  Sir Festaran had advised that we spend as little time on the road in Fleria as possible, and I agreed.  Besides, with a two-horse cart instead of a train of pack horses, mules, or llamas, we should be able to make pretty good time.

Banamor acted as teamster for us, driving the single wagon with our baggage, with one of the guardsmen sitting on top of the bundle, a bow in his hands.  The formerly-itinerate mage seemed quite pleased with his duty.  Footwizards rarely get the luxury of a horse or wagon, otherwise they wouldn’t be footwizards.  He was doubly pleased because he hoped to make a clean profit from his first foray into the trade of rare magical resources.  And a part of that was the cask of snowstone and soils from Sevendor in the cart.

The wagon itself was filled with a number of chests containing everything from my underwear to a hundredweight of snowstone, most to be distributed among the High Magi for research purposes but some reserved for sale.   Its unique properties would likely fetch a high price among our colleagues – being able to carry around a low etheric resistance in your pocket, or including one with your enchantment, had to have a great market.  Great enough so that I could foresee Sevendor having a prosperous future ahead no matter what the crops were like – and that wouldn’t be a bad thing, I’d decided.

We stopped at the Diketower to confer with Sir Forondo about the domain’s defenses and provide some last-minute instruction, and then by mid-morning we were off down the road toward distant Sendaria-on-Bontal, where we would hire a barge downriver.

It was a gloriously pleasant early spring day, which made my mood that much more sour.  I hated leaving Alya and the baby.  And I hated leaving Sevendor.  I had just started to feel settled-in, and had begun to relax for the first time since . . . well, since the bell tower in Minden’s Hall started ringing a year ago.

“Toll, milord,” Ancient Dalcalan announced, pointing ahead.  We’d gone about six miles, and were thinking about considering where to stop for lunch, when we came across the toll man.

He was a free peasant, I could see, a young one.  And he looked vaguely familiar.  Then I recognized him.

“Korl, son of Farant,” I recalled.  “Formerly of Farant’s Hold.  I see you didn’t wander far.”

“Pay the tollman!” he sneered.  “That’s right, we landed on our feet.  We’ve got friends in Fleria, I told you.  Pa paid to set me up as tollman.  So I’ll need . . .” he looked at the lot of us, the horses, the wagon, and his lips moved – a lot – as he figured in his head.  “Thirty-eight silver pennies!” he said triumphantly, at last.  “Eight for the wagon, ten for the men, and twenty for the lords!”

“I’d like to check your figures,” Rondal murmured.  I held out a hand to stop him.

“So Sire Gimbal truly has tripled the toll,” I said, sadly.  “All right, pay the man, Rondal.”

My apprentice looked at me like I was crazy, but I nodded in affirmation.  He shrugged, then pulled a purse out of a bag and carefully counted out thirty eight silver pennies – over three ounces of silver.

“Are you sure about this, Master?” my apprentice murmured through clenched teeth as he counted.

“Do as you’re bid,” I ordered.  He sighed again, then counted them all out again into Korl’s filthy palm.  His eyes glowed brighter with each chink of the coin.

“There,” I said, when he was done.  “Now give us our passes so that we may be on our way.”

He smirked, as if he had just robbed us, and handed us each a wooden pass with West Fleria’s mark on it.  Every toll got a pass, and when we crossed back over the frontier we’d leave them with the tollman there.  Then the toll reeve would tally the number of passes at the end of the week and he’d know how much to expect from each tollman, who kept a portion (usually one in five) of what he took in fees.  I nodded serenely as Banamor took the last one.

“Now that our business is concluded, Goodman Korl, there is the matter of your family’s debt to Sevendor.”

The triumphant lad suddenly lost his enthusiasm.  “What?”

“Your family left in violation of its oath, not to mention running an unlicensed still, for which I could fine you up to eight ounces of silver.  I’ll forget about that, as the price of being rid of you, but the honest debt to the fief, that is still owed: Your reeve-fees, and the arrearage in rent.  It comes to around twelve ounces of silver—”

“Thirteen ounces and seven silver pennies,” corrected Rondal, who had been paying attention to Sir Cei’s lectures on estate management.  “There might be more,” he added.

“So?” Korl asked, sneering.  “We ain’t under your law anymore, Magelord!  We look to the Warbird, now!”

“That doesn’t excuse Master Farant’s obligation to repay his debt to his rightful lord.  Or should I say, Farant’s House.”

It took a few moments for the boy to realize what I was suggesting, and when he did he clutched the silver I’d paid him to his chest.

“That is true, Magelord,” Sir Festaran said, riding closer to me.  “A Yeoman’s fealty is on behalf of his line, when he takes a manor in the name of the lord.  When he dies, his sons inherit.  So goes his debt,” he added.

“Exactly,” I agreed, sweetly.  “And here is a representative of that House now, with a portion of the debt he owes!  Gods be praised!” I mocked.

“You . . . you . . . this money belongs to the Warbird!” he protested.

“You seem to be the one holding it,” Rondal observed.  “After all, we paid the tollman the toll, not the Warbird.  What you pay him is entirely up to you.  But right now . . . you seem to have thirty-eight silver pennies of ours.  That’s almost a third of your House’s debt.”

“No!” the boy screamed, grabbing his toll staff with one hand, but unwilling to part with his handful of coin.  “You paid that!”

“And so did you,” Rondal spat.  “Do you have any idea what a mess your father made of that hold?  It’s a disgrace!”  He had spent days helping Sagal put the hold to rights, and had come across evidence of some of Farant’s neglect first-hand.  “It’s cost dozens of ounces of silver to restore it to simple livability, much less profitability.  The least you can do is pay your rightful debt for the misery you have done.”

“I won’t!” he insisted . . . but by that point it was too late.   Dalcalan and his men had ridden to cut off any easy escape route.   They hadn’t drawn swords yet, but they didn’t need to.  Korl knew he was trapped.

But just like the first time I met him, he stubbornly refused to yield.  He grasped the pole with white-knuckled hands, his silver prize quickly shoved into a pouch at his belt.  I sighed, and almost thought about just letting it pass, but I knew I couldn’t.

While I wanted to be liked by my people for my grace and benevolence, Korl and his kin weren’t my people.  If I let this go, then I would get a reputation I didn’t want.  A lord who couldn’t collect on his debts was weak and ripe for conquest.  And there was no doubt that this was an honest debt, or that I was within my rights to collect it.

I started to reach for a wand when Rondal put his hand on my arm.  “Master, this seems like robbery, if he does not surrender it himself.”

“I have every right—”

“I don’t dispute your right, Magelord.  But perhaps if he had a choice.  Say, the same incentive Tyndal suggested you give Sir Ganulan?”

“That’s a very interesting idea,” I conceded, after a moment’s thought.  “Very interesting.   Only I think under the circumstances . . .” I dismounted, and approached the frightened young man as I would a skittish sow.  “Goodman Korl, you and your house owe me a debt.  You can pay it now, or you can pay it later, but pay it you will.”  I cast a mental thought at Rondal, and he nodded.  Suddenly Korl dropped his pole in surprise, but after that he didn’t move a muscle.   My apprentice had bound him.

“Thirteen ounces of silver,” I said, as I regarded the boy’s sweating face.  “Oh, do relax, Goodman Korl.  This won’t hurt in the slightest.”

I closed my eyes, called for power, shaped it into a rune of my direction, and then gave it form.  When I opened them again a moment later, Korl’s frightened face stared back at me . . . augmented with thirteen small snowflakes across his forehead, and seven small circles on his right cheek.

“From now on, everyone you see will know your House owe Sevendor a debt.  Until that money is paid, your face will be your accounting.  Now,” I said, sympathetically, “I understand that this debt is not yours, personally, but your House’s.  As such, if your father presents himself to me with you, I will be happy to transfer the account to his face.”  Somehow I doubted Farant would be so generous, but I felt it was only right to make the offer.

“What . . . what do you mean?”

Rondal cast a flashy little spell that turned a portion of the air in front of Korl’s face reflective.  It wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough to shave by.  And good enough for Korl to see his face.

“Ishi’s tits and ass!” he swore, shivering inside the binding spell.  “What have you done to me?”

“Pay your debt, and I will retire the stars,” I explained.  “Not before.  Now, you can rid yourself of some of them right away, by returning our silver to us.  The others will go when you’ve paid the balance.  Or you can keep the silver and the stars, and bear them proudly.”

When faced with such a terrible decision, Korl fell to his knees weeping, begging for mercy, thrusting coins at me in a panic.  We settled on the thirty-eight pennies, plus twenty copper pennies, his take from the last few days.  Apparently only Sevendori were charged silver.  I removed three of the large stars from his brow, and then as an afterthought, added two more circles.  “There you are, only ten ounces, nine pennies and you’ll be rid of the curse.”

He swore bitterly at us once we were safely down the road – the binding spell would fade in a half-hour or so, and as long as no one happened by until then, he would be fine.

“That was fun,” Rondal said, despite himself.  “Is it wrong that I should think so?”

“Ask a priest, not a mage,” I dismissed.  “The boy wasn’t harmed.  And we made a small profit,” I reminded him, jingling the purse.  “Since there’s no distinction between our toll marks and other folk, he will only loose a few pennies on the deal.  More importantly, we’ve spread the word that Magelord Minalan collects his debts.”

“But will the Warbird take exception, I wonder?” asked Rondal, a little anxiety in his voice.

“He may,” agreed Sir Festaran, anxiously, as we took to the road again.  “He has a fiery temper.  But even he cannot argue with a lord pursuing a just debt, particularly from a former Yeoman.  In your place, Magelord, he likely would have hung the boy and taken all his money, and considered it just.  ”

“Let’s hope so,” I said, unconvinced.  Something told me that if Gimbal had an opportunity to find an excuse to harass me, he would take it.  And until the remainder of the Bovali émigrés safely crossed his lands, I did not want to purposefully antagonize him.

We were able to make our way nearly out of West Flerian territory by nightfall, stopping at the village of Gosset, near an important local crossroads.  The inn was decent, but nothing to spread rumors about.  I’d avoided it the last few times I had been here, but now the sky was dark, the inn was inviting, and I was thirsty.

It was called the Gallant Goat, and featured a comical sign of an intoxicated buck-toothed goat wearing a knight’s helm, stumbling around drunkenly.  Sir Festaran growled a little when he saw it, but I didn’t remark about it until I dispatched Rondal with a purse to pay for our lodgings.

“What’s the trouble?” I asked.  “We’re nearly out of Fleria, now.”

“Actually, Magelord, we are out of Fleria,” he said, quietly.  “Or at least Fleria, proper.  Gosset and its lands are technically part of the domain of Trestendor.  But when Sire Gimbal and the Lord of Sashtalia conspired against them, they conquered five of Trestendor’s manors and three villages.  And the banner of Trestendor is a defiant goat on a cliff.  So this . . .” he said, indicating the cartoonish sign, “is a deliberate insult against the lord of Trestendor.”

“Similar to the new fried egg banner of Brestal?” I nodded.

“Exactly, Magelord.  Only . . . you took back what was rightfully yours.  I know it is foul to speak ill of one’s liege, but . . .” he said, struggling to find a way to gossip without seeming to be gossiping, “if I understand properly, Sire Gimbal had treaties and arrangements with Trestendor, and then when the old lord got sick, he repudiated them and launched a surprise attack.  And Trestendor never did any ill to West Fleria, despite the fact that they have traditionally allied with the Baron of Sendaria, instead of the Flerians.”

“Fascinating,” I nodded, truthfully.  “And you disapprove?”

Sir Festaran’s face locked into place.  “It is not for a poor knight to question his liege’s strategies,” he said, stubbornly.  “It would violate the codes of chivalry.”

“So does Sire Gimbal, I’d wager,” I murmured, suddenly aware that we were in the man’s territory.  “But if you were to violate the codes of chivalry, I wonder what you might say about the matter?”

Festaran grinned.  “Oh, if I was an honorless rogue, Magelord?  Why, then the gods alone know what disgraceful talk might fly out of my mouth.  Such as how Sire Gimbal’s attack was made without forewarning, which a chivalrous lord would have done.  Or how he bribed two of Trestendor’s knights to change their banners and join to attack their neighbors, in violation of Duin’s holy law on the subject.

“Why, I might even say that Sire Gimbal burned a village that had already surrendered to him to keep it from falling back into Trestendor’s hands, which would be a malady that would stink in the nose of any god!”  He looked around, a little frightened of his own candor, and worried who might have overheard.

I nodded, impressed.  “It’s well you cleave to your honor, then, Sir Festaran.   Your noble restraint does you credit.”

He heaved a satisfied sigh, as if he had been waiting years to say those things – and perhaps he had.  Despite having been squired there, Sir Festaran was no admirer of his liege.  Neither was his father, from what I understood.

The inn’s beer was surprisingly good, and the stew of lamb and kethnit tubers was good hearty road fare.  Being a lord I got the rare honor of a private room – the inn had two – while my men slept in the common room near to the fire. I fell asleep the moment my head hit the pillow, pausing only long enough to throw some hasty wards up over the door and window.

We rose at dawn the next morning and were on the road after a hearty breakfast of oat porridge and cream, and by midmorning we came to the crossroads village – the one that Sire Gimbal had burned.  I’d been through it at least twice, now, and had given it little thought.

Now that I knew more of the story, I could see how this once-prosperous village would have been a tempting prize for Gimbal.  A crossroads just on the other side of your border gives you little – one inside your borders gives you quite a bit of revenue.  And the proximity of the parcel to the hills in the north, where Trestendor’s gray castle could be seen over the budding treetops, showed just how easy it would be to retake it, if the villagers had wanted to return to their old lord.

But Gimbal couldn’t have that.  The crossroads village had provided the bulk of Trestendor’s revenue, Festaran explained.  While he had lost revenue by burning it to the ground, Sire Gimbal had also deprived Trestendor of a reason to fight to get it back.

Sashtalia had taken over administration of the land, by the banner that flew over it, but the village ruins – mere depressions in the ground and the occasional standing, blackened timber overgrown by weeds– were occupied by a lonely guard shack with two surly Sashtali who demanded almost as much toll as a ransom.

I managed to negotiate them back down, however.  The great thing about a ruined village is you can use your warwands haphazardly and not have to worry about messing up anything really important.  Like a guard shed.  We paid a far more reasonable toll – copper pennies, not silver – and left the Sashtali guards bask in the warm glow of their burning shelter.

By lunch we were well into the Barony of Sendaria, one of the last large estates in the region still run by the powerful House Lensely, the local branch of which was known as the Sendari Line.  There were seven other lines of Lenselys, but they had found other estates further away from the ancestral home after their century-old dynastic squabble sputtered out.

Now Baron Arathanial of Sendaria ruled the remaining Lensely lands while the descendents of his ancestor’s rivals conspired around him. Once the Barony had extended from Sendaria Port on the river, all the way passed East Fleria, but over the years rebellious liegemen and rival factions had fractured the domains, leaving just over half of Sendaria swearing fealty to Baron Arathanial.

From everything I’d seen of Sendaria, from the riverport to the distant castle, the fields, the mills, and the villages along the road, the barony was run with prosperous efficiency.  Indeed, the hamlet we watered the horses in at midmorning had nothing but gracious words for the Baron.  Their local lord, apparently, was a stern and unforgiving man – but not the Baron of Sendaria.

The inn the second night was far better than the Gallant Goat, and I was tempted to sleep in.  But telepathic reports from my colleagues, all assuring me how quickly they were speeding to the meeting, spurred me on.  We left early, instead, and pressed on through lunch, taking advantage of the speed offered by the better roads nearer the city.  As a result, we paid our fare at the city gate just in time to make dinner at our inn.

I say “our inn” because the Eel and Stone had been the riverside inn our party had first stayed at on our arrival to the Riverlands and I liked it.  The proprietor was a wheezy man of otherwise generous spirit, Fevam the Host, whose comfortable inn was affordable and convenient to most of the areas of the city we used.  I had an account there, and as Sevendor’s business was conducted in Sendaria my people had a good, reliable place to stay.

Fevam was thrilled to see us again – we were nearly his only tenants for the evening – and he assured us that a barge was scheduled to dock in the night, and would be departing downriver in the morning.  He stabled our horses while we were gone – for which he was paid tidily – and then I paid a lad across the street a silver penny to watch the inn’s stables to ensure that Goodman Fevam wasn’t renting out our steeds while we were gone.  He was honest, but you had to watch him.

I dismissed my men for the evening, giving them a night to enjoy the taverns, whores, and games that a busy port always has to lighten a man’s purse and his spirits at the same time.  Of course I gave them their pay – and a strong admonishment that we would be leaving in the morn, with or without them.  I wasn’t too concerned – Ancient Dalcalan recalled a brothel he liked from his last visit, and most of the men went there together.

Rondal and Banamor wanted to find a scriptorium, in search of books and supplies (which included a long list of my own), which left me, strangely, alone for the first time in longer than I could recall.

I could have done just about anything – and the city offered plenty of possibilities: get drunk, find a whore to work off five weeks of husbandly patience, talk to merchants, take in a play, listen to minstrels, get in a fight in a tavern, I had Miko’s Chance at an endless variety of trouble.

So after dinner . . . I went to a spellmonger.

There were four major firms in Sendaria-on-Bontal and by the Baron’s order those four had all the business in the city sewn up.  I’d made plenty of discreet inquiries and learned a fair amount about each of them.

One, Harmar the Riversage, had his practice just off the docks, and specialized in the arcane types of littoral seamagic the bargemen needed to get up and down the river.  He had four burly apprentices and a love for money and wine, and was distinctly apolitical.

A second, Master Velenduin, served the upscale merchants, petty nobility, and well-to-do burghers of Sendaria Town, a general-purpose spellmonger with a distinguished practice and a modest reputation for honest dealings.

A third was a woman who plied her trade in the lower sections of town, a fat old witch named Mistress Barbulla the Crone who was a lot younger than she appeared and who charged almost twice as much as her spells were worth, in violation of the standards associated with the Bans.

She was able to get away with it, Banamor had told me, because she acted as an informant for the Censorate.  Any hedgemage or village witch who appeared to cut into her trade eventually got a visit from the Censorate.  Any footwizard who lingered too long in her territory was reported to the Censorate authorities in the regional command, where their movements were tracked and interceptions could be planned.  In return, she was able to cheat the poor of Sendaria Town with slipshod spells and charlatanism.  I avoided Barbulla like the pox.

I headed toward the fourth licensed spellmonger in Sendaria Town, back among the glassblowers and glaziers, glove makers and pewter smiths of the city.  Among them all, his was the style most like my own, more substance than style.  His name was Andalnam, and he was an Enchanter.

Few non-magi ever hire the services of an Enchanter.  Traditionally, an Enchanter receives his commissions from spellmongers or court magi who see the need for a particular enchantment and who have a client who can meet the cost.

Occasionally there will be a commission by a great lord, or a guild, or a religious order if the mage in question is of high enough repute.  Since the talent to enchant past the very basic level becomes terribly arcane and dependent upon a mage’s natural Talents, usually an Enchanter will be able to produce a number of commonly-needed items, such as enchanted locks or chains, wheel axels, bridles, enchanted hair ornaments or looking glasses, and all manner of high-demand products.  But beyond that, they tend to specialize in a particular area of skill and talent, the same way thaumaturges and warmagi do.

Andalnam had established a strong professional reputation for enchanted saddlery and harnesses, in particular, but he was known to have tackled everything from a slip-anchor to a warrior’s lance.  And he had a further reputation of not being particularly friendly toward the Censorate, on account of his five daughters.

The Censorate allowed only two children of a mage to be taken as his apprentice during his life.  In the eastern duchies, where magic is more common and magi more plentiful, this rule is usually circumvented by either apprenticing nieces and nephews within the same firm, or by sending the children to an expensive academy for training and certification.

In Castal and Alshar, however, it was rare that you had the same sort of trusted family institutions to rely upon, and tales of abused apprentices were common.  I’d seen such myself far more than I’d cared to.  If I had five daughters who all had Talent, I’d be wary of entrusting them to just any master of the craft.

Andalnam had taken his eldest two daughters to apprentice as soon as they were of age, but his remaining three all seemed doomed to a poor trade at best.  Girls usually have an even harder time than boys in a strange house, under a strange master.  So Andalnam was rarely a model of cooperation with the Censorate.  Further, he also had a reputation for being friendly with footwizards like Banamor – a necessity of his trade, as they were his main suppliers for hard-to-get magical components.  That made him even more suspect in the minds of the Censorate.  Fortunately, he was good at his craft and had a number of powerful patrons, else he might have found himself the subject of additional harassment.

Andalnam’s shop was typical of the Enchanters I’d known: nestled amongst the craftsmen with whom he would have to work closely, at various points in the enchantment process, extremely non-descript.  Indeed, the only sign of his trade was a tiny board above his door with the traditional three-stars-and-moon sign for a spellmonger, and then his name.  It looked more like a tack workshop than the ostentatious spellmongers’ offices I was used to.  That is, until I came within ten feet of the sign, when it lit up with a pale blue fire that produced no heat.  It was a little startling, but a nice effect.

Andalnam was already in the front part of the shop when I broached the door, wiping his lips with a napkin.  He was a short, lean man with fine features and a long crop of gray hair surrounding a bald pate.  He had sharp, piercing eyes and hands with long, nimble-looking fingers.  He wore a dark gray smock with a few pockets in it over a linen shirt.

“Magelord,” he said, as if he had been expecting me.  That hadn’t, apparently, kept him from his dinner, however.

“You know who I am?” I asked, curiously.

“It’s a small town,” he shrugged.  “News travels fast.  You are, if I am not mistaken, one of the three Magelords who now inhabit remote Sevendor Vale, are you not?”

“Indeed, I am Magelord Minalan the Spellmonger,” I confessed.  “Magelord of Sevendor.  And head of the order of High Magi.  Or will be, officially, after this conference.”

“That means . . .?” he asked, more looking for the confirmation of a rumor, rather than instruction.

“That means I bear a witchstone,” I agreed, calmly.  “Irionite.  In defiance of the Bans.”

Andalnam smiled, almost peacefully.  “That is a lovely phrase in my ears,” he said.  “I can guess that you are no friend to the checkered lads, are you?”

“They want my head, and the head of any who hold the stones,” I agreed.  “But the Duke has suspended the Bans, and cancelled the warrants of the Censors within his realm.  And raised up magelords and knights magi to champion its defense.  Yes, all you have heard is likely true.”

“So what brings so august and rare a personage as a Magelord to my humble shop?” he asked, offering me one of the three padded chairs in his front room.

The place was a mess, stacked with various projects in different stages of completion, a few items too large and heavy to be moved without reason, and a number of beakers and bottles in untidy racks against the wall.  I felt pretty comfortable there – it reminded me more of my father’s private workshop than a spellmonger’s shop.

“I want to offer you a commission,” I began.  “if you have the capacity at the moment.”  Then explained precisely what I wanted him to do.  I had gotten good references about Andalnam, he was a well-respected and trustworthy artisan.  I had no doubt he had the ability to enchant what I asked.  “I understand that you will only be able to proceed so far before you need my assistance with the linking spell, but I should be back this way in a week or so.  I trust you could get the work done by then?”

“If you provide me the harder-to-find materials, aye, that is possible,” he agreed, after some thought.  “But that is a mighty commission . . .” and the haggling began.

“How much would you charge, ordinarily?” I asked.  “And be frank – I know a man has to make a living.  I’m prepared to be outraged.”

“For such a thing, if I were to do it without assistance or provision of rare materials . . . no less than sixty, seventy ounces of gold,” he said, after thinking quietly for a moment.  “Perhaps as high as a hundred, depending upon market conditions.  Since you are supplying the most difficult-to-get portion, as well as the essential spellwork . . . for cost-plus-profit, I could do it in the time you set for . . . thirty ounces of gold?”

“That’s actually far less than I’d feared,” I nodded.  “But consider this, as well: I have a mind to have a special trade fair this autumn, in Sevendor.  Thanks to my position and the strategic location of this region, I daresay hundreds of magi will be in attendance to procure all manner of rare goods.  I plan on renting small booths to merchants at a cost of two silver ounces a day, or fifteen for the duration of the fair, and large booths at ten silver ounces or five ounces of gold for the duration.  Take this commission for me – discreetly – and I shall give you a large booth at the fair for free, for the next three years.”

He studied me thoughtfully, and he wiped his hands on his apron nervously.  I could tell he was sorely tempted – I could tell the moment I said it that such a thing as a magical fair could mean a lot of profit for an enchanter.  And a lot of opportunity.

“That seems passing generous, Magelord,” he said, quietly.  “Yet there are expenses—”

“Oh, I can give you thirty ounces of silver to begin, and a like amount when I return, to cover your basic costs,” I agreed.  “But I have one thing more that might secure the commission.”  I took from my sleeve a smooth pebble of white.

“This rock now exists in Sevendor, the result of . . . well, it’s a long story.  Suffice it to say that it seems to have a few thaumaturgically interesting properties that an Enchanter might be intrigued by.  Including,” I added, casually, “the seeming ability to augment a mage’s natural Talents.  My man Banamor has worn a piece around his neck for days, and swears that his spells seem more potent.  I leave it for you to experiment with, but it occurs to me that this sort of thing might be particularly helpful dealing with the earliest appearance of Talent in a mage.  As well as assist in some types of spellwork in which Talent plays a role.  Not to mention being a boon to any enchantment that works more efficiently with a lower etheric resistance.”

“It could, indeed, if it acts as you say,” he nodded, taking the piece and holding it up to the light.  Without thinking, I brought a magelight into existence that provided more than enough illumination.  Andalnam was impressed, but gracious enough not to mention it.  He turned his attention back to the stone, and then finally put it away with a promise to investigate.  He assured me that he would take the commission, once I gave him the necessary pieces and the money, and then he summoned his eldest daughter to bring us a glass of wine to seal our agreement.

That first glass called for a second, during which we began to get comfortable enough with each other to talk politics.  I tried to steer the conversation toward his perspectives on the problems with the way magic was administered, and it didn’t take much to encourage him to tell me his opinions.  I have yet to meet the man who doesn’t have opinions in great and glorious abundance, and after we had become more familiar, Andalnam did not hesitate to give me an earful.

Mostly I asked him about what was and wasn’t troubling him about his business, and he had plenty to say on the matter, beginning with the Censorate.  I hadn’t considered some of his perspectives, and I listened with great interest.

Certainly, one spellmonger’s opinion, more or less, meant little in the grand scheme of things, but as I was headed to re-invent how magic would be administered across the incipient kingdom, I felt it wise to be as informed as possible about those on whom it would have the most affect.   I wanted to see the scope of all magic improved, and the lives of all magi raised.  I even want unchartered magi to have a place at the table, without fear of repercussion.

It seemed a popular idea with Andalnam, at least, and by midnight, when I was certain I was late for the inn, we were fast friends and allies.  He could not wait to bring his girls to see what we were doing in Sevendor, and he promised to make the trip just as soon as my piece was finished.

Assuming, that is, I returned from Robinwing without a dagger in my back.

Chapter Eighteen

The Robinwing Conclave

Robinwing Castle was a grand old place, built on a high promontory overlooking the magnificent temple and tidy village below, about half-a-day’s ride north from Rigdus riverport.

It was built in the old Sansaran style, with one huge round crenellated keep eighty feet high, surrounded by a thirty-foot curtain wall, even facing the cliffside.  The wall was punctuated every fifty feet by a sixty-foot high narrow tower of stone, each a multileveled platform for an abundance of missilery and artillery.  The three-tiered switchback up the steep slope was guarded by a succession of gate towers and fortifications designed to slow the advance of besiegers.  Not an impossible castle to take . . . but not an easy one, either.

During the early days of the settlement of the Castali Riverlands, Robinwing had been a Baronial March castle, responsible for defending the frontier with Alshar.  That had been centuries ago, before the border between the two realms had shifted six hundred miles west, and larger, more impressive fortresses were employed.

For a hundred years it had enjoyed a quiet life as a major baronial fief, and then a secondary fief when the politics demanded a grander castle be built in a more strategic location.  Without a powerful political or military reason to exist, however, it was difficult to justify the expense of so large a fort.  Robinwing had eventually been sold to pay some baron’s debts.  After changing hands a few times, it had been confiscated by the Coronet for unpaid taxes.  There hadn’t been a sitting lord there for longer than Sevendor had gone without.

The town below had prospered, despite the lack of a feudal overlord.  The burghers had quietly bribed their way into a reduced obligation to the lord of the domain and increased the revenues from trade and from the pilgrims making their way to the Temple of Peras, Imperial goddess of earthly wisdom.  The temple, more than the castle, was responsible for Robinwing Town’s prosperity.

The temple dated from a shrine built by Imperial rangers who used the spot as a refuge.  The miraculous properties of the local herbs and fungi lured a trio of priestess of Peras hither fifty years before the Conquest, where they ministered to the rangers, and later, a full legion of Imperial soldiers.  After the Conquest when the land was settled by Narasi, the priestesses did what they could to save Imperial culture.  It became a repository for copies of records from eastern temples, in perfectly justified fear that my superstitious ancestors would burn them.

By the time the Castali lords came up the river to the place, there was an entire colony of priestesses and lay scholars inhabiting the outpost.  The dukes wisely recognized the importance of the place and put it under the protection of a lord, and the fief grew up from there.  Or so said the bargemen on our short journey downriver.

Ordinarily it takes two to three days to go downstream from Sendaria to Rigdus, after you go overland for half a day.  But when you have a couple of bored High Magi on board, things move a lot more quickly.

I taught Rondal the spell to reduce the friction between the hull and the water, while Sir Festaran and Banamor listened with great interest, and then we propelled the barge forward with a conjured water elemental.  Between the two spells we more than doubled our speed, much to the terror and delight of the captain.  We made the trip in a day – but more than enough time for us to learn about Robinwing Castle.

We were met at the docks by a full-fledged honor guard, twenty men-at-arms bearing the Robinwing badge, and a group of functionaries led by a tall young man of perhaps twenty-five.  He bore an apprentice’s cap, the Robinwing tabard, and a yellow sash bordered in red.  He proved to be Sire Forandal’s senior apprentice, Dijo.

With great deference (probably too great) he welcomed me to Robinwing and insisted that his men see our baggage to our quarters in the castle.  Then he produced a bottle of a very nice red wine and toasted our arrival, and I couldn’t be rude and refuse.  By the time we got to the castle, I had a nice rosy glow.

Sire Forandal was settling into the role of magelord nicely – indeed, he’d been bred for the task.  The neatly-ordered servants swirled about the room with quiet efficiency, seeing to the needs of the arriving guests.  It put my rude hospitality in Sevendor to shame.   I

n comparison, I suddenly felt like I was lord of a draughty ruin, despite the incredible work we’d done to Sevendor.  Robinwing was just larger, better-appointed, and well-run . . . but I do confess a few moments of castle envy after I arrived.

Further, Sire Forandal was quite the gracious host.  Rondal and I had each been given private quarters in the cliff-side section of the keep, while our men were quartered in one of the towers.  Banamor was assigned a section in the great hall.  I almost objected to that, but he insisted.

“That’s a better bed than I’m used to, believe me,” he murmured to me, after putting a hand on my shoulder.  “And better for other things, too.”

“What kind of things?”

“A man at the fire late at night is like to hear things a man deep in council at the top of the tower does not,” he pointed out.  “I thought you might like an ear where you lacked one.”

“I would,” I agreed, impressed by the man’s foresight.  He was right.  I needed to know what was going on outside of the sphere of magi I would be conferring with.  I felt sneaky, using him as a spy, but I knew I needed to get used to the idea.  I wasn’t going to pass up the help if it was so freely offered.  Banamor may not have an abundance of Talent, but he’s shrewd.

Rondal was treated like a Knight Mage himself, when he arrived, and was whisked away to his own room nearby to refresh himself.  My quarters were stately, with an elegant canopied bed I vowed to find a way to steal and a beautiful old tapestry along the interior wall.  The balcony outside had fruit trees and flowering vines around a lovely little stone table, where a bowl of fruit and a ewer of wine had been placed.  A liveried castellan was only a bell-ring away, ready to bring me whatever I wished.

Life as a Magelord was good.

After I refreshed myself and checked in with Penny (who was on her way in her private barge with an extensive retinue, including her father, several senior members of the Order of the Secret Tower, her cousin Planus, and a large baggage train) the castellan politely informed me that Magelord Forandal was receiving guests in his rooftop garden, if I felt so inclined.  I did – I barely knew the man.

He was a friend and colleague of Terleman, who was also en route.  I knew he had fought hard and well at Timberwatch, and had richly deserved his reward.  There was a lot of goblin blood on his hands.  It would be discourteous not to share a drink with my host.

I’d spent only a few hours with him, and he seemed like a fine fellow, on short acquaintance.  I put on my lordly raiment and let the castellan lead me to a pleasant little garden that covered a third of the roof of the keep.  It wasn’t entirely ornamental – the fruit and nut trees were in flower, and I counted dozens of medicinal herbs in pots and small garden plots arrayed around the space.  And a small pool, perhaps the top of a cistern, reflected the torchlight flickering in the breeze.

Sire Forandal was sitting under a red canvas canopy in the midst of the garden, a few servants discreetly out of earshot, with a young woman playing a harp nearby.  He was a little intimidating in his presentation.  I was a spellmonger-cum-warmage who had been knighted and ennobled – Forandal was a magelord from his crown to his heel.  He looked the part, wise, insightful, powerful, confident, with just enough egotistical arrogance to discourage casual buffoonery in his presence.

The lordly fellow was speaking with two old friends, Wenek, Magelord of the Pearwoods, and Sir Taren, the brilliant young warmage and thaumaturge who had been so instrumental in the Battle of the Timberwatch.

Both seemed in excellent health, and from their dress they were quite prosperous.  Wenek seemed to be fleshing out under his dark green robes, which complemented the several golden rings he wore.

Sir Taren, by contrast, had eschewed finery but had not abandoned quality: he wore a dashing mantle of black, upon which he’d had the Ilnarsi rune associated with the order embroidered tastefully on the breast.  Under that he wore a dark gray woolen doublet of fine grade wool, well-tailored and tastefully adorned with tiny silver stars at the collar and wrists.  In place of hose he wore black riding leathers and tall cavalry boots.  His mageblade leaned against his chair, along with an intriguing-looking new staff.

“Gentlemen,” I said, not waiting to be announced.  All three started to rise, but I motioned them to sit.  “Just looking for a drink before bed and perhaps a quiet smoke.  And to thank my gracious host for the use of his magnificent fortress.”

“Then you’ve found all three,” Forandal said, continuing to stand.  “Come, Magelord—”

“Oh, we’re all magelords here, no need to stand on ceremony,” I dismissed.  “And old comrades as well.  Call me Minalan, or just Min, after a few drinks.”

“As you wish,” he agreed, smiling.  “Congratulations on the birth of your son!  Come, a drink to his health is in order!”

Well, I couldn’t really say no to that, could I?

In fact, I couldn’t say no to the next several drinks, as we toasted various worthy things.  Nor could I say no when Wenek brought forth a flask of his vassal’s fresh pear brandy, newly drawn from the still and raw as a drunken whore on your tongue.

By moonrise the torches had been replaced – we didn’t need them, but the place seemed warmer and cozier with them than by magelight.  Forandal commanded the evening meal to be brought up to us, trenchers with whole-roasted pullets, cheese, and greens, along with sufficient quantity of ale to wash it down.  He proved an excellent host, as gracious as a Gilmoran.  The young harpist was replaced by a guitarist accompanied by a tambour while another young lady came up to dance for us while we dined.

“One of my wards,” Forandal admitted.  “I have her for another year, and then I have to marry her off.  She came with the castle.  I have four wards, actually.   But she’s by far the most comely.”

“One could have worse responsibilities,” Wenek nodded, unable to keep his eyes off the lass.

“So how fares the Pearwoods?” I asked Wenek.  The man gave the question some drunken consideration, and then sighed and farted at the same time.

“Well enough,” he said, deliberately.  “Well enough.  The clans all look to me now, for all the good it does.  Calling myself ‘lord’ seems unfair – more of a wetnurse breaking up fights between brats in the yard.  But the harvest was good; the barley is thick, and the losses from the war lighter than they could have been.  And with the army at Timberwatch, there’s a ready market for our grain.”

“How about you, Forandal?” I asked, politely.  “Any trouble with your vassals?”

“My vassals?” he asked, thoughtfully.  “No, actually, or far less than I’d thought there’d be.  I have three knights in fealty to me – small fiefs, but prosperous.  In the years that Robinwing was under the Coronet, though, the burghers in town have been loaning money to the peasants and buying up fields throughout the domain.  They own half of the land in my demesne, for Duin’s sake, and have liens on the other half!  The knights are hoping I can control the burghers.”

“Can you?” asked Wenek, curiously.

“I think I’ve hit on a way,” he confided.  “You know the terms concerning service to the Coronet?”

I’d negotiated that myself – two months of military service for a mageland, compared to one of any other fiefdom.  The additional month was intended as a check on the relative power of a magelord, compared to a regular lord.  After all, military service was the whole point of the feudal relationship, that and taxation.  Many lords found it difficult to fulfill even one month’s service a year – the idea of providing two, without support, was appalling.

“Well, I’ve decided to pass on that burden to the town.  Their charter specifies that the obligation to my overlord is to be fulfilled by soldiers recruited from the town.  It does not specify the duration of the obligation, merely that the town shall provide the difference between the levy of the vassal knights’ household obligations and the obligations of the domain.  And since my vassals are not required to fulfill my additional military obligation, the town must make up their difference.”

“So you plan on keeping the burghers in check by arming them?” Taren asked, confused.

“No, no,” Forandal shook his head.  “The town can elect to pay a scutage fee instead of providing a soldier – enough silver to pay for a mercenary for the duration.  My steward calculates that the additional revenue raised will allow me to start buying out the loans of the peasants and yeomen and getting control of my land again.”

“What about the actual levies?” Taren inquired.  “If you spend all of your money on land . . .”

“Oh, I have a sufficiency,” he smirked, as he held his cup out for more wine.  “I brought back a fair amount of loot from Farise, and I’ve managed to do one or two little jobs . . . I’ll have no problem funding the soldiers, when the time comes.  But if I can keep the burghers out of the manors and in the town where they belong, then they won’t have the leverage over my knights to keep them at home if I need them . . . say, to put down burgher riots.”

“I’ll have to keep that in mind,” Wenek agreed with a grunt.  “Although in the Pearwoods, money in general is hard to come by.  I get paid my tribute in spirits or pears or ham, usually.  Different organization,” he said, shaking his head.

“What about your new land, Minalan?” asked Forandal.  So I told them the tale of Sevendor and its neighbors, how poor the land was yet how much promise was there, thanks to the dedicated Bovali and Master Olmeg.  I finished by relaying my plan for the Magic Fair.   Wenek was enthusiastic because the Pearwoods grew a wide variety of herbs used in magic, and Taren because he was a thaumaturge who often had to hunt for weeks or months to find a particular component to a spell.

That got us onto the subject of the meeting, itself, and that led to a broader discussion of the role of magic in the new kingdom – and our own roles within magic.  The talk went long into the evening, until I finally couldn’t keep my eyes open, and then I was led back to my quarters to that incredible bed, where I passed out until noon the next day.

*                            *                            *

The next three days saw a steady arrival of High Magi, sometimes by themselves or in pairs, but mostly in clumps.

First to arrive just after dawn was the Remeran contingent, led by Penny’s father and her cousin Planus, and included two wains loaded with scrolls and books long kept hidden from the Censorate.  I immediately grabbed Penny and we began working nonstop on preparing for the conference.  But that didn’t stop the incoming magi.

Magelord Astyral and the warmagi from Tudry, including the magelands around the Penumbra, arrived the day after that.  Many of them were redeploying towards the Gilmoran baronies to counter the goblin offensive there, immediately after the conference.  Azar, in particular, was pleased to be leading two hundred heavy cavalry south from his Barony of Megelin.  There were several warmagi – un-augmented by witchstones – who were included in his unit.  He had been taking on recruits from all over the Five Duchies, and his cadre of goblin-fighting knights and squires had labored ceaselessly during the winter to keep the hordes at bay.

It was by far the largest party – not only were Astryal and Azar present, but so were Carmella, Curmor, Master Cormoran, Delman, Rustallo, Reylan, Landrik, and Bendonal.

Azar himself looked like some barbaric prince, his heavy, blackened plate armor and oversized mageblade adorned with blue feathers and gold rivets.  He stopped the moment he saw me, dismounted, and gathered me into a hug that threatened to break my ribs.

“Spellmonger!” he boomed.  “Well met!  When shall we see you in the field again?”

“When the paperwork is finished,” I sighed.  The big mage made a face, a sneer of contempt.

“There’s enough glory to go around, I suppose,” he finally said, “and I guess it’s important that someone pays the men.  But damn it, Min!  We had fun this winter!  We missed you!”

Astyral was less enthusiastic, but more in control.  He promised a full report at council, but in the few moments we had to exchange greetings I learned that Tudry had but fifteen thousand souls in it, half of its former population, and ten thousand of those were garrison soldiers.  Many thousands of others were refugees, still fleeing the Penumbra and the onslaught.

“The walls are much stronger now,” he assured me.  “Carmella has been all over them, and she’s got them as tight as magically possible.  The surrounding country is filled with redoubts and hidden defenses.  The refugees fell to a trickle, but the place is just an army town, now.  The men from the Timberwatch encampment spent a good amount of coin on leave in Tudry over the winter, as they were gradually redeployed.   But it isn’t the same old Tudry.  We’re even thinking of renaming it.”  I remembered the old Tudry.  I wouldn’t miss it.  I thanked him for his service and then directed him to Penny’s chamber, where she was unpacking and preparing for the evening’s reception.

Master Dunselen arrived with a small party later that day, and then Master Thinradel appeared near midnight.  Mavone got there the next morning with General Hartarian, escorted by a column of loyal Censors who had traded their checkered cloaks for plain green ones.

With them was another two wagons of important items taken from the Censorate’s citadel in Wenshar, mostly confiscated magical texts and illegal artifacts thought important to the war effort.

Master Icorod of Vendemere arrived the next morning, with Lanse of Bune on his heels followed by the highly flamboyant Sarakeem of Merwin, who had been doing a quick job in the Riverlands before joining us.

“Is that everyone?” I asked Pentandra, the third morning we were at Robinwing.

“Tyndal is in Sevendor,” she counted off, “Isily wasn’t invited – with good reason – and Terleman should be arriving from the southern front any time now.  Oh, and Rolof hasn’t been heard from at all.”  Rolof had been one of the original warmagi Penny recruited to lift the siege of Boval.  Like his fellows, he’d been granted a stone, and had fought valiantly through the entire siege, even to face the Dead God.

But since our escape, no one had seen Rolof . . . at all.  He’d stayed with us for a week or so, as we made our way toward civilization, and then when the group started to splinter he had quietly slipped away.  No one had any idea where he was.  He hadn’t gotten a chance to employ Penny’s communication spell, and we hadn’t spared the time to find him in the Otherworld, but I figured he’d turn up sooner or later.  And as it was, we had most of the High Magi in the world under one roof.

“It will have to do,” I sighed.  “Go ahead and ask the senior fellows to meet with me and our host on the roof tonight for supper for a brief planning meeting.  We have a lot to discuss.”

And we did.  I’ll spare you the hours and hours of pointless discussion, debate, and bloviating opinion that occurred that night.  Most of what was said was meaningless, pointless, or just plain dumb.  It took a great deal of work to keep everyone on topic, working in the same direction, and I honestly credit Penny for most of that.  She and her little coven of clerks kept the discussion on the agenda we’d agreed on, and didn’t let anyone take over for their own purposes.  As for my part, I mostly sat back and listened, playing with my Witchsphere, as the other leaders of our order made suggestions and shot them down.

The upshot of the first evening’s council was purely organizational.  After much discussion, it was decided that all of the High Magi in the duchies formed the College of High Magi, of which I was named the Regent.

The non-witchstone-bearing magi who had gotten trained, accepted, and credentialed by the old system were placed under the College of Adepts, for organizational purposes, and one of Master Dunselen’s recently-graduated apprentices, Master Myel, was appointed its Regent for the moment.  He had a strong reputation for administration – stronger than his reputation for magic – which made him an ideal candidate.

The footwizards, undocumented hedgewitches, and all such practitioners of folk magic, wild magic, Talented sports, and religious magic were placed under the College of Wizards.  We postponed naming anyone to that Regency just yet – we still didn’t know what the hell we were going to do with them.

But by midnight we had three Colleges, neatly separating the administration of magic into High, Medium, and Low Realms.  It seems a simple task, in retrospect, but it took six hours of heated debate just to get that far.  And that was with us all more-or-less in agreement at the beginning.

The next day we all moved to the better space within the Temple of Peras, where the priestesses had granted us the largest chamber not currently being used for worship to meet within.  Dozens of chairs had been brought in to seat everyone, and I took charge of the meeting just long enough to make an impressive speech about how we were shaping the world for our descendents and defiantly struggling against both the Dead God and the Censorate, and a bunch of other stuff Penny insisted was important.  Then I turned the meeting over to her, and we began in earnest.

For three days straight we listened to more debate and suggestion about the specifics of how we would reconstitute the magical body of the land.  Masters Dunselen and Thinradel were invaluable in this part, as each of them had extensive experience with administrating magic and were able to offer their insights.  And after three days, we had come up with something resembling a plan.

The regional Court Magi would continue to administer the training and testing and certification of Adepts, as we were calling them now.  They would also be in charge or reporting any misuse of magic in ways that our profession frowned upon – selling half-powered spells, reneging on commissions, claiming powers you didn’t have, and outright fraud.

To handle those cases, we created a special office within the College of High Magi, Master of Enforcement.  We selected, by unanimous acclamation (because it was close to dinner and we were tired) Sire Landrik for this job, as his experience in the Censorate, and his unquestioned loyalty to our cause, made him an ideal candidate.  He was tasked with developing a way to actually enforce the laws we made by recruiting deputies who would answer to the Collegium of the Arcane Orders (as the three bodies were collectively called), and promised a budget to hire men and magi to do it.

Then we turned our attention back to the War, and spent the next day listening to reports from warmagi who had spied and scried on the enemy all winter long.  The overview was given by Sir Terleman, who had finally gotten in from the southern front on a nearly-dead horse.

The news was not good.

“There are nearly one hundred thousand goblins massed in the southern Alshari Wilderlands,” he said in calm tones as he effortlessly conjured a magemap to demonstrate.  “They are preparing to march, likely as soon as the weather breaks.  There are already advanced parties of raiders invading the northern Gilmoran baronies.  For the most part they are only attacking villages and hamlets, or small manors, and leaving castles alone.”

“Their raiding seems designed to push as many men into their lords’ castles and fortresses as possible,” Taren added.  “And they are going after specific things.  Foodstuffs, mostly, and slaves, when they can capture them.  They seem to be stockpiling supplies,” he reasoned.  “They have some depots where they’re bringing the gathered loot and captured slaves along the Great Cotton Road, but they’re too well-defended to break, and the local lords are more concerned with protecting their folk.”

“So what are we doing about protecting their folk?” asked Pentandra.

“Five towns and castles in an arc, from southwest to northeast, are being heavily garrisoned in preparation.  We’ve sent as many mercenaries and volunteers from the south to strengthen them, as well as warmagi, when we could.  Each is expected to be able to repel, or at least screen, any major advance.  In the meantime, each will be chasing the gurvani raiders that haunt their lands,” he explained.

“How many troops?”

“At least four or five thousand,” he answered with a nod.  “More than enough to handle a single legion.”  The gurvani military organization was odd, compared to ours.  Their ancient warrior’s societies had transformed into military units of roughly 2000.  We called them legions, after the Imperial unit structure.  With their ghastly heraldry and ferocious brutality, it seemed an apt description.  “But not enough to defend against tens of thousands of gurvani shock troops,” Terleman added, tight-lipped.

“As things stand, we have an army of twenty thousand, mostly peasant levies and local knights, at the great baronial castle of Whitetree, here in northern Gilmora,” he said, and the region indicated itself on the magemap.  “That’s the largest force in the area.  If the whole gurvani column attacked them in open battle, they’ll be wiped out, unless they can be allured into a siege.  That’s unlikely, but it’s a possibility.

“Over here in Tantonel City, we have eight thousand mercenaries, and another two thousand peasant levies, maybe a thousand knights and sergeants.  The fortress of Saram has seven thousand good quality infantry and a thousand lances.  And here at Growar we have another five thousand, local knights and the town levies from the surrounding cities.  At Nion, we have another four thousand.

“That’s it.  None of them are close enough to the other to be able to protect their flanks or even send ready reinforcements, not within days.  Yet if we move any of the forces to give ourselves a better aspect, then we expose them to attack.”

“Yet forty thousand men against a hundred thousand goblins seems a fair defense,” Sarakeem said, sagely.  He loved doing that, I noticed: agreeing to the obvious after someone else’s eloquent summation, in an effort to make him look smarter than he was.  As annoying idiosyncrasies go, it wasn’t too bad.  Not as bad as, say, having your witchstone made into an earring, which the Wenshari warmage had also done.

“Observant,” Terleman said, sourly.  “But it doesn’t help solve the strategic situation.  Our best bet is to wait to see which marching route they take.  If it’s southerly, then we can use Whitetree to block them while Growar and Tantonel move up on them from their flanks.  If it’s straight easterly, then we’ll be able to use Growar to block them for maybe five whole minutes, and then they start chewing through the central Riverlands.”

“What about Darkfaller?” someone asked.

“Darkfaller is . . . problematic,” Terleman admitted.  “The Count of Darkfaller was a kinsman of the Alshari ducal house, and he’s unwilling to send his men or let us use his castle to defend from, regardless of the nature of the threat.  Indeed, he’s had two messengers requesting his aid hung.  His family has a history backing the Alshari claim to Gilmora, and that’s giving him a legacy of rebellion to build upon.”

“If not Darkfaller,” I asked, “then where can you defend, in central Gilmora?”

“There are a few castles of note between there and Barrowbell, but that’s the heart of cotton country.  Once they get inside the Gilmoran Riverlands, there just isn’t a lot left to stop them.  Most manors there are undefended from serious attack, and proper castles are few.  But there are contingencies for retreating and setting up new lines of defense further south, if the horde makes it way toward Barrowbell.”

“They have already filled the ether with their foul spells of despair,” Taren reported.  “They are using the goblin stones that have long lain dormant in the Riverlands, and building new ones where they have need.  Every miserable tear of suffering from their murder mills is flung into the dreams of all within their sway.  That wins them half of their battle, when their raiders come in the night.  Their shamans roam everywhere with troops of these new eunuchs and trolls, engaged in all sorts of mischief.  Mostly pillaging manors for food, but also taking slaves for torture and . . . food.”

“The Dead God’s minions have not been unopposed,” Azar boasted, as he rose and took a pouch from within his doublet.  “The Megelini Knights and I have had a prosperous winter in the Penumbra.  One-hundred seventeen of our men dead . . . but near a thousand dead gurvani and nine witchstones to show for it!” he said triumphantly, as he tossed me the pouch.  I caught it and could instantly feel the seething power within the soft leather.  I nodded to him in thanks.

“I’ve five myself, from the southern front,” admitted Terleman, “and there are a few others among us who have taken stones that need to be cleansed and distributed.  But even if we should all depart on the morrow for Gilmora, we would not be sufficient to keep the horde at bay, once they arrive in the Riverlands.  In the Timberwatch they were forced to battle by geography.  In the open country of the Riverlands . . .” he shrugged, grimly.  “They can go anywhere.”

“So what do we do?” asked someone – Lanse of Bune, I saw, smoking a cheap clay pipe in the back, his tall, lanky frame laying over his chair like a blanket that had been thrown there.  “Let the Riverlands fall?  Let Gilmora fall?  My new estate is just east of there!”

“Of course not!” I said, interrupting Terleman ungraciously.  But this was important.  “We yield no acre freely or without purpose.  The Riverlands are some of the richest domains in the Duchies – home to a million people, at least.  To the Dead God those are a million sacrificial victims he can expand his realm with, and a million head of cattle with which to feed his soldiery when he has taken their lives.  But abandon the Gilmoran baronies?  No, we will defend them, and defend them vigorously.  We only have to figure out how.”

“We need more warmagi,” Terleman said, matter-of-factly.  “As many as we can field.  Knights Magi and regular warmagi, everyone.  And we need more fighting men in general.  But even with all of that . . . well, have you ever seen how a couple of trolls deal with a siege at a simple motte-and-bailey castle?  Or a fortified manor house?  They step over the moat.  They rip off the gate.   And then they start tearing the stones out of the wall, or they start tearing apart the palisade, and while they’re doing that five hundred goblins pour in behind them.  We’re losing castles all over the upper Riverlands that way – anything smaller than a baronial castle is at risk.  And if the people cannot take refuge with their lords, they flee.

“If they are not caught immediately, they roam the countryside in fear, their desperation and terror making them almost as bad as the gurvani.  If they make it to a manor that will take them in, they have nothing.  If they are caught, then they get sent to the Cotton Road . . . and north, into the Penumbra.

“So we need magi, we need men, we need an army, and we need someone to lead it.  But even if we get all of that, we’re still looking at a protracted war over the fertile belt.”  Terleman folded his arms, matter-of-factly.

“Well, we have Knights Magi,” I conceded.  “We have Magelords and warmagi . . . and now it looks like we’ll have over a dozen more, before long.  But we lack organization, and a good intelligence and command structure.  We lack good supply lines.  Terl, you’ve done a remarkable job with almost nothing, but we need a more permanent solution.  An institutional solution.  What can we do about that?”

It was a simple question.  Nine hours later, as the sun was coming up, we had the beginnings of an answer.

We established the Orders of Hesia and Horka, named for two of our fallen comrades.  I still had Hesia’s witchstone – I was loathe to give it away, for some reason – but her valiant example in the defense of Timberwatch, and of course Horka’s ambitious, single-handed and ultimately fatal battle with a dragon on the battlefield, had inspired all of us, and we chose to honor them thus.

The Hesian Order was dedicated to defensive magics, supply, ordnance, intelligence and support in the war.  As a sigil they took a black castle tower on a red field surmounted by five white stars.

The Horkan Order was the combat arm, the order of Knights Magi who would range the Penumbra lands and fight Shereul’s madness wherever they found it.  They took as their sigil the Ilnarsi death rune we’d been using since Boval, surrounded by five black stars.

Much to my consternation, I was made titular head of both orders . . . Lord Commander of the Order of Horka and Master Adept for the Order of Hesia.  I think I could feel both of them smirking at me from the afterlife.

I immediately made Terleman Knight Commander, the executive head (which I think irritated Azar – but if Azar would follow anyone, it would be Terleman), and then made Azar Commander of the North, and charged him with defending the northern side of the Penumbra, made Astryal Commander of the East, and made Curmor Commander of the South.  I charged each of them with establishing a Commandery, building a garrison, and provisioning their fortifications in perpetuity.

The way things were going that could mean six months, but I’m a wineskin-half-full kind of guy.

For the Hesian Order, I named Carmella the Mistress of Works, charging her with the lasting defense of the realm, and tasked her to build a storehouse and supply chain.

The next day, after a scant few hours rest, we re-convened to handle other details.  Specifically, we founded a new Medical Order of High Magi, the Order of Mandros, headed of course by the wiley Master Icorod . . . who had bribed me three hundred ounces of gold to do so.

We also established a new scholarly order, the Order of Tarkarine, named for a famous pre-Conquest magical philosopher (which is different than thaumaturgy because . . . well, it just is) from Wenshar.  I named Master Dunselen to that honor, since he was anticipating a quiet life of research after he retired to his newly won family estate.  He had the administrative skills to keep the educational system within the future kingdom running, and I charged him specifically with founding six new regional schools.

That drew a lot of interest from the assembled.  The scant number of proper academies had hampered our profession, forcing most to endure oppressive and inefficient apprenticeships.  The cost of those schools was prohibitive to most magi.  More schools meant more wizards.

That’s where I made another impassioned plea, this time on behalf of the footwizards and other undocumented magi lurking in the lanes.  Many could become perfectly fine spellmongers or even specialists, if given proper training without charging them their patrimony to do it.  And we would need them – even the ones whose powers were quirky.

“Apart from the evil lurking in the west,” I explained, “the fact is that magic could improve the lives of everyone in the Duchies, if it was allowed to be used properly.  These lesser magi must be brought out into the open, be allowed to practice their craft, even if they do not have the same credentials as Imperially-trained magi.

“Should they charge as much?  Of course not.  But for the types of peasant-magic they’re doing, they are hardly a commercial threat to our trade.”

There was a skeptical but tolerant reaction to that – but that was better than I expected.  Animosity is the usual reaction to a footwizard from a chartered mage, when he thinks of them at all.  After all, hadn’t the magi spent a fortune and devoted years of his life to learning a very difficult and exacting craft?  And then some gaudily-dressed master of cantrips shows up and claims the same powers (and sometimes the same fees) for his tricks?

There was more discussion, but I think my speech and the general excitement carried the issue.  If Magelord Minalan wanted to include the unchartered in his new scheme, why not?  To be fair, most did see the footwizards as an annoyance more than colleagues, but there was also a fair amount of sympathy for them.  After all, we all dreaded a visit from the Censorate.  For them, it was often a death sentence.

After that debate, we had a late lunch out in the Temple courtyard, provided by Sire Forandal.  He seemed to be enjoying the role of host, moving from one knot of his fellows to the other, shaking hands, making small talk, and generally impressing on everyone just how noble and lordly he was.

“He’s one to watch,” Penny said quietly, while we ate next to a bed of poplillies.  “Not in a bad way,” she amended, when my eyes narrowed.  “He has leadership potential.”

“Are you picking out my successor already?” I asked, amused.

“Yours?  No, Min, you’re in this for life.  But mine?  Perhaps.”

“Don’t even think about it,” I warned.  “If I’m in this for life, you are, too.”

“Sure, whatever you say.  But this whole organization thing is just beginning.  If we keep expanding our reach – and we’ll have to – then we’re going to need good, competent leaders like him.”

“Didn’t we just create like three or four new orders?”

“Just the beginning,” she assured me.  “And we’re only half way through the day.”

I groaned.  “What next?  Hasn’t everything been decided yet?”

“Hardly,” she said, matter-of-factly.  “In fact the really hard stuff is still ahead of us.  We’re just getting our foundations laid.  But you should feel gratified: this afternoon we’re going to discuss distribution of witchstones and training, and then we’re going to have a big reception.  Paid for by the Order of the Secret Tower.”

“Huh, that’s not very secret,” I pointed out.

“Thanks to you, neither are they anymore.  But if you’re thinking that this is a thinly-veiled attempt to bribe their way into your good graces, you aren’t wrong.  They want a private meeting with you tonight, after the reception.”

“I suppose it was inevitable.  And they are going to release all of those old spellbooks and texts you mentioned.”

“It should be just regular, normal business . . . well, it’ll be business.  But just to prepare you, they want some things.  And some assurances.  And Planus wants a witchstone.”

“Everyone wants something,” I sighed.  “All right, I’ll meet them in their quarters after the party.  A couple of drinks should put me in the perfect mood to deal with your father.”

“You know, that is just what Mother always says,” she said thoughtfully.

Chapter Nineteen

The Arcane Orders

After three days of intense discussion and negotiations about the future of magic, a party was in order – and it was a big order.

I don’t know if Penny organized it herself (which, considering everything else she was organizing, just didn’t seem possible) or if she relied on the battalion of servants and associates who accompanied her and her father from Remere.  Either way, it was one of the best parties I’ve ever been to.

Wine of delicate vintage flowed freely.  There was beer and mead, for those who wanted it, and spirits aplenty.  The food was a mixture of local fare, thanks to the contributions of the village’s two well-appointed inns, and exotic Remeran delicacies brought by Penny’s people and cooked in the Temple kitchen.

Five Remerean dancing girls and two jugglers were in attendance and there were another half-dozen musicians who never seemed to stop playing.  A squadron of servants (temple novices, hired for the occasion) brought us drinks and food.  Despite the music there were no attempts to dance, which was probably a good idea – if you’ve ever seen a drunken warmage like Azar dance, you’d understand why.

Since this was technically a “reception,” I was elected to be the one receiving.  That is, Penny set me up in a chair on a balcony overlooking the lovely gardens, put a drink in my hand, and a lovely young priestess at my shoulder to bring me whatever I desired, and she started ushering in people to see me.

Penny, what am I doing? I asked, after the second mage came up, bowed, and expressed his admiration and gratitude for my service.

You’re receiving, she replied, telepathically.

Just what am I receiving?  I liked to be clear about such things.

You’re receiving respect and honor from your loyal . . . well, from your constituency.  We’ll discus just how loyal they are later.  But everyone in the room who doesn’t know you wants an opportunity to speak with you.  This is that opportunity.

I groaned, as the young woman re-filled my glass.  And I should do this . . . why?

Because about half of the magi in the room who speak to you will eventually end up with witchstones.  The other half are going to do everything in their power to get witchstones, but probably fail.  So this is their opportunity to display their best ass-kissing to the new Head of the Arcane Orders.  Let them talk, take their measure, and listen to them . . . because this is probably the last time you’ll be able to mix with them so casually.

Great, I replied sarcastically.  And they’re all chartered?

Only a handful of footwizards got in, she agreed.  These are all court magi, warmagi, spellmongers, practical adepts and specialists.  Including quiet a few powerful ones from Remere and Castal.  So be polite, and be respectful . . . and if you don’t know what to say then you ask them what they thought of the proceedings and listen to what they have to say.

That actually sounded like a good plan to me.  I don’t mind listening to people.  Sometimes I even pay attention.  And that’s it?

For now.  Believe me, this is just the beginning.  We have a very scarce commodity in the witchstones.  We need to use them to our best advantage.  This is your chance to casually meet those who will be up for it.  And you only have to do it for a couple of hours.  You get to drink the whole time.  And wear that silly hat you wanted so badly.

It’s a good thing you got the good wine, then, I grumbled.

For the next two hours I met a cross-section of my professional peers: gold-chained practical adepts from Remere, descended from the great magelords of the Magocracy.  Rough and robust warmagi from Wenshar, who were eager to take the fight to the goblins.  Silk-swathed, nervous-looking wizards from the coastal towns who were eager to get their hands on the glass but seemed unconvinced that the threat of the Censorate was abated.  A wiley-looking enchanter from Mobbes, who assured me that being his patron would make us both wealthy beyond our wildest dreams.

I have to admit some discomfort with the half-a-dozen baronial court magi, men often older than me, who were falling all over themselves to see who could kiss up to me the most.  I’m only twenty-five, and seeing a sixty-year-old court mage nearly wet himself to curry my favor was disturbing.

And then there were the apprentices.

Most magi end up collecting a few apprentices along the way, and not just because of our stated commission to teach our knowledge to future generations.  If you came across a kid with Talent, then taking an apprentice is a good way to lock in some dependent labor for a decade or so (the length of most standard apprenticeships).  I didn’t work my two boys very hard, in the traditional way – I didn’t demand that they make my breakfast, empty my chamberpot and clean my quarters – but then I wasn’t exactly a normal spellmonger any more.

But my associates, the High Magi, often had a few.  Lanse of Boon had three, which isn’t unusual for an enchanter in a labor-intensive sub-specialty like his.  Master Icorad the healer had two, both ripe for masterhood, and half of the warmagi present had at least one.  Masters Dunselen and Thinradel had two each, and then General Hartarian had brought nine former Censorate warmagi who were more interested in fighting goblins than beating up on hedgemagi.  And every one of them wanted to meet me, offer their admiration and respect, and subtly hint around that they wanted a witchstone.

Would that I had stones for all.  But I didn’t.

The next morning over breakfast (griddle cakes garnished with honey, clotted cream, and fresh berries from the Temple garden, washed down with about a gallon of thick, strong wakeful tea) Penny, Taren and I took inventory of our spare stones.

All of them had been cleansed and were ready for distribution.  It had been an active harvesting season, that winter, as Azar’s knights and rangers from Tudry had fought against the Dead God’s shamans in the Penumbra, and in a few daring instances within the Umbra, itself.

Those brave men had brought us a total of twenty-nine stones . . . sort of.

There was Horka’s stone, for instance, recovered from his body after he fell repelling the dragon at Timberwatch.  It was . . . off, somehow.  What I didn’t know about the nature of irionite could fill a library, but I knew that Horka’s stone was different from the others.

It wasn’t just that he had died with it.  From what I understood from the histories, in the Magocracy there didn’t seem to be any reason a mage couldn’t use a witchstone belonging to a dead mage.  I’m guessing it might prove a harder transition, but in the famous poem by Ficlan, The Feud of Yadvilda and Nikoya, the magelord Tanandus uses the witchstone of his fallen foe, Grinaldus, against his enemies while the latter’s body was still twitching.

But there was something wrong with Horka’s stone.  All three of us had taken thaumaturgical assays into it, as delicately as we could, and we all agreed: that stone was broken.  There was power there, just like the others, and there were the remnants of Horka’s spell arsenal wrapped around it, but there were also things I couldn’t identify.  Dangerous things.  For whatever reason that stone was cursed, and none of us felt comfortable granting it to another mage.

That left twenty-eight stones, only . . . not really.  Among the captured pieces were three stones of the urgulnosti, the priests of the Dead God’s private guard.  They’re usually smooth, round, torus-shaped pieces, and they had some unique properties.  Penny wore the first one we’d found, and because of its facility with control and communication she had been able to perfect the telepathic network we now enjoyed.

Having three of them seemed like an amazing bounty, and who they would go to was hotly debated.  But one of them was broken, too, only in a more traditional way.

The story was that a ranger – one of the Tudrymen who had taken service under Astryal – had led an ambush on a party of gurvani in the Penumbra.  I don’t know the details of the battle (except that we won), but during the fight the ranger’s broadsword had sliced deep into the leading priest’s torso – precisely on the witchstone the gurvan wore on a thong around his neck.  The force of the blow killed him, and the release of magical energy was explosive, but after the battle the stone remained in three tiny pieces.

Each one was magically active, but they were small.  One of the few things I knew about irionite was that the mass of the stone did affect the power a mage could draw from it.  Mine was massive, thanks to the Tree Folk, and had a nearly endless supply.  But that didn’t mean that even the smallest piece of active irionite wasn’t also tremendously powerful – the Mad Mage of Farise had taken one about this small and gotten the armed might of the Duchies brought down on him as a result.

A small piece is still incredibly potent, but it’s akin to the difference between a dinghy and a galleon.  They both can carry you across the water, but it’s a lot easier on a galleon than it is in a rowboat.

So I had three tiny pieces of irionite that I could hand out.  That also technically gave us thirty stones, total, but I wanted to take the unique opportunity to study the smaller shards before I let them go, so I set them aside.  That brought our total down to twenty-seven.

Nine stones for the former Censorate warmagi who would make up the core of the new order of Knights Magi charged to fight in the Penumbra.  That had been part of the deal with Hartarian, that his best warmagi got their candy up front.  Of course that bought us a powerful force and the resources of the former Citadel, which was not insignificant.  And the warmagi (I had met them all at that point) he brought were eager to go to war against the Dead God armed with such might.

That left eighteen stones to distribute.  And over a hundred magi who wanted them.

“I’m open to suggestions,” I said, at last with a sigh.  “Any time I think about who should get one, all I can think about is who will be furious because they didn’t.”

“You can’t think of it that way,” Penny said, shaking her head.  She was still wearing Remeran garb, complete with the wisp of a light pink translucent headscarf.  Pretty.  “The Arcane Order has to govern these stones carefully.  They are a very, very limited resource.  Let’s begin with the people we all agree should have them – or have been promised stones.”

“The Master Icorad wants two for his apprentices,” I offered.  “And they are deserving magi, masters of their craft in all but name.  As part of the negotiation they will each spend time tending our wounded for the war effort, three months a year in rotation.  Briga knows we can use the help.”

“Agreed,” nodded Taren.  “And I’ve known Rikkin a few years.  Good fellow.”

“That leaves sixteen.  The Remeran Court Mage should have one – I think it’s important that all three of the Duchies have a High Mage in charge.”

“Agreed,” Penny said, looking relieved.  “Gurthruian is a potent mage, and that will keep Daddy happy.  Fifteen.  How about we go ahead and say five will go to warmagi right off the top of the bushel – and you probably know better than I who would be best.”

That wasn’t a half bad idea.  We knew that most of the stones were dedicated to the war effort.  If we could settle on who was certainly going to get them first, perhaps the rest would fall into place.  Taren looked at me, and I looked at him, and we started spitting out names.

“Golvod of Tenaria,” I said, almost instantly.  He was a younger son of a baron who had been grooming him for the life of a tournament champion when his Talent emerged.  He went on to become a ruthless warmage in southern Remere.  Part of his charm was the mighty double-bladed battle axe he wielded instead of a mageblade.  The fact that he stood nearly seven feet tall helped with the image as a brutal warlord.  He had the professional respect of most of his peers, and he seemed to look forward to a long term of service in the Penumbra.  Taren shrugged as if there was no argument to be made against it.

“Perhaps Pirgine the Seer,” Taren said, and I nodded.  Pirgine works “behind the wall,” with military intelligence.  She was one of the best at battlefield scrying and obfuscation in the business.  She wore billowing black robes and a silver mask when she was working, but I’d gotten drunk with her one night and found her a charming old bawd when she wasn’t being professionally serious.  Not the boldest choice, perhaps, but an important one.  Put her and Lanse of Bune together, and we’d eventually know what Shereul’s priesthood ate for dinner.

“Loiko Venaren,” I suggested.  He was a good counterpoint to Pirgine.

Taren considered, and then nodded.  “He bears no love for the Censorate.  They imprisoned his daughter a few years ago, and nearly had him arrested.  And his talent for strategic thinking is probably better than Terleman’s.  And he led the assault on the Mad Mage.  Yes, Master Loiko would be an ideal candidate.”

Loiko Venaren was a master tactician, an active warmage all over the Duchies for over thirty years, fighting in dozens of campaigns over the years.  He was so well-respected that he had been one of the most seasoned warmagi placed over the Magical Corps during the Farisian campaign, and the mind responsible for the final assault.

As he had been born in Farise before his family relocated to Merwin, I don’t know how he’d felt about the invasion of his homeland, but his feelings hadn’t prevented him from designing a very capable strategy against the Doge’s minions.

He was a quiet, thoughtful man with a very dark complexion and a handsome Imperial bearing that making his silver-blue eyes stand out even more.  It was rumored that he’d studied with the Mad Mage in his youth.  He was adept at positioning small, specialized units at key points in the battle plan to affect mighty changes in the course of battle.  He would be an invaluable ally in the war against the Dead God.

“My largest concern with Venaren is that he’s so senior that he won’t feel inclined to follow orders of a sprout like myself.”

“I don’t think that’s an issue,” Taren said, shaking his head.  “He’s taken orders from plenty of people in his career.”

“Those were clients,” I pointed out.  “Not his magical colleagues.  And I heard there was plenty of bitterness in the upper ranks of the Magical Corps.  He had to be involved with that.”

“There’s always bitterness in a leadership council like that,” Penny interjected.  “That’s part of the process.  This mage will take the same oath as all High Magi, and he will obey it as we all do. That is the price of the witchstone.”  She said it with a finality that I couldn’t argue with.

“What about Angeffen of Fornay?  The Vorean?”

“Died last year,” Taren said, shaking his shaggy head.  “Cavalry charge into a hidden ditch somewhere in Merwin.  But . . . well, Larfane the Defiant was his best apprentice, and he’s here.  He’s as good as Angeffen was in his youth.”

“Huh!  That’s an idea.  I met him at the reception, I think.  Red hair?”

“That’s the one,” Taren agreed.  “He specializes in siege techniques, especially sapping and mining.”

“We could use a warmage like that,” Penny said, more to be included in the conversation than anything else.  I could tell she was getting bored.  “Isn’t Carmella more siege engines and construction?”

“Hesia was the construction engineer,” agreed Taren.  “But Larfane can do most of what she could, plus some stuff she couldn’t.  Plus he knows how to fight, which Hesia really didn’t.  He’s a solid choice.  That leaves . . .” I said, searching my brain for another warmage who could use a stone to our best advantage.  Someone who could lead, fight, defend, attack, and take command of troops if necessary.  Someone inspiring.

Taren and I both looked at each other, the same thought on our mind.

“Caswallon!” we said in unison, grinning.  Penny just looked at us, a little irritated.

“Who the hells is Caswallon?”

“Caswallon the Fox is the biggest, cockiest, ball-busting warmage in the Duchies,” Taren explained.  “He went to Inrion Academy, and then into warmagic under old Master Vinyar of Gilmora, by all repute an adept at the art.

“Caswallon ended up being in the right place at the right time and managed to capture Alshar’s Marshal of the Eastern Frontier for the Count of Gilmora.  He took ten percent of that ransom as his prize, and it was a big one.  The next year he was in the right place at the right time again, and got to loot the Duke of Castal’s baggage train of every penny.”

“He’d switched sides in the war by then,” I explained, when I saw Penny’s thin eyebrows scrimmage on her forehead.  “It’s actually pretty common.  The Duke figured he’d quelled the uprising, turned Caswallon loose with the rest of his expensive warmagi, and leave the mopping up to the Count and his barons.”

“Only Caswallon wasn’t done fighting.  He offered his services to the Count of Grammone, who was running the war for Alshar at the time, and turned around to use all of the passwords and signs he knew to lure the guards away and loot the baggage train!” Taren hooted.  Penny didn’t look impressed.

“Since then, he’s been building a reputation by aggressively proclaiming just how good he is to everyone who will hear it.”

Penny looked aghast.  “And you want to encourage this mage with a witchstone?”

“You have to understand, he’s a warmage,” I emphasized.  “And the fact of the matter is, he is that good.  At least, he knows his stuff about strategy, tactics, thaumaturgy, logistics, supply – he’s a fighter, but he’s also . . .”

Taren tried to explain.  “He’s got a whole entourage around him to remind everyone – including Caswallon – just how great he is.  Luckily, that entourage he has includes a lot of errants – not just warmagi, but real knights searching for adventure, who together add up to a loose heavy cavalry squadron.  Then he’s got a family of River Folk servants, an armorer, a scout, a scribe, a valet, a full-time minstrel, a priest, three or four apprentices, the odd journeyman who wants to enjoy his illustrious company, and of course every dewy-eyed maiden in the district who wants to bear his children.”

“And how does he keep all of these people in his orbit?  Bribes?”

“Only if he has to,” I said, shaking my head.  “But it’s actually because he has this utterly magnetic charisma and charm that you just can’t resist.  He could talk a goblin into a friendly game of rushes, and have him toasting the health of His Grace before the end of the game.  He’s got a loud, deep voice, he uses a lot of gestures, and . . . well, he’s just the friendliest man you’ve ever met.”

He wrinkled her nose.  “And why do we need such a friendly warmage for the war effort?  Besides, it sounds like he’s using an enchantment, to me,” she said, skeptically.

“I thought so too, when I met him,” I admitted.  “But if he’s using a spell, it’s a damn subtle one.  I couldn’t detect one.  I’m more inclined to call it a natural ability.  But you spend ten minutes in Caswallon’s presence, and if you don’t want to have his baby or defend his honor in a duel, I’ll assume you’re unconscious.”

“He sounds like a boor to me,” she sniffed.  I could tell at once that she’d already set her mind to bed him.

“He’s heroic,” Taren countered.  “He’s bigger than life, a leader of men, a lover of women, generous to his friends, gracious to his foes . . . just the sort of man we need guarding the Penumbra.  That’s a military duty that the warriors of the Duchy will find tiresome all too soon.  With no hope of plunder, no hope of victory, and little hope of survival, within a year we’ll have to send criminals and debtors to the lines.   With men like Caswallon there to lead them, they may stand and fight rather than run.  And he is a competent warmage,” he added.

That was pretty high praise from Taren.  Don’t misunderstand, the man loathes criticizing anyone about their craft, but he had very high standards.  I’m sure I barely measured.  In fact, I’d count it an honor if Taren called me competent.  It would make me giddy with validation.

“Fine,” Penny conceded.  “So that’s the five warmagi.  Ten stones left.  Who gets them?”

We struggled with that question for a while, but slowly began to put together a list of names.  It was a struggle, but late into the night we finally had our High Magi, plus alternates.  Every single choice was entangled with politics and economics, and only Penny’s insights into that arcane realm kept us from making some truly bad decisions, but no matter how we divided them, there were going to be plenty of people upset with the result.

“We’ll get more stones,” she assured me, wearily.  “Not enough, but now that we have a list and a procedure, we can make it run more smoothly in the future.”

“There are still going to be some unhappy people around,” warned Taren.

“Aren’t there always?” I pointed out.  “We’ll deal with it.  Let’s get some sleep.”

Rondal had been on “escort duty,” and once I woke him up he was happy to walk behind us as Penny and I headed back to our rooms.  He yawned the whole way there, and it occurred to me that this would be the perfect time to broach a delicate subject.

So, I said into Penny’s mind through our stones, Any big news to tell me?

What? She asked, confused.  You’re going to have to be more specific than that.  I get big news all the time.  But if you’re wondering if I’m announcing an engagement or planning a coup . . . no.  Not until I get some sleep.

I was thinking more of things that would concern me, I said.

Me getting engaged wouldn’t concern you?

I’d feel for the poor bugger, I admitted, but I’m assuming he would be under his own free will.  But I was wondering if you had received any news about which I should be aware?

I was thinking of Isily, and her secret pregnancy, of course.  Penny knew about it.  She didn’t know I did.  And she was keeping it from me, either to protect me or to keep me from getting distracted and doing something stupid.

That wasn’t really a problem – I had one baby to deal with, and one woman.  I wasn’t itching for another of either.  I wasn’t so much upset about Isily’s treachery (it’s almost impossible for a female mage to conceive accidentally) as I was Penny’s unwillingness to tell me.  I didn’t for a moment consider her disloyal, or working against my interest.  I was just concerned that she wouldn’t be honest with me.

Apparently, there are some things she thought I was better off not knowing.

I felt bad about that, angry and resentful at first, and then just sad.  I trusted Penny.  I realized that I still trusted Penny, despite the deception, which may have been profoundly stupid of me.  I didn’t care.  I trusted her; I’d known Penny longer than Alya.  She’d had plenty of opportunities to sell me out or stick a dagger in my back – heck, she could have pushed to marry me, if she really wanted, and I would have had a hard time saying no.

But that didn’t mean she did what I wanted all the time.  She did what she felt was best, but – damn her! – that wasn’t always what I thought was best.

It was a pretty puzzle: do you trust the people you’ve put in trustworthy positions to do their jobs, or do you second-guess them to death, until they quit in disgust?

I needed Penny.  Even if she was hiding a possible child from me.  More importantly, these incipient orders we were creating needed her.  If it had been left up to me, I would have screwed things up permanently by now.

I decided that if she was going to not tell me, I had to respect her right not to tell me, no matter how personally difficult that was.  But this was her chance to level with me.

No, nothing springs to mind.  Except . . . you need a bath.

I do?  I hadn’t exerted myself all day – just sat at the table and talked.  Did I really need a bath?

Badly, she assured me.

Chapter Twenty

The Legend Of The Forsaken

When it comes to playing politics, no one does it better than the Remerans

Don’t misunderstand me – there are plenty of peoples who are better at playing politics than the Remerans, else the incipient kingdom would have had a Remeran monarch and not a Castali.  What I mean is that Remerans do it better than anyone else.  They would much rather persuade you with praise and pampering than threaten you with rat-tails and revenge killings.  I’m new to the political arena, but I like the way the Remerans do business.

When Remere was the ass-end outpost of the Empire, the second-to-last stop before Farise, the duchy had begun as a scenic ring of port cities on the coast connected to some lucrative upriver plantations.  But it had also achieved a certain shabbily cosmopolitan feel from the number of Magocracy exiles (self-imposed and the regular kind) who had settled there: esoteric cults, dispossessed Imperial noblemen, itinerate magi, wandering clerics, scholars in search of inspiration, artists, adventurers, reformed pirates, and ambitious younger sons eager to build their fortune.

The exotic mix of adventurers and extremists had given Remere a sense of self-importance that the equally-exotic (but far less cultured) Castali port cities across the bay had never achieved.  After the Conquest opened up the interior of the continent, much of that culture had moved up-river with the Imperial refugees attempting to flee toward the perceived safety of Wenshar.  The first Narasi dukes put a stop to that flight, and forced the Imperials to settle into the feudal society they were familiar with whether they wanted to or not.

But the legacy of the cosmopolitan coastal culture and their exuberant, decadent, and sensuous approach to everything continued to affect the Remerans, regardless of where they settled.  The Remerans enjoyed life, no matter their wealth or station.  Even the half-naked, destitute land-bound peasantry who worked the great plantations had adopted the philosophy, and it was reflected in everything from their cuisine to their religion.

That affected their approach to politics too, I discovered at the meeting.

When the Order of the Secret Tower invited me to a special meeting, escorted by my Steward, Penny, they had a captive audience and they could have begun and likely concluded the negotiations right away and saved everyone a lot of time.  But that’s not the Remeran way.  While the Order was not exclusively Remeran, I had been told, it was Remeran enough that we couldn’t even get through introductions without a buffet table and three stark-naked golden brown serving girls dispensing the first of many rounds of exotic liqueurs.

The principals who wished to meet with me wore pale yellow robes (about as somber a thing as I’ve seen a Remeran wear) with what I could only assume was the Secret Tower’s secret sigil embroidered over the breast.  Each principal (and there were nine) had an aide-de-camp and two additional servants, and several had scribes or other hangers-on.

Each mage in attendance reclined on a short, wooden-bottomed squatting cushion that had once been popular in the Magocracy, with plenty of space before them to allow wine servers and food servers and body servants to attend to their every want and desire, while sweet, soothing music played and savory incense and spring flowers scented the air.

And this was a simple business function.

I was led to my spot, a place of honor in the circle, and Penny was led to the spot to my left.  There were some confusing introductions, but I was getting used to putting names and faces together for political purposes.  By the third drink, and the second round of appetizers, I had a rough idea of who everyone was and who they were in the Order.

All of them were well-respected magi, most of them Practical Adepts or Court Magi, with a few well-respected arcane scholars thrown in.  Penny’s father, Orsirio, was a senior member, as was the deputy Court Mage of Remere.  An older woman, Mistress Letuandua, was from a coastal family of magi so rich and powerful that they rarely even did magic for pay anymore.  She reminded me of an apple left in the sun too long.

Penny’s cousin Planus had a seat in the ring, although he made do with just one retainer and an assistant, plus two girls to keep him from starving to death.  Despite his paltry retinue, plenty of his peers glared at his place of note.  His fortunes had risen rapidly, in time with his cousin’s.   I could sense some resentment from others in the room who felt he had not earned a place.   It didn’t seem to bother him.

“Behold, the Embassy of the Order,” a masked figure of some importance intoned as he struck a little bell.   Master Orsirio stood and faced me.

“Master Minalan, you have repaid the debt we extended to you in your hour of need far beyond all hope,” he said, reverently.  “You have more than acted in good faith, you have acted to destroy the shackles placed unjustly upon us,” he said, diplomatically not mentioning the fact that it was my ancestors who were responsible for those shackles in the first place.

“As you know, our Order is descendent from the Privy Council of the ancient Magocracy. It was from among the ancestors of our Order that the Archmagi were chosen.  And while that office became a tool to run the secular affairs of the Magocracy, the Privy Council was always concerned as well with certain legacies of our ancestors.  Legacies from lost Perwyn.”

And then we broke for a snack.  Some sort of miniature pears, cooked in wine, honey, cinnamon, and burniuon.  Apparently you were supposed to eat them with your fingers.

“You’ve intrigued me,” I admitted, as I licked my fingers clean – it was that good, and that’s not considered a violation of protocol amongst the casual Remerans.  “In my struggle against the Dead God, I would have the might of our ancestors on our side.”

“I said legacies from Perwyn, Master,” he corrected.  “Not necessarily might.  For within the vast records our Order managed to keep from destruction, while there are certainly spells of great power, there are other legacies less-practical … but no less important.”

“I’m just an ignorant backwoods spellmonger,” I shrugged.  “You’re going to have to be a lot less vague than that.  Let’s put all of our pieces on the table, shall we?  I’ve always wondered – just what is it your Order is supposed to do?”

Orsirio looked around, received a few grudging nods, and then continued.  “Among our many responsibilities is one of the most sacred,” admitted Orsirio, twirling his mustache.  “It is the matter of the Forsaken.”  He paused, apparently waiting for lighting or a crash of thunder or a gasp of breath to complete the drama of the revelation.  Since I had never heard of the Forsaken before, the desired effect was lost on me.

“So who are the Forsaken?” Penny prompted, impatiently.  “Let’s skip the poetry, Daddy, and just tell him.  It’s been a long day.”

Orsirio huffed, but agreed.  “Our ancestors on Perwyn had many arcane magics.  Most of them we only barely understand in our ignorant age.  But there were some things that were particularly important to them, and one of the things the ancient Perwynese Magocracy was concerned with was the Forsaken.  And the Forsaken were . . . well, we’re not sure.”

“Not sure?”  I found that hard to believe.

“Oh, there are whole books on the Order’s duties to the Forsaken, how it’s our sacred responsibility to faithfully guard the rites and regalia.  The matter is always treated with the utmost reverence.  But as to what or whom the Forsaken actually were . . . we are . . . unsure.”

“But they’re important,” I said, trying to figure this out.

“Without a doubt,” he assured me.

“And they’re powerful,” I added, half-asking.

“They are referred to as having the ultimate powers . . . destruction, dissolution, there’s plenty of different ways they say it, but the Privy Council was clearly both afraid and respectful of the Forsaken.”

“Why were the Forsaken . . . forsaken?” I asked.  That’s when the Ducal Court Mage, Master Gorthus, hobbled forward and began reading from a scroll.

“ ‘Before the time of the first Archmage, control of Perwyn was splintered into several great and mighty powers,’” he recited.  “‘As the Void spawned humanity unto Perwyn and it constituted itself in its new home, it had to contend with the great and fearful Leviathans of the Seafolk, and the caprices of the gurvani, and the shifting alliances of the Alka Alon, and the other dangers of Callidore.

“ ‘Among these powers who shared the rule of Perwyn were those who had made great study of the magics of the Alka Alon.  And when they demonstrated their newfound spells to their fellows, many of the other powers on Perwyn were against them.  There were struggles and battles, but in the end the Magi, as they had styled themselves, had been threatened with Dissolution and Destruction by the . . . Forsaken.’   From what we have learned from these, the oldest of our writings, either side could summon the Forsaken to judge them, and the Magi feared that judgment,” the old wizard explained.

“They sound like gods,” Penny observed.  “Or demons.  What do the gods say about them?” she asked.

“Precious little, my lady,” Master Gorthus admitted.  “They are mentioned but a handful of times in the histories of the gods.  Mayhap there are yet ancient scrolls still lurking in the vaults of Vore and Merwin, but the gods themselves, it is said, feared the judgment of the Forsaken.”

I whistled in appreciation.  The gods feared little, from what I understood.  These Forsaken sounded like mighty warriors.

“So just what is the Order’s position on the Forsaken?” I asked.

Of course they couldn’t just answer me – a chime rang, signaling that it was time for a wine course.  An iced white wine from Drisine, served in snow from the mountains with a wedge of lemon on the side was brought out and served with great ceremony and a flute solo.  While we sipped the delicate beverage, two jugglers threw flaming daggers around the room while a drummer and a piper played.

“That’s . . . one of the things we’re unsure of,” continued Orsirio, quietly, while we drank.  “We have the initial Rituals of Summoning, but they are arcane to the point of insensibility, and require a number of unlikely things from a number of places to be performed.  Ultimately the mage who dares summon the Forsaken must go to the sunken spires of Perwyn, itself.”  Orsirio sounded apologetic.  “I wish we knew more about their nature, Master Minalan, but so much has been lost to us over the years.”

That was the nicest way I had ever heard someone refer to my book-burning, mage-hating ancestors.  These Remerans turned ass-kissing into an art form.

“Yet your Order has a duty to . . . summon them?”

Orsirio shrugged.  “We think so.  But we could be wrong.  It could be that we are to guard Callidore against their fury.”

I pondered a moment.  “Well, the Forsaken are an unknown variable.  The Dead God is known . . . all too well,” I said, thinking of the butchery at Timberwatch.  “At the moment I can fight him, but I have no clear way to defeat him.  The Forsaken sound like they might have the power to do so.  If the gods themselves were afraid of them, maybe the Dead God will be, too.”

“That’s certainly a possibility,” Master Gorthus admitted.

“Then again, if they find common cause and ally against us,” Pentandra pointed out, “then all of Callidore shall fall between them.”

“This, too, is a possibility,” Gorthus agreed.

“You’re not exactly inspiring a lot of confidence,” I grimaced.  “If your Order doesn’t know exactly what its duty is in relation to the Forsaken, then why do you pursue the matter so rigorously?”

“Because we know it’s very important,” stressed Orsirio.

“Our top priority,” assured Gorthus.

“We seek to fulfill our obligation to the Forsaken – if there is one – regardless of what it might be.  That has been the goal to which the Order always pledged itself,” offered Mistress Letuandua, speaking for the first time in a voice that sounded like a bullfrog.  “What else should we do with all of this old stuff?”

“And you need irionite to do that duty . . . whatever it is,” I ventured.  “I take it irionite is absolutely essential.”

“Of course,” Orsirio said.  “It was the cornerstone of Imperial magic.  There are several places in the summoning which only may be accomplished with the aid of irionite.  Which is why we now beseech you, Master Minalan, to pledge your assistance to the Order in executing its duty faithfully,” he said, bowing his head slightly.

“Whatever that duty might happen to be,” I answered cautiously.

“Yes, exactly,” Orsirio said.  It may have been the most perverse use of the term I’d ever heard.

I considered.  What did I have to lose?  They wanted to lavish me with spells and gold and resources.  And all I had to do was agree to help them with the research.  At worst, the Forsaken would end up arguing with Sheruel over who got the biggest share of the ruins, but there was also a chance that they could be genuinely helpful . . . if they even existed.  If they were mere figments of historical fiction, then that might be even better.

Before I could answer, the chime rang again and it was time for the fruit course.  Fresh, juicy apples, some oranges, redfruits, cherries, and blueberries, again packed in snow, but sprinkled with finely-ground sugar and served with a small plate of rich, subtle cheeses.  While we sampled the incredible dish, a girl sang a beautiful Remeran love ballad about a pirate captain who goes to sea only to return in disguise and discover his wife with her lovers.  Plural.  It got kind of twisted after that.

“Look, I don’t see why we can’t pursue this line of research,” I said carefully, after I spit out the last of the cherry pits.  “Especially if there’s even a hope that the Forsaken can take the Dead God in a fight.  But it cannot be my first priority – you must understand that.  I will give you what help I can, but if it takes resources away from the war, it goes to the bottom of the list.  Other than that, I don’t see why not.”

That seemed to please every member of the Order in the room.  Mistress Letuandua looked like she was about to cry tears of joy.  Orsirio gave me a full body hug.  I’ve never seen people so happy about chasing an imaginary super-god before.

But then Orsirio called for a toast, and we got down to the serious drinking.

They call it the Toast of Promise, an old Remeran custom dating from the days of the first plantations.  Nine tiny china cups, each filled with different liquors.  Each cup is emptied following a ritual invocation of the gods, the spirits, the ancestors, etc., to observe and bless the occasion.  Remerans apparently do it at all important occasions.

Everyone was served a little tray of these things.  They don’t sound like much, and each one was no bigger than a thimble, but downing nine of them – each more exotic and delicious than the last – was quite an experience.  Especially after the wines I’d already sampled.

“Now,” Penny said, wiping her lips after the ninth toast, “back to business.  The Order wants to donate a number of its records and scrolls.  And lend its expertise.  And probably some money.  Money?” she asked, slurring her words a little.  Penny weighs about as much as a pregnant nanny goat.  That liquor had to be hitting her.

“Money,” Master Gorthus assured her.  “The members of the Order have been quite generous over the years. “

“Then . . . let’s consider a few practical matters,” she continued.  “First, we’re going to need magi to fight the Dead God.  Can the Order help ensure that there is a goodly supply of high-quality candidates?”

“We can,” agreed Mistress Letuandua.  “We have several promising students.   Each family would be willing to contribute a few sons to the war effort, I think.”

“What about intelligence?” I asked.  “You have your Order, I now have mine.  We have mutual political enemies.  If I could count on receiving any important information about those enemies . . .”

“You may consider us at your disposal,” agreed Gorthus.  “Our members hear many secrets.”

“Excellent.  What about proper facilities? If we are to pursue this ‘research project,’ we’ll need space to work.  Several places.”

“The Order has many sites which may be suitable,” noted Orsirio, and listed some.  And it went on like that.  Everything we wanted, they were happy to grant us.  If this is the way Remerans negotiate, I could get used to it.

We kept “negotiating” through three more food courses and two exquisite alcohol tastings.  About three hours after midnight, I was near insensible, sprawled on my couch and drooling as servant girls continued to ply me with food and drink long after the need was sated.

They didn’t seem to mind roaming hands, either, as I complimented them on their charms in an increasingly friendly and intimate way.  I expected Penny to show up and reprove me for taking such liberties at any time – until I glanced over at her couch, and noted the husky young servant lad who had his tongue in her mouth and his hand up her skirt.  I couldn’t see her hand, but I had a pretty idea of where it was and what it was doing.

I smiled, drunkenly, and one of the servant girls kissed me.  I thought about Alya, and missed her terribly, but then someone was lifting the hem of my tunic and I was quite distracted.  Then I relaxed, and eventually faded into oblivion.

The shitty thing about oblivion?  Eventually, it stops.

The next thing I knew someone was slapping my face and splashing cold water on me.  My head swam and I struggled feebly, until I suddenly felt preternaturally calm.

Someone had cast a spell on me.  I would have been resentful, had it not been followed by a sobering spell of some magnitude.   I felt ill, for a moment, and then was quite in touch with my faculties.

I wasn’t able to articulate that in time to keep someone from sloshing another large ewer of cold water over my head.

“I’m awake!” I sputtered in protest.  “Ishi’s nips in the cold, what’s the matter?”

“There’s been news,” Penny said, quietly.  “From Gilmora.  From the front.”

I took a towel offered by a servant and began drying my hair.  My tunic was soaked.  My attention was on Penny, however, as I felt my stomach tighten.  “Have they started their advance?” I asked, hoarsely.  Dear gods, I had to pee.

“In a manner of speaking,” she sighed.  “The dispatch didn’t have much detail, but it didn’t need to.  Two days ago, dragons descended on the garrison castles in Gilmora.   All five garrisons were attacked.  Two were destroyed outright.  The other three sustained serious damage.  Thousands have been killed or wounded.  Probably tens of thousands.  And the stockpiles the garrisons relied on were burned with dragonfire.”

I blinked, trying to banish the stickiness in my eyes.   “Five garrison castles?” I asked in disbelief.

“Five,” she agreed, grimly.  “Get up.  I think we need to have a quick war council.”  I glanced outside.  Dawn was just breaking.  I glanced inside.  The room looked like it had been through a very good party.

“Well, yeah,” I agreed, dully.  “But what can we do from here?”

“Prepare for the politically inevitable,” she said, helping me to my feet.  My knees were seriously considering not reporting for duty.  I had to quickly grab my pants before they fell down, too.  Somehow the drawstring to my trousers had become untied.

“The politically inevitable?  We just endured a major military strike, and you’re concerned with the politics of it?”  I was confused, and a little irritated.

“That’s our job, now,” she reminded me.  “The Duke – the King – will expect some sort of reassurance and response from us, since we’re the only ones who have had any success with dragons—”

“Even if we didn’t actually slay one, or really know the spell that wounded the only one we’ve seen,” I reminded her.

“Even so, we’re the only weapon the Kingdom will have against them.  So we have to prepare a response when the Duke – King – inevitably asks us for one.”

“Penny,” I said, feeling even sicker in a way that had nothing to do with drink, “we just lost a big chunk of the force responsible for keeping Gilmora safe from invasion.

Without those forces the goblins are going to be able to burrow deep into the cotton lands . . . maybe as far as Barrowbell.”  I shook my head in disbelief.  Nearly forty thousand troops.  Gone.

“Which is why Rard is going to need a well thought-out response to the number of suddenly-alarmed high nobles,” she argued.  “Min, think about it: three days ago, the only people worried about the threat of goblin invasion were those within a few hundred miles of the front.

“Now that dragons can drop out of the sky hundreds of miles behind the front – or, really, anywhere – that’s going to occur to everyone, peasant to prince.  The nobility and the people are going to go mad with anxiety.  They’re going to demand action from their monarch, and he’s going to hand the whole nasty mess to us, because that’s what we’re here for.  So let’s figure out what we’re going to say and then figure out what we can do, before we’re asked for it.”

“That just seems like swatting flies in a burning house,” I said, discouraged.

“It’s practicing warfare at a higher level,” she corrected me as someone put a mug of something hot in my hand as we headed back to the castle.  “You can’t lead from the battlefront anymore – at least not right now.  You have people to do that, and they’ll do a great job if you let them.  But that’s not what you do anymore, Min.  Your job is to keep the King – or Duke – or anyone else from keeping them from doing it.  You keep the institutional foundation solid so that they can go out and get the job done.”

“That seems like a coward’s answer,” I said, a little sullenly, as we headed up the lane.  Our various servants and retainers filed in behind us – including, I was intrigued to see, Penny’s cousin Planus.

“Cowardice and bravery are luxuries you can no longer afford,” she insisted.  “You have to act on behalf of your profession, now, for the good of the war effort.   Institutions aren’t cowardly and they aren’t brave.  They either are or they aren’t.  You need to be the voice of the Arcane Orders, and more importantly, you need to make everyone feel like you have a real response to the dragons.”

“But I don’t!” I pointed out, irritated.

“Yeah, well, don’t mention that to anyone,” she said, quietly, cutting her eyes at me.

“That kind of defeats the purpose.”

“Then what do I say?  What do we say?”  I really had no good idea.  The best I had in mind was ‘Oops!  Sorry!’, but I was guessing that might be impolitic.

Penny apparently agreed.  “Well, I don’t know what the exact wording will be until we meet and agree on it, but more than likely it will say something like ‘the Arcane Orders of the Kingdom are aware of the situation and have even anticipated it; although the exact nature and severity of the dragon attacks were a surprise, as was their early deployment, we are not unprepared.  Building on the successful efforts of our members against dragons in the past, we anticipate being able to mount a meaningful defense against the beasts as quickly as the gods allow.’  Or something like that.”

I blinked again.  “So why don’t we just say that, instead of having a meeting?”

She sighed again.  “Because some idiot is going to start asking for specifics, and I need some ideas to throw at them.  I don’t know a thing about warmagic, so we need to consider that.  We don’t know the extent of the damage or who is going to be the most upset, so we need to do a little scrying.  And we now have a loyal body of magi who all happen to be at the same place at the same time, and that makes it an ideal time to have a very public meeting of the magical war council.”

“Why?”

“Because it makes us look like we’re really doing something, when we don’t actually have a response to the threat yet.  This sends a message of both confidence and competence, when people are going to be questioning both.  And that confidence will help mollify some of those who are anxious about the threat.  And bolster the Duke’s – King’s – position as a competent head-of-state.”

“He needs our help for that?”

“Why all the questions?” she asked, annoyed.  I think she was still a bit drunk herself.

“Yes, he does.  His realm was just attacked from the air, by magical dark forces.  That’s not something he can just throw a few mercenaries at and make it go away.  If he can’t counter that threat, or at least look like he’s doing something, his senior nobles won’t back his bid for the crown.  This means he can’t extend his royal protection to our royal charters.  So he needs to look like he’s doing something, so we need to look like we’re doing something to make him look good and make us look good and keep everyone going mad with worry and panicking.”

“Uh, somehow I think that panicking might be more productive.  Or at least safer.  Duin’s Axe, Penny, they’re dragons!”

“Will you stop your whining?” she said viciously, whirling on me.  “Yes, they’re dragons!  Last week it was goblins.  Next week it will be gyorfs or trolls or rogue elementals or rabidly randy River Folk.  There’s always going to be a nasty magical threat out there, Min, and we’re the ones in charge of those now.  That’s what we agreed to.  So quit arguing for the other side and remember where you mislaid your testicles, because you’re going to need them before the day is out!”

I swallowed.  I hated it when I pissed off Penny.  “Sorry.  I’ll marshal my resources and try to do better.”

She sighed yet again.  “I know, Min,” she said, starting to walk toward the castle again.  “I shouldn’t blame you – I’m new to this, too.  I’m just trying to do things in our best interest.  Looking like a bunch of market-day conjurers when it’s raining dragonfire on the people’s heads is not in our best interest.”

“I understand,” I nodded.  And I think I did.  “So we have a war council, look like we know what we’re doing, so that Rard can look important and wise and look like he knows what he’s doing, and between us we’ll keep everyone from panicking and fleeing, when that’s probably the smartest move they can make.”

“Exactly,” she agreed, stumbling slightly.  It had been a long night.

“So why do I feel like I’m being deceitful and disingenuous?”

“Because you’re actually playing politics now, and people are dying.  Anything you say about anything feels deceitful and disingenuous, even when you have great intentions.  Study the journals of the great Archmagi, sometime, if you want to understand that.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” I said, shaking my head.  Those journals were notoriously obtuse reading.  “But that just raises the question, what can we do against dragons except play politics?”

“You have an entire magical order designed to do research,” she reminded me.  “Put them to task.  They’ll figure it out.  If Horka could find that anti-dragon spell on his own, surely Taren and his apprentices can come up with at least one solution.”

“And manage to be where the dragons attack in time to use it?”

“Details,” she dismissed.  “Let’s concentrate on the immediate issues, first.”

The immediate issue turned out to be a much more detailed dispatch from Gilmora that was waiting for us when we finally finished climbing the stairs up to the keep.  Azar was reading it, and read it out loud to us when we arrived in Forandal’s solar, where we had agreed to meet.

“Whitetree Castle is destroyed and seven thousand of its men with it,” he read, calmly and quietly.  “Tantonel City, severely damaged, four thousand mercenaries and levies killed, hundreds more wounded.  Saram Castle, leveled, five thousand dead or wounded.  Growar Castle is destroyed, nearly four thousand dead, less than a thousand armed men survived.  Nion Castle severely damaged, only a thousand dead.”

“That’s most of the Gilmoran forces,” Taren said, shaking his head in disbelief.  He was already in armor, as was Azar.  Then again, Azar was reputed to sleep in his armor.

“That’s nearly everything keeping the goblins from entering the Riverlands in force,” observed Magelord Forandal quietly as he looked at a large sheepskin map on the wall of his solar.  “Without the garrisons to intervene, they can plunder and pillage anywhere they can gather enough force, and there is scant defense against them.  They could be in Barrowbell by summer, if they are not stopped.

“There are levies further south, but it will take weeks to move them up to reinforce,” Taren said, shaking his head.  “It appears that the foe is prepared to capture Gilmora intact, with but scant defense.”

“Over my rotting corpse!” growled Azar, thrusting the parchment scrap at me.  “I came south with men to halt the invasion.  That’s what I aim to do!” he said, defiantly.

Astyral joined us in full armor, his mageblade peeking over his shoulder.  “As do I,” he agreed.  “This makes our appearance in Gilmora all the more imperative.  My apologies, Master Minalan, but our duty calls us from council.”

“Almost,” I agreed.  “We can spare an hour for a quick war council.  Lady Pentandra has some ideas she wants to propose for your consideration, and some of these decisions may help ease the way further on.  It will take time for your servants make ready – we need to have a response prepared for His Maj—His Grace.   Something he can show the nobility and the people that demonstrates that we are prepared to contend with dragons.  And something that will buy us some time until we figure out how to contend with dragons.”

“That’s an excellent idea, Minalan,” Taren said, approvingly.  “And we need to distribute the stones before anyone departs, too.  Let’s convene a general meeting for later this morning.  If we lend haste to it, we can have our warriors on their way before noon.”

“It’s less hasty than I’d like,” Azar said, grudgingly, “but I will consent to delay for that long.  If it is to purpose.”

“I just want to make sure we are all in agreement before we proceed,” I assured him.  “On the important issues.  There is much left to discuss, but there will be time to finish at the Coronet Council this autumn.  If we make it that far.”

“Damn it!” exploded Azar.  “Had we not delayed for this useless council, perhaps we could have stopped the attack!”

“Or perhaps you could have gotten slaughtered with the rest,” observed Taren.  “Azar, you are not un-killable.  Even Horka fell to a dragon.  Had you been there – or any of us – then we would have faced the same fate.  At least this way we can re-group and prepare.”

“Yes, consider what would have happened had the Dead God attacked Robinwing,” Planus pointed out, making Magelord Forandal grow pale at the thought.  “The Dead God would have removed most of his deadliest foes in one strike.  The rest of the war would be a foregone conclusion.”

“I’ll be sure to mention that to the widows of the seven or eight thousand dead soldiers in Gilmora,” Astyral said to the Remeran mage, darkly.  “I understand that that could have been a strategic disaster – more of a strategic disaster,” he said, when he saw Penny start to take a breath to reply.  “But that doesn’t make it any better.  The only real defense that the Riverlands had in place is shattered, now, while we were sitting around discussing our privileges and getting drunk.  If we do not arrive there in haste, then there will be little to stop the goblin advance.”

“Then let’s get this over quickly,” I sighed, staring down at my food-and-wine-stained tunic.  “Rouse everyone and we’ll convene presently, in the Great Hall – with your permission, Magelord,” I said, bowing to the Lord of Robinwing.  Forandal had been a gracious host to us, and I would find someway to repay him . . . but Astyral was right.  Thinking of such things while the Riverlands burned with dragonfire made all we had done feel futile and useless.  It was time for action.

“We can distribute the witchstones, adjourn the conclave, and prepare your forces for march, all at the same time.  I might even change my tunic,” I said, unsteadily.  I realized that the sobering spell Penny had blasted me with earlier was starting to fade.

The Remerans do a great job of playing politics . . . but the politics of the moment favored steel and fire, not food and liquor.  As much fun as it had been to play at being important, it was time to get back to the depressing real world . . . where there were now dragons to deal with.

Chapter Twenty-One

The Bovali Migration

“It really feels wrong going east, when the fighting is west,” Rondal said, discouragingly, as we rounded yet-another bend in the river.  Up ahead was the dock of the next pissant village – was it Nockly?  Borlin?  Dusine?  Borlin, I realized, when I saw the faded swan-and-torch banner on the dock – we’d passed Nockly an hour ago.  I was starting to get used to the river route to Sevendor – to home.  “I am not eager for war, Master, but with dragons in the air, are you certain we can be spared?” he asked for the fourth time that day.

“Absolutely,” I agreed, for the fourth time that day.  “If Astyral, Taren, Azar and Terleman can’t handle it, what makes you think you can?”

He looked at me thoughtfully.  “You make a compelling argument, Master,” he conceded.  Then he continued in a low voice.  “Tyndal would have insisted he was as good as they.”

“Perhaps he thinks he is,” Banamor suggested, as he approached the bow.  “And I admit, I’m more than half jealous of his Talent – and yours.  But I know more spellcraft than you do, boy, and I’m a footwizard.”  He wasn’t being judgmental about it – Banamor was just stating the obvious.

“You’ve apprenticed a few years, lad.  You still have a long way to go before you – or Tyndal – are up to fighting dragons.  It’s been an eventful year, and few have risen so quickly.  But take a breath and enjoy your youth while you have it – don’t waste it prematurely on the battlefield.”

“I am a Knight Magi,” my apprentice said, uncomfortably.

“By courtesy, not by skill,” I said.  “So no, you aren’t going west to play with goblins.  You have to stay in Sevendor for a while.  And learn a few more spells, at least.”

“As you wish, Master,” he said, relieved.  I felt for the boy, but Banamor was right: he’d been pressed into service in Boval and Timberwatch because of need.  As dire as things were in the Riverlands, a barely-trained mage with a witchstone would be more hindrance than help to my colleagues.  Even Tyndal knew that, somewhere.  I was surprised to hear Rondal feel so guilty about not going to war, but I suppose he felt pretty useless right now.

I wasn’t exactly pleased to be heading away from danger myself, even if it meant seeing Alya and the baby in a few days.  I was responsible for the war effort, and even though sending a few dozen new warmagi into battle was a bold response, I still felt as if I had sat next to the road while the armies passed by.  In an hour – less, if the spells propelling the boat against the current continued to work as they had – I’d be back in Sendaria port.  In two days, I’d be back at my gleaming white castle.  That seemed a more appealing prospect than a military campaign.

But it still felt cowardly.

“So what was the consensus of opinion amongst the footsore, Banamor?” Rondal asked, changing the subject.  “Was the small council a success?”

The footwizard smiled.  “Spectacular.  This is the first time in living memory we footwizards were treated like something other than criminals.  An entire College devoted to us?  We’re honored.  Most of us,” he amended.  “There were some who resented being treated like poor cousins.”

“Footwizards are poor cousins,” Rondal snorted.  “No offense, Banamor, but . . .”

“Oh, you aren’t offending me, Sir Rondal,” the older man assured him.  “I have no illusions about my abilities.  But there are those in my profession who see their power as a reason to demand respect.  And often it is those with the least Talent who demand the most.”

“It isn’t any better at the lordly end of the table,” I observed.  “You do know what they call the student at the Academy with the absolute worst marks on graduation day?”

“No, what?” the self-taught wizard asked, curious.

“Mage,” I answered simply.  “Once they’re chartered, they’ll charge just as much as the best students, and expect you to kiss their arses for the privilege.  And they’re the first to demand the privileges of their rank.  That’s one good thing about re-organizing magic.  Weeding out rich idiots is going to be half of this job.”

“But some of your choices for irionite seemed to baffle,” Banamor said, diplomatically.

“You mean I handed some out to rich idiots?” I chuckled, mirthlessly.  “Well, if it makes you feel better, they were all very useful rich idiots, in their way.  Now the Order is flush with coin, we have officers and organization, and we probably won’t embarrass ourselves at the Coronation.”

“That would explain it, then,” chuckled Banamor.  “Magelord, I might envy your power, but I don’t envy your responsibilities.”

“I hate politics,” I agreed, sullenly.

I continued to hear Banamor’s report about the world of the footwizards, and who among them were the most vocal against the new institutions and who were the most supportive of them.  He spoke until the Sendaria docks banner came into view, which sent the entire barge into a tizzy.  The captain looked a little grumpy, which I thought was odd.  We’d made outstanding time, especially against the current.

Then I realized that he was grumpy because he was losing his magical means of propulsion, which had given him almost two days worth of additional speed.  I suppose I couldn’t blame him.  Upriver trips are always more expensive, and when the fare actually gives you a competitive advantage, losing it would sour me, too.  Still, he took our coin at the agreed-upon price, he arranged for porters to unload our baggage, and he assured us that our trade would be warmly welcomed if we ever had need again.

Sendaria looked like it had when we left, if a little hotter and a little dryer.  It would take a while for us to retrieve our horses from the livery stable, transfer our baggage to a wain hired for the occasion, and prepare for the final leg of the journey back home.  And we had to catch up with the final batch of Bovali refugees, who had arrived the previous day.

There were only five or six hundred of them, but they were the most frail and least hardy among the Bovali survivors.  Oldlings and younglings, the sick and the wounded, plus a smattering of the hale and hearty to keep them organized.  They had made camp in the back lot of a lumber yard that had seen little enough traffic of late, and that’s where we found them that afternoon.

Sir Roncil, one of the landless “country gentlemen” knights Sire Koucey had attracted to his mountain keep, was technically in charge, an intelligent-enough fellow who commanded at least some respect among the Bovali.  But the peasant folk tended to look more naturally to Zagor, one of the few surviving Bovali spellmongers, for leadership.

Zagor was, like Banamor, an unregistered mage.  But while Banamor had made his living as an itinerate footwizard, Zagor had taken his Talent to the Tree Folk, who had taught him a simplified version of their own spellcraft . . . and had given him the largest piece of irionite I’d seen until the Tree Folk had built my own Witchsphere.

But Zagor was not the kind of man who abused that power, or even used it to enrich himself.  He had an almost religious awe and respect for his smooth, egg-shaped witchstone and only used it at great need.  He could have built an emperor with that stone, had he chosen.  Instead he had made a home in the mountains where he patched the wounds and healed the sick of his fellow villagers.  Until the goblins came and turned business spotty.

When our returning party managed to find them in the unused lumber yard they had encamped in, Zagor, Sir Roncil and a few other leaders of the refugees were gathered around a fire of bark and sawdust, planning their next move.

Our arrival spawned an immediate joyous response in the people – before I knew it, I was surrounded by old women and young girls, both of whom tried their best to kiss me to death.  Even Rondal was greeted warmly – his previous master hadn’t made him terribly popular in Boval, but his appearance with me had redeemed him, somewhat.

I finally got everyone calmed down, used a cantrip to augment my voice, and gave them a brief speech about how glad I was that they had made it, and how much they would enjoy their new home.  They were just grateful to see familiar faces and know that their long journey was almost done.  I couldn’t blame them.  Most of them had been living on the run for a year, now.

The leadership was just as happy to see us.  They had used nearly the last of the coin I’d sent for the purpose to rent the lumber yard, and they were discussing the possibility of making the last leg of the journey on foot, baggage on their backs.  Our arrival kept them from that, at least.  I had enough coin to hire another score of wains to transport the few goods they’d managed to collect or retain.

Sir Roncil, a man just a few years younger than me, had assumed leadership of the column and made the kind of report I expected from a country knight, replete with his own diligence and hard work, his victories and his glories, and very little of actual import.  Still, his long-winded briefing told me the essentials . . . eventually.

Nearly everyone from the Bovali’s temporary camp in the south had made the journey.  A few dozen families had stayed, having made fresh lives in Limwell, or had moved on to find distant relatives in the east.  The rest had piled into barges and made the three-week trip upriver.  According to Sir Roncil, they had apparently been singing his praises the entire time.

“How was the journey . . . really?” I asked Zagor, when I finally got him alone, around dusk.

He shrugged.  Zagor rarely got excited about anything.  “We lost four on the way, and gave their bodies to the river.  Two babies were born.  There was a duel two weeks ago.  But Sir Roncil is a fair man.  Once he understood he needed my wisdom, we were able to guide the folk here without difficulty.”

I had no doubt that the conversations establishing just how much he needed Zagor’s wisdom had been terse and tense.  Once Zagor made up his mind on something, he was nearly unmovable.

“We will find places for you both, and reward your good service,” I promised.  That didn’t seem to impress him, but the prospect of the journey being over did.

“I just want a cottage of my own,” he insisted.  “And some dogs.”  Zagor loved his dog, Blue, but he had perished in the siege.  He looked incomplete without the shaggy brute around.

“Then dogs you shall have, my friend.  And more responsibilities, besides.  A new village will need a new spellmonger,” I reminded him.  He grunted in satisfaction.

“It will take time to learn its ways,” he said, wistfully.

“We all miss Boval,” I assured him.  “But it’s gone.  We have a chance to rebuild what was best of it in Sevendor.”  That seemed to mollify him, somewhat.  So did seeing me.

After the initial excitement faded, I started getting pelted with complaints about the trip, the accommodations, and every petty argument that had broken out since they’d left the south.  I dealt with those as best I could until it was long past nightfall.  Near midnight, I finally persuaded my companions to head back to the inn, where I enjoyed the luxury of a straw tick and candlelight while my subjects slept on the cool ground by starlight.

I suppose I should have felt guilty about that, but I didn’t.

The next morning was spent loading wagons and buying supplies, checking in with my order with the local spellmonger, and preparing for the final leg of the journey.  By noon our caravan, including more than a score of wains and hundreds of peasants on foot, was making its way south through Sendaria.  It was pretty country, and the Bovali were intrigued by the new land.  The Sendari peasants, on the other hand, just looked wary.

We were near to the frontier of Sendaria when we happened across a much smaller party, headed in the same direction, just as the sun was starting to dim.  It turned out to be one of my neighbors, Lord Sigalan of Trestendor, on his way to a Sashtalia market with a dozen of his folk.

I had yet to meet Lord Sigalan, but Banamor had made his acquaintance, was on tolerably good terms with the man, and was eager to make an introduction.  Fortune, fate, or the whims of the gods had placed us together.  It proved an important meeting.

Sigalan’s folk looked much like the native Sevendori in dress, although I found them more prideful and less servile than my own subjects.  They were frequently casual with their liege, even in my presence.  I found it interesting.

Sire Sigalan wore battered antique armor, a surcoat with his device on the breast worn over it.  Only two other mounted warriors were with him, but several of the Trestendori had bows.  The lord of the land was tall, at least half a head taller than me, and skinny.  He shaved his pointed chin and thin lips, but wore his sideburns long enough to braid.  His eyes were bright blue and burned like ice when they flashed with intensity – otherwise they seemed made for laughter.

He was a reserved fellow – he was cautious with his words, but they were all well-chosen and polite.  He remembered Banamor fondly – apparently the two drank together in the past – and after the footwizard introduced us while our people made camp for the night and prepared supper, I learned a lot about the country knight and his small country.

Trestendor had been a prosperous land, once, until West Fleria and Sashtalia had conspired to raze Sire Sigalan’s most lucrative estate, Ferrendor Village, and seize its lands in conquest.  We were not far from the site of its ruins, now.

Confined to his tiny keep and his one small village, Sigalan realized the folly of attacking his neighbor in reprisal with his weak forces – there were fewer than two dozen men-at-arms stationed at his remote keep.  He could have gone into debt hiring mercenaries to try to prosecute the war, but he was wiser than that.  He was building his strength and biding his time . . . but the thirst for revenge and to reclaim his stolen lands was great in Lord Sigalan.

“That’s why I’ve made this trip,” he explained.  “We will pass quietly through Sashtalia and meet with our suppliers beyond.  There we shall take delivery of fifty new bows with two score arrows each, every shaft tipped with steel.  Two years worth of profits to do so, but perhaps in another five years I’ll have the men I need to retake my lands.”  He looked at me searchingly for a moment, and then shrugged.  “Perhaps you should consider such an investment, Magelord,” he said, carefully.  “West Fleria is no friend to Sevendor.”

“Nor am I a friend to West Fleria,” I agreed.  “Not since I retook my own stolen lands.  I am sympathetic, Lord Sigalan.  Sire Gimbal is an ass and a blowhard.  But his ambition and his determination make him dangerous.”

“More than you know, Sire,” agreed Sigalan with a murmur.  “In truth, one fact sped me to make this purchase, though we could sorely use the coin elsewhere.  A month ago Trestendor received an embassy from West Fleria.  I nearly had the man thrown out, but a poor knight with noisy neighbors is wise to listen more than he speaks.  I heard the knight’s message.  An invitation to hire myself and my men as mercenaries . . . to make war on Sevendor.”

I was surprised.  I’d been involved in inter-domain struggles aplenty, when I was a warmage.  It wasn’t uncommon for a lord to hire his neighbors to make war on his other neighbors, and for the most part the nobility didn’t take it personally.  But the offer stood on top of the insult of losing half his realm, and Lord Sigalan hadn’t been interested.

“But it did make me think, Duin protect me,” he said, as he drew aimlessly in the dirt with a stick.  “If Gimbal has both eyes on you, then he might not pay much attention to Trestindor.  We are not ready yet, but perhaps his belligerence at your expense can be turned to purpose.”

“Here’s hoping,” I chuckled.  “So Gimbal is hiring mercenaries, now?  That’s intriguing.”

“That’s disturbing,” corrected Sir Olsted, Lord Sigalan’s aide.  Olsted was an older man, wary and cautious, but eager to further his lord’s ambitions.  “Gimbal has always been able to rely on his own folk or his allies for his conquests in the past.  Oh, he hired a score of his brother’s knights, when he took our lands, but that was all.  If he’s hiring that many warriors, Sevendor should best look to its frontiers.”

“Perhaps West Fleria should look to its own,” said Rondal with a thoughtful smirk. .  “I’ve seen Gimbal’s knights – I am little-enough acquainted with warriors, despite my title, my lords, but I am not impressed.”

“There is far more to warfare than knights on the field,” agreed Sigalan.  “Or else I’d be buying lances and armor, not arrows and bows.  The lowlanders sneer at them as peasant’s weapons, but in the mountains and vales a man with a bow and the skill to use it can bury a bodkin in a mounted lancer, and maybe more than one, before he has to draw sword.  It gives us an advantage, whether it is a base weapon or not.  I have not the folk, the horse, or the armor to equip more knights than I have.

“But knights he has, and in plenty.  Indeed, there are nearly two score encamped outside of your gates, from what I have heard.”

“Two score knights?” I asked, concerned.  That wasn’t an army, exactly, but it was enough to terrorize my unarmed refugees into chaos.  Easily enough to interdict our borders.  And that had to be his intention.

“Aye.  He’s seen your Westerners arrive for months, and it worries him.  He heard there was another group coming and vowed to stop it.”

While that concerned me, it also pissed me off.  According to Ducal law Gimbal had no right to block the road to me or my people.  And even though he had not officially declared war on me, as custom demanded, his bad intentions toward Sevendor were clear.

I was tempted to raise a war party on my own and raid the raiders.  But I had the well-being of old women and children and the sickly to consider.  I suppose it’s easier for those lords who don’t look to the welfare of their folk to ride off on some mad quest for bloodlust, but I could just imagine what Alya would have to say about me doing something so dangerous and stupid.

“We shall have to alter our route, then,” I said, finally, with a heavy sigh.  “It will add nearly another day to the trip, but to go south into Sashtalia and then into Sevendor over Caolan’s Pass will keep us from encountering Gimbal’s dogs.”

“Master?” squeaked Rondal.  “Up a mountain?  These dotards and children?”

“Unless you can part the mountains like cheese, yes,” I agreed.  “Sir Roncil, do you think anyone will have a difficult time climbing one little mountain?”  The Bovali knight rolled his eyes – the “mountains” in the distance in the Riverlands were smaller than the hilltops the Bovali were used to farming at the base of the Mindens.   “Lord Sigalan, do you know if the Lord of Sashtalia is allied with Gimbal in this cause?”

“Old Trefalan?” the knight said, disdainfully.  “He’s an opportunist, not a conqueror.  If there isn’t profit in it, he won’t move from his castle.  The back way into Sevendor should be unguarded.”

“Then we shall wake before dawn and start them on their way,” I decided.  “While the rest of us shall engage these two score knights, and teach them the meaning of manners.”

“Uh, just how many warriors are you hiding in that pouch?” asked Sigalan, with a touch of humor.  “I see a few, but . . .”

“Oh, I am not a mere Magelord,” I assured him.  “I am a warmage.  And I’ve a few stout retainers with me.  Don’t worry, we’ll see to Gimbal’s raiders.”

“Warmage?” Sir Olsted asked, surprised, “against forty knights?”

“I am well-prepared for such a contest.  I faced hundreds of thousands of goblins, a few country knights shouldn’t be much of a challenge.”

“I do hope my lord will allow me to attend him in this challenge,” Sir Roncil said, hopefully.  He was a young knight, eager for battle, and he’d been saddled with the responsibility of shepherding old women upriver for weeks.

“If we can find sufficient arms, yes,” I agreed.  “Rondal and Zagor can escort the wains to Caolan’s Pass.  We’ll ride out in the morning and keep those knights occupied while they do so.  If we can field half as many men as they, we should be able to prevail.”

Sire Sigalan shook his head in amazement.  “You are a brave man, Magelord,” he said, finally.  “But foolish.  If you do prevail, you may count me among your greatest admirers.”

“And if you don’t, we’ll be happy to pay for a commemorative epic in your honor,” added Sir Olsted with a grin.  “We haven’t had a good local tragic legend around here in a generation or two.”

From there we segued into discussing the future, assuming I didn’t get killed on the morrow.  Between Banamor and me we managed to convince Sigalan of the wisdom of mining his special red clay, and promised to assist him getting it to market and for a good price.

He was enthusiastic, once he understood what he had, what it was worth, and how he could profit from it.  Banamor graciously agreed to help set up the mining operation, and I offered whatever assistance Sevendor could lend in exchange for a small percentage of the profits . . . and any stray magical components we picked up along the way.  In truth, we could mine the hills for sympathy stones and discard the lourdin and still make a profit.

After that deal was concluded, dinner was served, a wineskin came out, and we spent the rest of the evening getting to know each other and trading lies and war stories.

Sire Sigalan reminded me of my old Baron, in a younger version, a man more concerned with his people and their welfare than his own titles and aggrandizement.  It helped that he was personally likable.  He had a deep but soothing voice, he moved with careful deliberation, and despite his relative poverty he kept himself looking lordly.

And his people loved him, despite their familiarity.  That alone told me he was a worthy man.

The next morning Sir Roncil and Zagor had the folk up and on the road before dawn, producing some good-natured grumbling and a lot of excited chatter from the children.  I managed to draft twenty-five good men from the column, peasants who had learned skill at arms during the siege and were eager for a scrap.  Most had swords, spears, or both, and a few had actual helms and armor.   With me acting as magical corps – Banamor had wisely elected to travel with Rondal and the refugees – we had a force almost as large as Gimbal’s was reported to be.

If you’re wondering whether or not I was worried about attacking a much larger force than mine, remind me to tell you how I once defeated a band of goblins, trolls, and shamans in the Alshari Wilderlands with just a few archers, some militiamen, and a couple of River Folk.  Oh, and a pot of soup.  But that’s a different story.

As the sun was reaching over the trees, I had my little band ready, and scryed out the route while I instructed my men on what they would face and what to expect.

“I have their positions,” I said as I closed my scrying map.  “They have two small camps, one north of the road and one south.  They’re over three hundred yards apart.”

“Sentries?” asked Sir Roncil.

“A guardsman on the road, one at each end.  Enough to raise an alarm,” I assured him.

“Interesting,” I said, fingering my chin.  “All right, let’s go greet our neighbors.  Sire Sigalan, thank you for your pleasant company – and if I survive the day, I hope to have you come visit me in my domain, soon.”

“I look forward to the opportunity,” he assured me.  “The luck of the gods with you, Magelord.”  With a final searching look, he urged his horse to follow the rest of his column.

“Master?” asked Rondal, cautiously, “what happens when we do triumph?”

“Hmm?  Probably have a party or something,” I guessed.

“No, Master,” he said, shaking his head.  “What happens when you deliver yet-another beating to the West Flerians?  They are attempting to hold the road against you now with forty knights – just what do you think they will try if you humiliate them again?”

“You know, that’s an excellent question,” I agreed, stifling the urge to reprove him for not focusing on the immediate situation.  “And in truth, I don’t know.  My hope is that we bloody his nose so badly that he’ll never bother us again.  But it is just as likely that we’ll enrage him further.”

“Then why take the chance?” asked Rondal, concerned.  “If the people are able to get to Sevendor safely, then needlessly antagonizing—”

“Because we have to,” I interrupted.  “I don’t really want to, but if I don’t convince Gimbal that molesting Sevendor is a bad idea soon, he’s apt to try something really dangerous.  This way, if we fight him to a standstill, then he knows it is not an inexpensive prospect to make war on us.  That might not keep him from doing so, but it will make him consider any such investment in mercenaries twice before he pays their coin.”

“Besides, what could be more fun?” asked Sir Roncil, as he sharpened his battered blade in his saddle.  “We sneak up on them, rout them, and we’ll be home in time for supper tonight.”

“That might be a little optimistic as well,” I nodded.  “But we can’t let this blockade stand unanswered.  And I’m starting to get the beginnings of a plan.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Spring Homecoming

“Well, that was exciting,” Sir Roncil grumbled sarcastically as we rode into sight of the gates of Sevendor.

Well, there were no actual gates yet, but the gap in the dike wall had grown a defensible doorway, and I was gratified to see the earthen wall well-manned and sentries alert in the Diketower.  Gimbal’s mercenary interlopers had been busy enough to keep my men on their toes.  We’d been spotted a mile before we arrived, and the men were alert with their weapons even after they had started to recognize me.”  You know it’s not really sporting, Magelord,” Sir Roncil said, shaking his head, “when you just put them all to sleep!”

“It worked, didn’t it?” I asked.  “And I don’t make war for sport.  Now we have nearly forty sets of armor and weapons.  Not to mention all of those lovely destriers.  Some of them may even be war-worthy. It was so thoughtful of Sire Gimbal to send those to us.  I just don’t know how we’re going to feed them all,” I worried.  An abundance of warhorses was a good problem to have.  There were few prizes in the bounty, but at least a dozen serviceable cavalry horses.  The rest would be used to pull the plows of the Sevendor peasants Gimbal had tried to raid.

Taking the raiding party had been ridiculously simple, after a little preparation.  Only about half of them were actual knights, the rest were men-at-arms and professional squires, sell-swords looking for easy loot and a bit of adventure.  Summer soldiers, and not particularly motivated.  They had been sticking to their camps when they weren’t patrolling or probing my frontier, and we found them encamped only half armored, half-drunk, and undisciplined.

They waited out the heat of the day in the shade of the trees of a little grove about a mile and a half from Sevendor’s frontier, confident their sentries would alert them at need.  Of course, that was difficult to do when the sentries had been sent to sleep with a simple spell.  That seemed a better route to take than merely slitting their throats – as Gimbal’s men had taught me well, a dead knight might add to your glory and renown, but a live one added to your purse.

Sir Roncil hadn’t been pleased by that, but the rest of my party didn’t mind stripping and binding the snoring sentries.  Then I tapped the Witchsphere for a much larger sleeping spell that covered the entire area.  Unlike goblins, there were no magical defenses of note at all – they went out like babies.  Either Sire Gimbal had not warned them that they were facing a mage, or they had not given it much thought.

The only ones who gave us problems was the patrol that had returned to camp just as we were finishing the bindings on their fellows.  They threatened to give us a fight, until I calmly felled a tree with a blast from my hand (Timrov’s Lucindiary, more deadly on wood than people).  Then they turned over their swords and surrendered when I gave them the opportunity.

I now had forty-five pledges to pay ransoms in my saddlebags, a dozen of them knights, not to mention a long pack train loaded with loot, delivered virtually to my doorstep.  Since these were mercenaries in Gimbal’s pay he would ultimately be responsible for the ransoms, in addition to their fees, if they tried to insist.  Plenty of warlords didn’t bother to pay mercenaries who got captured.

I marked each of their faces with the Snowflake of Sevendor until their ransoms were paid, with the warning that such a mark would earn a man a hanging if he was captured in battle with my people.  They marched off on foot, humiliated and defeated. They had been captured and paroled, and they could not legally take part in any future engagements against me until their ransoms were paid.  Plus the embarrassment of falling asleep on duty and waking up a prisoner had made them all a little cowed.  It was a small price to pay to keep their heads, I reminded them.

As easy as it had been, however, I knew that it was a portent of things to come.  When your neighbors start hiring mercenaries – even the poor country knight variety – just to piss you off, you have to figure they’re serious about their dislike of you.

Sir Roncil suggested hanging a few as a warning to others, but I didn’t think they merited such a bloodthirsty approach; that sort of gesture was rarely a good idea.   A bunch of vengeful families of dishonored petty nobility swearing vendettas against me was a headache I didn’t need, no matter how clear the message a gallows would send.  It was enough that I was going to be sleeping in my own bed tonight without ruffians at my door.  I’ll trade that for glory any day.

Besides, I got all the glory I needed when the sentries recognized me, and then the ramparts were filled with militiamen and guards shouting and cheering.  The cheering got louder when the long train of horses and baggage appeared, and Sir Roncil announced that the two score of professional raiders had been defeated.  That sent them into a lusty shout of victory, before they started chanting ‘magelord!’ Apparently I had been missed.

And then I was overcome, because I realized I was home – not just ‘back where your wife and stuff was staying,’ but home.  It felt good.

I was impressed with what had been done to the place while I was away, too.  Just looking around the bulwark and related defenses told me that the militia had been busy as beavers while they had held the site.  The wall itself had been bolstered with close-set columns of stone, I saw, and there were a few scars and repairs that looked like the result of a fresh assault.  I asked the gate captain, Ancient Vren, about it, after he had brought me a welcome draught of cider to wash the dust from my throat.

“Oh, that lot out beyond the frontier tried to get in a few times,” he dismissed.  “They ne’er got over the wall, though, Magelord,” the old man assured me.  “Oh, they hollered, they did, and tried to launch a few shafts, but there’s no way these paltry Riverland bows can best a Wilderland bow.  We wounded a few of them in a couple minutes of hot work, and after that they kept out of bowshot.”

That was good to hear – I’d been worried about our defenses.   I hadn’t expected Gimbal to be so openly aggressive, but I was glad we’d been prepared.

“That’s because his first two raids didn’t work,” Ancient Vren explained.  “The first one happened two nights after you left, Sire Minalan.  Tried to come over the wall.  So we chased ‘em off an’ we made the wall higher.  Tried to come through the gate the next night.  We made the passageway stronger.  So then they just ran down anyone who left Sevendor this way, but they never made it one inch past the gate,” he said, proudly.

Before I could regale them all with the dire news of from the war in the West, I was surprised to see Sir Cei, looking quite official in a new blue riding tunic, gallop to the Diketower at full speed before skidding to a stop on his fine black horse.  His usually-taciturn face was split with a wide grin that was uncommonly boyish.

“While you are pretty enough a sight, Sir Cei, I had hoped that my lady wife was going to greet me.”

My Castellan gave me an uncomfortably knowing look.  “Lady Alya decided to make herself ready to greet you in your chamber.  She somehow found that more appropriate than an hour’s ride by wain or horse.”

“I defer to her judgment,” I chuckled.  Yes, I was anxious to see my wife . . . and apparently she was equally as anxious.   But there was the caravan of Bovali refugees to get encamped, which I inquired about before my own selfish desire for news of my wife and child.

“They started coming over Caolan’s Pass about three hours ago,” he told me quietly as we rode back toward the castle.  “A little footsore, but otherwise hardy.  We’ve been expecting them, and had sent a party through Caolan’s Pass to guide them away from the Bastidor pass.”

“I’m thankful to hear it,” I sighed.  I had envisioned some scheme of Gimbal to ambush my people, but he was as imaginative as he was honorable.  “How are they faring?”

“Almost half of them will have tents or shacks to move into on the Commons, now that the weather is warmer.  The others we can lodge in the outer bailey if need be.  And, of course, there is room for more at the new village,” He added, proudly, as we came to the nearby site.

I smiled at the sight of the bustling little community that had seemed to grow up like one of the spring wildflowers around it, while I had been gone.  There were at least thirty small circular homes in a neatly laid-out pattern, each with a few rods of yard in which sheds and lean-tos and the foundations of barns and byres had been built.  They weren’t particularly sturdy things, but then the climate here was milder.  A carefully-split tree-trunk provided the exterior pillars, supporting beams of birch wands, where thatch was being laid.  Bare gardens, recently hacked from the earth, were beginning to sprout beside them.

The frames and foundations of five large, rectangular buildings stood toward the center of the new village, surrounding the foundations of a much larger building, clearly a future manor house.    It was an ambitious project – even grand – and I wondered how much of our funds Sir Cei had invested in it.

“That will be Boval Hall,” he said, proudly, as we stopped to survey the scene.  “Two stories, with six bays and a stable.  The site next to that is the Grange, and near to that is the new inn.  I believe the Magelord said he wanted an inn?  This near to the Diketower, it cannot help but prosper. On the other side is the smithy, and across the road next to the Grange is, with Bova’s blessing, a new creamery.”  He sounded like a man possessed of a religious vision.  “It is not Boval, but it is all that will be left of Boval.”

“It’s Boval enough,” I sighed.  “How are we paying for it?”

“Since the domain owns the fields and the land, we’re loaning the money for construction and the settlers are pledging to repay within a reasonable amount of time.  For now, each cot will owe two days a week labor to the manor for the next year, in the fields or in work parties, in addition to the day they owe the demesne.

“For that they get to cut wood from the slopes, harvest thatch from the fens, and received a shovel, a pail, an axe, and a hammer each.  Every third man gets a wheelbarrow.  Each cot has four rods of croftlands for garden or meadow.

“Every goodwife gets two hens and a goose, every second house gets a goat and the other a sheep.  Seed and stock are provided by the manor, as are the plows and teams – three teams of oxen, two of horse.  Rent shall be a half-ounce of silver a year, with payment in kind or in week-work accepted.  And there is room for perhaps a dozen more cots of this size, more, if we build on that meadow above.

“Further credit has been extended on individually-negotiated terms, should a household wish a cow or other stock,” he finished.

“You have had no complaints about the terms?” I asked.

“Since the additional week-work is temporary, the Bovali are not concerned that they would become bondsmen,” he explained.   A single day a week owed to the manor was normal for free peasants.  More than two days, and you were usually considered a villein.  “And the rents are being off-set by additional work the manor pays out for construction labor.”

“As long as you’re keeping track of everything,” I agreed.  “How fares Yeoman Rollo in his new station?”

Sir Cei nodded, approvingly.  “The Magelord chose his man wisely.  He has directed the construction of his future home with great attention.  He has performed admirably in setting the allotments in the fields, with my approval over the domain’s share.  He has been diligent in keeping his accounts, and does not seek to cheat the villagers.  He is the first one at work and the last one to leave the fields or job; he leads the folk by virtue and example, not by demand.”

“I thought he’d do well here.” I used magesight to peer more closely around the village until I located the Yeoman.  He was overseeing the construction effort, yelling instructions to a team of laborers as they erected the first roof pole on the structure’s first floor.  He looked determined and committed.  He didn’t look haunted.  That was a good sign.

Behind the village, on the long-fallow fields the plowing season was underway.  Teams of oxen and horses pulled the new plows I’d purchased through the earth in long, hard-won strips.  The shapes of the fields were starting to fill in, and free Bovali and hired Sevendori villeins with hoes broke the clods apart.  Some were scattering fistfuls of clay to sweeten the soil.  Sowing would begin any day now.

“And what are those?” I asked, curious, at a line of saplings being planted on the shadier side of the slope.

“Apples.  Two varieties suggested by Master Olmeg.  He suggested that these two apples will make an ideal cider.  Beyond that, pears and two types of nuts.  It will be years before they are productive, but Master Olmeg is hopeful.”  I could tell by the tone of his voice that he shared that hope ardently.  “Indeed, he has been adept, if you will excuse the expression, at counseling the people in their plantings.  The Sevendori are somewhat resistant, particularly the Genlymen, but the Bovali have no traditions to be overturned, and they abide by his counsels religiously.”

“And that building?” I asked, pointing to a minor spur of Matten’s Helm to the north of the village, where an outcropping of rock limited the usability of the land for much.  The building’s foundation was round, with two small bays.  A tiny cottage was being built unobtrusively behind a stand of pines nearby.

“That is the shrine, Magelord,” he explained, sounding pleased with himself.  “It seems that Goodman Tevram was taken with a temple he favored near Limwell, and felt called by Huin to take holy orders.  When he discovered that you had authorized a shrine in the village, he volunteered to be ordained under the Plow, and become a Landbrother to tend it.”

I didn’t remember Tevram very well, save that he had been a plowman from Malin, and that he had fought ferociously at the breach in the siege, before taking a nasty wound to his leg.  “He’s earnest in his studies?”  There were some who saw the clergy as an easy job, and took orders to profit.  I wanted clergy who worked for the people, not for the gods – or their own aggrandizement.  That’s what lords were for.

Sir Cei shrugged.  “I am not the best judge of such things.  But he knows his letters, he writes tolerably well, and he has studied with a few landbrothers.  He has heard that there is a landbrother, a popular monk named Landbrother Mison, who runs a shrine in a nearby domain with whom he hopes to study.  Should he succeed in taking orders, I have promised him three acres and the cottage for his support.”

“That would be a boon,” I admitted.  One of the problems plaguing our administration of the domain was a lack of trained clergy.  Ideally each village would have at least a monk or a nun in residence to teach the young, administer sacraments, and keep the villages records.  “See that it happens.  Bribe the other landbrother to come here and teach him, if you have to.”

“As you wish, Magelord.”  He gave the site of Boval Hall one last paternal look before turning his horse to follow mine.  This was his special project, I could tell, his opportunity to design and build a manor from the dirt up.  He didn’t have to contend with tradition, history, or someone else’s mistakes – Boval Hall would be his journeyman work in estate administration.  The fact that it housed the folk he knew the best only made his dedication more meaningful.  And to keep work going when there was an active insurgency nearby . . .

“Tell me, those mercenaries – how much trouble were they, actually?”

“They have been harassing our frontier and interdicting traffic,” Sir Cei admitted.  “But they have not prosecuted their attacks any further.  Twice we’ve chased them away with cavalry, but they return the moment our backs are to them.  You captured the lot, Magelord?”

“Through base sorcery, not skill at arms,” I dismissed.  “But I captured them and took their ransoms, arms and horses, and gave them pretty snowflake mage marks, and a merry tale to entertain the servant girls in return for their service,” I nodded.  “I doubt that they will continue to bother us.”

Sir Cei’s expression turned serious.  “Yet their master will.  Twice I’ve received letters from his castellan demanding the return of Brestal, the refund of some of our ransoms, and other nonsense.  I responded tersely to the first, and ignored the second.  Then those ruffians showed up.  I’ve kept all traffic going through Caolan’s Pass to avoid them, but I’m pleased that won’t be necessary now.”  He looked uncomfortable.

“Magelord, the bandits were a minor nuisance, not a real threat.  But the way the people responded to the summons . . .”

I was surprised.  “You had some who shirked?”

He was surprised.  “Shirked, Magelord?  Quite the contrary.  I feel I should mention that in your absence the folk of Boval Hall came to the defense of the dike three times, and responded valiantly each time.  The arrived in great numbers, within moments of hearing the alarm.  They seem . . . almost eager,” he said, struggling for the right words, “to fight those who would take from them what you have given.  Indeed, we had more men report to the wall than we had arms for.”

“That’s not a bad problem to have,” I chuckled.  “It’s when you call and no one comes that you have problems.  And we seem to have just accepted delivery of some forty sets of arms and armor.”  And that reminded me of something important.

When I had been staying at Wilderhall a few moons ago, the ink barely dry on my patent of nobility while I waited for my fief to be selected, an old baron had taken me under his wing for a few days while he waited on a court ruling.

When he learned I was newly-ennobled, he’d given me a crash-course in what he thought was the most important thing to know about being a noble.  After two days, I’d learned a lot – for example, don’t buy a drink for an old baron unless you want him to talk your ears off – but amongst the self-importance and stupidity he had occasionally let slip an actual nugget of wisdom.

I remember him grabbing my arm and making me look into both eyes – something he insisted upon only when he felt the subject was of especial import.

“There is no better way to secure a man’s loyalty, affection, and adoration than by presenting him arms,” he’d said in his smoke-stained voice.  “Your sons and sons-in-law will rebel and betray you, but a man who bears a sword you put in his hand will be faithful as the dawn.”

Most of the Bovali had little left in the way of arms and armor; besides their precious bows, the armories of their former domain had given them some basic-quality arms, swords and spears of low-quality iron.  Siege gear, designed for short-term use in manning the walls.  Many of the swords lacked scabbards, and the spears were wrought iron, not steel.  While most kept their weapons after their departure, some had to sell what they did have to keep food on the table in the South.  But those mean blades had kept bandits and cutthroats at bay, and kept the Bovali together.

The mercenaries’ captured armor and weapons were not fancy, but they were leaps and bounds ahead of the cheap swords and simple spears my men now held.  And while most lords were shy of common men who knew too much about weapons, I did not think I had to fear a peasant revolt any time soon.  Giving the Bovali arms would be the best way to secure their loyalty.  It wasn’t the way the average lord did business, but I was a magelord.  I was making this up as I went along.

“Sir Cei, I want you to have Captain Forondo inventory and sort the new arms,” I ordered, “to the end of culling the best for his men who lack proper equipage.  The rest I wish to be presented to the folk of Boval Hall.  We should be able to find two dozen complete sets there, at least.  They can be stored in the manor hall, for now, but then have a secure armory built for storage.  If the folk closest to the Diketower are armed and ready, it will keep us from wearing out horses from the castle or Brestal Tower every time someone hazards our frontiers.”

“Are you sure that is wise, Magelord?” he asked in surprise.  “Leaving arms at the disposal of the peasantry like that—”

“Do you really anticipate an uprising, Sir Cei?”  I asked.  “The Bovali have proven they can be trusted with arms.  They are either loyal or they are not.  And it occurs to me,” I said, borrowing one of his favorite phrases, “that a well-armed, loyal village ready to put two-dozen men-at-arms on the dike within minutes of being summoned outweighs the chance of a spontaneous revolt.”

“The Bovali are free men,” he reasoned.  “But would that not make the other Yeomanries jealous of the prerogative?”

“Do you see Railan the Steady’s Genlymen eagerly showing up at the butts?  Have you noted the lack of Gurisham folk at militia drills?”  Sir Cei and Captain Forondo had been holding weekly volunteer militia practice on the commons since the Spring thaw – basic stuff, marching in ranks, how to use a spear, and basic swordplay.  Few native Sevendori had appeared to better themselves, but the Bovali responded with enthusiasm.  “I really can’t see them protesting overmuch.  If the folk of Boval Hall wish to live here, so close to the frontier, then they should be prepared as we can make them to defend their village.  And the vales behind them.”

“We could use those arms to attract trained knights, Sire,” Sir Cei pointed out.  “Many a country knight would be happy to swear to you for such a gift.”

“Why hazard to trust Riverlands knights when I know I can trust my Wilderlands peasants?” I asked.  That was more politic, and a more convincing argument to Sir Cei, than my real reason.  Knights may have been military professionals, but they had a tendency to see military value only in their own class.  Heavy cavalry was a powerful tool of war, but it wasn’t the only tool – or even the best tool, as Sire Sigalan had reminded me.  As valiant as Sirs Cei and Roncil were, a hundred Bovali peasants who knew how to fight would be worth far more to Sevendor than a few professional knights.

Sir Cei realized I wasn’t prepared to compromise on the issue.  “It shall be done, Magelord.  Yeoman Rollo has called for the first hallmoot of the manor in a few days, after the conclusion of the plowing season.  I shall make a point of including it on their business.  I had planned to distribute some coin around as a reward for their service, but providing them arms taken from their foes would be less burdensome on our treasury,” he added, grimly.

“In regards to that, I have some relief,” I mentioned.  “One of the great things about being the head of the new Arcane Orders?  I’m bribable as hell.  I didn’t even know the half of it until Sir Rondal and Banamor each told me they’d taken coin to help secure my influence.  Within my baggage is a chest with no less than four hundred ounces of gold, and another six hundreds of silver.  Plus sundry gifts of various values.  How badly in debt are we?”

“Through careful planning and management, Sire, I have kept us – technically – profitable,” he said, in a low voice.  “But I confess to feeling relief at the news.  I was going to suggest perhaps we seek a loan from the Temple of Ifnia.”

“I’m glad that’s not necessary.” We were walking through Gurisham’s district, now, and I watched with interest as the new plows turned the dark brown soil.   I’d like to think that the peasants seemed happier, somehow, but if you’re trying to turn an ox-pulled plow it doesn’t really matter who your lord is or how wealthy he was, life was far from grand.

But if you did so with a full belly and little fear for your life, virtue and property, that had to be better, didn’t it?  As if to answer my question, a few of the Gurisham plowmen took notice of Sir Cei me as we rode by and waved or bowed.  I swear to Huin there were smiles on their faces.

“There is one other matter I wish to address with you in private, before you are lured away by your Lady,” Sir Cei said, uncomfortably.  The expression on his face took me by surprise.  I’m used to Cei being taciturn and nonplussed, and he looked agitated and anxious.

“What?” I demanded, thinking he was concealing something serious.

“My lord, I have been experiencing certain . . . strangenesses for the last few weeks.  Unusual occurrences.  Things I can’t explain.  I awoke in my chamber the night before last to find every taper in the room ablaze – when I know I snuffed them before retiring.  My shaving water was hot, but I had to break the ice in the ewer to pour it.  I was reproving a gang of Genlymen in the Great Hall, and banged my fist on the Magelord’s table, and broke it asunder.  And . . . well, many more things that I can only associate with . . . magic,” he said, whispering the word.  He sounded gravely concerned.  I could appreciate that.  I could still remember the shock I felt the day I realized I had some Talent.

“I’m starting to understand that the snowstone has an effect on such things,” I reasoned gently, trying to calm him.  “It’s possible that your proximity to it has allowed a little latent Talent in you to show through.  In truth, most people likely have a dash of it, but it rises to sight only rarely.  Living in a castle of snowstone is probably making everyone who has more than a lick of Talent to feel it.  That might become a problem, I suppose.  But we can teach you a few helpful . . . tricks to deal with it.  To control it a little, perhaps.”

“Am I to be a mage, then, my lord?” he asked, looking pale.  Clearly the prospect did not please him.  I smiled at his discomfort, despite myself.  It was rare that I’d seen Sir Cei display much emotion at all, much less dread.

“Would that be so bad?  No, even if you’re displaying some signs of Talent, that doesn’t mean you have enough to work even rudimentary spells.  And some people just aren’t capable of the kinds of things you have to learn first.  No offense – but learning magic is very hard work.  But . . . now that the Bans have been lifted, there is no more stigma attached to it.   You don’t have to worry about the Censorate tracking you down.”

“That’s comforting, Magelord,” he said, unconvincingly.  “What I was more concerned with was not the legal or social cost, but the practical one.  I am unused to things happening around me for no explicable reason.  I find it . . . discomfiting.”

“You’ll get used to it,” I soothed.  “But you’ll also grow to control it.  Most people in your position either successfully repress or ignore their smattering of Talent, or figure some way to express it.  Most people who manifest Talent like this end up discovering one or two particular things they can do with it.  Like plowing a furrow perfectly straight every time, or being able to dowse for water, or always knowing which way north is.  Sometimes it’s quite useful.  Other times it can be pretty useless.  And for some people, their Talent can wax and wane like the moon, coming as one thing one day, and the something completely different the next.”

“That sounds ghastly,” Sir Cei said.  It might have been my imagination, but I thought he was trembling.

“We’ll work on it.  You, that young knight Festaran, and whoever else needs the help – that’s what magelords are for.  From a research perspective, it’s quite the opportunity.  Few magi have studied sports, as their called.  Perhaps a few witchhunters in the Censorate, but most researchers pursue more grandiose subjects.”

“You may wish to include your lady wife in that list, Magelord,” he said, quietly.  “Lady Alya has had a number of disturbing incidents since you have been gone.  None have caused injury or damage, so far, but her maid slipped on ice that appeared suddenly on her stairs, for instance, and your child’s cradle has been known to rock itself while she sleeps nearby.  Perhaps she, too, has a touch more of this Talent than you suspect, Magelord.”

My mouth went dry.  Alya is a wonderful woman, but she doesn’t really have the temperament to be a good mage.  It requires a lot of emotional control – something Sir Cei had in wainloads – and enough of an intellect to master some pretty sophisticated concepts.  Alya is not stupid, she reads and knows her sums, but that was about it.  Alya had never read a book for pleasure, before she met me, and I’d rarely ever seen Sir Cei in the company of a book that was not related to the estate’s accounts.  If both of them were being plagued by rogue Talent, this could be difficult.

And that begged the question . . .

“What about the baby?” I whispered.  “Is Minalyan—?”

“I am not the best judge of such things, Magelord, but the lad doesn’t seem to be doing anything untoward.  A perfectly happy, healthy babe, by all accounts.”

“That’s a relief,” I admitted, exhaling.  “It’s rare that Talent manifests before puberty, but it can happen.”

“Still, Lady Alya is concerned.  She fretted while you were away.  In truth, I welcomed the skirmishers on our frontier as a distraction.  It kept her from brooding overmuch.  And Yeoman Sagal’s wife Goody Ela is near to term, which has distracted her.  But something tells me the tonic Lady Alya needs most is her spouse in sight.”

“I could use a slug of that myself,” I chuckled.  “I can’t believe it’s only been a few—Sweet Briga’s knobby knees, Sir Cei, where the hells did that come from?” I asked, aghast.  The fields of Sevendor Village were completely plowed and planted, with the first sprouts already leaping out of the ground.  Maize, I could tell, and some bean seedlings, and fields of barley and wheat were already growing.  There was not a plow in sight, although there were plenty of neatly laid-out furrows being hoed.

“I’m astonished!” I said, immensely pleased.  The fields of our neighboring domains we’d passed through on the way back from Sendaria Port were just beginning to be plowed, much less planted.  If Olmeg had been able to do this without a witchstone, I could just imagine what he could do with one.  I just hoped we had the granary space.  As we rounded the curve in the road and the next plot of fields became visible on our right, my throat choked up.

Where barren fields and scrublands had greeted me on my initial trip, now it was a carpet of green that escorted me all the way to my door.  Master Olmeg had left few fields fallow – nearly all were planted with something, even if I didn’t recognize what they were.

My mind started to count up the potential yields.  “We can always build more granaries,” I finally managed.

Sir Cei was pleased, as if he’d grown it all himself.  “Just wait . . . you haven’t even seen the impressive part, yet.”

A moment later I realized to what he had been referring so mysteriously.  We topped a slight rise, the first place where you could really see down into Sevendor Vale from the road.  That’s when I realized something wasn’t quite the way I left it.

For instance, just before we came to Sevendor Village, when the brown dirt of the road turned white with the residue of snowstone, there was now a long earthen embankment off to our right, behind which stretched the millpond I had envisioned but didn’t think I’d see until Minalyan was talking.  The pale white dirt of the massive structure was already starting to sprout grass seedlings, and there were some rough spots, but otherwise it seemed to be quite settled.  The pond was by no means filled, but there was a respectable amount of gray muddy water in the bottom already.

“How . . . ?”

“Master Olmeg, Magelord,” explained Sir Cei, smugly.  “With some help from a few work details.  But it was mostly his design and his spellwork.  He persuaded Sir Tyndal to use his witchstone to fill the spaces with earth, but that took only a few days.  And while the young knight mage was working with his earthen spells, he went ahead and . . . plowed up around forty acres of fields.  It’s slightly larger than you envisioned, my lord, but perhaps more cunningly designed.”

“Damn right it is!” I said, shaking my head in wonder.  This surpassed my wildest expectations.  I could almost feel the hundreds of items on the List shift, as the prospect of a mill, irrigation, and plentiful water supply opened up new opportunities.  Olmeg truly was a master at his craft.  “Where is he now?”

“He’s doing some work on a project over in Brestal today.  I can summon him, if you wish.”

“Just have him attend me tonight at supper.  I wish to hear all about his work.  This is . . . this is amazing.”

“I had no idea magic was capable of this,” he agreed, shaking his own head.  “Magelord, the crops virtually threw themselves out of the ground.  Master Olmeg found an underground spring and diverted it to feed the pond, and he captured most of last week’s rains along with the melting snow from the slopes.  The additional water has allowed far better irrigation.  And now we have cleaner, better water for Sevendor Village, too.  I never would have had the wit to see it, my lord, but a dam was the wisest idea you’ve had.”

“I won’t argue that,” I sighed, happily.  “I can’t wait to tour it, and all the fields.  Sir Cei, I feel like I’ve been away for a year, not less than a moon.”

“Might I ask how your counsels went?  And how the war goes?”

“The counsels went better than the war is going,” I admitted.  “The magi can at least pretend to be organized now.  But the war . . . keep this quiet, but the Dead God is using dragons in force, now.  Five castles or cities have been razed from the air, killing thousands in Gilmora and demoralizing the rest of the western Riverlands.  The Duke and local lords are scrambling, but recall that Gilmora is thrice as populated or more as the Wilderlands were.  We can expect yet more refugees from there, and if he presses the offensive this summer, the Dead God could be in Darkfallar or even Barrowbell by next equinox.”

I saw Cei look grim.  The famous Darkfallar castle was famed across the duchies for it’s security.  And Barrowbell was a major trade city vital to Alshar and the cottonlands of Gilmora.

“What of the warmagi?” he asked, hopefully.

“They have been deployed in force,” I promised, without elaborating.  “But there are limits to what they can do.  You weren’t at Timberwatch, where we faced a dragon for the first time.  My mightiest warmage was able to but wound it, and perished in the attempt.  Even as we learn how to use our stones more effectively, we’re still very new at this.  That doesn’t mean we won’t try, but I’m not as hopeful as I’d like to be,” I said, as tactfully as possible.

“I understand, Magelord.  Let us discuss happier things.  The details of daily business can wait, I suppose, until you have had time to refresh yourself and greet your lady wife . . . who is most anxious to see you.

“But the bare bones of the news is this: three weddings are scheduled next market day, when a priestess of Ishi is supposed to arrive to conduct the ceremonies.  Two are among villeins, so the manor collected their merchet fees ahead of time.  There were four babies born in your absence, and one that may be birthed before you reach your chamber.  I have paid out name-day gifts to each family, as tradition dictates, a half-ounce of silver for the villein and an ounce for freemen.

“Lefmin the Lucky died in your absence, and his estate is being assessed – he was a native Sevendori freeholder on the north ridge who married a Bovali girl.  Fala, Goodman Hiros of Winakur’s eldest daughter.  Perhaps not the prettiest thing in the vale, but . . . very spirited.”  I remembered the girl – about sixteen and shapely enough, but with buck teeth like a mule and almost no chin to speak of.

“Was there . . . foul play?” I asked, hesitantly.  I really didn’t want to hang a woman for murder.

“Not unless you find her virtue as a lethal weapon,” Sir Cei said, chuckling wryly.  “Lefmin expired while making love to his young wife, for the third time in a day.”

“Oh.  I guess he really was lucky.”

“And she is quite distraught about losing her husband during her maidenmoon.  It was also one of the more promising unions between our peoples.  But since he was a freeholder, it turns out that the young widow is the lucky one.  She inherits his twenty acres and his cot, as well as his rights.  She could have a new husband by autumn, if she can pull herself together.  A man can look past even teeth like hers for the chance at such a prosperous holding.”

“And there will be plenty of suitors, I’m certain.  Her lustiness has certainly been proven, if not her fertility.  Although I might be hesitant, knowing how her past husband died.”

Sir Cei looked at me appraisingly.  “You, my lord?” he asked, quietly.

I reconsidered.  They were only teeth.  And if her late husband was pleased enough to seduce her thrice a day . . .

“No, you’re right, I’d see it as a challenge,” I sighed.  The only thing worse than knowing yourself that well is having people around you who know you even better.   One of Sir Cei’s more annoying habits.

“And lastly,” he said, as we started down the slope into the valley, surrounded by the lush and fragrant aroma from overturned soil and thousands of growing things, “I received word yesterday that our accommodations and reservations have been confirmed.  I hope my lord doesn’t mind, but I told them that our party would number at least fifty, if not slightly more, and a third of that on horseback.”

“What are you talking about, Sir Cei?” I asked, shaking my head.

“Why the Chepstan Spring Fair in Sendaria, of course,” he said, eyes opened wide in surprise.  “Has the Magelord forgotten?”

Damn.  I had.  Yet one more reason why having Sir Cei around was convenient.  He remembered things I forgot.

“I trust you will make all of the necessary preparations,” I said, worriedly.  I hoped so, because I sure didn’t want to do it.

“Already under way, my lord,” he nodded, smugly.  “Ah!  I see the next party of Bovali descending from the pass!  They’ll arrive just behind us, I think.”  He was right.  A score of footsore refugees were clearing the trees half a mile ahead.  They stopped and looked around in wonder.  From that vantage point they could see the entire valley for the first time.  The vibrant greens and rich smells must have been a welcome experience after almost a year without station.  This was their new home.  I hoped they liked it.

I glanced up at the tower over the castle ahead.  The summit was bare – there was no magelight, as there was no mage in residence at the moment – and that just wouldn’t do.  I summoned a tendril of power and a moment of concentration later a flash of green heralded the appearance of a big fat green magelight.  Daddy was home.

Sir Cei nodded.  “Impressive, my lord.  Over quite a distance, too.”

“I’ve been practicing,” I said, a little proudly.  “The snowstone helps.”

“I confess I missed seeing the green,” Sir Cei admitted.  “Certainly Sir Tyndal did his best as temporary magelord, during the crisis, but he pouted when I would not let him go chasing after the raiders.  When you were gone, the vale felt . . . empty, somehow, Sire.  I never thought I would have grown so used to your magic, but . . .”

“If you have a bit of Talent, I might be able to teach you a few small cantrips like magesight and magelights,” I offered.  “Useful things, and quite easy once you know how—”

I stopped.  A horseman was approaching from the other direction.  While we’d passed four or five gangs peasants trudging from field to field, there hadn’t been any horses.  I tensed.  Perhaps it was just a messenger . . .

The horse was a gray gelding I remembered from the stable, and the rider was swathed in a satiny white cloak that flashed brilliantly in the morning sunshine.  When the horseman reigned to a halt—

Sorry.  Horse woman.  As her hood fell to her shoulders and a cascade of hair spilled from under a carefully-constructed braid – now ruined by the ride – my wife’s beautiful eyes shown out at me for the first time in weeks.  Then my heart chilled.  Why had she ridden out like that, when I’d be home in less than an hour?  It could have been any reason, but of course my mind went to the very worst.

“Minalyan?” I asked, choked up.

“The babe is fine!” Alya assured me as she swung expertly from the saddle – she’d been practicing, too.  “I just couldn’t wait.  When I got word you had crossed the frontier, I—”

She stopped talking because her mouth was suddenly full of my mouth.  Gods, I had missed her more than I knew.  After traveling, counsel, politics, and war, my heart and my head wanted nothing more than to rule this little land with my wife and be left alone.  I kissed her as passionately as I could.  She looked better than she had when I’d left.  Much of the winter pallor we’d all acquired had left her.  Her skin was bright, clear, tan and healthy, and her breath was sweet with the taste of biscuits and honey.

“Shall I . . . continue the escort to the castle, my lord?” Sir Cei asked, politely.

“If you don’t mind,” I agreed, swimming in Alya’s eyes like they were cool pools on a hot day.  “Lady Alya and I have some urgent family business to discuss.  It might take a while, and I’d prefer to get started as soon as—”

“Understood, Magelord,” Sir Cei agreed.  I could hear his grin in his voice.  “Might I suggest you’ll find privacy for your discussions just off the trail?  A small meadow just a few dozen yards up, behind that slope.  I would point it out directly, but that grove of trees seem to be obscuring all view of it.”

“I’m sure I can find it,” I sighed.  “If not, well, that bush over there appears to be vacant.”  Alya beamed broadly at the naughty suggestion, and took my hand.

It was good to be home.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Many Wizards of Sevendor

After a joyous evening spent reacquainting myself with my wife and shamelessly playing with the baby when I really had more important things to do, the next morning I made certain that the last of the Bovali refugees were settled in.

As this was our third wave, we were ready for them.  Enough huts and cots had been hastily-built in the last several months so that the tents and crude shelters on the Commons were largely empty, ready to receive them without too much work.

Some already had kin here, and that morning witnessed happy reunions among friends and family.  New babies were shown around (including my own, when he woke up), new wives and husbands were introduced.   Sir Cei made a point of introducing the Bovali to their new home.

I left the disposition of the peasants in his capable hands and had a quick council with my apprentices and other magi, to discuss the events at the conference.  I had purposefully avoided discussing the details much along the way, partially because I didn’t want to repeat myself and partly because I wanted to think about things before I did.

I suppose I could have kept everything to myself, but the truth was I was feeling mightily unsure about my new duties and responsibilities, and I needed all of the advice and counsel I could get.  That didn’t mean I’d use it, but even bad advice can lead to good decisions.

We gathered in the inner bailey under an apple tree that I hadn’t noticed before – but which Olmeg the Green assured me had been there since before we’d arrived.  He’d merely enchanted it somehow so that it had produced a bushy canopy and was now thick with apple blossoms, where before it had resembled a discarded walking stick more than a fruit tree.  Zagor, who was attending at my request, was intrigued by the spell, and he and Olmeg started talking shop on the spot.

And that was one of the things I wanted to discuss with them.  Olmeg’s efforts were readily apparent – from the brand new millpond he had apparently conjured from nowhere (okay, I know he just melted the snow after he dammed the stream, but the result was impressive) to the verdant carpet of sprouting crops that covered my valley.  Every field, it seemed, was planted.  The only sparse-looking areas were ironically those closest to the castle – those farmed by the old Sevendori and Genlymen now concentrated there.

“I did my best, Master Minalan,” Olmeg said with a quiet sigh – I dispensed with noble titles when we were talking shop.  “I was as charming as I could be, but they refused.  They are a stubborn folk,” he said with a trace of admiration.  The big man did not look put-off by the resistance, however.  “It takes time for the folk to see their way, sometimes.  When harvest comes, and the yields are in, they will think again about my advice.”

“I’m amazed by it,” I concurred.  “It barely looks like the same valley I left.  And all of this was done without irionite.”

Olmeg bowed his big shaggy head in acknowledgement of the praise.

“Well, I’ve considered this long and hard, and this does nothing to change my mind.  I have two small irionite shards – quite potent, mind you – but too small, it seems, to go to warmagi for the war effort.

“But while they might not be ideal for smiting the goblins, they still possess great power.  And while it might seem like nepotism or corruption to do so, as the new . . . whatever my title was, I’m going to indulge a whim and abuse my power.  I am granting Olmeg the Green one of the small stones, as a reward for excellent service.  Providing he takes the oath, I shall charge him to spend half of every year overseeing the crops and fields of Sevendor.

“Further, I shall make this a special office.  Alya and I kicked around some terms last night, and for this position the stone shall be tied to the office of the Greenwarden of Sevendor.  I’ll spell out the details later when I dictate your charter, Olmeg, but essentially you will have the power and authority over nearly anything that grows in my lands.”

The big man was nearly speechless.  “You honor me, Magelord!”

I bowed to him.  “It is you who honor my land with your service.  This is why I’m doing everything in my power to tie you to it.  I would also like to present the second stone,” I continued, looking around at my colleagues.  “As Sevendor grows into an important place for magic and its study to be done, as I foresee it becoming, it would be prudent to ensure its proper civil administration.  I reserve the right to establish policy, of course, but I will need someone to enforce it.  To that end, I am attaching the second small stone to the office of Spellwarden of Sevendor.  And I am naming Banamor to that office.”

There were some startled looks and gasps of surprise at that.  Even Zagor looked plussed.  Banamor was a footwizard, after all, even if his service of late (and the accompanying cash) saw him dressed more as a prosperous merchant than a wizard, he was still the social bottom of the magical world.  So far the irionite had been distributed only to Imperially-trained magi and their apprentices – Zagor’s stone excepted.  They all had at least had a mage’s full share of Talent.  Banamor, for all his wit and wisdom, just wasn’t as potent as a spellmonger needed to be, and his training had been spotty at best.  Giving him one seemed to be giving fine wine to a beggar.  I could tell by the way some of them looked around that they expected there to be consequences to that.

I felt I owed them an explanation.  “Look, there are plenty of highly-qualified magi out there who would literally kill for a stone.  That’s the problem.  I’m all for meritocracy, but from a practical perspective I have to consider what would happen if I took a powerful mage and augmented him with even more power . . . and then told him to be in charge of keeping the riff raff out.  He’d either run off or do a piss-poor job, enchanted by his own stone.

“So by choosing a fairly weak mage to augment with a stone – no offense, Banamor – I help ensure that he sticks around and does a good job.  Banamor, since you have the monopoly on magical components and are in charge of the Magic Fair, I figured that you would need the power, in both the temporal and magical sense.”

“That is very gracious of you, Magelord,” the footwizard said, solemnly.  “I will not fail you.”

I grinned.  “Yeah, you probably will, but at least I know you’ll try.  Half of the stones I gave out at Robinwing went to magi I wouldn’t trust to do as much.  And that’s another reason: you don’t have any standing allegiances or professional axes to grind.  You’re a fairly neutral party, fairly well-respected within your own sphere, and you understand people.  That’s the kind of man I need for Spellwarden.”

I looked around at all of them, and I felt good about the appointment based on their reactions.  Just let the pipsqueak Warbird of West Fleria come against me again.  With full ceremony I presented the stones to each, and bound them with oaths in front of the others as witnesses.

“Now, I’m going to exploit my authority and have Olmeg give me a tour of what he’s done.  Those of you who wish to join us may – I’m sure you are all as intrigued with his progress as I am.”

Most of them did agree to come along, even Banamor, who was so smitten with the idea of having his own witchstone he seemed in a daze.  Olmeg seemed pretty pleased with himself, but I chalked it up to working for a client who actually appreciated the finer points of what he had done as much as his enchantment with his irionite.

We started in the fields of the old Sevendori in Genly, where more traditional wisdom about planting had produced a decent crop . . . but one that looked sparse compared to Olmeg’s fields.  Railan the Steady had been generally discouraging of his people taking up with the Green Mage, despite my orders.  They had done so only to the extent that Sir Cei had insisted.  And only Sir Cei’s firm hand had kept Railan from bullying them into open revolt.

The Bovali who farmed around Sevendor Village had eagerly taken his advice in this strange new land, and their first crop had nearly leapt up out of the ground.  It stood at least twenty-percent larger than the Genly crops, and was planted nearly twice as thickly.

Potatoes were growing everywhere, in fields, in strips, and in little clusters scattered in cotyards and crofts, seemingly at random.  The two varieties Olmeg had mentioned, plus yams, plus another small white potato he thought would complement well, and they all seemed to be thriving.  The maize varietal of which he’d acquired a few bags of seed was aggressively towering over its native neighbors in Genly’s fields, and the wheat and barley fields were planted to capacity.  Vegetable plots were scattered everywhere, as Sir Cei had ordered small gardens and nurseries opened up wherever Master Olmeg directed him.

The dam was the most impressive feat of all.  I heard in slow, thoughtful detail how Olmeg had lowered the boulders into place with a combination of muscle and spellwork.  Instead of using earth elementals, as I had suspected he might, he employed an even more-clever device.

He’d had the carpenters build giant wooden wheels with a large square hole within, large enough to be wedged around a boulder securely.  He’d free one end of the boulder with earth magic, have a team hurriedly assemble the wheel around it, and then repeat the process on the other side.  When he was done he had one massively heavy load . . . but one which was actually quite simple to move.  Merely loop rope around the boulder axel, and then slowly let the huge rock descend the long slope to the construction site at the bottom.

It had taken him four days and three crews to get nine huge rocks planted in place, and then another half-week to fill in the cracks, with Tyndal’s assistance.  But when they were done and he was able to seal it, magically, the dam was ready to be tested.

I’m more than a little glad they waited until I got home to do the final part – it’s far easier with irionite – but what they had put together had passed every stress test they could think of.  Short of the Dead God showing up and taking a magical leak in the pond, those boulders weren’t going anywhere.  Either was the huge mound of dirt over them, now spotted with flecks of green in the distance where new vetch was growing.

By the time we were done in the byres that afternoon, I felt completely confident in Master Olmeg’s ability to use irionite effectively.  In fact, I almost felt guilty giving it to him.  He seemed to do fine without it.

As we headed to the castle, rain clouds gathered in the sky, Olmeg spoke with me at length about all of the projects he yet had planned.  The dam was the beginning.  Having sufficient water for planting and irrigation was key, even if it dried the stream to a trickle and the pond was but half-full by midsummer.   Olmeg looked pleased about the rain, as it would hurry the process by several thousands of gallons.  We discussed the location of the future grist mill.  Once we had a mill, then perhaps a bakery.

“There are one or two other matters, Magelord,” the green mage said as he ambled along next to my horse.  “I have found two small bands of River Folk, and they have agreed to take residence.  In fact, they nearly begged.  They are a bit more rustic than most, having come from the Alshari Wilderlands—”

“Wait, what burrows are they?” I asked, intrigued.

“One is the White Onion Burrow, about seventy strong.  The other is the Loblolly.  Only forty or so survived.”

“I’ve met some stalwarts of the Loblolly!  If they are willing to relocate here, by all means, they’ve earned the sanctuary for the help they gave me.  Where would you see them quartered?”

“I have spoken at length to the Yeomen and discussed the matter with Sir Cei,” he reasoned, thoughtfully, “and with your permission I wish to settle them in the small dale and marshy lands in the lee of Matten’s Helm.  In Sagal’s Hold.”

I chuckled.  “How does my brother-in-law feel about that?”

“I think he’s too smitten with his new babe to care much at all,” Olmeg chuckled in response, “but he has agreed.  It is marginal land for grain.  I think ideal for melons, some roots, and reeds and herbs.  The hill crest behind can be used for roots and cabbages.  With your permission, I’ll bring them in presently and begin the settlement.”

“By all means.  If they can grow pipe herbs, so much the better.”

The crops weren’t the only thing that had grown while I was gone.  As we traveled back through Sevendor Village, I noticed a building going up – around a tree.

“I see Goodman Tirnard is taking full advantage of my boon,” I said, approvingly.

“Yes, he’s already started hiring women to brew for him,” agreed Olmeg.  “That’s caused some issues with the Genly folk.”

“They can stay in their village, if they don’t like it.”

“It is not that, Master,” Tyndal said, sourly.  “It seems that Railan the Steady’s disapproval with drink was conditional on his appointment of ale tasters.  And the villein women of the hamlet could make a few pennies on brewing and selling.  Only now with a tavern, there’s no need to wait until some goodwife’s batch is ready, nor a need for ale tasters to monitor the quality – hence, no extra fees for Railan’s purse.  That is why he despises the alehouse!”

“Personally, I think it adds a touch of class to the valley.  And I’ll probably get to drink free.  I just don’t see how that’s a bad thing.”

*                            *                            *

A week later three riders came into Sevendor out of the rain long after the gates were shut that night.  Two were light troopers in the Duke’s service – bodyguards from the Ducal Guard.  The third was Sandoval, a warmage and former comrade.  The night watch had the sense to wake me up for that.  Sandoval was a friend.

Sandy had signed on with Penny when my ex-girlfriend had brought a team of eager young warmagi to break the siege at Boval Castle.  He had been with me as we had skulked unseen through the goblin camps, slitting throats and casting wicked spells on our foes.  He had stood shoulder to shoulder with me, along with all of his fellows, when we faced-down the Dead God.

Tall and lean, only a year older than me, Sandoval was the younger son of a nobleman from the Eastern Duchies.  He was a good soldier and a great mage, and I hadn’t hesitated about giving him a witchstone.

When I had gone on to my earthly reward after the Timberwatch Campaign, he had stayed in the service of the Duke’s Army as a High Warmage – at about nine times the normal pay.  In fact, he looked pretty dapper in the light of the fire – Sandy had always known how to dress, and a dark violet velvet doublet chased with black and white dragons was impressive on his long frame.

He had embraced me fondly when he and his men arrived, and we sat up drinking for a while.  He missed the festivities at Robinwing, having been leading a troop in Gilmora against the creeping goblin invasion.  He’d gotten out of Whitetree just before the dragons descended.  Now he was working for the Order, as well as the Duke, and had been passing down the Bontal on business.

After seeing to his men he came up to my tower and we drank three or four bottles of wine and caught up on news.  Real news, not the flare up of the war between the Sovards and the heirs of Dongal.  News from the war.  And he was full of it.

“First, thank you for that intelligence,” he said, filling his cup.   He had the good grace not to criticize the vintage we were drinking – I had yet to lay in a decent cellar.  “We’ve been running all over the place, looking for those raiding parties.  Simple scrying doesn’t work that close to the . . . shadow,” he said, his eyes troubled.  “Past a certain point all of your spells go a bit off.  But we were able to take two of their larger parties by surprise.

“Two of the warmagi you just elevated, the ones out of the southern Mindens, Iars and Micat, they led that first attack.  They did well, too.

They cut through their wards, feinted a ground attack with a few hundred infantry, and hit them hard, confusing them.  By the time the cavalry arrived the day was long won.  Ten thousand horse and five thousand foot, all swooping down on three thousand goblins at dawn.  We took two witchstones, that day.  Micat dueled the last shaman for nearly an hour.  He’s worthy,” he said, approvingly.

“And what of the northern legions?  The big group?” I asked, concerned.  They had been the ones I was worried about.  The smaller bands in the south were harassing and raiding.  The ten thousand-strong horde encamped northeast of Gilmora, in the ruins of a barony called Harton, had me worried.  They could move against several cities in the region, and breaking any one of them would give them a way into the center of the Western Duchies.  They could be thrown back, but that would be expensive to do.

”They have yet to move, but . . . our victories were all before the dragons descended.  Now, it is all we can do to regroup.  The men fear garrisoning in any great numbers, lest it attract the worms.  As good as Micat was in the field, he did not escape Whitetree.  The other stone in the bag is his.”

I nodded.  “I heard.  Penny told me.”   It was an occupational hazard for a very rough occupation, but you never liked hearing one of your friends had died.  But Sandoval had honored his oath in returning the stone to me, and I appreciated it.  With the others, that gave me a few more to dispense.

Just as soon as I found someone worthy.

That topic came up soon after, about halfway through the second bottle.

“I stopped through Castabriel on my way here.  Court is worrying,” he told me as he poured again.  “There are only a few dozen of us, spread out too thin.  Even with Azar’s forces, and the Tudrymen Astyral leads to help, there just are not enough of us.  We need more warmagi, Min, more witchstones on the field.  When the first raids came out of the Wilderlands, it was almost like a party.  Gilmoran lords armored up like they were on their way to a tournament, dashing off to smite the invaders.

“We were having a lot of fun, to be sure, and we were killing plenty of goblins, but they’re just . . . teasing us,” he said, that troubled look returning.   “It was a well-run defensive campaign, running around and saving folk from raiders and rescuing nubile noblewomen from distressed castles.  Then the dragons came, and it wasn’t fun anymore.”

“I know,” I sighed.  “It was only a matter of time . . .”

“So where’s the new blood?” he demanded.  “We need more.  With dragons in the sky and goblins burning cotton plantations, we need them now more than ever.  You’ve got some glass, here, plenty.  You could put another whole squadron on the field.”

“Send me some good candidates!” I replied.  “Very good ones.  Anyone who you think might work out.  Let me take a look, and if I think they’ll fight, I’ll grant them a stone.  Send me some warmagi who aren’t idiots, and I’ll get them to you,” I vowed.

“I will,” he promised.  “In fact, there should be some arriving soon enough, on the recommendation of the Warlord or the Court Mage.  Or pretty much anyone else who knows you,” he added, wryly.  “And I come with an – unofficial – message from the Duke: we need a more coordinated defense.  I know we’re just getting set up, Min, but now we’re getting slaughtered in Gilmora.”

“The dragons,” I agreed, wearily.

“Damn the dragons! The only thing that can handle a dragon is magic.  Only they resist spells like a peasant resists taxes.  But the dragons are our problem.  His Grace is very adamant about that fact.”

“I know, I know.  I’m working on it.  Tell His Grace to cool his ire and continue to work with us, and he’ll soon have enough magi to help.”

“And a spell or two that would be effective?”

“If you can find me a helpful dragon to test them on, I’ll let you know.  But we have several promising ideas.  Whether or not they’ll work in the field, I couldn’t tell you.”

“Well, there is one more thing that you might find gratifying, Min,” he chuckled.  “The Remeran Censor has put a price of five thousand ounces of gold on your head.  Dead or alive.  The rest of the High Magi only get two thousand.”

I swore an ugly oath.  The Censorate had tried to kill my apprentice, menaced my family in Tudry, disrupted my wedding, and threatened my bride’s life.  “Can’t they learn that without Ducal support, they’re just another fanatical cult?”

“They’re getting Ducal support,” he pointed out.  “The Duke of Merwin is highly concerned with his cousin Rard’s rash actions of late, particularly in regards to the Bans.  So he’s offering sanctuary and support for the order.  And the Remeran Censor is not giving up while the Duke of Remere still hasn’t ruled on the matter.  So . . . expect them to try something.  Four or five of us have already gotten ambushed by them, but they have a special determination to take your head.”

“It’s nice to have such classy enemies,” I said.  “More wine?”

Sandy stayed long enough to tour my crumbling estate and sneer good-naturedly at my efforts to be convivial with my people.  He saw them as unwashed peasants, a resource to be used.  I guess some people were just raised differently.  I bit my tongue.  Sandy was a friend; I didn’t want to insult him.  But it was telling.

Less than a week after Sandoval departed, the first of the candidates arrived up the dusty trail from the River.  He was a young warmagi fresh from the War College, young and virile and talented.  Best in his class.  If he had been prettier, he would have reminded me of me, a few years back.  His name was Hanalif.

He was cordial, of course, and a bit taken aback that I didn’t check his credentials and then just hand him all the power of the archmagi and wish him a good day.  I’d already checked his credentials mind-to-mind, of course, and didn’t need his pedigree.  Instead I provided him with a room in my very cramped castle and got to know the young snot.

I mean, if you are going to give a man the means to level entire cities, best you know his character a bit beforehand.  I needed to know what kind of warmage I was handing this power to.  To that end I sparred with him in the bailey with the armsmen and my apprentices, had him accompany me as I rode the bounds of my lands, had him sit with me at judgment over a half-dozen petty disputes, and ate with him for every meal.

I saw how he smiled, how he treated dogs, how he became angry, how he used his mind, whether he picked his nose and what he did with the boogers.  I had him work on some construction jobs, tested his abilities, and asked him a bunch of revealing questions.  I did all of this before I even let him look at a stone.

When I thought he was ready, I introduced him to the one I had chosen for him, a flattish shard about half as wide as my thumb, and we began the grueling process of teaching his mind how to handle far, far more power than he had ever had to before.

He wasn’t a bad kid, just arrogant and entitled, like so many of my classmates at Inrion Academy.  I’d put up with their social posturing, I could handle Hanalif’s.

Properly attuning someone to Irionite is time-consuming.  It’s kind of like learning to use your senses all over again – or being introduced to your long-lost twin that you never knew you had.  Hanalif had an extensive grounding in the basics of Imperial magic, which helped, but there are some things you can only accomplish by doing.

While he was learning the fun stuff – blasting bolts of death from his hands, or levitating boulders, or the like – I also put him to work.  He took a turn up at the quarry, spending all day using his newfound power to cut slices of rock from the walls and shape them like loaves of bread.  Likewise the woodyard, which my boys appreciated.  Then I had him help with the outer bailey wall, pushing the blocks into place and magically melding them together.

At first the noble’s son was reluctant to dirty his hands, but I pointed out to him the value of a warmage being able to melt his enemy’s walls like butter, and he became more interested in mastering the art.  I got sixty feet of wall done that way, and I had him sign it in stone.

Probably the only honest work the noble snot ever did.

After two weeks I sent him on a mission: infiltrate my esteemed neighbor Lord Gimbal’s castle in Bastidor, the domain that shared our frontier, and deliver to me an assessment of its weaknesses and recommendations about how to best storm it.  Without revealing himself or slaying anyone.  Hanalif looked confused.

“That does not seem like a fair test of my skill with the stone,” he said, gravely.

“True mastery of the stone involves when and how to use it best.  And when not to.  I could tell you to storm the castle yourself, killing all who stood against you, and you would likely return victorious.  It is easy to kill with the stone.  But being able to use the stone for subtle purpose, not merely as a weapon, proves yourself worthy of bearing it, and taking the oath.  So do this thing, do not get caught, and take no life if you can help it.”

That seemed to mollify him as a proper challenge, and he set out on foot that night.

I admit, I only said it because it sounded good.  The truth was I had guessed him ready days ago, but the idea of some sort of final test seemed to be called for.  Besides, I didn’t want open war with Lord Gimbal just yet.  If Hanalif was halfway decent as a warmage, he’d be in and out of there in a day and a night.  If not . . . well, I might be at war.

He returned that night with a waxed tablet filled with notes.  He presented on how to best deploy troops, both cavalry and infantry, to invest the castle in a surprise attack.  He told me how many men were in Bastidor, how they were armed, how much supply they carried and where the weak points in the walls were.

I was impressed.  The man knew his craft. I summoned Sir Tyndal as a witness and administered the oath, officially commending the witchstone to him.  The next day he rode off to try his powers on the frontier with the Shadow.

Hanalif established the routine.  All that summer eager young warmagi came up-river from the War College in search of glass, hungry for glory, and convinced they carried the war god Duin’s own blessing in their hands.  I’d assess their abilities, test their character, and got a lot of heavy lifting out of them before I gave them a stone.

Only twice did I refuse the candidate.  Once, because the man was the younger son of a greater noble who traded more on his father’s title than his own powers – I’ve got a common-man’s view of other people’s laziness – and once when I saw that the kid they sent (his name was Gareth, son of Galyn) wasn’t a warmage, wasn’t a soldier, and he never would be.

Skinny, nearsighted, and asthmatic, he could barely lift a lady’s blade.  He had no coordination, and he had to use magesight to correct his vision almost constantly.

But he was smart – he had been apprenticed to one of the Alshari baronial court wizards and was adept at some disciplines before one of the Horkan Order spotted his obviously great Talent and sent him yon.  Nor did he have much of a mind for military matters, despite his intelligence.  He could handle a stone, surely, but to put him in the field would invite disaster.

But I didn’t turn him away.  He was eager, he wanted to help – hell, he wanted to be a warmage and fight goblins as much as Tyndal.  But he just didn’t have the strength or the capacity.  I simply told him that I wanted to test him further, and he went to work with Zagor in the village, until I could use him for what I wanted to do.  I gave him a stipend and made sure he had decent accommodations at the new inn, which had just opened in the village, until I could find better accommodations for him.  I had plans for young Gareth.

Nine warmagi received stones that summer from my hands by the Equinox, and I had each of them build a section of wall or part of a tower, improve the dike or reinforce Brestal Tower.  Or build another pond.  Or help cut a road, work in the quarry, trim lumber, etc. They took a turn at the barber’s, dealing with toothaches and broken bones, they took a turn on the wall and in the watchtower, and they took a turn doing . . . well, whatever I needed done.

In return I showed them the strengths and weaknesses of the stones, how to pace themselves over time, when to rest, when to push on.  I showed them how to turn the simplest spells in the Imperial repertoire into powerful deadly weapons.  I told them stories of the Mad Mage of Farise and poor Urik, and what happened when a witchstone overcame a wizard’s mind.

And then I gave them a mission to scout out one of Lord Gimbal’s castles.

For the most part, I think they listened and learned.  Of the nine who rode out from Sevendor that summer, only two died in battle on the frontier before year’s end.  I saw that as a clear success.

I got enough free work done so that the outer bailey wall was almost complete, and the dike and tower at Boval Hall was finished, by the end of summer when the war happened.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The scions of the War College weren’t the only magi to make their way to my door.  By the time the rains let up and the land began to green, word had spread: Sevendor was the first mageland in four centuries, and the Magelord had witchstones.  The first itinerant footwizard – besides Banamor -- who wanted to wheedle a stone found his way to my door one Spring day.

“There’s a wizard at the door,” Tyndal announced, casually, as I worked in my laboratory.

“Isn’t there always?” I snorted.  We had just seen young Lazybones the Arrogant off the day before, cursing my name darkly under his breath.  He was competent enough, but he didn’t like mixing with peasants . . . so I made him scour Gimbal’s meanest villages and hamlets as a graduation exercise disguised as a tinker.  I was awaiting the next candidate, but I didn’t expect him for a few more days.

“Not like this one.  The War College didn’t send him.  His name is Iyugi, some half-breed shaman with one of those northern tribes or something.  But he announced himself like a Duke.”

“So who sent him?”

“He did.  He wants a witchstone.”

I frowned.  “I’ll see him in the Great Hall,” I decided.

Iyugi had long black hair – and I mean black, the color of midnight – and wore a necklace of shells and bones.  But he also wore a perfectly serviceable travel cloak and a sturdy pair of boots, and he carried an impressive-looking staff.  All he lacked was the traditional four-pointed cap of our occupation to be instantly identifiable as a wizard.

“Greetings, my lord of Sevendor, Minalan the Magelord!” he said in a loud, booming voice as he bowed deeply.  “Allow me to present myself to you: Iyugi ista Sundalthain, most mysterious master of the mystic arts, renowned from the mountains to the sea for his wisdom, acclaimed by Dukes and Barons as the most powerful of councilors, sought out by the great and the humble alike—”

“I got it, I got it,” I chuckled.  “Good patter.  I was in the trade myself, before my fortunes changed.  That’s why I’m called known as the Spellmonger, as often as the Magelord of Sevendor,” I said, offering my hand and title like I was a colleague, not a noble.  He took it and shook warmly, and his attitude changed notably.

“Oh, thank the bloody gods, I can’t stand it myself half the time,” he admitted, his accent changing to something a lot less exotic.  “But it keeps the lordlings from clapping me in irons and has paid for my bed and board more than once.  I hear you are the keeper of Irionite, magelord,” he said, eagerly but respectfully.

“I have some,” I admitted, cautiously, “and I do seek those who might wield it.  But thus far they have been largely reserved for warmagi in our struggle against the gurvani.  There is a war on,” I reminded him.

“Thus far?” he repeated, smiling.  I nodded.  “Then you haven’t made that . . . a precondition?”

“Let’s say I’m open to the possibilities,” I said, carefully.  “Why? What do you propose?  But, please, over wine, I think.”

“My lord is a gracious host,” Iyugi said, with just a trace of his former obsequiousness. Tyndal looked at me oddly, as if he didn’t have any idea why I might talk to this beggar-wizard.  Tyndal is bright, brave, and full of spirit, but the kid still had a lot to learn about the trade.

Most importantly, just how useful footwizards could be.

They call them that because they usually walk everywhere . . . ostensibly because they can’t afford a horse.  That wasn’t always true, of course.  I’ve met wizards like Olmeg who had plenty of coin, but preferred the road on foot because it put them in greater touch with their surroundings.  Or Banamor, who had coin but was determined to conceal it on the road.  Horses are signs of wealth, cost the dickens to feed, usually make one a target, and are often lousy company.  So they walked.

Footwizards have plenty of other names, too – starting with dogwizard and working lower down.  Most common folk were skeptical of their powers (rightly so) and automatically suspicious of them.  Since some of them weren’t very honest, they frequently exaggerated the scope of their abilities, and others were outright charlatans, that suspicion was probably also well deserved.  But because of that reputation the honest ones got kicked about quite a lot more than they deserved.

But they knew things.  Not the erudite explorations of the arcane ether the Academics valued, nor the practical applications the commercial adepts and court wizards sought.  Footwizards knew things about the people and the villages and the roads – and, therefore, the Duchy – that none of the others could know.

The first time I really talked to one was on the docks, back at Inrion Academy.  A ragged old man with a leathery face and a floppy leather mantle that matched arrived on a barge I was waiting for – it was full of flour for the Academy – and while I waited to unload it I started talking to this old geezer.  He wore a kind of pointed hat that wasn’t quite the same as my chosen profession’s headgear, but similar, and he admitted freely that he was a footwizard.

I expected Censors to pour out of the crates and bales any moment and clap him in irons, but no one seemed to care.

He had me enthralled by stories of his escapades in Farise and Vore and other far-off places.  I pegged him as a storyteller and harmless beggar, until he mentioned something about Farise that intrigued me.

“Pity they’ll be a war next year,” he said with a sigh.

I hadn’t heard any such thing – all the Duchies seemed to be getting along, for once.

“Are you . . . prophesying?”  Real magi stayed away from divination.  But it was the bread-and-butter of the footwizard.

The old man just shook his head.  “Nay, ‘twill be with yon Farise.  See that caravel?” he asked, nodding towards a dumpy little two-master.  “She’s fresh from Deshelata, and she’s half-empty.”

I shrugged.  Deshelata was an island city off the coast, somewhere out between here and Farise.  Or so I thought.  The vagabond mage sighed with exaggerated patience when I didn’t understand.

“Look at how high she lists,” he explained.  “Deshelata’s main export is porsago root – that starchy, pasty stuff the Farisi love so much.  You can store it for years, and then when you want to eat it you soak it, cut some off, boil it to paste, and then make a kind of bread with it.  Tasty, and it will keep a man alive.  A big root can feed a family for months.  It’s a highly prized delicacy here,” he added.

I still didn’t understand.  He stared wide-eyed at my stupidity.

“If that caravel went to Deshelata and came back but half-empty, when the price is so dear, here, then that can only mean that either the harvest has failed – and it hasn’t, or else the ship would be empty – or the Doge of Farise is buying up the crop.  Only one reason to do that – preparation for siege.  The Farisi hoarding porsago is the same as one of these sad Western lords baking biscuit, slaughtering herds, and buying up cheese: war.”  He looked me up and down and laughed.  “Oh, but you’ll find out.”

I scoffed at the time.  It seemed a spurious chain of supposition from a crazy old coot.  Determining great world events through the availability of a foodstuff wasn’t magic, it was . . . lunacy.

The next year I graduated from the academy, got drafted, and spent a year on a death march through the jungles of Farise, and often recalled the old geezer when I wasn’t overcome by misery or fighting for my life.  He was right about something else, too – porsago bread is tasty, though calling a flat, unleavened, flourless disc “bread” made something in my baker’s soul cringe in horror.

After I got back from the war, I sought out these footwizards casually, something my noble-born warmage colleagues saw as definitely slumming.  But what I learned during those conversations was fascinating.  There was a whole magical underclass in the Duchies, and they weren’t just poorly-Talented (or just poor).  Some itinerant magi dropped out of the magical mainstream to pursue tributaries of study and exploration unavailable to their more respectable colleagues, or just fell on hard times.

The Ducal Censors hate them, of course.  And they stuck together, gossiped a lot, and went places were most respectable magi don’t.  It was a hard life, but it had a certain freedom to it and it tended to weed out the weak and reward the clever and treacherous by encouraging you think on your feet.  Iyugi was one of these folk, and while I had never heard of him specifically, I was intrigued by the possibilities the more exotic footwizards represented.

“So why should I grant you a stone?” I asked.  “You’re no warmagi.”

“Ah, that’s true,” he admitted.  “But I’m accomplished at the Art, and I confess I feel a desire for a stone that rivals my desire for breath.  When I first heard the rumors, I didn’t believe them.  Then I heard about the Shadow, and then about a new Magelord, and, well, I had no other engagements at the time.  I made my way here to offer my service and find out how I might procure a stone.”

“Fair enough,” I agreed.  “The fact is, I am looking for responsible magi to take the oath and hold power.  Thus far, I have been focused on fighting the war – but I recognize that there are more ways to fighting and building strength than fielding warmagi.  So I am open to the argument – if you choose to make it.  What makes you worthy, Iyugi?  What can you do to aid the people of the Duchies against the Dead God?”

The craggy footwizard favored me with a wolfish grin.  “I’m not opposed to a fight at need, but neither am I a warrior.  Iyugi’s strength is finding things out.  The trade I’ve prospered most at within the Art is an uncanny ability to discover a key piece of information from an unwitting – or unwilling – source.”

“You’re a spy?” I asked, surprised.

“I prefer ‘expert confidant’,” he said, the grin intensifying uncomfortably.  “Often a petty lord wishes to know if his wife is faithful, his servants are honest, his men are loyal, or his enemies are plotting.  They throw Iyugi a few coins and I return anon with the answer.”

“And just how do you go about finding out?”

“Many and diverse methods, Magelord.  From the delicate art of simple conversation to the expediencies of the cup, I can usually learn what I wish.  A complicated ruse will work, in some instances.  A few coins in others.”

“What about magic?”

“When necessary,” he admitted.  “But I rarely have need.  That costs extra,” he added, smugly.

I shrugged.  “Of course.  Well, Iyugi, you would agree to take the oath and swear to me, if I granted you a stone?”

“Iyugi is at your service,” he agreed, bowing.

I thought for a moment, sipping the wine.  The fact was, I needed a spy.  A magical spy, someone I could trust.  I had enemies, as well as colleagues I needed to know things about.

But you just don’t hand out Irionite to every beggar wizard who wanders by without a test.  If he was as good as he said, then his test should revolve around his ability to gather information – information no one else was privy to.  I studied the fire for a while and searched my brain for something secret.

“Very well,” I finally said.  “I charge you with this task, then Iyugi, to prove yourself worthy of consideration.  I want you to bring me these three secrets: First, tell me the name of the daughter of Captain Arehel, of the Vorean caravel The Blue Lady.”  That was the caravel that had brought me back from Farise after the war.  I had learned the name one drunken night after a storm.

He nodded.  “It shall be done, my lord.”

“Next, bring me the name of the lover of Baroness Esetita of Corom.”

“As you wish, my lord,” he agreed, his eyes widening.  Corom was in northern Castal.  I had made the acquaintance of the good lady (a woman of resounding virtue, it was said) at the Ducal court, and had inadvertently discovered her secret.  I had also vowed to keep it, earning me an ally where I needed it the most at the time.  If he could make the same discovery that I had, that would prove him worthy on its own.

“Finally, I desire to know the location and shape of the birthmark upon the person of Lady Pentandra – I believe you know the lady I speak of?”

“Aye, milord,” he agreed, his eyes calculating the difficulties of the problem.  It would be much harder than he thought, I knew.

Pentandra was at Court, helping coordinate the war-effort.  And while she never hesitated to take a lover, one had to be very, very close to her to learn exactly where that birthmark is.  It had taken me a year and a half.

“And if I should return by next moon with this information, you will . . . ?”

“Strongly consider you for investment with a witchstone,” I agreed.  “You have my word.”

“That is still no guarantee,” Iyugi pointed out.

“You are right, it isn’t.  I have a position of special responsibility, I hope you understand, and I need to allow myself a certain amount of flexibility in my dealings.  I would rather have the option of denying you a stone if you, say, murdered a temple priestess in the fulfillment of your charge instead of having to break my oath.”

“The terms are agreeable,” he decided.  “You have a reputation as an honest man.”

I laughed.  “I know, I’ve only been a noble for a few moons.  Nor do I plan on cheating you – another obstacle I’ll have to overcome, now that I’m nobility.  I went over to the great mantelpiece and opening a small box (spellbound against casual theft) and taking out a small bag of silver – about twenty ounces.  Sir Cei encouraged me to have some small coin on hand for dealing expediently with regular castle business.  “It wouldn’t be lordly of me to give you such a charge and expect you to even attempt it without resources.”

I tossed him the purse and he caught it deftly with one hand.  Weighing it, he frowned and opened the bag.  He took out half of the silver and closed up the bag.

“I’ll need no more than that, Magelord.  And I appreciate the trust you have bestowed upon one you’ve had so short an acquaintance with.”

“Don’t betray it, then.  And spread the word among your brethren that the best among them have hope of a stone from my hand, should they prove worthy,” I added.  “Tell them also that I will have high expectations for any footwizard who thusly takes my service.”  We continued talking until dinner, after which Iyugi disappeared.  But not before filling my ears with news of all sorts, from throughout the Duchies.

By the time we retired, I think Tyndal learned more about the goings on in the Duchies than he had known in his entire life.  He even admitted to me on our way to our quarters that he had been wrong about Iyugi, and he was starting to get a glimmer of my long range plans.

Iyugi was gone before dawn the next day.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chepstan Spring Fair

I’ve always had a peasant’s love of a fair.

When I was a kid in Talry we’d go to the small midsummer fair, on the river commons.  I loved the performers and the food, the music, the contests and the gaiety.  When I went to Inrion Academy I was able to attend the Gambero Fair, which is one of the largest silk trading fairs along the coast.  That’s where I studied village girls and strong drink.  And when I was an itinerate warmage, I went out of my way to travel towards fairs of great repute.  You can often pick up a job after a couple of lords get into it, and they are a great place for picking up leads and gossip.  And village girls.

Attending a fair as a boy or as an artisan is very different from attending a fair as a noble, I learned.  For one thing, going by horse is much, much quicker.  For another, attending with an entourage of nearly fifty people slows you down quite a bit . . . and is expensive as hell.

When Sir Cei told me about how much it would cost for us to attend Sendaria’s Chepstan Spring Fair, I started to have second thoughts.  I wasn’t paying close attention to the state of the treasury, but the sum he named seemed extravagant.  But when I suggested that perhaps we should skip it, he looked scandalized.

“Magelord, recall that we are in conflict with one of our neighbors,” he reminded me patiently.   “The fair is, by all accounts, an important social occasion.  Then remember that you are a stranger to this land, and have yet to meet the high nobles of the region.  All of them will be at the Fair, or send representatives.  For Sevendor not to have a showing would be tantamount to declaring our weakness to the entire Riverlands.”

He seemed so sure of himself that I didn’t feel right canceling after that.  Besides, I figured, it was just money.

We ended up taking nine wagons and a small army of retainers, guards, servants, and local merchants who wanted to get out of paying tolls along the way and didn’t want the extra expense of guarding their wares.   Alya and I and our household dominated two wains on our own, which was staggering – I’d walked into Boval Vale two years ago with a pack horse and a knapsack.  How did I acquire all of these things?

A dozen of the retainers were armed guardsmen, sporting newly-sewn tabards with my new snowflake device on it.  I had livery, now.  I didn’t have that two years ago, either.

But the guards were necessary, and I was also taking Tyndal (Rondal had drawn the short straw and had to stay home this time) and Sir Festaran, the latter as much a native guide as an additional sword.  He knew the politics of the local region better than anyone else in my employ.   Sir Cei went with us as well, his first foray out of Sevendor in months.  I knew Sit Cei was a capable fighter and he was dressed like a real knight.  And I brought along a half-dozen warwands in addition to my own blade.

Why all the concern about our security?  The problem was that we weren’t going to be able to go through West Fleria without at least twice as many men, and I was going to a fair, not a siege.  Our frontier scouts had reported that Sire Gimbal had hired yet more mercenaries – common folk no better than bandits, this time, not even poor country knights – to waylay anyone coming out of Sevendor.  In addition, the two hamlets we crossed before crossing West Fleria’s far frontier had been fortified and reinforced.

That meant Caolan’s Pass got considerably more traffic than usual; which was also why Sir Cei limited us to only nine wagons – it was a chore getting them over the steep rise leading up to the pass.   It also meant that Lord Trefalan got our tolls, and it added half a day to our journey, but it was worth it to not have to worry about archers sniping us every step of the way or fighting our way past a couple of blockades.

The journey across southern Sendaria toward Chepstan Castle was delightfully uneventful, giving me plenty of leisure time riding next to Alya, play with the baby, and enjoy a pleasant buzz a pipe and a wineskin offered.  The weather was glorious, the air smelling of vibrant, verdant expectation and the scent of wildflowers.   And being a noble had other privileges, I discovered: when you ride at the head of the convoy, you don’t get covered in dust.

We camped outside the ruins of Ferrendor that night and started running into other travelers on their way to the fair.  A group of jugglers and musicians and a lackluster bard on one side of the road, and two parties of merchants (one cloth, one spice) on the other made it a merry camp, and after I magnanimously ordered a keg of ale opened, it was even merrier.  The next morning we continued a little more slowly and a lot more painfully.

We arrived on the outskirts of Chepstan Town’s spacious commons in company with a large throng of like-minded travelers.  An officious little man in a red and blue tabard found us on his list and directed us to our camp, collecting a purse covering our rent for the week and making each and every one of us swear the Fair Oath before a coinbrother of Ifni.

That was a basic vow to the gods not to lie, steal or start fights, and if you did get into a fight no sharp blades were permitted except in pre-arranged duels, which had to take place outside of the fairgrounds.  The penalty for violation was left solely to the discretion of the Baron . . . but we were warned that included capital punishment, if he felt so inclined.  Banamor had been right: Baron Arathanial didn’t like anyone messing with his fair.

Once we got to the little square all fifty of us would have to live in, everyone pitched in to unload the tents and canopies, those who were not digging a privy or seeking firewood to purchase.  All around us other households were setting up in the darkness or in the flickering light of hastily-lit fires.

That wouldn’t do at all.

With a wave of my hand, a large spherical magelight shimmered into existence fifty feet overhead, bathing the commons in a glow twice as bright as moonlight.

It was ample to allow our retainers to set up more quickly, and after the initial shock ran through the crowd our neighbors were grateful for the extra illumination.  When that wasn’t enough, Tyndal and Banamor and even Sir Festaran managed to create a small light over various projects.   It allowed camp to go up a lot more quickly and efficiently.

It also caused a crowd to gather around the encampment, to the point where I had to post guards to keep onlookers from interfering with my people.  I couldn’t blame them – no mage had been that showy in the Riverlands in living memory.  Hell, the magelight alone would have taken me half a day to hang, before irionite.

I was pleased to see that Sir Cei had not consigned us to sleep in the mean tent we’d slept in on the road, the night before – the pavilion that his people erected for our use was lavish.

“Picked it up on our last market run into Sendaria Port,” he explained.  “It was Sir Ulveddic’s – are you familiar with the knight?”

“I’m afraid not,” I admitted.

“No reason you should be, unless you follow professional jousting,” he said with a dismissive shake of his head.  Sir Ulveddic was a local favorite, but – alas!  -- he broke his collarbone at the start of last tournament season and had to part with this lovely canopy for a fraction of what he paid for it.”

“How much?” I asked, with a sense of foreboding.

“The Magelord shouldn’t concern himself with such petty matters,” Sir Cei said, smoothly, which I was learning was code for none of your business . . . my lord.  “But it was a steal.  And I think you’ll enjoy the appointments – most of which we won’t be setting up until morn.”

It was pretty impressive by night.  It was a mustard yellow color canvas with black trim, and Cei had hired a couple of seamstresses to tack the Sevendor snowflake banner to it, so it looked official.  The tent itself had two main support poles and ten wall poles, giving us a lavish amount of space inside.  Alya and I were bedded down in one half, while our staff used the other to take care of the baby and our stuff.  There were even two interior “walls” of canvas to give us privacy.  I liked the look of that.

I told him I trusted his judgment about the encampment, and I went to see the fair with Alya.  Since most people were still setting up, there wasn’t a lot available in the way of amusements, but we heard music and laughter and we followed it.  I had Sir Festaran accompany us (Sir Cei insisted – a landed noble did not go forth into the darkness of night without a loyal retainer) we were able to push through the crowd that had gathered around our magelights and slip away.

We had great fun that night.  For a few precious hours I wasn’t a magelord, I wasn’t a warmage, or even a spellmonger, I was just a boy taking a girl to the fair.

A boy with a purse full of coin.  That made a big difference.

I was never ‘poor’ growing up, but my father was thrifty with his coin.  When I went to the fair as a child, if I had a copper to spend I was ecstatic.  When I was a warmage, I’d usually be cautious with my spending myself, resisting the temptation to spend what I’d saved on the exotic goods and fanciful amusements available.  Well, mostly resisted.

But that night I was able to take my wife from vendor to vendor and spend what I wished without worrying about the cost.  We began with supper, in a little encampment selling food halfway between our camp and the fairgrounds, and enjoyed a large slab of Remeran cheese, a bottle of cheap wine, a large loaf and three bowls of thick groundling stew heavily seasoned with rosemary and pepper.

I don’t know how much it cost – again at Sir Cei’s insistence, Sir Festaran toted around my purse and paid the vendors.  Nobles don’t sully their hands with such common trade, apparently.

We stopped at an encampment a little closer to the grounds for another bottle, this time of a wild Wenshari wine, while we listened to a band of drunken River Folk musicians play dueling pipes for us.  I encouraged Alya to get up and dance with me, which she did reluctantly at first but soon with drunken enthusiasm.  By the time we left, our hearts were pounding and we were both smiling and holding hands like maidens.  Sir Festaran tried to hide his amusement, but he was a good kid and couldn’t help but grinning as we frequently stopped for kissing and embracing.

We ended up at another make-shift taproom just off of the main fairgrounds.  Run by a local taverner, he had spent coin on a professional harper from the Pearwoods.  She was absolutely stunning, both in appearance and in performance, and we were all enchanted.  I had Fess tip her and the proprietor heavily, and invited her to stop and play for us back at camp before she left for more coin.

Of course we drank with every stop, so by the time the moon was setting and Alya’s eyes were drooping, I had to impose on Festaran to lead us back home.  I had no idea where we were, or how to get to where we were.  I probably could have done a spell, but at that point I was drunk enough to make even a magemap dubious.  I probably couldn’t have even used my witchstone.

Alya was thrilled at both the attention and the entertainment.  She had accepted the constraints of her new life with a great deal of grace, but the demands were heavy on her.  She had to learn how to be a wife, a mother, and a lady of the domain all at once, and this respite was welcome.  She looked like she did when we first met . . . was it really less than two years before?

The next day we woke up naked, entangled in our blankets in our rope bed, and thoroughly hungover.  I didn’t see how that couldn’t be counted as a successful evening.

Sir Cei had been true to his word, and when he finally had us awakened, the camp had been transformed.  There were now six tents, in addition to the grand pavilion that was my castle-away-from-home.  One was devoted to food and cooking, one to storage and wares, and the other four housed our entourage.  A small frame of lashed-together poles now served as a gate to our encampment, and additional banners and streamers now fluttered in the morning breeze over the heads of our guards.

There were always two of those at the gate, and another patrolling the camp.  With the baby inside, and potential foes around us, I didn’t think that was too much.   I couldn’t even think about the possibility of losing him, somehow, but if a couple of big Bovali lads with long swords and spears made me feel better about it, I didn’t mind having them along.  While fighting with blades was prohibited in the Fair, we could guard or site with them.  Besides, in their new Sevendori livery, they looked almost respectable.

Sir Cei had directed a trestle to be set up behind the pavilion, away from the gate, where we could eat in relative privacy.  Alya and I shared a quiet breakfast alone, surrounded by people, before she got an escort to the privy and I had had a pipe.  It was peaceful, not having a job I needed to do while everyone else bustled around me.  I tried not to feel guilty about that.

Plenty of people were interested in stopping by our camp simply because Sevendor had been under Ducal control for so long that this was the first time a noble delegation had been to the fair in recent memory. I was struck by just how poorly the folk of the Bontal Riverlands viewed Sevendor, and I honestly couldn’t blame them.  But I also resolved to change that . . . a lot.

We got our first noble visitor that morning when Sire Sigalan came by with a small following, including his winsome sister, Lady Sarsha.

I recognized the knight at once before he arrived at our gate, even under his mantle – he was a striking fellow, and his height and leanness made him stand out.  I made a point of meeting him at the entrance of our encampment myself, and I was gratified that Sir Festaran, at least, understood enough to join me.  Tyndal was still flirting with the camp cooks from the next camp over, but Fes knew how valuable the friendship of even a poor knight like Sire Sigalan could be in feudal politics.

I greeted the man warmly, and was gratified that he returned the sentiment – so of course I called for wine.  Sire Sigalan had his sister Lady Sarsha and a small number of his yeomen and their wives with him, but that was nearly all the retainers he’d brought out of the mountains.

“We’re both early,” he explained.  “Most of these lordly encampments you see were set up by their servants, far in advance of their arrival.  Lord Trefalan will not arrive before tomorrow, and the Warbird of West Fleria,” he said, wryly, “won’t be here until the day after, as suits a personage of his importance,” he added with a chuckle.

“How large a party should we expect him to have, Sire?” Sir Festaran asked, politely.  Ordinarily, he’d know – his father would be included in the retinue.  But he’d not been home in months, now, and news was a little hard to come by across our armed frontier.

“At least a hundred,” said Sigalan with a heavy sigh.  “He’s been hiring a lot of mercenary knights of late.  “He even had the temerity to try to enlist me and my folk again . . . while insulting us in the invitation.  We Trestendori are poor, but we’re proud.

“But don’t worry – there is a ban on naked steel in anger, or even formal dueling, until the Fair is ended.  Baron Arathanial would love nothing more than for the Warbird to start a fight.  If you want a shot at Gimbal, you’ll have to take up a lance.  He fancies himself quite a jouster, and plans on making a good showing at the tournament.”

“I’m no jouster,” I said, chuckling at the image of me dressed as a heavy cavalryman and embarrassing myself.  “But I might feel compelled to wager against him . . .”

“Lord Gimbal is a puissant knight,” Sir Festaran pointed out.  “When he was younger, living at his brother’s court, it was thought that he might take up the trade of the professional jouster.  He really is good at it,” he admitted, grudgingly.

“Bah!  There are a dozen better,” snorted Sire Sigalan.  “And unseating a man on a dry, well-raked field is a far cry from real battle.  He’ll be able to intimidate some of the less-powerful local knights, but the real professionals won’t see him as much of a challenge.  Sire Ewen is here, as is Farn Kinslayer,” He said knowingly.

I had no idea who they were, but by Sir Festaran’s expression they were jousters of some repute.  “Baron Arathanial has put up an apiary estate as prize, in addition to the usual gold and trinkets.  He has a small holding in the south of the barony whose lord recently died.  His widow and property shall go to the victor, or he can sell it back to the Baron for a goodly price.”

“An apiary?” I asked, curious.  We didn’t have one yet in Sevendor, mostly we depended upon wild bees from the Westwood.  But Master Olmeg had been urging me to procure a few hives.  “I like the sound of that.”

“How many lances will Sevendor be entering in the lists?” asked the mountain lord, curious.  “We have but one, brave old Sir Desalan, who we sponsor only out of duty and love . . . he’s a good man, but likely won’t see too many more winters.  He wishes to test himself in life on the field of honor one last time before he does so in the underworld.  I would enter myself, but these days I find myself more drawn to . . . archery,” he said.

I could only take that to mean that he had taken possession of the fifty bows and thousand arrows he had been quietly purchasing, against a future conflict with West Fleria.

“Uh . . . how many lances are we entering into the lists?” I asked.  I only had a vague idea what that meant, but I didn’t want to sound like it.  “Sir Cei!  A moment, please!” I called.  My castellan was there almost instantly, and shook Sire Sigalan’s hand firmly.

“Three, Magelord,” he assured me.  “Sir Forondo wishes to try his luck on the lists, as does Sir Roncil – with hope toward an increase in his fortune.  Indeed, he has entered the lists in a number of contests.”

I had given Sir Roncil first choice of the arms, armor, and destrier he’d helped me capture from the West Flerians, and three of the ransoms . . . when they came in.  In the meantime he was near penniless.  While I didn’t mind paying his upkeep for his service, he was not a man who likes to hang on to the stirrups of others, and was expressing a lot of ambition about his fortunes in the Riverlands.   I didn’t doubt he was hoping for victory most earnestly.

“Who’s the third?” I asked.

“Why, I am, Magelord,” Sir Cei said, an eyebrow raised.  “I was just heading to the herald to register for the lists.  I was not unskilled in my younger days.”

“You are going to joust?  You’re going to compete?” I asked, incredulously, my latent hangover ambushing my senses.  Too late, I realized what I’d done.  Sir Cei’s face didn’t change, but his eyes did.

“It occurs to me to remind the Magelord that I was training for a gentleman’s career at arms when he was still . . . an infant,” he said, clearly rejecting a more colorful description.  “I assure you, I am equally able with lance or quill.”

“I meant no disrespect,” I said, hurriedly.  “I’ve seen you fight – I just hadn’t thought you’d want to compete.”

“A knight likes to keep his lance sharp,” he shrugged, as if he didn’t expect me to understand.  He was wearing one of the nicer sets of armor we’d gotten as ransom, a sturdy steel breastplate over a thickly gambesoned coat-of-plates.  His great, Wilderlands-style warshield was leaning against the trestle – not with Sevendor’s device emblazoned upon it, but his own personal charge in red and gold.

“Then carry the luck of Sevendor and the strength of Duin with you,” I said, sincerely, mindful not to irritate my most valuable retainer.   “And make certain I get back all the castellan I started with,” I added.  I couldn’t very well tell the man ‘no’ – well, I could, but it wouldn’t have been either fair or nice – but I suddenly had the horrific thought of Sir Cei dying in some stupid tournament, forcing me to actually run my domain.  “Be careful,” I emphasized.

“Are you not you entering the lists, Sir Festaran?” asked Lady Sarsha, Sigalan’s comely sister.  She was as tall as her brother, and dressed prettily for the fair.  “If I recall you nearly won the Squires’ Tournament, last year.”  The young knight blushed.

“I . . . well, I didn’t think it was quite right, entering with me being a hostage.  Not without permission, at least.”  Then he looked sheepish.  “Since I’ve only been in two tournaments,” he explained, “one when I was knighted and then the Squires’ tournament for Sir Gimbal’s birthday, I don’t think I’m really ready.  There are some very skillful knights enrolled,” he said, diplomatically.  “I couldn’t hope to win, even if I did enter.  I would not mind breaking a few lances in such company,” he added.

“Nonsense!” Sir Cei said, slapping the boy on his shoulder.  “A knight should never back down from a challenge and the opportunity to win honor.  The greater the foe, the greater the glory,” he pointed out.

“If you win,” countered Sir Fes.  “Otherwise you’re just another body on the field.”

“Fes?  If you want to enter, I’ll be happy to sponsor you,” I said.  “If you wear my badge, then you won’t be in violation of your parole.”  I wasn’t a knight – that is, I hadn’t been raised as a knight, in a knight’s household, with the social and legal expectations and obligations of a knight.   I also didn’t know much beyond the art of being a heavy cavalryman beyond which end of the lance was the pointy one.   There were plenty of warmagi who did, but they weren’t the sons of bakers.   But this was clearly important to the boy and . . . well, it was only money.

“I . . . I would be grateful, Magelord,” he said, humbly.  “If you don’t think I’ll disgrace Sevendor…”

“Sevendor has been so disgraced for so long, you’d have to go a long way to do that,” I pointed out.  “Sir Cei, add Sir Festaran to the lists under Sevendor’s banner, please.”

“As you wish, Magelord,” he said.  He’d tried hard to conceal his emotions, but I could tell he was pleased.  Knights.

“Good luck to you both, then,” I said.  “Would you like any enchantments to help?”

They all looked scandalized, and exchanged looks before Cei politely declined.  “That would be . . . unchivalrous,” he said, diplomatically.  “Perhaps you can assist Sir Tyndal.”

“Tyndal?  What’s he got to do with it?  Gods, he didn’t enter the lists, did he?  He’s no jouster!”

“No,” Sir Cei agreed, with a note of satisfaction.  “But he fancies himself a swordsman.  He has entered himself in the single swordplay competition, and the archery competition.  Less glory, if no less honor.”

“Ishi’s tits!” I swore.  “Feeling bold, is he?”

“So it seems.  Yet he has some skill with a blade,” he conceded, “and he is as good a shot with a bow as any Bovali lad.”

“I think he just wants to attract the attention of girls.”

No one argued with me.

That day we spent shopping.  We had an extensive list, in part because the winter had depleted us, and in part because Sevendor Castle had been neglected for so long that it just needed some attention.

We spent far too much for my comfort.  Enough that we had to hire yet another wagon to haul it back home.  But the buying opportunities afforded by a big fair are just too good to pass up.  There are some things a castle needs that can only be acquired or commissioned at a fair, or ordered from the merchants there.

We spent well over three hundred ounces of gold that day.  I tried hard not to think about it.

The deliveries of our wares arrived in our camp in a constant stream, and Sir Cei always had someone on duty to inspect them, pay for them, and attest to the receipt before they were stored in the wares tent or packed into our wagons.  All I had to do was point and say “I want that!” and it appeared.

Like magic.  Only easier.

That night we began our skulking early, visiting a few select encampments before we started serious drinking.  Sir Festaran explained the local custom: a lord’s retinue would visit the campsite’s immediate neighbors first as a matter of courtesy, and then begin working in the neighboring lords before visiting traveling nobles and affluent merchants or guilds.  So we started by visiting the camps to either side of us.

To the west lay the rough camp of a mountain lord, Sire Cambren of Greenmount.  Cambren was just two steps away from the peasantry himself, a timid little country knight who was here mostly to marry off his sister.  I saw his sister.  If the drink held out and the dowry was generous, she had a chance.

To the east was the more civilized lair of Sire Asadopan.  He was a vassal of Sevendor’s western neighbor, a dark-complected man of middle age.  He fancied himself a jouster, so he was there with his full armor, but he weighed two ingots more than he should, thanks to the noble lifestyle.  I was no jouster, but I don’t think I would have feared him on the lists.

Our visits were cordial and friendly, with Sir Cei attending and making introductions, firmly in his element.  Sire Cambren did his best to get Sir Festaran to court his sister, but the boy begged off, claiming he could make no promises or seek to court while held as a hostage.  I’ve never seen someone so relieved to be a prisoner in my life.

Sire Asadopan was more gruff and less friendly.  He had heard much about Sevendor, apparently, through the filter of his liege and common gossip.  I was amused to learn that I was considered an Evil Sorcerer by some, who had conquered Sevendor by magic and treachery.  Others considered me a kind of savior, while most saw me merely as a curiosity.

But some people were not happy with the ascension of a magelord at all.  Sire Asadopan let that slip a few times.  There were those, it seemed, who saw me as an abomination and a violation of sacred law.  A few nobles had already forbid any commerce with Sevendor (we had trouble with a few vendors, after it was revealed who we were).   That disturbed me, of course – while I hadn’t seen a Royal Censor since my wedding day I knew that the institution was still eager to see my head in Merwin.  Or wherever the Censorate loyalists who had not followed General Hartarian’s lead ended up setting up their headquarters.

At the time, I dismissed it.  I was having a good time.  I didn’t want to think about the people who wanted to kill me.  Not with that much good food, good drink and good company around.  That night was another long, lush, delightfully decadent descent into drunkenness and debauchery, with Alya casting off her ill-fitting cloak of nobility and carousing like a lusty peasant.  I love my wife.  Which apparently everyone in camp was assured of, as the pavilion walls did little to conceal the noise of our lovemaking, and, honestly, I was too piss-drunk to whip up a silence spell.

The next day the fair was in full swing, and we did more shopping, this time for more specialty items.  Alya ended up taking a group of the castle women to interrogate the cloth merchants and enrich the cosmetics merchants while I hunted up magical supplies with Banamor.

The former footwizard was a good companion at the fair, a shrewd bargainer who knew many of the specialty craftsmen and merchants we needed to purchase, order, or commission from.  Twice he kept me from spending money wastefully, and he bargained for a gallon of acid like a fishwife at the end of market day.

I actually got to see Festaran joust that afternoon only because the glass merchant I was visiting was near to the list field and I heard the herald call his name to be ready.  It was exciting – we watched from the cheap seats at the far end of the field.  He won his bout against another young knight from Sendaria, two lances to one.

He had good form, from what I could tell with my inexperienced eye.  At least he didn’t fall off his horse.  Sir Cei had apparently won his first round soundly, three lances to none, and was scheduled to fight a circuit professional a few hours later.  Sir Forondo had lost his first round narrowly, but was still hopeful of his second fight.  Sire Gimbal had bested both of his opponents.

I also saw Tyndal fight later that afternoon, on the other side of the field.    The swordplay competition was strongly attended and there were at least thrice as many competitors as there were for jousting – it’s cheaper to own a sword and armor than a sword, lance, armor, shield, horse, groom, stable, etc.

A lot of country knights and yeomen were entered into the competition.  The prizes were a lot less grand than in the jousting competition, but they were more useful, too.  In this case, the top prizes were a matched pair of hunting hawks, a beautifully tooled saddle, and a sheep.

Tyndal was doing extremely well.  He wore his captured armor and wielded my old mageblade, Slasher, which confounded his opponents, who were not used to dueling against a shorter blade.  I cringed at the thought that he had blunted it, but it was his, now.  Tyndal had also stripped his armor down to the bare essentials, wisely eschewing the mantles and ribbons and other fripperies every other swordsman seemed to wear.  His helmet, likewise, had been chosen because if fit tightly on his head without obscuring his vision.

He also knew how to work a crowd, I noted with a bit of satisfaction.  Tyndal was becoming quite an extrovert, and when his name was called to prepare he made a great show of putting on his helm with flamboyance.  It didn’t hurt that he was both youthful and handsome.  A chorus of squealing peasant girls bore testament to his skill with the public.

His opponent was a knight ten years his senior, bearing arms featuring three fish leaping out of a river on his surcoat.  His sword was a typical battle sword, about four feet of steel nearly four inches wide at the base.  It was – technically – blunted, but it outweighed Slasher significantly.  He whirled the blade around effectively enough in practice, and his strokes in the air were precise enough to make me the smallest bit concerned for my senior apprentice.

I shouldn’t have worried.  Tyndal saluted the man casually when the herald introduced them and explained the rules by rote: one point for a clean hit to a limb, two points for a body hit, three for a successful strike to the head.  First man to five points wins.  Tyndal stood there looking amused and relaxed, like an eager peasant boy about to play a game of ball.  But the moment the chime rang, his casual demeanor changed.  Tyndal was an animal.

I’ve seen a lot of swordplay over the years, and there are plenty of distinctive styles.  Tyndal had none of them.   What he did have was a keen eye, swift reflexes, and deft footwork.  He apparently saw, as I did, that his opponent’s vision was occluded by his greathelm and that his surcoat not only weighed him down, but also restricted the range of movement he could employ with that heavy blade.

So Tyndal decided to just avoid the matter entirely by rolling to the ground, over his shoulder, and striking the back of his foe’s knee while the man was clumsily hacking at the empty air.  One point.

Tyndal sprung to his feet a lot more spryly than his more heavily-armored opponent could have hoped to, and as the man spun to try to face him, Tyndal quickly circled around the same direction, staying elusively out of his range of vision.  A wild swing at where he thought Tyndal would be threw him open, and Tyndal managed a good thump between his shoulder blades.  Two points.

Just as the judge called out the scoring, Tyndal ducked down under the man’s field of vision, changed direction, and ended up coming up behind him again.  With a lot more flourish than was absolutely needed, he brought Slasher’s blunted blade down on the unprotected greathelm in front of him, producing a satisfying clang.  Head shot.  Three points.

Tyndal was declared the winner, six points to none.  The loser was angry at the mageknight’s refusal to fight “properly” – that is, to stand on two legs and consent to be stabbed – but it was well within the rules.  Hell, Tyndal hadn’t even used magic, as far as Banamor and I could tell.   He made a great show of celebrating his victory by pumping his sword in the air.

I waved at him and threw him a high sign before retreating and allowing him to enjoy his victory with the assistance of multiple kisses from admiring ladies.  I would have enjoyed staying to watch him fight again, but I had places to go and stuff to buy.

“You’re going to need to watch that one,” he said, quietly, as we left the lists and headed back toward the craftsmen.  I still wanted to visit the booksellers and see what I could do to improve the castle’s library.

“What do you mean?  Tyndal is as loyal as I could ask.”

“It’s not disloyalty I fear, Magelord, it’s the boy’s brashness.”  The former footwizard shook his head.  “He’s as Talented as they come, but he has a strong head and a weak heart about . . . some things.”

I had to chuckle.  “That’s one reason why I like him.  He’s enthusiastic.  But your point is well-noted.  I’ve been conspiring to see he gets a more proper education, and I do think that Sir Cei’s influence has tempered the boy quite a bit, this year.

Banamor looked aghast.  “You mean he was worse than he is now?”

“Not worse . . . just less sophisticated.  He always tries to do the right thing.  He just has a hard time knowing what that is.  That ignorance can be corrected, I think.  In Rondal’s case, the boy is nearly as Talented, twice as smart, but twice as timid.  There is little reason he cannot become a knight mage in fact as well as in name.  He’s no Gareth,” I said, referring to the smart, Talented but physically weak mage someone had sent me to train in warmagic, apparently as a joke.

“Don’t sell Gareth short,” Banamor said, shaking his head.  “I’ve been working with the boy, me and Olmeg and Zagor.  He’s got Talent, and living so near the snowstone is bringing it out.  I’d say the boy would make a first-class enchanter, and he has a head for numbers.  I’m having him assist me in preparing for the magic fair, I hope you don’t mind, when he’s not helping Olmeg mulch something.  Or tend goats with Zagor.  I’ll use him even more, with your permission, when my shop is complete.”

I’d granted Banamor an acre on the northern outskirts of the remodeled Sevendor Village for his home, shop and office, and while construction of the grand building was underway it was not nearly complete enough for the Spellwarden’s taste.  There were just too many construction projects going on in Sevendor to get the labor he needed.

“I have no objections to that.  He’s a good lad.  I hated to not give him a stone, but until I can find some compelling reason to, he’ll have to bide his time and see this as a learning opportunity.  But we need to do something about all of the stray magi who are starting to accumulate.  I don’t want any problems down the road.”  I paused meaningfully.  “That’s why I hired a Spellwarden.”

“Then I’ll use Gareth as I see fit, as long as you’re willing to pay his upkeep.   He might prove a good deputy, even.”

About an hour after Tyndal’s fight Banamor and I were starting to think about lunch after procuring five or six different blends of smoke.  We were just lighting up and considering the merits of apple fritters and sour jack versus the benefits of half a cold roast chicken and a slab of bread when I heard, literally, the very last thing I wanted to hear:

“Minalan of Sevendor, son of Rinden the Baker, called the Spellmonger!  Lay down your arms and surrender in the name of the King!”

Chapter Twenty-Five

The Censorate of Magic

I was screwed.

I was on the other side of the fairgrounds from my camp.  My people were scattered all over the place.  I wasn’t wearing a mageblade.  I hadn’t brought a warwand, only my dagger hung from my belt. Banamor was likewise unarmed – he was a commoner, not entitled to wear a sword, and they were discouraged on the fairgrounds anyway.

He looked at me, his eyes wide in surprise and nascent terror.  I’m sure I looked the same way.  Because there are only two entities that could legally act in the name of the nonexistent King of the Five Duchies, and I doubted I was being accosted by a glorified lighthouse keeper.

That meant it was the Royal Censorate of Magic who was trying to arrest me.  The Censors were enforcers of the Bans on Magic, which I had studiously and decisively overturned last year . . .  only some of them were clearly ignoring Duke Rard’s decree on the subject.

According to their own codes, they were not bound by Ducal decree.  They did not answer to any higher authority than their sworn oath, and there were some powerful Censors who were rebelling against the leadership of the repentant Censor General Hartarian.

To them, my mere existence as a High Mage was a violation of regulation.   There was a reward on my head, as Sandoval had warned me.  Banamor was an unregistered footwizard – he had been running from the Censorate his entire professional life.  Being confronted with them unexpectedly, in a crowd of people in broad daylight, was disconcerting.

I controlled my breathing and stopped in my tracks.  I sent a mind-to-mind shout to Tyndal, summoning him to come with help.  I doubted he’d get there in time, but it couldn’t hurt to have him aware of our situation.

I turned around, slowly, as did Banamor.  I had nothing in my hand but a new pipe, which had conveniently gone out.  Behind us stood three large armored men in boot-length mantles of black and white checks.  The one in the middle held a staff and a dagger.  The one on the left had an axe, and the one on the right had a mageblade.  There was motion around the edges of the crowd that suggested they weren’t alone.

“Oh, holy shit,” whispered Banamor, his face pale.

“Pull it together,” I whispered back.  “You’re a High Mage now,” I reminded him.  “They don’t know that.”

“I’m scared shitless,” he replied.  “They probably know that.”

“I am Sire Minalan, the Magelord of Sevendor,” I said in a loud voice.  The crowd quickly split the way that crowds do when something violent or entertaining is about to happen.  To emphasize the point, I nudged my oversized sphere of irionite loose from its bag and magically pushed it into the air.  It took a little effort, but it was worth it for the dramatic impact alone.  When the sphere emerged, it was the Censorate’s turn to go pale.  There was no mistaking what it was . . . or how big it was.

Sometimes size does matter.

“I’m not about to drop my weapons.”

The man in the middle steeled himself, clenched his jaw, and brandished his staff.  “You are hereby placed under arrest by the order of—”

“Saying it is one thing,” I said, trying to be both casual and intimidating.  “Doing it is another.  How do you propose to disarm me, if I decide to resist?”

“You cannot resist the authority of the Censorate,” he replied, angrily.  “If you resist, we will kill you.”

“You will try,” I countered.  “But so did a whole lot of other people, and they’re mostly dead now.”

“This is your last opportunity to lay aside that abomination and respond to your lawful summons, as required under your oath of licensure!”

“My license has been . . . augmented by my Ducal Court Mage,” I pointed out.  “Under the authority of the Duke.  Dukes,” I corrected myself.  “If you’d like, I can send back to my camp for my papers.  I brought them with me, as required by law.”

“This is no longer an administrative matter,” he said, darkly.  “A warrant has been issued for your arrest by the Censor of Remere.  I will execute that order,” he emphasized.  “Drop your weapons and stand down at once!”

“I’m smoking a pipe,” I pointed out, stalling for time.  “Are you feeling threatened by it?” I inquired, affecting amusement.  I was a little pissed off and a whole lot scared, and that tends to bring out the jester in me.  Not one of my more endearing qualities.  Just to emphasize it, I produced a flame out of thin air and lit it, blowing clouds of smoke before sending one thick-walled smoke ring toward the men.

The leader quivered.  “Then do you intend to resist?” he asked.

“I haven’t quite decided,” I said.  “I’m thinking I should let that be a surprise.”

“Then you do intend to resist,” he said, a trace of doubt in his voice.

“I intend to consider resisting,” I admitted.  “But I’m only seeing three of you here.  It would make it more sporting if there were more of you.”

“Three is sufficient for the task,” he insisted, his jaw jutting out proudly.  “But we have ample allies, should we need them to help you consider.”  Two more men stepped forward and threw off dusty traveling cloaks to reveal the dreaded checkered mantles underneath.  One had a mageblade, the other a brace of warwands and a vicious-looking scar on his face.

“Well, five does help simplify the equation,” I admitted, my heart falling.  These men were serious about taking my head.

“Holy shit!” whispered Banamor, as he realized that a Censor had been standing concealed not a dozen paces away from him.  He clutched at his witchstone, his knuckles white.

“I thought it might,” the Censor sneered.  “So have you reached a decision?”

“Almost there,” I nodded, puffing away.  “Even with five, I still see resisting as pretty good odds.”

“That would be a grave miscalculation,” he replied, arrogantly.  “All five of us are well-blooded veteran warmagi.”

“Who isn’t?” I bragged.  “But how many witchstones did you bring?”

“We don’t need such abominations to administer the King’s laws,” he boasted.  “There’s no need for anyone to be hurt, if you see to your duty and your reason and come quietly.  Our order has been dealing with the likes of you for four hundred years!”

“It helps when you have no qualms about letting INNOCENT BYSTANDERS GET BUTCHERED,” I said, suddenly magically augmenting my voice.  When the squeals died down, there was a lot more open space on the fairgrounds.  That was my goal – if sparks did fly between us, I wanted as few innocents harmed as possible.  The Censorate’s bloody-handed reputation did the rest.

“Enough of this debate!” he said, angrily as he realized I was stalling.  “For the final time, Minalan the Spellmonger, will you concede to arrest or shall we detain you by force?”

I let the question hang in the air as I prepared.  I might not have had any real weapons, but I had my abundantly powerful witchsphere and a head full of warmagic – and they did not appear to be employing any annulment spells, else their own wardings would fail.

I cast the first spells silently.  Defensive barriers went up around me and Banamor.  Illusory magic made us seem far more threatening and intimidating than we actually were.  I prepared to cast several augmentation charms, and I invoked magesight.  Then I blew another smoke ring.

“Thoughts, Banamor?” I asked, loudly, as the crowd continued to move away from us while the Censors edged closer, ready for us to fight.

“You are seeking my counsel, Magelord?” he asked, surprised.

“You seem to have a stake in the outcome,” I observed.  “And you do happen to be at hand.”

“I’m honored,” he muttered.  “Since I know what will happen if we don’t resist, then resisting is probably our wisest move. “  He scratched his beard and looked around at all of the checkered cloaks.  “Yes, I’m growing more convinced that resistance, as depressing as it sounds, is our most prudent move.  Unless you’d consider the merits of retreat?”

“Banamor!  That would hardly suit the dignity or position of a magelord,” I pointed out, as I mentally prepared a few spells.  “As a noble I have a duty to represent my class with distinction, and as the head of the Arcane Orders it would damage my reputation if I chose to retreat.  Death or surrender are the only two honorable courses of action.”

“I’m a commoner,” he pointed out.  “I can just meet you back at camp . . .”

“And miss an opportunity to demonstrate your loyalty as a retainer?  A chance at glory?”

“WILL YOU RESIST?” shouted the Censor, as his men began to move toward us more earnestly.

“Minalan . . .!” Banamor said, looking anxiously.

That’s when it – finally – happened.  There was a stirring in the crowd behind the Censors, to the left of us.  Suddenly the crowd parted and Tyndal bounded into view, Slasher in one hand and a couple of wands in the other.  He tossed the wands to me and ran to stand at my side, still armored up from his tournament.  I snagged the larger one, but the smaller of them tumbled to my feet, where Banamor scrambled to pick it up.  Tyndal slid heroically into position facing the Censors.

And he wasn’t alone.  Behind him filed in a dozen armored men, swords drawn, who took up positions behind the Censors.

“Where the hell have you been?” I asked my apprentice, sharply.  “They were about to start without you.”

“Sorry, Master!” he said, his chest heaving with exertion as he eyed the Censors.  “I was in the middle of my bout.  I had to win it quickly before I came.”

“Well, sorry to rush you,” I grumbled.  “Now, shall we re-consider this whole potentially nasty situation?” I offered the Censors.  “Because now I’m prepared to resist.”

“Our duty is not negotiable!” the Censor insisted, taking a step forward.   The warriors behind him did, likewise.

Where did you come up with the army? I asked Tyndal, mind-to-mind.

They were the ones in the loser’s bracket, he said.  They were armed, and I needed them.

How did you convince them to fight warmagi? I asked.  The prospect that he had charmed them magically somehow occurred to me, but I honestly didn’t think Tyndal was that good yet.

I didn’t.  They wouldn’t.  Not warmagi.  So I paid them an ounce of silver apiece to follow me – actually, you did, or will have to – and then stand in formation and look menacing.  But they didn’t have to fight.

That actually wasn’t a bad plan.

I gripped the warwand in my hand.  It was one of Tyndal’s, but I’d taught him how to make them last summer, and I was reasonably sure I knew the command word.   I took a step forward, swinging it casually.  “It looks like I have help, now.  I’m afraid I’m going to have to resist, gentlemen,” I said.

Tyndal, the two on the left, keep them busy, I told him, mind-to-mind.

! he replied, a telepathic grunt of assent.

I readied a spell as the Censor in the center stepped forward with his own, and then we were fighting.

When you can slow your perceptions down to the point where you can select from a number of options at your comparative leisure while your opponent is chained to merely what their body manages to do at their mind’s most reactive direction, taking someone apart becomes a lot easier.

But when it’s warmage-on-warmage, the rules change.  You can both augment your body and slow your perceptions, which means that a duel between magi gets a lot more sophisticated.

I had plenty of power at hand, so I wasn’t restricted to only the spells I had prepared.  I was far more conscious of killing a score of fair-goers, however, and that tempered my response.

But the moment the lead Censor launched a bolt of bright blue light in our direction from the head of his staff, things got hectic.  I counted on my defensive spells to block the blast so I could focus on other matters.  While I faced the man in the center, I targeted the Censor to our extreme right, who was advancing on Banamor.

I gave him a shot with the warwand, hitting him square in the chest.  It was a Harlon wand, made of hickory, a style of concussion wave Tyndal favored for sheer power.  The Harlon enchantments were designed back in the age of the Magocracy to stop a charging horse – the kind ridden by my barbarian ancestors.

The blast knocked the man off his feet and into the crowd behind him.  His blade was thrown out of his reach. Unfortunately, a few bystanders on the fringes of the crowd were also hit, though not nearly as hard.  I didn’t mind that – I was happy with the result.  My apprentice isn’t particularly sophisticated. That’s not always a bad thing.

For the two men in front of me, I threw a Caliocusion spell I had stored in my arsenal.  The Caliocusion is a very specific wave of sound generated and directed magically into a cone of force.  But it’s not designed to deafen your foe.  I may not have had a mageblade, but when you have the biggest ball in the game, you should use it.

The Caliocusion was perfect for this situation, because it was non-lethal.  I didn’t want to be responsible for plowing through a group of onlookers.  I raised my hand, summoned the power, let the spell fall into my mind, and spoke the mnemonic.   The air rippled and we heard a loud whine as the wave bunched, then activated. Rather than assault their ears, the concussion that resulted sent one Censor sprawling like his brother, and dropped the man with the staff to one knee.

A nasty side effect?  It makes you loose your bowels and bladder.

While I attacked their center, Tyndal engaged the man on our far left sword-to-sword and had shot – and missed – at the fifth man with some spell I didn’t pay attention to.  He and his opponent were well-matched, for all of the Censor’s height, and while the checkered cloak remained un-bloodied, so did Tyndal.  He was still dueling, Slasher in his right hand, a wand in his left.  He was alive, which is all I really wanted to know.   I was busy.  There were spells coming at us I had to defend against.

Banamor wasn’t totally useless in a fight.  While he didn’t know any warmagic, he’d spent plenty of time dodging rough situations, as any footwizard must.  I saw him struggle to his knees, curse, and then pull something out of his pouch.  He said a few words over it and threw it at our attackers.  Whatever spell he cast entangled the feet of the man Tyndal’s spell had missed, so he stumbled face-first into the fairgrounds before he’d crossed half the distance to us.

There were plenty of spells incoming, too, and our defenses were only partially successful.  I felt a searing heat tear down my left leg and side, realizing someone had employed a paralysis spell or sensory augmentation spell or something that made me feel like I was on fire.  My defenses were prepared against real fire – I hadn’t anticipated psychosomatic attacks like that.  Live and learn.

Right about then Banamor took a hit, too, a ball of green flame making an arc lazily in the air before it hit our defenses and shimmered (mostly) into harmlessness.  The parts that weren’t harmless slapped Banamor in the face and neck, though, and he was down moments after his own spell had worked.

The first wave of attacks had bought me a half-second of time to contemplate my next move, as bodies skidded to a halt in slow motion around me.   The sphere still hovered helpfully over my shoulder, the warwand was ready for another blast . . . and I was still uncomfortably unarmed.  Maybe it’s a security thing, but unlike some warmagi I hated to fight without a sword in my hand.  It’s comforting.

One of the Censors had helpfully dropped his mageblade.

I sent a tendril of force to summon it to my hand.  It responded to my call like a friendly dog, and came flying through the air and toward my palm.  I turned my attention to carefully shooting at the man with the staff on the right with the Harlon wand.  The staff’s defenses blunted the force of the attack, unfortunately, but it kept him from firing a spell in return.

Tyndal was dueling toe-to-toe with his foe, who had recovered his footing from Banamor’s spell, their mageblades flashing in the sun as strike after strike was thrown and blocked.  It was tempting to just watch Tyndal use his sword.  He moved with grace and fluidity, a natural athleticism I envied.  While the Censor was larger, fresher, and had a heavier blade, Tyndal had been fighting all day.

With, I realized with sudden dismay, a blunted blade.  The Censor did not enjoy the same handicap.  That explained the lack of blood.  Well, I couldn’t very well stop my own fight to magically sharpen his blade or something.  Tyndal was on his own.

Then I was too busy to pay further attention, because one of the idiots my sound wave had knocked down inconveniently stood up and charged me.  He arrived only moments after the scavenged mageblade came to my hand, and then I was fighting for my life, too.

My opponent was good – far better than I wanted him to be.  More, he was armored, and I was not.  But the moment the hilt of the summoned sword smacked against my palm and my fingers curled around it, armor didn’t matter anymore.   I raised the sword and took the brunt of his blow on it, stopping his advance.

I could tell that the warmage was surprised – he’d expected an easy kill, no doubt, and did not expect me to be able to arm myself so quickly.  His eyes went wide as his blade bit mine, and I took the barest of moments to lock eyes with him.  They were filled with righteous fury.  He paused the barest moment to challenge me.

It was a dramatic move, but not a smart one.  His momentum bowled us both over and we struggled desperately to get control over our blades and regain our footing.  I was slightly faster, but not quite fast enough for my purposes.  We were back on our feet, blades in hand, circling each other again in moments.

That’s when things got complicated.  Every feint and strike was anticipated, every move countered.  So we hammered at each other as fast and as hard as we could.  When you can tell by the set of his feet how he was going to strike, and you knew exactly what you would do to block it, it’s hard to find an advantage.

The mageblade I had rescued was shorter than Twilight by almost three inches, but otherwise it was a very serviceable blade.  Unlike Twilight, it had few spells on it that I could feel – likely because of the sheer difficulty in enchanting such things without irionite.  It struck me just how much more powerful we were than they were, and that was gratifying.

Which is why, twenty lightning-fast strikes later, as I was starting to get bored and frustrated and I wanted to end the duel to move on to the rest of my day I realized that, indeed, irionite made us much, much more powerful than the Censors.

So why was I standing there trading blows with this idiot?

Enough.  I snapped out of the hypnotic pattern of steel-on-steel long enough to whirl halfway around, and put my right boot into my opponent’s chest hard enough to knock him back three steps.  He would recover in seconds.

But seconds were all I needed.

I summoned a lot of power from the sphere, shaped it crudely, and cast it as my foe was winding up for his next blow.   My spell took hold, and he floated four feet into the air.

The warmage who was casting a spell also got jerked up into the air, as did the other checkered cloaks.  That didn’t keep them from being dangerous, but it deprived them of the traction and leverage they would have needed to actually fight us hand-to-hand.  You couldn’t fight as well with your feet dangling in the air.

Tyndal was just as surprised as everyone else when his foe jerked up out of his range, and at first he thought it was another attack.

“STOP!” I bellowed, allowing time to snap back to its normal progression.

There was a strange quiet across the field as our onlookers tried to understand what was happening.  I paused to catch my breath from the sudden exertion as Tyndal joined me.

“Nice spell, Master,” he said, his chest heaving.

“Nice swordplay, Apprentice,” I replied.  “Watch them.  If anyone tries to cast a spell, make them stop.”

He nodded understandingly, and turned to face the dangling Censors.   None of the warmagi looked particularly happy about their sudden ascension, but they hadn’t tried to break the spell yet, either.

I pointed with my fingers and directed the levitating men to congregate in front of me, at least ten feet apart.  By that point they had mostly stop flailing around, and were instead fearfully waiting what I would do next.  For that matter, so was I.

It was a difficult situation.  It was even more difficult, I realized, than I thought it was, once the implications of the attack settled in.

You see, there wasn’t really anything I could do to them.  It wasn’t as if I could turn them over to the local lord for disposition, as they were technically above the laws of even the Dukes.

But I couldn’t just execute them, either, even if I’d had the inclination.  I had no authority at the Fair.  I was a guest.  So were they. We’d sworn an oath pledging the peace for the event.

“Your names?” I asked curtly, when the flying Censors had been gathered together.  “Let’s just start with you, Commander,” I said, indicating the man who had been bearing the staff.

“I am Commander Dareen of the Central Castali Commandery of the Royal Censorate of Magic.  You are a violator of the lawful Bans, Minalan the Spellmonger, and this bit of sorcery won’t save you!”

“It’s working so far,” I pointed out.  “They only sent five of you?”

“It was all that could be gathered when word of . . . when we departed,” answered one of the other men, sullenly.  “Most of our brothers are scouring the lands searching for you.”

“I’m honored,” I snorted.  “You could have just asked the Duke, you know.  I’ve been living in the same place for almost a year, now.”  That earned me a dirty look.  The Censorate wasn’t on good terms with Duke Rard at the moment, largely because of me.   “Still, now that you’re here, I’m curious.  Why attack me at the Fair?”

“We do not need to answer your questions, Abomination!” one of the younger men, about my age, spat at me.  He would have had a more dramatic presentation if he didn’t have urine and feces running down his leg.  I love that spell.

“You don’t need to breathe, either,” I observed.  “Keep speaking to me disrespectfully and I’ll see what I can arrange.  And that’s ‘Lord Abomination’ to you.  I’ve been knighted.”

“Against the Bans!” another Censor said, outraged.

“The Bans are suspended in Castal and Alshar,” Tyndal informed them darkly.  “Perhaps you have not heard the news, but there is a war going on right now.   To stop an invasion.”

“A goblin uprising is no excuse to overturn four hundred years of law!” bellowed the largest of them, the brute Tyndal had been dueling.

“It’s not an uprising, it’s an invasion!” Tyndal shouted back.  “Legions of them, pouring over the Mindens like ants over honeycomb!  And the Dead God . . . dear Ishi save us from the Dead God!  If Master Minalan hadn’t been there, you’d be fleeing for your lives right now! “

“That is still no excuse!” the leader hissed, looking at me balefully.  He wasn’t an attractive man, and he had misplaced the lower half of his left ear someplace.   I suppressed a desire to burn him to death where he hung in the sky.

“The Duke rules in Castal, not the Censorate,” Banamor said, dusting off his robe indignantly.  “And the Duke has relaxed the Bans.”

“No Duke has sovereignty over the Censorate!” the big man boasted with a snort.  “We are the King’s Men!”

“A dead king, who cannot answer for you,” I observed.  “Nor can he save you, now.  Duke Rard is not going to be pleased at this attack . . . nor is his new Court Mage.  Master Hartarian.”

That produced an audible gasp from them, and that was gratifying.  Hartarian was their old boss, the head of their Order . . . and I had bought him off like a roadside bandit.  Well, it hadn’t quite been that easy, but the allure of irionite is powerful for any mage, especially one of Hartarian’s abilities.

“That’s right,” I nodded, “Your former master – and current foe – will now sit in judgment of you.”

“We do not answer to any court mage,” sneered the half-eared man.  “We are the King’s Men!  The law says we are inviolate!”  That wasn’t technically true, even in the best of times.  There had been several cases where the order had been co-opted by various Dukes, or had itself been used as a tool against them over the centuries.  The Censorate was as independent as it could be, legally, but it didn’t operate in a vacuum.

“So who will you complain to, if the law is broken?” I asked.  “Who is responsible for upholding the law, and seeing to its accountability?”

There was an uncomfortable silence.  “The Dukes,” the half-eared man said, sullenly.

“That’s right, the Dukes,” I lectured, smacking the warwand in the palm of my hand and pacing in front of them.  “The fact is that the Censorate is only a few hundred warmagi spread out over thousands of domains.  That’s fine for hunting witches or rousting footwizards, but if the Censorate really needs help, where does it turn?  The Duchies.  The Dukes.  And their Court Magi.

“Only you’re in Castal right now, and the Duke here has decided he’s not going to help you anymore.  Within a few moons, the Duke of Remere will also relax the Bans there.  So that leaves you . . . well, a few thousand miles away from the nearest Duke who might lend a hand.”

“We have more resources than you know,” the leader said, evenly.  He did not seem terribly concerned about his position.

“And we are fighting a war we cannot lose . . . and we will lose it, if you fanatics have your way.  As far as I’m concerned, you just committed treason against humanity, not to mention ruining my day at the Fair.  For that alone I should roast you.  But then you went and started a magical battle in the middle of a crowd, which is just unprofessional.  So I think . . . I think I’ll turn you over to Master Hartarian.  He’ll know what to do with you.”

They looked more angry than afraid.   Their leader shook his head, sneering at my proposal.

“General Hartarian – Master Hartarian will not punish us for pursuing our lawful duty.  He is a fair and just man – he trained me in tracking, and a more honorable Censor I’ve never met.”

“I think he’ll imprison you, at the very least.  Probably in the same cells you kept some of your prisoners.  And perhaps as long.  I wouldn’t count on a lot of loyalty from your former commander, either.  He made it quite clear what his decision was in regards to the Duchies.  He’s directed all those who disagree to go east.  So you should be on the other side of Remere’s border, not this side of Castal’s.  That you are not is all the proof Hartarian needs to justify your sentence.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” the leader said, slowly.  I thought maybe he was coming around.  I should have known better – you only get to become a Censor in the first place if you’re already half a fanatic.  “The moment we are down, we will be gutting you.”

“That’s not the wisest thing to say to the man who holds your body prisoner,” chuckled Tyndal.  “Nor the most convincing.”

“Nor do I think it is within your right to do so,” a new voice said, from behind me.  I half turned to see who it was, prepared to use my wand again.

But the old knight who approached us was not brandishing a sword . . . although his frown was sharp enough to cut bread.

He was a short man, little fleshy with rich living.  His curly gray hair complemented his beard, which was still dark, but losing that battle.  He had the look of keen wit in his eye, and he moved as gracefully as a man could who was wearing a chainmail gambeson and dragging a longsword around with him on his hip.  Chainmail.  On a warm day like today.

“And who are you, Sir Knight, to dictate the law to me?” the Censor asked, haughtily.

The old man’s gray eyes narrowed sharply.  “I, my dear Censor, am by the Grace of Luin the Lawgiver, Baron Arathanial of Sendaria, House Lensely.  And this is my Fair you gentlemen are fucking up.  Now, will someone please . . . do whatever it is they need to do so that their feet are on the ground?” he asked.

“Then let’s repair to my tent . . . where I can tell you exactly how I feel about idiots who brawl at my fair, no matter what color their cloak.  Guards!”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Lunch With The Baron

Baron Arathanial of Sendaria was the kind of noble you encounter in stories, not in real life.  I’d heard about him often enough in my first few months in the Bontal region, and you can tell a lot about a man from how he deals with his underlings and subordinates, how he handles adversity and dissention.  Over the course of the next hour, I felt I got to know him enough to know what kind of man he was.

He was the very picture of a feudal baron: He was a charismatic leader, a wise judge of character, with a generous yet cautious character and a casual conversational style that put you at ease . . . until it became a sharp knife at your throat.  Arathanial was a self-possessed man who understood exactly who he was and why the gods had deigned to put him in his station.

And he really resented anyone disturbing his fair.

It took twenty minutes for the Baron to round up enough guards and wardens to disarm the Censors and secure them, against their protest.  When the leader – his name was Dalrent – haughtily declared that he was above a Duke’s justice, much less a Baron’s, Arathanial wasn’t intimidated.  Instead he looked over Dalrent like he was a piece of beef that had gone off, and grunted.

“Did you and your men pay admission to enter the fairgrounds?” he asked.

“They would not admit us without it,” Dalrent dismissed.  “A few pennies, it was no matter.”

“And did you not swear the Fair Oath, when you paid your admission?  In front of a coinbrother?”

A few of them had the grace to look guilty.  But not Dalrent.  He looked entitled.

“What of it?”

“Well, when you swore to that oath, you swore not to start any fights, and you swore yourself to the Baron’s justice if you did.  I’m the Baron.  I hold the commonest serf to that rule, as an oath sworn is an oath sworn and every man the custodian of his own honor.  Is your honor not prized so highly?”

That shut them up.

Baron Arathanial listened to several eye-witnesses of the brawl before he questioned any of the principals.  After the fifth or sixth witness, he nodded and dismissed them.  About that time his aide arrived toting a lap desk and a face full of sweat.  It was getting even hotter.  The Baron didn’t seem to notice it.  Once the aide arrived, however, Arathanial turned the clean-up over to him and then insisted all of us repair to his pavilion so that he could dispose of the case.

Along the way I got to watch him in action – it was informative.  He seemed to know about every fifth person in the crowd well enough to greet them by name, and twice that many he recognized.  By the time our twenty-minute walk was done, he had greeted at least two hundred people, asked them detailed questions or exchanged jokes, and generally behaved more like a party host than a reigning baron.

In between bows and pleasantries, we talked.

“Sevendor, eh?” he said, smiling fondly.  “I’ve been there, in my youth.  My family used to own it.  Heard it was just this side of Tarian’s chamberpot, these days.”

I couldn’t imagine why the cantankerous god of the sea would need a chamberpot, but the description was apt.  “We are recovering now, your Excellency, with a little hard work . . . and a lot of investment.”

“Well, I appreciate the business,” he said.  “My toll revenues have been more than double than last year’s.  As have my dock fees.”

“It is my pleasure to enrich your Excellency,” I agreed.  “We Sevendori have found a pleasant welcome . . . in Sendaria.”

He laughed like a braying mule over that.  “Ah, yes, the Warbird of West Fleria,” he chuckled.  “I’d heard about what you’ve been doing to his frontiers.  He was not happy with your bold move, taking back his stolen lands.  I hear he’s been hiring mercenaries to harass your frontiers.  Watch him – he schemes to rule us all, the idiot.”

“He hasn’t enough gold or men to seriously threaten – particularly against warmagi.  He’s been more of a nuisance than anything else.”

“Nuisance is perhaps the nicest thing anyone has called him,” the Baron chuckled.  He glanced at me for a second more than was comfortable.  “But I’ve been paying attention.  There are still a few kinsmen of mine in the old countries, and I hear news.”  That was the polite way of saying “I have a crackerjack domestic spying operation.”  I was learning how to interpret nobleese.

“It gives my men an opportunity to practice their arms,” I dismissed.  “And so far he has enriched my coffers more than my peasantry, thanks to his ill-conceived vendetta.”

“In truth, I cannot claim to be completely uninterested,” he said, in a slightly lower tone of voice.  “Until these troubles with Sevendor, Gimbal was eyeing some of my southern lands.  He has a habit of weaseling his way into a fight, and then stealing away what’s dear when your back is turned.  Since he became preoccupied with his southern frontier, he has left mine alone.  My gratitude,” he said with a smirk.

I smiled back.  “My pleasure to be of service, Excellency.  Although I find it difficult to believe that Gimbal would be so foolish as to consider attacking Sendaria.”

“Oh, he wouldn’t do it outright – that’s not his style,” mused the Baron as he walked.  He stopped a moment to accept a gift of an apple from a vendor, inquired about his children and mother, and then we continued as he ate it.  “My apologies – during the Fair I rarely keep regular meals. As I was saying, Gimbal prefers treachery and deceit to open warfare.  Am I to construe from your flattery that you wish an alliance?”

“You are to construe from my statement that I can count, Excellency,” I replied, politely.  “From my estimation, your Excellency’s troops should outnumber the Warbird’s by . . . eighty-one lances, and a few thousand peasants?”

When professional soldiers of the noble persuasion measure their arms against each other, they do so in terms of lances.  One lance originally meant one mounted heavy cavalryman.  But the term has come to mean the inclusion of four other men – infantry, archery, scouts or artillery, and support – in the count.  So every “lance” was actually five or so men contributing to the force, in total.  But since heavy cavalry counts for more among the lords of the Duchies, that’s how they count them.

He looked at me, surprised.  That was my polite way of saying “I have a crackerjack domestic spying operation, too.”  You are not far wrong, Sire Minalan.  So, you’re a magelord.  Interesting.”

“Am I not what you expected, Sire?” I asked, pleasantly.

“I do my best not to have expectations,” Arathanial informed me.  “Expectations limit our perceptions.  I let a man’s deeds speak for him.”  That was too much for the taciturn Censors who walked silently and sullenly behind us.

“Then your Excellency should be clapping this man in irons, and his entire coven of oathbreakers!  For by his actions he has violated some of the most sacred laws of our land, and perverted others to join him in his crimes,” Dalrent said, harshly.  “By his actions, Sire, he has opened the door to chaos and abuse!”

“Actually, from what I’ve heard, he nearly single-handedly stopped a goblin invasion of Alshar last summer,” he told the Censor, lightly, as if they were discussing horse racing.  “What were you doing last summer, Censor Dalrent?”

There was a moment of silence, but it was clear the Baron expected an answer.  “I . . . I was hunting witches in the swamps of Rendule,” he admitted.  “We flushed out a coven of six.”

Baron Arathanial feigned being impressed.  “Six whole witches?  How puissant!  Sire Minalan, by all accounts, slew trolls galore and hundreds of goblins.  Is that correct, Sire Minalan?”

“Not . . . precisely, your Excellency,” I said, apologetically.  “The numbers are more in the . . . tens of thousands.”  I thought of the hideous giant fire elemental we’d conjured to burn our furry enemies alive.  “Tens of thousands,” I nodded.

“See?  Tens of thousands.  And trolls.  Compared to your . . . six witches.  Now, if I were to judge a man by the greatness of his deeds, on which side of the scale would you fall, Censor Dalrent, if measured against Sire Minalan?”

“I have been dedicated to my duty, Excellency,” the Censor insisted.  “We who take the cloak are not motivated by glory or greatness, Excellency.  Merely decency, tradition, and the law.  The King’s law,” he emphasized.

“Yes, well, your dedication may do you credit, Censor Dalrent,” mused Arathanial, “but your failure to abide by the rules of the Fair are the issue of the moment,” he said as we arrived at his pavilion.  The guards flanking the doorway came to attention at once . . . and I was impressed.

Not with the guards, but with the pavilion.  I thought my new pavilion was grand, but Baron Arathanial’s was magnificent by any standards.  At least five times the size of my suddenly-humbled affair, there were five center-poles arrayed in a circle large enough to make a racetrack.  It was dyed blue and white stripes, and each stripe, I saw, was an entire bolt of cloth.  There were huge vents in the top of it to let in light and let smoke escape, vents big enough to drive a wagon through.  In fact, there was a separate entrance for wagons.

I stood there gawking like a five-year old before Tyndal grabbed my sleeve and pulled.

It’s just a tent, Master, he sent to me, mirthfully.

And you’re ‘just an apprentice.’  Do you realize we could fit all of Sevendor Castle in here?  At least the keep.

Once inside the Baron led us through a maze of “rooms” where clerks and officials were conducting the Fair’s business – particularly the tax revenues being generated, tracked, and gathered.  The clink of coin was constant as we consulted with the Baron.  We came to a small “room” near the center of the structure, which appeared to be his field office.  Within the canvas walls were a trestle table, five or six chairs, maps of the fairgrounds, account books, scrolls, inkwells, coffers, a few chests, and a battered old cupboard.  Baron Arathanial gestured to the chairs for the rest of us, but took his seat behind the table.

“At last,” he said with a relieved sigh as he settled into his chair.  “Now that we’re out of the common eye, we can discuss this altercation.  Your men swore to the Fair’s Peace when you entered, correct, Censor Dalrent?”

“Yes, Sire,” Dalrent began, “but—”

“And did you, in violation of the Peace, bear cold steel in an offensive manner within the bounds of the Fair?”

“Our mageblades, yes, but in the performance—”

“And were your men the first to strike?” he interrupted sharply.

“Well, after discussion Sire it was decided—”

“Just answer the question,” he directed, flatly.  I studied the way he said it.  I was used to military commands, of course, having given and taken my share.  But it wasn’t quite the same thing.  A military commander gives an order and expects it to be obeyed.  A lord in his domain gives a command and then dares you with his voice not to follow it, a world of hurt implied in a simple inflection.  I occasionally did it myself, I realized.  I would do it more, now.  It was effective.  Dalrent’s eyes dropped to the floor, like a boy caught peeing on the temple grounds during services.

“Yes, Sire.”

“That’s what I needed to know.  For violation of the Fair’s Peace, a fine of an ounce of silver for each of your men, and ejection from the Fair.  That’s the standard punishment, for gentlemen.”

“But, your Excell--  yes, Sire,” Dalrent said, realizing at a glance that Arathanial wasn’t about to budge on this.  I made certain to note that he had just made five ounces of silver.

“In addition, the blades you bore will be confiscated.  The wands and such you can keep – you didn’t swear not to bear any offensive magic,” he said, wryly.

“Perhaps an inclusion for next year, Sire?” I suggested.

“I’m beginning to think that having you as a neighbor makes that prudent, Magelord,” he agreed.

“But your Excellency!” protested Dalrent.  “What of his men?  Ten – eleven,” he corrected, although I thought he miscounted, “all bearing steel!  What of them?  Where is his fine?”

“Is that true, Magelord?” he asked.

“Actually,” I said, drawing the word out, “my apprentice, Sir Tyndal of Sevendor, was engaged in the swordplay competition at the time.”  Tyndal bowed with a mockery of grace.  “Those other gentlemen were his competitors, merely there to see what the excitement was,” I explained.

“But they were brandishing swords!” Dalrent exploded.  “I saw them!”

“They were holding swords,” I corrected.  “Baron, ask any of those men, under oath, whether or not they were planning on attacking anyone.”

“But they still had blades!” Dalrent insisted.

“Blunted for competition,” I observed.  “But there was no sharper steel upon us than my dagger – which remained in its sheath.   Even my apprentice’s mageblade, it seems.  A pity – it was once mine.  I carried it in Farise, and I hate to see a good blade dulled on purpose.”

“Oh, here, give him these, then,” Arathanial said, absently shoving the Censors’ mageblades at me.  “I have no use for them, and I am appreciative of the care you took with the crowd.  A little excitement at the Fair is one thing.  Funerals at the Fair are bad for business.  So, in gratitude,” he said, encouraging me to take the swords.

I bowed as deeply as I could in my chair.  “My thanks, Baron Arathanial.  I shall put them to good use.”

““Now, do you have any other business before me?” he asked Censor Dalrent, his voice helpful.  Dalrent’s face was sour.

“Yes, Sire,” he began.  “I wish to request your assistance in apprehending this criminal, and his entire gang,” he accused, angrily.  “Under codes of the Royal Bans of Magic, we are entitled to request such assistance from local lords as needed.”

“I am not familiar with the intricacies of the Bans,” Arathanial admitted, “but if I recall the exact wording says that the Dukes shall render assistance to the Censorate upon request, and that at the direction of his liege that any vassal of the Duke was compelled to do likewise under his direction.  Is that correct?”

“Near enough,” Dalrent nodded.

“Then I will be happy to assist you, Censor Dalrent . . . the moment you produce a request from His Grace, Duke Rard giving you a warrant to do so.”

“But your Excellency, that could take weeks!  We bear a warrant already, from the Censor of Remere, and Rard has openly—”

“That’s DUKE Rard, by the grace of the gods and my sworn liege lord, Censor, and you shall offer him due respect in my presence . . . or we shall have far more to discuss today than a brawl.”  Ouch.  Now that was the way to slap a man back in place.

Dalrent swallowed.  “Yes, Sire.  Surely you must appreciate how important it is for us to apprehend and place under arrest this man while we have him in custody, before he can summon help or try to escape.”

“I don’t believe I actually am in anyone’s custody,” I pointed out.  “And I’m not planning to escape.  I paid for the whole week.”

“It doesn’t sound like the Magelord is avoiding you gentlemen,” Arathanial observed.  “If you can get a warrant from His Grace before he leaves, then I will be happy to render whatever assistance I am legally compelled to.  But . . . it is my understanding that you might find such a warrant hard to come by, these days.”  His eyes twinkled with merriment he wouldn’t let his words convey.

“If Duke Rard will not cooperate with us, there are other Duchies—” Dalrent said, insistently.

“Then let their Duke’s liegemen enforce your warrant . . . in their Duchies.  In Castal, Duke Rard’s word is final.  He said so when I swore him fealty, and I believe him.  If he says don’t cooperate with the Censorate, then I am bound by honor and oath to comply.  So it’s really out of my hands, Gentlemen,” he said, spreading his hands apologetically.  I don’t think he was particularly sincere.

I could really get to like this Baron.

Dalrent’s eyes were angry, but he had control over his emotions.  He straightened, and looked at me with derision and disgust.  “As you wish, Sire.  I cannot compel you . . . legally,” he added.  “But I would take care about making a foe of the Censorate, Baron.  We have a long memory, and we are powerful magi.”

“And I’m more powerful than the lot of you, magically and, it seems, temporally, too.  Your Excellency, I pledge now to do my utmost to un-do any magical retribution the Censorate tries to arrange for you.  I wouldn’t be too worried about it, considering their comparative impotency, but if they try, I shall endeavor to put it right.”

“That’s gracious of you, Magelord,” he said, using the title for the first time.  Dalrent winced.  I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed it.  “Censor Dalrent, I shall have one of my bailiffs escort you and your men to the frontiers of my domain, or see you embark at the riverport, your choice, by sundown tonight.  You’ve lost your Fair rights for breaking your oath, and during the Fair no business is permitted in my domain without my leave.  That includes the hunting of magi of any sort, let me be clear.  May the gods bless your journey and see you to your destination in safety.  Now get the hell out of my tent.”

A bailiff was summoned and escorted Dalrent and his men grimly out of the room.  I was about to rise myself when the Baron motioned for me to keep my seat.  “If you don’t mind indulging me, Magelord, I am famished, and I’d like for you to join me.  Much has been said about you . . . much,” he said for emphasis as he stroked his beard.  “I’ve listened, but I think now the gods have given me a chance to hear from the pig’s snout.  Could I impose on you to have luncheon with me?”

“I would be honored, Excellency,” I said, bowing from the waist.  “Let me just instruct my apprentice . . .” I said, closing my eyes.

Tyndal! I said, mind-to-mind.

What, Master? he said, with a certain note of irritation in his voice that told me he was talking to a pretty girl.

You’re done here.  Take your ‘army’ back to our camp, feed ‘em, toast ‘em, pay ‘em, and send them on their way.  Tell Banamor to grab lunch, we’ll return to our errands afterward.

Master, you aren’t arrested are you? he asked, anxiously.

Everything is under control.  They’re booting the Censorate out on their arses, all the way to the frontier.  I’m going to eat lunch with the Baron.  Tell Alya I’ll be home after.  And assure her I’m all right, as soon as you’re done making a play for that pretty lass.

What?  Master, how did you—

Save it.  Just hurry up, do your business, then get to doing mine.

I opened my eyes and smiled.  Baron Arathanial was looking at me, curiously.

“Uh, were you not going to go instruct your apprentice?” he asked.

“Oh, I just did,” I said, realizing that he wasn’t aware of our abilities.  “Just a harmless little spell.  He’s been instructed.  Whether he’ll do it or not . . .” I said, trailing off.

He chuckled.  “I have four daughters, two sons, and a castle full of fosterlings.  I understand the impetuosity of youth.  Now, I’m most anxious to learn of last summer’s Wilderland campaign . . .”

We spent nearly two hours chatting in his luxurious tent, and I told him my story, from Farise to Boval Vale to the Alshari Wilderness . . . and then to Sevendor, my reward.  He had me stop and re-tell parts, particularly those which dealt with Ducal politics.  Arathanial might not have been powerful enough himself to be a player, but he was an avid spectator of the bloodsport of feudal politics.

When I finished, he looked at me and sighed over his meat (his servants had provided us with a delightful egg and vegetable pie, half a chicken each, and a ewer of wine.  The bread was of excellent quality.)  and asked, pointedly.  “So . . . Rard really is going to make himself King.”

“That seems to be his intent,” I agreed.

“That will mean war . . . with Merwin, perhaps with Vore,” he decided.  “But not for a few years, at least.  This Dead God, however . . . and dragons . . .”

“It’s worse than I’ve told you,” I agreed. I hadn’t mentioned the other horrors the goblins had spawned, from the Soulless, human slaves spared from sacrifice if they would slay but five of their closest kin, to the horrible tortures they inflicted on their prisoners before sacrifice.  He looked disturbed enough by the thought of war with non-humans.  “But with some ingenuity and some wisdom, I think we can hold them at bay, for a while.  As long as they don’t take the Riverlands.”

Arathanial looked at me as if I was joking. When it was clear I was not, he shook his head.  “Now I wish I’d kicked you out with the Censors, Magelord.  You have given me enough to disturb my sleep for weeks.”

“Then you are in good company, including His Grace and every High Mage in the Duchies.  Best you are prepared, my lord,” I suggested.  “For your people, if nothing else.”

“Oh, I quite agree . . . a lord cannot allow his personal fears to falter his wisdom.  I shall take what steps I can.  But concerning Gimbal . . . I would be open to discussing some sort of alliance, after the Fair is good and truly over.  Gimbal’s ambitions are unchecked by reason, and my eighty-one lance advantage won’t hold true for long, should he make an effort.”

“Surely you are not without allies,” I suggested.

Arathanial shrugged.  “Some.  A few.  The Lensely name still has power, in places.  Trestendor looks to us, for instance, though Sire Sigalan has not sworn fealty to me.”

“He seems to prize his independence,” I pointed out.

“Yes, well, he prized it so much he lost his most lucrative lands to the Warbird,” he said, sourly.  “Had he been a liegeman of mine, I would have been compelled to march on West Fleria.  And there are others.”  I was starting to realize feudal politics was full of this sort of obligation and opportunity. .

“No one but the gods may foresee what the summer holds,” I said, both diplomatically and mysteriously.  “Now that there are Magelords in the country, the rules have changed.  And you can expect more of magi before winter traversing your domains,” I added, and then told him about my plans to host a magical fair.  He looked surprised, then troubled, then pleased.

“That would not conflict with my fair,” he agreed, “and may actually help it.  Keep me apprised of your plans, Magelord, and I shall see what we can do to help.”

Before I left, he wanted a small demonstration of magic.  He had been fascinated by it for years, but had no Talent.  So to show off, I cast a large magelight to hover over his trestle, and I gave it enough power to last for weeks, long after the tent was packed up.  He was impressed – the little canvas room became a lot easier to read in, and he was so grateful he invited my lady and I to the castle in three days for the Baron’s Feast, a traditional fete of the leading local nobility to end the fair and reward the victors.  I told him I would be honored.

At least two hours had passed since I’d arrived, and it was starting to get late.  Of further concern were the clouds I saw moving in from the west.  I considered sending to camp for a horse, or hitching a ride on a wagon making the rounds, but that seemed like a lot of effort.

Instead I completed my interrupted business on the fairgrounds and decided to stop in at the list field one more time, as it was on the way back to camp.  Banamor was waiting outside of Arathanial’s mighty tent at a little temporary inn across the street, talking to merchants and petty lords and fending off the advances of a couple of overweight whores who were bored with the lack of business.  In truth, they would have fared better in dimmer light.

“That was impressive,” Banamor said, as we were heading back toward the fairgrounds proper.

“The pavilion?” I asked.  “I thought so, too.   You could fit an entire village in there—”

“No, Magelord,” he said, although from the tone of his voice he could have said ‘idiot’ just as well.  “I meant how you acted when we were attacked.”

I shrugged.  “I’m actually amazed we got out without anyone getting killed.”

“In truth, that’s what I expected.  Myself, that is.  The moment I saw those cloaks . . .”

“That was a dandy tanglefoot spell,” I offered.

“I’m not fishing for compliments,” he insisted.  “I’m telling you that I’m grateful.  I thought we were dead, and you . . . well, you talked and spelled your way out of it.  And I saw not one drop of sweat on your brow.”

“I sweat afterward,” I promised him.  “I knew they weren’t going to do anything too rash – or if they did, there wouldn’t have been anything I could have done about it.  I just had to get the people out of the way.”

“Exactly,” he agreed.  “I would have taken to my heels.  You thought about the other people.  And you didn’t panic.”

“Nor you,” I reminded him.

“Me?  I was in shock, staring into the abyss of raw terror, my life flashing in front of me.  You’re a renegade Magelord with irionite.  I’m an illegal footwizard with irionite.  Do you know what they do to our folk when we don’t have cataclysmically powerful magical artifacts in our pockets?  I was shitting my pants, but you didn’t blink.  Hells, you stopped to light your godsdamned pipe!”

“I’ve been to war,” I shrugged. “And I was just stalling.”

“It’s more than that,” he dismissed.  “No disrespect, Magelord, but lots of idiots go to war.  Lots of idiots get knighted, even. Few of those idiots could have gotten out of that situation with a whole hide, much less without casualties.  You . . . you are a good magelord,” he said, as if the admission had cost him an ounce of gold.

I have a hard time hearing gratitude like that.  I try to take it graciously, but it makes me uncomfortable.  I tried to parry it back to him.  And that gave me an idea.

“Well, as this was your first official battle in which you didn’t take to your heels, but stayed to defend your liege,” I said, rummaging through the bundle on my back, “in token of my esteem and appreciation . . . here.  You earned it.”  I held out a mageblade, one of the smaller ones.  It had the checkered crest of the Censorate on the guard, but that could be fixed.  It wasn’t particularly heavily enchanted, either, I realized.  A good blade, but hardly much more than a sword. “You said you were grateful, right?  Well, this is a token of my gratitude.  You’re welcome.”

He looked at it like it was a snake.  “I’m not a magelord.  Or even a lord.”

“You are the head of the Sevendor Village Council and my Spellwarden, and so can bear the blade under my auspices.  Just don’t draw it if you get pissed off.  From what I just saw, that might prove . . . expensive.”

“I won’t.  Wait!  I can?” he asked, confused.  “How?”

“You are technically my Yeoman,” I reminded him, pushing it into his hands.  “And possibly a burgher, if Sevendor keeps growing.  So keep the blade.  You may end up a mage knight yet.”

“I’ll likely cut my own arm off with it,” he grumbled, tucking the weapon into his belt.  “But if the Magelord insists…”

“I do.  I even want you to learn the basics of how to use it.  But I don’t intend to call you to battle; I just like the people around me to be able to protect themselves.  I don’t expect much; just learn which end to hold. And you’ll find that the peasants treat you with a lot more respect when you wear it. Now, what did you learn while I was in conference with the Baron?”

“Me?  Learn something?  I was merely having a mug, I assure you,” he said, then snickered.  “All right.  I met with two Merwini cloth merchants, and both said they would take all the red clay – the lourdin –they can get at ninety silver ounces per hundredweight.  I showed them the brick Sire Sigalan brought me, and they nearly begged for it.”

“Is that a fair price?  I know nothing of such things.”

“It costs less than a silver ounce in labor to harvest and refine it,” he said, smiling dreamily.  “And that’s a good wage, in Trestendor, for a week’s work.  Sigalan has two families of villeins on it, so they can harvest maybe three, four bricks a day. Six bricks to the hundredweight.  We pay shipping until the ocean port, and then they take delivery from there.”

“Excellent.  And my fee is . . .”

“Roughly ten silver ounces per hundredweight, after shipping,” he said, softly.  “And Lord Sigalan gets twenty.  I get the rest.  That’s just shy of fifty ounces of silver per hundredweight . . .”

“Not to mention more magic rocks,” I added, “which are worth far more than the clay.”

“Of course, Magelord,” he agreed, smugly.  “I sort such base impurities from the clay myself, in the purification process.  But if I can make an additional fifty silver along the way, it cannot hurt Sevendor’s prosperity, could it?”

I couldn’t argue with that.  And it would help my friend Sire Sigalan keep his borders with the Warbird secure.  Earning ten silver ounces a day was like having a prosperous farm fall into your lap, in manorial economics.  Better. If it worked out well, the lourdin operation might prove the most lucrative part of Trestendor’s estate.

And putting five ounces a day in my own treasury, when I didn’t have to do or own anything, was extremely pleasant.

We finished our errands in the last few hours of the afternoon, the sun beating down mercilessly on us while we traded.  We were making our way back to camp afterwards when we decided to stop by the lists again and see a few lances broken before we went home, when the tall, boyish figure of Sir Festaran, sweating through his armor, seemed to pop out of nowhere.

“Magelord!  Master Banamor!  Come quick!” he insisted, excitedly.  Banamor and I exchanged worried glances, then – to his credit – Banamor slid his new blade around where he could reach it.

“What’s wrong, Fes?” I asked, skipping the formality of title.

“Nothing’s wrong, Magelord!  At least, not really, it’s just that . . . that . . . Sir Cei is on the leader board!” he said, bursting with pride.  “He’s number four, overall!  Gods be with him, he has but one bout to win to advance to the finals – and the competition is almost done for the day!  Hurry!”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Sir Cei On The Lists

Sir Festaran dogged my heels as I walked briskly toward the lists, talking as fast as he could manage and still be respectful.  He had doffed most of his armor, leaving only his grieves to cover his lower legs, but they made a dreadful noise as he struggled to keep up with us.

“Sir Cei won his first round with no problem and then broke three lances against that Southerner, the one in the black armor, something Kinslayer, but he couldn’t keep his lance lined up I think he was drunk at least that’s what the squires were saying and Sir Cei dropped him like a sack of flour!  But then the herald introduced the grand prize, a lovely little fief in southern Sendaria called Cargwenyn, with an apiary of some repute, and Sir Cei went mad!”

“Went . . . mad?” I asked, skeptically amused.  That did not sound like the Sir Cei I knew.  He is perhaps the sanest man I know.  Except for dressing up in armor and allowing himself to be flung violently from horseback.  For fun.  Other than that . . .

“Aye, Magelord!” he said, grinning boyishly.  “As soon as he saw the Grand Prize—”

“He went mad over an apiary?” I asked, no less confused.

“The man likes his honey,” Banamor said, solemnly.

“Nay, Magelord – well, I suppose he does, but I don’t think that was his motivation.  Something . . . sweeter than honey,” he said, a big goofy grin on his face.

“Sweeter than honey?” groaned Banamor.  “This just gets better and better . . .”

“A woman, Magelord! Fes said, excitedly.  “When the herald introduced Lady . . . I forget her name, Magelord, but she was beautiful, I guess, and Sir Cei . . . he . . .”

“No!” Banamor said, grinning broadly in delight.  “Old leatherface?  I’d wager six pennies that he hasn’t had a true lance in his pants in years!”

I considered.  I’d never seen Cei show any woman any attention, except for that one brief moment at my wedding when my comely oldest sister danced with him.  “You do not jest?  Sir Cei is smitten?  What does this wondrous creature look like?” I asked, amused.

“She is possessed of womanly curves, if I be a judge,” the young knight said, doing his best to recall every detail.  “She is nearly as tall as Sir Cei, and her hair is the color of honey . . . hey!" he said, making a connection.  “She had a warm and friendly smile.  She reminds me of my nursemaid, but a little younger than Goody Twerai.  Perhaps as old as . . . twenty-six winters?”

I shrugged.  “She’s not so old, then.  And beautiful, you say?”

Tres looked dreamily into space.  “Sir Cei said her face was wondrous, a vision of Ishi wrought in human form, a proud woman of a noble bearing and a gleam in her eye that betokens intelligence and cleverness,” he recited.  “Which he claims is good in a wife.”

“Cei . . . with a wife?” Banamor howled, slapping his thigh.  “Leatherface getting his regulars?  Oh, my, Magelord, you must put a stop to this!” he said, still laughing.  I like Banamor, but he has a crude side, I was noticing.

“Why?” I asked, mystified.

“Because it will ruin him as your castellan, that’s why!” he said, trying to calm his mirth.  “Truly, Magelord, if he actually gets a wife to warm his bed, all his flatheaded common sense will end up staining the sheets!”

“There are professional jousters here,” I said, shaking my head.  “And local knights of bellicose repute.  As much as I like Sir Cei and wish him well, I can’t imagine he’d be able to be victorious in a field like that.”

“Magelord, I thought that once as well,” the young knight said, seriously.  “But after that . . . he was like a man possessed by Duin’s spirit!  He faced Sir Desiuin of Kaovadine, who won last year’s tournament, and took him three lances to two the very next bout!  Then he defeated the Kinslayer in three, then he faced Bisamaei of Bandit’s Hold, the Destroyer of Virtue!” he said, almost running out of breath.  “He’s one of the professionals!  But Cei ran him down like a dog!  He conquered Bisamaei in two passes, knocking him off his horse in the second to win the bout!  He hit Bisamaei so hard he was knocked unconscious!” he said, proudly.

Knights.

“That sounds like a lot of fun,” I lied.  “Where is our champion, now?”

“At the arming pavilion – he has one more bout today, against Count Ewen Ramsplitter.”  There was a note of hushed respect in his voice.  “Count Ewen has killed twenty men on the list field,” he pronounced, as if Sir Cei’s head was already on a pike.

“I believe that’s an exaggeration,” Banamor said, finally recovering from his laughter.  “But he is a well-known jouster.  If Cei can defeat him, he might have a chance.  Fourth, you say?”

“Aye – unless he defeats Count Ewen.  Then he will be third,” he said, almost in a whisper.  “I won nine silver pieces on his fight with Bisamaei!”

“There’s . . . wagering?” I asked.  I like to wager.  And now I can afford to.

“Oh, aye, Magelord, there are coinbrothers at the entrance to the lists, who will take a bet.”

I rummaged around in my purse and dug out a few coins.  Several of them were gold.  Life as a noble is good.  “Put it all on Sir Cei,” I directed.

Banamor weighed his pouch.   “Me, too.  I’ve twenty, twenty-two silver pennies – I’ll keep the rest.  If the odds are still good.”

Sir Festaran looked at the mage like he had two heads.  “Master Banamor, Count Ewen Ramsplitter has won nine major tournaments this year alone and tours the entire summer.   He has a retinue of thirty men.  Sir Cei is a country knight from the Mindens, whom no one has ever heard of.  The odds, I dare say, are excellent.”

I thought about it a moment.   “How determined did you say Sir Cei looked?”

Sir Festaran looked thoughtful.  “I’ve only known the man a short time.  But I’ve never seen him pace and stomp, Magelord.  Or mutter to himself.”

“Sir Cei?  Muttering?” I asked.  “Put twenty ounces of gold on him, best odds, under my name.  If the coinbrother needs my seal . . .” I said, searching around in my pouches . . . no, I had not had a proper noble’s seal done for me.  Add it to the List.  But I did have something else.  I took two of the Censorate’s confiscated mageblades and handed them to Festaran.  “Those should be worth ten apiece.  But they’re enchanted, so I wouldn’t advise messing with them too much.  Tell the coinbrothers I’ll redeem them with good coin, he has the word of the Magelord.”

Sir Festaran’s eyes sparkled.  “Aye, Magelord!”  He enjoyed being in service to me, I could tell, even though it was technically “involuntary.”

“Twenty ounces of gold?” Banamor asked, astonished.  “That’s . . .”

“That’s enough to feed ten peasant families for a year,” I agreed, evenly.  “Perhaps the largest wager I’ve ever made.”

“But are you sure that’s wise?” Banamor asked.

I snorted.  “Not remotely.  But word will get around.”

“So?  You make foolish wagers?  That’s the word you want to get around?”

“No,” I sighed.  “I want it known that when my castellan was doing something he thought was important, I believed enough in him to wager a year’s salary on the outcome.”

“That is a strong endorsement,” Banamor admitted.  “I like Cei, but . . . why?”

“It’s . . . complicated.  We were in a hopeless siege together.  I started a peasant’s rebellion in the middle of it. He tried to clap me in irons – and did imprison Lady Pentandra, if you can believe it.  He lost his home but escaped with his life, and lost everything but the sword in his hand and the clothes on his back.  He kept his people together in a strange country, and then saved my bride’s life at my wedding . . . we’ve been through a lot.  When you have a man who’s as loyal as Sir Cei, but who is as strong as Sir Cei, then twenty ounces of gold is but a small token to pay for it.”

“That’s . . . deep thinking,” Banamor said.  “Thank Luin I’m not a magelord, I don’t think I could be that invested in my employees.”

“He’s my Castellan,” I said, shaking my head.  “He’s a part of my household.  He’s no mere employee.”

“Well, whatever he is, he’s up next,” Banamor said, nodding to the herald’s tower.  Indeed, Sir Cei’s gold-and-red banner hung in the ready spot across from a blue banner bearing a white sword cutting a black sheep in two.  The ram looked more like a potato than a sheep.  Ramsplitter.  Of course.

“Let’s find a place to watch,” he said, excitedly.   I, too, was eager to see Cei in action.  Banamor paid the two pennies for our entrance, since I’d given everything I’d had to Sir Festaran, and we took a spot at the rail.

Sir Ewen looked very imposing astride a black destrier, a powerful warhorse large enough to bear his frame.  The knight’s armor was hard-fired plate darkly blackened, then polished to a high sheen, and affixed with some sparkling ornament I couldn’t see.   His head was completely encased in a large shell-helm, canted sharply at the nose to deflect a strike to the head.

He bore a small metal round shield and a lance the size of a tent pole.  Even blunted, it would have killed an unarmored man.  Even armored, it would still hurt like hell to get hit with it.

He knew how to use it, too, warming up the crowd by doing an elaborate show of his dexterity with the weapon, snagging teacups out of the air with its point when his squires threw them.

“It’s only twenty ounces of gold,” Banamor consoled me.

“I’m going to need a new castellan,” I swallowed.

By contrast, Sir Cei was the picture of stoic determination.  His shield was a proper Alshari war shield, the large kind that the knights of the Wilderland use against each other.  It was easily twice the size of Sir Ewen’s.  Other than that, Sir Cei was outclassed.  His mount, while a strong and patient beast, was a courser, smaller boned but preferred for hard battle – in a straight joust it was inferior to Sir Ewen’s.

Sir Cei wore an older style barrel helm, slightly modified to improve his field of vision.  His armor was a coat of plates under a simple steel breastplate – great for hand-to-hand combat, but hardly proof against a sharpened lance.  A snowstone pendant in the shape of a snowflake hung around his neck.

Sir Cei’s weapon was of goodly size, but was standard in every way – a far cry from Sir Ewen’s imposing lance.   My heart was truly sinking until he turned his face, and I saw his eyes.

“Oh, Duin’s sack!”  I didn’t mean to say it – but there it was.    A look of steely determination so fierce that I was stunned it was the same man who suffered through manorial court.  He didn’t see me, I was certain, but even if he had I doubt it would have made much difference.  A man doesn’t drop an expression as fell as that for mere propriety.  Sir Cei was committed.  He hadn’t been that committed even when he was fighting for his life at Boval Vale.

Before Banamor could remark about the knight’s unusually fearsome visage, the herald’s horn sounded, and the two mounts were led to their marks.  Sir Ewen saluted him flamboyantly, and Sir Cei returned the courtesy simply. “Cei is like a hill of granite,” Banamor said, shaking his head.  “Still, Sir Ewen is a professional.  He’s going to demolish Cei.  It’s a pity, I did rather liked him.”

“I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that,” I said, nodding confidently.

“What?  You think Cei is going to withstand getting hit with that monstrosity?”

“I think Sir Cei is going to knock him into the dirt,” I said.

Banamor looked at me like I was crazy.  “You’re crazy,” he said, affirming my guess.

“Wager on it?  One of those fancy sympathy stones of yours?”

“Against?”

I considered.  “You take another point on every bit of clay traded the next year from Trestendor.”

“Done,” he said, instantly. That could mean quite a bit, to Banamor.

Before we could shake or swear to the wager, the second horn sounded, and they were off.

Sir Cei’s steed seemed to take its sweet time getting up to speed, but maybe that was just my anxiety.  He was galloping fast enough at the half-way point, when the couched lances were being aimed in earnest.

I held my breath during the clash.  Sir Cei kept in proper form until the last possible second, when he used that great shield to gently push his opponent’s lance out of line . . . and planted his own lance tip under Sir Ewen’s chin.

Sir Cei’s lance caught, as Sir Ewen’s was flung clear by the big red and gold shield; it caught hard and held fast under the professional jouster’s fancy-nosed helmet.

For the barest of moments I thought Sir Cei might lose control of the weapon, or be flung from his own horse.  But he expertly took the force by standing in the stirrups, bracing the lance against his body . . . and lifting Sir Ewen clear of the saddle.

There was a thunderous crash, one that seemed far in excess of the usual shattering of a lance, and I forced myself not to close my eyes and miss it.  Sir Ewen’s body seemed to hang in mid-air a long time before it crumpled twenty paces behind his mount.

“Oh . . . my . . .” Banamor said, wincing in disbelief just before the huge knight hit the well-trampled earth.

The crowd erupted into wild cheers.  Sir Cei followed through as if his jousting master was watching, then gracefully turned the far end of the list before coming to a stop before the reviewing stand . . . where the tournament prize was having lunch.

“So that’s the fair creature that has turned our leatherfaced knight into a war machine,” Banamor said, thoughtfully, as he pointed to the stand.

“Where?” I asked, automatically summoning magesight and amplifying my vision.

“The blonde one,” he said, helpfully.  There were at least three blondes in the crowded box, plus many whose hair was covered completely.  But I knew instantly who Banamor was talking about.

Lady Estret of Cargwenyn was near my own age.  She was wearing a yellow sideless surcoat trimmed in black, with a comfortable linen gown underneath that hinted at her curves through the gates under her sleeve.  She wore a simple noble’s circlet in brass, gilt at the temples with some device – a beehive, of course – over a short white wimple.

Her eyes were a bright blue, one of her most striking features, and her hands were delicate, with long, graceful fingers. She was an attractive woman, more handsome than comely, a clear complexion, but otherwise she seemed no more beautiful than my own wife.  Perhaps less.  Or perhaps I am biased.

She was seated toward the back of the stand, between a young girl and an older-looking knight.

“She seems fair enough,” I shrugged.

“They’re all trouble,” Banamor dismissed.  “That was three full points, for knocking him to the ground.  That was . . . magnificent,” he admitted.  “Didn’t know ol’ leatherface Cei had it in him.  I’ve never seen a blow struck so hard. Utterly magnificent.”

“I agree,” I said, applauding with everyone else.  “I hope it was worth losing a sympathy stone over.  Let’s go see to our brave knight.”

The next bout was already scrambling to get into place while a squire led Sir Cei’s charger back to the rear of the lists, where the knights who were just preparing to go on the list field mixed with the knights who were coming off.

It took us at least fifteen minutes to wind our way through the crowd, past the retainers and squires and armorers and smiths and grooms tending to the participants and through the glut of excited onlookers.  But since most were more eager to watch the final two bouts of the day, we were able to get there before Sir Cei had doffed his armor.

He was sitting on an arming stool while a couple of Sevendori boys were helping him peel off the layers.  He already had a jack of ale in his hand, which he drank with enthusiasm.  His shield and helmet were cast aside.  Sweat was streaming from his brow.

“Well done, Sir Cei, well done!” I said, as I entered the arming lot.  “That was beautifully struck!”

“Magelord!” he said in surprise, starting to rise.  “You were watching?”

“How could I ignore the roar of the crowd?” I shrugged.  “It was compelling.

“I didn’t hear them,” he confessed.

“So deep in concentration he was,” Banamor agreed.  “The crowd was with you, my friend.  They see well-armored idiots crash into each other or daintily break lances like gentlemen every tournament.  You put that popinjay down in the dirt like a real Wilderlands knight.  Raw.  Powerful.  That’s what they paid their pennies to see.  And you’re not unhandsome, if your eyes aren’t particularly good,” he added.

“My aim was ever to win but the next bout,” he said, shaking his head.  “I . . . I wasn’t intending on performing so well.”

“Keep winning the next bout, then,” I counseled.  “That’s how champions are built.”

Sir Cei was sweating profusely in the summer’s heat, so I summoned a cooling breeze to comfort him while the rest of his hot armor was stripped off.  I also spoke mind-to-mind with Tyndal, who was back at camp, and had him arrange for a wain to come by the list field to retrieve our weary knight.  It was more than a mile back to our encampment, and he had been wearing armor since early this morning.

A moment later one of the heralds came by to ask Sir Cei a few questions about his intention of returning on the morrow to compete, then one of his former opponents stopped in to speak with him, and I faded back into the crowd, standing a little away from him to let him enjoy the attention.  He wasn’t quite comfortable with it, but he bore it stoically.  That is, until Sir Festaran arrived, with a coinbrother in tow.

“Magelord,” he said, speaking to me while Sir Cei was talking shop with his brother knights, “this is Coinbrother Abros.   He’s here with your winnings.”

“May Ifnia bless your fortune,” the man said, uncomfortably, proffering me a bag.

Soft and pudgy as many of the clerics who tend to fortune’s needs often are, Coinbrother Abros wore a simple robe with the five-coin symbol of the goddess on his breast.  “Magelord – is that the proper title?  Magelord, we regret that we do not have sufficient specie on hand to pay out your wager, but we are sending for more from our temple in Sendaria, and should have it by twilight tomorrow.  Or we can arrange a letter of credit,” he added, more hopefully.

“A letter of credit would be agreeable.  May I ask just how much?”

The coinbrother swallowed.  “Ifnia has favored the Magelord greatly.  Your wager, at fourteen ounces of gold and sixteen ounces of silver, yields . . . four thousand, two hundred ounces of gold, and . . . four thousand, eight hundred ounces of silver.

“Holy shit!” Banamor swore.  “What were the odds?”

The coinbrother looked guilty.  “The Temple prides itself on figuring odds as fairly as possible, as our goddess bids.  Considering Count Ewen’s expertise and experience, and Sir Cei’s unknown history, Coinfather Ridard set the odds on the bout at . . . three hundred to one.”

“Holy shit!” Banamor repeated.  “Min, that’s enough to buy, to buy . . .”

“To buy a small fief in southern Sendaria,” I pointed out quietly.  “Coinbrother, what is the value of the fief that stands as prize, minus the lovely wife it comes with?”

“The Baron has said he will buy it back, should the victor decline to take possession of the domain, for a sum of three thousand gold.  A bit generous, perhaps, but then Lady Estret is a clever and loyal woman.  And she’s a distant cousin of His Excellency, Baron Arathanial,” he added.

“And not bad to look at,” Banamor nodded.  “So you just won more than the champion will.  And you want to buy the fief from whoever wins?”

“Look at him,” I said, gesturing toward my Castellan, who was acting some point of art out for his defeated opponents, his shirt off and his face more lively than I’d ever seen it.  “It will break his heart if he loses.  But if it’s that woman who holds his heart hostage, then I shall find some way of getting her for him.  He’s brought great honor to Sevendor, but he’s not even thinking of that.  Do me a favor, gentlemen.  Don’t mention my little wager to him, just yet.”  They nodded.

Banamor looked thoughtful once again, then asked, “If I see a comely lass I fancy, will you buy her for me, too?”

“Come in third in a tournament and I might.”

The wagon arrived from camp, much to Sir Cei’s surprise, and we helped him into it before climbing in ourselves.  I was a Magelord.  I wasn’t about to walk when I had wheels. Besides, after fighting Censors, lunching with the baron, and winning a fortune I figured I’d earned it.

That night the whole camp was jubilant about his victory, and Alya was pleased but concerned – she had a deep and abiding respect for Sir Cei, and she was instantly worried that Lady Estret wasn’t worthy of him.  She immediately launched into a full-scale investigation of the woman to determine her worthiness, when Lady Estret of Cargwenyn herself stopped by the encampment with her cousin, Baron Arathanial.

While the fief of Cargwenyn was humble, there was nothing humble about Lady Estret.  She carried herself with the bearing of a queen.  She had changed since the tournament, and was now wearing a long blue velvet gown that did little to conceal her womanly shape, and she had discarded her wimple as the sun was setting and had contained her mane of blonde hair with a golden cord descending from her noble’s circlet.

She had a broad, friendly face with a largish nose that was nevertheless in proportion to her other features.  Her lips were full, her mouth wide, and her eyes . . . I could see why Sir Cei was smitten.  Her eyes were large, extremely expressive, and in conjunction with her mouth gave her face a very compelling visage.  They shone deep blue, and sparkled merrily.

When she smiled, she beamed like a magelight in the darkness.  When she looked worried, you wanted to run and comfort her.  And when she looked upon you with interest, you stood up straight, broadened your shoulders, and did your best to fulfill her expectations.

She followed Baron Arathanial around regally, displaying him the deference due his position.  She was a lady in a difficult situation, I could tell: widowed, and capable of keeping her holding on her own, but young enough to desire the help of a commanding lord to bring prosperity to her domain.  She looked . . . not unwilling, but resigned to the lot that the gods would choose for her.

We had prepared as best we could on such short notice of the Baron’s visit.  I had foreknowledge of the Baron’s arrival, of course, and related to Tyndal, mind-to-mind, to alert my wife to expect regal company that evening.

Lady Alya had never met a baron before, and she went out of her way to ensure that the cooks had laid in a proper feast for the evening, persuading me to authorize the purchase of a roasted ox from one of the victualers at the Fair, and supplementing it with proper vegetables and good wheat bread.  I had Sir Roncil (who had lost his third round at the tournament, but was not jealous of Sir Cei’s success . . . because he had taken a fancy to Sire Sigalan’s sister) purchase several excellent bottles of wine.

I wanted his people to be able to celebrate his success properly.   I had Tyndal procure another keg of ale to help them celebrate.  He felt cheated, a little, since he had placed third in the swordsmanship tournament, and no one was making a big deal over his new sheep, but he bore it well.  He did not lack for female attention, after his brave showing against the Censors, and his performance at the lists.

The task of ordering the encampment had largely fallen to her, due to Sir Cei’s participation in the tournament, and while she grumbled about the duty good-naturedly she hadn’t spared the opportunity to transform the site from something less like a military camp and more like a temporary home.

Our pavilion was now hung with our personal banners, mine surmounting the gateway that had been erected at the camp’s entrance.  Streamers of green and blue and white cloth, Sevendor’s colors, hung from every pole.  The camp looked neat and tidy, everything in place, the camp kitchen safely out of view but emitting the most delicious aromas already.

My lady wife was herself garbed in a shortened yellow dress with a highly-embroidered vest, a style from Remere that had become popular for summer garb.  She wore her own noble’s circlet, with a tiny snowflake carved of snowstone on the brow, one of the emeralds from the Siege of Boval Vale set within.  The jewel I’d given her for our wedding lay against her breast like a babe; while our babe bawled his head off in a most undignified manner in our tent, unwilling to go to sleep when there was clearly so much excitement going on.

She was raised a peasant, but she carried herself with every bit as much dignity as Lady Estret.  I was proud of her.

Sir Cei was still dressing himself. Alya insisted on a proper bath for the man.  You can’t stand around in armor all day without smelling like your horse.   I sent Tyndal a quick mental note to get him ready to meet his ladylove, and then I greeted my new friend the Baron.

Sir Festaran, freshly-scrubbed himself, was standing guard duty wearing my sash, and was politely and cordially engaging the Baron’s party as I arrived.  I welcomed him as graciously as I could, as formally as I could, and I apparently pulled it off.

I introduced my wife, and a few of the other principals around camp, and then he introduced Lady Estret and a few of his retinue, mostly his favorite household knights, his lawbrother, and a few favored vassals.  Then I escorted them to the smaller, more intimate pavilion that Alya had caused to be  set up for the express purpose of entertaining, and cups appeared for everyone.  Tyndal had cast small magelights in each corner . . . then, just because he could, he cast a few of various colors and sizes that floated around the interior of the canopy like soap bubbles.

It was a lovely effect, but I knew he’d just done it to show off.

“Quite amazing performance out on the list field today,” the Baron remarked, as one of our servants (neatly dressed, I noted, in matching muslin aprons) handed us each a silver cup of wine.  I liked the vintage – Roncil had chosen well.  “I only heard about it, of course – I only oversee the final day’s jousting, otherwise my arse would be glued to the reviewing stand when there’s Fair business to conduct.  But that was all anyone could speak of after the trumpet sounded.  The rough warrior from the Mindens, fresh from the battle with the goblins, smashing down one opponent after another.  Sent Sir Ewen Ramsplitter fifty feet, arse over elbows.  It’s all anyone could talk about.  Haven’t had a stir over the jousts like that in years,” he said, pleased.

He should have been – the jousting was one of his biggest money-makers, I’d learned, and he had a piece of every arse in the stands.  And every morsel and drop consumed.  More excitement meant more spectators.

“I saw witnessed the bouts,” Lady Estret said, approvingly.  “I am no stranger to the lists, and Sir Cei struck with as fine a form as I’ve ever seen on a knight.  Nor have I ever seen a man play with such passion.”

I did my best to withhold a hearty guffaw.   Sir Cei is one of the most dispassionate men I know.  “He is a man of great depth,” I offered, diplomatically.  “He is dressing at the moment . . . but I am more than happy to tell you anything you wish to know about him as a prospective husband.  Before he gets here, so I am not bound by propriety,” I added with a chuckle.

She smiled, and the pavilion seemed to light up.  “Thank you for your candor, Lord Minalan.  I am an extremely practical woman, you will find, and I dislike equivocation.  Can you vouch for the man’s character?”

“There is none higher,” I said, truthfully.  “Sir Cei is the epitome of the Wilderland chivalry, my lady.  He has stood by my shoulder and fought valiantly.  He has saved my life.  He has saved the life of my Lady.  He has contended against me, when he sees need.  He is a mountain of wisdom and good sense, an even-tempered man hardly prone to anger.  He is forgiving – he works for me even though I stirred a peasant rebellion under his last lord.  He is humble – he deigned to work as my castellan, even though we had quarreled in the past.  A man of – as you say – extreme practicality.”

She nodded, very interested.  Alya took the opportunity to speak up, then.

“I’ve known Sir Cei since I was a girl,” she explained.  “He came to work for Sire Koucey when I was a maiden, and quickly set to ordering the domain.  He was fair but firm to the common folk, and if he was sparing with humor, it was due to his dedication to his task.  Yet he only saw fit to beat a man when he had to, and only as a matter of justice, not vengeance.”

“Has he . . . has he known many women?  Has he had a wife?” she asked, hesitantly.

“Nay, my lady,” Alya assured her.  “Even when he had the opportunity to press the peasant girls for their favors, as some castellans are known to do, he never once did, to my knowledge.  If a woman has warmed his bed in all the years I’ve known him, he has managed to keep it a dark secret in a small and gossipy vale.”

“Interesting,” Lady Estret said, her lips pursed prettily.  “I confess, I only saw him from afar, but he seems a . . . a very large man, but with a handsome visage.  And you say he is not cruel,” she said, as if adding it to a list.  “Nor is he a womanizer.  Yet . . . why has not a man of his age and station taken a wife?”

“A good question,” I agreed.  “It may be that Sir Cei wanted to have something to offer a bride beside his title, or that Ishi had not saw fit to cast her eye in his direction.  But that may have changed, of late,” I smiled, as I saw Sir Cei stumble across the camp, urged on by Tyndal.

He was wearing a handsome velvet dark gray tunic that was perfect for a cool spring evening, and a silver knight’s chain around his neck.  His chin was freshly scraped and someone had introduced his hair to a comb.  Even his bushy mustache was trimmed until it was almost subdued.  He was as handsome as I’d ever seen him . . . and the moment he saw Lady Estret was among us, he turned into a babbling idiot.

He stumbled over his name, his rank, his position, and only a timely intervention from my wife kept him from devolving into a frightened ten-year-old boy.  But Alya was aware enough of his anxiety to help steer him through that first awkward encounter until Sir Cei was able to marshal his resources.

With a little help.  As I saw him struggle under the magelights, I took pity on him and threw together a quick calming sigil.  A hand on his shoulder delivered the charm, and he straightened and took a deep breath.

“My Lady,” he said, at the next break in conversation, “it would be a profound pleasure if you would stroll with me a moment under Ishi’s moon and we took an acquaintance of each other.”  It was straightforward, heartfelt, and delivered in earnest, and with such passion behind the words that Lady Estret’s eyes widened at the sudden change.

“It would be a pleasure to enjoy the company of such a gentleman,” she said, meekly, and took his offered elbow.  We all watched them walk leisurely out into the middle of the encampment, under the gibbous moon of Midsummer, and speak quietly to each other.

“What did you do?” Alya asked in a harsh whisper.

“I just banished his nervousness,” I whispered back.

The change was noted by Baron Arathanial, too.  “Gods above, Magelord, did you chance to cast a love spell over the man?”

I shrugged.  “I rarely dabble in love spells, Excellency, and in this case I had no idea of his attachment until this afternoon.   As far as I know, this is the first time they’ve met, face to face.”

“Tell me,” Arathanial continued, conspiratorially, “how came this country knight to find the strength to best Count Ewen, when I have seen him knock knight after knight off his saddle?”

“Count Ewen fights for coin,” dismissed Alya.  “Sir Cei fights for the heart.  The day the thought of coin can inspire a man more than a woman, on that day Ishi will weep.”   It occurred to me that Ishi weeps a lot in some circles.

Sir Arathanial took that moment to confer with Sir Festaran, whom he met the previous year at his knighting.  And Alya took that moment to snuggle into my arms and watch the silhouettes of Sir Cei and Lady Estret speaking earnestly to each other.  I considered magically augmenting the conversation so we could hear it, but that would have been rude – and I said so, when my nosy wife asked.

“Minalan,” she said, after feigning disappointment at me not misusing my powers, “I don’t know why exactly, but I want Cei to win tomorrow, and marry that delightful lady.”

“You like her, then?”

“She’s very nice.  Even to me, after she learned of our common origins.  And I think  . . . I think it would be good for Sir Cei.  A little recompense by the gods for the horror of the last few years.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I agreed in a whisper, as the couple came back to the pavilion, looking slightly guilty.

“So how did you two get along?” Arathanial asked, merrily.  “If I’m any judge, you have a lovers’ look to your eyes!”

“That depends on what tomorrow holds,” Sir Cei said, grimy.   “Should Duin strengthen my arm, and I prevail at the joust, then so be it.  I shall have her as my bride . . . and I pity the man who would impede me.”

Chapter Twenty–Eight

Lady Estret Of Cargwenyn

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” I sighed, as I watched my wife wander wearily back to our tent, the warmth of her persuasion still on my lips.  She hadn’t quite made me promise to ensure Sir Cei’s victory on the morrow, but she had offered it as a challenge.  Now it wasn’t just my Castellan’s happiness I had to look to, but my own.  I didn’t want to disappoint Alya.

But I knew I couldn’t just help Sir Cei win with magic, either – he would consider it dishonorable, and withdraw from the lists.  He was just that way.  So I had to abandon sorcery and resort to common skullduggery.  I summoned my most trusted associates – Tyndal, Festaran, Banamor and my brother-in-law Sagal (who was getting more sleep at the busy fair than he would have been with my colicky new nephew) to the pavilion, after the Baron and his party departed and I’d sent Sir Cei to bed.

They all gathered around eagerly, even though they all looked properly tired; a day’s fairgoing can take it out of you, particularly when it involves a scuffle with the Censorate. Or shopping for a new baby. But they responded to my summons with enough alacrity and enthusiasm to demonstrate their loyalty – both to me, and to my Castellan.

They looked to me for orders, so I gave some.  “Festaran, you and Sagal head over to the top contender’s campsite tonight and see what you can learn.  Take some silver and a sack of wine, buy some drinks, and ask some questions.  Look for weaknesses, fears, things we can exploit.  Don’t just look at the man, look at his kit, his organization, what he has for breakfast, everything.  Find out who he trusts, who he hates, who he wants to be when he’s a big boy.  Tyndal and Banamor, you do the same for Number Two in the rankings.  By dawn I want to know everything you can tell me about them.”

They all nodded and went eagerly to work; they liked Sir Cei, in their ways, and the idea of skullduggery at this level appealed to the adolescent boy in them.   I still had no real idea what to do with the information they would gather yet, but I was reasonably clever.  I’d think of something.

I was about to go take a nap with my wife and let the wine leave my head when I got the tingle of a familiar mind-to-mind link.

Ah, Penny!  What brings you to my attention this lovely summer’s evening?

It’s more of a report.  A bad report.  I’m sure Terleman will give you the details in the morning, but I thought I’d give you some advanced warning.  Our scouts inside the Shadow say the goblins are force-marching a column south from the Umbra along the Lumber Road, west of Vorone.  It’s a big one.

How big?

At least eight legions.  That was the rough grouping we used to describe goblin numbers – it corresponded roughly to their own military organization.  But for our practical purposes a legion was two thousand fighting goblins plus another five-hundred or a thousand in support.   And they are not alone.  A great number of hobbed eunuchs are marching with them.  A few hundred humans are riding as a cavalry screen, probably Soulless.  But the worst news is the long column of trolls has been spotted, too, over two hundred strong.  That has been confirmed by both by scrying and by scouting, and they are armed for siege work.

They only had fifty at Timberwatch! I exclaimed in my own head.  I thought they would have brought their greatest strength there!

Apparently the Riverlands are a more tempting target than the Wilderlands, she offered.   But they join the five legions already investing the area.  And there are signs that there are further reinforcements preparing.

I sighed in despair.  How long until they reach the Riverland front?

Three weeks, five weeks if they get slowed down and meet resistance.   If they continued down the Lumber Road, they’ll spill out directly into Gilmora.  Min . . . I’m no strategist, but the dragons destroyed the better part of the garrisons in Gilmora already.  Terleman is rallying as many as he can further south, at a castle sixty miles north of Barrowbell, but if they come against they others then they won’t be facing stalwart defenders, they’ll be walking into a hospital camp!  The Horkans are trying to shore up the secondary castles in Gilmora, but there are already advanced raiders moving down into the northern baronies.

Damn them!  Thanks for the warning, Penny.  Any idea when the Duke’s southern levies will be ready to go?

No.  I could tell you what I’ve been told by Count Salgo, which is weeks, but I’ve also been told that the banner call has been resisted in the south, since this is plowing season.  Those reports say at least a month, maybe more.

It’s goblin season, I corrected. This was the problem with trying to raise an effective army in a feudal government.  It took ages to pull together your forces, especially in a crisis.  Thanks for the warning, Penny.  I’ll think about what we can do, but unless we can stop that column, Gilmora is going to get pounded.  Stopping that column is going to get bloody.  I’ll speak to Terleman and see what help I can be, but the answer is probably going to disappoint him, I promised.  Right now, if you could pass along to everyone that anything they can do to slow down that column and buy us some time has my gratitude and that of the Arcane Orders.

I’ll see what I can get set up – but you should definitely speak with Terleman tomorrow.  He sounded . . . concerned.  He’s mentioned that he would like to see you come back to the field, but he’s admitted that there’s not much you can do right now that other people can’t.  But try to check in with him for a dispatch tomorrow.  That is, if you can pry yourself away from your bride long enough . . . she teased.

In all sincerity, I’m actually trying to get Sir Cei laid, not myself, I spoke indignantly.

That . . . that is a worthy endeavor.  I leave you to carry on, then, she said with a guilty mental giggle, and was gone.  Here I was contemplating seduction and gambling at a fair while in the west that terrible column of gurvani and assorted abominations was plowing down Lumber road, killing everything in their path.  It made me feel profoundly guilty, and I drank the rest of the bottle before I sought the solace of my marital chamber.  I snuggled extra close to Alya that night and tried not to dream of goblins.

Terleman contacted me early the next morning, before dawn, having spent the night receiving reports and making sense out of them.  He had several magi scrying the Penumbra lands and the Wilderlands around them, as well as a few tough Knight Magi ranging the enemy’s flanks and reporting.

The first castle outside the Penumbra that they’d come to, a motte-and-bailey with a wooden palisade, defended by three hundred men, had fallen in hours after the trolls smashed through the walls.  Long lines of captives were being herded back north, and the stock was being used to feed the armies as they advanced.

Terleman related how a couple of mercenary units and a barony – about seven hundred lances – had been alerted to the advance, and were planning on making a stand.  That would amount to four or five thousand troops against more than twice that number of gurvani, not counting the trolls.  He was sending warmagi to help coordinate the defense, but he did not sound hopeful.  We talked for a while, and I made a few suggestions, but as mighty as we were in magic we had no good answers, without troops on the ground to give them.

Before breakfast, my own spies and scouts reported, although I was less enthusiastic about our schemes than I had been the night before.

Sir Festaran and Sagal reported first – they split up and infiltrated the camp of Sir Jinsalan of Stoves separately: Sagal as a common fairgoer and Sir Festaran as an admirer.  After mingling with the folk for a few hours they were able to inform me that Sir Jinsalan was far more enamored of hearing his own name spoken in reverent tones than he was of lands or wives.

He had a small but devoted entourage of admirers around him, even some other professional jousters, who had to constantly assure him that he was, indeed, the champion he suspected he was.   His desire for gold was eclipsed by his desire for fame and glory . . . but his youthful face and strong arm was enough to get plenty of it all.

Sir Jinsalan was managed by an older uncle, Sir Resilad, a canny sort better suited for a career as a coinbrother than in arms.  Sir Resilad was rarely out of earshot of his young charge and ensured he had a steady supply of whatever he fancied, as long as he kept winning.  But the string of ribbons on his campaign banner demonstrated his facility with tending his skilled nephew.

Tyndal and Banamor’s target was the Wenshari knight, Sire Mavoxigon, who collected estates the way a child collects pretty pebbles.  He was an older knight, twice-widowed, wealthy enough to spend his summers touring fairs, and a respected war leader in his own lands.

He was a stern and dispassionate man for whom war and power were the only true stakes, Banamor reported.  While not technically a professional jouster – he rarely strayed from the northern circuit, whatever that was – he was a regular enough contestant that even professionals were wary of his mighty lance.  Indeed, several professionals had already fallen in the previous day’s bouts.

Each of the top three competitors would face one of the next three competitors to begin the day, the victor in each contest to advance to fight each other, round-robin style.  The victor of that contest would win the fair domain and the fairer hand of Lady Estret.

I dismissed them to eat while I thought about their reports.  Just as the fried breads were served, dipped in sugar and ginger, I had a plan.

“All right,” I decided, after that first glorious bite of fried bread – fried breads are a guilty pleasure of mine; growing up in a bakery, frying bread dough in oil was seen as a common peasant’s attempt to cheat Briga’s ovens out of their due; we ate properly baked breads, religiously.  I still half-expected the old man to waddle out and slap my wrist with a spoon for the temerity . . . which made the bread all the sweeter.  “Here’s what I want you to do.  Tyndal and Banamor, it’s your turn to go to Sir Jinsalan’s encampment with a message, and Festaran and Sagal, you head over to Sire Mavoxigan’s.   And when you get there, here’s what I want you say . . .”

They all looked at me wide-eyed and incredulous when I was done.

Sir Festaran looked at me, his young face anxious.  “Magelord, are you sure?”

“Of course he’s sure,” Tyndal said, shaking his head and grinning.  “I know what he’s doing.”

“As do I,” chuckled Banamor.  They explained it to Sagal, whose mind just doesn’t naturally work that way, thank goodness, and then they left on their various errands as the fair woke up around us.

After I woke up my pretty wife and changed the baby – no spell to do that yet, I’m afraid – we enjoyed some more fried breads and then attended to Sir Cei, who was earnestly preparing for the bout by alternating stretching, punching the air, and praying.

We watched while he was armored and broke his fast, and I got a new appreciation of just how large a man he was.  The deft way he moved with lance and sword as he warmed up belied his size.  But I could tell he wasn’t quite on the point of the spear yet: his eyes kept shifting away uncomfortably, or filling with doubt for but an instant.

“Sir Cei,” I comforted him, after bringing him some herbal tea.  “Fear not: I dispatched emissaries to the camps of the other two contender’s and told them that you will make generous offers to them for Lady Estret and this estate she loves.  I have, myself, pledged to aid you in whatever way I can, as a token of what you have done in the restoration of Sevendor.”

“Magelord, I—” he began, choking up.

“The largest obstacle, from what I can see, is that they will not think you – a new-come country knight from the far Mindens – as serious in your negotiations.  Nor, as you are aware, is it seemly for a gentleman to discuss such things in the light of day.  So you must walk the line between powerfully earnest and determined, but utterly laconic.  If the judges think there might be a deal in the offing to fix the bout . . .”

Sir Cei looked startled.  “You’re right, Magelord – no need to get disqualified.  Nor would I do less than my best in the tournament, even if it meant the surety of her hand.  But I take the wisdom of what you say.  I shall demonstrate my earnestness, but I shall speak of nothing but the lists.  Today is a day when Duin the Destroyer guides my hand!” he said, fiercely.

“They’re so cute when they get like that!” Alya whispered with a giggle in my ear, as Sir Cei’s armorers began the process of wrapping him in steel.

It wasn’t an hour after I left Alya and the squires to finish armoring Cei that my messengers returned, each of them looking thoughtful and pleased with themselves.

“It is done,” Sagal nodded, looking a little pale.  Only a new-made Yeoman, he was playing in social politics far above his ken, and that made him uncomfortable.  That was fine – I wanted him to learn such things, as he had more sense than most and complete loyalty to me, two gifts I would not see tarnished with misuse.   “Sire Mavoxigon was surprised to hear of Sir Cei’s dedication to the contest.  He did not seem eager to consider that outcome.”

“Sir Jinsalan went beyond surprised,” Tyndal told me, wryly, “he was appalled.  ‘It is only a bloody contest, after all,’ he said, and while a dedicated and devoted contestant—

“I understand,” I nodded, smiling.  “He has no desire to see things get . . . out of hand.”

“He’s far more concerned about the tournament in Funis in two weeks than he is about this,” Sir Festaran agreed earnestly.  “He wanted to start sending his retinue out tonight, just to see that they get a good seating there.”

I sighed.  That was about as much preparation as we’d get.  Either this would work . . . or it wouldn’t.

“All right, Tyndal I want you to take care of Sir Cei’s tack: see every strap is tight and fit, and if you use a few binding cantrips to keep them from slipping, I won’t say anything to Sir Cei if you don’t.  Then I want you to go into the arming tents and order three new war lances – not tournament lances, real, sharp war lances – to be delivered to his station in the lists by noon.

“Festaran, I want you to take Sir Cei’s sword – his war sword, not his tournament sword – into the fairgrounds to find a man to sharpen it.  Pay good money, make sure you tell plenty of people who it belongs to but don’t mention why.  Uh. . . Sagal, you think you can play an obnoxious peasant?”

My brother-in-law chuckled.   Of course he could – just ask my sister-in-law.

“Then I want you on the opponent’s end, heckling.  Here’s a purse, get good and soused if you have to – don’t worry, I’ll make it good with Ela.  Don’t violate the fair oath, but shout every little obnoxious thing you can say, as loud as you can say it, just up to the point where they’d chase you.  Keep them on edge.

“Banamor, you do the same . . . magically.  Don’t do anything to actually, technically, cheat, mind you – but if a footwizard like yourself can’t think of a hundred annoying cantrips you could use, you aren’t worthy of the name.  Everyone got their assignments?  Then go . . . and we’ll see just how certain we can make the outcome.

Alya took extra time to dress and prepare that morning, since we would be spending the day at the lists.  Darishi was in charge of the baby, and there were a few other retainers who wanted to attend in our company – including Sir Roncil, who was betting heavily on his fellow knight, and Sir Forondo, who had been unceremoniously knocked out in the first round.  We also invited Sir Sigalan of Trestendor and his sister Lady Sarsha to sit with us, since they had already seen the fair and were at odds for entertainment.

Once I got our spectators and our agents safely under way, I helped oversee the last of Sir Cei’s armoring, while Tyndal saw to his charger.

“I have faced certain death and defeat,” he said calmly and slowly as he settled his gambeson on over his bare chest.  “I have faced hordes of goblins and sneering outlaws.  And never have I felt so anxious about a contest.”  It was one of those rare moments where he was looking to me for support and guidance, and I realized another burden that comes with nobility.  The duty to inspire and invest your people with your confidence.

“Calm yourself, Cei,” I encouraged, as casually as I could.  “The fortunes and the gods are with you.  Just don’t be distracted by the glint of the prize and fail to strike true with your lance.”

“Bah!  She is no prize, she is a woman – gracious, beautiful, warm and lovely.  She is only five years my junior, Minalan, and she has a little girl already from her first husband.”

I blinked.  He’d called me by name, no title, a breach of familiarity that was noteworthy.  This was unexpected.  “When a man goes through . . . what we’ve been through, it changes him.  It places his life in proper perspective.  Surely you understand.”

“Well, certainly,” I said, smiling.  “But perhaps you could be more specific,” I said, helping him strap his shoulder pauldrons on.

“When I was at Boval, I was a young man, a knight with an important post and a prosperous future.  In due time, when I had the means, I’d planned to begin the search for a bride within the next year -- but Sheruel, damn his empty eyes, intervened.  I had my duty to look to, then.  And then I had to see the Bovali refugees were settled, as I had pledged to do on my honor.

“But then seeing you and Lady Alya at your wedding, and all of the unions at Sevendor . . . it makes a man wonder what he might leave behind him, when his body lies cold on the field.”

I studied him thoughtfully.  “You are one morbid son-of-a-bitch, Cei,” I observed.  “That’s perhaps the dullest, least-romantic argument for love I’ve ever heard.”

It didn’t faze him, as I knew it wouldn’t.  Knights are just like that.

“You have given me far more opportunity at Sevendor than I deserve, Minalan.   Far more than you should have, considering how foolishly I behaved in Boval.

“But . . . now that I have a stake at fortune, the gods have seen fit to put in my path a prize far more glorious than mere honor or duty.  Mayhap they have given me a test, a test that I might win with my arm what my heart would slay thousands for.”

“She really had an effect on you,” I said, shaking my head in amazement as I stuck his riding gloves into his belt.  His armorers were just strapping on his grieves, as Tyndal led his mount up, freshly curried and gleaming.

“It is not her beauty, although that would be enough,” Sir Cei said quietly.  “There are fairer maidens, true; nor is it the richness of her holding.  An apiary is no mean prize but there are wealthier widows.  It is . . . Minalan, she begged me that if it came to a choice between harming myself on the lists or pressing my case to my death, as I told her I would do, she begged that I yield . . . not out of fear, but out of concern from some love she bears for me.”  He looked guilty at the admission.

“Cei, are you sure?” I asked, a little confused.  Maybe she was just giving him a line of bullshit.

“Lady Estret told me that of all the combatants on the lists, it was clear that I, alone, was a worthy gentleman, the sort she would see for a father to her child . . . and her children to come.  And that she would not have me throw away my life so senselessly in pursuit of . . . of the likes of her, a poor widow.  She would prefer a loveless marriage to a tournament hero than the thought of my blood on her hands.”

Oh.  Well, that made a little more sense.  In the mad, twisted logic of femininity.

“Then you have to ignore her,” I advised.  “Of course she has to say that – she really does like you, if my wife is any judge.  But do not let her plea weaken your resolve.  So ignore her counsel and do what you know what must be done.  You face but two opponents.”

“Two mighty opponents,” he reminded me, concerned.

“Mighty?  Only if you believe the jongleurs.  I wouldn’t be worried about Sir Mavoxigon,” Tyndal said, nonchalantly, as he held Sir Cei’s steed.  “That bay destrier of his looks fierce, and he rides well, but his left hind shoe has been loose all day, and no one has bothered to fix it.  That means he isn’t getting good firm grounding on that side when he couches to charge.  He’ll be weak on his shield arm, and ripe to take a lance.”

Sir Cei nodded in understanding, considered silently if it would be chivalrous to use such intelligence, and then nodded firmly.

“See?  Fortune favors you already,” I soothed the big knight as I slipped his snowflake snowstone pendant over his head and helped him mount on his charger.   “Now, why don’t you two head up to the list field to get checked in and I’ll see you in the stands.  Duin’s strength with you today, my friend!” I said, clapping him on his armored thigh.  He gave me a meaningful look before he rode off, looking just a little love-drunk and dazed.  I hoped he could find his way to the lists.

I hurried to pack a basket and head up to the list field myself, and found our party with no great difficulty.  Alya purchased a prominent section of the stands for us and arrayed quilts and blankets on the hard pine logs to the point where they were merely uncomfortable, not tortuous.

She had directed the two servants she’d brought to erect a small canopy over the baby against the sun and wind.  There was also a big hamper of sweetmeats, fruits and biscuits and another one of ales and wines and cool water she had brought from camp.  Sire Sigalan and his sister were our guests, and they were already enjoying biscuits and honey with hot tea in the mid-morning sun when I arrived.

“This will be the finest entertainment I’ve enjoyed in a while,” I said, as I settled into the delightfully cushioned seat that had been prepared for me.  “I just had to give Sir Cei a pep-talk,” I added to Sire Sigalan, knowingly.  “He’s a bit nervous.”

“As well he should be,” Sigalan agreed with a smile.  “He did phenomenally well on the lists yesterday.  The joust is not my strength, but I have a keen enough eye to see his style is . . . compelling.”

“My brother is unjust,” Lady Sarsha objected.  “Your castellan rolled through these summer warriors like they were children riding llamas,” his sister said, less diplomatically and more enthusiastically.  “I never noted how handsome Sir Cei was until I saw him throw his helmet in bloodlust, after winning his second bout.”  That made Sir Roncil glance sharply in her direction.

“I’m sorry I missed that,” I admitted, truthfully.

It was still early in the day, and the Baron wanted to ensure everyone who’d paid his entrance fee got their money’s worth.  We got to see roving bands of clowns and jugglers skitter gingerly around the lists, stopping periodically to cut a caper or to hurl hilarious insults at the audience.  We had a bowl full of pennies at hand to reward the cleverest.

Then we got to see the last three bouts of the Squire’s Tournament, in which the un-spurred contended for glory, honor, and title to a pregnant sow.  While amateurish even to my untrained eye, it was entertaining purely because of the earnest looks on the jousters’ faces.  The youngest among them was fourteen, a squire from Sashtalia, who ended up taking the day three lances to two over a hulking sixteen-year-old from Sendaria.

We enjoyed another flight of clowns and jugglers, and then vendors purveying everything from sausages and sugarloafs to candied pears to warm ale or cold cider descended upon the stands.  While they were transacting business, a troop of ten acrobats entertained from a trestled stage.

It was midmorning, and I was having a very good time.  The weather was perfect, just a little cool, and the birds and the insects seemed to conspire to entertain us, not annoy us.  Flirting lightly with Alya, playing with the baby, having someone else change the baby, getting to know the soft-spoken Sire Sigalan and learning to appreciate his wisdom and intellect, and delighting in his sister’s sharp humor – I was as relaxed and at ease as I’d been in ages.  I wasn’t even dwelling on the unpleasant news from Alshar I’d gotten at dawn.  I felt at peace.

Of course someone would have to wander by and fuck that up.

“I see Arathanial keeps all the bandits in one place, then,” came a familiar, if unwelcome voice.  We turned around to see the scowling countenance of Sire Gimbal, the Warbird of West Fleria, looming behind us.  He had a small retinue of five or six knights and squires, including his elderly advisor, Sir Bromul.  While his sword was tied with the Peace Knot, there were daggers in his eyes.

“Oh, Sire Gimbal, our benefactor!” I said, immediately on alarm.  I considered sending mind-to-mind to Tyndal for support, but relaxed.  I couldn’t imagine Gimbal starting anything here, when it would be seen as both discourteous and punishable, particularly not around my child.  If he did, I’d burn him to a crisp.

“Benefactor?” he asked, confused.

“Yes, we’re using the proceeds from the ransoms you have so graciously paid to fund our outing,” I said, delivering the insult pleasantly.  I didn’t need to even pretend to like the man.  Alya stared daggers right back at him – sharper, more feminine daggers.  Sire Sigalan and his sister just held their breath.  “Do feel free to send even more mercenaries to our frontiers . . . I have so many new constructions to fund!”

“Using magic and treachery against honest warriors is no way to fight,” the Warbird growled.

“Harassing honest peasants on their way to market is not, either,” I said.  “But I am new to the chivalry.  Perhaps I’ve been misinformed.”

“You speak to me of chivalry?  I know not what goes on beyond that sorcerous wall of yours,” Sire Gimbal grumbled, leaning on the rail, “but the lights and portents . . . the peasants all whisper of your abominations.  It is evil at work, and all the Bontal knows it!”

“It’s magic at work, you ignorant lout,” Lady Alya said sassily.  “When your folk need more daylight to plow, you beat them and fine them.  When our folk need a few extra hours of light to tend the fields, we provide it for them.”

“It is unnatural!” he protested.

“That’s the point,” I stressed.  “Sevendor is a mageland, now.  We do things differently there.  Magic is our servant, from lord to villein, and all prosper accordingly.  Thus it should be throughout the magelands, in the future.”

“Bah!  It is illegal and an abomination,” countered Sir Bromul.  “The gods weep at the sight!  The lords of our realm will never stand for it!”

“If they don’t, then the lords of the realm are going to be short, black, and furry,” I riposted.  “You cannot fight against the Dead God without us.  Or do you think you have the eggs to slay a dragon, Warbird?”  That made Gimbal go pale, a bit.  By now everyone had heard about the day of the dragons in Gilmora.

“Regardless, it is an insult to our noble ancestors that upstarts like you – a baker’s son, a peasant-mage, a spellmonger – that you should rule on our borders.  It will not be endured, not while I draw breath.  Mark my son’s face, will you? Steal my lands, will you?  You shall learn what it is to challenge the proper order of things.  There are traditions in the Riverlands and one does not attack those traditions lightly!”

“Like the tradition of your brother and you cowardly attacking Baron Arathanial’s kin in creating your ‘West Fleria?’” asked Lady Sarsha, acidly.  “Like the tradition of taking secret counsel with the Lord of Sashtalia and depriving the rightful lords of Trestendor their holdings?  Burning villages, slaying peasants, bullying merchants – is that the noble Riverlands tradition you uphold, Warbird?” Sigalan’s sister was bold, far more bold that I’d usually seen a noblewoman be in such discussions.

“As the lady has mentioned, things change,” I observed.  “A noble house can be beset by upstarts, and a thieving warlord can be challenged by the good and righteous.  Just like in the epics.”

The gods would have had to choose that time to send us a mummer’s show.

Not just any show – a merry gang of professional buffoons, which included a number of dwarfs and freakish-looking folk, tumbled into the list in front of us, pantomiming a spoof.  About me, apparently.

The shortest of the midgets wore a spellmonger’s cap, and an over-long mantle that dragged the ground several feet behind him.  He capered along until his way was blocked – by five ugly-looking men in checkered cloaks.

The cloaks were mere sackcloth hastily-painted with black squares, and the “wands” of the ersatz Censors were a comic variety of sausages, axe handles, feather dusters, and knitting needles.  The “Censors” surrounded the poor dwarf, until he seemed overwhelmed . . . then a comically heroic second midget appeared, bounding in a summersault over the censors, wielding a long loaf of bread.  While the “mage knight” dueled sausage-to-bread with one, the “spellmonger” reached into his pants with great exaggeration . . . and withdrew a large, bright green ball.  And then another.

In a delightful show of juggling and acrobatics, the two pelted the checkered-cloaked Censors into the ground.  Then, at a silent command, they all stood stock still, while the overly-officious (yet clearly benevolent) Baron appeared, to take the Censors away.  The mageknight broke his loaf and flung it into the crowd, and the spellmonger threw candy to the laughing children.

“Well done!” my wife screamed, applauding with the rest of our group, and throwing a fistful of pennies.  Sure, it had been a blatant pander to us, but it had been genuinely witty.  And it told me something more important.

“See, Warbird?” I said, gesturing at the mummers.  “The people certainly know which side is in their interest.”

“In Sendaria, perhaps, under the Baron’s thumb,” he observed coolly.  “They’d sing a different tune in West Fleria!  We don’t forget insults there, nor do we forgive them!”

”Sire Gimbal, I’ve never sought a quarrel with you, but you seem to crave one.  Whether I’d enjoy your enmity or not, it departs the road of wisdom for you to seek one with me.  I am powerful, and not merely in magic.  I have powerful friends, Dukes among them.  Yet you persist . . . for no better reason, I can see, than your guilt and your blemished honor.”

“You harass my folk on the road, and charge a ransom for passage.  You send spies and raiders into my frontier.  And yet every effort you expend against me comes to naught.  Why, then, would you persist in this feud?”

“You, Sir, touched my honor,” he said, angrily.  “You spit in the face of the established order and invite abomination into the Riverlands.  You are an up-jumped tradesman, a paper noble, and no knight worthy of the name!”

“Don’t forget that he kept you from adding Sevendor to your clutch of destitute domains,” Sigalan’s sister added, bravely.  “And without Sevendor safely in pocket, you may not turn your attentions to other prey. “

“The brayings of the rustic nobility have little part in the greater matters of politics,” Sir Bromul said, condescendingly.

“Neither does plain truth, it seems,” she added haughtily, and sipped her cider.

“It is good you have found such . . . fast friends in the Riverlands, Sire Sigalan,” Sir Bromul continued obsequiously.  “Baron Arathanial is a weighty name to have as a friend, but if you are not allegiance d . . . well, ‘tis but a name.  When has he fought in the name of friendship?  Or perhaps then the good Magelord will ride to your aide when next you are beset by bandits or raiders!”  The thuggish threat was clear

“And how many lances will Sevendor bring to your aide?” howled one of the other knights in the retinue.  “Less than a dozen, if we figure correctly, and the rest a peasant’s rabble!”

That touched my honor.  I stood and surveyed Gimbal’s lackey, a thin young man with the worst mustache I’d ever seen clinging to his lip.

“A dozen lances?  Sevendor needs but one.  And while you’re counting noses and swords – neither of which I’d trust you to figure beyond a score without removing your trousers – you should concern yourself less with lances and more with bows.”

“Bows?” he asked, confused.

My lady wife saw her chance to get a dig in, in the name of national pride.  “Aye, the famous Wilderland bows my peasant folk carry – they shoot half again as far as your Riverlands toys.  They fly three-foot laminate arrows with a six-inch steel bodkin point . . . and they can go through armor like parchment within fifty feet.  All our lads Boval used them against the wolves of the Mindens since they were old enough to walk.”

“Cowherds killing wolves are hardly warriors,” scoffed another West Flerian lord.  “Against Riverlands knights—”

“. . . and every lad in Sevendor who survived the Siege of Boval Vale has loosed a thousand arrows into the throats of goblins who were screaming for their blood, day and night.  Our youths have seen more blood spilled in a year than your dotards in their lives!”

She recited the gory history evenly.  But she said it proudly, without hesitation, and with supreme confidence.  She wasn’t the Lady of Sevendor, politely trading jibes with the nobility, she was Alya of Hawk’s Reach, daughter of the Minden vales, beating back the edge of the wilderness to reveal the steely warrior within.  Seeing my saucy lady back this insolent knight up into the stands was a treat, and I loved her the more dearly for it.

Still, Gimbal’s lackey was not intimidated.  “Bows,” he sneered, dismissively, “in the hands of peasants.

“And wands,” I countered, drawing one, “in the hands of knights magi.  You wish to assail Sevendor in earnest?  I invite you to try.  And add this to your calculations: Allies?  Few but loyal.  Lances?  We have enough.  Arrows?  We have a sufficiency. Magi?  We have a plethora.  And defiance in the face of injustice?   Gentleman, Sevendor holds that in abundance,” I lectured, addressing the Warbird directly.  “Continue this antipathy at your peril.  It shall not profit West Fleria, or any of her allies or liegemen, to press this toward war.”

There.  I’d said it.  War.  I watched Gimbal’s nostrils flare at the challenge, and he could no longer evade or prevaricate what he and his men were doing to our frontiers.

“War?” he asked, quietly.  “You know little of war, Spellmonger.  There is a difference between slaughtering goblins and facing a real warrior on a real battlefield.  My family is known for their perseverance at the art, and for five generations we have enjoyed a reputation for bloodshed and victory – a legacy that you and your peasant wench may feel the weight of all too dearly!.”

I shrugged.  “My family has a reputation for the best holiday breads in the Riverlands.  That doesn’t make me a baker.  And if I were you,” I said with an insulting guffaw, “I’d quit holding your family’s great gift of warfare up as an example until you have an heir who can manage to hold on to his fief.”

I turned and went to sit down without addressing him again.  It was only then that I heard someone yelling “Fair Peace! No, milord, you have sword the Oath!”, and I turned to see Gimbal’s men physically restraining him, holding his hand away from his peace-knotted sword hilt.  They dragged him away quickly, before the fairwardens took notice of the commotion.

“Pray ignore them,” Sire Sigalan counseled me quietly as he poured me a glass of the sweet mountain wine his people made.  “Gimbal is searching for a stronger cause to stir up trouble, he has been for years.  In all his machinations he never suspected he’d have a strong foe suddenly on an unguarded border.  My Lady Alya, were you . . . serious about your bowmen?” he asked skeptically.

“The Bovali are good archers, well-used to sniping at wolves, goblins, stray gringoths, and other common pests of the Mindens,” she answered.  “And their range is not in doubt.  I have seen a wolf slain across four hundred yards of valley meadow.”

“And Sire Gimbal has done little enough to make them feel welcome in the Riverlands,” Sir Roncil added.  “Should you ask my folk to march on West Fleria. you’d have to limit the volunteers.”

“You aren’t worried about a war with West Fleria?” he asked, surprised.

“Of more concern is the war with Sheruel the Dead God,” I pointed out.  “He is a gaping wound in my chest; Gimbal is an annoying rock in my boot.”

That seemed to satisfy my new friend, and we spent the next hour or so bantering gaily while we watched the jousting and drank.  All too soon, I felt a contact mind-to-mind.  It was Tyndal, who had wandered off during the squire’s tournament, thankfully.  I could just imagine what he would have added to the tense discussion.

Yeah?

Master, I was wondering if you wanted to place a wager before the bout, he asked.  Festaran and I are going to, and Banamor already did.  I know you did well yesterday – would you like to bet on Cei’s opponent this time? He teased.

Put fifty ounces of gold on Sir Cei to win first prize, I ordered him.  Wait – have they given fresh odds?

I waited a moment while he checked.  Aye, master.  Believe it or not, they are up from yesterday.   Twenty-eight to one he places first, eleven to one he places second.  Sir Mavoxigon is the favorite.

Not as good as yesterday, but still a healthy return.  Put a hundred ounces of gold on Cei.  To win.

Master!?

Do it, I ordered. Send someone for my seal, if you need to, but coinbrother Abros should remember me from yesterday. I put wagering and other inconsequential matters out of mind, and studied the list as the first of the three bouts began between Sir Mavoxigon and Sir Jinsalan.

While not the expected end to the tournament, the two were well-respected professionals who had met on the northern circuit more than once, according to Lady Sarsha.  They conducted themselves as such, despite the small fortune at stake – at this stage of the competition they had already covered their costs, so the ultimate victory, while coveted, was not essential.

After far too much fanfare, the two gentlemen broke a lance apiece against each other’s shields, whirled prettily to the applause of the crowd, and returned to their side.  As he passed, however, Sir Mavoxigon tarried a moment in front of us, no doubt seeing the crude Sevendor banner dangling from our canopy.

“My lord,” he called respectfully.  “I see you sponsor Sir Cei of Boval.”

“Sir Cei of Sevendor,” I corrected, “but I have that honor.”

The warrior considered.  “If I could beg the boon of your opinion, my lord, do you know him as a man to make rash statements, or prone to hyperbole?”

“I have never seen Sir Cei speak ought but truthfully,” I assured him.

“I have known him since I was a girl, and if he has spoken any untrue word he has not the knowledge of it,” added Alya, who was more than half drunk.

Sir Mavoxigon considered again, and then saluted smartly.  “My thanks for your polite response, gentlefolk,” he said, smoothly.  “Pray enjoy they combat.”

He spurred his bay destrier into position and had a fresh lance handed to him by an attendant.  After testing it to his satisfaction he slapped down his faceguard and proceeded to drive Sir Jinsalan off of his horse by shattering a lance on the left side of his helmet.  Regardless of the outcome, Sir Mavoxigon had secured second place with that strike.  Sir Jinsalan had secured a rapidly-spreading bruise, even through his formerly pretty helmet.

But Tyndal had not been mistaken – the bay’s rear left shoe was loose.

“He is going to be a tough one for Sir Cei to master,” murmured Sire Sigalan, scratching his patchy chin thoughtfully.  “Jinsalan will be the easier contest, particularly after that last blow.”  Indeed, the young knight had to send for a new helm, and called quarter to refresh himself and collect his wits.

Sir Cei was led to Sir Mavoxigan’s spot on his charger, his plain armor and unsophisticated arms painted across his broad rawhide-faced shield seemed almost glaringly common among the colorful pageantry of the event.  If he felt distracted by the banners and shouting and colors, it did not show in Sir Cei’s eyes.  They were fixed at the far end of the list, where Sir Jinsalan was remounting and rearming.

That first tilt was wild, as Jinsalan’s big chestnut destrier seemed reluctant . . . while Sir Cei’s charger eagerly thundered down the field.  Sir Cei’s simple barrel-helmet slid forward, challenging the lance . . . his huge war shield, he held nearly flat against him, canted ever-so-slightly.  His beefy paw gripped the lance as if it grew from his palm, and the blunted tip never seemed to waver at all once he couched it, without the aid of a rest.  Sir Cei was resolution in human form, galloping against the knight of Stoves like a thunderbolt.

Sir Jinsalan panicked, at the last second, throwing his courtesy shield too wide, actually deflecting Sir Cei’s well-thrust lance up into his own faceplate . . . where it caught.  There was an exaggerated explosion of wood upon steel, and while the blow did not send the knight fully into the dirt, as it had Sir Ewen the day before, it did leave him dragging by one stirrup from his destrier along the list field in a most undignified manner.

Sir Jinsalan (or his uncle, if you wanted to be technical) yielded the bout to Sir Cei and graciously accepted third place . . . which was enough, I hoped, to at least buy him a new helmet.  That was the second he’d ruined in a day.

Sir Cei looked surprised at the victory, but was still feeling his blood run high as Sir Mavoxigan was led into place as his next challenger.  Sir Mavoxigan waited until Sir Cei was grasping the lance when he signaled the herald with a reversed lance: he ceded the entire match.

Sir Cei looked around in surprise and stunned disbelief as the crowd went wild, and the heralds made the appropriate marks on the display board indicating his victory.  Grooms led his horse to the center of the lists in front of the reviewing stand, to claim his lauds.  Baron Arathanial waited there with several of his guests, including the beaming Lady Estret of Cargwenyn.  Sir Cei removed his unscratched helmet and managed a very decent salute with his lance as his charger’s mane was decorated with a wreath of roses.

The Baron came forth, pronounced the results to the cheering crowd, beaming broadly – this had been the most dramatic contest at the lists in recent history.  He congratulated my knight, presented him with the gold-painted rod that betokened his victory, and then presented him with his new bride.

Sir Cei did himself no dishonor when he deftly flung a surprised – and delighted – Lady Estret into the saddle in front of him, and then tore around the list field, waving to the screaming and cheering crowds of all of Sendaria.

“What was all that about wondering if Sir Cei was a man of his word?” Alya asked me in between cheers and a few happy tears.

“That?  Oh, remember when I told you I’d send an emissary to each camp to suggest Sir Cei would be willing to negotiate with the victor for the hand of Lady Estret, should he not prevail?”

“Yes?  Did you bribe them, then?” she asked in disbelief.

“That would have been dishonorable.” I chided.  “Unworthy of a magelord and a member of the chivalry.  No, I had each of our messengers report to Sir Cei’s opponents that he wasn’t so much intent to purchase the hand of Lady Estret, as much as . . . fight to the death for it.”

“What?” she shrieked.

“I just figured it would be cheaper,” I reasoned.  “I figured Sir Jinsalan wouldn’t know what a sharp blade is, as good at the joust as he might be.  The idea of Sir Cei coming after him with a naked sword and anger in his eyes would make him soil himself.  When he heard that Sir Cei was actually having his sword sharpened, and three fresh war lances delivered to the list field, I’d wager he nearly did.”

“But what about Sir Mavoxigon?” she asked, puzzled.  “He doesn’t look the type to back down so easily from a fight.”

“No,” I agreed – Sir Mavoxigon was a professional jouster, but he was also an honest warrior with significant holdings west of Sendaria.  “He wouldn’t back down from a fight.  But he wouldn’t look for a fight he didn’t have to, or couldn’t win.

“He had a firm grip on second place, and he weighed the price of a chance at injury in a second-string fair tournament at the beginning of the season against the value of assuring second place, a whole skin, and an early start toward the next tourney.  It was a good business decision,” I pointed out.  “He made double what he paid to enter, plus token ransoms, and he did all right in the wagering, if I judge him properly.

“So what was all that . . . ?”

“Oh, he had certainly heard about the rumor I made sure he’d heard, that Sir Cei would challenge the victor to a mortal duel.  That’s what he was thinking about when he asked if Sir Cei was a man prone to wild exaggeration.  I earnestly said ‘no’ – and so did you,” I reminded her.

“But I thought . . . I thought he was talking about negotiating for Lady Estret!” she said, finally understanding, “and he thought I was talking about Sir Cei threatening to go on an impassioned rampage!   So when we said yes . . . we were telling him that he was willing to fight even while I thought we were telling him we were willing to deal!”

“It was cheaper,” I reminded her.  “And I made a killing in wagering.  Enough for a handsome gift to the bride and groom – just look at them!“ I said, cheering as they made their second lap around the list, spring flowers falling around them from the crowd.  “That’s the happiest I’ve ever seen Sir Cei!”  With his future wife sitting side-saddle in front of him, he only looked bigger and more imposing on his charger, but that goofy grin softened the effect.

“You . . . are . . . the most devious man I’ve ever met, Minalan the Spellmonger!” my lady wife accused.  “First you remake Sevendor.  Then you reconstitute my people.  And now you have found a mate for our stalwart knight!  Oh, just look how happy they are!” she squealed as they galloped by on their third lap of the lists.  The baby joined her just to be part of the excitement.

“Yes, look at him smile . . .” I nodded, unable to contain my own.  “He won his bride and his fief and now he’s going to be a proper lord in a proper marriage.  The poor bastard doesn’t have a clue what’s about to happen to him. . .”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The Alliance Over Cargwenyn

Sir Cei and Lady Estret did not wed that day, of course, but with the Baron’s permission and blessing that evening they solemnly appeared before a priestess of Ishi, the Goddess of Love, and plighted their troth, binding the agreement with wine, honey, and bread as tradition demanded.  Alya and I both witnessed, as did Sagal, Tyndal, and Sir Festaran.  There were tears and smiles in abundance to feed the goddess’ demand for tribute.

They set a date for late autumn, after the harvest, and I suggested that if they scheduled it to coincide with the beginning of my magical fair, I would be happy to pay the bill for the festivity.  They eagerly agreed, and pledged to meld their affairs together enough to begin the legal process of Sir Cei, Castellan of Sevendor becoming Sire Cei, Lord of Cargwenyn domain in his own right.

I wasn’t worried about him running off with his bride and founding his own dynasty – he knew better than I did how expensive that was, and he had all the amenities of founding a dynasty in Sevendor, without the expense.  And as a lord of his own estate, he was about to understand the importance of those expenses.  Especially a troubled little estate like Cargwenyn.

Lady Estret’s estate was a single manor with attached hamlet, surrounded by three hundred-fifty acres of rough and rocky hill country that was good for little other than hunting, pasture, timber, wildflowers and bees.  Cargwenyn domain had two streams and a pond, sixty acres of marginal grain fields under cultivation, twenty acres of meadow, a few small pastures, four small isolated stands of timber, and the only sanctified shrine to Noapis, the goddess of bees and honey, in three counties.

Cargwenyn hamlet had less than fifty souls within, I learned.  The manor house was slightly more grand than a prosperous peasant’s home, and had no protective wall, just a high hedge and shallow dike.  Two aging retainers were all that stood between Lady Estret and cooking for herself.

Her daughter from her first marriage – little Lady Faresa, a darling little girl with the biggest brown eyes and the waviest dark hair was only four years old and away from home for the first time.  Faresa instantly adopted baby Minalyan as her favorite toy.  Darishi didn’t even seem to mind the “help” when the squealing little girl stopped by our encampment after the ceremony with her beaming mother.

Lady Estret was grace personified as she dealt with the demands of officially meeting her future husband and his household -- but there was no mistaking her enthusiasm and delight.  From that point on she was with Sir Cei as often as possible.  They were both still a little dazed and stiff to each other, formally polite and cautious in their dealings in public . . . yet there was an undeniable and growing affection that was both amusing and inspiring to witness.

Cautiously, they courted at first – gingerly holding her hand while walking, leading her in their first dance together at the celebratory ball that night, the way he awkwardly realized he suddenly had another person to be aware of at all times – but by nightfall, she was lightly in her cups and seated in his lap with great familiarity.

Sir Cei appeared more than a little awkward and uncomfortable in his new role . . . but also clearly still enchanted with his unlooked-for bride.  I got the pleasure of witnessing the expression on his face when he realized for the first time that he was going to be – and legally speaking, already was – a step-father, too.  Alya and I watched the three of them for a while that afternoon as the couple was fitted for new clothes in matching colors.  Red and gold, not black and yellow.  Sir Cei’s colors.

And then that’s when Sir Cei and Alya got the rare pleasure of watching my face as I realized that Cei would no longer be – entirely – my man.  When the paperwork was finished, after their wedding he and his bride would jointly swear fealty to Baron Arathanial of Sendaria.  I read the terms of vassalage myself, just to be sure I knew what they entailed.  I was still new to feudal law but they were straightforward and reasonable.

Sire Cei would owe Sendaria two weeks of military service to His Excellency per year, providing one lance and three archers with the Baron’s option for paid service for an additional two weeks.  He had to provide a hundredweight of honey for the castle every year, twenty bushels of oats in autumn and a pig at Yule.  He was charged with maintaining a stretch of road in the fief, both bridges, and could be forced to yield the contents of his pond to the Baron in a time of siege.  He was to keep the Baron’s counsels, act as his loyal agent upon request, and extend to him (and expect in return) limited rights of hospitality should Arathanial feel like visiting the decrepit old stony plot.

It was intriguing reading over Sir Cei’s rights and responsibilities, too.  He had the power of low justice over his hamlet (free peasants, not villeins, for the most part), the right to charge rents, a charter for the apiary and a separate religious charter for the attached shrine.

That was the first time I’d ever read a feudal religious charter.  Basically, it granted the civil right for Cargwenyn to host the shrine, employ a priest or priestess (Hivebrother? Beesister?), keep records, perform rites, provide religious instruction, all free from Baronial taxation, and granted it exclusivity.  No one else in all Sendaria could legally set up a temple to Noapis, should they be so inclined.  That exemption from taxation also allowed the manor to produce and sell a certain amount of honey tax-free to pay for the upkeep of the shrine.

Baron Arathanial was quite forthcoming about the place to me, the next day when he and Lady Estret appeared at my camp with a young lawbrother to finalize the transfer.  The monk was happy to regale me of the history of Cargwenyn.

The estate had calved off one of Baron Arathanial’s ancestors’ domains, and had been given to a loyal retainer who married an ‘odd’ Lensely daughter a few generations back.  When the lands proved too marginal for much grain, the family had capitalized on the beautiful wildflowers that grew along the ridges of Cargwenyn, and turned to the Blessing of Noapis to survive.

They produced honey of superior quality, and limited supply.  After paying upkeep on the shrine, the surplus had been just barely enough to make up for the crappy land and keep the place going peacefully for a few generations.

Then the beelords of Cargwenyn had lost two promising sons and a score of peasantry in the damnable Lensely dynastic disputes.

The place barely recovered, the line producing a single daughter the next generation in which the domain placed all of its hopes.  Lord Estret’s father had gone into debt to educate her and make her a fit enough bride to attract some handsome (and hopefully wealthy) son-in-law and heir.

He’d died thinking he’d succeeded.  Lady Estret’s first husband was the recognized and ennobled bastard of some Viscount, and he’d set him up decently (enough to buy out the place’s original debt) when he came of age.  They’d enjoyed almost two good years before he was called to Farise by Ducal decree, just like I had been.

He’d died of a fever shortly after his return, leaving Lady Estret in perilous straights: a young orphaned widow with an infant daughter to care for, living in a debt-ridden estate of fifty peasants and a single aging beekeeping priestess.    She didn’t even have enough men to fulfill her military obligation, if invoked, or properly defend the place against raiders.

There wasn’t much else she could do.  All she had was her comeliness, her wits, and the Baron’s rarely-used feudal obligation to secure a suitable husband for her.  Hence, the tournament, where she managed to pick off a genuine knight in shining armor.  Sir Cei of Sevendor.

And he really was starting to realize that he had no idea what the hell he was doing.

The lawyers and the priests took almost the entire day to negotiate the final marriage contract and resulting transfer of title and enfiefment, and it was only my history of enduring Penny’s constant lectures of legalisms that allowed me to keep up.  Alya quickly got bored, so she collected Lady Estret, Lady Sarsha, and a few other stray noblewomen and sensibly went shopping.

As horrifying as that sounded to me – I was paying for the expedition – I also had a tidy sum in freshly-inked letters-of-credit from the Temple of Ifnia.  I mean, how much could they possibly spend?

That left me, Sire Sigalan, Baron Arathanial, and one of his chief advisors – a cagey old Sendari monk of Luin, lawbrother Hamaras the Clever— at odds under the pavilion.  With all that new smoke and drink I’d just procured, and all the lackeys running around doing our bidding, we did what any reasonable group of intelligent men will do in such a situation.  We got blasted and talked politics.

Everyone wanted to know my opinion on Duke Rard’s attempt to upjump himself into a throne.  Then the possible ramifications for my profession, class, and vocation in the future were topics of discussion.  Both the churning war to the west of us and the dogged determination of the Censorate to turn back the sands of time, no matter how bloody that got, preoccupied much of the sober end of our discussion.

But after we dealt with the question of the Eastern Duchies and the Dead God and the certainties of war, we cracked open the fifth bottle and the third pouch of herbs and turned our attention to what I was most concerned with, currently: local politics.

“I will not lie to you, Magelord,” Sire Sigalan sighed, “watching you abuse the Warbird was like a Yule gift from the gods.  The possibility of . . . well, let’s call it an alliance with Sevendor, also pleases me.  Your man, Banamor, he seems to have arranged a lucrative trade that could turn to real industry for my folk, in time.  But that trade is dependent on Sire Gimbal not molesting our precious red mud on the road.  He could find ways to kill the enterprise ere it ever profited a penny,” he said.

“Yes, I heard about that,” snorted Arathanial jovially.  “I’d liked to have seen that.  The arrogant fool.  The Warbird is a fowl we’ll all have to pluck, whether we will it or not.  It is good to see to a common good in a common foe. “  He looked anxious for a moment, as he tried to decide if he’d said what he’d meant to say, then decided he had.  “I am no warmonger, but there will be war in the valley, one way or another.  That strutting cockerel Gimbal is vicious, but his brother is a thug out of fable.  They’ve other brothers and half-brothers too in Fleria, where my kin once ruled.”  He sniffed in a fit of remembered glories his rheumy eyes had never actually seen.

“Bah!  The Lensely line is still stronger than stringgrass,” dismissed the lawbrother.   “Deep roots in the Bontal.  Strong.  Strong enough to bend a few years for a malodorous chicken to strut by, and spring back all the mightier.”

Lawbrother Hamaras had practiced and prayed here all his life, apparently, and was as steeped in the local politics as a man could be – and he was clearly partisan.  I found out later he was descended from a cadet line of the Lenselys himself.   “I tell you true: the portents and omens have been clear.  War will come, but it will be a war that sees the Warbird roasted!” he cackled.

Baron Arathanial, who knew the man of longer acquaintance and was used to what seemed to be a practiced refrain, sniffed dismissively.  “You said that last Fair, Ham, and we stand no closer to driving the Flerians out of Lensely lands.”

“Do we not?  Have the gods not sent us a powerful champion at a critical time?  Is Sevendor not one of the Lensley lands?  Are not our coffers filling robustly, Your Excellency?” he asked, with just the proper hint of obsequiousness.

“War burns profits like cheap smoke,” observed the Baron thoughtfully.  “A year’s worth of labor spent on an afternoon of glory?  Chivalry ascends.   Prudence fails.  Duin’s glory is not worth ruining Huin’s vocation,” he said, making the signs for both the War God and the Earth God.

“Not unless Luin’s wit and wisdom guide,” Hamaras said, persuasively, invoking the Lawgiver.  “Coin spent on Duin’s glory can buy empires, with Luin’s counsel.”  His attitude did not surprise me – the God of Law had always angling for a percentage, it seems.   The old monk continued, “If the shards of the Lenselys’ former glory can be husbanded but a while longer, perhaps enough of a flame can be kindled to reforge it anew . . . if only enough to gut a bird!”  He looked pointedly at Sire Sigalan.  I realized with a start that the old monk was trying to push Sigalan into swearing fealty to the Baron.  I also remembered the issue had come up before.

I could appreciate Sigalan’s perspective – he valued Trestendor’s independence, and even if his highland holding was sparsely peopled, raising the Baron’s banner would buy him obligation with little in return.  Oh, a pledge of aide in a time of crisis, but if that time didn’t happen then becoming part of the Barony gave him nothing much in return for his fealty.  My friend was a prudent lord who thought of his people first: he would not saddle them with more taxes and more obligations for the sake of some imagined dynastic tie.

But I could also appreciate Baron Arathanial’s position.  He had the last solvent piece of a dynasty in his hands, with a couple of nasty neighbors with designs on both his rights and his lands.   The Baron of Bocaraton was always angling to steal the lucrative port of Sendaria away, and did not mind using Gimbal as his proxy.

I was most concerned with Gimbal, of course, but both of the Flerias and their allied domains were starting to throw their weight around the Bontal, from what my new friends were able to tell me.  A friendly challenge at your frontier every now and then is one thing, or even an actual dispute over something legitimate.  But Gimbal and his brutish brother were scheming conquerors, and not half-bad at the art.  If they had not hated each other as much as they did, they might have conquered Trestendor and a goodly portion of Sendaria, too.

But now I was living here, and Sevendor definitely would alter the political nature of the valley.  I suggested as much.

“Perhaps if Duin’s glory, Huin’s labor and Luin’s wisdom cannot see the way, Yrenitia’s light will guide,” I said lightly but decisively as I sipped something citrusy and hard out of my silver cup.  I tend to get dramatic when I have both an audience and a drink., and invoking an Imperial goddess of magic among Narasi lords got a raised eyebrow or two. “Magic is again at play in politics, my lords.  And as you should know, just a spark of it can alter the course of empires.”

Lawbrother Hamaras looked at me unsteadily for a moment.  I don’t know what he’d been drinking, but there wasn’t a lot left.  “Well, unless you can conjure two hundred lances out of your arse, Spellmonger, West Fleria means to take Sevendor’s virtue.  So say the portents.”

“See, that’s why magi dislike the mantic arts,” I said, conversationally.  “Because when you make prophesy, you bind yourself to the fates from that moment.   The fact is any number of things may happen ere Fleria might march on Sevendor.

“Gimbal could die in a riding accident.  Gimbal could die choking on a fish bone.  He could die of pox or fire or flood or his valet’s overbite, if the gods so decree.  Anything could happen.”  Of course I had been trying to make them laugh to lighten the mood.   But since I had their attention . . .  “My lords, where glory and tradition and resources prohibit, magic can sometimes produce the most amazing things, just by existing.

“For example, a small but important bond between houses,” I said, indicating toward Sir Cei under the other pavilion.  “Sir Cei holds no lands from me at the moment, but he swears his sword to me.”

“Aye, and a mighty sword it is,” Hamaras cackled.  “He showed his fitness for the prize on the lists.  Good, strong stock, that westman.  A worthy addition to the shard of Lensely in Lady Estret’s bloodline,” he said, enthusiastically.  “In a score of years I foresee many strong sons, good loyal swords in Sendaria’s defense.  And I hear he knows his letters?”

“He is well-read, for a country knight,” I assured him.  “A capable minister of estates, and an ambitious castellan.”

“So he only steals . . . in the greatest of moderation,” supplied the Baron, to which we all obligingly laughed more than the joke merited.   To my knowledge, Sir Cei was too busy to steal.

“That does bring us back to the matter of this new domain,” I said, smoothly.  “I recall the price the Barony would purchase it back for was . . . three thousand ounces of gold?”

“Ah, that was but a nominal price for the place,” admitted Hamaras, who seemed always ready to discuss business.  “Plus the debt, of course,” he muttered.

“And how much has Your Excellency loaned the domain?”

Baron Arathanial stroked his beard and looked into the air before answering.  “Since our last accounting, Lady Estret has kept her debts to us manageable.  Seven, eight-hundred ounces of gold, I’ve extended her domain.   If the bees hold this summer, her honey festival prospers, and the price the merchants offer her does not fall in the autumn, then your man can be on his feet in two, perhaps three years.  And I would be willing to extend him more credit, if need be,” Arathanial added.

He didn’t looked thrilled at the prospect, but if eighty or a hundred ounces of gold could buy him a reasonably reliable steward of his property, that was not a poor bargain.  Most landholding nobles were used to lending their liegemen money, and sometimes the resolution of that debt could take generations.

I really didn’t want Sir Cei entangled in that.  “I’ll buy out that debt,” I said, simply.

“That’s . . . generous of you,” Arathanial said, studying me thoughtfully.   “Although I actually prefer my vassals be indebted to me.  It keeps them . . . polite.”

“I can see the wisdom in that,” I nodded as I packed my pipe.  “But I don’t want Sir Cei so distracted by his holding’s debt that he cannot manage mine properly.  So I am removing that as an issue.  When I came to Sevendor, I expiated all my subjects’ debt.  I also invested heavily in them afterward, and they have repaid that generosity with their loyalty, their tribute . . . and sometimes their blood.”

“You came to Sevendor a rich man, then?” Sire Sigalan asked, appraisingly.

“Rich enough to keep my domain from starvation,” I nodded.  “My reward for the Battle of Timberwatch.  But most of that is gone, now.  And while I’ll recoup some of it in the taxes my people will pay, I do not begrudge a penny spent in their support and prosperity.  Sevendor is my home, now.  I shall endeavor to make it a good one, for all.  And I aim to help Sir Cei do the same.  If it’s a matter of mere money . . .”

“There’s nothing ‘mere’ about coin,” snorted Hamaras.  “If you can pay off Cargwenyn’s debt, Magelord, that gold can go right to our defense . . . or at least to securing arms.  That might be as good as pulling a hundred lances out of your arse!” he howled, amused at his own wit.  Something told me his buffoonery was affectation for mine and Sigalan’s benefit.

“But I offer a counter-proposal,” I added, thinking quickly.  I remembered what Banamor had told me about the Baron’s vassal in Birchroot, Lord Remeas, and his problem with the bridge.  “I’ll pay off five hundred gold of the debt in cash, with a draft on the Temple of Ifnia.  The balance will be paid by me restoring the stone bridge that leads from Birchroot to Jerune. I have an apprentice adept at stonework, and I shall dispatch him and a team at my own expense to put it right.”

That captured Baron Arathanial’s interest more than I thought it would.  “Ah, and the fact that opening up a strategic road directly into the heart of Sashtalia to me has, I’m certain, no influence on this purely commercial offer?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.

I had no idea the bridge was militarily important, but if a man thinks you’re smarter than you are, it’s rarely a good idea to correct him.  “Why, that had not even crossed my mind, Excellency,” I said, truthfully.  “I merely wished to ensure a goodly quantity of excellent leaf to the region, and help out a friend.  If you went to a regular stonemason the cost would be as much or more as the difference between Cargwenyn’s debt and the five-hundred gold, and this way you have the additional assurance of having a spell-resistant, magically-hardened bridge on your frontier.”

“And one which the Lord of Birchroot would be eager enough to begin collecting tolls upon,” added Hamaras, approvingly.

“Then I shall be happy to accept your offer,” Arathanial said, looking a little more at ease.  I could appreciate his apprehension about my offer.  He already had one interloper on his frontier.  He didn’t need a second trying to win lands within his domain.

“More, I shall make a gift to Cei and Estret, to help them keep their feet under them.  The sooner Sir Cei can fix what’s wrong and throw money at the problems, the sooner he can get back to making Sevendor a fit mageland.”

*                            *                            *

The celebration that night was impressive.  There was a more formal reception held at Chepstan Castle at the end of the Fair, but as grand as the Baron’s fete was, I’d like to think the Sevendori camp was where the real party was.  This was a celebration not just of Sir Cei’s victory, but of his upcoming union, the new alliance with Sendaria that resulted, and the resurgence of Sevendor, all rolled into one.  Once again I spared no expense to honor my Castellan and his future bride, and I think we did a passable job.

Sir Cei and Lady Estret were seated at a place of honor, under a small canopy, awkwardly eating from the same plate and drinking from the same cup.  They got more comfortable with each other as the night went on, and exchanged many small kisses and glances, as if they were both unsure whether or not they were dreaming.

We hired musicians for the event, and a professional team of victualers.  The celebration began with a delicious roast oxen feast and a barrel of ale, climaxed with speeches and blessings and the giving of gifts.  I had Tyndal and Banamor put floating magelights all over the place in different sizes and colors, and I did a passable job of some firework effects after dinner.

Then I spoke to my people.  I congratulated all of the contestants, and even made special mention of Sir Tyndal’s third-place success in the swordsmanship competition and one of my better archer’s accomplishments of taking second in the bow.  Then I went into a rousing (and highly embarrassing) lauding of Sir Cei’s prowess, Lady Estret’s beauty, and the attraction that resulted.  I announced my purchase of Cargwenyn’s debt, much to Lady Estret’s shock and surprise, and then I presented the couple with a draught of a thousand ounces of gold, drawn on Ifni’s temple treasury in Sendaria.

Sir Cei had tears in his eyes as he tried to accept the princely gift, and Estret looked so grateful it was almost painful, but I didn’t mind.  It was only money . . . and money I had won on his efforts, anyway.  I could pay off Baron Arathanial, pay for our entire fairgoing, and afford to give Sir Cei such a grand gift and still ride home with coin in my purse.

At the celebration I felt like a lord, perhaps for the first time.  I started to understand what was implied with that title, what it should mean, and the shame that accrued when the practice of nobility failed to live up to the expectation, as was all too common.

The last few days of the fair we began to pack up and even sent some wagons ahead of us, along with a couple of guards who were already pining for home

There was one other important – to me – event that happened.   I met with several of the spellmongers in the area at an impromptu gathering across the way from a glass vendor.  I ran into Master Andalnam, first, with all of his apprentices and daughters in tow, and collected my commission, which he had sent word was ready for delivery.  Then Master Velenduin arrived to pick up an order in the company of a brother journeyman from Sashtalia, and Master Andalnam could not resist introducing me to his rival.

Suddenly we were a small convention of spellmongers blocking traffic to the glasssmith.  I offered to buy everyone a round, and we ended up retiring to a nearby ale tent to talk shop before we left the fair.   Two more spellmongers who knew Andalnam’s eldest daughter happened by while we were there, I called Tyndal and Banamor in, mind-to-mind, and asked them to bring Festaran,  and soon it was a party.

I outlined for them what the Robinwing Conclave had produced to replace the Bans, and what that would entail.  I also used it as an opportunity to promote our magical fair, tell them about snowstone (and had a few samples distributed) and told them about my dramatic showdown with the Censorate.   I tried to get them enthusiastic about the changes, and I pledged choice spots for all of them at the fair if they pledged to come.  We parted on very good terms, and I felt good about the impromptu meeting with my professional colleagues.  Good professional relations are always a plus.

The ball at Chepstan Castle that closed the fair was grand, and we attended as personal guests of the Baron.  It was a lovely feast, one of the best I’ve attended, and I got to rub elbows with the finest lords in the Bontal vale, and listen to their gossip and bellyaching.

One sight I did not mind seeing was the glowering face of Sire Gimbal; propriety demanded he attend the ball, and he did so at a space respecting his rank and position, but once he’d heard about Sevendor’s back-door alliance with Sendaria through Cargwenyn, he seemed to forget all about the wonderful food and wine and spent the rest of the evening just glaring at us all.

Alya was impressed by the style of the Lenselys, and loved their castle.  We were both introduced to the aging baroness, Arathanial’s wife, who seemed as taken with Alya as any noblewoman had yet been.  I got my share of attention from the noblewomen myself, forcing Alya to intervene a few times when my admirers got too friendly.  We danced badly until long past midnight, and liberally toasted the winners of the various competitions as we enjoyed the comforts, delights, and entertainments of the high table.

Once the honors were done, toward the wee hours of the morning, we poured ourselves into the wagons and slept while the drovers started us on the road toward Sevendor.  Sir Festaran had overseen the striking of our camp and our preparation for departure, and Sir Roncil had turned up, after spending the evening . . . somewhere mysterious, ready to oversee the guardsmen.

I slept until we passed into Sashtalia, only waking up long enough to bid Sir Cei and his betrothed as he went off to inspect his new fief.  Then I passed back out.

I love a good fair.

Chapter Thirty

The Growth Of Sevendor

The week that followed was delightfully uneventful, save for Sir Cei being gone left me running things, and that’s almost never a good thing.  As it was high summer, though, there wasn’t much for folk to do but weed and herd and sit around and watch the crops grow.

And what crops they were!  As spring progressed Master Olmeg’s experiments continued to prosper, from the potatoes and corn to the vegetables, oats, wheat and rye.  The Greenwarden himself looked as content as a pig in slop as he loped around the vale barefoot, wrapped in his mud-stained green robe and mantle and big straw hat, often with a wain or pack mule trailing behind.

Olmeg was the hardest-working mage I’ve ever seen, getting up at dawn and toiling all day, only retiring to his little hut at dusk.  Yet he neither complained or worried about his work in the slightest, seeming to be content to sit with his pipe around whatever fire was convenient at night.

From his tiny hut in Sagal’s Hold, he went forth every day with a new task or project, never hurrying but always moving quickly and with purpose.  Sometimes he took a work levy with him, sometimes just an assistant – one of the Bovali lads, or young Gareth, or the Yeoman of the estate he was tending.

His various stockpiles of clay, sand, pebbles, and various kinds of earth provided his materials, the sunlight and fields his medium, and the additional water from the pond allowed far better irrigation in the western end of the vale as we were getting into the dry months of summer.  The fields of Gurisham, Sevendor, and the nascent Boval Hall were bursting . . . whereas the fields of the Genlymen were respectable but meager compared to the rest of the valley.

The matter of the pond was getting to be a problem, however.  Our deep pond was only a third full, and at the current rate of consumption, if we didn’t get rain soon, at least some our crops would wither before harvest.

Olmeg and I discussed possibly doing weather magic in a rare visit to my laboratory, a few days after I’d returned.  We were debating encouraging a little extra rain over the northern ridge, but neither of us were eager to do so.  Weather magic is messy, that we both agreed.  To my mind, it was easier to just stop up the stream.

Olmeg was appalled at the idea, at first.  Water was supposed to flow in and then flow out – he didn’t mind if it stayed around awhile, but it shouldn’t be stopped.  I pointed out that it would only take a few weeks of constant flow to put us where we needed to be to secure a bountiful harvest.

Olmeg pointed out that the folk downstream would then be deprived of the water they needed.  I pointed out that the folks downstream were not very friendly, and I was not in the mood to accommodate them.  They wouldn’t starve, if their fields failed, not unless their lord was incompetent.  The Greenwarden sighed but agreed.  Even he understood the importance of political necessity.  He took the opportunity to change the subject.

“I’ve been examining the cleared land at the edge of the Westwood, within the snowfall circle,” he said, referring to the zone around my castle that had been affected by the wild spell.  “The trees still along the outer band seem to be faring well enough, particularly the natava,” he said, approvingly.  “Indeed, while the cleared land is poorly situated for crops, I believe we can foster a nursery there, Magelord, that can specialize in particular arboreal crops.”

“Arboreal crops?” I asked, confused.

“Trees, Magelord,” he explained.  “Your folk felled nearly twenty acres of wood.  Should we plant that in, say, weirwood, kirsieth, colosillia, drassillion or red salltry, it is my belief that they would prosper.”

That was an intriguing plan – weirwood was an ideal material from which to craft wands of many sorts, and colosillia trees existed in the Otherworld, as well as our own – a rarity for vegetation, indicating some level of sentience.  Drassilion berries was where the etherically-sensitive drassilix was distilled from.  Red salltry is a distinctive wood that takes enchantment better than any importasta tree, and of course the sap from the arcanely-active kirsieth shrub was thought responsible for the production of natural irionite.

“That thought intrigues me,” I agreed.  “Please investigate – a stand of weirwood alone would be worthwhile.  It would be nice to build a wand I didn’t have to retire after using.”

“It is my belief that the nearly non-existent magical resistance within the snowstone circle will succor the plants, Magelord.  With attention to their nutrients and fertility, a little experimentation and observation, I feel that we can grow a find grove.  And I already have a project going to test some of my theories about it – in a few weeks it will be ready to show to you,” he added with a mysterious smile.

While he was in my office, he also told me that the first of the River Folk had arrived in our absence, and he had begun to settle them on Sagal’s Hold’s northern side, where we’d agreed a burrow would be best situated. The little folk were almost obsequiously happy to be in Sevendor, he reported.

They were already being helpful, he assured me.  As Greenwarden he had put them in charge of removing the nightsoils of the various hamlets, villages and settlements, and preparing beds for planting late summer vegetables and roots.  Their leadership had come to some agreements, and the hybrid tribe was beginning construction of a primitive burrow to house them.

I was intrigued by that, as I had never seen a burrow under construction before.  We spent that afternoon touring the construction site, meeting my new vassals, and distributing presents of useful things I’d bought at the Chepstan Fair.

The burrow was fascinating.  They began by choosing a magnificent old willow tree to act as the center of their new dwelling, and then they began constructing their burrow around it.  Starting with a circular ditch forty feet from the tree, the River Folk proceeded to use willow staves and evergreen saplings to weave what first appeared to be a giant wickerwork string of beads.

Each “bead” was actually a nearly-spherical living or working space, with little round windows and chimneys built in to let in light and let smoke out.  The framework was covered with woven mats of river rushes, which was then cemented into place by a unique mixture of mud and . . . other things.

The outer circle was two-levels deep, with a second story ringing the first, a single file of rooms built on the shoulders of the lower level.  The exterior was braced and then bermed with earth, clay toward the interior and loose soil on the outside.  A simple gate bridged at the top by the upper ring allowed access to the compound.

The River Folk rarely used heavy supporting beams the way we humans did, but as a result the construction could be conducted by both young and old, male and female.  That meant that the burrow was built extremely quickly, with as many as three rooms being completed in a day.  For a burrow of over a hundred, that still meant there were plenty of little brown furry bodies huddled around the willow tree at night.

The peasants of Sagal’s Hold took a dim view of their new neighbors – they were already looked down upon by the rest of the vale, and the inclusion of the River Folk in their manor seemed insulting . . . until the River Folk produced a flask.  Farant’s folk had ever been partial to spirits, and the loss of his still had been disastrous to some.  The River Folk’s reputation as expert brewers and distillers went a long way toward establishing good relations.

Some of the leaders of the burrow, more accustomed to human civilization than their Wilderland cousins, even managed to persuade a few families to come over and help with the “tall people” parts of the construction.  I was pleased with that – hopefully Master Olmeg’s risk would pay off for the vale.

The one who had the strongest objections to the River Folk weren’t the people of Sagal’s Hold – it was Railan the Steady.

Railan met me first thing in the morning in the Great Hall, the day after I got back from my trip to the burrow with Olmeg.  He was dressed finely, relative to his station, a new dark brown cotton mantle fastened at his throat with a shiny brass clip, over a fine woolen tunic and trousers.  His field boots had been replaced with wooden shoes – he looked more like a prosperous merchant than a small hamlet’s reeve.

But Railan was still the same old Railan, even with coin in his purse.  After inquiring politely about the fair, congratulating me on sponsoring Sir Cei’s win, and reporting on the state of his fields, Railan launched into a diatribe.  There were too many Bovali in Sevendor, now.  There were not enough Sevendori in Sevendor Village any more.  There were too many herders and not enough plowmen.  There were too many horses drawing plows, and not enough oxen.

The villeins were skipping their boon-work to make extra coin helping the Bovali build or till or plant.  The number of free men was intimidating to the villeins.  The white soil of Genly was strange and frightening, and while it seemed to grow crops well enough, it discomfited the peasants to grow their food there.

And the Genlymen could not seem to keep out of the Oak Tree Tavern, and their spending there had had a dramatic impact on the folk of Genly.

It seems that the poor widows and villein women of the hamlet had enjoyed the prerogative of selling their home-brewed ale to the people at an iron penny a pint, subject to the approval of the reeve – Yeoman Railan.  The reeve was the one who licensed the ale tasters for Genly, after all, the inspectors who determined that the brew was of sufficient quality for sale.  In return, the reeve received a fee from every widow.  It was one of the few ways that the unfree cottagers could make ends meet: by brewing up a couple gallons of ale and turning their hovels into taverns every couple of weeks.

Only, since the Oak Tree Tavern opened, and with an inn being planned, Railan was quite beside himself: apparently the Genlymen had stopped patronizing the poor widows and their inferior ale, and were instead spending their silver with the Bovali taverner.  The ale at the tavern, the Genlymen had assured, was much superior to the poorly-brewed fare that they were used to getting from their neighbors.

That was bad enough –I had bribed him off about it once already, and wasn’t about to do it again.  But when Master Olmeg brought the notorious River Folk into the vale, Railan nearly accused them of being giant rats.

“They have a horrible reputation, magelord,” Railan assured me.  “The worst sort of trouble, making liquor, growing smoking weeds, stealing, pilfering sheep from the flocks, flooding the market with roots, and smelling to the heavens!  Do you know they take our . . . our . . . our offal?” he asked, scandalized.

“Master Olmeg says they make fertilizer with it,” I suggested.

“Bah!  What base superstition!  Mark my words, Magelord, let these rat-folk into our vale, and they will breed like rabbits!  Soon you won’t be able to buy a ring of wheat at market, or a bushel of barley!  It will be naught but potatoes and beets, yams and turnips!  They’re trouble, these River Folk, trouble!”

I promised him I’d look into the matter.  Then I asked about his compliance with my recent edicts on following the Greenwarden’s guidance on planting, and he quickly changed the subject.

Banamor was just as busy after we returned to Sevendor as Olmeg had been while we’d been gone.  The Spellwarden’s expansive new shop was nearly finished in the northern quarter of Sevendor Village, lacking only the completed tiles for the roof.  The wares he’d ordered from the Fair were quickly filling it up.  It was almost starting to look like a real spellmonger’s shop.

In one corner, I saw when I stopped by for a visit to collect the falohaudi stone he’d lost our wager,  the first shipments of lourdin from Trestendor were stacked in ten-pound bricks.  They were scheduled to go out to the merchants he’d contracted with as soon as he’d searched them diligently for sympathy stones.  The falohaudi were in high-demand and he had orders for as many as he could get, something which preoccupied a lot of his mind and time.

He was also spending a lot of time with young Gareth planning and marking out on the commons the beginnings of our magical fair.  He was also spending a fair amount of his free time at petty enchantment– his specialty.  He presented me the end result of one such spell about a week after we got back.

“Taperwands,” he explained, almost embarrassed.  “They’re birch twigs I’ve been able to conjure a magelight upon.  That’s what I was buying at the thaumaturgic glass merchant, something to make the incandescence permanent, or near enough.  I used to make them for peasant families,” he explained, “to save them from burning lamp oil.  Particularly useful at calving time, and they won’t burn down your croft if you drop it when the cow kicks you.”

To demonstrate he muttered the command, and a magelight the size of a walnut appeared at the tip of the twig.  “Before they always took me half a day to enchant,” he admitted.  “Now with my witchstone, it’s like I’m an Archmage.  I did this lot this morning after breakfast,” he said proudly, showing me a jar of them.  “They should burn for eight or nine hours now, before they expire.  I passed out a handful of them over at the Oak Tree Tavern, and they were a big hit.”

“An impressive feat,” I agreed, after we had tried it out and he had told me the command words.  “And one that adds to the security of my fief.  I’ll order a dozen for the Diketower and Brestal Tower, and pay full price.  It might be useful to have magelight, even if there is no mage around.  Banamor, you are becoming quite the important vassal,” I observed.

“You gave me the chance,” he shrugged.  “So far we’ve taken about six or seven more fully-function falohaudi and twenty pieces that won’t work, but which may have other value.

“But the taperwands?  Those have some real value.   This is the first big enchantment like this I’ve ever done,” he said, proudly, smiling at his jar of magical twigs.  It couldn’t have been easy for a partially trained former footwizard, even with his tiny shard of irionite.  It was rare that those kinds of magi managed to properly enchant anything.  I made mention of that, without trying to hurt his feelings.

“I was as surprised as you, Magelord,” he agreed.  “I didn’t think it would work, at least not that well.  I think it has something to do with the snowstone,” he suggested.  “When I’m closer to it magic is just . . . easier.  Even with my witchstone.  Gods bless me, Magelord, but that stuff may just be more valuable than gold,” he said, sincerely.

“I’m hoping we can sell a fair amount of it at the fair,” I agreed.  “I’ve already had some good reports about it.”   I had taken several pieces with me, just pebbles really, and passed them out to the magi I met at the conclave and at the fair for experimentation.  Lanse of Bune had been enchanted with how it augmented his enchantments.  I’d been too busy myself to give the matter such thought, but I resolved to check in with those High Magi who had gotten some pieces, to see what they had  discovered about it.

I took the opportunity that night to give Alya a gift, the one I’d commissioned from Master Andalnam before I went to Robinwing.  He had finally completed the commission, and had delivered it to me at the Fair, three weeks sooner than promised.

“It’s an enchanted mirror,” I explained as she turned them over in her hands.  “That’s what I was one of the things I was picking up at the glass merchant, that and spellglass.   I know how you worry when I’m gone, and I know that when I’m away I constantly worry about you.  So . . . I took one of the falohaudi stones –the sympathy stones – we’ve found in Trestendor so far, and I had these mirrors enchanted.”

The pieces were about the size of my hand, two murky glass discs with a slight green tint to them.  Attached to the back was a small brass cage that contained half of the falohaudi stone and whatever other components Master Andalnam had included.  Alya studied it thoughtfully.  “How does it work?”

“When activated by the command word,” I explained, “a link is opened between them, and you can see and even converse through them.  We can leave one in Sevendor and I can take one with me.”

“That’s the most bloody useful thing I’ve ever seen magic do!” she said, excitedly.  “I can’t wait to use it!  We can talk all the time, now!”  I tried hard not to think about the horrors of a world where your wife can reach out and call you as easily as if she were constantly standing next to you while I let her hug me in gratitude.

About two weeks after we’d gotten home from Chepstan, Sir Cei returned with his intended bride and a wagon full of honey.

Alya had spent much of that week preparing a chamber for the two, imposing on Rondal to knock a door-sized hole in the old wall between Sir Cei’s chamber and the one next to it, and then cleaning and decorating the place as gaily as possible when news came of their impending arrival.  She also insisted that the Great Hall be properly decorated, wine be prepared, and a special welcoming dinner be made.   I didn’t think we had that many spring flowers in all of Sevendor.

Sir Cei and Lady Estret rode side by side that afternoon, he on his charger and she on a roan mare, trailing a few carts behind them.  I saw she was wearing trousers, not skirts, and boots instead of slippers and rode like a man.

Sir Cei didn’t seem to mind – he had a Wilderlands knight’s sense of propriety about such things, not a Riverlord’s.  They both looked tired but happy, and their affectionate displays from the saddle were heartwarming.  When the entire castle staff assembled in front of the keep to greet them with applause and cheers, Sir Cei looked both pleased and embarrassed at the fuss.

We were able to get to know Lady Estret’s daughter Faresa, who would be living with her mother and soon-to-be stepfather in Sevendor for a while.  She was excited – she had never lived in a real castle before, and we had three days of wild four-year-old running through the Great Hall, up and down stairs, and underfoot, usually trailing a couple of hounds or a kitten behind her.  She squealed adorably when she played, and I was astonished that night to witness her – voluntarily – climb into Sir Cei’s lap and give him a big hug that night.

The knight took it awkwardly, but warmly.  Lady Estret looked enormously pleased, as did Alya.

There was one other big advantage of having Lady Estret around the place, I soon discovered – she was a real noblewoman.  As the days went by and she grew more comfortable in Sevendor Castle, she began to slowly assume the proper noblewoman’s duties she saw Lady Alya wasn’t getting around to.

First and foremost was assuming the role of castle seamstress, and ordering a loom to be built for the purpose of turning wool into clothing.  Ordinarily the noblewomen in a castle produce most of the cloth, but Alya grew up preferring cheese to needles.  I’d seen her attempts at sewing.  They were adequate but un-artful.

I decided to formalize Lady Estret’s role.  It helped that she was universally liked by my people, so much so that I began to fear that Alya might grow jealous of her.  But my sweet wife corrected me of that notion one night as we prepared for bed.

“She’s everything I’m not,” she confessed.  “She’s educated, refined, and skilled.  I’m ignorant, crude, and skill-less,” she said without judgment as she pulled her dress over her head.

“I’ve never been as relieved as when she showed up.  She told me I was supposed to be growing a special flower and herb garden for the castle, that’s one of my responsibilities.  No one told me that.  She also said that our tapestries need to be beaten and racked, whatever that means.  She asked where the lady’s solar was, and I have no idea what one of those even is.  She’s corrected me on a dozen little points of procedure and advised me about running the staff, and I’m so grateful I could kiss her.  Yes, yes, by all means, let her take over some of the castle duties!” she urged.

So I did.  The next day I sought her out in her quarters and essentially gave her the job of being temporary Lady of the Castle when it came to such things.  She was quietly eager for the chance – her standards were high, and she saw plenty around the place that needed to be done.  And she was missing her home, as much as she was growing to love her future husband, so the distractions of her duties were welcome.  As was the coin I agreed to pay her for the work.

It was funny – she, too asked me about Alya’s response, worried about her being jealous of her assuming the Lady of the Castle’s prerogatives, and I assured her that she was not.  I don’t think she believed me at first, but she graciously didn’t say so.  She was always extremely polite and cordial around me and Alya, almost chatty, and only became quiet, I discovered, in the presence of her intended.  She was still in awe of Sir Cei, and never hesitated to tell me so, in private.

“I really don’t know how or why the gods decided to gift me with that man,” she said, as we were concluding our business, “but I know I have done ought to deserve such a boon from Ishi.  Magelord, he is as kind as he is strong, as wise as he is stern, as gentle as he is burly.  And he loves Faresa already, I feel – and she dotes on him.  A widow could not have prayed for a better husband.  Nor could a land have prayed for a better lord,” she added, smiling sweetly, “Or a better friend.  Magelord Minalan, your generosity to my – to our – domain will be repaid, I promise!”

“It’s just money,” I dismissed.  “I am glad to help.  And the honey is, as you have said, magnificent.  The cook has already taken twenty pounds and begun to make mead,” I said, approvingly.  “Besides, from a purely practical standpoint, we need allies, and this tie between Sevendor and Sendaria could be very useful to bolster a future alliance.”

“Such things are above me,” she said, shaking her head, and I didn’t believe a word of it.  “My husband never spoke to me of politics.  Yet I do love my dear cousin, and I see now that Sevendor could become a powerful ally.  I like it here,” she added.  “Things are growing in Sevendor.  And not just your fine crops.  You seem to grow hope and pride here the way most lords grow barley and oats.  I’ve craved that kind of enterprise since I was a girl, and I delight in watching it now.”

The people of Sevendor quickly took a liking to her, too.  The castle folk were wary at first, but her warm manner and friendly smile put everyone at ease.  She had a priestess’ way of gentle persuasion, and she seemed to be able to offer criticism or insight without offending.

She immediately saw what we were trying to do in Sevendor, and she approved whole-heartedly.  When she began convening afternoon events for spinning and weaving and needlework, at first Alya was wary . . . but after attending a few, she started going more often, revealing that it was a delightful opportunity to discuss the events of the domain, learn court etiquette and important history, and, of course, gossip.

I smiled and took my leave to go back to my lab, when one of the castle urchins ran to me breathlessly and told me that a strange wizard was in my chamber.  I thought it was the latest young buck looking for a witchstone, but instead I found Iyugi.

He still looked as rough and exotic as ever, but he had dropped his cloak in the summer’s heat.  The footwizard’s face looked tired and wary, but he stood stock-still in my lab, just waiting.

“Iyugi is at your service,” he said, bowing, when I came in.

My magical spy had returned.  “Have a seat,” I said, offering a stool he took gratefully.  “I was beginning to fear you lost, Iyugi.”

“I have returned with my commission.  First, you asked me to learn the name of the daughter of Captain Arehel, of the Vorean caravel The Blue Lady.  Her name was Dasa,” he said, simply.  He was right.  Arahel had gotten six flagons drunk on seawine when he finally told me the tragic tale of his daughter, Dasa, dead with her mother over fifteen years before.

“That is one,” I agreed, somewhat impressed.

“Next, you request I bring you the name of the lover of Lady Esmara.  The young lady’s name is Flosa.  She is the daughter of a weaver, and she sees the lady at least twice a week when she is in Wilderhall.”

“Well done,” I agreed.  I’d only learned that secret last year, and it was closely kept.  “And the final secret?”

“Magelord, Iyugi tells you that Lady Pentandra has a small bean-shaped mole between the second and third toe of her left foot.”  He said it with utter confidence.  And he was, indeed, correct.  She hated the thing.  I offered to remove it for her once – a simple little spell – but she refused and seemed offended I’d offered.  Women are the strangest creatures.

“Well, my friend, you have completed your task well enough,” I said, digging in my pouch.  “Take this and go spend a day or two at the inn.  Then we can discuss your further employment.  And the granting of Irionite.”

“Iyugi – I mean, I’m grateful,” he said.  “But as much fun as it was discovering those obscure secrets, Magelord, I’d prefer something more . . . meaty in the future,” he said, his wide, dark face wrinkling.  “Indeed, I think I already have something that may prove of interest to you that I heard on the road.”

“And that would be?”

“That Duke Rard will become King of the western Duchies,” he said, warily.  “That he means to crown himself at the approaching Coronet Council at Castabriel.”

“That would be correct information,” I nodded.

“But that was not all of it,” Iyugi said, matter-of-factly.  “The Duke of Merwin is incensed, and prepares an army to march.”

I shrugged.  “I can’t speak to that, but that would be very expensive for him.  And true to form, if the rumors of his temperament are correct.”

“Expensive or not, the world says he prepares.  And lastly, Magelord, while I was . . . skulking about, I chanced upon these rumors: that the goblins of the Kulines are agitating, and consider joining the Dead God.  That dragons have descended in Gilmora and destroyed at least five castles.  And that the Spellmonger has retreated and abandoned the war to the Dead God while innocents die in the breath of dragons.”

Ouch.

I sighed, and reached for the pouch at my waist.  I had brought it with me, in case he had succeeded in his commission.  “All right, Iyugi, you have proven your worth and earned your stone – not the most powerful I’ve given, nor the most sophisticated, but if you discovered those secrets, I doubt you’ll need a more powerful one than this.”

“Subtlety has always been my strength,” he said, shaking his head eagerly.  “But power is a spirit worth drinking with an open throat!”

“And drink it you will.  More than you ever thought possible.  I’ll teach you to bond with your witchstone, and how to use it without undue hazard, before you leave, once you have taken your oath.

“But then I have another mission for you, a mission that is very important to me, personally . . . “

Chapter Thirty-One

Landbrother Mison

I stood waiting impatiently in the shade out in the field in front of the Diketower, as the Sevendori  now called the sprawling wall-ditch-and-tower complex that fortified the entrance to my domain.  The only reason I was in shade was the opaque field of magic over my head that cast a shadow I could hide under, a test of the warmage Beethus’ command over his new witchstone.

Beethus was just as hot as I was, but was so happy with his ascendance that he ignored it to demonstrate his worthiness.  It was bad enough I had to come here in the first place – I didn’t need to bake in this heat.  The weather was unseasonably hot for the late spring – summer was still a few weeks away.  The magical shade was designed to intimidate.  If Sire Gimbal wanted to negotiate, he’d have to bring his own shade.

I didn’t really want to treat with the dislikeable man, but I had been informed that it was considered ignoble to refuse.   This truce talk had been arranged by Landbrother Mison, a monk who tended a small temple to Huin in Sashtalia, but who had grown up in Brestal Village.

He was popular with the peasantry, as most landbrothers are, and the monk preached a humble piety that was popular with the nobility . . . for the peasantry.  He and his brethren  ran a small hospital and school alongside  the temple.   He had requested the truce because he was tired of hearing his pilgrims complain of running afoul of West Flerian troops when they made pilgrimage to his shrine.

The acrimony had turned our frontier into a fortress, and the flow of trade had gotten a lot more expensive.  When the water stopped flowing out of the valley and his fields began to dry up, the lord of the domain on our borders, Sire Motaran of Bastidor, quietly asked Brother Mison to intervene in Huin’s name.

The monk proposed the meeting, offering to act as intermediary in the interests of the temple, under holy offices.  I accepted, of course, because I’m a talkative kind of guy, and I wasn’t stupid enough to go pissing off a popular monk.  That’s almost never a good thing for a noble to do.  Apparently Sire Gimbal understood that as well.

But the Warbird was late, it was hot, and I was getting cranky.

That’s when the first contact came, from Terleman.

Minalan, the gurvani sent two legions raiding into northern Gilmora last night, Terleman’s measured mental tones informed me without preamble.  Over four thousand of them, along with some human turncloaks or Soulless acting as a cavalry screen.  But that’s not the big news.  The big news is the five legions they sent past Kriscuk, past Donveline and past Castle Cryters on the Lumber Road, all of which we figured they would stop to invest.  They aren’t.  They throw just enough scrugs at them to keep them tied to their castles, and they move on south without pause. They’re making more than twenty miles a day.  And the next large target in that direction is Barrowbell.

I thought about the implications of what he reported.  That would be strategically bad, I replied.

It would indeed.  If they take Barrowbell, then all the western riverlands are open to them, and they enjoy a clear path down to the Alshari coast.

That’s . . . I . . . We need . . .  well, don’t let them! I ordered my military commander, impotently.  He chuckled.

That’s going to be hard, he admitted.  But not impossible.  They cleared a thousand lances at Flasalan like it was harvest time, and the battle slowed them no more than a day.  Once they get to the Riverlands, we’re going to have to face them in force, or deal with a lot more than mere raids.

What do you need to stop them?  I knew the answer, but I felt obligated to ask, anyway.

I just need more troops – a lot more.  And some way to keep dragons off of their backs.  We’ve squeezed the locals dry and they’re starting to waver when we go recruiting.  I’ve got more peasant levies arriving at sword point every day from the east, but they aren’t enough. We’ve exhausted the mercenary pool.  We’re arming the refugees and forcing them to fight.  The Ducal troops have yet to depart their southern encampments.   If that column gets to Barrowbell . . .

I know. Disaster.

Barrowbell is in the heart of the Riverlands, one of the jewels of Gilmoran cotton country, where the Lumber Road becomes the Cotton Road, around which sprawls the rich rolling hills and fertile riverlands that produce the prized textile.  It was also one of the largest cities in Castal, and the major overland transfer point between two important rivers.

The strategic importance of the site was seen the moment men laid eyes on it – from the Dreadwell to the Forakine overland it was only around twenty miles, and Barrowbell was ten miles from each side.  It was where the Cotton Road ended, and the great barges left with most of the Gilmoran cotton crop every year.

Barrowbell was always a market town.  it was protected by a massive black castle, called the Market Castle, that  took up the entire low hilltop, the town sprawled comfortably around its base. The road traveling east and west through Barrowbell, linking the rivers, is filled with travelers day and night, so important is it to commerce.  The road is traveled to the point where it’s one of the few places in the Duchies where investment in permanent mage lighting is actually cost-effective.  (Pre-irionite, that is.  Now I could light the whole town up before lunch).

“The Road to Barrowbell” is a kind of idiom in Alshar, as well as a folksong, meaning an unexpected and exciting and often dangerous adventure.  A husband might get home after being robbed and beaten, for example, and claim “I was walking the Road to Barrowbell tonight!”

Can not Barrowbell see to its defense? I asked.  I’d only been in sight of the place once in my journeys, and never visited.  They have to have plenty of folk there who can swing a sword.

The folk of Barrowbell are merchants and artisans and tax counters, not warriors, Terleman said.  They take up arms as they will, but mostly they either flee or continue with business as usual.  We have to send someone strong to see to their defense.  I suggest one of the Censorate warmagi, perhaps Flinatan?  I plan to take a position at Castle Cambrian, sixty miles north, and do my best to screen Barrowbell as long as I can.  It’s not ideal, defensively, but with the number of cavalry I have at my command right now, it should be a sufficient.

I trust your judgment, I told him, but keep me informed.  If they take Barrowbell, then driving them back will be our grandchildren’s job, if we’re lucky enough to have them.

When can we get more troops, Min? Terleman nearly begged.  I can’t hold out with a bunch of foppish Gilmoran gentlemen who only know how to fight each other and a bunch of terrified peasants who have never held a spear.  If a dragon falls out of the sky, they’ll all shit themselves before they can use one.

I don’t have the answer to that – talk to Count Salgo.  He’s in charge of troops.  And any answer he gives you will be wrong.

So when will you visit the field yourself?  A lot of us would like to see you.  Myself included.

I’m getting my house in order, I said, defensively.  Trust me, after Timberwatch I needed a rest.

I’m not denying that, Terleman said.  And I’m not saying it isn’t well-deserved.  I just think we need you.  Or at least want you to be here.

So does my wife.  I understand. I will see what I can do.  But unless you can think of something out there only I can do, I’m probably of more use here, at the moment.  In the meantime, how do you propose to stop the Barrowbell column?

With everything I have.  I’ve got six warmagi in that area already.  I can get a few more there, and maybe they can figure out something clever, if I fail.  But right now the summer looks like it’s going to be a big, ugly, ten-thousand-goblin parade right through the prettiest part of Gilmora.  He sounded mournful.

I got a little irritated, partially because he was absolutely right and I felt guilty about it.  I’ve been doing what I can.  Did I mention the Censorate tried to arrest me in the middle of a fair?  And I’m re-organizing the magical administrative infrastructure of three Duchies?  And the birth of my son turned my castle white and lowered the magical resistance on my domain? Oh, and His Grace is quietly killing anyone who gets between him and a crown?  Look, I know having me there would be helpful to morale.  But we still have foes to the rear, and we still need to develop the institutions necessary to sustain this war.  If you really think one more warmage will make a difference…

No, probably not.  At least not a big difference.  I’ll see what else I can do.  I just thought I’d better tell you.  We need help, and those Castali troops Rard told us he was amassing aren’t going to get here in time.  Not by months.  That is, unless the gurvani take Barrowbell, then they’ll be a whole lot closer.  He ended the spell without further discussion.

Touchy.

But I could see his point.  As I conjured the magemap I was using to keep up with the situation to update it, I realized what Terleman was up against.  The route down the Lumber Road toward Barrowbell was long, and there were literally hundreds of places along the twisty piedmont where a whole legion could hide in ambush.  Once they got to the Riverlands, however, there were few natural defenses, and damn few man-made ones.

The few castles along the way were more toll collectors than defensive structures – people in the mesopotamian region wanted to make money, not fight.  The keep designed to protect Barrowbell was huge, built back when Gilmora was still an Alshari possession.  But as sturdy as the famed Market Castle was, Barrowbell itself didn’t have more than a token garrison.  The town policed itself, and the guards were there to apprehend cutpurses and enforce trade regulation, not defend the town to the death.  There were plenty of nobles in the area, even knights, but Barrowbell was a town of commerce, not war.  The local nobility was skilled at killing each other off in tournaments or duels, but apart from a few dynastic feuds and the occasional bit of raw conquest, they were not adept at warfare.

From what I had been told Barrowbell could likely raise two, maybe three thousand trained fighting men to defend the city, and perhaps thrice more in merchant levies – the guilds of a chartered town were responsible under their charter for raising militia troops in a time of war.  And while a bunch of bakers and shoemakers might not inspire fear in the heart of the average knight, some of the merchant levies were decent soldiers once you put a spear in their hands. Between that and the strength of Market Castle, barring the intervention of dragons, the folk of Barrowbell might just be able to weather an invasion and save their lives, if not their rich city.

And while they might be able to save themselves behind their castle’s walls, but that didn’t mean that they would have won.

If the goblins sacked Barrowbell, the warehouses there alone could supply them for a year or two without having to forage further.  They would be able to amass troops there and strike at any major region of the Riverlands, with the folk of Barrowbell huddling in their castle until starvation forced them to contend with their besiegers.  I suppressed a shudder.  I knew how that negotiation was likely to go.  Into the soup pot.

I was contemplating that ugly scenario when the second call came, from Penny.

Min, it’s me, she said, unnecessarily.  Every stone-to-stone contact has a unique “feel” to it.  It was easier to know who was speaking into your mind than it was to guess who was standing behind you.  I’m settling into my new manor, just outside of Castabriel.  The capital is blistering this time of year, she said, happily.  Penny loves heat.

How did you get a manor?

I’m rich, she reminded me patiently.  Filthy.  So I just bought it.  I can do that now, thanks to you overturning the Bans.  It’s lovely, too, just the cutest little—

Is there a reason for this talk, or did you just want to brag about your excellent taste in real estate? I interrupted.

Yes, there’s a reason.  I have news from the capital.  The Duke has returned from the summer palace at Wilderhall.  He’s managed to raise almost thirty thousand troops there, and another fifteen or twenty thousand north of there, in the Castali Wilderlands,.  They will march – eventually – in support of the troops from the south he is sending . . . eventually.  But he views the encroachment into his new lands with alarm, and he is vexed about it.

Well, at least he’s paying attention.

Not so much attention that he still can’t plan his coronation . . . but that’s going to be difficult if the goblins actually take his capital before he can get the crown on his head.  The whole city is abuzz about the Coronet Council, and word has already leaked out.  His Grace also requested, through Master Dunselen, that the Arcane Orders kindly get off our collective ass and do something about it.

I hope you informed him we’re producing High Magi as fast as we can?  And—

He knows all of that, Min, but he has to ask.  I warned you this would happen back at Robinwing.  The Kingdom is going to ask for our help in response to the dragons, and we’ve just got to have something we can show them.  Otherwise we could be facing a revolt in the middle of an invasion.

The dragons are problematic, but the goblins are the bigger threat.  We’ve been doing all we can, I said plaintively.

We have to find a way to do more.  Min . . . could we ask the Tree Folk for help?

I thought about that for a moment.  It wasn’t a bad idea.

Humanity has always been on reasonably good terms with the Tree Folk ever since the Void spawned us on Callidore.  They taught us about magic, for instance, and they’ve shared a wealth of poetry and literature with us.  According to legend they gifted us with ancient Perwyn, and then when we stupidly sank the island, they let us settle the Magocracy on the mainland.  They had a treaty with the Imperial Magocracy for centuries that kept humanity within its bounds.  More or less.  There was an official ambassador of the Alka Alon at the Court of the Archmage right up to the Conquest.

But after that stunning defeat, the Alka Alon had withdrawn from humanity’s affairs, retreated to their glades, groves, forests and hidden cities, and let us destroy our ancient civilization in peace.  Only recently, since the Dead God had risen, had they taken a new interest in us.

Would they aid us?  I had seen some very brave Alka die fighting Shereul in the most powerful magical battle in history.  They were brave, they could fight, and they knew far more about magic than our greatest Archmagi ever did.

It was clear when I spoke to them about the Dead God: they were afraid of Shereul.

Would they aid us against the goblins who fought for him, though?  Or the dragons?  They might have some answers, at that.  Several of the oldest Alka Alon sagas had various kings using dragons against each other – that’s why they were so interesting.  It certainly it couldn’t hurt to try to talk to them about it . . . would it?

That’s . . . not a bad idea.  When the Alka re-shaped my stone into the witchsphere, they did say I could use it to contact them, at need.  I think this qualifies.  All right, I’ll do that as soon as I deal with this idiot and get back to the castle.

What idiot?

I suppressed a groan. I hadn’t meant to mention my troubles to her.  Nothing important, just a dispute with a neighbor.

The last thing I wanted was Penny’s advice on this.  Her family had managed lands (even though the active magi in her family could not technically own them) for hundreds of years, and Penny took an aristocratic approach to such things.  Hearing that I was in a scrap with the Warbird over my tiny fief would have amused her . . . but it would be embarrassing.  I was the Head of the Arcane Orders and the first High Mage, and . . . I should be able to handle this.

Min, are you having problems?

Nothing I can’t handle.  I’ve got bigger things to think about.  This would be a pleasant distraction if it wasn’t for the heat.

I had to try to maintain tight control when I spoke to Penny by mind, because increasingly as I was playing with my son these days, I had been wondering about his possible half-sibling that should be being born around now, and I knew Penny knew at least some information about where Isily, the shadowmage assassin who was working for Duke Rard, was hiding out.

I had not brought the subject up with Penny because she didn’t think I knew, but every time I was speaking with her through the stones there was a danger she’d be able to pick up on my unasked questions and determine the subject.

Look, this has been very productive, but my squire has signaled that the idiot I’m supposed to be negotiating with has finally arrived, so we need to finish this later.

Your squire?  You’re taking this whole Knight Mage thing pretty seriously.

He’s not officially my squire, he’s just the newest young warmage to be tested for gaining a stone.  I like to work them a little bit before I just hand one over.  A few days in service to a Magelord helps give them exposure and practice.  Nice kid, named Beethlus, from somewhere in Wenshar.  He’s more than qualified, though, and I just gave him his stone last night.  I’ll be sending him along in the next few days.

I’ve been thinking of taking an apprentice lately myself.  If I can find a worthy one.  I take it such a candidate would be high on the list for a witchstone?

Why, Penny!  Are you going to abuse the sacred trust of your position to advance your personal interests?

That’s really my only motivation for having a position, she pointed out.

I can’t argue with that, I admitted.  But I’ve got to go.  My neighbor just showed up.  He doesn’t look happy.

You have that effect on people, she commented, and then ended the connection.

“Magelord?” asked Beethlus, earnestly.  “Are you all right?”

“Communicating stone-to-stone.  Order business.  You’ll get used to it soon enough.”  I looked up at the far end of the field where some project of Master Olmeg’s was growing.  I had no idea what it might be, but it was starting to look less like a vegetable garden and more like . . . well, a very poorly tended shrubbery garden.

Whatever the enchantments my Green Mage had used had the saplings and shrubs leaping up out of the ground and the ground-cover advancing like it was marching.  He had politely requested an inspection tour of the project tomorrow, and I looked forward to hearing why he had planted so extensively in such an unlikely place.

The West Flerians took no notice of it, thankfully.  A column of nine, all armored and arrayed for war, followed a monk on a mule.  It was a coin toss as to which looked more irritated.

Landbrother Mison was dressed in his homespun brown robe, a silver plow embroidered on his breast.  He was bald – or wore a tonsure – and rode with his hood up to protect his pate from the sun.  He bore a staff with a white flag on it, and when he dismounted he spoke a prayer before settling the staff into the ground.

“Magelord Minalan, I come bearing a peace proposal,” the middle-aged monk began.  ”With your permission, I invoke the Peace of Huin on this place, for this time.”

I took out my mageblade and stabbed it into the earth.  “Until you depart in peace, landbrother, I will observe the Peace of Huin,” I said.  Beethlus likewise stuck his sword in the earth – he was the son of a Wenshari lord, and was familiar with the Landfather’s Truce.

Sire Gimbal, Sir Bromul, and their knights filed in behind them – including Sire Motaran, the lord of Bastidor, who looked at me grimly.  One by one they agreed to hear the proposal in peace, and sheathed their swords in the earth.

“Now, let’s get down to the business of restoring the life-giving waters to their proper state.  Magelord Minalan, the terms I deem most fair, and those which Sire Gimbal and his vassal have agreed to, include you releasing the waters of the Ketta to flow in their natural course, at their natural rate.

“In return, Sire Gimbal declares under the sight of Huin and the rest of the gods that he will cease harassing your frontiers, he will return the tolls through Bastidor and his other domains to their normal rate, and that he will stop pursuing the contested land of Brestal Vale.  This peace would hold through the harvest, at which point the two of you may invoke Huin’s – and my – oversight of a more permanent solution.”

I considered.  Clearly the monk had worked hard to get Gimbal to agree to this, and the fact that he was here at all bore testament at just how much my damming of the Ketta was costing the folk of Bastidor, and further downstream.  I could tell as much by looking at the face of its lord, Sire Motaran, who seemed awfully anxious that his liege would mess this negotiation up.

“I suppose, for the love I bear the god Huin,” I said, although I barely thought about the Landfather, “I will accede to these terms.”  There was a look of palpable relief on Motaran’s face, and Brother Mison quickly unfurled the scroll with the details of the agreement, and offered to read it to me if I did not have my letters.

“I’ll sign and seal it,” I assured him.  “I trust you on your word, Landbrother.”

Sire Gimbal stepped forward and also signed it, and then we both appended our seals: his with the traditional lump of wax, me by magically altering the paper to draw a stylized snowflake over my signature.  “I do hope this means we can put this behind us,” I said, with false friendliness, when the deed was done and Landbrother Mison prayed over the scroll.

“Until harvest, Spellmonger,” the man growled, and pulled his sword out of the dirt with open disdain for me before he stalked off to mount his horse.  Sir Bromul witnessed his liege’s signature, as did Sire Motaran, before they each picked up their swords and joined their master without further discussion.  The others followed suit.

The monk, on the other hand, didn’t seem in a hurry to go.  Indeed, the moment they were out of sight he stretched and yawned and sighed happily.  “Oh, Huin’s sweaty sack, good riddance!  I had to endure that man’s company for two days to get him to come here.  I’d rather pull a plow through broken glass.  So you’re the Magelord everyone is so worked up about,” the monk said, eyeing me thoughtfully as he rolled up the treaty scroll and shoved it in a pouch on his mule.  “A bit younger than I expected.  Thought you’d have a long white beard.”

“If I had to wait much longer for the Warbird, I might have.  I was growing older by the minute, and more parched by the second.  Can I invite you inside for a cool drink of ale, Landbrother?”

“The gift of Huin,” he nodded, smiling, “Blessed is his name, blessed his drink.  It would be rude of me to say no.”  I escorted the man through the gates, my apprentice High Mage following dutifully behind me.

Brother Mison was shocked at the rapid progress that had been made in Sevendor, starting with the Diketower that had seemed to spring out of nowhere, to the re-occupied site of Brestal Farms – now known as Boval Hall – to the improvements we’d made to the road and bridge to Brestal.

“I confess, I would have passed right by the vale, had I not known it was behind that wall.  Amazing!  And the things that I’ve heard from the people, the wonders you have wrought . . . dear Huin, your crops are magnificent!  Are they the product of magic?”

“They’re mostly the product of knowing what kinds of grain prosper in Sevendor’s clime and soil – for that I have Master Olmeg, my Greenwarden.  But he does use a few spells in his work, at need.”

“I don’t mind telling you, Magelord,” he said, as he followed me into the tower’s guard room, where I had a earthenware bottle of ale waiting, “that Sire Gimbal, he’s a nasty one.  He only consented to the agreement when poor Lord Motaran came to Fleria and begged on behalf of his people.”

“I have no quarrel with Motaran,” I agreed.  I’d only met the man once before, at the Chepstan Fair, but unlike his master he’d struck me as a reasonable sort.  Like Festaran’s father, he was a decent man who was making the best of being a vassal to a poor lord.  “And I hated to make his people suffer, but the truth was, we needed the water.  I’ve built a pond, and had to fill it.  It was but a few weeks; worth,” I dismissed – although I knew how critical water could be in agriculture. “I suppose I should fix that now.”

The reservoir was now almost half full.  I mentally contacted Tyndal, who was on station in Sevendor Village, and instructed him to open the sluice.  “And now I have fulfilled my part of the treaty.  The Ketta flows again, as you will see in a moment.”

“In truth, I was pleased that you found a way to resolve the dispute without further recourse to arms,” he admitted, taking a seat as I poured the ale.  “The land needs water to sprout seed – not blood.  An innovative approach,” he said, approvingly, before blessing our beer.  He took a sip with obvious delight.  “It’s been two years since I’ve been here, and the last time Sir Erantal tried to have me thrown out.  Whatever demons you might be in league with, this member of Huin’s clergy is convinced you did the vales a boon.”

“It was a pleasure.  And feel free to tarry in Brestal as long as you’d like – as well as Sevendor.  In fact, we have a man who wishes to take orders under the Plow in the new village.  Would you consent to examine him, and if he is found ready, ordain him?”

“A Sevendori?” he asked, surprised.

“No, a Bovali.  Goodman Tevram, a widowed freeholder too lame to plow himself.  But he began studying last year with a monk of Huin, and I would consider it a boon if he were ordained in your order, as he desires.  I’ve even gone so far as to dedicate a temple, a cot, and three acres to his upkeep.  And of course,” I added, “I’ll pay his ordination fees.”

Landbrother Mison looked pleased.  “Why, I am always happy to bring another brother to the Plow!” he said, slapping the table earnestly.  “And we haven’t had so much as a shrine in this vale in memory.”  He stopped, and suddenly looked concerned.  “I do hope you realize that this will not be able to sway me in judgment, should you and the Warbird quarrel again.”

“It’s for my own selfish desires to have the people of Sevendor and Brestal ministered to by competent clergy.  There were few records kept in the villages, and almost as few in the castle.  My folk need someone to tend their rites, marry them, bury them, and help them tend their fields.  And I don’t need to bribe a monk, when my cause is just.”

“A noble and virtuous attitude, Magelord.  Then I would see this man of yours, and speak to him of taking orders,” he agreed, “after a few more cups and the exchange of some news.”  He was interested in all that had happened in the vales since my arrival, and asked about several of the Brestali and a few of the Sevendori.  As the second cup passed his lips, he began listing the deficiencies of Sir Erantal in language not usually associated with the clergy.

One particular item of note came up when the monk was finishing his third mug of ale.

“Under the discipline of my order, I cannot part in any dispute between noble houses,” the landbrother said, cagily, “and anything told to me in confidence is, of course, held in trust.  But I do think you’re a wise man, Magelord.  And you have greatly benefited these people, whom you owed nothing to.  Such grace is rare, particularly among the nobility.  So I don’t feel amiss mentioning that while Sire Gimbal had me cooling my heels at his castle, I couldn’t help but notice that there were other visitors.”

“Others?”

“Two gentlemen.  I’m just a simple rural monk, but I had the distinct impression they were there on business.”

“What sort of business?” I asked, curious.  What was Brother Mison getting at?

“I know not, Magelord – as I said, I am a simple rural monk.  Interfering in the realms of Duin and Luin is proscribed by my order.  But I couldn’t help but note how stylish they were dressed.  From the cut of their clothes, I would guess that they were late from Remere.”  He fixed me with a pointed stare.  “Their checkered cloaks looked particularly dashing, on such stalwart-looking gentlemen as they.”

That news created a sour taste in my mouth.  “Checkered cloaks you say?”

Landbrother Mison nodded, meaningfully.  “And richly appointed.  Why, they nearly  jingled at the amount of coin they seemed to carry.”

That was important news.  It’s rarely a good thing when your enemies start conspiring against you.  If the Censorate could not come after me directly, I knew they were more than willing to fight me by proxy.  And they had the money to do it.  The most I could do was count on Sire Gimbal’s greed and surliness to alienate the Censorate, or the Censorate’s high-handed ways to irritate Sire Gimbal.  Either or both were likely . . . but would it be enough to keep them from adding their strength to one another?

Brother Mison and I made small talk, during which time I realized just why the monk was so popular.  He always seemed to be on your side, and he acted as if he had nothing but your best interest at heart.  He genuinely believed in the god of the land, and he believed in the instructions of his order whole-heartedly – but that did not keep him from being a shameless gossip.

In my case, I felt as if the monk actually did have my best interests at heart.  The improvement of his kinfolk’s lot in life was more than enough to convince him of my good intentions, and he approved of the respectful way I spoke of the villagers, both villein and free.  I got the distinct impression that if there was anything he could do to favor Sevendor, he would.

To prove his convictions, even before he set off to see his kinfolk in Brestal, he asked to meet our candidate for ordination – Brother Mison revealed that he would enjoy having more priests around, especially at plow time, to keep up with the benedictions and blessings.  And having one tend a shrine in his homeland was particularly pleasing.

I escorted him to the cot behind the unfinished shrine, where I introduced him to Goodman Tevram.  The two men immediately set to discussion of things divine, and Brother Mison agreed to begin his examinations the next day.   Once done, I called Beethlus, who had been waiting patiently and improving the Diketower’s magical defenses while I had spoken to the monk.

“Yes, Magelord?” he asked, eagerly.

“I have a task for you, your final examination before I release you to the Penumbra,” I sighed.  “I wish you to stealthily follow Sire Gimbal, and discover the identity of two recent visitors of his.  Then I wish for you to gather as much information as you can about whatever arrangements they made with Sire Gimbal.  And just to give you some notice, the gentlemen in question were wearing checkered cloaks.”

The young Wenshari warmage’s eyes widened, and then narrowed in anticipation.  “I shall be delighted to fulfill your quest, Magelord!” he agreed, and then went to beg a horse from the Diketower stable.

I stopped back at the shrine myself, before I continued on toward the castle, just to take a look inside.  Unfinished and as rude as a villein’s hut, the shrine nonetheless was decorated with spring flowers and sweet-smelling herbs.  A stylized plow made of wood had been set up on the altar, along with the elements of the sacraments of Huin.  Offerings of barley and wheat and oats stood in small bowls – Tevram would add them to his meager allotment, later.  Being a monk is rarely a life of plenty, even for those who oversaw the spiritual needs of the farmers.

It was a hopeful sign, however, that the shrine was so well attended.  The folk of Boval Hall were investing in this new land, even as they pined for their old.  Being willing to share their rations with the man – and the god – demonstrated just how committed they were to beginning life anew in Sevendor.

I stopped and offered a prayer to the Earthlord, though I knew few of his standards.  My folk were devoted to Briga, the Flame That Burneth Bright.  But every baker respects those who grow the grain they bake.  And I was feeling particularly thankful, just then, for no particular reason.

The Ketta was already flowing steadily again, when I crossed it on my way back to the castle.  That seemed like a sign from the god, even though I knew why and how it had been restored.  I chose to take it as a good sign.  I could do that.

Magelord’s prerogative.

Chapter Thirty-Two

High Summer In Sevendor

High summer was gorgeous in my valley.  After Brother Mison’s agreement to the ordination of Brother Tevram, after due examination, one might suspect the god of the fields had something to do with it.

But it helped that Olmeg the Green’s wildly successful cropping experiments had – almost uniformly – paid off with a handsome dividend.  Already the first fruits of the harvest were appearing in the market, and everyone looked forward to a very, very busy autumn harvest.

Since most of the peasantry didn’t even know how to harvest some of the new crops, Olmeg was particularly busy instructing them, while two separate crews built new granaries and warehouses in Sevendor Village, Gurisham, and even in Genly to contain the surplus.  Last winter’s lean times looked gone for good.

The valley smelled rich and fecund, and from my tower at dawn that morning I could see across all the way to Matten’s Helm.   I had enjoyed the cool part of the day so much that after breakfast and a pipe I had sketched it from my rooftop vantage point – but my scratches on parchment just could not do nature justice.

But by noon the heat had set in, and rose a shimmering haze over everything.  Only the inconstant breeze was cool enough to keep folk from suffering while they worked, and thankfully the white-rocked walls of the pond seemed to suck the heat out of the place like real snow, keeping the water cool.

By the time I rode out past the Diketower, however, the heat bore down on us like a hot rain.  Even with an opaque disc shadowing me and Traveler the whole way, I felt like stripping off my tunic and riding bare-chested, or better yet, stopping at the pond for a dip and a glance at the naked peasant girls before heading back to the castle.  If Master Olmeg hadn’t requested this audience I would have found a gracious way to bow out.

Master Olmeg was always busy, of course, but he took a day off from his other work to show me a project he had been preparing for a while.  Now that he had his witchstone, he was eager to learn to use it, and his first big practice piece, he explained, was an Enchanted Forest.  He didn’t tell me at first, though, as he wanted it to be a surprise.  He just asked to meet me at the Dike, so I did.

Since our last frustrating encounter ended with a nominal resolution, the Warbird hadn’t hired any other mercenaries to plague our frontier . . . but that didn’t mean travelers to Sevendor were safe.  Nor were my borders secure.  My student warmagi had made a career out of learning all of Gimbal’s secrets, including where his “bandits” made their camps.

While under the terms of the treaty they should be withdrawn from their pickets, I wasn’t going to depend on the strength of a piece of parchment to keep Gimbal’s ire from Sevendor.  Those “bandits” would still ply the roads, if I was right.  They wouldn’t try to rob a large group, of course, or a well-armed one, but a peasant, artisan or footwizard alone or in small groups was in danger.

I’d been having my warmagi-in-training slowly but surely make a detailed analysis of all of Gimbal’s castles, across his domains, from the meanest manor house to his own uninspired pile of rocks.  Every time I sent one of them on their graduation mission, I’d gotten a wealth of information in return.  I could have sent my own men against each of his outposts, but I really had better things to do – and why waste the talent?   After several weeks of good spying, good scrying, and good intelligence, I had a better idea of how Gimbal’s small realm worked than he did.

I rode up to the Dike and through the gate – we had a proper wooden gate now, thanks to Tyndal’s facility with woodworking magic and some determined carpenters.  The smith was working furiously on crafting huge iron hinges for the things, but until then they were held up by a thick knot of leather.  It wouldn’t withstand a determined assault, but it was better than the wide open space I’d ridden through last fall.

Master Olmeg was already beyond the gate, waiting for me, wearing his light hemp cloth green robe and straw hat, a big cow horn hanging from a baldric from one shoulder, placidly leaning on his staff and smoking his long pipe.  I dismounted, let Traveler graze, and warmly greeted my Greenwarden.

“So, what commands your attention so greatly?  And gives you cause to command mine, Master Olmeg?” I began, after an exchange of pleasantries.

“Magelord, I have undertaken a small side project to contribute to Sevendor’s defense,” he said, simply, in that too-deep voice of his.

“You’re picking up a mageblade?” I asked in surprise.  He frowned.

“No, Magelord.  My strength is not in my arms, or in arms at all.  Yet there are other ways to defend.  Pray follow me, Magelord.” Olmeg started walking, and with his long legs it only took two strides before he was out in front of me.

“What . . . is that?” I asked, pointing to a bunch of new plantings in the fields a few hundred yards beyond bowshot from the wall.  “I saw it yesterday.  Kind of a strange place to plant an orchard.”

Master Olmeg smiled, his big lips splitting his long black beard.  “Magelord, that is intended to be an Orchard . . . of Doom.  More precisely an enchanted forest, defensive in nature, to discourage the casual interlopers who have been harassing our frontiers.”

I was intrigued.  I had been thinking about local defense in terms of fortifications and fields of fire, entry points and areas of contact.  Lances and archers.  Men and spears and bows and gates.

But Master Olmeg had wisely considered the problem from the enemy’s vantage point.  Ordinarily, one would want the approach to a strongpoint cleared of underbrush and trees to deny your attacker places to shoot from cover – one determined sniper with an arbalest or bow could discomfort a patrol for hours.

Master Olmeg’s design gave the illusion of cover, but made every step further through the scrub more dangerous and annoying.  He had imported a number of saplings from the south and there were several new grasses and shrubs newly planted or sprouted . . . and with Master Olmeg’s ability to encourage growth, augmented with his sliver of stone, the plants were aggressively taking hold in the foreign soil.

“Closest to the road are five rows of razorgrass and hawthorn, mixed every few feet with a fruit sapling known to the wise as Taureen’s Slick Apple or, more commonly, bloatfruit.  They won’t be mature for another few weeks, but when these fruits,” he said, gesturing with his massive arm, “are ripe, they’ll look juicy and appealing, the perfect sort of thing for a hungry soldier foraging.  The first bite is palatable . . . but by the time it hits his stomach, it begins to fizz and produce gas until the poor soul is bloated and unable to move.”

“Classy,” I said, approvingly.  “And those?” I asked, moving a few more rows away from the road.

“Stranglevines,” he chuckled, just a little more viciously than one expects in a botanical mage.  “They don’t actually strangle, often, but they entangle effectively . . . and their sap creates a nasty rash.  Oh, and during their flowering period in late autumn they attract sleepdiggers.  Any snipers sitting out here for more than a few hours are going to regret it.

“Those larger saplings, the furthest away, are Waveboughs  They’re a deciduous evergreen variety from Gilmora, lovely tree.  They don’t do anything, directly.  But they are very sensitive, and if you should chance to trip on one of their delicate, wide-spread roots, it pulls through the tree and shakes the boughs, rotating them just enough to turn them from green to gray.  The Gilmorans use them to ring their piggeries to keep track of any strays, but I always thought they’d be ideal for something like this.  At the base I’ve planted blackberry bushes – also popular with the sleepdiggers.

“And over there, those long thin gray trees, those are going to be the eventual home to a number of truly nasty and frightening beasties,” he grinned, gently.  “I’ve got them heavily enchanted for growth, watering them twice a day and ensuring proper fertilizer.  By this time next year, they could be a foot thick.  And those are Gallows Oaks.  Are you familiar?”

I shook my head, mystified.  “They certainly look like something you’d hang someone from.”

“By design,” he agreed, lighting his pipe.  “They were bread in the Late Magocracy in southern Merwin, among the great Magi of the day.  They would plant them in the center of a village they owned to dominate the peasants.  It had plenty of good strong boughs for hangings, of course, but that wasn’t the primary purpose.

“The Gallows Oaks take certain kinds of enchantments very well, even while they’re alive.  In particular, if one knows the art, one can inscribe ‘faces’ on them, implant them with the proper artifacts, and thereby eventually see and hear what happens in proximity of the trees.  Particular in conjunction with sympathy stones. A useful tool of espionage,” he reflected, thoughtfully.

“And they have other uses, too.  Carrion birds and birds-of-prey delight in nesting in their boughs.  Several types of arachnids and insects prefer its loamy roots.  Scavenger beasts of all sort congregate nearby, to clean away the offal.  If one wanted a proper gibbet, these would suffice.”  I had always been squeamish of such displays myself . . . but that was before I was a Magelord, trying to rule my own domain.

“This is an amazing idea, Master Olmeg,” I said, nodding.  “Once more, you not only have not failed me, you have surpassed my expectations.  How long until your enchanted forest is . . . deadly?”

“I wanted to hurry that along,” he admitted.  “Some of these varietals won’t be ready for a few years, even with growth enchantments and plenty of water.  So to add a few more immediate obstacles, I . . . gave our future snipers good, secure places to hide behind.”

“That’s rarely considered a strategic advantage,” I observed, doubtfully.

“I had five boulders set up in perfect position, just outside of normal bowshot,” he explained, “with good solid cover in front of them.  Just the place where you would want to set up a good place from which to shoot at people.

“But once they get settled in, a few things happen: suddenly, the dry ground under them isn’t very, and the soft and comfy foliage they’re hiding within will start to itch.  Poisons Ivy and Oak.  That won’t be an issue for a few hours, of course, but most snipers like to sit around awhile before they start shooting.”

“That still allows them to start shooting,” I pointed out, figuring the distance fro where we were in the field to the wall.

“Not for long,” Olmeg said, smugly.  “Each of these ‘safe’ hideouts is actually very well known to our archers, by now.  Each boulder is equipped with an enchantment to draw arrows like a flowers encourage bees.  Any idiot stupid enough to stay here for more than one shot is going to get peppered.  Watch,” he said, raising his big horn to his lips and blowing two distinct notes.

“Here,” he said, his big hand pushing me back about three feet without the slightest effort.  “Watch,” he repeated.

In moments, a flight of six arrows landed within a handbreadth of each other behind the stone fortification, puncturing any fictitious archer thoroughly.   “But I thought we were out of bowshot?” I asked.

“Of those local bows, surely.  But your Bovali are using those heavy Wilderland bows.  They have another forty or fifty feet of range, when fired properly, and with a bit of enchantment, we can hit each of these advance spots quite nicely.”

He went on to explain plans for importing some more exotic flora and fauna, showed where he had the lads put together some booby-traps, future defenses he’d like to add, once the forest was well-established, that sort of thing.

I was tickled by the prospect, and expressed my pleasure at his foresight and vision.  I’ve been in real enchanted forests – that’s pretty much the definition of any place the Tree Folk live – but growing one from scratch as a means of discouraging unfriendly neighbors made me pleased beyond reckoning.  Magic in the service of the people, just the sort of thing I was trying to encourage.  The fact that it would make Gimbal’s life more difficult was a pleasant bonus.

The future Enchanted Forest ran along both sides of the road for nearly half a mile, deep into what was, technically, West Flerian land.  It spread back from the road about a hundred yards, and I could see how, eventually, it would provide an effective deterrent to interlopers long before they got within bowshot.  I gave Master Olmeg a bonus of a full ounce of gold on the spot.  The Greenwarden was paid a salary, and was entitled to eat from the castle kitchens on demand, but work like this deserved instant praise and reward.

As I was riding back toward the castle, after stopping at Boval Hall and having lunch with Brother Mison and his new pupil, just passed Gurisham I came across young Gareth trudging along the road like any peasant – only instead of a hoe or shovel, he was bearing a long pole to the end of which was tied a thin glass rod about nine inches long – a sastivator.  He saw me and stopped to hail me as I rode by.

“Ho, Magelord!” he called in his wheezy voice.  I reigned to a stop.  I hadn’t spoken much to Gareth since he had failed my test for a witchstone – I had been busy, and he had continued his studies under the other magi in the vale.  He didn’t seem to resent his failure – indeed, I think he was relieved he would not be trying himself against the goblin onslaught.  I doubted he could try himself against an onslaught of kittens.

Gareth had no illusions about his physical capabilities, but then he had none about his magical ones, either, which were profound.  Better, although young, he was turning into a cracker-jack thaumaturge.  The sastivator was an indication of that.

“So what are you off to, Gareth?” I asked, as Traveler came to a stop.

“I am taking readings, Magelord,” he replied, proudly.  “At Sir Rondal’s suggestion, I have been taking daily readings of etheric density in specific sites and recording them.”

I nodded – that was extremely foresightful of my apprentice, although I would have expected him to conduct the research himself.  “And what have you discovered?”

“That the preternaturally low etheric density in western Sevendor is indeed the lowest recorded . . . anywhere.  In history.”

“Really?” I asked.  “I mean, I’d guessed as much, but . . .”

“No, Magelord, it really is that low.  For all practical purposes, there has been a steady, extremely low density here since Yule.  That’s important,” he reminded me, “because so many spells depend on – or are limited by – the local etheric density.  An area this big, with a density this low, is unique,” he said, confidently.

“So . . . how did I do it?” I asked the young mage.  He looked at me, perplexed.

“Magelord?  What do you mean?  You were there, if you don’t know then . . .”

“I was asking for a theory,” I corrected.  “Or at least speculation.  Why would the birth of my son make all the silica transform?  Your professional opinion,” I added.  Gareth had graduated from Alar Academy, in Wenshar, before he had been sent to me as someone’s idea of an experiment.

Gareth gave it some thought.  “Well, if I had to guess . . . I would say that the three-way dynamic nature of the birth, combined with the abundance of power available to you provided the means, and the subconscious fears of a magically-sensitive child and a panicked mother induced the resulting transformation.   Think about it,” he said, as casually as if we were students after class, “if the child was sensitive to magic, then the trauma of birth would likely inflate the subconscious desire to flee from the source of the disturbance.”

“That’s why he didn’t want to come out,” I nodded.  “But then . . .”

“Then you intervened,” he agreed.  “You used the Morath sigil,” he said, meaningfully.

“So . . . what’s so special about the Morath sigil?” I asked.  Yes, I’m a thaumaturge.  No, I do not know all the secrets of the universe.

“The Morath sigil,” Gareth lectured, informatively, “was originally crafted from a similar Alka Alon cognate spell.  It is a dividing spell, an unbinding, but it isn’t as brutish as most others – indeed, it is among the most subtle.  Because it seeks to alter reality at the level of the atomi, themselves, not merely hack a thing in twain.”

“I’ve just always found it useful for stuck doors, or gates,” I mused. “And thaumaturgy, of course.”

“So my theory, Magelord, is that somehow your baby, your wife and you all entered into a temporary gestalt, during which the abundance of power and the baby’s instinctive reaction to being threatened with a high-density area in which to . . . be born,” he said, taking a breath, “leads me to conclude that the Morath sigil, combined with some element of wild magic from the baby and the overabundance of power, was able to transform the silica into a substance that, in effect, negates etheric density in any one place.  As the Morath sigil is a scalable sigil, and there was an exponentially high level of power available, the transformation effect would naturally be wide-scale.  Affixing to one of the more abundant, stable lesser elements like silica would be a good way to saturate the area with a low-density spell, however it is you do that.”

“Yes, the mechanism is still a mystery,” I sighed.  “But that makes a lot of sense.  That’s why we use thaumaturgical glass, because of its stability and enchantability.  And might explain one or two other mysteries that night.  So what made you start to take readings with the sastivator?”

“Just some discussions Sir Rondal and I have been having,” he said, proudly.  “We got to talking about the portability issue – the ability to tote around a low magic resistance wherever you go, or wherever you cast a spell – and I got to being curious about just how dramatic the drop-off rate is.  So I figured some tests were in order.  My notebook is available for the Magelord’s study,” he added.

“I might like to see it,” I agreed.  “I am thinking that this snowstone may be almost as valuable as irionite.”

“It certainly makes it easier to do magic,” Gareth agreed, enthusiastically.  “And the sastivator’s reading on even a very small piece shows a profound change.  A pebble no larger than ten grams reduces the local field to just above nothing.  That effect dies in an inverse square, but for a long-term spell, a pebble of snowstone could increase its efficiency by . . . well, there’s no telling how much!”

“Good work, Gareth,” I smiled.  “I worried you would be bored, merely hanging around Sevendor, waiting for opportunity.”

“My father always said smart people never get bored,” the young mage said.  “I find the vale fascinating, actually – and the snowstone provides a unique opportunity for study.  The ability to learn from both hedgemagi like Master Zagor and accomplished specialists like Spellwarden Banamor and Greenwarden Olmeg make it very worthwhile.  I like it here,” he said, simply.

“I like having you, too,” I said.  “Keep up the study of the stone.  There’s no telling how we may be able to employ it, but I would like to know all of its uses, if I can discover them.”

“Well, Magelord, one thing I can assure you of,” he said, scratching his head, “is that the snowfall area will be attracting all manner of creature that depends on magic in various ways,” he pointed out.  “I am no brown mage, but I can name a dozen species off of the top of my head that will be attracted to the forests and vales here.  And . . . there is always the possibility that the animals native to this zone could become . . . changed, over time.”

“Changed?”

“Areas of low etheric density tend to have the greatest diversity of plant and animal life,” he reported.  “Or so the study of Master Inqlo of Vore said, three hundred years ago.”

“Interesting,” I said, nodding.  “I’m more worried about the diversity of human life – namely the number of footwizards who will find their way here, eventually.  And what that will do for the folks who live here.  That’s why I created the Spellwarden office – which Banamor says you are acting as his deputy, within,” I added.

“Aye, Magelord, while Master Banamor is not the most potent or knowledgeable mage in the world,” Gareth admitted, “he does possess a broad experience that has been instructive in its own right.”

“That was a very diplomatic answer, Gareth,” I smiled.  “Let’s make the appointment official, with a half-silver weekly stipend.  And title, of course.  You’re staying at Banamor’s shop these days?”

“I have a corner in the warehouse,” he admitted.  “I’ve been sleeping there at night after I finish up whatever piece-work Master Banamor gives me.  I’m also,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “picking up some practical enchanting.”

“Excellent, lad,” I said, flipping him a silver coin for his diligence.  “I’ll make the arrangements with Banamor.  Keep up the good work!”  I waved to him as I rode back through town, toward the castle.  He waved, smiled, and shouldered his pole before tromping resolutely over the fields, towards a high spot on incline he had been taking readings from religiously.

I stopped at Banamor’s shop, but he wasn’t there, so I found myself at the Oak Tree Tavern, where young Favm now had almost two walls built around the tree.  It was still the middle of the day, and most folk were out in the fields, hoeing weeds out of them or tying them up to stakes.  The tavern had less than a half-dozen patrons at this time of day, which gave me plenty of room to take a seat, light my pipe, have a drink of good ale and admire the young ladies who were bathing naked in the coolness of the pond.

The “ladies section” of the millpond was screened from casual observation – and the men’s section – by a line of thick bushes.  Such obstacles are no match for magic, however – with magesight, I could contentedly observe the wonders of nature from the comfort of the tavern’s open-air taproom.

Life was good.  Here.  But the almost-daily dispatches from Gilmora were growing increasingly grim.  Terleman had established a regional headquarters in Castle Cambrian, north of Barrowbell, and he was dispatching units of five hundred or a thousand lances to chase down larger bands of goblins, but the depredations of the raiders had gotten worse and worse.  Where they found castles and fortresses closed against them, they turned their attention on peasants caught in the open.

The raiders were actually raiding, now, not just burning.  When they overcame a manor or a village, they gathered up the foodstuffs and weapons and then led the survivors north into the Wilderlands, after (according to accounts) eating their beloved dead in front of them.

There were plenty of success stories of knights and men-at-arms coming to the rescue of distant towers and manors, and rescuing folks from their attackers – but that hadn’t stopped hundreds of villages and hamlets in Gilmora from being savaged, and in the middle of the growing season, too.

I sat and thought about the war, as I had been doing all too frequently recently, and I sipped my ale and was thankful I wasn’t there, even as I felt guilty.  I would have to return to it, someday, else it would find me here in Sevendor.

But here and now, the sun sparkled off of the white-bottomed pond, and the white-bottomed girls, and the air was warm and he scent of blossoms overwhelming.  I thought about the Enchanted Forest, and the other one on the boundaries of the Westwood that Master Olmeg wanted to grow, I thought of the bother of leaving my golden little valley again soon, for the rare chance to see a king crowned.

Duke Rard’s coronation, due to happen in conjunction with the Coronet Council, was due to happen around the solstice, and that was only a few weeks away.  I’d have to travel again, and I’d have to bring another large retinue, but I might be able to secure things at the Duchy’s capital that I couldn’t in Sendaria – such as a real noble’s seal.

But in the meantime, I planned on relaxing, eating summer berries, playing with the baby, loving my wife, drinking a lot of ale, and enjoying life.  Without guilt, I reminded myself.  I had earned this peace.

A sparkle in the distance made me sit up and take notice – and using magesight, I found the spot on the ridgeline where young Gareth must be using his savistator.  I admired his dedication to the science of magic, the way he dutifully noted in his records the exact reading at the exact time of day.

Then I discovered that, from that particular spot, a mage with magesight has a completely and utterly unobstructed view of the women’s bathing area below.  Something which Gareth, apparently, had discovered early on – and had diligently reported from every day.

Such dedication, I smirked.  But why not?  It was high summer in Sevendor, and if it was too hot to wear much clothes, then it was too hot to go to all the bother of averting your eyes.  As I swept back to take another glance at the flower of Sevendor’s maidenhood, I noted that they, themselves, were staring unabashedly and with decided interest at the site of the new mill, where shirtless (and nearly pants-less) young masons were building the foundations.

It looked like everyone was feeling the heat of high summer.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Lady Pentandra of Fairoaks

“I really don’t want you to go,” Alya sighed in resignation.  “I seem to be saying that an awful lot, lately.”

“I don’t particularly want to go,” I agreed as I packed.  “But I really don’t have much choice.”

“I know.  I thought I was marrying a spellmonger, now I’m a Lady of the Domain, and I have to run this place while you’re gone..  Responsibilities,” she agreed, quietly.  “At least I can stay in touch with the mirror,” she added.  She had been delighted when Banamor demonstrated how the device worked to her a week ago, contacting the captain of the guards at the Diketower to prove its efficacy.  “That’s some consolation.  You know, I envy all those magi who can speak to you with a thought.”

I figured it would be impolitic to point out that a man whose wife can reach him with a thought might soon contemplate suicide and kissed her instead.  “Don’t.  The conversations we have are usually about politics or war.  Not the sorts of things I want to discuss with my wife.  This shouldn’t be a hard time, I’ll only be gone a couple of weeks – and you’ll have plenty to occupy yourself. It’s almost harvest time.  We need to prepare for winter.  And there’s an awful lot of work to be done. The castle.  The domain.  The magical fair.  The time will pass before you know it,” I soothed.

“I know,” she sighed.  “I just wish you wouldn’t leave me.  Or that I was going.”

“I’d rather have you in Sevendor where I know you’re safe.  Sir Cei is here, as are Sir Forondo, Sir Roncil, and the other knights.  Even Sir Fes,” I pointed out.  Sir Festaran had become a favorite at Sevendor castle, and got along famously with Lady Estret.  It turned out they have a few cousins in common, through House Lensely’s long legacy in the region.  They brought a sense of Riverlands propriety to the castle, amidst the rough manners and casual attitude of most of my Bovali.

“It’s not my safety that concerns me,” she said, troubled.  “It’s yours.  I know the Censorate has put a price on your head, and you’ve told me that the Ducal courts are full of backstabbing, both literal and figurative, so . . .”

“I’ve been through two wars and a lot of battles, and I’m not dead yet,” I pointed out, kissing her again.  “Trust me, I’ll have Rondal and Tyndal around, as well as every High Warmagi who can be spared from the front.  Castabriel is the last place the Censorate would try to capture me.  I’ll be plenty protected.”

“You had just better come back to me alive,” she demanded, kissing me back.

That conversation haunted me all the way down river, as the “majestic” barge Penny had chartered for us for transport.  Alya was not a fainting flower of femininity, she was a hardy country lass.  While she was far out of her element and doing the best she could under the circumstances, I had ever confidence that she could handle anything in my absence short of the Dead God showing up with a castle-warming gift.  She hated to complain or whine – except to me – and took all that the gods had thrown at her with a tremendous amount of grace.  But I couldn’t expect her to have the stoicism of a noblewoman who was used to having her husband gone for months, not just weeks, at a time.

And the truth was, I was heading into danger, no matter how much I demurred to my wife.  If not a war or battle, the intrigues of Court were just as dangerous and potentially deadly as facing down a legion of goblins.

Penny had been trying to prepare me, explaining the “Ducal Courts” I had attended in the summer palaces of Wilderhall and Vorone were almost informal affairs compared to a full Coronet Council . . . and the first coronation of a sitting monarch in four hundred years.

I shouldn’t have been nervous about leaving her and Sevendor behind – everything I said was true.  While I was robbing her of the knights magi who could help defend my domain, I was leaving her with a far more defensible castle, a barracks full of well-trained militia, at least two or three lances of knighthood, and both Olmeg and Banamor were staying behind.  We had an official treaty with our only local enemy, and I was only going to be gone about three weeks . . . what could happen?

I spent most of the river journey quietly imagining just what could happen, until Taren – who had joined us half-way through our voyage, along with a handful of other High Magi returning from various errands at my direction – pointed out that I was “shooting sparks” – magical slang for a pointless and impotent endeavor.  He got me drunk that night and for the next several days I didn’t worry about Alya, Sevendor, or anything but the task at hand: getting a crown on Rard’s head.

That was essential, for me personally and professionally.  Without King Rard to give us political cover, there was no higher authority that the Censorate could be forced to answer to.  Failing to crown Rard would put the Censorate at open war with the High Magi, when we already had one  war to contend with.  As much as it seemed a waste of time and resources when there was invasion immanent in Gilmora, I was taking my entourage to Castabriel to ensure our political survival.

Penny’s new estate (and the un-official temporary embassy of the Arcane Orders) was half a day’s ride (or three hours worth of floating) upriver from the city, which meant we arrived there before we got to the Capital.

Fairoaks didn’t have its own riverport, but she had heavily bribed the docksmen of the village nearest to her estate to make certain we were properly greeted, our baggage handled, and we were escorted to the carriages and wains she had arranged to transport us.  I saw immediately how she had bribed them, too: a large length of freshly-enchanted stone jutted from the riverbank in such a way as to shield the village from floodwaters, and the dock we tied up to was enchanted to never decompose.

Penny’s estate was elegant enough to make Sevendor seem rustic.  It was a “fortified manor,” not a castle, a large circular structure four stories tall and sprawling wings and out-buildings in every direction.  It was very pretty, as she promised, and the entranceway was grand.  Some burgher or lord spent a lot of gold to make it that way, I knew.

“Gods!” whispered Tyndal as our carriage arrived at the archway leading in.  “Lady Pentandra sure has a definite sense of style!”

“She likes pretty things,” I shrugged.  “This is the first ‘home’ she’s ever had on her own.  It suits her,” I admitted, as the sound of the carriage wheels changed as we drove from dirt to cobble.  “I expect both of you to be on your best behavior.  Remember, you are my apprentices, my liege-men, and my bodyguards.  Don’t screw up and get me killed.”

“Master, we would never take that pleasure away from you,” Rondal said, saucily.  I made a face.  They were excited, and it was hard to blame them.  They were a couple of boisterous boys, but my apprentices knew enough to keep their mouths shut when we weren’t alone.

“I’m serious, this is going to be as dangerous as a war.  There are plenty of people who would like to see me dead who don’t wear checkered cloaks.  I won’t be able to look everywhere at once, so I’ll need you two to watch my back constantly.  Mageblades at all times, at least two warwands in your belt.  Understand?”

“Understood,” they said in unison.  They knew how important this was.  I had lectured them on it virtually the whole voyage, when I wasn’t imagining all the horrible things that could happen to my domain, my wife, and my son in my absence.  I just hoped a couple of up-jumped backwoods apprentice spellmongers from the Wilderlands would not embarrass our Order at the first Royal Court in living memory.

When the carriage stopped, a liveried footman opened the door and presented us with a little stool to descend upon.  I was startled when a trumpet fanfare blared when my foot touched it.

“ANNOUNCING SIRE MINALAN THE SPELLMONGER!  MAGELORD OF SEVENDOR!” bellowed someone who was obviously paid for his ability to bellow.

“What the hells?” I asked, looking around confusedly.  There was a whole party of liveried servants in formation, including some foreboding-looking guards in full armor and two warmagi whose names I forgot standing by, dressed in the tabards of their respective Orders, ceremonial staves in hand.  Horkan and Hesian, I saw.

“Just thought I’d get you used to being properly announced,” Penny said, separating herself from the crowd and kissing me lightly on the cheek.  Wrapped in a gown of red, pink, and gold, she looked every bit the Remeran lady of leisure enjoying her country estate.  She spared a glance at Rondal and a longer one at Tyndal.

“Come, I have refreshments waiting.  There is a lot to discuss, and we don’t have much time.  You two,” she said, indicating my boys, “you help see your master’s baggage is properly stowed.  Miji, here, will show you to his quarters.  Yours are the room next to it,” she added.  “We’re pretty full, but I saved one of the better guest rooms for you, Min,” she smiled.

“What do you mean, we don’t have much time?  I’m two days early, and the Council doesn’t start for four days.”

“And that means we have very little time,” she agreed.  “We have to go over the final version of our charters, review the war situation, examine which political players are our enemies, our friends, or both, all that sort of thing.  Oh, and I have a special present for you, Min.  Something you specifically asked for, if you recall.”  She snapped her fingers, and a young woman stood forward with a long box made of a light, pretty-looking wood.  Pentandra opened it and stood back to watch my expression.

It was a hat.

Not just a hat, but a wizard’s hat, the traditional four-pointed cap associated with my profession since antiquity.  Usually the central peak is surrounded by the other three smaller points, in an equilateral triangle, and sewn or buttoned or pinned to the main cone.  I had a couple of these myself, one from my graduation from Inrion and one from my spellmongering days.

But this one . . . this one was special.

It was at least eighteen inches tall, from brim to peak.  The main cone was a deep blue color, while the additional flaps (they were purely decorative, not true points in their own right) were yellow, green, and red.  Various mystical symbols and arcane formulae were embroidered into the blue in golden thread, and the brim was actually a metal circlet more suited to a war-helm than a mage’s hat.  A small gold tassel was suspended from every point.

It was the silliest godsdamned hat I’d ever seen.

“Oh, Goddess,” I whispered.

“You do recall insisting on wearing a ‘funny hat.’  This was as funny as I could make it without impugning your dignity.”

“I’m not sure you were successful,” I remarked, quietly.

“Luckily, you don’t have a lot of dignity,” she continued with a straight face.  “The design is based loosely on the late Magocracy’s official headgear for the Archmage.”

“I’m not an Archmage,” I pointed out.

“Which is why this is just loosely based on it,” she continued.  “The eastern duchies get touchy about that sort of thing.  If I copied it exactly, they would see it as a slight or a declaration of political purpose.  As it is, I blended elements of the Archmagi’s hat and the traditional spellmonger’s cap in a way that some folks would see as scandalous.”

“People get that worked up about a hat?”

She rolled her eyes.  “You haven’t read much ancient history, have you?  There have been at least two wars started over hats.  No, I’m serious.  But this one should be grand enough for court, and we can giggle about it later.  Oh, and I took the liberty of adding a few special enchantments myself.  We’ll cover them later . . .”

I had to try it on . . . and the reflective surface I conjured allowed me to see just how silly I looked in the multicolored monstrosity.  I saw several servants suppress giggles.  Tyndal uttered a guffaw when he returned from stowing the baggage.  I was tempted myself.  It looked damn silly.

Penny took me on a whirlwind tour of her busy estate, showing off her parlor, her magnificent dining hall, her well-paneled Great Hall (now hung with beautiful Remerean tapestries) and her lab.  I was especially interested in the last, as Penny is one of the best thaumaturges I knew.  It was impressive, but mostly un-used, she explained, because she had been so busy with everything else that was now her responsibility.  Politics.

Over lunch on her west patio, the spires of the capital just barely visible over the trees, she filled me in on who had arrived and who we were still waiting upon.

“Most of the Hesian Order is here already,” she explained.  “In fact, they set up a half-dozen pavilions on my commons out back to house the overflow.  The Horkans are mostly still en route, those who weren’t stuck at the front.  Terleman will be here late, of course, and he’ll leave early, but he’ll stay for long enough to see the coronation and swear his oath.  The Medical and Thaumaturgical orders will be well-represented, too.  All told we should have almost fifty High Magi here.  Maybe more.”  She paused and considered.  “You know, that’s probably the biggest and most powerful gathering of magi since the Empire fell?”

“If not long before,” I pointed out.  “Probably the most since Perwyn sank.  Still, every shard of irionite we have put together wouldn’t put us in the same class as Sheruel.”

“It’s not his arcane powers that are worrying people here,” she reported.  “It’s the legions he has invading Gilmora.  It’s one thing when a goblin invasion is happening way off in the Alshari Wilderlands – once it gets to the Castali Riverlands, every lord in Gilmora has been screaming at Rard for help.”

“And we’re that help?”

“Part of it.  Terleman has been a very visible sign of support in Gilmora, organizing local defenses and deploying warmagi to shore up castles and bridges. He’s kept a good order on our people, and compared to the mercenaries who have signed on, the Arcane Orders have been some of Duke Rard’s best public relations.  Enough that I don’t see much resistance coming from Gilmora.  And from Terleman has told me, the goblins there now are more skirmishers than heavy troops.  They’re raiding villages, not besieging castles.”

“I know,” I sighed.  I got better reports than she did.  “The shamans have been decidedly country bumpkin witchdoctors.  The urgulnosti priests are probably with the main invasion force.  And they’re barreling down the Lumber Road.  That’s when things are going to get hairy,” I said, grimly.

“Let’s forget about the Big Ugly Goblin for a while, shall we?” she asked, sweetly.  “We have more pressing dangers.  For example, the Duke of Merwin, it is rumored, holds us responsible for both the death of his brother-duke Lenguin and the goblin threat.  Not that he was remotely close to Lenguin.  But he apparently sees the best chance for us is to go back to the old way, suppress magic, and deal with the goblins in purely military terms.”

“Well, sure he does!” I exploded.  “He’s got three duchies between him and the Dead God’s hordes!”

“Well, all of the anti-Hartarian Censors are cozying up to him, looking to him for support.  He brought several in his entourage, checkered cloaks and all, as part of his embassy.  It is rumored that the senior surviving members are electing a new Censor General, and moving his command to Merwin.”

“Let them,” I dismissed.  “As long as they stay on that side of the frontier, we won’t have any problems.”

“Oh, but we do,” she corrected.  “The Merwini and Vorean commanders have secretly authorized specific loyal warmagi to be issued their own witchstones from inventory.  To be used against us,” she added, pointedly.  “And I don’t like the sound of that at all.”

“It was inevitable,” I dismissed.  “There have to be some witchstones they’ve confiscated over the years left in their vaults, and after the way I out-classed five of their best at the fair, they’re unlikely to proceed against me again without one.”

“Exactly.  So watch your back.  The Coronet Truce will hold for the Duke of Merwin’s actual party, but the old guard Censors don’t feel bound by a mere Ducal decree.  And they don’t want to see a King on a throne, either.”

“It’s not the King they should be concerned with.  It’s his wife.”

“Oh, I know all about ‘Mother’,” she snickered.  “I’ve already had a few encounters with her.  In my professional opinion, she’s a first-class cunt—”

I inadvertently choked and sprayed wine – really good wine – all over her lovely white tablecloth.  I hadn’t expected that particular word to fall out of her mouth, but I couldn’t honestly disagree.

“—but that doesn’t mean we can’t work with her, at least for now,” Penny said smoothly, dabbing the wine away with her napkin.  “We don’t have to like her.  Her intelligence assets are impressive, though,” she admitted.  “But she’s not the only player in town.  We have already been subtly approached by both the Brotherhood and the Iris.”  The Brotherhood of the Rat was a criminal organization centered on the docks and ports of Remere, Castal and Alshar.  The Iris was similar, only they were much older, much bigger, and far more spread out.

“So what did you tell them?”

“That we’d consider an alliance, once things settle down.  That’s all they were looking for, really, was to see if we could be of use to them.  Or they to us.  The Brotherhood was a little more threatening and a little more accommodating, while the Iris was more distant and formal, but less eager for an entanglement.”

“The Rats are still pissed over getting blamed for the Duchess’ assassination,” I pointed out.  “If they think we’re on the outs with the Family, they might see us as a natural ally.  What did you tell them?”

“Essentially that we’d be willing to listen . . . but only after a successful coronation.  I gathered that neither party was thrilled with the prospect, but I managed to point out several advantages of a change in politics, and neither seems hells-bent on stopping it.”

“That’s good to know.  Anything else?”

“Why yes, Master,” she said with a straight face.  “I have also been approached by Sire Relvanion of Teretine.”

“And I should be familiar with the gentleman . . . why?”

“He’s the un-official representative of a group of barons who are decidedly against the establishment of a kingdom, and who see treachery in how the last Duke of Alshar died.”

“Well, I can’t deny the treachery, but you can’t bring Lenguin back to life, either.  He wasn’t much use when he was alive, if they recall.”

“That’s what they’re afraid of: that a kingdom would attempt to usurp their powers in their own domains.  Most of them are coastal lords, or southern Riverlords, and they’ve been ruling their domains virtually independent of Ducal authority for a century now.  Ironic that they invoke the Duke they cursed for an ineffective fool last year as a martyr for their rebellion this year,” she chuckled.

“As I get used to this whole ‘nobility’ act, I’m starting to see how such things happen,” I admitted.  “What exactly do they hope to accomplish?”

“Absent the rhetoric about ‘usurpation of sovereignty’ and ‘illegal impingement on traditional rights,’ they don’t want to be subject to the new kingdom-wide tax and tribute scheme.  They think they can successfully break away, and they’re considering it.  There’s a charismatic count in the coastlands who is preparing a full-fledged rebellion.”

“Is there even going to be a new kingdom-wide tax and tribute scheme?” I asked, confused.  Penny looked at me like I was the village dummy, and then used that same level of condescending patience to lecture me.

“Of course there’s going to be a new tax and tribute scheme – the new Kingdom needs a new administrative infrastructure, and someone has to pay for that.  The war effort needs funding in a permanent way.   There are plenty of excellent reasons why the Kingdom will need new taxes and a new tribute scheme.  Believe me, I’ve spoken with the poor bastards who are trying to come up with it, and it isn’t going to be pleasant, particularly on the great lords.  Come Spring, everyone with the rank of baron and above is going to be swearing bitterly to the gods.”

“They’ll swear more under the sacrificial knife,” I warned.  Such bickering made me angry.  I haven’t mentioned the nearly-constant reports of goblins marching long strings of captured human prisoners back into the Umbra, never to be seen again because, honestly, it was just too depressing.

“That’s essentially what I told them, but they think they can hold out.  Worse, they feel they can encourage the Farisi to rebel, too.  Not that Rard can’t put it down, but it would be expensive.”

“That’s the last thing we need!” I spat.  “Every sword we send to put down rebellion is one less to fight the Dead God!”

“Hey, I wrote that song you’re singing,” she reminded me.  “So I had a unique solution in mind . . .” she said.  Then she closed her eyes for a moment, and I could feel a spell drop on us.  “There, now no one can hear us.”  Then she told me her plan, and I had to admit it was pretty bloody brilliant.

“There are going to be an awful lot of lords unhappy with that arrangement,” I said, when she was done.

“They’ll be more unhappy if the Dead God is in charge.  Honestly, Min, can you think of any other way to get the manpower we need for this war?”

“No,” I agreed.  “And that solves plenty of other problems.  And raises yet more.  Have you considered writing up a charter?  That sort of thing would have to be a Royal Decree,” I foretold.  “Anything less would lead to widespread rebellion.”

“I thought you might say that,” she smirked, and reached under the table to retrieve a big sheaf of parchment.  “Which is why I took the liberty of having it pre-written for His Grace’s – sorry, His Majesty’s seal.  We can sneak it in with the charters for all of the other orders we’re chartering.”

“I can’t imagine he’d object.  Really, it’s as much for his benefit as it is for ours.”

“I’m so glad you see it that way, Min,” she smiled, sweetly.  “Because you’re the one who has to convince him of that.”

*                            *                            *

It was a good working lunch, but I was painfully aware that neither  of us brought up the subject of Isily’s child.  Who was likely mine.  That Penny knew about, but about whom I was supposed to be ignorant.  I almost brought it up myself a half-a-dozen times, but in the end I always thought better of it.

There was just too much going on, and that kind of thing had the potential to make everything else we were doing a lot more complicated.  Call me a coward if you wish, but I prefer to choose the time, place, and disposition of my battles before I fight them.  I’m not a coward, but I’m lazy as anyone.  I just didn’t have the emotional capacity to contend with the subject.

The next couple of days were filled with meetings and discussions as we prepared for the Council.  New High Magi were wandering in all the time, and I had to stop and chat with them repeatedly, thank them for their attendance, and in some cases receive reports.

The second day Penny’s estate at Fairoaks saw the arrival of twenty mounted knights magi, directly from the front in Gilmora.  They were led by Terleman, and after we warmly embraced and went inside he started chewing me out almost at once.

“Duin strike me if I exaggerate, but we’re getting routed out there,” he admitted.  “We’re doing plenty of damage . . . anywhere I send a mage, they make a big difference.  But we aren’t stopping them at all.  Hells, we’re barely slowing them down.  Every time we destroy a band or a raiding party, there seems to be two more.  And finding men willing to stand and fight is getting harder.  The Day of the Dragons was brutal,” he confessed.  “We’ve had a devil of a time getting troops since dragons got involved in the war.”

I assured him the best I could that help was on the way – and it was – but that we had to get through this first.  Surprisingly, he didn’t argue.

“I could use a few days away from the front, and I’d be happy to swear my fealty to a king, instead of a duke.”

“I really don’t see much difference,” I observed.

“There’s not, on the surface.  But I think it gives the men a psychological edge to be under a king, not just a high noble.”

“They’ll die the same way whichever one is in charge.”

Terleman brought more than complaints from the battlefield, though.  He presented me with four more witchstones captured from goblin shamans, ready to be cleansed and distributed to worthy magi

As Fairoaks began to fill up in earnest, I made a point to be seen frequently in my new silly looking hat, staff in hand, congratulating and encouraging all the magi who now looked to me for leadership.  Some looked battle-scarred and others found their new roles as magelords or knights magi to suit them.  One of my fellows, the nominal Court Wizard of Alshar, brought some intriguing news: Master Dunselen would be arriving late.  Because he was at war.

“Honestly, I didn’t think the old bird had it in him,” Master Thinradel told me at supper that evening.  “You remember that old estate he prattled on about?  Well, once he returned and claimed it, his neighbors took offense.  He used his stone to level their castles and took their lands in conquest.  He’s running three domains, now, and about to finish conquering a fourth.”

“Master Dunselen?  That old . . . ?” I didn’t know exactly how to finish that sentence, so I didn’t.

“The very one.  He even goes into battle, so to speak.  He rides in a carriage behind his lances, and when there’s an engagement he rains down spellfire on them, or puts sentries to sleep, or some such, just like a warmage.  He was always quite powerful, even before he had irionite.  But I had always considered him harmless.”

“Power does strange things to some people,” I observed.  Thinradel nodded sagely.

One of the only other interesting things that happened in the days leading up to the Arcane Orders departing Fairoaks for the capital was meeting up with Master Cormaran, the enchanter who built my mageblade and hundreds of others.  I’d seen him at Robinwing Castle, of course, but we hadn’t much time for discussion.  He insisted on seeing me the moment he got to Fairoaks, however, and I owed the man so much I stepped out of a meeting to speak with him.

He asked that we find a quiet place, and I led him to Penny’s study.  There we sat with a table between us where he poured out a bag of familiar white pebbles.

“That ‘snowstone’ you . . . created?  I’ve been testing it.  A lot of people have been testing it, actually.  But your initial assessment, while helpful, was wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“Snowstone doesn’t increase a particular mage’s powers.  It works the other way, reducing his body’s resistance to magic.  It has essentially the same effect.”

I nodded.  The way I understood Talent, you had a specific amount and type, usually fixed at a particular level.  “That agrees with the tests I’ve made as well,” I agreed.

“Oh, it gets better,” he grinned.  “Everyone and every thing has some resistance to magical forces.  One pebble of this, and that resistance almost evaporates.  Honestly, I’ve never seen anything like it.  I’ve used it while enchanting mageblades, and the results have been impressive.”  That was high praise from Cormaran.  “If you’re sitting on a mountain of this stuff, you’re a rich man, Master Minalan.  I’d like to get as much as I can to fortify my castle.  Lanse of Bune raved about it, and there are enchanters everywhere who would prize it almost as much as they would irionite.  ”

“Wait, you have a castle?”

“In the Magelands,” he explained.  “Just outside the Penumbra.  A big one, too – a baronial castle.  It used to be called Meadowmont, but I’ve renamed it Forgemont.  I never thought I’d go in for the life of a magelord, but I have to admit, being free to do experiments with irionite and steel and spells without having to worry about the Censorate makes all the petty administrative issues almost worthwhile.”

“Just wait,” I sighed, realizing that for all the impressive improvement I’d affected in Sevendor, I had done virtually no magical research myself.  I was just too damned busy.  “Someday someone will come along and make you important, and you won’t have any fun any more.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

The Coronet Council

Castabriel is as pretty as Tudry is ugly.

Penny filled me in on the history of the city as we took the long carriage ride (there was just too much barge traffic to get there in time by river) to the Council.  I knew some from my own education, but Penny has a knack of finding the important stuff and putting it in perspective.

Castabriel had been the capital of Castal before there was officially a Castal.  It had been settled as the inland armed outpost of the Empire.  It was built on the ruins of an ancient Tree Folk city, back when they built cities and didn’t just live in magical treehouses.

I have no idea what that long-ago glory looked like, but present-day Castabriel certainly is one of the prettier cities around, thanks largely to the gorgeous stonework there.  Somewhere nearby there had to have been a massive quarry, because just about every building in city was made of white granite.  Not as white as snowstone, I realized, but gleaming nonetheless.

In addition, the Castabrieli had a civic reputation as the “City of Ten Thousand Lights” and every household from the grandest burgher to the most modest hovel sported a candle or lamp every night, surrounded with as much sparkly glittery stuff as they could find.  The combined effect made the whole place seem bright and elegant, even when you were stepping in offal in the street.

The city was divided into three districts and sat on a pair of hills that ran northeast to southwest.  The northern hill bore the mighty palace and Ducal castle, the huge gleaming Spire of Donrard towering twenty stories above the ground, looking slender in spite of its mass.  You could have put all of Sevendor Castle on one of the four supporting shoulder turrets and rattled it.  The spire was designed to impress, and it didn’t disappoint.  It was usually the first thing you saw as you approached it.

The other hill had been the site of the original Tree Folk city, and had been taken over by an army of priests and priestesses.  The Temple Hill boasted hundreds of temples, shrines, and holy sites from various traditions and religions.  Even the Sea Folk had a shrine there to their damp deities.

Most of them vied to build the highest spire to challenge the might of Donrard’s, on the opposite hill, but none had succeeded in taking the prize.  The tallest three were especially close, but at only fourteen stories the Temple of Orvatas the Sky God was a weak contender at best.  The twelve-story Temple of Luin and the eleven-story Temple of Trygg looked like half-grown stalks by comparison.

Between the hills in the saddle of the valley was the town, proper; that is, that’s where all the artisans and servants lived and where business actually was conducted.  From the distance it looked more brown than green, and covered in the pall of cook fire smoke that hovers over every town.  I’ve been by Castabriel three times over the years, and while it isn’t really my kind of city, it is as stately and beautiful city as I’ve seen in the westlands.

Of course, last time I was there I was an itinerant warmage and a commoner.  This time I was arriving by gilded coach in full regalia, with plenty of guards, going to lay eyes on the first King around for four hundred years.  A difference in station can alter your perspective.

The day was hot, but we didn’t feel it – Rondal kept a bubble of cool air around us and the horses the whole way, and someone cast a semi-opaque sunshield over our entourage.  Everyone else was sweating as they went about their daily lives.

I watched, fascinated, as the bustling nature of a truly large city unfolded around us.  There were nearly 300,000 people in Castabriel.  Of course, not everyone lived in gleaming spires or ornate palaces.  From the outlying village of Narias, the last before the Great Gate, the traffic looked just like any other busy rural settlement, although with more travelers than usual.  As we got closer to the city proper, however, the dress and class of the passers-by rose dramatically.  I could tell by the change in expression of those who saw our retinue.

There were two carriages in front of us, each bearing various High Magi.   The leadership of the Hesian Order led the procession, and the smaller orders of scholarly and medical magi went in one long carriage pulled by a team of six.  Then came us, in the grandest, most ostentatious coach I’ve ever laid eyes on, requiring a team of eight to drag it through the city.  Then three more coaches bearing other VIPs, including Penny’s father and a strong delegation from Remere.

And lastly the mounted might of the Horkan Order rode in the rear.  They eschewed coaches for their chargers and destriers, and bore ceremonial lances with a green pennant with the badge of their order flying from every tip.  They were resplendent in matching green tabards, the black Ilnarthi death-rune they’d adopted as their sigil embroidered on the breast.

Azar led them, the tall warmage riding in black armor, with a huge, two-handed mageblade strapped across his back.  He bore a sinister-looking warstaff in a holster on his saddle instead of a lance.  Almost three dozen Knights Magi rode behind him.  Behind them rode the professional warmagi who had joined the order, but had not been elevated with irionite yet.

And behind them came those High Magi who hadn’t merited a carriage ride, and who rode their own horses or even came by foot.  Considering how slow we moved through Castabriel’s crowded streets, they didn’t need to struggle to keep up.

Penny had ensured a certain degree of uniformity in our presentation.  While she had agreed that the tabards of the two martial orders were appropriate for the occasion, she felt that the rest of the magi were just not impressive enough on their own.  It had been the subject of much debate in the days leading up to the council.

“We can’t just show up and expect our pointy hats to impress anyone,” she insisted at our own little council meeting the night before.  “We need to be there in force.  Hence the staves.  The wizard’s staff has always been an important symbol of our power, and having every mage there bear one will be a way of establishing our presence in the new order.  And our strength,” she added.

“But the staves don’t actually do anything!” Terleman had objected.  “They just . . . look pretty!”

And they did.  Penny had commissioned a couple of Remeran resident adept enchanters to churn out about a hundred and fifty six-foot long cedar wood staves, polished to a high sheen.  At the head of each one was a simple silver fitting in which a piece of thaumaturgical glass had been set.  At a command the glass would glow with a soft light.  And . . . that was all. They were pretty sticks.

“That’s right, they do look pretty,” she agreed, sternly.  “They light up and attract attention.  Any idiot can carry one.  But every idiot who does is going to be assumed to be a great and powerful wizard, no matter what kind of hat they wear or tabard they have on.  People see livery all the time, but unless it’s something they’re familiar with, they forget it pretty quickly.  Seeing a dignified mage walk by with a pointy hat and a glowing staff, that they will remember as a symbol of power.”

There was more argument and debate, but as this was a political matter, I deferred to Penny’s judgment.  I had brought my own staff, which wasn’t much better enchanted than the pretty cedar ones, but Penny had thought of that, too.  She had given me a much grander stick, one with an elaborate metal head well-gilded and sparkling with crystal facets.  The light inside the thing pulsated with the beat of my heart when I grasped it.  It looked vaguely familiar . . .

“Wasn’t that part of a lamp at your family’s estate?” I asked her, after examining my new prop.

“Yes,” she snickered.  “It was my Great Aunt Farrandra’s.  Brilliant mage.  Lousy sense of style.  That thing has bugged me since I was a kid, since it’s about as gaudy as a dockside whore.  So I had Planus steal it and incorporate it into your staff.  I think the old bat would get a kick out of it, and it really does look better as a staff head than a lamp.”

I couldn’t argue with that.  It had been a very ugly lamp.

We did not go directly to the Palace, which surprised me.  Instead we went in the opposite direction, turning left when we hit the main thoroughfare, not a right.  Our massive party was directed to a spacious temple on the southwestern hill, some god (Penny later explained it was Avital, the unpopular old Imperial god of engineering and, coincidentally enough, magic) whose worshippers hadn’t been able to pay their tribute or lost a bet or something and who had lost their temple to the Duke, or more properly his Coinfather.  Penny rented it as temporary quarters for us while we were in the city.

It was a grand structure, in its way, and it would have dominated just about any other city’s skyline in Castal.  Rising almost eleven stories from the ground to spire, the former temple was impressive . . . until you looked around at the other magnificent temples in the neighborhood that rivaled it.

It had a central cylindrical tower structure that served as the temple, proper (long emptied and dusty), then a curved east wing that provided residential rooms for the priesthood and novices, as well as a few class rooms.  The western wing held the kitchens, servants’ quarters, pantries, butteries, and other necessities.  The southern wing, a paltry two story addition, was where the stables and carriage house was, as well as storage.

“It’s our headquarters in the city,” she explained.  “Fairoaks is fine for a place to retreat and study, but when the Order has to do business in the city, I’d think it wise if we had a more permanent base.  I like this place, and if it suits our need, I thought we might buy it.”

“ ‘We’?” I asked.  “You’re the filthy rich one, remember?”

“ ‘We’, as in ‘we, the Arcane Orders.’   Which are far more filthy rich now than my modest family.”

“Huh?” I asked, eloquently.  I’d been far too busy with everything else to worry about finances except in the vaguest ways.  Penny looked exasperated.

“Do you never listen to what I say?” she scolded.  “We have been charging a premium for every witchstone, an initiation fee to the Arcane Orders of High Magic.  We’ve waived it in some cases, but even so our treasury stands at just under half a million ounces of gold,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“Half . . . a million?” I asked, stupefied.

“Easily.  With more coming in every day as pledges are redeemed.  I’ve been busy,” she reminded me.  “So yes, if this temple suits our needs, well, we will need a presence in the Capital, and I’d rather be on this hill than that one.  Being too close to the Court is always a bad idea, no matter what my father might say,” she said, hinting at a squabble I really didn’t want to know about.  “The temple is de-consecrated.  It has a lot of library space, even space for labs, residence quarters, a meeting hall, kitchens, everything.  And there are other reasons I chose it,” she said in that mysterious manner that told me she wasn’t going to tell me those reasons just yet.

Penny’s servants had come ahead and gotten the place cleaned up for us, and we were able to pack just about our entire entourage in the sparsely-furnished rooms.  Most of the warmagi were housed in the old noviate cells, which utterly lacked charm, but they weren’t complaining.  Most had been in the field around the Penumbra, or in harm’s way in Gilmora, and a clean, dry monk’s cell was far better than what they’d been accustomed to.   Penny put me in the old Abbot’s room, so I didn’t have too much to complain about.  Avital wasn’t one of those pesky deities who demanded poverty.

“There is one thing,” I decided, once I’d taken off my robe-of-office and other regalia and joined everyone for a light lunch in the main temple.  “We need a magelight at the top of the spire this evening.  Irionite green.  And bright enough to out-shine every other light in the city.”

“I like that,” Penny smiled, and my fellow magi agreed when the proposal floated around. I suppose after our triumphant procession into the city, we were all feeling pretty cocky.  “I’ll get someone on it.  Speaking of impressive magic,” she said, digging in a pouch at her side, “I had this made for you.  For your sphere of irionite, actually,” she said, presenting me with a golden ring about ten centimeters in diameter.  Then she took her palm away, and it floated in midair.

“It’s laced with the finest yellow knot-coral,” she explained.  “As well as some snowstone sand you sent me.  And enchanted to float on command.  I figured it would be more impressive and less burdensome than hiding it in your tunic.”

“Expensive,” I nodded, impressed.  Knot coral of any variety is expensive, but yellow is by far the most dear.  Only the Sea Folk could get it, and they prized it for their own reasons.  “And pretty.  But why?”

“Put your sphere on it,” she prompted me.  I looked at her for a moment, reluctant to do anything with my sphere I wouldn’t do with one of my own limbs.  But this was Penny.  If I couldn’t trust her – within reason – then I couldn’t trust anyone.  I took my sphere out of the silk bag around my neck and gingerly placed it on the floating ring.  It adhered with a tiny ‘click’, and then my sphere bobbed pleasantly in front of me.

“So . . . it floats.  Why?”

“Because it’s impressive, and intimidating, and it tells everyone who you are.  More than the flashy staff.  More than the silly hat, even.  The ring will follow you, and respond to your commands.  It even has some separate enchantments I’ll introduce you to later, but for now it will just follow you around like a puppy.”

“Well, that will keep it from getting in the way, I guess, but I can’t help but feel . . . exposed this way.”

“Your hand or mine are the only ones who could remove it from the ring,” she explained.  “And woe to anyone else who tries to touch it.  Trust me, it’s well-protected.  More importantly, it will make you look impressive, and that’s the goal.  I thought about mounting it on the staff, like the Archmagi did, but that seemed too . . . impolitic.  We aren’t re-establishing the Magocracy, we’re just reorganizing the administrative infrastructure without the Censorate,” she said, almost as if she was trying to convince herself.  “But leave the mageblade behind when we go to the palace.  This is a civil matter, not a military one.”

“I see your point,” I admitted, watching my sphere float by.  “I guess I should play around with it a while, see how to use it.”

She shook her head.  “We don’t have time.  Everyone else can refresh themselves, but you, me and a few others need to head to the palace, to the Court.  Today is the first meeting of the Coronet Council, remember.  There isn’t even an official ‘coronation’ scheduled.  This is Rard’s opportunity to make his case to the other dukes that he should be crowned.”

“So why do we need to be there?”

“Because we will be called upon to witness about the Dead God and the invasion, which is the pretext upon which Rard bases his claim for the crown,” she reminded me.  “With us, he is sagely taking command in an emergency.  Without us, he’s a greedy monarch looking to invent a higher position.  That’s why we need to be there.”

I resigned myself to that, put my sweaty dark blue robes back on, put my funny hat on my head, and got back into the carriage, my sphere floating obligingly nearby the entire way.  I practiced commanding it for a little while under Penny’s direction, but soon grew bored with it, thanks to the length of the journey.  It took nearly as long to cross the city from one hill to the other as it had to ride there from Fairoaks, but late afternoon found us being greeted by an old friend at the Noble’s Gate of the massive Ducal palace complex.

“Count Salgo!” I cried, as I stepped out of the carriage at the gate to the Spire.  The mustached Warlord was dressed in finery, as was everyone, but despite the silks and satins and clever embroidery you couldn’t disguise a soldier like that.  Especially not the way he carried his well-worn sword.  That he looked as comfortable in silks as he did armor was a testament to the man’s adaptability.

“Master Spellmonger, welcome!” smiled the warlord, with a nod of his head.  “I had heard you would be joining us at Council.”

“Not by preference,” I said, which had him nodding in sympathy.

“I’d rather take a charge by a legion of goblins, myself, if you ask me . . . but no one asks me,” he observed, as he offered Pentandra a hand.  “Lady Pentandra . . . All this fuss about coronets . . . this has to be the most secure Coronet Council in history.  But if you will do an old soldier a courtesy and be wary of any esoteric foul play, I would appreciate it.  Master Dunselen was here earlier, just arrived from accepting his latest surrender, and assured us that the palace was free from sorcery.  But it never hurts to be sure,” he said, which was a diplomatic way for him to suggest that Dunselen was, perhaps, not as loyal as he wished.  I agreed to look – no harm in it – and he expressed his gratitude.  “This is the first Coronet Council I’ve been in charge of securing,” he admitted.

“Well, if all goes to plan, it should also be the last,” I pointed out.  Salgo hadn’t considered that.

“I suppose it will – they’ll be ‘royal councils’ after this, won’t they?”

“With far fewer feathers to ruffle,” Penny added.  “Good Count, have there been any . . . incidents?”

“None yet, milady,” he said, leading us through the gate and into the bowels of the citadel.  “All five – sorry, all four Dukes and the heir-apparent of Alshar are here, already.  They’ve had the ceremonial introductions and so-forth, so we’re at the point of serious business of this emergency council.  Namely, the goblin incursion.”

We traded small-talk and intelligence about the war and the court with each other until he brought us outside of the Ducal Court chamber.  There were five sets of guards at the door, which made things a little crowded, but Count Salgo’s appearance sent them stepping aside with alacrity.

“Just wait here,” he whispered, when he had brought us into an alcove just off the main chamber.  “I will tell Their Graces you are here.”

We waited in silence and in gloom – there was a tapestry obscuring our view of the chamber, proper.  But that didn’t mean we couldn’t hear anything.

One of the enchantments Penny had insisted be included in the rim of my new silly hat was one sometimes known as “the long ear” or sometimes the Wandering Ear.  It allows you to hear all sorts of things you aren’t supposed to.  I used it quietly to penetrate the tapestry and “listen” for a few moments.  But before I could learn anything useful, the curtain parted again and Salgo motioned us in.

“PRESENTING HIS WISDOM, SIRE MINALAN THE SPELLMONGER OF SEVENDOR, KNIGHT MAGI, MARSHAL OF THE WILDERLANDS, LORD COMMANDER OF THE ORDER OF HORKA, MASTER ADEPT OF THE ORDER OF HESIA, AMBASSADOR-SELECT OF THE ORDER OF THE SECRET TOWER, AND HEAD OF THE COMBINED ARCANE ORDERS!” the herald bellowed.  I was in such a daze about how damn impressive I sounded, I missed hearing him recite Pentandra’s long list of freshly minted titles, which was a pity because she’d added a few I wasn’t familiar with.

Don’t worry, she soothed me, mind-to-mind.  I wrote the whole thing down for them so they wouldn’t get it wrong.

Who would know if they did? I replied.

That’s the point.  We sound important.  Silly hat.  Regal robes.  Shiny staves. Dignified expressions.  Impressive.  We aren’t trying to re-found the Magocracy, but we are trying to evoke the power of the ancients here.  Just relax, this is just a debriefing.  The really tense stuff is still ahead of you.

While we were debating in our heads Count Salgo escorted us around the room to face the great table where the five most powerful men on Callidore were waiting impatiently.

They were an intriguing bunch.  Penny had briefed me on each of them several times.

To the far right sat Duke Clofalin of Remere, a middle-aged man in a splendid gold-and-scarlet doublet, his wide forehead proudly displaying the cap-of-maintenance coronet of his rank.  He looked bored and tired, but certainly used to long, boring meetings.  His vote on the issue wasn’t in doubt – the Family, Castal’s clandestine service, had made Clofalin their puppet long ago.

Next to him was young Count Enguin, the stripling son of the late Duke Lenguin II of Alshar, and his designated – and very well looked-after – heir to the throne.  He looked bored and pensive, unused to long, boring meetings.  He wore a green doublet chased with gold, his house colors, and a pouty expression.  Apparently the subject of his investiture as Duke had yet to come before the Council.

Of course Duke Rard, as host, took the center position.  He already looked the part of a king, one of the older members of the Council and by far the most Narasi-looking of the bunch.  He could have been one of King Kamalavan’s original sons, grown mature and wise.

Next to him on the left was Duke Medfar III, only twenty-five but already cultivating a reputation for debauchery worthy of his illustrious house.  Vore had always had shaky politics at the top, and from what Penny said Medfar was deeply in debt to many parties to fund his infamous excesses – including the Duke of Merwin.  Sitting next to Rard he could have passed as pure old Imperial, dark hair and dark complexion.  The House of Vargars had been among the first to intermarry with Imperial families after the Conquest, and they had continued the tradition to the present day.

And at the far right hulked Duke Andrastal of Merwin.  He was portly but tall, clearly towering over Rard and the others; yet there was a savage intelligence in his eyes that told me he was no man’s puppet.  Some symptoms of ego are easy to see, and Duke Andrastal looked impatient for the world to move, with himself at the center.  A dangerous man, Penny had warned me, who was already deeply at odds with the rumors of Rard’s plan.  If anyone should wear a crown, was his thinking, it should be Andrastal.

“Sire Minalan,” Rard began formally as we bowed to the most august of bodies.  “I have informed my brother-dukes of the incursions of the creature known as the Dead God, who leads the invasion against Alshar and now Castal.  You were instrumental in defeating his forces at Timberwatch last year, and escaped from his very clutches yourself.  Please elaborate the dangers to this Council, that we may assess the threat to the Realm.”

So I did.

I did it with more grace and practice than I had a year before, in front of Rard and his sinister wife and the Summer Court of Castal, in Wilderhall.  But then I was a renegade warmage and spellmonger-between-assignments.  Now I was the head of several orders of powerful magi and a magelord in my own right.  I spoke with determination, nuance, and emotion as I recounted the essentials.  I invited Penny to intervene at various points to explain or elaborate about the esoteric nature of the threat.  And then I told them about the goblins’ most recent advances, not but five hundred leagues from here.

Barrowbell was threatened, I observed, and the rich Gilmoran baronies, from which Merwin got most of its cotton, were in peril.  Dragons raided deep behind our lines.  Gurvani shamans devastated defenses with their crude but effective spells.  And the Dead God’s power was being fueled by every human life that expired on his sacrificial stone, in blood-soaked Boval.

The longer I went on, the more intently the dukes all listened.  A little too intently, I noted.  Young Count Enguin could not seem to keep his eyes off my sphere, which floated lazily behind my head, from one shoulder to the other.

“. . . which is why Their Graces, Rard and Lenguin, saw fit to relax the Bans on Magic in the face of this threat.  When Censor General Hartarian was forced to agree, my Orders were free to defend the Duchies against the invasion of Sheruel,” I concluded.

“Yet you were not terribly successful, were you?” Duke Andrastal asked, bluntly.

“That depends upon how one measures such things, Your Grace,” Penny said with a courtesy.  “Had the Arcane Orders not been at Timberwatch, then the shamans and dragons would have laid waste to all the north, and perhaps found their way to this very keep by now.”

“These shamans of the mountain folk are really that powerful?” he asked, skeptically.  “We have them in Merwin too, you know.  Casaldalain.  Ugly beasts.  They’re pests, not villains.”

“With respect, Your Grace,” Enguin, the young count who would be a duke said, unbidden, “perhaps in long-settled lands where they cling to what wilderness is left that is true – but I can attest to their power when they are gathered in numbers.  Everyone in Alshar can,” he said, bitterly.

“It is not our concern if you cannot keep your scrugs in line,” Medfar said, snidely.

“Not at present – but they tear through the countryside like lice,” complained the lad.  “Alshar is decimated.”

“Alshar is all but destroyed,” retorted Medfar.  “If Castal hadn’t intervened—”

“But Castal did,” reminded Duke Clofalin in a slightly wheezy voice.  “Duke Rard sent his finest warmagi, and troops besides.”

“To protect their frontier, nothing more,” dismissed the young duke from Vore.  “That’s hardly a reason to re-arrange the Duchies!”

“Your Graces,” I said, taking a chance on interrupting and reminding them that there was more than their petty grievances to deal with here.  “It is not you who seek to ‘re-arrange’ the Duchies.  Sheruel intends to do that to his own liking, and has piled up a hundred thousand human skulls as a token of his desire.  If this threat is not met, it cannot be stopped.  And Sheruel the Dead God has no less a purpose than the extinction of our race.”

“Which rumor has it you, yourself, stirred up from some hidden lair in the Mindens,” Duke Medfar pointed out.  “I’ve heard plenty about you, Master Spellmonger.  You are a renegade and a scofflaw, who uses forbidden magics.  By all rights you should be facing the noose, not addressing this august body.”

“Things change,” Duke Rard said, before I could speak.  “I was skeptical of the reports myself, yet I was there to see the hordes pour out of the west and slaughter our people.  Have you ever seen a troll, my brothers?  A troll in battle, with a club the size of a tree, sweeping our heaviest lancers away like flies?  Your poor father,” he said, addressing Count Enguin, “he made the mistake of thinking mere steel and valor could tame such beasts, and he paid for it with his life.  And dragons?  The goblins we may stop at our frontier, should we persist in a defense, but what is to stop dragons from dropping out of the skies over Merwin?  Or Vore?”

That thought did disturb the two defiant dukes.  The reports of dragons could not be dismissed as lightly as the gurvani.  Too many seasoned and trusted mercenaries had seen the winged beast reap knights like ripe corn . . . and be stopped only by Horka’s magic at the cost of his life.  Too many had fled from the Gilmoran lands after the Day of the Dragons, terrorized by the horrific sight, and spread the account of that dark day to dismiss it.

“So how is allowing the Bans to slip away going to keep our skies clean from these pests?” asked Medfar.  “Does this Spellmonger have a weapon that can keep the worms at bay?”

“Does His Grace?” I countered, sharply.  Medfar sat up indignantly, unused to being addressed thus.  “Can all of his lances put together even discomfit the beast who slew our best at Timberwatch?  Can his meager court mage fight against such a beast . . . and win?  Without the benefit of High Magic?  How about more than one dragon?  There are at least three in the service of Sheruel, and the Arcane Orders have a suspicion he is breeding many more.  Many, many more.  Does His Grace have a remedy for such ‘pests’?” I asked, scornfully.

“You are insolent, Spellmonger,” Medfar said, his lip curling.  “Remember whom you serve.”

“I am fighting for the survival of the Duchies,” I countered, darkly.  “Not the dukes.”

“And you fight well, and the people support you,” observed Duke Clofalin.  “You have yet to misuse this great power, as the Mad Mage of Farise did.  Indeed you stand before us today pledging your aid to the Realm, not leading forces against it.”  Undoubtedly he’d been coached to bring up that point.  This was high political theater after all.

“Yet my Censor tells me such magics are dangerous, and proved so alluring to the ancients that they destroyed Perwyn and nearly all the Magocracy with them.  Power such as that . . .” Duke Andrastal said, shaking his head, “we cannot allow such a thing to stand outside of the control of the Dukes.  Nor under the control of a single Duke,” he added, looking pointedly at Rard.

“It wouldn’t,” I said, clearing my throat, “if it was under the purview of the king, as it was of old.”

That was the first time the term had been used, apparently . . . and from the look Rard shot me, he wasn’t ready yet to broach the subject.

I didn’t care.  Once again, pride and ego conspired to rob prudence in the name of nobility.  Fuck them.  We needed High Magic.  To get that, we needed a king.  Why dance around the subject?

Min, what the hells are you doing? Penny screamed at me, mind-to-mind.  I ignored her.

“Your Graces . . . to you has been left the legacy of leading and protecting the Duchies and their peoples.  The tens of thousands who have already perished care not who wears a crown or a coronet.  The thousands who are yet to perish care little more.  And your children – if they survive – will do little more than curse your memory, should Your Graces fail at this challenge.

Minalan! Penny was screaming, while next to me she was holding her breath.  I continued to ignore her.  I was just getting started.  I never was any good at theater.

“You worry that too much power will be in the hand of one duke?  Or no duke?  I guarantee you that as powerful as I am, as powerful as the combined might of all the High Magi are, it isn’t a tithe of a tithe of the power at Sheruel’s command.  You quibble over your coronets when you should be looking to protect your heads.  For the people know, already,” I reminded them.  “And they will not tolerate a leader – be they duke or king – who leads them into slaughter and damnation.”

“So here we finally come to the real reason for this pointless trip,” scoffed Medfar.

“So, Spellmonger, you would come out of the wilderness with your pretty bauble and tales of woe and decide who will wear a crown?  Your patron Rard, of course,” he sneered.  “And why wouldn’t you?  He’s given you lands, titles and gold.”

“I never asked for them,” I assured the Duke of Vore.  “Nor do I care what kind of hat he wears.  If this council will consent to relax the Bans on Magic without a king, I would take no quarrel with that,” I said, earning me a nasty look from Rard.

“Really?” Duke Andrastal asked, amused.  “You wouldn’t care . . . if I wore the crown?  Or my brother Medfar?”

“I care not,” I agreed.  “But are you prepared for that, Your Grace?  For the moment the crown touched your brow, the responsibility for contending with the Dead God would be yours to bear.  It would be your realm invaded, not some distant noble’s.  And then it would be you who would have to decide whether to abandon tradition and fight . . . or cleave to it and perish.  Are you prepared for that, Your Grace?” I asked, pointedly.  Andrastal looked thoughtful, but Medfar was unconvinced.

“I find it hard to believe you do not favor Rard for this supposed ‘burden’,” he said, anger creeping into his voice.  “For if I was to wear the crown, you would be stripped of your magics and imprisoned for your insolence.”

“It would be a fascinating effort to witness, Your Grace,” I said, after a few moment’s thought, my eyes narrowing.  I commanded my sphere to float in front of me, toward the center of the wide circular table.  “I daresay you may find it a challenging task.  But it would give me heart to see you try . . . because it would give you some idea of just how difficult fighting the Dead God will be for you.”

“You dare threaten a duke?” Medfar asked, angrily.

“I dare caution a leader of men,” I riposted.  “Your Duchy may be remote from the war at present, but soon enough it will be at every doorstep.  If you would be king, Your Grace, and would you do what is necessary to be done, I would gladly follow you.  Rard has shown his mettle in battle,” I continued, “but that does not mean he would make an ideal king.

“Choose one of you or none of you, but the man who sees the threat to the west and chooses to face it the way his Narasi ancestors faced the might of the Empire, that man I will bend a knee to.  That man I will call ‘Your Majesty.’  But I urge you to waste no more time in pointless deliberations over power and precedence.  While we have been talking, the Dead God has expanded his reach by miles.  Take more time and you will buy those miles back dearly, with the blood of your subjects.”

“You take much on yourself for this, Spellmonger,” said Duke Clofalin, clearing his throat nervously.  “Care to explain why?”

“Not because of glory or power,” I replied.  “Not because of magic.  I do it because I have a young s . . . children,” I said, for no particular reason.  I felt Penny startle next to me, but continued.  “I don’t wish for them to die under the knife to feed the Dead God’s insatiable hunger.  I want them to thrive, prosper, and give me grandchildren . . . and you fools are behaving like boys in a sandpit instead of proper monarchs, and conspire with Sheruel to counter that aim!”

“Who are you to lecture us so?” Medfar demanded, on his feet.

“I’m Minalan the Spellmonger,” I said, angrily.  “And the price of my assistance to keep your realms intact is one of you keeping the Censorate off my back while I’m doing it.  When I return tomorrow, I will lay my sword at the feet of the man who has the wisdom and courage to do undertake that task.  If he calls himself King or Duke or Queen of the May, Your Graces, I really don’t give a damn.”

And with that I walked out, without taking my leave, a stunned table full of dukes behind me.

Penny followed closely, after making a nervous bow, and couldn’t help but throw me a jibe, mind-to-mind.

You just can’t resist telling off important people, can you? she chided.

I just figured it would save time getting to where we needed to get to.

I just hope they don’t decide to begin the new reign with an execution, she added, gloomily.  That would really mess up my social schedule for the autumn.

Chapter Thirty-Five

The Coronation of Rard I

After our abrupt departure from the Coronet Council, I figured we’d be clapped in irons or whatever it is that they do to people who manage to piss off rooms full of dukes.  I didn’t care.  I hated this sort of politics, even as I participated in it.

“So, how did we really do?” I asked out loud, as we retreated through the ornate halls, past five sets of Ducal Guards.

“Are you kidding?” Pentandra Penny asked, deadpan, “I was worried there, toward the end, but the more I think about the political situation . . . I think that was perfect, Min!”

“What?” I asked, skidding to a stop.  “I thought you’d be livid!  I just vented my spleen all over the Coronet Council, and probably pissed off the one Duke who feels he owes me something.  How was that ‘perfect’?” I demanded.

“Oh, the performance was rough in parts, but you made up for it with passion,” she assured me.  “To be honest, you scared the hell out of me, when you started in about it not mattering who wore the crown.  But that ended up being the best possible argument.”

“I need an explanation,” I pleaded.  “I thought I just screwed up – excuse the expression – royally.  And you’re telling me . . .”

“If I had told you to go in there and have a fit, you would have botched it,” she explained patiently.  “You’re no good at acting.  Not really.  You had to remind them how . . . inconsequential they really are in the scheme of things.  You did,” she said, shaking her head.  “By calling into question even Rard’s suitability for the throne, you gave him just the argument he needed to make his best case for sitting there.  If you had gone in as his obsequious lapdog, then the other Dukes would have seen right through it.”

“So you manipulated me.”

“For the greater good,” she assured me.  “But you surpassed my expectations with that little hissy-fit.  After this there is no question as to whether or not there will be a king, there is only the question of who shall wear the crown.  And Rard has that sewn up, now.  Thanks to you.”

“Thanks to . . .” I was preparing a witty retort, when a well-dressed Ducal Castellan approached me with a deep and gracious bow.

“Magelord Minalan,” he said, gravely.  “Her Grace has requested the pleasure of your company in the Fountains,” he said so smoothly it could have issued from a pitcher of treacle.  He waited just a moment, glanced briefly at Pentandra, and added, “I have no doubt that your Mother, were she here, would advise you not to keep the Duchess waiting.”  He didn’t say anything else.  He didn’t need to.

I sighed, and looked at Penny, speaking mind-to-mind.  I just got called in to get chewed out by the Spymaster.  Go back to the temple and . . . do whatever it is you do when you aren’t manipulating me.  I’m going to go see just how badly Mother thinks I’ve screwed up.

“Let’s go,” I told the castellan, and Penny peeled off without a word.

It turned out Mother quite agreed with Penny’s glowing assessment of my performance.

“Really, my Son,” she said as she sat in repose on a swing in an elaborate water garden, “you really must watch your manners around Father.”  The old matron was dressed in a bright yellow formal lounging gown, peppered with precious stones, and wearing the silver coronet she hoped to swap for a crown tomorrow.  Around her were a half-dozen beautiful young ladies-in-waiting, and twice as many servants.

The garden was elaborate and beautiful, the kind you only see in the estates of the wealthy and powerful.  Many of the pieces were magical, contorting the fountains’ spewing streams in all manner of ways nature never intended.  It would have been fascinating, if I hadn’t been seated amongst the biggest – and prettiest – group of assassins in the Duchies.

“I believe the term we agreed-upon was ‘Son-in-law,’ Mother,” I corrected her.

“A son-in-law is as dear to a mother as a son, if he loves her daughter,” she said, shaking her head.  “And today you’ve done the Family a great service.”

“I believe we worked out the price for this,” I reminded her.  “Our charters.”

“The moment Rard has crown on head and quill in hand, they shall be among the first to bear the new Royal Seal,” she assured me.  “And after that, all the property, lands, and estates of the Censorate will be turned over to . . . what did you call them?”

“The Arcane Orders.  Specifically the Militant Orders of Horka and Hesia,” I prompted her.  “Named for comrades of mine, fallen at Timberwatch in your service.”

“And yours,” she reminded me.  “Yes, you may inherit all of the arcane matters in the new Realm and regulate them as you see fit.  Your performance gave plenty of credence and credibility to what the Dukes of Vore and Merwin have already learned from their spies: that this is a necessary, if painful step.  They cannot disagree with the nature of the threat, nor deny the necessity of the remedy.”  She seemed to be almost purring with pleasure.

“And yet, while you’re picking out your coronation robes, the hordes still march,” I pointed out.  “And they will be unanswered unless that new crown comes with the authority to call men to arms to face it.  My people grow uneasy at the continued promises of troops, but the troops rarely appear.  The field is in chaos, Mother.  If Father doesn’t make a credible defense of the Realm, that crown won’t mean a damn thing.”

“I am not ignorant, Son,” she said, sharply.  “We do realize the peril, and we have taken steps to counter it.  Count Salgo,” she called, and in moments the soldier appeared, looking resigned to his fate.  If I was uncomfortable dealing with this coven of killers in satin and silk, Salgo looked like he wanted to burst into flame on the spot.

“Your Grace,” he said with a stoic bow.

“Please tell the Spellmonger about our little plan for conscription,” she almost sang.

Count Salgo heaved a great sigh, like he was delivering bad news.  “Her Grace and her . . . advisors have devised a scheme to ensure there are adequate forces for the defense of the Realm.  Henceforth, instead of execution or imprisonment, all common-born men convicted of crimes who can be taught to bear arms or toil in the service of the Kingdom shall do so as a merciful commitment of their sentence.

“The nobility found guilty of crimes against the Realm will likewise be sentenced to service in the Penumbra, excepting the case of High Treason against Their – future – Majesties.”

“Oh, that sounds like fun,” I said.  I’d been drafted once.

“All those who serve shall serve no less than two years, and some shall serve until death.  All those who are thus sentenced shall bear as token of their service a simple black circle on a white field, indicating their dedication to defending the realm against the spawn of the Umbra.  The Iron Ring, we’re calling it.  From one of Rard’s speeches.  About how we’re going to build an iron ring around the neck of the gurvani.  A military order.  Upon the successful completion of service, a man of the Iron Ring is free, with his debts and obligations expunged by a grateful kingdom.”

He sounded like he had practiced it.  No doubt he had.  He didn’t look comfortable with it, despite the obvious military applications of the policy.  I suddenly realized why.

“That’s where you‘re going to send your political prisoners!” I gasped.

Mother smiled.  “How perceptive, Son.  Any who dare rise in rebellion against the crown will find themselves in irons, holding a spear, staring down a goblin charge . . . their lands forfeit to the Crown for the duration of their service to pay for the war.  Of course, if they survive their term of service, they will be free to start over, free men, if poorer and less influential.  I am not an ogre, my son.”

My mind raced.  That would be a terrible club to hold over the heads of the nobility.  The great nobles I knew – and admittedly that number was low – weren’t used to that kind of authority over their persons.  There were counts and barons who ran their domains virtually independent of all but the most basic interactions with higher authority.

I could see why Count Salgo had mixed feelings about this.

“Why not just issue standard conscription orders, and new taxes like you did with the Farisian campaign?” I asked.  “That seemed to work just fine for that, and . . .”

“That was a three-sided effort by three duchies,” the Duchess reminded me.  “Not a sustained effort requiring this kind of manpower.  Really, Spellmonger, I thought a man of action such as yourself would appreciate this.  A new King means new customs, new laws, new . . . authority,” she smiled.   “From minting fresh coin to defending the realm.  When the goblins reach the heart of Gilmora, then the nobles will forget their objections and gladly send us their gallows fruit . . . and be especially prompt when it comes to payment of tribute.”

That had all sorts of implications I could only speculate about.

“Why don’t you and Salgo go discuss the arcane military issues involved with this proposal, and we’ll talk again later.  We do have a lot to talk about, after all . . . all these new additions to the Family.  I hear that your lady wife was gifted by Trygg and Ishi with a son,” she said.

I waited for her to mention the other child I no doubt had by now with her minion, Lady Isily.  But she refrained.  I suppose she wanted to save that for a special, more politically strategic time.  “In honor of your son’s birth, a small token of the Realm’s admiration,” she said, and a beautiful young woman in a bright pink gown approached me, bowed, and presented me with a small wooden box.  It didn’t explode or poison me when I took it, but I wouldn’t have put it past her.  “Now leave us . . . I have to meet with that bitch the Duchess of Vore, and I have to have a fresh smile painted on my face.”

I took the box and left, with a bow and with Count Salgo escorting me.  We waited until we were at the entrance of the fountain garden to speak.

“Your Excellency, please tell me that you are in as much need of a drink as I?” I inquired of the soldier, politely.

“Every time I meet with . . . Her Grace, I seem to need one,” he admitted.  “That whole business of the new conscription policy to get troops to the Penumbralands, the Iron Ring . . . that’s going to come to mean a death sentence, you realize.”

“And a very, very docile population,” I agreed.  “If they can manage to enforce it.”

“They can . . . we can . . . for a while,” he admitted.  “If a few of the higher nobles resisted, there might be some doubt.  But . . .”

“Mother,” I prompted, demonstrating I understood the incipient Queen’s real position at court to him.

“Aye,” he sighed, relieved.  “‘Mother’ has spent the last two years ensuring no noble who could lead such a rebellion would consider such a thing . . . or she removed the noble.  She turns the honest pursuit of war as Duin intended into a nest of vipers!”

Count Salgo steered me into a plain, unmarked doorway in the middle of all the finery that was cleverly designed not to be noticed . . . and then down three stone steps to a cool, casual little room.  There was a table, several chairs of a mean nature, a cupboard and ewer, and around the room were scattered ceremonial weapons, banners, and other trophies of campaigns past.

“My ‘refectory’ when I’m on duty at the Spire,” he explained.  “My quarters are awash in spies, I cannot sup without one courtier or another trying to bribe themselves into influence, and even the whores are suspect.  I had one of my sergeants fit out this room – it’s supposed to be an armory, only men of my guard are admitted.”  He took off his ridiculous-looking, wide-brimmed hat and pulled his formal gloves off disdainfully.  “A man needs a place he can retreat to and marshal his resources,” he said, looking at me thoughtfully.

“I count myself honored,” I said, taking off my own silly hat and leaning my rich-looking staff against the wall.  “Are you certain we are not overheard?”

He shrugged.  “You are the mage.   I’m merely a soldier.  Check for yourself.”  So I did.

Surprisingly, there were no secret echo chambers or spells to communicate what was said here – Salgo had successfully eluded detection.  “We seem to be private,” I agreed.

“Good.  That gives me some peace of mind.  Do you know why I invited you here, Magelord?”

“Call me Minalan,” I said, realizing that this place was a respite from formality, where two men could discuss the matters of the world as men, and not as titles.  “And yes, I am curious.”

“Because you are one of a handful of men who has consistently demonstrated your devotion to the security of the Duchies, regardless of who you piss off.  A man who will stand up to Duke Rard is rare.  And a man willing to stand up to ‘Mother’, once he understands her true nature, is rarer still.”

“Oh, I’m sure she’ll stick a dagger in me at some point,” I dismissed as he took a cut glass bottle out of the cupboard, with two matching glasses.  “I’m useful to her for the moment.”

“Then you recognize your danger, good,” he nodded.  “I saw how you comported yourself at Timberwatch.  And just now in council.  Impressive.”  He seemed to be trying to make some decision, the sighed and decided.  “The gods’ truth Minalan is that I’m up to my eyeballs in vipers at court already, and a man needs allies!   One of the first things that Their Majesties will do is constitute a Royal Guard and order the defense of the Realm.  I have . . . knowledge that I am to keep my position for a time in the new regime.

“But I also fear that I will say the wrong thing and end up with some idiot who can’t tell a squadron from a pauldron giving orders.  The defense of the Realm is my charge – I cannot fulfill it without someone watching my back.”

“Why me?” I asked, curiously, as I sipped.  The liquor was hard as ice but nearly tasteless.

“Because I think you are a man I could trust not to sell me out for his own advantage.  You don’t have ambition – not for position at court, at least, and you seem to have carved out one for yourself with even the Court Mage answering to you.  You represent a power distinct and separate from Rard and his . . . mundane supporters.  We’re all supporting Rard at the moment . . . but we’re all equally worried.”

“I’m not anxious to meddle in politics at that level,” I warned.  “The Arcane Orders are concerned with defense and research, the responsible use of magic, and the use of magic for the benefit of the people.  Quite a lot of the militant element will overlap with yours, of course, as we prepared to dispatch troops of both sorts.  But I do not wish to be a monarch.  After ruling one tiny domain for less than a year, I already know what kind of monarch I’d be – an unhappy one.

“But if you need to work . . . outside of the Family,” I said, with great deliberation, “then yes, the Orders will be glad to help you out . . . ‘under the wands’, so to speak.”

“I see where you’re leading,” Salgo said, nodding as he poured another shot.  “Likewise, should the Arcane Orders wish to work outside of . . . filial notice, then a discrete inquiry, from Spellmonger to Soldier, is all that is required.”  He downed the shot without visible affect.

“Then we have an understanding,” I agreed, finishing my second sip of that potent liquor.  “Now let’s put on our silly hats and get back out there where we can be seen and noticed.”

*                            *                            *

There was a lot of activity at our makeshift temple home that night as messengers and ambassadors came and went.  Pentandra stayed awake far into the night, preparing for the long-awaited, long-ordained, and highly-contrived “surprise” conclusion of the Council, that Rard be elevated to King to re-establish the Kingdom.  When the Council of Temples presented a similar plea, blessed by the gods and the clergy alike, then Rard would appear outside of the Spire and receive the new crown, title, and swear mighty oaths on profoundly venerable artifacts.

While appearing to be spontaneous, the entire affair was elaborately scripted . . . including our part in it.

Our participation in the ceremony was as important as the blessing of the Temples – we were the pretext upon which Rard and Mother were acting.  We needed to show up in force.  A mighty force.

The next day at dawn, we all donned our new finery and prepared ourselves for the spectacle.  I was gratified to see we were not arriving by carriage this time – a fine white charger had been found to bear me, a far more magnificent and spirited beast than Traveler, with a gilt leather saddle and bridle.  And an honor guard of serious-looking warmagi.

The flowing cloak, the cheers from the people (Penny had bribed plenty of them for their cheers – she knew what she was doing) made our journey almost jubilant.  People even threw flowers at me.

The gates of the Spire were decked in banners and flower wreaths.  We were led into place in the Outer Palace in a spot near to the temple portico where Duke Rard II of Castal would become King Rard I of . . .

Penny! I said, mind-to-mind, what are they calling the new kingdom?

Castalshar, she replied, after a pause.  It leaves Remere out of the name, but I think that’s where the Remeran dukes prefer to be anyway.  And it appeases a lot of the wild Alshari nobles who think that Castal and the new king have forgotten them.

Castalshar, I repeated.  I suppose that’s not too bad.

Remeracastalshar was considered and rejected, she pointed out.

That demonstrates far more good sense than I’d expect from Mother.  Thanks.

At the appropriate time, Duke Rard came out to the cheers of the crowd.  Count Salgo reported publicly that the Realm was in danger.  The Duke asked if the Count could defend the Realm, and he replied that it was beyond his power.  Then the Skyfather for Castabriel tottered forward and insisted the gods were powerless, and that perhaps magic could aid.  Master Dunselen, looking considerably younger than the first time I saw him, answered the Duke that magic as it stood was insufficient, but that there was hope from the Arcane Orders that had been defending the Realm.

Then it was my turn.  Rard summoned the Heads of the Orders, and Terleman, Carmella and I rode calmly into the midst of the crowd in front of Rard, bowed, and said,

“Your Grace, as your designated Marshal I report to you that the Realm is in grave danger, and though the Arcane Orders have hope to defend her, the Bans prohibit us from doing so.  You must address this with the Royal Censorate.”

And then I shut up, and Censor General Hartarian came forth wearing his dreaded checkered mantle and declared that as the Censorate was an agency of the King, only a Royal decree could change it.

Then the Skyfather said (in a creaking voice) that the gods demanded their Realm be defended.  That’s when the Duke of Remere and the newly-confirmed Duke of Alshar came forth and pledged support to Rard’s leadership, each bearing the hereditary Shard of the Crown of King Kamalavan and giving it to the Skyfather.  The Skyfather (with a lot of assistance from his fellow clerics) put the three pieces together in a metal circlet forged for the occasion.  Then the Skyfather implored the dukes of Vore and Merwin to add their support, pledge their fealty, and honor the commitment of the gods.

Both Dukes paid a very visible show of respect for the Skyfather (he was highly venerated in the capital city, and no monarch lightly irritated a popular priest) but declined his proposal: they would bend no knee to a brother duke.  They did agree to bear witness to the establishment of a united Realm, to be called the Kingdom of Castalshar, and the Skyfather gave a long, rambling prayer and put the broken crown on Rard’s head.  A hundred doves were released, flower petals were thrown from the spire to cover the entire place, and one of my wizards (Lanse of Bune – pyrotechnic magics are a hobby of his) shot a beautiful display of magelit fireworks into the sky.

We had a king.  Yay.

Rard’s first act as monarch was to declare an emergency, and sign the official end of the Royal Censorate.  Censor General Hartarian formally dropped his cloak and foreswore his oath to the new king.  My entire order burst into cheers at that.  He had a vested interest in doing so, of course – not only was he the proud owner of a witchstone, he would also become the first Royal Court Mage.  Before that happened, however, King Rard, his beloved Queen by his side, put his seal and signature to the charters of our various Orders, making me – officially – the most temporally powerful mage since the last Archmage.  Yay.

While Rard was handing me the blanket-sized vellum scroll that stood as token for the hundreds of pages of parchment that detailed the charter, the very unexpected, unscripted happened.  There was a flash of light and suddenly there were a dozen Tree Folk surrounding us.

Chaos ensued, as the new unchartered Royal Guard panicked and drew swords; my own warmagi were just as unprepared, and some of them drew blades or wands, and I felt a lot of defensive spells suddenly go up.  The Tree Folk were armed, after their fashion, I saw, but were not holding their weapons.  They were holding various parcels.  I’m amazed that no one was shot or stabbed or killed during that chaotic moment.

It seemed like an opportune time for someone in authority to intervene, and I realized with horror that I was the authority.  I summoned power from my sphere and amplified my voice a hundredfold.

“HOLD!” I shouted.  People screamed and put their hands over their ears, but no bowstrings twanged, no orders to attack were given.  The Tree Folk stood serenely and calmly, waiting for us to stop panicking.

At last the leader, an Alka male I didn’t know, stood forward and bowed his head in the slightest hint of respect.  When he spoke, everyone in the castle could hear him as if he was standing right in front of them.

“I am Prince Almasarvala, of the House of Felarsamas, representing the Alka Alon who support the effort against the Abomination.  Do you, Rard of House Bimin, swear to defend this land against it until your dying breath?” he asked, in perfect Narasi.

“I . . . I so swear,” King Rard said, after a moment’s hesitation.  “Until my dying breath, mine, and my house’s.”

“Then the Ferangallan Council of Alka Alon shall aid thee in thy efforts as we can,” he continued.  It sounded almost condescending, but that’s just how the Alka Alon are.  Something bothered me about that name, but I filed it away for later study.  This was more interesting than linguistics.

“To that end, we present our friend, Magelord Minalan called the Spellmonger, Adept and Master, with these gifts to aid in your struggle, to be distributed in your wisdom to whom you see fit,” the Prince of the Alka said, gesturing with his head.  The other Alka began piling up boxes in front of me, most of them no bigger than my hand.

One was brought right to my attention, however, when the Prince opened it in front of me.

A glittering tray of irionite, each piece a smooth sphere about a centimeter wide, dazzled my mind and delighted my eyes.

“Twenty-one stones, the lesser works of our house, given by the Council to the Magelord for use in the war against the Abomination.  Not since our own wars, long ago before the Void spawned the humani have these stones been used.  They are of especial potency and crafted to devastate and destroy.  With them you might afford a credible defense against the Abomination’s armies . . . and its other minions.”

“We accept them gratefully, Lord Prince,” I said in what I thought was passable Alka.  They got the spirit of it, at least.  I bowed very deeply . . . and then heard in my head,

You, Spellmonger, shall be the ambassador of your kind to mine in this struggle.  You shall make in your lands a place for a representative to tarry, so to bring our peoples to close counsel if need arises.

It shall be done, Lord Prince.  Yeah, I’ll tell off a room full of Dukes, but the Alka Alon scared me.  They had literally forgotten more magic than humanity had ever learned.

So shall an ambassador be sent to thee, to dwell with thee and offer thee the counsel of the Alka Alon in the days ahead.  They will instruct thee in the meaning and use of all of these gifts, and tell thee deep mysteries.  For those who can sense the days to come speak constantly of our peril in the face of the Abomination.

Yet since winter last our soothsayers have felt hopeful for the first time, he continued, as the boxes and bags piled up in front of me.  For through barbarous magics was born what perhaps may be our salvation.

Lord Prince? I asked, confused.

The stone your folk call snowstone, he explained.  Never has the like been encountered by the Alka Alon.  We wish to procure some to aid in our researches.

It would be an honor to aid thee, I replied, formally, in Alkan.

Please don’t try to speak in our language, the Prince said, interrupting me.  Not until you . . . understand it better.

My apologies, Lord Prince.

We shall send thee an envoy.  An embassy. Treat them with respect, and perhaps an alliance between our folk can suffice where neither of our efforts alone might be of avail.  We shall see, he finished.

“So does the Alka Alon add our blessing to those of the gods: King Rard, we challenge you to use thy might to defend these ancient lands from the Abomination.  Let all Men see this and take note!” he said, his voice getting slightly louder . . .

. . . and then they were all gone again.

Crap! Penny swore to me, mind-to-mind.  They could have given us some warning!

They like surprises, remember? I pointed out. Twenty-one witchstones, Penny!  Almost two dozen new warmagi to put into the field!

I know, I know, she assured me.  But I’m wondering what other goodies they just handed us?

Hopefully something proof against dragons.

That would be nice, she admitted.  But the Alka Alon have huge resources, whole systems of magic that human minds can barely understand!  Just rooting through their magical garbage would be instructive.  This . . .this is amazing, Min!

Yes, I know, now let’s wait until the end of the ceremony before we open our presents, I chided back for a change.

The rest of the ceremony was pretty boring, actually, consisting of pledges of fealty by every major noble in Alshar, Castal, and Remere who was present, a few more Royal Appointments, and then Rard designated Nine Days of Festivities to celebrate the new Kingdom.

Nine days of parties.  Nine days of court intrigue.  Nine days of politics and maneuvering and obsequious courtiers and bribes and all the stuff I hated and Penny gloried in.  Okay, I didn’t entirely hate it, but there are limits to what a man can take.

“There was one thing that was bothering me,” I told Penny later that night as we celebrated at the old Temple and new Order headquarters.  “How’s your Alka Alon?  Language, that is?”

Alka Alon was the basis for a lot of Old High Perwynese, the official court language of the Magocracy for centuries.  A lot of old magical texts are translated from or written in the debased form we had adapted for our use.  She shrugged.  “Professionally?  Pretty good.  The Alka didn’t write much about sex magic, though, so my interest isn’t acute.  Why?”

“Something got my attention during their show,” I explained.  “Note that they weren’t an ‘official’ delegation, they represented some sort of council, remember?”

She nodded.  “Yes.  But the Alka great houses often band together, and—”

“I know, I know, I’m aware of their history.  Which is why the name of their council, intrigued me.”

“What was it?  I was a little distracted,” she admitted.

“The Ferrangallan Council,” I repeated.  “From ferra, I’m guessing, which means ‘to alter’”

“And galla,” she finished, the implications finally occurring to her.  “Which means ‘attention’ or ‘notice’.  The ‘Council to alter attention’?” she asked, confused.  “I’m not an expert, maybe—”

“When you alter someone’s attention,” I explained, patiently, “You are distracting them, correct?”

“Well, yes, I suppose,” she agreed, still not quite understanding.

“That’s what we seem to be to our Alka Alon allies,” I said, glumly.  “We’re what they’re using to distract the Dead God.”

“Distract him from what?  Them?” she asked, even more confused.

“That’s what I’m worried about,” I said.  “While he’s distracted with us . . . just what in seven hells are they planning on doing?”

Chapter Thirty-Six

The Kingdom of Castalshar

I wasn’t wrong about the nine days of festivities – I was invited to over a hundred parties and receptions, hawking and hunting, gaming and drinking.  My fondness for Rushes was used against me.  As was my fondness for nubile young women.  My popularity was due, of course, to my instrumental role in founding (or re-founding, depending on your politics) the Kingdom, and my new high and theoretically powerful position at Court.

While the Royal Court Mage was still in charge of administration and enforcement, as Master Adept of the Royal Court I was in charge of policy – something Pentandra had insisted upon in the Orders’ charters.  More, my seat at Court was permanent, I was to be included in any war councils or councils specifically concerning magical policy, and unlike nearly every other position, I was not subject to His Majesty’s dismissal.

Only the Master of Rites, the symbolic reprehensive of the clergy at Court, enjoyed the same freedom.  I didn’t plan on being around Court much, but when I was in town I had a seat at Rard’s table that he couldn’t pull out from under me.  That ruffled some feathers in some circles, but considering Rard had just exploded the chicken coop, that didn’t bother me much.

There had been some initial agitation to name my Royal Court position Archmage.  There had been far more resistance, particularly among the Imperially-descended High Magi, in making the change for political reasons.  The descendants of the invading Narasi-barbarians had a skewed idea of what the word meant, and the Imperials’ idea was as much or more political than it was arcane, and that meant different things to different Imperial families.  So we went with Royal Master Adept, because it was descriptive.

So I got invited to a lot of parties.  I only went to a dozen or so, usually when prompted by Penny that Countess Such-and-so was an important ally, and Master Whosit’s invitation cannot be ignored.  I went, I told a few war stories, I played up the Goblin Threat, I did a little showy magic, made a gracious good-bye and then went on to the next one.

I was also exceedingly popular with the ladies, which I appreciated.  Some of them were quite willing to duck away for a little private discussion, but as appealing as the notion was sometimes (especially considering all I had to drink at each affair) there just wasn’t time to consider a dalliance.  I always seemed to have another reception to attend, another party at someone’s palace to drop in on, another temple to visit.

And while I did enjoy the attention (and probably enjoyed it far too much for Alya’s comfort, but she was in Sevendor) I was a lot more careful about such things now.  I had recently had it confirmed by my own magical spy, Iyugi,  that yes, indeed, there was a baby girl out there in the world with my eyes and her mother’s nose, and that had me wary.

But it was grueling, always having another noble arse lined up to kiss, as well as having mine kissed thoroughly and graciously by people who did it professionally.

I wasn’t the only one, either.  Each Head of each Order had gotten invitations and was deployed by Penny and her growing staff like units in battle.  Tyndal and Rondal were even in high demand, and they both enjoyed the attention a lot more thoroughly than I.

They looked splendid dressed out in fetching new finery, especially the matching fine cotton mantles commissioned by Penny (or her staff on her direction) in Sevendori green, their snowflake badges sewn on their breasts in cloth-of-gold, the only retainers I had permitted the display.  Their mission was to bedazzle the young noblewomen of the Realm, for which they needed some patient coaching in court etiquette.  But they were as important to our efforts as Master Icarod or General Terleman or Lord Taren.

The goal, Pentandra explained to us repeatedly, was to speak of the Arcane Orders in revered tones, toast the King’s health frequently, and talk about the bright future ahead.  If the subject of the war came up – and refugees were already beginning to appear in the area – stay vague but hopeful, mention our victories, forget about our defeats, and quickly distract them with a spell demonstrating just how darn powerful we were.

It was grueling, especially the first two days.  Suddenly magic was all the rage in the City of a Thousand Lights. Magelights from every magi capable of casting them filled the air, the massive irionite-green sphere over our rented temple out-shining them all.  The air around Castabriel was jubilant, once the Dukes of Vore and Merwin departed in a sulk.  Neither one had promised war, but neither one had bent a knee, either.   That was as good as a victory, to King Rard.

Everyone else seemed genuinely happy, as if suddenly having a King to bow to instead of a Duke raised everyone’s rank.  The beer, wine, and spirits flowed like water, the temples were filled with prayerful pilgrims sacrificing to the gods for the health of the new King and Queen . . . even the dour Horkan warmagi, who were anxious to return to the front, were willing to put their cares aside for a few days and celebrate.

I wasn’t feeling quite as festive, for some reason.

It might have been the number of new magi who suddenly appeared at the door of our . . . embassy?  Commandery?  Guild?  I wasn’t sure what to call the building yet, but it soon became one of the more popular stops in the city.  Pilgrims gawked at the large green magelight hovering over the spire night and day.  But it attracted magi like flies.

Every spellmonger and resident adept, every hedgemage and village witch seemed to be bothering the doorman, seeking irionite or some other vitally important thing, or who wanted to register with the Order or rail at us upsetting the old regime, or just wanted to know if it was all as real as the stories they’d heard.

They came at all hours, and the first night there was a scuffle in the atrium when an enchanter from Portra and a footwizard from . . . well, the road, started a low-powered magical duel.  No one was hurt, but I came in at the tail end of it and decided that was quite enough of that.

I asked Terleman to intervene and he detailed young, tough Sir Rustallo to be in charge of security.  After the second day, there were two warmagi on duty at the door with mageblades and warstaves to keep out anyone who didn’t have good reason.

“I think we’re going to have to buy this place,” Pentandra said, on the third day of celebration, as we were preparing for the convocation over breakfast.  “The facility suits our purposes, with a little modification.  The neighborhood is nice.  It’s only a few hours from the Palace.  And you’ll get use to the pilgrims eventually. It’s just too convenient for us to have a place in the capital.”

“The winter capital,” I reminded her.  “We might need a place in Wilderhall, too.”  That would be harder, but there were some beautiful manors in the Castali Wilderlands around Wilderhall.  I’d destroyed one, once, professionally.  “And if we’re going to buy it – and you say we can afford it – then appoint someone to run it, will you?  Someone responsible and jaded and looking for a cushy post, but someone who can keep this place going when you aren’t around.”

“I know,” she said, as she unpacked yet-another package from our Alka Alon allies in the empty library of the temple.  So far the gifts had been obscure or fascinating or both, but not particularly useful that we could see. “I was thinking of Master Thinradel for the post, but needed—Goodness!”

All of the Alka Alon’s gifts were wondrous and mysterious.  But this one . . . this one screamed out with deadly purpose by its shape alone.

“Oh, my,” Pentandra said, covering her mouth with her hand as she looked down in disbelief.  In the box was a long, thin, object about nine inches long and five inches at its widest.  It was vaguely leaf-shaped, asymmetrical but perfectly balanced and streamlined like a fish or bird.  The edge, I knew from legend, was razor-sharp and could cut through just about any armor mortal man could forge.

“Is that . . . a Thoughtful Knife?” I asked, instantly intrigued.  Pentandra continued to stare at it a moment, then looked up and nodded, her eyes wide.  “What would that do to dragon hide?” I wondered aloud.

The Thoughtful Knife is one of those mysterious, legendary magical weapons that we only get glimpses of in the epics translated from the Alka Alon, particularly those entertaining stories from their warring-states period, long before Man came to Callidore.

One of the more popular legends dealt with three princes of the same House seeking vengeance, or something, and attacking various monsters (some of which were clearly fictional) with various powerful spells and enchantments in their quest for dominance and revenge.  One of the more famous enchantments was known as the Thoughtful Knife.

Despite its name, the Knife didn’t have any independent intelligence, from what I remembered from the epic.  It responded to the mental command of its master with the speed and deadly efficacy of thought.  According to legend, it could slaughter whole regiments of loyal guardsmen or whatever a ‘gasdomaloid’ was with impunity . . . in seconds.  Like a loyal, thoughtless dog, the Thoughtful Knife would kill without tiring as long as its master bid.

“I can’t think of any other reason they’d give it to us,” she agreed.  “The edge is supposedly—”

“I know,” I nodded, more familiar with it than she was, probably.  “Any idea how to use it?”

“I don’t see anything written . . . but considering its reputation, I think I’ll wait for the Alka to show up and teach us.  That’s not something you want to experiment with lightly,” she said, cautiously, and carefully put the lid back on the box.

“What about this?” I asked, opening another box, this one more square in shape.  Within was a sphere of glass – or something glass-like – of pale yellow, about five inches in diameter.  “I have no idea what it is, but it’s pretty!”

Not sure of spelling …

Penny gasped again.  “That’s a Covenstone!” she said, excitedly.  “A big one, too!  It allows magi to add their power together directly, without going through an apis . . . which is far more efficient.  The bigger the stone, the larger the number of magi who can share power.  In the hands of theurgic magi it can be especially powerful, I’ve read,” she added.  “One that size?  Maybe a hundred magi could share energy.”

I nodded, impressed.  I could see a dozen different uses for it already.  The Tree Folk had been generous . . . and that made me suspicious.  I wasn’t alone in that, either.

“They said they were interested in snowstone . . . why?” Penny asked, putting the lid back on the Covenstone’s box.  “I’ve done a few experiments on it, and it appears to lower magical resistance, but I can think of three or four other substances that might do the same, under the right conditions.”

“Temporarily,” I pointed out.  “Snowstone doesn’t wear-off.  It just sits there.  They could find that of use.  It doesn’t require any power to function, it doesn’t need additional magic, and the field of effect is inversely proportional to the mass, according to one of my associates,” I said.  Gareth had delivered some preliminary findings about the snowstone end of my domain before I left, and he’d established that conclusively.  The bigger the mass, the larger the effect.  Already the etheric density in the entire Bontal Valley was falling in a radius around Sevendor.

“How much of it do you have?” she asked, her face calculating.

“All of it,” I shrugged.  “About six square miles worth of mountain.  And castle.  And forest, pond, and fields.  Assorted rocks and muds.  Stairways.  The privy I use every morning is made of it, now.”

“That’s . . . far more than I really needed to think about,” she grimaced.  “But it would explain the Alka’s largesse.  If you had something they really wanted . . .”

“Then they’d give us a bunch of bright and shiny enchantments to soften us up,” I agreed.  “And they would kiss our ass almost as much as the local burgher’s council tried to.  I think I see what you’re getting at.  And it makes me want to know just why they want it so badly.”

We were interrupted just then by someone’s young apprentice, who arrived at the door to my chamber at a dead run, breathless.  A lot of younger boys and a few girls had come along with their masters, and were being pressed into service for the Order until proper servants could be hired in the city.  At this stage in the new Kingdom’s history, I didn’t want a lot of highly bribable outside servants around.  I’d rather be casual and secure than formal and dignified.

“Magelord!” he said with a hurried bow.  “There is a man at the door, a lord, who says he has business with the Order!”

“Which one?” Pentandra and I said at the same time.

“He . . . he didn’t specify,” the lad admitted.  “But he said it concerned the Court Mage.”

“Which one?” we said in unison, again.  That earned us a sharp look from each other.  The drawbacks of working so closely together.

“Master Dunselen.”

“Dunselen?” I asked, astonished.  “What’s the old geezer done now?”

“This should be interesting,” Penny said, as I hurriedly grabbed my silly hat.

Master Dunselen was the last Ducal Court Mage of Castal, and had been one of my first political bribes.  I had used the lure of a witchstone to buy his favor at the summer court at Wilderhall last year, and he had been a staunch ally of mine ever since.

He was a wiley old coot who had affected an older and wiser appearance to help get him his position, and he understood politics as only a mage who has risen to the Ducal level can, but he was a powerful adept in his own right.  When I had seen him at the coronation we had only a few moments of formal discussion after the ceremony.  The change the witchstone – and the loss of the Bans on Magic – had made in him was already apparent.  He no longer tried to look older and wiser, and he dressed more like a landed lord than a mage.  Nor did he act humbly, as he did when he was at court.  He acted more like a . . . a magelord.

That, it appeared, was the complaint one Sire Victrew of Hunvara had, once the irate lord was brought in and soothed with refreshment by one of Penny’s more attractive maidservants in one of the former classrooms off of the main temple sanctuary.

“That . . . sorcerer came back to claim his lands last year,” the knight complained, after we were introduced, “and he’s been goading me into war ever since.  My grandsire was gifted my lands by his great-grandsire, you see, and while his family has fallen from position, mine has risen.

“Now he resents our rise and wishes to reclaim my lands.  He has taken two small castles already, and one he destroyed utterly!  I can call my banners and lead my men against him, Magelord, I can even hire mercenaries.  But how can I defend my lands against a magelord, without one on my side?” he asked in despair.

I didn’t know what to tell him.  I tried to explain that what Dunselen was doing was perfectly legal, as long as he didn’t violate the Duke’s – the King’s – laws, as a magelord he could lawfully pursue a war of conquest.  I pointed out that he wasn’t even a warmage, although that was little consolation for the knight.  He would have to sue for peace, I told him regretfully, although I did promise to speak to Dunselen on his behalf the next time I saw him.  I also pointed out that Dunselen’s star was rising, and an alliance might be in his best interest.

He was un-mollified, but grateful, at least, for the hearing.

“That’s going to become more and more of a problem,” Pentandra agreed, after he’d gone.  “We’re going to have to put some sort of rules into place about magelords and warfare.  Otherwise the regular lords will fall to the arcane lords, and . . .”

“And you say that like it’s an evil thing?” I chuckled.  “Penny, I always thought you wanted more rights and power for the magi.”

“I’ve read a lot about the various Mage Wars,” she said, seriously.  “There’s a reason that the Archmage confiscated irionite, Min.  Magical warfare can get ugly.”  I thought about the horror of Sheruel and wondered if humans were capable of such things.  The look on Pentandra’s face told me I probably didn’t want to learn the answer.

“We’ll study the matter,” I promised.  “When we get the opportunity.  Right now we have more important things to deal with . . . like the rest of our enchanted presents.  Particularly the Twenty-One Stones,” I reminded her.

That had been a crisis waiting to happen the moment the Alka Alon presented us with those potently shiny pebbles.  There was a long waiting list of magi eager to get them, even if it meant serving against the Dead God, and we suddenly had a bumper-crop and a massive need.  Both of the militant orders had made claim to the stones, and I had to mitigate the problem before it became a permanent rift between them.

Both orders had excellent points.  The Horkans were in the field fighting against the goblin hordes daily, risking their lives and slaying a lot of gurvani in the process.  The Hesians, on the other hand, were provisioning and strengthening the strongholds and castles the Horkans depended upon, and also demanded their fair share of the stones.  And of course the medical and educational orders made their claims as well, though theirs wasn’t as strong as the militant orders.

After an afternoon of acrimony, it was finally decided that the new stones would be given out to the orders by sevens.  The Horkan seven would go to the elite warmagi in the field.  The Hesian seven would be given to defensive warmagi who could also operate offensively – as much as I respected Carmella’s ability to build an impregnable fortress, these stones were designed as tools of war.

The warmagi who held the Hesian seven would be the ones managing active sieges or other defensive engagements, not supply clerks and procurement agents.  Carmella and her people were indignant over the requirement, but as they were getting an equal share with the Horkans – who still insisted they needed more stones – they couldn’t complain much.

As for the final seven, I reserved them as the Master Adept’s seven.  I would give them to warmagi directly in service to me, I announced, after serious consideration.  If, for instance, Master Dunselen’s private war got out of hand and I had to deal with an errant mage, then I needed a force that could be sent to do so.

No one was particularly happy about that.  Not even Penny.

“Why do you need your own private army of warmagi?” she demanded, when we were in private between meetings.

“They aren’t my private army, they are to be used for the Arcane Orders’ business,” I insisted.  “When we got rid of the Censorate, we inherited their role to regulate magic.  That’s what you keep telling me.  Well, if we’re to do that effectively, then I need a tool independent of the various orders.  Troubleshooters, trusted magi who can be sent to investigate and deal with any institutional issues.  Like the Archmagi’s Dabarsi Guard, only with less power.

“Or, if they’re between internal assignments, they would be empowered to assist the other orders as needed.  Or loaned to the Kingdom.  Or to act as an impartial arbiter in disputes between other orders.  I don’t know, you’re the one who got me thinking about this sort of thing!” I said, exasperated.

“It just seems like an extravagance,” she pointed out.  “Seven stones?”

“How can I effectively execute administration, or whatever you call it, if I don’t have effective agents?  These spheres . . . they’re potent.  Designed to turn the mage into a weapon.  My giant ball of magic is the only thing I’ve seen more powerful, excepting Sheruel’s abomination.  If the militant orders have them, then I have to have them, or I’ll have to be the one who intervenes if one of them gets out of control.  This way, I have some additional authority,” I reasoned.

“I don’t know, it sets a dangerous precedent,” she said, darkly.

“There’s a lot of that going around,” I shot back, thinking of Isily the Shadowmage and my secret daughter – Iyugi had confirmed that the baby was a girl – that Penny had forgotten to mention to me knowing about.

I suppressed thinking about that further – I had to work with Penny, I reminded myself, and I needed to trust her.  I kept telling myself that as I forced myself to switch to a more conciliatory tone.  “I’m making this up as I go along,” I reminded her.  “You’re the one who told me we needed some regulatory framework, after the Robinwing Conclave.  This would be the executive agency for that framework.”

“I was hoping self-policing would be enough,” she sighed, resigned to my stubborn insistence.  “But you’re right.  You need an independent force equal or greater than those you are regulating.  The oaths are nice, but they can be broken, especially if one of the magi . . . goes mad.”  It was an occupational hazard we were all aware of; that was what had happened to the Mad Mage of Farise, under the influence of irionite.  That’s what had happened to poor young Urik, in Boval, when he had been given more power than he could deal with.

“Weren’t you the one just telling me about the horrors of the Mage Wars?” I reminded her.  “This could help avoid that.  Besides, our unexpected bounty frees up some of the stones I was going to give to the militants.  I’ll soothe the medical and educational orders with an extra stone or two.  I even have an idea that might make everyone happier with how they’re being apportioned.”  I explained what I had in mind, and she shook her head and laughed.

“That may be the most dangerous and yet most intriguing idea you’ve had yet,” she admitted, after she got control of yourself.  “But no one would dare say anything about it.  I love it!”

It was rare enough that I got Penny to like one of my ideas that quickly. She must have been exhausted, I reasoned. I decided to quit while I was ahead for the day.

*                            *                            *

On the third day of the coronation, we held a Conclave of the Arcane Orders to work through some business that had mostly been already settled behind closed doors.

The tradition of a full Conclave, where any High Mage from any of the orders could speak, was seen by Penny, Taren, Terleman, and others as an important institutional function, and I couldn’t disagree.  It’s almost never a bad idea to give everyone a chance to talk.

Since there were less than a hundred High Magi in the city, it was easy to do – the temple sanctuary was ample, and the hardest part was finding that many chairs.  And there were some surprisingly lively debates from some unlikely quarters, such as whether or not enchanters should fall under the educational order, or have their own.

In the end it was decided to establish a separate order for them because of the anticipated need for so many enchantments in the days to come.  Master Cormoran volunteered to begin the charter-writing process and a committee was appointed to oversee the matter.

I also brought up the subject of magelords using warmagic – or any magic – in inter-domain disputes.  While a lot of non-warmagi were willing to discuss restrictions, the warmagi of both orders felt that would be an unnecessary infringement on their prerogatives.

There was passionate and colorful debate before it was decided to table the matter for further study.  Master Dunselen in particular championed the right of a magelord to defend his domain . . . even if the “defense” involved an issue from a generation before.

There were only a handful of landholding magelords at that point, so it was more of an academic interest than anything else, but I could tell a lot of the younger magi saw Master Dunselen with new respect.

And of course there was the presentation of witchstones to the new High Magi.  The candidates had been discussed and examined, selected and approved by the head of their various orders, and one by one they came forward and gave their oath to me in front of the entire conclave.

And then, of course, we had to celebrate.

One doesn’t gain access to the powers of the universe without having a drink afterward.  I confess, among my friends and colleagues I was a little looser than amongst the general nobility of the capital.  I got stinkin’ drunk and shot off my mouth a dozen times.  After those stuffy parties, it was nice to be my crude, casual self for a few hours.  And by that time, I felt like celebrating.

A little after the full moon rose, a group of us retired to the roof of the building, eleven long staircases up, with the magi who had been presented their stones.  We spent the next few hours casting more and more elaborate displays of fireworks and other magical displays, a tradition for the newly-risen magi we kept intact from that first day with them becoming attuned to their stones, way back at Boval Castle.

Rondal followed me around to ensure I didn’t anger anyone too much, and that I made it to bed intact.  I slept until noon the next morning, and the city was astir the entire day over the brilliant light show in the sky.

The Coronation Ball was on the fourth day of the celebration.  The Arcane Orders were well-represented, and I was obligated to go by command of the King.   I made several of the newly-risen warmagi attend, just for practice.  If the Knight Mage was to become a regular feature at court and in the kingdom, I wanted the magi who represented their various Orders to be able to do so properly.

By Pentandra’s order, everyone carried their impressive-looking toy staves with them and wore their headgear, or their armor, depending on their vocation.  All in all we cut a splendid figure, funny hats and all.  There was food and music from a hundred different minstrels and dancing – and once again I was a very popular partner.  And not because I know how to dance.

Just after the inevitable address by our new monarchs, I was quietly summoned to an anteroom to meet a young woman.  Under other circumstances, that might have been lovely – but the manner in which I was summoned told me whom I would be seeing.

When the polite young page told me that my sister-in-law was waiting for me by the hearth, and said it in a particular way, I could tell it was Family business . . . with someone in the Family I strongly disliked.  My ‘sister-in-law’ was Rardine, who had added a title the moment her father did.  She looked utterly gorgeous, and even a little attractive.  As meetings with nubile young women go, I’d rather kiss a goblin.

“Princess Rardine,” I said, bowing deeply when the page brought me in and shut the door behind me.  “Congratulations on your coronation.”

The new princess was splendidly dressed in a bright yellow gown with a voluminous skirt festooned with elaborate embroidery in thread-of-gold.  She wore her shiny new princess crown and drank wine from a golden cup.  An empty glass bottle on the table beside her told me she’d had more than one cup.

She looked at me thoughtfully, and smiled.  It was not a pleasant smile.  At sixteen years old she had already ordered the deaths of dozens of political opponents.

“Master Spellmonger – my dear brother-in-law!  Thank you for attending.  I thought it would be prudent for us to speak a moment, before the rush of business compels us away from the moment.  I see you faithfully executed your half of the bargain.  I trust you find we did the same?”

“I have no complaints, Your Highness,” I said, the word feeling strange in my mouth.  No complaints yet, I amended in my head.

“Good,” she said, simply.  “My father is concerned that the goblins are making better progress than they should.”

“That is a concern of us all, Highness,” I assured her.  “Me more than most.”

“He’s also concerned that you may have made some bargain with the Alka Alon of which the Family is unaware.  Their unexpected appearance at coronation was disconcerting.”

“I assure you, Highness, I have made no bargains with the Alka Alon in His Majesty’s name.  My discussions have been exclusively devoted to the war effort and magical research.  Indeed, their appearance was as much a surprise to me as it was to everyone else.”

“Can they just do that?  Appear out of thin air?” she demanded, a little drunkenly.

“Apparently, they can, Highness,” I admitted.  “What we don’t know about the Tree Folk could fill libraries.”

“So how do we protect against it?”

“As I have no idea how the spell is done, Highness, I have no idea how to counter it.”

“That’s disturbing, Spellmonger,” she said, turning the nickname into a slur.  “You’re supposed to know things like that.”

“I’ve only been Master Adept for as long as you’ve been a princess.  I’ve been busy going to parties and kissing high noble ass for the last week, so I’ve been a bit remiss in my studies,” I said through gritted teeth.

“Don’t get insolent with me,” Rardine said.  “I did not get to be a princess by ignoring important matters like that.”

No, you got to be a princess over a pile of bodies as tall as an ogre, I thought.

“I was merely pointing out the novelty of my position, Highness.  I assure you, I have people working on the matter.”

“Very good, Spellmonger,” she said with just a little too much enthusiasm.  “You know, Mother thinks we can still be good friends within the Family.”

“Good friends rarely plot to stab one another in the back, at least in my circles,” I countered.  “But I’m almost as new to the nobility as I am to a position at court, Highness, so perhaps I have been misinformed.”

“In Castabriel?  A dagger in the back is more common than a kiss when departing,” she said, almost boasting.  “Betrayal is a hobby.  Plots are a way to pass the time.  It would be wise for one so new to court to consider that.”

“Oh, I have, Highness,” I assured her.  “And I appreciate your tutelage.  But I fear that the Family has put me on my guard, after you ordered my manservant to stab me.”

She shrugged.  “You will grow used to it, Spellmonger,” she said with a sigh, and then drained her cup.  “Don’t take it so personally.  Think of it as a test.  A less-fit man would have died on that field.  It’s always best to have a secret or two about everyone.  That’s our stock-in-trade.  But I did not summon you to lecture you Spellmonger.  I wanted to extend the peace banner, and thank you for your efforts on behalf of the Realm.  And I wanted to know just when you would be returning to the field,” she added, almost casually.

“Highness?” I asked, curiously.  “What—?”

“Oh, I know how the war is going – how the war is really going,” she amended. “I also know the men would feel more steadfast in their defiance if their glorious Spellmonger was leading them.”

“Knight Commander Terleman is an able and wise war leader, Highness,” I said, evenly.  “Should he have need of me, he knows the trick of letting me know.”

“I am not taking issue with your command structure,” she said, sourly, “it’s a matter of the public’s perception.  When the hero of Timberwatch sulks hundreds of leagues behind the lines, people wonder about his dedication to the cause.  Baroness Gessa of Gilmora was asking me just an hour ago when the relief troops would arrive in her lands, as currently Gessa’s castle is under siege and her husband’s life in danger.”  The princess eyed me deliberately.  “I assured her that our valiant warmagi were on the task.  Then she asked if Minalan the Spellmonger was among them, and when I said not currently, her face fell.”

Min should have an internal dialog that 1. she’s right and 2. he’s being told something he should have known by someone he dislikes

That galled me.  It wasn’t that she was wrong – I had been neglecting the war in favor of politics, enterprise, and institutionalization.  But it galled me that someone I had so little respect for – hells, someone I actively disliked – was telling me what I already felt guilty about.  And her presumption was particularly irritating.  “Do you expect me to go rescue a friend’s castle . . . personally?”

“No, of course not,” she dismissed.  “Gessa’s a cunt, always has been, always will be.  But she’s not alone.  We’re swamped with vapid, idiot Gilmoran ladies who have fled south.  While our social life in the city has never been better,” she said, with icy sarcasm, “it would be nice if I could tell them that the estates and lands they depend upon to support their time at court weren’t falling into the hands of filthy mountain folk,” she said, using the polite term for the gurvani.

“Yes, it would be nice,” I said, mocking her tone.  “A lot of things would be nice.  But it takes time, Highness.  Your father has managed to send only twenty or thirty thousand troops yet, and that took nearly a year to do.  More are being called from the east and the south, but do you have any idea how long it takes to march an army overland?  Or provision them along the way?  We do magic, Highness.  Not miracles.”

“I bloody well know it’s a problem, Spellmonger, that’s why I’m telling you!” she yelled, losing her temper a bit.  Then she caught herself and attempted to compose herself.  “I merely suggest that – from time to time – some news about the heroic victories of the hero of the day would be pleasant on my ears.”

“You’ll get your victories, Highness,” I said, nearly in a growl.  “And when I know how I’ll achieve them, I’ll let you know.  But do attempt not dictate military policy to me based on politics.”

She scoffed.  “All military policy is based on politics!  Perhaps the soft living of a magelord has ruined you for the field,” she mused, insultingly.  “Or perhaps you enjoy that peasant wife of yours overmuch.  Either way, Mother expects to see some action soon, perhaps even the rescue of Barrowbell, if you can spare the time.  And I would stop that insolent retort before it passes your lips,” she added, darkly.  “You never know what secrets I have against you.”

Actually, I had a pretty good idea: Isily’s child by me, the product of a wartime indiscretion.  I didn’t know how Rardine and her bitch of a mother planned on using the kid against me, but there had to be some scheme.  That the child had been ordered to be conceived by Rardine was insult enough – to have her raise my daughter to hate me and turn against me somehow in the future was unacceptable.  I very nearly told her so, too.

But I stopped myself.  I’d be a fool if I revealed too much in my pride.  I was working on the problem of Lady Isily, but I did not want to make Rardine aware that I even knew of her.

“Congratulations again, Your Highness,” I said, giving her a curt bow instead.  I turned on my heel and left un-dismissed, with her calling her servants for more wine.

Pentandra would have been proud of how I’d handled the delicate situation.  I was just angry.  I made an excuse and left the ball soon after that.  Rardine’s crack about my “peasant wife” got me missing Alya, Minalyan, and everyone in Sevendor something fierce.  I only wished that there was a High Mage left in Sevendor who I could contact, but neither Banamor and Olmeg had been taught the spell to speak mind-to-mind.  I cursed myself at the oversight.

But then I remembered the gift I’d given Alya before I departed, and cursed myself for forgetting about it all this time: the magic mirror.  I nearly ran back to the temple, where I took out the enchanted device and activated it.

There was little chance that anyone was nearby – it was late, as I said.  Which was why I was surprised to be staring at Darishi, my son’s nurse, when I activated the spell.

“Darishi?” I asked, confused.  “Why are you . . . ?”

“Magelord Minalan!” the young peasant woman said, her eyes wide with relief.  “Thank Ishi and Duin you responded!  We’ve been trying this fool spell for days, and had almost given up!”

“Wait, what?  Why?” I demanded, suddenly alarmed.  On closer inspection, the nurse did not look well, as if she hadn’t been asleep in days.  “Is there something wrong with the baby?  Alya?” I asked, urgently.

“No, no, Magelord, your lady and your son are fine!” she assured me.  “I will fetch her!”

“Not until you tell me what’s going on!” I demanded.

She looked scared, but nodded respectfully.  “It is just . . . Magelord, I did not want to be the one to tell you but . . . Sevendor is besieged, for the last six days.”

“Huh?” I asked, confused.

“Sire Gimbal has invested the vale, and set soldiers to watch the high pass.  None get in or out of Sevendor, now.  Our frontiers are sealed and guarded.  Scores have fallen in the defense.  Magelord, we are at war.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Sevendor Under Siege

Thankfully, the news wasn’t nearly as grim as I’d imagined.

Sir Cei and Alya took turns with the device, filling me in on all that had happened in my absence.  It took a few hours, because I kept stopping and asking questions, but by the time someone brought me lunch I’d gotten most of the story.

It seems the Warbird of West Fleria had been watching my movements, apparently having secured the services of a spy or two within Sevendor’s borders.  When they witnessed all of the High Magi leaving for the coronation, that’s when Gimbal began his plan.

It started with his “bandits” harassing folk on the road again, about the time we departed from Sendaria Port.  Then some of them found Olmeg the Green and a few River Folk assistants in the Enchanted Forest and attacked them while they worked.  One of the little people was killed, and Olmeg was beaten pretty badly, which infuriated me.

Olmeg is one of the most gentle people I know.  As large as he is, you’d never suspect him of having a bellicose bone in his body.  Apparently he did not go quietly. Despite being almost completely ignorant of warmagic, he had killed two of his attackers and driven the rest off.  Any High Mage can be dangerous if he has a witchstone handy.

That enraged my folk, as they had grown quite fond of the Greenwarden as he had shown them which crops would enrich them and keep them from starving this winter.  Sir Cei and Master Olmeg urged caution, but the attack had struck at the Bovali’s honor.

Some of the hotter heads among the Bovali went after the “bandits” in a series of raids, and that was all the provocation Gimbal needed.  The next day his emissary arrived at our gate to declare that we had broken the treaty and declared war on Sevendor to the disbelieving Sir Cei.

Sir Cei insisted on arbitration through the graces of Landbrother Mison, as agreed, but Gimbal wouldn’t hear of it.  About the time I was arriving at Castabriel, he had deployed his army – quietly gathering since the moment I’d left – and quickly sent surprise sorties against the Diketower.

They hadn’t made it past the Dike, Sir Cei informed me, proudly.  Our homemade fortification was crude, but it was efficient, and stalwartly defended.  Casualties were heavy in that first surprise raid, but things settled in quickly after that.

Sir Cei tried to send an urgent message to Landbrother Mison, who theoretically had the power to stop the war and arbitrate, but Gimbal launched a surprise attack on the Dike before the message could be delivered.  Simultaneously, the Warbird had another contingent of his men invest Caolan’s Pass, so Sevendor was effectively under siege and unable to communicate.

The first assault on the Diketower complex had been bloody, and we’d lost nine men defending it – but it hadn’t fall to the Warbird, then or since.  Olmeg had been correct: the Bovali’s use of the heavier Wilderlands bows (combined with my Greenwarden’s nascent Enchanted Forest) kept the West Flerians at bay.

Sir Forondo had foolishly but gallantly led an expedition of heavy cavalry to break through the invaders at the Diketower, but was surprised to learn that Gimbal hadn’t contented himself with just hiring former bandits this time.  He’d marshaled the entire strength of his domain to attack Sevendor.  When he rode out at the head of thirty lances, he was confronted with twice that many lancers on Gimbal’s side, and of men of solid repute.  Forondo withdrew with light casualties, but since then no one had gotten in or out of Sevendor.

That wasn’t really bothering anyone – the harvest was beginning, and there was plenty of food in the domain.  Sir Cei had slammed the sluice shut on the stream at the start of hostilities, so Gimbal’s folk downstream were in much more dire straights.  But having five hundred armed men outside of your gate is distracting when you’re threshing..

Five hundred men – or more.  Banamor, Olmeg, and Zagor were the only three “high magi” left in the domain, but they knew how to scry.  When they tried to see the extent of the force arrayed against them, they encountered some magical blocks that had alerted them that Gimbal had hired some warmagi.  Further, their scrying showed that in addition to the hundred-odd lances he had from his domains, he’d conscripted nearly every able-bodied man in West Fleria to fight against Sevendor.  And he’d hired mercenaries.  Far more mercenaries than I suspected he had the funds for.

Gimbal was getting help . . . and Sir Cei told me where it was coming from.  On the third day of fighting around the gate, a couple of spotters appeared at the back of the Flerian troops, Spotters wearing checkered mantles.

The Censorate had decided to make things personal, and they were funding and assisting Gimbal’s war effort.  The gold that paid the mercenaries came from their hands, captured prisoners had revealed.  Indeed, not trusting the Warbird with such an important mission, they were overseeing the entire effort.  Their goal was no less than making a bloody example out of the first Magelord.

The idea that the domain I had sweated and bled and worried over for a year was now in danger while I was three hundred leagues away was maddening.  Knowing that the Censorate was behind the effort was infuriating.

I readied the Sevendori who came with me to leave at once.  Tyndal and Rondal were as anxious as I was to rescue our folk, and a few friends gave me offers of assistance.  Pentandra pointed out I could appeal to the King for redress, since I was now a Royal Official, and therefore theoretically protected by the Crown’s Law.

But I was sick of this.  If I could not defend one little domain on my own, then how could I be expected to run an entire Order?  All I had wanted to do was build up Sevendor in peace, and Gimbal had done nothing but try to obstruct me.

When a High Mage gets angry, things start to happen.  Having the counsel of some of the best military minds in the Kingdom was helpful.  So was having a lot of newly-made magelords who were already protective of their new prerogatives.  Many were angry and indignant on my behalf.  Enough so that I had a small group of enthusiastic volunteers to help relieve the siege of my homeland.

That’s when it also became clear that Pentandra’s friendship was a far more powerful ally than the Censorate’s.

“Why are you doing this, Minalan?” she asked the day after I’d finally learned about the war.  I was already planning my assault – single-handed, if necessary – on Gimbal’s army.  The question took me off guard.

“Because it’s an insult to my House, my profession, and my class!” I said angrily as I began to pack.  “I must lift the siege.  I cannot let this sort of blatant insult pass, Pen.”

“Oh, I wasn’t suggesting you do – I was merely questioning the method you’re using to do it.  It’s brave, it’s glorious, but it’s not terribly efficient.”

I stared at her.  “How so?” I asked, carefully.

“You, Tyndal and Rondal, and a few of your friends, are about to go rushing back to Sevendor and charging into battle, a handful of witchstones against an army.”

“You don’t think we’ll win?”

“I think it would be a bloodbath,” she admitted.  “I also think it’s unnecessary.”

“How so?” I repeated, just as carefully.

She looked at me like she does when she’s about to lecture me.  “Min, remind me again how many men this . . . ‘warbird’ has mustered against you?”

“Over a hundred lances.  Maybe two hundred.  He’s emptied every hamlet and village he has to try to take Sevendor!” I said, exasperated at the thought.

“Exactly,” she said, nodding.  I still didn’t understand.  She looked amused.  “Min, if he’s got every man who can hold a sword besieging Sevendor . . . who is guarding his domain?” she asked, deliberately.

The question took me by surprise, but it was brilliant.

I was still fairly new to the laws of inter-domain warfare, but there were a few basics that I was solid on.  One was the fact that when two domains are at war, there’s no rule that says the weaker one can’t attack the stronger one.  My first impulse had been to ride to Sevendor’s defense, but as Alya and Sir Cei assured me, the folk of Sevendor barely noticed the siege outside their gate, save for the extra guard duty the militia indulged in, and were not in eminent danger.  The Diketower was effectively keeping the Flerians out, and while they were attempting to construct some siege engines, it would be awhile before they were finished, armed, and wheeled into place.  Getting through Caolan’s pass would be equally hard, but that worked both ways.  They may have held it, but there’s no way you could get a catapult up that grade without killing horses.  If we had to attack then, even from the rear, it would be an expensive proposition.

In the meantime, all of West Fleria was guarded by dotards and striplings.

“Five or six warmagi can’t take down a whole domain, Pen, “I sighed as I tried to poke holes in her idea.  “That takes manpower.  If I scaled the ridge and was able to lead the Sevendori from inside—”

“Min, what are you talking about?  Even in wartime there are plenty of soldiers for hire.”

“Mercenaries?” I asked, surprised.  I’d worked with plenty, of course, been one myself and respected the profession greatly.  But Sevendor couldn’t afford to go into debt hiring mercenaries, I knew . . . and they had a nasty reputation of hanging around and molesting your folk if you didn’t pay them in a timely fashion.  “I can’t afford it, Pen.”

She kept shaking her head.  “Min, you’re a ministerial-level Royal officer, head of the Arcane Orders, and leader of two units of warmagi . . . how did you manage that by being so dim?”

“I have you around to do the hard thinking,” I observed.  She ignored me.

“As head of the Order, you take a portion of every fee paid for every witchstone.  I wrote that into the charter specifically.  We’ve been too busy getting organized for me to check in with the coinbrothers, but by my estimation you – personally – have at least fifty or sixty thousand ounces of gold already in hand, with watertight pledges of more than three hundred thousand.  You’re not quite filthy rich yet, but the day is young.”

That stunned me.  I couldn’t even picture fifty thousand ounces of gold.  Perhaps Sevendor could not afford to hire quality mercenaries . . . but its Magelord could apparently do it out of pocket change.

“So,” Pentandra smiled, as I finally realized the full impact of what she was suggesting, “I’m thinking we need to start sending out a couple of messages while your apprentices pack.  It’s going to take you a week to get back to the eastern Riverlands, even with magic propelling you.  If we spend a day now in preparation, then you’ll save weeks later,” she promised.

I couldn’t argue with that.  What she was suggesting was sheer genius.

*                            *                            *

I actually got some very helpful tips on waging a magical war from Master Dunselen,.  After I had lectured him officially on the responsibility a magelord had to use his powers in a positive way, I picked his brain about how he’d made so much progress in such a short period of time, and I learned what spells he’d employed to help things along.

While Dunselen agreed to temper his enthusiasm in rebuilding his patrimony, he wasn’t contrite about the methods at all.  He felt entitled to re-capture his family’s lost lands through conquest, if they wouldn’t come voluntarily.  But he also told me that his short-lived wars had caused several independent landholding knights to swear fealty to him, out of fear of being next.  He didn’t expect to prosecute another war, he reasoned, because the last one had been so quick and devastating no mundane lord wanted to defend against a magelord.

It was hard to argue with results like that.  I made preparations accordingly.

We quit the capital the next day, spent one day at Penny’s manor, Fairoaks, making some final preparations.  The following day we boarded a barge chartered for the purpose at dawn, and sped up-river on the back of a water elemental.

I wasn’t alone – Pentandra had Order business in Wenshar, and wanted to ride with me to see Sevendor, and I didn’t mind the company.  Her cousin Planus was also willing to come along, as were Sarakeem of Merwin, the flamboyant archer warmage, Mavone (who was headed back to Wenshar to oversee the retrofit of the former Censorate’s commandaries there), and Taren, who was going with Mavone to continue cataloging the Censorate’s collection of confiscated artifacts.

With seven powerful High Magi on board, one would think mercenaries would be redundant, but what I had told Penny had been correct.  You could use magic to destroy, you could use magic to create, but you needed men with swords to hold a country.  Thankfully I was wealthy enough to afford some of the best.

At Wittinsport, two days journey south of Sendaria, we picked up two barges full of mercenary infantry, about three hundred men of the Black Boot Brigade.  They were an elite infantry unit led by Barathol the Black, and came highly recommended.  When Barathol saw how much I was willing to pay for his men, he abrogated his existing contract and was eager to follow me.  We had troops now, and good ones.

And they weren’t all.  There were few High Magi left outside of Castabriel during the coronation, but one of them was Rustallo, who had been wounded during the spring skirmishes in the Penumbra and was recuperating at Wilderhall.  He didn’t really understand everything we asked him to do through the mind-to-mind link, but he was happy to be of assistance to the Spellmonger.

So when our barge finally arrived in Sendaria Port, we had two hundred crack Nirodi mounted archers dressed in red patiently waiting for us at the docks.  These were the few reserves from the mercenary unit from Nirod, and they were initially hesitant to sign up so close to the harvest, but again gold speaks loudly.  They gave me three weeks to use them and then they had to return to their village for harvest.  I missed their commander, Rogo Redshaft, but he was still on leave and even the prospect of that much gold couldn’t tempt him away from his wife after last year’s war.

I couldn’t blame him for that.  I made do with one of his lieutenants, who seemed a younger version of the man.

But the archers weren’t the only ones waiting for me at Sendaria.  After procuring horses, we led our mercenaries quietly down the road to Baron Arathanial’s seat at Chepstan Castle, where the good Baron was waiting with fifty lances of his own.

Pentandra had pointed out the foolishness of hiring men to do the job of punishing the Warbird when Gimbal had enemies aplenty.  When I’d sent word to Baron Arathanial of my plans and invited him to participate, he had jumped on the unanticipated opportunity.  It had been awhile since he had donned armor in earnest, but when he met me with his men outside his castle, he seemed a real warrior prince.

“I don’t know how you arranged this, Magelord,” he told me as we rode toward his frontier with West Fleria, “but I cannot say I am displeased by it.  I had two of those Censors at my court a moon ago demanding I march on you myself.  I had them escorted from my domains, but I could not legally touch them.”

“You can now,” I encouraged.  “King Rard has declared the end of the Censorate, and their agents are not beyond the law now.  Just what reasoning did they give, I’m curious?”

“That you were an abomination under the King’s Law, that you were dangerous, and that you had designs on your neighbor’s domains.”

“Well, they were right on the first two counts,” I admitted to the distinguished old knight, “but until a week ago I had no desire to attack West Fleria.  Now I can think of little else.”

We crossed the border between the domains un-assailed, and just on the other side Sire Sigalan and thirty light cavalry were waiting, grins on their faces.  Another fifty men, free commoners and villeins, sported brand-new war bows and plenty of arrows.

“Trestendor rides to Sevendor’s aid!” the tall knight declared, after we greeted him.

“Then Trestendor deserves its own back,” I replied.  “Indeed, I believe this was Trestendori land, until recently.  I see no reason why it shouldn’t be again.  Indeed, that’s the way the King sees it,” I promised.   With tears in his eyes, the lord raised his banner over the ruins of the once-prosperous village himself, and designated one of his liegeman to garrison it on the spot.

“Ferrendor is restored,” he said, tears in his eyes.  “If you gentlemen will assist me in pressing that claim.”  The nearest manor was run by one of Gimbal’s toadies – and was almost completely deserted.  We took it without a fight, and Sigalan’s men took over.

We marched through the rest of the day completely unchallenged.  The next manor we came to in late afternoon was almost deserted.  Sire Sigalan and Baron Arathanial sent a dozen of their men in to capture it, and soon the Sendari banner was flying over it.  The wife and daughter of the knight who held the territory were brought to me, and after promising good treatment I had them follow our party the next morning as we continued our march.

At the crossroads I split up my forces.  I had months of reports on Gimbal’s domain from my warmagic students, and I knew just where and how to hit them with the forces I had.  Mostly the lands were easy to take: we’d ride in, I’d have my herald make an announcement, and then one of our officers would take over, imprisoning any loyalists for later disposition.  At the crossroads I had my infantry spread out with very specific orders about which domains to strike, how to take them, and what to do afterwards.  I led the warmagi and the Nirodi on a campaign of pure conquest.

The third day of my campaign, we arrived at the first serious challenge to our advance, Bulmont Castle.

It was a ratty motte-and-bailey affair, lightly garrisoned but well-defended, thanks to the nature of the fortification.  Bulmont was built on a high spur of rock overlooking the village below, and could only be reached by a narrow causeway.  I rode to within range of the castle to call it to surrender.  I was given insults and arrows in return.

So I had Rondal, who has an affinity with the earthier elements, to convince a couple of tons of rock at the base of the cliff to get out of the way . . . and gravity did the rest.  Bulmont Castle literally fell in a matter of moments, sliding from its perch and collapsing into a heap of dust at the bottom of the cliff.  Everyone inside was killed. Trestendor claimed the land.

Just before evening the next real castle to challenge us was Jastondor, a proper square stone keep and bailey with enough towers to make things interesting.  There were less than a dozen men-at-arms inside, and after I gave Sarakeem ten minutes to practice the sniper’s art, there were half that number.  Jastondor surrendered, and I gave its keys to Baron Arathanial.

The fourth day we came to the heart of West Fleria, Gimbal’s own Castle Fleria.

Castle Fleria was a sound keep with two baileys and a dozen towers.  He had built it early in his career as conqueror.  It replaced the nearby-but-decrepit original hold of Gimbal’s family, Flerinhall, a shambling pile of stones three miles away, originally enfiefed to his grandsires by Arathanial’s grandsires; now he kept his bastards and mistresses in it to keep them close at hand.

When summoned to surrender, his wife, nominally in charge, bravely refused from the gatehouse . . . and then was captured an hour later by the men we had sent to scale the walls on the other side.  Sarakeem and Mavone led the assault team, and I was able to tell them the best route in, thanks to all of my warmagic students’ scouting reports.  Within we also found a landbrother who had been trying to get peace talks started again.  He was more than happy to be rescued.

After some discussion among the commanders the banner of Sendaria was raised over it.  As it had been originally Arathanial’s land, Sigalan and I felt that it should return to him . . . and then we decided the Flerians needed a lesson in manners.

I didn’t want to ruin a perfectly good castle that Arathanial would have to repair.  So I had the old family seat of Flerinhall evacuated, then I allowed my High Magi to use their stones to reduce it, however they saw fit, as practice.

Mavone came up with the spell that destroyed it.  He enclosed the entire keep in a bubble, and then kept pouring energy into it until the temperature inside was high enough to melt the metal and set anything flammable ablaze.  When we rode away the old keep was a smoldering pile of rocks that bore no resemblance to a military fortification.

And so it went.  For five days we systematically conquered each and every one of the domains sworn to Gimbal and West Fleria.  Sometimes we just marched in, raised our banner over a manor while the confused peasants looked on, and left an occupying force while we went on to the next one.  We lost less than twenty men, slew less than a hundred, and destroyed three small castles in total before my apprentices and I decided it was time to speak to the Warbird under a flag of truce.

That was pretty easy to arrange, since Landbrother Mison was angrily skulking just beyond the rear of Gimbal’s lines, fuming about the man’s betrayal of his treaty.  Monks take such things seriously.  He was only too happy to call a truce, after speaking to the landbrother we had rescued, and less than a week after I’d arrived at Sendaria Port, in a pasture three miles south of the Diketower my retinue and I met with Gimbal and his honor guard.

“So, the Magelord has finally come home to witness the destruction of his domain,” the Warbird mocked, unaware of his situation.  I had taken great pains to ensure that he had as yet no word from our surprise invasion.  “Or are you here to beg me to spare it?  Or just your wife and brat?  What do you say to me now, mageling?” he taunted.  “I have magical allies of my own now, and your tricks won’t work on me.  Are you ready to beg me to spare your new-found riches?”

“Well, I could challenge you to single combat,” I suggested, “which would settle the matter.  But you would invoke a champion, and that would keep me from killing you, so I find that solution unsatisfactory.”

“You kill me in a duel?  That’s unlikely,” the man sneered proudly.

“Or I could just depose you,” I said, as if considering between a pudding and a pie.  “That would be simpler, although slightly less gratifying.”

“Depose me?” he scoffed.  “With your own land under siege and no lances to fight for you?”

“Actually, you have a point,” I admitted.  “With Sevendor under siege . . . with every knight in West Fleria at her gates . . . I couldn’t very well just depose you with my own troops.”

“And they let you run an entire battle?  An entire campaign?” Gimbal snorted contemptuously.  “Was the Duke mad?”

“I won an entire battle,” I reminded him.  “And I made a lot of friends in the process.  Friends eager to lend assistance . . . when I asked them to help me out.  For instance, when I descended with five hundred mercenaries on a completely unprotected West Fleria,” I said, casually.

I admit, I selfishly savored the moment, enjoying the change in expression I got to witness on Gimbal’s face as he realized, to his horror, what a tragic mistake he had made.  “Don’t bother calling for help,” I said, as he reached for a horn in alarm, his mouth moving, but no coherent words coming out.  “This little war you started is over.  Castle Fleria flies Sevendor’s banner now, Baron Arathanial has retaken most of his family’s ancestral lands from you, and Sire Sigalan is even now rebuilding the village of Ferrendor you razed . . . and taxing the three other domains he just took in conquest from you.”

Gimbal was speechless, and several of the knights in his honor guard angrily challenged the truce to Landbrother Mison.

“You lie!” one of them – Sir Bromul, if I recalled correctly – shouted at us.  “You’re bluffing to persuade us to let down our guard!”

But Landbrother Mison was firm.

“I’ll bear witness to the conquest,” he said, even managing to sound sorrowful while he did it.  “My fellow priest is trustworthy, on that account.  Your castles have fallen to Magelord Minalan and his allies, and there can be no question of legality.  You, yourself declared an end to the truce, and declared a war, Warbird.”

“And if you do not trust the veracity of a landbrother,” I added, signaling to our watcher, “then perhaps this will convince you.”

Half a bowshot away some of the tough-looking mercenaries of the Black Boot Brigade led the wives and children of the knights fighting for Gimbal out, close enough for them to see their faces.  The innocents they had left behind were now our hostages.  Bromul’s aged wife was among them, apparently, for he immediately laid his sword at my feet and surrendered as a condition to keep her safe.

Gimbal wasn’t as charitable.

“You want my wife?  Keep her!” he bellowed at me angrily.  “Slit her throat right here, I’ll have another one by midwinter.  My brats?  Parasites all, kill them as well.  But you will not extort a victory from me thus!” he shouted.

“The victory is already at hand,” I insisted.  “You are a landless knight, as of this moment.  I confirmed by magical message this morning that my properly-executed Writ of Conquest has been duly filed with the Royal Office of Lands and Estates in Wilderhall.  You may no longer command, lead, sell, or borrow on your former territories, and all of your revenues therefrom are now mine by law.  My lawful rule now includes five of your former domains. The others I’ve given to my good friends Baron Arathanial and Sire Sigalan to divide between them as they see fit.”

Gimbal’s men retreated into a huddle to discuss the matter, and I noticed a lot more of his men filling in behind them as news spread.  I didn’t need the Long Ears spell to know what they were planning.

They’re planning on breaking the truce, I told Pentandra, mind-to-mind.  Tell Sarakeem to wound the first one to draw a blade.  I’d had the sniper mage take up a position with his great horn bow in a tree where he had excellent oversight of our meeting.  Pentandra, Planus, and Mavone waited at its base, ready to intercede if they actually did start a fight.

“I challenge you to a duel of honor for the estates!” Gimbal finally said, when his counselors agreed that if what I said was true – and their shrieking wives and daughters suggested it was – then there was little other recourse for the lord.  A duel of honor was one of the last, and most desperate, moves he had left in the game.

“I refuse the duel on the grounds that you have no estates left for which to duel ,” I dismissed.  “I hold them now, which makes you a landless knight.  And by law, I need not entertain a challenge from a landless knight.  Or a penniless one.  Tell me, just what were you planning on paying your men with?  The ample treasury I found at Castle Fleria?  That is now mine by right, as well,” I observed.

Gimbal went pale.  If he didn’t pay his mercenaries, they had a reputation for taking their pay in other ways.  If a knight lost his lands and his funds . . . well, he might be able to borrow to spare his life, but I wouldn’t be lending it to him.  He was a bad risk.  Maybe his brother would help him out of his debt . . . but I doubted it.

“You godsdamned sorcerer!” he spat.  “You won’t get away with this!”

I watched a man who had ridden in feeling in the stronger position in a small war suddenly discover that he had a very weak position in a much larger war than he’d wanted.  And now he’d lost everything – while he may have retained some estate somewhere in his brother’s territory I’d missed, as far as I knew he owned the armor he wore and horse he rode, and that was about it.  The Warbird was plucked.

Baron Arathanial and Sire Sigalan arrived around then leading a large column of their men . . . supplemented with volunteers from West Fleria who had gladly laid their swords at my feet because of their hatred of Gimbal.  He had been a harsh master, and had played steady favorites among his liegemen, and those policies were now working against him.  Few of his folk were loyal in even the tepid way Riverlands folk usually meant the word.

“Those men are here to take your surrender,” I informed him, as I saw even more of Gimbal’s soldiers arrive behind him as the news spread back to his camp.  “Once it becomes known that you cannot pay your men, they will not fight for you anymore unless they are your sworn men.  And as you have no land or position at present to swear fealty to, I’d say you have few enough warriors left in your service.”

“I will ensure the men are paid,” said one newly-arrived knight, breaking from the rest and stepping forward.  Damn.  I was afraid of this.   “I am Censor Commander Arlof,” he continued.  “The Royal Censorate of Magic will see this war through to its conclusion.  We will pay the mercenaries, as long as they are needed.”  He would be paying twice, then, as the gold we’d uncovered in Fleria had doubtlessly come from the Censorate’s coffers.

“The Censorate of Magic no longer exists in the Kingdom of Castalshar,” I informed him, delighting in saying the words.  “It has been dissolved by writ of the King.”

“I recognize . . . no . . . king,” the man said, realizing the irony of what he – one of the few to be able to claim to be “king’s men” – was saying.  The Censorate did everything in the name of the King.  That was easy when there didn’t happen to be one around to argue with.

“But King Rard recognizes a threat to his realm,” I continued, “and has ordered all former Censors unwilling to swear to him to depart the realm at once, or risk his sanction.  As an Officer of the Court, and a Marshal of the Duchy of Castal, I hereby order you and your men to either doff your cloaks and surrender, or leave the Kingdom at once.  In the name of the King.”

Since I had a steady stream of mercenaries and eager volunteers filling the space in behind me, just as quickly as Gimbal’s men were arriving, my words held some force.  Censor Commander Arlof was a zealot, but he wasn’t stupid.  I could see him making the mental decision to retreat and withdraw just as Baron Arathanial and Sire Sigalan arrived.  With their men.

“So what is it to be, Sire – sorry, Sir Gimbal?” I asked, patiently.  “Lay down your sword and sue for peace, or defy the will of the King by consorting with Censors against his will?”

He looked back and forth from his foes’ faces to his former allies’, and the desperation seemed to well up in him.  I was fully prepared for him to do something stupid, when somebody else spared him.

His bastard son, Sir Ganulan, had heard what had happened, had heard we held his mother a captive, and heard that his father was about to surrender.  The boy could not take the ignominy of it.  He grabbed a battle axe from somewhere and ran toward me screaming obscenities, breaking the truce and ensuring his own demise.  Sarakeem’s blue-feathered arrow sprouted from his left kneecap before he was within two paces of me.

Gimbal didn’t seem to notice – he was still in shock.  But Arathanial quickly took control of the situation, and through the auspices of Landbrother Mison arranged an orderly surrender of the Warbird’s former liegemen.

“I curse you, Magelord,” he said, defiantly before accompanying Mison and Arathanial as his son wailed in the background.  “I shall get my lands back, and I shall see you dead,” he promised.  “Law or no, I will not be treated thus!  My honor demands it!”

“Oh, shut up you stupid son-of-a-bitch,” I said, rolling my eyes.  “If you’d behaved honorably from the beginning, none of this would have happened.”  He glared daggers at me, but went to negotiate with Arathanial without speaking to me again.

The rest of the day went smoothly.  The mercenaries Gimbal hired agreed to remove themselves from the field upon payment, which I pledged from Gimbal’s own former coffers.  More than half were just as happy fighting for me, so I hired them and paid them in advance for four weeks to help keep order in my suddenly-expanded realm.

The Warbird’s former sworn men were confused, at first, as to what exactly had happened.  Only after Brother Mison addressed them and bore witness did they admit that they were defeated.

They were an interesting lot.  They divided roughly into two groups, a small retinue of devoted followers who were personally loyal to the man, and a much larger group who had borne him as their liege because they had no other choice.  Thankfully, four of the five new estates I had added to my demesne belonged to men who had no particular love for Gimbal, one of them being Sir Festarlan of Hosly, whose son, Sir Festaran, was once a prisoner and was now a loyal retainer of mine.

To the loyalist I gave a chance to swear fealty to their new liege, and if they balked at all I had them removed from their office – I had plenty of people I wanted to reward, and the last thing I needed were surly vassals.  Most were willing to serve a magelord as much as they were a Warbird, and pledged their fealty to me in person in return for their wives, daughters, and estates.  I asked them to tarry with me a few days at Sevendor before they returned to their lands, so that I could give them some idea how life under a Magelord would be different than a Warbird.  And so I could get to know them – I wanted to know exactly what I was getting in return for that oath.

The Censors, nine of them in all, took to horse and abandoned their erstwhile ally in the field that hour.  None were willing to change sides, and while they were generally in disbelief about King Rard’s coronation, they also knew how things looked at the moment – retreating was just a good idea, under the circumstances.

I gave Sir Ganulan to the landbrothers for treatment of his shattered knee, after I silenced his screams with a spell.  Afterwards Brother Mison informed me that Sir Gimbal and a small company of his loyal retainers would quit the field with their wives and kin and seek solace in the court of his hated brother, Baron Vulric.

As he was Gimbal’s nominal liege, losing his entire demesne would be a harsh humiliation to endure while he depended upon his brother’s charity.  I didn’t care.  Gimbal and his brood were no longer a threat to Sevendor, and that was the important thing.

Just before twilight, when all the players in the field had figured out their next moves, I rode to within sight of the Diketower, and the moment I saw the it I cast a bright green magelight at its apex.  I extended my awareness, and stretched just a little . . . and a moment later a much brighter one floated over the tallest spire of Sevendor Castle, miles across the valley from me.  I could hear the cheering from where I sat in the saddle, the message unmistakable.

The Magelord was home, and Sevendor was relieved.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

My New Neighbors

The aftermath of my sudden invasion and partition of West Fleria had far-ranging political consequences, but it was the short term consequences that truly bothered me.

First there were the dead.  Twenty-two Sevendori, most of them Bovali, had fallen in defense of the Diketower.  Among them were some I would miss.

Caolan’s pass had fallen without a single Sevendori death . . . because Railan the Steady, the Yeoman sent with a troop of militia to hold it in support of Yeoman Kamen, had surrendered the pass to Gimbal’s men without a fight the second day of the siege.  He had been certain of Gimbal’s swift victory, and when faced with actual battle he proved more Cowardly than Steady.  We found him among the prisoners we’d culled from the forces camped around the Diketower.

There were a lot more prisoners to deal with than I liked.  The mercenaries were no problem, and many I took into service in one way or another.  The conscripted commoners were largely pardoned and sent home, just in time to finish out the harvest.  A few were held out for especial consideration, upon Sir Cei’s advice, and they would have to be dealt with severely.  That meant court, and for four days after we overthrew the Warbird, we sat under a pavilion on the Sevendor village commons and plucked his army bare.

The men who had taken up arms against me while wearing Mage’s marks were spared the noose, but sentenced to indenture in Sevendor’s service for two years, as part of the new Iron Ring force in the Penumbra.  One or two Sir Cei singled out for yet harsher punishment, and insisted that they do six months of hard labor as villeins and bondsmen first.

Sire Gimbal had promised the men the Censors would remove their marks after victory in battle, and I could not fault them for that.  Still, as oath-breakers I had the right to sentence them, and I might as well get some labor out of them.

I allowed the yeomanry, country knights and itinerate sell-swords to leave without marks, but only if they were able to pay token ransoms to back up their pledges.  As most of them were now vassals to myself, Baron Arathanial, or Sire Sigalan, I doubted they would try to renege on their pledges, especially when we had demonstrated how we treated oath-breakers.  A few were genuinely happy to accept new lieges, as Gimbal had angered many of his vassals over the years.

One was particularly happy: Sire Festarlan of Hosly.  He had gone to war against Sevendor only upon threat of execution, as he did not wish to fight a man who held his son hostage.

For his part, young Sir Festaran had valiantly defended Sevendor, and had led two unsuccessful sorties against the mercenaries in Caolan’s Pass.  He had hurt his wrist in the last encounter, but even in the face of fighting his father’s liege, the brave young knight had continued to act more as a loyal vassal than a hostage.   Sir Cei, who masterminded the defense, had not balked at using the lad’s enthusiasm just because of a legal technicality.  The Siege of Boval Castle had taught him how useless such things were in a time of emergency.

But Hosly was one of the five domains I’d claimed in conquest, one of five closest to Sevendor.  Sire Festarlan was pleased to be able to lay his sword at my feet and be the first among my new vassals to swear fealty.

Not all the lords were as enthusiastic, and one, the lord of the conveniently-named estate of Northwood was unwilling to swear, forfeited his lands, and followed Gimbal into exile.  The other three were reluctant to embrace the new regime, but after speaking with them over lunch the second day after the liberation, I convinced them that faithful service, mild tribute and a prosperous vassalage were a better route for them to consider than reluctant service, punishing tribute, and a rebellious vassalage would be.

The tales of what we had done to the castles in West Fleria were starting to circulate, and by the end of the meal all three of them agreed to swear to me at court the next day.

Gimbal’s loyalists put me in a quandary.  Those who weren’t willing to give up their lands for their former liege were also openly bitter about their defeat.  Any who were vocally so I gave a magemark on their forehead, a broken snowflake, and declared them outlaws in Sevendor.  They had until nightfall to ride away with one horse, one sword, and no armor.  If they came within the limits of my domain again, they would forfeit their lives, or be sent to the Iron Ring..

It wasn’t all punishments.  Arathanial and Sigalan didn’t hesitate to reward their faithful followers with gifts of the vacant lands they’d just acquired.  That was how you kept the peace in a feudal system: you made sure everyone around you was a friend.  If they weren’t, you take them from office and put more friendly leadership in place.

Then there were a few tougher cases, the ones Sir Cei had recommended face more serious deliberation than mere banishment.  The betrayal of Railan the Steady, in particular.

As was brought to my attention at court, Yeoman Railan’s quick surrender was not inspired by fear, but by avarice.  He was promised his choice of estates in Sevendor, after the new regime was established, and even had the contract he’d insisted Gimbal’s agents write clutched to his breast when he was captured in camp.  I let him spend a few days in the dungeon before he was brought before me.

The charges were read: oath-breaking, cowardice and treason.  Railan looked scared while they were read, but steeled himself as deliberations began.

“How is what you did not oath-breaking?” I asked him, sternly.  “And what motivated you?  Have I not been generous with you and your folk?  Are you not far wealthier now than you were a year ago?  Yet you betray me to my enemies on the field of battle, the worst sort of betrayal for a man who has sworn an oath to defend me.  What have you to say for yourself, Railan?”

“You are a witch lord!” he yelled at me.  “Sire Gimbal was a proper knight, a proper gentleman!  He was no sorcerer, consorting with all manner of—”

I stopped his rant by enveloping his head in a bubble of silence.  He had no idea we couldn’t hear him anymore, but he could still hear us.

“I am not persuaded by this defense,” I said, mildly.  “When one is presented with such a disloyal vassal, how do you handle it, Baron?  I am new to this sort of thing.”

Arathanial looked thoughtful and twirled his mustache.  “Were he one of my sworn men, his head would be in a noose before it went up over my gate.  Such treachery a wise lord does not abide.”

“I agree,” Sire Sigalan said, “though it pains me to condemn any man to death lightly, an oath sworn and broken in such a manner . . . justice demands his head.”

Railan had finally figured out we couldn’t hear him.  “Did you hear that, Railan?  These gentlemen would hang you or decapitate you for your crimes.  Can you think of any reason I shouldn’t?”  By law, technically speaking, he should have been forced to go to the Iron Ring . . . but if he was a coward here, he’d be a coward in the Penumbralands.  I expected him to beg for mercy, or spit in my face in defiance.  Instead he just glared at me in silence.  I even lowered the spell a moment to allow him to be heard.

“If you will not even defend your own actions, then how can I?” I asked.  I thought of the Sevendori who had died at the Diketower, and those wounded in skirmishes at Caolan’s Pass.  There were a lot of my people in the crowd sporting bandages or splints.  “You broke your oath to me when it mattered most.  I’ll give you a moment to make your peace with the gods.  While we can’t hear you, I assure you they can.  And then it is your head.”

Railan still refused to speak, and continued to glare at me.  I gave him ample time to make his peace, if there is such a thing.

“It will take time to erect a gallows, Magelord,” Sir Cei advised me quietly.  “I can summon an axe or a greatsword.”

“I do my own dirty work,” I said, “especially when I take it personally.  My wife and child were behind that castle wall, and this man, who swore to protect them, delivered the pass he was charged to protect without a fight, instead.  His head it shall be, but not by steel or rope.”

I summoned a little power from my sphere.  The magical bubble that kept sound in was transformed.  Now it formed, for one brief moment, a solid plane, just like the magical planes of force we used to split wood or stone.  Railan’s head tumbled to the ground, followed by his body, both spurting blood as I let the spell fail.   “Next case?” I called, mildly.

I tried very, very hard not to be sick at what I’d done.  It’s easy to murder with magic, once you realize how delicate the human body is.  But whatever my personal qualms, I couldn’t let him get away with such treason and live.  If my vassals knew the penalty of treachery in advance, they’d think twice before considering such madness in the future.  I had enemies.  The justice of a magelord must be swift, if he’s to be respected, I was learning.

The next cases also required a capital decision.  Sir Erantal had been captured leading a raiding party over the pass the first day of the siege, and had been in the dungeon he had once presided over for almost two weeks.

He growled and spit and cursed me to the gods.  His head joined Railan’s after only a few moments of his vitriol.  As did the heads of five others caught engaging in treacheries varying from banditry to rape.  All five were found guilty and executed.  For their crimes their blood stained the white soil of Sevendor commons.

I felt faint and I called a break for lunch while they dragged the bodies away.  I needed wine.  A lot of wine.

Railan wasn’t alone in his treachery.  Seven of his henchmen had been as staunch against me as he.  In front of a jury of their fellow Sevendori, one witness after another testified to their antipathy toward me and my wife, and their willingness to betray us to Sire Gimbal.  The jury found them guilty of several different counts of oathbreaking.

I condemned them all to bear magemarks of the broken snowflake on their faces, and be enlisted in the Iron Ring.  Their chattels were forfeit to the domain, their lands confiscated, and their families exiled.  A few begged for mercy and abjured their husbands, and I mercifully let them live with relatives or neighbors.  I’m not a monster.

Another dozen Genlymen had been complicit in Railan’s treachery.  I gave them the choice of the Iron Ring, or losing their freedom and becoming full serfs, owing five days a week service to the manor.  The timid took to serfdom, the stupid took the Ring.

It wasn’t all punishments and executions.  There was heroism to reward among my people, too,.

First to Sir Festaran, for his valiant service to Sevendor in a time of need I released him from his ransom and sent him to his father’s joyous arms.  I also gave him an exquisite war sword, one borne until recently by Sir Bromul, and his pick of chargers from our loot.

To Sir Forondo, who commanded the Diketower during much of the siege, I gave one of the finer destriers we captured and a hundred ounces of gold.  His eyes bulged at his riches – he could buy a small estate with that much.  In fact, considering the bumper-crop of them now available, that’s precisely what he planned to do.

Sir Roncil had led two brave sorties against the invaders while they were in retreat, capturing several West Flerians in the process.  I gave him a spirited destrier of his own, a beautiful bay stallion, and fifty ounces of gold – more than double their ransoms.  He had broken his sword on an enemy shield the day before we arrived, so I gave him his choice of the hundreds of blades we had just captured.

My brother-in-law, Yeoman Sagal, had led the militia’s defense of the Diketower when Forondo and Roncil were leading the lancers, and had bravely covered their retreat.  When one of Gimbal’s advances threatened to overwhelm the Dike, he led his archers in a punishing shower of volleys that drove them back, and then supported the warriors defending it against the remnants by wading into the fray hand-to-hand, leading the militia himself.

To him I gave twenty ounces of gold, a fancy suit of armor he looked afraid of, and a battle-axe.  I knew he was a poor swordsman and a keen bowman, but I’d also seen him split wood.  He knew how to use an axe.  He accepted the gift with some trepidation.  Yeomen Rollo and Loas each received a similar gift, though they bore the arms a bit more stoically than Sagal.

A dozen or so other acts of heroism were brought to my attention and gained my reward.  Particularly the Westwoodmen.  Kamen and his folk had responded to the banner call enthusiastically, and had done their best to re-take Caolan’s Pass after Railan’s treachery.

I rewarded several, at Sir Cei or Alya’s recommendation, including giving young Kyre a beautiful brown charger from our loot..

Finally, to Sir Cei, who had overseen the defense of the domain, I gave three hundred ounces of gold, five horses, ten suits of armor, ten swords, and other sundries.  He was grateful at the largesse -- embarrassed even – but did not understand my reasoning, at first.

“You have an estate of your own, now, and you have military obligations,” I explained.  “I have an armory stuffed to the rafters with captured arms, thanks to Sire Gimbal’s foolishness, and now you have enough to outfit four or five lances . . . should your liege call your banner,” I said, winking at Baron Arathanial.

“In truth,  I don’t foresee a need for much military service on the horizon, thanks to Magelord Minalan.  But it’s good to know it’s there if I need it,” his liege assured him.  “And it is good to know just how capable a man is in war, as well as on the tourney field.  Well done, Sir Cei, well done!”  Sir Cei blushed at the praise..

“Now, as soon as these prisoners are disposed of and the domain is in good order, I’m giving you a few weeks off to visit Lady Estret.  No doubt she’s been worried by news of the siege.”

“Thank you, Magelord,” Sir Cei said, humbly.  “That would be a comfort.”

“Don’t tarry too long,” I reminded him.  “Your leave will be up just around the date you’ve set for your wedding.  I wouldn’t want to be late for that if I were you.  I hear Alya spent most of the siege planning it, and if you messed it up then you’d best join Gimbal in East Fleria.”

*                            *                            *

“So, Magelord,” Lawbrother Hamaras said that evening at a quiet banquet in the Great Hall, where we were bidding our new allies good-bye.  “I see you made my prophecy come to pass, after all . . . and a lot sooner than even I expected.”

“I had good counsel, good intelligence, and gold,” I shrugged.  “All I lacked was a reason to act.  Sire Gimbal and the Censorate provided that.”

“I hope this proves to be the beginning of a long and profitable alliance,” Baron Arathanial said, approvingly.  “I can see great things coming to the Bontal vales.  Great things.  My son just wrote to me from Chepstan,” he added.  “Two Sashtali domains are suddenly very interested in renewing their fealty to Sendaria, thanks to that bridge your young mage built.  Brilliant sorcery!  Not a soul wants to enter from the Sashtali side, now, and I hear he conjured a tidy little inn there in the bargain.”

I had yet to see Birchroot Bridge, but by all accounts Rondal had crafted a clever piece of enchantment and illusion.  More importantly, he had re-opened an important economic and military route . . . one that would allow the former liege of those domains to start re-asserting his power.

“I’m hopeful,” Sire Sigalan agreed.  “The lourdin mine is already profitable, and we’ll likely see much more demand for it.  I’ll need the income – I have a few domains and estates to re-build.  And re-people.  Half of my new lands are deserted.  I’ll be spread thin just protecting them.

“Well, the mercenaries are paid up through the end of the month,” I pointed out.  “After that, well, I’d suggest you have your people in place.  But as far as folk to work the land, I wouldn’t worry.  This time next year, the waves of refugees will be moving east searching for safety.  In two years the problem won’t be not enough labor, it will be too many mouths to feed.  But if you prepare to receive those folk, and have crofts ready to be filled, I daresay you can restore them to their former glory, once again.”:

“What of your new lands, Magelord?” asked Sir Olsted, Sigalan’s gray-haired old castellan.  “Half of them suffer from neglect as bad as Sevendor did, near enough, under Gimbal’s rule.  Will you pour gold into them as you did this beautiful vale?”

“If I need to,” I admitted.  “They are now magelands, and they will be entitled to some of the benefits of that.  But for the most part I will let their lords govern them as they see the need . . . within reason.”

“I wonder what the rest of the Riverlands will say when news of the eradication of the Warbird is heard,” mused Sigalan.

“They will know that the magelands are not to be trifled with,” I declared.

“They will know not to toy with the allies of the Magelord, too,” pointed out Sir Roncil, eyeing the Baron.  “If nothing else, it will make Bocaraton and Miseldor more cautious in their dealings with Sendaria, now.”

“Ah!” the Baron chuckled.  “Your Wilderlands knights waste no time in learning the local politics, Magelord – beware of that!  But I admit, I feel more at ease about our frontiers, despite the new lands to administer.  Now that I face Vulric, and not that pimple Gimbal, I know what I have to deal with – he is much like his sire, moreso than Gimbal.  He will only attack if he sees weakness or gain, and not lightly.”

“And we sent his brother back to him ruined and in disgrace,” Sire Sigalan observed.  “One would think he owes us something for that, alone.”

*                            *                            *

While I was attending to getting my domain back into shape, Pentandra, Planus, and Sarakeem enjoyed the hospitality of Sevendor.

I was interested to watch how Penny and Alya got along, now that the issue of my status was resolved.  I credit Minalyan with sustaining their relationship on the basis of cuteness alone.  Alya had to concede that he adored Pentandra, and Penny freely admitted that Minalyan was the most adorable baby in the world, and Alya the perfect mother.  After that, they got along fine.  But Penny was still distant from the baby, and spent more time observing him than playing with him.  For someone who is so involved with sex, it’s amazing how little regard she holds for its non-magical products.  Her interest in Minalyan I can only credit to the fact that he was also a magical product, of a sort.  Penny was fascinated with his role in the snowstone spell.  So was I, but I just saw a baby when I looked at him.

Planus was particularly fascinated by Olmeg’s innovations with crops, the proof of which was bursting our granaries and forcing folk to dig more root cellars.  When he found that grain yields had gone from three to one for wheat to six to one, and that we now had more maize than we could handle, he commissioned Olmeg to review his own grain-producing estates for efficiency.

Pentandra, ironically enough, was soon fascinated by Banamor’s plans for the upcoming magical fair, once she got over her native snobbery.  She was a little off-put at first, by an un-credentialed footwizard-cum-entrepreneur having a witchstone, but Banamor’s no-nonsense ideas about magic and willingness to consider her suggestions made him acceptable to her.

“It’s a new era,” she admitted, when I called her on her growing friendship with the man.  I was having a private dinner one evening with my High Magi visitors on the roof of my tower.  “He wasn’t Imperially trained, and his Talent is . . . limited, but he understands the culture better than most.”

“Why Penny,” Planus teased, “your mother would find your associations shocking!”

“Hasn’t she always?  We must begin to reach out to our more-ignorant colleagues and encourage them to better themselves.  Oh, and the things he told me went on downstairs at the Robinwing Conclave while we were re-writing the magical universe . . .” she said.  “He’s a lot more shrewd than he looks!”

“I am not denigrating the man – quite the contrary, cousin.  I do find his proposals for rebuilding Sevendor Village to be intriguing,” agreed Planus, as he choked down what passed for wine in my cellars.  “Permanent magelights on the High Street, an underground sewer system, a permanent breeze to keep the wood smoke from becoming cloying, more public privies, an artisans quarter for crafting enchantments . . . the man speaks as much like a burgher as a mage,” he said with good-natured scorn.  “He also asked me to register with him as your . . . spellwarden?  I’ve never heard the term.”

I shrugged.  “I made it up.  I put him in charge of magic in the vale, to keep me from spending my time arbitrating between magi, or between magi and the townsfolk.  If you can have a haywarden, why not a spellwarden?”

“But I thought you gave him a half-sized stone, just a fragment,” Sarakeem asked, his own witchstone glowing in his left earlobe.  Unlike most of us High Magi, Sarakeem was not only willing to put his stone in a piece of jewelry, he wore it on his ear, where it wouldn’t be parted from him.   “And he isn’t even trained in war.  He’s a merchant,” he dismissed.

“He doesn’t have to be as powerful as any other mage, he just needs to be able to use his head and call it to my attention if someone is misusing their powers.  Then I send someone powerful, or come myself if needed.  Banamor is a bureaucrat, but I’m finding bureaucrats as necessary as archers these days.”

That was a deliberate nod to Sarakeem, who had been working daily with the militiamen on duty, honing their skills with the Wilderland bows they had used so effectively at the Diketower and defending Caolan’s Pass.  The man was almost useless for most kinds of war, but his talent with a bow rivaled his Talent as a mage.  And neither had left much room for a talent in humility.

“That is a poor position for a warmage to find himself in,” chuckled the Merwini, who had taken the notice with comical graciousness.  “Your people are good archers.  Not great, but very good,” he said, which was high praise.  “But you, Magelord, you bathe those around you in opportunity . . . yet have you done much magic yourself?”

The question startled me for a moment.  I looked around at the gleaming white castle, washed cleaned of the summer dust and soot by yesterday’s rainstorm.  “Excepting for transforming an entire mountain and castle into a unique magic substance?  No, not really,” I replied, mildly.

That got a laugh from everyone.  I had shared the unique circumstances of my son’s birth with every thaumaturge I knew, just to figure out how it happened.  “And I say that in all seriousness.  I have done very little magic, myself.  I have depended upon others to work the wonders, but that has been to my benefit.”

“Leave him alone Sarakeem,” Planus reproved the Merwini mage, “I’ve seen how much paperwork my cousin does.  If Minalan does a tithe of it, he probably has more important matters to concern him than research.”

“While I love pure research,” I agreed, “and hate paperwork with a growing passion, it appears that I’ll not have much time for either, in the near future.  If the gurvani continue their advance toward Barrowbell, I will likely be recalled to the field.”  There.  I said it.  I had been ignoring the possibility for far too long, but the recent conquest of West Fleria had not only reminded me that there was a war on, it had removed my greatest obstacle to attending it.

“Alya is not going to like that,” Pentandra observed, quietly.  She and my wife had grown steadily closer, which unnerved me greatly.  While I was less anxious of a sudden fight breaking out, the idea that the two women closest to me in my life were . . . conspiring against me was a new type of anxiety.

“She’s not the only one,” I nodded, grimly.  “Battle is the last place I want to go right now, but it may be necessary.  She may not like it, but she’ll have to live with it.”

“I understand the lady’s trepidation.  The last time you left her alone here, Minalan, she got besieged,” Planus pointed out.

“That is bound to make any new mother nervous,” observed Sarakeem sagely.

“It’s not like it was her first siege,” I pointed out.  “Sevendor’s defenses worked as we designed them, save for the treachery of a weak man.  With that problem solved, and no local enemies to contend with, I don’t see what the problem would be.  Except the possibility of me not returning,” I conceded, guiltily.

“She will survive,” Pentandra said, diplomatically.  “I think Rard would be a fool to risk someone as important as you on the battlefield, but I don’t wear the shiny hat.  But I do hope you can wait until after the Magic Fair before you deploy yourself.  It would be a shame if all of Banamor’s good work wasn’t appreciated by his master.”

“That will be up to the gurvani, I’m afraid,” I shrugged.  “They rarely let me know what they’re planning.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

An Embassy From The Alka Alon

A week after I had conquered a rump barony, things were slowly getting back to normal.

Penny had already started sneering at my castle.  She was likewise unimpressed with Sevendor, as a whole.  Her family’s estates dwarfed even Greater Sevendor (as the extent of my domain was now being called), and her new manor Fairoaks, in the capital, was far more grand and luxurious, her servants more polished and better trained, and – let’s face it – it just smelled better.

Mavone was less rude about it – Sevendor was just another castle, after all, and he’d seen his share.  He moved on back to Wenshar as soon as he could arrange passage, thanking me for a refreshing diversion.  I suppose conquering a half-dozen domains for a friend on his vacation counts as fun, for a man like Mavone.  He did promise to return for the Magic Fair, on his way back to the front, however.  Personally, I think he liked Sevendor.

Sarakeem and Planus stayed longer.  Sarakeem enjoyed being under the eye of the Spellmonger, and went out of his way to ingratiate himself to me by holding regular classes at the butts for my people, teaching them the finer points of the archer’s craft.  I didn’t mind.  The shot that wounded Ganulan proved that the man knew his business.

Planus asked permission to stay through the approaching Magical Fair, and I could hardly refuse him.  He put up with the “rugged”  rustic castle living with more grace than his cousin, and both of them were fascinated by the ‘feel’ of magic in the presence of so much snowstone.

“Its amazing stuff, Min,” Penny told me one morning, remarking about the feeling she awoke with after she’d slept in Sevendor Castle.  “To be surrounded in it is like being surrounded by magic just begging to be manifested!  No wonder the Tree Folk want some!  The samples you sent me were impressive, but . . .” she shook her head.  “I can’t imagine anyone with Talent not thriving here.  This would be an ideal place for a magical school!” she proposed.

“Something like that,” I agreed.  We were standing in my laboratory, the first time I had been able to ditch politics for awhile and focus on magic.  “I have plans to excavate the mountain and build a far larger fortress.  Large enough for an Academy of sorts.”

“A fortress?  You just got rid of your worst enemy,” she said, confused.  “Why do you need a bigger castle?”

“Because I haven’t defeated my worst enemy.  He’s still out there, with a horde of a million goblins, and he’s not going to go away on his own.  Sevendor Castle was a decent defense against other local lords.  The new Sevendor Castle should be able to withstand a siege of hundreds of thousands of goblins.”

“That will take years!” she complained.  “And to waste snowstone on it seems . . . lavish,” she said, diplomatically.

“I hope I have years,” I replied.  “You see how fast things are moving in Gilmora.  They haven’t even gotten their invasion organized, and we’re already half-beaten.  It will take tremendous effort to keep them back, and still more to throw them out of Gilmora.  We’re going to slow the gurvani down, but they won’t be defeated easily.  Nor will they hesitate to attack me wherever I am.  So building a whopping big castle might seem like a waste, but I see it as insurance against the inevitable future bad times.”

“You’re the Spellmonger,” she shrugged.  She was saying that more and more when we disagreed . . . but only when she didn’t see it as an important enough point to argue about.  “I suppose I should stay for the Magical Fair, too, since missing it would be a social disaster.”

“I’m planning a ball . . . sort of,” I said.  “Nothing fancy, but a celebration of the Champion is in order.”

She nodded thoughtfully.  “That’s good to know, since I have nothing to wear,” she said in defiance of the large baggage train she had arrived with.  “But I’m speaking of the Spellmonger’s first social event of the new kingdom.  I can’t miss that.  Nor can I miss the fair itself – I have an extensive shopping list, and I’m hoping I can find some things your man Banamor has told me will be there.”

“He’s the one to know,” I agreed.  Banamor had taken his duties as Spellwarden seriously, and had worked on the fair right through the siege.  I had left the details almost entirely to him, and he was accomplishing a lot toward a successful event.  “But that also means you’ll be here for Sir Cei’s wedding next week,” I pointed out.  “Right at the end of harvest.”

“Oh, goddess spare me from an overabundance of enthusiasm,” she said, ruefully.  She had yet to forgive Sir Cei for imprisoning her in a dungeon during the Siege of Boval Castle, and had nearly objected when I wanted to hire him as castellan.  “You remember him at your wedding?  The man seems far too dour to get married.”

“You’ll be surprised how much Sir Cei has changed, once he got the taste of honey on his lips,” I assured her.  “He’s due back from his estate today or tomorrow.”  He had wanted to ride to see to his lady’s safety as soon as he was able, and I’d granted him a few days’ leave after he helped get my new vassals organized.

“He still worked for Koucey, I wouldn’t hire the man to clean my chamberpot!”

“Luckily, you don’t have to.  And I think you’ll like his wife.”

If Penny was discouraging about the impending nuptials, Alya was in a tizzy.  She had been pregnant and in exile before our wedding in Talry, and as much as my parents had tried to make her feel at home she had missed the planning all women seem to have about their maidenmoon.

While Lady Estret was far from a maiden, Alya saw this as an important alliance and wanted to celebrate it appropriately.  She said as much that evening as we crawled into bed together.  The late summer night was warm, but my snowstone castle reflected a lot of the heat away, and a helpful mountain breeze through the open window kept it from being unbearable.

“We can’t have Baron Arathanial arrive for a peasant’s wedding!” she had declared as she tugged on her thin cotton nightgown.  She had lost a lot of her curves since Minalyan was born, save where they enticed me the most. It was hard to concentrate on what she was saying with two big distractions compelling my eye.

“Pay attention!  Olmeg says he can get some late-blooming flowers for the altar, but the wine Banamor chose is abysmal!  Sire Cei deserves more than that!  Sevendor deserves more than that!  We have our reputation to uphold, and I will not let ill be said of our hospitality.  This is the first function we’ve hosted, and there are many eyes on how successful it is.”

“We kept the guest list small on purpose,” I reminded her.  “Just Estret’s family, Baron Arathanial’s retinue – he’s Cei’s liege, he has to be there -- Sire Sigalan’s party, we can’t exclude him, we just conquered half a barony together – the priestesses, Landbrother Mison and the Yeomanry.”

“And at least a thousand Bovali,” she reminded me, “all of whom see this as much a celebration of our liberation as a wedding.  All of your new subject lords, who will be lining up to kiss your arse.”

“They should.  I just conquered them.  And since everyone is here, I’ll have to name a new vassal to that vacant fief, Northwood.”  Sire Vrey of Northwood had been a crony of Gimbal’s, and had refused to swear fealty to me, joining his embittered former liege in exile in East Fleria.  That was just as well, as he was so hated among his people that I probably would have had to remove him from his fief anyway.

As it was, Northwood was going to need some assistance and some wise guidance to prosper again. A generation of penurious taxation and rampant corruption had left the people as bitter as the original Sevendori had been.

“Who have you decided to name?” she asked, carefully.  She was still very wary of my prerogatives as magelord, and did not want to seem as if she was unduly influence me.

“Why, who would you see in the post?”

“Whomever my lord decides,” she said, sweetly.

“Well, there are some worthy candidates,” I admitted.  “I considered making it a wedding gift it to Sire Cei, but in truth I want his attention on my estate, and his lady’s, and I foresee he will be too busy to give Northwood the time and attention it needs.  I could raise a Yeoman, but that might be premature.  I considered giving it to Sir Forondo, but the man has a mercenary’s eye when it comes to management.  He could own an estate, but I wouldn’t hire him to manage one.  He’s a good enough soldier, but he’d run Northwood into the ground and have a peasant’s revolt on his hands.”

“So who do you favor, Magelord?” she asked, batting her eyelashes exaggeratedly and wiggling under the thin blanket.

“I think I’m going to give it to Sir Roncil,” I decided.

“Very good choice,” she said at once.  “He’s loyal, he looks to you as fondly as any of the peasantry for saving us at Boval, he’s a knight with some steel to him, and he’s been more or less running Brestal on Cei’s behalf.  And running it well,” she added.  “I approve.”

“Listen to you,” I had chuckled, “you sound like you’ve been a noble for years.  Remember when we rode through that gap for the first time last winter?  Not even a year has passed, and you have grown so comfortable with your role you’re worried about the quality of wine at your castellan’s wedding.”  I couldn’t help but kiss her, she’s so adorable when she blushes.

Of course that led to other things, and soon the night was just much too hot, until we fell asleep sated.  That’s why I was confused as I was awoken a few hours later, in the darkest of night, by someone essentially banging on the door of my mind.

What is it?  Who is it? I asked, even as I recognized Pentandra.

Min, get up, she commanded.  You’re needed.

I tried to recall which crisis I was addressing and where Pentandra was, and then I realized that she was still right here in Sevendor.  Penny, what is it?  You’re right across the hall, why can’t you just come over and knock?

I didn’t want to disturb Alya.

But it’s fine to disturb me.  So what is it? I asked, tiredly.

Look out your window, she instructed me.

Huh?

Just . . . look out your window.  You’ll see why I wanted you awake.

If this is just an eclipse or a comet or something, I’m going to be pissed, I promised her as I pulled myself from my wife’s embrace and stumbled over to the window.  I rubbed my eyes and peered out into the darkness . . . only it wasn’t quite darkness.

The moon was absent from the sky, but much of the vale was lightly aglow.  The source of the light was coming from the top of Helm’s Mount, over a mile away.  It was a magelight, only not the sort that Imperially-trained magi create.

All magic-using peoples have a variation of the magelight spell, even the nocturnal gurvan, and it’s not an uncommon development of “wild magic” – unschooled Talent.  After all, the process is simple: define an area of space, activate the atoms within, and energize the volume until the atoms in the gas are forced to produce light.  But the way we go about that – the process and the shape of the spell – is very different.  Most human magi do it in Imperial fashion because that’s the way we learned it.

But I’d seen a magelight like that before.  It was the style of light used by the Tree Folk.

It looks like you have company, Penny said.  Get dressed.  It would be impolite to meet them with your dong hanging out.

Why not?  They go around naked most of the time.

They have retractable phalli.  You’d just make them jealous, she teased.

I’ll get dressed, I said, ignoring her comment.  If you’re dressed already, then have someone run to the stables and have our mounts prepared.  Giving Penny a chance to order someone around would keep her busy – she finds it irresistible.  And get the other High Magi up – my lazy apprentices included.  Best we give them a proper greeting.

*                            *                            *

There were nine of us who ended up riding across the vale that night, but we weren’t the only ones awakened by the light.  As we passed through Sevendor Village there were several people out in the night’s heat, staring up at the mysterious glow.

I did my best to calm them, and the sudden appearance of a bunch of wizards was indeed reassuring.  If the Spellmonger was aware of it, there was little else they could do, they reasoned, and most returned to bed.

Banamor was waiting for us in the Village, and nervously asked questions about the light as we rode toward Matten’s Helm.

He was almost as frightened as the peasantry, as he had never had any dealings with the Tree Folk, and was unaware of their magics.  Once I explained that it was merely a magelight, but one made for Alka eyes, not human,  explaining the odd color and brightness, he relaxed.  After that he was more curious than frightened, but that could have been because he was accompanied by warmagi.  Sarakeem had brought his great bow, and seemed excited and enthusiastic about meeting the Tree Folk.  Of course Sarakeem is excited and enthusiastic about breakfast, I’d learned.

It seemed to be his nature.

Riding across Sevendor during a hot summer’s night was emboldening.  My little land was rich and lush, the people well fed and secure, and the distant magelight was strong enough to reflect off of my snowstone keep and the magnificent white-bottomed pond as I looked back at it.  I could smell the fresh-mown hay, the richness of the newly-plowed fields, and could smell wild honeysuckle and husked maize conspiring to overcome, if even for a moment, the usual miasma of wood smoke and animal dung.  I realized for the hundredth time or so that I loved this little vale almost as much as I loved Minalyan.

By the time we arrived at the base of Matten’s Helm, Master Olmeg and Zagor had both arrived before us.  Master Olmeg was with two of the River Folk who were aquiver with excitement.  I’d seen how the little people reacted when in the presence of the Alka, and it was similar to how a zealot feels about a personal visitation from the deity he worships.

“Magelord,” my Greenwarden greeted me in his deep voice with a bow.  “I believe we are all here for the same purpose.”

“The Fair Folk,” sighed Zagor, happily.  He had been raised in the remote Alka Alon outpost in the north end of Boval Vale when it was discovered he had Talent, and they had taught him bits and pieces of “easy” Tree Folk magic . . . which made him a powerful mage in his own right.  They had also given him a witchstone, second in size only to the massive sphere I now possessed.

I hadn’t bothered to point it out to anyone, and didn’t see a need to, but Zagor was the only acknowledged High Mage who had his stone without taking his oath from me.  He was independent of the Order’s discipline.  If he was another sort of man, I might have been worried.  As it was, I’d trust Zagor with just about anything.  “It has been a long time,” he said, simply, and a little sheepishly.

“That looks like quite a steep climb,” Planus said, concerned at the grade of the path.

“It is,” I agreed.  “We’d best get started.”

We left the horses tied up at the bottom of the trail, and with Zagor eagerly leading the way we ascended.  It was quite a steep climb, but Planus and Pentandra kept up with no problem.

It took almost an hour to wind our way up the rocky mount, but the way was well-lit from the eerie magelight above, and the way was not difficult.  The trail had existed for generations – perhaps since before Matten’s Helm was known as such.  It was a secluded and beautiful spot, a favorite for lovers, and from the summit you could see the two vales and beyond.

When we made it to the top, we were not alone.  At the far end of the Helm, directly under the center of the magelight, were three diminutive figures.  The River Folk pilgrims immediately began to twitter excitedly among themselves.  Zagor was nearly as excited.

I led the party across the meadow that covered the peak, my sphere dogging my steps behind my shoulder, until I came within speaking distance . . . when the most fascinating thing happened.  The Tree Folk . . . got taller.  And less naked.

There were three females, I saw, but just as I came close enough to read their faces their entire bodies seemed to grow and stretch, and then sprouted clothes.  When the enchantment was done, all three Alka women appeared as breathtakingly beautiful human women.

Human . . . mostly.  I suppose it was the Alka Alon’s interpretation of humanity, for despite the size and shape and perfectly-formed features, their new shapes retained an alien quality that was, somehow, still essentially Tree Folk in presentation.

The ears, for example, weren’t shaped the way human ears were, being slightly too large and too angular.  They were taller than most women, nearly six feet tall.  Their facial features were sharp, making Penny’s well-defined cheekbones look round in comparison.  Their eyes were thickly lashed and beautiful, somewhat slanted and almond-shaped, their lips thin yet softly-rounded.

The clothes they had conjured were just as beautiful as their bearers; only the fabric seemed richer than any I’d seen in Castabriel, gowns of flowing silken cloth the exact color and luster of a white rose petal.  They were embellished with decorations of the most elegant simplicity, abstract lines resembling climbing vines or trees or flowers.  Their green hair was gone, their pale almost-human complexions complemented by a fastidiously-coifed mane of golden or silver hair.

They looked like three goddesses lost from some errant heaven, only they seemed cleaner, somehow, than a human divinity would appear

“Magelord Minalan of Sevendor,” the beautiful golden-haired woman said in flawless Narasi.  “The Alka Alon beg the pleasure of your audience.”

I bowed, as deeply as I possibly could.  I was gratified everyone else did the same – except the River Folk, who were prostate on their faces in awe.

“The pleasure is ours, Ladies,” I said, as I rose.  “Yet your raiment. . .”

The leader looked down at her new body.  “An enchantment designed to assist in negotiations,” she explained.

“An illusion?” asked Penny, who just couldn’t help herself.

“Nay, Lady Pentandra,” the Alka woman said, formally.  Her voice was like a base pipe, “A transgenic enchantment.  This is as we would be if we held a humani essence, instead of an Alka.”

“That’s amazing!” Penny declared.  “And that would explain a lot of confusion about your race in our oldest texts.”

“ The enchantment was first wrought long ago, when we first gifted your people with Perwyn, to facilitate communication and understanding.  I can only assume that my ancestors grew weary of always looking up when speaking to a humani.  I assure you, the body is quite as real as your own.”  She held out both hands and declined her head slightly.

I wouldn’t classify it so much as a bow as a failed nod.  “I am Varen.  This,” she said, gesturing to the woman on her left, whose hair was a lighter shade of gold than hers, “is Fallawen, and I believe you know . . . Ithalia,” she said, gesturing to the woman on her right.  Her hair was silver, but not in the same way a human’s hair was.

I started.  “Lady Ithalia?  From Alshar?”  She favored me with a smile that would have made Alya jealous.

“When the opportunity arose to fulfill this delegation,” she explained in a voice like a soft wooden flute, “it was thought my inclusion would find your favor, after our previous encounter.”  Knowing that the beautiful human-ish woman in front of me was actually not more than four feet tall and had green hair didn’t diminish the experience.

“It does indeed,” I assured her.  “But to what do we owe the pleasure of the company of the Fair Folk?” I asked, using the term Zagor had used.

“The common threat of the Abomination and his minions is a danger to us all,” Varen continued.  “Many of our kindred favor re-establishing old alliances between our people.  In token of this, we wish to form a permanent embassy to you, Magelord.  To facilitate communication . . . and understanding.”

“I am amenable to this,” I nodded, thinking of all the incredible possibilities.  “Yet would not King Rard be the one to whom this embassy is addressed?”

“The humani ruler may be useful, but he has no power to stop Sheruel,” Fallawen said, speaking for the first time.  Her voice was human . . . and sounded like a brass horn.

“Without him, the lands of both our peoples will be overrun by gurvani,” Pentandra pointed out.  “Unless the Alka Alon have thousands willing to take up arms, it will be humani warriors who oppose them on the field.  Sheruel is their leader, and no war will be won until he is destroyed, but until then we must contend with their legions.  And to do that, we will need the organization and resources of the Kingdom.  And of the King.”

“That is understood,” Varen nodded.  “Which is why we graced his coronation as we did.  But we have a poor history dealing with the warrior-princes of your people, Magelord.  When they overran the Magocracy, we attempted to negotiate with them.  They responded . . . poorly,” she said, a tone in her beautiful voice that was both sorrowful and pissed.  “Since then we have withdrawn behind our veils and largely left you to your own affairs, as we tend to ours.  Now that we have a common foe, we hope that a more civilized discussion may be had with the magi of your lands, as was of old.”

“We ask that you act as our intermediary with King Rard,” Fallwallan said.  Somehow I got the feeling she was the most critical of us and this effort.  “You understand the thinking of a . . . humani warrior-prince better than we.  If we must, we will visit his court in person, but our intent is to advise humani magi, not appease the conceits of a humani king.”

“To that end we request that we be given leave to make our embassy here,” Lady Ithalia said, indicating the peak of the mount.  “Of old this was an outpost of one of our houses, and some subtle magics from that time persist.”  That was news to me.  I knew of the Stone Folk connection to the site, but wasn’t aware of any Alka Alon settlement.  “We wish to make it a hostel close by, to give you counsel and aid as we can.”

“To share our understanding of the nature of magic,” added Fallawen.

“To guide you in your efforts against the Abomination,” finished Varen.  “Will you grant us this embassy, Magelord?”

Did they think I’d say no?  “I grant you this mount as your embassy,” I agreed.  “It shall be forbidden to my people, save at your bidding.  What do you need from me and my land?” I asked, trying not to sound fawning.

“Little enough, Magelord,” said Ithalia.  “We can provide most of what we shall need.  But we ask leave to build shelters, after the style of our kind, so that we may dwell here in comfort.”

“Build whatever you wish,” I agreed.  “If you have need of anything, merely ask.”

“As to that . . .” Varen said, with a hint more deliberation, “would you be willing to allow us to build our hostel of snowstone?”

I shrugged.  “Take all you need.  I’ve got a mountain of it.  In fact, I’m thinking of expanding the castle . . . but we’ll have plenty of time to discuss that.  Welcome to Sevendor,” I said, with a deep, contented sigh.  “Make yourself at home.”

All three of the women smiled, now, and turned toward each other.  Raising their arms they began singing . . . and it put to shame every note any human being ever uttered.  The songspell they wove was foreign, exotic, rich and potent, and it seemed to shimmer the air around them as they sang.  From the space between them, for the first time I noticed a tree, a mere sapling, with silver bark and golden leaves.  It was about two feet tall, and it glowed with a preternatural light.

The Alka sang until the tree reached six feet in height.  It sprouted branches and limbs as it grew, and new leaves sprung out in abundance.  When they ended their song it seemed to sparkle to outshine the stars.

“A token of our alliance,” Varen said.  “A rare tree from our homeland, and once the symbol of a great house of our kindred.  Centuries before humani were spawned from the Void, it grew wild throughout this region, but the gurvani and the Iron Folk sought to fell every tree in their wars against us.”

Zagor looked enchanted, and Olmeg looked like he was going to wet himself.  I was almost as impressed.  The Alka Alon love trees the way River Folk love a good meal.  According to legend, their enchanted forests were filled with all sorts of rare and exotic trees, some of which could be crafted into weapons and tools of great power.

Others could cure illness, or reduce aging, or ease suffering or even more esoteric things.  There was even recorded in some histories from the Magocracy that humanity’s gift of a thousand different importasta trees had convinced the Alka Alon to give us Perwyn to settle.  So this was no mere decorative shrub; to the Alka Alon, trees were significant.

This tree seemed to radiate magic like heat from an oven.  The Alka ladies looked pleased with themselves.  They turned to me as one and bowed gracefully.

“We are pleased, Magelord,” Varen said in her deep, compelling voice.  “From time to time we may descend the mount to have conversation with you, or walk in meditation in your beautiful vale.”

“We will count such a visit a blessing,” I agreed.  “May this be the beginning of a long and helpful alliance.”

After that we all had to study this wondrous tree, meet our new neighbors, and speak of future plans.  Varen asked my permission to summon a builder of the Stone Folk to do the construction of the hostel.  I thought that was a magnificent idea, and I secretly hoped I could find more information on the legendary lost city.  And maybe get a quote on upgrading my castle.

Olmeg wanted to know about the tree’s growth, Penny and Planus were curious as to its magical properties, and Sarakeem, interestingly enough, asked about its history.  He’s kind of a flamboyant fop, but the warmage also hid a keen intelligence under his mannerisms.

So what do you think all of this means? Pentandra asked me, mind-to-mind.

It means my magical fair will be outrageously popular, if we can get these ladies down the hill to visit, I said, after considering.  I knew that’s not what Penny wanted my opinion on, but that’s what I was thinking about at the time.

No, I mean why do you think they suddenly want an alliance with us so badly that they’re willing to send you three attractive fake maidens and a pretty tree?

Must you question everything? I lamented.

That’s what the Order pays me for, she agreed.  I’m not foreswearing their gifts and their counsel – Yremtia knows we need it.  But I have to question their motives, too.

We have a common enemy, remember? I reminded her.

I haven’t forgotten.  Neither have they.  That’s what makes me suspicious.

Or maybe you’re jealous of how incredibly beautiful they are?

Exactly, Min, she agreed.  They’ve taken human form.  There are all sorts of accounts of them doing this back in the ancient days.  Sometimes it was helpful, but a lot of times it led to problems.  Particularly when female Alka were involved.  Remember the tale of the Witch of Kayvahan?

No, I said patiently.  But the pretty ladies want to help us.  And I’m not the kind of man who just loses control at the sight of a shapely . . . ear.

Yes, actually, you are, she observed.  Which is why I brought it to your attention in the first place.

I couldn’t really argue with that.  And maybe she had a point.

But I had beautiful, enchanted Tree Folk living next door to the castle, now, and they wanted to ply me with gifts.  It would take an awful lot of compelling reasons for me to worry about that with everything else that was going on.

I think you’re paranoid, I told her.  But I’ll keep an eye on them.  Just . . .

. . . what?

Just . . . don’t mention this to my wife.  She only thinks of Tree Folk as cute, quaint little creatures of folklore.  If she knew what they looked like now, somehow I don’t think she’d be very enthusiastic about the new girls in the village.

Chapter Forty

The Wedding Of Sire Cei And Lady Estret

It had been Alya’s idea to schedule Sire Cei’s wedding as the opening of the Sevendor Magic Fair, as a means of ensuring attendance by some of the local lords of note.  It also cut down on the work, she explained: since the castle had to be cleaned and decorated for each event, by combining the two the drudges (I had drudges?  I had no idea) wouldn’t be overtaxed.

My wife was at the center of the mad web of activity.  She took the success of the event personally, in a way I didn’t quite understand.  Everything I said seemed to be the wrong thing to say, and every suggestion I made earned me the nastiest looks.  She was visibly upset about every little detail, from how to keep a naturally-white castle looking clean to how the banners were hung in the Great Hall.  After the fourth or fifth argument one morning, I made an excuse to get out of the castle.  The last thing I wanted to do was fight with my wife after laying waste to domains to rescue her.

Penny tried to explain it to me as we toured the River Folk’s new burrow in my brother-in-law Sagal’s holding.

“It’s the first real social event she is hosting for people outside of Sevendor,” she lectured as we inspected the grand torus of woven sticks and mud that was slowly taking shape on a low rise overlooking Ketta’s Stream from the north.  For once she had “gone native”, abandoning her elegant Remeran gowns for a sensible shift and sideless-surcoat, in local Riverlands style, better suited for muddy construction sites.  She was even wearing boots.

But my attention was more on the Tal Alon than Penny’s footwear.  I was intrigued by my littlest vassals and how they were getting organized.  Under Master Olmeg’s guidance and protection, the White Onion and Loblolly tribes had merged to form one burrow.  I still had a hard time even telling them apart by sight, but Olmeg swears the Loblollies are, on average, an inch or so taller, while the White Onion were around five pounds heavier.  He was very involved in their politics, and had negotiated the complicated settlement.

Olmeg talked about culturally sub-specialized sub-variants of the species – he knows a fair amount about the Tal Alon.  The White Onions were a more horticulturally-oriented and more civilized tribe, in human terms.  The Loblollies  were from a more adventurous and  more rustic Wilderlands tribe, one that hunted and trapped more than it farmed.  The Loblollies, surprisingly, held a three-pud majority on their little five-man council.

To avoid confusion and promote unity, Olmeg suggested the new burrow take the name Holly Burrow, as the shady banks of the stream grew a fair amount of the spiky evergreen.  As the burrow in general treated Master Olmeg with tremendous respect, both sides agreed, and the Holly Burrow it became.

Penny seemed oblivious to the politics of the Tal Alon.  She was more concerned with the Riverlands variety.  “See it from her perspective: Alya’s a newly-made noblewoman, and she’s undertaken the responsibility of an event no less than the wedding of one of your most important vassals, with lords and ladies of high rank attending.”

“So . . . she feels about how I did when I realized I was responsible for re-making magic for the Duchies and suddenly bribing court wizards and dodging assassins,” I reasoned.

“Only for her, it’s a lot worse,” Penny agreed, not seeing my humor.  “She’s not just a lady of a poor country domain, she’s a mountain peasant with the stink of cow manure still on her, suddenly being tasked with making a social showing for folk far above her rank.  How this wedding turns out will be a reflection of her ability as the Lady of Sevendor.  She has much invested in this.”

“It’s just a wedding,” I shrugged.  “As long as they’re married and everyone is drunk at the end, who cares how they get there?” I watched with interest as three River Folk tried raising a timber to the roof of the structure, struggling to manage a beam no more than ten feet long, something a man could do one-handed.  I gave them a magical assist, hoisting the three a few feet in the air as I levitated the beam into position.

The grateful foreman quickly tied it into place while he chewed out his workers in a high, squeaky voice.  The fact that the furry little guys were now dressing in cast-off tunics, hose, hats, and other human garb made it even funnier.

“Just a wedding?” Penny gasped, her eyes wide.  “Minalan, I cannot believe you just said that!  Sir Cei is the closest thing Alya has to a father left!  And a wedding isn’t just a wedding, ever – or have you forgotten your own?” she asked, an eyebrow raised.

I tried to change the subject.  “Isn’t it interesting how the Tal Alon integrate the drainage system into the channels they use to dilute their waste and use it to grow vegetables?”

“Yes, the sewage on the roof is lovely,” she said, sarcastically.  “Min, you have to understand how important this is to Alya, as a woman.  Treat it with some respect.  She’s worked really hard, and driven her servants even harder to make this a great event.  And that’s knowing that she cannot possibly succeed, thanks to her origins.  But if she doesn’t make the attempt, then she sacrifices any hope of respect.”

“Respect from whom?  The people of Sevendor love their Lady,” I pointed out.

“Respect from the other noblewomen,” she said, as if she was explaining the complexities of using a spoon.  “Do you not understand what we’re talking about?  Alya has an entirely new group of peers she must contend with, whether she wants to or not.  The other noblewomen of this region will be looking to her, as the wife and lady of a Magelord, to set certain styles and modes of conduct, customs and expectations, and she has to do it knowing that they know where she came from.  Do you have any idea what kind of challenge that is?”

“Uh . . . no,” I admitted.  I had no idea what would impress a bunch of noblewomen, or why in Trygg’s name I’d want to.  As soon as the ridgepole for the section was in place, the River Folk started laying woven mats of straw over the frame and tying it down with stringgrass.

Then the foreman, a stout Tal with a squint, would come along and inspect it before motioning another Tal to begin the messy but important job of smearing the mats with a special clay-heavy mud.  I watched with fascination as their small bare hands quickly turned the rough structure into a smooth clay surface.

“She doesn’t have a choice,” Penny said, irritated.  “You’ve put her in this strange social circle where she doesn’t know the rules, and given her an impossible job.”

“So this is my fault?” I asked, incredulously.

“You’re her husband, of course this is your fault,” Penny dismissed.  “The point is, she has to make a good showing at this wedding.  Lady . . . Estret?  Estret is a local noblewoman, albeit a minor one.  But she’s a vassal to the local Baron, who is planning on attending.  So is your other chief military ally in the region.  And it’s the wedding of one of your most trusted vassals.  If she doesn’t make this the most splendid social event she can, the other noblewomen will crush her.”

“What?”

“Gossip, you idiot,” she fumed.  “They will rip her apart in their circles.  And if the first demonstration of your skills as a noblewoman fall flat, if your hospitality is shallow or you violate social rules, then you lose position.”

“But they can’t demote Alya,” I pointed out, confused.

“Not rank, position,” Penny corrected.  “Whole different thing.”

“If you say so,” I mumbled, as the next Tal came around and began pressing a second layer of woven straw mat over the wet clay, using forked twigs to secure it into place.  The straw would act like a wick, I could see, helping suck the moisture from the clay to help dry it before the next layer would go on, tomorrow.  “I just know this wedding is costing me a fortune.”

“Its money well spent,” dismissed Pentandra.  “If Alya can charm these old hens into liking her, then it will be worth double whatever you paid.”  She squinted at a separate structure, likewise made of wattle-and-daub, that was taking shape nearby.  “What is that?”

“Their cistern,” I explained, glad she’d finally gotten off of the subject of the wedding, my wife, and my failures as a husband.  “They’ll coat the whole thing with clay, then Olmeg or I will magically ‘fire’ it, to cure it.  It should hold nearly two-hundred gallons.  They’ll erect it on a latticework on the roof, and it can provide water to any part of the burrow.”  I thought I’d gotten her sufficiently distracted, but I should have known better.

“It’s especially important that you be seen as supportive of her efforts,” Pentandra continued, unimpressed by plumbing.  “If she asks your opinion, give it to her, but leave the final discretion up to her.  Don’t overrule her unless you can tell she wants you to,” she said, perhaps one of the most confusing pieces of advice she could have given me.  “And in public, you are nothing but sweetness, incarnate.”

“Hey, we always get along!” I protested.  Well, mostly.  We’d had a couple of tense moments, particularly in the first few months of her motherhood, but we'd smoothed them over.  Mostly.

“It’s not a matter of ‘getting along’,” she explained, patiently, “it’s a matter of demonstrating her utterly solid and blissfully-happy marriage to a powerful lord.  You have to understand, Min, she’s going to be under tremendous scrutiny by every woman in the region, from how she conducts herself at a formal event to how the food turns out to how she mothers her baby to how her marriage is run.  If she doesn’t manage this perfectly – perfectly! Then she’ll . . .”

“Lose position?” I supplied, helpfully.  I still didn’t know what the hell that meant.

“Exactly!” Pentandra said, pleased by my guess.  “So be a good little magelord and let her do what she needs to do to get ready.  Don’t worry,” she assured me, after telling me for twenty minutes just how much I should be worried.  “I’m helping her, coaching her.  So is Lady Estret, who is quite a dear woman, for the rural gentry.  She’s used to the local hens and knows their peculiarities, which is helpful.”

“Since I just conquered many of their territories, one would think they’d be inclined toward being charitable,” I observed.  I could see the next sections of the burrow being laid out by another crew.  Due to the size of the combined tribe, the plans to house them were expansive.

The central compound, where we were standing, spread out in a slightly imperfect circle to a radius of ninety feet.  There was to be a second ring, a specially-built outer ring that would eventually be food storage.  Then atop the two would be built the third ring, mostly individual residential quarters.  When they were done, the whole thing would be covered with earth and planted, making it resemble a verdant hill when they were done . . . a hill with porthole-like windows.

The Holly Burrow had more folk than the structure could hold.  I knew larger settlements often broke off into smaller pods, or even individual burrows or human-style houses.  Or they might expand the diameter, going for a two-ring design in concentric circles, a real Tal mansion.

But instead of increasing the diameter or building a second ring, they were planning two wings to run parallel to the river bank along the ridge of the rise.  The north wing would be devoted to poultry and husbandry, tools and crafting areas.  The south wing would be purely residential.  Even then, in a generation I could foresee a second ring needing to be built.

The River Folk were communal at heart.  Everyone worked, everyone played, and everyone ate.  All the time.

But they also smoked.  And the River Folk’s passion for food was almost eclipsed by their passion for good smoke.  Olmeg had mentioned several exotic varieties he was helping them cultivate for local consumption.  They were masterful at herb lore.  And then there was their facility with brewing . . .

“Of course they will be . . . that’s part of the problem!” Penny snorted.  “You just held some of these women as hostage for their husbands’ or fathers’ surrender.  They’re going to be ingratiating to the point of being obsequious, but that doesn’t mean they won’t talk behind her back. Now if they say anything that gets back to her, they know she has the power to punish.  She has social power, even if it’s unproven, thanks to your conquest.”

“Sorry I had to inconvenience her social development,” I said, as I used magesight to inspect the way the Tal were tying the layers together.  “But there was an enemy army besieging my domain.”

“It couldn’t be helped,” she agreed, as if I’d had a choice in the matter.  “But as it stands, now there’s even more pressure.  Will this be a gracious conquest, or is she going to be a tyrant?”

“Why are they worried about her?  I’m the one who orders the men with swords around and destroys castles.”

“It’s not the swords they’re worried about,” Penny disagreed.  “They worry about losing their own position.  If Alya is suddenly immensely popular, then they will suffer.  If she is immensely unpopular, then they will suffer another way.  But mostly they worry about losing position in the eyes of each other.  So they will try to be part of the consensus opinion of her, as it evolves.  It really is a difficult situation you’ve put her in.”

I let that pass.  It required a full day’s argument, or none at all.  I went with the latter.

The River Folk had done their best to integrate themselves in their new home in the few weeks they’d been here.  My brother-in-law was happy to see them come, although he was confused by their language and complex social rules.  After dealing with the sparse, historically lazy peasants who had remained after Farant’s ouster, he was delighted with vassals who would actually work.

The district’s peasants, no more than a half a dozen families scattered across the holding, actively resented the Tal Alon’s presence.  One farmer in particular had objected to his new neighbors.  He had even gone so far as to beat two of them who had been harvesting rushes in the marshy areas of the district.  He claimed they were trespassing.

Sagal disagreed.  In the ensuing argument, the man got belligerent and insulting.  Sagal was forced to terminate the family’s hold and evict them.  He turned their lands over to the burrow for cultivation, and gave the family’s hovel to the Tal Alon headman, Bukka, as a temporary residence until the burrow was complete.

When his other holders saw that, the complaints about the Tal Alon fell dramatically.

The burrow had become helpful to the running of all of Sevendor Vale, as it happened.  Not only were there now Tal Alon assistants for Master Olmeg (they wore a copy of his straw hat with a green feather, when working on his behalf) but a few dozen had taken work in the castle in preparation for the wedding and  fair.  While not as strong as humans, they were exceedingly nimble and capable of the most boring of tasks.

One of them, Jaffa, had secured a position emptying the castle’s chamberpots and cleaning out the privies every day, and had a two-man crew to do just that.  Just that morning I’d noticed that the privies were cleaned and packed with sweet-smelling wildflowers.

Another had come to an arrangement with Cei about other maintenance issues at the castle.  The old rushes that had been sitting on the floor of the great hall for months were carted off by the River Folk for some purpose of their own.  The same little crew gathered fresh ones in the marshy areas of the holding, adding fall wildflowers and aromatic herbs to them to improve the ambiance of the hall.  Yet another crew was now in charge of hauling the garbage from the castle, and had taken over the refuse pit in the outer bailey.

The Tal had been surprisingly helpful in other ways.  It was harvest time, and while they were terrible at reaping and threshing, they did an outstanding job of gleaning.  You could often see stooped-over Tal females in blindingly colorful skirts following behind human peasants, dutifully picking up any stray ears or sheaves.  And their little hands could shuck maize and peas like lightning.

And of course, they could cook.  In preparation for both the wedding and the fair that would follow, the castle kitchens were swarming with activity, like a hill of angry ants, and there were plenty of River Folk involved.  And their help was needed.

Nanily ran the kitchens and larders of Sevendor Castle with an iron ladle.  If anyone felt more pressure than Alya, it was Nanily, who would not see the Lady of Sevendor disappoint in demonstrating our hospitality.  To that end she had imported a dozen additional goodwives from around the vale, and added as many nimble River Folk from the burrow to assist as she needed.  She didn’t particularly like them, but she could not argue with either their industriousness or their love of food.  Once she taught them to clean properly, they were happy to scrub away.

That was fortunate.  The problem with living in an all-white castle is that it shows dirt ridiculously easily, and castles are notoriously dirty, dusty places by nature.  The problem was compounded by my vocation.  In the home of a mage, magelights (which we used in abundance) reveal far more than tapers or lamps, and it doesn’t take more than a smudge to make an entire wall look dirty.  I saw dozens of drudges, both human and Tal, scrubbing every inch of the place with determination and hot water every morning.

Beyond the cleaning frenzy, there were a lot of fresh decorations.  A dozen new banners with Sevendor’s new snowflake device, white on a green field, were hung from the battlements and towers, with a magnificently large one (a gift from Lady Estret and the people of her domain) hung on the chimney in the Great Hall.  The reversed device, a green snowflake on a white field, was displayed as a badge on every guard, castellan’s assistant, and other domestic in my service.

I felt as if I was being needlessly self-aggrandizing, but Sir Cei sagely pointed out that this was Sevendor’s device, not my personal device.  I didn’t see much distinction.

Sevendor’s abundant harvest was keeping everyone in the vale busy, and even with the Tal and the indentured labor from the prisoners-of-war, there was still the eternal struggle of getting the crops harvested, processed and properly stored that was every peasant’s annual devotion to Huin the Earthborn.  Things were especially confusing because my people didn’t know how to properly harvest many of Master Olmeg’s new crops.  But the flood of coin from my coffers was attracting labor from across the vales of the Riverlands, and my folk were willing to learn.  The fruits of their labors were well-represented at the wedding.

I’d reluctantly presumed on my title to levy a special tribute from each Yeomanry for the occasion of Sire Cei’s wedding – a common practice, I was assured – and for once I heard nary a grumble about it from my Yeomen.  Indeed, they seemed to strive to out-do each other in the presentation.

Yeoman Carkan of Caolan’s Pass arrived two days before the wedding with most of his household.  As his holding had been occupied and looted during the siege, his tribute was the sparsest.  But he managed to bring twenty jars of berry preserves, three dozen wild fowl (his six young nephews had been practicing with bows since the siege), and several sacks of freshly-cut herbs that grew best at that altitude.

Yeoman Brandine of Gurisham was proud that his commune could bring two entire wains filled with their tribute, and he confessed to me as it was being unloaded that he appreciated the opportunity to dispose of some of his surplus.  While as hesitant as the Genly villagers to adopt Master Olmeg’s ideas about horticulture, the Gurisham commune was now an enthusiastic supporter of his efforts, and their granary was full to bursting as a result.  Six bushels of potatoes, ten of maize, four of carrots and four of beans enriched our pantry, while four crates of Gurisham chickens went to the butchery behind the kitchens.

Yeoman Guris of Southridge was generous to the point of embarrassment.  The Bovali had taken charge of the holding only that winter, but the native Sevendori peasants had prospered under his leadership, as I suspected they would.  Three full wagons of everything from smoked hams to casks of pickled eggs to crates of turnips were unloaded.  Guris himself dressed as richly as a lord, and his folk arrived in new finery, bragging of their prosperity.

While my brother-in-law Sagal’s Hold brought in a small but respectable tribute of twenty hens and seven dressed goats, his biggest contribution was the small parcel he reverently laid in my hands as his wife, Ela, greeted her sister, and my nephew Sagellan and my son contended for the title of crankiest baby in the castle.  I think little Sag had Min beat by a hair.

“Bovali cheese,” he said, smugly as I unwrapped the white muslin.  “Oh, not the actual Bovali, of course,” he assured me, “but as close as I could come here.  I suppose its Sevendori cheese, now.  Cow’s milk and with goats’ milk, prepared in the traditional way.  It’s still a bit green, but you can see where it’s going.  Try it!” he encouraged, eagerly.

I did, carving a piece off with my belt-knife.  After spending a year in Boval Vale and marrying into a proud cheese-producing family, I’d learned a little about how proper Bovali was supposed to taste.  This was close.  A little more tart on the tongue, rich, salty flavor, good aftertaste.  Not perfect, but very close, and I said so.

“Just wait until it’s aged a year,” he nodded, excitedly.  “A year in the cold and this will be first-rate.  A little softer than Bovali, but still . . .” he said, happily.  I cut a piece off for Alya, who made the most embarrassing noises about it.

Yeoman Vano, who had spent most of the year leading the stubborn peasantry of Brestal Village, was nearly as generous with the wedding tribute as Sagal.  Sir Cei had been extremely supportive of his efforts to coax the Brestali into prosperity, and a full

But no one outdid Yeoman Rollo, the headman of the village now known as Boval Hall.  When his manor gave to their castellan’s wedding, they did so with unrestrained pride.

The Bovali who had built it from the ground up were the heart and soul of the old Vale, from Zagor the Hedgemage, still settling into his big new shop, to Arstol the Saddlemaker running his.  The new Boval Inn, being run by Mother Breda the Loud and her sons. Even had a Wilderlands-style Luck Tree outside of the inn.  That was a custom from the Mindens unknown in the Riverlands, so it gave a little folksy charm to the newly-hewn village.  The shrine to Huin was well-tended and popular, and Landbrother Tevram had successfully concluded the Harvest Rites for the vale, which Huin had so abundantly blessed.

They were proud of their castellan and eager to contribute.  Bushel after bushel of maize, wheat and oats arrived at the Castle in Bovali carts, as well as more potatoes, leeks, pumpkins and salted pork.  Considering how involved he had been with its inception, Boval Hall considered Sire Cei to be one of their own, and they wanted to show him their appreciation.  Far from jealous of the knight’s place in his Yeomanry, Yeoman Rollo seemed the most eager to boast of the relationship.

Lastly Yeoman Kamen of Westwood arrived on foot with a good two score of his folk, the most the Westwood had sent to Sevendor in living memory.  The woodmen were not stingy in their tribute, bringing four butchered stags and nine boars, as well as dozens of smaller beasts and birds and four bushels of nuts from the wood.  Young Kyre looked inordinately pleased with himself as he presented a handsome winter bearskin cloak with a silver snowflake clasp (all right, it did look kind of like a spider web) to Sir Cei as a wedding gift.  Apparently the lad had slain the bear himself.

Sir Cei was well-respected by the reclusive folk, and that respect was returned.  It seems the Westwoodmen had been eager scouts in Caolan’s Pass, as well as adept at sniping at the West Flerians during the siege.  Their boldness and dedication had endeared them to Sir Cei, who found them to be competent and brave in war, even for commoners. They had even consented to be led by Sir Festaran for a sortie.  Indeed, that had been the event that had provoked Kyre’s gift.

During one assault down the pass after Railan’s treachery had seen the holding occupied, the road into the vale had been guarded by the western yeomanries while they awaited reinforcements from Southridge.  The more timid folk of Caolan’s Pass had fallen back quickly when the Flerians had tried to descend in force, leaving the Westwoodmen pinned in a precarious place, brave Sir Festaran commanding them from a rocky outcropping.

Sir Cei had been inspecting the area at the time, and had rounded up a dozen armed men and led a counter-attack sufficient to let the Westwoodmen escape through the forest.  Kyre of Westwood, who had led his people in battle, felt obliged and grateful to Sir Cei – hence the beautiful bearskin.  And it was but one of many magnificent gifts the folk of the vale gave to him personally.

Sire Cei felt embarrassed about being the focus of so much attention, but both Alya and I insisted he accept them all graciously – not that he would have done it any other way.

“You’re a hero to the Bovali,” my wife told him, when he expressed discomfort about the largesse, “for obvious reasons and the native Sevendori respect you – and even love you a little – after your triumph in the tournament and your defense of the domain.  If you don’t give them a chance to show their respect, it would be insulting to them,” she reasoned.

“I do not wed my lady in hopes of material gain,” he said, immediately recognizing the irony of the dowry she brought to the marriage.  “Nor do I want the common folk to beggar themselves in an effort to gain my favor.”

“Oh, relax and enjoy the glory you’ve earned.  I’ve had to deal with adoration far beyond my worth for months, now,” I kidded the knight as we watched one wagon of tribute after another arrive before the wedding.  “It’s time you enjoy some.  You did an ideal job at defending the country; give these folk a chance to show their appreciation.”

“I only did what I swore to do,” he said, uncomfortably.

“You never swore to lead these folk leagues across the land, into danger and out again, into a new land and against a new foe . . . but you did.  The Bovali are grateful.  The Sevendori are respectful.  And the new territories we just conquered are lining up to kiss your arse, since you will be ministering over them.  Enjoy it,” I commanded him.

Lady Estret, at least, was more comfortable in her role.  This was her second wedding, after all, and as enamored of Sir Cei as she clearly was, she was also practical enough to recognize a golden opportunity for good relations with the common people.  She helped steer her awkward mountain knight through the process of receiving gratitude graciously, something that did not come naturally to Sir Cei.

For the wedding ceremony itself, since Sevendor lacked a proper temple as yet and the shrine to Huin was considered both too remote and too small to accommodate the crowd, I had a lovely temporary chapel built of mage-wrought wood in the inner bailey of the castle, on a base of snowstone twenty feet wide, open to the air.  It was a place where the priestess could conduct the ceremony, and later could be used for other social purposes.

I put Rondal and the newest warmage candidate (a pleasant middle-aged veteran named Buselen) on job, and of course Pentandra insisted on overseeing it.  She let the magi indulge themselves in decorating it, with her direction.  Not only did it end up festooned with flowers by the morning of the wedding, it glowed with tiny magelights and floating sparkles, and bells of glass and silver tinkled in the breeze from its eaves.

Our noble guests began to arrive the day before the wedding, with Sire Sigalan and his retinue early in the morning, and Baron Arathanial’s smaller (but no less prestigious) company passing the Diketower at twilight, their pavilions already pitched in the inner bailey by servants sent in advance.  Lesser nobles had arrived earlier, particularly my new subject vassals.  That was by my request, as I’d wanted time to get to know the men who would be swearing fealty to me at a court held after the wedding.

Sir Cei invited me to stand vigil with him that night, a special honor I could not decline.  We spent the time in the chapel in front of the gods discussing the finer points of marriage; although I was new to the art, I had been earnestly collecting lore on the matter for a while, and had some wisdom to impart to Cei on the subject over the best bottle of wine I could procure.

Whether or not it was helpful or hurtful, I suppose I’ll never know, but he was passing nervous as dawn approached.  I left him to his ritual bath after morning prayers by the yawning bridesister and grabbed a much-needed nap in the hammock in my lab.  I was awoken by my valet in plenty of time to dress and prepare for the rite.

The afternoon ceremony was lovely.  Estret looked beautiful in her white gown, the arms of her little land embroidered on her shawl, her train carried by her adorable little girl who was wearing a matching gown.  The harpists I’d hired played a pretty hymn to Trygg as she came from the east side of the chapel, while Sir Cei arrived from the west.  The priestesses purified them both, blessed them, asked them the questions about their rights and freedoms and duties and obligations, then prayerfully bound them together in matrimony.  Faresa acted as flower girl and temporary assistant acolyte, and she couldn’t have looked happier.

I’ve never seen Sir Cei look happier, and Lady Estret looked enchanted at her big mountain knight.  After the ceremony, proper, was the second part of the affair, where Sir Cei of Sevendor became Sire Cei of Cargwenyn as he took the oath of fealty from Baron Arathanial.  That bound our domains closer together, now that we shared a vassal.  While that was much less important now than it had been a few months ago, it still did my heart good to hear.

Then we held what was perhaps the most generous celebration in Sevendori history.

The feast at the castle was magnificent.  The High Table hosted the bride and groom, myself and my lady, and the greater nobles and members of the clergy.  Around it were arrayed a circle of trestle tables where important guests, nobles from other domains, knights, yeomen and their families, and prominent merchants from the village were seated.

Beyond that the tables got less formal and the titles and manners began to decline in rough proportion.  The free men and the villeins of the vale alike had been invited, in part to celebrate the harvest and their castellan’s wedding.  Out in the bailey, hundreds camped on blankets and cloaks or brought their own trestles to eat upon.  Meat and bread were consumed in abundance, and ale and cider flowed freely, and no one was turned away.

As for Sire Cei and Estret, they both looked like Trygg and Ishi had come down in person and blessed them both with love and happiness.  Alya and I couldn’t have looked that sweet at our own wedding.  They ate from the same plate, drank from the same cup, and shared a dance and all of the other silly traditions people do to re-affirm love and life and such.

At twilight we sent off the happy couple in an enclosed carriage that was to take them to a remote holding near the spring in Brestal, deep in the wood there, where a cottage had been prepared for their maidenmoon.

During the interminable round of drinks, blessings, and bawdy talk that seemed required for such an event, I drunkenly insisted that I didn’t want to see either of them for three days, and that I fully expected to hear their screams of passion across the valley.

That made Sire Cei look away uncomfortably, Estret blush, and my wife give me holy hell a few moments later when we were alone.

But it was well worth it.  Even Penny thought so.

As the carriage rolled away, Sire Cei’s new charger trotting behind, the magi attending made a point of filling the air with brilliant effects and colorful fireworks.  The colors reflecting on the white castle and white mountain behind it were only outdone by the colors of the autumn sunset.  I retired back to the Great Hall with my arm around my drunk, exhausted, and extremely pleased-with-herself wife, and nearly tripped over Banamor on the way in.

Banamor had been present at the ceremony, of course; as Spellwarden, his position required him to be, just as Master Olmeg had been obliged to attend.  But he begrudged every moment spent celebrating as graciously as he could, and returned to the Commons and his headquarters as soon as he could.  Already more than two dozen vendors had encamped on the Commons, and more arrived at the Diketower every hour, he told me quietly.  The wedding was nice, but he had work to do.

As weddings go, it was splendid, and impressed the gentry of the Bontal vales immensely.  There were even songs written about it.  It was far grander than my own, but I didn’t begrudge a penny I’d spent on it.  And it was a wonderful way to begin Sevendor’s inaugural Magic Fair.

Chapter Forty-One

The Sevendor Magic Fair

As bad as my hangover from Sire Cei’s wedding was, I insisted on ringing the great silver bell that Banamor had borrowed from the bridesister of Ishi to open the Fair.  I regretted it instantly, as the  vibrations from the bell made my head shudder and my stomach heave.  And it reminded me of another bell, long ago, a cheap brass thing no better than an oversized cowbell, that had signaled the beginning of the Goblin War.  This was a prettier bell, but the hangover and the sound stirred that memory.

But the grin on Banamor’s face was worth the pain – the former footwizard had done an excellent job on the Magic Fair, and this was the culmination of his efforts.  He had been as invested in its success as Alya had been in the success of the wedding.  Perhaps more so, since the Fair was a paying concern, not an expense.

I felt compelled to say a few words, after Coinfather Ridard of Sendaria Port gave the benediction and administered the Fair Oath to all those assembled.  I was about to yell when I remembered that I was a mage, and that there were spells for that.  I quickly cast one that allowed my voice to be heard by everyone without me shouting.

“By the ringing of this bell I now open the Sevendor Magic Fair,” I said, as cheerfully as I could manage.  It was just a year ago that I rode through the pass where the Dike now stands, through a devastated and neglected countryside and a dispirited and beaten people.  I brought with me the strength of the survivors of Boval Vale, and the idea that magic, when used in service of the people, enriches us all.

“When I rode in, I was a new magelord in an old Duchy.  Now I find I’m an old magelord – as old as they can be, for I am the first – in a new Kingdom.” There were cheers for the King and dutiful prayers of praise and pleas to the gods for his continued health from the clergy.  I hoped someone from the Family was listening so they knew I was doing my part.  “When I rode in, Sevendor was a sliver of its old glory.  Now my domain extends to Hosly, Northwood, and beyond.  When I rode into Sevendor, it was led – if it can be called that – by a drunken wastrel who saw it as his slave.  Now it is free, prosperous, and happy!”  More cheers.  That did nothing good for my hangover.

“This Fair is the culmination of my ideal: magic has served the people of Sevendor handsomely, in peacetime and in war.  It defends our frontiers and enriches our crops.  You can see the bounty we take from the fields today, thanks to my Greenwarden, Master Olmeg!”  More applause.  The pristine and abundant state of Sevendor’s harvest had been the talk of the travelers arriving for the Fair, and I’d done everything I could to ensure Olmeg got the credit for it.  “The decrepit village I rode through on the way to the castle has been replaced with a vibrant, lively little town ten times the size of its former self.  The streets are paved, there are inns and taverns and artisans, and much of that effort can be tracked to Banamor, the Spellwarden who registered you as magi when you arrived.”

Slightly less applause, which stung a bit.  Banamor had been working tirelessly to organize the Fair in addition to his responsibilities as head of the Village council.  But their reluctance was understandable.  Magical fairs like this had been prohibited under the Bans, and every non-chartered mage who arrived was nervous about signing his name (or giving it – many were illiterate) to anyone for any reason.

“For the next week, I invite you to buy, sell, trade, and discuss the affairs of the magical world and how they have changed of late.  For any with questions, Lady Pentandra, Steward of . . . well, pretty much everything right now, will be throwing several receptions to discuss the matter, and I encourage you to participate.

“That will be just one of many scholarly events hosted by the various Orders.  The Order of Horka is recruiting warmagi and interested parties at the red pavilion near the river,” I said, demonstrating with a flashy display.  “The Order of Hesia is likewise recruiting at the green pavilion on the other side.  Both are worthy orders doing important work, and they welcome both chartered and unchartered magi,” I said.  “And the pay isn’t too bad,” I added.

“There will also be several scholarly talks by members of the Order of Tarkarine, including former Court Wizard to Duke Rard of Castal, Master Dunselen.”  The magelord had eagerly accepted my invitation to come to the Fair, and he was not the only one.  According to Banamor’s registry, there were over thirty High Magi present in Sevendor, not counting the ones who lived here.  Not many Horkans, I’d noticed – the fight to preserve Barrowbell was pressing.  But Master Icorad and Lanse of Bune and Master Cormoran had all arrived with their apprentices, as well as Taren, Mavone, and a few others.  Many were eager to share or re-open lost avenues of magic, or merely demonstrate obscure spells or systems.

“Lastly, as many have already surmised by rumor,” I said, grinning, “at midweek there will be a competition amongst the low magi.  The winner of the competition, should he or she accept the oath, shall be given custody of a witchstone.”  A gasp and murmur of excitement rushed through the crowd.  That was a little better than giving away a mere fief and a wife.  “The exact nature of the contest will be a secret until I reveal it.  It will be open and free to any mage, chartered or unchartered, who desires to participate.  There will be more announcements, but those are all I had.  Have a good fair!” I said, and rang the bell a final time.  Everyone cheered and I staggered away.

The Fair was technically held on the Sevendor Village commons, but even before Cei’s wedding there had been footwizards and hedgewitches, resident adepts and spellmongers from all over the Riverlands and beyond making their way through the Dike for the event.  Both the Lakeside Inn and the Sevendor Inn were packed to capacity, and there were tents strung out across the commons and on some recently-harvested fields nearby.  That had certainly helped attendance at Cei’s wedding (there was a wagon load of gifts from strangers for he and his new bride, people who just wanted to kiss his arse as a means of getting to my own).  It also helped with the special Fair Tax Banamor had imposed on guests at the inns.

I couldn’t argue with the way he had organized it.  Banamor had the north half of the Commons organized in lots chalked on the ground in ten foot squares.  For a reasonable weekly fee, a merchant could erect a booth or pitch a tent on the (hopefully) busy concourse.  Those lots were already mostly full, with tents and temporary awnings crowding under the dam.

Or a merchant could pay a much lower fee for a spot at the far end of the Commons, just large enough to stand or sit on a blanket and sell. There were plenty interested in doing just that, as many had few items or small wares that did not need the investment of a market booth.  Many a penniless footwizard brought a few cherished components gathered on their travels and wished to trade or sell.  Many others were just too poor to afford a booth, and sold to passers-by from cramped blankets.

There were plenty of buyers and sellers, I noted as I toured the site with Banamor, touting everything from falohaudi stones (that was one of Banamor’s men – the Spellwarden had hired a few of his former footsore colleagues to assist him in sales and the stones were rare enough to attract attention) to yellow and brown knot coral to various wandwoods to bushels of magical herbs.

Some local spellmongers from Sendaria Port and elsewhere had set up shop, temporarily, hawking their enchantments, spells and scrolls of lore to other magi, and letting everyone know what their specialties were.

A Remeran firm from just south of Wenshar had a smart little booth where they advertised spells useful to merchants of all sorts, for example.  Or the former court wizard of the Baron of Ellisad, now a kirsieth addict, offering to cast mighty

sorceries at bargain prices.  Several enchanters of various sorts were doing brisk business with finished enchantments, from the simple to the sublime.

That was to become the bread-and-butter of the Fair, it turned out.  As much trade as was done between magi (or quasi-magi), a much larger amount was done as magi sold spells and enchanted items to the public.

Some of the items had been prohibited or rare for so long under the Censorate that demand was high.  And some of the best-selling spells were the least complicated.  A pair of footwizards who had learned their trade haphazardly could do little general magic, but between the two of them they could do quite a passable heatstone.

A heatstone is essentially a very, very hot rock that doesn’t cool down until the spell fails.  It takes a lot of energy to initiate, and almost as much to sustain it.  A good spellmonger can usually enchant one that will work for several days or even weeks, if given good materials and enough time.

What this pair of magi did with their wild magic was more impressive.  One would set the enchantment of heat upon the stone, while the other would focus on commanding and controlling the heat.  The result was a stone that could heat up water to near boiling, when commanded with a simple phrase.

Peasants loved heatstones.  Firewood is dear in the winter, and a good heatstone would keep the chill off a hut when the snow made gleaning firewood unlikely.  Or put it in the bottom of a kettle or bathtub and it would raise the temperature until you commanded it to stop.  They sold out of the score of stones they brought the first day.

Another booth selling Banamor’s  modest cedar wands that would produce a small magelight on command.  There were merchants with magical toys, tools, and weapons.  There were hedgewitches selling sorrywood from Twyn, and footwizards hawking marsh boar bones.  There were water witches selling their services, warmagi and trackers advertising theirs, and enchanters taking commissions left and right.

“Quite a good showing for a first year,” Baron Arathanial admitted the first day as he toured the fairgrounds with me.  He was being generous – my little fair was not a tithe as large as his.  I couldn’t help but feel proud nonetheless. “You need more food vendors, though,” he suggested.  He’d brought Lawbrother Hamaras along, and the monk helpfully pointed out more taverns would be a good idea, too.

“After yesterday’s feed?” Sire Sigalan, who had asked to accompany us, said.  “There’s not an empty belly in the vale!”

The mountain lord had dressed lordly for the first time since I’d met him, complete with a light blue cotton mantle and circlet.  He looked relaxed and confident, not wary and cautious.  Part of that was from his recent re-conquest of his lost lands, and part of that was from the stream of revenue he was now beginning to receive from lourdin sales.  Trestendor’s domain was nearer Sevendor’s now, so the additional tolls that West Fleria had imposed were gone, making the trade even more valuable.

“Still, a man likes to be able to drink at three or four establishments without walking more than a hundred paces,” the lawbrother went on, expansively.  “It makes him feel as if he’s accomplished something.”

“Only a monk could call that an accomplishment,” chuckled the Baron.  “All in all a worthy beginning, Magelord.  And an impressive little domain you have here.  I can see why you desire to protect it so valiantly.  Only . . .”

“Only . . . what?” I asked, cautiously.

“Only now you’ve gone and ruined it by conquering all of those other domains.  Instead of focusing your efforts here, you’ll be trying to manage them all.  That’s how my family began losing their power, here in the vales.  We were given too much responsibility and too many lands, and eventually we let the lands slip away into the hands of our vassals.”

“Well, the dynastic wars didn’t help,” pointed out Hamaras.  The Baron couldn’t say anything to that – they’d been over before he was born.  “But I’d say you three have made a good start at restoring House Lensely to prominence.”

“House Lensely?” mused the Baron.  “There are only a few families of us left.  The strength of my house was always in our mastery of our lands.  Unless someone wants to marry my youngest daughter . . .”

“Is she marriageable?” asked Sire Sigalan, with some interest.  “My sister has been after me to take a wife, but I didn’t feel comfortable making suit with Gimbal on my borders.  With him gone, I think I might need some help running my new lands.”

“She’s a comely lass,” agreed the lawbrother, before the Baron could open his mouth.  “And quick-witted.  Full of spirit and fire, she would bear you many fine sons,” he said, with the encouraging tone of a pimp.

“She’s . . . spirited,” the Baron agreed, diplomatically, with a chuckle.  “My wife and I did not think we could have another child, at her age, but . . . well, the gods will have what they will, and now Rewona is due to be expelled – ‘graduated’ – from the bridesisters’ school in Sendaria Port.”

“And you say she’s comely,” Sigalan asked.  “And intelligent?”

“Proficient with her letters and sums, and well-read in the classics,” assured the monk on his master’s behalf.  “And a voice as gentle as—”

“All right, I can’t let you go on,” sighed Arathanial, stopping to look at some exotic shells the purpose of which he had no idea.  “Rewona is an intelligent, spirited, comely daughter.  But she’s got a temper.  And a mean streak, like her aunt.  I was considering her for holy orders, since finding her a worthy husband will be difficult.  But if you are the man to tame her . . .” he said, clapping his hand on Sigalan’s shoulder.

“I will at least meet the lady,” consented Sigalan, pleased.  “Perhaps she would consider a quiet mountain home and a decent husband.”

“She’d be quite an asset in battle,” suggested Hamaras, helpfully, earning him a glare from the Baron.  “And that would cement an alliance between Trestendor and Sendaria.”  He looked at me hopefully.

“Sevendor is going to be well-disposed to both or either,” I said.  “Besides, I’m already married.”

“But you have a vacant land in Northwood, as Sigalan does in its neighboring estate of Brendor. If the lord you choose to run the domain is not yet wed,, perhaps Sire Sigalan’s sister might consider a match?”

Sigalan’s eyes bulged.  “Sarsha?  You want someone to marry Sarsha?”

I shrugged.  “The man I’m considering is a Bovali country knight, Sir Roncil.  He’s young, vibrant, and has done me admirable service in shepherding the Bovali refugees here.  More, he’s proven in battle and has commanded men.  He is intelligent and could likely run a domain . . . if he had the proper woman by his side,” I added, casually.

“First you were trying to marry me off and now my sister,” Sigalan said, grinning.  “And last year I was wondering if I’d have to send her to take holy orders just to save money.  But Sarsha is . . . past the age most men usually consider youthful.”

“And Sir Roncil is nearly forty,” I nodded.  “Yet he found her comely enough at the Chepstan Fair he could not take his eyes off of her at the lists.    If she’s agreeable, I think he would be, too.  And that would solve the problem of putting an outlander in charge of a Riverlands domain.  I have yet to announce his appointment, but if he had Sarsha as his intended bride, , I would feel better about it.  As, I am guessing, would the folk of Northwood.”

We continued discussing the personal lives of other people and conspired to change them to fit our whim until it was lunch time.  It was my treat; I’d had Banamor reserve a special lot in the middle of the Fair for my personal use, where my campaign tent had been erected.

It wasn’t Arathanial’s massive affair, but it afforded us some privacy, particularly after I enchanted a bubble of quiet around us.  A churl designated to the task showed up a few moments later with fruit, pickled eggs, pickled pork, a jug of beer, a platter full of meat pies, preserves, and two loaves of bread.  One of Sagal’s new fake-Bovali cheeses was included,.

“The important thing will be to pacify any regions that retain loyalty to the Warbird,” Arathanial continued.  “One of the three estates I took was led by his son Sir Gallavir.  He was well-liked by the local people, who saw his relation to his father as a way toward lighter taxes.  If there is any resistance, Magelord, you must crush it as thoroughly as you executed those traitors.”

“I think that when word gets around what you did to those castles, there will be very little in the way of resistance,” noted Sigalan.  “Vassals only get rebellious when there is oppression and security enough to do so.  If their castles are not secure, there can be no rebellion.”

“If there is no oppression, there will be no rebellion,” I pointed out.  “I—”

And I stopped.

We had visitors.  Three of them, tall, willowy women with slanted eyes and misshapen ears, perfect complexions and pristine gowns, were walking toward us across the Fairgrounds . . . and attracted the gaze and attention of everyone there.

“Is that . . . your daughter?” Sire Sigalan asked Baron Arathanial, hopefully.  “Any of them?”

“They aren’t even human,” I corrected.  “Those are the forms the Tree Folk take when they want to blend in with humanity.”

“Someone should mention that being stunningly beautiful is not quite the way to blend,” Arathanial said, rising automatically as they approached.

“They’re not human, but they’re still women,” I shrugged.  “You try to tell them they can’t be as pretty as they can imagine.”

The three Alka Alon approached until we were forced by propriety to stand and offer a bow in courtesy.  We remained standing.

“To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” I said, after introducing our otherworldly guests to Baron Arathanial and Sire Sigalan.

“We merely desired to walk in the vale, and see this Magic Fair of yours,” the leader, Lady Varen, said.  “We are curious as to the state of your magical practice.  It will be helpful and instructive when it comes to advising you.”

“There is another thing,” the silver-haired one said.  “You told us you were willing to provide snowstone for our new dwelling.  We have commissioned the work and wish you to meet the architect.”

Before I could agree, the three of them parted, and a smaller figure was revealed.

“Allow us to introduce Master Guri Vok, Stonesinging Master of the Karshak Alon.”

I was stunned.  I had rarely met one of the elusive Stone Folk before.  But I had read about them and their role in the nonhuman politics on Callidore.  Many thought them extinct, but I knew they were just reclusive.  This one was nearly hairless everywhere but his mighty brown shaggy mane, which almost buried his face within it.

“At your service,” the diminutive figure said, with a rough bow  and a rougher voice.  “These Alka have commissioned me to build some little dainty for them.  They asked that I speak to you about it, Magelord.”

And so we did.

It must have been an odd sight, seeing three tall Alka women, three human men, and a short Karshak Alon male almost as wide as he was tall sitting around at lunch in the middle of the Commons.   But Master Guri proved to be much friendlier that I’d suspected, after you got used to the gruff mannerisms of the Karshak.

“I saw their designs,” he confided, once I’d ordered a flagon of ale for him, “and as usual they barely took structural integrity into account – everything was about increasing the flow of arcane energies or some garbage like that.  And some of the design choices were made for . . . aesthetic reasons,” he said, as if he was diagnosing a disease.  “I think I can work with them, but I wanted to see this mysterious stone I have to work with, first.  And they insisted I meet the Magelord,” he said, as if it were a chore he was dreading.

“How much of a dwelling are you planning on building on that mound for them?” I asked, curious.

“A single tower,” Master Guri dismissed.  “Barely ten stories tall.  And designed to be comfortable for humani as well as Alon.  I’ve built more hideous things for clients.”

“Ten stories?” I gasped.  “That will put the spire in sight of the entire valley!”

“Don’t worry,” the Karshak dismissed with a wave of his hand.  “I’ve shit bigger buildings than that.  If you don’t want it seen, it won’t be seen.  It’s an Alka settlement,” he reminded me.  “They can do that.”

“So how are they paying you?” Baron Arathanial asked, quietly.

“In snowstone,” he acknowledged, after some thought.  “They brought me a sample to entice me.  It’s really amazing stuff, nothing like it anywhere else.  I think it could do some incredible things if used properly.”  He looked at his three beautiful clients.  “If used properly,” he repeated, pointedly.

“You are a mage?” asked Sire Sigalan, surprised.

“Stonesinger,” he corrected, as if he was considering whether or not to take the knight’s accusation as an insult.  “Whole different thing.”

“The Stonesingers of the Karshak Alon are legendary,” agreed Lady Varen, solemnly.  “They raised most of the ancient cities of the Alon.”

“It’s a type of magic,” I explained, “but a very specialized type.  The Karshak are adept at using arcane force to bind a building or structure together.  Their stonesingers are why.  They make the kind of stone melding Rondal does look like a child’s set of blocks.  So why do you desire snowstone, Master Guri?”

“My clan desires it,” he dismissed.  “I just want to build.  This is the first thing of significance the Alka have built in a hundred years.  I want to do it.  The snowstone is secondary.”

“I have quite a lot of it,” I pointed out.  “I would be happy to trade some for some construction myself.”

The Karshak looked tolerantly amused.  “Like what?”

“I’d like to build a much larger and more modern keep,” I answered.  “A large one, built directly into the cliff.  Something that could withstand a siege as well as the mountain, itself.  And heavily enchanted, of course.”

The Karshak whistled.  “That’s a big job, Magelord.”

“You’re right,” I sighed.  “I figured you wouldn’t want to be bothered with such a troublesome job.  I guess I’ll just have to get a humani builder to design it . . .”

“Let us not be hasty,” Guri said, raising his hand, suddenly.  “I’ve seen their work and . . . well, it is good, for what it is, I suppose, but . . . what kind of fortress do you envision?”

As I sketched out my plans, I became aware that both Arathanial and Sigalan were feeling out of their element, and worse, they had just learned about a neighboring lord’s ambitious plan to fortify his domain.  In ordinary circumstances, Penny pointed out later, that was usually the prelude for invasion.

Like I had the time.

“That is impressive,” even the Karshak engineer agreed, when I had finished describing my vision.  “It will take a few years, and many crews.  And a lot of magic,” he added.

“Money and magic are no option,” I declared.  “I need an impregnable fortress, for when the Dead God comes calling.”  That earned some frightened looks from my human colleagues and some understanding nods from the Alka.  “If we cannot defend ourselves from dragon flame and sorcery, then we have no hope in this war.”

“The Alka’s commission was simple, by comparison,” Master Guri said, shaking his huge shaggy head.  “This fortress would take years.  The design issues alone are almost insurmountable.  Few humani are skilled enough to even fathom the complexities of building this sort of structure.  And to build it to be proof against the gurvani?” he asked, almost snarling the last word.  “That would be a feat beyond magic.”

“So you don’t think you can do it?” I asked, my hopes fading.

He looked at me, his expression irritated.  “Are you mad?  I am the only one who could do it,” he declared.  “I can have most of my clan here working before the end of the year.  But,” he continued in his deep voice, “there is the issue of my price.”

Having been an artisan, however briefly, I could understand the importance of getting that sort of thing out of the way quickly.  “What is it?”

“The usual fee in gold,” he shrugged, “minus expenses.  I will need that to pay my folk.  But my real fee . . .” he said, looking around suspiciously, “is that I want you to help me.”

“I’m not a stone mason, much less a stonesinger,” I protested.

“No, no, no,” Master Guri sighed.  “I want you to help me recover something of mine that was lost.  My family’s old kingdom was once located within these hills.  Deep under the rock, back within the heart of the mountains . . .but this humani land lies closest to it.”

“You mean Askeorast?” I asked, casually.

That perked the stonesinger up.  “You’ve heard of it?”

“Finding it was one of the alluring features of Sevendor,” I agreed.  “I figured it would make a good secret base, someplace for magical research that had little hope of being discovered or taken.”

“That’s Askeorast,” chuckled the stonesinger, good-naturedly.  “The Alka called it Telasa Nohar, which means ‘Hidden City of Fortune’ in one of their damn dialects.  That’s what brought my clan to these hills to begin with.  We were at war with the bloody Q’zahrai and my clan was nearly decimated.  We withdrew from the Kulines to here, and secretly dug into the Uwarri hills.  We ruled Askeorast for nearly three hundred years, before our numbers grew smaller and we were forced to repatriate and abandon our mansion.”

“So you want it back?” I asked, surprised.

“It is ours,” he agreed.  “But our people are much diminished, and there is room for many in the endless halls of Askeorast.  In the coming troubles we merely seek the most secure of dwellings.  We would not mind sharing it, should our guests be as courteous as we expect.”

“It will be quite a job just to get there,” Lady Varen agreed.  “It has been an age since any light dared disturbed it.  But its remote location was one of its advantages.  Especially in these dangerous times.  But stay your work on the Spellmonger’s tower until ours is complete, Master Karshak, “ she reminded him gently.

He shrugged.  “I could build your flimsy temple in a week,” he said.  “This fortress, now, nothing like that has been built since Askeorast was prosperous.”  He seemed to find the prospect of building such a difficult structure a welcome challenge.

“Then we have an agreement,” I declared.  “Bring as many of your folk to Sevendor as you need, and we will feed and house them.  And you may use my domain as a base to help relocate Askeorast.  But I want my fortress.  My family needs to be safe, and we need a much better place to develop our knowledge of irionite.  The naturally lower resistance to magic that the snowstone provides makes Sevendor an ideal place in which to experiment . . . but my castle is just not big enough.”

“But the fortress you envision,” Sire Sigalan said, shaking his head in wonder, “it would dominate the valley!  You could strike out at any other domain, any other lord from such a stronghold, and they would be powerless to stop you.”

He had a point, one which Penny lectured me about later.  Lawbrother Hamaras rose to my defense, however.

“I, for one, do not fear our friend the Spellmonger,” he declared, slurring his words ever-so-slightly.  Penny had learned from some gossip that the lawbrother was closer to the Lenselys than his clerical allegiance would otherwise dictate: he was apparently the bastard son of Arathanial’s father and a commoner – he was his brother in deed, as well as in name.  “Can you imagine it?  What would he do with all that land?  No, it is clear that he has higher concerns than conquering the rest of the Bontal vales.”

The very idea sounded tiring to me.  “To be honest, I’ve gotten my fill of conquest.  The extra lands and revenues are nice, but the paperwork alone cools my belligerence.  No, this tower will be built to defy the Dead God, not bully my neighbors.  Besides,” I said, as I took my final sip of wine, “it sounds like I’m just going to be too darn busy with construction plans to conquer anyone any time soon.”

Chapter Forty-Two

The Spellmonger’s Trial

The greatest day of the Sevendor Fair was midweek, when the Spellmonger’s Trial was held.  The event had drawn the Talented of every stripe to Sevendor in an attempt to compete in the mysterious contest.  At least I had taken great pains for it to remain mysterious.  I didn’t have a joust to attract people, so I tried to create a magical equivalent.  The Spellmonger’s Trial was the result.  The winner got a witchstone, with some reservations, and that had attracted plenty of ambitious wizards to my vale.

Over two hundred magi of various sorts had registered to participate in the unknown contest, and were milling around the mid-morning sunshine on the far, open end of the Sevendor Commons as I prepared to address them.  I was almost as excited as they were.  Since the Spellmonger’s Trial was the only way for most of them to secure a stone short of fighting goblins, the competition was going to be pretty fierce.

That’s how I wanted it.  A witchstone is not something to get by luck, to be appreciated, I found, it had to be earned.  So I had devised a method of sorting out the clever, wise, and Talented from the merely lucky.

We started that morning on the commons where I addressed everyone after ringing that damned bell again.  I explained the rules – only low magi were eligible, you still had to swear my oath, and I would tolerate no taking of each others’ lives.  I wanted a healthy completion, not a bloodbath.

There had been speculation about the specifics of the event since I’d announced it to everyone at the coronation.  Rumors had flown like rabid bats, and I’d enjoyed listening to the various possibilities.  I’d even gotten some ideas.  But today was the day, and now was the time.  More than two hundred sets of eyes watched me intently as I finally revealed the object of the trial.

“A few nights ago I chanced to stroll across the peak of Matten’s Helm,” I said, gesturing to the tall, steep hill in the distance.  “I was enjoying the evening, and smoking a pipe with my new Alka friends,” I said, which I figured should impress everyone. “I suppose in my reverie I laid it down on a stone and forgot about it.  I would dearly love to have it back, but . . . it is such a long way from here.  I have scryed the site, and am sure it is still there . . . but it may be guarded,” I said, mischievously.  I watched the crowd, enjoying the suspense.  We had spent the last week before the Fair preparing, and now I got to reveal it.

“Your trial is simple.  The mage who lays my pipe in my hands first will win the stone.”

There was a great stir of excitement in the crowd.  Many had figured combat of some sort would figure into the contest.  There was a war on, after all, and there were dozens of warmagi competing for the stone.

But this was merely fetching the Magelord’s pipe.  That made a number of warmagi grumble, and a number of footwizards smile.  Neither had any idea what challenge they’d face, but the moment I rang the bell over two hundred magi sprinted out of the Commons toward the peak, under the gaze of the cheering of the crowd.  That bit of theater done, I retired to my pavilion on the Commons.

The other High Magi present joined me for this event, curious as to how it would play out.  I’d encouraged it, as it allowed me to appeal to them as judges, should there be some dispute in the contest.  Since many of them had helped me with different aspects of the trial, they seemed the perfect arbiters.

We gathered around a trestle under my canopy and enjoyed the hospitality of the Spellwarden, whose servants (Banamor had servants?) brought us food, drink, and smoking herbs as we requested to refresh us during our discussion.

I was impressed with my Spellwarden; he had not only managed to keep his private business afloat during the siege, he had been well-prepared when the first wagons rolled through the Diketower to the Fair.  It was fascinating watching the man who had been footsore and threadbare less than a year ago confidently command a legion of functionaries.

While he frequently consulted with the aids he had hired, he had yet to look ruffled or uncertain in the face of minor crisis.  That kept him out of a lot of the interesting debate that evolved around the day’s event, but as he was one of its officials, the novelty of the occasion had faded.  Not so the other High Magi.

Sarakeem and Planus thought the Trial was great sport.  Mavone, who had arrived from Wenshar a few days before on his way to the west, and battle, thought it was boring and frivolous.  And Master Cormoran and Pentandra were both intrigued with the concept but generally uninterested in the result.  They were more interested in discussing some of the amazing things I’d missed at their lectures, which I really wanted to pay attention to but I hadn’t found the time to attend.  That’s the problem with being an administrator: you miss all the good stuff.

It didn’t take us long to get around to the meat of the matter, however.

“It seems like a silly contest, fetching a pipe,” dismissed Mavone.

“Not at all,” Sarakeem insisted, sipping the sweet wine he preferred.  “For Master Minalan has made the course as challenging as he could without being impossible.”

“And what challenges are these?” he asked, tolerantly.

I smiled.  We’d spent several days thinking through the Trial and casting the necessary enchantments.  I’d gotten many of them to help, according to their specialties.

Sarakeem had not contributed directly, but had been delighted with the scope and nature of the contest, and had been an enthusiastic wagerer on the outcome.

Banamor had a list of all of the participants, and the Coinbrethren of Ifnia had not hesitated to figure odds and take bets.  I wasn’t betting, of course – that would have been a conflict of interest.  But Sarakeem was sure his foreknowledge of the course gave him a better handicap than others, and he had wagered accordingly.

“Before they even arrive at the base of the mount,” he told the Gilmoran warmage, “they must thread their way through one of Master Olmeg’s nurseries he uses to supply the famed Enchanted Forest that caused so much havoc amongst his enemies during the recent difficulties.  If that was not hazard enough, the River Folk have been invited to pelt the contestants with stones, rotten vegetables, and ordure, but Master Olmeg is on hand to ensure that they do not hurt the little Rat Folk.

“Then they must cross the Barrier of Fortitude Master Minalan has laid at the base of the trail,” he said, dramatically.

“And the nature of the barrier?” asked Planus, curious.  He hadn’t been involved in that enchantment.

“A field of sigils that must be banished or crossed, I said, amused.  “If one attempts to enter the trail by simply crossing them, and bearing all of their enchantments, one would likely go mad. Coughing.  Vomiting.  Headache.  Sneezing fits.  Hiccups.  Vertigo.  Agoraphobia.  Paranoia.  That sort of thing.  None of them are lethal, unless some damn fool throws themselves over a cliff on purpose.

:But there are some nasty ones up there.  You would have to be a decent mage to dispel them.  Nothing a trained Imperial-style magi would have any problems with, but it keeps the sports and the weak-willed at the foot of the hill.”

“A mere test of endurance,” Mavone dismissed, unimpressed.  “And then?”

“Then they must face the Trail of Trials,” Sarakeem continued, eagerly, unfazed by Mavone’s attitude.  “There are all manner of enchantments along that route: gouts of flame, unbearable noise, noxious vapors, binding spells, narrowing spells, illusions – it was breathtaking,” he said, admirably.  Planus had helped with that part, and looked pleased at the praise.  “Each element is triggered differently – a young woman might get a spray of water, an old man might receive a lot of noxious gasses, though none should face more than four or five such spells along the way.

“Then things get interesting: they must face Master Minalan’s apprentice, Sir Rondal, in a test of wits.”

“I wasn’t aware that apprentices had wits,” quipped Planus.  “Mine never do.”

“Rondal is quite gifted academically, and possesses a keen Talent,” I reported.  “Nor did I desire the challenge to be too difficult, lest none would pass.  But the test he devised is intriguing.  He asks that the challenger remove the water in a chalice on one side of the meadow to a chalice on the opposite side . . . without touching it in any way.  Rondal will not interfere, but he will call the participant out if they violate the terms of the challenge.”

“That could be done any number of ways,” Mavone observed with a good-natured sneer.

“Exactly why I like it as a challenge,” I pointed out.  “Rondal is there to observe and judge, but he won’t try to stop them in any way unless they violate the rules.  I want whoever gets the stone to be clever enough to figure out a way to do it.  I don’t much care how they do it, but such an elemental display of their Talent and their aptitude with spellwork will be telling.”

“A point,” Mavone agreed.  “And should they pass this test?”

“Then they face my Veil,” Pentandra said, darkly.  She had been the one I’d originally asked to place a special enchantment half-way up the hill as a way to discourage folks from dropping by the Alka Alon or their Karshak artisans casually.

It I had imposed upon her to make the enchantment permanent, too.  Unless one had one of a dozen snowflake-shaped pieces of snowstone she’d prepared, then any would-be interloper would have to contend with her Veil.  It was my way of making sure the Alka were not bothered by curious peasants.

“It’s a deeply psychological enchantment that forces the victim – so sorry, the ‘participant’ to face their darkest fear,” she explained.  “Or one of them.  Or something damn scary dredged from their deepest nightmare.  If they can manage to tame their own fear, then the Veil falls, and they may pass.”

“That’s sadistic,” Mavone nodded, pleased.  “But a good challenge.  And next?”

“Beyond Pentandra’s Veil lies the second landing, where Sir Tyndal awaits.”

“And what is his challenge?”

“Simple.  They have to get past Sir Tyndal,” I said.  “He’s been instructed not to allow anyone to pass.”

“You think your apprentice can stop them?” Planus asked, curious.

“He’s not a bad warmage,” Pentandra said, quickly, “and he’s quite adept with spur-of-the-moment spells.  He did some impressive work in Talry before Rondal and I picked him up.  He took on two Royal Censors by himself.”  She seemed as proud of him as if she were his mother, for some reason.

“He’s been instructed not to use lethal force,” I reminded them.  “Soft attacks only.  I don’t want any funerals.  It’s good practice for him, and a chance for the contestants to prove their skills.

“If they manage to get by him, the last leg is relatively uneventful.  But then they come to the summit, and there they will see the pipe sitting on a conveniently located rock . . . and the banewarding spell I have surrounding it.  If they can dispel that enchantment, then they get the pipe.”  I smiled to myself.  “It will not be an easy enchantment to dispel,” I added.

A banewarding is actually a class of spell, designed to ward or protect something from casually walking off.  Like a lock, or even a spellbinding, a banewarding can be simple or sophisticated, depending on the power of the mage and the amount of time and energy poured into building the spell.

We used them all the time at the Academy, since our books and prized possessions had an almost-magical way of walking off on their own in the presence of some of my classmates.  At the lower end a banewarding could merely inhibit the desire to pick something up; but the more layers and levels of focus you added, the greater the difficulty in breaking the enchantment . . . and the penalty invoked for doing so.

This particular banewarding had three levels of sophistication, and was mired in thaumaturgical misdirection.  Dispelling it would require understanding of at least three elemental disciplines and the dynamics of arcane force.  The spells were targeted at the higher functions of the human mind, the ability to reason and make sound judgments.  The retributory feedback was severe, but not (I hoped) lethal.  I had to be mindful not to make it too hard, to keep it fair, but whomever won the stone will have earned it.

I was proud of that spell.  It was the biggest piece of original magic I’d attempted in a while.  And it was artful, a truly classy piece of spellcraft, not dependent upon the massive amount of energy I had access to through the sphere but on thaumaturgical finesse.  I had put a lot of careful work into hanging that spell.  It had been months since I’d done anything creative or original, magically-speaking, and I’d welcomed the opportunity to weave a really powerful banewarding.

“Still, it seems a frivolous exercise,” Mavone said, shaking his head.  “To what purpose do you do this, Magelord?”  As one of my officers, he was privy to the same daily mind-to-mind general dispatches from the field that I was.  He had been languishing in Wenshar, cataloging the Censorate’s holdings there almost as long as I had been in Sevendor.  But the crisis in his homeland had compelled him to return to active service, and Terleman had recalled him to the front.  He was anxious to return to battle.  Despite his fastidious nature, Mavone was a warmage at heart.

I thought about it.  “A fair question.  The stone I’m offering is of but moderate power.  I felt it important to diversify how the stones are dispensed, perhaps to establish a precedent.  If a stone can be earned through a trial such as this, then there lies a hope for a mage to be risen to one through his skills, not who he knows or what his lineage is.”

Mavone looked at me thoughtfully . . . no, diplomatically.  An important difference.  “Of course you must use your discretion in how the stones are deployed,” he said, finally.

“Meaning you disagree with how I do it,” I sighed.  “As I expected.”

“With the threat in the west—” he began.  I stopped him.  Being the head of the arcane orders has its prerogatives.  The other magi at the table grew tense.

“I am well aware of the growing urgency of the Gilmoran invasion,” I said, quietly.  “Indeed, it becomes more pressing on my mind with each passing day.  Since I have been invested in Sevendor, I have taken the oaths of twenty-six warmagi I have tested and found worthy.  Five of those stones I issued more than once as their wielders fell in battle.  I am very aware of the dire need for yet more warmagi.”

“Then why this frivolity?” Mavone asked, intently, pointing toward the receding crowd of contestants headed for the mountain.  His frustration was clear.  Pentandra started to try to defend me, but I stopped her.

“This isn’t frivolity,” I explained.  “If witchstones are found only in the hands of warmagi that sets a dangerous precedent.  As powerful in battle as they would be, the folk behind them would suffer from the lack of magic used in their service, and then the war effort would falter before it has begun.  Magic, if it is to work in our favor during this war, will turn the tide . . . and that means it must be seen as a positive force throughout the Duchies.  Kingdom,” I amended.

“Understood, Magelord,” Mavone continued, respectfully, as he sipped his wine, “but what use are happy peasants if the gurvani are at their door, ready to eat their children and put them to the knife for the Dead God’s blessing?” He sounded contemptuous.  Part of that was his nature – Mavone is an aristocrat, and he sneers with every other word.  But part of this was genuine anger.

“What use is victory in the field when all behind you lies in ruin?” asked Planus.

“Is that the perspective of most Practical Adepts?” the warmage asked, sternly.  He was a Narasi warmage, down to the blondish beard and trousers and mageblade on his back.  Planus, on the other hand, looked every inch an eastern Practical Adept down to his silken robes and slippers,, his thin goatee, and his plethora of rings and necklaces.  He looked like a commercial mage used to the sophisticated life of prosperous affluence.

Planus shrugged, un-intimidated by the Gilmoran.  “The people must eat too, if they are to feed the army.  The roads must be maintained if the army is to be supplied.  The smithies need iron from the mines to forge weapons, the army needs wood for wagons and horses from farms.  Every step a soldier marches is on the backs of a hundred artisans and laborers.  Deny them the power of magic and reserve it only for the warriors, and resentment grows.”

“Worse, what happens when the war is over?” Banamor asked, between messengers.

“Do the opinions of footwizards now have bearing on the counsels of the wise?” Mavone asked, his scorn only nominally disguised.  He was unfamiliar with Banamor, and his growing importance to my domain, and he clearly resented a half-trained, unlicensed commoner having access to a witchstone.

But Banamor didn’t take offense -  he had been scorned as a footwizard his entire professional life.  He didn’t take it personally.

“It’s a fair question,” my Spellwarden insisted.  “As a commoner and a footwizard, I can admit that my Talent is not adequate to merit a witchstone.  If it wasn’t for the grace of the gods, the Spellmonger and snowstone, I’d be as meager a mage as any wandering conjurer.

“But while I will not question my good fortune, I will speak for my class: I don’t care if there are magelords or not, whether there is a war or not.  But I do not want the only ones armed with irionite to be those who know only how to destroy.  That’s what happened in the Magocracy, especially in the early period of the Late Magocracy,” he said.  I was surprised.  Banamor had found time to devote to studying history.  He must not be busy enough.

“The balance of power within the arcane orders must not be absolute,” Pentandra agreed.  “As it is, almost two-thirds of the stones in our control lie with the militant orders, the Horkan Order most of all.  But if the balance of that sum is not held by civilian magi, then the future of magic in the Kingdom will lie along military lines.  Regardless of the outcome of the war, the result will be the domination of the orders by the militant orders, and perhaps eventual domination of the Kingdom itself.”

“I share many of your concerns, my friend,” Master Cormoran said, gently placing a hand on the Gilmoran’s arm.  “I was at Tudry and Timberwatch.  I know the urgency of the need, as well as the scope of the problem.

“But I’m also an enchanter, and without irionite my craft would be all but fallow.  Do you not understand the might with which I can now imbue a blade?  And I am but at the beginning of my understanding of the nature of magic and enchantment.  I am building great blades at my forge right now.  In a year I will be able to cast them aside as essays in my craft, compared to the powerful weapons I can build with a witchstone’s aid.”

“And look what Olmeg has done for Sevendor,” I pointed out.  “A year ago this was a depopulated, deficient country on the brink of starvation and penury.  Now the people get five times the yield or more they did without magic’s aid, and my coffers are bursting with tribute.”  All right, that may have been a slight exaggeration – the fair had taken a lot of cash to initiate, but my yeomen were making my tribute quotas with room to spare.

“Far be it for me to take issue with how the Spellmonger wishes to dispense witchstones to burghers and gardeners,” Mavone said, more hotly, “but if Barrowbell falls, and the rest of Gilmora with it, then all the magic gardeners in the world won’t keep the Dead God at bay,” he prophesied.

“If the stone of one gardener or one burgher is enough to tip the balance in that struggle,” Banamor said, quietly, “then we are likely already lost.”

“We are neither lost nor are we in danger of falling,” I insisted.  “Would we have our new alliance with the Alka Alon if I had not done as I have?” I asked, invoking the masters of magic on Callidore.  “Would we have the support of our new monarch if I had not acted as I have?  The future of magic and the outcome of the war are entwined . . . but they are not the same.”

“Yet victory at one predicates the direction of the other,” conceded Planus.  “While our estates are far from the front, we ‘burghers and gardeners’ recognize the urgency of the hour.  Those of us High Magi who do not take up a blade still have a role to honorably serve in the effort according to our abilities.  Do not deny us this opportunity to contribute,” he said, reasonably.

“Nor are all civilian magi helpless,” reminded Cormoran.  “The tales of Master Dunselen’s – Magelord Dunselen, now – victories over his neighbors are intriguing.”

“And instructive,” agreed Pentandra, frowning.  “Unregulated magic benefits no one but the Dead God.  Neither do private wars and conquering magelords,” she added.  “Present company excepted.”

“Then put the man on the issue of dragons,” Mavone said, exasperated but still polite.  “They harass our forces in the field and make a mockery of our fortifications.  Since the attacks on our garrisons in Gilmora the men have been loath to gather in great numbers.  The dragons divide our forces by fear as much as dragonfire.”

“I intend on doing just that,” I agreed, evenly.  “Another excellent reason why I have risen civilian magi.  The best thaumaturges are civilians, as are the best enchanters.  If we are to combat the Dead God on every front, we will need studious inquiry by our finest minds.  That’s difficult to do from the front,” I pointed out.

“Still, that does not explain this exercise,” he said, gesturing toward Matten’s Helm in the distance.  “You send spellmongers and apprentices and hedgemagi through a comic trial to fetch your pipe – how does that assist the war effort?”

“The mage who wins the stone is still subject to the terms of a High Mage,” I reminded him.  “He must swear his oath to me, he must act at my direction, and he must serve the King upon request.  More, it gives hope to all of those who lust for such power.  If they have an open opportunity to gain a stone of their own, unfettered by rank or riches, then they have the hope of power.  And sometimes that hope is sufficient to quell that lust.”

“And sometime it isn’t,” Cormoran sighed.  “Have you heard of the magi who haunt the Penumbra now in desperate search of irionite?  They brave goblin patrols, our patrols, and the desolation of that dark land in the hope of slitting some shaman’s throat while he sleeps and carrying away a prize of power.  Azar caught and executed one a few weeks ago.”

That was disturbing news, and the sort of thing that didn’t make it into regular dispatches.  My old professional rival in Boval, Master Garkesku, had succumbed to the allure of power and had taken his stone that way after I had stripped him of the one I’d bound by oath.  He had taken the stone after killing a shaman in the sight of the Dead God, and had taken service with him afterward.

Now he was serving his new master as a magelord in his own right, presiding over an estate of the Soulless under the occupation of the gurvani.  I could only imagine what a dozen more Garkeskus could mean for the war.  It made me shudder.

I wasn’t the only one.  “Surely only madmen would consider such a route,” Planus said, looking a little pale.

“Surely our profession is well-stocked with madmen,” Cormoran pointed out.  “The allure of power is great on a man’s soul.  Slitting a throat – or fifty throats – is a small price to pay for that power, according to some.”

“Which is why regulation is the key to keeping such abominations from occurring,” Pentandra agreed, forcefully.  “And regulation can only come with organization, organization from enforcement, and enforcement with power held in authority.”

“Words, words, words,” Sarakeem complained.  “Regulation, organization, authority!  There is a war to be fought, my friends, and the gods have seen fit to put us in the heat of battle!  And given us such magnificent weaponry!  What more could heroes ask?” he asked, with enthusiasm.

We mostly ignored him.  Sarakeem said vainglorious crap like that all the time.  But Penny took it as an opportunity to lecture.

“There’s more to this war than heroes dying bravely,” she began.  “And while regulation and organization do not seem like important weapons, without them we are a mob desperately fighting for our lives, not a Kingdom defending our frontiers from invasion.

“We overthrew the Censorate with the establishment of that Kingdom, but as much as we dislike them, the Censorate fulfilled some essential roles in that organization.  We must replace those elements quickly, or unregulated magic within the kingdom will be another war to fight..”

“That’s why I want to establish my own enforcers,” I agreed.  “Agents who can act in my name.  Someone who can deal with the executive issues the Censorate did, at least the really important ones.

“Well,” Mavone said with a resigned sigh, “I resolved to persuade you, but I also made a vow to defer to your wisdom even if I question it, Min.  I cannot justly say that I would have done better, in your position.  You haven’t abused your power – yet – and you’ve loyally protected your people.  More, when you could have chosen a handsome estate which to retire to, you chose . . . this place,” he said, charitably.  “But I feel compelled to bring such matters to your attention.”

“And I have always encouraged you to speak your mind,” I reminded him.  “You and all of the High Magi.  As I’ve said, I’m making this up as I go along, and your insights are appreciated.”

“Well, this is an insight you will enjoy,” he said, placing a small wooden box on the table.  “While going through the Censorate’s catacombs at their citadel, I came across these.  Witchstones.  Bits of irionite confiscated over the centuries and stored in Wenshar.  The Censors were so paranoid about it being stolen they didn’t even have it inventoried – they were listed as ‘stones of unknown origin and potency’ and given a catalog number.  But there are five witchstones in there, none particularly strong, but none with an affinity to the Dead God.  Five new High Magi for you to invest.”

“See?” Pentandra said, encouragingly, “if we reserve the weaker stones for the smaller orders, then everyone benefits!”

“Even the weakest witchstone makes the weakest mage stronger than the strongest mage with no witchstone,” Sarakeem pointed out helpfully.

“But in combat one wants as much power as one can bear,” Master Cormoran observed, thoughtfully.  “In enchantment, rarely is such power necessary. And as provisional head of the order of enchanters, I would not discourage more witchstones in our hands.”

That brought a chuckle to everyone.  “But that’s not the only thing I found in their vaults,” Mavone continued, taking another parcel out of the bag next to him.  “The Censors were diligent about collecting artifacts from the Magocracy, and there was a fine collection of old warwands in stock.  Some of them are merely powerful, some are unique.  Some I’ve never seen before, but would be intriguing to explore.  I give them to your care, Spellmonger,” he said, pushing the bundle of magical sticks toward me.

“Perhaps we can resurrect some of these old workings and put them to use in the field.  Or in the garden,” he joked.  “And there were these,” he added, placing a smaller parcel on the table.  “These are believed to be artifacts dating from the First Magocracy.  From Perwyn, itself.  I have no idea what even half of them do, and some don’t seem magical at all.  But the Censorate was quite adamant about how they were locked up, so I can only assume that they are important.  I leave it for the thaumaturges to cipher out why.”

I took that bundle almost as gratefully.  I had a growing collection of such items in my lab, and eventually I would get around to investigating them when I had time . . . say when Minalyan was having children of his own.

“The First Magocracy?” Penny asked.  I couldn’t help but notice how Planus perked up, too.  Imperials are almost compulsive about their illustrious history, and anything that reminded them of past glories was of immediate interest.  “When?  What period?  Min, open it up, open it up!” she said, excitedly.

“Later,” I said, soothingly.  I knew at once what had intrigued her: the possibility these artifacts may have to do with the Forsaken, the beings the Order of the Secret Tower were trying to protect . . . or, conversely, protect us from.  “We have time to do it properly.  Right now, let’s turn our attention to the base of the peak – the contestants are arriving, if you’d like to use your magesight to see, and the River Folk are happily pelting them with rotten vegetables.  If you look closely you can see the very first of them struggling with the Barrier – yes?” I asked, sharply.

I dislike being interrupted, but the young woman – girl, really – who had quietly approached my table was starting to lurk, now, and it was distracting me.

She couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen, red hair and freckles, her shape barely deciding it was female.  She wore a peasant’s travel-stained woolen tunic and trousers, and a faded and much-patched mantle of mottled green.  She was lingering on the edge of our conversation and managed to dodge three different messengers as they brought their news and requests to Banamor.

“Yes?” I repeated, a little sternly.  The girl paled, then swallowed and marshaled her bravery.

“I believe you wanted this, Magelord,” she said, holding out her hands.  I hadn’t remembered ordering anything, but then I’d been talking non-stop for almost half an hour, now, and may well have requested something and forgotten about it.  She opened her fingers and pushed the object toward me as we all stared at her, dumbfounded by what we saw.

“Isn’t this your pipe?  Wasn’t that what we were supposed to get from the mountain?” she asked, uncertainly.  “Sorry it took me so long.”

Chapter Forty-Three

The Siege of Castle Cambrian

Her name was Lanodara of Westwood – called Dara by her grandfather, my Yeoman Kyre of Westwood – and she was thirteen years old.  The young woman had bright red hair, a constellation of freckles across her cute button nose, and a receded chin and overbite that was as adorable as it was awkward.

How had she defeated the long list of challenges we had prepared for the Trials?

Simple.  She had used her hawk to fetch it.

Not a normal hawk – it was one of the great Hooded Silver Raptors that enjoyed nesting in nearly impossible-to-get-to remote mountain peaks.  She had gone out in search of it in the rough country beyond the high ridge to the west just before we had ridden into Sevendor last year, and she had been patiently training it ever since.

That wasn’t unusual.  Hawking was a popular sport among the nobility, and the Westwoodmen had trained hawks in the past.  Dara had learned much of what she knew about the art from her uncle Kartan.  But she had schooled her bird not just in hunting.  Lanodara of Westwood had enough Talent and intuition to learn how to transfer her consciousness into the bird as it flew, seeing with its eyes and directing its actions with her mind.  It was the most natural kind of magic.

She hadn’t even realized she was doing it until she had directed the bird to attack a treefox that had gotten into the chicken coop, and she saw the egg-stealing beast through the eyes of her bird for the first time.  While it had scared her, Dara was brave – brave enough to scale a forty-foot cliff to retrieve her bird (named Frightful) in the first place.  After that first time, she had been stealthily practicing with Frightful ostensibly as a hunter, but in reality as her animal familiar.

Not all magi have familiars, although many spellmongers, hedgemagi and village witches favor them.  While I have a great and abiding affection for my horse, Traveler, it doesn’t even approach the same relationship as I would have with a familiar.  Personally, I’d never seen much use in it, unless you were doing some sort of specialized work.

I’m not particularly talented at brown magic, thank goodness, but some are.  Zagor has his puppies, for instance, and Master Dunselen was known to have a very fat white cat.  But some magi specialize in brown magic to the extent that they can transfer their minds – more precisely, extend their consciousnesses into – the minds of their familiar through a permanent psychic connection.

I’ve always considered that as much a liability as an advantage.  The attachment between mage and familiar is so strong that it has been known for magi to go into comas if their familiars are injured or killed.  The Archmage Arnos II died the night his beloved hound was crushed by a carriage, for instance, unable to handle the sudden shock to his mind.  Perhaps it’s the healthy paranoia most warmagi develop, but the idea of an enemy holding a knife to your kitty-cat’s throat and telling you to drop your sword or the familiar gets it just seems counterintuitive.

Perhaps it was the sudden appearance of snowstone that quickened the effect (Westwood was well within the two-mile radius of the spell) or perhaps it was Dara’s natural Talent expressing itself, we’ll never know.  But she was able to manage this fairly sophisticated feat of magic without a bit of training or even much awareness.

Brown magi were legends and stories, to most folk, and their ways are odd even to other magi.  Dara didn’t let her own ignorance stop her.  She continued training Frightful using her mind until she was able to fly him all over the valley, seeing it through his eyes.  Indeed, she had first used the bird to practical effect by scouting Caolan’s Pass for her father, though at the time she had let him think she was just a really good scout.

So Dara’s Frightful had retrieved my pipe by simply flying past all of the challenges and spells and trials to the top of Matten’s Helm.  All save for the final enchantment.  The nasty banewarding I’d crafted.

That was the tricky part, Dara explained while we all listened to her in shock, because my spell was targeted at human minds, and the first few attempts she made had been confounded by it.  Her mind was affected, even though the bird’s was not.  Once she realized the problem, however, she adeptly slipped out of contact with the bird just long enough for it to retrieve the pipe like its lure, its tiny mind completely unaffected by my spell.

Once retrieved, Dara slipped back behind the bird’s eyes and directed it back to its perch, where it delivered the prize into her hand while the other contestants were struggling past giggling River Folk hurling rotten onions.   Lanodara hadn’t even left the Commons.

She told us this as she fed her beautiful bird, and I was perplexed into speechlessness.  Once Banamor confirmed that she had, indeed, paid her sixpence fee to enter the Trials and was properly registered with the Coinbrothers, that left me in a quandary.  There were fully-trained warmagi who were about to slay each other over this witchstone.

If it became known that they had been bested by a girl only two months into her maidenmoons, there would be violence.  To be bested by a well-trained and well-prepared competitor was one thing.  To be bested by a clever twelve-year-old girl and a well-trained beast was something else again.

“You just can’t do it,” Pentandra said, shaking her head, as we discussed the matter over lunch after dismissing Dara into her uncle’s care.  Time was pressing.  We had to come up with a solution quickly.  Things were getting tense.  Tyndal had informed us that the second and third place winners had indeed dueled near the top of the summit, after overcoming all of the other challenges, simply to establish which of them was the superior mage.

When the frontrunner (a highly Talented warmage named Jendaran the Trusty, if you’re keeping score) finally overcame my final enchantment only to find the rock empty, he nearly went mad with grief and rage.

At first he thought the contest had been a fraud, and he had demanded the Coinbrothers investigate.  When he learned that someone had beat him to the prize, he was willing to listen . . . but he demanded to meet the man who had bested him.  Jendaran might have been trusty, but he wasn’t any more blessed by humility than any of my colleagues, and his pride was touched by the loss.  Several of the other competitors who had been right behind Jendaran were also demanding to know who had won.

It was a tense situation.  I had agreed to hold off announcing the winner until we could settle the matter, and I had convened the High Magi present for luncheon in my campaign tent to discuss what to do.

“You’re right, there will be a riot,” Planus said, matter-of-factly.  “Two people almost died from the spells on the trail, and fights broke out all over the mountain, Tyndal just told me.  Master Olmeg had to count a few contestants out.”

“You cannot give a witchstone to a stripling lass,” Mavone agreed, vehemently.  “Not when there are so many worthy magi who competed.  Jendaran, at least, is a proven warmage of good repute.  He would gladly serve against the gurvani – with a witchstone, he’d be powerful.  But this girl?  She knows not the slightest cantrip.  Her Talent is just emerging – for all we know she’s just a sport!”

“Perhaps, but she did best the others at the contest.  She did not violate the terms.  You merely failed to provide terms that would keep someone from doing that,” Banamor observed, shaking his head.  “We can’t renege on the contest – the Coinbrethren took their oaths – they took bets!” he pointed out.  “If you award the stone to any but her, they may withdraw their sanction from Sevendor.”

That would keep anyone from wagering in my domain, theoretically.  My Spellwarden seemed scandalized about the prospect.  He muttered to me under his breath, “At least she’s one of your Yeomen’s daughters.  Keeps the stone in the family, as it were.”

“That’s another consideration,” Pentandra pointed out.  “If her father or grandfather is your vassal, then there are all sorts of trouble the magi out there can stir up if they feel slighted.  The Coinbrethren will investigate any allegations of favoritism.”

“But does the girl have any Talent, beyond this trick with the bird?” Mavone asked.

“I tested her myself,” Pentandra assured him.  “It was a preliminary test, and she’s still developing, but there’s a sizable Talent within her.  Enough to become a mage, perhaps, or at least a very powerful specialized sport if her rajira doesn’t develop completely.  The stone would not be wasted.”

“That’s a matter of perspective,” Mavone said, haughtily.

“But she won,” Banamor insisted.  “We can’t ignore that.”

I thought about it long and hard as the others debated.  I had interviewed the girl, and despite her shyness she was possessed of a canny intelligence.  While she couldn’t read, she was willing to learn and plainly capable of mastering the art.  And Penny was right.  She did have significant Talent.  Indeed, she wasn’t too much further along than I had been when I had been sent to the Academy.  And perhaps further along than Tyndal had been when I’d found him in that stable.

But could I take the risk of bloodshed at the first Magic Fair by honoring my word to a child?

Finally, after a lot of thought and two rounds of smoking my recently-delivered pipe, that afternoon I reached my decision.  I discussed it with my makeshift council in my tent while a crowd grew outside.

“She won the contest,” I reasoned, “she gets a stone.  A lesser stone, the least of stones, perhaps one of those which Mavone brought from Wenshar . . . but a stone nonetheless.” Mavone and Sarakeem did not look pleased.  Jendaran didn’t either.

Jendaran was a big man, the kind of man you’d figure would make a good warmage.  He was taller than me by six inches in his boots, and his shoulders were broad.  His hair was plaited into two thick braids that hung down each side of his head, making him look very intimidating.   He wore a long hauberk of silvered chain, belted at the waist, and carried a thick hickory battlestaff shod in iron as well as his mageblade.

He was a handsome man, a bit older than me, and his face was crossed with scars from his active service.  His gauntleted hands grasped the air over and over as he sought to control his emotions.  Mavone was right – he would be an asset in the Penumbra.  Or a positive hazard to my domain, if he got pissed off.

“But in recompense for his outstanding performance, I am ruling that Jendaran the Trusty is also awarded a stone.  The stone I’d originally intended as the prize, for he met and defeated every challenge put before him.  But as he did not prevail in the contest, I am making this award conditional.  He must enter the war as a member of one of the militant Orders.”

The earnest young warmagi had already assured me he’d like nothing better – that’s why he had made his way to Sevendor in the first place.  The Penumbralands provided the ideal place for a mage to use the limits of his power.

“But she shall get her stone,” I continued.  “She earned it. And any mage who takes issue with her fair victory can discuss it with me, personally.  More, I shall grant her father a boon.  I shall endeavor to teach her magic in accordance with her Talent and intelligence, and make her a High Mage in fact, as well in name.”

“Wouldn’t that make her . . . your apprentice?” Tyndal asked, a startled look on his face.

“Your junior apprentice?” Rondal asked, grinning.  He’d taken a lot of crap from Tyndal about being my ‘junior’ apprentice, in terms of service, when Rondal was actually six months older than Tyndal.

“Actually, while she technically might be mine, I’d like to pair her with Olmeg, Banamor, even Zagor.  See what she picks up.”

Then it was Rondal’s turn to look alarmed.  “Master, if she doesn’t receive proper foundations in the basics of Imperial magic, then she’ll not be able to pass her exams!”

“Who needs exams?” Tyndal said, expansively.  He had been bested by more warmagi than he’d defeated, which should have been a little humbling.  It hadn’t seemed to have taken.

“I’m as in favor of an Imperial-style education as anyone,” I agreed.  “But Dara doesn’t even know how to read, yet.  The Westwoodmen don’t value such skills.  Woodlore and herbalism, green magic and brown magic, those they would value.  If she is to be trained, then let her be trained to keep and defend Sevendor.”

“But that’s our job!” pouted Tyndal.

“You two are knights magi in your own right,” I dismissed.  “You both need polishing, you both need tutoring, you both need practice – a lot of practice – but your deeds and errantry will be far from here.  Hers will likely not be.  Someone has to watch the hearthfires when you are at war.  Having a fully-trained Dara here guarding Sevendor should bring you some comfort when you’re five hundred leagues away, knee-deep in goblin guts.”

“You always paint such a vivid picture, Master,” Rondal said, looking queasy.

“This fight with Gimbal taught me something,” I admitted.  “I can’t be everywhere at once.  I need good people who know their jobs.  The best people, preferably, but people I can work with.  Which is why I need you two well-trained and out in the field . . . and I need folk like Banamor and Olmeg and Zagor – and, yes, little Dara, perhaps – watching out for our interests here at home.”

That noble prospect did little to mollify them.  They weren’t the only ones.  When I announced my decision to the Fair at large, there was nearly a riot again.  I had to assert my authority with a dramatic thunderclap spell to regain order.  Not only were the wagerers angry at the surprise outcome, but so were many of the magi.

Banamor spoke with them repeatedly, and even had Jendaran come forth and agree that he had been bested by a stripling sport.  I had the two meet briefly before I’d made my decision.  Dara was intimidated by the mage . . . but not so much she was going to give up her claim to the prize.  He even went so far as to praise Dara’s ingenuity and courage.  I don’t think he would have done it if we hadn’t promised him a witchstone.

That ended the grumbling, and began the celebration.  I had the Fair pay for a couple of hogsheads of ale to be freely distributed on the Commons that evening.  Yeoman Kyre was so proud of his youngest daughter he composed a rustic poem in praise of her at the banquet in her honor that night.  The other Westwoodmen were likewise proud of their kin, and any suggestion that perhaps her stone should be taken from her by force (as was murmured a few times) was met with stern looks from steel-gray eyes that promised a contentious end to such a course.

Mostly, they consoled themselves with drink and the excitement of the Fair.  Though a few hot-heads thought that they were more than a match for a mere girl, Banamor and his wardens were able to intervene before anyone did anything stupid.  I figured that the hangovers the next morning would end any talk of retribution.  Now that Jendaran had his stone and was eagerly practicing with it, Dara’s dramatic win would slowly fade in importance, likely by the next morning.

Unfortunately, the next morning Lenodara wasn’t the name on everyone’s lips.  That honor went to Castle Cambrian.

*                            *                            *

Castle Cambrian was one of the older baronial castles in Gilmora, one of the stately old manors that fecund part of the Riverlands is famed for.  More residence than fortress, Castle Cambrian hadn’t seen battle in almost a century.  It was along the Cotton Road, and had its own trade fair every year.  But it was more a glorified toll booth than a proper fortress.

It had recently found new life as the headquarters and forward command post of Knight Commander Terleman.  He was commanding the magical defense of Barrowbell, in conjunction with some local lords, and he found the place comfortable and well-located.  He had been intercepting any large bands that had wandered south since he’d returned from the coronation.

Since the dragons had attacked the Gilmoran garrisons, the defense of the region had turned piecemeal.  Goblin bands wandered the countryside, burning and looting and enslaving.  They were avoiding larger castles and towns, but had turned the rural landscape into a churning hell of burned-out cots and horrific displays of torture and execution.  Terleman’s men had been chasing the smaller bands for weeks, but hadn’t been able to bring them to a decisive battle.

Instead the war had turned into a raid-and-counter-raid war of attrition – which we were losing.  Even with the extensive peasantry of the Gilmoran baronies armed, individual encounters with the gurvani had gone mostly in their favor, and every minor loss had added up to thousands of casualties.  The recent arrival of Count Margeaf and a thousand mercenary horse under the banner of the new King was the first relief that Terleman had seen in weeks.  It should have been the reinforcements that turned the tide.

Margeaf was one of Count Salgo’s lieutenants, a good and sturdy commander and veteran of the Farisian campaign, by all accounts.  When his column was suddenly set upon by five times their number soon after they disembarked their barges, the good count ordered a retreat at full speed toward the castle.  A sortie from the castle came out to help defend the mercenaries from the gurvani, but fresh goblin legions from the north interceded and drove both parties back to Cambrian, where they surrounded the castle.

Almost half of Terleman’s forces were dispatched to the north to shore up the weakened defenses there, so there was little hope of relief against the forces that had come so quickly against his headquarters.  The Dead God had made the lands around Castle Cambrian a sea of seething evil.

Terleman was trapped, besieged, with little hope of rescue.  I could empathize – that’s how the Siege of Boval had felt.  He had spent all night calling everyone he could – beginning with myself – for assistance.

He wasn’t being a coward, either.  He was being a good commander.  Terleman has twice as much combat experience as I do.  He had a good, defensible position at Cambrian, over five thousand troops within its walls (six thousand, now) and good supply...for a while.

Terleman’s defensive plan had been to conserve his strength at Cambrian, not get lured away too far, and strike out at any force that tried to pass by to assail the city.  There were smaller castles closer to the city, and there was a rough line of defenders across the entire mesopotamian area, but Cambrian was the main force opposing organized aggression against Barrowbell.

Considering the de-centralized nature of the gurvani advance through Gilmora, that had seemed a prudent measure at the time.  None of the bands that were causing such havoc in the Riverlands would have been large enough to challenge Cambrian.

But with Count Margeaf’s arrival, several bands had coalesced very quickly into a larger army to give chase.  A lot more quickly than Terleman had figured.  His intelligence had told him there were no more than four thousand gurvani in the immediate region, but more than ten thousand had suddenly converged on Cambrian Castle, and more were arriving every hour.

The implication of the sudden siege was clear.  Terleman was unlikely to break the siege quickly from within, and it would keep his forces pinned down completely enough to allow Barrowbell to be assaulted.  Scrying had shown that there were more gurvani – a lot more – than had been originally accounted for in the invasion of Gilmora.

Worse, getting pinned up in the castle made Terleman, Margeaf, and everyone else at Cambrian Castle dragonbait.  That many men in one place was poor strategy.  But it was either stay in the castle and wait for the dragons, or go out and try to hack their way through the legions of goblins surrounding them.

Neither prospect seemed to promise survival, much less victory.  Terleman’s warmagi, the doughty Horkan Order, was doing their best to discomfit the enemy but there were plenty of shamans present to defend against them.  And they were defending more effectively now, Terleman’s dispatches had demonstrated.

If Cambrian Castle fell, there would be no impediment to the goblins breaking through the northern lines in greater force and assailing the city of Barrowbell.  If Barrowbell fell, then the economic power of the Gilmoran baronies would be lost forever.  Not to mention tens of thousands of human lives.  Thousands had fled the city downriver, but thousands more had stayed because they were too poor or too invested to flee.

There were two pieces of arguably good news: there were enough warmagi and troops at Barrowbell to at least slow the legions down before they pillaged the city.  That might give King Rard and the additional 30,000 troops he’d called from the central Riverlands the chance to arrive in time to avenge them.  Already there were two more units of mercenaries in the King’s pay working their way upriver to strengthen Barrowbell’s defenses, and they might arrive within the week – but they were light cavalry, and too few to break the siege at Cambrian Castle.

The other piece of good news was that the Dead God was either not using his dragons as effectively as he could, or he was having difficulty deploying them.  They couldn’t be easy to handle, we figured.  That was small comfort at the moment, but for our sake I was hoping they were feeling particularly defiant for a while.

That still wouldn’t help the basic situation.  There were more of them than there were of us, and we weren’t in the right places.

I just don’t see another way, Terleman told me, mind-to-mind, in our third conference of the morning.  The southern Gilmoran fiefs have raised another ten thousand or more, peasant levies mostly, but it will take them weeks to march upriver, and far too long even if they arrive by boat.  Even with High Magi urging their barges along.  But I just learned that there’s a legion headed toward Sicory Castle, and their captain has elected to defeat them before even heading upriver.  We’re trapped.  Unless someone can find an army to relieve us, we’re going to be in here until the dragons come.

Don’t worry about the dragons, I told him with false confidence.  I’m working on something right now, with some of the artifacts the Alka Alon gave us at the coronation.  I’m working closely with them, now, too.  Perhaps not quite the truth, exactly, if you held it up to the light and looked too hard, but it was enough.

That’s encouraging, Terleman replied, hopefully.  Supposedly they faced dragons themselves, in their ancient wars.  Maybe those arboreal buggers can figure out some way to transport a couple of thousand troops half-way across the duchy!

That would be convenient, I said, automatically.  But it’s the threat of dragons I’m concerned with.

Not as concerned as I, at the moment, Terleman responded.  We’re weathering the siege, and it isn’t nearly as bad as Boval Castle, but . . . it’s pretty bad.

Understood.  I’ll do what I can, I promised.

The problem was, there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot I could do.

Maybe the king?  I called to Master Hartarian, the new Court Mage, as soon as I could.  He wasn’t very helpful either.

His Majesty is aware of the situation, he assured me, mind-to-mind.  He is doing his damndest to get more troops into Gilmora as it is, but there really isn’t anything he can do to hurry things up.

What about mercenaries?

What mercenaries?  Hartarian complained.  They’ve suddenly found pressing engagements elsewhere, with a few exceptions.  Most of them had been engaged two months ago or more . . . for certain rebellious counts in the coastal region of Alshar who are about as happy as Merwin is about His Majesty’s coronation.  Every major company has been contracted at this point.  Count Salgo had to put the units he did send together piecemeal.  And some wouldn’t take service with the crown anyway, for personal reasons, he admitted.

Gods damn them! I said, losing control for just a moment.  Don’t they know there’s a war on?

That’s why they took service with the counts, Hartarian confided.  Fighting gurvani leaves little room for looting.  There are plenty of mercenaries in central Castal and Wenshar, now, and even some companies looking for work in Remere – the big dynastic wars there have been quieted by the coronation, with the noble houses suing for peace in hopes of appeasing the new monarch.  But it would take three weeks or more to get them from central Remere down the river to sea, and thence to Castal.  The Wenshari would likely make better time overland.  But either way, it would be autumn before they arrived at Barrowbell.

I thanked the Court Wizard and ended the spell.  Then I cursed a blue streak, to the point where the magelight that indicated my residence above Sevendor Castle started pulsing and spurting sparks, changing hue and size.

Luckily, the attendees of the Magic Fair thought it was part of the entertainment.  In the sudden and constant fog of the military emergency, I’d almost forgotten I had guests.  The Fair was still going on.

I thought in my lab for almost an hour, brooding over the situation.  I had to help Terleman.  Somehow.  He was too good a man and too good a commander to let down.  He needed more men, an entire army of them, but I didn’t see much use trying to find troops where there weren’t any.

But maybe I could discourage the possibility of dragons.  The Thoughtful Knife the Alka Alon had given to us was legendary for its sharpness and power, I reasoned.  I needed to know if it would penetrate dragonscale, and there was only one place that could answer that question.

I closed my eyes, tapped into my sphere, and summoned the glyph that Lady Varen had given me to speak with her, mind-to-mind.  I wasn’t sure if the Alka could do this naturally or with a spell, but slipping into the rapport was effortless.

Yes, Magelord? came the cordial response.

Lady Varen, I need your help.  The Kingdom needs your help, actually.  Is there any way for you to find the time to drop by, perhaps teach us how to use the Thoughtful Knife?  We have a crisis brewing . . .

“How can I be of assistance, Magelord?” Lady Varen asked, using her voice.  I opened up my eyes and blinked.  There she was in my lab, in her human-tall form.

“How do you do that?” I gasped.

“It’s actually not a difficult spell,” she admitted with a slight smile, the first time I had seen her act less than formally.  “It merely requires a prodigious amount of energy and a detailed knowledge of higher magics.  The proximity of the snowstone makes it much easier,” she admitted.  “Doing magic around snowstone in general is much less effort. Ordinarily I would not consider using such spells lightly, but your summons seemed urgent.”

“I’ve noticed.  And yes, it is urgent.  We have a military crisis.  The gurvani have invested a strategic castle in Gilmora.  They are surrounded, but secure for the moment.  But they’re also a ripe target for one of the Dead God’s dragons.  I need a way to combat them, and if the legends about the Thoughtful Knife are true—”

“They are,” Lady Varen agreed, gravely.  “But it is not an easy weapon to master,” she warned.

“Few are, once you get beyond sharp sticks,” I agreed.  “But I don’t have time to indulge in a thorough study.  I’ve got dragons that could show up at any time.”  I took the Thoughtful Knife out of its box and placed it on my workbench.  “Now, how does this work?”

She sighed.  “There is not time then to give you an extensive lesson.”  She caressed the back of the gleaming white blade, and a small jewel came off in her hand.  She handed it to me.  “Let us see your affinity with the Knife.”

I took the jewel and as my hand closed around it my consciousness shrank and moved, and I suddenly was the Knife.  I suppressed the urge to vomit as the world spun around me and my subconscious panicked.

Eventually I got my bearings, but riding the Thoughtful Knife is akin to riding a speeding stallion . . . while standing up in the saddle and balancing a feather on your nose.

For the next two hours Lady Varen showed me how to activate the Knife, carefully insert my focused attention within its magical matrix, and make it float across the floor.  It was odd seeing things through the Knife’s perspective, and it took me almost an hour to get my bearings well enough to make it fly at any speed.

The sensation of flying the Knife was disconcerting.  Human beings are not meant to fly, and our brains have a hard time making the adjustment.  Seeing the world from above was a heady but terrifying experience.

Finally, when I had demonstrated I could establish basic control over the artifact, Lady Varen let me take the Knife outside, where I carefully flew it around my white castle.  Only a few noticed enough to point at it, but they weren’t alarmed – by this time my people were pretty used to strange happenings emitting from the Spellmonger’s Tower.

Then I lost control, and the thing tumbled from the sky.  I just couldn’t keep my orientation from that perspective.  Just when I thought I had it, an attack of vertigo undermined my bearings and it fell.  When it hit the castle wall, the edge stuck four inches into the white stone.

“I just can’t do it, not without a lot more practice,” I said, apologetically, as I wiped the copious beads of sweat off of my forehead.  “I can’t seem to manage the perspective from above.”

“Not everyone is endowed with the ability to move their consciousness easily,” she soothed.  I could tell she was disappointed.  I had barely gotten it in the air.  “Nor is everyone used to flying.  Indeed, I know few humans who are.”

That took me aback.  Because I actually did know a human who was, in a fashion, used to flight.  Lanodara.

The girl was learning to bond with her witchstone under the guidance of Tyndal and Rondal, who seemed both annoyed and pleased at the task of teaching the twelve-year-old.  I summoned all three of them to my lab that moment, and they came quickly.

Both of my apprentices wanted to watch, and though they were cowed by the presence of Lady Varen, they were both mesmerized by watching Dara quickly overcome the difficulties I had faced in mastering the Thoughtful Knife.  Within minutes the Knife was sailing merrily around the castle with beauty and deadly promise.

“She seems to be naturally Talented,” Lady Varen conceded, pleased.  “She has wit  and valor, it seems.  Should she master the Knife, it is possible that it could be employed against a dragon.  If applied with sufficient force and dexterity, there is a possibility that the Knife could be effective against dragon hide.”

“Let us hope it can be,” I sighed, wearily.  “It may be our only hope.  If I can find some way to transport Dara and myself all the way to Barrowbell in the next few days, we may arrive before the Dead God sends a worm.”

“But Magelord,” Lady Varen said, gently, “I would be happy to transport you and the girl, and any others you need.  As I said, with snowstone proximate, it is a far simpler enchantment.”

“That’s quite noble of you,” I said, unsure about how I felt about being transported.  “But isn’t that too long a distance?”

She smiled indulgently.  And perhaps a little condescendingly.  “Magelord, distance matters not.  My kindred have walked this world for thousands of years.  Mighty empires have risen and fallen.  Great cities were built and fell to ruin.  But magic . . . magic persists.  Wherever the Alka Alon have established a transport point in the past, I can send you.”

That was encouraging.  And exceedingly useful.  If only . . .

Terleman’s words came back to my mind:

Maybe those arboreal buggers can figure out some way to transport a couple of thousand troops half-way across the duchy!

That got me thinking.  And plotting.  And then a whole new plan evolved.

“Lady Varen,” I said, carefully, “just how many of us could you transport?”

Chapter Forty-Four

I Summon The Banners

Lady Varen looked perplexed.  It was an intriguing expression on an Alka, even one of these almost-human varieties.

“Magelord . . . what you ask . . .”

“What I ask might save the Kingdom before it is even six moons old, and more importantly it might save tens of thousands of lives.  Perhaps even Alka Alon lives, if there are any of your hidden treehouses in that neighborhood.  And certainly thousands of Tal Alon lives, if that holds any value to you – you may have heard of how the Dead God’s monstrosities treat the River Folk.  Kind of like a picnic.”

“It would require . . . so much energy . . .” she said, dazed.  I’d dazed an Alka.  I’d never thought I’d see that happen.  But I could tell she didn’t have any material objection to the idea, so I pressed my points in a reasonable fashion.

“If you say the spell is not difficult, merely requiring lavish energy, then why cannot an entire army be thus transported?” I asked, excitedly.  “Or is that too much mass to be moved through the ether?”

“It has to do with resistance,” she explained.  “I can pull myself through space, and even bring one or two people, in ordinary circumstances, if I work through a pre-established transfer point.”

“But we have all of this snowstone,” I pointed out.  She nodded, as the possibilities began to form in her mind.

“With snowstone, I could perhaps bring five or six others, if I had sufficient reserves.  But more than that requires more energy, and the expenditure rises sharply with each additional person.  At least as I understand the theory,” she admitted.  “It is not my area of specialty.”

“But if energy was no limitation?”

“Then it would be theoretically possible,” she agreed.  “It has been done in the past,” she admitted, reluctantly, “though at terrible cost.”

“Could you do it now?  If I can provide the power?”

She sighed.  “I can but try, Magelord.  With my kinswomen helping, and perhaps a few more volunteers, we could move a small army.  Distance is not the issue,” she said, before I could ask.  “Indeed, distance matters not at all – it takes the same energy to move a man across a room as it does to move him across a country.  And then there are . . . other considerations,” she added, guiltily.  “Not all amongst the kindreds would see such a feat as a boon.”

I paused.  “Politics?”

She nodded, looking a little ashamed.  “There are those amongst the kindreds who see our interaction with the humani as one long series of tragic mistakes.  And there has been much pain and death, it is true.  But since my folk welcomed yours, I feel as if both of our folk have prospered from the relation . . . over all.

“But some clans do not wish to help the humani at all, in any way.  Some wish to advise and perhaps aid you, in some small ways.  And then there are those like my fellow envoys and I who see aiding your people as much as we can as the best, most responsible course of action.  Assisting you performing a feat like transporting an entire army . . .” she trailed off.

“If you don’t mind looking into it, Lady Varen,” I said respectfully, “I will see what kind of troops I can muster.  Haste is of the utmost importance, I hope you understand.”

She sighed prettily, nodded, as if finding her resolve somewhere, and then faded away from sight.  I don’t know if she went back to her embassy or elsewhere. But it smelled like lilies after she left.

It was my turn to sigh.  I had the possibility of pushing an army through space, to cross hundreds of leagues in an instant and be precisely where I needed them the most.  All I lacked now was an army.

I had by mercenaries, of course, the stalwart infantry of the Black Boots I had retained to conquer West Fleria and the Nirodi.  While the mounted archers had returned to Nirod richer men, the infantry had elected to stick around for light winter garrison duty.  I could convince them to make the trip, if I paid them well enough.

There were perhaps other professional mercenaries too, at Sendaria Port.  But even if I hired every sell-sword in town, that would still give me no more than 500 men.  I could count on my Bovali for perhaps five hundred more, most of them passing good archers.  There were plenty of survivors of Boval who were eager to gain vengeance on the gurvani, now that they had a secure homeland to return to and proper weapons in their hands.  And to them I could add the ten or fifteen lances I could muster from the castle garrison.

Then, as Sire Cei reminded me, I could call my own banners, summoning maybe another fifty lances among my five new provinces.  Probably less, after the fighting.  A lot of them had chosen to go into exile, and I wasn’t certain I could rely on most of the others.  But that still left me shy of fifteen hundred men.

I was racking my brain for where I could get them when Pentandra reminded me that I was – still – a Ducal Marshal of Castal.

The office was purely ceremonial, now, a title to tack on the end of my name when I wanted to be an asshole.  I had been appointed as a Marshal by both Duke Lenguin of Alshar and Duke Rard of Castal for their respective duchies last year.  While the warrant had been given for the Timberwatch campaign, the warrant was still valid.  It had no expiration.  I could legally call upon any vassal of the Duke of Castal for troops in order to defend the realm.

Whether or not the local lords would pay attention to such a summons was another matter.

If I started with the POW camp outside of the Diketower, that would be a good base.  There were still almost five hundred men there who had taken up arms for Gimbal’s gold, but who had been too poor to pay their own ransoms.  Most had intended to winter-over in Sevendor, earning money at the harvest to buy their way free.  The way our fields were bulging, the extra help would be well worth the money, and we could feed them.  Offered the chance to fight instead of paying their ransoms, most of them jumped at it.

There was my friend Baron Arathanial of Sendaria, who could perhaps summon thirty or forty lances or more at short notice – particularly since most of his men were already armed and deployed as occupation troops to his new fiefs.  Perhaps more, if the price was right.  Sire Sigalan was spread fairly thin, but he could spare a few lances.  Especially if I could pay them out of the Ducal treasury.

But beyond Sendaria, there were other lords I could coerce into sending troops on the basis of my warrant, theoretically.  The Barons of Bocaraton and Miseldor, both rivals of Arathanial, were within two days’ ride of Sevendor, and could be tapped for a few dozen lances apiece.  The large barony across the river, Revenar, could be shaken down for another fifty lances, my aids informed me.  And even Sashtalia, our less-than-friendly neighbor to the northeast, could be forced to provide troops.

For that matter, Vulric, the Baron of Fleria, could be summoned for another few dozen.  He probably wouldn’t dignify the banner call with a response, and I had no way to compel him . . . but I could ask, couldn’t I?

How many could I bring to muster?  There was no way to predict that.  All I could do was call them and see who showed up.  Trying to get troops off-season in a feudal society is never easy, and trying to get them at harvest was going to be even harder.

But . . . the penalty for ignoring or refusing a lawful summons by a Marshal of the Realm was forfeiture of lands, or it was before there was a King.  Since Rard was still Duke of Castal as well as King of Castalshar, he would be likely to enforce that pretty thoroughly, I was guessing.

I sighed and called for a page.  A young girl of nine or ten who I didn’t recognize arrived, her hair neatly combed and her green-and-white snowflake tabard looking spotless.

“Bring me parchment and ink,” I requested.  “And have Sire Cei, Sir Roncil, Sir – just have all the ‘sirs’ meet me downstairs in an hour for a war council.  And the High Magi.  Also, have the stables prepare several riders for messages. At least a dozen.  Swift riders,” I emphasized.

The girl nodded solemnly, repeated back my orders, and scurried away. This wasn’t going to be easy.  At least, that was the consensus of the makeshift war council I’d put together.

“You want us to do what?” Sire Cei asked, looking confused.  “The war is over, Magelord,” he reminded me.

“Not for here,” I explained patiently, “but for deployment against the goblins in Gilmora.  I want you to call our banners.  Mobilize our troops.  Send out the summons: the Duke is calling upon his loyal vassals for military service in defense of the realm.”

“That’s . . . going to be unpopular,” Sir Roncil said, rubbing his chin doubtfully.  “Most of the men in your new domains just got home.”

“I need as many as can be spared,” I insisted.   “Oh, dear goddess!  Are we invading East Fleria now?” groaned Tyndal.  My council of war included pretty much everyone I could trust, arcane and mundane, who was in a position of authority, including three of my Yeomen.  And two of my apprentices.

“No, we’re invading Gilmora,” I snapped.  “And we’re going in force.  By my authority as Marshal of the Duchy of Castal, I hereby summon all able-bodied warriors to answer the Duke’s call,” I said, formally.  There was a gasp or two.

“That’s not going to be very popular,” Sir Roncil pointed out.  He’d been preparing to make his move to Northwood, as its new lord, and getting ready to officially begin negotiations for his new bride.  He did not look very enthusiastic about the idea of going to war himself.

“That’s not my problem,” I shot back.  “I’ve been tasked with saving Barrowbell and halting the invasion of Gilmora.  If the troops of the eastern Bontal vales are all I have to count upon, then that is who will go.  But I think I can spare you a long, boring march.”  I briefly explained the manner of their transport to everyone, and was met with disbelieving stares and slack jaws.

“Really, this is the only way,” I assured them.  “Rard is already mobilizing everyone he can around the central and western Riverlands.  There simply are no more troops to be had near to Gilmora.  But I think we can pull enough together here, in Sevendor, to make a difference.  The troops we bring will be fresh to the fight,” I reminded them.  “And accompanied by a few Mage Knights, warmagi, and a magelord or two.  This is not intended to be a suicide mission.”

“They rarely are,” Sir Roncil quipped, dryly.

“I can mobilize maybe five hundred in Sevendor, mostly infantry,” Sire Cei said, resolutely.  I had called him away from his maidenmoon, but he was ready to fight,  “As well as a dozen lances.”

“A dozen?”  That was news to me.  We had horses to spare, and archers and infantry aplenty, but I doubted we had the men who knew how to ride a horse to war.  “A dozen complete lances?”

“I’ve taken a few landless knights into service in your absence, Magelord,” he said, apologetically.  “It was clear that we needed a stronger cavalry force, and more professional officers for Sevendor’s defense. There were plenty of men available after the siege who were willing to take our service so I took them in. I’ve quartered them with the garrison troops at Brestal Vale, where they have been working with the militia.”

“I wasn’t criticizing,” I said, “I just wasn’t aware.  Can we afford them?”  Hiring a landless knight as a retainer usually ran to twenty ounces of gold a year.  Half that, if you provided him armor and horse.

“We have the funds, Magelord,” Sire Cei murmured.  “And you are free to inspect the accounts.”

“In all my free time?  That’s why I hired you.  If you say we need them, we need them.  And right now we need them.  Have them prepared for battle in the field.  And have as many volunteers of the Bovali who wish to be included prepare as well.”

“Magelord, if we take the bulk of our forces away through this means, who is left to defend our lands?” Sire Cei asked with all the concern of a new-made landed lord.

“We shall be taking the bulk of our enemies with us as well,” I pointed out.  “I will not leave Sevendor unguarded, nor do I ask that any lord deprive his domain of basic protection.  Hopefully after the spanking we just gave West Fleria, others will be more reluctant to try their luck.”

That seemed to mollify Sire Cei, which just meant he’d wait until we were alone before he peppered me with questions.  I didn’t mind the criticism, usually, but I appreciated him not bringing it out in council.  Sire Cei is the kind of castellan who backs his lord utterly – and if that means putting himself in an unpopular position to support him, he was more than willing to do that.

“So we’re just going to . . . pop in, like a bunch of Tree Folk in a fairy tale?” Rondal asked, looking skeptical.  “Master, I know you did as much in Boval, and saved all of our lives, but . . . we have no molopor,” he pointed out.  The aberration in space and time that lurked under Boval Castle had been instrumental in rescuing the Bovali from siege.

“That’s right, we don’t,” I agreed.  “But we do have the active assistance of the Alka Alon, who have assured me that the process is completely harmless and certainly attainable.  We also have far more irionite to work with this time.  And the effect of snowstone cannot be forgotten.

“We won’t be alone, either.  Just before this meeting I received word from Master Taren, the High Mage in charge of artifacts, that several mercenary troops recently released from their long-term assignments are finding it hard to find work in Wenshar.  He’s agreed to hire them and start sending them down-river to us.  They can be in Sevendor in four days, with a little help from the Magical Corps.  That should give us five-hundred or a thousand more seasoned warriors.

“Terleman doesn’t have much time at Cambrian.  Barrowbell doesn’t have much time.  But if Barrowbell falls, so does the quickest and safest route from east to west across Gilmora.  Without that we will lose most of Alshar and perhaps a healthy chunk of Castal.  So I’ve set the date of departure for six days from today, at noon.  You have six days to mobilize every sword you can, across the land, and see them delivered here.  You have six days to finalize your affairs and take up your own arms.”

“That isn’t enough time to raise a decent force!” Sir Forondo insisted.  “Even in Sevendor, that will only give us a—”

“It will give us plenty of time,” Sire Cei interrupted.  “You heard the Magelord.  He has given you honorable orders in the name of the Duke.  See to them,” he insisted.  That didn’t make Forondo – or anyone else – any happier.  But you don’t contradict Sire Cei when he talks to you like that without a powerfully compelling reason.  Time to bring up the one piece of good news.

“If it makes you feel better, everyone who survives will get double pay at the Crown’s expense,” I offered.  “It isn’t much, but it’s what I’m empowered to do on behalf of the Crown.”

“That will be helpful . . . for anyone who survives,” agreed Sir Roncil, glumly.  “Not to bring up a sensitive subject, Magelord, but . . . will these Riverlords pay attention to a summons from you?  You’re an outlander and a mage to them, regardless of who you are at court.”

“We’ll find out,” I said, sternly.  “But I want messengers dispatched to every barony and independent domain within two days riding distance relaying my summons.  And I want them to keep track of just who was prompt and who was reluctant . . . and who was defiant.”

*                            *                            *

Banamor wasn’t happy with the proposed deployment either, because it interfered with the closing of the magical fair.  But it also gave me a chance to appeal directly to the un-augmented warmagi who had attended in search of a witchstone.  Most were already intrigued in just being involved in an Alkan spell, but once I pointed out that gurvani meant gurvani shamans, and that meant a chance at a witchstone, I suddenly had two score of seasoned, registered warmagi who were willing to walk into the fiercest battle of their lives.

I made a similar appeal to the non-warmagi, asking for their enlistment as support troops, with only mild response.  Only ten or eleven were willing to sign up for military duty voluntarily, no matter what the bounty I was paying.  But that was enough to ensure my warmagi wouldn’t be doing double-duty as magical support.  And some of those civilian magi could be deadly in battle, as Sire Dunselen had proven.

After that, all I could do was coordinate with everyone and wait for the troops to arrive.

Terleman was optimistic about the plan, if hesitant about trusting the Tree Folk.  At that point, of course, if I told him I was heading toward him with a half-dozen half-blind dotards leaning on their spears, he would have been optimistic.  His watchers searched the skies constantly, looking for dragonwings.  Luckily the beasts were either deployed elsewhere or so difficult to control that using them wasn’t easy.  I was hoping for the latter.

While we waited I had Dara practice for hours with the Thoughtful Knife.  That earned her a spat with her own bird, who resented the attention she was giving the device, but the girl had a definite facility with the weapon.  Her father was understandably reluctant for her to accompany me, but agreed to allow his daughter into the battle.  Since he was going with two of her brothers and two of her uncles, he figured he could keep an eye on her.  Once I demonstrated how helpful she was with the Knife he understood – which was good, because right now the Thoughtful Knife was the only trick I had prepared against dragons.

The first troops from the domains closest to Sevendor arrived about the same time as the Magical Fair reached its anticlimactic finish. We quietly encamped them in front of the Diketower, where we had turned our POW camp into a staging area.

Those first vassal troops proved to be Sir Festaran and his father, who were proudly leading the eight lances that were Hosly’s contribution.  On paper they should be able to deliver nine or ten, but most lords kept back enough men to guard their lands and manage the harvest.  Sire Festarlan seemed determined to be a model vassal.

Other troops began to trickle in.  My own new vassals were first, of course, with the lord of Bastidor bringing five lances, the lords of Karandal and Hosendor sending six apiece, but not fighting themselves.  I had to send Sir Roncil to his new land with a sack of gold to coax his banners out, but he returned from Northwood three days later at the head of four lances and fifty archers eager for double pay.

Sire Arathanial arrived soon after that, leading a full sixty-one lances and a hundred additional infantry.  Apparently when he’d summoned his banners earlier in the month for the hurried invasion of East Fleria, word had not reached the more far-flung of his estates to respond as quickly.  Therefore when he had returned to Chepstan Castle he found a small army of men eager for battle, mobilized, and fresh to the field.  Adding those fresh troops to those men already deployed in occupation of his new conquests, he had managed to fill my request and then some.

Sire Sigalan of Trestendor sent but three lances and twenty archers, but by mutual agreement Arathanial and I named him Steward over the captured estates in our stead.  If anyone risked rebellion while we were deployed, I could count on Sigalan to squash it.  The stouthearted castellan Sir Olsted would lead the Trestendori.

Our recent enemies were less forthcoming.  Lord Trefalan had not believed I was an actual Marshal, until a messenger from Baron Arathanial confirmed it.  Even then Sashtalia only grudgingly sent twenty lances from a possible muster of eighty, just enough to fulfill their obligation. They were clearly the worst twenty lances, too, and made up mostly of his political enemies within his domain.  That was fine by us – we ended up re-equipping about half of them, which made them enormously well-disposed to the Sevendori, regardless of the circumstances.

The barons of Miseldor and Bocaraton sent sixty and seventy-five lances, respectively, and even the barony of Revenar, across the Bontal, responded with a healthy forty lances and two forty-man troops of archers.

What surprised me most was the response of Baron Vulric.  I had counted on him for twenty lances at most, grudgingly given and of poor quality.  In fact he sent me twice that number, which I found to be generous . . . until I saw who led them.

Sire Gimbal, looking daggers at me, was the officer who dutifully reported in to Sire Cei.  Most of the East Flerians who had gone into exile with him were likewise mustered.  As much as I disliked the man, I almost felt sorry for him.  Perhaps he could purge his reputation in battle.  Stranger things had happened.

The Remeran mercenaries arrived just twelve hours late, which was almost punctual for Army Time.  They were a mixed bag, two regular units of five-hundred each, long used to easy garrison duty, and one unit of hardened infantry who had just completed a successful assault on a castle in Remere.  I didn’t know what Taren promised them, but they seemed almost gleeful when they arrived.

Surprisingly, Taren himself had come downriver with them, along with five other High Magi who had been in Wenshar at the former Censorate citadel.

“Just thought you might need them,” he explained.  “They’re warmagi who have been reading books all summer.  They want to stretch a little, perhaps experiment with some of what they’ve learned.”

“I won’t say no,” I agreed.  “I have twenty-five High Magi and three Alka Alon here.  I’m hoping that will be enough to send everyone, but every bit helps.”

As the appointed day got closer, the dispatches from Cambrian got more dire.  The few reinforcements who had been able to re-deploy from the Penumbra and arrive to help had faced such overwhelming odds that they hadn’t even tried to relieve the siege yet.  While the men inside the castle were well-fed and dour-handed, they were grim about their chances.

Meanwhile Sevendor Village and the commons filled up with friend and foe alike.  Keeping order became essential as various factions with long histories of feuding clashed.  I had to send Tyndal, Cei and Planus down to help sort things out.

Keeping everyone fed was another chore, and not for the first time I praised the gods for Olmeg the Green.  I could bill the Royal Treasury for reimbursement later, but for now I was just happy that we had enough food and fodder on hand to keep my little army fed.

The Alka and I had been working closely together, along with Pentandra and Taren, to “translate” the basic transport spell from the Alka Alon’s elegantly difficult magic system to the more basic Imperial system we humans used to best effect.  Even then Penny and Taren had to learn some spells on the fly to understand how to work the thing.

“It’s a lot more complicated that they let on, Min,” Penny said when she stopped by my lab one night, long past midnight.  “You aren’t so much transporting someone as moving the rest of the universe around them.  Or something like that.  Honestly, some of those translations look funny,” she admitted.

“I don’t care if its pidgin gurvani, will it work?”

“I think so,” Penny said, quietly.  “If we can raise enough energy, and if we can direct it properly, then it is quite possible that it might work.”

“Quite possible that it might work?”

“This is my first spell of this kind,” she reminded me.  “Give me a little grace.”

“This is my ass about to go into battle and possibly die gloriously – and that’s a best-case scenario if the spell actually works.  Worst-case?”

“Worst case . . . you just don’t come back out.  You stay in a neutral state of being for eternity.  Or you just don’t go in the first place.  I’m not fully certain which.”

“Well, can’t you test it?”

“Set for tomorrow morning,” she agreed.  “I’m sending Sarakeem through.”

“Sarakeem?”

She shrugged.  “If you can think of a more expendable High Mage . . .”

Sarakeem often was indeed that obnoxious.  “Good point.  So how will you know if he made it?”

“Mind-to-mind, remember?” she said as if I was the village idiot.  “As soon as he gets there, he should be able to let us know.”

“Right, right,” I said, apologetically.  “Sorry, not much sleep.”

“You aren’t the only one.  Lady Varen is planning on establishing three different transports, using three old Alkan transfer points.  She says she can handle them better in smaller groups like that, even with snowstone.  And that way the High Magi can help, right up to the point where they vanish.”

“Good idea,” I agreed, although I’d discussed it with Lady Varen earlier that week.  “That way we can put the cavalry in the furthest position, the infantry in the nearest.  Then they can show up at the same time.”

“That was our thinking,” she nodded.  “I’m no soldier, but I’ve always heard that surrounding your enemy was wise.  This way you will have forces entering from the north, the southeast and the southwest.”  She paused as she poured another glass of wine.  “How is Alya taking it?”

“Honestly?” I asked, surprised.  “She told me that she didn’t mind the war or the spell as much, as long as I didn’t have to sleep with my ex-girlfriend again to save the day.”

She giggled girlishly.  “That’s hysterical!  I thought about that, actually, but with this many High Magi around to power the spell we shouldn’t need to go to those extremes.  But imagine if we did . . .” she said, her pretty dark eyes going dreamy.  Penny’s biggest professional aspiration was to use a full-blown magical orgy to fuel a really big spell . . . only there weren’t enough people who knew the esoteric realm of sex magic in the world to fulfill her vision.

“She’s serious.  She doesn’t exactly see you as a threat anymore since our wedding, but she does still see you as her rival.”

“That’s comforting, in a strange way.  How is she, really?”

“She’s pissed as nine hells I’m leaving her for the third time in a year.  And this time to go to war.  She keeps making jokes about being a widow,” I said, glumly.

“Don’t worry about it, she’s just nervous,” Penny said.  “She’s got the baby to occupy her time, now that she doesn’t have to worry about invasion.  And my godson is adorable.  I don’t know how you do it with your face, but you do make cute babies.”  She got a hint of a guilty expression that I found highly interesting.

“Then you’ll be thrilled to know that Alya thinks she’s pregnant again,” I sighed.  “She was throwing up a bit and missed her moon twice, now.  She told me last night, after I told her I was going back to the war.  I haven’t confirmed it yet, but she’s pretty sure.”

“Oh, Minalan!  Congratulations!” she said, sincerely, her eyes wide.  “How come I missed that?”

“How come I missed that?” I complained, wearily.  “I’ve been so busy with the invasion and the fair and the occupation, and now this war, that I’ve slept next to her nearly every night and not noticed.  How does a magelord do that? How does a husband do that?”

“We’ve been busy,” she shrugged.  “Or at least I have, and I’ve been making you look busy.  Min, don’t be hard on yourself about this.  Women like to keep that sort of thing private until they’re sure.”

“Well, thanks,” I said, tiredly.  “Actually, I’m thrilled that Minalyan will have a little brother or sister.”  Another one, I said to myself.  “And so is Alya.  But I’m far less thrilled that he or she might grow up without a father.”

“Don’t worry about that, Min,” Pentandra said, clearing the dregs of her wine cup.  “Alya’s pretty, and she’s a noblewoman, now, with a prosperous domain.  She won’t have any trouble at all finding them a new father if you get yourself killed.”

Penny always knows just what to say.

Chapter Forty-Five

The Great Transportation

Surprisingly enough, as the hour of our departure drew closer, I began to get resistance to our plan from the most unlikely of quarters: King Rard.

His Majesty was in the process of deploying an army of 30,000 upriver but was running into serious logistical issues.  The swarm of refugees arriving from Alshar and Gilmora had taxed the resources of the regional lords to the point where they were reluctant to let barges pass their shores at all.  While the King and his advisors tackled that problem, they wanted me to stay put in Sevendor.

Does His Majesty realize he is risking the loss of Castle Cambrian and Barrowbell every hour he delays?

He does, Master Hartarian told me on the morning of our departure, mind-to-mind.  He finds it an acceptable risk.

Duin’s hairy sack!  I don’t, and I know the people of Barrowbell sure as hell don’t!

That has also been brought to His Majesty’s attention, Hartarian said wearily.  By no less than Count Fierine, in whose domain Barrowbell lies.  Duke Rard seems steadfast in wanting to be the one to relieve the city.  He plans on leading the troops personally.  He might take a premature relief force amiss.

He can take it any way he wants it, I warned, I’ve been working my people night and day for a week so I can make this happen.  I have almost five thousand troops gathered now.  That’s not enough to stop the Gilmoran invasion, but it might be enough to lift the siege.  Then the troops in the castle can help stop the invasion.

I will pass along to His Majesty what you have said, agreed the former Censor General, who was clearly not as used to taking orders as he was giving them.

“Why in the name of all that is holy is Rard dragging his feet on this!” I exploded to Penny as my servants were dressing me in my new armor.  Culled from the pile of loot kindly donated by Sire Gimbal’s men, I’d found the right pieces to fit my body.  Ordinarily warmagi avoid metal armor as it can interfere with some kinds of spells, not to mention being loud, heavy, and hot.  But I wasn’t merely leading a Magical Corps this time, I was commanding everyone.

“Because Rard wants to be the one who saves the kingdom,” Penny explained.  She was getting into her own armor.

Her panoply was a compromise between material protection and arcane utility.  It began as the heavily waxed, sleeveless leather armor of an archer, strengthened by steel in vulnerable places and heavily enchanted.  It would fend off most basic offensive spells and provide her protection.  It would be exceedingly difficult for an archer to aim accurately at her, for instance.

She’d even accepted a very ladylike mageblade from Master Cormoran.  Not that she’d likely use it – Penny’s command of offensive magics is limited, but included some powerful nastiness.

Penny didn’t relish the idea of going into battle again, because that’s just not where she saw herself when she went to thaumaturgy school, but she was coming along because I was and she didn’t want me to mess things up.

“If the Spellmonger is the hero again, His Majesty fades in importance,” she explained.  “He just got crowned, he needs to show he’s leading the Kingdom.”

“I don’t care who gets the credit, let’s just save the day,” I insisted as my gorget was strapped around my neck.

“I’m sure that’s how Rard feels, too,” she decided.  She tucked her hair up under her helmet, a small iron cap with leather cheek and neck guards.  “Because this has all the hallmarks of being Family work, not his own device.”

“I can see that.  That doesn’t change matters.  I didn’t take this job to aggrandize Rard’s family; I did it to save his subjects.  If he doesn’t like the way I do it, he can fire me.”

“Actually, he can’t,” Penny assured me.  “Even if you lose your seat at Court, he cannot take direct action against you for anything less than high treason.  I was very careful to write that into our charters.”  She looked very pleased with herself.

“Well, that’s comforting,” I grumbled.

“You can’t quit, either,” she pointed out helpfully.  “I wrote that into the charters, too.”

“Great,” I said, sighing deeply.  “Then I guess I’d better die gloriously in battle.”  I summoned my new battlestaff to me from across the room.  It smacked against my palm with a satisfying snap.  Unlike my armor, I had made time to devote to enchanting it.

Unlike the civilian staff I had used as a spellmonger, which had several general enchantments on it and only one or two offensive spells, this battlestaff had been built especially for me by Master Cormaran in a blatant attempt to kiss my butt and bribe me.

It worked like a charm, too.  The gorgeous staff was my height, capped at the foot with iron, with iron splints down its length and an elaborate iron head that came complete with knife-blade like spikes that should prove an excellent deterrent to anyone’s head it might come in contact with.  The head and shaft were spellbound together so that it was as sturdy as a glaive.

Better yet, it had some astounding enchantments upon it, from spells that could kill a single gurvan to enchantments that could affect entire legions.  The entire thing was balanced perfectly, too.

He’d also seen fit to tune Twilight like a harp before a royal performance.  The powerful blade was seething with arcane energies in its scabbard on my back.  I had no less than seven warwands on my person.  I was more ready for war than I had been . . . ever.  I didn’t find that as much comfort as I had imagined.

“So what if I do save the day and earn Rard’s wrath?”

“Then you glory in the exaltation of the grateful population,” she said, dryly.  “And then you dodge his reprisals at court until he gets distracted by something shiny.  That’s how that sort of thing usually works.  He needs us more than we need him, right now, and he knows it.”

“Well, he will just have to be satisfied with cleaning up, then, because I can’t afford to wait.  Wait – bide,” I said, as I felt the beginnings of mind-to-mind contact.

Master, came the mental voice of Sire Rustallo.  The kid was only a year or so older than Tyndal, but he was a good warmage who had been in the right place at the right time at the Battle of Timberwatch and gotten a small Wilderlands estate as his reward.  We just heard from the Penumbra Rangers.  The—

The who? I asked.  I hadn’t heard of them.

The Penumbra Rangers are a unit organized to scout and patrol the edge of the Penumbra, the young High Mage said.  They watch the movements of the troops issuing from the Black Vale—

The what? I demanded.

Sorry, that’s what they’re calling Boval now, since no one makes cheese there anymore.

It’s romantic and scary, I agreed.  It fits perfectly.

Anyway, Rustallo continued with exaggerated patience, the Rangers reported that they saw at least one and possibly two dragons take flight from the Black Vale, flying south.

Are they headed to Barrowbell?

That was my impression, Magelord, he told me reluctantly.  I thanked him and passed the information along to Penny.

“That’s unfortunate,” she said, thoughtfully.

“No, that’s calamitous,” I corrected.  “Unfortunate is when you spill your wine on your new tunic.  When living, fiery death drops out of the sky, that goes beyond ‘unfortunate’ and firmly into ‘calamitous’.”

She rolled her eyes.  “Regardless, a dragon on the way means we need to speed things up.  I will summon the Alka Alon, if you wish to go address and prepare your men.”

*                            *                            *

That morning dawned cool, with the first real breath of autumn on the breeze.  Summer’s heat was waning quickly in the vales.  Winter was on the horizon.  I took note of that as I entered my bedchamber, perhaps for the last time.  My armor and harness were at odds with the soft white walls, the muslin sheets that beckoned my sleep-deprived body, and the general feeling of domesticity.  This was a place for family and love and warmth, not cold steel and hot blood.

Alya was waiting for me in her rocker, feeding Minalyan.  Her face was puffy and her eyes were streaked red, but she wasn’t crying anymore.  I didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

“I have to go again,” I said, simply.

“I know,” she replied, softly.

“I don’t want to,” I admitted.  “Not one little bit.  What I want to do is crawl into that bed, pull you down on top of me, and stay buried until next spring.  What I want is to be here with you and rule this lovely little land and see it and our children blossom into prosperity.  What I want is to never pick up a sword or a wand in anger again.  But that’s not what the gods have chosen for me.”

“I know,” she said, hoarsely.  “I don’t want you to leave either.  But I know you have to.”

My heart leaped into my throat at the forlorn tone in her voice.  She was putting on a brave front, but she was worried.  Far more worried than she had been under siege and with the Warbird at the gates.  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“Don’t be,” she said, sharply.  “Do you not understand how lucky I feel?  Minalan, if it hadn’t been for you, this whole vale would be a desert still.  None of my people would be alive, and neither would I.

“You could have walked away after Boval and remained a hero in our eyes until the end of time.  You could have left me with a baby in my belly and never see me again, leaving us to our fate.  But you didn’t.  You married me when you didn’t have to.  You brought my people out of exile and penury and gave them a homeland and a purpose.  You showered them with gifts and bolstered them.  You were more a lord to them than Koucey ever was.”

“But I’ve made so many mistakes—”

“Not really,” she sighed.  “And this would not be the time for recriminations, even if you had.  No, my husband, my darling, my sweet, sweet lord, you must realize that is why I love you so dearly.  Even as you act as champion and defender of my people – our people – you question your ability to do so.  At any point you could have laid us aside and gone on to your fortune, but you didn’t.

“You think I didn’t see that flock of biddies making eyes at you at the Chepstan Fair?  You could have arranged to wed a high-born lady, or a wealthy one, and no one would have looked askance.  But you chose me . . . and if the price of that happy choice is that I have to risk losing you every now and then, it’s not too high.”

“But Alya,” I said, exasperated, “I’m trying to tell you that I’ve—”  I was about to tell her everything about Lady Isily, my illegitimate child she’d just given birth to, her betrayal and the machinations of the Family – but she stopped me.

“I don’t care,” she dismissed, simply.  “Whatever it is, save your confessions for a priest.  I’m your wife.  You have built a beautiful life for me and your son and all the Bovali.  Whatever else you do as spellmonger, warmage, magelord, or any other title you happen to collect, the only one that remains important to me is ‘husband’.  And in that, my dear man, you have performed admirably.”

I felt tears well up in my eyes.  She had given me a blanket of forgiveness without even hearing my sins.  If I had admitted everything about the affair, the woman, the child, she would have calmly nodded her head and accepted it, I knew.

But she didn’t need to know.  She didn’t want to know.  Whether she suspected what I was to say or not, she had given me all the assurances I needed to ride off to war with my conscience only somewhat soiled.

Has a man ever had a better wife than that?

I fell to my knees, ignoring how difficult and noisy that is to do in armor, and I laid my head in her lap, just under where she was feeding Minalyan.  I felt her hand comb through my hair.

“Just come back to me alive and in one piece, you big idiot,” she whispered.

*                            *                            *

We all watched expectantly as Sarakeem arrived at the departure point, garbed for war.  The warmage had exchanged his flamboyant silks for dark leather armor and a close-fitting blackened steel archer’s helmet, and he wore two quivers across his back.  A short mageblade rode on his hip, and his witchstone glowed in his earring as he took position.  He didn’t look nervous.  That spoke much to his bravery (or much about his intelligence).

The Alka Alon had asked that we use a place as proximate to snowstone as possible, so we cleared a goodly parcel of the inner bailey, surrounded as it was by snowstone, as the best place from which to send ourselves.  The Alka been working steadily through the last few nights setting up the working.

After long consultations, and the visit to Sevendor by several Alka I’d never met before (in their short-forms, not the prettier human-esque forms), there were now five pillars of snowstone hastily harvested from the rubble pile left over from dam construction arrayed in a circle about two hundred yards apart.  That should be enough area to transport up to a couple of thousand men, horses, and equipment . . . in theory.

Problem was, the theory was a little thin on the ground.  The Alka had not expected nor had they intended to give us the secrets to their magical transport.  Even as they were preparing the spell, they seemed reluctant and hesitant.

Lady Varen explained that the Alkas’ theory dealt with transporting Alka Alon, not humani, and yes, there was a difference.  She tried to explain it to me several times, and I’m not stupid nor ignorant, but I didn’t understand it the fourth time any better than the first.  In the end I had to accept her word for it, because I honestly didn’t have anything else to go on.

While we walked Sarakeem to the exact center of the circle, we could see the long line of men, horses, and even some wains lining the roadway all the way back to Sevendor Village.  Pentandra and I wished him luck, and Lady Varen did a little more.  She produced a shining metal bow of Alkan manufacture, but built to humani-sized specifications.

“A gift, brave one,” she said solemnly.  “It has not escaped our notice that you love the bow almost as much as some of our kindred.  To reward you for your bravery I had this bow created and enchanted after the fashion of our own.  May it serve you well,” she said, handing it over to the Merwini warmage.

Sarakeem looked choked up about it, and took the elegant weapon reverently.  It looked like silver or polished tin, only brighter, and it was chased with Alkan writing along the face of the bow.  It was gently recurved like a horse archer’s bow, and the string appeared to be braided green-gold Alkan hair.

He inspected every inch of the beautiful weapon, expressed amazement about how light and strong it was, gave the string a few practice pulls, and then asked with tears in his eyes if he could try it out.

A few moments later, we had vacated the circle.  Sarakeem had unstrung his old bow and stowed it on his back, and had nocked and drawn the new Alka bow.  When he was ready, he signaled by firing it out over the bailey toward the pond. At its apogee the enchanted arrow’s spell activated, and it burst into a brilliant blue and silver firework before falling just short of the wall – easily 500 yards away.  That was a mighty gift.

Sarakeem had disappeared from the circle before the arrow reached its zenith.

“I have him . . .” Lady Varen said, as she stared intently at nothing in particular.  “He’s . . . varvane!” she said, decisively.  Then she relaxed.   “He should be where I sent him.”

The Alka had given us several specific locations they felt most confident about sending us, based on pre-existing transport points left over from Alkan settlements long fallen into ruin.  Sarakeem was assigned to the first troop we were sending through, under the command of Baron Arathanial.  Most of the cavalry, over seven hundred horses, would be with them, as this transport point was the furthest away from the castle and the cavalry would have the easiest time crossing that distance.

“Is he there?” Taren asked, urgently.

I closed my eyes and waited.  And waited.

And waited.

There were so many things that could go wrong, I knew, and while I anxiously waited my sadistic mind forced me to consider every one of them, from mis-location to annihilation.  As thoroughly as the Alka had explained the spell to us, we still new little beyond theory – and the theory was replete with horrific possibilities.

Finally, the first ghost of a contact came to my mind.  Magelord, I have arrived! I am safe and well!

“He’s through!” I said, trying to keep the contact strong.  I could hear cheers around me.

What’s the ground look like? I asked him.  I hope it’s as flat as they promised. Because it’s about to be occupied by horses.

As flat as my first wife’s head! Sarakeem assured me.  Flat and empty.  When I first appeared, there was a small patrol nearby, but this magnificent bow put an end to all of them before they could raise the alarm.  My scrying shows no others in the area.  You are safe to send them through.

“He says it’s safe,” I announced.  The cavalry was already filing into the circle, the Baron resplendent in his business-like war armor.  I had cautioned him and all of his men about the lack of a need for heraldry a knight usually brings to battle, as there would be no confusing friend from foe in this war.  But he had insisted on bringing his personal banner, borne by his youngest son.

“Magelord!” the old nobleman called to me as he crossed the circle on his beautiful horse.  “I take it all is well with your sorceries?”

“My man is present in Gilmora now,” I agreed.  “It is brave of you to consent to this, Excellency.  Beware the lure of chivalry, here: you will receive no quarter from the gurvani.  Slay all you see, for they shall extend to you the same courtesy.  The site is clear for you and your men to arrive.  And the moment you do, and you can order yourselves properly, ride to your position for all that you’re worth!”

“It shall be done, my friend,” he agreed with a bellicose smile.  “To be honest, I was a put-out that you did not let us mount a proper charge against the West Flerians – rarely have I gone to war yet struck no blow in anger, particularly against the Warbird.  This feels as if it will almost make up for it, though!” he said with relish.

I’ll never understand the chivalry until the day I die.  I tried not to look like I thought he was an idiot.

“The gods go with you, my friend,” I agreed, and clasped his hand before he took position at the edge of the circle where he began bellowing orders.

It took almost an hour to get that first third deployed properly within the transport space.  To facilitate the spell we had each one pick up a rock of snowstone and keep it on their person.  Most of the men were unsure and unaware of exactly how they would get to the battlefield, save that it was by magical means.

But without any other explanation, they figured that they were just waiting around again as they had done most of the day, and the days before that.  Eventually the magic flying boats or the mystical giant ducklings or the horseless chariots of Perwyn or any of the other means legend and lore allowed magic to command would show up to bear them away.

My apprentice Tyndal who rode with the more equestrian-oriented warmagi among us.  That included Jendaran, I noted, who seemed quite happy with his second-place prize as he rode a magnificent destrier into place.  Tyndal would act as my liaison to Arathanial, via the mind-to-mind link.  It had been instrumental in battle before, and I hoped it would be again.  Coordinating our forces properly was the only way we could fight our way out of this.

“Ready!” came the call from all five stones, behind which an Alka stood, some bearing sticks or bows, some not.  I nodded to Lady Varen, and then warned Sarakeem to clear the area.

I drew power from my witchsphere  in lavish quantity, as she directed.  The High Magi did likewise with their stones, and the Alka added power of their own.  With the assistance of every other High Mage there, we threw power into the Covenstone in Lady Varen’s hands. It pulsed increasingly bright as it drank in the power, collecting it into a massive reservoir.

Lady Varen accepted the power carefully, and seemed to tremble a bit as she wove the spell.  Then she came to some resolution, and whispered a word.

There was no flash, no bang, no mystical light.  Almost two thousand men and horses were just  . . . gone. They left behind only the horse shit and vomit that hadn’t journeyed with them.

Lady Varen looked strained.  “That was . . . difficult,” she agreed, her humanish face pale.  “It has been two ages since such a feat was attempted without proper arcane transport architecture in place.”

“Next time I’ll try to rent a molopor to help,” I quipped.

“If it is of the right variety, that would be helpful,” she agreed with a straight face.  Both of us knew that the aberrations of space and time were naturally occurring and could not be moved.  Short of finding a way to create one here, it was a joke or wishful thinking or both.  And I wasn’t particularly eager to find out what a molopor would do around snowstone.

The next troop marched into the space, as they were almost entirely infantry recruited from the Riverlands.  Mercenaries and levies, with hundreds of archers each bearing as many quivers as they could carry, marched between the stones.

They were preceded by their small cavalry contingent, which included Sir Gimbal and his “gentlemen” on horse, led (and carefully watched) by his former vassal, Sire Festarlan of Hosly.  I had met briefly with the man myself, an uncomfortable and humiliating event for both of us.

There had been several long and intense discussions about his role in the battle.  As he had been “contributed” by his brother to the King’s summons, he was under Royal command henceforth.  Anything less than faithful service would be considered insubordinate and treasonous.

Gimbal and his kin grumbled about it, but privately I had heard that he preferred honorable death in battle to skulking at his brother’s heels, a constant reminder of his own failures.  If revenge for his lost lands was on his mind, he did little to express it.

He appeared to take me at face value when I told him I bore him no grudge that would affect my role as his military commander.  He in turn stiffly swore that he would render service to the Kingdom as faithfully as any honorable knight of the realm . . . and I had to take that at face value, too.

He was a ‘loyal’ knight.  He knew his duty to his overlord, he assured me.  Any future conflict between us, or anyone else, would be put aside for the duration of his honorable service.  He swore to it in front of Lawbrother Haramas, and a few dozen witnesses.  That was about as much assurance as I would get about the ex-West Flerians.  And I wondered if the future of this battle might weigh on the strength of the man’s honor as he rode into place.

The magic circle seemed roomier this time, with only a hundred and thirty horses on the periphery surrounding fifteen-hundred assorted infantry troops and four hundred archers.  They wouldn’t be fast, but they were strong.  With them went Sir Rondal, my bookish apprentice, with the twenty other sparks who were to act as the troop’s Magical Corps.

The men crowded toward the center as they were directed, and when the last of them had stopped vomiting nervously, the Alka re-activated the spell.  This time the men, under the leadership of Sir Taren the Sage (as the brilliant young warmage was being called behind his back) would appear only three miles from the castle to the southwest, the site of some ancient Alkan outpost.

With the few cavalry troopers included screening them and scouting ahead, the second troop would do a quick-march to pre-agreed-upon position to wait for the other two troops to appear.  That was the plan, at least.

Again, all the High Magi summoned power, great heaping amounts of power, myself more than anyone, and directed to the Covenstone.  Lady Varen again strained unsteadily to tame the flood of energy, to shape it and mold it and make it dance to her will.  And then the circle was empty again.

“I may be able to manage a third,” she said, “if I am refreshed.”  I wasn’t certain what that meant, but I nodded solemnly and turned my attention to ordering my troops into the circle.

My troops.  I was commanding them.  More, they were my troops: mostly Bovali volunteers.  While the cavalry had been anxious, and the infantry had been unaware, the Bovali I was leading were enthusiastic about their role in the battle.

Two years ago, most had been smallholders, cheesemakers, cowhands, goatherds, shopkeepers and artisans far away in the Mindens.  Now they were war-hardened and exiled, come at last to a homeland they could defend.  This was their opportunity to strike back at the hated foe who had sent them into exile, who had killed their families and ravaged their homes.

The men who marched proudly into the circle looked far more like the Wilderland warriors who’d fought by my side last year than the more-civilized Riverland soldiers next to them, despite their access to superior armor and weaponry.  All bore the snowflake badge of my house.

Amongst the Wilderland men were a strong smattering of native Sevendori.  Men had volunteered from Brestal, from Gurisham, from Sevendor Village and even a few from disgraced Genly.  Not everyone there had favored Railan the Steady’s approach or policies, and some were deeply offended by his treason.  Seeing a few stalwart Genlymen in Sevendor’s ranks did my heart good.

Pentandra would stay with me to advise me, and even Planus had donned armor and taken up a sword, although he swore he knew little enough about its use.  Other civilian magi had joined us too, which gave my troop the largest magical corps.

Leading my small cavalry force was Sire Roncil, who grumbled good-naturedly about the duty, and among his men was Sir Festaran.  The young knight had taken to his small but burgeoning Talent eagerly, and while he was far from a Knight Mage, he was at least capable of a few dozen simple cantrips.  I was hoping I could keep an eye on him.

But perhaps the most important Sevendori to ride with us was less than five feet tall and fourteen years old.  Dara of Westwood rode alongside her father on a small but sure-footed mare I’d had Tyndal select from the stables.  She was wearing light archer armor that was too big for her and a leather helmet.  Her bird clung to a perch she’d built onto her saddle, and in a bag around her back she bore the box that contained the Thoughtful Knife.

She had practiced with it constantly until she could sail circles around the castle.  She thought it was great fun to chase and tease her own bird with it.  I’m not sure I would have chanced it, but she had the recklessness of youth.  And she heals quickly.

Her father, two of her brothers and two of her uncles were accompanying her, along with a dozen other Westwoodmen.  I’d ordered them to personally protect young Dara, Pentandra, and the other ‘soft’ magi when we were in combat.  The leather-clad woodsmen grinned wolfishly, almost as enthusiastic about battle as the Bovali.  Most of them had never ventured beyond Sevendor Village their entire lives.

Then there were those who had ventured thousands of leagues.  Lady Ithalia had arrived with her own bow and quiver and satchel full of magic, her weapons and bark-like armor re-fashioned to fit her larger humanish-form.

“Why—?” I began.

“You came to my rescue once,” she offered.  “And I felt it was important that the Alka Alon be represented in this battle, however slightly.”

“It was against my advice,” the leader of the Alka Alon delegation said quietly.  “But she was insistent.  Are you ready, Magelord?” asked Lady Varen patiently.  She wasn’t looking too well.  But we were ready.  The rest of the troop was more-or-less in place, and any stragglers who didn’t want to be left behind had to hurry.

I took just a moment to look out over the castle wall and down the beautiful valley I had rescued from penury and oblivion.

With magic’s aid I’d helped her heal, improved her bounty, and brought prosperity to her folk.  With magic’s aid I’d defended her, and expanded her borders.  From the gleaming white walls of Sevendor Castle, through the brown fields and the green groves, from the sun-drenched Southridge to the perpetually-shady north road, I had learned to love this little vale as if I’d been born here.

As a magelord, I desired no other lands.  No finer palaces.  No more civilized people.  I had taken a wasted domain and with magic’s aid I had turned it into the kind of place where I felt like living.  Like ruling.

Even if I died in the next few moments, I realized that I had left a great legacy to Minalyan . . . and his siblings.  Perhaps even to their descendants, if they had time to have any.

That was really up to me, I realized, and how I fought against the gurvani.  If I failed, then the magic born in Sevendor would fade before it could take root.  If I failed, then Minalyan might not see his second winter, or his third.

“I’m ready,” I told Lady Varen, and waited for the universe to move around me.

Chapter Forty-Six

The Relief Of Castle Cambrian

One second we were in Sevendor, blue skies above, white sands below.  The next second we weren’t . . . anywhere.  There was no color, no sun, no earth, no horizon, no gravity.  It was the sharpest moment of sheer existential terror unhindered by actual danger that I’ve ever endured.

And then the next second, we were all falling down about three quarters of an inch (none of the other troops had that experience, I was told) into the soft black mud of Gilmora.

It was raining, the clouds overhead raging a foreboding gray that mocked the sun they hid.  We had appeared in some farmer’s field where once an Alka Alon transfer point had lay.  Now the farmer and his family had fled, their crops abandoned to be trampled by my little army.

“Form up!”  I bellowed from Traveler’s back, desperately trying to regain my composure.  I heard the call echoed across the field as my ancients tried to bring the Sevendori to order.  The transit had produced a severe vertigo that made me nauseated.  From the smattering of retching around me I wasn’t the only one.

Even my horse was disconcerted.  To suddenly go from the heat of the noonday mountain summer sun to the dreary morning of a lowland rainstorm was as depressing as it was disconcerting.  Best to focus on our mission before our minds could catch up with our misery.  I took a deep breath.

“Sir Roncil!  Cavalry on our flanks, deploy scouts to the north, everyone else form into ranks, keep your eyes open, and be ready to kill anything hairier than you are!”  That brought a hearty chuckle from the Bovali, who had heard me say it often enough during the siege.

The cavalry began forming up around me, the Westwoodmen deciding they would be most useful as my personal guard.  Dara looked anxious and afraid.  I wanted to soothe her, but being anxious and afraid would probably do her more good right now.  To be a thirteen year old girl going into battle for the first time had to be challenging to her ideas of maidenhood.

It was just as hot or hotter in Gilmora as it was in Sevendor, but it was a lot wetter.  The humidity was oppressive, especially in armor.  Not quite as bad as the jungles of Farise, but not pleasant.  I reined Traveler around until I was certain everyone was decently recovered from the transport spell, and then I contacted my apprentices.

Tyndal was riding with the rest of Arathanial’s troop like demons were chasing them, speeding southward from their origin point in good order.  They had encountered two small patrols of gurvani they had swept through on the way with little or no casualties.  A year into the war, and the goblins still had a hard time dealing with cavalry.

Rondal’s troop of infantry had found a defensible rise a half-mile away from the castle’s gate – with ten or twelve thousand goblins in front of them.

They had yet to be spotted, thanks to a prodigious amount of spellcasting to keep them from being spotted (Taren can do that in his sleep), but they were close enough that my anxious apprentice told me he could smell goblin.  They were beginning to dig in and form a redoubt from hastily-cut fruit trees and debris, and lacing the area with defensive spells.

As for us, we were almost two miles to the west of Taren’s troop, and both of us were south of the castle.  Taren’s troop’s job was to stay put and act like an anvil, a job well-suited to the heavily armored infantry.  Arathanial’s job was to act like a hammer, crushing anything in front of it.

My troop?  We were the tongs.  We would help maneuver units of goblins from the siege and entice them into the space between hammer and anvil.  Then we would hold them there until they were pounded flat.  That was the plan.

We carefully but quickly marched a mile and a half across broken and deserted country until we found a large peasant’s cot that had been abandoned weeks ago.  The low stone wall around the structure looked vaguely defensible, so I established it as our field hospital, had the infantry secure it, and then prepared a smaller force to start goading the gurvani.  We weren’t supposed to be as static as Taren’s troop, but we did need a defensible place to retreat to, and a post to guard the baggage and the inevitable wounded.

The strategy was to keep tapping against the solid wall of goblins surrounding Terleman and get them to break out against us in numbers.  Not to break the siege directly, but to give the Knight Commander long enough for him to send a heavy sortie from the castle to hit them in the rear as they turned to face us.  Until then, the cavalry from my unit and Taren’s harassed the outer edges of the siege mercilessly, but didn’t engage directly.

Leaving a tithe of our men to fortify the cottage, my troop scattered out a bit and began the dangerous trek toward the castle.  There was an oppressive feeling in the air, and the stench of rain, mud, death and wood smoke made it that much worse as we rode and marched.

The giddy enthusiasm of the Bovali had turned to serious business.  Our scouts (Westwoodmen, mostly) returned to tell us of a nearby band we could harass, a small camp of twenty or thirty picket troops.  We whetted our blades with them in a frantic three-minute melee.

I was impressed with my Bovali.  These mountain peasants had had but a year to rest and prepare themselves, but most were handling themselves like experienced soldiers.  Their facility with the Wilderlands great bow was telling in those encounters, and their hours and hours of practice at the butts paid a deadly dividend.

But the feeling of satisfaction the Bovali had as they stood amidst the wreck and ruin of that first goblin camp was tangible.  They had returned to the battle stronger than they had retired from it, and they desired bloody vengeance.

“We have to get their attention in a moment,” I explained to my officers, as we rode.  “We’ll have to attract a large enough band from the besiegers to weaken the line and allow Terleman to break loose.  Once he gets a couple of hundred cavalry past his dike, that should be enough to screen the rest.”

“So how do we distract them, Magelord?” Sir Roncil asked.  He had little head for war outside of the glorious charge, but he knew how to take orders, and he trusted mine.  I wished I did.

“We get them to think there’s a richer prize just out of sight,” I decided.  “What would entice the gurvani to break and give chase?  The prospect of an easy victory over a far-weaker force.”

They all chuckled.  “Who doesn’t enjoy that?” agreed Sir Roncil.  “So who gets to be this far weaker force?”

“We do.  We ride our cavalry as close as we can, pretend we’re a patrol that’s accidently stumbled upon the siege, and turn tail and run . . . slowly enough for them to catch us.  Almost.

“Then we lead them just north of Taren’s troop, where Baron Arathanial’s troop can push it between the three.  The infantry in our troop can act as skirmishers to protect Taren’s flanks.”  Roncil and the rest all nodded.  It seemed a perfectly reasonable plan.

We halted about a half-mile from the gurvani lines, my Sevendori taking positions behind every rock and tree, every wain and cot, readying their great bows and loosening their swords.  I nodded to Dara, who took a moment to realize that she was being given orders.  She nodded, un-hooded her magnificent bird, and gave it a word before flinging it into the air.  Then she closed her eyes.

The gurvani shaman had done a good job of hiding the number and nature of the besieging army from standard scrying, even the more thorough sorts of spells.  Someone had been advising them on our combat magic.  That left us guessing from various reports just what forces we faced and where they were deployed.  Dara’s hawk Frightful was my way around that; the gurvani weren’t expecting surveillance from a bird.

We had to coax Dara to describe what she ‘saw’ in her mind, through the eyes of her familiar, as it soared peacefully over the fray.  The goblins were quiescent as they often were in daylight, but the gloomy skies had encouraged them to be more daring in their raiding and sniping against the castle.

While Dara had a hard time estimating numbers, she could report on where the most of the gurvani were massed (around the south gate, near to hand) and where they were thinnest (the doorless and well-defended northeastern side of the manor).  She could also ease my mind about something else: they had no trolls with them.

Trolls can be devastating during a siege.  They’re walking siege engines themselves, able to lob large rocks with great force, if not with great accuracy.  Their tremendous strength was invaluable in breaking walls or gates, wading through moats or climbing over dikes.  I’d seen what a mass of trolls could do, at Timberwatch and elsewhere, and I was just as happy not seeing them.  It certainly gave Terleman and his men more of a chance.

But everything else Dara told me was depressing.  From what I could glean from her reports there were probably twelve thousand goblins ringed around the castle, with maybe a thousand more beyond, on the perimeter.  They weren’t trying to make a serious entry into the fort, they were just harassing them, pinning them down, and waiting.  For the dragons.

Time to go be a hero.

“Sir Roncil, prepare the cavalry for a skirmish.  Infantry wait here.  With our intelligence and analysis sections,” I added, nodding toward Dara and Pentandra, and the knot of other civilian magi.  None of them was ready for combat.

I called to Rondal, mind-to-mind, and instructed Taren to send his small cavalry force to meet us half-way.  It took us nearly an hour to maneuver without being readily seen by the gurvani, but eventually we came to a track between fields where Sire Cei and his men – including Sir Gimbal’s cronies – were waiting patiently.

“How much damage can we practically do?” asked Sire Cei, after greeting and debriefing.  He looked in his element, garbed in new armor bearing the snowflake of Sevendor snowstone pendant proudly on his breast.  “Two hundred and fifty against ten thousands?”

“Twelve thousand,” I corrected.  “And not much.  But we can elicit their interest in chasing us.  How far away is your redoubt?”

“The Magelord gives the position more credit than it deserves,” he chuckled grimly.  “But it is three-quarters of a mile down this track, around that curve to the east.  It overlooks the road by about four feet.”

“And Taren has the place warded up,” I nodded.  “Sounds like a good place for an ambush.”

“So how does the Magelord plan to . . . elicit their interest?”

It was my turn for a grim smile.  “Why, with an old-fashioned Narasi cavalry charge, of course!  No magic, as of yet – they’re expecting mundane resistance, and a bunch of flat-headed, chivalry-blinded knights diving chin-first into the fray is just what they’re looking for.  A quick raid on their perimeter, do a lot of damage, and then sprint toward Taren.  Or just past Taren, hopefully.”

“A cavalry charge,” Sire Cei sighed happily.  “If a man has to die—”

“This man doesn’t,” I insisted.  “Neither do you.  Don’t make Estret twice a widow, and don’t make me look for a new castellan.  Kill all you want . . . you are ordered not to get killed.”

In ten minutes Sire Cei and Sir Roncil had two rows of cavalry lined up, heavy lancers in the front rank and light cavalry in the rear, with skirmishers and flankers all around.  With our banners unfurled we proudly cantered into sight of the castle and dressed the battle line.

“That black and red banner there,” I said, pointing out a hideous rendition of a human face being slashed by claws.  Gurvani art is particularly ghastly to humans partially because they see in a slightly different color spectrum than we do.  “Center on that.  We ride, you order the charge, we hit, we shake the shit out of them enough to get them mad, then we run like hell.  Will you do me the honor of leading this charge, Sire Cei?”

“As you wish, Magelord,” he bowed.  “Let me instruct the men.”

The field in front of us was un-harvested wheat, knee-high and ripe.  The sheaves fell under the hooves of the cavalry as they steadily made their way across, leaving muddy trails behind them in the wet grain.  We carefully leapt our horses over an irrigation canal before reforming up for the final charge.

I stayed in the rear with the light cavalry – a warmage usually doesn’t do the heavy lifting in a battle.  That gave me an unparalleled opportunity to watch Sire Cei lead his recent enemies in a charge.  We closed ranks and closed with the gurvani perimeter, Sire Cei signaled for visors to be dropped and lances to be couched.  A hundred yards away the heavy lancers solidified into a wall of sharp steel and horseflesh.  One of the fine war-lances I had gifted Sire Cei at his tournament fell into his big hands, the tip of a wedge of such weapons in the hands of men who had been trained from childhood to bear them.

The skirmishers had eliminated the danger of pickets, and the gurvani hadn’t the time or the notion to dig ditches around their siege to discourage such raids, so when our line hit the rear of theirs there was little to resist it.

And that’s when I noticed something curious about Sire Cei.  It tugged on my consciousness until I felt compelled to view the scene through magesight, where I noted that against all reason there was a magical wave building up around the knight.

I was amazed as I witnessed the arcane energies coalesce around his body, and then focus on his arms and hands and lance.  And when the line finally encountered the foe, that magical wave became expressed as raw magical force.  It was similar to the most basic of offensive spells, those that express physical force in a general way.  The magical equivalent of a punch in the nose.

Only Sire Cei’s mysterious spell focused all of that collected force down his arms and into his lance . . . and when the tip hit its first victim, the force released.  Not only was the goblin he was attacking obliterated, but the force of the impact seemed to send an irresistible shock-wave through the enemy. For a hundred yards in front of him, every gurvan had been knocked down.

That made the charge that much bloodier.  Lances stabbed and threw and hooves reared and dashed.  The second line’s swords and maces came out and waded into the survivors with deadly effect.  I did little in combat myself, content for the moment with a few small spells just to keep things interesting and safe.  Honestly, the knights didn’t need my help.  Even Gimbal and his men seemed to fight the gurvani with admirable fury.

What the hell was that? came a mind-to-mind contact from Penny.

Would you believe it was Sire Cei? I related.

No, I wouldn’t, she said, sincerely.  But you did mention he had been affected by the snowstone.  You think he’s a latent mage?

He may have latent Talent, but he hasn’t shown much expression yet.  Perhaps this is what he does – more of a sport than a true Talent.  I told her the thaumaturgical theory I’d come up with to explain what I’d witnessed.

That would make sense, she agreed.  If his Talent has been latent, it would likely express this late in life in some manner to which he was already accustomed.  Since he trained all those years at tilting, then his body and his mind are just channeling his natural Talent in that direction.  If he’s focused enough he can probably manage a simple concussion wave.

Well, that explained a lot about Sire Cei’s impressive tournament win.

Why haven’t I seen it before now? I wondered, as I jumped Traveler over a pile of goblin bodies.

Because he doesn’t joust very often, because you don’t watch him tilt, and because you weren’t looking for it.  Don’t you have a battle to fight? She asked nervously.

I’m fighting, I’m fighting, I assured her.  Just to prove my point I stabbed Twilight into the back of some gurvan’s head as I passed.  I just thought it was interesting.

So is victory.  So is life.  Min, shut up and concentrate!

Everyone is a critic.

Sire Cei had led his men two hundred yards into the rear of the gurvani ranks before their momentum was stopped.  When Cei himself hacked down the banner I’d indicated, that signaled it was time for a hasty retreat.  From the shouts of acrimony and anger I heard from thousands of gurvani throats, I didn’t think we’d have to worry about them chasing us.

All around us the other goblins had seen their comrades fall to the lances and swords of the cavalry yet again, and they surged at us in vengeance and hate.

That’s when I noticed something else interesting about the gurvani – these warriors often as not lacked the complete body-covering black hair that I’d always associated with them.  Instead they showed only unpleasant-looking flesh of a dark or mottled color.

That prompted another conference, mind-to-mind, as we retreated.  Who shaved the gurvani? I asked Terleman once we’d broken free of the goblin line once again.

I thought you paid attention to my dispatches? he taunted. They’ve been appearing like this more and more.  Prisoners have told us it was a response to your fire elemental at Timberwatch.  Supposedly as punishment for their failure the Dead God stripped all the hair off of the survivors. Practically, it seems that hairless gurvani burn less-readily than hairy gurvani.

It doesn’t do a thing for their appearance, I noted grimly.  They look even more ghastly without the fur!

Just wait until you see the eunuchs, he promised glumly.  Those hobgoblins are almost a foot taller, two ingots heavier, they can wear human-sized armor, some of them, and they’re strong as Duin’s farts.  They usually use two-handed swords, too.

They still aren’t trolls, I pointed out.

He can breed them a lot faster, Terleman riposted.  And they’re a lot smarter than trolls.

Before I could continue the conversation, the troopers in our line had caught up to each other and made a reasonably orderly retreat to where we had begun our charge.  We had figured we had some time to kill before the footsore gurvani infantry caught up with us.  As it turned out, we didn’t have nearly as long a rest as I would have liked.

As I turned to survey our pursuit, I saw the gathering of infantry I expected I’d see, as the surviving commanders recovered from the raid and tried to get their troops rallied.  But breaking away from the rest of them, moving far faster than a goblin can on foot, several tiny figures began heading toward us.

I quickly summoned magesight and magnified the view.  When it appeared that I was standing only yards away, I could see that razors weren’t the only human invention the gurvani had picked up in the last year.

The little buggers had finally discovered cavalry.

Not horses – not yet.  The goblins were still far too short and stubby to make effective use of horse cavalry.  But that isn’t the only kind.

Our pursuers were riding on a wide array of primitive chariots made of wheelbarrows, wagons, and other human devices, being pulled by very large canines.

Not the herding dogs the farmers of the Mindens used to keep their cows in their pastures, or even the warhounds some lords bred for battle.  These were wild-looking dogs or wolves or some hideous combination, and they were harnessed to the rickety-looking chariots in pairs.  Each of the cars contained a driver and anywhere from two to four small goblins firing bows, hurling javelins, or throwing rocks.

That doesn’t sound very intimidating, but the gurvani were learning to use their new weapons.  Instead of just following us blindly, the chariots stopped within fifty feet of our line, turned to the side, and allowed the gurvani within to loose a round of arrows at us.  Goblin bows have a short range, but that many could put a lot of arrows in the air.  They still weren’t volleying, but more than one of my men fell to their withering fire.

Thankfully, the Bovali bows have much higher range and far deadlier accuracy.  Our men were concealed in the brush, and while the dozen goblin chariots rode around to give their archers a better shot, my Bovali very calmly and very systematically began targeting their dogs – if I can call those wild, shaggy beasts that.  One by one the beasts went down under the three-foot long spruce shafts, until their cavalry broke and retreated, leaving a third of their number dead on the field.

But they had done their job.  We had spent our time dodging arrows and darts, and while so occupied the infantry had closed the distance by half – well over two thousand of them.

“It occurs to me we have elicited their interest, Magelord,” Sire Cei said, his armored chest heaving like a bellows.  “Shall we remove ourselves to the ambush?”

“Let me give them one last bit of incentive,” I said, chewing my lip.  The cavalry charge had been nice, emotionally gratifying and surprisingly inexpensive (only five casualties and two fatalities – that was better than some practice charges I’d witnessed).  But I wanted to enrage them, and give them a reason to break ranks.  I called a great bubble of vacuum to be born between my hands, in response to my command, and I sent it speeding toward the very vanguard of the line.  I waited for the sound of the deadly implosion . . . but nothing happened.

Well, something had happened.  Just not what I had intended.  I looked at the approaching line and recognized the presence of shamans – how many, I was unsure.  But they were powerful enough to stop one of my better offensive spells.  I looked out at the advancing column in surprise.

“Those bastards just counterspelled me!” I said, angrily.

“Magelord?” Sire Cei asked, curious.

“They’re getting better at defensive magics, Cei,” I warned.  “The spells I hurt them with last year aren’t as effective.  And if I’m not—watch out!” I shouted, as I felt a powerful wave of magic rise in the gurvani ranks.  I flicked my fingers and muttered the proper mnemonic to mitigate the attack, but for a few seconds everyone in our line felt as if they were being peppered with a rain of fire, though no actual fire was evident.

“Perhaps we should be on our way, then,” Sir Roncil suggested, sheathing his sword and eyeing the bellicose column as he recovered from the magical attack.

I nodded, wide-eyed and pissed off, and we left.

Penny, have Dara scout the very large and angry mob that’s chasing us now, please?

See, I told you that you should pay attention, she grumbled.  There was a long pause.  What exactly do you want to know?

About how many are following?  Another long pause.

She says about a quarter of the goblins from the siege are giving chase.

Any sign of Baron Arathanial?  Another long pause.

She’s getting her bird into position, she advised me.  Min, while we’re waiting I wanted to tell you that I got word from Sir Fetalan.  He’s one of the Horkans defending Barrowbell.  They’ve got a skirmishing band of a thousand that they’re dealing with along their wall, but if he can, he’d like to send a relief sortie toward us.

If he can do it without compromising Barrowbell’s defense, I won’t say no.  How the hell is the Dead God getting so many troops in play so quickly?

Min, the molopar, remember?  We used it to escape Boval.  He’s probably using it to dispatch his troops that way, too.  It wouldn’t be efficient unless you did it in a large number, but then Shereul doesn’t get tired, bored, or distracted.  He could be sending thousands through every hour.

That’s a very depressing thought, I told her sullenly.

Here’s some good news, then: Dara says that Baron Arathanial and Sir Tyndal are but three quarters of a mile north-west of Taren’s redoubt.  They’ve halted in a hilltop pasture to rest, regroup, and get their bearings.

Looking at your magemap, how is our timing going to be on this?

Iffy, she admitted after a moment’s pause.  If my intelligence is correct, then you should be passing us in a few moments.  If you keep going at your present speed, you’ll be at the redoubt in ten minutes.  The goblins will be there in twenty.

All right.  The moment you and the Bovali see us pass by, fall back to the support positions.  If this battle goes poorly I’m going to want to have someone around to cover our retreat.

Only one Westwoodman scout was visible when we returned to the site where we’d left our reserves, and he dove into the brush with a wave when he saw us.  Penny and the others had already moved back, which made me feel better.  We backtracked until we came to some broken country where we rode north.  If the goblins followed our trail, then they would be focusing their attention on the tongs while the hammer prepared to smash them into the anvil.

We deftly avoided the lethal field of magic that Taren, Rondal, Planus and the others had prepared, and I left a few static offensive measures on the road to help.  The redoubt, concealed by both magic and camouflage, was ready to spring the trap.  The air seemed filled with anticipation and excitement, so much so that I hoped the gurvani didn’t feel it.

Our runt cavalry force rode up a small rise just beyond the redoubt, wheeled, and got into formation.  I took the time to clear the road dust from my throat with a swallow of liquor, then a swallow of water, just like they taught us in War College.  The warmth filled me from within even as the heat of the day kept my armor and horse steaming in the rain.

“That was fun,” Sire Cei confided in me as the horses milled around in loose formation.

“I really enjoyed it,” Sir Roncil agreed.  “Even that pimple Sir Gimbal fought well.  The man might not be a real warbird, but he’s as tenacious as you could ask for.”

“Where the hell did they come up with that comic-opera cavalry?” I demanded.  “Chariots made out of wheelbarrows?  Pulled by dogs?  That could be trouble.”

“That was trouble,” Sir Roncil nodded, gravely.  “They didn’t have those at Boval.”

“They are learning from us, gentlemen,” I observed.  “We have to be smarter.  This year they’re driving dogs.  Two years from now, they could be meeting you lance-to-lance from horseback.”

“If they cross lances with Sire Cei, that will be interesting to watch indeed,” Roncil remarked, looking at my castellan suspiciously.  “What sorcery did the Magelord lay upon your lance?  That’s an enchantment I desire to carry!”

Sire Cei looked troubled for the first time.  “I am perplexed by that as well – did you hang a spell on me, my lord?”  From his tone I could tell he had no native objection to the idea, but he preferred to be informed about it.

I had to shake my head.  “No, that was all Sire Cei’s own doing.  Pentandra and I discussed it.  It may well be that Sire Cei has developed a primitive magical Talent while in such close proximity to so much snowstone for so long.  In his case, it is being expressed in battle.  With time and practice he could learn to control it, even.”

Sire Cei looked disturbed.  “Am I to be a knight mage, then?”

“You are to be my castellan,” I reminded him.  “First and foremost.  That was a useful trick, no doubt about it, but such sports can be dangerous to your friends as well as your enemies if you cannot control them.”  I began to get out my smoking apparatus, but the rain chose that moment to start coming down more profusely, so I put it away and contented myself with another sip of liquor.  “Unfortunately, the Censorate’s long shadow has made investigating such Talents difficult over the years.”

“Would that I had such a mighty Talent,” Sir Roncil said, reverently.  “No man could stand before me!”

“It’s not men that concern me now,” Sire Cei said, as he wiped his brow before slapping his war helm back on his head.  “It is the approaching legion.  It sounds as if they have discovered your sorceries, Magelord.  Shall we go give them a proper greeting?”

I took a third swallow from my flask and then put it firmly into my right riding boot.  “It would really be rude not to,” I agreed, drawing Twilight from my back.

Chapter Forty-Seven

I Charge Bravely Into Battle

The gurvani column that had hastily departed the siege to give my raiders pursuit were in such haste that they did not scry or scout properly.  When they reached the first of our enchantments, a magical flare lit the cloud-darkened sky for three seconds.  The first few spells did little damage – they were designed to warn us – but the column’s momentum was too powerful for its individuals to heed the warning.

There was a series of roars and crackles as the vanguard blundered into the worst of the spellfield.  Taren had sprinkled the site with deadly sigils and dangerous enchantments, the finest his insightful mind had learned.  I watched the tall, bushy-haired mage in his close-fitting brown leather armor stand astride a boulder at the top of the redoubt, using his battlestaff to deadly effect as his static spells triggered.

Rondal, Planus, and the other warmagi (formal and informal) joined in along with plenty of covering fire from the archers in the redoubt.  The goblins were taken by surprise, thankfully, and when the vanguard tried to stop, turn, and flee, they were held in place by the weight of their own numbers.  Even as they died or were incapacitated by magic, others leapt over them to take their place.

The first few moments were the most deadly.  After that the gurvani moved more cautiously, which made them more prone to sniping, but which allowed one of their shamans (the lower-order type, not the super-shamans of the Dead God’s personal priesthood) to use his stone to pry some of the enchantments loose.  Gurvani magic is not adept at dispelling, but it has some effect.

Just as the last major sigil was dispelled or triggered (or both – it was hard to keep track, even with magesight) I decided it was time for my lancers to join the fray again.  While the gurvani were defending an ambush on their flank from the redoubt, my unit thundered down a hundred-yard stretch of open pasture, this time in four ranks instead of two, and once again Sire Cei’s magical Talent came into play.  A powerful shockwave knocked down dozens of angry warriors, and some collapsed just from the sound.

Then it was a slow dance of slaughter as we waded back into the fight.  Ironically I found myself fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with Sir Gimbal, and I had to agree with Roncil’s assessment.  The man knew his business with lance and sword, and had no trouble attacking superior numbers.  Some of his men were just as deadly, and I felt a new, grudging respect for the plucked Warbird.  He might be a mean, callous little shit, but Gimbal was human, for all of his faults.  He knew his duty as well as his deadly business.

My admiration was cut short by the urgency of the situation. I had chosen to use my new battlestaff for this engagement, and as soon as I felt Sire Cei’s concussion subside I began using it on the ferocious warriors around me.

At a command blue lightning shot out and laced its way across the mass of gurvani, sending dozens spasming helplessly to the ground to be trampled by their comrades.  Another spell sent a dozen to sleep instantly.  I quickly reversed the staff, muttered another command, and a fifteen-foot lance of fire was plied among our foe, demonstrating the utility of being hairless.  Not that the bare gurvani were spared the savagery of burning, but they were less likely to ignite than their furry friends.

Rondal was shooting small pebbles at the gurvani by the fistful, magically accelerating them to the speed of arrows or arbalests.  Planus was standing just behind the edge of the redoubt, a wand in each hand and a fiendish grin on his face as he enjoyed his first taste of battle.  I don’t know if he fashioned the warwands or borrowed them, but he seemed to know how to use them.  Dozens more goblins died under their power.  Other warmagi were lobbing their own spells and enchantments, and some had taken up bows to fire into the gurvani ranks.

But it became clear within ten minutes of heated battle that, despite the element of surprise and the success of the ambush, we were still outnumbered.  Once the gurvani discovered that for themselves they could afford to soak up the hurt we were giving them, secure in the knowledge that they would eventually win by sheer numbers.  We might be killing them by the score every moment, but we were still losing.

All we had to do was keep them busy, though.

Dara says Baron Arathanial is only a few hundred yards away to the northeast, Pentandra told me, helpfully, as I was knocking the top off of the head of one gurvan with the iron tip of my staff.

I slid it eighteen inches to the right until it was lined up with the back of the neck of another and then pressed the stud that activated the hidden blade.  The ugly, hairless gurvan dropped like a rag doll.  I thanked her and told her to pass that along to Taren, while I got Sire Cei to order another retreat.

That excited the gurvani – they had already forced us to retreat once.  As I fell back with my men to the rise where we had started, leaving a trail of goblin bodies behind us, the gurvani pursued us gleefully, ignoring the arrows from the redoubt and the surrounding forest.  It almost looked to them as if they had us pinned down on that rise, too.

That’s when the horns of Baron Arathanial’s troopers could be heard through the scrub.  The goblins ignored it at first, but the rumble of massed horse hooves couldn’t be ignored for long.  It grew in volume and intensity until I watched the left flank of the column come under heavy attack.

If Sire Cei’s charges had been powerful, the heavy cavalry charge by the Riverlords was devastating.  We had but two hundred and fifty horse.  Arathanial commanded seven hundred, and they hit the left flank of the bunched-up column like an avalanche of steel.  Caught between the hammer and the anvil, held in place by the tongs, the legion was bashed into tatters.  Screams and shouts raged over the site like a storm cloud as man and goblin fought in the rain and the mud and the blood.

In the chaos of the fighting, I saw my apprentice Tyndal standing up in his stirrups and flashing my old mageblade around like he was born to it.  While Rondal fought with determination and desperation, Tyndal fought with aggression and ferocity.  At his side was Sarakeem, the Merwini mage gleefully using his magic arrows and other weapons to lay waste to the foe.

When our troop regrouped and charged a second time, I found myself face-to-face with one of the hideously-scarred ‘hobgoblins’ Terleman told us about.

He was almost five feet tall, as broad as a man, and his hairless head had a vicious burn scar on the left side.  In his hands was a human-made double-headed axe looted from some battlefield, and he was doing his best to bisect me . . . when his face exploded.  When he fell at my feet, I could see one of Sarakeem’s blue-and-silver fletched arrows sprouting from the back of his skull.  I looked up, and the warmage grinned at me – from the other side of the battlefield.  That was a mighty bow.

I was too busy in the next moment to return the grin, and I had even less reason to.  I was being rushed by a band of six brandishing spears and scimitars.  I was able to blast two before things got into hand-to-hand combat, and then I used the blade on my staff as a spear until they came too close.

At that point I felt crowded and used a sweeping spell of repulsion that did little more than knock my attackers off of their feet.  But that put them in the perfect position for Traveler to savagely trample them, which is precisely what he did.

The gurvani were trapped, but they weren’t helpless.  While we had magic on their side, so did they.  That was evident when a goodly portion of Arathanial’s troop, about a fifth, was enveloped in an inky cloud of blue.  They seemed to be fine as they rode through it . . . until they started falling dead on their mounts, their horses with them.  I didn’t know if it was an effect of breathing the cloud of if the cloud was merely the physical manifestation of the spell, but the result was the same.  With one spell, over a hundred brave Riverlands knights left widows and orphans behind.

That was an egregious blow to our forces, but it seemed to enrage the rest of the men and inspire them to action.  While another shaman began to cast something similar or as deadly, to my amazement I saw Rondal leap haphazardly over the top of the primitive redoubt, his mageblade in hand . . . leading the heavy infantry within into the fray.  With their vanguard and one flank engaged, the gurvani were disheartened when the anvil became as active as the hammer.

Bunched as they were between us, the remnants of the legion began withdrawing, the rearguard first as they saw the slaughter ahead.  When their reinforcements quit arriving, the rest of the gurvani began to retreat, in good order at first.

That’s when Sir Arathanial’s band managed a second charge over less than a hundred feet.  One would think that wouldn’t be enough momentum to be effective, but it did the trick admirably.  That second charge also overran one of the accompanying shamans, because I could feel about half of their defensive spells fail.

So did the other magi.  Within moments we were all hammering at the remnants with lavish disregard for how much energy we were expending.  Great gaping holes began appearing in their retreating ranks.  Of the two thousand gurvani who had sortied out an hour ago, more than two thirds lay dead or dying in that cramped little field.

“That was a good beginning,” I sighed heavily as I watched Sir Roncil lead a chasing force of two score riders, to ensure the goblins did not regroup and double back.

“But at what cost?” Sire Cei asked, grimly.  He pointed to the eastern edge of the field, where hundreds of the Riverlands finest knights lay dead with their horses.  “And what did we win?”

“Their attention,” I said, quietly.

“It seems dearly bought,” Sire Cei said grimly.

“Now that we have it, we should prepare to use it.”

*                            *                            *

There were still ten thousand goblins surrounding the Castle, but they were less organized and more dispersed as they attempted to discern through scouting and patrols just how many humani had attacked their fellows.  The retreating remnants of their sortie were no doubt vague with their own account of our numbers – most gurvani can count up to ten, after that they say ‘many’ – and with the powerful obfuscation spells we had as proof against their scrying us out, I’d hoped that that confusion would work to our advantage.

Seeing hundred-gurvan units ordered away from the siege to march out seeking us in several directions began the process of dilution that was the goal of our campaign.  Our bird-supplied perspective told us as much.  Dara was becoming more adept at using her hawk for spying, and thus far none of the gurvani had given it any thought.  I filed that away for future reference.

I had gathered most of my small army together around the redoubt, stopping to eat and drink a little (each man had been issued five days of hardtack, ground corn, and dried or salted meat, as transporting an appropriate baggage train was too difficult for our Alka Alon allies – after that we would have to live off the land) and arrange to have the wounded sent back to our field hospital.  The rain had slowed to a drizzle by then but showed no sign of stopping.  When I felt we’d caught our breath, we began advancing back toward the castle, all three troops united now.

It took over an hour to march back to within sight of the siege, and along the way we dispatched plenty of wounded or deserting or simply lost gurvani who lingered behind.  When we finally got back around the curve in the road, there were more of those dog-cart chariots to harass us.  Once again they raced toward us, flinging their javelins and firing their darts.

Only this time we had a proper answer to them.  Before they were even within a Wilderlands bowshot of us, Sarakeem’s and Lady Ithalia’s strong Alka bows sent shaft after shaft unerringly at the goblin cavalry.

Sarakeem focused on the drivers of the carts, reluctant to hit a dog, for some reason.  Ithalia had no trouble slaughtering the canines, and made a point of it.  It was interesting to watch her humanish body shoot.  It was just as elegant as a standard-issue Alka Alon, but in a primal human fashion that made it even more beautiful to watch.  There was an intense curl to her lip as she found her targets and loosed her shafts with methodical precision.  Before the first of the chariots could hope to reach us they had broken formation and retreated.

“That should teach them to send cavalry against us!” Sarakeem said with satisfaction as he caressed his new bow with the tenderness lavished on a virgin bride.

“That won’t stop them,” I warned.  “They may be bad at it, but even they can see the advantages of cavalry.  Let’s see if the rest of them take the bait.”

Our lines formed up in the mud, with Arathanial commanding the center, Taren the right flank and me the left.  Most of our infantry was massed in the center, with heavy cavalry screening them and Sire Cei commanding the light infantry that was screening us all.  It didn’t take us long to form up.  And once we formed up, as far from the castle wall as we could and still be a threat . . . we waited.

We were clearly a smaller force.  We were clearly large enough to punish a legion.  We were clearly ready for battle.  And we were clearly winded from the earlier fight.  The longer we stood there in formation, just waiting, the more anxious the goblin commanders would become.

Sure enough, the besieging army re-formed itself to face us, with reserves that had been ranging around the castle wall being ordered to mass against us.  For almost two hours, while we stood there and rested and snacked, the gurvani army before us contorted, and the front toward us thickened.  They expected us to try to fight our way through to the gate to relieve the siege.  That’s what I would have expected.

Just to tease them, I ordered my troops to march forward a hundred paces . . . then stop again.  Since most of them had pawed the ground bare and were tired of standing in mud that clung to their boots like glue, they were happy for the fresh footing.  The sudden movement caused the goblin army to spasm as more troops were rushed to the front in expectation of our continued advance.

But we just waited.

“I don’t follow your strategy here, Spellmonger,” Baron Arathanial told me at one of our little horseback conversations.  “Surely the closer to darkness, the closer to the scrugs’ natural light.”

“The sun will not be a factor in this battle,” I agreed.  “But neither will the darkness.  See how they’re spending their reserves to protect the gate?  The lines grow thin and bare around the other sections of the castle.”

“And yet far thicker nearer to us.  I’m still not understanding . . .”

“The longer we stand here, the more rest we get,” I reasoned.  “The longer we distract them from harassing the castle, the less casualties that our men inside will take.  And the more time they will have to prepare.”

“Prepare for what?” he asked, mystified.

“In just a few moments,” I prophesied, “one of those goblin commanders is going to lose their nerve.  The sight of so many horses, even this far away, is going to make them nervous.  Gurvani don’t have the same discipline as human troops, usually.  One or two brave hot-heads can sway an entire group, if they aren’t well-led.  So we show ourselves as a large but decidedly smaller force than they are, and hope that coaxes one of their commanders to take leave of their senses and attack.”

I waited with Arathanial for a while as my words came true.  The reserves on our left (light infantry culled from mountain tribes – hairy, naked, iron clubs and captured swords) began chanting, and within a few moments the gurvani warriors shrieked and charged us.  On foot.  Over a quarter of a mile from us.

It was a brave but blatantly suicidal move.  A little less than a thousand of them began racing across the trampled fields.  Before the group had made it half way, they had slowed to a walk.

“Duin damn them!” I swore.  “That’s not enough of them!”

“What do you mean?” Arathanial asked.  “It seems a prodigious amount to me.”

“Not enough,” I repeated.  It was starting to look like I was going to have to do something brave and suicidal, if the gurvani didn’t cooperate.  But then another light infantry legion on the right followed their fellows’ lead, and then a troop from the center.  Before long most of the gurvani army was staggering across the field toward us.

“That’s it!” I declared cheerfully.  “It looks like most of them are advancing on us!”

“That’s . . . good?” asked Arathanial, who had a commander’s appreciation of numbers.  “Spellmonger, there seem to be six or seven thousand goblins heading for us . . . three thousand of us.”

I shrugged.  “That means that we each have to kill just over two goblins to turn it into a rout,” I pointed out, cheerfully.

“I’ve got my quota,” Sarakeem volunteered, smugly.  “Maybe I should just watch and smoke my pipe.”

“I still fail to see—”

“Trust me, Baron,” I soothed.  “All will become clear in a moment.”

Well, a few moments.  The gurvani advance slowed to a crawl as they came within bowshot.  Their dog-carts still dared to tease our flanks, but Cei kept them off of our infantry.  Then we settled into a line a few hundred yards from each other.

“Prepare your men for a charge,” I quietly told Arathanial.  “Lances at the ready, but not couched.  Not yet.  I’ll wave once to signal to couch.  Twice to charge.  One charge, then disengage and return to ranks.  No vainglory today,” I instructed.”  The Baron nodded, finally receiving an order he understood.  He slapped his visor down over his face, and rode off.

“What are we waiting for, Master Minalan?” Sarakeem asked.

“We’re waiting for the goblins to be committed to their course of action,” I answered.  “And . . . there’s the signal,” I said with a sigh.  Terleman had arranged for one of his apprentices to flash a red flare from the castle tower when they were ready within.

“What signal?” Sarakeem asked, with interest.

“The signal that they’re ready,” I said.  I waved my hand in the air, and Arathanial nodded.  He shouted an order and five hundred lances were leveled at the goblin vanguard.

I watched their ranks with magesight, and every dark face I spied looked grim.  They had been on the business-end of a cavalry charge often enough by now to know what was coming.  That didn’t help them much when it did.

I waved again and the horns called for a charge.  Arathanial thundered across the field at the head of that tempest of steel and flesh, and when he hit the gurvani line first his horse plowed three ranks deep before it stopped, standing on a pile of wriggling black bodies.

The rest of the line was likewise successful, and the gurvani center started to fall apart.  Additional reserves were called up as my knights hurriedly disengaged and headed back to our lines, where our archers were screening them from pursuit.

But that gave me the opening I needed.  With those extra reserves in motion at the gurvani rear, that gave us the perfect opportunity to launch the second phase of the attack.  Suddenly the castle gate was slammed open, and cavalry began pouring out of it four riders abreast, like a bag of beans with a hole in it.

Those first riders were skirmishers in charge of scattering the goblins left investing the gate.  They were overwhelmed by the sudden and unexpected assault, and the gate was clear in short order.  The siege had become of secondary importance now that we were here.

Soon a hundred men had passed through the gate and held the space beyond.  Then two hundred.  Then five hundred.  When it reached a thousand, ten minutes into the battle, someone ordered a charge.

Perhaps the commanders in the rear were paying attention to the second front of attack, but they weren’t able to redeploy their troops very quickly.  Apart from a single line of infantry that had scrambled into place, Terleman’s cavalry plowed into the rear of their besiegers with a calamitous vengeance.  They’d been cooped up in the castle for almost a week, unable to strike back, and they were clearly enjoying the bloody exercise.

Still, there were plenty of goblins between us and the castle.  Too many.  We needed to thin out that thick, ugly center.  Thankfully, I had a lot of resources to throw at them.

First, I contacted my magical corps.  Rondal, have everyone who isn’t doing anything more useful start raining some nasty magical hell on all of those fellows in the center.  But try to keep it toward the center – I don’t want you to hit any of us.

I’ll have them keep it clean, Master.  Are you faring well?

My arse hurts and my gambeson is soaked.  I have to pee.  I wouldn’t mind a mug of ale.  Is this really the time, Rondal?

Sorry, Master!

Almost immediately the air over the center of the goblin legions shimmered as spells began to assault them from afar.  There was a lot of flashing and sparking, as spell met counterspell and the gurvani magical defenses, but enough got through to inflict casualties.  And now that my arcane forces were deployed, it was time to order my mundane troops.

“Pulse charge!” I called across the field to Baron Arathanial.  He frowned at first, but then nodded and started giving his subordinates orders.

A pulse charge is probably one of the more complicated maneuvers a heavy cavalry unit can undertake.  Usually the goal of a charge is to use the unstoppable momentum of the horse and rider and focus it into a lance-point, and then riding as hard and as fast as you can into the enemy.

A pulse charge is different.  The goal is not to shock the enemy with the force of your momentum, like an avalanche, but to erode their ability to defend themselves, like a sandcastle falling to a rising tide.  Each rank of cavalry spaced out from the next, until there were three solid ranks of shields and lances facing the gurvani center.  They started off together, but when the first rank hit the half-way point toward the gurvani line, they broke into a run and charged.

The second rank waited another twenty yards beyond the first rank’s starting point, keeping enough space between them to allow their comrades to withdraw with cover.  By the time the third rank began their charge, the first rank had already collided with the line . . . and then retreated quickly and in short order as soon as they recovered from the clash.

As their stunned foes tried to recover they received the second short charge, dealt with the chaos of a second disengagement . . . just in time to receive the third.

Theoretically, you can do this indefinitely.  Practically speaking, the organization of the line usually falls apart by the time the second row tries their second charge, unless the cavalry in question is very well trained and very well disciplined.  Thankfully, it only took four pulse charges before the center of the gurvani front line collapsed into utter chaos.

Just as the second wave of the pulse hit, Terleman’s cavalry struck them even more forcefully from the rear.  The line bulged and spasmed as the gurvani frantically tried to defend against the mounted warriors and the prospect of spellfire from above.

More infantry troops poured out of the castle, taking up positions holding the line of retreat open for the cavalry, instead of rushing to engage the enemy.  They were Riverland peasant levies hastily-armored and armed, but weeks of fighting had hardened them.  The weak and the cowardly had long fallen away, and the remnant were strong and resilient.  They did not break formation.

The goblins were less disciplined, and when they saw the infantry follow the cavalry from the castle, a great number of them broke ranks from their left flank and ran to attack them.  That not only opened up some big holes in the left, it also brought those undisciplined tribal goblins up against sword-and-shield wielding men in a shield wall . . . and within range of the castle’s arbalests.

And of course Sire Cei couldn’t ride around with his company of Riverlands knights with an exposed left flank right there and not do something about it.  He had the initiative to see an opportunity.   He charged as soon as he saw a glaring opening.  Once again his magical talent activated as he charged, and once again he felled ranks a hundred feet away with the concussion.  It was a remarkable thing to behold.

All of this was very encouraging, but it didn’t change the fact that there were still a lot of goblins out there arrayed against us.  Killing every single one of them wouldn’t do a thing for the war, if the price was our lives.

Pentandra, change the focus of your spells to their right flank, I told her mind-to-mind. Let’s see how much damage we can do to the right flank while the knights have their fun in the center.

What kind of damage do you want?  Some of those defenses are pretty thick, she warned.  She had learned a lot of warmagic on the fly in the last two years.  They’re far better protected than the center was.  We can take them down, I think, but . . .

I’m not feeling picky, I answered, readying my battlestaff.  Just pile up some bodies.

The attack on the right flank seemed minor, after the devastation that was happening in the center and the disintegration of their left flank.  But the magical corps wasn’t content with just lobbing damage from afar.  Two dozen warmagi, most without stones, had volunteered to lead a combat assault, and they were a determined-looking group.  With a little consultation we came up with a basic plan of attack, and just as the support magi began launching spells over our heads at the massed goblinry, we began our own charge.

A charge by warmagi is different than either an infantry or cavalry charge.  The former resembles a meat grinder, the latter a sudden, devastating thunderstorm.  When warmagi charge, it’s more like a steady, gradual rain that sweeps away everything before it.

The key is the body magic spells we use.  When you can magically boost your reaction time and reflexes, and then slow down your perspective so that a two-minute battle seems like a fifteen-minute dance, then moving with speed and thoughtful deliberation to slaughter your enemies becomes a simple matter of seeing opening and exploiting them.

About a third of the magi were on horseback, giving them even more leverage as they waded into the field.  I led that contingent, blasting through the weak shield-walls their leather bucklers made, igniting anything flammable I could find, and switching from staff to warwand to mageblade with alacrity as I slew.  Around me my fellows, High Magi and un-augmented wizards alike, were doing their own dances of death.

A few I took note of: a young woman with two short mageblades and a penchant for shadowmagic who ran through the ranks of gurvani slitting throats before they knew she was there. A well-armored giant of a man who fought with a massive hammer that seemed as potent magically as it was effective at physically bashing heads.  A team of three bloodthirsty warmagi who dove into the line, then stood with their backs together and hacked and slashed and fought ferociously, piling up bodies around them waist-high while they wore maniacal grins of pure delight.  Such sights were professionally inspirational.

From Pentandra’s more remote location Sarakeem and Lady Ithalia were laying down a powerful covering fire, sniping in particular at any shamans they spotted.  They must have been successful, because the defenses of the goblin legions began to decline quickly as their shafts sped home.  Twice Sarakeem’s bow came to my rescue as I was too busy with one fight to notice an attacker from another quarter.  I could grow fond of that man.

In fact, after over a year pushing parchment and taking meetings and making decisions it was a surprising joy to be able to submerge my mind in the simple, terrible beauty of combat.

I hate war – don’t misunderstand me – but if one must practice it, then appreciating the savage beauty of violence is one way to distract yourself from the vile horror that you are creating.  Watching Twilight slash, stab, flash in the sun and shoot arcane death from my hand was intoxicating.  Feeling spells detonate around me, splashing the foe with fire or pain or hopelessness or shrapnel was invigorating.  For several glorious minutes I was merely a warmage doing a job, and I was good at my job.

When I took a moment to breathe and return to normal speed, when there were no more foes readily at hand, I looked around.  To my satisfaction, nearly a third of the goblin army had already been obliterated by our combined attacks, and we had lost a disproportionately smaller number.  The remnant of the goblins’ experiment with cavalry was being chased around the field by Sire Cei’s knights, and even their massive eunuch ‘hobgoblins’, armed with great steel falchions, were proving no match for armored men in close combat.

That was very gratifying.  Terleman’s people were still leaving the castle and taking up good defensive positions, and my army was pushing them toward their line.  Maybe, I hoped, we could have this battle won before darkness gave the advantage to our foe.

That’s when we all felt a shadow pass ever-so-briefly over the sun.  Half of the army looked up at the distraction, but could not see it directly.  A few were able to spot it, and tried pointing it out.

But then there was gout of flame suddenly spouting out of the sky, a lance of flame directed at the castle’s lone outlying tower.  It burst into flame, roasting its defenders alive; a prodigious explosion of stone complimented it, and the large dark shape resolved itself through the dust of the collapsed tower and the smoke of its demise.

The dragon had arrived.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Dragonfall

If you’ve never seen a dragon up close . . . you’re probably still alive.

I was four hundred yards away from it when it landed, and that was too close.  Traveler and a thousand other horses reared in terror at the smell – there is no smell like that of dragon.  The sky chose that moment to flare some malevolent lightning behind it, giving everyone a breathtaking vision of the massive creature.

Words cannot do it justice.  I’d seen the dragon at Timberwatch from afar, the one that had slain Horka, and who had paid an eye for the privilege.  It had wreaked havoc across the battlefield before Horka drove it away.  But I hadn’t had to face it in battle myself.

This specimen was smaller, a mere four wagon-lengths, plus another for its snaky tail.  The mouth was still large enough to swallow a horse and rider, and its rain-slicked wings were large enough and strong enough to topple the castle’s lone tower, now aflame, when it landed alongside it.  Its claws raked the wall apart like it was a pile of pebbles.

But it was the fearsome, fiery breath that was the worst aspect of the dragon.  The beast seemed to have no end to its supply, and it bathed the castle in flames around it as it settled into the bailey.  We watched in horror as men dove from the walls into the moat far below, their clothes and even their metal armor afire.  Some simply died where they stood, instantly incinerated by the blast of dragonfire.

“Dear gods!” I heard someone scream, as its tail whipped against the wall, tearing a huge scar across it.  “Is that thing real?”

“Illusions don’t stink like that!” I replied hoarsely.

Minalan! A contact screamed in my mind – Terleman.  I’m alive – I’m outside!

Thank the gods!  How many – ?

Only a few hundred, I think.  Had it arrived an hour ago, it would have been us all – but that charge saved our lives.

The battle isn’t over yet – now there’s a dragon and a goblin army to fight! I reminded him, sourly.  I can’t thank you enough for talking me into getting back into action, Terl.  To think I was missing out on all of this fun . . .

I broke contact, because we were both too busy for witty banter right then.  He had to re-organize his lines to take the dragon into account, and I had to activate our dragon contingency.  I made contact with Pentandra.

Penny, tell Dara to get her magic bird in the air! I said, just as I saw – and felt – it streak over my head.

She had it out the moment she saw the dragon, Penny replied smugly.  I’m monitoring her right now, and we have plenty of guards.  We’re in no danger.  Go kill something.  Preferably that . . . thing.

I couldn’t think of a witty reply to that, so I tried to get us regrouped instead.

The goblins had taken advantage of the temporary panic of our horses and had run to engage us viciously.  But our infantry and archers were not impaired like our cavalry (apart from a few men who literally shit themselves when they first saw the dragon), and while both sides of the line saw some fierce hand-to-hand action, we were holding our own.  The Count was regrouping his own cavalry for a renewed charge – or a hasty retreat, depending upon what that dragon decided to do.

Goblins could be dealt with by steel.  Dragons needed magic to be defeated.  I hoped.  I opened a link to Tyndal, and then Rondal, and told them to pass on my orders to every magi they saw: regroup on the left flank around that lonely oak tree, and prepare to go fight the dragon.

I gathered up as many warmagi I could myself on my way over, and contacted as many as I could on the way.   Some, I was troubled to note, did not answer.  I hoped it was because they were otherwise engaged.  Terleman had escaped the castle with some Horkans, but they were on the far side of the keep and would not reach us in time.  He was trying to regroup and rally as many as he could, and would help when he could, as he could, but I couldn’t count on him for this fight, except maybe as reinforcements later.

I hoped I wouldn’t need him.  There were a lot of good warmagi still fighting, and they had no problem dis-engaging from the goblins when summoned.  A dozen of us who were mounted stopped under the oak, constantly watching the dragon’s antics, while we waited for the others to rally with us.  Even as we moved and watched for trouble, everyone had one eye on the dragon as it destroyed the castle.

Tyndal watched with slack-jawed horror, while Rondal was thoughtful and so very, very pale.  Taren was particularly interested, fascinated, even.  I heard swearing and prayers from around me as my colleagues tried to determine the best way to proceed.  But Taren was studying the matter silently, his eyes ablur with magesight as he observed.  He watched with a curious expression on his face as the beast knocked a wagon-sized hole in the wall with its tail.

The oak tree was situated next to the Great Cotton Road, and was until recently one of those picturesque spots one selects for a picnic where one wants to enjoy the sight of a stately manor without having to be close enough to smell it.  Now it had become a haven for the wounded and a few deserters.

We ignored both as more and more warmagi arrived, by horse and on foot.   The topic of discussion was singular: how in Duin’s name were we going to slay that dragon?

“I’ve already tried a dozen spells at this range,” Mavone said, disgusted, as his horse trotted up, “they just don’t . . . grab hold.”

“He’s right,” one of the Horkan magi, a man whose name I forgot, nodded grimly.  “I leveled a condorine entrapment that should have had it sitting up and begging, and it shrugged it off.”

Before I could speak, Lady Ithalia spoke, her preternaturally beautiful voice acting like a silver bell in a smithy to quiet everyone.

“Dragons are highly resistant to magic,” she explained.  “Both for control and for combat.  That is why my people stopped using them in war.”

Her people?  The Alka Alon were the ones who first tamed dragons to war?  My head swam with that news, but she continued.  “They do have some weaknesses: their eyes.  They can be blinded.  Their wings are vulnerable, although their membranes will grow back quickly if damaged.  Their throat, near the region where their neck meets their body, is less heavily armored to allow greater movement.

“But there is no easy way to kill a dragon.  They were not originally from this world; indeed, they have been extinct for an age, and only the malevolent power of the Dead God has summoned them forth once more.  Because of that they resist even the strongest spells as a natural virtue.  Your best methods of attack will be indirect, therefore.  It is still subject to physical damage, so transformational enchantments that affect the elements will be helpful.  While intelligent, a dragon takes decades to mature to the point where it can even communicate, much less be subject to sophisticated spells that affect the mind.  That one is less than a year old.  It has an infant’s instincts, not an adult’s reasoning.  Remember that.

“Don’t waste your time and energy on subtlety,” she insisted, “and attacks involving fire or heat are useless – its own breath is hotter than any fire unaided by magic.”

“I am so glad we didn’t know all of this helpful information before the Battle of Timberwatch last year,” Mavone said, sarcastically.  “It would have ruined the surprise.”

I decided I had better say a few words, too.  “We do have someone wielding a Thoughtful Knife – Dara, the girl who took the witchstone at the Fair.  She’s good with it, and not good with much else, which is why she has it and a more experienced mage does not.  So if you see it whizzing by, don’t interfere in it.

“But while we have our back turned to battle the dragon, there is still a battle raging behind us, and shamans aplenty ready to do us harm.  I need four or five warmagi who can devote themselves to defending our backs against them, and keeping the greater battle from interfering with ours.  Volunteers?”

It took us another ten minutes to get organized, and then everyone began hanging their favorite combat spells as soon as they knew their role.  In that ten minutes, the goblin right flank had collapsed utterly, their center was holding but struggling, and our cavalry was rallying on the far right for another charge.

And the dragon had destroyed half of Castle Cambrian.

The tower had collapsed half over the Great Cotton Road, the stones themselves still burning in the rain under the heat of dragonfire.  The wall around it, a hundred feet or more on each side, was shattered ruin, like the teeth of a man beaten in the face with a mace.  The main gatehouse was still intact, but it was now abandoned, the wooden roof afire.

The beast had turned, after making a few defiant roars, and had dedicated itself to clawing away at the keep, like a bear pawing a beehive apart to get at the honey.  The bees inside, the few warriors who had yet to flee, peppered the dragon with arrows and quarrels.  Every now and then a flash or spark demonstrated that there were still warmagi within fighting.  Every rake of its mighty claw swept away masonry and woodwork like a brush, and everyone could see its jaws working as it gorged itself on every defender its greedy maw could find.

I tried not to think about the hellish chaos inside as I prepared my own spells.  Very conscious that this may be, indeed, my last few moments in life, I chose extravagantly.

First, as proof against fire, the powerful decarion enchantment that would allow a man to handle white-hot steel fresh from the forge.  With the power of my sphere of irionite the complex and potent spell fell into place around me like a second skin.  I had no idea what it would do against dragonfire, but it was the best counter to heat and flame I had.

To that end I cast the standard spells that would assist my body resist damage and shock, if injured, and increased the intensity of the personal protection charms I already wore as much as I could.  A murmured mnemonic and a touch of my finger transformed the steel in my helm and breastplate, temporarily, making them stronger and more resilient.  Hells, I even whispered a private prayer to Briga, for good measure.  She was a fire goddess, after all.  That had to be some help against a dragon.

I was as magically and mundanely armored as I could be, as I faced the dragon.  I had never felt more weak and vulnerable in my life.

I took a deep breath as I saw my professional colleagues prepare themselves, and stand ready.  Tyndal, Rondal, Mavone, Taren, Sarakeem, and dozens of others, High Magi and rank-and-file warmagi alike.  I was startled to see Planus at the back of the crowd, and I summoned a link to ask him.

Planus, you aren’t a warmage!  Return to Pentandra!

And miss the opportunity to witness the most interesting practical magic exhibition in living history?  Come now, Magelord.  If these good men can risk their lives, then do I not have an obligation to do likewise?

You’re a Practical Adept, not a warmage!  Not to be rude, but you’re one step from being a village spellmonger.  You have no place in combat.

From what I understand, mighty works and great deeds can be done by a mere spellmonger, he riposted.

I sighed.  I don’t have time to argue.  I can’t watch out for you in battle.

Nor would I expect you to.  I am not powerless, Magelord, nor am I stupid.  I will not endanger myself unnecessarily, but if I see the opportunity where the talents of a ‘mere spellmonger’ might come in handy, I will be happy to oblige.

You Remerans are infuriating, I said, and ended the contact.

“I think that everyone who can get here, has,” I said out loud as the last few warmagi arrived.  “Ladies and Gentlemen, let’s go slay us a dragon.”

*                            *                            *

We marched around the far left side of the battle, on the other side of the Great Cotton Road, to avoid unnecessary entanglements with goblin outliers.  From our perspective it didn’t matter much if the rest of the battle was won or lost, because if we didn’t kill this beast or drive it off it wouldn’t matter.  After destroying Castle Cambrian – and us -- it would go on to demolish Barrowbell for desert, and the strategic battle will have been lost even if the tactical battle was won.

We didn’t move too quickly, to allow the men who were not mounted to keep up, and as we moved we organized into squadrons to focus on specific elements in the battle, according to our strengths and powers.

But while we were marching, I noticed through magesight a new spell being wrought . . . over the dragon’s head, in the stormy clouds above.  I suppressed a chill, my first thought being that the Dead God had taken a personal interest in this battle.  But then I recognized the style as standard Imperial spellcraft.  But it wasn’t coming from us.

Terleman? I asked, mind-to-mind.  Are your men doing something over there?

We’re trying not to die, he explained, helpfully.  I’ve got a score over here, but some of us are still smoldering.  We might be able to do something eventually, but that’s not any of us.

It’s us, Pentandra admitted, when I spoke to her next.  There isn’t a lot for us to do, right now, as Dara is in position and waiting for you to be.  So we were discussing the situation, and it turns out that this hedgemage from Brunaron . . . Alfis?  Aldis?  Something like that.  Anyway, the old coot is famous in . . . some circles for weather magic.  He mentioned that it was a shame all that good storm energy was going to waste.  We started talking, and . . . well, we’re working on something.

A hedgemage?  You’re collaborating with a common village witch?

Do you really think this is an appropriate time to discuss class issues?

I’m just surprised, I admitted.

Don’t be.  He’s still no Archmage, but Talent is Talent.  I don’t even know if it can be useful, but I loaned him a witchstone—

You gave him irionite?!?  This just kept getting better.

I brought a few spare stones along, she said, casually.  Those three others that Mavone brought from Wenshar.  I passed them out to those I thought could use them best, on a temporary basis. They’re not connected to the Dead God in any way, so there’s no danger there.  Relax, Min, I’ve got this under control.

Somehow I didn’t feel relaxed.

We rode up to the ruined wall on the western side of the castle, and were able to ride through a gap in the ruined wall and into a fiery hell.

The shaped blocks of stone that had been painstakingly laid to protect the citadel were smashed and rent like crumbled loaves of bread.  Some were melted, burnt to ashes, and some were still aflame.  The foul smoke that rose from them mixed with steam produced from the steady rain, creating a nauseating cloud that allowed the stench of battle to fade to a subtle counterpoint.  And of course the smell of dragon was everywhere.

First rule of fighting dragons in the future, I noted to myself: olfactory spells.  It took but a moment to cast one on myself and then on Traveler, and both of our moods improved significantly thereafter.

But there was no disguising the powerful beast in front of us.  It was perched on its hind legs, its head level with the third story of the structure, and its long snake-like head was darting through the wreckage and ruin, flaming the survivors and eating them greedily.  It took no notice of their screams or their attacks – arrows were less than pinpricks sticking harmlessly to its armored hide, and the strongest quarrels rarely did more than irritate its wings.  The eyes of the dragon were small, and its head moved quickly – that would be a difficult target to hit.

We had divided into three squadrons for the battle.  The first, made mostly of dismounted warmagi, took a position near the outer wall to secure our escape route, guard our rear, and prepare enchantments in support of our attack.  The second infantry team moved slightly north around the ruined bailey, past the fallen tower and burning outbuildings, where it would attempt to attack the beast on its mighty flank.  Somehow.

Then there was my squadron, the charge-it-bravely-with-everything-you’ve-got-and-die-valiantly squadron.  Ah, the perquisites of leadership.

I had stalwart company, at least.  Mavone was preparing something nasty between his hands, a kind of mix of blue fire and lightning I didn’t recognize, but which looked encouragingly ominous.  Tyndal had a selection of warwands in his belt and a determined look on his face.  Jendaran the Trusty, reveling in his newfound powers, was murmuring an incantation while a globe of darkness spun into being in front of him.  Delman, who I hadn’t known was present, focused his attention on a spinning whirlwind of force I didn’t recognize.  Others I didn’t know by sight steadied their mounts and readied their arguments for the dragon.

I decided to lead with my most powerful force attack, a fareen bolt that was little more than a plane of magical force sped along a trajectory – a magical arrow.  While Lady Ithalia had made it clear that dragons were highly resistant to pure magic attacks, I had to test that theory.  I’m just that way.  As we began our approach, I spun the fareen bolt into a fever pitch, and looked around at my comrades.  “Any suggestions?”

“Hit it in the kidney,” Mavone directed.

“Why?”

“Getting hit in the kidney hurts.”

“Oh.  That’s as good a reason as any.  Right kidney, everyone.  Ready?”

We went toward it at a canter, wary of alerting it . . . but it wouldn’t have mattered.  It was hungry, as its snout chased screaming men through the ruins of the keep, stopping only to chew.  Everything else was secondary.

It didn’t see us as a threat, it saw us as lunch.  Its broad back was to us as we sped up, wound up, and finished our various spells.  When we were a hundred and fifty feet away, I shouted “NOW!” and released my bolt.

Moments later it was joined by blue fire/lightning, a black sphere, a green bolt, two different colors of yellow light, and other, less dramatic manifestations of magic.  I watched with anticipation as my bolt, and all the others, sped along the same trajectory, and hit the dragon within a few feet of each other on its back.

While my fareen bolt, I was sorry to see, had no effect whatsoever, the others’ spells each had some influence.  Mavone was right.  Getting hit in the kidney hurts.  Only instead of turning around and presenting its vulnerable eyes to us in response, the dragon howled and swept its rear flank with its tail.

It sounds comical, until you realize that its tail is thicker than an anchor chain and studded with natural armor plates.  Whipped suddenly from side to side like that, it had a similar effect as an anchor chain.  Moving fast even while I was enchanted with augmented perception, the tail swung around from our left . . . and knocked us all ass over elbows.  I watched with horror as my horse’s head came apart under the force of the blow.  I felt like I had been hit with a wave of iron, and probably lost consciousness for a moment.

The next thing I was aware of was wetness on my face.  My ears weren’t working, but I could feel something hot and sticky and familiar on my face.  When I could open my eyes and force my vision to stabilize, I watched the storm clouds overhead violently churn into a nimbus of chaos.  When my arms responded to my commands again, my hand came away from my face wet with blood – but not as much of my own as I’d feared.  Then sensation came shooting back into my consciousness and I realized that I hurt – all over.  Especially my leg.

I don’t know precisely how long I crawled around the bloody, burnt cobbles of that bailey, but the battle raged around me, having forgotten me.  My right leg was pinned under what was left of my horse’s hindquarters.   I wanted to feel bad about that – Traveler had been with me for years, and I had never been closer to another beast – but the truth was I was so distracted with my own impending mortality, I didn’t have the room in my heart to consider him.  Later, if there was a later.

It didn’t help that my vision swam – I likely had a concussion, I diagnosed, as I struggled to my knees.  My spells were keeping me awake and lucid despite what my body was demanding.

I became aware that I was still breathing, and I fought to encourage the process.  When everything else is chaos, return to basics, my training had told me.  Breathing was the most basic.  Breathe in, breathe out.  Repeat as necessary.  I felt the sweet, cool sensation of air filling my chest like an overheated bellows, and I rolled back over onto my back, once my leg had been pulled free, and tried to marshal my resources.

I may have passed out.  But the next thing I remember is the sudden, brutal re-establishment of contact between my mind and my sphere.  I had almost forgotten its existence, much less its utility.  I had not summoned the link . . . but the instant it was there, there was a booming voice in my mind filled with the power of compulsion:

Spellmonger Minalan!  Magelord!  You must rise . . . you must return to battle!

The voice was soft, but strong, a compelling force that pulled my consciousness from the murky depths it sought in a time of crisis.  To emphasize the point, my link to the sphere suddenly filled with magical energy.  I could feel it course through my body with no clear point of origin, but wherever it touched there was an instant restorative effect.  It was as if I was coming alive, coming awake, and becoming aware all at the same time.  I went from lethargy near to death in one moment to the most alert and vibrant I have ever felt.

There are restorative spells in every magi’s grimoire, everything from hangover cures to becalming cantrips to medical spells that encourage hydration.  There were some powerful ones they taught us at War College, some so sophisticated only a few of the better magi could manage them.

But this enchantment was unlike even the best of those; it renewed my body down to the cellular level, invigorated and energized it beyond its normal capacity.  It filled my very bones and sinews with the urgent desire to act.  I gasped with the sudden onslaught of power, a milky green glow enveloping every pore of my body.  I sat up automatically, my heart racing, my pulse pounding, my eyesight suddenly clear, my hearing perfect, and my perceptions enhanced as if I had cast a host of spells all at once.

By Briga’s toasty tootsies, I felt like I could actually fight a dragon.

The scene around me was a frantic cauldron of violence.  The dragon had half-turned to face the new direction of attack – which I found vindicating, since I would have been upset if our brave charge had resulted in nothing but a forgetful sweep of its tail.  I don’t which one of our spells worked, but someone’s attack had gotten its attention.  It had abandoned the search for food in the ruined castle and had turned its sinuous neck around in alarm, snapping at the irritants that had bruised it.

The irritants in question were still doing their best against it.  Mavone was huddled behind the corpse of his own horse, furiously preparing another spell.  His usually neatly-groomed face was covered in a blend of dust, ash, sweat and blood, and there was a nasty wound in one of his thighs.  Brave Jendaran the Trusty was actually on his feet, a warwand in one hand while he cast protective spells with the other.  His armor was singed and smoldering with every falling raindrop, but he seemed otherwise unhurt.

I turned my head and saw Tyndal on his knees, a wand in each hand, three or four expended wands in a pile in front of him.  The lad wasn’t well-schooled or sophisticated, but he was thorough.  He was pouring every charge from every wand he had at the beast.  Delman’s body sprawled nearby, and Tyndal had dragged a discarded infantry shield over it to help protect him . . . if he still needed protecting.

And Planus . . . Planus was standing calmly in the middle of the scene, leaning on his slender staff, staring up at the dragon and looking thoughtful.  I almost expected him to be contemplatively smoking his pipe.

There were others either running in retreat or charging toward the dragon, but I realized that even with my enhanced perceptions that if I didn’t get off my ass soon, I was going to be a casualty.  I leaped to my feet with far more alacrity than I would have credited myself with, and with another heavy sigh I slipped back into battle.  My sphere took flight at my command, hovering shoulder-high behind and around me as I took stock.

We were getting our asses kicked.

The dragon did not seem damaged in the slightest by our attack.  While it had enough arrows stuck in its armor to qualify as a giant hedgehog, none had done anything to slow it down.  Our magical attacks may have hurt it, but there was no visible wound, no blood, no protruding bone or helpful smoking hole of destruction in its body.  Just one highly pissed-off dragon.

Meanwhile the number of bodies was piling up.  The flanking team had been busy while I was unconscious, but that had attracted some draconic attention and another tail-sweep, and half of them were scattered.  The support team was continuing to lob spells from an unsafe distance, but they weren’t doing much more than distracting it.

I sprinted and dove next to Mavone.  The dragon wasn’t looking at me at the time, but I didn’t feel like taking chances.

“How is it going?” I asked, casually.

“I’ve had better evenings,” he admitted.  “I can’t get a gods-damned hook into the thing no matter what I try!”

“It’s the resistance,” I spat, blood in my mouth.  “Just like the Alka warned us.  But something hurt it when we attacked.  They aren’t invulnerable.  Horka hurt one.  There has to be a way.  Keep trying.”

“I’m thinking of trying something in a Vandimir bolt.”  That was pretty obscure.  I had barely heard of it.

“Good thinking,” I encouraged, patting him on his armored shoulder.  “I’m going to rally the troops.”

I waited for the dragon to whip its head back around toward the flankers, then I sprinted back over Traveler’s corpse, remembered to grab my fallen battlestaff, and found myself near Tyndal.

“Nothing is working, Master!” he lamented.  “I’m down to two wands!”

“Forget it!” I ordered.  “Save it for the goblins!”  He nodded gratefully and put one of his wands in his belt.

“So now what?” he asked.

Good question.  “I believe we had a secret weapon,” I remembered.  “Bide,” I said, and closed my eyes.

Pentandra!  We could really use that Thoughtful Knife about now!

It’s on the way! She promised.  We were holding off until—

What?  My funeral?

No!  Funny!  No, we’re working on something that might help, we think.  But we need you to get the dragon to put its head up.

What the hells are you talking about?!

The dragon’s head should be higher, preferably fully extended, she said, matter-of-factly.  Above the level of the manor’s highest point would be ideal.

Penny, this is not the time to be thinking about its posture! I shot back angrily.

Will you shut up and trust me?  Just get it to raise its head!

I groaned and broke contact.  “Guess what, Tyndal?  Penny says we need to get it to raise its head.  How are we going to do that?”

The boy looked perplexed.  Then I realized, even at fifteen – no, sixteen, now – he was in a battle against a dragon and an army of bloodthirsty goblins. He had killed grown men.  He was no boy, and never would be again.

“A fart?” he suggested, unhelpfully.

Okay, maybe there was some boy left in there.

“If you can conjure up one that will irritate a dragon, great.  Otherwise . . .”

He did have a point, I realized.  Lady Ithalia had said that this was a baby dragon, essentially, that they took decades to mature into their intelligence.  I was assuming that meant it was prone to the same limitations as any other baby would be: reacting instinctively, not rationally, to stimuli.  It was hungry, it fed.  If it was attacked, it fought back.  When it was sleepy, presumably, it would sleep.  It had (I was guessing) the same basic senses that we did, and being exposed to strong negative stimuli was one way to compel it to react.

I didn’t want to blind it, despite the temptation.  A blind dragon could not see a threat coming and could not react to it.  I had no idea what kind of smells would repel or attract it, and considering it made a habit of exhausting sulfur-laden jet of flammable gas from its mouth, I wasn’t sure I wanted to experience a smell strong enough to discomfort it.  The way it was gobbling up fully-armored warriors told me it had an unrefined palate and a wide-range of taste tolerances.  And that hide made tickling the thing as unlikely as hurting it.

That only left me with one option.  I studied the big head as it darted back and forth across the bailey, howling and occasionally flaming the irritants who were trying to kill it.  Not the full-fledged devastation of dragonfire, but gentle little licks of flame only sufficient to put a village afire, for instance.

“Can you manage a sound-proofing spell?” I shouted in Tyndal’s ear over the sounds of thunder, screaming, battle and an upset dragon.  He looked puzzled but nodded.  “Reach everyone you can in the bailey by mind.  Tell them to do it, too.  Quickly.”

Tyndal nodded again and closed his eyes.  I did likewise, and in quick succession told Planus, Mavone, and Jendaran (who had wisely retreated behind some fallen masonry when his spell worked too successfully at attracting the dragon’s attention.  All agreed to work the simple spell and pass along word to others.

Once they were warned, I got to work.  Sound spells can be easy, if you know the principals involved.  With a sophisticated ability to work with magical planes of force, vibration, and air currents you can eventually produce just about any kind of noise.  The simplest way is to create a magical plane, solidify it just right, and then cause it to vibrate until it makes noise.  It’s the arcane equivalent of ringing a bell, sort of.

This was going to be one big bell.  Using power from my sphere lavishly, I cast a disc of force about two feet wide, and began it vibrating.  As I poured more and more energy into it, the louder it got.  I glanced at the dragon.  No effect.

So I changed the shape and size of the disc slightly, and then again as I watched.  The noise got loud enough to remind me I hadn’t done my own silence spell, so I slapped one on and kept going.

Louder and louder the whine came, and I kept adjusting the volume and frequency until I saw the dragon cringe.  That’s when I knew I had a chance.  I blew up that spell into a terribly frightful whine that made my teeth ache even through my protective spell.

Penny, get ready, I said, mind-to-mind, as I watched the dragon grow more and more upset by the noise.  It looked about confusedly, its eyes whirling with panic, as it sought out the source of the hateful sound.

After snapping blindly in a few directions, the dragon shook its mighty head and finally lifted its head out of the baily . . . and right into the position Penny wanted.

Perfect, Min! she shouted in my brain.

The head is up, now what? I asked.

Instead of answering, I felt a wave of magic wash over me and do something interesting I couldn’t put my finger on right away.  My defensive spells didn’t kick in, so it was probably not targeted at me.  But then nothing in particular happened.

We’re still having a hard time getting a hook, she revealed to me a moment later.  There’s just too much resistance!  If we can’t get a target—

I groaned expressively at the admission.  That dragon had been shrugging off our best spells like they were cantrips by a clown at a party.  I saw Mavone launch what was probably a nasty and destructive spell into the dragon’s belly, when it was exposed.  It barely reacted.

I hung my head, feeling defeated.  I was the most powerful human mage alive, and I couldn’t do anything productive against this worm.  I saw my snowflake pendant from Sevendor, the one Rondal had given me, and I wondered whether or not I’d ever see my cozy little land again.  That, at least, was defendable against dragons.  Any worm who landed at Sevendor would find itself far less resistant to magic, and a lot more attackable.  Too bad we couldn’t drag this one’s ass back there and dispatch it on the Commons.

That got me thinking, after I dismissed the amusing and dangerous idea of a dragon in Sevendor.  It got me thinking about snowstone.

I had an idea.

Without saying a word, I jumped from behind my cover and sprinted away from the line, toward our support people near the wall.  That’s hard to do in armor in a rainstorm when you’ve recently suffered a concussion, but I wasn’t going to let petty inconveniences get to me.  I had an idea.

I skidded to a halt near to a very surprised Sarakeem, who was sitting, discouraged, on a fallen block, cradling his new Alka bow and waiting for more orders.  I began talking, and then realized he couldn’t hear me while we were both wearing silence spells, so I dropped them both.

“Can you hit that thing?” I asked, breathlessly.

“The dragon?  Of course, Magelord!” he said, indignantly.  “I have hit it repeatedly.  Yet none of my enchanted arrows can penetrate its hide.  None of my spells are having an effect.”

I nodded.  “It’s the resistance.  And I think I have an answer.  Give me an arrow,” I said, as I plucked the snowstone snowflake off of my chest, breaking the leather thong that held it.  It took me a few moments to thread the shaft of the arrow through the small hole at its center, and in the end I had to use some shaping spells, but within moments there was a five-centimeter diameter piece of balanced snowstone three inches behind Sarakeem’s elaborately-enchanted steel bodkin point.  “Can you hit it with this?” I asked, handing him the arrow back.  “In the head?  Hard enough to stick?”

The Merwini warmage blinked.  “Of course, Magelord!” he said, grabbing the arrow.  With one smooth motion he nocked, drew, aimed, and fired, sending the blue-and-black fletched shaft skyward towards the worm.  If the additional weight of the snowstone hurt the flight of the arrow, I didn’t notice it.

What I did notice was how close to the dragon’s throat it stuck when it did hit.  While the beast didn’t notice yet one more arrow in its armored hide, using magesight I was able to see it had jammed deeply enough into its armor to keep the snowflake pressed up against it.

I sighed, and contact Pentandra.  Whatever you’re planning on doing, do it.  You should be able to get a hook on it now, I said, explaining how.

She didn’t discuss it – she tried it.  I looked up to see what the nature of the spell would be . . . just in time to see a massive bolt of lighting zig-zag across the sky.  It emitted from the dark and foreboding clouds just overhead, and hit the dragon within inches of its snowflake pendant.

The beast howled with pain and shook uncontrollably when the bolt touched it.  Its limbs went rigid as it convulsed, hurling its wings into the sky.  The bolt was powerful, and in an instant the smell of burnt ozone joined the smells of blood, battle, smoke and dragon.  The flash was incredible, a blinding bolt, and the peal of thunder that resulted nearly deafened anyone who wasn’t already wearing a silence spell.

That’s when Terleman’s group’s spell gusting the wind swept by, catching the two big wings of the paralyzed dragon like a sail.  Between the sudden painful shock and the gust, the beast was forced to retreat.  Everyone in the castle watched in speechless horror as the dragon crumpled, sprang back and was pushed, all at once.  One minute we were fighting an angry dragon, the next minute it was falling over the castle wall and rolling down the hill to escape…

…right into the middle of the goblin center, where it collapsed.  And collapsed on a couple of hundred unsuspecting gurvani.  Everyone who could ran to the wall to watch the beast convulse and contort over the top of its erstwhile allies.

“Now for the hard part,” I sighed, exhausted beyond comprehension.  The spell that had reinvigorated me was already fading, and I could feel it.  “We knocked it down.  Let’s make sure it doesn’t get back up.”

Chapter Forty-Nine

The Dragonslayers

The sudden and unexpected arrival of several tons of unconscious dragon in the center of the battle had an interesting result.  Everyone, human and gurvani, ran like hell away from the dragon.

That played havoc with the tactics of the situation.  The goblin right was already falling to the charges of the cavalry, strengthened by the garrison from the castle.  The left wasn’t faring much better, but was still intact as a military unit.

But the center . . . the dragon had fallen through the south wall and rolled down the incline, smashing the gate, rolling over the moat like it wasn’t there, smack into the goblin rear – which was already under assault from the garrison infantry.  Neither party fared well.  In the aftermath we learned over seven hundred brave Gilmoran men-at-arms had been crushed in the dragon’s fall, and every time its tail jerked, another dozen on either side were in peril.  The sprawling wings swept over the beleaguered left line, dashing it to splinters.

But it didn’t come steadily to rest.  The beast was spasming, and every mighty tremor was an assault on its surroundings.  That convinced everyone that getting out of the way was more important than staying to fight the battle.  Man and gurvan alike fled the field at top speed, seeking any safe place against the gargantuan tremors.

“Are you sure it isn’t dead?” Tyndal asked, hopefully, as we started down the ruined causeway toward the dragon and the battle.  “It looks dead.”

“It’s still breathing,” I pointed out.  “It’s hard to tell under all of that armor, but you can see its torso rise and fall.  Ragged, but it’s still breathing.”

“How did you manage the lightning, Master?” he asked, in an undertone.  “That was bloody brilliant!”

“Thank Pentandra,” I dismissed.  “But it didn’t do as much as I’d hoped.  It did give me an idea, though.  I used my snowstone pendant as a means of lowering the local resistance field, which let her hook the worm to her spell.  It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough.”

“Do you think the pendant survived . . . that?” he asked as he gestured to the devastation before us.

“Probably not,” I admitted.  “But if you recall, that’s hardly the only piece of snowstone on the field today.”  Tyndal’s eyes got wide and he almost stopped, blocking the narrow path left of the ruined causeway, and earning a dirty look or two from the determined warmagi behind him.  “So start contacting everyone you can, down in the battle, and relay these orders: every man with a piece of snowstone should do his best to get it in proximity to the dragon.”

“That might be difficult to accomplish,” Planus said, from behind me.  “Most of our men seem to be running away from the dragon.”

“Still, that’s how we can do this,” I reasoned.  “And we had better do it quickly, because if that thing wakes up before we dispatch it, we probably won’t get another opportunity.”

The word spread quickly, thanks to the facility of mind-to-mind communication, and within moments I could see men from all over the field hurling little white pebbles against the bulk of the dragon.

Penny, does that help matters? I asked, as I neared the bottom, where the gatehouse that had withstood a week of goblin assault had been reduced to a crater by the falling dragon.

Yes!  Oh, dear gods, yes! she agreed, happily.  I think we’ll be able to get something working on it soon.  Dara is ready with the Thoughtful Knife.  She’s been practicing, she added, a little hesitantly.

Practicing?

On goblins.  We got an urgent message from Sir Roncil, leading the left flank, who needed support.  Dara used the Knife.  Min, it was . . . highly effective, she said, simply.  Penny is unused to the horrors of war, despite being in a few battles by now.  From all accounts, the Thoughtful Knife was hell on infantry, being able to slice through armor like cloth and flesh like butter.  I thought of the massed goblinry on the left, and how a fast-flying blade might fare among them.

I hope she wasn’t too upset, I said, cautiously.

She’ll survive.  She doesn’t like goblins.

She’s in good company.  Have her try a run at the dragon, while it’s still stationary.  And Penny?  If that thing wakes up, don’t wait for the order.  Run.  Get your people out of there and withdraw.

Min, I—

That’s an order, Penny.  That thing almost wiped me out with a flick of its tail, and it killed my horse.  If it wakes up, it won’t wake up pretty.  So get the hell out and let us deal with it.  You’ve done enough – more than enough – today.

Oh, shut up, Min.  I’m not going anywhere.  Besides, if you die they’ll expect me to run everything, and I don’t want that job.

Penny, you run everything already, I pointed out as I drew Twilight.  There was a group of goblins clustered just past the ruined guardhouse, either deserters or survivors or reserves.  They weren’t looking particularly threatening, but then I wasn’t feeling particularly merciful.

Yes, but I’m not responsible for it, you are.  I want the power.  I don’t want the blame.

Good to know that, I replied.  Now get busy with whatever creative nastiness you can think of that might affect that mountain disguised as a lizard before the gurvani get regrouped.

The skirmish at the bottom of the causeway was brief and brutal – the gurvani weren’t expecting such a powerful attack from within the wreckage of a burning castle.  The first six of us that made it to the bottom slaughtered two score gurvani in a burst of frustrated enchantment.  Jendaran the Trusty was particularly effective, using an invisible field to stun the goblins before using a freezing spell to clog their throats with ice.

But after that exercise, the dragon’s massive butt lay before us on the cobbled plaza, the tail still twitching dangerously.  I could see hundreds of white pebbles around it already, and I tried to hook a simple spell to it.  It was still very resistant, but in the end I could push through.

“Everyone,” I ordered, as the other warmagi began to collect around me, “I want binding spells on this thing.  I want it asleep.  I want it dead.  Whatever you can think of, now is the time to try.”

“It’s still breathing!” Rondal said, incredulously, as he joined Tyndal and I.  Taren and Mavone were right behind him.  “What can take the full force of a lightning bolt and survive?”

“A dragon,” Tyndal pointed out, condescendingly.  “Obviously.”

“The snowstone is helpful,” Mavone noted, “but it isn’t ideal.  Not unless we want to try to dissect it from the arse end to try to kill it.  I don’t recommend that,” he added, helpfully.

The problem was that the head was on the other side of the remnants of the goblin left flank (which was on our right, now that we were approaching the battle from the other side), who were still reeling from the Thoughtful Knife attack and suddenly very aware that the unconscious head of a very large, fire-breathing dragon was pointed in their direction.  Of course that was also keeping the Bovali attacking them at bay, but I doubt that was much solace.  One sleepy belch and they were in the fire.

But that also kept the number of snowstones near the head light.  And the head was still the most vulnerable part of the dragon.

I ordered my warmagi into some semblance of a formation and we quick-marched back around the goblin left until we were almost near the oak tree by which we’d begun our attack.  That’s when a sudden kick by the beast dug a nine-foot furrow into the cobbles of the plaza and a half-dozen infantrymen trying to get their stones close enough.  The rain chose that moment to start coming down in sheets.

“We need to get some stones right in its face!” Taren shouted over the wail.  “If we can do that we can get something lethal inside!”

“And how do you propose to do that?” Mavone asked.

“Sarakeem managed to get an arrow into it,” he pointed out.  “What if you could sneak a stone inside it?”

Mavone chuckled, despite himself.  “That would be an amusing foray,” he admitted.  “By all means, good luck to you.”

Before Taren could respond, the Thoughtful Knife zipped by so fast it was a blur.

We all stopped speaking to watch the deadly magical bird dive into the mass of gurvani and effortlessly use its delta wings to slice limb from limb.  It made a bloody spiral through the goblins closest to the dragon, then for good measure tried repeatedly to plunge into the allegedly-thinner skin near its throat.  And while it did penetrate as much as six inches, that did little more than cut the dragon superficially.

Again and again Dara retreated the Knife and tried again.  It was impressively effective in slicing through goblins.  But even at its thinnest, the dragon hide was just too resilient for even its enchanted edge.

“So much for our secret weapon,” sighed Mavone.

“There are limits to the enchantments of even the Alka Alon,” agreed Taren.  “Pity.”

“Bah!  They gave us antique toys,” Mavone said, shaking his head.  “Lovely toys, but hardly their finest weaponry.”

“Better than we can fashion,” Tyndal pointed out, boldly.  “Master, could we stick that thing’s head in the moat and drown it?”

“An intriguing idea,” Mavone said, after consideration, “but impractical.  The moat isn’t deep enough, and somehow I think it would take a lot more water than that to fill its lungs to capacity.”

We were still debating as we were joined by another group of warmagi – Terleman, the Knight Commander, and a score of his Horkans.  He looked tired and hard-pressed in his battered black armor, but Terleman has the regal bearing of a king and the iron will of a seasoned officer.  The fact that he’s a brilliant warmage is just secondary.  He was helmetless, but he bore his mageblade and a broad, plain black roundshield.

“We need to open its mouth,” he said, without preamble.  “It’s got to be tender in there.  Less armored, at any rate.”

“The last thing I want to see is that mouth open,” Rondal assured him.  No, an apprentice shouldn’t be that cheeky with a Master.  But discipline wasn’t really our concern right then.

“Perhaps.  But it will be our best chance.  Unless you wish to volunteer to carve your way into its brainstem through its eyes while it sleeps?” he offered.  That idea made Rondal go pale and shut up.

We headed off across the battlefield, avoiding any pitched battles.  That many warmagi, that many High Magi, all in one place was a heady power to wield.  Once we pushed back against the remaining gurvani, and tried to force them away from their position near the mighty snout, we were able to get within fifty feet of it.

Sarakeem had been busily re-tooling a few of his arrows as we marched, using simple binding spells to attach whatever slivers of snowstone he could get from his comrades to their shafts.  I shouldn’t have been surprised, but several seemed to have a lot more snowstone than the single pebble I’d instructed everyone to carry.  By the time we were ready to assault the dragon’s head, he had half a dozen ready to go.  None were as large as my snowflake pendant has been, but they didn’t need to be.

“Put them all along its upper lip,” Terleman requested of the Merwini mage.  I thought the pouring rain would slow him down, but he had taken to that shiny Alkan bow like it was part of his arm.  It took him thirty seconds to affix six shafts in a crude mustache across the dragon’s face.  Each arrow burrowed into the armor until the snowstone on its shaft was pressed up against the hide.

“Will that do, Magelord?” he asked.  “I hope it does, for I am out of shafts.”

“That should be sufficient,” Terleman said, a quiet smile on his face.  He called a couple of his stronger men to help, and soon they were casting a spell that was forcing the mighty maw open like a hideous cavern.

“So which one of us is going in there?” Mavone asked, doubtfully.

“None of us,” I said.  Penny, have Dara land the Knife near me, please.  A moment later the triangular shape fluttered by, then came to a stop at my feet.  Taking a spare snowstone from Sarakeem, I affixed it as best I could to the back of the Knife, right in the spot where the control stone sat when it was quiescent.  Then I patted it.

All right, have her get this thing into its mouth and down its throat.  Slowly.  Try not to wake it up.  When its half way down, let me know.  The Knife went aloft a moment later, floating at waist level before turning and speeding toward the unconscious worm.

“I have a binding spell on it!” Taren said, excitedly.  “A strong one.  But . . . there’s something . . .”

Finished with the Knife I turned my attention to scrying.  It took a moment to get some resolution and understanding of the chaos I was detecting, but it became apparent soon enough that someone was nearby, working to counter us.

“Shit!  Shamans!” I swore.  “Two or three of them, on the other side of the thing’s head!”

“They could just be defensive,” Mavone pointed out.

“They’re trying to wake that thing up!” Taren contradicted, excitedly.  “And we just made it significantly less resistant to magic – even theirs!  Min, hurry that Knife up, quick!”

There was a cluster of magic – gurvani magic, which I was primed to detect – nearby, and while the precise nature of the spells they were casting was unknown, you can get a good general feel for such things if you study them.  These shamans weren’t trying to scry, they weren’t hanging defensive spells, they weren’t even attacking.

Taren was right.  They were trying to wake the unconscious dragon.

The Knife approached the lips and dove into the foot-wide space between the menacing three rows of teeth.  “I’ve got to keep an eye on Dara and the Knife . . . Mavone, you, Sarakeem, Rondal and Tyndal go deal with those shamans.  Take a few extra men, if you need to.  Everyone else, focus on maintaining the binding spells.  Wherever you can.”

As they huddled up to prepare their assault, I gathered my team for holding it in place.  As an example, I drew upon the magnificent power of my sphere and cast one of the most powerful holding spells I’ve ever cast.  I could feel it hook into the beast’s head only lightly, but it did take.  So did several others, I could feel around me.

That proved instrumental only a few moments later when, just before Terleman and Mavone led the attack on the shamans, their spell worked.  The dragon started to wake up.  The first sign we had of this was watching a huge fluttering eyelid, followed by an excited gasp from the beast as it struggled into consciousness.  That gasp was potent even if it wasn’t aflame – dragon breath smells strongly of methane, like a barracks privy after a busy night of leave.

“Dear gods!” I heard Planus moan behind me.  The stench was overpowering.

“Probably exhausted stomach gasses,” Taren said, thoughtfully.  “Ignited in the mouth by some alchemical mechanism or simple enchantment.  What I would give to study the beast . . .”

“I’ll let you take it home when we’re done with it,” I quipped.  Penny, is Dara in place? I added, mind-to-mind.  That thing is waking up!

She’s just about there, Pentandra responded after a moment.  Things got difficult a moment ago, she says.  It’s harder to maintain the connection once it went inside.  The resistance.  But the snowstone is helping, she added.  I’ve got a hook on the Knife myself.

Tell her to start cutting, I said, anxious about the outcome.  The dragon’s head was still magically bound to the soil, but that didn’t bind the rest of his body.  The sooner we can incapacitate it, the better.

It took only seconds to see the effect of Dara’s attack from within.  The dragon’s eyes opened wide in shock and pain, and quite to both armies’ discomfort it began to panic.  Waking up from unconsciousness with a biting pain in your throat and suddenly unable to move your head will make any creature panic.  But when this beast allowed fear to rule it, the scrambling it did in an attempt to try to free its head destroyed squadrons of soldiers and scores of gurvani under its bulk.

But we had the head, if only barely.  With every passing moment, the dragon’s alarm grew, as the pain in its throat worsened and its panic deepened.  Its long neck became more and more stretched as it dug in with its gargantuan hind feet and tried to pull itself free.  I could see the slight bulge at the base of its neck where it was having the most difficulty – where the Knife was playing havoc from within.

It wasn’t killing the dragon, though.  Oh, it was hurting it, even wounding it, but it wasn’t slaying it, not quickly enough by far.  Indeed, the strain on our combined binding spells was tremendous, and a few times I felt my own stretch to the breaking point by the resistant beast.

“We need a bigger Knife,” bemoaned Sarakeem.

“Or an axe the size of a barn door,” I agreed.

“We could try to bind its feet and wings, too,” Jendaran suggested.

“Somehow I don’t think we’re going to have time for that,” I pointed out.  “We need to put an end to this, now.  Everyone who isn’t holding their binding spell right now needs to attack that area.  If we hit it from outside and the Knife is carving from within, between the two we should be able to decapitate the thing.”

And we tried.  For almost ten minutes we lobbed whatever spells we could to try to help the Knife break free.  But dragons are apparently almost as tough on the inside as they are on the outside.  Dara was doing damage, but it was slow going, even for an enchanted flying blade.  I tried a couple of the more powerful and damaging spells I knew, but they barely scratched the hide, much less hurt it seriously.

Dara’s nearly stuck, Penny reported to me, a few moments later.  She’s still making progress, but there’s a lot of . . . well, blood and such in the way.  And the twisting and turning aren’t helping her control much.

I thought furiously while the others gave it a turn, and the dragon began to shake the fuzziness of unconsciousness from its trapped head.  Snowstone was the key.  It had to be.  Somehow the power of a magic spell had to be concentrated in close proximity to a piece of snowstone a sufficient size in order to deliver the kind of damage necessary.

I watched as one magi after another took a crack at the region.  Despite their best attempts, the dragon’s first priority and focus of attention was still its immobilized head, not the tickle in its throat.

Then it hit me.  I had precisely the tool I needed.  More specifically, I had precisely the man I needed.  I turned to Taren and Sarakeem.

“Go find me Sire Cei of Sevendor,” I ordered, “wherever he is on the field.  And pray he isn’t dead, or we might all be joining him.”

*                            *                            *

Sarakeem found him.  Of course Sire Cei was on the far, far side of the battle, helping Baron Arathanial and his gentlemen patrol the field, pick off fleeing stragglers, and occasionally make a foray against the remnants of the goblin right flank.  But Sire Cei was hale and well, and dutifully followed the archer when he gave him my orders.  It took even longer to re-thread their way around the periphery of the battle to get back to our post, and by that time the dragon was good and mad.

“What can I do for you, Magelord?” he asked, saluting.  His pretty armor was dented and scratched in a hundred places, splashed with goblin blood and mattes of black hair.  But Sire Cei himself had taken only a few injuries, and he still had his lance and his sword.  Indeed, he bore one of the three fine war lances I had given him on the day of his tournament victory.

And a snowstone pendant similar to mine.

“Give me your snowflake,” I directed him.  “Then get a big drink of water and prepare yourself for the biggest joust of your life.”

“Magelord?” he questioned.  I took the snowstone from him and examined it.  Rondal had done a decent job with the sculpting, and had left a hole I could stick my pinky finger through in the center.  I focused and worked an enchantment, and soon the hole was growing to twice its size.  When it was of sufficient size, I slid it down over the deadly steel point of the lance until the sloping angle of the shaft of the lance held it tight.  It was only four inches behind the head.  I hoped that would prove sufficient.

“It’s your lucky day, Sire Cei,” I muttered while I worked.  “Your special talent with the lance is going to be used to great effect today.”

“But you seem to have the left well under control,” he said, nodding toward the steadily shrinking troop of gurvani.  There couldn’t have been more than fifteen hundred of them left, at this point.

“Not against the goblins,” I explained, as I spelled the snowflake to adhere to the lance, then returned it to his hand.  “Against the dragon.”

He looked pale.  He didn’t nod.  He just stared at me.

“If there was another way, I’d do it,” I promised, apologetically.

“If this is what my lord requires of me,” he said, quietly.  I could appreciate why he seemed so grave.  If someone asked you to single-handedly charge a dragon that outweighed you by several hundred tons, armed only with a sharp stick and a snowflake, you might see it as more suicide than challenge yourself.  I felt awful about it, thinking about Lady Estret and Sire Cei’s new step-daughter, waiting back home in Sevendor for his return.

But I looked at the panicking dragon, looked at our scattered forces, looked at the ruined castle, and then I realized that thousands of men would be leaving widows and orphans behind today.  There would be thousands more if this dragon was not subdued.  If Sire Cei could triumph, even at the cost of his own life, then their sacrifice would not have been in vain.  I paused to add a few more enchantments I thought would be helpful, then passed the weapon back to my castellan.

Sire Cei was grim as he accepted the lance.  Grim, but the man knew his duty, as the set of his jaw indicated.  The first duty of any knight is always to die gloriously in battle.  Dying while attempting to slay a dragon all by yourself had to be as close to a divine visitation as a knight could ask for.

“By all the gods, it shall be done, Magelord,” he agreed after I explained to him what I wanted him to do.  “If I don’t—”

“You can trust me to take care of them,” I promised, without hearing his inevitable question.  “Whatever happens.  You have my word.”

That mollified him, and he looked slightly more at peace when he re-mounted his destrier.  “Then it shall be done,” he repeated, loudly.

“I’ll walk with you until you’re in place,” I said, quietly.  “But we must hurry.  I don’t know how much longer we can keep it bound.”

We said little as we came to an empty space in the field that allowed unimpeded access to the dragon’s ensorcelled head.  I handed him his helm, tightened his saddle strap and stirrup straps for him, and held a water bottle to his lips before he nodded that he was ready.  I drew Twilight and gave him as formal a salute as I could.

“SEVENDOR!” the big mountain knight bellowed as he dug in his spurs.  His big brown stallion reared dramatically, and then dashed forward bearing Sire Cei’s armored weight on its back like he was a child.

We all watched in fascination as the lone knight’s steed raced across the hundred yards to the bulging neck.  All of the magi could feel the magical wave building almost immediately, and by the time he was within twenty yards you could see it without magesight, a kind of fuzzy distortion effect around his body.  He lowered his helm and couched his lance, his aim steady and true.

The second it touched the dragon’s neck, the wave collapsed and transformed.  Thanks to the nearness of the snowstone, there was little to impede it . . . and the resulting crack and flash was far in excess of what I expected.  Sire Cei and his steed were enveloped in a powerful cloud of smoke, steam, dust, blood and gas, and disappeared from view for a moment. Only when  the cleansing rain had intervened did we see if our brave knight had been victorious.

We saw the damage to the dragon’s throat before we saw anything else.  Sire Cei’s run had been successful.  Between the pressure from within from the Knife and the sudden stabbing explosion of Sire Cei’s lance, even the dragon’s tough skin couldn’t absorb all that energy without succumbing to damage.  The neck was torn half-asunder from the body, a great charred hole smoking in the rain.

We found Sire Cei twenty feet away, unconscious and bruised but without apparent serious injury.   His horse was not so lucky.  I was sympathetic, after losing Traveler, but we could always get him another horse.  I was just relieved that I didn’t have to inform Lady Estret that she was a widowed bride for the second time.  I just hoped he woke up from his unconsciousness before we made it back to Sevendor.

The Knife cut itself free from the wreckage of the dragon’s neck and sped back to its operator, a shining streak across the dark and gloomy field.

The goblins who witnessed the fall of their dangerous ally were filled with dismay and began to quit the field almost at once.  Terleman’s attack on the three remaining shamans had helped turn the tide, too, as they had been attempting to rally their army and summon reinforcements.  Terleman and Mavone had dueled two of them before managing to slay them, and even though one escaped (with a handful of snowstone, from what Mavone saw) the dramatic death of the others to the hands of the hated warmagi had been dramatic enough to cow the survivors.  For the most part, they threw down their weapons and fled.

The rest of the evening was spent cleaning out the last bits of goblin resistance, chasing them into the wild, and caring for the wounded.  That was particularly difficult, as there were hundreds of men crushed or burned from the dragon’s fall.  I pressed most of the civilian magi into service as field medics, and was joined by a company of clerics from the local region.

Near midnight the reinforcements from Barrowbell finally arrived, a thousand fresh troops who were willing to stand guard throughout the remainder of the night while the rest of us collapsed in exhaustion wherever we could.  I pulled rank, and had Rondal secure the use of an abandoned and partially-destroyed peasant hut in the castle’s village where I walked right past the food and wine my thoughtful apprentice had laid out for me.  Instead I collapsed next to Penny who had wrapped up in her cloak on the dry dirt floor.  It felt as if it was the finest featherbed.

I didn’t feel guilty about sleeping one bit, even though I had a million things to see to.  I had helped slay a dragon.  I deserved a nap.  I was tired.

The next morning dawned cloudy but without the rain that had made the previous day’s battle so inconvenient.  After checking with the medics about Sire Cei’s condition – unchanged, still unconscious – as well as a few dozen others I knew who had been hurt, we began to assembled the butcher’s bill.  That was difficult to assess in part because there was still a mammoth corpse of a dragon laying on top of possibly scores of men.

As it was, the bill was high.  Of Terleman’s six thousand men, less than four remained, mostly horse.  His infantry had borne the brunt of the dragon’s flailing, but he still had enough to garrison a castle.

Of course, the castle wasn’t fit to be garrisoned anymore.  The tower had collapsed across the road, destroying a few village huts along the way, and the wall was shattered in two separate areas.  The bailey was pockmarked with rubble and gouges from the dragon’s talons, and the keep . . . more than half of the citadel was crumbled.  What was left wasn’t defensible in any meaningful sense.

“It won’t matter,” Terleman confided in me, as we assessed the damage.  “The importance of this castle was strategic, not defensive.  It lay along the road through Gilmora.  There’s a somewhat smaller castle twenty miles north of here, and a larger but just as poorly constructed castle six miles southwest of here.  Those are my alternate commands.”

“Move north,” I advised.  “Every time we take a step back and lose ground, it’s a problem.  Until we get adequate reinforcements, every foot of ground we re-take in Gilmora is a victory.  And you can always fall back to your alternate if you need to.  Much harder going forward.”

“That’s sound,” Mavone nodded.  “There’s enough cavalry here to patrol and to screen an infantry force along the way.  They’ve done an admirable job cleaning up last night,” he added.  They had, too.  Led by Baron Arathanial and some local commanders, companies of a hundred or so lancers hunted goblins by night.

There had been enough warmagi with them to make it useful – magic is great for seeing in the dark, the gurvan’s greatest ally.  Thankfully few bands had the courage or numbers to stand and fight, and most were willing to run back north as soon as they saw the glint of steel.

That still left thousands and thousands of goblins roaming the countryside.  Gilmora is a large place, five baronies and then some, and most of it was fighting for its life right now.

The magnificent old manors and beautiful cities of the prosperous region were in flames, its people were refugees or stubborn defenders, and its legendary fecundity was at a stand-still as crops rotted un-harvested in the fields or were trampled under the iron sandals the goblins were beginning to wear.  There were a dozen small castles under siege in this barony alone, and scores of villages had been attacked, abandoned, or razed.  We were doing no more than providing an aggressive defense of Barrowbell – the invasion of Gilmora was still appallingly underway.

“The good news is . . . we slew a dragon,” Terleman reminded us.  “And just when we needed to.  We proved that they aren’t invulnerable.”

“We also proved that they are extremely difficult to kill.  It took the combined might of most of the Horkans and a good number of Hesians and volunteers to bring it down.  And the help of the Alka Alon.”

“We learned a lot from the experience,” Taren pointed out, helpfully.  “I can’t wait to get that thing back to the lab to study it,” he said, indicating the massive corpse of the worm.

“Enjoy,” Mavone said, bowing.  “I’d prefer to study a brothel and a wine cellar myself.”

“How many High Magi did we lose?” I asked.  It was the question I really didn’t want to ask.

“Eight,” sighed Terleman.  “Including Delman. Nine if Asti doesn’t pull through.  And four of your . . . volunteers,” he added.  “They got caught by one of those silly dogcart chariots and were slain with arrows.  On the brighter side, we recovered four additional stones,” he added.

“Four stones.  Eight High Magi.  Four spellmongers.  Nine hundred infantry.  Six hundred cavalry,” I listed.

“Seven hundred and eighty cavalry,” corrected Baron Arathanial, joining us with Sir Roncil and a few other knights.  “And expect that number to grow.  Some of those goblins were using poisoned blades.  Wounds thought minor are festering within hours.  The herbrothers are asking your magi for help with the malady, but it appears to be insidious.”

The Baron looked tired but pleased with himself, his armor hacked and battered until it resembled a pot too often patched, his regal-looking tabard in tatters.  “But by Duin’s sweaty sack, Magelord, that was a fight I’ll remember until the day I die!”

I looked up at the dead dragon, its blood draining into huge puddles that were mixing with the puddles of rain on the broken plaza.  “Baron, if there’s a man here who can forget that battle, I want to meet him.  Then I want to be him.”

Chapter Fifty

The Joy Of Barrowbell, The Sorrow Of Gilmora

If you want to see a town throw a party, slay a dragon for it sometime.

Barrowbell had gotten the news of the climactic fight almost as soon as it was concluded, thanks to mind-to-mind contact.  As soon as the news went out the grim-faced defenders had erupted into riotous applause and joyous celebration.  Not so much that they neglected the defense of the city (there were still goblin bands harassing it daily) but the threat of immanent, concentrated attack on the city was over.

More importantly, while the threat of dragon attack was by no means over, we had demonstrated that it wasn’t indefensible.  And if we downplayed how difficult it had been, I think we can be forgiven.  There was the matter of counterintelligence to contend with.

We knew for certain that some gurvani shamans had fled the battlefield with bits of snowstone, for instance, and we knew that the substance was essential for dragon slaying.  The Dead God had to have learned as much himself from the incident.  In any case, the cloudy skies over Gilmora and Barrowbell were free of bat-like wings for several days.

After policing the battlefield, arranging for the dead to be buried honorably (if human) or burnt (if gurvani), and moving Terleman’s command to his secondary castle, my men and I spent three days riding hither and yon across Gilmora, doing our best to chase down gurvani bands or relieve sieges.  Twice during that time there were battles where over a thousand on each side contended, but the Battle of Castle Cambrian was by far the largest engagement of the campaign, even without the dragon.

Baron Arathanial was in his element, leading his gentlemen against the goblins at every opportunity, making friends with the local beleaguered lords and generally helping re-establish the credibility of House Lensely as a military and political power.

That he was using his new friendship and alliance with Magelord Minalan the Spellmonger didn’t bother me – I didn’t hesitate to drop his name when I thought it would do me good.  Under his leadership Sir Gimbal and his crew were put into steady service on the field, though they cursed the Baron quietly under their breath at every turn.  It didn’t seem to bother the old man.

Pentandra, of course, quitted the field as soon as she was able, and escorted a large party of wounded who could be moved back to temples staged as field hospitals back in Barrowbell.  She was already busy sending word of our victory to everyone she could, in order to spread the novel idea that we knew what the hell we were doing.

According to her, in conjunction with our new Alka Alon allies the Arcane Orders and the Spellmonger had engineered a surprise counter-attack that had daringly driven the gurvani away from the city, and had just happened to slay a dragon that had gotten in our way.  She entirely underplayed the dragon-slaying part, which I thought was the most important, but she set me straight.

“If we act like it’s a big deal, so will Rard,” she explained, the day before she left for Barrowbell.  “Rard made it a big deal at coronation.  So if we take this and toss it back to him and say, ‘yeah, we did that – what else do you have?’ then everyone will feel a hell of a lot safer.”

“Everyone except me, who knows just how damn hard it was for the combined might of the Arcane Orders to do more than put a dent in that damn thing,” I reminded her.

“Try not to mention that too much,” she counseled me.  “That kind of undermines what I’m trying to do for us, here.”

“What are you trying to do for us?” I asked.  I thought I had been doing all the doing in this battle.  She looked at me, amused.

“I’m trying to capitalize on your success,” she finally said.  “I’m trying to promote the Arcane Orders as the saviors of the Kingdom, the cornerstone upon which the throne rests.  I’m trying to improve our image, which the Censorate has been doing its best to sully, I’m reaching out to the common folk as their savior and the nobility as their solution, I’m playing off region political powers against centralized political authority, and I’m trying to get the common people enthusiastic about supporting the new magical regime.”

“I . . . just fought a dragon,” I pointed out, weakly.

“So did all your friends,” she dismissed.  “I just got us free lodgings in Barrowbell, when you decide to join us,” she shot back.

So we didn’t act like slaying a dragon was a big deal, officially.

Unofficially, the people of Gilmora were ecstatic.  The springtime raid from the sky which had demolished or incapacitated five garrisoned castles had dispirited the Gilmorans.  Hearing about a dead dragon did wonders for morale.

Gilmora in general was a shambles.  After spending four days touring the once-prosperous territory in its defense, I was depressed about the prospects for its recovery.  As long as the goblins continued to harass, there wouldn’t be cotton or tobacco or flune or indigo moving down-river.  It takes a fairly sophisticated infrastructure to produce cotton, for instance, and with most of the peasantry more concerned about fighting for their lives than showing up for work, it was unlikely they would be returning to the fields any time soon.

After the Battle of Castle Cambrian, however, the gurvani did their best to avoid meeting us on the field in pitched battle.  Despite their innovations in cavalry, most of their forces were still light infantry.

Most.  But not all.

Taren bade me to visit him at a remote farmstead a few miles off the Great Cotton Road three days after we’d slain the dragon.  That’s where he lectured me on the evolution of gurvani weapons and tactics . . . and gurvani.

“This is the standard, pre-war gurvan,” he said, lifting a tarpaulin from over a freshly-killed specimen.  “You’ll note the short stature, the black hair, the piggy little eyes . . . armed with a club and a shield, he’s a raider, not much else.  One of the rural tribes recruited for shock troops, I’m guessing.

“This,” he said, rolling the tarp back more and revealing a second corpse, better armored than the first, “is what happens when you take a standard gurvan and outfit him for war.  A light chain or leather shirt, iron or leather helmet, sword or axe or spear instead of a club.  Much deadlier, harder to kill, but no stronger or larger than the tribesmen.  This is who the Dead God is using as his backbone troops, guards, and regular infantry.

“Then there are the hobs,” he said, rolling the tarp back even further. The next goblin corpse was fully six inches taller than its mates, the black hair was gone revealing a well-muscled but wiry dark skin underneath.

“These are the ones the Dead God took as cubs and castrated.  These are his best heavy infantry, now.  Once they’re hobbed, the gurvani grow larger, have more strength, and are much more of a match for your average infantryman.  They might be more docile than the un-augmented tribes, but not to us.  We also think they are being controlled partially through some drug or narcotic – there’s a distinctive smell about these hobgoblins, compared to the tribals.

“Finally, we have this.  This is new,” he said, simply, and unfurled the tarp completely.  The last figure was similar to the third, but was another six inches or more taller.  Indeed, it looked like a lantern-jawed, bow-legged shadow of a man, not a goblin.  There was no hair, and the gurvan was tattooed around the face and hands in a ghastly white dye.

“It looks like a hobgoblin,” I shrugged.

“Ah, that’s what I thought, too,” he nodded, “but then I looked more closely.  These aren’t hobs, Min.  They’re intact.  They can breed.”

It took a moment or two for that implication to sink in.  “What?  They can breed?”

“They can,” he nodded.  “I wasn’t sure, either, so I did some tests.  Somehow the bastard in the big green ball figured out how to grow them bigger.  This was the biggest one I found, but more than a quarter of the ‘hobs’ I inspected in the field were actually from this variety.”

“It’s wearing livery, too,” I noted.  The goblin’s leather armor had been over-painted in red ochre in a variety of gurvani writing I couldn’t decipher, but there was a central motif involving a severed hand.  “Bloodletters?” I asked.

The thaumaturge nodded.  “Right, a regular gurvani tribe, not just a drone in the warrior society.  Big, mean, nasty . . . and big.  As big as a man, almost.  And if he can make them this big . . .”

“He can make them even bigger,” I said, with a depressed sigh.  “How long before they’re tilting with us on the field like gentlemen?”

“Not in our lifetime, I’d wager,” Taren agreed, after a moment’s consideration.  “They might be large enough to ride a horse, but that’s something else again than riding in armor and then fighting from horseback.  But this doesn’t bode well, Min.  One of the biggest advantages we have is our size.  If they can match us in that, this war just got a lot harder to win.”

“They have dragons,” I dismissed.  “A new, improved goblin isn’t concerning me so much.”

“It should,” he said, shaking his head.  “Our intelligence indicates that Shereul has less than a dozen dragons at the moment.  He has hundreds of thousands of gurvani.  And only a third of his total force is invading Gilmora at the moment.  The rest are guarding his dark realm, overseeing the fields the Soulless tend, skirmishing with our northern command, or . . . training.”

“Training?”  I asked, surprised.

“Training,” Taren confirmed.  “Training under human officers, about human tactics and human weaknesses.  Mostly Soulless, but some have signed on with the Dead God for gold.  Or . . . irionite.”

“What?”  I asked, alarmed.  “He’s giving it freely to humans now?”

“A rumor, so far, no more,” Taren admitted.  “But it is concerning.  If humans are freely signing on with the foe of all humanity . . .”

We all shook our heads at that prospect.

“So this is what the future holds,” Taren finished, recovering the corpses.  “Larger gurvani, trained to fight and armor themselves like humans, and more of the same.  And for all of our valiant struggle, this year we have lost hundreds of square miles to the foe, and scores of estates have been rendered useless or fallen into darkness.”

“And yet the struggle for Gilmora continues,” Mavone pointed out.  “There’s still fifty or sixty thousand gurvani in the region, and more on the way.  There are thousands of humans fighting for their lives against them.  If we can prevent Barrowbell from falling until Duke Rard –sorry, King Rard arrives with his reinforcements, we may at least be able to preserve the southern baronies.  Through the winter,” he added.

“Gilmora accounts for more than a third of Castal’s revenue,” Taren pointed out.  “Losing it would be devastating to Rard.”

“Gilmora accounts for less than a fifth of the Kingdom of Castalshar’s revenue,” I pointed out.  “While that’s still significant, it isn’t the blow it was.  Losing Gilmora will hurt the coffers, but it will hurt the levies more.”

“It would be most strategically prudent to abandon the region,” Taren said, dispassionately.

“We aren’t abandoning Gilmora,” Mavone said, flatly.  He was from here.  This was his home.

“We can’t afford to abandon Gilmora, and not just for the money.  If we let the goblins get a toe-hold in the Riverlands, next year will be twice as bad.  They won’t stop at Barrowbell, they’ll be besieging Lans, Garwood, the Lazy River fiefs, even Castabriel itself.  Gilmora is to be our laboratory, where we discover the best way to fight them and beat them.  The Dead God builds his strength and trains.  We should do likewise.”

“But Min, we’ve poured in over 60,000 men, and the province is still just as invaded as it was last spring,” Taren pointed out.  “What happens if they move their strength in a different direction?  Perhaps make for the coastal regions of Alshar, or try re-taking the magelands?”

“Then we move all of our people around to face him.  But he won’t.  He wants Gilmora.  He needs Gilmora,” I emphasized.

That drew a curious look from Baron Arathanial.  “Does the beastie have a preference for cotton?”

“He has a taste for human sacrifice,” I said, darkly.  “Gilmora is one of the most densely populated lands, until you reach the coastal cities.  He’s already sent back thousands of victims for sacrifice in coffles over a mile long.”

“Oh,” the Baron said, his face blanching.

“Not all war is as clean and neat as our victory over the Warbird this summer,” I pointed out.  “In this struggle, every human life needs to have value to us . . . because every human life is valuable to Shereul.  Every one he puts to the knife expands his realm just a little more.  Every one who takes his foul pledge slays five of their fellow men for the privilege of being his field slave.  If Shereul sees our people as resources to be harvested, then we must see them likewise . . . or we lose this war.”

*                            *                            *

Five days of day-and-night running raids, bitter fighting in the bush, and relief of local manors in distress was enough.  I was exhausted, as were most of my men, and the local situation was stable, more or less.  When we couldn’t find a band larger than fifty-strong south of Renvor, I quit the field.

Terleman, freshly restored after a two-day mandatory leave I’d ordered him to take, was firmly in control of the countryside.  Commanding from his new, smaller, but more defensible command post, he had fifty-lance strong patrols screening for any more large bands approaching Barrowbell, and a team of three High Magi scrying the region continuously.

So I took a break.  I gathered the warriors of my household, and after seeing to the supply of my brave Bovali, who were encamped in the ruins of Cambrian Village, guarding the slowly-rotting corpse of the dragon (which continued to resist magic even in death; the body had to be seeded with snowstone to get the most basic of preservations spells to work).

The Bovali were in good spirits, despite the dead.  Over two hundred of my people would not be returning to their happy little valley, including some I would miss.  Ancient Vren, of the Diketower watch, had fallen in battle, as had my wise Yeoman Loas the Shepherd, Gorker the Guard, and Headman Brandine of Gurisham.

The survivors were in good morale, otherwise.  After the rain had broken and things had dried up, they had re-inhabited the ruined village and made it into a camp of sorts under Sir Roncil’s leadership.  The Bovali’s bloodlust against the gurvani was temporarily satisfied, I saw, as the road leading to Cambrian was fenced on both sides with stakes, sticks, and spears, each bearing a goblin’s head.  The bodies had been incinerated by Rondal and Tyndal, in a ghastly magical pyre, and the great black stain of the site next to the dragon was now a vast field of bone and ash.

The Bovali – sorry, the Sevendori, as they all insisted they be called now, were also insistent I stay the night and drink with them.  Baron Arathanial had graciously sent four barrels of fine Gilmoran wine from a manor he’d liberated back to my people, and I couldn’t rightly say no.  The Magical Corps and I got knee-walking drunk that night, and ended the evening by prying two dozen of the dragon’s lesser teeth out of its maw for distribution as prizes of the campaign to worthy warriors.

The next morning, my entourage and I quit the ruined village, promising to return soon, and rode south down the Great Cotton Road with a dragon-sized hangover.

Barrowbell was two-days journey along the highway. After camping at a burned-out stable we entered the city near twilight the next day.  To the roar of cheering crowds.

I don’t know who arranged it, or if it was just a spontaneous celebration.  Pentandra was laconic on the matter, when I asked her mind-to-mind – she just told me to change into the clothes she had prepared for me when I came to her maidservant Latra, who was waiting by the gate.

When we approached the northernmost outpost, we were greeted by a delegation of city militiamen and officials all bearing the light blue tabard and the cotton boll-and-bell device of Barrowbell in white.

From there we were given an honor guard and escorted into the city, proper . . . where thousands waited.  We were showered with flower petals and strange women emerged from the crowd to kiss us, and little girls gave us bouquets – it was all quite overwhelming.  I wasn’t sure where exactly we were going until one of the officials (I think he was the Master of the Borough, or something like that) led us to a wooden platform that had been erected on the plaza in front of the Cotton Market.

Sitting on the dais was Pentandra, Planus, Mavone, Astryal (who had just arrived from some business in the South) and a few other noteworthy magi, five or six poshly-dressed members of the clergy, a young, earnest-looking man in rich armor who was apparently the chief of the city’s defenses, some burghers, local lords . . . and a well-rested looking Sire Cei, in newly-fashioned finery.

He smiled nervously at me when I achieved the stage.  Someone put a cup in my hand.  The roar of the crowd was deafening.

There were at least five thousand people around the square as I mounted the platform, bowing and waving and generally being intoxicated from the adulation.  The crowd had a different feel to it than the masses at the coronation festivities in Castabriel.  These people were celebrating being alive, not Rard’s change in headgear.  The difference was enough to make me uncomfortable.

I wasn’t the only one – Sire Cei looked positively embarrassed.  That, if nothing else, allowed me to regain my composure.

The cries for me to speak became overwhelming, and when I could ignore them no longer I cast an amplification spell that made my voice audible to everyone.

“People of Barrowbell!” I shouted.  “You have been protected from the dragon and the Dead God!” The crowd roared in gratitude.  I continued, “I am Magelord Minalan of Sevendor!  I am Marshal of Castal and Alshar, Lord of Sevendor, and Head of the Arcane Orders!  But most of you know me just as the Spellmonger.”

Ever had thousands of people go insane with enthusiasm at the mere mention of your name?  That’s a heady wine to taste.

But I have a fondness for heady wine.  I continued.  “While the war rages on, and great sacrifice lies before us, we can take a moment to savor a victory!  The Dead God set his sights on Barrowbell, and he has been denied!”

More wild cheers – the Dead God had become a horrific specter in local folklore, in the last year as refugees from the Wilderlands brought tales from the terrors of the Penumbra and worse.  I had done my best to fuel these tales, encouraging minstrels and jongleurs to compose stories and song saying as much.  I was glad to see it was working.

“You gather here today to bid welcome and honor the heroes who fought, fell, and defended you!  Burn a candle for the noble dead in the days to come, but join me in honoring the two heroes instrumental in our victory!  The first may surprise you, but without her we would not have won!  Please help me honor . . . Lanodara of Westwood!”

I don’t know what they were expecting, but when my adorable, shy new apprentice was thrust forward, dressed in a new gown of Westwood green, a sash with the Sevendori snowflake device on it, and a slender short sword to give her a martial presentation, they went even wilder.

“She might be slight in stature, but this young lady wielded the magic blade that mortally wounded the dragon!  Destined to be a powerful mage in her own right, her bravery and her cunning tipped the scales in battle!  For this honor, I award to her one of the two greatest fangs from the worm!”

I gestured to Tyndal and Rondal, who had carefully extracted the largest two teeth from the dragon and preserved them.  I figured the symbolism was appropriate – we’d want to study the teeth, of course, but as symbols of victory you cannot beat the sight of a two-foot long, savagely curved dragon tooth.

Lanodara took it from her two senior apprentices awkwardly, and caressed the well-cleaned edge of the incisor carefully . . . before grasping it firmly in both hands, turning to face the crowd, and hoisting it as high over her head as she could.  The lass had tears in her eyes, a strange mix of emotions on her face.  The crowd loved it.

“But this apprentice mage was not the only hero in the tale . . . for the beast did not fall until the bravest knight I know took up his lance and charged the beast as it lay wounded . . . and with the gods guiding his hands, he slew the beast with one mighty blow!”

More cheers.  Everyone loves an underdog’s success.  “This brave knight had already won by his skill at arms not just fame, fortune, lands, and the hand of a beautiful noblewoman, he cowed the fiercest of his foes on the listfield that they withdrew in his favor, rather than face his wrath!”  A bit of a simplification, but I didn’t mind.  Legend thrives on simplicity.

“When I gave him the task of fighting the beast single-handedly, he did not cower . . . he did not promise victory . . . he did not plead for me to find another . . . when tasked with this mission, this brave knight put his helmet on, took up his lance, and charged the dragon because it was his noble duty to do so!  People of Barrowbell, may I present to you your savior, the hero of Cambrian Castle . . . SIRE CEI OF SEVENDOR, THE DRAGONSLAYER!”

I wasn’t intending on branding the man a legend.  I was just using the opportunity to tease him, get under his skin a little by putting him in an awkward situation, as men do to one another in their sadistic displays of affection.

But his stern face, bisected by that bushy mustache, and that tall, powerfully-built body seemed to enchant the people of Barrowbell.  None of the commotion they had raised previously could compare with the roar of adulation that erupted when Sire Cei stood.

“Therefore it is only right and fitting that this brave knight be rewarded with the left fang of the dragon!  A simple country knight, alone on his horse, charging a wounded and dangerous beast a dozen times the size of his horse . . . let the Dead God hear of his deed and despair!”

The joy and relief that came out of the crowd was palpable.  For weeks, months even, they had been disturbed and alarmed by the invasion at their doorstep.  Most had sent their loved ones away south, if they could, or taken to the famed Roads of Barrowbell themselves for the last time.  The people who remained were stalwart, either too poor or too proud or too invested in their famed city to abandon it defenseless.  These were the people who loved their city as I loved Sevendor.  After all they had suffered and worried about, giving them a hero and hope, combined in one man, was the least I could do.

And Sire Cei’s dignity was a small price to pay for it.  The man looked stonefaced as he accepted the fang from my boys, and he took Dara’s side before he held it aloft one-handed.  Dara joined him a moment later, and the volume went up more than I thought possible.

“I will not forget this, Minalan,” Sire Cei said in an undertone, as he passed by me on the way back to his seat.  I was almost too startled to reply – that was the first time I could recall Sire Cei addressing me informally, by my name.

“Oh, relax, Cei,” I whispered back, “I just ensured you will never have to pay for another drink again in your life.”

There were more speeches and even a few prayers from the Skyfather of the burg before the crowd dispersed, and we were led to the inevitable post-ceremony reception.

Everyone wanted to shake Sire Cei’s hand, be introduced to him, and learn the story of his life.  Likewise Dara was so consumed by admirers that I had to have one of her dour uncles stand behind her shoulder while she received them.  Having her bird on the other shoulder almost ruined the move, however, as the Gilmorans are mad for hawking and the Silver Hooded Raptor is rare this far west.

“That was nobly done, Magelord,” Planus said as he handed me a glass of wine.  “Many would have sought to take the credit for the battle and the victory solely for themselves.”

“I have enough notoriety,” I pointed out.  “And enough enemies.”

“Success attracts them,” he agreed.  “But still . . .”

“Oh, don’t let him fool you, Planus,” Astryal drawled as he wandered over.  “Minalan did it for purely selfish reasons.  Didn’t you?”

“Well . . . yes,” I conceded, quietly.  “I’ve had all the glory I need, thank you very much.  It leads to paperwork, which is hardly glorious.  This way the attention goes to others, which leaves me more time for . . . paperwork.”

“He’s avoiding attention on purpose,” Pentandra explained, helpfully.  “If he’s shaking everyone’s hand and giving out his blessing and kissing babies and such, he can’t get real work done.

“Not that Cei and Dara weren’t deserved of honors, but the people were chanting ‘Spellmonger’ when he entered the ceremony, and chanting ‘Dragonslayer! Hawkmaid!’ on the way out.  Hardly anyone even remembers the poor Spellmonger, now.  He has given them more colorful heroes.  And yes, that is just the selfish reason he did it.”

Penny was drinking a little more than usual, but I couldn’t say it was a bad thing.  Between the battle and the politics, she looked worn.  She needed to relax a bit and have a couple of drinks and maybe a farmboy.

“Regardless, his performance was just what the city needed,” Astryal agreed.  “This was my home base, back when I was a freelance warmage.  This is my town, so to speak.  As festive as it appears right now, it’s half-deserted, dispirited, and its people are terrified.  Giving them a hero – two heroes – so engaging was a cunning maneuver.”

“That implies that there is something toward which I’m maneuvering,” I said, sipping my wine patiently.  “What do you think that might be?”

“I’m hoping it’s something big, expensive and royal,” Mavone offered.

“That would be wise,” nodded Astryal.  “Because His Majesty will be here within days with an army, for the relief of Gilmora.  It took long enough, but he will be here with the first bargeloads, some two thousand heavy lancers, with infantry and artillery following.  If you’re going to beg a boon from him, right after you’ve slain a dragon and rescued a key city might be a good time.”

“Do we need anything?” asked Mavone curiously.  “We still haven’t taken possession of the installations we were given at coronation.  There are parts of the Kingdom where the Censors still haven’t heard about the lifting of the Bans. Or the establishment of the Kingdom, for that matter.  But Astryal is correct.  If we did want something, this would be a good leverage point.  This should add much to our metaphorical treasury with the Realm.  Best we put it to good use.  What does the Order need?  And what royal reward for these two heroes?”

I frowned.  “You make it sound so . . . sordid.  I just wanted the credit to go where it should.”

“Which is uncommonly noble, for a nobleman,” Planus pointed out.

“I am no mere nobleman,” I observed.  “I’m a magelord.  I’m THE Magelord, if you want to be technical.  I’ve tried to set a higher standard of conduct for my peers, I suppose, just to keep us from being viewed the way many of the nobility are.  I want the arcane nobility to be . . . better, I guess,” I admitted.  “It’s probably just a conceit of mine, for I have found no real correlation between Talent and honor, but I hope if I set the right tone, and demonstrate a good example, then the magelords of the kingdom will be viewed as valued assets, not troublesome liabilities.”

“As I said,” Penny’s cousin smiled and bowed, “uncommonly noble, for a nobleman.”

“He’s still new at it,” Penny sneered.  “Don’t worry, by next year he’ll be as jaded as any old Baron.  Is that eel on the buffet?”

Chapter Fifty-One

The King Arrives In Barrowbell

The news that King Rard was personally leading thirty thousand troops from the southern fiefs up the river – and was actually moving, not merely a rumor – was galvanizing to the city, and after our day-long victory celebration the folk of Barrowbell went to work to prepare their gracious city for its first Royal visit.

I was busy preparing for a departure: hiring my own barges to begin the process of transporting my Bovali back to Sevendor, beginning with the wounded.  I saw the first load of the most serious off before Rard arrived, and sent Rondal along with them as their steward.  The boy was a passable field medic, now, and he had a level head when it came to such things.  Tyndal would go with the next group, and then I would return with the hale Sevendori and the other Riverlands warriors I’d brought.

In the meantime, I took a day or so to explore the city and enjoy what fruits of its civilization remained.  I met with local spellmongers and hedgemagi, had lunch with a trio of footwizards near the eastern gate, and toured a few of the temple libraries the city is famed for.  I made a lot of spur-of-the-moment purchases of things I thought Alya and our people back home would enjoy, some at incredibly good prices – war has a way of creating bargains like it does graves.

By the time Rard’s Royal Barge did arrive, I was packed up and ready to move.  My Sevendori levees were either departing or awaiting more barges, and my luggage and new purchases had already been sent upriver.

Rard arrived with great fanfare (although, I was pleased to note, not nearly the same enthusiasm as the Dragonslayer and the Hawkmaid had been) and there was the mandatory reception following his disembarking.  His troops were deployed almost at once to help support the screening effort north of the city, but Rard felt compelled to linger and meet with his advisors.

Like, for instance, me.

I was gratified that I was among the very first he summoned to his Royal Chamber, which the day before had been styled one of the city’s wealthier burghers’ homes.

He was seated on a balcony overlooking the western road, the river in the distance, and a flurry of pages and messengers was constantly coming and going around him.  He had no less than three functionaries dealing with such issues, as well as a gargantuan knight with a greatsword standing behind him in full armor.

Penny and I had both been summoned – sorry, “requested” – by Rard, so at least I wasn’t facing the lion alone.

“Your Majesty,” I said as I bowed deeply to the man who was king.

Rard looked older and more worn than he had at his radiant coronation.  There were pits under his eyes, and despite his fine clothes and meticulously groomed blond hair he looked troubled and tired.

“Magelord,” he said, evenly, in return.  “I heard of your glorious victory while we were still downriver.  Congratulations are in order.”

“I did but what you tasked me with, Majesty,” I pointed out.  “You wanted a dead dragon, I killed one.  They can be killed.”

“And that is a relief to many in Gilmora and beyond,” he admitted.  “And yet . . . it is said that it took nearly all of your Order to do so.”

“It was our first dragon slaying,” I pointed out.  “We’re still learning.”

“Understood,” he said, after a moment’s pause.  “But it would be ideal if there was a way to ensure they were no longer a threat at all.  Pray continue your studies – I’ve had audience after audience of Riverlords who tremble at the very idea of a dragon.”

“They have every right to,” I agreed.  “As Your Majesty will see when you ride through the ruins of Cambrian Castle, a dragon is a thing justly feared.  Our Alkan allies tell us that these are but hatchlings, yet.  They will grow larger and smarter.  Our only solace is that the same resistance to spellcraft they demonstrate to us also foils the Dead God’s control over them.  They are a difficult weapon to wield, Majesty.”

“That, at least, is good news,” he agreed, gravely.  “But that does bring us to our . . . allies, as you call them.  The Alka Alon.  Why have they chosen you to host their embassy with the kingdom, when the capital is elsewhere?”

“Because their embassy is not with the Kingdom, Majesty,” Pentandra said, respectfully.  “It is with humanity.  The Alka chose Sevendor for their own reasons.  They will not be bound by human custom.  If they wish to speak to us in Sevendor, then I counsel Your Majesty to accept their proposal and their alliance . . . for Barrowbell would have been lost without their aid.”

“Still, it is unseemly,” he said, shaking his uneasy head.  “But I suppose one could go mad trying to compel the Tree Folk to do anything they don’t want to.  Very well, I suppose I will have to accept their embassy – and their help – when and where I can get it.  But I am wary of such mystery, Magelord.”

“As are we, Majesty,” I agreed.  “But until we know more . . .”

“Now, you have slain a dragon for me,” he sighed.  “There will be a reward, of course – a thousand ounces of gold or something appropriate – but now I have more important work for you to do.”

“More important . . . than dragonslaying?” I asked in disbelief.

“To what task does His Majesty do us the honor of proposing?” Pentandra asked diplomatically.

“Simple: I have a rebellion on my hands.  When news of my coronation reached the coastal fiefs of Alshar, suddenly three Alshari counts rose in rebellion and called into question the death of Duke Lenguin at Timberwatch.”

Since I knew for a fact that Rard (or, more accurately, his wife’s pet assassins) had indeed killed Lenguin in the Wilderlands, the irony of that was potent.

“They’ve responded to my Royal messengers by posting mercenaries at their frontiers.  They deny my legitimacy, but they have fifty or sixty thousand mercenary troops and followers to enforce that denial.”

“That is a thorny problem,” I agreed.  “But what can we do about it?”

“I need you to use your influence and perhaps even your magical powers to bring this rebellion to heel,” he said, reasonably.  “Locate and eliminate the leaders, discover who is funding them, and shut down the opposition.  It’s bad enough the gurvani have chewed up a quarter of my realm.  To see another portion taken by rebellion . . .”

“That is a thorny problem,” I repeated.  “I regret we cannot assist with that.”

“What?” asked the King, sharply.

“Your Majesty,” Pentandra said with only slightly exaggerated patience, “if you recall under the Royal Charter you, yourself signed but a few moons ago, the Arcane Orders can only be summoned to defend the kingdom against existential and external threats to the realm.  Threats like the Dead God and the gurvani.  Not the political troubles within your borders.”

King Rard didn’t look happy about that.  “You . . . refuse?”

“We must,” I insisted, having heard this lecture from Penny often enough in private to recite it almost word-for-word.  “Majesty, if the Arcane Orders can be called upon to settle matters on behalf of the King, then we either become your unwilling weapon or we turn on you or each other as the vagaries of feudal politics pit us against each other.  That is why we were so careful about how we wrote the Charter you signed.

“Magic must remain separate from politics, or at least not be a tool of political power, lest we begin to resemble the Magocracy in unflattering ways: either the magi will eventually seize power for themselves, which would be unthinkable; or the Throne would begin dictating policy and procedure to the Arcane Orders, and that would effectively do the same.

“Instead we took great pains to establish ourselves so as to be alluring neither as a threat to be vanquished or a tool to be used.  You may call upon us to defend the Kingdom . . . but not to defend the Crown.  If we start taking sides in politics beyond our own, we run a danger for ourselves and the Kingdom.”

“Yet here I am faced with a threat as clear as that of the Dead God,” he said, testily.  “Three counts – comprising nearly a hundred domains – have rejected fealty to me OR Lenguin’s son, claiming he’s my puppet.”

Which proved the rebellious counts were good observers, if nothing else.  “That would be a minor matter if they had not spent so much time and treasure fortifying and preparing for this day,” he continued.  Now I would have to lead almost twice as large an army as I brought with me to re-conquer those provinces.

“Or I could get my Spellmonger to do it for me,” he finished, and looked at me intently.

I wasn’t willing to be intimidated.  I can pay respect to his pointy hat, but I knew that underneath that warrior-king persona Rard was a schemer and plotter of the highest order.

“Your Majesty, even if I could do it under the charter,” I complained, “that is hardly my area of expertise.  Indeed, you might find a better candidate for that even closer at hand . . .” I said, a subtle reminder that his intelligence network was well-versed in such skills as subterfuge, bribery, assassination and revolution.

“I am investigating all of my resources,” he said, dryly.  “But I cannot let this rebellion stand.  Unfortunately, these counts are well-established, have deep pockets, and are in a very defensible position.  Where arms cannot prevail, magic may suffice.”

“Diplomacy may suffice even more,” Pentandra suggested.  “Just what are the objections these lords make to Your Majesty’s rule?”

“They are mere justifications,” he dismissed.  “They cite tradition, ancient law, custom, treaty . . . but it is all merely a rationalization of their rebellion.  They seek to run their fiefs without paying tribute, without contributing to the army, without enforcing my edicts,” he said, as if that was the most barbarous thing he’d ever heard.  “Meanwhile we keep the Dead God from their doorstep.”

“Ignore them, then, Sire,” I proposed.  “For now, at least.”

“But are they not a threat to the realm?” he pointed out, patiently.  “Do you not have an obligation under the charter?”

“The rebellious counts are not attempting to overthrow Castalshar,” Pentandra pointed out, “they merely do not wish to be a part of it.  That is not the same as fighting aggressively against it.  They don’t want your head, Majesty, they do not even want your crown.  They just do not want to be subject to it.”

“That is unacceptable!” he demanded.

“That is not my problem,” I said, boldly and flatly.  “I gave you a pretext upon which to base your throne, Majesty.  I did not guarantee that the land would rejoice in your ascension.  In fact, I’m surprised there hasn’t been more resistance.  But what there is, you must deal with.  Call us if there are goblins or dragons, but truculent counts are fall under ‘mundane affairs’, not ‘arcane affairs’.”

“This does not please me, Spellmonger,” Rard said, sternly.  That voice had power.  It was used to being obeyed to the letter.

“Pleasing you was not my goal, Majesty,” I shot back.  “In fact, preservation of the Duchies against the Dead God was my goal.  The people of the Duchies, not their rulers.  If you and these counts want to squabble, then do so – but without magic.”

“Damn it, Minalan!” he said, slamming his fist against the table hard.  “I need you to pacify those counts and bring them in line!”

“Damn it, Rard,” I swore back, “I need time and energy and resources just to plan the decades of war that are ahead of us, and chasing down your personal squabbles is just not high on my priorities right now!”

There was a bit of a tense moment, until both of us eased down.  I expected Penny to roll her eyes, but she has outstanding decorum.  Instead she addressed us both, calmly and rationally.

“Majesty, Magelord, while I have not studied the matter of the Alshari Counts in depth, the political situation seems clear enough.  These counts may not hold you as their liege, but neither are they prepared to invade those who have sworn fealty to the Crown.  Therefore if they are not going to obstruct you, spending time on dealing with them while the Kingdom is in crisis is not wise, Majesty.

“Neither is allowing the political entity upon which your position is based to suffer such rebellion a wise move, Magelord.  While our charter does specifically forbid acting as an agent of the Crown against political threats – which was included for very good reason, Majesty – that does not preclude our involvement in matters of grave concern to the Crown.  Indeed, your position at the Royal Court is predicated on that,” she pointed out.

Damn it, Penny!  I thought you were on our side! I sent to her hastily, mind-to-mind.  She didn’t respond non-verbally.

“To that end,” she continued, ignoring my pleas, “I propose that the Arcane Orders agree to – quietly – cooperate with such matters.  As long as our involvement does not become public knowledge, then I think we can lend assistance clandestinely.”

“Penny, that flies in the face of everything—”

“I said cooperate, not lead a full scale assault,” she pointed out.  “These counts are not going to be beaten on the battlefield, not if they are strong and entrenched.  They must be beaten from within.  It may take a few years, but if we help the process, then they can be brought to heel slowly, over time.”

“I don’t have that kind of time!” Rard insisted.  “If the Alshari counts can rebel, then what is to stop the counts of Wenshar from doing likewise?”

“The willingness of Merwin to invade them if they do,” Penny pointed out.  “Wenshar alone could not resist that.  Wenshar as part of Castalshar most decidedly could.  Leaving these Alshari counts in rebellion does nothing to harm you, Majesty, save bruise your pride and diminish your coffers.  Let them pretend to independence for a while.  See who joins them.  Then as you have infiltrated and scryed their strengths, you can take a moment to turn from the war with the gurvani to strike.”

It sounded reasonable, but I wasn’t feeling very reasonable.  “Penny, that’s as good as going there and slitting some throats myself!  If we involve the Order in this—”

“Then we demonstrate that we are a power to be reckoned with and no one will screw with us,” she taunted.  “His Majesty is right about a few things here.  If these counts can successfully rebel so easily, it’s a sign of weakness.  Not just for Rard, but for us, too.  It’s as good as admitting that we can’t do anything about it not because we don’t want to, but because we can’t.

“So we don’t.  We let them rebel.  And then we allow every politically disaffected exile across the lands drift in to their sphere of influence.  Before long, Merwin will see an opportunity to cultivate an ally right on our doorstep, and they will start sending money to support their resistance.

“Conversely, it’s possible the gurvani will strike out for the coastal cities, in which case I think we can count on the Counts willing to change their song.  They might be well-defended and well-armed, but they cannot stand up to the gurvani by themselves.

“When a year or two has passed, then you put the structure and people in place to strike.  Create enough chaos and trouble for the people and they will be clamoring to be part of the Kingdom.  But until then, you conserve your strength, make some idle threats, and wait for the Counts to let their guard down before you strike. You infiltrate, learn, and then when the time is right, you can conquer and confiscate any of the estates of the rebels for the Crown.  And then commute their executions to lifetimes of service in the war bearing the Iron Ring.”

“That makes uncommon good sense, Penny,” I agreed, after thinking about it for a while.  Gods, her mind had more gears than a millworks.  Rard seemed to agree too, but his royal dignity wouldn’t let him admit it.

“And in the meantime, what shall I do about the estates I run already within their territory?” he asked.  “There are some twenty that are – were – the property of the Alshari Coronet.  A few of the Duchy’s appointed stewards have joined the rebels, but most have stayed loyal – to Lenguin, who’s dead.  As I rule Alshari lands through his son, one would think that the transfer of oaths would be obvious – but we are dealing with insidious people.  They refuse to swear fealty, they refuse to acknowledge the crown.  But they must be managed.

“Yet I loathe to send a good man there with the knowledge that he will be subject to assassination, bribery, scandal, and even domain war, if he stands for me.  What man of honor would accept such a commission?  And who could maintain the discipline to stand against those who saw him as a representative of the crown?”

“Then don’t send a good man, Majesty,” Pentandra urged.  “Indeed, I would counsel that a good man isn’t necessarily your best advocate, in that circumstance.  A wicked man, who would attract the sort of folk who could help you topple the counts, would likely be better suited. And if he turns traitor on you, you can always hang him later.”

“Perhaps,” he said, pursing his lips in thought.  It was an almost girlish gesture in such a masculine man.  “Perhaps a righteous advocate is not what I need.  I know some of the Archmagi would appoint their political opponents to dismal positions, and then punish them later on for oppressing their own people.  If the right man is chosen for the job, then he may serve my purposes and yet not become so cozy with the local lords that he turn his coat.  Or so inspires the loyalty of his vassals-in-trust that he becomes a rebel in his own right.  I suppose what I need, if I am not to go to war against them, is an iron-clad son-of-a-bitch smart enough to run the estates but too stupid to use them against me.”

“Your Majesty,” I said, snapping my fingers, “I think I know just the son of a bitch,”

*                            *                            *

For all of the friction with Rard, the King was actually pretty pleased with the Arcane Orders for keeping his lucrative fief of Barrowbell from falling to the gurvani.  Once you got beyond politics Rard was actually a decent guy . . . away from his wife.  That wasn’t to say his wife’s representatives weren’t always around him, and twice they tried to attract my attention with various code words.  I didn’t bite.  I was too tired to play palace politics.

But with Rard’s arrival, as well as the southern troops he’d raised, our work was essentially done in Gilmora.  And as much as it would have been helpful for the Alka Alon to transport us back home, that was magically just not feasible.  We had to go the hard way, up river on a leaky barge.

I was more than ready.  The near-constant drizzle of the season contained a cold hint of the season to come.  Winter was coming, and autumn was full upon us.

As pretty as Barrowbell and the surrounding countryside was, I was missing home something fierce.  So was Sire Cei, who had had his fill of being everyone’s hero.  He missed his new bride and step-daughter, too.  The other Bovali men who had bravely accompanied me into danger and dragonfire deserved a long, safe winter with full bellies, warm beds, and no worries.

The last part, at least, I could help with.  Rard had grudgingly admitted that I had used my powers as Marshal in an approved manner, and had therefore approved my requisition from the Royal Treasury to pay them.

Every infantryman, no matter how common, would return to the Riverlands with twenty newly-minted one-ounce silver Stags, bearing the antlers-and-anchor seal of Alshar in his pocket.  Every common-born cavalryman or common mage received fifty Stags, more than twice the mercenary rate, and every noble-born cavalryman or registered warmage got a purse with twenty Stags and a brand-new one-ounce gold coin, called a Rose, for the flower on the obverse.  That was a rich reward even for such meritorious service.

There was more – on my recommendation little Dara was ennobled by Rard and given a hundred Roses for her part in the killing of the dragon, and Sire Cei the Dragonslayer was given a magnificent black charger the color of the inside of night, a new set of armor, and a thousand gold Roses for his service.  Far more than he needed to restore his tiny estate.  And that was in addition to the gifts heaped upon him by a grateful populace.

But the day when we finally embarked on our own barge and said good-bye to Barrowbell couldn’t come fast enough.  I was homesick.

*                            *                            *

Pentandra didn’t come with us – she was quitting Barrowbell a few days later, and would return to Castabriel to continue to work on the Order’s organization through the winter.  Planus would accompany her, as would several other newly-made High Magi.

With both the attrition from the battle and the capture of six new stones, altogether, I had over a dozen new High Magi to make and (thankfully) plenty of good candidates for them.  The Remerans would help them acclimatize to their stones, as well as train them in their use back at the Temple.

The other magi were busy, too.  Sarakeem was still happily hunting gurvani all over Gilmora, along with the Order’s other warmagi.  Baron Arathanial had agreed to stay one more month with his men at a highly lucrative rate and help with the defenses.  Lady Ithalia just . . . disappeared one day.  I had a feeling we’d be seeing her again.

So it was just me and my – three – apprentices who were heading home with Sire Cei and the other Sevendori.  I didn’t mind.  These were my mates, my comrades, my extended family, and they were some of the few people I felt I could be my casual self around.

“Just wait until he starts teaching you,” Tyndal was saying to Dara in the stern of the barge that first afternoon.  “At first it seems like an awful lot of fun, and then it is work, and then it’s just bloody tedious,” he complained.  “But once you start picking it up . . .”

“Don’t let him scare you,” dismissed Rondal with a wave.  “Master Min is a creampuff.  You should have met my first master.  He works for the Dead God now.”

“The hard part will be learning to concentrate on everything at once,” Tyndal continued, ignoring his brother apprentice.  “Then remembering all of those bloody correspondences, the charts, the sigils – bah!”

“The mysteries of the universe in his hands, and he’s frustrated,” Rondal said, shaking his head.  “Idiot.  So, what kind of magic are you most interested in, Dara?”

Her hawk chose that moment to fall out of the sky and slap the water with its talons, before returning to its mistress with a healthy two-pound fish.

“I don’t know . . . I was thinking of something with animals,” she said, casually.  “Am I going to have to learn warmagic?” she asked.

“Are you sure you have the energy for a third apprentice, Magelord?” Sire Cei asked me, as we overheard the young people talking.

“I don’t think I have enough for the first two,” I acknowledged.  “But she needs to be trained.  She’s Sevendori, and I want some native Sevendori who can defend her, at need.  As you can see, my current position is going to take me on the road frequently.  And you will be spending all your time tending your . . . beehives,” I smirked, thinking of Lady Estret.

“Still,” he cautioned, “there are those who feel you are unfairly putting her in front of worthier candidates.  I am not a mage, but I have ears.  There are already mutterings.”

“There always will be.  I’m learning that a good part of being a good magelord is ignoring them and doing what you think is right anyway.  Besides, I think my other two apprentices are going to be out of my hair for a while, so I’ll have time to devote to her instruction.  Indeed, I would see it a boon if you would volunteer to teach her to read, this winter.”

“It would be an honor, Magelord,” he nodded.  There was a long, quiet moment between us, then, as the apprentices chattered away, the bargemen were poling their way along the river, and the sun was settling beautifully over the receding city of Barrowbell.  We puffed our pipes and enjoyed the quiet, until Cei chose to break it.

“Magelord, I would like to take the opportunity to express my gratitude,” he said, lightly.  “And to make an admission.  I was wrong about you.”

That startled me, coming from Sire Cei.  “I beg your pardon?”

“When I first accepted your offer of employment,” he explained, “I did so figuring it would be a temporary assignment.  You and I had a . . . poor history of relations until then.  I thought you young, foolish, and wealthy enough, perhaps, to give me time to find a better situation.  I did not think you had the heart to be a lord and run your estate, and I vowed to do so honorably until I could find a way to abandon you with a clear conscience.

“Then I watched what you did, for me and for the other Bovali.  You created a home for us, gave us succor when we should have, by all rights, been refugees.  You did not need to do that.  You did not need to invest so liberally.  Indeed, I felt you a fool for spending so lavishly, and I counted it as proof that you would spend yourself into penury.

“But I erred,” he admitted.  “You have proven a wise and adept ruler, which I never would have suspected.  You have shown compassion and mercy when you did not need to, and blood and iron where you did.  I took you for a merchant pretending to play at being a noble.  What you showed me was the heart of true nobility: leading the people you are charged with protecting with the thoughtfulness of a father over his children.”

“You give me too much credit!” I protested, laughing.  “Cei, I’ve been making this up as I go along.  There are no ideals I proclaim, there are no schemes in my head save this one: to make a happy home where my happy family can live among friends, until the day the Dead God comes to my gate.  And by then I hope to be able to deal with him.”

“I daresay he should be worried,” chuckled Sire Cei.  “You took your greatest enemy and not only defeated him and took his lands . . . you ‘rewarded’ him to the point where he thanked you publicly with tears in his eyes in front of the King.”

“I do hope the Alshari counts enjoy the taste of Warbird,” I said with a little more relish than I had intended.  “As Rard’s designated representative, he’s going to get a lot of attention from his new neighbors.  Including poison and rat tails, I’d wager.  Not really the ‘reward’ for his good service he expects, but he can wear the sash of the king’s steward proudly until he is poisoned or stabbed.  If Gimbal plots and plans the way I suspect he will, it wont be long before he’s eliminated.  That man has a way of making enemies everywhere – one of the reasons I recommended him to Rard for the job.”

“Perhaps he will do as well as his friend Erantal did with Sevendor,” Cei agreed.  “Speaking of which, I ache to see it again.  I once thought I could never love a land more than the wilds of the Mindens but . . . perhaps it is the sweat and toil we’ve invested that we miss.”

“No, it is our ladies we miss, as much as the soil and the scenery,” I sighed.  “But for that, at least, I have a remedy.”  I took a pouch out and handed it to him.  “The magical mirror of Sevendor,” I reminded him.  “Use it and summon your bride to speak to you before you arrive, to let her know the good news.”

I had already alerted Banamor myself, so the news of the Sevendori casualties and the day of our arrival was well-known, but nothing beats hearing it from your warrior’s own lips.  “Just don’t be too long – I want to speak to Alya before she’s crippled with morning sickness again.”

Chapter Fifty-Two

The Mageland of Sevendor

The trip home to Sevendor was almost leisurely, compared to the pace we’d been running at since we’d left.  The siege of Sevendor, the conquest of Fleria, the end of the Magic Fair, the Spellmonger’s Trial, and Sire Cei’s wedding all seemed like years ago, but they were less than a moon in our past.  The men who trudged off the barge at Sendaria Port, were not the same men who had trudged into the bailey of Sevendor Castle three weeks before.

They had seen war – not as a frightened peasant in a siege, desperately defending their lives, but as warriors in the field, seeking and slaying the enemy where they found them.  They were no longer Bovali peasants, or even Sevendori peasants.  The men who had fled from Boval Vale with naught but the clothes on their backs had become something more, in the heat of battle.  They wore their snowflake tabards with a different attitude, now.  The new Sevendori had proven to themselves in battle that they were a fell people led by a powerful lord.

It occurred to me as we were disembarking at Sendaria Port that they were not the only ones changed – staring down that dragon’s maw, being nearly dashed to pieces by its tail, I had brushed up against my mortality yet again – only this time I had Alya and Minalyan – and whomever the little bugger growing in my wife’s belly turned out to be – who were depending on me . . . not to die bravely in battle, but to protect them from everything from hunger and poverty to vengeful warlords and undead goblin heads.  Without me standing between them and those dangers, they were vulnerable.

That had been the sobering thought that had haunted me every mile up the river.  Without me, where would my wife and son be?  Sevendor was secure, such as I could make it, but it was far from being impregnable even to mundane human attack.  I was – much to my amazement – fabulously wealthy now, and that, at least, I could fix . . . if I was around to fix it.  Because without me pushing to do it, who would?

That was the crux of my problem.  For the last two years I had been running around trying to keep things moving, make things happen, and risked my life repeatedly in the process.  Back then it seemed a small enough wager – but now I was not the only player at the table.  If I fell now, then most of what I was working toward would fall with me.

Not only would the new Sevendor Castle not be built, and the fate of my family would be in doubt, but there would be no strong leadership to guide it, to protect it, to advocate for the special nature of the place.

Worse, in the long run, was what would happen to the war effort.  The nascent Arcane Orders would likely collapse – oh, Pentandra would do her best to keep them together, united, but she was no warmage.  As competent and brilliant as she was, she could not boss Azar and Terleman around like I could – she wasn’t a warmage.  While the Hesians and the smaller orders would likely follow her, without the Horkan Order would start acting independently, and eventually fighting among themselves.

At least she’d have the Order of the Secret Tower on her side.  If they could ever figure out exactly what they were supposed to be doing.

The Censorate was already marshalling strength in Merwin and Vore, from the news I’d received in Barrowbell.  The Duke of Merwin had re-affirmed their charter, and granted them even more power under his authority.  A new Censor General had been elected, and by all reports he was a zealot about the Bans.  Even normal, law-abiding magi were fleeing from the east.  Without me and the Arcane Orders to offer them protection (and recruit them for the war effort) they would be trouble.

King Rard and his vicious Family was otherwise occupied at the moment, which was a relief – whatever their other machinations, they seemed to have gotten what they wanted from us magi, and were leaving us alone . . . for now.

But the specter of Lady Isily’s child was still out there, and I could not help but feeling a chill down my spine every time I recalled my conversation with the Princess on Coronation Day.  The Family were uneasy allies at best, and I fully anticipated them turning on us eventually.  Indeed, I was almost counting on it.

Then there was our alliance, such as it was, with the Alka Alon.  I was as suspicious about that as I was eager to exploit it, but I didn’t understand it.  Despite all we knew about the Tree Folk through literature, most of that knowledge was over a thousand years old, predating humanity’s appearance on Callidore.

We knew almost nothing of their politics and strengths in the present.  While absence of knowledge isn’t proof of anything but ignorance, there had been several subtle suggestions I’d picked up from their conversations.  Such as knowing that there was a political split within the Alkan community, with one side favoring an alliance with humanity and the other side morally opposed.

That would doubtlessly play a role in how the war played out.  For whatever reason the Alka Alon had adopted me as their ambassador, and my possession of the only snowstone deposit on Callidore did give me some leverage with them, considering how eager they were to acquire and experiment with it.  Such longevity as the Alka possess makes novelty a particularly precious coin.  Snowstone was something new, magically speaking, and that had gotten their interest as much as the specter of the Dead God.

But he was the ultimate reason I had to stay alive.  I could not die in good conscience while that abomination existed.  I had stood in its presence and felt the seething evil that had blighted reality in front of me.  There was no negotiation with that hatred.

With the power at his disposal, the Dead God would not be stopped by anything less than his own destruction.  The most I could hope for was to slow him down while we came up with a unique solution.  Somehow I suspected that snowstone would play a role in that, but I could not imagine how.

It did underscore just how important my continuing to live was.  With me, there was a chance we could last long enough to find a way to slay the un-slayable.  Without me . . . well, maybe they could think of something, but I couldn’t.  One might say that’s egocentric of me to think, but the big sphere of glowing green amber that floated around me all the time agreed with me.

Besides . . . the one important lesson I’d learned in the last year was that I could not afford to worry about what other people thought about me.  I was the Magelord of Sevendor, the Spellmonger.  I had no peer.  I was unique, and this was a unique time in history.  The only way I could survive – and the only possible way I could triumph – was to keep that fact in mind.

What I was doing has never been done before, and while I could take inspiration and instruction from others and from history, the plain, no-nonsense fact of the matter was that I, alone, was in a position to judge my actions.

That’s a pretty scary thought, when you think about it long enough.  But after attacking it from all sides, that was all I was left with.  And if that course of action included a lot of egotistical nonsense due to my own quirky personality, Posterity would just have to contend with that.

By the time Tyndal had hired us fresh horses for our return journey, I was feeling better.  Then I remembered that I no longer had my old friend Traveler with me, and I started feeling worse again.

He wasn’t the only one not coming back.  Sevendor had bled for this war. Jurlor had lost a son and a nephew in the battle before the castle, and three of the Westwoodmen would not be returning to their forest home.  Gurisham had lost thirty men of the sixty they’d sent, including Headman Brandine.

Sevendor Village had lost four more than that, and Boval Hall had spent sixty-six lives in pursuit of their feud with the gurvani.  Southridge, Genly, Brestal, and Caolan’s Pass had all given around a dozen men each, and the new domains under Sevendor’s control had lost a few hundred.

But the survivors were resilient.  They formed up with something akin to military discipline, when we departed Sendaria Port, marching with their spears and bows on their shoulders and their shields slung like hardened campaigners.  Their matching green-and-white tabards looked impressive.  And the purses of silver they had been paid dragged pleasantly heavy on their belts.  There would be no empty bellies in Sevendor this winter.

“Master,” Tyndal complained, as we rode past Chepstan Castle that evening, preparing to encamp for the night, “why couldn’t we tarry in Sendaria Port a day?  We barely arrived before we left, and there was little time to . . .”

“Spend every coin you had on whores and drink?” I supplied, helpfully.

“I was going to say ‘relax and restore ourselves’,” he corrected me, sourly.  Somehow I think we were both talking about the same thing.  “But it seems a waste to let such a valuable shopping opportunity pass.  Yule will be here before you know it,” he reminded me.

“So it will,” I agreed.  “Which is why I spent far too much coin in Barrowbell doing my shopping.  Some of it has already been sent to Sevendor, more will arrive soon.  There is nothing more exotic in Sendaria Port than you’ll find in Barrowbell.”

He looked uncomfortable.  There must be a girl involved.  “Very well.  I suppose I can whittle my gifts out of twigs or something,” he grumbled.

“Oh, don’t worry,” I encouraged.  “You’ll have plenty of time to shop.  You and Rondal.”

“Huh?” my other apprentice said, when he heard his name.  “Master?”

“Just after Yule,” I revealed to them, “you both will be going back to Sendaria Port, weather depending, and thence downriver.  All the way to Inarion Academy.  I have used my influence to get you both special appointments there, for individual training and assessment.  I’d like to think I’ve done a decent job giving you the basics of Imperial magic, but the fact is your educations have been a little . . . unorthodox, thanks to Shereul.

“Now that you are both nearly grown, are High Magi, and are magelords in your own right, you need more polishing.  So Rondal, you will spend six weeks at Inarion.”

“Six weeks!” scoffed Tyndal, alarmed. “That’s forever!”

“Then you’ll be there twice as forever, because I’ve arranged for you to do twelve weeks there.  While Rondal goes to Coran Mor, to the War College, to get his own six weeks of intensive, individual combat instruction.  Then you will both do another six weeks of combined training under the finest warmagi in the Kingdom.”

They both looked appalled.  “But Master!” Rondal said, his eyes wide with fear, “why?  Have we not given good service?  Have we not—”

“It’s not about your service, and it’s not a punishment,” I explained patiently.  “Look, you two are unique.  You have power available to you far in excess of your skills.  You’ve muddled through on cantrips and quick wits and brute force, so far, but you both need additional training, and the cold fact of the matter is that I’m going to be too busy to provide it the way it should be.  You both possess a strong, unblemished Talent, you both have higher than normal intelligence, and you are both hale and hearty.

“More importantly,” I said, in a somewhat lower voice, “I can trust you . . . and that’s going to be at a premium in the future, boys.  We have power, now, and not just magical power.  We have political power – and don’t forget that that’s what doomed the Archmagi of old.  Having power gains you enemies faster than a foul mouth.  And power held unused is an invitation to the ambitions of your enemies.

“So you’re going to learn how to be my agents,” I explained.  “I’m going to pack your skulls as full of magic and other skills as I can, and then you are going to do my bidding.”

“Don’t we do your bidding now, Master?” Tyndal whined.

“I want you to do my bidding better.  You need to be more effective tools, more effective weapons.  You are mighty, but you are clumsy.  But don’t despair – if it was a life of lusty adventure you wanted, you’re getting your wish.”

“That’s not what I wanted!” Rondal insisted.

“Tough,” I sighed.  “I never wanted to be a Magelord either, but here I am.  The gods don’t always give us what we want, nor do they always give us what we want the way we thought we wanted it.  I wanted to be a Spellmonger in a quiet mountain village.

“Well, my first attempt didn’t work out that well, but this one, I’m hoping, will stick.  I didn’t imagine owning the place, but I’m finding it’s helpful that I do.  It’s also helpful to have useful minions and intelligent, effective agents.  I need a well-organized, strong leader like Sire Cei to be my castellan, I need a wily burgher like Banamor to be my Spellwarden, and I need a thoughtful, considerate, and subtle wizard like Olmeg the Green to be my Greenwarden.”

“So what will we do?” Tyndal asked, sullenly.

“You will do my errantry,” I said.  “You will be my troubleshooters, eventually.  Tyndal, I will want you to join the Horkan Order as my representative, one day.  Your skills as a warmage are impressive, and you have the kind of attitude they respect.  Rondal, I’ll want you to join the Hesian Order, where your talents will be helpful, and where you can be an effective representative for me.

“But that’s not what you will do.  What you will do is . . . whatever I need you to do.  And that’s going to cover a lot of territory.  Which implies a lot of additional training, some which you can’t even imagine yet.  But it is required of you, as it was me.  So quit complaining and enjoy the winter in Sevendor, because come Yule you both embark on fabulous careers as the Spellmonger’s dashing Knights Magi.”

Neither one seemed too pleased about that.

Nor were they alone.  Little Dara was scared about her future.  She had gone from being a backwoods bird lover one week to being instrumental in an important battle the next.  Now she was going to be my apprentice, and she didn’t even know how to read yet.

The tiny stone she’d won was attuned to her, but it represented more potential than power. Her mind just was not trained properly yet in the symbology needed to manifest her Talent.  That was a tedious process, but a necessary one . . . and she didn’t look too hopeful about it.

“Magelord, what if I fail?” she asked me, after dinner that same night at Chepstan.

“You will,” I assured her.  “Repeatedly.  Failure is where we learn, Dara.  Don’t be afraid of it.  Just don’t seek it, and you’ll be fine.”

“So, I’m just going to be a mage?”

“Oh, you’ll be more than just a mage,” I said, with quiet enthusiasm.  “Your Talent is special, my dear.  Brown Magic doesn’t get near the credit it should, just like Green Magic, but it can be a powerful tool when properly developed.  And there is much you can learn – that you must learn – to be a full-fledged mage yet, but your Talent is strong.  I have every confidence in your ability.  And Dara?”

“Yes, Magelord?”

“Just to keep you busy in your free time, I’ve noticed that Sevendor Castle seems to be lacking a mews.  Would you consider running one, if I had it built?”

“Magelord?” her eyes widened.  I didn’t know a lot about my new apprentice, but I knew she loved birds.  I had never considered hawking, as it was a sport of the nobility and requires a lot of money to do well, but then again I was not just ennobled, I was filthy rich.  A proper mews was something that Sevendor could afford.  If it also gave Dara something to keep her busy, all the better.  “I would love to!”

“I thought you might.  Don’t worry, I’ll not send you away to school like I did Tyndal and Rondal.  Your home is Sevendor – that’s why I want you trained.  When I cannot be there, I need it guarded by trusty magi.  And clever magi,” I added with a smile.  That seemed to mollify her, and she ran to tell her father and uncles about her new appointment.

We broke camp at dawn and continued on our way, not in a hurry but not dragging, either.  The weather was just beginning to turn cold, and the leaves had already began their change of color, though they had yet to shed in great number.  The whole countryside seemed aglow with red and orange and gold overhead, while plenty of green still waved in the wind.

When we came to the former village of Ferrendor, we were surprised to see . . . villagers.

Not many, but there were at least five families living in hastily-assembled huts, preparing the settlement for winter.  They were all Trestendori smallholders that Sire Sigalan had persuaded to take residence here in the last few weeks.  With them was the old but hale Sir Olsted, who led a half-dozen men-at-arms camped in the ruins of the old tower of Ferrendor.  It would be rebuilt, he assured me over a brief luncheon at the site, come springtime.  And he would be its new lord, in fealty to Sigalan.

Sire Sigalan was investing in the estate cautiously, but the new revenues from his re-gained estates and the new income from his red clay mine had given him the wherewithal to re-claim this once-lucrative property.  Sir Olsted spoke expansively about the great inn that would be built here.  Indeed, Sire Sigalan was counting on the traffic between Sevendor and Sendaria Port to fuel the village’s economic growth.

We pressed on after noon, and passed through the recently-conquered domain of Kest, under Baron Arathanial’s vassal.  The people seemed well enough, and a few pennies and a pipeful persuaded them to reveal their thoughts about their new lord.

Unsurprisingly, they were quite positive – the people of Kest had never loved Sire Gimbal the way that their lord had, and Baron Arathanial had given wide amnesties to their debts and crimes.  They were quite satisfied with the way things had turned out, even with the recent bloodshed.

By late afternoon we had come to Sevendor.

Not Sevendor Vale, but to the region that would eventually be known locally as Outer Sevendor: the domain of Bastidor.  When we approached the frontier, we were met with an honor guard sent by the Lord of Bastidor, my new vassal.

Nearly two hundred men departed from my troops to return to their homes there, mostly peasant infantry.  Their own full purses meant that I would have to do less to succor my new estate than I had planned.

That’s also where men from Karandor, Hosly, Hosendor and Northwood also departed, and I gifted them each another ounce of silver as a reward for stalwart service.

They were still wary about serving under a magelord, but a few weeks fighting side by side with the Sevendori after spending a few weeks fighting against them had convinced these Riverlands men than the Wilderlands folk in the blind valley were not as strange or as foreign as they had been told.  They could serve a magelord, they had decided – especially one as open-handed as me.

That was the secret to successful feudal politics, I was learning.  Bribery.

The last remnant of my troops formed up and excitedly began to march southward, toward their adopted home.  They began to sing a lusty marching song to keep cadence, and someone had even produced a flute to accompany them.

I pulled my mantle a little more tightly over my neck as a chill breeze blew, the smell of snow in the air even if it was weeks before the first flake fell on the valley.  I recalled the first time I had made this journey, only a year before.  I recalled the decrepit state of the domain, back then, as we came to Ketta’s Stream (where several native Sevendori insisted on stopping for a drink for luck).  It seemed like a lifetime ago, but it had been but a dozen moons, one full year.

The differences were blatant.  Where the dry, dusty slope up to the vale had been choked with weeds and despair the year before, now my nascent Enchanted Forest was covering the slope.  On either side of the road and stream were scores of saplings and a creeping green carpet of dangerous ground cover.

Master Olmeg himself was tending the Forest when we arrived, swathed in a long green mantle, a straw conical peasant’s hat on his head, his long pipestem protruding naturally from his bearded face like a branch of a tree.  He leaned on his staff, his bare feet in the soil, and waved to us as we passed.  Around him were a dozen or so River Folk, most spreading some white soil around the floor of the Enchanted Forest from wheelbarrows or llama-drawn carts.

“Magelord,” the green mage said in his sonorous bass, a slight incline of his head expressing everything he wished to communicate.

“Master Olmeg,” I nodded in return.  “How went the harvest, in our absence?”

“Nearly done, Magelord,” he assured me.  “Nearly twice the yield I predicted.  Indeed, we had to send three wains of potatoes north into the new domains, as we had no place to store them.”

“That’s a problem I don’t mind having,” I smiled.  “Are you liming the forest, then?” I asked, indicating the River Folk’s labor.

“Nay, that is snowstone powder,” he explained.  “I have collected a mound of it, and we are spreading it here in hopes it will help encourage some of the defensive enchantments.”

“That’s brilliant,” I nodded, thoughtfully.  “I should have thought of that.”  If the snowstone lowered magic resistance, there were a number of plants that were affected by the local magic field.  Everything from rowan, holly, and hickory to weirwood and Gallows Oaks.  Given that advantage, I could just imagine what kind of defense it could become in the future.

We passed the Enchanted Forest and rode through the barren gap before the Diketower, only to hear cheers from its ramparts the moment we came into sight.  Those guardsmen who had been left behind were ecstatic to see their comrades and neighbors again, and I’d like to think that they enjoyed seeing me again, too.

“Do you remember the first time we crossed this gap, Magelord?” Sire Cei asked, as he pulled his horse even with mine.  “I was convinced that we had been doomed by the gods with this place.  I had not the wit to see its potential.”

“Well, considering how much magic and how much gold and how much sweat went into its improvement, I don’t blame you,” I agreed.  “Still, I’d like to think it was worth the effort.”

As we passed through the Dike Gate to Boval Hall, Tyndal took the opportunity to light up the tower with his magelight.  The peak of Matten’s Helm stood boldly in front of us, the brand new village at its feet.  “There’s an inn there, now, where once there was an empty field.  The granaries are stuffed.”

“Look, Magelord,” Sire Cei said, pointing up.  He indicated the peak of Matten’s Helm, where I could just make out something unusual.  I summoned magesight and amplified my eyes until I could see a small white structure taking shape: the Alkan embassy, being built by their trusted Stone Folk allies.  They worked quickly, when they wanted to.

“Interesting,” I murmured.  “But not the thing I’m most interested in.  Shall we head for the castle?”

“That’s where they are,” he said, with more passion than I would have credited the man with a year ago.  Marriage agreed with him.

We rode through Gurisham, where the village men returned to cheers and weeping.  The village looked very different from a year ago, from the new construction to the re-built and augmented hovels of the Gurisham folk.  The commune was doing well and prospering, it was clear.  I waved, passed out a handful of copper pennies to the children, and kept riding.  I was getting anxious.

If Gurisham was different, one wouldn’t have recognized Sevendor Village.  In one scant year, the place had more than tripled in size.  Where once a dozen hovels stood, now there were three dozen stout, well-built structures of brick, wood, wattle-and-daub, some roofed with thatch but more and more roofed with more-expensive but far more durable clay tiles.  Sevendor Village was prospering under the weight of her newfound commerce.

Banamor said as much when he met us at the village gate – or where a gate would eventually stand.  He rode a small brown mare and wore a long gray robe with his bade-of-office around his neck.

“Welcome home, Magelord!” he called, merrily.  “On behalf of the Town of Sevendor, please tarry a moment for a drink and a blessing.  It would mean much to us.”

“ ‘Town’ of Sevendor?” Sire Cei asked, curious.

“As of a week ago,” affirmed Banamor.  “There was a village council meeting, and it was pointed out that there are almost three thousand souls within our limits, now.  That is far too big for a mere village.  We are still hashing over the details, but we intend to write up a charter for you to sign, Magelord.  I can assure you,” he said with a wolfish grin, “you’ll enjoy the terms.  Your tribute will almost double.”

“In exchange for . . . ?” I asked warily.

“Certain minor and incidental rights and privileges,” he dismissed.  “We can talk about it later, but I don’t think you’ll object.  In any case, we sort of had to.  The Magical Fair . . .” he trailed off.

My heart sank.  “We lost money?” I asked.

Banamor shook his head.  “The Magelord jests.  We made close to seven hundred ounces of gold, once expenses were covered.  Most of that was on booth rentals and commissions, but we even broke even on admissions.  And concessions were spectacular.  I can’t wait for next year!”  Considering he paid himself a healthy percentage of the Fair’s take, I’m sure he couldn’t.

“What the hell are those?” I asked, after stopping at the tavern on the commons for a drink and a few moments of camaraderie with my men before they were mustered out of service.  There were three new construction projects on the north end of the village – town – that had sprung up while we were gone.  “New homes?”

“In a matter of speaking,” Banamor said, slyly.  “You remember last year when you granted Jurlor the right to rent the three lots closest to the village?  He did.  The one to the west is rented . . . to the Guild of Enchanters.”

“Who the hell are they?” I asked, irritated.

“An ad-hoc group of spellmongers and resident adepts who are mad about snowstone and the properties of Sevendor.  They formed in the tavern during the Magic Fair, and leased the space from Jurlor at a handsome price.  Next to it is the new tower complex being built by those Remeran friends of yours . . . the Order of the Hidden Fortress?”

“Secret Tower,” I amended.  “Planus and Penny’s Dad?  Really?”

“Apparently they were . . . unimpressed by the amenities offered by the castle,” he said, diplomatically.  “I helped broker the deal, but Lady Pentandra insisted on establishing a presence for her father’s order here in Sevendor, and she found the space acceptable.  They plan on a seven-story tower, in the Remeran style.  It should be finished in just a few years, provided they can get the artisans they need.”

“And what about that one?” I asked, pointing to the eastern lot, where surveying work was just beginning.  “Don’t tell me Shereul wants his own embassy to Sevendor?”

“If he did, I’d charge him double,” Banamor assured me.  “But no, that lot will soon be the home to the local chapterhouse of the Arcane Orders.  Also Pentandra’s doing, I’m afraid.  I meant to discuss it with you and get your approval, but Jurlor insisted he had the right to lease it, and then you were at war, so . . .”

“Well, I can’t argue with that one,” I sighed.  “I was wondering just how we were going to house all the folk bound to drop by Sevendor in the future.  If the Arcane Orders have their own chapterhouse here, I won’t have to put them up at the castle at my expense,” I reasoned.

“That was Lady Pentandra’s thinking,” he agreed.  “She’s a remarkable woman,” he added, unnecessarily.

“Yes, she is,” I said.  I didn’t need to add anything to that.

When we had concluded our brief stop in the village, we continued around the pristine white-bottomed lake that now reflected the gleaming white walls and castle shining in the sunset.  I let out an expressive sigh as we began the last leg of our journey.  The Westwoodmen took their leave at the track that led to their holding, little Dara as excited about seeing home again as I was.

Almost.

Of course, the gods could not allow me to enjoy the anticipation of seeing my family again unfettered.  Just as we approached the great white gleaming wall of my castle, I felt the annoying touch of a mind-to-mind contact.  I would have rejected just about anyone’s thoughts, just then, content with my own, but the source made me answer.

Yes, Iyugi? I asked my magical spy. You have something to report?

I do, Magelord, the former footwizard told me.  I have tracked the woman to Wenshar.  I have found her.  She . . . and her baby girl.  Mother and daughter are doing well, if the birthsister who tends her is to be believed.  They are at a castle in northwestern Wenshar, near to the frontier with the wildlands of the Kulines.  A domain called Norideth, in the County of Vorenshar.

Excellent work, Iyugi, I answered.  Find some way to set a watch on the place without alerting the lady within – I trust you can manage that?

If the magelord can afford it, he answered.

Spend what you need, I ordered.  And then hurry back to Sevendor, when you have ensured she cannot leave without our notice.  I have other need of your services.

As the Magelord wishes.  Iyugi is your humble servant.

Iyugi was more my slave than my servant – his dignity had slipped appallingly when I had given him his witchstone as a reward for his skills at ferreting out other people’s secrets – and keeping my own.  He had danced like a little child, so gleeful was he in his newfound power.

I had had to temper that enthusiasm with my dreadful oath, but he had accepted the terms of our arrangement without discussion.  If being my sworn man was the price of power, he was more than willing to labor in the service of the Spellmonger and take my coin.

Thus far, Iyugi had proven utterly trustworthy – I hoped I could continue to count on that.  Having him track down Lady Isily’s whereabouts, and the status of my illegitimate daughter, had been his trial run.  Now I had even more serious work for the spy.

“I can hardly believe we’re back,” Sire Cei murmured as we crossed under the gatehouse, where a new snowflake-and-star banner hung.  “It seems a lifetime that we left.”

“So it was, Dragonslayer,” I said, slapping his armored shoulder heartily.  “A dragon’s life.  But we are back.  And I could not be more content.”  I banished all worry about the consequences of my wartime liaison from me – this was a time of joy.

There were only a few score of us now, the men who lived and worked in the castle.  Their womenfolk had gathered in the bailey in front of the gate awaiting them, and they broke into loud cheers as we mounted the rise.

It was a small little castle, far less grand than those I’d seen lately, but I loved it.  From the snow-white walls of its keep to the stately old trees in the yard, from the depths of the well to the peak of my personal tower, I realized that I loved this little castle in a way I had not thought I could love a mere place.

Sire Cei and I stopped our horses in the bailey and handed off the reins to stableboy before being enveloped by our loved-ones.  Alya was in my arms and on my lips the moment my boots hit the white dirt, slobbering on me, soaking my mantle with her tears, filling my ears with her laughter and joy.  Lady Estret was mauling her new husband like a panting teenager, her daughter grinning wildly and giggling over their antics.

When I finally let Alya go, reluctantly, it was only because I felt a tremendous desire to hold my son.  Only when I had his pudgy little body in my hands again did I feel the last bit of anxiety slip away, the last bit of immediate worry fall.  He was hale and healthy, fat, pink and stinky.  Everything I could want in a son.

I let out perhaps the most expressive sigh I’ve ever made.  I began to take my wife’s hand and drag her inside when I realized something was left undone.  As the vale began to sink into twilight, the sun disappearing behind Caolan’s Pass in the west, I raised my hand and snapped.  Instantly, a great green magelight formed over my tower, painting its white stones in an unearthly magical glow.

“Daddy’s home,” I announced.  And in the distance, all the way across the commons and the lake and over the wall, I could hear the people of Sevendor Village cheering.

The Magelord had come home to Sevendor, and tonight, at least, all was at peace.  And as if to answer me, the gods sent the first snowflake of the season early, the beginning of the first light dusting of the season.  I chose to take it as a good omen.

It was the Magelord’s prerogative.

The End

This is a special Early Edition version of this book at special pricing.

You may contact the author at tmancour@gmail.com

Table of Contents

The Spellmonger Series

Chapter One The Domain Of Sevendor

Chapter Two The Dismissal Of Sir Erantal

Chapter Three Housekeeping

Chapter Four Affairs of State

Chapter Five In Which I Meet A Neighbor

Chapter Six The Yeoman Of Sevendor

Chapter Seven The Reconquest Of Brestal Vale

Chapter Eight The Emissary Of The Warbird

Chapter Nine Winter Court

Chapter Ten Breakfast With A Footwizard

Chapter Eleven I Fight My First Duel Of Honor

Chapter Twelve The Blizzard and the Birthing Chamber

Chapter Thirteen The Snow That Never Melted

Chapter Fourteen Sire Gimbal Pays A Call

Chapter Fifteen Olmeg the Green

Chapter Sixteen A Ransom In Poultry

Chapter Seventeen I Collect A Debt And Visit A Spellmonger

Chapter Eighteen The Robinwing Conclave

Chapter Nineteen The Arcane Orders

Chapter Twenty The Legend Of The Forsaken

Chapter Twenty-One The Bovali Migration

Chapter Twenty-Two Spring Homecoming

Chapter Twenty-Three The Many Wizards of Sevendor

Chapter Twenty-Four Chepstan Spring Fair

Chapter Twenty-Five The Censorate of Magic

Chapter Twenty-Six Lunch With The Baron

Chapter Twenty-Seven Sir Cei On The Lists

Chapter Twenty– Eight Lady Estret Of Cargwenyn

Chapter Twenty-Nine The Alliance Over Cargwenyn

Chapter Thirty The Growth Of Sevendor

Chapter Thirty-One Landbrother Mison

Chapter Thirty-Two High Summer In Sevendor

Chapter Thirty-Three Lady Pentandra of Fairoaks

Chapter Thirty-Four The Coronet Council

Chapter Thirty-Five The Coronation of Rard I

Chapter Thirty-Six The Kingdom of Castalshar

Chapter Thirty-Seven Sevendor Under Siege

Chapter Thirty-Eight My New Neighbors

Chapter Thirty-Nine An Embassy From The Alka Alon

Chapter Forty The Wedding Of Sire Cei And Lady Estret

Chapter Forty-One The Sevendor Magic Fair

Chapter Forty-Two The Spellmonger’s Trial

Chapter Forty-Three The Siege of Castle Cambrian

Chapter Forty-Four I Summon The Banners

Chapter Forty-Five The Great Transportation

Chapter Forty-Six The Relief Of Castle Cambrian

Chapter Forty-Seven I Charge Bravely Into Battle

Chapter Forty-Eight Dragonfall

Chapter Forty-Nine The Dragonslayers

Chapter Fifty The Joy Of Barrowbell, The Sorrow Of Gilmora

Chapter Fifty-One The King Arrives In Barrowbell

Chapter Fifty-Two The Mageland of Sevendor