Enchanter

Book Seven Of The Spellmonger Series

By Terry Mancour

Copyright © June 2015

FIRST KINDLE EDITION

Dedicated To Curtis Booker,

Who Taught Me That Language Is

A Magic Power All Its Own.

The Spellmonger Series

Spellmonger

Warmage

Magelord

Knights Magi

High Mage

Journeymage

Enchanter

Anthology: The Road To Sevendor

Novella: The Spellmonger’s Honeymoon

(Forthcoming)

Court Wizard

Shadowmage

Spellmonger Cadet (YA) Series

Hawkmaiden

Hawklady (Forthcoming)

CONTENTS

Part One

Chapter One

Firing Pentandra

Chapter Two

The Magic Fair

Chapter Three

A Civil Discussion Among Colleagues

Chapter Four

The Arcane Knights Of Nablus

Chapter Five

Whispers Of Truth

Chapter Six

Dodging Isily

Chapter Seven

The Solace Of The Snowflake

Chapter Eight

Ishi’s Tits

Chapter Nine

The Bouleuterion

Chapter Ten

The Cenacles Of Sevendor

Part Two

Chapter Eleven

An Enchanting Yule

Chapter Twelve

Ruderal

Chapter Thirteen

Sire Cullien

Chapter Fourteen

Baking Muffins With Briga

Chapter Fifteen

The Wall Of Gold

Chapter Sixteen

Amel Wood

Chapter Seventeen

Sevendor Grows

Chapter Eighteen

Inspection Tour

Chapter Nineteen

A Lively Theological Debate

Chapter Twenty

The Complications Of Divinity

Part Three

Chapter Twenty-One

Half A Worm

Chapter Twenty Two

Chepstan Fair

Chapter Twenty Three

The Baroness At The Fair

Chapter Twenty Four

The Quiet Invasion Of Rolone

Chapter Twenty Five

The Woodland Masque

Chapter Twenty Six

Lady Pleasure

Chapter Twenty Seven

Ishi’s Dubious Blessing

Chapter Twenty Eight

The Transitory Siege of Rolone Castle

Chapter Twenty-Nine

A Quick Trip To Wilderhall

Chapter Thirty

Princess Rardine

Part Four

Chapter Thirty One

Sir Ganulan’s Tale

Chapter Thirty Two

Sir Cullien Returns To Rolone

Chapter Thirty Three

The Battle Of Rolone Castle

Chapter Thirty Four

The Perfect Paraclete

Chapter Thirty Five

The Celestial Mother

Chapter Thirty Six

Thieves In The Night

Chapter Thirty Seven

The Menace Of The Enshadowed

Chapter Thirty Eight

The Truth Comes Out

Chapter Thirty Nine

Under The Mask

Chapter Forty

Castle Salaisus

Epilogue

Appendix A:

Minalan’s Orismology Of Enchantment (GLOSSARY SECTION)

Appendix B:

A Brief History Of Enchantment By Master Ulin of Setria

Special Bonus Short Story:

“Checkered Past”

MAPS

Sevendor Town & Environs

Political Map of the Bontal Vales

The Sashtali Confederation

PART ONE

Chapter One

Firing Pentandra

PARAVANT

“The mind of the Enchanter is his most vital and valuable tool; for the aspiration to imbue ordinary objects with extraordinary power requires vision, will, discipline, desire, refinement and perseverance, all of which are dependent upon the Imagination and mental acuity of the Enchanter.  Remember, too, that the soul and the seat of feeling can propel the mind like a tempest at sea.  It is absolutely essential, therefore, that the Enchanter clear away old business from his mind, sweep away the useless and the trivial, and prepare his imagination for the great work to which he aspires.

The Gramary Of Finical of Pavonia

It was beautiful.

I stood and watched the four-foot wide crystalline snowflake as it constantly and continuously changed form.  It always had six sides, six points, and a center; apart from that it evolved from one perfectly pristine form to another.  The whole thing glowed with an arcane light, casting beams of magical illumination that were reflected endlessly by the crystals encrusting the vesicle in which it had been created.

The effect created a twinkle of light that made the entire chamber seem to be alive.  Like sunlight on water or a breeze through autumn leaves.  It pulsated with the flow of magical energy rushing into this most magical of places.  There was a kind of throbbing in the natural chamber, called a denehole (which made this chamber, within a small circle, The Denehole) a combined hum and hiss that waxed and waned with the beautiful object’s constant transformation, a hum that you felt in your bones and deeper, as it saturated the magosphere around you.  The Snowflake of Sevendor had become the focal point for the arcane energies in my domain since the moment it had sprung into existence.

From my mind.  While I was in the depths of a magical coma a few months ago, due to an overindulgence in magical travel and pride, my brain was swollen and inflamed.  I’d nearly died.  Nine days of unconsciousness and a hellride of nightmarish dreams had eventually necessitated the use of divine intervention to revive me, as well as a titanic effort by the wisest magi in my domain.  This sparkling, crystalline manifestation of my resolve to return to consciousness and my deep desire for a point of stability had sprung into existence here as a result.  The Karshak stonemasons discovered it in a recently-opened shaft that had penetrated this sealed vesicle the day I awakened.

These deep pockets within the basalt mountain the locals called Rundeval had existed for eons.  The Karshak stonesinger Guri had explained to me that, like the fissures and cracks in bread, the cooling and settling of the rocks in dark ages past opened such vesicles.  Frequently they were naught but empty caves, but in some the alchemy of the stone, combined with heat, pressure, and great age, allowed all manner of crystals to naturally form.

They had been there waiting for ages when an impromptu magical spell associated with the birth of my oldest son accidently transformed every bit of silica in a two-mile radius (plus little bits here and there, in the zone just beyond it, as we had discovered) into a bright white substance the sages classified as neveitite and we wizards called snowstone.  Snowstone, as it turns out, alters the magical resistance of the surrounding area.  It was unique and uniquely valuable.  And I had a monopoly on the entire world’s supply.

The mineral crystals growing within that area had been likewise transformed.  Most of them incorporated a lot of silica in their alchemical makeup, and they had transformed into a wide array of exotic variants.  Each new cache of them the Karshak encountered seemed to reveal brilliant new stones and crystals with all manner of unique thaumaturgical properties.  The Karshak had harvested hundreds of them, so far.  I had a growing collection of them safely stored in a hidden cavern in another part of the mountain where I could take them out one at a time for study.  It was a slow process, but it had been fruitful.

Among the amazing artifacts had been stones that allowed transport over long distances (thus leading to my medical condition) stones that allowed me to create “pockets” out of phase with the rest of our reality, stones that allowed the sharing of memories, stones that ensured the permanency of thaumaturgic enneagrams, stones that let you see long distances – the breadth and scope of the collection was growing with each new study of the crystals.  And every new vesicle revealed a new trove of magical wonder.

But the Snowflake of Sevendor was the most wondrous of all.  Built, apparently, by select elements pulled from the unmined vesicle’s walls and floor, and designed entirely by my subconscious’ tortured whim, the beautiful artifact was not, strictly speaking, mere gemwork.  It wasn’t even, strictly speaking, an artifact.  I’d been instrumental in its creation, but it was not designed by me in any conscious manner.  In fact, it had come from my fevered subconscious.

Which apparently is very pretty.

In truth I had no idea what manner of magical mineral had found its way into its construction, how they were arranged, or by what force.  The process of creation, thanks to the helping hands of a couple of handy gods, had transformed the mysterious object into something that transcended mere matter and energy.  It wasn’t just a staggeringly-beautiful ever-changing gem.  The Snowflake had many of the characteristics of a molopor.

Molopors are holes in the magosphere, fixed areas of instability in reality itself.  There were all sorts of documented molopors, and while many of them did different things, they had some thaumaturgical commonalities.  The Snowflake shared several of these.

But one hallmark of a molopor is its essential static nature.  They might fade into or out of existence, but they never physically changed or moved.  The Snowflake was ever-changing.  It was always moving.

When you gazed on it with magesight, it really got spectacular.  It was a focal point for energy and the symbolic representations my mind supplied to inform my senses were one convulsive burst of magic after another.  There were tendrils and arcs of power that stretched from the core or a particular point out to the crystals on the wall of the denehole, for no reason that I could fathom.

I had taken to making the long trip down the deep shaft the Karshak had carved out of the living rock of the mountain to the vesicle several times since I’d returned to Sevendor, now, and every visit seemed to give me more insight into the Snowflake.

But, truth be known, I still had no real idea what it did.  Or why, exactly, I had created it.  But here it was, deep within the heart of the mountain, churning the magosphere around us like butter.  Something I’d made, but did not understand.

One could take that as a philosophical metaphor, if one was so inclined.

The Karshak had entered the vesicle at the north-east side; the vaguely-roundish tube stretched about five stories overhead, the interior of the white stone encrusted with all manner of colorful gems.  In the other vesicles the Karshak found the floor littered with crystalline debris fallen from above, over the millennia.  Mostly plain quartz, the debris was an intriguing element in the exploration of the vesicles.

But not in this one.  Whatever else my subconscious had salvaged from the vesicle, a goodly portion of it was comprised of snowstone quartz.  But there were plenty of other minerals involved, too, I could tell.  The area under the Snowflake had been neatly excavated of all of its loose matter until it had left a smooth circular impression about six feet wide in the bottom of the vesicle.

The Karshak’s entry point had disturbed some crystals that had been carefully removed to my laboratory for cataloging and eventual study.  They carefully expanded the doorway to keep from disturbing any further sites, creating an antechamber with steps leading down to the Snowflake’s chamber that almost looked like they were naturally formed.  I’d had a chair brought down so I could sit and regard the creation, smoke a pipe and contemplate its utility.

But one can only stare into the mesmerizing recesses of crystal the thing presents for so long before the effort starts to wear on you.  Merely being in the Snowflake’s presence took concentration.  The forces at play were that potent.

Finally I sighed and stood.  I’d been there for at least two hours, perhaps more.  I’d intended on only spending a few moments with it.  Once again my fascination had led to procrastination when I had important things to do.

But, damn it, it was just so bloody beautiful it was hard not to return as often as I could.

The long shaft the Karshak had cut into the mountain now stretched almost four hundred feet into the stone.  Once they had delved the opening to their mine, and gotten their quarrying crews under way, work proceeded quickly.

With no need to worry about light or weather, Master Guri had four crews working the site, day and night.  The Karshak teams were now excavating and removing six-ton blocks of white basalt every few hours with preternaturally coordinated effort.  A stockpile of them was growing around the entrance to the shaft.  They were massive, cottage-sized slabs of solid rock that Guri indicated would become the foundation stones of the huge gatehouse he wanted to build first.

That first shaft Guri had insisted be dug because it would act as a guide shaft for the continued excavation of my new castle.  Yes, we were tunneling into the mountain and transforming it into the biggest, toughest fortress of the age.  Eventually the interior would be expanded into a massive hall five stories high and two-hundred feet long.  That was a lot of stone to remove.

But then the Karshak needed it, I reflected as I walked through the pale tunnel using magesight in the darkness.  The Karshak workers disliked it when someone used magelights around them while they worked, and I tried to respect that.  Master Guri’s master plan for the new keep included not only a new, improved curtain wall around the whole place, and an impressive new gatehouse to the castle, but also for two massive battle towers and a magnificent spire eventually towering over Rundeval’s peak.

But that was years away.  For now, I had a mountain with a hole in it and a big pile of rocks to show for the truly spectacular amount of gold I had spent so far on the project.  As I exited the tunnel and packed my pipe in the autumn sunshine, I felt a sense of calm and composure envelop me, just as it did every time I visited the artifact.

But there was also a distinct and unshakable part of me that wanted to turn around and plunge back into the mountain at once to return to the sublime presence of the Snowflake.

As much as a part of me wanted to heed that desire, my responsibilities beckoned.  And I had a lot of them at the moment.  That was probably one reason why I enjoyed the solitude I had with the Snowflake.  When staring into the naked heart of magic it’s very hard to see such things as feudal politics and social position as at all important.  But right now I had a full table of both, and as alluring as the idea of escape was to my mind, I knew that I would be abdicating my responsibilities to do so.

The Snowflake could wait, I knew.  I was resigned to studying it later, after my duties had subsided.  It wasn’t like it was going anywhere – one of the hallmarks of a molopor is its utter immovability.

But now it was time for me to plunge back into normal life in Sevendor.  As normal as things can be the last few days before the fourth-annual Sevendor Magic Fair.

Right now the entirety of Sevendor Town was devoted to the event.  The new Commons and the field beyond it across the stream had been steadily transformed in the last few weeks into the fairgrounds, with the Fair Market at one end and a stage and assembly area at the other.  Between the two a whole village of tents, canopies, and wagons-turned-booths had been assembled.  Magi and associated tradesmen from all over the kingdom of Castalshar had journeyed hundreds of miles for this.  Every inn in town was packed, and private homes and hostels were overflowing.

My castle was pretty crowded at the moment.  Even with the addition of two new halls in the bailey it seemed every room, every chamber and every square patch of space in the castle yard was being pressed into service.  As I walked back to my workshop – the former lord’s refuge tower attached behind the main keep – I waved and bowed to hundreds who hurried around on their errands.  I tried to appear as serene and calm as everyone else was frenetic.  I had noticed that everyone did their jobs a lot more smoothly when I appeared serene and calm, rather than agitated, frustrated, or disinterested.

When I got back to the castle’s hall, Sir Festaran, the young assistant castellan, was awaiting me.

“Thank Briga you’ve returned, Sire!” the skinny young knight said, rising from his chair at the dais when he saw me enter.

“Why, are we under attack?” I grunted, good-naturedly.  Festaran made a face.

“I wish!” he sighed.  “I could do with striking a blow in earnest right now!  No, Excellency, I just wished to inform you that Lady Pentandra arrived while you were . . . in contemplation.”

“Pentandra?” I asked, surprised.  “I thought she’d be off on her honeymoon, by now.”

“She’s heading in that direction,” Festaran agreed, “but she wanted to stop by Sevendor and reclaim her witchstone from you,” he reminded me.

“Oh, yeah,” I nodded, understanding finally.  When Pentandra had elected to take the Kasari rites and enter into their ritual to try to land her beloved, Arborn, in matrimony according to his tribe’s customs, I had insisted that she do so without magic’s aid.  Just before we had said goodbye a month ago in Kasar, I had taken her torus-shaped piece of irionite into custody, forcing her to compete for her light o’ love with just her considerable wits to guide her.

Now that her rites had been concluded, and she had been wedded to the big Kasari ranger captain, she wanted her power back.

“She’s waiting for you in your study,” Festaran advised me.  “But Banamor wanted a word or two with you, when you get a chance.  As does Sire Cei,” he added, mentioning both my Spellwarden and my Castellan.  “Come to mention it, Sister Bemia, Captain Forondo, and Gareth all wished to speak to you as well.”

“Ishi’s tits!” I swore.  “Is there anyone who doesn’t want to speak to me?” as I headed for my tower.

“Master Olmeg came by this morning without the need for your consultation,” Festaran called after me.  “He was, however, unhappy with the state of the castle’s herb garden.”

That, at least, was something I could safely ignore.  Everyone else no doubt had pressing issues that needed the attention of the Magelord – me.  And I was certain that everyone’s issues were vitally important.  But right now my highest priority was seeing one of my closest and oldest friends after she got married.

Pentandra was sitting in my old bedroom when I came in, as opposed to the actual workshop upstairs.  My wife had insisted on constructing and living in a beautiful new hall in front of the castle’s door this past summer, now that things were safe and we had the money to do so.  With two babies the place was getting very crowded, and we did need the space.  My darling new home was as comfortable and lavish as I could make it for my family.

The move had provided me with the chance to spread out a bit, as a benefit, once our bed and the cradles and chests and wardrobes and other accessories had been relocated to the new hall.  Now the former bedchamber was filled with chests and shelves that were covered with books, scrolls, and the kind of general junk every spellmonger tends to accumulate over time.  A lot of it had come from upstairs, but some had finally been liberated from storage.  Where my bed had sat there was now a sturdy oaken table where I did a lot of my goofing off now.

Pentandra was seated at the table in front of the tiny fireplace, sipping wine and relaxing.

“Penny!” I smiled as I saw her.  “I had no idea you were coming!”

“Well, without a witchstone it makes it very hard to communicate magically,” she pointed out, rising and embracing me.

“How was the wedding?” I asked, eagerly.

“Rustic, simple, and passionate,” she smiled, happily.  “There were a few difficulties getting there, but once I made it clear that Arborn was mine, most of them fell away.”  The way she casually told the tale I could tell there was far more to it than she was letting on . . . including some metaphorical blood she wasn’t quite ready to relate to me, yet.  “The actual ceremony is breathtakingly simple.  But the result is the same.   I’m something I never really thought I’d ever be: someone’s wife.”

“And how are you feeling about that?” I asked, curious.  Pentandra is one of the foremost thaumaturgic sex magicians in the world, and had based her research on a legendary string of arcane sensual experiments and studies that had included me, among a multitude of other people.  But once Penny had met Arborn and fallen in love with his quiet masculine strength, she had curtailed her studies in favor of pursuing domestic life.

Mostly.

“I’m feeling . . . great about it,” she admitted, grinning self-consciously.  “Better about it than I ever thought I would.  I always thought that getting married and pledging to serve but one man would be horrifying, but now that I’m here, I can’t imagine looking at another man with Arborn around.”

“And you aren’t worried that he’s going to keep you pregnant, silent, and at the hearth?” I chuckled.

“Are you kidding?” she smiled.  “He tasted my cooking, as part of the rites.  He married me anyway.”

“Glad to hear it,” I nodded.  “I suppose you’d like your stone back, now?” I teased.

“More than anything,” she nodded, fervently.  “I can’t believe how reliant I’ve become on it.  If I hadn’t been distracted by . . . other things, it might have driven me mad.”

“Well, I’ve taken good care of it for you,” I said, retrieving a small stone box from one of the cabinets around the room.  “In fact, I took the liberty of having Onranion overhaul it.”

“Onranion?” she asked, curious, at the mention of the old Alka Alon reprobate who had become one of my magical advisors.  It was Onranion who had fashioned my witchsphere, the ball of irionite that followed me around and powered my spellcraft, out of three regular stones, and then had plied them with Alka Alon songspells.  He was one of the few living masters of the art of irionite shaping, and when I had the chance to get Penny’s stone away from her for a few weeks, I thought it was an opportune time to see about improving it.

So he had.  When I removed the silk-wrapped jewel from the box, it looked nothing like the simple torus of green amber Pentandra had reluctantly turned over to me.  Onranion had melded a spherical pebble of an Alka Alon witchstone through the hole in the torus, one of the ones known as the Seven Stones.  Then he had the Karshak lapidaries carefully construct a setting out of snowstone where the irionite could sit, surrounded by shards of crystals I’d harvested from my mountain.  Where she once had a simple stone, now she had an Enculpion of powerful magic.

There was now a bit of Waystone apophylite on the disc, allowing me to travel to Penny’s location at any time.  There was one half of a Sympathy Stone on the disc.  I had the other half.  I wasn’t doing anything in particular with it, yet, but it gave me the possibility of sharing power and other energies with Penny over long distances.

There was a sliver of yellow knot coral, a bit of blood coral that wasn’t tuned yet, and other dainties I’d been able to cultivate from my hoard.  It was, apart from the Witchsphere, the most potent magical artifact I’d assembled to date.  Half-assembled.  There was still plenty of potential enchantment left to be done on the piece, but I’d saved it for Penny to customize.

I’d had the whole thing banded in gold, enchanted to be near-unbreakable, and suspended from a fine gold chain similarly enchanted.  When worn, the entire amulet was no more than four inches across, though it was heavy.

“Consider it a wedding gift,” I explained.  “You can easily remove the irionite core from its housing,” I pointed out, “if you don’t need the augmentation.  But in its harness, Onranion and Taren worked to create a smoother magical interface for you.  They constructed a simple paraclete,” I said, mentioning the technical term for a magical intercessor.  “You can now access some of the Alkan spells through standard Imperial-style mnemonics, for example.”

“I . . . I don’t know what to say, Min,” she said, as she gazed at her pretty new necklace.  All right, it wasn’t as much pretty as gaudy, but it was as shiny as you could ask for. “It’s wonderful!  Only . . .” she said, trailing off.  And looking off into space wistfully.

Penny doesn’t do that.  Ever.

“What is it?” I demanded.

“I . . . I was thinking of quitting,” she admitted, guiltily.  “The Order, as an officer, that is.  My assistant has been running the place for the last year, anyway, and it’s not like they really need me anymore.  Once I set things up to run efficiently, well, they ran efficiently.  Enough,” she conceded.  We’d had plenty of minor issues to deal with, in the last few years, everything from mischievous Wild Magi to power-hungry magelords to various misuses of magic, but nothing had risen to any great level of concern, largely because we stayed on top of things.

“Why?” I asked, simply.

“Because . . . because I’m married, now,” she pointed out.  “Married to a big, wonderful, magnificent specimen of manhood . . . whose life has been spent in the forests.  If I try to drag Arborn back to Castabriel with me, he’ll die of boredom.  Even Fairoaks is more like a park than a wildland.  I’ve thought about it for weeks, now, Min, and I really think that’s what’s best for me.”

“Me, too,” I agreed.  I could tell by the look on her face that she wasn’t expecting that.  “In fact,” I continued, “I was going to encourage you to resign.  I was just afraid of how to approach such a delicate subject.”

“Resign?  Why?” she asked, suddenly concerned for a host of other reasons.

“Because you’re right,” I pointed out, pouring more wine for her and adding a glass for myself.  Just to be flashy I conjured it from the same ring I used to hide my sword in an extra-dimensional space.  She made a face at my blatant display but didn’t comment.  “You can’t keep living in Castabriel.  Not with Arborn.  It isn’t fair to him, and honestly it isn’t fair to you.  Or your career.  I mean, if you wanted to establish yourself as the institutional head of the professional association, I wouldn’t stop you.  I just don’t think that would make you happy.”

“It wouldn’t,” she agreed.  “Maybe once, a few years ago, when I had a lot of misplaced ambition and fantasies about power.  But . . . now that I’ve had power, in a way, I find it has little of the appeal it once had.  Mostly,” she said, gesturing to a cabinet that was overflowing with my correspondence, “it’s just boring parchmentwork.  That’s not what I want to do with my life.”

“Exactly,” I agreed.  “I figured after you were wed you might want a short holiday from such business.  But if you are interested,” I said, casually, “there might be a position in which both you and your husband may find some level of contentment.”

She studied me warily.  “What position?”

“This Yule, the Orphan Duke plans a clandestine return to Vorone,” I confided.  “Count Angrial has agreed to serve as his Prime Minister.  Count Salgo, after his ‘retirement’ as Warlord, has accepted His Grace’s offer to become the Alshari Ducal Minister of War.  That’s going to irritate a lot of folk in the Royal Court, who wanted Salgo to go retire quietly to his palatial estates in Castal . . . but the Count likes a challenge.  Restoring order to northern Alshar is as much of one as he could ask, and one that’s safely away from the majority of people who might think he’d be of better service to the Kingdom posthumously.”

“They can still reach him in Vorone,” she pointed out, skeptically.  “They reached the Duchess.”

“He knows that,” I agreed.  “He wants more people around him he can trust to watch his back.  Which is why I am suggesting that you apply for the currently vacant position of Ducal Court Wizard.”

“Ducal . . . court wizard?” she asked, skeptically.  “Me?”

“In Vorone,” I agreed.  “That would put you close enough to the wilderness for Arborn to continue his skulking, yet civilized enough that you can raise a family without fear of them being unexpectedly eaten by bears.”

“Just kidnapped by bandits,” she pointed out.  “Vorone is . . . not what it used to be.”

“I know,” I agreed.  “Which is why I want you there.  When Angrial asked me to recommend candidates, there weren’t any I could think of who would be better suited for the demands of that position.”

“Min, I’m a sex magician, mostly theoretical,” she reminded me.  “And I’ve got some small facility for telling other people what to do and signing important documents.  Other than that, there’s really no reason that I’d make a decent court wizard.”

“I disagree,” I said, shaking my head.  “This won’t be a normal Court Wizard job.  Dunselen and Thinradel were bureaucrats, because that’s what the times demanded.  Now that we’ve changed the rules and gotten ourselves invaded the requirements are going to be more demanding.  For one thing, they’ll require a lot more actual magic being cast in the service of the Duchy.  Indeed, that may be one of the few resources that Anguin has at his disposal.  But he’ll need a court wizard canny, powerful, and creative enough to contend with the problems he faces.”

“It’s . . . intriguing,” she agreed.  “But how could I help him get the place under control?”

“That’s the thing,” I shrugged.  “I don’t know.  I’m not there, on the ground, and it’s not my job to do.  If it were your job to do, then you’d find out what needed to be done, and then you’d do it.  Because when it comes to pursuing your goals, you’re one of the most ruthless people I know.”

My old friend blushed, which is rare in Pentandra.  “The thing is, Min, my goals have changed, I’ve discovered.”

“Of course they have,” I nodded.  “So have mine.  Our lives have changed.  Neither one of us could have predicted what would have happened, when we first met.  But as they have happened, and as we’ve matured, we’ve changed our goals to match our circumstances.  And changed our approach as we have needed to.  It doesn’t diminish the importance of those early goals, to have changed them.  It merely indicates a level of sophistication that transcends the simplistic, enthusiastic, idealistic approach we had in our youth.”

“I don’t know,” she said, guiltily chewing her lip, “it sounds an awful lot like giving up.  I mean, what kind of real research can I get done now that I’m married?” she said, laughing mirthlessly.

“Are you kidding?” I snorted.  “As I said, we’re entering a phase in our lives where we’ve managed to go beyond mere survival and into the realm of inquiry.  I’m playing with magical rocks and such, wondering how I can next bend reality to my will.  I’m going to indulge that bit of thaumaturgical curiosity, now that I’m under house arrest, effectively.”

My nominal liege lord, Prince Tavard, had taken exception to my use of petty things like laws and contractual agreements to do something he didn’t like, and he had confined me to my lands and estates until further notice.  “I’m going to explore as much as I can and build as much as I can, because right now that’s what I need to do.

“But you?  You’re not just a thaumaturge, Pen, you really have exhausted the realm of sex magic, as it stands.  If you are going to break new ground, you are going to have to do some unique research.  And marriage is the perfect laboratory for observation, if you can convince Arborn to participate.”

“I . . . I think he finds me persuasive,” she grinned, girlishly.

“I’d imagine,” I agreed.  “So don’t worry so much about collecting data and delve into a topic in-depth.  If anyone could pull that off, you could.  Especially in a fairly cushy billet like Ducal Court Wizard.  See just how potent you can make a monogamous relationship, arcanely speaking,” I suggested.  “See if you can trace the intricacies of interpersonal human experience and map them to the outflow of thaumaturgical effect, for instance.  You’re a newlywed – you’re going to be screwing all the time anyway.  You might as well take some notes and get a published piece out of it.  That’s what I’m going to do.”

“But Vorone,” she said, resisting the idea with every bit of decadent Remeran dedication to sensuality, “that just seems so . . .”

“Quaint?  Rustic?  Picturesque?”

“I was going to say ‘dangerous, dirty, and destitute’,” she corrected me, “but if you don’t look at the town so hard, I suppose it’s pretty.”

“And it won’t be dangerous for long,” I promised.  “Count Salgo is going in at the head of two thousand Orphan’s Band mercenary infantry.  Once they establish order and defeat immediate resistance to the re-imposition of Anguin’s rule, they’ll be replaced by another mercenary force until Salgo can arrange native military staff to secure the capital.  That should keep things quiet until spring, at least.  And by then either Anguin’s attempt will have either worked . . . or it won’t.”

“So I should consider this a possible short-term assignment?” Penny asked, wryly cocking an eyebrow.

“Anything could happen,” I shrugged.  “And a lot of what happens could depend upon the actions of the new Court Wizard.  Don’t forget, the Order has a lot of interests in that part of the world.  It would be helpful for us to have a powerful say over how magic is administered in the region.  And, honestly, Anguin cold use your help.  And your spellwork.  But more importantly, he needs your counsel.  He’s never run anything before, and he’s planning on seizing control of an entire duchy.”

“Half a duchy,” she reminded.  “The broken half.”

“Still,” I shrugged, again.  “There will be resistance.  Both in Vorone and outside of it.  He’s going to need reliable allies and ministers who he can trust not to sell him out to the first foreign power that comes along.”

“I suppose I come pre-sold,” she nodded.

“Exactly.  Anguin not only gets a powerful and adept High Mage as his Court Wizard, he also gets a trusted advisor whose loyalties are not in doubt.  And he gets a potent liaison to the magical community, one who won’t be tempted by either betrayal or the allure of the Penumbra.   Plus,” I added, “I’ve arranged for Arborn to be offered the position of Ducal Master of Forests,” I revealed.  “He would have charge over all the wilderness of northern Alshar.  Including Bransei Mountain and the other Kasari groves.”

That was a powerful inducement, I knew.  The Kasari tribes had been defiantly resisting Narasi control since the early settlement period, and most of the remaining Wilderlords near them had cultivated an active hatred of the “rebels” and “tribals” of the great redwood forests.  To suddenly have a Kasari in charge over those same lords was a remarkably tempting thing for Pentandra.  She had undergone the Kasari rites and adopted some of the Kasari ways when she had married Arborn.  And she had grown to love his culture this summer as we’d escorted two thousand of his kinsmen across two duchies.

“I . . . let me think about it,” she said.  “I have to talk it over with . . . my husband.”

There was a stillness in the air as she made the pronouncement.  I don’t know exactly how, but there was a subtle shift in Pentandra after that, a greater sense of depth to her than I’d known before.  It was remarkable.  And not a little unnerving.

Time to change the subject.

“Do you want to go look at this thing that grew in my cellar over the summer?” I asked, casually.  “It’s kind of pretty.”

Chapter Two

The Magic Fair

Postulus

“The fundamental goal of enchantment is to root the effects of a magical spell to reside within a physical object to improve its utility.  It is among the greatest achievements of thaumaturgical skill to accomplish even the most elementary of enchantments.  Once constructed and understood, the art of the enchanter can only improve with practice and repetition.”

The Florilegum of Basic Thaumaturgy

I had the good fortune to be under house arrest just in time for the fourth-annual Sevendor Magic Fair, just days after the morning I fired Pentandra. Banamor had done an outstanding job of keeping the lucrative spectacle operating.  At this point, you would think that he would have it down to an art, but the problem was it just kept getting bigger.

The participating merchants streamed into the domain for weeks, and more arrived every day.  Sevendor Town swelled with the excess, and the surrounding estates were putting up folk at a bounty. Southridge Manor and Jurlor’s Hold both added additional accommodations to rent out for the occasion.  Jurlor built himself a grand new hall, into which he moved most of his large family so that he could rent out his old hall at premium rates.  He made even more money with the livery stable he built on property he held just outside of the town’s limits.

My brother-in-law was doing even better at Southridge. His estate had been capitalizing on the growing fair every year, and there were now guest cottages and additional halls available for those who could afford to rent such quarters.  To his credit, he and my sister-in-law had done what they could to ensure their guests were exceptionally well-fed and entertained.  The view was magnificent, with pristine Sevendor Castle on the left, Sevendor Town sprawled out below, and the eerily beautiful white spire of Lesgaethael jutting serenely from the top of Matten’s Helm.  Southridge was where many of the independent High Magi and magelords stayed during the fair.

But most of the common vendors who had trekked for miles filled the three inns in town to capacity, while others rented spaces for tents or booths and slept there.  A few were lucky enough to rent tiny cottages that sprung up near the fairgrounds, on land that had once been owned by the extinct village of Genly.  Banamor struck a deal with someone over it, I was sure, but I didn’t mind too much.  We needed someplace for the important middle-class of wizard to stay, I suppose.

I insisted on a tour of the grounds two days before the official opening.  Banamor wasn’t thrilled - he had work to do - but I was his boss, and he knew when it was time to kiss my ass.  That was one of the things I liked about the former footwizard.

He looked almost nothing like the grizzled figure who hiked his way into rustic Sevendor Village four years before.  Gone were his travel-stained cloak and well-worn boots.  Now he wore a tastefully embroidered robe, hose, and well-made burgher’s shoes under a dark green cloak of rich wool, trimmed with rabbit fur at the collar, pinned with a silver snowflake pin with the stylized banner that told him as the Fairwarden.

He wore good sturdy shoes designed for walking cobbled streets, not dusty roads, now.  Where once he’d held a simple footwizard’s staff, now he bore a smart-looking rod I knew was hung with custom enchantments.  Instead of his battered leather hat he now wore the pointed cap of our profession in dark blue.  As he hadn’t ever sat for his exams, he did not add the three additional ‘points’ that had become mere triangles for most professional magi, now.  Instead Banamor added an owl feather to the hat.  It was quite striking.

Indeed, Banamor was quite striking.  Fleshed out and well-dressed, his hair and beard regularly attended by the barber, he was exactly who he looked like: a powerful local figure.  Banamor was Mayor of Sevendor Town, which had purchased its charter from me at a handsome price last year.  And while that granted the town - and Banamor - a measure of autonomy, the man was wise enough to understand I was the one ultimately in charge of the fate of the domain.  He did his best to stay on my good side.

“So, did you enjoy your holiday with the kiddies, Minalan?” he asked, when I met him in front of his store that morning.  “Store” isn’t quite the right term.  While Banamor sold quite a lot of magical merchandise, his business was not open to the public.  He preferred to allow others to sell directly.  He had the heart of a wholesaler, and he saw his greatest benefit in ensuring that there were plenty of retailers to supply . . . and charge booth space to.

“It was lovely,” I nodded, looking up at the building.  Banamor had added a third story to the already large hall, including a small spire that dominated the High Street. “Nice tower.”

“It’s a spiritual retreat,” he chuckled.  “When the Spellmonger’s new hall had one, how could I not?  You set the style, Magelord,” he said, bowing smartly.  “Besides, I can sit up there and look down on my holdings.  I find it soothing.”

“And the third floor?”  The topmost floor jutted out over the snowstone foundations of the first two stories by three feet on all sides.  “Someplace to put all of your money?”

“Are you mad?  I have the Temple of Ifnia for that.  That’s their vault going up over there, on the Street of Temples.  Karshak designed and built, then professionally enchanted against theft.  It will have a nice dome up there, someday.  No, I built the top floor as a private apartment.”

I eyed the dimensions of the place.  “That’s a pretty big apartment.”

He shrugged.  “I entertain a lot for business.  I have three smaller chambers for select guests, and the other half is mine.  I’ll have to give you a tour of it,” he grinned. “That’s where I keep my special pieces.”

“Not now.  Now I want to see the fairgrounds.”

“Let’s get walking, then,” he grunted, shouldering his rod.  Banamor only treated me with ceremony as much as he had to.  He preferred to talk business.  “We can stop for a pint on the way, if you’re thirsty,” he offered.

We walked slowly through the cobbled High Street, enjoying the crisp air of autumn and the bustle of the town’s business.  The Sevendor Inn across the street from Banamor’s palace was filled to capacity. The tavern next to it was likewise busy with weary travelers and bored merchants waiting for the fair to begin conducted business or simply drink away their profits.

The High Street looked like a proper town thoroughfare, now, not the dirt track I’d ridden through four years before.  The street was cobbled in local basalt, with liberal use of snowstone cobbles in regular intervals.  At night municipal magelights would shimmer into existence and light the entire way - one of Banamor’s innovations.

The spells were buried within the cobbles we walked on, among other enchantments he’d cast or hired out.  The High Street would never become packed with snow, despite the importance of the substance to my livery, for example, nor would grass grow from between the stones.  That saved a lot in maintenance costs and made the street rather pleasant.

.

There were other important tradesmen along the route: the blacksmith, the carpenter, the barber, the stable, their shops all of stone and timber on the lower levels and wattle-and-daub on the protruding second stories, where the prosperous tradesmen lived with their families.  Halfway down the street, where it opened up into the new cobbled market square we came to a surprise: a fountain.

It was a simple thing, merely a ring of snowstone magically affixed and sealed water-tight.  But Banamor paid to have a six-inch wide clay pipe extended from the millpond, uphill from the square, to keep it perpetually filled.  A secondary trough spilled the overflow in six small stone basins at the proper height for animals to drink from. And my court wizard Dranus installed a special magelight enchantment that burned constantly, searing the water with energetic light that killed the atomi that spread disease.

Now everyone in town could have fresh, clean water without a well, and with far less risk of disease.

“Oh, well done, Banamor,” I said, clapping him on the back.  “I hadn’t heard about this!”

“Water was a big problem,” he agreed.  “Some of the larger homes have wells,” he said in such a way that convinced me his was one of them, “but the common folk and travelers really had no good supply.  There are four of these, around the square,” he said, proudly.  “Enough to serve everyone.”  Then his expression change.  “I just wish we could do something about the privy situation,” he grumbled, stepping over some waste in the gutter.

“I’ll think about it,” I agreed.  “Perhaps there’s a magical solution.”

We continued through the market square, which was crowded with locals who had used their traditional spaces and booths to sell what delicacies and dainties they thought the influx of travelers might enjoy.  “How is attendance looking, so far?”

“We’ve already taken more attendance oaths than last year,” he preened, “and the fair isn’t even open yet.  A lot of warmagi are taking advantage of the break in fighting to visit and spend their coin.  That’s giving us a lot of newcomers.  And the Wenshari are finally paying attention to this fine festival, nearly on their doorstep.  Two large caravans from Wenshar pulled in last night.”

“And the contests?”

“Well, there’s the Dragonslayer’s Tournament,” he pointed out, referring to the event that Sire Cei, my castellan, was sponsoring at the fair this year in celebration of his anniversary to his wife, Lady Estret. “That has drawn many locals who otherwise wouldn’t be visiting the fair.  It’s also provided a lot of new customers,” he said, as two petty noblewomen strode by, mesmerized by the twigs enchanted with magelights that were being sold for two pennies each.  “Many have been intrigued how we do things in Sevendor. But the pageantry is certainly traditional enough.”

It was helpful for Cei - his tiny domain of Cargwenyn was too small to host a proper tournament, and it was a strong social expectation for Riverlands knights to sponsor one for him to fail to do so.  But Cei didn’t want to make too much of it, either. He was well-aware of his status as a social outsider to the Riverlands chivalry.  If he tried too grand an event, he would be seen as too bold.  He had therefore limited participation to squires and commoners only.   He had also given a well-trained charger for the top prize, a magnificent award for such a small list.

“Then there are the lectures,” Banamor continued.  “The Arcane Orders have taken the opportunity to conduct a few discussions at the chapterhouse on select topics.  Academic magic,” he scowled, shaking his head.  “Bunch of pompous arseholes, if you ask me.  Of course, their coin spends as well as any and their tastes are more expensive than most.”

“Is there a theme?” I asked, genuinely curious.

“Enchantment, actually,” he admitted.  “One of the more useful arts, I grant you.  Making the mundane magical has always been an interest of mine.  But in general . . .”

“You’ve never had to sit through a Thaumaturgy lecture,” I dismissed.  “You don’t have a proper basis to hate academic magic.  What else is planned?”

“Well, when the Guild of Enchanters heard about the Arcane Orders’ plans, they couldn’t let them get away with it, could they?  So they’re holding some classes on elementary enchantment, too, with a focus on using snowstone.  Since we get a piece of that, I didn’t put up a fuss, even if the local chapter head of the Arcane Orders wasn’t too happy with the competition.”

Technically the Arcane Orders were the “official” voice of magic in the kingdom, but I hadn’t discouraged a band of itinerant footwizards and spellmongers from renting a lot from Jurlor on the north end of town - right next to the Arcane Order’s magnificent chapterhouse and the Remeran-styled spire of the Order of the Secret Tower’s mansion (Penny’s unofficial residence while she was in Sevendor - she found castles “quaint.”)  Their initial membership had pooled their paltry resources and constructed a ramshackle hall on the land, one unencumbered by any kind of unity of design, materials, or purpose.

The independent enchanters skulked around the periphery of magic in Sevendor, occasionally causing trouble, occasionally being helpful.  There were always a dozen or so of these low magi looking for a quick bit of coin to further their research or just eat another day. The more established orders looked down upon them, but the Enchanters Guild had a lot of low-weight talent.  If you needed a mage for a dirty job, that’s where you looked.  Many of them habituated a tavern called the Spark and Scroll a street over, the name of which was the grandest thing about the cottage turned taproom.

Banamor supported them for his own reasons.  While he was now a man of means who owned half of the town and was mayor of all of it, all too recently he was a footwizard himself. He had some pride in how well some of his former colleagues had done in Sevendor.  He certainly didn’t mind giving the Arcane Orders the competition.

“Enchantment is a great subject,” he continued as we crossed over the bridge to the fairgrounds proper, along with a throng of other folk who were trying to get set up for the event.  “We’re making a lot of money with enchantments these days.  The Mirror business is booming - I can’t keep them in stock.  Heatstones, charms and amulets, magelights . . . and of course, your latest improvement,” he said knowingly.

“Mine?  What improvement?  I didn’t approve any improvements!” I mocked.

“The brick wands,” he said, conspiratorially.  “The ones you used on the march?  Brilliant! I made a dozen of them for a client in Sendaria.”

The wands to which he referred were simple, really, a solid application of magical force to a practical problem.  They could transform any old rock into a rough brick shape, on command.  It took some power to enchant, but once it was done it was pretty self-sustaining, if you used snowstone in the components and powered it adequately.  All the waste from the sides, bottom and top of your new solid rock brick was useable rubble.  A mage with a brick wand could do in five minutes what it took a master mason hours to do.

“Really?” I asked, surprised.  “I didn’t expect there would be that much interest.  It was mostly to save time in the field.”

“What saves time in the field saves money in the purse,” Banamor said, with the authority of scripture.  “Why do you think castles are so expensive?  This reduces the need for expensive skilled labor.  One of those wands saves hundreds of ounces of silver, in the long run.  Even at the price I charged.  I’m starting an entire new line of construction enchantment, after the Fair.  But back to the entertainment,” he said, as we walked past the wary-eyed fairwardens who were ensuring only those with legitimate business entered the grounds.  Each one carried the traditional staff, but I also knew those staves had some useful spells on them, too, if things got rough.

“Of course there’s the Spellmonger’s Trial,” he grinned.  “That’s the biggest draw of them all.  And the Champion’s Feast afterwards.  But I’ve hired no less than six troupes of jongleurs to keep the mood festive during the day.  And at night, many of the local ladies have begun to offer more . . . traditional entertainments,” he chuckled.

That was an unfortunate side effect of holding a fair.  Lonely men on the road, far from home, were more than willing to spend some of their profits on companionship.  Sevendor had little in the way of professional whores, but around fair time we saw a steady increase in talented amateurs seeking temporary riches.

It wasn’t all just the lower class of woman from Brestal or Gurisham, either.  Bovali girls, town girls and even a few older married women who were willing to lay aside their vows for a few days in return for coin to help get through winter made themselves up festively once the sun went down.  Then they invaded the inns, taverns, and fairgrounds looking for opportunities.  And there were plenty to be had.

It wasn’t really the kind of element I wanted to encourage in Sevendor, but then again I knew that you couldn’t successfully dictate human nature, either.  I had been in the army.  Some things are as natural as falling leaves, even if the consequences can be as disastrous as a forest fire. I wasn’t going to forbid the practice.  There were plenty of pretty villein women from poor Gurisham Village who saw this as a way to help their families, or even find a husband.  As long as no one got hurt, I didn’t see any reason to intervene.

Besides, not all of them were whores.  There were plenty of girls who just wanted to dance, meet exotic magi from far-away lands, and enjoy themselves.  If that led to a tryst, who was I to second-guess Ishi’s blessings?

“But the big news is what we’re doing at the Arcane Orders’ fete, the night before the Trial,” he grinned.  “That’s Pentandra’s fete, in honor of her wedding.  Planus is paying for it all, courtesy of our Remeran friends.  I’m looking forward to that.  They do have such exquisite tastes in dancing girls.”

“That will be interesting,” I said, unconvincingly.  I had a history with Remeran parties. But Penny’s fete I could not miss.

“Among the entertainments, there is of course the Warmagic Challenge,” he continued as we walked through the fairgrounds.  “Nonlethal, as instructed, but it will use blunted mageblades and only a pre-approved list of spells. And of course, two classes, for High warmagi and regular.  Though we have yet to establish the prize . . .”

“A special mageblade, commissioned by Master Cormoran and enchanted by me,” I answered.  “I’ve already arranged it.  He has several new ideas about the subject, and wanted a way to test them.  I figured a prize would be the easiest way to avoid a customer being unhappy.  Enchanted blades are so touchy,” I said, shaking my head.

“I wouldn’t know,” Banamor said.  He was not a warmage, and he had a mageblade only because I gave him one.  He was a businessman, not a warrior.  “But the spectacle should be attractive enough. Last year’s crowds were huge.  And we’ve opened the contest to any warmage.  I’m hoping it will be entertaining.”

“As will the Spellmonger’s Trial.  I’ve added some obstacles inspired by the Great March.  It will be quite a challenge.”

“With a witchstone as prize there’s little that could deter this crowd,” he chuckled.  “Since they stopped distributing them to warmagi, there are very few ways for a common mage to come by one.  Unless he wants to make a deal with Shereul.”

That was supposed to be funny, but I’d run across one of the renegades who had thought that serving the undead goblin who was warring on humanity would be the “easy” way to power.  I had stolen her stone, defeated her on the field, and humiliated her by destroying her keep and freeing her slaves.  I was hoping the renegade option would start to sound less appealing to others.

“That’s not really my fault,” I admitted.  “I’m happy to keep handing them out.  But King Rard and his new Warlord want me to curtail my efforts.  We’re too dangerous, they say.”

“And you’re going to listen to them?” Banamor asked in a voice just above a whisper.  Since he was tacitly advocating rebellion and treason, I appreciated his discretion.

“I am,” I agreed, “for now.  After the Great March I don’t really want to attract royal attention for a while.  And to be honest, it serves my purposes.  There are over a hundred High Magi out there, now.  We need to ensure we can administer those before we add many more.”

“A fair point,” he conceded.  “Honestly, I’m glad we’ve moved away from the martial aspects of magic, for a change.  Developing our new resources is a better wager, in my mind.  Show the kingdom what a proper mageland can be like, when magic is put to good purpose.  Castles are magnificent works, it is true, but you can build three towns for the cost of even a small one.  Make the people prosper with magic and you’ll have power no castle can provide.”

“I don’t need more power,” I complained.  “I need more stability.  Look at these folk,” I said, gesturing to the busy merchants building booths and arranging inventory for the fair in two short days.  “The things they sell aren’t just luxuries, they’re the components of wonder.  And right now the only place where they all come together is here, in the shadow of the snowstone mountain,” I said, nodding toward Rundeval in the south.  “I want the people to prosper because prosperous people are happier and less likely to suffer, not because they’re better clients or taxpayers.”

“Yes, your sense of nobility does you credit, Magelord,” Banamor said gruffly.  “Please mind you don’t spill any on me.  I’m here to profit and raise my station.  I see the easiest way to do that is by making my products and services as expansive as possible - and only as expensive as they need to be, for now.  The best part of the entertainments this year are not the jongleurs or the dancing girls or even the jousters.  The best part is the contest for enchantment I proposed, in conjunction with the interest on the art.”

“Contest?” I asked, intrigued.

“I felt the emphasis on swords and spells was ignoring some of the more practical sides of the art,” he explained, as he led me to a large pale yellow tournament pavilion.  Inside set upon trestle tables or on the ground, were many different strange objects and contraptions.  “So I offered a prize for the most ingenious and useful enchantment, this year.”

“Enchantment,” I breathed.

“You disagree?” he asked, concerned.

“Not at all.  I’ve been thinking a lot about that, actually, in the wake of the Great March.  I’m intrigued, and it’s fueling an idea of mine.  Continue.”

“The early entries have been . . . fascinating,” he said, struggling for words.  “A scythe that magically cuts the stalks of entire fields in an instant, eliminating the need for mowing and haying.  An elemental enchantment that can disturb an acre of topsoil at a time and leave it as loose as any plow.  Sir Tyndal’s magewright rod that turns a log into planks of dried wood with a word.  A similar entrant splits a tree into dried firewood in a single spell.

“Gristmills that turn by magic without need of windmill or waterwheel.  Simple thermomantic wands that turn water to ice with one end, or heat it to boiling with the other, without the need for fuel.  A magically-heating kettle.  A magical butter churn that you don’t need to push.  A magically lighting pipe.  A weathervane that warns when it’s going to rain.  There are dozens of entries,” he assured me with satisfaction, as he looked around at them. “Some are fanciful, but many are quite useful.  And potentially lucrative.”

“Impressive,” I nodded.  Just five years ago such feats were unthinkable.  It took the power of irionite to harness the true value of magic.  Already that was having an effect.  Of all the tradesmen eager to petition the town council for permission to settle and open their businesses here, no chandlers had attempted to compete with a town that used magelights as liberally as Barrowbell once did.

“But what happens when the peasants don’t have to plow anymore?  Or mow?  Those are two labor-heavy services most manors depend upon.”

Banamor shrugged.  “I don’t care that I made some peasant’s life easier.  I’m here to sell spells.”

Well, it was hard to argue with that.

This was exactly the kind of thing I wanted to see more of, and I praised the mayor profusely as I examined the entries to the contest.  I added a magical chamberpot to the prize - an insanely useful device only a pocketstone could create - and one that had a very high value.  For me, it was five minutes work with a pocketstone, a chamber pot, and slightly more power than was needed to conjure a magelight.  I made a dozen of the things the other day, just to practice the charm and create a stockpile.  They made kingly gifts.

How kingly?  Banamor confided that he was getting offers of thousands of ounces of gold for them.  Not silver, gold.  You could nearly purchase a domain for that amount.  I could spend an afternoon enchanting chamberpots and buy another domain, if I wanted one.  And the funny thing was, that was actually not the most lucrative use of my time.

Now that I had the Snowflake to study, I had a feeling enchanted chamberpots and magical scythes were merely essays in the craft of enchanting.  If ever there was an anvil on which to make wonders, the Snowflake was it.

But these enchantments gave me guidance.  Banamor’s contest hadn’t been focused on power, elegance, or subtlety of art; it had been focused on utility.  If magic were to be truly powerful it had to have use to people.  These simple plowing rods and self-turning gristmills were the beginning of a new era, I envisioned wondrous conveniences that also had the capability of changing how people did things.  Freeing up resources, time, and energy spent at drudgery.

We were already seeing the effect in Sevendor.  The peasants rarely plowed.  Instead one of the High Magi would use a powerful land-disturbing spell that shook the dirt to perfect condition for sowing.  With Master Olmeg’s assistance, planting and weeding changed dramatically to fit the new style.  Indeed, the very way that fields were apportioned among the peasants changed, as the old system was based on time shared on a community plow.

In the summer mowing season, the chore was done in half the time after a mage cut the stalks.  A few folk to glean and bundle the straw into stacks and it was done.

Don’t imagine for a second that my peasants had an easy time of it.  The castle charged a modest fee for the services, and even with magical assistance farming is never easy.  But it did allow them to spend their energies at other productive work, and as a result they quickly improved their standard of living.  My villeins now lived better than the freemen of most other villages.  And my freemen lived like burghers.  And my burghers lived like magelords.

I studied Banamor for a moment.  Here was a man who had lived by his wits for years, using nothing but his meager magical talents and his ambition to better himself.  He had risen as far as any footwizard with a cunning intelligence and a keen memory could aspire, and if the cut of his robe suggested he spent a peasant’s month’s rent on it, I could hardly begrudge the man the display.  He was earnestly trying to make something of Sevendor, as well as himself, and he was the right man to do it.

“Quite right!” I said clapping him on the shoulder.  “You said something about a pint?”

He got a vague look in his eye that suggested someone was speaking to him mind-to-mind.

“Perhaps in a moment, Min,” he apologized.  “Just got word from the Diketower.  Another great and powerful wizard has arrived.  One important enough to require me to personally kiss some ass.”

“Who?” I asked, intrigued.  I thought my ass was his first kissing priority.

“The one you threw out of the fair last year.  Baron Dunselen.  And his lady wife, Isily.  Anyone below rank of Baron, I wouldn’t bother, but . . .”

I nodded, slowly.  “Later, then.  And . . . let’s make it spirits shall we?”

I felt a good drunk coming on.

Chapter Three

A Civil Discussion Among Colleagues

DESIDERATUM

“When the enchanter first considers his approach to an enchantment, defining the ultimate goal of the essay is essential to its success.  Establishing the desideratum in conception, regardless of the ambition of the ordinant, provides him with a vision of completion, which establishes the expectation of outcome.  In matters of the Will, such visions can inspire and assist the ordinant overcome obstacles in theory or material through inspiration and resolve.  Therefore the desdideratum, establishing the desired effect of the enchantment, must be manifested and held firmly in the imagination of the ordinant throughout the entire process of enchantment.”

Raster’s Pandect of Gramary

It was quite an eventful fair.

For one thing, it was huge.  Attendance was almost double last year’s numbers, and the services that Banamor prepared against his wildest visions were strained to the breaking point.  Over three thousand fairgoers took the oath, in addition to thousands more who just wandered around the domain.  Good weather and locally peaceful conditions had encouraged folk to come to Sevendor to see the Everfire in the temple of Briga, the odd white mountain and castle, or just to gawk at the plethora of odd folk.

Plenty of real magical business was getting done.  Tradesmen and footwizards from around the kingdom bargained and negotiated with each other for days before the start of the fair, and far into the night every evening.  Everything from thaumaturgical glass to snowstone was bought and sold.

There were plenty of freelance magi who offered their services at the Fair.  Anything from dowsing for wells to finding errant cattle to increasing crop yields and herd fertility was for sale by all manner of magi.  Nor was the spellmongering confined to the lower orders.  Planus, Pentandra’s enterprising cousin, did a booming business for his firm in mercantile-oriented magic.  Warmagi specializing in defensive work offered to strengthen castles.

As predicted, the enchanters at the fair did a booming business.  Banamor sold much of his year’s inventory of everything from magelight wands to enchanted saddles within the first few days.  Andalnam took orders years into the future.  Fellow wizards, curious lords, and ambitious merchants were all looking for ways they could turn magic into gold.  It was, professionally speaking, highly gratifying . . . particularly since I usually got a cut of each deal, one way or another.

Of course, it was hard to concentrate on all of that knowing that my former lover and mother of my illegitimate daughter was staying in an inn in Boval Village.

Lady Isily had wed Magelord Dunselen on his home estate of Greenflower at midsummer, while I had been busy introducing the Orphan Duke to his young Kasari subjects.  As a wedding gift to her loyal maid of honor, Princess Rardine gifted the couple with two large estates . . . and convinced her brother to raise Dunselen to the peerage.

Baron and Baroness were, by all accounts, doing well in their new lives.  Isily’s youth and vitality had given Baron Dunselen a focus for his attentions, and she exerted a calming influence over the ambitious magelord.  They were affectionate in public, despite the difference in their ages.

I didn’t believe a word of it.

I don’t know why it troubled me to see her.  I’d encountered other previous lovers, even with Alya present, and not had the same troubled mind as I did over Isily.  The fact that her daughter’s conception had been ordered by her mistress, the Princess, who had an iron hold on her, mitigated my mistrust, somewhat.  I didn’t know if loyalty or leverage was to blame, but if Rardine wanted someone dead, Isily (or any other of the beautiful female assassins the Kingdom’s intelligence apparatus ran) would smile prettily and they would die.

Only in this case instead of killing me, Rardine had commanded Isily’s womb, without my knowledge.  I didn’t even “officially” know about the three-year-old little girl in Wenshar whose name I actually didn’t know yet.  My adept footwizard spy Iyugi had discovered her foster parents called her “Bishi”, but that was clearly a nickname or pseudonym.  She was well cared for on a remote estate belonging to Isily’s family in Wenshar.

But I couldn’t even pretend to know about the girl lest I put her life in danger.

I did my best to avoid the pair at the Fair, and at first it wasn’t hard.  The fair ensured I had plenty of people to meet and speak to.  I had a near-endless stream of folk who wanted to speak to the Spellmonger, enough to busy me from sunup to sundown.  Everyone from mercantile houses to magelords to footwizards and hedgewitches desperately wanted to talk to the Spellmonger.  I also had obligations to entertain my important guests.  This was my fair, after all, and I had to be seen enjoying it, no matter how much I was suddenly fretting inside.

I tried to keep busy.  Alya and I attended the Dragonslayer’s Tournament and watched seventeen young entrants throw themselves at each other on horseback from the comfort of the reviewing stand.  The prize was taken by a handsome squire from Sendaria, one of Arathanial’s lads.  The Baron of Sendaria brought a large contingent as he made the rounds of his allies.

He was stirring up a local war against Sashtalia, my neighbor to the west, and while I’d already let him know I would not be sending him lances, I had not forbidden my vassals from selling their swords for the season to Arathanial.  A lot of country knights made ends meet by hiring out as mercenaries in private wars.  Sire Cei himself would ride with the baron, as his domain was in fief to Chepstan Castle.  He was looking forward to the opportunity in an almost unsavory way.

But at the tournament he was the Dragonslayer, gracious figure of legend, who charged a dragon with his lance and taken his head.  There was actually a lot more to the story, for those of us who had been there, but Sire Cei had earned his glory honestly.  No need to ruin a legend with facts.

He and Lady Estret were hosting the event, so they tastefully entertained the reviewing stand full of important personages with high style.  Sire Cei kept the wine flowing like a gentleman, and Lady Estret sang and played the harp for us between rounds.  Her daughter from her first marriage, Ferrah, daintily served as cupbearer when she wasn’t tending her new little brother.

Sire Cei himself was the very picture of chivalry as he rewarded well-struck blows, counseled squires on their form, and entertained his lieges with song and story.  He was gracious and magnanimous, the perfect knight.  And he was loving this.  Sire Cei is a modest man, but he does have an ego.

Executing a splendid and entertaining tournament for his overlords in noble style was just the sort of thing in which he reveled.  He ended the tournament by adding a healthy purse to the second and third-place contestants’ prizes, and then lauded the victor with an additional gift of a new war lance from his collection, a nod toward Arathanial’s bellicose vision.

Then he presented elegant little gifts to his guests.  He and Estret gave Alya and me a large bottle of mead - the first from their new meadery - and a gorgeous silver plate and chalice engraved with a snowflake motif, each snowflake in the midst of a honeycomb. It became the plate and cup Alya and I shared at every feast.

To Baron Arathanial he gave an extremely detailed map of the Bontal Vale, including all of the County of Lensely and beyond.  It was smartly done in ink on full oxhide, and as I admired it I realized that the domains of the Lord of Sashtalia were particularly detailed . . . down to the number of lances each castle boasted.  And where strategic bridges and fords were located.

It was done to such precision I had to guess that magi were involved in its making somewhere along the line . . . but I didn’t ask.  It was a stunning gift with tremendous meaning which Arathanial grasped at once.  He embraced Cei like a brother and they said a bunch of vainglorious chivalric crap about the field of battle.  Knights are weird.

That night Sire Cei hosted the winners and his liege at a small feast in the Great Hall of Sevendor Castle.  I sent Alya to represent me, as I regretfully had to make an appearance at the Arcane Order’s hall for the lecture series on enchantment . . . where I would inevitably encounter Baron Dunselen.

He was there in his capacity as Head of the Academic Order of Magic.  I had to admit, the old boy was looking much better than the last time he’d been in Sevendor.  Clear-eyed and with a ruddy complexion instead of his former pallor, the former court wizard looked healthy. His burgundy and gold robes were clean and tidy, as was his hair and beard.  Dunselen had even lightened up on the amount of lime he used to streak his hair white to make him look more mature.  Whatever else was afoot, I had to admit that married life agreed with him.

“Baron,” I said, bowing.  “Congratulations.  On both your wedding and your investiture.”

“Ah!  Master Minalan - Baron Minalan,” he corrected himself.  “Thank you very much.  Yes, I’m quite pleased with my lovely bride,” he admitted.  ”I never thought the comforts of matrimony would be so soothing, but my Isily has such a calming effect on me.  It’s hard to believe I ever dismissed the idea.  But between the two of us, we should be able to have some truly brilliant progeny.  The basis of a real magical dynasty,” he said, earnestly.

I wasn’t certain why the idea revolted me so much, but I hid the feeling from my face.  “You plan to have children, then?”

“Why not?” he shrugged.  “She is young and fertile, I imagine.  And while I am no longer young, I find that I’m as vigorous as I was in my youth.  We plan to begin our family any time, now.”

“Then it is a fair for weddings,” I said, doing my best to change the subject.  “For if you have not heard, Lady Pentandra has wedded Arborn of the Kasari.”

“Kasari?” Dunselen asked, more curious than scandalized.  “He’s Talented, then?”

“Not to my knowledge,” I said, surprised by the question.  “Why?”

“Then why bother?” he snorted.  “We now have a unique opportunity, Minalan, don’t you see?  By uniting the strongest of our bloodlines as well as strengthening our institutions, we empower the next generation of magi to be . . . superior,” he said, choosing his words carefully.  “Why, that’s the entire purpose behind my alliance with Isily, though I admit that it has paid benefits far beyond mere breeding.”

“And does Isily share your views on this . . . consolidation?” I asked trying to keep things technical.

“Oh, she’s the one who suggested it!” he assured me.  “Isily insists that she would only mix her blood with the most powerful of magi.  She feels her children will be adepts, and wished to find only the very best match for her,” he said, proudly.

Considering where she first “mixed her blood” I suppose I should take that as a compliment.  Yet I felt somehow abused by the notion of sharing that right with Dunselen, for some reason.  Perhaps because the man was complete tool, and I was worried Isily had a type?

But then Isily was a shadowmage, an adept of that secretive discipline that seeks to bend light, shadow, sound and perception to its will.  Isily’s Talent and training had made her a masterful magical assassin . . . a career I had assisted when I had given her a witchstone.

And then slept with her.  A few times.

Okay, a lot.

But in my defense she was beautiful, seductive, determined, grateful, and under direct orders to seduce me until she got pregnant.  I was at war, leading an army for the first time, and terrified out of my wits.  And it was before I married Alya.  But after I had pledged my troth.  I didn’t have much natural resistance to that combination of events, and magic was no damn help at all.

It’s complicated.  And it kept getting more so.

“So are you encouraging other magi to mate with our peers, then?” I asked, amused.  “That should make the Conclave receptions more interesting.”

“It is only natural that the most potent bloodlines be conserved - why, the Remeran magi have been doing that since the Magocracy!  Hence my disdain for Lady Pentandra’s selection.  She should have been more pragmatic.  There are plenty of outstanding magi in the world who could have sired a magnificent adept from her loins.  Why, I’d have entertained the prospect myself, considering her specialty,” he laughed with a leer.

Dunselen was a remarkable mage, in his way.  With a single sentence and without even raising power he had caused me to dislike him that much more intensely.  That’s talent.

“But she should have considered more carefully,” he sighed.  “Why, I have no idea why she did not have you sire a child with her, Minalan.  That would have been an impressive mage!  Ah, well.  Too often women do not exercise good sense in their choices,” he said, sagely.

I considered Isily and his marriage.  “I cannot disagree, Baron.  Yet Pentandra married for love, and without considering magic. Arborn is a good man by any estimation.  And if it pleases you to know, the folk of the Alshari Wilderlands spawn more than their share of Talented children, though their gifts are erratic in their appearance.  I think it more likely than not that any children of the union will be heir to rajira.”

“One can hope,” he said, as if it were a matter of grave concern. “My lady wife feels strongly about the subject, the Wenshari magi having adopted Remeran practice.”

“And just where is Baroness Isily?” I asked, casually.

“My wife is a practical mage.  She dislikes academic discussions, I’m afraid.  Matters of thaumaturgy and enchantment tend to bore her.  She’s probably shopping at the fairgrounds.  A pity - we have an admirable series of lecturers today!”

He was partially right.  There were two or three good academic discussions on theoretical enchantment, as well as an interesting historical lecture that referenced the legendary Grain of Pors (which was sitting in my workshop in my castle) among other ancient wonders.

But most of the lectures were delivered by stodgy old hidebound magi from Alar Academy, Inarion, or gentlemen scholars who had managed a quiet retirement.  At one point I thought I had been attacked with a sleeping spell, the subject and delivery was so obtuse.  I found it annoying that the lecturers seemed far more concerned with relating amusing anecdotes about legendary figures or citing obscure works few had heard of on topics too subtle for most in the audience.

But there was one mage who captured my attention.  A middle-aged man who eschewed the robes the academics preferred in favor of a simple tunic and hose.

“I am,” he began in a properly sonorous voice, “Master Ulin of Setria, in Merwyn.  I’ve made an academic study of enchantment reaching back to the Magocracy.  Learned masters, I am here to tell you that we sit within the scraps and rubble of a magical culture and civilization far greater than we can imagine.  When we speak of enchantment, we refer to mere tricks and essays in the art.

“But why did we lose so much of our sophistication in enchantment and thaumaturgy?” he asked, “Sage opinion holds that the Conquest swept away the last great magi of the Magocracy. Yet we also know that by the time of the Conquest the art of enchantment had already been diminished.  The loss of irionite, after the confiscations, is also blamed, for our craft’s poor estate, but there is compelling evidence to suggest that even that great loss was not the cause.”

Master Ulin continued to explain how his researches had revealed that the loss was due to purposeful administrative sanction and economic pressure, not a loss of technique.  His theory was that the sudden shift from the urban civilization of the Early Magocracy to the agrarian culture of the Middle Magocracy and the resulting power struggle, forced the political repression of many forms of enchantment that challenged that evolving power structure and the economics that supported it.  He listed several compelling examples lifted from the surviving records.

It was a fascinating notion, and one I paid close attention to.  The economics of magic has always been a shaky thing.  Seeing how our ancestors dealt with it - or didn’t - was instructive.  It was clear from Master Ulin’s report that the attempts to control the impact of the effects of enchantment administratively by decree were largely unsuccessful and frequently spawned new and unforeseen problems.  Sometimes the authorities tried using incentives to encourage policy on enchantment.  More often, particularly later in history, the Archmagi and their ministers had resorted to outright suppression, occasionally leading to rebellion.

Ulin gave several more examples from the Later Magocracy, and then finished up with a brief overview of the Censorate’s brutal approach, with which we were more familiar.  A few insightful questions led to a lively discussion on the role of administrative enforcement, and my presence as the current agent of that enforcement was clearly apparent. Before I knew it, the lecture had become a discussion on just what plans I had to curtail enchantments.

That wasn’t really what I was expecting, and it put me in an awkward spot.  I finally had to intervene and establish some sort of policy on the subject.

“I think Master Ulin’s lecture demonstrates the difficulty with blanket proscription of research,” I finally announced.  “With the end of the Censorate, the return of irionite, and the introduction of snowstone into the equation, we are clearly at the beginning of a new era in the art.  I see no specific reason to restrict it, unnecessarily.  I plan to consider abuses on a case-by-case basis and judge them on their merits.  If there isn’t a damn good reason to proscribe a class of enchantment, I see no need to do so.”

It was a bold and openhanded position.  Of course it immediately sparked a storm of questions from the enchanters gathered.

“What about necromancy?” demanded one mage. “Or malicious psychomancy?  Or sex magic?”

“Warmagic enchantments should be strictly controlled!” came another shrill voice.  “We’re at the brink of another mage war!”

“What about prophecy?” demanded a woman in the back of the room.

“That’s not enchantment!” someone else, one of the Wenshari magi argued, disdainfully.  ”Should not these enchantments be registered, somehow?” he added.

The arguments went back and forth for a long time, and I actually enjoyed hearing them.  While nothing was settled beyond that, policy-wise, everyone came away from the seminar with a much better understanding about what they could do, now . . . and an unleashed enthusiasm to make magical wonders.

I was able to escape at the end of the reception without encountering Dunselen again, and as a bonus I was able to grab Master Ulin’s elbow before he left.  The attendees had gotten so involved with the policy discussion that his insightful lecture had largely been forgotten - except by me.

“I was very intrigued by your topic,” I explained to him.  “As you can imagine, it’s one that’s been heavy on my mind of late.”

“Yet I am gratified that you have not yet resorted to proscription, instead of allowing research to take its natural course.”

“I was trained as a thaumaturge,” I shrugged.  “The study of magic should not be unnecessarily curtailed.”

“But enchantment reaches beyond mere thaumaturgic theory and into the realm of the practical,” he reminded me, as we crossed the street.  “When thaumaturgy becomes reality, then it has very real effects.”

I glanced up at the white mountain looming to the south.  “Believe me, I know,” I sighed.  “And with all the irionite suddenly around . . . well, let’s say that it has made enchantment in particular an increasing interest of mine. As I’m certain you’ve guessed, Sevendor is starting to influence how other domains function, now.  Say, what position do you hold at the moment?” I asked, suddenly having an idea.

“I am currently between assignments, Magelord,” he said, as if it didn’t bother him.

“Then if it doesn’t inconvenience you,” I decided, “please make arrangements to stay as my guest after the fair; it would be a shame to have all of this enchantment talent in my domain at one time and not make use of it.  See my Court Wizard, Dranus – he’s the Remeran with the shaved head in the corner with the Wenshari lady – and tell him I said to find you accommodations.  But I’d like the benefit of your counsel on some matters, for a few days – among other magi who have come.”

“Any way that I can be of service, Magelord,” he nodded.  I could tell he was relieved and gratified at the notice.  I found out later that Ulin had sold nearly everything he owned and quit his job as a court wizard for a prosperous knight in Wenshar to journey all the way to Sevendor for the fair.  Expressly, it turned out, to get my attention, since I seemed to be the mage who was doing the moving and shaking in the profession at the moment.

I continued to work the room after the seminar, enjoying a few good discussions and avoiding a few bad ones.  I did my best to keep Dunselen on the opposite side of the room from me, but sometimes the gods just don’t listen.

“Ah, Baron Minalan, what did you think of the seminar?” Dunselen asked, another mage in tow.

“Just the sort of thing I envisioned when I began the Magic Fair,” I said, truthfully.  “Getting some good discussions going outside of the hidebound halls of the academic world is just the sort of thing our profession needs.”

I could tell that took him aback.  He was, after all, head of the academic order I had started.  The hidebound halls of academia were precisely what Dunselen wanted to advance.

“Yet one cannot deny the importance of solid academic study,” he countered, diplomatically.  “These brief seminars provide a useful overview, but the true glory goes to those who toil in the dusty leaves of our libraries.”

“And just what wonders have you unearthed from there, Master Dunselen?” Terleman asked, joining us with a goblet in his hand.  My old wartime friend looked far more like a prosperous merchant than one of the best warmagi in the world at the moment – I’d heard he’d spent the last several months getting the estates he’d been given as a reward for service into proper order.

He also had low opinion of academic magi.

“You’d be surprised,” Dunselen said, startled by the intrusion.

“I imagine I would,” Terleman chuckled.  “So tell me.”

“I, uh, that is . . . well, Mistress Robian of Alar Academy has determined that Ablard’s Constant varies with the time of day—”

“That was established before the Conquest!” sneered Terleman.

“Not to ten digits of variability,” the mage behind Dunselen sniffed.  He looked like an academic mage, if you can believe it.  Squint-eyed, stooped shouldered, inkstained hands from reading.  “That gives the thaumaturge unprecedented control over calculating the necessary energy consumption over a given period of time!”

“It’s a shadow of a fart in terms of usefulness,” Terleman shot back.  “Come off it, Dun – there hasn’t been a significant discovery or advancement out of the academies in generations!  A waste of time and resources, if you ask me. Who the hell cares about Ablard’s Constant?  Who casts spells that need that kind of control?  If it’s going to be a long-term spell, you just charge the hell out of it and calculate the daily average.  If it isn’t, who cares what the constant is to ten digits?  With a witchstone, such trivia becomes immaterial.”

“Yet few academics have access to such potent resources,” the other mage said, aggressively.  “They are wasted on the military.”

Terleman sipped his wine in silence for a moment.  “Goodman, I do not believe we have been introduced.”

Dunselen caught the cue, after a moment.  “Yes, this is Master Belemo, a fellow at Alar Academy.  An advanced student of thaumaturgy and enchantment theory.  Master Belemo, this is Magelord Terleman, Lord Commander of the Royal Magical Corps.”

The monkish little academic was not impressed by Terl’s title.  In fact, he seemed emboldened at the opportunity to confront an example of what he saw as wasted resources.  He launched into a diatribe about the folly of granting such power to a magical warrior class when it was clearly the study of magic that demanded the use of irionite.  He castigated the warmagi as thuggish brutes who were using forces they did not understand, and equated them dangerously to the less-flattering characteristics of the hated Censorate.

I could tell by the way Dunselen watched his performance that the old coot had been, if not the author, then certainly an enthusiastic supporter of Master Belemo’s position.

“So you’re saying that Min should hand out witchstones on the basis of . . . what, publishing credits?” he snorted, derisively.

“Witchstones!” Belemo snorted in return.  “A droll name for one of the most potent and mysterious of wonders.  And yes, irionite should be reserved for those best able to study it.  For those who have devoted their lives to studying thaumaturgy,” he said, passionately – almost pleadingly.  “The Academies already have the structure in place to handle the proper distribution of materials.  It’s criminal that they were not dealt with so when they were discovered.”

“I think ‘criminal’ might be overstating it,” I said, trying to avoid an argument.  “There was a war on.  There still is, if you’re paying attention,” I reminded him.  “Irionite was apportioned as a matter of necessity, to those best able to defend humanity.  Including the academics of Alar and Inarion.”

“But the war is over, now,” Dunselen said, dismissively. “Even if it is merely temporarily abated, then what better time to reissue irionite to academics who can unlock its secrets?”

“You want to take away glass from wizards like me and give them to wizards like him?” Terleman asked, incredulously.

“As if you need them, now,” Belemo sneered.  “When I think of all the vital research that languishes for the lack of irionite, and I see all of the wretchedly decadent use of such great power for such incidental things, it angers me!  Why do you need a stone?  You already know how to kill things!”

Terleman eyed the man evenly.  “I got really good at it, too,” he said quietly.  “I can do it in all sorts of painful and creative ways.  And I’ve dug holes bigger than you for fun,” he added.

“You’re trying to intimidate me?” Belemo asked, contemptuously.  “I’ve had six of my monographs read in front of the Council of Masters and published in the Annals!  Your capacity for mindless violence doesn’t impress me!”

“Perhaps I can change that opinion,” Terleman said in such a casual, lighthearted way that I knew he was contemplating violence.

“Gentlemen,” I said, warningly, “I remind you that you both took the Fairgoers’ Oath, forbidding brawling and violence.”

“Brawling?” Belemo asked, worriedly, as he suddenly realized what Terleman had been contemplating.  Fistfights do, indeed, break out in academic circles when discussions get heated, but it’s rare and the results are usually confined to bloody noses or a brief magical attack.  Terleman was a High warmage.  It didn’t take much, once you knew how, to use that power to roast a man alive.  I’d seen it done.

“I can wait until after the fair,” shrugged Terl, finishing his cup.  “I haven’t had good duel in years!”

“Duel?” Belemo asked, alarmed.  He wouldn’t have lasted two minutes in a peasant’s brawl, much less a duel with an adept.

“I hardly think that was the intent,” Dunselen interjected, quickly.  “This was merely an academic discussion, a spirited debate among colleagues over the issues of the day—”

“That’s a lot for a mere ‘thuggish brute’ to consider,” Terl said, setting down his wine cup.  “Maybe you had better explain it to me using short words.”

“Gentlemen!  There are larger issues at hand!  This is not the time to—”

That’s when I noticed that everyone in the room stopped talking – and when a group of academics does that at a conference, you know something is afoot.  I turned in the direction of the turned heads I saw to see what had caused the sudden silence.

Four men were coming through the grand double doors of the chapterhouse hall.  They were wizards, everyone knew at once, and even more, they were warmagi.  You could tell at a glance.

All four were wearing long cloaks of red and white checks.

I couldn’t believe I was saying it.  “Baron Dunselen is correct.  There are larger issues at hand.”

Chapter Four

The Arcane Knights Of Nablus

BODEMENT

“An enchanter’s bodement, written within the very first leaves of the pantography of his enchantment, summarizes not just the expected result of his labor and craft, but also a personal statement of purpose; in committing to the bodement an enchanter commits himself to a course of action that cannot be lightly abandoned.”

Ratel’s Paraenesis

That was a fun afternoon.

If you want to freeze the blood in a mage, show them a checkered . . . anything.  For four centuries the specter of the black-and-white cloaks of the Censorate of Magic was a symbol of dread and heartless regulation to the arcane profession.  When you saw them in the doorway, your likelihood of imprisonment, hanging, having the capacity to do magic burned out of your brain, or at the minimum receive a fine near the frontiers of extortion for the privilege of keeping your certification.

The fact that the squares were red and not black did little for their stylishness in Sevendor.  Everyone had heard about the Censorate’s reformation in Merwyn.  Under the Duke of Merwyn’s patronage, the remnants of the order had re-constituted themselves at the former commandery at Nablus, under new leadership with a new mandate.

They had somehow bargained to be the exclusive bearers of the duchy’s irionite, as well as keeping their responsibility for overseeing the administration of magi in Merwyn.  Anyone who wanted to hold a witchstone in Merwyn had to join in order to legally do so.

Same unpleasant fanatical warmagi. Now with an iron-hard grudge, political patronage and the superlative power of irionite.

I felt Terleman and most of the other warmagi in the room tense for a fight.  The newcomers glared, but bore no weapons and cast no spells.  For a very long tense moment I dreaded the real prospect of an all-out magical battle erupting.

But then a shorter figure pushed through the menacing cloaks.  Banamor poked his head into the room and cleared his throat.

“Spellmonger?  A word?”

I didn’t dare glance around the room.  “Pardon me, gentlefolk.”

Terleman fell in behind me without me asking.  Dunselen did too, for no good reason that I could see.  But I didn’t stop him.  Perhaps I wanted him to get caught in the crossfire.

As we approached the warmagi I thought I recognized a few faces above the cloaks.  I ignored them as I pushed through to speak to my spellwarden in the yard.  The former Censorate warmagi followed.

“Do you mind explaining this, Banamor?” I asked, quietly.

“Magelord,” he said, which he calls me only when he’s being “official”, “they presented themselves at the gate.  They paid their fee.  They took the oath.  I had no reason to bar them entry!”

“No reason?” Terleman gasped.  He was still primed for a fight.

“I concur!” Dunselen said, angrily.  “This is unacceptable, Minalan!  The Censorate is banned from Castalshar!”

“We are not members of the Censorate,” one of the checkered cloaks said, quietly.  I recalled his name, now, Commander Dareen.  It had been he who had led the ambush on me at the Chepstan Spring Fair a few years ago.

“Your attire suggests otherwise,” Terleman said.  “I find it offensive.”

“It is the livery of our order,” one of the other men insisted.  “The Arcane Order of Nablus.  The Censorate is no more.”

“We took your oath!” a third pointed out.

“Why would you gentlemen want to come here, except to start trouble, Sir Dareen?” I asked, patiently.

“Is not your fair open to all magi, high and low?” asked Dareen.  “Our documents are in order,” he assured me.  “We merely wish to participate.  To study what you have done here.  In peace,” he insisted.

“Spies for Merwyn, more likely!” Dunselen sneered.  “Perhaps even saboteurs or even assassins!”

“Peace,” I said, holding up my hand.  I examined each man carefully.  “If you swear an oath that you will abide by the rules of the fair – and keep it better than you did at Chepstan Fair – then I see no reason to forbid it.  However,” I continued, “I will do so only on the condition that you, Sir,” I said, pointing to the knight who led them, “join me this evening in my tower, for a cup of wine and some discussion.  I believe that would be one reason why you are here?”

He eyed me warily.  “It would suit my purpose.”

“Then I see no reason to keep you from joining the festivities.  But I suggest that you pack your cloaks away until you leave.  They might prove a distraction.”

“Our order insists we wear them,” one of the warmagi called.

“And in Merwyn, where your duke reigns, you may follow that order happily.  Here in Sevendor, you will remove it . . . or you will leave.  A small price for admission, don’t you think?”

“Minalan, I must protest!” Dunselen said, angrily.  “Can’t you see that they are spies?”

“I’m leaning toward the old coot on this one,” Terleman said, evenly.

“And I created this fair to be open to all magi of goodwill.  If they do not start trouble, there is no reason to bar them.  They could have removed their cloaks and entered surreptitiously, but they didn’t.  They paid their fee, they took their oath.  Banamor was correct to admit them.”

“Thank you, Magelord!” Banamor said, gratefully wiping his brow.  “Gentlemen, you heard the Baron: remove the cloaks and you may enter.”

“This isn’t good, Min,” Terleman muttered to me as Banamor led them away.

“Of course it isn’t!” snapped Dunselen.  “He just let four spies into the most sensitive arcane event in the Kingdom!  This is irresponsible, Minalan!”

“Listen to yourselves!” I snapped in return.  “Afraid of four little warmagi, when you’re surrounded by them?  And if you are worried about Merwyn learning our precious secrets, I’d wager something valuable they already know.  And anything they don’t know about, I’ll make a point to show them.”

“Ishi’s tits, Min!” Terleman gawked.  “Why?”

“Because what use is a secret weapon if your potential opponents don’t know you have it?” I asked.  “If Merwyn was trying to intimidate us by showing off their own High Magi, it hardly worked.  At most they are announcing they have high magi.  When I spoke to Master Hartarian about it, he said that the commanderies in Merwyn and Vore probably had fifteen or so witchstones among them.  And that at least five Imperial families had hidden them, and managed to avoid surrendering them to the Censorate.”

“Which means that Merwyn suddenly has twenty witchstones!” Dunselen argued.

“There are more than that currently jostling elbows in the beer tent,” I pointed out.  “Merwyn’s admission may indicate that they have achieved some power, but compared to the kingdom’s magical arsenal, it’s still anemic.  I aim to demonstrate that in no uncertain terms, while they are here.  If they came to spy and report back – and I do not doubt that they will – then my plan is to give them enough to report so that Merwyn will not even consider the folly of starting a war with Castalshar.”

“I don’t know, Min,” Terleman said, shaking his head slowly at the receding figures.  “I still think you should have thrown them out.  At the very least.”

“You’ve been stuck in the field too long,” I sighed.  “This isn’t a battle, this is politics.  And statecraft.  And a whole bunch of other crap that they never discussed at the Academy.  When you have long-term enemies, then you need to appreciate them as such.  Let me handle this,” I urged them.  “You just enjoy the fair.”

*

*

After ensuring that the Knights of Nablus weren’t going to start attacking every mage in sight, I wearily went back to the castle to get changed for the evening’s festivities.  I was about to head for the new hall when I glanced up at my tower and saw Lorcus sitting in the window of my workshop.  He gave me a nod and I changed course.

“When the hells did you arrive?” I demanded, the moment I entered the room.  “Why didn’t you tell me, mind-to-mind?”

“A few hours ago,” he said, as he sprawled in my window bay with a cup in his hand.  “And I didn’t want to disturb your academic pursuits.  And this way I got to sit here and drink your wine for free,” he pointed out.

“Dunselen an Isily are at the fair.  When were you going to tell me that?”

The Remeran shrugged. “I thought you knew.  The fair schedule was established months ago.  Didn’t Banamor tell you?”

“It must have slipped his mind,” I grunted.  “You have something to report?”

“It was a lovely wedding. The bride wore russet and yellow, the groom didn’t smell too bad.  Neighbor and vassal, family and friends gathered in the sight of the Holy Mother to add their blessings to hers.  The musicians played ‘O, Were She A Rose’ and ‘The Legacy of Love’.  The cake was a five-layered affair involving lemon and rosewater.”

You had to have a lot of patience with Lorcus.  “Your impressions?”

“I’ve never been a fan of rosewater, and the lemon just didn’t go over as well as I had expected,” he said, philosophically.  “An interesting experiment, but it was tragically too subtle for the occasion.”

A whole lot of patience.  “I was more interested in the bridesmaids,” I said through clenched teeth.

“I have no doubt – who wouldn’t be?  A lively lot, they were.  Young, pretty, and all friends of Her Highness.  There were four of the beauties there, and they’ve all agreed to stay on as the new baroness’ ladies-in-waiting.  Something that might be of concern – at least two of the lasses are magi.”

That was concerning.  I had figured that Isily was using her marriage as a pretext for some scheme or another, on behalf of the Princess, and this as much as confirmed it.  A whole pretty coven of magical assassins.

“And how did Lady Isily appear around her new groom?” I asked, as casually as I could.

“Oh, she was the very picture of wifely devotion and managed a surprising amount of affection toward him, in public.  I wasn’t able to see how the happy couple were in private – I’m not certain my eyes could have taken the strain.  But if the marriage is a sham, it’s a well-constructed sham.  Either way, milady has pretty killers infesting her chambers.  As to what her plans are . . . well, that remains a mystery.”

“Speculation?”

“With my imagination and five beautiful women to play with?  That could get involved,” Lorcus said, stroking his chin and grinning.  “But she’s having a hall constructed for their use.  The official story is that they are all dear friends and family who go back years, and she cannot bear to be parted from them.  But I see it as a headquarters for Family operations in the region, as well as a strategic move by Mother to keep the power of the Arcane Orders in check.”

“So why didn’t you report all of this to me, mind-to-mind?” I demanded.

“Because you were off in the Wilderlands with the kiddies, and there was nothing that was urgent enough in my opinion to justify the intrusion,” he shot back.  In other households the retort would have been considered cheeky enough for a rebuke.  But I’d taken Lorcus into service partially because he was cunning, devious, intelligent . . . and he didn’t kiss my ass.  He respected me, the man, not the title or even the power.

Part of that respect involved trusting his judgment.  If he didn’t think it was worthy of telling me, I had treat it as such.

“All right,” I sighed, sitting down in my chair.  “Do you think you’ve set things up so that you could return without being detected?”

“I’m there as a humble and enterprising pack merchant,” he chuckled.  “Dunselen has men eager to purchase magical components, and they pay well.  I took a handful of snowstone gravel from the stoneyard, and sold it to them at two-thirds of market price.  Made a nice purse, too,” he smiled.  “They think I have a secret connection in Sevendor, and they encouraged me to find more.  I’ve taken rooms at one of the nicer inns there.  I was liberal enough with my coin and my affections that the widow who runs it will be very pleased to see my return.”

“Good.  I don’t know what they’re up to, yet, but there’s no way that this marriage could be innocent.”

“Innocent?  With that lecherous old goat?  From what I understand, he was rogering the servant girls again as soon as they returned from the honeymoon.  You know, Min, I can almost understand throwing that tasty bit of pudding at him to distract him long enough for the knife, but why go to the bother of promoting him?  If you’re going to assassinate a man, then why make him a baron before you do it?”

“It’s actually not a bad move, from the royal perspective,” I pointed out.  “The promotion to baron essentially recognizes his current holdings . . . but it also imposes a lot of restrictions on future conquest.  As a representative of ducal – and now royal – authority, the peerage adds an additional layer of responsibility and expense to the administration of your estates.  It also forces you to be answerable to your overlords in ways that mere domain-level lords are not.

“But you can also look at it this way: if you wanted to grant a favored agent status and position adequate to fulfill missions in the highest levels of society, then the peerage is sufficient to do so . . . and there are few barons out there of old, established lines who would be willing to marry a bride tainted by sorcery.  If Mother plans on killing Dunselen eventually anyway, then there’s no reason that Isily shouldn’t inherit a title as well as his holdings.”

“You are a devious man, Min,” Lorcus admitted, admiringly.  “So what are they doing here?”

“Dunselen is advancing his academic career.  As far as Isily’s motives . . . I haven’t run into her yet.  When I do, I’m thinking of asking her.”

He looked at me oddly.  “You mean, just walk up to her and say ‘what are you up to, then’?”

“Essentially,” I nodded.

“And you think she’ll just tell you every little dirty secret on her mind?”

“You did, if you recall,” I reminded him.  Lorcus blushed.  He remembered the special interrogation I had insisted on when he asked to take my service.

“Aye,” he admitted.  “You are one persuasive bastard. All right, if you’re done with me, I think I’d like to enjoy the fair, now.”

“You may do so, but I’m not done with you.  Check with Banamor before you go, and find out what the four men who showed up at the gate wearing checkered cloaks are doing.”

That got his attention. He sat bolt upright, nearly upsetting his wineglass.

“The bloody Censorate is here?”

“Actually, they’re the Merwyni Order of The Arcane Knights of Nablus, or something like that, now.  They’re official Merwyni magi, in other words, without any additional mission.  Or so they say.  I’d like someone with a subtle eye to follow them and ensure that they’re just looking for souvenirs.”

“That does sound like an interesting thing to know,” he agreed.  “I’ll get right on that.  Right after a dip in the pond and a change of clothes.”

“Then come see me tonight or tomorrow morning,” I decided.  “I’ve got some other work for you, too.  Interesting work.”

“Oh, that does sound intriguing,” he grinned, madly.

*

*

That evening was a special reception by the Guild of Enchanters in their ramshackle hall.  It was the social event that was open to all, from the lowliest apprentice and footwizard to . . . well, me.  The “guild” was actually more of a rooming house with delusions of grandeur, but the magi who lived and worked there, mostly pursuing their individual areas of study or vocation, had managed to cultivate enough of a sense of institution about the place to give it a kind of mystique among the magi.

Visitors to the compound from outside of Sevendor were too impressed by its proximity to the snowstone mountain in the south and the elegant Alkan tower to the north that they overlooked its shabby nature.  Next to the stately spire of the Arcane Orders chapterhouse and the elegant lines of the Remeran-styled Order of the Secret Tower mansion, the Guild looked delightfully quaint.

To the magi who lived in Sevendor, the Guild was a symbol of independence from both the Arcane Orders’ structure and the other institutions of magic that had evolved in the last few years.  Regardless of how poor you were, a mage could get a spot on the floor of their hall and a seat at their table for the price of a few hours of work.  There was an open library available for study, meager compared to mine but with most of the basic magical texts and some interesting additions donated by members.  There was even an enchantment laboratory, of sorts, where the poorly-funded could get access to equipment and resources to pursue independent research.

Over the last two years six magi had become the core of the Guild, the Fellows.  I learned that their mutual agreement pledged forty percent of their revenues from practicing magic to the Guild, in exchange for room, board, and a small monthly stipend.  As most of the research they were doing was fairly basic, the stipend was usually enough to cover their expenses.

Still, it’s hard to make ends meet, especially in Sevendor.  They had been teetering on the edge of bankruptcy and dissolution for a year when Rael the Enchantress, fresh from her stint on the Kasari March through the Wilderlands, took up residence there.  Things had changed quickly since then.

Rael was the eldest daughter of Master Andalnam, a licensed spellmonger and competent enchanter from Sendaria Port I had commissioned many, many pieces from in the last few years.  When she had gotten her credentials as a journeywoman, and received a witchstone from me, she relocated to Sevendor permanently.  She was paid handsomely for her service to me during the march, and the specimens she collected along the way helped established new sources for certain commodities enchanters found useful for their works.  I knew she had been in long discussions with Banamor over supplying certain items to his shop.  She was crafting and selling things for her father’s booth at the fair, too.

But Rael had aspirations beyond mere commerce, and they involved the Enchanters’ Guild.  Using her newfound wealth she had purchased a Fellowship, taken rooms at the guildhouse and invested in the place in ways no one else had.  This year’s fete was by far the most generous and well-planned, and there was a real air of establishment about the hall when Alya and I arrived.

Rael was greeting guests at the door with two of her fellow guild members, each of them bearing a red sash with the guild’s badge embroidered upon it in white: an alembic surrounded by three mage stars.

Rael was looking splendid – she’s not an unattractive girl, and she wore a richly-made sideless surcoat in scarlet over a new muslin gown.  She eschewed a wimple, as most of the town women wore, in favor of a new four-pointed cap in red, with the three white points sewn to it.  She wore her witchstone set in a simple snowstone disc as a pendant around her neck.

Her father wasn’t as pleased with Rael’s rise in fortunes, however.  I found the man in one corner of the oddly-shaped hall, drinking spirits and looking around pensively. His younger daughters were enjoying themselves well enough – even the one with the unfortunate overbite was laughing and dancing – Rael hired a few musicians to brighten the evening.

But Master Andalnam was troubled.  I asked him about it, after Alya and I made the rounds and greeted everyone, as expected.

“She’s wasting her talents,” he admitted, when I asked him about his mood.  “She’s got more opportunity than any enchanter in the world, and she spends it . . . here?  Among footwizards and scoundrels?”

“She’s young,” I soothed.  “And she’s doing well for herself.  From what Banamor tells me, she made a small fortune from her expedition to Alshar.”

“Oh, aye, she’s gotten plenty of gold,” he agreed.  “And given good service, from what I understand.  And I don’t mind her being in Sevendor, where opportunities abound.  But she refuses to work in my shop, here or in Sendaria, and she barely speaks to her sisters anymore.  A man raises a girl with hopes of grandchildren, one day, and she looks no closer to that than she did a year ago.  This is no home to raise children in, and there is no sign of her courting!”

I refrained from mentioning the liaisons I was sure she’d had along the March – I was pretty sure she’d had an affair with Rondal, while they were working so closely together, and she’d been spotted with at least one Kasari ranger.  There were rumors of other arrangements.  But I was the father of a daughter myself, and I knew better than to call that to his attention.

“There are a lot of eligible young men in Sevendor,” I reminded him, instead.  “She’s just going through a wild period, enjoying her new freedom.  She’s been in your shadow so long, she just wants to make a place for herself.”

“But . . . here?  When I have good employment for her?”

“She’s her own woman,” I chuckled.  “And you have three others to care for.  I’ll keep an eye on her, I promise.  And she’s quite useful to me, too.  She was well-taught.”

He grunted a thanks for the compliment, and I moved on.  There are some things for which a man just isn’t going to be consoled.

I spent a merry hour or two drinking, eating, and catching up with old friends from the lower orders of magi who were attracted to the party and the free food and drink.  Thanks to Rael’s contributions and the modest success of the guild, there was wine in abundance and even mead, spirits, and strong ale.  The function also served as the institution’s main recruiting tool.  The guild was technically for enchanters, but it welcomed magi of all specialties to join.  For a modest fee, it was revealed to me, an associate membership would allow lodging on the grounds during the Fair, and use of the facilities during the visit.

That was a popular offer for the itinerate footwizards who found Sevendor’s inns too pricy for their purse.  The five acre compound had plenty of room for tents and such, and I could see the attraction for the common mage.

Banamor provided the climax of the evening when he presented the awards for the Enchantment contest.

The first prize went to the Plowing Rod, which used a lump of snowstone and a relatively simple enchantment to not just loosen the soil, but to comb it into the peaks and ruts that the peasantry were used to for planting.  Plowing was one of the most labor-intense elements of agrarian life.  Villeins’ service to the manor was based almost entirely on the number of days spent plowing the lord’s demesne.  Villages and hamlets were organized around use of the communal plow and oxen.  This one spell eliminated all of that.  In ten minutes a week of plowing could be accomplished without one drop of human sweat.

It was an elegant enchantment, I had to admit, and the young mage who had crafted it was a member of the guild.  His father had been a priest of Huin, I discovered, and he’d seen his simple but important work as a labor of devotion.

The other prizes went to devices just as ingenious, if not as revolutionary.  My friend Taren’s entry, a ball of snowglass that generated a cleansing light that killed disease as it floated in a well was given honors.  So was a wand that adhered horseshoes to the hoof without need for nails.  And the enchanter who had crafted a magical still that separated out the spirits from the must without need of heating or wasteful condensation was hailed as a hero.

The fete was as much business conference as festival.  Packtraders and resident adepts from afar were eager to acquire the wonders from the contest.  The mage who created the Plow Rod alone took more than twenty orders for the device at a hundred ounces of gold each.

But even those enchanters who did not win the contest found themselves inundated by offers for their devices.  I saw the old mage who had created the self-lighting pipe nearly wet himself when he received a purse in advance of ten pieces ordered by a Wenshari trader.

It was a very satisfying evening, professionally.  Until I was talking with a mage about the possibilities of pocketstones, and he stopped mid-sentence.  Someone was behind me.  He made an excuse and made a hasty retreat.

“Baron Minalan,” came a familiar voice that sent shivers up my spine.  “I was wondering when I would run into you,” Baroness Isily said in her lovely voice.

“Baroness!  Congratulations on your wedding!  Trygg’s blessings on your union,” I said, politely, as I turned to face her.

“It must be in the air,” she smiled.  She was looking beautiful, wearing a long pale yellow gown and a circlet bearing Dunselen’s floral device in her dark hair.  “I hear that even Lady Pentandra was wed this summer.”

“Just a few weeks ago,” I agreed.  “That’s why you haven’t seen her much.  She married a Kasari ranger, and they’re enjoying an extended honeymoon at the Secret Tower mansion.”

“Trygg’s blessings upon her,” she said, without much expression.

“I do trust that your marriage will allow you to provide a stabilizing influence on Dunselen,” I said, quietly.  “Last year he was ejected from the fair for belligerence.  And his conquests have received a lot of notice in the wrong quarters.”

“I think you will find my lord husband’s ambitions largely curtailed,” Isily agreed.  “Making them as a baron is far more difficult, politically, than doing so as a mere lord of the manor.”

“As I suspected.  Something else your lord husband mentioned to me was somewhat disturbing,” I continued, ensuring Alya was safely on the far side of the room.  “Your devotion to conserving the genetics of the magi.  Encouraging strong interbreeding between powerful lines, for instance.”

“It has been a custom dating to the Magocracy,” she reminded me.  “It seems only prudent to ensure the next generation of magi are at least as potent as this one.”

“Which means that you would favor such strong unions in defiance of simple social convention,” I asked, pointedly.

“When the future is at stake,” she replied, quietly, “there seems to be little point in bowing to mindless custom.”

“One has to wonder if this is a native belief, or one developed by . . . Family influences.”

“Both,” she said, understanding my reference instantly.

“Ah,” I said, nodding.  She wasn’t an unwilling player, then.  “That explains a lot.”

Her pretty eyes narrowed.  “You know!” she whispered harshly.

I wasn’t expecting that.  At all.  My knowledge of her secret pregnancy with my child I had intended to hold secret, especially from Isily.  But the pretty shadowmage had seen through me.

“I like to keep up with my old war buddies,” I admitted.  “Make sure that they’re doing well.  Look after their children, if need be,” I added.

“It was . . . Minalan, I . . .” she stuttered, genuinely surprised.

“Save it,” I ordered.  “This is neither the time nor the place.  Particularly with my wife and your husband in the same room.  Does Dunselen know?”

“No!” she said, a horrified look on her face.  “If he did there would have been no marriage!”

“Of course,” I realized.  Having a child out of wedlock happened in the nobility, of course, but it was always treated with the utmost of discretion, due to the brutal social penalties paid by the woman in question.  Dunselen could not have married Isily if her previous pregnancy was publically known.  Or even privately known, knowing the man.  “Then it looks like we have a discreet matter to discuss.  Are you free this evening?”

“My lord retires near to midnight,” she said, glancing over at the old coot.  “Where and when?”

“My tower, in the castle,” I decided.  “I’m going to be having other meetings there, tonight.  The fair is a busy time for me.  Working in one more meeting shouldn’t be a problem.  It’s the most secure building in the kingdom, and the people there I can trust with anything.”

“Do not be so sure,” Isily said.  “There are spies everywhere,” the pretty spy assured me.

Chapter Five

Whispers Of Truth

ORGANON

“It is truth that an enchanter, save certain Wildlings, cannot discover the means and methods of the Great Art of Mirablia without recourse to the work of those who have gone before.  The Organon of Mirablia, the technical elements of our noble art, thankfully, have been kept clear of ambiguities and secrets in an effort to ensure a clear and beneficial transition to the philonoist in gramary.  For it has been demonstrated, time and again since our race came from the Void, that maintaining secrets within the Organon lead the philonoist astray, chasing his own rationalizations.  Only by rigorous dedication to the Truth can the Organon thus be kept pure.”

The Florilegum of Basic Thaumaturgy

That night I left Alya reading quietly by the fire in our new hall after helping her tuck in the children.  It had been an eventful evening, and it was far from over.  I kissed her sweetly before I walked across the yard to the castle, and through the Great Hall that was still filled with attendants, dependents, revelers, and staff, even at this late hour.  I could hear singing and laughter from the fairgrounds even over the wall and across the fields.  I stopped long enough to confer with the sergeant on duty and instructed him who I was waiting for and what times to expect them.

I conducted the interviews in my old bedroom, the lower chamber of the tower that had been refitted as a more comfortable office, study, and library.  A small table and a couple of comfortable chairs had replaced the bed, and a trio of magelights hovering overhead bathed the white room in a warm, comfortable glow.  The servants had stocked the cabinets with plenty of victuals and beverages at my direction, and a small fire burned on the hearth, more for comfort than the need for heat.

Lesana was waiting for me, dressed modestly but attractively in a linen gown that suggested the demure lines of a clerical robe without managing to hide her figure.  Lesana had enjoyed a few years of peaceful living since she had come to Sevendor.  I had given her a small cottage and holding on the northwestern ridge, far from neighbors and others who would disturb her.  She came to market once a week, wearing her protective charm to avoid trouble, and made occasional trips to temple, but other than that she kept to herself out of long practice.

Except when I summoned her.  She had grown used to being called at odd hours to bear witness to all manner of interrogations.  Because of the sensitive nature of her gift, I had added a second charm fixed to a second amulet.  When she wore it, she heard nothing.  Her gift was terrible enough to bear; sparing her from hearing its result was a mercy I could grant.

We had a glass of wine while we were waiting, and I chatted with her lightly about her life on the ridge.  The Westwoodmen who had taken over administration of Caolan’s Pass had been extremely polite and helpful, she reported, and she sometimes made trips up to the site to visit, if she got lonely.  But she was content, she assured me, and happy to be of assistance.

Lesana’s gift was known only to a very few of my most trusted associates: Sire Cei, Lorcus, Tyndal and Rondal, Dara, and Pentandra.  I hadn’t even told my wife about her, beyond that I had assisted her with a miserable curse and taken her under my protection.  The last thing your wife needs to know is that you have access to any means to compel yourself to tell the truth.  Along with the existence of the Snowflake and a few other secrets, Lesana was one of the greatest and most closely-held assets I had.

At the appointed time the Knight Commander of Nablus was admitted to my tower.  He looked wary and a little vulnerable without the protection of his cloak, but he graciously accepted wine and took a seat with me next to the fire.  I nodded to Lesana, who took off one amulet and put on another.

“My most trusted servant,” I informed him.  “Yet not so trusted that I wish her to learn of all of my secrets.  She wears an amulet that makes her deaf to our words.”

“A useful enchantment,” the warmage agreed, truthfully.  He did not yet realize that he was compelled to speak the truth.  I was aware of it, which gave me an advantage.  If you know that you cannot lie, then how you choose your words becomes vital.  If you don’t know you cannot lie, you’re liable to let all sorts of things slip.

“So how are you enjoying the fair?” I asked, taking out my new pipe.  It had been a gift from the mage selling the self-lighting pipes, an ornate affair made of spell-carved snowstone.

“It’s wondrous,” he nodded.  “Never have I seen so much magic in one place, at one time, doing so many amazing things.”

“Very different from the way things are done in Merwyn, I take it?”

“Oh, very much so,” he agreed.  “While the suspension of the Bans has allowed more freedom among the magi, the Order of Nablus has reasserted control of the administration of such things as certification.  In most ways the old order of things remains.”

“You must find that comforting,” I pointed out, casually.

“In many ways, yes.  But now that I’ve seen what magic is capable of, I start to suspect that our order is being overly conservative in our administration.”

“I was hoping that you might see things like that,” I chuckled.  “Hopefully we can work to de-escalate any future conflict between our two orders before it begins.”

“That is unlikely,” he admitted.  “Most of those Censors who came to our order feel your perversion of the Bans is unforgivable, and they seek your death and the destruction of all of your works.”

“Goodness,” I smiled.  “I do hope you didn’t bring any of those fellows with you!”

“Sir Agastin is the only one among us who I fear might transgress, while we are on our mission.  Yet he has been given strict orders, and he prides himself on his obedience to the Order’s rule.”

“A commendable quality,” I agreed.  “Tell me, Commander, in your opinion what is the disposition of the Duke of Merwyn toward the kingdom?  Does he plot war?  Or is he merely posturing?  Your professional opinion, between colleagues.”

“He . . . His Grace seems to be preparing for war, but it is a war he does not, in fact, desire.  He fears an expansive kingdom encroaching on his frontiers and undermining his authority.  And he fears the great power of the kingdom’s apparent magical corps.  Thus he seeks to build a robust order to counter it.”

“Good sense,” I nodded, approvingly.  “So he postures, he prepares, but he has no cause to strike.”

“Essentially.  But I am not in the closest of his councils.  The new Lord Commander speaks of them often, however.”

“So what position does your order take on the matter?”

“We are still learning our new roles.  Many of us are eager for war, but the wiser among us recognize that without a secure footing in Merwyn, first, such adventures will doom our order before it is properly established,” he said, starting to realize that he was speaking with great candor.  I didn’t want to alarm him, yet.

“Have you considered what a life in Castalshar would be like, for a talented mage?” I asked.  “We are seeing our profession prosper, here.  And that prosperity is just beginning.”

“Such changes will bring untold disruption to the old order,” he said, shaking his head uneasily.  “I became a Censor to sustain the stability of the duchies, not disrupt it.”

“Yet change comes, regardless,” I pointed out.  “You can struggle against it or you can seek to become part of it, and influence how it manifests.  Certainly that has some appeal to you?”

“Of course,” he answered, promptly.  “Yet the wonders you perform here, the marvels that you’ve encouraged will have devastating consequences.  You are meddling with powers you do not understand, and not just arcane powers.  What use do lords have for villeins if the plowing can be done in a day?  What use do villeins have for lords if their castles provide no protection from unrestrained magi?”

“There’s a lot of truth to what you say,” I admitted – as if I had a choice.  “Those issues have not escaped my attention, but . . . why should the villein toil in the lord’s service needlessly, when magic can intervene?  Why preserve the old order for the sake of the old order, instead of allowing matters to evolve naturally?”

“Can any arcane matter be called such?” he challenged.  “Magic is a specialized skill, and a rare one.  It is, by definition, unnatural.  For a society to become reliant upon it is dangerous.”

“The Magocracy relied upon it for four hundred years,” I reminded him.

“And how did they fare?  The Narasi swept over them like locusts, because they were dependent upon magic and not men.”

“Actually, I’d say that they lost because they were dependent upon magic and then did not invest the necessary work to maintain their defenses adequately,” I countered, “but that’s a matter for historians.  Of more interest to me is your Order’s official position on me and my household?  I allowed you and your men attendance here as a courtesy, and because it serves my desire to see all magi willing to work together to do so in humanity’s service.  But if your order bears me official enmity . . .”

“From what I understand,” he said, carefully, glancing at his cup, “though the order bears you a grudge, the new Lord Commander is a practical man.  It is on his orders that we attended your fair.  And, if possible, to speak with you quietly and relay a message.”

“I am very eager to hear its content,” I agreed.

“Essentially, the Lord Commander wishes to assure you that there will be no direct attack on you or your household, or any renegade Censors who have taken your service, in return for some considerations.”

“And those considerations are?”

“That you do not pursue the former Censors with a vendetta of your own, that you give up any claims of Censorate assets in Merwyn and Vore, and that you respect the rights of the Order of Nablus to administer magic in those duchies without your interference.”

“The Lord Commander seems to have a very high opinion of my abilities,” I chuckled.  “I have no interests in Merwyn or Vore.  My concerns lie in northern Alshar.  If you fellows want to play High Mage in Merwyn, that’s your business, not mine.  How many witchstones do you have, by the way?” I asked casually.

“Twenty-two,” he said, automatically.  Only after the words escaped his lips did he realize he had just handed me perhaps Merwyn’s greatest military secret.

“Then I see no reason to worry with such a small power,” I dismissed.  “You may assure the Lord Commander that I will agree to his terms.  Provided that the Order of Nablus do nothing to hinder my efforts in the Kingdom.  There is no native reason that we cannot coexist,” I decided.

“That is gracious of you,” he said, nodding.

“Believe it or not, the last thing I want is for there to be instability in Merwyn and Vore.  We are all humans, after all, and we face common threats.”

“The goblin king?” he asked skeptically.

“Shereul is no myth,” I assured him.  “He is frighteningly real.  He may have been quiet for the last year or two, allowing his minions to serve his interests, but he is still there, in Boval Vale, studying one of the biggest molopors in the world.”

“It seems a fantastic story,” the man said, darkly.  “A thin pretext upon which to base the overthrow of four hundred years of law.”

“I encourage you to tour the Alshari Wilderlands and see the result of this fantastic story,” I countered.  “The refugees.  The burned out villages.  The ruined castles.  Thousands slain, hundreds of thousands enslaved.  And then return through northern Gilmora, where one year of invasion and despoilment has laid the land low.  See the devastation for yourself, before passing judgment on our response to it.”

We chatted for a little while longer, but there was little else said of value.  I had what I wanted, and by the time I dismissed the mage, without him realizing that he had been subjected to a truth spell, I felt confident we could put aside our worries over the Censorate for awhile.

Even better, it gave me an excellent pretext to confer with my second guest of the evening.  Baroness Isily was escorted into my chamber about fifteen minutes after the Knight Commander left.  Lesana was back in her position, her amulets switched.

Of the two interviews, I was far more wary of the shadowmage than the warmage.  Partly because she looked and smelled better.  Partly because she was far more likely to be responsible for my eventual demise than was he.  Isily arrived with a voluminous mantle covering her gown, her hood thrown up over her head, and a dweomer around the cowl to obscure her features from easy notice.  Clearly she didn’t want to be seen coming to visit me.

I appreciated her discretion.  I welcomed her formally and had Lesana pour wine for us both, before resuming her deafness enchantment . . . and activating her gift.

“How are you finding the fair?”

“Quite remarkable,” she agreed.  “A lot more fun than I anticipated.  Tomorrow is your Spellmonger’s Trial?  Where you give away a witchstone?”

“That’s what the schedule says,” I agreed.  “It’s almost always an eventful contest.  So, are you enjoying married life?”

“With Dunselen?” she asked.  “I’m enjoying the life more than I’m enjoying the husband.  He’s an utter boor,” she informed me, unnecessarily.  “But being married is interesting.”

“I had assumed that it was done just to get close enough to him for an assassination,” I observed.

“That was one contingency,” she admitted.  “But Rardine has specific plans for Dunselen.”

“Oh, really?” I asked, interested.  “Any idea what they are?”

“Only some.  They involve me being Baroness, is all that I know.  And gathering other magi loyal to the Family into a coven.”

“Isn’t that interesting?” I said, as if it wasn’t.  “So what was your real reason to come to Sevendor?”

“To see what you have been up to,” she replied, sipping her wine. “For the Family, of course, but also because of my own interest in you.”

“And what do you intend to report back to Mother?”

“That you’re a busy little wizard playing castle with his wife, possessing moderate ambitions of regional power and only a tepid interest in interfering in kingdom-level politics . . . despite your pissing off Tavard this summer,” she added with a pleasant smile.  “That went over quite well in certain circles.”

“I have no doubt.  He’s an ass.  But I appreciate you keeping Mother’s thoughts off of me.  That’s a level of scrutiny that would make any man uncomfortable.”

“She still sees you as useful,” Isily assured me.  “Vital, even, if that’s any consolation.  Now that she’s seen what some of our colleagues are capable of, you seem more and more like a moderate voice of reason, as opposed to a dangerous revolutionary.  It is unlikely that she will order your death.”

“That’s . . . gratifying,” I said, truthfully, as I swallowed.  Then something else occurred to me.  “You haven’t been sent here to end anyone, have you?”

“No,” she admitted.  “This is purely an information-gathering mission.  I’m to assess your loyalty to the crown, the strength of your forces, and your possible ambitions.”  She blinked.   Then her eyes narrowed.   “You have me under a truth spell!”

“I have both of us under a truth spell,” I corrected.  “One that is nearly impossible to counter.  I find it keeps communications clearer, when both parties cannot dissemble.”  I knew that admitting that I was compelling us both to speak the truth was giving up an advantage, but I didn’t really have much choice.  “So if there’s any burning question you really want to know about me, now is the time to ask.”

“That’s rather risky, isn’t it?” she challenged.

“It’s a calculated risk,” I replied.  “I pride myself on being genuine, if not always forthright.”

“Interesting,” she grinned.  “Well, there are a few questions I find I’d like to know.  Do you love your wife?” she asked, unexpectedly.

“Deeply and passionately,” I replied.

“Pity,” she sighed.  “I was hoping that you’d be willing to cast her aside, should anything unfortunate happen to Dunselen.”

“Why?  Do you have feelings for me?” I asked, surprised.

“Every day,” she agreed, uncomfortably squirming in her chair.  “You were one of the most captivating lovers I ever had.  Charismatic, powerful, and strong even in your vulnerabilities.”

“Yet I love my wife . . .”

“Which makes you that much more attractive to me,” she said, with frustration.  “To know you found me alluring, yet were more enchanted by the charms of . . . your wife,” she said, carefully, “was a great blow to me.”

“Found you alluring?  You are still beautiful,” I found myself saying, uncomfortably.  Then my tongue compounded my folly.  “I still find you immensely attractive.  Despite my love for Alya.”

“Then I feel somewhat better,” she sighed, smiling awkwardly.  “I confess, when my . . . husband insists on his prerogatives, it is your face and body I imagine above me.”

“That’s flattering,” I said, swallowing painfully.  I was very glad that Lesana could hear not a word of this conversation.  “I’ve thought of you intimately many times myself.  Yet it does not lessen the commitment I have to my bride.  You should put aside any thoughts of disturbing that relationship.  I would take such a move as an attack on that which I hold most dear.”

“Fear not, Minalan,” she assured me.  “I have what I need from my marriage: title, position, wealth, even some power.  And not a little bit of influence.  I would not see all that taken from me due to scandal.  I am not so obsessed with you that I cannot accept my destiny.  I have what I wanted most from you, after all,” she said, pointedly.

My mouth went dry.  “The child.”

“Our daughter,” she emphasized.  “Her name is Ismina.  She has your eyes,” she said.  “She’s in one of my family’s estates in Wenshar.”

“I know,” I croaked.  “I’m having her secretly watched.”

“How long have you known?”

“Since right after I was married,” I said, miserably.  “I hated you and feared you, since then.”

“I mean you no ill will, Minalan,” she assured me.  “I was under orders from Rardine.”

“Why did she make you do such a thing?”

“She wanted leverage over you,” Isily sighed.  “She didn’t trust you, and she felt that her mother was too trusting of you.  That was before you proved yourself loyal, after Timberwatch.”

“After I didn’t announce how you assassinated the Duke of Alshar, that is,” I pointed out.

“It was a watershed moment,” she agreed.  “When you killed our agent, that day, we thought you were about to start a rebellion.  Ismina was one of the strategic pieces in that game.  But when you quietly went off and got married and took over your lands without mentioning it, the Family began to relax, even if they still didn’t trust you.  Then you appeared loyal at the coronation, you held your lands, and you kept the magical world from intruding overmuch on the mundane.  Lastly your victory over the dragon ensured that the Family could not touch you, unless you became a direct threat.  Knights and castles the king has aplenty, but no one to slay a dragon.”

“I’m glad my work was appreciated,” I chuckled.

“Oh, it is,” she agreed.  “Last year was . . . trying, but Mother put the best face possible on things, and felt it a minor victory.  There was some mumbling about you having outlived your usefulness, but then you built the Mirror array, and once again you became too important to touch.  Even when that little brat Tavard complained to his mommy about the mean ol’ spellmonger who had the temerity to know the law well enough to circumvent his asinine objections to relocating refugees, she told him to shut up and tread lightly.  ‘The Spellmonger is essential to the prosperity of the kingdom,’ I believe were the very words she spoke to him.”

“Wonders, I’m essential,” I smiled.  “What did he want to do?”

“He wanted her to rebuke you publically, strip your lands from you, something nasty like that.  She told him that the most he could get away with was a temporary order to remain in your lands, as your overlord . . . but for him not to push it.  She’s scared of you, Minalan, just as much as she wants to use you.  She isn’t a threat to you now, but that could change at any time.”

“I’m aware.  Why do you think I resort to magically extorting intelligence out of her agents?  I know she’s dangerous, and she should know I’m dangerous.  Fine.  But we do need each other.  And as a token of my good faith, here is some intelligence in return that I’ve learned but an hour ago: the Duke of Merwyn has no intention of invasion or more than some skirmishing; he is wary of the kingdom’s strength and fears for his own position, as well as the kingdom’s powerful magical corps.  Further, the Censorate warmagi that he adopted have but twenty two witchstones in their arsenal.   A potent force, but a fraction of what Their Majesties have at their disposal.”

“That is intriguing news,” she agreed.  “And useful to pass along.  Thank you, Minalan.  The Family can be heavy-handed, at times, but things have smoothed much since the prince’s wedding.  Now they seek for a suitable match for Rardine, to increase the stability of the realm, and the reconquest of southern Alshar.  They are likely to leave arcane matters alone unless they demand their attention.”

“Tell me,” I said, suddenly, “what is the hold that Rardine has over you?  Why would you conceive a child at her direction?”

Isily grew very uncomfortable-looking.  She looked away, at the fire, then looked back at me.  “I have never spoken to anyone of this,” she whispered.

“If I haven’t demonstrated my trustworthiness by now . . . I will not betray you,” I promised.  “On the life of our daughter, I will keep discretion about anything you tell me.”

She still didn’t look convinced, but she continued, anyway.  “When we were girls, I was one of Rardine’s attendants – a high honor for the poor girl who had been cursed with rajira and was denied the life of the aristocracy.  We even went to the convent schools together, before I went off to Alar to study magic.

“But at one of the estates we stayed at in Wilderhall, the girls were often left alone, without any but servants to oversee them.  During those times, Rardine indulged in her nascent cruelty to the utmost.  Encouraged by the other girls, even meaner girls, as so often happens they chose the weakest to play their jokes and pranks upon.  And as we got older, those pranks became more vicious, more cruel, and more . . . intimate.”

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.  “What happened?” I asked, simply.

“Rardine and a few of her closest allies contrived to teach me a lesson . . . many lessons,” Isily said, through clenched teeth.  “Unsavory lessons, as I was unwilling.  But that was part of the process,” she revealed.  “Part of the Family’s way of ensuring loyalty through the generations.  It has been going on for years at this quaint little equestrian manor.

“It was during these excursions that our loyalties were tested, and our punishments dealt.  We were paired with another girl, and as partners we did everything together.  That turned out to be a lot more than we could have imagined.  We were forced to beat each other.  Pleasure each other.  Help each other kill.  As part of our process, we were given a peasant girl just a few years younger than we were, and were instructed to beat her to death.  We did,” she said, simply.  “We took hours.”

I was horrified.  I had no idea that the Family was so brutal.  She continued, still staring into the fire.

“I beg of you not to make me speak of the details of the tortures we endured and inflicted.  We were tested constantly and judged ruthlessly.  We were forced into the worst sorts of perversions, learning the intricacies of pleasuring men and women – and their weaknesses.  We were given tasks to test our wits and initiative.  My partner and I contrived to get another team of girls attacked and ravished by soldiers on one test, for instance, so that we would be the ones to earn the all-important praise from Mother.

“Finally, we were given one last test: we were to betray our partner.  We were each tortured until one of us broke, and begged to have the other one sent away.  We knew not where the other would go, merely that they would not return from the journey . . . and their suffering would be perverse and unimaginable.  The Family has a cadre of unsavory men who enjoy such tasks.  I’ve met them.  I have no doubt that whatever happened to her, her last few days were spent in pain and torment.  And I loved her greater than any sister,” she confessed, tears rolling down her cheeks.  “After what I have done to her in the name of loyalty and self-preservation, I cannot walk away from the slightest command Rardine and the Family gives me.  The guilt would be too great for me to bear . . . by design.”

“That’s . . . horrible!” I said, appalled.  “And these are our leaders?”

“These are always our leaders,” she said, miserably.  “I’ve learned much about the way things are done in other places.  As awful as the Family’s approach is, it is almost civilized compared to what other states do to ensure the loyalty of their agents.  Only my gaining of a witchstone and the successful assassination of Lenguin gave me the credit and prestige I needed to retire from more active service.  Now I am merely to be mother to my own little family of killers, ready to strike at Mother’s direction.”

“It seems a rather full retirement,” I observed.

She laughed mirthlessly.  “Dunselen’s frail and pasty body is to be my ‘reward.’  I am to keep him in check and steer his policies while enjoying the wealth and prestige of his position.  It is a decent life,” she said, looking almost relieved to hear the words escape her lips.  “I could have it much worse.  Indeed, I never hoped I would achieve such a position in my lifetime.  But I have, thanks to you,” she said, putting her hand on my arm.

I didn’t move it.  “I could offer you protection,” I whispered.  “I could keep you safe from the Family.”

“But not yourself,” she pointed out, “or all that you love.  No, Minalan, my fate is my own, and I’ve enjoyed far more fortune than I deserve for my crimes.  In fact, even should I covet your wife’s husband, I would never consider myself worthy of such an honor, thanks to the blood on my hands.  You have proven your nobility on the battlefield and in court, and deserve a far better lady at your side than me.  Dunselen, as disgusted as the sight of him makes me, is more suited to my crimes.  I am being repaid for those poor souls I seduced as part of my mission, one agonizing night after another.”

“Surely the old coot doesn’t lack for vitality,” I chuckled again, despite myself.

“Oh, he’s as randy as a goat,” she said, a little savagely.  “That’s part of the problem!  Hence my sudden appreciation for selective breeding.  While of course I am trying desperately to give him the heir he desires,” she said, rolling her eyes, “I have used that stratagem to placate his lusts between the loins of village girls, instead.  I whisper to him of an army of Talented bastards in his domains, and of arcane legacies to last a thousand years.  He’s an idiot.  He knows not if a girl I’ve procured is truly Talented, nor does he care; he merely seeks an excuse to sate his lusts.  When he learned I would give him approval to do so at his whim, and even assist in finding tasty young morsels from his estates, he left off inflicting his passion on me.”

“Isily!” I said, horrified.  “That’s . . . that’s . . .”

“That is what a woman will do to survive, Minalan!” she said, evenly.  The tears on her face were drying, but those eyes were still moist as they bored into me.   “I betrayed my best friend in the world to a horrific torture, rape, and likely murder, because it saved me when I had no other power to do so.

“Now that I am faced with this awful indignity, I do have the power to deflect it.  A few village sluts, culled from the hinterlands and brought quietly to the castle . . . a few days of good treatment and flattery, to prepare them, and a light sedative.  He toys with them and uses them at his whim for a few days, pretends he’s waiting for them to get pregnant, and then sends them away when he tires of them.  I ensure they get a fat purse and a stern warning about silence before they leave.  They go home, bear their brats if they were misfortunate enough to get them, and marry stupid village boys who don’t mind wedding a girl with a bastard in her belly.  Everyone’s happy,” she said, throwing up her hands.

I was afraid of what I’d say if I opened my mouth, so I didn’t.  Or at least not about that.

“So our daughter . . . what plans do you have for her?”

“Eventually, once I have firmly established myself at Greenflower,” she said, referring to Dunselen’s stately ancestral halls, “I will send for her.  If she proves ripe with Talent, I shall send her discretely to Alar to be trained.  If she does not, then I will pay for her education in a convent, and then try to arrange a decent marriage when she’s of age.”

“Should I not get some opinion in her nurture?” I asked, a little offended.

“You were not to even know she existed,” she reminded me.  “If that fact becomes known by the Family, you put both of our lives at risk.”

“I have told only a few of my most-trusted counselors,” I assured her.

“And your wife?”

I paused.  “I haven’t told Alya.  I’m not certain I want to.  I want to be honest with her, but this kind of revelation could damage my marriage.  If I’m not to know for the Family’s sake, then I would caution you likewise.  If anything disturbs my family, then the Spellmonger will go to war in ways not seen since the Magocracy,” I vowed.

“I believe it, Minalan,” she sighed, looking at me.  “It’s near torture, being so near to you after dreaming of you for so many years.  But you have nothing to fear from me.  I have no designs on your life, and wish you only happiness, a happiness you could never have with a wretched soul like me.  Our daughter will remain our secret from everyone, as long as we need her to be.  And only because of your damned spell,” she continued quietly, “I can tell you that you have an ally in me, whether you wish it or not.  After the depths of misery I have been witness to, I cannot help but admire a man who has lifted himself above it all, and taken so many with him.”

Damn it, she was even more attractive to me, now, for some reason.

“Then let us make our secret alliance,” I agreed.  “If you will keep me appraised of the mind of Mother, and warn me of any danger, then I will do what I can to aid you in your goal to make a secure place for yourself . . . for Ismina’s sake.  I will tell no one of this – not even Pentandra, for now.  I trust you will likewise keep this discreet?”

“As it means my head if I do not, yes,” she agreed.  “Now, I had better shake off the remnants of this spell and return to my randy old husband, who sees every journey we take as an excuse to make love in an exotic locale.  He’s insistent that our passion not grow stale, and the last thing he needs to hear is what I honestly think about his pathetic efforts.”

Chapter Six

Dodging Isily

INDAGATION

“It behooves the enchanter to seek counsel and lore in a process of indagation, before he embarks upon his chosen path.  For much has been done before which may be learned from; and much will suggest itself as the enchanter explores not just the artists of the past, but his contemporaries and colleagues, yay, even his students may have something of value.  The importance of a thorough process of indagation is essential if a successful enchantment is desired.”

The Florilegum of Basic Thaumaturgy

The next morning I woke up feeling both more and less secure at the same time.  The Family was not considering assassinating me – which was a relief – and the Censorate’s successors were too busy with their own problems to be of serious concern to my plans.  Even with the Alka Alon still away attending to their crisis, I felt a sense of relief about both issues I hadn’t known I was carrying.

But both interviews also proposed additional problems.  How would we deal with magical trade and such between duchies, now?  Could the Knights of Nablus be counted upon as partners or would they end up rivals?  Could we find some way to work together, despite the differences in approach?  And, more importantly, could we do so without developing any lasting antipathy?

More importantly – to me, personally – had been Isily’s revelations.  Particularly her feelings for me and her assurances about little Ismina.  While I did not share her feelings, I was still very attracted and very sympathetic to her, now that I knew what she had been through.

She was still a devious shadowmage assassin in the service of a ruthless monarch.  I tried very hard not to let my personal feelings distract me from that fact.  If commanded, Isily would slay every member of my family, thanks to her conditioning.  While I was feeling more secure about my illegitimate daughter’s current condition, her future as the pawn of those murderous bitches was not something I could stomach.  Not after what Isily had told me.

As stunning as the revelations and our new secret alliance was, life went on – and the fair went on.  All day that day I made a point of being by Alya’s side, as I judged the competition between warmagi out on the list field. With all of the visiting warmagi from the Penumbralands, it was an impressive display.  I presented the victor with his prize.

After that we took a scenic carriage ride up the road to Hollyburrow, to see the results of the Green Magic exhibition.  I couldn’t help but feel that the Tree Folk were missing out on what would have likely been their favorite part of the fair, but that couldn’t be helped.

Sevendor was clear of Tree Folk.  Since late last year the Council that governed the non-human masters of magic, including the five greatest lords of the Alka Alon, had recalled nearly every one of its agents to assist with the ongoing crisis associated with the loss of the great City of Rainbows in the Mindens.  When one of the greatest and most magically secure fortresses in the realm gets defeated by goblins, the results are going to be chaotic, and the Alka Alon were not a race that dealt well with chaos.

I hadn’t seen one of my Alkan friends since my return to Sevendor.  There was a single Alkan attendant left in Lesgaethael, atop Matten’s Helm, but apart from their ability to relay a message, they were singularly unhelpful.  We were, at least for now, on our own.

I had mixed feelings about that.  While it was true that our alliance brought about some strategic victories that were key to our survival, it hadn’t been particularly smooth.  It didn’t help that the Alkan lords of the Council often bore grudges against my species that I had no idea about.  Nor did it help that the recent rise of the Abomination, as they styled Shereul, had provided a resurgent interest in humani culture among the Alka Alon.  That had led to a political fracture between pro- and anti-humani factions, which had led to a dangerous stalemate in a time of crisis.

I didn’t know exactly how the issue would end up resolved, but for the time being, at least, we had been left to our own devices.  That was both good and bad.  Bad, because if things got out of control in the Penumbra, for example, or if Castabriel was attacked by a dragon, we didn’t have much recourse without the Alka Alon.  It was good because the Alka Alon tend to take a patronizing and conservative approach to trusting humans with powerful magic, culturally.  Only the exceptions to that rule had given us the advantages that we’d developed.

But if the Tree Folk weren’t going to stand around and watch what I was doing, then I counted that an excellent opportunity to do things that I knew they likely would not approve of me doing.  I had a long list of thaumaturgical experiments that I wanted to try.  The Magical Fair and my house arrest gave me the opportunity to start quietly recruiting good enchanters to help me with that.  With the Tree Folk standing around, watching, I knew the willingness to dare to experiment would be curtailed.  Innovation is not particularly prized in Alkan magic.

But they would have loved the Green Magic Exhibition.  Master Olmeg sponsored and oversaw the bigger-than-normal event, for which he prepared for the last two years.  He took residence in a snug little cottage the Tal Alon built for him, using their native techniques, while transforming the former dilapidated manor hall he’d inherited from the old Yeoman, Farant, into a kind of laboratory for visiting green magi.

The hall and the yard of the shady little vale were now filled with greenery of all sorts.  Nearly a dozen of Olmeg’s colleagues brought cartloads of seedlings, saplings, and cuttings from their private nurseries and shared them among each other, along with a wealth of knowledge on how to propagate each variety.  Olmeg’s herbal gardens doubled in size after the fair, and his experimental orchards were growing robustly where discouraged fields of wheat and barley had once languished.

The Tal Alon took the opportunity of the event to throw a festival of their own.  Our colony of furry brown nonhumans had prospered dramatically, and in two years the place was overrun with little brown balls of fur chasing after their portly parents.

The River Folk’s mastery of horticulture was profound, but limited.  They specialized in vegetables and roots, fruits and berries, not grain crops.

But they knew what to do with malted barley.  There were four taphouses in Hollyburrow, more than any Yeomanry but Sevendor Town.  The River folk liked to brew, and they loved to drink, and they had a culture that encouraged charming little pubs.  It was their chief cultural expression, it seemed.

Chief among their taphouses was the expansive Hollybush, favored of the Karshak during their construction of Lesgaethael.  But there were also the Green Onion, The Happy Kettle, and the Pinecone.  Each appealed to a different subculture within the confusing Tal’s society, but there was plenty of comingling by all.  Each also served food, in cheap abundance, if you were kind enough to patronize their alehouses.

That made Hollyburrow a popular excursion for visiting wizards visiting the fair on a budget.  You could even have lodgings among the Tal, if you weren’t too picky about the smell and the cramped quarters.  The day of the Green Magic exhibition, all four taverns had set up tables and chairs outside and were offering liberal tastes of their wares, and there were plenty of travelers taking advantage.

There was even a band of Tal Alon musicians trying desperately to play popular humani tunes, in between impressive renditions of their native music, which favored either outrageously bawdy lyrics or ridiculously fast dance numbers.  You wouldn’t think the chubby little rodents could dance, but I was surprised by how well they moved.

Master Olmeg oversaw the festivities with the serene patience of a master.  The Tal Alon treated the tall, quiet Green Mage with a respect and reverence they usually reserved only for the Alka Alon, or occasionally the Karshak.

In Olmeg’s case, however, that respect had been earned, not genetically contrived.  Olmeg had proven a fair and understanding Yeoman for the little pocket of greenery and brown fur in the middle of my domain.  Heavily shaded by Matten’s Helm to the northwest and the hills around it to the south and east, the damp little land had never been good for the kind of farming that humans tended to pursue.

But when Olmeg had taken a look at the land with a mage’s eye and his knowledge of Green Magic, he was able to select crops that were well-suited to the microclimate and easy for the Tal to grow.  Once the farmers stopped working against the land and started working with it, Hollyburrow blossomed like a wildflower in the swamp.  The Tal now grew far more than they needed, particularly potatoes, yams, and onions.  The Hollyburrow stall was always bustling on market days.

That prosperity had helped develop the loyalty the Tal felt for Olmeg, but it was the big mage’s willingness to treat the Tal with the same respect and honor he showed other humans that really secured their loyalty.

The Tal are not particularly liked by most humans.  Peasants saw them as inhuman competition, and lords saw them largely as slightly-useful parasites.  The domains in the western Riverlands that employed them tended to treat them as subhuman and exploited them ruthlessly.

Master Olmeg treated each of the little furry guys like a fellow human, and treated their leadership with the same deference and courtesy he paid to his fellow Yeomen.  He granted them his protection while allowing them to order their own affairs.  Olmeg respected their customs and was scrupulously fair in his judgments in settling their internal disputes.

He had employed them on behalf of his position as Greenwarden, and paid them the same wages he would have paid hired villeins.  He even appeared in court on their behalf and advocated for their interests with quiet passion.  After three years of working together, he was a nearly mystical figure among them.

The Tal Alon weren’t alone in their adoration.  Green wizards from around the kingdom had made their way to Sevendor at his invitation, and he was accorded a professional respect and deference for his mastery of craft by them in a way that had to be professionally gratifying for the Green Mage.

Green magi are an odd lot; you’ve never seen anyone get so intense about pollination, fertilization and predatory fungus until you see a couple of Green magi get together.  Each one of them seemed to specialize in some obscure area of the field: Master Minnik was an arborealist, Mistress Ganda was an expert in flowers of all sorts, and Master Daltren was the foremost authority on grasses, that sort of thing.  Olmeg was accounted a master of systemic horticulture – that is, using different types of plants in concert to achieve particular magical effects.

To many of his visitors, the Enchanted Forest that he’d grown to protect the approach to the Diketower had been the most impressive thing about the fair.  While others walked through it, ignoring the gallows oaks and other trees around them, the Green magi were awed and impressed by the intricacies of the defense.

It was a pleasure meeting and mingling with this obscure part of the arcane world.  Green magi don’t get near the respect they deserve, largely because it’s just not as impressive to plant a seed and wait patiently for it to grow as it is to produce a flash and a cloud of smoke and instant results.  But the subtle magics and living spells of green magi had tremendous power, if you understood it properly.  In the last three years Olmeg had done much to improve my understanding of it, and thanks to our partnership we both benefitted from his tenure in Sevendor.

“The entrants are quite impressive, Magelord,” he told me after properly greeting Alya and me with a cup of cider before leading us around the many raised beds the Tal Alon had prepared as showcases.  “I prepared several soil varieties, and sprinkled each of them liberally with snowsand before the entrants arrived.  Almost all have survived transport and are thriving,” he said, proudly.  It took me a moment to realize he was talking about the plants, not the people.

“What wonders did they bring?” I asked, curiously.

“Weirwood varieties, salstagga shrubs, kirsieth, and all manner of useful herbs,” he smiled, proudly.  “There’s a large parchment grass varietal Master Daltren has developed that grows the sheets twice as large as normal.  He’s also bred a stringrass with thrice the tensile strength of ordinary string.  I’ve secured seed stock and cuttings for both,” he boasted, pleased.

“Anything useful for the castle apothecarial garden?” Alya asked.  As lady of the castle, she was technically in charge of the large garden of medicinal herbs in the inner bailey we grew.  In actuality Sister Bemia and her novice tended the garden, but Alya knew her responsibilities.

“Aye, Lady,” Olmeg nodded, his sonorous deep voice sounding like audible calm.  “Poppies, hemp, feverfew, and many other potent varieties.  Mistress Ganda has gifted me with a few rare and special cuttings, too.  Including a specimen of Volnaras.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” my wife confessed, helpfully.  Neither had I, but the Spellmonger is supposed to know stuff like that.

“Volnaras is natavia perennial that grows in the wilds of Wenshar,” he recited.  “It’s difficult to cultivate, as it needs an area of low magic resistance and a loose sandy soil, which is a rarity in Wenshar.  When it is found and cultivated, the Volnaras flower can be crushed and boiled.  The extract provides an elixir much prized by physicians for its ability to render a patient utterly immobile, compliant, and unable to feel pain during an operation.  It is the gods’ own boon to difficult labor and deliveries,” he nodded, matter-of-factly, “and for delicate operations involving the brain, heart, or liver it is far superior to Bardain or Poppy Gum.  The specimen Ganda gifted us with is in full flower,” he added, pleased.

“That does sound useful,” I admitted.  Alya had been through two hard deliveries, and we were hoping for a few more children.  Anything that could ease Trygg’s Blessing was a blessing of its own.

“There’s also some rare herbs from the Wilderlands Mistress Rael has brought,” Olmeg added.  “The woman excels at discovering the obscure among the herbs.  Come spring, we will have Ashkalot for stopping bleeding, Foxglove for maladies of the heart, and Alshari Peppermint, a powerful remedy for issues of digestion.”

“I’m very pleased, Master Olmeg,” I said cheerfully.  Banamor might be a mover and shaker among the commercial interests of the arcane world, but my investment in Olmeg had paid off just as handsomely.  His toil turned Sevendor from a marginal cropland into an agriculturally prosperous domain, and transformed Hollyburrow into a nursery of rare and magical plants.   Some the Tal had even begun to stockpile and export.  Giving the marginal estate over to the Green Mage had been one of the better decisions of my tenure as Magelord.

The exhibition was quite popular among those magi who grew weary of the hubbub of the Fair and wanted a change of pace before tomorrow’s Spellmonger’s Trial.  Indeed, one of my reasons for visiting Hollyburrow was to make some last-minute adjustments to some of the obstacles for the contest.

Among the wandering magi I spotted were Terleman, Mavone, Astyral, and Wenek, four magelords and comrades-at-arms enjoying an outing with a bottle.  A trio of Wenshari enchanters had also taken the day to examine varieties of weirwood.  I nodded and smiled to several prominent wizards – not High Magi, but professional court wizards and spellmongers I knew by sight from the Conclave, mostly – who had made their way to the Fair and were seeking useful cuttings to take home.  And there were nonmagically talented herbalists, specialists in herblore invited to share their expertise.

Dunselen and Isily also arrived, just before we departed, and I managed to escape the estate without exchanging words with either . . . although Isily affixed me with an uncomfortable look when Alya and Dunselen weren’t looking.  I’d love to say that it was inscrutable, but the truth is I could tell exactly what she was thinking from her expression.

“That was lovely!” Alya sighed, as we began the walk back to the Fairgrounds. “I don’t get out to Hollyburrow nearly enough.  It’s right in the middle of everything, but you can almost forget that it’s there.”

“That’s part of its charm,” I agreed.  “It’s like a piece of another country, right here inside Sevendor.  The Westwood is kind of like that, too.”

“I’m so glad you’ve done what you have with the estate,” she sighed.  “All Ela could do was complain about it.”  I’d given the place to her sister Ela and my brother-in-law Sagal for a year, when we first arrived in Sevendor.  He had done remarkable things to repair the manor and reduce the damage from neglect, but the small Yeomanry was never destined to prosper as the other agricultural estates did.  It was too marshy, shady, and cool.  “Besides, they’re much happier in Southridge.  Who knew Sagal had the makings of a good innkeeper?”

“That’s more than an inn, he’s running,” I said, glancing over the fields toward the distant estate.  It had tripled in size since Sagal became Yeoman.  Now, in addition to raising most of Sevendor’s horses, the estate also hosted visiting guests in several new halls . . . at premium rates.  “That’s like owning a gold mine, this time of year.  He’s already approached me about adding a string of smaller cottages along the road, to rent out like Banamor does the fairgrounds cots.”

“You should grant it, my lord husband, for the prosperity of all,” she advised.  I nodded absently.  “What is troubling you, my husband?” she asked, quietly.

I started, and gave her a stare.  “You sounded suspiciously like a Riverlands noblewoman, there, and not an Alshari Wilderlands rustic!”

“I’ve been listening to them, and learning,” she agreed, chuckling.  “I noticed that the servants were more apt to follow orders when I sounded that way.  The human servants,” she amended.  “The Tal don’t care how I sound.  Except for Daisy,” she added.  “She’s able to detect some of my nuances, now.”

“It’s an amazing transformation,” I nodded approvingly.  “Not that I dislike your Wilderlands drawl and forthright manner, mind you, but the way you’ve managed to adapt to the Riverlands culture is admirable, my wife.”

She smiled, showing her dimples.  I do love her dimples.  “Thank you, my lord husband.  As I admire the way you so adeptly deflect my question with a subtle flattery.  Shall I scream at you like a Wilderlands woodwife, my lord, or will you answer my bloody question?” she asked, sweetly.

I sighed.  It’s hard to keep things from your wife.  But I had to be careful.  “I’ve got a lot on my mind.  This has been fun, today . . . but there is a lot going on.  A lot of changes coming.  A lot of old enemies and new friends, and I’m just trying to keep everything under control.”

“But Min,” she said, frowning, “things are under control!”

“See what a good job I’ve been doing?” I said, smiling weakly.  “You’d think that a wonderful excursion like this would make me forget about the important things I’m responsible for . . . but the fact is, I know that Olmeg and the Tal Alon would never have been given a chance to thrive, without my patronage.  And protection.”

“But they have,” she pointed out.  “The other lords are noticing, too.  Our Tal servants are so well-behaved that some of the other lords have inquired about them.” We had utilized more Tal Alon than human servants in our new hall, which had produced some grumbling.  But the industrious little guys were outstanding at basic cleaning and took direction admirably.  They were also utterly incorruptible.

“They really don’t have many settlements around here,” I agreed.  Most of the Tal under human sovereignty were vassals of the barons in southern Gilmora and the central Riverlands, as well as a few tribes in the Wilderlands of Alshar and Castal who had adopted human culture.  “But with the war, there are plenty of groups open to resettlement.  But they aren’t human peasants, and they aren’t animals.  If the Riverlords are willing to accept them, then they need to understand a little about their culture before they extend that invitation.

“But that’s just one of the many things on my mind,” I finished.  “I’m just glad I can finally spend some time on them, back here in Sevendor.” Last year’s war in the Mindens and the Great March had taken my attention away from my domains for too long, I knew.  It had also been a strain on my marriage, which Alya did not hesitate to mention, in a nice way.

“Not nearly as glad as I am,” she assured me, taking my arm and sliding more closely to me.  We spent the rest of the afternoon browsing the stalls at the Fair before going back to the castle for a bath and a change of clothes.  Tonight was an important night, after all.  It was the night of Pentandra’s wedding reception.

Technically it was the annual fete hosted by the Order of the Secret Tower, but Penny had taken over the entire affair and transformed it into a celebration of her wedding.  As the actual ceremony had taken place deep in the sacred groves of Kasar, at the base of a grand ninety-foot tall waterfall, there was little occasion for the feasting, gift giving, and merriment that Remeran tradition demanded.

This reception was her compromise for that.  She and Arborn had been staying in the grand suite she’d had installed in the hall when the Order had it built (mostly at her insistence), and without actually going home to Remere this was as close as she could get to friends and family for now.

Alya insisted on a grand showing, even more than I had been prepared for.  She insisted it was a matter of feminine honor to give such an important person in my life and within the Order a glorious demonstration of respect and affirmation.  It was only fitting, she insisted.

I didn’t argue with her.  I’d learned better than to get between a woman and her social obligations.  I allowed Alya and Estret to spearhead the planning and the gifts, and I limited my participation to preparing a few special gifts and a willingness to toast the bride and groom.

Arborn looked splendidly handsome in what I can only assume was the Kasari formal uniform – a darker green than the usual, with each badge and achievement carefully embroidered on the breast and sleeves.  The cloak he wore was the one I’d gifted him with for the March, now trimmed with some luxurious-looking white fur.  Pentandra’s was a white version of the same mantle, in a more feminine cut and with more fur.  She looked adorable and radiant.

It was a great party, more elegant than the Enchanter’s Guild’s fete.  It was a wild mix of Remeran decadence and Kasari folksy wholesomeness.  Arborn had brought a dozen men along with him, though whether they were guards, servants, or merely comrades I was not sure.  The dour-looking rangers stood at the entrance, their uniforms augmented by green and gold sashes bearing what I assumed was Arborn’s device.  They drank not a drop, ensuring that the other patrons did not get too rowdy in their enjoyment.

Planus had arrived with a full retinue for the occasion.  His entourage included cooks and servants from Pentandra’s home estates, dancing girls, and specialists in libations I’d never heard of.  They performed admirably, loading the trestles with an amazing array of delicacies, the aromas filling the room while their artistry delighted the eyes.  Hundreds of bottles were available for sampling, and the Priestess of Trygg was singing hymns of blessing that grew bawdier as the night grew long.  Musicians filled a small gallery overhead and filled the hall with stately melodies or raucous rhythms the dancers could gyrate to.

An entire chamber had been set aside for gifts, which ranged from the extravagant (Pentandra’s family) to rustic and practical (the Kasari) to the arcane (most of our professional colleagues) with a few odd ones thrown in.

I gave the happy couple several small gifts I’d enchanted that I thought they may find of use in their life together.   As Penny already had a magical chamberpot (as if I could resist giving her one of the first) I aimed for something more Pentandra’s style: a wardrobe filled with magical pockets in which she could store hundreds of gowns, shoes, and such.  Yet the cabinet would only ever weigh but a hundred pounds.

I gave her something else I’d worked on in the last few weeks.  It was a weirwood rod about four feet long with an oversized witchstone in the head.  It once belonged to the renegade warmage Mask, and after I had relieved her of it in battle it had stayed tucked away until I could get it back to my workshop.  Once I removed the taint of the Dead God and the residue of Mask’s personal spells, I took out the pocketstones and other tools I’d developed and reconstructed it from scratch.

I was proud of that rod.  It was the first major foray into enchantment that I’d done since I’d returned from Alshar.  I took a couple of days after I’d returned from the march to work on the enchantments in the rod.  Since it was for Pentandra, I spared no attention to detail or expense in its construction.

Technically, it was the first great magical rod, or baculus, that I created.  It was an impressive first effort, and served to guide me in the similar rods I constructed after it.  There were fifteen different magical pockets in it, now.  I prepared several of them, allowing her to conjure forth with a word a table, chairs, a brazier, her new magical wardrobe, a beautiful brass bathtub, and a casket filled with as thorough a selection of alcohol as I could manage.  Another chest was stocked with basic thaumaturgical supplies and copies of essential texts.  The rest I left for her to fill.

But that wasn’t all – to the oversized witchstone in the head I’d added a Waystone, a sliver of blood coral to bind the enchantments to her, and a nugget of yellow knot coral so that she could magically manipulate the rod if she desired.

I had the Karshak lapidary, Guri’s cousin, wrap the reddish shaft in argentium wire and added tiny oak leaves of the same material.  Instead of acorns I had it set with rubies, just because they suited Penny.  The wire culminated in a new fitting at the head of the rod, an acorn-shaped lattice of argentium that allowed the glow of the irionite within to be seen.  I added a simple magelight enchantment on a drop of thaumaturgical glass to allow Penny to control the glow.  I filled in with additional rubies to the fitting in tasteful abundance to please her vanity.

Finally, I’d had a beautiful ruby ring commissioned with a two-carat stone supported by five tiny acorns.  The rod was designed to disappear into a pocket within the ring and reappear upon command.  It saved on carrying the thing around when you weren’t using it.  It was a little hefty, now.

I’d done one more enchantment, something of an experimental nature in the field of paracletion.  It was a bit of a whim, when I was in the tower late at night and probably not completely sober.  But I’d had an odd idea, and without really thinking about it, I impulsively added it to the rod.

I used the Grain of Pors to install the enneagram of a relatively benign but very self-aware ghost of some long-extinct sea creature in the rod as a paraclete – a magical intercessor that could assist the user by doing the hard work of spellcasting, for her.  It was akin to conjuring a simple elemental, or installing an enneagram in a magical construct; but the complexity of the enneagram allowed a far, far more sophisticated effect, almost a personality within the baculus.

Why did I do it?  Perhaps because when you work on an enchantment you tend to anthropomorphize the piece if you spend enough time with it.  Blizzard and Trailblazer were both almost living creatures to me because I’d invested so much of myself into their creation.

But this was a step further than that.  Using my recent experiences with the Grain during the battle against Mask that had won me the rod in the first place, I’d searched the magical pebble of Ghost Rock for just the right sort of pattern for the tool I envisioned.  Something that would be compatible with Pentandra’s personality – sharp, intelligent, lively, lusty, and careful.

I went through dozens of possibilities before I found what I was looking for.  The Grain contains enneagrammatic patterns of every creature who touches it long enough to impress it, and it had laid at the bottom of some ocean for eons before it found its way into a river in the rugged northern vales of the Kulines.  There were a lot of patterns to choose from, and to be honest I only had a vague idea of what I was doing.  Enneagrammatic work is tricky, as the symbols within the patterns are difficult to understand and even more difficult to appreciate in context.  I was learning, and I had a growing sophistication with the art, but this was still more essay than anything.

The one I eventually selected was likely once some sort of territorial bottom-dwelling creature who had come across the Grain at some point.  It was an elegant pattern, decidedly female and with a surprisingly complex array of intelligence and perception – probably developed as a defensive measure.  I had no idea what that long-dead ocean world had been like, but I couldn’t imagine it was peaceful.

The pattern had self-awareness, it had a strong social component, it had robust sexual and maternal symbols, and it had a sense of both agency and compassion that I felt worked well with Pentandra’s style.  It wasn’t aggressive, but it could be dangerous.  It wasn’t belligerent, but it had a strong sense of self-preservation.  And it was social enough to have some capacity for loyalty, which I felt was important.  There’s nothing worse than a magical stick with a mercenary attitude.

It wasn’t my best work, not compared to the effort I had expended on my warstaff, Blizzard, or my traveling staff, Trailblazer.  But it was still a highly potent and extremely pretty magical artifact, one of the most powerful in the western lands.  A suitable tool for the challenges to be faced by the new Court Wizard of Alshar.  And a very pretty one.  The red shaft, the silver leaves, the sparkling rubies, the magical glow – once it was finished, the sparkling rod was as elegant an accessory as a powerful sorceress could ask for.

The fact that it also looked kind of like an abstract form of a giant erect penis was my little joke.  Penny got it instantly, of course, but she was so charmed by the gift she didn’t comment at the time.

I’d included a bibelot, the technical term for an instruction manual.  It was twelve feet of scroll detailing the rods construction and functions including all applicable command words.  I packed the entire thing in an elegant silver case enchanted against tarnish, with the pretty ruby ring in a matching box.

Pentandra was overcome.  She had been receiving impressive gifts all night, but when I made my presentation she beamed and cried and cradled the beautiful silver rod like a baby.  She eagerly put on the ring and made the rod disappear and reappear a dozen times, once I taught her the charm.

“What did you name it?” she asked, when she finally calmed down enough to speak again.

“It isn’t mine to name,” I pointed out.  “It’s a baculus, technically, and it’s silver.  I worked in the oaky motif, since your lavish estate is Fairoaks and your husband spends more time with trees than people.  But beyond that, it’s yours to name.  I’d recommend getting to know her a little, before you decide on something.”

“Know . . . her?” Penny asked, confused.

“You’ll see what I mean,” I smiled mysteriously.  I added, mind-to-mind, She’s a suitable baculus for the new Ducal Mage of Alshar.  Have you decided when you’re going to announce it, officially?

Not until after Yule, she replied, making the baculus disappear again into her ring.  This time she left it there.  Arborn and I had a long talk.  He’s agreed to go with me to Vorone in secret, and take the Duke’s service as Woodwarden.  At least for now.

Penny!  That’s great news!

I hope so, she said, doubtfully.  We’re not going to announce anything until Anguin takes control of the court at Yule.  Arborn is supportive of the effort – he thinks a stable Narasi state will keep the goblins quiet and leave Bransei alone. He’s bringing along a dozen of his mates, to assist us.  Vorone might be in the Wilderlands, but it’s a city, Min.   I can’t help but feel like I’m dragging him into something awful, she confided.

That’s marriage, Penny, I consoled her.  It’s always a great adventure.

It’s a bloody pain, she replied.  I never thought I’d care so much about whether or not someone else was happy.  How do you and Alya do it?  I’ve been married for three weeks, and I feel like an ignorant peasant girl!  I never know when he’s happy, or what he wants, or what he wants me to do . . . it’s a bloody nuisance.

A great adventure, I repeated, trying to keep the irony from my mental voice.  I had, after all, just given her a magical weapon of great power.

Then I went back to the party.  It was a really good party.

Lorcus – freshly shaved and drunk as hell, was in paradise.  Planus was enjoying playing unofficial host to his cousin’s nuptials, and even serene Dranus was visibly pleased at the merriment.  I gave a long and partially incoherent toast that made Penny blush and Arborn laugh self-consciously behind his hands.  Carmella and a few other of Penny’s girlfriends from Alar Academy followed with a ribald fictional account of her early years that left us all rolling in the rushes with laughter.  Seeing Carmella not just laugh but crack jokes that were actually funny was a wonder in itself.

For his part, a few of the Kasari men who had accompanied Arborn gave brief accolades to their captain, and praised Pentandra for her wisdom and devotion . . . which made me wonder what, exactly, had happened at the Kasari rites to inspire that level of allegiance.

After the sun set we took the celebration outside where Dranus had contrived to launch a spectacular display of philoxenic enchantments (magical fireworks) from Lesgaethael, overhead.  The elegant white Alkan spire glowed with eldritch light, aswirl with a swarm of tiny magelights while alchemical explosions detonated in brilliant flowers of sparks and clouds of colored smoke overhead.  Philoxenics and alchemical incendiaries were a minor hobby of my court wizard.  A flashy bit of theater one could use to impress the gullible or augment the effect of a spell to improve a client’s perceptions of your power.

Once you added the power of irionite to the philoxenic art, Dranus proved you could extend the spectacle in breathtaking ways.  Showers of colored stars reformed into abstract shapes or simple animals before they extinguished.  Clouds of smoke hung in the sky and burned pale from within.  He finished the display with a bright, massive snowflake that rotated for a half dozen turns over the entire town before dissolving into a gentle sprinkle of light.

It was amazing – and inspiring.  Magi had always been adept at such spectacles, and court wizards were regularly called upon for some sort of entertainment in the form of a flashy display.  But after Dranus’ performance at Pentandra’s wedding party, there began a real development of philoxenic enchantments as different High Magi competed against each other.  After that year, such spectacular fireworks became the hallmark of the magical fair.

Dunselen and Isily were there – how could they not be?  They gave Penny and Arborn a beautiful Remeran tapestry from the pre-Conquest period, enchanted to dampen sound and never need cleaning.  I once again managed to avoid them both by being very careful about my position in the room and my company . . . but where stratagem fails, magic finds a way.

I was in the guarderobe, relieving myself of some of the day’s ale, when I felt the brush of contact, mind-to-mind.  I didn’t think much of it when I answered – I get calls like that all the time.

This time I wasn’t quite prepared for the response.

Hello, Minalan, Isily’s voice said into my mind.  I stopped mid-stream.  Are you planning on avoiding me all night?

It’s mostly your husband, I admitted.

At least you don’t have to lie with him, she said, with undisguised disgust. He wanted a brief encounter after sampling some aphrodisiacs, today.

Ugh!  How did you avoid that?

I didn’t.  I am a good wife.  But being a good wife, I employed my feminine skills to protect my womb.

Protect your womb? I asked, startled.

Surely you remember me employing the technique on you, she chuckled into my head.  Dunselen is just as susceptible to its charms, and far quicker to respond than you, from what I recall.  With the cream of the magical profession here, and me at my fertile period, it would be a shame to waste my womb on his seed.

Try the Gilmorans, I suggested.  I hear they like group activities.  You didn’t just barge into my head to talk dirty while I’m in the privy, I hope.

Of course not, she reproved. I just wanted to thank you for a lovely time.  My lord husband and I will be departing tomorrow after the Trial, skipping the Champion’s Feast to avoid the crowds.  I am truly impressed at what you have accomplished here in Sevendor, and I hope to take some of the ideas to my new home.  I only hope that on my next visit I might impose on you to see some of the real work you have been doing here.

Real work?  I’ve been gone all summer, I reminded her. That shiny stick I gave Penny was the only real work I’ve been able to manage.  Outside of the Trials, I amended.

I think we both know what I mean, she said, mysteriously. I won’t even chide you for not sharing the mind-to-mind spell with me, Min.  It was easy enough to get from Dunselen.  But in light of our new alliance, this might be the most discrete means of communicating, don’t you think?

Just try not to abuse it, I cautioned her, sternly.  This is a privilege.  And, technically, a State Secret.  But I guess you know how to keep a secret.

And I am adept at discretion, as all shadowmagi are, she reminded me.  We just give each other what we need, and no one else need be privy to it.  Good night, Minalan.

She left my mind just as abruptly as she’d entered it.  It took me a good dozen breaths before my breathing finally evened out and my heart stopped pounding.  And it took me a dozen more before I was relaxed enough to finish peeing.

Chapter Seven

The Solace Of The Snowflake

FORMANT

“Envisioning the construction and development of an enchantment requires that the operant develop the fundamental diorics of the object: what does it need to do?  How shall it accomplish that goal?  What powers must need be brought to bear to fulfill this expectation?  Such diorics, in their totality, make up the enchantment’s formant, or essential definition.  Without the formant, the enchanter proceeds without understanding or the expectation of success for it is within the diorics of the formant that success for the enchantment is ultimately defined.”

The Florilegum of Basic Thaumaturgy

The Spellmonger’s Trial is the toughest and most important competition of the Fair, and the participants began gathering and preparing themselves at the Fairgrounds early in the morning.  By the time I got there, a crowd of nearly a thousand had gathered.

The vendors were doing a brisk business, and the autumn skies were bright and clear.  Lesgaethael stood in the distance on Matten’s Helm, the destination of the contest.  My old pipe was resting on a boulder at its summit, and dozens of nasty magical obstacles promised to give every contestant an increasingly difficult challenge before they gained the top.

The first one who returned my pipe to me won the stone and took their oath.  It was as simple as that.

There were over three hundred contestants this year.  The monks of Ifnia took bets on the leading contenders – mostly warmagi – and the spectators were speculating on what special enchantments they would run afoul of this year.

The truth was, I wasn’t precisely certain myself.  Pentandra had strengthened and augmented the Veil she’d cast around the base of the mound, and I’d delegated specific sections to Dranus and Taren as guest enchanters, but I had no idea what devices they had conjured to challenge the entrants.

For my part, I’d created six little leather simulacrums, roughly man-shaped, packed them with snowsand and some strengthening enchantments, and invested them with the enneagrams of a particular variety of highly territorial crustacean from the Grain of Pors.  At various points along the route they would leap upon the entrants from where I’d left them and attack them as if they were defending their eggs.

Of course I didn’t want to kill anyone.  That was bad for business.  So instead of the blunt claws the ancient beast was used to attacking with, I replaced the “hands” on each side with a thick burlap pouch filled with the nastiest, smelliest mixture of manures my humble domain could produce.  Then I added a minor enchantment to make the mire stick egregiously wherever it landed.  When my knee-high terrors pounced, they covered their foes with a layer of absolutely putrid ooze.

Just to make things fun, I added a compound that turned it Sevendor Green, too.

That seemed somewhat pedestrian, however, and as an afterthought I included some enchantments my former apprentices had inspired this last summer.

Each belligerent poppet also emitted a horrific shriek magically magnified and augmented to send all but the most stout-hearted victim fleeing in terror.  Some also gave a maniacal laugh.  Some bawled piteously like tortured children.  Some hurled insults of the vilest sort.  As a special finish, I had talented Dara paint each face with a fiendish visage, complete with glowing eyes and a crazy-looking mouth.  When they were done I had a half dozen little imps out of someone’s worst nightmare.  Not mine, but then I have a very active imagination.

Lastly, at the top of the hill, once the entrants left Dranus’ section, they had to face a construct I designed specifically for the purpose of guarding my pipe.

It was based upon a kind of shelled animal – whether fish, reptile, or some odd thing I could not conceive of – that religiously guarded its nest from predators with incredible vigilance.  It wasn’t violent, but it would interpose its heavy body between its nest and danger.  It was also magically gifted, apparently.  If it felt truly threatened, it could summon a magical wave of distress strong enough to summon assistance . . . and knock out any predators in the area at the same time.  I don’t know what the exact action it used was, but its instinct to employ the attack was clear in its enneagram.

The construct itself I built similarly to the annoying poop-flinging imps on the slopes below, only instead of two nimble legs I gave it the six stubby little legs to which it was accustomed.  Its back was protected by a massive bronze shield once borne by trolls, a souvenir of the Timberwatch campaign.  Six feet long and four feet wide, made of solid bronze and heavily enchanted to repel direct attacks, the massive metal plate was near enough like the ancient creature’s shell to appeal to its defensive reflexes.  The bright white snowflake I’d had painted on it was just my ego talking.

To mimic it magical attack I gave the construct access to an enchantment lodged in a marble of thaumaturgic glass: a wave of magical energy designed to stun the central nervous systems of anyone in a twenty-foot radius.  Once I installed the fake beast on Matten’s Helm, and instructed it that the boulder with my pipe was its nest, it settled into a slow-moving circular march about eight feet away from the rock . . . and if you tried to get close to it, it would wheel around and interpose itself.

That’s all.  But any attempt to evade the beast would see it wheel around again to intercept the attempt . . . and if it was going fast enough, it really didn’t mind the collision that resulted.

I called it the Shieldbeast, because I was tired and not feeling as imaginative as usual that morning.  I was playing around with all sorts of ideas for magical constructs designed to besiege a castle, or do other military duties, and the Sheildbeast was an essay in that direction.

I gave my speech, I implored the entrants to behave honorably, and I waved the witchstone prize around in the air before making it disappear into a magical pocket.  Banamor started the contest, everyone raced off, and I was faced with four boring hours of waiting around the Fairgrounds making polite chit-chat with other magi and important guests.

I suppose I shouldn’t complain – I was the Spellmonger, and this was my special party, after all.  But after my encounters with Isily I couldn’t wait until the Fair concluded and everyone went home.  I wanted peace and quiet, not society and gossip.  I wanted to get on with the work that was starting to suggest itself in my head, thanks to the ideas and inspirations the Fair had given me.

But someone always wants to talk business . . . and Banamor had ensured I had plenty of important folks lined up to talk to.  I’d arranged a few vital conferences myself, to advance my own schemes.

The most important scheme, currently, was to quietly see the restoration of the Ducal House of Alshar to at least a fragment of its former realm.  There were a lot of good and compelling economic and political reasons for this.  But there were also forces arrayed against the idea.

The current royal house, in particular, preferred the westernmost duchy broken and impotent and would see even its nominal restoration as a potential threat.  Since those folks were my overlords, if I wanted the Orphan Duke back on his throne, I would have to arrange to do so without attracting their notice.

This was a project I had been working on for months.  Penny was in on it, as she was instrumental to its success. I also tapped the talents of Count Angrial, a strategic-thinking Alshari diplomat who had lost favor at the royal court.  He would become Anguin’s new Prime Minister.  And the veteran soldier Count Salgo had agreed to take over as the Alshari Warlord.

But there were still plenty of details to work out, and as the Duke intended to reoccupy Vorone by Yule, he needed my help.  That afternoon, during the Spellmonger’s Trial, we hashed out a lot of the important details of the reverse-coup.

The military angle was, for now, taken care of.  The Orphan’s Band would serve the Duke until early spring, when they would march south to take a regular contract they had with a Castali count who was waging an interminable dynastic war.  Anguin and Salgo had until around Briga’s Day, next year, to secure loyal forces to replace them.

Paying for that – and all the other things that the broken Duchy would need – would take coin.  While I was rich, I wasn’t rich enough to save an entire Duchy, not unless it was my Duchy.

So I did the next best thing.  I pledged the security needed for the Temple of Ifnia to extend the Orphan Duke a loan of fifty thousand ounces of gold.  That should be enough to fix the serious issues with the Duchy and keep it running, with careful management, until revenues could begin to be collected more regularly.  It was a far more generous gift than the King had proposed.  From what I understood through my sources at court, Rard had been unwilling to pledge more than ten thousand ounces for the purpose, in a thinly-disguised effort to keep Alshar weak.

My financial intervention not only gave Anguin a healthy line of credit, he could access it without paying the stiff penalties and interests that lords usually paid their lieges for loans.  I’d took a bit of a cut on my end to keep the rates low, but the Temple of Ifnia had title to one and a half tons of premium snowstone as collateral.  And they knew where I lived.  Securing the loan through the temple allowed me to avoid official scrutiny, as ecclesiastic records of such loans are protected by sacred custom.

But I did the Temple one further: I suggested to Anguin that he appoint the Temple’s representative as his Minister of Treasuries, allowing the neutral, unbribeable monks to handle the accounting, instead of an opportunistic courtier.  I met the earnest little monk the temple had proposed, Coinfather Larso, and approved of his appointment.  He was just the kind of tight-arsed clerk a bankrupt duchy needed for the fair assessment and collection of taxes and tribute.

Before the afternoon was over, Penny and I had also selected Anguin’s three new ministers, of Trade, a Minister for Lands and Estates, and a Minister of Justice, from among the applicants we had quietly been gathering.  There were a dozen other portfolios left vacant by the time we were done, but the important positions had been established.  The Orphan Duke could return to Vorone with at least some chance of actually transforming it into a viable province again.

The Duke himself was ostensibly retiring for the winter to one of the intact estates he held in northern Gilmora, on the edge of the invasion zone.  The rich domain had survived and even thrived in the aftermath of the goblin invasion, as the refugees and the high cotton prices that resulted had enriched them.  I’m certain the castellans of the estates were taken aback to have their master arrive and claim his rightful portion, after so long an absence, but they were legally his.

What he was actually doing was quietly gathering expatriate Wilderlords and Alshari nobles in exile who were interested in returning with him. Landfather Amus made most of the discreet inquiries, but from what he reported to me there were nearly fifty gentlemen of reasonable loyalty to the Alshari coronet to base a campaign around.  After the Fair, Pentandra and Arborn and their party would join them, and then they would cross the border and journey to Vorone unannounced, just before Yule.

By the time anyone at the royal court in Castabriel knew about it, Anguin would be firmly established in Vorone, beginning to piece together his shattered realm . . . out of easy reach or influence of the royal family.  At least that was the plan.

It was a gamble.  A dozen things could go horrifically wrong.  Such a move could result in civil war or rebellion, if we weren’t careful.  Yet the benefits so outweighed the potential risks that we plunged on ahead.

Wizards meddle.  It’s what we do.

By the time the green poop-stained young man triumphantly placed my pipe in my hands, the sun was setting over the western ridge, and I was genuinely tired.  I gave my usual congratulatory speech, magically cleaned the ordure off of him, and took his oath in front of the whole crowd.  Then I invited him back to the castle for the Champion’s Feast (after an opportunity to change his clothes), where the minor prizes of the Fair would be awarded to the other winners.  Tomorrow everyone would pack up and head back home, and my domain could start to get back to normal.

The winner’s name was Doran, and to my surprise he was neither warmage nor spellmonger.  In fact, he was a wiry footwizard from Wenshar who had used his wits as much as his magic to claim his prize.  After a terrific struggle to get to the top of the hill, he had witnessed a fellow contestant’s failure with the Shieldbeast and had elected to wait.  When the next entrant attempted to pass the unrelenting chelonian construct, Doran had used a thrown stick to knock the pipe off of the boulder, picking it up and springing away just as the alarmed construct blasted his competition to unconsciousness.

I couldn’t fault his ingenuity.  That’s one of the things I liked about the Trial, it wasn’t merely a test of magic.  It also tested your ability to think and plan and prepare.  Doran was just the kind of intelligent, clever wizard I wanted to elevate to High Mage.

I skipped most of the ball that followed the feast, allowing Dara to preside in my place.  Pentandra had already retired with Arborn for the evening, and Alya was exhausted and wanted to go lay down when she put the children to bed.  I started to relax, once I got confirmation that Dunselen and Isily passed through the Diketower headed home.  Tomorrow, I consoled myself, I would be done with events and meetings and would be able to do some real work.

It was late, and most of the castle was asleep.  I dimmed the magelight that hung over my tower when I was in residence. I wanted to curb nocturnal insects – and visitors.  I went to my tower for a little while, stared at the huge pile of work that had gathered during the Fair, and decided I wasn’t quite ready to delve into that yet.  I considered reading something – and I had a gracious stack of books, folios and scrolls to get through – but that seemed like too much mental energy.

I knew what I needed.  I needed to see the Snowflake.

The thought of standing in its presence in a state of quiet contemplation filled me with an eagerness for the experience like nothing else ever had.  I didn’t want people, either living ones to speak to or dead ones to read from.  I wanted quiet solitude and unimaginable magical power, a living arcane mystery that was mine alone to fathom.

I grinned to myself.  I had purposefully not scheduled anything until tomorrow afternoon, anticipating a morning of rest and repose before returning to business.  While it was late, it wasn’t that late.  I could spare a few hours to rest my mind in a living symbol of magic.  Enough with the rationalizations, I urged myself, let’s go see it!

I grabbed a bottle and a cup along the way.  I didn’t plan to get drunk, but it had been a very long day, and a glass of wine is a comfort.  Another rationalization, but I didn’t mind making it.  But rationalizations are like drinks.  Once you’ve had one . . .

The night was dark, only a sliver of moon to add a second shadow to the magelight’s glow.  I went to the gate in the wooden fence behind the castle waved to the Karshak sentry watching the entrance, and headed toward the mountain.

At night the great flat area in the stone floor that the Karshak had been chipping away at all summer glowed serenely as I passed through.  It was wide enough now to begin placing the cornerstones to the gatehouse.  The first two, along the back, had been placed while I was on the Great March.  They were nearly a bowshot apart, from end to end.  The rest of the foundation was being outlined in colored chalk, strings, and ribbons tied to stakes all over the site.  The entire area of the gatehouse was a third larger than the entire keep of Sevendor Castle.

I cut across the path through the tangle of lines and headed to the mountain, proper.  To the right the long, low lodge that housed the Karshak was quiet, but not silent.

Once the entrance to the mountain quarry was opened and weather was no longer a hindrance, the lodge ran three shifts of masons, night and day.  Already the opening to the mine was forty feet across and the main tunnel expanded to half that as solid blocks of white basalt were carved with precision from the living rock and transported to the gatehouse.  Already a pile of well-trimmed stone blocks two stories high was prepared, ready to be placed this autumn to create the foundations.

The entrance of the mine had a single magelight hovering overhead, more as a beacon than a light source.  One inside the Karshak preferred little light.  Their eyes could see splendidly in the slightest amount of gloom, and though they employed their version of magelights when necessary, they preferred cunning little oil lamps to magic, even here in the heart of a magical mountain.

The passage into the mountain was impressively long, now, and ten feet wide or wider in most places.  Karshak crews were at work every couple of dozen feet, hacking their way into the side of the tunnel, digging down, or even dropping cut stone from above their heads.  I made do with a Cat’s Eye spell, because nothing would piss me off more if I was a Karshak mason carefully lowering a ten-ton block of basalt down from above than to have some cocky asshole wizard blind me with his bloody magelight.

Karshak are edgy enough, while they’re focusing on work.  A Karshak mason leading a team tends to become not just anxious, but even emotional if things are off by just a fraction.  Tensions were high, at this stage of the construction, Master Guri had reported.  One misstep and a cave-in could kill hundreds.

I gingerly moved past the Karshak, but in truth they barely noticed me.  As I went deeper into the mountain, the passage narrowed, and at the appropriate spot I took a right.  The steps dropped down a flight, then the passage continued to the . . . I don’t know, but I think it was around a forty-five degree angle from the main tunnel.  It narrowed to less than five feet for the next fifty or sixty, then opened into a small chamber the Karshak had cut at my request.

At the end of the tunnel a single opening led into the snow-white rock vesicle, the Denehole, where the Snowflake hummed, hissed and glowed.

I felt better just seeing it . . . feeling it, really, down in my bones.

As if I was going to settle in and watch a fire for the evening, I pulled the chair I’d had brought there to directly in front of the thing.  I poured a glass of wine, used the chamberpot in the corridor (I’d been spending more and more time down here, and I didn’t want to be interrupted at a crucial moment by my bladder) and then settled into my chair to watch the show.

Watching the Snowflake is always mesmerizing.  You don’t expect something that rigidly solid to move with such fluid grace.  You don’t think crystal can flow like sea foam until you see the six arms of the construct meld together or break apart with the single mindedness of a natural phenomenon.  And that’s just the visual element.  When you opened yourself to arcane energies, and extended your thaumaturgical awareness to include the Snowflake, then it really got interesting.

It was still largely a crystalline enigma, then, an unexpected gift from my inflamed brain and excited subconscious.  In a quintessential way it was a reflection of my mind, in abstract form.  After all, I had chosen the snowflake as my heraldic device, and my fortune and much of my power was built on the magical stone that came to be the night my son was born in a snowstorm . . . you could say the symbol had a lot of significance to me.

Now it stood before me, morphing from one perfectly complex hexagonal shape into another with absolute precision.  It had been forged in the flames of my soul . . . and I still had no bloody idea what to do with it.

I tried thaumaturgical assays, of course, because that’s what a thaumaturge does . . . but apart from telling me it was a supremely powerful artifact that radiated arcane energies like a glowing stove sheds heat, it had yet to be very useful.  I was working with more sophisticated spells, now, separating out my consciousness and delving into the outer perimeter of the Snowflake in attempt to gain entrance to its innermost workings.

It was fascinating and frustrating at the same time, particularly as I examined the points of the thing.  With them constantly changing and evolving it was almost impossible to insinuate my consciousness within them.  But every assay I attempted revealed some new fascinating aspect of the artifact.

That kind of intense thaumaturgic work looks an awful lot like sitting and staring, to the casual observer, and it’s quite easy to get so involved in the spell that you forget about the needs of your body.  When I finished a particularly long and intense survey, I shifted my feet, which had grown numb from inactivity, and they stubbornly refused to move.

I tried to shift in my seat to return some circulation to them, but my hands missed the seat of the chair.  Indeed, they felt like two lifeless clubs at the end of my arms.   I couldn’t feel my fingers at all, and they would not respond to my commands.

I started to panic.  There are all sorts of unpleasant physical side effects to doing deep thaumaturgic work.  Usually a good thaumaturge will use an assistant (called a Famulus) to keep such problems from arising, but I didn’t think that I had been delving that deeply, yet.  It had only been around an hour – less, I realized.  Perhaps I was more tired than I thought . . . or still contending with the lingering effects of my nine-day magical coma, a few months ago.

That’s when I heard her voice, and the truth of the situation became clear.

“It’s absolutely gorgeous, Minalan!” Isily’s voice said in an excited whisper from behind me.  “How did you ever create such a marvelous thing?”

“Isily!” I hissed.  “What are you doing here?  You left with Dunselen!”

“Minalan, I’m a shadowmage,” she reminded me, condescendingly.  “I am a mistress of deception, obfuscation, and misdirection.  Convincing my dullard husband I’m where I’m supposed to be when I’ve got business to conduct is trivial.”

“And what business might that be?” I asked through clenched teeth.  I could feel the numbness spreading up my arms to my elbows and up my legs to my knees.  My lower back was starting to stiffen.  “Poisoning me?”

“It’s not poison,” she clucked.  “Or, not really.  I found the most remarkable flower in that little garden estate of yours,” she mused, as she crossed in front of me.  She was wearing a dark cloak of shifting colors, just the sort of thing that you wouldn’t notice at night.  Her expression was mischievous and she was beautiful, against the Snowflake.  “You won’t die, but you’ll be unable to move anything of your own volition, unless I tell you to.  And you won’t be able to concentrate enough to use magic effectively,” she smiled, turning back toward the Snowflake.

“But enough about you . . . what about this wonder?  What is it?” she asked, excitedly.

“It’s a birthday present for my wife,” I said, through clenched teeth.  “Everyone needs a hobby.”

“You jest, of course . . . this is awe-inspiring, Min!  I was impressed enough at that lovely baculus you gave Pentandra . . . I’m not above coveting such pretty and potent devices.  Here I thought that was the peak of your art, but I can see it’s just a toy, compared to your real work.  What is it?” she repeated, a third time.  “And do be candid!”

“It’s a big bloody crystal snowflake,” I grunted, feeling as if I should cooperate.  “It’s kind of a molopor.”

“You . . . made a molopor?” she asked, incredulous.

“I said it was kind of a molopor,” I corrected.  But part of me appreciated the professional respect.  When you pull something that impressive out of your . . . brain, it’s nice to be recognized for the result, even if you have no idea what it does.  “Only, clearly, it isn’t exactly a molopor.”

“Clearly,” she agreed, studying the Snowflake more closely.  “It hums, it throbs with arcane power!  You have every mage in the world outside your door, and yet you kept this pretty secret from us all!”

“It’s not done yet,” I grunted.  “And it’s mine.”

“Such the artist . . . you really are a special man, Minalan,” she sighed, looking back at me with a disturbing amount of affection and admiration.  “I am so glad we were able to reach an understanding, and forge an alliance.  I can see this is going to be very fruitful and fulfilling for both of us.”

“You know, I’m starting to re-think that whole alliance proposal,” I admitted, calmly.  I tried to summon power from my sphere.  No luck.  I couldn’t get my mind to focus enough of the necessary will to do so.  “Getting poisoned by your new ally doesn’t exactly build confidence.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” she dismissed.  “I knew you had to be up to something, in this incredible mountain of yours.  If you’re able to produce wonders like the baculus and the other spells I’ve seen here, you had to be doing it someplace.  It didn’t take much inquiry to find out you had been spending long nights deep inside the mountain.  So I followed you, once you thought I was gone.  Just being curious.”

“And the devastating paralytic agent . . .?”

“Men have a tendency to be reactive, when their secrets are discovered,” she said, philosophically.  “I decided that you would be more willing to sit and talk with me if you were drugged, unable to move, compliant and suggestible.”

“Don’t let the secret of that poison get out,” I said, harshly.  “Every wife in the world will want it!”

She smiled.  Damn, she had dimples too, I was reminded.

“See what I mean about you?  You’re enlightened, Minalan.  For the son of a baker, you have a sophistication and understanding of things far beyond your original station.  You could be angry and bellicose, right now, hurling curses and threats, but instead you make jests.”

“I’m pretty angry,” I pointed out, calmly.  “In fact, unless you kill me, I’m starting to have some pretty savage fantasies about the repercussions of this meeting.”

“Oh, I bet they’re terribly daring, too,” she cooed, stroking my hair.  I really wanted to be able to recoil from her, but my neck wasn’t answering my summons.  “All sorts of degrading and painful lessons to teach me my place . . . you do have such a creative imagination!  But don’t consider this an abrogation of our alliance, my sweet.  On the contrary, this just deepens it.  Now that I know your pretty little secret, we can proceed on a more even footing.  I have no desire to ruin your ambitions, Minalan – on the contrary, I want to see you prosper.  I want to see you in triumph!”

“I’m feeling less than triumphant at the moment,” I grunted.  It was getting harder to talk.

“Perhaps, but that’s temporary,” she consoled.  “Thanks to the power of the drug, and some casual enchantments I have laid to help ensure your cooperation, you will be quite willing and able to rise to the heights of greatness you are capable of.  I’m even more confident of that, now that I’ve seen this,” she said, nodding reverently toward the snowflake.  “It would be awe-inspiring even from the hand of an Alkan master, but to have come from the mind of a former warmage and village spellmonger?  This proves I was right in supporting you!” she rationalized to herself, more than to me.

“What do you hope to gain from this?” I asked, my mind getting even more clouded.  But if she was in a chatty mood, I figured I should try to take advantage of it and learn all I could.  It wasn’t like I could do much else but talk and listen . . . and the talking was getting harder and harder.

“Isn’t it obvious? Power.  Influence.  Control.  You aren’t the only one who overcame challenges . . . and I have enemies,” she said, darkly.  “Any hope I have to escape them and live my life in freedom lies in cultivating my power and influence within the arcane world.”

“You would betray Mother, then?”

“I would free myself of her shackles!” she said, defiantly.  “My past work has afforded me reward, in its way, but it has also cemented her control over me.  Now I have a modicum of independence, for the price of submitting to that witless oaf, and with that independence I can create my own power base.  I don’t wish to destroy the royal house, but I do wish to be sundered from its whims.  The things I have done . . .” she said, shaking her head.

“And now you want to enslave me?” I asked, harshly.

“Enslave is such a strong term,” she clucked.  “No, Minalan, I just wish for you to be quite well-disposed to me.  Enough to offer me refuge, for instance, if I rebelled.  Or provided me assistance, if I needed it.  Our daughter was one way to accomplish that, but I prefer a more comprehensive approach.”

“Blackmail?”

“Blue magic,” she said, taking a scroll from beneath her shadowy cloak.  “This is an emotional affinity spell, one so powerful that it was proscribed by the Censorate and locked away in but a few libraries.  This will ensure that you will have nothing but protective and loving thoughts toward me.”

“I have a wife!” I countered, desperately.  Blue Magic was potent and insidious.

“And I have a husband, alas,” she admitted.  “But such details are trivial, in the balance.  I see no benefit in disturbing our matrimonial status – yet – to secure this alliance.  For all of his boorishness, Dunselen has his uses, and your wife seems young and pretty enough, yet.  No need to take any rash action that isn’t necessary . . . don’t you think?”

“I . . . think you need . . .”

“Shhh, darling, don’t strain yourself,” she soothed.  “This will only take a moment, and afterward you will hold me in your heart with the same regard you do any of your sisters.”

“You . . . don’t . . . know . . . my . . . sisters . . .”

“At the brink of insensibility, and still he jests!  What a profound and admirable will, you have, Minalan.  What a shame to bend it, even slightly.  Such interesting men as you are so rare,” she sighed, sadly.  “But let us begin.”

She began to read the scroll and set the spell.  I would have been really interested, for professional reasons, to have observed the process with magesight, but my will had ebbed to the point where I could not even muster that simple cantrip.

She cast the spell with soothing words and a masterful command of the thaumaturgic action.  I felt sinewy coils of energy enwrapped my mind, seductively burrowing into my brain and convincing me that Isily was among the most noble of women.  I could feel my resistance and antipathy to the shadowmage slip away, replaced by a wholesome protective feeling.  I found myself automatically well-disposed to anything she might say.  I began to regard her wisdom, her insight, and her intuition with the same level of trust that I gave to Pentandra and Alya.

It wasn’t quite love, but it was close.  There was even a stirring of passionate idealism strung in the spell.  The psychomancer who built the spell was very, very good.

She was right – it didn’t take long.  I had little experience with psychomancy, outside of some basic spells, but the magical compulsions that overtook my mind did so easily and with little resistance.  I’m sure the poison helped.  But when she was done, Isily put the scroll away and looked deeply into my eyes.

For at least ten minutes, she gazed into me, without me having the ability to blink of my own accord until her beautiful eyes seemed to engulf my soul.  I don’t know what magic she was casting, or if she was just using some inherent feminine power to compel, but I could not tear my will away.

Finally, after centuries, she moved away.  “That should do it,” she said, with an air of satisfaction.  “You are bound to me now, my love.  Even when you are between your loving wife’s thighs, it will be my face you see, my voice you hear in your ears.”

I hated her.  And loved her.

Then she pushed my robe up and unfastened my underwear.  With horror, I realized what she was after.

“You . . .”

“You didn’t think I’d waste this opportunity, did you?” she asked, fire in her eyes as she worked.  “I am at my most fertile.  I had all the world’s magi to choose from to sire my child, and through your works and by your power, you have demonstrated yourself the master of them all,” she said, with admiration, as she worked on disrobing me.  “You alone are worthy of giving our daughter a sibling.  And tonight, in the shadow of this glorious artifact, that is just what will happen,” she said, as she hiked up her skirts.  She was bare underneath.

“Ishi’s—!” I began to swear, but then her mouth covered mine before I could complete the oath.  She kissed me fervently as she settled herself upon my lap.

“Kiss me back,” she commanded.  “Like you do your wife, but with more passion.  Mean it!”

I did.

I didn’t have a choice.

Chapter Eight

Ishi’s Tits

I don’t remember a lot of what happened during Isily’s forcible seduction, due to reasons that will become apparent shortly, but a few things clung to my memory.  Her delight and satisfaction for getting her way, for one.  The way she reveled in how passionately I responded to her commands.  The sense of triumph she had when I proclaimed my devotion and desire for her.  I remember little about the event, now, but I do recall her triumph.  It stung me like an insult.

I had a hard time moving, under any circumstances, but if she told me to do something, my body found the volition to move.  If she bid me to speak, though the effort was titanic I spoke the words she wished me to say.

She had me as her toy for at least an hour.  Enough time to get what she wanted from me.  Twice.  Then she kissed me, thanked me, assured me that this was the beginning of a long and prosperous relationship, and explained that I would be unable to move under my own power for another five or six hours – by which time she would be a long way from Sevendor.

Then she was gone.  Leaving me to dumbly stare at the Snowflake, from my prone position, unable to do anything else.  While my conscious mind spun in pointless circles the hypnotic, ever-changing Snowflake mesmerized my eyes and dominated my perspective.  Considering the confusion and turmoil my mind was suffering in the wake of her violation, the Snowflake’s constant transformation was soothing to it.  Soon the indignity of Isily’s assault was replaced by the serene pulsations of the thing.  It consumed my attention to the exclusion of all other thought, blanking out even the most despairing thoughts that were racing in my head now.

An unfathomable amount of time later – thousands of permutations of the Snowflake’s six-sided simultaneity – I realized I wasn’t alone.  Again.

My consciousness became aware of someone else in the room, someone standing behind the Snowflake . . . only from my vantage point, as mesmerized as I was, I could see the entrance to the room and knew no one had come in through the doorway.  But there was a shape, and eyes peering at me through the shifting construct.

The other person quietly and with deliberation walked around the Snowflake to address me more directly.  It was a woman.

A naked woman.  The most beautiful naked woman I’ve ever seen.

Don’t misunderstand me – I’m enraptured by my wife’s face and form, and I have a fine appreciation for feminine beauty I’ve inadvertently cultivated since I was old enough to appreciate it.  From surreptitious peeks at forbidden flesh behind the millhouse to watching with unabashed delight the grand white beaches of Farise, where bronzed commoner and pale noblewomen alike doffed their clothes to bathe in the warm ocean surf, I’ve enjoyed every element of feminine beauty I’ve witnessed.

But she surpassed them all.  The wholesome beauty of Alya, the winsome allure of Pentandra, the intoxicating exotic glamour of the transgenically enchanted forms of the Alka Alon emissaries . . . even, damn her, Isily’s seductive charms paled in comparison.  This woman was the pure perfection of the human feminine form.  Her face, her golden hair, her bright blue eyes, her perfect lips, her utterly flawless proportions, and her exquisitely ideal breasts.  Indeed, apart from her eyes, the two globes that hung near-weightlessly in front of me captivated my attention.

She noted my staring.  She glanced down at them, then looked back up to me and smiled.  It was the most beautiful smile I have ever seen.

“Go ahead and look,” she said, in tones like liquid love.  “You deserve it.  You’ve mentioned them often enough.”

“Huh?” I managed.  It was about the most eloquent thing I could muster, under the circumstances . . . that is, paralyzed, despoiled, and laying in a cave with my willy hanging out in front of a strange, naked woman.

“You are the famed Minalan the Spellmonger,” she said, walking toward me slowly, her hands behind her back like a schoolgirl reciting in temple.  That made her boobs push out in the most delightful way.  “Greatest wizard of your era, creator of this marvelous mountain, defender of humanity, savior of the Kasari, and, apparently, well on your way to single-handedly siring an entire new generation of magically-gifted children.”

I didn’t say anything.  I couldn’t say anything.  I didn’t know what the hells to say.

“You may not know me, personally, but I suppose you could say we’re acquainted with each other’s work,” she said, smiling provocatively, her blue eyes twinkling merrily.  “You are, of course, familiar with the basic procreative process.  And I have been made aware of your recent experiments in enneagrammatic cohesion.  So . . . I thought we could perhaps work something out . . . which, I’m realizing,” she said, rolling her eyes, “would be easier if you weren’t under the influence of all of that mess.”

She leaned over me, crawling up my body from below, until her incredible bounty rested fully on my chest in the most utterly pleasant way possible.  She smelled profoundly intoxicating.  As her beautiful face came closer to mine, I could feel my heartbeat quicken despite the drug in my blood.  All memory of Isily’s violation was blotted out.  All memory of my wife’s beauty was chased away.

Then her lips touched mine.  I could taste her breath.  She whispered something in a language I didn’t know into my mouth as she kissed me . . . and suddenly my brain kind of exploded into a blast of bliss the likes of which I had never experienced.  I could move again.  And think.

And speak.

“Ishi!” I exclaimed quietly as her lips broke away.

“In the divine flesh,” she acknowledged, springing back to her bare feet with a playful bounce that made her considerable charms gyrate merrily.  “Goddess of Love, Sex, Beauty, Feminine Sexuality, Glamour, Deception, Seduction, Procreation, and all that goes with it.”

“How did you . . . ?” I asked, confused.

“You invoked me, silly boy!” she pointed out.  “You invoked me, and then had the good sense to screw in front of that thing,” she said, glancing at the ever-evolving Snowflake.  “I’ve been keeping an ear out for your summons for awhile.  When the chance came, I figured it was time to introduce myself.”

“It really wasn’t my decision,” I said, wryly.  I glanced down.  My hose were still pulled down along with my underwear, revealing my procreative organ.  I embarrassedly pushed it inside and pulled up my hose.

“Oh, don’t bother on my account,” she chuckled.  “I consider it a due honor.  But I hope you don’t mind me taking the trouble to negate the effects of the poison.  It’s just temporary, but it does make actual conversation easier.  And we have much to discuss, Spellmonger,” she said, with a mixture of playful seriousness.

“We do?” I asked, struggling to my feet.

“Why yes, we do,” she cooed, folding her arms under her boobs.  If she was trying to hide them she was doing a poor job.  “You have something I want.  And, now, I have something you want.”

I sat up, slowly, my head still spinning.  She may have abated the effects of the poison, but it was still in my system.  “What do you have that I want?” I asked.

“Why, understanding and power, of course,” she said, serenely, as I put my clothing back together.  I felt shaken and shocked by what had happened, but I also understood that my focus and attention needed to be here right now.  Ishi had a reputation of getting her way through confusion and misdirection.  Whatever my trauma, I had to focus on what she was saying or risk the consequences.  “You need the understanding, and of course you need the power.”

“What understanding?” I asked, still shaking off the taint of the poison.

“Understanding how men and women work – how human hearts collide and combine.”

“That’s Pentandra’s specialty, not mine,” I said, warily.  “At most I’m a talented amateur.  Who is also happily married.”

“Yet that didn’t stop you from enjoying what just happened,” she pointed out.  “Some part of you, at least.”

“That’s not entirely true,” I said, my heart hardening.  “That was not pleasure.  That was assault.  She stole something from me.”

“Your precious virtue?” the goddess of love mocked with false sympathy, leaning on her arm and wiggling her juggs at me.  “Your battered fidelity?  Your innocence?  You’ve had small claim to any of these, Spellmonger.  Just what did you lose from her seduction?”

“Dignity?  Respect?  A sense of security?” I countered, angrily.  “That was a deliberate and calculated assault, not a drunken moment of passion.  Surely you know the difference,” I said, accusingly.

“Of course I know the difference!” she cooed, indignantly.  “But all acts of love and pleasure are my rituals.  And that girl plainly loves you, bless her insane little heart.  When she realized that you did not hate her, during the other night’s truthtelling, her plans shifted.  She had originally planned on seducing one of your colleagues, but when it came to light that you were working on this,” she said, nodding toward the Snowflake, “she couldn’t help herself.  She succumbed to the erotic temptation of making you her tool.  Literally.”

“And impregnated herself without my consent!” I reminded the goddess, angrily.  “She stole a child from me!”

“Yet you’ve experienced naught that many a maiden half your age hasn’t,” she pointed out, coolly.  “And as far as the child goes, it’s hardly the first bastard you’ve sired unwillingly, if not unknowingly.  You’ve three children in the world you have never met,” she said, smugly.  “You certainly conceived them consensually.  Though the occasion might have been unpleasant in its execution, it is by no means rare or even uncommon.  How many poor maids have endured worse than that, on a regular basis?  How many innocent lads?”

“That does little to sooth my wrath,” I said, darkly, holding out my hand for her assistance.

“It wasn’t intended to,” Ishi pointed out, helping me to my feet – and nearly causing a collision between my face and her bosom.  “It was to help you appreciate the experience in a wider context.  When it happens, it is a violation of the lifeforce, regardless of the sex of the victim.  But as it is also an act of love and pleasure – to Isily, at least – then it falls under my sphere of influence.  So . . . here I am,” she said, presenting herself in her glory.

“To what end?” I asked, though I could not take my eyes off of her.  “Or do you just like to watch?”

“Oh, more than anything but doing it,” she agreed, dreamily.  “But it wasn’t professional curiosity that brought me here to witness your ravishment.  It was merely an opportunity.  I wish to plead with you to use your craft to bestow upon me the same gift you gave to Herus and Briga,” she asked, respectfully.

I considered the matter, while my eyes remained focused on her assets.  “They each pledged assistance for my desires,” I pointed out.  “Can you do likewise?  If so, how would you?”

“Me?  I control the waxing and waning of the human heart and erotic desire!  How could I NOT help you?” she asked, sounding a little hurt.

“Because I do have some knowledge of your methods,” I replied smoothly, settling back into my chair.  I wasn’t certain of my knees’ capacity to support me, right now.  I suppose I was in a state of shock.  “I know just how chaotic your work can be.”

“Oh, that’s just the conservative clergy spreading false propaganda!” she demurred.  “I am at the heart of every baby born.  Of every young love.  Of every marriage that is sustained by passion.  How could I be a force of chaos?” she asked, innocently.

I wasn’t convinced.  Apparently my face showed it.

“You’re just upset because you had a bit of a bad night,” she pouted prettily.  “If I had interrupted you and your wife, this conversation would be going in a far better direction!”

“Ishi, you’re one of the most popular and prominent goddesses among my people,” I sighed.  “Everyone loves you, except a few small sects.  But what you do is hardly orderly.  By giving you continuity, I am unleashing the raw libido of human sexuality on the world in a way that even I can see would be problematic.”

“But what if I could promise you love?” she countered.

“I’ve got love – more than I deserve,” I answered evenly.  “And ‘love’ is what inspired my attacker tonight.  If you want to prove your value to me, strike her down.  Undo what she has done to me,” I pleaded.  I was starting to think I’d do just about anything to keep the shameful episode from happening.

Ishi shrugged apologetically, once again sending that magnificent rack into a highly distracting gyration.  “I cannot, Spellmonger.  Alas, she has transcended my sphere, after tonight.”

“Wait,” I said, confused, “I thought you had dominion over all sex and love?”

“Aye,” she admitted, “but when there is a conception involved, my sphere ends and Trygg’s begins.  In this particular case, the child you just conceived is going to be special.  So it’s ‘hands off’.”

“You . . . know all of this already?”

She shrugged again.  It was even more distracting.  “In a manner of speaking.  Isily’s assault brought a new life into the world.  Until it is delivered, I cannot touch it – or her.”

“Well, that seems a pretty lousy way to run a pantheon!” I objected.

“Gee, you think so?” Ishi shot back, putting a hand on her bare hip indignantly.  It was sexy as hell.  “That’s what happens when you have powerful gods with no continuity!  We become mere archetypes, without consistent goals or personality.  Without history and experience we are limited merely to what humanity’s collective unconscious provides us.  Do you have any idea how frustrating that is?” she asked, tossing her hair.  “It’s like waking up every morning with the same set of memories you did the day before . . . and the day before that!”

“I understand your frustration,” I soothed tiredly.  “But . . . I’m not exactly in a mood to be magnanimous, right now,” I said, darkly.

“Oh, I do understand that emotion!” she nodded, her smile not entirely pleasant.  “But we must do what we must.  I need this continuity, Minalan the Great, and only you can provide it!”  She faced me defiantly, legs spread, her pure, unstrained and unrestrained sexuality radiating from her.  But I was not, as I said, in the mood.

“The flattery is a little strong,” I said, gently.  “And unnecessary.  Convince me I should do this thing,” I sighed.  “Tell me why it will serve humanity, and I might consider it.”

“I can . . . well, I know you are at war – and wars need soldiers.  Grant my desire and I will see all of your kingdom fecund!”

“There doesn’t seem to be any lack of desire of folks to screw, at the moment,” I pointed out.  “Babies without the means to feed and raise them?  We have enough hunger and poverty at the moment.  Perhaps in a few years . . .”

“Then what do you want, Minalan?” she asked, frustrated.  “Can I not tempt you with my charms?  I can be any woman you desire,” she said, her form shifting to resemble a statuesque brunette of uncommon beauty . . . then a redhead with pointed features . . . then a dusky bronzed Farisi maiden.  Then she was Pentandra.

“I can be your past loves,” she said, in Pentandra’s voice.   Then she shifted to Isily.  “Or your present ones, with capacities and insights they could only imagine!”

“I’m sitting here, in shock from being forcibly violated, and you present yourself in the guise of my assailant?” I asked, a little disgusted.  “Poor taste, goddess.”

“You know part of you enjoyed it,” she chided, waving a finger.  Then she shifted to another woman whom I had decidedly not seen naked.  “Perhaps you’d like to pork a princess?” she asked in Rardine’s voice, wearing Rardine’s face and figure.  “She’s not uncomely, under her raiment,” she said, glancing down at her young naked body.  “You could take my virtue, and I could object and complain about it bitterly until I begged for more!”

“Stop it!” I commanded.  But she shifted again.  Ishi isn’t used to being told to stop.

“Or perhaps you’d like to work out some of your anger in a productive way?” Queen Grendine’s matronly form asked.  “You could hold me down and take me from the back like a peasant slut, while I begged you for mercy . . . I think you’d like that.  I know for certain Grendine would,” she added.

“Stop it!” I repeated, angrily.  “I despair at my infidelity as it is.  I love my wife,” I insisted.

“You’re still a man,” Grendine said, casting her eye at me searchingly, her tone just a hint derisive.  “A man with desires and frustrations.  Are you not willing to indulge them here, where none would ever know?  With me, whose every touch brings ecstasy?”

“I am not a youth, anymore,” I said, with quiet sternness.  “Ecstasy is overrated.”

“Come on, Min!” she accused, suddenly losing her temper and stamping her foot.  She reverted to her original blonde form.  “You know you like to screw!”

“I like to eat, too,” I pointed out.  “But I’m not hungry.  Not for what you offer,” I said, regretting the words even as I said them.  “I made a vow, before the gods.  Some of them take that kind of thing seriously,” I reminded her.

“And some of us have a more pragmatic perspective on the subject!” she fumed.  “Besides, it doesn’t break a sacred vow to do it with a goddess – my grace can protect you from that.”

“But not from my conscience,” I pointed out.

“What if I gave myself to you in a way that was . . . permissible?” she asked, as she became shorter, darker, and more curved.  The face of my wife Alya stared at me, and her naked body beckoned me.  “I can even let you sample what time has denied you,” she added with a smile, as she suddenly became younger.  A beaming beauty of sixteen stared at me, the eyes of the woman I loved in the face of a girl I’d never met.  Alya had been striking, in the bloom of her youth, I could see.  “Anything you asked, done compliantly and obediently, enthusiastically and skillfully, just as you wish . . . what man could refuse such an offer?” she asked, bringing the full force of her persuasion to bear on me.

I was weak.  But not in the way she expected.

“Bribing me with sex after I’ve been ravished – twice – is a poor bargain, Ishi,” I said, wondering what the hell my mouth was up to.  Was I insane?  But the sting of the memory of Isily’s violation overwhelmed any desire I had.  Even for the most beautiful goddess in the world.  “I am not necessarily closed to discussion, however,” I added.  “I understand your power, and what it could give to me, if you would grant it.  But if you cannot erase what Isily has done, or hold her to account, perhaps there are other ways in which you could be of service.”

She brought herself up proudly, returning to her glorious blonde form.  “You would dictate to the Goddess of Love, mortal?”

“Don’t be high-handed with me, goddess,” I warned.  “Not after the day I’ve had.  The beauty of this negotiation is that if I piss you off and have to banish you, I can always wait for a more receptive incarnation to happen by.”

“You wouldn’t!” she said, scandalized.

“You have many forms and iterations, Ishi,” I pointed out.  “That’s one of the disadvantages of being popular, I suppose.  I can always wait for the Eternal Maiden, perhaps, and lock you into permanent virginity . . .” I proposed.

“Minalan, no!” she said, her eyes wide.  “That incarnation is always so . . . vacuous!”

“Or I can summon your cronish iteration, and you can spend eternity dispensing divine wisdom on menopause,” I suggested.

“Minalan, please!” she said, her face twisted up.  “Do you realize what would happen to me if you did that?  It would be a disaster!”

“Then stop trying to manipulate me,” I demanded, “and treat me like a responsible adult!”

She looked sheepish, like a naughty little girl caught out throwing a tantrum.  “All right,” she mumbled.  “What are your terms?  I’m prepared to be reasonable.”

That was more like it.  I was still wary of her manipulations, but at least she wasn’t trying to mystify me with her mammaries anymore.  “First, can you permanently remove the effects of Isily’s psychomantic spells?”

“By the power of my grace, yes,” she admitted.  “They’re strong, but not impervious. True love conquers all – even sneaky Blue Magic domination spells.  And you do want those gone, Spellmonger.  She would have eventually convinced you to do anything she wants.  And the more you did, the more you would crave to do more.  Insidious spell.”

“Good.  That’s the first condition.  Break that spell, every shred of it.  I cannot face a foe like Isily if I’m subject to her whim.”

“As good as done,” she shrugged.  I tried to stare at her eyes.  “Next?”

“You agree to serve humanity’s interests,” I said, firmly.  “You agree to work together with the other deities I’ve affixed, to promote the survival and prosperity of humankind on Callidore.”

Ishi looked a little offended.  “Of course!  Do I look like a goddess of the gurvani?  I live to serve humanity!” she assured me, while her manner assured me of how that service was performed.

“Oh, but there are limits, goddess,” I said, trying not to smirk.  “For our purposes, I will be the judge of whether or not what you do is in service to humanity.”

“You?” she snorted.  She had the most beautiful nostrils.  “Who made you the judge of gods, mortal?”

“I did,” I said, through clenched teeth.  Her scorn was like a wave of magical force, and I had to marshal my resources to resist the lure of attempting to appease her.  “I am the one with the Alaran Stone.  I’m the one who gets to decide who sticks around and who waxes and wanes with the moon.  I don’t have any higher aspirations,” I said, “and I don’t have any grand design besides protecting humanity, the kingdom, the people of my domain and my family.  So I’m probably the best person, in general, to exercise that kind of judgment.”

“To what purpose, though, Spellmonger?” she challenged.  “I know about Briga’s foretelling,” she said, knowingly.

“It wasn’t prophecy!” I emphasized.  “It was vocational magic!”  Outright prophecy had a tendency to bind your actions to fate, making them self-fulfilling. All Briga’s oracular nun had provided was insight as to what a man or woman was best suited to do in life.  Just because I happened to be particularly good at the sorts of things that would make a good Archmage didn’t mean I was destined to be one.

“Whatever lets you comb your beard in the mirror in the morning, wizard,” she snorted again.  “You know as well as I that you are fit to be Archmage.  And despite your pretensions, you are headed down that path.”

“Actually, I’m far more devoted to the study of enchantment at the moment,” I said, casually.  “The Archmagi were political figures.”

“I’ll keep that in mind . . . Baron,” she said, with a smirk.  “But I’ll also remind you that the greatest of Archmagi through the years were thaumaturges and enchanters.”

“Even Kephan the Damned,” I agreed, evenly.  The Archmage who had sank Perwyn had been an enchanter of great repute.  Of course all of his enchantments were half a mile under the sea, now.

“A fair point,” she conceded.  “Fine, be stubborn about it.  But I will consider your perspective if you choose to share it.  I think you know how to invoke a summons out of me,” she said, dragging a finger from her neck to her nipple. I did my best to ignore it.  It was just a finger. Just a . . . nipple.

“If I come to you with a concern, you will listen with the utmost of care,” I cautioned, sternly.

“Or what?” she said, her eyes narrowing.  Time to look at her . . . nose.

“Let us not even contemplate such an unpleasant challenge to my sensibilities,” I said, in as dangerous a voice as I could muster.  “That Snowflake has more than enough power latent within to reduce you to a giggling adolescent.  Or worse.  There are other sex goddesses, you know,” I reminded her.  “Ralaine of the Cormeerans, for instance . . .”

“That dusky slut?” she snorted.  “Do you have any idea how tawdry your sex lives would get if she were in charge?  She sees infidelity and cuckoldry as mere sport . . . not the sublime art it was meant to be!”

“Your creative differences don’t concern me,” I grunted.  “I don’t even know if we really need a sex goddess.  I think having Trygg around would be sufficient to—”

“Fine!  I submit!” she said, sighing prettily and bowing . . . which was a wondrous sight indeed, from my perspective.  “I free you from your shackles, I yield to your judgment . . . is there nothing else you require, Spellmonger?  Is there nothing else you desire?”

“Such as?” I asked.  I was mostly interested in what she thought I’d want.

“Perhaps I can ensure that your bride will never stray?  Or that I can inform you if even the thought enters her mind?”

“Intriguing,” I admitted.

“You could be dazzlingly charming, an irresistible allure to every woman you meet,” she proposed, stepping closer to me.  “I could arrange it that no woman you propositioned would ever think to refuse you!”

“That is a captivating idea,” I agreed.  “And it could be quite useful, diplomatically.”

“Now you’re thinking,” she smiled.  “Perhaps you’d enjoy it if your wife’s beauty should never fade? That she would always find you captivating and attractive?  Or that you would look at her and see only the enduring ideal of love?  All of these I can grant you, Minalan.  I can make every woman you meet as damp as a dewy teen at the sight of you!  I can make men admire and respect you for your manner with the force of divine power!  Do you not realize all that I could grant you?”

“I do,” I nodded.  “And I’m glad you do, too.  I was concerned you might demure and try to drive too weak a bargain, claiming feminine frailty or the like as your shield.  But now that you admit your power, and we both agree you are a powerful and potent goddess, perhaps we can begin the real negotiations.”

She sighed, and looked at me accusingly.  “Well played, Spellmonger.  Asking for too little and ignoring my beauty was ever the way to goad me into action – well-considered or not.  Confronting me with my rivals has always aroused my baser instincts.  You have revealed me for what I am, Spellmonger: a simple woman.”

“There is no such thing,” I countered.  “And you least of all.  But I recognize you as a keen intelligence, willing to work in her own interests.  Am I incorrect?”

She shrugged again.  “Is not every woman?”

“Our interests happen to intersect and coincide.  I am not unreasonable.  If we can strike an equitable bargain, with accountability and responsibility for both of us, I think that we can both pursue our interests without hindering the other.  And really, that is all that I ask.”

“You ask to bind the goddess of love herself,” Ishi said, defiantly.  “Few men have been so bold as to try, Spellmonger.  Fewer still have succeeded.  And none who were mortal.”

“I will take that as an admission of respect and admiration, as it was no doubt intended,” I said, smiling and feeling like I was about to vomit.  My mind couldn’t take much more of this.  “Now, if you will do me the honor of releasing these spells, I’ll tell you what I have in mind, and we can both get what we really want.”

“As you wish,” she said, her eyes downcast.  She walked back over to me, in the same chair in which Isily had captured me.  I shrank away from her involuntarily . . . but those magnificent breasts were hypnotic.  Thankfully she used her powers to transform back into Alya, my wife . . . then Young Alya.

“I do not need to break your vow to break the spell, she whispered in my ear as she crawled into my lap.  “Ishi’s kiss is potent enough to do that.  But are you certain you would not sample the sweetest of your beloved’s charms, as if she were a newly-blossomed maiden?”  Her young, sweet-tasting lips found my own, and I felt the power of her grace spread through me, eliminating the last vestiges of Isily’s spellwork.

And I can’t say I didn’t consider her tempting offer.

Chapter Nine

The Bouleuterion

The days that followed the break-down of the Magical Fair saw Sevendor get back to normal.  Pentandra and Arborn left for northern Gilmora with their company of Kasari rangers.  Many of the warmagi left, too, as their lands needed their attention just as much as my lands needed mine.

The last of the harvest came in, and the final preparations for winter were under way as the fair ended.  The merchants left, the wagons rolled out, the last exchanges of coin and goods were made as the peasantry overcame their demoralization from the event and grudgingly got back to their work.  Only the scribes and the lawbrothers were still busily at work, cataloging the number of contracts signed and sealed at the Fair.

Banamor was giddy with the success, as the final accountings came in.  It surpassed his most generous expectations generously.  My own cut was pretty impressive, considering it was a larger percentage than Banamor’s.  More than I made in annual tribute from my barony.  I was rich.  Again.  Still.

I had decided to use the dividend partially by investing in my professional development.  My experience with Pentandra’s baculus, and the seminar at the Fair, had convinced me that the best use of my house arrest was to convene a Bouleuterion.

The term was popular in the Middle Magocracy, as the later Archmagi consolidated power on the mainland.  At the time, the role of enchantment was being emphasized to compensate for the loss of the great civilization of Perwyn.  As most of the enchanters in the nascent Magocracy worked alone, studying in seclusion with a few picked apprentices or acolytes, enchantment was originally seen as a solitary pursuit of specialists.

The problem with this method is that it is slow.  It could take a single mage years to produce a workable enchantment, painstakingly working on a few pieces until he could show or sell them.  When the first Bouleuterions were convened, those solitary enchanters – known as remotads – were invited by a wealthy patron to gather together for the purpose of pooling their talents and efforts.  Whether the goal was to produce many temporary enchantments or focus their efforts on one major enchantment, the result was a century or so during the rise of the Empire where enchantment first flourished.

The specifics varied from place to place, over the years.  Some Bouleuterions were small affairs, more theoretical gatherings than practical exercises.  Others devoted thousands of ounces of gold and hired hundreds of enchanters to gather together for years to produce their wonders.  A few evolved into regular manufactories.

They institutionalized the production of a few prized enchantments that could be created at a profit, while creating lesser enchantments for instruction and practice.  The Bouleuterion first purpose was, after all, to be a commercial enterprise.  The enrichment and education that occurred at those gatherings was secondary to the important purpose of a mage earning a living.

As the Bouleuterion evolved, some of its practices became standard, such as the methodology of documentation of a particular enchantment.  Others varied widely depending on region, school, or preference, producing conflicting or wildly divergent methods.  Eventually interest in the movement died away as the Archmage confiscated most of the irionite, leaving only a few simple enchantments available to the profession.  A brief resurgence fifty years before the Conquest produced some intriguing new developments, and some evolution in technique, but then my ancestors kind of killed that line of research.

Since then, very little major enchantment had been done . . . and I had been doing it.  I decided it was time to re-establish the ancient and respected practice of the Bouleuterion, so I started one myself.

Traditionally the magi were summoned or invited by a wealthy patron or a mage with a wealthy patron.  Indeed most Bouleuterions were organized around the personal charisma of a particular thaumaturge.  These master enchanters – called Aristophreni – were the centerpoint of the grand enterprise they initiated.  They hired the paymaster, the mundane craftsmen, and the specialists, arranged for the site for the workshops, guided the purpose and goal of the work, and organized the enterprise personally.  They were influenced at the time by both the vestiges of the Old Magocracy, which the Middle Magocracy was desperately trying to revive, and the emerging clerical movement.

But for a hundred years or so, during the Golden Age of Enchantment, things were nearly ideal.  Or at least that’s what the historical section in Raster’s Pandect of Gramary said.  I read several standard thaumaturgical texts since I embarked on Pentandra’s baculus: The Florilegum of Basic Thaumaturgy, Raster’s Pandect of Gramary, The Delectus of Pors (a rare treatise on enneagrammatic magic), A Pantography Of Magical Construction, Ratel’s Paraenesis (“Helpful Tips for Practical Enchantment”), even obscure works like Honlanus’ Paralipomenon on Enchantments.  Master Ulin brought a few more works from his own collection, and Dranus had been adding as many volumes to my library as he could budget for.  That happened to be a lot.

By the end of the fair, I felt well-educated enough to know what I wanted to do.  Hence the quiet announcement of the Spellmonger’s Bouleuterion to those enchanters and thaumaturges still lingering after the fair.  I got a lot of interest.  Winter was coming, and few wanted to be caught on the roads or just getting home as it hit.  The promise of gold and an outstanding professional opportunity was just too alluring for them, and I recruited several adept enchanters to the enterprise.

I’ll admit, part of my sudden enthusiasm and willingness to act was a reaction to the events in the Snowflake chamber.  I was still angry and feeling guilt-stricken over what Isily – and Ishi – had done to me, and the appeal of the purity of professional work was powerful.  Alya was happy just to have me back home and working – she barely realized at the time that anything was wrong.  If I was talking about work or the kids I was happy, and she left it alone.

There was plenty of work to do.  Banamor was happy to be included in the enterprise, and signed on to be the Bouleuterion’s eutaxarch, the official responsible for distribution of finances, and he also agreed to share the job of manciple with Gareth, owing to the fact that he already had a warehouse stuffed with wares we’d need.  Master Andalnam agreed to act as Prime Symposiarch, the official in charge of over-all organization, and Master Ulin agreed to be the archivist for the project.  Considering the way his eyes bulged when I told him what he’d be paid, plus livery, such positions did not often become available for magi in Merwyn.

The rank-and-file enchanters we hired were equally pleased at the idea.  Banamor and I had hired them piecemeal, in the past.  Now that we had real, regular work for them, including the opportunity to work directly with the Spellmonger and his toys, the Enchanter’s Guild suddenly became a vibrant institution.

I had dozens of ideas, in those first days, as did everyone else.  There was a spirit of innovation and daring in the air as we considered the possibilities.  And the problems.  The biggest of which was a lack of standardized terminology and nomenclature for enchantment.  Right behind that was the renewed importance on enneagrammatic enchantment that almost no one knew how to do.  Most such spells had been originally contrived by necromancy, and were thus forbidden even before the Censorate.  But with the Grain of Pors and other treasures, the field was open anew for experimentation.  That was exciting in itself.  But it also required a lot of basic research and sharing of knowledge.

Among my goals was to create powerful tools and ultimately weaponry and great enchantments that could, I hoped, challenge Shereul.  But there were a lot of steps in between, and those first weeks after the fair we focused on basics.

I was particularly concerned about the coming winter.  According to Zagor, who was acknowledged an authority on such folk magic, the winter would be fierce, and extra care should be taken.  Such prognostications weren’t considered prophecy, as much as prediction.  Despite his recent familiarity with Sevendor, Zagor had quickly gotten entrained with the local geography and microclimate the way a good hedgemage should be.  Master Olmeg concurred with his opinion – the signs that the natural world were giving him told a story of a long, cold, wet winter.

So we prepared for it.  Not only did we import twice as much fuel into the domain stockpile, I also had my nascent crew of enchanters begin their practice by building no less than five hundred heatstones.  It was a simple enchantment.  Each was made from a smooth river-rock, brought up from the lower, non-magical portion of the Ketta.  With only about five runes and not much possibility for error, a group of enchanters could prepare a dozen in a day.  The hard part had always been powering the things, but irionite made that a trivial thing.  Those first few sessions it took Dara, Dranus and a few other volunteers about five minutes of spellwork and a jolt of power from their witchstone to feed the enchantment enough to make it work for years.

That was the key.  Just about any footwizard can manage the heatstone enchantment; it’s a simple exercise in applied thermomantics.  But spending a whole day raising power naturally to get a few tepid hours of heat just isn’t economical.  It’s easier to build a fire.  The Sevendori heatstones would raise the interior temperature of a small cottage to a comfortable level for days, and keeping larger spaces warm enough to make a fire a convenience, not a necessity.

Many of them we sent to local temples and abbeys in the barony, places where the poorest of my subjects sought relief from the cold.  Some we distributed to the ridge top cottages, where wood was scarce and much had to be brought up steep trails.  Some we gave to larger, poorer families at risk of death from freezing over the winter.

But most we sold at premium prices.  Within the barony I set the price at a mere fifty ounces of silver.  Stones for export were ten ounces of gold, with the promise of a free renewal of the enchantment, once it was exhausted.

The exercise was intriguing.  We did the work in a warehouse that Banamor rented space in to merchants before the fair, but was now mostly empty.  I convened a half-dozen wizards, went over the basic spell, made certain each of them could do it effectively, and I turned them loose on the big pile of rocks the Tal had brought up from the river.  They had them done by the end of the day.  After giving around a hundred and fifty of them away, two thirds of them sold in the barony, and a third sold in Sendaria Port, through Master Andalnam’s shop.  More than a thousand ounces of gold and nearly ten thousand ounces of silver . . . more than I collected in tribute from my combined domains in two years.

“You know,” Banamor admitted, a week later when he reported that we might have to do a few hundred more to meet demand, “we could expand this experiment.”

“How do you mean?”

“There are a lot of really useful basic enchantments that wizards rarely do because of the power involved,” he pointed out, “but we don’t have that problem here.  I just don’t have time to sit there and enchant rocks all day, no matter how much money it makes.”

“Either do I,” I agreed.  “That’s why I got other people to do it for me.”

“That’s the essential characteristic of professional greatness,” he chuckled.  “But what if we hired enchanters – plenty of them loitering around the Guild – and paid them to do it?”

“But they don’t have witchstones,” I said.  “Except for Rael.”

“Exactly,” Banamor said, smugly.  “But they’re desperate for them.  That’s why they haunt our town, for the chance to curry your favor and gain a stone.  All of them participated in the Trial, but none made it past Pentandra’s Veil.

“But if we gave them access to irionite in exchange for doing the – let’s face it – boring, mindless chore that such things as heatstones have become, after the novelty of early success has worn off.”

“Give them irionite?” I asked, skeptically.

“Give them access to irionite,” he corrected, cagily. “What if you took a few of the lower-power stones and rented them to the Guild?  They would be under your supervision, and used only in your facility, but in exchange for doing some simple enchantments the poor bastards could use the stone for their own research.”

“I do have some lower-power stones, and it wouldn’t take many,” I considered, seeing the possibilities unfold.  “We could even put them in a protective housing to track and secure them.  That wouldn’t preclude vetting the enchanters thoroughly,” I added, warily.

“Oh, of course,” Banamor agreed, quickly.  He’d been the subject of one of my thorough vetting sessions.  Of course I trusted Banamor.  But I still had to watch him.  “But we could use the enterprise to screen for real talent . . . and perhaps even some innovation.”

“It would have to be under close supervision,” I cautioned.

“Then you agree with the plan?”

“If it can lead to revenues like this,” I said, gesturing to the parchment he’d brought me with its generous early tally, “I think I’d be a fool to ignore it.  Have you gotten the final tally from the Fair, yet?” I asked, curious.

“I’ve got a few clerks still working on it.  In terms of direct revenues and fees, after expenses we’ll make more than a thousand ounces of gold, profit.  In secondary revenues we did even better.  Sales of snowstone alone brought in two thousand three hundred ounces of gold and change, and our other enterprises did nearly as well,” he said, satisfied.

I started adding it up.  It was impressive.  Not as much as I got through the Arcane Orders in fees for witchstones and such, but that revenue was drying up a bit since the treaty with the goblins was signed.  I hadn’t had a new warmage candidate in weeks.  But a profit of over five thousand ounces of gold was enough to, theoretically, buy another domain, if I wanted that kind of major headache.

That was in addition to all of the coin spent at the town’s shops, inns, and taverns.  Particularly the taverns.  After the fair, there was nary a drop of ale to be had in town.  It would take a few weeks for the fresh crop of barley to be malted and brewed before there was more.  My buttery was severely depleted, and we had to order from other estates for a few weeks.

I was glad most of my noble guests had been quick to leave after the fair – their tastes were expensive, and it ate into my profits.  But nearly every yeomanry had seen a dramatic jump in revenues, from the fees paid to Sagal for his stately halls at Southridge to the coin the Tal Alon made selling smoking herbs at the fair.  That was in addition to all the coin the Tal made individually performing service functions.  Hollyburrow was rapidly becoming one of my more prosperous estates.

That was a lot of coin, and that made people happy.  Sagal was planning on expanding his holdings with another guest hall, and so was Jurlor, they revealed at the harvest feast.  The Westwood was enjoying tremendous prosperity, thanks to the revenues they gained from Caolan’s Pass, and Boval Village was thriving.  While Brestal had been more removed from the center of commerce, it, too, had seen a rise in its fortunes, as wizards and traders who wished to be proximate to Sevendor, yet wished to avoid the increasing prices there, found affordable, if modest accommodations in Sevendor’s other vale.

Even Gurisham was enjoying a prosperity unheard-of among villeins.  Most now lived in longhomes like freemen, and Guris, the Bovali headman of the commune, had invested wisely in the village’s infrastructure without enriching himself.  Now that they were using magic to aid in the plowing, mowing, and harvesting, the villeins of Gurisham had far more time and energy to focus on their own modest village, instead of my crops.

That produced a bit of a problem, as the village’s economy was dependent upon how much work a villein owed to the lord’s demesne, and how much was dedicated to their own.  Technically every man in Gurisham owed service to me, but when the plowing and haying that used to take days was now done in hours, a lot more time was owed than was necessary.  That led to peasants showing up to magically-harvested fields and standing around all day, in fulfillment of their service.

That’s never good.

The problem was that the villeins were committed to their service duties, even if a renegotiation might mean less work.  Until I could figure out how to right the system permanently, I had Guris detail the loitering villeins to re-construct the road between Boval and Sevendor Town.  We had enough traffic to justify cobbling the entire way, now, and it gave them something to do.  As autumn swept in crews of the Gurisham folk could be seen carting wheelbarrows full of cobbles from the river, and digging at the low spots with good iron shovels.  No doubt they were reconsidering the wonder of a magical harvest by then.

At least we spared them the tiresome labor of shoveling the way clear of snow that winter.  Once the cobbles were laid (and we constructed some, when the supply from the Ketta ran low, with an enchantment similar to the Bricking Wand.  Instead of breaking a goodly-sized rectangular brick out of a stone, however, the Cobbling Wand smoothed the top edges while leaving the bottom square and easier to fit into a roadbed.) I enchanted the entire route myself, creating a low-level thermomantic spell that wouldn’t allow the cobbles to fall below freezing, melting the snow as it fell.  It worked splendidly, too.

That autumn was noteworthy for other events, namely the dedication of the grist mill by our local priest of Huin the Tiller, and its subsequent operation.  That allowed us to grind our own grain in bulk.  That meant cheaper flour when wheat and barley began to flow from our harvest.

That, of course, complemented the construction of Dad’s new bakery.  Sevendor’s population had grown well large enough to sustain it – Sevendor Town now dwarfed Talry-on-Burine in populace, and there was the castle to feed as well.  If my entire family went into exile because of me, the least I could do was facilitate a model bakery right outside my castle door.

I let Dad pick the site – a four-acre parcel directly on the market square, backing up to the growing Temple of Briga, of course.  He and his apprentices oversaw the construction of the great oven, the workshops, and the hall where they would eventually live and work right after the Fair.  By Luin’s Day the priestess of Briga who had been appointed to the temple lit the ceremonial first fire in the oven and we started having bread – real bread – again.

All of these little projects were, of course, secondary to my main purpose.  The Bouleuterion was building a team of enchanters the likes of which the world had never seen.  If I was going to be confined to my own lands while the Prince sulked, I was going to make the most of it.  If I couldn’t leave Sevendor to visit my colleagues, I was making the rest of the magical world come to me.

I already had a good core of folk who had lingered after the Fair.  Taren was staying for a while, he said, and took rooms at the Chapterhouse.  Rael and her father, Andalnam, put aside their personal differences and devoted their winter to assisting my projects, enthusiastic about the opportunity.  Both Lanse of Bune and Master Cormoran agreed to come stay at Sevendor with their households for the winter – I arranged for them to take a hall at Southridge, now that the Fair was over.  Master Guri and Grandmaster Azhguri were at my disposal, even as the excavation of the first hall of the mountain was well under way.

Then there was Master Ulin, the enchanter I’d asked to stay and take my service.  He had been poring through our library at the Court Wizard’s tower and waiting to be of use.  Planus, who was a fair enchanter in his own right, agreed to stay through Yule, and of course I had Dranus to help.  While enchanting wasn’t his specialty, he was eager to learn and appreciative of the opportunity he had.

The Spellmonger was going to do some experimenting.  He wanted to be part of that.

I called or summoned others – some specialists, some generalists, some academic theorists in particular areas.  Others I communicated with, mind-to-mind or over the Mirror.  Our warehouses were filled with materials, our schedules were free from wars and missions, and – damn it! – I felt like building things.

It took my mind off of my other failures.

*

*

The day after Luin’s Day, I convened a meeting of my crew in Dranus’ tower.  The old crumbling fortification on the outer wall had been upfitted dramatically since he’d taken residence.  The lower room was now well-appointed with chairs, couches, and tables.  He’d hung fine Remeran tapestries on the walls and prepared a few bottles of wine to help the conversation.  It barely looked like an archaic, drafty old tower.

I’d limited the initial guests to those whose opinions and confidence I trusted the most.  Taren, Guri, Ulin, Planus, Andalnam, and Rael.

“My goal,” I announced, after we had a cup, a pipe and a few minutes chatting, “will be to push the frontiers of enchantment ahead dramatically.  My experience with the Grain of Pors this summer has led me to new ideas about the subject.  Imbuing objects with self-awareness, for instance.”

“That seems a dangerous pursuit, Minalan,” Planus said, with uncharacteristic concern.  “Why would one want to do such a thing?”

“Many reasons,” Taren said, studiously.  “Giving an enchantment independent agency, for one thing.  Allowing independent action without supervision.”

“But I do not think we are speaking of the simple mechanisms of elementals,” Andalnam said, reasonably.  “Are we?”

“No.  The Grain of Pors is a bit of a substance the Alka Alon call Ghost Rock,” I explained.  “We didn’t discover that until recently.  But Ghost Rock has the ability to absorb and recall the enneagrammatic pattern of any being it touches.  A magical record of your self-awareness, if you will.  The Grain is ancient, and possesses the patterns of thousands and thousands of bizarre and unusual creatures, long extinct from this world.  A skilled thaumaturge can take an impression of the enneagram and transfer it to an object. An adept enchanter can harness it to a complex enchantment as a paraclete.”

Taren picked up the explanation enthusiastically.  “Once it’s mounted in an object, you can affix relays to various elements in the enneagram for sensation and manipulation.  Its delicate work, but the results are incredible.  Just ask the poor magi who faced the constructs at the Trial,” he said, smugly.

“I understand the utility,” agree Planus, “it’s the wisdom of unleashing a long-dead beast on the world I question.”

“It’s actually pretty well controlled, as you’ll see,” I promised. “It has only as much power as you give it.  But there is definitely an art to selecting the right enneagram, and it’s an art we are making up as we go along.  That’s one reason why I want to do this.  For the last four hundred years the art of enchantment has stagnated, and been consigned to mere theory or repetition of well-known spells.  I want to advance the art as much as we can.  Using the Grain of Pors to add sophistication to some of the greater spells is a step down that road.  As is using ironite to power them.  And snowstone can make them dramatically more efficient.  But if we do not take this chance to experiment, then we will have squandered a golden opportunity.”

“I am all for pushing the art,” Planus said, shaking his head, “I just propose doing so with all due wisdom and caution.”

“That’s hardly conducive to experimentation,” said young Rael.

“What course do you propose, Baron?” asked Andalnam, politely, before his daughter could embarrass him.

“Banamor and I have been talking, I explained. “We’re going to begin with the smaller enchantments, like the heatstones and such,” I decided.  “Turning laboratory work into industry means profit, and where there is profit there is incentive.  But we will be continually advancing and refining along the way.  And recording everything.  Then we’ll move up to more sophisticated works, general-purpose thaumaturgical tools and enchantments-of-power.  Things like Pentandra’s baculus.”

“I rather covet that,” admitted Planus.  “My cousin is a very lucky woman.”

“That’s the gossip around the Guild,” murmured Rael, her eyes twinkling.  “You could hear them all the way—”

“Was that a difficult tool to construct, Baron?” Andalnam interrupted, without looking at his daughter.

“Not as bad as you might think,” I said.  “Of course I was starting with the rod I liberated from Lady Mask, in the Penumbra.  Not bad work, though I removed the original enchantments.  But with the use of the pocketstone and the other tools we’ve developed, improving it mostly took time and consideration, not power.”

“I would like to craft a similar tool, designed for thaumaturgical use,” Andalnam proposed.  “I have several independent tools that I use in my work, but it seems that having them all in one place would be convenient.”

“That’s exactly the sort of thing I want to do.  Master Ulin and I have been talking, too – fascinating discussions, he’s a real scholar on the history of enchantment – and it’s clear to me that though this is one of the ways in which magi are best able to project their power in useful ways, there hasn’t been a comprehensive effort to invest in the process or the techniques in any meaningful way since the Middle Magocracy.

“So we’re going to start by building the tools we need – tools to make tools – and that includes a lot of things like the thaumaturgical baculus.  Like a smith building his own tools before he forges anything else, we will use what we learn this winter to rise to even greater levels of enchantment.  That is the purpose of this Bouleuterion.”

“That’s going to be problematic, politically,” Dranus pointed out, helpfully.  “There is already a great deal of animosity toward magi building among the nobility, as the novelty of our risen estate wears off.  Tales of that bloody march are all over the kingdom, now.  And it has been noted that no modern Magelord has yet to lose a contest with a neighbor in war.  A sudden display of arcane power could quickly turn into political conflict.”

“Easily,” Andalnam agreed.  “Even among the artisans there is sudden resentment over our recent fortunes.  The chandlers’ guild has been protesting my shop to the town council for selling light wands to the public, though that is clearly within my charter.  That kind of resentment is like to spread.”

“Which is why wisdom dictates we be really sneaky about it,” I said, lighting my new pipe.  “My interrogation of the former Censor was enlightening in ways more than mere intelligence. The Duke of Merwyn seeks to control the resurgent power of the magi through their new order, centralizing that power and making it subservient to the state.  As a result the magi are near captive of the state, subject to severe penalties and requirements.

“That’s not how I want things to evolve in Castalshar.  We’ve got more power, both political and arcane, than the Merwyni magi, but our position is still evolving. I propose we quietly, if not secretly, use this time to build up our resources without attracting too much notice.  I’m officially confined to my lands, theoretically unable to meddle in politics.”

“Somehow that doesn’t seem like you, Magelord,” Dranus observed.

“Only to those who know me,” I chuckled.  “I’ll be holding some events and officially pouting in all the right places, but I have my agents at work.  If I can invoke your discretion,” I said to the group, picking out each one by eye, “I can now reveal that Lady Pentandra and her new groom are even now on their way to meet with the Orphan Duke and his retinue at an estate in northern Gilmora.  At Yule they will cross the frontier together, unite with two thousand Orphan’s Band mercenaries, and quietly take control of Vorone.  At that point, Lady Pentandra will resign her positions at the Order and become the Dual Court Wizard of Alshar.”

There was a collective gasp.  No one expected that news, particularly her cousin.  Planus sat there, his mouth agape, his Imperial mustache twitching in astonishment.

“Penny?  Resigned?  After marrying that . . . barbarian?”

“Hey!” I said, defensively.

“He’s a very nice barbarian,” Planus assured, “far better than my cousin deserves.  But my uncle is going to have a stroke when he hears . . .”

“It was a strategic decision,” I explained.  “The Arcane Orders are well-enough organized, now, and in truth we have need of her talents elsewhere – in Alshar, specifically.  As Ducal Court Wizard for Anguin she can not only use her powers to help rebuild his realm, but she can act as a representative for our interests with him.  And they are, I remind you, considerable.”

“So you propose to build up Anguin as a puppet state,” reasoned Planus.  “Shrewd.”

“Less a puppet state and more a state closely aligned with our interests,” I corrected him.  “I don’t want more lands or even more power.  I just want the power to protect what we have and what we might build.  Penny will be doing that for us in Vorone.  With our help.  The Arcane Orders have quietly pledged loan guarantees for Anguin through the Temple of Ifnia, and other temples, to give him the funds he needs to rekindle his rule.  Astyral and Azar have pledged their troops to him, if he needs them to enforce his rule.  With money, advice, magic and troops, that will give him a far better chance to re-establish Alshar as a viable state without being beholden to the Castali.”

“But he’ll be beholden to us, instead,” Andalnam nodded, approvingly.

“That’s the idea.  But if the Royal House starts thinking that he actually has a chance to rebuild Alshar, they’ll move to stop him, one way or another.  They are not in the mood to countenance rivals, at the moment.   And they have a history of meddling with Alshari politics.”

“Pentandra is going to need a lot of support,” Dranus noted.  “How are we going to do that?”

‘Quietly.  She’ll let us know what she needs, when she needs it.  We’ll get it for her.  Hopefully by spring Anguin will have Vorone clearly under his power and can expand to call his barons to swear fealty.  One they can start providing him troops they can start rebuilding the infrastructure – again, with our help. By next summer, when the news of Anguin’s arrival breaks and sinks in, hopefully he’ll be far too well-established to be overthrown by anyone.”

“Meddling in Ducal politics is dangerous, Minalan,” Dranus said, shaking his head.

“But it is a lot of fun,’ countered Planus.  “And the opportunities for building something lasting for magefolk out in that desolation are promising.’

“It’s not a desolation!  It’s a wilderness!” Rael countered.  “And one now depopulated.  Most of the Wilderlords fled or were killed in the war.  “It’s not farmland, but it’s beautiful territory, lush with natural resources.”

“And goblins,” reminded Taren.  “Lots of goblins.  They may have receded into the Penumbra, but there are still plenty of them lurking around.  Which gives us a good reason to be there.  And a reason for the Orphan Duke to need us there. ”

“As I said,” shrugged Planus, “An opportunity for us.  I trust Minalan to handle the details as he has adeptly done everything else.  And the idea of using enchantment as a means of projecting power is intriguing.  But I don’t quite see the details . . .”

“We’re going to start making items of power to equip the magelords of the Penumbra.  We’re going to gift each of them a baculus like Pentandra’s, suited to their needs.  We’re going to continue to hone the defenses of Alshar against the Penumbra, as His Majesty has permitted, and we’re going to seed the area with loyal magi who will also support Anguin’s regime.  By the time anyone notices what we’re doing, hopefully we’ll be too strong for anyone to uproot.”

“And you plan on doing this with a bunch of magic sticks?” Rael asked, coolly.

“They’re really good magic sticks,” Taren said, defensively.  “With Pentandra’ baculus as a pattern, I think we can create some truly amazing pieces.  The kind that can destroy whole armies and that sort of thing.  If we throw a bunch of those around the Penumbra, no one on either side of the magelands will be eager to tangle with us.”

“And with Anguin a strong voice in kingdom affairs, under the charter, we have influence politically, as well as arcanely,” I finished.  “And yes, there are a lot of details missing.  We’ll fill them in as circumstances dictate.  But for the time being, this little conspiracy,” I said, including them all with the stem of my pipe, “is merely a distinguished body of scholars investigating the mysteries of enchantment, minding our own business up here in the magical mountain.”

“And you really think anyone is going to believe that?” Dranus asked, amused.

“I’m hoping that the Court will be too distracted by other events to pay attention, much,” I admitted.  “And if I can avoid any more seven hundred mile hikes across ducal frontiers, and resign myself to making fireworks at state occasions for a while, that’s all anyone will be able to prove.”

*

*

That night I retired to our hall with a feeling of satisfaction.  Talking over the details of my enchantment ideas with my colleagues had been good.  I was almost ready to reveal the secret of the Snowflake to some of them . . . though after recent events I figured I would avoid the place for a while.  I had plenty to do until the Karshak opened up the spaces near the thing I’d requested.  Eventually we’d move the serious enchantment laboratories down there, where they would be secure and close to the Snowflake.

Until then there was plenty of other things to do.  But I took a moment to go out to the observation deck and drink one final glass of wine and appreciate all of what I had gotten accomplished.  The Fair was over.  I’d managed to learn about the Censorate.  Winter preparations were nearly done, the harvest was in, and we had real bread now.

Alya was still awake, though the children were in bed.  She looked at me from the doorway for a few moments, then came in and poured herself a glass of wine before joining me.

“It’s good to have you back home,” she sighed.  “We missed you.  And it’s good to see you working . . .” she trailed off, realizing how it sounded.

I chuckled.  “I know, what I did this summer was work.  Fieldwork.  But now it’s time to go back into the tower and put what I learned to use.  Laboratory work.  You saw all the marvels at the fair.  That’s just the beginning, Alya,” I promised.  “Within a few weeks I’ll have the best enchanters in the kingdom here, helping me build a whole new class of enchantments.”

“At least you’ll be home,” she smiled.

“Well, yes, but this is a different kind of work,” I said.  “I might not be gone, but I won’t exactly be here. And when I am I’ll be reading, talking, writing, planning, plotting, scheming . . .”

“At least you’ll be home,” she repeated, more seriously.  “That means a lot.  I’ll feel like a real spellmonger’s wife, maybe.  And you can take over some of the crappy baronial jobs,” she added.  “It would be nice if Cei and Estret could get back to their lands before the war starts.”

“The war?” I asked, confused.

“Maybe you were paying more attention to magic than the mundane at the fair, but the gossip about Sendaria was pretty clear.  Arathanial is going to go to war with Sashtalia this coming spring.  He isn’t formally asking Sevendor for an alliance, but there’s no way we cannot be involved.”

“Oh, yeah,” I sighed.  “That war.”

“And Sire Cei is going to fight in it,” she reminded me.  “He’s hired some lads to make up his lances and will be practicing all winter long.”

“When warriors prepare, it’s called ‘training’, not ‘practicing’,” I said with a smirk.  “But I’ll do my best not to get us involved, militarily.  Of course we’ll help out in other ways – Arathanial is a friend, after all.  It will be interesting to observe a war I’m not involved in, for a change.”

“Do you not want to be involved in it?” she asked, surprised by my tone, I suppose.

“Sashtalia has done us no real harm, since the Warbird fell,” I reasoned.  “But Arathanial does seem determined to recover his family’s lost lands.  I suppose we could be horribly opportunistic and fish in those troubled waters.  We might pick up a few additional domains. Do we want a few additional domains?” I asked surprised.  Alya was trying to lead me somewhere subtly, but I wasn’t certain where.

“It would be awfully convenient if our people didn’t have to pay tolls along the route to Caolan’s Pass,” she pointed out.  “And it occurs to me that the pass itself would be easier to defend if we owned the land on the other side of it.  Let’s face it: the farther away from Sevendor our borders get, the more secure we are.  Being a baroness can be unpleasant,” she said philosophically, as she took my pipe from me and took a drag, “but as a mother, the power and the land and such bring me a certain feeling of security I find I enjoy.”

I chuckled.  “You’re talking more like a proper Riverlands noblewoman and less like a Wilderlands goodwife every day,” I teased.  “I think we need more responsibilities like we need prehensile toes, but if Arathanial is determined to re-make the local politics, it really wouldn’t be prudent of us not to make the best advantage of it.  Especially if we can figure out which domains we might want to pick up, and which are more trouble than their worth.”

“Estret has rubbed off on me,” she admitted.  “She’s a dear friend, and she’s worried about Cei, as silly as that sounds.  The man who faced down a dragon, and she’s worried he’s going to get hurt in what’s going to be essentially a glorified tournament.  But I suppose a man can die in a tournament just as easily as in war.”

“We can reduce that chance, if we help Arathanial quietly,” I observed. “Sending troops would be too much – besides, I think he’s well equipped with them, now that he’s integrated his new lands into his barony.  But we can feed him intelligence, perhaps provide some quiet magical support . . . has he hired a magical corps?”

“Not that I’ve heard,” she admitted.  “But then he just hired a Court Wizard.  Hiring Dranus made them fashionable again, apparently.”

“Maybe we can help him, along those lines,” I considered. “But that’s next spring. We have a long, cozy, productive winter ahead of us in this delightful new hall, with no enemies looming on our horizon.  Let’s make the most of it.”

We went to bed, after that, but we didn’t make love.  We were both tired, and in truth I still felt guilty and ashamed of what happened in the mountain.  But as the new thaumaturgical terms I was learning overcame my emotions, I fell asleep realizing that if I was going to move the Bouleuterion along I was going to have to compile a useful index of such terms as we went, to aid in future enchantments.

Just the kind of pleasant academic make-work that can distract you from the sick feeling you carry constantly in the pit of your stomach.

Chapter Ten

The Cenacles Of Sevendor

Banamor converted the warehouse space to a working arcane manufactory in less than a week.  His assistant, Gareth, was put in charge of the task, and he found tables and benches, chairs and stools to equip the site and then stocked it with enchantment supplies from Banamor’s impressive inventory.  I went to the Enchanter’s Guild with Rael and told the dozen or so magi what we were interested in doing.  We got an enthusiastic response.  Most of those magi were desperate to get their hands on irionite, any way that they could.  To get to use it and get paid for doing so seemed like an amazing opportunity.

The three small stones I chose from my stockpile lesser stones culled from the Censorate’s vaults.  They seemed almost trite, compared to what I was used to, but they were sufficient for the task at hand.  I had each mounted in a heavy snowflake-shaped snowstone block the size of a pie plate – something too large to fit in someone’s pockets.

The stones were spellbound to the rock three different ways, and each was enchanted with several location spells.  To ensure security even more, instead of transferring them back and forth from the castle I simple enchanted a fourth piece of snowstone, about thrice as large as the snowflakes, with three pockets (or hoxters, as I’d learned they were called) that the attendant alone knew the command to.

It wasn’t a perfect system, but after working with Gareth and Rael for a few days our first crew of enchanters was able to produce simple items in quantity.  For now they were being stored in Banamor’s warehouse, but eventually we’d begin distributing them much farther afield.  Master Andalnam placed orders for dozens of items he felt he could sell in Sendaria, and there were other outlets for the wares – including Castabriel.

We began with lightwands, more heatstones, really powerful insect repelling charms, the sort of simple but useful enchantment just about anyone could use.  The enchanters we hired were mostly spellmongers themselves who had given up private practice to come to Sevendor – almost all were Imperially-trained and certified.

Gareth worked it so that for every hour they spent toiling on our behalf they got an hour with the stone for their own use – or seven ounces of silver.  That was a princely wage even for a spellmonger.  We had to hire a few guardsmen to make certain no one disturbed them while they worked.  By the time the first frost of the season fell the enchanter’s workshop had become a real arcane manufactory.

As fun as it was setting up the shop, that winter the real work was going on in my own workshop in the castle – and in Dranus’ smaller workroom in his tower.  Even with the additional room gained by moving my bedroom had provided the place seemed crowded most of the time.  There was always someone using a corner of the shop, or reading in the lower room, or using the top of the tower to test some enchantment or another.

Taren had spent the free time familiarizing the other wizards working on the effort with how to use the pocketstones and other specialty enchantments of Sevendor.  That had led to an intriguing few days of experimentation, as they tried various essays with the pocketstone.

Taren demonstrated a crossbow he was working on that produced an iron bolt from an arcane pocket – a hoxter, according to the ancient enchanters – the moment the string was drawn over the nut.  Planus created a silver wine goblet that he could fill with gallons of wine and refill with a word.  The Remeran adept enchanted the amulet that held his witchstone so that it would also produce a comfortable chair when he desired.  Rael used the stone to make a magical bracer for her left arm that could contain dozens of sacks of supplies and samples to be called upon at need.

Master Andalnam made a cloak pin that could hold just about anything . . . but the enchanter was getting restless as the first late autumn snowflakes fell on the vale.  He wanted to start on the more elaborate projects, particularly the thaumaturgical baculus he was designing.

“That should probably be our first endeavor,” he counseled, after everyone had shown off their early experiments at the group’s regular odeum, where we showed off our work for the week.  “Tools to make tools.  We all have our specialties – if we are able, let us create them according to our needs.”

“Lanse of Bune and Master Cormoran are still on their way here, but I suppose we can get started on the basic enchantments,” Taren pointed out.  “Thaumaturgical wands, in particular.  We’ll need a lot of them.  Banamor has the finest supply of weirwood and other materials in the Riverlands.  Anything we want from his stock we can put on the castle’s account.”

“That could get expensive,” warned Planus.  “Good weirwood is dear.  Great weirwood is priceless.”

“Priceless is a relative term,” I chuckled.  “I’m funding this enterprise, remember?  I’ve had more than a dozen of the finest staves brought to the shop upstairs.  I suppose we should get this advanced concillibule started by having everyone pick out the one that they like.”  A concillibule, for those who don’t know, is a group of enchanters convened for a particular purpose, like a working group.  Don’t feel bad.  I didn’t know, either.  I added it to the list for indexing.

I let them all poke through the long reddish staves, sanded smooth and ready to enchant, because I had already secured the absolute best piece for myself.  Or at least the one I thought best suited my purposes.

What makes one piece of wood better than another for enchantment?  Without delivering a technical lecture on the subject, it’s mostly about durability and capacity.  Most woods make fine conduits for arcane power, thanks to the organic structure of the cellulose, but beyond that things get complicated.  Some woods channel energies better than others, and some aren’t very good for much more than minor cantrips or very short-term spells.

But weirwood is different.  The cellulose in the wood is well-tuned to arcane power as the plant requires it to grow and propagate.  It can bear very strong magical energies without degrading, and do so over and over again with little loss of effectiveness.  There are varieties that do better with some channels than others, but often it comes down to the character of the individual piece of wood.

The rod I’d chosen was about five feet long, an inch and a half thick and it had faint streaks of green running through it.  The grain was very fine, which usually indicates an especially delicate ability to control power – important in a thaumaturgical baculus, less so for a warstaff.

The difference is important.  I had created other powerful enchantments on my own with weirwood, namely my warstaff Blizzard and my traveling staff Trailblazer.  Both were very powerful, each in their way.  Blizzard was designed to kill people and break stuff, while Trailblazer was the most useful travel tool any mage had ever carried.

A thaumaturgical baculus is designed to be used to aid a thaumaturge in his work.  Instead of channeling huge amounts of power, its utility lay in its ability to discern and manipulate the smallest of energies.  There are a few things one expects any such tool to perform – taking etheric density readings, for instance.  Usually a mage will use a savistator, a fairly simple and inexpensive device if he’s assessing etheric density.  But with the base of a well-made baculus to work from, there were much more accurate and finely-tuned spells that could do it better.

There were other enchantments that could be set that would gauge the arcane conductivity of a substance, for example, or powerful magesight augments that could allow you incredible perception.  Detection and determination spells, enchantments to regulate power flow, spells to convert or entrain energies, spells of containment, spells of banishment – a good thaumaturgical baculus can do a lot.

These were better than good.  The elementary enchantments everyone agreed upon for their own device, based on my notes from Pentandra’s baculus, were quickly supplemented by other spells as each mage’s staff began to reflect their enchanter’s personal idiosyncrasies.

It took days.  We took turns in the workshops (our mirabiliaries, for those keeping up with the jargon), or worked with our rods in private – and yes, I realize just how dirty that sounds.  The phallic nature of the item was referenced several times.  We were a bunch of adult professionals playing with long thin sticks.  Penis jokes abounded.

Then Master Cormoran and Lanse of Bune arrived, and it turned into a real party.

Both enchanters had brought most of their magical households.  Cormoran picked up two eager apprentices, while Lanse’s troupe of miniature-making specialists arrived with two entire wagons containing his traveling workshop.

Lanse’s work as a dioramic mage was one of the few specialties that encouraged a large retinue.  It took a lot of work to get the representations looking and feeling just right to the operator, or something like that.  Detail was essential to the success of the spell, and that mandated a lot of time-consuming work . . . just the sort of thing a bunch of apprentices were useful for.

I put them up at Jurlor’s Hall, at my expense.  Both men – and all of their entourage – were fascinated by the town and the mountain and the castle and the Alka Alon tower, and the Karshak works, and the Everfire . . .

But they weren’t truly impressed until they saw what we had been up to.  It took them all a few days to catch up, but soon around twenty dedicated enchanters were each creating a thaumaturgical baculus of great power.  Work was expanded by necessity to the Enchanter’s Guild’s moderate workspace to contend with the overflow.

It was a merry time, as if a bit of the Magic Fair lingered in Sevendor through the first early chill of winter sleet.

As the leaves turned a brilliant scarlet and burnished gold, besmocked enchanters wearing the colete – a skull cap associated with the profession - walked between town and castle in ones or twos, or sometimes in larger groups . . . and if the taverns along the way prospered as a result, no one was unhappy about it.

Many magi who were not officially a part of the effort frequented the taverns and halls to discuss the efforts or share their own research.  The enchanters who staffed the manufactory were frequent colleagues, and many of them ended up joining the effort in some small way. There was always more cleansing and examination of raw materials than we had the personnel to complete.

Those excursions into drink and theory were perhaps more important than the actual enchantments we were casting.  They were actually a recognized part of the old process, called cenacules in antiquity.  It was recognized by our professional ancestors that often the best work was done not over a workbench, but over wine and food.  So each working group met regularly, if informally, and invited enchanters from outside the group to listen to the progress and share their perspectives.

As each of us encountered problems, or tried to achieve a particular result, we’d toss around ideas and solicit advice from specialists or bullshit-opinion from the bystanders at large at these cenacules.  With enough ale, wine, and spirits the discussions could get quite lively, and could occasionally lead to demonstrations or even theoretical breakthroughs.

While there was no set group of us, I noted that particular magi tended to congregate in specific areas for informal cenacules.  Lanse and his men tended to drink at the Spark and Scroll, the dive that catered to the Enchanters Guild and the magi who tended the Mirror array at the Order Chapterhouse (the Entropomants who tended the Entropiary, according to the texts).  Cormoran didn’t drink there, but his apprentices and servants did.

While Planus technically lived closest to the Spark and Scroll, staying as he was at the Secret Tower, he preferred the atmosphere and the wine of the High Street tavern Banamor owned, the Alembic.  It was half the size of the Spark and Scroll but Banamor had stocked it with pricy wines and spirits suited to a Remeran palate.  He’d founded it while I was off marching so that he and his business associates could have a quiet place to drink and negotiate without the noise of the market or a busy tavern around them.  He kept the prices high enough to discourage casual drunks, but the wealthy magi had no trouble affording the fare or the privacy.

The Alembic drew Dranus on many nights, as they had a basic set of Rushes, as well as chess and that game with black and white stones I never bothered to learn how to play.  Master Cormoran also favored its more refined atmosphere.  Master Ulin could be found there occasionally, drinking the cheapest of beverages, unless someone else was buying.

The Alembic had the advantage of reams of parchment lying around, something Banamor supplied as a service for the patrons.  Many late night conversations by magelight and brandy fumes culminated in intriguing work that was captured on those sheets.  Lorcus also liked writing dirty poetry and hiding it among the leaves to scandalize the other patrons.  It was part of the charm of the place.

But the real intellectual free-for-all ended up being at an old shed in the outer bailey someone – I still don’t know who – had turned into a clandestine drinking establishment, right under the very nose of the baron.

The place was an old shed that had been used variously as a barn, a byre, a storehouse, a temporary kennel, and had been left to languish empty or cluttered as needed in the far corner of the outer bailey. I had always figured we’d eventually get around to knocking it down, but we just hadn’t, yet.

Some enterprising soul had taken a hogshead of beer into the place and started serving there.  Mostly castle folk who didn’t want to walk all the way into town for serious drinking, at first, but by the time I’d returned from Kasar the tiny tavern had blossomed.  One of the Tal, a portly fellow called Radish who worked in the stables during the mornings, had assumed the role of tavernkeeper.  He made a few coins a week selling strong beer that way, and seemed well-suited to the task.

Eventually it became clear to Sire Cei what was going on, but despite my castellan’s regulatory nature he saw little harm in the secret public house within stumbling distance of the castle.  He even stopped in once a month or so to inspect the technically illegal brew – Cei likes strong beer as much as any knight.

Once the visiting magi discovered the place they chased most of the other patrons away and adopted it as their own, visiting it before or after enchantment sessions in my tower or Dranus’.  I didn’t even know the place was really there, until Planus introduced it to me one evening.  I was, in a manner of speaking, enchanted with its rustic charm.  The broken furniture, the poor lighting, the slight scent of mildew . . . it made the perfect little dive to loiter in between spells.  By the end of the night I had drunkenly decreed that the place be officially allowed to continue operations without my official notice, which confused the hell out of everyone.

As the place didn’t have an official name, and I wanted one that captured both its character and its place as a uniquely Sevendori establishment, I dubbed it The Slushpile – where all the dirty snowflakes accumulate in the shade.

I had some changes made to it – Radish was employed full-time, at livery, and the stores were improved with a little additional capital from my purse.  I detailed a carpenter to make some repairs to the roof and walls, and had a new privy dug out back.  I kept the obscuring line of rhododendrons in front of the place to keep it from being an eyesore, but once you got behind them it was actually kind of quaint.  I had a few rolls of parchment, ink, and charcoal supplied, as well as a slab of snowstone that took up most of one wall.  It wasn’t for magical effect, though I enchanted magelights into it, it was to serve as a large board upon which magi could work problems in charcoal or demonstrate theories to each other over a good pint of ale.

It wasn’t exclusively a magi pub – any tavern across the yard from the hall where my Dad is staying is going to get flour in it – but once the enchantment project began it became enough of a favorite of my colleagues that it was considered a wizard’s pub.

Besides, I got to drink for free.  Perks of being the baron.

The point of enumerating the favored drinking establishments of magi in Sevendor isn’t, as you might imagine, a scheme to improve my revenues from increased tourism.  Those taverns became hotbeds of competing and complementary theory over the weeks of winter, as the work of the effort began in earnest the cenacules of Sevendor became the blossoming gardens of innovative thaumaturgical theory.

The Alembic was the school of high theory, where the most erudite of magi (myself included by courtesy, if not by merit) discussed the finer points of thaumaturgic theory, especially enneagrammatic magic.  The Spark & Scroll school was focused on the practical issues of enchantment.  And the Slushpile was reserved for wild flights of thaumaturgical fancy, up to and including theurgy and alien forms of magic.

As the snows of winter came, and the leaves were driven from the trees, the first forays into greater enchantment were being made by my colleagues.  The first great baculus spells were cast as the cleansed and bonified staves were carefully shaped and crafted.  The first serious consideration of paracletic enchantment was being made at those friendly, intense discussions over winter duck and fresh meat pies.  And wine.  Lots and lots of wine.

My interests and energies were spread among all three schools, all of the workshops, and frequently found me reading in my tower until long past midnight.  I spent hours in meditation and spellwork during the day, then engaged in lively discussions during the evening hours before either devoting myself to serious study or serious spellwork, as the occasion demanded.

Things with Alya started to get a little frayed as my technical presence but practical absence began to be felt.  I made a point of taking her to some of the cenacules, and also taking breaks from work to spend a few evenings with the children and my wife.  Our intimate relations were tentative and distracted, ostensibly because of work.

But the fact was I was using my vocation to hide from my own feelings.  When I was indulging in the technical challenges of enchantment, I wasn’t worrying about my anger, or Isily’s plans, or the humiliation I felt about her assault.  My work became my haven from my own feelings, but it alienated me from my wife.

Alya could tell something was wrong.  She couldn’t bring herself to say it, exactly, but she told me so in a hundred little nonverbal ways.  If anything good came of my withdrawal from her during that time it was the renewed focus I put on my children.

Minalyan was talking in full sentences, now, using his new voice to be as demanding and entitled as a little princeling.  He was just starting to get to be real fun.  Almina, for her part, held a monopoly on pure cuteness in my household that demanded proper respect and admiration.  The nights I devoted to my family during the Sevendor Bouleuterion remain precious in my mind as the fulfillment of my paternal dreams.  The only stain on the memory involves the pensive looks Alya gave me when she thought I wasn’t looking.

It was killing me not to confide in her, unburden my soul and cleanse my conscience . . . but then the consequences of doing that were clear enough to me.  It was easier sacrificing my inner peace and tranquility than inflicting my rage and despair on my innocent wife and forcing her to endure a burden she did not earn.

We had a lovely family.  I couldn’t let anything bad happen to it.

Particularly me.

*

*

“The sophistication of these spells demands paracletion,” Master Ulin argued, a little tipsily, that night at the Alembic.  “Entrusting the agent-of-action to the same mind that is focused on obduracy is folly!”

“Some minds are better than others,” Planus smiled back.  “Paracletion seems a powerful answer to a simple problem.”

“It’s only a simple problem because we don’t have the capacity to consider more sophisticated enchantments,” Andalnam pointed out.  “Paracletion does mitigate that, dependent on the enneagram used.”

“Ah, and now we come to the sharp point of the debate,” Banamor said, expansively.  “What creature would you entrust to a task like that?”

“It’s not a matter of the creature,” explained Master Ulin, passionately.  “It’s a matter of their enneagrammatic remains, and what pathways you wish to exploit for the work.  If an ordinant can transfer the pattern without the use of a benet, eschewing deracination of the living in favor of dissamuring from the enneagrammatic archive of the Grain with a suitably docimased bridewell, then both the ethical and practical issues of flagitation and paracletion are solved at once,” he stated, triumphantly.

“I have no idea what he just said,” admitted Master Cormoran, drunkenly.  “But damn, he said it well!”

“It’s true!” Ulin insisted.  “The moral issues of mactation make using more than boatic forms inadvisable, thanks to the issues involved with metempsychosis.”

“Not to mention the fact that it’s necromancy,” observed Andalnam, wryly.

“Exactly.  But with the Grain and the resources within, you can tremendously mitigate the danger of catastrophic misauntering due to a faulty paraclete.”

“Why would you need a bloody paraclete in the first place?” asked Lanse, who was eating uptown that night.  “How many enchantments do you need to manipulate?”

“The question isn’t how many you need,” Ulin insisted, “the question is how many can you convince the paraclete to operate on your behalf?  And that comes back to the nature and the origin of the paracletic enneagram.  By using the stock of bathypalaegic patterns, the necessary abstraction of perception and self-awareness removed from a familiar environment allows as many enchantments as the paraclete can comfortably hold.”

“Still, how much could you possibly want in one enchantment?” Cormoran asked.  “For a good mageblade I manage a dozen perhaps with some room for customization.  Why would a mage need a paraclete for that?”

“How many enchantments could a panaesthesic enneagram manage?” countered Ulin.  “Far more than a dozen.  In an attempt at a true magnality, one would postulate potentially hundreds.  Or thousands.”

“Why under heaven would you need that many enchantments in one object?” asked Taren, appalled.  “That seems like diluting the purpose.”

“That’s the beauty of a panaesthesic paracletic enneagram,” insisted Ulin.  “The paraclete can combine and guide the array of enchantments at its disposal with more deftness than the enchanter, himself.  Lines of force and possibilities of outcome that would not occur to a mortal mind occur to the paraclete and a more pronounced endix is produced,” he said, authoritatively.  “In theory,” he added.

“While that’s fascinating,” Lanse admitted, “you’re putting an awful lot of faith in fish-brains.”

“The creatures whose patterns lie within the Grain are manifold,” I assured him.  “While there are an abundance of fish-brains, so to speak, there are also far more sophisticated creatures.  Do not forget that the Sea Folk are descended from them, and they are no mean magi.”

“So how could you use a paraclete in, say, a magical weapon?” asked Taren, curiously.

“Oh, it could run defensive enchantments and such while the wielder focused on offensive spells,” suggested Cormoran.  “Defender of Empires was supposed to be able to do that.  It didn’t,” he added.

“Consider the usefulness of the Thoughtful Knife,” suggested Taren.  “That has to have some sort of paraclete involved.”

“A fair point,” conceded Banamor.  “And the magical constructs – what did you call them, again?”

“Remipids,” supplied Taren.

“The remipids at the fair were very lifelike,” Banamor agreed.  “Enough that I got complaints from the contestants at the Trial.  If we can do more things like that, I don’t see the danger.”

“The danger lies in pulling some great hulking monster from its long-dead abyss, revitalizing its enneagram with magic, and hoping it doesn’t panic when it realizes that it is, indeed, no more.  That kind of existential crisis can lead to disaster,” offered Andalnam.  “That’s why such work was proscribed by the Censorate for years.”

“With careful selection, such issues can be overcome,” Ulin insisted.  “Most of the benthic enneagrams are straightforward.  Nor do they have to be fully restored – full pallingenisis should not be required to achieve an efficacious effect.”

“That’s an awful lot of investment to put into a stick,” Lanse said, shaking his head.

“Ideally that sort of magnality would be immured within a more stable vessel,” agreed Ulin.  “A stone or gem, or perhaps a piece of bronze.  Something difficult to lose or steal.”

“And something that won’t consume itself with use,” pointed out Cormoran.  “Deflogistication takes a toll, you know.  There are metals I can’t use in my alloys because of that.”

“Well, there you go,” snorted Lanse.  “Unless you want a two-ton magical rock that can do what other rocks can’t, including feeling good about itself, then paracletion seems to be the way to go.  I mean, what could possibly be large and complex enough to require a fully panaesthesic paraclete? Nothing we’ve built.  Not even my most complex diorama would need one.”

“If we keep pushing the art like this, it will only be a matter of time,” Taren observed.  “Eventually we’ll make something so fancy and sophisticated that paracletion will be the only real way to use it.”

I drummed my fingers on the table in front of me, debating with myself whether or not I should do it.  It had been months since I’d returned, it felt like.  Yet here was the opportunity I had been waiting for.

“Actually, gentlemen,” I said with a sigh.  “I think I have just the thing that will require paracletion, and perhaps the most sophisticated one ever devised.  Let me take you to the mountain and show you the secret wonder of Sevendor.”

Part Two

Chapter Eleven

An Enchanting Yule

It was the first night I’d been back to the crystalline cavern of the Snowflake, the Denehole, since Isily and Ishi gave me such an interesting evening after the fair.  I hesitate to say that I was avoiding the place – I was busy, I told myself – but I also can’t say that my heart sped with every step I took back to the chamber.

It was just as I had left it, no evidence of the crime or the divine bargain that had happened here.  Nothing but a chair.  And the Snowflake.

I stared at it, transfixed, unable to move.  Flashes of that night came back to me unbidden.  The confusion, the humiliation, the impotent rage . . . then the moment passed, and I started breathing again.

I went to the spot directly in front of the construct and turned toward the doorway.  I wanted to see the faces of my colleagues as they saw it for the first time.  The effect was worth the effort.

“Dear gods!” Taren said from behind me as he entered.  “You made that?”

“What . . . is it?” asked Dranus, his eyes uncharacteristically wide, as he filed in behind him.

“As to the first question, yes . . . in a manner of speaking.  As to the second, I have asked you worthies to come here to answer that very thing.”  I had invited my best, most trusted colleagues into the secret lurking at the roots of my mountain.  “All I know is that it’s a kind of a molopor, only it’s not, really, and that it attracts magical energies like a hole in your pocket attracts your coins.”

“Magnificent!” Cormoran said, shaking his head.  “Crystal?”

“It came from the chamber,” I acknowledged.  “In similar vesicles where we found the pocketsones and waystones and such there was also a lot of quartz crystal loose on the floor.  Not here.  When they broke through it had all been incorporated into the artifact.  I theorize that the Snowflake is mostly quartz, and the stonesingers agree.”

“Mostly quartz,” Planus said, meaningfully.

“Exactly,” I sighed.  “Just as the other vesicles produced wonders like the pocketstones, there is no telling what crystals were here before the Snowflake was forged.  Whatever they were, they are now incorporated into the constantly-shifting crystalline matrix.”

“That’s a classy piece of enchantment,” Taren said, reverently.  That was high praise, coming from him.

“This has the faint aroma of theurgic magic about it,” Ulin said, shaking his head and stroking his beard.  “Am I wrong?”

“There may have been a divinity or two present in my fevered dreams,” I agreed cautiously.  “And the gods have some stronger power here in Sevendor, we theorize – that’s why I’ve got pilgrims lined up to see the Everfire in the temple to Briga in town.’

“I’ve theorized that theurgy was involved in the original snowstone effect,” observed Taren.  “That’s the only thing that could explain it, thaumaturgically.  So this could just be an extension of that.”

“But what the hells is it?” Lanse of Bune demanded, waving his long arms at it.  Lanse didn’t have a lot of patience for someone who played with dolls as much as he did.

“It’s appears to be a bloody big snowflake!” Andalnam said, matter-of-factly.

“But what does it do?” his daughter Rael demanded, her eyes dazzled by the artifact.

Master Ulin gave it a thoughtful look.  “It’s clearly furibund and hirrient; if we could find a way to control its pandation . . .” he trailed off as he studied the pretty thing.

“Again,” Rael said, irritated, “what does it do?”

“It changes,” I said, mysteriously.  “It hums a little.  It glows.  And it attracts power.  But apart from that, I have no real idea.  It’s stationary, and while you can touch it, the effect isn’t pleasant.  I’ve kept my distance and used thaumaturgical assays to dewray it, but . . . it’s hard,” I admitted.  “So yes, essentially it is a bloody big crystal snowflake.”

“Of literally unimaginable snowflaky power,” Rael agreed, nodding sagely.  “You’ve tried—”

“I’ve tried every essential and some exotic assays,” I assured her.  “You’re welcome to repeat your own mensuration, but I doubt if you’ll get different results.  Or perhaps you will – damned if I know.”

“So you just happen to have a molopor in your basement,” Lanse said, shaking his head.

“Of his magical mountain,” snorted Taren.

“Amongst his wealth of unique and incredibly powerful magical stones,” added Planus, grinning through his Imperial mustache.

“And the gods had nothing at all to do with it,” finished Andalnam.   “Just the Spellmonger’s luck.  So what haven’t you tried?”

We stood there, studying it and proposing different theories and possible avenues of approach.  The prevailing opinion was that something that obviously powerful and magical should be able to do something other than glow, hum, and feel smug at our ignorance.

Most of what was proposed was too complex to perform there and then, but some of them did try simple spells of revelation, without much effect.  But the effects that they did record were fascinating.

“It certainly is impressive,” Cormoran summed up, an hour after we started.  “And pretty.  And the gods’ own puzzle for us, to be sure.”

“I’d like you all to take a try at it,” I suggested.  “I’ll have a blank book brought down, and if everyone could record their findings in it, perhaps between all of us we can establish just what it is, what it does, and what we can do with it.

“But I also want it kept secret.  No one outside the Bouleuterion is to even refer to it, except in the abstract.  If you need to refer to this location, call it the ‘main vesicle’.  If you need to refer to the Snowflake, call it ‘the Specimen’ – that’s both common and obscure enough to keep anyone from picking up on it.”

“Why hide it?” asked Rael, confused.  “It’s one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen!”

“Because it could be dangerous, and we have enemies,” Taren assured her.  “The fewer people know about this, the better.  Can you imagine what would happen if someone snuck in and had access to it?”

“To do what?” Lanse asked, skeptically.  “We don’t have a bloody clue what to do with it.  How would they?”

“It’s just a good idea,” Master Cormoran said diplomatically.  “I agree with Minalan, this should remain a High Secret of the Arcane Orders.”

“Should we have High Secrets?” Rael asked, frowning.

“When dealing with a magical artifact that could possibly annihilate the human race?” Master Ulin pointed out.  “Caution might be wise.”

“A fair point,” she conceded.

“Discretion has always been important to our profession, with good reason,” he continued.  “Even with relatively simple enchantments we court unforeseen dangers, as history has often shown.  And this is anything but simple.”

Over the days that followed everyone took a turn down in the tunnels, thaumaturgically whacking away at the Snowflake.  The record that evolved quickly filled the first book of fifty leaves, and then a second as each of them approached the subject from their own perspective.  Everything from Taren’s deep radial polyspectrum series to Rael’s meticulous plotting of the change rates and arcane concordances of the mysterious object was recorded in between our baculus work and our animated discussions.

And believe or not, we learned some things.  Not a lot, and not much that seemed useful at the time, but the raw data we gathered on the Snowflake in the weeks leading up to Yule was impressive.  A lot of them liked just standing there and watching the thing’s gyrations.

But we did establish that the Snowflake existed in the Otherworld and was drawing power toward it like a beacon.  It was emitting some odd energies, not strong but very peculiar, in ways you don’t ordinarily expect from a crystalline object.  Prolonged contact with the surface could pull you into a mantic trance, while quietly chewing the skin of your hand to shreds, as Gareth found out during one unfortunate experiment.

I introduced Sir Festaran to its mysteries and had him estimate the mass of the thing.  That proved problematic – my mage knight’s sport Talent could give me no fixed measurement.  According to Festaran, the mass shifted slightly – as much as a hundred grams – every second it shifted.  That really was interesting – and suggested some variant of the pocketstone had been essential to its construction.  You just can’t gain and lose mass like that without an extradimensional component – which opened up all sorts of interesting theories on the subject.

Due to the nature of his work, Lanse had an adept knowledge of control spells and the various energies used in them.  He spent two days relentlessly pelting the Snowflake with huge amounts of power in all manner of vibration at different strengths while his senior apprentice recording the results – which were intriguing.

You couldn’t injure the thing.  I tried hitting it with a hammer, and it was like hitting rock.  The surface of the crystal wasn’t even scratched.  Blasting it with destructive magic had no effect.  The Snowflake drank in the energy without apparent harm.

We did find one good use for it, though.  Something placed between the spokes of the thing – say, Taren’s third-best warwand – will eventually get sheered in twain by the relentlessly changing crystal.  But somehow I didn’t think having an unbreakable and unmovable pair of shears was going to topple the Dead God from his nonexistent throne.

It was a pretty problem, literally and figuratively.  After a few weeks the novelty inevitably wore off, unless there was some intriguing experiment or interesting observation that would spark a few hours of theoretical conversation.  But the truth of the matter was that as professionally fascinating as the Snowflake was, we were making such impressive progress with our various new thaumaturgical baculus that it faded from our focus.

*

*

Two weeks before Yule, most of us were finishing the major arcane tools we’d designed and were putting the final touches on them.  I imbued my new baculus with a paracletic enneagram suitable and useful for the tool.  Not for any better reason than to repeat the experiment I conducted with Pentandra’s rod, and to demonstrate the technique to everyone adept enough to replicate it.

I consulted the Grain of Pors and showed the adepts how to access the thing, how to discern between the thousands of enneagrammatic patterns and how to determine – as best you could – which of them would be best suited to the task. For my baculus I wanted something observant and inquisitive, curious and perceptive.  I’d explored the Grain enough over the summer to become familiar with the impressions within, and I had a good idea where to find it.

“Scouring the Grain is similar to navigating in the Otherworld, though your level of interaction is quite a bit more muted,” I explained, as I began the process.  “There are thousands of types of creatures within, spanning the gods alone know how many centuries.  But you have to familiarize yourself with enneagrammatic expressions well enough to discern which specimens are viable, and which might be . . . disastrous.”

“Are they just floating in there?” Dara asked, curious.

“Essentially,” Taren answered for me.  He had been the only other mage to use the Grain to effect.  In fact he had been building a magical slashing spear in the Ilnarthi style, once he had completed his baculus, and had been searching the Grain for just the right predator to imbue it with.  “The enneagrams are locked into a kind of timeless state.  As they’re complete impressions of actual enneagrams, there’s no specific life-force energizing them.  In a lot of ways, they’re like suits of armor, the shapes and forms of living self-awareness but without anything inside.  We use magical power to energize the pattern, but without the coherence and cohesion of self-regulating energy that the life-force provides, such patterns lack agency.”

“So how do you deprihend the enneagram?” Ulin asked, eagerly.  He was far more theoretician than technician, and he had never raised even a simple water elemental before.  “A bridewell?” That was a special crystal or other substance that could temporarily house an enneagram.

“And Mandar’s Reflectory,” Taren answered, while I scoured the Grain with my mind.  “It’s a simple thaumaturgical tool you probably already know.  Once you get the pattern within the focus of the spell and you activate it, re-establishing the pattern in the object or material you want to put it in is a matter of building a suitable harness enchantment.  That’s where the bridewell comes in.  And then you release the pattern with the second command.  It takes a lot of concentration,” he conceded, “which is why it’s good to have a second enchanter handing the harness enchantment.  Trying to both at once is . . . challenging.”

“How do you entrain the controlling enchantments?” asked Andalnam, interestedly.  “Regular symmetrical channels?”

“Standard eutectic spell, in and out just like anything else,” I nodded, gruffly as tried to focus on both the Grain and the conversation.  I was getting close . . . I’d examined and discarded a few dozen, already, while they’d been chatting.

“Of course you can get really fancy with them,” Cormoran pointed out, “if you can manage a rudimentary anthropomorphic response matrix enchantment, you can even manage mental communication, allegedly.  There were two or three successful attempts at that, done with dogs and gurvani back during the High Magocracy period.”

“If you believe Honvar the Obscure’s propaganda,” snorted Dranus.  “His histories have always been considered highly suspect and more than a bit lurid, in Remere.  And the telepathic communication was never independently verified.”

“But it was noted elsewhere, in more credible works,” Taren pointed out, then grinned.  “That would be fun, wouldn’t it?  Actually having a magical tool that can talk back to you?”

“You couldn’t really get more than basic information back, could you?” Rael asked, skeptically.  “I’m sure these sea-creatures were fairly simple souls, without the sophistication to communicate more than a few rudimentary things.”

“I don’t know about that,” Dara countered.  “I get a lot of useful information from Frightful and other animals, and they’re no more or less primitive than those sea creatures.  Just dryer.”

“And you aren’t taking into account the possibility of augmenting the enneagram with chaptal spells,” Dranus observed, tactfully.  “The original is, I would guess, a complete pattern, but it could well serve as the foundation for a far more complex set of arcane augmentations, such as are used by adepts to give breadth to the elementals they conjure when they .  While such creations have, alas, been too ephemeral in most cases to warrant such an investment in most cases, it has been done.  With an essentially permanent enneagram, developmental enchantments to improve the sophistication of self-awareness could, theoretically, be added to the pattern.”

“Now that is an interesting thought,” agreed Cormoran.  “You said you have the means to make an enneagram permanent, Minalan?”

“Oh, yes,” Dara agreed.  “The Alaran Stone, one of the crystals from the mountain.  There’s a water elemental that’s been living in the millpond continuously for almost two years, now.  Of course, this is Sevendor,” she shrugged.

“But that would allow you to stabilize the enneagram,” Cormoran reasoned, “more than enough to add augmentations for greater self-awareness and responsiveness.  What such enchantments would look like, I have no idea, but—”

“Got it!” I said, happily.  I’d finally found what I was looking for: a pattern of elegant sophistication and inquisitiveness, a highly-developed and very curious mind.  I’d encountered and rejected it last summer, as we were building constructs, because it just wasn’t bellicose enough.  Its hallmark was curiosity.

I know not what ancient creature had contributed it to the Grain, but it seemed like some sort of scavenger, some curious fish or crustacean or something altogether unimaginable, that spent the majority of the time searching.  For food, for predators, for mates, for shiny things (it liked shiny things), this enneagrammatic pattern seemed dedicated to finding things out.

As an added bonus, I could see a clear string of tell-tale symbols within the enneagram associated with arcane power – whatever the creature had been, it had been able to use some kind of magic as part of its natural life cycle.  That could prove very useful.  Just the sort of spirit I wanted in my baculus.

“Yes, this is the one I want.  If you will prepare the cadrans enchantment, Taren?”

We made the transfer without any trouble, using a plain, large quartz crystal for the bridewell.  Once the pattern was locked into the enneagrammatic harness enchantment (the cadrans) already painstakingly embedded in the staff, all it took was a simple thaumaturgical transfer.  Then came the process of entraining the pattern to the various elements of the staff and making the first few of the hundreds of thaumaturgic connections between the paraclete and the enchantments it would control with a tranchette, a special thaumaturgical wand.

That was a much longer operose process, and I’d do most of it myself, later, but I did enough of the major elements to demonstrate how it was done, with Taren explaining the technique to the others over my shoulder.  In this case that meant tying it into the witchstone I installed at the head to power it.

Yes, that was an extravagance most enchanters couldn’t afford, but then I had an embarrassing treasury of the things at the moment and no war to fight.  Irionite in the baculus ensured an independent power source, and once I boun it to the enneagram’s long-dead awareness of its long-dead digestive system, the baculus began suckling power into the matrix of its own accord in a process known as bullition, the initial powering of an enchantment.  It began to “wake up.”

“The process takes a while,” Taren assured everyone.  “The constructs we used in battle this summer only used very basic metastatic motor pathways, but even they took a few hours to establish in the field.  Essentially, the pattern needs to realize that it exists and that it can act and react like a living thing, once again.  Depending on how intelligent the enneagram is, more than likely.”

“I still don’t see what the point of an intelligent stick is,” Rael dismissed.

“It can run spells for you,” I suggested.  “It takes will, desire, and awareness to enact any spell, and these patterns are more than sophisticated enough to do that.  If I want to take an etheric density reading, for instance, instead of reaching into the staff and using the enchantment hung there for that purpose, I can command my baculus to do that mental work for me instead.  It should return the results to me on its own, without me expending the energy, time, or attention.”

“Kind of like the way the Thoughtful Knife works,” Dara said, casually.  “There’s a definite self-awareness in the thing, but it’s primitive.  It only knows how to fly and how to kill.  And it sees killing as a component of eating, I think.  Or that’s how it feels.”

“Or you can direct a pattern by entraining with its natural processes,” I added.  “If you had a magical plow, for instance, by imbuing it with an enneagram from the Grain you could entrain its plowing action to the pattern’s desire for food.  Make it think that good, loose soil is sustenance, and it will run all day.”

“Though why you would go to all the trouble when you could use a plowing charm is beyond me,” Rael added, with a toss of her head.  “But I see your point.”

“In this case, this curious little fellow will soon have access to all of my diagnostic enchantments in the baculus,” I said, proudly.  “Once I get it entrained, connected and then trained, I expect it will be able to use them as easily as it did its many arms and legs.  Or whatever it had.  Some sort of antennae or vibrassa, I think,” I proposed.  “And eyes.  It had big eyes, once, a lot of them.  I’ll use that, right after I make the pattern permanent back at my shop.”

Over the next few days, those who desired a paracletic thaumaturgical baculus undertook the process of selection and enchantment, with mine and Taren’s guidance.  With only one or two small errors we built them for Dranus, Planus, Cormoran, Taren, Andalnam, Gareth, Lanse and Ulin.  Unlike my baculus, they had to do the empowerment of the rod with their own witchstones, and feed it power according to the needs of the paraclete.

There was a decided change in the work we did after that.  Once one of us began using our individually imbued baculus to create our enchantments, the work got easier.  Not just easier, but more sophisticated and faster.  Depending upon the enneagram chosen, the ability of the specific rod was able to add to a mage’s powers significantly in the process of enchantment.  It was like suddenly giving us each an inspired thaumaturgical assistant who could cast our spells better and more quickly than we could.

We got better, very quickly.

*

*

A week before Yule I called a halt to our serious work and put the combined might of the group instead toward the creation of magical gifts for the season.  I had a large number of them to give myself –gifting is an essential part of the feudal economy, and I was on the hook for a pile of them.  Everyone from my vassals to my yeomen to my liege lords – and my allies, various temples and abbeys, and hundreds of individuals – were due gifts from me, if I wanted to maintain my social position.  The more expensive and elaborate the gift, the more honor to the giver.

This Yule I was going to pile up honor like snow in a blizzard.

It felt like cheating, in a lot of ways.  Most nobles would go into debt to buy each other expensive trinkets – but I took normal, ordinary trinkets and added a bit of enchantment and got off cheap.

This was also an opportunity to surreptitiously use magic to cause some permanent change in the region, quietly.  My conversations with Ulin about the history of such changes had given me a lot of good ideas in that direction.

For my present vassals it was a chance to grant them more power and security over their domains.  I currently had four titled lords and three tenant lords.  For each of the lords I gave a pillar of snowstone ten feet tall, with a snowglass at the peak, like the ones Taren had crafted for the pele towers of the Wilderlands.  These glowed with a green light at night, Sevendor Green, had a simple snowflake carved into the front, and were given in token of their continued allegiance.  The pillars contained other enchantments that would assist in defense and administration of the barony, but their most important function was to serve as a visible reminder that they were all under the protection and justice of the Spellmonger.

For the three tenant lords I gave a bag full of snowstone marbles, each with the Cat’s Eye spell permanently enchanted on it.  Each pebble would allow their sentries to see in the dark without need of torches, a valuable advantage in any military.  For the four titled lords I gave more personal gifts: a matched set of plowing and mowing rods for use in their domains.  That was a risky proposition, but I wanted to experiment with two enchantments that I thought had the potential to fundamentally alter the agrarian economy of the Riverlands in my own lands, first.

To my allies I sent even grander gifts: Baron Arathanial received not only a bag of Cat’s Eyes, but also a custom-made warstaff for the use of his new Court Wizard.  It was one of Carmella’s designs, a staff specifically enchanted for breaking walls and undermining towers.  It wouldn’t do much against mage-warded fortifications, of course, but against the castles of Sashtalia it would work wonders.  A simple gift, but one that could have important consequences for Arathanial’s planned war.

For the lord of Trestendor, my friend Sire Sigalan, my gifts were of a more practical nature.  His object wasn’t conquest, but administration, as he tried to restore his recaptured domains to prosperity after nearly a decade of despoilment under the Warbird.  Most of his villages were depopulated and poverty-stricken, now, not the prosperous estates they’d been in his father’s time.  It was a situation in which the plowing and mowing wands would be of particular importance, so I sent three pairs along with three wagons of seeds, saplings, and root stock that Master Olmeg thought might be well suited to the clay-heavy soils of his lands.

In addition, I had a Mirror sent to my friend, one that connected directly to the regular attendant at the Mirror Array –sorry, the Enoprtary -- in the Chapterhouse.  If Trestendor needed Sevendor’s assistance, we could be notified instantly.  That provided my friend with a lot of security.

My Yeomen were happy with me this Yule – they all got magical chamberpots.  One of my easiest and most popular enchantments, they odorlessly contained the nightsoil in a hoxter until released by a command.  Sure, it was an extravagant use of a powerful enchantment for an utterly mundane purpose, but after using one for more than a year, I’d fight to keep it.  King Rard himself loved his, and knowing they were crapping like kings made all of my Yeoman smile.

In addition I purchased or enchanted individual gifts for each particular Yeomen and their households.  Jurlor received a magical butter churn, my brother-in-law Sagal and his wife Ela were given an icestone - like a heatstone, except, you know, cold – for their larder.  The Master of the Wood and Pass was given a glass which acted like magesight, magically magnifying objects at a distance.  From the new spire being built at the high pass next summer the Westwoodmen would be able to see anything on either side of the ridge.

To the folk of Brestal I granted the right to plant six of my fields in that village demesne that had not been used in generations, licenses for two taverns and an inn, and a grant to their Yeoman of one hundred ounces of silver with the requirement he reorganize and develop a proper High Street in the village.

To the villeins of Gurisham I granted twenty of their leading families freemen status, and the coveted right to fish the millpond every feast day.  That would force them to renegotiate their agricultural obligations and fees with the castle and keep them from standing around the fields like scarecrows in fulfillment of their duties.  I threw in a license for a public house, to be overseen by the Yeomen, to keep them happy, too.  I like taverns, and the long stretch between Boval Village and Sevendor Town needed one like Gareth needed rugged good looks.

I had Master Olmeg’s gift especially selected from my summer march with the Kasari.  While walking through the great Redwood Forest in Bransei, I had discussed the lore of the trees enough with the loremasters of that great wood to select several cones to bring home for my Greenwarden.  I’m not certain the Kasari rangers would have approved, but as I neglected to ask them and stored them in a magical pocket, they couldn’t refuse.  With some consultation with Master Minnik I’d gotten them to sprout just before the Fair.  I presented the big Green Mage and his delegation of Tal with a washtub packed with two dozen seedlings, and the cones for more.

He was elated.  One of his biggest regrets about hearing the tale of the Great March was missing the opportunity to see that famous forest.  When he realized he would be responsible for his own, he was overcome with emotion. He pledged a grove of the mighty trees would someday tower over the Westwood, and I believed him.

And Banamor, of course, had to get something particularly special: a magical vault with an arcane pocket in it that he and I alone knew the command word to.  It would store several tens of thousand ounces of coin safely and discreetly, not filling up with the contents until they had been summoned.  Banamor was touched by both my trust and my generosity.

He wasn’t as impressed at Yule Court, when I ennobled him. And Olmeg, and Sagal.

Olmeg couldn’t have cared, but deserved the honor.  Sagal I had ennobled largely because he had brought Southridge Hold into stunning prosperity with his investment in guest houses and entertainments, and the fields and pastures of the estate were now thick with horses and cows.  And because he was my brother-in-law, and it would shut Ela up for a while.  Having a sister who is a Baroness while you’re a commoner is hard enough to deal with.  Lord Sagal and Lady Ela would now run Southridge as authentic gentry.

But Lord Banamor wasn’t particularly happy about his sudden rise in estate.  He had a lot of freedom as a wealthy commoner and elected official.  The nobility imposed obligations he wasn’t keen to fulfill . . . and he had a lifetime of poor opinions of the nobility to overcome.

That’s why I did it.  Banamor had become just too important to Sevendor’s commercial interests not to attach him to the place more securely.  Being a noble, Lord Mayor Banamor of Sevendor Town, did just that.  It also gave me a little more control over my business partner, but the honor bestowed was also authentic.

And finally, among my vassals, to Sire Cei I gave title to the estate of Boval Village.  That was largely ceremonial – the estate’s Yeoman, Rollo, was doing an adept job at managing the village that evolved from the expatriate Bovali.  But that was why I wanted Sire Cei to own it, in return for nominal service.  I didn’t really need the money, as generous as it was, and Cei was respected if not loved by the hardy Wilderlands folk.  Rollo himself came to thank me for the gift, on behalf of the Bovali.  He was happy in his job but he often felt he carried too much authority for his comfort.  Giving Sire Cei that authority – and its attendant responsibility to guard the entrance to the vale – was in everyone’s interest.

There were other gifts to other folk.  To Their Majesties I sent a basket of magical trinkets that would amuse them. To my liege lord, the Duke of Castal and Prince Heir, Tavard, I sent a magical cradle that kept rocking on its own, for his baby when it was born.  It had some silver chimes in the shape of snowflakes that would tinkle as it rocked, and occasionally send out a tiny magical light.  To Master Hartarian I sent a regal-looking thaumaturgical baculus I’d been crafting for him.  Just the kind of gaudy stick a Royal Court Wizard need to justify his stipend.

Abbeys and temples in the region were also the special beneficiaries of my magical largesse.  I treated the sisters at the Everflame Temple in town to a magnificent feast and a new robe for each of the eight flamesisters.  Brother Merton, who had accepted Banamor’s offer to build a temple to the grain god Huin in our Temple District, received a magnificent brown woolen robe trimmed with mink, as well as a magical staff that acted as both a plowing wand and a mowing wand, depending upon the command.  The monk was touched, and pledged to use his new gift far and wide, at no charge to the peasantry.

Sister Bemia, priestess of Trygg Allmother and our castle chaplain, was granted space for a new shrine in the district and livery for two attendant nuns to practice midwifery from the shrine.  The Woolbrothers of Orvatas in eastern domains were given enchanted collars that, when placed on a sheep’s neck and properly commanded, would cause all of its wool to fall off in an instant, without the use of shears.  That was actually a simple and well-known enchantment, but it took so much power, ordinarily, that few wizards bothered to use it.  It’s simpler just to shear the sheep.

With the four magical collars the spell had been made accessible.  With irionite, snowstone, and determination we were able to perfect the enchantment and power it for years to come.  The monks were quite grateful – to the tune of a dozen staples of premium wool they sent to the castle in gratitude.

Lastly among the clergy I gave the Temple of Ifnia’s local branch a magical safe like Banamor’s, only considerably larger and more compartmentalized.  When I showed the coinmother of the new temple how it worked, she was amazed.   It was just a bunch of simple pocket enchantments, but it made the wealth of the temple virtually theft-proof.  That was becoming an increasing anxiety, due to the amount of coin now flowing through the town.  Between the fair, Banamor’s dealings, the commerce of five thousand people, and my own immense deposits paid to me as fees to the Arcane Orders, there was far more gold stashed in that temple than she was comfortable with.

I gave hundreds of smaller gifts, magical and mundane, to the people of the town and the castle, and particularly my family.  I felt I owed it to them, after getting my father’s bakery in Talry shut down.  But I enjoyed having them all around me with my family at Yule.  I had missed far too many celebrations with them over the years.  And yes, being able to feast them in my own castle did appeal to my ego a bit.

When all the guests had been poured in to bed, and all the food and presents put away after the feast, after tucking in our two excited little wonders, instead of throwing Alya on the bed for our usual post-feast Yule romp, I bid her to grab her mantle against the chill night air.

She looked at me, curiously, but did as I asked.  Soon we were walking across the yard, through the gateway of the nascent gatehouse, and toward the mountain.

“Where are we going, Min?” she asked, with just a hint of girlish whine in her voice.  It had been a long night.

“I want to show you something,” I told her mysteriously.

“What, the front hall?  It’s amazing,” she assured me.  “I saw it a few days ago.  They’re quarrying what, five, six blocks a day?”

“Twice that,” I agreed, as we passed through the construction site where those massive blocks – each the size of a large wain – had been set.  The foundations to the gatehouse were laid out and the first walls were being raised, and now that the Karshak had gotten past the basics they were working day and night, taking only the holiday off.  The Karshak didn’t stop work for cold or rain or anything else that I could see.  But they celebrated Yule like everyone else. “By Briga’s Day they’ll be up to the third story, or more.  But no, that’s not what I want to show you.”

“Another pretty rock?” she asked without enthusiasm.  “One that does something I won’t understand and can’t appreciate?”

“You don’t like my pretty rocks?” I asked, surprised.

“Their novelty has faded,” she reluctantly admitted.  “Sometime around when I rolled over in bed and slept on a few that fell out of your pocket.”

“Well, haven’t you wondered what we’re all doing down here, late at night?”

“I figured you were just overseeing the construction of your new enchantment workshop,” she shrugged.

“That’s part of it, but only a small part,” I agreed, as we passed through the empty tunnels.  “We’ve been studying something that we found down here.”

“Now you’re being mysterious to piss me off,” she accused, playfully, then yawned.  But she kept walking.

I led her down the long passageway, past the new mirabilary workshops without stopping to show them off, and down the passage to the Denehole.  There was a doorway there, now, with a door which was ready to be spellbound.  When I opened it, the glow of the Snowflake filled Alya’s face.  Her eyes opened wide.

“Dear Trygg, Min, what the hells is it?”

“I . . . kind of made it,” I admitted.  “When I was unconscious last summer.  A bit of wild magic from my fevered subconscious.  I’ve been keeping it secret, while I studied it, but I thought it was time for you to know.  I’d say it was a Yule gift, but it’s unmovable, so you’ll have to come here to look at it like everyone else.  As Baroness of Sevendor, you have a right to know about it.  I just wanted to make certain it was safe, first.”

“Min, it’s . . . it’s . . . it’s . . . what is it?” she asked.  “It’s beautiful but surely you didn’t make an ornament?”

“I have no idea.  It’s a big mystery.  I’m thinking the gods are involved, like they were with Minalyan’s birth.  And the Everfire.  But I think it could be the weapon we need against Shereul.  Or just the world’s prettiest ornament.  Either way, we own it, I suppose.  We’ll either triumph over darkness or make a fortune in charging admission.”

“It makes me feel . . . I don’t know, like I can feel it throbbing, inside and outside,” she said, smiling after a moment of uncertainty.  “I can feel it in my teeth and bones!”

“You must be sensitive to it,” I smiled.  “Some are, more than others.  You’ve probably lived around snowstone long enough to pick up on some of the etheric vibrations of that thing.  It’s drawing natural power from the magosphere like a drain.  I have no idea what it’s doing with it.”

“It isn’t dangerous?” she asked, skeptically.

“Don’t stick your finger between the shards, or it will get sliced off,” I cautioned.  “And if you touch it, it burns.  And hums.”

“It throbs,” she agreed, looking at the thing hypnotically.  “It’s . . . enchanting.  I can see why it keeps you captivated,” she sighed.  “And here I thought I was losing my appeal.”

“Never,” I said, feeling choked up as I embraced her from behind.  “I love you.  I’ve just been . . . distracted.  I thought I’d bring you down here, though, and show you what’s been distracting me,” I lied.

“You’re certain it isn’t me?” she asked, turning to look at me briefly before returning to watch the Snowflake.

“I’m positive,” I said, kissing her neck.  She sighed and leaned into me, never taking her eyes off the big crystal.  “I love you, and I want you to be happy,” I said, simply, as I unfastened her mantle.

It was the first time we had really made love since the Fair . . . since the incident right here.  Perhaps I was hoping that I could somehow undo the act by repeating it with Alya, or perhaps I was just desperate to re-establish our intimacy once again.  Either way our coupling was passionate, erotic, and lusty, even animalistic at times.  I hope Ishi was watching, the bitch.

We were deep in a more creative and less fevered affair when we suddenly heard a voice that killed our ardor, despite our passion and the romance of the seen.

“Oh, so that’s how you do that position!  I always wondered,” Onranion said, suddenly, from the doorway that I had clearly failed to secure.  “And isn’t that a pretty thing?  Oh, don’t stop on my account – it was just getting interesting!”

“Onranion!” I bellowed.  “What in nine hells are you doing here?” Alya dove for her mantle, wrapping herself quickly but incompletely in response to the interruption – a practiced parental reflex.  She glared at the Alka Alon for his timing.  His human-like form wasn’t fazed I the slightest.

“Looking for you, to wish you a happy Yule.  And because I was ejected from the Council, again.  Some people just don’t know how to respond to a pendulous penis . . . but I see that’s not a problem for you, is it?” he asked, wickedly.

Chapter Twelve

Ruderal

You’d think that after the exhausting excesses of Yule things would calm down a bit as everyone settled into a winter lethargy.  No such luck.

The morning after Yule I was heading outside in the chill with a pipe and a cup of hot broth when Pentandra contacted me mind-to-mind.

Well, we have a restoration, she proclaimed, proudly.

We do?

As of last night.  The bum of a baron who was holding court here was caught completely unawares.  The Orphans moved to counter the garrison and keep them in their camp.  And Anguin really put on a show, claiming his rightful place as ruler.  There was an execution.  And two imprisonments.  Very exciting.

Any serious resistance?

Not yet, she said, warily, but honestly I don’t expect there to be for a few days, until the players in court figure out what the situation is.  But one thing is for certain: our sudden arrival interrupted at least a dozen brazen cases of abuse of position.  The palace has been picked bare.  I have no doubt some fled in the night – we’ll have to see who shows up to the council meeting this morning to determine just who, and with what.

Let me know if you need any help, okay?

I can manage this, she promised.  And thank you for the use of your home.

My . . . what?

The hall you appropriated in Vorone?  Sire Koucey’s residence in the capital?  Until adequate quarters can be secured in the palace, Arborn and I are staying there.  I hope you don’t mind.

Of course not.  Was there anyone there?

Just an old one-legged warmage who Astyral detailed to become caretaker.  He’s used the place once himself, when he visited.  But it’s cozy, even with a dozen rangers downstairs.  Arborn has pledged their service to the Duke to help restore order in Vorone.  They were extremely helpful last night, when things got tense.

She filled me in about the local palace politics and what she faced.  I made a few unhelpful suggestions and at least one helpful one before I was able to enjoy my broth in the frosty air.  Anguin’s successful restoration would be a key political point, and having Pentandra on the spot was ideal.  But I was still worried.  The Brotherhood of the Rat had been active in Vorone a few years back, even in the palace itself.  And from what she had told me there were plenty of resentful and frightened foes within the palace walls who weren’t part of international criminal organizations.  I was worried, but I knew with Arborn around she was as protected as well as I could ask.

I was delighted with the restoration, though.  That had been a vital event in my plans.  If nothing else, it gave the Royal Family something other than me to think about, when they discovered the truth.  I only hoped that Anguin’s nascent court could manage to keep things together long enough to survive the inevitable challenges to his rule.

I was on my second pipe and contemplating a trip to the guarderobe when Tyndal, of all people, contacted me.

Good morning, Master! His too-cheery mental voice boomed into my head.  Why don’t you come over to the great hall and have breakfast with us?

Tyndal!  You’re here?  When did you get in?

Long past midnight, last night.  We tried to make it back in time for Yule, but we ran into complications on the road.  We’ve got a lot to report, however, and there’s someone we want you to meet.

I’ll be right over, I promised.  Just let me complete my ablutions . . .

Alya was thrilled to hear that our boys were back, and if she hadn’t been nursing Almina she would have joined me.  When I got to the hall, nodded to the guards and greeted fifty sleepy folk who were either coming off shift or going on, I found Tyndal and Rondal brazenly eating porridge and biscuits at the high table . . . along with a young boy.

The lad was no more than ten or eleven, but he had sunken cheekbones that bespoke of malnutrition and hunger.  He had a thick shock of unruly black hair that kept getting into his eyes, and he kept looking around the bustling Great Hall with quiet fascination.  Gray eyes, and very intelligent.

“Master!” Rondal said, rising respectfully.  Tyndal didn’t bother to get up.  “Thank you for joining us.  This young man is Ruderal.  He’s the one we went to southern Alshar to fetch.”

“Rescue, more like,” Tyndal snorted.  “The Brotherhood of the Rat has been keeping him a virtual slave.  Threatening his mother to force him to work for them.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Ruderal,” I said, trying to sound as calm, kind and reassuring as possible.  “I am Minalan, the baron of Sevendor.  You are safe, here, under my protection.  If there is anything you need, merely ask.”  I turned back to my former apprentices.  “So what is so special about the boy?”

“He sees . . . well, why don’t you give him a quick examination, and you tell us?” Rondal said, his eyes twinkling.

I sighed.  He was challenging me, and I couldn’t not answer it.  I summoned my baculus from my ring and started to do a basic examination when the boy startled – not, as I’d thought, by the sudden appearance of the rod, but of what it was.

“Uli’s beard! What do you have in that thing?” he asked, pointing to the baculus.  “It’s . . . it wants to find out!’

I smiled.  Now I remembered.  “Ah, you’re the lad who can . . . see enneagrams,” I recalled.

“Oh, he can do much more than that,” assured Rondal.  “But that’s the beginning of his Talent.  He’s strong, Master.  He’s going to need training.”

“In everything but eating,’ Tyndal agreed.  “He’s mastered that art.”  The boy was reaching for another biscuit, and stopped until I caught his eye and nodded permission.

He grew up in a sewer, Tyndal informed me, mind-to-mind.  Literally.  There’s a kind of camp at the mouth of the river, where all the sewage from the city flowed.  He and his mother were fishermen, or something, until the Brotherhood got a hold of him.  What there was to eat there was pretty poor, from what we can tell.  And not much of it.

“He can eat as much as he likes, here,” I promised. “Let’s get the lad filled out, rested up, and then we can evaluate his Talents appropriately.  Until then, why don’t you tell me about your adventures?”

They were pretty adventuresome, as it happened.  The boys had made the long journey to the rebellious region, quietly slipping over the frontier and making their way down to the heavily-populated south overland.  Once they arrived, after a few days of familiarizing themselves with the capital city, they began their search.  After a few weeks they figured out where the Brotherhood’s headquarters was located, and from there they discovered where Ruderal was being kept.

They arranged a daring escape, both for him and his mother, leaving an angry crew of Rats stunned and bleeding in the smoking ruins of their headquarters.  I was increasingly impressed with their tale as they detailed just how they had gone about the elaborate and intricate – and ridiculously destructive – mission.  My boys had grown up.  They were destroying things all by themselves, now.

“We left his mother in a cottage in the northern baronies of southern Alshar, well away from the coastal agents of the Brotherhood,” Tyndal assured.  “We paid her rent for two years in advance and left her enough to live off of for a while, under a different name.  She’s safe, now,” he emphasized for Ruderal’s benefit.  “But this lad needs to be trained.  He can do things with enneagrams I’ve never seen before.”

‘Stick around for a few weeks and you’ll see more than you can imagine,” I proposed.  “We’re doing some amazing work in enchantment, now.  I’d like each of you to construct a thaumaturgical baculus,” I suggested gesturing to my own, “like the rest of us.  We’re about to move on to more interesting enchantments, but there’s time for you each to catch up.”

“For a few weeks, perhaps,” Rondal agreed, reluctantly.  “We need the rest, honestly.  But then we’re headed back to Alshar, Master.  While we were rescuing the lad, we discovered intelligence that suggested that not only has the Brotherhood been working in secret with the gurvani, but they’ve successfully located Korbal, the Demon God.”

“Sorry about that,” Ruderal said, unexpectedly, with a guilty sigh.  “They forced me to find him.  They said they’d hurt my mother if I didn’t.  I didn’t want to, but . . .”

“We all must do what we must,” I said, as kindly as I could.  “The gods work in mysterious and not terribly efficient ways, sometimes.  Whatever role you played, you can continue on to your next one without guilt or shame.  We will deal with Korbal, in time,” I said, confidently, with absolutely no idea of how we would do that.

“He isn’t awakened, yet, from what we could tell,” Rondal continued, “but the Brotherhood has safe houses and clandestine keeps and bandit hideouts all through the Land of Scars.  Whatever it is they found is likely at one of those.  But we know the gurvani are involved because we spoke to one of their emissaries.  Clever fellow.  Reminded me of Gurkarl.”

“He wasn’t that pleasant,” Tyndal disagreed, making a face.  “I still think you should have killed him.”

“You never know when an enemy is going to be useful,” Rondal countered.  “He wasn’t a direct threat, and he was clearly not going to interfere with what we were doing.  By letting him escape we have a contact within the gurvani, now.  You have to admit, he was quite polite.”

“A real gentleman, for a human-flesh eating scrug,” Tyndal agreed.  “And now the gurvani will know that we know that we know that they’re working together.  But you might be right,” he conceded.  “Grand strategy isn’t my strong suit.  I just hate leaving any of them alive.”

“We’ll discuss the particulars, later,” I agreed.  “But I’m curious why you want to go back?”

“Because we only destroyed one of the Brotherhood’s compounds,” Tyndal said, his nostrils flaring a bit, “and we’re not done yet.  We saw what the Brotherhood is doing in southern Alshar.  The barons might be rebelling, but the Brotherhood is who controls the docks, the harbor, the markets, and most of the commerce.  The barons look the other way and the Rats keep the common folk in line.  If we hurt them, we’ll hurt the rebellion.”

“Well this will hurt them without striking a blow: I got word from Pentandra this morning.  Duke Anguin has taken control of Vorone in his own name.  There is a properly invested, seated duke in Alshar again.”

“Yes!” Tyndal said, excitedly.  “The barons have been rebelling in the name of the ducal house.  That’s been convenient, since the ducal house hasn’t been around to contest it.  If the Orphan Duke is in control of the Wilderlands, then they won’t have a legal right to rebel!”

“That won’t stop them,” Rondal assured him.  “You saw how tenaciously the rebels clung to power.  Any whisper of allegiance to Castalshar or Rard gets punished by squads of ruffians supplied by the Brotherhood.  They’re not likely to surrender power to a royalist boy in a distant province.  Especially considering the allies they’ve gathered.”

“Allies?” I asked curious.  Rondal always had a keener eye for detail than Tyndal.

“The gurvani aren’t the only ones who have thrown in with the rebels,” he explained.  “All of the disaffected Censors from Alshar and Castal who didn’t go to Merwyn went to Alshar.  They’ve been strongly supporting the rebel government.  Black and white cloaks, reign of magical terror, the whole bit.  Only they’ve dug out their own witchstones from storage.  At least three or four.”

“Don’t they know the Censorate regrouped in Merwyn?”

“News of that arrived while we were there,” agreed Rondal.  “They rejected the authority of the east.  They are rigorously enforcing the old regime.  With witchstones,” he added, gravely.  “Not a good place to operate openly as a mage.”

“They’re not the only ones,” agreed Tyndal.  “The entire Farisian Navy has removed to southern Alshar.  The pirate fleet that was dispossessed during the war has taken refuge under the auspices of the rebels, and they’ve stepped up their raids on shipping around the Farisian Straights.  A hundred and forty ships, as well as the three hundred odd ships of the Alshari Navy.”

“That’s a lot of military power,” I nodded.  “All of our enemies working together, each with a really good reason to hate our guts.  I can see why you’re concerned.”

“Aren’t you, Master?” Rondal blurted out.

“Yes, I am,” I agreed, calmly.  “This is extremely valuable intelligence, there is no doubt.  And you’ve brought me someone very interesting,” I said, nodding to Ruderal, who was still eating.  “But it was your assessment of the situation that I desired.  And you have yet to learn that we are now colleagues, professionally speaking.  Call me Minalan,” I insisted.  “You’ve both earned that.

“But I am, indeed, concerned.  I trust you covered your tracks?” I asked, wondering if they had thought about that.

“As well as we could,” nodded Rondal.  “There were three humans who knew us from our encounter in the Land of Scars, when they abducted the Kasari.  All three are dead, now,” he said, with sense of satisfied resolution that bordered on the macabre.

“The gurvani knows,” Tyndal reminded, ruefully.

“Somehow I don’t think he’s going to see the Brotherhood as stalwart allies as he once supposed, after what we did,” Rondal pointed out.  “He barely escaped with his life.  But few others knew we were magi, or who we were.  None who would speak to authority about it,” he amended.

“When we return to Enultramar, we’ll go in disguise,” Tyndal volunteered, using the old Imperial name for the Eight Havens of Alshar.  “We’re working on an elaborate plan to put a metaphorical chicken bone down the metaphorical throat of the Rat.  We made some interesting allies while we were there – including a shadowmage involved in a nascent resistance movement.  But it’s going to take a delicate touch, some intricate planning, and a few custom-made enchanted items to work, I think.  And not before spring.”

“Why spring?”

“That’s when the Farisian Corsairs depart Enultramar, along with about half of the ducal fleet.  Raiding season,” Rondal explained.  “They’re going to challenge the royal blockade.  But while they’re gone, so will most of the garrisons.”

“Insurrection weather,” Rondal grinned, quietly.  “The time will be ripe.  We just need a few little things . . . and perhaps Lorcus.  Is he around?”

“I have him deployed, watching . . . someone,” I said, not wanting to get into the Isily situation with them.  “But what he’s doing isn’t urgent.  I can loan him to you for a few weeks, if he’s willing.  But boys . . . remember, this can’t be tied back to the Arcane Orders.  Not right now.  Don’t mistake me – I support what you’re doing, and I’ll help.  But you need to be cautious,” I warned.

“Apart from leaving a hundred-foot ruin in the middle of the docks, we were very discreet,” Tyndal assured.

“It was a very understated ruin,” Rondal agreed.

“You barely noticed,” Ruderal agreed, his mouth full of biscuit.

They seemed so sincere, it seemed a shame to doubt them.

“After breakfast take him over to Boval Hall,” I instructed.  “Give him into Rollo’s care.  He’s taken charge of those Wilderlands orphans we rescued this summer, and he’s . . . it’s done them all good.  I’ll send Dranus around in a day or so to give him a thorough examination.  Tell Rollo it’s at my expense, he should bill the castle.  I’m sure Sire Cei won’t mind the additional ward. There’s room for one more at his table, I think.”

“Why should Sire Cei care?” Tyndal asked, confused, as he rose.

“Because as of last night he owns Boval Estate, now,” I chuckled.  “There have been a few changes since you two went off on your errantry.  Just ask Lord Banamor.  Or Lord Olmeg.”

They both stared at me.  “Rondal almost got engaged!” Tyndal blurted out, for no reason.

“Tyndal!” Rondal said, aghast.  “You promised!”

“I couldn’t help it,” moaned Tyndal.  “I tried to keep quiet, but . . . I just couldn’t.  It’s done with, now, but for a few truly profound moments One-Shot here was going to be bringing a bride home to Sevendor!”

“It was . . . complicated,” Rondal said, gruffly, as he stared daggers at his friend.  “It didn’t work out.”

“She was mad,” Tyndal said, solemnly.  “Truly mad.  But pretty.  But . . . mad.  You just missed stepping right into that steaming pile of femininity.”

“The fairest flowers are oft fertilized with the ripest manure,” I noted, as my former apprentice squirmed uncomfortably.  “But we’ve time for more tales at a more appropriate hour.  See to your charge.  Do you have lodging?  We’re crowded at the moment, but I’m sure we can find space.”

“We’ve been thinking about that, Mas-  Minalan,” Tyndal said, clearing his throat.  “We were going to buy a cottage or something, in town, so we have someplace to stay while we’re here.  It’s just a little . . . crowded in the castle.”

“Check with Gareth,” I suggested.  “He knows everything that goes on in town.  And he likes you two.  How are you fixed for money?”

“We’re wealthy, at the moment,” Rondal assured.  “While we were busy destroying their compound, a few bags of loot found their way into our saddlebags.”

“A few hundred silver, a few score gold.  More than enough to secure lodgings,” Tyndal agreed.  “That’s what we used some of to set up Ruderal’s mother.  It seemed a shame to just let it sit there, and find its way into the treasuries of the wrong sort of people.”

*

*

You wouldn’t think the addition of a couple arrogant newly-made journeymen to our cabal of enchanters would make much difference, considering all of the talent we already had at our disposal.  But it quickly became clear that Tyndal and Rondal brought more to the Bouleuterion than technical expertise.  They brought a fresh and sometimes fascinating perspective.

More, they had a way of goading others into looking at things in new ways, or trying a different approach to a subject.  It had more to do with their personalities than their expertise.  Their youthful enthusiasm and cocky attitudes kept everyone well-engaged in the work.

The boys ended up purchasing a narrow strip of land from Jurlor, on the other side of the Arcane Orders’ chapterhouse.  Only a few uneven acres, they bribed some Karshak and some Tal to build a sturdy hall three stories high in only a few weeks.  Gareth paid for the construction – he’d been setting aside a lot of his money, instead of being extravagant – and all three used magic to aid in the process.  The three moved into the place, after a raucous initiation party.  They dubbed the rickety tower the Rat Trap, though only a few of us realized the real meaning of the name.

Ruderal turned out to be enormously Talented, in addition to his native ability to see enneagrams.  Dranus spent two full days evaluating the lad and concluded that his strength would only grow in the proximity to Sevendor.

“He has a keen intelligence, and a quick mind,” Dranus reported during our twice-weekly morning meeting.  “He’s seen a lot of terrible things – pain, death, poverty, starvation, all in greater abundance than even the sorriest villein.  He was forced to do some awful things and he bears that guilt like armor around his heart.  Yet he is not bitter or callous, merely wary.  In time, I think, he will grow used to the freedom and the security, but for now he is still suspicious of it.”

“You think he’d make a good apprentice?”

“For me?” Dranus asked, surprised.  “Considering my ambitions, Magelord, I don’t think it would be wise to undertake such a commitment at the moment.  Yet I cannot deny young Ruderal seems to possess the intelligence and dedication necessary to succeed at magic.”

“Then take him in hand, have him taught to read, and see how much you can teach him. Get Dara to help – nothing drives home basic lessons like teaching them to someone else.  If he proves successful, I might take him on myself.”

“You know, that’s becoming a problem,” the Remeran mage said, stroking the wisp of dark hair on his chin.  “Sevendor has attracted a lot of Talented folk here, yet there isn’t any way to ensure that those of real ability are matched with masters equal to the task.  The process works by referral, currently.  I think that it could be organized better.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Well, as we have the magical fair every year, anyway,” he proposed, “start gathering young folk with rajira together and provide a means for competent masters to select them for apprenticeship.”

“That’s actually a pretty good idea,” I agreed.  “Besides, it will increase business.  Work on the details and let’s see if we can spread the word in advance of next year’s fair.”

I forgot about the kid for a few days as a snowstorm occupied my attention.  Then we began the next phase of work, the crafting of individual items of power.  While Tyndal and Rondal each built their own custom baculus, the rest of us proceeded on more specialized projects.

Master Cormoran consulted with Dara to build a mageblade designed for fighting from hawkback, a curved, wide-bladed short sword that eventually became Talon.  That was in addition to building his own warstaff, the dark rod that would come to be known as Warmaster.  Master Ulin built a half-dozen novel items, from a self-spinning distaff to a beautifully complicated magical clock we installed in my tower.

Dranus built a staff specifically designed for siegework, with spells for sapping, signaling, detection and such enwrapped within its depths.  The direction of his enchantment convinced me of the seriousness of his pursuit of his legacy.  Dranus was planning on pursuing the title of Count, along with considerable lands in Remere, in the next few years.  He was preparing.

Planus was more practical.  He built a series of enchanted wands designed to assist his growing business interests before he returned to his estates.  One (with Master Olmeg’s assistance) encouraged crops to be fruitful by magically doubling the number of seeding sites on a plant.  It was subtle, but profound.  Another was an elaborate tracking spell that could locate a specified piece of merchandise magically.

Another was a magical amulet that could detect sincerity in someone’s words.  It was a little different than a truthtelling, but Planus claimed it was actually more useful for his purposes.  The merchant houses he dealt with lied as easily as a whore, so detecting falsehoods would have been pointless.  But knowing when the business associate he was speaking to was sincere cut past the simple matter of truth and revealed intention – which, Planus assured me, was far more useful.

Lanse focused his attentions on the rod he called the Puppetmaster.  It allowed him far more control over his tiny creations, scaling the power and feedback with absolute precision.  He gave me a demonstration when he completed the second phase of enchantment, showing off two tiny dolls whose limbs had been enriched with knot coral.  When he activated the rod the two who danced together better than I could have managed.

As impressive as that display was, he followed it up by creating a larger-sized construct, an eight-legged wooden contraption shod with iron.  He took the thickest piece of weirwood in Banamor’s stock, nearly eight inches thick, and had his apprentices cover it with thick slabs of oak bolted in place around it.  He had a snowstone “head” carved by the Karshak masons in the shape of a fantastic beast and mounted it on one end of the trunk.  He covered the exterior with rings and bolts for tie-downs and harnessing, and the legs he articulated with steel joints the castle armorer crafted for him.  Then he enchanted the entire construct as thickly as he could to keep it from wearing down, breaking, or succumbing to the perils of the road.

When he was done, we imbued the construct with a simple, reliable, dependable enneagram from the Grain, one which seemed devoted to trudging.  Lanse had a fat little grinning monster the size of a pony that could pull a load the size of a stone block . . . without tiring, needing to be fed, or complaining.

“It’s to pull my wagon,” he explained as we watched the thing trudge back and forth around the Southridge pastures a few days after the first snowfall, scaring the hells out of the goats.  “I’ve got thrice as many tools as normal enchanters, and I have to do a lot of traveling.  I go through rounceys like they go through shoes, some seasons.  This way I never have to spend a penny on draft animals again.  It’s strong enough to pull a train of two wains,” he bragged.

“The eight legs make it a little creepy,” I pointed out.

“By design,” he nodded, sipping that revolting green crap he apparently lived on.  “The additional traction means it can take a steeper grade and go over rougher terrain than a four-legged animal.  Lower center of gravity, too.  If a leg breaks, there are plenty of others to compensate.  And looking that creepy encourages the curious to keep their hands to themselves.  I even built in some loud cantrips and some unpleasant surprises for anyone who attempts to molest it.”

“The creature inside it was once a bottom-crawler on the ocean,” I nodded, enjoying a pipe of peppermint and hemp flower in the cool of the morning, “Migratory.  And it didn’t sleep.  It was fairly docile, as it lived below the level of most predators, from what I’ve been able to tell, and it had a modicum of magical ability.  Something involved in its ability to navigate.  We transformed that magical affinity into obedience to your control wand,” I said, nodding to the short black stick Lanse used to direct the beast.  “What do you call it?”

“Marley,” he said, proudly, and with a hint of nostalgia.  “After an old dog of mine.  I left plenty of room for further enchantments, too.  That thing will be as much workbench as draft animal, when I’m done.”

“I look forward to seeing the final result,” I promised.  “What do you plan next?”

“I’m going through my spell wagon and re-enchanting everything,” he said with a big grin.  “To match my magical steed.  I want hoxter pockets everywhere.  I want it . . . I want it perfect,” he sighed.

I thought Lanse would have focused on building more constructs, but he lent his assistance to others liberally while he improved his livelihood at my expense.  Particularly Rondal, who was building a magical guardian for the Rat Trap, and another for Estasi Hall, where the boys kept their nascent order of mage knights.  Lanse helped guide my former apprentice in constructing them both far more durably and simply than the primitive bags of dirt we’d used on the Kasari March.  Both learned a lot in the process.

Rondal’s guardians started as six-foot tall skeletons made of wire and low-quality weirwood.  While that would have been a sufficient frame for a basic construct, under Lanse’s direction he covered the limbs with long rolls of thick, spongy material known as Thrini Leaf.

It was apparently one of the secrets of his craft.  Thrini Leaf was actually the dried husk of a lake reed from far northern Alshar and beyond.  The material had a nature that responded physically to magical energies, much like knot coral or other magical activators, but with far more delicacy.  That allowed far more control and nuanced movement than a couple of bags of dirt, and a lot more strength and durability.

They attached it with strong copper wire and bound it into place with magic before covering it with a thick “skin” of iron-studded oiled saddle leather.  They stitched heavy leather iron-hobbed infantry boots to the two feet and covered them with iron plates for added protection . . . and aggression.  The six-limbed figure’s center limbs were short and stubby, and Rondal affixed two old mace heads to them turning them into formidable weapons.  The upper arms were longer and ended in specially-designed wooden “claws.”

The faces of the things were morbid-looking blank mounds with a single bronze mounting of thaumaturgic glass bearing secondary enchantments – a lump of thaumaturgical glass binding the enneagram to the wood was at the core of the constructs, protected behind layers of iron and enchantment.

But the single great eye of each construct contained the things “character”.  At night it produced a magelight-not for its own benefit, but to menace intruders.  It could also produce several different vocal effects the enterprising enchanter captured around down in sonic spells: the exaggerated tolling of the temple bell, the bellow of the loudest barker in the market shouting, menacingly, “ENTRANCE IS FORBIDDEN!” and “HALT!  YOU HAVE COME FAR ENOUGH!” and other threatening phrases, that sort of thing.

I assisted in the imbuement, a few weeks after Yule, and we allowed Ruderal to observe.  The lad was fascinated enough by the Grain of Pors that we allowed him to join our perceptions and help select from the available enneagrams.  He was surprisingly adept at determining the nature of the character of the pattern, picking out nuances and hidden dangers we hadn’t considered as we sorted through them.  With his assistance we picked out a steadfast crustacean, cousin of the guardian I’d used at the Spellmonger’s Trial, who was intelligent enough to guard their charges yet not so belligerent as to attack all comers.

In fact, with Ruderal’s help we learned how to navigate far better among the enneagrams, and came to a better understanding of how their position helped determine their nature and function.  The guardians we chose he picked because they had a clear understanding of threatening action and a clear sense of intruders to its nest versus unthreatening passers-by.  They could be instructed to patrol and guard various zones for different activity and even respond with some rudimentary intelligence.  If it detected a threat, it could respond violently.

The entire thing was controlled by voice commands, using words in various obscure dialects to keep it from being easily bossed-around.  It stayed within its bounds and used the permanent wards of the place to sense intrusion.  But once it was in place it wandered over the Rat Trap’s narrow bounds day and night, rain or shine, vigilantly patrolling against any who would dare intrude on the place.

It was a dramatic display of enchantment, the kind that had rarely been seen since the Magocracy.  It also inadvertently set a new style, as everyone seemed to want a construct for some purpose.

More importantly it gave me some truly intriguing ideas about how to guard my domain in the future.  It was good to have the boys back around.  There’s nothing like youthful cocky arrogance to inject a sense of perspective into us ancient fellows of thirty.

Chapter Thirteen

Sire Cullien

All winter the structure of the new gatehouse grew.  Once the foundations were laid and the massive blocks of white basalt were quarried from the future Great Hall of the mountain keep, the walls of the double tower crept up and up daily.  A week before Briga’s Day the towers stood four stories high, more than half way built.  With the Karshak devoting three shifts to the work there were crews placing and securing blocks at all hours.

I hadn’t thought much of it, as I was consumed with developing the fascinating enchantments we were building.  But a week before Briga’s Day I received an emissary from Sashtalia concerning my construction project in my capacity as Baron, not as the Spellmonger.

Sire Trefalan of Sashtalia controlled more than twenty domains in the Sashtali Confederation, many of which originally belonged to various sides in the succession wars between Lensely barons a century ago. His father had consolidated his power under the guise of a confederation, with himself as the elected leader and his noble supporters as willing confederates in a regional alliance.  Trefalan had inherited a decent-sized rump barony when he came of age, but he had not pressed to be recognized as a peer; without the responsibilities being a baron he had a freer hand in how he ran his lands.  It wasn’t an unusual move.  Being a baron is almost more trouble than it’s worth.

But Sire Trefalan was a shrewd man, despite throwing his lot in with the Warbird two years ago. While he’d lost some men and ransoms he’d lost little in the way of land.  But when his agents reported to him of the great tower I was raising behind my already decent-sized castle, that drew Trefalan’s attention.

The man he sent was a neatly-dressed knight in full armor, but bearing a peaceful token and a reasonable look on his face.  He introduced himself as Sire Cullien of Rolone, one of Sire Trefalan’s most trusted councilors.  He came bearing a message . . . more of an inquiry, really.  After a cup of wine, an exchange of pleasantries, and some idle discussion as social custom demanded with a man of his rank, he more or less came to the point: why was I building a new, bigger castle when I already had a castle sufficient for my needs?

He put it more politely, I suppose.

“Excellency, it has come to the attention and become a cause of some concern, nay, even alarm, among Sire Trefalan’s more reactionary counselors that you have begun this bellicose gesture at a time of increasing regional tensions.  While some nod toward security was expected, after that unfortunate affair with the Warbird, embarking on an expensive fortification like this at this time gives the perception that you harbor ambitions beyond your current frontiers.”

“Or that I like not getting attacked,” I countered.  “My old castle was adequate, spacious, even, for the lord of a single domain.  I am a baron, now, and my military obligations have risen accordingly.  It would be remiss of me not to prepare myself against the day my liege calls upon me for service.”

“But that seems a bit grand a gesture for a few hundred lances,” the man said, almost accusingly, as we looked out over the growing tower.  “It isn’t a mere refuge tower or additional barracks – that is a hardened fortification . . . behind an existing castle!”

“I do like to feel safe,” I agreed pleasantly.  “Surely, from his mighty Sashtal Castle, he can appreciate that.  And we do need the room.  I don’t see what Trefalan’s problem is.”

“The problem, Baron, is that you are beginning to stockpile arms and prepare fortifications in your lands, and that gives your neighbors pause.  Build too ambitiously, and you invite rebuke.”

“‘Rebuke’?  Is that a threat?” I asked, bluntly.

“A piece of common wisdom,” corrected Sire Cullien.  “Big castles make folk nervous.  When it’s complete, another five-story keep here will make this one of the more extensive forts in the Bontal Vales.  That will be a power that few in the region will tolerate without guarantees.”  He took a patronizing tone that did not agree with me, but I kept my emotions off of my face.

“Then a warning,” I nodded, appreciatively.  “And if I brazenly ignore your sage advice and continue the work to its full seven stories?”

“Seven stories?” he asked, amazed.  “Why, that would dwarf the fortifications you have here!”

“It lets us throw rocks over the castle, if we need to,” I agreed.  “If I carry on and build it that high, how do you propose my noble neighbors would respond?” I asked, curiously.

“Sashtalia has over three hundred lances that follow her banner,” Sire Cullien boasted, eyeing his wine cup.  “It would be terrifying to see them all arrayed against Sevendor.”

“Now that’s a threat,” I chuckled.  “And a brave one.  But Sire Cullien, if your liege threw his armed might against my poor barony, what is to stop Baron Arathanial from taking your lands from you while you tarry in Sevendor?”

The man had no answer for that, and looked perplexed that I would dare bring up such a thing as the impending war between Sashtalia and Sendaria – a war that, by all accounts, Trefalan decidedly did not want.  “Sashtalia is mighty enough to protect herself, and doubly so on her own lands.”

“Then it sounds as if you have a busy summer ahead of you,” I soothed.  “Because you are mistaken on several fronts.  First, Sashtalia isn’t nearly as mighty as you pretend, according to my agents.  Most of your warriors are country knights.  Some even plow their own fields, they’re so poor.  Secondly, Sevendor measures its might not in lances or archers, but in warmagi, and in that we have a bounty.  Third, it won’t matter how many lances you throw at Sevendor, you won’t get in, much less lay siege to my castle.

“And lastly, my good knight, that big double tower there isn’t a refuge and it isn’t a keep.  It’s my new gatehouse.  The actual keep will be built into the mountain, itself, and by the time I’m done with it, it will make the rest of Sevendor Castle look ‘quaint’.”

“You speak boldly, Excellency!” Cullien said, hastily.  “A mere gatehouse?  Dear gods, you are ambitious, aren’t you?” he gasped.

“When it is done, it will contain thousands,” I promised.  “Hundreds of knights.  Thousands of warriors.  Scores of professional warmagi.  I am not an ambitious man, when it comes to conquest, but I am adamant in the defense of my realm.”

“You are mad!” he said, shaking his head.  “This must be costing a fortune!”

“More than your liege collects from his rump barony in five years,” I agreed.  “And it may not be finished in my lifetime.  But that is the way of magelords, Cullien.  Ask the Warbird about the power of warmagi . . . and that was two years ago, before our spells started getting sophisticated.  Now I could take your lord’s castle apart by myself, at need.  Or yours,” I added, for effect.

He swallowed.  “May I ask, then, just what your intentions are, in regards to the prospect of war between Sashtalia and Sendaria?”

“I’m certain the two of you can handle the matter without Sevendor’s assistance,” I assured him.  “But it is tempting to throw my weight behind Sendaria.”

That alarmed him, after all he had seen here.  “Excellency, what would it take to convince you to keep your men at home, this summer?” he asked, diplomatically.

“That all depends,” I considered.  “What guarantees or incentives would the Lord of Sashtalia extend to Sevendor?”

“Excellency, I know not,” he confessed.  “But I will take the matter up with him.  As I have seen, you are a powerful lord, though your domain is small.  I am certain we can come to some agreement to spare you the trouble of mustering your forces.”

“It is not my desire for war,” I admitted.  “Yet I am getting some powerful inducements from Arathanial to do just that.  At this point, while I’ve allowed some of my men may hire on as mercenaries, I am not planning on calling my banners.  Not unless I am provoked,” I added, with what I hoped was a goodly amount of dark menace in my expression.

“There are . . . other voices, among Sire Trefalan’s counselors,” Cullien continued, still searching his wine for the indefinable.  “Voices who whisper that alliance with the Magelord is preferable to conquest by him.”

“What wisdom you Sashtali possess,” I chuckled, humorlessly.  “Could it be that not all of your three hundred lances are particularly eager to cross swords with Sendaria?”

“Chepstan has been hiring mercenaries by the brigade,” Cullien said, sourly.  “It’s one thing to fight against a lord’s own troops, but against professionals?  Do you know what happens to lands conquered by mercenaries?  Oft the lands are sold off to pay them, or the taxes raised on the new acquisitions to pay for their own conquest.  We are a doughty people, Baron Minalan, and brave, but we are not stupid.”

“Tell your lord he has nothing to fear from me or my gatehouse . . . yet,” I cautioned.  “I am unconcerned with the squabbles of mundane lords unless they affect me directly.  If Trefalan thinks he can scare off Arathanial by feinting at me, he is mistaken.  He should focus on his own frontiers . . . while they are still far from his seat.”

Cullien rode off with a much better idea of Sevendor’s strength and position, and I learned that not everyone in Sashtalia was thrilled with the prospect of conquest by the Lenselys.  The gossip ran that Arathanial planned on re-establishing an old Lensely cadet barony from out of the ashes of his conquests and installing his younger son as baron over them.

I didn’t have any problem with that, on the surface, but the fact was that several of those domains would bring Arathanial’s rule right to Sevendor’s door.  There were five or six domains of concern on my borders, most small and unimportant, strategically or economically . . . but if they were mine it would make me feel more comfortable about having Sendaria as a neighbor.

It didn’t hurt that Alya was behind the effort.  She had grown quite fond of Sister Bemia, the priestess of Trygg Allmother who was the castle chaplain, and Trygg’s important clergy happened to have an important abbey just two domains over, in Fistalia.  Unfortunately the birthsisters’ temple was located on a prosperous estate, one they had been defending legally and occasionally militarily to keep.  It bordered on my own small Sashtali estate of Amel Wood, so I certainly had an interest in the matter.

Alya took up the cause of support for the abbey at Bemia’s behest, and I didn’t object.  The midwifery of the Sisters of Trygg was a vital social function in the vales.  Considering the bounty of babies that was being born in the region lately, it was a valuable service that we wanted to keep around.  While there was discussion of inviting the abbey to Sevendor, the more Alya and I talked about it the more we were inclined to make the established abbey part of Sevendor, instead.

How to do that was the tricky part.  Ecclesiastic estates have all sorts of additional legal protections that make them difficult to conquer – but not impossible.  A challenge of combat would be met with the abbey’s designated champion, likely a local knight.  Attacking without warning could get all of Sevendor placed under all sorts of sanctions and interdictions by the temples.

Attacking with warning was an option.  If I gave the abbey thirty days’ notice that I intended to take them in battle, they had time to prepare their own forces.  Many knights owed service to temples, and it wouldn’t take half that time to gather enough to make an attack untenable.  More likely, however, the abbey would appeal the war to the Lawbrothers of Luin, who had the power to order a private war halted in many circumstances.  So while abbeys and temples, shrines and ecclesiastic estates weren’t immune to feudal warfare, they were highly resistant.

I didn’t want to take Fistalia domain without taking the contiguous domains in between.  Two of them were tenant lords installed by Trefalan, the other two were titled lords who had sworn fealty to Sashtalia for security reasons, and weren’t necessarily well-inclined to the man.

There were resources involved.  There was a fair-sized forest on the other side of Caolan’s Pass that had once belonged to Sevendor.  The way we were using wood, having access to that small forest would be a benefit.  There was also a copper mine of some note in the domain of Karador, a once-lucrative estate for Trefalan, who schemed to own it directly.  And nearly all the domains had at least some reasonably productive croplands.

I had put aside any aspirations in that direction, as I didn’t really want to start another war right now.  After my visit with Sire Cullien, however, I started to look at those lands in a new light.

If there were those who were, indeed, counseling an alliance with Sevendor, they would be exempt from the inevitable raiding and pillaging of the Sendari troops; they would be exempt from military service, defending Sashtalia’s heartland.  And they would begin to accrue some of the benefits the other magelands were already beginning to see.

My barony’s domains thrived under the new leadership, despite the cost of reorganizing and bringing the security of the estates up-to-date.  Using magic to augment both military security and crop productivity led to an influx of folk eager to enjoy the higher standards of living.

That hadn’t gone unnoticed in Sashtalia.  Trefalan’s hold on his men was largely through inertia and his opposition to the Lenselys.  When the Warbird folded up so quickly against me, even with the help of the Censorate, that had given the other Bontal lords a lot to think about.  Including alliances with magelords.  Alya certainly thought it was worth the attempt.

“Those hill-lords have always been on the periphery of Riverlands politics,” she reported, after exploring the matter through the information network that spread amongst the vales known as the Sewing and Spinning Room. I had started to appreciate the importance of the feminine intelligence network implicit in feudal textile production.  It was an integral part of the politics of the Bontal Vales, I’d discovered, and a trove of useful intelligence.

“First of the Lenselys, then of Sashtalia.  They’re closer to Sevendor than either, and watching their neighbors get rich while they scrape by is starting to tell on them.  I think if we gave them a little encouragement, some might even change allegiances.  Or at least be open to being bribed.”

“Wouldn’t that violate their oaths of fealty to Sashtalia?” I asked, surprised.

“According to Bemia and Estret, that sort of thing happens all the time.  It’s only punished if the turncloak chooses the wrong side – then it’s his neck.  But if we were to offer them Sevendor’s protection . . . “

“How about we buy them outright?” I asked, suddenly.  “The titled lords, that is.  Buy their fealty, not their lands.”

“Can we do that?”

“We can try,” I pointed out.  “We can certainly afford it.  Even tenant lords keep copies of deeds of the properties they hold.  Theoretically they must surrender them to their liege upon request . . . but if they didn’t, the liege wouldn’t have any recourse but to invade.  And with Arathanial on his frontier, preparing an army to invade himself, somehow I think Trefalan will be too preoccupied to go after a pint-sized holding over in the Uwarris.”

Alya shrugged prettily as she fed Almina.  “I think it’s worth a try.  It can’t hurt to ask, can it?”

In fact, it didn’t hurt to ask.  Later that evening I sent Sir Festaran off on a mission to visit the five or six domains I had my eye on and make discreet inquiries as to whether the lord might consider changing his banner for the right price.  A week later he returned through a snowstorm bearing good news – not only would they, but they would for a fairly reasonable fee.

“Barat and Uwaridor are both tiny,” he reported that evening as he gratefully gulped mulled cider in the Great Hall in front of the fire.  “Only three estates apiece protected by the usual Lensely-style tower houses, one per domain.”

That meant at least a single bailey, perhaps a double, with one solid keep (either square or round, depending on the age of the castle and the tastes of the builder) and perhaps a few towers protected by a crenellated curtain wall.  Not insurmountable defenses, but certainly formidable.

“As tenants their lords live barely above the standards of their people, and they make little enough for their effort, after they send their tribute to Sashtalia.  They both indicated that they would be quite partial to a change in status, particularly if it meant a bounty and an increase in their income.

“The Bangets of Binador, however, are of a slightly different mind,” he continued, warming his hands on the copper cup.  ‘They’re four brothers, all knights, who each own an estate in Binador, and the only thing they can agree on is that they hate Sendaria just slightly more than Sashtalia.  They’re actually Lenselys themselves, believe it or not, a cadet branch that broke off three generations ago and hates all of the other Lenselys for no particularly good reason.  But they don’t want to be under a Lensely baron.”

“Interesting . . . what does the domain look like?”

“There are two minor estates there, one freeholder and one ecclesiastic temple to Aviril.  The eldest son of House Banget is technically the lord of the domain and holds the only real castle, but he has very little power over his brothers.  Two of them have aspirations outside of their little land, however, and would be willing to sell their estates to us for three hundred-twenty ounces of gold and two hundred-sixty ounces of gold, respectively, which in my estimation is a fair price.”

“And the other two Bangets?”

“Lord Infelan is no friend of Trefalan, yet he does not want to lose his territory.  He fears that he and his family will be called to battle and lose grievously – they are not well-loved by their liege, and would likely draw hazardous duty.  Infelan will not sell, but he would be willing to take up the Snowflake for some small consideration.  His youngest brother, Rylan, is a hot-head who looks forward to battle, regardless of the foe.  He made great protest over the idea of changing allegiance as disloyalty and unchivalrous . . . yet he went on and on about how much he loved tournament season.  I think if we increased our offer and included a charger or destrier and jousting armor in the bargain, young Rylan would gladly sell his estate to his brother for a chance to compete professionally.

“Similarly,” he said, pouring himself more wine, “The tiny mountain domain of Fanalth, on our northern border, is owned by one small family of knights, led now by Sire Grem, who have resisted Sashtalia’s dominion over their lands for generations.  They live nearly on the level of their villeins, and their keep . . . well, let’s be charitable and call it a keep . . . it hasn’t seen a lick of maintenance in a generation.  They live on pride, the little barley, potatoes and beans they can scrape from the soil, and a herd of sheep.  They will sell for no amount of money, but I estimate that they would be happy to swear fealty to a fellow mountain lord, even a Magelord, for a reasonable incentive.”

“And Karador?”

“The copper mine of Karador is currently moribund, owing to the low price of copper at market, sadly,” Festaran said.  “Lord Antalan of Karador is determined to reopen the mine and get his miners back to work, and after sending to Sashtalia for assistance for more than a year, he finds instead of help a directive increasing his tribute. It is well known that Trefalan covets the deed to the mine.  The man is nearly penniless, now, his keep falling into disrepair.  I believe it is true that Trefalan is purposefully squeezing his vassal to pressure him to sell the mine at a cheap price.”

“How much did he want for it?”

“Lord Antalan said he would be happy to hand over the deed to the property for no less than one thousand one hundred ounces of gold . . . and a position as tenant lord.  The man is more miner than knight, it seems.  And he has no desire to join the muster at Sashtalia this spring.  He ignores his agricultural and horticultural estates to the favor of the mine, and they suffer accordingly.”

“Finally, Fistalia,” I urged.

“Ah, Fistalia,” he sighed.  “Sister Bemia has done her work well.  The abbess was quite in favor of Sevendor’s protection, and bent the ear of Lord Ulry day and night on the subject.  Ulry is a family man, with a wife and four children so far and another on the way.  None are old enough to succeed him, and while he doesn’t mind going to war he doesn’t want to leave his family virtually unprotected, should Duin not favor him in the battle.  It also helps that two of his household knights are strongly opposed to Trefalan, and several of his yeomen see the lord of Sashtalia as an oppressor.”

“And so are they willing to forswear him?” I prompted.

“Lord Ulry is protective of the eight estates of Fistalia,” my assistant castellan reported.  “He has one large castle and two small ones to pay for, and the abbey brings many pilgrims to his lands.  Yet the tribute to Sashtalia brings little support in return.  For a sum of a thousand ounces of gold, Sire Ulry would consider changing his allegiance and selling you two of the estates in his domain outright, for sixty and one hundred-eighty ounces of gold apiece.”

I thought for a moment.  “How much would it cost – roughly – to muster our troops, call our banners, and invade each of those lands?”

Sir Festaran got a far-away look in his eye as his mind magically calculated things it didn’t even know it knew.  “For forty days, one thousand six hundred eighty-eight ounces,” he finally said.  “I’d say it would take at least nine or ten weeks to complete the conquest, even with magic.  So put the figure closer to seven thousand, six hundred forty-nine ounces of gold . . . give or take.”

“That doesn’t add up,” I said, confused.

“The first forty days your men are responsible for their own maintenance,” he said.  “After that they must be paid and their households supported and supplied.  If a war went that far, it would start to get very expensive.”

“Considerably more than purchasing the loyalties of these Sashtali outright,” I reasoned.

“The Magelord is thrifty,” Sir Festaran observed.

“The Magelord is lazy,” I corrected.  “I’m in the middle of several interesting projects, and the truth is that even a small war would be a distraction.  But if I can acquire all of these territories without a fight, then my domain will be contiguous to the west, all the way to Amel Wood.”

“Won’t that irritate Baron Arathanial?” Sir Festaran asked, doubtfully.

“Probably,” I shrugged.  “I’m willing to live with it.  If I’m successful, how many lances will I have deprived Sashtalia of at this spring’s muster?”

“Around thirty-five,” he acknowledged.

“Thirty-five lances – that’s more than a hundred and fifty men he doesn’t have to kill, capture or contend with.  And I will have removed an entire flank of potential attack from his strategies.  They aren’t the prime territories he’s after, so Arathanial will have to be content with the rest of Sashtalia.”

Of course it wasn’t that simple – negotiations continued quietly through the end of winter before all the domains accepted my bribes, swore their oaths, and raised the snowflake banner over their castles.  I filed the necessary Writs of Allegiance detailing my acquisition of each territory at Wilderhall.  Only then could I truly begin to send my representatives down into the new domains to inspect them more carefully.

When spring came, and Sashtalia’s messengers rode to the hill-lords castles to call the confederation’s banners, they were greeted with the news of the domains’ defection and sent back to Sashtalia with nary a spearman.

And that’s how I bought my way out of a war and increased my barony by a third.  It became known as the Spellmonger’s Wall of Gold, and it proved decisive in the outcome of the war.  It was designed as a cheap way to keep me from having to go to war.  And almost got into another war because of my initiative.

*

*

Soon after Sir Festaran returned from Sashtalia, the serious snows set in.  For four days the Bontal Vales were pounded with inch after relentless inch of snow.  Two days of cold, clear weather passed, and just as folk were digging out of their six inches of trouble, another five dumped on top of them.

That was near torture for an active people.  After a day of playing in the snow the novelty melted long before the white blanket over the vales.  The temperatures continued to be chill, despite the clear skies and sun, and most folk kept indoors near the fire.

It was, however, perfect enchanting weather.   When your work is comprised of sitting and staring and occasionally mumbling, the feeling that you should really be up doing something more productive can be distracting.  When everyone is waiting for the snow to melt, it’s surprisingly helpful to know that there just isn’t anything particularly more productive to do.  The week and a half of snow the gods inflicted upon us forced the enchanters among us to focus on their work, and soon it was bearing fruit as fast as the snow melted.

I was working on the odd crystals the Karshak lapidary workshop sent over, after cleaning and trimming them.  I took advantage of having so many adept enchanters in one place at one time at the Bouleuterion by passing around for their inspection some of the more unusual minerals that had been recovered from the crystalline vesicles in the mountain.

Thaumaturgical assays on unknown arcane objects is time-consuming and exhausting, if you do them properly, and I had enough pretty rocks hidden away to keep me busy for the rest of my life.  Delegating some of the basic work to my enchanting staff allowed me to focus on classifications and further examinations based on their reports.

Part of the problem was that the gods had not seen fit to neatly and discretely compartmentalize the crystals in distinct forms.  As Master Guri explained, the crystals we found – mostly zeolites, whatever they were – were full of mineralogical impurities and mixed-up growth patterns that created hundreds of hybrid crystals.  Depending on the composition and pattern, any number of unusual, unexpected, or novel arcane effects could be manifested.

The six specimens I was examining were all stilbite-prehnite hybrid samples about the size of your thumb, recovered from the first vesicle Azhguri himself had located after his prolonged stonesinging.  They were representative of several score of crystals that the Karshak lapidaries had selected out by class, trimmed, cleaned, and polished before handing them over to Dranus for distribution to various enchanters.  Master Ulin had devoted special effort to the project.  From what Ulin had detailed in his neatly-written scroll reporting on his assays, these six were all of a class of psychomantically active minerals, and each seemed to be able to perform slightly different feats of mental magic.

That may not seem like a terribly impressive thing, but when most of your real work takes place inside your head your mental abilities take on considerable importance, professionally speaking.  The ability to focus, to recall, to visualize, and then to manage your emotional energies are all vitally important for magic to work as it’s supposed to.  Some magi used herbs and psychoactive elixirs to help control their minds.  That was a dangerous road.

But these stones held real promise of aiding mental magic without the physical cost of drugs.  One of the stones simply allowed perfect recall of any memory – and when I mean perfect, I mean down to the smell of her hair and the taste of her sweat on your tongue.  It was a heady experience surveying my life with perfect clarity of recall, heady and fraught with peril.  There are some things a man shouldn’t remember too carefully.

And other things that seemed beyond the power of the stone’s recall.  There were areas of my life that were fuzzy and indistinct to recall – no doubt a weakness of the stone.  But on the whole it was an amazing ability to be able to manifest.  Of course it was called the Stone of Recall, and I had about two dozen of them.

Another was more rare, but actually more useful.  Hold it in your hand, read a book.  Later, pick up the stone, recall the book, and you could read every word as if it were still in front of you.  Pass it to a friend and they, too, can recall the book and the pages.  Library Stones, naturally.  There were just over a score of them.  Invaluable.

One class of stone allowed a breathtaking sharing of emotion between people who touched it, though it had little use beyond that – Empathy stones.  I had a lot of them.  Another was more well-tuned, allowing actual thoughts to be transferred, just like mind-to-mind communication.  I only had nineteen of those, so far, but the possibilities were starting to pile up in my mind.

A smaller yellow hybrid comprised of two slightly different chemical examples of stilbite with a scattering of quartz and prehnite had incredible potential: hold the stone, find affinity to it, compose yourself, and relay a mental message.  Give the stone to someone else and when they do the same, they can experience the message just as clearly as if they were in your presence.  Message Stones, until I could come up with something better.  I had a trove of these, more than three hundred so far.  The possibilities were incredible.

The last stone in the series had been dubbed the Clarity Stone, and Master Ulin simply stated in his notes that it assisted the mage in attaining a heightened state of mental acuity and awareness, and cautioned against prolonged use.

I realized why the moment I accessed it.  Suddenly I was aware of . . . everything.

Every noise in the room, every sound, every smell, every arcane emanation.  It was nearly overwhelming, and I recoiled from the sensation the first time I attempted it.  With more caution and a slower approach I was able to find a level of control that allowed me to understand the scope of the stone’s power.

There’s no adequate way to describe it, but it’s akin to forcing your mind to study every possible aspect of any particular thing you can manage to focus upon.  Take something simple, like the silver wine cup I was drinking out of at the time.  In seconds I knew every possible thing I could every wish to know about that cup, including glimpses of its history and the details of its composition.  I knew that cup so thoroughly and understood it so completely that forever afterward I could not sip from it without reflecting so strongly on it that I eventually enchanted it with a pocket large enough for a hogshead of wine and gave it to a vassal.

The Clarity Stones allowed for a frightening amount of insight into the subtleties of enchantment.  They brought not just perception, but understanding.  When my Tal maid, Daisy, came in to empty the trash and see if I needed anything, my brief regard of her under its influence revealed far more information about the girl than I had ever wanted to know.  I knew and understood Daisy at an utterly fundamental level after regarding her for but a moment.

“Can I get you anything, Master?” she asked, politely, in well-rehearsed Narasi.  But her words held far greater meaning, now.  By the subtleties of the tone of her voice, how wide her eyes were, and a hundred other factors I now knew how relentlessly her parents and the burrow elders had forced the Tal to learn the language with the proper Riverlands accent, so desperate they were to be accepted here.

There was more, a lot more – from the story the flecks of dirt on her feet told to the singed condition of her left arm, where the fur had curled and cracked and been brushed away.  The way she held her frame, the way her nose wiggled as she sniffed unconsciously, the musky odor the Tal couldn’t help but produce . . .

She was pregnant.  And she did not yet know it, yet.

I dropped the stone, and it clattered to the table as my senses returned to normal.  It made my head swim, and despite the sudden urge to do so I knew I could not stand.  Slowly I closed my eyes and allowed my awareness to recede back to the normal six senses.

“No, Daisy,” I croaked, as I struggled to regain my composure.  “I’m fine.  Why don’t you take the rest of the day off and go see that young . . . Tal of yours?”

“Master?” she asked, confused.

“You did nothing wrong,” I assured her.  “But my magic tells me you have something to discuss with him.”

“I do?” she asked, dully.  “It does?”

“It does, indeed,” I agreed.  “Perhaps you should speak to him.  And have him speak to your father,” I said, knowingly.

It took her a moment to catch on, and I got the rare pleasure of watching a young Tal maiden – well, maiden no more – realize that she is to be a mother.  It was an impressive spectacle, one I was grateful that I did not have the Clarity stone active for.  Some things a man was just not meant to understand.

“I will go speak with him, Master,” she agreed, reluctantly.  “You are sure?” she asked, turning around suddenly as she was preparing to leave.

“I’m certain, Daisy,” I nodded, with as much gravity as I could.  “Trygg’s blessings upon you.  Now . . . go take care of your business.  You have a lot to think about and discuss with . . . ?”

“Tanan, Master,” she supplied, a little reluctantly.  “He works in the herb sheds.  He makes only a little . . . but he is strong.  And nice,” she insisted.

“And poor,” I chuckled.  “No chamber maid of mine should suffer such a fate.”  I dug into my purse and pulled out two newly-minted bronze-ringed two-ounce gold coins, fresh from the mint at Genlasten Castle.  “Take this,” I insisted.  “You’ve provided excellent service.  And you will always have employ at the castle.  But go tell your young Tanan you’ve a mind to wed.”

She took the coins in trembling paws, more than she would make here in three years. There were tears in her eyes, and she thanked me profusely before she left.  I sighed and poured my own wine, just in time to receive a communication from Pentandra for the first time since Yule, mind-to-mind.

Are you at liberty? she began.

From a really good maid, apparently, I sighed.  How goes the restoration?

Well, she admitted, sounding surprised at herself.  Anguin is more of a Duke than I thought he would be.  He has acted with utter confidence.  It’s almost scary, how determined he is to be a good ruler.  What the hells did you give the boy?

A challenge, I answered.  He couldn’t have done it without seeing it so.  He was primed to mope his way through his reign, and I convinced him it was more challenging to rule, and rebuild what his fathers left him.

Well, he took your words as counsel, she said.  Within a week of arriving he had the palace straightened out.  Two weeks after that he had the town in hand.  There have been a few executions, some exiles, and some imprisonments, and the Iron Band got about a hundred unexpected recruits . . . . but we’re making progress.  We’re working on the countryside now – there are bandits everywhere, mostly refugees turned highwaymen for the lack of better options.  And the refugees are starving, of course.

Have you ever met a well-fed refugee?

I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that – if you’d seen what I have, you wouldn’t jest.

I considered what she might have witnessed in Vorone and took her advice.  How is married life?

I should have stuck with the starving refugees.

Married life?  What married life?  I see Arborn maybe two days in a week, as he’s hunting bandits in the woods most of the time.  Which is fine, of course, because we don’t really need bandits in the woods, but we’ve got bandits actually running large parts of the town and that’s where we need his focus. When he is here he barely speaks, we sit and stare at each other, and he hasn’t . . . it’s been hard, readjusting, she said, miserably.

It takes time, I soothed.  You’ll settle in.

It’s even worse now that we’re living in the palace, she confided.  But I didn’t summon you to complain, she said, catching herself from doing just that.  This is business.  Of a sort.  I’ve run into someone you know, and she wanted me to give you her regards.

My heart sank.  I didn’t know how, but all I could imagine was that Isily had, somehow, found her way to Vorone and was now manipulating everyone in sight at the behest of Mother.  Or her own schemes.  Of course the urge to go snub Pentandra to her face would have been irresistible . . .

Really?  Who is that? I asked, blankly.

The goddess of love, sex, and beauty?  Ishi?  She’s been hanging around the palace.  Hanging around Vorone.  She revealed herself to me, and spoke very highly of her recent dealings with you.

Oh.

That’s what I said.  Min, do you care to explain to me how you’ve been consorting with strange divinities and not telling me about it?  Because that bitch has the entire town in an uproar, and I’ve just about had enough!

Chapter Fourteen

Baking Muffins With Briga

It was long past midnight when I pulled rank and got the uninterrupted use of the Everfire.

The eternal flame that sprouted at one end of the commons last year had become the focal point of a beautiful new temple – even grander than the main temple in Vorone.  It was architecturally striking.   It was built of imported red brick from Trestendor and topped by a gorgeous white dome that was still in the process of being built.  It would eventually have a hole to allow the heat of the effect to escape.

The Everfire now stood at the exact center of the temple, a column of magical fire that went from ten to twenty feet, depending upon the capricious nature of the elemental goddess who created it.  There was no fuel, and very little smoke.  It just erupted out of the ground like a flower growing through cobbles in the road.

As symbols of divine favor go, it was pretty impressive.  The temperature ranged from the heat of a normal fire to so hot that the priestesses kept anything flammable from the main sanctuary – there had been a few accidents. That was an acceptable risk, considering how many pilgrims trickled in over the course of a week to witness the magically divine fire.  The dozen flamesisters and noviates who staffed the temple were doing quite well from their donations.

But my purpose that evening wasn’t prayer, it was progress.  Before the cold of winter froze the ground, Banamor had several hundredweights of thick white clay excavated from the deposit near the ruins of Genly, outside the castle wall, and stored in his warehouse.  He had detailed one of his servants to strain and prepare the clay, according to the instructions of the potter who had agreed to come to Sevendor, finally.

I didn’t know much about clay – nothing, really- but I knew that snowclay or whatever it was had special properties, and after my experience with the Clarity Stone I needed a change of pace from rocks and sticks and playing with clay seemed harmless enough.

I mixed the absolute purest samples 4:1 with thaumaturgical clay, and added a few ingredients on a whim: ground knot coral, some enchanted quartz dust (I had almost a ton of it, residue collected from vesicles. It didn’t do anything that we could tell except lower the etheric density – a lot.), various powdered zeolites, and a few other things.  I wasn’t exactly experimenting, officially . . . I was screwing around by intuition to see what would happen.  Subtle distinction.

I’d made several small batches of these things (called boules, in the trade) in slightly different compositions.  But trying to fire them properly without a real kiln proved difficult, and I didn’t want the impurities involved with a forge fire or a wood fire.  I could have attempted to use thermomantic magic to do it, but in my experience attempting to control a spell with another spell adds a level of instability and potential for disaster that suggested I find another route.  And since I just happened to have this huge column of magical fire convenient to the castle, it seemed a shame not to use it.

There was only one flamesister standing vigil at night, so I sent her to bed and had the sanctuary to myself.  I then placed thermomantically protective spells around the Everfire – no need to burn the place down while I was working.  I wanted that fire hot, hotter than the building would be able to stand without magical protection.  I’d determined that the flame in the enchantment could be affected – pour magical power into it, it got hotter, especially if there was adequate oxygen.

With magic, the Everfire would have all of the oxygen it could ask for.  My baculus – I had named it Insight – told me that the temperature was around five hundred degrees.  After I gingerly pushed six small rough spheres of the material into the Everfire with the fireproof end of the baculus, I stepped back, activated the protection spells, and began feeding it oxygen.  Within minutes the color of flame grew significantly brighter, and Insight told me that the heat had doubled.

I took a step back and mopped my brow and almost stepped into a goddess.

“Pretty,” Briga, goddess of fire, said as she stepped around me and regarded her creation.  “What exactly are you trying to do?”

“I’m just screwing around,” I dismissed.  “Trying out some theories I have.  What brings a nice goddess like you to temple at this time of night?”  I’d almost gotten used to interacting with divinities, now.  In a lot of ways they were just like regular people.  In a lot of ways they were not.

“Your intuition serves you well,” she nodded, approvingly.  “But I think you’ll find a more impressive effect if you take the temperature up to five thousand degrees.”

“Won’t that melt the temple?  And about half of the town?”

“Please,” she said, rolling her eyes.  “You think this is my first campfire?” She raised her hand and suddenly the Everfire increased in intensity until it was flickering blue in places.  I could feel her magic augmenting my protection spells, so that there was almost no increase in heat outside of the glowing barrier that surrounded the flame.  “There,” she said with satisfaction.  “That should do it.  Give it about half an hour.  That should give us time to talk.”

“We need to talk?” I asked, surprised.

“I think we do,” she said, calmly.  “I’ve heard you’ve been seeing another goddess on the side.”

Ishi.  Of course.

“It meant nothing,” I dismissed.  “It was a one-time thing.  I was under the influence of bad magic.  There may have been wine involved,” I said, defensively.

Briga smiled indulgently.  “It’s not spiritual infidelity I’m concerned with – I’m not a particularly jealous goddess, until I am.  No, Minalan, what concerns me is the nature of the goddess you had interactions with.”

“It really wasn’t anything I could control,” I admitted, seriously.

“I’m aware,” she said, comfortingly.  “But leaving aside the trauma for a moment, there are things you have to understand about the nature of divinity.  Things you really should be aware of before you go making promises to new gods.”

“I’m pretty new at this,” I pointed out.

“And you have always eschewed theurgy,” she nodded.  “But when the nature of the gods is of concern, there are different classes.  There are the Cosmic Gods, the demiurgic forces that rarely, if ever, manifest in this realm.  There are the local divinities-of-place, river goddesses and grotto gods, gods of the wild and nature.  They can manifest but their power is low, and they are confined to their precincts.

“Then there are the elemental gods, like me,” she said, slowly walking around the Everfire.  “Fire, water, wind, the land, the sea, the sky, gravity, the sun, the moon – natural phenomenon and important elements get represented in the divine matrix, and eventually settle on a deity, once humanity’s collective subconscious has its way.  We’re more powerful, and can manifest pretty much anywhere within human lands, once we are properly invoked.  There are more culturally-derived gods, like Herus, who come to manifest as the result of a great need or to fulfill some purpose important to humanity, like travel.  Or stealing.

“But then there are the Primal Divinities,” she said, a note of warning in her voice.  “Apart from the Cosmic Gods, the Primal Gods are among the most capricious and dangerous.  Far less civilized than the cultural or elemental gods.  And you have only yourselves to blame.”

“Us?  You mean humans?  What did we do?”

“The Primal Divinities arise from the darkest places of the human subconscious – where desire and longing meet fear and terror.  You know Ishi as the Goddess of Love and Sex, and treat her lighter aspects with due respect, but that is just one facet of her deep and powerful manifestation.  Ishi represents the primal forces of Nature.  The unremitting desire to reproduce.  To bond.  It’s implicit in every human-derived lifeform, and even among the Alon and the Seafolk it has power.”

“I don’t see what’s so dangerous about that.”

“I know,” she said, sadly.  “That’s why we’re having this conversation.  Sex is one of the most dangerous elements of the human condition. People will do just about anything for sex.”

“I’ve never—”

“Most people are fairly reasonable about it,” she said, interrupting me, “most of the time, but when that primal part of their soul does eventually manifest, there is little a human being cannot accomplish to achieve what they think they desire.  Certainly your own experiences should confirm that for you,” she said, eyeing me.

Isily certainly did get what she wanted.  I couldn’t argue witnessing some truly inane acts of foolishness in connection to affairs of the heart.  And places lower.

“I think I see your point,” I sighed.

“I don’t think you do, Minalan,” she continued.  “Your gender is part of the problem.  Men have a very simplistic approach to sex.  Women, on the other hand, have a very, very sophisticated approach to sex.”

“In my experience it’s usually been more about enthusiasm than sophistication,” I said, recalling a few exceptional memories from my youth.

She rolled her eyes again.  “Sophistication in approach, not technique.  I swear to me, everything in the universe with a penis is stupid!  You were focused on the physical, which is what men do.  Every woman you’ve ever bedded has been there for entirely different reasons than just base lust.  For women, sex is so intrinsically intertwined with the context of our lives that every encounter has purpose, in some corner of their mind.  Yes, even those lustful ones,” she said, before I could raise the objection.

“And that’s what Ishi represents: not just the primal urgency of sex for biologic reproduction, which is potent enough a domain; no, Ishi further embodies female sexuality, in all of its most exaggerated forms.  Every scheming ingénue and coquette, every scorned woman, every calculating village girl who set her cap for a particular boy, every horny widow looking to improve her fortunes through the use of her virtue . . . every whore, every slut, every noble wife with a secret lies within that divine being.  She has every woman in Callidore’s history to draw upon.  And she has motives that she alone understands.  She is perhaps one of the most dangerous gods you could have invoked.”

“She invoked herself, sort of,” I said, a little irritated.  “After . . . I take it you know about Isily?” I asked, not really wanting to discuss it.

“I do,” she said, sympathetically.  “In the sense I know she’s . . . involved with you.”

I realized that there hadn’t been a flame in the chamber, that night.  Briga can witness anything in the presence of a flame, but the glow of the Snowflake had been what had illuminated the crime.

“Well, she got a hell of a lot more involved,” I grumbled.  “She surprised me.  Tricked me.  Trapped me.  She drugged my wine and waited until I was vulnerable, and then she . . . used me.  Twice.  She got what she wanted – she’s pregnant again – and now I have another illegitimate child out there.  According to Ishi, there are three more of my bastards out there in the world, somewhere, too.”

“She raped you!” Briga said, enunciating the word, her eyes set with horror and sympathy.  “You were powerless!”

“I was careless!” I snapped.  “The truth is, I should have taken care of Isily years ago, but didn’t because I was hoping the whole thing would just quietly fade away.  Now she’s married to Dunselen, whom I also should have dealt with before now, and with royal patronage they’re both nearly out of my power.  Now he’s going to be raising my bastard, while my poor wife is ignorant of all of this!”

“And you are ridden with guilt and shame,” she said, sympathetically.

“Because I am guilty!” I snarled, a lot louder and with more emotion than I expected.  “Regardless of Isily or Dunselen, I had it in my power to stop this madness before it could continue, and I ignored it!”

“Did you not have good reasons for that?”

“I had selfish reasons for that,” I said, sullenly.  “I didn’t want to get my hands dirty.  I figured if I just stood back and kept an eye on things, then I could keep them from getting to the point where I’d need to make a decision I didn’t want to make.  I was busy with the war, with Sevendor, with . . . everything else.  It seemed like a minor detail.”

“And now it is what is compelling this relentless drive to create,” she pointed out, nodding toward the brightly glowing clay spheres in the Everfire.  “You’ve barely spent time with your wife and children, you’ve buried yourself in the minutia of enchantment, you’ve been dreaming up new things to occupy your mind so that you don’t have to think about the guilt you feel you bear.”

“And that’s a problem?” I asked, challenging her.

“Are you kidding?  I’m a goddess of creation and inspiration.  I don’t care all that much about where your motives come from, as long as something new and pretty is forged.  But you’re not making horseshoes or baking bread, here,” she pointed out.  “You’re building items of power such as have never been created by humanity.  I merely wanted to bring to your attention what was fueling this drive.”

“And what good does rubbing my nose in it do?” I asked.

“I’m not rubbing your nose in it, Minalan,” she sighed.  “Just making you aware.  The process of creation is always built on such primal driving forces – and the greater the tortured soul creating, the greater the creation.  Be it art, magic, music, or anything creative.  Happy people just do not create amazing wonders – they’re too busy being happy.  Your pain and anguish is making pretty things.”

“I’m glad it’s good for something,” I said, gruffly.  “Was this supposed to be helping me?”

“It is helping you,” she assured me.  “Who else have you talked to this about?”

“Who could I?” I demanded.  “Not exactly the sort of thing you can go see the castle chaplain about.  And why should I?  What’s done is done.  Ishi was clear about that: I can’t touch mother or child without upsetting some weird arcane balance, or something.”

“Minalan, you have to remember something, when dealing with Ishi: she isn’t just as deceptive as any woman, she’s as deceptive as every woman.  I cannot speak to her sphere, but I would take every word that comes out of those pretty, pouty lips with caution.”

I arched an eyebrow.  “Was that a note of jealousy I detected?”

She put her hand on her hips and glared at me.  “Did you think that the gods were immune from each other’s influence?  I am a goddess, but I am also a woman.  That means I am subject to those powers her sphere invokes.  Including jealousy.”

“Awww!”

“She’s the most beautiful woman possible, by definition.  While that inspires lust and other emotions in men, did you think that women respond the same?  No, we cannot help but compare ourselves to the divine principal of feminine sexuality, and forever find ourselves wanting.  I can be aware of it and accept it without allowing it to rule me.”

“Then you’re more adept than most women I know,” I chuckled.  “A jealous goddess . . . so what would you inspire in her?  I’m curious,” I explained.

“A desire to make muffins?  Domesticity and sexuality are intertwined,” she reasoned.  “Art and poetry, in the abstract sphere.  Always good for impressing a suitor.  And of course there’s the divine vengeance angle.  I tend to specialize in crimes against children, but occasionally that lines up with the vengeance of a jilted suitor, or some other powerful sexual or romantic notion.”

“So she makes you jealous, you make her want to bake, paint, and kill former lovers,” I nodded.  “I can see how you might have an uneasy relationship.  What about . . . your divine libido?” I teased.  “Certainly a healthy young goddess—”

“I’ll have you know I am nearly seven hundred years old, from my first manifestation,” she chided.  “And yes, I’ve had my share of lovers over the centuries.  Usually notable patrons of my sphere, or worthy artisans.  Occasionally another divinity, if the occasion called for it.  Is this relevant?” she demanded.

“Just curious, like I said.  All we get down here are myths and legends – it’s nice to know that the goddess of fire gets her ashes hauled occasionally.”

“So glad it amuses you,” she said, far more icily than you would expect from a fire goddess.

“It’s not just amusing,” I said, regaining my composure, “it’s instructive.  From what Pentandra has reported, Ishi has been wandering around Alshar, getting into mischief.  I’m just trying to figure out what she’s after.”

“As I said, she is the most deceptive and capricious of the gods.  Her final purpose is unknown, no doubt, even to her.  There are few even among the primal divinities who are as secretive and yet so blatant in their manifestations.  But as for what she is doing . . . well, luckily she does a lot of it by candlelight.  Or torchlight.  Or in front of a fire.  She’s been doing . . . a lot.”

“Doing what?”

“Doing it!” she said, blushing slightly.  “That thing she does.  The thing she does better than anyone.  And in her own mad way she’s trying to help.  She’s seducing people – men, mostly, of course – around Alshar.”

“Why?”

“Because she sees an opportunity,” Briga explained.  “Alshar is in a state of flux, and Vorone, especially, is flush with desperate souls desperately seeking some sort of security.  Your friend Pentandra is doing a remarkable job, by the way, far more than she lets on.  But she’s one of the reasons Ishi is there.”

“Sex magic,” I realized.

“She would, of course, be attracted to the most powerful manifestation of her sphere around, once she achieved her continuity.  Pentandra has devoted herself to the discipline in a way few others have in centuries.  She’s passionate about it – she would have made an excellent priestess, had she not been Talented,” she admitted.  “Even her recent nuptials won’t tame her innate curiosity about it – on the contrary, I’d wager they will broaden and even intensify it.”

“But with all the temple prostitutes, whorehouses, finishing schools and such in the world, Ishi decided married sex in a warzone was a worthy place to lend her talents?” I asked, doubtfully.

“As I said, you cannot try to explain her reasoning,” she said, evenly, “It is hers alone.  But she thinks she’s helping.  Who knows?  She might be.  But she’s creating a lot of havoc in the process.”

“Somehow I don’t think Ishi is going to be able to screw Vorone out of the abyss,” I smirked, “although I can imagine she’d try.  Setting aside her motivations, what exactly is she doing there?  Your professional opinion.”

“As I said, she is using her . . . talents.  She is seducing men and getting them to do her bidding, just as any woman with a plan might.”

“That seems a little counter to the idea of true love,” I pointed out.

“Because you are a man,” she agreed.  “Men love women with high ideals in their hearts.  When the truth reveals itself, they are oft left broken-hearted.  Women, on the other hand, love at the call of opportunity,” she pointed out.  “That’s not something Ishi wants to be generally known.”

“It does seem a little cynical,” I agreed.

“It is how things are,” she shrugged.  “And it is at the interplay of idealism and opportunity that Ishi plies her . . . craft,” she said, distastefully.  “She seduced the head of the palace guard, for instance, and then turned around and seduced two assistant castellans and a stableboy, all where I could see them,” she added, irritated.  “The next morning a revolt that was to happen, didn’t.”

“Then she is helping,” I conceded.  “Pentandra made it sound like—”

“She’s also opened a brothel,” Briga continued, evenly and with no little judgment in her voice.  “That has put her at odds with the palace authorities.  Including the Court Wizard.  It’s been . . . interesting,” she admitted, with a little smile.  “It’s not often you see a woman willing to stand up to Ishi.”

“She is a bit intimidating,” I agreed.  “Those breasts, alone—”

“She’s a bloody troublemaking little bitch!” Briga exploded.  “She’s always doing rash and foolish things and then rationalizing them later!   She’s constantly interfering with perfectly ordinary, perfectly decent people and getting them to do . . . things,” she said, shuddering, “things that end up destroying them.  They bring them pleasure, but rarely do the stratagems of the love goddess leave anyone living happily ever after.”

“But that’s not entirely true,” I pointed out, oddly in a position to try to cheer up a goddess.  “Alya and I ended up happy.”

She gazed at me a little too long.  “For now,” she conceded.  “But while you bear this weight on you, letting it drive you to new feats of creation, do you not think she, too, has her own secrets?”

“What do you mean?” I demanded, warily.

“She is no different than any woman,” Briga said.  “She loves you, adores you, is devoted to you . . . but if you think she sees her love in the same light you see yours for her, you would be mistaken.  Every woman has secrets, especially once she is a wife and mother.  My sphere isn’t sex, its wisdom . . . and I would counsel that it would not be wise to ask questions you do not want to know the answer to.”

I didn’t know how to take that.  The idea that Alya had secrets from me seemed foreign, but the more I considered it, the more I had to acknowledge the possibility.  There was part of me that wanted to go seek them out, and another part of me that wanted to heed the divine wisdom being shoved down my throat and not ask any questions.  Better to change the subject.

“But what you said about opportunity . . . Alya couldn’t have known I would have become a baron, or even saved everyone from Boval,” I pointed out.  “She was just young and in love.”

Briga shook her head, sadly.  “Young, yes.  In love?  Eventually.  I did not witness your initial courting, but I know enough that I could guess your bride’s motivations far more than you.”

“My sterling character and sharp wit?” I offered, lamely.

“Your handsome face, your broad shoulders, and her desire to avoid payment for healing her brother-in-law,” Briga countered.  “She had little experience of spellmongers, save for Garkesku, and she guessed that the fee for your services would be extravagant.  She acted upon the impulse of her loins, and the genuine gratitude in her heart, but when she lay with you it was to take the opportunity to avoid a fee.”

That was a little crushing to my ego.  But not unreasonable.  Still . . .

“How do you know?” I demanded.  “Sex isn’t your sphere!”

“Because she bragged about it to her sister Ela that night, over a taper,” Briga admitted.  “Ela was worried about the cost of healing her husband, and Alya told her she had taken care of it.  When Ela pressed, she bragged about the whole thing.  There were no words of love, Minalan,” she said, sadly.  “Does that disappoint you?”

“Girls talk,” I dismissed.  “It’s what is in her heart that counts.”

“Then I am not the goddess you need to speak to, if you must know that,” she said, shaking her head.  “She was shrewd about it.  She was eager to tell, too, to show off her superiority to her less-fair sister.  She made mention of several of your physical attributes, but there was no talk of love.”

“It worked out,” I said, sullenly.  “And it’s not like she doesn’t love me now.”

“That she does,” Briga said.  “I know this from her actions, not because of my divine state.  She loves you dearly and is devoted to you – far more than you suspect.”

“So much for female opportunism,” I chuckled.

“You think so?  She has a secure holding, wealth, status, and a powerful husband.  She has her children.  She has far more of a life than she had ever dreamed of, much less hoped for.  The opportunities she took in seducing you paid off handsomely.  Now she protects what she has at every opportunity, and invests in her future.”

“Well, she did get a good deal out of it, but that was by accident,” I pointed out.

“And you got a loyal, devoted wife out of it, in return,” she pointed out.  “Your ideal is fulfilled.  As is hers.  It has been a fruitful union.”

“Yet I am the one who has betrayed that union,” I said, suddenly hating myself.  Sure, Alya may have just been trying to get out of a fee – I could accept that, in retrospect – but she had been loyal and faithful to me.  An ideal wife.  It was I who had transgressed against our vows.  More than once.  Even though I had struggled mightily, I had failed, and that was what made this so painful.

“You were entrapped,” she pointed out.

“Not the first time,” I reminded her.  “I betrayed my love for Alya long before Isily accosted me.  That wasn’t ravishment.”

“And I am not the kind of goddess who offers solace and forgiveness for such things,” she said, a little more irritated.  “Try Trygg, if you really want to go that route.  My stock-in-trade is biscuits, anvils, aphorisms and bonfires.  And wisdom.  So listen up, Minalan the Spellmonger, because I’m going to enlighten you.”

“Please do!” I said, frustrated.

“You need to gain your composure over this, because it’s starting to affect your work, not just compel it.  Like it or not, you’ve unleashed Ishi on the world and that’s your responsibility.  Dunselen and Isily will have to wait, as there is nothing much you can do about them until they act, and they may yet play a role in the unfolding of events that none of us can suspect, now that Ishi is involved.  That’s how these things work,” she said, flatly.  “When you get the gods involved, everything changes.”

“So what should I do?” I pleaded.

“Stop avoiding your responsibilities.  Start looking for solutions that might get your hands dirty.  Quit hiding from your family.  And trust that your wife loves you enough – idealistically or opportunistically – to understand something as fundamental as her husband has a problem.”

I sighed and stared at the Everfire.  Those were all very good suggestions, on the surface, but putting them to work seemed insurmountable.  I thought I was being responsible, after all, sitting at home and puttering around the castle, playing with sticks and rocks and not getting involved in politics outside of my barony.  Much.

But Briga’s suggestion that I was avoiding things, after the disastrous encounter with Isily in front of the Snowflake, stung.  It stung because it was a truth I had been trying to avoid.

“She freed me from Isily’s compulsions,” I mentioned.  “Isily had me bound up with psychomantic compulsions to feel a sisterly affection for her.”

“I doubt her feelings toward you are sisterly,” Briga observed.  “At least not in most decent families.”

“She wanted to be the power behind my power,” I said.  “She wanted to be the Spellmonger’s puppeteer.  She wasn’t content controlling me through my children, threatening my home life, or even tempting me with her charms.  She wanted me to be her toy,” I said, growing angrier as I considered it.  “She didn’t even want to supplant Alya – yet – she just wanted my seed and to control my soul.”

“It was a golden opportunity for her,” Briga pointed out.  “After you had very idealistically given her a means through your past and thought it was behind you.”

“That’s what really stings – it was bad enough she had one daughter by me, without my knowledge.  She knew how I felt about that – she had to.  But to go and ravish me, not for mere lust but with the purpose of making Dunselen a cuckold and the satisfaction of stealing another woman’s husband . . . still, she had to place me under spells to control me.  If Ishi hadn’t released me from them immediately, there’s no telling what I would have done.”

“And out of a sense of gratitude and idealism, you granted her continuity – one of her greatest desires.  Minalan, I understand why you did what you did.  I’m not certain that it’s a bad thing, even, as Ishi’s domain is essential, and she can be quite . . . loving, sometimes.  When she’s not being a deceitful bitch.  What she’s doing in Vorone right now . . . it might be helping.  But helpful or hurtful, it’s not going to be orderly, with her involved.  Love never is.”

“She said she wasn’t done with me,” I said, swallowing.  “Should I be nervous about that?”

“No,” Briga said, cocking her head.  “You should be absolutely terrified about that.  Where Ishi goes chaos follows.  It’s one of the things about love that makes life interesting.  If she’s chosen you to fixate on, you could be in real trouble.”

“That’s helpful information,” I nodded, my heart sinking.  “Hey, you’re a goddess, you should know this: does it count as infidelity when you do it at the behest of a goddess?”

“Marital vows are Trygg’s domain,” Briga shrugged again.  “Mine is baking.  And your biscuits are done,” she added.

I looked more carefully at the lumps of clay now glowing brightly in the bottom of the flame.  I could barely see them, and was about to use my baculus to reduce the flame when Briga stepped in.

“Allow me,” she said, reaching through the protective spells and into a five thousand degree fire without singing her sleeve, her hand, or her dainty long fingers.  She casually hauled all of the specimens out and cautioned me against touching them until they’d cooled.

“Hot things burn,” she said, with the certainty of divinity behind her words.

“And sharp things cut,” I agreed.  “I’m not a complete idiot, despite my complicated romantic life.”  I summoned my baculus again, and began looking at the results of my experiment.  It helped to have a goddess who minored in magic on hand.

“Aren’t these pretty?” she cooed, as she bent to study them. The half-dozen lumps of dirty white clay had been transformed by the Everfire; all six were smaller, brighter, and vibrating with arcane energy.  “Look at that one – the knot coral one.”  She waved her hand and the incandescent nodule floated in the air.  ‘That took almost no effort – none.  A mildly-Talented human could do it.”

“Telekinetic hypersensitivity,” I nodded, making a mental note.  “That is intriguing.  And useful.  I wonder if it will be stable at lower temperatures.”

“And this one . . . “ she said, replacing the first sample and examining the second, holding her bright red curls out of the way as she bent, as if she were a maid sniffing flowers in the garden.  “Oh!  This one is now psionically sensitive – that’s the zeolite matrix, I believe,” she said, sniffing the nodule.  “That one at the top is Prehnite, mostly, also psionically sensitive, but different.”

I was examining them all with the baculus, shifting through various detection spells and taking arcane measurements with the sophisticated enchantments.  The enneagram within the rod was curious, and it did most of the work for me.  It was the baculus’ intuition that drew my attention to the measurements of Specimen 5, the one that had nothing but ground snow quartz dust in it.  Insight was dragging my attention to a particular reading like a dog pointing toward a duck.

“Oh, my,” I breathed, as I realized what it meant.  “Isn’t that interesting?”

Chapter Fifteen

The Wall Of Gold

It was, as predicted, a long, cold, wet winter.  Snow, which was once pleasantly uncommon in the Bontal, seemed to arrive weekly to foul up travel, block roads, and generally encourage people to stay inside where it was warm.  Since I’d adopted the snowflake as my heraldic device, I got more than my share of blame for the weather.

I tried explaining to the complainers that it wasn’t my doing, that the Umbra – the region of magical shadow that was growing around Boval Vale in the Mindens – was having an effect on the weather patterns, and as a result we got more precipitation now than we used to . . . but after seeing enough blank stares, I realized it was wiser to just take the blame and mumble something about hoping it doesn’t get worse.

When you say it just right, people leave you alone about it after a while out of fear of pissing you off.

The weather certainly aided our enchantment efforts in Sevendor, but it also slowed down my negotiation efforts with the six hill domains in Sashtalia who were interested in taking up the Snowflake, swearing fealty to me, and sitting out the coming war with Sendaria this spring.  I employed Sir Festaran almost exclusively as my agent in this, as he was trustworthy, known as a fellow Riverlord to the men, and he was becoming adept at such missions.

But Festaran was running into a problem, as he scurried from one domain to the other, avoiding notice by Sashtalia’s agents.  The lords had all agreed, individually, to a tentative agreement, but there was a lot of resistance to being the first among them consummating the transfer, due to the anxiety of recriminations from their neighbors.  Changing allegiances was serious business, and could lead to bitter war if it went poorly.  The money I was offering was nice – a little more than five thousand ounces of gold, between all six fiefs – but it wouldn’t buy their lives if their jilted liege came calling with an avenging army.

That was particularly important for these folk.  Like Sevendor, they were mostly poor lords of small mountain estates who were often at the whims of their larger neighbors.  For a decade or more Sashtalia had relied upon the strength of its greatest eastern domains – Avanal, Pirine, Lavanth, and especially Rolone – to bully the hill lords into their service . . . and punish them bitterly if they did not comply.

So I was quietly arranging a secret conference among them, which was difficult and treacherous to do under road conditions that poor.  Luckily (for me, not her) a revered abbess of the Temple of Trygg passed on to her reward one cold winter night, and the funeral provided an outstanding opportunity to get them all together without arousing suspicion in Sashtalia.

The temple was on an ecclesiastic estate that just happened to abut my one tiny domain in Sashtalia, a wooded parcel with a single village called Amel Wood that had been a gift from the King upon my investiture as baron.  The fact that it also abutted Rolone and Avanal, two of Sashtalia’s richer domains, had not escaped my notice at the time, but the death of the abbess gave me every legitimate reason to attend.  A figure of some note in the Bontal for over sixty years, the old bird’s position demanded a strong showing of piety from the neighboring lords.  As she had delivered most of them into this world, it only seemed honorable to pay their respects.

It also gave Alya and me an opportunity to get out of the castle.  And me the opportunity to renew our acquaintance, and perhaps our intimacy, as Briga had suggested.  As fascinating as my work had been, lately, Alya had been getting a bad case of castle fever with all of the snow and rain.  When word came of the funeral, a few days after the Feast of Briga (a grand blow-out for the official dedication of the new temple; to celebrate I paid for my dad to distribute free pastries to all, which made me very popular with both him and the people) it seemed an outstanding time to leave the children with the servants and get out of Sevendor.

Festaran arranged for my new carriage to be made ready.  I’d ordered it after returning from Kasar, having walked far more than I’d ever intended to in this life.  It was as grand and elaborate as the carriager’s art could make it, then further enhanced with enchantment to make it even more comfortable and convenient.  Outside, it looked like any other ostentatious baron’s coach.  But the Spellmonger’s wain must have proper amenities.

In addition to Joppo the Root, the coachman, and two footmen, we also included a second coach for Sister Bemia and her acolytes, which they shared with a few of the castle ladies who wanted to pay their respects.  A third open wain was used for baggage, and two packhorses provided for the six men-at-arms we were taking as a bare escort.  Sir Festaran himself was coming, ostensibly on behalf of his father, but mostly to act as my diplomatic agent.  He had met and spoken with each of the principals, and had at least a modicum of their trust.

I also included Dara with the party.  As both my apprentice and the only native Sevendori noble, I thought it was important for her to be seen at the occasion.  She was growing into a striking young woman, and her reputation spanned the kingdom.  But as I wanted to keep a low profile, I made her ride a horse, not a hawk.  She didn’t seem to mind – she rode knee-to-knee with Festaran the entire way, Frightful on a specially-made block in front of her on the saddle.

It was a cold morning as the horses struggled over Caolan’s pass, and even in the magically-heated confines of the carriage you could still see your breath a little.  The pass itself was a lot easier for the horses to make than it had been four years ago, when we had first come to Sevendor.  After the Warbird’s siege we had been steadily working to improve the tiny pass as an access point to the vale, making it both more defensible and easier to manage.

The pass had been widened considerably, with large chunks of rock removed by magic and rendered into usable building stone.  The Karshak laid foundations of snowstone for the new defensive work, but the rest of the labor was being done by Master Nandol, the mason from town.  That meant that the work went more slowly, but it also went a lot more inexpensively for me.  Nandol’s entire crew of fifty was cheaper than a dozen Karshak doing the same work.

Not that Nandol had been without clients – Sevendor’s building boom had made him a comparatively wealthy man – but there was some resentment lingering about employing Master Guri’s lodge to build the new castle.

Master Nandol, for all of his skill as a human mason, just did not have the capacity or the resources to accomplish even a tithe of the construction within his lifetime.  The resentment had turned into a good-natured rivalry, with even Master Nandol himself acknowledging the debt he owed to the Karshak for teaching his men their techniques.  They were content to practice them on the pass fortification, and eager to rival their nonhuman competitors even if that was fairly unlikely.

Work slowed somewhat in the winter, but by employing a hired enchanter using Bricking wands and other construction spells, the wall that would guard the gap was nearly ten feet high, now.  Eventually it would be twenty, and ten feet thick at the base.  Once completed it would be crenellated with machicolations – an extravagance for a normal castle, much less a frontier fortification, but I could pay for it.  Four turrets would allow a second tier of archers to defend the pass above the wall.  The foundations of the tower that would one day overlook the pass and provide a third tier of archers were already laid, but priority had been given to completing the wall, with possibility of war looming in the Bontal.

We made a mandatory stop at the station that the Westwoodmen ran at the pass.  It was a temporary hall, until the tower complex was completed, but they had whitewashed it and laid out a receiving area for travelers, including a small shrine to Herus to welcome them to Sevendor . . . and a stark stone cell to detain them, if necessary.

The snowflake banner, white on green, flew from a half-dozen places, and the white hawk on Sevendor green was featured at least twice.  That was Dara’s device, forced on her by her own people out of their pride for her.  She tried to ignore it, when we stopped to use the privy and greet the captain of the guard . . . but that was hard to do when a line of Westwoodmen rangers and every other attendant to the station suddenly stopped what they were doing and bowed to Dara . . . and me and Alya.

But it was Dara they were really honoring, it was clear, when I helped Alya out of the carriage.

“My Lady Lenodara, welcome to the pass,” said the captain of the guard – who I finally recognized as her eldest brother, Kyre.  He had grown a beard since the last time I saw him, and it added years to his appearance.  So did the armor he wore.

“Captain,” Dara nodded, from horseback, blushing furiously at the sudden display.

“Would you like to review the guard, my lady?” he asked, smirking.

“I can see them from here,” she dismissed, embarrassed.  “Really, Kyre, do you have to be such an ass?”

“They are merely paying legitimate respect to a beloved leader,” Alya called to her.  “You’ll get used to it.”

“I’m his godsdamned little sister!” she fumed.  “I’m not his—”

“Liege lord?” I finished.  “Perhaps not technically, yet, but one day that may be true – best you both get used to the idea.”

“Me?” she asked, in disbelief.  “But I’m a mage!”

“Magelord,” I corrected.  “Regardless of your training status, that is still true.  Who do you think I can depend upon to protect the snowstone reserves in the Westwood?  That is where most of it lies.  The Master of the Wood already has a great responsibility for running the estate.  It would be unfair to saddle him with the additional burden of stewardship over that great resource.  That is the proper responsibility of a noble . . . and a mage.  Who better than Lady Lenodara the Hawkmaiden?”

“Hawklady,” corrected Alya, “or she will be soon.  Have you given no thought to marriage, Dara?” she said, half-teasing.

“I’m an apprentice!” she protested.  “I don’t have time for romance, I work for a living!”  Frightful was glaring at us both.

“You won’t be an apprentice forever,” I reminded her.  “Tyndal and Rondal passed their exams, and in truth you are nearly ready to, yourself—”

“The hells I am!” she sputtered.  “By the Flame!  Master, you overestimate my abilities and my knowledge!  Sure, I can fly, and wave a wand, run the Knife, and run errands, and if you want to know which hoof is bothering your horse, I’m your girl . . . but I am a long way from being ready for my exams!  I barely understand thaumaturgy, all this enchantment crap is confusing as six hells, and by the Flame if I ever will be able to tell the difference between Old High Perwynese and Middle Perwynese, I’ll count it as a legitimate miracle from Briga, herself!”

“Don’t think I couldn’t arrange that,” I warned, half-jokingly.  “My point, dear girl, is that you won’t be a dear girl forever, and your country has need of you.  Yes, you will serve more of your apprenticeship, but know that you cannot be a child forever.  Or even a maiden.  Adult responsibilities loom,” I said, in an exaggerated voice.

Screwing with your apprentices’ heads is half of the fun of having them.  The free work is the other half.

“And you are not without admirers,” Alya said, her eyes glancing toward Festaran, “and perhaps even suitors.  If not yet, then soon.  What then, Lady Lenodara of Westwood?  A short excursion into the countryside next to a handsome gentleman has been known to kindle a spark in the heart of a maiden . . . plenty of opportunities to be alone with someone . . .”

“I . . . I . . . I’m going to go pee,” Dara said, her mood crashing down dangerously.  “And while so employed, if any considerations of my future happen to occur to me, know that I will deal with them in the appropriate manner . . . in the privy!” she said, nastily.  As she stomped off she glared at poor Sir Festaran angrily.

“That was . . . kind of mean,” I observed, without judgment.  “But entertaining.”

My lady wife smirked.  “I owed Gareth a favor.  This place has certainly changed since the last time you were up here,” she said, glancing at the growing wall.

“The view has, too,” I said, nodding back toward our home.  The castle glowed prettily in the distance, the stubby mass of the new gatehouse starting to loom behind it, both dwarfed by the raw, rocky expanse of snowstone that was Rundeval.

To the left, plumes of smoke from the many hearths of Sevendor Town floated in the cold wet air over the sprawling municipality.  The town now filled the old Commons and every scrap of land of the old village – there was nary a trace of it left - and was spilling over into what had once been marginal farmland at its limits, within the hedgewall the town had erected.

The gleaming dome of the Temple of Briga shimmered with the heat of the Everfire escaping its open roof, and the spire to the new Temple of Huin was growing under a wooden scaffolding nearby.  You could just see the towers of Mage’s Row, where the Arcane Orders chapterhouse, the Secret Tower, and the Enchanters Guild boldly defined the horizon, with the comparatively squat Rat Trap just visible.

It was a pretty town, particularly when it was decked with snow.  I saw Alya shiver a bit, and moved behind her to enwrap her in my cloak . . . and my arms.  She sagged into me, and we enjoyed a moment of quiet contemplation of all that we had built together.

“Not bad, Spellmonger,” she whispered.  “It’s nice to step back and see it all at once,” she said, nodding with satisfaction.

“We’re just getting started,” I assured her.  “By the time he’s old enough to care, Minalyan will have quite the legacy.”

“They all will,” she nodded.  “Now, let’s see if we can keep you out of any more wars for a while so that you can watch them enjoy it.”

“I really don’t want to get involved in Sendaria’s expansion,” I agreed.  “I’ve already told Arathanial no to a direct alliance, privately, and so has Trestendor.  But we’re both allowing him to hire mercenaries here, if any want to march under their banner.  That and a little behind-the-screen intelligence should be more than enough to pacify him.”

“He’s not going to like this acquisition of yours, if we can execute it,” she warned.  “He sees all of this as Lensely territory, properly.  If we go buying it up, he can’t re-conquer it himself.”

“It’s a handful of mountain domains,” I reasoned.  “He’s after the big, fertile valley between Sashtalia and Rolone.  He’s a Riverlord, he thinks in terms of arable land.  He won’t mind losing a few marginal estates held by hill lords of dubious loyalty.  They’re more trouble to conquer than they are rewarding to rule.”

“I do hope Arathanial sees it that way,” she said, sounding doubtful.

The journey down the other side of the pass and into Sashtalia was relatively uneventful.  At this time of year not even the mountain bandits strayed far from their hideouts, and the peasantry and freeholders were content to stay close to their hearths.

Alya and I had a lot of time to talk on the way.  Too much time.

I thought I did a pretty good job of keeping things light for the first few hours, but after that we’d exhausted the topics of business and children, political speculation and castle gossip, and things were getting dangerously close to discussing our relationship when we stopped for lunch.  Dara’s antics in regards to Sir Festaran were the topic for a while that afternoon, as the girl couldn’t make up her mind to be insulted or flattered at the idea the young knight might want to get her alone, and we took the usual perverse delight in dissecting her young love in the light of our mature experience.

But that light-hearted conversation soon turned to our own first trials at the game of love.  I admitted my string of affairs with the village girls back at Talry, and how I had plied my journey to the magical academy into a wave of attraction.  She told me about some innocent fumblings at Boval’s late summer festival with a lad from Wynakur she had never seen again.  Both recollections brought back warm memories and guilty smiles.

But that’s when her expression changed.  “Min, what happened at the Magic Fair?”

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

“You’ve been different, since then,” she said, her voice heavy with concern.  “Distant, even.”

“I’ve been working—”

“I know you have been working,” she said, holding up her hand.  “And yes, the Snowflake is pretty, but you’re rarely down there.  You’ve worked before, and not been this way.  You come to bed late, or sometimes not at all, and when you do, we . . . well, you haven’t been touching me as much,” she said, guiltily.

“Alya, I—”

“Let me finish,” she said, and I held my peace.  “I’m sure you have a lot going through your mind these days, with Pentandra getting married and the Alka Alon all but disappearing on us.  This war certainly isn’t helping.  And then there’s that big snowflake thing you’ve been sneaking off to.  I know your profession is a demanding one,” she said, forestalling another interruption before I could make it, “but a wife knows when there is something troubling her husband.  You know in his touch.  In his kiss,” she said, with a slight hiss.

I just stared at her.  I desperately wanted to confess all of it to her, to tell her the bare truth and spare her nothing, if only to unburden my conscience.  But to do so would be to inflict pain on her most cruelly, I knew.  Not to mention the fall in esteem I would suffer in her eyes.

A lesser man would have used it as an excuse to rebuke his wife, and quiet her questions with anger – but my father had not taught me that way.

“Alya, I do have a lot on my mind,” I agreed.  “Some of it I cannot share with you, right now. That’s to protect you and the children,” I promised.  “Not to keep you from knowing.  There have been threats,” I offered.  “I am dealing with them.  Some are kind of insubstantial, at the moment, but I am taking steps to counter them.”

“Who?  The Censorate? Or whatever they’ve turned into?”

“They’re the Arcane Knights of Nablus, I think we can quit worrying about them, for now,” I assured her.  “They’re just trying to survive.  This is more of a political problem.  Kingdom-level politics.”

“Aren’t I already involved, as your wife?” she countered.

“This is more Order-related than feudal,” I decided.  It couldn’t hurt to give her a peg to hang my worry upon, even if it wasn’t quite on the mark.  “Dunselen.  His marriage has caused waves.  So has Pentandra’s resignation,” I added, which was true.  “With me confined to my lands, it’s allowed a lot of smaller players to start exercising their power.  It’s just complicated,” I sighed.  “Not that you couldn’t understand it, but it’s banal to the point of frustration.”

“Dunselen wants to be head of the Order,” she proposed.

“The power-broker, at least.  For now.  His new wife has a nasty reputation as a political infighter, too – she cut her teeth on it at the Ducal court, and she was instrumental in helping establish the monarchy.”

“And Dunselen was her reward?” Alya snorted.  “It sounds more like she screwed up!”

“There’s a lot more to it than that, and other players at work.  But yes, it has troubled me.  Worried me.  The two of them are decidedly up to something.  For all of their smiles, it makes me anxious that there are people in the world who would want to hurt you and the children to get at me,” I said, which was as truthful and sincere as possible.

“Just remember that I’m not some fainting flower of the Riverlands,” she reminded me, arching an eyebrow.  “I am a tough Wilderlands woman who isn’t going to run shrieking to my chamber if there’s danger.”

“I know,” I said.  “I just don’t want that to even be a possibility.  We’ve worked too hard.”

“We’ve worked too hard to allow something like that to interfere with our happiness, too,” she reminded me.  “I’m your wife.  Together we can face anything.”

As grateful as I was for the validation it gave me, part of my heart cringed with guilt over lying to her – or at least not being entirely honest with her.  That pained me more than the actual infidelity.  I reached out and brought her hand to my mouth for a kiss.

“Not even Ishi herself could tempt me away from you,” I said.  And it was the utter truth.

*

*

The Holy Mount Abbey had been founded by two sisters of Trygg two hundred years earlier, during the rise of the Lensely family.  Originally it had been a simple shrine to the Mother Goddess, associated with a local legend of some divine birth or other, set among a hilltop orchard of apples.  The hill was encroached by larger hills all around, and generally unsuitable for tilling, but there were near thirty acres of apples and meadows within the estate.  I hear they made a smashing cider.

The Birthsisters of Trygg were granted the estate and given an endowment to build a temple by a grateful Lensely lord of nearby Fistalia, and ever since Holy Mount Abbey had been the center of training for midwives and medical issues of a feminine nature, as well as a place of worship.

There were fifteen priestesses in residence, now, including several who had sought retirement from the demands of midwifery here.  There were thrice that number of initiates and novices, and there were also a few crones of noble houses who had taken to the abbey to live out their remaining years.

The abbey itself was a cluster of buildings in a circle around the Temple, a sturdy three-story rustic structure of painted wood, featuring symbols of the Mother Goddess everywhere.

We were somewhat late in arriving, as most of the local lords had already shown up to pay their respects.  Sister Bemia was kind enough to introduce us to the sitting abbess, a wizened but plump old woman named Birthmother Salia.

“So you’re the Spellmonger everyone’s been gossiping about,” she said, peering at me cautiously over rosy cheeks.  Too rosy, I realized.  Mother Salia was drunk.  “Birthsister Bemia writes of your generosity often.  It is . . . uncommon for a lord, particularly a baron, to choose a chaplain from our order; usually they prefer Luin’s lawbrothers, or even a priest of Huin.”

“I am properly grateful of my children,” I agreed.  “It would be impious of me not to show my gratitude by honoring the priestesses of the All Mother.”

“Well spoken, young man!” she said, and I caught a whiff of the fumes on her breath.  Spirits – but then, it was a funeral.  “Trygg’s blessings on your marriage and your children,” she said, raising her hand in benediction.  “Were that there were more properly devout lords in the Bontal, these days!”

The funeral was a morose affair.  One visiting local dignitary after another got up and eulogized the old crone – Mother Rathela – recounting one sharp-tongued encounter after another.  Six lords she had brought into the world laid her to rest within the crypt beneath the temple.  Dozens of visiting priestesses did likewise, until I nearly felt the irritated spirit of the dead nun glaring down at us for making such a fuss.  Finally the last dried flowers were packed over the body, the stone lid to the sarcophagus sealed, and the crypt floor replaced.  One final hymn to the glory of the All Mother and we broke for a reception.

The reception was the real reason I was here.  The grand hall of the temple complex was bedecked in black mourning streamers and laden with dried flowers and herbs.  Several young women played instruments as nuns and noviates mingled with the guests, working the room with the practiced precision of professional clergy.  No doubt they would receive generous donations from several of the lords before they left. Some of the noviates were quite pretty.

But Festaran had quietly arranged to secure an out-of-the-way chamber for our use where we wouldn’t be disturbed or overheard.  Alya’s job was to hold forth in the hall and keep people from noticing we were missing.  After leading Dara and me there, he went back to start quietly informing the others where to meet me.  I had Dara cast wards and then loose Frightful to ensure that we were not disturbed.

One by one the lords filed in, introduced themselves, and took a seat around the fire.  I had hung a magelight overhead to illuminate the gloomy chamber and impress upon them that I was no mere up-jumped baron.

Their attitudes ranged from wary to merely cautious to overtly friendly.  Sir Hanthan of Uwaridor and Sir Lothal of Barat were both cautiously optimistic about an alliance.  As tenant lords they made little enough for their labors, as Sashtalia imposed a heavy tribute on each fief, which left little enough for the resident lords.  Neither one was a personal friend of Trefalan or his inner circle of Riverlords.  But they feared the retribution usually meted out for a tenant who did not defend his master’s lands.

More wary was Lord Infelan of Binador.  One of his younger brothers had accompanied him to the funeral with a large party of guards.  Sire Infelan had listened to Festaran’s proposal with interest, but as a titled lord he had more to lose than just his head, if Sashtalia came against him for breaking his allegiance.  His lands would be forfeit to his liege, if he could not hold them against him.

Sire Antalan of Karador’s court robes donned for the occasion looked threadbare, and he had arrived with but four attendants on horse, no carriage. He was friendly enough when he entered the hall, greeting his fellow lords warmly and bowing respectfully to me.  Sire Grem arrived right afterward.  He seemed interested, but so dour in nature that it was difficult to tell if he was in favor or opposed to the idea of shifting allegiance.  He eyed the other lords warily as he took a seat.

Sire Ulry arrived last, looking hesitant as he entered the hall.  He nodded respectfully to the other lords, but kept his peace otherwise.

“My lords,” I said, after I had poured them each a glass of wine personally, “I have yet to make your acquaintance in any real way, but it seems to me that your domains could find themselves in dire straits, come summer.”

“Baron Arathanial has been threatening to invade Sashtalia for thirteen years,” Sire Grem said, gruffly.  “What makes you think he’s finally going to do it?”

“Because he has informed me so himself,” I told them.  “He’s been hiring mercenaries and drilling his men relentlessly all winter long.  He is serious enough about the endeavor to invite Sevendor into a war alliance against you.”

“Sevendor?” asked one of the tenant lords, startled.  “Is this a trick?”

“I declined,” I assured them.  “I have no real ambitions for conquest, and my people have seen enough war the last few years.  Yet war in the Bontal is inevitable.  Come Duin’s Day, Arathanial will declare it, and right after that Trefalan will call his banners.  Each of you owes at least forty days of service, some perhaps more, for this year.  And in my professional opinion, this is a war Sashtalia will likely lose.  If you do not fall on the battlefield, then you will have to contend with being conquered yourselves.”

“What makes you so certain that Arathanial will be victorious?” asked Sire Antalan, curious.

“Because, among other factors, his vassal Sire Cei the Dragonslayer will be among his forces, a mage knight of some repute,” I said, casually.  “No man in this room can stand against Sire Cei.  No man in Sashtalia.”

“He is but one man,” began Grem.

“Among a host of nearly five hundred lances,” I finished.  “In addition to two companies of mercenary archers, and whatever other forces Arathanial has been able to hire.  Oh,” I said, as an afterthought, “that also includes about a third of the Warbird’s old army.  Remember that Sendaria now claims four domains of his.  Strong ones, too,” I added.  “I am not privy to the battle plan, but one doesn’t have to resort to prophecy to realize that Sashtalia faces a war on at least two fronts.”

“So what would you have us do about it?” demanded Sire Ulry.  “I have no love for Trefalan, and I have no love for battle.  But I am an honorable man.”

“Then honorably protect your people,” I urged.  “I propose that all of you – at one time – refute your allegiance to Sashtalia.  Before Duin’s Day,” I stressed – for a vassal could not legally abandon his lord in a time of war.  “Once you are under Sevendor’s protection, you may sit back and watch the lances of Sendaria and Sashtalia cross without concern as to the victor.”

“You think Sevendor could resist Sashtalia?  Excellency, I’ve heard amazing things from Sevendor, since you took power there, some I scarce would credit as true,” Sire Antalan said.  “And your reputation for warfare is beyond repute.  But Sevendor is still but a mountain domain.  How many lances can you put against Sashtalia in our defense?”

“Sevendor measures its might by wands, not lances, and of those I have a sufficiency to keep Trefalan at bay, in the unlikely event he prevails this summer.  If you swear fealty to Sevendor, you would be extended the same protections all of my other client fiefs enjoy.  Your castles would be strengthened by magic, and your lands made prosperous with enchantment.”

“High words,” Sire Grem said, his stonefaced expression matching his gravelly voice. “You speak of magic and enchantment.  Yet I fear the swords of Sashtalia.”

“Do you fear the pain of tribute, as well?” I challenged.  “Under Sevendor, your tribute would be reduced to half of what it is.  Sire Trefalan is known to keep his mountain fiefs overtaxed to keep them too weak to rebel.  But this is not rebellion, gentlemen,” I said, encouragingly, “this is the opportunity to avoid a war you will lose, and keep the lands that you hold.  Without reprisal,” I promised.  “Any action taken against one of my sworn fiefs would be met with swift retribution . . . and I think Sire Trefalan is too wary to enlist another enemy against him, when he is already overmatched.”

“It is an opportunity, my lords,” Sire Antalan insisted to his fellows.  “Do you not see that?  The Spellmonger is known to be favored by the gods – have you not heard of the miracle of the Everfire?  Or of the enchanted white mountain?  Of the giant hawks which overfly its skies and the commerce to be found there?  We have an opportunity,” he insisted, “to throw off the yoke of Sashtalia and forge something better for ourselves!”

“What if you do invite Trefalan’s wrath?” asked Infelan.  “To betray one lord to escape a war, only to fight against him in another is foolishness!”

“I pledge to you now,” I said, softly, “If you take up the Snowflake and Trefalan marches against Sevendor, your lands and people will be excused from its defense.  You will instead receive aid from us to strengthen your own.”

“We were told there would be a money payment,” Sir Hanthan said.  “Your young castellan assured me that you would pay good gold for our service.  Not promises.”  It was a statement, not a question.

I murmured a word and summoned one of the six bags I’d prepared from the hoxter pocket in my necklace.  It fell to the floor in front of Sir Hanthan with the unmistakable clink of gold.

“Every ounce that was promised,” I said, nodding to the bag.  “Newly minted royal currency.  I have one for each of you.  And additional aid, as needed, to repair your destitute domains.  The Spellmonger comes not as a conqueror, gentlemen, but as an ally.  I’d be willing to buy some of your estates outright, as well.  And you would have the rare distinction of being considered magelands,” I added.

“Magelands?  What talk is this?” Sire Grem said, with a dismissive snort.  “I am a knight, by Duin’s Axe, and the only reason I am even entertaining this plan is because once I’ve spent my strength at war this summer my northern neighbor will be raiding me bare by autumn.  I have no need of wizards, Baron,” he said, just this side of respectfully.  “I have need of real might to defend me from my foes.  Giant hawks?  Wands?  Bah!  Tales of wonder are born from the cups of drunks,” he said, shaking his big fuzzy head.  “The hills are full of hawks – how are we to know their size in the air?”

“I’ve seen one,” Lord Ulry admitted.  “They are as large as any horse.”

“Larger,” I agreed.  “Our skyriders’ steeds have forty-foot wingspans, and can pluck a destrier from the field and drop it from a hundred feet in an instant,” I said, painting a picture for their narrow minds.  “Our warmagi toppled castles that had stood a hundred years – not in weeks, with siege equipment, but in an hour.  My folk faced a hundred times their number of gurvani in the Wilderlands and lived to speak of that danger.  And of conventional forces, I have a goodly number of lances to call upon, at need.  As well as staunch allies . . . some of whom you might not suspect.”

“Words,” Lord Grem said, shaking his head.

“Gold,” I said, manifesting his sack in front of him from a hoxter.  I did to each of the lords in turn, until they were all sitting there, staring speechlessly at the bags between their feet.

“And just to sweeten the bargain . . . Sire Antalan, Sevendor will purchase three hundred ingots of copper, at fair market price, and grant you license to sell in our market.  Sire Infelan, I will be happy to purchase either or both of your younger brothers’ estates, and further will sponsor your youngest with armor, horse, and retinue for tournament season, this year, if he bears the Snowflake on his shield.  Sire Ulry, I would like to garrison – at my expense – a mercenary company of archers in your lands, should you take my service, to help ensure your continued security.

“Sir Hanthan and Sir Lothal, you have the option of continuing as lords tenant of your respective domains or taking service as officers in my army.  Conversely, I will pay you fifty ounces of gold if you desire to walk away from this sordid affair and find a more peaceful estate, elsewhere.

“And Sire Grem,” I said, turning to face the dour man before he could object, “Gold I will give you, in return for your oath of fealty, but I will also pay to have your keep restored to its proper glory.”  Sir Festaran had learned that the man’s biggest weakness was for his decrepit family castle, a modest keep with a beautiful view that was crumbling after two generations of vicious taxation.  “I will make it a castle that none of your neighbors will ever assail.  I swear this in front of your fellow lords.”

I turned one final time and surveyed them all.  “It is your choice, my lords.  Stay with Sashtalia and risk losing all and finding yourself under the banner of Sendaria . . . or take refuge under the Snowflake banner, and begin enjoying the benefits of being a mageland.

“But your strength is greater together, than apart.  Discuss it as you will . . . and any of you who wish to decline my offer, simply walk away from the gold at your feet and ride back to your lands,” I suggested.  “Death in battle guarantees Duin’s notice in the afterlife.  Or that’s what I hear.”

Chapter Sixteen

Amel Wood

We didn’t immediately return to Sevendor after the funeral.  We were only a few miles away from one of the two fiefs that King Rard had given me when he made me a baron, to complicate my life.  Amel Wood was a tiny strip of land in the rolling foothills, a wooded tract with a small village with a single rustic manor.

The domain had been in the hands of the Duchy for years, and hadn’t even had recourse to a tenant lord for much of that time.  Amel Wood had been one of the tiny estates the Lenselys’ gifted their loyal retainers at the height of their rise, and at one point there had been a substantial logging operation here, as the towns in Rolone and Avanal, the two large, prosperous domains to the north, grew.  There had even been a small sawmill here, once.

But when the demand for timber was filled, times in Amel Wood grew hard.  The knight who owned title to it went deeply into debt and eventually surrendered it to the Coronet in lieu of tribute.  Thus it had languished, lordless, for twenty years until Rard decided I needed a scenic wooded lot in enemy territory.

I felt obligated to visit the place, as we were so close, and I had no pressing engagements elsewhere.  I was still, technically, on my own lands, so I was not violating my Duke’s wishes.  And it felt good to be away with just Alya . . . and a half-dozen retainers. I sent Dara and Sir Festaran back to Sevendor with Sister Bemia and her nuns, and continued on with just the coachmen and the guards.

Amel Hall was at the top of a steep rise.  I could see why no one had bothered attacking the place for two decades – the grade up the hill was ferocious, and it would only take a few archers to discourage anyone from attempting it.  The road was a mere track, just barely wide enough for our coach.  The horses struggled up the mile-long track until we came to the broad meadow in front of the picturesque little village.

Amel Village was home to two hundred hardy woodsmen who eked out a meager existence on the fringes of Sashtalia.  Most of the domain was steep and rocky, requiring a certain expertise to harvest the big oaks, hickories, and elms that grew in such abundance on the slopes of the hills.  There were a few gardens, but only one small field of barley, that I could see, and two others lying fallow.

The village itself was enclosed by a rough stockade of logs, boulders and soil, though the broad wooden gate was broken and propped open.  About two dozen round wooden cottages surrounded the stone walled manor, with the ancient refuge tower looming behind it.  The single fortification on the domain was an ancient five story tower with a square stone base and a wooden peak, and it was used more for spotting fires than defending the manor.  Everything else seemed reasonably neat and tidy, and the folk friendly-looking enough, though we got some curious looks as our wain arrived in the manor’s yard.

The folk of Amel Wood were good-hearted, if a little insular and suspicious.  But they knew their duty, and when I presented myself and Alya as their new lord they gave us all due respect.  They were understandably wary – apart from a few messengers from their new lord, there had been little contact or oversight since I had taken title.  I had discussed the matter with Sire Cei after my investiture, and he had advised a slow approach.

But now I was here, and real, not some distant lord administering the estate from afar.  I did my best to be both lordly and friendly, attempting to impress them with my power as well as re-assure them that I had their best interests at heart – not lining my own pockets with the meager result of their labors.

Alya did most of the work for me.  She was wearing a light green travel gown under a dark green velvet sideless surcoat embroidered with tiny snowflakes, and a richly-made wimple enwrapped in silk and thread-of-gold.  Her friendly face bore a practiced smile as she met her new subjects for the first time, and her ability to appreciate the common folk’s perspective as well as articulate her nobility made her adept at winning the Ameli’s admiration.

That’s not a little thing.  I’d witnessed how other noblewomen interacted with their subjects, and there was usually an unbreakable screen of formality that kept solid relationships from developing.  But Alya had learned a different way.  She first established her nobility with an expression of formality, then continued with the expected polite inquiry regarding children’s names and ages. But then she added a question or a comment, usually of delight or admiration, that a typical Riverlord would have found scandalously informal.

It cast the spell.  Her willingness to look at her subjects and see beyond their status and potential revenue and see them as people, with lives and loves and hopes and dreams, gave her a connection to her subjects that inspired loyalty most Riverlord noblewomen could not match.  It had been easiest with the Bovali immigrants to Sevendor, of course – they were her people.  But she had applied the same approach to the Westwoodmen and the other Sevendori, and then had perfected it the few times she had visited our new domains.

At Amel Wood, I got to see it up close, and it impressed me all the more.  She took her time and chatted with the toothless village women about the things that they cared about, asking dozens of questions and being generous with the praise and the compliments.  Within a half-hour she was chatting with the village women like they were old friends at market, not liege lord and subjects.  Within two hours everyone there was proud to call themselves Sevendori, to follow such a magnificent lady.

As for my part, I met with the village headman and his counselors – the four old farts who actually ran things.  I produced a bottle of decent wine from a magical pocket and poured them each a glass – a cheap local vintage, but more than they’d tasted on festival days.  It was a gesture of respect Cei had coached me on, and it invited them to be candid with me.

Once I got past the obsequiousness most peasants display around their lords, I was able to find out some basic useful information about my holding, things not in the parchmentwork I had on the place.  It was comprised of seventy-odd acres spread out over two large hills and two small ones.  North of the property the land evened out into the fertile rolling hills of the Sashtali Vales, and south the country got progressively hilly and rocky as you got closer to the central Uwarri Range.

The manor was arranged at the vale between the largest hilltop and the next-largest, on the southern slope.  There was a smaller settlement to the south, a mere undefended hamlet that supported the forestry operations in the area, and a scattering of freeholding families who had tiny hill farms on the estate.  Most of their trade was done either with the nuns of the abbey or with the other mountain estates in the area.  Sometimes they could supply good building timber to Sashtalia in the north, but there were plenty of wooded tracts in that country, so there was only rarely a call for it.

Sevendor, however, needed the wood.  Seventy acres of forest, if properly conserved, could provide a steady stream of timber and fuel to my domain.  The Westwoodmen were already jealously guarding their forest, and while I was taking much of my tribute from my vassals in the form of lumber for construction, there was always a shortage.  Seventy acres wasn’t an inexhaustible supply, but it would certainly add to my resources.

Master Tobal, the headman, looked pleased but wary when I proposed increasing timbering operations – that would mean more money – but started to look troubled when I discussed other plans for the domain.  Like rebuilding the tower into a respectable residence, properly fortifying it, and inspecting the meager armory.

It didn’t take long.  Four spears and two short swords, all rusty; a single damaged suit of ringmail and a rusted pot helmet.  Tobal shook his head at my interest.

“Begging your pardon, Magelord,” he mumbled, “but my folk aren’t warriors.  We’re hunters.”

“Do you hunt with pillows?  You can use bows, can you not?”

He sighed.  “Aye, that we can.  At need I can put twenty good archers in the field.  I was hoping that would not be our fate, though.”  The other men nodded, guiltily.

“War will come to Sashtalia this spring,” I warned.  “Sevendor will not be participating by design, but that does not mean that war will not come to us.  I merely wish to provide your folk with a secure defense, not send them into battle.  Raids, mistakes, moments of anger that can lead to disaster, all of these could lead to the need for a strong refuge and that,” I said, glancing at the rickety old tower, “isn’t it.  I’ll rebuild it, and then provide you weapons and training to defend yourselves.  Proper bows – Wilderlands bows,” I promised, “and some spears and such for basic defense.  But I’m not marching anyone away from home.”

That relieved Toban considerably, and the other elders.  In truth, I didn’t want to use the Ameli as troops – I needed them as woodmen.  The works at the castle, in town and around the ridges might be made of stone, but they required wooden scaffolding and fixtures – a lot of them.  I needed good timbermen, not poor soldiers.  But I also needed a reliable stronghold in this region, if I was going to take control of the six domains between here and Sevendor, and keep them.  Not for troops, but for magic.

As there was no sitting tenant lord to entertain us, we ate with the common folk in the gloomy old manor house.  The fare was simple but well-prepared, and included some meat in our honor.  The stew was good and hardy and thick with dried vegetables, the bread was edible, and the beans were quite tasty.  It was a common meal of the common folk, and we enjoyed it.

But what we discovered the Ameli did have a wealth of was musical talent, particularly stringed instruments.  Between the six or seven families in the village there were several adept fiddlers and harpers who kept us entertained with their amazing skill all evening.

Instead of retiring to the decrepit old tower, I instead summoned Trailblazer and then used it to summon my campaign tent from the Kasari March.  It proved more snug and comfortable than the tower, and far more free of vermin.  With magic to keep us warm and keep us from being overheard, Alya and I enjoyed a comfortably lusty night together.

I could tell she enjoyed being free of her responsibilities and I was happy to have her to myself, without further distractions around.  It reminded me of our honeymoon, what I remember of it.  We were able to close the tent, set the spells to keep us warm, and enjoy a time of insured privacy to indulge ourselves again.

I’ve come to know Riverlords who view their marriages as contractual agreements, business arrangements, political alliances or exercises in legacy building. Sex was an afterthought, a means to an end . . . and the women they wedded understood that.  Lady Estret, for example, understood her marriagability as a young propertied widow was a valued resource to her noble house, and her willingness to submit to the whims of Ifnia and place her virtue in the balance demonstrated this understanding.  It was part of their duty to their class, for which they enjoyed privilege and wealth and security.

It was also understood that where native affection was scant, after duty had been discharged to both parties’ satisfaction, where a lady sought distraction, or a gentleman relief from his cares, was considered a private matter as long as it was discreet.  Lord and Lady exercised their marital prerogatives as needed— enough to satisfy Trygg’s holy ordinances – and then sated their human desires discreetly elsewhere.

In a way, I pitied them.  Alya and I were both from common stock, and our experience with marriage was far more personal.  While castles saw young sons and daughters as assets to be exploited in sustaining and furthering their dynastic aims, the free peasants and the artisan classes were just as pragmatic in approach to their marital institutions as the gentry.  We matched ourselves together in Trygg’s sight with a view toward a happy and complementary marriage, ending in a serene dotage surrounded by our prosperous heirs.

To that end we tended to select our husbands and wives based first on our desires, before vetting our loves for suitability to our profession.  Dad says he married my mother as much for her long, nimble fingers – an asset to kneading dough – as her eyes.  It is only fair to mention that Mama disagrees strongly with this assessment.  I’d tell you what she says hooked him, but filial discretion and abject embarrassment prohibit it.  There are some things you just don’t want to know about your parents.

For those curious how marriage works among the villeins, mostly it doesn’t.  Infidelity is rampant, and marriage is usually the result either of pregnancy or a desperate attempt to escape a poor situation.  Serfs could be directed who to marry by their lords, in some circumstances, and it was a common – and permanent – penalty for civil or criminal infractions.

On ecclesiastic estates it could be mandated by the dictates of the clergy.  Being suddenly assigned responsibility for some woman’s livelihood and debts and property had forced many a poor serf into accepting his lot in life in return for the scant comfort of a shrewish wife.  On the other hand, it had also encouraged more than one lad to take to the frontiers, change his name and seek his fortunes elsewhere.

With my marriage to Alya, it had been her character and intelligence as well as her beauty that had attracted me to her.  I have had many a pretty maid, for money or sport, but the sincerity and intensity with which she had loved me, those first few times, outshone the glamour or youthful beauty of the other girls.  Her wit and reason, as well as her warmth and character, had convinced me that we were, at the very least, kindred souls.  Continuing the relationship during the Siege of Boval Castle had been convenient and pleasant, but it had been her character that had convinced me that she could become a good wife.

I’ve been told, as callously as it sounds, that I have hampered my ambitions dramatically by wedding a poor ignorant Wilderlands girl from the farthest reaches of the Mindens, instead of waiting after my ennoblement to secure a fortunate alliance with a great house of one sort or another – Planus had certainly been in favor of me marrying Pentandra, I’d learned, for instance, as a means of securing power among the Magi of Castal and Remere.

To be fair, that was before he knew Alya, whom he now adores, but his perspective is shared by many colleagues and fellow nobles.

But I’m glad I stuck with my freeholder girl, in retrospect.  While I could have reasonably abandoned her with the other Bovali refugees and gone on to fame and fortune without her, I know for a fact that my current position was owed to her, directly and indirectly, and I was a better man for it.

While a good Riverlord wife would no doubt have helped me navigate the complex aristocratic social rules far better than Alya could, she would have been leading me.  With Alya we were making mistakes together, breaking social rules together, and learning how to be a Magelord and lady together.

That was important.  I didn’t feel judged by her for what I had done as baron, I felt admired.  She didn’t have unrealistic expectations of me – mostly – when it came to our social roles, and even Sire Cei had been forced to don the uncomfortable-looking neck ruff his lady wife had procured at great expense from Castabriel.  It was the latest style, so naturally the Dragonlord had to adopt it first in the Riverlands.

Alya let me wear what I damned well pleased, more or less, and didn’t see our social life as a constant game she had to win.  She deferred to me and supported me as the first Magelord, and repeatedly reminded me that I set the style for our class, I was not bound by it.  Just like a good freeholder wife would do for her husband.

The reason I bring all of this up – and I’ll admit, most of it came from Pentandra’s explanation of marriage and sex to me, when I made the mistake of asking a simple question to an expert -  was because the revelation that Alya had been attracted to me first to mitigate a potential professional fee was bothering me.

I know it shouldn’t have, in the wake of horrible choices I’d made, but it niggled at me even while we were making love tenderly and passionately in my magical pavilion, on my heavily enchanted bed.

“What attracted you to me, first?” I asked as we both lay in repose after the first frantic bout.

She looked up from my chest and blinked.  “Your eyes,” she said, instantly.  “You have the most beautiful eyes . . .”

“Yet that didn’t convince you to tumble me, that first time,” I pointed out.

She giggled. “No!  But they certainly captured my attention.”

“So what did convince you?  That first time?” I asked, innocently.

She thought a moment, then got a wicked look in her eye.  “Honestly?  I was hoping that if I humped you there in the meadow, you’d perhaps overlook any fees for healing up Sagal that he couldn’t afford,” she admitted.  “I felt terribly mercenary about it at the time, but I was also quivering from all of the excitement, so it was easier to convince myself that what I was doing was noble and selfless, not born out of need.”

“You humped me . . . to get out of a fee . . . because that was more noble and selfless than admitting my eyes captivated you?” I asked in disbelief.

She glanced away and considered the matter.  “Essentially,” she agreed.  “Look, you were young and handsome, much more appealing than old Garkesku.  I’d already met you when you visited Hawk’s Reach, that time, and I knew your reputation was solid.”

“I’d only been there six months,” I reminded.  “I hadn’t really gotten started, yet.”

“No doubt.  But you have to appreciate the position of a young widow, back in Boval Vale.  I had my . . . suitors, but mostly they weren’t looking for a trip to the temple.  It’s often assumed that a widow is . . . available, and after my husband died I had plenty of casual offers to take solace in any number of arms.  Any sign of promiscuity could have tarnished my reputation and turned the trickle of bold offers into a flood.  The other women warned me about it, after the funeral.  It had happened to others, through no fault of their own.  Any pleasures I took, I was advised, would have to be with the utmost discretion.”

I stared at her.  “So how often did you exercise this discretion?”

“Not often,” she giggled.  “Oh, I flirted, if it could get me a better deal on our cheese at market.  And there were a few proper suitors after the mourning period was over, and I entertained them as warmly as I could – but there wasn’t much interest, then.”

“Then my beautiful eyes and enchanting charm came along . . .” I said, stretching out on the bed.

“I told you, I was excited by the battle on the road,” she said, rolling her eyes.  “I was grateful for your intervention and your healing of Sagal . . . but I was also worried at the cost.  It seemed a natural conclusion to the day.”

“If a little opportunistic,” I teased.  So Briga had been correct.  And my wife had been honest with me.

Don’t ask me why that was suddenly important.  I’ll admit to feeling a little crestfallen, hearing that she hadn’t been propelled toward me by Fate or True Love or something equally propitious, but at least she hadn’t tried to deny her motivations.  Somehow that made me feel better.

When I asked Pentandra (who else?) about this later, when we were exchanging gripes about our marriages, mind-to-mind, she patiently tried to explain to me that men often had unrealistic ideas about their wives because men tended to love idealistically, and assume that women love the same way.  Women, on the other hand, assume that men love as opportunistically as they do, if they do not study the matter, and that can lead to jealousy and suspicion.  Which was more or less exactly what Briga had told me.

A husband’s ideal view of his wife is a dangerous trap, she explained.  If it is deflated too abruptly, he loses respect for her and becomes bitter and cynical about his wife.  She is, after all, just a woman, like all women.  His willingness to expect some unreachable ideal from her almost always gets disappointed, and that leads to regrets and remorse, among other problems.

I don’t think I had an unreachable ideal for Alya, I pointed out.  I was pretty realistic about her.

She was a widow, she pointed out.  She had already had Trygg’s Rites once, and that took the pressure off, thankfully.  Knowing you, that made her more appealing, I think.  I’m not certain you were up for the responsibility of a virgin bride.  But Min, she stressed, that’s beside the point.  Sure, you had more realistic ideals for your wife when you married her, but they were still ideals.  And you expected her to have similar ideals.  When you found out that her motivations were . . . less pure, it wounded your pride.

I just figured she loved me, I groused, not that she was trying to get out of a fee for service!

And that wounded your pride, she repeated.  You thought that she was overcome by your heroism and professionalism, indicating a deeper character that she could not help but find so admirable that her skirts just flew up on own accord out of respect for your powerful masculinity, she chided.  Min, I know what I’m talking about, here.  You’ve discovered that your wife acted like any other woman might have, and you’re starting to think that perhaps she isn’t as special as you once thought.  I understand.

You make me sound so petty . . .

No, you’re just a man, like any other.  What you need to come to terms with isn’t Alya’s failure to live up to your unrealistic ideals – well, that, too – but understand that, in her opportunistic pursuit of love, she has achieved her goals: a safe place for her family; healthy, beautiful children; and a devoted, adoring husband who just happens to be master of magic in the kingdom.  Position, alliance, security, and she gets laid a lot more than most Riverlord wives.  She loves opportunistically: she found an ideal opportunity, and she’s willing to do just about anything to protect it.

But what about . . . love? I asked, feeling like a miserable twelve-year-old learning about the facts of life for the first time.

Love is what grows after the eagerness of infatuation fades, if you are very, very lucky, she offered, thoughtfully, after a moment’s pause.  Every woman’s idea of Happily Ever After is different, of course, but they almost all include a lasting passionate love.  That is, indeed, an ideal, but that ideal is reached only by carefully and cautiously exploiting opportunities to ally ourselves with a man whose character and abilities can provide that.  And in the course of that exercise, a woman can find herself justifying nearly any act or motive.  A lot like how the military class justifies their conquests and endless private wars.

Are you saying that Alya doesn’t really love me?  That she just found me an ideal . . . conquest?

Oh, you poor boy! Pentandra said, sorrowfully.  You think your wife doesn’t really love you . . . when by all accounts your marriage is the envy of the Riverlands.  Of course she loves you, you dolt!  She loves you as deeply and passionately as any woman has loved a man.  But despite the reams of epic poetry to the contrary, ‘love at first sight’ is infatuation that rarely works out.  Real love only grows over time, as your mate proves their worth to your life and makes your happiness part of their concern.  Does that sound like any baroness we know?

And the sting of my wounded pride? I asked, still feeling a bit let down by the discussion.

You’ll live, if you don’t let it get infected, she chuckled.  You married a real woman, Min.  She’s got faults and flaws and you’ll see more and more of them over the years.  Don’t be an idiot and betray the genuine love she has cultivated for you, her husband and the father of her children, over the imagined slight to your ego, that she didn’t fall madly in love with you the first time she laid eyes on you.  I’ll tell you what Ishi told me, recently.

What was that?

You’ve got a great thing going . . . try not to screw it up.

*

*

The next morning I awoke to singing birds in the forest, and for a brief instant I thought I was back on the Wilderlands march.  But then Alya rolled over and sprawled on my chest in her sleep, and I recalled our very pleasant evening together.  Opportunistic or not, Pentandra was correct: I had a great thing going, and I very badly did not want to screw it up.

My recent troubles had cast a shadow of doubt on my relationship, and for that I blamed both Isily and Ishi – but not Alya.  She had earned my respect and admiration and had been worthy of my love from the start, even if her own motives weren’t as pure.  Understanding a bit better about love, now, I could appreciate just how much she must have adored me to put up with my peculiarities.

I woke her up and we made slow, sweet love that morning, as the manor bustled around us.  With no way anyone could disturb us, nor any chance we’d be overheard, we indulged ourselves in ways that we probably would have thought better of, at home.  But the novel surroundings and the distance from home seemed to possess her, and she responded to my advances with eagerness and inventiveness.

Yes, it was good to be married to such a good wife.

Afterwards we packed up, said our good-byes to our subjects, and promised more visits from the baronial capital in the future.  As a parting gesture, I cut the minuscule money payment of tribute the domain was required to pay me in half, and commuted the rest to payments in magecut lumber and service: from now on, I required at least two Ameli minstrels to attend my court in Sevendor at all time, in three-month rotations, to be liveried at my board.

That was met with gasps of approval – no one had ever recognized the Ameli’s musical talent in such a way, before, as an actual asset.  And the reduction in money payment of their tribute meant the manor could devote far more of its scant revenues to its own maintenance.

“That was fun,” Alya mused, as the carriage began its descent down the hill.  “It was good to get away from home, especially in the winter.  Especially with you,” she added, fondly.

“It was,” I agreed.  “And securing the allegiances of six new domains certainly mixed a little business with pleasure.  Perhaps we can come back in spring – I hear the temple complex looks magical, when the apple blossoms are in full bloom.  They have a minor festival at the time.  Wives who want to conceive visit and make their pleas to Trygg for babies.”

“Was that a hint?” she asked, suspiciously.

I was startled.  “What?  No!   I mean, I didn’t think that was a problem for you,” I said my mind suddenly awhirl.

“It isn’t,” she agreed.  “Not at all, apparently.  I’ve been looking for the right time to tell you this, but . . . you remember that night you finally took me down to the Snowflake?  And then you . . . took me, down in front of the Snowflake?”

“And we got interrupted by Onranion?” I chuckled, recalling the embarrassing moment.

“We got interrupted by that stupid Alka . . . the second time.  The first time was sufficient.  I confirmed it with the nuns.  I’m pregnant again.”

“What?” my mouth said, as my eyes got wide.  “Alya, that’s wonderful news!”  I embraced her instantly, as the implications from the declaration sunk into my poor, tiny mind.

“I was worried you weren’t ready for another one,” she confessed, tearfully, after we finally parted.  “You’ve been so distant, lately, that I thought that perhaps you were growing weary of the responsibilities of family life . . . and I didn’t want you to feel compelled to . . . to . . .”

“Its fine, I’m happy, I promise!” I assured her.  “Another child is always a blessing from Trygg.”

“We’ve just got such a nice little family already, I didn’t want to spoil that with me looking like a melon for the summer,” she confided.    “Minalyan is already jealous of Almina’s nursing, the little scamp, and Min, with three of them . . . they’ll outnumber us!” she said, her eyes betraying more terror at the thought than I think she had intended.

“We’ll hire more servants,” I promised.  “We’ll get by.”

She stared at me, as she wiped her tears away with a kerchief.  “Are you really, truly happy about this?” she demanded.

“I’ve never been happier,” I assured.  “Fatherhood agrees with me, and you do make the absolute most adorable babies in the barony.  We have a big table, Alya,” I reminded.  “We have plenty of room for one more.  Or ten more,’ I added.

She glared at me.  “I am not a brood sow,” she said, darkly, her mood shifting like a spell.  “With Trygg’s blessing I have had two healthy babies, and I might have more.  But ten?”

“That’s not uncommon,” I pointed out, knowing I’d irritated her . . . and perversely enjoying her discomfort.  “I am more than up to the task of siring such a profound dynasty.”

“My lord husband, my baron . . . have you lost your damned mind?”

I shut up.  Proving that wisdom does occasionally manifest with age and experience.

Chapter Seventeen

Sevendor Grows

“This, Minalan, is what I have been working on,” Magelord Olmeg revealed in his deep and sonorous voice as he threw back the cloth covering his creations and revealed them to the magelight that illuminated his dark manor house.

Lying on the pad of raw wool were six small spheres, each no larger than fifty millimeters, and each a bright green, the color of newly-furled leaves in the spring.  “These are the result of my studies this winter.  With the help of the baculus, and access to snowclay and the Everfire, I was able to finally complete the construction of these simple enchantments,” he said, proudly.

“What do they do?” I asked, curious.  This was about as close to “unrestrained enthusiasm” the tall, quiet green mage ever displayed.

“They magically optimize the growth rate of plants in their sphere of influence,” he announced, proudly.  He picked one of the bright green spheres and handed it me.  It was light – clearly hollow – and hummed.

“A pleasant hum,” I nodded.  “I suppose that means it’s happy about being a sphere.”

“The hum is a sonic wave at roughly 3000 cycles per second,” he informed me.  “It optimizes the growth rate.  There’s a number of secondary enchantments to discourage pests.  Another regulates soil water retention, magically holding enough water in the soil to optimize uptake.  Another magically aerates the soil and ensures sufficient oxygen to root systems to keep them properly respirated.  Another regulates beneficial ribosomes to increase the photosynthetic efficiency,” he said, proudly.  “All my skill as a green mage, distilled into this effortless enchantment,” he said, his deep voice awash in wonder.

“Are they all the same?” I asked, curious.

“Goodness, no!  The smaller ones are designed for vegetables and shrubs, the medium size ones are for grain crops, and the largest ones are designed for arboreal settings.  I can customize them even further, if I know the particular crop.  I’ve crafted four of them just to succor those redwood seedlings I’ve started – if things go well, they should be leaping up out of the ground by autumn.”

“Have you tested them?”

“Not yet,” he admitted.  “Even green magic must await the change of seasons.  But I am certain of their powers.  I plan on using them all across the domain.”

“How difficult are they to make?” I asked, curious.

“Oh, not at all, once you work out the particular combination of enchantments needed actually laying them within one of these spheres is elementary, for an enchanter.  They take about an hour each, now that I’ve worked out the groundwork.”

“An hour apiece,” I nodded, “and yet an enchantment that can last for . . . say, how long can it last?”

“Ah, that is the beauty of it,” Olmeg assured me, his big bearded face split wide with a grin.  “Once you enchant it and activate it – you bury them, usually, or would mount them in trees – it uses the natural energy of the earth to power its enchantments.  They take very little, when you use the snowclay,” he pointed out.  “The enchantments involved require very little power to begin with.  Their range is about a mile, but they draw natural energy from within that area, too.  They are self-sustaining.  With these, we can increase the bounty of the land immeasurably . . . forever.”

If my eyes were bulging, he had the good grace not to mention it.  When the wealth of your estates is measured in agricultural output, something like that has serious ramifications for the economy when you talked about increasing yields.  “Just how much would this increase, say, an average wheat field?”

He replaced the sphere and covered it with the cloth again, moving with great deliberation and grace for all his size.  “I would say that it would reduce harvest time by three weeks,” he guessed.  “And I could imagine yields increasing by at least half.”

Coupled with the growing stockpile of plowing rods and other agricultural enchantments I had, this had incredible repercussions for the economy of the region.  I had already been gathering priests of Huin, (under the auspices of Landfather Merton, who ran an ecclesiastic estate and temple in the region) to distribute the rods to his brothers.  It looked like they would be distributing the spheres next year, as well.

That had been Sister Bemia’s idea.  During our trip to the temple I had imposed on her to explain some of the peculiarities of ecclesiastic estates, and how they provided much-needed services for the community in return for pious support.  But each of the sects jealously guarded their rites and prerogatives.

In particular, the spring plowing services were where Huin’s clerical brothers received most of their offerings.  Blessing the plows and the furrows was a major rite for the poor downtrodden peasantry.  Depriving the Temple of Huin of its due through enchantment would, the nun assured me, potentially damage my public image as a pious man.

I was trying to be sensitive to this.  She suggested that instead of challenging the traditional rites of Huin with my magic, I enlist them, instead.  In a few weeks as many monks of the Tiller would be coming to Landfather Merton’s temple, before they scattered across the Bontal Vales, just as last year.  Only this year they would each receive a humble-looking staff engraved with the Tiller’s sigil and various common blessings.  When properly commanded, the rods would – with the priest’s spells – churn the land into neat rows, without need of plow, horse, or sweat.

Merton had been cautious about seeing our demonstration, but he had to admit the utility of the device.  As Huin’s servants constantly preached about the importance of utility and efficiency in the conduct of the Tiller’s sacred rites, and stood up so frequently against abuses of the peasantry by the nobility that they were notorious for starting revolts, it was hard for the abbot to argue against the rods.

But he was thoughtfully cautious, too, and promised only to distribute the enchantments to monks conducting the rites in baronial lands.  At least for now.  Persuading his men to also bury a few of these spheres in strategic locations shouldn’t be too much of a burden, I figured.  Especially not when they could provide Huin’s Bounty so prodigiously.

“You might want to check with Planus – he has all of those vineyards in Remere, and I’m guessing he’d be happy to pay your price for these . . . say, just what is your price for these?”

“Such matters are of little concern to me,” he said with a mighty shrug.  “I have a chest of silver now that I have not spent – why do I need more money?”

“Everyone needs more money, just ask Banamor,” I dismissed with a wave.  We both dug our pipes out of pouches as we settled in front of his lopsided fireplace to discuss business.  “An hour of time is worth coin, and these . . .?”

“I call them Phytospheres,” he replied, as he brought his pipe to life.

“These Phytospheres are too important to make like festival treats for the kiddies.  Say, twenty ounces of silver apiece?  For the grain and vegetables?  Perhaps a little less for the trees – too few lords take forestry seriously, I’m afraid.”

“A frequent complaint of my colleague Master Minnik,’ he nodded, sagely.  “The price seems fair.  I can teach the spell to your hired enchanters, and we can make the spheres in batches of ten or more, if you can clear it with the Flamesisters.”

“They’re likely to be very accommodating,” I agreed.  “It would be amazing if we could have these seeded all over our lands by spring.  If each Sevendori field produced twice its worth, these would pay for themselves in one season.  And perhaps drop the price of grain to something a bit more reasonable.”

“I wish only the folk have the means to feed themselves,” he said.  “I care not for the profit, nor for the glory.”

“Which is why you are an exceedingly rare mage, and the reason I ennobled you,” I admitted.   “What you’ve done with the Tal here is amazing.  They’ve more of a village here than most of the hamlets outside our borders – and they’ve taken up our customs very quickly.  And our language.”

“They are eager to be of service, knowing what the alternatives are.  A good little people, worthy of our protection.”

“Agreed – and giving them sanctuary here has benefitted us all, despite the resistance of the native Sevendori.  But that could have been disastrous, if not for your wise leadership.”

“They regard me fondly,” he said, understating the worshipful respect the Tal showed him by a length.  “They respond to courtesy and respect, just as any creature does.  Their industriousness is admirable.  And their dedication to the land.”

“How do they feel about some of their fellows going aloft?” I asked, curious.  Two of Dara’s best Skyriders were Tal.

“Lan and Pio?” he asked, amused.  “They’re quite the celebrities, in Hollyburrow.  I never thought Dara could convince any of my little friends to try to ride a steed more inclined to eat them than obey them, but she persevered, and the two are quite popular now.  The Skyriders of the Tal Alon,” he chuckled.  “Who could have foreseen that?”

“Dara, apparently,” I nodded.  “Between the both of you, you manage to keep the rest of us in wonderment.”

“We live in a land of wonders,” he said, thoughtfully.  “But I cannot help but be concerned over what those wonders might attract.”

“I have warmagi, for that,” I pointed out.

“You misunderstand me, Magelord,” the big mage said, shaking his shaggy head.  “You have been rightly concerned with those in the kingdom who covet your position, your riches, and your growing power . . . but what of those things naturally attracted to Sevendor because of the snowstone?  Many creatures use magic in their lifecycle.  I have noticed a change in the type and manner of wildlife that frequents these hills . . . and I am not talking about giant hawks.”

“What are you talking about, then?”

“There are plants growing wild within the snow zone that were never seen here, until now,” he offered.  “A few natavia parasitic vines, for instance, and a number of ditomelion flowers – they seek areas of low etheric density, because they need the nightweb to pollinate, and it uses magic to propel itself in the night sky.  The local patterns are changing,” he stated, puffing a billow of smoke as he made his observations.

“Anything I should be concerned with?” I asked, startled.

“Nothing yet,” he admitted.  “But perhaps soon.  It was inevitable, of course, that such a powerful arcane phenomenon would start affecting the natural world around it.  But I fear that it will attract magical predators, or worse plagues on our folk.”

“That sounds disturbing.”

“It should.  But we must be vigilant . . . and when the day comes when your bounty attracts the worst of this world, we shall have to face it.”

I didn’t ask him what he meant.  In truth, I didn’t want to know.

*

*

A week after our return from Amel Wood, we had received messages from each of the six lords, separately, agreeing to take Sevendor’s colors.

There were still a few details to work out.  I assigned one of the tenant lords over to my estates in East Fleria (the other troublesome property Rard had gifted me with) to put him beyond the easy reach of his former master.  The tenant lord of Uwaridor agreed to maintain the holding in return for title to the smallest of the three estates on the domain.  I didn’t balk at the price – if the man was willing to stand and fight for me, I thought it better if he had a good reason to.

For the others, I completed the transactions along with the documents transferring their allegiance officially to the Barony of Sevendor and a specially-made Snowflake banner, and sent them along by trusted messenger in secret to each estate.

A week before Duin’s Day, all of the parchmentwork was done, their new status was registered with the Ministry of Lands and Estates in Wilderhall, and I was ready to send the parties I’d promised to assist the estates with the transition.

In some cases this meant a party of Sevendori soldiers led by one of my knights, to lend support to the new lords if their old liege, Trefalan of Sashtalia, took exception to their betrayal.  In others it was the mere establishing of a warmage in the domain to begin preparing their defenses.  In others it meant wagons of supplies or workmen being deployed.

But a week before Duin’s Day, six new Snowflake Banners flew over the Bontal Vales . . . and more than forty lances would no longer be defending the Sashtali heartland from the region this summer.  Not to mention the shifting frontiers would have an impact on both sides’ strategies in the coming war.

It didn’t take long to get a response from my western neighbor.  Lord Cullien of Rolone himself found his way to my doorstep just days before the Destroyer’s feast day.  He was accompanied by only six men-at-arms, and ridden the entire way himself.

“Spellmonger, what in the name of all of the gods do you think you’re playing at?” he demanded, when I had him attend me in my tower study.

“I made the gentlemen of the Uwarri hills an offer of protection,” I explained reasonably, as I led him to a comfortable chair.  “One they were eager to adopt, considering the harsh tribute they have been expected to pay to the former confederation.”

“Those were loyal knights of Sashtalia!” he exclaimed.

“Not so loyal, actually, when one gives them a reasonable alternative.  Most had deep grievances with Trefalan.  Now, it is not my place to criticize how a man treats his vassals—”

“Indeed it is not!” he agreed, fervently.

“But at the same time, one’s relationships have consequences.  Your lord looked upon them as minor annoyances and spearfodder.  He did not value them.  Just a bunch of ignorant country knights who should feel privileged to fight and die for so noble and splendid a lord as Trefalan of Sashtalia.

“Only those knights felt less loyalty to those who had treated them so poorly for so long.  So when I came along and offered them generous terms to take my banner, it was Trefalan’s fault for not cultivating real loyalty from them.”

“And what can Sevendor offer them that Sashtalia cannot?” he asked, arrogantly.

“Respect, among other considerations,” I pointed out.  “Those men will guard my frontiers, and be treated with the respect such vigilance earns.  They will see their fortunes improve, as I reduce their tribute to reasonable levels.  And they will avoid dying for a lord who finds them irritating in a war they did not want against a foe they have no grievance with.  That, Lord Cullien, is what Sevendor can offer them.  Oh, and magic and enchantment, too.  But respect and gold serves just as well.”

“You realize that there will be repercussions from this rash act,” he warned, daggers coming from his eyes.

“I hope you realize that as sworn domains of Sevendor, each of those lords are under my protection.  Currently,” I pointed out, “Sevendor makes no plans for further expansion.  I have the domains I coveted.  But should any of them be attacked, I would have to reconsider my neutrality in this conflict.”

“What conflict?” he asked.  “There has been no declaration of war, yet!”

“If Sire Trefalan does not expect one to be forthcoming, then he is the only one in the Bontal who doesn’t,” I chuckled.  “Sendaria has made no secret of its desires, or of the force it has built to oppose you.  Facing that kind of army, the last thing you need is another of your powerful neighbors pissed off at you.”

“Powerful?  Sevendor?” he scoffed.  “You have perhaps a hundred and a half lances – Rolone itself boasts as many.  Would you dare risk the might of the Sashtali for six such tiny domains?”

“Considering how the Sashtali mercenaries fared in the Warbird’s Folly, I would suggest you ask them about the condition of Sevendor’s might.  Or perhaps the lords who stood with the Warbird, and lost their keeps as a result?”

“Trickery,” he sneered.  “Making pretty lights is one thing – warfare is another.”

“And I can do both, with equal facility,” I said, calling a bright magelight into existence and then dismissing it just as quickly.  “Test not my resolve in this, or you shall discover the true might of Sevendor.  And likely lose your castle in the bargain.”

“Your entire miserable excuse for a barony couldn’t take Rolone Castle!” he bragged.

He was right to think so.  A succession of warmagi I’d sent to spy on the place as an exercise had given me an idea of what the great keep would require to vanquish it.

Rolone was a six-story round tower keep – known as a “drum keep” – within a ring of stout walls, each of which was guarded by four-story towers at every intersection and vantage point.  It held a garrison of two hundred men on a light day, and the town that sprawled around it had a militia of a thousand that the lord could call upon.  The great round keep had dominated eastern Sashtalia and kept the domains there firmly under the control of their liege.  Only the great keep at Sashtalia, itself, rivaled the place within the confederation.

But magic could do in a day what mighty armies took a year to accomplish.

“My lord, I would wager my magical corps alone could take your castle between dawn and dusk,” I said, with a certain amount of professional satisfaction.  “If we wanted to be careful about it.  We’re used to facing legions of goblins who give no thought to quarter or ransom; we aren’t likely to blanche in the face of a bunch of off-circuit jousters.”

“Off-circuit jousters? The knights of Sashtalia are the finest warriors in the land!”

“They’re not even the finest in the Bontal Vales, much less in the county,” I countered.  “Your own household has seen better days.  Your castellan, Sire Hodwid?  Still nursing a sprained shoulder from last fall, and two of his squires don’t shave yet.  Your head sergeant and Master of Horse are both blind in one eye each and fear to wield a lance.  Your household knights are wearing their tournament armor in protest because they’re pouting about missing the season due to the war, your chief guardsman is terrified of actual battle, six of your men-at-arms are drunkards, and two are new fathers.  A fine bunch of stalwarts you have, guarding your keep,” I nodded.

“You . . . you seem to know an awful lot about my affairs, Spellmonger!” he fumed, his nostrils flaring.

“It’s my job to know things.  It’s your job to bear your master’s messages.  Bear this one: if any man of Sashtalia shall come against my new provinces in any way, I shall take action accordingly.  Including allying myself with Sendaria in any future war,” I warned.  “Is that message understood, my lord?”

“I believe it is,” he said, through gritted teeth.

“Just so that there is no misunderstanding,” I said, handing him the stone I held in my palm, “bear to him this Message Stone, and bid him to clutch it.  He will hear my words as clearly and precisely as if they were from my own lips.”

He regarded the thing warily.  “I will bear no token of sorcery, Mage!” he snarled.

“That’s Magelord,” I corrected.  “And I suspected as much, so I had my words to your master written and sealed as well,” I said, handing him the very legal scroll I had a visiting Lawbrother draw up for me, spelling out my official wrath if there were any reprisals against my legally-taken new lands.  “I take it you have no issue bearing a token of literacy?”

*

*

The morning of Duin’s Day (the dawn services for which I was obligated to attend, even though we didn’t have an actual Priest of Duin – Brother Merton consented to do the Blessing of the Defenders himself) I was walking back to my hall from the castle when my page caught up with me with a message from the Chapterhouse.  From the Mirror Array, actually, the local one I had set up.

It was a brief message from Chepstan Castle, noting that a formal declaration of war had been presented to Sire Trefalan, self-styled Lord of Sashtalia, the renegade region too long sundered from its place as rightful Lensely patrimony, etc. etc.

“Take this to Sir Festaran,” I instructed him, when I read it.  “Have him prepare the garrison for action and notify the watch commanders.  Sendaria just went to war with Sashtalia.”

His eyes got big.  “Magelord?  Will we be fighting?”

“I certainly hope not,” I assured him, “there are far too many chores to be done.  Run along, now,” I urged.  “I doubt we’ll be set upon before luncheon, but a good baron doesn’t take chances.”

He smiled and ran off.  But before I could get inside I was intercepted by Dranus, who was just pulling his cloak on against the chill.

“Magelord!  A word?” he asked with a note of concern that told me it was serious.

“Now that I’m done seeing to the spiritual needs of my warriors, I think I can spare a few,” I said, stretching.  “Come in for some mulled cider?”

“Very gracious of you, Magelord,” he agreed, following me inside the warm and cozy hall.  Though there were heatstones in the house, there was a proper fire laid and I bid him to sit while I scooped up Minalyan and held him on my lap, after checking the state of his diaper.  I called for the Tal butler, Huck, to bring us drinks.  I could smell breakfast wafting in from the kitchen, and my mouth was watering.

“So what is the problem, Dranus?”

“The young boy you entrusted me to test, Ruderal – I have finished my assessments.”

“And is he Talented?”

“Minalan, he is the most Talented individual I have ever seen,” he reported.  “Both generally and within his specialty – enneagrammatic magic.  He has twice my levels.  I know not what his parentage is, but his mother must have been carrying powerful recessives,” he said, shaking his head.  “More, he’s bright – he’s picked up the elements of reading, already.  And he’s extremely sensitive to magical energies of all sorts.”

“How is his character?”  That was a hard thing to judge in a boy on such short acquaintance, but I had come to respect Dranus’ opinion.

“He has a good basic moral sense, but his upbringing and environs has made him a trifle . . . opportunistic.  His Talent is such that, only a few years ago, I would have insisted he be prepared for the Academy.”

“But now?”

“Now I think he will get a better and more thorough exposure as an apprentice in Sevendor.”

“We do have a lot of talented magi running around,” I admitted.  “Perhaps you could take on the boy?”

“Magelord, as you know, I have political aspirations,” my Court Wizard reminded me, unnecessarily.  “Next year I make my case before the barons to become a count.  It is unlikely to proceed without bloodshed.  While I have no problem instructing the boy, to undertake the commitment of an apprenticeship . . .”

“Olmeg’s too busy,” I sighed, “Banamor is too ambitious, Lorcus is off helping the boys in Alshar, Andalnam and Lanse already have their hands full . . . damn it.  It looks like it’s going to be me . . .”

“You’ve produced some remarkable magi, so far,” he encouraged.

“I got lucky.  And they were desperate,” I dismissed.

“Which succinctly describes the situation regarding this lad,” he reminded me.

“You’ve already decided that he’s going to be my apprentice, haven’t you?” I groaned.

“If a Magelord can’t trust the opinion of his Court Wizard . . .” he mused, smiling serenely.

I sighed.  “Fine.  But for the remainder of the winter and into the spring, I want you or someone else to tutor him.  I can appreciate the strength of your ambitions, Dranus, but I do have a barony to run,” I griped.

“An increasingly large one,” he noted.  “One questions the wisdom of expansion in the middle of a war.”

“At the beginning of a war, technically, but yes.  I took an opportunity to do a lot of people some good.  I managed it without bloodshed, against local tradition.  None of the domains or the lords are terribly impressive, but the acquisition guards our western frontier.  Or at least puts me in control of those lands, and keeps them from being used as a staging area to invade Sevendor.  Again.”

“Oh, I applaud the Magelord’s foresight,” he said.  “Indeed, the rebellion was quietly done and quickly accomplished.  Waiting around for your friend Arathanial to conquer them would have been messy.  My concern is not for your strategy or your timing, but of the attention such an expansion will draw.  Particularly from your own liege.”

“Prince Tavard,” I said, frowning.  “He only bid me to stay on my lands.  He made no mention of acquiring more.”

“Yet you know well how easily a Duke can take offense at such a maneuver.  And while the King likely pays no mind to such petty warfare and exchanges of territory – Luin knows he took little enough notice as Duke – other agents of the kingdom may, indeed, take notice.”  Dranus was aware of the Kingdom’s security apparatus – the network of spies that the Queen herself ran.  But he was wise enough not to be specific, even in the privacy of my chambers.

“I’m aware.  But I’m able to bear the scrutiny.  Particularly if I don’t seem too greedy.  I haven’t heard much at all about Dunselen, for instance, since he got married and stopped invading everyone.  The Kingdom doesn’t mind some reasonable ambition.  It’s when you start building large power blocs that they’ll take notice.”

“It seems to me as if you’ve assembled a large power bloc, arcanely speaking,” he noted.  “Few within the regime have the wit to recognize it, and you have done an admirable job gaining the allegiance of those who do.  As the nobility tend to only see power in lances and land, they do not recognize what you are truly doing.”

“Who, me?”

“You have a cadre of warmagi in the west, you have an arsenal of enchantments in a mountain stronghold, you have the allegiance of powerful forces among the Alon, and you enjoy a fairly positive reputation – legendary, even – among the common folk.  Indeed, land and lances seem to be the only kind of power you eschew.”

I thought about the gods I knew on a first-name basis.  “I do have some powerful friends,” I conceded.  “But my goal is to make myself enough of a power that I don’t have to rely on my powerful friends.  Speaking of which,” I said, changing the subject, “we have to figure out what to do about Onranion.”

“Ah. Yes.  The . . . interesting one.”

I smiled.  Dranus did not have my longer acquaintance with the Alka Alon, so he didn’t really appreciate Onranion’s talents the way that I did.  Of course, I also was able to avoid the headaches.  I had people for that – and he was one of them.

Onranion had become problematic since he’d been back.  With only a few other Alka around – just a few caretakers as Lesgaethael, really – he didn’t have a lot of adult supervision.  He was spending his time among humani in his large handsome form enjoying as much robust humanity as he could.  That meant a lot of drinking, a lot of slumming with human magi, and a lot of seductions of village girls.

It wasn’t – exactly – his fault.  Onranion’s human form was objectively handsome, and when you added the exotic nature of the Alka essence within the humani template, he became positively charming.  Add his beautiful voice and odd, intriguing accent into the equation, and he had maidens following him around like faithful hounds.

The problem was he had no conception of humani social customs regarding sex.  Half of the girls who succumbed to his charm expected some sort of commitment from him, after a few lust-filled days, but Onranion was a near-immortal who saw spending a few decades with someone as an extended visit.

That had led to a couple of fathers showing up at the castle, and more than a few teary eyes.  Onranion didn’t understand what all the fuss was about – it was just good fun to him, and he didn’t see why his very satisfied young lovers didn’t share his casual opinion.

“Yes, he is becoming troublesome,” Dranus agreed.  “Yet he’s also terribly useful, I recognize.  No one else can work with irionite the way he can, for instance.  And he has an impressive knowledge of both Karshak and humani magic.  I can see how he’s a boon to your enchantment efforts.”

“Yet I can’t very well shackle his root to the dungeon,” I snorted.  “But without anything more compelling to do, he just wants to sit around, drink, flirt, discuss magic, and screw.”

“It’s hard to fault the man for his ambitions,” admitted Dranus with a chuckle.  “But there is the matter of social propriety.  Merely talking with him doesn’t help much, I’ve noticed.  Perhaps you can find some distraction to keep his attention better focused?”

“That’s a possibility,” I agreed.  “I had been thinking about sending him away on some mission, just to get him out of here for a while, but I’ve been considering re-fashioning the witchsphere into something more elegant.  I could put him to work on that.”

“More elegant?”

I smiled.  “With all of this high-class enchantment rolling around, it doesn’t seem right not to screw around with it.  And being seen with last year’s powerful magical artifact can be so socially awkward.”

“But Magelord – your witchsphere?” he asked, nodding to where the thing hung over my shoulder.  “Surely you don’t want to interfere with the power you already possess.”

“Like I said, I’m just theorizing, at this point,” I promised.  “But I have far more irionite than I ever suspected existed, and a foe who has more.  If I can distract Onranion’s pecker with some challenging work in his field for a few weeks . . . well, maybe that will give those girls a chance to get married off before they become troublesome, themselves.”

Chapter Eighteen

Inspection Tour

“Really, Minalan, that was an unpleasant surprise,” Baron Arathanial said, his voice tinny and watery through the Mirror.  “I go to declare war on Sashtalia to find you’ve bought a third of it!”

“Not more than a fifth, actually,” I soothed.  “And the most wretched, ragged fifth.  My immediate neighbors,” I pointed out.  “Mountain fiefs with marginal mines, growing corn and beans and barley just to survive.  But I’ve taken about fifty to seventy lances off of the field,” I reminded him.  “Those are lands you won’t have to conquer, now.”

“But those were Lensely lands!” he fumed.

“Not for nearly a hundred years.  Most of the lords had ancestors who were on the wrong side of the dynastic dispute, so they don’t see themselves as Lenselys.  Really, Arathanial, I’m doing you a favor.”

“You take away six domains from my patrimony and you’re doing me a favor?” he demanded.

“Look at it this way,” I reasoned.  “Suddenly Trefalan’s frontiers have shifted, and a third of his eastern army is gone.  His battle plan will have to be changed in a hurry, now.”

“Assuming he doesn’t turn his army on Sevendor!” Arathanial challenged.

“With your army but a few miles north, waiting to descend on their undefended castles?  Arathanial, what would you do in such a situation?  Honestly?” I challenged in return.

“I . . . I would fight the greater foe first,” he admitted, “then turn to face the lesser when the greater threat was abated.”

“Exactly,” I nodded, “that’s basic strategy.  Sevendor is safe as long as you want to invade Sashtalia.  And if, gods forbid, Sashtalia is victorious on the field, you are dead and your forces routed, then I will pledge myself to invade Sashtalia on my own, re-conquer both it and Sendaria, and place your heir in the baronial seat.”

The old baron looked at me skeptically, then snorted.  “Damn you, Minalan!  I know you jest, but by Duin’s Axe, you’ve managed to complicate things for me!  I was going to promise those estates to my vassals as rewards for their service!”

“And limit their ambitions?” I asked.  “A man might fight hard for you, knowing he’s to win a table-sized domain in the mountains if he lives and wins the day.  A man might fight much harder imagining possibility of much greater, unknown rewards for his valor.  Trust me, Arathanial, no one will be routing the foe on the field because his bloodlust will only be satisfied by the promise of . . . . Uwaridor.”

Arathanial snorted.  “I take your point, Minalan.  I don’t mean to be discourteous, and I see why you made such a bold – and expensive – maneuver, but . . . damn it, man, could you not have let me know?”

“Negotiations were delicate,” I said, apologetically.  “And Sashtalia has spies in Sendaria.  I told few in my own lands of them.  And while it was expensive, it was still cheaper than going to war.”

“You must watch those mountain vassals, Minalan,” he warned me, with a sigh.  “You’re right, I had not been looking forward to taking the bones of the feast along with the fat.  And the mountain vassals are good fighters, when motivated.  But they are a contentious lot, always looking for an excuse to rebel.  They were the first to rise to my ancestors’ rivals’ banners, when the succession crisis took hold.”

“Then best they are allies, and not foes,” I agreed.  “How go your preparations, otherwise?” I asked.

Asking a baron in the middle of a war of conquest about his troops is a bit like asking a veteran Tal gardener about onions.  You’re just being polite, but they take it as an invitation to expound upon their wisdom and experience.  For the next ten minutes I heard every vagary of military command Arathanial had experienced as he gathered his troops.

Once you filtered through all of the hyperbole, he was experiencing, more or less, the same issues of discipline, supply, administration and organization as every military commander did.  He had about six hundred lances gathered (about three thousand men) from his vassals, and more coming in all the time.  The thousand-strong company of mercenary archers he’d hired had arrived, and were preparing for march.  In another two weeks he’d have six thousand or more troops to lead south to Sashtalia.  A week after that, they’d depart.

Morale, at least, was high, he reported, largely thanks to my castellan.

“Sire Cei wields that hammer like a scalpel,” Arathanial assured me.  “And he’s as adept with lance and sword as any knight in my service.  He’s been crushing rocks and trees with his hammer and everyone cheers.  It isn’t hard to predict victory with such stalwarts on our side!”  That was good to hear.  Sire Cei valued his reputation as a warrior.  And it couldn’t help my good relations with Arathanial to have him as our mutual vassal.

Having repaired my relationship with Arathanial, I turned my attention back to the wonders of enchantment that my colleagues were continuing to construct.

With war in mind, Taren took a break from building his impressive spear and assisted me and a few others with building some basic warstaves.

Well, basic might be understating it.

These were tools of defense, mid-grade weirwood staves with a few dozen spells that a man defending a wall or a castle tower might find handy.  They weren’t nearly as lethal as, say, Blizzard, but in the hands of even a half-competent warmage they would work magnificently for defense.  Basic combat spells, basic deflection spells, some camouflage, some offensive magic – a lot of offensive magic – as well as some non-lethal enchantments that might come in handy the next time someone threw a riot.

We had Gareth test the prototype.  It was designed to be non-lethal, because actually killing a man in a siege isn’t nearly as effective as incapacitating him and making him a medical burden for your foes so under Taren’s advice we kept almost all of the offensive enchantments non-lethal – but really nasty.  Gareth has had some training in warmagic, but he was a thaumaturge first and foremost . . . largely because his frame and stature was just not adequate for combat.

But when he had one of our staves in hand, even without his witchstone, he was able to defend the top of our unfinished new gatehouse with one from four attackers simultaneously.  We spent four days that rainy spring honing the weapons.

Gareth would be given a point to defend, and then we’d run a bunch of the castle squires at him with wooden swords.  Sire Cei and the other knights had been collecting them – every baronial castle had a cadre of eager young men desperately wishing to prove their valor, and it seemed like a waste not to give them the opportunity.  By the second day they weren’t so eager.  Gareth might not have been a functional warmage, but he was able to use the guard staves as adeptly as a baculus.  The squires would charge, he would use the staff, they’d fall down moaning and clutching.  Then he, Taren, me, and whomever else was wandering by would discuss refinements and then build another one.

Our fourth iteration seemed the best for our purpose, it turned out, and it became the pattern for what became known as the Sevendor Standard Sentry Staff. When we were done, the enchantment included simple detection and augmentation spells, several enchantments for stunning, blinding, deafening, distracting, and the like, and a couple of straight-forward lethal spells for dire emergencies.

We didn’t test the lethal spells, of course.  By the fourth day of being stunned, blinded, scoured, scourged, vomiting and soiling their armor, our poor squires had had enough.  But as irritated as they were, none were so discouraged as to volunteer to test one of the lethal spells.

The Sentry Staff would have been one of the most powerful enchantments created since the Magocracy . . . five years ago.  Now it was a minor afterthought, a fulfillment of a desire for security that was necessary, but hardly pressing.

Thanks to what I had accomplished in Sevendor, such enchantments were more toys than weapons, compared to the powerful weapons we were creating now.  Once we were done refining the enchantment I turned the prototype over to the Manufactory and ordered a hundred to distribute to various strongholds around the barony.

That was becoming a more pressing issues, as the days after Duin’s Day came and the vales went from muddy and barren to muddy and green.  Despite the rain, field reports told of Sashtalia gathering its armed might as Sendaria did likewise.

When Sashtali heralds trying to summon the mountain lords to their banners were turned back at the frontier by soldiers wearing the Snowflake, it wasn’t just the Lord of Rolone who was complaining. There were plenty of smallholding knights and minor vassals of Sashtalia who were going to bear the brunt of Sendaria’s violence, now that their hill lord colleagues weren’t going to be there, and they didn’t like that at all.

I was concerned, of course; but as long as Sendaria had an army in the field, I was reasonably certain Sashtalia would not violate my dictate.  Just to be certain, I had small parties of reinforcements encamp in the new domains, under my banner, to lend a visible sign of support and defense to my new vassals.

Twice they stopped anemic frontier raids against my people, thanks to the warmagi I sent along.  But after the first few weeks of spring, the raids stopped as Sashtalia focused on the impending threat to the north.  We were an irritant, not a threat.  Sire Trefalan may not have liked what I had done, but he was not in a position to contest it.

It would be weeks, yet, before actual hostilities got underway.  Back in my mercenary days these kinds of private wars had been my bread and butter, and I had a pretty good professional opinion of how it would play out.  Both parties would gather their forces for the next few weeks, as the roads dried enough for large wains to transport the gear of war without getting mired, then another few weeks of organization and “training” – essentially drilling peasant conscripts in basic warfare while the nobility sat around and drank and compared their armor and horses.

It would be nearly summer before the first raids went forth and the columns marched.  That’s a long time to keep an army in the field – which makes these wars expensive – but Arathanial had enough resources to do it.

The lengthy preparation did give me time to take a break from enchantment and politics and conduct a much-needed traditional tour of my eastern domains.

According to Sir Festaran, my acting castellan, that was something I needed to do a lot more of, now that I was a baron.  Lords who let their vassals go without oversight risked rebellion and disloyalty, the young Riverlord lectured me politely.  The unexpected arrival of a liege lord was essentially a surprise inspection of the readiness of the keep, for hospitality or war.  An adept lord would be ready to feast or defend his liege, should he suddenly appear, and sustain the maintenance of his traveling household for at least a few weeks.

“That is, confidentially, a common means of keeping the ambitions of vassals in check,” the knight informed me at the High Table over breakfast one spring morning.  “By forcing them to expend their capital on sustaining your presence, it keeps them from accumulating wealth that can be used to extend their own ambitions – possibly in rebellion,” he offered, almost apologetically.

He didn’t have to tell me how that could happen.  I was aware of the reputations of several lords who kept relations with their vassals under control by literally eating them into poverty.  A large retinue consumed a lot of victuals, and a hosting lord was obligated by feudal oath to pay for it all.  A few weeks of such “hospitality” could impoverish a vassal out of any thoughts of rebellion.

“Do you feel any of my domains are at risk for that?”

He looked scandalized, his freckled face shocked at the idea.

“Excellency, none of your vassals would dream of it!  They all saw how you dealt with Railan the Steady and his traitors, after the Warbird’s fall.  Execution by magic without even the expediency of a headsman?  That was a powerful statement,” he assured me.  “And he was a villain.  What more spectacular death would you grant a noble in rebellion?”

I really hadn’t thought of it that way.  “If they are loyal, then, what is the purpose of the inspection?”

“To demonstrate your power, for one thing,” he pointed out.  “Knowing you have a powerful liege who has avoided tyranny is a blessing from the gods – but more so a powerful liege who arrives bearing gifts and arms to sustain you.  Especially in a time of war, when loyalties are uncertain, such a visit adds tremendous spiritual security to your vassal.”

“I suppose it would keep them honest,” I considered.  “And it’s not like I haven’t been sitting around enchanting chamberpots and kettles all winter for nothing.  Besides, that would give me an opportunity to oversee the magical infrastructure Dranus has been building.  And distribute some of the Sentry Staves, as well as install some warmagi in strategic places,” I decided.

“Exactly, Excellency,” Sir Festaran approved.  “It’s a visible display of power and authority, and one that your vassals will come to love you for – as long as it does not become burdensome.”

“Then prepare a party,” I decided.  No more than twenty men-at-arms, and assemble whatever warmagi are hanging around, looking for work.  Inform Dranus that I’d like him to attend me, as well as yourself.”

“I’d be honored, Magelord,” the loyal young knight assured me.  “Shall I have Dara accompany you as well?” he asked eagerly – a little too eagerly.  Whatever problems Alya and my teasing had sown between the two young people had not dampened Sir Festaran’s enthusiasm for her company.  But I wanted the young man focused on my business, not impressing a girl.

“No, I think the Hawklady needs to focus on bringing her new clutch to nest,” I pointed out.  Frightful had finally mated, and the makeshift mews that Dara was using in the Westwood was the focus of her energies right now.  Nor was she the only bird with new eggs to hatch: one of Dara’s early “failures” in the program to grow transgenically enchanted giant hawks and falcons had been a trio of birds who had escaped their jesses and refused to return to their falconer.

It happened, I was told; there was always a risk for any bird in training to return to the wild and go feral, though they rarely integrated well with their wild brethren.  These three birds – a male and two females – had taken to a nest on the far side of the nearly-impassable central ridge just beyond my official territory.  But what was interesting was that the two females had escaped captivity after their transformations – their nests were the size of wagons, and their wingspans were thirty feet or more.

The male, on the other hand, had been the first to escape, and was from a much earlier phase in the program.  His wingspan was merely double the size of his transformed mates.  But apparently to Mindens Raptors size didn’t matter – both females were laying on clutches of eggs the size of cabbages.

Dara was as excited about those birds as she was about the new crop of trained birds she was nurturing – and the new crop of skyriders she was trying to get trained.  She had presented nine new candidates for training at the Spring Court, and they were all working on the basics in the barracks she’d had built for the purpose in the Westwood.

But whichever way you looked at her schedule, hauling her away from her work so she could enjoy a few days of Sir Festaran’s attention just didn’t seem like in anyone’s interest.

“Besides, this is a military mission, and an administrative one,” I reminded him.  “But you’re right.  Having an apprentice along would certainly be instructional.  Have Dranus prepare Ruderal for an excursion of a few days.  It’s time I got to know the lad who would be my apprentice.”

*

*

I think Alya was glad to see me get out of the castle for a few days.  The rain was starting to get oppressive, after such a harsh winter, and I was haunting our hall and playing with the children so often in between enchantment sessions that I think I started to irritate her.  She finally gave me the look that I’d come to interpret as “Min, I love you, but I need to miss you more.”  So when I told her about the tour, she was enthusiastic.

“In fact,” she continued, after I’d outlined a rough itinerary, “you can use the opportunity to escort Sister Bemia’s representatives to the domains,” she offered.  “She’s been trying to make contact with each of the castle chaplains to develop that Sevendori ecumenical council she’s so fond of.  With the inclusion of the Abbey, the new temples, and Landfather Merton’s estate on our frontiers, now, she thinks that stronger ties amongst the clergy will help consolidate our power, here.”

“Well, I’m already overseeing the arcane infrastructure, I suppose I can assist the spiritual, as well,” I grumbled.  I’d been looking forward to a relatively rugged excursion with my knights and men-at-arms, not a ladies’ pilgrimage.  But a Magelord has to do what a Magelord has to do.  “Who is this representative I’m escorting?”

“Oh, she picked a monk who was going that direction, anyway,” she said, absently.  “He showed up a couple of days ago, got an audience with her at lauds, and agreed to help out.  You know him – Brother Hotfoot, from the Kasari March?”

I was surprised, and it took a moment for me to respond.  “Oh, yes.  Excellent fellow.  That won’t be so bad, then.”

In fact, it would be quite helpful . . . “Brother Hotfoot” was, in actuality, the earthly incarnation of the minor God of Travelers, Herus.  That was only known to me, the goddess Briga, and one very irritated high priestess in Wilderhall, but it was significant.  If Hotfoot had appeared, then there was likely more to it than a pleasant spring journey through the countryside.

Or maybe it was . . . the gods are a capricious lot, as I’d discovered.

Two days later we were ready to depart.

Sir Festaran led the company, at the head of four of our household knights currently assigned to the castle and sixteen mounted men-at-arms from our garrison.  Six warmagi came along, too.  There were always several haunting Sevendor Town, either honing their skills, waiting for work, or spending their loot, but all were tacitly awaiting an opportunity to gain a witchstone from me and make their fortunes.

Since the King had curtailed the official High Warmagi program after the treaty with the gurvani, I hadn’t gotten a new candidate from Relan Cor in over six months.  Unofficially, that was because the Royal House was getting nervous about the great number of such magi running around, I knew, but that didn’t curtail the desire of my colleagues from the allure of that power.  Plenty of them had wintered in Sevendor, occasionally taking a turn in the Manufactory or working on their own skills and waiting for something interesting to happen.

The six I had selected to hire were all eager to take my colors, particularly during a time of local instability.  If nothing else, being able to brag about that appointment would assure their employment afterwards.  And there was always the possibility that I would quietly raise them, if I was impressed enough and found them worthy, with one of the secret cache of witchstones I had in my mountain.

They were all veterans, of course.  Three had been on the Farisian campaign, and four had been with us as Cambrian, and one – Master Camulus, a Narasi with a Remeran name – had gone all the way up the frozen Poros with us, and lived to tell the story.  I had selected not based on their specialties (all warmagi specialize in one element of the art or the other by necessity) but because they were demonstrably competent in a general range of warmagic.

They could, with more or less equal facility, lay the enchantments needed to strengthen a fortification, cast wards needed to screen for foes, do minor magical healing, interrogation, and scrying.  And each of them was personally combat-ready, as I attested in a string of practice bouts in the yard that proved it had been far too long since I’d picked up a mageblade.

They were all willing to sell their loyalty to the Spellmonger, in return for my equipage, a lucrative posting, and my patronage.  Each would act, in addition to being my military representative, as a court wizard for my vassals, at my expense.  Any reasonably normal request by their lords would be entertained.

That, alone, was a huge boon for my vassals.  Court wizards are expensive, as are warmagi.  Each of my men would be in residence at the cost of livery (usually only a half-ounce of silver a week) plus a stipend of ten ounces of silver a week, paid into their accounts at the Temple of Ifnia.  They received green woolen tabards, distinctive from the surcoats of the knights around them, each with a big white snowflake on the breast.

It didn’t take long for the chuckles to begin about the Spellmonger issuing uniforms that served to make his warmagi targets.

But they got more than new clothes, before we departed.  Each received and was briefly trained in using some of the more-dangerous Sentry Staves.  I’d even given Sir Festaran his own custom staff, though he was just barely a mage knight, which Gareth had prepared to take advantage of his unique Talent for estimation and apply it to warfare.  While he still preferred his trusty non-magical cavalry blade, after learning how to use the mage’s weapon in combat he proudly displayed the staff in his lance holster instead of the more traditional weapon.

“I will call it Vigilance, for so shall it ever guard my honor,” he declared, after besting four squires with it at practice.  “Using it I can estimate an attack to the finest detail, and respond accordingly.  A magnificent gift, Excellency!”

The other warmagi were similarly impressed.  They had their own custom enchantments they’d built, and each bore a mageblade, but they’d had nothing as elegant or powerful as the Sentry Staves to play with.  After a day of practice with them, they were eager to use them in earnest at my behest.

The morning of our departure we gathered the company outside of the Diketower, which was preparing for a substantial renovation, and had a final pint at the Boval Inn, where we collected Ruderal from Yeoman Rollo.

Rollo had kept the boy with a small but growing collection of Wilderlands orphans who had found their way to Boval Hall.  The man had been widowed and lost his family in the invasion of his homeland, but had been stalwart enough to help lead his people into a new land, build a new home, and make anew a life for himself.  The children I’d saddled him with had been highly therapeutic, I noted when he brought young Ruderal out to us.

Once Rollo’s eyes had been constantly haunted by the ghosts of his beloved family; while there was still a strong tinge of pain behind his eyes, there was something more, there, now, thanks to me forcing him to care for the orphans.  The two I’d rescued from a cave in Alshar last summer were thriving under his care, and accompanied Rollo and Ruderal with the comportment of well-trained pages.  He had provided a sure-footed pony for the boy’s journey, explaining that he was more used to boats than saddles, and he had ensured that the lad had packed properly for the trip.

“So are you prepared for your first foray as my apprentice, Ruderal?” I asked, smiling.  He looked up at me nervously, gray eyes peeking out of his long dark hair.

“Aye, Magelord,” he said, swallowing hard.

“In this capacity, it is proper to call me ‘master’,” I corrected him, gently.  “Don’t worry.  The rules might seem complicated at first, but you’ll get the hang of it soon enough.”

“Are we going far . . . Master?” he asked, nervously casting his eyes back on Boval Hall.  The only home he’d had for months.

“A ways,” I assured him, “but only within my own lands.  We’ll be safe.  And you’ll be safely returned.”

That seemed to satisfy him, though he still looked back longingly at Rollo and his foster siblings as we departed the estate.  Once we were on the road, however, he lost his sense of homesickness and was instead curious about everything around him.

Just outside of the Diketower we met with Brother Hotfoot, astride a rouncey mare.  The humble monk greeted Festaran and I warmly as old road companions, and before mid-morning we were walking our horses through the Enchanted Forest, enjoying the novel lack of rain on our faces.

I traded on my baronial prerogatives to ride knee-to-knee with the monk ahead of the rest of the party for a ways.  “So what brings you to Sevendor, this time of year?” I asked him, knowingly.

“A good monk is always on the road,” he chuckled.  “Though I admit, I spent much of the winter in warmer climes.”

“I suppose that’s your prerogative,” I shrugged.  “If you have all the world’s roads to choose from, sticking to the sunny, dry ones during winter doesn’t sound like a poor option.”

“In truth, I had business there,” he admitted.  “Your gift has given me the ability to settle some old debts, so to speak, and make good on some old promises that were long overdue.  Once I handled that business, my feet just naturally led me back up into the Riverlands, to see my old friend Minalan.”

“It is good to see you,” I agreed.  “You sister paid me a visit a few months back, to my benefit, but I was hoping we’d meet again.”

“Oh, you could wager on it,” he nodded, looking more serious.  “Minalan, far be it from me to question your wisdom—”

“Why not?” I interrupted.  “It seems like one of the more popular pastimes, lately.”

That earned a grin, but not much more.  “But one must question why you would consent to permanently embody such a powerful primal force as Ishi.”

“Would it help if I said she flashed me her boobs?” I asked, feebly.

“They’ve been known to have that effect,” he conceded.  “But I thought you were beyond mere animal reaction to such things!  You are a man of reason!”

“I’m still a man,” I pointed out.  “And the specifics of the occasion were . . . unique.  I was in a bind and at the mercy of my enemies,” I explained.  “Without her intervention, the consequences could have been disastrous.  She took the opportunity to intervene, I felt obligated to repay her the way she desired.”

“That was a dangerous move, Minalan,” he warned.  “Of all the divinities you could have granted permanence to, Ishi is among the most capricious.  You’ve heard what she’s doing in Vorone?” he asked, alarmed.

“Pentandra’s been keeping me informed,” I nodded.

“She’s turned half the town into a brothel,” he said, distastefully.  “I’m not opposed to whoring, mind – plenty of roadsisters have been known to offer comfort at a shrine in return for a better offering, when no one was looking, and I’ve rarely met a monk who didn’t stretch his vows or take solace in his celibacy with a lusty indiscretion or two – but what she’s doing in Vorone is just shameful!”

That was strong language, from a god.  “How so?”

“In the absence of any real industry in the town,” he explained, patiently, “she has capitalized on the large number of young refugee women in Vorone, transformed them into amazing beauties, and then encouraged them to sell their charms at great price.”

“That’s more or less how brothels work,” I observed, cautiously.  “Pentandra understands that.”

“It’s more than just a brothel, Minalan,” he continued.  “It’s a seething house of pleasure that can enchant the mind of any man who doesn’t have the strength to resist.  And entice the mind of any woman into considering the most unimaginable things!  She’s taken the form of a local noble widow, a lusty devotee of hers, and she’s using her beautiful minions to control the town.  She calls herself Lady Pleasure.  Subtly – she rarely uses coercion and violence, her methods are far more insidious,” he said, with a near snarl.

“I’ve heard as much, in almost the same words, from Pentandra,” I affirmed, sadly.  “But what can I do?  She’s a goddess, and not one of the minor ones.  I have very little leverage over her.  In fact . . . she scares the hells out of me,” I confided.

“She scares the hells out of everyone!” he hissed.  “Sex does that.  You can’t control it – at most you can mitigate it.”

“So what do you want me to do?” I demanded.  “Bring her flowers?  Sing her a serenade?”

“You need to do something to convince her to settle down, soon,” he demanded.  “I don’t know her well but from what I saw in Vorone, she’s just warming up.  Continue to allow her to do as she pleases, and she could end up attracting the wrong sort of attention from the wrong sort of people, and I use that term loosely!”

“What?  The Alka Alon?” I asked, confused.  “The Dead God?”

“That would be the least of our worries,” he grumbled, looking around suspiciously.  “The Alka Alon are arse-deep in acrimony right now, in case you hadn’t noticed – unexpectedly losing a major fortress will do that to you, not to mention opening up centuries-old dynastic and factional wounds you just don’t want to know about!  And the Dead God? Shereul hasn’t been seen by anyone but his closest priesthood since you melted the Poros.  Some think he’s sulking, some think he’s plotting, some think he’s lost interest in the fate of his descendants, too enthralled by his study of the molopor.”

“So who do you keep referring to?” I demanded.  “You, Briga, even Ishi mentioned larger concerns . . . yet from where I’m standing, the Alka Alon and the Dead God are really my most immediate problem!  Who?  The Forsaken?  The Valley People?  A secret cabal of Tal Alon who worship The Ancient Potato God?” I said, my frustration leaking out.  If you can’t vent to a divinity, really, who can you vent to?

The deity looked thoughtful, not difficult to do when you’ve chosen a monk with an arsenal of thoughtful looks as your avatar.  “The danger of seeing Ishi unrestrained lies in the response her antics will have on other divine polarities,” he explained, as patiently as he could.  “Some of whom only manifest in certain rare, specific instances . . . which she seems to be engineering, in Vorone.  Some of these deities are probably better left unsummoned,” he said, worriedly, “and some are decidedly not the sort you’d want to linger for any length of time.”

“So the danger of Ishi is in the other gods?”

“Ishi can manipulate other divinities according to their nature, which is bad enough,” he agreed.  “But it’s those other divinities that are the real problem.  Those are the ones who—”

“I know, I know, those are the ones whose attention we don’t want to attract,” I agreed, miserably.

“Oh, no,” Brother Hotfoot said, his bushy eyebrows raised.  “Those other deities are the ones who will attract attention, Minalan, the very wrong sort of attention.  Have you not realized this, my boy, after seeing all of this in motion?  Have you realized that the true peril to humankind on Callidore comes not from the rotting ball of goblin brains in the mountains to the West . . . but from the sea, to the East?”

Chapter Nineteen

A Lively Theological Debate

The Domain of Bastidor enjoyed the distinction of being the gateway to the Sevendor Vales, which until a few years ago hadn’t been much of a distinction.  It’s a gently sloping land that follows the Ketta from where it emerges and joins three sister streams, before slowing, flattening, and watering the slanting vale below and churning north to Kest, where it joined the larger Ardriole river from the eastern hem of the mountains.

It’s not a rich land, but the wide vales did contain pockets of arable soil that sustained a decent agrarian economy – enough to support a couple of small estates and a single castle, before I selected Sevendor to be my home.  The villagers used the river to water their crops during the dry season (making them particularly susceptible to upstream interference, a fact we’d used against the Warbird, when he’d owned the domain) and took enough fish from the streams and enough game from the scrublands and forest to the east to supplement their barley-and-oat diet.

All of that changed, when I came to Sevendor.  Within two years Bastidor had gone from being the sleepy road to nowhere to being the staging area of a major offensive against a formerly harmless little vale.  But its very proximity had protected it from my full wrath, when I had come to lift the siege of my home, leaving a trail of conquered domains behind me.  I knew the Lord of Bastidor was in a tough spot, and I didn’t hold that against him.  I didn’t destroy his castle when I conquered his land, and gave it back to him in vassalage to me when he swore fealty.

Since its conquest, Bastidor had become a changed land.  The small village there had grown as my domain had prospered, merely on the number of passersby.  After the war and the addition of a new snowflake banner, the domain had prospered as the land most proximate to my personal domain.

Bastidor’s central village, Anilupe, had grown two inns in the two years that I’d owned it.  Bastidor Castle overlooked it, half a mile off the road on the western ridge; it had doubled in size itself in that time under my direction, as I encouraged Lord Motaran to guard my approach.  A larger keep was being built, far more slowly than mine behind the modest tower keep I’d inherited.  The bailey was also being doubled in size, to accommodate the vale’s increased population. That was difficult, up on the ridge, requiring some actual engineering - far beyond the skills of the homegrown masons in the area.

Sire Motaran had instead hired a trio of monks to direct the work.   We had agreed upon a long, narrow bailey flanking the tower on the opposite side of the present works, and that’s where the monks had dedicated their efforts.  That might seem unnecessarily vulnerable, even with a decent curtain wall, but the monks had cunningly laid the foundations for a large, three-story gatehouse at the far end of the wall.

The gatehouse would face south, at the top of a steep incline that forced any approaching foe to show their flanks (and in some cases at the switchbacks, their backs) to the long crenellated wall they were building.  The gatehouse itself would eventually sport machicolations that would allow defenders to pelt invaders as they tried to bash in the heads of anyone who made their way across the rocky moat.  And then surmounted the drawbridge.  And a double portcullis.

Sire Motaran and his kin had held this land since Lensely times, his family reluctantly succumbing to Sire Gimbal’s threats and demands to take his colors when he had little other choice.  He had been equally reluctant to be a player in a war against a neighboring domain, but had pleaded with his liege on behalf of his people to settle the matter peacefully.  Once he had been conquered, he had been willing to swear again, to keep his lands, and he feared my retribution mightily when he took his oath.

But since his submission, his little domain had done well.  Not only the inns, where travelers awaited the morn to take the Bastidor Pass through the Enchanted Forest, but the smith, the tradesmen, even the villeins who lived in hamlets along the Ketta or in freeholds up on the ridges had prospered under my rule.  Especially after I had subsidized the new construction of the castle for their lord, and Banamor had begun expanding his business interests here.

Now the Snowflake flew over Bastidor’s red stag on a white field as we rode up to the gate of the castle late that afternoon.  We were spotted as soon as we crossed the frontier.  The sentries in the tower had seen the banner Sir Festaran carried, so the keep had at least a little warning of the impending arrival of twenty five unexpected guests.  But Sire Motaran accounted himself well.

The man met me at the gate of his keep, on foot, and personally led my horse into the bailey, welcoming me to his hall with formal respect.  He seemed genuinely pleased to see us, if surprised.

“A brief inspection tour of the eastern domains of the barony,” I assured him.  “You heard, I take it, that we have western domains, now?”

“Scarce has a tale come of anything else since Duin’s Day,” he chuckled as he helped me down from my mount.  “The minstrels are saying that you built a wall of gold between Sashtalia and Sevendor.”

“That would be overstating it – but not by much,” I agreed.  “I see it as a wise strategic investment.  And it vexes Sashtalia, so it was worth the expense.”

“Does this mean we enter the war on the side of Sendaria?” he asked, his emotions concerning the matter hidden as best he could behind his beard.

“No, it means we watch from the sidelines, unless someone does something untoward.  Then I’ll consider the proper response.”

“I am relieved to hear it, truth to say, Excellency,” Motaran said with a bit of a sigh.  “I see little gain in the exercise, save entertainment . . . but if the honor of my baron demands it . . .”

“The honor of your baron demands a drink for me and a meal and a bed for my men,’ I dismissed.  “If I wanted glory in war, I’d set my sights higher than Trefalan and his cronies.  But that doesn’t mean we cannot remain vigilant, nor do I wish my existing vassals to feel slighted over the expense I’ve devoted to the new.  I bring some gifts, after the inspection.”

“As fortune would have it, Landfather Miton is at the castle, returning from blessing the fields of Trestendor.  Would you mind if the good abbot shared our table?”

“I’d be more than pleased,” I agreed.  “I’m anxious to hear how this year’s services went.”

The actual inspection took three hours, and mostly consisted of me following Motaran around and listening to how well construction was going on the wall.  I met the monks in charge of the construction, three swarthy-looking Remeran devotees of Avital, the Imperial god of engineering, math, and magic.

Now there’s a deity I would love to speak to, I recall noting at the time.

The three gray-robed monks oversaw an encampment of masons and peasant laborers at the far end of the new bailey, where they were laying the foundations of the gatehouse.  They were intelligent fellows, professional engineers who had that Imperial disdain for anything Narasi overlaid liberally with an obsequious manner reserved for employers who paid in cash.

The Avitalines had a reputation as an officious bunch, compared to even the other Imperial-pantheon clergy, but you couldn’t argue with their results.  Masters of organization and meticulous record-keepers, they had contributed brother engineers to every major construction project in the Duchies since before they were duchies.

Except mine.  I’d hired the Karshak instead, and that proved to be something of a problem for the monks, as I discovered.  After indignantly (and very politely) chewing me out for using non-human labor and management for the project, they then begged by the many long names of their god for a chance to tour the great work.

I consented only after getting them to agree to use magic in the construction of the new section of castle, though I didn’t put it that way.  They made the usual complaints about the low quality of the local labor.  When they got to how long it took to shape a single stone for inclusion in the wall, that’s when I produced a Bricking Wand and showed them how they could quadruple their production with magic.

I had Erenwal the Wall demonstrate the technique – he’d be the new castle warmage for Bastidor, after all.  Sire Motaran was certainly impressed, when the warmage deftly broke five different rocks into near-perfect building stones in less than five minutes.

“Amazing, Excellency!” the head monk, Brother Iral, declared, as he brushed the rubble away from the smooth surface.  “But have you not deprived a common man of five days’ work, now?” he asked, in almost a hurt tone.

“Do you think we lack for work, Brother?” I countered, gazing around at the three hundred feet of curtain wall they were slowly building.  “A man now has five days to lay and place the blocks, and perhaps enough gold will remain to build a few towers along the wall, eh?”

“I . . . see your point, Excellency,” Brother Iral said, doubtfully.  “The wall can be built more quickly, this way.  Far more quickly.  And you can build it more elaborately,” he conceded.

“And the more elaborate the fortification, the more intelligent monks I must employ,” I reminded them.  “I now have many more castles to repair and reinforce – why would I waste money on doing it the old way, when magic can speed the process?”

The three of them glanced at each other.  “Just . . . how many more castles?”

“Three, four lifetimes’ worth,” I shrugged.

They reconsidered their objections, and after that were quite happy having Erenwal use the wands for them.

Erenwal the Wall was a good warmage – of the six I’d hired, he was the one I knew best.  He’d been all the way to the City of Rainbows and back with me, and had never once asked for a witchstone.  To my mind that made him not just trustworthy, but demonstrated amazing control.  I wanted that kind of man in charge of my domain’s outer defenses.

Bastidor Castle was of sudden strategic importance because it overlooked the easiest route to my domain.  A stout defense here by determined vassals could keep anyone from ever getting to the Diketower, not to mention the lands and castle beyond.  I needed a loyal lord, a stout castle, and a strong warmage overseeing this piece of our defense, and Erenwal was the man for the job.

They didn’t call him The Wall for nothing.  He’s a big, broad-shouldered man, but that wasn’t what named him.  He did specialize in defensive magic, actually, but he got his nickname for his combat style.  Early in his career he and his squadron had been pinned down in a barn by crossbowmen.  Unable to see a better option, He cut the leather hinges on the barn door, wrapped his broad arms around it, and charged his attackers with no better weapon at hand.  His mates fell in behind him and not only secured escape, but captured most of the archers.

That was the kind of man I wanted to pay a lot of money to sit on his arse and guard my front door.

As most warmagi Erenwal had a non-combat specialty too – not sex magic or thaumaturgy, as I’d explored, or even enchantment.  His interest involved the lore of the stars, and he found Bastidor’s secluded environs ideal for viewing the sky at night.

Sire Motaran did not see much utility in such study, but he appreciate a veteran warrior when he saw one, and the two men got along well from the start.

“A warmage, Excellency?” he asked, as he washed my hands for me before dinner.  “Here in Bastidor?”

“This is a mageland now,” I observed.  “Having a few magi around keeps people from talking.  Do you object?”

“Me? Nay, Sire!  Object to the expense it must cost you, perhaps,” he said, warily.

“I have no intention on passing that cost along to you, Motaran,” I assured.  “It’s matter of baronial security, so it will be a cost borne by the barony – which has better ways of making money that squeezing it from peasants and smallholders.  Can you house the man?”

“Oh, aye, we’ve the room – we’ll have plenty, when the new section of keep is finished.  He can stay in my hall until his own chamber is complete, of course.  And you say he’ll be mine to command?”

“Your advisor, more than your servant,” I corrected.  “These men have been schooled in my policies and have been given what tools I can provide them to make them formidable in their posts.  But while they answer to me, alone, I have instructed them to lend their aid and assistance to you with magic as they can – and anything they cannot do, they shall pass along a request to my Court Wizard, Dranus, for consideration.”

“I aim to be an asset, not a burden, my lord,” Erenwal assured him, politely.  “Nor a spy – I will tell my master what he wishes to know, but I do not linger here to put my nose in your household business.  That was made quite clear to me by the Spellmonger.”

“It’s not that I don’t welcome the assistance,” Motaran said, as he walked me to the high table where his wife, daughter, sister, two brothers, and young son all sat with Father Miton.  He gave me the courtesy of leading me to the canopied chair which was clearly his, and sitting in his wife’s less-ornate chair beside me.  “Never has a knight been so pleasantly conquered.  My domain has never thrived like this before.”

“It sounds as if there might be a ‘but’ in that sentence, my lord,” Landfather Miton said, bowing to us formally with the rest of the household.  “Do you still bear the Spellmonger some doubt?”

“Not doubt, Father,” Motaran sighed.  “Just suspicion born of ignorance.  My villeins were shocked when you plowed their fields in a day, depriving them of weeks of toil.  Now the baron has given my masons a tool that will deprive them of yet more labor – yet that labor is owed.  And the men who once counted on my reeves hiring them to plow the remainder of my demesne are now wondering how they will survive the spring without the pay work.”

I cursed in my mind, and then absently shot my eyes to Brother Hotfoot, who looked amused at the end of the table.  “Well, then they can apply to the castle works, where they can earn the given wage instead; or they can work for hire on improving the road through Bastidor, as I’ve had my villeins do; or they can take their plows up to the ridges and plow for the smallholders, if they have the fortitude to go so far for so little.”

“They will not like that, my lord,” Father Miton observed.

“They would not like a great many things,” I countered.  “Indeed all my life I’ve heard that plowing is the most hateful toil – sorry, Father – a man can be condemned to.  Here I’ve lifted that from them, and they complain.  Let them complain further, when the harvest is twice as abundant as last year.”

“There are worse burdens to bear,” conceded Miton.  “Father, will you give the blessing?”

The meal was a fine one, casual and formal at the same time.  Motaran did his best to honor both his secular master and his spiritual advisor.  I learned, in fact, that not only did Bastidor have close ties to Seratodor, the tiny ecclesiastic estate he ran two domains to the west, but Motaran and Miton proved to be both first and second cousins, on different sides of the family.  Miton had become Motaran’s spiritual advisor not only because Motaran was a pious – and openhanded – worshipper, but because they were kin.  That kinship had been part of the basis of the good abbot’s attempt at intervening in Sire Gimbal’s aggressions.  This had been in his family’s backyard.

Since then, the abbot had been a good friend to Sevendor, and I’d made sure that his temple had prospered accordingly.  Every major holiday Sire Cei had sent a present to the man’s estate, and many of my people had done likewise.  That didn’t necessarily buy me the favor of the Divine Tiller, but it did give me the attention of his important clergy.  Father Miton rumbled through a powerful and moving blessing of the bread in the name of the Tiller, and praised his name for the fruits of the earth he was to bless us with at harvest.

Of course the actual god at the table couldn’t resist shooting off his big fat mouth.

“Landfather, Huin the Tiller has never been known as a god of magic . . . how do you think he would feel, to have one of his sacred precincts overtaken by mere enchantment?  Spiritually speaking, is the grain that grows from soil that hasn’t been plowed truly a blessing from the Divine Tiller?” he asked, as he held his cup out for wine.  The bastard.

“I anticipated such spiritual questions, Brother . . . Hotfoot, did you say?  Which is why I plowed the First Furrow around the entire perimeter of the fields to be prepared.  Huin’s demand for the sacrifice of sweat in the soil was thus fulfilled,” the hardy old priest assured, equally amused.  “I prayed long and hard to reach the solution, but as long as some sweat is mixed with the land, then the prescription is fulfilled.  And it was quite the warm day, when I plowed that furrow.”

Motaran’s family kept quiet – theological debates were entertainment, for the aristocracy.  I never much favored them, myself, but it was suddenly interesting in light of my recent spiritual experiences.  The monks kept at it.

“Oh, I have no doubt as to either the piety or the sincerity of the sacrifice,” chuckled the masquerading god.  “No doubt the peasants are satisfied by the boon of freedom, at your expense.  Yet . . . is Huin satisfied?”

“Huin’s blessing is the weight of the grain in the fields,” Father Miton observed, wryly.  “Come harvest, we shall see if the sweaty feet of one priest is equal to that of hundreds of peasants.  Come, does your own lord discount the travails of those who journey by cart, horse, or wain, merely because they chose a more expedient method of travel than their feet?”

Hotfoot conceded the point with a nod.  But the bastard couldn’t leave well enough alone.  “Yet those who journey by foot are accounted the most pious, in his estimation, from what I understand.  The sacrifice of human effort for the journey is what supports his power, not the sweat of a rouncey or the squeak of an axle.”

“That would be Kulin the Horselord’s province, if I am not mistaken, in this land,” Brother Iral said, hesitantly.  “The gods are a bit different, where we come from.”

“Yet are you brothers not concerned with using arcane devices in pursuit of your divine orders?” Hotfoot asked, holding out his cup again for Motaran’s daughter to fill.  “Do not the Bricking Wands and other toys of the enchanters spoil the pious nature of the work?”

Brother Iral shrugged in his oversized gray clerical robe, complete with ceremonial smock embroidered with the compass-and-square symbol of his temple.  “Brother, Avital is a god of magic as well as the deep craft of engineering.  While few of our brethren have followed that path in the last few centuries, there is no spiritual sin in using the arcane forces of nature to aid in the Holy Work.”

“It just seems to be cheating a bit,” Hotfoot observed, airily, “depriving the human soul of its natural challenges through the expedient of the supernatural.”

Brother Iral, may his god bless him, snorted derisively. “Why, would you have us eschew the forces of gravity or friction or leverage in the completion of our rites as well?  The purpose of our order is to build to the glory of Avital’s holy vision, using his divine teachings and lore to improve the lot of man through sacred geometry, engineering . . . and magic.  Our novices learn the Laws of Magic as faithfully as they learn the Laws of Motion, and memorize the Padu and the Parensi as faithfully as they do the Periada.”

That was impressive – there were few outside of scholarly magi who even knew what the basic Imperial system for channeling magic was, or the twenty basic laws of how magic affected the physical world – the Padu and the Parensi, in the Imperial school of magic – though many were familiar with the more well-known Periada, the Periodic Table of the Lesser Elements.  Why, I realized, these fellows had half of Imperial magic down, if they but had the rajira to use it!

“Yet from his reputation, he delights in honest toil,” Hotfoot insisted, as the porridge course was served.

“Yet he also blesses those who use their ingenuity and the principles of engineering to fulfill his divine vision,” insisted Brother Iral, confidently.  “Inspiration and ingenuity are always preferred to needless toil.  Indeed, to indulge in such inefficiencies when better ways are available is an affront to Avital’s grace.”

“I concede the point,” Hotfoot sighed, with a punctuating belch.  “Bloody Imperial gods . . .” he mumbled under his breath.

I breathed a sigh of relief.  The last thing I wanted was for a spirited theological debate to turn into a referendum on mixing magic and the other crafts just as I was trying to push forward the art of enchantment to new levels.

I would have words with Hotfoot.  Bloody Narasi god.  Of magic, no less.

But Herus’ interest in magic was very specialized, and limited by his folksy nature.  The spells he was devoted to overseeing were the common-man’s enchantments and simple resource charms, tailored specifically for travel or thievery.  The magic of the common footwizard. And he was one of our major gods of magic.

Though my people’s pantheon was robust and lively, they had a barbaric understanding of magic that I would have to constantly struggle against, I realized.  The institution of the Censorate had given a presence to their superstitious fears, developed over centuries of being blasted on the steppes by Imperial warmagi, but the cultural bias against it was stronger than the stubborn pride with which much of the minor aristocracy boasted of their illiteracy.  A knight might grudgingly allow his son to study his letters with the priests, to better rule his estate -- but any interest in the study of magic was met with revulsion, thanks to the Bans.

At least in the largely-Narasi duchies of Castal and Alshar.  The remnants of Imperial culture in Remere had allowed that duchy and its theological descendants of the Magocracy to thrive with a far more enlightened attitude, as Brother Iral demonstrated.  But that did lead to my inevitable question.

“Tell me, Brother,” I asked, casually, as I pushed away my empty bowl, doing my best to maintain my composure, “do any of your initiates ever demonstrate rajira?  I assume they come to you early in their youth, as most young monks do.”

Brother Iral looked uncomfortable, for a moment, then glanced around at the table at the magi and priests and nobility of magelands.  He sighed, as if revealing a closely-held secret.

“There is a temple to which these young initiates are sent, if they show signs of displaying Talent.  Once such monks were carefully cultivated, back in the days of the Magocracy,” he explained, reluctantly, “and before the Conquest they often arose to the highest ranks of our small order.  Magic and engineering, together, accomplished the greatest of glories when Avital’s hand is involved in the work, our rites declare.”

“But what happens to them now?” I urged, genuinely curious.  “Call it a professional interest of the Spellmonger,” I added.

Iral was nearly trembling, so great was the weight of his revelation.  I don’t know if Herus had a hand in his decision to tell us or not, but he is surprisingly persuasive.  “They are sent to a small temple on an island estate, off the coast of Remere, where brothers experienced in such matters observe them during sacred mysteries and trials.  Those who prove to have an . . . over-abundance of rajira, such as to attract undue attention to our order, are sent beyond the sea, to our sister-temples in Unstara or Farise.”

“But I was at Farise during the war with the Mad Mage,” I protested.  “I saw a lot of temples there – some to gods that haven’t been worshipped since the Early Magocracy.  I don’t recall seeing a temple to Avital there.”

“It is not presented as such,” the Remeran monk said, guardedly.  “Due to the nature of the politics there, and our desire for seclusion, security and secrecy for that element of the Sacred Mysteries, it is known as the Order of Fullr the Geodesarch,” he explained.  “One of our most ancient and sacred temples.”

It was as if a magelight suddenly illuminated over my head.

I spent about a year in Farise as part of the occupation – a lot of us did, as the city was crawling with the Mad Mage’s spells, and our assistance was needed.  Me, Terleman, Sandoval, Azar, we all had the run of the city in that pleasant, I’m-In-Charge sort of way that occupying armies do.

We spent a fair amount of our time looting, drinking and whoring in the subtropical clime, of course, but even grog and beautiful bronzed maidens could get boring.  Those of us of a more scholarly bent would occasionally interrupt our stupor and our duties to study the ancient enclave, last bastion of the Imperial Magocracy.

Among the many ancient wonders that didn’t elicit immediate desolation or looting were the city-state’s large accumulation of temples, shrines, abbeys, and other ecclesiastic estates.  Of course the Street of Temples was rife with gaudy celebrations of the divine, but some of the more intriguing houses of worship were beyond the city wall, among the various estates and plantations.  From various vantage points around the beautiful, war-torn city you could see their spires and towers, their grand halls and serene enclaves peeking out over the jungle, trailing off into the mountains.

In the distance, miles from the city, one building in particular had always intrigued me, an impossible-seeming dome of pale white.  With only the mountains in the distance for scale, it was hard to estimate – even with magic – how large the thing was, back then, but it seemed massive beyond the possibility of stone to bear.

Sandy and I made inquiries – we were both interested in that stuff – and discovered it was the Temple of Fullr, known locally as the Gray Dome, a contemplative and scholarly order that had existed in quiet solitude in their remote estate for centuries.  They took no part in the affairs of the world, it was said, and their only interaction with Farise involved biannual trips to the city market by a senior brother and manciple to secure supplies.

No one knew how they selected their initiates, the priests on Temple Street told me, though there was plenty of entertaining speculation.  The most likely story involved temples in other lands who sent their worst offenders – or most pious saints – into the mysterious jungle dome, never to be heard from again.

I like a good mysterious cult as much as the next mage, and perhaps if I’d stayed in Farise longer I might have eventually learned more about them, but homesickness and tropical fevers were more compelling.

“You mean . . . the Quiet Brothers of the Gray Dome are, in fact, Avaltines?  Magical Avaltines?”

“They study the Higher Mysteries, along with their fellow sages.  The Order of Fullr is open to a few other small orders who did not wish to see their brightest stars enshadowed by the clouds of the Censorate,” he conceded.  “A tradition that evolved in the wake of the Narasi Conquest.  I know little enough about it, but I do know the place exists, and has since the founding of Farise.  Or so it is written,” he added, with a shrug.

“Thankfully,” Father Miton said, smoothly, “my own order is rarely bothered with such machinations.  The Tiller demands a simple life, and gives simple blessings in return,” he said, with a nod toward the stylized plow-and-pole symbol Lord Motaran displayed proudly on his hall’s chapel altar.  “This is the first time, I’m aware of, that magic has ever been used in the service of the fields.  Usually the concerns of magi are for the wealthy and powerful, not the humble farmer.  Now, Brother Hotfoot, what can you tell me of Sister Bemia’s plans for a greater baronial ecumenical council?” he asked, intrigued.

Later, after wine, dessert, wine, a song or two, closing prayers, and more wine, we retired to the roof of the castle to overlook the vale by night.  I held back a bit, feigning some trouble with my pipe, and caught Hotfoot by the shoulder, pulling the itinerate deity into an alcove for a chat.

“Just what in the name of Briga’s better nature were you trying to pull in there?” I demanded, hotly.  “I’ve spent the last six months trying to coax the peasant clergy into accepting my enchantments!  In the course of one conversation you could have destroyed all of that!”

“Calm yourself, Spellmonger,” the monk said, wiping his lips.  “Just a little friendly debate among theologians,” he dismissed as he took out his own stubby pipe.  “Father Miton has already committed to backing your enchantments with the force of his authority . . . which won’t be far, admittedly.  But he’s invested in the idea.  The point of that conversation was to begin another,” he said, deliberately.  He waited for me expectantly to follow his logic.

I’d had a few cups, but I wasn’t beyond simple reason.  “The Avaltines,” I replied, dumbly.

“Ah, yes!  The Avaltine monks, who just happened to take the wrong fork at a road in Remere and learned about Sevendor as a result, two years ago.  Who just happened to lose their contract with Sire Gimbal just as they were considering a new project . . . and who just happened to learn about the mysterious Karshak Alon building the Spellmonger’s palace in a third-rate shrine of mine in Fleria.  The Avaltines, who just happened to be one of the very few Imperial cults left who have preserved some of the very ancient-most knowledge and lore of humanity, within their most secret vaults.  One of the very few cults who managed to escape much scrutiny by the Censors, thanks to their utility to the regime, who managed to maintain chapterhouses throughout the duchies and in places like Farise, Unstara, and outposts even farther away . . . and who just happened to take a job working for you, just outside your doorstep, waiting for you to happen along and ask the precisely the right question concerning  the precise bit of obscure ecclesiastic lore from just the right man in the organization to have some knowledge of it,” he sighed, exhaling an impressive cloud of smoke.  “The Avaltines,” he concluded, sagaciously.

I stared at him, trying my best to follow the logic of the drunken god.  “And you had to start a religious debate to get there?” I finally demanded.

“Gods, you’re dim!  I’m a monk!  Should I have discussed her ladyship’s hooters?  Of course it was going to be a theological debate!  That’s what monks do!  Look,” he said, impatiently, “it got the job done.  Through no fault of my own, thanks to the constraints of the nature of human divinity on this world, I am bound from just telling you anything I want, any time I want, but I get the damned job done!”

‘Why?” I demanded.

“I can’t bloody explain it!” he burst out.  “It all happened before my time, when I was just another simple priest hoofing it along the Vore, staying one step in front of the magistrates.  That’s when the rules, such as they are, were set, just before the Inundation.  Among them are the restraints upon how and why and what we can impart to our worshippers and such.  In short, I can lead you to the bloody monks, get them drunk enough to tell you their secrets, charm them with my wit and entice them with my theological rigor, but it’s your bloody job to actually ask the sodding question, Spellmonger!” he snorted.

I blinked.  “You know, that would be quite impressive if I still wasn’t reeling from the insight you dropped in my pocket this morning.  That the Sea Folk are the real danger to humanity.”

“No, no, no, no, no, you bloody dim mage, no!” the god fussed, frustrated and exasperated.  “The Sea Folk, as you call them, as powerful as they are, are not the real danger.  They are but the emissaries of the real masters of Callidore, to whom both we and the various Alon are mere tenants!  For countless ages before humanity spat forth from the Void on this thankless rock, Callidore was ruled from the seas, the land an inconvenient afterthought!”

“But the Alon—”

“The Alon?  Even the highest Alkan prince or aronin has no more right to this world than a villein has to his rented plot!” he insisted, his words speeding together dangerously.  “You think you’re doing magic?  Even now, the Sea Folk and who they truly represent, as powerful as they are, are the remnants of a race whose mastery of reality and the intricacies of those forces you label as arcane were so vast they shifted the courses of the very stars, so legend says.  Under the seas, the lore says, long before any of the Five Races came to Callidore, the great Ostolumak Celestial Mothers of ancient ages sat in their watery kingdoms among subjects from a thousand aquatic species, contemplated the universe, and shifted the courses of suns,” he said, his eyes going wide in wonder and disbelief.

When you see a god – even a minor god – enrapt in his own sense of insignificance, it’s telling.

“So what do we have to fear of them?” I asked, my voice tight and quiet.

“No more than the fleas have to fear the temper of the dog they live upon,” he said, quietly, his voice discouraged.  “That’s what you are, Minalan, you, the Alka, the gurvani, all of you: fleas on the back of a dog that could go for a swim at any moment.  Make the dog itch . . . and it will scratch.  Perwyn made it itch, the bastards,” he said, with an angry sneer.  “Almost killed every human in the world with the resulting scratch.  Not that the damned Alka Alon didn’t help us out . . . that’s what I’m trying to avoid, Min,” he sighed, wearily.  “That’s our job, the gods.  You’re all just a bunch of fleas on this dog, and we’re the ones in charge of keeping you from getting scratched off.”

“Thanks,” I said, weakly.  “That’s helpful.”

“And I’m sure I broke a few rules,” he dismissed.  “Not that it will matter, in the long run.  Really, who the hells cares about those rules, anyway?  You go contemplate that cosmic wisdom I just gave you,” he said, turning back to me, then starting up the stairs.  “I’m going to go pee off the tower,” he said, with the force of divine mission in his voice.

I watched him haul himself up to the platform where our host awaited with his other guests . . . when I realized that I wasn’t alone.  I turned, startled that I hadn’t realized someone was listening.  My new apprentice, Ruderal, was standing quietly in the shadows, almost a shadow himself.

“Master, that monk . . . his pattern . . .” he said, struggling with the new words, his eyes shifting uncomfortably under his long black hair.  “You know how I can see ‘em?  I can see his, but it’s not like yours.  Or mine.  Or anyone else’s at the table tonight.”

I sighed.  Of course he’d see Herus’ enneagram differently – from what I knew about the subject, divine enneagrams were far, far more complex than a humans, a reflection of all of the prayers and devotion of their worshippers over the years absorbed in the divine . . . matrix? Lacis?  Soup?  See, I still knew almost nothing about the subject I was supposed to be an expert in.

“Yes, he is different,” I agreed.  “And someday I will explain exactly why.  For now, it would be best that you didn’t discuss this observation with anyone but me, Apprentice,” I said, casting my eyes on him to ensure that this directive had force.

The lad swallowed, then shrugged.  “Not a problem, Master.  You know, he’s kind of an asshole, too,” he added.

“Another excellent observation,” I chuckled.  “But sometimes spiritual counseling can take strange forms.  Let’s go up and look at the stars, now, before someone moves them around on us.”

Chapter Twenty

The Complications Of Divinity

Karandal shared a frontier, a ridge, and a forest with Bastidor, and by character and culture the two domains had much in common.  The two had been enfiefed around the same time, to the same class of Narasi country knight the Lenselys had employed in the settlement of the Bontal.  Karandal was technically larger, and enjoyed longer river frontage, but in essence there wasn’t much difference between the two.

But Karandal had proved a more lucrative holding, ultimately, due to a lucrative investment in religious patronage somewhere in the past.  A lord of Karandal felt he owed a debt to Orvatas the Sky God, and gave a small estate in his rugged domain to a band of monks seeking a living.  With his patronage they started raising the mountain sheep the Uwarris were known for, with a few llamas on the side, and built a small abbey.  Fistan Abbey, to live in and preach out of.

For more than a century the humble woolbrothers had expanded both their ministry and their operations until they owned or rented pastures all over Karandal, Hosly and the other hill domains.  The abbey quietly purchased wool from individual cotholders and villeins at a decent price, then blended it and treated it until it had become a premium commodity under their seal at market.  And Sire Arkid of Karandal got a little piece of every staple of wool bound downriver to Sendaria Port.  Enough to fund both a proper square keep castle near the center of the domain, as well as a more modern tower complex in the more troublesome southern estates.

Sire Gimbal had realized the lucrative nature of the domain and had forced a garrison of soldiers there, before I conquered him.  It had lain empty, save for a caretaker and a few servants, for the last two years.  As East Fleria had done little, outside of a probing raid in Northwood, I hadn’t staffed the small river fortification, known as Maddarch Tower, because I had been unsure of what to do with it.  But there were those who had their eye on it already, and it was time I made some decision.

“Oh, Fistan Abbey covets the place,” Sir Festaran assured me.  As Karandal was a neighbor of his native domain of Hosly, where we would visit next, Sir Festaran was a bit of an authority on the historical gossip about the region.  “The monks want the rich pasturelands around it, the river for fish and transport, and the high, dry storage there. They’ve wanted the site since it was built.”

“And no one gave it to them?” I asked.  I remember resolute Woolbrother Teer, the efficient agent of the abbey who had appeared at court on behalf of his estate a few times.  “I find that hard to believe.  They’re quite persuasive.”

“Oh, they tried to coax it from Sire Gimbal, after he became Karandal’s overlord and claimed Maddarch outright, but the Warbird was too crafty for that.  Or too greedy.  Instead he rented them the pastures at high price, for at the time he feared his brother would try to steal his patrimony from him.  Instead, to punish the monks, he made the Abbey pay scutage to support the garrison as part of their rents.  Since he’s been gone, they’ve been buttering up Sire Arkid and his wife in an attempt to win it from him.  But the good knight has reportedly deferred to your decision in the matter.”

“Wise man,” I snorted.  “I don’t want to be the ones to tell the monks ‘no’, and I don’t want to lose a potentially valuable fortification.”  I knew little of the man, but Arkid had no heir old enough to hold a second castle, and he did not want to fund the expense of setting up a castellan that I might arbitrarily dismiss.  So he sat on the matter, passing it to me to decide.

“But the property should be occupied by someone,” Sir Festaran urged me.  “It is a small estate, but strategically important.  And beautiful.  I trained there, once,” he said, a dreamy look in his eye.  “Hardly proper for a seated lord, perhaps, but a strong tenant lord could make a real go of it.”

“Are you applying for the job, Sir Festaran?” I teased.  The lad looked nearly stricken.

“Baron, no!” he said, scandalized.  “I love my work at Sevendor!  Please don’t send me away!”

I chuckled.  “No, I’ve no plans like that for you yet, Fes.  And you are already the heir to one domain – I don’t think you need more than that.  Not if you’ve a brain under that woolen mop of yours. No, I think I’m going to disappoint both Sire Arkid and the Woolbrothers of Fistan Abbey, and make Maddarch Tower a baronial estate.”

The young mage knight got a curious look on his face.  “Well thought, Baron.  May I ask to what end?”

“I know little enough about Sire Arkid, but I do know he is more suspicious and jealous of his privacy than his fellows.  I’ve been concerned that he would see a warmage in my pay so close to his affairs as a threat.  By installing him as my regional agent in Maddarch, I allow both abbey and castle to conduct their affairs in peace, while my man looks out for my interests, which include the defense of this place.”

“Which of them will you appoint?” asked Brother Hotfoot, riding his rouncey in line with ours, as the road widened.

“Likely Heeth the Butler,” I said, after thinking about it a few moments.

Heeth was one of the more scholarly warmagi, with a background in thaumaturgy, who I’d hired.  I liked Heeth – he was a class ahead of me at Inarion, but had gotten stuck in Farise with the rest of us.  He got his nickname because he spent time between warmagic assignments serving as an actual butler for an ancient lord on whose estate he’d been raised, near Castabriel.  He dabbled a bit in dioramic magic (Lanse of Bune had recommended him) when he came to Sevendor, looking for opportunities.  He’d been in the Battle of Cambrian, but had missed the icy Poros.

He was also, by reputation, a decent scholar and an adept administrator.  Just the kind of man I wanted in charge of a contentious tower on my frontiers.

“Good choice,” Hotfoot agreed, instantly.  “A sage as well as a warrior.  And a bit of a diplomat,” he approved.

“I have high aspirations for Heeth,” I said, confidentially.  “All of these warmagi, actually.  I’m grooming them each for stones, eventually.  But this allows me to test their skills and character without putting them all to the kinds of rigorous trials I did those who took the oath during wartime.”

“And having them guard your frontiers, in the meantime, puts them to good use,” Festaran agreed.  “Which do you propose for Hosly?”

“Kedaran the Black,” I said, nodding back to where the shave-pated warmage was riding behind us.  “He has a fell reputation, perhaps even dark, but he is a determined man.  And skilled at his trade.  He specializes in non-lethal charms that debilitate, rather than kill.  I hope that your father can keep an eye on him for me as much as Kedaran keeps his eye on Hosly,” I admitted.  “For Northwood I am sending Dail the Destroyer – despite his name he’s actually a pretty reasonable fellow – who will assist Sir Roncil in keeping the Northwoodmen at peace.  For little Hosendor, Amrace the Elfman, for his familiarity with the Alka Alon.  Sire Ryff will be wedding one of their noble ladies any day . . . year, now.”

“And isn’t that match the subject of much tittering in some quarters,” Brother Hotfoot said, knowingly.

“Oh, it’s not as bad as all that, Brother,” assured Sir Festaran, confidently, “I have known Lady Fallawen for three years, now, and despite what folk say about her fey beauty, she is a lady of noble virtue, as well as bearing.  No dishonor will come to Sire Ryff from any of the Sevendori, I swear!”

Brother Hotfoot chuckled.  Those were not the quarters he was referring to.

“You know,” he said that night, in my canopy as we camped beside the road in the wood, “those weren’t the quarters I was referring to.”

Sir Fes, the other knights, and the warmagi were seeing to setting their own meager camp, without the benefit of magical pockets and enchanted tents to aid them, so it was safe to speak in more specific terms.  “I know, Herus.  I suppose you might have heard something about that, on the road?”

“As chance would have it, I have,” he said, smugly, as he drank my wine.  “The tales of the road are—”

“It’s been a long day,” I pointed out.  “We’re in private.  Can you spare the divine embellishments?”

“The Alka Alon are in a tizzy, lad,” he chuckled.  “Oh, my, not since Perwyn sank have they been this concussed.  Losing the City of Rainbows so audaciously, nearly losing a second great lord, and being forced – forced! – to wed with the base humani in perverse transgenic form, all on top of letting the Abomination loose on the world . . .”

“Well, I know all of that,” I pointed out.  “Do you have any news?  The only Alkan I’ve seen in months is Onranion, and he’s hardly helpful that way.  He said he was thrown out of council.”

“I’m shocked they let him in to begin with,” mused the deity.  “But among the great lords of the Alka Alon, times have been too busy for even those worthies to indulge in counsel overlong.  News?  Aye, I have news.  Much of the refugee population has been resettled, temporarily, in refuges hastily built in the Kulines, and elsewhere.  Though at great cost, the Alkan lords have saved a great multitude of their folk . . . particularly since the new darkness in the West,” he said, suspensefully.  “And I’m not talking about the gurvani.  Korbal has arisen, Spellmonger, and he has the Alkan lords terrified.”

“Korbal?” I said, suddenly interested.  “The Demon God of the Mindens?  I knew that Sheruel’s minions were searching the scarred lands for his tomb – or whatever – but I hadn’t realized they had succeeded in raising him.”

“He’s less ‘demon god’ than he is ‘nasty Alka Alon bugger’ – one of the few of their lot to go undead.  He managed to do with Alkan magic what you use the stones to do, make his enneagram permanent . . . or at least sustainable.  Sort of.  I don’t know all the details, but from what I understand he’s a little miffed at being imprisoned in a tomb for a few centuries, and the Alka are scared shitless he and Shereul are going to be close friends.”

That was interesting news.  “How scared?”

“Scared enough so that an entirely new faction has arisen, vowing to defeat Korbal.  A faction that sees even the stain of transgenics as a necessary perversion to defeat the rising abominations.  Old Versaroti families whose lines go back millennia, a few conservative Avalanti, from back in the deep woods, and even a few Farastamari fanatics.  They’re gathering at a retreat not far from Kasar, actually.  And your old friend Lord Aeratas is urging them on with renewed vigor.  Word on the road is that he sees it as an opportunity to rally support to retake lost Anthatiel.  And he is openly calling for the pardon and release of certain rebels who have traditionally been very friendly toward the humani.”

I thought about the stern Alkan lords who were not particularly friendly toward humani.  Until I had given him assistance, Lord Aeratas had been one of them.  “His former allies on the council could not be happy with his sudden change of heart,” I observed.

“Spittin’ mad, actually.  It nearly rent the council,” he chuckled.  “For months, now, the great among them have been debating whether to embrace the humani struggle, or go their own way.  Seeing Aeratas appear in formal council in his humanoid form was scandalous.  Learning that he had betrothed his daughter to a mortal was even more so.  But he alone on the council seems eager to go to war against our common foe, and whether it is opportunity or genuine respect that motivates him, even the gods know not.  But he is gathering as many as who will come to his banner at Ysethary refuge, and offering to transform any who desire it into humanish forms for the duration.  Many have become fanatical – and a fanatical Alkan, Min, now that’s a sight to see!”

“I can imagine,” I nodded, doing some imagining.

“I don’t think you properly can,” he said, without criticism.  “Some of the younger, more fanatical Alka are declaring they will not adopt their proper forms until the Abominations – plural, now – are defeated.  And they eschewing their very identity, now.  Some even call themselves . . . the Tera Alon.”

He caught my confusion with a bit of irritation, as he poured himself more wine.  “It’s one of the old High Perwynese words for ‘human’, or even ‘importasta’.  Which makes the other end of the factions seethe with contempt and loathing.  Poor Master Haruthel is having a hell of a time even keeping them speaking.  Now that there is the real possibility of a mix-breed, transgenically augmented progeny arising from such a union . . . well, they’re in a tizzy,” he repeated, definitively.

“So . . . when will they be getting out of their tizzy?” I asked, frustrated at how Herus enjoyed the story more than the intelligence.

“Any time, now.  Could be next year, not more than a decade, I’m thinking.”

“That’s not particularly helpful, for us,” I reminded him.

“It’s the Alka Alon,” he reminded me, in turn.  “They excel at not being particularly helpful.  A lot will come from the next great council they’ve called in a few weeks, where some serious decisions will be made.  But even then, there’s no real telling what that means in human terms.  But, my lad, their distraction is our gain,” he said, warmly.  “As long as they have their noses turned toward the vile gurvani and the evil undead lord, they aren’t watching what you’re doing with my sort.”

“You mean, making more gods permanent?  I’ve done three so far.  You know the results.”

“Which is why I’ve spent months scouring the duchies in search of good candidates to add to our little pantheon.  With some limited success,” he boasted.

“What kind of success?” I asked, suspiciously.

“Well, for example, the god Avital, it would seem, has a long-held desire for just this sort of thing.  And unlike others, he is likely to actually be useful.  The problem is, he doesn’t manifest in the flesh, much.  He’s one of those cerebral divinities, most times, awash in the serenity of complex thought, like Yrentia or Rada.  That doesn’t provide much emotional energy to summon his avatars very often.  But,” he said, triumphantly, “where there’s a god, there’s a way . . . and come to find out, Avital is a syncretic divinity.  His cool, calm, logical exterior has a dark side – in Cormeer, where he is known as Avital Damatuko.”

“I don’t know a lick of Cormeeran,” I warned him.

“It means ‘the Remorseful’.  It’s the avatar he embodied after the failed attempt to increase Berwyn’s landmass.  The Cormeerans believe that Avital survived, made it to the shores of Cormeer, and spent a lifetime repenting of his folly with one mad invention after another.”

“Well that sounds depressing as five hells!” I snorted.

“That’s why I like to get out of town, after a civilization falls,” he chuckled, tipsily.  “You just have to understand the Cormeeran perspective on such things, I suppose.  Hopelessly fatalistic, yet brilliantly celebratory of such failures.  They make it work.  But Avital Damatuko manifests with some regularity, according to my sources, and could be summoned if you do it right.”

“If I do it right?  Shouldn’t I get a Theurge, or one of his own priests?”

“We’ll likely need at least one of his high priests, certainly,” Herus nodded.  “But as to the rest, well, let me arrange for the details.  It’s going to be a delicate matter, I think, and require a certain timing.  Not really the sort of work I’m used to.”

“Get Briga’s help,” I suggested.  “She’s great at meticulous stuff.  When?”

“That’s the thing,” he shrugged, again.  “It’s a matter of timing.  When the right moment arises, I think we can coax him into existence long enough to make him an offer.  And believe me, he’s just the god you need, Min, if you want to keep experimenting with the Snowflake.  Magic and science, engineering and math . . . he’s one of the better embodiments of human learning still lingering around.”

“Fair enough,” I nodded.  “Anyone else?”

“Two others, neither one terribly useful on the first step, but they might be boon companions.  The first is False, Mother of Healthful Herbs.”

“I’ve heard of her.  Popular in the Wilderlands,” I nodded.

“That’s where I found her.  She’s a seasonal goddess, and not particularly powerful but she’s around, if you want her.  And then there’s Boval.”

That got my attention, quickly.

“Boval?  The Cow Goddess?”

“The very same,” he said, wincing.  “Found her masquerading as a milk maid at the largest dairy estate in Castal.  Nice goddess.  Not real bright.”

“What else does she do?” I asked.  Most of the Narasi pantheon had multiple spheres of power, from what I understood.

“As a craft goddess, besides milking, calving, cheese making, leatherwork – touchy subject – and butter churning, she takes an occasionally foray as a psychopomp.  But she’s a protective divinity, first and foremost, Watcher of the Herds.  Culturally she’s associated with plenty, prosperity, bounty, fertility—”

“Oh, excellent!” I complained, sarcastically, “that is just what I need right now!”

“—wholesome beauty,” he continued, ignoring me, “perfume, good manners, nurturing motherhood, oaths, patience . . . oh, and she knows how to make magical dairy products.  Milk that can turn any man into a hulking warrior, cream to turn any woman into a personification of fecund wholesome beauty, a cheese that can bestow wisdom, and she does something with curds and menstruation—”

“Enough,” I said, holding up my hand.  “Would she be an asset?  An ally?”

“It was Boval Vale that was the start of this,” Herus sighed.  “A vale named for her, but never consecrated to her.  She’s a little pissed off about it”

I couldn’t help but snort.  “And that’s useful to us?”

“It is when she manifests in her bellicose aspect,” he said.  “Ever see a mother cow protect her calf?  She’s not the best warrior goddess, but she’s committed.  And where she goes, her sisters often come along.  Goddesses of chickens, turkeys, goats, and their mean sister, the Sow Goddess.  Beastly woman.”

“What about Falassa?”

“She’s of debatable value.   A minor folksy crone goddess of healing and wisdom.  Good heart, simple aspect, makes a hell of a cup of tea.  A favorite of hedgewitches and herbalists, of course, and – unlikely enough – a patroness of poisoners.  Like Peras, without all the pretentiousness.  Not much of an asset, but hardly a liability.”

“I don’t really see Shereul sipping poisoned tea,” I agreed.  “Still, one never knows which of you minor divinities is going to prove useful.”

“Ouch!” he said, with false indignity.  “Keep it up, Wizard.  You’ll have bunions before you know it.”

“You know what I mean.  Why haven’t we considered pursuing Orvatas?  Or Duin?”

“Because the Lord of the Skies usually only manifests in the middle of major storms, and the Lord of War is just not the sort of divinity you want to hold continuity, in most of his manifestations.  But he would be a challenge to Ishi.  The two are known to have a long-standing affair.”

“Do we really want the God of War stomping around Vorone, in pursuit of the Goddess of Love?” I proposed.

“It doesn’t sound like a very stable environment,” he conceded.  “Look, Min, I’ve only been at this a couple of months – the novelty of still being me when I wake up is still at play.  I’ll find more candidates, but we have to be careful that we only invite the right sort of gods to this party.  That’s the sort of thing that takes human wisdom, not divine.  Which is why we need a great and powerful wizard.  But you’ll do, until one comes along.”

It was better than bunions.

One would think that communing with the gods personally like that might give one insight into the nature of the divine.  But traveling with Brother Hotfoot on such an easy mission meant that the monk was far more easily distracted by the wonders of the road than he had been in Alshar.  His appreciation of his own permanence was also a distraction, as he ran across things that inspired memories from earlier incarnations.

We met with the Woolbrothers, local yeomen, and Lord Arkid at Maddarch Tower, as arranged, and it was agreed that Heeth the Butler would be installed there as the domain’s Spellwarden and warmage, available to castle and abbey alike.  The monks were impressed with Heeth’s scholarly bearing, while Sire Arkid was equally impressed at the military eye he cast on the tower.  Not only was it agreed to support him in his new seat, but both parties were cautiously optimistic about the benefits of having a warmage around.

Fistan Abbey was also very receptive to the invitation to the Sevendori Ecumenical Council, to be held in Sevendor Town at High Summer, at the Feast of Luin, that Brother Hotfoot presented them.  The monks were interested, he revealed later that night, more because they feared the other temples would attempt to use their combined weight against them than because of a spirit of ecumenical cooperation.  Sister Bemia was respected, though her temple and Fistan Abbey were somehow rivals.  I wondered how Landfather Miton felt about that.

That night while I enjoyed Heeth’s hospitality at his installation, I received a call, mind-to-mind, from Pentandra.

Min, we’ve got problems, she began, without so much as asking about my day.

What kind of problems? I asked, my mind whirling with the possibilities.  Alka Alon?  Royal?  Ducal?  Military? Cultural? Economic?

Take your pick, she sighed, moodily.  But those aren’t the problems I need help with.  Those are real problems that can be solved by real people doing real work.  Our problem has big boobs and the meanest perspective on human mating I’ve ever seen.

Ishi.

Yes Ishi.  Or Lady Pleasure, as she’s calling herself.  Which is the tackiest pseudonym I’ve ever heard.  You’re certain she’s a goddess?

I’ve recently gotten confirmation.  That’s her.

First, I want to know how you know that. The way she said it told me that there was no room for dissembling . . . and the price of dishonesty would be high.

Pen, I have to be honest – there are some things I can’t be transparent about.  For your safety, among others.  All I can say is that yes, I have had divine encounters in the past that have aided our various causes.  Some of these bore amazing fruit.  Some produced . . . well, ‘Lady Allure’.  Believe it or not, it’s not my fault.

You’re consorting with gods, and it’s not your fault . . . you think?  Minalan, do you have any idea how dangerous it is to mix magic and religion? she demanded.  Shall I list all the horrible, horrible ways it can go wrong from history?  Shall we start with the collapse of the Magocracy, or shall we confine our discussion to early Perwyni history?

Pentandra, I told you it wasn’t my fault!  A lot has happened, since you went to Alshar, and I’m doing my best to manage it without complicating your life.  That doesn’t mean I’m trying to keep secrets, it’s just a bit . . . awkward, at the moment, I finished, lamely.

It had to be Ishi.  Very well, then, since you unleashed this beast on me, you can help me contain it.  Duke Anguin is holding a masque in a few weeks, and half of Lady Pleasure’s enchanted minions will be slobbering around the palace.  I know you aren’t supposed to be away from your estates, but I think you should take the chance to slip away and come see what I’ve been dealing with.

Is it really that bad? I asked, fearful of her response.

Of course it’s that bad!  She’s got every woman in town tarted-up and every man following them!  The cosmetics makers and the dressmakers are among our most prosperous businesses, now!  The inns and taverns have enjoyed an explosion of business, because of all the courting, and . . . and . . .

It doesn’t sound like much of a problem, Penny, I said, gently.

That’s because you aren’t here, she complained.  If you come and see it, you’ll see what I mean.  How can the Duke make policy when a flick of a skirt will change it?  How can a woman keep her husband happy at home when every maiden inside the walls believes herself to be breathtakingly beautiful?  Things are under strain, Min, in ways I never thought I’d see, because of that selfish bitch!

All right, all right, I’ll come! I agreed, finally.  But you realize, after my last encounter I’m not particularly eager to face her?

I can see why, Min, she said, in all seriousness.  She didn’t even joke about it.  That’s when I knew how bad it was.  The day Penny misses a chance for a dirty joke is a bad day.  She’s utterly intimidating, to man or woman.  That’s why I need you here.

What about Arborn?

Keep him out of this! she said, almost shrilly, in my mind.  I have him doing . . . other things, things better suited to his talents.  Things that will keep him out of that bitch’s claws.  Cleaning up the underworld here, for one thing.  I may have turned him into a murderous assassin, she said, more to herself than me, but I’ve kept him away from her and her nasty little—

What does Duke Anguin think about all of this? I asked, cautiously.

Anguin?  He thinks it’s great, of course!  Within months of his return to the summer capital, everyone is getting laid and making money.  As far as what the people think, they see him as a savior.  And now whatever it is she’s done has spread to him . . . he’s got mistresses falling all over the place.  Which is all very well and good for the lad’s disposition – don’t get me wrong – but in a generation that’s going to play havoc with the succession!  That’s part of the problem – everything Ishi is doing seems perfectly reasonable and rational, on the face of it, but it’s starting to have dramatic consequences that those fools at court can’t see!  I need your perspective, Min, and whatever leverage you can bring to bear on her.

I’ve got to go to the Chepstan Fair next week, I informed her, and thanks to Arathanial’s little war, I’m obligated to go.  But I can attend this masque, in honor of my good friend, Duke Anguin.  I’ll risk my own duke’s wrath, for that.  If he’s even paying attention to me, I added, a little more gloomily than I realized.

You just need to get out in the world for a night or two, she promised.  Bring Alya, make up a costume, bring a few gifts, be your charming self . . . and get this damned love goddess out of my hair for me so I can do my godsdamned job!

I will, I will, I soothed.  I promise.  I’m not sure how, yet, but I’ll at least study the situation.

Whatever you can do, Min.

That night, just before I retired, I got another call mind to mind, this time from Dranus.

Baron, I believe you need to cut your inspection tour short and return to Sevendor, my Court Wizard advised in his calm, measured tones.  Two reasons: firstly, Sirs Tyndal and Rondal have returned from their errand in the west, and would have words with you, as has Master Lorcus.  And news has arrived by messenger from the Temple of Trygg in the westlands.  They report an attack, my lord, and smoke on the horizon.

My heart sank.   It looked I was going to war, after all.

Which of the new domains got attacked? I asked, sternly.

Actually, Excellency, none of the new clients were the target of the raid.  Your existing estate of Amel Wood was.  The village was sacked and burned.  Dozens were killed. A few survivors made it to the Abbey and found sanctuary.  The raiders effectively wiped the settlement out.

Part Three

Chapter Twenty-One

Half A Worm

“Are you sure you won’t wait for your troops?” Alya asked, her eyes wide with concern as I bustled about our private chamber.

“I’ve already sent a score of cavalry out, when I first heard the news,” I said, shaking my head as I prepared for battle.  “They’ll be there soon enough.  We’ll be there quicker.”  I opened up the great trunk where I kept my battle armor.  It only took me moments to start strapping it on.

“You’ll take the boys?  And Lorcus?” she asked.  “They’ve only just arrived, but I can’t think that they wouldn’t—”

“They are already armored, as is Sir Festaran,” I assured her.  “Lanse, Dranus, Cormoran, and a few others have volunteered to come, too.  We’ll be fine,” I said, as I strapped the chest-piece on and began with the gorget straps.  “Damn him, I should have thought of something like this!” I cursed.

“Like what?” Alya asked.

“When I forbade Rolone from interfering with my new domains,” I explained, “I did not specifically add my old domains.  So I can’t very well break my word and go to war against Sashtalia without staining my honor, according to Sir Fes.  I told Sire Cullien what the consequences would be, so he found a way to strike me without outright violating the agreement, merely to challenge me.”

She considered that carefully.  “That’s bullshit, Min!”

“I know!” I said, as I buckled on my vambraces.  She moved to help me.  “But now if I go to war with Sashtalia, I show I can’t be trusted to keep my word!”

“No one will blame us for going to war against Sashtalia over this, Minalan,” she pointed out.  “And if we do, I dare say there won’t be many standing against us to say so, after it’s over,” she said, confidently.

I kissed her.  “Thank you for saying so.  But I’ll have a better idea of what I need to do once I see Amel Wood in person.”

She put my helmet on my head, then waited for me to adjust it before she fastened the buckle.  “Go defend us, my baron!”

“I will, my love,” I said, kissing her again, and started down the stairs.  “I will report back as soon as I can.  Oh, and we have an engagement for a Ducal Ball in Alshar the week after Chepstan Fair.  A masque or something.  Penny insists.”

“What?” she asked, her eyes growing even wider.  She looked almost as upset as she had when she’d learned of the poor folk of Amel Wood.  I realized that this news would require time for elaboration that I did not have.

“Relax! Its two weeks!  Plenty of time!  We’ll discuss it when I get back,” I promised.

Then I got the hell out of there.  Fast.

Tyndal and Rondal were waiting at the door of my hall for me, both looking larger, hairier, older, and better-fed than last I’d seen them.  Lorcus lounged against a tree in the yard, eating an apple, and Lanse, Cormoran, Dranus, Taren, and Sir Festaran were milling about, waiting for me.

“Hail, Master!” Tyndal called out.  “We’re not back one day and you’ve thrown a war for us?  A simple toast would have sufficed.”

“A bath would have been preferable,” Rondal mused.  “Do you have any idea how far we’ve ridden?”

“It’s good to see all of you, and we’ll revel about it later,” I promised.  “Right now I need a magical corps to help me determine just who hit Amel Wood, when, and to help the survivors.”

“Vengeance?” Lorcus called out, his mouth half-full of apple.  “Is there no vengeance planned?  That’s my favorite part.”

“It’s on the agenda,” I agreed.  “I’ll be taking us over by Waypoint, three at a time.  If I don’t return the first foray in a timely manner, assume that the site is still occupied by hostile forces.  Any questions?  Anyone forget anything?”

“You might want to grab a weapon, Excellency,” Dranus said.  He wore black lacquered leather armor with the arms of his house enameled on the breast.  He had his baculus in hand, and a mageblade over his shoulder – a very different aspect than his usual robes and slippers.

I held out my hand and conjured Blizzard from my ring, using the extra-flashy burst of light and incandesce I’d contrived to impress people at dramatic moments.  Like this one.

“I’m armed,” I said, coolly.  “Let us see to my people.”

*

*

The tower of Amel Wood was burned and smoldering when Lorcus, Rondal, Tyndal and I arrived, weapons out, spells hung.  The acrid smell of burnt thatch overpowered the usual woodsmoke odor, and I could taste blood on the air without magic – one of those unfortunate skills you learn as a veteran soldier that you don’t realize you have until you need it.

Without me even asking, my boys got to work.

“Scrying for foes,” Rondal reported, building a magemap in front of him with a few waves of his hands.

“There are some live people left!” Tyndal warned, using a flash-scry spell before he moved cautiously to the smashed door of the tower, his boots crunching in the smoking ashes.  Lorcus peered through another hole and nodded.

“There are bodies – wounded, as I see some breathing,” he said, in a much softer voice than my former apprentices.  “A moment . . .”

He closed his eyes, and I thought he was invoking a spell . . . but instead he ran through the wreckage of the refuge’s door, booting it out of the way, and went screaming into the village, brandishing his weapon like a madman.

In a moment, he returned.  “No one killed me,” he reported, astutely.  “I think it’s safe.”

“Don’t be so certain,” Rondal said, through clenched teeth.  Professional or not, Lorcus’ style conflicted heavily with Rondal’s training in military decorum.

Tyndal moved out and took a position in the yard, with the others flanking him.  “We’ve got wounded!” he called, a moment later.  “We’ll hold here, Mas—Minalan, you can fetch the others.”

It took me about three minutes to use the Ways to go to Sevendor and return with Dranus, Lanse, Cormoran and Taren.  Another five, and Sir Festaran and a couple of men-at-arms joined us, and I had a pounding headache.

I ignored it.  While I was transporting people, my men had spread out and assessed the situation more clearly.  The attack was long over, but the damage was still occurring.

“Report,” I snapped at Lorcus, as I strode through the bloody yard.

“Two groups of light infantry and archers in squads of ten, and another dozen on horse at the bottom of the hill,” he said, without preface.  “Light cavalry, most likely,” he observed.  “The two infantry squads infiltrated up the side of the hill, avoiding the trail.  One held the gate, killing the guard, and the other spread out and began their mayhem.”

“They shot or rode down at least six in that first charge,” Tyndal agreed, after staring at the torn-up ground.  “Started burning thatch here, here and here,” he said, pointing at burned-out cots around the compound.  “Funny, it’s been raining a lot, it looks like.  They shouldn’t have burned that easily.”

“That’s because they were aided by magic,” Dranus said, as he peered passed his baculus through a spell only he could see.  “Simple incendiary spell, dries before it burns.  Cheaper than carrying an accelerant.”

“Warmagic,” nodded Lanse, grimly.  “They used silence spells around the perimeter, too.  And a glyph of some sort in the center.”

“That’s a gurvani-style Ava’arun terror glyph,” Tyndal offered, authoritatively, as he peered through magesight at the village center.

“Are you certain?” Dranus asked, surprised by the knowledge.

“I could cast it for you if you like,” the tall mage knight offered with a shrug.  “Ron and I have had a lot of experience with gurvani shamanic magic recently.  And this sigil in particular.  Standard Imperial warmagic works entirely differently, usually, and targets a different part of the mind.  Whoever threw this wanted everyone in a state of high mass panic, not terrified into inactivity.”

“Ava’arun?  Ishi’s tits, that’s a nasty one,” Rondal agreed, wincing.

I winced too, but for a different reason.  “Where are the survivors?” I asked.

“There were some signs off beyond the compound,” Lanse announced, pointing south and west.  “Two groups, and then two singles nearby.”

“Take Sir Fes and his men, go fetch back anyone who is still alive,” I ordered, crossing toward the manor house.  The simple door had been caved in with a log, and half of the thatch was burned away.  But it was the largest, most intact structure left in the village.  The survivors, I knew, would follow standard peasant practice: run and hide.   There were probably little caves and shelters and such throughout the entire wood, or landmarks where everyone could reconvene.  Many of them had made it to the abbey a few miles away, I knew, but I wasn’t sure how many of my new friends and vassals had escaped.

When I got to the door of the manor house I had a better idea.  I counted twenty-two bodies – including nine children, some babes-in-arms – on the floor of the manor, left to burn and rot.  I could see arrows and sword slashes and far more blood pooling than I was prepared for.  Already flies were battling over the dreadful feast on the floor.  Their stricken faces stung me, first, their eyes staring blankly and their mouths set in horror.  So casually hauled and carelessly dumped, like human trash.  Then the smell of twenty-two rapidly decaying bodies hit me, overwhelming the smell of burnt thatch, and I stepped back from the door, gasping for air.

“Master?” Rondal asked from behind my shoulder, concerned.

“Just wasn’t prepared for that,” I admitted, fighting back nausea.  “I . . . I just met those people a few weeks ago.”

“Sorry, Master,” he offered, quietly.  “May the gods—”

“Forget the gods,” I growled.  I straightened, suddenly angered beyond all accounting.  These poor, innocent hillfolk had died because of me.

Not directly, I knew – I’d done nothing to specifically cause them to be targeted – but more importantly, I was their lord, and I had failed to protect them.  The sting of that dug deep into my soul like a burrowing taproot.  Along the way it became entangled with my frustrations over Isily’s assault and betrayal, Ishi’s interference, my internal exile, and my fears for the rest of my people, and it grew beyond reason.

“This was done by men, and those men have my wrath to contend with before they reckon with the gods.  Find out who did this – who really did this.  This was no gurvani attack.”

“No, it wasn’t that artful,” he agreed.  “They would have managed some sort of perverse display.  These people were disposed of.  This was a terror raid, designed to send a message.  Unless they had piles of gold to lure their attackers,” he said, doubtfully.

“No,” I said, shaking my head.  “These people had nothing.  Nothing save their instruments,” I said, as I spied a smashed harp on the ground, where it had been thrown against the side of the hall.  I recalled that it had been in the Yeoman’s family for over a hundred years, their most prized possession.  “They did nothing to deserve this.”

“There were no clear signs left, Master,” Tyndal told me, a moment later.  “Usually in these kinds of raids the attackers leave some sign behind to brag as to who did it.  But I have seen nothing.  It could have been bandits, if they had not been so well armed and so many.”

“Or used warmagic,” Lorcus observed.  “Gurvani warmagic.  I don’t like this, Min.”

“Nor me, Sire,” Dranus agreed, resting his baculus on his shoulder.  “If this raid was intended to send a message, then from whom was it sent?  Usually the sender likes the acknowledgement of the effort,” he pointed out.

“Or at least leave a few clumsy signs to try to point the finger at someone else,” agreed Tyndal.  “This is strange.”

“Then unravel the mystery – cast some spells!” I demanded.  “Find out who was here!”

“I’ll track the raiders,” Taren promised, heading down the trail.

“Let me see if their horses left anything I can work with,” Tyndal proposed, quickly.

Everyone hurried to work, as I watched, but before they could bring me any results, Lanse returned, escorting five villagers back from where they were hidden – three men a woman and a child.  I recalled them vaguely from our visit.  They were still suffering the lingering effects of the terror sigil, which had caused them to flee blindly into the night, their hearts pounding.  Once calmed, and given water, one of the men was helpful about the attackers’ identity.

“They was northmen, Lord,” he said, through freshly-broken teeth, fear still heavy in his eyes.  “They tried to hide who they were by riding mountain ponies, but I know a voice from Rolone when I hear it!”

“There are bandits in Rolone,” Tyndal pointed out.  “There are bandits from everywhere.”

“These were no bandits, Lords,” the peasant said, looking around nervously.  “Pardon, but I know all the bandits in these hills.  Some are kin,” he admitted.  “These were mostly from north o’ the wood, I swear to Trygg.  These were proper soldiers in plain cloaks.  They wore mail,” he insisted.  “No bandit around here wears mail.  Or rides a horse, even a pony.  Or attacks the poor folk o’ the hills!”

“Still, it is not proof,” I sighed.

“Perhaps this will do, then, Excellency,” Sir Festaran said, escorting another knot of survivors back into the village . . . and one prisoner.  “They left one behind, for dead.”

The cloaked figure clutched at his stomach, where a crossbow bolt was lodge just to the left of his spine, wrapped in a blood-soaked cloth.  Festaran pushed him to his knees where he gasped, painfully.

“Careful,” warned Lorcus.  “Don’t kill him yet.  We need to know who sent him, and who he is.”

“As for who sent him, that will likely be difficult to discover,” Festaran said, angrily, “but as for who he is, that I can answer for you!”  With that he pulled the man’s hood from his head, revealing a wide, pale face . . . except for the magemark on his face.

Sir Ganulan.  Disgraced son of Sire Gimbal, and currently outlaw of Sevendor.

“The only problem will be convincing him to talk before he dies,” Rondal observed, as he squatted to examine the wound in his belly from a safe distance.

“Nay, my friend,” Sir Festaran said, his jaw clenched, “the only problem will be getting him to remember who he is!”

Ganulan stared at us all, blankly, no gleam of recognition in his eyes.

“Who are you?” he asked, weakly, the magemark on his face in dark contrast to his underlying pallor.  “My lords, I beg of you by all the gods to help me!  I have been wounded and . . . and I do not know how!  Worse, I do not even know how I came to be here, or mine own name!  I beseech you, my lords, aid a fellow knight, if knight I am!” he begged.

“Ishi’s tits,” Tyndal swore.  “He’s been bewitched.”

*

*

I set up my canopy to offer shelter and food to the survivors, which they remembered from my last visit.  I had Festaran and his men set a guard, and told off Lanse and Taren to establish firm wards and set a hard perimeter.  I didn’t expect another raid.  The damage had been done.  But it made both me and the survivors feel better, once they reported it done.

I made a quick trip back to Sevendor and recruited Sister Bemia and a couple of castle servants to help with the relief, as well as inform Alya of the news and assure her of my safety.  I also grabbed my old campaign tent and tucked some supplies away in a pocket of my staff before we returned.  Soon we were back in Amel Wood, tending to the living and the dead.

By that time a party of nuns from the abbey had also arrived, bringing food and medicine.  They reported that more than a dozen Ameli had made it out of the slaughter and to the sanctuary of the temple.  I had the men pitch my old tent to house the folk, and conjured a score of blankets I’d taken from stores and settled in the weeping survivors for the night.  It was getting dark, so I convened a quick war council in my tent, once the peasants had been fed, calmed, and assured of protection.  I was angrier than I’d been in a long time.

“Gentlemen, I have been maneuvered into a difficult position,” I informed them, as they sat around the tent pole I leaned against.  “If Rolone proves the author of this raid – and no one else has cause – then it’s a clear challenge to get me to declare my intentions in the war.  Yet to do so is against my better judgment, and puts me in a difficult position, politically.”

“If the Baron of Sevendor can’t protect his folk,” Sir Festaran pointed out, “that does not bode well for his other estates.  You must respond, Excellency.  Honor demands it!”

“Bugger honor on a biscuit!” Lorcus said with a guffaw.  “Lad, this raid was designed to force Minalan to act.  If he acts, then they have achieved their goal.  It’s usually considered poor strategy to do precisely what your opponent wishes you to.”

“I really have better things to do than call my banners this summer,” I agreed. “And it vexes me to be manipulated.”

“Actually,” Rondal pointed out, “this raid was designed to force the Baron of Sevendor to act, was it not?”

“Isn’t that me?” I asked, a little confused.

“It is,” he agreed, his mind churning behind those brown eyes, “but that’s not precisely who you are, in this instance.”

“I . . . I don’t understand,” I confessed.

“Well, Master,” he continued, an idea growing in his head, “the raid wasn’t actually on the Barony of Sevendor, was it?”

“Wasn’t it?”

“It was on the domain of Amel Wood.  Technically.  From Rolone.  Probably.  Even though it wasn’t a declared act of war, legally speaking – if the soldiers proved to be acting under Rolone’s authority – it was merely a raid on one domain from another.  An act of undeclared war.”

“And an invitation to respond,” Sir Festaran said, starting to catch on to what Rondal was saying.  “Of course, in the absence of a seated lord, the invitation rises to the liege, all the way to the rank of count – though few counts would sully themselves in such a petty thing as a border raid.  But the insult is delivered to the domain lord.”

“Does that look like an ‘insult’ out there?” I demanded.

“Master, what he means is the legal insult,” explained Rondal, patiently.  “A raid like this is a challenge to the domain lord’s authority.  There is no seated domain lord, so that authority is the holder of the deed.  You can elect, therefore, to respond in the guise of overlord of the barony—”

“Or he can respond in the guise of his title as Lord of Amel Wood!” Dranus nodded, pleased.  “Well done, Gentlemen!”

“I still don’t understand,” I sighed.

“Excellency, consider it thus,” my Court Wizard explained, using his pipe to punctuate his sentences.  “You are, in addition to being Baron of Sevendor, legally the titled Lord of Amel Wood.  They are separate titles, legally making you two different lords.  You are, essentially, your own vassal.”

“I don’t see how that changes the situation.”

“Ah, but it does,” Dranus continued, a little smugly.  “In your person as the Baron, you declared a course of action if certain conditions were met: namely, if your new domains were attacked, you would go to war against Sashtalia, allied with Sendaria.  You dared Rolone and Sashtalia to do something, and they did something you didn’t forbid.  But something that, on its own, is legally and militarily actionable . . . in your role as Lord of Amel Wood.”

“You mean, I don’t wage war on the entire Sashtali confederacy,” I realized, “but just on Rolone?”

“Exactly, Excellency,” he agreed, happily.  “Sevendor need not involve itself in a private dispute between two sovereign domains.  Just because you happen to be titular lord of one of them does not obligate you to use Sevendori forces at all.  Indeed, proceeding under the Snowflake banner would give the Sire Trefalan every justification for seeing your action as a projection of Sevendori power, and require his intervention under the terms of his vassal agreements.

“But if you proceed under the arms of Amel Wood, as a simple domain lord, then Sashtalia cannot, technically, interfere in a private war between two domains.  Not unless you spread the conflict beyond Rolone’s frontiers.”

“That’s actually not a bad plan,” Lorcus admitted, after everyone considered it in silence.  “It’s not like you don’t have the men to run it for you,” he pointed out.  “Send a few raiders into Rolone, make sure it’s understood that this is a private war, and then start taking the place apart from top to bottom,” he said, dreamily.  “There are what, five castles in Rolone?”

“Three keeps, two fortified towers, and Rolone Castle.  That’s nearly the size of Chepstan, and at the top of a great hill,” Sir Festaran offered.  “About one thousand two hundred sixty-two men at arms, and three hundred knights, when fully garrisoned.”

“And most of that garrison is going to be pledged to the upcoming war,” reminded Dranus.

“Gods!” howled Lorcus.  “If you can’t have fun with six near-empty castles, lads, you just aren’t trying hard enough!”

“Honestly, you’d only have to take a few,” Tyndal considered.  “A long as one of them was Rolone Castle.”

“That’s a lot of castle,” Sir Festaran warned.  “Even lightly manned, the defenses are formidable.”

“So were my first love’s,” boasted Lorcus, “but she bled all the same!  Come, my friends, this will be fun!  A bunch of sparks terrorizing the countryside, stealing folk blind and knocking things over?  While all the knights are off serving their duty?”

“What, you think we can fight a war with just warmagi?” asked Master Cormoran, surprised.

“I don’t see why not,” Lorcus shrugged.  “Warfare is a matter of power, not force.  We need not cover the land in horseshit from our many glittering lances of knights, just because that’s how everyone else does it.  A couple of sparks, some classy enchantment, some classic misdirection and a whole empty domain to conquer in a sanctioned conflict?  It will be like legal banditry!”

“I really don’t want to commit any of my regular troops to this,” I conceded.

“Sire, is that really wise?” countered Dranus, suddenly.  “A few punitive raids are in order, certainly, but to raise the level of conflict with magic and seeking to contend against the strongest fortifications in the land?  That seems somewhat bold for the occasion.  And unlikely to be successful,” he said, his eyes landing on Lorcus for an amused moment.

“Oh, would you like to wager I can’t do it, Dranus?” he asked, rising.  “Rolone Castle might be big, but it isn’t invulnerable.  Not to a good warmage.  And I’m more than just a good warmage,” he challenged.  “Name your stakes!”

“I’ll name them,” I said, suddenly.  “Lorcus, I hereby appoint you provisional tenant Lord of Amel Wood.  If you make good on your promise, I’ll make that appointment permanent.”

“What?  Ishi’s sloppy twat, Min, I’m not a lord!” he scoffed.  “I work for a living!”

“You are now,” I snickered, pleased at his sudden discomfort over what I was going to do.  “Master Dranus, I believe you carry parchment, ink, and wax?  I have my seal right here,” I said, patting my pouch.  “Lord Lorcus of Amel Wood, your domain has been attacked and your honor challenged.  What are you going to do about it?” I demanded.

I give Lorcus a lot of credit.  While I half-expected him to crack an obscene joke, he vindicated my trust in him by closing his mouth, swallowing, and allowing a new aspect to come over him.

“You’re serious?” he asked in a near-whisper.

“I’ll have copies of the ennoblement and the writ of vassalage filed at Wilderhall tomorrow, back dated a week,” I decided.

“Oh, you are such a bastard!” he snarled at me.

“Lord Lorcus, your domain has been attacked,” I repeated.  “What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m going to teach the bastards a lesson!” he said, with a bellicose glare.  “Starting with that lad, there,” he said, pointing to Sir Ganulan.  I had the disgraced knight brought into the tent where a nun from the abbey removed the quarrel from his gut.  Master Cormoran oversaw the procedure, casting spells to aid healing and slow blood loss from the seeping wound.

“You aren’t planning on killing him in revenge, are you?” I asked, surprised.

“Oh, no,” Lord Lorcus assured me.  “He’s going to be my guide.  If he recovers.”

He’d recover, we were fairly certain, but Ganulan’s memory had been scrambled.  Tyndal examined him, using some spells I’d never heard of, and eventually shook his head.

“He’s been addled, really, really well-addled,” he determined.  “It’s not that Ganulan’s mind has been erased – there’s no physical damage – but he can’t string two memories together in a cohesive form.  It’s not particularly subtle.  The kind of thing you would do if, say, you had to leave someone behind, but didn’t want to kill them.  Just keep them from talking.  And it has a gurvani signature, too.  At least I think so.”

“So he can’t confess who hired him,” frowned Lorcus.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t tell where he’s been,” Tyndal said.  “I know a tracking spell . . .”

It took a little while, but Tyndal’s spell allowed him to determine just where Ganulan had been for the last month.  The outlaw knight proved to have spent the majority of his time in southern Rolone, before suddenly making his way directly to Amel Wood.  While that wasn’t quite as good as a confession, it was more than enough evidence to convince Lorcus – particularly when Taren reported from the road that he’d tracked the party back across the frontier with Rolone.

“What resources can I use?”

“Any mage who wants to help,” I promised.  “Except Dara – she’s a Lady of Sevendor, and I don’t want her or the hawks involved.  But anyone else you can convince.  You pay them out of any loot you take.”

“And I can legally take any loot I can carry off in a time of war,” he nodded.  “Oh, do I have to declare war, first, to make it legal?”

“It is customary to inform an opponent of your intention to go to war with him within two weeks of the start of hostilities,” Sir Festaran instructed.  “Any longer than that is seen as dishonorable.”

“We wouldn’t want that, would we?  And I suppose I’ll need banners and such.  A device.  Maybe a bloody hall or something.  And we’ll need to make a few plans . . .”

“Will you attack at once?” asked Tyndal, eagerly.

“I think I’m going to get these folks settled, then study the matter for a day or two.  Start collecting information.  See where the weak points are, see who I’m going to need.”

“I could probably loan you a dozen men-at-arms who would be willing to take your device – whatever it is – quietly enough.  Use them as guards and sentries, for now, but I want these folk to feel safe.”

“Oh, no one is going to trouble my people ever again,” Lorcus said, a mad look in his eye.  “I’ll see to that.  And as for my device, that’s simple: a red apple on a green field.  With a bite out of one side,” he continued, happily.  “But only half a worm.”

Chapter Twenty Two

Chepstan Fair

We let things lie for a few days at Amel Wood.  It was mostly a practical consideration.  With the responsibility for due vengeance delegated to Lord Lorcus and his band of warmagi, I had to maintain the polite fiction that I knew nothing of the raid while helping them prepare in secret.

After the civilians in the village were relocated to a summer logging camp in the southern part of the domain to take refuge, Rondal and Tyndal, with some help from Gareth and Lanse and some magical constructs, rebuilt the fallen tower into something that could withstand at least a limited attack.  Not that it was likely that anyone would return to ruined Amel Village to sift through the ashes, but Lorcus said he felt stronger with at least a temporary tower under him.

The first twenty men-at-arms from Sevendor arrived, and while a few returned to the barony in a wain with the severely wounded, a dozen stayed on, sent their snowflake cloaks back with their fellows, and donned the hastily-embroidered Half Worm device Lorcus had contrived.

That was where I left them, my official part in the war done.  Unofficially, of course, I was still eager to help.  But the best way I could do that, I realized, was going to the Fair.

It had been a couple of years since we’d been back to Chepstan for the Spring Fair; the last few years Sire Cei the Dragonslayer had represented Sevendor on our behalf.  But this year I wanted to attend partially because it was one of the few places I was technically permitted to go on business, according to the Prince, and partially because it was an excellent place to gather political and military intelligence in advance of the war.

I kept the party small but grand.  We left the children with the nurses and embarked on the journey with just our coach and two wagons for the servants and inevitable load of purchases we would return with.  I didn’t bother with more than a half-dozen guards, and invited only a few of my yeomen to accompany me, encouraging them to travel lightly.  Sagal came, along with Rollo and Jurlor.  Sagal wanted to look at cattle stock, Rollo wanted to recruit a smith for Boval Village, and Jurlor just wanted to spend his money.

Usually at the Fair, the castle is quiet as a tomb and the fairgrounds are bustling; this year, it was the other way around.  Chepstan Castle was gearing for war, and a steady stream of men and supplies moved back and forth out of its gatehouse like a line of ants.

The fair, meanwhile, was quite subdued from its usual gaiety.  While there was no lack of street vendors and merchants, the crowds were significantly lighter, I noticed, as we pulled into the grounds and searched for our campsite.  There was perhaps a third less folk here than usual, at this time of the fair.  Many banners and encampments from the south were absent.  Just about all the banners from Sashtalia were gone, of course – even though commerce between combatants was technically permitted during a state of war, it was rarely encouraged.

But it was the neutral parties’ participation that really had an effect; the usually large delegations from various domains in Bocaraton and Miseldor baronies were diminished, thanks to the threat of war, and the number of local domains in attendance was down as well.  Even the Fairwardens looked discouraged as they wished us their best in enjoying the fair.

I didn’t mind the smaller crowds, and neither did Alya.  We were both eager to mingle with someone outside of Sevendor, after our long but prosperous winter, and apart from the brief showers the weather was perfect for it.  Smaller crowds also meant more competitive prices on some things.

Alya spent ferociously our first day, going through nearly eighty ounces of silver between two cloth merchants alone.  I spent that first day going through a list of supplies Sir Festaran had prepared for us that the castle needed – nothing urgent, but I took the opportunity of lower prices to stock up on a lot of essentials I knew we’d need.

Lighter attendance also meant a more relaxed time between bargains.  I’d brought along young Ruderal, to give him a little time out of the castle, and he dutifully followed me around all day, behaving like a proper apprentice should.  Beyond the staples I’d purchased, I had a smaller list of supplies the Manufactory and our labs were running low on.  I explained the use of each item to Ruderal as I purchased them, showing him how to inspect glass for quality, for instance, and explaining how acids and bases acted upon vessels of different material.

The lad was bright, and observant, but he had a habit of nervously looking around us while we were in public spaces, as if he was being followed.  He was also still nervous about me, I could tell; but I was surprised how quickly he was able to adapt to my requests and directions.  Far better than an ordinary eleven year old.

I was ordering a hundredweight of quicklime from an alchemist from Bocaraton when I realized why.

The big merchant was assuring me of the quality of the product, pointing out the superiority of his lime over the lime pit in Miseldor.  I made some polite inquiries as to the difference, and why it justified the price – I’m not an alchemist – while Ruderal quietly stared at the man with his big gray eyes.  I was about to conclude the deal when he finally stepped forward, brushed his hair out of his eyes, and spoke directly to the man.

“You don’t mind if we test a sample of yours against a sample from Miseldor before we pay you, do you, Master?” he asked, his brows slightly furrowed.

If I hadn’t been paying attention, I might have missed the minute manner in which the merchant’s eyes opened in surprise.

“Why, no, no, of course not, young master . . . but you let your elders dicker in peace, why don’t you, lad?”

He immediately turned to me.  “It wouldn’t be wise to pay more without testing it, Master,” he said, quietly, and then took a step back.

I glanced at the man and smiled.  “Why don’t we indulge the lad? I’ll be back tomorrow with my order,” I pledged.  While the merchant was agreeable, it was clear that wasn’t his preference. I didn’t need a spell to smell duplicity from a merchant.

“How did you know?” I asked, as we walked away.

“That he was cheating us?” Ruderal asked, surprised.  “I saw his pattern.  It shifted when he mentioned the difference in quality . . . like it was trying to hide something.  It did it again when he mentioned Miseldor.  I just figured if he was trying to hide something like that, he had a reason . . . and the simplest reason was that he was getting his lime from the same pit.”

I nodded, impressed.  “Well observed.  I almost envy your Talent.  Can you always tell when people are lying?” I asked.

“Nah,” he dismissed, “it’s not that simple.  I can’t exactly tell when their words are lying.  But I can tell if they’re trying to hide something, or don’t want you to ask them about something.”

“That could be quite handy,” I smiled.  “Tell me, what are the four greater elements?”

“Earth, Air, Fire, Water,” he recited.

“And they correspond with which phase states?” I asked.

“Solid, Gas, Plasma, and Liquid,” he recited, just as quickly.

“And they represent which aspects of the self?” I prompted.

“Body, Mind, Spirit, Emotions,” he nodded, decisively.

And which of the Lesser Elements best represents them?”

“Carbon, Oxygen, Nitrogen, and . . . Hydrogen?”

“Exactly,” I sighed.  “Very good, Ruderal.  Dranus has spoken well of your progress in your lessons.  Tell me, are you enjoying them?”

He considered.  “Reading is hard, but the other stuff he teaches me is interesting.  It explains a lot,” he decided.

“And are you enjoying your apprenticeship, thus far?”

He shrugged again.  “I dunno.  It’s only been a few weeks.  But I get a lot to eat,” he said, brightly.  “That’s worth studying and doing chores.”

I hesitated to think what kind of life he’d had, that a kid of eleven would respond that way.  From his skinny frame and his knife-sharp cheekbones, I could imagine good meals had been few and far between.  I glanced at his bare feet.  Then up to his trousers, some overlarge cast-offs Sagal had found, under an old tunic and jerkin of faded black.  There were enough worn spots and patches in the cloth to make him look a bit like a vagabond, and if his hair had seen scissors in his life, it had been running from them at the time.

“Let’s go transform you into a real apprentice, then,” I decided.  “We can get the rest of this later.”

“Where are we going?”

“Where are we going . . . ‘Master’.  And first we’re going to the barber.  Then the tailor.  And lastly the shoemaker.  Perhaps a few other places.”

He looked down guiltily at his clothes.  “Sorry!  Master!” he added.

“It’s not your fault, lad,” I soothed.  “You just arrived with nothing but what you came in.  And Sagal’s household, as pleasant as it is, is a rustic one.  He wasn’t really prepared for you.  But now that we’ve settled that you’re my apprentice, you should look the part.  You are the apprentice of the Magelord of Sevendor, after all,” I reminded him.

We embarked on two hours of furious shopping, then, stopping only long enough for the fair’s barber (an apprentice making some money on the side) to use his shears to trim the boy’s hair, much to his dismay, and wash his face thoroughly.  At the tailor we procured a new tunic in green, a brown leather jack lined with rabbit fur, and two new pairs of trousers.  The hosier provided four pairs of stockings, and the shoemaker fitted him for both slippers and boots before loaning him a pair of slightly-large shoes until his were completed.

“Master . . . it’s so much!” the boy said, as he picked up the parcels.  “This must have cost a fortune!”

“Money is not your concern, now,” I pointed out.  “As my apprentice, I’m responsible for your expenses.  Your job is to learn and to serve.  To hear and obey.  To listen and to perform as directed.  And always with proper deference and respect,” I warned.

“S-sorry, Master!” he apologized.

“Don’t be – I don’t get upset if you don’t know.  You’re smart, but you are ignorant.  Until that is corrected a bit, you should stick closely to me, stay quiet, and do as I bid.  That is the proper place of a mage’s apprentice, in public.  Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master!” he said, with a mixture of delight and dismay.  “Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it!”

We spent the rest of the afternoon walking from booth to booth, inspecting wares and talking.  I liked the kid – he only seemed crude because of his background.  But I only had to tell him something once, and he had it – something neither Rondal’s nor Tyndal’s apprenticeships could boast.  Both had been pretty bad about remembering things for the first few years.

I felt indulgent with the kid.  Minalyan was just speaking in full sentences, the promise of fascinating and infuriating conversations still a year or so ahead, and I’d spent several months last summer in the middle of a couple of thousand children.  Perhaps I was feeling . . . protective?  I wasn’t certain, and I wasn’t eager to examine the feeling too carefully.  All I knew was that the frustrated feelings of dread and anger that haunted me since that fateful night in the Snowflake Chamber seemed to fade while I was introducing Ruderal to his new life.

Perhaps it was the fact that Ruderal had just met me, and I was conscious of his perceptions of me.  Or perhaps it was that I genuinely understood his perspective.  I’d been about his age when I’d been taken from my father’s bakery and sent to Inarion Academy.

It’s a scary thing, leaving home and your family, going off into the world.  Plenty of stories that began that way did not have happy endings.  And from what Tyndal and Rondal had told me of his background – born in near-slavery, raised in abject poverty, forced to use his wits and his developing Talent to support himself and his mother – he had very nearly come to many unhappy endings already.

Now I was in a position to change that.  Regardless of whatever else came, I was giving him the opportunity to enter a new world and change his life, just as I had changed the lives of my other three apprentices.  There’s a feeling of altruism and hope that comes from that kind of investment. But also a feeling of responsibility.  I thought back, for the briefest of instants, to poor Urik, back in Boval Castle, who had been around the same age . . . and how I’d failed in my responsibility then, and he’d paid the price.  Perhaps I could make up for that with Ruderal, somehow.

I certainly threw enough coin at the problem.  After clothes and a snack from a vendor, we purchased a new belt, a decent table dagger, and a thick leather satchel to carry it all in.  I added a small wooden box, to carry his personal things, and a comb for that hair.  The barber may have trimmed it back, but he had in no way tamed it.  I purchased him a pouch, a water bottle, and a horn cup.

The lad also needed his own writing supplies, so I purchased a small traveling desk with a sheaf of parchment, inks, and quills.  He protested – he could barely read, much less write, and he still had problems with so many of the words in Dranus’ texts . . . so we went on a spree in the bookseller’s stall, purchasing a few simple books for him to practice with.

“We’ll get you more supplies later, as you need them,” I promised, “but for now I want you to work on your literacy.  If you can read enneagrammatic patterns, you can read basic thaumaturgical texts . . . eventually.”

“Patterns don’t make my eyes hurt,” he complained, sullenly.  “Master.”

“Sometimes we must suffer in order to learn, lad,” I assured him.  “That’s one of the uncomfortable truths of magic.” I saw someone coming through the crowd I wanted to speak with.  I dug into my pouch and found enough silver to rent a peasant shack for six months before I pressed it into his hand.  “Go wander the fair awhile, buy anything you may think we have missed, and listen out for my call.  Can you do that?”

“Yes, Master,” he said, his eyes fixed on the pile of silver in his palm.  He looked up at me, near stricken.  “It’s so much!  Can you aff—”

“Not another word,” I said, with mock sternness.  “Think of it as the gods paying you back for some of your hard work and heroism.”  The boy had been instrumental in saving not only Tyndal and Rondal, but a troop of Kasari youths as well – and he had paid for it, dearly.  “Go!  And you’d better have no more than half that amount when I call for you!”

He grinned boyishly, then ran away, looking over his shoulder uncertainly before disappearing among the stalls.  I was glad he was out of earshot.  I had to have a difficult conversation.

“Excellency,” I said, sliding through the crowd until I was almost on Baron Arathanial’s elbow.  The old baron jumped, startled, and then smiled broadly.  A good sign.

“Minalan!  I was hoping you’d be able to attend this year! We’ve missed you the last few.  How is Alya?”

“Well,” I nodded, joining him in front of his trail of attendants.  “She’s shopping me into penury as we speak!”

“Good for her!” he said, a little more fervently than I think he’d prefer.  “There are some great bargains at the fair, this year!  If you have any coin left, after buying half of Sashtalia . . .”

“Not even a fifth of it, according to Sir Festaran,” I pointed out.  “And the worst fifth, by most estimations.”

“You could have a third of it, if you joined me this summer,” he urged, quietly.  “Some of the eastern domains are quite lucrative . . .”

“I’ve already had my trouble keeping my borders,” I informed him.  “And I made a pledge to my people.  Besides, I could not deprive you of your glory,” I added, encouragingly.”

“I made as much an offer to Sire Sigalan,” he sighed.  “He gave me the same answer – said he was still recovering his lost domains, and would not be fit to fight for a season or more.”

I knew that was an exaggeration.  If Arathanial kept as close an eye on his friends as he did his foes, he’d know that Sigalan not only had reordered and strengthened his estates for the last two years with trained knights, he had also had his folk practicing furiously with the heavy Wilderlands bows I’d been supplying him.  The Bovali had taught the technique of layering hickory and yew to the Westwoodmen, who were busy refining it.  The result was a six-foot long bow that took a hundred pounds to pull, and could propel a shaft through three inches of wood.  Or a quarter inch of iron.

There were hundreds of the bows in the hands of Sigalan’s yeomen, now, and they had been quietly practicing with the things.  It took a lot of skill to use one, but the bow made even the heaviest cavalry vulnerable.  Sigalan was wary of Arathanial’s expansionist tendencies.  He’d been under pressure to become Arathanial’s vassal for years, and resisted it.

“The smell of war is in the air, as thick as the pollen,” I noted.  “Who knows what fortune the gods may bring?  I keep my men ready.  And I’ve developed a dislike of the Lord of Rolone.”

Arathanial snorted.  “Painful man, isn’t he?  Believe it or not his family were once famously loyal Lensely vassals, before the dynastic dispute.  But when my grand-uncle tried to rebel against my great-grandfather, the traitors foreswore their oaths and joined the rebel.  And they’ve been rebels ever since.”

“So you wouldn’t mind if one of my vassals took some initiative to fish in Rolone’s troubled waters while its master faces your lances on the field?”

“Oh, that would be a shame, to be beset with such misfortune in a time of war!” chuckled the old man.  “Let him have his way with the place.  The more Trefalan has to worry about now, the better!”

“I thought you would approve.  Tell me – have the knights of Kest, Bulmont and East Fleria joined your ranks?”  There was a fair-sized encampment outside the castle walls, on the other side of the commons.  There were at least three or four thousand men there, though only the knights had been permitted to attend the fair.  There was a lot of room on that commons, though.  Most of the peasant levies would not be arriving until after plowing season, I knew.

“Nay.  Nor will they.  Here,” he said, with a smirk.  “This will be a complex war, in part due to the insight of the Dragonslayer.  Sire Cei is as cunning at strategy as he is at the fray.  He has come to be high in my counsels in the preparation for this war.”  I had no doubt – he’d been hearing my warmagi’s reports from their trial runs into Sashtalia for months.  And overflights from Skyriders.

“Just don’t break him,” I cautioned.  “You have him for the season, but then I want him back intact.  So does his wife, I imagine.”

“I doubt any in the Bontal Vales could best Sire Cei,” he said, appraisingly.  “I would see him joust again this year, but I forbade it.”

“Forbade it?” I asked, curious.

“Oh, not the professionals, nor the squires near to their vigils.  They should have the chance at a purse, so close to their fulfillment.  But none of my vassals will be participating, this year.  I want no man hurt before the war begins.”

“A sound policy,” I said, nodding.

“And to encourage the common folk, I’ve doubled the prizes at archery this year,” he confided.  “There are over three hundred shooting for their fortune this year.  And good prizes for the staff, wrestling, and all the martial arts.  Let Trefalan’s spies report that to their master!”

Then he suddenly straightened, and put a hand on my shoulder.  “And thanks to your enchantments, most of my peasants were done with plowing and able to spend their time at the butts practicing!” he said, gratefully.  “And they will be deploying right after the fair, three thousand strong, while Sashtalia’s villeins are still planting.  Next year I want to use those plowing wands at all of my estates!”

That was important, a significant advantage in the war.  Peasant levies were pretty useless in terms of professional warfare, unless they were properly armed and trained as we did in Sevendor.  But they were essential for the dozens of tasks requiring strong backs: digging, making camp, clearing, cutting, and any kind of siegework.  If Arathanial’s army had a full contingent, and Trefalan’s did not, he could take the field before his opponent was ready.

I smiled and nodded.  “Those will have a dramatic effect on your estates’ production, I think, too, as the technique encourages aeration that leads to stronger yields.  In Sevendor we’re expecting such a large crop this year we’re building a third granary.”

“You’ll need it, to feed all of those mountain holds you bought,” he said, smugly.  “If you were going to expand your demesne, there are far more lucrative domains to have purchased.”

“It was more about security than investment,” I dismissed.  “My goal was a buffer between Sevendor and the war zone.”

“Well, if you had joined me, you could have picked up one or two choice lands.  Sashtalia was once the richest part of my grandsires’ realm.”  That was true – the fertile valleys in the region were very fertile, and produced in great quantity.  After four years of living in the Bontal, I now knew the story of the Lensely dynastic wars enough to know that had been one of the causes of the strife; a younger brother, given charge of the rich region, had rebelled and challenged his older brother’s position.  Two generations or more of bloodshed had reduced the once-grand house to its current state.

“As I said, if my vassals wish to participate as mercenaries, I will not stop them; but we’re just now recovering from the Warbird’s folly.  I am still ordering my realm.  A war would be inconvenient. But I wish you Duin’s strength and a quick victory.”

“Your loss, my friend,” the baron said, shaking his head.  “There is nothing like a war to make a man feel bold!”

Of course, his war would be a highly stylized version of the real thing – fought according to rules, customs, and laws, more a glorified tournament than a conflict.  It was nothing like the primal struggle against the gurvani, where such things as quarter and mercy were meaningless.  But such things were the backbone of the chivalric culture of the Bontal.  A knight who did not embark on at least one private war in his lifetime wasn’t considered much of a knight by history and legend.

“In truth, I have been more captivated by my craft, of late,” I admitted, as we walked.  “All winter I’ve had some of the best enchanters in the kingdom assisting me.  We’ve produced wonders, and there are more to come.”

That news disturbed him, as well as intrigued him.  “More wonders, you say?  I’ve already heard you’ve raised a new keep behind your old faster than wheat grows.”

“That’s the Karshak’s magic, not mine.  And a very expensive magic it is.  They are masters of stone, and can work like bees in a springtime hive, but every one of them eats enough for two men and costs as much as five.  Though Sire Cullien, the Lord of Rolone was quite impressed with it,” I admitted.  “Terrified, in fact.  He came to threaten me to stay out of the war, and used the construction as proof of my ambitions.”  I figured directing his attention at his enemy, and not at my new castle, was probably wise.  I was right.

“And what did you tell that snakish churl?” he asked.  “I’ve always disliked him as much as Trefalan.”

“I informed him that if his master wished to take issue with it, he could bring his army against me and we could discuss the matter.  And that the construction that he mistook as my new keep was, in fact, merely my new gatehouse.  That gave him pause,” I assured.  Everyone likes to hear about their enemies squirming.

“Your realm is a wonder,” he nodded, satisfied.  “And mine has prospered by our association.  My son is somewhat suspect of your motives,” he confided, as we approached the big canopy from which he administered the fair, “but he cannot argue with your benevolent assistance.  And he was quite in favor of your stratagem to deprive Sashtalia of its hill domains, though it forced him to alter his strategy.”

Sir Arlestan, Arathanial’s oldest son and heir, was a handsome man about my age, and the hope of House Lensely’s future.  Arathanial had been grooming him for leadership since birth, and had pledged to leave him a far larger realm to inherit than the one he was born into.  I’d met him several times, and he was an affable, intelligent lord quite similar in disposition and character as his father.  But he lacked his father’s insight and experience, not to mention his opportunistic nature.  No doubt the education this war of conquest would bring would help him develop that.

“Perhaps if he came and spent some time in my domain, and saw how we do things, that would give him better grist for his imagination than rumor and speculation,” I offered.  “Sevendor is a mageland, and as a neighbor it would be proper for him to know how we differ from other folk.”

“That is not a bad idea, Minalan,” he agreed, sagely, stroking his beard.  “Perhaps when the war is over, after he settles his newly conquered lands, we will do just that.”  We spoke for several more minutes about the specifics of his preparations and his general plan: deploying three strong columns to the frontier, invading the border regions quickly before moving on to Sashtalia’s northern fortifications.  A fourth column, he confided, comprised of his new vassals from Bulmont, Kest, and East Fleria, would be moving west to attack two strategic fortresses in the domains of Pirine and Avanal.

“Duin willing, by the end of summer we shall be at the gates of Sashtalia, itself!” he said, with premature triumph.

“Ifnia’s smile upon you,” I blessed him, leaving him to deal with his impatient entourage.  That’s one of the nice things about being a baron.  When you want to talk and hold things up, there’s not a whole hell of a lot anyone can do about it.

I wandered back through the fairgrounds, looking for Ruderal.

“Are you ready to go, Master?” he asked, licking his fingers.

“How did you find me so fast?” I asked, impressed.  “I was about to send for you.”

“I just sort of followed your pattern, in my head,” he explained, thoughtfully.  “There’s a part of it that is the part that knows it wanted me, and I just waited for that one to manifest.  When it did, I went looking for you.”

“That’s remarkable,” I observed.  “That could be an extremely valuable Talent you have there.”

“I’m getting better at using it, with Master Dranus’ help,” he agreed.  “I’m starting to have words to explain what I do.  What I see.”

“That’s good.  We’re going to teach you to use that Talent to its fullest extent.  And teach you a lot of other crap that won’t seem very useful now, but will be extremely useful later.  Master Dranus says you’re a bright lad and a quick study.  Do you think you can really commit to this life?”

“It beats fishing for stillmouths and trapping garter crabs,” he decided.  “I just have to get used to it.  Did your talk with that man go well?” he asked, courteously.  The boy may have come from the humblest of origins, but he had picked up a lot of native politeness – perhaps, I realized, as a consequence of his Talent.

“It did,” I assured him.  “And I learned some very valuable information about the war he’s planning.  Things I can turn to our advantage.”

“Our advantage?” he asked, curiously.

“You’re a mage, now, Ruderal.  Magekind must stick together, as often as possible.”

“Aren’t there bad magi?”

“Oh, yes,” I agreed, thinking of a few.  “But we do our best to keep them at bay.  That’s one of my jobs,” I admitted.  “One of my many, many jobs.  But another is baron of Sevendor, and that job requires that I discover as much as I can about things that could hurt my people, and then seek to protect them.  Wars,” I added, “are on that list.  Baron Arathanial is a good baron and a smart warrior, but he doesn’t always see all the consequences of his actions.  One of the things a good wizard does is become as aware as possible about his surroundings.  In that simple conversation I learned a lot more from him than he would ever suspect, and now I can use that information to my advantage.”

“Did you use magic?”

“I used charm and persuasion, two other very potent weapons in a wizard’s bag.  I use magic when I need to, but much can be learned through careful observation.  The best spells in the world won’t help you if you don’t know what to pay attention to,” I counseled.

He nodded sagely.  “I can see your point, Master.  So what did you observe?”

“That the baron plans on splitting his forces and charging down the main roads through Sashtalia, just as I suspected.  He’s also going to be hammering away at two small towers that aren’t very important, strategically.  Which means that he’s going to have a relatively lengthy war, which is bad for business.  If it lasts until harvest and drags on through the winter, it could be bad for a lot of people.  Not our people, perhaps, but people in general.”

“So what are you going to do about it?” he asked, daringly.  I felt indulgent.  I answered him.

“I’m going to quietly shorten the war significantly,” I decided.  “I’m not exactly certain how, yet, but I’ll figure out a way.  Oh, there is one more stop that we need to make, before we return to camp,” I decided, looking at the youth’s new finery.  There was something missing.

I found a felter’s stall and spoke with the man for a moment, while Ruderal patiently waited amid the bolts of cloth and the various hats and pouches he made for sale.  I had just finished explaining what I required, paying him in advance.  As he went behind the curtain to fulfill the order, I turned around to tell Ruderal what I’d just purchased for him . . .

. . . and nearly walked straight into Isily.

Chapter Twenty Three

The Baroness At The Fair

She was just about the last person I expected to see at Chepstan Fair.

She was dressed in a dark blue traveling gown with long pointed sleeves under her mantle, laced in front and low cut in the style popular in Castabriel the last few years.  But the front of it was paneled to allow for the growing bulge in her tummy.  Behind her were three young maids in attendance, wearing similar traveling gowns.  All young, pretty and, I suspected, extremely deadly.

“Oh, Baron Minalan,” he said, sweetly, her eyes flashing at me, “What a surprise meeting you here!”

I froze.  I wanted to . . . I wanted to strike her. Shake her.  Scream at her.  But I knew that she thought I was still under her compulsions, and I realized that this was an ideal way to possibly learn of her further plans, as sickening as it was to do so.

It took a lot of control to bring my emotions in check – Ruderal took a step back, though I let nothing show on my face – but after the longest, hardest second of my life I forced a smile, as genuine as I could manage.  She is your sister, I reminded myself.  I’m supposed to think of her as my sister, not my rapist.  That was the ruse.

I was almost appalled at myself at how easily I was able to slip on that mask.  I forced myself to look at her pretty face smile.

“Ah! Baroness Isily!  This is indeed a pleasant surprise!  This is far from your estates in Greenflower,” I pointed out.

“I had some business in Wilderhall,” she dismissed.  “I was in the region and remembered Baron Arathanial’s invitation to his fair.  It would be rude of me not to take him up on his kind hospitality.”

“And is your lord husband well?” I asked, wondering just how long and how far I could bear this ruse.  Her maids quietly retreated to the front of the stall, offering us privacy, although all three managed to keep their eyes on us while pretending to look at hats.  One, a pretty brown-haired girl, seemed to be studying me, as if I might spring at her mistress at any moment.  Pretty brown eyes, and familiar. Definitely an assassin, even if the others were not.

“He is,” she agreed, blinking slowly.  “Busy at his scrolls and spells, and running our estates.  I see him so rarely.  It seemed like a good time to conduct some business, before the heat of the summer and my pregnancy makes such things difficult.  Yet he is excited at the prospect of his new heir,” she said, patting her belly.

The belly where my baby was growing.

“I do wish him good health,” I said, still smiling.  I was speaking of the child, of course.

“And your lady wife?  How is Baroness Alya?”

“The Baroness is shopping at the moment in the drapers’ stalls,” I said, carefully, while trying not to sound like I was being careful.  The last person I wanted this murderous bitch to encounter was my wife.  “We will be staying for but a few more days, alas.  More than that and it would come to the attention of the Prince, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, yes, your internal exile,” she reminded me.  “A pity.  I’d like for you to visit Greenflower, sometime, and enjoy our hospitality.  When the Prince’s wrath cools, perhaps,” she said, smiling sweetly.

“I do hope to take you up on the invitation someday,” I nodded.  It’s harder than you think, pretending that you’re enthralled.  And that you like someone you want to strangle.

“And what do you plan on spending your summer doing . . . really?” she asked, fishing for information.  I didn’t hesitate.  I told her the truth, as little as I could get away with, just as I would have under her spell.  I just took care not mention any of my more sensitive projects, if I could help it.

“I’m overseeing a clandestine war through proxies against the Lord of Sashtalia.  Even now I have warmagi preparing to assault a few fortresses in Rolone, in support of my friend Arathanial’s efforts.”

“What a daring and clandestine action,” she cooed, admirably.  “I won’t breathe a word of it, of course.  Such wars are so dull and boring.  My husband’s own researches have been fascinating, I must admit.  While the details are technical, and not for such common environs as this, I would dearly love to discuss them with you.”

“That would be delightful,” my treacherous mouth said of its own accord.  It was having an easier time with the ruse than my mind was, thankfully.  She’s just another pretty noblewoman, I reminded myself.

“Perhaps you’ll join me for a cup this evening so that I might enlighten you,” she suggested, forcefully.  I felt a tiny twinge of magical force emanating from her and realized that she was trying to ensure my compliance.  “They are most interesting, and should be brought to the Spellmonger’s attention.”  The way she was swaying her boobs in front of me, that wasn’t all that desired the Spellmonger’s attention.

“I would be honored,” my mouth said, and sealed my fate.  I felt nauseated.

“I’ve rented a canopy behind the listfield,” she offered.  “Much more private, I’ve found, than an inn.  Join me there at midnight.  And I think the discussion would bore your pretty wife.  Perhaps she should retire early.”

“Perhaps she should.  I look forward to it, Baroness.”

“As do I, Baron,” she smiled, wickedly.  She was clearly enjoying the manipulation, the control, and the power she had over me.  I wanted to vomit.  She turned and gave me an alluring look over her shoulder before leading her maids away, a sassy wiggle of her bottom implying her intentions for the evening.

I stood there, that stupid smile on my face, numb, as her maids followed her, the brown haired girl giving me a knowing look.

“That seemed . . . awkward, Master,” Ruderal observed, thoughtfully.

“You have no idea . . . or maybe you do,” I admitted.  “Tell me, what did you see in her pattern?”

He shuddered a bit.  “She’s not a particularly nice lady,” he decided.

“True.  Go on.”

“She likes you . . . a lot.  She has all sorts of ideas about you.  Some of them are . . . intense.  She thinks a lot of herself.  She has lots of plans.  And she doesn’t mind hurting people.”

“That’s it?”

He shrugged.  “I only saw her for a few moments.  The longer I know someone’s pattern, the more I know about them.”

“Doesn’t that make life complicated?”

“In some ways.  In others, it makes it easier.  But if I keep my mouth shut about it, most of the time, I can get by.”

“Ruderal, you’ve discovered one of the central tenets of wisdom.  And what is my pattern telling you right now?” I asked.

“That you really, really don’t like her,” he reported, dutifully.  “You hate her.  She scares you.  A lot.  She makes you feel guilty and afraid.  You want to hurt her, but part of you doesn’t, either, and that part of you is making you anxious and guilty.”

I looked at him and blinked.  “Yes, I can see why you’d need to learn discretion, with that gift.”

“What’s discretion?” he asked, curious.

“Keeping your mouth shut,” I smiled.  “A good apprentice holds his master’s secrets more dearly than his own.  Can I count on your discretion in this?”

He nodded, solemnly.  “Of course, Master.  I won’t tell anyone.”

“In this case, it could mean lives, if you do.  She is one of those dangerous magi I spoke of, only I cannot act against her yet.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know what her plan is, yet.  So I need to find out.  But doing so is going to be . . .”

“Awkward?” he offered.

“Exactly.  So I need to conduct a spy mission, of sorts.  Let’s keep this between us, for now.  Ah, it looks like it’s done.”

The felter had missed the understated drama, having no appreciation to how close to having a magical battle erupt in his stall he had been.  He had been busily stitching my order, and presented to me with some ceremony.

It was a hat – a green pointed hat, without the three smaller points a journeyman mage would wear.  An apprentice’s hat, in Sevendor green.  I’d have one of the castle ladies embroider some snowflakes on it when we returned, I decided.

Ruderal was impressed, and insisted on seeing himself in the felter’s tiny looking glass.  We walked back to camp with him nearly strutting in his new clothes.

We enjoyed dinner that night with Sire Sigalan and his sister Sarsa.  She was married to one of my vassals, Roncil of Northwood, and had traveled to the fair to supply her distant domain and visit her kin.  It was a grand time in Sigalan’s pavilion.  It was a much grander pavilion than he’d enjoyed the last time I’d seen him at the fair, too, a spoil from one of the knights who had followed Sire Gimbal into exile.  The fare was richer and more plentiful at his table, and he had opened a barrel of wine, not mere mead as he was used to.  The guards at the encampment gate were in fine chainmail, carrying halberds and wearing new matching helms, too.

We talked until the moon rose, trading news of our domains and the struggles we both encountered organizing and ordering them.  Sigalan was no baron – technically he was a knight banneret, but he had little desire to add to his demesne or join the peerage.  He merely wanted to be strong enough to resist the pressure to take Sendaria’s colors.  That made Trestendor’s encampment a most excellent place for gossip and news at the fair.

The news was mostly good – the re-built village of Gosset was thriving, his new domains were producing, and the lourdin mine near his hilltop stronghold was providing a steady income.  He was even contemplating taking a wife, referencing his sister’s happy match.  He was a young lord, still, only a few years older than me.  Alya, of course, immediately sensed an opportunity and huddled with Sarsa to compile potential prospects.

I trusted the man to make his own choice of wife, but the news that he was inclined to wed was good.  It proved Sarsa and Roncil were getting along.  My alliance with Sigalan was based in part on that marriage, and it was good to hear that the Riverlord noblewoman was so taken with her Wilderlands knight.  The domain was doing better, too, after raids and near-insurrection last year.  It had been among the first to use the plowing wands.  The crops were already leaping out of the ground two weeks early.

It was a grand night, and I linger as long as I could, trying to put off the inevitable meeting.   When the time came, and Alya started yawning, I walked her slowly back to our tent, explaining that I had some further business to conduct.

She was already sleepy from the food and wine and merriment.  She did not object to letting her go to bed, nor was she concerned that I would tarry and talk, long into the night.  We were at the fair, after all and that’s where business got done.

Of course, the business I had to do was horrifying to me.  I stopped before she retired, and I embraced her.

“Mmmm, you’re warm,” she said, a little tipsily.

“You know I love you,” I said, looking into her eyes.

“You’d better,” she nodded, yawning.

“Sometimes I have to do things I don’t like, to protect you and the children,” I said, not really certain where I was leading myself.  I suppose I was just trying to prepare myself for my meeting.

“I know, Min,” she said, sympathetically, as she pulled off her gown.  “I’m sorry about that.  But you do a good job.”

“I try,” I promised.  “I just want you to know, even though I have to do them, I don’t like them.  And sometimes I really, really don’t want to do them.”

“But you do, because you’re a good man,” she said.  It made me feel sick to my stomach.  “You always do the right thing, even if it’s hard.  It’s one of the things I admire about you,” she admitted.  “You could have run away from Boval Castle, but you didn’t.  You could have run away from . . . me, and Minalyan, but you didn’t.  You could have left the Bovali to languish at the coast, but you didn’t.  You could have forgotten your promise to the Kasari, but you didn’t.

“Every time you’ve been faced with a difficult task, Min, you’ve done what you had to do to protect those who were important to you.  I don’t really know what’s been bothering you of late,” she said, looking away, “but even though you’ve been trying to hide it, I know it’s there, hurting you.  And I know you have your reasons for not telling me – I can accept that.  Secrets are part of a spellmonger’s life.  And I am the Spellmonger’s wife.”

“But—”

“Let me finish,” she said, placing a finger on my lips and nearly missing.  “I trust you to do the right thing, even when it’s hard, because that’s what you do,” she said, with emphasis.  “Even when it hurts you.  You’re the smartest man I’ve ever met, the wisest, and I’ll never understand half of what you do, but I trust you to do the right thing, even when it feels bad.  Hells, I don’t think I could talk you out of it,” she snorted.

“So if I have to—”

“Do it,” she insisted.  “Do it, and if you don’t think I should know, don’t tell me.”

I felt like the absolute lowest form of life in the world.

“It’s kind of a spy thing—” I began, lamely.

“Then I definitely don’t want to know any more than I have to,” she assured me.  “You do a lot to keep Sevendor safe.  If it involves our security, then whatever it is, you have my blessing.”  She kissed me warmly, the taste of wine heavy on her lips.  “Now I have to go to bed.  Quickly.  And then perhaps throw up.  I don’t think this child of yours likes wine,” she said, patting her still-trim belly affectionately.

I stumbled through the darkness toward the listfield like a condemned man seeking the gallows, passing revelers and mysterious shadows without seeing them.  I tried to think of any way I could avoid this, any way I could evade the inevitable encounter, but with every step I took I knew that I was committed, now.  Worse, Alya had blessed my poor rationalization of what I was about to do.

If I wanted to learn Isily’s plans, I needed to have her trust.  Right now I did, because she thought she had power over me, and didn’t have the self-control not to brag and boast.  Her confidence was my best weapon.  And the best way to keep her trust was to allow her to think I was still enthralled to her.

I forced aside the revulsion I felt about the idea.  After what she had done to me, stealing not just my virtue but also my seed without my consent, I felt righteous anger that tempted my lesser nature.  I felt pain and anguish at what had been taken from me. I felt insulted at her appearance here, where she knew I was likely to travel.  I felt even more fury for the life of the poor child she had conceived, a child that was doomed to a life under her manipulative control.  A child I could not even acknowledge.

I composed myself the best I could, even using a few minor warmagic spells to control my emotions and focus on the mission.  True, I wasn’t going to kill anyone, I was going to purposefully be unfaithful to my wife, but it was a battle nonetheless.  Using battle preparation charms seemed perfectly reasonable.

At last I could delay no longer.  I was on a mission, I reminded myself.  A mission of critical importance.

I found her pavilion in the nicer part of the encampment where visiting nobility or professional jousters could rent a handsome canopy from one of Arathanial’s attendants for a mildly large fee.  The tent came complete with a bed frame, a bucket for water, a kettle and firewood, and hampers of food and butts of wine and ale could be arranged with his victualers.  It appeared from her baggage that Baroness Isily had taken advantage of all of the amenities.

Isily had chosen the most secluded pavilion in the lot, likely paying for the privilege of privacy – but she took no chances.  The tent was warded and guarded powerfully, I saw, as I studied it with magesight.  Arcane barriers and charms against noise encircled the structure, and a dome of shimmering force ensured that no one would walk by and even consider going in on a whim.

The outer flap was open, a lantern hanging from the pole over a small banner with her husband’s arms.  Great, no magelight – which meant Briga would be witnessing my infidelity this time.  At least, some sadistic part of me snickered, if I was forced to be unfaithful, I would be making a cuckold of Dunselen . . . again.

I don’t know why that helped me perform my mission, but it did.

Isily was waiting for me, attended by one of her maids – the brown-haired, brown-eyed girl.  The girl smiled knowingly at me and her mistress before pouring wine and retiring outside.  Isily – who had shed her traveling clothes for a translucent muslin gown under her mantle – sat on her bed, awaiting me.

“Thank you for coming, Minalan,” she smiled.  “I was beginning to wonder if you would.”

“How could I fail, if you needed me?  I merely had to put my wife to bed.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That I had business to conduct,” I said, taking a seat in a folding chair next to her bed.  Out of reach.

“So you do,” she said, arching an eyebrow, and lounging on one elbow.  Her gown hid very little.  “I was not jesting about Dunselen’s work.  He has been intently studying for months, now, ever since the Magic Fair.  And he’s been doing experiments for at least a year and a half.”

“And just what does captivate the old piss-pot’s attention so?” I asked, with authentic contempt.

“Why, the Snowstone spell, of course.  He’s quite obsessed with it.  He’s seen what you can do with your toys, and he’s mad to recreate the spell.  He seems to think it will establish him as the greatest thaumaturge of all time.”

“It might,” I conceded.  “Considering I don’t understand how I did it myself.”

“He has been collecting information on the spell for years, now.  Every factor he could find, compiled in dozens of scrolls.  He thinks that he’s close to an answer.”

“Theoretical?”

“Yes, but he’s based them on some practical essays.  He’s made a few encouraging trial runs.  And he’s planning a major practical experiment in about . . . four months,” she said, rubbing her hand over her rotund belly.

That was a sickening thought.  Those two delivering my child.  As an experiment.  But I could not object without revealing myself.  I tried a different route, one I might take with my sisters.  “You do realize that Alya and Minalyan almost died that night?”

“We must be willing to risk everything for our art,” she chuckled.  “I am a professional, Min.  I know what could happen.  I’m willing to risk death.”

“Yes, but is the baby?” I countered, realizing belatedly that I might be challenging the limits of her spell.

“Ask it, someday,” she dismissed.  As she shrugged, the shoulder of her chemise fell, revealing its round smoothness.  “I have every confidence that we will both survive.  And Dunselen, despite his ample failings in other areas, is a brilliant thaumaturge.”

“So he is,” I conceded, slipping back into my role.  Brilliant was overstating it by a lot.   But I was intrigued.  I needed to know what she was really after.  Her focus on Dunselen was unusual, so I focused on it.  I was highly suspicious of what her motives were, and was starting to suspect that Mother and the Family weren’t behind it. “What has he discovered?”

“He thinks the primary factors in the spell were your genetics,” she said, counting on her fingers, “the magical power of your irionite, and the scalable nature of the Rayleth rune.  But it would be helpful if you could give me a candid account of that night.  Tell me everything, every last detail, and spare nothing.  He has some interesting theories about the timing of the event.”

So I did.  I saw little enough reason not to.  I’d discussed it with plenty of other magi, though none knew the whole story, to get their opinions and insights.  Isily took a charcoal pencil and filled four sheets of parchment with notes as I spoke and recounted the birth of my son.

It was oddly cathartic, revealing such a personal, intimate and profound event in my life to a hated enemy.

The birth of Minalyan had marked a change in my fortunes, my life, and my destiny, and had indirectly brought me to this place.  But while it reminded me of all I was betraying by my presence here, it also reminded me of what I was fighting to protect.  It was clear that Isily would never leave me or my family alone; but the only way to combat the schemes of the shadowmage assassin was to get as close to her as possible before I struck.

The problem was, I couldn’t kill her.

It’s not that I was squeamish, or that I couldn’t kill a woman.  Narasi culture, like most cultures, has particular taboos and religious restrictions.  Among the greatest, thanks to a couple of primal divine myths, involve the heinous sin of a father killing the mother of his children.

It was among the most damnable crimes you could commit, base murder compounded by supreme ingratitude and pure malice.  To slay the mother of your child was a repudiation of the lifeforce, according to the Temple of Trygg.  A man who knowingly committed such a crime was condemned by law and custom.

When my narrative about that fateful, snowy night came to a close – without mentioning the divine element in the spell – Isily rolled up her parchment and thanked me, as she poured us each another glass of wine.

“This will be extremely useful to Dunselen – and surely you can see the importance of the work.  Snowstone has revolutionized our profession.  To learn the secret of how to transform it would be an achievement even the Archmagi would envy.”

“The Archmagi are dead,” I pointed out.  “They envy all the living.  Just why is Dunselen so obsessed with this spell?”

“Isn’t it obvious? It’s pure jealousy.  Here he was, Ducal Court Wizard, at the top of his professional life, and along comes this arrogant young spellmonger with a handful of irionite and a mission.  He expected you to die at Timberwatch, I learned, and even spoke to Mother about dealing with you – one of the factors that led to our unfortunate encounter after the battle.  He wanted you dead.”

“Remind me to thank him for that,” I smiled, authentically.  As filthy as I felt, I knew I needed to keep pumping her for information.  Particularly about her half-mad husband.

“Then you not only eschewed his patronage, which was humiliating enough, but you went off and cast one of the most amazing spells of all time.  He was furious when he heard about the snowstone.  That’s what encouraged him to start aggressively fighting his neighbors.”

“Really?  Why?” I asked, casually.

“When he learned that you were pulling unique enchantments and gems out of the mountain and doing amazing things with them, he was livid.  After the war in Gilmora, where you treated him so . . . callously, he decided he was going to prove that he was the superior mage by discovering the mechanism for your spell.  He’s devoted nearly every waking hour to that end since.  Including, thankfully, the majority of our honeymoon.  That was his entire motivation for sponsoring the enchantment seminars at the Magical Fair.”

“That does make sense,” I nodded, sipping the expensive vintage.  It might have been poisoned, for all I knew, but I couldn’t act in the least suspicious.  “He’s not the only mage interested in that.”

“Oh, I know,” she said, rolling her eyes.  “You should see the gaggle of wizardlings he’s consulted with in the last year – anyone he thinks might have insight on the spell.  He’s even gotten expert help from elsewhere.  It’s amusing to watch a man follow his obsessions beyond all reason.”

“How does Mother feel about his investigations?”

“That hoary old bitch?” she sneered.  “She wouldn’t have the wit or education to understand it.  Nor appreciate what it could do.  She delegated me to watch him, so I’m watching him.  I’m watching him learn how to alter the nature of reality.  And when he does, and I have my own snowstone, and he’s no longer useful . . . then neither will she be.  Mother keeps the throne warm for me and my children, and for now I am content with that.”

“How it must tear at you to see him so involved, when he has a new bride to distract him,” I teased.

“His researches do have the happy effect of keeping him out of the marital bed, most nights,” she agreed, chuckling wickedly.

I couldn’t resist a dig at her.  Not after all she had put me through.  “I take it the Blessings of Trygg aren’t nearly as exciting as the Blessings of Ishi?”

She blushed and smiled naughtily, enjoying the attention to her intimate self.  The other shoulder of her chemise fell.  She did nothing to replace it.

“He’s not the worst lover I’ve ever had, but that’s merely because of my experience.  He’s poorly endowed and has only the most basic idea of how to use what little merit he has to any lasting effect.  He combines the sophistication of a fourteen year old boy with the virility and enthusiasm of an eighty year old man.  It’s hard enough to watch him,” she assured me, distastefully, “much less participate in his crude stabs at marital pleasure.  Thank Trygg for servant girls,” she sighed.

“I’m surprised that he hasn’t had an unfortunate accident,” I remarked.  “They have been known to happen early in some marriages.  Tragic.”

“Oh, he serves a valuable purpose,” she informed me.  “I can bear his idiocy and paint a smile on my face as long as I need to.”

“How do you manage to do that?” I asked, in all seriousness.  “It’s admirable to witness such forbearance.”

“When your mission is of utmost importance, then sacrificing your dignity and even your conscience for its progress and completion ennobles your soul,” Isily said, standing.  “I don’t deny the humiliation, but the sacrifice leads to a sense of triumphant vindication when you complete your mission.”

“I see,” I said, trying to emulate her callous manner.  I needed to do something.  This was hard.  “Oh, what sacrifices you must have made in service to the Family.”

“Not all I do is in service to the Family,” she said, enjoying the game.  “I have my own plans.”

“Your own plans?  Surely baroness is a lofty rank, already,” I pointed out, chuckling.

“Titles mean little, they are but a point of power.  Lands and estates, too, have their place, but are not an end in themselves.  The royal house is not stable enough to maintain the kingdom for long, I believe, and I prepare myself for the inevitable conflict and changes ahead,” she pronounced, finishing her cup and leaning over for another.

“Do you know something I do not?” I asked as I poured

“A great many things,” she agreed, smugly.  When she returned to reclining, her gown did not. “A shadowmage’s best weapons are secrecy and obfuscation.  I have learned more secrets than any of Mother’s girls, and far more about Mother and the Family than she would ever bear another person knowing.  Secrets so damning that they could bring about the fall of the Royal family,” she baited.

“That does sound intriguing!” I smiled, hoping she’d let a few slip.  “What kind of secrets?”

“Those dainties are not for you, Minalan,” she cooed.  “You have your own place in the plan.  For a while, at least.  When the time comes, all will become clear.”

Damn! I suppose it was too much to expect her to reveal everything, but a man could hope.  I desperately wanted this distasteful reunion to come to a conclusion, but without Isily’s full disclosure I would have to continue the ruse of being enthralled.

“Then I look forward to the revelation,” I said, simply.

“Your patience is appreciated,” she said, standing and dropping her mantle to the reed mat on the ground.  Her chemise followed it.  “Now I require your indulgence.  I feel as fat as a sow, and as unlovely.”

“You could never be unlovely,” I said, with as much sincerity as I could muster.

“Prove it,” she said, her eyes narrowing as she stepped toward me, naked.  “Make love to me with passion, Minalan,” she commanded.  “Love me like you love your wife.  And make me feel it . . . it’s been so long since I felt anything . . . just make me feel!  Give me your passion!” she commanded, as she kissed me.

I did . . . but not like with Alya.  There was no playfulness in our coupling.  It was serious and severe, and though she tried to command me I took control.  I did things to her that hurt her, that pleasured her, that frightened her, that aroused her.  I left her content and exhausted, but felt only guilt and shame, myself.  I’d got some of what I needed, I consoled myself as I walked back to my pavilion, using magic to get the stink of her off of me.  It was only at the cost of my self-respect, but it was in service to Sevendor, and humanity.  That was, I told myself, not too high a price to pay toward the security of my people.

The lies we tell ourselves to allow us to sleep are profound.  No wonder the gods delight in them so.

Chapter Twenty Four

The Quiet Invasion Of Rolone

The carriage ride back to Sevendor was uneventful, with Alya sleeping most of the way.  The excitement and pace of the Fair had been too much for her morning sickness, and after heartily vomiting her breakfast after a night of rich food and wine at the Baron’s Feast that concluded the Fair, she just wanted to rest.  I was agreeable to that.  I had a lot to think about.

I postponed the hard reflection along the way by speaking to my agents in Amel Wood.  Lord Lorcus had accomplished quite a lot in a very short time.

I’ve selected my first target, after the lads spent a few days spying in southern Rolone, he reported.  There are three forts there, built to ward the fertile estates of the north from us vicious mountain lords.  With Sashtalia’s deployment all three have but token forces.

So which one will you take first?

The nearest is the unimaginatively-named Granite Tower, a warder castle with a two-story keep and hall on a mound behind a bailey.  Single-story gatehouse, dry moat.  Seven crossbowmen and five light cavalry, plus the staff.  I could take it by myself, he boasted.

Don’t get greedy, I cautioned.  Save some glory for everyone else.

Screw that.  To the south is Barnor Tower, which is just like Granite tower only a story bigger and twice as much bailey.  Nine men-at-arms and a toothless old knight.  Reinforcing both of them is an old Lensely castle, Castle Gwyliad. Sire Ansonal, the one-armed Knight of Dawn, holds the security of the region there with twenty archers and a squadron of squires – all others have been called to the north against Sendaria.

So which one will you take first? I repeated.

I thought I’d save us all a lot of extra work and take all three of them at once.

He explained to me the essence of his plan, and I had to admit that it was both elegant and clever.  If it worked, all three fortifications might fall to his forces in one day, the subtleties of the scheme living up to his reputation as a mad Remeran and a superb warmage.

I want to watch, I decided.  I’ll wear your colors, to keep it from being politically untoward, but if you actually pull this off I want to be there to see it.

I would love to entertain my liege, he assured me.  Just stay out of the way.  The lads have worked hard, and the last thing we need is for you to muck it up.

I checked in with Pentandra, too.  She was hurriedly going from one place to another, but took the time to listen to me discuss my encounter with Isily – the edited version.  I was happy she didn’t probe about the details – she found Dunselen’s obsession with Snowstone upsetting enough.

Min, you do realize that he puts your entire family in danger, she warned.

I know.  So does she.  But . . . right now, all I can do is wait.  And prepare.

Perhaps, she agreed, reluctantly.  But it’s disturbing.  There’s a lot going on that’s disturbing.  Arborn’s folk brought word that confirms that Korbal the Demon God is alive – or at least not completely dead – and well in the Land of Scars.  No doubt whatsoever.  There have been some troop movements in the Penumbra that have me worried, although it doesn’t look like they’re gathering for a major assault.  And Ishi’s avatar has the entire court dangling from a string.  If something isn’t done soon, she could push this entire operation into the chamberpot.

What do you need from me? I asked, simply.

Just be here at the Duke’s ball, with Alya, in a mask, and be prepared to do whatever it is you need to do to stabilize the situation.  I’m doing the best I can, but the Spellmonger needs to make an appearance.

I will be there, I promised.  I’ve got one little war to deal with, but there should be plenty of room on my schedule. Shall we plan to stay the night?

Let’s see how things play out, she decided.  You might want to beat a hasty exit.  Or you and Alya could stay at Koucey’s guest house – we’ve moved our household to the palace as a show of support, and right now it’s being used as a base for the Wood Owls—

The who?

They’re a group of Kasari who . . . well, they aren’t raptors.  But they have a lot of skills other Kasari lack.  And far less moral compunctions.  Arborn recruited them for me to help crack down on the criminal organizations here.

So you essentially started your own?

It was easier than taking one over, she confessed, tiredly.  If you want to rule – or help someone rule – sometimes you have to be willing to hurt people and break things.  And sometimes life is just better without some people in it.  The Wood Owls aren’t cold-blooded killers, but they do what needs to be done.  And like most owls . . . they eat rats.  The halls of power are soaked in blood.

That seemed like quite a departure for Pentandra, but I was politic enough not to mention it.

And how fares the Duke?

He’s holding power, now – barely.  The garrison is loyal, now that Count Salgo has taken charge and cleaned it out.  First Minister Angrial is surprisingly adept at the art of bureaucracy, it turns out.  Our biggest lack is a good master of intelligence.  Arborn does a reasonable job, for local issues, but Anguin really needs a professional overseeing the operation.

How do revenues look? I asked, afraid of the answer.

Surprisingly good, actually.  The Duchy collected nearly twenty thousand ounces of gold in tribute at the spring court.  Several old local families who are loyal to the Ducal house have been holding back from paying for the last few years, for fear it would enrich Rard’s cronies.  We’re expecting more.

How are expenses?

That’s enough to keep us afloat without going back to the temple for more.  We’ve only used about half of the line of credit the Order arranged, so far.  It’s costing about two-thousand a month to keep the palace and the garrison running, another five hundred for city services.  We’re bringing in about six hundred in fees, so this is a big help.  We can keep running with what we have for several months without touching the reserve, and we can make payments to the Temple.

That is a big relief.  How is he playing in the hinterlands?

Are you kidding? The country knights who are left beyond the Penumbra are his biggest supporters.  They’re so damned glad that there’s a Duke in the palace again, they could care less what he does.  Not that that’s led to a flood of revenue, understand – coin is pretty thin, up here.  Most lords pay their tribute in kind, and since trade has fallen so profoundly, that doesn’t help us much.

Let me think about it, and perhaps I can offer some advice at the ball, I considered.  We’re doing a lot with enchantment, these days.  Maybe we can do something to help.

Whatever you can do, she agreed.  I’m drowning, here.

Lastly I contacted Dranus, who had returned to his duties at the castle, leaving the younger lads in Amel wood to do the dirty work.  He wasn’t a warmage, after all.  But he did have some interesting news to report.

You received a messenger from Sire Cullien, Lord of Rolone this morning, expressing grief over the recent bandit attacks in your domains.  He emphasized how dangerous the hills could be.  His messenger awaits a reply.

That pissed me off.  I hate a man who gloats, unless it’s me.  Those were my people, and he’d had them slaughtered to prove a point.

Reply to the effect that my recently-appointed Magelord of the affected domain has recovered an eyewitness of the attack, one of the bandits left for dead, and he is in the process of revealing the identities of his confederates and their motives.   My vassal will no doubt take appropriate action in defense of his domain.  Imply that the witness is rotting away in a hole, with lots of torture.

Of course, Excellency.  I understand just how to phrase it.

Where is our witness really?

He’s resting comfortably at Brestal Tower, under Zagor’s care.  He answers to his name, now, and his memory slowly returns, but it remains occluded.  His wound is healing without festering, thanks to Zagor’s skill.

Excellent.  It matters not if he actually reveals the name, it only matters that Rolone know he is a prisoner and under interrogation.

Your Excellency is cunning.

My Excellency is tired, I countered.  Lord Lorcus will be making his first reprisals in the next few days.  I will be attending, as an observer.  But I’d like to present him with a token of his new lordship, as a mark of my endorsement.  I described to him what I wanted.  It wasn’t complicated, and we certainly had the capability.

I shall attend to the details myself, he promised.  Is there anything else?

Yes, I decided.  Don’t mention to anyone that Tyndal, Rondal, and Lorcus are back in town.  They were only at Sevendor for a few hours, and I know some folk saw them, but spread the rumor that they have gone back on mission and won’t be returning for a while, if anyone asks questions.

Certainly.  May I ask why?

I’ve become aware of spies, recently.  Those three are significantly powerful warmagi, and I want to conceal their operations as much as possible to my opponents.

A wise course of action, Excellency.  I shall see to it.  I look forward to your return.

I thought about others I could contact, and projects and plans that needed my attention, but as I opened my eyes and saw Alya curled around a giant wool-stuffed pillow, drooling into the silk, I decided my time was better spent by curling my arms around her and joining her in a nap.

It really was the wise course of action.

*

*

When we arrived back in Sevendor, Alya sleepily attended to the children, and after a brief reunion in which presents were distributed in plenty, I retired to see to the business of the domain.  Two days later, I got the call from Lorcus.  I gathered a small party of fellows, made some preparation, and used the Ways to transport us all to his location in southern Rolone.

Shockingly enough, his base of operations turned out to be a tavern because, he explained, there hadn’t been a decent whorehouse in town.  He had secured it by the simple expedient of seizing it as a prize of war, then hiring the barman back at double his wages.  He had closed the place to public trade and set up trestles full of his gear.  Warmagi and his common soldiers, all wearing his apple-and-half-worm badge, scurried through on various missions while Lord Lorcus surveyed the operation through various magical means.

Lanse of Bune had contrived a quick but detailed map of the region, which everyone was using to keep track of movements.  After a welcome pint I walked over and surveyed the positions, while Lorcus explained his battle plan to me.

“First, we’ve got the Granite Squadron,” he informed me, smugly, pointing to a token with his badge painted on it and a tiny figure of a warmage on top.  “That’s Taren, Tyndal, and twenty archers – Bovali boys mostly.  They began assaulting the tower non-magically, striking at the gatehouse and flinging a few nasty things over the walls to incite them.  They will also be building a distracting bonfire in front of the granary, to make it look like its burning.  It’s the highest-value asset in view of the tower.”

“And then what?”

“Then that squadron will withdraw to a farm here,” he said, pointing at a spot on the map with the stem of his pipe.  “There’s a barn we’ve commandeered where our horses and such are hidden. That should allow the Granite Tower ample time to send messengers willy-nilly over the roads to Barnor and Gwyliad.”

“Where you can intercept them.”

“Why would I do such a thing?” he asked, scandalized.  “I’d have to send my own men to do it, if they didn’t make it.  No, Min, I want them to arrive breathless, afraid, and desperate-sounding.  If a lad showed up like that, speaking of a raid to you in the middle of the night, what would any good castellan do?”

“Sound the alarm and raise a force,” I proposed.  “Scramble every sword in the castle to ride and march to aid, as oath and feudal responsibility dictates.”

“I so love that you understand the way of things,” he sighed.  “Yes, they will empty both fortresses to go to the aid of poor beleaguered Granite.  It will take them, according to Sir Festaran, eight and nine hours, respectively, to reach their friends by road. When they reach the half-way points on their respective journeys, the Gwyliad Squadron, based in a shrine to Morgon, will move to attack the barely-attended keep through subterfuge and the application of some impressive warmagic.  Sirs Rondal and Festaran, with ten good infantrymen from Southridge.

“At the same time, the Barnor Squadron will depart from their base in a smallholding nearby, and Master Cormoran and Lanse of Bune will take the weakened defenses with ten men from the Westwood.  There should only be four combatants left at the place,” he said, tapping the tiny castle that stood in place of Barnor Tower.

“So what happens then?” I asked, intrigued and amused.

“Why then, all of the military forces in southern Rolone will be concentrated in one place, at one time, road-weary and bleary eyed.  They should arrive about dawn,” he said, glancing at his notes.  “Of course they are wary of bandits, and looking for bandits, so once they’ve arrived and barely caught their breath, we’re going to provide some bandits for them.  Elements from Granite Squadron will burn a cot in this village, here, and add some convincing illusion to convey the idea that there, in fact, actual bandits attacking.  Which is just what these sword-monkeys are so terribly eager to engage.”

“And that will be their undoing?”

“In a matter of speaking,” he smiled, his twisted mustache bouncing expressively.  “Betwixt the Tower and the hamlet is a long road of good hard-packed earth, which runs through a marshy region here,” he said, tapping the map.  “For near two miles it is impassable by horse on either side, difficult terrain for a man on foot, and positively challenging to said man when he is weighted by armor.  It’s also simply thick with overhanging limbs.  That, Excellency, will be their undoing.”

“How so?” I did enjoy watching Lorcus work.

“Because we have seeded that entire stretch with a glorious array of sigils and charms designed to increase the sense of fear and uncertainty naturally in the mind of a man on such a mission.  Every step taken hence from this point will be laden with doubt and fear,” he said, with professional satisfaction.  “By the time the party arrives at this little bridge, here, they should smell ripe with piss and fear, ready to shoot anything they see in fear for their lives.”

“So what happens at the bridge?”

“They surrender.”

I studied the Remeran’s face thoughtfully.  “Well, I’d really like to see that,” I decided.

“I thought you might,” he chuckled.  “I – bide,” he begged, and closed his eyes.  He opened them a moment later.  “That was Sir Tyndal.  They broke off their attack half an hour ago and retreated to the barn.  Their spies report that two messengers have been dispatched by horse to summon reinforcements.  So that part is done.  Nothing left to do for a few hours but sit around and drink.”

“Well, I would like to present you with a little token I had made,” I said, producing the wrapped package from a magical pocket.  “Something to signify your new responsibilities.”

He unwrapped the gift gleefully, exposing a beautiful rod of rosewood and weirwood, a scepter with a snowstone carving of an apple sitting on a snowflake.  Of course the apple had the bite and the half-worm taken out of it.  The worm was of gold, affixed by magic to the stone.  It had been hasty work, but the effect was simple and whimsical.  Lorcus was delighted.

“It’s also enchanted, of course – there is a Waystone behind the head, a bit of knot coral, and I had Dranus fill it with some common and useful enchantments.  I put a few small pockets in it and stocked it with a few of your favorite things.”  I spent the next half-hour showing him how the Wormwand, as he styled it, worked.

“Ah, I feel properly lordly, now,” he said, smacking the head of the wand into his hand.  “I am a proper lord, aren’t I?  I’d feel awfully foolish if I captured three castles and had to give them back again, just because I’m a commoner.”

“Your patent of nobility was filed at Wilderhall, as was your appointment as Amel Wood’s tenant lord.  Once the war is resolved I’ll assign you the deed and make you titled.”

“Fair enough,” he said, as if the entire matter was a bit of a joke.  “I’ve never worked so cheaply before.  Still . . . I think you’ll enjoy the next bit, come dawn.  Go take a nap – I’ll awaken you when it’s time to go.”

*

*

One of the Ameli peasant boys who had insisted on accompanying Lorcus on his quest for vengeance against his home woke me an hour before dawn, which gave me enough time to splash water on my face, grab a cup of ale, use the privy, and dress.  Lorcus had horses waiting for us all, so that we could ride the six miles to the ambush “like proper gentlemen”.

“Here,” he said, pushing a hastily-made baldric with the apple-and-worm on it.  “This way you’ll be one of my men, not a baron for the day.”  I put it on without argument.  I was just here to watch.

We arrived at the turn toward the village a few minutes after the column from Granite Tower had turned down it, marching at quick speed.  Lorcus tarried until the twenty-five men from the Granite Squadron arrived.  Then we all followed the road at a leisurely pace, the bowmen in front of the horsemen.

It was a lovely morning, with just a bit of rain, but less than a mile down the road the trees started closing in on the road oppressively, and the fetid smell of stagnant swamp filled the air with a faintly sinister smell.  We came across the trace remains of the warmagic sigils, which Lorcus pronounced satisfactory.

“I just got word,” he said, a few moments later, a delighted grin on his face.  “Both other castles have fallen.  After these gentlemen surrender, we’ll own half of Rolone.”

“That is good news,” I agreed.  “Congratulations.  Now that you’ve taken them, do you think you can defend them?”

“Oh, aye,” he dismissed with a snort.  “We’re not as dumb as those Riverlords.”

A few minutes later we heard screams and the unmistakable sound of bowstring ahead.

“I believe they have gotten to the bridge,” Lorcus nodded, smiling.  “Prepare for battle!” he ordered everyone, and the Bovali bowmen nocked arrows while the warmagi hung spells and drew their blades.  I lit my pipe.  The air was heavy and dank.  “Forward slowly, no one fires without my order.  We want these fellows to have a chance to surrender.  I’d like the ransoms.”

We moved more slowly up the road, and before long we caught up with the first fleeing Rolone soldier, who was so relieved to see us he broke down in tears before surrendering.  After that two more ended up in our hands, then a party of five, before we encountered the main group retreating in rough fashion.

“HOLD!” Lorcus bellowed, and his men quickly took defensive positions, bows raised but not drawn.  He rode forward before the line and halted his horse.  The green-sashed archers seemed cocky, but level-headed.  “Who are you men?”

“Duin’s blood, we’re the men of Rolone!  Fall back, the marsh is accursed!” someone shrieked.

“Quiet!” called a commanding voce.  A knight on a spooked-looking charger rode forth from between the infantry, a battered brass sunrise on his breastplate, his sword drawn . . . and his reigns slack.  His left arm ended at the elbow, where a small buckler was fastened.  I’d heard of the old soldier, one of the strong arms of Sashtalia in his day, until he lost his shield arm in battle.  He was guiding his horse with his knees.  “I am Sire Ansonal of Gwyliad. Who are you men? There are . . . things in the marsh, and the bridge is broken.  You must turn back!”

“I am Lord Lorcus of Amel Wood,” Lorcus said, proudly.  “I am on a mission of retribution for an attack on my domain that issued from Granite Tower, on the order of the Lord of Rolone.”

“I – what did you say?” asked the Dawn Knight, confused. “There is no lord of Amel Wood – it is a Ducal property!”

“Not for a year, my lord,” Lorcus assured him.  “And a few weeks ago I was appointed tenant lord . . . just before the raid your liege ordered on my land.  Hence my presence in your gorgeous domain,” he said with a polite bow.

“So . . . what is your purpose here?” he asked.

“Why, we wish to bar the road, my lord,” Lorcus informed him.  “We are, after all, at war.”

“This is the first I’ve heard of it,” confessed the old knight.  “Young man, there are things in the swamps coming toward us.  If you do not move, we will be overrun!”

“That is unfortunate, my lord,” shrugged Lorcus, sympathetically.  “And I would be happy to allow you passage . . . as our prisoners.  Otherwise you may turn and contend with the creatures, or you may elect to charge us at your convenience – to your peril.  I leave the decision up to you, Sire Ansonal.”

The knight looked genuinely anguished as he looked over his shoulder.  I could see behind him, where several shambling shapes were emerging from the underbrush, dripping a foul-smelling ichor.  Some of them had tiny glowing eyes . . . magelights, I realized.  They were constructs, likely simple earth elementals covered with burlap.  Rondal’s doing.  Several were peppered with arrows, which they didn’t seem to notice.  More archers fired behind them, and the thing continued moving without flinching, even with an arrow protruding from its chest.  They began to make eerie hissing and low moans that were terrifying the Roloni.

“My lord, this is no time for jest!” the Dawn Knight said, when he turned around.  “We are in peril!”

“You are being asked to lay down your arms,” Lorcus agreed.  “Your time to do so is running out.”

It was an entertaining contest to watch, Sire Ansonal’s debate with himself.  But another quick glance over his shoulder, and the fetid smell washing ahead of the things, did his deciding.

“We yield!” he said, suddenly flinging his sword around, catching it effortlessly by the blade, and offering it over the stump of his left arm.  His men immediately followed suit holding out their bows and spears to anyone who would take them.

Lorcus rode up and took sire Ansonal’s sword with a bow, urging the man to cross his lines.  The rest of his men followed at a near-run.  Lorcus waited until they were out of sight, escorted by his own men, before he spoke the commands that sent his puppets back to their swamp to rot.

Half an hour later we were taking their surrender oaths and setting reasonable ransoms for the party.  Sire Ansonal was a little embarrassed about his performance, but was convinced that some fell power now haunted the swamp.  He even gratefully thanked Lord Lorcus for his rescue . . . until they arrived back at Granite Tower, to find the Half-Eaten Worm flying overhead.

“What is this?” the one-armed knight asked, confused.

“We happened by,” explained Lorcus, “found the doors open and nearly no one home, and thought it best to secure it.  It now belongs to the Domain of Amel Wood, as a captured prize of war.”

“This is outrageous!” Ansonal said, angrily.  “We surrendered to you in good faith—”

“And we honored your surrender, and spared your lives as prisoners of war, according to the Laws of Duin,” nodded Lorcus.  “But we can’t keep you all here . . . let’s go to Gwyliad castle, instead.”

“Yes, I’m sure that we can settle this . . . misunderstanding,” the Dawn Knight assured him.  “I can pay you weregeld for your losses, and redeem the tower, myself and my men.  There is ample specie stored there.”

“Ah, that is good,” Lorcus agreed, playing along at being interested in being bribed back to his forest holding.  “My men took that just before dawn, too.  And that other tower to the west, too.  We are in possession of all of your domain south of the Rolone River, Sir Ansonal,” he informed him, matter-of-factly.

“You . . . what?” Ansonal asked, in disbelief.  “How?”

“Magic,” Lorcus shrugged with an annoying smile.  “Deception.  Skullduggery.  And outstanding leadership.  Now let’s escort you gentlemen back to your former home, where you will take residence in slightly less august accommodations for the duration of the conflict.  I do apologize for any inconvenience.  But,” he offered, as if the idea suddenly occurred to him, “if you would be so kind as to explain your lord’s role in the war, and the disposition of his remaining defenses along the way, I could be persuaded to make your stay a bit more comfortable.”

The Dawn Knight stiffened.  “I shall never betray my lord!” he declared, defiantly.

“I think you will,” Lorcus said, taking out the Wormwand and pointing it.  He said the command, and the old man was entranced, under a truthtell spell.  Only the most closely-held secrets could resist the relaxed state of cooperation the spell inspired.  If you don’t know a protection charm.

We spent a pleasant morning riding through the beautiful Rolone countryside, waving gaily to the peasants who were on their way to their plowing – still – and continued on past noon until we eventually came to Sire Ansonal’s gifted home.  Under the duress of magic he handed the deed and the keys over to Lord Lorcus, signed his name to the official declaration of surrender Lorcus had thoughtfully prepared, and retired with his men to a single tower, where they were deemed prisoners of war.  To ease their pain I included a barrel of ale and a bottle of wine for the gentlemen, and Lorcus insisted on having one of his new sheep slaughtered to feed them.

Lorcus raised the Half-Eaten Worm banner over the castle himself, just before dinner.  It took the staff a while to realize that there had been an actual change in administration, but the sudden crowd of strange soldiers at table shocked them into obedience.

“What next?” I asked, enjoying one of Sire Ansonal’s finer vintages.  I did toast the old man’s health with it – I’m not a barbarian.

“Well, if what the Dawn Knight told us is true, Rolone Castle is one of the two fallback positions for Sire Trefalan’s forces, with Sashtalia Castle, should things go ill on the field.  Included in preparations for retreat was the establishment of a hospital, and within the outer bailey the wives and daughters of the lesser nobility, prominent merchants from Rolone Town, and – it turns out – much of their portable wealth has been secured against calamity.  Rolone Castle is, apparently, considered extremely safe, this far behind the lines.”

“Despite only having a garrison of twenty-five men,” Rondal laughed, his mouth full. That had been something else Ansonal had revealed.  They weren’t the best twenty-five, either, mostly older men or boys, the lame and the cowardly.  They were relying on the good will of the people in a time of war and the forbidding structure of the castle to hold the domain.  I could see why Lorcus was optimistic.

“It does seem a waste to allow such a rich prize to go unclaimed,” agreed Lanse of Bune.

“But I don’t want to commit myself until we’ve adequately scouted the field,” he considered.  “Give me a week?”

“I’m in internal exile – take as long as you wish,” I shrugged.  “Just try not to break too much – this is a valuable domain.”

“Oh, I’m bent on capturing it intact,” he assured me, in all seriousness.  “There’s only another three castles, and only one of those is of any size.  Sir Ansonal wasn’t jesting about the coin here, either.  Give me a week, maybe ten days, and I’ll be flying my banner over Rolone Castle.  And every other one in Rolone.”

He sounded utterly confident, and after what I had seen in the space of a day I had little reason to doubt him.  Lorcus loves puzzles, and the puzzle of how to take that big drum keep away from the two-dozen men who were charged with guarding it would no doubt prove interesting – if he didn’t get himself killed in the process.

I returned to Sevendor late in the evening, long after everyone had gone to bed.  I considered turning in immediately, but even after my long day I was too restless.  Instead I checked in with the night watchman and went to visit the Snowflake for the first time in a while.

I walked through the unfinished gate, under the gatehouse that was mostly finished, waving to the Karshak watchman on duty.  Overhead they were starting to finish the roof, and the entire third floor was being outfitted as a chamber for the castellan – Sire Cei and his family.  The space was large, more than twice what he and Estret and the children had in the garrison tower.

The fourth story was another chamber for guests, the fifth and sixth would be storerooms, and the top level would be where siege engines would, someday, be stored.  The entire white stone edifice was still covered in scaffolding, but in the space of six months the Karshak had completed a structure it would take human engineers years to build.  It would be another six months before it was finally finished, and by then hopefully the outer walls of the new castle would be started.

It took a while to get to the right tunnel – the excavation of the Great Hall was in full swing, three shifts a day, and there were work crews everywhere, carefully carving out the massive snowstone blocks that would form the foundation of the castle wall.  I had to wait several times, while cranes or drills were pulled into place, and once I had to stop to lend some magical aid when a block went dangerously askew.  But eventually I made my way down to the right tunnel, unlocked the door, and entered the Snowflake Chamber.

It was there, but it wasn’t alone.  Master Azhguri was there, studying the ever-changing artifact.

It was not unusual for him to come to the thing – he was one of the few who had unlimited access to just about anywhere.  The old Karshak didn’t hear me come in, and only looked up when I entered his field of vision.  He had a short stubby pipe between his lips, and the acrid smell of his harsh blend in the air around us.

“Late night?” I asked, cheerfully.

“Is it night?” he asked, surprised.  “’Twas noon when I came here.”

“It has that effect,” I agreed “Among others.”

He grunted assent.  “I tried to sing it,” he murmured.

“Tried?” I asked, surprised.  Azhguri was one of the best stonesingers on Callidore.  I dug out my own pipe to join him.

“Tried.  It’s just too . . . random.  Only, it’s not, really.”

“I can see your point.”

“You can’t sing stone if it don’t stand still,” he said, irritated.  “I can start, but a bare hour into it, I get pushed back.  Come out of it all confused.  But there is power in that thing,” he said, with certainty, pointing at it with his pipestem. “Tremendous power.  Enormous complexity.  And perhaps even sentience.  But no awareness.  Without awareness, it’s as pretty as a waterfall, and about as useful.”

I thought about the lost City of Rainbows.  “Even waterfalls have uses,” I countered.

“This will not be truly useful until we find a way to tame it, Minalan,” he sighed.  “This is beyond the mind of a mere mortal – either human or Karshak.  I doubt an Alka Alon’s mind could tame it.  But you need to find a way, or that thing isn’t going to do much more than sit there and look pretty until something comes along and takes it away from you.

“And that would be a shame, lad, it truly would.  Because some day someone is going to try to take it away from you, and if you don’t learn how to use it to protect it . . . I fear that’s exactly what they’ll do.”

Chapter Twenty Five

The Woodland Masque

Alya and I appeared in the Ducal Palace in Vorone, in Pentandra’s chamber, where she was preparing herself for the ball.  The Waystone I used was the one resting in her amulet, to avoid the task of walking through town or attempting to hire a coach.  I contacted her mind-to-mind and she welcomed us through. She had neglect to mention at the time that her maid was bathing her.

I blushed, despite myself.  It wasn’t that I was seeing Penny naked, or that I’d seen her naked a lot, in the past, but it was seeing Penny naked in the same room as my fully-clothed wife.  With a half-naked maid.

“Pentandra!” I said, averting my eyes. Mostly.

“What?” she said, defensively.  “There’s only two hours until the ball, which is barely enough time to get ready!”  I could tell that it wasn’t just expedience that made her do that.  Pentandra got a thrill out of scandalizing people.  I was hard to scandalize, but Penny knew my weaknesses.

“Min, you are dismissed,” Alya said, simply, turning me by my shoulders and giving me a gentle shove toward the door.  She had the situation well in-hand, I could tell.

“Arborn is in my chamber!  Have him get you a drink!  We’ll be out . . . soon,” Penny called after me, splashing around a bit.

I walked straight ahead, amused and embarrassed and I had no real idea why.  Arborn was on the other side of the chamber, behind a screen, a cup already in hand.

He wasn’t alone – there were two other men with him, a Kasari ranger who I didn’t recognize and a middle-aged courtier in a blue and yellow doublet and tights.

“Minalan, my friend!” Arborn said, his low voice almost sounding friendly.  The ranger captain was dressed in Kasari dress uniform, complete with a formal scarlet cloak embroidered with his achievements and lined with ermine.  But he wore a richly-decorated cavalry sword at his side.  “Come join us!”

“Did he just come in?” the courtier asked, confused.

“You must expect such things from wizards, Sir Vemas,” Arborn counseled, as the other ranger poured me a cup of wine.  “They come and go when least expected, and keep their own time.  The Spellmonger most of all.  Baron Minalan of Sevendor, this is Sir Vemas of Vorone, chief constable of the city, and this is Jenser, my lieutenant.”  Both men bowed low.

“A genuine pleasure, Excellency,” Sir Vemas said, smoothly.  “Of course everyone has heard of the great Spellmonger.  We are so privileged that you could attend this evening.”

“And you are the chief constable of this city, now?  That seems a challenging position.”

“But one which Sir Vemas is well-suited for,” Arborn confided.  “He grew up here, and loves this city as home.  He has Lady Pentandra’s complete confidence, as well as mine.  He has been helping us coordinate the effort to defeat the organized gangs who still control the city by night . . . and much of it by day.”

“But we’re winning,” Sir Vemas assured me.  “Slowly, carefully, but we have made some tremendous gains.  The gallows have been busy, and the Iron Band has received an entire company of new recruits.”

“And every morning there are a few fresh bodies in the street,” Jenser added, quietly.  “The Wood Owls have been tracking and hunting the worst criminals, those who elude and evade the city guard by day.  The townsfolk started calling us Wood Owls,” he added, with a wicked grin that twisted his thin lips into an intimidating leer.  “We come out at night and leave dead rats behind.”

“Your very best men?” I asked Arborn.

“Gods, I hope not!” Jenser proclaimed, looking at his captain.  “The Wood Owls are . . . not like other Kasari.  Most have had difficult pasts, despite the council’s best efforts.  Some just prefer town life to the wood, and some are . . .”

“Cold blooded killers,” supplied Sir Vemas, without judgment.  “Silent stalkers without peer,” he boasted.  “They are too modest, Excellency.  A dozen men have waged a nightly war against hundreds, and have yet to be defeated.”

“That is impressive,” I agreed, though I understood why they were reluctant to boast.  The Kasari value life highly.  Even though they are incredible hunters, they do not delight in killing, they are reverent toward those who give their lives in the service of the lifeforce.  Killing humans, even when necessary, is a serious moral issue for them.  A Kasari assassin would have very little status in most councils, I knew.

Or perhaps I didn’t.  The very existence of such warriors suggested that the Kasari had come to terms with those among them who did not mind taking life.  And the fact that they answered to a Captain of Rangers was telling.

The wardens of Vorone told me about the various factions that controlled the city, the various court officials who still had ties with them, and the struggle they’d had to bring them to heel.  It had taken the execution of the old Captain of Guards and a purging of the corps, but Sir Vemas now had a reasonably uncorrupt unit to keep the peace and enforce the Duke’s will.

“Just how is the Duke’s will faring?” I asked.  That inspired some quick glances at each other, before Arborn spoke.

“Duke Anguin has taken control of the city,” he reported.  “He has begun to extend that influence among the nearby lords, and held court to dispense justice on those who have transgressed against his laws, and begun to collect his rightful tribute.”

“But how is he governing?” I asked, sipping the wine.  Not even close to the vintage from Rolone.

“With great deliberation,” offered Sir Vemas.  “I have not agreed with every decision His Grace has made, but he seems a fair man.”

“I see you said ‘man’,” I noted.  “His youth has not been an issue?”

Again, the exchange of looks.  “My lord,” Jenser, said, “when His Grace executed the former Prime Minister personally, in front of the throne, few considered his youth anything but an indication of his vigor.”  My eyebrows went up, more impressed by how well-spoken and mannered Jenser was than of Anguin’s personal participation in the dispensing of justice.

“Any sign of rebellion or conspiracy in the court yet?” I asked, casually.  “That can’t be far behind such reforms.”

“Not openly,” Sir Vemas admitted, after some thought.  “Not by the nobility, at least.  As long as His Grace controls the garrison, no single baron in the north has ventured to rebel.  Gods willing, it will stay that way.”

We continued to discuss the political situation for nearly an hour, draining two bottles of local red while we waited.  Vemas and I split that, mostly – even the Kasari of dubious reputation were temperate.

I was feeling fine, and we were laughing at some extremely fascinating stories Sir Vemas told about breaking up unlicensed brothels, when the ladies arrived.

Alya, of course, was wearing a bright green gown with Sevendor green trim, an intricate silver snowflake embroidered on the breast, enchanted to glow.  Her headdress was fairly simple, a wimpled white cone that rose six inches above her brow.

Pentandra, on the other hand, was garbed as a Ducal Court Wizard.  While there was no official regalia for the office, she had established a look, of sorts, that represented her position. She wore a long red gown of Remeran silk, matching slippers, with a hooded robe of cloth-of-gold over it.  She had contrived a pointed red cap similar in structure to a spellmonger’s cap, only bedecked with gems in Remeran style.  Over her shoulder she wore a sash bearing the sigil of the Court Wizard, and she carried her beautiful baculus with authority.

They both looked stunning.  We rose, and made appreciative comments about their efforts – with the Kasari ranger stumbling, and Arborn clumsily agreeing that Pentandra looked good.  It was painfully awkward to watch.

The Kasari are a practical people, certainly – but surely one would think that in all of their rites they might mention that telling your wife she looks beautiful when she’s spent that much time, effort, and money to do so seems fairly elementary.  I could see why Penny was having problems.

As we left Pentandra and Arborn’s apartments and headed toward the throne room, Pentandra reached out to me, mind-to-mind.

You look like crap, Min, she observed, thoughtfully.

Hey! I just got this outfit!

Your clothes look fine, she agreed, but your face looks like you’ve been . . . worried? Anxious? Afraid? Tired?

Well, which one?

I was just offering suggestions, and hoping that you’d supply the appropriate emotion.  What’s going on, Min?

It’s complicated.

It’s always complicated.  You want to see complicated, you should see my marriage.

I am.  It looks reasonably happy.  As long as Arborn doesn’t speak.

That’s the problem.  I can’t get him to speak.

You were the one who wanted the strong, silent type, I teased.

And you were the one who wanted the wholesome farm girl, she teased back.  But then she continued.  And speaking of your lady wife, don’t be alarmed, but . . . there’s a spell on her.

It’s the dress, I explained.  It’s heavily enchanted.

It’s not the dress, Min, she countered.  I noticed something when we were talking.

Then it’s the pregnancy, I decided.

It’ not the pregnancy, either.  I did a simple thaumaturgical essay, and while I can’t tell you who or why, there is a vein of magic around your wife.  A spell.   And not one of yours.

What do you mean?

I mean that someone has been interfering with Alya, she said, with growing impatience.

I almost stopped, but Penny dug her baculus into the small of my back to keep me moving.

Interfere, how? I demanded.

I don’t know, yet, she admitted, worriedly.  And that’s using the baculus.  All I could tell was that it was a psychomantic spell.  Subtle.  But extremely strong.

Someone is casting spells on Alya? I asked alarmed.

That seems to be the case.  Who might do such a thing?

I knew exactly who was responsible.  The only one who could be responsible.  The one who had used similar sorceries to entrap me.  Baroness Isily.

I’ll look into it, I promised.  It could be nothing.

It’s not nothing, Min.  It’s Psychomancy!

I’ll look into it.  What kind of chaos are we walking into, tonight?

A simple court, appointment of a few positions, then a reception, with dancing afterwards.  But the people you need to beware of . . . she began, and then filled my head with the names of Wilderlords, courtiers, and important townsfolk who Anguin was trying to cultivate.

Among all of Vorone’s social classes, the nobility and burghers of the town had been the most reluctant to embrace Anguin, she explained.  They had grown accustomed to the casual corruption of the last four years, and many of them had turned the chaos into business opportunities with various factions.

The worst among them, of course, was the Brotherhood of the Rat.  The coastal-based criminal organization had been extending its grip inland for decades, after they controlled southern Alshar.  One of their captains had been here, in court, back during the last days of the late Duke Lenguin.

The Brotherhood survived the fall of the Duke, and had transformed their operations in Vorone.  Instead of merely corrupting the court and increasing its political influence over the duchy, the Brotherhood had seen the decay of the summer capital as a financial opportunity.

They’d flooded the town with thugs and gangsters.  Using smaller gangs as proxies, they had slowly taken control of about half of Vorone, and were closing in on the rest, when Anguin had returned to claim his patrimony.

Penny’s efforts had led to a dramatic decrease in their territory, now – they were back to a few refugee camps and neighborhoods in the poorer sections of town, as well as points of strength throughout the city.  But Pentandra was hopeful they’d lose even that before midsummer, thanks to the pressure the Wood Owls were putting on them nightly.

As their primary means of income was extorting protection money from burghers and merchants, it had taken some time to get used to doing business more-or-less honestly.  But there were still plenty who wanted to purchase their success.  Some were ambivalent about the Duke, some directly opposed.  But none wanted to be excluded from a court function.  Or executed for corruption.

The hall was the same one I’d met Anguin’s late parents in, the one which I’d blatantly used threats and extortion and bribery to get the man out of his throne and into a saddle to defend his realm.  It had also gotten him and his wife killed, afterward, so I felt kind of bad about that.

The hall looked shabbier now than then, though it had been strewn with flowers and decorations of the season.  The theme of the night was the Woodlands that surrounded Vorone.  The servants had eschewed the usual antlers-and-anchor motif of Alshari nationality for a pure celebration of the rugged northern forests.  The political message was clear: the rebellious maritime south was, for the moment, forgotten in favor of the robust Wilderlands culture.  Fresh boughs hung from the ceiling, and lanterns were strung throughout the hall among them.

It was a smaller crowd and a smaller court than his parents boasted, too – a mere two-hundred guests and courtiers and half again as many servants.  But it was a livelier crowd, too.  I watched as Jenser quietly worked the room, exchanging silent looks and glances with Arborn, with the occasional nod or hand sign thrown in.  Arborn and his men saw this as an opportunity to get close to those courtiers he suspected of corruption.  He might have gotten closer if he and Arborn had not both donned very conspicuous owl masks.  The Kasari are great trackers, but they tend to lack social subtlety.

The business end of the court was delightfully short.  Anguin, wearing a fox mask with a miniature coronet between its ears, his regal blue doublet bearing an oversized fox tail, doffed his mask after the processional and welcomed us all to his affair with little ceremony.

He made six quick appointments, mostly monks and nuns to administrative posts in the city, and then accepted the fealty of a vassal who hadn’t made it to the regular spring court.  He congratulated the garrison captain on putting down a recent riot, gave public appreciation to the efforts of the bureaucracy that was putting the Duchy aright, and thanked the townsfolk for their civic-mindedness and embrace of their duty.

That was it; he adjourned court and began the reception, leaping from his throne and replacing his mask before joining the crowd.  The musicians began an instrumental piece while the trestles around the room began to be filled with food by the servants.  The dance master called the first pavane of the evening, one of the stately strut-around-in-our-pretty-clothes-and-clever-costumes dances, and someone brought me a cup of wine.

There was a riot of costumes on the dance floor, I observed as I sipped and watched.  Stately-looking lords and ladies slowly stepped and twirled, their tunics and formal gowns topped with simple dominoes or complex constructions: a magnificent horsehead, or a ferocious bear, or a sad-looking goat; many women had come as birds, and decorated their mantles and gowns with feathers.  Others came as does, with fanciful antlers and ears, or daring raccoons with bushy tails.  A few dashing courtiers had gone to great lengths with impressive masks that covered the whole head, and whose mouths and eyes and ears could move without the aid of magic.

Pentandra produced a mask of red-gold feathers and the sharp beak of a falcon, to match her husband’s owl, a tiny magelight behind the yellow gem on its brow.  Alya and I wore matching masks suggesting mountain lions, with ears and whiskers.  She had me attach a matching tail to my belt, and put tufts of fur under my sleeves, and I humored her.  I’ve never been a fan of such entertainments.  They had always seemed like a needless indulgence of the idle rich to flatter their own vanity.  If you want to have a party and drink, why dress up like it’s a festival day?

But now I saw them for what they really were: social events designed to establish position and precedence, influence and power.  Under those masks and within those gowns were the people who ran the town and, ultimately, the struggling Duchy.  The center of the vortex was Anguin, the Duke, but the men and women who competed for his attention had followers of their own.  Proximity to him brought power, but it also brought distractions.

Here, in a casual atmosphere, under masks and in the guise of entertainment, the real business of the Duchy was conducted.  Court officials made the rounds, commenting on the costumes of those they knew and introducing themselves to those they didn’t, yet – but who might prove useful.  Policies were discussed over wine and what delicacies this rustic capital could produce.  Performances were discussed, personnel were considered, politics was conducted – all in general, sometimes even coded terms.

Alya was strangely silent to it all.  Usually she couldn’t resist the temptation to lob catty comments about people as we watched them dance, but she just stared serenely at the slowly moving mannequins with a bit of lost smile under her mask.  I suspected Pentandra was right.  She didn’t seem herself, now that I was paying attention.

Now was not the time to investigate that further, as alarmed as I was.  There was a lot going on around me, and even if I was a bystander, here, present more as a show of support for Anguin and Pentandra than for any purpose of my own, I was an attraction.

Power draws power, and the novelty of having the Spellmonger attend your ball attracted plenty of folk who wanted to speak with me.  As Penny had advised, I spoke with them in order of rank, as expected – which meant I got a few moments with Prime Minister Angrial very early on.

“Ah, the Spellmonger!” the thin man said, with an authentic smile.  He was wearing well-made formal dark burgundy robes, and had chosen a simple domino over his eyes.  “I wanted to thank you again for securing me this appointment, Your Excellency.  It has been a remarkable – if challenging – opportunity.”

“And I thought you the right man for the job,” I assured him.  “How goes your governance?” I asked, politely.

His face changed.  “Well enough,” he admitted, cautiously.  “For two days ride from Vorone, Duke Anguin is acknowledged overlord.  Beyond that, things get complicated.  Your friends in the north have kept Tudry and Megelin nominally loyal, which is a blessing, and their influence in the nearby vales has been helpful.  But in the south and the east there are still many lords who have failed to render proper fealty to His Grace, though they have been duly summoned.”

“That is distressing,” I agreed, though it was entirely predictable.  “Once His Grace shows his face and lets his rule be felt, they will fall in line soon enough.  I’m sure they are merely wary of him being Rard’s puppet.”

“That is the prevailing notion,” the minister said, sadly.  “Though the tale of his defiance of Prince Tavard has spread, and undermined it somewhat.”

“It will take time.  Once they come to know him, they will support him.”

Count Salgo was my next visitor, and we greeted each other with an embrace like old comrades.  He was looking well.  His moustache was in fashion among the Wilderlords, and he’d adopted the local style of formal surcoat rather than a Castali-style doublet.  His mask was a lion, and he looked the part.  He’d played the part, too.

“Minalan, there are riots here every other week, since we came,” he confided, once others were out of earshot.  “The bloody gangs stir up trouble enough among the poor souls out in the camps, and it doesn’t take much.  The garrison is loyal, but a third less its size, now that we’ve weeded out the most corrupt among them.  We had a purge last week, and those whose crimes were severe will now serve a stern term of service in the Iron Ring.  Warfather Caudel is here tonight, and departs with two hundred new recruits in the morning.”

“I thought the Ring was the refuge of debtors?” I asked.

“When the Duke fines you fifty ounces of silver and you’ve ten, you’re a debtor,” he nodded, smugly.  “Those sorry souls who were able to pay were shown the frontiers and invited to leave.  Those who won’t will be tracking goblins through the Penumbra for a few years.”

“May the purity of honest war beat the corruption from their souls,” I said, piously.  I knew Salgo participated in Duin’s cult, as did many professional soldiers.  Duin’s rites emphasized spiritual redemption through feats of valor and duty.  There was a lot of duty involved at the edge of the Penumbra.  “Are there any realistic dangers nigh?” I asked quietly.

“Thank the gods, not at present,” he sighed, with relief.  “I’m not certain we could meet it if there was.  This place is as defensible as a meadow, the garrison is unskilled, poorly armed, and poorly trained, though now well-led, and I’m not certain I could depend on them not to break in a battle.  Not yet,” he added.  “But there might be another way,” he said, quietly.

Here it came: the request for influence.  At least Salgo was polite enough to do it in a straightforward manner, instead of trying to manipulate me.  “Go on,” I said.

“Word has recently come from the camp of the mercenary troop known as the 3rd Commando – formally Royal, if you recall.”

“I do,” I nodded.  Three regiments of highly specialized warriors had been recruited for the battles in Gilmora.  The First Royal Commando had become the Royal Guard, and was now encamped in Castabriel.  The 2nd Royal Commando had been routed in a surprise battle the first day the goblins had crossed the frozen Poros.  Only a tithe of them had survived, and many had taken service with Count Salgo when he had left his Royal post.

But the 3rd Commando had been ordered disbanded and demobilized by the king after weeks of some of the toughest fighting of the war.  Upon receiving their final pay and orders the rugged professionals took issue with the 1st Commando’s promotion and how poorly the survivors of the 2nd had been treated . . . so they voted to remobilize as a professional mercenary unit.

“The problem is that no one has hired them, yet,” he explained, quietly.  “Partially because they’re too large, and partially because, thanks to their service and their skills, they’re too expensive for mere garrison duty.  And no one wants to employ them in a private war, at their rates, except for the Alshari rebels . . . and they won’t hire them because Rard created the unit.

“So they’ve been sitting in camp in deserted northern Gilmora for almost a year, now, eating through their savings and foraging.  No one locally is strong enough to tell them to go away, but they’ve started to dabble in what’s left of local politics by necessity.  Soon the king will have to take action against them as rebels.”

“And you see an opportunity?”

“I received a letter from them, recently, expressing their heartfelt congratulations and enthusiastic support for His Grace’s seizure of his birthright.  Apparently many of the 3rd are Alshari, and many are Wilderlords, and few are well-disposed to Rard or Castal, right now.  There was a note of desperation in their admiration.”

“You think they seek employ?”

“I think they seek a home,” he replied, thoughtfully.  “Perhaps Alshar could be that home.”

“I thought they were too expensive to hire?”

“I didn’t say we’d hire them,” he said, a smile on his lips.  “I said they seek a home.  My proposal to His Grace has been to reply to their greeting by extending the opportunity to the unit to come to Alshar as his personal guard.”

“That . . . is a very big personal guard.  And it would be almost expensive as hiring them as mercenaries.”

“The difference is that as soldiers of his guard we can pay them in land, of which we have a gracious plenty.  Land they’ll have to defend, but land in which they will also have endless potential to improve.  Oh, some coin – thanks to your generosity, the coinbrothers have kept our men paid.  But if we offer them the protection of ducal sovereignty, they are likely, in my professional opinion, to consider the offer carefully.”

“Won’t Rard and Tavard see that as a dangerous sign?” I asked, concerned.

“Do we not have cause to hire such troops, with the hordes just over the horizon?” he countered.  “And bandits in our streets?  Unless Rard wants to drag his arse off the throne and do it – which he clearly does not – then it falls to the local nobility to defend the people.  Holy law is clear on that.”

“I can’t argue the sacred nature of Duin’s protection,” I agreed, “but Rard is likely to see it as a threat.”

“Which will encourage the local lords who suspect Anguin of his independence,” he riposted.  “I have thought of this for a while, Minalan.  They need us.  We need them.  We merely need to communicate that to the 3rd.  Or that is what I advised His Grace.”

“I will consider the matter, and perhaps speak with him of it,” I promised.  “I trust your judgment.”

I met a few more court officers who introduced themselves, and there were a few from the old regime who had lingered.  Sir Daranel, I recalled, the former head of Lenguin’s ducal guard, had risen to the post of Ducal Castellan, and seemed somewhat reluctant in his support of the new regime – no doubt there was a story there.  Considering it had been his watch as Captain of the Guard and the unofficial head of intelligence the time in which Duchess Enora had been slain, I wondered at the man’s motivations.  That’s rarely the kind of career event that a courtier survives.

Others appeared from the old court.  I remembered Lady Erasma, looking a little older, who returned as the Ducal Court Secretary.  Lord Andrien graduated to Steward of the Palace, a glorified castellan.  Others were noted by their absence.  Some fled to the south and joined the rebels in Enultramar in defiance of Castalalshar, and some had perished in defense of Alshar in the wars of the last few years.  And some ended up in prison or on the executioner’s block.

Finally, Anguin himself found his way over to me.  He was sweaty under his fox mask, as it was a warm evening and he’d been dancing for an hour.  He held out his hand and a servant handed him a special cup, which he drained in quick order.

“Ah, my friend Minalan!  And Baroness Alya,” he said, bowing to my wife.  “Thank you for joining us this evening.  Isn’t this pleasant?”

“You’ve thrown a wonderful entertainment, Your Grace,” Alya said, returning the bow.  “I’m enjoying myself immensely.  It is good to be back in Alshar, again.”

“It is,” he sighed.  “I did not realize how much I missed it until I returned.  Even this moldy old palace.  I’ve spent years here, and it’s almost like home.  More than Rouen,” he admitted.  “Thank you for getting me here.”

“I’ve been speaking to your ministers about your progress, Your Grace.  I commend you on a robust start to your reign.  So what are your plans, now, Your Grace?” I inquired politely.

Anguin clapped his hands together eagerly, and seemed genuinely enthusiastic about them.  “Well, we’re extending our influence out from Vorone, but it’s slow.  The Wilderlords that remain are suspect and willful.  Some have resisted.  If they continue, I shall have to call it a rebellion . . . and I am not certain we are strong enough yet to put down a rebellion.”

“Perhaps a stronger force here, Your Grace?” I proposed.  “The garrison is adequate for protection and regulation, but to convince the Wilderlords you have to project strength.  To them, that means horses and men and bows and lances.”

“But we can’t really afford a stronger force,” he said, chewing his lip.  “Ordinarily, I’d get them from the great nobles, but most of them were killed in the invasion.  I’ve only three Count’s left, and two are only counts by courtesy.”

“Then intimidate the barons,” I suggested.  “But until they see you at the head of an army, they’re not going to take you seriously.  Parties show what a sociable, generous and communicative lord you are, but these are Wilderlords.  They respect strength in arms most of all.”

“So you’ve heard about the proposal about the 3rd Commando?” he asked, cagily.  I could see why he’d chosen the fox as a mask.

“Count Salgo got here first,” I smiled. “Yes, he told me of his proposal.  I favor it, on the surface.  I fought with the 3rd Commando, and they’re very good, and very tough.  If you could secure their loyalty by giving them your protection and the promise of opportunity, they could become a powerful force on your behalf.  More than enough to secure your rightful tribute.”

“Would you not worry about such an offer?  Of such a potentially unruly force in such a chaotic environment?”

“You rarely repair chaos through neglect, Your Grace.  You do it through strength and order.  Once you have order, only then can you lead your people toward prosperity.”

“Wise words, Spellmonger,” he admitted.  “I’ve thought as much myself, but I am still doubtful.”

A thought occurred to me.  “Your Grace, are you not owed tribute for your Castali estates, as well?”

“Well, yes,” he shrugged.  “A fair amount, even after I pay my tribute to the duke and the king.  But not enough to pay an army.”

“Not at all,” I agreed.  “But it’s enough to need security to deliver it here, does it not?  Perhaps if you hired the 3rd to transport and guard it, with the suggestion that you have further opportunities?  That would get their attention.”

“Yes, nothing captures the imagination like gold,” he agreed.  “I’ll think on it.  But I’ve—”

He was interrupted by a grand entrance.  The doors to the hall were flung open, and a long stream of absolutely gorgeous women, all dressed in beautiful gowns bedecked with flowers, danced in, interrupting the pavane on the floor.  They were followed at last by a strikingly-beautiful woman in a multi-colored dress that seemed to have every flower of the season hung on it.  Her mask and headdress, covering sparkling golden hair, was likewise covered in petals.  It was an amazing effect.

“We present Lady Pleasure and her Maidens of Spring!” called the herald to the stunned crowd.

Ishi had arrived at the party.

Chapter Twenty Six

Lady Pleasure

It was amazing how quickly the mood of the evening shifted.  Before Ishi’s arrival, it was a pleasant entertainment at court; after she was announced the night transformed into a tensely exciting revel.

Her “maidens” helped with the transition by dispersing themselves among the crowd, baskets of flowers in hand; as they moved they made a point of distributing the blooms to the ladies with admiring comments on their beauty, costume, and grace.  To the men, they offered feminine flattery – always with the slightest of touches to a shoulder, an arm, a face – before dancing daintily away.  They were alluring and elusive, compelling and beguiling.  And they had the stink of Ishi’s magic on them as thick as their perfume.

Welcome to my trial, Pentandra said into my mind as I watched them move, mesmerized. They are all local girls – Wilderland refugees, for the most part – who Lady Pleasure recruited from the camps and the streets.  Some she put to work in her brothel, others she refined into real sharp pains in my ass.  Her ‘maidens’, as she calls them, are anything but.  They ply their charms among the court and entice even well-mannered ministers to do their bidding.  Organized gangs of cutthroats I can contend with, Min, but a goddess masquerading as a madam?  And making policy?  This is beyond me, she confessed.

I see what you mean, I agreed, still watching them move.  If any of them were over nineteen, they hid it well. Has she done anything damaging?

Apart from the court’s morale?  No, not quite.  But she has caused some serious problems for the domestic situations of a dozen officers and officials, and she’s working her way into the Ducal Council, now.  Thankfully the First Minister’s addiction is power and control, not sex.  The Duke, however . . .

He’s a young man, with a young man’s lusts, I supplied.  He’s enjoying his power and position.

And he’s had to thank Pleasure publicly for her assistance, she admitted, reluctantly.  He put forth an appeal for alms to build three new wells around the camps, to keep the people from having to walk more than two miles to the river.  She volunteered to donate an entire day’s worth of her house’s proceeds, and advertised it as a civic obligation.  She raised enough to dig five wells.

And that’s a problem? I asked, confused.

That’s not the problem, she said, sourly.  I’m the last one to decry a woman’s right and choice to do what she will with her body – but the ramifications of those dalliances are far-reaching.  When ministers come to council too besotted by a nubile beauty to report or consider, or end up in a duel over one, or fights with his wife because his attentions are elsewhere, it starts to affect business.

And you’ve tried speaking to her?

Oh, yes, Penny said, her mental voice lowering.  That’s when she dropped your name.  And hints about her real identity I picked up on.

What did she say?

She told me things only the goddess would know, she answered, stiffly.  Things that are none of your concern.

Sorry!  Just curious.  Who else knows?

Just Arborn.  I had to tell someone, and I had to make him aware of the danger.  He’s counseled his men to avoid the house.  And he’s agreed to wear charms that make him resistant to them, himself.

Penny! You don’t think Arborn would—

I’m a smart enough wife not to take chances, when a goddess is involved, she said, frankly.  Particularly that goddess.  I knew her by reputation before, and now I’ve met her in person.

I would have thought you two would get along famously, I remarked.

You really don’t know much about women, do you? she accused.  Min, she’s the embodiment of female sexuality.  And that’s the one thing that women use as both a measure and a method of attack with each other.  The problem is, thanks to her divine character, regular social rules don’t apply.  I can’t very well start rumors about her, if she embraces them.  I can’t ostracize her from society, because she can retaliate through her maidens by seducing my supporters.  And I can’t challenge her publically, because I would lose, right now, and she would conquer.  I can’t let that happen.

So what can you do? I asked, genuinely curious.  I wasn’t unaware of the complex social life that women had independent of men, but it was a confusing and perplexing thing for a man to contemplate.

I can call for my good friend Minalan, who apparently unleashed this nightmare on me, right after he convinced me to quit my cushy job and go off into the Wilderlands to rescue a doomed duchy.  I’m certain he’ll know just what to say to her to get her to back off.

I paused.  You certainly have a lot of confidence in me, I observed.

So justify it, she demanded.  If you have leverage with her, use it.  She’s becoming a nuisance and obscuring our goal to restore and eventually unify the duchy.

I’m just glad we got most of the kids out of here, before she arrived.

She hasn’t indulged in that level of vice yet, she answered.  But the longer she goes, the more depraved things get at her bordello.  Not everyone has Arborn’s moral strength to resist their darker urges.

No one has Arborn’s moral strength, I agreed.  All right.  I’ll speak to her.  Not that I think I can actually do anything, but I’ll try.  Just as soon as she’s done . . . enticing everyone.

While we had been chatting and watching, Lady Pleasure had gone to the center of the hall and her maidens formed up around her, before beginning a wonderfully choreographed dance that managed to tastefully display their charms to all without crossing the line into impropriety – according to the men in the room.  The ladies were of varied opinions.

Lady Pleasure finished her performance by having her flowered minions pull the fox-faced duke into the mix and having her girls fawn all over him.  There ensued an amusing game in which he struggled to “catch” one of them, while they all eluded him with giggles and squeals of pleasure.  It was all very innocent and highly erotic at once, an enchanting and entertaining impromptu performance that demonstrated the young man’s vitality and vigor to all.

Damn Ishi.  That really did help establish Anguin as a man to be respected among the lusty Wilderlords.

But I could see Pentandra’s point, too.  The faces of the women in the crowd were a mixture of delight, anxiety, envy and contemplation – but none were unaffected.  Most of them were in middle-age, officers of court or wives of ministers.  Such a flaunting of youthful exuberance, beauty, and near-naked sexuality was painfully hard to bear for those who had struggled so mightily to recapture it themselves with cosmetics.  There were looks of envy and wistful regret on just about every unmasked woman’s face.

Except for Alya.  The young pretty dancers passed before her eyes with her barely noticing.  Penny was right.  She was bewitched.

At the conclusion of the dance, the maidens replaced Anguin on his throne, kissed his furry face affectionately, and then re-formed in front of him to deliver a curtsey in perfect unison while the crowd applauded wildly.

“Thus shall even the wildflowers of the Wilderlands’ fields offer their fealty to the Fox Duke,” announced Lady Pleasure, formally.  “Let us all support him as much as he works at the challenge of bringing our flaccid realm back to its full and potent form!”

It was a popular display, even among the ladies who were nearly sick with envy.  No one in court could argue the duke’s willingness to do so, but the pledge of support, even by pretty prostitutes, confirmed that he had the strength to do so.

After the performance the girls continued to mingle, outshining the other women in the room without openly antagonizing them.  Ishi herself mingled, speaking quietly with the Duke as he sat on his throne.  I was tempted to employ Long Ears to overhear them, but I wasn’t dealing with just any court ingénue; Ishi would sense such an intrusion immediately, and find a way to turn it to her advantage.

So I ignored her.

That was hard to do, but I casually made the rounds of the room myself, ensuring I was always on the other side of the crowd from her.  It didn’t take long for her to find me.  Nothing grabs a woman’s attention like avoiding her.

Pentandra helpfully led Alya over to some of her fellow baronesses who had come to court to introduce her to her fellow peers, allowing me a few moments to speak to Ishi with some privacy.  Once I found a small alcove near the end of the hall, and encamped there with a deep glass of wine, she appeared as if I had summoned her.

“Playing hard-to-get, Spellmonger?” she asked, gaily.

“I’m impossible-to-get,” I informed her.  “Nice outfit.”

“This old thing?” she asked, picking at her stunning gown.  “I had the girls throw it together.  Very last-minute.  But thank you,” she said, graciously.

“I meant the avatar,” I pointed out, nodding toward her most prominent characteristics.  “A local priestess of yours?”

“She’s a lay devotee – with an emphasis on the ‘lay’,” she giggled, as she slid into the alcove beside me.  The hall had been built with several of them, some opening into small chambers, to facilitate private discussions of policy.  And seduction, I reflected, belatedly.

It’s hard for a man to ignore his attraction to a woman when he’s in such an intimate and confined space.  Her scent filled the air and intoxicated my spirit.  My heart rate changed, as did my breathing.  There were stirrings in the southlands I could do nothing about.

But I held firm.  So to speak.

“She’s quite attractive,” I agreed, as objectively as possible, “for her age,” I added.

“She is,” Ishi assured me.  “And enthusiastic.  That’s what counts.  As there is no real temple to me here, she was the best choice for me to accomplish my aims.”

“And just what are those aims?” I asked.

“Why, to spread the joy and solace of romance and love to those most desperately in need of it!” she said, as if invoking holy rite.  Which, technically, she was.  “I told you, Min, I’m here to help.  In my own special way.”

“Your way is making a whole lot of people nervous,” I pointed out.  “People who can’t afford to be nervous.”

“The stress and anxiety of power are always a problem,” she nodded, looking out of the alcove at the court.  “That’s why I’m here, to help provide comfort and support.”

“And marital disputes.  And distraction.”

“An unfortunate side effect,” she acknowledged.  “But it hardly detracts from all the good I’m doing!”

“When people can’t do their jobs because they’re obsessed with their personal lives, it’s a problem,” I said, as forcefully as possible.  “Believe me, I know.”

“Aw! Is poor Minalan getting all worked up over his half-mad mistress?” she teased, wiggling her bosom attractively.

That was enough.  I got pissed off with a goddess, who was doing her best to push her boobs in my face. I grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her to face me.

“My entire life is threatened because of her,” I growled.  “She’s conspiring to do . . . something, I’m not certain what her motives are, just yet.  But you bringing it up and rubbing my nose in it isn’t improving my disposition toward you!”

“You’ve already given me what I want,” she countered, running a finger down my arm.

“And I can take it away again,” I countered, smoothly.  Her finger stopped.  “Did you think I would cast a spell I could not counter?” I continued, quietly.

“Like making snowstone?” she riposted.

“That was an accident.  Granting you continuity was not.  Did you think I would not have a means to take away what I have given you?  I do have the recourse of stripping that from you, if you don’t behave!”

“Oh, I like it when you get all commanding!” she cooed.  But she wasn’t quite as confident.  I had to end this.

“Stop it!” I demanded.  “I am serious.  I swear by Ishi’s sacred tits, which are staring me in the face, I will return you to your ephemeral state, and you can go back to being a goddess-of-the-moment again.”

I guess she finally realized I was serious.  “You wouldn’t!”

“I certainly would,” I said, evenly.  “I wasn’t thrilled to be tampering with the natural order, but as I have, I’m willing to correct that mistake.  You are not so vital to our efforts that we need you sticking around all the time.”

“You really are serious,” she said, a bit cowed, after studying my expression.  “You really would take that from me? After all the pleasure I’ve sent your way over the years?  Including recently?” she added, not being able to resist the dig.

“If necessary,” I agreed.  “Don’t make me take that step.”

Her pretty shoulders sagged.  “What do you want me to do?” she asked, simply.

“I want you to support Pentandra,” I instructed her.  “Your power and majesty are not in doubt, but she’s trying to put a whole society back in order.”

“And I’m helping with that!  Don’t you realize that romantic relationships and sex are the basis for all higher social interaction?”

“I think you’ve taken it beyond the ‘get to know you’ stage,” I said, dryly, as I watched one of her floral maidens give a young knight a sudden and passionate kiss in front of the entire hall. “Social support is one thing.  When you start playing politics, you cross a line.”

“And you think you’re in a position of authority to dictate where that line lies, mortal?” she asked, her voice turning cold.

I’ll admit, Ishi is an intimidating woman; she’s THE Intimidating Woman, for she is the most extreme example of all women.  Her beauty, her presence, her voice, her bountiful sexuality, her charisma all conspired to make her the most beautiful and socially charismatic woman in the room by default.

But there is a sense of familiarity that makes one regard such intimacies with more perspective.  As impressive as she was, I was wary of her, so that her beauty served more as warning than a lure.  That allowed me the space to keep her divine charms at arm’s length, though I was undeniably affected by them.

“Yes,” I said, hoarsely.  “I am the mage who stands between the gods and men.”

“That’s what the clergy are for!” she said, scornfully.

“I’m a more disinterested party,” I pointed out.  “Think of it as oversight, to keep you honest.  I understand that there is a role for the gods – some of the gods – in the permanent order of things.  But the gods are not to be trusted to act with human restraint.  Until experience brings you the wisdom to order yourselves, it shall be my job to determine where the lines are.  I’m warning you now that you are standing on one”

“So who made you in authority over such things?

“I did.  But I am not unwilling to negotiate.  Withdraw your efforts to influence the court, agree to work in concert with Pentandra and me to restore the duchy, and I’ll . . . I’ll . . . build you a temple here in Vorone,” I sighed.

“Me?  You’d build a temple for me?  In this stunning metropolis?” she asked, mockingly.  Even her haughtiness made me horny.

“Where else would you have the freedom to work without too much interference?”

“Any damn place I please!” she said, sharply.  “Do you not understand?  I am the goddess of Love, Minalan!  I take what freedom I want, and when I hit an obstacle I find a way around it to get what I want!”  She moved in closer, until I could smell her sweat over her perfume.

I stared back at her as sternly as I could manage.  “If you want to stay continuous in your incarnation, then I’d advise you to take a more moderate approach.”

“Do you realize what you are daring to do, mortal?”

“I’m threatening to metaphorically spank you like a metaphorical naughty little girl, if you can’t manage to keep your metaphorical skirts down,” I said, warningly.  I don’t know how I did it.  She was extremely intimidating.

But it worked.  She glared at me potently, until she realized that I would not relent.  So she tacked against the winds and changed course.  She submitted . . . nominally. She even cast her eyes down, and her shoulders sagged.  But it could all have been an act.  You never know, with Ishi.

“I’m sorry, Minalan,” she said, a note of compelling apology in her voice that made me want to dismiss the entire episode.  “I was really just trying to help.  I thought that maybe if the Duke was seen as a wild young buck it would help him gain the respect of his high nobles.”

“And I’m not saying it didn’t,” I agreed.  “A certain amount of public virility is a good thing, in a Duke.  And it seems to have done his confidence good,” I nodded, as I watched the young noble strut across the hall, a maiden on each arm, his mask pushed high over his forehead.  “But preying on his ministers and officials is off-limits for your girls, agreed?”

“But they get so lonely!” she cooed.

“That’s because they are good at what they do,” I countered.  “They need to be lonely.  They have a job to do, a vocation to the duchy that is vital and necessary.”

“I take it that includes the clergy, too?” she asked, hesitantly.

“Of course!” I snorted.  Many orders had strict vows of celibacy.  Not Ishi’s priestesses, of course, but many.  Others were more lax, permitting sexual congress but prohibiting marriage, or allowing marriage but only to other clergy in the order.  But in general you didn’t think of the Landbrothers going out and seeking female companionship as they did their rites.  “They are essential to the functioning of the realm.  Disturbing their vocations is harmful, can’t you see that?  Not to mention entangling with the prerogatives of other divinities?”

“You are just taking the fun out of this for everyone!” she exclaimed, annoyed.  “But I promise not to single out the clergy and the ministers.”

“Or the high nobles,” I added.  “Barons and above.  Those houses are the backbone of the duchy, and that back is broken, right now.  The last thing they need is marital difficulties because Baron Brokenlance suddenly discovers his rusty old sword fits better in a new, pretty scabbard.”

“They bore me, anyway,” she shrugged.  “Although some of them have imagination. Considering the skill of their wives, it is one born out of desperation, but . . .”

“Leave them alone,” I directed.  “We need the noble families intact.  If you want to help, there are a lot of widows and landless lords around – play matchmaker.  Invigorate those boring old baronial unions, don’t challenge them.  See if you cannot use your art to bring stability to the realm, not chaos.”

“But love is the most beautiful chaos!” she pouted.

“Politics is not informed by beauty or elegance,” I countered, calmly.  “Quite the contrary, it’s a matter of pragmatism and compromise, two things Love despises.  But if sex is the foundation of society, as you claim, then see it used in the service of that society.  Encourage the people to be fruitful, not riotous.”

“I can . . . I can encourage the desire and the opportunity without directly intervening,” she conceded, with a sigh that threatened to undo my resolve.  “I suppose you are right.  Things were too fun to be productive, I guess.”

I took a swallow of wine, and regarded the goddess.  “There is more to life than fun.  We are in the midst of a dangerous game, you and me.  And the others.  Among mortals, very few know of our interactions.  Pentandra is one.  Work with her,” I stressed.  “Not against her.”

“She nearly became my avatar herself, were it not for her protections,” admitted Ishi.  “She held such promise . . . but marriage is utterly ruining her.”

“Maturing her, I’d say,” I offered.

“Regardless, she could have been my champion, not my opponent.  Your own marriage has not reduced your desire,” she pointed out, “even within its bounds.”

“Penny’s desire is fine,” I defended.  “She’s just getting used to a new job.  With great challenges,” I said, pointedly.  “My own marriage is . . .”

“I know,” she answered, quietly.  “I hear all that is said as an act of love or pleasure.  I witnessed the whole delightfully sordid affair.  I’d say I was proud of you, if I didn’t know how you would choose to take it.”

“It’s not something I’m proud of,” I sulked.

“Which is why I was proud for you,” she emphasized.  “It wasn’t easy to do that, Min, I know.  Many a woman has had to swallow her pride and conquer her fear and bed her rapist, for lack of an alternative.  Occasionally men must do the same.  In your case, it’s not merely an issue of opportunity . . . Isily truly has feelings for you.”

I paled at that notice.  “I know.  She’s expressed them.”

“Oh, not the ones in her secret heart – those would turn your blood cold,” she smiled.  “She’s ambitious beyond reason.  Queen would not be an adequate title for her.  She dreams of killing Dunselen, killing Alya, killing the Royal Family, and putting you on the throne as Archmage.”

That was incredibly disturbing news.  But it did explain her motives.  “She’s continued to meddle with me, too.  She cast a charm on Alya, similar to the one she cast on me. Pscyhomancy.”

“Oh, consider it gone,” the goddess said, dismissively.  “Those spells are so quaint.  She wishes to use your wife, until she can dispose of her.  Well, I do applaud ambition, but this crosses some of my lines.  The next time you lay with her, the charm will evaporate . . . as long as you do your husbandly chore properly.”

“I know what I’m doing, I assure you!” I said, far more defensively than I desired.

“Believe me, I of all deities know.  I look forward to testing that proposition,” she smiled, sultrily.  “You know you and I still have business.”

I groaned inside my head.  “When things are stabilized here, then we will discuss our business.  But not until.  There is a conspiracy against me I have to sort out.”

“More than one,” she agreed.  “But Isily’s is by far the most dangerous and unpredictable.  She dallies with forces she does not understand, and does not appreciate.”

“Snowstone?  Irionite?”

“Fatherhood,” she said, shaking her head.  “Her own sire was a meek man, rarely present in her life.  When she became Talented he sent her away.  She does not appreciate just how passionate you are about your children.  And how much you love your wife.  That, I believe, will be her undoing.”

“That would be lovely.  Just how many of these maidens do you have?” I asked, changing the subject.  Every woman loves to talk about her work.

“I recruited just over a hundred from the camps, once I took this avatar,” she said, proudly.  “More than half were virgins.  All were comely, but not all were talented enough to learn the highest of my arts.”

“They seem pretty enough,” I ventured.

“These are the ones who made the grade,” she nodded, proudly.  “Strong, proud, feminine women, intelligent enough to use their minds and their bodies in concert.  Some have become quite adept at the erotic arts.  The rest are useful in their own ways.”

“And you take care of them all?”

“The House does,” she nodded.  “Every girl is under contract and well-provided for.  We even hold classes in music, dance, and reading,” she added.  “Two of the girls have married already, but we’re just getting started . . .”

“Most of them have aspirations of that?”

“Youth and beauty only last so long, for mortal women,” she said, quietly.  “Some of them may take holy orders, but most seek a good match with an artisan.  Or even a lord.”

“How about a warrior?” I asked, suddenly realizing how Anguin could entice the 3rd Commando to Vorone.

*

*

Once I got Ishi calmed down and willing to contribute in a more positive way, I again sought out the Duke.  I found him on a balcony outside, enjoying the night air.  Once he peeled the maiden off his lap and sent her for wine, I sat next to him and start talking business.

“Thank you again for coming, Minalan,” he said, seriously, after the girl had left.  “But I know you didn’t come here just to escape the boredom of your lands.”

“My lands are actually quite interesting, at the moment.  But no, I didn’t.  I came to discuss an idea I had last summer.”

“And what idea is this?” he asked, almost reluctantly.

“You understand that Vorone is poorly defended by men who are not quite professional?”

Anguin scowled.  “It has been brought up once or twice in court,” he agreed.

“Well, the next time the Dead God breaks the treaty and rolls out of the Penumbra, after Tudry and Megelin, where do you think it is likely that he’ll strike?”

“Vorone,” agreed the duke, miserably.  “He’ll come right for us, before he moves south into the Riverlands.”

“Indeed,” I nodded, lighting my pipe.  “Unless he has a more dangerous target to go after.”

“More dangerous?  Like what?” he asked, intrigued.

“During our journey across the Wilderlands last summer, Magelord Carmella and I discussed the possibility of raising a great fortress in the west, before the Pearwoods, to act as such a lure.  He could not strike Vorone without exposing himself to the new fortress.  And he could not attack the new fortress without exposing his back to Vorone and Tudry.”

Anguin looked thoughtful.  “Castles are expensive,” he began.

“Don’t I know it. I’m building a massive one, and I built six small ones last year,” I reminded him.  “This one would be very expensive.  But,” I added, “by employing magi and using construction enchantments, you can keep the costs down.  Further, it would provide jobs for thousands, for years.”

“Jobs I would have to pay for,” he countered.

“The Duchy would,” I agreed.  “What are your revenues, now?”

“Anemic,” he sighed.  “A tithe of what my father received, even amongst the Wilderlords.  So far, barely a few thousand gold.  But it is improving, as our influence grows,” he added.  “But not nearly enough to pay for a new castle.  It’s not even enough to cover our present expenses.”

“True.  But as your realm develops – particularly if you can control it with a strong military presence – then you will be able to increase taxes, fees, and tribute.”

“But for how long, before the Goblin King strikes?”

“The more you build, the more he will have to strike at – and the more men you will have to defend it.  What would happen, Your Grace, if he went against Tudry and Megelin?  And the valley fiefs on the edge of the Penumbra?  Where would those people flee?”

“Here,” he groaned.

“Yes, here – Vorone, which is poorly defended, overcrowded, and with few resources.  A flood of them, doubling your refugee population . . . and making it quite easy for the gurvani to surround the town and reduce it at their leisure.”

“A quick end to the short reign of Anguin II,” he sighed.  “That is not the legacy I wish to leave.”

“Nor should it be.  But if we invest in this new fortress, make it a focus of their efforts, then we can also quietly improve Vorone’s defenses, remove some of the surplus labor back to the countryside, establish some industry and some farmsteads . . . and give the folk of Tudry and the Penumbralands a place to flee to in refuge.  That isn’t your palace,” I emphasized.

“Still, how to pay for it?” he repeated, frustrated.  “Can you continue to conjure gold?”

“No, not indefinitely.  But I can pledge some funds to start the project, if you will match them.  If,” I added, “you can commit to employing magi in the project.  And commit to staff it with professional soldiers.”

“What kind of cost would such a structure entail?”

“At least fifty thousand ounces of gold.  And take at least ten years to complete, even with magic.  If we do it correctly.”

“Ten years?  And fifty thousand ounces of gold?” he asked, aghast.  “For a castle in the wilderness built against a day that may never come?”

“It will come, Your Grace,” I assured him, calmly.  “It’s inevitable.  It will likely come before the castle is finished, but that will be doubly true if it is never started.  And there are other benefits,” I added.  “Political benefits.”

He stared at me.  “Go on,” he encouraged.

“Right now you are either viewed as Rard’s puppet, as the rebels see you, or as a brash young fool, as many of your high nobles undoubtedly see you.”

“Your candor is refreshing,” he said, sarcastically.

“I do you no favors by telling you lies,” I chuckled.  “That is the situation, and flattering your vanity will not change it.  But if you were to embark on an ambitious project, such as this fortress, none could say that you were prepared to abandon the north nor that you are Rard’s toy.  Such a fortress has never been built in the Wilderlands, by your sires or Rard’s.”

“True,” he considered.

“Further, such a fortress, staffed with doughty men and warmagi, would present an inherent threat to Castal,” I offered with a smile.  “A direct challenge to Castal’s domination of the Wilderlands.  Something to make Prince Tavard – and perhaps eventually King Tavard – respect the might of Alshar as a power, again.”

“And where would I get these warriors?  The 3rd Commando?”

“They would be a good start,” I agreed.  “Professional soldiers who dislike Rard, can’t join the rebels, and who need a home.  Offer them lands around this fortress in exchange for their service.  Bring them here, first, for training and to make them loyal to you.  Then cycle them through the land, to the castle and back.  If Rard can employ a Royal Guard, you can employ a professional army for your defense.”

“That has happened before,” he pointed out.  “History has rarely seen such experiments turn out well.  It often leads to tyrants.  And rebellions.”

“Agreed.  So we will handle this delicately.  Divide them into smaller units, emphasize their training of your folk, and make joining their corps a point of national service.”

“Those are all the sorts of ideas only a duke in the fullness of his power could employ,” he sighed.

“So we put you there – slowly.  Carefully.  Quietly.”

“And you really think these commandos will come to Alshar, if I simply invite them properly?  And pay them a pittance?  And promise them lands?”

“I think I’ve thought of a way you can entice them further,” I smiled.  “Let me tell you of the conversation I had this evening with Lady Pleasure . . .”

Chapter Twenty Seven

Ishi’s Dubious Blessing

We returned to Alshar late that night, after conferring into the wee hours with Penny and Arborn back in their apartment.  She was relieved I had extracted some concessions from our wayward goddess, and I told her to contact me if she had any more trouble.  I explained to her that I had promised to remove her continuity, if she dared disturb our efforts again.  Pentandra was impressed that I had developed that power.

Of course, as we were transporting back home, I was furiously trying to imagine how to develop that power.

But once we were back in our hall, in the privacy of our chamber, Alya yawned and wordlessly undressed, brushed her hair, and prepared to retire.  I did likewise, staring at her brushing her hair, looking off into space.

She was beautiful.  Still.  After two children and years of hard country life, she was still more beautiful in my eyes than Ishi.  That was a highly subjective opinion, but it was a highly informed one, too.  It angered me that Isily would dare interfere with my wife – angered me more than the offense she had committed with me.  Combined with her stealing from me a child without my consent, it made me want to commit a sin.

But as I gazed upon my wife all thought of Isily left me.  Alya was who I had chosen, who I had devoted myself to, regardless of my past.  Of all the women in the world I had met in my life, she had warmed my soul and inspired my imagination more than even the goddess of love and beauty.

One might see it as a mark of maturity, I suppose, or a consequence of long attachment.  The clergy would tell you that the holy sacrament of parenthood bound our souls together . . . but it was more than that, as powerful as those forces were.  My love for her transcended our parenthood.  Even our marriage.  She had been with me in my darkest hours, when I was certain I would be responsible for the deaths of thousands – including my own.  She had never lost faith in me.  Even when Pentandra had shown up into our lives, unannounced.

As I watched her and tried to imagine how my life would be without her, I felt a force come over me.  A certain power seemed to seep from the center of my soul, outward to my extremities, energizing and invigorating me.  I recognized the special tingle of divine magic. I stood, for a moment, and just stood in the dim light, watching, mesmerized by her femininity.

It was power – magical power, but of a different tone than pure thaumaturgy.  It was wild and exuberant, but not undirected.  It filled me and flowed through me, but it didn’t jar the way regular arcane power did.  Divine magic, I realized.  Ishi’s spell was upon me.

I went behind Alya and took the brush from her, finishing the task with a sensuality that transcended my usual efforts.  As my hands touched her hair and her shoulders, she shivered.  I could feel her vibrate with the power, too.

I leaned down and kissed the top of her head.  She tilted her head up for an upside-down kiss.

“I love you,” I said, half plea, half invocation.

“I adore you,” she replied, her eyes seeming to see for the first time in days.  I pulled the folds of her nightmantle over her shoulders, exposing her shift.  A few laces later, it, too, fell from her shoulders.

“Come to bed, my wife,” I said, pulling her up.

“I would like nothing better, my husband,” she assured me, with a loving smile.  We tarried for a kiss.

By the time we arrived in our magnificent bed, I could think no coherent thought as the tide of intimate emotion overwhelmed me, and passion took control of my limbs.

All was Alya.  All was love.

*

*

We awoke the next morning to the terrified squeals of our oldest child, who ran in to waken us for breakfast and found his parents naked, sound asleep . . . and wearing mountain lion masks.

I won’t go into the details of just how we handled it.  Call it Ishi’s revenge.  The bitch.

After we got Minalyan calmed down and properly distracted (I was considering a spell), the hilarity of the situation descended upon us, and we broke down in hysterical laughter that seemed to shake the last of our problems from us.  Our intimacy and trust seemed restored.  I felt as close to her as I’d ever had.  Despite the awkward, fantastic, and only remotely plausible-to-a-four-year-old explanation we gave Minalyan, our collective guilt at being so discovered bound us together.

I was whistling and happy as I headed across the yard to the Great Hall to meet with Sir Festaran to go over the morning’s business at breakfast.  I’d left Alya soaking in a hot tub, the children eating porridge with their nurse, and all felt right with the world.

That’s when I started noticing it.  The stares.

Not at me – everyone seemed to be staring at each other.  That is, folk who had seen each other daily for years in the course of their work and not spared each other more than a glance and nod, according to rank, seemed suddenly fascinated by the smallest glimpse of others . . . particularly others of the opposite sex.

The squires in the yard on their way down to the listfield to practice tilting for the day were struck dumb by the sight of a pair of maids lugging laundry down to the well.  The maids weren’t particularly comely, but the boys seemed struck by their every movement.  The maids, for their part, seemed infected by giggles to a dramatic extent.  I would be surprised if any laundry actually was completed today.  Or much jousting.

The Great Hall was worse.  As the night watch came in for a bite before they hit their billet, and the day shift of guards and officials mingled with servants, every man’s eye seemed peeled for every woman.  Even the older and well-married wives attracted attention.  And they gave as good as they got, gossiping like schoolgirls in the corner over the sight of a young guard stripping off his mailshirt.

The powerful energy of lust hung like a cloud over Sevendor Castle.

“Oh, holy shit!” I said, aloud, as I realized what had happened.  On purpose or by accident, Ishi’s curative blessing had leaked all over Sevendor.

I should have expected something like that, I realized.  Had I consummated the spell in Alshar, likely the effect would have been lessened – or perhaps not, in proximity to the goddess, I had no real idea.

But here in Sevendor the power of the snowstone was lowering the etheric density everywhere.  We were sleeping over it – within it, if you wanted to be technical.  Snowstone reduces arcane resistance to almost nothing.  Resistance to all magic . . . including divine magic.  That’s why Briga was able to initiate and sustain the Everfire, because of the power of the mountain.

Ishi’s spell must have magnified her power, likewise.  I wasn’t certain of the extent, yet, but at breakfast I could look around and realized nearly everyone seemed incredibly distracted.  Even Sir Festaran.

“Good morning, Excellency,” he said, automatically rising as I approached the table.  His eyes flickered on me, then on a pretty drudge who was raking through the rushes for refuse.

“Good morning, Sir Festaran.  Is . . . is there something amiss with that maid?”

“Pardon?” he asked, abruptly looking back at me.  “No, Excellency!  I just . . . I didn’t sleep well, last night,” he confessed.  “I was possessed of troubled dreams.  So this morning I awoke and sought clarity in morning services.  I came down to the chapel before dawn for lauds and to pray . . . and found myself alone with Sister Bemia in the chapel.”

“I do hope she offered some spiritual comfort,” I said, innocently.  I watched his expression change, his freckles turning red with his blush.

“She did,” he said, hurriedly.  “I, uh, she told me to follow my heart, or something to that effect.  But enough about my dreams, Excellency – how did last night’s ball go?” he asked, suddenly squirming.

“Splendidly,” I sighed.  “The Orphan Duke is firmly on his throne, and I put forth certain proposals he was favorably disposed to.  It was an enchanting evening, all around.  Now, to business.”

“To business,” he repeated, pulling his portfolio of parchment to him as his eye caught sight of another woman across the hall.  “I, uh, this morning we received word from Lord Lorcus that he and his men have secured all three southern castles and have begun preparations to take Rolone Castle.”

“When?” I asked, surprised.

“Later today,” he said, though it was clear he was doubtful of Lorcus’ plans.  “He reports that two small squadrons of Roloni have been captured and held, and that he has started certain rumors that have filtered into the city.  He says he will begin his operation near midnight, tonight, and invites you cordially to visit him tomorrow, to enjoy the consummation of his plans and the fall of the domain of Rolone.”

“I’ll work it into my schedule,” I nodded.

“Really, Excellency?  You think he can take the great keep of Rolone?  The castle has its own well, deep and fresh, and great storerooms.  How can so few dare to strike against such a great keep?”

“A month ago I would have wagered against him taking three castles in a single day, but I saw him do it,” I pointed out.  “He is a man of rare talents.  And unquestionable loyalty.”

“He’s mad,” Sir Festaran suggested.

“I never said he wasn’t.  But he’s useful.  More useful than I’d imagined.  What next?”

“Master Andalnam wishes an audience, to discuss certain issues of enchantment, and the Manufactory.  As does Mistress Rael.  I believe the two discussions may be related.”

“I have no doubt,” I sighed.  “Anyone else?”

“Oh, my, yes.  Banamor and Dranus both want a word.  Sir Forondo wants leave to loan twenty more Bovali archers to Amel Wood for the duration of the conflict – all volunteers, and at his expense.  The Karshak wish to speak to you – specifically Master Azhguri, but he was here with Master Onranion, so there’s no telling what that was about.  And the reeve of Gurisham wants leave for the village to start gardening the six rods of cleared land left from the road clearing, adjacent to their village.  They need the space, Sire,” he added, sympathetically.

“They do.  That’s the easy one.  Grant it, and add the rents to the commune’s fees, not their tribute.  I might want to use it for something later.  As for the others, uh, yes to the troops, as loan, and on the condition that they bear Amel Wood’s device as soon as they leave our frontier.  Lorcus will need the reinforcements.

“As for the domestic business, I’ll deal with Dranus first, then the Alon, and then Banamor.  And hopefully I can get it all done before luncheon,” I added, as a maid came with a bowl of porridge and a trencher of bacon and eggs.  “I’d like to get back to work, eventually.  Politics takes too much effort.”  I drew my dagger and started with the bacon.  I was hungry.

“There is one other thing, Sire,” the young knight said, nervously.  “Lady Dara reports that Frightful’s eggs are near hatching, as are the giant hawks in the ridges.  She is nervous but hopeful, Sire.  She has kept to the mews for days, using her other birds to spy on the wild hawks from afar.”

“She must be exhausted.  Why don’t you ride out there this afternoon and make sure she’s taking care of herself.”

“Me, Sire?  To the Mews?”

“She is one of the domain’s leading noblewomen,” I reasoned.  “And she’s involved in a project vital to the defense of the kingdom.  Not to mention the fact that her Alka Alon friends have abandoned her, for the moment,” I added, not mentioning that a moment for an Alkan could be a few years for a human.  “She needs our support.  Ensure she lacks for nothing she needs, and report how she fares.  If I need to go out there myself, then I will . . . but I think that would make her more nervous than anything else.”

“As you wish, Sire,” Festaran said, his eyes suddenly wide with fear.

“Let me go speak to Dranus, and then the others, and we’ll speak later,” I promised.

Dranus, where are you? I asked, mind-to-mind, as the assistant castellan shuffled away, filing through his notes until another girlish giggle attracted his attention.

In your study, Excellency, awaiting your convenience.

I passed two young people – a lad from the stables and one of the fosterling girls – cuddling in the stairwell, and I had to run them off.  Dranus was waiting for me in the small room at the base of my tower that used to be my bedchamber.

“Thank you for your time, Excellency,” he said with a short bow.  “I will be brief.  I believe that Sevendor is currently under some sort of magical attack, one which affects the desires of our folk.”

I groaned audibly, and flopped onto my chair.  “It’s not an attack, it’s an effect.  From a spell.”

He raised his eyebrows.  “One of yours, Magelord?”

“Not as such,” I sighed.  “It was divine magic.  It wasn’t intended to spread – I think – but . . . it was necessary.”

“Necessary, Sire?”

“This is one of those rare times I’m going to ask you to trust me without explanation,” I explained.  Or didn’t.  “When magic involves both your personal life and state security, things can get complicated.  I had to beg assistance from some . . . alternate sources to contend with a difficult situation.  It worked, I believe, but this, alas, seems to be the unintended consequence.”

“Ah.  I see.  I think.  Just how long shall we expect this episode to last?”

“I truly have no idea.  I would hope just a day or so.  Any longer than that, and I’ll have to do something.”

“You don’t wish to do something now, Sire?”

“From what I understand, this level of magic flows along natural lines.  It will wane, in time.  I hope.”

“Your sense of adventure has always fascinated me, Sire,” he said, dryly.

I chuckled.  “What is the matter, Dranus? Are there no ladies you have an interest in?”

“I am as much a man as any,” he said, gruffly.  “In truth, my heart belongs to a lady in Remere I knew from my youth.  But I have taken pleasure, when I have found it,” he admitted.

“Perhaps you should consider some sort of energetic entertainment tonight, to try to reduce the pressure.”

“Are you sure that’s advisable, Excellency?”

“Possibly not,” I considered.  “But if you try to repress this kind of energy, it can manifest in other ways.  Unpleasant ways.  Or so suggests my resident expert on sex magic.  I’d advise anyone who is worried about self-control to take a few days in Brestal.  Or beyond.”

“I shall make some inquiries, Sire.  Any other advice?”

“Wear something that makes your shoulders look big.  Women like that.”

*

*

The two old Alon geezers, Azhguri and Onranion, had formed an unlikely friendship in their study of the snowstone phenomenon.  Both masters at very different arcane specialties, our collaborations had been fruitful, as we hacked away at the thaumaturgy of the stuff.

But today they wanted to discuss the Snowflake, not snowstone.

“We’ve been thinking, Min,” Onranion said, putting his feet up on the battered table the two had appropriated from somewhere.  While each had their own workshops, they had taken over the incomplete storeroom on the fourth floor of the new gatehouse until it was finished.  It was a good neutral ground for their discussions, when it was too early in the day to adjourn to the club in the outer bailey.  “We have both assayed the Snowflake without success, from our diverse disciplines, and know you have met with similar frustration using your simple Imperial magic.”  He just couldn’t resist.  It was part of his charm to be casually insulting.

“That’s a fair assessment,” I agreed.  “I did pass along the hint that I got, to go through the center.  Did that bear any fruit?”

“Yes and no,” grunted Azhguri, flopped on a bag of mortar, smoking his more intricate pipe.  He was an avid smoker and had a collection of them.  “We both changed our approach, and was able to make some progress thereby, but the ultimate result was the same.  However,” he continued, with a smile of triumph, “while trying to sing the thing, yet again, I realized something: the center portion of the damn thing is actually separate from the rest of the structure, for just the briefest of moments.”

“We’ve established that,” I nodded.

“But what we didn’t notice is that the effect producing a kind of arcane sheering effect, for the briefest of moments, around the entire crystal, like a flash of lightning.  I never would have noticed it, myself.  Too focused on the song and the stone.  But this ugly scarecrow happened to be watching the entire matrix while I was singing, and when that flash happened he noticed the effect.”

“A sheering effect,” I said, thinking hard about that.  “What exactly does that mean?”

“It means that the center is briefly unstable.  Oh, you still can’t move it – your Sire Cei could smack at it all day with his mighty hammer and get nothing but a sore shoulder, I’d think.  But when the sheering effect happens, the entire centerpoint goes slightly out of phase.”

“Enough to be subject to certain dimensional magics,” Azhguri nodded.

I stared at both of them.  “You mean I could put the Snowflake in a hoxter pocket?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” laughed Onranion.  “That is a molopor, my boy.  It’s unmovable by definition.  Quantumly locked to the planet’s magosphere.   But,” he continued, with a smile, “the centerpoint, during the sheering, is just a little quantumly . . . wobbly.”

“Wobbly?”

“Wobbly!” Azhguri proclaimed.  “Wobbly enough to become just unstable enough to slide into a hoxter pocket, under the proper conditions.”

“Like what?” I asked as I stroked my beard, intrigued.

“A huge amount of power, for one thing,” Onranion said.  “A really staggering amount of power, just to keep it there.”

“All right.  So we have a portable centerpoint—”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Azhguri interrupted.  “The centerpoint never actually leaves the center of the Snowflake.  Theoretically.”

“But you just said it was in a pocket,” I said, confused.

“It is.  But the pocket isn’t anywhere.  So when the center is pulled out of the pocket, it returns to the Snowflake.  Or re-appears at the snowflake.  Something like that.  We think.”

“So what do we do with it?” I asked, still confused.

“’What do we do with it’, he asks?” laughed Azhguri, choking smoke all over the room.

“My lad, a molopor is a powerful magical tool, if you know how to use it.  The problem with the damned things is that they’re always off in the middle of the wilderness, or in the sky, or at the bottom of the sea, or some other inconvenient place.  Usually the site of some horrific magical catastrophe of old, so local conditions can be challenging.  Having one whose powers you can access anywhere you happen to be would be . . . almost inconceivable.”

“You think we could do that?”

“It’s all theory, but we’ve been discussing it in detail,” Onranion assured me.  “We think it could happen, under the right conditions.  With the right combination of magic, luck, and skill.”

“Well, what kind of thing are we talking about here?” I insisted, a little frustrated.  “What the hells could it do?”

“You told us that the Snowflake was a fulcrum?  This is the part of the fulcrum in which you stick the lever.  What we’re telling you is how to build the lever,” Azhguri said, patronizingly.  “I think that big whopping crystal you have might serve as a physical anchor.  Embedded in a chunk of irionite, for instance, to sustain the power to keep it in place—”

“By my calculations, a volume of around half a kilogram would do it,” Onranion said, casually.  “With some songspells to bind it to the gem.”

“And then I’d sing the two in concert,” Azhguri finished, “and add some runes to help bind power flow.  Like building the banks of a stream up,” he said, saying the words slowly and clearly, as if I was an idiot.

“Once the power stream is established and maintained, the rest should be easy, theoretically.  The gem acts as a conduit, an interdimensional space that can filter the power of the centerpoint and into your, what do you call it?  Your thaumaturgic awareness,” he said, remembering the technical term.

“So I get lots and lots more power,” I sighed.  “I’ve already got plenty of magical power.  What can it do?”

“Theoretically?” the Alkan master mused.  “Anything that the Dead God could do, and perhaps more.  He has a simple molopor.  This is that . . . and more.  You wouldn’t even need as much power, to match him, as once the initial work was done, the construct would be self-sustaining . . . as long as there was a consciousness compelling it to be.  A heart, so to speak, to keep the magic pumping.”

“That’s where we are stuck,” Onranion admitted.  “And where your quaint little magical system comes into play.”

“And just how is that?”

“Well, the weakness of the proposal lies in the interface between the crystalline matrix’s intricate depths, and the mage’s mind.  Your bloody minds are just too . . . simple.  So are ours,” he added, before I could get offended.  “So we think you need some sort of paraclete.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” I nodded.

“The fact is, the mutable nature of the matrix requires a mind of such complexity that . . . well, I’m not certain it exists.”

“Well, not anymore, perhaps,” Onranion sighed, wistfully.  “Long before either of our peoples came to this world, there were the great intelligences of the deep.  Minds of such staggering complexity, legends say, that their awareness encompassed millions of creatures.”

“It would take something like that, I think,” nodded Azhguri, grimly.

“We don’t happen to have something like that laying around,” I said, suddenly discouraged.

“Don’t you?” asked Onranion, suddenly.  “I’ve seen the wonderful toys your people have made, bypassing your usual crude spells and using enneagrammatic magic.  You must be capturing them from somewhere.  Animal sacrifice?” he proposed, curious.

“No!  In fact, I have access to a node of Ghost Rock, known to my profession as the Grain of Pors.  It was discovered a few centuries ago north of the Kulines, in the wilderness, and used to retrieve enneagrams for use in his constructs.  After the Conquest, it got locked in a vault, until we retrieved it.  And started researching it.”

The Alon exchanged meaningful glances.

“We thought it might be something like that – although I was curious to see how you do an animal sacrifice.  No matter.  Ghost Rock?  Yes, that would be sufficient to give awareness to your toys.  But dangerous, Minalan.  You don’t realize how dangerous,” he warned.

“Aye,” sighed the old Karshak heavily.  “That stuff is trouble.  The legacy of times long past, when the sun was new and the mountains young.  Some not even formed yet.  Aye, we’ve come across such deposits before, and the wise avoid them.”

“Well, humans do have some facility with enneagrammatic magic, owing to their odd collective subconsciousness,” Onranion pointed out.  “Their awareness doesn’t bleed away so easily in the context of such endeavors.

“But that only mitigates the danger,” Azhguri said, shaking his head.  “The issue isn’t their capacity for madness – which is vast – but their foolishness in unleashing powers they don’t understand on the world!”

“Oh, posh!” Onranion dismissed with a wave of his long fingers.  “We do that sort of thing all the time, all of us.  Who was responsible for bringing dragons into this world, after all?”

“Yes, thanks for that!” the Karshak said, bitterly.  The Stone Folk and the Iron Folk had always been special targets of the beasts, in the Alka Alon legends.  “What the hell did my people ever do?”

“Unleash the Beldurrazeko on the world?” he asked, an eyebrow raised accusingly.

“Oh . . . that,” Azhguri said, suddenly looking away, guilty and ashamed.  “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“As did the dragons,” agreed the Alkan spellsinger.  “Both our races have learned a valuable lesson in humility, after indulging in tragic explorations that led to horrific catastrophe.  It’s high time humanity had its turn.”

“What exactly are you proposing?” I asked, still confused.  I had no idea what a Beldurrazeko even was.

“What he’s suggesting is that you find within your Ghost Rock some ancient horror who hasn’t seen the light of day for millions of years, pull its enneagram out, and slap it into the Snowflake,” explained Azhguri.  “Which is the most foolhardy and suicidal idea these ears have ever heard.”

“Yet it would nicely solve the thaumaturgical problem, if you could integrate the enneagram into the matrix and manage to keep it there.  That would take power, too . . . but once the centerpoint was captured, there would be no real issue, because the power is pouring through the centerpoint, which is, in fact, still at the center of the Snowflake.”

“You think that would be enough to keep the enneagram stable?” I asked, realizing that what he suggested was, indeed, thaumaturgically sound.

“It would if you used that other pretty rock on it,” agreed Azhguri.  “The stability stone, or whatever you called it.”

“The Alaran Stone.  You are the ones who named it, remember?  So a part of the enneagram would be in the irionite, with the gem, and part would be in the Snowflake.”

“Theoretically speaking, it would be present in both places simultaneously.  Depending on the complexity of the enneagram, that could be sufficient to act as an interface.”

“That would also allow it to access all the various energies implicit in the Snowflake,” I agreed.  “How would a human – or Alon – consciousness control that?”

“With a tremendous effort of will, I would imagine,” answered Onranion.  “I’m guessing a familiarity with the crystal would be helpful, and some sort of affinity with the enneagrammatic creation would be advisable . . . hence the vital importance of selection.  I imagine this node of Ghost Rock is filled with such things?”

“Tens of thousands, perhaps more,” I agreed.  “I thought you Alkan used the Ghost Rock to visit your ancestors, or something?”

“Such things are reserved for only the mighty and the wise,” assured Onranion.  “I’ve only done it myself in my youth.”

“When you were mightier and wiser, do doubt,” Azhguri replied.  “But these humani seem comfortable with messing about with such horrors, it seems.  The question is, do they have the wit and wisdom to know one of the Mighty Ones of the Deep from a true ancient horror?”

“That is the question,” agreed Onranion, looking pointedly at me.

I sighed.  “Gentlemen, your insights are magnificent.  It truly is an elegant solution, if it can be managed.  Yet I have around a thousand questions just off the top of my head.  But as for the issue of the enneagrammatic interface . . . well, I might have your answer.  He’s eleven, and my new apprentice.”

Chapter Twenty Eight

The Transitory Siege of Rolone Castle

The impromptu revel in the hall that night was legendary, for a number of reasons.  It marked the high point of the goddess’ spell, or grace, or whatever it was she did to me.  It marked the turning point in a number of relationships, and more than one wedding was held in its wake.  Less formal liaisons were more common, however.

It was also a day for fights.  In particular, the noon-time scrap between Sir Festaran, who was going to visit Dara at the Mews in the Westwood, and Gareth, who was returning from doing just that thing.

I wasn’t positive of the nature of their argument, but I could guess.  Ishi loves a good scrap.

But with cautious discussion and calm direction, no one drew a sword or knife.  Perhaps someday I’ll tell the full tale of that wild night, but for my part I only had eyes for my wife.  She bore the brunt of my resurgent interest, and was as eager and willing as any young maid behind the barn.

The next morning saw dozens of violent hangovers and more than a few regrets, and the effects of the spell waning steadily.  I was feeling fortunate to be summoned to witness the fall of Rolone Castle that morning.  I wouldn’t be around when people started to look each other in the eye over the previous evening’s excesses. That suited me fine.

Banamor and Dranus both elected to join me, and we left quietly before most of the castle was awake, through the Waypoints.  A few moments later we were sixty miles away, on the southern slope of the long, low hill on which the town and castle of Rolone was perched, watching Lorcus eat breakfast.

He’d had a trestle table set up under a chestnut tree, and was enjoying a plate of pickled eggs and sausage, with fried potatoes on the side, while a few of his men stood respectfully behind him.

“The Spellmonger joins us, with his merry band,” he smirked.  “All week I’ve been toiling away at this so that you could come in at the last moment and claim the credit.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I promised.  “I’m anxious to see what you’ve prepared today.”

“I knew you would be,” he said, happily.  “Well, let me brief you on my preparations.  I’ve had lads in disguise scouring north of the Rolone river, seeking for all who would stand against us.  Then we lured a few squadrons out and captured them – no great feat there, as most are second and third-line troops at best.

“Then, once we knew for certain where all of our foes would be, we started infiltrating the city,” he said, nodding to the walled town at the top of the hill.  “They made it easy enough – there is a call for merchants to supply them at good price, and with the last of the plowing and planting keeping folk at home, the market was hungry for all we could bring it.”

“What wares did you bring?” asked Banamor.

“Warmagi and deception,” Lorcus grinned, wickedly, as he wiped his mouth on the hem of his baldric.  “But also three bushels of winter apples, a hundredweight of potatoes, and a haywain full.   Full of warmagi,” he chuckled.  “They got inside the town and have been laying my plan for me.  All is now in readiness, if you will attend.  The first phase has already begun.”

“And that would be?” asked Dranus.

“First, to clear the bailey of the common folk – and to separate them from their valuables – a simple ruse: your lad Tyndal will release a sack of live snakes into the bailey, near the inner gate.”

“Snakes?  Poisonous?”

He shrugged.  “They did not volunteer the information, and as I am now a gentleman, I felt it inappropriate to inquire.  Regardless, most townsfolk know little about serpents save that they don’t like them.  I had him collect the worst-looking, though not the most deadly serpents he could, while Rondal and Lanse cast the spells A few prepared sigils will stir panic at the sight of the beasties.  When the first snake is sighted, we should see a rapid emptying of the bailey into the town, while the garrison deals with the infestation.”

“An interesting plan,” agreed Dranus.  “But the castle will not fall to a bag of snakes.”

“Oh, aye,” agreed Lorcus.  “That just clears the bailey, and gets some of the men out of the keep to deal with the crisis.  That’s when Tyndal slams the portcullis to the inner bailey closed, and spellbinds it.”

“How is that supposed to help?” asked Banamor.  “Locking men inside a castle will hardly make them surrender it.  Not as long as they have supply and hope of rescue.”

“That is true,” agreed Lorcus, rising and throwing on his mantle.  “And I will not accept anything but their absolute, unconditional surrender.  Once they are inside, I will be able to compel them.  Are you ready, gentlemen?”

I looked around.  I shrugged.  “I suppose.  Shall we ride?” I asked, looking around for horses.

“I was hoping for a trip through the Waypoints,” admitted Lorcus.  “Quicker.  And easier than talking our way past the sentries at the gate.  Rondal has his Waystone, use his.”

I couldn’t argue with that, and didn’t mind the headache.  I took the four of us through, after warning my former apprentice we were coming.  He proved to be in a stable when we arrived.

“Welcome to Rolone,” he said, handing me a mug of weak ale and a heel of bread for breakfast.  He had an entire hamper he’d purchased from an inn the day before.  “They just began clearing the outer bailey – that’s where we are.  But they won’t bother us in here.  I laid a misdirection enchantment on the door.”

“So what is the plan, after the bailey is cleared and the castle sealed?” asked Banamor.

“We appear in front of the gate, our banner unfurled, and demand their surrender,” Lorcus said, smugly.

“And when they don’t?”

“Well, then, they’ll go to their well to make their tea this morning, and water their animals, and they’ll discover that their one and only source of water is frozen, for the first five feet down.  Borrowed that one from Shereul,” he added.  “Credit where due.”

“They can still last days, like that,” said Dranus, sourly.  “They’ll have other sources of water.”

“Two cisterns, one of which has been cracked and empty for a year, and the other is stagnant and sickly – particularly after the sachet of vileness I had Tyndal drop in, while he was dealing with the freezing spell.  By now it is foul-smelling and tasting, with just the faintest hint of powdered rat intestines and putrid toadstool – my own personal recipe,” he added, proudly.

“So they get thirsty.  It won’t be enough to make them surrender,” Banamor insisted, shaking his head.

“They will when it gets hot,” Lorcus said, as he peered through a crack in the wall at the snake-slaying soldiers beyond.  “You see, in a moment I will activate a spell we hung that will heat up every stone in that keep by about ten degrees per hour.  Every stone in the place will be radiating heat.  By noon it will be unbearable, and men will start to drink the poisoned water and go mad.  It won’t take long before they’re begging to be let out.  I expect a quick resolution.”

It was a daring plan.  Damned if he didn’t pull it off.

There were a few miscalculations – there were a few jugs of ale and water inside that allowed the garrison to prolong their stay, and they fired on the herald (Rondal) the third time he suggested they surrender, under parley . . . but an hour and a half after noon, the half-naked commander of the castle handed Rondal his sword through the bars of the unmovable portcullis.  Rondal handed back an apple-and-worm banner, and when one of his men gingerly raised it above the shimmering drum keep, he loosed the spellbinding and allowed them to open the gate.

It took the rest of the afternoon to negotiate the exact terms.  The castellan turned over the deed to the domain and signed the Declaration of Conquest, before gratefully accepting a jug of water.  He and his men agreed to surrender themselves as prisoners of war, to be held as such until ransom or settlement.  Someplace cool, with lots of water.  They were half-dead, by the time they came out.

Once Lorcus had the deed in hand we had a celebratory drink as twenty of his men were allowed into the gatehouse and soon had the entire castle under their control.  It took an hour to cool the stone enough to enter comfortably, and we spent the time going through the best of the loot in the outer bailey.

“This is a lot of stuff,” Banamor said, as he surveyed the hastily-abandoned camp.  No one likes snakes.  “It looks like every burgher in town had a camp in here!  What do you plan on doing with it all?”

“I want you to select a tithe of it to be sent to Amel Wood as compensation for the unprovoked attack,” Lorcus decided.  “Another to be sent to my new castle, as soon as it’s out of the oven, as my rightful tribute. The rest will be held against the good behavior of the town.  And, of course, I’ll want to pick through it all to see what I want personally,” he chuckled.  “I haven’t had this much fun since the lads and I looted the Brotherhood’s vaults!”

Lorcus wasn’t greedy – he selected a few choice items as prizes and gifts, before we went inside the keep itself.  He had no desire to alienate his new subjects, much, but keeping them out and their valuables in ensured their cooperation.

A thin little monk, young Lawbrother Irthine, the acting castle chaplain, followed us around nervously, after he acknowledged the legality of the conquest and gave his parole, if not his cooperation.  He had been Rolone’s chaplain’s secretary, who was well-placed in the lord’s councils. While the senior Lawbrother followed his lord into battle, Brother Irthine was left behind to tend to Rolone Castle.  Therefore Brother Irthine knew were all the really good loot was kept.

The lord’s chamber within was richly decorated, a magnificent open room above the main hall. We spent a few hours going through the chests and casks until we found, quite unexpectedly, a large iron box filled with specie.  Trefalan’s pay chest, it turned out.

“Ishi’s tender nips, this is enough to keep his whole bloody army in the field all summer!” Lorcus moaned, as he stared at the thick pile of heavy silver coins.

“I suspect he thinks that Sendaria will seek to besiege his own castle,” Rondal pointed out, “which would make paying his troops to lift the siege difficult.  This way he can keep men in the field even if he’s behind a wall.”

“And rely on the Lord of Rolone to come to his rescue.  Only you’re the Lord of Rolone, now, by Right of Conquest.  Am I incorrect, Brother Irthine?”

“No, Excellency,” the young monk admitted.  “Sire Lorcus has won the day when he took the castle.  If he can subdue the last resistance to the old regime in a timely manner no one can contest his legal claim.  Thus say the Laws of Duin and Luin,” he stated, matter-of-factly.

“The domain and this castle is now your prize of war, Lord Lorcus,” I declared.  “I’ll have the parchment sent to Wilderhall immediately.  What are your plans?  Are there not two other keeps in the domain still under the sun-and-sheaf?”

“Two minor towers,” he dismissed.  “Not much more than fortified manors.  I’ll send a warmage and a party of bowmen to each one, and see if they’ve the brains to surrender.  If not, we’ll lock their gates and seal them inside until they see reason.”

“And the money?”

He rubbed his chin through his beard and eyed the silver.  “Well, I do owe a bit of tribute to my overlord,” he pointed out.  “And I need to build a new keep on my domain, as well as a hall.  As for the rest, I see it as compensation for the folk of Amel Wood.”  He looked up at the scared little monk and dug a heavy handful of silver from the chest, pushing it toward the man.

“For you, Brother.  A donation to celebrate my conquest.  Spend it as you see fit.  The rest will go to help innocent folk whose lives your former lord considered expendable.  For that crime he has lost his seat and his fortune.  It rarely profits to skirmish with a Magelord.  Not only are we subtle and quick to anger, but we’re right bastards when it comes to getting even.”  The monk nodded, took the coins gratefully, and showed Lorcus where the former lord kept his good silver plate locked up.

“Well done,” I said, patting my vassal on his shoulder as we retired to the hall downstairs.  “What policies shall you enact within your new domain?  You must announce your conquest of it, and give the nobles and yeomen the opportunity to swear fealty to you,” I reminded him.  “That should be sooner, rather than later, I think.  Then you must seize control of the frontiers.  Eventually Sire Trefalan and Sire Cullien will hear of this, and they will send troops.  Especially if there is any delay of the peasant levies to their deployment.”

“Ah, but how will they pay them?” Lorcus asked, an eyebrow arched.  “When we have his silver?  No, I think the good folk of Rolone have had enough of war.  I do not see it in their best interest to muster with the rest of the confederation.  No, I shall issue a directive instructing all villeins and common folk to return to their labors and enjoy the bounty of Huin’s blessings, not the dubious benedictions of Duin.”

I snorted.  “That will make you popular!  No peasant wants to go to war.  And with all the knights gone, there’s no one to compel them to go.”

“In truth, my lords,” the monk said, humbly, “the folk of Rolone were generally poorly-disposed to the war.  They have seen an increase in their taxes and fees for two years, in preparation, and they have been goaded into training.  They are quite reluctant to deploy.”

“So you think that would be a popular proclamation?”

Brother Irthine smiled.  “Highly, my lord.  I would nearly say they were in a mood to revolt before you came.”

“I wonder how many of them would be willing to take up arms in defense of their new lord?  At two ounces of silver a week?” Lorcus wondered aloud.  That was thrice what they would have made as spearmen at the front.  The idea seemed to scandalize the monk.

“Armed peasants?  Villeins?  As soldiers?  During a time of war is one thing, Sire, but to arm them without sufficient leadership or discipline invites unrest!”

“If they’ll fight for Rolone for silver in war, then they can lean on their spears for silver to keep from going to war.  I don’t have the forces to put down a revolt,” he admitted.  “It would work out best for me if the peasantry would, therefore, not revolt.”

“That is a bold move, Sire,” Brother Irthine agreed.  “But not one that will be popular with your neighbors.  The nobility gets nervous when it sees arms in the hands of peasants.”

“We’ll be certain to discuss it at the Winter Ball, then,” snorted Lorcus.  “Until then, I need troops, at least for a little while.  Take a . . . what would this be?” he asked me, confused.

“A mustering,” Rondal supplied.  “Or a weapontake.  As they are not professional troops, then arming them would make them a militia.”

“Do you pay a militia?”

Rondal snorted this time.  “You do if you don’t want them to riot.”

“Are there weapons in the armory for them?” he asked Brother Irthine.

“Aye, Sire.  There are hundreds of spears, helms aplenty, shields, axes, maces, truncheons, jacks, and a grove of bows and a forest of arrows.  A few score arbalests, and other gear of war.  All ready for the deployment north.  That does not include the weapons stored here, prepared against the expected siege.”

“But cisterns were, apparently, too mundane a thing to see to.  Then offer each man who enlists in the militia for the duration of the transitional period a three silver a week for good service,” he decided.  “We’ll start with two score, here in town, mustered in the square tomorrow.  We can have them wear sashes or something until we can get more tabards made,” he decided.  “I’ll also need to speak to the town watch, the burghers, the local clerics . . . I suppose there’s more to this conquest excursion that I’d realized,” he said, apologetically.

“It’s not as hard as all that,” Tyndal shrugged.  “We did it at Taragwen.  Mostly we just let the village run itself, and the tribute keeps the keep in repair and food in the pantry.  Of course, having a tenant lord on site would be helpful.  The keep gets musty when no one uses it.”

“That’s one tiny mountain fief,” I countered.  “Rolone has many estates and manors.  There are over twenty-thousand people within its limits.  Ten villages, a town, two score or more of hamlets and hundreds of freeholds. Five castles,” I pointed out.  “These are not inconsequential matters, Lorcus.  In a domain this large you must attend to them.  You need men you can trust to run things, not just troops to guard them.”

“One bloody thing at a time.  Troops first, then bureaucrats.  Can you write, monk?  Then find parchment and write down my commands and prepare them for signature and seal.”  Brother Irthine ran off to do so, jingling with his newfound patronage.  “This conquest affair seemed more straight-forward when it didn’t have any hope of success,” he grumbled.

“It’s your first one, you were bound to have problems,” Rondal noted.  “Minalan, what’s going to happen when Sire Trefalan doesn’t get the expected levies from Rolone?  Or his pay chest? And learns of Lorcus’ triumph?”

“It’s going to be very interesting.  It will depend upon how he learns, I think.  But he will probably send a squadron of cavalry to investigate, headed by a trusted lord.”

“I plan to inform him, actually,” Lorcus said.  “Or inform Sire Cullien.  I’ll send him copies of my declaration of war and intention to reprise by herald, then I’ll send him a sheaf of Writs of Conquest for each of the castles we took.  Then the final one for Rolone Castle and the domain.  Then a polite letter thanking him for his generosity, or some such, declaring my quest for vengeance is now satisfied, and that I will be reordering my new domain and, as such, will not be participating in the upcoming summer martial festivities.”

“That’s going to inspire a strong rebuttal, I think,” Rondal reflected as he helped himself to a glass of Cullien’s spirits.  “He does have the military of the domain at hand.”

“I cannot think that he would deploy them against a rebellion as Sendaria’s army looms,” I said, looking at a handsome map of the region in tooled oxhide that Cullien had helpfully hung in his chamber.  “He’s going to need every man to meet them in the field.”

Rondal stood beside me and gazed at the handsome map.  “What about the eastern domains? Pirine, Avanal, and the rest?  Won’t they be trying to use Rolone as passage to the deployment in the north?”

“I’m certain that is their intent,” I nodded.  “What is your policy on such things, Lord Lorcus?”

He considered, and I could almost see the half-a-worm in his head contemplating the potential entertainment value of various course of action.  “We’ll let them,” he decided.  “If they can pay the new toll.”

I smirked.  “And what would that be?”

“Two ounces of silver for every commoner, five for every nobleman,” he decided.  “That will buy them free and unfettered unarmed passage through Rolone.  And, of course, any violence by such travelers would cause me to hold their domain accountable,” he added.  “It took me a whole two weeks to conquer my first domain.  Now that I know what I’m doing, I wouldn’t be so cautious in my approach on my second.”

“And if they cannot pay?” Rondal asked, amused.

“Then they can bloody well hike their way north through Lavanth, if they don’t like it.  That’s what those troops are for.  Where are they likely to attempt to cross the frontier?”

Rondal studied the map.  “This village, here, on the border: Luckthorn, in the Sunsheaf estate.  That’s where the toll agent will be.”

“And when do you think they’ll be making that attempt?”

“Within the week, now that planting is done and the peasants have had time to prepare for deployment,” reasoned my former apprentice.  “I’d say twenty men and a couple of sparks at that point would be sufficient to enforce your policies.”

“It might start another war,” I cautioned.

“I’m game for that,” Lorcus assured.  “This conquest business is less like war and more like thievery.  I like that!”

“It is easier when the military have left,” agreed Rondal.  “Arm the peasants, see which of your prisoners would be willing to take your device, and hold what you can until the war is over.  Whomever is the victor will have to contend with you, even if that means another war.  You have a lot of leverage, legally speaking.”

“The law is a slow sword to depend on,” I pointed out.  “It rarely keeps Riverlords from pursuing their interests.”

“True, but I’m not a Riverlord,” reminded Lorcus.  “I’m mad Remeran.  Anyone who tries to bite the apple of Rolone will find a worm within has the most acrid of flavors,” he grinned, wickedly.

*

*

I left Lorcus and his men to order his new domain and returned to Sevendor, where I dispatched scribes to write up my officially-sealed Writ of Conquest detailing the victory.  I would find time shortly to take the documents to Wilderhall to file it with a generous fee to the Duchy.  Sire Trefalan’s pay chest helpfully provided that.

I puttered around the workshop for a few days, working with Onranion and Azhguri on the Snowflake, and helping the enchanters with some of their more advanced projects.  I worked with Ruderal on some basic magic skills with Dara for a day and got to know the boy’s cautious humor a little better.

After that I checked in with Dranus, Festaran, Sister Bemia and Banamor on various administrative issues.  With the ecclesiastic council approaching, there was a lot of work to be done to spruce up the town and especially the new temple district in anticipation of the arrival of the barony’s clerics.  Thankfully most of the work fell to Banamor and the burghers; all I really had to do was allocate my portion of the funds and approve the basic agenda.  Compared to some of the obtuse issues I’d dealt with as head of the Arcane Orders, it was apprentice-level work.

Sir Festaran’s business involved some hastily-arranged weddings and some delicate negotiations after the carnal chaos of the night of Ishi’s wholesale blessing of Sevendor.  The arousal effect had not, as I had hoped, been confined to the castle; indeed, the entire town had spent an evening in unanticipated debauchery, which had spawned dozens of crises that needed to be attended to.

As far as Gurisham, Boval and even Brestal folk had been inspired into sudden acts of libidinous passion.  Often they came to their senses before they crossed the frontiers of scandal, merely skirting propriety and, occasionally, good taste.  Most of the wiser married couples merely locked themselves away or found seclusion, spending an intense few hours in youthful bliss, the time slipping away until the effects of the spell did.

Sometimes it wasn’t a husband or wife who was the recipient of Ishi’s Blessing, however – and the effects of those casual infidelities, whether the product of repressed desire or the result of circumstance and impetuous spontaneity, had real consequences.  The temples will filled with folk tearfully regretting their transgressions, begging for guidance and forgiveness.  The clerics were babbling platitudes and scriptures but were even more perplexed than their parishioners.  They hadn’t been immune to the spell themselves, and that had caused some extreme spiritual stress.

Most of the clergy had rules about sexual relations, from vows of outright sexual celibacy, like the strict Avaltines and Ifnines, to restrictions on sexual behavior subject to the temple’s approval, like the Brigines, Tryggines, and the Huine orders, to virtually no real rules – or just general rules of thumb – like the disorganized Herusine priesthood.  Of course Ishi’s orders had a whole different approach.

But for that one wild night that approach had been magically projected on all of the clergy, and that had caused some spiritually awkward encounters.

The nuns of Briga had ended up seducing visiting parishioners, pilgrims, and fellow clergy in what culminated in a ring of sexual excess around the Everfire, led by Flamemother Antara.  As a number of monks of Huin’s temple had quitted their spired temple seeking the warmth and serenity within the Dome of the Flame, both temples were dealing with an unexpected ecclesiastical crisis.  (A tour of elderly pilgrims from Trestendor, however, later accounted it the most spiritually profound pilgrimage of their lives and vowed to return every year.)

Not everyone was given over to untamed lust.  The priestess of Ifnia wisely closed her temple’s doors, retreating to the vaults for contemplation in solitude while she sent her acolytes to their cells.

But two middle-aged priestesses of Trygg, visiting the town on a shopping trip from the abbey, found themselves the subject of far more male attention at the inn at which they were staying than they were accustomed to  . . . and found themselves unexpectedly interested in those attention.

The two normally-chaste matrons took on all comers in the common room that evening.  They did have the decency to shed their clerical robes and habits early in the process, so that most of the men involved were unaware of the minor sin they were technically committing.  If the Birthsisters kept track of theirs, I’m sure it was of interest only of the abbess and the All-Mother.

And an elderly monk of some obscure order from Vore who was visiting the libraries of our land ended up humping in the middle of the Secret Tower with the mature Remeran librarian Pentandra had hired to care for the texts and curate the records.  By all accounts, the monk acquitted himself in a manner which Penny would have been proud.

The combined trauma of the day was causing a lot of anguish, and Sister Bemia was trying to explain it all.  When she asked me for counsel, I revealed the true nature of the spell.

“It was Ishi’s work,” I explained.  “Divine magic was involved, and thanks to the snowstone, it affected everyone.  My sincerest apologies,” I added.

Her eyes got wide.  “Ishi?  The goddess of love?”

I shrugged.  “Did you think that Briga was the only goddess to take an interest in Sevendor?  Yes, I can confirm that Ishi was involved in that night.  If it helps with your explanations, it was technically to aid the Baroness through an ailment which required the assistance of the goddess.  I can likely get it confirmed as a blessing or something by her temple, if it helps,” I offered.  “And she is pregnant,” I added.  Birthsisters had a reverence for expectant mothers that was a decided weak-spot.  I wasn’t above exploiting it.

“That would explain a lot,” she agreed, reluctantly, as the implications set in.  “Especially this time of year – she is a goddess of spring, and her power would be at its zenith.  Dear Mother, that alone could explain why I – why things got so . . . awkward.  The Binder of Hearts is a potent force, by definition.”

“It wasn’t hearts that were stirred,” I said, wryly.  “But what do you suggest to contend with this . . . occurrence?  In your professional opinion?”

She looked thoughtful.  “A statement from her temple would be helpful.  I can lend my testament, as a . . . participant, from the perspective of a fellow clergywoman in support.  But . . . honestly, Sire, such a thing was rather . . . seminal,” she said, embarrassed.  “When the Everflame appeared, you built a temple to Briga around it.  When this happened . . .” she said, trailing off.

“You want me to build a temple to Ishi to commemorate the occasion?” I asked, a little scandalized.  Wasn’t it bad enough I’d already pledged to build her one in Vorone?  Traditionally such temples were located either in idyllic estates donated by rich and lecherous patrons, or in urban centers, where they served as sacred brothels and finishing schools for ambitious young women.  They rarely appeared in quaint mountain towns.

“Not a full temple, perhaps,” she reasoned, “but a shrine, certainly.  One should not let such divine attention pass unnoted.  A pretty shrine to commemorate Ishi’s blessing.  Maybe a single priestess and a few noviates, nothing extreme.  But they could contend with the . . . outcome of the affair.  There will be children who result.  Some will find their births problematic.  The shrine could serve as a point at which such children could be sent to orphanages,” she suggested.  “Our abbey runs one such, and there has been discussion of opening a second.  This might be the occasion to bring that discussion forward.”

“With the Temple of Ishi?” I asked, confused.

She smiled indulgently.  “Believe it or not, there is a lot of quiet cooperation between our temples.  Particularly concerning orphans.  Sex and motherhood are, after all, inextricably entwined.  Many of our best priestesses were once initiates of Ishi’s order, in their youth.  Such a shrine as I propose would be a method of honoring the Binder of Hearts and helping fund the support the fruits of her blessing.”

“All right,” I sighed.  “It couldn’t hurt the pilgrimage business.  I’ll get Banamor to hack off some little parcel on the old commons, and we can start looking for priestesses.  Where is the nearest temple?”

“Over a hundred miles down the Bontal,” she admitted.  “But if you send an emissary, I’m sure you can recruit one, particularly if you grant a stipend for the shrine.  And once a priestess is here, she can dispense spiritual advice on the matter to the number of husbands and wives who were troubled by it. You are right – such places are very popular on pilgrimage.  Those who come to see the Everfire will be happy to stop and tarry at it, just as they do at the temple of Huin.”

“I’m thinking it will be more popular by a great measure.  But send your emissary.  We might as well raise a shrine.  It was a pretty memorable night.”  Sister Bemia blushed, nodding without further comment.  I wondered why she and Festaran could no longer look each other in the eye.  Now I suspected I knew.  If not Fes then someone else . . .

My meeting with the enchanters was more interesting to me professionally, not personally.  I spent an afternoon touring the Manufactory with Rael and Banamor, watching some of the hired enchanters creating mowing rods, threshing wands, and gleaning charms for the upcoming harvest, while others were building more complex enchantments for sale on commission.

“The orders have poured in for the agricultural enchantments,” Rael reported as we walked from worktable to worktable.  “We’ve moved over thirty lots out to spellmongers and court wizards around the Bontal, but we’ve even got some orders by Mirror coming in from as far as Remere and the Castali Wilderlands.  We’ve got a three-week backlog,” she boasted, pleased.  “Most of the stock we accumulated this winter is gone.  Over three hundred sets.  At around forty ounces of silver each.”

“That’s a lot of coin,” I nodded appreciably.

“That’s nothing,” Banamor bragged.  “We’ve taken orders for wool carding and sheering enchantments at a hundred ounces each – over a dozen of each one.  That’s a very simple enchantment.”  He consulted a scroll he took from his belt and started counting our riches.

“Since Yule we’ve moved over forty butter churns, nearly two hundred heatstones, sixty-three heating and freezing wands, past six hundred magelight wands, eighty-one wellstones, and twenty four warding beacons.  Our construction enchantments are moving more slowly, but the cost is higher.”  He rolled the scroll back up.  “We’ve made a gross profit of more than three thousand ounces a month, since Yule.  Ounces of gold,” he said, meaningfully.  “You add that to our mercantile interests in lourdin, sympathy stones, snowstone, and general magical supplies, and you’re making far more on this enterprise than you are on all of that silly agriculture.  Combined.”

“That doesn’t mean we should shift enchanters away from agriculture,” Rael insisted, hands on her hips.  “Those wands are needed out there!”

“I agree,” I nodded.  “My entire purpose here wasn’t to make as much money as I could.  It was to make people’s lives better.  The profit we make from the more expensive items can cover the effort we make on the agricultural enchantments. Which are, you have to admit, not unprofitable,” I pointed out.

“Bah!  But hardly worth the effort.  Minalan, if we could put another witchstone in play here, and hire another shift of enchanters, we could start working on the really sophisticated things – like that medical baculus we were discussing, or the next generation of Mirrors.”

“Do it,” I decided.  “I’ll have another witchstone prepared.  You start interviewing candidates.  And consider what you can do for apprentices – there must be ways you can speed up work by having less-experienced magi do preparation work.”

“That’s actually a good idea,” Rael admitted.  “Right now they’re spending about a third of the time preparing the wands, and another third of the time making them meable,” she said, describing the complicated process that allowed magical items to be used by folk with not Talent of their own.  It added significantly to the time and energy needed in the process of the spell.  “If we had a few assistants to do some of the easier rote work of metuitals like benefication and mensuration, the enchanters could focus on the actual enchantment.”

“I like it,” Banamor agreed.  “There are enough stray magi of lesser power around to support it – even a few talented sports we might be able to use.”

“Before you set them to working on more butter churns,” I suggested, “have them do a trial run of fifty more Sentry Wands as a trial.  With what Lorcus is doing in Rolone, I think he’s going to need them soon.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

A Quick Trip To Wilderhall

“It’s a medical baculus . . . called a cummock, in the ancient texts,” Master Ulin explained, in my workshop.  He had three books opened on the table and had spread out a three-foot long scroll with a detailed diagram of his proposal.

It featured a short staff of elegant design: the wood at the slender head of it was curved back on itself in almost a perfect circle six inches across, nearly touching the base. “Its distinctive hook, similar to a shepherd’s crook, acts as a field of view through which the mage may examine the patient, usually through a lens of thaumaturgical glass.  It’s considered a tool of great diagnostic value, according to the ancient Perwynese.  In the Middle Magocracy no respectable healer would come to your bedside without a cummock, whether it was arcanely active or no.”

“And you want to build one of these things?” I asked, curious and intrigued.

“Well, yes . . . but not with the limitations of the old style,” he admitted, stroking his beard.  “While useful, I think with what we’ve learned about enchantment in the last year we can vastly improve its effectiveness.  The originals were used as diagnostic tools, but with snowstone and advanced enchantments we can add a lot of active augmentations: spells to protect against shock, to stop bleeding, to lower fever, to ease discomfort, to relieve pain . . . the possibilities are endless!”

“How would you capture such enchantments? Weirwood?”

“Weirwood would be best, especially the brindle varieties; but originally only naturally curved weirwood was considered adequate for such devices.”

“That must be pretty rare,” I agreed.  Weirwood tended to grow straight, like bamboo or rattan.

“Yes, but I think the concern was misplaced,” Ulin explained, tapping his finger on a reference.  “From what I can understand, though the natural curve was preferred, there are several accounts of magi bending the wood, or even using artificial means of providing the lens space.”

“So you think you can bend it?”

“Oh, my, yes,” he agreed.  “I’ve been speaking to Master Olmeg, Master Minnick, and all manner of carpenters while doing research for the project.  The magi assure me that weirwood could be trained to this shape while still growing, and the carpenters explained a secret of their craft employed in temples and grand chambers and halls.  Steaming the wood, and bending it while it is super-saturated with water.”

“That works?” I asked.  We employed similar thermomantic spells to cure wood before splitting it.  Steaming would be similarly simple.

“Indeed.  Goodman Baris, the carpenter, demonstrated the technique.  It is favored by luthiers and other makers of musical instruments, using thin slices of wood.  I think using the technique to bend weirwood into the cummock form could be quite effective.”

“And what about the lens space?”

“Ah! That is the best part,” he smiled.  “Using a lens of high-grade thaumaturgical glass, with an outer ring of snowsand glass, would be quite adequate to absorb the necessary diagnostic enchantments and have other useful, more active functions.  I suggest a slate of common medical spells, to be determined by the Order of Mandros. Master Icorod will no doubt have a goodly list of requested spells.”

“Oh, he would dance a jig to get his hands on such a powerful tool.  In fact, presenting him with a prototype would be an excellent event at this year’s Conclave.  How quickly can you get one made?”

He stroked his beard.  “A prototype?  Not long, to prepare the weirwood.  The glass will take longer, unless I can persuade the priestesses at the temple to allow me to use the Everfire . . .”

“Consider them persuaded.  Can it be made meable?” I asked, curious.

“Well, many of the basic enchantments,” he decided, after a few moment’s pondering.  “I could design a lesser model that would be useful, say, in a trauma situation.  On the battlefield, for instance, something a monk could use to save a man’s life.  Conversely, I could design a lesser cummock specifically for comforting a patient during recuperation, or from an illness.  That, too, could be meable.”

“That could be quite important, Ulin,” I agreed.  “What about nursing or midwifery?”

“Oh, specialized enchantments suited to care and comfort or obstetrics would be simple variations, with the help of a Talented medic.  Nor would they take much longer for our diergents to fashion.  Once I constructed prototypes and provided their testamure, each would likely take a week of a dedicated ordinant’s time to construct and desenit.  Less, if sufficient materials are available to speed the process.  The cost would be three or four hundred ounces of silver, I think.  More, if you charge by the enchantment.”

“Prepare Master Icorod’s cummock with as many spells as you can imagine he will need.  As he is the head of the order, he should have the very best.  Indeed, he will insist upon it.

“But build a second one, nearly as well-equipped, for our friend Lelwen of Tiers, in Megelin.  Emphasize battlefield enchantments.  But build the general nursing, midwifery and trauma prototypes as well.  Can you accomplish that before midsummer?”

“With sufficient coin and resources, Magelord,” he nodded.  “I’ll have to bring on a few more specialists.  But aye, I can make them by then.”

“Good.  When we’ve refined the art, we can start producing them for distribution to the clerical orders who specialize in medicine.  I could use such cummocks to bribe the Temple of Trygg, for instance.  It’s always good to have the Allmother on your side.”

“And trauma staves for the Warbrothers of Duin,” he agreed, realizing the political advantages of such gifts immediately.  “And palliative cummocks for the Silent Sisters.”

We both stared at the drawing for a few moments in silence.  I thought of my own baculus, and how useful it was . . . particularly since it had been imbued with an enneagram.

“I wonder . . . could a cummock be more useful if it had an awareness that controlled it?  A paraclete that could work just the right enchantments, after assessing and diagnosing the patient, to effect healing?”

He looked startled.  “I know not, Magelord, but it is a fascinating question.  I suppose it would depend largely upon the paraclete in question . . . and the enchantments available to it.  I confess I am only beginning to learn such deep enneagrammatic enchantments, since I came to Sevendor.”

That got me thinking.  “I think I know who might know the answer.  And I think it’s time that we explored the extent of his Talent.”

*

*

That evening I summoned young Ruderal from Boval Hall to my tower, where Dara was waiting for him.  She was near exhausted with hatching and training, and had leapt at the chance to get away from the Mews and do some real magic for a change.  She also wanted to get to know her new junior apprentice.

Ruderal seemed a bit anxious, at first, but we soon put him at ease.  I explained to him what I wanted him to do.

“Tell me, Ruderal, when you use your Talent, what do you see in this?” I asked, holding out the Grain of Pors.

His eyes got large, and he looked away for a moment, before swallowing and turning back toward me.

“It’s . . . it’s like a whole sky full of stars crammed into a single tiny window,” he decided.  His breathing had changed.

“This is a piece of a magical substance called Ghost Rock,” I explained.  “Its special property is that it can record enneagrams – the patterns you see so clearly – within its depths.  These enneagrams can be transferred, copied like you copy your letters, from this rock and imbued into an object by a skilled enchanter.  You’ve seen some of the objects we’ve enchanted thus,” I said, receiving a solemn nod in return.

“Well, I would like to see if you have the capacity to traverse its depths, and perhaps interpret the enneagrams trapped within more clearly than I.  You see, most of the patterns inside are of undersea creatures from ages past who encountered the rock long ago.  There are thousands within,” I assured him.  He looked impressed.

“How do I do it?” he asked, both anxious and intrigued by the prospect.

“It’s perfectly safe,” I promised him.  “I’ve done it myself dozens of times, now, with no ill effect.  It’s really quite easy.  You hold it in your hand, and allow your consciousness to leak into it, until you feel as if you’re sinking into a big pool of mud.”  He smirked at that.  No eleven year old boy on Callidore could dislike that prospect. “As you sink, you will encounter various enneagrams, the most recent ones absorbed by the Grain first.  Keep going within,” I advised.  “The deeper you go, the older creatures you’ll encounter.”

“What am I looking for, Master?” he asked, glancing at the Grain.

“Any number of things,” I sighed.  “I’m looking for good enneagrams for specific functions.  I was discussing a medical enchantment with Master Ulin this afternoon – he’s who prompted me to send for you.  So a nurturing, caring enneagram intelligent enough to help perform healing magic would be helpful.  Another use would be good enneagrams for combat magic.  But what I’d really like you to find,” I said, encouragingly, “is the most intelligent, benevolent, complex pattern in the rock.  Something that understands magic and has the wisdom to use it properly.  Something . . . something benevolent and powerful.”

He looked skeptical.  “I can try, I suppose.”

“I don’t expect you find it your first time,” I said, “The Grain contains tens of thousands of patterns.  But if you do find something useful, then remember it.  Once you know what it is, you can return to it quickly in the future.  And then you can show me, and I can show you how to extract it.”

He nodded, then took the rock gingerly in his hand with a deep breath.  He closed his eyes tightly, at first, then quickly relaxed them.  In moments his breathing changed and his shoulders relaxed.

“That’s quite a quick induction,” Dara observed, impressed.  “It took me ages to get that right, except when I was bilocating.”

“It’s similar,” I agreed.  “But you’re right.  He is good at this.”

We chatted for an hour while young Ruderal plumbed the depths of the Grain.  Finally he opened his eyes and blinked, tiredly.

“That was amazing,” he nodded.  “I saw . . . I saw dead things.  Things that haven’t lived since . . . well, for a very long time,” he said, philosophically.  Like thousands of suits of clothes hanging in an endless cupboard.”

“Did you see anything useful?” Dara asked, intrigued.

“I think so,” he said, hesitantly.  “I found something that you could use for healing spells.  A creature who performed a similar task for a . . . well, I don’t really have a word for it, do I?  But it was a pattern with a lot of compassion, and a lot of understanding of healing.  It wants to make sick things well,” he decided.

“Excellent!”

“There was another one that would make a good weapon.  A bunch of them, actually.  They used to guard their mates and young, day and night, constantly vigilant.  Deadly,” he said, nodding.  “But not aggressive.”

“I like the sound of that,” I nodded.

“There were other ones who were nasty,” he continued, with a little more enthusiasm.  “Some like great wolves, or ferocious cats, or . . . or other things.  I don’t know what they were, exactly, But they were mean.  Mean like . . . like some people I once knew, only worse.  Some wanted to eat everything, that’s all they did.  Others wanted to hurt, or to just kill,” he said with a shudder.  “I would hate to see something like that with my eyes open.”

“That was excellent, Ruderal,” I praised.  “Did you have any difficulty?”

“No, Master, it was easy, once I realized how to do it and I wasn’t in danger.  Like swimming,” he explained, thoughtfully.  “Once you learn how to hold your breath and move around, it’s easy.”

“Nice metaphor,” Dara approved.  “That’s how I feel when I get behind an animal’s eyes.  The first few times were scary, but after that it’s the easiest thing in the world.”

“But that’s not all!” he said, brushing away the praise.  “I think I found it, Master!  I think I found that thing you wanted, the . . . the great intelligence.  It’s amazing, huge, bigger than anything I’ve ever seen!  More brilliant.  Complex.  It was . . . it was amazing.  And good.  And it only wanted everything and everyone to thrive and prosper.  And it could do magic, Master, magic so great and powerful that, that . . . I don’t know, but it was amazing!”

“That’s . . . that’s incredible news,” I smiled, my heart beating.  I wasn’t certain how much to trust his judgment on such things, but then again I wasn’t certain how much I could trust my own.  “Now, can you show me the things you’ve seen?  After a short break – you need to pace yourself when you’re doing magic.”

“Go pee,” Dara advised.  “It’s easy to forget.  I got belly cramps, when I started, because I just forgot.”

“And run down the hall and ask the hall steward to prepare a tray for three,” I called after him.  “Including wine.”

“I like him, Master,” Dara assured me when the lad had run off.  “He’s a little odd, but he’s very polite.  And respectful.  Not like some of your previous apprentices,” she said, snidely.

“Yes, he is a bit of a departure from my usual impertinent snots, but the novelty should be refreshing.  Master Dranus is quite pleased with his progress.  Once he masters reading, he should proceed very quickly into his first year lessons.”

“Are you sure keeping him down at Boval Hall is the best thing?” she asked, grinning at my jibe.  “I progressed a lot faster once I was in the castle. It’s already after dark, and he’s got a long way back to Boval.”

“You were thirteen, then,” I pointed out.  “And living with your family.  Ruderal is only eleven, and is hundreds and hundreds of miles away from his mother.  Boval Hall is a good, safe place for him, for now.  Rollo and his kids can fatten him up, teach him our customs, and give him the confidence that can only come from a living in security.  We’ll get him to the castle soon enough.  I want the boy to feel at home, first.”

Ruderal was back shortly, and after a snack and a drink we went up to the top of my tower for the air.  In the light of the large magelight that hovered overhead, we spent the next two hours writing down his recollections from the Grain.

He had an admirable memory, and despite his limited vocabulary he was adamant about precise descriptions of his impressions.  He used a lot of metaphors, when his words failed.  But he spoke with confidence in a way that was lacking in most of his other observations.  This, I could tell, was what Ruderal was good at.  What he was forced to be good at.

Finally I concluded for the evening, and had Dara escort Ruderal back home, authorizing her to use a horse and pony from the stables.  She looked at me scornfully, closed her eyes, and smirked.  In a few moments a hawk descended from the sky to light on her wrist.  It wasn’t Frightful.

“She’s nesting, sitting on her eggs, as proud as can be” she explained.  “This is Faithful.  He’s a Minden’s Raptor, one of the second group of giants I’m working with.  He’s the best one we’ve got for Skyriding from this batch, so far.  Real gentle, and he’s . . . Faithful.  Always comes back, always does what he’s supposed to.”

“He’s beautiful!” Ruderal said, his eyes wide with open admiration of the proud hawk.

“He’s huge,” Dara bragged excitedly.  “He’s got a forty-five foot wingspan, now, and he can carry up to four hundred pounds!”

Ruderal looked confused and skeptical, but was too polite to call his senior apprentice a liar.  “He doesn’t look that strong.”

Dara grinned, threw the bird into the air, and then closed her eyes again.  In a moment, the hawk descended again in its larger form, its wingtips wider than the edge of the tower it landed upon.   Ruderal’s eyes got even wider, and he took a step back.  I suppose he suddenly felt like a very small mouse.

Dara clutched her hawk amulet and muttered a command, and a thick leather harness appeared.  “I won’t put on his full kit – we’re just going across the valley – but this will give you something to hold on to.”

Ruderal looked at her, shocked.  “You mean . . . we’re going to fly?”

Dara laughed.  “Ruderal, you’re a wizard, now.  You need to get used to the unlikely and the impossible three times a day.”

I had other concerns.  “Dara, it’s dark – hawks are diurnal.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Master,” she dismissed as she quickly strapped the harness onto the giant bird, who waited with supreme patience as she did so.  “I had Master Andalnam include a Cat’s Eye on the harness.  If I stay in rapport with Faithful he can see the vale as well as if it was morning.  We’ll be there before those lazy drudges in the stable could get horses saddled, and I can be back at the Mews before we’d be in town.  I’m tired,” she declared.  “I’ve been training and watching nests and keeping the Skyriders from killing each other every day, and I’m just exhausted,” she said, as she mounted her bird effortlessly.

“Then get him home and get to sleep,” I agreed, sympathetically.  “And try not to drop him on the way.”

“Master!” she protested, as Ruderal gave me a quick, frightened stare.

I watched them take to the sky, Dara launching Faithful into the darkness with barely a whisper of wings.  The waxing moon rising over the eastern ridge glinted off of his wings as they soared over the town and towards the spire of Lesgaethael.  Dara circled the magnificent structure as she slowly descended, giving Ruderal a bird’s-eye perspective on his home.

That, at least, was part of my professional life I could be proud of.  My apprentices were loyal, engaging, and spirited, and if Rondal and Tyndal were any indication, I could actually train another mage from start to finish and get good results.  That’s the kind of magic you just can’t study.

*

*

I had been putting off a quick trip to Wilderhall for a few days because I wanted to hear if Lorcus had any difficulties controlling Rolone, before I officially filed his full Writ of Conquest.  There was always the possibility of rebellion and revolt, insurgency and rioting challenging his rule, but the town of Rolone had accepted his conquest without more than a token protest.

From what he reported to me, mind-to-mind, he had blackmailed most of Sire Cullien’s partisans among the burghers by keeping their valuables against their good behavior; those who were less favorable to the former lord he bribed, sometimes with confiscated goods from the loyalists.  That had kept any insurgency from developing.

So had his militia.  He hired a hundred peasants who had originally been supposed to be marching off to deploy against Sendaria to augment the city watch, paying them thrice what they would have made for active duty on the front lines to be guards and sentries.  They and their families were decidedly in favor of the change in administration, and he had silver to burn right now.  His men were recruiting in the surrounding villages beyond Rolone Town, and he had further promised a relief from mowing and gleaning in autumn for any villein who served sixty days service.  Enthusiastic recruits were pouring in.

Nor was he entirely without noble support.  No less than six knights at the prisoner-of-war camp at Gwyliad were willing to foreswear their loyalties and give their unconditional parole to Lorcus.  They were men who had been left behind the war with Sendaria as punishment, or because their loyalty was suspect.  Some had long grudges with the regime.  But all six were willing to swear fealty in service to Lorcus.  He was using them sparingly to command the militias in conjunction with his warmagi.  So far the experiment was working.

Lorcus posted his new levies at all of the points of entry across his frontiers with copies of his edicts, and he had sealed his borders to any military traffic.  The final two strongholds of the domain had fallen the day after I’d left to Master Cormoran and Lanse of Bune.  The prisoner of war camp at Gwyliad Castle was stuffed with Cullien’s defenders, and the domain was, for the moment, entirely in Lorcus’ hands.

Without any serious opposition to his rule, there was no legal reason why I couldn’t file his writ of conquest this soon, which would offer him certain legal protections if the matter was ever appealed before the Duke.  He’d had his new Lawbrother, Irthine, busily working out the details on parchment.  When I received the updated documents I knew it was time to take the trip I’d postponed.  Since I had other business in Wilderhall, too, Lorcus’ conquest seemed like a good excuse to go.

I prepared myself and explained the trip to Alya – who was very much her old self, again, thankfully, if a little confused about what happened.   I grabbed Ruderal, to introduce him to the halls of power and spend some more time with him, and took the Ways to the Court Wizard’s office in Wilderhall.

Master Hartarian was not in; his very startled assistant admitted that he was in town on a call to a noble house, and would not be back until nightfall.  That was fine – my business was not with Hartarian.  It concerned his niece.

I led Ruderal across the beautiful grounds of the castle to the magnificent main structure, then into a room I knew castellans frequented.  The castellans of Wilderhall know everything – that was their job at the summer palace.  A polite inquiry and a small tip informed me who among the Royal Family happened to be in residence.

Prince Tavard, I learned, was at one of his hunting estates with his bride, his baby, and his gentlemen; King Rard was overseeing the construction of his palace with the Queen in Castabriel.  The only member of the family actually here was Princess Rardine, who was staying in her apartments. I thanked the castellan and moved on.

Our first stop was the office of Domains, Lands & Estates, in the dusty basement catacombs of the palace.  There Lady Arnet and her staff oversaw the vast records of the Duchy – and now the Kingdom – and kept track of who owned what and (more importantly) how much in tribute and military service they owed.

But the ancient gray-haired woman was more than that – she was also one of the heads of the unofficial royal intelligence service, the Family.  She had overseen Duchess Grendine’s rise to power, developed the cadre of beautiful female assassins the Family used to make extrajudicial policy decisions, and helped analyze the politics of the moment to select which enemies of the Family needed attention.

I left Ruderal in the waiting area and used my rank to bully my way into her dusty office, where her macabre collection of decorative thimbles reminded me of just how dangerous the woman was.

“Ah! Baron Minalan,” she said, pleasantly, apparently undisturbed by my thwarting of her assistant’s efforts to make me wait.  “To what do I owe this visit?”

“A little business,” I said, handing her the sheaf of parchment.  “One of my vassals was attacked by a neighbor, and was forced to go to war with him.  As it turns out, he conquered the entire domain, and would like that recognized.”

“Oh really?” she asked, mildly “A which rustic mountain domain did he conquer?”

“Rolone,” I answered.  I was gratified at her expression.  It is said that Lady Arnet knows every domain and estate in Castal by heart, and a goodly number of those in Remere, Alshar, and Merwyn.  Rolone wasn’t particularly well-known, outside of the Bontal Vales, but she knew precisely where it was.  She probably knew off the top of her head how much tribute the domain paid and how many lances and hearths it held.

“That . . . is no small domain, she said, clearing her throat and examining the scrolls, after breaking their seals.  “This . . . Lord Lorcus was only ennobled and given his estate a few weeks ago, I recall.”

“And was attacked unprovoked by agents of Rolone immediately after,” I fibbed.  “He fulfilled his responsibilities as lord of the domain by authoring a reprisal.”  She continued scanning the document.

“And took five castles?  In two weeks?” she asked, shocked.

“He’s a very good vassal,” I shrugged.  “But he took them in a scrupulously legal fashion.  With very little loss of life.”

“And the domain lord – former domain lord – has been made aware that he was at war with this . . . Amel Wood?”

“As he began the hostilities, one cannot imagine that he was unaware that they existed,” I pointed out.  “But Lord Lorcus has dispatched a herald with the proper documents to Sire Cullien’s— sorry, Sir Cullien’s encampment in the northern Sashtali confederation.”

“Ah, so the lord was already engaged in war when he began this skirmish,” she nodded.  “Well, these do seem in order.  Even witness statements attesting to the conquest from Sir Cullien’s former vassals and retainers.  Very well done, Excellency.  I do enjoy it when the parchment is in order when someone walks through my door.  You have the filing fee?”

I waved my hand and opened a pocket in one of my rings.  A leather sack with three hundred ounces of silver appeared and thudded to her desk with a clink.  I love doing that.

Lady Arnet was startled, but she did not let it faze her.  She wrote out two copies of the Kingdom’s recognition of Lorcus’ conquest and a receipt for the fee, and it was official.  She handed me my copy after sanding the file copy, adding it to the stack concerning Rolone.

“Now that that is done, is there anything else?”

“Just a friendly inquiry,” I said, coming to my real business with the old assassin.  “Family business.”

She barely acknowledged it.  “I see.  What would you like to know?”

“I’ve recently received some attention from one of the Sisters,” I said, referring to how the Family’s assassins named themselves in code.  “As I know she is highly placed in the Family, I need to know if her efforts are directed from Mother, or if she is working to her own purposes.”

“Baroness Isily,” she sighed.  “I was always concerned about Mother’s decision to wed her to that . . . that lecherous old goat.  I never liked Dunselen,” she admitted.  “Never.  I knew too much about him.  A decent administrator, but hardly someone I’d want one of my girls to marry.”

“So why did Mother do that?”

Lady Arnet studied me, clearly deciding just how much to tell me.  “Just because Dunselen is a wart on the scrotum of masculinity,” she said, with distaste, “doesn’t mean he cannot serve a useful purpose.  After Isily’s sterling service in the establishment of the kingdom,” she said, obliquely referencing her work magically assassinating Duke Lenguin after the Battle of Timberwatch, “she was granted certain degree of freedom and autonomy, as well as a special portfolio.”

“Being Mother’s eyes and ears on the Arcane Orders,” I supplied.

“Ignoring such a potent force in Kingdom politics would be unwise, would it not?  But that was the extent of her mission, to my knowledge.  Her union with Dunselen was meant to secure her access to you and your inner circle, on the supposition that you were close.  And to give her an estate, title, and position.  Nothing more.”

“Me and Dunselen?” I asked, aghast.  “Close?  For an intelligence service, you people really have a hard time getting your facts straight.  I loathe the man,” I admitted.

“Then why go out of your way to protect him?” she countered.  “When he started on his ambitious campaign of conquest, and you were warned to reign him in, why did you not take action?”

“I did take action,” I replied, evenly.  “But I had to protect the interests of my profession, as well.  As distasteful as Dunselen is, he did not violate any ethical canons or laws of the Order.  Punishing him for being a wart would have been gratifying, but it would have seemed arbitrary to some of my most powerful magelords.”

“I can understand that,” she said, reasonably.  “And I cannot fault your administration.  The rules must be followed, even when they work against policy.  But as you took no action, Mother decided to turn a problem into an opportunity.  The alternative was to have him added to my collection,” she said, nodding toward her array of thimbles.  Each one represented an assassination she had ordered.

“Well, I’m happy you did not set the precedent,” I sighed.  “He is, as you suggest, our mutual problem.  But in taking this opportunity, I think perhaps Mother miscalculated.  Baroness Isily has her own aims in this marriage,” I warned.  “She is building an independent power base.”

“What high noble doesn’t?” she shrugged.  “That’s domain politics, something which the Family only concerns itself with if it becomes an issue of governance.  As long as she obeys the law swears fealty, pays her tribute, and doesn’t rebel against the crown she is free to do as she wishes.  The rules must be followed.  She may well have her own aims – she is a deep one, that girl.  A real schemer,” she said, with a mixture of concern and matronly pride.

“When those plots are directed at me, I have to take notice,” I said, quietly.

That got her attention.  “She’s taken action against you?”

“Subtly, but yes,” I agreed.

“You wizards and your plots,” she said, shaking her head.  “I swear to Kulin you see shadows under the noonday sun and insist night is falling.”

“I have more than enough reason to suspect her,” I continued, dismissing her dismissal.  “I just wanted to inform you, as a professional courtesy, of my concerns.  And make certain that her actions were not at the direction of the Family.  Because that would put an entirely different perspective on our conversation.”

She stared at me, feeling challenged.  “She is acting on her own.  But for the sake of argument, what do you really think you could do against the Family if we did decide to add you to the collection?” she asked.  I could tell she was amused by the idea.

I tapped the stack of parchment concerning Rolone’s conquest.  “Twenty men took five castles in two weeks.  Warmagi,” I reminded her.

“They were favored by Ifnia,” she smirked.

“They were restrained by caution and my orders,” I countered.  “I asked them, as a favor, to take their time and spare as much life and property damage as possible.  Had I not intervened, it would have taken half the time, led to hundreds of casualties, and the destruction of five reasonably expensive castles.”

“One domain,” she shrugged.  “There are thousands.”

“The point is that we are no longer mere spellmongers and footwizards, my lady.  The point is that we have risen to power, and that power grows in sophistication with each passing year.  I fully appreciate the forces which the Family can bring to bear against me . . . but I think you fail to appreciate just how powerful we are.”

“We are well aware of your recent advances,” she informed me.  “Do you think we leave Sevendor un-watched?”  In fact I knew the identities of all three of the Family’s spies in my domain.  And I knew how to keep sensitive information out of their view.  I tolerated them because I knew they could prove useful, at some point.  Besides, it’s nice to know the names of your potential assassins ahead of time.  It keeps things from becoming awkward.

“I have spared everyone a grand demonstration of that power because I do not want to upset the current precarious political situation.  I still support the Royal Family and the regime, despite my recent issues with Prince Tavard.  Appreciate that, if you will, in context of what I am saying: should the Family come against me, then that loyalty and that dedication to the success of the Kingdom will falter.  And that could have long-term consequences a lady of your insight, intelligence, and experience should be able to appreciate.”

“We do not want war with magefolk,” she assured me.

“Then do not tempt one,” I agreed, pleasantly.  “For the kingdom, the duchy, and all you have worked for your entire life would fall before your eyes before a year has passed.”  She didn’t want to show that the idea worried her, but I assumed that her long dedication to her position of quiet service could only be motivated by her devotion to the ideal of centralized power.

“I see your point, Spellmonger,” she said, her lips drawn tight.  “We understand what powerful friends you are.  We don’t want to spoil that.  If you feel the need to take action against Isily, for her own machinations, then the Family will allow it without reprisal.  Within reasonable limits,” she cautioned.

“Understood, my lady,” I said with a bow.  “Now if you excuse me, I would like to try to arrange an audience with the Princess, before I go.  A courtesy call,” I explained.  “But I am gratified that we understand each other.  Indeed, the entire point of my visit was to ensure that there would not be any misunderstandings about my motivations.  I trust you will relay that to Mother?”

“Of course, Excellency,” she said, with a short bow that revealed more of the thimble collection behind her.  From what I recalled, there were seven new thimbles there.  Two were in silver, one in gold.  “The Office of Domains, Lands & Estates exists only to serve.”

Chapter Thirty

Princess Rardine

It took another hour of shaking down the castellans until I was able to get them to approach Princess Rardine’s attendants with a request for a private audience.  I finally was given word that Her Highness would entertain my request in the late afternoon in the tulip garden.

That sounded preferable to the Queen’s favorite haunt the Rose Garden; that was where I’d discovered her alternate role as the duchy’s spymaster . . . and was assigned my own personal assassin in the guise of a manservant. I’m not particularly fond of roses as a result.

The tulip garden was actually in the outer bailey, and like most of the placenames at Wilderhall it was undescriptive of its true function.  Though the out-of-the-way corner of the vast bailey was, in fact, filled with tulips in bloom, the meticulously-tended formal garden contained a small cottage-like structure with wide windows and decorative awnings.  Just the place for ladies to sit in repose in the coolness of shade during the hot summer months.

The Princess was alone, save for four maids who were also likely assassins, and four bored-looking armed, armored guards stationed at the entrances of both garden and cot.  All eight of her attendants were leaving her alone, allowing her to read a book and sip wine.  I gave my name to the young woman who approached me, and she led me past the guards.  I told Ruderal to wait outside for me.  I doubted the lad could get in much trouble in a tulip garden.

“Ah, the Spellmonger!” Rardine said with a tone of enthusiasm I wasn’t certain was genuine or mocking.  “What brings you to Wilderhall?”

“A little business, Highness,” I said with a casual bow, as the pretty assassin left.  I took a seat unbidden across from the neat little room, and removed my hat out of respect.  “But I did want to stop by and pay my respects.  I was curious how your recent travels to Remere fared?”

She snorted derisively.  “You mean Mother’s attempt to marry me off quickly, before my brother starts seeing me as a threat to his reign?”

I paused.  “Yes, that one.”

“It was bloody awful, if you must know,” she said, expressively.  “I met dozens of potential suitors.  None were adequate in both rank and form.  Old counts, or young barons, or even common merchants . . . I interviewed plenty of prospects, but I found them all wanting.”

“Affairs of the heart are never an easy matter,” I soothed.  I wondered what Ishi could do to help.  Political marriages were hardly affairs of the heart, but she might have some influence.

“Affairs of state are even more difficult,” she admitted.  “Technically, I shouldn’t even be entertaining a Remeran proposal, since Tavard married that stupid bitch.  I should be married off to someone in Alshar, or even Merwyn.  But with the rebellion in the south and my cousin pretending to be duke, there really aren’t many good prospects there.  And Castal . . . Castali lords are lining up with presents for my parents, but again they are too old or too lowly ranked,” she said, frustrated.  “When I helped put this kingdom together it was not for the purpose of seeing my future destroyed!” she said, frustrated.

“You have plenty of time, yet,” I counseled.  “Best you make the best selection, rather than move in haste and end up with regrets.”

“What I’m worried about more is rebellion,” she said, sulkily.  “One thing was clear from my Remeran excursion: support for the crown there is tepid, at best.  Some of the most prestigious great houses were reluctant to advance a suitor because they quietly doubted the longevity of our rule.  The nerve!” she said, angrily.  “As if we’d let ourselves be pushed aside for anything!”

“Isn’t that what your mother is doing to you?” I pointed out.

She pouted.  “Yes, that is precisely what she’s doing with me.  Now that Tavard is prince, and he has a godsdamned heir, I’m a political liability.  A liability!  Me!” she said, raising her voice.  I tried to imagine the man who would wish to wed her, if it hadn’t been for her family, her position, and her wealth.  There was not much coming to mind.

“Perhaps something will suggest itself,” I offered, hopefully.

“It had better,” she growled.  “I will not be eliminated from political life just because Tavard whined to Mother about me!”

“You may not have much choice, Rardine,” I said, gently.  Despite her vitriolic personality and her outrageous sense of entitlement, I was a little sympathetic to the brat.  Sure, she was bloodthirsty and power mad, but only because that’s how her mother and father had trained her.  “You are a political asset, but one which your mother knows must be employed soon.  To shore up the regime, if needed.”

“Oh, I know all about that,” she agreed.  “But I will not be wedded to some pock-marked coastal baron or some Wenshari count’s nephew . . . I am of royal blood, and my husband should be of a lineage at least as grand as mine!”  There was genuine anguish in her voice.  It took a lot of self-control not to break out in giggles over her predicament.

“Besides your marital prospects, how are things?” I asked.  Despite my caution in dealing with her, I could see that Rardine was just a young girl in a difficult situation.  She was used to getting attention from everyone, and had fully expected that to be magnified with her family’s rise in status.  Just as I had used her cousin Anguin’s low status at court as an opportunity to set him on his quest to re-establish Alshar, I saw Rardine’s anguish at being ignored as a chance to improve our relationship.  Sure, it was distasteful.  That’s how court politics works.

“Fine, fine, as well as can be expected.  But if you’re asking as a preamble to get me to speak with my brother about lessening your house arrest, you have made an error.  His wife, damn her, doesn’t like me.  I’ve barely spoken to him since the wedding, and most of those conversations have not gone well.”

“That was not my intention,” I promised.  “In truth, I don’t mind tending to my lands right now.  It allows me time to pursue my studies and secure my estates.  While I admit the freedom would be nice, I would not ask you for such a favor, Highness.”

She looked at me confused.  “Then what did you want with me?”

“Is it so unimaginable that I would merely want to pay a courtesy on my Princess, while I am at the palace?”

“Without ulterior motive?  Why yes, that is incredibly unimaginable.  No one comes to see me without wanting something from me.”

“I assure you, I desire nothing but to see after your continued good health and well-being.”

She looked at me with even more suspicion.  “Now I know you want something, Spellmonger.  No one cares about my well-being except Mother.  And considering I’ve threatened to kill you . . .”

“You tried to kill me,” I corrected.  “Hamlan, remember?”

She threw up her hands.  “Right!  Hamlan!  I’d forgotten his name, the incompetent arse!  But why would you even consider approaching me after that?”

“That was a political move during a different time.  I don’t hold a grudge, now that the Family and I have hammered out a better understanding.  And despite our past opposition, I can appreciate a keen intelligence when I see one.”

“Were that I was as dumb as my sister-in-law!” she snarled.  “Do you know what Mother is grooming me for, after I’m wedded?  She wants me to take over Lady Arnet’s position, in Lands & Estates!  Me, in that dusty old tomb!”

“She can’t live forever,” I pointed out.  “Though it certainly seems like it.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to inherit her tomb,” she said, miserably.  “Mother wants me to watch over Tavard and his brats and sacrifice my own future for the good of the Kingdom.  That’s the last place I want to be.  I should be making policy and enforcing it, not chasing parchment!”  She sounded a little desperate.  “But that still doesn’t explain why you are here, Spellmonger,” she said, accusingly.

“I am here for no greater purpose to continue our relations,” I said, smoothly.  “I do not need your assistance or influence at court . . . but it occurs to me that you might one day need mine.”

“How so?”

“In any number of ways.  You are a woman who can appreciate the power of a clandestine alliance.   Surely the offer of a favor without conditions, at your discretion, has some value to you?”

“Of course.  But there are always conditions.”

“My only interest is your position regarding Baroness Isily.”

“Isily?  I haven’t seen her since her wedding. I hear she is bearing that bastard’s brat, now.”

“So you have not set her on a mission concerning me?”

“No.  She’s been semi-retired since . . . since Timberwatch.  After such a success she got a few easy missions and then was allowed to leave active service.  She still helps with training, from what I understand, but her only job is to make babies, keep Dunselen under control, and keep you under watch.”

“So you are spying on me.”

“Of course.  Are you not spying on me?” she asked.

I was taken aback.  “Not at the moment.  Why?  Should I be?”

“You’re an idiot if you don’t.  I’m dangerous, Spellmonger.  Don’t you know that?  You should be watching us all, if you have a brain under that pointed hat.  We set Isily to watch you because she had the best chance to stay close to you.  Particularly after your past relationship.  But that was all she was supposed to do.  Honestly, we haven’t even heard much of a report on that.  I think the last one was from a month ago, maybe two.  Your little fair?”

“Yes, she was there, and we did . . . speak,” I said, swallowing.  “But she was acting more like an operative than a passive observer.  I think she has plans concerning me,” I offered.

“Oh, she surely does,” she agreed with unpleasant enthusiasm.  “She’s obsessed by you, Spellmonger.  Your power, your features, your position – she thinks you will be the greatest mage in history, someday.  She fully intends on being the one by your side when that happens.  Totally obsessed,” she said, nodding thoughtfully.

That was chilling news.  I suppressed a shiver.  “I got that impression.  So if you and the Family aren’t behind what she’s doing . . .”

“She’s acting independently,” Rardine nodded.  “For her own purposes.  I think she sets her sights too low, but then she’s merely a Magelord.  There isn’t much selection.  Even then she has options in your profession.  I mean, why would she consent to marry a dud like Dunselen when there are so many handsome, strapping warmagi running around?  Rich ones, too.”

That . . . was an excellent question.  One I didn’t have an answer to, beyond what Isily had told me.

“If she continues, I may have to take action,” I warned.  “I wanted to let you and the Family know why, before I did.”

“She’s on her own, as far as Mother is concerned.  She was paid off and allowed to retire to her reward.  The last thing she wants to do right now is ruffle your feathers, not with so much unrest.  Mother was quite cross with Tavard for being stern with you over last summer.  But he’s an arse and insisted on his ‘ducal privilege’, and she let him get away with it.  Sorry,” she added.  “I didn’t think you deserved that.”

“Thanks,” I shrugged.  “It was his right.  He could have done something worse.  I pissed him off.  I knew that there would be consequences.  I don’t try to avoid them.”

“Then you have more honor than most lords,” she reflected.  “But you have also made a powerful opponent in Tavard.  My brother is not the sharpest sword in the armory, but he is not stupid.  Nor is he humble.  Now that he is the Prince Heir, he is jealous of his position in the way that only the most irritating of courtiers are.  Pray do not cross him again, lest he let his temper guide his policies.”

“I appreciate the warning, Highness,” I said, rising.  “And do remember my offer.  It was made in all sincerity.  I do not wish to see you pushed into the margins.  I may not particularly like your style, but I respect your wit and am sympathetic to your plight.  In the future, perhaps we can help each other.”

She frowned.  “You don’t like . . . my style?” she asked, accusingly.  I thought she was going to get angry, but instead she just looked sad.

“It’s nothing personal, Highness,” I said, realizing belatedly my mistake.  “Considering our introduction, and subsequent events, it has made me wary of you.  You are dangerous, after all, Highness.  Your style reflects that.”

She frowned, then drained her wine.  “Thank you for coming by, Spellmonger,” she sighed, gloomily.  “Believe it or not, you’ve been the nicest caller I’ve had since I returned from Remere.”

*

*

I reflected on my conversations with Lady Arnet and Princess Rardine as we walked back across the bailey toward the Court Wizard’s tower.  If the Family was not behind Isily’s machinations, and she was, as suggested by those who knew her best, obsessed with me, then I had a problem.  And not one that would wait indefinitely for my attention.  I was acutely aware of how far along Isily was in her pregnancy.  She would give birth sometime this summer, Trygg willing.  And whatever she was after would likely happen directly after that.

I was limited in the things I could do about it.  I really needed more information.

“Master, is all wizard business this boring?” Ruderal asked.  “All we’ve done is walk around and talk to people.”

“This isn’t strictly wizard business, this is Magelord business,” I chuckled.  “But as you are apprenticed to a Magelord, it is best you see the boring bits as much as the exciting bits.”

“I suppose you are right,” he said, a little sulkily.  “Who was that woman you spoke to?”

“She was the Princess of Castalshar.  I needed to pay my respects.”

“That’s not all you were doing, was it?” he asked.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because your pattern tells me that you wanted her to answer questions, and she did.  You wanted her to be friends with you, and now she is.”

I stopped abruptly.  “You can see such things casually?”

“Oh, it isn’t hard,” he shrugged.  “I just do it.”

I regarded him carefully.  “You, my lad, have the makings of a very, very powerful wizard.  And perhaps a very dangerous man.”

“I don’t want to be dangerous,” he said, shaking his head.

“Really?  Most boys want to be dangerous.”

“I’ve seen dangerous boys.  They usually end up dead.”

“You make a compelling point.  So what do you want to be, Ruderal?”

He squished up his face and shrugged.  “I don’t know.  Until a few months ago I just wanted to eat and keep my mother safe.  Then I just wanted to stay alive.  Now . . . I still enjoy eating,” he said, in all seriousness, “but I’m starting to really like magic.  The exciting parts, like riding on hawks or going through the Ways.  Not the boring walking-around-talking-to-princesses parts.”

“So what do you think you’d like to do when you grow up?  Assuming you master magic, like you’re supposed to.”

“Doesn’t that mean I’m going to me a mage?”

“Well, there are magi, and then there are magi,” I pointed out.  “The Talent we’re given and the training we receive to make it useful make us magi, but what we do with those gifts is up to us.  Ideally, we use them to the best of our ability to make the lives of our fellow men better.  That’s what I do.  Conversely, we can exploit them to make money and gather power.”

“Don’t you do that, too?” he pointed out.

“Actually, yes,” I affirmed with a smile.  “The two are not mutually exclusive.  But you can be just about any kind of mage, from a beastmaster to a spellmonger to a scholar to a footwizard.  It all depends on your talent and your desire.”

“I like doing things and making things,” he shrugged.  “I liked fishing.  There were seamagi back home.  The ships employed them on long voyages, and they cast spells on them to help them steer and get home safe.”

“Would you like to be a seamage?”

“I . . . not really,” he said, shaking his head.  “I’m not a sailor.  Oh, I can use a boat, just like anyone.  But that was for fishing, for food.  I enjoyed the mountains more.  I really like Sevendor,” he said, enthusiastically.

“Well, good.  It is your home now.  And for as long as you like.  It’s good that you like making things, because that is what I’m focused on, right now.  That’s why I wanted you to find the best possible pattern in the Grain of Pors.  I’m building things, Ruderal, I’m building things that have never been built before.  With your help, we can make some mighty wonders in this world.  Does that sound appealing?”

“Beats fishing,” he agreed.

“No doubt it does.  Are you ready to get back home?”  He nodded enthusiastically.  It was nearly supper time.  And he still liked to eat.

I dropped him off by Waypoint at the Diketower and watched him walk back to Boval Hall before indulging in another jaunt directly back to my own tower.  Master Ulin, Onranion and Azhguri were there, drinking my wine again.

“Minalan!” Onranion said, his voice barely betraying how many bottles he’d worked through.  “So glad you joined us!  I think we’ve had a bit of a breakthrough.”

“What kind of breakthrough?  Pour me one, will you?  I’ve been playing politics all day.”

“A foul and distasteful art,” the Alkan agreed, gracefully snagging one of my empty cups and filling it.  “But back to more pure designs.  We think we’ve come up with a way to do something interesting with this fascinating rock collection you have.”

“I’m still enjoying my collection,” I said, warily, as I took a sip.  “What do you want to do with it?”

“Not all of it, just a few of the most valuable parts.  We want to . . . well, aggregate them.”

“To what purpose?” I asked, curious.

“To see what would happen,” Onranion shrugged.  “I have a few theories I want to test.”

“I’d like to hear them, before handing over my most powerful items to you,” I said.

“Oh, of course, of course, my boy.  The idea is really yours – or at least the experiments you did suggested it, and good Master Ulin here, who is quite knowledgeable about such things for a mortal, asked us our opinion on the subject, and one thing led to another, and we decided to make some sketches.”

“I thought you were working on the medical baculus project?”

“I was, Excellency,” the enchanter assured me, excitedly.  “I was tempering the lenses in the Everfire, as you so kindly arranged, and during my test runs I noticed something interesting.  Reviewing your notes on the ceramic essays you did, I had a leap of inspiration—”

“You were in the middle of Briga’s temple, in front of the Everfire,” I pointed out.  “That’s kind of her stock-in-trade.”

“Well, the goddess came through.  I tried a new mixture, at a new temperature, adding some reagents I suspected might prove useful.”  He went on to describe the results of the experiment, going into highly technical detail over his arcane reasoning.  I had to admit, while some of it was pretty subtle and obscure, even in light of my recent study on enchantment, I realized what he was proposing.  And the implications.

“That would be . . . amazing, if you could pull it off,” I said, stroking my beard.  “That could change everything.”

“It’s never been done, in the lore of the Alon, to my knowledge.  And I have a lot of knowledge.”

“Perhaps the Sea Folk have attempted such a thing, though it would seem outside their nature.  They do not pride themselves in such creations, preferring to rely on the great leviathans for their magic.  This power, if it manifests as we believe, could rival even theirs.  That, lad, is a lot of power,” Azhguri said, reverently.

“In truth, I’m not certain your mortal mind could handle it,” Onranion suggested.  “Not without augmenting and protecting it, first.  And the skill to perform such a work on a humani is rare.  I can think of only one or two Alkan masters who would even consider it.  And there’s no telling what it would do to your mind.  It could drive you mad.  Indeed, you’d be mad to make the attempt, if you value your reason.”

“That is open to question.  But the result . . .”

“Only if you manage to secure an enneagram sufficiently complex enough to act as a paraclete,” reminded Azhguri, doubt and reservation in his voice.  “Otherwise this entire enterprise is completely theoretical.”

“Oh, I think I have that,” I said, casually.  All three of them sat bolt upright, startled.

“You what?  When?” Onranion asked, his eyes wide.

“Actually, it’s ’who’: my new apprentice, Ruderal,” I explained.  “He has a knack for such things.  He delved into the Grain and found what we needed, I believe.  I still have to confirm it, and then make preparations for transfer, but if what he says is true, we’ve located an enneagram with sufficient complexity and familiarity with magic to be an ideal interface.”

“You mean . . . we could actually do this?” Ulin asked, his eyes wide with wonder.

“It appears we have the constituent components, theoretically,” admitted Azhguri, after thinking about it.  “But there is still a lot of calculation to be done.  If you try this – really try this – you’re only going to be able to do it once.  There is little room for error.”

“The whole idea is amazingly novel – only a humani mind could conceive of it,” Onranion agreed.  “The amount of preparation we’ll need to do is enormous.  And if my people found out about this, they would all die of scandal on the spot,” he added, delighted at the prospect.

“The question is, will it be enough to challenge the Dead God?” I asked.  “That is the great question hovering over this entire enterprise.”

“It would,” Onranion considered.  “If what you’ve told me about the Abomination’s capacities is correct.  But much would depend upon how such a contest came about.  There is no predicting how he has improved his powers with his study of the molopor.”

“Is not the Snowflake a sufficient challenge to that?” I countered.

“That is yet to be seen,” Onranion shrugged.  “We’re dealing with unknowns within unknowables, wrapped in conjecture and speculation.  Just my sort of party,” he grinned.

“This is my brain we’re talking about,” I objected.  “This is not a party.  If the Alka Alon cannot challenge Shereul, and the gods themselves fear the attempt, then it falls to me to find a way.  If you think this is a way, then I am willing to risk it.  But you had better be damned certain your calculations are correct.”

“Oh, we’ll give it our absolute best attempt,” assured Azhguri.  “We wouldn’t want Alya upset with us.”

“Oh, no,” agreed Onranion, solemnly.  “She would not approve of shoddy work.”

“My lords, you make a very astute argument,” nodded Ulin.

“My wife?” I demanded.  “You’re speaking of me risking madness—”

“Or death,” interrupted Onranion.  “Did we not mention that part?”

I ignored him.  Honestly, I thought death was implied.  “To forge a weapon that could defeat our greatest foe and usher in a new age of magic, and the only thing you’re really worried about is offending my wife?”

“Well, lad,” Azhguri said, stroking his beard nervously.  “If this goes sour, then you’ll be a corpse or have the mind of a potato, so there’s really no concern about your reaction.  But the Lady of Sevendor?  None wish to invite her displeasure.  So we’ll give the calculations our very best attention.”

*

*

I was stumbling across the yard to my hall, ready to crawl into bed and likely irritate my wife to no end – an idea which apparently frightened some of the most powerful magi in Sevendor – when Sir Festaran caught up with me.

“Excellency!” he called in the darkness.  “I have been looking for you!  I heard you had returned to the Diketower, so I rode down there only to find you had left.”

“Sorry,” I said, a little guiltily. “I should have checked in.  What’s the problem?  Are the Tal rebelling?”

“No, Sire,” he said, ignoring the joke.  “Master Dranus succeeded in casting a spell on Sir Ganulan that repaired his memory, finally.”

“That is good news,” I said, halfheartedly.  Now that Lorcus had legal possession of Rolone, Ganulan’s usefulness had declined.  Perhaps if there was an inquiry he might have to testify, but I considered that unlikely.  Still, as annoying as he’d proven to me, I didn’t bear him ill will.

“Sire, there’s more,” Festaran added.  “He wishes to speak to you, personally, now that his head has cleared.”

“I have no doubt he does,” I chuckled.  The magemarks on his cheeks had been a constant reminder of his loss of power and position for the last three years.  I imagined he had all sorts of things he wanted to say to me in person.

“Nay, Excellency, he has intelligence,” Festaran said, insistently.  “Intelligence about the war.  Things that he says you must hear.”

“About the war?  What sort of things?” I asked, curious.  “Sendaria has already started its advance across Sashtalia’s frontier, from what I understand.  And Rolone has fallen.  Whatever it is Ganulan thinks he has to tell me is likely moot.”

“Excellency, that’s the wrong war,” Festaran said.  “Sir Ganulan apparently worked with the mercenaries hired to attack Amel Wood for several months.  During that time he learned things regarding their operations and particularly some of their agents that concerned him.  He was considering deserting their company and seeking higher authority, he says.  You, in particular, despite his antipathy.  He thinks they guessed his motive and so attacked him unawares during the Amel Wood raid, bewitching his mind and leaving him for dead.”

“Are you certain you can trust him?” I asked, skeptically.

“Sire, while Ganulan’s general character . . . questionable,” he admitted, choosing his words carefully, “I find him yet a man of honor, fallen to low estate by temperament and circumstance. We might be opponents, and he feels bitterly about Sevendor, but I estimate that he is speaking sincerely and truthfully about this.  Indeed, it pains him to be of such assistance to us.”

“So what does he have to say?” I demanded.  “What is this intelligence that he carries?”

“He will not reveal it to me in its entirety, despite – or perhaps because of – our long acquaintance.  But he did tell me a single name he said would elicit your interest. Lady Mask.”

I couldn’t stifle my laugh.  “Lady Mask?  That pint-size warmage we defeated last summer?  He’s still half-mad, then.  She was stripped of her witchstone and reduced to impotency after our little battle.  I witnessed her keep slighted myself, and her estate ruined.  Her dark masters do not tolerate failure among their human auxiliaries.”

“That is what Sir Ganulan is telling us, Excellency, if I’m not mistaken.  Lady Mask is alive and well.  More, she has made alliance with some of your enemies, and works at some secret purpose against you.”

“Lady Mask?  Alive and well?”

“And working against you, Excellency,” he repeated, concerned.  “Indeed, if what the dishonored knight says is true . . . she has been in the Bontal Vales for months, preparing some wicked plot.  If he is to be believed, she has been haunting Sevendor, itself!”

Part Four

Chapter Thirty One

Sir Ganulan’s Tale

Sir Ganulan was being held at Brestal Tower, the small keep the garrison used for training, storage, and, when needed, a prison.  He was familiar with the place- he’d once illegally controlled the estate, and it wasn’t his first term as prisoner there, either.  There were some dark, dank cells under the keep, but due to his wound and his rank Festaran had placed him in the upper chamber of the square tower, instead.  While it was hardly opulent, it was clean and neat and warm, compared to the cells below.

Ganulan was stretched out on a pallet, covered in a blanket, despite the warmth of the day, his hands over his bandaged abdomen.  When I walked in, he glared at me, the mark I’d placed on his face bright red against his pale face.

“Spellmonger,” he hissed, weakly.

“Sir Ganulan,” I nodded, finding a stool and taking a seat next to his bed.  “I hear your wits have been restored.”

“But not yet my fortitude,” he noted.  “I was finally permitted bread with my broth, this morning.”

“You had a nasty wound,” I said, nodding to the bandage wrapped around his middle.  “Not many survive a belly wound.  You certainly weren’t intended to.”

“And I have you to thank for that,” he said, not sounding the least bit grateful.

“It seemed the right thing to do at the time,” I reasoned.  “I was hoping you could answer some questions.”

“I probably can,” he agreed.  “You realize that’s not my natural inclination.”

“You have cause to hate me, after losing your home, your family, and your patrimony,” I agreed, evenly.  “Yet I have spared your life – twice, now – and even seen your father given an honorable post.  I am not your enemy, Ganulan.”

“You are hardly my friend, Spellmonger,” he said, with acid in his voice.

“Yet clearly we need each other.  I saved your life because I need to know about the raiders in Amel Wood.”

I expected another sarcastic retort, but instead Ganulan threw back his head and laughed.

“Amel Wood?  You’re concerned with Amel Wood?  That scrap of nothing is the least of your concerns, Spellmonger!  You have no idea what is about to happen to you!”

He was sincerely amused, not dissembling, I could tell.

“So what is about to happen to me?”

“Why should I tell you?” he demanded.

“We’ve established that we need each other.  You are my prisoner.  And clearly you’ve already decided to tell me, otherwise you would not have sent for me so urgently.  Either you have real intelligence of value, or you are playing a game.  I urge you to decide where your best interests lie, and act on that.”

That calmed his laughter, but did little to stem his antipathy.  Ganulan gave me a calculated stare before continuing.

“Fine.  I shall have to depend on your magnanimous nature, Sir, for which I despise you all the more.”

“You needn’t like me,” I nodded.  “But speak freely, if you value your freedom.”

“I have spent the last three years wandering the backcountry of the Bontal Vales, skipping from one mountain domain to another, thanks to this damned magemark on my face.  I took the bandit’s trade to support myself when other occupation was elusive, but soon I discovered the market for those who wish to have your snowstone, but do not wish to pay your high prices for it.”

“You were the one who started mining snowstone at Taragwen,” I recalled.

“Yes, and it was quite a lucrative trade, before your apprentices and that godsdamn traitor Festaran put a stop to it.  By that time I already had a goodly supply put away, but they pressed me for my business partners, so that revenue was denied to me.

“However, though my contact was no longer willing to engage me, one of his clients sought me out to see if there was any more snowstone available.  I had cached around four hundred pounds of it in my lair, and was eager to capitalize on it.  I met his agent, we made the transaction, and I personally oversaw delivery.  That’s when I met the warmage, Dyvors.  After I was paid and we were about to go our separate ways, he asked if I was interested in more work – the kind of work most knights will not do,” he emphasized.

“More banditry?”

“More like an insurgency,” he corrected.  “He suggested that there might be coin available for a man who had intimate knowledge of the Spellmonger’s doings.  He thought my familiarity with the region would be helpful, so I agreed.  I hate you, after all,” he said, casually.  “I gladly embarked on spying on you.  I reported back every few months, took my purse, and went back into the wild.

“Then six months ago I was approached by Dyvors for more robust work.  He wanted me to assemble a squadron of mercenaries – more like a bandit troupe – for some fell work his master intended to see done in the region.  I had no issue with that – if he wanted to pay me to make war on the Spellmonger, my blade was otherwise uncommitted.  I found the thugs and cutthroats I needed throughout Sashtalia – some of my father’s old friends allowed me to stay there, despite my dishonor, out of respect for him.  Soon I had two dozen men in my camp.”

“What did you do with them?”

“At first, we merely gathered information.  Dyvors had very specific questions about Sevendor, some that took real work to discover the answer to.  But the silver kept coming, so we kept delivering.  Then Dyvors began having us conduct small raids, waylaying travelers on the road who were headed to Sevendor.  Artisans and pilgrims, mostly.  I knew not for what they were seeking, but I engaged in the rough trade well enough.

“It seemed a petty way to make war on a man, I recall thinking at the time,” he said, glancing at the pitcher of water on the table near his bed.  I quickly poured him a glass and handed it to him.  He took it with a glance of gratitude and sipped, before continuing.  “But if my employer wanted to pay me to rob carpenters and torment pilgrims on the road, it was an easy enough trade.

“After a few months of this sport Dyvors returned with others and announced a change in our policies; thenceforth, we would be commanded by a warmage.  A woman of small stature but lithe and powerful.  One who wore a concealing veil under her helm.”

“Lady Mask,” I said, recognizing the description.

“She was introduced to us as Flyndrig, an Alshari warmage.  She was clearly in command of Dyvors, and treated him like a lieutenant.  Me she treated like an ancient, despite my rank and my toil in constructing the weapon she wanted in my squadron.  She took control of the company, despite my objections, but she proved her worth soon enough.  We embarked on a two-week campaign of suppression amongst the Sashtali back country, where the peasantry and petty nobility were resisting Sashtalia’s banner call.”

“So she was working for Sire Trefalan,” I reasoned.

“No, Trefalan was unaware of her and my band,” he said, shaking his head.  “She had contacts among the domain lords of Rolone, Pirine, and Avanal.  Perhaps other places.  I know she took commissions from Sire Cullien,” he admitted.  “But ultimately she was working to pull you and Sevendor into the war between Sashtalia and Sendaria, even as Trefalan was trying desperately to keep you out of it.  So whomever she was speaking to within Sashtalia, it was not at Trefalan’s direction, I think.”

“That does make sense,” I agreed.

“Regardless of her contact in Sashtalia, they made arrangements to have our band based in a camp near an inn in southern Rolone.  Near the Granite Tower.  From there we prepared to strike at Sevendor’s environs . . . when you went and purchased the loyalties of six of the domains we were to be based from.  That took Flyndrig completely by surprise,” he recalled, fondly.  “She was livid, when the news spread after the Feast of Duin.  She begged her contact in Rolone for permission to assault the rebel domains in retaliation, but was overruled.  That was when she secured permission for the raid on Amel Wood.”

“So she was kept from raiding by someone,” I nodded.  “It seems she is not entirely without a master, then.”

“More of a confederate,” he said, sipping more water.  “Another woman, I believe.  For when the tale of the six domains’ disloyalty was heard, she furiously used her magic to speak with her partner, which I chanced to overhear.  That was when I first heard her referred to as ‘Lady Mask’, not Flyndrig.”

“How did you overhear such a conversation?” I asked.  “And just what device did she employ to speak to her partner?”

“One of those magic mirrors you make.  She had at least two, from what I could see.  It was a heated exchange, and though I did not hear the name of her partner, another name was spoken that caught my ear: Dunselen.”

So Lady Mask was working in concert with Isily.  That did not bode well.

“I overheard that first conversation by accident; thenceforth I made a point of lingering near Flyndrig to discover more of her plots.  I was suspicious of her cavalier attitude towards me and my men.  I’ve been around enough commanders of common thugs to know when they saw their men as disposable, and Flyndrig had that attitude.  I was wary.  A few nights after that, she was again speaking to her partner on her Mirror in the dead of night, while she was on watch.  She assumed we were all asleep, but I had dozed in anticipation of such a communication, and feigned sleep to overhear.

“That was when much of her plan was revealed to me.  She spoke first of an upcoming attack on Amel Wood, of which I was unaware.  Then she proceeded to question her partner of other plots; particularly one involving Sevendor, itself.”

“Now we come to the meat of the feast,” I nodded.  “Pray continue.”

“Against my inclination, I shall,” he agreed, reluctantly.  “The conversation concerned several operations they had planned.  It was difficult to tell which was which, for they often spoke in code and ambiguities, as such folk are used to in order to protect their schemes.  But I learned that one of them concerned an assault on Sevendor Castle, itself.  A grand assault, which was originally planned while you were away at war with Sashtalia.  As that was frustrated, they were searching for a more auspicious time for their attack – one which saw you away from your home and unable to protect it.”

“To what purpose?” I demanded, sharply.

“I know not, specifically,” he admitted, “but it involved the slaughter of your kin, at the very least.  Flyndrig has an especial desire to see you suffer.  One of the things which we found ourselves in common, as we sat around the campfire,” he said, touching the magemark on his face.

“The gods often provide good company for such strong passions,” I said, dryly.

“But I concede that her hatred of you was superior.  There are things which even a disgraced and dishonored knight cannot bring himself to do – things involving children,” he said, distastefully.  “She fully intended to see your brats dead, and your wife slain in a most horrific fashion.  Listening to her delight in the horrific vision she described was appalling, Sir, even for one who despises you as much as I.”

“That is to your credit, then, Sir Ganulan,” I said respectfully.  “But did you learn anything else?  When they were planning this attack, for instance?”

“The annexation of the mountain domains altered their planning,” he reported.  “They were searching for a better opportunity, and had not yet selected one.  Yet it was clear that they had worked out a stratagem that would allow them unrestricted entry into Sevendor.  It was also clear that Flyndrig had personally inspected the castle grounds and probed for weaknesses.”  I suppressed a shudder at the thought of that murderous bitch freely wandering around my home.

“But your death, apparently, was not part of the bargain.  Flyndrig argued incessantly that you needed to die – which I had a hard time arguing with – but her partner forbade it.  She had some sort of hold over Flyndrig, one which the warmage resented.  And they mentioned others who were devoted to their cause, other missions and other operations.  I was not able to hear any details, save that they spanned the length of the kingdom and involved many different agents.”

“Did you learn who the author of this plot was?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head.  “Whomever they work for, it is someone of great power.  A patron, of sorts, in whose grand design they both confessed their ignorance.  But also their fear of retribution, if they failed.”

I tried to think who could be behind such a thing – certainly not Dunselen.  The very thought of the old fool being their secret master was laughable.  But that would have been preferable to the alternatives.

I had no lack of enemies even after I’d eliminated the Family – the Knights of Nablus, the Brotherhood of the Rat, and of course the Dead God and his minions.  Hell, there may be others I wasn’t aware of.  I had barely been aware of Ganulan’s antipathy, though it had consumed his life.  There was no telling who else I had inadvertently pissed off.  The list of people I’d pissed off on purpose was long enough.

The only force I was aware of who might have the means to compel both Isily and Lady Mask to action, and then restrict their movements, was Shereul.  He had barely stirred in the last few years as his folk consolidated their hold over the Umbralands.  His greatest military attempt had ended in qualified disaster, and his forces were weak and in disarray.  Striking at me through infiltration and sabotage, assassination and subversion would seem like a cheaper way to come at me, I realized.

“Was there anything else?” I asked.

“Yes,” he admitted, grudgingly.  “There was a specific purpose to the attack, beyond petty vengeance and terror.  They were after something in particular.  I know not what, but they ascribed its acquisition as of extreme importance, enough that any other goal in the conduct of the mission was secondary and expendable.  Some item of great arcane power that their mutual master coveted beyond all else.”

I thought about my treasury of wonders, and imagined which of the artifacts therein their target was.  It could be any of them, depending on their purpose.

“Did you ever see Flyndrig with a witchstone?”

“Oh, aye,” chuckled Ganulan.  “She waved that bloody sorcerous rock under our nose often enough.  ‘A gift from an admirer’ was all she would say,” he said, half in fear and half in admiration.  “As they closed their conversation, she referenced it again, and hinted at a collection of the things the conspiracy was compiling.”

That didn’t bode well, either.  “To what purpose?”

“Some great magical spell,” he dismissed.  “Had they spoken of it openly I would not have had the wit to know of what they were speaking.  All I know is that the next morning, when she announced the attack on Amel Wood, I took her aside and questioned her.  That’s when I revealed, in my folly, my knowledge of her war name, Lady Mask.  She threatened me with dire consequences if I ever spoke of it.

“Then after our business was done at the village, and I was pursuing the villeins through the forest, she rode after me.  I turned to hear her commands and took a crossbow quarrel in my gut as my payment.  As I stared up at her in my confusion, she unleashed some vile curses on me and followed it with her bewitchment.  That was the last I recall before I regained my wit.  And that is all the intelligence I have for you, Spellmonger.”

I thought for a few moments, digging my pipe out while I considered all he had revealed.  He stared at me with undisguised hatred.

“You have done me a boon, whether it was your intent or not.  I cannot help but think your gratitude at your rescue is your motive.”

“I was shot in the gut and abandoned for dead, raving out of my head like a madman,” the young knight said, his eyes full of rage.  “Regardless of your crimes against me and my house, Spellmonger, you never treated me so poorly.  I will slay that bitch,” he vowed, “slay her slowly, if I get the chance.”

“That may prove more difficult than you might imagine,” I pointed out.

“More difficult than making war on the Spellmonger by myself?” he countered.  “Believe me, Excellency, when I commit to a course of action, I do not falter.”

I couldn’t argue with that.

“So that alone compelled you to share your intelligence?  You could seek vengeance without betraying her plans.”

“Yet spoiling her work after her betrayal is what I can do for the moment, as I recover,” he pointed out.  “It will be months before I will be able to hold a sword again.  And no doubt I am destined for a cell the moment I am pronounced fit.”

I considered his situation.  He could not return to his outlaws, not after they’d left him for dead, and there was no one to ransom him too.  His allies in Sashtalia were all deployed, and he was not yet fit for travel.  Imprisoning him served little purpose, save to keep him out of mischief.

“You have done me and Sevendor a great boon, as I said.  For that I can grant you this, at least,” I said, and removed the magemark from his face with a wave of my hand.  “Your debt to me is paid, and you are no longer outlawed in my lands.”  Before he could react, or say something stupid, I continued.  “You have proven yourself a capable and doughty knight, Sir Ganulan.  Despite your hatred of me, I bear you no ill will for what you have done.  In your way you have proven very useful to me.  And it would be dishonorable to repay that utility with malice.

“So, if you pledge an oath that you will take up no arms nor pursue no malicious action against me and my domain, I think we can put this feud behind us.  We live in a very different world than when your father was lord of the vales, and you were an important bastard.  For good or ill, that world is gone.  There may yet be a place for you in this new world, if you would have it.”

“I will not serve the Spellmonger willingly!” he barked, his resentment still fresh.

“In time you may reconsider,” I shrugged.  “But until then I think I can arrange for a post and position that will satisfy both of our causes.”

“Does it involve me in a darkened cell?” he asked, warily.

“No.  It is an honorable position fitting your rank, if not one of great importance.  Nor would you be answerable to me.  The domain of Taragwen, of which you are familiar, now lies in the hands of the Estasi Order of Knights Magi.  Your old companion Sir Festaran is the steward of that order; yet in the absence of Sire Cei he has been occupied with running Sevendor.  I think I could persuade him to allow you to recuperate in safety there, as the tenant lord for the manor on behalf of the order.”

“And what would I have to do?”

“Mostly maintain the keep, oversee the defenses . . . and guard the outcropping of snowstone you formerly exploited from others who seek to do likewise.  I would imagine you are uniquely qualified to see to its security.  I need to ensure that no more is mined and sold than I permit.”

“Guarding that is easy – few know where it is.  And your knights enchanted the area to make it near impossible to discover, now.  That is work I could do,” he admitted, sounding a little defeated.

“It is an honorable post, and I’m certain we can arrange a stipend.  You would of course enjoy the privileges of position as a tenant lord would.  It is not a large domain, but the village runs itself and the hall is comfortable enough.”

“I will consider it,” he agreed, after some hard thought.  “I mislike owing you a debt.”

“You don’t.  I’m merely making a suggestion, a connection.  You don’t owe me a thing.  Rest, heal, go to Taragwen and consider what you wish to do in life.  It may well occur to you that spending it pursuing vengeance against me keeps you from following more fruitful pursuits.”

*

*

I walked home from Brestal Tower, though it was a long way.  I could have used the Ways and been there in a moment, but I honestly didn’t want the headache.  More importantly, I needed to think.  In my experience a long walk in solitude provides an excellent opportunity for introspection.

The news about Lady Mask’s survival and subsequent alliance with Isily was deeply troubling.  I thought I’d left the renegade warmage defeated, humiliated, and slated for execution by her goblin masters.  Instead I find her in league with a rival, scheming to assassinate my wife, and haunting the very limits of my home.  The idea that she had gotten close to Alya, and she wanted her dead . . .

But not me.  Because she had orders.

That was even more troubling, because such a conspiracy seemed far more sophisticated than I would expect from the gurvani – or an enraged renegade warmage.  Even Isily’s role in it did not seem right.  She had taken what she wanted from me.  What more could she wish?  And why had she felt constrained?

Of course there was no clear answer to that until I knew the plot in detail.  Ganulan had called them partners, but there were discrepancies in the idea that Isily and Mask were coequal, here.  Isily wanted me alive, and had prevailed; while Mask wanted me dead as much as Ganulan had.  And Mask was the one here while Isily was hundreds of miles away . . . or was she?

Damn!  There was still far too much I didn’t know about this situation.  Ganulan had given me a hint, but not enough for me to take action.   As I trudged up the road toward Boval Village, I reflected on what I did know.

Firstly, the aim of the conspiracy was to take something from me, something important and powerful.  A few years ago I might have assumed it was the witchsphere or my cache of irionite.  But both magi in the conspiracy already had witchstones, and apparently had access to more. That was a security issue right there.

They could simply be after snowstone, of course, but that wouldn’t require a complicated plot.  I had a lot more that they could be after: the crystals from the mountain.  The scrolls and texts I’d gathered.  All of the wondrous enchantments I’d been developing.  There was the chance that they were making an attempt on the Snowflake – Isily was quite aware of it – but it was unmovable.  You couldn’t exactly stick it under your cloak.

They also needed me to be gone before they moved.  That told me that whatever it was they were after was something I kept around me, but not on my person. That didn’t exactly narrow it down.  It could still be any one of a thousand treasures.  I was suddenly extremely paranoid.

They were also both agreed on an attack on Alya.  I could understand both motives, if what the Princess had told me about Isily was true – and Ishi had confirmed.  Isily loved me obsessively.  And Lady Mask hated me passionately.  Passionately enough to make me suffer by killing my love.  I could not see Mask being willing to settle for anything less than my death.  If anything, killing me should make stealing my things far easier.

There had to be a third player in the conspiracy, I reasoned.  Someone who had leverage against both of the madwomen who were in league against me.  It couldn’t be Dunselen—

Could it?

I’d always dismissed the man as an old fool, an adept administrator who had desired power beyond his ability or capacity.  A scholar, of sorts, if you count the kind of obscure and obtuse minutia of magic that had little or no effect on how the profession was actually practiced.

But what if it was all a ruse?  What if Dunselen had played the fool only to hide his true motives?  I tried to think of our past encounters and recall any hint of secret genius . . . and drew a blank.  If he was hiding it, he was a far, far better wizard than I gave him credit for.

No, I decided, barring some information to prove the contrary, the more I thought about it the more I concluded that Dunselen was a dupe.  A willing dupe, who felt his marriage to the beautiful shadowmage gave him position, power, and a bastard heir – but a dupe.

From what I could tell, his only malicious act toward me had been to bury me in business and policy proposals to be addressed at this summer’s Conclave.  You can take the Court Wizard out of the office, but you can’t take the office out of the Court Wizard, I mused, as I walked between the Diketower and Boval Village.  That’s where the newly cobbled road the Gurismen had laid began.

Failing Dunselen, the third conspirator had to be an agent of Shereul, I reasoned.  Perhaps one of my other foes, known or unknown, but Shereul certainly had enough to gain by challenging me.  Only . . . would he not want me dead?

A dead Spellmonger would certainly help his ailing cause, while a grief-stricken, rage-filled Spellmonger could spell trouble.  I wasn’t an expert on gurvani psychology, but they were smart enough to see a straightforward benefit to their strongest and most committed opposition dead.  They weren’t usually subtle enough to see past that sort of thing.

So that left me back where I was before: frustrated with not enough answers.

One thing I could do was tighten up security.  The war between Sendaria and Sashtalia offered enough of an excuse for things like increasing guards, but I needed to make certain that my valuables were secure.

Most of them were locked away in the Kennel, a secret cavern in the Westwood, but there were plenty scattered around my tower, the workshops, the Manufactory, the Enchanter’s Guild, Dranus’ tower . . . the more I thought about it, the more I realized how sloppy I’d gotten.  Isily had walked right into the deepest hole in the mountain – though I had to admit she was a trained shadowmage, schooled in obfuscating magic.  And Lady Mask had been in Sevendor.  Of course I had never seen her face, during our battle in Alshar, so I could pass her in the street and never know it.

That was frustrating.  I could hide my valuables and double the guards, but how could I protect myself from people who could elude such things with impunity?

As I passed by Gurisham I paused my thinking about grand conspiracies and indulged in watching the children of the villeins playing in the newly-cleared lot next to the roadside.  There were twice as many as there had been when I’d first come here.  The kids were cleaner, better-fed, without the sharp cheekbones of malnutrition any more.  Their homes were far better than the huts they’d been born in.

The hedge and ditch that surrounded the hamlet was neatly-trimmed and the gardens outside of each home were starting to sprout.  This late in the day most of the men were still in the fields weeding, while the women were working on their vegetable gardens, or churning, or spinning out in the common area between their homes.

These people were secure and prosperous.  While I was worried about my jewels and my power, these were the people who would really suffer if I failed.  I couldn’t forget that.  My family was vital to me, but these families I’d become responsible for were no less valuable.  I’d spent a fortune rather than be lured into sending them into a pointless war.  I didn’t want them to suffer because I couldn’t get a handle on my responsibilities.  Or my personal life.

I kept walking, and resumed considering.  I had very few options, beyond tightening security.  I simply did not know enough to act.

But as I walked into town I started looking at the situation more proactively.  I needed to learn who was behind this, and I wasn’t going to just sit here and wait for things to happen.  I had to find a way to draw Mask out and compel her to answer my questions, or at the very least eliminate her as a threat.

The more I thought about it, the more ideas came to me.  By the time I was walking down the High Street, past the Alembic, I found my feet taking me inside.

I was thirsty.  And I had the beginnings of a plan.

Chapter Thirty Two

Sir Cullien Returns To Rolone

It’s never a good idea to wake up to a crisis.

Minalan, we have a problem, Lord Lorcus informed me, mind-to-mind, mere moments after I arose the next morning.  Sir Cullien was spotted at the frontier of Rolone at the head of a column of a hundred men-at-arms.  He’s flying a truce flag, from the report, but he’s girded for war.

That is a problem, I admitted, sleepily.  How long until he gets to Rolone Castle?

He’ll be here just after noon, if he keeps a goodly pace.  I’m guessing this concerns the message I sent him concerning his former domain’s change in management.  I’ve only got about twenty, twenty-five men here at the moment.  Some baronial support would be helpful, I think.

I understand, I replied sleepily.  I’ll arrive around noon.  Shall I bring reinforcements?

I don’t think that will be necessary, he decided, after thought.  If he wants to attack under a flag of truce, he’s in violation of the law.

Only if he loses.  And that doesn’t help you if you’re dead, I reminded him.  I considered the possibilities.  He could challenge you to single combat.

I’m kind of hoping he will, Lorcus said.  I couldn’t see a grin, but I could hear one.  Lorcus is a surprisingly adept fighter with a mageblade, despite his strategic way of thinking.  I was completely confident in his ability to take down even a well-trained Riverlord in a duel.  But I don’t think he’s that stupid.

Let me break my fast, round up a couple of apprentices, and your official filings.  I’ve got some other things to discuss with you, too.  We’ve got bigger problems than mere war.

Good.  I’m starting to get bored of conquest.  It’s too simple to conquer and too complicated to rule.

You have no idea, I agreed, and ended the conversation.

I had breakfast with Alya in the Great Hall, gently flirting as we went over our day with Sir Festaran.  The castellan looked tired and haggard, but he got through the agenda with professionalism, keeping us on track and ignoring our interpersonal conversation with practiced tact.  I informed them both about the meeting with Sir Cullien, and that I would take both apprentices along.

“Why?” Alya asked, curious, as she devoured another biscuit.  She had been like this with both previous pregnancies, eating wolfishly before vomiting heartily.  It would pass in a few weeks, I knew.  “I don’t see the point of dragging them along.”

“It’s mostly for their benefit.  But they do add a certain status to my appearance.  It emphasizes that I’m a Magelord, not merely a regular baron.  Arathanial would have a couple of armored knights standing around to show how important he is.  I have Dara and Ruderal.  And the boys, if they’re there.”

“Excellency, forgive me, but just how do you expect Lady Dara and an eleven year old boy to intimidate a political opponent?  They’re hardly threatening.”

“It is because they aren’t threatening that they’re important,” I explained.  “A non-magical baron would show off how powerful he is by the stature of the retainers he carries around.  By taking two young magi with me, I emphasize how I clearly do not give a damn about Cullien’s hundred men-at-arms.  It also makes them think about the hidden power of magi.  There’s no telling how powerful those two are.”

“So you’re bluffing, in other words,” Alya observed.

“It’s not quite a bluff.  I’ll have Dara bring one of her birds, transform it, and have it perch on the top of the castle.  That should be sufficiently intimidating, don’t you think?”

“It might help,” Sir Festaran said, thoughtfully.  “Those birds certainly can be terrifying.”  That got my notice.  It sounded as if he was speaking from personal experience.  “But Excellency, what do you plan on doing if Sir Cullien decides to start a battle?”

“Finish it,” I shrugged.  “I’ll have my spells, Lorcus and his men will be there, and there are only a hundred of them.  What could possibly go wrong?”

Both of them stared at me as if I had blasphemed.  I said a silent prayer to Ifnia just to be safe.

Turns out, she was not the best deity to turn to in this case.

*

*

We traveled by Waypoint to Rolone Castle, using the Waystone I’d given Lorcus in his Wormwand rod-of-office.  He was in the spacious circular Great Hall of the castle with three or four men, including Lanse of Bune, his new Lawbrother Irthine, and Taren.  The other warmagi were scattered across the domain, staffing castles or guarding frontier crossings, he informed me after an enthusiastic greeting.  I sent Dara and Ruderal outside so that she could transform Faithful and perch him on the watchtower overhead.

“I may need to hire a few more warmagi,” Lorcus confided, after we settled in front of a trestle table loaded with luncheon.  “The lads are outstanding, but this is one bloody large domain.”

“Are the militia not working out?”

“Too well,” he sighed.  “They’ve enjoyed being paid a premium to occupy their own country, and they’ve tormented the manors and estates in reprisal for perceived injustices.  The clergy have stopped a few riots and raids.  But I don’t know these people,” he confessed.  “And it is taking too long to separate the bullies from the responsible parties.  Not to mention the partisans loyal to Cullien.  Apart from the good Lawbrother, the cook, and the Master of Privies, I’ve had to sack the entire castle staff and hire anew.  Do you have any idea how annoying it is to have servants who don’t know where anything is?  It makes finding good administrators look easy!”

“That’s always an issue in governance,” I shrugged.  “You’re getting the hang of it.  Where is Sir Cullien, now?”

“He’s on the outskirts of town,” Lanse said, checking a scrying map.  “We’ve instructed the sentries to permit him only twenty men as an honor guard within the castle.  The rest will wait outside.”

“A sensible precaution.”

Master, Faithful is in position.  What shall we do?

Wait for Sir Cullien, who will be under truce, and his men to arrive in the bailey.  Escort them in when they arrive.  This was a bit of a test for Dara.  She had gained a lot more confidence in her responsibilities as a noblewoman now, and this was good practice for her diplomatic skills. I was curious to see how she’d handle the situation.  Lorcus continued to fill me in on the transition until Dara informed me that Sir Cullien and his men had arrived.

Fifteen minutes later she and Ruderal led them into the hall with all due ceremony, where Lorcus had arranged to sit in Cullien’s own canopied chair – though the Apple-and-Worm banner over his head was a striking change in décor.

“Sir Cullien, knight of Sashtalia, to see the Magelord of Rolone!” Lanse boomed, acting as herald.  He was carrying his wicked-looking magical spear, a bit of personal warmagic enchantment he had been constructing in his spare time.  He looked quite impressive with his great height, long arms, deep voice, and intimidating tattoos running the length of his arms.  Riverlords rarely indulged in such things, but Lanse had spent considerable time at the coast.

“That’s Sire Cullien, Lord of Rolone, to see the illegal usurper!” spat an old lawbrother who accompanied the knight, as he pushed aside the men-at-arms to get to the front of the crowd.

“You are misinformed, Brother,” Lanse corrected him.  “But proceed to the Magelord, and he will see you now.”

Cullien, the monk, and two of his gentlemen approached Lorcus’ chair, but did not bow.

“Welcome to Rolone,” Lorcus said, taking a bite out of an apple – he had a basket of them next to his chair.  “What can I do for you gentlemen today?”

“You can start by getting out of my chair!” the knight demanded, angrily.  “And thence out of my castle, and thence out of my lands, before I whip you like a villein and have you hung!”

“Is that a challenge to personal combat?” Taren asked, enthusiastically.  He was leaning on his ornate glaive, which he spun with a flourish.  Cullien paled.  He was not a large man.

“This is outrageous,” muttered the knight, angrily.  “You have no cause—”

“Actually, I had every cause,” Lorcus said, sharply.  “When I was made lord of Amel Wood I had not even arrived at my new domain when it was attacked, unprovoked, at your direction.”

“And you have proof of this, Usurper?” demanded the lawbrother in a high, reedy voice, before Cullien could respond.

“I have a witness, one Sir Ganulan, who will attest under oath that he was hired by an agent of Rolone, near Granite Tower, last month to lead his band of . . . mercenaries,” he said, being kind, “to attack the peasantry of Amel Wood.  He had coin in his purse and a note to that effect from your man’s hand,” Lorcus accused, no longer sounding friendly and cocky.  “Do you deny sending such a force?  For your man at Granite Tower admitted as much, when questioned.”

Cullien struggled for words, while his lawbrother howled “Keep silent, my lord, pray keep silent!”

“Brother Canard, your master must be given the chance to answer his accuser,” reminded Brother Irthine, with a smile of satisfaction.  “Thus says holy law.”  He had the air of a long-suffering junior finally engaging an older cleric on his perceived deficiencies.

But despite Brother Canard’s counsel, Sir Cullien was caught, and he knew it.  “I did, indeed, order the raid,” he sighed.  “But the intent was to demonstrate Sashtalia’s ire with Baron Minalan’s annexation of the hill domains,” he admitted.  “It was merely a demonstration of force.”

“There are twenty-odd villeins being mourned by their kin after your demonstration of force!” Lorcus said, angrily.  “You paid men to slay more than twenty people to prove a point!”

“They were villeins!” Sir Cullien dismissed.

“They were human beings!”Lorcus shouted with sudden rage. “Human beings I was responsible for!  Was that, or was that not an act of undeclared war, lawbrothers?  According to the Laws of Duin and Luin?”

Sir Cullien’s monk, Brother Canard, stammered at the demand, but Lorcus’ young lawbrother Irthine quickly stepped forward.

“The Book of Duin does state that an act of wanton murder done at orders and for pay is, indeed, an undeclared act of war, my lords,” he assured them, confidently.  “This act met with every required point: the castellan of Granite Tower testified that he paid Sir Ganulan and delivered orders to attack Amel Wood.  Regardless of the political intent, if lives were lost and homes were burned it was an act of war.”

“And what responsibilities does a seated lord, titled or tenant, have in regards to the defense and justice of the people in his domain, under the Laws of Luin, Brother?” Lord Lorcus prompted, not taking his angry eyes off of Sir Cullien.

“A lord of a domain has every right of military reprisal in an undeclared war; indeed, he has a responsibility and sacred duty under the eyes of the gods to seek either justice by law or retribution by sword.  It is the attacked lord’s choice of how he responds.”

“As luck would have it, I fancied war,” Lorcus shrugged. “Didn’t have a wily Lawbrother around to advise me different.  So I went to war.  Turns out, I’m good at it.  Good enough to take five of your castles before you knew I’d attacked you.”

“I was not here to defend them!” Sir Cullien insisted, angrily.

“They were adequately garrisoned,” pointed out Taren.  “You had responsible lords in leadership here.  Certainly if you felt secure enough to start a private war and then go fulfill your military obligations, you felt that your lands were reasonably protected.  It appears you have miscalculated, Sir Cullien.”

“That’s Sire Cullien, mage!” shouted the big knight standing behind the former Lord of Rolone.

“And that’s Magelord, Sir Knight!” boomed Lanse behind them.  “And unless you have another domain you rule over, my lord, you are a landless knight.  Your proper title is ‘sir’.”

Sir Cullien started to speak, and then mastered himself.  He was losing his home, he could not afford to indulge in an emotional outburst with a man a foot taller than he, holding a slashing spear at his back.  Instead he turned to me.

“Baron Minalan, I trust you are here to help straighten out this mess?” he pleaded.

“I don’t see a mess,” I shrugged.  “I see one of my vassals, recently titled, who took the initiative to defend his domain against an unprovoked act of undeclared war.”

“But that attack was meant as a message for you!  Not to involve your vassal!” he insisted.  “I didn’t even know you had a vassal for Amel Wood!”

“So . . . if you admit to making war on my people, to my face, do you not I think I have the right to ask what purpose you had?” I asked, as I got out my pipe.  This was damn entertaining.

“To teach you that the Sashtali Confederation is not to be meddled with!” he shouted.  “You cannot just come here from gods alone knows where and buy out our vassals!”

I smirked as I lit my pipe with magic.  “Well.  I suppose you have certainly taught me a lesson, then.”

Lorcus spoke up.  “You, Sir, made war on my domain; very well.  I made war on yours.  I was victorious, because I was the better warrior.  Now I have possession of the entire fief, under the law.”

“But that can’t be legal!” his monk screamed.

“Quite legal,” I countered.  “Lady Arnet approved the Writ, a copy of which I have right here, for your inspection,” I said, handing the scroll to Brother Canard.  He tore it open and read it, then read it again.  “Lord Lorcus was well within his legal right.  If you would like to mount a war of recovery, you are free to do so,” I reminded him.  “Or you may challenge the finding on legal grounds at the Ducal court.  Though the backlog of cases runs to five years, now.”

“In case you have forgotten, I am in the middle of a war right now!” Sir Cullien said, angrily.  “Sire Trefalan is angrily demanding the two-thousand peasant levies I promised him!  And my vassals are ready to ride from the war to try to rescue their lost estates!  Sendaria is even now sending raiders across the rivers against us, and I am due back in the battlefield!”

“Perhaps you should not have started another one while so committed, my lord,” said Taren, reasonably.

“The intended target was Sevendor!  You must return my domain to me!  This was an illegal conquest!”

“My lord, I regret to tell you that despite his unorthodox means of making war, from what I can see Lord Lorcus of Amel Wood did so with scrupulous legality,” the younger lawbrother stated, authoritatively.

Brother Irthine looked both professionally and spiritually vindicated as he took a determined step toward his former master, in service to his current.  “He has assumed active rule of Rolone and is in the process of disposing of the captured lands and estates, seeing to the justice of the domain, and taking care of its defense as is the duty of a conquering lord.  He has treated with his prisoners with the utmost courtesy, taken their parole graciously, and acted with benevolence toward the conquered people.  Even now he is discussing the proper disposition of the key estates and fortresses of the domain with his knights.”

“A right choice lot they are, too,” chuckled Lord Lorcus.  “I’m looking forward to giving them away.”

“You can’t do that!” insisted Lawbrother Canard.  He was nearly hysterical.  “You are merely a tenant lord!  They cannot make permanent disposition of estates!”

“Indeed he can,” the younger Lawbrother countered, defiantly.  “He may have been a tenant lord of Amel Wood, but upon his recognized conquest of Rolone, he became a titled lord-in-fact.  He holds the deed to the domain, which under right of conquest gives him the power to dispose of any and all estates, regardless of their previous owner or tenant’s vassalage status.  If he so chooses, Lord Lorcus can dispossess all of Rolone’s landed gentry.”

“That’s outrageous!  You cannot do that in a time of war!”

“I’m not currently at war,” Lord Lorcus pointed out.  “In fact, apart from a few small riots the domain has never enjoyed such prosperity and peace.  But it is because you declared war on my domain that we are here.  But my new lawbrother informs me – a highly intelligent counselor, far underappreciated by his previous employer – that as of the date of conquest abrogating – is that the right word? – abrogating their vassalage, both you and all of your men currently involved in hostilities against Sendaria are now free of your military obligation and may legally leave the battlefield.”

“They can’t do that!  They are deployed!” he said with a strangled cry.  I was starting to worry for his health.

“They can, legally, request to be released from their service, now that they do not serve a landed lord.  They may re-negotiate a higher wage as mercenaries, which I might recommend, as they might want a place to stay if they survive the war.  Conversely,” he said, thumping the Wormwand into his palm, “any landed knight who can get himself released and comes to me to swear fealty and loyalty on bended knee, I will consider returning their estates to them.  With a nominal fee,” he added with a wave of his wand.  That got the attention of both of the knights behind Cullien – and the old monk.  Apparently they all held estates in Rolone.

“And just to sweeten the pot,” Lorcus continued, slyly, “the first knights to do so may not get their old estates back.  Indeed, they may get their choice of my abundant – and vacant – lands.”  That more than got the knights’ attention.  They looked at each other meaningfully.  I was impressed at Lorcus’ guile.  There were some very nice estates in Rolone.  Whatever loyalty these men had to Cullien was eroding, swiftly.

“May I at least collect some of my personal effects from my chamber?” Sir Cullien pleaded, eyes downcast in defeat.  But something was not quite genuine about his plea.  Desperate, yes – but not genuine.

“Sorry, my lord, but those items, too, are forfeit to the conqueror,” Lawbrother Irthine said, his voice barely suppressing his excitement as he wounded his former lord.  “Every item in the castle, the town, and the domain now belongs to Lord Lorcus of Rolone.  While it’s a customary courtesy for the conqueror to return family heirlooms of a personal nature, jewelry, and certain beloved pets, there is no legal requirement in the law books to do so.”

“Including that whopping great pay chest I found upstairs,” Lorcus chuckled.  “My gods, was I surprised to see that!  But it gave me the resources I needed to repay the folk of Amel Wood for their losses, as well as pay a new militia to hold my lands until I can arrange for professional soldiers.  That really made this a lovely little war,” he sighed.  “Of course, your master may be a bit vexed at you, since you lost his means to pay his troops . . . but such are the fortunes of war.”

“Fortunes of war?” Sir Cullien said, his face bright red.  “Do you have any idea what you have done?”  His hand moved to his sword hilt, but Lance of Bune put his spear haft forcefully on the knight’s mailed shoulder.

“Need I remind you that you are under a flag of truce?” Lanse growled, meaningfully. The hand fell away from the belt.

“You . . . Arathanial put you up to this, didn’t he?” demanded Sir Cullien.  “This is one of his plots!”

“Oh, Baron Arathanial is entirely unaware of this.  As I was unaware one of my neighbors attacked one of my domains and had the temerity to send a message cowardly blaming the act on banditry,” I fibbed.  “It’s just awful how easy it is to be overtaken by events, isn’t it?” I added sorrowfully.

It was clear that we were not going to move from our position.  Sir Cullien looked from Lorcus to me and back again, and then spoke through gritted teeth.

“If there is nothing more I can say to you . . . gentlemen . . . then my men and I will now be leaving . . . your domain.”

“Good luck with Sire Trefalan,” called Lord Lorcus as the dispossessed lord turned and headed toward the rest of his men in the outer quarters.  “I hear he’s a forgiving soul.  Oh, and any of you knights who want to linger and swear fealty, just wait in the bailey.  I’ll have someone bring you wine while you wait, but I’ll be out directly to take your oaths and discuss your new duties . . . and properties.”  The old monk scowled on behalf of his stoic master, and even shook his little fist angrily at us before muttering his way out.

“That was delightful!” Lorcus sighed.  “A pleasure I did not anticipate having.  It’s one thing to steal a man’s livelihood and property.  It’s quite another to regard him from that property and have the satisfaction of telling him why you did it.  I can see why people want to be nobles.  This is fun!”

“This is one of the better days,” I warned him.  “You had the advantage of having the law on your side.”

“That’s probably the strangest thing of all, to me,” he mused, scratching his chin with his wand thoughtfully.  “I’d always thought I’d make my fortune on the other side of the law.”

“We’re as surprised as you,” assured Taren.

“That does beg the question what you’re going to do with it, now,” I pointed out.  “You will have to defend it.  Perhaps against Baron Arathanial, who will be vexed that you have stolen a jewel from his foe before he could.  Rolone is the second largest domain in Sashtalia, and it nearly bisects the confederation.  Should he prevail against Trefalan, you will have to answer to him.”

“Wouldn’t I appeal to my baron?” he asked, suddenly anxious.  “For arms, troops, and diplomatic intervention?”

“You’re my vassal in Amel Wood,” I reminded him.  “You captured Rolone on your own.  You have no idea how much work is ahead of you.  Cancelled contracts, property disputes, heirs fighting over their patrimony – I’m still sorting out the residue from conquering West Fleria.  It will be years before I get through it all. Now you get to share in the rare joy of countless arse-numbing hours behind the bench, dispensing justice and adjudicating claims,” I smiled.

“I . . . what?” Lorcus asked, his jaw dropping.

“How many estates in Rolone, Brother Irthine?”

“Twenty-two agricultural estates, five industrial estates, and two ecclesiastical estates, Excellency,” the young monk said promptly.

“That’s a lot of court cases that you’re looking at, Lord Lorcus.”  He was looking properly anxious.  The idea of hearing case after case in judgment, and then disposing of all of the other estates in his territory, hadn’t really occurred to him.  It had occurred to me.

“Oh, Ishi’s hairy mole!” he swore, running his fingers through his curly black hair.  “What sadistic hell have you damned me to, Min?”

“I do have a way for you to back out of this, in a way,” I proposed.  “If you swore fealty to me as the Lord of Rolone as a vassal, then you could turn your estates over to me for disposition.  As your baron, I’d take my share, but make sure you were handsomely rewarded for your service.  But that’s going to cost you.”

“What?” he demanded, suddenly looking pale.

“We’ll get to that.  But I think we can—”

Master! Dara called into my mind, all of a sudden.  I held up a finger to Lorcus and closed my eyes.

What is it, Dara?

Master, there’s something wrong, she reported her voice worried.  Those knights aren’t clearing away.

Don’t worry, Lorcus told them to wait for him.  He sent servants to bring them wine.

I know that, Master, but . . . well, they’re not sounding . . . happy.

Most of them just lost their estates. Have Faithful keep an eye on them, and let me know if they actually look like they’re going to start trouble.  If they do, you grab Ruderal and get someplace safe, understood?

Yes, Master, Dara agreed, impatiently, but that’s not all.  Just how accurate is Ruderal’s Talent?

Pretty accurate, I’ve found.  Why?

Because he told me he saw something in some of the servants.  One in particular.

That got my attention.  What? I asked, alarmed.

He says that he’s seen her before.  He says she looks completely different, and is dressed different, but he swears it’s her.

Who? I demanded.

He says he saw her at the Magical Fair, the day you bought him his hat, she replied.  He says she was with the lady you were talking with in the felter’s booth that day.

I thought back – I had spoken to Isily, I recalled.  Right before she . . . I tried to move past that.  Who else had been there?  She’d had four attendants, I suddenly remembered, but . . .

Ruderal says it was the brown-haired, brown-eyed girl.  She was there, and now she’s here, and he says her pattern is dangerous.  She means to do someone harm.  And she’s not alone.

Lady Mask.  It had to be.

Dara, grab Ruderal and get out of there! I ordered.  If you can, get to the roof and take Faithful out of here!

Master, why?

Listen!  As soon as you’re aloft, tell Tyndal, Rondal, Cormoran, anyone—

Suddenly I was thinking to myself.  Dara was gone.

That wasn’t all.  I could hear commotion coming from outside, and the unmistakable sound of the portcullis to the bailey being lowered into place.  With Sir Cullien’s men still in the outer hall, on this side of the stout iron grate.

I summoned Blizzard to my hand and opened my eyes.

“We’re about to be attacked,” I informed my companions.  “Dara just warned me, before we were cut off.”

Lanse looked from me to Lorcus to Taren and straightened, whipping his spear around.  Taren looked alarmed, and began scrying automatically.  Lorcus drew his mageblade and tucked the Wormwand behind his belt.  Lawbrother Irthine looked scared and started mumbling a prayer.  I hope Luin had something for illegally breaking a truce.

But it wasn’t really Sir Cullien’s men that concerned me.  Lady Mask was here, and she was probably not alone.

“They’re inside,” he reported, worriedly.  “With us.”

“How many of us?”

“We four, those two guards, two more upstairs, and maybe a couple of drudges and servants stumbling around, looking for the good plate.”

“Some of those servants are assassins,” I informed him as I pulled the Witchsphere from its pouch and tossed it into the air.  “And they’ve arranged to trap you in the keep the same way you captured it.”

“The hell she will,” Lorcus snarled, stabbing the point of his blade into the center of a richly-polished table and drew the Wormwand again.  “I’ve made some improvements to the defenses since I took over.  It hasn’t been all fine wine and nubile maidens.”

“So what can you do?” Taren asked as he took out his magical crossbow and cocked its slide.  An iron quarrel appeared from a pocket, perfectly set in the groove.

Lorcus mumbled something and the apple head of the wand flared with light.  “All of my defenses are active, now,” he said, confidently.  “I control everything in the castle, including the portcullis.”

I tried to contact Tyndal, mind-to-mind.  Then Rondal.  Nothing.  Something, somehow, was blocking my ability to contact them.  I summoned more power from the sphere and tried doing the spell from scratch, rather than using the quicker version.  Still nothing.

“We may have a larger problem,” I said, my heart starting to dread.

“I can’t call for reinforcements,” Lorcus reported, calmly.

“There are at least twenty-four knights arrayed against us,” Taren agreed, setting down his crossbow.  “And some servants, maybe.”

“Let them come,” Lanse said, grinning, as he lowered his spear into an attack position in front of the door.

“My lords, perhaps we should repair to the chamber above, and secure the door,” Lawbrother Irthine suggested, nervously, as he inched toward the staircase.

“You have nothing to fear,” promised Lorcus, firmly.  “We are four of the best warmagi in the world, with power you cannot imagine.  But go upstairs and prepare to receive us, if things go poorly and we must retreat.  And Irthine?” Lorcus asked.

“Yes, my lord?” the monk replied, turning as he prepared to run upstairs.

“I can appreciate a man taking an opportunity,” he said, gently, “but sell me out to your former lord and your tonsure won’t protect you.  Is that understood?”

“You are the legal lord of Rolone, who I have pledged to serve,” the monk said, stiffly.  “I will do so faithfully until the holy law relieves me of that responsibility.”

“Good man,” Lorcus sighed.  “Remind me to get you drunk as a monk, later.  All right,” he called, as the armored men in the outer hall began pushing themselves toward us down the corridor.  “I’ll crush the first wave with a concussive blast – that should keep the rest of them at bay, and when they retreat, they’ll pull back into a lovely field of vomiting sigils,” he said, with relish.  “At that point, I’ll call for them to surrender.  If they fail, then I have a choking spell that will make their larynx’s feel like their full of mortar.  If that doesn’t do it . . .

“Then we’ll stop you fooling around and do some real warmagic,” Lanse grumbled.  “Not everything has to be a godsdamned pavane, Lorcus!”

“We’ll get to the rough stuff,” he promised.  “I just like a little kissing before I court.  But we need more light.”  He effortlessly cast a magelight overhead, bathing the room in a bright glow.  “Better.  Now, if you don’t mind, Minalan, allow me and my mates some fun before you do something impressive and end the battle?”

“Those are heavy cavalry, on foot,” I pointed out.  “Are you sure?”

“It will be a good chance to test some spells,” Taren said, cheerfully.  “I want to see how many times I can fire this thing before it jams in combat conditions,” he explained.  “And I have some new area spells that could be interesting to try.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll stay back and just watch,” I sighed, leaning on Blizzard.  “Let me know if you need my help.”  I nodded to the two Bovali guards bearing the Apple-and-Worm.  “You boys just relax for a moment.  If they need us, they’ll let us know.”

It still bothered me that I couldn’t reach anyone, magically, but whatever spell it was would not survive the death of the caster.  I hoped.  In truth I developed a sudden, burning need to discover how the trick was done, and how I could counter it.  I’d grown reliant on mind-to-mind communication.  But I would be content to watch the lads unfurl their spellplay on the unsuspecting knights of Rolone.

There was a clatter in the corridor outside the door, which Taren took as a cue to launch three deadly bolts in quick succession.  The enchanted crossbow worked beautifully.

Then suddenly it all stopped.  Taren’s crossbow did not produce a fourth bolt, the magelight overhead vanished, and I felt every spell in the room fall at once.  That wasn’t the worst thing, though.  The worst thing was hearing the sickening crack my Witchsphere made when it landed on the pavers below.  Had I been in rapport with it, I don’t think I would have survived.

But I wasn’t.  I couldn’t feel any magic, anywhere.  For the first time in years, there was just . . . nothing.

“Ah, Min?” came Lorcus’ nervous voice in the gloom, as the knights charged down the passage, “Remember that offer of help?  I think we could use it, now.”

Chapter Thirty Three

The Battle Of Rolone Castle

There were twenty fully-armored knights trying to kill me with swords, and I was standing there in a robe, holding a stick.

“Close the door!” Lorcus ordered.  Taren hurried to do so as the first of the knights closed.  Unfortunately, only one side would shut, leaving the other open – enough room to admit one man at a time.

“It’s jammed into place!” Taren shouted, as the first knight charged into the room and onto the point of Lanse’s spear.  The big warmage pivoted mightily, throwing the impaled knight across his hip and into a corner while the next one tried to barge in.  By that time Taren had gotten his hands on his glaive, and the next knight of Rolone who came in the door had his skull smashed in by it.

“This isn’t going to be easy without magic!” he called over his shoulder.

“Are you jesting?” Lorcus scoffed.  “This just got interesting!” To prove his point he engaged the next man-at-arms himself; as the man struggled through the door, Lorcus reached out, calmly pulled his helmet over his eyes, and slid the point of his mageblade under a chin before helping him to the ground.  Lanse took the next one in the left eye with a lightning-fast thrust, and we had a few moments of breathing room.  “See?” he panted.

“That’s four,” Taren remarked.  “But what happens when they get organized and rush us more than one at a time?”

“I’d rather not give them the opportunity,” Lanse agreed.  “How is that door jammed?”  Taren started to bend to see, but Lorcus barked.

“Leave it!  With them inside the portcullis, we’re more defensible in the chamber upstairs!” He threw open the narrow door on the other side of the circular hall and urged the rest of us to follow.  The two Bovali men-at-arms in Lorcus’ livery handed me a sword taken from one of the fallen knights on their way up.  I tucked it behind my belt.  It was a cavalry sword, and I was used to a much smaller and lighter mageblade, but it would do in a pinch.  I watched as Lanse went up last, save me, and witnessed the next several knights rushing through the door, swords ready.

But they weren’t alone.  Lady Mask was with them.

“Lady Mask,” I said, bowing casually.  I hoped I could buy my comrades enough time to prepare a defense at the top of the stairs.

“Lord Spellmonger,” she said, nodding, as she stepped over the thrashing body of the man with one eye, who was clawing at his bloodied face.  She had replaced her leather veil, leaving only her flashing brown eyes visible, and had donned sleek dark leather armor.  .  “I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to lure you away from your keep.”

“Doesn’t that violate your agreement with your partners?” I asked.  “I thought I was supposed to be kept alive.”

That startled her into silence for a moment, but not long.  “It was mostly a suggestion,” she countered.  “And, honestly, ultimately non-negotiable.  Slaying you is the entire reason I entered into this agreement.  It was to be later, my associates had persuaded me, but I do not see a reason to wait.”

“I can appreciate your dedication,” I smiled, while I mentally estimated how quickly I could shut the door behind me and get up the stairs.  “I don’t see how you survived your commander’s displeasure alive.”

“I chose to avenge myself before I took responsibility for my failure,” she said, proudly.

“You ran away like a cur when you realized what they’d do to you,” I countered.

“Either way, I learned from the gurvani what I needed to.  Had you not taken my staff, I would be ruling them myself by now.”

“And here I thought you had high aspirations,” I said, shaking my head mockingly.  I really hoped Lanse and Taren had figured out some brilliant way out of this castle.  More knights were filling in behind Mask.  “How did you get Sir Cullien and his men to betray a truce flag so easily?”

“A little persuasion and a very little psychomancy,” she said, her eyes smirking.  “They were half-convinced, already, egged on by that tottering old monk.  When I told them that I was going to slay you and blame it on them, anyway, they agreed to help.”

“With a little magical compulsion to be sure,” I nodded.

“I cast it right before the Annulment spell,” she boasted.  “Now, if you return my staff to me, I’ll have them kill you quickly.”

“Alas, I tore it down, rebuilt it, and gave it to someone who had an idea of how to use it.  It’s the rod of the Alshari Ducal Court Wizard, now.”

“Then I will repay the courtesy you showed me, and take your staff from your hand as my prize,” she said, drawing two small swords about two feet long each.  Shit.  I hate fighting a two-weapon fighter.  Especially with just a stick.  “That magnificent weapon must be the infamous Blizzard,” she said, openly admiring my staff.  Under other circumstances, I might be compelled to preen.

“Come and take it,” I said, suddenly sick of this game.  Whatever the lads upstairs were going to do, I’d given them plenty of time to do it.  “Which of you will be first?”

The knights behind her hesitated, looking at their dead and dying mates on the floor.  She spat at them in frustration.

“Idiots!  He’s powerless, right now!  A man with a staff and no armor!” she chided.  Finally a group of three cautiously began approaching me, swords out, shields at the ready.  I took a half-step back to make sure my escape route couldn’t be cut off.

Then I drew the sword from behind me and feinted at one steel helmet with it before reversing it and slamming into the side of the second.  While they stumbled I tripped the third man’s legs with Blizzard.  The knight I’d feinted toward slashed at me with his heavy sword, but I’d already pivoted around the dazed figure of the second man and was standing on the chest of the third, my sword flung up to protect myself.

Unfortunately, the first man batted it out of the way with practiced ease, requiring me to pivot again and slice at the back of his calves, backhand.  My oversized sword clanged harmlessly of off his grieves but I didn’t care.  I kept moving.

That’s one of the differences between combat warmagic and regular infantry fighting: in warmagic, you always stay moving.  Even when you’re studying your opponent’s footwork or swordplay, you do so with your feet in motion and your center-of-balance constantly moving.  The moment that you stop, you’re a target.  So I kept moving.

The man under me tried to roll over and dislodge me, so I instead put my boot on his face and parried his friend, then pivoted on my heel (which did no favors for his appearance) and jammed the tip of the cavalry sword into the exposed armpit of the second knight.  The blade was stuck, so I let go of the hilt and moved back into a defensive stance with Blizzard in time to catch the blade of the first knight on my iron-guarded haft.  A quick jab with the butt of the warstaff in the center of his forehead sent the man sprawling unconscious.

“Well done,” Lady Mask said, taking a step forward her swords weaving dangerously in the gloom.  “You’ve defeated three men and lost your sword.  Now you can face a real warrior, and lose your staff!”

She took three quick steps and launched herself at me.  I didn’t have the benefit of warmagic, but I still had experience and desperation on my side.  As she leapt over the body of knight I’d stepped on, I took the opportunity to tap her left knee – not hard enough to hurt her, but hard enough to scuttle her landing.  That didn’t stop me from catching a nasty slice on my left forearm as she came down, but I saw my next shot and I took it.  I slammed her back by thrusting the tip of my staff into her left shoulder as she tripped . . . and activated the utterly non-magical eight-inch spring-loaded steel blade concealed within.

I wish it had been her heart, but I was in a hurry.  Her eyes opened wide in pain from behind her veil and she emitted a brief scream at the unexpected puncture.  I had just a moment to stare down at her covered face.

“Surprise!” I smiled, and yanked the blade free, producing another painful moan from the woman.  I think I may have stabbed the knight under her in the kidney, too – she had small shoulders.  But there were more knights coming.  It was time to retreat.  I snatched up my fractured Witchsphere and threw myself into the stairwell.  I slammed the thick narrow door, dropping the sash down resolutely behind me.  They started pounding on the door immediately, and I heard Lady Mask calling for a battering ram.

I hurried up the stairs and almost got my head taken off by Lorcus’ blade.

“Oh, it’s you, Min,” he said, lowering the sword he’d held at my throat and helping me through the trap door.  “Thought you were dead.”

I showed him the bloodied head of my emergency spear.  “I was delayed.  I stuck Mask, but not permanently.  Got three more.  What’s the plan?”

“We were waiting for our fearless baron to come upstairs and reveal it to us,” Lanse said, frowning.  “None of us can raise as much as a spark.”

“Mask cast an Annulment spell,” I reported.  “And something else that affected mind-to-mind communication.  That’s pretty advanced work for a back-country warmage,” I pointed out.

“It’s not gurvani magic, or Imperial magic,” Taren reported.

“How can you tell?” Lorcus asked, curiously.

“I went to school to become a Thaumaturge,” Taren reminded him.  “I picked up a few things.”

“Whatever it is, she can’t keep it going long on her own – I hope.  Most likely it’s a spellfield, so if we can get beyond it, we’ll have our powers back again.”

“What about Dara and your young one?” Lanse asked, concerned.

“I think she got away – I hope she did.  With Ruderal.  But I don’t know,” I confessed.  I hoped Dara was taking care of him.  She was very capable, I reminded myself.  But I couldn’t worry about them, right now, because there was nothing I could do about it.  “Is there another way out?  A secret passage?”

“Only out to the fighting deck and watchtower, Excellency,” supplied Lawbrother Irthine, his voice wavering.  “How many persist in the attack?”

“Seven from twenty leaves a lot,” Lanse said, flatly.  “And there are seventy more knights outside of the gate, below.”

“Mask undoubtedly has confederates, too,” I suggested.  There was a loud thump on the door, downstairs, that could be heard even from the heavy iron trapdoor that protected us.  “Did I fail to mention they were going for a battering ram?”

“I have gathered all of your deeds and papers of authenticity, Lord Lorcus,” Brother Irthine said, tugging at a thick leather satchel around his shoulders.  “And I took the liberty of concealing your treasury in the guarderobe – it’s unlikely that they will make a thorough search of it, there,” he said.  “Should we survive, we can retrieve it later.  They have no legal claim on it.  Sir Cullien violated the laws of Luin and Duin by attacking you under flag of truce,” he said, indignantly.  “I would be happy to testify to that myself!”

“Let’s hope you get the opportunity,” Lanse grunted.  “Min, who can we send to for help?  And how?”

The door below gave way far more quickly than I had hoped.  In moments there was banging on the trap door.

“Let’s prepare to move out to the fighting deck,” I proposed.  “We can choke them here and slow them down a good while, as they’re trying to get through that door.  Without magic, it’s not going to be easy.”

“So do we just find some dice and wait for them to go off to supper?” Lorcus asked.

“It’s only a matter of time before they get through the door,” Taren observed.  “But their Annulment spell can’t last forever, either.  Hopefully it will fail before that door does.”

The banging intensified, as more men joined the assault on the door.

“Let’s pray it is a weak spell,” the monk said, simply.  “And a stout door.”

We paced back and forth, trying to think of a way out of our predicament.  We couldn’t even climb down the outside of the keep to the bailey.  There were more knights down there waiting for us.  A couple of crossbow bolts told us their disposition.

Then the banging on the door stopped.  Lorcus looked up.  “Supper time already?”

A moment later there was an explosion, and black and gray smoke filled the room.  The trap door had been blown clear, along with a goodly portion of the floor.  The smoke was acrid and potent, and we made a quick retreat.

“I thought that magic wasn’t working for them, either!” Brother Irthine demanded, angrily.

“Alchemical charge,” Taren coughed. “The spell goes into their making.  Not their activation.”

“I hate those things when I’m not using them!” Lorcus said, coughing harshly and spitting.  “Ready, lads, it won’t be long now.”

“Behind us, brother,” Taren cautioned the monk as we moved out onto the fighting deck in the sunshine.  “I don’t think your tonsure is going to protect you from attack.”

“Then they will be damned for violators!” the monk said, with a mixture of moral outrage and fear.

“I hope that brings you spiritual comfort,” Lanse said, as he raised his spear.  “If they slay you, then there will be no one to file charges, and no witness, either.  Here they come!”

It was fairly robust exercise.  The fighting deck outside of the chamber was a rectangular platform built over the entry hall, with a sufficiently strong foundation to support a catapult or other engine in a time of siege.  It was pleasantly flat, cobbled, and sprinkled with sand.  The crenellations nicely bound the fighting area and there were four of us covering that limited space.  As defensive positions went, we could have done worse.  Especially with three of us armed with pole weapons.

We settled into a defensive stance automatically.  Taren and I took the flanks, and Lanse took the center.  Anyone who got past the forward three magi would have to contend with Lorcus’ mageblade.

The first few Roloni up the stairs charged forward, filled with vainglory, as their birthright as cavalry taught them was proper.  They fell quickly to precise jabs from Lanse or Taren.  The next wave saw me in a challenge with a man of twenty with brown hair and freckles under his coif.  I swept his legs out from under him and then cut his throat with my spear.  If he was stupid enough to charge like that, he was going to pay the price.  I didn’t have the resources for mercy, today.

Before any more knights could throw themselves on our deadly fence, someone got them organized, gathering their forces in the chamber before they advanced together to challenge us.

Lady Mask, nursing an ugly puncture high in her left shoulder, still bore a sword in her right hand.  Behind her were two large men, thuggish-looking but possessed of that particular stare that told me they were cutthroats under her command, and skilled at their business.

But it was Sir Cullien who spoke first.  He stepped forward in front of his men, helmet off and coif thrown back

“My lords!  Surrender now, and return to me what is mine, and I will spare your lives,” he promised.  “You have my word!”

“We’re less trusting of the man who broke sacred truce,” Lanse pointed out.

“And besides, we’re just warming up,” added Lorcus, from behind him.  “How many good knights have you stepped over to get here?  How many warmagi?”

“We need only one!” Mask called, angrily.

“Then get in line and try your luck,” Lanse bellowed, planting the butt of his spear defiantly on the cobbles.  “But until one of us lies fallen, we choose to fight!”

“You have no magic!  You cannot hope to prevail!” called Sir Cullien.

“We need none, to slay your clumsy churls!” Lorcus taunted.  “Really, if I’d know knights were this easy to kill, I would have taken up the sport years ago!”

That enraged Sir Cullien.  “This is your last chance, before I summon arbalests!”

“Are you so unmanned by defeat that you would betray your honor?” asked Taren, hoisting his glaive.  “I thought the chivalry preferred to settle their disputes by steel!”  I caught the glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye.  It was gone when I glanced again.

I picked out which knight I would attack first, when the inevitable bloodbath began.  We were stalling, but that Annulment spell didn’t seem to be weakening one bit.  I was willing to wager that Mask had it on her person.

“You dare to challenge me to single combat?  An interloper in my own hall?”

“My hall, you mean?” Lorcus asked, angrily.  “The one you betrayed under truce?”

“It is my castle, you ignorant usurper!” Sir Cullien screamed.  He seemed less possessed of his reason than before – that had to be the psychomancy.  Mask stepped forward, her thugs at the ready.

“You can call the arbalests or not – I don’t care.  But first the Spellmonger is going to deliver his staff to me, after which I shall take his head.”

“Are you sure?” Lorcus quipped.  “That’s hardly his best feature.”

“Silence!” Mask spat at the Remeran.  “For days I’ve listened to your jokes and buffoonery – I swear it will be almost as satisfying to take your head, Lorcus! But only after I have cut out your tongue!”

“Now that is my best feature,” Lorcus admitted.  “Good taste, my lady. “  He saluted with his mageblade.  “Shall we dance first?”

Mask’s eyes narrowed with rage and calculation, and with a shrug of her shoulder she raised her sword and advanced toward the Magelord.  Lorcus laughed with satisfaction and began to approach her . . . until he dove out of the way at the last moment.  Confused, I tried to see if she’d flung something at him, but then Sir Cullien’s hip sprung three feet of savagely barbed steel from out of nowhere.  Then a moment later, with only the briefest flutter of wings and shadow, Lady Mask was gone.  Swept off the top of the keep by Faithfull’s gargantuan talons.  We all watched breathlessly as the massive hawk beat its wings over the town, and then over the countryside, and we watched the tiny body of Mask plummet from the sky.

It only took a moment for the effects of the Annulment spell to wear off.  Taren’s glaive began sparking and Lanse’s spear glowed with an eldritch light visible even in the afternoon sun.  I cautiously waved my hand and summoned Twilight.  Green fire erupted across the blade at my command.

Lorcus’ own mageblade was singing.  I don’t know how or why he did that, but it demonstrated its magical nature nicely.  He stood in front of the knights who were watching their lord struggle with his mortality, and he demonstrated that he was, indeed, the Magelord of Rolone.

“Put down your weapons this instant and swear an oath of parole before Lawbrother Irthine, or there will be no ransom, there will be no imprisonment, there will be no appeals for judgment.  You gentlemen broke sacred law.  Fall to your knees and swear now, or every single one of you will die.”

I had no doubt of his commitment.  Either did most of the knights.  In the light of their dead lord and their resurgent foe, they laid down their arms.

I tried to reach out to Dara, mind-to-mind, through the Witchsphere, and got a blinding headache for my trouble.  I examined my globe of irionite carefully.  There was a large, jagged crack that ran through most of the sphere.  It was still magical, I could tell, but the delicate Alka Alon enchantments were damaged with the matrix of the ironite.  My heart fell.

“Could one of you contact Dara and have her return here?” I asked Lanse, as Taren oversaw the oaths of the prisoners.

“Sure.  Why?”

I wordlessly held out the sphere.

“Oh, Min,” he said, shaking his head, sadly.  “This is a problem.”

“I know.  I can’t even use mind-to-mind anymore.  I can’t even think about trying to use the Waypoints.”

“This is a problem,” he repeated.  “You’re still powerless—”

“Not powerless,” I sighed, pointing to the head of Blizzard, where a small witchstone glowed.  “But not at my best.  I need to get back to Sevendor, fast,” I decided.  “How far is it by horse?”

“Four, five days,” Taren supplied.

“Damn!  That’s too long!”

“Minalan, one thing at a time,” Lorcus reminded me.  “I was just attacked, remember?  We need to discuss this proposal of yours to take your colors.”

“And we need to figure out what to do about this betrayal, politically,” agreed Taren.  “I’m no baron, but this kind of select attack under truce has to be answered.”

“Lord Taren is correct, Excellency,” counseled Brother Irthine, looking up from his later oath taker.  “If nothing else this must be reported to the proper authorities.  If I bear witness that Sire Trefalan authorized this attack, then he will face sanction!”

“He’s facing the loss of two thousand peasant levies and another hundred knights, not to mention the payroll,” Lanse pointed out.  “I’m not sure he’s going to be around much longer to face sanctions.”

“Speaking of the payroll, which of us is going to drag it out of the privy?” asked Taren, reluctantly.

“I can use magic to do it,” Lanse said, distastefully.

Lorcus shook his head.  “Gentlemen, you need more vision.  Here we have a whole slew of condemned prisoners, and more below.  We have plenty of helpful labor to handle that particular task, don’t we?”

I didn’t laugh.  I was staring at my sphere, distraught.

Lorcus came over to me and examined it, carefully not touching it.  It was still active, still connected to my mind in a dormant fashion . . . but it wasn’t working properly.

“Lady Mask,” he pronounced, shaking his head solemnly.  “A real ball-buster, Min.”

I didn’t kill him.  Gods only know how I refrained, but I didn’t.

*

*

“It’s really quite simple, Master,” Dara explained as we teetered on top of the fighting deck she’d so recently cleaned of errant warmagi.  “You simply hold on to these grips, here, and keep your feet in the stirrups.  The straps will keep you on his back; Master Andalnam enchanted them so you could go upside-down and not fall off, even if unconscious.  But just in case . . . hang on to the grips.”

“No reins?” I asked, in confusion.

“He’s not a horse, he’s a bird,” she recited patiently.  “You steer with your knees and with signals that you don’t have time to learn.  Which is fine, because I’ll be directing him through bilocation.  All you have to do is hang on and enjoy the view.  You’ll be back home in Sevendor within the hour.  We’re really not that far away, by air.”

I nodded, nervously.  My apprentice was being very patient with me as I embarked on my first foray into her specialty.  I had more or less left Dara to her own devices when it came to training and developing the giant hawks.  I trusted the Alkan Emissaries who were working with her on the project to keep her from doing anything stupidly dangerous.

So far I’d been vindicated – the Mews was a well-run part of the Westwood estate, and her first eight Skyriders had become adept at flying their birds to all sorts of purpose.  Her second flight was still in training, awaiting birds of their own, but when she was done she would have accomplished something amazing, on her own.  More or less.

Right now I was wishing I had paid closer attention to her trials and tribulations.  Mounting a gigantic hawk like Faithful is a scary thing.  You feel the muscles under you, just as you do a horse, but then he fluttered his wings and I realized just how un-equestrian this mode of travel really was.

“Ordinarily I wouldn’t even think of putting you aloft, but Faithful is the strongest we have.  You’re under three hundred pounds,” she said, with a hint of skepticism in her voice.  “He shouldn’t have any problem bearing you that distance, though it won’t be a fast flight.  He’ll get you there, though.  He’s not called Faithful for naught.”

I thanked Dara and waved good-bye to Ruderal, where he was standing in front of Lanse.  The big warmage had taken a liking to the lad, and since they would be staying here a few days until I could arrange an escort back, I was just as glad of the relationship.  Dara, of course, was thrilled to have a few days in a strange town, especially one in which her friend Lorcus owned.

But I had to return to Sevendor, quickly.  Too much was dependent upon my ability to speak mind-to-mind, or use the Waypoints.  My mind had been running like a rapids over all the horrible things that could go wrong before I had the sphere repaired.  I was just lucky that the one Alka Alon who could do the job was also the one lowbrow and obnoxious enough to get himself exiled to my domain.  If I could get back to Onranion without difficulty, I was confident that I could get it restored.

The most expedient way to do that had been on Faithful’s back.  That night, with the crescent moon overhead, I felt the gargantuan bird crouch and leap into the sky.  Next to actually staring down a dragon’s throat it might be the single most terrifying instant of my life.

But once we were aloft, and the mighty bird climbed to a comfortable soaring height, my fear of falling abated.  I was able to look down on the fertile fields of Rolone, rolling out from the ribbon of river below, silvered by moonlight.  It was similar to being in the Otherworld, only with the chill of the wind in your face.  And bugs in your beard.  The air wasn’t just cool, it was cold, and my cheeks quickly became numb.  I remembered the charm to keep my eyes from freezing Dara had taught me, and then took a good look.

Rolone was magnificent, a model Riverlands domain with dozens and dozens of prosperous farmlands spread out between the hills.  This was what they were fighting over: the right to own what those folk below did every year.  Grain was life, grain was prosperity, so Huin’s monks told us.  But to the nobility grain was gold and power.  That's why they were fighting for those croplands so devotedly.

Beyond the vales were the first of the foothills, and I recognized a few landmarks that told me how quickly we’d come to the frontiers of my new lands.  Below my new domains spread out under me, humble little scraps compared to the wide, lush fields below.

Here barley and oats replaced wheat, and even further up the mountains the tiny gardens grew just enough corn and beans to get folk through the year.  My lands would never produce the crop yields of Sashtalia or even the smaller domains to the north of Sevendor.  I would have to make us prosperous through magic.

Faithful flew lower, over the mountains, the moonlight glinting from his wingtips as he soared serenely over the trees.  The ridges of Sevendor Vale stood as a great dark fence around my land, overlooking the smaller hills around it.  And behind it, to the south, rose the imposing interior of the Uwarris, claimed by no lord because the terrain was so rough and unmanageable.

But there at their base was the familiar sight of white Rundeval, my brilliant castle looking tiny by comparison.  The big bird slowed as we crossed the ridgeline, and to my surprise he banked right.  Before I knew what was happening we were circling the beautiful spire on Matten’s Helm, fair Lesgaethael.  Dara was showing me the sights, I realized, and there were few more stunning than that amazing snowstone edifice.

But then we pulled out of the circle and soared back toward the castle, getting lower and lower to the ground all the time.  Faithful swept in at what felt like just over the wall, and actually had to climb a bit to land on the roof of my tower.  Only once I could see and feel both of his feet firmly on the stone did I chance to unclench my fists. The straps came off easily, and in moments I was on solid ground again.

“Thank you, Dara,” I said, bowing to the bird, adding, “And thank you Faithful.  You’ve lived up to your name.  Why don’t you take him back to the Mews, Dara, and I’ll get in contact with you in the morning?”

The bird didn’t answer, of course, but it bobbed its head and then took off in a rush of feathers.  I sighed.  My sphincter unclenched the tiniest bit.  How did she do that all the time?

I made my way downstairs, grateful for the quiet and the feeling of being back home, around familiar surroundings.  I tarried a moment on the ground floor, my study and sitting room, where I took a moment to pour myself a shot of peach spirits and sit until my knees felt like they could support me again.

That’s when it hit.  I started shaking, all over.  I had been attacked, I had been targeted, I had had my magic taken away from me, I had been in danger, and someone had broken my most powerful magical treasure.  The fact that I’d survived without other serious loss was beside the point.

I was supposed to be better than this, I told myself.  I’m the Spellmonger; everyone depends upon me to be the one with the plan, the one with the spell, the one with the scheme that saves the day.  Only this time I hadn’t, and I’d gotten a nasty cut and almost died because of it.

Now other people were plotting against me, and I didn’t like it one bit.  I’d done everything in my power to build a safe place to call home for me and my family, and besides honor, professionalism, and political reality the fact was that I was sick of it.  Mask was probably dead, but then I’d thought that before.  Isily was not just alive, but was about to give birth to my child.

Unfortunately, there was almost nothing I could do about any of it.

So I just sat there and stared at the bookcase, my broken witchsphere on the chair beside me.

And I shook.

Chapter Thirty Four

The Perfect Paraclete

“Oh, Minalan,” sighed Onranion as he examined my sphere in my workshop the next morning.  “You really cracked this like a nut, didn’t you?”

“Annulment spell, while it was floating,” I explained, grudgingly.  “Can you repair it?”

“Well, certainly . . . to a point,” he admitted.  He didn’t look enthusiastic about the prospect.  I didn’t much care.

“Well, do it, then!”

“Well,” the human-formed Alkan said, putting his hands behind his head the way he’d seen humans do, “the thing is, I’m not so certain we should go rushing into that sort of thing.”

“What do you mean?” I demanded.  “I need that thing!”

“Of course you do,” he said, with a patronizing note in his voice.  “But stop and consider a few things.  Azhguri and I have been talking . . .”

“You’re always talking!  And drinking!  That’s about all you two do!” I said, exasperated.  Luckily Onranion was more amused by my outburst than offended.

“It’s what we’re talking about that is the important thing,” he said, condescendingly.  “We’ve been studying that Snowflake of yours, and all your pretty rocks, and we think we can make something better than this plain old thing,” he said, waving his long, delicate fingers at the cracked sphere with disgust.

“What do you mean, better?” I asked, suspiciously.

“You know the direction we’ve been going, theoretically,” he said, reasonably.  “Perhaps it’s time to take the next step, as you folk say.  Let me speak to Azhguri about it – and Master Ulin, he does have some novel perspectives for a mortal – and we’ll let you know what we come up with.”

“Let me know?” I asked, outraged and irritated.  “How am I supposed to do magic until then?  How am I supposed to use the Waypoints?  This is not a good time for me to be kept waiting, Onranion!”  I didn’t bother listing my worries, because I was too mad and he wouldn’t care anyway.

“Just use one of the Seven Stones you have, temporarily,” he soothed.  “Those have the Waypoint enchantment in them already.”

I stopped.  “They do?”

He looked startled.  “Of course they do!  It’s standard!  Those low-powered stones were used by sentries and . . . well, call them hunters, and they needed to use them fast, sometimes.  The stones are a shortcut to that.”

“And all of the Seven Stones have them?”

“Yes, of course.  Didn’t I just say that?”

“So I could have taught Tyndal and Rondal and Azar and everyone else who I’ve given one of them to how to use the Ways?  And maybe not doing all of this dangerous magical travel myself?”

He considered.  “Well, I suppose you could,” he admitted.

“That would have been helpful information to have,” I suggested through gritted teeth, “about a year or so ago.”

“It didn’t come up,” he dismissed.  “But go ahead and use one of those temporarily, and we’ll get back to you when we’re ready with the new model.”

“I really hope you know what you’re doing, Onranion,” I said, sighing.  Grabbing one of the special Seven Stones I reserved for powerful magi in the service of their orders would be easy enough, but I also knew that, despite the Alka Alon sophistication, it wouldn’t be nearly as much arcane power as I had grown accustomed to.  But it would suffice, for now.  As long as I wasn’t so handicapped for long.

I spent the rest of the day drafting letters to Lord Trefalan regarding his vassal’s craven violation of oath, and proposed consequences, I caught up on some of my correspondence concerning the upcoming Arcane Orders Conclave – dear gods, was it really that soon? – and spent some time establishing a rapport with the Seven Stone.  By the end of the day I was confident enough in the link to try a quick Waypoint trip to Boval Village to tell Yeoman Rollo of Ruderal’s delay, then back again.  Satisfied it would work I called Dara and Tyndal, mind-to-mind, and informed them of my lessened power.

They reported that eight of the surviving Roloni knights had been captured and taken to the prisoner-of-war camp, there to dig ditches and break rocks in penance for their crime.  The townsfolk had been genuinely angry at the betrayal, and had pelted the coffled knights with refuse as they were being led away south on foot, stripped of their armor and their dignity.

Sir Cullien, miraculously, was still alive, though he might not ever walk again.  His hip was shattered by the skybolt and the risk of infection to the wound was great.  Lorcus had him moved to a hospital and paid the town’s best healer to tend him, but he was grim about his chances for survival.

Lorcus had also called in some of his better warmagi, particularly my apprentices, to help keep watch over the castle after the attack.  The servants were all questioned under truthtell spells and those who proved to be in Lady Mask’s pay were interrogated. They hadn’t given him much useful information, yet, but he was hopeful.

There was no sign of Lady Mask, nor any account of her body being found.  That troubled me.

After retrieving Dara and Ruderal the next day, and bringing a few more men in return, I retired to my hall for the day, my work forgotten.  I’d told Alya about the Roloni knights’ betrayal, and she’d been concerned.  I’d not told her about Lady Mask, or her violent vendetta against me.  With her pregnant again, the last thing I wanted to do was rattle her nerves.  I was her husband.  I would protect her.  But in the meantime I desperately needed the salve of sweet domestic life to snap me out of my reaction to the attack.  I’d been in battle before – even without magic – but the combination of events, the smoothness with which she’d sprung the trap, they made me crave the comfort of Alya’s serene simplicity like the breath of life.

I was not hiding in her skirts, as part of me suggested.  But sometimes a man needs that quiet reminder of why he does what he does so he can find the strength to do it.  I allowed myself a full day of playing husband and father, chasing the kids around the hall, teaching Minalyan bad words when his mother wasn’t listening, forcing the tubby Tal Alon servants to play tag with them (except for our maid, Daisy, who was getting enormously large as her pregnancy progressed . . . not to mention a bit moody) and trying out simple magic with my underpowered stone to entertain them.  It was a great day, and just the tonic I needed to get me back to work.

The tasks before me, I concluded, were not as complex as they seemed.  I had to deal with the war in Rolone, the other war in Sashtalia, I had to replace my most powerful magical item, I had to eliminate an assassin who might or might not be dead already, I had to eliminate the threat of Isily to my family, and I had to prepare for the Conclave.  The gods-damned Conclave.

I had to go, too.  This was the first year that Pentandra’s successor was running the Order.  My presence would be an endorsement of his hard work; my absence would be seen as a sign of a lack of confidence.  More, there were several fairly mundane but important matters of policy that needed discussion and decisions, and it was also traditional that I present a few witchstones at the affair.  It was good for business, and it kept the middle and low magi hopeful and cooperative with the professional association.

I also had to give a speech.  Those are fun.

With the Conclave only a few days away, I had to move more quickly on some of my other projects.  There was nothing I could do about Isily, but I could do some business concerning the war in Bontal Vales.  After making sure there were no fires to put out and I could be missed for an afternoon, I took Ruderal and transported through the Waypoint to the Waystone I’d placed in Sire Cei’s armor.  That placed us in an unbearably hot canvass arming tent that smelled of leather, iron, blood, vomit, urine, and a thousand sweaty armpits.  We got out of there quick.

Magically appearing in the middle of a camp in a time of war is an exciting prospect.  Without orders, a pass, or the right passwords it’s often a quick trip to the nearest tree with a rope.  Thankfully we were in Sire Cei’s encampment and his servants from Cargwenyn recognized us and arranged for passes.  Soon we were waiting outside of Baron Arathanial’s campaign tent – the same huge tent he used during the Chepstan Fair.  This time there were armored guards and sentries posted, and a steady stream of heralds and scouts reporting in.

We waited for the camp steward to announce us to the baron when Sire Cei happened by.  He was startled at seeing me there, but certainly happy enough.  For his part he looked in his element, a knight at honorable war.  And he’d seen battle.

“We’ve been raiding across the frontier into the borderlands,” he informed us, while we waited, “Twice we’ve run into real battle, and both times we were victorious.  We should be moving our camp over the river tomorrow, to better position ourselves for the next phase of the attack.  If all goes well, we’ll draw the Sashtali out of their keeps long enough to give battle.  If they lock themselves away, then I’m afraid the war will bog down quickly.  We can conduct a siege, but our goal is to avoid one until we get to Sashtalia Castle, itself.”

We were announced to the Baron before I could catch my castellan up on news from home – particularly Alya’s pregnancy.  Sevendor’s acquisition of six new domains was already known in camp.  But I was curious to hear the reaction of the man who was going to have to administer them, now.

Arathanial looked very different than he did at the Fair.  He was in full chainmail, his helmet and gauntlets laid aside, looking as if he was ready to spring onto horseback at the sound of a horn.  He was seated in front of a trestle table on which were piles of parchment, ink, wax boards, and a large map of Sashtalia.  I glanced at the positions of the pieces.  From what I could tell, things looked pretty favorable for Sendaria.

“Ah, the Sevendori contingent!  Have you come to throw your sword into the fray, my friend?” he asked, after greeting us and offering me wine.

“No, but I do have some useful intelligence . . . and a possible proposition.  Let me first tell you the tale of a little estate the King gave me called Amel Wood.”

I spent half an hour telling the story of Sire Cullien’s raid and Lorcus’ appointment and subsequent reprisal.  When I told them how quickly a half-dozen warmagi and a couple of dozen archers had managed to not only attack, but successfully conquer the domain, both men were speechless.

“So your man – Lorcus? – Lord Lorcus has just conquered the domain of Rolone?  The second strongest castle in Sashtalia?” Arathanial asked, his eyes wide with shock.

“Indeed.  More, the former lord brought a hundred men to Rolone to negotiate under truce, then broke the truce and attacked Lorcus, myself, and a couple of others with the intention of re-taking the Castle, and thence the domain.  He failed.  He lies near death in a hospital, under guard.  The survivors among his men have been put to hard labor in penance.  So there will be a few thousand less peasants and a hundred fewer knights on the field before you.”

“That’s . . . that’s incredible news,” Arathanial murmured.  “Certainly for the battle ahead.  But Minalan, this is also troubling.  I did not amass an army and go into debt to conquer only half of Sashtalia!”

“There is still a large portion left unconquered, let me assure you.  But Lord Lorcus has indicated a willingness to treat with the victor of the war as to the disposition of his domain, and empowered me to negotiate on his behalf.”

“Negotiate?” Sire Cei asked, confused.  “What is there to negotiate?”

“Quite a lot, actually.  The fact is, though he was adept at conquering the domain, and he’s enjoying the spoils, he is not by nature suited to running such a large and complex property.  He is a warmage by training.  And a Remeran by birth – and not one of the stable ones.  But should you prevail in the field, I could perhaps see a trade.”

“A . . . trade?” Arathanial asked, suddenly interested.

“Yes.  Consider the revenues produced by Rolone annually,” I proposed.  “Then consider them in comparison to those you gain from the domains of Bulmont and Kest.  I think you will find those of Rolone superior to their combined totals by about two-thirds, according to Sir Festaran.  Should Sendaria prove victorious and take Sashtalia, I would be amenable to trading most of the domain of Rolone – minus two small estates in the extreme south which border Amel Wood – for the domains of Bulmont and Kest.  That would give me a series of contiguous estates and give you the second largest prize in Sashtalia for the cost of a couple of small hill domains.  And I, in the meantime, will keep Rolone’s men out of the war, prohibit his eastern domains from moving troops through Roloni territory, and generally screw up Trefalan’s war plan further.”

Arathanial drummed his fingers, considering the costs and the benefits of the proposal.  It cost him nothing, I knew, if he did not win the war.  If he did win, he got a domain he didn’t have to fight for, more or less intact.  That would also reduce the size of the contiguous parcel of domains he held from what was left of West Fleria, but I knew that Rolone was a tempting offer.

“One more thing,” I added, before he could answer.  “I want the guardianship and patronage of the Holy Hill Temple of Trygg transferred to Sevendor,” I added.  That was a minor thing – currently it was held by Trefalan, through his former vassal, though the temple could do nothing by law to contribute to the war.

I wanted it because the temple served a vital function for the hill country domains, and I wanted to secure my influence over it.  Sure, there was prestige and honor in a lord being generous with his support of the clergy, but when your wife is pregnant you want to line up the best midwives in the region in advance.

“Done,” Arathanial said.  “I hesitated only because I felt I was taking advantage of a friend, by accepting such an offer.  If you add in the temple estate, I think it’s more balanced.  You do realize that your man Lorcus is giving up a possibly prestigious position in the new barony I’m planning there?”

“New barony?  I thought you were reclaiming Sashtalia for Sendaria?”

“I have three sons, Minalan, and while the youngest is considering taking holy orders, my second son, Thanis, is as doughty a warrior and as wise a leader as his elder brother – perhaps better.  Sashtalia was always a cadet barony for the Lensely’s – a place to park younger sons and cousins, for a few generations – and it was only that damned succession crisis that ripped her from the family.  If I can restore the old Lensely barony, whose title is active but vacant, and install Thanis in it, then both of my sons will inherit a decent patrimony, without having to split it.”

“But won’t that cause another succession crisis?” I asked, ignorant of such things.

“His Excellency is having the Lawbrothers of Stapledor Priory draw up the baronial charter,” explained Sire Cei.  “Within they will lay out specific issues of inheritance and succession, avoiding the legal pitfalls that doomed the Lensely legacy in the past.”

Stapledor was one of the largest ecclesiastic estates in the county, and the seat of not just the High Priest of Luin for the county, but also a college and seminary training the lawbrothers of the region.  It was also smack in the middle of Sashtalia, but the feuds between the Lawfather of the Priory and the Lord of Sashtalia were legendary.  Apparently Trefalan liked to skirt the letter of Luin’s Law far more than was the liking of the powerful cleric, who was still resentful of the technically-illegal seizure of Sashtalia a generation ago.  The Priory was eager to help.

“And I get a way to reward all of the younger sons of vassals who are accumulating so dangerously,” Arathanial added.  “Within a new client barony there will be plenty of opportunities.”

“Especially after you’ve slaughtered the former owners,” I pointed out, a little ruefully.  “And a good many of your younger sons.”

“Oh, it’s good for the blood,” Arathanial declared, pounding the table.  “It weeds out the weak and stupid and rewards the valorous and strong.  Always a lot of weddings, after a war,” he recalled, fondly.

I didn’t pursue the matter.  Duin’s Law institutionalized the military in Narasi culture, as well as the attitude towards death and its role in society.  I prefer Briga’s law.  There are more cookies involved.

We concluded the discussion on a handshake in front of his lawbrother, who was happy to witness the deal.  Then we had wine to pledge the agreement, and I had a chance to catch them both up on important news from Sevendor, and some details about the recent battle in Rolone Castle, and its outcome.  They were particularly impressed with how well four warmagi did against trained knights – I didn’t have the heart to tell him the combat skills of the Riverlord chivalry were overrated, compared to a warmage – even without magic.  Dara’s sudden rescue stole the tale, however, and I left them both with a much improved opinion of the Hawkmaiden.

I collected Ruderal before I went home.  I’d had the boy sit quietly near the middle of the Sendari encampment and just watch.

“Did you see her?” I asked, quietly.

“No, Master,” he said, solemnly.

“Then let’s go home,” I sighed.  I had entertained a theory that if Lady Mask survived, she might try another attempt on me, or further disrupt the war with Sashtalia, just out of spite.  It was a long shot, but as I was coming here anyway it seemed a sensible precaution to position Ruderal to see if he spotted her pattern through her disguise.  He hadn’t.

“Do we have to go back to that smelly old tent to go home?” he asked.  “It was like the inside of a three-day old ragclaw!”

“No need,” I assured.  “Do you want to head back to Boval Hall, or would you be up for a side excursion?” I asked.

“We’re having turnips for dinner,” he said, wrinkling his nose.  “If I could avoid that . . .”

“What’s wrong with turnips?” I’d always liked them myself.

“They smell like feet and taste like . . . feet,” he decided.

“Well, we wouldn’t be very good wizards if we couldn’t avoid eating feet, if we could help it,” I agreed.  “I think you’re going to have to work late at the castle, tonight.  But first some non-foot-oriented dinner.”  I thought a moment and then made a decision.  In seconds we were in my house in Sendaria.  I led Ruderal to a vendor by the docks where we secured fried eels and potatoes and boiled eggs.  I sprung for a honeyball, encrusted with pecans, afterwards, which we shared while we watched the sun go down over the river.

“Ruderal, tell me about this . . . intelligence,” I prompted.  “The one in the Grain.”

He took a deep breath and looked thoughtful.  “She’s like all the stars in the sky,” he decided.

“She?”

“Definitely a she,” he affirmed.  “Like a mother.  Like the All-mother, or the Seamother.  And powerful!  I’ve never seen a pattern so powerful.”

I pulled the Grain of Pors out of my pouch and held it in my palm.  “Do you think you can take me to her?”

He swallowed.  “Here?”

“We should be fine,” I assured him.  “I’ll cast a spell to discourage people from even noticing us, and then we can proceed.”

“All right, Master,” he agreed, licking the honey from his fingers before putting his sticky palm over mine.  I made a note to reward the child with sweets only after the work was done, in the future.

“Remember, just relax, focus your concentration, and let the stone draw you within,” I reminded him, as I closed my own eyes.

I found my consciousness within the mental space of the Grain within moments.  A node nearby made itself known as Ruderal.  He didn’t exactly talk as express a desire for me to communicate, and then indicate that I should follow.  We descended.

It was deeper within the Grain than I had ever ventured, beyond the memory of any creature who still lived.  We saw the glimmers of Callidore’s primordial past, the reflections of the self-awareness of creatures whose lives had been lived under different constellations than our own.  Within that forgotten eon Ruderal brought me to an enneagram of breathtaking sophistication.

It was like an endless tree of awareness, sectioned and organized with startling precision.  The simplistic nature of the patterns I was familiar with were nothing like it.  Most were like simple pine trees in their complexity, a solid trunk and many branches representing different facets of self-awareness.

But the brilliant pattern I saw in front of me was so vast and intricate, it had no less than six main trunks all connecting at a central point of such impossible capacity and complexity that I had no context for it.  Each trunk spun off sub-branches, each of which was vastly more complex than the most developed of men.  Or anything else I’d seen.  Here, it seemed, was a great intelligence.

And Ruderal was right.  It definitely felt female.

Then it hit me.  Six great trunks of awareness.  Six arms of the Snowflake.

I decided I had found my paraclete.

*

*

“You want to transfer . . . her, into something?” Ruderal asked, incredulous, when we had retired back to my Sevendor Castle workshop.

“An artifact of great power,” I agreed.  “One which, at the moment, is more an object of nature – or supernature – than a mundane ‘thing’.  It is a cart with no driver.  She . . . would be the driver.  Someone you could speak to, in a manner of saying.  The artifact is far too complicated to be directed by a human mind.  Or even one of the Alon.”

“That’s . . . amazing,” he sighed.  “Like your . . . baculus?”

“Yes,” I agreed.  “And a good number of other enchantments we’ve built this year.  But this would be the largest such feat we’ve ever attempted.  Theoretically, it should work just as well as when I put the . . . curious creature I chose for my baculus.  I’ll use a larger crystal, instead of common quartz, but if the attempt fails there should be no danger.  I will need you to help me in the attempt, if you are game.”

“Is it dangerous?” he asked, suspiciously.

“It shouldn’t be,” I shrugged.  “It’s not like a pattern is going to leap out and start slaying us all.  In fact, it takes a lot of effort to imbue an enneagram into an object, and then integrate it.  That’s even before we find a way to power it.  Until then, it’s a cart and a driver that’s missing a horse.  You need all three to go anywhere.”  The boy seemed to like to speak in metaphors, which was helpful.  That was partly out of ignorance – he’d never had any formal schooling – but partly out of inclination.

“I see.  All right, I’ll give it a go,” he said, bravely.  “Now?”

“Not yet,” I chuckled.  “I still have to plan the spell and gather some components, which will require extensive conversation with masters Azhguri, Onranion, and others before I consider it.  But if all goes to plan, which it never does, I might have finally constructed the weapon I need to defeat the Dead God, once and for all.”

“Really?  The Goblin King?”

“That’s my plan,” I agreed.  “The last time I met him, he almost killed me.  I only escaped because a bunch of brave Alka Alon sacrificed themselves in battle with him.  Not even they, the greatest of the Alkan lords, were powerful enough to defeat him . . . so what hope did I have?”

“This gives you hope,” he observed.

“The first hope I’ve had that I might defeat him someday.  Together with the Alon and the gods, I have been working on this weapon – this grand enchantment – for six months or more.  With your help I might finally be able to craft it.”

“Really?  My help?”

“I couldn’t have found her without you,” I pointed out.  “Or recognized how ideal she is for this.  You’re a part of this enchantment, now, Ruderal.  That’s a big responsibility,” I acknowledged, “but it’s also a great honor.  You’ve just begun studying magic.  I know that’s a lot to ask of you, but I truly believe you can do it.”

“Well, just let me know when,” he agreed.  “If you don’t think it’s dangerous.”

Actually, I wasn’t certain it wasn’t.  But it would be a surprise to both of us, and one he didn’t need to worry about.  “I will.  Why don’t you go find Sir Festaran and have him put you up for the night?  It’s too late to walk home, I’m too tired to transport you without effort . . . and I think it’s time you spent the night at the castle.  You’re certainly old enough. I think you’re ready.”  He took the news as a greater honor than the offer to assist in the greatest enchantment ever attempted by Alkan or Man.

Once he was gone, I closed my eyes and made contact with Pentandra, mind-to-mind.

Penny, Lady Mask is back.  Or she was.  And she broke my witchsphere.  I quickly filled her in on the events of late, including the story of the trap at Rolone Castle.  She was nearly speechless.

Oh, Min!  I had no idea!  Do you think she’s dead?

There’s been no sign of her.  Dara swears that Faithful dropped her over rough country, and that she was unlikely to survive.  But her body hasn’t been recovered.  I sent Tyndal to search for it, and he found nothing.  So . . . I’m worried.  I’ve been searching, but . . . well, she broke my witchsphere, and while Onranion is repairing it I’m using one of the Seven stones.

You have other resources, she reminded me.  You fought without magic, you can defend yourself without your witchsphere.  Stop letting this girl get to you, Min.  She took a shot and was lucky enough to wound you.  She won’t get that lucky again, not with you vigilant for her.  So relax.  You sound nearly frantic.

I’m feeling a little frantic, I admitted.  Not by choice.  Just knowing she’s out there, in league with Isily and likely Shereul, makes me anxious.  I don’t know what to expect.

It’s not becoming, she pointed out.

So sorry to disappoint you, I said, sarcastically.  I was feeling pretty low.

Damn it, I mean it, Minalan!  You are the Spellmonger, and despite how you feel, you have a responsibility to the rest of us to keep being the all-powerful Spellmonger.  Too much rests on that for you to let your emotions get the best of you.  This mummer’s play masquerading as a duchy wouldn’t last three weeks if it wasn’t well known that Anguin has the friendship and guidance – and financial support – of the Spellmonger.  A whole conclave of your professional colleagues is going to look to you for confident leadership and astute guidance when they haul their arses down to Castabriel in a week, and you have got to be there, being the Spellmonger, despite your melancholia!  Do you understand me, Min?

Yes, Penny, I answered, dully.

Oh, I could choke that murderous bitch myself for what she’s done to you!

It’s just a scratch on my arm, I said, feeling pitiful.  And Onranion says he can fix the sphere . . . eventually.

I’m not talking about Mask, you idiot, I’m talking about Isily!  She’s the one who has your heart in knots!  I know she’s as big as a pumpkin right now, about to deliver her brat unto the world, but she’s the one who’s affected you like this, not Mask.  Gods, I wish she were going to the Conclave, so that I could face her myself!

She’s not coming?

Don’t you ever read the Order’s reports?  The committed attendees list was attached to the revised agenda, just as I established.

I’ve been busy.  Fighting for my life, I reminded her.

Excuses.  Baron Dunselen and Baroness Isily have sent their regrets, but will be skipping the Conclave for the anticipated birth of their first child.  She didn’t waste any time, did she?

She has a thing about magical blood lines, I explained.  She’s committed to breeding with only the most powerful magi.

That explains her initial desire to seduce you, and I can almost understand that.  But Dunselen?  He’s as powerful as a Tal matron, even with a witchstone.

I know.  Isily is playing some deep game.

She’s playing on our board, Min, Pentandra reminded me.  We built this godsdamned board.

Speaking of which, I said, desperate to change the subject, how is your Ishi problem?

Actually, less problematic, she admitted.  I don’t know what you said to her, but she’s turned her attention from the court and the gentry to the army.  Ever since the 3rd Commando arrived in Vorone, it’s been nothing but patriotic support and discounts for military personnel at the brothel.  But that’s the other problem: she’s organized the brothels.

Well, you have to admit, a disorganized brothel can be a frightful place.

That’s not what I mean.  I mean she’s used her influence and money to convince the proprietors of Perfume Street to organize a kind of professional association.

A guild . . . of whores?

Essentially.  There are nine members, including Lady Pleasure, who runs it.  At first no one paid any attention to it – they held a festival, drummed up some business, nothing too dramatic.  But then prices stabilized, and the various houses stopped competing head-on.  She’s also used the combined purchasing power of them to negotiate better deals from merchants, tailors, guards, and even taxation.  She’s hired a coinsister to keep everyone’s books, to keep things honest, and mandated that each brothel take a day off in turn.

That all sounds pretty reasonable, Penny, I answered, after some thought.

It’s completely reasonable.  It’s also unheard of.  Who has a whore’s guild?

Vorone, apparently.  Why does that bother you?

Because I know she’s not doing it for the girls, she’s doing it for some political or spiritual or other purpose I can’t fathom.  Now she wants to be friends with me, under the polite fiction that she’s really just a middle-aged human noblewoman.  I’ve debated with her a dozen times, and she’s giving me a headache trying to figure out what she’s really up to!

Perhaps you should take her at face value, I suggested.  Maybe she really is just trying to help, like she says.

Minalan, have you ever known a woman to act without concealing something? she asked, patiently.  Outside of a saintly priestess, every woman has deception in her heart.  And Ishi isn’t just any woman, she’s every woman.  Of course she’s concealing her real purpose!  Gods, how did you ever get to be the Spellmonger?

You made me do it, I sighed, heavily.  I just wanted a funny hat.

Chapter Thirty Five

The Celestial Mother

“Are you sure you want to do this now?” Onranion asked, skeptically.

“I leave for the bloody Conclave in two days,” I grumbled.  “If this doesn’t work, then I want to be able to ask the experts of the kingdom just why it didn’t.”

“Human experts?” he asked, amused.

“Enough with that,” I sighed.  “Let’s just prepare the spell.  I’ll need you controlling the energy flow, now that my sphere is being re-shoed – do you think you can manage that?”

“I could do it dead drunk,” the Alkan songmaster assured me.

“Lucky me.  Azhguri, you’ll oversee the transfer into the crystal.  You’ve selected one?”

“That big whopping Apophylyte crystal we found in that first vesicle,” he said, with satisfaction.  “That’s got a matrix big enough to transfer anything.  I did the abstergent spell to prepare it already.  I’m fairly certain I can sing the Snowflake enough to still it so that you can imbue the enneagram from the crystal.  I’ve prepared it, according to Ulin’s specifications,” he added.  Then he stopped and frowned.  “Are you certain this is a good idea, lad?”

“It’s your bloody idea, so you tell me,” I said, as I prepared the spell on a table in front of the big hissing thing.  I tried not to look at it.  “This still doesn’t give us a power source,” I reminded them.  “This thing is going to sit there like a puppet without strings without power.”  We had established early on that the ambient magical energy that the Snowflake attracted was hardly sufficient to bring the enneagram to full effectiveness.  Not that it would be an issue for a while.  We still had no idea if it would even work.

“It’s a good idea,” Azhguri agreed.  “What concerns me is the execution.”

“We’ve discussed this for months, in one way or another,” I pointed out as I opened my notebooks.  “A complex, sophisticate enneagram is going to be the only thing powerful enough to interface between a human – or Alon – mind and the Snowflake, you said.  Well, I found the paraclete you told me didn’t exist.  What’s the problem?”

“I’m just thinking that maybe unearthing a creature who has been dead for that long might not be the best idea,” the ancient stonesinger said.  “Enneagrams are powerful things.  The Alka screwed around with them, and got Korbal as their pay.”

“He was a necromancer,” I pointed out.  “This is enchantment.  Whole different thing.”

“You know, I reserve the right to say I told you so when we’re all dead on the ground,” he said in a friendly voice.

“Understood.  Go fetch the crystal.  It’s time we got started.”

I understood both of my advisors’ concerns.  A work of this magnitude was a great undertaking, and one that should be approached with cautious wisdom, not impatience.  But once I had witnessed the six-branched enneagram in the Grain, I really couldn’t see any compelling reason not to make the attempt.  I had everything that I needed, and delaying because it might go horribly wrong in some catastrophic way just didn’t seem like a compelling reason anymore.

I don’t know exactly what came over me, after my conversation with Pentandra, but it lit a fire under me.  I wanted the Snowflake to work – whatever it did – and I wanted it now.   I lit a candle with a cantrip, earning a quizzical look from Dranus.

“Is there not plenty of magelight, Excellency?” he asked, nodding toward the unnecessary illumination.

“Something this important, I want Briga to witness what I’m doing,” I explained.  “Humor me.”

He shrugged.  Dranus was not a particularly religious man.  But I was being serious.  I had been assaulted here without my goddess’ knowledge, because there was no flame present.  If she was not there to witness my shame, I at least wanted her to witness my triumph.  And potential death.  I figured I deserved a divine audience for that.

The actual working went essentially according to plan.  Ruderal assisted in transferring the enneagram, though it took a significant amount of power to do so.

I had Dranus, Taren (who had returned from Rolone specifically for this purpose), Dara, Master Ulin and Gareth all providing power through the Covenstone, because I’m lazy, and it was sufficient to effect the transfer, with Onranion watching the flower of arcane energy.  Meanwhile Master Azhguri was singing the Snowflake, trying to control its matrix from within.  It was a losing battle, but it only had to work long enough to make the transfer from the Grain to the crystal, and from the crystal to the Snowflake.

It was hard, excruciating work, dealing with an enneagram that size.  I don’t think I could have done it without the Alkan and Karshak masters at hand. Master Ulin, too, was instrumental in the calculations needed to know just how to place the enneagram.

I had the hard part: making the transfer.  The enneagram had to go through my mind, with a bit of a magical assist.  The transfer was arduous, the hardest magic I’ve ever done.  It was a little like reciting multiplication tables while translating a book of poetry from Alkan while standing on a precariously balanced stool in the middle of a riot.

For an earth elemental or something simple, that’s as easy as reciting verse.  For the Celestial Mother, as I called her in my mind, it was like reciting an endless encyclopedia.  It’s too baffling an experience to relate in words, for my mind saw things and experienced sensations that were not natural to it.

As I was imbuing the enneagram into the Snowflake, it was as if I lived lifetimes of other creatures’ lives.  Merely carrying the crystal the few steps across the chamber to the Snowflake saw me live many lives as undersea animals of strange and fascinating natures, each a smaller subset of the Mother.  That was why she was so complex, she was the root of a vast hive of entities with incredibly diverse perspectives.  The Celestial Mother kept them all in harmony, managing them as adeptly as Alya manages Min and Almina.

There was, as Ruderal had told me, an unquenchable sense of matronly love for all of them, too.  The Celestial Mother had lived to care and nurture her vast brood.  All were connected to her by magical tendrils in one vast fisherman’s net of experience.  She had lived for eons, before some chance had brought her into contact with the slip of Ghost Rock that became the Grain of Pors.

But the experience of the Celestial Mother was not limited to the sea, I knew in those eternal few instants.  She was celestial in her perspective, thanks to the insights of the magic of Callidore.  She had knowledge of the realms beyond the shore, the land, and far beyond the sky.  As I poured forth the enneagram through my soul, I witnessed things I barely had concepts for, and some that were suggestive of madness.

Through the Celestial Mother’s many children I saw the stars as bobbing leaves on a vast sea of darkness.  Worlds so large that they staggered the imagination.  Beauty so sublime that it endangered your peace to regard them for long, endless gardens of flaring starfire, and malevolent powers crouched within clouds of the ashes of worlds seeking to consume all.  I saw the breathtaking wonder of life from its most minute to its most profound, and saw cycles of nature so subtle they took millennia to discern.

And all of that in a few moments.  It was emotionally draining and physically exhausting, and when the factitive procedure was done I was myself imbued with a profound sense of my own insignificance.

“She’s in there,” Taren affirmed with a grin, after Dara caught me as I collapsed.  “I don’t know how you managed it, Min, but you’ve firmly attached the enneagram.”

“Affix it,” I whispered, as Dara brought me water.  Taren nodded, selected the Alaran Stone from the table, and began the spell to bind the enneagram permanently.  There was no chance of it degrading, now, I thought, when he was finished.  Even if I died, this part was done.  Someone else, someone with more power and more sense than I, could pick it up from here.  That gave me a sense of ease I had not felt in a long time.

“It’s done,” Taren pronounced, setting the stone down.  “All that’s left to do now is make the several thousand thaumaturgical connections, and we can all take turns with that.  I actually thought it would be harder.”

I tried to glare at him, but I didn’t have the strength.  Instead I looked at the Snowflake for the first time in a long time, really looked at it with magesight.  There was a difference, I could tell.  The pattern was already changing in subtle ways, becoming more intricate as I watched.

“We can take it from here, Master,” Gareth assured me, confidently.  “In a few weeks, we’ll have the pattern bound to the matrix, and we can start feeding it power to test the connections.  I’ll do a few tonight, just to ensure the binding has taken. But you can rest, Master,” he pleaded.

“That was a wondrous achievement, Excellency,” Dranus said with undisguised admiration.  “I know of no one else who could have done it.  Let us now pray that it works.”

Not the vote of confidence I needed.  But I knew it would work.  I had experienced only a tithe of the awareness of the Celestial Mother, and only for an instant, but such a complex being made even the gods, themselves, seem small in comparison.

I felt blessed and humbled to have done it.  Honored, even, for my role in bringing such a magnificent thing back into being.  It was like a suit of clothes hanging on a rack still waiting to be filled, but it was hanging.  I had done that much.  I wasn’t sure I could do any more.

My apprentices helped me to bed.  Alya checked on me, anxious – enchantment took a physical toll on the enchanter, and this was by far the most difficult work I’d ever done.  It made everything else seem like essays in the craft.

The residue of my experience with the Celestial Mother haunted my dreams, showing me things about a Callidore that no longer existed, even under the seas.  It was a world of incomparable order and sophistication, where thousands of different types of creatures lived and worked in a kind of harmony, all directed and guided by the benevolence of the Celestial Mother for countless ages.

I could feel the shadow of her enneagram in my mind like a half-remembered conversation as I slept.  In the days that followed I spontaneously had flashes of that perspective, but having the perspective to understand it was beyond me.

I awoke late in the day to find Alya by my bed, looking terribly worried.  She mopped my brow and brought me water and then ale, as I came out of the post-enchantment stupor.  I felt the usual temulence I suffered when doing intense work, but far more pronounced.  My limbs tingled and there were flashes of pain.  The whole world looked tiny, temporary, and ephemeral.  It took me a while to shake off the feeling.

The work apparently changed me, as well.  Or at least made me more introspective for a few days, enough to concern both my wife and my mother . . . and if Alya was willing to ask Mama to come check on me, I know she was worried.

Physically, I was fine.  Master Ulin kept me informed of the process of attaching the thousands of connections, but it would be awhile before we could even consider powering it.

In the meantime, I had duties to perform.  Duties that seemed to be utterly pointless as I prepared for the Conclave that it took some prompting for me to get my case of parchment together for the business that had to be done there.

Alya was worried enough about me to insist on Dara and Gareth accompanying me to Castabriel to watch over me, and I permitted it.  By the time I transported us to the Arcane Order’s headquarters in the capital, I was beginning to sense the influence of the Celestial Mother fading.  But it never completely left me.

*

*

Pentandra’s former assistant, Genthil, took great pains to spruce up the former temple that now served as the Arcane Orders’ headquarters and motherhouse.  Unlike Pentandra, who had purchased a pretty little estate outside of town and managed the Orders’ affairs from there, Genthil had taken residence in the Order and began running it like his personal domain.

The sigil of the order was embroidered on banners or painted, and not only the temple but the streets nearby had been hung with them. He’d cleaned the exterior of the building with magic, removing layers of soot and dirt that had accumulated (and sparked a sudden interest in the surrounding temples to do likewise, once the Order’s spire gleamed so magnificently).

There were now liveried warmagi guarding the main door and other entrances, mageblades behind their shoulder and wicked-looking warstaves in their hands like spears.  Security was an issue, I learned, after thieves started taking an interest in the place.

The changes weren’t merely external, either, I saw as he took me on a brief tour.  Genthil had reformed the internal bureaucracy and streamlined it to make it more efficient and more responsive to the needs of the members.  There were actual offices for each of the sub-orders, now, with permanent attendants to see to their individual business.

Each of the kingdom’s two magical academies had offices, and there was even an office set aside (though currently vacant, pending my oversight) for an official representative of the Spellmonger.  The records archive had been completely reorganized and attended by two young magi who acted as clerks.

There was a permanent liaison with the Royal Court Wizard’s office, and two clerks who did nothing but oversee examinations and certifications.  The Mirror’s office was a well-run enterprise that had grown in popularity, and now employed fifteen magi full-time, with another six trained and ready to fill in on the busy array at any time.

“The Mirror is actually quite profitable,” Genthil admitted to me.  “Most of the other departments are running at a slight deficit or breaking even, mostly on the basis of fees and such, but we profit enough on the Mirror to more than make up for it.  The nobility and the merchant houses have finally caught on to the advantages of such communications.  Indeed, I have just this week entertained a proposal from the new Warlord about developing a similar system to allow elements of the fleet to remain in contact with each other without being in sight.  I wanted to discuss it with you before I responded on behalf of the Order.”

“That’s actually an intriguing idea,” I admitted.  My experience with ships was limited, but even I could see the strategic and tactical advantages.  While it might do nothing to help the war with Shereul, my interest in enchantment immediately suggested that there was an opportunity here.

“Send back a counter-proposal.  Suggest that such an array is not only possible, but that there may be even better means of achieving his ends, magically, that would convey further advantages over the maritime enemies of the kingdom.  Of course such an enterprise would be costly to develop, but that after consulting with the Kingdom’s leading enchanters, the possibilities for such a working are impressive.  Invite him to extend an offer of how much he’s willing to spend, and we’ll give him a working proposal of what we can do.”

“Thank you, Minalan,” Genthil said, gratefully.  “I have done my best to stay aloof from court politics, and I know that Count Salgo is a friend of yours, so I was uncertain of how to proceed.”

“The Order’s business is not dependent upon our personal connections,” I said, realizing I was guiding policy here.  “It can’t be.  My goal has always been to create an independent, impartial and apolitical institution with the primary purpose of supporting magi and representing their interests.  This could mean a lot of coin for a lot of us.  Not to mention pushing the development of enchantment, which I’m currently in favor of.”

“Apropos to that,” he said, as we came back out into the central rotunda, where the skull of the Dragon of Cambrian was on display, “your interest, and the recent symposium in Sevendor, has led to a resurgence of fascination with that ancient art.”

“By design.  I’ve prepared copies of a folio I’ve completed, a small thaumaturgic orismology standardizing the lessons in enchantment and methods of procedure for our colleagues,” I nodded.  I had worked hard on that, drafting Lanse of Bune’s apprentices to make twenty copies, bound in green leather.  My small academic contribution that, I hoped, would inspire enchantment across the kingdom.

But that wasn’t what Genthil was referring to.  “One of the issues facing the Conclave is to establish regulation for the creation and sale of such enchantments.  There have been some . . . ethical abuses that need to be contended with.”

I stopped.  “Such as?”

“There are some magi who are creating artifacts of dubious purpose.  Spells to open locks, warwands that can be used by non-magi, enchantments designed to sway the opinions or consent of lovers or business associates . . . there is an underground market for such ill-intentioned goods.  And there are magi who are not opposed to fulfilling it.”

“That gets us into some tricky territory,” I pointed out.  “I agree, we need to consider more stringent regulation.  But I also feel that some of those enchantments have legitimate purposes.”

“I concur,” Genthil nodded.  “A warwand in the hand of a warmage is one thing; in the hand of a jealous husband, it becomes an untraceable tool of revenge and murder.  We must proceed carefully, but we are one scandal away from having the Royal Court demand us take action.”

“We’ll have to discuss it in conclave,” I sighed.  “I’ll want to poll the membership to see their opinions.”

“As some of the membership are the ones profiting on the sales, that will prove an interesting discussion.  In fact, the Baron of Greenflower has proposed, in his office as head of the scholarly order, that a body be set up to hear cases regarding such abuses on a case-by-case basis.  He proposes employing a lawbrother as a consultant to establish and maintain procedure, but that a rotating body of magi, three from each order, be seated to sit in judgment in such cases.  Their verdict would be advanced to the executive office with recommendations for action.”

“That’s bloody brilliant,” I admitted, as we returned to my quarters.  “That would certainly reduce the political stress, as well as give us a mechanism to deal with such things internally, without the King getting involved.  Who came up with this?  The Magelord of—oh.”

“Baron Dunselen,” Genthil agreed, sympathetically.  “He has used his office liberally to advance policy proposals and procedural changes that have, frankly, been as irritating as they are inspired.  We have seventy-four policy issues to address, amongst the various orders.  Of those, more than forty were issued by Dunselen.”

I sighed.  “He was an excellent Ducal Court Mage for years,” I admitted.  “He’s known for his administrative acumen.  And he did arrange a most productive seminar on enchantment on his order’s behalf.  While I mistrust his motives, his talent for such things can’t be denied.”

“I do hope you’ll maintain that opinion after contending with some of these proposals,” he said, smiling grimly.

There were a lot of interesting discussions over the next few days, and as reluctant as I was to admit that Dunselen’s proposals had merit, as irritating as they were they each addressed a specific weakness in the administration of the orders that, once brought to my attention, I had to agree needed to be managed.

Previous proposals and initiatives, such as the establishment of Spellwardens, had developed issues because of a lack of guidance.  Disputes over jurisdiction or degree had risen.  It took days of discussion and compromise before we reached a conclusion, but often it was Dunselen’s proposals that made the most sense and were the easiest to enact without undue cost or stress on the Order.

Things moved along more quickly as some of my better people started drifting in for the Conclave.  Once Terleman, Forandal, and Curmor arrived, they were able to help me cut through the tangle.  And once Pentandra arrived with the Alshari contingent – including Astyral, Azar, Bendonal, Carmella and a dozen other Alshari warmagi – I felt like reinforcements had arrived.

It helped that they came in together like a parade.  Pentandra’s magnificent coach was led by Azar and Bendonal on beautiful chargers, and followed by a procession of the other magi all bearing blue baldrics with the antlers-and-anchor of Alshar.  They arrived at dusk, casting beautiful magelights to hover over their procession as they made their way through the crowded streets of Castabriel.  That attracted a lot of attention, particularly from the clergy whose evening services were disrupted by the spectacle.

“That was impressive,” I remarked to Pentandra, after the contingent dismounted in front of the Order.  I was surprised how quickly liveried grooms came out and led the horses to the stable; a dedicated footman assisted Pentandra from her coach.  “I’m surprised you didn’t arrange for a fanfare at your arrival.”

“Please, Minalan! I’m an old married lady now.  Such conceits are for young girls who need the attention.”  She nonetheless looked flattered.  “It was honestly more about national pride than personal vanity,” she confided.  “Anguin wanted us to make an impressive entrance to send the message to Castal that Alshar is alive and well.”

“Half-alive and coughing up blood, but I see his point,” I agreed.  “You seem to have brought an awful lot of warmagi south.”

“The frontiers are quiet,” she confided, as I led her inside.  “Anguin’s brought four important local barons under his sway and started re-organizing the nobility over what’s left of what he controls.  Vorone is relatively peaceful and enjoying some prosperity.  He’s gotten one of the iron mines open again.  We didn’t even need to borrow to make payroll this month.  By next conclave he should actually have a real statelet to run.”

We took that evening to enjoy the slate of receptions for the various orders, catching up on news and new areas of inquiry.  In general it was a highly productive session in which a lot of useful work got done.  It was also fairly relaxing, without worrying about Dunselen or Isily popping out from behind a tapestry. The Royal Family had all vacated the city for the summer, and the skeleton court that remained to handle day-to-day business was interested in our decadent parties but not in our policies.

But I discovered a cure for the over-arching presence of the Celestial Mother in my brain: bureaucracy and committee meetings. After four days of them, I could barely feel the distant shadow of her on my mind.

I kept quiet about her installation into the Snowflake at the conclave.  The very existence of the artifact was a closely-held secret, after Isily’s infiltration, and the details of the working would have interested only a handful of enchanters, most of who were already in Sevendor.  Instead I demonstrated to each group of wizards the amazing advancements refinements the concillibule at Sevendor had made over the winter.  Some of the easier enchantments, like the agricultural and construction wands we’d created, I offered to teach anyone who wished to come to Sevendor and spend a few weeks learning.  Others would require more study and preparation . . . but the invitation was the same.

In addition to the meetings and discussion there were plenty of fetes, parties, and receptions.  The rising class of graduating magi from the academies had a function I could not miss, as did the new class of journeymen who had gotten their papers.  I did make five new High Magi, one in each order, and delegated the task of acclimatizing them to their new stones . . . but that still demanded a reception.

I had innumerable meetings with people from outside of the Order who had waited weeks or even months for the opportunity to speak to me.  I spent a day just dealing with them.  And there was another party after that – Order of the Secret Tower, I think.  They all ran together after a while.

Then came the night of my big speech, the penultimate day of the official activities.  It was a pretty standard speech, and I of course emphasized the role of enchantment in the future of our profession, but there was nothing particularly groundbreaking in it.

When I got off the podium to polite applause, however, Pentandra was waiting for me.  She didn’t bother to whisper – she used mind-to-mind communication to relay the news.

Word just came from Alshar, she reported.  Apparently someone has taken notice of our agenda.  A few hours ago several large bands of gurvani, some as large as a thousand, emerged from the Penumbra and are raiding the vales of Alshar at this very moment.

Ishi’s – damn.  How is Anguin contending with it?

Well, she admitted. He had the garrison put on alert and deployed about a third of the 3rd Commando to screen the town as cavalry.  My apprentice is overseeing the situation from Vorone and reporting.

That’s great.  When will – wait, your apprentice?  When did you gain an apprentice?

Perhaps you should have kept in closer touch.  You picked up one of your own, and didn’t tell me.  But we can argue about that later.  She tells me that there are at least five to eight separate columns leaving the Penumbra.  Right now, I need a way to get all these warmagi back out into the field quickly, and I don’t see any Alka Alon songmasters around.  Where the hell are they?

They’re still dealing with their own issues.  We’re on our own.  The good news is that I can take one and maybe two people back to Vorone, at a time.  The even better news is that I recently discovered that any of the Alkan Seven stones have the proper song in them to activate the Waypoints . . . I just haven’t had time to teach anyone else.

I’ll start picking out who needs to go first.  You start working on a good headache compound.  It’s going to be a busy night.

Word of the sudden attack spread quickly – it’s hard to keep anything quiet at the Conclave.  Azar and Bendonal wanted to leave at once.  I gave them fifteen minutes to prepare, and then explained the situation to Gareth and Dara.  That’s when I got a bit of a shock.

Master Minalan I figured out how to use the Ways a couple of weeks ago, Gareth confessed.  I was working on something, and left some scrolls back at the tower, and I got to thinking about how the Ways would have to work, thaumaturgically, and then I started wondering if . . . well, I ended up figuring out how to do it, once I found the songspell in my stone.  If you can show me which Waypoint we’re going to, I can help.  I’ve never taken another person before, but . . .

Do you think you could show Tyndal and Rondal how to do it?  I asked.  I had Lady Varen teach me, and she included a lot of unnecessary but fascinating minutia that didn’t actually help me learn the process.

It’s actually pretty easy, once you figure it out, he decided.  I can teach a couple of sword-monkeys like them, if they pay attention.

How fast?  Tonight?  And what about the other holders of Seven Stones?  Azar, Carmella, Astyral . . .

He considered.  Give me an hour, I can get them to do it.

That was great news.  Genthil was announcing the attack to the crowd, while I broke contact with Gareth and sought out Pentandra again.  I sketched out my idea, and she agreed it could work . . . but stressed the need for timely action.  Apparently the gurvani were making their way towards the remaining townlands and smaller keeps in the region, avoiding Tudry or Megelin.

We worked for hours.  I went by Waypoint to Rolone to collect Tyndal and Rondal, explaining the situation to Lorcus at Rolone Castle before taking them back to Castabriel.  They were excited about going back into the field, especially back to Alshar against goblins.  They were less excited to learn the ungainly thaumaturge was going to teach them how to use the Waypoints.

For his part, Gareth was intently lecturing men and women twice his age and nearly twice his size . . . and doing it without being intimidated.  I listened in as he sketched out the methodology for the spell, and then took several of them in turn to Vorone.

Three transits, and I was already exhausted.  The spell was harder without the vast energy of the Witchsphere.  Taking two people had been a strain, and taking three had nearly addled me with pain.  So soon after the Snowflake working, I was still weaker than I looked.

Once I saw Carmella depart with Gareth, and the lad return a moment later and give me a nod, I felt better.  Others could handle the battle.  If they needed me, they would wake me. Dara escorted me up to my apartments and summoned an attendant to help me prepare for bed.  I fell asleep almost instantly, my dreams resurgent with phantoms from the ancient undersea world of the Celestial Mother.

At one point I recall Pentandra checking on me, and assuring me that most of the Alshari warmagi had deployed back to the field, along with several volunteers.  It was well in hand, she told me, and I could rest, now.  I plunged back into the ocean of slumber, grateful I had competent people.

I don’t know what ancient force regarded me in my dreamscape that night – my recollections are spotty, and without context for what I was seeing it was largely a mystery anyway.  But there were parts of what I witnessed or experienced under the Celestial Mother’s influence that caused me profound emotion during my sleep.  I awoke weeping at least once, overcome with a sense of sadness and joy that my mind could not rectify.

Later I awoke again, but with a different emotion: alarm.  I didn’t know why, but I had a strong compulsion to rise and prepare for battle, as if I was under attack.  I consulted with the attendant and the guard outside my door, and there was no danger at the tower that they were aware of.  Indeed, all was peaceful.

But I didn’t care.  I checked with Pentandra, who was still overseeing the operations in Alshar mind-to-mind, coordinating the defenses of the duchy and ensuring that the defenders knew where to go.  Several keeps, including Carmella’s pele tower, were under attack, but Anguin had prepared a counterattack with warmagi and the 3rd Commando at dawn, now would I please shut up and leave her alone so she could save the duchy?

I found Gareth and Dara in the anteroom to my apartment, Dara curled up on the daybed and Gareth sprawled on the floor.  I looked at both of them, still dressed in court finery for the Conclave.  I hesitated to awaken them, especially Gareth.

But then I felt the presence of some element of the Celestial Mother, and I was compelled to act.

“Wake up!  Both of you!  We’re going back home.  Right now.”

They stumbled and stammered into consciousness, both of them confused about my motives and my direction.  But the useful thing about apprentices and retainers is that when you tell them what to do, they tend to do it.

“Why the hurry, Master?” Dara asked, as she grabbed her things.

“I don’t know,” I admitted.  “I just . . . have a feeling.  A dream, maybe.  But I want to get home.  Now.”

“Intuition, Master?” Gareth asked as he slung his bag over his shoulder.  He looked bleary-eyed from all of the Waypoint travel he’d done.

“The gods are whispering to me, perhaps,” I shrugged.  “But I feel strongly enough about it to go.”

“Do you expect trouble?” Dara asked, worriedly, as she strapped Talon to her thigh.

“When is it wise not to expect trouble?” I pointed out.  I summoned Blizzard and Twilight to emphasize the point.  Gareth swallowed, his eyes wide, and pulled a warwand out of his belt.  At least I hope it was a warwand.  When they both nodded to me, I did the spell and we were away.

I was unsure of what might be triggering my unease, and uncertain of where to go.  I settled on the Waystone I’d placed on the mantle in the Great Hall as a good place to start.

At that time of night the hall was nearly deserted.  A few folk were sleeping on benches or on bedrolls on the floor, but there were not many, and they were undisturbed.  The guard on duty waved sleepily to me.  My men were used to such strange occurrences as three wizards appearing out of nowhere, by now.

“Any news . . . Emys?” I asked, remembering the man’s name.

“All is well, Magelord,” he assured me, curiously.  I nodded.

“Gareth, go check my tower.  Dara, check with the castellan.  See if anything unusual has happened while we’ve been gone.”

They both ran off to their duties, while I quietly walked outside, the great door held open by Emys.  I scanned the battlements and towers, looked around the bailey with magesight, but I saw nothing untoward.

Clearly the Celestial Mother was just screwing with me, I sighed, chiding myself.

And then I heard the scream.  Coming from my hall.

Chapter Thirty Six

Thieves In The Night

There is a certain feeling of cold doom that spawns in the pit of your stomach when you hear screams of alarm coming from the building you know your wife and children are in.  Everything stops.  All of their faces swim in front of you as you imagine them all in pain.  I started running toward the hall, which was missing a guard on the door, when I realized that the screaming wasn’t coming from a human throat.

That perplexed me, but my body was already in motion, adrenaline pumping my heart and righteous fury propelling my limbs.  I got to the door and tried to open it, but it was locked.  I tapped it with the base of Blizzard and the door blew back in its frame.  Using magesight I plunged into the gloomy darkness, summoning the spearpoint on my warstaff.

I reached the stairs and had to stop.  There was something in my way.  Indeed, it seemed as if every Tal Alon servant in the house was angrily trying to get upstairs.

That was confusing – ordinarily the Tal are docile, humble, or even obsequious.  Timid, even, although some individuals can be quite brave.

But I had never seen them like this.  Their lips were pulled back and their teeth were exposed, and they all emitted a kind of angry growl.  Their eyes were wide and not blinking, and their hair was standing up on end as they pushed to get up the stairs to my chamber.

I paused, despite my haste, because I simply could not get past the half-dozen servants in the way.  They poured up the stairs, growling and ignoring me, and I was forced to follow as quickly as I could.  As I finally entered the room where my wife and I slept, my magesight revealed a startling scene.

There was, indeed, an intruder, and from the size and how she moved I concluded that it was Lady Mask . . . and I felt an anger burn in me I have rarely felt.  But it wasn’t looking like I was going to get a chance to fight her.  The Tal were doing that for me.

The diminutive warmage had retreated toward one side of the room and was trying to defend herself against the onslaught of the Tal, one of her short swords held up to ward them away while she hid her face from their snarling teeth and flailing arms.  The Tal were literally throwing themselves at her, teeth bared, their little hands turned into claws or fists.  They were doing a good job of avoiding her sword largely because she wasn’t using it well – she was too overwhelmed by the unexpected ferocity of the hairy, angry rodent-like creatures.

I pieced together the story, later.  Mask had disabled the guard right after his rounds, then scaled the exterior of the hall and slipped into our chamber through a window.  She had a sword in hand and murder in her heart as she approached my bed, intent on slaying Alya.

But as stealthy as she was, she couldn’t avoid her scent.  Daisy, our very-pregnant Tal maid, had been sleeping uneasily at the foot of the bed.  Alya had encouraged her, as she refused to stop coming to work and the distance back to Hollyburrow was great for such a rotund little creature.  So she made up a bed in our chamber where Alya could keep watch on her, and vice versa.

When Mask slipped through the window, her footsteps silenced by a spell, she had neglected to take a pregnant Tal Alon’s sense of smell into account.  Under ordinary circumstances the Tal have remarkable olfactory senses, as nasute as a bloodhound.  When they’re pregnant . . . Alya told me about Daisy smelling wild strawberries that had recently come into fruit . . . behind the castle.

She hadn’t been sleeping well, and when Mask brought a strange scent into the chamber, Daisy panicked.  She started keening a specialized cry that not only brought every Tal in the house running, it brought them running mad.

But not just mad.  I’d observed a phenomenon in certain Alon, specifically the Alka and Karshak, of highly synchronized movement while working or in combat.  I’d never seen the same in the Tal, until that night.  When Daisy started keening all of the other Tal reacted by entering a kind of ferocious trance state, and then fighting off the intruder with the same level of coordination I’d seen with the Alka and Karshak.  Not really what I was expecting to see.

I took a moment to check on Alya and the children.  To my immense relief all three were still asleep, which seemed outrageous, considering the din – and then I detected the residue of a soporific spell.  Mask’s charm must have only affected humans, I reasoned, not the Tal.  I was in time, and thankful.  At least they wouldn’t witness what I was about to do.

The Tal had surrounded Mask, now, too close for her to use her sword to any good effect.  Their claws and fists and teeth were nipping at her relentlessly, and the keening and the united growl of purposeful action had to be difficult distractions.  Her one advantage in the unequal contest was the relatively light impact of the Tal’s small hands.  They landed with precision, but against her light armor they did little to harm her.

Except for the largest Tal, a fat and usually slow-moving drudge named Nummet, who had grabbed a short wooden stool in his fervor.  Nummet was moving with alacrity I would scarcely credit him with in defense of the pregnant Daisy.  He made the contest a lot more interesting when a lucky swing connected with Mask’s wrist and sent her sword flying.

It was time to intervene.  I laid a spell I had hung within Blizzard, a mild concussive display designed to get the attention of troops in battle or crowds at the Fair.  The light and noise of the spell decisively stopped the encounter.  The Tal went sprawling, unharmed, and Mask was blown back against the wall.

I followed with a tremendously bright magelight behind my head that instantly bathed the room in white light.  I pointed Blizzard’s sharp spearpoint at the warmage and took three steps to close the distance between us.

“This was a poor idea,” I said in a growl, as I kicked her sword under my bed.  “Haven’t you learned by now?  You had a poor showing attacking me in another’s keep.  Did you really expect to have better luck attacking me in my own?”

“Damn you!” she said, her eyes above her mask filled with loathing.  “You were supposed to be in Castabriel!”

“I’m exactly where I needed to be,” I countered, evenly.  “Do you yield?” I asked, Blizzard two feet from her throat.

“You know, you haven’t won,” she said, as she heaved for breath after her skirmish.  The Tal were starting to come to their senses around us.  “In fact, you’re doing just what you’re supposed to be doing!”

“Killing you?” I asked, moving another six inches closer.

“You flatter yourself,” she snorted.  “Is this not the third time you’ve thought you were doing so?  I’m harder to kill than you think!”

“I really haven’t put the effort into it,” I said, moving another six inches closer.  “I’m thinking about taking the matter more seriously.  Breaking into my home crosses a line.”

“You ruined my home,” she reminded me, accusingly.

“A fair point,” I conceded.  “So if we are at war, then there should be no question of me slaying you in defense of the attack.”

“If this was an actual attack,” she said, slyly, “that might be reasonable.  But it’s not.  It’s a distraction.”

That caught me short.  At that moment, Dara’s voice burst into my head, full of panic.

Master, someone’s attacking your tower! She screamed.  Gareth is fighting them, but he’s way overmatched!

A distraction.  Threatening my family, occupying my attention, leaving my tower unprotected.  I felt like a novice playing rushes for the first time.  The realization was profound, but it worked against me tactically.  Mask used the chance of Dara’s message to hold out her hand and summon her sword.  Knot coral in the hilt, no doubt.  It flew across the room and unerringly into her palm.  She completed the move by throwing a vicious strike at me I barely caught on the blade of my spear to avoid it taking off my nose.

Then I was very busy, as Mask slashed that delicate, deadly little blade at me with the speed and ferocity only possible with warmagic.  I cast my own augmentation to compensate.  Then we were dueling, short sword on spear, as fast as we both could in the space of the chamber.

She was wickedly good, using her small mageblade with dexterity and discipline.  She did her best to close quickly and get within the range of my spearpoint, a sensible precaution for one armed with a single weapon against a pole arm.

But Blizzard wasn’t merely a spear – it was the most advanced magical weapon I’d ever created.  It was time to show Mask just how far I had pushed the state of warmagic enchantment.

As she closed I pivoted back into range and added a double cantrip – while one made a small pop and distracting flash, the other changed the coefficient of friction on a spot in the floor about two feet wide.  I could see the area in magesight, but it was unlikely Mask would notice.  She didn’t.  The heel of her right foot landed in the snare and it jerked her out of position.

I swung the butt of Blizzard up sharply and rapped her elbow, hard.  She nearly dropped her sword again, and was forced to do a summersault roll over the dizzy Tal to keep from going down.  It kept her on her feet, but it also kept her at comfortable range for Blizzard.  I followed her roll with a sonic blast that forced her back two steps further . . . but apparently she was warded against such things.  It didn’t do near the damage I’d intended.

Mask managed to fling something at me with her left arm.  As I was augmented, I caught her precursor movements and was prepared.  It proved to be a small sphere of thin thaumaturgical glass that I suspected would have done me great harm.  I used a repulsion spell to send it smashing harmlessly against a pillar.  A quick concussion from her mageblade followed, and I was able to mostly avoid it, but it did take me back a few steps out of physical range of the foe.

By this time the Tal had awoken from their frenzied state and were now flinging themselves out of the way of the magical battle that was developing.  A thin stream of blue fire raged over their heads as Mask tried to close again.  I countered with a harmless flash of light followed by a counterspell designed to knock her out of her augmented state.

She wasn’t expecting that.  Suddenly she was moving as slowly as the Tal, and I was still at speed.  Closing with her was a simple matter then.  Two steps and I was looming over her.  I considered just blasting her out of existence, but using such potent magic in my bedroom where my family slept was just too risky.  I wanted her dead.  But there was still too much advantage in taking her alive.

I settled for a powerful sedative charm that should keep her out for hours.  Only when her head slumped forward did I breathe a premature sigh of relief.  I glanced over to where Daisy was cowering in my bed over Alya.

“Is she okay?”  I asked.  “The babies?”

Daisy stared at me wide-eyed, then checked all three faster than I thought her little body could waddle.  She nodded to me, eyes still wide with fear and shock.  I nodded back.  Then I woke up my court wizard.

Dranus! I yelled at him, through the link.  It took more power to force someone to listen to you, but I was lavish.  My keep was under attack.  Wake up!

Magelord? He asked, sleepily.

No time to explain – grab your blade and your staff and come guard Alya at my hall, now!

I – Aye, Magelord!  I’ll be there in a nonce!

I turned back to the Tal, who were looking around in wonder, as if they weren’t certain that they’d done what they’d done to the intruder.   “Good work, my friends,” I encouraged, with more patience than I felt.  “Master Dranus will be here to take charge in a moment – can you secure her until he gets here?  And then explain what happened?”

Nummet, the largest of them all, silently sat on Mask’s chest with a grunt.  She wasn’t going anywhere, his look told me.

“Thank you.  I’ll be back anon; hold the hall secure until I return!”

Master! Dara begged into my mind.  Gareth is down!  I’m not going to be able to hold him off much longer!

I was about to ask who she was holding off, but I decided I should see for myself.  I tossed Blizzard to Dowlie, our hall butler, and the little fuzzball caught it and brought it to guard resolutely . . . though the weapon towered over him.  Clover, one of the nursery attendants, snatched up Mask’s fallen mageblade and held it near her, threateningly.

Time to go.  I drew Twilight as I summoned the Ways, and then I was in my tower sitting room.  As the disorientation passed I cast my gaze around and realized that the sounds of fighting were coming from upstairs . . . in my workshop.  I activated my warmagic augmentations again and raced up the stairs without my toes touching the stone treads.  Magesight came to me with a thought.  Twilight burst into flame with a command, and I rushed through the heavy wooden door into an even more chaotic situation than I’d discovered in my hall.

My workshop had been devastated.  Tables and desks were knocked over and months’ worth of parchment notes and correspondences littered the floor.  The air in front of me was lit up with the sizzle of spells and the smell of ozone.  But instead of a half-dozen balls of fur engaged in a fray, there were feathers.   A lot of feathers.  And one very desperate hawklady apprentice.

Dara had taken cover behind an overturned stone table, where she had dragged Gareth’s body.  She had a warwand in one hand and her curved mageblade, Talon, in the other.  I have to give her credit, too.  For a non-warmage, she had done an excellent job of building a quick defensive position, both physically and arcanely.  And she had summoned help.  There were five falcons and hawks in the air, diving and attacking the intruders.

There were two of them . . . and they were Alka Alon.  Short form.

Both wore a vaguely familiar clingy black garment that might have been armor of some sort.  Each also had a bag slung around their shoulder, something I was unaccustomed to seeing.  Even more unusual was seeing them with the Alkan equivalent of warwands in their hands.  These were warriors, I could tell, and each bore a small bow and quiver on their back in addition to a belt of pouches and weaponry.

Even augmented, I could tell they were moving just as fast.  And in perfect coordination.

I had no time to wonder what the hells was going on – since when did the Alka Alon attack us?  Especially in collusion with a renegade warmage?  I had to rescue my people, and stop whatever it was from happening.

I began with a bright concussive blast from the point of Twilight, then followed with a sound-dampening spell.  That might not seem like a serious threat, but when most of your magic depends on music, not being able to sing properly hampers you.

Unfortunately, my entrance was noted.  Not in time for them to stop the silence spell, but in time for the Alkan closest to me to wave his little wand at me and then start to close.

That wand sent a bolt of lightning as wide as my thigh toward my chest.  If I hadn’t had Twilight out – and if Master Cormoran hadn’t enchanted the blade to absorb such power – I would have been fried on the spot.  As it was I smelled more ozone and singed feathers . . . and the beautiful sight of the wicked Alkan’s face exploding in a flurry of talon and beak as Frightful – I think it was Frightful – took the opportunity to attack.  I don’t know if Dara was guiding her or not, but the bird distracted the invader long enough for me to close with him.

The second Alkan saved his friend from decapitation only because he intervened his own stick in the path.  He then got the rare pleasure of watching his magical rod explode in shards as Twilight’s offensive enchantments took hold.  It had been designed to fight gurvani shamans, so when it came in contact with a powerful magical weapon it got mean.  The blast tore the blade from my hand and sent it flying, but it sent him flying, too – and he was a lot lighter than me.  I was forced back four steps.  He was blown against the wall of my tower, under a lantern sconce that was purely ornamental.

A very specific wall.  The wall I had put one of the very first interdimensional pockets I’d ever built.

“Armari!” I said in Old Cormeeran as I signaled my intent.  The dimensional pocket opened, and the startled-looking Alka faded from existence.

I glanced at his mate, who looked startled behind a cloud of diving hawks . . . but before I could turn to face him, find my sword, draw a wand, anything, he himself disappeared.  Using the Ways.

“Were there any more?” I shouted to Dara over the screeling hawks.

“Just the two!” she shouted back, her eyes following her flying charges.  “Can I dismiss them, now?” she pleaded.

“Please!” I called.  She closed her eyes and in a moment the birds left by the window, the way they came.

“That . . . was . . . exciting,” she said, panting heavily.  She had a scratch on her cheek that was bleeding freely.  “Oh, Ishi’s tits!  Gareth!” she said, suddenly remembering the wounded thaumaturge.

She ran to him and checked his pulse, while I did the same for the other body in the room: Master Ulin.  Both proved to be merely unconscious, not dead.  But neither one was certain of what happened.  They had both fallen prey to an Alkan sung charm that had sent them senseless.

Ulin had gone down almost instantly.  Gareth had survived the first attack and had fought back before he was eventually subdued.  Dara would have gone under just as quickly if she hadn’t sent for her sleepy birds and commanded them to the tower.  As it was she had taken a couple of hard hits, though she maintained that Talon had slashed in return.

Magelord, Dranus reported dutifully, as I surveyed the wreckage, I regret to inform you that your prisoner has escaped.

Escaped?  How did that happen?  She should have been out for hours!

Apparently she had some charm to mitigate her susceptibility to such hexes.  She awoke while my back was turned, took a weapon from one of the Tal, and escaped out the window to the roof.  She was preternaturally fast, he informed me, apologetically.

She was using warmagic.  And she’s just sneaky that way.

One more thing, Sire, he added, delicately.  The weapon that she took . . . it was your warstaff.  I did not anticipate her regaining consciousness so quickly, and neglected to secure it properly.  I hold myself responsible.

I sighed again.  Forget about it.  I took her stick, she thinks she got back at me by taking mine.  Most of the enchantments on it she won’t even be able to use.  It’s more about her pride than anything else.  What they were really after was here, in the tower.  The stones.  They got . . . I don’t what they got, exactly.  We’re still figuring up the damage.  But alert the guards and raise the alarm.  I want every inch of the castle searched.

When we were certain there were no more intruders in the tower, I set Gareth and Dara on guard, and they began straightening up and trying to help Master Ulin determine just what was taken.

Meanwhile Dranus raised the alarm.  Within a half hour I had dozens of men searching the grounds by magelight for any sign of Mask or the Alka Alon.  I was pretty certain they wouldn’t find any.  If the Alkan had used the Ways to escape – and likely invade my home in the first place, bypassing the guards – then it was just as likely that Mask had escaped the same way.

I had wondered where she had gotten her new witchstone.  I had assumed, because of the traces of gurvani spellwork she had left in Amel Wood, that she had found a way to acquire another stone from the gurvani.

But if she was working with the Alka Alon, that changed everything.  For me, for her . . . and for the Alka Alon.  Unfortunately, most of them were still gone.  But I did have one I could question.  Sometime around dawn I sent my sleepy page in search of Onranion, and summoned him to my tower.  He arrived about an hour after breakfast.

“I hear we had a scuffle in the night,” he said, cheerfully.

“A failed assassination attempt.  And a successful robbery.”

“A . . . robbery?  Thieves?” he asked, looking delighted.  I’ll never understand Onranion’s “appreciation” of my culture.

“And assassination.  Luckily, I returned in time with Dara and Gareth.  But the raid was designed to occur when my attention was elsewhere.  In Alshar, right now, dozens of bands of gurvani have taken advantage of the Conclave to raid outside of the Penumbralands.  I’m assuming that they assumed I’d be in the thick of it, since I’m the only wizard who can use the Ways to transport folk.  Until tonight,” I added.

“Ah!  So you did teach them!”

“Gareth did,” I admitted.  “Enough so that they could get back to Alshar and raise a defense.  But I was too tired.  And I had a feeling, so I returned here.  Just in time to catch them in the act.”

“I’ve always wanted to see a housebreaking!” Onranion said, eagerly.  “What did they take?  Who were they?  Did they wear masks?”

“Only one was masked: the assassin warmage, Lady Mask, late of service with Sheruel’s renegades.  If you recall I encountered her last year in Alshar, with a couple of hundred hobgoblins.  It was a memorable occasion.  The other two didn’t wear masks.  They were Alka Alon,” I informed him.

“Alka?” he asked, surprised and troubled.

“Yes.  Which begs the question why the Alka Alon would want to steal from me?”

“I . . . I don’t know.  If we knew which Alka Alon it was, that might help.  But if they got away . . .” he shrugged.

“I didn’t say they got away,” I said, walking over to where my magical closet was.  “In fact, I got one the easy way.”  I dilated the hoxter pocket.  The little black-clad body tumbled lifeless to the floor.  That got a reaction from Onranion.

“Damn it, Min!  Don’t do that!” he said, leaping back, startled at the sudden appearance of a corpse in our pleasant conversation.  Then he realized that the body was, indeed, one of his own.  He bent to examine it, then looked up sorrowfully.

“Well, he is Alka,” he agreed, slowly.  “But taking a grievance to the Council won’t do you much good, even if they did have time to listen to it.  This Alkan is an outlaw.”

“An outlaw?  I didn’t think that there were Alka outlaws?”

“Why not?  We have a long and tangled history.  We dislike putting our criminals to death – pure sentimentality, if you ask me.  So we tend to resort to exile, internal exile, and outlawry.”

“So this Alkan is a criminal?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Onranion said, straightening until he was taller than me.  “He belongs to a rather fanatical faction of my folk.  They insist on rigid adherence to customs and rules long abandoned by more sensible folk under the guise of tradition.  The problem is that they are insistent enough in their beliefs to want to enforce them on everyone else.  They see themselves as insurgents and revolutionaries, which makes them even more fanatical.  They’re called the Enshadowed.”

That name sounded familiar, for some reason.  “What is their issue with me?”

“I don’t know,” Onranion shrugged, expressively.  “I think you’re rather cute, myself.  But the Enshadowed have always hated treating with other races – even other Alon.  Thanks to some . . . misunderstandings about six, seven hundred years ago, some of which were purposeful, they really dislike you humani.  Even more than they dislike the ‘degenerate’ Alka Alon.”

“Hey!  What did we do?”

“You usurped attention from their cause.  The Enshadowed were conspiring to take control of the Council about the time that the humani belched forth from the Void and asked permission to settle these lands.  At the time, the Council saw little harm from it, because they doubted the viability of a non-magic using race on Callidore.  The novelty was just too good to pass up, though, and when you presented us with all of your beautiful trees . . . well, even if you all died, we would have done just about anything for those.”

“So the Enshadowed were jealous?  Because we stole their attention?”

“Oh, it was worse than that.  They hated you from the start, because you represented aberration in the natural order of things.  Then you gave us wonders, and delighted us with your culture, and flattered us.  Most of the issues the Enshadowed were concerned with were forgotten amongst the novelty of the humani.  So they struck back, or struck first, depending on who you talk to.  That got them outlawed and banished by the Council, but the Enshadowed are as fanatical as they are militant.  They retreated to the dark places of the world: remote groves, ancient caverns, hidden refuges of their own.”

“And they just decided to come out now?  To rob my tower and slay my family?”

“You obviously had something they wanted.  The Enshadowed don’t really have a lot of stigma against stealing from non-Alon.  Kind of like how your kind usually feel about the Tal.  But that makes me wonder what they took.”

“Me, too.  I had Master Ulin make a list of the artifacts he was working with when he was attacked.  Thankfully a prisoner recently tipped me to the fact that someone had designs on my treasury, and I have tightened security as a result.  Artifacts are only taken out as needed.  Unfortunately, Master Ulin was working on a fairly major piece, when he was attacked.  He had a lot of stones out.  One of the two got away . . . so whatever isn’t in this satchel got stolen.”

“Let’s take a look!” he said, eagerly.  He seemed totally unperturbed by the idea of assassins running around the castle grounds or thieves imperiling our security.  In anyone else I would take it as an indication of guilt, perhaps, but Onranion was just like that.

We went through the dead Alkan’s satchel and discovered several erstwhile prizes, including a few Waystones, some snow quartz, and a Library Stone Ulin had been using.  But most importantly we discovered the large, unique Apophylyte crystal we’d used to translate the Celestial Mother into the Snowflake.

“That would have been a tragedy to lose,” Onranion assured me.  “So what did they get?”

“Not as much as I feared,” I sighed.  “They took one of the lesser magratheite – the pocket stones.  That’s a blow.  And two Empathy Stones, as well as one of the Telepathy Stones.  More quartz, more waystones, and sixteen stones of unknown property Ulin was examining . . .” I said, wondering just what they did.

We still had assayed only a tithe of the gems we’d recovered, and the secret cave in the Kennel was stuffed with boxes of raw, unsorted crystals and other stones the gemsingers had harvested.  They could be – could do – virtually anything.  The spell that had created the Snow That Never Melted had had a remarkable effect on the structure of any silica-bearing crystals in the vicinity.

Nor had it been, as we had discovered, entirely confined to the circle.  There were outlying flecks of the effect as far away as Hosendor, thanks to the refractory nature of the rocks in the surrounding ridges.  Or the whims of the goddess who had a hand in it.  I wasn’t certain . . . and, supposedly, neither was the goddess.

“They didn’t get the Alaran Stone?” Onranion asked, suddenly anxious.

The enneagrammatic affixer crystal was truly unique.  It had power over the gods, themselves.  As such I trusted it with no one but myself.  It was in a hoxter in my necklace.  “I have it.  No one would use that stone without my willing permission.

“Good thinking,” he sighed with relief.  “I’d hate to think what . . . oh . . .” he said, a disturbing thought suddenly occurring to him.

“What is it?” I demanded.  Onranion had a nasty habit of forgetting to mention something vital, just because he assumed you already knew.  He was getting better, over the time he spent among mortals.  A little.

“I think I know who is behind this . . . conspiracy,” he said, at last.  He looked even more disturbed than before.

“Who?  I thought it was the Enshadowed?”

“Oh, they’re decidedly involved,” he assured me, looking at the corpse at our feet.  “That is their preferred style of dress, a uniform that is now a relic of a dead age.  The fact that they display it openly means that they are feeling empowered, not pursued.  And while I can imagine that recent events have led them to be emboldened, I can think of only one alliance that would compel them to take this kind of audacious action.  Thank your gods that they were not successful.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you see, my boy?” the ancient Alkan said, his strong humanoid form belying his great age.  “They were after the Alaran stone.  The rest were mere trinkets.”

“Hardly trinkets,” I countered.

“Oh, they have value, in their way, but that wasn’t what they were after.  They had to be after the Alaran stone.  Their master would demand it, crave it, once he learned of it.  He would insist that they spared no effort in retrieving it, whatever the cost.  Even at the risk of exposure, or their very lives.”

“Why would Shereul want the Alaran Stone so badly?” I asked.  “And why would the Enshadowed want to serve the gurvani?”

“Shereul?  No doubt he played a role, as he would have found their help useful, and vice versa.  But the Enshadowed would never be subordinate to a mere gurvani, however powerful.  They might use him, as he they, if their purposes were aligned.  No, they would only risk this audacity for one being; the head of their line, so to speak, a spiritual ancestor.  Perhaps a real one.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, not liking the direction this was going.

“The Enshadowed, you see, claim descent from a long-disbanded cadre whose purpose was fulfilled long ago.  That’s where the quaint uniform comes from.  But the faction was most recently revived by the followers of . . . well, it was one of the most shameful episodes from our history.  The Enshadowed serve no less than Korbal the Necromancer.”

“Korbal?  The Demon God?  I know he has awakened, but—

“He has more than awakened, he has the support of loyal followers.  They can only want the restoration of their faction to power, replacing the Council with their own foul doctrines, ruthlessly enforced.  The Enshadowed would do anything their master bid them, and strengthening and preparing him for future conquests would be their first priority, after security.”

“So why did they come here?”

“Their presence here can only mean he seeks the key to immortality and necromantic dominion.  And that, my boy, we can never, ever let him achieve.”

Chapter Thirty Seven

The Menace Of The Enshadowed

Korbal, the Demon God of the Mindens.  The legendary evil that haunted the passes and remote vales of the westernmost mountain range, according to the Wilderlands peasantry, stole out in the depths of winter to take his fell tribute.  Supposedly he could drive a village mad and infect the people with maladies from sexual perversion to cannibalism.  According to legend, he could send the bodies of your dead loved ones to slay you in your bed at night if he took notice of you.

Only Korbal the legendary Demon God was a myth, the fragment of ancient tales cast against the ferocious and primal wilderness of the treacherous Mindens.  In reality, as I’d discovered, Korbal was an ancient Alka Alon songmaster who had gone bad.

His crimes in the pursuit of his magical arts were so dire that he was censured and exiled to the Land of Scars.  Eventually his ambitions and his pride, not to mention his antipathy toward the Council, stoked his fury until he went to war with them.  Unable to convince more than a few of his most devoted followers to join his cause, he turned to the undead and other arcane methods to build his soldiery.

Following a terrible war he was defeated; but he had so altered his own enneagram that mere execution was just not practical, lest he rise again in a non-corporeal form.  Stuff like that happened, from time to time, when you went messing around with the laws of nature.  Occupational hazard.

Instead of execution, the Council had sentenced him to eternal imprisonment.  They had delegated a company to excavate the pit in some hidden region of the Land of Scars, and then concealed it by magical and mundane means until they were satisfied that Korbal’s fanatical followers wouldn’t be able to find him.  That had been successful for several peaceful centuries.

But apparently, from what Onranion and the other Alka had inferred, the Enshadowed had aligned with Sheruel’s rising dominion to provide technical aid in return for assistance in locating the impossible-to-locate tomb.

Unfortunately, the answer to their dilemma had been my ten-year-old new apprentice, who sees enneagrams as easy as other people hear music.  Once his talent had been discovered by the gurvani’s confederates in the Brotherhood of the Rat, poor Ruderal had been forced to help them find the tomb by peering through the rock to see the dormant enneagram of the imprisoned Alkan.

It wasn’t his fault, though he felt truly sorrowful for helping.  He knew, perhaps better than anyone, just how evil Korbal was.  But regardless how he had been discovered, the Enshadowed had been able to revive their ancient master.

“That’s why the fixative stone is so important,” Onranion explained to me and the emergency war council that had convened at the breakfast table in the Great Hall that morning.  “Korbal’s obsession is with necromancy, which is basic enneagrammatic magic.  Being able to stabilize his minions – or even his own pattern, I suppose – would be essential to his recovery.  The same power that you used to keep that darling water elemental frolicking in your pond can be used to permanently sustain the powerful entities he creates.  Between his obsession with death and undeath and his political ambitions, he’s quite the controversial figure.”

“So what are his political ambitions?” I asked, afraid to know the answer.

“He wants to rule the world,” he shrugged.  “He’s goatshit crazy, Min.  My people tend to be unreasonably sane—”

“Present company excepted,” Dranus said, quietly, as he sipped his morning tea.  There was food in plenty on the table, but the idea of eating revolted me after my busy night.  My stomach just couldn’t take it.

“Thank you.  But when we go mad, we don’t do it by half measures.  The petty megalomania of your warrior-princes is nothing compared to an Alkan lord whose obsession has driven him beyond reason.  This subcontinent was once laid to waste because of such a thing.”

“I still don’t see what the advantage of an alliance between the gurvani and the Enshadowed would be,” Dranus opined.  “They would seem to be at cross-purposes.”

“Not entirely,” Onranion countered.  “They both hate the humani, for different reasons.  And they both hate the Alka Council, for other different reasons.  Great alliances have been forged over less.  The gurvani got technical assistance with their magic.  They have little experience with irionite, and their spellcraft is crude and unsophisticated.  The Enshadowed could provide immense help in guiding his shamans and priests to control their power more effectively.  They could facilitate in the breeding of his horrors.  Though they are few in number, their faction includes some highly talented songmasters,” he admitted, with a hint of admiration.

“And now they have their dark lord back,” I said, discouraged, “and he’s developed an unhealthy interest in me.”

“Master, I believe it’s more than that,” Dara said, from the end of the table.  Her cheek was still red with the scratch she’d taken the night before, but Dranus had applied a healing charm that was mending it nicely.  She’d bear only a faint scar from it.  “As I was fighting them, they spoke.  They were not only interested in stealing from you, they seemed to be pursuing some vendetta.  Specifically against you.”

“Me?” I asked, surprised.  “Are you certain?”

She nodded, as did Gareth.  “They spoke of you as a villain.  They were punishing you, in part, for some crime they think you’ve committed.”

“Not all the Alka Alon are happy about the power you’ve been allowed to accumulate,” Onranion reminded us.  “The Enshadowed, in particular, have a deep-seated prejudice against magic-using humans.  They see it as worse than magic-using gurvani.”

“It wasn’t that,” Dara said, shaking her head.  “They seemed a lot more personally offended.  They mentioned a brother.  I don’t know,” she said, with a sigh, “I was busy guiding my birds and not dying.”

“Perhaps I can shed some light, Master,” Gareth offered.  “Before I was knocked out I heard them refer to you as the ‘fratricide’.  And they were, indeed, looking for a particular stone.  But they had no instruction as to which stone it was, or what distinguished it.  So they were taking everything they could carry.  But they were clearly angry and vengeful against the Spellmonger over a death.”

“But I’ve never killed an Alkan in my life!” I protested.  “I’ve been tempted a few times, but I’ve always resisted.”

“Clearly they bear you some enmity,” Master Ulin suggested, quietly.  “Regardless, they have taken from us a great prize, though not the one they sought.  Allowing such a powerful tool as one of the pocketstones to be in the hands of necromancers and renegades is untenable.   They must be recovered.”

“Agreed,” I nodded.  “The pocketstone is bad enough.  The unknown stones they took could do anything.  They, themselves, could be equivalent to the fixative stone, for all we know.  Or worse.  We just don’t know.  But we must reclaim them, if we can, and that means discovering why the Enshadowed are so eager to see me wounded.”

“I got the distinct impression they wanted you dead, Master,” Dara declared.

“I stand corrected.  But I don’t usually generate that kind of antipathy without a reason.  And I don’t believe I’ve given them one.  But how did they get involved with Isily?  And Mask?”

“The only ones who know that are, alas, Baroness Isily, Lady Mask, and these Enshadowed,” Dranus concluded.  “One can assume that the Enshadowed and Mask had some previous acquaintance, from their time in service to the Dead God.”

“And it’s possible that Isily knows Mask, whatever her real name and face are,” Gareth pointed out.  “She’s clearly a warmage with Imperial training.  There are not that many female warmagi to begin with, And fewer still who perform combat magic.  If what you say about Isily’s . . . vocation is true, Master, then it’s likely that she met her at some point, perhaps at Alar Academy.  Or perhaps when she was in her prime as a . . . companion.  She would make a formidable assassin.”

“Perhaps,” I nodded.  “If she and Isily knew each other in the past, then once Mask fell out of favor with the gurvani – okay, I’ll admit, I pushed her out of favor – then she might just go to an old friend in civilized parts, who just happens to be powerful now, if she needed refuge and assistance.  Especially if she had made a deal with these Enshadowed Alka before she left the Penumbra.

“If they were aware of my treasury, then they’d want a human spy to investigate it.  With no Alka around to speak of, they couldn’t do it themselves.  Of course with no Alka around to speak of, they’d have a hard time doing it themselves.  They’d need her help.”

“That’s probably who got her the new witchstone,” Gareth snapped.  “I was wondering where she got one so quickly!”

“Oh, easily,” Onranion nodded.  “The Enshadowed would have access to a gracious plenty.  But I fail to see where Isily enters into the conspiracy.”

“I do,” Dranus said, quietly.  “She covets this holding, for one thing.  I noted that at the Magic Fair.  And she is . . . familiar with the Magelord.”

“We served together at Timberwatch,” I reminded them all.  “She was my liaison with Ducal Intelligence.  I’ve established that she was not working on the orders of the Royal Family.  She’s considered semi-retired, now, her marriage, position, and freedom a reward for past services.  And yes, she does covet the snowstone mine.  Among other things.”

“Enough to betray you so bitterly?” Master Ulin asked, his eyes wide.  He was an academic, not a politician, warrior or spy.

“Easily,” Dara nodded, condemningly.  “I never liked her.  She’s the kind of woman who would sell her own child if it got her what she wanted.”

“She’s capable of great mischief,” I said, simply.  “And her motivations she keeps to herself.  But her position gave her access to Sevendor during the Fair,” I reminded them.  “That would be when they inserted Lady Mask here, in disguise.”

“In disguise?” Onranion asked, intrigued.  “What kind of disguise?”  The Alka Alon didn’t go in for that sort of thing, culturally.  They don’t see espionage and skullduggery as valid means of warfare, the way humans do.  Therefore it fascinated Onranion.

“She wears a mask,” Dara snorted.  “All she has to do to not be recognized is take it off!”

“Does she?” Gareth asked, suddenly.  “If she was around then, we’d remember her.  Even if we didn’t note her at the time.”

“The memory is a deep thing,” Ulin nodded sagely.

“But how would we know who we’re supposed to remember, if we don’t know what her face looks like?” Dranus asked, an eyebrow raised.

“We don’t need to know her face,” Gareth said, suddenly sitting upright.  “We just need to know what her eyes look like.  Which we do,” he added.

“That’s true,” I nodded.  “I’ve seen her eyes.  They’re memorable.  But how . . .”

“The Memory Stone,” the young thaumaturge supplied.  “Review the last few months, since the Fair, and see if you can recall seeing those eyes anywhere.  When you do, you’ll remember what she was disguised as.  And when you remember that, you’ll know at least how she got around and where she was staying. That might give you some information.”

“That’s bloody brilliant,” Dranus said, approvingly.  “Well done, lad.  It seems to me that if she was here one of her missions had to be identifying waypoints to allow her confederates into Sevendor.  Pardon me for saying, Baron, but we have not considered the Ways a point of entry by unfriendly forces.  Now that the Alka Alon – albeit a radical faction – are at odds with us, we should consider ways of taking precautions against this happening again.”

“That’s going to be hard, with half a mountain full of waystones,” Gareth said, sourly.  “And you’ve been sprinkling them everywhere, Master,” he reminded me.

“I know,” I said, miserably.  “That’s going to take some thought.  They are just too damn useful to abandon.”

“We will address it at a later time,” Dranus agreed.  “Until then, Excellency, I counsel you to station more guards around the castle.  Warmagi,” he emphasized.  “It will be expensive, but how much was the least of the three pocketstones worth?”

“Find me some,” I ordered.  “Get them from Tudry or Megelin or hire them off the street.  If they’re any good, there might be glass in it, for them.  Until then, give them the advanced Sentry Wands we built.  Pay them forty ounces of silver a week, plus livery.  But get them on duty as soon as possible.  One in the tower, one on my hall, and one guarding the entrance of the new castle.  Yes?” I asked, as I saw Sir Festaran approaching with a sheaf of parchment in hand and an exhausted look on his face.  He had taken the attack on the keep and the hall as personal failures, and he had yet to go to sleep since they’d occurred.

“Excellency, a messenger came bearing these this morning from the chapterhouse,” he said, handing me four separate sheets.  “I felt they were important enough to inform you at once.  Well, some of them, at least.”  I took the parchment and spread it out while the others watched.

The first message was from Arathanial, informing me that he had defeated the first contingent of Sashtali in the field.  Two thousand men had been routed at some ford I’d never heard of, and he was moving south to attack their retreat positions.  Good for him.  I could really care less at the moment.

The second message was from Duke Anguin, from the Mirror array at Vorone.  It was a dispatch thanking me for the quick and unexpected return of the warmagi to Alshar.  Thanks to my quick action and the bravery of my men, he reported, most of the nearby raiders had been met and defeated or repulsed on the field.  They were planning on rallying and pursuing the more far-flung elements as soon as Vorone was secure.  He particularly commended Lady Pentandra’s skillful coordination in defense of the realm.  That was good news.  But not really my most pressing concern.  For good or ill, Alshar was in other people’s hands for the moment.

The third message was a surprise: His Highness, Prince Tavard, had graciously lifted my house arrest, granting me free permission to travel as I pleased.  It was short, almost terse, but it was all the authorization I needed.  I’d have to send a nice gift to Princess Rardine as a thank you for her intervention.  She was kind of a bitch, but I felt sorry for her.  She didn’t have to help me out, but she had, for no particularly good reason.  I appreciated that, in an abstract sort of way.  But I had more important issues to deal with than royal politics.

The fourth message was from Baron and Baroness Greenflower.  Announcing the birth of their son and heir, Istlan of Greenflower.  Mother and child were healthy and hale.

“This meeting is adjourned,” I said, hoarsely, ignoring their confused faces.

I needed to think.

I stumbled outside into the morning sun, my tired brain steering my body while my mind burned to the ground.  It was too much.  Mask.  Isily.  The Enshadowed.  And now Korbal the Demon God.

It was nearly enough to make me think nostalgically of Shereul.

My feet were moving, but I wasn’t headed anyplace in particular.  Alya and the kids were still sleeping off the effects of the spell (it was better to let it run its course than try to waken them magically).  The castle was going through its busy morning routine around me, but I was barely aware of it all.

Isily had the baby.  A son.  My son.  Istlan.  While my first son was nearly murdered in his bed in front of his mother, had it not been for a pregnant Tal.  The message she sent was no mere courtesy, or the preening of proud new parents.  It was a direct challenge to me, a hollow laugh at my expense during a moment of turmoil.  Turmoil she had authored.  Betrayal she had plotted.  She had taken me like an idiot boy behind a haystack his first time, and she had done it knowing that a child would result.  Now that child was a reality.

I felt a sick rage in my stomach as I wandered across the yard.  I still didn’t know where I was going.  I had no idea what I was going to do.  I didn’t really want to talk to anyone.  And I desperately wanted to talk to someone.  But I was afraid of what I might say.

But then Olmeg the Green strode up to me, his big bare feet clutching the earth like roots and his tall pointed green hat looming over me like a shadow.  He cleared his throat and made a graceful little bow, for such a big man, his mantle thrown back.  One just cannot ignore or dismiss Olmeg the Green.

“Lord Olmeg,” I said, bowing curtly in return.  “What can I do for you this morning?”  I realized he had likely come to ask about the Tal Alon servants.  They were in his purview, and no doubt they were still terrified of their late night battle.  He was the kind of man who would see to his responsibilities to the River Folk as quickly as possible, he cared for them so much.

But the big Magelord surprised me.

“Minalan, come with me,” he said, firmly.  It wasn’t a request.  Nor did he wait to see my response.  He turned and started striding away toward the outer bailey.  My feet just naturally followed, although they had to struggle to catch up with him.

“What’s the problem?” I asked, when I was next to his shoulder.  And slightly under.

“The Baron is sick,” he said, matter-of-factly.  “He’s sick, and the whole vale feels it.”

“The . . . whole vale?  The Baron?  Me?  What are you talking about?” I asked, confused.

“Since just after you returned from Kasar last year, at the Fair, you took ill,” he observed.  “It was a subtle thing, but those who know you saw it.”

“I’ve just been busy,” I said, a little irritated.

“Indeed,” he agreed.  “You have stirred a great many to industry, to your credit.  Enchanters make as much as burghers, these days.  Wonders and enchantment abound.  But you are still sick, Minalan.  Sick in your heart.  And I am not the only one to think so.”

I was about to demand who else had been spying on me, when he revealed himself.  Zagor stood up from behind the gatehouse, when we came through.  He wore a black mantle and his dogs were both at his heels.  He didn’t bow, but gave me a respectable market nod.

“Minalan,” he said, easily, ignoring my rank.  Zagor had been a hedgemage for years in Boval Vale, and he only saw people, not titles.  “Are you well?”

It was a simple but heartfelt question.  And not one that I could deflect.  Not with these two.  Of all the wizards I knew, these two were the least likely to give a damn about my authority or my power or my wealth.  Zagor had known me as a brash young spellmonger, a colleague in his craft, long before I’d become . . . whomever I was at the moment.  His treatment of me hadn’t wavered from his first assessment of me.

Olmeg, on the other hand, only saw plants, animals, and people, and if one was in distress then he did what he could to help it.  He cared for the Tal Alon and the gardens of this valley with the passionate devotion of an old widow for a foundling.  I was part of that charge, I realized suddenly.  Olmeg didn’t actually work for me, in his mind; I was merely one of his many responsibilities.  He was doing for me what he would do for a twisted pine tree or a lame fawn or a beleaguered peasant.

I couldn’t ignore these men.  Their concern was genuine, without worry of their lot or motives of their own.  I sighed.

“No, Zagor.  I am not well.”  It seemed like a dreadful admission.  I was trembling.

He nodded sagaciously.  “I thought so.  Minalan, has no one ever taught you that you can only do so much without rest and repose?”

“I have not been using the Ways overmuch, as I did last year,” I said defensively.  I didn’t fool them.

“That is not what we’re talking about,” he said, flatly.  “You are ill, my friend.  Not from magic.  From the sickness in your heart.”

“I . . .” I looked from one bearded, concerned face to the other.  “We were attacked last night,” I offered.  “My home was invaded.  My family was endangered.”

“That was last night, Minalan.  They are well, and the foe is long gone from here, now.  You have been heartsick for months,” Olmeg’s deep voice said, quietly.  “We have seen it on your face.  And in your eyes.  You hide it well from those who don’t know you, but we see it there.”

“We have been quiet for long enough,” Zagor pronounced.  “Minalan, every wizard learns that he can only bear his burdens, and those of his clients, for so long before his shoulders begin to bow.  Our troubles accumulate, for we adopt those of those around us.  Even magic cannot make us strong enough to endure that without respite.”

“I can’t exactly step away,” I muttered, a little annoyed.  They had no real idea with the kind of thing I was contending with: wayward goddesses, new dark lords, new enemies, an assassin intent on killing my wife and children –

“You need not leave your troubles behind,” Olmeg said, philosophically, as we continued to walk.  “They cannot be outrun.  You are a good enough man to not inflict them on those around you.  Instead you inflict them on yourself.”

“No one else can bear them,” I grumbled.  “Look, gentlemen, I appreciate your concerns, I do, but—”

Zagor stopped.  “Minalan, back when you were a spellmonger, what did you do when the client didn’t want to listen to reason about why he was asking for the wrong thing to do what he needed done?”

I paused and considered.  “I’d politely insist, through the benefit of my superior knowledge and skill.”

Zagor nodded.  “A good tactic.  Minalan, shut up and let us do what we know needs to be done.”  He started walking again.  “As long as I’ve been doing this, you would think you’d know to trust me . . .”

“How about you?” I snorted to Olmeg.  “Do I look like I’ve got root rot?”

“Heart rot,” he said, in all seriousness.  “Minalan, everything you do has an effect on everything around you.  Thanks to that mountain,” he said, gesturing to white Rundeval, behind us, “and how it came to be, when you are troubled the entire vale is troubled.  I’ve noted the signs for months, but have not known what to do about it.  Until now.”

“Why now?” I asked, wondering idly what mischief they were planning, and knowing I did not have time for it.  If my mood hadn’t been so foul I might have begged off – but part of me wanted the escape, and part of me wanted to prove them wrong.

“Because now is the time,” Zagor shrugged, as we crossed halfway through the outer bailey.  “When better?  I can see on your face how bad it has gotten.  I can see the troubled eyes of your bride.  Even your children have detected it, though they know not why it disturbs them.”

“There comes a time in every wizard’s practice when he must lay aside complex enchantments and deep thaumaturgy, and return to the most ancient magic to restore himself.”

“The songs of the Alka Alon?” I asked, curious as to where he was leading this.

“No, Minalan,” Olmeg said, gently laying a hand on my shoulder.  “When a man has too many burdens to deal with, sometimes the best thing he can do is take refuge in the wisdom of his ancestors.”

I was still trying to figure out what he was getting at when I spied my father sitting under a chestnut tree, on one of the little rocky spots that belied tending.  He had a basket with him, and he waved for me to join him.

“Go talk to your dad, Minalan,” Zagor urged.  “No one better in the world to help a man out when his burdens get too great.  I know of many fathers, and yours is not so stern that he will fail to counsel his son.”

“But . . . he’s a baker,” I said, taking a step toward him without realizing it.  “He has no idea what kinds of problems I face!”

“He is your father,” Olmeg corrected, gently.  “You are a man with problems.  It matters not whence they spring, my friend.  It only matters that they burden you.  He may know not of the gods, or kings, or dukes or lords, and little more of magic.  But I have spoken with him often, over the months he’s been here.  He is a wise man, and worthy of your consideration.”

“Well, sure,” I agreed, reluctantly.  “He’s intelligent, and I guess he’s wise, but . . .”

“He is who you need to speak to,” assured Zagor, pushing me toward him with a hand between my shoulder blades.  “Who else can you trust more?”

That was hard to argue with.  My father didn’t have any ulterior motives or secret plots.  He didn’t have designs on my land or my gems or my home.  He even got along with my wife.

And I could smell he had sweet buns.  Freshly baked.

My stomach suddenly felt like eating.  In fact, I was starving.  And talking to my dad over fresh sweet buns on a summer morning seemed, suddenly, like the very smartest possible thing I could do.

So I did.  We talked for two hours.  I told him everything.  The gods, the Snowflake, Isily, his other grandchildren, the war, the other war, the assassins, my attack, everything.

When I finally came to the end, after relating last night’s unexpected violence, he finally let out a big sigh, and got out his pipe.  I did likewise.

“You remember that first time I took you to Baron Lithar’s castle, to have you tested by the court wizard?” he asked.  “We brought sweet buns that morning.  When you started my ovens without flint or tinder.”

“Yes.  I’ve told that story a thousand times,” I smiled.  “I was so scared, but you were perfectly calm.  How did you manage to be perfectly calm?”

He snorted.  “Are you joking?  I was terrified.  For all I knew, the Censors would come and haul you away, and I’d never see you again.  As it was I didn’t see you for years.  But I knew that the gift the gods gave you was something that you had to pursue, and I knew that was what was best for you.  It didn’t have anything to do with me, you see, it was your life.  I could have tried to hide your talents, but what do you think would have happened then?”

“The Censorate would have eventually found me.  And hanged or imprisoned me.”

“Exactly.  That’s not the kind of life I wanted for my son.  So I took some sweet buns to the baron that morning, my guts turned to water with fear, and I had to keep smiling at you and pretending that everything was normal.  Most excruciating day I’d ever had, until your sister had your nephew and we almost lost them both.  But that’s what I had to do.”

“I can see that,” I admitted.  In retrospect, as a father myself, I could certainly imagine what was going on in his head that day.  I’m not sure I could have borne it.  “So what do I have to do?”

“The same thing I had to do when Zagor and Olmeg stopped by the shop and reminded me that the Baron was in need of sweet buns.  You shut up, you listen to what you should clearly be hearing, and you cooperate with it.  After that, you’re on your own,” he added with a chuckle.

I sighed.  “Dad, sometimes it feels like I’m always on my own.”

“You’re not,” he insisted, shaking his head.  “Now shut up, eat a bun, and let me tell you what you need to do.”

Chapter Thirty Eight

The Truth Comes Out

There are some things that you can depend upon like the sun rising and the tides receding.  Such is paternal counsel.  My father’s advice was, predictably, the very last thing I wanted to do.

“You’ve got to tell your wife about this, Son,” he sighed, heavily.  “Everything.  All of it.  Every little bit.”

I was horrified.  “Dad!  Why?  Gods, that will crush her!”

“You think it isn’t already crushing her?” he asked, a note of accusation in her voice.  “And your marriage?  Son, your wife is no idiot.  She knows you are burdened.  At the risk of violating a confidence, she’s spoken to me about it.  Several times.  She’s a bright girl, and she loves you deeply.  Seeing you like this is making her miserable.  And you don’t even notice that.  You’re fighting so hard to protect your family from threats from outside that you’re letting it decay from neglect.”  The words stung, and from anyone else I would have gotten angry.

But I had to listen to my father’s perspective.  How could I not?

“But Dad, if I tell her everything--”

“Then what?” he snapped.  “She’s going to be angry?  You had better believe it!  And she has every right to be angry.  But anger is better than confusion.  If she knows what is bothering you, then her imagination won’t supply an even worse scenario.”

“Worse? Dad, I’ve been violated!  My seed was taken from me!  You have grandchildren that you didn’t even know about!”

“No doubt,” he chuckled.  “I knew having a son would be interesting.  I didn’t realize how interesting.  I’m not here to judge you or congratulate you, Min.  I’m here to help you straighten things out.  Your heartache stems not from the assault – although that is a very disturbing thing to hear – but from your guilt over not being forthright with Alya over something you know in your heart she would want to know.”

“So I should reveal l was unfaithful?”

“You should tell her you were attacked,” he countered.  “She’s your wife.  She has a right to try to heal your pain, if she can.  At least the right to know what is bothering you.  If you can get over your shame and guilt long enough to realize it, you might just salvage your marriage.  You have a duty to let her know if there is a danger to her family.  You aren’t keeping her safe by keeping her ignorant of this.”

I hung my head.  This was not what I wanted to do.  “Keeping her informed could keep her from speaking to me, Dad.”

He snorted. “I don’t know about you, Son, but I was smart enough to marry a woman who puts her family’s welfare above everything else . . . and is smart enough to see a predator for what she is.  You don’t think your mother has had to contend with unwanted rivals?”

“Huh?” I asked, surprised.

“Before you were born,” he chuckled.  “A widow woman in Corlot, that hamlet downriver and to the east?  She ran a small inn, and bought trenchers a couple of times of month.  A real friendly widow woman,” he said, knowingly.

My eyes bulged.  “Dad?  You?”

“Calm yourself,” he said.  “I enjoyed the attention.  I got a good price.  But I never so much as touched her.  Your mother was still unamused, however, when the gossip reached her.”

I could just imagine.  Mama is not the most reasonable of women.  “What did you do?”

“I told her the truth.  I flirted, I teased, but my heart was only ever set on her.  The widow was comely enough, and I might have gotten away with it, but while I might have had the desire I knew better.  And that’s what I told your mother.”

“And what did she do?”

“Oh, we had a hellacious fight, one the gods themselves likely fled from.  But in a couple of days things were back to normal, and the next time I went to Corlot your mother decided to join me. She introduced herself to the widow and made the deal.  After that there weren’t any more problems.  I chose a woman of high quality, and I knew it.  So did you,” he encouraged.  “Don’t be a fool and think that she cannot endure the truth.  The deception is what is stifling her.”

“But Dad, in my case I did actually touch her!”

“Of your own volition? Did you not say she compelled you with magic?”

The distasteful memory of that awful night swam back to me, with the help of the ghost of the Celestial Mother.  Apart from knowing she was doing it purposefully to get a child from me, the most horrible thing about the ordeal was her compelling me to treat her with the same loving passion I treated my wife.

To be forced to display the tenderness and intimacy reserved only for my beloved, and be compelled to give it to her with genuine feeling, had felt like the most vile of betrayals.

I realized that my dad was right.  My guilt was what was burdening me.  The guilt that I couldn’t resist her spell.  The guilt that part of me had not wanted to.

“Yes, she enchanted me,” I sighed, miserably.  There might have been a tear.  “It was a psychomatic compulsion spell.  A powerful one.  There was nothing I could do.”

“So what was the difference between that and her hitting you in the head with a chair and having her way with you?” he asked, matter-of-factly.

“I was conscious through the whole thing,” I admitted.  “And that just sounds like a rationalization, Dad.  I’m sure that’s what Alya will think.”

“What, you think she will suspect that you pursued this woman?” he asked, skeptically.  “After the way you’ve been acting?  I’m no wizard, Son, but even I can see that you aren’t lovesick.  You’re melancholy.”

“You really think Alya won’t blame me?” I asked, doubtfully.

“Not if she’s the woman I think she is,” he said, after a few moments of contemplation.  “Really, Min, you’re torturing yourself.  And her.  And by extension the rest of us.  When I find two wizards in my shop first thing in the morning, informing me that the Baron has need of sweet buns, and the news of an attack is all over the town . . . you’ve got to take care of this, Min.  You’ve built a magnificent thing, here in Sevendor.  But if you don’t take care of yourself, then the thing it’s founded upon will be too weak to sustain it.  Trust your wife, Son.  Trust yourself.”

I just sat there next to him in silence for ten minutes, just smoking and watching the town over the walls in the distance.  Finally I dumped out my pipe and heaved a great sigh.  “I suppose you’re right.”

He snorted again.  “Of course I’m right.  I’m your dad.  I’m always right.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, for when Minalyan’s older.”

“It might be the most important lesson I’ve ever taught you,” he agreed.  “Now go take the rest of the buns to your wife.  Believe me, bad news goes better with fresh pastries.”

*

*

Alya was awake in bed when I came in.  Sister Bemia was attending her, brushing her hair and speaking to her quietly while Daisy toddled about the chamber, straightening unnecessarily.

“Are you all right?” I asked, hoarsely.  “Are the children?”

“Yes, we’re fine.  Min, what happened?” she asked, anxiously.  I sat on the bed.

“We were attacked.  Remember Lady Mask, that warmage I fought in Alshar last year?  She tracked me down.  She was attacking you and the children to get to me.”

“Oh, Min!  I was so confused!  I went to sleep fine, last night, and then didn’t wake until an hour ago, to find the entire castle in an uproar.”

“There was an attack on my tower at the same time.  It’s a long story.”  I caught Sister Bemia’s eye and motioned for the door.  She understood and took Daisy out for some air.  “Alya, I need to tell you some things.  Things that are hard to talk about.”

She straightened herself and gave me her full attention.  “All right.  Tell me,” she directed.

So I did.  It took two hours, but I spared nothing.  I wept several times as I told her, unable to meet her gaze while I described my relationship with Isily over the years.  Her eyes grew cold and distant.  I kept talking.  If I was ruining my marriage anyway, I might as well unburden my soul while I did it.  This was no time for half measures.

It all came spilling out – even my relations with the various gods.  That was perhaps the most unbelievable part about the tale, I figured, but Alya listened without expressing doubt.  I was waiting for her to accuse me of using religion to further my lechery, or something like that, but as I spoke she did not interrupt.  I almost wish that she had.

When I finally had no more to say, we sat there in silence for a long, long time.  Finally, I raised my head and looked at her face.  Her eyes were cold an angry.  She was looking away.

“You’re angry,” I observed.  She looked at me and through me, as if I was barely there.  My heart sank.  Then her expression transformed.

“Of course I’m angry!  I’m furious!  I’ve never been this full of rage in my entire life.  But I’m not angry with you, my husband,” she added, before I could leap out the window in despair.  ‘I’m angry with that cunt who would dare abuse my beloved so!”

“I . . . what?” I asked, confused.

“To think that for months you’ve been carrying this wound, letting it fester in silence, while I’ve been worried you’ve fallen out of love with me,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief.  “I thought you were just preoccupied with your work or your studies, or were playing politics and were distracted.  But I knew it was something deeper.  It felt deeper.  Like you had been stabbed and had yet to remove the knife.  Do you know how hard it is to see your husband suffer like that?” she asked, angrily, tears in her eyes.

“Alya, I’m fine!  I was—”

“The hell you are fine!” she snapped, her nostrils flaring.  “You have been moody, melancholy, and miserable, and you’ve been trying to pretend you’re fine.  I know you aren’t ‘fine’, Min.  I’m your godsdamn wife!  You can’t hide that from me!”

“I wasn’t – I mean, I was . . . I think I . . . What I mean to say—”

“Just stop it, Min!” she demanded, crying openly now.  “You got hurt, and you let yourself stay hurt for months without telling me!  You tell me that there are assassins after us now, all thanks to this evil sorceress.  You tell me she has stolen from us.  You tell me she’s forced you to sire a child with her – two children – and has denied them to you.  If anyone had done these things to me, Min, what would you be doing right now?”

“Tearing down her keep, stone by stone!” I said, upset.  “But I cannot!  She’s the mother of my children, the same as you are!”

She gave me a burning look.  “I am in no way constrained by that custom,” she said, icily.  Then she threw back the quilt and stood, and started to dress.

“What are you doing?” I asked, terribly confused.  I was scared she was packing her things to leave.

“I’m getting dressed,” she snapped again.  “And then we’re going to call a few of our friends.  And then we’re going to pay a call on the Baron and Baroness of Greenflower.  It’s time we pay our respects to their new child.”

I just sat there and watched, speechless.  I had no idea what to say to that.  Or what would happen.

But I felt enormously better.  Alya was angry, but she wasn’t angry with me.  At least not yet.  I realized that my father had been correct.  Once Alya shared this horrible burden with me, it was far easier to bear.  Even if it hurt her.  Part of me felt guilty about that, too, but the determined manner in which she was opening chests and wardrobes and flinging clothes spiritedly around the room told me that her energy and ire was focused on the problem, not recriminations.

I was certain those would happen, eventually.  But now I just felt so relieved that she knew and wasn’t screaming at me like a harridan that I didn’t care.

I got up and took her by the shoulders, stopping her mid-frenzy.  I looked deep into her eyes, which were suddenly searching my own in confusion.  I kissed her lips.  “I so love you,” I said, as sincerely as I possibly could.  She looked at me strangely.  I prepared for a slap.  It didn’t come.  Instead she kissed me back, suddenly, desperately.

“I swear by Trygg, Ishi and Briga I will make that bitch pay for hurting you!” she said with vehemence I’d never heard in her voice before.  “I did not see you return from fire, battle, death, goblins, trolls, and dragons only to see you torn asunder from within by some scheming witch.”

That was troubling.  “Alya, Isily isn’t merely some scheming witch.  She’s a powerful sorceress.  She’s a High Mage, and an adept shadowmage.  And she’s been a trained assassin for years.  Isily has killed dozens in cold blood, even in the midst of an embrace.  She was the one who . . . arranged for the Orphan Duke to get his name.”

Her face got harder.  “She’s the one who killed that poor boy’s parents?” she asked, appalled.  “Then I have even more reason to do this.  As far as her vaunted powers, my husband,” she said, crossing to an ornate press we’d picked up somewhere, “she may be a fearsome sorceress.  I am an angry wife.  Ask yourself which of those two is more to be feared?” she asked, as she took a long, heavy dagger from the press, something she’d had since our honeymoon.  She unsheathed the blade a few inches and then returned it before fastening it to the cingulum of her underdress, under her sideless surcoat.

“You can’t honestly think you can just walk up to her and put a blade in her, do you?” I asked in disbelief.  “She’s a Baroness, and a friend of the Queen!  She’ll have guards – warmagi, not just knights.  And she’ll have her fellow assassins, and possibly Lady Mask, herself, with her.  Hells, I don’t even know where she is, much less what to do when we get there!”

“Stop it,” she commanded.  “You’re coming up with excuses.  You’ve had time to worry with this for ten long months.  I am not going to endure a pregnancy full of worry and anxiety because we left this deed undone.  One way or another we must end this.  And no, I will not go charging stupidly into her chambers and expect to prevail.  I am not a warrior, much less a warmage.”

“So then what will you do?  What will we do?” I asked, confused and suddenly horrified at the possibilities.

“We know warriors.  We know warmagi.  We know the most powerful enchanters and wizards in the world.  We know kings and queens and dukes and princesses.  Hells, you know some gods – and I do too, actually, since I met Brother Hotfoot.  We know Alka Alon.  And all of those people owe you favors or bear you loyalty that you can call upon at need.”

“Yes, but—

“Well, this is need, Minalan!  You and your stupid, stupid pride thought you could tough this out, when it’s just gotten worse with every passing month.  Now she’s had the baby, and she taunts you with this insidious message.  A message designed to cast you into doubt and confusion so that you could not do the job you need to do.

“So this is what we’re going to do: we’re going to marshal our resources, we’re going to stop pretending this cabbage twat of a killer is above our influence, and we will take action with the help of our friends, to end this threat to our stability once and for all,” she said, decisively.  “Now if you would be so kind as to use the Ways to take me to the Mirror array at the chapterhouse, I have some messages to send.  And my feet are too tired to walk all that way.  And it will just be easier to send everything from there, for now.”

“I can send them from here,” I pointed out.

“They are not for your eyes,” she said, coolly.  “I’m serious, Min.  You stay out of this, for now.  Let me work.  I might not be a mage, but this is not a magical problem.  This is a . . . a woman problem.  Both Isily and Mask.  So I will deal with it that way.  Because, if nothing else, that’s going to be the last place they’re going to expect an attack.  And this, my love, they will never see coming.”

*

*

The next two days were a blur.  I took Alya to the Chapterhouse with our page, whom she immediately sent into town with urgent messages for local folks.  Then she began composing letters to others to hand to the Mirror attendants, finishing one just as the last one was transmitted.  I sat in the hall, smoking and fretting, until I just got bored.  Alya finally looked up, blew me a kiss, and sent me home.

“Get some sleep,” she advised.  “You were awake all night, after a long Conclave.  You need rest.  I’ll handle the arrangements, from here.  You’ve done enough for now.  Go check on the children and sleep.”

“As my baroness commands,” I sighed, yawning at the suggestion.  I really hadn’t slept in over a day, nor eaten more than a few buns.  I suddenly felt exhausted.  I mustered enough energy to stand and take the Waypoint back to my hall . . . suddenly remembering that was how Mask and the Alka Alon had invaded the castle.

Yes, we would have to find a way to ward them against that happening again, I mused tiredly, as I checked with the nurses.  Both children were eating messily, smearing porridge on their faces between the patient efforts of two Tal to feed them.  Darishi was overseeing the entertaining spectacle with a lot of amusement, and looked up at me, startled, and then concerned.

“Everything is fine,” I assured her.  “Alya and I might be away for a couple of days, but right now I’m going to go take a nap.  The extra guards are outside?”

“Yes, Magelord,” she nodded. “Are you all right?  I heard about the fight . . .”

“I’m well; just tired.  My day started yesterday morning, and it hasn’t stopped.  I just wanted to look in on those two goblins before I went to bed.  Please wake me up if anything important happens.”

“Da-DY!” Minalyan demanded, pounding his spoon on the table like a drum.  “Les’ go GRAMMAS!”

“You just want the cookies,” I teased.  He looked genuinely disappointed that I’d seen through his scheme.  My mother always had a huge bowl of cookies for her growing brood of grandchildren down at Baker’s Hall, as the big house in the outer bailey was called, now.  She understood the feudal politics of bribery better than most lords I knew.  It was Minalyan’s favorite place in the whole world.

Mask had tried to take that all away.  I tussled his hair weakly, then went to bed.  I was asleep the moment my head hit the pillow.

*

*

“You know, it’s about time,” Briga said to me, as she stirred the fire in my dreamscape.  “I’ve been waiting for an invocation, a prayer, even a pipe in the privy, but no – you had to wait and wait and wait to get around to being someplace I could speak privately with you!”

“I’ve been busy!” I complained, as I took a seat around the imaginary fire.  We were at a crossroads, somewhere in my mind.  “And I’m supposed to be resting.  You know these divinely inspired dreams are utter crap for rest, don’t you?”

“That’s not my problem,” she said, staring into the fire with purse lips.  “You, my boy, are my problem.  I’m your patroness, and you won’t call on me when you need me!”

“I’m a big boy,” I countered.  “I can’t go running to you every time I fall down.”

“This is more than a tumble, Minalan,” she pointed out.  “You are in trouble.  In a lot of ways.”

“Aw, come on,” I dismissed.  “I’m rolling in gold, right now, and I just got a bunch of new domains.  Life is good.”

“Like hell it is,” she said, accusingly.  “It’s falling to ruin.  You should thank me for inspiring your two friends to get your father involved.  He knows how to invoke me,” she added, snidely.  “He’s been praying to me for your safety and security for weeks.  Your wife even was good enough to send me a thoughtful request.  You?  Not a peep.”

“Well, what the hells could you do about any of this?” I demanded.  “Burn her castle down?  Poison her muffins?  Convince her horse’s shoe to throw itself?”

“You might be surprised,” she said, indignantly.  “I am pretty resourceful, and rather clever, when I need to be.  But the time for clever and resourceful is done.  When you confessed everything to Alya, things changed.”

“What?  What changed?”

“Alya has invoked me, in her mind,” the goddess of fire explained.  “She has invoked me for vengeance.  Divine vengeance.”

“Oh, crap,” I said, my heart sinking.  “I had to tell her . . .”

“I know,” Briga said, sharply, with a toss of her flame-colored hair.  “There was a fire on the hearth.  I heard everything.  Minalan, she knowingly invoked me.  Among others.  And we might be compelled to action.”

“Oh, great.  This is not what I wanted to happen.”

“It’s beyond anyone’s control now.  But since we will be traveling, now, I invite someone along who might be of assistance.”  She gestured to the shadows outside of the dreamfire, and Herus approached, loping along comfortably, in his guise as Brother Hotfoot.

“Ho, Min!” he said, cheerfully.  “Looks like we’re off on another one.  A short journey, but a journey nonetheless.  And just in time.”  His face changed to a troubled expression as he looked at Briga.  “I’ve confirmed it.  Korbal is returned.  Not only that, he and his cabal have fled their stronghold in the Land of Scars, when the Kasari and the Alka Alon pressed them.”

“So they are on the run, then, at least?” Briga asked, interested.  More like fascinated.

“Ah, no,” Herus said, taking a seat at the fire.  “In fact, when they were attacked—”

“Wait,” I interrupted.  “Who attacked?  And they attacked Korbal?”

“You’ve missed a lot, on house arrest,” chuckled the god of travelers.  “Me, on the other hand, I get around.  Yes, Korbal has been returned to existence by a faction of the Alka Alon—“

“The Enshadowed.  I’m aware of them.”

“So you are – I heard about the robbery.  As the patron of thieves, you have my sympathies.  What a bunch of amateurs.  If I—”

“To business, Herus!” Briga reminded him, sharply.

“Right.  Well, when the Alka Alon realized that Korbal had been let out of his tomb by the Enshadowed, working with gurvani and renegade humans, they were alarmed enough to put a watch on the region.  A company of Kasari was detailed to the task, along with some of the more powerful Alkan songmasters and warriors.  Korbal and his companions were holed up in an old keep on the borderlands, far from civilization.  The alliance attacked it, hoping to capture the Demon God.  Instead they took heavy casualties, and while they succeeded in forcing the renegades out of the keep, they escaped deeper into the wilderness.”

“So they’re like an ash in the wind, now,” sighed Briga.

“Not at all,” Herus corrected.  “In fact, I know precisely where they are, now.  Their allies have prepared a hold for Korbal in advance of his arrival – somewhere even more difficult to get to and easy to defend than the keep.  The ruins of the City of Rainbows.”

If you’ve never heard a goddess gasp, it’s a treat.

“Oh, for the love of us all!” she swore, angrily.  “They will be impossible to uproot, there!  That’s at the very limits of our reach, and far too remote to be able to gather significant power.  Ashes and cinders, if they had gone anywhere else . . .”

“Oh, it’s worse than that, coz,” Herus said, removing an imaginary flask from his imaginary bag.  “Don’t forget what that city sits atop of.”

It took me a moment, but then I had sleep as an excuse.  And exhaustion.

Korbal, you see, was infamous for his experiments with necromancy, back in his prime.  That’s a pretty unusual branch of magic for the Alka Alon to study, but he came from a strange family in exile and he was fascinated by the subjects of death, life, and, ironically, something akin to human-style enchantment.

But he had mixed his research with a brutal kind of politics that was at odds with the Council.  He was ruthless in kidnapping Alka Alon opponents and then sacrificing them for their enneagrams, their bodies, or both.  The horrors he produced from those experiments so appalled the Council that they eventually censured him, he rose in rebellion, and they were forced to put him down.  Instead of executing him, which is tricky, with someone who plays around with the undead, they imprisoned him.

Now that he was out of his tomb, centuries after he’d gone in, he’d have the chance to take advantage of all of the changes that had happened since the Council ruled supreme.  Like the mountain of snowstone.  The rise of Shereul and the gurvani kingdom.  And now the nearly-vacant city of his enemies, occupied by a few surly goblins and at least one dragon with ongoing complications from head trauma.  If the Enshadowed had occupied that great empty city, they had a truly impressive base to which Korbal could retire and regain his strength.

And, possibly, eventual access to the large vein of Ghost Rock that ran through the stone under the city.  It had the same essential powers as the Grain of Pors – it could capture and record the enneagrams of an entity’s self-awareness – but it was vastly larger.  If there was something as magnificent as the Celestial Mother in the tiny Grain, I could just imagine what ancient horrors lay asleep within the Ghost Rock of lost Anthatiel.

If they had even a tithe of the magical abilities of the Mother, we could be facing a whole new type of threat.  Goblins could be fought.  Shereul could, eventually, be faced. But if Korbal started importing powerful ancient enneagrams and putting them into bodies that could perform magic, he could raise a demon army that would make his old minions seem like mere apprenticeship.

“Oh, soot!” the goddess said, her lip quivering.  If you’ve never seen a goddess terrified, you’ve probably lived your life right.

“That’s right, Sparky,” the other divinity chuckled, wickedly.  “The Ancient Ones could come back.  Just as Minalan, here, has been playing with fire himself, Korbal could ignite a blaze that destroys us all.  You know what terrors will be found in that rock.  Terrors that are eager to return to life and resume their . . . passions.”

“What does that mean?” I asked, afraid to learn the answer.

“It means that if Korbal gets inspired, he could search the Ghost Rock for some of the Celestial Mother’s predecessors.  Or descendants.  Or enemies.  And once he’s found them, if he puts them in, say, a body of a really powerful Alka Alon, then that hybrid personality will awaken to be extraordinarily potent, immensely dangerous . . . and completely subject to Korbal’s suggestion.”

“Such things have happened before, in other ways,” Briga agreed, somberly.  “Before we came to this world there were many great struggles over the ages.  Not everything that evolved in Callidore’s seas was as benign as the Celestial Mother.  And there are beings from elsewhere, other worlds, who came to this one seeking to dominate and eventually consume the unique order here.”

“What happened?”

“The natives defended themselves,” Herus grunted.  “Some even sacrificed themselves, to protect their offspring and this world.  That’s what happened to the Celestial Mother’s species, eventually.  They fought a long and deadly war with the invaders, and eventually won.  But only at the price of themselves.  Their children’s children are the ones you know as the Sea Folk, now, a mere remnant of a shadow of a far greater race.

“But they honor the spirit of the slain Great Ones of their past.  And,” he added, his eyes twinkling in the firelight, “they are not going to be certain how to take the news that a thumb-fingered humani mage who’s consorting dangerously with the gods has in his ignorance taken one of the most revered and complex organisms ever to arise on this world and stuff it into a really pretty crystal decanter in his cellar.  That’s going to be an interesting conversation.”

“They are already aware of the snowstone,” Briga said, shaking her head in irritation.  “They’ve done nothing, yet.  I doubt they will stir themselves over this.”

“And you’re a goddess of wisdom?” snorted Herus.  “Sis, please use some: we both know how the Sea Folk feel about their ancestors.  More pious than most of these savages feel about us.  They are not going to ignore it.  Particularly if this idiot continues establishing the connections that will allow it to eventually awaken.  Then we’ll be ready for a party!”

“You really do enjoy dancing on the edge of ruin, don’t you?” Briga chided her divine half sibling.

“We’ve been doing that since we arrived here!  You know it’s a miracle – a long, hard series of miracles – that humanity is even alive today, much less capable of speech, simple civilization, and barely passable roads.  Once the Sea Folk are involved again, we’re probably extinct, anyway.  So why not enjoy the decline?”

“Because we are not going to let that happen!” Briga said, stubbornly.  “We have a duty.  Now Minalan does, too.”

“Hey, you were the one who convinced me to make the damn thing in the first place.  I needed a fulcrum.  You inspired me, when I was raving out of my head.  So this is your fault.”

“Mine?” Briga demanded, surprised.  “And did I inspire to imbue it with one of the Ancient Ones of Callidore?”

“You see any other goddesses of inspiration sitting around the campfire?” I shot back.  “We’re all complicit in this.  And yes, I am acting from ignorance.  But damn it, I’m acting!  Even now, when I’m supposed to be sleeping, I’m acting.  I may not get it right, and I may invite ruin and catastrophe, but at least I’m doing something!”

“So are we,” Herus said, thoughtfully.  “Quite a lot, actually.  With our newfound continuity we can be a lot more active than we once were.  Which is why I knew to search the Land of Scars until I found out about Korbal.  And how Briga was able to . . . do whatever it is she’s been doing.”

“Hey!  I’m coordinating the effort!” she protested.

“Which keeps me on my feet and you on your arse,” he pointed out.  “And what about Ishi?”

“I’ve dealt with her . . . for now,” Briga said, sullenly.  I had a feeling she was overstating the situation.  So did Herus.

“I’m sure you did!  Please, you’re as intimidated by her as I am!  She makes you feel like the too-smart girl in the back row of the temple, doesn’t she?”

“And I’m sure she makes you feel like the repugnant—“

“Enough!” I shouted, forcing a brief silence.  “This is not helping.  Right now my wife is raising an army out of thin air to go lay siege to a former lover of mine, who happens to be working for this new dark lord.  It would be nice to know if the gods thought this was a good idea or not!  Now can you give me a straight answer on that, or do I have to go sacrifice a goat or something?”

“All right, all right,” Herus said, grinning.  “I love it when they get spirited!  Your issues with Isily have, indeed, come to a head.  Because while you were distributing your treatise to your colleagues and then defending your home from housebreakers, she not only had your son, she did it in an attempt to recreate the snowstone spell.  She was unsuccessful.”

“She didn’t ask for my help,” Briga sniffed.

“Would you have given it to her if he had?” I asked, curious.

“No, she’s never been a worshipper of mine.  She’s dedicated to that sneaky, creepy little bat, Sigodnos, when she has a thought for us at all.”  Sigodnos was an old Wenshari god of night and shadows, I recalled, popular in the late Magocracy, during Wenshar’s period of urbanization during the decline of the empire.  I didn’t know much about him, but it seemed fitting.

“Then she failed,” I pointed out.  “All that work and effort to re-create snowstone, and she failed.  Not only that, she’s failed to capture the Alaran Stone, which apparently Korbal covets.  She’s sitting there with a new baby, a crappy husband, an angry boss, and nothing to show for all of that effort!”

“Oh, I didn’t say that she didn’t have anything to show for it,” Herus said, casually, as he sipped from his everfull flask.  “I just said that the snowstone experiment wasn’t successful. In fact, the birth of your son did produce an effect, just not a snowstone effect.  That irritating twit Dunselen has been working on the theory for years, now, and after you so kindly gave Isily exactly the information he needed – all save the divine component – he’s been able to work out at least the bare bones of natal transformational magic.”

“Natal transformational magic?”

“Babies,” Briga supplied.  “He’s found a way to utilize the natural magical release of a baby at birth, augment the energy and transform it to produce some effects.  Not the snowstone he was looking for, but he’s made some advances.”

“He’s used my child as a thaumaturgical experiment?” I asked, appalled.

“One of several, actually,” Herus agreed.  “He’s just the latest.  Isily has been finding young girls with Talent for a while, now – even before they were married – and getting Dunselen to get them pregnant so that he could make some trial runs.  While most of those were disappointing, professionally, they did allow him to figure out some basic premises for continued experimentation.  The details elude me,” he said, waving them away, “but he’s mastered the basic concepts.  The last two experiments were successful enough to produce some fascinating effects, or so he told a fellow on the road.”

“And he’s had enough candles and crucibles burning that I’ve witnessed . . . a lot that a goddess really shouldn’t have to.  He’s delivered six children, now.  Four have lived.  Of those, the last three did produce an effect, when he cast his spell during the delivery.  It only had an area of a few hundred feet, and the effect was different each time.  But he’s making progress.  And he has two more mothers in a tower on one of his estates, ready to begin the next phase.”

“Just how many has he done in total?” I asked, truly disgusted as a father.

“He’s been toying with the idea since he got his witchstone,” Briga revealed, “but it wasn’t until he learned about snowstone that he became a little obsessed.  Once he met Isily, and she was able to persuade him that the key to power lay in recreating your spell, he went to it with purpose.”

“How much purpose?” I asked, fearing the answer.

“Oh, Dunny’s got at least thirteen, fourteen little bastards running around Greenflower,” chuckled Herus.  “Almost all of them will have Talent.  The man might be a human wart, but he’s virile, and he’s got a decent amount of rajira.  He also had ambition.  He encouraged his warmagi retainers to . . . breed freely with his subjects.  There were quite a few of them who approached the invitation with enthusiasm.  There might be as many as fifty of them, running around Greenflower and environs.”

“It was disgusting,” Briga said, wrinkling her nose.  “If you’re looking for the gods’ judgment on them, Min, there’s plenty to be judged.  No one will object if you take action.”

“Wait, I thought I was prohibited from interfering with Isily, because of the child?” I asked, confused.  “That’s what Ishi told me.”

“She’s not exactly the best goddess to rely upon for forthright discussion,” Herus pointed out.  “Although she could have been correct about that.  You and Isily have . . . entanglements,” he said, searching for a word.  “Your fates are entwined.  For you to attack the pregnant mother of your child, you would have invoked some pretty stark repercussions.  But . . . kid’s born, now,” he shrugged.  “From what I can tell, now that he’s here she’s no longer quite as important as she was.  Or something like that.”

“Where are you getting your information from?” Briga demanded.

“I get around a lot!” Herus answered, defensively.  “And I’m known for my keen sense of discretion, so people talk to me.

“But this isn’t just speculation.  I went to one of the few who could tell me.  Minalan’s son needed to be born, successfully, or a lot of bad things might have happened.  But he’s here, now.  He might be a helpless baby, but he’s here.”

“Which means . . . ?” I asked, knowing that the key to good divine communications was clarity.

“Which means that Isily is no longer protected,” Briga sighed.  “She’s now responsible only for herself.  And that means that Alya is free to instruct her in the importance of respecting the sacred bonds of marriage, with my divine assistance.  Good and hard,” she said, with emphasis.

Chapter Thirty Nine

Under The Mask

I slept for hours – all afternoon, all night, and into late morning.  Thankfully the gods didn’t use my head for a conference room the entire time.  When I finally awoke, I felt far more refreshed and ready to face . . . then I remembered what I had to face.

The chamber was empty, only a few Tal scurrying around at their chores, the children off with their nurse somewhere.  After splashing some water on my face and using the privy, I wandered down to the hall and managed to grab a bun from the cook before it got back to the pantry.  I was quite hungry.  That’s when my page found me.

“Excellency, at your convenience the Baroness would like the pleasure of your consultation on an important matter of state,” he said, formally, as he bowed.

“Where might I find her?” I asked, impressed with his presentation.

“She is currently in Lord Mayor Banamor’s hall, in town,” he supplied.  “Along with a goodly number of visitors.”

“That was fast,” I sniffed.  “Please return to her and let her know I’ve awoken, broken my fast, and I will be joining her shortly.”  The lad bowed and took off with determined purpose.  I grabbed a couple of sausages from the kitchen and then went back upstairs to change.  I wasn’t exactly certain where we were going or what we were doing, but I figured more durable clothing than my robes would be appropriate.

I didn’t make it down to Banamor’s for an hour, choosing to walk the distance to settle my head, get some fresh air, and enjoy the summer afternoon.  The gods alone knew what tomorrow would bring.  Actually, from what they’d told me in my dreams, they were pretty uncertain about the outcome of events.  That didn’t make me feel much better.

But the sunshine, the sight of the town, the giant hawks overhead, and the splendid view of my vale in summer, did.  Now that I had told Alya, a great weight had lifted from me.  I might be going to my death, but I was no longer doing so bearing that burden.  That was worth something.

I got to Banamor’s in the late afternoon, as the shops began to close for the day.  His warehouse smelled strongly of hundreds of herbs and woods and soils and all manner of strangeness that was in demand by magi.  I went upstairs to his spacious apartments.   Sir Festaran was waiting at the top for me.

“Ah, Excellency, at last!  We can finally begin.”

“Sorry, I—”

“No need to apologize, Sire.  I figured you would need about fourteen hours and ten minutes of sleep to restore yourself, after your busy time.  You’re actually eighteen minutes early.”

“Outstanding.  Who all is here?”

“See for yourself,” he said, cheerfully, leading me up the rest of the stairs.

There were actually quite a few people there.  Banamor, of course, was playing host and ensuring everyone had drinks; that is, he was overseeing his servants serving us all.  But Gareth was there, as well as Dara, Master Olmeg, and Zagor.  Azhguri, his grandson Guri, and Onranion all sat on cushions around a low table.  I was very surprised to see a contingent of Alshari warmagi present.  Tyndal and Rondal were both there, but so were Bendonal, Sandoval, and Landrick.  Pentandra sat in their midst, holding her pretty baculus like a scepter.

Then there were the enchanters.  Master Cormoran had returned from Tudry, and was sitting with Lanse of Bune, Andalnam, and his daughter Rael. Master Ulin stood quietly in the back, while Lorcus told some improbably story about the daughter of a burgher in Rolone Town to Dranus.

Over it all, Alya presided like the baroness she was.  When she looked up at me, there was an instant where I didn’t know what she was thinking.  But then she smiled and waved me over with a kiss.  That made me feel better.  I was still uncertain about the personal repercussions of my admissions, but it appeared as if my wife was willing to discuss them later.  After the evil sorceress was dealt with.

“Thank goodness you’re awake,” she murmured into my ear.  “I don’t know how much longer I can stand all this.  But they’re here to help.  You just sit down and be quiet, and you’ll understand everything, eventually.”

I considered a snappy retort, but wisely decided to keep quiet.  She had clearly put a lot of work into this, while I was asleep.   I sat down.

“Now that Minalan has joined us, we can begin,” she said, simply, an authoritarian tone in her voice.  “For reasons that are too complicated to reveal right now, it has come to the Spellmonger’s attention that there exists a potential threat to the Arcane Orders and an appalling misuse of magic by one of its members.

“More particularly, this member – Baroness Isily of Greenflower, late of the Royal Court – has embarked on a series of misdeeds, including consorting with enemies of the Crown, which require the Order to take action.”  There was a murmur of understanding from the crowd.  Most knew, one way or another, of Isily’s past.  And all knew about Dunselen.

“Because of the nature of the offenses,” Alya continued, fixing several of the magi attending by eye as she spoke, “it would not be proper to discuss the details in this place.  But if any of you doubt the seriousness of the crime then you are free to leave now, without prejudice.”

No one left.

“Good.  Now, it is understood that Isily and Dunselen are ensconced with their retainers at a small castle somewhere within his barony, where Isily was recently delivered of a baby.  Do not,” she said, with special emphasis, “allow yourselves to think that she isn’t somehow just as dangerous because of that.  She has been working with renegade Alka Alon, she has a cadre of warmagi and other soldiers guarding her, and the fact is we know almost nothing about what we’ll face once we get there.

“But there are a few other details to work out, before we even get to that part.  As you are all the finest magical and strategic minds in the kingdom, I figured you would be best prepared to plan this excursion.  Now, let’s begin . . .”

The discussion went on for hours and hours.  Everyone there seemed to have an opinion, a plan, a scheme, or a perspective that changed how we approached the strike.  For strike it would be.  I realized that Alya had been exactly right.  Isily had consorted with enemies of the realm, which was treason.  If her crimes against me were an insufficient reason to move me to action, then that, at least, had compelled those wiser than me to realize it.

As our discussion went on I realized how others saw the situation.  Isily had crossed a line, when she had dealt with the Enshadowed, and crossed another one when she went into league with Lady Mask.  Now she had imperiled the security of Castalshar with her schemes.  As a member of the Royal Court I had a legal obligation to intervene.  There was, as Alya had realized, far more to this conspiracy than either simple revenge or simple gain.  I had just been so blinded by the personal dimension that I couldn’t see beyond that.  My wife had.

The plan developed wasn’t perfect, and there were several places where it could go horribly wrong.  There was simply too much we were ignorant of, and that couldn’t be helped.  Sometimes, I reflected, you have to take a few risks if you want to strike before your foes know what’s happening.

By the time we were done talking, we were committed.  It reminded me of the thaumaturgical term, volens, when an enchanter commits to a risky course of action.  You may have mitigated the risk, but despite it you were no less committed to following it through to the end, once you have begun.  That’s what we were doing here.

When at last no one had anything else to say or suggest, and everyone was more or less certain of their role, we broke for supper.  It was early evening, and we were all getting hungry.  As we were planning a dawn excursion, it seemed proper to have a meal together before we left.  Banamor had wisely had the entirety of the Alembic cleared for the occasion, and had food imported from the inn across the street.

I barely remember eating.  I was too busy thanking everyone for their assistance, and learning about the abortive goblin attack in Alshar.

“They were organized and coordinated,” Pentandra reported, over wine.  “Fourteen or fifteen different sorties, all launched at once against various undefended targets.  They mostly avoided castles, although two of your pele towers and an Iron Band outpost got hit.  They all survived, though the Band’s compound is ruined, now.  Everything else was village, cot and freehold.”

“It doesn’t sound like much of a strategic attack,” noted Lorcus, smacking his lips.  He had left Taren in charge of his new domain as acting castellan for a few days while he helped out.  Honestly, I think he felt as if he’d been a prisoner in Rolone, the way he eagerly prepared for the sortie.  “Why waste good troops against such soft targets?”

“They weren’t that good of troops,” Bendonal offered.  “Apart from the hobs who attacked the towers, most of them were scrugs and fell hounds.  They did some damage,” he admitted, “but anywhere they met serious opposition, they got hammered.  We met three groups of them that had melded together, north of Tudry.  It took about half an hour for a thousand of our men to grind through thrice that number of scrugs.  Many were young, or weak, or small of stature.  Azar and Astyral are still mopping up, but in my professional opinion it was more a feint or a raid than a real campaign.  In a week we’ll have them driven back to the Penumbra.”

“A feint?  For what purpose?” considered Dranus.  “Merely to draw attention away from Sevendor?”

“Battles have been fought for less,” Bendonal suggested.  “There have been rumors that some elements inside the Penumbra grow anxious to finish the eradication of humani.  It wouldn’t take much to convince them to try, for sport or training or loot, on the humans nearest them.  Of course, they’re considerably tougher than they were four years ago.  So yes, I’d say it’s a feint.  The only real opposition was sent to the fortifications, and even they were more probing raids than serious attacks.”

“It makes Duke Anguin look heroic, too,” Pentandra pointed out.  “When we got back to Vorone, the entire city was mad for the way he dashed off at the head of the 3rd Commando.  The folk feel like they have a real defender in him, for the first time.”

“It sounds like your efforts are going well,” I observed, quietly.

“At the moment, most of the fires are merely smoldering,” she smiled.  “But it’s taken a long time and a lot of energy to get there.”

“Any regrets?” I asked, concerned about her answer.

“Actually?  No,” she admitted.  Pentandra sighed, and looked happy.  “When I first got to Vorone I thought I’d be utterly miserable.  And I was, for a few months.  Arborn and I weren’t getting along, our apartment in the palace reeked with mildew and decay, and my job seemed hopeless.  But as we worked at the problem of the criminal gangs, the corruption, and the court, and gradually we stopped fighting.  That was nice.  Then Ishi showed up, and that wasn’t so nice, but we worked through it,” she said, happily.  “We’re talking about getting a place in the countryside, now, just to get away from the palace.  Things are stable enough that I don’t feel like they’ll fall apart if I take a few days away.”

“That’s excellent news,” I smiled in return.  “I’m so glad it’s working out.  I was worried you’d quit.”

“I was very close, a number of times.  But I’m not the sort to give up just because of a few setbacks and inconveniences.  By this autumn, Vorone will almost be functioning like a real city again, instead of a refugee camp surrounding a bad neighborhood.  We’re doing good work, there,” she said, with an air of satisfaction.

“She’s done more than good work,” objected Bendonal.  “Lady Pentandra is too modest.  She has single-handedly dragged the court into functioning, instructed His Grace in the wise performance of his duties, turned the attention of the Duke’s magistrates on scofflaws and corrupt officials, and revitalized the city center through prudent policy and investment.”

“It doesn’t sound like you’ve had time to do much actual magic,” Tyndal teased.

She looked annoyed.  “Have you ever restored a functioning economy to a remote town of eighteen thousand with no real industry?  Makes slaying siege worms and trolls seem like picking wildflowers!” she snorted.  “What have you two been doing?”

“Catching rats,” Rondal supplied, as he handed Tyndal a mug.  “When we weren’t helping Lorcus knock over warder castles in Rolone.  We’ve made two trips down to the Alshari coastlands, and left a bunch of very upset rats in our wake.”

“Those still alive to be upset,” Tyndal agreed.  “We’re planning a third trip this autumn, timed for when the fleet comes in.  The Brotherhood has been slaving,” he added, darkly.

“And the rebel barons permit it?” she asked, shocked.

“They profit from it,” Rondal said, discouraged.  “They turn a blind eye to the sales on the docks, then again when they get new serfs on their estates and plantations.  The clergy call their attention to it, but then they either have an accident or receive a generous benefice.  No one else dares stand up to the rebels.”

“Duke Anguin could, if he had the reach,” sighed Pentandra.  “I’m afraid such expeditions are many years in the future, if at all.  We’ve had our own brushes with the Brotherhood in Vorone, where they once ruled the night.  No longer.  Perhaps we should consult, before you embark?  I have some intelligence you might find intriguing.”

I stopped listening to them try to impress each other, after a while, and concentrated on the preparations that Onranion and Dranus were making.  If things went poorly, then we would have to count on their makeshift plan.  I was hoping things didn’t go poorly.  I hesitate to try my hand at dangerous, experimental magic when things are desperate.

Who am I kidding?  I do that sort of thing all the time.

That was part of my confusion: I was supposed to be feeling contrite and guilty about all of this, but when I looked around I saw my friends and allies, comrades and colleagues, all gathered about me to perform in my interest without judgment.  None had been commanded to (apart from Dranus, but he was more than willing), they had all just agreed.  That made me feel good.

And I wanted to feel bad about this.  None of this would have happened if it hadn’t been for my indulgence, part of my mind whispered.  None of this would have happened if not for my arrogance.

My dark musings were dashed when Alya approached me from the other end of the chamber, where she had been dining and drinking with the Alshari warmagi.

“Do you have a moment?” she asked, quietly.  I nodded, and followed her when she led me outside to the quiet street.  She pulled me over to the fountain under the municipal magelight, then turned to speak.  “Are you all right?” she asked, concerned.

“No,” I said, honestly.  “I’m struggling with this.  It’s not that I don’t agree, but—”

“That’s why I’m doing it, and not you,” she answered, her eyes downcast.  “It’s not that you cannot do it, Minalan, but that it is too difficult a thing to ask you to do.  Your feelings conflict you.  While that’s usually what I love about you, your mercy and your commitment to the right thing, in this case the two are at odds.  But they can’t be.  Min, you can’t let this stand.  Not just personally, although for what she’s done she’s earned a feud as sure as any mountain harlot.  But for what she’s done to your profession.”

“My profession will be fine,” I said, sighing.

“Not if you let this sort of thing go unanswered,” she said, firmly.  “I’m no wizard, but I’m a Spellmonger’s wife.  I’ve been around magic for years now, and I know what you’ve tried to build.  If you let her act the rebel to your policies and do not bring her to bear, she will be among the first, not the last, to scoff at your authority.”

“I never wanted the authority!”

“Which is why you were best suited to accept it,” she countered.  “I have spoken to your colleagues and I know what politics is.  You have to do this, but your heart is too weak to commit to it.  So let us do it.  Let me do it.  Stand and watch, and if you are needed, then join in.  But let the Order help bring this criminal to answer.  And let your wife help you with this difficult, difficult personal task.”

“And when this is over?” I asked in a small voice.  “What then?”

“You mean your . . . Minalan, we can discuss that later.  But I don’t hold you accountable for what you were compelled to do – who would?”

“What about the things I chose to do?” I asked, hesitantly.  That was the largest question looming over me.  The one I most feared being answered.

She looked at me, searchingly.  “Am I hurt by it?  Yes, Minalan.  Yes, I am very hurt.  But not so hurt that I will pull my hair and weep and threaten to throw myself from the battlements.  I’m tough, Spellmonger.  I was raised in the Mindens, not in some dainty Riverlands castle.  You think I’m the first wife who had a husband who had a dalliance?”

“No, but—“

“Enough.  We will discuss this.  And we will settle this.  And we will do it soon, because the moment I can keep food down I’m going to be eating like a madwoman, and be big as a house.  And I really want this left in the summer pastures, if you understand what I mean.”

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” I said.  I didn’t know what else to say.

“Later,” she ordered.  “I want to hear every little thing that you have to tell me about what happened.  But later.  We have to get some sleep, and there are still preparations to make.  When this is all over, we can talk – perhaps with Sister Bemia to help.  And I will listen.  But not now.  Now we have these two witches as our priority.”

I kissed her again, embraced her, and felt much of my guilt and tension leave me.  Oh, there was still a gracious plenty piled up on top of my soul, but I was truly hopeful that once Isily, Mask, and Dunselen were dealt with that things would get back to normal.  Or near enough.

Optimism has forever been my downfall.

*

*

An hour before dawn, the next morn, my squadron and I were ready to begin our foray.  I was armored, though I had cast my mantle over my armor, and I had Twilight sheathed on my back.  I held my baculus, and when my men were ready I tapped into the Seven Stone I was using and opened the Ways.

One thing that Lady Mask, a novice in the use of the Ways, was unfamiliar with was the magical apophylite gems I had mined from Rundeval, the ones called Waystones.  They were portable waypoints, whereas most of the Alka Alon Ways are fixed.  When we’d traced the route the raiders had taken to invade Sevendor, we had been relieved that they had not, as yet, used the Waypoints attached to our Waystones.  They had used the waypoint on top of Matten’s Helm, the one that had been there since before humankind had come to the vale.

That was good news.  The fact that I could use the Ways was little-known, outside of my circle.  The existence of the Waystones likely even less so.

But when you have a lot of the things, you find useful ways to use them.  For my part, in one of my earlier enchantments, before I really knew what I was doing in the art, I had attached a Waystone to the modillion of my battlestaff, Blizzard.  The same one that Lady Mask had stolen.

I was counting on the fact that she would not recognize the thing, as it looked like merely another pretty stone in the multi-colored modillion behind the head (called the metope, if you’re keeping track) of the staff.  She’d be far more interested in the witchstone I’d put there, I was guessing, and ignore the minor stones.

That was what I was counting on.

“Ready, gentlemen?” I asked.  Tyndal, Rondal, and Lanse of Bune all nodded.  “Second squad?”

“We’re ready,” Lorcus assured me, yawning.  “Let’s get this over with so that I can get back to sleep.”  Dara, Sir Festaran, and Bendonal would join Lorcus as our reserves.  But I didn’t think we’d need them.

“Places,” I called, and my three men gathered with their backs together.  “And . . . now!”  I activated the waypoint, and all four of us tumbled through.  I don’t think I could have managed four additional people if they each hadn’t been helping me with power.  But the spell caught, and we landed in soft, loamy soil, the smell and sounds of a forest at dawn around us.

Blizzard was leaning against a small canopy, proudly displayed as a prize of war, which was the center of an encampment of about twenty bandits or mercenaries, however they identified.  The only one awake was a sleepy sentry that a spell from Tyndal rendered completely unconscious.  The boys spread out and began securing the remaining raiders, casting soporific spells liberally, while I reclaimed my property.

I reached out and took my staff back.  It seemed unmolested.  She had not yet taken the time to start dismantling it.

Bandits, Lanse told me with a mental sneer as he looked around.  Or the worst sort of mercenary.

This must be that raider outfit she inherited from Sir Ganulan, I offered.  Shouldn’t her wards be going off about now?

To answer my question, the flap of the tent opened and Lady Mask flew out, without her mask.  She was actually a pretty girl, a little older than I’d thought, but with no trace of scar or pox on her face, as many had suspected.  Her eyes were wide with surprise.  I hit her with the butt of Blizzard right between them, hard enough to make an audible crack.  She went down instantly.

“That was easier than I expected,” Lanse said, sounding a little disappointed.

“Apparently she’s not her best in the morning,” clucked Tyndal, joining us.  “The rest of them are out cold Mas—Minalan.”

“Search the camp, tie up the men, and get back to the castle when you’re done,” I ordered, as I hauled Mask limply to her feet.  She didn’t weigh much at all.  “I’ll meet you there.  After this lady and I have a little chat.”

I took her back through the Ways, but not back to my castle.  Instead we went to a high ridge overlooking Sevendor, near a little cottage.  Lesana was waiting for me, sipping tea and watching the sunrise.

“Shall I put the amulet on?” she asked.

“You can hear this, I think,” I decided.  “She will wake up in a few moments.  Let me pull her teeth.”  I searched her person.  She had slept in her armor, of course, as most warmagi on maneuvers do, and her witchstone was in an ornate leather pouch on her belt.  She also carried a combat dagger, two warwands, a garrote behind her belt, three small spheres of thaumaturgical glass, and a small knife in her boot.  I used magic to search her more thoroughly, and relieved her of two hidden enchantments.  Then I cast a few spells on her to make her talkative.

It didn’t take long for her to awaken, as I predicted.  She was tough.  She was also thoroughly tied up when her eyes finally fluttered open.  She struggled against her bonds and realized her predicament . . . and who had put her there.

“You!” she accused.

“Me,” I agreed, a little smugly.  “Did you really think I wouldn’t track you down?”

“I figured you would be panicking about your deplorable lack of security,” she said.  “I didn’t think you would recover this quickly.  That’s not what Isily told me to expect.”

“Isily is, perhaps, not the most reliable judge of my character,” I said, truthfully.

“What are you going to do with me?”

“I’m going to ask you questions, and you’re going to answer me.  Truthfully.”

“Or what?” she said, defiantly.

“That’s all.  For now.  Then, when you’ve told me all I need to know, you’re going in a cold, dark cell for a while until I can figure out what to do with you.”

“You should execute me,” she said, her eyes a little larger at her admission.  “I’m too dangerous to you, alive.”

“One step at a time, my lady,” I said, taking a seat on a stool near Lesana, who had kindly poured me tea.  “Let’s begin with your name, and where you’re from.”

“Nothoua,” she said, without realizing it until it was too late.  Then she looked away.  “Nothoua Venaren.  Of no place in particular.”

“Nothoua . . . Venaren?   Are you related to—?”

“Yes,” she spat, glaring at me.  “Next question?”

I sighed, intrigued.  Loiko Venaren was a legendary master warmage, one of the leaders of the Magical Corps during the Farisian campaign.  Last time I had heard he was still in Farise, enjoying the fruits of his conquest.  There had to be a story there, but I really didn’t have time to explore it.

“All right, where are Isily and Dunselen keeping themselves?”

She looked at me sullenly, but spoke.  “The last I heard they were in a castle called Salaisus, in an outlying domain to the southwest of Greenflower,” she said, every word a struggle.  ‘That’s where they have their laboratory.  And nursery,” she added, her nose wrinkling.

“To what purpose?”

“To make snowstone.  Only they haven’t been successful yet.  But they think they’re getting close.” She grinned briefly at some private thought.

“Of course they do.  How many men guard them?”

“The last time I was there they had twelve crossbowmen, seven warmagi, and a handful of men-at-arms,” she reported, looking defeated.

“Wards?”

“Standard,” she snorted, derisively.  “I could shred them like parchment.  On a bad day.”

“They aren’t warmagi,” I reminded her.  “And their warmagi aren’t High Magi.”

“They’re lazy, all of them.  Sloppy.”

“No doubt.  They are arrogant, too.  So why are you entangled with them?”

“They are a means to an end,” she said, hesitantly.  “I needed them, after you stole my staff.”

“You put her in contact with the Enshadowed?”

“Yes,” Nothoua said, proudly.  “The Enshadowed approached me after my . . . failure against you, and promised to give me irionite if I could arrange to get them into your tower.  Since our interests coincided, I didn’t see the harm.  They taught me much, and promised to teach me more, if I helped them.”

“So how did you get Isily involved?”

“I knew her from Alar,” she admitted.  “We were classmates.  I visited her in that guise at the end of last summer, after my defeat.  I made her a proposition: I could get her more irionite, if she could help me infiltrate Sevendor Castle.  She leapt at the opportunity,” she added, spitefully.  “I wasn’t aware of her goal at the time, just that it would imperil you.”

“So how did you know the Enshadowed?”

“Shereul sent them to tutor us.  And for us to learn humani warmagic.  A few of them were looking for good candidates to further their aims.  I wanted irionite, and couldn’t return to the gurvani.  It seemed like a natural alliance.”

“But an uneasy one.  You wanted me dead.  Isily wanted me alive.   Why?”

“She thinks you’re going to be the Archmage.  She plans on being your consort. Idiot.”

“What did the Enshadowed want?”

“Your gems.  And, eventually, your death.  They have it in for you as much as I do, but they want to wait.  I don’t have centuries to fulfill my vengeance.  But they wanted that thaumaturgical stone of yours, the enneagrammatic stabilizer.”

“Why?” I demanded.

“Because they just got bloody Korbal out of the ground, and they need it!  His pattern will degrade without it.  He’ll need constant intervention, and eventually his pattern will start to decay.  With that stone he can maintain his coherence.  And probably build an army of undead.  The Enshadowed think you have the knowledge and the power to prevent that.”

“They didn’t get the stone,” I said, without thinking.

“I know.  I told them you’d improved security.  They didn’t think that you were smart enough to put the valuable ones away, when you weren’t playing with them.   Alka Alon!” she snorted.  “They treat us like children!”

“When you’re nearly immortal, that can be a risk, I imagine.  They didn’t seem too adept at housebreaking.”

“They were idiots,” she said, derisively.  “They had no idea which stone it was.  I tried to tell them that your treasury was far more extensive than they suspected, but they ignored me.  They figured that you’d have it in your most ‘secure’ place, that tower of yours.  Their plan was to just grab every gem in sight and sort out which one was the right one later.

“But they were also interested in Dunselen’s and Isily’s . . . experiments.  Fascinated, even.  They’re mad for snowstone, and its derivatives.  And they’re horribly jealous that a mere humani mage discovered it.  When they found out what Dunselen was doing, they were eager to lend him technical assistance to his research.”  She didn’t sound enthusiastic about it.

“Do you think they’re expecting reprisals?” I asked, curious.

“Not really,” she said, glumly.  “Isily is so convinced of your eventual union, and she’s so certain that you are under her power, that she treats you like an ignorant puppet.  Dunselen thinks his position as head of his order will protect him from you.  They’re both idiots!”

“As were the Enshadowed.  And you worked closely with all of them.  What does that say about you?”

Nothoua had nothing to say to that.

“You’ve given me just about everything I wanted,” I said, after thinking and studying her a few moments.  “But I do have one more question.  Why the mask?”

She looked a little embarrassed.  “Because I’m short, for a warmage.  It’s hard to get people to respect me.  The mask is intimidating.  Even to gurvani.  All I have to do to be in disguise is take it off.  That’s how I infiltrated Sevendor,” she boasted.  “And if I’m wearing a mask, I won’t be recognized by anyone who knows . . . my family.”  She sounded less proud of that.

“If Loiko Venaren is your kin, that’s probably a wise idea.  I served under him in Farise.  He is not known for his forgiving nature.”

“Can we please not discuss my family?” she pleaded.  “Just kill me.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that.  You tried to kill my family,” I reminded her.  “That went beyond the rules of simple warfare and into vendetta, Nothoua.  For now we’ll put you in a cell until I’m done dealing with Isily.  Then we’ll address your crimes.”

She looked at me thoughtfully.  “With your witchball broken I won’t ever see a magistrate, then.  Isily has grown far more powerful, with the tutelage of the Enshadowed and the researches of Dunselen.  From what I hear, she was . . . transformed by the birth of her child.  She is more than half mad because of it, I hear, and now has great power.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.

“I want you to know,” she said, her brown eyes narrowing, “because it may be the only morsel of vengeance I get to enjoy before the headman’s axe, Spellmonger, and I am enchanted to speak the truth: If you do go to Castle Salaisus, Spellmonger, and face your jilted love, don’t expect to ever return!”

Chapter Forty

Castle Salaisus

I allowed Nothoua the dignity of returning her mask to her before I took her to Brestal Tower and placed her in a cell, there.  It actually wasn’t that bad, as prison cells go, but the young woman was hardly grateful for the consideration.

I took my news back to Banamor’s which we were using as a temporary headquarters.  With the possibility of other spies around the castle and other areas we frequented, the warehouse and office complex in the center of town was surprisingly secure for our purposes.

The next couple of days were busy.  Lorcus, once he was assured by Taren that his new domain hadn’t wandered off, returned in his packtrader disguise to Greenflower and began searching for the location of Castle Salaisus.  It didn’t take him long to find it.

Salaisus, he reported, was an older castle built a hundred and fifty years ago by a Cormeeran knight in service to a count. The entire fortress was composed of local limestone.  The keep was a large, well-built circular tower with solid pyramid spurs, abutting a secondary tower and great hall.  The entire thing was surrounded by an uncrenellated wall and moat, with a moderate gatehouse at one end and a smaller round tower at the other.

It had changed hands repeatedly since Lord Salaisus’ family lost it; it was once part of the Greenflower holdings, and Dunselen had re-conquered it two years ago with a minimum of fuss.  He hadn’t picked a permanent tenant lord, and had come to use the property as a picturesque place for his arcane research.  It was guarded, as Nothoua had indicated, but there was no sign that the garrison was on alert for anything.

Isily and Dunselen were both confirmed to be in residence with their new baby.  My son.

Lorcus returned with a fairly detailed map of the place which he had gotten without scrying – which would have set off Isily’s wards.  Instead he’d sat at a tavern in the village for half a day, listened to gossip, and asked a few questions of the right people.  Lorcus can be quite subtle, when he’s not being a raving arse.

“Things might not be what they seem,” he told me, after we went over the floor plan.  “Magically, that is.  A lot of the village folk were spooked by even mentioning the sorceress in the castle.  They report seeing lights there, a few weeks ago.  And some of the servants who attended the birth have never been seen again.  Nor have the Baron and Baroness been seen since the birth, nor the babe.  All communication is by means of the castle steward, now.”

“That is disturbing,” I agreed.  While many new parents sought seclusion, it wasn’t usually with that level of paranoia.  And the tales of arcane lights were troublesome, too.  Such a light had attended the birth of Minalyan, and the Snow That Never Melted.  “But if the snowstone spell was a failure, just what did happen there?”

“No one knows,” Lorcus said, solemnly.  “And no one dares speculate.”

With the information he gathered we were able to consider the castle’s defenses and its many weaknesses.  Lanse threw together a quick model of the place in the warehouse, and some of the best magical and military minds in the kingdom began figuring out the best way to take it apart.

Other things happened while we were working.  News came of a decisive battle in north Sashtalia in which Sendaria’s army routed a force under one of Trefalan’s trusted lieutenants at Birchroot Bridge, a day after two thousand peasants and five hundred mercenary crossbowmen defected when it was revealed that they would receive their pay only after the war was over.

Mercenaries don’t fight on commission, and peasants don’t want to fight at all.  Sashtalia’s remaining army was retreating south toward their heartland, the part that Lorcus wasn’t controlling, while Sendaria advanced relentlessly.

While that was good news, I was far less concerned with Sendaria’s war than my own.  This would be, as Dranus pointed out, the first official Magewar since the Magocracy.  I wanted to get it right.

Once Alya had assembled the company and given them their tasks, she had stepped back and allowed them to work.  I was very impressed at how quickly and how well she had learned how to lead such an operation . . . but then she had largely led the siege of the Warbird, back when Gimbal and the Censorate tried to attack Sevendor.  By all accounts she had done a professional job, for the lady of the castle.  And she sat through two years of Sevendor Town Council meetings as baronial representative.  She had a growing understanding of how to deal with people.  I was proud of my wife.

But there was still something between us, despite her assurances.  For every supportive smile she gave me, when she didn’t think I was looking I saw a troubled expression on her face.  I tried to ignore it.  I wasn’t terribly successful.

I focused on the job, instead.  Taking this castle would be a little trickier than the ones in Rolone.  For one thing, they were protected by magic and warmagi.  That made it an entirely different kind of operation than working against mundane defenders.

Lorcus prepared a staging ground in a stable in a neighboring manor three miles away, where he installed a Waystone.  Then we started moving men and equipment over, with Gareth handling the logistics.  We had hashed over the defenses of Salaisus, and after considering many plans of great subtlety and cunning we abandoned them all for the straightforward approach.  We didn’t need to be subtle.

I didn’t need to be subtle.  I needed to make an example.

Alya was right: I had let Isily’s hold over me keep me from acting.  She was, indeed, consorting with enemies of the realm.  To let that knowingly stand was a violation of my own position.  If I was to be entrusted to oversee magic in the kingdom, then I could not allow it to be used against the kingdom’s best interest.  Dunselen, for all of his irritating boorishness, had not managed to cross that frontier, but Isily plunged boldly across, assuming I would not act because of her spells of control and because of her children.  Our children.

But Alya saw through that, and so did Pentandra.  Putting the two of them together on the problem helped crystallize the rationale for our attack.  I was starting to really appreciate that.  No longer was this a stroke in a personal feud between former lovers, or even a retributive raid for the threat to my family and Sevendor.  It was a punitive expedition against the self-declared traitor to the kingdom and the Order.  And by framing it that way, not only were we justified using the lavish amount of volunteer warmagi, we were justified in using whatever means I determined were necessary in dealing with the matter.  Pentandra had worked that angle – as a former steward of the Arcane Orders, and current position as Ducal Court Wizard, her legal perspective was impeccable, should we have to answer for this in front of the Royal Court.

As we gathered in the barn for the assault, I felt a sense of confidence and purpose overtake my doubt and guilt.  These brave men and women were gathered because they had responded to a call in my name, and they had answered without question.  I had to honor that, and in doing so I recovered enough of my own spirit to start leading again.

“The sentries and the guards won’t be a problem,” Lorcus declared, as he spread out a magemap of the castle in the air for us.  “There are six warmagi in residence, at the moment.  Two in the outer tower we should be able to ignore, as long as they are watched – it will take them too long to get to the action, and we can put someone on keeping them there.  The other four live in the Great Hall.  We’ll have to contend with them.”

“We’ll deal with them,” Lanse of Bune said, leaning on his spear.  I was confident in his ability to do so.  Lanse had a reputation for one of the best dioramists in the world, but he had proven a masterful combat mage this summer in Rolone.  With a good team behind him, he’d have the warmagi out of the equation quickly.  As his team would include Tyndal, Rondal, Bendonal and Lorcus, he wouldn’t have any trouble.  That was just the sort of violent action those lads were good at.  They’d left a trail of destruction through southern Alshar that was still being mended.

“I’ll handle the wards and passive protections,” Pentandra said, clutching her baculus like a baby.  “Then I’ll establish my own, to keep them from escaping.” She had gotten very good at such spells, apparently, from her tenure as Alshari Court Wizard.  That had been one of the beneficial effects of her change of position: Penny was doing real magic again, rather than shuffling parchment and sitting in committee meetings.

“Once the wards are down, the minor pieces removed, and the warmagi neutralized, then we’ll be ready for His Spellmongership to process down the aisle of the outer hall with his lady wife, to trumpets and fanfare of triumph, and confront the villains in their lair,” Lorcus said, his eyes gleaming with the drama of the situation.  “At that point, Dara’s squadron will remove the noncombatants from play.”

Dara was responsible for getting the servants and the children out of the castle hall before I went into the refuge tower, where Isily and Dunselen had set up their household.

There were a lot of children, according to Lorcus’ espionage.  Dara’s team was responsible for first securing the unguarded hall in the bailey where the older children were kept, and then removing the younger ones, who were in a nursery chamber off the Great Hall, to the outer hall for safety.  I didn’t want them being used as hostages, nor did I want the innocents to suffer for the crimes of their parents.

I suppose that included me.

Once the Hall was clear of non-combatants, we would proceed to the inner tower.  That’s where the action would be.  That’s where I would have to confront the woman who had caused me, my family, and the realm so much distress.

“From there,” I said, slowly, “the rest of you will be in a support position.  I will enter the tower and seek out Isily.  You will fall in behind and secure the tower, but you are not to engage Isily or Dunselen if you encounter them.  Any other adult you are to consider a foe, and treat them accordingly.  I’d prefer prisoners to corpses, for the record, but I’m not feeling too particular at the moment.”

“Well said,” nodded Lanse.  “This is not the time for weak hearts.  If there is a threat, you eliminate it.”  He looked particularly at Tyndal and Rondal, for some reason.  I guessed there was a story behind that.

“And what about you, Minalan?” asked Pentandra, pointedly.  “Will you be up to the challenge of defeating her without your Witchsphere?”

I hefted Blizzard.  “If our plan goes well, then that shouldn’t be an impediment.”

“The problem is we have no real idea what defenses she’s concocted,” Pentandra fumed.  “That tower is highly resistant to accurate scrying, for some reason.  She’s a clever one, Isily.  And sneaky.  Even back at Alar, before she studied shadowmagic, she always seemed like she was up to something.  You had to watch her.”

“She’s been working with the Alka Alon renegades, so a great many things are possible.  Lady Mask was unable to provide me with details about her defenses, save that she was skeptical of them.  Our best advantage is the fact that she gave birth a few days ago, and is likely still recovering.  It’s my hope that we encounter a near-invalid, in there.”

“What about Dunselen?” asked Alya, concerned. “Wasn’t he one of the first High Magi?”

“Technically,” I snorted.  “He never trained in warmagic.  He’s a bureaucrat and an academic, not a real threat.  But if he feels cornered, he could have some nasty surprises.  I’m sure he’s learned a few things since he started hiring warmagi.  And married a Shadowmage.  So be wary.”

As if on cue, the temple bell in the village tolled thrice, as the monk began his morning prayers.

“That’s our signal,” I sighed.  “Everyone get to your places.  I hereby declare Baroness Isily and Baron Dunselen in violation of their oaths to me upon accepting their witchstones.  I will be taking them back.  Do you all pledge to aid me in this task with your lives, as you agreed by oath to me, until judgment is rendered and justice done?”

“Aye!”  “Yes!” they all assented.

Including Alya.  I had tried to dissuade her from being there, but she had insisted . . . and I did not have the moral ground to resist.  By the time she was present, all of the fighting should be over.  I could not deprive her of the opportunity to speak directly to the source of her disquiet.

“Then let’s begin.  And thank you all for your assistance.  It shall not be forgotten.”

*

*

“Their defenses are down,” Pentandra said, after everyone was in position.  “Mask was right.  They were laughable.  I have my own in place, now.  No one will leave the bailey without my notice.  They’re ready to deal with the sentries and guards, now.”  That was Lorcus’ job.  He had some kind of wide-area soporific spell that would knock out the men who walked the walls at dawn, and who guarded the gatehouse.  Bendonal and Tyndal would take care of any that escaped its effects.

“This is kind of exciting,” Alya confided to me, shivering a bit, as she watched the magemaps and studied the representation Lance had left behind for us.

“It’s more exciting out there,” I agreed.  “I’m glad you’re not in danger.  I won’t let anything happen to you,” I promised.

“I’m here of my own volition, as Baroness of Sevendor,” she reminded me.  “Not to mention the wife of a wronged husband.  I’m willing to let the experts deal with her defenses.  But I have a right to confront her.  I am exercising it,” she said, her tone deadly serious.  “I intend to show her how a Minden’s wife takes a predatory hussy out to the Luck Tree,” she said, her voice dripping with venom.

Luckily the battle interrupted before I was forced to comment.  “The sentries are down,” Pentandra reported.  “Rondal reports the gatehouse is secure.  The first and second squads are heading for their targets.”

For Lorcus’ team, that meant securing the great doors to the hall, which would be opened to facilitate the change of shift at dawn. The second team reported to me, to keep there from being any communication entanglements.  Pentandra explained that she used her apprentice for such secondary duties in Vorone. She was coordinating the effort from here in the stable, and was doing an expert job.  She’d been practicing on the Vorone underworld.

Master, we’ve secured the outer hall, Dara reported, less than ten minutes later.  There are over a dozen kids here, and three very scared nurses.  No guards.

Keep your position until the Great Hall is secured, I ordered.

“Dara has captured the outer hall,” I told Pentandra.  She nodded absently.

“Lorcus’ squadron is engaging the warmagi,” she reported, while her eyes were still closed in communication.  “Sir Festaran’s squadron is on watch of the outer tower.”  The mage-knight’s duty was to keep them there.  He had a few of our hired warmagi to help.  If they got into trouble then they could be supported, but their job was simply to keep Dunselen’s reinforcements from engaging.

This was a risky part.  Four High warmagi against four un-augmented warmagi.

Only they weren’t un-augmented.  “Rondal reports the warmagi have witchstones!” Pentandra said, her voice tense.  “Things are getting rough in there.”

“Do they need assistance?” I asked, clasping Blizzard to me.

“They have things in hand . . . bide . . .” she said, her eyes still closed.  Time dragged interminably.  I imagined all sorts of spectacular scenarios.  I was tempted to scry the site myself, to witness what was happening, but I resisted.  One of the difficult things to learn about command is trusting your people to do what they are supposed to.  My job wasn’t to watch, it was to wait.

Finally Pentandra’s eyes opened.  “They have secured the hall.  Rondal is hurt, but not seriously.  Tell Dara to move to the Great Hall and start escorting the non-combatants out.”

I did just that.  And then I waited again.  It seemed to take forever.  Alya held my hand tightly, and gave me some reassuring words.  That helped.

Master, the last of the non-combatants are out.  We took nine babies from the nursery!  Everyone is out in the outer hall, now.

Get back there and keep watch over them, I ordered.  We’ll take it from here.

Good luck, Master!  May the Flame guide your path!

“Dara’s got them clear.  Time to go.”

Pentandra looked up from her spells.  “Be careful, Minalan.  She’s deceptive.”  Then she looked at Alya and gave her a meaningful expression.  “Make her pay,” she said, with especial venom.

Alya simply nodded, sighed, squeezed my hand, and pulled her dark green mantel over her shoulders.

The sun had yet to break over the horizon, and dark storm clouds contended with the nearly-full gibbous moon for domination of the morning sky.  There was a heaviness in the atmosphere that suited my mood, one of expectancy and anxiety.  We walked past the empty gatehouse, the guards slumped over their crossbows, and across the outer bailey.  Dara was standing at the door of the small hall that was now overflowing with children.  She waved at me, Frightful on her shoulder, Talon drawn in her other hand.

Alya waved back, gratefully.  “You really have done a magnificent job bringing together talented people, Minalan.  They’re devoted, they’re powerful, and you’ve kept them motivated.”

“It’s just survival,” I dismissed.  “I need them.  I’ll keep bribing them to keep them around, if I have to, but this escapade proves just how important they are.”

We walked through the devastated remains of the Great Hall, where Lanse and Lorcus were keeping guard while Tyndal tended to Rondal’s shoulder.  There were three bodies – two unconscious, one dead – in a space between upturned trestles.  The hall itself was smoldering in several places, the banners and tapestries had been blasted by magic, and the smell of ozone and Sulphur filled the air.

“Welcome to Castle Salaisus, Baron,” Lorcus said, formally.  “They gave us more fight that we expected.  We gave them more fight than they were prepared for.”  He held out his gauntleted hand and revealed four smooth witchstones.  One was charred and black.  “With the compliments of the Baron of Greenflower.”

“What happened to the fourth mage?” Alya asked.

“He rushed me,” Lanse of Bune said.  “He was in the process of attacking Rondal, and I had to incinerate him.  Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Fortunes of war,” I shrugged.  “What about the stones?”

“Alka Alon,” Rondal supplied, as Tyndal picked scraps of leather out of an open wound on his right shoulder.  “No songspells within, upon cursory—OUCH! Damn it!  Cursory examination, but they’re clearly Alkan stones.”

“Enshadowed,” Tyndal agreed, without looking up.  He had a magelight over his head, bathing the nasty wound in light.  “They also had some artifacts that were clearly gifts from the Alka Alon.  Which is why I’m cleansing One-Shot, here, instead of investigating Dunselen’s wine cellar.  It sliced right through his defenses.  Which were not inconsiderable,” he admitted.

“Did you consider an analgesic spell?” Alya asked.

“I don’t want to be out if there’s a fight,” Rondal explained, wincing.  “Or unable to flee if things go poorly.  It looks bad, but it’s mostly cosmetic.  It hit the muscle, didn’t even get down to the bone.”

“It hit a lot of muscle,” Tyndal said, with concern, as he irrigated the wound with field spirits from a flask.  Rondal stifled a howl.

“The way into the keep is clear, Excellency,” Bendonal said, loudly, over the screams.  “The door is locked and bolted from within, but Pentandra has dismantled the defenses from afar.  You may proceed at your leisure.”

“Do you have the documents ready?” I asked, Alya.  She tugged on the leather satchel over her shoulder.

“Everything you need to legally require them to give up their stones,” she said.  “I still don’t see the point of all the parchment, Min.”

“My dabbling in feudal politics has shown me how important such things are,” I explained.  “This is the first time I’m recalling someone’s stone.  It establishes precedent.  It makes policy by default.  How I do this matters.  Which is why copies of all of those will be filed with the Kingdom’s archives at Wilderhall tomorrow morning.  That’s going to confound Lady Arnet, as she has no place or files to put them, but that’s her problem.  I want it noted when I take a stone, and I want it established outside the Arcane Orders, so that there can be no misunderstandings.”

“I still think that reveals too much about our business to outsiders,” Bendonal commented.  “I agree with the Baroness.  I don’t see the point.”

“By informing the Kingdom, officially, of action taken on behalf of the Order,” Lorcus said, authoritatively.  “Minalan is establishing the legal right of the Order to take disciplinary and even punitive action in redress of a violation of the oath of a High Mage.  Without their consent or even knowledge,” he added, smugly.  “That might not seem like a big thing, now, but according to my pet lawbrother . . . and a couple of pretty young lexits who were kind enough to share their opinions, among other things, with the conquering lord of the domain . . . this essentially establishes the premise for a separate method of accountability among magi, as exists for the clergy.  The implications of the move won’t be felt for years, perhaps, but this precedent provides the foundation to extend further rights of action, independent of the Crown.”

“It’s about power,” I sighed, gloomily.  “This is how you build it.  One bureaucratic step at a time.  I’m defining the domain of our future use by taking this very clear-cut opportunity to act.  The crown can’t very well object to this, because the cause of action is provably treasonous.  By accepting our action, in accepting these documents, they also accept the legal premise for our action.”

“I think I understand,” Alya agreed.  “It’s just boring as six hells, and reminds me too much of town council meetings,” she admitted.

“It’s important,” Rondal agreed, as Tyndal slipped a mantle gingerly over his wounded shoulder.  “As is this: Minalan, before you approach that keep, I’d suggest you scry it with your baculus, before you assault it with your warstaff.  He’s done something there.  It’s transformed the place.  Like the snowstone effect, but far less in both volume and transformation effect.  But it has been transformed,” he warned.

“So were two of the warmagi we faced,” Bendonal agreed.  “Blue eyes, blue teeth.  Their hair was messed up.  Spooky.”

“Thanks for the warning,” I nodded, and summoned my baculus.

As I approached the great door to the refuge I allowed the curious paraclete within to turn its attention on the stone.  It reported back, eagerly, that the calcium had, indeed, been affected within the stone, though the exact nature of the effect was unclear.  Visually, the limestone of the walls, extending four or five feet within the Great Hall, had subtly changed.  It had a more bluish tint than the grayer stone farther down the hall.  But it was still a long way from snowstone.

“Ishi’s tits!” I exclaimed, despite myself.  “The old coot figured out part of the spell!”

“You think?” Lorcus asked, interested.  “Maybe he wasn’t as mad as I thought.”

“You are hardly the best judge of such things,” Lanse said, shaking his head.  “Whatever it is, it doesn’t have any effect on arcane resistance.  It’s decidedly not snowstone.”

“We can figure out what it does, later,” Alya said, impatiently.  “Are we going to storm this tower, or not?  I’m pregnant and I haven’t eaten yet today.  I suggest we proceed before that becomes a factor in our battle plan.”

“You have no objections, Ron?” I asked.

“I just wanted you to be aware,” he said, shrugging painfully.  “I don’t think it’s volatile, whatever it does. And I’m ready.”

“Let’s hope not.  And since you’re wounded, you get to be Alya’s escort.  You come in behind us, and only when we’ve summoned you.”

“Understood,” he nodded, drawing his short mageblade.

“The rest of you, follow close, once we’re beyond the door.  Be ready to spread out and take action.”

“I’m all a-tingle,” Lorcus smiled, drawing his own blade.

I approached the great oaken doors again and considered how best to proceed.  I settled on taking Blizzard and grounding the butt under the heel of my boot before tilting the head of the staff toward the door.  I uttered the mnemonic and a powerful wave of concussive force smashed into the center of the door in a space less wide than my fist. There was a loud boom the cracking of the wood’s fibers.  But it still didn’t give.

It gave on the third try.  I had a lot of patience for such things.  And no matter the stoutness of the door, few could sustain the power of a magical battering ram indefinitely.  Not when the arcane defenses were down.

When the massive doors finally burst inward with a roar and a cloud of dust, no defenders leapt out at us.  Lanse cleared the air of dust with a wave of his hand before stepping through the ruins, his spear ready.  Tyndal followed next, then Lorcus, before I went.

Magesight revealed an eerie glow from the stone of the walls and floors.  I felt a shift in something fundamental as we crossed the threshold and were in the embrace of the effect.  It presented a more pronounced mental sensation than being proximate to snowstone, the stupidly analytical part of my mind observed, as we continued to advance into an enemy wizard’s keep.

We came to the lowest chamber, unguarded and unlocked.  Lanse opened the door and led, while Tyndal added a bright magelight to illuminate the interior clearly.

What we saw was better left to the gloom.

The chamber had been given over wholly to the work of arcane research but it was far shabbier than our mirabiliaries.  Shelves and baskets contained scroll after scroll, and cabinets of books and folios crowded the exterior walls.  I recognized volumes both obscure and common, and was suddenly envious at the meticulous nature of his collection.

But the rest was a mess.  The long trestle tables set up at the center of the chamber were littered with the residue of prolonged and obsessed academic inquiry.  Discarded cups and dishes of half-eaten food contended with references and tomes of great lore.  Inkpots and quills littered the table with discarded notes on undersized scraps of parchment.  A pall of decay and neglect hung in the air of the chamber.

At the center of it, we found Dunselen.  He was seated in a battered old chair with a dusty old canopy over it, likely an undead relic of some past lord of the castle.  He looked far from regal, or even noble, however.  He wore a long black robe of threadbare cotton and a filthy woolen smock under a ratty old gray hooded cloak.  He wore no shoes, and he had not bathed in months, from the reek.

Lorcus stepped in front of him, twirling his mantle in a dramatic flair as he sheathed his blade and pronounced sentence.    “Master Dunselen, Baron of Greenflower, Head of the Order of Tarkarine, member of the College of High Magi, and member general of the Arcane Orders of the Kingdom of Castalshar, you are hereby stripped of your professional titles and offices and required to surrender your irionite to Baron Minalan the Spellmonger as you pledged to do in solemn oath!” he demanded in a loud, clear voice.  Lorcus had agreed to act as our herald for this occasion, so I designated him Constable of the Order for the duration.

“I . . . I don’t have it,” the old man said, deeply confused.  His face was deeply lined and his eyes were haunted and evasive, in the shadow of his dark cowl.  “She took it.  She took everything,” he said in a whisper.

“Who?  Isily?” I demanded.  He nodded, and then recognized me.

“Oh, good!  Master Minalan!  I was hoping you’d pay a call and review my work,” he said, suddenly fumbling around on the table.  “I did try so hard to replicate your results, but, alas, met with only partial success.  I think the key is the timing,” he said, focusing intently on the subject for a moment.

“What are you talking about?” I demanded, Blizzard ready to strike if he got violent.  He was certainly acting erratically.

“It has to be timing,” he said, combing his wrinkled fingers through his greasy white hair under his cowl, while he gestured to the collection of hourglasses and water clocks on the far table.  There seemed to be something wrong with both his dirty nails and his hair, but I couldn’t see it clearly under his hood.  “But not like I suspected – local time matters, but far more than I’d thought, and not at all as I originally suspected.  Of course, you could only draw that kind of conclusion with several successive runs, but in doing so I think I’ve established the secret.”

“What secret?” Tyndal asked, curiously.  His blade never wavered from the direction of the mage’s throat.

“Its sidereal time!” he said, his eyes blazing as his cowl fell to his shoulders.  Their whites, I saw, were a bright blue.  So were his teeth.  His hair was streaked with it, I saw “I’m certain of it!  The effect has some component that is acted upon by some agent or agency that arises at a particular time . . . but it shifts sidereally!  I’m certain we can figure out the answer together, and avoid the . . . unfortunate effects of our last trial.  I was so hoping that your progeny would be the key to withstanding the effects, and the last subject proved far more vital, but we never got more than thirty yards’ distance.   And the effect was nothing like yours, unfortunately . . . though it was just as pervasive.”

“What did it do?” I asked, morbidly curious.  As I got closer I noted just how intense the blue coloration of his teeth and the whites of his eyes were.  And how haunted his eyes looked.

“You don’t know?  You don’t feel it?” he asked, looking up at nothing that I could see.  His visage was haunted by terrors and fears we could not see.

“He’s mad!” Lorcus muttered.

“But not uncommunicative,” Tyndal shot back.  “What does the blue stone do, Master Dunselen?” he asked in a somewhat obsequious tone.

“It bridges the space between our world and the Otherworld,” the old scholar explained.  “This place exists simultaneously in both places.  The thaumaturgical field influences events both ways.  What happens in its presence can affect both worlds.  Of course, I’m still investigating the secondary and tertiary effects on various crystalline samples, but . . .”

“That . . . is truly frightening,” Lorcus admitted after a pause to reflect on the idea.  “Do you realize—?”

“Yes!” the old wizard shouted bitterly.  “How could I not?  I was there!  I was affected!  Now I see the Otherworld every day, every moment, awake and asleep!  I hear the voices of the dead!  I have striven with my sires back three generations, all hounding me for my failures!  I see the nightmares of my servants manifested in these halls . . . and my own have turned every night of slumber hellish!  There are things out there that you do not know about,” he warned, manically.  “Evil things, of great age and power . . .  very bad things,” he said, as he settled into his chair.

“Secure him,” I ordered.  “He appears to be no threat.  I imagine that Isily used psychomantics on him liberally.  His work was his only solace, no doubt, and the last place where he was useful.  “Where is she now?”

“The Baroness of Greenflower is in her garden, on the roof,” Dunselen said, his eyes cutting to me suddenly.  “Awaiting her lover, Minalan.  I was assured that her pursuit of you was purely in the interest of academics, but I’m starting to suspect that my lady wife has developed feelings for her subject,” he said, sadly, as Tyndal tied him to his battered throne.

“The husband is always the last to know,” Lorcus quipped, shaking his head.  “We’re in the Otherworld right now, Min?  That’s scary as hell!”

“Then let’s finish this and leave,” I proposed.  “I don’t want a tour.  But I do want these records secured and transferred to Sevendor.  We can see what they were working on, if nothing else.”

I led Tyndal and Lorcus upstairs while Lanse and Bendonal watched the lower chamber.  The upper, by contrast, was neatly kept and well-appointed.  Paintings and rich tapestries decorated the walls, mostly with scenes of Trygg and Briga and other goddesses in childbearing and rearing roles.  But then there was a dark tapestry depicting the symbolic representation of the god of night that was just plain creepy, by context.

The bedchamber was empty, but had seen a lot of use.  While it was well-kept, it had a strong air of medicinal herbs still lingering about it.  A bassinet near to the bed proved to have a baby in it.  My son.

He wasn’t alone.  A little girl with dark hair was cowered behind a wardrobe in one part of the chamber.  She was only about four years old, and looked terrified.  I realized as her eyes stared at mine where I’d seen them before – on my son, Minalan.

This was my daughter.  Ismina.

“Hello, Pumpkin,” I said, in my best paternal voice.  “You need to go downstairs, now, with your baby brother.”

She looked up at me, clearly frightened, and solemnly nodded.

I sighed and closed my eyes.  Rondal, we’ve secured up to the second chamber.  Bring Alya in, but slowly.  Dunselen isn’t a factor and has been captured.  Isily is on the roof.  There are two non-combatants, including a newborn, in this chamber.  When you come forward, get them both out as quickly as you can.  Take them back to the outer hall, understood?

As you wish, Master, Rondal replied dutifully.

“Min, she’s been doing stuff,” Lorcus said, accusingly, as he searched the chamber.  “Look at this!”

It was a board laminated with weirwood.  There were several different types of magical stones on it. Snowstone, various corals, crystals, and other stones. Some were tinted light blue.  Some I didn’t recognize, but others I did.  There were other places where stones had been until recently.

“That’s some powerful enchantment,” Lanse noted.  “She’s upstairs?  She’s got some power with her,” he warned.  He studied the board again, and looked up even more concerned.  “A lot of power, Min!”

“We suspected as much.  Let’s set up our countermeasure.”

I closed my eyes and reached out to Dranus who was still in Sevendor with the rest of my non-combatant magical corps.

All right, Dranus.  We’re ready to begin.  We’ve taken the tower, everything save Isily.  But she’s got some strong defenses based on what we’ve found here.  Be prepared to send as much as you can.

Understood, Excellency.  Good luck, Minalan, he added.

I held Blizzard between my gauntleted hands and waited for the connection to get established through its auspices.  Back in Sevendor, my reserve team was positioning half of a sympathy stone, the first half of which was in my warstaff.

In a few moments, a tiny snowflake appeared in the air in front of me, brilliant in spectacle, twinkling like a star as it grew and transformed.

I contacted Dranus again.  I have it, I reported.  Just like in the test.  I do hope this works.

As do I, Excellency, he agreed.  We’ll start adding power to it immediately.  Draw what you require.

I took a deep breath and exhaled as the snowflake in front of me grew four inches while I watched.  That should be sufficient for my purposes, I figured.

It was time to face my ex.

*

*

The tower top was cleared of most of the gear of war one expects in anticipation of a siege.  Instead the wide expanse of timbered floor was barren, save for a plinth of stone that was set there.  Isily was standing behind it.

She didn’t look well.

She was livelier than her husband, I’d give her that.  She was standing defiantly behind her plinth, an array of arcane equipment in front of her.  Her dark hair was streaked with white and greasy.  Her eyes and teeth had the same bluish coloration that Dunselen’s had, only darker and more pronounced.  Her nails, too, had adopted some bluish tint.  Her face was long and worn, as if she had been through a great hardship, but she’d tied her hair back with a diadem that lent her a certain horrid majesty as it flickered with moonlight and magelight.

“I was wondering when you would come see me, my love,” she said, smiling madly.  “I can only guess by the staff in your hand and your panoply that you discovered my little deception sooner than I had planned,” she said, as if she’d fibbed about her age, not attempted to compel my will.

“Isily, I’m here to demand your stone,” I said, bringing the snowflake up to shoulder height.  “I call you in violation of your oath to me.”

“You want my witchstone?” she laughed, with hoarse derision.  “Which one? I have a collection, now,” she said, revealing her spell.  It was a platform of weirwood, as the one below, only more richly decorate and more purposefully enchanted.

Upon it were five shards of irionite, glowing and pulsing as one and glinting off of her diadem.  In their center was a small yellowish sphere – a covenstone.  I had a larger one that was being used in the Denehole, back home.  They allowed the gathering of multiple streams of magical force into one usable channel.  There were other elements to the board, gems and crystals and corals, but the irionite was what captured my attention.

Isily had more raw power than I’d had when I’d held the witchsphere.

She knew how to use it, too.  With a wave of her hand over the construct she was enveloped in dark violet fields of force centering on her and extending out into the air around her.  Together they resembled the petals of a flower of fell shape with herself as the sinister stamen.

“When I married that dolt I inherited a lot of things, but among the best was the name of his house.  It so well describes my vision of the world.  A dark green flower to cover the world, beneficial to all.  A world led by a dynasty of magi who would end the petty bickering of the nobility and senseless politics of the moment.  Is that not a dream worth fighting for, Minalan?”

The petals shimmered around her as tendrils of force began to emit from the center and snake toward me.

“Not worth killing my family over,” I observed, coldly.

“That was not my doing!” she insisted.  “Mask went against my orders, and against my wishes.  I could never harm your children, Minalan.  Each one is truly precious to me.”

“What about me?” Alya’s voice asked, from behind me – and my blood went cold.

She was supposed to be downstairs, safe.  Rondal, Tyndal, Lorcus Bendonal and Lanse filed up behind her.  I realized that none of them were able to withstand her direct order if she should chance to use Blue Magic.  But Alya ignored her peril and closed with the sorceress, angrily.  “It was my life that was threatened, and my husband you seduced.  You must answer to me, for that!  If that means I have to give you hamsoken and beat you in your own home, so be it!”

“Go away, little peasant girl!” sneered Isily, flinging a tendril of force at my wife.  “You are unworthy of the man the gods have given you.  Your wishes mean nothing, compared to the fate of humanity.  Don’t you see that he is destined to be Archmage, someday?  And that you are not the woman worthy to be his consort?”

“Isily, surrender now, and we’ll discuss this!’ I said, as calmly as I could manage.  “But this is your last chance.  I will take your power from you!”

“But not my life – for I am your children’s mother!” she laughed.  “Minalan, you are powerful, but you are a fool!  Do you not realize that you are attacking me in my keep?  And that my keep is no longer entirely of this world?  Already dark spirits of the Otherworld come to my summons, to do my bidding!  They have real power here in our castle of bluestone!”

As if to answer her summons, dark shadows began to coalesce in the boundaries of the tower top.  Lines of magical power spread out from her dark flower and fed them, and they grew.

“This is your last warning,” I said.  “Isily of Greenflower, surrender your stones or face the consequences!”

“Come and take them, darling!” she invited, wickedly.  I could feel Alya rage at the familiarity.  But I didn’t have time to react.  Suddenly those dark shapes were coming toward us, and Isily was lobbing globes of magical burning fire with both hands.

“I thought you said she’d be weak, this soon after birth?” Tyndal demanded, as he used his blade to stop a ball of fire.

“She’s a strong woman,” Lorcus called, as he fired a powerful bolt of energy at the green flower.  The dark petals of eldritch power absorbed it without effect.  “This could be going better,” he muttered changing his tactics.  He looked meaningfully at me, and I realized that I was standing there, not doing much in particular.

So I began really using the Snowflake for the first time.  The projection of its power through Blizzard was tenuous, at this point, but Dranus and his team were pouring energy into it.  My own covenstone was sitting in front of the thing as nearly a dozen magi donated their collective power to the effort.

Even though we had made hundreds, if not thousands of arcane connections between the paraclete and the arcane architecture of the Snowflake, the enneagrammatic pattern within had not “awakened” yet.  But it did respond to power.  The more we gave it, the more effective it became in projecting that power back.

It was a little like fighting someone by standing behind a man who’s passed-out drunk and using their lifeless arms to flail about.  Arcanely speaking, that’s what I was doing with the Snowflake.

Isily was shrugging off the blasts of simple destructive power that my lads were dispensing so liberally, and every opportunity for one of them to close with the sorceress saw them pushed back or knocked back.  That didn’t tend to stop them, but it was slowing them down a lot.

I decided it was time to give her everything the snowflake could produce.  As more balls of fire and dark tendrils probed across the moonlit and magelit roof, I answered by summoning a powerful blast of electricity in her direction through the artifact.  The result was more spectacular than I anticipated, and Isily’s defenses were challenged for the first time.

She could be hurt.  That was hopeful.

I pressed forward, producing sparkling balls of whirling force and bolts of energy, spells to weaken her resolve and spells to weaken the floor under her feet.  I was using whatever tools I could matching them with the arcane potentials of the Snowflake.

The green flower that covered the blue woman was starting to wilt.  Isily could feel it, I saw, and redoubled her efforts.  At first she fired bolt after bolt of punishing force at me, but the snowflake intervened of its own accord.  Frustrated, she began hammering away at my defenses, to no avail.

So the wily bitch turned her attention to my companions.  She picked up Lanse and smashed him against the merlons at the edge of the tower, knocking him out.  Rondal she blasted back and nearly off the edge before he was able to defend against it.  Tyndal she intercepted as he made a gallant charge, and sent whirling across the floor.  Even Lorcus, when he tried to stand his ground, ended up collapsing in a heap.

I fought every new attack with a counter, but she seemed adept at absorbing the damage I was inflicting.  Whatever had happened to her, she had toughened herself and her spellwork.  The more I blasted away at her or tried some insidious attack she wasn’t looking for, she seemed able to intercept it.

It was getting frustrating.  And I was out of warmagi.

When it was down to just the two of us, I pressed her with every bit of force I could.  Nothing seemed to work.  Her magical shroud was protecting her.  As one spell after another failed to bring down her defenses or do her real damage, she started grinning, maniacally.

“See how worthy I am of you, Minalan?” she called, through the noise of the spellwork.  “See how powerful we could be together?  A dynasty of Archmagi superior to all the ages before!”

“I’m married, thanks!” I snarled as I threw another round of force at her.

“That can be cured,” she said, reaching out past me with a magical tendril.  I reacted quickly and sliced it with the staff.  Another joined it, then another.  Despite my best efforts some got through . . . and Alya went flying toward Isily.

I desperately tried to stop her, and sent all manner of attempts to counter the spell, but nothing penetrated her shroud.  Alya didn’t even squeal as she was dragged within the sphere of the mad sorceress.

“Stop!” I commanded her.  I eschewed magic, now, and merely pushed forward.  She had Alya.

“Minalan, don’t!” she shrieked, as she flailed within the magical bonds.

“She’s pretty,” conceded Isily as her dark flower battered against my defenses and held me to a standstill.  “Or was when she was young.  Of course, magic and childbirth hasn’t exactly been as kind to me either . . . but I think you’ll find the blue becoming, in the end, Minalan my love,” she called to me.

“He . . . is not . . . your love!” Alya said, angrily, as she struggled against her magical leash.  “He’s mine!”

“You will not be around to lay that claim, my lady,” Isily said, wickedly, and with false sympathy.

“The hells I won’t!” Alya said, her eyes filled with rage.  “You dragged me . . . right where I wanted to be!”

I watched in horror as Alya suddenly raised her hidden dagger and plunged it toward Isily’s breast.  The sorceress laughed as the blade turned brittle and pitted with rust and melted away into ochre dust.

“Did you think I wouldn’t be prepared for a knife between my shoulder blades?” she taunted.  “Slaying you will be a pleasure!” she said, as Alya stared in shock at the hilt of her dagger.

“Now, before you are a widower, do you have any final words for your first wife?”

“I love you Minalan!” Alya called to me as the wind picked up.  The storm was approaching, driving the light of the dawn away behind a front of dark clouds, and blowing Alya’s hair wildly across her face.

But before I could respond to her with more than a horrified expression . . . she brought the pommel of her broken dagger down on one of the witchstones in her magical lacis.

The last thing I saw before the blinding wave of arcane trauma that resulted from her crushing the witchstone, pulling me into my own personal darkness, was Isily’s ghastly blue eyes, full of hate and shock.

And then Alya’s eyes, beseeching mine.

Full of love.

Epilogue

The carriage halted inside of the abbey gates, and I slowly emerged into the early autumn sunshine.  I looked around at the stately buildings, the solemn temple, the scroll-and-staff of Luin’s clergy, and I could feel the sublime nature of the place around me.  Here was where Law was accounted as holy as War, in Duin’s precincts, or Grain in Huin’s.  Or stolen kisses in Ishi’s cult.

I’d heard about Stapledor since I’d come to the Bontal Vales.  As the largest ecclesiastic estate in the county, it was a secular power of some note.  But like magic in Sevendor, Stapledor’s industry was law.

When the Bontal Valley was originally settled from the river outwards, the early settlements in Sendaria soon expanded to the even more fertile lands to the south.  As the grand valley between Sendaria and the Uwarri foothills was settled, one of the early Lensely counts gifted one of his less-profitable but centrally-located domains to a group of nine lawbrothers from Wenshar with instructions to build an abbey on the long hilltop there.

In two generations the thriving monastic community was training the younger sons of nobles and the more intelligent commoners in the holy rites of Luin, the Sun God.  The simple abbey expanded into a large temple, dormitories, library, scriptorium, and all the other institutional requirements for a lexit, as they styled their acolytes, to become a Lawbrother.

Support of the temple by its members (the Luinites are one of the wealthier temples) allowed it to thrive independently of the agricultural lands around it.  Stapledor’s Lawfather evolved into one of the most important clerical positions in the county.  While his monks tried cases and defended their clients, the Lawfather of Stapledor did his best to peacefully settle disputes between the claimants far-flung Lensely dynasty.

It has been suggested by some historians that the recourse of the folk of the Bontal to such an abundance of legal advice was, perhaps, one of the factors involved in the bloody Lensely succession dispute.  There can be no doubt that the marks of Stapledor are all over it – the abbey supplied counselors to both sides, at the time.

Eventually, the constituent lords of one of the nascent baronies overthrew the puppet baron Sendaria tried to force on the lands, and rose in rebellion.  Sendaria was far too weak at the time to take action when the seven wealthiest castellans and tenant lords banded together under the auspices of the Lord of Sashtalia to form the Sashtali Confederation, and proceeded to bully their neighbors into joining.  The Lensely lords who objected to the move were often conquered and forced to give up their lands, or forced into taking holy orders.  For two generations the abbey was stocked with former Lensely lords that the lords of Sashtalia felt were safer with scrolls in their hands than swords.

I’m sure it seemed like a good idea at the time . . . but the result was Sashtalia creating a hotbed of pro-Lensely and anti-Sashtali foment in a place that he was, legally, unable to bully.  The lawbrothers of Stapledor had become more and more anti-Sashtali over the generations, and the monks that they produced for the lords of Sashtalia were not necessarily without political positions.

All of that was in the past, now.  The Sashtali Confederation was no more.

That was why I was here, actually, to transfer the deed and execute the agreement I had with Arathanial.  After his Sashtali foes took a beating at a few battles, and when Trefalan’s reinforcements from the eastern domains were delayed because they couldn’t take the short-cut through Lorcus-controlled Rolone, the Sashtali retreated to their big fortress in their home territory.

Though Arathanial was prepared for a siege, when they holed up in Sashtal Castle, it proved unnecessary.  Sire Cei used his big warhammer and magical Talent to destroy the portcullis and great doors to the keep.  After only three days of fighting, Sire Trefalan’s men, discouraged, demoralized, and frightened, agreed to hand over their liege to Arathanial in exchange for lenient terms.

The war was over by Huin’s Day, Sendaria victorious.

That was, historically speaking, a very big thing.  The Lenselys had ruled these vales for a century before their power crumbled.  Arathanial was the last landed baron of that house left.  While promoting a cadet barony within his lands might have seemed like a poor economic move, he had high hopes for the future of the Bontal Vales.  Arathanial had aspirations of his descendants retaking control of parts of Bocaraton, Miseldor, and Fleria that had once been Lensely lands.

Of course, that also included modern Sevendor.  That was unlikely.

The gray-robed lawbrothers escorted me into a starkly serene chamber that was often used for such meetings of high importance. A simple table with the staff-and-scroll sigil of the order inlaid upon it in gold was surrounded by austere but surprisingly comfortable chairs.  I was greeted by a senior Lawbrother with practiced deference, offered wine, and invited to take my seat.

Arathanial and his chief advisor, his illegitimate half-brother, Lawbrother Hamaras the Clever, arrived within the hour.  The baron looked tired and worn, but proud and satisfied with his conquest.  He also looked a few years older than he had at Chepstan.  War will do that to a commander, even a war that had gone as well as his.

“Baron Minalan!” he exclaimed, expansively.  “So glad you could attend to this personally!  I was afraid that you would be indisposed, in light of the news . . .”

“I am quite prepared to see this through,” I assured him.  “I had my new lawbrother, Irthine, deal with the details.  A cunning monk – I’ve claimed him as part of my tribute from my vassal,” I chuckled.  “He was hardly appreciated as a secretary in Rolone.”

“In truth, you need a lawbrother in your court as much as we needed a Court Wizard,” the baron agreed.  “Any knight can rule a single domain with his sword and the strength of his honor.  But a barony requires the kind of guile only a lawbrother can manage.  So, are we ready to execute this agreement?” he asked, rubbing his hands together excitedly.

I produced the documents from a hoxter pocket because I’m too lazy to carry a proper satchel.  “I believe we are,” I nodded.  “This instrument conveys the majority of Rolone domain to you, saving two small estates in the south which will be incorporated into Amel Wood.  Both have towers on them, built by the Sashtali to keep the hill lords under control.  I do not think they will be needed for that, anymore.”

“Two towers?” the lawbrother said, concerned.  “That seems like a mighty compensation.  To have two fortresses in foreign hands so close to the heartland of the domain . . .”

“Granite Tower will become the abode of Lord Lorcus,” I informed them.  “I think he’s worked out any aspirations of conquest, after his Rolone experience.  He’s chosen as his vassal for the Barnor Tower to be Lanse of Bune, a warmage and brilliant dioramist.  Not the kind of man who makes raids against his neighbors for fun.  He’s too busy playing with dolls.  Professionally,” I assured them.

“Well, I see no issue with having two such neighbors – that Lorcus fellow is quite daft, but hardly unfriendly.”

“Keep him drunk and supplied with apples and entertainment, and he’s content,” I nodded with a smile.  “Neither one will start any trouble.  As they are both my vassals, you can depend on me to oversee them.  Next,” I said, bringing forth the next instrument, “this conveys overlordship of the domains of Kest and Bulmont to Sevendor,” I continued.  “And this one conveys custodianship of the Abbey of Trygg to Sevendor, directly.”  While I wouldn’t be needing their services personally myself, now, it was still important for the people of my barony to have them.

“All of these seem to be in order,” Hamaras said, suspiciously.  “Though it does seem as if you are losing significant value in this transaction, Excellency,” he said, looking up at me sharply.  “Even combined, Bulmont, Kest and the abbey represent only a fraction of the revenues from Rolone.”  Obviously he suspected me of chicanery – which is exactly what a good Lawbrother is supposed to do.

“Lorcus paid me handsomely out of the captured pay chest,” I shrugged.  “He still had plenty to rebuild the village of Amel Wood properly, outfit his new keep, and give me a generous tribute.  I’m content to surrender any additional value to Sendaria, in return for future, unnamed considerations.”  That was the legal way to say “you owe me a favor” according to Brother Irthine.

“Understood,” Arathanial nodded.  “Here is the Agreement of Transference, as we discussed.”

It took only a few moments for everyone to sign and seal the instruments.  The monks took the parchments and scurried off to their scriptorium, where several copies would be made for everyone’s records.

“The new barony will be known as Taravanal,” he told me, beaming.  “The seat will still be at Sashtalia, of course, but it will be a much-reduced entity.  Sendaria will be taking back most of the border domains directly.  And we will be adding the remainder of the West Flerian domains to it.  Now if I could just get Sire Sigalan to committing to taking our colors, I’d really have something to boast of!”

“You have plenty to boast of,” I chuckled.  “Nor do I think you will be able to convince Sigalan to join you.  He regards Sendaria as a friendly state, but he does not desire to bend his knee to a Lensely baron.”

“He will, in time,” the lawbrother assured me, a little heavily.  “When the new barony is organized and my lord’s son is invested, then we will turn our attention to Sigalan.”

I was afraid of that.  The Lenselys are good nobles, usually, but they do let their ambitions and pursuit of legacy keep them from seeing to reason.  I was hoping to avoid revealing this until later, but it looked as if they would leave me no choice.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to discourage that,” I sighed.  “Sire Sigalan is firm in his desire not to become a vassal of either Lensely barony.”

“He can be persuaded,” Arathanial murmured.  “It may take time, but eventually he will take the colors of one of the two baronies.  I like the man, but he stands on Lensely ground,” the baron said, gruffly.

“He stands on Trestendori ground,” I disagreed.  “As I like the man, and he has been both a trusted friend and an honest business partner, I feel compelled to defend him.”

Arathanial eyed me.  “Trestendor will swear to one of the two baronies,” he stated, challengingly.

“Not if he’s already sworn to Sevendor,” I revealed.  There was a mutual gasp from the two old men across the table.

“When did this happen?” demanded the lawbrother.

“A week before you start to get bellicose with my ally,” I countered.  “We have all the proper parchments prepared already.  Should either Sendaria or Taravanal press him, then we will file those parchments.  Trestendor will become domains of Sevendor, in fact, subject to me.”

“Minalan!” Arathanial reproved.  “Why would you stand so resolutely against the reconquest of my patrimony?  Sevendor has always been such a good friend to Sendaria!”

“And we will continue to be . . . as long as you stay inside your new frontiers.  Arathanial, we both know how difficult it is to order and rule a barony – why would you borrow additional trouble by pressing your ambitions more fully now, when you have a lifetime of organization and transition ahead of you?  Sire Sigalan was willing to fight the Warbird to maintain his independence.  He is just as willing to fight Sendaria.”

“He would lose!” Brother Hamaras insisted.

“Not with Sevendor’s aid,” I countered.  “Sire Sigalan is more than willing to swear to me, to keep from swearing to you.  And I would feel compelled to support him, if he was attacked.  Surely after seeing how quickly we took Rolone with a handful of warmagi, you would be more cautious than to invoke Sevendor’s ire.”

Hamaras looked angry, but Arathanial looked thoughtful.  At last he sighed.  “You are right, of course – we do have far too much to do in organizing Taravanal out of the corpse of Sashtalia to concern ourselves with the hill lords of the Bontal.  Damn you, Minalan!  Here I thought I was close to restoring our former glory, and you prohibit it!”

“Your honor should be satisfied with the recovery of Sashtalia,” I offered.  “Let further ambitions be the province of your descendents.  You have done splendidly by your House, my lord,” I added with a respectful bow from the neck.  “Do not imperil your gains by foolishly challenging a magelord.”

“Of course not,” Arathanial sighed.  “We owe you too much, my friend.  Had your men not taken Rolone, we would still be in the field, not determining how to divide the spoils.  After this meeting I will be sitting down with the remaining Sashtali lords and determining just who will remain to support the new baron, and who will require dismissal.  But I do have one appointment I can share with you: I will be granting the domain of Krol to the Dragonslayer as a reward for his excellent service.  The former Lord of Krol died at Birchroot, without heir.  It’s a small domain, but it should add to his growing collection.”

“You will be well-served by him in that position,” I admitted.  “But don’t forget that the man is also my castellan.  I would like him back, eventually.”

“Of course!  He rode with me, so that he could ride back to Sevendor with you.  While not officially demobilized, I granted him leave to attend you during this difficult time,” he said, sympathetically.

“Many thanks, Baron,” I said, hoarsely.  Then I pulled myself out of my melancholia before it could affect me overmuch.”

After we concluded our business Arathanial was scheduled to meet with the abbot and his staff to begin the titanic process of reapportioning the conquered lands of Sashtalia and establishing the new barony.  I didn’t envy him the task, after my experiences, but he seemed eager to dive into it.  The Lensely legacy was intact, and there was prospect for real peace and prosperity . . . after the chaos of war subsided.

One of the monks walked me out to the yard, after my meeting.  My business here was done, and it was time to go home . . . a prospect that I dreaded.  As I started toward my waiting carriage, I saw the large form of Sire Cei standing nearby.  He was dressed for traveling, his sword at his side and a new and richly-embroidered mantle over his shoulders.

“Any chance I could get a ride back to Sevendor?” he asked, simply.

I shrugged.  “Climb in.  I’m going that way.”

Cei studied me thoughtfully before opening the door for me respectfully.  He signaled to his men, who were waiting on the other side of the yard, and they nodded in return.

“That’s my squire, Panur,” he explained, as Joppo pulled the carriage away and headed toward the road.  It was a lot less noisy inside than an ordinary carriage, thanks to some sound-dampening enchantments, and Cei and I could talk without raising our voices.  “His knight was killed at Birchroot Bridge, alas, and I volunteered to take him on.  Good lad,” he assured me.  “Only fifteen, but well-trained for service and brave as a dragon.  Second son of Sire Banur of Paraget – that’s a small domain in the north of Sendaria, just west of Sendaria Port.”

“I’ve picked up an apprentice as well,” I noted.  “You saw the lad, Ruderal.  He has incredible potential.  And he’s as polite as you could wish, for a new apprentice.  So has Pentandra, for that matter,” I chuckled.  “I suppose we’re at the stage in our lives where we feel compelled to pass along our wisdom and knowledge.”  I guess there was an ironic tone to my voice.  Cei studied me.  Then he pulled a bottle out from his cloak.

“It occurs to me, Excellency,” he said, slowly, as he uncapped the bottle and pulled two small silver cups from the coach’s hamper, “that you would find benefit to giving voice to what troubles you.”

“You were just the hero in a glorious war of conquest,” I demurred.  “I don’t want to burden you with my problems.”

“I did my duty to Arathanial as his vassal,” he conceded, pouring the drink, “and found the experience rewarding, in its way.  But it was different than our forays against the gurvani.  Those were for the defense of humanity, not the acquisition of lands.  There is a higher honor in that, I think,” he said philosophically.  “But that does not preclude the duty I have to you, as well.”

“You have fulfilled your duty to me—”

“Minalan,” Cei said, sharply.  “Sometimes a man needs a friend more than he needs a loyal retainer.  You gave me position when you could have snubbed me.”

“You were the only unemployed castellan I knew at the time!” I pointed out.

“You gave my people a home when you didn’t need to.  I’ve seen the wonders you have produced, and the prosperity you have so freely dispensed without regard to class.  You have been fair in your justice, resolute in your defense of the domain, and invested heavily in the people around you, not merely your own aggrandizement.  You are a doughty warrior, a canny tactician, and an admirable leader of men.  You have administered your estates and dealt with your neighbors with shrewdness and diplomacy.

“Stop, you’re making me blush!” I said, sipping the drink.  Spirits.  Strong spirits, with a sweet and spicy flavor.

He ignored my jibe and continued to stare at me, until I really was becoming uncomfortable.  “During the few years I’ve known you, you have become my friend, as well as my liege.  And it is a fool who forgoes the solace of a friend when he is grieving,” he said, quietly.  “Tell me what happened.”

I thought of a hundred more witty remarks I could have said, but the look in Cei’s eye would brook no more avoidance.  To do so, after being challenged so directly, would lose me respect in Cei’s mind, I knew.  And for some reason I really didn’t want to do that, right now.

So I sighed, tipped back the cup of spirits and handed it back to him for more.  They were almost cloyingly sweet, but extremely strong, with a powerfully spicy aftertaste.

And then I told him.  Everything. Even the gods.

It took a long time, and Cei kept my glass full and listened without interruption the entire time.  We were deep into northern Rolone before I got to the battle at Salaisus Castle.  By that time I was half-drunk and my beard was streaked with tears.

“I knew what she was going to do, the moment I saw her eyes.  I knew that she was going to sacrifice herself . . . for me.  For us.  It was the only thing she could do.  Maybe I could have figured a way out, but Isily was going to kill her any second.  She was mad – that much power coursing through her system that suddenly was just too much.  It was like poor Urik,” I said, sadly.  “Only her issue was with me, and my wife.  With Alya that close and vulnerable, she couldn’t help herself.

“So the moment I realized what she was doing, I desperately prayed for help.  Briga, Ishi, Trygg, whoever might be listening.  I was at a loss of what to do, when everything I was throwing at her through the Snowflake was getting intercepted.  Whatever that damn enchantment was, it was well-constructed.

“But I couldn’t do anything but watch her crush that stone . . . and it was the only thing she could do.  She knew it.  I knew it.  Without some sort of dramatic intervention, Isily’s madness would have killed us all.

“Ishi hears all words of love,” I continued, the taste of sour fire on my lips, “and she heard mine and Alya’s.  The enchanted nature of the place, tying it physically to the Otherworld, made her manifestation easier than normal, too – but even the gods have limitations.”

“What happened?” he urged, when I paused.

“Ishi was able to protect Alya’s life,” I assured him.  Sire Cei looked at Alya as a younger sister or even as a daughter, after their association.  Even as their social status had changed he had adopted a paternal attitude toward her.  I realized that he was genuinely stricken by this news personally, not merely concerned for a friend’s well-being.  After what we’d all gone through at Boval Castle and the challenges of Sevendor, we were family, I realized.  “She lives.  But her mind is . . . scattered,” I choked.

“How so, scattered?” he asked, a mixture of relief and despair.  There were tears in his own beard, now.

“She doesn’t speak.  She barely reacts.  She doesn’t recognize anyone.  Even her children.  Even me,” I said, sadly.  “Her body is there, but her mind is shattered.  I’ve had the best magical medics in the kingdom examine her.  Her mind isn’t gone, but it’s like a tangled ball of thread, not the tapestry it needs to be for her to function.”

“Where is she now?” he asked, hoarsely.

“At the abbey of Trygg.  I had to move her there, because the children were getting anxious around her.  Minalyan crawled into her lap and she just stared into space.  He was quite upset.  At the abbey the sisters will take excellent care of her.  She has her own hall, and I’ve dispatched three servants to oversee her care.”  My eyes were suddenly swimming in tears.  “The baby she carried, alas, did not survive the trauma.”

“What a crushing blow, my friend,” he sighed, heavily, his own eyes wet.  “Is there hope?”

“There is always hope!” I nearly snarled, wiping my face with my sleeve.  “She’s alive, isn’t she?  Her body is, and her mind is in there . . . it’s just tangled.  The medics tell me that she may recover some on her own.  But I’m not content with that.  I’m searching for a magical solution.  And while there is hope there, the human mind is a difficult medium to work with.  That’s Blue Magic, psychomancy, and it’s as rare as shadowmagic.”

“But surely the gods could take a hand, after all of this?”

“I’ve been assured by those I know personally that they have done what they can for her.  Ishi’s intervention saved her life, but her sphere doesn’t extend much beyond sexuality, so there were limits to what she could do, even in that powerful place.  Perhaps one of the gods who specialize in such things could help, and I’m investigating that possibility, but it appears as if it falls to me to discover a way to restore my wife.”

“What of the rebels?” he asked, his eyes growing stern.

“Dunselen is dead,” I informed him.  “It was his stone that Alya destroyed, and despite Isily’s usurpation of it, he was still connected.  The thaumaturgical feedback destroyed his mind outright.  And part of his skull, considering the power flowing through the lacis at the time of its destruction.  Isily’s body lives, but her mind is utterly destroyed – far beyond Alya’s dysfunction.  Her enneagram has been stripped of all but the most basic functions, and we theorize that only her arcane connection to the Otherworld keeps her alive.  She’s in a convent in Greenflower, under the care of the nuns there.”

“What about Greenflower?” Cei asked, seeking to steer us away from the painful and into the mundane.

“It has been confiscated by the Order,” I explained.  “Legally what I did was conquest; but as I did it under the auspices of the Arcane Orders, I was able to transform the conquest into a disciplinary issue.  The estates will be held in trust by the Order until Dunselen and Isily’s heir is of age. I had my two children brought back to Sevendor.  Despite being at the center of the spell, my son appears to have been unaffected by it, the way that Isily, Dunselen, and their servants were.  No teeth yet, of course, but the whites of his eyes are perfectly white.  Like Minalyan, I think the protective nature of the enchantment keeps the baby from arcane harm.  Though we won’t know what permanent effects it had until he’s much older.  And Baron of Greenflower.”

“Your son,” Cei noted, evenly.

“Yes.  My son is the Baron of Greenflower, now.  My other son will be Baron of Sevendor.  I’m sure that will make my Dad proud.”

“And your daughter by Isily?” he asked, guardedly.

“Little Ismina is also unaffected.  By the spell, not by the experience of witnessing a magewar up close.  I believe she didn’t arrive at her mother’s castle until after the spell.  But she’s terrified, confused, and in shock from the battle.  Destroying a witchstone like that effects anyone with the psychic sensitivity of a slug,” I reminded him.

“I recall,” he nodded.  He’d been there the night of Urik’s rebellion.

“As far as their lands go, I’ve had the Order send a competent magelord to oversee the transition and inventory the estates.  Particularly his professional records.  I need to know exactly what Dunselen was up to, who he spoke to, and how far he got in his researches.”

“You think that the key to Alya’s recovery is within his notes?”

“Mayhap,” I shrugged.  “But they need to be studied.  What Dunselen did at Salaisus and other estates during the course of his natal experiments was reckless and irresponsible.  I created snowstone out of desperation – it was a side effect.  But what he did created new areas of thaumaturgical instability.  There may well be some treasures in his work, but they will be buried under a mountain of dross.  More, they will create further problems of their own.

“But my primary goal in searching his notes is to discover any clues to the identity and location of the Enshadowed,” I told him, firmly.  “When they intervened in my affairs, they attracted my attention.  When they were complicit in the maiming of my wife, they drew my wrath.”

“You intend to pursue vengeance, then?” he asked, surprised.

“I’ve done all I can with Alya,” I reasoned.  “Until I can get some god to fix her, or use the powers of the Snowflake, which is far from understood, I can’t do much else.  So I’m going to make war on Korbal and the Enshadowed,” I declared, quietly.

“Are we not already at war with one dark power?”

“Shereul is an existential threat to humanity,” I admitted.  “But Korbal and his Alka renegades made this personal, when they invaded my home and assisted in an assassination attempt on me and my wife.  I’m still working on a weapon to challenge the Dead God in his power.  But Korbal has just emerged from long entombment, and by all accounts he’s weak and dependent upon his minions.  Waiting for him to grow in strength before he is challenged is poor strategy.  Not when I have a head full of righteous wrath and a small army of warmagi at my command.”

“Minalan, is that wise?” he asked, one eyebrow cocked.

“Perhaps not,” I decided.  “But it’s strategically valid.  More, it’s what I want to do.  It needs to be done.  Even the Alka Alon are scared shitless of the idea of a return of Korbal.  Shereul may be intent on the extinction of humanity and the domination of the continent, if not the world, but Korbal has it in for the Alka Alon Council, specifically.  As they’re working together, that can’t help but solidify our alliance, once they climb down from the trees and start moving with purpose.”

“Then why not let the Alka Alon deal with Korbal?  It seems that they would be better suited to combat one of their own.  They did imprison him last time,” he pointed out.

“And how did that work out?” I spat, angrily.  “I cannot depend on the Alka Alon to get to him within my lifetime.  They’re immortal.  They could spend a decade discussing the matter before they acted, and that’s insufficient.  In a decade Korbal’s power will be inconceivable.  And while this may not mean much to you, they are relatively unsophisticated about enneagrammatic magic, compared to other disciplines.  I’ve recently become intimately familiar with it.  If anyone has a reasonable chance of ending Korbal’s threat before it’s too strong, it’s me.”

“That seems like the assumption of a great responsibility, Minalan,” he observed.  “When one has just received the care of two children, unexpectedly, and must also care for his injured wife, investing in a quest for vengeance like that sounds like tempting fate.  Or escaping.”

“Escaping?” I laughed, humorlessly.  “She’s my godsdamned wife, Cei.  I love her more than anything.  There is no escaping what I did to her.  What I allowed to happen to her. I took a vow to protect her, and I failed.  Holding her attackers to account is all I have left.”

“You have your children,” he noted.

“My children who will ever be in danger, as long as threats like Korbal and Shereul exist,” I countered.  “I am not just a father, Cei, I’m also the Spellmonger.  Like it or not, this is the job I have to do.  No one else can do it – and I’m not even certain I can.  But I have to try, because no one else will.”

“Yet you cannot merely appear at the gates of Korbal’s hall and demand single combat.”

“Not since he’s occupied the ruins of Anthatiel,” I agreed.  “This quest will take some time, some planning, and some preparation.  And not a little intelligence gathering.  But I am committed to Korbal’s destruction, now.  He and the Enshadowed will learn that you cannot make war on the Spellmonger lightly.”

Cei studied me some more, then put the cap on the bottle.  He put huge hand on my shoulder.  “My friend, when you are ready to go on this quest, I would be honored if you would count me as a member of your company.”

I looked at him, stunned.  “Cei, I thought you weren’t in favor of it?”

“It is my duty as your castellan and advisor to help you examine your motives and your goals completely, Minalan.  It is my duty as your friend to help you achieve those goals.  If you are committed to this quest, then let us put to rest the question of its motives, as we have, and focus on the requirements for its completion.  Perhaps the arm of the Dragonslayer can play some role,” he suggested, casually.

I was touched, emotionally, by what the Wilderlands knight was proposing.  He had a family of his own, after all, a new child, new lands to rule, and responsibilities to my barony.  Yet he was suggesting putting all of that aside to help me pursue a mad quest for vengeance.

“I couldn’t ask you to do that, my friend,” I sighed.

“Which is why I volunteered.  Minalan, this is more than duty speaking, or even friendship.  Alya is a countryman of mine, and dear to me personally.  I can only imagine what rage fills your soul right now . . . mine is but a pale reflection of it.  Yet I am wrathful enough myself to find this necromancer in whatever hole in the wilderness he has hidden in, and crush him under my hammer until there is nothing left that cannot pass through a sieve,” he said, solemnly.

“And what will Lady Estret say about this?”

“She is a noble woman and an ideal wife,” he said.  “She will understand this.  She is a friend of the Baroness, too.  When she heard the news of the battle, she was distraught.”

“That’s much the same as Sister Bemia,” I agreed.  “Indeed, all of Sevendor is upset at the loss of their Lady.  The Bovali are ready to march, should I give them a direction.  The warmagi are livid.  If I do not act, eventually, they will become frustrated.”

“Then you have their support,” he nodded.  “That is good.  What about the kingdom?”

“This is a magi affair,” I said, sternly.  “I will inform Their Majesties what I do, after I do it.  I am not about to wait around for Rard’s permission to go duel a dark lord.  I can make the argument that the security of the kingdom is in peril from an arcane direction, which clearly is in my purview.  But even if he does object, I am beyond caring about his opinion, or that of his son.  This is my war,” I declared.  “It’s a magewar.  In the unlikely event that I need his assistance, I’ll ask for it.”

“Well said,” Cei murmured, approvingly.

I looked at the knight, who seemed as soused and melancholic as I was. The expression of sympathy was almost too much to bear.  “You know,” I choked, “we will be celebrating our fifth anniversary, this winter.  I’ve a bottle of fine mead from our honeymoon we were to share in celebration.  But I will not open that bottle until Alya remembers my name and my face,” I vowed.  “That will be cause for celebration.”

“May that day be soon, my friend,” Cei said, compassionately.  I took great strength in his support, I realized.  He had been right, I’d needed a friend more than I needed a loyal vassal.

“Not soon enough,” I sighed.  “Every day she is gone from my life is a failure.  If I need to throttle the gods themselves, I will.  But I will not rest until Alya is restored to me, and those responsible are held to account.  And may the gods help anyone who is foolish enough to get in my way.”

APPENDIX

Minalan’s Thaumaturgic Orismology of Enchantment

Achronyx              An enchantment that has malfunctioned due to degradation over time

Agraffe                            A wire or other binding mechanism used to wind around some wands

Allodyania              A common pain associated with the production of enchantment

Anadipsic              An enchantment that requires a tremendous amount of personal arcane energy

Anserine              The curve in a staff or rod

Anxiolytic              Reduction of the natural magical resistance of an object

Apricate              Exposure of an enchantment to natural magical energies

Arietate              The expressed magical result from the use of a wand

Aristophren              A master enchanter

Ascian                             The quality of being ideal for enchantment

Asthenic              a wand of temporary enchantment

Avaline                            ancient wisdom on thaumaturgy

Baculine              pertaining to wands and rods

Badigeon              binding enchantment to solidify a network of sub-enchantments

Baedeker              a specific guide to individual enchantments

Balanoid              an acorn-shaped finial

Balneary              the process of bathing an enchantment in useful energies or medium

Bandelet              small band around a wand, staff or rod

Banderol              a magically inscribed bandelet

Barathrum              an enchantment requiring an immense amount of constant power

Bardel                            a form of enchantment carrying other enchantments

Barmcloth              traditional working apron garment for an enchanter

Barognosis              ability of an enchantment to perceive weight and mass

Barton                            the field of effect of a given enchantment

Baryphonic              an object that resists a thaumaturgical essay

Bascule              a wand of control designed to have power over one particular element of a spell

Bathmism              The directive evolutionary force in an enchantment that develops the spell

Bathypelagic              enneagrams found in the depths of the sea creatures from ancient times

Benefactive              the condition of an enchantment acting positively on a subject

Beneficiate              To remove impurities from a raw magical material in preparation for enchantment; also a term regarding the period in which the enchanter prepares himself for the work

Benet                            The term for the enchanter who removes enneagrams from living things

Benthic              Enneagrams that come from the ocean

Benthos,the              the Sea Folk’s powerful ancestors

Berge                            a glass upon which magical viewings may be projected

Bersatrix              an enchantment that regulates another enchantment

Betise                            a serious error in enchantment

Bewray              to do a thaumaturgical exploration of an object

Bibelot                            a short, small set of thaumaturgical instructions accompanying an enchantment

Blain                            a naturally occurring node of magical energy

Blendure              mixing of multiple magical energies to achieve a desired effect

Blepheral              the portion of the enchantment regarding activation

Boaotian              simple enneagrams, such as basic elementals

Bodement              statement of expectation concerning the outcome of a thaumaturgical experiment

Bodge                            a failed enchantment

Boethetic              a class of spells and enchantments designed to heal

Bolar                            a ceramic covering made of thaumaturgical clay

Bolide                            a sudden, explosive, and sometimes dangerous effect of an enchantment

Bonce                            a marble of thaumaturgical glass used to house a helpful enchantment

Bonify                            to magically augment an object before enchantment

Borsella              a specialized wand for working with thaumaturgical glass

Bort                            particularlized or pulverized material used in enchantment

Bouleuterion              a conclave or meeting of enchanters for the purposes of preparing a work

Boult                            the act of discovering thaumaturgical pathways (boyau)

Boun                            the act of attaching thaumaturgical connections between boyau.

Boutade              a sudden expression of arcane energy

Boyau                            a line of communication from one area of enchantment to another

Boyg                            an issue with the thaumaturgical underpinnings of an enchantment

Bracciale              a physical mounting for an enchantment

Brail                            a sub-enchantment limiting or regulating a more powerful enchantment

Braired                            the physical manifestation of an enchantment

Brash                            to fill a physical objects with magical components

Brayer                            specialized thaumaturgical wand designed to spread magical energies evenly

Breviary              the written and practiced daily thaumaturgical treatment of an enchantment

Bricole                            the portion of the enchantment that interfaces with the user

Bridewell              an object, usually a gem or crystal, which temporarily houses an enneagram

Bridoon              technical term for an elemental template

Broch                            the magical glow associated with an enchantment

Brochette              a specialized thaumaturgical wand designed to hold an enchantment in stasis

Brodequin              internal enchantment housed within an exterior enchantment

Brogan                            external enchantment often used to protect and nurture an inner enchantment

Broma                            magical energy that fuels an enchantment

Buhl                            inlaying of magical material into an object for the purposes of enchantment

Bullition              infusing and powering an enchantment with energy for the first time

Bulse              interior pocket of an enchanted object containing (usually ground) magical components

Burrole              an element of enchantment that monitors some local condition

Byssaceous              an object with a large number of potential thaumaturgical connections

Cadrans              specialized harness for holding an object for enchantment

Calamus              Specialized thaumaturgic wand used for inscribing runes

Callote                            traditional skullcap of an enchanter

Camen                            a wand, staff or rod with a single specific purpose

Catena                            the sequence of activity leading to action in a spell or enchantment

Catenates              a class of binding enchantments

Celation               embedding enchantments into ordinary objects

Cenacle              a small group of enchanters meeting regularly for discussion, food and drink

Cenote                            naturally occurring magical current

ceracete              a class of transformation enchantments

ceralune              a class of sudden, directed enchantments

cespite                            a class of enchantment covering a field or area of effect

chaptal                            a class of enchantment enriching or augmenting arcane power or effect

Concillibule              a group of enchanters gathered toward a specific constructive purpose

Cummock              a crooked staff often used as an arcane medical device

Cunctipotent              an extremely powerful enchantment

Decrescent               an enchantment that loses power over time

Decuman              a powerful enchantment, usually requiring mastery over enchantment to assay

Decurtate              an enchantment designed to expire after a limited time or duration.

Decurtate              to shorten or reduce the power and effectiveness of an enchantment

Deflegamate              to “distill” magical energy to its purest form before use

Deflexure              inherent magical resistance in an enchanted object

Deflocculate              to reduce an overall enchantment to its constituent steps

Defluent              a declining stream of arcane energy

Defluent              an enchantment designed to run down over time

Degustation              adding power slowly and in small quantities to an enchantment over time

Deiparous              the result of a powerful enchantment

Delenda              useless or temporary enchantments that are destroyed or removed before desinention

Deliration              a flaw in an enchantment that can lead to madness or illness

Delitescent              a latent natural power of a substance for enchantment

Demisang              a hybrid enchantment or enchantment using two different modes

Demulscent              a glyph used to “tune” arcane energies in a particular direction

Demurge              to saturate an object of enchantment with arcane power

Deobstruent              an enchantment that removes deteursions and flaws from an object

Deonerate              to remove an element from an enchantment

Deontic              an enchantment’s purpose or function

Deopillate              to remove a magical obstruction

Deordination              a flaw in an object that makes it less suitable for a particular enchantment

Dephlogisticate To enchant something to prohibit the use from degrading the object

Deponent              enchantments that stay passive but have an active effect

Depotentiate              to drain an object or entity of power to use in enchantment or necromancy

Deprehend              the act of capturing an enneagram magically

Depurate              purifying and filtering arcane energies

Deracinate              to remove an enneagram for use in an enchantment

Deray                            the process of an enchantment going bad

Desideratum              the goal of an enchantment

Desinent              the final part of the enchantment; binding and finishing

Deteursion              cleaning and preparing an object for enchantment at the molecular level

Detort                            re-integrating magical energies after they have been separated and purified

Devall                            an enchantment’s capacity to lose efficacy over time

Diaclastic              splitting arcane energies into useful forms

Diacope              the magical template used on an object to prepare it to receive enchantment

Diadrom              the capacity for an object to conduct and direct magical energy; the “vibe”

Diaglyph              engraved magical instruction or rune on an enchantment

Diathesis              inherent natural state of an object in relation to enchantment

Diatyposis              detailed description of an enchantment

Difluent              freely flowing magical energy

Dimissory              the portion of the enchantment that takes action on the world

Dioric                            A fundamental definition of a basic enchantment

Diremption              splitting magical power into two streams to fuel separate enchantments

Dirgible              The ability of an enchantment to be directed by the user

Discerptible              an enchantment that can be operated away from a mage

Discophorean              multi-use enchantment

Disimmure              The process of retrieving an enneagram from an object

Dispone              the process of ordering an enchantment within a host object

Dithyrambic              The state of the raw, natural magical energy of the Magosphere

Ditokous              an enchantment producing two or more effects

Diurgent              The ability for the user of an enchantment to guide its results

Diutiurnal              a long-lasting enchantment

Divagate              an enchantment whose energies are not directed properly and is not functioning

Docimasy              the process of testing an object for suitability for enchantment

Durity                            The longevity of an enchantment

Dwaible              an unstable enchantment

Dystectic              enchantments, spells, or objects that do not work well together thaumaturgically

Edaphic               enneagrams taken from land creatures

Endixes              A thaumaturgical indicator or result

Entheate              to magically power an enchantment

Epincion              ceremonial finish of an enchantment before final testing

Eroteme              an enchantment of inquiry, often used in thaumaturgical studies

Estrapade              the act of an enchantment rejecting the user or enchanter

Eutectic              easily combining two or more magical energies

Famulus              an enchanter’s magical assistant; also a thaumaturgical baculus

Feazings              the residue of left-over construction enchantments, some of which cause complications

Feriation              time spent allowing an enchantment to grow or mature

Ferrule                            the metal end of a wand, staff or rod

Fingent               the molding and shaping of an object for enchantment

Fissility                            The ability of a force or power to be split into useful streams

Fixity                            The fixed state; stability; permanence of an enchantment of an object

Flagitate              the process of imbuing an enneagram or enchantment into an object

Flexion                            a bend; a magical fold to determine the focus and direction of power

Flype                            to expose the inner workings of an enchantment through thaumaturgy

Foison                            a highly successful enchantment procedure

Formant              The initial definition for an enchantment that determines or defines its functions

Fovea                            thaumaturgical nodes of connection between agent and energy

Frigiferous              an enchantment designed to lower temperatures

Frigorific              making something colder by magic

Frit                            raw material for thaumaturgical glass

Fulgent              The capacity for an enchantment to produce light

Fulmination              an enchantment designed to produce a single sudden event

Furibund              very powerful arcane energies

Futz                            a spell that has gone awry

Helmenthus              an object too flawed to be considered usable in enchantment without danger

Hirrient              the ability of an enchantment to emit sound or vibration

Hormephia              magical shock suffered by the enchanter after an enchantment

Hoxter                            a magical pocket

Hylozoic              the capacity for enchanted objects to be lifelike

Immure               the process of permanently imbuing an object with an enneagram.

Incicurable              a material or object too unpredictable to be used in enchantment

Jactitate              to agitate magically over time

Jubate                            radiating magical energy over long distances

Lability                            an enchantments ability to effect the physical universe

Lacis                            a network of smaller enchantments harnessed together for greater effect

Lacuna                            Blank space or missing part

Latitant              an enchantment requiring a command for activation

Loganimity              the ability of an object to hold an enchantment over a long period of time

Lorgnette              the viewing glass on a baculus or other enchantment

Lustration              mental purification of the enchanter before attempting the enchantment

Mactation              Ending a life in order to harness a being’s enneagram for enchantment in necromancy

Maculate              to purposefully impurify arcane energies

Magnality              A greater enchantment

Mandament              command word or action for an enchantment

Mandamus              list of command words/actions for a specific enchantment

Manubrium              technical name for a wand or rod

Mascaron              special enchantments for greeting visitors or guarding a site

Mathesis              the process of learning and practicing a particular enchantment

Meable              easily activated by magical commands

Medullary              the interior working mechanism of enchantment

Mensuration              establishment of the magical capacities of an object

Mentatiferous              able to communicate telepathically

Meracious              a purified form of arcane energy

Meristic              divided into parts or segments

Meromorphic              fractional nature of enchantment

Mesology              ecology of enchantment

Metabasis              transferring an enneagram into an object

Metagnostic              an enchantment that works without understanding why

Metagrobolize              to reverse-engineer an existing enchantment

Metastasis              an enchantment that moves something from one place to another

Metastrophe              the exchange of power and action between an enchanter and his enchantment

Metempsychosis              transferring the enneagram of a dead or dying creature into a vessel

Metope              the active portion of a wand or rod, usually the head

Metutials              small disciplines and enchantments that must be performed for a greater enchantment

Mimature              assume a property of another thing

Minacious              when use of an enchantment produces danger for the enchanter

Minuend              raw material for an enchanted object

Mirabiliary              the technical name for an enchanter’s workshop

Mirablia              the practical effect of an enchantment

Mirific                            the technical name for the act of enchantment

Misaunter              a failure of enchantment to do what it is supposed to

Mnemon              a unit of memory or knowledge; often a chapter or recipe for enchantment

Mnemotechy              an enchantment designed to help assist in other enchantments

Mnesnic              enchantments regarding memory

Modillion              often part of an enchanted wand behind the metope, usually the method of action

Modius              a special thaumaturgical headdress enchanted to assist in magical work

Molimen              the portion of the enchantment requiring greatest effort for the enchanter

Mollescent              an object's readiness for receiving enchantment

Molochize              to consume an object or substance during the course of an enchantment

Monanthis              an enchantment having a single purpose

Midificate              to build the structural underpinnings for an enchantment from scratch

Mycterynt              enchantments useful for nighttime activities

Oakus                            the financial resources dedicated to building an enchantment

Obduracy              the need for an enchanter to continuously maintain an enchantment

Obecuitate              an enchantment containing an enneagram

Obedible              an object that will bend to an enchanter’s commands

Objuration              a class of binding enchantments

Obluctation              magical resistance in an object

Obmutescent              an enchantment designed to reduce or eliminate noise

Obnixily              putting forth incredible effort, will and desire

Obnubilate              to use an enchantment to obscure

Obsecrate              to invoke an enchantment into an object

Obsign                            to conclude and test an enchantment; “sealing” the spell

Obstriction              the designed object and outcome of an enchantment

Obtest                            to order an enchantment

Obtundant              to dampen the magical force in an enchantment

Obturate              the act of finishing and sealing an enchantment before testing

Obvention              a beneficial side effect of an enchantment

Ocellus                            enchantment for observing some portion of the physical world

Odeum              a presentation space for presenting and explaining new enchantments

Olamic                            pre-historic enneagrams

Ommateum              the multiple sensory enchantments (ocellus) in a greater enchantment

Omniama              the details of a particular enchantment

Onomastic              an enchantment designed to be used by one or only a few people

Ontal                            the effect an enchantment has on reality

Operose              a series of small, incremental enchantments

Ophiuran              a single-use enchantment that consumes the object in the action

Oppilate              a class of enchantments for stopping or abating magical power

Optative              the expressed desire of the enchanter

Optificer              the individual who actually crafts the object for enchantment

Opuscule              a minor essay in enchantment, often a step to a larger one

Ordinant               another term for enchanter

Oread                            basic earth elemental

Oemus                            a short mantic invocation used in enchantment

Organity              referring to the collection of enchantments in an object

Organon              a field of inquiry and system of thaumaturgy

Osculant              an enchantment designed to work action on the subject over a prolonged period

Pabulous              The need for an enchantment to require a constant energy flow

Pachynsis              thickening of an enchantment to workable size

Palingenisis              technical name for re-initiating an enneagram

Palinola              The repetitive practice of an enchantment’s preparation until it is perfect

Pampin               A tendril of magical energy from an enchantment that acts upon the physical universe

Pandation              The warping of magical power to a more useful form

Panesthesia              the requirement of near-total self-awareness in an ennegream

Paraclete              A magical interface between the user and the enchantment

Paraesthesia              tingling sensation on the skin as a side effect of enchantment

Paravail              Minor enchantments, often temporary

Paravant              Initiatory phase of enchantment

Parergon              a secondary enchantment built to compliment the primary

Parvipotent              weak enchantments requiring very little power

Patible                            the ability of an object to accept an enchantment

Periclitate              an enchantment that is inherently dangerous to the user

Pernoctation              referring to an enchantment that takes several hours to complete

Pervulgation              a popularly published work on a specific area of thaumaturgy

Pessomancy              magic using rocks, crystals, or stone

Philonoist              technical term for a thaumaturgical student

Philotherian              an enchantment that involves or acts on animals

Philoxenic              an enchantment designed to entertain

Physitistic              an enchantment designed to act on the natural world

Pillion                             physical seat of a secondary enchantment (paregon)

Plangent              a sound designed to be emitted by an enchantment

Plangonal              a creator of magical effigies or dolls

Quadrel              a unit of an enneagram

Raisorial              an enchantment that gathers energy from surrounding natural sources

Raith                            a three-month period usually required to build a decent enchantment

Rectigrade              class of projecting, active enchantments

Redintegrate              to make whole again; to restore an ancient enchantment that has lost power

Refrangible              the capacity of natural arcane energies to be transformed into other forms

Remipid              a multi-limbed magical construct

Remontad              an enchanter who seeks seclusion for study and work

Resipiscent              to regain sanity after a brief period of insanity; a charm to do the same

Rhabdomancy              the art of building rods, staves and wands

Runcation               the removal of flaws and imperfections from an object or enchantment

Rupestrian              an enchantment using stones and rocks

Rupicaline              natural magical properties of stones and rocks

Saltus                            breach of continuity; jump to a conclusion

Saprogenic              an enchantment encouraging aging and decay

Saxatile              magic pertaining to rocks and minerals

Siffilate               a sub-vocalized magical command

Sigillate              the process of inscribing enchanting runes

Sloyd                            an enchanter’s highly skilled mundane assistant

Snath                            a curved rod or staff

Sodality              an organized group of enchantments

Sollaret              the base of a wand or rod

Spartle                            an enchantment’s misfiring

Specilate              the process of refining a rod’s functional enchantment

Stereognosis              the thaumaturgical process of determining the arcane properties of an object

Sternutation              the sudden release of magical power

Suggilated              a well-refined object ready for enchantment

Supernaculum              an enchantment that exhausts its power source

Swarf                            arcane residue remaining after enchantment

Symposiarch              The lead enchanter of a team; project leader

Tarantas              a class of enchantment involving motion

Tath                            an unexpected benefit from an enchantment

Tatonnement              experimentation; trial and error during the enchantment process

Tautomeris              possessing more than one structure under magical influence

Taxeme              basic thaumaturgical description of an enchantment

Tegmenals              class of enchantment involved in covering or protecting

Telaesthes              class of enchantment involved in remote detection

Telarians              class of enchantment involving lines of force

Telegnosis              technical term for scrying

Telergy                            specific arcane energy involved in telepathy

Telic                            enchanter’s stated declaration of purpose and intent

Telisis                            a class of enchantment designed to encourage natural processes

Tellary                            class of enchantment that projects magical force in a cone or directed area

Telodynamic              an enchantment that can receive its power from a distance

Telos                            enchanter’s summation of his ultimate purpose in performing the enchantment

Telos                            Stated aim or objective of an enchantment

Tentamen              a thaumaturgical experiment

Teratogenic              Enchantment designed to produce larger creatures

Terete                            term to describe basic shape of a wand or rod

Terret                            a ring or swivel which some wands attach at the base to secure to a lanyard

Tersive                            pertaining to magical cleansing of an object

Testicond              an enchanted device that carries its own power source

Tewel                            the interior of a wand or rod that has been hollowed out to place enchantments

theandric              an enchantment involving divine magic

Thecate              the outermost level of enchantments for an object

Theokton              An enchantment designed to reduce a god or goddess

Theomorphic              an enchantment designed to fundamentally alter the nature of something

Theriolater              technical thaumaturgic term for a beastmaster

Theriotic              an enchantment that has a negative and often malicious effect on the user

Tirocinium              the first test of an enchantment

Titivation              Putting ornamental or artful touches on an enchantment

Tomentose              an object or substance that easily radiates arcane power

Tonitrous              an enchantment designed to produce a sudden loud noise

Tonitruone              a wand that produces a concussive blast

Torsel                            physical feature within or on an object that bears the enchantment

Toxiphiline              class of enchantment of directed, controlled release of magical power

Tralatition              Metaphorical model of an enchantment useful for establishing purpose

Traliniation              Deviation from a historical enchantment for purposes of experimentation

Tranche              Portion of the oakus portioned out for a particular enchantment

Tranchet              Specialized thaumaturgical wand used for shaping magical energies

Transilient              effect of enchantment that occurs at a distance, without crossing intervening space

Translative              a class of enchantment designed to transform one type of arcane power into another

Transpics              a class of basic enchantments that are easily understood by beginners

Trental                 A discussion of the tests and effects of an enchantment after it is finished

Tronc                            The profits of sale of an enchantment to be divided between the members

Trutinate              The process of discussion and deliberation about an enchantment

Tycholosis              the installation of enchantments to ward a user’s safety

Urticate              the act of using an enchantment in an offensive manner

Valgus                            an over-burdened enchantment

Velleity              lowest degree of volition; slight wish without any impulse to action

Vespine              a thaumaturgical device designed to seek out something

Viaticum              a rod or wand specifically designed to aid in travel

Vibrissae              thaumaturgically sensitive enchantments

Virgulate              enchantments best suited for rods, wands, and staves

Vittate                            the magical extension of a useful stream of arcane power

Vouraginous              an enchantment that absorbs all the magical power in an area

Warison              a noise used in enchantment to signal the activation of a device

Xenothral              an enchantment that collects ambient arcane readings

Xertz                            an enchantment that consumes power indiscriminately

Xyresic                            an enchantment designed for cutting and separating

APPENDIX B:

A Brief History Of Enchantment

By Master Ulin of Setria

In the days of the Middle Magocracy, that chaotic period of history immediately following the Great Inundation of Perwyn, the mainland settlements that had inherited the mantle of humanity’s civilization on Callidore were forced to abandon many of the unique crafts they brought to this world and invested their energies instead in the development of enchantment.

The records of the first experiments our ancestors did in imbuing their nascent magical abilities in objects to improve and extend their utility are, alas, lost with the archipelago.  The few accounts of those experiments that survived are tauntingly vague about method and technique, focusing instead on the novelty of the result.

It is not until the early days of the Middle Magocracy, before the dawn of the Imperial Archmagi, that we begin to see the emergence of actual technique and theory within the records.  Even then, these early accounts are difficult to understand, using technical nomenclature that is often lost to antiquity.

Only during the consolidation period, after the Mage Wars that established the Archmage as supreme, did the discipline of enchantment, as we know it today, take form.

There were two basic schools or approaches to the art, at that time.  The more common involved individual thaumaturges who desired to explore the subject first gathering their researches and then seeking seclusion for study and experimentation, often in the wilderness or at the country estate of a patron.  These solitary enchanters, known professionally as remotads, sometimes produced impressive if elementary results in gramary, as enchantment was styled at the time.  Though in retrospect these essays in the craft seem almost quaint, it is from these humble beginnings that the masters of enchantment arose.

The Great Remotads

Chief among them was Finial of Pavonia, a country gentleman who developed the Talent in his youth and was apprenticed to a harsh but instructive master in Pavonia, an imperial province in the north of Merwyn.  His master was a remotad of renown, and Finical meticulously assembled a folio of his teaching on the art that has become the basis of much of its development.  Eventually becoming a master enchanter himself, Finial’s Gramary is by far his most impressive achievement.  Only a decade after his death it was considered a standard text in the development of the art, and served as the basis of much greatness that came later.

Another noteworthy remotad of the Magocracy was Aburon Cadellin.  The youngest son of a sea merchant, he took lessons in thaumaturgy after his Talent was revealed, and did little of note until middle age.  Chancing on a copy of Finial’s Gramary in the market town of Mair, he was captivated.  He practiced each of the techniques Finial suggested, and expanded them dramatically through trial and error.  It is from Aburon that much understanding of the nature of enchantment is taken, for the mage did not seek merely to practice the art, but to comprehend the theory behind it.

His great work, The Florilegum of Basic Thaumaturgy, laid the foundations for a much broader approach to enchantment.  Less concerned with the practical result than the theoretical understanding behind it, the Florilegum was slow to penetrate the chaotic intellectual climate at the time, which was focused on a new religious impulse in the wake of the horror of the Inundation, but once its masterful discussion of the thaumaturgical underpinnings of gramary were appreciated it, beside Finial’s Gramary, served to instruct generations of enchanters in their craft.

As fascinating as a study of the early masters of gramary were, it wasn’t until the late Middle Magocracy that the art of gramary transformed into the craft of enchantment.  The means of that transformation was the Bouleuterion.

The Rise Of The Bouleuterion

While the actual development of the institution known as the Bouleuterion is lost to history, it is suggested by records of the era that it grew out of the consorting of apprentice magi in “eating clubs” in the urban centers of Merwyn and Vore.  Many of these clubs were, undoubtedly, excuses for drinking and carousing with their fellows in their free time, as most fellow craftsmen do.  But as these clubs became institutionalized into cenacles, the talk became more serious and the purpose more resolute.

The early cenacles were concerned not with just academic discussion of thaumaturgy but how to transform that knowledge into professional gain.  Magic in general had reached a stagnant point of development as the Archmagi focused their efforts on administrative and political issues, not the arcane.  The Magelords were concerned with improving the productivity of the land, and the military was focused on securing the frontier against rebellious settlements and wild tribes.

The urban magi were languishing without work, frequently, as the agricultural nature of the Magocracy held little call for their sophisticated knowledge.  Yet the intellectual curiosity and the discussion of the works of the great remotads fueled an interest in turning their knowledge into goods to be sold.

By the second century of the Magocracy, the cenacles had become formal affairs, and led to the full Bouleuterion.  Designed as a way of consolidating efforts and concentrating abilities in their best area of focus, the Bouleuterion was primarily a mercantile organization established for the purpose of profit.

While it was common for the Bouleutor, as the sponsor of the Bouleuterion was known, to be wealthy or to enjoy the patronage of a wealthy family, the common enchanters who were employed were anything but.  Many were in debt for their studies, or had little employment otherwise.  The Bouleutor provided housing and livery for the duration of their employment, as well as a stipend.  This was not a benefice; the enchanter was expected to work at least fourteen or fifteen hours a day for nine days, before taking three days off to tend to their own researches, study, or just sleep.

These early Bouleuterions were small affairs, usually seven to ten enchanters who each specialized in one of the seven common areas of enchantment: Optificion, tabelliation, tabellaration, depuratation, desentiantation, testamursion, and dirigence.  Though the remotads had to do the work themselves, or use a few trusted assistants (“sloyds”), the Bouleuterions divided their work according to specialty and ability, focusing on one aspect of the work and passing along the item when they had completed it.

Eventually this developed into the dedicated groups known as concillibules, a group of specialized enchanters gathered to a specific purpose.  A Bouleuterion of moderate size would usually consist of three to nine concillibules, lead by the Symposiarch appointed by the Bouleuterion (if he did not serve in that capacity himself).  Each concillibule acted as an independent body within a greater community, governing their own affairs and apportioning their assigned work.

The Symposiarch was not the only officer of the Bouleuterion; the appointment of a fair and honest Eutaxarch to oversee the financial affairs and accounting of the institution, a Manciple to procure both common and exotic supplies needed by the body, and a Tabellarian to archive the records.  In later times other officers were included, particularly in the larger and better-organized Bouleuterions, including officials responsible for health, discipline, maintenance, and security.

The capital used was provided by the Bouleuterion’s patron, in most cases, as a commission or investment designed to produce either a financial return or a powerful magical item.  But rarely was the Bouleuterion established to produce just one item, or even one class of item.

The Ordinant Bouleuterions

In other cases, the Bouleuterion was established and supported by the pooled resources of the members.  The founders of the institution, known as an Ordinant Bouleuterion, endowed it with an oakus, or common pool of funds, to fund the endeavor.  The ordinants, as the members were known, each had a vote in the production and distribution of the work, unlike in sponsored Bouleuterions.  The oakus was portioned out in lots known as the tronc to each concillibule according to negotiations between the elected Eutaxarch and the individual Dirugents

The remainder of the oakus was used to secure and maintain a workshop, or mirabilary, as well as domestic living accommodations for the ordinants and the staff of specialized servants and craftsmen.

In Ordinant Bouleuterions the profits (if any) resulting from the sale of their work was distributed at fixed periods of time to the ordinants; this regular disbursement was in addition to their livery and stipend, and was the true incentive for the Ordinant Bouleuterions.  The price of advanced and sophisticated enchantments was high, and should a work of gramary prove successful a satisfied client was encouraged to pay a bonus to the company.

The sponsored Bouleuterions thrived primarily in the urban centers of Vore, Merwyn, Cormeer, and Remere, while the Ordinant Bouleuterions took root in Wenshar and in the coastal settlements of Alshar, Castal, and Farise.  Both institutions enjoyed prosperity during the Middle Magocracy and were influenced by other cultural factors.  The sponsored Bouleuterions often mirrored trade guilds or mercantile endeavors, while the Ordinant Bouleuterions were profoundly influenced by the rise of the monastic movement of the time.

The two approaches to advanced gramary tended to produce different items and therefore favor different styles.  Ordinant Bouleuterions favored inexpensive and temporary enchantments that were nonetheless useful, while sponsored Bouleuterions often had contracts to produce permanent enchantments for civil or military use, or for the use of a wealthy patron. This did not stop the ordinants from creating permanent enchantments, or the sponsored enchanters from producing temporary ones.

Similarly, sponsored Bouleuterions were seen by their officers as permanent institutions, whereas many Ordinant Bouleuterions were avowedly temporary in nature.  Officers in the sponsored groups stayed in office for years, whereas the ordinants frequently held elections, sometimes writing into their constitutional charter the length of office or under what conditions elections could be held.

A third difference was in the promotion and education of young magi into the craft.  While both styles of institution encouraged apprenticeship, in the sponsored Bouleuterions the student enchanters (called a philonoist) took apprenticeship in common.  The ordinants’ students tended to mimic the monastic groups evolving at the time, pledging their apprenticeship to a specific mage in return for instruction.  The more mercantile sponsored institutions educated their apprentices in large classes, whereas the ordinants tended to study in small groups.

This led to the sponsored Bouleuterions eventually forming communities around or in conjunction with the great magical academies.  The Ordinant Bouleuterions, by contrast, sometimes formed alliances or cooperative agreements with monastic orders, sharing facilities and sometimes even combining efforts.  Both influences combined to flavor the character of enchantment in the Late Magocracy.

Alas, the sponsored Bouleuterions oft fell prey to their own successes.  As the institutions grew in size and stability, they also grew in maintenance and livery, requiring greater and greater sums to support them.  This encouraged the sponsored Bouleuterions to seek larger, single patrons, focusing the efforts and energies of their arcane community on a few magnificent projects.  When those projects were complete, or when the donor died or lost interest in the project, often hundreds of enchanters would find themselves suddenly without support.

Though the Ordinant Bouleuterions fared better in this climate, both suffered from the confiscation of irionite by the Magocracy.  The Ordinant Bouleuterions often had no recourse to such powers, and when they did their production of gramary for sale was of smaller or temporary enchantments.  When they did manage to gain power equivalent to irionite, the results were spectacular.  The shards retained by the Velho Fellowship and the Morroia Mirabiliary, both in Wenshar, allowed them to continue production of a number of minor items of very high quality right up until the Conquest.

Enchantment at the Conquest

During the Late Magocracy, there was a renewed interest in gramary by the Imperial government due to the encroachments of the coalition of barbarian nomad tribes on the steppes beyond the Vore river valley.  The Imperial army was decidedly too small to face the widespread threat, and while levies of conscripts from the populous south were under way, their progress was slowed by poor leadership, dissention and rebellion.  Deprived of secular means, the Archmage turned finally back to magic and enchantment.

When the Imperial warmagi were finally allowed to practice their craft unhindered by politics their results were strong.  Two hundred Imperial warmagi, leading a troop of five thousand light infantry, a thousand cavalry, and a thousand auxiliaries managed to forestall the crossing of the Vore for two full years, while the Archmage tried to secure additional troops.  Many historians look back on this ruthless use of warmagic as largely responsible for the anti-mage sentiment of the Conquest, but if that is to be the case what followed was far more worthy of the sentiment.

When the Vore was crossed and the Northern provinces lost, the reluctance of the southern provinces disappeared.  As the hordes of Kamal Kavan harassed and harried the Imperial outposts along the hastily-constructed second line of defense, the restraint previously shown by Imperial magi was gone.  Spells and enchantments that had been banned for humane reasons since before the Mage Wars of the Consolidation Period were called upon to defeat the advancing nomads.

This proved difficult, as the invasion was conducted largely in a series of small raids and advancements by the Narasi heavy cavalry.  Instead of engaging the massed might of the Imperial Army, they wisely avoided direct conflict and sought to gain territory.  These tactics were maddening to the Imperial forces, and the few decisive encounters between the two armies usually ended in Narasi defeat.  These battles came almost exclusively when warmagi were allowed full control of the engagement, for only their arts were able to locate the foe in a timely manner.

Two battles in particular bear scrutiny in regards to enchantment.  The year-long Siege of Selona was particularly successful, in terms of demonstrating the efficacy of gramary.  Though the hill-top city’s eventual fall and razing is a cultural tragedy, the tales told of the feats of enchantment used against the Narasi are intriguing, though no technical information is extant.  Stories of the brave warmagi sending suits of armor lumbering into the foe, damaging enchantments targeting the Narasi’s beloved horses, and massive magical war-engines that kept the foe at bay.  In the end, treachery, not skill at arms or gramary, was to blame for Selona’s fall.

The second battle of note was the Battle of Figden Fords, a minor engagement in terms of the war, but particularly impressive in regards to enchantment.  That was the site of Gornoldo’s fabled Land Engine, a battle-wagon bearing thick armor and pulled by a magical construct.  A construction of desperation by an over-matched defense, the Land Engine nonetheless performed admirably, successfully defending the strategic ford from four waves of Narasi warriors before the enchanted wagon was finally disabled and burned.

Despite the hopes that the Archmage put into the creation of Defender of Empires, the magical blade that was supposed to defeat the Narasi once and for all, the blade failed, due to a poor understanding of the thaumaturgy and a long lapse in proper appreciation by the Archmage.  With the fall of the Imperial capital and the capitulation of the southern provinces to the threat of war, the Conquest – with the advent of its terrible Censorate of Magic – effectively halted further practical efforts at gramary.  The great Bouleuterions were closed, the Ordinants disbanded, and magi were forbidden to congregate outside of the academy or lackluster professional leagues.

Gramary In The Modern Age

With the dissolution of the Censorate of Magic within the Kingdom of Castalshar, there is a new resurgence of interest in practical gramary and enchantment.  Old techniques combined with new perspectives and methods of craft promise a golden age of enchantment, lightening the labor of the peasant while enriching the noble, all at magic’s expense.  The return of irionite to properly power enchantment, combined with the efficacies involved in snowstone and other components, demonstrate the impressive power and utility such enchantments will have.

It is with the greatest respect and admiration that this work is therefore dedicated to our blessed sovereign, Rard I, King of Castalshar and Protector of Humanity.

The Arcane Orders Castalshar

Baron Minalan the Spellmonger

Master Ulin of Setria

Checkered Past

A Spellmonger Short Story

By Terry Mancour

Censor General Aleem awaited the Duke with the practiced patience of a soldier on guard duty, his spotless black and white checkered mantle serving to keep him from being disturbed until his audience.  No one liked to disturb a Censor of Magic, much less the Censor General of the order, as the heavy gold chain around his neck proclaimed him.  The Censorate’s employment of warmagi, and the ruthless way it had gone about its business for the last four hundred years of Narasi rule had given the order a reputation for ruthlessness and thoroughness few cared to challenge.

Of course, that reputation might be the greatest power the Censorate had left, Aleem reflected.  Once the Censorate of Magic had been all but above the law, answerable only to a fictitious king.  In reality Aleem’s office had near absolute power, within its scope.  Theoretically.  Once.

But not now.

The Censorate of Magic was decimated.  Not only had a renegade duke ignored the law that had regulated magic for four centuries, he had further used his violation as an audacious pretext for declaring himself king, and banishing the order from his domains.

When your political power was based on a political fiction, General Aleem had reflected more than once of late, the end of the story always comes.  He had had doubts about the legitimacy of the Censorate since he had joined, right out of the respected Daraquey Academy in Cormeer, chartered by the fourth or fifth Archmage of the later Magocracy – he forgot which.  The Censorate had upheld order and regulated dangerous magic and lawless magi from interfering with the common folk for hundreds of years.  But it had done so based on a convenient lie, and everyone knew it.

Regardless of who was or wasn’t theoretically in charge of the Censorate of Magic, the practical reality was that the Censor General of the Order was the commander over the thousand-odd Censors in the Five Duchies . . . or what was left of them.

After King Rard’s coronation, many of Aleem’s brothers in the order had set aside their cloaks and eagerly joined the ranks of the renegades.  Powerful magic was the allure: irionite, once rare enough to purchase duchies, was now in the hands of perhaps as many as a hundred reengage magi.  The allure of power and the prospect of no regulation had been too tempting for some of his own sworn brethren.  More than half of the Censors in the western duchies had defected, so far, and there were plenty who had not bothered to report in at all.

The rest had quietly made their way east, at the command of their remaining superiors, out of the infected Duchies and toward the safety and security the Order had traditionally found in the east.  All those who took their oaths seriously had gone east of the Remeran frontier – all but a handful who had gone underground in the infected territories.

The largest number of displaced Censors were gathered in Inneoen, a trade city near the border, at the regional Censorate commandery known colorfully as The Anvil.  It was an old wreck of a castle with a storied past, but at the moment it was home to three hundred expatriate Censors with no job to do and little future ahead of them.  They were angry and ready to strike back at the infected duchies and the renegades.  They were just awaiting orders.

From him.

Aleem had been elected at the Merwyni headquarters commandery of Castle Nablus in Moncrief, in the southern Merwyni county of Cormeer, after a long and painful debate about the future of the Censorate.  The remaining commanders had gathered there, six months ago, after the former Censor General, Hartarian of Vore, had defected to King Rard’s illegitimate kingdom for the post of Royal Court Mage.  By all accounts Aleem’s old boss was quite comfortable in his new position at court, and seemed to have forgotten all about the sacred oaths he took and enforced over a long and illustrious career.

The Censorate commanders who remained loyal were a varied bunch.  From staid career administrators from Vore to hot-eyed firebrands from Remere to entrenched and secure Merwyni commanders, the body of the Censorate was wracked with the injury Rard had done them, and like an injured man that pain came out in a lot of ways.  Some wanted revenge, others desired retribution in kind, while still others counseled a more cautious approach, worried about the future of the Order they had served so diligently for so long.

In the end, it had become a question of leadership.  One temporary General had been elected after another, during six months of near-constant discussions at Nablus.  Older and wiser heads had tried to prevail, reformers and archconservatives, but in the end the brothers had wanted new blood to lead them into the future.  Older, wiser heads were passed over in the many rounds of elections for various political reasons.  He’d participated half-heartedly himself, in the first few months, back when the crisis seemed pressing and not quite so disastrous.

Then to Aleem’s surprise and dismay, he’d been the compromise candidate they’d eventually selected.  Now he was stuck with the job.

He’d been a regional Censorate commander in Cormeer for less than a year, when the first news of the criminal known as The Spellmonger had reached his ears through official channels.  That had where the disaster in the west had begun, from what he could tell.  The fucking Spellmonger.

Reports were jumbled.  From what he could tell some upstart village hedgewitch off in far Alshar had picked a fight with a tribe of the casadalain – the gurvani, the westerners called them – and the mountain feud had spiraled out of control.  Preposterous claims that the gurvani were using irionite – irionite! – in the war had been used to justify the dangerous practice of using allegedly captured pieces of it themselves for “defense.”  Instead of putting a stop to it at once, the local Censorate had sat on its thumbs, and by the time that the Censor General had gotten involved, the damn Duke of Castal had used the whole affair as an excuse to forge a crown for himself – and a kingdom out of two and a half Duchies.  But worst of all, the idiot had tried to overturn the Bans on Magic, exile the Censorate, and allowed every manner of magical depravity in his realm.  By this spring there had been so-called “high magi” everywhere in the west, flaunting their forbidden irionite while using its power to prop up the regime.

That had been in direct violation of the Bans on Magic he was sworn to uphold.  The problem was, without Ducal support in the western three duchies, the Censorate had no power there.  Worse, it had been expelled from the nascent kingdom, the Censorate’s considerable assets within its borders had been seized and given over to the renegades, and his sworn brothers were attacked if they lingered in uniform.

Now it was General Aleem’s task to stitch his wounded order back together and find it new purpose.  It was a daunting task.  So daunting that older and wiser heads had demurred at taking it and forced it on him.  He had complained to Commander Gorvun, who had himself gotten rid of the title as soon as he could, once he realized how hopeless the task was.  The old Censor had become his aide, once Aleem had been elected, and had even accompanied him to his audience with the Duke.  He’d laid out Aleem’s perspective nicely after hearing his complaints before the audience:

“If you think you’re getting screwed by this honor, lad,” he’d said in his folksy manner, as he advised the new Censor General, “just remember that you’re only just barely feeling the head of the thing, at the moment.”

But Aleem was a man of honor, the scion of a noble house.  Aleem had been a sworn brother of the Censorate for nine years, now, and he had the respect of his peers.  He would not walk away from an institution that had cared for him and given him purpose when he had lacked it.  He would repay that debt, now, he affirmed to himself.  He would represent the wishes of his brothers and do his best to fulfill the will of the law.  But he was under no illusions of the reality of the situation, or how much depended on his performance.  If this audience went well, there would be a future for the Censorate.  If it did not . . . the order’s days were numbered.

As distasteful as he found the act, Aleem’s first audience with a duke was his best opportunity to find stable footing for his brothers again.  It had taken months to set up.  He had crossed hundreds of miles to be here with the tepid blessings and reluctant approval of his regional commanders.  He had waited three days in the capital, so different than his homeland in Cormeer.

But finally, at the end of hours, a castellan in a richly-embroidered tunic quietly approached him.

“The Duke will see you now, General,” the man said, and without awaiting a reply, turned on his heel and began to lead.  Aleem was obliged to follow.  He had no idea where anything was in this maze of a palace.  He doubted he could even find the entrance without recourse to a spell.

The Duke was waiting for him in a study, of some sort, though most studies did not include a trio of hounds lounging on the floor among the stacks of books and shelves of scrolls.  The Duke was rumored to have several uncouth habits.

The man did not rise, though he wasn’t expected to.  He was the lord of millions, after all, and Aleem was but commander of hundreds.  Still, there was a casual disrespect the duke demonstrated from the moment Aleem entered the room that bothered the Censor General.

“Your Grace, may I present His Excellency, Censor General Aleem of the Royal Censorate of Magic,” the castellan announced in a reasonably loud tone.  It was professionally delivered, but Aleem could not help but note the slight sarcastic emphasis on the word ‘royal’.

Aleem gave his deepest and most respectful bow.

“Your Grace, it is an honor and pleasure to meet you,” he said, solemnly.  He tried not to sound obsequious.  That would be presenting the wrong appearance.

“Likewise,” the duke dismissed, finally looking up from the sheaf of parchment in front of him.  “General, have a seat.  We can ignore formality for the moment.  We need to speak frankly.”

Aleem swallowed but did his best to appear stoic as he nodded and took the chair the castellan offered him.

“I am at Your Grace’s disposal,” he said, nodding.

“Of course you are,” chuckled the duke.  “The fact is, you’re at my mercy, and I know it.  And you know it, if you have a brain in your head.”

“Duke Andrastal,” Aleem began, respectfully, “of course you are aware of the fortunes of my order.  When the usurper stripped us of our customary responsibilities and impounded our commandaries, exiled those who would not succumb to his misbegotten—”

“As you said,” interrupted the Duke of Merwyn, “I am aware of your plight.  And you are aware of mine.  Now, shall we dance around formalities and laws and legalisms, or shall we act like men and discuss the reality of our mutual predicament?”

Aleem paused, while the duke stared at him in challenge.  For all of his Narasi pedigree, he looked as classically Imperial as any Archmage from the histories.  The Merwyni ducal family had intermarried with its conquered high nobles extensively, making the Merwyni royalty more like the conquered than their northern and western kin.  And there were rumors of inbreeding, Aleem knew.  The man’s eyes were just a bit too close together, Aleem decided, and his high forehead was striking.

But those eyes . . . this was a man who understood power in his innermost core.

“Your Grace, I feel candor would be best, in this case,” he agreed, slowly.  Did he really have a choice, when presented with such options?

“Good.  It is my hope that you’ll be a reasonable man, and not a fanatic.”

“Your Grace will find I am a pragmatist, and merely wish to see to the best interests of my order.”

“Your . . . order.  Your order, General, is suddenly highly problematic.  And it seems to be responsible for my idiot cousin’s present delusions of grandeur.   And so now we have a damned king to contend with.”

“I am afraid I was not privy to that development.  Nor do I approve.  The legitimacy of this so-called king is open to question.  Not all recognize Rard’s authority, Sire,” Aleem pointed out.  “Yourself, for instance.”

“Nor yourself.  We both hate Rard, on that we can agree.  Hardly a breakthrough in negotiations.  The fact is, General, your order was once useful, in part because it was somewhat neutral.  The unique nature of its charter gave it certain advantages in keeping the magi in line, advantages that the various ducal houses have enjoyed in the past.  Especially magi beyond the reach of my civil authority.”

Aleem colored at that.  Theoretically, the Censorate was supposed to be above such political fighting, but it was an open secret that the order had sold, given, and lent its aid and support to various houses over the years in return for patronage and a free hand in pursuing their mandate.   Thanks to the trans-jurisdictional nature of the Censorate, on more than one occasion had a troublesome political nuisance been suddenly “detained for magical examination” by the Censorate, whether there was need or not.

It wasn’t something Aleem was particularly proud about his order.  But it had also been key to the Censorate’s survival.  He swallowed.

“No doubt, Sire.  I cannot speak to that, either.”

“Of course you can’t.  You’re a fairly young man.  And, despite your honor and bravery, you have been cruelly used by your elder brothers, I think.  They put you in this position because you’re expendable, you see.  The members of your order, I mean.  The Censorate was once a great way to regulate magic, but now . . . now I fear that it has neither the manpower nor the capability to meaningfully regulate magic.  Anywhere.”

“Your Grace, that is unfair!” Aleem said, shaking his head.  “Respectfully, Sire, few of our operations in your realm were upset by the usurper’s rash actions.  The function and mission of the Ccensorate need not diminish, in Merwyn or Vore.”  He stated the case confidently and boldly.  Duke Andrastal was unconvinced.

“Of course it will,” the duke said, sourly.  He looked up to the castellan.  “Wine?” he asked, and went back to speaking to Aleem as the man went to fetch some.  “How can your order contend with the magi, now that the irionite stones are being used again?”

“The Censorate has many resources, Your Grace,” Aleem replied, evenly.  “We’ve dealt with witchstones before.”

“Sure you have,” the duke nodded, scornfully.  “I’m familiar with the histories – I have my own Court Mage, you know.  Your order has defeated them, when they arise . . . one at a time.  The last major incident before Farise was in Letalgaw, in my father’s time, when a witch discovered a stone and began healing with it.  Your predecessor at the time invested heavily in defeating her.”

“Which we did,” reminded Aleem.  “The Witch of Letalgaw and her coven were brought to the King’s Justice.”

“And she required dozens of Censors to contain.  And that is just one of dozens of accounts, over the years,” added Andrastal with a low chuckle.  Aleem looked up in surprise.  The Censorate took great care to conceal its activities from politics.  “Don’t be surprised that I’m aware of the outbreaks that occurred in Merwyn.  The Magocracy loyalists used witchstones quite liberally in the original insurgency against our ancestors.  Indeed they are largely why the Censorate was formed in the first place.”

“I am gratified that the Duke understands the important role the Order has played in the duchies’ operations,” Aleem said, stiffly.

“Yes, very gratified.  But that begs the question of what to do with you now.   And what you can do for me.  Have you had any reports from what these great magi, or whatever they’re called, what they can do on the battlefield?  This Spellmonger who leads them, it is said he conjured a fire elemental.  A wall of living flame dozens of feet high.  It slew thousands in minutes, my informants have said.”

“No doubt an exaggeration, Sire,” assured Aleem.

“I don’t pay my informants to exaggerate!” the duke insisted, suddenly angry as he slammed his fist down on the table.  “They had better tell me precisely the truth, or I’ll get a new informant.  And dispose of the old one, and they know it.  Do you know what they reported?  They saw spells of profound power being tossed around like treats at a fair.  Thousands of goblins died.  Rard even saw fit to reward that Spellmonger with estates and titles.  Magelord, he’s called now.  The first of many, it is said.”

Aleem nodded.  He had seen that report months ago himself.  There were dozens of so-called “magelords”, the title a perversion, between Remere and the Mindens, now.  Some were even former brothers of the Order.  “Their depravity knows no bounds.”

The old man laughed mirthlessly.  “It has nothing to do with depravity, Aleem.  It is a matter of governance.  You can’t have someone that powerful wandering around without some institutional controls.  Otherwise we would have a third Magocracy by now, and we don’t.”

“I don’t know why we don’t.  Duke Rard is an idiot!” snorted Aleem, boldly.  Only his position and his order’s desperation had given his tongue license to speak of Andrastal’s royal cousin.

“Rard might be an idiot, but his wife isn’t.  Grendine is another cousin of mine, and a damn clever one.  She’s got this Spellmonger and his colleagues working on a way to regulate themselves.  Imagine, a hundred magi armed with witchstones . . . watching each other’s ethics!”

“Unthinkable, Sire!” he scoffed, sipping the rich Cormeeran vintage the castellan presented him in a silver cup.

“Yet isn’t that what we’ve trusted the Censorate to do for four centuries?” demanded Andrastal, suddenly, pausing his cup on its way to his lip.  “We’ve trusted your order to watch the other magi, and looked the other way when you went . . . beyond the limits of decency,” he said, his voice low.  “Such as burning six little girls to death while their mothers look on, wailing.”

Guzkia.  The bastard was talking about Guzkia.

It was his first year as a Censor, just after his final oaths and confirmation.  He’d been assigned a western Cormeeran barony, up in the hills, a rustic region of poor shepherds, tin miners and hill farms.  The priests were barely literate.  But when a cultic coven of witches had arisen in Guzkia, the clergy hadn’t even been able to properly write up a complaint.  He’d investigated, with two lay brothers as support.

The six young women who had congregated around the crone in the deep woods all had possessed Talent, to be certain.  None had been officially tested, and before a reputable mage could be summoned they had fallen under the witch’s spell.  But their powers were certain.  They’d consorted with a local goddess of fey reputation and began prophesying.  That was strictly forbidden by the Bans.  It had terrified the ignorant monks, rightly enough, and he’d seen why.

It was scandalous enough that they were prophesying – but what they were prophesying was horrific.  One of the young witches, a noviate run away from her convent, was literate and writing down every dangerous prophecy to be carried far and wide.  Men had received word that their wives had died three days before they’d passed from the Maids of Guzkia.  They’d predicted the births of heirs and the outcomes of duels, the demise of lords and the rise of fortunes.

Secretive pilgrims had come to the nearby village seeking their counsel on matters of import, bypassing the spiritual counsel of the clergy and seeking forbidden thaumaturgic advice.  Local reeves were upset with the strange goings on – peasants suddenly coming into money, poor folk experiencing unexpected windfalls, and gossip and scandal running rife.  The baron was terrified that insurrection or peasant rebellion would break out – some of the prophecies that had reached his ears had spelled doom for his reign.

Aleem had been a bright young man, back then, his head filled with the regulations of the Bans and his heart filled with idealistic determination to see them rigorously enforced.  He’d investigated, found clear cause to act, and within days had arrested all seven women and had them imprisoned in the baronial castle.

Yet they still continued to prophesy, from their dark cells.  Within days the barony was filled with portents of doom and destruction, and the weak-minded were compelled to try to appease the local goddess they’d communed with by sacrifice and devotions at a spontaneous shrine in the woodlands.  He’d had the clergy pull down the shrine – that was their prerogative – but he had ruthlessly tried and condemned all seven witches as quickly as he could.

The crone was no problem – she had no family and had been an isolated hedgewitch for years.  But the six young girls were problematic.  The oldest was fifteen, and the youngest was nine.  They considered themselves sisters in their coven, and there was a lot of drama and tears as he questioned them, as procedure demanded, and then passed judgment on them.

The Bans were clear, in these cases: prophecy was a danger to the social order, and a violation of the Bans.  Nor was it likely to die down after a warning, he knew – the annals were filled with cases where such attempts had not only failed, but had blown up into much larger problems.  The Bans directed that those who would not repent of their actions and assent to having their minds’ capacity for magic destroyed.

They would not relent.  They had the temerity to prophesy even during their testimony, several dire and foreboding oracles concerning him, the Order he served, and their mutual future.  He had acted swiftly, as his mentors had counselled: he condemned them all to burn as an example of defiance of the Bans.  It had been a difficult decision, but it had seemed clear-cut.

Then the girl’s families began arriving in Guzkia, after the trial and condemnation.  They’d gotten a local priestess involved and petitioned the baron, who held himself powerless.  Aleem was forced to call for support in order to see the execution through, despite the wailing and tears of the mothers and fathers of the girls.  In the end, he’d done his duty and seen all seven of them roasted alive in the castle’s bailey while their parents screamed hysterically at their daughters’ horrific death cries.

There had nearly been an insurrection, after that.  Some of the cultists had seized a shrine and had begun calling for rebellion.  The baron sent his knights in, but the peasants had rioted in response.  The harvest was burned in the fields, and the insurrection had nearly spread.  The aftermath had been just as awful.  The baron had died mysteriously and his lands were ravaged by his heirs.  The villagers had quieted down only after nearly a hundred had been slain.  A much older Censor was brought in to soothe tensions.  Aleem had been re-assigned, after a lengthy inquest and intensive re-instruction.  The entire affair was considered sordid, by the masters of the order at the time, and news of it was repressed.

The incident had haunted his career ever since.  Even postings where it was never explicitly discussed, he’d been aware of how the other Censors regarded him.  Respect . . . but also repugnance.  He was the man who had burned seven witches alive in front of their kin his first year and put down a dangerous outbreak of dangerous prophecy.

He suddenly realized that his youthful zeal and ruthless pursuit of the Bans had been one of the reasons why he’d been elected to this thankless position.  Not only did it appease the order’s desire for a proven hard-edged zealot, unafraid of doing what needed to be done, but it gave them the respectability of distance from a leader who might prove . . . unstable.

Dukes had been known to execute Censors General in the past with near impunity . . . and that had been when the Censorate was at the height of its power.  Now?  If Andrastal did not like the way he negotiated, it was simple enough to return his head to Nablus and request another Censor General for counsel, he suddenly realized.  His position did not protect him from the Duke’s displeasure . . . it invited it.

That was bad enough for Aleem to contend with.  But then he’d served the Order in battle with witches and warlocks for over a decade, and nearly lost his life several times.  No, what compounded his fear was the fulfillment of prophecy.

The Sisters of Guzkia had chanted for days, before they burned.  Procedure demanded that they be publically displayed in shackles for the revilement and instruction of the public for five days, and local lords and reeves were ordered to give all men up to a day off of their labor to bear witness to the criminals.  But the Sisters were revered, not reviled, by the folk of Guzkia and its environs.  Great crowds gathered, but despite the encouragement of his men they would not rebuke the little girls.

Day after day they continued their chanting, spewing forth one vile, oddly-formed prediction of future events after another.  They seemed to have a stanza for every man and woman present, which only increased the emotion in the mob.  The guards tried to gag them when they spoke but the crowd would not abide it.  Even the priests began to turn against them, as the hours before execution approached.

At noon the day before the designated hour, he’d had the crowds cleared away, hoping that the Sisters would stop their predictions.  They stilled . . . but they would still babble their prophesies toward any man or woman in earshot.  If only a few or even a single guard the seven would chant relentlessly to him of the tiniest secrets of their futures, until they broke down in tears at the tragedies predicted for them . . . or sought new destinies, when such fates were given to them by the witches.

He posted a deaf mute turnkey to watch them that night, but he could not help but stand vigil awhile over the seven women he’d signed into oblivion.  He felt responsible to them, and a duty to his order, as he strode boldly across the bailey and stood in front of the condemned.  The six girls stared at him unblinking as the old crone curled up on the pallet of straw in her wooden cage for her last night’s sleep.

But then it came.  From first one young, certain voice to another, the witches had reeled off one line of predictive verse after another, concerning Aleem.  He told himself as he stood there that this was an exercise in defiance, in duty to an ideal.  But as the young women uttered one revelation after another to him, like a relentless volley of arrows they struck around him . . . and some struck home.

He had borne it for hours, until the waxing moon had long fell from the sky.  Each prophesy inspired a denial in his mind, but he held his peace and let them accrue.  He stared back at the witches with steely resolve trying to convince himself that they were liars and deceivers and cursed agents of fate . . . but the words that stung him most clung to him like barbed bodkins.  He carried them in his heart, still.

Your rise to the heights propelled by our blaze

When the Duke’s lips themselves invoke our pyre

General be your rank, your ears full of praise

But thy Censorate shall fall, consumed by the fire.

Not particularly hopeful words when he’d heard them, twelve years ago.  Hardly believable then, that he’d ever attain the rank of General or meet a Duke.  And if such a hopeful and probable thing should come to pass, he’d reasoned, it could only conceivably befall him at the end of a long and distinguished career, when that shameful episode was forgotten by all.

Yet here he was, Censor General, and here was the Duke of Merwyn, invoking their horrible executions.  Just as they had prophesied.  Did that mean the rest of their curse would come to pass?

Guzkia wasn’t something he could deny.  He wasn’t proud of it, but it was on his record.  It was a success, technically, despite the wave of suicides and waves of insurrection that had followed.  Aleem straightened.  He might be judged in the eye of the Duke, but he had done his duty.

“Your point, Your Grace?” he asked, calmly.

“My point is that if we have to trust you lot to oversee your lot, I prefer a regulator who has the experience and record to be effective.  If you are willing to put six girls to death with the country on the edge of insurrection, then calmly ride off into a solid career, you might be the man with the nerve I need as the head of that department.”

“Sire, I have taken an oath—”

“To a king dead four hundred years, and a mage-hating womanizing shit of a human being, if the sacred family records can be trusted,” grunted the duke with a sneer.  “I am his descendent, and not the only one.  You report to a fiction, as Rard rightly pointed out.  A fiction that is no longer useful, with an actual crown around to contest it.”

“Yet you said—”

“I said we needed you lot to police you lot, and I wasn’t wrong.  I also said you might be the man for the job, not that your order was.”

“I will not forsake my oath, Your Grace!”

“Then use your loyalty to its purpose help you to transform it, General!” insisted Andrastal.  “You cannot undo what Rard and his Spellmonger have done.  Nor do I want you to.  What I want is for you to head the new magical regulatory arm of the Duchy that will replace the Censorate of Magic.  If you wish my support in utilizing the corpse of that order to rebuild it to suit my purposes, we may reach an understanding here, General.  It has resources and men of value to the purpose.  But your mandate stops at my frontier . . . officially.”

That wasn’t what Aleem was expecting.  None of this was what Aleem was expecting.

“Your Grace, there are those zealots among my brothers who—”

“Who will cool their passions of the moment in deference to such an important time of transformation, because it is their duty to do so.  Nor will any who start trouble in the new Kingdom in the misguided name of vengeance or allegiance to a lost order be protected by my House.

“But . . .’ he added, after a pause, in a quieter voice, “in the course of the prosecution of my foreign policy, there will – undoubtedly – be occasion where I will need action, as well as deniability.  An underground, insurgent remnant of a ‘lost’ Order who occasionally strikes, in defiance of policy and answerable to no one but their own concealed elders?  That, General, would be a very useful tool of policy.”

Aleem paused, wondering what the right answer was.  “I suppose it could be, Your Grace.” Tepid, he decided.  If he was here to negotiate, as suggested, he needed to protect the interests of his brothers.  “But such a sacrifice, with no hope of victory, would be hard for them to bear.”

“They will learn to bear it, or their usefulness will be their doom,” the wretched old man pronounced.  “The Censorate will never be the power it was.  The game has changed, Aleem, and if you are not willing to adapt, your piece will be removed from the board.  You are no longer a player . . . accept that.”

That’s not what the Witches of Guzkia had said.

He nodded, instead of defying the Duke.  “I understand my role in all of this, Your Grace.  You will have my cooperation.  But . . . if I am to enforce your policies, I should have some idea of what they are to be.”

“Nothing too challenging,” Andrastal shrugged dismissively.  “For the most part your role as regulators and enforcers will remain unchanged.   As to the regulations you enforce, I think we can both agree that it is time for some reform to shake the dust of the hoary halls of the magical profession, don’t you think?”

“Our goal was not to promote magic, but to control it,” Aleem said, quietly.

“Yet I need an agency who can manage both.  And we know why.  That damned Spellmonger has unleashed irionite and put it in the hands of my idiot cousin.  And warmagi who are trained to use it, now.  What do you think that means to the knights who tend my frontiers?  Who fight in my wars?  When they hear of warmagi who can slaughter thousands of goblins with a fire elemental, how eager do you think they’ll be for battle?”

“I . . . I know not, Sire!” Aleem said.  “I hadn’t considered—”

“Of course you haven’t,” snapped the Duke.  “A month ago you were still being given watch duty,” he snorted.  Aleem colored.  It had been one infraction, but even his week of night watches at Nablus had come to the canny Duke’s attention.  “But I have, ever since I’ve heard of it.  Our ancestors conquered the Empire because we avoided such encounters.  Magic has never been our strength.”

“But it has been yours.  I need to know that if you serve this Duchy, you can do it with might.”

“You want the Censorate to . . . use sorcery?”

“I want it to open its vaults, take out some of the powerful toys you’ve been hiding, and grow a godsdamned set of balls!” barked the Duke.  “Asking wizards to use magic!  Like asking knights to use lances or whores to use their cunts!  Grow some godsdamned balls, Aleem, and be the warmagi you were trained to be!”

“In service of a single Duke . . .”

“Oh, I can get that whiner in Vore to do what I want, if you need the validation,” Andrastal snorted.  “We own my cousin’s realm in debt, alone.  But yes, you will politically in service to the Duchy.  To me.  You will regulate magic, and you will do so at my behest . . . and be dismissed at my displeasure.  But avoiding that, you may not only do as you are accustomed with the full authority of my rule – which, after all, has always been the case in reality.  And only your new corps would be allowed to wield such powerful magic as irionite,” he added.

“You would permit—

“Permit?  General, I demand!  You have some in your vaults, I know, more than a dozen stones.  Remove them, and put them in the hands of able men who know their duty.  Men who can fight,” he said, his eyes glowing with excitement, “fight the way the warrior-magi of old once did!”

“My men are regulators,” Aleem reminded him.

“They are largely from the military class,” Andrastal riposted, “and they certainly have the capacity.  The Censorate has a long history of hurting people and breaking things – how, exactly, they are employed to do so is a matter of training and will.  The Spellmonger has certainly done much with some of your former comrades, from what I understand.  I expect to see no less from this new corps, once they are properly equipped.”

Aleem nodded.  Then his conscience goaded him to push for more.  “Yes, Your Grace.  The renegades and oathbreakers have mastered greater warmagics.  But one incentive for them to do so without problem was the promise of restored nobility.”

The Duke looked at him sharply.  “You propose I follow the Castali – pardon, the Castalshari lead and overturn the Bans entirely, General?  That doesn’t seem very faithful to your ideal,” he noted.

Aleem considered how he answered carefully.  “I was merely making an observation, Sire.  It is for Your Grace to make policy in his realm.”

Andrastal’s eyes narrowed, and then he grinned.  “So, you are smarter than you look, General.  Good.  Yes, I shall be restoring the prospect of nobility to the magi, on a case-by-case basis.  For most it will be a minor adjustment – half of the noble families in Merwyn have magi as kin, and they are extended the same address out of custom and courtesy.  Allowing them to take lands and own property is clearly a way to inspire development and industry among your folk.  And bind them to their social class.

“But don’t expect me to start handing out titles and lands with abandon, like Rard,” Andrastal warned, suddenly.  “The last thing I need is a new power at court.  His magelords are already starting trouble, and that is trouble we can ill-afford.  Your Order may retain its holdings for use of the new institution, at your discretion.  Organize them as you wish, as long as you get the job done.  Hells, build yourself a palace, for all I care.  But you are now responsible for the behavior of the magi in my realm.”

“Isn’t that the job of the Court Wizard?”

“That old sot?  He keeps the books.  You keep the arms.  I need arms more than books.  Is that a responsibility you are willing to shoulder, General?”

“Yes,” he assured the Duke, without hesitation.  Whether he could manage it was another matter – but he was not unwilling.  “But is that title entirely appropriate anymore, Sire?”

Andrastal smiled, knowingly.  “I care not what you call yourself, Aleem.  Save the title ‘archmage’, which might cause some trouble of its own.”

“Of course, Sire,” agreed Aleem.  “If this is to be a martial order, then I suggest we stick to the simple institutional form of a chivalric order.  That is what the Censorate most resembles, in practice.  And there is ample precedent – the Cormeeran Corsairs,” he pointed out.  “And the Order of Thorns.”

The former had once been a council of sea captains who had once held the Cormeeran coastlines independent of the Empire, and maintained a cultural hold because of their quasi-official status as noble pirates.  The latter was a cold-blooded order of master heavy cavalry chosen from the cream of Merwyni chivalry.  The Thorns held several contentious castles on behalf of the Duke, places where a purely political appointment was problematic for whatever reason.  When the Knights of Thorns occupied a castle – or a privy, for that matter – the Duke and his foes knew it would be held to the last breath of the last combatant.

“An excellent point,” conceded Andrastal.  “And both enjoy a Ducal charter.  A similar order for the magi, then?  With similar responsibilities?”

“I think it would be fit, Sire.  And it follows that the head of such an order be given title, rank and status accordingly.”

“So what would you style yourself, then, Aleem?”

Aleem paused, to give the appearance of giving it some thought.  But his title had been laid upon him twelve years before, on that fateful night.  “Your Grace, the head of such an order would be known as a Grandmaster.”

“From General to Grandmaster?” Andrastal smiled.  “That is acceptable.  Send me a proposal for the order’s charter, but keep the title . . . innocuous, won’t you?  Nothing too aggressive.  And those cloaks . . . the black and white is distinctive.  I like it, but change the colors, perhaps.”

“To red,” Aleem agreed.  “A more martial color for a more martial order.”

“Just the thing!  And when the charter is approved, I’ll elevate your position to the Greater Council of Ministers, with the other militant orders.  I knew we could reach an understanding,” the duke nodded in approval.  “And for that I am thankful.  You keep the magi under control, fight for me when I call, and you can do as you like, Grandmaster Aleem.  I think this is the start of a long and fruitful partnership,” he said with a sigh of satisfaction.

They toasted their bargain, as custom dictated, and then the Duke presented him with a fanciful ornamental dagger richly gilded and encrusted with jewels, once owned by a famous Archmage and reputed to have arcane power, though Andrastal dismissed the importance of such a thing.  A spoil of his ancestors’ conquest, held in his treasury gathering dust.

“Let it be the new symbol of your command of the Order,” Andrastal said, solemnly, presenting it to him. “You need one, to symbolize the transition.”

Aleem was more familiar with the blade.  It had been borne by the second archmage of the Restoration Period of the Middle Magocracy.  More than eighteen inches long, two inches wide at the guard, leaf-shaped with an asymmetrical curled guard.  He’d seen it in old manuscript illuminations, and on some ancient tapestries and paintings, decorating the hip of the Archmage.  It had been forged by the Alon, and was known as Livaktus.  “Bodyguard”, in some obscure dialect of Perwynese.  He drew it, feeling the subtle presence of . . . something beckoning to him, when he did so.  He snapped it back into the sheath, silencing the call.

There was a witchstone in the guard of the dagger, only revealed when drawn.  He was certain of it.

The Duke droned on, ignorant of what power he’d just handed Aleem.  He had an impulse to strike the man down on the spot and seize power, making himself king of Merwyn . . . but he knew he could not.  He knew his path.  Aleem took his leave of the sovereign, his new prize in his belt, a new mandate for his order.

But he took no joy in the promotion, not because it effectively ended the Censorate of Magic’s four-hundred year tradition; no, he was somber about his appointment because it was foreordained by the Maids of Guzkia.

When the Censorate falls by Duke’s command,

East splits from west along the arcane divide;

The Grandmaster takes the ancient blade in hand:

The fate of thy order is thine to decide!

Here was the ancient blade; here he was, the Grandmaster of the Order.  Yet it was a hollow victory, for it not only fulfilled blasphemous prophecy, but it made the likelihood of their other predictions, which seemed so silly and far-fetched a dozen years ago, seem far greater.  And those powerful prophecies were what he was really afraid of.

It wasn’t the Order he feared falling, nor even the Duchy of Merwyn, to which he owed at least some loyalty as a Cormeeran.  The prophecies by the Maids of Guzkia that he dreaded were for more severe:

The Grandmaster submits to the Spellmonger’s rule

The West lies in ruin as darkness grows

The Censor transformed into High Magic’s tool

United in purpose, the shadow opposed.

Humanity imperiled by darkness assembled,

Ancient evils conspire in shadow to destroy;

Powers unleashed to make the gods tremble,

Our survival demands the magic you employ.

The Duke betrayed, the Kingdom shattered

This be your bounty for the maidens you burn

The loss of all you think that matters:

The Archmage ascendant, the Forsaken returned.

“How did it go?” asked Commander Gorvun, when he’d returned to the small chamber his aide been required to wait within.  “I cannot help but notice you still have a head.  Do we still have a Censorate?”

“We have an order,” Aleem sighed, heavily.  “An arcane chivalric order.  The Order of . . . Nablus.  Why not?  We have to name it something,” he said, bitterly.  “We keep our lands, and we can be ennobled, and His Grace requires that we be the custodians of irionite, in his employ.”

“And the rest?” asked the grizzled old warmage.

“What do you mean?” Aleem asked, surprised.  He thought he’d covered the negotiations sufficiently for the old man’s satisfaction.

“Did he give you the blade, lad?” he asked, one eye cocked.

“The . . . blade?”  It was tucked in his belt, behind his back, and under his mantle.

“The blade the witches spoke of?” Gorvun asked, in a low voice.

Aleem stared at the man.  Everyone who had been there to hear the prophecy that night was dead, now, save Aleem and . . .

“The deaf mute,” he sighed, realizing the resemblance between the two.  “That was you?”

“Simple spell, temporary,” shrugged Gorvun.  “The Commander felt it wise to send someone with experience to watch over you on your first mission, is all.”

“So you heard . . . you heard everything that night?  Everything they prophesied?”

“And remember it with perfect magical recall,” agreed Gorvun.  “But did he give you the blade?   None of those prophesies can come true if he didn’t give you the blade!”

Wordlessly, Aleem pulled the ancient dagger from behind his back and held it out for the veteran’s inspection.  The man’s face fell, and then took a resigned look.

“Aye, I suppose it’s true, then,” the old Censor sighed, heavily.  “We are committed.  And the Censorate is at an end.”

“You really think so?” Aleem asked, hoping the older man would discover a way back to simpler times.

“Lad, the Censorate has been collecting prophesies from outlaws for four hundred years,” explained the old man as they headed toward the stables.  “You didn’t think we just threw them all away, did you?  Nay, there are things you must know, that you do not.  It was decided not to tell you unless we had to, but that blade ensures it.  You are our leader,” he proclaimed, clapping Aleem on the shoulder.  “That much is clear.  The one to lead us out of darkness.  Or something like that.  But I’m glad you got the blade,” he said, nodding grimly.

“Why?  The irionite?”

“Oh, it’s more than an item with a witchstone, lad,” nodded the man, rubbing his beard.  “There’s much more to it than that.  But more importantly, it may be the only thing that can save humanity.  Or doom it.”

“It doesn’t look that powerful,” shrugged Aleem.  He knew he was speculating – the dagger seethed with magic.

“It’s not how powerful it is, it’s what it does,” Gorvun assured him.  “From what I understand, somehow or other that blade is the only thing that can bring back . . . the Forsaken.”  He glanced down at it and then back up at his commander.  “Try not to lose it, Grandmaster.”

The End

Thank you for reading my stuff!

You may reach the author at tmancour@gmail.com with any questions!