Hedgewitch

Book 14 Of The Spellmonger Series

By Terry Mancour

Copyright © January, 2022

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Dedication

To Sara Jane “Sam” Raines

And Shava Nerad

The two hedgewitches who taught me what witchcraft is all about.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One                     The Tower Arcane

Chapter Two             An Unexpected Assassin

Chapter Three          The Game Of Whispers

Chapter Four                            Skeldor Hall

Chapter Five                     Starting A Garden

Chapter Six                      An Attack In The Darkness

Chapter Seven         An Unexpected Reunion

Chapter Eight                   Into The Westlands

Chapter Nine    On The Problems Of Prophecy

Chapter Ten                              Reconnaissance

Chapter Eleven                 A Return To Vanador

Chapter Twelve                The Children’s Table

Chapter Thirteen                      A Summer In Vorone

Chapter Fourteen             The Gardens Of Vorone

Chapter Fifteen                     An Unexpected War

Chapter Sixteen                        Redshaft Of Nirod

Chapter Seventeen           A Crisis In Gilmora

Chapter Eighteen                              A Devious Plan

Chapter  Nineteen            The Royal Palace at Kaunis

Chapter Twenty                        Rondal’s Army

Chapter Twenty-One        The Frustrations Of Power

Chapter Twenty-Two                The Flame of Revolt

Chapter Twenty-Three              The Matter of Wilderhall

Chapter Twenty-Four                Occupied Wilderhall

Chapter Twenty-Five        The Fields of Barrowbell

Chapter Twenty-Six          The Spellmonger’s Return

Chapter Twenty-Seven              The Shadow of Anghysbel

Chapter Twenty-Eight               Assault On Karantos Manor

Chapter Twenty-Nine                        Lanara’s Debut

Chapter Thirty                  A Chat With Karakush

Chapter Thirty-One                           A Renewed Sense of Purpose

Chapter Thirty-Two           Negotiations and Resolutions

Chapter Thirty-Three                        Revelations

Chapter Thirty-Four                  Domestic Affairs

Chapter Thirty-Five                          Exile’s End

Chapter Thirty-Six                            Gossip and Chaos

Chapter Thirty-Seven                                Aftermath

Chapter Thirty-Eight                 The Black Feather

Chapter Thirty-Nine                  Recriminations

Chapter Forty                  Planning and Plotting

Epilogue

Prologue

Pay Attention When An Old Dog Barks

Alshari Folk Saying

Jamarain was rinsing out her tea glass in the basin when the vision overtook her.

They happened infrequently, since she’d come back to Inmar, the city of her birth.  She had once hoped that they had left her altogether, they were so troublesome; at the same time, she almost missed the overwhelming sensations that took her out of her body that the gods had given her.  She had long understood when one of them was coming over her – the feeling was unmistakable, once you’d had it.

Blessing or curse, there was a familiarity to the experience that was comforting, even if the loss of control was disconcerting.  As she felt it come on, like a wave in rough seas, she had the foresight to gently set down the glass before she dropped and shattered it, then gripped the table with both wrinkled hands.  If she was lucky, she knew, she could endure the approaching mental onslaught without falling.

This one was bad, she could tell at once.  Jamarain had had thousands of episodes over the years, and most were mild.  Some were not.  There seemed to be some correlation between the importance of the vision and the severity of the episode, she knew, and this one washed over her like a thunderous gale striking the shore.

“Jamarain?” her grandson, Greaan, called, alarmed, as she suddenly stiffened.  “Is there something wrong?”

Before she could reassure the boy, the fit consumed her entirely, and she was no longer in her cozy little flat in Inmar.  Her body stiffened, her eyes went blank, and she was gone, lost in the vision.

She did not know how long she was possessed, for in such states time lost all meaning.  She had no control over them.  Jamarain was merely a vessel, an observer, with no more influence over the vision than she had over the sunset.  Each one seemed to last an eternity, as the universe poured information into her mind.  Yet rarely did they last even a minute, to those around her who witnessed an episode.

“Jamarain?” Greaan called again, more agitated, when the fog finally lifted from her mind and the basin, tea glass, and the sight of her white-knuckled hands grasping the table came back into focus.  “Jamarain!  Are you all right?”

“I . . .” she began, her mind confused and scattered by the profundities she’d learned. “I . . . I am fine, Greaan,” she finally gasped, forcing herself to focus on the glass.  It seemed different, strange, somehow, but she knew it was the same as it had been a moment before. She consciously ordered her hands to unclasp their grip on the table.  “I . . . I just had one of my little episodes,” she admitted, with a deep sigh, forcing a little smile on her lips.  She did not want to frighten the boy.  As much as her heart was pounding and her head was spinning, she tried to act normally.

“Again?” her grandson asked, skeptically.  “You just had one a few weeks ago!”

“When you get old, that sort of thing is expected,” she explained, quietly, as she forced her hands to release their grip on the old table.

“I don’t like it,” he stated, matter-of-factly.  “Isn’t there anything you can do about it?” the boy asked, concerned.  “Do you need a healer?”

Jamarain straightened her sore back and sighed.  “Alas, no, I’m afraid.  There is no potion nor lotion that can keep such things at bay.”

“But you’re a witch!” Greaan protested, indignantly.  “You should know how to do that!”  He looked so much like his father at his age when he did that, Jamarain noted.

“I’m a retired hedgewitch, not a goddess,” Jamarain said, self-consciously.  “There is no cure for age or the infirmities that come with it in the wisdom of men.  Nor would I try to escape them.  They can even bring you gifts, sometimes,” she said, as she recalled the momentous vision that had stricken her.  “And curses,” she added.

She was speaking from experience.  Jamarain had had an encounter with a goddess, one that had landed her back in Inmar.  She knew how powerful they were.  She also knew how strictly bound they were.

“Can’t the priests do anything?  Or the wizards?” the young boy demanded.  At twelve years old, he had a child’s simple perspective on the powers of the clergy and the magi.  “I hate it when it happens to you.  That looks like it hurt!”

“Pain, too, is one of the companions of age,” she lectured, as she finished rinsing out her glass and replaced it in the wooden rack above the basin.  “Thankfully, so is wisdom.  Like the wisdom to know when to accept what you must, and not pity yourself because you might suffer a bit.  And the wisdom to know when you’ve overstayed your visit, and your parents are getting worried,” she reminded him, gently.

“But if I go home, they’ll make me go to bed!” he protested, making an expressive face that reminded him of her husband, Greaan’s grandfather.  He’d always had a way of telling an entire story with a scowl or a grimace.  It was one of the endearing things she missed about him.

“That’s a common fault of parents,” she chuckled.  “But so is the indulgence of allowing their youngest child to linger with his grandmother for dinner.  And sweet biscuits,” she added, as she saw the boy eyeing the plate of Wilderlands-style honeyed oatcakes she’d prepared for him.

Greaan had been coming over to her little flat several times a week, since she’d returned to Inmar and reintroduced herself to her children.  It had not been an easy reunion.  It had taken months to overcome their suspicion and recriminations over her fleeing the town and abandoning them to their father’s care, but time and patience – and a great deal of biscuits – had gradually gained their trust.  There was no denying their kinship, of course.  She’d proven she was who she claimed she was over and over again.  Her son, Gethan – a prestigious Practical Adept – had performed the spell himself.  She was his mother, he’d had to admit.

But the unresolved questions about her mysterious past and her long absence were still haunting the relationship.  Gethan and his wife were still suspicious and reluctant to embrace her.  Thankfully, Greaan had taken a distinct interest in her, once she’d settled into one of the town’s cheaper residences within walking distance of his fine home.

The sandy-haired boy already had the stirrings of rajira, which was to be expected.  He had magi in his family on both sides, and such things frequently passed from generation to generation.  He was also bright and intelligent, with an unyielding curiosity that would serve him well should he pursue the family profession.  Jamarain fully expected for his Talent to emerge in the coming months as he hit his growth spurt.  Perhaps explosively.  He favored his grandfather in many things, and her husband’s emergence of rajira had involved accidentally igniting a haystack with his nascent magic.

“It’s getting dark,” she reminded him, glancing out of the single window in her simple room.  “We don’t want to worry your parents.  And we don’t want to be wandering the streets after dark.  There are dangers.  Grab your cloak,” she urged, as she picked her walking stick from the rack by the door.  “It’s going to be chilly, by the time we make it back home.”

“Oh, all right!” the boy said, with a resigned sigh.  He pulled on his mantle while she gathered her things into her bag – particularly the pouch containing the project she’d been working on for months – which she tucked into her satchel.  Most of the cosmopolitan residents of Inmar didn’t bother carrying much more than a purse, but Jamarain did not leave her door without her leathern satchel over her shoulder.  It was a habit she’d developed over years as a hedgewitch in the Wilderlands; you never knew what you might need, once you left your home.  Or what you might find.

Or, she added to herself, what might find you.

The streets of Inmar were already growing deserted as the townsfolk settled in for the night.  Lamplighters began their rounds in the twilight, as the evening mists began rolling in off the lake, and the last of the pushcart vendors that were so prevalent here were heading home for the night.  But they were moving in a hurry.  They had heard the rumors too, of course.  No one collects gossip like a pieman.

“They say that Falas has real magelights in town, now,” Greaan informed her, authoritatively, as he marched down the street.  “Now that there’s a new Duke and Duchess, the magi are in good favor in court, again, Dad says.  When will we get magelights here?” he demanded, as they strolled down the street.

“There was a time that such things would have invited the investigations of the Censorate,” she recalled, with a wry chuckle.  “If an adept had produced a sustained magelight, back when I was a little girl, the entire town would be filled with checkered cloaks looking for violators of the Bans.  You’re lucky to live in a time when their power has been broken.”

“Censors are the worst!” he agreed with another beautifully horrid facial expression.  “When are you going to take me fishing, again?” he asked, as he balanced himself on the stone curb of the street.  It amazed her how quickly the boy could change the subject.  Especially towards fishing, one of his favorite pastimes.

“That will be up to your mother,” Jamarain reminded him.  “She wasn’t too happy about you gutting our last catch in the middle of her pantry.  And then neglecting to clean the mess.”

“Oh, she was angry!” the boy chortled in delight.  “She spanked me so hard—”

“Oh, I recall!” she laughed at the memory.  “She was also quite cross with me, if you remember.  But I think we can go again soon,” she said, quietly, as she glanced at the glimpse of lake visible through the elegant skyline of the town.  She did love fishing, here; it reminded her of her own youth.

But then the weight of her vision returned to her, and she knew such an expedition would have to be quite soon.  Or not for a while.  If she survived the night.

“Perhaps I can persuade your mother to take you out after next Market Day,” she decided, as the boy stumbled off the curb.  “I can borrow Bartagan’s boat again, I think – he barely uses it, these days.”

“He’s the one you knew as a little girl?” Greaan asked, catching up to her.

“Oh, yes, Bartagan was once one of the most promising adepts in town,” she agreed.  “General practice, but he specialized in a few very lucrative areas.  Detecting forgeries, for instance, and finding lost items.  Quite a fisherman, too – that’s why he bought the boat.  But he hasn’t done much on the lake since his gout started acting up.  Too much rich food,” she said, disapprovingly.

“Why doesn’t he just cast a spell and cure it?” demanded Greaan, looking confused.

“Because he specialized in detecting forgeries and finding lost items, and not medical magic,” Jamarain reminded him.  “A mage can’t know everything, no matter how old he is. I’ve offered him a tonic that would help ease his suffering, but he says it’s superstition, the old fool.  He’ll trust a medical mage before an old hedgewitch, no matter how long we were acquainted.  And medical magic is an uncommon art, here, unlike Farise.”

“That’s where the pirates are!” agreed her grandson, enthusiastically.

“Among many other places,” she nodded.  “Pirates, slavers, Censors, wicked magi, bloody revolutionaries – but Farise has a tradition of producing the best magi who specialize in medicine.  If the bloody Censors have left them alone,” she added, frowning.

“We hate the bloody Censors!” agreed the boy.

“Language!” chided the grandmother, frowning even more sternly.  “And yes, we do hate the bloody Censors.  Thankfully, good Duke Anguin chased them away.  But it will take the Spellmonger to chase them away from Farise, once and for all,” she said, quietly.  “If he doesn’t die.  Perhaps if he does.  The Spellmonger is the greatest wizard of our age.  And a good friend to our new Duke.  If anyone can do it, he can.”

She dared not say any more to the boy, even casually.  The fate of Count Minalan the Spellmonger was foremost in her mind tonight because he had been the subject of her disturbing recent vision.  In the few seconds she had been lost in a swirl of foresight, she had been plunged into the confusing and chaotic future that had largely concerned that hapless but important name.  So much relied on the strength and will of the Spellmonger; she’d known that for years.  But in one instant, all that she had believed about the man from hundreds of other glimpses into fate – or fortune – had been cast into question.

The issue, she realized, was the contradictory nature of the prophecy.  It was not an uncommon matter, she’d grown to realize.  Seeing what might happen – what would happen – was a dicey matter, at best, subject to broad interpretation.  The most straightforward-seeming prophecy could go askew over some minor detail the prophetess who produced it may misinterpret.  She was certain she’d done it herself, many times.  As profound as the flashes of insight she suffered were, they were brief, intense, and woefully lacking in context.  What might be technically true might also be of damning uselessness, she’d learned in her many years indulging in the forbidden art.

The facts of the matter might seem easy to identify, but without proper context it was far too easy to mistake one meaning for another.  Some elements of her visions were purely symbolic, she knew, while others were starkly factual.  That left ample room for mistakes and misinterpretations.  It required nuance and understanding to cull the useful bits from the disconcerting visions.  And a humble willingness to admit to herself that the prophetess might just not know what in three hells she was talking about.

How could the Spellmonger save the kingdom if he lived, but save the world if he died?  That was the perplexing question that arose in her as she led her grandson back toward his home.  It was much darker, now, and the streets were clearing.  The rumors had spoken of the thing that stalked Inmar by night, and while the city authorities dismissed such talk, she knew it was true after months of studying the matter.  People disappeared in the night in Inmar.

If it was going to happen, she prayed it would not happen until her return trip, after she’d dropped off Greaan to her son.  She didn’t want the boy to experience that sort of thing.  She could face death on her own well enough – she’d done it plenty.  But he was too young to have to contend with that when he was such a merry boy.

Alas, she knew, Fate does not give us the choice.

“Hurry!” she whispered, as a dog started barking from one of the flats they passed.  An old dog.  There was no sign of pursuit, when she looked over her shoulder, but she dug her hand into her satchel, seeking the pouch she’d prepared anyway.  “You should always listen to an old dog barking,” she instructed her grandson.

“Why?” he asked, stopping suddenly.

“Because an old dog only barks when there’s something worth barking at,” explained Jamarain.  “So hurry!  We’re almost there!”

But it was too late, she knew before they came to the next street.  Darkness had fallen, and Fate was approaching.

Chapter One

The Tower Arcane

The tallest trees attract the lightning, the fattest sparrow, the hawk.

Popular Folk Saying of the Game of Whispers

Pentandra took a deep breath as she surveyed the well-dressed nobles assembled in the recently remodeled reception hall of the Tower Arcane.  They were expecting a soft breeze of compliments to their vanity.  She gave them a storm of fire instead.

“It has come to the attention of the Ducal Court that some elements of the nobility have been complaining about the loss of wealth associated with the abolishment of slavery in the duchy,” she said, evenly, as she watched the faces of the assembled – all of whom had been invited to her official residence precisely because they had been loudly complaining about that very subject.  “While the Duke appreciates your financial loss, he has asked me to remind you all that those who indulged in the practice of purchasing labor did so freely, during the interregnum.  No one was forced into the practice – a practice that was against the Duke’s law and counter to the custom of the duchy for over fifty years,” she reminded them, sternly.

She was answered with frowns and scowls from the audience.  That wasn’t what they wanted to hear.  She didn’t care.  When Duke Anguin had tasked her with addressing the growing murmurs and increasingly irate whispers of the nobility, she had accepted the task gladly.  Pentandra loathed slavery as an affront to human dignity, as well as a weakness in the economy and a threat to the stability of the state.  Servants should be free to leave employ, at their wish.  No man who wasn’t a prisoner should be forced to work in irons.  She had no compunctions about condemning those who compelled service, and who had profited from it.

But that wasn’t what they wanted to hear.

“Then there is to be no compensation for our losses?” asked a sour-faced Coastlord in a plum-colored that she recalled held lands in the southern portion of County Falas.  “With a stroke of a pen, His Grace reduced my holdings by nearly twenty percent!  The coronet has a duty to repay me!”

“Twenty?” snorted a stylishly dressed noblewoman with estates in Rhemes.  She looked disgusted at Pentandra’s announcement.  “You were fortunate.  Nearly half of my estates are dormant, now!  Workers just left the fields and orchards without so much as a word, once that edict was read to them!”  Slaves, she meant, Pentandra knew.  Calling them ‘workers’ was being polite.  “If the duke won’t compensate me, I don’t know if I can recover!”

But her words inspired a wave of quiet outrage among the crowd as each of them bemoaned the loss of their investments.  Pentandra was not sympathetic.  And neither was the Duke.

“You should have known better,” she scolded, coldly.  “Slavery has been illegal in Alshar by custom and law for decades. The Rebel Council was never a legitimate ruling body in Alshar.  They were usurpers and opportunists during a time of deep crisis.  They consorted with bandits, pirates, and enemies of the realm.  Their edicts were as illegal as their association.  When they allowed slavery to take root once again, they knew that they were going against the established law of Alshar.  They had no legitimate power to do so.

“But they did not force you to purchase slaves,” she reminded them.  “There were plenty of free men seeking employ who you could have hired.  Instead, you decided to be just as opportunistic as the Five Counts and invest in the human misery of bondage rather than pay for honest labor.”

“And cut the profits from our estates?” asked the woman from Rhemes, shrilly.  “I could get three slaves at the docks for the annual cost in wages of one peasant!  Not to mention all the customary gifts and boons and such – those cost silver, too, you know.  Do you have any idea how outrageous their demands for wages were?” she asked, accusingly.

“Of course, my lady, slavery is easy,” Pentandra replied, coolly.  “It’s easy to see why you might be tempted to indulge in the practice.  Free men can leave your employ, if they are unsatisfied with your pay or the work.  Free men require you to contend with them honestly.  Free men will not lightly stand for abuse and beatings.  Even bondsmen have rights.  Slaves, of course, have no rights to leave, to protest, or to demand payment.  Slavery is easy.

“But slavery is wrong, and always has been,” she lectured.  “To buy and sell men like cattle at market is an affront to the gods – which the temples would have reminded you, had Vichetral not executed the senior clergy of the duchy.  It is an offense to your own nobility.  Worse, it pollutes Alshari society.  It drives wages down for everyone but those who indulge in the practice, and it creates resentments and weakness in the duchy.  A weakness that Vichetral was happy to exploit,” she reminded them.

That made them wince, she was gratified to see.  Vichetral’s regime had been brutal, and had brought economic changes and social upheaval that had seen plenty of prosperous noble families fall.  Plenty more had scraped by, trying to just survive the upheaval.  The Game of Whispers had been in full effect, with the houses choosing sides, changing sides, and professing loyalty and then betraying it.  The loss of the senior clergy to provide moral guidance, and the loss of the legitimate sovereignty of the duke had led to old feuds re-igniting, old scores being settled, and new ones springing to life.  Lives had been ruined and fortunes had been made as the regime picked the bones of the old.

But Fortune, Pentandra knew, was a fickle bitch.  With the help of the magi, eight hundred loyal Wilderlords had secretly infiltrated the rebellious south three years ago.  With magic’s aid, insightful direction, and some cunning strategy they had sparked a loyalist rebellion to the rebel council that had seen Anguin returned from exile and restored to his rightful throne.

Everyone had either cheered for the Orphan Duke, or they fought against him.  Where they fought, they were killed or captured or driven into exile.  Anguin had entered Falas, victorious, two years ago with the streets of the capital lined with cheering throngs.  Since then, he had done everything in his power to restore the reunited duchy and re-establish the complex government required to rule it.

Those who’d cheered, alas, were not always pristine in their adherence to the old regime’s laws.  That’s why this reception had been called – to contend with the legal indiscretions of the interregnum.

Duchess Rardine felt that the office of the Court Wizard would have especial appeal to the nobility, particularly the Coastlords descended from the old Imperial Magocracy.  The Tower Arcane, once it was reclaimed and restored, was an ideal symbol of the new regime’s legitimacy.  As her official residence and office complex, it was usually off-limits to casual tours, despite its storied history.  Inviting the former slaveholders here for a special reception and discussion of state affairs, Rardine was certain, was the best means of addressing the problematic nobility.

The problem was these noble families were loyal, and wanted to demonstrate their loyalty, but they needed to be brought to heel, too.  They were expecting to be rewarded by the nascent regime.  But part of re-establishing Anguin’s sovereign authority required actually demonstrating his authority, even to those houses that were loyal.  Pentandra understood that implicitly.  But they weren’t happy about it.

“How were we to know that the Orphan Duke would return?” scoffed the nobleman from Falas.  “The Five Counts had secure control over the government.  They were executing dissenters every week.  Anguin was in exile.  Prisoner of Castal.  We had no choice.  We had to do what was best for our houses,” he grumbled.

“You were obligated by honor, law and custom to do what was right,” Pentandra shot back, heatedly.  “Duke Anguin, by Trygg’s holy grace, has not sought to punish those who did not rise against the rebels, only those who boldly sided with the usurpers.  They are dead or dispossessed from their patrimony, now.  Indeed, Magelord Azar will be rendering the Duke’s justice on the last of them soon – according to law.  Their lands and titles are forfeit to the Coronet.  His Grace applauds your resiliency during the interregnum.  He invites you to continue to be resilient.  Be thankful you were not so stupid as to support the Five Counts when there was a live duke ready to return.

“But that does not excuse your behavior, my lords and ladies, when the Duke was not here to oversee it,” she continued.  “He feels that the measure of a man’s honor is what he does when he has no risk of accountability.  You may not have been supporters of Vichetral and his fellow rebels, but you did take advantage of his edicts to enrich yourselves.  Yes, you feel you were forced to.  But not everyone did.  You had a choice, and you made it.  As a result, you lost your investments in owning human beings.  A small price to pay, I would say, for the return of your rightful Duke.”

“A small price?” a thin-faced Coastlord asked, indignantly.  Many of the former slaveholders were Coastlords, Pentandra had noted.  “My estates are in ruins, now!  I discharged my peasants and replaced them with slaves at half the cost!  Now my crops are rotting in the fields!  And my peasants are unwilling to return!  How am I to recover from that?  I deserve compensation for those losses!”

“Are you willing to compensate the slaves you bought for their unpaid labor in turn, my lord?” challenged Pentandra.  “It sounds as if you took a risk on a poorly thought-out plan, my lord, and now wish to have your foolish decision rewarded by the Coronet.  It may surprise you, but Duke Anguin is not inclined to repay you for your opportunism or reward you for turning your back on his father’s law and Alshari custom.  You saw an opportunity to cut your costs and improve your profits for a few years.  That was a risky decision.  Now you face the consequences.”

“He just expects us to rebuild without assistance?” another man asked, bitterly.  He was a Vale Lord from up-country, grain lands that provided wheat and rye for the duchy.  A Narasi house, by the cut of his doublet.  His long face was despairing.  “How is that fair, by Trygg?”

Pentandra suppressed rolling her eyes or lashing out with a magical display to cow the assembled.  “How is that fair?” she asked, quietly, but intently.  “By Luin’s sacred staff, ask the poor mariner from Remere who was taken from his ship and chained, then beaten, starved, and forced to toil in your orchards, my lord.  Ask him how fair life is.

“Indeed, I am pleased you brought up the subject of fairness.  So did Duchess Rardine, the last time I met with her at court.  She professes an intense interest in fairness.  In fact, she has been considering a levy of taxes on every slave purchased during the interregnum in order to fund the repatriation efforts.  She feels that is only fair: that those who profited on human bondage to assist in restoring these poor men to their homes, with at least a little compensation for their suffering.”

That news struck the crowd like a blow, and their faces turned from indignation to fear at a moment.

“What?” gasped the woman from Rhemes sharply.  “She wants to . . . to tax us on slaves we no longer own?”

“Would that not be fair?” challenged Pentandra.  “You escaped proper tribute and taxation for years while Vichetral held power, my lady, and profited greatly as a result.  That deprived the Coronet of revenues – revenues it needs to see to the restoration of proper Alshari society.  Now that the reign of banditry is at an end, it only seems logical to Her Grace that those profits be taxed and taxed in relation to your indulgence in the damnable practice.”

“She can’t do that!” protested the man from Falas, angrily.  “Can she?”  There was a general murmur of disbelief and outrage at the suggestion.

“Her Grace does not set policy,” Pentandra admitted.  “But Anguin’s new bride is well respected in his counsels.  The Duke takes her advice very seriously.  So does the rest of the court.  If she advocates strongly for this policy, then there is a chance it will be adopted – particularly if the outrage over your lost investments and insistence on compensation persist.  As a victim of piracy and unlawful imprisonment herself, Her Grace is highly sympathetic to the plight of your former property.”

There was no way they could argue against that.  Rardine’s cruel ordeal was well known in Enultramar – Rardine had made certain of it.  She had been captured at sea and sold to the enemies of humanity, before Anguin – and an army of warmagi – had contrived her rescue.  It had increased her popularity accordingly.  No one could fault her if she took a dim view of piracy and its malignant fruits.  Her opposition to slavery wasn’t mere social posing, it was a legitimate cause.

“H-how much is she proposing?” stammered another Vale Lord – a baron from near Inmar, Pentandra recalled.  The fear on the man’s face was evident.

“Her Grace has considered that a tax of thirty ounces of silver per slave seems . . . fair,” she said, using the term the recalcitrant lords had brandished with especial emphasis.  “Per year,” she added, with some satisfaction as jaws dropped perceptibly around the room.

“Thirty . . . per slave?  Per year?” the baron asked, shocked.  Clearly, he had heavily invested in his unwilling workforce.  All around the room, similar expressions painted the faces of the nobility.  Even the thick ring of retainers and servants who crowded the back of the hall were looking disturbed.  That was an impressive sum.  These people held vast estates.  They could do simple math.

“That is her proposal,” agreed Pentandra, coolly.  “There are others in the court, particularly among the clergy, who feel that is inadequate.  Duke Anguin is more conciliatory,” she quickly added.  “He has enough to contend with without further acrimony on the subject.  But if these demands for compensation persist, he is apt to change his mind.”

“Just how are we supposed to recover from the interregnum and the loss of our workforce, then?” demanded the nobleman from Falas.

“With magic . . . and fair wages,” Pentandra answered.

“Magic?” scoffed the woman from Rhemes.  “You would have us replace our peasants with wizards?”

“My lady, thanks to the recent advances in enchantment there are estates in Castal that can plow acres of fields with a spell, and without the use of ox or plow,” she informed the Coastlord.  “Mowing, harvesting, sheering, all of these have become far more efficient with magic’s aid.  The court has taken great interest in this new method.  Indeed, in the Magelaw that is how almost all of the reclaimed fiefs are proceeding – without the need for a lot of extra labor.”

“So, you’re going to plow my fields, then, my lady?” scoffed the baron from the Great Vale.

“On my advice, the court has ordered more than three hundred sets of agricultural enchantments,” Pentandra assured them.  “It should be easy enough to find magi competent to wield them to improve agriculture in the duchy.  One mage and a suite of wands can do the work of hundreds of peasants, at a far reduced cost.  Of course, His Grace is inclined to reserve these new enchantments for the use of his most loyal supporters first.  There are, after all, plenty of faithful noble houses who managed their estates during the interregnum without recourse to slavery, and still managed to survive.”

“How do you plow with a wand?” snorted a man from the rear of the assembled.

“Would you like a technical lesson in applied thaumaturgy, my lord?  If so, I can oblige,” Pentandra said, with a smirk.  “If you have the wit to understand it, it might be of great benefit.

“Or you can accept my word that the practice is, indeed, being used to great effect to reduce the costs in labor, increase yields, and improve profits on the estates which employ them.  Not just plowing and reaping, but in a host of other applications that can see your estates improve their ledgers.  Spells to keep pests at bay and reduce spoilage.  Spells to aid in transport to market.  Spells that encourage growth and abundance.”

There was a decided murmur in the crowd at the mention of those spells.  Since she had commissioned the creation of a series of brilliant magelights around Falas by her staff, the talk of the capital city had revolved around the special relationship the duke had with the magi.  Promising wonders like the agricultural wands the bouleuterions of Sevendor and Vanador were producing had a predictable effect, one she could exploit.

“You must see the advantages my lords and ladies.  Magic has returned to the duchy in earnest.  That is why you were invited to the Tower Arcane, so recently a symbol of oppression and the old regime.  With the Censorate gone from the Tower and all of Alshar once and for all, the full force of the arcane can be brought to bear to encourage Alshar’s prosperity . . . for all the people, not merely the nobility.

“Now, I ask you to consider these matters while you are in the capital,” she continued.  “It has been a hard winter, and until the new enchantments are delivered you will have to make do with hired labor.  But continuing to gripe about your lost ‘investments’ to the court is not going to get your crops planted, your trees pruned, or your grapes harvested.  Write off your freed slaves as an unfortunate loss and press on to the new opportunities that your new Duke and Duchess have seen fit to provide you.  Otherwise, your future and the future of your houses may be in jeopardy.

“Feel free to tour the grounds of the Tower Arcane while you are here, my lords,” she added, as the crowd of nobles realized they were being dismissed.  “The gardens have been restored to their former glory, and I have authorized free access to all areas of this beautiful and historic property save my personal apartments.  Thank you all for coming and listening to this important discussion.  Safe journeys to you, when you return to your estates.”

With that she turned the affair over to her castellan, Master Grilane, and retired to the anteroom behind the great tapestry.  She was followed by a few of her aides.

“Well, that went better than expected,” Rondal said, quietly, as the door closed behind them.

“Did it?” Pentandra asked, genuinely surprised.  “I was worried that I was too strict.”

“No, you were polite enough about it,” Alurra, her apprentice, offered as she flopped down in an overstuffed chair.  The girl felt entitled.  This was one of Pentandra’s offices, after all, and while she sometimes used it to conduct business it was more frequently a place she could consult with her staff in a more casual atmosphere.  Besides, Alurra had very little use for propriety or formality.  The Wilderlands girl might be “civilized,” now, after two years in Falas, but she still retained the Wilderfolk’s disdain for ceremony and protocol that the southern Alshari seemed to depend upon.  “You told them to shut up, quit their complaining, and accept their losses.  Or else.”

“I particularly liked the ‘or else’ portion,” agreed Gatina, Rondal’s fiancée.  The young mage’s white hair and violet eyes were striking, even in the gloom of the anteroom.  “My family has tracked many of those . . . opportunists for years.  They might not have flown the banner of the Five Counts, but they certainly didn’t mind making profit based on their policies.  Or the backs of the slaves.  It serves them right, to lose that ‘investment’.”  As Gatina was, more than any other, responsible for Anguin’s restoration, her word carried a lot of influence in court.  And since Pentandra had guided her in her plans, she felt obligated to take note of the girl’s opinion.

“I was more concerned that they would object to the introduction of magical agriculture,” admitted Rondal.  “I figured they would buckle when they heard Rardine’s proposal – nobles tend to do that.  But I thought they would fight more to restore their ancient ways instead of adopting magic.”

“Most of them are descended from the nobility of the Magocracy,” Gatina reminded him.  “Magic was the ancient ways.  They don’t have the same prejudices against magic that you Narasi have.  We can just do it better than in Imperial times.”

“They won’t care if a peasant plows their field or a wand does,” Pentandra predicted.  “Just as long as their profits are enough to sustain their affluence, they will be content.  But thank you for your support,” she added to the three young magi.  “You all performed splendidly at the reception before the meeting.  I hope they didn’t bore you half to death.”

“They’re boring people, but I’m getting used to that,” Alurra shrugged, sending her pet crow on her shoulder flapping his feathers.  Lucky the crow was Alurra’s constant companion, and Pentandra had grown used to it.  Alurra was blind.  She used her Talent for beastmastery to see through the bird’s eyes.  Indeed, she used a variety of animals to contend with her sightlessness, and Pentandra had gotten used to the menagerie of creatures her apprentice kept as a result.  “The worst part was wearing this stupid gown.”

“Oh, I think it’s a lovely color on you.  The worst part will be enduring the ones obsequious enough to try to curry our favor, to help them in the ducal court,” Gatina countered.  “Why only three hundred wands, my lady?  We will need ten times that number to supply the estates of Alshar.”

“Because that’s all the Sevendori bouleuterion can deliver, this year,” answered Rondal.  “The demand for them is high, and they’re fetching a ridiculous price.  But Anguin was able to use his influence to secure at least that many sets.  We should have the first batch by midsummer.”

“I’m not certain that’s going to mollify them,” Pentandra frowned, as she poured herself a cup of tea against the spring chill off the nearby river.  “Now that they feel as if they’re safe from being accused of supporting the rebels, they’re reverting to their old ways.  Including complaining about Ducal law.”

“Then they can take it up with the lawfathers,” dismissed Rondal.  “We just got the realm stabilized, we’re fighting an undead insurgency in Caramas, and we’re still at war.  We can’t rebuild with that kind of friction among the nobility.”

“With the support of the artisans and the merchants, we don’t need the support of the nobility as much,” argued Gatina with a frown.  “Most of the towns are thrilled at the restoration of normalcy, since Anguin returned.  Apart from a few seaports, his reign has already seen an improvement in their lot.  Trade is increasing.  The common folk are getting back to work and at higher wages.”

“We also don’t need the nobles starting petty trouble,” Pentandra pointed out.  “I’m hoping that mentioning the Ducal Executioner kept things in perspective for them.  Baron Azar has that kind of effect on people.”

“Rardine’s tax proposal had more effect on them,” Alurra offered.  “That’s when the mood of the room began to change.  They came in indignant.  They left in a more thoughtful mood.  Her Grace should be pleased to hear that.”

Pentandra silently agreed – Duchess Rardine had a cunning mind, especially when it came to manipulating the nobility.  She had learned from one of the masters of the craft, Queen Grendine.  Among other devious skills.

She didn’t particularly like some of Rardine’s methods, but she respected the results they produced.  In one short year the Castali-born princess had gone from being considered the whelp of the evil Grendine to a powerful force within the newly reconstituted Ducal Court.  The young woman was particularly adept at social manipulation, using parties, balls, tournaments, and regattas to cement her place as co-sovereign in the minds of the people and the nobility.  She understood the Game of Whispers masterfully.

“I will tell her that, when I meet with her tomorrow,” Pentandra promised.  “I have an invitation to some sort of garden party at the palace that she is hosting for senior court officials and select nobles.  And no,” she said, anticipating her apprentice’s question, “you are not required to attend, Alurra.  Gatina, however, was specifically invited.  I don’t know for certain, but she may want to recognize you for your instrumental efforts in restoring the realm.”

Allura snorted.  “With flowers?  Cheap!”

Gatina’s response was more nuanced.  The pale-faced girl blushed furiously, which made an interesting contrast with her bright white hair.  “I don’t want recognition,” she protested.  “I just did my duty as a good Alshari!  And to help my beloved fulfill his vow,” she added, with a fond look at Rondal.

“You have to appreciate her reluctance.  Few professional thieves enjoy being celebrated in public,” agreed Rondal, with a smirk.

“I would imagine it would be bad for business,” nodded Alurra, thoughtfully.

“It would not be for what she has stolen, but for what she helped recover,” reminded Pentandra.  “Your family’s secrets are safe, Gatina.  Anguin and Rardine know they owe a debt to your House, and you in particular.  They just want to show it in some small way.  I think your mother is invited, too,” she added.

“Mother will just love that,” Gatina groaned, without sarcasm.  “She’s always wanted a more active social life, I think, after being in hiding for years.  Being friends with the new duchess allows her to do that.”

“Enjoy your itchy gown,” Alurra said, dripping with sarcasm.  “I’m guessing that as it’s an official court function, it will be appropriately uncomfortable.”

“I will manage the gown,” dismissed Gatina.  “I’ve worn more uncomfortable garb than you can imagine.  I’m just uncomfortable with that kind of . . . publicity.”

“Uncomfortable or not, your family’s allegiance to the Duke is vital,” Pentandra assured her.  “The Coastlords were among the first to rise up against the rebels and kept the fires of insurrection smoldering during their rule.  Rardine is depending on that support as she woos the Sea Lords and the Vale Lords who remain suspect of her.  Particularly the Sea Lords.”

“Since half of them have family in Farise, that might be difficult,” pointed out Rondal.  “I don’t know if you heard or not, but the Farisians have taken no less than four merchantmen who were trying to break their blockade this week alone.  The Sea Lords are not happy about that.  If anyone is considering disloyalty to the Duke, it will be the Sea Lords.  The houses who profited most from the slave trade may have gone into exile in Farise, but their blockade is strangling our trade.  That’s going to become problematic,” he predicted.

“One crisis at a time,” Pentandra groaned, finishing her tea.  “You are all dismissed to mingle with the visitors and tell them fascinating things about the Tower Arcane and generally kiss some noble arses.  I’m going to go check on the girls before the final reception,” she informed them.  “After dealing with the nobles, a trio of toddlers sounds infinitely more engaging.”

With a parting smile she withdrew from her staff and began the long climb up to the upper stories of the great tower where her apartments, including the nursery, were kept.  Already the nobles were beginning to wander through the former palace complex and marvel at the centuries-old furnishings, art, and architecture of the place.

While she found that annoying, on a personal level, Pentandra also appreciated the importance of opening up the Tower Arcane complex for such tours.  It had a unique and storied history.

When the place had been the official residence of the first Count of Falas, back during the Magocracy, it had been largely forbidden to such casual inspection.  During the height of the Magocracy it had been granted to the court wizard of the Count of Falas, when his new palace was built in a more central location in the city.  When the Narasi had finally come to establish the Duchy of Alshar at the point of their lances, it had become the residence of the ducal court wizard.

And then during the interregnum it had been given over to the Three Censors as Count Vichetral’s bribe to the remnants of the exiled order.  Rarely had it been open to the public or even the nobility.

Yet the stately tower was one of the best-known symbols of power in the duchy, Pentandra reminded herself.  It deserved to be seen by the people, even the pesky nobility, the way she had come to know it.  Allowing them to poke around in the lovely gardens, the elegant chambers, and the stylishly appointed halls of the place was a kind of bribe she could grant to them at no cost to herself – save some precious privacy.  But she was justifiably proud of the result.

It had taken some time and a lot of money to restore the Tower Arcane to its full glory, but she was happy she had invested in it for just this sort of occasion.  It represented Alshar’s history as a province of the Imperial Magocracy, which was particularly important to the Coastlords who were descended from that fallen empire.  It represented the impressive legacy the Narasi-descended Vale Lords had elected to defend when they had first come to the province after the Conquest and aspired to a more refined and civilized life.  And it represented the power of magic to alter the course of events to the Sea Lords who had strived in vain to shake the Magocracy from their shores during the empire’s early years.  Each era had touched the architecture of the former palace in intriguing ways, and Pentandra found the result a beautiful representation of modern Alshar.

And whoever had constructed the decadently appointed baths should be elevated to godhood, in her experience.  Some days they were the only thing that kept her from flinging herself off the tower’s peak in her frustrations with life as the ducal court wizard.

Her private apartments were on the topmost floors of the place, far removed from the street, and while that meant a lot of stairs to gain them, the grandeur increased with every step she took.  Counts and dukes once held these apartments.  The view of the gardens was magnificent, and she lingered at a window on the stairwell to appreciate it for a moment, as had become her habit.

It was a lovely window, one of her favorites, positioned to see the city, the river, and the glorious twin falls in the north behind the gorgeous blue waters of the lake.  The window itself was in a delicately arched alcove from the early Imperial era, though visitors often mistook it as Remeran.  There was an elegant bench in front of the thickly glazed window, chased at the edges with panes of stained glass shaped like stylized ivy with brilliantly red flowers at the corners.  Overhead was a brass lamp hung from a slender chain from a finial in the ceiling of the little alcove.

The style had once been common throughout the Magocracy, a fact lost on many who were historically ignorant.  She had no doubt there was a window just like this in Farise, Wenshar, and Merwyn, the heart of the old empire.  She had found it an excellent place to read, sew, speak to her colleagues mind-to-mind in privacy, or merely gaze at the picturesque view.

The moment allowed her to marshal her resources, gather her thoughts, and make the transition from busy court official and government administrator to the role of wife and mother.  It was almost magical in its power, in that regard.  One set of responsibilities was below her – the city, the palace in the east, the beautiful falls to the north beyond which the Great Vale spread.  One set was above her: her personal quarters, with her bedchamber and the nursery.

With a sigh, Pentandra turned from the window and ascended into motherhood.  The apartment was largely empty, at this time of day, as most of the upper story servants had been called to duty at the reception, but the nursery was still staffed.  She laid her baculus and her bag on the small table in the outer room and considered whether to change or at least put on an apron before she went to see her girls.  They were no longer spitting up, she reasoned, but they were still unbearably sticky most times.

She rejected the idea almost at once.  She had spent the morning around perfumed nobles.  A little stickiness wasn’t going to bother her, nor did she care what the nobility might think.  Besides, she could quickly remove most stains with a spell, or at least conceal them.  She suddenly wanted to see her girls.

The three toddlers were a lot to manage, and there were usually two nurses overseeing their care while Pentandra was working.  That’s why she became concerned the moment she entered the nursery chamber – all three girls were playing on a mat in the center of the room.  Fentra was building with blocks, Glyfera was playing with her wooden animals, and Cynilla was putting her doll to bed.  There was no sign of either nurse.

That alarmed her maternal sense.  Her girls were very active and required constant supervision.  Since they’d begun walking, the trio had developed an uncanny ability to get into trouble, sometimes dangerous trouble.  But there was no nurse in sight.  Just the big orange cat that had taken up residence in the noisy nursery despite there being far more peaceful areas of the tower to haunt.

“Girls?” Pentandra asked them, as she realized something was amiss.  “Where’s Frelly?”

She wasn’t anticipating much of an answer – while all three of them were beginning to talk, and demonstrated bright intelligence, they still lacked a sophisticated vocabulary and context to communicate well.

“Frelly in privy!” Fentra answered solemnly.

Pentandra was surprised.  The oldest of the three typically took the lead in conversations, but she’d only been able to complete sentences only recently.  Her other two daughters nodded in agreement, but there was still something . . . off about the situation.

“In the—?” she began, when she suddenly felt a change in the chamber.  It took her by surprise and was entirely unexpected.  After a moment’s disorientation she realized the nature of the change.

Someone had eliminated magic from the place.

Pentandra began to panic, as she realized the implications of the act.  With the absence of the nurse, her mind immediately understood what was happening, even as her body began to move toward her three little girls.  Just as she swept up Glyfera, and in her arms and grabbed Cynilla’s hand, the small door to the privy chamber opened, and a young woman emerged.

But not Nurse Frelladine.  It was a girl of about sixteen, dressed as a servant, with a small orb in one hand and a naked dagger in the other.  There was an expression of grim determination on her face as she advanced toward Pentandra and her girls.

This was an assassination attempt, Pentandra realized, to her horror.  And she was here, alone, with three toddlers . . . and no magic.

Chapter Two

An Unexpected Assassin

The bee without sting collects no honey.

Alshari Folk Saying

“I’m worried about Pentandra,” Rondal revealed, after his boss departed the anteroom.

He felt a bit guilty revealing that to her apprentice, but in the time that he had gotten to know Alurra, he had come to appreciate the blind girl’s gift for candor.  Alurra always said what was on her mind, without equivocation.  It was refreshing, considering all of the social positioning and doubletalk he was subject to in the ducal court.  “Honestly, I think the pressure is starting to get to her.”

“How so?” Gatina asked, curiously, cocking her chin to the side.  “She seems to be bearing up admirably, under the circumstances.  She handled those nobles like she was a priestess at a temple school,” his bride-to-be insisted, proudly.

“It’s not her ability I’m questioning, it’s the toll it is taking on her,” Rondal explained.  “She seems tired, these days.  Like she’s getting overwhelmed by all of this,” he said, his voice pregnant with concern.

“Lady Pentandra is stalwart,” Gatina assured him, her brow furrowed under her bright white hair.  “She has incredible strength.  She can withstand far more than this,” she insisted.

“He’s not wrong, Kitten,” Allura countered, with a sigh.  “Since she had her babies, she’s always tired.  Things were bad enough in Vorone.  Since we came to this place, it’s only gotten worse.  Too many worries,” she pronounced with a frown.  “She has too many responsibilities, now.  That wears on you, as Old Antimei liked to say.”

“There are just too many things she cannot delegate,” agreed Rondal.  He had accepted Pentandra’s offer of a position as Deputy Court Wizard in part to ease her burden.  Since he was getting to know both his bride-to-be and the land she called home, it seemed like a good idea.  At the time.

But he – and Pentandra – had quickly come to realize that being a ducal court wizard of a largely rustic Wilderlands was far less complicated that overseeing the magical trade in a duchy of millions.  Pentandra’s staff was five times as large as it had been in Vorone.  She was even planning on two additional domestic halls on the five-acre compound the Tower Arcane occupied.  The office needed the space for additional functionaries.

It wasn’t mere bureaucracy that was challenging Pentandra, Rondal knew.  When the Duke had arrived in Falas with his court from the summer capital, Vorone, the duchy had been a mess.  After five years of autocratic rule by Count Vichetral and a rotating roster of his fellow rebel counts, the state of the duchy had been a shambles: the economy was rotting from the slave trade, commerce was stifled by edict, hundreds of thousands had been out of work or dispossessed, and there were a half-dozen insurgencies of desperate, fed-up peasants erupting around the duchy.  And that was in addition to the festering undead incursions of Nemovorti in the southwestern county of Caramas.

Pentandra’s portfolio as a member of the ducal court was supposed to be limited to arcane matters.  The Court Wizard was the chief officer who oversaw magical education – including administration of classes and examinations – licensing of magi who sold their services, training of the duchy’s warmagi, oversight of the Magic Corps, the administration and enforcement of magical regulations, and a host of petty issues that, due to their arcane nature, required serious administration.

Pentandra was more than capable of the challenge, of course.  She had been the central administrator of the Arcane Orders for several years, once Minalan established them.  She had done a credible job in Vorone, when she had joined Duke Anguin’s sudden assumption of leadership.  While relocating to Falas had given her additional responsibilities – such as regular meetings with the Brotherhood of Seamagi and contending with the large number of Coastlords with rajira who had reclaimed their noble titles – Pentandra was more than able to manage.

But Anguin, the Orphan Duke, was not one to waste talented people, Rondal knew.  The Duke had his throne back largely due to the work of magi, particularly Minalan the Spellmonger and, surprisingly, his bride-to-be.  Pentandra was Duke Anguin’s main liaison to the Spellmonger, and the Duke relied upon her to keep that relationship strong and robust.  He also expected much from her, in regard to organizing the resistance to the Nemovorti lurking in Caramas and other vital matters of state.

Pentandra was in charge of learning everything she could about their undead foes and finding a counter to them.  That was particularly pressing now, as the minions of the Nemovorti stalked the streets of Alshar seeking to capture humans with rajira who could be used as host bodies for the insidious undead.  That assault could not stand unchallenged.  Duke Anguin had ordered her to find some way to dislodge the undead interlopers from Caramas and keep them from spreading across the entire bay.

As she was not a warmage, she had wisely delegated much of that work to Rondal, when she made him her deputy.  While Rondal had appreciated the confidence she’d shown in him, he also felt that there were better magi than he for the job.  Thus far he had collected a paltry amount of intelligence on the Caramas situation and had only recruited a half-dozen warmagi to a special squadron he hoped to lead against the Nemovorti someday.  Thankfully, the pair of Nemovorti in Caramas had kept their incursions into the rest of the duchy relatively light.

Even that task Pentandra could manage, with his help.  But once the Duke married Princess Rardine, things started getting complicated.  The new Duchess of Alshar had been instrumental in running the Castali – and then the Royal – intelligence service, known as the Family, until she and her mother had a falling out over the matter of Rardine’s capture and imprisonment in the most hellish dungeons of the enemy.  Marrying her cousin Anguin and taking the coronet of Alshar had been, Rondal figured, one way the Duchess could repay the Queen for her abandonment in the prisons of Olum Seheri.

But Rondal could not imagine that the Duchess was satisfied with mere defiance of her mother; Pentandra’s frequent trips to the palace to meet with her were testament to that.  Surprisingly, the young Duchess had begun to depend on Pentandra’s counsel and insight more and more . . . and had invoked her aid on a number of projects that had little or nothing to do with magic.  Such as the special reception today.

Being friends with a sovereign monarch was an enviable position, Rondal knew from personal experience, but it also came with heavy responsibilities.  His own friendship with the Orphan Duke had grown significantly, since he’d come to Falas.  So had the seriousness of the matters that Anguin had summoned him for counsel or direction.  As a member of the court and a gentleman of Alshar, he was duty bound to fulfill them to the best of his ability.  But that did not make it easy.

Pentandra was under even greater pressure, in her position.  Today’s “reception” and attendant threat to the former slave owners was but one example of how Rardine had imposed on his boss.  The Duchess was not averse to using a popular member of court to help her enact her policies.

He could not argue the wisdom of the choice – Pentandra had a high profile in Falas, due to her position, her reputation, and her closeness with the powerful new Count Palatine of the Magelaw, his former master, Minalan.  She was also Remeran, a cultural cousin to the Coastlord houses that dominated politics in the duchy.  Both had descended from the Imperial Magocracy.

And yes, he had to concede, motherhood had drained Pentandra somewhat.  While she took absolute joy in her triplet daughters, they required a lot of toil and energy.  With Arborn gone north to help Minalan defend the Wilderlands, Pentandra had redoubled her parenting efforts, and that had taken a toll.  Even with a staff of nursemaids to help, she took a very active hand in how Fentra, Glyfera, and Cynilla were raised.  But there was a price for that attentiveness, he could see.  And that is what concerned him.

“She is tired.  She barely has time to work with me,” Alurra continued.  “Not that I’m missing the lessons.  I think she has a condition a lot of new mothers have.  Old Antimei even had a tonic for it – medlars, moodbright, spearmint, and honey,” she recalled.  But if she isn’t in her offices here, she’s off to the palace, or attending some stupid party of some idiotic noblewoman.  Oh, gods, it’s almost jousting season!” Alurra realized.  “We’re going to have to go to tournaments.  I hate tournaments,” she added.  “It’s awful, for the poor horses.”

“It’s pretty awful for the riders, too,” Rondal agreed, remembering the few times he’d couched a lance like a proper knight.  It was a brutal exercise, and he’d been unseated every time he’d taken a turn at the lists.  He preferred warmagic.  Significantly.  “And I hate to say it, but those parties are necessary, believe it or not.  They’re usually cover for some bit of important court business.”

“They’re as bad as the bloody tournaments,” Alurra grumbled.  “She’ll be better, once Arborn returns from the north,” she predicted.  “She always gets a bit . . . overwhelmed when he’s not about.”

“I always fret and fear the worst when my beloved is at war,” Gatina sighed, looking at Rondal dreamily.

“Fear?” snorted Alurra.  “Pentandra isn’t worried Arborn won’t come back.  He’s a Kasari ranger captain.  He can survive just about anything – and has.  She’s just missing him.  She always gets snippy when he’s gone a few weeks.  I think--” the young apprentice began, and then stopped.  Though her pretty eyes were unseeing, they darted back and forth for a few moments.

“Something’s wrong!” Alurra said, her voice hoarse and her expression alarmed.  Rondal took note at once.  “Upstairs . . . I can’t see the nursery!  Captain Twitchytail isn’t . . . he’s not . . .”

“What?” Gatina asked, confused.  “Captain who?”

“The big orange Tom that lives up there,” Alurra explained, frustrated.  “I check on the girls through him.  But I can’t see anything.  Or from any of the mice in the chamber,” she added, uneasily.

“Maybe Pentandra put up a privacy spell?” suggested Gatina.

“Privacy from me?” Alurra dismissed.  “Why bother?  No, something is wrong—”

Rondal didn’t wait for the beastmaster to finish her sentence.  He bolted at once across the hall and up the stone staircase that led to the upper chambers.  His heart pounded as he took them three at a time, and when he made the first landing, he’d drawn his mageblade.  By the time he gained the second, he had a warwand in the other fist, and was beginning to hang defensive spells.

He was surprised that he didn’t feel Gatina on his heels.  Kitten was a fast runner, and highly competitive.  He’d expected that she’d be pushing past him on the stairs, not lingering behind.  Probably calling for help – she was a sensible girl, in a crisis.

He didn’t bother trying to approach the situation quietly.  He half expected the door to be locked, but it opened with a forceful push.  He dashed across the outer chamber toward the door to the nursery, activating his defensive spells as he went.

The moment he reached the door, however, he felt all of them drop away.  Indeed, all of the spells he had running failed at once – a sensation all too familiar to him.  And deeply foreboding.  Someone was using an Annulment spell of some sort.  And he doubted it was Pentandra.

That changed his tactics.  Thankfully, he was a decent swordsman, and his mageblade was serviceable for more than spells.  Forgoing magic in his attack and defense was a challenge, but he didn’t worry.  If he didn’t have access to his powers, neither did whoever was using the Annulment spell.  He kicked in the nursery door as he tucked his warwand back in his belt, and then grasped the hilt of his mageblade with both hands.

The sight that greeted him was chaotic.  Pentandra stood near the window with an expression of defiance on her face, her mouth twisted into a snarl.  She bore a stool in one hand, the legs thrust forward at her attacker, and a toddler in the other.

Her attacker was, surprisingly, a young woman, no more than seventeen or eighteen.  She wielded a vicious looking dagger and a dimly glowing sphere, and she was advancing at the Court Wizard aggressively.

She wasn’t the only aggressive one, however.  One of the girls was hurling wooden blocks at the assassin with great force, if with poor accuracy, while the third triplet was angrily bashing the woman’s knees with a wooden toy shaped like a toothy caiman.

Rondal’s sudden appearance startled the assassin for just an instant, which allowed Pentandra to push the dagger away from her with the stool – though not enough to deter her.  Rondal didn’t announce his presence, he moved, as fast as he could, and aimed a blow at the murderous maiden’s shoulder.  He hated attacking a woman – and from outside of her vision, no less – but he also didn’t want to see his boss slain.

Surprisingly, the young assassin twisted and parried his strike quite capably, and then squared off against him.  If she thought she was overmatched in skill or in weaponry, she did not show it.  Rondal made a second strike, and a third, and each time the stout steel dagger took the blow.  The assassin adeptly twisted around to try to reach her target while Rondal tried just as hard to interpose himself between she and Pentandra.

He was aware of Pentandra gathering up her raucous daughters and pulling them out of the way, behind him toward the door.  Rondal took the opportunity to take a step to shield them, throwing a strike at the assassin just to keep her occupied.  She frowned under her wimple, as she realized her prey was escaping.

Rondal followed the strike by an advance, tying up her dagger with his mageblade as he pushed the contest across the room and toward the window.  Ordinarily, he knew, it was enchanted to keep the triplets from falling out of it, among other things.  But with the Annulment spell in play, he had ambitions of pushing the assassin through it.

But if the enchantment was gone that kept things in, so was the one that kept things out.  Faster than he could see it, a blur flew through the wide window and struck the unwitting assassin in the back of the head, sending her sprawling senseless to the floor, her weapons scattered in the fall.  A moment later, Gatina rolled into an elegant crouch next to Pentandra, her shadowblade unsheathed.

“How many of them?” she asked Rondal, as she surveyed the room.

“Just the one, so far,” he said, confused.  “Did you just . . . ?”

“Climb up the side of the Tower Arcane?” Gatina asked.  “It was faster than taking the stairs,” she explained.  “Kittens always land on their feet.  I’ll check the privy; you search for more of them.”

“First things first,” Rondal said, reaching down with his off hand to snag the Annulment sphere.  It took a moment to see how to deactivate it, but then his blessed rajira returned.  “My lady, call for assistance,” he suggested to Pentandra, politely, as he began to search for additional killers lurking in the nursery.

“I already have,” Pentandra assured him, as she clutched all three girls to her breast.  “The Tower Guard should be here presently.  Thank you,” she added.  “How did you know we were in trouble?”

“Alurra could not contact Captain Twitchytail,” Gatina reported, as she opened the privy door.  “Are you injured, my lady?”

“We are all hale,” Pentandra assured her.  “If perhaps a touch disturbed,” she added, petting the hair of one of the three.

“Mommy’s scary!” one of the triplets proclaimed, solemnly.

“I’ve just begun to get scary, Cynilla,” Pentandra assured her daughter.

“You have cause to,” Gatina agreed, as she crouched in the privy.  “Your nursemaid has taken a nasty blow to the head.  She lives, and I don’t think she’s injured seriously, but it was hard.”

No further assassins were found, and Rondal doublechecked with magic before he was satisfied.  So did Pentandra.  Indeed, she spent several minutes casting a thick layer of additional protection spells on the already heavily enchanted nursery.  Then she turned to them both, as Alurra finally made it up the stairs.  She was panting with the effort, as was the hound who accompanied her.

“Thank you,” Pentandra repeated, solemnly.  “Thank you for rescuing me.  Now, take that bitch down to the cellar, and find out who sent her, why, and . . . well, just find out everything.  Use extreme methods, if you have to,” she advised.

“Torture will not be necessary, my lady,” Gatina replied, confidently, as she began to search the unconscious woman.  Within moments she pulled three more hidden blades from her clothes, a cheese wire from her hair, and a pouch of battlefield enchantments from her belt.  “I will find out what she knows.  We Furtiusi are good at that sort of thing.”

“I’ll defer to your judgement,” Pentandra agreed, as Rondal and Gatina hefted the unconscious girl.  “How did she get in here?”

“She came with one of the guests,” Alurra explained.  “She was supposed to be a traveling maid.  According to Fishbone, here,” she said, indicating the hound.

“You interrogated a dog?” Rondal asked, surprised.

“It seemed the appropriate approach,” agreed Alurra.  “Fishbone sniffs just about everyone in the Tower.  Including her.  She came in with one of the noble families and stood in the back.  When the reception began, she slipped up the back stairs to the third floor, then crossed to the main stairs.”

“That’s a highly observant dog,” Rondal praised.

“More than most,” Alurra agreed.  “He takes his security duties very seriously.  And he’s a good boy – who’s a good boy?  Who?  Who’s a good boy?  Fishbone’s a good boy!  Oh yes he is!” the blind apprentice directed toward the hound, as she enthusiastically petted his ears.

The Tower Guard arrived, after that, alarmed at their emergency summons and geared for war.  There were nine of them in the corps, many retired warmagi, and while they took their duties as seriously as Fishbone, they were appalled that an assassin had gotten through to the most remote region of the Tower.

“Let’s get her downstairs,” Rondal murmured to Gatina as Captain Ghaharan stammered an apology to his mistress.  “I don’t think we want to be around for this part.”

“She’s scolding him like a mother,” Gatina said, as the door shut behind them.  “Is that some gift of Trygg when you become a mother?”

“Pentandra has always been pretty . . . sharp,” explained Rondal.  “At least, that’s what I’ve heard from Minalan.  She’s polite in court, but you do not want to be one of her servants and fail her.  She has very Remeran ideas about that sort of thing.”

“It makes her an effective administrator, you have to admit,” Gatina said, as they began dragging the unconscious assassin down the stairs, her feet dragging behind them.

“It makes her a terrifying boss,” Rondal pointed out.  “I’m just waiting for the first time I screw something up badly enough to earn one of her lectures.  There are Ancients in the army who don’t know some of the curses she does.”

“Mother can be like that,” Gatina said, grimly.  “She doesn’t shout, usually.  But that makes it worse.  There’s this icy glare that she can do and chill you to the bone without recourse to magic.  Believe me, you want to avoid it.”

“A lovely quality, in a future mother-in-law,” sighed Rondal, philosophically.

“My brother is terrified of it,” Gatina agreed.  “She’s worse than Daddy, really, when you make a mistake.  So, why is someone wanting to kill Pentandra?”

“The usual reasons,” grunted Rondal.  “She’s politically powerful, magically adept, highly placed in the circles of the elite, and has a list of enemies as long as my . . . arm,” he said, diplomatically.  “She’s already survived two attempts – that stupid Rat that Arborn gutted, and a lackluster effort by the Censorate.  It was only a matter of time before there was a third.”

“This is why my family tends to hide out a lot in secret places,” Gatina nodded, thoughtfully.

“That and its penchant for spectacular larceny,” Rondal pointed out as they came, at last, to the ground floor.

“We just like our privacy,” Gatina demurred.  “Any idea who might have sent her?”

“Someone on that long list of enemies, I’d say,” Rondal offered, as they dragged the girl through the main hall.  A few noble guests were lingering, and some were already being interrogated by the Tower Guard.  They looked up at the odd trio in surprise, as Gatina and Rondal hefted the maiden through the chamber.  Rondal made a point of displaying a bemused grin, lest he alarm them.

“It could be anyone,” he continued, as they came to the cellar door.  “The Rats, the Censorate – they use Annulment a lot – one of the Nemovorti, the Family, the Iris, Korbal the Necromancer, a former lover, a former victim, you just never know.”

“And she’s Remeran,” Gatina agreed.  “There isn’t a Remeran house worth its crest that doesn’t have a few vendettas underway.”

“I thought that sort of thing was a stereotype,” Rondal said, as he took over carrying the recumbent assassin.  “Like Wilderlords being woefully cheap.  And Coastlords being overly devious.”

“Stereotypes are oft rooted in truth,” Gatina considered.  “Did you not know about Pentandra’s family?  They have a reputation for viciousness . . . and thoroughness.”

“You’re aware of Remeran gossip?” Rondal asked, surprised.

“It’s Imperial gossip,” Gatina corrected.  “All of us civilized folk try to keep up on it.  The Game of Whispers is always playing.  Someone is always getting betrayed, blackmailed, bribed, or killed.  We try to keep up with who is ascendent and who is falling in status.  It keeps our houses strong.”

“Your people keep score of such things?” Rondal asked, both amused and horrified.

“It passes the time, and it lets us know who might be a potential enemy or ally,” Gatina considered.  “You Narasi try to act as if you’re all honorable, so you miss out on some of the important things.  Like the rise of the Pratt family,” she suggested.  “We saw that coming for over a century, based on their moves in the Game of Whispers.”

Rondal’s head spun a bit.  “Wait, you knew about the Mad Mage of Farise?  Before the war?”

“Everyone knew it was going to happen,” Gatina groaned.  “Pratt had been cultivating the Doge of Farise as an ally for decades.  Alshar couldn’t allow Farise to blockade our shipping with magic.  Castal couldn’t, either.  And Remere wanted to profit from the conquest.  As soon as he got his witchstone, it was inevitable,” she pronounced.  “The Pratts have always been shifty characters.  Castali Sea Knights,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“So, this Game of Whispers is a kind of . . . intelligence?  Battlefield?  Sport?” he asked, as they finally came to the cellar.  It was unoccupied, save for the stacks and bales of supplies.  He dragged the assassin over to a convenient crate and threw her on it, ungently.

“Only for civilized folk,” Gatina soothed.  “You Narasi are like . . . pawns,” she suggested.  “You don’t play the Game, but sometimes you are useful pieces.  In some ways, the Farisian conquest was a kind of vindication of the Game.  Pratt pissed off too many great houses, and he suffered invasion, defeat, and death as a result.  And not a little humiliation.”

“Yes, and now Pratt’s nephew is trying to live up to his uncle’s reputation,” Rondal pointed out, as he caught his breath.  The maiden didn’t look like much, but dragging her unconscious body down nine flights of stairs was challenging.  “He’s back in Farise, now, you know.  With the remains of the Black Censorate.”

“I know,” Gatina agreed.  “I also know that his new allies have scandalized the Farisians.  At least, the ones that matter.  Being ruled by magi is one thing.  Being ruled by Narasi magi who have devoted their lives to oppressing other magi is quite another.  People are talking,” she shrugged. condemningly.

“And that means . . . what, exactly?” Rondal asked, confused.

“It means that several Imperial houses have taken a dislike to Pratt and his allies.  Plans are being made.  It is just not proper to include Narasi in such things.  Particularly not in Farise!”

“Why not Farise?” Rondal asked, wondering if he should bother.

“Because Farise was the last remnant of the Magocracy,” Gatina explained, patiently, “and that was a source of pride for . . . some houses,” she said, cautiously.  “They successfully resisted conquest by the Narasi for four centuries.  That’s quite an accomplishment.”

“Well, we tend to be shit mariners,” admitted Rondal.  “We prefer horses.  In general.  I’m actually quite fond of boats.”

Gatina giggled.  “Boats?  Coastlords and Sea Lords command ships and fleets, Beloved, not boats.  Just wait until I get you out on the Daydream.  It’s a real ship, if a small one,” she said, referencing her family’s yacht.  Rondal had heard about it in casual conversation with her brother and father, upon occasion.  Like the house who owned it, the Daydream was small, stealthy, and sneaky.  For a boat.  A ship, Rondal corrected himself.

“Do you enjoy disrespecting my people’s culture?” Rondal asked, half-seriously.

“It invites disrespect,” Gatina shrugged.  “Oh, I like the Narasi, mostly,” she added, hurriedly.  “Some of my best friends are Narasi.  I’m going to marry a Narasi Magelord,” she added, with a smile.  “My family is very open-minded.  But you Narasi just don’t understand subtlety.  Art.  Wisdom.  Oh, to a point, perhaps, but not to the sophistication required to play the Game of Whispers.  You are far too honor-bound and high-minded to appreciate the finer points.  But don’t worry, Beloved, I will teach you,” she assured, earnestly.  “You must learn, if you are going to be the head of our house, someday.”

“I thought Atopol was destined to become head of House Furtius when your sire passes?” Rondal asked.

“Oh, he will, if he lives,” agreed Gatina.  “But that just means we’ll form our own house.  You do bring a certain robust flair to the line,” she decided.  “When I was peeking through the window and saw you dueling this murderous doxy, there was a certain . . . vigorous character about you that suggests you could found your own line.  With me, of course,” she added, unnecessarily.  “Now, why don’t you go back to the kitchens and grab some water and a snack?  I’ll get started down here.  We’re going to find out everything this wench knows, from her first kiss to her last crap.”

Chapter Three

The Game Of Whispers

No one wins in the Game of Whispers

Remeran Folk Saying

Pentandra sat and stared at the long dagger the assassin had dropped on the floor. She couldn’t tear her eyes from it, for one horrible, endless moment.

The gleaming edge, the slender blade, the vicious point, the unadorned hilt – the weapon was designed to kill, as swiftly and efficiently as possible.  It had no other purpose.  She recalled how the blade looked in the assassin’s fist, and how it had gleamed in the light of the afternoon sun.  She had faced many weapons before, some far more potent and in the hands of far more competent combatants.

But this one was different.  It wasn’t magical in the slightest.  It was specially crafted to murder, forged in secret by some knowledgeable master of the trade.  It was good steel, but not great steel, for it was not intended to be used more than once or twice.  It was not as rugged as a military dagger.  It did not intend to impress the gullible with gilt or jewel.  And while it had a sense of utility about it, this was not a blade for butchering a hog or dining on its flesh.

No.  It was designed to be a murder weapon.

Most Remerans knew a thing or two about daggers.  Even regarding assassins’ blades, Remerans were highly knowledgeable, as a rule.  There was an odd national fascination with the subject among both nobility and commoner, thanks to the important role daggers played in the Game of Whispers and Remeran history.  This one was designed to slit throats, puncture hearts, eviscerate, and shed as much blood as possible in the solemn performance of its duties, before being abandoned after its singular vocation.

The interest in the subject was common among all Imperial cultures, she knew.  Daggers had enjoyed an outsized role in the politics of the Magocracy since its founding.  The portions of the Five Duchies where the old Imperial culture was still dominant possessed a kind of culture around the murderous things that went back centuries.  There was a darkly intriguing lore about daggers and their use in the Game of Whispers that was common among her people.  Proverbs on the topic abounded in Imperial families across the old Magocracy.

A Steel Kiss was the promise of a sudden and unexpected end to one’s enemies.  “Knives in dark corners” was a popular idiom from Vore to Farise.  Drunken discussions of Imperial history often wound down to arguments about the right kind of blade for a particular sinister purpose.

In Remere, it would have been shorter, she knew, and wider.  In Farise it would be curved to a more elegant point.  In Vore, she’d once learned, it would have been a razor. Assassins from Vore favored them in their vendettas, for some reason she didn’t know, and “shaving a man” was a uniquely Vorean idiom.  The Merwyni families of Imperial descent had established the proper type of dagger to kill a man, depending upon his status.  There were even books on the subject.  To kill a sworn enemy with a blade decorated with gems and gold was considered the height of fashion, in Merwyn.

The renegades who’d joined the Sea Lord pirates preferred the storied Rat’s Tail – ironically the first assassin’s blade she’d ever faced.   Even the Old Castal families who had ruled the frontier land before the Narasi came had a distinctive style of blade for their political or personal feuds: a gently curved narrow dagger with a hilt made of horn.  Individual houses often had distinctive characteristics that distinguished the blades forged for such a purpose.  Her own family, she knew, favored a small, five- to six-inch double-sided blade shaped like a slender leaf, often with some unmistakable element from the crest of her house in the pommel.

In the Game of Whispers, she knew, sometimes it was important to let people know who was responsible for a stabbing.  In a culture where casual assassination was often cast as a legitimate means of resolving differences, knowing about the various kinds of blades used in the bloody rite was an important study.

Imperials put a lot of thought into their daggers, as much as the Narasi noble houses did with their fetish for swords.  Warfare had its place in Imperial culture, but it was considered an expensive last resort of those who played the Game of Whispers poorly.  When murderous intent is expressed in steel, Pentandra knew, a lot of thought went into it.  Slaying an enemy with a dagger was a deeply intimate thing.

The assassin’s dagger before her had none of the customary idiosyncrasies that called it out as one of the more infamous lines.  It was deadly and utilitarian, not meant to send a message.  Indeed, it seemed crafted in such a way to escape easy identification.

But Pentandra was no mere victim in the Game of Whispers.  She had sophisticated resources, she realized.  She gingerly took the blade in hand and laid it upon a table near the window, where the light was good.  Then she retrieved Everkeen and began to probe the nature of the weapon with a number of thaumaturgical spells.

The brilliant paraclete within the magical rod effortlessly provided the spells she needed as if it enjoyed the challenge.  The dagger was not magical, of course.  But in moments she knew the iron was mined somewhere in Castal, and the steel was likely forged in the Castali Wilderlands.  The man who had crafted it was a perfectionist, she learned, someone who prided himself on his skill with the metal to achieve a perfect form.

When the spell was complete, she set Everkeen down gently next to the blade.  And then she shook uncontrollably for a while.  This dagger had threatened her beloved daughters.  Her babies, she realized, were now part of the Game.

Her assay gave her an idea of where the blade had originated, and that suggested from whom the order to kill her had been issued.  Her suspicion was confirmed an hour later, when Rondal reached her mind-to-mind.

My lady, Gatina and I have finished our interrogation, he reported.  We are near certain that the assassin was sent by an agent of the Family.

You’re certain? she asked, nodding to herself.

She had suspected the Royal intelligence service was behind the attempt based on the dagger.  That was deeply troubling.  Minalan had orchestrated a truce with Queen Grendine, who led the organization.  Magi were supposed to be off limits to the bloodthirsty corps.  Clearly, something had changed – and that did not bode well for the future.

Near certain, Rondal agreed.  This maid’s name is Jelmine, and she’s the daughter of a Gilmoran nobleman.  She reports to a woman in Inmar, who she calls Aunt Marladine, who works out of a dressmaker’s shop.  She could not confirm that the order came from higher up in the Family.  She was provided the blade and the orb, as well as detailed plans of the Tower Arcane, and a place as the attending servant for one of the noble families who visited today.

Find out which one, Pentandra ordered.  I want to be able to trace this Marladine woman.  It might suggest some of her other connections.

Already done, Rondal assured.  Gatina is a very thorough kitten . . . and frighteningly good at psychometry.  That girl was ready to reveal every secret she’s ever kept.

Pentandra could tell the lad was as concerned as he was impressed by his intended bride’s capabilities.  She couldn’t help but giggle.

A man might want to consider that when he takes a woman to wife, she offered, diplomatically.

It occurs to me that honesty is probably going to be a hallmark of our marriage, he agreed, a little sullenly.

I took the chance to examine the dagger, as well, Pentandra said, changing the subject.  Castali manufacture, probably from near Wilderhall.  It’s sharp as a razor, too, she added with a shudder.  When I think how close she came to my girls . . .

The children were not her target, assured Rondal.  You were.  She was very explicit about that.  She was horrified at the thought, actually.  But she was ordered to kill you, not your daughters.

She was willing to kill me in front of my daughters, after using them to entrap me, Pentandra corrected, firmly.  I take exception to that.

As well you should, Rondal agreed, solemnly.

I’m glad you agree.  Now, I want you and Kitten to track down whoever ordered this, she instructed, as calmly as she could.  If Grendine has decided to come after the magi, then we have a great problem.  I want to determine that for certain before we . . . take additional action, she said, very deliberately.

Understood, my lady, Rondal agreed.  We have an address, I think.

Excellent.  Don’t do anything until you report that you’ve identified this Aunt Marladine,  she continued.  Then wait for instructions.

Of course, my lady, Rondal replied.

Pentandra sighed.  At least Gatina and I will have something interesting to talk about at the Duchess’s garden party tomorrow.

The tall, gilded spires of the palace gleamed magnificently in the morning sun, the next day, as Gatina and Pentandra used the Ways to go from the Tower Arcane to the Waystone pillar in the courtyard of the palace.  While it was a flashy way to travel such a short distance, it was also expedient, and quite superior to an hour-long carriage ride through the crowded streets of Falas.  It also allowed the women more time to get ready for the affair.

Pentandra was gratified to see two husky palace guardsmen on duty near the snowstone pillar.  All prominent Waypoints were guarded, thus, after the Nemovorti attack on the palace at Anguin and Rardine’s wedding.  All visitors were inspected, too, although there was still no certain way to detect someone with a hoxter pocket on their person.  Still, it was better than nothing.

“This place is starting to look lovely, again,” Gatina observed, as she looked around the grandly appointed courtyard.  “After the fall of the rebels, and then that awful draugen attack, I never thought it would look quite right.”

“Our Duchess has made an especial effort to restore it to its glory,” Pentandra agreed, as she watched a cloud of butterflies assault the blossoms of a potted orchard of cherry trees.  “She’s importing plants from all over the duchy, instead of investing in statues and such.  It makes the palace look more lively.”

“Especially at this time of year,” Gatina agreed, as they began walking toward the gardens.  “Everything is bursting into bloom in Falas..  The air is thick with sweet scents and butterflies.”

“And pollen,” Pentandra said, and then sneezed, quickly retrieving a handkerchief from her belt.  “I’m not usually this sensitive, but it seems as thick as a blanket, this year.  This way,” she said, indicating a long portico that led past the great halls and outer offices and to the lakeside gardens in the rear of the palace.

Thankfully, the portico funneled the lake breeze down its length, blowing most of the offending pollen from them as they walked.  Twice along the way they were stopped by guardsmen before being allowed to proceed.  Neither needed much in the way of identification – Pentandra was a frequent visitor, and her face was well known, as was her pretty baculus.  Gatina’s distinctive hair and unique eyes made her unforgettable.

Soon they came to the end of the portico, where it spilled out into a lavish flower garden.  Unlike Remeran and Castali gardens, the Alshari palace eschewed right angles and straight lines in preference to gently sloping curved beds.  At their center was a great paved patio bounded by planters and elegant pots where plants and trees of all descriptions were planted.  A dozen trestles had been laid in the space, each with a glistening white linen tablecloth and a number of cooking carts and butlers’ barrows were discretely scattered around the garden.

“I see we aren’t the first ones here,” Gatina observed, dryly, as she spotted a growing knot of noblewomen congregating around a wine cart.

“It’s early, yet,” Pentandra considered, checking the time by magic.  “It isn’t supposed to begin until noon.  Plenty of time for a glass of wine.  Will you fetch us some, my dear?” she asked.  “I want a moment with Viscountess Threanas, before we get stuck talking about daisies and marigolds all afternoon.”

Gatina nodded and faded away into the crowd, while Pentandra sought out the aged Coastlord noblewoman who had been the loyal keeper of the duchy’s records for decades.  Viscountess Threanas was well respected in court, all the more so for her dedication to restoring Anguin to the throne and her loyalty to the ducal house during its darkest times.  She had been responsible for sustaining the fledgling regime back in Vorone, when all seemed hopeless.

Since returning to the south lands, she had resumed her position as a powerful force in the government of the duchy.  While respected during Duke Lenguin’s reign, Viscountess Threanas enjoyed a newfound importance in his son’s.  She was widely credited with rescuing the duchy financially, when Anguin had retaken Falas for his capital.  Of course, Pentandra knew that much of that success was due to the incredible fortune that Rondal and Gatina – and Tyndal and Atopol – had stolen from the treasury of the Brotherhood of the Rat and then given to Anguin.  The funds had meant that Anguin had come into power without being a pauper or in debt.  Confiscating the holdings of the Five Counts had helped the cause, too.  But Threanas usually got the credit for the healthy state of Alshar’s treasury.

It wasn’t money Pentandra wanted to discuss, however.  In truth, Pentandra saw the old courtier as a kind of mentor in court politics.  She had survived the worst of recent history and come out intact.  And she knew Grendine as well as anyone at court save Rardine.  For an archivist, she was incredibly well informed.

“How likely do you think it is that Grendine is turning her sights on us?” she asked the woman quietly, after an appropriate greeting.

“Grendine?” Threanas asked, surprised.  “Unlikely, I’d say.  She has quite enough on her plate at the moment without inviting that kind of trouble.  Why?” the old woman asked, concerned.

“Someone tried to assassinate me yesterday,” Pentandra confided.  “My staff stopped it.  I’m trying to find out who and why.”

“You, too?” Threanas asked, suddenly worried.  “I heard that someone tried to shoot Count Salgo with a crossbow, a few days ago.  They said it was a Vichetral loyalist, one of his old vassals who resents his master’s fate, but . . .” she said, with a doubtful shrug.

“Has anyone tried to come after you?” Pentandra asked.

“Recently?” the old woman asked, her eyebrows raised.  “No, no, I’m not important enough for that.  Nor do I cultivate enemies as many others do.  Killing a mere bureaucrat is rarely an ambition, even at court.  There are far shinier targets with more important consequences.  And I’m too near death already for it to have much of an effect, alas.

“But the news is disturbing,” Threanas continued, her eyes narrowing.  “By my reckoning that is near a score of attempts since Yule against court officials or their important staff.  And four of those attempts were successful,” she added.  “I had hoped that the fighting was over, after the armies had marched.  But it appears the season of the knife is upon us.”

Before Pentandra could reply, the noonday bell chimed, and the palace castellans began encouraging the assembled ladies to seat themselves at the tables, each of them escorted to an assigned place.  Pentandra was intrigued to see that their places were set with cards spelling out their names and titles – a Remeran custom.  Of course, it assumed that those in attendance were literate enough to read their own names.  Likely why the custom was never popular in Castal, she mused as she took her seat.

But it was odd, seeing her name and position spelled out in elegant calligraphy for all to see:

Baroness Pentandra anna Benurviel, Baroness of Vanador, Ducal Court Wizard, Wife of Baron Arborn of Lotanz, Ducal Master of Wood

That was her, according to the heralds.  While that didn’t encompass all of her titles, it was impressive by any standard.  Alas, the position came encumbered with headaches.  She was seated at the same table as Gatina and her mother, Lady Minnureal – or Minny as she was known to close friends – a splendid-looking dark haired woman Pentandra had come to know well, since she’d come to Falas.  The fourth lady was not one Pentandra knew by sight, but seemed a Coastlord, by her style of dress.

One of Rardine’s ladies-in-waiting, Lady Lethara, began the function cheerfully and graciously, thanking them all for coming, assuring them what a privilege it was for the palace to host such a distinguished body of prominent nobility, and how each of them were specially chosen by Her Grace for invitation to this inaugural occasion . . . Pentandra started to lose focus as the enthusiastic young woman’s voice belted out the formal forms of greeting that she’d had to endure since she was a girl.  It was standard fare for court functions.  But eventually Lethara got around to introducing Duchess Rardine.

The girl looked splendid, Pentandra saw as she approached from the side, a young woman swimming adeptly in a sea of power.  She appeared confident, as she addressed the two-score of noblewomen in a decidedly royal-looking gown in springtide peach and green pastels cut in a traditional Alshari style.  Her silver coronet, emblazoned with the diamond-chased anchor and antlers of Alshar, was designed to impress her authority and majesty on anyone who saw it.  After the customary courtesy by the ladies of the court, Rardine gave a single firm bow from the neck in silent acknowledgement of their allegiance.

“My ladies of the court,” she began, picking out important individuals by eye as she spoke.  “It is Springtime, and Ishi’s day is soon upon us.  As is abundantly evident,” she said, gesturing around at the blooms and blossoms of the garden, “we are once again in the throes of life’s resurgence.  If there were ever a symbol of hope, it is the flowers of spring.

“I note the season not out of mere tradition,” Rardine continued, earnestly, as she turned to face her left flank.  “There is deeper purpose in my invitation, and greater symbolism in its timing and function.  All of you,” she said, deliberately, as she began pacing back and forth in front of them, “have proven yourselves not just ladies of refined taste and value, but you have demonstrated the additional virtue of loyalty to the ducal house.  That, more than your love of a good floral arrangement, is why you were actually invited to the palace today.

“You see,” Rardine continued, “while my lord husband has successfully retaken his throne and has been restored to his patrimony, Alshar, my dear friends, is far from healed.  We have a state, and a sovereign; we have a world of commerce that is seeing more and more of our common folk gainfully employed.  We have a fleet, and bountiful estates to fill it with our wares.  We have an army of great power, and a society that recovers from the damage done by traitors and rebels.

“But while Alshar survives, my dear friends, it will not thrive until all of the accessories of state are restored to her, in her own interest.  Of foremost import, as I’m certain you understand, is the need for the sovereigns of the state to issue wise policy and informed governance.  To do that we need trusted advisors.  More, we need to know what our adversaries know, where they are, and who they are.”

Rardine paused, and Pentandra had to reflect how impressed she was with the performance.  The Duchess was using her youth and beauty – augmented by the skills of her chambermaids with cosmetics – and her intelligent demeanor to build a deep rapport with the crowd.  Her words were skillfully delivered and carefully chosen.  Rardine sought to forge a bond of mutual respect and loyalty among the ladies who had responded to her invitation.

“My ladies of the court, I confess that I have had occasion to study the issue of knowledge, in the realm of statecraft.  My father, King Rard, is adept at the art, and my mother . . . well, the Queen’s abilities are legendary,” she said, her voice growing into a hoarse whisper that dripped with sarcasm.  Everyone knew about Rardine.  Many of the old biddies in attendance even remembered her time at court, before she was shipped off to Castal.

But the declaration was effective.  No one of good breeding in Alshar liked Grendine, for a multitude of reasons.  Everyone knew what had happened to Rardine, and they resented the callousness of Her Majesty in regard to her only daughter.

They also appreciated a good revenge story.  The Game of Whispers delighted in betrayal and vengeance.  Rardine marrying Anguin in defiance to the mother who abandoned her had provided fodder for gossip and speculation for two years, now.  Rardine was validating every breathless theory and wild conjecture these women had enjoyed, Pentandra realized.  Rardine was strong, young, and determined in their eyes.  Grendine was old, jaded, and vindictive.  If wise, her wisdom was compromised by the trail of blood it was widely believed she’d ascended into her position across.

“Alshar cannot continue to survive, much less thrive, unless her sovereigns are well informed about the world: those who would be friends of our realm, and those who consider its harm.  To that end, I am forming . . . a garden club,” she said, which inspired a number of confused expressions on the faces in the garden.  “A very special garden club.  A very important, highly selective, extremely exclusive garden club . . . where ladies of good worth can gather and discuss the many, many important issues that mayhap affect our personal gardens.

“After all,” Rardine said, with a jut of her chin, “we cannot rely overmuch on the opinions and observations of men; my august mother has often remarked how men – while steadfast – are oft given to simple assessments.  They do not, the poor dears, understand the greater ramifications of seemingly minor events.  They do not possess the insight to properly understand the important whispers that can inform our policies . . . and build or destroy empires,” she said, with especial emphasis.

“My ladies, we cannot entrust the intelligence of our duchy to our gallant men, just as they cannot entrust its defense to us women.  Therefore, the Alshari Gardening Society shall be the exclusive province of the women of the realm, at its inception.  We will add a few fellows, when and where we need to.  But women have proven far more adept at discovering information than men, and I intend to take advantage of that . . . all under the guise of the Alshari Garden Society.

“Our association will be a quiet place to discuss the details of good gardening.  It will allow us to determine where the weeds are, and which varieties to cultivate.  When the sun will rise and the tides will fall, when the wind shall blow and the storm shall come.  If Alshar is to prosper and blossom as the gods desire, it shall need good knowledge of how that should be pursued.

“My ladies,” the duchess continued, passionately, “I have chosen you because you can be trusted not to betray our interests, and you have demonstrated that you all have the intelligence and wit to understand the challenges we are faced with.  Our garden is a metaphor for all of Alshar, and all of its peoples and interests.   If you look on the underside of the name tags in front of you,” she instructed, “you will see the special name, position, and which plot of the garden you will be . . . planted,” she said, with a hint of a smirk.

“Each of you will report to a gardener, who will give you instruction and receive your intelligence.  Gardeners will report to me . . . and each of us will have a symbol of our position, a flower to signify who we are without our foes discovering us or our purpose.

“Below your position are three names, and their flowers.  Learn them; meet them while you are here, and find some means of discussing our garden with them discretely.  Some you may already know.  But do not divulge them to anyone who is not a Gardener.  You will be in charge of listening to their reports and passing along instruction from your Gardener.  I, of course, will be the Chief Gardener of the society.  My Society name shall be Matadine Rose . . . a variety of distinguished history and honored memory, if you recall.  The Blood Red Rose that grows so prolifically in the soils of Enultramar.

“And if, Trygg’s grace forbid, we shall find within our garden any . . . weeds, be assured that I have taken steps to ensure that those weeds are plucked.  There exists a Weed Warden, who I alone know, who will be certain to remove any flower in the garden at the first hint of betrayal.  That is not a method to which I enjoy recourse, despite rumors to the contrary.  But I will not allow our garden and its secrets to be compromised by the weak-minded or the greedy.  Your faithfulness and loyalty are the surest sunshine to see your flowers prosper.  Now,” she instructed, “please turn over your name cards and memorize them.  Then go to the place indicated within the garden and await your gardener’s arrival.  I will be visiting with each plot in turn to give more specialized instruction.”

Pentandra tried to absorb the implications of what the young duchess was saying.  It was clever, she thought, to construct an intelligence operation under the guise of something innocuous like gardening.  Pentandra’s own experience with intelligence work in Vorone had been exciting and dangerous, but it had also been haphazard and largely improvised, as she had contended with the Rat Crew attempting to take control of the city.

But Rardine’s plan seemed elegant in comparison to the Lord of the Wood organization she’d put together.  And far more comprehensive.

As she looked around at the faces of the other noblewomen in attendance, Pentandra realized that when she did recognize a face, it was one that she had come to trust during her time at court.  Intelligent women.  And, she realized, in some cases quite gossipy women.  They were the real conduits of information within the court, she knew.  It was no wonder Rardine had selected them – they were a talented pool of inquisitive minds who were already gathering information for their own purposes.  It made good sense to put that kind of industry to work on behalf of the Duchy.

She finally flipped over her name card, after most of the other women in the garden had already done so.  She was intrigued to discover her position in this new Society.

The card read, simply, in flowing script,

Andrimony

Gardener Arcane

Minnureal of Furtius (Moonflower)

Rondal of Sevendor (Sagewort)

Minalan of the Magelaw (Snowflower)

Plot: Arcane Perennials

Pentandra studied the little card intently, for a few moments.  She appreciated being given Andrimony as her society alias; the orchid was particularly beautiful and thaumaturgically active.  She supposed that Gardener Arcane meant that she was a senior officer with magical spying in her portfolio.  And seeing that her first three contacts were Minny, Rondal, and Minalan also made perfect sense.  Minnureal was a highly trained psychomancer, she’d learned, as well as being part of the family of thieves known as House Furtius.  No common thugs, the Coastlord household mixed magic and larceny, shadows and secrets into a legacy that went back centuries.

Rondal, too, was no surprise.  As he was marrying into House Furtius, he was well connected in the Alshari court, and he already worked for Pentandra as her deputy, so he was a natural operative for her to oversee.  Sagewort suited him as a device, too; the humble herb with its simple flower was well known among hedgewitches and herbalists for its mind-sharpening properties.

And Minalan – snowflower – was also a natural contact to cultivate.  Minalan had access to information from all over the Five Duchies, including the Alka Alon Council and the counsels of the mighty.  He took interviews with the gods, themselves.  He was a vitally important asset, not to mention a powerful player in Kingdom politics whether he realized it or not.  Pentandra knew how to manage Minalan, too, and she did not mind being his superior, for once.

But all of this organization pointed to an ambitious and determined effort to reconstitute the powerful state Alshar once was.  Rardine was displaying a great deal of initiative in the effort, and Pentandra could see from the faces of her companions that it was clearly appreciated by the ladies of the court.  Indeed, both Viscountess Threanas and one of her sometimes rivals, Lady Martrisha of Bowlen, the current assistant almoner of the court, were nodding approvingly as they read their cards.  Most of the ladies in attendance actually looked pleased, she noted.

That’s when Pentandra took an even greater appreciation of Rardine’s establishment of the society.  While she was unsure if a bunch of gossipy ladies of court could possibly be an effective intelligence organization, it was clear that they were all enormously flattered by being included in such an exclusive order.

Then she realized that Rardine had also established a means to remove any woman who became an obstacle of her policies, through this Weed Warden.  Without the knowledge of the Duke or the rest of the court.  Without recourse to lawbrothers and warrants.  This was an adept application of Kulin’s Law, she realized, a means of controlling the oft-unruly courtiers of the duchy without suspicion.

It was, in other words, a classic and elegant application of the Game of Whispers, well-tailored for Alshar’s unique situation.  And Rardine seemed the perfect person to run it, she knew.

“By the way,” the duchess concluded, “to be clear, the flower known as the Yellow Rose will never be used by a member of our Society.  That particular blossom is reserved,” she said, darkly.  “Indeed, keeping it from our garden is amongst my highest priorities, for those of you who might still have lingering doubts about my own loyalties.  Now, off to your plots!” she insisted, with a giggle.

Pentandra nodded to herself as the ladies of the court rose and went to seek the section of garden indicated on their cards.  Of course, she realized, Rardine was referring to her mother, the Queen, whose affection for yellow roses was well known.

She appreciated the clarity.  There were still several in court who were suspicious of Rardine even after her eventful wedding, fearful that she would be merely a puppet of her hated mother.  This seemed to remove all doubt of her intentions and loyalties, however.  Just as Grendine had foresworn her allegiance to Alshar, when she’d married Rard, Rardine was openly flaunting her own rebellion from the royal family.  And the much more clandestine orders of Grendine’s peculiar “family.”

“I suppose we’re in for a bit of gardening, then,” she sighed, as she stood up from her seat.  Minnureal?  Will you walk with me?  I think we’re going to be headed in the same direction, and you likely know more about this particular plot than I.”

Chapter Four

Skeldor Hall

Trust the gods . . . but steer away from the rocks.

Alshari Folk Saying

Rondal rose that morning after Gatina had left their small apartment at the Tower Arcane complex and realized that he had a lot of work to do.  But as he drank his tea and ate his breakfast, he reflected on all the work he had done, as well.  Indeed, he had made the cozy little apartment into the single nicest place he had ever lived.

When he had first come to Falas at Pentandra’s invitation to help his friend Duke Anguin secure his legacy, the Tower Arcane had been a literal mess – recently abandoned by the Black Censorate, the lower floors and outer halls had been picked through by looters and thieves, and much of the remaining furnishings ruined by a few months of abandonment.  Indeed, among his first duties was helping Pentandra set the Tower Arcane to rights.

That had not been an easy task.  Hiring adequate staff and cleaning the mess had taken a month; hiring artisans to repair the premises and setting up proper offices and archives had taken another.  The first season Anguin had returned to Falas had been busy with cleaning and ordering, and Rondal had been in the thick of the endeavor.

The Tower Arcane was not, precisely, merely the actual tower; it also included a number of three- and four-story halls within the complex, and each of them required repair and refurbishment after the interregnum.  As a reward for his efforts, Pentandra had assigned him quarters and offices in Skeldor Hall – one of the older and more distinguished domestic halls of the complex, named for its first official resident.  He’d made a point of learning its history.

When the Tower Arcane had been the palace of the Count of Falas, over three centuries before, Skeldor Hall had been the seat of the prime minister of the count, a Coastlord named Skeldor of Maris, and the hall was suitably ornate and comfortable for such an important official.  Standing four stories above the grounds, it was a tall, narrow building of red brick with a gray tile roof in an impressive Imperial architectural style.  Balconies and wide windows abounded, as did alcoves for quiet meetings and niches for statuary.  The façade facing the lane was undeniably stately, and the little walled garden behind the place was once again tidy and neatly maintained.

It had taken a third month to manage adequate furnishings for his hall.  Most of the original furniture had been looted or destroyed in the chaotic days before Count Vichetral was finally overthrown.  Thankfully, so were many other well-appointed homes, and much of their goods had appeared in markets across the city at reasonable prices.  Linens, kitchen goods, and other household necessities had been procured as well, until his offices and his personal quarters became livable.

Of course, the moment that he had his quarters outfitted appropriately, Gatina had essentially moved into them.  Though not yet wed, she insisted on sharing his home in preparation for their life together.  Tyndal, of course, found that unbearably presumptuous of her, when Rondal had revealed it to him, mind-to-mind.  But Rondal found that he was not upset by the development.

Though Gatina’s family had estates in the country and townhomes in Falas – including, he suspected, a great number of safe houses and clandestine lairs – Gatina was more than willing to forgo her own quarters in order to share his.  While that took a lot of getting used to, he was also very appreciative of the benefits of sharing his rooms with his beloved.

His apartment took up the rear half of the top floor and was not merely adequate for his needs but indeed opulent, compared to what he was used to.  A sitting room, a small library, a few closets, a tiny kitchen area, a buttery and pantry, and a spacious bedchamber gave him more room and better accommodations than he’d ever enjoyed.

His offices were on the ground floor, of course, and by the time he finished his breakfast, his staff – such as it was – was already filing in to their stations.  While he was a Deputy Court Wizard by title, he lacked a clear portfolio of work.  He did not administer examinations, nor oversee apprenticeships, hear complaints, or administer regulations.  Pentandra had hired other wizards for those mundane tasks.  He was, in Pentandra’s words, someone she could throw at a problem and expect a solution: a troubleshooter.  That did not require a great number of staff to accomplish, in most cases.

Rondal’s offices were divided into three main areas in Skeldor House.  The front room was devoted to meetings and discussions, and it was by far the most ornate chamber in Skeldor Hall.  It was fitted with stylish art and comfortable couches, well-made furnishings and a modest library of books that indicated what a wise and learned mage he was.  All of that was purely for show, a stage on which he could impress the gullible.

The next room back was designated his Office of Arcane Warfare.  One of Pentandra’s other deputies, Terleman of Spellgate, was the official head of the Alshari Magical Corps, but he was assigned to the Wilderlands provinces.  Rondal had been directed by Pentandra to recruit, train, and outfit a special cadre of warmagi in Falas that she could turn to without necessarily invoking the full Magical Corps.  That was essential, she’d insisted, to help contend with Rondal’s main responsibility: countering the insurgency of Nemovorti in the duchy, particularly the nasty cesspit of horror that County Caramas had become.

That swampy province had been all but abandoned by the former Count of Caramas, after most of it was overtaken by Korbal’s undead minions.  The jaded count had retreated from his interior estates and had ruled from one of his coastal holdings, for a time.  But he’d been a staunch supporter of Count Vichetral during the rebellion, and when the troops loyal to Anguin had marched south along the coast to establish his rule across Enultramar, the man had fled to sea rather than stay and defend his scant sliver of control.

While Rondal appreciated the man’s pragmatism, he had left Caramas in turmoil.  Indeed, the office of count was still vacant, largely because no one in Anguin’s court wanted the job.  Including Rondal.

A count was responsible for military affairs in his lands.  That usually meant building and overseeing defensive works and training men to fight in case of invasion or insurrection.  In Caramas, it meant sending men to fight walking corpses and dead bodies animated with the vicious spirits of long-dead undersea creatures.  Fearing death in war was one thing; fearing what could come after one’s death was quite another, and it made recruiting and training soldiers in Caramas difficult.

But when the time came to track down and confront the Nemovorti who hid within the depths of the great swamps, mere soldiers would not prevail.  Pentandra needed warmagi to fight them, and she needed good intelligence of where their strongholds were to do so.  Rondal was now in charge of both efforts, and he directed them from his second office.  He had a clerk and an assistant who collected news from Caramas daily, sought out warmagi who might be persuaded for the effort, and managed the expenses for the half-dozen he’d successfully recruited and deployed already.  That was his Office of Arcane Warfare.

At the rear of the building, before you came to the small buttery, was his third office; his personal office, and the smallest of the three.  That was where his real library was, books he owned because of the knowledge within, not because of the impressive nature of their titles.

In many ways it was similar to the libraries of all professional magi, if far more abundant.  He had three full shelves of basic works on thaumaturgy, magical theory, magical history, enchantment, and elemental works.  That was augmented by a fourth shelf devoted exclusively to warmagic and necromancy.

But that was just a tithe of his books.  He had other sections on history, philosophy, religion, and statecraft.  Still other shelves bore the transcriptions of Alka Alon epics, or travelogues of distant lands, or treatises on far more obscure matters than a polite gentleman usually collects.  Indeed, a large portion of his library was devoted to works discussing purely practical matters.

There were volumes with gruesome illustrations of anatomy, herbals filled with diagrams of useful plants, bestiaries discussing the great varieties of animals that called the Five Duchies home, dictionaries of foreign tongues, works in Old High Perwynese discussing ancient matters he was only barely familiar with, guides on tekka, and every manner of obscure subject from crystals to corals, agriculture to zoology.

He was proud of that library.  It had taken years of steady acquisition to accumulate such a collection.  It was, he knew, a reflection of his inner life as a man, his interests, and his occupation.  Here, in his office, he could look up an impressive amount of information – useful information – to assist him in his endeavors.  It was an arsenal of knowledge, his bulwark against ignorance.  His former master, Minalan, had always encouraged his apprentices to improve their standing libraries, and Rondal was more proud of the volumes on his shelves than he was with the ornate and expensive hall in which they were housed.  Knowledge was true wealth; he’d realized that long ago.

Beyond his books, his office had racks for some special-purpose magical tools he found helpful or kept against future use.

A chest housed some commonly used thaumaturgical tools, while another kept alchemical reagents that he might find useful.  A rack supported staves, rods, and wands that he might choose to equip himself with, everything from warwands to agricultural rods.  When it wasn’t sitting in a hoxter pocket, his baculus rested in a place of prominence on that rack.  Next to it was a rack where his prized dragonhide armor stood in preparation for the day he went to war again.  Several weapons he’d collected over the years were hung on the wall behind it, along with a specialized enchanted roundshield he favored in combat.

The quiet dignity of the office was complemented by the wide glazed window – newly repaired – that overlooked the garden, below.  The southern-facing window allowed a great deal of light into the room, making it easy to read, here, but Rondal had established magelight enchantments in the very first months of his residence.

Indeed, all of Skeldor House was improved with enchantments, now.  While there had been a few built-in, permanent spells that had been cast centuries ago, in some cases, and periodically refreshed, Rondal had taken great pains to apply the most advanced thaumaturgical art available to his new residence.  He was a deputy court wizard, after all.  Taking advantage of his art and trade was not merely expected, it was demanded.

Skeldor Hall now had enchantments in all of the privies, sending human waste into a hoxter pocket where it wasn’t a bother.  Magelights manifested at dusk, far more brightly than the few remaining from the Magocracy.  Applying the power implicit in irionite to those enchantments enriched their use tremendously.  Powerful wards covered windows and doors, sounding alarms if they were opened when they were not supposed to be.  And with a word Rondal could secure all entrances and exits to his residence against anyone getting inside – or out – without expending a great deal of arcane energy or casting lengthy spells.

He had borrowed a hoxter stone for a week and installed several handy pockets around Skeldor Hall.  Manifesting a sudden bottle of wine and a couple of goblets was flashy, but the act impressed upon visitors what kind of mage he was.  Likewise, being able to produce a bag of coin, or a sword, or a lap desk with parchment, ink, and quill at an appropriate moment captivated even other magi he met with.  He had apprenticed with the Spellmonger, after all.  He had a reputation to live up to.

Thus, in a nod to his former master, Rondal had taken to casting a magelight of light Alshari blue above the peak of his roof at night when he was in residence.  While his ego was by no means as great as Minalan’s, he could see the utility of letting people know when he was home.  He had also created a simple but specialized arcane construct, a kind of walking stool or rack, which could run simple errands and fetch a few small objects, at need.  That truly amazed the mundane visitors, when he directed it to bring something up from the basement kitchen or the storehouse out back.

It had taken almost six months to raise Skeldor Hall into its present glory.  He enjoyed the distraction of the project, particularly Gatina’s advice about sophisticated urban life in Falas.  But now that it was long done, he had to devote himself more fully to his assignments.  The fact was, he felt guilty for not attending to matters as thoroughly as he liked, particularly how it pertained to Caramas.  But sometimes patience and observation were a better strategy than action, he knew.  It only looked like laziness.

Caramas wasn’t his only job, of course.  Any time something unexpected or too complex for ordinary staff popped up, it was usually Rondal who tended to it.  Now he had a new assignment on top of his other priorities.  Finding out who sent an assassin to kill Pentandra and why.

Gatina’s interrogation had provided a lot of information, of course, and he had no reason to doubt that the spells she’d used had wrung the absolute truth from the assassin.  They had an address in Inmar, to start with, and the name Aunt Marladine, who was apparently a dressmaker.  That was where he would begin.  It would be easy enough for him to pop up to the Great Vale through the Ways and confirm the intelligence.

But there was something nagging his mind about the incident.  Too much didn’t make sense about it, and he could not untangle the doubts he had about simply blaming Grendine for the attack.  There was more to it, he felt, than a simple political assassination.

He was as well informed as to the true nature of the queen as anybody, save Minalan and Pentandra.  Rondal had overheard enough discussion between the two wizards over the years to know just how ruthless the royal intelligence service was.  Grendine had used assassination and blackmail to subdue first the powerful houses of Castal and secure their loyalty to her husband, and then to prosecute a joint conquest of Farise, and then to orchestrate a further consolidation of power and raise in her station when the three westernmost duchies had merged into the Kingdom of Castalshar.

Everyone of consequence in every court across the Five Duchies knew Rard and Grendine wore the crowns of Castalshar largely because the queen had no compunctions about resting their thrones on a pile of inconvenient bodies.  He considered Grendine all the worse for enwrapping the grisly service in the title of family.  To pervert Trygg’s holy office with murder done in the pursuit of power seemed a properly damnable offense, to Rondal’s mind.

Her murderous minions – the Family, as they were called – were uniformly ruthless in prosecuting Grendine’s (perversely known in the service as “Mother”) directives and orders.  Mostly comprised of pretty maids trained since childhood in the arts of assassination and seduction, the Family had seduced and slain the enemies of Grendine for a generation or more.  They had pruned any serious rival from the Castali court.  They had eliminated entire lines of nobles that Grendine perceived as a threat to her rule and her legacy.

Yet they were not all-powerful, he knew.  As sharp a tool as the Family was in the hand of the queen, the reality was, Rondal had realized, that you cannot poison your way out of most problems of statecraft.  The infamous Game of Whispers only provided some answers to a regime.  Sometimes you actually had to make policy.

Nor was the Family unopposed.  There were other secret centers of power that were potent enough to challenge them, and some had.  He knew the Brotherhood of the Rat had a certain enmity for the Family, after Grendine had framed the criminal gang to obscure the murder of Duke Lenguin and his wife.  The agents of the Duke of Merwyn occasionally took a swipe at the new kingdom’s intelligence apparatus.  Minalan was certainly aware and wary of the Family.  The Spellmonger had broken his close association with the queen’s minions early on, he knew, forcing Grendine to promise not to interfere with the magi, lest they interfere with politics.

As far as Rondal knew, that truce was still in effect.  Minalan had successfully demonstrated his own power of enforcement when he, not the Family, had ended the threat of Dunselen and Isily in the Greenflower Magewar.

But things had changed, once Rardine effectively switched sides after her rescue from Olum Seheri, Rondal considered.  When Prince Tavard had married a Remeran noblewoman, that had begun the split.  The surprise marriage between Princess Rardine and her cousin, Duke Anguin, had perhaps cemented relations between the ducal houses of Alshar and Castal, but those relations were poor, at best.

Rardine was a threat to Grendine – or, more specifically, to the Family.  She had been highly placed in her mother’s organization and was responsible for many of the bloody operations that put Rard and Grendine in power and now kept them there.  Rardine had been responsible for planning and executing the assassination of her aunt and uncle and then framing the Brotherhood for it.  She had leverage over the queen, leverage that threatened her and her legacy by the very existence of a rival in the kingdom.

So, while it made a kind of sense that Grendine might send someone against powerful members of her daughter’s court, it was a ham-handed kind of sense.  Grendine was too adept at playing the Game of Whispers to try to take Pentandra out of the game and invite the enmity of both Rardine and Minalan.

Indeed, he realized, it made no political sense at all.  Unless you wanted to unravel the entire kingdom.

Very few wanted to do that, he knew.  While corrupt and mired in blood, Rard’s reign had brought greater prosperity to the kingdom even as it suffered with the pangs of that success under the threat of war.  Commerce was booming from Enultramar to Wenshar, from the Wilderlands to Remere, he knew.  Rard’s policies encouraged trade and reduced taxes on certain goods, while smoothing over the regulations governing commerce from region to region.  Magic and good governance had seen the price of grain drop, and the flow of coin into the populace increase.  Not even war and rebellion were deterring the bounty that Castalshar seemed to enjoy.

So why would Grendine seek to disturb that delicate balance between the magi and her court?  Why would she antagonize her daughter that way, when the entire fragile kingdom was at risk?

He sighed.  Rondal didn’t have enough information, he knew.  He needed to speak to someone who could provide a knowledgeable answer to his most important questions.  Had something shifted in the royal court?  The other ducal courts?  Was the war in the Magelaw giving Mother new incentives to eliminate the magi?  There was just too much he didn’t know, and he desperately needed to speak to someone with knowledge, wisdom, and insight on the intricacies of court politics.

But he reached out to Tyndal, mind-to-mind, instead.

It had become a practice of his, he’d discovered.  When faced with a problem that seemed difficult and sophisticated, sometimes a sophisticated perspective wasn’t a helpful place to begin, he’d come to realize.  When his mind was full of questions, doubt, and confusion, he’d learned that a casual conversation with his colleague often helped simplify his assumptions.  If Tyndal thought it was a good idea, it usually wasn’t.  If Tyndal was certain about something, it was worthy of further investigation because he was likely wrong.  And Tyndal had an amazing ability to ask stupid questions that provided insight in Rondal’s frustrated replies.

What are you doing this fine morning, Sir Haystack? Rondal inquired, when the spell was successfully cast and he could hear his former fellow apprentice as clear as if he were sitting next to him – when he was more than seven hundred miles away.

Inspecting my herd, Tyndal informed him gruffly.  We’re being deployed again.  We take the field against Shakathet’s legions in two days’ time.  I’ve still got sixteen men to mount before we go, he added, to remind Rondal how important he was.  What are you doing?  Tea with the duchess again?

Actually, Kitten’s at one of Her Grace’s garden parties at the moment, admitted Rondal, a little embarrassed.  He could feel Tyndal’s laugh in his head.  I had breakfast alone.  Wheat cakes, porridge with cream and honey, some fresh berries and a rasher of bacon.  The cook here is quite good.  But I didn’t call you to brag about my staff.  I’m curious about something.

And you called me? Tyndal asked, surprised and amused.  Well, I always figured this day would come.  All right, pay attention: boys and girls are different, under their clothes –

That I have figured out, thank you so much, Rondal replied, dryly.  Gatina has been most thorough.

She hasn’t scratched your eyes out yet? Tyndal asked, surprised.

Not at all.  I’ve scratches elsewhere but – that’s not why I contacted you, he said, quickly changing the subject.  Tyndal’s talent for crudeness was legendary, and it was all too easy to get mired in his confidant’s base humor.  I’m wondering if you knew of any reason why the Family might come after a mage?

The Family? Tyndal asked, even more surprised.  Why not ask Rardine?  She would know better than I.

I wasn’t so much looking for specific information – although that would be helpful – but more for the reasoning behind the move.  Someone likely working with the Family tried to assassinate Pentandra, yesterday, he revealed.  We stopped it in time and captured them, but there was no doubt what their intent was.   I just can figure why Grendine would make such a bold and heavy-handed move.  Especially right now.  It doesn’t make sense, politically.

Going after Pentandra never makes sense, agreed Tyndal, reverently.  Rondal had found his friend maintained an almost fawning opinion of Pentandra, over the years.  He liked the wizard, too, and had a profound respect for her professional abilities, but Tyndal’s attitude was almost worshipful.

It doesn’t this time, at least, agreed Rondal.  Not unless the queen is trying to invite a war – a war she can’t win.  Pentandra is the one person outside of Anguin who would invite the vengeance of Rardine.  Last year that might not have been of much concern, but she’s in control of thousands of troops and ships, now.  It’s as if someone was trying to goad Alshar into war with the rest of the kingdom.

Or at least Castal, Tyndal conceded.  And, of course, if Castal and Alshar got into a fight, Remere would have to either pick sides or withdraw from the kingdom.

Exactly, Rondal agreed.  It would be civil war.  And the only people who would want that, I would expect, are Korbal and the Duke of Merwyn.  Perhaps the Censorate.  But I can’t imagine any of them having the knowledge and foresight to see that, much less the power to contend with the consequences.

You never know who might have a secret grudge against the kingdom, Tyndal pointed out.  Or against Pentandra, personally.

Yes, she does have an impressive list of enemies, Rondal sighed.  This whole Game of Whispers culture complicates things.  I’m starting to think our ancestors had the right idea, when they tried to crush the Imperial nobility.  Not because of magic, but because of their addiction to vendettas and secret feuds.  It makes it difficult to determine where anyone really stands.

I warned you about Imperial girls, Tyndal reminded him, ruefully.

Indeed you did – ‘dark hair and dark tempers,’ I believe you said, Rondal recalled.  Well, Gatina’s hair is bright white.  And she’s as cheerful as a robin, he pointed out.

She’s also willing so sidle up to some poor wench who’s making eyes at her man at some boring reception and stick a knife in her thigh, Tyndal predicted.  She wouldn’t even take it that personally.

Rondal didn’t know how to respond to that . . . because he knew Tyndal was not jesting.

Finding a beautiful, Talented, intelligent, and skillful lover had been unexpected enough, to Rondal’s mind.  He had been genuinely attracted to the girl, and he had developed sincere feelings for her.  But Gatina, the Kitten of Night was not merely infatuated with him, he had come to learn.  She was devoted to him, devoted with an intensity that could be frightening, sometimes.  She would brook no rival in his heart.  And she would not stand for some other woman attempting to steal away his affections or distract his attention from her.  They were not yet wed, yet Gatina protected her chosen mate with the iron resolve of a matron, combined with the youthful zeal of a young girl in love.

It didn’t help that the Game of Whispers tacitly encouraged such obsessive attachment.  Loyalty to house was second only to loyalty to heart amongst the tapestry of torrid values the descendants of the Magocracy held.  Unbridled passion was a virtue to the Imperials, far more than the comparative pragmatic stoicism of the Narasi when it came to marriage and affairs of the heart.  Wilderlords and Riverlords would fight feuds that lasted generations over a matter of honor.  The Imperial cultures were quite content with killing and socially ruining their rivals over a matter of the heart.  Indeed, the greater the passion, the greater the virtue amongst the Imperials, he’d noted.

She hasn’t stabbed anyone like that, yet.  But yes, it’s possible, he finally admitted.  I’d like to think she’d have more decorum than that, but Gatina is . . .

Yes, she is, Tyndal agreed.  Look, Ron, you invited this on yourself when you agreed to this.  I think you’re mad, but then I don’t have her claws at my neck the way that you do.  Just like I think you’re mad for working for Pentandra down in Falas when you could be up here fighting scrugs and stomping undead for real glory.  But you chose this: boring job, scary girl, crazy Game of Whispers, assassins, and all.

It’s just frustrating, Rondal admitted.  I thought the ducal court would be bad, but the great houses behind the court are far worse.  Courtiers struggle for power.  The Imperial houses seem to contend against each other for the pure joy of the struggle.

And warriors fight for glory and honor, Tyndal continued.  Look, Imperials were shaped by the Magocracy, for good or ill, and the Magocracy was shaped by wizards.  For wizards.  For the benefit of wizards.  That didn’t make their society particularly wise, any more than the rule of the knights made Narasi society any more honorable.  But it certainly shaped it.  Perhaps when we put a premium on magic, subtlety and quiet wisdom, whispers and daggers and petty vengeance are the price we pay.

That is a depressing idea.  You know, there is a point to what I’m doing, here in Falas, Rondal grumbled.  Anguin needs me here.  So does Pentandra.  And I am good at my job, he added, defensively.

Oh, I know – Pentandra can’t stop talking about how well you are managing your duties, Tyndal related, quite to Rondal’s surprise.  It gets to be a little annoying, after a while, if you want me to be honest.

She’ll stop talking about it if she gets assassinated, next time, Rondal pointed out. I’d like to hire someone to lead security here at the Tower Arcane.  A warmage.  The captain of the guard here is a fine fellow, but he’s not Talented.  Nor is he sneaky enough.  I need someone who can keep something like assassination attempts from happening again.  Someone greedy enough for a witchstone to be very loyal to the Court Wizard.  Any suggestions?  I was thinking of Curmor, maybe.

Curmor? snorted Tyndal.  He kicked around Gilmora for a while and then went back to Farise, before Tavard managed to lose it.  No one has heard from him since.  He might be dead.  Besides, he’s not the sort of man you need for security.

That led to a long discussion that Rondal actually found fruitful.  Thanks to his warlike nature, Tyndal associated with many more warmagi than Rondal, on the average, and he kept track of their positions and reputations far more than he.  The extraverted knight mage had a knack of making friends at places like the Sword and Staff tavern in Sevendor, where magical mercenaries lingered, and with the professional warmagi of Vanador fighting against the goblins.  He finished the conversation with the names of several people Tyndal thought would be good at guarding the Tower.

He was in the process of chasing down some of those names and composing letters of introduction he could send by Mirror or messenger when the door to his office flew open and his intended bride nearly bounded into the room.

She paused to give him a sincere and ardent kiss before he could even rise from his seat, and Rondal paused to appreciate it.  Gatina liked kissing, perhaps more than other girls.  She seemed to be able to speak volumes in moments with a flutter of her lips, and Rondal aspired to accommodate her.  Her silent lecture left him breathless before she broke it.

“Was it a good party?” he finally asked, dizzily, when she untangled himself from him.

“It was quite lovely,” she replied, bemused.  “Mother was there, of course – my mother,” she clarified.  “Rardine spoke.”

“And then you were dazzled by tales of tulip bulbs and the importance of sheep manure,” he concluded, sarcastically.

“Oh, far from it,” Gatina said, shaking her head as she took a seat in the red leather chair on the other side of his table.  “In fact, as I’m sure you will soon learn through proper channels, this garden society is a cover organization for the new Alshari covert ducal intelligence service.”

“What?” Rondal asked, confused.

“Our lass, the duchess, wants to ensure the security of Alshar properly, and that means constructing good channels of information and the ability to act clandestinely – thankfully something my family is passing familiar with,” Gatina explained, enthusiastically.  “The Society gives her an organizational structure to do that with, as well as a polite fiction to cover the true nature of the organization.  It’s really rather brilliant, actually,” Gatina assured him.

“And you’re part of this now?” he asked.

“Me, my mother, Pentandra, and about two score other high-born ladies of the court,” Gatina revealed.  “I’m not supposed to tell anyone, of course, but since I suspect you’ll be recruited yourself, I’m sure there’s no harm.  Security isn’t that tight, yet.  But it’s a good idea,” she said, earnestly.  “And who knows?  It might assist your efforts in Caramas.”

“Possibly,” Rondal shrugged, skeptically.  “It does make sense, I suppose.  And if anyone can counter Grendine, it’s her daughter.  I’m just concerned that we’re going to see bodies pile up around the place,” he revealed, gloomily.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Gatina dismissed.  “Rardine is not Grendine.  She doesn’t particularly like assassination.  But she does like good intelligence.  Don’t you realize what this means, Beloved?  We’re going to be spies again!”

Chapter Five

Starting A Garden

The fairest rose of necessity requires a pile of manure.

Old Alshari Folk Saying

“I wanted to take the opportunity to speak to you directly,” Duchess Rardine said, quietly, as she joined Pentandra near the arcane garden.  “When I was preparing this society, I knew at once how important the arcane orders would be for its success,” she explained, briskly, as she took Pentandra’s hand and began to lead her through the raised beds and shrubberies of the palace gardens.

“Of course, I will do whatever I can to help, Your Grace,” Pentandra agreed.

“I know you will,” the young woman nodded, firmly.  “Indeed, of all of my Gardeners, I’m most confident in your abilities than . . . some others,” she said, diplomatically.  “You’re one of the court’s most competent ministers,” she praised, squeezing Pentandra’s hand.  “You aren’t as naïve as some of these Narasi,” she added.  That was a bold admission from someone born of a Narasi ruling house.  “And you have proven your loyalty and usefulness to Anguin since before I wed him.”

“I understand,” Pentandra nodded.  “What are my responsibilities to be as the Arcane Gardener?”

“I’m certain you can guess,” Rardine suggested.  “Oversee the magical collection of intelligence, report on threats and potential opportunities for Alshar arising from the magical realm, provide magical support for our other efforts, keep the magi you are placed over in line with ducal policy.  Most of which you are doing already.

“But I would like you to work closely with Minny, especially,” Rardine continued.  “Her family has remarkable skills and resources that I can only guess about.  More importantly, she’s intimately familiar with the Coastlord society . . . the magical houses, in particular.  Some of them were instrumental in overthrowing Vichetral and restoring Anguin to his throne.  If they and their loyalty can be cultivated further, I think it could go a long way toward stabilizing the duchy,” she explained.

“How would you suggest I cultivate them?” Pentandra asked with a smirk.

“The usual methods: flattery and bribery,” Rardine answered with a shrug.  “Many of them wish a greater role in society, now that they are no longer subject to the Bans.  Many desire witchstones, of course.  And some just want recognition and respect, after centuries of languishing under the Censorate.  Minny will help you figure out which ones desire which bribes, and how to flatter them into it.”

“I don’t object, of course, but I do question how helpful that might be, your Grace,” Pentandra said, after a moment’s consideration.

“Perhaps more helpful than you suspect,” Rardine answered, thoughtfully.  “Many of the Coastlord houses maintain relations with their cousins in Farise, Remere, and Castal.  Some even have connections in Merwyn.  The Coastlords have been at the center of Alshari life since the First Magocracy.  When the Narasi came, the Talented ones were quiet, or completely underground, to escape the Censorate.  Now that that is gone, I want you to encourage them to rise again.”

“I don’t think the Sea Lords nor the Vale Lords will be comfortable with that,” Pentandra pointed out.

“Then more of them should have sided with Anguin against the rebels,” Rardine snapped.  “My parents always kept magi at arm’s distance, when I was growing up.  Part of that reluctance was due to the Censorate, but part of it was due to the quiet enmity of the Coastlords for their Narasi sovereigns.    They had caused trouble for centuries, and their magi were no friends of our house.

“Until now,” she continued.  “Thanks to Minny and some of the other houses, Anguin has an opportunity to improve relations and remove a potential obstacle to his success.  They see his endorsement of Minalan and the creation of the Magelaw as a tangible sign of that opportunity.  I would like for you to encourage them further and enlist their aid in quiet ways.  In return, the duchy will begin to encourage arcane society and its trades far more, and promote the trade accordingly.”

“I’ve also heard some resentment – mostly from Vale Lords – over giving half of the Wilderlands to a damned wizard,” Pentandra pointed out.

“Then they should have ridden north and defended it,” Rardine said, flatly.  “I think you will find the Vale Lords are far more concerned with recovering Gilmora than a couple of wizards in the woods.  I plan on giving them enough encouragement on that matter to keep them happy,” she promised.  “The Sea Lords are another matter.  Until Farise is settled, their loyalties are likely to shift.”

“I cannot help you much there, Your Grace,” Pentandra sighed, shaking her head.  “I have few allies amongst the Sea Lords.”

“Thankfully, I have others who do,” she revealed.  “But that is another matter.  Which brings me to Minalan.”

“Minalan,” Pentandra nodded.  “You wish for me to recruit him?”

“I insist on it.  As a Count Palatine, he is one of the senior nobles in the realm.  He is also an important vassal of my brother.  He also sits in counsel with my father and is a member of the Royal Court.  And, of course, he is the head of the Arcane Orders.  He even treats with the Alka Alon,” she reminded Pentandra.

“And the Kasari, the Karshak, and the Sea Folk,” Pentandra informed her.  “I understand your reasoning, Your Grace, but I don’t know how completely you can trust Minalan to put the duchy’s interests above his . . . more complicated view of the world,” she said, diplomatically.

“I understand that the Spellmonger has concerns beyond the kingdom and even the Five Duchies,” admitted Rardine.  “Indeed, if he did not, then he could not have affected my rescue from Olum Seheri.  It was there that my eyes were opened to the world the Spellmonger sees.  And I have no desire to hinder his efforts, now that I know of what he faces.

“But there is much within his purview that he could share with the duchy that would not interfere with those efforts,” Rardine continued.  “Information concerning the security of the duchy, the safety of its folk, and the support of the ruling house.  I know enough of my own ignorance to understand the dangers of meddling in the affairs of wizards.”

“Then Anguin will continue to give Minalan leave to rule the Magelaw as he sees fit, as a matter of policy?” Pentandra asked.

“A mageland for the Alshari magelords, under the delegated sovereignty of a palatinate,” Rardine agreed, firmly.  “That is not just deserved, but it is wise policy. I hope that it will become a strong pillar of the duchy, someday.”

“Oh, someday Vanador will be accounted among the mightiest of cities, Your Grace,” Pentandra assured her.  “Of that I have no doubt.  But your generosity also gives Minalan quite a bit of latitude when it comes to foreign relations,” she pointed out.

“Two centuries of colonization have demonstrated that the Wilderlords are not strong enough to hold the land themselves,” Rardine reasoned.  “The magi seem more resilient, innovative, and determined to do so.  Minalan needs that power to contend with the forces he faces and the allies he cultivates.”

“But when it comes to his relations with the rest of the kingdom?” Pentandra asked, searchingly.

“Anguin and I discussed the advantages of having a nominally independent sovereignty able to conduct affairs apart from the rest of Alshar when he decided to raise Minalan to the palatinate.  We are not blind to the potential problems and opportunities that may involve,” she said, knowingly.

“Such as . . . the matter of Gilmora, your Grace?” Pentandra asked, her eyebrow cocked.

“Word has come that my brother is subsidizing a few Gilmoran counts to attack Minalan from the rear, while he faces the Nemovorti in the north,” Rardine reported.  “I’ve done my best to warn Minalan about it, but he seems to have the matter in hand.  Indeed, he seemed quite untroubled about it.  Which suggests he has a plan.”

“He does that, sometimes, Your Grace,” agreed Pentandra.  Indeed, she knew, he always had a plan these days.  Not necessarily a good plan, but there was a plan.

“If he defeats the Gilmorans, it could give fodder to those noble houses who agitate for a restoration of Alshari sovereignty,” explained Rardine, thoughtfully.  “Indeed, several warmagi within Minalan’s court are in favor of that.  While the duchy cannot interfere in such a matter as a matter of treaty, quietly we would like to encourage such feelings.  As a Palatinate, the coronet cannot be held wholly responsible for Minalan’s actions.  If he should bloody the nose of a few Gilmoran counts in Tavard’s pocket, why, that is his affair.  If a rebellion should break out . . .”

“It would be unwise of Minalan to engage in such adventures,” warned Pentandra.  “The kingdom is not so resilient that it could endure a civil war, in my estimation.”

“The Spellmonger is known more for his boldness than his wisdom,” Rardine suggested.  “In any case, Minalan becomes a useful club to wave at my brother to keep him busy while Alshar heals and rebuilds.  If he manages more than that, I cannot fault him.  I admit, seeing my brother lose control of his prized Gilmoran holdings has an appeal,” she added, her eyes narrowing.

“Then I will do my best to persuade him, your Grace,” Pentandra agreed. Reluctantly.

“Thank you.  And that brings me to your third flower: Sir Rondal.  Of course, Lady Minny is encouraging his inclusion because of his connection to her daughter and friendship of her son, but I argue that he should be one of our flowers on his own merits,” Rardine said, as she stared off in the distance.  “Sir Rondal is, by all accounts, incredibly capable.  He was also one of the first of my rescuers that I saw, so he has my favor on that account.  His actions to preserve the ducal house cannot be ignored.  And my lord husband holds him in highest regard, thanks to their association and the bold feats of bravery the Wilderlord has demonstrated.”

“Magelord, Your Grace,” Pentandra corrected, politely.  “Sir Rondal has never claimed descent from the Wilderlords.  He is ennobled on the basis of his service as an arcane knight, alone.”

“As well as his association with the Spellmonger,” Rardine nodded.  “Either way, he has proven adept at operations – the kind of agent we enjoyed in the Family.  A man who knows how to get things done, even when subtlety is called for.”

“Sir Rondal is quite capable,” agreed Pentandra.  “Indeed, that is why I called him into service as my deputy.  As you know, I have put him in charge of the Caramas situation.”

“Even better,” nodded Rardine.  “The loss of Caramas has weighed heavily on His Grace.  Knowing that such a capable knight as Sir Rondal is attending to it will soothe his mind.  But it also mandates that he contribute to the security of the state through his participation in the Society.  I could not, in good conscience, allow such a valuable asset to go unrealized.”

“I understand, your Grace,” Pentandra assured.  “Sir Rondal considers his friendship with His Grace among the most cherished of his associations.  I assure you that he will gladly add his efforts to ours.  Indeed, he was instrumental in rescuing me from an assassin’s blade, yesterday,” she added, lightly.

“An assassin?” Rardine gasped.  “Where?  When?  Who?”

“In the Tower Arcane, my private quarters,” Pentandra informed her, grimly.  “Directly after the reception you invited me to have for the Coastlords who were complaining of their lost slaves.  In my nursery,” she continued.  “In front of my three daughters.”

“Trygg’s grace preserve us!” swore Rardine.  “Whose hand held the blade?”

“It is still preliminary, your Grace, but evidence points to . . . the Family,” she revealed.  “The blade was forged in the Castali Wilderlands – I did the assay myself.  The assassin was captured and interrogated, and under arcane influence she confessed everything.  Even now, Sir Rondal and his intended bride are preparing to confront the woman who dispatched her.  A dressmaker in Inmar, apparently.”

“Aunt Marladine,” Rardine confirmed, nodding gravely.  “She’s been chief-of-station in Inmar for fifteen years, to my knowledge.  You are certain, Pentandra?” the duchess asked, earnestly.

“Not yet,” Pentandra admitted.  “But we have more than enough information to confront her.  I urge caution in our response, until we understand fully her motives and orders.  I do not know why she might have set me as a target for the security of the kingdom, but I am suspicious, Your Grace.”

Rardine heaved a great sigh.  “I am sorry for that, and apologize on behalf of those in the Family who do not realize the corruption Mother forces on her minions.  They were given much leeway, when I was involved.  Indeed, in places of peril, such as the domain of the Five Counts, they were largely independent of oversight.  But that is no excuse,” she said, shaking her head sadly.  “One does not retire a senior member of the ducal court without good cause.  It makes people talk,” she said, her eyes narrowing.

“Well, we wouldn’t want that,” Pentandra agreed, with a chuckle.  “Tomorrow Gatina and Rondal will pursue this path, no matter where it leads.  I take it we have your sanction to do what is necessary to preserve the security of Alshar?”

“Do what you must,” agreed Rardine, after some thought.  “I trust your discretion, Pentandra.  If Mother thought it was wise to attack my people under my very nose, then her wrist should be slapped . . . hard.  Nor is the Family the only force involved in this wave of assassinations,” Rardine continued, her expression dark.  “The Palace Guard has stopped nine attempts on Anguin’s life, now, and five who were coming for me.  We’ve lost a few junior members of court, as well, who weren’t as well-guarded.  But none of them were Family.”

“I will investigate carefully and report back, before I take any action,” Pentandra promised.

“Thank you.  This does vindicate a decision Anguin and I made last night.  We’ll release the news at the palace tomorrow.  We’re going to bring the court to Vorone for the summer,” she revealed.  “We will leave in a few weeks.  We think it’s important to show our support for the Magelaw and the Wilderlaw during a time of war.  We have that grand new castle we haven’t even stayed in.  And there might be fewer knives and poisonings in Vorone.”

“Under the circumstances, Your Grace, that’s probably a wise idea,” Pentandra agreed.

“How was the stupid garden party?” Alurra asked, when Pentandra was back at the Tower of Sorcery.  Her apprentice was awaiting her in her chambers where she was practicing some of the more elementary magical runes.  Alurra wasn’t nearly as advanced in the work as most apprentices who’d been at it for two years, but that was because she was working without magesight, usually an essential tool of Imperial magic.  While not enthusiastic about it, she did commit herself to practice, however, and was showing steady improvement.

“It was lovely,” Pentandra answered, as she began stripping off her scarves and jewelry.  “Rardine is starting a new spy organization.  I’m in charge of the magi, of course.”

“Spies?” snorted the girl.  “Why do we need spies?”

“To spy on people and learn things,” Pentandra shrugged.  “Every government needs spies.  If for no other reason, to counter the spies of other governments.  And sometimes you can learn useful things.”

“It just seems a little silly, to me,” Alurra dismissed.  “When I want to know something, I usually just ask an animal.”

“I’ll talk to Rardine about recruiting a few,” Pentandra said, dryly.  “It’s an honor, actually – not that I needed something else on my list, but after the attack in the nursery I can certainly see the need.  The duchess fears more of that kind of trouble ahead.  But she also told me something else you might like.  The court is going back to Vorone in a few weeks.”

“We’re going back to the Wilderlands?” Alurra asked, pleased and surprised.

“Indeed.  She thinks it will be safer there, for the moment,” Pentandra said, pulling a robe over her shift after she hung up her gown.

“She does know that there’s a war going on there, right now?” Alurra reminded her.

“That’s one of her motivations,” agreed Pentandra.  “Showing Vorone she hasn’t been forgotten and supporting Minalan and Marcadine.  If things get hairy, we can always bring them back to Falas with the Ways.  It will be nice to be in the north again . . . and much cooler.  The summers in Enultramar are beastly.”

“That’s what Gatina says,” nodded her apprentice.  “Last summer was miserable!  It’s already getting hot, and it’s so damp down here, most of the time.  And I miss trees,” she said, wistfully.

“There are trees down here,” frowned Pentandra as she took a seat at her desk.

“Fruit trees.  Nut trees. Pine trees.  A few willows and hazels.  But oaks?  Ash trees?  Maples?  I haven’t been in a proper forest in Falas yet,” Alurra complained.

“I hesitate to say, but Arborn agrees with you.  Most of the original forests here were cut down centuries ago.  What’s left are more parks than forests.  That’s why Alshar expanded into the Wilderlands in the first place.  Which reminds me,” she said, tapping at her calendar, “tomorrow we have an errand to run.  Tell no one.”

Alurra groaned.  “It’s that big project again, isn’t it?”

“Yes, we need to meet with someone about progress,” Pentandra agreed.  “Now that the facilities are set up, it’s time to begin construction.  Arborn is securing the lumber we’ll need – quite an extensive list.  But he’ll be bringing the first load back with him by hoxter pocket as soon as the war is over.  Then construction can begin in earnest.  That will be another advantage of going to Vorone this summer.  I can oversee procurement much more easily, there.  And it will make Arborn happy.  He doesn’t like Enultramar any more than you do.”

“He’s a man of uncommon sense,” agreed Alurra.  “Really, how can anyone live in a place that’s so crammed with people?  I thought Vorone was big, when I first arrived there, but this place could swallow it!”

“Well, Falas is far larger than Vorone, it is true, but there are other cities much larger than here.  Mostly in Merwyn, but a few in Remere and Castal.  Perhaps we’ll visit them some day.”

“That sounds bloody awful,” Alurra said, flatly, in her Wilderlands brogue.

Pentandra frowned.  She had hoped that Alurra’s brief time at court would improve her etiquette, and it had – to a point.  But while she knew the proper forms of polite address, and understood the rituals associated with court, she had yet to learn tact and diplomacy.  Pentandra blamed the animals her apprentice depended upon.  From what she could tell, none of them had much use for tact or diplomacy.  It was only a matter of time before Alurra said what was on her mind at the worst possible moment.

“That’s what the prophecies say we’ll do,” Pentandra reminded her.

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” shrugged the girl.  “And I won’t.  Which one are we on, now?” she asked, curious.

“The latest from the stone concerns the war,” Pentandra related.  “Something about Korbal using a lake to destroy a castle.  I don’t know how he’s going to manage it, but that’s the one revealed right now.”

“I don’t remember that one,” confessed Alurra.  “If I didn’t understand it, I usually forgot about it.  Which was most of them.”

“I don’t even know what the point of prophesying that was,” Pentandra said with a frustrated sigh.  “Which castle?  Which lake?  And what can we possibly do about it?” she asked.  “I don’t think warning Minalan about it would make any difference.”

“Antimei didn’t know why the visions came to her, she just knew she had to write them down . . . and be confusing enough about it to fool the Censors, if they ever showed up.  I didn’t think it was a problem.  Who expects a hedgewitch to be literate enough to write, anyway?  She was always worried about them, but we never saw one, once.”

“Be glad you didn’t,” Pentandra assured her.  “They were fanatical about their enforcement of regulation.  And neither your sex nor your infirmity would spare you, in regard to prophecy.  They have a long history of executing anyone associated with it.  Even young girls.  I’m glad they are gone.  Of course, they aren’t really.  There are still some in Farise, of all places, and in Merwyn and Vore.”

“Gatina told me about a few she met during the interregnum,” Alurra said, pronouncing the word carefully, as she began feeding her crow from the pouch she kept for that purpose.  It was one she had only learned since she’d come to Falas.  “They sound awful.”

“Many were good men trying to do good things, but they were shackled by laws and rules which no longer made sense . . . and with no way to amend them.  A few were more concerned with their authority than they were their mission.  And a very few were just sadistic power-mongers who enjoyed the strife they caused.  The first time I interviewed with one at Alar, he was the last kind.  A pure bully who delighted in making magi squirm.”

“That’s how Antimei saw all of them,” Alurra agreed, grimly.  “She told me to run and hide if I ever noticed a black and white checkered cloak.  Thankfully Lucky can see that pattern pretty easily.  He’ll be glad to be back in the Wilderlands, too,” she added.  “He thinks the crows here talk funny.  Oh, you got a message,” Alurra remembered, suddenly.  “It came while you were gone – by Mirror Array,” she said, rising and rustling around her own little desk until she pulled a parchment out from the unruly pile of special books she used.  Her fingers ran over the distinctive green seal, before handing it to Pentandra.

“It’s from . . . Weylan!” Pentandra said, in surprise.

“Who?” Alurra asked, resuming her seat.

“A Wenshari warmage who fought at Boval Vale,” Pentandra explained as she broke the seal.  “Minalan assigned him to take over the Censorate’s facilities in Wenshar.  Quite a handsome man, and an excellent warmage.  I haven’t heard from Weylan in ages.”

She unfolded the parchment and quickly read the brief message.

Pentandra,

I need to speak with you face to face.  I’m planning on coming to Falas in three days’ time.  Please arrange a place and time for us to meet.  It is of importance.

Weylan of Wenshar

Steward of the Citadel

Pentandra read the note aloud, before Alurra could ask her to.

“That’s . . . strange,” Alurra frowned.  “Can’t he speak to you mind-to-mind?”

“He has a witchstone and the proper spell,” admitted Pentandra.  “One would think that would be sufficient.  This is intriguing.”

“Perhaps he just wants an excuse to come here to buy wine,” proposed her apprentice.

“The wine in Wenshar is . . . adequate,” Pentandra decided.  “They prefer whites to reds, though.  In Remere, white wine is for peasants.  But I don’t think Weylan would come halfway across the continent to fill his cellars.  There must be a greater purpose in that.”  Indeed, she could not imagine what might rouse Weylan from his cushy assignment, nor what would compel him to visit her, of all people.

She’d met with the man a few times, back when she ran the Arcane Orders.  He had the long dark curly hair that many Wenshari sported, and she recalled his neatly trimmed mustache.  He was well-educated, cordial, and polite, the son of Wenshari nobility, and his reputation in the field of battle was solid.  But Wenshar had little to do with Alshar even in good times.  They were on opposite sides of the kingdom, and Wenshar was completely landlocked.  What trade there was between the two regions was sporadic and expensive.

“It might have to do with the new Count of Wenshar,” Pentandra decided.  “The region was made a palatinate the same time the Magelaw and Wilderlaw was.  Count Mesdaron,” she explained.  “One of the anna Cremenar line – a very ancient and distinguished house.  I remember a party at one of their estates, when I was in school at Alar Academy.  It was gorgeous.”

“Politics and parties,” snorted Alurra, shaking her head.

“In Wenshar, they are one in the same,” Pentandra chuckled.  “That’s one thing Wenshar and Remere agree upon.  Just about the only thing.  The Dukes of Remere have been trying to stifle Wenshari independence for centuries, even before the Conquest.  They did it largely by subdividing Wenshar and letting the local counts fight each other, instead of Remere.

“But now Rard has elevated Mesdaron over them all.  It’s only a matter of time before that has an effect on kingdom level politics.  Indeed, Wenshar has been quiet for years, now . . . and that’s disturbing.”

“It’s disturbing that they’re quiet?” Alurra asked, surprised.

“Before the kingdom was established, the Wenshari would go to war with their neighbors in Remere as regularly as the tides; just as often they would raid across the Merwyni March and antagonize Merwyn.  But since Rard has forbidden such raids, and given all of Wenshar to one man, they’ve stopped their usual belligerence.  And now there is no Censorate to keep the local magi under control.  Whatever Weylan wants to discuss with me, you can wager that it will involve that.”

“So, you’re disturbed by the fact that the Wenshari aren’t fighting anyone?” Alurra asked, skeptically.

“So, to speak.  They are a proud people, and they have a strong tradition of producing excellent warmagi.  And crappy thaumaturges.  Without the Censorate to keep the magi in check, they’ll likely be running the place, eventually.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Alurra asked.

“It is an interesting thing,” Pentandra corrected.  “Wenshar was settled originally by magelords exiled from Merwyn, Vore, and Remere. They were exiled because they were usually in rebellion to the authority of the Archmage.  As such, they have a strong rebellious streak when it comes to foreign relations.  It doesn’t really matter what authority they encounter; their initial impulse is to defy it.  Rard inherited that problem from Remere when he established the kingdom.  I’m actually surprised they haven’t rebelled against him yet.”

“So why haven’t they?”

“Likely because they are more fearful of Merwyn than they are of Rard.  But making them a palatinate also gives them more leeway when it comes to how they contend with Merwyn.  That’s more independence than Wenshar has enjoyed since the Conquest.  Under Merwyni rule, the province would be broken up again and brought under tight control.  Historically, the Merwyni look down on the Wenshari as half-literate barbarians in need of a good dose of Merwyni order, not a civilization that has endured for five hundred years.  The Remerans saw them as back-country bumpkins, but largely left them alone as long as they paid their tribute and kept their raids to a minimum. They’ve even intermarried with Remeran houses, in the past.  Merwyn resents both perspectives but has traditionally sided against Remere.”

“Does anyone ever get along with anyone?” complained Alurra.

“Feudal politics doesn’t encourage it, no,” Pentandra sighed, sympathetically.  “Power must be defended, and those who want power must take it.  That can be done on the battlefield with knights, at sea with ships, or in a darkened corner with a dagger.  But there is always a struggle for power.  Or haven’t your animal friends demonstrated that to you?”

“They don’t care about power, they care about food and mating,” Alurra explained.  “Either getting it or defending from predators or rivals.  It’s a lot more civilized, I think.  It takes the stupidity of a human to dream up government and power, and then fight about it all the time.”

“Well, the Wenshari will fight about who’s going to fight about fighting the Merwyni or the Remerans.  And then throw a party afterwards to decide the details.  Which suggests to me that whatever Weylan is coming to discuss with me will undoubtedly concern a fight.  I just hope it’s not with the rest of the kingdom.”

Chapter Six

An Attack In The Darkness

Fair clothes oft conceal foul features.

Alshari Folk Saying

“What a beautiful city!” Rondal remarked from horseback as he and Gatina rode over the gently sloping hilltop in the brilliant afternoon sunshine.

“Inmar, the City of Temples,” agreed Gatina, cheerfully, as she reigned her mount to a halt.  “I’ve only been here a few times, but it always delights me.  It’s like walking into a painting.”

Rondal could see why she’d think that.  The town below was unwalled and open to view, and from this vantage it seemed to sprawl across the shore of one of the bluest, prettiest lakes he’d ever seen.  It was large enough to command a full marina, where little white boats bobbed in the delicate waves the breeze was blowing.  Beyond the docks were a few streets of tradesmen’s shops before the central street opened up into a grand cobbled square.

The great square of Inmar was the focal point of the city and the reason for its fame.  Around its edges was one incredibly elegant temple dome or slender spire after another, each unique in its visual appeal.  The golden dome of Ovartas, the red-tinged dome of Trygg’s temple, the double domes of Ishi’s abbeys, and the soaring spire of Duin’s popular shrine complemented each other splendidly.  Lesser monasteries and abbeys wisely did not compete with the soaring structures of the main temples but added distinctive elements of their own to the skyline.

Great houses and flats were constructed in neat rows in a circle around the central square, on wide streets that radiated to the outskirts in every direction.  The rooves changed from tile to wooden shingles, within a few blocks, but even the poorer residences seemed to gleam in the afternoon sun.  Gardens and farmsteads became more prominent the further away from the square you went, of course, but there seemed to be sections quite near to Inmar’s center given over to pastures and woods.

Most impressive was the color.

“It’s very . . . green!” Rondal observed.

Indeed, across the sprawl of Inmar the majority of the buildings were a vibrant pastel green, punctuated with slashes of pale pink.

“That’s the local pigment they use here – something with a lot of copper oxide in it,” Gatina explained.  “It’s even in the clay they use for bricks and tiles – those aren’t painted, they come out of the kiln that way.  And the local marble quarry is mined for pink stone.  It’s everywhere.”

“It matches the lake, nicely,” Rondal decided.

“It looks even prettier from the lake, with the hills in the background,” Gatina said, dreamily.  “I wish we had time to stop for a picnic and linger until sunset . . .”

“Duty beckons,” Rondal sighed.  “This is an urgent matter.”

“I know,” Gatina agreed, returning the sigh.  “Perhaps we can find this Aunt Marladine quickly, and have a day or so to explore the town.”

“I hope so.  We’ll get there by sunset, if we keep a steady pace, and get a room.  We can scout the town tonight and then pay this aunt a visit in the morning.  You said you knew of an inn, here?”  They had come this far north by means of a natural Waypoint twelve miles northwest of the lake town and hired a pair of mounts at a nearby village.  Rondal had a Waystone in his pouch to make future trips much easier . . . although it would be a pity to miss the view from the approaching road.

“The Duke’s Dalliance,” she answered.  “It’s just off the market square, toward the lake.  It’s nice; I’ve visited it before.”

“One of your heists?” Rondal asked, as he nudged his rouncey forward down the road.

Gatina nodded, with a smile at the recollection.  “We were stealing a notebook full of the names of magi and Coastlords who were secretly working as informants for the Censorate and Vichetral, back during the rebellion.  It let us expose some spies.  It wasn’t here, but Inmar was the best city to organize the heist from.  And the food is amazing,” she added.

Rondal had begun to get used to his bride to be reminiscing about her exciting childhood.  She seemed to have endless tales about her criminal career and exhausting training.  He found them both exciting and disturbing – the Kitten of Night had already had a more storied career than most old veterans.  She had surprised him scores of times by revealing some bit of obscure knowledge or a story about a place.  A more suspicious man might consider that she was making it all up, but Rondal knew her brother and her parents well enough by now to understand that Gatina was – if anything – downplaying her youthful adventures.

“The Duke’s Dalliance,” Rondal nodded.  “That seems a little disrespectful, considering Anguin just regained his throne.  He hasn’t had time for any dalliances.  Nor do I think Rardine would abide them.”

“A sensible woman,” Gatina nodded.  “But the inn isn’t named for Anguin, but for Duke Botaran, second Narasi Duke of Alshar,” she explained as they descended the hill.  “He was visiting one of his Vale Lord vassals, nearby, and came hunting on the shores of the lake.  Inmar was just a tiny fishing village at the time, but it had a small shrine to Ishi tended by a very beautiful young priestess.

“The young duke was smitten, it’s said,” she continued, a smirk on her lips, “and he began a relationship with the woman.  In secret, of course.  When his hunting trip was over, he hated to leave so much he declared that he must have a hunting lodge here.  Every year Botaran returned for a month to spend time with the priestess . . . endowing her shrine into a temple, and then sponsoring an abbey.  He later married a Coastlord woman and fathered five children, but he kept returning to Inmar, and even sent his daughters to the temple school here, which attracted other nobility.  He treated it like a summer capital.  Eventually the village grew in size, and his grandson began building more temples here.  So Inmar is, in essence, the product of the Duke’s dalliance.”

“How did you come by that bit of history?” Rondal asked, impressed.

“One of my ancestors stole a diamond necklace from the duke here,” Gatina explained.  “I read about it in the family histories.”

Rondal frowned, suddenly. “I’m afraid I don’t have much of a family history.  Nothing formal, of course.  I think I’m the only one who could read it,” he confessed.

“You’re part of mine, now,” Gatina said, encouragingly.  “And I would say you have enough history on your own to satisfy any great house’s ambitions of glory.”

Rondal didn’t know how to respond to that, so he changed the subject, quickly.  He understood that Gatina’s family line stretched back centuries.  His was ignominious.  Thankfully, she didn’t seem terribly impressed by such things in other noble houses, while maintaining an assertive pride in her own house’s unique history.

The city maintained its inviting beauty well into dusk, with the sunset contorting the lake and the green and pink walls of Inmar into an artist’s masterpiece.  By the time they came to the great square, the first of the lamplighters was beginning his rounds.

“The inn is down here, on Silversmith Street,” she indicated, riding by the massive temples without giving them much attention.  Rondal wanted to stare at them like a country peasant.  The façades were gorgeous, a tasteful blend of abstract design and lifelike statuary in sumptuous pink marble.  Someone had spent an awful lot of coin on those temples, he realized.  Generations of someones.

He’d seen the temple districts of cities like Falas, Castabriel, and Vorone, but Inmar’s many ecclesiastical centers seemed far more coherent and complementary to each other than those other cities.  While each building was magnificent in its own right, the common colors and styles conspired to present a common architectural theme.  It was far less haphazard than in other towns, he decided.  Even the secular university on the square, where physicians and mathematicians were trained, seemed more temple-like than academic.

The Duke’s Dalliance was two blocks off the main square, a tidy three-story building of the pale green brick and greenwashed wattle and daub.  It was a sedate but cheerful sort of place, frequented by prosperous merchants, well-to-do pilgrims, and visiting clergy.  Rondal arranged for a private room for them both with a quick conversation with the innkeeper, and he found the price quite reasonable.  Dinner was secured in the common room for a silver penny that bought them bread, wine, and half a duck each.  A delicious pottage of spring greens and early carrots was provided at no additional cost.  Though half-empty, the inn had hired a viol player to liven up the evening.

“We can stop by the dressmaker’s salon tonight,” Gatina proposed.  “I fancy a bit of skulking about in the shadows.  It’s down by the docks, according to our assassin.”

Rondal suppressed a wince.  Those sorts of outings made him nervous, though he had no call to be.  Gatina used shadowmagic when she did that sort of thing, and was so good at it that he frequently lost sight of her when she was right in front of him.

“I think a casual walk by the shoreline in the moonlight would be more appropriate,” he countered, as he poured her more wine.  “We’re looking for a dressmaker, not hiding from the city watch.”

“Well . . . can we skulk a little along the way?” she asked, sulkily.

“If you insist,” Rondal sighed.  “I’m curious why Grendine would want an agent in this place, though.  It’s not that important – not as much as Falas or Rhemes.”

“Half of the Vale Lords send their children here for education,” Gatina informed him.  “The university is here.  There are theaters and auditoriums.  It’s a common place for councils, both ecclesiastic and secular.  And a lot of nobles have small hunting estates or fishing lodges up here.  Not everything important happens behind castle walls.  This is a great place to pick up information, of a certain kind.  And a dressmaker is a good cover for that kind of work.”

“I suppose you’re right.  I wonder how many other such agents are emplaced across Alshar?” he considered, as he finished off his pottage.

“At least five, that we know of,” Gatina answered, unexpectedly.  “Here, Rouen, Rhemes, Gavina, and of course Falas.”

“There’s a Family agent in Falas?” Rondal asked, shocked.

“Of course,” Gatina shrugged.  “A bookseller near the palace.  Rardine knows the man by name – she recommended him for the job.  Which both of them know.  If Grendine is starting trouble, his shop will be the first to be dismantled.  My house has known about it for years, apparently.  My cousin Onnelik does business there, sometimes.”

Rondal shook his head.  “Military intelligence seems delightfully straightforward, compared to all of this.  Are you finished?  We can take that walk, now.”

“Let me run to our room and pack a few things,” Gatina demurred, as she gave him a kiss as she rose.  “I’ll be back before you know I’m gone.”  Just to be impish, she used a bit of shadowmagic that made her seem to fade a bit.

The innkeeper acted surprised, when Rondal told him he and his bride were going for a walk.  The man advised caution, recommended carrying a torch and a sword, and counselled him not to tarry too long, lest the inn be closed against them for the night.  Rondal snorted at the thought.  There was not a door in all of Alshar that Gatina could not open.

The pair departed arm in arm, and to avoid undue attention they used Cat’s Eye spells rather than cast magelights in the dark or resort to the banality of a torch.  It was a pleasant spring night, with a cool mist coming in from the lake while the sky was blissfully clear of clouds.  The stars began to shine with resplendent pride in the east, while the last shred of twilight clung to the eastern horizon.

“Do you notice something?” Gatina asked, suddenly.

“As much as possible,” Rondal quipped.  “What in particular?”

“There are no beggars out, here,” she said, frowning.  “Nor street orphans.  There were plenty, last time I was here.  And there was even some nightlife.  Theater-goers, that sort of thing, for the beggars to beg from.  The street feels empty.”

“Perhaps the city watch is just diligent about their duties?” Rondal proposed.

“No, even then there would be some beggars,” Gatina said, troubled, as she looked around.  “They’d just be a little shiftier than usual.  But there are none.”

“There are a lot of shutters closed, too,” Rondal noted.  “And not a cloud in the sky.  Could it be they know there are thieves about?”

“Or something dangerous,” Gatina said, ignoring the joke.  “Inmar is a pretty safe city.  A prosperous city.  But something is keeping the underclass hidden at night.  That’s . . . interesting.”

Rondal considered.  His experience of urban life was limited, and he had grown to trust Gatina’s judgement in such matters.  “What would cause the beggars to disappear?  Come to think of it, I don’t see any whores out, either.  Even in a town with a temple to Ishi you’d think there would be a few doxies about.”

“Something hunting them in the night, perhaps?” Gatina suggested.  She gestured to a pair of figures making shadows in the light of the streetlamp.  “Even the city watch is patrolling in numbers.  And they have spears.  They didn’t carry those even in the interregnum.  And they look a lot more cautious than they used to.”

Rondal had to agree.  Usually, the watch of a town strutted around confidently, using their authority to discover any potential mischief under the cover of night.  These men looked more like soldiers on patrol in potentially hostile territory.

“So, what is lurking in the mists of the night, scaring beggars and watchmen alike?” he asked.

“Let’s find out,” Gatina said, and boldly approached the two watchmen.  “Gentlemen,” she began, politely, “I hope the night has granted you peace.”

The taller of the two grunted in surprise.

“It just began, so we shall see, m’lady,” he said, hoarsely.  “Are you a pilgrim?”  There were many such who came to Inmar to visit the temples and shrines, Rondal knew.  Likely another reason Grendine had set an agent here.

“Merely a couple of travelers,” Gatina corrected.  “I’m looking for a dressmaker for our wedding.  We thought we’d take a stroll down by the docks.”

The two guardsmen gave each other a meaningful look.

“You should be wary, my lady,” the other guardsman told her, firmly.  “There are plenty of us about, but you should be careful.  People have been . . . disappearing,” he said, swallowing.  “No bodies, no blood, just . . . gone.  All sorts of people.”

“There’s been a lot of that in the south, too,” Rondal nodded.  “It happens at night?”

“Aye, two so far this week, maybe more,” admitted the taller watchman.  “Man, woman, monk or beggar, it doesn’t seem to matter.  They even got one of our own, a few weeks back.  They go outside after dark, and they just don’t come back.  We’re searching everywhere, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone we can find who knows anything about it.”

“You’ve consulted magi on the matter?” Rondal asked, curious.

“Oh, aye, the Watch has a contract with a few adepts.  They’ve looked into it.  They haven’t found much.  It’s hard, they say, if there isn’t an actual body.”

“You two be careful,” the shorter man suggested.  “It only seems to happen to people when they’re by themselves, at night, but that could be a coincidence.  But we’re only going out two at a time, now.  So, stay together.  And get back to your quarters as soon as your . . . stroll is over.”

After thanking the watchmen, they continued down the street, more cautious and wary than before.

“It has to be magical, somehow,” Rondal murmured as the mist began to collect around their knees.  “It sounds as if it isn’t just targeting magi, either, like in Enultramar.”

“He said the adepts didn’t find anything,” Gatina pointed out.

“Most Resident Adepts are just slightly better read spellmongers,” Rondal argued.  “Casting a couple of finding spells for stolen merchandise is one thing.  Investigating a disappearance?  That’s going to be far outside of their capabilities, without irionite.”

“And some specialized training,” agreed Gatina.  “They probably don’t even know what to look for.  Especially if whoever is doing it doesn’t want to be discovered.”

They continued down the wide avenue until they came to the corner that led to the side street where the dressmaker’s shop was located.  They found it easily enough, a small but well-appointed shop that looked nothing like a hub of spies and assassins.  A sign bore a thread and needle device, for the illiterate, and read in bold, old-fashioned Narasi script Mistress Marladine, Seamstress.

“This is a quaint little place,” Rondal offered as they strolled past the front of the shop without stopping.

“It’s nothing compared to the shop we use in Falas,” dismissed Gatina.  “But it is nondescript.  It probably does fittings all over the city and sends packages out all the time.  A good place for a spy station.”

“Let me take a glance in magesight . . .,” Rondal decided, as he slowed to a stop.  The building had no true magical defenses, he quickly learned; a few anti-pest spells and a fire control enchantment was all he could identify.  “Looks pretty mundane,” he said, approvingly.

“The Family is sparing in how they deploy the few magi they use,” Gatina agreed.  “They don’t trust them, entirely.”

“We’re not all dishonest thieves,” Rondal shrugged.  “But it is petty of them.  And a weakness we can exploit.  Let me . . .” he said, as he manifested his baculus from the hoxter pocket in a ring.  He didn’t bother explaining the spells he was placing on the front door of the shop, but he figured Gatina could see what he was preparing.

“Now we can track anyone coming into or out of the shop,” she smiled, satisfied.  “A dweomer spell.  Clever.  But what about the other entrances?”

“What makes you think there are other entrances?” Rondal asked.

“Because it would be stupid to have a safe house like this without at least three other methods of entry.  One will likely be into the sewer system that leads to the lake.  One will lead to the shop next door, or the shop on the other side of the shop next door, depending on how sneaky they are.  One on the roof and one in the back,” she predicted.

“I’m more concerned about who comes in the front door, for our purposes,” Rondal explained.  “The advantage of the shop is that there are people coming in and out of it without notice,” he reasoned.  “I want to know who might be doing that.  They, not the assassin skulking out the back door, are going to be more vital to our investigation.”

“My lord is subtle,” Gatina admitted, with a cock of her head.  “I tend to think that when there is a clandestine means to be used, it will be used.”

“Understandable,” Rondal agreed.  “I think—”

Rondal found himself interrupted by a howl in the distance – a scream of anger and fear, piercing the nocturnal mists like an arrow.

He did not know who was shouting, or why.  But there was an earnest edge to the voice who screamed that suggested a struggle for life and death.

“Trouble!” he whispered.

“Not our trouble,” Gatina reasoned.

“We don’t know that,” Rondal countered.

She shot him a skeptical look – which he found intriguingly fetching -- but it was clear she, too, was troubled by the shout.  “It’s down there,” Gatina finally said, indicating an alley betwixt a cordwainer’s shop and a grocer.  “It’s a woman’s voice,” she added, concerned.

“You enjoy skulking, I prefer errantry,” Rondal said, as he began to head toward the shout.  Another yell and the tumult of violence came indistinctly through the fog.  There were words, there, but they were lost in the fog.  “Whoever it is needs help,” he reasoned, as he manifested his mageblade.  He began to move at a jog, his heart starting to pound.

“How is this our business?” Gatina asked, doubtfully.  But she was right at his heel.

“How is it not?” he asked, as he pushed his way through the mist.  “We’re in Inmar investigating an assassin.  There is a rash of kidnappings in Inmar.  We stumble across some disorder in the middle of the night.  How can these things not be connected?”

“There is such a thing as coincidence, you know,” she pointed out.

“Not in a wizard’s life,” Rondal insisted.  “Magic is the science of coincidence.”

“My lord is a philosopher,” Gatina chuckled.

“My life is a case study,” he said, feeling the hilt of his blade firm in his hand.  “If something suddenly happens nearby, I’m usually involved, it seems.  Another street, I think . . .”

One more scream rang in the night, much closer now, but different in tone and pitch.  It wasn’t fear or surprise, it was anger and defiance.  And it seemed much younger.

Shadows loomed ahead, within the narrow lane between buildings.  The Cat’s Eye spell allowed him to navigate easily enough, but it augmented the decidedly spooky character of the moment.  A blur of motion in the gloom ahead confirmed the site of the commotion.  He skidded to a halt when a loping figure ran through the mists ahead of him, uttering snarls and angry grunts.  Rondal thought he caught a flash of red light as it passed.

“Good luck, Beloved,” Gatina said, kissing his ear from behind.  “I’ll be near.  Darkness protect you,” she whispered, and then was gone.

Rondal took a breath and launched himself into the street ahead, sword in hand, as he activated the warmagic defenses to which he was accustomed.  The flash of red had compounded his concern.  It was too familiar for his liking.

He felt reckless, charging into an unknown situation – it was the sort of thing Tyndal might do.  But he didn’t feel he had a choice.  Someone was being attacked.  He had a duty to respond.  And there might well be magic involved.  That placed it under his purview, in his mind.

Rationalizations are terrible things, he realized, as he emerged into the midst of a battle.

The combatants were an unlikely pairing.  Huddling against the wall of a spice merchant’s shop was an old woman, short and wizened, a short stick in her hand.  In front of her was a boy, a scrawny scrap of a lad with a shock of sandy hair flopping over his eyes.  He had both fists raised, and he was snarling.

In front of them was the lurking shape of a man – but Rondal could tell at once that there was little humanity in the figure.  He’d seen the like before, on the battlefields of Olum Seheri, in the swamps of Caramas, and in the tower of the Sea Lords.  The attacker moved with a savage grace that was unnatural to man, shifting from foot to foot like a bird while its arms flailed about like the antenna of an ant.  There was no hair on its head or face, and the skin around its skull was pale and drawn.  Rondal did not need to search for necromantic energies to realize that the creature was no longer alive, despite its alacrity.

A draugen.  Undead used by the dreaded Nemovorti – themselves undead – as a brutal soldiery.  While the Nemovorti were the spirits of dead Alka Alon inhabiting the bodies of magically Talented humans, the draugen were far more ancient: the shades of long-dead creatures from Callidore’s oceans retrieved from Ghost Rock.

The combination of human strength and inhuman agency made the draugen fearsome foes.  They were hard to kill, felt little or no pain, and did not respond in combat the way an actual living being did.  Most likely didn’t realize that they were even on dry land, Rondal figured, based on how they moved in a fight.

Usually facing a draugen meant a short fight and a bloody death, Rondal knew.  But the old woman was keeping the creature at bay with a fistful of magical power, if not the sheer force of her will.

“Begone!” she demanded, angrily, as she brandished the ball of energy in her wrinkled old fingers.  “You shall not harm us this night!”

“Leave us alone!” the child commanded with the boldness of ignorant youth.

The draugen did not reply – Rondal had never heard one speak – but it was undeterred by anything but the power in the old woman’s hand.  The stick, too, seemed to have some arcane energy, but it was her empty right palm that was festering with power.  That was what was keeping the beast at bay, he realized.

Rondal paused but a moment while he activated a spell, and then he propelled himself across the cobbles with arcane force.  Warmagic augmentations that made him far speedier than normal gave him the momentum he needed to slam his shoulder into the back of the draugen, sending it sprawling.

“Run!” he commanded the old woman, as he turned to face the draugen.  He summoned his baculus to his left hand, and he began weaving spells around himself as the draugen righted itself with inhuman speed.  “I’ll keep it busy, you run!”

He didn’t bother to see if the two victims were actually running as the draugen sprang at him with a howl of rage. Rondal swiftly blasted the beast back to the ground with his baculus and prepared his mageblade to strike.

That’s when he heard more commotion over his shoulder, the same sort of gibbering and grunting the draugen was making, only at a higher pitch.

Of course, there had to be two of them, he thought to himself as the first draugen sprang at him again.  This time he managed a vicious slice across its bare chest as he twisted to let its own momentum carry it past him.  He continued the move which brought his baculus back into position, and fired a withering blast of tuned arcane power into the spine of the undead monster.  The bones shattered under the pockmarked skin.  There was no howl of pain, however, as the creature began flopping around on the cobbles in the mist.  It was still had every intention of fighting Rondal, but it was unable to support itself well enough to do so without an intact spine.

“Ishi’s tits!” he swore as he began to turn toward the sound of the second draugen, only to have it careen into him at a dead run.  Though he tried to dodge the attack, the grasping claw-like hands and the sheer mass of the second undead knocked him off balance, sending his baculus from his hand.  He managed to maintain his sword, fortunately, which kept the beast from gutting him.  The vicious teeth of the thing – filed to points, he could see as they snapped inches from his eyes – were also a danger, as were the bony limbs kicking and flailing at him.

The draugen did not defend itself.  Its every action was an attack.  Rondal managed several cuts on it, as he tried to end its assault, but he was unable to strike a decisive enough blow to stop it.

He tried maneuvering the thing to trip over the flopping body of its comrade, but the draugen ignored it.  He blasted it with a flare from his blade, but the creature’s eyes did not seem fazed by the sudden brilliant display.  He sent it reeling twice with forceful spells that gave him a moment’s breath before the draugen resumed its attack.  It was relentlessly determined, and Ron was starting to get frustrated. He drew more power from his witchstone and increased his defenses as he could, but the bloodthirsty horror he faced would not stop advancing.

But when it leapt toward him a second time, it stumbled – not from a misstep, he saw, but from its feet becoming suddenly entangled, prohibiting it from gaining a footing.  It tumbled to the cobbles once again, confused and angry at the loss of control.  That put its head close enough to Rondal’s blade for him to slay the thing with a powerful thrust through its temple.

“Beloved!  Behind you!” a voice called at the same time.  Rondal whirled, when he saw a blur of shadow race toward him.  Instinctively he dove to his side, rolling out of the way, and came up on his knees with his blade, ready to face a third draugen.

But the eyes that stared at him weren’t red – they were yellow.

“You slew my best hunters!” it said in heavily accented Narasi.  The voice was female, but had a deep resonance and a raspy quality that reminded him of an old mariner.  “That is a pity.  But then they delivered you to me, so their sacrifice was not in vain.”

Rondal didn’t hesitate, nor try to interrogate the Nemovort who lurked in the shadows.  He raised his mageblade at the blur and began casting spells.  The most violent, powerful, and destructive spells he could draw from himself.  He would not let himself stop until the smoke cleared, after the last arcane flare, and there was nothing left.

“She disappeared, you didn’t slay her,” Gatina reported, as she revealed herself from the shadows, her own shadowblade drawn.  “Something hit her in the face and it made her flee.  She might have escaped through the Ways.  Or by some sorcery,” she said, apologetically, as she used her sword to dispatch the first flopping draugen.  “Are you hurt?”

“No,” Rondal admitted, rising from his knees and looking around.  “Well, maybe a little bruised.  What spell did you use to trip up the second one?”

“Bolos,” Gatina said, with a chuckle, as she retrieved the weapon from the entangled feet of the corpse.  “They come in handy, sometimes.  I was reserving my magic for other things, but I saw an opportunity.  You fought very bravely,” she added, as she straightened, rolling up the weighted cord with practiced ease and making it disappear.

“Where did the old woman go?  And the boy?” he asked, as he wiped off his sword with his handkerchief.  The blood was black and necrotic, he noted with distaste, and elected to discard the handkerchief rather than clean it.

“We are right here, Sir Rondal,” the old woman announced.  She emerged from behind the corner of the building, her hands on the shoulders of the boy.  “That is who you are, I’m assuming.”

“I . . . well, yes,” Rondal agreed, surprised.  “Deputy Court Wizard of Alshar.  And you are . . . ?”

“I am very anxious for you to escort us to safety, my lord, and put my grandson to bed,” she said, giving a worried smile to the boy.  “His parents will be worried, and after this much excitement he may never sleep again.  Once he is safely delivered, I want you to contact your employer, Baroness Pentandra.  I need to speak to her.”

“Who are you?” Rondal asked, irritated.  Gatina stared at the woman searchingly.

“My name is Jamarain.  I’m a retired hedgewitch.  But she will know me better as Old Antimei, the greatest witch of the Wilderlands.  And there are things I need to tell her, Sir Rondal, and tell her quickly.  Else we are all doomed.”

Chapter Seven

An Unexpected Reunion

Old friends who visit but seldom are prized higher than gold.

Alshari Folk Saying

The grounds of the Tower Arcane were in far better repair this spring than they were last spring, Pentandra observed as she watched the two nursemaids play with her daughters on a blanket in the gardens.  When she had first taken residence here, the place had been the site of several riots, a few military raids, and a brief siege that had challenged the defenses of the old palace and almost ruined the once-glorious gardens.

Once, she’d learned, the gardens here were among the Tower’s most impressive attractions.  Centuries of careful cultivation of scores of thaumaturgically active plants, as well as a host of decorative flowers and shrubs, made the small but elaborate gardens the rival of all but the Duke’s palace in Falas.  Much of the annual plantings had languished under the residence of the Three Censors, and the perennials had suffered from neglect and even abuse.  The Censorate had little use for gardening, after all.  Their tenure had been an occupation, not a residency.

But the new season had brought a resurgence of growth, and the Green Mage she’d hired to oversee the Tower’s garden beds (a pudgy little hedgewitch from eastern Falas) had spent every waking moment securing and replanting a host of bulbs and seedlings since the last midwinter frost.  Her work had paid off handsomely: the shrubs and foliage that ringed the Tower’s courtyard had exploded in blossoms, and the sweet scent of flowers filled the air.  Pentandra took a deep, intoxicating breath of the warm, fragrant air and smiled while the girls in the garden below her giggled and squealed.

Simple pleasures, she sighed to herself.  They made her struggle bearable.  All that was missing was Arborn.

It was a glorious day, her family was safe and happy, and despite the brush with death just a few days before, she felt more secure than ever.  The lapses in security that allowed the would-be assassin to get into the Tower were being dealt with, now. And, at Rondal’s insistence, a new suite of defensive spells was being put in place at the main entrance and throughout the Tower, and four more men had been hired to patrol the grounds.  He was also searching for a good warmage to take charge of the guard and oversee its security.  The captain was a good man, thorough, and diligent, but he was also mundane.  He did not know how to contend with things like Annulment spells or magically augmented assassins.

If only Arborn was here to enjoy it with her.  She thought of her brave husband hourly, and missed him desperately, but she also understood the nature of duty.  Arborn had a responsibility to defend Lotanz in the far north, as well as the surrounding lands that he’d been granted, against the goblin scourge fast approaching the Magelaw.  Thankfully, he’d reported in by Mirror for their twice-weekly discussions; she was gratified by what he’d said.  The bulk of Shakathet’s armies were pouring into the center of the Magelaw, far away from Lotanz and Bransei.  He might even manage a visit, soon, he’d said.

Pentandra sighed again, consciously enjoying the moment, knowing that it would be all too brief . . . and in moments her prediction was rewarded with someone making contact to her, mind-to-mind.

My lady? Rondal’s mental voice asked, when she closed her eyes and opened the connection.  We’ve returned from Inmar.

Already? she asked, surprised.  I expected you to take a little longer.

We were overtaken by events, Rondal explained, diplomatically.  A Nemovort and a couple of draugen have been plying the streets of Inmar at night, kidnapping people off the street.  Not just magi, but regular people.  We ran into them and had to contend with them.

You killed a Nemovort? Pentandra asked, impressed.

Alas, no; she got away.  But I did eliminate the draugen and saved a couple of lives in the process.  Since the attack occurred near to the dressmaker’s shop, we felt it prudent to go ahead and confront her, as soon as she came in in the morning.

And what did you find out? Pentandra inquired, curiously.

That she is, indeed, the chief of the Inmar station of the Family, that she reports directly to Lady Arnet, and that she ordered your assassination.  But, he continued, the order did not come from the Family.

What? Pentandra asked, surprised.  She acted on her own?

No, she was directed to send an assassin to kill you, but the order came from another quarter.

From who?  Prince Tavard?  The princess? she demanded.

That’s what we need to find out, Rondal said.  I’m escorting her down to the cellar where we can give her a more thorough interrogation if you’d like to join us.  You may know questions to ask her that I do not.  But Gatina will be by shortly to assist, so I’m confident we’ll have our answer soon.

Is she not cooperating? Pentandra asked, biting her lip.

She is highly reluctant, Rondal reported.  I think she’s more afraid of Mother’s ire than anything we might do to her.  But a little magic, and she’ll tell us everything.

I will collect Alurra and will be along presently, Pentandra agreed, ending the contact.  Then she went back to watching her daughters play for a few more precious moments.  Their innocence inspired her . . . until Fentra started to pull Cynilla’s hair, and the moment faded.  With a chuckle that ended with a sigh, she returned to her role as Court Wizard.

No, she corrected herself, she was donning her new role as Spymaster.  And possible executioner.

The middle-aged woman who perched on the stool in the middle of the cellar did not look afraid – she appeared in a daze, but calm.  Next to her was the young assassin, her hands bound behind her back and her legs made inactive by a spell that kept her from trying to run away.  Rondal was standing nearby, arms folded, his bemused expression revealed by the magelight floating above the low ceiling.

“If this becomes a habit, we’re going to have to put in a proper dungeon,” he suggested, as Pentandra and Alurra arrived.

“We don’t need a proper dungeon, just a questioning room,” Pentandra countered.  “I will not have my home turned into a gaol.”

“Then consider them guests,” Rondal agreed.  “May I present Mistress Marladine, seamstress of repute of Inmar.  Since arriving in the town fifteen years ago, she has cultivated a clientele of minor nobility, senior clergy, and burgher’s wives – as well as the occasional tastefully appointed whore.  She has a reputation for strong stitching, fast work, and reasonable rates.  She has a staff of five, including one of her best seamstresses, Maid Jelmine, whose needlework is even better, apparently, than her knifework.”

Marladine was a middle-aged woman, stylish dressed in the latest fashion, Pentandra could see.  She may have once been attractive, she guessed, but her long and prosperous tenure in Inmar had encouraged a certain fleshiness in her face and hips.  But Pentandra could certainly see the ruthlessness in her eyes as she regarded her closely.

“Mistress Marladine,” Pentandra began, coolly, “welcome to the Tower Arcane.  I am Baroness Pentandra of Vanador . . . but you already know that, don’t you?  You tried to kill me, after all.”

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Excellency,” the seamstress said, as if it was a social occasion and not an interrogation.

“Let me tell you why you are here and what is about to happen, though I’m certain you can guess.  In a moment, one of my aids will be along to cast some very strong psychomantic spells on you, and then you will tell me everything you know.  Truthfully.  But I would like to give you the opportunity to do so voluntarily, first.  That way, when she does come along, we will know if you tried to lie to me.  I take exception when people lie to me – almost as much as when they try to kill me in front of my children.”

“There were . . . children?” the woman asked, her face growing pale.

“My three daughters, not yet three years old.  This murderous twat,” she said, gesturing to Maid Jelmine, “decided that their nursery would be an appropriate place to butcher me.”

The older woman scowled at the younger, who looked down at the floor in shame.

“We do not retire children,” Marladine said, flatly.

“So, you do not deny that you are an agent of the Royal Intelligence Service – the Family?” Pentandra asked.

“It appears that would not do me any good,” sighed the woman.  “Yes, I am an Aunt.  A chief of station.  Jelmine is one of my Daughters.  Not my actual daughter, mind, else I’d slap the stupid out of her empty head for doing something so bloody unprofessional!” she said with a contemptuous sneer.

“It was the best place to get to her!” the younger woman insisted.

“We do not involve children!” Marladine insisted.  “Ever!  That’s a long tradition in the Family.”

“Well, it’s nice to hear a ruthless gang of assassins has some standards,” Rondal mused.

“There are very good reasons for the rule, and tradition has borne them out,” Marladine said, stiffly.  “It not only violates Trygg’s holy writ, but it also leads to bad consequences.  How did she fail?” she asked, staring at the assassin with contempt.  Not for being a killer, Pentandra realized, but for breaking discipline.

“She thought that without magic that I was defenseless,” Pentandra said, after a moment’s consideration.  “That was a foolish mistake.  But she led me to you, and you are to whom I wish to speak to about this matter.  You see, if the Family sent an assassin for me, that means that they have broken the truce with the Spellmonger.  And all magi.”

“Truce?  What truce?” the woman asked, suspiciously.

“Apparently Mother isn’t very good about sharing the news, for some reason,” Rondal observed.

“Minalan and Grendine arrived at an agreement a few years ago,” Pentandra explained.  “The Family would allow the magi to tend to their own affairs in peace, and Mother and her brood would leave them alone.  Else the magi would take issue . . . and take steps.”

“What could a bunch of wizards do against the Royal family?” snorted the seamstress.

“How is it you were in Inmar this morning, and now you’re in Falas, seventy miles away before luncheon?  The magi are not the half-powered conjurers they were in your youth, Marladine.  We have amassed great power, now that the Censorate is gone.  Minalan is the greatest wizard of his age, and you would not understand the depth of his powers if I told them to you.  If he decided to move against Grendine, you can expect the results will be swift, subtle . . . and permanent.”

“Only, I don’t think Grendine was the source of this attack,” Rondal suggested.  “Was she?” he prompted Marladine.

The spy chief scowled, and she looked even more guilty than her wayward assassin.  “Nay,” she finally groaned, fear and shame clouding her face.  “I did not receive the order through channels.”

“So just anyone can hire an assassin, these days?” Rondal asked.  “How convenient!  That’s quite enterprising of you.”

“This was a special case,” the woman muttered, her manner changed.  “I was . . . I was threatened,” she revealed, guiltily.  “Coerced.”

“How do you threaten an assassin?” Alurra asked, skeptically.  “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Coerced, I said, and coerced I was,” sighed Marladine.  “Three weeks ago, a pale woman came into my shop – passing pale, her skin was as pale as the fog.  She wore a wig.  Not an attractive woman, by Ishi’s standards.  She said she wanted to order a dress, but while I was taking her measure, she let me know that . . . well, that she knew that I am an Aunt in the Family.  She . . . she did something to me, to my mind,” the seamstress reported, her face twisting in the memory.  “Suddenly I couldn’t say no to her.  I couldn’t lie to her.”

“Good, so you’ll be used to that,” Rondal said, cheerfully.

“So, what did she say?” asked Pentandra.

“At first, she just wanted to know about my shop – not the dressmaking, but the real shop we run.  I told her everything, to my shame.  I almost reported myself to Mother, for that, but before I could decide what to do, she came back and gave me a command: see the Court Wizard dead.”

“So, you just took the commission, without questioning her?” Rondal snorted in disbelief.

“The lady’s commands were impossible to disobey,” Marladine admitted, visibly shaken at the memory.  “She had a way of looking through me, and when she spoke, I was compelled to obey.  She bade me never tell Mother about it – which is foolish.  If this idiot had succeeded, if what you say is true, I would have been summoned to Castabriel to answer.”

“This lady, what was her name?” Alurra prompted.

“She said to call her Amekta,” Marladine said.  “Not her real name, of course—”

“No, it isn’t,” Pentandra said, dryly.  “ ‘Amekta’ means ‘trickster’ or ‘joker’ in Alka Alon.  I’m near certain you were speaking with a Nemovort.  One of the undead Alka Alon who take human bodies.  Magi bodies,” she corrected.

“She was . . . undead?” Marladine asked, horrified.  “That would explain it, then,” she nodded.  “She barely breathed when I was taking her measurements.  And her skin was as cold as a stone.”

“Were her eyes yellow?” Rondal asked.

“Nay, my lord,” Marladine said, shaking her head.  “But I didn’t want to look at them too closely.  She unnerved me.  I felt like a chicken with my neck on the block, when she was around.”

“It isn’t that difficult to use magic to disguise your eyes,” Rondal pointed out.  “Gatina does it all the time.”

“The question is which Nemovort it was who did this,” Pentandra frowned.  “Inmar is a long way from the Great Bay.  Ortava and Obicei haven’t penetrated much further than Falas,” she said, naming the two Nemovorti, a married pair, who were quietly festering an insurgence of undead in Caramas.

Rondal had been assembling intelligence on their operation, deep in the swamps, since he’d been given the commission.  For the last two years they had been living in captured castles and abandoned manors, draining away villagers from around the swamp and building their power.  They worked largely through draugen and common undead, she knew, as well as with some human confederates, traitors to both the duchy and humanity, in general.

But they had never used magical compulsion, to her knowledge.  Threats, fear and coercion were sufficient to get the thugs and Rats they ruled.  Nor did they have any other Nemovorti working with them.  After Korbal’s retreat to Olum Seheri in the wake of Minalan’s attack, the two had been left largely on their own.

“Perhaps one of the other Nemovorti,” Alurra suggested.  “There seem to be an awful lot of them.”

“Whoever she is, she began doing . . . whatever it is she was doing about six weeks ago, at winter’s end,” Rondal reported.  “That’s when the disappearances began, according to the City Watch.  One or two every few nights.”

“That’s disturbing,” Alurra shuddered.  “What in three hells did she want with them?”

“She’s turning them into undead slaves,” suggested Marladine, hesitantly.  “She mentions she was ‘shopping for new servants’ in Inmar.  A strange way to say it.  And she had pets, she said,” Marladine remembered.

“I think I slew her pets, in the street near your shop.  Have you ever heard of Lady Amekta before all this?” Rondal asked Pentandra.

“No, and I keep a list of the ones we’ve encountered,” Pentandra said.  “She’s either new, or one of the others using a false name.  You drove her off?”

“She fled, but I don’t know if she’s left Inmar.  If she lost her draugen, she might not be able to kidnap so easily.  And I would imagine draugen might be hard to come by, these days,” Rondal considered.  “But she could have easily fled through the Ways or escaped to a nearby lair.”

“My lady, there was one thing,” Marladine said, thoughtfully.  “When she paid – I had to remind her I needed a deposit on her gown, for it was of expensive Unstaran silk I had to order from down river – she paid in Westlands coin.  Six Silver Sheaves,” she said, referencing the common coin of the Westlands.  It was an ironic symbol, considering how little wheat they grew.  “She overpaid, as if she’d just flung a handful of silver at me without counting.  Who does that?”

“Nemovorti, apparently,” Pentandra shrugged.  “But that is helpful, actually.  Very helpful.”

“Then will you let me go, my lady?” Marladine pleaded.  “I’ve told you the truth, all I can remember.”

“Oh, no,” Pentandra said, shaking her head.  “You will stay here until my aide arrives.  Then you and Maid Jelmine will tell Sir Rondal and Lady Kitten everything they want to know.  They will write down every word you say.  I want to hear every nuance of every plot you know, who you are watching, who your contacts are, and what resources you have.

“And then you will be turned over to someone you used to know as the Baby: Duchess Rardine.   You attempted murder on a senior member of the Alshari court.  That is treason, in any duchy.  I will let the Duchess of Alshar decide what to do with you,” Pentandra declared.

Both captives’ eyes went wide at the news.  Clearly, they had hoped to escape punishment and accountability for actions that had not been their own.  And Rardine, who’d run operations for her mother for years, had a nasty reputation when it came to failure.

She did not envy Rardine for having to dispose of the two, and Pentandra was genuinely pleased that she could push this matter upstream to someone else.  Capturing two assassins who worked for the Royal Intelligence Service was guaranteed to be an international incident, Pentandra figured.  Knowing the Duchess the way she was growing to, Pentandra suspected that Rardine would find some good leverage or bargaining chip with these two, diplomatically speaking. In truth, she did not want the fate of the two killers on her hands.

“No, my lady, I beg you!” Marladine pleaded, even more adamantly.  The woman seemed more frightened of her old superior than she was of the Nemovort.  “Do not deliver us to Rardine!”

“Oh, I think you will find Her Grace a bit more sympathetic and merciful than you found Her Highness,” promised Pentandra.  “But she, too, takes exception at this sort of business.  There have been nine attempts on Anguin’s life since he returned to Falas.  Her Grace is anxious to discover who is sending these assassins against her new realm.  I’m sure she will be eager to speak with you on the topic.”

The seamstress groaned and leaned her head down in resignation.  “Bloody Unstaran silk.  I should have known that there would be problems when she ordered that.  That stuff is always trouble!” she muttered.

“See they have adequate water and a meal, before you begin,” Pentandra ordered Rondal as the cellar door opened behind her.  “No need to be barbaric about it.  I’ll have to write a report for Rardine, which is a bother, but this isn’t something I can entrust to a clerk.  And I think we just avoided war with Castal, so that’s good,” she reasoned.

“No, you’ve ensured it,” clucked a voice from behind her.  She turned in confusion, as did Alurra at the sudden, unexpected sound.

An old woman stood in the doorway, behind Gatina.  She was bent with age and wrinkled like an apple in its dotage, and her hair was nearly white.  It took a few moments for Pentandra to remember.  Just as she realized who she was, Alurra’s scream filled the vaulted cellar.

“Antimei!” the girl screamed, in near hysterics.  “Antimei!  Is it really you?” she asked, fearful and hesitant.

“Alive, hale, and in the flesh,” the old woman assured her, as she swept her up in her arms.  Alurra’s sightless eyes ran with tears as she hugged the woman who had raised her.

“I thought you were dead!” Alurra said, her voice breaking with emotion.  “I was sure you were dead!  Pentandra said –”

“Pentandra said what she was told to say and told you only as much as you needed to know,” Antimei corrected.

“But she said you were gone, and I thought—” Alurra bawled, refusing to release Antimei from her embrace.  “I thought I was all alone!”

“You’re never all alone, you know that,” clucked the old woman.

“Antimei!” gasped Pentandra, finally.  “How did you get here?”

“I meant to tell you,” Rondal mumbled, apologetically, “I brought you a hedgewitch.”

“You didn’t tell her?” Gatina asked, in disbelief.  “Rondal!”

“I was busy,” he defended, stumbling.  “I forgot.  I was going to mention it, but—”

“The draugen my Beloved no doubt told you he slew so bravely and boldly were, indeed, near to Mistress Marladine’s shop,” Gatina sighed.  “What he apparently didn’t relate was the minor, unimportant detail of what they were doing there.  They were trying to eat this lovely woman and devour her grandson.”

“I was getting to that part,” promised Rondal.

“Of course you were, Beloved,” soothed Gatina, mockingly.  “Instead of running away, like a sensible person, Mistress Jamarain and her grandson hid until the draugen were slain and the Nemovorti were driven off,” she explained.  “When they came out of hiding, she begged us to bring her to you, after we saw the boy to safety.  She said you would know her.”

“I do,” agreed Pentandra, suddenly shaken at the sight.  Antimei was, after all, not merely a great hedgewitch, she was also a prophetess.  And a qualified adept, if she was to be believed.  “I just didn’t think we’d be seeing each other again for a while.  Our . . . mutual friend suggested it might be some time before that came to pass.”  Pentandra didn’t feel right referencing Trygg Allmother, lest she be called on to explain the goddess’ role in all of this.  Things were tangled enough without bringing the divine into it.

But bringing prophecy into things again was just as fraught with dangers – perhaps more so.  The records of Antimei’s accumulated and annotated prophecies had haunted her every moment since they were revealed to her.  Page after page of poetic prediction had permeated her mind each night, and at odd moments during the day.                She could not say that the results were always poor – they had helped save the course of events from ruin.  But it was a hard thing, to experience prophecy.  The disquiet of certitude warred with doubt that accompanied any interpretation of the verse.  It didn’t help that she had violated the stipulations Antimei had prepared for her, and she had read the volume of predictions in its entirety.  Not that it had helped matters.  Old Antimei was a lousy poet.  Sometimes her doggerel was so bad that Pentandra dwelt on it, as did her doubt, while she considered a verse.

“It appears our ‘mutual friend’ has better things to do than neatly plan out the universe.  Which I must say is a disappointment,” Antimei sighed.  “Yet where the divine fails, magic fills the void.  I needed to speak with you, and lo, I am here,” she said, with a wave of her arms, once she had dislodged Alurra.

“You’ve been in Inmar all this time?” Pentandra asked, surprised.

“Since the day I left the croft,” agreed the old woman, only a trace of her Wilderlands accent left in her voice.  “I came to Inmar three years ago.  I took a flat down by the lake.  I found my family.  I saw my husband’s grave.  I got to see my grandchildren,” she said, with earnest pride.  “I never thought I would see my grandchildren.  The last three years have been an unexpected blessing from the goddess.

“But a few months ago,” she sighed, “things started to change.  The winds blew differently.  The water tasted strange.  Some fell thing had come to lurk in Inmar, I knew.  There was little I could do about it, but I watched and waited, like a good witch should, when trouble beckons.

“Then folk started disappearing – the ones that wouldn’t be missed, at first.  Always at night, always alone.  Eventually someone vanished who was missed, and people started to take notice.  Quietly, but they started watching, too.  The last three, four weeks it’s gotten very bad, with someone new missing every night.”

“It was a Nemovort,” Rondal reported.

“Of course it was a Nemovort, Sir Rondal,” sniffed Antimei.  “And draugen.  I’ve met both before, and I could recognize their taint.  I just had no means of contending with either – I am an old woman, after all.  Nor did I want to endanger the adepts I knew in Inmar.  Instead, I searched for a cure.”

“A cure?” Gatina asked, confused.

“That’s what hedgewitches do, my dear.  The good ones, at least.  When a problem arises in your path, you begin to search for some counter for it.  The Nemovort was a blight on my pretty city.  I looked for something to counter it.”

“That turned out to be us,” Rondal suggested.  That aroused a snort from Antimei.

“No, that turned out to be a crushed pearl o’ nymph, powdered to a fine dust and sealed into a duck’s egg after it was heavily enchanted with verdant energy,” corrected the hedgewitch.  “It took weeks to prepare.  But it worked.  Most of your warmagics she was prepared for, but when I threw the duck’s egg at her and it covered her with the powder, it drove her away,” she explained.

“Really?” Rondal asked, perking up, “That’s what worked?”

“She vanished like a passing rash,” promised Antimei.

“Why a duck’s egg?” asked Alurra, confused.

“Because I live on a lake.  We have ducks,” shrugged Antimei.  “Now, let’s go somewhere and chat, and let these two get on with their work with those two.  Lady Gatina explained what happened, and why they were in Inmar – horrible thing.  I’m so sorry, Pentandra,” Antimei said, as she held the door open.

“We survived,” Pentandra offered.  “But thank you.  Rondal, Kitten, you may proceed.  Alurra, Antimei, and I will be in my chambers talking over old times,” she said, as she headed for the stairwell.

“No, my lady Court Wizard,” chided Antimei, as she followed Alurra out of the cellar.  “We’ll be talking about new times.  Very new times.  I started having visions, again,” she revealed, as the mounted the stairs.  “Visions of war.  Visions of Death.  Visions of the gods and the Spellmonger and the king and . . . you,” she promised, as a chill went up Pentandra’s spine.

Chapter Eight

Into The Westlands

None but the Brave deserve the Fair.

Westlands Folk Saying

“So, it appears as if we will be taking the long route to Vorone,” Rondal sighed, as he and Gatina made their way back through the palace after delivering the two would-be assassins to Rardine’s guardsmen.  “Through the Westlands.”

“You don’t sound terribly enthusiastic about that,” Gatina observed, as she took his arm.

“I’m not.  The Westlands are arid, scrabbly, and mean.  So are most of its people.  The towns are few and far between, the farms barely provide enough to eat, and there’s been a plague rattling down through there for a few years.  Instead of just killing you, it kills you and then you become undead.  But even without that, it’s pretty brutal.  Tyndal and I went through there with a troop of Kasari, a few years back.  Even they were pressed to survive the passage.”

“I’ve never been,” Gatina admitted.  “Apart from visiting Sevendor and Vorone, I really haven’t been outside of Alshar.  Except when I went to sea,” she corrected.

“The Westlands is one reason I’m glad we use the Ways to get about, now,” Rondal said, as they turned the corner into the entry hall.  “Going through it is just too depressing.  It makes the Land of Scars look lush.  But if this Nemovort paid for her dress in Westlands silver, then that’s where we should look for her.  I wonder if we could use the coins to magically trace where they came from . . .”

“Of course we can,” Gatina agreed.  “I’ll have to look a few things up, but we have a spell for that sort of thing in the family library.  And I’m good with metals.”

“I bet she still has them in her shop,” Rondal suggested.  “And we’re right near a Waypoint.  We could pop back to Inmar, have dinner, and break into her place, find one, and then find out where this Lady Amekta came from.  Or at least where she got the coins.”

“Dinner sounds lovely,” agreed Gatina.  “Someplace other than the Duke’s Dalliance, though.  I’ve always heard the food in Inmar was wonderful, but I’ve only ever eaten at the one inn.”

“There are places just off the main square that looked interesting,” Rondal agreed.  “I wouldn’t mind checking to see if Inmar has any more lurkers after dark, too.  Wait!  The draugen!” Rondal said, coming to a halt just before the door of the palace.  The two guards flanking it looked at him curiously.  “If we can trace the coins, we should be able to trace the draugen even more easily.”

“How?” Gatina asked, confused and curious.

“Necromantic energy has a very specific thaumaturgical signature that fades more slowly than verdant energy does,” Rondal explained.  “But it’s subtle; you won’t see it with magesight unless you know what to look for.  It leaves a deeper arcane impression on the Magosphere.  If we can trace that signature, we could – theoretically – find out everywhere that thing has been since it was created, and for how long.”

“That sounds like a complicated spell,” Gatina said, doubtfully.  Rondal had come to learn that while Gatina’s rajira was very powerful, beyond general magic she had specialized in a few very intensive subjects, namely shadowmagic and a bit of psychometry.  She hadn’t dabbled with thaumaturgy as a serious subject the way he had.

“It is,” conceded Rondal, “but I should be able to do it.  If I have access to the corpses,” he added.  “Which means we’ll still have to go back to Inmar, and I’ll have to speak to the City Watch while you’re stealing the coins.  We can compare the results of the two spells and determine where and when this Nemovort created or acquired these draugen.  That would be incredibly useful, if we’re trying to discover which of them is responsible for this.”

“This really concerns you,” Gatina observed, as Rondal held the door for her.

“I’m used to the enemy doing surprise attacks, throwing legions of goblins at us, siege beasts, undead, the occasional dragon – things have always been fairly straightforward in the war.

“But this is really the first time they’ve tried to use something as subtle as assassination – and not by one of their own people, but one of ours.  That’s very disturbing.”

“Why?  It doesn’t seem so unusual,” Gatina said, as they strolled toward the big snowstone pillar where the palace Waystone was kept.

“That’s because you’re used to this chaotic Game of Whispers, like a good, civilized Imperial girl,” he teased.  “I’ve been fighting goblins, like the valiant Narasi boy I am.  It doesn’t seem unusual to you.  But for me, it’s a change in tactics that demonstrates a change in warfare.  Someone on the other side has eschewed merely trying to beat us and kill us. Instead, they have actually studied us.  Studied our culture and civilization enough to realized that we’re usually our own worst enemy.  And now they are starting to use that against us.”

“What do you mean?  I don’t understand,” Gatina said, as they paused before the pillar.

“The gurvani never wanted to understand us, for the most part, they just wanted to kill us.  Oh, they’ve copied a few things from our civilization that suits them, and in some ways, they admire us, but their enmity for us keeps them from trying to understand us.

“The Nemovorti, on the other hand, are Alka Alon,” Rondal continued.  “They’ve already lived for thousands of years and just woke up with us on their doorstep.  We’re new to them.  They’ve explored that novelty in our warfare, certainly, but it seems as if someone is trying to understand us – our culture, the way we do things.  Someone clever enough to use it against us.”

“I agree, that is disturbing,” Gatina admitted, frowning.  “I hadn’t thought about it that way.”

“I suppose it was inevitable,” Rondal considered.  “The Nemovorti have the Alka Alon’s curiosity, and their subtle politics, and their fanatical ideology allows them to meddle in our affairs unrestrained.  They are wearing our very bodies.  It was only a matter of time before they came to know us well enough to recognize they could do more damage against us through infiltration and plots than with armies.  And the fact that this Nemovort wanted Pentandra dead at the Family’s hand demonstrates that they’ve learned enough about us – and our present politics – to know where our weaknesses are and how to exploit them.”

“Assassination is not that uncommon,” suggested Gatina, doubtfully.

“It’s not the means that concerns me, it’s the implications of the target.  You could not choose a single individual right now that would do more to throw things into disarray than Pentandra.  The political side, alone, would be nightmarish, with Alshar blaming Castal – and the Crown – for the murder.  The magi would be even more upset with the chivalry.  Even now, thousands of Gilmoran knights are riding north to go to war with Minalan, while he faces a Nemovort and an army in the field,” Rondal reported.

“Really?” Gatina asked, surprised.

“Tyndal told me,” Rondal explained.  “He thinks Tavard is behind it, and says Master Min has all but encouraged it, so I don’t think he’s in any real danger.  And they’re just Gilmorans,” he dismissed.  “Tournament fighters, not warriors.  They’ll learn, soon enough.

“But consider what else happens if Pentandra is killed: Minalan loses his closest confidant and professional partner, Anguin and Rardine are deprived of valuable counsel, and the duchy loses the best possible Court Wizard it could have, right now.”

“It has you,” Gatina suggested.  That made Rondal laugh.

“I am not an administrator!” he said, shaking his head.  “That’s not where my experience lies.  I’m far too young for a position like that, especially when there far more capable people who could do it far better.  And that’s my point: Pentandra does have the experience, the knowledge, and the willingness to enact policy that makes her perfect, for where she is.  She’s become a subtle but powerful force in court.  Remove her . . . and a lot of this falls apart,” he said, gesturing around the palace courtyard.

“Let’s not let that happen, then,” Gatina agreed, kissing him on the cheek.  “Let’s find this Nemovort, confront it, and stop this devious threat to Pentandra.  After dinner,” she finished, as Rondal readied the spell to whisk them to Inmar.  “I’m suddenly starving!”

Two days later, they had their answer.

It had not been as easy as he’d hoped, of course.  Rondal had to pull rank and use his court credentials with the City Watch to collect the two disfigured and mutilated bodies they had taken off the street, and before he was done some silver changed hands for the unusual trouble.  Rondal didn’t really want to start a panic, and the coin also loosened the watchmen’s tongues.

He came away with both corpses tucked in a hoxter pocket and a much better feel for the pattern of kidnappings in Inmar, after questioning the watchmen.  There were far more than was generally known, for instance; over a hundred folk had disappeared in the mists in the last several months.  Where in the town, and at what times was also helpful information.

By the time he met up with Gatina at the tavern she’d heard recommended – a quiet little wineshop that served dinner at night, just off the square – he’d had time to think about what he’d learned.  He began by sharing his conclusions.

“She’s building an army of slaves,” Rondal explained, as he sat down after a kiss on his girlfriend’s cheek.  “Either that, or she’s eating them,” he conceded.  “But I’m betting on slaves.”

“That makes sense,” she shrugged, as he poured the wine for them.  “I suppose that now that we’ve ended the slave trade, the Nemovorti would want another supply.  If you cannot buy them, steal them,” she reasoned.

“They had to be smuggled to some nearby place, then,” Rondal suggested, as the wine steward presented a small but exquisite smelling cheese to them.  “When she got enough together, she could take them elsewhere by Waypoint.  Likely the same one we first came in on.  The Watchmen said that the disappearances were sporadic, at first, but them they got into a pattern: ten days of disappearances, then two to three days where they stopped.  What’s the fare, this evening?”

“They only serve one dish, at night.  Tonight, it’s duck.  They cover it in a sauce of verjuice, plums and cherries, and stuff it with garlic and onion.”

“Duck it is, then,” shrugged Rondal, cutting the little cheese with his belt knife.  A moment later, fresh sliced pears were brought to the table by the barmaid, along with a small bowl of roasted almonds.  “When we get back home, we can examine the bodies more carefully, and I can get their necromantic signature,” he said, earning a strange look from the barmaid.  Rondal ignored it and handed Gatina a wedge of cheese.  “It won’t take long to hack off a bit of decaying flesh for the scrying spell – that’s what it is, technically, it just uses time and distance a little differently,” he added, as the girl scurried off.

“Tracing the coins won’t be hard,” Gatina agreed.  “Same sort of spell, I’d imagine.  How much do you want to bet they both lead to the Westlands?”

“But where in the Westlands?” Rondal countered.  “There’s an awful lot of empty territory, there.  We could spend a lifetime looking for it, without more information.  I’m hoping to find her local lair and see if it holds any hints.  After you steal the coins, of course,” he added, as the steward returned bearing a wide earthenware dish of delicious smelling duck.  The dark red sauce stained the breast of the fowl like snow clinging to a mountain.  The man seemed inordinately proud

“I’ve already stolen the coins,” Gatina said, with an irritated shrug.

“What?” Rondal asked, surprised.

“You were taking so long with the corpses that I got bored,” she related, dropping the silver on the table between them.  “It was just a shop.  It was childishly easy to break in.  Hardly worth the trouble,” she dismissed.

“Well,” Rondal said, with a grin, as the wine steward blanched, “that simplifies our evening, then.  Another bottle, please?” he asked the man, who was clearly confused by what he had overheard.  “And some bread?”

“It occurs to me that we still have another night paid for at the Duke’s Dalliance,” Gatina reminded him.  “I doubt we can get a refund.”

“We might as well stay there tonight,” Rondal agreed with a grin.

“If we’re popping off to the Westlands, tomorrow, we should probably get a good night’s sleep,” Gatina smiled, as she drew her knife and cut deeply into the juicy bird.  “And a hearty meal – Darkness, this is delicious!” she said, as she chewed a gobbet.

They discussed the details of their plans while they ate, enjoying the food and each other’s company.  The staff largely kept their distance until it was time to pay the shot.  Rondal fished a thick silver piece from his own pouch and presented it to the steward, assuring him that it had been a splendid meal.  The coin was more than twice what the meal cost, but Rondal insisted the wine steward keep the rest as a tip.  The man agreed . . . before asking Rondal and his lady not to return.

Apparently, he learned, the barmaid was in hysterics in the back room over the conversation she’d overheard.

The next day they returned to the Tower Arcane and began their respective assays, after getting very little sleep at the Duke’s Dalliance the night before.  They were largely successful, with Rondal establishing the necromantic signature of the draugen, and Gatina managing to trace from whence the coins came.  Rondal was more adept at the work, and after incorporating the results of each spell into a single magemap, they had a much better idea of where Lady Amekta’s travels had taken her.

“That looks like . . . Vengly, or near about,” Rondal murmured, as he checked the results against an atlas in the Tower’s library.  “About seventeen miles southwest of it.  That’s where the two began to be together.”

“And in Inmar, it appears that there’s a lot of activity here,” Gatina agreed, moving the map around with alacrity.  “Along the lake . . . here,” she said, stabbing her finger through the arcane image.  “What’s there?”

“Let’s find out,” suggested Rondal.  “If it’s along the lake, perhaps a boat or such.  Unlikely to be a cave,” he considered.

It was, in fact, a boathouse – long abandoned, with a caved in roof and a rotting dock.  Whoever had once owned it had either died or found better vocation than lake fisherman, but they left behind a well-built ruin.  When they explored it the next day, they found disturbing signs of its use.

Indeed, they found three unfortunate souls huddled in a corner, their eyes blank and their bodies unable to move.

“Some of her earlier captures,” Rondal realized, with horror.  “She just left them here, when she was driven off!”

“They would have died of thirst, if we hadn’t come along!” Gatina agreed.  “Let’s see if we can wake them . . .”

The spell used to keep the victims docile was not complicated, Rondal discovered, although it was not Imperial magic by any stretch.  It was Alka Alon magic, but no mere songspell.

“Sorcery of the Enshadowed, fueled with necromantic energy,” he said, distastefully, as he used his baculus to examine them.  “But I can break it, I think.”  He tried two or three different spells commonly used to stimulate consciousness, say, in a battlefield victim.  Finally, he gave up, and Gatina tried some psychomantic spells.  One of them eventually worked, and each of the three poor souls awakened with a wail.

“Where am I?” demanded the first man to come out of the spell, blinking his tired-looking eyes in a panic.

“You are safe,” Gatina assured him.  “You were captured by . . . well, she’s gone now.  And you are free.  She will not be back, I think.”

“Thank you!” insisted the second victim, a middle-aged woman who looked like a burgher’s wife.  “Oh, Trygg’s grace upon you, thank you so much for saving us!  We’ve been here days, now, terrified that they would return!”

“There were two wild men, more demons than humans,” the third man said, his voice hollow and his eyes haunted with the memory.  “They came upon me at night, when I went out to the privy . . . oh, they were so strong, and they took me unawares . . .” he moaned.

“They were passing strong,” agreed the first man.  “They fought like demons.  Had I but my sword, perhaps—”

“It wouldn’t have saved you,” Rondal said, shaking his head as he helped them stand.  “They were draugen, undead creatures under the command of one far worse.  Without magic, you’d have to carve them into sausage stuffing to kill them.  And their mistress.”

“The lady with the pale skin!” the woman gasped.  “She was the one who . . . who . . .” the memory came to her so hard and furious that she put her hand over her mouth as her eyes went wide in sorrow.  “Oh, that poor girl!”

“What did she do?” Rondal insisted, curious.

“She opened up her vein,” the woman said, making the sign of Trygg over her breast.  “Dear lady, it was awful!  She was here the day before I was, some poor maid who was out at night – never said why.  But when it was just the two of us, the lady with the pale skin opened her neck with a knife and . . . and she drank her blood!  While she were still living!  Watched her die, slow, as she was drinking her life’s essence!  She kept taunting her, too, calling her names and laughing when she struggled,” she wept.

“What happened to her?” Gatina asked, her own eyes wide.

“When she were finally done, she let those two beasts gnaw on her some, and then threw the rest in the lake.  She said I was next – like I was some hen being readied for dinner! Oh, it was horrible!  She said I was lucky she wasn’t hungrier, or . . . or . . .”

“Nemovorti eat people?” Gatina asked, surprised and horrified.

“This one does, apparently,” Rondal agreed, quietly.  “Or at least drinks blood.”

“Why would they do that?” Gatina looked disturbed and perhaps a little nauseated.

“Well,” considered Rondal, “Nemovorti subsist on necromantic energy.  They consume the host bodies they have because they are living off the decomposing flesh,” he reasoned.  “They can use some sorts of magic to slow down the process and stretch out the time they have before the bodies are completely useless.  At least that’s the theory.  But if they found a way to import that decomposition through blood and use that energy instead, they could possibly extend the function of their hosts much longer.  They just need a pool of victims.”

“Which explains why she wanted these people,” nodded Gatina.  “Blood is more portable than meat, after all.  But why here?  The Westlands has people, if she’s coming from there.”

“Not very many,” Rondal pointed out.  “Not nearly as many as Alshar.  And not nearly as many as it used to, before the plagues and such.  If this is how the Nemovorti are sustaining themselves, they might want to spread out their . . . hunting.   But I can’t imagine why they would need so many.”

“Perhaps it’s not just fodder they seek, but slaves, as you suggested,” Gatina offered.

“Oh, aye, she was planning on taking us someplace,” the first man said, shaking his head fearfully.  “Made jokes about it, she did.  Told me I was a strong one, and she’d work me until I was dead . . . and then work me more,” he said with a swallow.

“Something about digging or mining,” the other man agreed.  “Said she had orders.  Take as many as she could, and not get caught.”

“That’s something else the Nemovorti usually don’t care about,” Rondal nodded.  “What do they care about getting caught?  Unless it’s part of a bigger plan.”

“You did say this one was more politically adept,” Gatina pointed out.  “Perhaps inspiring terror and panic in the population of the town isn’t part of their plan.”

“Likely more avoiding attention,” Rondal suggested.  “Especially of the magi.  This seems more of a scouting and procurement mission than a mission of conquest.  Especially if she was under orders.”

“Orders from whom, though?” Gatina asked, biting her lip.  “That’s the question.  Let’s get these three home safely, and then we can find out.”

That night, in his quarters back at the Tower Arcane, Rondal was sorting through some of the correspondence that had been piling up in his absence when Tyndal reached him, mind-to-mind.

Good news! Tyndal proclaimed, eagerly.  After a glorious fight, we defeated the latest horde!  And you’ll love this part – a Gilmoran count wanted to attack us from the rear while we were facing the goblins, and Minalan used his authority as Royal Marshal to conscript them into service, instead.  They rode all this way north only to be forced to fight goblins.

So there really was a Gilmoran count invading the Magelaw? Rondal asked, surprised.

Oh, decidedly, Tyndal agreed.  Count Anvaram of Nion.  We’re pretty certain he was being paid by Prince Tavard, however.  Atopol and Ruderal have been skulking about in Gilmora for the last couple of weeks, looking for information to confirm it.  I think they found some.

That’s . . . disturbing, admitted Rondal.  I figured Master Min would find some way to contend with that, if the rumor was true, but making them fight on his behalf?  That’s rich!

You should have seen it, Tyndal sighed.  The last remnants of the horde escaped to the east, but we should be able to mop them up pretty quickly.  I can’t believe you missed it, Ron.  And the Alka Alon mewstower – forty birds that Ithalia has been raising and training in secret.  They were instrumental.  And you missed the giant, he added.

Giant?  There was a giant?  I thought those were mythical? Rondal demanded.

Legendary, not mythical, Tyndal corrected.  Like dragons.  Lord Tiny was very real.  Master Min drove him off, though, and now he’s stomping his way through the Penumbra.  That was six hells of a fight, Ron.  Ishi’s tits, you’re missing all the fun!

I’m having fun on my own, Rondal replied, defensively.  I rescued a hedgewitch from a couple of draugen.  Kitten and I are tracking down Nemovorti.  She went to a Garden Society meeting, the other day.

Yes, the stuff epics are made of, mocked Tyndal.  Ever seen a castle destroyed by a stream of water?  Pissed it off the mountain like it was a bloody anthill!

Minalan did that? Rondal asked, surprised.

No, actually, that was Korbal, using the Molopor, admitted Tyndal. But it was incredibly impressive.  I can’t believe you missed it.

Well, it appears I’ll be joining you this summer, at least, Rondal grumbled.  Word from the palace is that Anguin is moving the court to Vorone for a few months.

The war will be over by then! Protested Tyndal.  You’ll miss it!

There will be other wars, Rondal reminded him. I’m preparing for one in Caramas, someday.

That hellhole? snorted Tyndal.  Anguin would be better off to let them have it.  It’s all swamp!

Just the parts we saw, Rondal objected.  But we have to do something about Ortava and Obicei.  Their power is growing, and they’re proving elusive.  And we just had another one show up in the Great Vale.  That’s the one we’re tracking, now, he added, without further detail.  Tyndal wouldn’t have been interested, anyway.

I can’t believe you’re trading the glory of the battlefield for the ignominy of the swamp, Tyndal said, sadly.

Yes, the glory, Rondal replied, dryly.  Where did you sleep last night, Tyn?  And what did you have to eat?

I slept in a wet meadow for a couple of hours, admitted his friend.  And I ate beans, bread, and some salt pork.  Why?

Because last night I had a delicious dinner of duck in a picturesque little tavern off Inmar’s magnificent square, along with three bottles of excellent Bikavari red wine, Rondal reported.  In the company of my delightful, beautiful bride-to-be.  Afterwards, we spent a romantic evening in a nearby inn.  I had kippers and eggs for breakfast, this morning, with freshly baked bread.

Rondal knew his account of his evening left out a few things, but he also knew it would make Tyndal at least somewhat jealous.  He succeeded.

Well, I . . . I saw a giant! He replied.  And a hundred giant hawks in the air at once.  And I witnessed our enemies being forced to fight for us – which really inflamed the whole question of Gilmoran secession, by the way.

Wait, what was that? Rondal asked.

Well, when Count Anvaram led his men north, most of them were very pro-Castali, Tyndal explained.  Most of our Gilmorans are, quite reasonably, far better disposed to Alshar.  After the battle, Astyral and Mavone and some other Gilmorans on our side started talking about how much better off Gilmora would be under the Anchor and Antlers than the Sword and Rose.  That didn’t set well with Count Anvaram and his men. Well, some of them.  Others seemed quite intrigued by the idea.

I think Tavard’s enmity is more against the magi than the Alshari, Rondal considered.  Besides, Anguin already has sizable estates in Gilmora.  He hasn’t even visited them, yet.  I wouldn’t think the Gilmoran situation is really on his mind.

Well, it’s now very much on the mind of a bunch of Gilmorans, Tyndal informed him.  Especially now that they’re seeing some of the advantages of working with the magi in Alshar, not against them.  Minalan is being very free with the magical chamberpots, he added.

Saving the Five Duchies one crap at a time, quipped Rondal.  How serious are the Gilmorans about this?  The question of sovereignty was settled more than fifty years ago.

It’s now unsettled, Tyndal replied.  At least in the minds of the Gilmorans.  The problem is most of the counts and a lot of the barons have been bribed by Castal for the last fifty years to think its settled.  But a lot of the chivalry and nobility, and a lot of the common folk, think things would be better under Alshari sovereignty.  A lot of others don’t think it matters anymore, now that we’re united in a kingdom.

A kingdom with three sovereign duchies, he reminded Tyndal.  And now four Palatinate counties.  Sovereignty is important.

The Gimorans think so.  They’re taking the idea seriously, now.  That’s going to be a problem, Tyndal predicted.

I think you’re right, Rondal agreed.  Thanks for letting me know, Tyn.  I think I know just who to pass this along to, as well.

Who? demanded Tyndal.

Just someone at Gatina’s garden society.  Court politics is like that, he reminded his friend.  All the real work gets done at parties.

Chapter Nine

On The Problems Of Prophecy

In understanding the nature of true prophecy, the Wise appreciate why real prophets should be put to death before their disturbing utterances affect the world.

Popular adage of the Royal Censorate

“She’s grown so much, in just a few years,” Old Antimei sighed as Alurra finally went to bed.  Pentandra had watched the reunion with undisguised delight, and she saw how easily the two reignited their relationship.

“She needs new clothes every six months now,” Pentandra agreed.  “And will, for a few more years.  She’s a young woman now.”

“And she’s learned magic?  Despite her blindness?” Antimei asked, curious.

“It has been a struggle,” Pentandra admitted, as she poured them each a glass of wine.  “We’ve had to be creative in how we’ve presented some concepts.  Some, we’ve had to leave behind entirely.  But she’s learning. She’s coming along.”

“Oh, that is good to hear,” the old woman smiled, fondly.  “I knew I did not have it in me to teach her to her full potential.  Not in the middle of the wilderness.  It wasn’t fair.  Her rajira is very strong.  And she is very smart.”

“She’s brilliant,” Pentandra corrected.  “Don’t tell her I said so, of course, but her mind is incredibly sharp.  She picked up reading much faster than I thought, and I’ve never had to show her a rune more than once.  We’ll be starting on five-rune combinations, soon.”

“Is she happy?” Antimei asked, concerned.

“If you ignore her incessant complaints, yes,” Pentandra chuckled.

“Are there . . . boys?” the old witch asked, sharply.

“No, not yet – or if there are, she’s not mentioned it.  She’d rather talk to birds and animals.  She’s quite attentive to her duties.”

“I’m glad to see it.  But I did not seek you out to discuss Alurra, as important as she is to me.  When Trygg brought me back to Inmar, I thought I could . . . well, at least spend my last few years enjoying the fruits of the life I left.  And it has been pleasant.  Getting to know my grandchildren without the threat of the Censorate has been a pure joy.

“But when Trygg returned me,” Antimei continued, “she did not see fit to end my visions.  They slowed, for a while, but they have returned with more frequency of late.  I’ve tried to write down a few, but . . . well, the nature of the visions has me disturbed.”

“How so?” Pentandra asked, uneasily.  So much of her plans – of her life – were tied into those prophecies.  She had come to rely upon them, even as she was haunted by them.

“From what I understand,” Antimei began, slowly, “Minalan has made a decision – or will make a decision – that may well throw my prophecies off.  Or maybe it doesn’t,” she confessed.  “Prophecy is not an exact sort of thing.”

“Your words seem exact enough,” Pentandra said, setting down her winecup.

“My words were my attempt to interpret the visions.  They were as exact as I could make them and fit together as well as I could.  But they are my interpretations, not divine will.  And they were not complete.  The future is constantly in flux,” she warned.  “Things might turn out – more or less – as I predicted, but there are no guarantees.”

“Please explain yourself,” Pentandra said, not wanting to panic.  She tried to keep herself calm.

“I . . . prophecy is a messy business, and it’s no wonder the Censorate forbade it.  They always pointed out the danger of prophecy being wrong, and they were right to do so.  A fateful decision by one man can change the entire future.”

“And you’re saying Minalan is that man,” Pentandra said, chewing her lip.

“I’m saying that Minalan has always been that man, just as you have always been that woman,” Antimei explained.  “You both have fateful lives to lead, and your decisions and your actions will affect millions.  But just how you do so may change your course from what I’ve predicted – that I’ve interpreted – will happen.  What I’m telling you is that some decision of Minalan’s is going to have repercussions for the entire world and all who live in it.  But only if he dies,” Antimei said, sadly.

“What?” Pentandra asked, sharply, all pretense at calmness gone in an instant.

“I . . . I don’t know the details,” admitted the old hedgewitch with a frustrated sigh.  “Perhaps they’ll be clarified in another vision – but I can’t guarantee that.  I can’t guarantee any of it!” she snorted.

“But they’ve been true, so far,” Pentandra protested.  “Each one has come to pass . . . sometimes with a little help,” she acknowledged.

“Yes, and I stand by them,” agreed Antimei.  “The eventual conclusion has not changed, yet, but they’ve taken on a larger scope.  And some of the details may be . . . inaccurate,” she admitted, guiltily.

“Ishi’s marauding muff, woman!” Pentandra exploded.  “I have spent the last three years of my life doggedly planning with the idea that they were – because they have been – and you’re telling me you might be wrong?” she said, suppressing a stronger emotional outburst.

“Inaccurate,” soothed Antimei, “not wrong.”

“Oh, this is delightful!” Pentandra said, sarcastically.  “I moved to the Tower Arcane because of prophecy!  I’ve made policy because of prophecy!  I’m meeting with an ancient shipwright in a smelly port city because of prophecy!” she raged, quietly.

Antimei’s wrinkled eyes narrowed with suspicion that transformed to realization.  Then she sighed.

“You found the bloody book, didn’t you?” she accused.

“What?” Pentandra asked, confused.  Then she understood.  The book of prophecy that Antimei had kept hidden that Pentandra had discovered.  Instead of the single prophecy at a time that the Prophecy Stone supplied her, it had laid out future events in maddeningly incomplete detail.  “Oh.  That book.”

“Pentandra!” Antimei chided, “I warned you against doing that!  And you read it, didn’t you?  You read every word!  Otherwise, you wouldn’t be bothering with shipwrights, yet!” she accused.

“Well, didn’t you know in advance I would?” Pentandra shot back.

“Well, no,” admitted the hedgewitch.  “That never came up in my visions.”

“Well, nice to know the universe can still surprise you, then!” snorted Pentandra, retrieving her winecup and finishing it.

“You really shouldn’t have done that, Pentandra,” the hedgewitch said, shaking her head ruefully.  “That knowledge may change your perspective in ways that . . . that . . .”

“That would be an unexpected exercise of free will?” Pentandra asked, pointedly.  “That’s too bad.  I read the godsdamned book.  And I’m glad I did.  I’d do it again.  You cannot put that kind of temptation in front of a wizard and not expect them to take advantage of it.  Of course, I read the godsdamned book.  And now after what you’ve told me I don’t know if I can even trust it.”

“The major points should still be relatively accurate,” Antimei said, defensively.  “It’s more a matter of scope.  Before, Minalan was going to save the kingdom.  Now he’ll save the world, and he may lose the kingdom.  But only if he dies.  That part I still don’t understand.”

“Is there still going to be a war?” Pentandra demanded.

“There is always going to be a war,” Antimei agreed.  “You’ll have to be more specific.  Which one are you speaking of?”

“I mean a civil war, between Alshar and Castal?  One that imperils the kingdom?”

“Yes,” the old woman nodded.  “Only it might be sooner, rather than later.  Also, war with Merwyn, Farise, and . . . it’s confusing,” she admitted.

“Confusing?” Pentandra snorted.  “I don’t know what kind of madness lies ahead, but the symbolism in your prophecies makes them profoundly confusing.  How does a civil war start over a golden dog?  How does a river of milk sweep away armies?  A golden goblin who makes peace with humanity?  A dagger that rescues the Forsaken?  How do I tell mere allegory from factual prediction?” she demanded, frustrated.

“Prophecy is not an exact thing,” Antimei reminded her.  “That doesn’t mean it can’t be useful.”

“Am I still to build this monstrous ship?” Pentandra asked.  “Because that’s turning out to be a challenge wrapped in a headache.  No one thinks it can be done.  And it’s incredibly expensive.  But I’ve ordered the timber we’ll need and hired a shipyard, and then paid everyone to keep it secret, and I’ve secured supplies from the Stenchworks, and I’m bringing a list to Vanador for the smiths to work on, and . . .”

“Oh, the ship is quite essential, I’m afraid,” Antimei agreed.  “It will be required for what lies ahead.  Do not worry about the cost – Minalan will provide the money.  Once he learns of it.”

“Is the Prince still going to rebel?” Pentandra asked, after a pause.

“Mayhap,” Antimei shrugged.  “Things get hazy, about that.  Court politics is hard to put into prophecy.  He’s still receiving evil counsel, so I would say it’s likely.”

“And the Alka Alon will still provide victory over Korbal?” Pentandra continued.

“About that,” Antimei said, apologetically, “they will . . . only if Minalan doesn’t die.  That’s one of the things that has changed.  And because of that, I don’t know how the war will turn out . . . exactly.  But our relationship with the Fair Folk will change if Minalan dies.”

“And the Vundel?” she asked, catching her breath.  That was not good news.

“They will be enraged.  Perhaps enough to take action against humanity.  But only if Minalan dies,” she stressed.  “That, it seems, is the single cusp point that could lead to one of many potential futures.  I think,” she stressed.  “It’s confusing, because I have had visions of Minalan in those futures . . . after he’s died.”

“Minalan becomes a Nemovort?” Pentandra asked, horrified.  She could not imagine a worst fate.  Particularly for her.  Everyone would insist she take over his role, and that was something she shunned.

“No, no, nothing that straightforward . . . it’s murky,” the old woman said, in frustration.  “Perhaps more will come in time.  Perhaps!  But if he dies, he saves all of Callidore, not just humanity.  That much is clear . . . well, somewhat clear.”

“It’s confusing,” Pentandra nodded, pouring them each another glass of wine.  “I hate prophecy.”

“I do, too,” agreed Antimei.  “In truth, I think all prophets do.”

That night, Pentandra’s dreams were filled with such chaotic and disturbing visions that she had trouble sleeping.  Old Antimei’s words had shaken her belief and awakened her doubts, and her mind did not appreciate that.

She arose before dawn soaked in sweat and panicked from her dream.  She checked worriedly on the children – who were perfectly fine and sound asleep – and then poured herself into her work.  Prophetic hedgewitches aside, she had a lot to do in the normal realm of magical administration, and if she did not attend to some things, they frequently became problems.  Pentandra was starting to hate such problems.

She was in her office when the first of her staff arrived, sleepily, and wisely fetched her strong tea and biscuits.  No doubt they had learned by now that when she was working this early, there were usually good reason.  In truth, she desired distraction from the doubts that were starting to collect in her mind.

Most of the issues she dealt with were routine and could be handled with a quick note or even a mind-to-mind conversation.  There were perhaps thirty High Magi in southern Alshar, and many of them worked for her or had, at one point.  She had worked her way through a stack of parchment requests and inquiries, as well as some normal correspondence when one of her aids brought her a fresh batch of messages, either delivered to the Tower Arcane in person or sent through the new Mirror Array station nearby.

She was so involved, in fact, that she had forgotten Weylan was arriving.  She remembered only when the Wenshari warmage walked through her office door near to noon.

“Weylan!” she said, surprised at the sight of the man.  He was passably tall, and he had long wavy black hair he kept in a ponytail, as was the style of the Wenshari.  He was also dressed in a rich coat in blue velvet, with bright brass buttons.  He wore his mageblade on his hip like a cavalry sword, not over his shoulder.

“Pentandra!  So good to see you again!  I haven’t been in Alshar – this part of Alshar – since before Farise.  It looks as if the Duke is taking good care of his people,” he said, looking around at the richly appointed office.

“I’ve been here all morning,” she confessed, rising.  “I was about to take luncheon with my girls in the courtyard.  Will you join me?”

The two walked arm in arm outside and caught up on some minor gossip – mostly who was getting married, who was changing positions, and who was looking for work – until Pentandra led him to an open pavilion she favored for such outdoor meals.

“The nurses will be along with the girls soon, and the cook will send us luncheon presently,” she promised.  “But that gives us a little time to talk.  What brings you to me?” she asked, curious.

“Concern,” he said, with typical Wenshari directness.  “A few months ago, a lot of Castali nobles started trickling into Wenshar.  Looking to hire mercenaries.  Both the normal sort and sparks,” he said, using the slang term for warmagi.  “I did a little investigation, because that sort of thing always interests me, and I secured an interview under the pretense that I might be for hire.”

“Are you?” she asked, curious and surprised.

Weylan chuckled.  “And leave my comfortable position and delightful accommodations?  No, no, I have retired from such pursuits, for the moment.  Running the Citadel takes up my time and is far more rewarding than knocking over castles for a living,” he assured.  “But what was interesting is who was trying to hire them, and for what purpose.”

“Remere, perhaps?” she asked – there were a half-dozen little feuds going on in her homeland at any given time, mostly by those houses who could not manage the Game of Whispers adequately.  The more Narasi-descended houses, normally.

“No, it was Prince Tavard,” he answered, bluntly.

“Tavard?” she asked, surprised.  “Why would Tavard be hiring mercenaries?  Was he recruiting for an attempt to retake Farise?” she asked.

That would be a boon, if he did, she knew; although having Farise in Castali hands would be galling, it was better than the coalition of pirates, traitors, slavers, and Censors who ruled the strategic peninsula.  They were making it difficult for Alshar’s loyal trading fleet to escape the western Shattered Sea and get to their markets in Remere, Merwyn, and beyond.

“No.  He was looking for men to use in Castal, although his agents would not reveal who they would be fighting.”

“That’s something most mercenaries want to know before they take a job, I understand,” she nodded.

“Yes, when one is a mercenary, one does not want to make an enemy that could have lasting consequences . . . or face a foe who is destined to best you on the field,” he agreed.  “But who is he planning on fighting?  His realm is at peace.”

“Peace is a relative thing,” Pentandra countered.  “He sent seven thousand Gilmorans to try to attack Minalan’s new realm in the Magelaw.  Minalan commandeered the force and used them to fight goblins,” she revealed.

“I suspected as much,” agreed the Wenshari mage, nodding sagely.  “Why recruit warmagi, unless you were going to fight warmagi?  Thankfully few were interested in such a position.  Especially with Merwyn raiding our borders so resolutely, of late.  Count Mesdaron has discouraged the Wenshari from hiring out, when we have our home to protect.”

“How is Count Mesdaron working out?” Pentandra asked, genuinely curious.

She’d enjoyed her years in Alar Academy, nestled on the beautiful lake shore that was the center of civilization in Wenshar.  Though the climate was arid elsewhere in the province, the lands around that big lake had been fertile enough to produce everything from goats to grapes – both of which figured prominently in Wenshari cuisine.

During her tenure in Alar, she’d picked up a smattering of local politics, too.  Wenshar was split into five districts, each usually ruled by a count.  Those counts and their vassals had combined the most violent elements of the Game of Whispers and aggressive warfare into a noble class fond of dueling.  That extended to magic, as Wenshar was famous for that, too.

“Surprisingly well,” admitted Weylan, as the girls finally arrived hand in hand with their nurses, followed shortly by two boys from the kitchen bearing a hamper.  “It was a brilliant move for Rard to elevate one of them over the others, and Mesdaron has been a good leader.  Good enough that he elevated his four rivals from mere barons, after their counties were dissolved, to viscounts.  He’s used his authority to settle disputes amongst many of the houses without too much trouble.  He’s promoted magi to many prominent positions in his government.  And he has managed to keep his new regime afloat and united in the face of Merwyn’s aggression.  If it weren’t for the Merwyni incursions, Wenshar would be at peace.

“In fact,” Weylan confided, “he has approached me about becoming his Court Wizard.  Perhaps not as glamorous as a ducal court wizard, but . . .”

“The job is highly overrated – just ask my predecessor,” Pentandra said, rolling her eyes while the kitchen boys spread a blanket on the grass and began unpacking their hamper.  “Of course, you wouldn’t be working in a recovered realm that has seen years of rebellion and poor rule.”

“In Wenshar, it might be worse,” he reasoned.  “There are those who think that Wenshar has not gotten its share of witchstones, for instance, and others who regret the loss of the Censorate.  They are fools, but some of them are powerful fools,” he shrugged.  “Some of our best magi have even left – emigrated to the Magelaw.  That sort of thing would have been unthinkable, in my youth.”

“There is much happening in Vanador,” Pentandra explained.  “Minalan has built a new bouleuterion there, and he has crafted a real society of magi from wizards from all over the Five Duchies.  I’m the baroness, there,” she added, modestly.

“So I heard – and congratulations! – but I also heard you were a baroness without subjects, ruling over a desolate piece of wilderness land beset by the gurvani,” Weylan pointed out.

“It has been cleaned up and improved, thanks to Minalan’s exile and a hundred thousand freed slaves,” Pentandra pointed out.  “I’ll be there this summer when Duke Anguin moves the court to the summer palace.  I invite you to visit me there and see for yourself.”

“I do have aspirations of founding a bouleuterion,” he admitted.  “I’ve toured Sevendor’s, but I’d like to establish one in Terramaton.  Perhaps an academy devoted to warmagic, too.  The Citadel has ample room,” he observed, helpfully.

“Perhaps I’ll speak with Minalan about that,” nodded Pentandra.  “And about more witchstones for Wenshar.  Of course, there is the fear that the Wenshari would then leave the kingdom in favor of Merwyn –“

“Unlikely,” Weylan said, sharply.  “Wenshar has always been wary of Merwyn, and for good reason.  We accepted Remeran sovereignty only because it was preferable to Merwyn’s.  And you people are awful,” he said, without malice.

Pentandra could not argue with the view, considering the Wenshari perspective.  Nor did she take offense.

To Remere, Wenshar had always been a remote, rebellious province that shared a common cultural history in the Magocracy, but that was about all.  To the Wenshari, the Remeran attempts at ruling their land from afar were often poorly contrived and crudely implemented.  The difference in perspective had led to innumerable wars and rebellions over the centuries.  Adding a nominal Narasi aristocracy to the mix had not improved the situation.  Wenshar might be part of Remere, but it would never be Remeran.

But Merwyn’s attempts at conquest had always been far more brutal and bloody than the spats with the Remeran dukes.  Weylan said as much.

“As long as Count Mesdaron is in power, and Rard leaves us alone, there is little danger of that,” he assured her.  “Merwyn was the one who established the five districts in the first place, with the express purpose of playing them off against each other to keep Wenshar from uniting.  Rard has undone centuries of Merwyni ambitions in Wenshar by giving us some measure of unity and independence.  The people value that,” he explained.  “The few nobility who might be pro-Merwyni are seen as collaborators and traitors, at the moment.  Not a few are suspected of taking Merwyni gold to advance their opinions.”

“Please keep me informed on those nobles,” she requested.  “I might be interested in their names.”

“I figured as much,” chuckled Weylan.  “Mesdaron has, as well.  I may well take him up on his offer.  He would be one of the exclusive few sovereigns who happen to have a High Mage for a Court Wizard.  He sees status in that.  And the Curia will be meeting this autumn,” he reminded her, meaningfully.

“That will prove interesting,” she murmured, as she rose.  “Let’s go eat.  If I don’t pay those three some attention soon, they’ll topple the Tower Arcane to get it.”

To her surprise, the normally staid Weylan stripped off his ornate coat and played with the three girls like a doting father, after Pentandra convinced them to eat.  Though a stranger, Pentandra was gratified to see all three of the triplets taking to the warmage almost instantly, like a favorite uncle.  That eased her mind.  Her girls were better than dogs in the way they conveyed their trust and friendship.  If they trusted him, that gave her reason to trust him.

After a raucous meal of bread, sardines, cheese, and vegetables, the three children were finally led away in protest by their nurses – it was naptime.  That’s when Weylan presented his most intriguing information to Pentandra.

“I know you are involved with this Order of the Secret Tower,” he began, once he bid goodbye to the triplets.  “I thought you might be interested in this.  One of my clerks was inventorying the old Censorate records and found an entire drawer devoted to your father’s organization.”

“Organization might be putting too sharp an edge on it,” Pentandra chuckled.  “It’s mostly just the way a lot of old Remeran magi make themselves feel important and throw a good party.”

“It wasn’t always exclusively Remeran,” explained Weylan.  “There were chapters in Merwyn and Wenshar, as well – perhaps even Vore.  Indeed, the Merwyni cell challenged the early Censorate damnably.  They ran a legitimate insurgency against the Narasi.  They supported the Wenshari counts as a Magical Corps . . . until the Wenshari counts capitulated to the Narasi and accepted the Censorate.  Then they were slaughtered.  A dark day,” he said, shaking his head.  “But as the Censorate destroyed the cell, they collected its records and sent them to the Citadel.  It’s fascinating reading.”

“Fascinating, how?” Pentandra asked, honestly intrigued.

“There are very thorough records from the early Order,” Weylan related.  “Names, positions, specialties, and a collection of spell books that is truly quite impressive.  All confiscated and locked away in the cellar of the Citadel for centuries, but when they were at their height, the Order of the Secret Tower was a very dangerous organization.  Indeed, they were working desperately to locate and rescue the Forsaken once the Conquest began.  They felt that it was time to return them and rescue our civilization from the hands of the horse-lords.”

“Why didn’t they?” Pentandra asked, suspecting the answer.

“They were working on it, according to the records,” Weylan said.  “Indeed, it was their highest priority, outside of resisting the Narasi barbarians.  According to these records they sent emissaries to Unstara, the Shattered Isles, and the Ten Kingdoms.  It isn’t recorded if any returned.  But they seemed to have a definite plan on how to bring the Forsaken home.”

“I must read those records!” Pentandra insisted.  There were far too many prophecies about the return of the Forsaken.  She was surprised her father’s fraternal order was actually involved.  “Did they not mention the Remeran chapter in them?” she asked.

“Only in passing,” chuckled Weylan.  “Remere was where they sent their children for safekeeping, ahead of the invasion.  And their junior functionaries.  Once Wenshar capitulated, they went underground for three generations.  It was part of their contingency plan.”

“Contingency plan?” Pentandra asked, confused by the term.

“The Order saw the Conquest as an existential threat to human civilization,” Weylan explained.  “They thought that by redeeming the Forsaken, they could somehow stop it.  They sent expeditions all over the place.”

“Expeditions?  Why?” she asked, her mind considering the possibilities.

“To find the actual Secret Tower,” the warmage explained.  “Apparently there was such a place, constructed by the Ancients as a contingency if the Forsaken needed to be returned to Callidore.  There wasn’t a lot of detail in the texts, save that it wasn’t located within the Five Duchies.  But they seemed certain that some magical place had the ability to recall the Forsaken, who could somehow stop the Narasi barbarians.  They were certain enough about it that scores of good Magocracy-era magi were involved in the effort.  After the Wenshari chapter was crushed, however, most of that effort failed.”

There was a note of sadness in Weylan’s voice as he related the tale.  She could well imagine the era, as illiterate, anti-magical Narasi horsemen were pouring over the borders of Vore and Merwyn, slaying every mage they encountered.  Surely that must have seemed like the end of the world to the last vestiges of the Ancient’s civilization. Certainly, a good enough cause to summon the feared Forsaken back from their eternal slumber.

Knowing what she knew about the truth of who the Forsaken were, Weylan’s tale shed a lot of light on events of four centuries earlier.  She could imagine how the various chapters started to fail under the onslaught of the Censorate.   First in Vore, and then Merwyn, then in Wenshar.  By the time the Censorate came to Remere, where the uninitiated and the scions of those old families had hidden themselves, the Order would have been a shadow of its former self.  A conclave of archivists and functionaries without any cohesive order, save what they found in the scrolls from ages past.  The true purpose and function of the Order would have been buried, cloaked in superstition and half-remembered intent. Passing down the shadows of their purpose in such a way that kept it disguised from the Censorate . . . and all but useless to the unfortunates who inherited the legacy.

Like her.

Pentandra did not welcome Weylan’s news, but it made a lot of sense.  Somehow the last remaining scions of the Ancients had tried to preserve what they thought was the colony’s last hope against an onslaught of barbarism.  They had, somehow, preserved the means of retrieving the New Horizon from its prison and bringing it home again in the skies of Callidore.

What possible use that might have against the Narasi cavalry, Pentandra could scarcely guess.  But she assumed that the Ancients had held some power, else her ancestors would not have sacrificed so much for the possibility.

“It hasn’t totally failed,” she replied, lightly.  “Perhaps the kernel of the truth still remains in those records.”

“If it does, it lies on a dagger’s blade,” Weylan proposed.  “A literal dagger.  Apparently, there was some ancient artifact that held the key to rescuing the Forsaken.  It was forged in the Magocracy, and it was eventually entrusted to the Order of the Secret Tower.  Alas, it was confiscated by the Censorate . . . after burning a few magelord families to death in their homes.  But it isn’t in Terramaton.  I have scoured the Citadel from dome to cellar, and I’ve seen no sign of it.  But it existed.  And it seems to be absolutely essential for rescuing the Forsaken.”

Chapter Ten

Reconnaissance

A wise man measures the field before he buys the seed.

Alshari Folk Saying

Rondal could tell the difference as soon as he and Gatina emerged from the Ways – the air in the Westlands was much drier and the temperature cooler than the warm, wet climate of Falas.  Nor was the abundance of vegetation he’d grown used to in the last year present.  The foliage that surrounded them was sparse, compared to Falas, with far fewer leafy shrubs and deciduous trees and far more needled evergreens.  But the plants that were growing seemed to struggle, to his mind.  Even the grasses looked discouraged.

“This . . . is different,” Gatina observed, as she calmed her horse after the transition.  They’d brought their mounts with them since the Waypoint was miles away from their eventual destination.  “It’s very dry,” she sniffed, as the horse kicked up dust with every step.

“It’s a wonder they can get anything to grow here,” he agreed, as he reigned his own horse to halt.  “From what Mavone tells me, there are farms along the rivers that produce decently, but beyond them it’s . . . well, like this,” he said, bleakly.

“And people still live here?” she asked, surprised.

“If you can call it living,” he agreed.  “There are villages and even towns along the roads.  But once you get into the back country, the population thins out dramatically.  At least we aren’t hiking through it,” he offered as a consolation.  “When Tyndal and I came through here with the Kasari, we marched from dawn to dusk.  It was brutal,” he admitted.

“The map says we go down this hill to a road,” Gatina offered, as she checked the magemap they’d prepared.  “Then west for nine miles until we come to the town of Vengly.  Then down the south road for ten miles.  That’s not so bad.”

His bride-to-be was not entirely correct – it was fairly bad, to Rondal’s eye.  Worse than it had been the first time he’d experienced the Westlands.

The first signs of human settlement they came to on the road was a burned-out cottage, next to a collapsing barn half the size of the ones he’d known in the Wilderlands.  The fields around it were parched and overgrown with weeds.  The next was little better – merely abandoned, not burned.  But a cluster of graves placed recently and unceremoniously in the front garden of the cottage told a grim tale.

The third house was inhabited, but the middle-aged peasant couple who lived there looked at them with suspicion and doubt as they rode by.  The farmer held his hoe protectively in front of him, alert for any signs of trouble.  Rondal elected not to stop and converse with them – they looked like they wanted to be left alone.

Four miles later, there was a hamlet clustered around a well just off the road on a slight hill.  It was just five small huts within a brake of thorny evergreens, but it was almost homey.  They halted to water their horses and speak to the local folk.

Afterwards, Rondal wished he’d kept going.  The toothless, scrawny old man they met at the well was nearly as suspicious as the farmers they’d passed, but he was willing to talk and share a little news.  None of it was good.  According to the dotard, the hamlet – with the fanciful name of Larisamar – had been attacked thrice in the last year.  Once by undead, who’d brought a plague, and twice by bandits.  Nine people had died overall, and the hamlet barely had enough hands to harvest the meager fields of oats and rye to survive through the winter.  It was a depressing tale in a depressing scene.

“Did you not petition your lord for assistance?” Rondal asked, frowning.

“Him?” snorted the old man with undisguised derision.  “Sir Masban only cares for himself and his men, up in his fine stone tower.  We ran to get his help when the walking corpses attacked, and he barred the gate against us.  We called for him to pursue the bandits and he just laughed.  We begged for alms this winter, when you could see your backbone through your belly, and he sent us away with empty hands.  Only when the rents are due or there’s boonwork to be done does he come to us,” he said, angrily.

“That’s not what a proper lord does,” Gatina said, shaking her head.  “You should appeal to the baron,” she suggested.  That produced an even heavier snort.

“The baron’s castle was razed, a month ago,” the man reported.  “He was no better to his folk than Sir Masban is to his.  He tried conscripting a bunch of fellows for a work corvee, when they were half-dead with starvation.  In the middle of the plowing season, too!” he said, genuinely offended.  “There was some troubles, there was.  A revolt.  Well, a riot.  They broke into his castle in the middle of night and set it ablaze.  The baron barely escaped with life, and hung a dozen of them a week later.  Nay, we won’t be asking his help!”

“The desolate landscape almost looks cheerful, after hearing that,” Gatina said, as they rode away.

“Things have gotten worse, here,” Rondal agreed.  “Much worse.  If the common people are this desperate, and the lords are foregoing their responsibilities to protect them, then things have deteriorated badly.”  The Westlands, he knew, had always been marginal territories, but when he’d first come through them, they had at least some semblance of the civil life and respect for duty that was a part of every successful culture.  That was clearly breaking down.

“Perhaps things will improve in Vengly,” she suggested, hopefully.

Things did not improve in Vengly.

The town sat at a dusty crossroads, and had, perhaps once, enjoyed some level of prosperity from the commerce.  But there were few caravans going between northern and southern Alshar, anymore, and even fewer coming west from Gilmora.  The walled town in the distance looked dusty and faded.  The road had few fellow travelers upon it, by foot or horse.  They saw a few small carts, pulled by hand or donkey, but there was little within them.  No one spoke to them as they passed.

Within a mile of the town’s gate, Rondal spied a grisly shrine: a bare tree with no less than nine men hung on it.  There was a crude sign painted on the tree with whitewash in Narasi: the price of rebellion.  Rebellion was misspelled, Rondal noted.  Under it was a strange symbol in red ochre that was even more intriguing.  A red, three-tined pitchfork with a flame over it.

“That doesn’t look good,” Gatina pointed out, quietly.  “But it does look fresh.  Only a few days old.”

“No, it doesn’t look good.  Neither the nooses nor the sigil.  That’s a call for revenge.  For a peasant’s revolt.  Look at that,” he added, gesturing to where a small shrine had been established on a rock in front of the tree, with flowers, bottles, trinkets, and votives that had been left in memory of the men.  It was more than an expression of grief, however, Rondal could sense.  There was an anger implicit in the offerings.  It seemed ominous.

That feeling grew as they approached the gate of the town.  There were four men in armor monitoring everyone coming into or out of the town, questioning everyone suspiciously.  Some peasants and workers were searched.  The two of them waited patiently until it was their turn to be questioned.  Their mounts and their raiment told them out as nobles and commanded some slight increase in respect from the thuggish-looking guardsmen.

“My lord, your name?” the Ancient on duty asked, gruffly.

“Sir Rondal and Lady Gatina, of Alshar,” he replied.  “Here on business.”

“Whose business?” the man asked, suspiciously eyeing Gatina’s striking appearance.

“Our own, and our lords’,” Rondal answered, simply, tossing the man a silver penny from his pouch.  That improved the man’s mood immediately, and perhaps loosened his tongue.  “Good Ancient, why such security?  Do you fear attack?”

“There’s been some bad business lately,” the man admitted, grudgingly.  “Nothing Baron Daymor cannot handle.  Peasants!” he sneered at the line of commoners behind them with open contempt.  “Scared of the dark, they are, and of hard work.  But we’ll sort it to rights.  Where are you headed, after Vengly?”

“We have some business in the lands southwest of here,” Rondal answered.  “We’ll be moving along once we water the horses and feed them.  We might take luncheon here, too.  Any recommendations?”

“That you pack your luncheon from home,” snorted the Ancient.  “Two taverns are all that’s left open.  Their food is terrible, and their beer is weak.  Nothing in Vengly’s been right for years,” he complained.  “But if you’re headed south, you might want to consider hiring a few fellows to ride with you.  Or, better yet, find another way.  There’s darkness, to the south.  One of the things spooking the peasants,” he admitted, in a low voice.

“What do you mean, darkness?” Rondal asked, curious.  He was hoping for some news of the Nemovort’s hideaway.

“What’s taking so long?” someone called, irritated, from the rear of the line.

“Shut up!  I’m speaking to the bloody nobility!” the Ancient shouted back.  He shook his head in disgust and turned back to “There’s an old castle down there, well, a fortified manor with a good-sized tower.  It was a decent estate, once.  Old knight who held it died in the plague.  But now it’s held by . . . well, some darkness.  Still get some corpses wandering up from there.  We burn them as soon as they cross the frontier, but . . . well, they don’t always take the road.  Folk started disappearing, and that got the peasants stirred up.  Then some damn fool started preaching rebellion and saying that the darkness arose from the divine to punish the lords, and things started going downriver from there,” he reported.

“What kind of darkness?” Gatina asked.

“Not the sort of thing a lady wants to be associated with,” the Ancient said, after a moment’s consideration.

“I am passing familiar with Darkness, Ancient,” Gatina declared, proudly, as she tossed him another coin.  “Indeed, it is why we came.  What can you tell us about this place?  Details, please,” she requested, politely but firmly.

“Hurry it up!  We’ve got bloody things to do!” called someone else from the line behind them.  The Ancient gave a groan of frustration and motioned for another guardsmen to keep the line moving without him.

“Sorry, my lords,” he said, more quietly.  “No one rightly knows.  The baron sent a party out there last year.  They didn’t come back.  No one does.  Men report seeing people around the place, working the fields, but they won’t even wave to you, it is said.  Then when folk got to disappearing – probably just run off, usually – most in the area moved away, whether they were free to do so or not.  Baron took in a few, at the beginning, but there were too many for alms.  So we stay away from that place, now.  Used to be called Scafer Manor.”

“Beloved, I am of a mind to skip luncheon today and press on to Scafer Manor,” Gatina decided.

“Whatever your business, m’lady, best not to be on the road after nightfall.  Bandits, beggars, and foul folk are about,” he warned.

“Exactly,” Gatina nodded.  “Darkness is when things get interesting,” she added, as she pulled her horse around toward the watering trough.

“I can’t believe you missed an opportunity for luncheon in an exotic locale like Vengly,” Rondal teased, as they rode back down the road, past the impatient line of peasants and workmen.

“I had a large breakfast,” she dismissed.  “If we ride hard, we can make it by sunset, I think.

It was well before sunset when they finally came to the rough track that led, supposedly, to Scafer Manor.  It was overgrown and little used, a single-track winding back over a hill to the west.  As they mounted the rise, the old manor hall appeared in the distance, in a low area near the bed of a small, inadequate-looking stream.  It was surrounded by the typical peasants’ huts, storehouses, and outbuildings that comprised any estate – but nothing seemed in good repair, he noted.  Tiles were missing from the roof, brickwork was crumbling, wooden supports were sagging, and the thin thatch of most of the huts was rotting away.

The blunted square tower next to the tile-roofed hall was intact, but clearly neglected.  There was no way it could have withstood a concerted attack, he could see.  Half of the narrow windows were missing shutters, the merlons at the summit were crumbling away, and a portion of the machicolations above the gated doorway were collapsing.

Rondal halted under a discouraged-looking tree at the top of the rise.

“Let’s approach this cautiously,” he suggested as Gatina dismounted.  “This is where the Nemovort picked up her draugen.  And where she got those coins.  I’m assuming there will be some magical defenses,” he said, manifesting his baculus.  He started scrying the manor while Gatina began casting shadowmagic spells to conceal their position.

“Those are some impressive wards, for a stronghold so small,” he said a moment later.  A thick perimeter of magical force extended nearly a quarter mile from the manor hall, a clear warding array. Beyond it were two more batteries of force, each increasing with thickness and intensity.  Anything that disturbed it would alert those within to their presence, he knew.   There were countermeasures he could take to evade the wards – that was warmagic he was well familiar with – but the strength and complexity of them, as well as their form, shouted of Alka Alon sorcery, not Imperial magic.  “But no guards, just the workers,” he realized, as he moved his attention to the fields and gardens around the manor.  They were in surprisingly good condition, being tended by a scattering of peasants.

“But no livestock,” she observed, quietly.  “If they’re slaves, they don’t seem to want to escape,” Gatina said, squinting with magesight.  Her eyes became even more beautiful when she did that, Rondal realized.  He forced his attention back to what his baculus was telling him.

“When you’re already dead, there is no desire to escape,” he said, a moment later.  “Those are animated corpses, not peasants.  Well, there’s a few living humans down there, but . . .”

“Overseers?” suggested Gatina, disturbed.

“Perhaps,” shrugged Rondal.  “It appears to be a rather normal manor, just rundown and neglected.  But I’d wager any peddler or tax collector who came here would end up working those fields.  Alive or dead.  Our goal is the tower,” he said, returning his focus to the central manor compound.  “And I don’t see any signs of guards there, either.”

“But is there a Nemovort in it?” Gatina asked.  “That’s what we’re here to determine.”

“That isn’t Imperial magic,” he noted, “that’s sorcery.  The kind the Nemovorti and the Enshadowed use.  With a dash of necromancy.  Not the sort of thing you’d encounter in the Westlands, ordinarily.  In fact,” he continued, as he shifted the focus of the baculus and extended the range of its detection field, “the entire place is crawling with necromancy.  Yes, this is where our friend the Nemovort acquired her pets, I’d wager.”

“So, what’s our plan?” Gatina demanded, quietly.  “Storm the place and slay all within?”

“I feel a bit unprepared for that,” Rondal admitted, as he continued his survey.  “Two swords and an optimistic attitude isn’t going to help us prevail if the cellar is filled with sleeping gurvani, or there’s more than a few draugen about.  Much less a Nemovort.  Not that I wouldn’t try, if we needed to, but our mission was to trace the source of the order to kill Pentandra, not die gloriously.  This is a reconnaissance mission.”

“My lord is wise,” agreed Gatina.  “Still, we have yet to confirm this, we merely suspect it,” she pointed out.  “We really should take a closer look.”

“That means getting closer,” Rondal said, doubtfully.  “Gatina, this is going to take some delicacy, I think . . .”

“I agree.  Which is why I’m going and you’re going to stay here,” she decided.

“What?” he asked, confused.  “Kitten, I can’t let you go in there alone!  Maybe if we had the cover of darkness, but even that’s of dubious value.  Trust me, those wards are no small thing.  It’s going to be a challenge for me to get through them without being spotted.”

“Exactly,” his bride to be nodded.  “That’s why I’m going.  I’ve been slicing wards since I was thirteen,” she boasted.  “These are just a bit different, is all.  And I will not be seen.”

“You can’t be serious!” he protested, putting his baculus down.

“Of course I am, beloved,” she explained to him, gently, as she began to search her saddlebags.  “You are a hero.  No one can deny that.  Heroes burst in and slay everything in sight.  I am a thief.  We’re sneaky.  So, I’ll sneak up there – alone – and take a look.”

“And if you’re discovered and captured?” he challenged, doubtfully.

“Then I will call upon my hero to burst in and slay everything in sight,” she said, with a cock of her head.  “Relax, beloved.  This is my specialty.  Trust me to do it properly,” she quietly urged.

Rondal felt torn – not that he doubted Gatina’s abilities – she’d proven them often enough.  But sending the girl he loved into certain danger, without him at her elbow, frightened him.  That wasn’t den of Rats down there, after all, but a citadel with Nemovorti and perhaps Enshadowed sorcerers and draugen and . . .

“Besides,” she continued, “if you were with me, they’d be certain to discover us.  I just can’t trust you to be stealthy enough to avoid detection.  Even with shadowmagic.  It’s not in your nature.”

“I can be quiet!” he said, defensively.

“Disappearing is about much more than being quiet,” she explained, patiently.  “There are a hundred things you must know and do to avoid detection.  You don’t know but a tithe of them.  I do.  Just watch over me from here with that pretty stick of yours,” she said, as she began to arrange her clothing for the task ahead.  In quick order she stripped off her riding cloak, revealing her dull black tunic and trousers.  She donned a black leather harness, gloves, boots, and pulled a cowl over her white hair while Rondal looked on in silence.  Finally, she fastened her shadowblade over her shoulder and placed a warwand Rondal had made for her in the harness.  She was adjusting her pouches and such when he finally gave a resigned sigh.

“All right.  But what if you meet up with a Nemovort?  How are you going to get away, then?” he asked.

“Then I use this,” she said, pulling a small sphere from her belt.  Rondal recognized it at once.

“The Annulment sphere,” Rondal pronounced.  “You borrowed it from Pentandra!”

“Borrowed is a strong term,” she decided.  “I’ll return it, when I’m done, though.  Promise.  If I run into a sorcerer, I’ll use this, kick them in the plumbs, and retreat,” she reasoned.

“Of course,” Rondal said, with a second sigh.  “What could possibly go awry?”

“For luck,” she said, giving him a kiss on the lips as she passed.  “Do be patient,” she added.  “This isn’t the sort of thing you want to rush.”

“Of course,” Rondal repeated.  “I’ll just stay here and talk to the horses, then.”

He watched her until she disappeared.  Not behind anything, or into shadow, but she was just no longer visible to the naked eye.  It took him using his baculus to finally spot where she was, and by that time she was approaching the outermost wards.

It was nerve-wracking to wait and watch.  He was tempted to reach out to her mind-to-mind through their witchstones, but she had cautioned him about doing that unnecessarily when she was sneaking around.  It could break her concentration, she explained, and that could be a problem.

So he kept to himself, tracking her as long as she could, until his baculus could no longer locate her without a thaumaturgical intrusion that would trigger the wards on its own.  He had to content himself with staring at the tower and the fields and the cottages and searching for any obvious danger.  Patience was hard.

Eventually, he had to find distraction.  More out of boredom than concern, he reached out to Tyndal, mind-to-mind.

Are you busy? Rondal asked.

I’m riding back to Vanador, victorious, his friend replied.  We won the war.

Really?  That’s great news! Rondal said, sincerely.

It’s even better when you know how we won, Tyndal boasted.  That remnant of the enemy that escaped that last glorious battle?  It fled, regrouped, was resupplied and reinforced, and was headed to the heart of the Magelaw.  Then a giant stampede of cattle wiped them off the plateau.

What? Rondal asked, in disbelief.

I’m completely serious, Tyndal affirmed.  It was a stampede.  Every cow and bull in the Wilderlands turned out, it seems.  The goblin army was smeared by thousands of hooves and horns.  The rumor is the gods were involved, he added, mysteriously.

How could the gods not be involved? demanded Rondal.  That is . . . that is the maddest thing I’ve ever heard.  Truly crazed.  A stampede?

It happened, Tyndal agreed.  In fact, we’re headed back to Vanador for a victory celebration.  You’re invited, by the way.  I hope you’re in the mood for beef, he added.

That seems a little ungrateful, Rondal observed.

There were a lot of dead cows after the battle, Tyndal pointed out.  We hated to let that go to waste.  And there are a lot of hungry men marching back to Vanador.  Minalan is triumphant.  The Gilmorans are humbled.  You missed a really great war, he said, regretfully.

I don’t count that as a loss, to be honest, Rondal admitted.  Look, I appreciate the importance of defending the kingdom, and all that, but warfare is not something I enjoy.

There was a moment’s silence.  So what do you enjoy, Ron? Tyndal asked, finally.

What do I enjoy?  To be honest?  And philosophical?  To have a problem to be solved.  To have a weight to be carried.  To have a woman worthy of being loved.  One who is, at the moment, infiltrating an enemy stronghold filled with untold danger entirely by herself while I helplessly watch on . . . and it’s thrilling, he admitted. Trying to figure out what the enemy is up to and thinking of a way to counter it.  Having something worth worrying about.  Someone worth worrying about.  Glory is . . . glorious, by definition.  But there is something satisfying about being invested in the outcome, not in your reputation.

Ishi’s dewy mound, having a girlfriend has ruined you, Tyndal declared.

Having a girlfriend – soon to be a wife – has given me more insight into the universe than anything – including magic, Rondal insisted, self-consciously.  Well, perhaps not the universe, but at least my role in it.

You sound mad, you know, Ron, Tyndal said, thoughtfully.  I have no doubt that you have found transitory happiness in the predatory paws of a comely kitten.  I’m pleased, if you must know – after all we’ve been through, you deserve that comfort.  Gatina is beautiful, he said, earnestly, and she’s as sharp as a dagger.  Far better than you deserve, probably.

And yet you have doubts, Rondal observed, dryly. About my masculinity and my future wife.  And my happiness therein.  As if the entire enterprise was doomed, somehow.

It’s not that, Tyndal insisted.  It’s just that . . . you’re capable of so much more, Ron!  You’re in the company of greatness, during a change in the ages, and you are one of the top magi I know – and I know a lot of wizards.  Great things are happening, Ron.  They’re saying Master Min has founded the Third Magocracy.  That the age is changing.  And you were there from the beginning, the same as me.  But you’re in the stands, watching lesser jousters win the gilded trophies while your sword rusts.  You’re among legends, Ron, and you shun their company.  Vanador is on the rise, and you tarry in boring Falas.  Really, Ron, you could be drowning in a river of kittens, and you’ve chained yourself to just one.

I don’t need a river, Rondal countered.  Men drown in rivers.  And I have the best Kitten already.  Of all of the men of the world, she chose me.  What conceit would I have to boast to entertain less?  She loves me.  Heart and soul and shadowblade, she loves me.  She’s descended from four centuries of brilliant thieves and subtle magelords, Archmagi and adepts, and she choose me.  Me, who was born in a hovel and first apprenticed to a reprobate spellmonger who sold his human soul for pride and shame . . . yet she chose me, Rondal replied, solemnly.

I understand, Ron, Tyndal sighed.  She’s gorgeous.  She’s smart.  She’s relatively rich.  She’s powerfully connected.  And I have no better idea why she thinks you’re worthy of Ishi’s blessing and Trygg’s grace than you do.  And she’s not bad, for a girl – we’ve seen far worse, he reminded him.  I just don’t want you to . . . to sell yourself too cheaply and get mired in an unhappy, boring marriage.

Do you think I’m bored? Rondal countered.  We’re doing a reconnaissance mission on an enemy stronghold, and she thinks it’s fun!  She’s the most exciting woman I’ve ever met.  Perhaps someday you’ll find someone who excites you that way, he suggested, earnestly.

I doubt she exists, dismissed Tyndal.  I’m happy just searching for her.  Through thousands and thousands of young, beautiful candidates, if need be.  Did I tell you I sponsored an abbey school for the Temple of Ishi in my lands?  Soon hundreds of attractive young ladies of good breeding will be coming to Callierd, he boasted.

Your dedication to religion is truly an inspiration to us all, Rondal replied, dryly, before ending the conversation.

More than an hour passed, and the sun began to sink toward the western horizon when Rondal finally spotted something in the wards that he suspected might be Gatina.  He waited until she was entirely through the enemy’s wards before he reached out to her, mind-to-mind.

Gatina!  Are you alright? he asked, sounding far more anxious than he’d intended.

I am well, she replied, simply.  And my mission was a success.

What took so long? He asked, trying not to sound petulant.

Their security is good, and that takes time to evade.  But I was able to establish that there are at least three Nemovorti in residence.  At least a half-dozen Enshadowed.  Some gurvani, though they were just waking up.  And some draugen.

And they didn’t detect you? Rondal asked, worriedly.

Not even close.  I got well inside the hall.  And I wish I hadn’t, she admitted.  What I saw in there . . . well, a slave auction in Enultramar during the interregnum was more civil and less brutal.  They’re treating those human slaves like cattle, she informed him, disgusted.

What do you mean? Rondal asked, concerned.

These new-style Nemovort may have increased their life span with this new technique, but the cost is high.  They have to feed . . . a lot.  When they use one of their slaves up, they turn it into an undead and send it into the fields.  There’s a fairly large staff of living humans, too.  Some seem like bandits or mercenaries, others are just common folk who haven’t been eaten yet.  No better than slaves.  Worse.  Slaves don’t worry about being eaten.

That sounds bloody horrible, Rondal said, dully.

You got the bloody part right, she said, grimly.  I watched one feed on a little girl.  She cried the whole time and was half-dead when they were done.  It was nightmarish.  Darkness, shield me from that kind of sight.  But I was able to overhear some things.  Like the name of one of their other strongholds here.   And I saw two of the slaves had the dweomer on them you placed on the dressmaker’s shop in Inmar, so the connection is confirmed.  And I established which Nemovort is in overall charge of this place – and several similar places.  Karakush, she pronounced.

Karakush . . . the sorcerer, Rondal nodded.

You’ve heard of him? Gatina asked, surprised.

Only in passing, Rondal admitted.  Tyndal has mentioned him a few times.  I’m sure we’ll hear more about him in a few days when we go to Vanador.  Tyndal just told me the war is over, there, he revealed.  We won.  There’s going to be a victory celebration in Vanador that we’ll be required to go to.

I don’t mind, Gatina said, in his head.  After what I just witnessed, I need to get far away from here and try to forget about it.  That little girl . . . they treated her like a cheap bottle of wine.

I’m sorry, Kitten, Rondal said, sincerely.  It was very brave of you to do that.

“I’ve seen things almost as bad, back before the Restoration,” she said, aloud, from behind him.  That startled him intensely, and he whirled around with a warwand in his hand.  Then he relaxed.

“I hate it when you do that,” he sighed, relaxing.  “I didn’t notice you once.”

“I was distracting you with my report,” she reasoned, though she looked pleased at startling him.  “But seeing things like that was one of the reasons why I worked so hard to put Anguin on the throne.  I thought he would restore order and decency in Alshar.”

“Hasn’t he?” Rondal asked, as Gatina pulled her cowl down.

“He’s ended slavery, but there are still slavers.  He’s fought piracy, but there are still pirates.  He went to Olum Seheri, but there are still Nemovorti.  I just thought things would be different.”

“Gatina, you can’t be disappointed in what Anguin’s done – he’s only been in Falas a short time!” protested.  “He’s made great progress!”

“Oh, I take no issue with our duke, nor his bride,” she assured, stripping off her gloves.  “I just thought things would all be restored to how they were before Lenguin was assassinated.  I didn’t realize that it would take so long and be so hard.  Now we have blood sucking undead lurking in the wastes, kidnapping little girls.  It’s disappointing,” she said, pouting.

Rondal couldn’t resist – he kissed her and swept her into an embrace.  “Not entirely,” he assured her.  “I’ll remind you of that more thoroughly when we get to Vanador.  How do you feel about steak?”

Chapter Eleven

A Return To Vanador

Hindsight is the best insight for foresight.

Wilderlands Folk Saying

“Watch your step!” Pentandra warned Old Antimei, as they emerged through the Ways to the plaza of Vanador, where the centralized Waystone was located.  The old woman looked pale and wobbly as she found her footing.  Pentandra was sympathetic.  Alurra grabbed Old Antimei’s hand to steady her.

There was always a moment of disoriented stumbling implicit in the means of travel, as your body and mind caught up to being in a new place.  Having your senses assaulted by the change in temperature, weather, air pressure, and a hundred smaller things took a moment to get used to, and your sense of balance a few moments’ more.  Pentandra was gratified that the old woman froze, closed her eyes, and allowed her body to adjust before she opened them once more.

There were three warmagi guards to the site, Pentandra was gratified to see, unarmored but casually carrying warstaves and mageblades.  That was becoming standard practice now, upon her recommendations, for all Waypoints that might be used as an entrance to the Enshadowed.

“Trygg’s grace!” the hedgewitch swore, as she looked around the busy plaza in surprise.  “Is this really . . .?”

“Yes, Antimei,” Alurra grinned, “this is your home.  Or was,” she corrected.  “It’s gotten a bit crowded.”

“Goddess, there’s a city here!” Antimei said, her mouth agape.

Indeed, the plaza was bustling with Vanadori townsfolk carrying on with their errands.  Pushcart vendors were doing brisk business in pies and sausages, while the shops in the market around them hummed with the vibration of commerce.  At this early hour of the morning the plaza was still uncrowded, but it was beginning to fill up.

There were only a few signs of the war that had just concluded, but Pentandra noticed them at once.  There were a lot more women and children involved in the commerce, for one, and there seemed to be plenty of peasants gawking around at the plaza.  Resettled peasants, she noted, kept in the safety of the town while the war was uncertain in the countryside.

It was certain enough in the countryside, now, and the relieved smiles on the faces of the Vanadori told the tale of their long anxiety.  The war was over – this one, at least.  The threat had abated.  Indeed, the day before she had brought her three girls and their nurses to Spellgarden, at Minalan’s invitation.  Though the area had been endangered in the Winter War, the War of Spring had left it unbothered.

“It’s a real city, now.  The city that you envisioned,” Pentandra nodded, approvingly as Antimei looked around in wonder.  “But it is a great change from how you left it.”

“The last time I was here, under the rock, it was to gather mushrooms,” Antimei mused, her voice far away as her eyes darted back and forth to take it all in.  “Now it’s full of buildings, stalls, cobbles, horses, people . . .”

“There are still mushrooms here, Antimei!” Alurra insisted, excitedly, as she grabbed the old woman’s hand and firmly but cautiously led her over to a small park area where someone had cultivated some ferns in a planter, set a bench, and added other amenities to the tiny park to make it more homey.  The young mage brought Antimei to a four-foot wooden statue of a mushroom with a tall, wrinkly cap like a morel.  The face of the thing was boldly carved into a stylized visage that had a bit of paint and some wood burning details to make it even more exaggerated and cartoon-like.

“This is . . . festive,” Antimei chuckled, when she saw it.   “That’s beautiful work!  Who did it?”

“The Malkas Alon.  Then it was enchanted by one of the magi,” Pentandra answered.

“It’s far larger than the ones I gathered.  I used to make the most delicious mushroom soup in the spring—”

“If you want the best soup in Vanador, try Fuval’s delicious and wholesome broths!  He’s over by the west entrance on the right!” the mushroom helpfully informed them, in a comical Malkas voice.

“Oh!” Antimei squeaked in girlish delight.  “It talks!”

“They’re all over the city, now,” Pentandra nodded.  “Sometimes they’ll tell jokes, or insult you, or even give you news, depending on the enchantment.  But the merchants have taken to using them as magical barkers, too.  It takes a little getting used to.”

“It’s so very different than Inmar,” Antimei sighed, as they continued walking north through the plaza.  “A city under a rock.  A city of wizards.  And others,” she said, as two Malkas Alon workers carrying an enormous cask between them passed by.  A moment later, a tall Tera Alon wearing a human-style wizard’s hat loped across their path.  “A lot of others!  Where are we going?” she asked, when she realized she didn’t know.

“Back to your old croft,” Pentandra answered.  “We’re meeting Arborn there.  He came down for the victory celebration tonight.”

“Isn’t that where your tower is supposed to be?” Antimei frowned.

“Eventually.  I’m quite comfortable at the Tower Arcane, at the moment, and there have been much higher priorities during wartime.  We usually stay at one of our friends’ halls, when we are here.”

“A baroness should have her palace!” Antimei declared.

“A baroness will, someday,” Pentandra insisted.  “But a Court Wizard has other responsibilities, first.  Until we get these people back into their homes, safely, there is no greater business.”

Antimei marveled over every detail, as it compared to her visions, and occasionally stopped and explained where future constructions would be.  By the time they came to the north side of the great rock, she had begun clucking at some of the natural features now obscured or removed by the construction.

But when she saw her croft, just where she’d left it, she paused and allowed herself a moment of joy and gratitude.  “My home for thirty years,” she sighed, clasping her hands together under her chin.  “I love Inmar, but it hasn’t been my home since before I left.”

“We left it intact,” Pentandra said, pleased.  “Well, more or less.  But all of your things are still there,” she promised, as they came to the door.  Pentandra deactivated the locking spell that kept it secure from intrusion.  With another wave she activated the magelight she’d enchanted there to provide a bit more light into the dark croft.  Antimei clapped as she rushed in and began to examine all of her possessions.

“Thank you!” she breathed, when she finally stopped herself.  “Thank you for doing that.  It was a hard thing to have abandoned my life twice.  Now I feel like I’ve gotten a little of it back.”

“You’re welcome to stay here, of course.  It’s yours,” Pentandra insisted.  “It might be a little noisier than it was, but it will not be unsafe.  We’re going to be here a few days, after all.  And we can take you back to Inmar any time you wish,” she promised, as Alurra squealed and flopped gleefully on her old bed.  A moment later she sat up.

“I don’t remember it being this uncomfortable,” she said with a frown.

“You’ve grown used to feather beds and city living,” Antimei chuckled.  “A straw tick just isn’t the same.”

“She’s just grown,” Pentandra added.  “She’s easily four or five inches taller than the last time she slept here. She barely fits in that bed.”

“Ah, how many nights in Inmar I’ve wished for a quiet cup of tea in my old croft.  I would like to stay a few days, just to see the town,” Antimei admitted.  “And the events that will unfold.  Things are about to get very interesting.  And, in truth, I’m not certain Inmar is as safe as I’d hoped.  Not with the Nemovorti lurking around.”

“I have Rondal and Gatina working on that now.  Apropos to that,” Pentandra said, as she began making a pot of tea, “I’d like you to write down the spell you used to fend off the Nemovort.”

“The pearl o’ nymph spell?” Antimei asked, surprised.  “It’s a variation on an old bit of witchcraft.  Pearl o’ nymph are the growths on a Sea Folk nymph’s shell while it’s hibernating.  Hard to come by.  Expensive, too.  But they have an abundance of vibrant energy lingering in them, if you know how to access it.  I’ll write down the spell,” she promised.

“Actually, I want you to teach it to Alurra,” Pentandra said, as she heated the kettle with magic.  “I want her to write it down in formal form.”

“Alurra can write?” Antimei asked in surprise.

“After a fashion,” conceded Pentandra, as her apprentice blushed uncomfortably.  “It’s not neat, exactly, but she has a great deal of focus and control when she uses a pen.  Some of it is even legible.  But she needs the practice. I think she’ll get better at it with some practice.”

“Who needs to read anything I wrote, anyway?” the girl protested.

“I do,” Pentandra said, as she set the kettle down to steep.  “This spell could be very important.  So far, the Nemovorti have been highly resistant to Imperial magic.  Even Alka Alon magic.  The only way I’ve found to drive them off is . . . well, it’s impractical, in most cases,” she said, remembering Ishi’s Night in Vorone, and blushing a bit herself.  “If this spell works, we could have a valuable weapon against them.”

“We shall need it,” agreed the hedgewitch, as she settled blissfully into her old lumpy chair.  “The goblin army may be all but spent, for now, but the Nemovorti are only beginning their reign of terror.  They will be a problem for years to come,” she promised.

“Well, there are two less to contend with, now,” Pentandra said, as she poured three glasses of tea and sweetened them with honey.  “Minalan just captured Shakathet in a hoxter, and his apprentice, Ruderal, slew Gaja-Katar in battle,” she reported.

“He did?” Alurra asked, surprised, as she took her glass.

“He was sneaky about it and struck by surprise,” Pentandra explained.  “I don’t care how it’s done, until every last Nemovort is dealt with, we will have no peace.  Especially Korbal,” she said, with determination.  “Minalan reports that he’s in a kind of torpor, now.  But he will return.”

“Aye, he will,” sighed Antimei.  “And it’s your job to prepare for that, Pentandra, and a good many other things.  War still hangs on the horizon,” she said, balefully, “and from other quarters than the darkened west.”

“So you say.  I shall do what I can.  But I had hoped to avoid war, if possible; particularly a civil war.”  The last thing Pentandra wanted to contend with was strife in the kingdom.  But the prophecies the old woman had written down promised it was inevitable.

“Sadly, those seeds have long been planted,” the prophetess sighed.  “It is only a matter of when they will flower.  And when they will bear fruit.”

“Just how long will that take?” groaned Alurra.  “It seems as if we slide from one war to another.”

“I do not know,” confessed Antimei.  “Not precisely.  Within the next year or two.  It will begin in Gilmora, is all I know; indeed, it may have already begun without our realizing it.  And the magi will be heavily involved.  That much is clear.  But as to the exact nature of that involvement, things remain . . . murky.”

“It would be quite convenient if you could provide a little more detail in your prophecies,” Pentandra said, firmly.  “It makes planning difficult.”

“Yes, wouldn’t it be convenient?” mused Antimei.  “Trust me, Pentandra, there are plenty of visions I could not even interpret, so I did not write them down.  What use is that?  Bad information about the future can be worse than no information about the future.  That’s part of the depressing nature of prophecy.”

“I don’t see what good it is, if you cannot use it to change things,” Allura said, shaking her head.  “It’s better to just go ahead and blunder into the future.  That’s what I do.”

“You tend to blunder into just about everything, child,” Antimei clucked.  “Prophecy isn’t there to allow us to change the future, but to prepare for it.  And it never gives away too much, or provides proper context.  Often, we do not even know that it has been fulfilled except in hindsight.  Hindsight is the best insight for foresight, as they say.  As a witch, you learn to do the best you can with what you are given.”

“I’m just glad you’ve never had any prophecies about me,” Alurra snorted, as she sipped her tea.  “These herbs are stale,” she pronounced a moment later.

“Who says I haven’t had them?” Antimei asked, cocking an eyebrow.  “I just haven’t shared them with you.  Largely because of your attitude toward them.  Would you like to know who you will marry?  Where you will live?  What you will do?  The names of your children?  Your—”

Alurra’s sightless eyes got wider before she interrupted.  “No, no, no, no, NO!” she insisted.  “None of that! I don’t want to know a single thing about my future!”

“I am curious about the husband,” Pentandra offered, simply to tease the girl.

“Look for the red boots,” Antimei whispered to her, conspiratorially.

“What?  What boots?” demanded Alurra.  “Godsdamnit, you know I can’t see colors!  I can’t even see!” she protested.

“But I can see,” Pentandra smiled, and shot the old witch a wink.  That’s when the opened door darkened, as someone arrived.

“What can you see?” Arborn’s deep voice asked, as he blinked in the comparative gloom of the croft.

With the light behind him, it was hard to distinguish the details of his face, but Pentandra would know her husband anywhere.  Arborn had a certain presence to him that commanded attention.  The moment she saw him, a sense of relief of the anxiety she was not aware she bore fell away from her.

She ran to embrace him, and in the moments after his thick arms pulled her to him, she relaxed for just one moment and allowed all of her cares and worries to dissipate in his embrace.  Being in her husband’s arms after months of absence dispelled the tensions she had carried around, unknowing.  It was better than magic.  She kissed him deeply, unconcerned about witnesses, until she started to get dizzy.

“I can see red boots,” Pentandra said, when she finally took control of herself.  “Alurra’s future husband will wear them, apparently.  When did you arrive from Lotanz?”

She took another moment to stop and study Arborn’s face.  It was unmarred by wounds, but it did look a bit older and more careworn than she preferred.  These wars had been hard for everyone in the Magelaw, she realized.  Her husband was responsible for the defense of his lands, and while battle had only made it to Lotanz’s doorstep, preparation for defense had taken a tremendous amount of energy.  It showed on his face.

“I rode in with a troop of rangers this morning,” he said as he reluctantly released her.  “But I saw Gareth, near the gate, and he bid me gather you and meet with a few fellows, before Minalan arrives later today.  Business,” he explained, simply.

Pentandra sighed.  So much for Arborn dispelling worries.  If Gareth was involved, and he wanted to meet before Minalan came back from the field, there was likely intrigue afoot.  The young thaumaturge had run Vanador in her absence as her Steward, and by all accounts he’d done a fine job.  Hopefully, he just wanted to discuss tax revenues or the like.

“Well, let’s go, then,” she sighed, quickly finishing her tea and gathering her things.  “I suppose I have to be involved, whatever it is.  I am the baroness of this bloody place, after all.  At least I had time for a cup of tea.”

.

“I don’t know why – probably because I’m your Steward, here,” Gareth admitted, as he poured a cup of wine for Pentandra, “but it seems every wizard who wants to advance some scheme involving the court wizard seems to find my ear, at some point or another.”  Pentandra was impressed with the office that Gareth used to run her domain.  While it wasn’t exactly tidy, it was extremely well-organized.  She’d been an administrator long enough to understand the difference.

“That’s a function of power, unfortunately,” Pentandra chuckled.  “But I don’t see why they don’t just reach my mind-to-mind if they have questions.”

“Partially because you’re well-known to be a busy woman, and they don’t want to disturb you,” the young wizard offered.  “And partially because they don’t want to invite your ire if their plans and plots don’t find favor with you.”

“Both are reasonable assumptions,” she sighed.  “What plans and plots are they bringing to you for my ear?”

“Oh, everything from mad ideas about how to run things in Vanador to plots to break away from the kingdom and establish an independent state.  But most recently – very recently – they have been most concerned about the Gilmoran issue.

“A great deal of them favor Alshari sovereignty over Gilmora.  Including many magi from other places,” he revealed.  “The recent affair with Count Anvaram and his lancers has smacked of temerity, to the wizards of the Magelaw.  Even though Minalan managed to use it to his advantage, some of the older veterans think that it’s the last straw.  They feel like Prince Tavard should pay a price for his impertinence.”

“Has this gone beyond rumor and speculation?” she asked, curious.  “I mean, is this something I should take seriously, in your opinion.”

Gareth considered, staring off into the distance for a moment while he thought.  Pentandra thought the young man looked healthier and happier than she’d ever seen him.  Rumor was that he and the Kasari Sky Captain, Nattia, were deeply involved.  Long had Ishi’s blessing seemed the best tonic for weakness, she noted.

“I would say no, except for the fact that the wizards in question were highly placed in Minalan’s councils,” he finally decided.  “If this was just the drunken ravings of a Gilmoran mage in a tavern, I might discount it.  But these were sober discussions from powerful magi.  I’m certain you can guess a few of their names.  But you might be surprised by a few of the others.”

“Mavone and Astyral, certainly,” she nodded.  “They’ve always been vocal supporters of the idea.  I probably can guess a few others.  So, it’s a lovely idea, if also an administrative nightmare and an invitation to civil war.  But there’s little I can do about it, one way or another.  I don’t think King Rard is going to just let a third of his hereditary duchy go over to a political rival.  And Prince Tavard would be even less inclined.”

“Another factor is the population of Vanador.  About a third of them were Gilmorans enslaved in the invasion, and they certainly favor such a change in sovereignty, so the idea is popular here.  But would you object if they began agitating for such a policy?” Gareth pressed.  “They know Minalan’s mind on the matter – he has no concern, one way or another.  Oh, he’s a loyal subject of Duke Anguin.  But he’s also a loyal subject of Prince Tavard.  That puts him in a difficult situation – made more difficult by Count Anvaram’s attempted war.”

“I know his position,” she nodded, thoughtfully.  “You’re right, he can’t support one side or another without endangering Sevendor.  His barony is hostage for his good behavior.  And it’s no secret that he supports the idea, in theory.  But that’s as much to irritate Tavard without provoking him.  And to support his Gilmoran-born vassals who tend to favor the idea.

“But would I object?” she asked, considering the matter carefully.  She thought about the implications of such a drive on kingdom-level politics.  Part of that equation was murky – the new royal Prime Minister’s temperament was largely unknown, beyond purely administrative matters.  But Prince Tavard’s view was clear enough.  He would not see the richest portion of his lands in his cousin’s hands, and he would fight to defend it.

But a Gilmoran crisis would, she decided, give the Family something to worry about, instead of Alshar.  Knowing what she knew – or thought she knew – about the prophecies involving the royal family, she had expected Gilmora to figure prominently in how things fell out.  She just had not anticipated being a participant in that.

She also knew that while Anguin could not openly advocate for such a change in sovereignties, lest he violate the terms of the treaty that created the kingdom, he very much wanted to add another victory to his legacy.  Recapturing at least some of Gilmora after returning to his throne would secure his place in history.  Some in Alshar had seen his reward of two decent-sized (and recently war-ravaged) Gilmoran baronies as the fulfillment of that goal.  Many others only saw it as a start. Rardine certainly favored the policy.  She’d said so explicitly.

“In truth, I could not object,” she decided, with a sigh.  “As court wizard, I have very little power in the political sphere outside of the magi.  As baroness of Vanador I can say it’s a nice idea, in the name of Alshari nationalism, but it’s not really a cause I can invest in.”

“But what do you say as Pentandra?” Gareth stressed.  “It’s not your titles and positions that they’re concerned about.  They want to know what you think because you’re you, not because you’re a minister or a vassal.  They want to know if you think it’s a good idea.”

“I still have no objections. From what I understand, we’re going to be flooded with Gilmorans tonight, and if they want to get sparky at the banquet table on the subject, that’s fine by me – provided there are no duels,” she said, flatly.  “Minalan pulled off a magnificent trick with Count Anvaram, but that could easily go into the chamberpot if someone draws a sword at a victory party.  And tell Azar that means magic, too,” she emphasized.

“Understood,” grinned Gareth.  “They just want to advance the idea among the Gilmorans – forcefully.  Anvaram’s staff and chief vassals are all stout pro-Castali men, of course, but a lot of the barons and knights in the army have more open minds on the subject.”

“I doubt they’ll be convincing enough to goad them into revolt against Tavard, although that’s a lovely thought.  But you may let them know that both I and Anguin quietly favor the idea.  If they want to promote it, we will not stop them.”

“Really?  Anguin favors the idea?” Gareth asked, surprised.  “Doesn’t he have a lot in his bowl already, with the Restoration?”

“More than you can imagine,” Pentandra nodded, emphatically.  “But he and Rardine recognize Gilmora for both its revenues and its political importance.  How could they not favor Alshari sovereignty for it?  I just do not foresee an easy path for Anguin to claim it, though.  That would require some tense negotiation with Rard and Tavard, not to mention the leading nobility of Gilmora – who tend to favor the rewards of Castali sovereignty even if they’re nostalgic for the days of Alshari rule.  I do not expect that to happen,” she said, with a shake of her head.

“No one knows what the future holds,” Gareth shrugged.  “But I was asked to ask you, and I have.  I shall relay your answer to the appropriate parties,” he promised.  “Perhaps at dinner, tonight.  After Minalan’s speech.  And a court – you know that there will be a victory court,” he reminded her.

“I know,” she groaned.  She hated holding public court.  It was one of the least appealing things about her position as baroness.  “I’ve got a prepared statement from Anguin, already.  And it will be interesting to meet this Count Anvaram that I’ve heard so much about.”

“No, it really won’t be,” promised Gareth, with a chuckle.  “He’s as two-dimensional as they come in the Gilmoran aristocracy.  But expect Count Minalan to be in fine form.  Two victories in two seasons.  A new treaty with the goblin king.  Getting Tavard to not only send him reinforcements, but to pay for them.  You just know he’s going to be unbearable about that.”

“He’s unbearable about everything, these days,” she chuckled.  “But he’s adapted to exile well.”

“I would say, better, that he missed Sevendor so mightily that he brought a little of it here,” he reflected, his hands behind his head.  “He used his resentment for Tavard and the freedom Anguin afforded him to build Vanador.  And a tremendous amount of gold,” he added, wryly.  “Now he wants to go off into the unknown – that northern vale where the jevolar is.  Anghysbel.  He wants me to go to, I suspect.  I’m wondering if you think that’s a good idea?” he asked, curious.

Pentandra pursed her lips.  “Yes, he deserves a holiday . . . as long as he doesn’t get himself killed.  Try to make certain of that,” she warned.

“I’ll do my best, but I won’t have recourse to magic.  Neither will he,” he reminded her.  “Thankfully, there won’t be magical threats, either.  Why don’t you join us?” he asked, suddenly.

Pentandra just stared at him a moment.  “Gareth, if I go, things here will absolutely fall apart.  Unlike Minalan, I work for a living.  And, to be honest, I don’t think I’d enjoy being around a jevolar,” she confessed.  “Being subject to an Annulment sphere is harsh enough.  I’ve had my rajira since I was a girl.  I don’t know if I could live without it.”

“I’m a little frightened by the idea myself,” he admitted, “but when the Spellmonger invites you along on an expedition, you don’t say no.”

“I’ll try to keep the barony from falling apart while you’re gone,” she promised.  “You’ve done a remarkable job here, Gareth.  You far exceeded my expectations – which were grand.  Vanador has come together as a town and a culture since you’ve been in charge,” she praised.

“It will be a relief to not have that responsibility, if just for a few weeks,” he agreed.  “Most of it runs itself, now.  I just have to focus on the problems that arise when it doesn’t.  The new laws help.  Mostly.  Finding good people is the hard part.  When you do find someone who does a good job, they rarely stick around long enough.  There are just too many good opportunities in Vanador, right now.  I have to replace Fondaras as head of the Field Wizards office, for instance – he’s going on the expedition with us – and two of my construction foremen were hired away from city projects to work in the foundries.  Apparently, there’s a lot more steel production going on, even with the war over.

“Part of that is my fault,” she said, apologetically.  “I have a lengthy list of items Anguin wants for the shipyards,” she said, casually.  “He’s trying to rebuild the Alshari fleet – one owned by the coronet, not hired piecemeal from among Sea Lords.  He wants some new ships for that.”

“That sounds an awful lot like cover for a new fleet to retake Farise,” Gareth said, suspiciously.

Pentandra raised her eyebrows in surprise.  “I didn’t think you took an interest in such matters, Gareth?”

“I’m not fond of boats,” he agreed.  “But I am starting to understand politics a little.  Tavard lost Farise, and now it’s in opposition hands and giving us problems.  I can see how that would merit a response from the kingdom.  And the duchies.”

“Nineteen Alshari merchant caravels lost so far this season, and we’re only weeks into it,” she agreed, sadly.  “It’s becoming a matter of great concern for the court.  Ships are expensive things to lose.  Rardine, especially, wants a strong Alshari navy, after her ship was captured, but it takes time to construct a fleet.  Farise will have to be dealt with.  But this little ducal fleet is for patrolling and escorting, not carrying troops.  Farise will not fall from a fleet of such small vessels.  I’m sorry about you losing your men, but Vanadori steel is stronger and cheaper than any other.  I’ve spoken to enough shipwrights lately to establish that.”

“Well, if you know of any unemployed construction foremen on the docks who are looking for a job, send them north,” he grumbled.  “Any wizards who would like a change of pace, too . . . and enjoy outdoor life.  I don’t know what I’m going to do with Fondaras gone.  He will be harder to replace than the foremen.  He’s kept his fellows on schedule with the plowing and improving, and that’s allowed men to go out into the fields to fight.  Summer is when we planned to do most of our reclamation work, before the hay mowing season.”

“It’s fascinating watching magical agriculture develop,” she said, approvingly.  “If it is widely adopted, the methods you develop here will be used everywhere.  Even Anguin has purchased some.  But it sounds like there is more to it than just waving a wand.”

“You should go into the field to watch them, sometimes,” Gareth encouraged.  “Field wizards are good at what they do, but most of them are young and some need a lot of direction and organization.  I need an older wizard like Fondaras to keep them going to where they will do the most good.  Unfortunately, there are usually far more lucrative opportunities for magi in Vanador than that.”

“If you cannot find a wizard, how about a witch?” Pentandra proposed, suddenly  thinking of Old Antimei.  “A hedgewitch?”

Chapter Twelve

The Children’s Table

The end of a feast is better than the beginning of a quarrel.

Wilderlands Folk Saying

“This place is amazing!” Gatina nearly shouted over the crowd into Rondal’s ear.  “Is it always like this?”

“This is a victory parade for a war,” Rondal explained, as he guided Gatina through the crowd by her elbow.  “It’s usually just a little quieter.  But it is a lovely city – a fresh city,” he corrected.  “So much different from Falas, or Inmar, or Castabriel.  A little like Sevendor, perhaps, but only a little.”

“Don’t you want to hear your old master speak?” she asked in surprise, as she realized he was leading her away from the crowd, not toward the grandstands that had been erected.

“Minalan?  No, I already know what he’s going to say.  The standard message,” he reasoned.  “He’ll thank his men, he’ll thank everyone and tell them how brave they were and how fearsome the foe was, that sort of thing.  Then will come the banquet,” he said, gesturing to the great pavilion that had been set up in the square, “and then we have to sit through a boring court until we’re ready to fall off our feet asleep.  I’ve been to a few of these events,” he explained.

“Then where are we going?” Gatina asked, confused.

“I got a message mind-to-mind, just before it got too loud to think,” he said, in a more normal voice.  “Someone wanted to meet us before dinner.  Over by the mushrooms,” he said, as he led her to a small bench next to a stand of ferns.  These things were all over Vanador, now, he saw, providing great places for a bit of rest or private conversation.  And the odd bit of levity.

“I haven’t been to a celebration like this since Anguin came back to the palace in Falas,” she admitted, excitedly, looking around at the crowds packed into the plaza.  “This is a lot different than the Westlands,” she added.

“A lot happier occasion, too,” he agreed.  “Tyndal told me Azar slew the Nemovort that was harassing the Wilderlands, and rescued Count Marcadine from his siege.  A little mopping up, and the war will be over, for a while.”

“It won’t even take that much mopping up,” a male voice said, from behind him – where he could have sworn no one was, a moment before.  Atopol, Cat of Night, slunk out of the shadows, his black cloak suddenly thrown back.  “From what I understand, Korbal nearly emptied the Umbra to fight these last few wars.  Their armies are anemic, now,” he said, making a face as he greeted his sister with a kiss on the cheek.

“Finally!” sighed Rondal.  “May it stay empty!  Where’s Ruderal?  You said he would be here.”

“He’s on his way,” Atopol assured.  “He had to stop and get dressed for the banquet since he’s the Spellmonger’s apprentice.  Apparently, we’re all seated together at the same table,” he added.  “All of the apprentices and recent journeymen got shoved in a table with minor government officials and the bumper crop of Sky Riders that are here.  Except for Tyndal – he gets to eat with the adults,” Atopol said, sourly, but with humor.

“So, what did you do in the big war, Cat?” Gatina asked her brother.

“Rudy and I went on a tour of Gilmora and Northern Gilmora, mostly,” he shrugged.  “We told some lies.  We stole some things.  It was a good time.”

“Steal anything good?” Gatina asked, eagerly.  Rondal had come to understand that this was a serious topic of conversation amongst the members of House Furtius.  The Cats of Enultramar even got competitive about it, sometimes.

“A big golden dog,” Atopol agreed.  “Not my best, but not too bad.  Hoxter pockets almost make it too easy.  But you’ll hear more about that in court, tonight.  Turned out to be kind of important.  That will probably be before the executions,” he added, casually, as Ruderal appeared on the street the normal way: by foot.

“Executions?” Gatina asked, distastefully.  “We’ve had quite enough of those, already!”  Rondal could not argue that.  After Anguin took the palace, Baron Azar’s two-handed sword had been busy for a while. There were still plenty awaiting his grace in the dungeons of Falas.  But he knew this pronouncement had nothing to do with the Five Counts.

“Probably for the traitors at Iron Hill,” Rondal nodded.  “Tyndal told me about that.  Bad business.”

“Sorry I missed it,” Atopol said, not sounding sorry at all.  “Rudy and I were in a reasonably priced inn flirting with girls in Gilmora, that day.  War is hard.”

“Did you all hear?” Ruderal asked, without preamble, as he arrived within earshot.  “We’re all sitting at the Apprentice’s Table!”

“The children’s table is more like it,” Rondal chuckled.  “We’ll survive.”

“At a table with Dara and Nattia?” Minalan’s apprentice asked, in horror.  “You did hear about the brawl between the two Mewstowers, didn’t you?  And now there are three!” he complained.

“Dueling has been forbidden,” Rondal reminded him.

“Fistfights are not duels,” Ruderal countered, shaking his head.  “Those girls are apt to kill each other with their bare hands!  At least some hair-pulling!”

“Then it shall prove to be an entertaining evening,” Atopol smiled.  “Shall we head for the tents?”

So, what’s the story behind the Sky Captains’ feud? Gatina asked Rondal, mind-to-mind, as they were led to their table by one of the castellans of the city.  Each of them had assigned seats, but thankfully his was next to the Kitten of Night, whose brother sat on the other side of her. Alurra, Pentandra’s apprentice, was already waiting on the other side of the table next to Ruderal, her crow perched on her shoulder.

That?  Oh.  I guess you don’t know much about it.  Back in Sevendor, Gareth harbored strong feelings for Dara, back when she was apprenticed to Master Min.  He did everything he possibly could to attract her attention and spark her affections, but to no avail.  Eventually, he tried to plead his case and caught Dara at an inopportune moment.  She blasted him – unfairly, according to some – and humiliated him so badly it injured Nattia’s Kasari sense of honor.  Among others.  She ended up leading away half of the Mewstower to Vanador.  There’s been bad blood between the Mewstowers ever since.

And now there are three of them? she asked, as he helped her into her seat.  Rondal was struck, for a moment.  She really did look lovely, with her hair down and her eyes flashing by the tiny magelights that lined the tables.  She was wearing a black velvet gown in the Coastlord style that made her hair and eyes nearly glow.  He realized how proud he was to be her future husband.  On another girl, he might suspect her of using a glamour.  But Gatina managed to look like an elegant, deadly flower with nothing more than a bit of cosmetics.

I know nothing about that, he confessed. Apparently Ithalia has been training them in secret for the Alka Alon.  Apparently the other two Sky Captains are already a little upset by that.

My brother is right, she smiled at him.  This will be entertaining.

“I’m just happy I’m not the one in the middle of all the attention, this time,” Ruderal confessed as he took his seat.  “At Yule I had to attend a bunch of banquets like this because I slew Gaja-Katar,” he said, distastefully.

“You really did that?” Alurra asked in surprise.

“Yes, but that’s no reason to subject me to a bunch of dumb parties,” the lad said, sourly.  Nattia came over to claim her seat, and she greeted her old friends warmly before carving hungrily into the bread that was already being served.  A moment later, Dara was led to her seat, her distinguishing purple cloak over her shoulder – a gift from someone in Barrowbell, Rondal recalled, after she’d helped slay the dragon.  She’d also had her long red hair prepared so that her distinctive white streak prominently displayed.  Dara smiled and was friendly, but there was an immediate distance between her and Nattia, though they were only two seats apart.

They didn’t exactly avoid talking to each other.  They made small talk about the condition of their birds and their riders and asked about the health of both who’d been injured in the battles they’d fought.  But it was a chilly, barely civil exchange.  Rondal cringed several times.  But Gatina seemed to enjoy it.

Then Ithalia arrived, in all of her aloof glory.  The unbelievably attractive Tera Alon maiden – if a girl more than three hundred years could be considered a maiden – wore an Alka Alon version of the Sky Rider’s little cape over her gown.  She even wore the curved knife the Riders preferred.  If the temperature had been chilly before, her arrival provided common cause for the two human Sky Captains.  Both were clearly upset with Ithalia.

“Your Mews is well, then, Captain Ithalia?” Nattia asked her lightly as wine began to be served.  She emphasized the title as she spoke.

“There were few injuries in the last battle, and all are nearly healed,” Ithalia assured her.  “It has been a challenge to lead my Riders through their first battles.  But we did well.”

“These were fairly straightforward, compared to some others,” Dara said, coolly.  “Olum Seheri was the worst.  I wasn’t even riding my proper bird.”  Rondal knew that Dara and Ithalia had been close, once, back when they were both working to produce the giant hawks.  He guessed that was partially the reason for the tension between the two.

“Winter flying was particularly bad, when we fought Gaja-Katar,” Nattia offered, a hint of braggadocio in her lilt.  Her eyes flashed in a challenge, too, Rondal noted.  “A pity you weren’t there.  We could have used your help.”

“We were still in training,” Ithalia replied, as she sipped her wine.  “It was decided that they were not quite ready to go into battle then.”

“They still have some work to do,” Dara suggested.  “Formation flying, for one thing.  Your wingmen have a hard time maintaining straight lines, I’ve noticed.”  The criticism may not have been wrong, but there was no denying that she wanted to Ithalia to take it personally.  The Tera Alon’s exotic eyes bulged as a result.

Oh, gods, this is good! Gatina said to Rondal, mind-to-mind.  Alurra and I are talking about it, too.

Of course you are, Rondal replied.

“My people do not see the need for such maneuvers, often,” Ithalia answered, evenly.  “It seems a needless affectation.  Birds in their natural state rarely fly in formation.”

“And when they do, it is noteworthy,” Nattia insisted.  “Formations have a role in sky combat.  They serve many different functions.  Being able to perform them denotes discipline in your Riders.  And it terrifies your enemies.”

“Are you certain of that?” challenged Ithalia.  “My birds did admirably in battle.  As did their riders.”

“They were adequate,” nodded Dara.  “They performed well enough, individually.  I wonder how well they will do against a significant force of wyverns, though.  Or a dragon.  That’s when good formation work really can make a difference.”  She said it casually, as if that sort of thing happened all the time.  Of course, for Dara it had happened repeatedly.

“Let us be thankful we did not see that happen, this time,” Atopol said, quietly.  “Hopefully, the enemy is running low on them.”

“So do you have any other secret Sky Riders we don’t know about?” Nattia burst out to Ithalia.  “I just want to be able to wave to them, if I run across them in flight.”

“We brought all we had,” Ithalia assured her, proudly.  “It was difficult enough to find this many who were willing to attempt the craft.  My people are not fond of heights.”

“Which is amusing, since you usually live in trees,” Dara observed.  She was drinking a lot of wine early, Rondal noted, as the first course was served.

“The trees, not the skies,” Ithalia pointed out.  “But there are those brave souls who are excited by the idea.”

“Until they get into the air,” Dara nodded.  “Then they start to have serious regrets, sometimes.  I run into that myself with new recruits.  Everyone thinks being a Sky Rider is all majestic views and glory . . . until they look down.  We lose about half who apply, that way.”

Rondal felt Atopol reach out to him, mind-to-mind, suddenly.

Ishi’s bouncy boobies!  Look who’s joining us! he nearly shouted into Rondal’s mind.  That forced him to glance up . . . and see Gareth approaching the table.

Oh.  Well, this just got even more entertaining! Rondal agreed to his friend.  He took no pleasure in watching the social carnage wrought at the Apprentice’s Table.  But he was extraordinarily glad that he was not involved in it.  Neither did he enjoy Gatina’s reaction to it.  But girls were strange about such things, he knew.

“Sorry I’m late,” Gareth said, as he settled in comfortably next to Nattia after greeting his friends.  “I had some matters to attend to on behalf of the barony.”

“They just served the first course, my lord,” Gatina informed him, politely.  “Boiled potatoes and beans.  You barely missed anything.”

“We were just speaking of the Tera Alon Mews,” Nattia told him, a bit too eagerly as she scooted closer to him.  “Where shall it be based, I wonder?” she asked Ithalia.

“In the Kulines,” Ithalia told her, as she sipped more wine.  “At Anas Yartharel, at Lord Letharan’s direction.  To protect the Alka Alon settlements there.  And aid our allies in their times of need, of course,” she added, earnestly.  “We’re planning a grand mewstower in the Alka Alon style.  Like Lesgathael, only larger, of course.  We hope to have as many as two hundred birds there, in a few years.”

“Two hundred riders?  That seems ambitious,” Gareth suggested.

“We feel it will take that many to provide adequate coverage, after viewing how your Mewstowers fared in the field,” she said, her eyes narrowing a bit.  “We hope to improve our efficiency with that many birds.”

“That doesn’t seem achievable,” Nattia objected.  “It takes years to train a bird and rider.”

We have found ways to improve upon that training.  Such as not wasting time and energy on simple formations.  Straight lines do not often win battles.”

“Birds!” snorted Ruderal, clearly eager to break up the tension at the table.  “I like them, don’t mistake me, but they’re best with a nice sauce.  It seems like a lot of trouble to raise and train a wing of them.  And a lot of money.  They eat quite a bit,” he reminded them.

“Don’t listen to him, Lucky!” Alurra said, a little shrilly.

“So, how are things back in Sevendor, Dara?  In the Spellmonger’s absence,” Gatina asked, innocently.  Rondal was thankful for her changing the subject.

“What?  Oh, they are fine.  Sire Cei runs the place like he was born to it.  We did have some excitement a few months ago – a gurvani raid.  At Holy Hill Abbey, of all places.  And they stole, of all things, Isily’s brainless body.”

“You’re certain of that?” Rondal asked, sharply.  That was ill news.  He did not know how, but it seemed of especial importance.

“I was there,” Dara assured him.  “My wing and I were attending as honored guests when it happened.  We and Lorcus helped fight them off and they withdrew.  That was where Baron Arlastan suggested he’s thinking of proposing a marriage contract with me,” she added, lightly.  She focused pointedly on the soup that was being served – a nice, thick beef broth with plenty of onions.  Her wine glass seemed to be empty, though.

“A baron?” Gatina asked, visibly impressed.

“He’s young and handsome, and our realms are allied.  Arlastan thought it might draw them even closer together if he were to marry the Hawkmaiden,” she said, casually.  Dara seemed to avoid glancing at Nattia’s reaction, but he could guess that she was aware of the surprised glare the Kasari girl gave her by the intensity, alone.

“So that’s what it takes,” muttered Gareth, under his breath.  Rondal stared at the man, a little startled at his temerity.  Dara shot him a look, too, but Gareth did not return it.  The soup really was good.  But he realized that his own glass was empty, too.

“I think we need a little more wine,” Rondal suggested, and flagged down the castellan assigned to their table to procure it.  The man promised to send the butler for the table by.

“So . . . a baron,” Nattia said to Dara, her eyes narrowing.  “Has Sir Festaran’s suit failed, as well, then?”  It was a tactless question, but then Rondal didn’t think this contest would be decided on etiquette.  Dara looked away, her face stoic.

“Sir Festaran has been spending much of his time in Laripose domain, of late,” Dara said, stiffly, as the castellan brought them each a bowl of assorted vegetables grilled or steamed and heavily seasoned with some pungent vinegar.  The tart dish suited the lively discussion, Rondal decided.  He hurried to finish his soup.  “I do not know what his ambitions are, for he has not informed me.  I, of course, have been busy in combat these last months.  I’ve barely seen him.”

“So you’re to marry into the Lensely line,” Rondal nodded.  “That’s a well-respected and ancient house.”

“I did not say that!” Dara insisted, sharply.  “I merely mentioned he spoke to me about the possibility.  But there are many obstacles in the way of such a match.  I would likely have to give up being Sky Captain, for one.  That does not suit me.  Baron Arlastan has many offers to consider from houses as old and distinguished as his own – houses with far more lands to give in dowry than the Westwood . . . which was established centuries before the Lenselys came to the Bontal Vales,” she reminded everyone.  “I just thought I would mention the matter, since my status seems to be on everyone’s mind of late,” she said, a little crossly.

“It matters not one speck, to me,” Gareth said, still not looking at Dara.  It was the first time he seemed to speak to the woman.  Dara set her cup down abruptly when she realized it was already empty.  Where was that butler?

“It is only passing concern to me,” Nattia agreed.  “In how it will affect the Mewstower, specifically.”

“Why would it affect the Mewstower?” Ithalia asked, confused.  “I’m certain a replacement for Dara could be found amongst her lieutenants.”

Alurra snorted, and she rolled her sightless eyes.  “Ithalia, they don’t care about the Mewstower.  Not in this matter.  They’re all tangled up over what Dara said to Gareth in front of Nattia and the entire Sevendor Mewstower.  Gareth is still sullen and resentful over the rejection of his suit, Nattia is still fuming about the dishonor he bears over it because she’s in love with him, and Dara is regretful of the incident and wishes it would pass.  But she’s also a little resentful that Gareth did not accept his rejection gracefully and fled Sevendor, and very sensitive to the animosity that the western Mewstower bears for her and her company.  And they’re both pissed at you for secretly raising bigger birds than they did, and so many, in so short of time and mostly because you didn’t tell them about it.  And jealous of how you look.  Isn’t that about right?” she asked, turning her head towards them innocently.

She didn’t speak to anyone in particular, but Rondal glanced up at the three feuding friends.  It was all out in the open now.  Their faces were all aghast at the tactless summary of events.  He felt obligated to at least offer a different perspective, a lot more tactfully, before someone started throwing punches.  He was, after all, a senior apprentice to them all.  It was his duty.

Besides, he reasoned, a little candor might do them well.  But Ruderal beat him to it.  He had the thoughtful expression he wore when he was reading an enneagram, and he read them all.  Out loud.

“Well, to be candid Dara is also jealous of Nattia, deeply hurt by Gareth’s rejection of her friendship,” the junior apprentice began, after clearing his throat, “and is incredibly anxious over facing him.  Nattia is still outraged by whatever Dara said to Gareth and is looking for a way to slight her.  Ithalia is feeling smugly superior to the squabbling ephemerals and their sordid love triangle, even though she hasn’t had a date in a century, I’m guessing.  And Gareth . . . he still feels a deep sense of shame and anger at the very sight of the Hawkmaiden.  But other than that, you were spot on,” he praised Pentandra’s apprentice.

“When will that wine get here?” Gatina asked Rondal in a whisper, as everyone now stared at Ruderal.  Her violet eyes were gleaming like a kitten’s at play.  She was enjoying this far, far too much for his liking, Rondal realized.

“Well, it looks like Rudy flipped over all the cards for everyone to see,” Atopol said, the hint of a smirk on his lips.  “Perhaps you all prefer to dance around the matter, but wouldn’t it be more productive to contend with it, here and now?”

“You know, it’s rude to reveal other people’s enneagrams in public Rudy!” Dara accused her former fellow apprentice, angrily.

“Says who?” Ruderal asked, confused.

“It is a private matter!” Nattia insisted, just as upset by the young wizard’s revelation.

“Not anymore,” snorted Atopol.  “If I understand correctly, Gareth came to Dara to publicly declare his feelings.  She said something . . . unladylike and deeply insulting.  That’s where this really began.”

“It was awful,” Nattia agreed, shaking her head at the memory.  “And more than unladylike.  It was not something a true friend would have ever allowed to depart their lips!” she insisted, glaring at Dara.

“He caught me at a bad moment!” Dara insisted, her eyes flashing at her former second-in-command.  “It was completely unexpected!”

“Dara, he composed an entire suite of magical entertainments to express his feelings about you,” Rondal reminded her, gently.  “Folk in Sevendor still speak of it.  How could what he said be unexpected?”

It wasn’t unexpected, just unwanted,” Nattia assured him.  “Dara was perfectly happy to accept Gareth’s friendship when it was of benefit to her.  He was always up at the Mewstower, helping her tinker with enchantments for her birds.  Half of the magic we use in flight he designed.  But as soon as he wanted something for himself . . .” Nattia shrugged.  “Declining his suit was understandable if her heart was not convinced.  But to do it in such a callous way was vicious, and unworthy of a loyal friend,” she pronounced.

“It was the only bloody way to keep him from pursuing it . . . pursuing me!” Dara nearly shouted.  “I tried to let him know I had no interest in him, beyond friendship!  I said as much!  I tried over and over again to tell him without hurting his feelings, but he just . . . would . . . not . . . stop!”

“Well, it appears you achieved your goal, then,” Atopol observed, as the castellan came back to the table with another bottle.  “Make it two more,” the shadowmage suggested to the man, passing him a coin.  “And soon.”

“He didn’t have to behave like such a child afterwards!” Dara accused, her jaw trembling.  “Quitting his position and running away from Sevendor, and everyone knew why!  Everyone!” she said, furiously starring at the man.

“So you were more embarrassed by my affections for you becoming known to all than you were concerned with our friendship.  That explains a lot,” he said, his voice low.  “It tells me what you really thought of me, at least.  Why would I possibly want to even be in the same duchy as you, after that?”

“If you had just let me explain—” Dara began.

“Then I would have lingered in your shadow while you dallied with barons?” Gareth snorted.  “I have more self-respect than that!”

“He does,” Ruderal assured everyone.  “I checked.”

“Rudy!  Stop!” Alurra gasped.

“And then you went flying after him with half of my bloody wing!” she said to Nattia, with equal fury.  “I said I was sorry for what I said!  I tried to explain why I said it!  But what you two have put me through—”

“What we’ve put you through?” Gareth asked, sharply, his face twisted in disbelief.  Rondal had never seen the wizard look that intense, before, not even in the middle of battle.  Terrified and shocked, yes, but this was a novel expression. “It was bad enough that you emasculated me in front of your entire Wing,” he began in a low voice.  “And that after I risked my life to try to impress you the least little bit.

“But then you had to question my worth?” he asked, with open disdain.  “After the countless hours I spent fixing problems in your enchantments?  After the innumerable times I responded to your summons for some essential bit of arcane lore you were incapable of?  Yet you questioned my very worthiness?” he asked, appalled.

“I apologized for that!” Dara defended hotly.  “I regret I said it, and I have told you so.  It was unworthy of me – but I assumed you did those things for friendship’s sake, not to purchase my affections!”

Gareth did not retreat.  His voice was still low and his eyes were flashing.  “Yes, I did that out of friendship. But from that friendship grew interest.  And from interest, desire sprang.  Is that so unreasonable to imagine?” he asked, mockingly.  “I was not trying to purchase your affections.  Whatever coin I had wasn’t worth your attention, it is clear now.  I was not brave enough, strong enough, rich enough, tall enough to tempt the Hawkmaiden’s heart.  Perhaps if I were a handsome baron, I might have had a chance.  But I’m just a ‘pathetic excuse of a wizard, hanging on the hem of greater wizards in the hopes of a scrap of glory,’ if I recall your long, cruel assessment correctly!”

Dara just stared at him, her face locked in a struggle between rage and fear, Rondal noted.  He felt sorry for the girl, he truly did.  Dara was as gallant as any woman, and he counted her a friend – and sister apprentice.  She did not deserve this embarrassment.

But neither had Gareth deserved his, at what she’d apparently said, and Rondal winced to hear even a part of it.  It had clearly been potent.

“I repaid your friendship in kindness, fairness, and affection,” Dara replied, quivering.  “I owed you no more than that.  I gave you my friendship, not my heart,” she said, defiantly.  “I was not some prize to be gifted to you because of your devoted service!  We were friends, and yet you fled Sevendor and scampered off into the wilderness because of a misunderstanding!”

“The misunderstanding was believing you were genuine in your friendship,” Gareth said, icily.  “When that proved false, there was no reason for me to stay.  And every reason to leave the site of my shame.”

“A true friend would have allowed me to explain myself and apologize before taking such rash action!” Dara accused, her face almost as red as her hair.

“A true friend would have given me a godsdamn chance!” Gareth scowled.  “As you elected not to, and in such a pungent manner, I could only conclude that I was mistaken about the nature of our friendship.  My final lesson in Sevendor learned, I left.

“You held me in such contempt – after I spent years adoring you – that I loathed myself.  But not for the reasons you so readily supplied.  I was a fool to be taken in by the manipulations of an ignorant maiden, I finally realized.”  The accusation visibly stung Dara.  “I had wasted years trying to attract your attention – years I could not recover.  But I could learn,” he continued.  “I learned well enough that I built a godsdamn city of wizards out of a refugee camp!” he said, gesturing around.  “I learned well enough that I was hired not just to run a barony, but to build one!  In the middle of a godsdamned war!”

“Your accomplishments are impressive,” Dara admitted, “and I hear no end of how worthy you are as lord and mage.  Believe me, some people cannot open their mouths without your praises falling out of them,” she said, glaring at Nattia.  The other redhead just stared at them – and kept silent.

Indeed, no one at the table wanted to get in the way of the argument.  They were all transfixed.

“And they are but the beginning,” growled Gareth.  “Once I realized that my affections for a girl were holding me back, I started to see my true potential.  Once I was able to ignore your disinterest and your antipathy, I was able to achieve for myself.  And earned the affections of those more worthy of mine,” he said, glancing at Nattia.

“If you have found such fulfillment in leaving Sevendor, then why must you persist in denying our friendship?” Dara demanded.  “It sounds as if I did you a boon!”

“A boon, my lady?” Gareth barked.  “You gave me a wound.  And some wounds don’t heal.  I slept in a tent for a year in the middle of a refugee camp because it was preferable to facing your daily disdain from a soft bed in Sevendor.  If you wish credit for propelling me into success, by all means, claim it – and add it to the treasury of rationalizations you keep to armor your heart.

“But do not presume for a moment that I feel grateful for your sudden motivation.  The only salve for that wound has been the determination I feel to exceed your view of me.  And prove worthy enough to attract the interest of a worthier woman,” he said, standing and stomping off.

There was a moment of silence as the entire table looked at him, as he retreated.  Then Nattia rose, wordlessly, and followed after him.  Dara looked around at everyone’s faces, her own a mask against her emotions, before she, too, stood.

“I need to see to my Riders,” she mumbled, and left in the other direction.

There was another long moment of silence before Ithalia finally spoke.

“Are all humani relationships so . . . contentious?” she asked, as an egg dish was brought to the table by the busy castellan.

“Any time two redheads are involved in a love triangle, it’s going to be interesting,” Atopol suggested, thoughtfully as he passed the dish.  “When feelings are high, and trust has been broken, well, that can take a while to sort out.”

“And Gareth might not look like much,” Rondal added, “but he can be quite stubborn when his mind catches an idea.  Dara hurt not just his pride, but his very sense of self.  Even though he seems pretty happy with Nattia, that’s going to take a lot of time to heal.”

“It seemed . . . untidy,” Ithalia suggested.

“They needed to get all of that out, believe it or not, hurt feelings and all.  But some of us can manage ourselves without a duel breaking out,” Rondal said, looking at Gatina fondly.  “Aren’t Alkan relationships a little fiery?” he asked, genuinely curious.  He hadn’t made a great study of the epics, but jealousy and betrayal in romantic relationships was a common theme, he knew.

“Not usually at the inception of a relationship,” Ithalia said, pausing as if she hadn’t considered the matter before.  “The Alka Alon strive for consensus in all things.  That includes . . . courtship,” she said, struggling for the right word.  Rondal guessed from her manner that she was not speaking from personal experience.  “Usually things are rather pleasant, for the first thirty or forty years.  Our drama comes later in the relationship.  If it becomes too much to bear, other mates are usually found.  My grandmother left my grandfather, for instance, because he was unwilling to indulge her desire to study your people when they arrived.  He felt it was improper.  But their courtship was noteworthy,” she added.

“We like to get our fighting done in the early years,” Rondal decided.  “We just don’t have that kind of time to waste, seeking a peaceful consensus.  Usually, we’ll settle for an armed truce.  I suppose it depends on the customs you’re used to,” he shrugged.

“I think it’s all a lot of stupid silliness,” Alurra avowed, a disgusted tone in her voice.  “Kissing is bad enough.  It eventually leads to babies, I hear.  Who in their right mind wants that?”

“You don’t want babies?” Gatina asked, startled, glancing at Rondal.

“They’re stinky, sticky, loud, demanding, and ungrateful,” the apprentice declared.  “Especially in groups.  Little kids aren’t so bad, I suppose, but babies are awful!” she said, so expressively that Lucky had to flap his wings to maintain his balance on her shoulder.   “And if you have to go through something like that bloodbath we just witnessed, I don’t much see the point of all the kissing just to get babies.”

Gatina smirked.  “I believe you will, someday.”

“Why is everyone so godsdamned concerned with it?” Alurra said, exasperated.  “I’ve heard the lectures from the Ishites, but it’s just a bunch of painful nonsense!  Animals don’t go through that sort of thing.  They do some little dance, or fight off their rivals, and they just . . . get to business.  It’s a lot more efficient,” she declared.

“Yes, it would be nice if there wasn’t all that talking involved – right, Rudy?” Atopol teased the younger boy.  “Things would have gone a little more smoothly in Gilmora if you hadn’t had to open your mouth.”

“I didn’t,” Ruderal objected, beginning to blush at the memory.  “I could see exactly what that girl had in mind, and it had little to do with . . . let’s not discuss it,” he decided, firmly.  “Particularly not here.  Besides, you’re enjoying this too much.”

“I really am,” agreed Atopol, as he spooned some of the leftover vegetables over his eggs.  “That is, I feel genuinely sorry for each of them,” he explained.  “They each have legitimate concerns.  Dara feels like Gareth’s being unfair, but she’s responsible for that.  Gareth feels justified in snitting off to the Wilderlands in a huff and making himself into the world’s greatest wizard just to show her up, but he’s too stubborn to forgive Dara and too smitten with Nattia, who is both appalled by Dara’s insult and enchanted by Gareth’s righteous indignation over it.  But they’re all being boneheaded about it, and loud, and that’s what makes it entertaining,” he decided.  “You can’t get that kind of show in a theater in Falas.”

He’s right, you know, Gatina said into Rondal’s mind.  That was amazingly entertaining!

Three people mad at each other, shouting over dinner, was entertaining? Rondal asked in return.  To be honest, I was a little appalled.

You’re a Wilderlord – or near enough, Gatina decided.  You tend to be conservative about such things, I suppose.  But I found it immensely entertaining.  It also made me appreciate the fact that you capitulated so easily to me, when I decided I wanted you.  It made the rest of it a lot simpler.

That startled Rondal.  Kitten, you arranged for a revolutionary insurgency with nearly a thousand men risking their lives to overthrow a despot and restore the Orphan Duke to his throne . . . just to impress me, he reminded her.  How is any of that simple?

Think how hard it would have been to do that if you had spurned my interest, she suggested.  And how different things would be, now, if you had.  Restoring Anguin to the throne was simple, Beloved.  Ensuring that I had stolen your heart was the only truly challenging part.  Oh, is that the beef? she asked, excitedly, as giant trays of steaming, fragrant roasts were brought into the tent.

Chapter Thirteen

A Summer In Vorone

Character is destiny.

Magelaw Folk Saying

Pentandra spent the week after the great Oxenroast celebration moving her household from the Tower Arcane to Vorone and Vanador.  She was fortunate, in that she had a secure place for her girls at Spellgarden while she worked in the Summer Capital preparing for the Duke and Duchess to arrive.  She used the Ways extensively to do so, though it took a bit of a toll on her.  So did Arborn.  Her husband had missed her mightily, during the war, and they spent nearly every night together in lustful embrace.

But her hazy dreams of a languid summer in Vorone filled with frivolities and leisure was dashed soon enough.  Once Minalan announced his expedition to lost Anghysbel, things started to get complicated.

Of course, it all started with the meetings.

First, there was the revealing lecture Minalan’s new arcanist, Heeth the Butler, gave to the High Magi during the Thaumaturgic Academy’s meeting.  Pentandra took great interest in the subjects, considering she knew many of them were the subject of prophecy she’d read about.  And while there were decidedly important elements missing in his discussion, Pentandra had to credit the Arcanist with providing a clear, concise summary of the tasks ahead of them.  The rest would evolve on its own, she knew with certainty.  But now enough magi knew about the entire situation so that even if Minalan got himself killed at the jevolar, there were those who could carry on.

Then there was the emergency meeting of the Beryen Council in Carneduin, the joint endeavor with the Alka Alon.  That had been far more fiery than she’d anticipated – and far more revealing.  While the result had been the Council’s blessing of Minalan’s expedition, it had also exposed the true attitudes of the Alka Alon on a number of matters.  She’d been proud of Minalan and the others for the way they had stood steadfast against the council’s Alka Alon delegation.  The secrets they kept could imperil the entire world, and she resented their condescending manner.

There had been several meetings of importance that had added to her burdens but were vital: a day-long affair with Gareth concerning the minutia of running the barony, for instance, and an introduction to his staff.  Another intense day was spent with Minalan at Spellgarden, to catch him up on news from the south and induct him into the Alshari Garden Society.  Another meeting with her deputies Rondal and Terleman was required to discuss matters pertaining to her office as Court Wizard.  While she enjoyed the few days she and Arborn stole away when Sire Cei visited with his family from Sevendor, it had hardly seemed like a holiday.

But then there had been the official Opening of the Palace celebration.  As intriguing as the politics of the world were, the politics of court demanded more of her attention.  And that’s where things began to get interesting, to her dismay.

The entire court wasn’t traveling to Vorone, of course.  Just the few most senior ministers whom Duke Anguin thought might be needed for either counsel or to discuss policy about local matters in the north.  The lesser officials were left behind in Falas, where they would aspire, theoretically, to the attending the prestigious summer occasion someday.  But while that meant a smaller crowd at the Opening of the Palace, this was also the first time that the important ceremony would be performed in Anguin’s newly built Castle Vorone, and it was vital that it be successful as a court event.

Indeed, it proved so successful that King Rard had shown up, unanticipated, by means of the Ways with his court wizard.  That had been an unexpected event.  Though it had secured Rardine’s social role in Vorone handily, it had also brought with it its own complications.  Pentandra greeted His Majesty’s appearance with a great deal of unanticipated anxiety.

Rard and Minalan spoke a good while together, Pentandra noted as she watched the two in the great hall that night.  She could guess the matters they discussed and was unsurprised to see them part in good spirits.  Minalan had always gotten along well with the king, she knew.

But when Rard approached her later in the evening to have a few words, things got complicated.  A casual conversation with the king proved far more fateful than she realized.

“Baroness Pentandra,” he began, formally, as his attending gentlemen and bodyguards kept a discrete distance away, “I was hoping to have a few moments with you.”  For anyone else she might have interpreted it as a courtier’s invitation to a dalliance.  Rard was a different kind of man, however.

“My time is yours to command, Majesty,” she assured him as she gave the most graceful and respectful curtsey she’d ever performed.

“Of course,” he said, without condescension.  “The Spellmonger has been singing your praises as Baroness of Vanador and has encouraged me to visit this summer.  He claims that it is a most remarkable city, and that you are responsible for its founding,” the monarch stated.

“It was my idea, Majesty, but I’ve had very little to do with it since its inception,” Pentandra admitted, humbly.  “My work as Court Wizard has precluded more than my scantest attention.  Lady Carmella and her folk in the Hesian Order built the place, and Lord Gareth has run it with inspired efficiency . . . under the Spellmonger’s oversight, of course.  His exile has driven him to build Vanador as a bastion against the enemies the kingdom faces.  In truth, this will be my first foray of actually running the place.”

Pentandra devoutly hoped that her manner would encourage the king to consider a visit to Vanador.  That would provide the place with a certain burst of status in royal politics and advance the cause of Minalan and all the magi, she knew.  All of those things were important.  Just as important, perhaps, was shoring up Rardine’s relationship with her father.

Since her dramatic rescue and nearly as dramatic wedding, there was a strain on the relationship, Pentandra knew.  Rard was torn, in Pentandra’s view – support the daughter he loved or the idiot son to whom he was entrusting his legacy.  He was trying to do both, of course, as any good father would . . . but with a scheming Queen Grendine lurking in the background behind her son’s shoulder, family and politics were unavoidably intertwined.

Pentandra honestly felt for the man . . . he had built a kingdom out of determination and ambition, but it was stained by deceit, treachery, and assassination.  Rard had constructed an institution that Pentandra had come to realize was sorely needed, in the Five Duchies, and one that had been a positive boon for many of his subjects.  It had certainly elevated her own profession quickly enough.

But at what cost?  Pentandra understood the Game of Whispers well enough to understand the motivations of Grendine and her cadre of pretty killers, but she had little enthusiasm for the effort.  Her own family was provably adept at the Game, but she held little pride in the accomplishment.  House Benurviel had responded to provocation, in the only way possible within the structure of the Game.  It was not a matter of ambition, but of vengeance.

Grendine, on the other hand, had made the Game of Whispers into a means to achieve power and prestige.  That was not unknown, of course; that sort of thing had been occurring since the First Magocracy, when assassination became a high art and the Archmagi had schemed amongst scores of rivals to steer Perwyn into a new age.  Pentandra could appreciate the historic necessity of those ancient figures carving a new power structure out of the decaying mass of the Colonial Period but watching Grendine attempt a similar strategy amongst her friends and allies was nauseating.

There was a certain respect Grendine was due for playing the Game so adeptly, from the Imperial perspective.  But there was also a certain disdain that the queen had accrued for using the Game in such a blatant and callous manner.  She hated to admit it, but the influence of the conservative and idealistic Narasi had colored her perspective.  Some things – such as crowns – could be earned on the battlefield; they should not be gained by base treachery.  Perhaps that was a naïve perspective.  The Game of Whispers certainly considered it so.

But Pentandra could not invest herself in the idea that power came from destroying the opposition.  She had seen Minalan accumulate it through cunning, luck, and a decided idealism, not simple aggression.  Minalan saw opportunities to be exploited. Grendine saw obstacles to be eliminated.

She couldn’t imagine actually being married to the woman.  Her acquaintance with Rardine had revealed much about the queen that was hidden from most of the courts of the kingdom.  Rard had to know much of her dark and bloody secrets.  Yet he seemed a decent man, with a vision for the kingdom that seemed to rise above the blood it had been built on.  To have to bed an ambitious murderer by proxy, and one whose trail of blood was a tribute to his vision, had to be a burden to Rard, Pentandra surmised.  He could properly take solace only in his wise rule of the kingdom he’d forged . . . and his role as a father.

King Rard sighed, thoughtfully, as he regarded her.  “My daughter speaks highly of you, as does the Spellmonger.  You are important enough to warrant your own portfolio in my lady wife’s attention,” he said, casually.  The frank admission startled Pentandra.  Particularly in light of the assassination attempt.  “She considers you a formidable adversary, and the true intelligence behind the rise of the Spellmonger.”

“I have done what I can to support my class and profession, Majesty,” Pentandra insisted.  “And Minalan is an old friend to whom I have some loyalty.”

“And given universally excellent service to all, and to my nephew’s realm,” Rard agreed.  “I cannot fault your achievement; Alshar has benefitted mightily from your oversight, as have the magi.  Your reputation as both mage and administrator thrives in the realm, Baroness, in the context of your political acumen.  Indeed, your name has arisen repeatedly for consideration to be the next Royal Court Wizard, when the time comes to select a candidate.”

“I . . . I am honored for the mere consideration, Majesty,” Pentandra said, sincerely.

“You were one of the stronger candidates, after the Spellmonger and a few others.  Master Loiko was chosen more for his lack of political ability than his mastery of it; too many fear the rise of the magi, particularly amongst the chivalry and the maritime lords.  He is adequate, for the moment.  But your name remains prominent; be wary of that.”

“I assure your Majesty that I am,” Pentandra said, softly.  “Thrice have assassins attempted to remove me, in the last year.  Including an attempt by those who have pledged loyalty to the Yellow Rose.  A misunderstanding, as it turns out,” she said, hastily, “but true evil always seeks the best talent.”

“Really?” King Rard asked, surprised.  “That seems . . . ill considered,” he observed.

“That was what I assumed, Majesty.  My line is not known for its lackluster response to such provocations, but neither are we hasty in our enmity.  I investigated and was rewarded: the source of the plot came from amongst our foes, the Nemovorti.  They discovered a weapon lying unused and attempted to employ it.  I count the strategy as much an attempt to sow dissension within the kingdom as a means to remove me from what power I have.

“But it is indicative of a deeper understanding of our vulnerabilities, Majesty,” she warned.  “That is dangerous.  The attack on your palace, the assault on Anguin and Rardine’s wedding, and two swift wars in the Wilderlands was straightforward, in comparison.  Korbal and the Nemovorti had no knowledge of humanity before they awakened, but they are learning our weaknesses and petty feuds all too easily.  And exploiting them.”

“How would you counsel we counter such an insidious effort, Baroness?” Rard asked, with genuine interest.  “I have enough human adversaries; contemplating their efforts being directed by the undead discomfits me.”

“It could undo us all, Majesty,” Pentandra agreed, solemnly.  “The only counter is unity, vigilance, and disciplined attention to our duty,” she decided.  “We must take time and investigate before we act.  But when we act, we must act decisively.”

“Wise words,” agreed Rard.  “And what area of our realm is most vulnerable, in your opinion?  You are known for your wisdom and insight, Baroness.  Speak candidly, I beg of you.”

Pentandra cleared her throat to purchase time to consider how she would respond.  “Sire, though it might seem self-serving to propose, I would say the ducal court of Castal is our weakest point.  Remere’s power is calcified by tradition and a disdain for bold action.  Alshar is recovering from the interregnum, and Anguin is eagerly seeking out his opposition.  He is wisely considering his allies and their motivations as he rebuilds his duchy.  He is well aware of the insidious danger our enemy now poses.

“But Castal?” she chuckled.  “The court of Castal is now beset with opportunistic nobles who see their role in the kingdom as propping up the heir in hopes of higher position and reward in some future regime.  You took the best of Castal with you into the royal court; what remains are sycophants, opportunists, and those who lust for power and glory but have no native ability,” she pronounced.  “Prince Tavard has attracted the worst sort of counselors.  The Castali court is in such a state that a well-financed popinjay and a couple of ingénues could bend it to their will.  That will be where the enemy will strike, Majesty,” she predicted.

It was a political risk, being truthful with the king.  But every scrap of information she had learned about the Castali court had confirmed her suspicions.  And the prophecies bore it out.  Tavard’s own policies had proven uniformly poor; the court was in debt to both the kingdom and its high nobles, and the cavalier manner in which Tavard was spending to improve his own legacy before he ascended the throne had become common rumor.  The debacle at Maidenpool, the disastrous loss of Farise, and the petty intrigues that plagued the rebuilding of Castabriel in the wake of the dragon attack had demonstrated Tavard’s inefficiencies in governance to all.

Including his father, she realized at once.  She could tell by his face that the king held no illusions about his son – merely hope.  She watched his shoulders sag and his head hang, a king disappointed in his heir, a father dissatisfied by his son.

“I fear what you say is true,” he said, with a great sigh.  “The Castali court is not what it once was.”

“My liege, with respect, it is well-known wisdom that character is destiny,” she said, gently.  “The Castali court is weak because it has a weak leader.  He seeks glory, not good governance.  He appreciates flattery, not sound counsel.  He has ambition, but lacks vision.  It is troubling to many of the magi that he has embraced factions that seek their own aggrandizement, not the prosperity of all the people.  These mistakes are flaws in his character.  Those flaws can and will be exploited by the enemies of humanity, just as water seeks the lowest spot.  That is my opinion,” she concluded, as humbly as she could.

King Rard was silent for many long moments while he contemplated her words.

“That is not far from my own assessment, I regret to say,” he said with a profound sigh.  “He has railed at the letter Minalan sent him as if the man had slapped him in the face.  He declares to one and all that the magi are a menace, when you have clearly been the saviors of the kingdom.

“Tavard is drawing support from the chivalry who are angered at the ascendancy of the magi.  From merchants who feel your folk are taking advantage of your powers to challenge their profits.  He speaks of the abuses of the old Magocracy and warns of a new one on the horizon.  He is rallying those counts who desire his favor to prepare for war with the Magelaw,” the monarch revealed, tiredly.  “I have let it be known that such a policy is not favored by the Crown, but Tavard has the support of his mother.  Too many look toward the day when he replaces me on the throne and try to position themselves accordingly.”

“That bodes ill, Majesty, for both the magi and the kingdom,” Pentandra warned.  “The magi have grown adept at war.  Particularly the new kind of war we wage.  If Prince Tavard elects to pursue this course – which I do not favor, as well – then I am unsure what would happen.  May I ask why your Majesty does not forbid it?” she asked, pointedly.  “The treaty of union forbids the duchies from making war on each other,” she reminded him.

“Which is why Tavard works through the counts,” Rard reported with a sad shake of his head.  “I sought to diminish the powers of the dukes by relying on the counts to fund the kingdom.  Now I have to depend on their willingness to pay tribute in order to see the works of my vision fulfilled.  That gives them the power to defy me, if I rule too strongly.  One or two rebels I could contend with . . . but Tavard’s supporters number significantly more than that.  If I forbid them to fight, then I undermine my own rule.”

“It is a difficult situation, Majesty,” Pentandra agreed, quietly.  “I do not envy your position.  I can only hope that Prince Tavard turns his attention away from us, and toward more constructive matters.  If he does not . . . well, I am not hopeful of his chances of success.”

Rard gave a bitter guffaw.  “Meaning you think the magi will clean the board if they take the field against him.”

“We have gotten good at warfare,” Pentandra nodded.  “With irionite and enchantment, I do not think it would be much of a contest.  And I fear the consequences of any such conflict, Majesty.  Our warmagi are just as passionate as the chivalry, when it comes to their militant arts, their pride, and their honor.”

“Then let us both work to reduce tensions on both sides,” the king proposed.  “With Minalan gone for a few months, I’m hoping Tavard’s head will cool.  I will speak to the Queen to encourage her to do likewise.  If you will speak to Anguin and my daughter about keeping Alshari passions banked, perhaps we can make it to the Curia without a conflict.”

“If the gods so desire, Majesty,” she agreed.  “But do come and tour the City of Wizards, soon.  I think it will give you better insight into this portion of your realm as it blossoms into importance.”

“I shall do my best, I swear,” Rard nodded.  “Lastly, Baroness, I must ask a question more important to me personally than policy: how is Rardine managing her new role?” he asked with genuine interest.

“As duchess or wife?” Pentandra countered.  “She has embraced the challenge ahead of her in statecraft with enthusiasm.  And I feel she has grown to love Anguin more than I suspected her capable,” she admitted, to her own surprise.  “She has become devoted to him as much as her throne, and it shows in her policies.”

“Character is destiny,” Rard repeated with a smile.  “I raised both of my children to be capable rulers.  It’s gratifying that at least one of them has the character to match that ambition.  Do look after her, Pentandra,” he said, finally turning to her.  “In her way, Rardine is just as ambitious as Tavard, and by nature more ruthless.  I urge you to use what influence you have over her to counsel wisdom.”

“Of course, Majesty,” Pentandra said, sincerely, before they parted.

She was still trying to digest the profound discussion when, a moment later, another courtier appeared at her elbow: Baroness Amandice, more popularly known as Lady Pleasure, abbess of Vorone’s Temple to Ishi.  A woman Pentandra knew well was the earthly avatar of Ishi, goddess of love and beauty.

“Well, that certainly looked like an intense discussion,” the attractive middle-aged nun commented, quietly.  There was a smile in her voice, Pentandra could hear.  She was not merely a catty courtier, this was the Goddess of Love and Beauty, incarnate, she could tell.

“It is His Majesty’s prerogative to take counsel as he sees fit,” Pentandra reminded the goddess.

“He has a bit of a crush on you, if you must know,” Abbess Pleasure confided.  “Nothing particularly carnal, alas, but he does admire you.  He’s always had a thing for smart Imperial girls.  One of his tutors took his virginity.”

“King Rard’s interest was in policy, not . . . dalliance, I assure you,” Pentandra said, evenly.  “He values the wisdom of my counsel.”

“That’s one of the things he finds attractive about you,” mused Ishi.  “Did he tell you Tavard is rallying his supporters against the Magelaw?  Much of Castal is hearing of Minalan’s temerity and are listening to Tavard’s complaints.  Some are even calling banners in anticipation.”

“He did,” Pentandra nodded.  “We agreed to try to cool the discourse on both sides to avoid any provocation.  We do not need another war when we are still fighting this one.”

“Oh, I think the fighting with the goblins is over, for a while,” Ishi considered.  “That dull peasant goddess managed to destroy the last great force they had to throw at Vanador,” she said, with reluctant admiration for Bova’s miraculous stampede.

“Are you jealous?” Pentandra asked, amused.

“A bit,” the goddess admitted.  “I suppose if I could have rallied all the boobs in the land to strike at the foe, I might have – but it seems a waste.  Bova was effective,” she agreed, reluctantly, “but she was inelegant.  Oh, there’s a certain sense of barnyard style involved, I suppose, but it’s not the sort of thing a civilized goddess would have done.  Thankfully for you, it has purchased you a gift of time.  Now you magi can turn to human affairs, for a while.  Until Minalan comes back from the jevolar.  If he comes back,” she said, uneasily.

“He leaves soon,” Pentandra sighed.  “And we cannot turn our back on the west.  The Nemovorti have tried to kill me, recently,” she informed her.

“Oh, they’ll be sniping at your flanks, I have no doubt,” chuckled the goddess.  “But there’s little I can do about that.  Prince Tavard, on the other hand, is actively plotting against you.  I hear everything spoken in a moment of passion, and the Castali court is filled with wanton promiscuity,” she said, proudly.  “Really, the Alshari could take a lesson in that.”

“It would take Tavard months to prepare a force sufficient to invade the Magelaw,” Pentandra argued.  “He would also have to fund it himself, as he did with the Count of Nion.  Minalan will be back well before he can field an army.”

“Oh, Pentandra, you should know by now that there are other ways of making war than lances and chargers.”

“Do you have specifics, or are you just trying to bait me?” Pentandra asked.  She was not in the mood to be toyed with by a goddess.

“Well, it has come to my attention that while Count Anvaram was on the march, Tavard was quietly hiring mercenaries from the south.  There are three thousand men already added to the garrison at Darkfaller,” she reported.  “More are on the way.  When he has a sufficiency there, he will rally troops from the counties of the Castali Wilderlands, the Bontal Vale, and the central Riverlands.  Not to mention Gilmora – there is still strong support for Tavard there among the chivalry.  He’s a devotee to tournament life,” she explained.  “Then he is planning to strike the Magelaw from multiple directions.  And likely Sevendor.”

“What an idiot,” Pentandra said, shaking her head.  “What does he hope to accomplish?”

“Why, to pay off his debts and remove his biggest political rival, of course,” the goddess said.  “Minalan’s reputation for wealth and extravagance is becoming a byword, amongst the aristocracy.  Tavard has had it suggested by various courtiers  that conquest of the magelands would fill his coffers, and offer outrageous riches for ransoms and pillage.  He plans to strike by autumn, and bring Minalan to heel by the Curia.”

“If he handles the matter with the same adept planning he managed at Farise and Maidenpool, then I have no worry that he’ll succeed.”

“Don’t be so sanguine, Sorceress,” Ishi reproved.  “He may be advancing the policies, but do not believe for a moment that he is the author of them.  Others are planning on his behalf – and they are more competent by far than the prince.  Indeed, you should take the time to explore the current Castali court.  You might be surprised who really wields the power and holds the influence over Tavard.”

“Perhaps I shall,” Pentandra agreed, thoughtfully.  “I’ve been so preoccupied with Alshar that I’ve ignored the other courts.  If what you say is true – and what Weylan suggests is correct – then it bears some investigation.”

“It’s too bad that you’re going to be tied up with tournaments and balls and hunts, this summer,” Ishi pointed out.

“That’s why I have subordinates,” Pentandra countered with a shrug.  “With the War of Spring over, there are ample candidates for some clandestine inquiries.  Some of them even have connections in Castal.  But thank you for the information,” Pentandra offered, sincerely.

“Oh, since you’re back in Vorone, I figured I’d drop by and gossip,” the goddess dismissed.  “Because you and the ranger lord have reunited, you’re almost interesting again.”

That nearly made Pentandra blush.  She and Arborn had, indeed, enjoyed each other’s company with renewed passion after their time apart.

“We missed each other,” she defended, lamely.

“And in a number of creative and interesting ways, too!” Ishi smiled, as she drifted away.  “No wonder you haven’t sat down since you arrived.  But you have a particular energy about you, now.  And you’re far more patient.  You’ll need it, in the days ahead.  Gurvani and Nemovorti are easy to contend with, compared to human beings.”

Pentandra tried to enjoy a few moments of solitude after the departure of king and goddess.  Her brain was buzzing with the new information they both had provided.  Combined with the prophecies constantly whirling in her head, her speculations on what was ahead of her were heavy with implications . . . and opportunities.

Tavard was planning on taking advantage of Minalan’s absence to prepare an army and march on him just as he returned – fresh from the mysterious lost land of Anghysbel, where – Antimei’s prophecies suggested – he would gain knowledge and understanding and may or may not die.  In which case she would be left sweeping up the pieces.  Only he would save the world if he died, and he would save the kingdom if he lived.  Or something like that.

But it seemed as if war with Tavard’s proxies was inevitable, by autumn.  Unless she could find a way to stop it.

She began silently cursing portents and prophecies as she foresaw one horrible possibility after another.  The Magelaw destroyed.  Alshar at war from many sides.  The downfall of Castalshar.  The triumph of the Nemovorti on the ruins of the human kingdom.

It all gave her a desperate sense of anxiety that she concealed under a practiced cloak of calm.  But she could maintain her integrity, she promised herself.  Even as the kingdom teetered on civil war and ruination.  With only her to stand in the way.

Minalan was going to be leaving in a few short days, she knew.  With what else she knew, it made her want to run across the room and beg Minalan to forego his foolish, important, dangerous trip and prepare for the dangers on the horizon.

But she could not.  She must let fate play its course.  All she could do was react to it and make the best decisions possible, in his absence.  He would only be gone a few months, she reasoned.

She tried in vain to console herself: How bad could things possibly get?

Chapter Fourteen

The Gardens Of Vorone

What is spoken of in the kitchen should not be said in the hall.

Wilderlands Folk Saying

“Well,” Rondal said, as he handed his mantle and cap to a servant when he entered the hall, “now that Minalan has left, I suppose we can get some work done.”

“Indeed,” agreed Pentandra, who was waiting for and greeting her subordinates in the entryway, “there is much to do.  Thank you for coming,” she said, encouragingly.

“With Gatina away in Enultramar, I find myself lacking for entertainment,” he said with a smile.

“You can blame me for that – she’s on an errand for the Society,” Pentandra informed him, as they began to walk through the Duke’s country estate.  “The first of many.  I’m afraid I can’t tell you what it involves . . .”

“I figured as much,” Rondal sighed.  “Whenever you wake up and your intended is gone, one must consider a clandestine lover.  But a clandestine service is more likely, in my case.  In a way, it’s reassuring,” he chuckled.

“I apologize for the inconvenience, but I had need of a capable operative,” Pentandra said as they walked.  “A matter which would not wait.  But the Garden Society’s work must continue in the meantime,” she assured him.  “Your presence was especially requested by the Master Gardener.  Rardine is eager to establish herself in the Wilderlands and sees you as a popular local figure.  She seems quite enchanted with the place.”

“It is enchanting,” argued Rondal, as they came to the rear of the hall.  Beyond the door was a charming garden – of course.  It had been arrayed with trestle tables and an elegant buffet, he saw, though there were servants aplenty bringing wine and trays to the mostly female attendees.  “I was born here, remember.  I’m rather fond of the place.”

“Which is one reason Rardine wanted your presence,” Pentandra agreed.  “She’s eager to establish herself amongst the Wilderlords and Magelords, and you are counted as well-regarded by both.”

“The Wilderlords like me?” Rondal asked, in surprise.

“Well, though not of noble birth, the Wilderlords appreciate any local fellow who has done well,” Pentandra reasoned.  “With so many of their own gone after the invasion, they are eager to elevate any of their countrymen who have achieved an honorable position.  Count Marcadine speaks highly of both of Minalan’s Wilderlands apprentices.  And your association with the Dragonslayer has only added to your reputation.”

“I find myself surprised,” Rondal admitted.  “I’ve done little in the north since Olum Seheri . . .”

“A feat, alone, which would ensure your reputation,” Pentandra assured.  “Your more recent work is why you are here, no matter the politics of the matter.  Rardine wants full reports from all senior agents . . . including the ones I asked you to recruit.”

“They’re here?” Rondal asked in surprise.

“Of course,” Pentandra said with a smirk.  “How could they refuse?  Besides, it was convenient.  Mavone and Terleman were here anyway, escorting the Gilmorans out of the Magelaw – with three thousand Vandadori soldiers fresh from the field.  And Astyral is tagging along until he gets to Losara.  He has to prepare for his wedding.”

“The social event of the year, unless I miss my guess,” Rondal chuckled.  “Where am I sitting?”

“With your subordinates,” she said, pointing to a table in a far corner.  “Every plot has their own table.  You are in charge of yours, subordinate to me.  When it is time to report, you will be called upon.  Particularly about what you discovered in Inmar and Vengly.”

“I shall try not to disappoint,” he pledged, and found his seat.

The table was covered in splendid white linen and set with rows of cut flowers – all natavia, he saw – running down the center.  Terleman and Mavone were already seated, while Astyral was mingling with some of the ladies from Vorone that had been recently included in the Society.  Also present were Jannik the Rysh and Heeth the Butler – two recent additions to Minalan’s staff he’d had only brief acquaintance of.

The last member of the table was a surprise – Bendonal the Outlaw.  The older warmage looked a little uncomfortable and a bit bored at the party, and Rondal wondered why he’d been invited.

He greeted each man in turn and noted to himself that they were the only exclusively male table . . . though there were a scattering of men amongst the two score ladies in attendance.  Mostly Wilderlords, with some Magelords and a few southerners who’d come with the rump court.  There were only a few clergy, he realized.

“So why have I been invited to a garden society?” Bendonal asked, skeptically.  “I don’t usually get invited to these sorts of things.”

“The Duchess will explain momentarily,” Rondal said, as he took his seat behind his name tag.  “They’re to be a regular part of Alshari society, now.  You’ll understand why shortly.”

“This is going to take all afternoon, isn’t it?” complained Bendonal.

“Cheer up, Sparky,” Astyral said to him, as he finally took his own seat.  “It’s better than being back at your dreary old castle.  It’s a glorious spring day, we’re surrounded by the most esteemed ladies of the court, as well as a magnificent garden.  What could irritate you about that?”

“I have hay fever,” Bendonal said, sullenly.

Rondal himself had been unsurprised by the invitation to the second or third meeting of the Society in Falas only because Gatina had prepared him for it.  He reported directly to Pentandra, of course, and had been assigned the name Pareony, also known as Sagewort, a small, brilliantly blue natavia wildflower found in the Wilderlands.  He was surprised that it was also could be made into a tonic that could assist in the development of magesight in young magi.

He appreciated the cunning of using the Garden Society as a cover for an intelligence organization, although he felt it was a little contrived.  Still, anything would be better than Grendine’s creepy Family.  And Gatina certainly enjoyed the symbolism.  She was adept at that kind of work.

But Pentandra had explained early on that his job would be to develop a group – a “plot” in the garden – that would be able to operate in the field, with force and arcane power, if called for.  He had been directed to recruit Astyral, Terleman, and Mavone for the effort, but each man had other duties that precluded their leading such a force, even if they could occasionally serve.

Someone had to contend with the Nemovorti in the Westlands, however; they were not just an existential threat to humanity any longer.  In targeting Pentandra for assassination, they were now a threat to the duchy.  He knew that Rardine had already decided to authorize a strike against Scafer Manor he and Gatina had scouted in the Westlands.  But it would take a powerful force to destroy the three Nemovorti who were there, as well as their defenders.  And that was only one of three or four strongholds the enemy had carved out of the desolate province.  It would take warmagi to remove them.  He was ostensibly in charge of developing that force.

Duchess Rardine appeared punctually, smiling and greeting some members of the court before addressing them directly.  This was the portion Rondal had heard before, or a variation.

She explained the nature of the Garden Society and its true aims and goals, as well as the reason for everyone’s inclusion into it.  It was a long speech, and one Rondal had heard twice before, but he appreciated her being consistent on details.  No one should misunderstand what membership in the Society entailed, and what it demanded.

“It is an effort to share the information that we’ve gathered to you, and to invite any comment or additional intelligence you might provide,” the vibrant young duchess explained.  “I’ve asked some of our Gardeners to make public reports – within the confines of the Society, of course – to keep everyone in the Society as aware of events as possible.  Anguin and I both believe that the best strategy when it comes to making policy is to be as well-informed and well-advised as possible.   These Gardeners have had specific portfolios that concern Alshar’s security and the threats it faces.  We feel it is in the duchy’s best interest for all of us to be aware of them.  Let us begin with Lady Estrecel, known in the Society as Seaflower,” she said, nodding to a woman on the other side of the garden.

The woman stood and took Rardine’s position in front of the tables.  She seemed in her thirties, and while she was dressed in a dark green gown cut in the style of the Coastlords, she bore a broad, decorated sash and distinctive hat that told her out as the scion of some Sea Lord house.  She had a sharp chin that led to a broad, dark-complexioned face.  Her hair was nearly black, yet was streaked with red, and her eyes were a piercing sea green.

“I am Seaflower,” she began, simply enough, her voice loud but hoarse.  “I run a merchant company out of Clear Harbor, in Gavanal.  I have considerable contacts in Farise and find the trade there much diminished since the blockade began.  Her Grace tasked me to send a few brave fellows in by circuitous routes and see if they could send word to us of who ruled Farise, now, and who commanded the fleets.  Five men were sent; four returned on the Spring tides.

She took a deep breath.  “The news is as black as the Shipwrecker’s heart,” she reported.  “A council has formed to rule Farise and its new navy.  Among its members are the Doge, Pratt, Captain Edro, who’s taken to calling himself Grand Admiral of Farise, the Black Censorate’s Captain General, and the former Count of Caramas, who fled Enultramar when Anguin’s throne was reclaimed.  These and a dozen others command the city, the harbor, and the fleet, which numbers near a hundred vessels.

“But these rogues and renegades are not a true danger to Alshar.  Captain General Rolumar of the Censorate of Magic is.  When he and his men quit the Tower of Sorcery, they retreated to the old citadel of the Mad Mage.  There they quarreled amongst themselves, my men report, and eventually the Captain General reconstituted the order into the Black Censorate.  For they discovered some fell enchantment in Farise, perhaps one used by the Mad Mage.  Now their warmagi prowl the seas with the fleet and assist in capturing prizes across the Shattered Sea.

“The Black Censorate is the danger, in Farise.  The council is corrupt, and each member jockeys for primacy, but that is not new – nor particularly dangerous.  But the Black Censorate has given the fleet its aid,” she revealed.  “They send their warmagi and irionite out to sea, and use them to take ships and slaves.  They have not been defeated.  The only blessing the Fairtrader sends us is that they have so few.  If this menace continues, not even convoys of caravels will be able to pass the cape,” she said, sadly.  “I have given a more detailed report to Her Grace – pardon, the Chief Gardener,” she smiled, still getting used to the codes.  “But at this rate I fear our ships will have a difficult time returning to the havens, in Autumn.”

With that, and a grateful look toward the duchess, Lady Seaflower returned to her seat.  Rardine called upon his future mother-in-law, next.

Rondal was not startled to see Lady Minnureal at the meeting, but he was surprised to see that she’d been made a Gardener.  Not that she was at all incapable – she had trained the Cats of Enultramar, after all – but even in court she and her husband kept a low profile.  He knew they often came in disguise, when they desired.

But Lady Minureal had not bothered, for this meeting; she wore a black gown of Gilmoran cotton, and addressed the assembly in clear, loud tones.

“I am Lady Nightshade,” she said, introducing herself.  “My portfolio has been to assist in ferreting out the last of the old regime, the wicked Five Counts and their vassals who refuse to do homage to Duke Anguin.  While I am pleased to report that most of Count Vichetral’s public supporters have been dealt with, there persists a cadre of his loyalists who seek revenge on their Graces and to disrupt the restoration of their rule.  They have turned to assassination, now,” she explained, “and while they are not particularly adept at it, they have taken a toll.  Seven minor court officials have been slain, we believe, by the remnants of Vichetral’s men.

“We have come to believe that they are taking refuge in fallen Caramas.  Within the interior of that county the two Nemovorti dwell, Ortava and Obicei, self-styled lords of the Alka Alon in undead human bodies.  No doubt they are using the remaining renegades for their own purposes,” she proposed, “particularly in the kidnapping of magi to use in their magical experiments.  It will take a great force to dislodge them from the swamps, for they have taken to moving from one stronghold to another.

“But the renegades have only a few estates where they congregate.  We are preparing a response to them shortly,” she concluded, ominously.

Then it was Pentandra’s turn.  She introduced herself as Lady Adrimony, and explained to the Society her efforts in combating the Nemovorti who were infecting Alshar.  Rondal, of course, came up a few times in the course of that discussion, which caused a number of wide eyes.  When she detailed the second assassination attempt on her, she turned the rest of the tale over to Rondal.

He felt odd, addressing the Society; he’d had little experience in that sort of thing and what experience he had wasn’t even similar.  They weren’t warriors or magi, most of them, and this wasn’t a discussion before battle.  But he steeled himself, grappled with his shyness, and attempted a cheerful demeanor while he spoke.

He told them of he and Gatina’s encounter with the Nemovort Lady Amekta and her pet draugen in Inmar with enough detail to produce some shudders.  Then he explained about their expedition into the Westlands, to Scafer Manor, and what they had encountered on the remote estate of that remote province.

“The Westlands seem to be attracting the Nemovorti,” he added, as he gave his analysis to the Society.  “It is likely their next avenue for attack, now that their blade has been blunted in the Wilderlands.  While that is Castali territory, it is also adjacent to Alshar, both north and south, so it is of concern to the duchy’s security.  It is also the next logical place east of the Land of Scars to press their offensive, for all of Gilmora lays before them.”

He returned to his seat feeling relieved that it was over with; he did not enjoy public speaking overmuch.  Rondal was more comfortable as a spectator.

“Thank you, Gardeners,” Rardine said, as she returned to the front.  “I think we all have a better idea of the threats the duchy faces, now.  If you will be so good as to discuss the matter with the flowers at your table, I would like you to formulate a plan to contend with each of these.  It need not be a good plan, but it is a place to start.  We can refine whatever operations you consider as we gain new intelligence.

“Lastly, I must remind you that we are publicly a Garden Society – which implies that we garden.  So, garden!” she urged.  “Most of you have estates with land you can use for the endeavor.  Cultivate a reputation for growing flowers and other plants to provide us all a cloak of obscurity.  You need not do the work yourself, of course, but there will be a role for those gardens, eventually.  I encourage you to begin planning for them now.”

With that she thanked the assembled, and the discussion began.

“Well done, Sir Rondal,” Astyral began.  “Both the mission and the report.”

“It isn’t news to me that the Nemovorti have taken root in the Westlands,” Mavone agreed.  “I’ve spent far too much time there myself.  Karakush the Nemovort directs the others, there, from what I have been able to learn.  We’ve identified several other estates or castles he’s quietly conquered out there.

“Why hasn’t he begun attacking the rest of the Westlands, then?” Bendonal asked, curious.

“We think he’s building clandestine bases,” explained Mavone.  “We don’t think he has many gurvani or even Enshadowed around, though it appears he has some Nemovort confederates.  And from everything we’ve learned about him, it’s not his style.  He’s more sorcerer than warrior.”

“So, is he building his strength?” asked Jannik the Rysh.  “Or does he have some more sinister plan?  I’m hoping for a sinister plan, myself.  It makes a better story,” he added.  Typical of a minstrel, Rondal decided.

“He’s studying us,” Heeth the Arcanist suggested, thoughtfully.  “He’s seeing what our strengths and weaknesses are so that he can exploit them.”

“That certainly sounds like what he’s doing,” nodded Terleman.  “Shakathet was studying us, too – but only our ways of warfare.  It appears as if Karakush has taken a deeper approach.”

“He did send a messenger to Minalan during the last war, giving us some insight into Shakathet.  He mentioned a tower where he was stationed, but this doesn’t sound like it.  But it’s interesting to note that these Nemovorti are fine with conspiring against each other,” Jannik nodded.

“What kind of force would be required to eliminate the base you scouted, Rondal?” Mavone asked.

“That depends on what secret troops are staged there,” Rondal replied.  “We were there to establish the presence of the Nemovorti, not do a full military scouting mission.  But twenty good warmagi, maybe five hundred or a thousand troops for support . . . some Sky Riders, perhaps,” he figured.  “In a surprise attack we should be able to take it.  It’s a small base on a country estate, not a castle.”

“We should make a military scouting mission, then,” Mavone proposed.  “One for each of the four or five places we suspect Nemovorti.  If we strike them in quick succession, we could drive them out of the Westlands all at once.”

“Should we use local forces?” asked Rondal.  “They’re already in place.”

Mavone shook his head.  “The Westlanders are not adept fighters, to be honest.  They suffice as guards and garrison troops but lack training and experience for this sort of work.  We should use Magelaw forces.”

“I will participate in the assault,” Terleman decided, “for I am anxious to use my new witchstone in battle again – but not the scouting.  I am riding with my men to escort Count Anvaram to the frontiers of Gilmora, to ensure there are no misunderstandings,” he related.  “We shall linger a bit to make certain they don’t change their minds once they cross the border stones.”

“And I will be accompanying him,” Astyral agreed.  “For it is past time I returned to Losara.  I have a mountain of work to get through before my wedding – and I have to plan my wedding,” he said, smugly.

“I’ll put together a squadron of spies,” Mavone decided.  “This is battlefield intelligence, after all.  And there is a wealth of talent for that sort of thing, now that the war is over.  Once we understand what we’re facing, we can assemble our assault.”

“I can recruit and prepare the squadron,” volunteered Bendonal.  “We can foray from Megelin, when the time is right.  I know plenty of fellows who would be interested.”

“Do you mind if I assist?” Heeth asked.  “I know quite a bit about the Westlands, to be honest.  There’s a lot of useful obscure information that might aid our assault.”

“Of course,” Mavone agreed.  “I’d appreciate your insight.  Yours too, Jannik.  This will be a complicated operation.”

“If we do this properly, by the time Minalan returns there won’t be a Nemovort east of the Penumbra,” Rondal nodded, as he realized that everyone within his “plot” of the garden was ideally suited to this task.  Bendonal was an able military commander, who now had the time to devote to the plan since the end of the War of Spring.  Mavone, likewise, could be counted on to provide an ideal assessment of the battlefield.  The others were highly capable warmagi, amongst the best in the kingdom.  “With Nattia and Ithalia gone to Anghysbel with Minalan, I should check with Dara to see if she can spare a few Riders.  Bide,” he requested, and closed his eyes.

It took a few moments for his witchstone to make contact with Dara’s, but shortly she responded with an abrupt Yes?  Rondal?

Dara!  I was wondering if you could spare a few Riders for reconnaissance in the Westlands, he asked, genially enough.  Mavone is scouting the area for Nemovorti, and we think a few birds in the air would be helpful.

We can discuss it, she said, sharply.  I’m a bit busy at the moment.  Word just came from Tuervakothel, in Hosendor, she explained, breathlessly – not that you could hear someone breathless in mind-to-mind communication.  There’s been an incident, she pronounced.

How, an incident? Rondal asked, cautiously.

Lady Fallawen was just arriving back to her hall when she discovered it was in the process of being raided.  By Enshadowed, Dara reported, miserably.  There was a fight.  She drove them off, but not before they rescued Mycin Amana.

Mycin Amana?  The Nemovort? Rondal asked in disbelief.

The one that Fallawen has been . . . questioning at Tuervakothel, she agreed.  They stole away on giant wyvern-back.  Two of my riders who were on patrol gave chase, but they escaped to a Waypoint before they could be taken.  They feel terrible about that.

They shouldn’t, they weren’t expecting it, Rondal said.  How is Fallawen?

Injured, but not seriously, Dara reported.  She’s furious, though.  I’m landing at Tuervakothel now to meet with her.  My riders are already there.

Wasn’t there another raid, recently? Rondal asked, suddenly.

A few months ago, Dara agreed.  At Holy Hill.  I was there.  That’s when they took Isily, she reminded him.

That’s two strikes against Sevendor, he said, thoughtfully.  Not destructive, but with purpose.  This smacks of Karakush.  I would expect a third, if I’m not mistaken.  You should have Sire Cei put the guard on alert.

The guard is already on alert, Dara explained, patiently.  Sire Cei received word that a mercenary unit has encamped near Laripose.  He’s wary that someone is preparing to attack Sevendor, based on their position.

Wait, who would be attacking Sevendor? Rondal asked, alarmed.

We don’t know, Dara admitted.  A three thousand strong mercenary company just encamped near Laripose, not doing anything in particular.  I think that’s suspicious.

Is Sire Cei doing anything about it? Rondal asked, his concern growing.

Of course, she replied.  He’s put Iyugi in the field to determine what their orders are. He’s sent Festaran to Laripose to shore up the defenses. He’s put the city and the castle’s guard on alert.  He’s quietly seeing to stores and preparations.  He said, this morning, that he felt something was going on.

I trust Sire Cei’s judgement, Rondal assured her.

Of course, Dara agreed.  I agree with his assessment.  It’s got to be Tavard, she concluded.

What makes you think that? Rondal asked.

A few things that Sir Festaran said, she said, after a moment’s pause.  And Baron Arlastan is mysteriously unavailable, of late.

The one who might ask you to marry him? Rondal asked, trying to remember the man.

Yes, the second son of Baron Arathanial who got most of Sashtalia, Dara admitted, her mental voice sounding embarrassed.  I’ve sent him two messages and have not heard back.  I find that disturbing.

Not that you aren’t quite compelling, in your own right, Rondal said, diplomatically, but do you think that’s of political significance?

There have been emissaries to all the local baronies, explained Dara, patiently.  Emissaries ostensibly from the counts, but who seem to represent Prince Tavard.  They didn’t come here, of course, but they went to Arathanial and they went to Arlastan.  They’re trying to raise troops, for some reason.  They won’t say why.

Under the terms of exile, Tavard cannot make war on Sevendor, but the Count of Lensely can.  As can his fellow counts.  If he’s really pissed off about how Minalan treated Count Anvaram, as it seems, he’s going to find a way to strike at him.  These positionings are concerning.  I need to pass this along to . . . other people, he said, integrating the intelligence into what he already knew.

That’s why I’m telling you, complained Dara. I’m kinda busy, right now.  If you could make sure the right people get this, I can focus on a very pregnant Tera Alon lady who’s apparently ready to send her head of security to the headman.  Or whatever it is Tera Alon do when you really screw up.  This is bad, Ron.

I know, agreed Rondal.  Thankfully, I’m amongst people who can help, and benefit from this information.  You just take care of your end, Little Bird, and I’ll handle this.

Only my father and my brother call me Little Bird, anymore, Dara said.

I remember you when you were a half-wild Westwood girl with a half-trained falcon, Rondal reminded her.  Now you’re the Hawkmaiden.  Renown in song and story.

And ready to screw up any time, Dara said, dourly.  Yes, I can spare a couple of birds for the Westlands.  But I’ve got to go, now.  You go take care of the Magelaw, she ordered.  I’ve got Sevendor.

Let me know if I can be of assistance, Dara.  And thanks, Rondal said, and ended the contact.

“Well, we have secured our Sky Riders,” he announced, when he opened his eyes.  “Unfortunately, we have larger issues at hand, now.  Dara informs me that there was a raid on Tuervakothel, last night.  By the Enshadowed.  Lady Fallawen drove them off, but not before they rescued Mycin Amana from her dungeon,” he reported, glumly.

“Ishi’s tits!” swore Mavone.  “That’s another Nemovort we’ll have to deal with, now!”

“And she is a bad one,” Terleman growled.  “Korbal’s woman.”

“Oh, it’s worse than that,” Astyral said with a sigh.  “She’s a specialist in the creation of fresh bodies.  Transgenic enchantments – like Lilastien does.  Only she’s thoroughly ruthless and evil.”

“She’s power mad, too, by all accounts,” agreed Heeth.  “I have dossiers on every Nemovort we’ve encountered, and she ranks high on the list of potential successors to Korbal, should he finally perish.  Even Khudoz fears and respects her.”

“Dara also shared with me that there is a mercenary company encamped not too far from Sevendor.  Sire Cei is investigating, but he suspects that there is a plot at play,” Rondal continued.  “So we may have a war on two fronts, or two wars coinciding at the same time.  Either way, it’s probably time that we depart this lovely garden, as peaceful as it is, and prepare for it.”

“It’s about bloody time,” Bendonal said, and gave a hearty sneeze.  He followed it with two more in rapid succession.  “Why did it have to be flowers?” he complained.

Chapter Fifteen

An Unexpected War

Danger and delight grow on one stalk.

Wilderlands Folk Saying

It was a glorious day in Vorone, perfect for watching the grand spectacle of two score Wilderlords crossing lances with a similar number of knights from the south who had come to the summer capital with the rump court.  Amongst each side was a scattering of Gilmorans of rank who had tarried here, rather than follow Count Anvaram back home.

The banners, the trumpets, and the heralds announcing each bout made the event as exciting as you could wish, if you were a commoner who had been through a tense, cold winter in the Wilderlands.  If you had been a nobleman fighting goblins and trolls for the last six months, it was no doubt a welcome relief to grasp a lance and have only a moderate chance of perishing in the contest.  And the ducal court who surrounded Anguin and Rardine in the reviewing stands seemed quite engaged with the tournament as coinbrothers, vendors and servants moved through the seats of well-dressed nobility.  Almost everyone enjoyed a good tournament.

Pentandra, on the other hand, was bored half to death.

So was Arborn, she could tell.  Her husband’s stoic demeanor would not allow him to express it, but after a few years of marriage she could tell when he was exercising patience, not interest.  Both of them had long agreed that the Narasi custom of running beautiful horses at each other while holding sticks was one of the strangest results of the Narasi Conquest.  The ceremony and ritual associated with the practice, not to mention the obscure rules and sincere devotion that the Narasi had for the sport, was even worse than the actual jousting.

But she and Arborn had a duty to support the Duke and Duchess, and if that meant spending an otherwise beautiful early summer afternoon packed in with the crowds, they would endure.  She even faked a smile, upon occasion, lest whispers start that she was plotting or unhappy in her marriage or some other inane idea.

In truth, she was thinking about the escape of Mycin Amana.  That had been an unexpected blow, and one that could have dire consequences, in the future.  She had informed Anguin and Rardine of it as soon as Rondal had told her.

But it was social torture, for her and Arborn.  The requisite ball that was held at the end of the day to celebrate the champion and the other victors was almost as bad, and she faced it with some trepidation.  This was the fourth court event this week.  She was starting to resent Minalan slipping off and requiring her to fill in as the prime representative of the magi in Vorone.

“Are you enjoying the contest, dear husband?” she finally asked Arborn, knowing in advance his answer.

“The horses are beautiful animals,” he said, sincerely.  “And the crowd seems to be well engaged in the contest.  As do their Graces.  How long must we remain?” he asked in a lower voice.

“At least until the champion’s bout,” she sighed, as she sipped her watered wine.  It was tempting, of course, to drink a richer variety, but the days were already getting hot in the afternoon, and she did not trust herself to be on her guard if she was drinking out of boredom.  At court, one couldn’t risk that kind of indulgence.

“You realize that they’re doing this for political reasons,” Pentandra pointed out.  “Anguin does not favor the tournament any more than you do – and he’s ridden in them.  But if you don’t offer your petty nobility the chance to play in front of you for glory – if you can call winning a tournament glorious – then they get sulky.”

“I would think a hunt would be more appropriate,” Arborn said.  “And more fun.  Watching other people do things is . . . boring.”

“Oh, I enjoy the theater.  But that’s the problem with the hunt.  There isn’t much chance to show off your formal clothes or your social status.”

“The Narasi’s idea of hunting is almost as silly as this,” he agreed, gesturing to the spectacle below.  “It’s actually the servants who do most of the actual hunting.  The nobles gossip and pretend as if their huntsmen’s success is actually theirs.”

“And your people get worked up over knot-tying contests,” she countered.  “Every culture has its peculiarities.  Mine just likes to ruin and murder each other,” she reminded him.  “Bide—” she said, as she felt the beginning of someone contacting her, mind-to-mind.

Pentandra, it’s Astyral, the Gilmoran mage sent to her.  I’m not certain who else to tell this to, since Minalan is gone, but . . . I appear to be at war, he said, with a tone of smug surprise.

War? Pentandra asked, confused.  With whom?

Apparently with the Count of Dendra, Astyral explained.  He’s giving aid and shelter to a party of raiders that has decided they have a feud with me.  That’s in conjunction with two of my minor vassals who have foresworn their oaths of fealty to me and rebelled.

Astyral, you’ve only been back in Losara for a week or so! Pentandra reproved.  What have you been up to?

Oh, it’s nothing I’ve done – or not really, Astyral said.  Two days after I returned, I had a manorial court scheduled – you can’t put those things off for very long or business gets backed up.  But I decided to sit on it myself, instead of getting my lawbrother to do it.  Well, most of the cases were straightforward, but one was odd.  Two young noblewomen claim to be the same person, and both are claiming a series of estates.

That’s . . . odd, Pentandra suggested.

Oh, definitely, Astyral agreed.  The first lass had come through the invasion more or less intact, and claimed the estates.  She went south to stay with relatives while that claim was validated.  She married a knight from a neighboring house while she was there, and then he and his household returned to Losara to stake their claim once it was  recognized.  That was over a year ago. They’ve apparently restored the estate, at least partially, and had a child.

So what happened? Pentandra asked.  She wasn’t terribly curious, but it was better than listening to the heralds prattle on about how great the jousters were, so she didn’t mind.

A few months ago, another girl shows up at their door with a lawbrother at her elbow and claims that the first girl stole her name to steal her rightful estate.  Apparently, she was captured by the gurvani during the invasion and enslaved.  She was freed in the Great Emancipation, and eventually made her way back home.  When the first girl would not admit to it, she filed suit with the barony – me.

And what did you do? Pentandra asked, a sinking feeling coming over her.

It was a simple enough solution, for a mage.  I cast truthtells on each of them and asked them a few questions.  Both grew up on the estate, both were descended from the line, but the first girl was apparently a bastard and a servant.  I ruled in the favor of the second girl and ordered the first to turn over the estate.  I thought it was a pretty straightforward ruling, and there should have been no problem.

But there was a problem, Pentandra predicted.

Very much so.  The first girl claims I was lying and that my spell made her lie in court.  Utterly ridiculous, of course – truthtells are easy, lying spells are hard.  Nor did I have any reason to do so.  But she convinced her husband of it, and they took shelter with one of the neighbors.  Vassals of mine who already don’t like me because I’m a magelord.  In a few days, the knight stirred them both to rebellion and sent for some men from his brothers’ estates.  Then they spent a few days raiding and starting mischief.

What did you do? Pentandra asked.

What any sensible baron does: I raised a few hundred men, arrested one vassal, burned the manor house of the other, and confiscated both of their estates for treason to their homage.  The rebellious knights retreated over the frontier to Dendra, who gave them refuge, and he’s been leading raids on my barony ever since.

That’s problematic, but hardly a war, Astyral, Pentandra said, almost disappointed.

Oh, no, it’s a war, Astyral insisted.  Indeed, a messenger from Dendra arrived this morning and said as much.  He brought me a letter from the count who accused me of all sorts of vile things, but mostly of just being a magelord.  He cites the Censorate and bemoans their exile.  He insists on the right of the chivalry to set society aright, once such a terrible thing has happened.  And he openly declared war on Losara as a result. So did the baron of the barony from which the offended knight hails.  I’ve never even met the man, but his dignity is offended by the suggestion that the knight married a lying commoner.  So, he’s sending fifty lances north to attack me with his friend the Count of Dendra.

Yes, that’s a war, Pentandra agreed, reluctantly.  Is he going to actually go through with it?

I think so, Astyral decided.  The man has never liked me for my profession or my politics – he’s incredibly pro-Castali.  He also grunts like a pig while he eats, Astyral added, distastefully.  He’s the typical Gilmoran lout who touts his glorious ancestry of warlike barbarians, and then complains if his pillow is too hard.  I think he’s been looking for an excuse to take me on, for some reason.  He’s got a few hundred lances, Astyral dismissed.  Nothing I cannot handle, with my shiny new sphere.

Are you certain you don’t need more help?  Terleman is still in the field, near there, Pentandra reminded him.

No, not at this point.  As I said, I will show them what warmagic can do.  They’ll probably crumble before they can do much.  But what I did want to know was your opinion on my strategy.

Wouldn’t that be Terleman’s realm, not mine? she pointed out.

Oh, the military strategy is the easy part, Astyral dismissed.  It’s the political strategy I wanted your advice on.  Under the Laws of Duin, now that they’ve declared war on me, aren’t I allowed to attack all parties involved in return?

That’s an interesting question, considered Pentandra.  As far as I know, yes – unless they’re an ecclesiastical estate.  The rules are a little different for that.

No, they’re plain old boneheaded inbred Gilmoran chivalry, Astyral assured her.  Arrogant, ignorant, and proud of their chivalric prerogatives.  I figured I’d round up some sparks who are looking for a good time and do a little raiding behind enemy lines – deep behind.  You see, there’s a couple of big, juicy Waypoints in Almaranda that would let me put a strike force where they are least protected.  I foresee some spoils of war that would make a lovely wedding gift to my betrothed, he added, smugly.

I . . . I can’t think of any reason you shouldn’t, admitted Pentandra.  The Count of Nion is likely just arriving home, right now, but is probably too worn out from the war to want to fight again.  And that’s a different county, anyway.  If these Gilmorans are picking a fight with you, I don’t see why you cannot defend yourself.  Of course, I’m merely a court wizard for a neighboring duchy, she warned.  I’m only giving you friendly advice.

That’s just what I was seeking.  Thank you, Pentandra!  I think I’ll enlist Wenek – he and his clans haven’t enjoyed a good raid in a couple of years.  And they’re feeling invincible, after being in a war they actually won.

That seems like an extreme choice, Pentandra cautioned.  Wouldn’t a few friends from Spark Street be more civilized?  Or perhaps Vorone?

I want to teach them a lesson, Penny, Astyral explained.  They’re coming after me because I’m a wizard who used magic to determine a legal case, and they hate the magi.  And right before my wedding.  Do you know how difficult it is to plan a proper formal wedding when you’re fighting an unexpected war?

I can imagine, Pentandra agreed.  Keep me informed of developments.  I’ll inform the relevant parties in the Society and in the court.

Once she broke contact with Astyral, she gazed at her husband’s impassive face and heaved a sigh.

“That seemed to take a while,” Arborn said, uneasily.  “Is Minalan in trouble?”

“I wouldn’t know.  He entered the realm of the jevolar a few days ago, so no one can hear from him.  But it seems like some of his neighbors have declared war on Astyral.  I have to contact someone else before I quietly go speak to the Duchess.”

Arborn grunted while she closed her eyes.  He had grown used to her silently communicating with her peers, since it became common.  His patience was useful for that, as well.

Terleman, Pentandra began, when she reached the Viscount. Do you have a moment?

Of course, Terleman agreed.  I’m in the saddle, at the moment.

Good.  I just heard from Astyral.  The Count of Dendra just declared war on him.  Since you’re in the region, I thought I’d let you know.  She continued to explain the story of the rival claimants and its escalation into open warfare.  Terleman drew the same conclusions she had.  But for different reasons.

I said I was in the saddle, he explained.  I’m leading my entire army into Cleston.  My squire, Anjak, was leading a patrol near the frontier when he was captured by raiders from Cleston.  One of our men who escaped told us that the soldiers from Cleston had boasted that the Count of Wilderhall had declared war on the Magelaw, and they wanted to get in the first strike.  A messenger arrived this morning, under truce, requesting four hundred ounces of silver to ransom back my men.  And another hundred for dear Anjak.

What did you tell him? Pentandra asked, her heart beginning to beat faster.

I told him that the Lord of Cleston could expect a visit shortly, Terleman said, sternly.  You see, they didn’t realize that I have three thousand men in the field, at the moment, because knights are too stupid to properly scout, he said, scornfully.

Oh . . . Ishi’s sacred boob sweat, Terl, this could get ugly, she realized.  You do know who the Count of the Wilderlaw is, don’t you?

Prince Tavard, Duke of Castal, Count of Darkfaller, Count of Wilderhall, Count of Narasidor, Baron of a half-dozen places he’s never been, and lord of two score other estates, Terleman recited from memory.

That’s the one, Pentandra agreed, her head starting to spin.  Prince Tavard just declared war on Minalan while he was out of town, she realized.

He declared war on the Magelaw, Terleman corrected, gruffly.  And he has my squire hostage in Cleston.  For the moment, he added, a dangerous tone in his mental voice.

Pentandra could imagine why.  It had long been rumored that Terleman and his squire were lovers.  While that scandalized some of the more conservative elements of the Narasi chivalry, the Imperial culture took a far more enlightened view of such couplings.

I’m certain you will teach them a lesson, on behalf of the Magelaw, she said, cautiously.

I’ll burn the damn place to the ground, if I have to, he assured her.  I’m coming up to the frontier, now.  Whoever the fool running Cleston is, he did not realize that I had an army already in the field.

Be careful, Terleman, she begged.  We don’t need to lose the leading defender of the county.

That elicited only a wry chuckle in her mind before he cut contact.  She opened her eyes.

“Good news,” she announced to Arborn, as she bit her lip.  “We’re at war, again.”

“How is that good news?” her husband asked, confused.

“Because we get to leave this awful tournament early,” she reasoned.  “Right after I confer with Duchess Rardine.  Wilderhall has attacked from across the frontier – Terleman’s pet squire was taken.  He’s marching on the castle, now.”

“Oh,” Arborn said, as he absorbed the information.  “That’s war, then.”

“They declared it first,” Pentandra pointed out.  “Terleman is merely responding to provocation.  I’m certain he will be discriminating in how he replies.”

Arborn’s eyebrows raised.  “You are?  I’m not,” he told her.  “He dotes on that squire.”

“I know.  Go ahead and gather our things,” she said, rising, to the annoyance of a knot of noblewomen behind her.  “I’ll have a brief word with Rardine and then transport us.”

“Where?” Arborn asked.  He was becoming as used to traveling by the Ways as he was mind-to-mind communication.

“Spellgarden, of course,” Pentandra said.  “Tavard has just declared war on the Magelaw.  We need a quick war council to understand the situation and see to our defense.  And it will be a chance to see the children,” she reasoned.

“By the reeky feet of the sow goddess!” Caswallon the Fox moaned, as he slunk to the ground. “I am undone!  My life fades before my eyes, condensing to scenes of glory as the life flows freely from my veins!  Death, harken, for in thy dingy halls the unrelenting light of the shade of Caswallon the Fox shall now roam!”  With that, the big warmage fell face first into the grass.

“I win!” Minalyan screamed, excitedly, as he held his wooden mageblade triumphantly over his head.  “I fought Caswallon the Fox, and I won!” he said, his eyes wide in disbelief.

“Whose idea was it to have Caswallon serve as bodyguard for the children?” Pentandra demanded, a note of maternal concern in her voice.  She was watching from the third-floor balcony of Spellgarden as the children played in the courtyard with their nurses . . . and bodyguards.

“Ruderal’s, actually,” Sandoval chuckled.  “He pointed out the man had no portfolio, after the war, and that there was none who would dedicate himself more to the task.  The lad is an astonishing judge of character,” he added, admiringly.

“But his judge of role models is highly suspect,” Pentandra considered, doubtfully.

“Someone had to do it,” shrugged Sandoval.  “Minalan has taken a tithe of Vanador’s arcane talent to Anghysbel, plenty more deserted to fair Vorone for the tournament season, plenty more are in the Wilderlaw mopping up Marcadine’s war.  Hells, some even returned to Sevendor.  I had to work with what I had, when you requested warmagi as bodyguards.”

“But . . . Caswallon?  There wasn’t better available?” she asked, skeptically.

“The man is a tactical genius – else he just screws up the right way more often than not.  He’s utterly devoted.  Pathologically so.  Ruderal confirms it,” he argued.  “And he’s just the guard on duty, at the moment.  We rotate six of them, all day long, in addition to more mundane soldiers.  The children are as safe as they possibly can be,” he soothed.

“But . . . at what cost?” Pentandra asked, with mock seriousness, as the children tried to drag the limp form of the Fox away from the battlefield.

“Isn’t there a war happening that needs your attention?” argued Sandoval.  “Not that we can do anything about it, but I thought that’s why you came back.”

Pentandra sighed.  Sandoval was correct, of course.  She just hadn’t expected a man who affected a fox’s tail on his arse and ears on his helmet when in battle to be watching over her girls.  Or Minalan’s children.  It was disconcerting.

“Who do we have to consult?” she inquired, in return.

Sandoval snorted.  “At the moment?  Rondal, Ruderal, your apprentice Alurra, the captain of the city watch, Carmella, and me,” he said, shaking his head.  “Everyone else went elsewhere, after the Oxenroast.  Vanador feels eerily empty, if you ignore all the enchanters.”

“That’s less than ideal,” Pentandra sighed.  “Prince Tavard is launching an offensive on us from many quarters.  Astyral and Terleman have been attacked,” she reminded him.  “Sevendor may be threatened presently.  I need options for defense and potential response.”

“We have plenty,” he assured her, as he steered her back indoors.  “Most of our forces are still mobilized or can be easily recalled.”

“Can we send reinforcements to Terleman?” she asked, as he escorted her to the special table Minalan had designed for this sort of thing.  “Not that he’s asked for them, yet, but if he’s assailing Cleston . . .”

Sandoval snorted again.  “Terleman could take Cleston by himself,” he boasted.  “The only reason it exists at all is that there needed to be a village between Vorone and Wilderhall so that jousters would have a comfortable place to stay while traveling back and forth for the summer tournaments.”

“Then why did they attack us?” she asked, confused, as she took a seat at the table.

“Well, not because it was an obviously good idea,” Sandoval proposed as he took his own seat.  “I can only guess that the Lord of Cleston thought he could curry favor with the prince by taking aggressive action.  It’s not a bad plan, from his perspective,” Sandoval argued.

“Except he captured Terleman’s lover,” Pentandra reminded him.  “If he needs reinforcements, I want to be in a position to send some.”

“I can give you a thousand, maybe fifteen hundred, from Vanador,” Sandoval considered.  “That will leave Spellgate with a skeleton crew.  They can march in two days.  I can recall another thousand from the militias to take their place.  But it would be much quicker to send reinforcements from Vorone,” he advised.

Pentandra shook her head.  “The duchess and the Steward of Vorone were quite clear: while she supports the Magelaw in its defense, Alshar as a whole will not be involved in this war unless absolutely necessary,” Pentandra informed him.

“That’s unfortunate,” Sandoval agreed, as the others joined them at the table.  “Vorone’s garrison would be the easiest force to deploy.  But not the only ones.  There’s the Vorone Free Company mercenaries,” he reminded her.  “That’s almost a thousand right there.  And they’d be loyal to the Magelaw, if we can pay them.  Most are veterans of the Royal Third Commando.  Good men.”

“We can pay them,” agreed Pentandra.  “Make it happen and deploy them to the frontier immediately.”

“I agree,” Rondal nodded, as he joined them.  “As a matter of fact, I have an idea about mercenaries in general,” he said, and outlined his plan.

Pentandra was impressed.  It was a good one – the sort of thing Minalan would do.  A little expensive, but it might be well worth the cost.

“Make it happen,” she ordered.  “See to it personally.  Carmella, how are we situated for defensive forces?”  The head of the Hesian Order looked thoughtful.

“If any major force comes down that road, they’re going to have a very poor time of it.  Not only is Green Hill and the Pearwoods on alert for such a thing, but the Towers have been alerted.  Mistress Marsden had just returned to Eastwatch with her men when the word came.  Between the three of them, they can field maybe twenty-five hundred, perhaps three thousand troops.  Marsden would love that.  She hasn’t even gotten out of her armor.  She’ll be happy to guard the road.”

“We cannot let Vorone be taken,” vowed Pentandra.  “It’s technically neutral in this, and it would involve the entire duchy if Tavard attacked it.  I don’t think that Tavard has the balls to actually attack his cousin’s new castle, but that could happen.  That would get Anguin involved when he really doesn’t want to be.  And he’s right to do so. While that would be good for us, it would be disastrous for the kingdom.”

“Oh, Vorone won’t be taken, particularly Castle Vorone,” she assured Pentandra.  “I built in plenty of enchantments and design improvements to make that incredibly difficult.  It was my practice piece for Spellgate,” she added, proudly.  “But I can put my men on alert, if we need to get into the field with siege equipment, for instance.”

“Put all the Towers on alert,” agreed Pentandra.  “I don’t know how this is going to go, yet.  How are we fixed for combat enchantments?”

“Terrible,” admitted Carmella.  “Minalan pretty much exhausted our store of constructs and certain weapons during the war.  Those things take time to make.  I won’t even have some of the simpler ones for another few weeks, if the bouleuterion can keep up its current pace.”

“Are we fighting a defensive war, or an offensive war?” asked Sandoval.  “Because that makes a difference in planning.”

“I don’t know, yet,” Pentandra admitted.  “In fact, I cannot technically take note of Astyral’s war, yet, nor in my position as foreign Court Wizard make him any promises of aid.  I can, however, send him aid as the Baroness of Vanador, if I need to.  I’m more concerned about Terleman’s report.  That is something I can respond to more directly.”

“More than likely this will be just a few light raids across the frontier,” predicted Sandoval.  Even if he’s hiring mercenaries, Tavard isn’t really keen on grand strategy.”

“We cannot depend on that,” Pentandra warned.  “He can fight us politically and economically, as well as in the field.  And he has the edge in those realms.  I’m hoping that he comes to his senses, when he sees how difficult it will be to actually fight us.”

“It sounds to me as if he’s committed,” reasoned Sandoval.   “This is the third attack through proxies in short order.  We can’t just ignore that, but . . .”

“It’s a dangerous situation,” agreed Pentandra.  “Our best bet might be to run a defensive war, and force Tavard to spend coin trying to get to us.  The outcome in the field may have nothing to do with how the war turns out.  But if Tavard wants to kick the magi around, he needs to understand how dangerous we are.  I think — bide,” she requested, as she felt the beginnings of a mind-to-mind contact.

Pentandra, I have taken Cleston, Terleman informed her, a moment later.

What?  You’ve besieged it? she asked, confused.  You only went there this morning!

Cleston was a reasonably secure little castle, with a large bailey, a stout keep, and several towers.  She’d ridden past it often enough, now.  Even with a few thousand men, she couldn’t imagine Terleman conducting a siege that quickly.

No, I conquered it, Terleman reported, matter-of-factly.  Cleston has fallen.  Its lord is dead.  And I wish for you to have Brother Bryte submit a Writ of Conquest on my behalf claiming that domain.  To Vorone.

But Cleston is part of Castal, she argued.  That should be directed to Wilderhall.

Not anymore, it isn’t, the warmage declared, firmly.  I’m claiming it as part of the Magelaw.

That . . . might be complicated, Terl, she said, worriedly.  Politically complicated.

It’s the spoils of war, he argued.  I took the damn place.  I intend to defend it.  Under the banners of the Magelaw.

I . . . I see, Pentandra agreed. How is your squire?

He is . . . Anjak was beaten badly, as a lesson to me, Terleman said, his tone low and deadly.  He is resting comfortably now, but he will recover.  Thank you.  Now, I must go sit in judgement of these Clestoni knights who were so rude to me earlier.

Executions? Pentandra asked, not really wanting to hear his answer.

No, they shall be ransomed, Terleman assured her.  But the price will be high.

“Terleman just conquered Cleston,” she reported to everyone when she opened her eyes.  “Utterly.  He slew its lord and wants to claim it . . . in the name of the Magelaw.”

“Well,” nodded Sandoval thoughtfully, after a few moments of stunned silence.  “I suppose that settles it.  An offensive war it is.”

Chapter Sixteen

Redshaft Of Nirod

A man’s hatred oft blinds him to good counsel.

Wilderlands Folk Saying

“Well, this is certainly better than the Westlands,” Gatina decided, as she looked around at the countryside a few moments after she stumbled out of the Ways into Rondal’s arms.  “It’s more like Vorone, or Vanador.”

“The Castali Wilderlands are essentially the same as the Alshari Wilderlands,” Rondal explained, “they’re just north of Castal, not Alshar.  They’re both in the foothills of the Kulines.  But the Castali Wilderlands are about three-quarters smaller,” he added, with a note of pride.

“So, these are your cousins?” she asked, as she broke the embrace.

“Not really,” Rondal related.  “My ancestors came from Alshar, by way of Gilmora.  The folk of the Castali Wilderlands are largely from the Upper Castali Riverlands.  More like Sevendor than Vanador.  Except for Kasar,” he amended as he began to lead her down the trail, out of the stand of evergreens they’d appeared within.  “They were already here.”

“That seems confusing,” Gatina decided, as she began to follow.  The Waypoint was a natural one, at the edge of a wood not too far from a road.  “As is the reason we’re here.”

“We’re hiring mercenaries,” Rondal informed her, as he took the lead on the path.  “With the coin of the Magelaw.”

“Why?” Gatina challenged.  “Are we at war?”

“Technically, the Magelaw is,” Rondal agreed.  “Tavard declared war on the county as Count of Wilderhall.  A ceremonial title, of course,” he added.  “The actual official responsible for the defense of the county is appointed from the ducal court and gets ten percent of Tavard’s tribute for the office.”

“So why are we hiring mercenaries?” Gatina asked, no less enlightened.

“Mostly to keep Tavard from being able to hire them,” Rondal explained, as they walked.  “The Castali Wilderlands doesn’t have a great many mercenaries, but if we can keep Tavard from using them against us it will be like having a distinct advantage on the battlefield.  This is our first stop,” he said, as they emerged from the wood onto a road.  In the distance a sturdy-looking wall surrounded a good-sized town.  “Welcome to Nirod, a Free Town.  Home of the Nirodi Mounted Archers,” he revealed.

“It’s . . . well, it’s almost charming,” Gatina admitted, as she stared at the wooden palisade.  “It looks more prosperous than Vengly.”

“The lands are more fertile, less arid, and less rocky, for one thing,” he agreed, as they began down the road toward the rustic town.  There was a smattering of folk coming from the town at this late hour, though it would be a while before peasants would be returning from the fields.  “But the wealth of Nirod is based on its training of archers.  They start almost as young as the Kasari, and there’s a town law that every male must practice for an hour at least three times a week.  But they’re not the common sort of archer; each of them is mounted on a rouncey that makes them very effective combat troops.  They make all of their own weaponry.  They train every man as a fletcher, and Nirodi shafts fetch a premium price at market.  They have two festivals a year where the men compete in both archery and horsemanship.  The winners are often promoted to captains and rewarded with silver.”

“How do you know so much about this obscure little place?” she asked, curious.

“The Nirodi were hired at the beginning of the invasion by King Rard – Duke Rard, back then.  They were part of the mercenary army Minalan led all the way to Timberwatch.  They were instrumental in the Battle of the Lantern,” he added.  “That blunted the vanguard of the goblins and kept them from streaming down the road into Gilmora and the Castali Wilderlands.  I got to know them pretty well, in camp.”

“So . . . they’re good mercenaries?” Gatina asked.

“Very good, and expensive,” agreed Rondal.  “These aren’t mere spear fodder, the kind of who get hired to garrison some decrepit castle.  They’re battlefield tested.  Highly deadly.  That brings a premium price,” he assured her.

“Then why hasn’t Tavard hired them?” she asked, curiously.

“He might have . . . but I don’t think so.  Or at least not yet,” Rondal reasoned.  “Usually, a lord who’s going to war sees how many of his vassals show up, first, before he starts adding mercenaries to supplement them.  He has to pay for them every day they’re in the field, so hiring them is a last-minute thing in an effort to save money.  His vassals can stand around doing nothing for weeks before the mercenaries show up.  They owe him service as part of their vassalage; mercenaries require gold.”

They soon came to the gates of Nirod, which were open and inviting.  There were two archers guarding the entrance, but they didn’t even question Rondal and Gatina as they were allowed through.

Inside the gate revealed row after row of tidy, well-built half-timbered houses on natural stone foundations.  The air of prosperity hung thick over the town; there were few homes of only one story, and none that seemed in disrepair or in need of work.  Indeed, the folk of Nirod seemed uniformly cheerful and well-fed, a far cry from the people of Vengly in the Westlands.

Rondal reflected that might be due to their self-rule; once Nirod had bought itself free from its lord, the people of the town governed for their own collective interests, not the whim of higher authority.  That allowed them to practice their arms without being forced to and employ those arms for profit.

Nor did they rely upon a lord for protection; there was no tower or castle within the town, nor immediately outside it.  But the wooden palisade was strong and in good repair, he noted.  Any enterprising lordling who thought that Nirod would be an easy conquest would find themselves facing a thousand well-trained bowmen peering over those strong walls.

“So, who do we talk to in order to hire the Nirodi?” Gatina asked.

“I’m guessing . . . someone in there,” Rondal grinned, pointing toward a somewhat larger house than the others.  Above its door was an oversized mockery of an arrow, the shaft of which was painted scarlet.  “That’s likely the sign of Rogo Redshaft, captain of the Nirodi Archers.”

He knocked on the door after straightening his cloak and wizard’s cap; for this mission he’d chosen a somewhat smaller cone than usual, with a narrower brim stiffened with glue – although it still had the three triangles that denoted his profession sewn to the cap, in a slightly darker shade of blue.

In short order a young girl not too much older than Gatina arrived at the door, looking surprised when she saw the two strangers.

“My lords?” the girl asked.  “Can I assist you?” she asked, confused.

“I’d like to speak to Captain Rogo Redshaft, on a matter of business,” Rondal said, formally.

The girl looked from Rondal to Gatina, her eyes wide with suspicion and curiosity.  “And who shall I inform him is inquiring?” she asked, warily.

“An emissary of the Spellmonger,” Rondal said, quietly.  Her eyes grew even wider.  She quickly scurried away.

In moments they were being ushered through the main hall of the house and into the rear garden.  It was quite a cozy place, Rondal noted, filled with good furniture and even a few tapestries of the cheaper sort.  If he didn’t know the man’s profession, Rondal would have guessed that this was the quarters of a family of burghers.

The older man they were led to was sitting at a small table in the rear garden, surrounded by fruit trees, berry bushes, and a tidy little garden.  Rogo stood, as they approached, dropping the arrow shaft he was working on.  A pile of two score or more lay completed in front of him.

“Trygg’s grace upon you, my lord,” Rogo said, without a bow.  “My girl says you represent the Spellmonger?”

“I do, indeed,” Rondal assured.  “Only he’s Count Palatine of the Magelaw – where you yourself fought, not so many years ago,” he reminded him.  “Indeed, I fought with you, in a way.  I was at Timberwatch, doing field observations from the tower.”

“You . . . you’re the Spellmonger’s apprentice!” the man said, realization dawning on his bearded face.

“Well, I’ve long since completed my journeyman’s exams, but yes, at the time I was his apprentice,” Rondal admitted.

Rogo examined his face a little more closely.  “Aye!  Master Rondal!  I remember you! You’re the one who threw a tree at us in battle!” he recalled, with a chuckle.  “Up in the eaves of the foothills, on the way back home!”

Rondal blushed – he had nearly forgotten that unfortunate miscalculation so early in his career.  It didn’t help that Gatina giggled at the story.

“I . . . I did,” he admitted.  “I had just gotten my witchstone, and I didn’t realize how powerful it was.  I’ve gotten better, since then,” he promised.  “Now I’m Deputy Court Wizard of Alshar.”

“And who is this young lady?” Rogo asked, turning his attention to Gatina.

My intended bride, Lady Gatina anna Furtius,” he said, proudly, using the old Imperial form of her name.  Rogo nodded appreciatively.

“It looks like you’ve come up in the world since I last saw you,” he said, smiling.  “A pleasure to meet you, my lady.  Now, what brings the emissary of the Spellmonger to my door?”  He quickly grabbed two stools and placed him near the table and motioned for the girl at the door.

“I was wondering if the Nirodi Mounted Archers were available for hire,” Rondal asked, as he took a seat.

“We are available, at the moment,” admitted Rogo.  “But that’s subject to change.  Twice in the last month a knight from Wilderhall has been here wondering the same thing – he works for Prince Tavard, he says.  But he doesn’t want to pay our full rate,” Rogo complained.  “Says he’ll pay for six weeks, but that’s it – and he wants a discount, too.”

“That seems unreasonable,” Rondal nodded.

“It is,” Rogo assured, as the girl appeared with a tray, a bottle, and three cups.  “If I’m going to take my lads into the field and force them to hire extra hands to cover them, it can’t be for just a third of the season,” he reasoned.  “Nor for less than they’re worth.  I told him, we go at full price for all summer, or we don’t go.  Horses are expensive, and twice so when they’re on the move.  And my lads don’t need to risk their life and limb for a pittance.  He wasn’t too pleased to hear that,” the archer captain assured them as he poured each of them an ale.

“How much is your rate for the entire summer?” Rondal asked as he handed a glass to Gatina.

“How many companies do you need?” Rogo asked, after pouring a few drops on the ground as a libation.  “We’ve got three full, now, nearly a thousand men,” he said, proudly.

“All three, for all summer,” Rondal explained.

“Well, if I was going to sell us like that, it would cost livery, fodder, and pay for each man.  That comes to a tidy sum – about thirty thousand ounces of silver,” he said, as he regarded Rondal.  “Or fifteen hundred ounces of gold.  More, if we have to go far.  That’s what the knight from Wilderhall was balking at.  He wanted to pay five hundred for six weeks in the middle of the season.  We couldn’t get another job after that, most likely, before it was harvest time.  And he didn’t want to pay fodder, either, the stingy bastard.”

“That’s . . . interesting,” Rondal nodded.  “Did he mention where he would deploy you?”

“Nay, he was vague about that,” Rogo said, shaking his head, “but he implied it would be down south in Castal, somewhere.  But the second time he came,” Rogo said, reaching into his purse to pull out a sheaf of parchment, “he brought this message.  He thought it would convince me to enter into the bargain cheaply.”  The mercenary captain pulled a single leaf of parchment out, made certain it was the one he wanted, and handed it to Rondal.

I, Tavard, Prince of the Realm, Duke of Castal, Count of Wilderlaw, Darkfaller,               and Narasidor, do hereby SUSPEND certain portions of the Royal Charter due to               the danger posed by certain unruly elements both within the duchy and without;               for it is apparent and amply demonstrated that the arrogant rise of certain               professions is an affront to the chivalry, an abuse of our sacred law, and an               assault on good order in the realm.  No longer can I refrain from action to put               right the stain the magelords of the realm have placed on it.  They declare war on               our very society.  It is my sacred duty to reply to this insult and declare war on               those who endanger the realm.

As Duke of Castal, therefore, I hereby command:

All trade between my possessions and the so-called MAGELAW are to CEASE;

The Barony of Sevendor, a magelands of ill repute, is to be placed under QUARANTINE;

All Alshari pilgrims and merchants are hereby EXPELLED from Castal, their forbearances cancelled;

All sworn lords and vassals of my realms are hereby ordered to PREPARE for action this summer, mobilizing their men and seeing that their weapons are in good repair and their steeds are ready;

Further, as Count of Wilderlaw, Darkfaller, and Narasidor I command the full armed force of these counties stand ready to deploy against the so-called MAGELAW and its allies, at my direction.

No lord may reveal these preparations to any of the agents of the MAGELAW or its allies and vassals, lest they be in violation of their oaths of fealty;

If a sworn lord cannot produce, ready for action, the full complement of lances he has reported, then a scutage fee of twenty ounces of silver PER LANCE shall be levied to make the difference;

Further, all ecclesiastic estates within my realm are directed to pay from their treasuries a scutage of ten ounces of silver for every five members of clergy domiciled therein;

The assault on the peace and security of the realm by the upstart magi – so-called magelords – can no longer be borne; they are an offense to my rule and a danger to the realm.  Their claims of gurvani invasion are overstated; their contention that they protect us from imagined and misunderstood threats are a ruse and an excuse for power.  Their sorceries displace the good people from their rightful labor and fill their own pockets with gold for the injury.  By the gods, I cannot abide the unstable order another moment.

All loyal vassals shall be prepared to ride and march at my direction no later than Midsummer.

Tavard,

Prince Heir of the Realm of Castalshar, Duke of Castal, Count of Wilderlaw, Darkfaller, and Narasidor

Rondal read the entire thing aloud and was gratified to see Gatina’s shocked expression as he got toward the end of it.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat.  “That removes any doubt that Tavard is going to war against the Magelaw.”

“Aye,” Rogo nodded.  “As I’m no sworn lord, I am not prohibited to sharing this with you,” he added.  “I don’t think that knight from Wilderhall realized that when he left it for me.  As soon as I saw it, I realized what Tavard was getting up to.  He’s not as subtle as his dad, sadly, nor as wise in his rule.”

“He’s preparing a surprise attack on the Magelaw,” Gatina fumed, shaking her head.  “He’s choosing to fight civil war and endanger the entire kingdom.  He’s going to send a bunch of good people to a needless death.  What an idiot!”

“Not just the Magelaw,” Rondal corrected.  “He’s planning on menacing Sevendor, too.  He knows Minalan isn’t around, at the moment, and he thinks that a quick strike will take the barony,” he reasoned, thoughtfully.  “He doesn’t realize how stoutly it is defended.”

“What’s all this about ‘quarantine’? Gatina asked.

“That’s a military term – although in this case it’s more political,” Rondal explained.  “As a condition of Minalan’s exile, Tavard cannot make war directly on Sevendor. But he can cut it off from the surrounding lands.  He can set roadblocks all around the barony and keep wagons and travelers from moving in or out.”

“But . . . but the Sevendori will just use magic,” Gatina said, shaking her head in confusion.

“Tavard clearly hasn’t thought about that,” Rondal chuckled.  “He’s thinking of regular trade.  That might hurt a regular town, I suppose, but Sevendor will only be inconvenienced.  It’s just Tavard’s way of being as hurtful to Minalan as possible without invoking his father’s intervention.”

“That’s also why he expelled the pilgrims,” Rogo added, grimly.  “When Minalan led those tribals through here a few years ago, that ruffled a lot of feathers with the local lords.  Not that Kasar gives anyone any trouble, as long as you stay out of their tribal lands.  But they won’t bow to the Narasi and behave like proper barbarians.  The lords around Wilderhall have been making a lot of noise over that for years.  It’s only got worse, with Tavard up there most of the time, now.”

“The Kasari!” Rondal nodded, realizing the strategy.  “He’s going to round them up and push them back into Alshar!”

“What if they just refuse to go?” Gatina asked, confused.

“Kasar is remote enough, and well-defended,” Rondal explained, “but the Kasari are a highly lawful culture, for barbarians.  They were admitted to Castal as pilgrims by Duke Tavard, and if he removes that permission, they will feel honor bound to comply.”

“Really?” Gatina asked, skeptically.

“The Kasari are scrupulously honest – it’s in their codes,” assured Rogo with a nod of his head.  “They will comply with a lawful order, if it means no harm to them.  But Tavard wants them who came here from Alshar to leave.  It keeps Kasar from becoming too powerful and it pokes a finger in the Spellmonger’s eye.  I suspect they’ll start leaving within the week,” he estimated, tapping his finger on the parchment.

“That’s . . . troubling,” Rondal admitted.  “They’ll be subject to harassment from every Wilderlord along the road.  That will lead to violence,” he predicted.  “It’s certain to.  Rogo, how much would you charge for me to purchase your services for the summer escorting the Kasari from Lemsiddons to the frontier?”

Rogo looked at him in surprise.  “You want us . . . to escort a bunch of barbarians?  And protect them?”

“They’re considered pilgrims, until they are repatriated to Alshar,” Rondal reasoned.  “Taking up arms, even in their own defense, would be unlawful.  It will be kind of a reverse of the Great March; but if you can see them to Cleston, or beyond, they won’t have to make that choice.  After that, you could sit out the rest of the season,” he proposed.

“That I could do for fifteen hundred gold!” grinned Rogo.  “That’s easy duty, and right here in the Wilderlands.  Why, shouldn’t take more than a few weeks.  But I can keep the Wilderlords off of them,” he promised.

“If I threw in another five hundred, could you supply them with bows and shafts?” he asked, suddenly struck with inspiration.

“Aye, a good portion of them,” Rogo answered, surprised by the request.  “Depends on how many.  But I’ll sell you all I have,” he promised.  “Wilderhall was trying to be stingy in negotiations, but I’ll sell you my entire stock at that price.”

“So, we have a deal?” Rondal asked, pleased.

“My lord, you have hired the Nirodi Mounted Archers,” he said, sticking his hand out and shaking Rondal’s to seal the bargain in the traditional way.  “Now, how would you like to arrange payment?” Rogo asked, settling into a bargaining mood.  “Letter of credit? Deposit?  Half up front, half when we’re done?  We don’t extend credit on our services past the season,” he reminded him.  “All bills must be paid by Luin’s Day, at the latest.”

Rondal shrugged, and fingered the ring on his left hand.  He extended his awareness to the hoxter pocket that it contained, and he found the right one.

“How about the entire fee, up front, with a guarantee of services and an option to extend the duty?” he asked, activating the appropriate hoxter.  There was an almost imperceptible shift in dimensions for an instant, and a large linen bag with two thousand newly-minted one-ounce coins thudded onto the table, sending Rogo’s parchments and arrow shafts flying.

Rondal had to admit – Master Minalan was right.  There was nothing like that trick to impress five hells out of anyone paid in such a way.

“Aye, that’s acceptable,” Rogo agreed, his eyes wide with shock as he dug into the bag.  “It’s a fortune, but it’s acceptable.  Until Luin’s Day, the Nirodi Mounted Archers are at your disposal, under the customary Laws of Duin.  I’ll go ahead and draw that contract up,” he promised.

“I’ll be back in a day or so to sign it, and I will give you further instruction,” promised Rondal.  “But this solves several problems at once,” he explained to them both.  “It keeps the Nirodi out of Tavard’s employ and it ensures the Kasari make it to the border safely.  Tell me, are there other mercenaries encamped nearby who might be open to Tavard’s offer?”  As a mercenary captain, Rondal trusted Rogo to have good knowledge of his competitors nearby.

“Oh, aye, a few,” Rogo agreed.  “A couple outside Wilderhall, a few in Liasial, looking for garrison work.”

“Is the Orphan’s Band one of them?” he asked, a smile coming to his lips.

“Aye, they’re near Wilderhall, negotiating with that same knight who tried to hire us at a discount.  Duin’s sack, I miss working with good folk like Count Salgo and Sire Farlay,” he sighed.  “When Rard took the crown, he left us to be ruled by the dregs of his court.”

“Thank you, Rogo,” Rondal said, standing.  Gatina followed suit.  “I’ll see you in a few days.”

“So we’re going to be skulking around mercenary encampments, now?” Gatina asked, amused, as they left Rogo’s hall.

“Just for a day or so,” Rondal agreed.  “Tavard is likely running short of funds, which is why he’s being stingy in the negotiations with the mercenaries.  If I get as many of them as possible tied up with our contract, then that will hamper him.”

“That edict was revealing,” Gatina nodded.

“How so?” Rondal prompted.

“It revealed a lack of organization, for one thing.  It gave no specific direction, nor did it reveal the intended target, outside of the Magelaw.  It stank of raw ambition and arrogance, not a well-reasoned plan of action that could be competently executed.  It was more of a snit than a writ.  Something to make Tavard feel important, not a serious military order.”

“I’m not certain he would know the difference,” Rondal reflected.  “But if he’s deprived of professional soldiers from mercenary outfits, he’s going to have to rely on his sworn vassals – but only the ones from the counties he controls, not the entire duchy.  Deploying a feudal army takes a lot of work,” he pointed out.

Gatina shrugged.  “I did it with Pentandra, some gold, and eight hundred men,” she boasted.

“You didn’t field an army as much as spark an uprising – which doesn’t diminish your accomplishment in the slightest,” he added.  “But there’s a difference from taking up arms in response to a rebellion, and the orderly assembly of an armed force for a specific purpose,” he reminded her.  “It will take weeks for him to bring enough of his vassals together to have a credible army in Wilderhall, for example.  A lot of lords would rather just pay the scutage fee to hire a mercenary in their place – but that depends on there being mercenaries to hire.|

“Just how much gold do you plan on spending on this plan?” Gatina asked, uneasily.

“Minalan is stinking rich,” Rondal sighed.  “As am I.  As are you.  This won’t make a dent in his treasury that he couldn’t repair with selling a few tons of snowstone or a few hundred magical chamber pots.  And it’s a lot cheaper than trying to fight Tavard the old-fashioned way.

“But that’s just the point,” he continued, as they strolled out of the town’s gate, “we can’t fight Tavard the way he wants and expect to win.  He’s going after the magi – or, at least, the magelords, and he’s using that as an excuse to further his vendetta with Minalan. Putting lances in the field isn’t going to win this war.  Being clever is.”

“You are exceedingly clever, my lord,” Gatina acknowledged.  “What clever thing are you planning on doing?”

“Striking Tavard where he least suspects, from directions he doesn’t anticipate, and exploiting weaknesses he didn’t know he had,” suggested Rondal.  “That edict gave me an idea and reminded me of an old piece of wisdom: a man’s hatred can oft blind him to good counsel.”

“So we arrange to have something hit him from where he’s blinded,” she smiled, approvingly.

“Yes, and I’m starting to think of how we do it,” he said, encouraged by her approval.  “The gods are whispering good tricks into my ears, to quote Master Min.  I think I can call upon a few old friends to help us in subtle ways.  Ways that will discomfit Prince Tavard without slaughtering thousands.  Here, let me ask Ruderal a question for a moment,” he said, halting their walk.  Gatina nodded and waited patiently while he used his stone to reach Ruderal, mind-to-mind.

Hey, Rudy, what do you think about going with me to Kasar? he asked.  To see some old friends.

Rondal quickly explained what he had in mind to the apprentice, and Ruderal agreed it was an intriguing plan.  He promised to gain permission to go from Pentandra, once he understood the true purpose in the visit.

“That’s settled,” he nodded, once he broke contact.  “Rudy and I will go to Kasar to help organize the Kasari being expelled and explain the situation.  It will be like organizing the Great March in reverse,” he theorized.

“I still can’t believe you walked all the way from Arborn’s realm to . . . here.  And beyond,” she said, shaking her head.

“Every last miserable step,” he agreed.  “Carrying a pack and singing songs and dodging goblins.  And then, at the end, in Lemsiddons a priestess told me what I’m best at,” he recalled, fondly.  “At the time it kind of scared me, but I’m starting to realize what she meant.”

“What?” Gatina asked, intrigued.  “What did she tell you?”

“I’ll tell you the day after our wedding,” Rondal decided.  “I don’t want to spoil anything.  It wasn’t quite prophecy, but you never want to pick at something like that, if you can help it,” he assured her.

“I pick at everything,” Gatina objected.  “She was a prophetess?”

“A nun blessed with the ability to tell a man what he was best at, in life,” Rondal explained.  “Or something like that.  What skill or ability or fate was best suited to your nature.  That’s why the Kasari were allowed into the duchy, to see the prophetess.”

“Now you have me wondering,” accused Gatina with a pout.

“I’m a man of many mysteries,” Rondal said, mocking himself.

“Like when you apparently threw a tree at yourself in battle,” she reminded him.

“My first real battle, where I actually fought.  The first since Boval Vale,” he corrected, with an involuntary shudder.  “You know, in retrospect it’s a mystery how I survived at all.”

Chapter Seventeen

A Crisis In Gilmora

If you don’t see the bottom, don’t wade.

Wilderlands Folk Saying

Pentandra’s head was spinning and her heart was filling with dread as she kept reading dispatches and making notations on the magemap she’d created.  It chronicled Terleman’s victories in the field.  His many victories, his many unexpected and unanticipated victories.

It should have stopped at Cleston, she knew.  The otherwise unimportant border town had used the state of war the Count had declared as an excuse for easy gain . . . and had lost their town and its domain lord doing it.  The Lord of Cleston’s baron took exception to the conquest, of course, and immediately led his men to drive the magi from the town.  It was said he was either misinformed or disbelieved the number of men Terleman had advanced to Cleston after the conquest.  He figured his castle garrison would be sufficient to fight a few wizards from the Wilderlands.

Only that didn’t happen.  Terleman’s men were expecting a reprisal, and laid a trap for the baron instead.  He’d captured more than two hundred knights, squires, and sergeants, as well as the baron himself without a casualty on either side.  The next day he rode into the baron’s scantly defended castle and took it without a life being lost.  The banner of the Magelaw now flew over it.  Brother Bryte was instructed to file another Writ of Conquest with Vorone.

Pentandra tried to stop Terleman then.  She’d pleaded with him, mind-to-mind, not to antagonize the prince further, nor the chivalry, until they had built up their forces and moved them into place.

Terleman hadn’t seen the reason in that.  War had been declared – Rondal had confirmed that, after a trip to the Castali Wilderlands.  The enemy had struck first.  That was all the justification that Terleman needed to continue his lawful offensive.

Pentandra had planned to speak to the Duke and Duchess and explain the situation the next morning, but before she could get to Castle Vorone she received another dispatch from Terleman, by means of the Mirror Array.

According to the report, in the night a Gilmoran baron brought an expedition over the frontier into Terleman’s captured barony and attacked.  That had not gone well, either, for the Gilmoran.  Once again Terleman contrived to capture every man and every horse using battlefield magic the Gilmorans were defenseless against.  Once they tripped the wards he’d set, the entire expedition – more than three hundred cavalry – fell unconscious in the field.  Apart from a few broken legs from falling horses, the prisoners joined their fellows in a camp in Cleston where they could negotiate their ransoms.

By supper time, he was riding into the Gilmoran baron’s castle on his own horse.  It took less than an hour to capture it.  Another Writ of Conquest was directed to be prepared.

In two days, Terleman had taken a barony in the Castali Wilderlands, and one in Gilmora.  Without a single man dying.

It’s the barony of Walkurjurik, he bragged, mind-to-mind.  I now control the baronial castle and the town of Growar.  I’m sending men out to inform the local lords and look for signs of resistance.  If I meet any, I’ll handle them.  You did send those reinforcements I requested? he asked.

Yes, Sandoval is leading them now, but Terl – you can’t just go around conquering other people’s baronies, she reproved.  You’re stirring up trouble.

I’m conquering territory as is my right under Duin’s Law, fighting a foe who has declared war against me, and respond to aggression with force.  If the Baron of Walkurjuric hadn’t stuck his nose into our business, he wouldn’t be sleeping chained in a tent in Cleston, now.

And how is that going to help the political situation? she asked, pointedly.

How can it hurt it? he argued.  Tavard declared the war – and then didn’t even bother to properly inform us.  I’m just taking advantage of it.  Every domain I conquer I remove from his power.  He can’t get troops, supplies, or tribute for them, he reminded her.

He and the rest of his party aren’t going to stand for that, she warned.

I’m counting on it, Terleman said, smugly.

She hoped that he would be satisfied with the impressive defeat of the Castali Wilderlords and the shocking conquest of Gowar – apparently Walkurjuric was a prosperous barony.  Terleman moved to consolidate his hold on both with the forces that he had, putting down rebellions as needed and adding to his growing collection of prisoners at Cleston.  He’d also called upon the brigade known as the Vorone Free Company of mercenaries – many of them veterans of the famed Alshari 3rd Commando – to join him in his new territories, and he was getting a lot of interest.  Pentandra knew that such men enjoyed that kind of war of conquest in the hopes of picking up the bumper crop of conquered domains that would soon be in need of new lords.

But the next day, the Baron of Harton sent men into the frontiers of Walkurjuric to shore up the Gilmoran resistance there.  Terleman’s forces captured them, and Terleman had used the raid as a pretext to march on Harton.  Much smaller and less well defended than Walkurjuric, Castle Harton wasn’t prepared for the sudden, unexpected reprisal.  This time, however, blood was shed in the Gilmoran resistance to the magelord – five men at arms died defending the castle before the baron surrendered through a new hole in his keep.  Terleman raised the Magelaw banner over Harton Castle at dusk.  Another Writ of Conquest was filed by the next morning.

No one at the Alshari ducal court had ever seen anything like it.  As the news started to spread about Cleston – a bold and rash move, in the considerations of most – the news of Walkurjurik arrived.  That sent a shock through the entire court.  When Harton Barony fell, the next day, shock turned to excitement.  The Viscount of Spellgate, it seemed, was unbeatable.

Will you please stop conquering people! she insisted to Viscount Terleman, the day after Harton fell.

Why? Terleman asked.  I seem to be good at it.

Just . . . just stop, for the moment, Pentandra pleaded.  You’ve got an entire faction of the court thrilled that you’re actually taking over Gilmora for Alshar.  If those Writs are accepted by the court, you just regained a goodly portion for the realm.  Of course, that might well lead to a wider war between Castal and Alshar, one that could cost millions of lives, but you just go ahead and keep swinging your big ego around!

All right, all right, he conceded, reluctantly.  I’ll take a break for a few days. I need to consolidate my power, anyway. But I make no promises.  The law is on my side, as is the right of conquest.  Besides, I need to wait for further reinforcements, else I’ll become spread to thin.  I can do a lot in the field with magic, but you need men to occupy a place.  I need to sort out which vassals are going to be happy with the change in management and which are going to object.  And then I’ll have to deal with them, else I’ll leave enemies behind me when I march.

Don’t march anywhere else! Pentandra begged.  Let us get ahold of this, first!

I will try, he agreed, reluctantly.  But if they continue to stupidly provoke me, I will respond as Duin’s Law allows, he promised.

And he was true to his word.  It was a week before he moved against any additional Gilmoran territories.  In truth, his rapid advance and sudden victories had caught the Gilmorans by surprise – those who were preparing for war weren’t preparing for war against them, but against the magefolk.  Terleman’s advance stunned them.

More, it worried them.  How could a mere magelord best two baronial armies – and breach three baronial castles – in three days?  That was unheard of.  The goblins didn’t even move that quickly during the invasion of Gilmora.

Of course, the gurvani also didn’t file perfectly legal Writs of Conquest, either.

That proved more alarming to many than the military victories themselves.  Being defeated on the field and held for ransom was one thing.  That happened to a lot of knights in the more civilized combats the Narasi were used to.  There was no real dishonor in being captured.

But to have your lands taken from you as a result of your loss was devastating.  The Laws of Duin and Luin were quite clear on that, however, and if the domain was conquered without question and held in defense, the law gave possession to the conqueror.  That was the same everywhere across the Five Duchies.

But that process usually took months or years, not days and hours.  A feudal army just did not move that quickly.

Politics, of course, did move that quickly, and the fourth day after the conquest of Cleston she found herself meeting with Anguin and Rardine at the palace.

“One of your magelords seems to have taken a stroll through Gilmora,” Anguin observed, thoughtfully.  “And a goodly portion of the Castali Wilderlands.  Wasn’t he just escorting Count Anvaram back to the frontier?”

“That was his stated intent,” Pentandra agreed, reluctantly.  “Events . . . spiraled out of control,” she said, euphemistically.  “He took advantage of the situation and took initiative.  All perfectly legal,” she added, weakly.  To her dismay, the duke didn’t seem overly concerned with the development.

“So Brother Bryte assures me,” nodded Anguin.  “It’s just . . . well, usually these things take a lot longer.  And the territories he’s captured are strategically placed,” he reminded her.  “My cousin is going to regard the conquests as illegal and respond, I fear,” he added, worriedly.

“That is his right, I suppose,” Pentandra sighed.  “But it was your cousin who began hostilities, or at least promised to.  Terleman just . . . responded.  Forcefully.”

“Brilliantly,” Rardine corrected, with a smile.  “In one stroke, he brought Tavard up short and sent a bolt of lightning through every Castali and Gilmoran count.  Some will think better of raising a sword against the Magelaw, now.  And some are quietly pleased at the victories.  I’ve received correspondence from both parties on the matter,” she said, approvingly.

“More importantly,” she continued, “Terleman did so before most of the people even knew that they were at war.  Our sources say that Tavard’s declaration was supposed to be held in secret for two more weeks to keep the Magelaw from having time to prepare . . . and allow Tavard to get his men in place for an extended war.  Now they will have much less distance to march,” she added, amused.

“This still presents us with a problem, however,” Anguin said, thoughtfully.  “Doubly so, since I have this morning received an angry complaint about another magelord – Astyral.  The one I granted Losara to.  Apparently he’s using barbarian mercenaries from the Pearwoods to raid Dendra and Almaranda.  He’s bringing them in through the Alkan Ways, letting them pillage until they can’t carry any more, and then retreating through the Ways.  I have two Gilmoran counts who demand I stop them.”

“On what grounds?” demanded Rardine.

“They say Astyral is employing foreign mercenaries in a private war,” Anguin reported.

“That’s not illegal,” objected Rardine.  “We do it all the time.  That’s covered by the Laws of Duin.”

“They are asking that I intervene, in this instance, and prohibit it.  Alas, the Pearwoods fall outside of my direct purview,” he pointed out.  “They are within the realm of the Magelaw.  I directed them to send their complaints to the chief military officer in charge of the Magelaw.  Who might that be, Pentandra?” he asked, pointedly.

“Viscount Terleman of Spellgate,” she said, with a heavy sigh.

“Yes, so they now have to ask – pretty please – the man who just conquered three baronies in three days to stop a bunch of hill clans from raiding two hundred miles from where they live . . . because the Gilmorans aren’t used to that kind of treatment.  How do you think Viscount Terleman will respond?” he probed.

“With fire, steel, and arcane power,” Pentandra answered.

“That’s what I thought, as well,” Anguin agreed.  “I have to make a decision whether or not to approve the Writs of Conquest on three baronies, already.  If I do, I assure civil war.  If I don’t, civil war is going to happen more than likely.  It’s a difficult position.”

“I empathize, Your Grace,” Pentandra nodded.  “When Count Minalan left on his expedition, he left me in charge of the administration of the palatinate.  He left Terleman in charge of its defense.  And he out-ranks me,” she reminded them.

“Yet you are his superior as Court Wizard, are you not?” Anguin asked.

“Yes . . . he’s my deputy in charge of the Alshari Magical Corps,” she reminded him, unnecessarily.

“He seems incredibly good at his job,” Rardine said, approvingly.

“Too good,” Pentandra said, shaking her head.  “That’s the problem.  I can’t just sack him, over this.  Look how successful he’s been.  His men are completely loyal, and he’s defending the magi of the Magelaw in his conquests.  He’s broken no laws of war.  He’s not massacred anyone.  He’s left the temples alone in his conquered territory.  Hells, he barely taken a life.  You can fire me, if you’d like,” she reminded them.  “If you need to sacrifice someone for Tavard’s sake, you can get rid of me.”

Part of her wanted them to do just that.  It would make her life a great deal less complicated.  But she knew that she was in no danger of that.

“Don’t be silly,” the duchess snorted.  “Terleman is blackening Tavard’s eye, over this.  Tavard is also threatening to revoke the Great Charter, which would get my father involved.  If he does that, the situation will become a lot more fluid.”

“He’s already suspended part of it,” Pentandra reminded her.  “He’s expelling pilgrims and halting trade.”

“And no one is listening to him,” Rardine pointed out.  “Right now, his realm is in turmoil over this sudden war – a war he declared.  Losing Farise was bad enough.  But losing three Castali baronies?”

“Five,” sighed Anguin.  “My bodyguard, Baron Gydion, came to me this morning wondering about transferring his official allegiance to Alshar, not Castal.  I’d imagine your friend Baron Astyral would consider doing likewise.”

“He would enjoy nothing better, Your Grace,” Pentandra admitted.  Astyral’s politics on the Gilmoran Matter were well known.

“That would extend the Magelaw significantly east, and south, and absorb a goodly portion of northern Gilmora,” Anguin remarked.  “The revenues from that would be impressive, if Alshar held them.

“You’re not at all concerned with civil war in the kingdom, Your Grace?” Pentandra asked, surprised.  And a little alarmed.

“We just had civil war in Alshar,” the Orphan Duke reminded her.  “All because my mother-in-law wanted a crown, not a coronet.  I cultivated a relationship with the magi for a reason.  You are a potent weapon to defend the realm.  And it seems the best place to defend it is upon Tavard’s property,” he pointed out.

“So far, Terleman has been able to proceed without shedding much blood.  I have convinced him to halt his advance, for the moment, but if he’s provoked, he will respond.  Perhaps a word from the duke would keep his head cooler,” Pentandra said, hoping Anguin would restrain Terleman before he did something even more rash.  She was disappointed.

“Tavard picked a fight with the magi,” he said, instead.  “If losing five baronies is the price for his stupidity, he will be getting a bargain.  I would hesitate to interfere in the affairs of one of my palatinates unnecessarily.”

“And if my father gets involved?” challenged Rardine.

“Then I will speak with him,” shrugged the Duke.  “But unless Terleman violates the laws of war, somehow, I will not constrain him.”

That was not the policy Pentandra expected Anguin to issue, and she left the meeting  feeling as if she was losing control of the situation.  Before heading back to Spellgarden and the room in which she monitored the war, she took the Ways to Vanador and had a cup of tea.  She needed a moment to think.  And a sympathetic ear.

Antimei was, indeed, in her croft by the time Pentandra arrived.  She looked more tan and perhaps stringier now, after spending a few weeks back in the Wilderlands, working outside.  Antimei had embraced her new position of chief of the Field Wizards with enthusiasm – particularly when Pentandra had provided her a witchstone to aid her work.

She was delighted to see Pentandra, too.  The old hedgewitch spent twenty minutes telling her about the various Field Wizards she was now in charge of, and the remarkable ways they were improving the lands of Vanador with magic.

“I had no idea all of this was possible,” she gushed, as she poured for both of them.  “Once I got a witchstone, I realized what all the fuss was about.  Thank you, for that,” she said, touching her arm.

“It was required, if you were going to properly lead the Field Wizards.  And we had a small one laying around.  You join very rare company: only a few hedgewitches are thus supplied.”

“From hedgewitch to High Mage,” Antimei sighed, shaking her head.  “Now I understand what power means – and what the arcane can do for people.  No farm in the Wilderlands ever produced what ours do, now.

“But that’s not why you came here, is it?” Antimei continued, sipping her tea.  “It’s this news about Terleman.”  It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes,” sighed Pentandra.  “Just as you have foreseen.”

“Oh, don’t pin this on me,” Antimei objected with a frown.  “I might have seen it, but he did it.  You knew he would do it.  But it’s done, now.  You know what comes, after,” she reminded Pentandra.

“At least he’s kept it clean, up to now,” Pentandra agreed.  “He sent me a list of ransomed nobility this morning.  He’s asking exceedingly high payments – just inside the realm of reason.  And double price, if the captured lords want to retain their steeds and equipage.  His toll stands at more than thirty thousand gold, if they make good their pledges.  And he’s holding them prisoner at Cleston until at least a tithe of the payment is made.”

“It seems like a civilized way to make war,” reasoned Antimei.

“It’s opportunistic,” Pentandra nodded.  “Terleman is using the captured horses and armor to arm his men, he says.  He’s also looting any of his new vassals who object to his rule.  Most of them are likely still in shock over it,” she considered.  “Any who approve of the change of banner are rewarded.  There are many Gilmorans who are very supportive of it.”

“Yet you seem troubled,” Antimei probed.

“Because I know what comes next, thanks to you.  But I don’t know exactly how – also thanks to you,” she accused.

“Blame the gods, I just prophesy,” she argued.  “You’re the one who read the book, when I gave you a way to learn of the future in a way that would not tax your imagination.  If you had listened to me, and your conscience, you’d only be half as worried, now.”

“But I wouldn’t know that Tavard is stirring the Castali and Gilmoran barons into a frenzy, over this,” Pentandra pointed out.  “And without that knowledge, I wouldn’t have time to prepare.”  She frowned.  “I just don’t necessarily understand that next quatrain, the one about the single strike that cripples Tavard.  Is that literal?  Or allegory?  Is he going to be maimed, or does it refer to his political power?”

The hedgewitch shrugged.  “I don’t recall.  After a few thousand prophetic episodes, they tend to run together.  I put down the verse as quickly and complete as I could, when it comes to me, but it’s hard to keep it all in context.  Which is why I write it down.”

“You could have been more clear,” Pentandra complained.

“I was as clear as I felt I needed to be,” defended Antimei.  “It’s not easy, I hope you realize.  Try summarizing the day’s events in rhyming couplets, sometime, and see how well you fare.  You struggle to put in enough to be informative, but not so much as reveal too much.  You use symbolism and allegory, in some cases.  Obfuscation is essential to prophecy.  Sometimes I even chose words just because they rhymed,” she admitted, guiltily.

“What?” demanded Pentandra , startled.

“Well, like I said, after a few thousand visions, you do the best you can to distill it down to the essential information – which you’re just guessing about – and put it into form.  There were several places where I embellished or may have misguided a bit because of the word I needed to rhyme.  Or add another syllable to the sentence so the meter would come out correctly.  Artistic license,” she said, with another shrug of her skinny shoulders.  “You want your prophecies to sound right.”

Pentandra felt herself starting to simmer.  “You wrote your prophetic verse favoring aesthetics?  Over just letting me know what’s going on?”

“Nothing essential was changed,” Antimei insisted.  “It’s just a matter of nuance, sometimes.  Of course, nuance can be important,” she considered, as she sipped.

“Really?” Pentandra pronounced, sarcasm dripping from the word.  “Like whether or not Tavard will be physically crippled or just politically crippled?  Or whether this strike is a military strike or a magical strike?”

“Look, I was right about the Golden Hound turning on its master, wasn’t I?” Antimei said, defensively.  “And the river of milk?  That was clearly the Divine Stampede,” she pointed out.

“Yes, but it would have been much more helpful to let me know that it was an actual stampede, not an allegory!” Pentandra shot back.

“It didn’t rhyme with ‘ilk’,” Antimei said, crossly.

“And you couldn’t find a better way to say it?” Pentandra said, accusingly.  “How many barons and counts are going to enlist on Tavard’s side? You just say ‘a hornet’s nest of outrage’, and leave it to my imagination.  I’m assuming he doesn’t poke a literal hornets’ nest.  Who is outraged? What does Tavard say to outrage them?  That would be helpful to know!”

“The vision did not include that information,” Antimei insisted.  “I think,” she added, after a moment’s thought.  “In any case, I didn’t think it was as important as knowing that a lot of them were.  Or who they were.  It’s more impactful with that imagery.”

“According to the book, a knot will be tied around the neck of Tavard’s regime,” Pentandra recited from memory.  “Does that mean that they’ll be captured and hung?  Or is it some more allegory?”

“I don’t remember,” Antimei admitted.  “I wrote it more than a decade ago.  Once the details of a fresh prophecy manifest, the details of the others fade a bit.  I’m pretty sure it’s symbolic,” she said, hesitantly.  “Probably in several ways.”

“Or, perhaps, you just needed something that rhymed with ‘trek’ and got creative,” Pentandra suggested, irritated.

“That is possible,” the old woman admitted, after a pause.  “I’m pretty certain it’s allegory, though.  Tavard survives this war,” she predicted.

“I recall,” Pentandra agreed, remembering dozens of quatrains in the book of prophecy that referenced the Prince and had not come to pass, yet . . . she thought.  “So something happens to stagger – sorry, ‘cripple’ – Tavard’s ability to make war on the magi.  And it happens soon.  So I have nothing to worry about,” she suggested.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that at all,” Antimei said, shaking her head.  “Pentandra, for everything a prophecy can make you certain about, there are a thousand uncertainties left for us to contend with.  Do not become complacent, just because you have a hint about how history unfolds.  Tragedy can befall you while you think you are safe, because of how you interpreted the words.  Prophecy impels, it does not compel.”

“What in five hells does that mean?” Pentandra asked, frustrated.

“It means that you have to ignore the knowledge you have and make decisions as if you did not already know the outcome.  Or at least suspect it,” Antimei explained.                “The predictions will guide you, but take nothing for granted.  Now,” the hedgewitch continued, moving her tea cup aside and retrieving a sheaf of parchment stacked on a nearby shelf, “Here’s something that is useful: Alurra and I wrote down the method I used to put that pearl o’ nypmh spell,” she said, handing the report to Pentandra.  “It’s a bit involved, but now that it’s been tested I think it can be used more often.  The Nemovorti are on the move.  This could be a powerful weapon against them.”

Pentandra scanned the first page of the spell, gratified that it was written in standard Imperial form outlining the components, the runic chords used, and the method-of-action.  It was in Antimei’s hand, of course.  Alurra could write, in a rudimentary way, but the result was never terribly good.  “This is good work,” she approved, sounding surprised in spite of herself.

“My dear, I was a trained and chartered Practical Adept for years, before I took up the rustic life,” snorted Antimei.  “It was refreshing, going back and doing a rudimentary report.  But you should be able to follow the recipe easily enough – provided you can find the pearl o’ nymph.  It’s rare and expensive,” she warned.

“I’m resourceful and rich,” Pentandra dismissed, as she rolled the sheaf up and sent it into a hoxter.  “If it can hurt the Nemovorti, I want as many as I can make.  Karakush still lurks in the Westlands with his minions.  Caramas is still infested.  And Mycin Amana has escaped.”

“I know,” Antimei said, with a depressing sigh.  “It is their time to rise, in Korbal’s absence.  They will fight amongst themselves for position and power.  Until the Alka Alon Council acts, humanity will bear the brunt of their conflict.  And only the magi can resist them.”

“If we don’t destroy ourselves in civil war,” Pentandra muttered, standing.  “Terleman’s rash actions and Tavard’s stupidity are rushing us over a cliff.  Regardless of who wins, the Kingdom suffers.”

“Alshar will abide,” Antimei assured her.  “Partially because of your leadership.  And because you don’t let prophecy bind you to fate,” she insisted.  “Make your own decisions, the right decisions, for the right reasons.  Follow your conscience more than my predictions.  Don’t second guess yourself because of my words.”

“Do all hedgewitches give such unhelpful advice?” Pentandra asked.  “I came seeking clarity, and you tell me to trust my own judgement.  If I did that, I wouldn’t need clarity.”

“It’s actually standard practice,” admitted Antimei with a wicked smile.  “Now, I’ve got to prepare a list of herbs and shrubs for the hedgewitches over in Minalan’s estate.  They’re next on my agenda.  And you have to prepare yourself for the emergency meeting the King will call soon.”

“The what?” Pentandra asked, startled.

“It’s the first of several,” Antimei informed her, confidently.  “It’s a crisis; the king will inevitably be involved.  You will be summoned.  Among others.  Best you be prepared for that.  It could be important.”

Pentandra closed her eyes as she absorbed the information.  “I’m really starting to hate prophecy,” she said, when she opened them again.

“You haven’t even begun to hate prophecy,” Antimei challenged.  “But you will.”

Chapter Eighteen

A Devious Plan

Judge yourself not on the harvest but on the seeds you sow.

Wilderlands Folk Saying

The mood in the air around the Kasari town of Lemsiddons was tense when Rondal arrived at a Waypoint nearby.  The uncobbled streets were not as busy as the day the Great March ended here, he reflected, but there was still a lot of Kasari moving about, anxious looks on their faces.  He discovered why soon enough.

Posted on the gatepost of the town was the edict by the Duke of Castal ordering the expulsion of all registered pilgrims, and a second from the Count of Wilderhall directing all Alshari pilgrims, specifically the Kasari youths from the Great March, leave the duchy by the new moon.  Both were authored by the same person under two different titles, but the intent was clear to Rondal and all others who chanced to read it.

In a Narasi town, it would be the responsibility of a town crier or other official to read the edicts aloud, repeatedly, often for days.  In a culture with nearly full literacy, however, merely posting the directive was adequate.  Rondal read both edicts twice, just to ensure he understood them precisely.

The notices were tersely worded and heavy-handed, calculated not just to compel action but to inspire anxiety.  The second notice detailed how no weapons would be permitted, beyond knives.  The last section of the Count’s edict, in particular, threatened some vague future retribution to Kasar if there were any incidents from the expatriate pilgrims on their way to the frontier.

“People are worried,” Ruderal noted, as he followed Rondal into the town, proper.

“Of course they are,” reasoned Rondal.  “The Wilderlords and the Kasari have never gotten along well, and this sort of thing is often the prelude to some bloody conflict.  A good many thousands of Kasari will have to be recalled from their encampments and sent back to Alshar, now . . . or Tavard has a pretext for going to war with Kasar.  Not that I think he could manage that, any better than he can manage any other war, but it would be troublesome for our friends.”

“Doesn’t he realize that we have more dangerous enemies to fight?” Ruderal asked, frustratedly.  “We’ve got Nemovorti skulking around everywhere, and he wants to start trouble with the magi and the Kasari?”

“He is being poorly counseled,” Rondal said, diplomatically, as he found the building he was looking for – something else that was easy in a literate society.  He didn’t have to decipher some cryptic symbol to discover the Quartermaster’s Store.  It was neatly labeled on a sign above the door.  “And he’s got both ambition and a vengeful spirit in equal portions.  He feels the only way to prove his power is to punish his enemies, so he’s striking at them by expelling the Kasari.  The sad thing is, he thinks he’s being clever.”

“So what are we doing here?” Ruderal asked.

“Actually being clever.  I’m looking up an old friend,” Rondal explained.  “And giving him some good counsel about how to conduct the return to Alshar.”

“And why I’m I here?” the apprentice asked, impatiently.  “Don’t mistake me, the time off from watching Master Min’s children is appreciated.  But why should I be involved in this?”

“Because this particular Kasari owes you a favor, and I think he’ll be more favorable to my suggestion if you’re involved,” he explained, as he pushed open the door.  “I told you my plan.  You seemed convinced it was a good one.  Give me a nod when the Kasari are convinced,” he directed.

Inside was a large hall filled with shelving, large baskets and bins, themselves filled with all manner of equipment and stores.  The Kasari had a communal economy, for the most part, where every clan in the tribe contributed to storehouses such as this where goods could be distributed where they needed to be.  It wasn’t a perfect system, Rondal had learned over the years of his acquaintance with it, but in some ways it seemed vastly superior to the weekly open air markets the Narasi preferred.

The bustle of activity was just as prominent within the hall as outside in the streets.  Nearly a dozen Kasari were either filling shelves or removing items from them, constantly referring to the slips of parchment that directed them.  Others were constantly streaming in and out of the hall’s doors, either delivering or picking up orders.  How they kept track of it all was a mystery, Rondal reflected.  It seemed to work more like a military camp, he thought, than a marketplace.

“I thought quartermaster was a naval term,” Ruderal said, frowning, as he looked around.

“It’s used by the army, too,” Rondal explained.  “And apparently by the Kasari.  But this is where our friend is, according to my sources.  In fact . . . I think that’s him over there, near the blankets.”

Indeed, a young man with a scraggly blond beard was thumbing through a pile of neatly stacked woolen blankets and counting them.  He wore the blue neckerchief of the Quartermaster’s Corps, and the rank insignia on his heavily embroidered tunic told him out as a Raptor – the elite among the Kasari.  Rondal knew well how he’d gained the badge: he’d survived the expedition he’d led into the Land of Scars to recover an ancient Kasari idol.

His name was Kenpedon, and he was one of the leaders of that fateful expedition.  Rondal and Tyndal had been there, as arcane advisors.  The months-long trip into the wilderness had culminated with much of the expedition getting captured by a party of Enshadowed, gurvani and human renegades searching for Korbal’s lost tomb.

Rondal hated to think about the boys who had died on that expedition.  It had revealed the cruel nature of the Enshadowed, and the callous culture of the gurvani, when they had executed some of them in order to compel the rest to speak.  Indeed, many more boys may have been slain had not Ruderal slipped in and freed them in the middle of the day.  He’d managed to do it without being detected, but it had been a severe risk.

Rondal and Tyndal had repaid that favor by rescuing he and his mother from the Brotherhood of the Rat, who had been working with the Enshadowed to find Korbal’s crypt.  But the Kasari he had freed had also pledged to repay their debt to him someday, in friendship, if in no other way.  Kenpedon had been one of those Kasari Ruderal had liberated.  He’d accompanied the younger Kasari on the Great March after he’d been elevated to Raptor, acting as a troop leader for the exhausting trek.  He’d been in Kasar ever since.

“Is this where I order the delicate underthings?” Rondal asked, in a dull-sounding voice.  Kenpedon looked up, his face in a scowl of annoyance, until he recognized Rondal.

“The wizard?” he asked himself, surprised.  “Rondal?  What are you doing here?”

“The very same,” Rondal agreed, cheerfully.  “Well met, Kenpedon.  My associate and I heard about the expulsion order, and we came to offer our sympathies.  You remember Ruderal, don’t you?” he said, indicating the apprentice.  Ruderal gave a brief bow.

“I do,” Kenpedon nodded, his face flickering at the memory of that dark day.  “Thank you, once again.  I feared I’d never see you after you went away with the gurvani.”

“I wish I didn’t have to,” admitted Ruderal, “but my mother was their prisoner.  I could not leave until she was safe.  Thankfully, Sir Rondal and Sir Tyndal were able to rescue us.”

“And now Ruderal is the apprentice of no less than Minalan the Spellmonger, himself,” Rondal added, proudly.  “He’s widely respected in his realm of the Magelaw.  But when we heard about Tavard’s snit, we wanted to speak to you.”

“Why me?” Kenpedon asked, confused.  “I’ve been assigned to the Quartermaster’s hut for the last two years.  The Council is preparing for the . . . expulsion,” he said, distastefully.  “You should speak to them.”

“Oh, I will, after this.  The council might be organizing it, but they won’t be going along,” reasoned Rondal, as he slouched against the shelf.  “You will, Kenpedon.  You’re one of the most senior Raptors who came here from Bransei.  You’re officially expelled, your pilgrimage at an end.  It’s inevitable you are assigned as a troop master for the trek back home.  You and your fellow troop masters will have control over the march, once it’s underway.”

“Yes, possibly,” conceded Kenpedon, confused.  “Why is that of import?”

“Do you think Prince Tavard is going to expel you and just let you march away peacefully to Alshar?” Rondal asked him.

“He’s forbidden us to carry weaponry,” the Kasari ranger pointed out.  “Why would he tell us to get out, and then keep us from going?”

“Because he’s forbidden you for bearing arms,” Ruderal argued.  “He doesn’t want you to be able to defend yourself if a couple of Wilderlords decide to harass you on your way.  You’ll be defenseless.”  The idea seemed to startle Kenpedon.  He shook his head at the thought.

“Only you won’t be,” Rondal continued.  “Pilgrims might not be able to legally carry arms, under this edict, but there is no prohibition from hiring guards to protect them.  When I heard of what Tavard did, I arranged to hire a mercenary company to escort you back across the frontier to Alshar.  They should keep anything untoward from happening, I hope.  That’s what I came to Lemsiddons to tell the council.”

“Well, thank you,” Kenpedon said, sincerely, though still confused.  “We can take care of ourselves, but it will be nice knowing we have some recourse if things get ugly.”

“Well, I doubt Tavard would allow the magi to escort you, considering he’s declared war on the Magelaw,” Rondal explained.  “That was the best that I could do on short notice.  But the reason I came to you before I go visit the council is that once you and your fellows are underway, you’ll no longer be under the authority of the local council, correct?”

“Well, that is true,” Kenpedon agreed.

“And if you aren’t under their authority, once you are safely in Alshar once again you will be free to make your own plans, if I am not mistaken.”

“This, too, is true,” the ranger nodded.  “But why is that of import?”

“Because I would hate to try to convince you to break any of your tribe’s laws,” Rondal continued.  “I know how carefully you cleave to them – to your credit,” he hastened to add.  “But I would also suggest that once you are across the border, that you and your fellows carefully consider what the future might hold for Kasar.  Have there been any incursions from the Wilderlords in the last few years?”

“What?  Why, no, they haven’t given us any trouble.  No more than usual,” he corrected.

“That’s likely because they saw how many of you marched past their castles and they realized that provoking Kasar was not in their interests,” Ruderal observed.

“The Great March swelled the number of Kasari in Kasar by almost a third, from what I understand,” Rondal agreed.  “They were mostly children, of course, but those children have grown since then.  Seeing a band of men and women return will make it seem if Kasar is deserted . . . and lightly protected.”

Kenpedon snorted.  “They would be incorrect, in assuming that.”

“Of course they would,” Rondal nodded.  “But that’s not to say the Wilderlords won’t think so.  They know Tavard doesn’t like the Kasari any more than they do, and Tavard knows that Master Minalan has a special place in his heart for your tribes.  This expulsion is just the start of his campaign against you.  Tavard seeks to build a fleet, and he covets the great forests you protect, here.  With a war breaking out elsewhere in the duchy, they will think that there won’t be anyone stopping the Wilderlords from encroaching on your tribal lands.  Unless they have a very good reason not to.”

“I would say a few thousand rangers is a good reason,” Kenpedon frowned.

“As would I.  How many of those rangers will die in that little war?  How many Wilderlords?  How many civilians?  How many acres of forest will the Wilderlords manage to cut down before you retake them?

“But there might be a way to ensure that Kasar will be free from harassment, if you and your fellows are brave enough.”  Rondal was taking a chance, provoking Kenpedon on the basis of his bravery.  It was one of the sacred Laws that the Kasari were brave.

But they weren’t unintelligent about the matter, nor incautious.  The Kasari prized bravery in the face of adversity, not as a means to prove their status the way some war-like tribes did.  The elaborately embroidered raptor emblem on Kenpedon’s tunic did that.  Bold action was not uncommon, to a Kasari ranger.  But neither was ill-considered action.

Kenpedon realized that he was being goaded, and he sighed and looked back and forth from Rondal to Ruderal.

“Just what are you proposing, wizard?” the ranger asked, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“Just an idea I had,” Rondal said, straightening.  “One that I think you could convince your fellows to consider, while they’re taking their stroll through the Wilderlands.  And you need not convince them all, or even consider it yourself.  But if you’re willing to pass along my proposal to the troops, I would consider it a boon.  Or a favor repaid.”

He began explaining his plan to the ranger, who seemed in equal measures surprised, confused, and anxious as Rondal unfolded the proposal.  But as he revealed each new and unexpected portion, he saw Kenpedon get caught up in his enthusiasm, and watched his skepticism diminish.

“You really think that would work?” he finally asked, after Rondal brought the plan to its conclusion.

“With the subtle support of the magi, yes,” Rondal assured him.  “Tavard doesn’t consider you Kasari, he considers you Alshari.  I propose to use that against him, to aid Count Minalan – who is your overlord, according to Narasi law – and help protect Kasar from Tavard.  Everyone wins . . . except for Tavard, who will be in a bind.  Perhaps the king will intervene, but if you keep to the law – both the Narasi law and the Kasari law – then you should not fear the outcome.”

“That is a very interesting proposal,” nodded Kenpedon.  “Very interesting.  I don’t know exactly how I feel about it, but I will pass it along to the other troop leaders.  I think they will find it interesting, as well.”

“I cannot ask for any more,” Rondal said, with a bow.  “I will speak with them, when they reach Alshar.  And I will prepare for the possibility that they will consider the matter favorably.  As I said, you will have the support of the magi.”

“Are you certain the Spellmonger would approve of this?” Kenpedon asked, suddenly.

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Rondal shrugged.  “Alas, the good Count is unreachable, at the present, and I cannot say for certain either way.  Sometimes it is left up to us to take initiative against the storms of the future,” he reasoned.  “The magi think that Tavard is coming for your trees.  Bi reidh,” he added persuasively in the tribesman’s own tongue.

Ruderal caught his eye and gave a nod of significance.  Rondal had convinced the ranger, then, according to Rudy’s special talent for reading enneagrams.

That was a relief – he could not make such a suggestion to the Kasari Council at Lemsiddons, of course.  They would be against it on the basis of their vulnerable position.  The Kasari were generally conservative, particularly when it came to their titular Narasi overlords and their feudal politics.  But the tribes could not ignore the tides of war that were rising across the Five Duchies and hope they wouldn’t get wet.

“I’ll do it,” Kenpedon finally agreed, grinning at the idea.  “If I can convince enough of the fellows to join in, it could work, I think.”

“We won’t know unless we try,” Rondal said, approvingly.  “I’ll take care of my end, if you take care of yours, and then we’ll speak again in Alshar in a few weeks,” he promised.

“That seemed easier than I thought it would be,” Ruderal commented, as they left the Quartermaster’s Store.

“Kenpedon is a good fellow, and a great Kasar,” Rondal explained.  “After how Tavard tried to impede the Great March, he held a grudge.  So did a great many Kasari.  But the councils wouldn’t let them act on that grudge, of course.  They aren’t warlike enough to raid the rest of the Wilderlands in response, but that doesn’t mean the animosity has gone away.  Particularly amongst the younger Kasari.”

“What if it goes horribly wrong?” Ruderal asked.  “I mean, if something goes amiss and a bunch of Kasari get slaughtered, or hung, or . . .”

“It’s a chance,” Rondal admitted with a shrug.  “No one can predict how a war will go, and yes, something could go horribly wrong.  If it does, we will take responsibility and contend with it.  If it doesn’t go wrong, however, the potential gain could be well worth the risk.”

“Do you think Master Min would approve?” Ruderal challenged, as they crossed the street to the council’s lodge.

“Minalan?  Oh, Ishi’s tits, no!“ Rondal assured him.  “He’d tell me not to meddle, even though he meddles all the time.  So would Pentandra.  But then that’s the beauty of this plan: he isn’t around to tell us not to.  And if it works, the Magelaw will be in a much stronger position.”

“Perhaps.  Where do we go after this?” Ruderal asked.

“South,” Rondal explained.  “There’s a mercenary company I want to hire.  A lot of the Alshari children who joined the Great March on our way here ended up signing on with them.  I’m hoping I can convince them to cooperate with the plan.  Then we’ll head back to Vorone and Vanador, where we can quietly ensure that things don’t go horribly wrong from afar.  While we’re acting completely innocent of the matter,” he added.

Ruderal frowned.  “I’m not very good at lying,” he confessed, guiltily.  “Not nearly as good as you and Tyndal.”

“You don’t have to lie, you just don’t say anything,” Rondal instructed, reasonably.  “With your Talent, you should be pretty good about keeping secrets.”

“Maybe,” Ruderal said, doubtfully.  “You know, this seems a lot more like a Tyndal plan than a Rondal plan,” he said, suddenly.

Rondal was caught short at that.  He paused before the door to the council lodge and turned to face the apprentice.  “You really think so?” he asked, surprised.

“You’re doing things behind Pentandra’s back, and Master Min’s, you’re keeping secrets, and you’re planning something that – let’s be honest – we both know they would disapprove of and forbid you to do.  That really seems like something Tyndal would do.  I’m wondering if spending so much time with the Kitten of Night isn’t changing you, a bit.  Believe me, after spending a few weeks with Atopol in Gilmora I understand the temptation to be less than honest about such things.  They make it sound so reasonable,” he grumbled, guiltily.

Rondal had to consider that there might be some element of truth to that.  Gatina and her family had a legacy of keeping secrets and lying professionally, one that was so ingrained into their life that Rondal frequently felt like an outsider when he was around his future in-laws.  Not that they were unfriendly, but he had witnessed entire conversations where he did not understand one thing that was being discussed – and it wasn’t just their unusual family business that they kept cloaked in obscurity.

Indeed, if it hadn’t been for Gatina’s ability to keep secrets and obfuscate matters she would never have been able to pull off the revolt that had led to Vichetral’s overthrow and Anguin’s ascension to the throne in the south.  Being sneaky was part of his bride-to-be’s nature.  While it did not come naturally to him, he realized that, perhaps, some of that sneakiness had worn off on him.

Rondal had always prided himself on his honesty, but since he had come to work for Pentandra and started courting Gatina in earnest, he realized that he’d had to compromise on that ideal, to some extent.  Upon reflection he credited the sophisticated nature of the job for that.  When you are meeting contacts and chasing down spies, infiltrating the lairs of Nemovorti and influencing courtiers on a regular basis, honesty and forthrightness were flexible things by necessity, he decided.

But did that rationalization extend to this particular plan, he wondered?

What he was doing wasn’t undermining a criminal gang or working against an evil undead, after all.  This was dabbling in politics in a time of war in a way that he knew – as Ruderal had aptly pointed out – his superiors would not approve of.  Not just politics, but kingdom level politics, and in a way that could, indeed, prove disastrous if it did not work.  Even if it did work as he’d planned, it might lead to tragedy or defeat.  There was no way to be certain.

But he did know an opportunity  when he saw one.  And he knew that if Minalan was in his position, he might very well agree, even if he could never consent to it.  This was a bold plan, he knew, the kind that could change the course of events profoundly.  Pentandra could never approve of such a thing lest she jeopardize her position as Court Wizard.  Neither would Anguin, merely for the headaches it would inevitably give to the ducal court.

Rondal had enough vision and foresight to appreciate why, then, it was up to him to make this move without their knowledge or consent.  When presented with the result, the Magelaw would have an advantage that could be used to stop this stupid civil war in its tracks, if it was used wisely.

Conversely, it could make the war ten times worse.  Or even break the kingdom.

Rondal heaved a great sigh.  “It’s not just Gatina,” he explained, after considering the entire matter.  “I’m not just an apprentice anymore, I’m not even an arcane knight errant.  I’m a man of position with real prospects who is watching everything my master painstakingly built get threatened while he is away.  While we have Nemovorti and draugen wandering around, assaulting old ladies and plotting our downfall, I see a prince with hurt feelings attacking my people instead of focusing on the real threat.  I know Tavard is wrong to do so, and is acting against the best interests not just of the kingdom but his own duchy.

“So if I have to tell a few lies, convince a few Kasari to do something stupid, and deceive Pentandra about it, I’ll take responsibility for that,” he decided.  “I don’t feel as if I’ve betrayed my integrity by doing so.  I feel like I’m serving the interests of my people and my duchy.”

“That is a profound amount of rationalization, there,” Ruderal nodded.  “I don’t need my Talent to see that.  But with it, I can also see you’re taking a lot of joy in the idea.  You’re also nearly certain it will work,” he accused.

“Of course I am,” Rondal said, almost snapping.  “I wouldn’t have proposed it if I didn’t think it would work.  That doesn’t mean I need to wave the plan around like a flag and let everyone see it.  It’s best that this seems like a natural course of events to everyone else.  The nobles of the Magelaw and Anguin would never try something like this.  But I can, and if I manage it they will be better off for it.”

“And you’ll get the credit for it,” Ruderal nodded.

“I don’t want the credit,” Rondal assured.  “I really don’t.  I suppose I just want to see if I can do it.  And I want this war to be over, and preferably in our favor.  This seems like the most expedient route to that.  In fact, I would be ever so happy that my name wasn’t ever associated with it, considering the bad blood it might inspire.”

“Whereas if the Kasari do it of their ‘own free will’ then they will get the blame, not the magi,” Ruderal nodded.

“If this goes properly, they will be amply protected – perhaps even better off,” argued Rondal.  “Sure, the magi will be implicated in it, after the fact – there’s no way to avoid that.  But if everything goes according to plan then we should be able to keep the honest truth from spoiling the victory.”

“And keep Pentandra from being angry with you,” Ruderal reasoned.

“That, too, would be lovely,” agreed Rondal.  “If she finds out just how involved I am, she might be forced to sack me.  But it’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“Which brings us back to the ‘everything goes horribly wrong’ possibility,” Ruderal pointed out.  “You could be encouraging the Kasari to be walking into a deadly trap.”

Rondal snorted.  “If you knew Tavard as I do, you’d know the likelihood of him being able to conceive of any kind of trap is remote.  Besides, they’ll have the element of surprise on their side,” he reasoned.  “If they move quickly, the chances that anyone will die will be lessened, I think.”

“Your ability to rationalize is impressive,” Ruderal said, nodding sagely.

Rondal frowned.  “Sometimes it takes a couple of good rationalizations to do the right thing,” he argued.  “It may not be the wise thing, but it is the right thing.”

“And a final rationalization to top it off,” nodded the apprentice.

“It will be fine,” Rondal dismissed.  “I – bide,” he said, holding up a finger.  “Someone is contacting me,” he realized.  He shut his eyes and concentrated on the spell, until he could hear Pentandra’s voice in his head.

Where are you? she asked, curtly.

In the field, he reported, honestly.  About to hire more mercenaries, as we discussed. What do you need?

Things are going into the bloody chamberpot, Pentandra informed him, anxiously.  Terleman is consolidating his power in the newly conquered baronies of Gilmora.  Wenek and Azar are taking the field to expand their conquests beyond those borders, and apparently they’re finding support in a number of noble houses who favor Alshari rule.  Tavard is screaming about it and calling forth his banners.  Anguin has given tacit approval of the Magelaw annexing the conquered domains, inclusive of Losara and Tantonel.

Ishi’s tits, that would nearly cut Gilmora in half! Rondal observed.

More like a third, but yes, Pentandra agreed.  It has become a crisis.  The King has summoned the high nobility of the Magelaw for an emergency council at the Royal Palace, tomorrow, she informed him.

But I don’t have any lands in the Magelaw, Rondal pointed out.

Only because I haven’t gotten around to giving you any, Pentandra admitted.  I’ve been busy.  Fine, you’ll come as my deputy, then.  But I want you there as a voice of reason around these hotheaded warmagi.  They think that they can just keep rolling up Gilmora like a tapestry.

They seem to be doing that, Rondal pointed out.  The Gilmorans, by all accounts, aren’t doing a particularly good job defending against them.

How could they? Pentandra asked.  That’s not the issue.  The issue is that Tavard has made this about class, not merely about politics.  He’s claiming that the magi have been conspiring to overthrow the chivalry, and that’s got a lot of spurs jingling across Castal.  I just found out that even some nobles who don’t particularly like Tavard don’t like the idea of being ruled by magi even less.  If this keeps up, we could see an awful lot of knights headed to Vanador.  Perhaps even some Alshari knights, she pointed out.

Do you think they’ll succeed where goblin hordes and Nemovorti haven’t? Rondal challenged.

I think that if we slaughter two generations of chivalry in the attempt that we’ll be doing Korbal’s work for him, reasoned Pentandra.  That’s not something we can bear.

That’s a good point, Rondal conceded.  How do you propose to counter this?

We’ll try to get Rard to intervene and force Tavard to back down, she decided.  That’s the best we can do, save for committing fully to this war.  We may have to hand back the lands that Terleman conquered, eventually, but that’s a minor price to pay to avoid all-out war between the magi and the chivalry.

What about getting the clergy involved? Rondal proposed.

I’m working on it, Pentandra assured.  But they don’t have very much leverage in this matter, and they take too long to influence the royal court.  Nor are they the only ones I need to convince. I’m trying to keep the warmagi on a leash, and they don’t give two damns about the temples, most of them.

So what do you want me to do? Rondal asked.

Dress up in your best court clothes – military attire is fine -- and meet me in Vorone one hour before noon, tomorrow, she directed.  We’ll all travel as one party and present a united front, that way.

I will be on time, he promised.  Just a couple of things left for me to sort out in the field.

Sort quickly, she ordered.  This entire situation is like a boiling pot.  It could go over the side any moment.

“Well,” sighed Rondal, “it looks like we had better hasten our efforts.  Pentandra has been summoned to speak to Rard in emergency council tomorrow, and I’ve been invited.  Well, included,” he corrected.  “She’s trying to de-escalate the situation in Gilmora.”

“I truly hope I won’t be included,” Rondal announced.  “Especially if your plan actually works.  You know, it’s not too late to stop it,” he reminded him.

Rondal considered for a moment.  “No, we’ll stick to it, for now.  I can always stop it later.”

“Can you?” Ruderal challenged.

“You doubt my ability?” Rondal asked, surprised.  “I can be quite persuasive, when I need to be.”

“It’s not your ability I doubt, just your commitment,” Ruderal argued, as he opened the door to the lodge.  “After your talk with Pentandra, you got extremely guilty.  Perhaps you should consider that, before you move forward with what could prove to be a profoundly stupid move.”

“Conversely, I could plunge ahead with no regard to the consequences,” Rondal suggested as he went inside.  “After all, Tyndal isn’t here.  Someone has to do that sort of thing.”

“Another rationalization,” Ruderal pointed out, shaking his head.  “Honestly, Gatina is absolutely ruining you.”

Chapter Nineteen

The Royal Palace at Kaunis

Only a fool contends with a king.

Ancient Narasi Proverb

The mood in the royal chamber was tense from the moment Pentandra arrived through the Ways at the head of the Magelaw’s delegation.  Technically, Terleman and Carmella both out-ranked her in this regard, but both had deferred to Pentandra taking the lead and negotiating on behalf of the Magelaw.

She almost wished they hadn’t.  The expression on King Rard’s face when they ushered them into the throne room – one of three in the palace, the castellan had proudly informed her, and the one His Majesty used for military matters – was dark.  His son and heir, Prince Tavard, stood at his left hand, surrounded by his own delegation of Castali nobles, his brows knit with emotion and his face red with anger.

As Terleman and Carmella settled in behind each of her shoulders, the other nobility of the Magelaw spread out behind them on the king’s right side, followed by select retainers.

The warmagi among them had obliged her by wearing their formal military attire for the occasion.  Most had beautifully tooled leather harnesses from which their mageblades and warwands hung, and a few had ceremonial armor on as well.  They looked ready for a military parade.  Save for Terleman, who looked as if he’d just arrived from the battlefield.

His black tunic and mantle were clean, technically, but they were worn and rent in places.  While his harness was as exquisitely detailed as any of them, it was also clearly used for work, not just court appearances.  His Yltedine steel helmet was scratched and battered, a far cry for the shiny helms of the chivalry on the other side of the throne.  He carried his big war staff in one hand, as brutally intimidating as one of the iron staves of the Nemovorti.

And he was smirking.

That’s what irritated Pentandra most.  Terleman’s smirk.  It hadn’t left his face since he arrived at the palace in Vorone, this morning, and it seemed to only get more resolute after they’d transported themselves through the Alkan Ways to the Royal Palace at Kaunis.  Carmella, too, bore a smirk, and walked with the smug satisfaction of a conqueror.  That seemed oddly out-of-place for the little warmage, but then perhaps Pentandra did not know her as well as she thought.

Most of the other warmagi seemed nearly as smug as they entered, save Rondal.  Only her deputy seemed to be taking the occasion with the gravity she was.  His face was as stoic and serious as he took his position.  She would have to commend him, afterwards . . . assuming the king didn’t order them all executed.

Of course that was highly unlikely, as Brother Bryte had assured them before they arrived.  The harried-looking lawbrother had spent days meticulously researching the legalities of the situation, and he seemed confident that the Magelaw had acted well within its legal rights – before listing a half-dozen historical cases when the law had been ignored in favor of political expediency.  Only one of them had involved the headman’s axe, but he assured them all it was very rare.

Pentandra found that only somewhat reassuring.  Even less so, considering her husband was among the party of nobles.

As the herald standing behind Rard began to draw breath, the tired-looking king waved his hand in abeyance.

“Let’s skip the formalities,” he growled.  “We all know who everyone is.  We all know why we are here, as well,” he added, looking from side to side.  He sat on a single throne, one bearing the sword-and-rose device of Castal surrounded by the arms of the other great houses of the kingdom.  Grendine was nowhere in sight.  “My son claims that you attacked his lands unprovoked.”

“Your Majesty, he was mistaken,” Pentandra said, deferentially.  “His sworn vassal crossed the frontier into Alshar and raided one of our patrols on the pretext of a declared war.  Viscount Terleman merely responded to the aggression.”

“By taking the castle at Cleston?” Prince Tavard asked, angrily.

“He felt compelled to, as the Lord of Cleston captured his squire and his men, and were holding them for ransom,” Pentandra explained, patiently.  “The rules of war permit such reprisals and responses.”

“It does seem a little excessive to take a castle over a raid,” admitted Rard.

“My liege,” Terleman said in his deep voice, “I took the capture of my squire personally, and responded as any good knight would.  That, alone, would be enough to attract my wrath,” he continued, standing forward a step.  “I slew the Lord of Cleston fairly in battle.  But when I searched Castle Cleston afterward, I discovered a missive from the, uh, Count of Wilderhall to the Lord of Cleston declaring war upon the Magelaw.”

“Is this true?” Rard asked, surprised, as he looked toward his son.

“Father, that was not to take effect for three more weeks,” Tavard admitted, looking the barest bit guilty.  “At the new moon.  The man was not supposed to reveal that.”

“But you did declare war and instruct your vassals to prepare to fight against the Magelaw?” the king prompted.

“Not for three weeks hence,” Tavard insisted.  “Hostilities were planned for after Midsummer.”

“It sounds as if your plans were advanced without you,” said Rard, with a mirthless chuckle.  “So your man got an early start, and as a result he revealed to your foe that you were preparing to attack him.”

“Yes, but not for three more weeks!” the prince said, adamantly.

“Your Majesty, I have consulted extensively with the Lawfathers,” Pentandra objected.  “Once a state of war has been declared by one noble against another, all rules of warfare apply to the situation.  There is no means of delaying hostilities until you are ready,” she pointed out, giving Tavard a stern look.

“That would make sense,” agreed Rard, stroking his beard.  “Once you learned that a state of war existed against you, you are free to respond as you saw fit, according to Duin’s Law.  So why am I hearing this matter?” he asked Tavard, pointedly.

“Because we did not inform the Magelaw of the state of war,” Tavard explained, heatedly.  “If they did not know about it, they should not have been able to respond – nor respond so viciously!” he said, glaring at the magi from across the room.  His fellow knights joined him with their own disapproving expressions.  “It is customary to await official notification before the onset of hostilities.”

“It’s customary for a lord to keep his men in discipline, before embarking on warfare,” Terleman lectured the prince.  “Had the Lord of Cleston kept his men on his side of the border, we would not have known about the declaration.  That’s an appalling lack of discipline in your vassals,” he said, accusingly.

“My armies are mine to order, Viscount!” Tavard said, turning the title into an insult.

“That would explain their performance on the field,” Terleman said, his smirk growing.

“Father, even if what they say is true, that is no justification for attempting to remove the domain from Castal,” the prince said, angrily.  “Cleston is a Castali land, and should remain under Castali sovereignty!”

Rard looked at his son skeptically.  “You realize that this castle has changed hands four times over the course of history.  The folk are as much Alshari as they are Castali.  It is a border land ruled by a marcher lord.  And apparently not a good one,” he added.

“Your Majesty, after I took Castle Cleston and discovered the Count of Wilderhall’s declaration, I proceeded with my legal right and filed a proper Writ of Conquest with the Office of Lands and Estates,” Terleman explained.  “As the Castali office charged with that duty lies behind enemy lines, I quite reasonably filed it with Vorone.”

“That’s preposterous!” insisted a man behind Tavard – a baron from the Castali Wilderlands, Pentandra recalled.  “Even if he did conquer the domain that does not remove it from the duchy!”

“Your Majesty,” Brother Bryte said, meekly but with professional confidence, “the law records at least nineteen cases in which domains were transferred from one sovereignty to another as a result of conquest – the Gilmoran counties, themselves, were taken that way,” the lawbrother reminded the monarch as he shuffled his scrolls.  “I would be happy to recite each of them in detail, if you wish.”

“I do not,” Rard assured the monk.  “I am aware of the precedent.  But in that case, as in many others, each duchy was at war with one another . . . and they did not exist under a superior sovereignty,” he argued.

“Admittedly, Sire, we are in novel territory,” agreed the lawbrother, in no way dissuaded by the royal argument.  “However, that simplifies matters, not complicates them.  Since the transfer of fealty occurs within the greater framework of the Kingdom of Castalshar, then there is no loss to the Crown – though the Coronet of Castal may suffer.  Under the Laws of Duin the domain lord of Cleston proved his weakness by losing to Viscount Terleman on the field.  He – well, his presumed heirs – lawfully forfeit their rights to rule there, now.  And Viscount Terleman has every right to choose which duke he desires to swear Cleston’s fealty to.”

“That does seem to be the case,” Rard conceded, looking pointedly at Tavard.  “Have you come to understand why the Lord of Cleston failed so miserably in prosecuting your war?”

“I have not,” Tavard said, sullenly.

“I will be sure to ask his brother, who inherited his title upon the previous lord’s death, when I return to Cleston and visit his cell, Your Majesty,” Terleman assured the king.  “Or the Prince may question him himself, once he pays the four hundred ounces of silver for his ransom.”

“Four hundred?” Rard asked, surprised.  “That seems a bit steep for a marcher lord,” he observed.

“A noble house who rules a domain on the border of the duchy should be more attentive to his duties, Majesty,” Terleman argued.  “A vassal who is entrusted with such a post has an especial responsibility to prosecute his liege’s orders with diligence as he wards the frontier against the foe.  One would assume that man would have true value to his liege.  If he was worthy, then his liege should be happy to purchase his freedom.  While the new Lord of Cleston has lost his domain, no doubt his liege still will support him as custom dictates.”

Pentandra suppressed a smile.  She didn’t want to encourage Terleman, but he had adeptly put Tavard into the position of defending a vassal who had failed him in front of his king.  Either he was a poor war leader, and had chosen a poor vassal house to defend his frontier, or he was a faithless liege who would not redeem his captured vassals.  Neither option made the prince look good.

“Four hundred silver for one man of his rank is unreasonable,” Tavard insisted.

“He makes a compelling argument, Tavard,” Rard observed.  “If his house was worthy of guarding your frontier, then he should be worthy of such a sum for his life.  Of course, the revenues he might have secured you have fled with his domain—”

“Father, Cleston should be returned to me until the official beginning of hostilities!” the prince demanded.  “He took the castle unawares, unwarned and unprepared!”

“Then your vassal was an idiot,” Rard said, flatly, his voice growing harsh.  “He apparently conducted a raid before you were ready – and before he was ready – thinking that he could use the advantage of surprise to gain some advantage.  Instead, it appears he did not scout properly and did not realize that Viscount Terleman had an army in the field already – which does not suggest his military prowess.  He reaped the harvest of his own incompetence.  He paid for it with his life.  The capture of Cleston stands,” he rules.

“And the transfer of the domain to Alshar?” Tavard fumed.

“Also granted,” Rard said, reluctantly.  “It was fairly won.  If you want it back, take it from him,” he shrugged.

“Father!  Cleston is part of the sacred territory of Castal, a vital portion of the duchy’s defense!” Tavard protested.  “Likewise the baronial castle they took afterward!  You cannot just hand it off to the Alshari!  Especially not the godsdamned wizards!”

“I did not hand it to them, they won it,” Rard said, pronouncing each word between clenched teeth.  “You shouldn’t have acted as Count of Wilderhall and declared war on the Magelaw, if you weren’t willing to accept the consequences.”

“Then what about the barony of Walkjurik?” demanded the prince.  “That is in Gilmora, not the Wilderlands!”

“In that case, Your Majesty, the baron of Walkjurik took it on his own initiative to attack Viscount Terleman in an attempt to free Cleston, it is believed.  A valiant effort, but ultimately unsuccessful,” Pentandra reported, with deference.  “Viscount Terleman captured him and his men.  And thus provoked, Viscount Terleman felt entirely justified in responding by attacking Growar.  Successfully,” she added, glancing at the warmage.

“And when is he planning on filing a Writ of Conquest on that, as well?” asked Tavard, skeptically.

“It has already been filed, Your Excellency,” Brother Bryte said, cheerfully, as he unfurled a vellum scroll.  “A copy of the Writ was sealed by the Office of Lands and Estates in Vorone two days ago.”

“And Anguin has ratified this?” Rard asked, disturbed.

“Not yet, Your Majesty,” admitted Brother Bryte.  “He has three months in which to consider the matter.  I hesitate to speak on behalf of His Grace, but I believe he is awaiting your rule on the matter before doing so.”

“Yet he is not here to answer for the behavior of his vassals!” scoffed Tavard.  “Why is that, monk?”

“Again, I do not speak on Duke Anguin’s behalf, but I assume that it is because he is respectful of the Treaty of Union he signed, next to Your Majesty,” the lawbrother supplied.  “In this matter, I believe he feels that this is a contest betwixt the Count of Wilderhall – and his allies – and the Count Palatine of the Magelaw, Minalan the Spellmonger.  Such matters between counties are rightly overseen by the Crown, particularly if they lie within two different duchies, according to the Great Charter.  Nor does he support the suspension of the Treaty, as His Excellency – sorry, His Grace, in this context – in whole or in part.  There is no provision for that in the Treaty.  No doubt he will seek a ruling from Your Majesty on the matter presently.”

“No doubt,” Rard said, darkly.  “Is this true, Tavard?”

“Father, under the circumstances, it seemed a reasonable response to the Magelaw’s provocations,” argued the prince.  “Taking Cleston was bad enough, but to take Walkjurik and then Harton?  Capturing that many knights and holding them for ransom?  It became not merely an offence against Gilmora and the Castali Wilderlands, but against the chivalry!  Expelling the Kasari brats that I was tricked into allowing into Castal was a merciful response on my part!”

“And under what portion of the Treaty of Union were you acting when you did so?” Rard demanded.  “No duke has the power to do that under the Great Charter!”

“In the name of preserving the kingdom, he does,” Tavard argued, as he ushered forth his own lawbrother – lawfather, Pentandra corrected.  Lawfather Grolmalar of Castabriel, abbot of the capital’s temple there, to be precise.  She had met the balding, rotund man a few times at court functions.  He might have been an adept jurist, but he seemed somewhat overwhelmed at the intensity of the subject at question.

“Your Majesty,” the old man wheezed, after clearing his throat explosively a few times, “under the terms of the Treaty each duke is empowered to act on behalf of the security of the entire kingdom,” he said, slowly and ponderously.  It was as if he considered each word a singular, irrefutable fact.  “Clearly, when the Magelaw began its aggressive war against the chivalry, it sought to undermine the very foundation of our society.  How could this not be considered a threat to the kingdom of the highest order?” he asked, as if it were the simplest matter in the world.

“Only if you’ve the discernment of a blind racquiel,” snorted Brother Bryte, before anyone else could say anything.  “Your Majesty, the initiative for war was clearly made by His Excellency, the Count of Wilderlaw,” he stated, flatly.  “The impetus of that attack was retribution for an unprovoked raid and the capture of prisoners.  My lord Viscount Terleman responded as forthrightly as any knight.  He just happens to be better at warfare, apparently.  The fall of the baronies of Walkjurik and Harton were both instigated by the chivalry, not the magi,” he reminded the king.  “In each case it was the chivalry who made war on the magi, not the other way around.”

“Your Majesty,” Father Grolamar said, after another explosive cough, “the Count of Wilderhall was prosecuting a just war on a legitimate enemy.  It was the magi who turned that into an excuse to embark on a vendetta against the chivalrous class – demonstrating their own tenuous grasp of honor – as is demonstrated by the unusually high ransoms they are demanding,” he argued.  It was like listening to whitewash drying, Pentandra decided.

“The high ransoms are to demonstrate nothing more than Viscount Terleman and his men have a high regard for their own prowess on the field, and seek to be adequately compensated for their display of mercy on the field of battle.  If my lord Count finds paying these ransoms onerous, and the vassals themselves cannot raise the funds, then their lives are forfeit,” he reminded them.

“They were not captured after a fair fight,” Prince Tavard insisted.  “They were taken with spells and arcane tricks!  How is that honorable combat?”

“I can imagine my lord Count has a difficult time determining such things,” Terleman agreed with mock sadness.  “I could have burned them alive on the battlefield along with their horses and armor like so many hobgoblins, but I preferred to be merciful.  I merely sent them to sleep.  They were foolish enough to rush into battle without an adequate Magical Corps,” he explained.  “They were subject to the simplest of spells, as a result.”

“We do not need wizards to prevail in battle!” Tavard said, nearly shouting.  “The honor of the chivalry rests on proper military conduct on the battlefield!  Not trickery and subterfuge!  That is the foundation of our society!”  There was a chorus of muttered agreement from the knights standing behind him.  They all looked outraged at the idea.

“And how has your Excellency found the pursuit of victory, under such limitations?” Pentandra felt compelled to add.  “Do you feel, perhaps, that merely holding a spear whilst riding a horse confers some mystical power to rule?  The Laws of Duin may glorify the role of the cavalry, but they also denote the role of the infantry and the archer corps.  Aye, and the warmage,” she reminded him.

Although the section of the laws that dealt with the matter of magi was small, it was present in the warrior code.  Even the ancient Narasi barbarians had brought their shamans to battle, as ineffective as they were against the warmagi of the Magocracy.

“If the chivalry cannot find the courage or the ability to prevail in a contest against warmagi,” she continued, “then I suggest that perhaps their days in ascendancy are coming to an end,” she concluded, the contempt for the chivalric class heavy in her voice.

“So you admit that you target knights in this war!” Tavard declare, triumphantly.

“Only those foolish enough to believe they can fight a battle against warmagi without using warmagi themselves,” snorted Carmella, speaking for the first time.  “Cavalry has its place.  It is not necessarily at the top of the social order.  If the chivalry wish to prove their worthiness to lead our people, then they need to prove their worth on the field, first.  Until then, get used to losing castles . . . and baronies . . . and counties.”

“Father!” Tavard pleaded, “you cannot allow this threat against our kingdom to stand!”

“When you are king, perhaps you will understand my reasoning,” King Rard said, after a moment’s pause.  “The security of the kingdom is not threatened by the Magelaw.  Indeed, it is fortified by such powerful warriors.  If you wish to reclaim your lost lands, then you must take them from the magi by force, or negotiate for their return.  That is the law,” he stated, firmly, staring at the lawfather balefully.

“It will take too much time to organize an army sufficient to do so,” muttered Tavard, crestfallen at his father’s ruling.

“Then hire more mercenaries,” shrugged Rard.

“I have . . . that is, it is proving difficult to do so,” the prince admitted, grudgingly.  “There has been a dearth of free companies available to hire.  Many are unwilling to face the magi.  Others seem to have been hired and contracted already.”

“Then it appears you have a test for your leadership,” Rard suggested.  “If you cannot dislodge a foe from a few baronies and march lands, then how are you to be entrusted with the security of the kingdom someday?”

“It is unfair to judge my leadership based on a surprise attack that flaunts the lawful rules of warfare,” Tavard said, glowering at the magi now.

“Surprise counterattack,” Terleman corrected.  But Rard had apparently had enough of his son’s excuses.

“Do you think your foes will always follow the law?” he asked, skeptically.  “Did the Mad Mage adhere to the Laws of Duin?  Did the gurvani?  This very palace was attacked by surprise and dozens were slaughtered without regard to Duin’s Law.  When you are at war, you contend with the challenges that are presented to you.  You do not whine and complain about the unfairness of things while there are foes at the gate!”

“Your Majesty,” Pentandra said, before Tavard could respond, “The Magelaw has fought two wars in less than a year.  Wars against implacable foes, wars which required us to rise to challenges we did not anticipate.  Count Minalan fought them with what he had available – he did not even request assistance from Duke Anguin, though he was within his rights to do so.  Nor the kingdom, though the threat from the Nemovorti imperils the entire realm.

“Some concord could be reached with the Count of Wilderhall and his allies,” she said, being careful to keep Tavard’s title in the scope of his role, “but only if he rescinds the declaration of war, the suspension of the Treaty of Union, and pays the ransoms of his captured vassals.  That is the position of the Magelaw,” she said, definitively.

“And Count Minalan supports this gesture?” Rard asked, curiously.

“Count Minalan is still on his expedition,” Pentandra admitted.  “His proximity to the jevolar in the north prohibits even magical communication with him.  But he entrusted us with the administration of his realm in his absence.  He will support any negotiations we make,” she assured.

“Will you be willing to forego this foolish war, Count Tavard?” Rard asked his son.  Clearly the monarch wanted him to accept, and spare the kingdom any more internal dissention.  The terms were reasonable, after all – give up the war, pay a hefty fine, and negotiate for the return of the captured baronies.  In the face of Terleman’s victories on the field, it was the sensible thing to do.

But it was clear that the Castali knighthood was not in favor of the accommodation.  To accept it, Pentandra knew, would be a tacit admission that their chivalric order was inferior to the warmagi, and their vaunted honor would not let them.

Not that Prince Tavard needed their support – his own sense of honor, his outrage, or perhaps his enmity for the magi overall had convinced him of his course.

“I shall not!” he declared, his voice low and threatening as he addressed Terleman personally.  “You may have taken my forces by surprise, Wizard, but you will find them far more vigilant in the future.  Enjoy your brief moment of victory,” he taunted.  “It will be your last!”

“Until the next one,” Terleman shrugged.  “Your man in Cleston should not have beaten my squire.  It makes me reluctant to show you mercy.”

“And I remind you, Count Tavard,” Carmella added, “that the terms of Count Minalan’s exile prohibit you from making war on his lands in Castal.  You have ordered a quarantine of Sevendor, and stationed troops nearby to enforce it.  That is dangerously close to war.  Violate that at your peril, lest the Spellmonger himself take exception when he returns.”

“If he returns,” Tavard corrected, with a mirthless chuckle.  “Rumor says that he has fled, or has died on his foolish expedition.”

“Your rumors are better informed than the abilities of our greatest wizards, then,” Pentandra suggested.  “We have had no word from his expedition for weeks, though we have tried.  I wonder what power is spreading such rumors.  It is unfortunate that they weren’t as helpful to your vassals in informing them of an enemy army in the next domain,” she added.  Before Tavard could gather a response, she addressed the king directly.  “On another topic, Your Majesty, I do bear a message from Duke Anguin to his esteemed uncle.  As it concerns Duke Tavard’s lands, I think it appropriate for him to hear it as well.”

The king stared at his belligerent son for a moment and then turned back to Pentandra with a nod.  “Proceed,” he said with a tired sigh.

“His Grace is becoming anxious about the growing state of lawlessness in the Westlands, which border his lands,” she began.  “The influence of the Nemovorti there and the plagues that have washed over that land have stirred the flames of rebellion amongst the peasantry, while Tavard’s vassals hide in their castles and keep their gates closed to their own folk in fear.  Duke Anguin fears that an uprising will be sparked if the lords – all knights, I believe – ignore their sworn duties to their people.  Worse, they have taken no action against the Nemovorti who have themselves conquered and settled there.”

“Is this true, Tavard?” Rard asked, disturbed at the news.  No noble wanted to face a peasant rebellion.

“I . . . I will look into it,” Tavard conceded, glaring at Pentandra.  “What little news I have suggests a few minor lords have acted foolishly in the face of dire circumstance.  But there is no word of rebellion.  Nor of these imaginary foes the wizards speak of.”

“Your Majesty,” Rondal said, stepping forward, “I can report on the veracity of the account: I was there, myself, but a few short weeks ago.  There are, indeed, several cantonments of Nemovorti gathering in remote regions of the Westlands.  To ignore them would be the height of foolishness.”

“If they are remote, then they are no threat,” dismissed Tavard, sharply.

“Then you have forgotten the attack on this very palace, and the attack at your sister’s wedding,” Rard said, harshly.  “Those are your lands, Duke Tavard.  See to their security, or you will lose them.  And perhaps imperil the kingdom as a result.  Can you spare no men to fight there because you are too concerned with the Magelaw to defend them?” he asked, pointedly.

Tavard blushed in embarrassment.  “I shall detail an expedition to relieve the Westlands,” he agreed, after a moment’s thought.

“Perhaps Count Anvaram of Nion,” suggested Terleman.  “I do not believe his men have been demobilized yet from their . . . kind assistance to the Spellmonger’s wars in the north.  Apparently they have yet to be paid by him, and will not leave Nion until they are.  And I doubt they wish to cross swords with the magi on the field in pursuit of your war.  They have seen for themselves what we can do to our foes when we are unconstrained by Duin’s Law,” he warned.

“That is an interesting suggestion,” Rard said, chuckling.  “See to it, Tavard.  The last thing we need is a peasant rebellion or an explosion of undead on our flanks, right now.  I have so ruled.  You are all dismissed – save my son.  I will take counsel with him, before he begins the journey back to Castabriel to consider his many wars.”

Pentandra joined the others in a low and stately bow, the sort reserved for a reigning monarch, before she signaled to her fellow arcane nobility.  In a blink, they all brought themselves through the Ways back to Vorone, as they had arranged beforehand.

It was a flashy demonstration of magical power, but she hoped it drove home the point to Tavard and his allies amongst the chivalry.  Probably not enough to end this stupid war – their honor was too great a price for that – but perhaps enough to lend them some caution in their approach.

Terleman looked even more smug when he emerged from the Ways in front of Castle Vorone.  He had every right to be, she decided.  Not only had he won three dramatic victories on the field, and conquered three baronies in as many days, but he had been validated for his prowess by the king, himself.  Against his only son.  His fellow warmagi seemed enthusiastic as they congratulated the man on prevailing before the king as well as on the field.

But Pentandra was less sanguine about the meeting.  Tavard was no less belligerent, now – indeed, he was clearly incensed by Rard’s ruling, and was unwilling to relent in his vendetta.  As she knew he would.  There was prophecy involved, after all.  Despite that, she really had tried to offer terms that would end the conflict before it could spread.

She knew what came next – at least some of it.  As she surveyed the victorious magi, she recalled the predictions that would see them in battle against human foes this summer – and the awful consequences of that war.  Nor could she persuade the warmagi to halt their advance into Gilmora, she knew.

Astyral and Mavone saw it as a means to retore Alshari sovereignty over a land they felt had been lightly traded away.  Terleman saw it as an act of vengeance for the treatment of his squire and an opportunity to punish the Gilmorans – as well as establish himself as a great war leader.  And Carmella, Sandoval, and the other warmagi saw it as a defiant slap to the face of the chivalry who had ruled the Five Duchies and denigrated their profession for centuries.

Even peace-loving Arborn supported Terleman’s efforts, she knew, although he was reluctant to lend any direct aid.

No, Pentandra realized, as her stomach sank, she was powerless against those forces: vengeance, pride, and fate.  And that would lead to a more entangled civil war, she knew.  That thought panicked her.  It was as if she were mounted on a panicked horse, headed for a cliff . . . and there was no way for her to stop it.

Chapter Twenty

Rondal’s Army

A clever man counts his coin before he casts the dice.

Wilderlands Folk Saying

Rondal was near exhausted when he arrived, finally, at the new frontier between Alshar and Castal.

He’d spent two weeks doggedly tracking down each of the locations of the Nemovorti in the Westlands, in conjunction with Mavone’s adept spies, scouting them as thoroughly as possible.  It was dusty, dirty, dangerous work, but he knew it was necessary.  And there was more work to be done as the situation there worsened.  Despite Tavard’s assurances of military assistance, reports had come that Count Anvaram was only now sending the vanguard of his diminished army westward from Nion.  It would take several more weeks for them to finally arrive, he figured.

In the meantime, he had to establish just which Nemovorti were now allied with Karakush, where they were located, and what forces were at their disposal.  Unfortunately, he’d found, while there were no great hordes of gurvani preparing to invade Gilmora from the west lurking in their cantonments, there were plenty of undead, far too many Enshadowed sorcerers, and plenty of examples of beasts the enemy preferred for warfare.

Indeed, the sight of giant wyverns were becoming common over the dry and dusty hills of the Westlands, sometimes with riders, sometimes alone.  They had added their hunger to the dangers of the country.  While he was scouting he had heard several tales of the giant, dragon-like flying reptiles descending on an unsuspecting settlement and devouring the people there.  The sudden attacks had added to the paranoia and insecurity of the Westlanders.  Unlike the undead attacks that had plagued the villages of the region, the wyverns did not see castles and walls as impediments to a quick meal.

Worse, as the tales of the sudden attacks from the sky spread amongst the peasants who were slowly starving in the countryside, they began to see the giant wyverns as agents of divine revenge.  Sentiment against the ruling class was souring badly as the hot summer wore on.  Knights who could not – would not – protect their own people weren’t very useful, after all.  As testament to that an uprising had already begun in a village near Hufintir in the north of the province.  He’d witnessed the bloody aftermath of that rebellion himself.

After surveying a nearby manor that had fallen to the Nemovorti, he and his squadron of battlefield spies had retreated to the town to inform the local baron . . . only to find his scorched corpse hanging from a gibbet outside of his own plundered castle.  A score of his knights had joined him, and half of the keep had been burned by the mob that had assailed the gates of Hufintir.  The sign of the flaming pitchfork was painted all over the castle in blood red.  The bodies of the victims had been piled in the courtyard in front of the castle.  No one ruled in Hufintir, now.  It was a lawless place.

He did not know what had sparked the uprising, but it had been large and thorough.  The few townspeople who lingered were unwilling to speak of the rebellion, likely because they were fearful of being implicated in it.  They were concerned about the inevitable reprisals by the knights who ruled them.  Traditionally, the nobility was not particularly careful about whose heads adorned spikes after a rebellion was put down, merely the number.  Defiance of sacred law had to have consequences, after all, if the people were to heed their rightful leaders.

Only this was no ordinary rebellion, Rondal had determined.  Though provided with ample cause to rise up, the peasants who remained in Hufintir were not merely incensed with the baron and his knights.  They seemed possessed of some fanatical streak that went beyond mere warfare between the classes of society.

In testament to that he had seen a few shaven-headed monks and nuns wearing filthy red robes or cloaks and bearing stout staves or pitchforks patrolling the town.  They did not interfere with what little commerce continued there, but their eyes watched everything and everyone as if they were jailers, not clergy.  The magi avoided them, slipping away to avoid any confrontation until they knew what had happened.

That had unnerved Rondal when he had seen it.  The presence of the red-clad monks suppressed everyone’s desire to speak to Rondal and Mavone.  It had taken a show of silver in private to finally lure a tavernkeeper to converse with them behind his tiny shop.

The tale he told was brief, vague, and disturbing: a young girl had led the rebellion, he’d told them, with a few tattered hermits in attendance as she railed against the baron for his perceived faults in the market square.  A pair of guardsmen tried to remove them . . . and were struck down by bolts of flame to the cheers of the gathering crowd.

Whether it was magic, alchemy or the capricious act of the divine, the flames ignited more than the guards – the crowd had turned into a frenzied mob motivated by vengeance and hatred.  They rushed the castle gates before they could be shut against them.

A massacre ensued.  The baron had been brought out of the burning keep – along with a great number of his valuables – and then he and his men were put on trial by the mob . . . then burned to death in their gibbets when the preaching girl condemned them.  The tavernkeeper made only a vague suggestion as to the unspeakable things that had happened to the womenfolk of the castle, but his expression told Rondal everything.

They had left soon after that.

He’d dutifully reported the results of his trips to Pentandra every time he returned to Vorone, or sought her out in Vanador, where she was spending much of her time.  The Court Wizard had heard them with interest, and she wrote them out in detail.  No doubt they would reach the ear of the Duchess soon after.

But between attending court functions Pentandra deemed mandatory and scouting the Westlands, he had gotten precious little sleep – or time to spend with his bride-to-be.

Gatina was involved in her own missions, of course, and their competing schedules often meant that one would arrive in Vorone just as the other had to leave.  Rondal had to confront how that made him feel.  He missed the girl desperately.  Only duty kept him from finding her and running away back to Enultramar or beyond to escape their responsibilities.  It did not keep him from imagining such a thing, however.

But he had duties to his superiors, and worse, the ones he had imposed on himself.

In two weeks’ time the expulsion of the Kasari pilgrims had led them down the roads of Castali Wilderlands toward the frontier.  More than seven thousand had set out from Lemsiddons, he knew, in good order and well-provisioned.  Carefully guarded by the Nirodi Mounted Archers, they had largely escaped persecution by the local Wilderlords and arrived in the westernmost portion of the province.

Of course, things had changed a bit since they’d been here last.  Including the location of the representative border stone.

Terleman’s conquest of Cleston had moved the frontier, and as custom dictated, the viscount had ordered the symbolic stone between the two duchies moved to the recorded extent of the domain . . . only sixty miles from Wilderhall.

That had changed his plan.  Indeed, it had simplified it.  He’d sent word to the company of Orphan’s Band mercenaries he’d contracted, and they’d moved to intercept the marching Kasari to this very spot.  When he’d arrived at the border, their camp was already neatly set up along the slope south of the hill.  Bold Asgus rode out to greet him as soon as word was passed from the attentive sentries at the gate of it.

Rondal was cheered to see the old mercenary captain once again.  Asgus had seemed a legendary figure in the camps of Timberwatch, when he was a boy, and he was gratified to see that the man had lost none of the professionalism he’d displayed – indeed, the years had aged him gracefully.  Next to him was a much younger man bearing a mageblade over his shoulder and a fighting harness over his armor.

“Sir Rondal!  Well met!” the mercenary captain boomed, slapping Rondal on the back while clasping his hand.  “I was surprised when my lieutenant passed along word that you had contracted us – along with your deposit.  I had heard you had gone to Enultramar and gotten married once you became a journeyman.”

“Not quite married, yet,” he admitted, “but I’m now stationed in Vorone.  And I would appreciate it if you kept my involvement with this affair to yourself, for now,” he added.

The big man nodded.  “Our clients are completely confidential,” he agreed.  “That’s why our fees are so high.  To be honest, I was expecting to be hired by Prince Tavard for his war against the Spellmonger, but he felt compelled to haggle.  I’d rather fight for the magi, than against.  Word has spread about what you folk do up there, these days.”

“You’ll have to credit Count Minalan and his men for that,” Rondal assured him.  “I’ve been chasing spies and undead in the swamps of Enultramar.  But as to the matter at hand . . . were you able to prepare as I requested?”

“Oh, of course,” Bold Asgus nodded.  “This is Pintol, just out of Relan Cor.  The Band paid for his training,” he added, proudly.  “One of those runts you marched here from Alshar.  But the lad grew up, found his Talent, and is eager for his first mission as our company’s first warmage.  Aren’t you, boy?”

“The Spellmonger saved my life, when he brought the Kasari by,” the dark-haired young man agreed.  “I was hiding in the woods, fighting squirrels for their nuts  when I first heard them singing.  I’d be dead if he hadn’t let me join them.”  There was a note of passionate sincerity in Pintol’s voice, made twice as poignant by his Wilderland’s brogue.  His expression was determined, and his eyes flashed with emotion.

Rondal understood the feeling – he’d had it himself, once.  He still did – his loyalty to his master was powerful.  But he’d also developed other loyalties since then.  While he appreciated the emotion Pintol was feeling, he also appreciated how dangerous it would be to the boy.

“If this goes well and you perform honorably, I’ll recommend you for a witchstone,” Rondal promised.  “But I need at least one trained mage for this to work.  Here,” he said, pulling a quiver full of wands and rods from a hoxter.  Bold Asgus’ bushy eyebrows shot up in surprise at the display, and he gave an impressed grunt.  “These are your supplies.  You will act as the arcane support for this affair,” he informed the warmage.  “There is a Waystone within.  There are transport wands, siege wands, and a few arcane constructs you will find useful within.  Also, a Mirror enchantment which I will instruct you in.  All perfectly ordinary spells . . . for the High Magi.”

“And this has the Spellmonger’s sanction?” Asgus asked, curiously.

“This is more of a clandestine operation,” Rondal explained.  “Count Minalan is unavailable, even by magic, at the moment.”

“Say no more!” grinned Asgus, holding up his calloused hand.  “Wouldn’t be the first time the Orphans did something shady.  We won’t violate the Laws of Duin,” he cautioned.  “But sometimes Kulin’s Law is needed.”

“I don’t think we’ll get that far,” Rondal assured him.  “If this goes according to plan, there will be little actual fighting, much less bloodshed.”

“You’re placing a lot of faith in Ifnia, lad,” Asgus said, skeptically.  “If I understand what you’re proposing, then someone is likely to get hurt.  Almost inevitable, if I know how Fortune plays dice with us.”

“We’ll try to avoid it,” Rondal corrected.  “You’re ready for our guests?”

“Our recruits, you mean?” Asgus asked.  “Aye.  Tents, blankets, food, and horses.  And clothes, of course,” he added.  “Everything on the list you sent with the orders.  The bows from Nirod arrived day before yesterday.”

“They don’t appear to be guarding the roads, yet,” Pintol agreed.  “I’ve scryed up and down it, and the new marcher lord hasn’t realized that he’s on the western marches, yet.  He hasn’t sent so much as a patrol to the frontier.  We let plenty of peasants and packtraders through, but no soldiers.”

“That’s a boon,” agreed Rondal.  “And it will make this easier.”  Before he could explain, a horn sounded in the distance with two long blasts.

“Sentry horn!” Pintol grinned.  “They’ve been sighted!  They’ll be here soon,” he said, eagerly.

“I suppose we should prepare to greet them, then,” Bold Asgus agreed, and led them toward the road.  They found a spot on a small rise overlooking the well-trod path, just within the imaginary line that ran through the boundary stone.

This place was now Alshari territory, Rondal reminded himself.  Under the laws of Alshar and the Magelaw, technically.  And under Duke Anguin’s sovereignty – assuming he ratified the Writ of Conquest that Terleman had filed.  In any case, that was enough for Rondal’s purpose.

When the first Nirodi scouts came up the road, they waved at them, spoke a few words with Asgus, and returned to report to the troops behind them.

Then they began to arrive, and Rondal could hear them.  Not merely their many footsteps, but their voices – they were singing in Kasari.  He thought he remembered the song, or at least the tune, and it brought back memories of the Great March and the expedition to the Land of Scars, when he had first made the acquaintance of the Kasari tribes.

They marched over the ridge in the distance and emerged from the wood that surrounded both sides of the road, a wall of humanity eight abreast . . . and which stretched back more than a mile.  Row after row of cloaked figures strode past the boundary stone and into newly conquered Alshari territory.  They carried light packs and bore short walking staves, and they seemed in good spirits as they came to the stone graven with the Anchor and Antlers on one side and the Sword and Rose on the other.

It was time for Rondal to go to work.  He took a deep breath, and he cast the spells he’d prepared.

“Welcome home to Alshar!” he said, his voice artificially magnified.  A cheer broke out amongst the Kasari as they continued to move forward across the frontier.  He cast the second spell.  A dozen barrels of ale appeared from a hoxter, prompting a second cheer.

The cohesion of the line fell apart as thirsty Kasari fell out and fell onto the great casks.  Asgus ordered his men to begin distributing large baskets of biscuits, freshly made in camp that morning.  “Compliments of the Count of the Magelaw, Minalan the Spellmonger!” Rondal announced, raising another great cheer.

As more and more of the Kasari arrived, more cheers, songs, and laughter rang out in the fields.  It didn’t take long for a delegation of troop leaders to seek Rondal out, along with Captain Rogo Redshaft.

“Any problems?” Rondal asked the man, quietly, when he approached.  A snort and an eyeroll was his reply.

“Wilderlords don’t like archers,” he shrugged.  “Even more than they don’t like Kasari.  Nothing we couldn’t handle.”

Rondal nodded as Kenpedon grabbed his hand using the Kasari’s sacred clasp and shook it.

“We arrived, and in good order,” Kenpedon reported, after exchanging greetings.

“Did you discuss my proposal on the way?” Rondal asked.

“We spoke of little else,” answered another Kasari whom Rondal remembered from the Great March, a fellow named Gillo.  “It passed the time.”

“And was it received favorably?” he prompted.

“Many found it compelling,” a third troop leader agreed.  “There were many volunteers.  Others weren’t as enthusiastic about it.”

“That’s what I figured,” Rondal nodded.  “Perhaps there will be more when I address them.  It shouldn’t take that many,” he reasoned.

“We’ll see, lad,” Bold Asgus chuckled.  “I’ve been a recruiter for years.  It’s not always easy to convince a man to put his life on the line for good coin, much less a cause.”

“I have to try,” Rondal said, and climbed on top of one of the unopened barrels of ale.  He produced his baculus from a hoxter and activated an attention-getting cantrip that was loud and flashy enough to startle the Kasari into silence.

There were thousands of them, now, he realized.  Thousands of young men and women who had been in his care, only a few years ago.  He swallowed before he activated the enchantment that augmented his voice.

“My . . . friends,” he began, as thousands of curious eyes stared back at him.  And then he gave the most important speech of his life.

Rondal’s lecture to the Kasari about the political situation and the devious actions of Prince Tavard, the Count of Wilderhall, was potent.  His suggestion for countering the Prince was well-received, even if the plan he explained raised some voices of skepticism amongst them.  When it came to enlisting as mercenaries with the Orphan’s Band, there were even more – many Kasari rebelled at the notion of serving in a Narasi army, even temporarily.  The Kasari counted themselves free men, and some took that notion deeply to heart.

But the stratagem Rondal outlined appealed to many as cunning and worthy, once he explained it in detail.  He tried to sound confident and enthusiastic and used all of the other means he had learned over the years in war and in court, though he was uncomfortable doing it.

This was something he was doing without permission or sanction.  On his own initiative.  He hadn’t even told Gatina about it.

As he spoke, he tried fervently to believe in his own words, and not succumb to the growing doubt that was creeping up in the back of his mind.  The thousands of eager smiles that laughed at his jokes and listened attentively to his plans could be marching to their doom.  And he was the one sending them there.

These were not warriors, though they knew how to fight.  But if he could convince enough of them to join the Orphans’ Band and embark on this mission for the sake of Alshar and the Spellmonger’s realm, then it would work.  It might work, he corrected.  He realized, suddenly, that Bold Asgus invocation of Ifnia was far more apt than he wanted to admit.  He was the one throwing the dice here.  But he would not be the only one to pay the price.

Still, he persevered, stifling his own doubts as he concluded his remarks to thunderous cheers.  He invited all those who wanted to participate to line up by the entrance to the Orphans’ camp to take the enlistment oath and receive their new arms.  He invoked their patriotism, their resentment, and their sense of honor as his speech came to a close.  Even Bold Asgus and his men were cheering, as were the hundreds of Nirodi Mounted Archers who had arrived with the Kasari.

“Well done, lad!” Bold Asgus said, grinning widely as he helped Rondal down from the barrel.  “I’ve never seen so many poor bastards ready to march into death all at once!  You’d make six hells of a recruiter!”

Rondal was a little overcome as Asgus and Pintol led him to the gates where a couple of Ancients, a warbrother and a squad of infantry began swearing in the Kasari men in groups of ten.

There were a lot of groups of ten, Rondal realized, as he saw the lines form.

“How many did you figure you’d need to accomplish this?” Asgus asked him, quietly.

“Five hundred, at least,” Rondal said, dazed, as he witnessed another oath on parchment.

“We’re getting close to that now,” Asgus nodded.  “How many did you expect to join?”

“Uh, perhaps a thousand, if I was lucky,” Rondal admitted.

As the day wore on and the Kasari became official Orphans for the summer, it became clear that Rondal’s expectations had been tame.  Nearly half of the Kasari had volunteered for the mission.  More than two thousand newly minted Orphans began their brief mercenary career that day.

It was a heady feeling, as Rondal went over the plans with the troop leaders-cum-company commanders that afternoon.  He’d led men in battle before.  He’d even recruited men before and trained them.  But this was the first time he’d ever built an army on his own, to follow his own orders, without oversight.  He was not just planning a military expedition, he realized, he was dabbling in Royal politics like a warlord.

People were executed for that sort of thing sometimes, he recalled.  Then he wondered what Tyndal would say about the entire affair.

“It looks like we’re going to need more bows,” Rogo Redshaft said, apologetically, at the planning meeting.  “And more shafts.  They’ve exhausted our armories.”

“We’ve got swords enough for them,” Asgus argued.  “Not all of them need to be archers.”

“Staves will do, if nothing else is found.  We can make them spears easily enough,” Kenpedon suggested.

“We’ll do better than that,” Rondal promised.  “Make a list of all the equipment you need and send it to me.  I’ll procure it in Vanador and send it through the hoxters.  You won’t starve, either,” he promised.  That made the Kasari laugh.  The tribesmen did not have a Narasi peasant’s ideas about food, and they could forage indefinitely in the wild.  The Kasari did not depend on bread for their food.  They did not even require ale, though plenty enjoyed it.

“And if we encounter resistance?” asked Kenpedon warily.

“If you plan well enough, you’ll be prepared for it,” Rondal answered.  “That’s why I suggest you keep half your force hidden in the countryside to counter any resistance.  Master Minalan said once that a single patrol was all that Rard and Lenguin needed for the entire war in Farise.  I’m assuming two thousand of you should be able to accomplish this,” he predicted.  “They’re only Wilderlords, after all.”  That earned another laugh.

“And who is to speak for us, should we succeed?” asked one of the new captains.  “Someone will be asked to represent us as a leader, in negotiations.”

“Choose someone among you,” Rondal instructed.  “One of your best-spoken, of course.  And be prepared for treachery from the Wilderlords.  But once you are successful, you must send those messages, as I have bid.  Much depends on them.  There are legal matters and issues of politics involved, and I want to do my best to protect you.  Those will help,” he promised.

“And don’t worry about the Wilderlords,” dismissed Rogo Redshaft.  “They can couch a lance fairly enough, but in terms of siegework?  Strategy?  They can charge gallantly and die gallantly.  Anything more complex than that and they’re at a loss.”

“Just keep them talking,” Rondal suggested.  “As long as you can.  Keep your employer secret, as long as you can.  As mercenaries you’re covered under the Laws of Duin, remember,” he pointed out.  “You aren’t auxiliaries or an army of vassals.  You’re doing what you’ve been paid to do, no more.”

“It should all be perfectly legal,” agreed Bold Asgus.  “I’ve consulted with Warbrother Maefs about it at length, and he agrees.  The Count of Wilderhall has put out the word that he’s hiring mercenary companies.  Seeing one march into Wilderhall won’t raise any eyebrows, I suspect.  They’ll assume that we’re in Tavard’s employ, heeding his call.  By the time they know any different, it will be too late.”

“And if you’re challenged?” Rondal asked.

“Then I shove Tavard’s own call for troops under their nose and ask where I go to get paid,” Asgus assured him.  “I’m not misrepresenting myself.  I suspect you’ll be paying us out of the funds we capture.  Trust me, I’ve been in and out of Wilderhall looking for work for years, now.  I could probably take that castle with a training company and a couple of old Ancients,” he boasted.

“A castle is only as strong as those who hold it,” agreed Rogo Redshaft.  “Once the gates are shut and the wall is manned, it might be difficult.  But if they don’t suspect any mischief, they’ll likely have it as open as always.  No more security than they’d have for a tournament,” he predicted.  “If we seize a few key points and hold them in strength, we can hold it indefinitely.  Then we’ll be the ones shutting the gates and manning the walls.  All completely fair and legal,” he said, confidently.

“I don’t care about the legality, I just don’t want to see my men hurt,” Kenpedon said, shaking his head.

“If things go into the chamberpot, the magi will send assistance,” Rondal pointed out.  “You can’t very well do this for the Magelaw and Alshar and not expect us to help.  Most of the Wilderlords that Tavard called are mustering west of the city.  Indeed, you’ll be marching right past them.  The mercenaries are mustering at the tournament field on the northwest side, according to my intelligence.  Neither force suspects an attack, or even an infiltration – they’re preparing for a two-hundred mile march to face Terleman and besiege Cleston.  I think you’ll be able to slip right past them without them even challenging you.”

“Only if we fly the banner of our employer,” Asgus pointed out.  “Otherwise, we violate the Laws of Duin and we can be sanctioned.  By the hangman,” he reminded Rondal.

“I’m glad that you reminded me,” Rondal nodded, and emptied a hoxter.  A rolled-up banner appeared on the ground in front of him.  He stooped to pick it up.  “I wasn’t able to get a banner for Vanador – it’s still too new for there to be very many of them around,” he explained.  “But I had this lying around my office,” he said, proudly, as he unfurled it.  It was the size of a table, the faded green of the flag worn and scarred with a few small holes where arrows had pierced it.

It had been a gift from Lady Estret, once, a token of her esteem – and a chance for the ladies of Sevendor Castle to practice their needlework.  It was technically his own personal device, a badge he had created for his own use. But as he was a knight of Sevendor it used the token of the first mageland prominently in its design.  He’d borne it only a few times in battle, once on the listfields in a disastrous tournament, and he’d used it to dress his camp occasionally.  Arcane knights were supposed to have livery, after all.

He proudly displayed the flag to all, the intricate white snowflake in the center surrounded by three white mage stars, a golden wand and a golden mageblade crossed over it.  He had designed it when the defense of Sevendor was his highest goal.  Since then, he’d developed other goals just as noble, but this reminded him of that youthful enthusiasm.  Certainly, it was a bit gaudy and perhaps a little ostentatious for a new-made knight mage and a fourth-year spellmonger’s apprentice, but he’d enjoyed a quiet abundance of ambition, back then.

He watched as all of his hired mercenaries studied the banner.  Finally, Asgus cleared his throat.

“So . . . it’s a spiderweb then?” he asked, hesitantly.

“A fishing net,” suggested Kenpedon.

“That, my friends, is a rampant doily and a couple of dreaded knitting needles,” Rogo Redshaft assured them.  “An emblem guaranteed to strike fear and terror into the hearts of our foes.”

“It’s a snowflake,” Rondal protested.  “Obviously!”

“A . . . snowflake,” Asgus said, skeptically.

“It’s what they look like, up close,” Rondal explained.  “See?  A six-sided regular crystalline structure made up of ice that grows in a regular and symmetrical pattern.  It’s the device of Sevendor.  And then . . . those are a wand,” he said, sketching out the yellow stick embroidered over the snowflake, “and that’s a mageblade.  And the . . . mage stars.  Because I’m a wizard,” he said, unnecessarily.

The men continued to stare at the banner, their expressions quizzical, confused, and skeptical.

“Looks like a doily to me,” shrugged Redshaft.  “But the client gets whatever banner he wants.”

“Well, if we don’t know what it is, it’s unlikely the Wilderlords will recognize it,” Asgus said, stroking his chin.  “And if they do . . . well, we’ll just claim we’re employed by a particularly vicious knitting circle.  Stranger things have happened.”

Chapter Twenty-One

The Frustrations Of Power

Women, wind, and luck all change.

Wilderlands Folk Saying

Pentandra was not having a good time at the party.  Even considering how much she’d had to drink.

That wasn’t unusual – parties were not for fun, at court, they were for business.  And no business deserved official celebration by the ducal court more than Viscount Terleman’s victories in Gilmora.  But despite the triumphant warmage’s success, Pentandra could not get over the sinking feeling she’d had since the civil war started.  She’d hoped Rard would put a stop to it, but that had not happened.

In the three weeks that had passed since King Rard’s judgement, Terleman had continued his nearly bloodless conquests across the fertile plains of Gilmora.  After consolidating power in his captured territories and instituting military governors to temporary administer the conquered, he had turned his attention to those Gilmorans who had the temerity to strike at his troops or his new holdings.

He’d used a raid as an excuse to take two domains south of the Poros away from the knights who’d staged them, using a surprise nighttime attack by warmagi and two companies of Vanadori infantry to storm their small castles.  It was a warning to their fellows, Terleman had boasted.  Make war on the Magelaw, and the Magelaw would take your lands.  Both lords had been captured and now joined an impressive collection at the makeshift prisoner camp at Cleston.  That’s where Sandoval was encamped, as well, with another three thousand Vanadori reserves.

But that wasn’t enough for Terleman.  He began to publicly stand for the Alshari cause in Gilmora, attracting sympathetic houses to his banner by one means or another.  Drunk with ambition or merely assured of his own inevitable victory, he had convinced both Astyral and Baron Gydion to surrender their baronies to him, the Magelaw, and Alshar.  They immediately swore fealty to him when he gifted them back to them.

Then he had arranged for Baron Maynard of Benfradine – Astyral’s future father-in-law, a man famously loyal to the Alshari cause -- to challenge him to a duel over the disposition of his fief.  After three passes with lances, judged by three knights, three lawbrothers, and three warbrothers, Terleman was declared the victor, and added Benfradine to his growing collection of conquests.

That was all deceit, of course – the aging Baron of Benfradine had participated largely to see the Anchor and Antlers raised over his castle, once again.  Terleman had given the barony back to him and his wife under Alshari sovereignty, taking their pledges of homage immediately after the duel.  A grand feast with all of the new Alshari barons was held thereafter, with plenty of pledges of loyalty and friendship to the Magelaw and Alshar.

Unfortunately, that emboldened the pro-Alshari Gilmorans across the province to rise up in rebellion to Tavard’s authority, as well.  In just a few weeks Gilmora had descended into a full-blown civil war, as pro-Castali forces gathered to repel the armies of Vanador, and pro-Alshari forces began to gather in Benfradine and Losara.  Plenty of old aristocratic houses were using the occasion as a means to settle old scores, and plenty of new vendettas would, no doubt, spring from the sudden betrayal.

Gilmora was shattering, now.  Tavard’s vassals could not heed his call for troops because they were facing wars in their own domains, against their own neighbors.

But Terleman . . . Terleman just kept smirking.  And just kept winning.

That suited Duke Anguin well enough that he threw this party in the Viscount’s honor at Castle Vorone, along with all of his new vassals.  Both he and Rardine seemed delighted by the stunning conquest through Gilmora . . . and Tavard’s humiliation.  It was as if they could not see the inevitable folly of the campaign.  Pentandra stood and drank and watched the merry gentlemen brag about their victory while her heart swam in dark waters.

“I may move my army south,” Terleman was telling a knot of the duke’s gentlemen as they drank wine near the purely symbolic fire.  “Benfradine is largely friendly territory, but the lords around Barrowbell have announced they will resist any further advance of the evil wizard,” he said, his smirk turning into a leer.  “They’re gathering a force north of the city to block me.”

“Would you proceed by barge or attempt an overland route?” a Wilderlord asked, curious.

“Why tempt the gods on a boat, when I know every inch of that country?” scoffed the warmage as his squire refilled his glass.  “I spent years defending it against the gurvani.  I know every pretty castle and every weakness.  I even know the local powers . . . and how powerless they really are.  But the lords of Gilmora are welcome to stand against me.  Every battle adds to my collection of ransoms,” he said, smugly.

“Has Tavard made no move against you?” asked Anguin, amused.  “I would have thought he’d move the heavens to put an army in the field against you, by now.”

“His abilities may well have betrayed his ambitions,” Terleman replied.  “I have word that his allies are attempting to rally the old marcher lords along the frontier betwixt Gilmora and the upper Riverlands . . . but I sent them a message, too.  Any attack on my newfound territory will see their lands included in it.  I gave the former Baron of Harton his parole to deliver the message, so I think they will heed it.”

“What about the Counts of Arionaugh and Karinboll?” asked the Steward of Vorone.  “They are well known allies of Tavard’s camp.  As is the count of Nion,” he reminded everyone.

“They are concerned more with their own rebellions than my invasion,” chuckled the warmage.  For some reason Terleman’s casual dismissal of the Gilmorans irritated Pentandra.  He seemed arrogant and egotistical in his assessment of his foe, and Pentandra found that disturbing, somehow.  “They don’t understand the difference between a tournament joust and warfare.  I endeavor to instruct them,” he said, his tone flirting with haughtiness.

She could not blame the man for taking pride in his martial accomplishments – he’d done the unthinkable, with a small force and a discerning eye for battlefield tactics.  Terleman had employed warmagi and infantry troops masterfully to overcome the defenses of those who had dared attack him.

Usually, Pentandra understood, feudal warfare was a gradual and deliberative affair.  A raid into enemy territory begat stronger raids as the two sides attempted to determine weaknesses in defense, and potential points of conflict.  Wars between feudal domains were long on bluster and threats of retribution and short on actual retribution.  The peasants, not the opposing military, often suffered most of the actual damage in such conflicts.

But Terleman was the veteran of years of a different kind of war.  He’d experienced the casual brutality of the gurvani hordes in the Wilderlands during the invasion, and he had seen the potency of military might and foul sorcery at the frozen Poros and the dark city of Olum Seheri.  He knew the real face of war, not the stylized, choreographed version the Gilmorans practiced.  He’d used that perspective and his native military genius to protect Gilmora during its bloody gurvani invasion.  Now he was using it to attack the province.

That was what irritated Pentandra.  Everyone knew the Gilmorans were shit fighters when contesting with anyone who wasn’t a fellow Gilmoran.  Terleman, for good or ill, had brought real combat to the country for the first time since the invasion, and she resented it for some reason.  Certainly, the Gilmoran’s decadent culture had enjoyed a long prosperity that had produced generation after generation of nominal warriors incapable of defending their realm.  But he didn’t have to be so godsdamn smug about it.  It was irritating.

Pentandra knew she did not have much of a case in resenting Terleman.  He’d been a loyal vassal and brilliant military commander for Minalan, besting one threat after another during this interminable war.  He’d faced gurvani, renegade humans, Enshadowed, and Nemovorti on the field, and he’d prevailed in nearly all of those contests.

Perhaps that’s why she resented his smugness, Pentandra considered.  Next to the villains he’d fought against, the Gilmorans were a paltry foe.  Terleman’s attitude seemed akin to bullying.  He was built to fight grand and terrible enemies, not self-important courtiers who considered warfare merely another aristocratic pastime.  A magelord should have higher aspirations than humiliating the chivalry, she reasoned.

But she could also not fault his reaction to Tavard’s provocations.  When a prince of the realm and heir to the throne riles up his lickspittle lackeys against you, it seemed natural to retaliate in force.  After what the Lord of Cleston had reportedly done to his squire and alleged lover, Pentandra could not blame Terleman for his reprisal . . . even if it complicated the political world to the point of disaster.

In that reckoning, she suspected herself of hypocrisy.  Would she lay waste to the social order to protect Arborn?  She knew the answer to that.  The Game of Whispers demanded a response to an offense, lest your weakness invite more.  If Arborn was hurt she was more than capable of destroying empires if they got in her way.  So that could not be the source of her smoldering ire against the man.

But that merely made the question more acute in her mind: why was she so pissed off at Terleman for winning battles against Tavard and his allies?

That question gnawed at her, as she watched the victorious leader attract a growing crowd of admirers all night.  By all accounts she should be supportive of her fellow wizard and stalwart defender of the realm.  Instead, she felt gloomy and bitter.  Part of her wanted to scream at them.

As Terleman launched into an undoubtedly exaggerated account of the fall of Walkurjurik, Pentandra silently excused herself from the festivities and retreated to one of the stately anterooms nearby the Great Hall.  She was sick of smug warmagi and short-sighted nobles.  Minalan, perhaps, could stomach the pride and the preening; she found herself nearly ill at the prospect.  She needed solitude, if only for a moment, lest she really did scream her frustrations across the hall in a manner unsuited to her position or her title.  She needed a moment to collect herself.

Thankfully, a small chamber down the passageway of the new palace provided a haven for her mood.  It was dark and empty, prepared against need but unused.  Carmella had provided many such chambers in the palace to deliberate or negotiate, as the needs of the court dictated.

It also made a satisfactory chamber for brooding, Pentandra reflected, as she cast a magelight to light the room.  A moment later, after considering Terleman’s smug smirk, she felt her ire rise in her stomach.  A moment after that she gave a wordless cry and cast an impulsive spell that caused the wood laid upon the fire to nearly explode into flame.

She felt guilty about the impulsive display of magic as soon as it was over.  She was the Ducal Court Wizard, after all, not an intemperate student struggling to master her powers.  Resorting to an adolescent display of violent magic was beneath her.

Or was it? another part of her mind inquired.  Throwing the spell had been oddly gratifying.  And it had kept her from screaming.

Pentandra endeavored to suppress both perspectives, as she studied the sudden flame on the hearth.  She would not be bound by either lofty ideals of propriety or the base temptation of indulging an impulse.  She knew full well what her mother would say.  She was a grown godsdamn woman, after all; she should probably act like it.

“Having a bad day?” a female voice asked from over her shoulder.

Pentandra nearly whirled around and blasted it – once you had endured a surprise assassination, it changed you.  But some shred of her mind dictated caution and deliberation, not mere reaction.  And assassins rarely inquired about your day.  She recognized the voice.  She’d heard it before.  And she knew she probably should have expected something like this to happen, soon.  She turned back to the fire.

“It hasn’t been a good one,” she conceded coolly, as she stared at the flickering flames.  “Terleman is being feted for his victories over the feckless Gilmorans.  But a fire goddess probably knows that already,” she pointed out.

Briga, the Narasi divinity in charge of fire and all of its derivative arts, clucked sympathetically as she approached Pentandra.  “A man is due proper acclaim for his accomplishments,” she offered, hesitantly, “but I understand the feeling.  He is using his skills to defeat a weak and wayward foe.  He might be behaving honorably, but . . .”

“What I wonder is why Minalan can bend him to his will, but he all but ignores me and my counsel,” Pentandra revealed, as she turned to face the goddess.  “Is it my rank?  My personality?  My sex?” she asked, frustrated.  “I cautioned him against provoking the prince – the kingdom just cannot contend with that kind of disruption, right now.  I warned him that this adventurism in Gilmora would lead to disaster.  Now we’re in the midst of a civil war, and it threatens to widen . . . significantly.”

Briga studied her, the fire’s reflection dancing in her eyes in a way that Pentandra was certain the goddess had contrived.  She pursed her lips and cocked her head.

“It seems like someone has been dabbling with prophecy,” Briga accused, disapprovingly.

That only increased Pentandra’s irritation.  “I . . . do not . . . dabble,” she declared, her voice low.

“Pentandra, you’re warning Terleman about the dangers of haphazard military conquest while you’re using prophecy to make policy!” Briga pointed out.  “You’re playing with fire!”

“Shouldn’t you find that pleasing?” Pentandra shot back.

“I find it terrifying,” corrected the goddess.  “Fire is a useful servant, but a dangerous one.  One must learn the rules of thermodynamics and combustion in order to employ it properly.  There are no such rules with prophecy.  It almost always leads to problems.  I know you’ve been reading that book the hedgewitch constructed . . . I see everything the flame does.  What you are doing is far more dangerous than what Terleman is doing.  You know that,” she insisted.

“Of course I know that!” Pentandra nearly shouted.  “I’m the godsdamned ducal Court Wizard!  I’m supposed to be an authority on such things!  But how am I supposed to resist the temptation to read the prophecies when the entire world is headed for the chamberpot?”

“Perhaps by using your own judgement and insights, instead of depending on a hedgewitch’s doggerel?” Briga proposed, calmly.

“If I hadn’t read the damned book, then I never would have told Minalan to drink the mead,” she reminded the goddess.  “Where would we be now if he was still obsessed with Alya’s mind and not focused on the rest of the world?”

“A fair point,” the goddess conceded, after a long pause.  “That was one prophecy, though.  You’ve absorbed thousands, now.”

“And made sense of only a few score,” Pentandra admitted with a sigh.  “Just enough to start building a horrifically expensive ship that may or may not be necessary, in the future.  Just enough to know Minalan had to go to the jevolar.  Just enough to warn Terleman not to invade any more baronies, lest he provoke the prince,” she pointed out.

“The prince was already provoked,” Briga said, shaking her head.  “Minalan was going to go to Anghysbel regardless of your counsel.”

“And the ship?” Pentandra asked, pointedly.

“That . . . is completely out of my purview,” the goddess of fire admitted.  “I don’t know why the prophecies say it’s needed.  But I do know that when you attempt to use such predictions to steer the course of fate, you tempt disaster.”

“Disaster is already here,” Pentandra said, evenly.  “Word came this morning that central Remere is already under attack.  The Duke of Merwyn is fishing in the troubled waters of the kingdom – as was predicted.  The Farisian pirates have all but blocked maritime trade.  As was predicted.  Those were the easy ones to interpret.  I cannot ignore such a potent tool when so much depends on the magi.  But it doesn’t help when Terleman is marching armies through Castal and plunges the kingdom into civil war and Anguin throws him a bloody party for it!”

“If not predicted, that, at least, is predictable,” the goddess nodded.  “Anguin sees the move as a way to fulfill the desire to retake Gilmora in Alshar’s name without embarking on conquest himself.  He admires Terleman a great deal.”

“Of course he does – he’s a consummate warmage and military leader, he’s tall, he’s handsome, and he doesn’t bloody listen to a godsdamn thing I say!” Pentandra snarled.  “How does Minalan get him to do anything?  How do I get him to listen to me about this?  Why doesn’t he realize that he’s backing Tavard into a corner?  That idiot is going to be king someday, and Terleman is kicking him in the nuts!  That’s just foolish!”

“Terleman is ruled by other passions than statecraft,” Briga explained, after some consideration.  “He sees war as an end to itself, not a tool for redressing political imbalance.  And he likely doesn’t heed your warnings for the simplest of reasons: he doesn’t want to.  He knows he has the support of Anguin, and more importantly, of the other magi.  He delights in military feats that humiliate the prince, whom he despises.  And without Minalan around, he feels as if he can act without lasting consequence.”

“It’s because I’m a woman, isn’t it?” Pentandra accused.  “One would think that a man who flirts with being an Andrusine would have a little more empathy!”

“Terleman might light a candle at the altar of Andrus, but he hasn’t taken holy orders,” Briga said, diplomatically.  “Do you think that makes him any less a man, with all their faults?  They don’t listen to anything they don’t want to hear.  And there is very little you can do about that.”

Pentandra gave a disgusted grunt.  She knew that, already.  Even Arborn was guilty of that shortcoming, and he was the most excellent man she had ever met.  But sometimes she felt like he did not truly pay attention unless she was naked.

“Pentandra, here’s a little divine guidance,” Briga said with a sigh.  “You are not truly angry with Terleman.  Nor even Minalan, though it may feel as if he’s run off and left you a mess to clean up.  You are angry because you feel you have lost control of the situation, and you’re fearful that – when all the armies stop marching and the Game of Whispers dies down – it will be you who will be held responsible.”

“So, what’s your ‘divine guidance’?” Pentandra asked with a sarcastic snort.

“Let the fire burn where it must and bank what portions of it you can,” the goddess proposed.  “The truth is that very little in the world is in your control.  That’s an illusion of the human mind – a helpful one, perhaps even divinely inspired, but it’s only an illusion.  Human beings want to feel in control of the world, and the fact is you cannot be.  You indulging in prophecy is merely an extension of that desire.  You feel as if you should have more control by its employ, and every time you turn to it you find you actually have less control.”

Pentandra took a deep breath and stifled the urge for a witty retort.  While not particularly religious, she did have an appreciation for the spiritual – in the abstract.  But when a goddess of inspirational wisdom tells you something, she reasoned, it was a good idea to consider it carefully.

“So how do I actually gain control of the situation?” she challenged the goddess.

“The most you can hope for is to limit the damage,” Briga admitted, apologetically.  “But free will or fate, what will be, will be.  The fire will burn where it will.  The torment you feel about Terleman and about prophecy are both products of your desire for control.  Your brushes with death and tragedy have inflamed your fears and made that desire all the hotter.  If you have control, you can protect that which you love.  The belief that you have no control sends you into panic.  Bank your fires,” Briga urged.  “Lest they burn away your soul and your sanity.”

“That’s . . . that’s not bad advice,” Pentandra admitted, reluctantly.  Her shoulders sagged in relief at the thought of disengaging from the entire Gilmoran affair.  She did have plenty of administrative work that needed her attention, after all.  She could prepare for the upcoming campaign to strike the Nemovorti from their Westlands lairs.  She could oversee the system of advanced training Master Thinradel had contrived.  There was plenty of work to do in terms of her baronial duties.

But then her shoulders stiffened, again.  “But it’s hard advice to take.  I’m responsible for all of this.  It makes me want to scream.”

“No more than anyone else is,” Briga countered.  “You give yourself too much credit.  And not enough.  You all play your parts.  Yours is just a bit larger than most.  Ordinarily, you depend on Minalan to bear the mantle of responsibility, which allows you to do what you need to do.  He gets the blame – along with much of the credit – while you get important things done.  With him gone, so is that protection.”

“I don’t need Minalan to protect me,” Pentandra insisted.  “I just . . . I don’t like to be ultimately in charge.  Even with prophecy to guide me, and the occasional bit of divine advice, I don’t feel capable of that.  I don’t want to feel capable of that,” she admitted.

“It is not your capability that is in question, Pentandra.  You are plenty capable.  It’s a matter of your ambitions and your ego.  You don’t have Grendine’s lust for power and pathological desire for control.  Or Rardine’s quest for revenge and desire to upstage her mother.  Quite the opposite.  You chose to pursue your own happiness, not chase after something you know would make you unhappy.”

“Do I appear particularly happy, at the moment?” Pentandra asked, plaintively.

“You were until Minalan left,” Briga reasoned.  “If he returns, so will the protection he provides.  Or at least its illusion.  He’s . . . he’s not going to be quite the same man,” she said, ominously.

“If he returns?” Pentandra asked, sharply.  “Have you had contact with him?” she suddenly demanded.  No one was certain what the precise effects of a jevolar were, and if they prohibited divine magic as much as the standard arcane energies.  But it was widely theorized – even by the gods – that their power was limited or non-existent, there.

Of course, if anyone could find a way around that, it was Minalan, she figured.

She was surprised at the guilty expression Briga’s face wore at the mention of the idea.

“In a manner of speaking,” the goddess nodded, slowly.

“So, he isn’t dead!” Pentandra said, with a gasp of relief.

“It’s . . . complicated,” suggested the goddess, biting her lip and looking away.  “Yes, I made contact with him.  Briefly.  But . . . well matters of professional ethics prohibit me from telling you more,” she admitted.

“What aren’t you telling me?” Pentandra demanded, angrily.

“A great many things.  As is my prerogative.  You have enough information at your disposal already, and see where that has led you?  All I can assure you is that Minalan made it to Anghysbel.  That’s it.  He didn’t die in the wastelands or get eaten by predators.  At least when I . . . saw him.  But that’s all I can tell you.”

“The prophecy says he dies and saves the world, or lives and saves the kingdom – that implies he returns!” Pentandra said, her voice rising.  “Which is it?  Does he die or does he live?”

“Does it matter?” Briga asked, looking pained.  “All that prophecy seems to have done is tie your mind in knots when it should be working furiously elsewhere.  Look to your own judgement.  Bank your fires.  Save your fuel.  You’re going to need it, soon, Pentandra,” she predicted, and then disappeared in a shower of flame.

“What in six hells do you mean by that?” Pentandra shouted to the puff of smoke that remained.  Then she gave an exasperated sigh and refilled her winecup.

A moment later, she was surprised to see her husband enter the chamber.

“Penny!  I’ve been looking for you,” Arborn said.  The very sound of his voice seemed to bring calm to her.  But the look of concern on her face wasn’t for her, alone.  There was a scrap of parchment in his hands.  There was something wrong.

“I . . . I needed a moment of solitude,” she admitted.  “And it turned into some divine reflection.  What is happening?” she asked, anxiously.

“Word just came from the Mirror,” he said, clearing his throat.  “News from Wilderhall.  Apparently, the castle has been taken,” he said, handing her the parchment.

“Taken?  By who?  Terleman was here!  I just saw him!” she insisted.

“That’s the interesting part,” Arborn said, looking even more concerned.  “Apparently, we did.  The Kasari, that is,” he explained.  “A bunch of them headed back over the frontier from Kasar, where they joined with some mercenaries and . . . well, then they took Wilderhall Castle.  And then they issued this across the Mirror Arrays.”

Pentandra snatched the parchment away from him and conjured a magelight to better read the message.

A Notice To All, it began,

Castle Wilderhall is now under the direct military control of the mercenary company the Orphan’s Band, in the employ and at the direction of a lawful combatant against the Count of Wilderhall.  As is the custom under Duin’s Law all belligerent nobility captured in such a mission are to be well-treated and offered reasonable ransom to their families at the cessation of hostilities, if not before.

The Orphan’s Band was contracted for this assault and reports only three lives lost in the process of taking the castle and securing the city.  While the townfolk of Wilderhall are free to conduct business as normal, the remainder of the castle population are our prisoners under the exclusive protection of the Company Commander of the Band, overseen by a Warbrother in good standing.

Among them, of note, is the Countess of Wilderhall.  Under Duin’s Law her life, health and determination of a reasonable ransom is now the responsibility of the Orphan’s Band.  While there is no reason to fear for her life, for her protection and security she and her heirs will remain under armed guard for the duration of negotiations with the appropriate parties.

In addition, a great number of members of the Castali Ducal Court are also now our lawful prisoners.  Attempting to disrupt proper ransom negotiations with an attempt to rescue her or her fellow prisoners of war, or attempts to seize the castle or town is greatly discouraged and may well impact the direction of the forthcoming negotiations for their release.

At the conclusion of negotiations, the Orphan’s Band has orders to withdraw and demobilize, as per contract.  Until that time Wilderhall Town and Wilderhall Castle will be under the military rule of the Company Commander who shall impose the customary restrictions on civilian and military populations during military occupation under Duin’s Law.

To verify and oversee this administration, the mercenary company known as the Nirodi Mounted Archers has been hired separately by our client to ensure strict compliance.  They will be patrolling the city to keep order and insulate the civilian population from any complications from the negotiations.  The civilian population is instructed to cooperate with the occupying authorities for the duration of the city’s occupation.  Any attempt to interfere with either the Orphan’s Band or the Nirodi Mounted Archers will be dealt with swiftly and harshly.

All business of the civil and noble courts of Wilderhall is hereby suspended for the duration of the occupation, as are all offices of the Castali Ducal Court.  They may and will resume only after the successful conclusion of negotiations.

Pentandra forced herself to read it twice as her mind reeled at the implications.

“Arborn,” she asked, in a hoarse whisper, after she closed her mouth, “do you realize what they’ve done?”

“They’ve taken Wilderhall,” he nodded, gravely.  “They don’t mention the Kasari, but apparently some thousands of them are participating.”

“They didn’t just take the city and the castle, Arborn,” she explained, “the took the entire ducal court prisoner!  More importantly, they took hostage the Countess of Wilderhall who also happens to be the Duchess of Castal and the godsdamned Princess of Castalshar.  Prince Tavard was at the royal palace, but now he has to negotiate with these mercenaries for the life of his wife and children.  Apparently on our behalf, unless there’s someone else who Tavard has declared war upon, lately.”

“I know – as does everyone else at the party,” he pointed out.  “When the message came through the Mirror Array it spread like wildfire.  A few magi confirmed it, mind-to-mind, and told the tale of the Kasari’s involvement.  I don’t know whether to be proud or ashamed,” he admitted.

“This is . . . this is going to get complicated,” she said, as she suppressed her horror.  “I’m going to have a busy night, I think.  Wait,” she said, holding up her hand.  “Let me cast a brief spell,” she requested.

She didn’t resort to mighty magic or even mind-to-mind communication – she cast a sphere of silence around herself.

And then Pentandra screamed at the crackling flame on the hearth.  As loudly as she had ever screamed in her life.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The Flame of Revolt

Send a fool to Castal, and a fool he’ll return.

Alshari Folk Saying

“There she is . . . !” Rondal said, as he stared intently into the scrying glass.  “That has to be her,” he murmured, as he directed the construct to move closer for a better look.

The surface of the water in the dark black bowl glowed around the edges with arcane power as it showed him the chamber deep inside the crumbling manor house below.   The spell allowed him to witness everything a tiny, spider-like arcane construct saw as it crawled through the enemy stronghold.  Within the cloudy edges of the bowl, he could see a dark shape, a woman in a black robe, her pale face horribly drawn and scarred.

But the yellow eyes were unmistakable.

He’d designed and constructed the thing himself, a few years ago – he called it a dahman, after a web-spinning natavia bug that preferred marshy areas – and he was proud of it.  It was a means to avoid wards and defensive spells often used when wizards – or Nemovorti – were up to something they didn’t want observed.  This dahman was smaller than his hand, and three generations improved on his original design.  It could crawl over, around, and into places no human could go, and the enchantment that shared its thaumaturgical vision and hearing avoided most means of detection.

He hoped.

From the cover of a haystack not too far from the edge of the wards around the place, he and Gatina had managed to surveil the manor and its surroundings without detection.  It was essential scouting for what would come next – a surprise attack that would kill the Nemovorti, or at least drive them from the place.

“Is it or isn’t it?” Gatina asked, as she surveyed the manor from afar.

“That’s got to be Lady Amekta,” Rondal concluded, shaking his head.  “The one that Antimei faced in Inmar.    Her face is scared and pitted like she fell into a moving mill wheel.  My guess is that it’s the sort of damage a powerful vibrant spell thrown by an inspired hedgewitch might do to necromantic tissue.”

“She might just be hideously ugly,” suggested his bride to be.  “The Nemovorti don’t likely have much choice in faces, when it comes to their host bodies.  I’m sure the pretty ones are at a premium.”

“Sure, they’re all as ugly as a decomposing toad, but she’s especially afflicted. She doesn’t look well,” agreed Rondal, as he nudged the dahman to crawl up a table leg and cling to the bottom of the table.  He had to turn the bowl around to still see what was going on, but he had a much clearer picture, now.  “She’s in there with two others who don’t look nearly so afflicted.  A male and a female,” he added.  “They’re . . . well, it looks like they’re doing some sort of spell,” he decided.

“How can you tell?” Gatina asked, curious.

“Because they’re waving their hands around like idiots and saying things that sound like mnemonics to me,” he decided, as the faint buzz from the seashell he wore over his ear relayed the sounds the dahman’s spell detected.  “And they’re doing it over a bunch of junk I don’t recognize.”

“Sounds like a spell to me,” agreed Gatina as she cast a magemap.  “They’re all in one chamber?”

“The small one on the north side of the manor,” Rondal reported, as she made the notation on the map.  “But I think they’re the only ones there.”

“Three is a sufficiency,” Gatina agreed.  “That makes at least nine of them, total.  Including Karakush, if that’s the male.”  After six surveys into secret encampments where the Nemovorti were suspected, they had discovered a bounty of evil undead lords stalking the Westlands – and plenty of Enshadowed.  But they had yet to identify Karakush, the leader of the effort.  The sorcerer was elusive, Rondal had to admit.  Mavone and his squadrons had established that Karakush was not in residence at the other three manors.  This was the last such place that he might be hiding.

“There’s no guarantee he’s not inhabiting one of the female bodies,” Rondal pointed out.  “As you said, there likely isn’t much choice.”

“We can just slay them all and worry about it later,” she shrugged.

“That is the plan,” Rondal nodded, as he broke contact with the dahman by pulling the operating stone out of the basin.  “But it’s their plan that concerns me more.  He’s not raising a gurvani army, at least not here.  There’s no sign of that, and you can’t really hide it.  But he is gathering undead.  And slaves.  And giant wyverns.”

“That little tower at Scafer Manor was filled with draugen,” Gatina reminded him, with a shudder.

“And that square keep in Gulwalen was full of regular, ordinary walking corpses.  A lot of them.  Why so many, if he doesn’t plan to march on the other keeps in the Westlands?”

Despite the many manors the Nemovorti had taken over, they had made no moves to expand their reach beyond their cantonments.  They would kidnap and enslave anyone who came near, Rondal had determined, but they had not marched on any of their neighbors.  They had left the towns virtually alone in favor of the remote estates they occupied.  In his professional estimation, the captured manors seemed more like forward bases than depots for supplies or barracks for troops.  Karakush was building strength, but he was building it quietly.  As invasions went, it was an unusually modest one.

“They’re preparing for something,” Gatina ventured.  “An attack, most likely.  But where, if not one of the local castles?”

“Vorone?” Rondal guessed.  “Nion?  That’s the next largest city in Gilmora.  Or are they going to go south and try to take southern Alshar?”

“If we just go ahead and slay them, it won’t matter,” Gatina pointed out.  “Are you getting hungry?  I’m starving.  We need to eat before we attack,” she decided.  “If your strike teams are ready, that is.”

“They are,” Rondal assured her.  “Bendonal was able to recruit plenty, all proven warmagi.  There’s an entire commando unit in training from Eastwatch tower, about a dozen Megelini knights magi, and at least a score of veterans from the last few wars.”

“You would think Terleman snatched them all up for the Gilmoran campaign,” mused Gatina.

“He got some good ones,” admitted Rondal, as he stretched.  “But there were plenty of sparks left to choose from.  I’m going to give them the twelve-hour alert,” he decided.  “We can attack at dawn, tomorrow.”

“Isn’t that a little cliched?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

“Because it works,” he reasoned.  “Twilight is the best time for that sort of action. It helps with timing, too.  Let’s fall back and contact some people.  We can eat and catch a nap before they arrive,” he suggested.

Gatina nodded and silently crawled backwards away from the haystack.  Rondal had to admire how effortlessly she moved, and how little noise she made as she crept back to a stand of trees two hundred yards behind them, where they had tied the horses.

His own style was far less graceful – he’d learned to crawl in the field at Relan Cor, though he’d had plenty of practice since.  By the time he made it back to the horses and felt able to stand without being seen, Gatina was already preparing to leave.

“There was a village a few miles back,” she pointed out.  “We might be able to get a hot meal there.  Otherwise, it’s cold rations.  But I’m hungry enough so that I don’t care.”

“You aren’t used to being a High Mage yet,” he teased.  “I’ve got a number of meals in hoxter pockets.  See this?  It’s my rations ring,” he said, showing her a plain iron band on his right hand.  “I got tired of camp cooking and bad inns.  You have spoiled me.  The food in Falas, at least, is excellent, even if the weather is lousy.  I’ve been collecting truly fine meals from the best inns and taverns for months,” he admitted, a little guiltily.

Gatina smiled, as she mounted her horse.  “Next you’re going to pull a quaint little cottage out of your pouch,” she teased.

“Actually, Banamor has been building and selling those, too,” Rondal revealed, as he pulled himself into his saddle.  “I’m on the list to get one.  But I could scrounge up a smelly old canvas tent, if it starts to rain.”

“I was thinking of privacy, not shelter,” she admitted.  “When you have twelve hours to kill in the Westlands . . .”

“We’re on a mission, Kitten,” he stressed.  “We should focus on reconnaissance, not romance.  As soon as I report to Pentandra and get her permission, we can eat and contact the commandos.  We should probably hit this place first,” he decided.  “Else we should strike at them all at once.  But we need to plan, not . . . play,” he said, with a bit of a blush.

“The weather is good enough to consider both,” she said, as she began to ride.  “You need to relax more,” she suggested.

Rondal didn’t say anything to that.  How could he relax, with so much going on?

He had buried himself in the project to rid the Westlands of undead to escape the other matters at hand.  It was good, useful work that kept him distracted from his other concerns . . . and hundreds of miles away from the Castali Wilderlands.

That was where his mind was focused, not here, despite his professional demeanor.  He had not heard anything about the Orphan’s Band and the execution of their plan, as of yet.  The mirror he carried to keep in touch with Pintol the warmage had not summoned him once, so far.  That worried him.  There should have been some word, by now.

And when there was, he would have been provably far from Wilderhall for days.  Believably un-associated with the sudden, mysterious attack on the Castali summer capital.  That was, at least, his intention.  But the longer he went without news, the more anxious and fretful he’d become.  Not even a few intimate moments with Gatina tempted him away from his anxiety.  It was a struggle just to act normally.

The pair made their way back toward the road but stopped short of it when they found a wide, five acre meadow that was almost pleasant . . . until they sighted the small, ragged band at the far end of it.

It was an encampment, of sorts, he could tell from a distance.  A tattered piece of oilcloth was hung on a string between two scraggly trees, sheltering nearly a dozen travelers from the harsh Westlands sun.  They looked like pilgrims, at first . . . until Rondal saw their red cloaks and robes.

“Stop,” he ordered Gatina, before they came close enough to be noticed.  He quickly cast a spell of unnoticeability around them both.  “Those are . . . well, they’re kind of cultists,” he explained, in a low voice.  “I saw their like at Hufintir a few weeks back.  They spurred on a rebellion against the baron, there.  Clapped him and his men in a gibbet and burned them alive.  They’re not nice fellows,” he warned her.

“They aren’t all fellows,” Gatina observed.  “There’s a girl under that tarp.  A young one.”  Then she cast her own shadowmagic enchantment to hide them, far superior to the warmagic spell Rondal had used.  “I’ve got a feeling . . .” she explained, frowning uneasily.

Rondal frowned, himself, as he activated his magesight.  Just as she’d said, he did spy one lone girl not too much younger than Gatina in the midst of the red-clad monks.  She, too, wore a dark red mantle over her dark hair.  She had vaguely Imperial features, save for a wide peasant’s face and a high hairline.

But as Rondal’s vision brought her face into clear view, he noted a decidedly stern expression on it as she spoke.  He also noticed how intently the other shabby monks seemed to hang on every word.

“She’s angry about something,” Rondal murmured.

“Injustice,” Gatina agreed.  “She’s preaching about the evils of the nobility.  I’m using the Long Ears spell,” she added, unnecessarily.  “She’s mentioning . . . Colleita?  A friend of hers, perhaps?”

“Colleita is a goddess,” Rondal said, shaking his head.  “An old Imperial goddess of grain and vegetables, I think.  But she’s also been used as a rallying cry for peasant revolts in the past.  Her priesthood seeks out wretched places during desperate times to preach.  They aren’t fond of the nobility in general and her temple – or at least her clergy – advocate egalitarianism amongst the peasant class.  They’re not fond of merchants, millers, or artisans, neither. They consider them oppressive to the peasants. And they encourage rebellion against unjust authority.  Violently.  Her cult likes that sort of thing.”

“Well, they’ve come to the right place,” Gatina said.  “Wait, who is that?”

While they watched in interest, two of the scarlet robed monks brought forth a man with his hands bound behind him.  He wore only a torn linen shirt and riding trousers, an empty scabbard at his waist.  His bearded face was streaked with blood.  He looked angry and frightened.

“It appears we’ve stumbled into some sort of ecclesiastic service,” Rondal said, as he watched the man get forced to his knees in front of the young priestess.  She stood, said a few words and waited.

Rondal got tired of trying to figure out what was being said.  He cast the Long Ears spell himself.  In seconds he could hear every word as if he was five feet away from the girl.

“—captured while leading a work corvee toward Gastane Manor,” the girl accused him.  “Twenty good men impressed into forced labor at the whim of the lord – you!” she said, pointing at him.

“It was boon work!” the man objected, a whine in his voice.  “They owed that service to the manor!  It’s part of their rent!”

“And what did you provide in return for that service?  That rent?” she asked in a harsh Westlands accent, condemningly.  “Protection?  Nay!  You sleep safely behind the manor’s walls with your wife and your whores while they spend every night in fear for their lives.  Did you give them rations before they worked?  Good coin to purchase bread – if any can be found?  Nay!  You compelled their labor at the point of a sword,” she said in disgust.

“I never drew my blade!” protested the manor lord.  “I gave a few of them a thump or two,” he admitted, “but only to drive away their laziness.  The walls needed repair, and they owed me service.  Most are months behind in their proper payments.  The least they could do is keep the manor in repair.”

“So you could rent them a plow and a team, then take a tithe of what little harvest they manage while their children starve?  And then charge a fortune to force them to grind what little corn they managed to raise in your mill?” the girl asked, bitterly.

“It has been a harsh year for us all,” the manor lord agreed, sullenly.  “But if the manor wall is broken, then all of our work is at risk and no one will eat,” he reasoned.  “Someone has to do the work.”

“And someone has to pay for the work,” the young priestess said, angrily.  Her brow was furrowed, and her eyes flashed.  “But not you.  You feel you are owed their service for letting them live in the hovels you permit them.  You steal their labor from their own fields, and then work them until they are half-dead.  You tax their every purchase and their every activity, keeping them impoverished while your children prosper.”

Each time she accused him of something, the monks around her grunted strong approval.  Rondal did not like how this was going.  Either did the manor lord.

“Shall we intervene, Beloved?” Gatina asked, as the priestess continued to list a litany of crimes that any manor lord might be accused of by a vengeful peasant.

“I . . . I don’t really want to get involved,” Rondal decided.  “It’s too close to Karakush’s manor.  If we draw attention to ourselves like that, it could endanger the mission.”

“They’re going to execute him,” Gatina predicted.  “I can see it in her eyes.”

“It’s not our business,” Rondal insisted.  “This isn’t even our duchy.  If it doesn’t concern the Nemovorti, we aren’t supposed to get involved as a matter of policy.  Besides, I don’t see any weapons among them, apart from a couple of staves.”  While that was true, Rondal knew there were plenty of ways to kill a man without a sword.  He’d seen it done.

“Perhaps they are just trying to scare him, or ransom him back to his family,” she reasoned.  “But she looks like she wants to kill him.”

Rondal had to agree.  The look on the girl’s face was pure hatred.  He did not know what event in her past drove her to such enmity, but it was a powerful force.  As she spoke, the monks around her began to chant.  It sounded like they were saying “ker sith as”, over and over, louder and louder.

“We could take them,” he finally decided.  “It sounds as if this fellow isn’t guilty of more oppression than any other manor lord is.  But I don’t want to attract any attention . . .”

Before he could decide what course to take, the priestess whirled around and shouted at the manor lord.

“In the holy name of Colleita Kersythas, the goddess finds you guilty of denigration and oppression, cruelty and theft from the people!  I therefore condemn you, Lord Garamor of Gastane!  You have oppressed your people long enough and held them in damnable bondage!  The goddess has no tolerance for the unjust subjugation of the people to your unworthy whim!  Your position and your title will not protect her from divine wrath!” the girl pronounced, as Rondal witnessed a change come over her.

It was startling . . . and familiar.  He’d been in the presence of gods, before, and he had no doubt that the transformation of the priestess involved some sort of divine magic.  He did not know how to quantify such a manifestation.  There was no certain method of determining whether or not a god was presenting itself, to his knowledge.  But he had seen it before, and a certain element of pure awe was involved.  He was getting that feeling now.  He was not alone.

“Rondal,” Gatina breathed, “something is happening with that girl!” she warned.

“I see it,” Rondal confirmed, as he watched from afar.

The young priestess had cast back her scarlet mantle as she regarded the manor lord, and her face was contorted in a rictus of pure anger and hate.  Whatever supposed crime the man had been accused of, Rondal could not imagine a transgression worthy of such pure enmity.  Indeed, he seemed no more or less oppressive in his manner than Sire Cei, or even Minalan, as they administered the fiefs they’d been given responsibility over.

Yet there was no doubt in his mind that the force that fueled the girl’s ire was rooted in her hatred of the nobility as a class.  Whatever foul fate had befallen her, before she’d found religion, it had made a profound impression on her soul.  He witnessed that hatred rise as she seemed to grow in stature.  There was a kind of augmented presence in her, now, as she stared balefully down on the writhing manor lord.

“I condemn thee!” the priestess pronounced, her voice low and pregnant with disgust.  “You have taken the freedom of the common man and impressed him into forced servitude.  You have stolen precious hours from his life, attending to his duties as father and husband, and compelled him to work akin to slavery!” she said, with undisguised ire.

“You feel that the point of your sword – a recourse forbidden to your subjects – is sufficient argument to force a man to your will, under pain of your displeasure.  You have determined that depriving a family of a provider and protector is just and worthy that your illusion of security is superior in form than the common man’s; that your superiority, based on contrived legend and base custom, not actual worthiness, is sufficient to force twenty of your fellows to toil without recompense – or even food!” she admonished.

“I merely exercised my rights – !” the trembling manor lord said, shaking his head.  “I did what my fathers bid me to do.  How can there be objection to that?” he begged.

“You have no right to their labor,” the priestess said, filled with divine anger.  “You have no right to charge them for the paltry roofs that protect their heads from the rain, or the walls that keep predators at bay.  There is no difference between the lowliest serf and the mightiest lord in the eyes of Colleita Kersythas.  She judges all by the quality of their hearts . . . and you are found lacking!  I therefore condemn thee,” the girl breathed, her nostrils flaring as she pronounced sentence.  “You shall die by her holy hand, as testament to her righteous judgement.  By fire shall ye die,” she said, pointing a bony finger at the cowering lord.  “Fire divine, a better death than ye deserve!”

“Rondal—!” Gatina warned, breathlessly.

But it was too late.  The poor man burst into flame, his very skin igniting like dry parchment when the young priestess – or perhaps the goddess she had invoked – consumed the victim in a pall of orange and white fire.  The manor lord gave a soul-rending scream as the flames burned him in an instant.

The blaze was intense, and the monks surrounding the proceeding shrunk reflexively at the sudden outburst of combustion.  The priestess did not seem to be affected by the blaze.  Indeed, her face split into a hideous smile as the manor lord screamed in agony and terror as his flesh burned to a cinder in seconds.

Rondal felt ill.  He’d seen plenty of battles, and he had even seen fire employed as a weapon on a grand scale.  But this was different.  This was an execution of a helpless man, not a spell used in the press of combat.  And it was being done by divine fire.

As he watched the man burn, Rondal realized that this was no mere thaumaturgic spell – this was clearly divine magic.  He didn’t need his baculus to determine that.  He’d seen the Everfire in Sevendor, and he was familiar with the appearance of divinely produced flame.  Perhaps the girl had some natural pyromantic Talent, but the energies she was channeling were clearly divine in origin or expression.

“We need to get out of here,” he said to Gatina, hoarsely, as he witnessed the man’s body crumple into a pile of ash after the flame finally died.  He was gratified to see Gatina nod, a horrified expression on her face.  It was as pale as her white hair.  “There’s no way I can protect us against that.”

“What about the mission?” she asked, as she nudged her horse forward and began to turn it around.

“I’ll consult with Pentandra,” Rondal decided, as he followed suit.  “This may well be a more important matter.”

“Rondal, what was that?  Magic?” she asked, confused.  “I was watching with magesight, but I didn’t see her cast a spell.”

“Gods’ magic,” he supplied, as they made it back to the little grove.  “That’s why Pentandra needs to know.”

He closed his eyes, once his horse came to a halt, and reached out toward his superior’s mind.

We’ve complete our reconnaissance, he reported to her, mind-to-mind.  We think Karakush is here at the Karantos estate, in the Westlands, along with two females.  One is the creature Antimei wounded in Inmar, Lady Lekta.  The other is unidentified.

There are only a few known female Nemovorti, Pentandra said, her mental voice sounding a little distracted. We should be able to narrow it down.

There’s something else, he continued.  On our way back from the mission Gatina and I stumbled across a . . . an execution.  It looks like a peasant cult condemned a manor lord.

There are revolts springing up all over the Westlands, Pentandra dismissed.  Anguin has made it clear that we are not to interfere.  That’s Castali territory.

It’s Nemovorti territory, now, Rondal corrected.  But it’s not the revolt that has me concerned.  It’s the nature of the execution.  He went on to describe what they’d witnessed as tersely as possible.  Pentandra picked up on his discomfort and unease easily enough without describing the horrific scene overmuch.  Particularly when he explained his conclusion.

Divine magic? she asked, curiously.  Are you certain?

No, I’m not, he admitted.  We were too far away to do any thaumaturgical essays, and I didn’t want to get closer after that.  But the girl referenced Colleita . . . or a variation known as Colleita Kersythas.  I’ve never heard of it before.

Nor have I heard of Colleita as a fire goddess, Pentandra agreed.  But that is . . . concerning.  Do you think she’s acting as a channel, or an avatar?  Your professional judgement, she prompted.

Rondal frowned.  My experience with the divine is limited, but I’d say the latter.  The priestess went through a kind of transformation, while the manor lord was burning.  She worked herself up emotionally.  Perhaps enough to trigger whatever it is that calls a god to possess you.  Or however that works.

We need to find a theurge for this sort of thing, Pentandra said, with a mental sigh.  That is far outside of my horizon of knowledge.

So, do you want me to prepare the strike teams for our attack? he asked.  Or should we focus our attention on this . . . new goddess?

Neither, Pentandra said, after a pause.  While both are intriguing and necessary, we have a more urgent issue.  Apparently, a group of mercenaries and a small army of Kasari rangers has taken Wilderhall – the town and the castle.  Including the ducal court.  And Princess Almaranda and her children.  They’re trying to negotiate a ransom.

Ishi’s tits! Rondal swore, his blood freezing in his veins.  He did his best to respond as if he had no knowledge of the matter.  How did that happen?

That’s what I want you to find out, Pentandra directed.  I’ve been up all night in consultation with Their Graces, and both Anguin and Rardine are in a tizzy.  I did all that I could with remote scrying, but they want someone in Wilderhall to report more thoroughly on the situation.  I hate to re-direct you when you’re so close to a resolution in the Westlands, but this takes precedent, I’m afraid.  I want you and Kitten to infiltrate the city, and, if possible, make contact with the mercenaries.  We need to find out what’s going on, their disposition and number, who hired them, and why they . . . why they just kicked the kingdom into the bloody chamberpot.

Did they? Rondal asked, surprised at just how irritated Pentandra sounded.  That did not bode well.

Tavard was gathering an army outside of Wilderhall to march against the Magelaw – or at least against Terleman.  He was in Castabriel, at the time, but the ducal court was convened in the summer capital.  He’s cut off from nearly all of his ministers now, she reported.  Not to mention most of his treasury and a good deal of the duchy’s administration.  Ducal business in Castal has ground to a halt.  With one stroke, someone has tied a knot around all of Tavard’s efforts.

What has Rard said? Rondal asked, his anxiety growing by the moment.

We don’t know, but I’m anticipating another emergency summons, she said, ruefully.  Until we know the particulars of the situation, however, I’m uncomfortable answering one.  Get into Wilderhall any way you can.  Find out what’s going on and let me know as soon as possible.  This is a crisis, she added, unnecessarily.

I’m on my way, pledged Rondal.

When he opened his eyes, Gatina was staring at him.

“What?” she demanded.  “What is it?”

That took him aback.  “What is what?”

“Your face – it changed,” she explained.  “You learned something from Pentandra that you weren’t expecting.”  It was unnerving to him how well Gatina was learning to read his expressions.

“I . . . well, yes and no,” he sighed.  “Our mission has changed.  We’re being redirected to Wilderhall.”

“Wilderhall?” Gatina asked, confused.  “Why Wilderhall?  Where is Wilderhall?” she added.

“It’s Castal’s summer capital and current residence of the Prince and Princess and the Castali ducal court,” he explained.  “Like Vorone is for Alshar.  But,” he said, taking a deep breath, “it is currently being occupied by mercenaries and two thousand Kasari tribesmen.  They took the castle and town by surprise, yesterday, and everyone is in a tizzy.  The Princess and the heirs have been captured.  It took nearly everyone by surprise, and Pentandra wants us to investigate.”

“Darkness!” Gatina swore, her eyes wide.  “Wait – nearly everyone?” she asked, catching his slip.  “What do you mean by that?” she asked, carefully.

Rondal realized that his bride-to-be was far more observant and clever than he suspected.  That boded for an interesting marriage, he realized, not for the first time.

“Well,” he began with a sigh, “there’s a couple of things I need to tell you about before we get to the Wilderlands,” he began, quietly.  “With you gone on missions for the Garden Society so much, I got a little bored and . . . and . . . look, I’ll explain on the way,” he decided.  “It’s kind of a long story . . .”

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Matter of Wilderhall

As the wind blows hard, make your shelter.

Wilderlands Folk Saying

“Terleman is moving his forces south into Benfradine,” Duke Anguin informed Pentandra, as he moved a marker on the table-sized map of Gilmora.  There were other markers around it, but the little toy warmage was the largest of them.  The duke got a boyish gleam in his eye and consulted a parchment before moving another marker.  “And it appears that Tavard has ordered the five thousand levies he raised in the lower Riverlands to Darkfaller.  With no force to threaten him from the north, Terleman can take Barrowbell,” he decided.

“Which will tempt Tavard to confront him there,” Rardine said, frowning as she stared at the map.  “My brother has more than five thousand men garrisoned at Darkfaller,.and three thousand mercenaries.  He could pull a few thousand troops from his nearby vassals.  More, if he calls on the locals to raise their banners.  He could raise as many as two thousand more, that way, if he has time.  That would be eight to twelve thousand men against Terleman’s seven thousand.”  Since Sandoval had sent another two companies of Vanadori infantry and half a company of mercenary cavalry south, Terleman’s strength had grown across his newly conquered lands.

“You’re assuming Terleman won’t be able to raise more troops from pro-Alshari Gilmorans,” argued Anguin.  “He could easily get another thousand.  That still makes it a lopsided contest, but . . .”

“Terleman has won every battle he’s fought when he’s outnumbered,” Rardine said, her lips pursed in thought.  “He is also familiar with the territory.  He defended that entire region against the gurvani.  He’s quite popular in Barrowbell.  If he can defend it against Tavard, or even defeat him . . . well, he could be marching into Castabriel by Luin’s Day.  Sooner,” the duchess figured.  “What do you think, Pentandra?” she asked, suddenly looking up toward the Court Wizard.

I think you’re all a bunch of warmongering idiots who are imperiling the kingdom we worked so hard to build! Pentandra thought.  But that’s not what her words said.

“Terleman’s lines are already extended,” she said, after a long pause.  She used her baculus, Everkeen, to tap on a portion of the map north of Terleman’s position.  “The Count of Karinboll still holds his castle in a position where he can raid Terleman’s lines.  The only reason he hasn’t is because he’s afraid that Terl will turn his attention on Karinboll and take it just as easily as he’s taken the other baronies. The only reason that he isn’t being joined by the Count of Dendra to bolster his forces is that Dendra is defending against Astyral.  But the moment that changes . . .”

“I don’t see it as a problem,” Rardine said, studying the map.  “Astyral has kept the Gilmorans tied up across a wide line and held them to a defensive war – when they expected a couple of raids and a quick capitulation.  Nor does Terleman have to rely on those lines for supply.  It’s the middle of summer,” she argued.  “There’s plenty of forage available locally.  And you have those ingenious supply wands,” she reminded her.

“It is not so much a matter of resupply, Your Grace, as it is reinforcements,” Pentandra countered.  “Should the Count of Karinboll overcome his anxiety, he can cut off Terleman’s most direct means of getting fresh troops from the Magelaw.  That would leave him stranded there, between two enemy armies, with no way out.”

“I trust the Viscount’s ability to strategize his way out of that,” dismissed Anguin.  “And I wouldn’t credit the Gilmorans with overmuch valor.  But I’d wager that’s what Tavard is thinking,” he said, his brow wrinkling in thought.  “If he advances from the east and the north, he can stop Terleman’s momentum, in theory.  In practice, I have every confidence that Terleman will move west, or south of Barrowbell, and fight a defensive battle to get Tavard to overextend his supply lines.  Or something equally clever.  I just don’t see how Tavard can avoid messing this up,” he concluded.

“It’s perhaps my brother’s most exceptional talent,” Rardine agreed.  “None of this would be possible if Wilderhall hadn’t been taken.  With the Minister of War and his senior staff made prisoner, Tavard has to make do with his personal advisors – all of whom are idiots – and his own native military genius,” she said, grinning wickedly.

“But who took Wilderhall?” Anguin asked, concerned.  “The mercenaries say that they were hired by a lawful combatant in the war.  That presumes someone in the Magelaw.  Do you have any ideas who that might be, Pentandra?”

“Terleman, Astyral and Mavone all swear they have nothing to do with it,” Pentandra answered.  She had quizzed them all, mind-to-mind, the moment that she suspected them of being behind the bold move.  They had each denied it, though each had openly admired the stroke.  “It’s possible some magelord or warmage hired them,” she suggested, “someone who had a personal grievance with Tavard, perhaps, and wanted to take revenge.”

“My brother has cultivated many enemies over the years,” Rardine nodded.  “I can think of a number of suspects who might be tempted to take advantage of the situation.  But this seems more calculated, somehow,” she said, frowning.  “More of an attempt at political manipulation than a quest for revenge.  But that just makes me more intrigued.”

“It’s a gift, and I’ll accept it,” Anguin agreed.  “But I’d like to know who I have to thank for it.  Has your Garden Society no contacts inside Wilderhall?” he asked his wife.

“Plenty, but that’s Family territory,” she reminded him.  “Indeed, that’s where Lady Arnet runs the organization from.  Was she taken prisoner?  Oh, I’d wager there are stacks and stacks of secret records down in her vaults that would make fascinating reading!” she said, her eyes widening.  “Enough to start a dozen vendettas.  When she first married my father, Mother was ruthless in removing any opposition.  There are secrets in Arnet’s purview that not even I was privy to.”

“I’ve dispatched two of my best agents to infiltrate the town,” Pentandra reported.  “As soon as they do, I’ll tell you what they find.  Including the identity of this mysterious benefactor, if they can discover it.  Which I’m confident that they can.”

“I look forward to it,” nodded Anguin.  “This was a masterful stroke.”

“But is it wise to take advantage of it, Your Grace?” Pentandra asked, trying to sound impartial about the matter when she wanted to scream.  “Fighting against armies on the field is one thing – this is your cousin’s palace,” she reminded him.  “His wife and children are now hostage.  That seems politically dangerous,” she offered.

“Tavard was the one who suspended the treaty,” Anguin shrugged.  “It was he who declared war on the Magelaw.  He should bear the consequence of that.  Trust me, Pentandra,” the young duke said, “I witnessed his petty cruelties personally for years, while I was in exile,” he reminded her.  “Tavard has the ambition to rule, but not the wisdom nor the talent.  People say that my father was . . . mediocre in governance,” he said, frowning at the word.  “In my estimation Tavard is far worse.”

“He is,” Rardine agreed with a sigh.  “If he hadn’t appointed Lord Moran as his prime minister, the entire duchy would be falling apart.  Moran is a prisoner with the rest of the court, alas.  Poor Tavard will have to think of the hard things on his own, now.  But I do not think the political danger is great, Pentandra,” she reasoned.  “Anguin hasn’t done anything.  He’s stayed out of this conflict.”

“But for how long?” Pentandra asked with a sigh.  “Your Graces, I feel that this war has the capacity to pull every count and duke into it, if we aren’t careful.  Perhaps even if we are.  So far there has been very little loss of life on either side.  But that will not continue, if hostilities continue.”

“In the meantime, we’ve gained back a third of Gilmora,” shrugged Anguin.  “If Tavard wants it back, he’ll have to take it back or bargain for it.”

“And if King Rard gets involved again?” Pentandra asked.

“My father will do what is in the best interests of the kingdom,” Rardine assured her.  “He really does have that foremost in his mind.  If that means humiliating his son to keep the kingdom together, he will.”

“And then we get to deal with a resentful monarch on the throne when he dies,” Pentandra pointed out.  “Tavard didn’t like the magi before all of this.  Now he’ll hate us with a passion.”

“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t need you,” reminded the duchess.  “Who else are going to deal with the Nemovorti in the Westlands?  The gurvani in the north?  Even Farise, eventually.  The magi are needed for all of those crises. Tavard’s problem is that he was raised around a bunch of sycophantic knights who saw their own fading glory reflected in his young and eager face.  He grew up believing in the supremacy of the chivalry as a basis for the kingdom’s social order.”

Whereas you were raised around devious assassins and a bloodthirsty mother, Pentandra thought to herself.  She had grown to admire Rardine for her cunning, her reasonableness, and her dedication to Anguin and Alshar.  Yet she could not forget that the duchess had ordered the deaths of scores of political enemies – perhaps even participating in their assassinations.   She had a detached and callous perspective on statecraft that eschewed the noble ideas of chivalry in favor of cold pragmatism.  In her way, she was as ruthless as her mother the queen.

Of course, she didn’t say any of that out loud.  While Rardine’s approach made her shudder, it also seemed highly effective.

“There’s more to power than the chivalry,” Anguin agreed.  “That’s why I surrounded myself with monks and magi – scholars and learned men who could show me the world beyond the castle wall.  Tavard’s a decent jouster and he knows how to preside at a banquet,” the Orphan Duke admitted.  “But when you spend your life with a lance, you’re going to see everything as a tilting shield.”

“Pardon me, Your Graces,” Pentandra said, suddenly, as she felt the beginnings of mind-to-mind communication.  She closed her eyes, expecting – hoping – that it was Rondal with a report from Wilderhall.  It wasn’t.  It was Loiko Venaran, the Royal Court Wizard.

Pentandra, the king and queen just heard about Wilderhall, the former warmage informed her.  Tavard is beyond furious.  He’s half insane with worry and vowing vengeance.  Rard’s not pleased, either.  He wants to know if you can bring Anguin and Rardine here for another emergency council, he related.

The Duke and Duchess?  They aren’t involved in this.  I’m with them now.  They’re as confused by what happened at Wilderhall as anyone.  We’re looking into it, but we don’t know anything yet.

Tavard has learned something, Loiko informed her.  There’s a banner with a snowflake flying over the keep.

Oh, Pentandra said, her head spinning.  Are you certain it’s a snowflake?  Minalan isn’t even in the region.  He’s in the far north of the Wilderlands, beyond the Kulines.  Exploring a jevolar.  He’s not involved, she insisted.

It didn’t sound like the sort of thing he would do, Loiko admitted. I told Their Majesties as much.  Oh, it’s sneaky enough, but something like this he’d be around to take credit for.  His ego would not let him resort to anonymity.  In any case, Rard wants his daughter and son-in-law here at the Royal Palace, as soon as arcanely possible, to answer for this.  He’s quite upset his grandchildren are threatened.

I . . . I will inform Their Graces, Pentandra agreed. I’m certain we’ll be along directly.

Thank you, Loiko said, sincerely.  It has been a very busy day.

“My liege,” Pentandra said, when she opened her eyes and found Anguin staring at her.  “King Rard would like you and the duchess to attend him immediately at the palace for an emergency conference.  About Wilderhall,” she clarified.  “Master Loiko said it was a matter of utmost urgency.”

“Meaning Tavard is wetting his tights over this,” chuckled Rardine.  “Well, since this is a matter of the utmost urgency, I suppose we should respond to the summons.  Give me a few minutes to prepare . . . you can take us to Kaunis, Pentandra?”

“Of course,” she nodded.  It was, after all, part of her duties as court wizard.  “Let me send word to Arborn so he and the girls won’t expect me tonight.”  Because I’m going to be busy getting yelled at by the King, she thought to herself.

It was long past midnight by the time Pentandra returned to Spellgarden.  The stately tower was dark when she appeared at the Waypoint that Minalan had installed here.  There were no armed guards around it, like most other important Waypoints, but Carmella and her staff had created other enchantments that would ward off any attack or intruder that might attempt to invade the Spellmonger’s private quarters.  The spells recognized her, however, and she was able to ascend to her quarters without more problem than stumbling over her feet due to darkness and exhaustion.

The emergency meeting at Kaunis had gone for more than three hours.  King Rard had skipped the formality of the throne room, this time, and convened in his private apartments – a significant sign of his diminishing patience, in her estimation.  The presence of the queen, as well, reinforced the notion that this situation was becoming more serious, which was just what Pentandra had feared from the first.

This time it was Rard who was angry.  Tavard was brooding at Darkfaller, apparently, still insisting that he would lead his troops into battle against Terleman, still encamped outside of Barrowbell.  That, alone, had propelled the monarch’s mood.  To see his son sit powerless while his daughter-in-law and grandchildren were prisoners was galling to the old man, and he was just as angry at his son as he was at the mercenaries who had occupied his former capital.

Grendine was angry, too, but her anger was directed at her son-in-law.  She all but accused Anguin and Rardine of being behind the surprise attack.  She interrogated them relentlessly, particularly her daughter, to detect any hint of culpability.  Then she’d turned her attention on Pentandra, blaming the magi for the attack.  It had taken two hours of unabating questioning to finally convince her that they were as ignorant of who was behind the audacious assault as she was.

But Pentandra had gained a little intelligence at the meeting.  She’d discovered that Tavard had sent a delegation of Wilderlord barons to negotiate with the occupiers on his behalf, and that he intended to empty Darkfaller and the surrounding territories to send every man who could hold a spear or draw a bow against Terleman’s army.  And she discovered that the relationship between Grendine and Princess Almaranda was strained, even after the birth of her new grandson.  As useful as that was to know, Pentandra had no better idea of who was behind the attack than she had before.

Even the subject of the Family operatives who had planned and executed the attack on Pentandra did not seem to concern her, when Rardine brought them up to the queen.  Grendine had dismissed the matter out of hand, even granting Anguin permission to execute the agents if he chose.  She was far more incensed at the thought of someone humiliating her by occupying one of the seats of her power than she was being held to account for spying on Alshar.

The entire episode seemed to amuse Anguin and Rardine, who endured the questioning and the railing with grace and dignity – largely because they were, indeed, innocent.  Apart from throwing Terleman a party, they hadn’t participated in the war in the slightest.  It was the official Alshari position that this was between the Magelaw and Tavard.  While interested in the outcome, they were not interfering.

But Anguin had made it clear to Rard that, if necessary, he might, if Alshar’s interests were threatened.

By the time Pentandra returned the sovereigns to Vorone and slipped back through the Ways to Spellgarden, she was physically and mentally exhausted.  She didn’t even want wine, at this late hour, she just wanted sleep.  But maternal duty compelled her to check on the triplets, and then again on Minalan’s children, before she retired to Spellmonger’s Hall . . . where she found Antimei waiting for her.

The old hedgewitch was wearing her traveling clothes, and was seated by the fire drinking tea and reading when Pentandra entered the main chamber of the hall.  She was surprised to see her, of course, but Pentandra quickly greeted the witch and settled down in one of the other chairs encircling the hearth.

“You look like you’ve had a busy day,” Antimei said, cautiously.

“Far busier than I expected or desired,” Pentandra agreed, settling back in the comfortable seat.  “I’ve been pressed between a duke and a king all evening and I feel all the worse for it.  Affairs of state,” she said, simply.  “Why are you here?  Is there something wrong?”

“No, no . . . well, not truly,” Antimei said, shaking her head.  “I was over at the Deep Hedge estate meeting with the coven, there,” she explained.  Pentandra knew that was where Minalan had been recruiting witches who were escaping from the south, or merely wanted to be proximate to the Spellmonger for whatever reason.  “They’re getting organized, and my lads were doing a bit of fieldwork, so I spent a few days getting to know them.  Fine bunch of girls,” she nodded approvingly.  “There’s almost a score of them there, now.  But then I came here to see Alurra, tour the magnificent gardens, and then decided to impose on your hospitality for the night when I heard you were called to Castal.  I thought you might like some tea,” she added, pouring a cup from the pot.

“I . . . thank you,” Pentandra said, after she’d reconsidered wine.  She accepted the cup gratefully and sipped.  It wasn’t bitter, but it did have a somewhat exotic taste to it.  “I was afraid you’d had another vision that was destined to ruin my life.”

“I have,” agreed Antimei, which startled Pentandra.  “A few of them, actually,” the hedgewitch continued.  “More importantly, the coven and I did some spells to help place them in context.”

“You went to hedgewitches to get context on prophecy?” Pentandra asked, confused.  “You’re a High Mage, now.  And Imperially trained,” she argued.

Antimei chuckled.  “They are surprisingly helpful, actually.  Imperially trained magi tend to think in pure causality.  Low magic tends to view things a bit more organically.  My visions are often precise, about certain matters, but the portents and castings the coven conducted gave me a much better appreciation for the context that helps explain them.  The hedgewitches watch the currents of the world, not the flotsam we mistake for important events.

“For instance,” Antimei continued, “they showed me the rising tides of political change were already well underway before this war began.  The portents for the future are generally positive, as well – we are heading toward a better age, not a worse one.  That should give you some solace,” she suggested.

“Not really,” Pentandra said, with a tired chuckle.  “At least, it’s hard to see it that way, at the moment.  Things seem like they are falling apart.”

“And growing anew,” Antimei countered.  “My dear, these things happen in cycles – trust me.  And they never happen neatly.  But after talking things over with the coven, I feel much better about how things will turn out.  One of the many dangers of prophecy is its tendency to concentrate on the individual crises that seems to spawn them, and not the forces that lead to those events.  Prophecy focuses on the leaf in the stream, not the stream of history, itself.”

“Right now, the stream of history is feeling . . . turbulent,” Pentandra admitted.  “And I’m in the thick of it, being carried along and turned upside down by it.”

“As I said, it never happens neatly,” agreed Antimei with a thin smile.  “But you are the proper person in the proper position to see it through.  Of that I am assured.  If you’ve read the book I wrote, then you know that there are darker days ahead for the kingdom.  But then there are brighter days ahead, too.”

“ ‘A shadow sudden in the heart of the land,’” Pentandra quoted, “ ‘When Wilderhall falls to orphaned hands/A countess captive by apprentice’s whim/Darkfaller empty, the future most grim.’  I’ve been turning that one around in my mind all day,” she confessed.  “I thought it foreboded Anguin someday attacking Tavard in Wilderhall after some horrible calamity befell Darkfaller.  He is the Orphan Duke, after all.

“But the mercenaries who took Wilderhall are known as the Orphan’s Band, so this makes more sense.  The rest of it is still hashed beyond my comprehension, however – except for the ‘sudden shadow’ part.  That has to be Tavard’s dark mood, at the moment.  He’s planning on emptying Darkfaller to fight Teleman at Barrowbell.”

“I’m not certain your interpretation is quite correct,” Antimei clucked.  “Particularly not after the verses I wrote after these last few visions.  That dark shadow is more likely to come from the west than from Tavard’s heart.”

“Korbal?” Pentandra asked, surprised.

“The Nemovorti and the Enshadowed, more likely,” Antimei suggested.  “At least, that’s what the visions suggest.  I saw that creature who tried to kidnap me and my grandson in Inmar,” she revealed, uncomfortably.  “Her and several others, including Karakush.  They were gloating.  Never a good sort of thing to see your enemies doing.”

“Perhaps another attack on the palace at Kaunis, or maybe against Castabriel, this time,” Pentandra nodded.  “That would be most inconvenient.”

“You’ve seen the prophecies about Karakush,” the hedgewitch prompted.

“I’ve read them, but I don’t understand them,” Pentandra agreed.  “They say that he’s the cleverest of the Nemovorti.”

“Most cunning, actually,” Antimei corrected.  “Of that I am certain.  But not the most ruthless, thankfully.  He craves power more than Korbal, according to the visions.  That’s important.  He also prefers others to fight on his behalf while he manipulates them – even his fellow Nemovorti.  Karakush is a survivor and a scavenger, not a warrior or conqueror.  But he isn’t any less dangerous for that.  That is the stream which you must understand first if the prophecies concerning him are to be understood.”

Pentandra nodded, thinking of the score or so prophecies that contained his name or other reference to the Nemovort.  According to Antimei’s visions, he was the driving force behind the Enshadowed, and he would become a torment to the kingdom.  It made the effort to oust him from the Westlands all the more important . . . but also futile, if the prophecies were to be believed.  Still, she could not let the enemy stand unchallenged.

“So, what do we do?” she asked, frustrated.  “Try to fight him, knowing we’ll lose the battle?”

“Focus on winning the war,” Antimei suggested.  “My visions foresee a day when the Nemovorti will be defeated, but only if we extend our truest effort.  We must contest with them the entire way.  Other things will be born out of that conflict, things that we will need to prevail.  His associates pose a grave threat, as do his servants.  Until Korbal returns, Karakush is the most direct threat to us all, no matter how else it may appear.”

“But in doing so, we bind ourselves to that fate,” Pentandra countered.  “Isn’t that the danger of prophecy?  Why we are so suspect of its use?  I’m about to send hundreds of men into the Westlands to uproot Karakush, but I know he will survive.  So why risk their lives?”

“Because the Westlands suffers from his presence, and needs relief,” answered Antimei, “The land and its people have become his laboratory and his workshop, the place where he studies humanity in order to undo it.  To allow him to continue imposes a terrible burden on the people and gives him more time to perfect his research.  I fear it is already too late to keep him from launching his immediate plans.  But to permit him to linger in peace while he searches us for our weaknesses would be deeply unwise.”

“Agreed,” Pentandra said, as she considered the matter.  Perhaps the distraction of fighting a real foe would keep the warmagi from conquering their own people.  That, at least, would be helpful.  “But Karakush isn’t responsible for how government has fallen, in the Westlands.  We might remove him from his lairs, but that will do little to restore the people who have suffered so much.  And he had nothing to do with the cult.”  She went on to explain about the strange priesthood and the fiery goddess they had manifested.

“Are you so certain?” Antimei asked, an eyebrow raised.  “Karakush has made a practice of studying human society – including our religion and our gods.  My visions suggest that he’s fascinated by the phenomenon.  That’s one of the things that makes Karakush so dangerous.”

“What do you mean?” Pentandra asked, frowning.

“Karakush is among the few Nemovorti and Enshadowed who have studied the gods enough to know what a great power they command, within in their spheres of influence,” Antimei explained.  “While Korbal and the other Nemovorti were fixated on human warfare and magic, Karakush has been exploring divinity and its manifestation.  As well as the potential of the divine to provide him power.  Theurgy is as novel to him as tekka.  Should he figure out how to manipulate the gods, the task ahead will become much, much darker.”

That thought disturbed Pentandra more deeply that she realized.  Having met the manifestations of the divine, she’d seen their power up close.  The gods could violate the laws of reality, itself, sometimes.  “But it takes human minds, with human subconsciousness, to call forth the gods,” she reasoned.  “The Nemovorti and the Enshadowed cannot do that.”

“Yet Karakush has been cultivating human slaves for years, now,” Antimei pointed out.  “Do you think that was merely an effort to keep the crops coming in?  I believe he has more sinister motives than labor.  My visions suggest that he’s seeking to influence his slaves and manipulate them, somehow, in the hopes they will manifest the gods.  I could be wrong,” she admitted, “but it does seem to fit.  This new rebel goddess could be one result of his experiments.”

“Why would human gods want to fight on Karakush’s behalf?” Pentandra asked, frowning.  “Their entire job is to protect humanity, I thought.”

Antimei sighed.  “I do not know, Pentandra.  Perhaps he will fail utterly, which would be a boon.  Or perhaps he desires to manipulate the gods the way he does the Nemovorti and the Enshadowed.  This is beyond my ken as hedgewitch or High Mage.

“But I can tell you that the portents and auguries the coven discovered in their spellcraft make me think that if he is not stopped in the Westlands, he may have time to perfect his efforts.  And I do not think we can afford him that.”

“I will order the attacks,” sighed Pentandra.  “As soon as this newest crises has settled.  Rondal was finishing the last of his scouting trips when Wilderhall fell.  Once he figures out who the responsible party is I’ll have him turn his full attention on the Nemovorti.  While I beat the responsible party to death with my baculus,” she added, and finished her tea.  “Now, I’m going to bed and snuggle up next to Arborn and try to forget having queens glare at me and ponder the great question of our time while I try to get to sleep,” she said, standing.

“And that is?” Antimei asked, curiously.

“Where in nine hells is Minalan?” Pentandra sighed.  “And when will he be back to clean up this mess?”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Occupied Wilderhall

The blind horse rides hardy to the fight.

Wilderlands Folk Saying

For a town under military occupation, Wilderhall seemed surprisingly peaceful and lacking in opposition.

Rondal had not spent much time in the picturesque summer capital of Castal – he’d taken his journeyman exam here with Tyndal and had visited a few times with Minalan – but it had always seemed like a more formal and more decorative version of Vorone, to his eye.  It wasn’t as spread out as Vorone, and it was far more defensible even though it hadn’t been attacked since it had become the ducal capital.

But that was precisely why the mercenaries had been able to take it and hold it so easily.  The complacency of the guards at the castle and the cosmopolitan nature of the court had conspired to convince everyone that Wilderhall wasn’t in danger from the war its prince had declared.  There wasn’t even a real garrison here, beyond the ducal guard.  The armies of Tavard’s vassals had encamped almost six miles away at a staging area where the common Wilderlords wouldn’t be tempted to sully Wilderhall’s rarified society with their rustic ways.

That had been his reasoning behind his unauthorized military adventure: Tavard had left his seat of power relatively unguarded and generally undefended, seeing only the distant armies of magi as a potential threat.  The idea of an ordinary mercenary company sneaking past the assembling armies to strike at the heart of Tavard’s power was unthinkable . . . so that’s what he’d arranged for.

According to Rondal’s plan they had approached the town ostensibly looking for employment . . . and then launched a surprise attack on the castle and the city gates that had neatly shut most of the court inside vast Wilderhall Castle in one stroke.  Disarming the castle guard and the city watch had been swift.  Once the gates and bridges were shut, the mercenaries had the place completely under their control.

It seemed the common townspeople did not mind the temporary change of administration, apart from the inns and taverns and shops that catered almost exclusively to the nobility.  Everyone else seemed to be going about their business as usual.

That was gratifying to him, as he and Gatina walked the town after emerging from a natural Waypoint outside the city.  He had chosen that partially because he didn’t want to attempt the palace’s Waystone while it was heavily guarded – at his orders – and partially because he wanted to assess just how much of a disaster his operation had inflicted on the town.  His greatest fear was that his surprise attack would lead to widespread violence in the town, where innocent people might die.

But he was gratified to see the Nirodi Mounted Archers seemed to be doing an adequate job of keeping the peace and patrolling the town.  Even the suspicious guards at the gates had been greeted by passersby in a friendly manner by those requesting permission to pass.

They had looked askance at the parchment pass Rondal showed them, until one of the corporals who recognized him from his speech on the frontier waved them through.  Gatina stared at him for a moment, as they passed the long bridge that led to the city, proper.

“What?” Rondal asked, a little disconcerted by her deep purple eyes bearing on him so resolutely.

“I didn’t actually believe it, until you just walked through a military checkpoint,” she said, shaking her head.  “You really did plan a surprise attack on an enemy stronghold and then executed it.”

“You did that with an entire duchy,” he reminded her, a little sullenly.

“Yes, but I had Lady Pentandra’s help,” she admitted.  “You did this all on your own.  You didn’t even ask my advice, you just . . . did it.  It’s kind of impressive.  And a bit unexpected.”

“Well . . . thank you?” Rondal said, confused and a little annoyed.

“It just doesn’t seem like something you’d do,” she offered, apologetically.  “Me?  Certainly.  I’m bold,” she said, matter-of-factly.  “Tyndal?  Yes, he’s stupidly impetuous.  But you?  Doing this without permission?  By yourself?  It’s . . . surprising.”

“Well, I did hire three thousand mercenaries,” he pointed out.  “And paid for them out of my own purse.  I wasn’t entirely alone in taking the city.”

“I know, and I’m not trying to diminish your accomplishment,” she urged.  “It was just unexpected.”

“The unexpected part is that you weren’t mad at me for doing it alone,” he sighed.  “I fully expected you to be angry at me.”  Her reaction had, indeed, surprised him.  When he finally told Gatina about his stealthy attack on Wilderhall, she hadn’t been upset in the slightest – even about him keeping it secret from her.  That was one of the advantages, he supposed, in having a wife who grew up understanding the importance of secrecy.

“Why?” Gatina asked, herself confused by the admission.  “Why would I be mad?”

“Because . . . well, because I didn’t quite think things through, which you probably would have,” he reasoned.  “I thought that this would be a way to end the war quickly, to Ashlar’s advantage.  But now I feel like I’ve just made things worse.  The king is furious, Pentandra says.”

Gatina snorted.  “I don’t see how.  It seems as if everything is going just as you planned it.”

“Then why am I so worried?” he finally asked, as they neared the market.  It wasn’t a market day, but there was still plenty of activity in Wilderhall’s commercial district.  It was even bustling, despite the red-cloaked archers stationed at every corner.

“Because you’re feeling guilty about doing something without permission, or guidance, or advice,” she decided.  “You’re used to taking orders, not formulating them.  And you’re not used to keeping such things from your friends and allies.  More,” she continued, as they walked across the cobbled square, “you’re intelligent enough to understand just how horribly wrong things could have gone.”

“Oh, there’s still plenty of room for that,” he pointed out.  “Let’s see how my . . . my occupation is going before we pass any judgement on the success of this . . . operation,” he said, as he waved to a pair of Nirodi Archers who were patrolling the market.

The Orphan’s Band guards at the gate of Wilderhall Castle were even more willing to let Rondal pass than the Nirodi – one of them remembered Rondal from the Great March and offered to take them to Bold Asgus personally.  Rondal was relieved – it was a very big castle and far more complex than most he’d seen.   He could see how easy it would be to get lost there. Unlike the town, however, Wilderhall Castle was quiet and seemed deserted.  It wasn’t, of course.  There were soldiers of the Orphan’s Band everywhere, mostly Kasari, their bows strung and arrows at the ready.

To his surprise, the soldier did not lead them into one of the five great towers of the castle, but to an unassuming little brick building within the domestic range of the bailey.  Inside they found Bold Asgus sitting at a table, bareheaded, smoking and reading reports.

The big mercenary captain smiled broadly when he saw Rondal and set down his pipe to clasp his hand.  After introducing – rather blushingly – Gatina as his intended bride, Asgus called for chairs for both of them and sent for his warmage and some ale.

“Taking the castle was easier than I suspected,” Asgus informed him, when they’d settled in.  “We knew most of the guards, already – hells, some of them are former Orphans.  Within an hour we’d taken the bridge, the city gates, the gatehouse, and four of the five towers.  The ducal guard started to give us some grief, but a few arrows from the Kasari and they surrendered their arms.  After that, there wasn’t any more opposition.

“I informed the ducal court that they were all prisoners and hostages, now, and put them under guard.  We have a special guard for the Princess, of course, and she’s shut up in her chambers with her babes.  Pintol took the Court Wizard’s witchstone, as a precaution – she weren’t real happy about that.  Then we shut the gates and issued our edicts, just as you ordered.  By nightfall we were in control of the entire place.  Redshaft is running the city, I’m in charge of the castle.”

“You killed members of the ducal guard?” Rondal asked, alarmed.

“Nay,” dismissed Asgus with a shrug, “not a one.  But there are six of them recovering from wounds in their thighs and arms.  Those Kasari are good shots,” he praised.  “Pity they dislike killing so much, else they’d be good permanent recruits.”

“It’s not their way,” Rondal agreed with a sigh.  “Well done, Asgus!  You did an amazing job.  Have you heard anything from Tavard’s negotiators?”

That made the mercenary chuckle.  “Well, Count Moran, the Prime Minister, has been here twice, now, attempting to bargain for his and the Princess’ release.  I had to tell him no, of course.  As a hostage he’s prohibited from negotiating his own release.  And a delegation of three barons leading the gathering armies of the Castali Wilderlands met with me last night.  Said they hadn’t had any communication with Prince Tavard, but that they figured they’d introduce themselves and begin negotiations.”

“You met them here?” Gatina asked, surprised.

“By design,” nodded Asgus.  “Oh, they were spying on us, too, to see if they could manage to take the castle back by force, but I disabused them of that notion,” he said with another chuckle.  “My lads were manning the siege engines.  As I worked for one of them once, they knew I know my business.  We have a thousand of the Kasari patrolling the lands around the town, and those fellows know how to scout.  And, of course, they wanted to know who hired us.”

“What did you tell them?” Rondal asked, feeling nervous.  He tried not to betray that with his expression.

“I told them I was working for a lawful combatant in a declared war who had paid in advance, and that client was confidential,” Asgus informed them.  “I had Warbrother Meafs to bear witness to it.  They weren’t any happier than the Princess or the Prime Minister, but they had to agree we were within the Laws of Duin.”

“Is there any chance of attack from them?” Rondal asked, starting to appreciate that he had arranged to take a ducal castle by arms – not something he ever imagined he would do.  It made him a little dizzy, considering it.

“They could try, but they’d fail,” Asgus decided.  “They mobilized for a field war, not a siege.  It would take them weeks to construct the necessary equipment to even think about taking this place away from us.  And then there’s the matter of the hostages,” he nodded.  “No one wants to be at fault for getting a couple of senior ministers hung because they risked at attack.  They’ll wait on orders from Tavard and make it his responsibility.”

“Good, good,” Rondal said, his head spinning a bit.  “I’m curious – this is one of the most lavish palaces in the Five Duchies.  Why aren’t you working from one of the grand towers?”

Asgus gave an expressive shrug.  “I’m defending this castle, not living in it.  I’ve got our men encamped in the courtyards, not inside.  Easier to watch everyone that way.  We haven’t so much as touched the treasury or looted a penny, we’re just holding the place for you.  As for why this place . . . it’s the head guardsman’s hut.  And from here I can see all five towers, the gatehouse, and the rest of the range.  Much better place to control this place from than some gilded hall.”

Rondal was impressed with the man’s military reasoning and his willingness to sacrifice his own comfort for the mission.  Indeed, Asgus seemed rather pleased with himself as he occupied one of the great capitals of the world.  But he knew his stay was temporary.

He was about to quiz the man about the negotiations with the three barons when the Band’s warmage arrived.  He’d apparently been at the Mirror Array all morning, and he had news.  Rondal had directed that the Array be left untouched, and that the magi there be unmolested and allowed to continue their work.  A single guard had been posted to keep anyone but Asgus or Rogo from trying to send a message out, but the place could still receive word from the rest of the world.  Pintol had been carefully monitoring all of the incoming news.

“The most important message was word that Prince Tavard has departed Darkfaller with nearly ten thousand men,” the warmage reported, excitedly.  “He plans to engage Viscount Terleman at Barrowbell, and he wants everyone to know about it.  But he also sent a message by Mirror this morning directly to Wilderhall asking how much we were demanding for the release of Count Moran.”

“But not the princess?” Gatina asked, surprised.  “Or his children?”

“Oh, she was mentioned, but the negotiation was for Moran,” Pintol assured with a grin.  “And for his immediate release.  He offered five thousand ounces of gold.”

“A princely sum for a mere count,” Asgus observed.

“Count Moran is the prince’s closest advisor.  He usually doesn’t lace up his doublet without recourse to his advice,” Rondal said, shaking his head.  “Without him, he has to rely on his Minister of War.  A pity he wasn’t at Wilderhall when you attacked.”

“There was an entire list of hostages he wanted to redeem, at least a dozen of them,” Pintol related.  “All important senior ministers . . . except for this Lady Arnet.  Why would he want a minister for lands and estates so badly?” Pintol asked, confused.

Rondal and Gatina gave each other a knowing glance.  Both had heard of the operational head of the Family, the sinister old spinster who oversaw Grendine’s company of pretty assassins.  “You have her under custody?” Rondal asked Asgus.

“Oh, Aye, she’s in the River Tower with the other functionaries,” Asgus affirmed. “Why?  Is she important?”

“Far more than she seems,” Rondal agreed.

“She’s part of the royal intelligence corps,” Gatina supplied.  “And she reports directly to the Queen.”

“Not the king?” Asgus asked, surprised.

“Rard runs military and civil affairs, Grendine runs intelligence and foreign policy, mostly,” Rondal explained.  “And she’s ruthless about it.  She is likely very concerned that the center of her spy network is technically in enemy hands . . . along with all of her secret records.”

“I imagine she is,” nodded Asgus.  “I’d best keep a very close eye on her, then,” he decided, and motioned a guard over to him.

While he was giving the lad orders, Pintol continued telling Rondal the news that had come through the Mirror.  While the reports from the civil war were the most pressing, there were other messages that the mercenary warmage had intercepted and expected Rondal would find informative.  News from all over the kingdom came through a Mirror Array node, and the wizard was clearly impressed by the usefulness of the enchantment.

“So how do you want me to play the negotiations?” Asgus asked, when he returned his attention to them.  “A fast settlement and swift escape?” he asked, hopefully.

“Quite the contrary, I want you to demand to only speak to Tavard’s direct representative, or better yet, Tavard himself.  That should take some time – or take Tavard out of the field.  Either way, it keeps Wilderhall out of play for the duration of the war.”

“But what about the money?” Asgus pressed.  “They’re going to want to know how much we want for at least the senior ministers and the princess and her children.”

Rondal blanched.  He honestly did not know.

“Five thousand ounces of gold for each minister,” Gatina suggested, confidently, “and twenty thousand ounces for Princess Almaranda and the children.  Fifteen hundred gold for the lesser members of the ducal court and the clergy.  Twenty silver a head for the nobles captured, ten for each soldier of the guard, four for every horse in the stable, and five silver for every servant.”

The men stared at the diminutive girl who was so casually assessing a value on everyone in the castle.

“Oh, then thirty thousand for the castle, and another twenty thousand for the town,” she added, after a moment’s thought.

“There’s no way Tavard can pay that much,” Rondal said, shaking his head.  “He’d have to borrow . . . a lot!”

“You said you wanted to keep negotiations going,” she pointed out.  “This will do it.  It’s high, but then this is a high-value property.  These are high-value hostages.  You can let him make a counteroffer, which will take time and be fraught with anxiety because if he offers too little it will appear he doesn’t value the Princess highly.  So, he’ll agonize about it.  Then you can reject his counteroffer and start the real negotiations.  Which begs the question . . . what exactly did you want out of this, Beloved?”

Rondal swallowed.  “I . . . I just wanted a way to hamper Tavard and keep him from doing anything rash,” he said.  “I really didn’t think too much beyond that.”

“Well, then what do you want out of the bargain?” she asked, patiently.

Rondal thought about that a moment – and he drew a blank.  He hadn’t undertaken this exercise as a way of making money, of course – he had plenty of money, thanks to the Brotherhood of the Rat – but the money was important for strategic reasons, he knew.  Armies were expensive, and if Tavard was spending his coin on ransoms, he wouldn’t be able to hire mercenaries.

But then there was the political leverage available, too.  With the Princess and the court in his control, there were plenty of things that he could ask from Tavard.  Allowing the mercenaries to depart unharmed, of course, but beyond that . . . what did he want?

With the uncomfortable realization that he had ambition, Rondal could think of several things he could ask for in exchange for releasing the hostages and leaving Wilderhall.  A guarantee of peace with the Magelaw, for one.  Assurances that Sevendor would not be harassed or attacked.  A return of Gilmora to Alshar – or at least the parts that Terleman had already conquered.

But there was no way to ensure that the hotheaded Prince would keep his word, unless King Rard got involved and enforced the agreement.

“Let’s just see how opening negotiations go,” he decided, slowly, “and we’ll get to the nuances when we finalize the agreement.  Keep it businesslike,” he instructed, “and see what Tavard’s representative offers.  We’ll work from there.”

“You know, Tavard isn’t going to want to ransom back his servants and horses and such,” Asgus warned.

“Then start the negotiations with their ransoms, and work up,” Gatina offered.  “If he knows that he can’t get the people he wants until he settles on what the people he doesn’t care about are worth, it will make him more likely to agree to a reasonable offer.  And it will kill more time.”

“I like the way you think, lass!” Asgus grinned.

Gatina shrugged.  “It’s like negotiating with a fence when you . . . oh, never mind,” she dismissed.  “But if the goal is to keep him talking, that will help.”

“And when they return for negotiations, make sure that they see the prisoners and have a chance to assure Tavard that they are being well cared for,” ordered Rondal.  “Now, I’m afraid I have to shift my role, a bit,” he announced.  “You see, I’m not actually here as the client for this mission, at the moment.  I’m here as a representative of the Alshari intelligence organization and the Court Wizard.  To whom I have to report, now.”

He closed his eyes and activated the mind-to-mind spell.  It took a while, but Pentandra eventually responded.

I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time, he began.

No, I was just talking to Arborn.  Have you reached Wilderhall? she asked, anxiously.

Reached it and penetrated the castle, he reported, truthfully.  Some of the guards are friends from the Great March.  They let me slip in.  I even got a moment with the military commander.  He does, indeed, control both town and castle, and he is holding the ducal court and the princess prisoner.

Thank you for confirming that, she said, with a mental sigh.  Did you find out who the client was who hired them?

The Orphan’s Band is not in the habit of revealing their clients if they are instructed not to, he said, truthfully.  They didn’t even reveal that to the negotiators.

Tavard has sent negotiators? Pentandra asked, surprised.

No, but a couple of local barons have taken it upon themselves to act as his emissaries, until someone in more authority comes along.  Interestingly enough, Tavard offered to pay a high ransom for the release of Count Moran – I infiltrated the Mirror Array messages, he fibbed.  The princess and her children are being well cared for and well-guarded.  As is Lady Arnet, he added.

Oh, so she was captured? Pentandra noted with interest.  I’ll let Rardine know.  She’ll be thrilled, I’d imagine.  So do you think you could get the mercenaries well-disposed to you? she asked.

Rondal paused.  I think they might listen to me, he ventured, cautiously.  They aren’t unfriendly.  I just spoke to their only warmage.  Nice fellow.  Why?

Because Rardine might want to gain access to the Family’s secret records, for one thing, she explained.  If we could sneak her in there, she would count it as a boon.

I’ll . . . see what I can do, Rondal agreed, trying to sound helpful.  Any more news from the war? he asked.  The last I heard Tavard was emptying Darkfaller to face Terleman in the field.

He has, Pentandra agreed.  I spoke to Terleman this morning, and this afternoon I’m going to go visit his position near Barrowbell on Anguin’s behalf.  Terleman says his scouts have spotted Tavard’s army, which is moving slowly – very slowly – toward his position.  Tavard appears to be leading it, personally, she added.

He’s leading his own army? Rondal asked with a mental snort of disbelief.  He couldn’t find anyone better qualified?

His Highness takes losing Gilmora very seriously, Pentandra said.  Rardine thinks that the loss of Wilderhall has embarrassed him into rash action.  Terleman thinks he’s overconfident because his army now outnumbers Terleman’s.  I think they’re both right, she added, tiredly.  He feels threatened, now that he’s lost lands, his family, and his capital.  He’s striking back hard, like any good knight would.

Terleman is going to knock his hat off, Rondal predicted.  Was there anything else you wanted me to check on, while I’m here?

Just try to make friends with the mercenaries who are, apparently, allied with us, she suggested.  Keep trying to find out who hired them.  But otherwise stay out of their way.  However this plays out, I want to make sure that we aren’t entangled with it overmuch.  Whether Tavard wins on the field or loses, if he survives he’s going to be looking for someone to blame . . . and he blames the magi enough already.  Whoever arranged this mess in Wilderhall is going to attract his ire.  It was a bold move, taking Wilderhall by surprise, but unless Tavard dies in battle there will be a reckoning.

On that fateful note, Pentandra broke the connection.  Rondal opened his eyes and blinked.

“Well, that went well,” he said, with a sigh.  “She wants me to get friendly with the Orphan’s Band and try to find out who hired you.”

That produced some chuckles from the mercenaries, and even Gatina giggled.  Rondal didn’t find it particularly funny – especially Pentandra’s warning about Tavard’s ire.

“We’ll just keep that bit between us, lad,” Asgus assured.  “That’s what you paid for, and that’s what you’re legally entitled to.  Until the cease of hostilities,” he reminded him.  “After the war, that might be a hard secret to keep.”

“I know,” groaned Rondal.  “I’m sure I’ll think of something.  Hopefully Tavard will be too impoverished to pursue a vendetta.”  He didn’t believe it, even as he said it.

“Don’t worry, Beloved, I will protect you,” Gatina promised sincerely.

“And you can trust us not to speak of it,” Asgus agreed.  “It’s actually easier in negotiations if we don’t.  If they don’t know who they’re really dealing with, they’ll keep things more businesslike.”

“I devoutly hope that is the case,” Rondal nodded firmly.  “Otherwise, I’ll have to change my name and sail to the Shattered Isles.  Or Unstara.  Or farther.”

“Oh, don’t worry, lad,” Asgus assured.  “These things happen, and then they pass.  I’ve worked for both sides in a war a half-dozen times.  Just keep things professional, and everything will be all right.”

“Just in case,” he said, suddenly reaching for a hoxter and producing an extra Waystone, “take this and keep it on you,” he told the young warmage.  Pintol took the stone and looked at it curiously.  “I might need to reach you, and you might need to arrange for an emergency evacuation,” he explained.  “This will help in both situations.”

They took their leave of the mercenaries after that, and Rondal insisted on a walk around the gardens before they left.  He needed to clear his yead, and the gardens at Wilderhall were in full summer bloom.

“This is lovely,” Gatina smiled, as they passed a fountain shaped like a playful elk, a monument to some old hunting expedition, he figured.  “Not as lush as Falas, but it’s nice.  It has that primitive, Narasi barbarian feel about it.”

“Hopefully it won’t be where Tavard has me executed, when all this is over,” Rondal said, glumly.  “If the queen doesn’t have me assassinated out-of-hand for my temerity.”

“I don’t see why you are so worried,” Gatina said, as she followed him.  “Everything went just as you planned.  It’s as near a perfect operation as you could ask.”

“I know,” he agreed, sullenly.  “I suppose that’s why I’m worried.  I expected something to go wrong, and it hasn’t.  Yet.  But it’s almost certain to.”

“Why?” she prompted.  “You made certain everything was legal – that’s actually pretty novel, from my perspective.  You took bold action and seized an opportunity at your own expense.  And you may have affected the outcome of this silly war.  So why do you think something will go wrong?”

“Because it always does, somehow,” he answered, as he stared at a huge planter filled with roses.  Yellow roses, the favorite of the queen.  “It’s just a matter of when.  And how badly.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

The Fields of Barrowbell

True evil always seeks the best talent and the cleverest lawbrothers.

Wilderlands Folk Saying

Pentandra had not expected to be on a horse in a field between two armies when she woke up that morning, but she was learning that the life of a ducal court wizard was full of such surprises.

She had initially intended to do no more than make a quick daytrip to visit Terleman in the field, inspect his troops, give a brief speech, and then quietly beg him to find some other way to end this war than destroying Prince Tavard’s army.  Ostensibly, she was there on Duke Anguin’s behalf in her capacity as Baroness of Vanador, to demonstrate support for the brave Alshari soldiers who had marched hundreds of miles to respond to Tavard’s aggression.  But she had given herself the private mission of trying to defuse the situation.

She found that many of the Vanadori Guards who were encamped around Barrowbell were originally from Gilmora, captured and enslaved by the retreating gurvani during the invasion.  Later Minalan and his warmagi had rescued them – with Duke Anguin’s help.  They had enlisted in the Guard to defend their new homes and nascent county and learned how to fight.  Now they were back in the land of their birth as conquerors, when so many had been peasant laborers in the fields they now controlled with steel.  It was clear from their cheerful attitude that a great many of them considered their present maneuvers more of a liberation campaign than a war of conquest.

To aid in that perspective, hundreds of knights had brought their lances to join Terleman’s forces because they favored Alshari rule of Gilmora.  Indeed, the campaign had become as much a rebellion as a conquest.

The families who preferred Alshar had eagerly sworn fealty to the Magelaw after Terleman had taken their baronies.  More than a thousand new warriors and their households had gravitated to Terleman’s banner, and more arrived every day.  Baron Gydion, the Duke Anguin’s bastard half-brother and personal bodyguard, had led five hundred men from Tantonel into camp the day before, along with a contingent from Astyral’s land of Losara.  All of them were eager volunteers favoring the Anchor and Antlers.

Those who objected to Alshari rule were invited to leave the conquered territory, or if they rebelled against Terleman’s rule they were captured and sent to the growing prisoner-of-war camp at Cleston, she discovered.

Pentandra had been gratified to see that the Vanadori men were well-fed, well-shod, and in good spirits as she toured the camp.  Terleman had strutted around proudly in front of his row upon row of Yltedine-steel clad infantry, a picture of uniformity compared to the chaotic heraldry of the Gilmoran knights.

But then a message had arrived at luncheon, while she was eating with a few of her subjects from Vanador.  Terleman sought her out personally.

“Tavard sends word that he wishes a meeting under truce, before the onset of hostilities,” he told her, when he got her alone.  “The vanguard of his army is only seven miles from here, now.  Of course, the main body is twelve miles behind that, so it will be a while before the actual battle starts.”

“You intend to agree to a meeting?” Pentandra asked, surprise.

The big warmage shrugged.  “After dealing with Nemovorti all winter, I’m used to fatuous blowhards telling me how badly they’re going to defeat me.  I’m finding that it sharpens my resolve.”

Pentandra took him at his word.  By all accounts Terleman had nearly won the Winter War single handedly in his command of Spellgate, and he’d faced off with Shakathet during the spring campaign.  Both had fielded mightier armies than Tavard was able to muster.  He was spoken of with awe by the other warmagi, and he’d become a central figure around which the profession had concentrated.

Pentandra realized, suddenly, that in promoting and supporting the man Minalan had created an obstacle to a smoothly running kingdom.  Or at least a permanent foil to the chivalry-oriented ruling elite.  Terleman had a deep distrust and lack of respect for the mounted warriors that had ruled the Five Duchies for four centuries.  He was as Narasi as Rard or Minalan, but he saw the primacy of the chivalry as an atavistic and archaic affectation . . . and he was more than willing to put that belief to the test on the battlefield.

Personally, she liked Terleman.  But his ambitions and his sense of professional antipathy towards knighthood had the potential to upend the established order.  She had mixed feelings about that, she finally understood.

Pentandra had no love for the Narasi cavalry or the cult that surrounded it.  Terl epitomized the new method of fighting a war – magic, subterfuge, and cunning over honor, loyalty, and adherence to a code that was provably corrupt.  But Terleman’s approach invited full-scale challenge to the established order, and that was dangerous.  She fretted about how that would evolve . . . and how many would perish in proving the superiority of the warmagi to the cavalry.

“So, what benefit do you have in agreeing to treat with him?” she asked, lightly.  Far more lightly than she felt.  Indeed, she had a growing sense of dread bubbling in her stomach.

“It’s traditional,” he shrugged.  “I extended the same courtesy to Gaja-Katar and Shakathet.  It seems dishonorable to deny it to our future king.  It will probably be an exercise in trying to define the terms of engagement, or even the terms of victory.  How ransoms are to be collected, the limits of mercy, the policing of the wounded, that sort of thing.  Not something the Nemovorti practice, but it’s customary in war between lords.”

“But why?” Pentandra asked, genuinely confused.  “I still don’t see much benefit.”

“For much the same reasons I met with the Nemovorti,” Terleman considered.  “It allows me to take the measure of my foe.  To see him flaunt his weaknesses.  It helps me to hone my plan of battle,” he explained.

“It seems like a vainglorious excuse to posture and brag,” she pointed out.  “Not that I disagree with your decision, but I urge caution.  Tavard is not a Nemovort, he’s a young prince under tremendous pressure to demonstrate his fitness for rule.  He’s like to do something rash.”

“Which is why I want to stare him in the eye and take his measure, commander to commander,” Terleman said, evenly.  “He declared war on the Magelaw.  I want him to defend that position.  And then I want to kick his arse all the way back to Castabriel,” he said, with a gleam of anticipation in his eye.

Pentandra’s shoulders sagged.  “And then?” she asked, her voice nearly a whisper.

“And then we will set the matter before the Throne,” Terleman shrugged.  “But the Magelaw will be secure.  And much larger.  I’d actually like for you to attend,” he added, after a moment’s consideration.  “It has been proposed that no more than a dozen on each side will meet in the designated place.  I’d like for you to be there, so that Tavard will see that the Magelaw is united in its resolve.”

“You want me to negotiate before the battle?” she asked.

“Not really.  I want you to stand there and intimidate him while I negotiate,” Terleman corrected.  “Besides, I think our duchess would prefer your assessment to mine.”  She couldn’t argue that.  Terleman’s report would be military in nature.  Pentandra’s would concern the nuances of politics and diplomacy.

So Pentandra found herself on a horse, a few hours later, at an abbey complex devoted to Huin – though the images of the Sacred Sower featured him cultivating cotton as much as wheat or barley.  Under Duin’s Law, temples and abbeys were considered off-limits to warfare, unless they were directly involved.  The fact that the law was flouted as much as it was respected was not lost on her.

Terleman’s party was mostly magelords, although he included a few of the rebellious barons who had taken up the Alshari cause to fill out his delegation.  They’d arrived first at the abbey, wisely deserted by the clergy in anticipation of the coming battle.  Only the abbot, a kindly old man more concerned with the survival of his abbey than the outcome of the war, had remained behind.  Officially, he was there to mediate the dispute, as per custom, but it was clear that the old monk did not feel equal to the task.  Terleman’s warmagi immediately secured the area and placed it under defensive spells and wardings while the Landfather looked around in bemused confusion.

Prince Tavard’s party was late to the meeting, forcing Pentandra to make small talk with the abbot and send reports mind-to-mind to a number of people.  By the time one of the wizards announced the approach of the Castali delegation, she was getting bored.

But finally, Tavard’s side arrived in chivalric splendor, colorful banners hung from every lance as they rode through the gate at a trot.  Most of his party wore dark blue cloaks over their clanking armor, but the last four horsemen who appeared caused a stir amongst the folk of the Magelaw.  They were wearing red checkered cloaks.

“The Red Censorate?” she heard Terleman gasp.  “Here?”

“The Knights of Nablus,” Pentandra said with a solemn nod.  “It appears as if Tavard is starting to take magic seriously.”

“But they’re Merwyni!” objected Sandoval, disgusted.  “How can they be fighting for Tavard?”

“I suspect we will find out anon,” Pentandra said, her eyes narrowing.  “But this will be very interesting to some members of the Royal Court.  Particularly after the Merwyni incursions into Remere.  And, of course, to the Duke and Duchess.”

Tavard’s herald came to a stop in the yard, and as the knights and Censors formed up in a line, he proceeded to announce the first eight by name, title, and pedigree, beginning with the Prince.  She was unfamiliar with most of them – they were local Castali barons, along with a few of his picked gentlemen.  When he came to the Knights of Nablus, the herald merely finished with “ . . . and certain auxiliaries!” before he invited Terleman to do the same.

The warmage had directed his squire Anjak to do the honors, and the handsome young lad did a credible job – with a magically augmented voice.  One by one the attendees were named, and along with their noble titles he added their list of accomplishments.

To her surprise, Pentandra was named “. . .Ducal Court Wizard, Baroness of Vanador, Defender of Vorone, who defeated two Nemovorti and directed the battle of Olum Seheri!”  She had to admit that it sounded far more grand an impressive than “. . . harried mother of three and overworked bureaucrat!”

Finally, Prince Tavard rode to the front of the line, resplendent in his princely armor and dark blue surcoat, and doffed his helmet.

Pentandra could tell at once that the prince was feeling the consequences of the pressure he was under.  He looked older, more mature, as well as more belligerent than she’d seen him at court.  He rode his charger with the easy mastery of long practice.  But his eyes were tired and worn, and she could see the lines of worry and anger around them beginning to form almost at once.

“We request a truce in the name of Duin, to discuss terms of the forthcoming battle,” he called out.  Terleman rode forward himself – he’d remounted, as an honor to the Prince.

“We grant your truce,” Terleman affirmed.  “For two hours and two miles, no blade will be drawn and no shaft loosed.  Nor will spells of destruction be cast.  As the aggressor, I invite Your Excellency to demonstrate why he has so egregiously assailed the realm of the Magelaw and justify his pursuit of warfare against us.”

“You stand on my lands and accuse me of aggression?” Tavard asked, amused and appalled.  “And you may address me as ‘Your Highness’,” he added, with a sneer.

“In this regard, you are accorded the rank you fight under, Excellency,” corrected Terleman.  “At the moment this is merely a territorial spat between high nobles.  We face each other as Count of Darkfaller and Viscount of Spellgate.  Should you desire to make war as duke or prince, then this conflict will transform.  I will be forced to appeal to my liege, as is my right, for aid.  And to His Majesty for relief,” he added.

That brought some color to Tavard’s cheeks.  “Very well, Viscount.  You wish me to justify this war?  I shall do so.  Your realm has abused its place by overturning the established order, denigrating the chivalry, and disrespecting the honor of the knights of Gilmora by misusing Count Minalan’s authority to re-direct Count Anvaram’s troops!”

“The ones you paid for and directed to attack us, unprovoked?” Terleman asked, raising his eyebrows.

“You cannot prove that!” Tavard said, hotly.

Terleman smirked.  “Hardly the argument of an innocent man.  I can show you the golden dog you sent him as payment, Excellency.  It lies in the treasury of Vanador.  As well as the testimony of his captured spies.  But that is a distraction.  The Magelaw was under attack from a foreign foe – which means the kingdom was being attacked,” he reasoned.  “Minalan was well within his rights as Royal Marshal to take command of any troops at hand for the defense of the realm.”

“The rest of the kingdom wasn’t threatened by a goblin uprising!” Tavard dismissed.

“Ask the Gilmoran subjects who were carried away from here and enslaved in the Wilderlands whether or not the gurvani were a threat,” Pentandra stated, flatly, as she rode forward to join the discussion.  “The rest of the kingdom was spared that misery because Minalan and the Magelaw threw them back across the Poros, if you recall, Excellency.”

That earned her a princely glare.  “Why are you even here?  This is a discussion between warriors, Baroness,” Tavard said through clenched teeth.

“Allegedly,” Pentandra shot back.  “This is a meeting between warring parties, Count Tavard.  As one of the leading nobles of the Magelaw, I represent one of the combatants on behalf of our realm.  Indeed, there are many magelords who take exception to your unreasonable belligerence toward our land and our class.  They will be no happier to learn that you are employing foreign warmagi to fight your wars,” she said, nodding toward the Knights of Nablus.

“I have no desire to make magelords happy,” Tavard growled back.  “I retain what mercenaries I need to counter your sorceries.  Magelords!” he spat.  “There should be no such things.  If that was the price of the kingdom, then it comes too high!”

“Without us you’d be running from the gurvani, now, not preening on the field and bargaining for your wife and your capital,” Terleman pointed out.  That caused a chorus of chuckles amongst the magelords, and it enraged Tavard.

“More sorcery!” he barked.  “I shall deal with that as soon as you are defeated,” he promised.  “I have brought more than ten thousand warriors against you.  Your plundering of Gilmora stops today.”

“My liberation of Gilmora for Alshar and the Magelaw will continue as long as you pretend to make war upon us,” Terleman countered, forcefully, as his shoulders squared proudly.  “I have seven thousand men or more.  Three thousand are armored better than all of your knights.  And more than a hundred warmagi have joined our fight – men who spent the last two seasons locked in combat with foes far more deadly and frightening than your chivalrous fops,” he said, glancing at the knights behind the prince contemptuously.

“You once again insult the puissance of the chivalry!” snarled Tavard.  “For that insult, you will pay!”

“Actually, I anticipate that it will be you who pays, Excellency,” Terleman said, thoughtfully.  “The last few battles I’ve fought against them have not been bloody, but they have been lucrative.  Once we settle ransoms at the end of hostilities—”

Terleman was suddenly interrupted by a flash and a loud bang that emanated from a point halfway between him and the prince.  The force was not explosive, but the unexpected blast caused horses to rear and men to look around in confusion.

They found the source quickly enough.  Emerging from nothingness, a woman dressed in a black robe appeared in the middle of the abbey courtyard, a slender staff in her hand.

Pentandra could feel spells go up all around her as the warmagi responded to the abrupt interruption.  A few knights in Tavard’s party drew their blades and moved their frightened horses to cover their prince from any attack.  Pentandra summoned Everkeen at once.  It wasn’t a battle staff, but it had a potency that would match most magical weapons.  She awaited a strike from the intruder.

But there was none.  Instead, the woman held her staff over her head and yelled.

“Hold!” her voice rang, far more loudly than a normal human voice.  As Pentandra struggled with her mount and tried to determine what was happening, she caught a glimpse of the woman’s face.  She repeated her order.  “Hold!  Is this not a truce?” she asked, holding up her other hand.

“Who are you?” demanded Terleman, his battle staff in hand and his armor crackling with defensive spells.  But there didn’t seem to be any arcane threat at hand. “What business have you here?”

The strange woman’s hood fell back, revealing her face.  To her astonishment, Pentandra recognized it at once, though it had been years since she’d seen it.

It was the face of Isily of Greenflower.

The last time she had seen that face had been in the tower of Castle Saleisus, in the aftermath of the Greenflower Magewar.  It was paler, thinner, and more worn, but the face was the same.  It still had the same azure cast to it, and the woman’s teeth and the whites of her eyes were both a pale, unearthly blue.  What hair was left on her head was long and stringy, but there was no mistaking the face.  It was Isily’s body that stood before them.  Her undead body.

“You may call me Mycin Amana,” the woman said, haughtily.  “For years you have kept me prisoner, but I am free, now, and freshly attired,” she said, gesturing to the body she wore.  “I am the consort of Korbal, rightful ruler of this land.  In his name I come to this counsel.  And in the name of his lieutenant, Karakush.  I speak on behalf of the Nemovorti and the Enshadowed!” she said, fearlessly, as the warmagi began to surround her.  “If this be a truce, then you shall hear my words.”

“And if we decline?” Pentandra asked, fear coursing through her as she regarded the Nemovort.

“Then this truce shall end badly,” Mycin Amana declared, her voice dropping.  “I have news that will be of interest to you.”

“What news could a foul thing like you bear that would interest us?” demanded Prince Tavard, angrily.  Mycin Amana studied him carefully.

“You must be the one Karakush says is a ruler of your pestilent people,” she nodded.  Pentandra noticed that she had tiny tattoos in dark blue running along the edge of her hairline and down her neck – the same eldritch symbols the Nemovorti used to weave their protective sorceries.  “Bear this message back to your sire, then: Mycin Amana has risen as the herald of Karakush.  I have taken that fortress you have abandoned in your war, and made it my own.”

“What fortress?” Prince Tavard asked, sharply.

“The one you call Darkfaller,” she replied, with a wicked smile.  “My draugen have taken it from your men and shut its gates to you.  Your men now patrol its walls and towers as undead.  Soon it will be filled with my servants, and you will learn the meaning of despair!”

“That’s impossible!” Tavard shouted in disbelief.

“You left it unguarded and open – for which I thank you,” Mycin said, still smiling with Isily’s face.  “It made its conquest all the easier.  And it is a mighty fortress, as suits me, if primitive and ungainly.  But I will not rule there for long.

“Bear this message to your king: Mycin Amana claims the ancient city of Castabriel as her own as queen, and will take it from him if he does not yield it up.  The lands around Darkfaller are to be conceded to me.  For when I have Castabriel in hand, it will become the citadel of Lord Karakush.”

“That’s madness!” protested Tavard.

“We will not yield a single rod of land to you!” Terleman snarled.

“Then come and take it from me – and then become my servant after you are dead, Wizard!  Your time of dominion in this land is over.  The rightful rulers have returned.  My ancestors built Castabriel, and I will not see its memory sullied by filthy humani any longer!  Tell your king that Mycin Amana has come for what is hers – resist at your peril!”

“So you’ve gone from being Korbal’s consort to Karakush’s lackey?” Pentandra called out.  She had Everkeen raised warningly in front of her, ready to lob magic at the first hint of aggression from the Nemovort.

“We are . . . allies,” corrected Mycin.  “With his help, I can take what is mine . . . and when Korbal awakens, it will be to a land transformed.  You are the one known as Pentandra?” she asked, suddenly.  It gave her shivers to hear her name come from those thin bluish lips in Isily’s voice.

“I am,” she said, trying to sound firm and confident.

“Karakush has taken an especial interest in you, then,” Mycin said with a flinty chuckle.  “He holds you responsible for much of our misfortune.  You, the Spellmonger, and the one called Terleman.  Know that the many eyes of Karakush are upon you.  When the time is right, he will strike.”

“Why does your foul master hide himself, then?” Terleman asked, boldly.  “Where is this Karakush who pretends to lead you?  Gaja Katar and Shakathet were not such cowards,” he said, attempting to bait her.  The Nemovort laughed, a ghoulish sound in Pentandra’s ears.

“He does not heed your whims, Wizard.  He is clever, and he moves in his own time.  You will meet him, eventually.  If you value your life, you will not seek that day in eagerness.  But those are the words I came to say,” she said, planting her staff between her feet.  “Darkfaller is mine.  Castabriel soon will be.  And then your entire filthy race will learn the power of Mycin Amana!” she said, and she disappeared.

“Dear gods!” Prince Tavard said, his mouth agape.  “She has taken Darkfaller!”

“Has she?” Terleman asked.  “That must be confirmed, and if so, we must assess her strength.”  He thought for a moment.  “Your Highness,” he said, using the title deliberately, “in light of this development, I propose we cease hostilities for the moment until we can determine what this new foe can accomplish.  Darkfaller is only fifty miles away from your capital,” he reminded the prince.

“We must inform my father,” Tavard said, biting his lip regretfully.  “He will not be pleased with this news.  I . . . dear gods, I accept your proposal.  Very well, send word to your troops that the truce is extended . . . indefinitely.  I shall do the same with mine, on my honor.”

“You are wise to do so, Highness,” Pentandra assured him.  “This has become a threat to the security of the kingdom, not a mere contest between nobles.  If you will permit, I can transport you to Kaunis and we can inform him together.  Perhaps we can contrive a plan to drive her from the place.”

“That . . . that is acceptable,” the prince sighed.  “Give me a moment to issue orders to my men, and we can depart.”

It was clear to Pentandra that Tavard was loathe to abandon his war, but he was smart enough to understand the greater threat.  And it would take some courage for him to admit that he’d lost the strongest castle in the land to their darkest foe.  Rard would likely be furious about that.  And rightfully so.

While the prince gave orders to his knights, Terleman and the other warmagi were sending messages mind-to-mind to their forces.  Pentandra took the time to inform a few of her own people what was going on.  One of the first was Alurra, her apprentice, who was still in residence at Spellgarden.

The blind girl was somewhat confused about just who Isily was, and who Mycin Amana was, but she was capable of informing the magi at Spellgarden and Vanador of the ominous development.

Mycin Amana is one of the worst of the Nemovorti, Pentandra explained.  She’s consort to Korbal and a powerful sorceress in her own right.  She’s in Isily’s body, which was transformed by the bluestone spell at Castle Salesius.  She’s the one who is the mother of Minalan’s two Greenflower children.

That’s . . . awful, her apprentice agreed.  Just bloody awful.  And now she’s being used by a Nemovort . . .

And threatening the heart of the kingdom, Pentandra said, realizing that this was a fulfillment of Old Antimei’s prophecy.  The dark shadow at the heart of the land. You have to understand, Darkfaller is a massive castle, and it’s very strategically located on the march between Gilmora and Castal, proper.  It’s within striking range of both Castabriel and Barrowbell.  It was built expressly to dominate Gilmora.  It could be used to do the very same thing to the Riverlands.  This is bad, Alurra.  Ishi’s Tits, I wish Minalan was here!

Well, then I have good news, I suppose, Alurra related.  A message came in from Henga just before you called to me.  Minalan has returned.  He’s wounded, unconscious, and half dead, apparently, but . . . the Spellmonger is back from his expedition.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The Spellmonger’s Return

‘Tis better to wait by the door than pray over a grave.

Wilderlands Folk Saying

“What a disconcerting method of travel,” Lady Arnet said as Rondal steadied her after emerging from the Ways.  The woman on the other side of him – Lady Abrulla, he thought she was called – looked a little nauseated.

“It always makes you dizzy the first few times,” Rondal said, sympathetically.  “The other spells are supposed to help with that.  But you get used to it,” he said, as Gatina appeared next to him with two middle-aged men, a monk and a courtier.  “Right this way, gentlefolk,” he said, straightening and gesturing to Vorone Castle in front of them.  “Duchess Rardine awaits you.”

Lady Arnet frowned, but she nodded and consented to follow the mage.  Rondal led them up the steps and past the guards, Gatina bringing up the rear.  These four hostages had been requested by the duchess, and Rondal had arranged for their release.  All four were members of the Royal Court, not the Castali court, she had argued, and therefore were not eligible to be held as hostages in a local war.

It seemed an odd interpretation of the law, but Rondal dutifully collected them from Bold Asgus and had brought them directly to the duchess at her request.  The Minister of Lands and Estates, the Royal Master of Wood, The Royal Almoner, and the Assistant Minister of the Treasury would be returned to Kaunis without ransom.

If Rondal expected them to be grateful, he was disappointed.

“Why are we being brought here, young man?” Lady Arnet asked imperiously as they followed him through the beautiful new castle.  “If you could take us to the Royal Palace, why didn’t you?”

“Because Duchess Rardine wanted that pleasure herself, my lady,” Rondal explained, cheerfully.  “It was her initiative that asked me to intervene with the mercenaries.  She has taken quite an interest in your fate, since she heard the news of the occupation.”

Lady Arnet sniffed.  “I’m sure she has.  No doubt she’s gloating over this debacle.  I still cannot believe that the ducal guard couldn’t manage to defend the castle against a handful of mercenaries and some barbaric tribesmen!”

“Good guards are hard to find,” Rondal agreed sympathetically over his shoulder.  “I trust your imprisonment wasn’t arduous?”

“We were well-treated enough,” Lady Arnet admitted, grudgingly.  “But for the last two days I’ve had guards right outside my door – constantly.  As if an old lady could escape and shimmy down the castle walls!”

“I’m certain they were just concerned for your safety,” concluded Rondal, “just as Duchess Rardine was.  She remembers you fondly from her time at court.  She considers you Family,” he added, lightly.

Lady Arnet grunted skeptically.  “So this is Anguin’s new keep?  It’s pretty,” she decided, as they walked past a particularly ornately carved banister – Karshak work, Rondal knew.  “It certainly is different than the old palace.  I think that dragon did Anguin a favor.”

Rondal did not comment – he remembered the dead and wounded on that horrific, fateful night.  Instead, he ushered the four of them into the chamber where Rardine was waiting, along with a few of her ladies.  Including his future mother-in-law.

Lady Minny, as he was learning to call her, had Gatina’s features in a more mature version.  Her eyes were bright blue and her hair was as dark as her daughter’s was light, and she wore a dark burgundy gown cut in the Coastlord style, with bone buttons down the front.  She gave him a quick glance before nodding to her daughter and then turning her attention toward Lady Arnet.

“My friends, welcome to Vorone!” Rardine said, with genuine enthusiasm.  “I have had quarters prepared for you.  I do hope the unusual nature of your journey does not trouble you.  I assure you that you will be returned to the Royal Court as soon as possible, likely in a few days.  In the meantime, please enjoy the hospitality of Alshar.  Lady Arnet,” she continued, “I would especially enjoy spending a few hours with you . . . catching up,” she said, with especial emphasis.

“I am certain of that,” the old woman said, her eyes narrowing.  “Does your Mother know that I’m here?”

“She will, soon enough,” Rardine agreed.  “Indeed, of late I have been a visitor to the palace quite frequently.  The next time we are summoned, you all shall accompany us through the Ways.  You’ll be there faster than you could have traveled on a fast horse!”

“I do not trust the methods of the magi,” the monk said, looking at Rondal suspiciously.  “They’re the reason this entire silly war was started!”

“This war was started because my brother is an idiot who listens to bad counsel,” Rardine corrected, with gentle humor.  “He blames the magi for his own failures, instead of taking responsibility.  The magi have been heroically defending us all for years,” she assured them.

“Then why did they attack Wilderhall?” demanded the mousy little Assistant Minister of the Treasury.  “It was a perfectly nice summer morning and then there were barbarians shoving bows in our faces!”

“I’m certain everything will be worked out shortly,” Rardine said, lightly.  “Thank you so much, Sir Rondal and Lady Gatina, for your help.  I take it there were no complications?”

“None, Your Grace,” Rondal assured her.  “The barbarians and the mercenaries were terribly polite and willing to help.”  He didn’t mention that the reason they were so helpful was that he was in command.  He was trying to conceal that particular secret for as long as he could.

“I would like to commend Sir Rondal for his adept negotiations with them, Your Grace,” Gatina added with a curtsey.  “He seemed to command a great deal of respect with them.”

“I will be happy to express my gratitude shortly,” the duchess nodded, dismissing them.

Rondal caught his future mother-in-law’s eye for a moment before he turned to leave and saw her give him a nod of recognition and perhaps approval.  That made him feel a little better.  He might hang over this, someday, but he had gained some approval in his future mother-in-law’s eyes.  That had to count for something.  He took Gatina’s arm and escorted her back to the corridor.

“I’m glad that is over,” he admitted, as they strolled.  “I’ve heard some horrible tales about Lady Arnet.  And her thimble collection,” he said, explaining to Gatina how the old woman represented every assassination she had ordered with a decorative thimble.  He had to stop half-way through, however, as he felt the beginnings of mind-to-mind contact.  He paused and closed his eyes.  It was Ruderal.

Ron, you’ve got to get to Henga immediately!  the young apprentice called excitedly into his mind.  It’s Master Min!  He’s back, but he’s badly wounded!

What? Rondal asked, confused.  When did this happen?

We just got word in Spellgarden, Ruderal explained.  They apparently came through the Ways – Lilastien, Minalan, and Alya.

Wait, that’s all? He asked, alarmed. What about the rest of the expedition?  His mind was immediately filled with horrible images of his friends lying dead somewhere.  Gareth?  Nattia?  Tyndal?

No word, yet, Ruderal said.  But you should probably go.  It sounds like Master Min is in a bad way.  I’m headed there shortly, as soon as I secure the children.  But I thought you’d want to know.  It sounds bad, Ron, he added, darkly, before he broke contact.

“Gatina, I have to go,” Rondal said the moment he opened his eyes.  “Minalan is back from his journey, but he’s wounded,” he explained.  “Please inform Her Grace and your mother.  They will want to know.”

“The Spellmonger has returned?  And he’s wounded?” she asked, her eyebrows arching in surprise.  “Yes, yes, you must go!” she urged, giving him a kiss on the cheek before stepping away.  “I’ll contact you later,” she promised.

Swallowing, his racing pulse, Rondal nodded and then started the spell to whisk him back through the Ways to the hospital at Henga.  His palms were wet with nervous sweat and his heart felt like it was beating out of his chest.  Nothing could happen to Master Min, he insisted to himself as he went.  There was just too much at stake.

Rondal had never been to the tiny Wilderlands village of Henga before Minalan and Lilastien had founded a hospital there, but the original cluster of cottages and homes was still apparent when he came through the Ways at the snowstone pillar at the edge of the village.  Beyond it was the new construction, a collection of halls and wards of two or even three stories, most still in the process of being built.

It was an impressive design, he saw: there were more than a dozen buildings going up, and several magi assisting the human and Malkas workers who were building them.  It promised to be a massive installation, larger than most abbeys and temples he’d seen.  Indeed, it looked a bit more like the Royal Palace than mere houses of healing, he decided.

It didn’t take long to find someone to direct him to the hall where the Spellmonger was being treated.  It was among the nearest to the old village, a grand two-story hall that seemed to sprawl across the face of the hillside.  He was surprised to see four armed guards at the entrance of the hall, surprised but relieved.  If Minalan was hurt then he was vulnerable, and he had no end to enemies who would be eager to take advantage of that.

It took another few minutes for him to convince the suspicious guards that he was, indeed, Minalan’s former apprentice and gain entry.  As he anxiously prowled the long slate-floored hallways of the building, he quickly found the ward in which his former master was being treated.  There was a knot of anxious-looking people outside the big wooden door, where two more guards waited.

He also found Alya standing there, still dressed in traveling clothes.  The moment that she saw him she broke into tears and pulled him into an embrace.

“How is he?” Rondal asked, feeling desperate.

“He’s . . . he’s not well.  He’s bad,” Alya confessed, looking down.  “He’s wounded – a poisoned wound.  Some sort of resin.  Lilastien is working on him now,” she revealed, as she sniffed, “but he can’t move half of his body.”

“What happened?” Rondal asked, leading her over to a bench in the corridor.

“We were . . . it’s a very long story, but Minalan was attacked by an Enshadowed assassin,” she related, shaking her head.  Her face was thinner than Rondal remembered, but puffy with the many tears she’d shed.  “He was stabbed in the back with a poisoned spear.  Lilastien is familiar with the poison, and it has a simple magical remedy, but we were too close to the jevolar to use it . . .”

“Of course,” Rondal sighed.  “What happened to the assassin?”

“Minalan shot him,” Alya said, with a humorless chuckle.  “A lot.”

“Good,” Rondal nodded, though that did nothing to assuage his worry.  “I’d hate to think the bastard got away with it.”

“He didn’t.  He took Min by surprise, at night.  After he was wounded, they fought.  He didn’t let him get away.”

“I was told only you, Min, and Lilastien came back,” Rondal asked, his voice low.  “Are the others . . .?”

“They are fine, and will be arriving soon, I hope,” Alya sighed.  “We had to hurry back with Min so that Lilastien could treat him.  She’s working on him now,” she said, nodding toward the large double doors.

Rondal sagged with relief – he did not realize just how worried he was that his friend had been injured or worse until he learned he was well.  Minalan might be wounded, but he was alive, at least.

“Apart from the attack, how was the expedition?” he asked, as he slumped in the seat.

“It was . . . eventful,” Alya said.  “A lot happened.  Too much for me to relate right now – I’m sorry, I just can’t think straight.  I’m so worried . . .”

“I know, I know,” Rondal said, patting her hand.  “Is there anything I can do?”

Alya wiped her eyes with the sleave of her tunic.  “I . . . I need to see the children,” she decided.  “Lilastien says it will take hours, yet.  Can you take me to Spellgarden by the Ways?” she requested.  “I need to tell the children that we’re back.  I’m sure they’re anxious . . .”

“Of course,” agreed Rondal, solemnly.  “Anything that you need.  That’s why I came.”

Alya studied him carefully, for a moment.  “Thank you.  If it wasn’t for you and Tyndal . . . I don’t know what I would do,” she breathed.  “Tyndal found him, after he’d been wounded.  It was awful,” she admitted.  “Blood everywhere.  And no magic to help.”

“Tyndal is good for that sort of thing,” Rondal nodded, his head spinning.  “He improvises well.”

“Usually,” she agreed.  “He was a little distracted at the time, I think.  He met a girl,” she added, with the hint of an impish smile.

“A girl?” Rondal asked, surprised.  “At the jevolar?  Really?”

The next few days were a blur for Rondal.  He had put aside everything to attend to his master and his wife.  After taking Alya to Spellgarden to see her children and let them know their parents were back, he returned her to Henga, and both of them maintained a vigil as Lilastien struggled to repair Minalan’s injuries.

At last, Minalan was taken out of surgery and placed into a recuperative ward.  He was alive – Rondal felt thrilled the day he was able to see his former master, as weak as he was, sleeping somewhat peacefully after surgery.

But Minalan did not look well – indeed, he looked worse than Rondal had ever seen him.  His face was pale and drawn, there were new wrinkles around his eyes, and his breathing was labored.  Rondal sat by his bed for hours with Alya as they watched the Spellmonger struggle with recovery.

“I almost lost him,” Lilastien admitted, quietly, when she came by to check on him after surgery.  “It was so very close.  The poison had started to affect his autonomic nerves.  Another few hours and I don’t think we would have saved him,” she said, as she used a piece of tekka apparently looted from somewhere in Anghysbel to check on his condition.

“But you think he’ll be all right, now?” Rondal asked, concerned.  Alya’s face had not changed.  She stared at her husband as if by her will alone she could pull him from unconsciousness.

“I think he’s got an excellent chance to make a full physical recovery,” agreed Lilastien.  “Beyond that . . . well, it’s in the hands of the gods,” she said, with a wry chuckle.  “It’s funny, Min and I were discussing that phrase not too long ago.  But his tissue is healing, now, thanks to my songspells, and the surgery repaired the wound in his back.  I’ve induced a coma – a period of enforced sleep – to help speed his healing.  In a few days we’ll break the spell and let him wake up.  Then we should be able to tell just how extensive the damage that remains might be.”

The sorceress herself looked worn and harried, Rondal noted – not something you saw very often in the Alka Alon, even when they were wearing their Tera Alon bodies.  But it was more than just weariness.  There was something different about Lilastien, he noted.  It was subtle, but he could tell she had experienced some sort of profound change.  He’d noted a change in Alya, too.  Whatever had happened in lost Anghysbel seemed to have affected them all, one way or another.  Rondal looked forward to hearing the tale – preferably from Minalan’s own lips.

He got a few scraps talking with Alya, but only a few before they both fell asleep next to Minalan’s bed.  It had apparently been a grand adventure with talking dragons and ancient secrets and drunken Tal Alon . . . but the few things she told him were more confusing than instructive.

Pentandra reached him the next morning, mind-to-mind, requesting an update to Minalan’s condition.

It’s important that he wake up, soon.  I’ve been in conference with Rard, Grendine, Anguin, Rardine, Tavard, and a half-dozen members of the Royal Court all day, she related, after Rondal filled her in on how Minalan was progressing.  You may not have heard yet, but when Tavard emptied Darkfaller to face Terleman, the Nemovorti took the opportunity to move in.  It’s occupied, now, she told him, her mental voice low.  Terleman’s scouts have confirmed that hundreds of draugen are patrolling it, along with the former skeleton force Tavard had left behind.  They’re not living, anymore, but they can still stand guard duty as undead.  The place is filling up with them, as well as Enshadowed and giant wyverns.

Ishi’s tits, Rondal swore, as he learned the news.  They took Darkfaller? he asked in disbelief.

More specifically, Mycin Amana took Darkfaller.  She’s in a new body – Isily of Greenflower’s.

Rondal’s mind spun as he realized just how terrible that news was.  That’s why they kidnapped her body from Holy Hill! he realized.  They must have been planning this for months!

It’s Karakush, I think, Pentandra confirmed.  Mycin Amana has laid claim to Castabriel, since it’s built on the ruins of the ancient Alka Alon city.  Now she can strike at if from only a few dozen miles away.

That would also explain the bases they’ve been using in the Westlands, Rondal concluded.  They were staging areas.  Forward deployments to prepare for this.  Pentandra, with a secure base that deep inside our territory . . .

I know, Pentandra answered, miserably.  Rard is furious with Tavard.  In the space of three years he’s lost Farise, Wilderhall, and Darkfaller.  He’s demanded Tavard and Terleman suspend their war until Darkfaller is recovered.  But even Terleman doesn’t think he can take the place with the forces he has at his command.  Not without Minalan’s help.  So Rard wants to speak to him the moment he awakens.

That might be several days, according to Lilastien, he revealed.  Even then he will take longer to recuperate.  He looks bad, Pentandra.  Alya is beside herself.  Lilastien says he’ll probably recover fully, but . . .

I’ll be headed to Henga myself within a few days, once I sort out the mess at Darkfaller.  Hopefully he’ll be awake by then.  As soon as you are able to be spared, I’d recommend you accelerate your plans to attack Karakush in the Westlands, she advised.  I don’t know if they’re using them as supply depots or potential bases to retreat to, but I want to deprive Karakush of their use.  In one strong step he’s managed to put the entire kingdom in a tizzy.

I’ll consult with Bendonal and see about that, he agreed.  We should be able to put something together pretty quickly . . . especially if Rard has enforced a truce in the civil war.

He has.  All forces are to remain in place, under pain of royal displeasure.  If there’s any way you could use your contacts in occupied Wilderhall to get them that message, that might ease tensions around the royal palace a bit, she recommended.  Rard is not happy that his only grandchildren are technically prisoners of war.

I’ll . . . I’ll see what I can do, Rondal acknowledged, as he broke the contact.

Darkfaller.  He could not believe Karakush had taken Darkfaller.

He’d never heard of the legendary fortress until he had come to Sevendor.  But he knew it had been instrumental to Castal’s eventual dominion over Gilmora.  It was known as one of the largest castles in the world, a place strong enough for armies to break on its walls like waves on a beach.

And now it was in enemy hands.  And not just any enemy.  One that wore the body of Minalan’s former mistress.  That did not bode well for the war effort.

He spent the rest of the morning speaking with Bendonal the Outlaw and arranging for the warmagi they needed to be mobilized.  With four captured estates to be attacked, that took a lot of coordination, and he had a busy day organizing that.  Then he contacted the mercenaries at Wilderhall by Mirror and let them know of Rard’s truce.  Once Ruderal showed up to relieve him, he was eager to find a bed somewhere and grab at least a few hours’ sleep.

Gatina came to his rescue, contacting him mind-to-mind as he was trying to figure out where to go.  It seemed that she had found a place in Vorone where they could find a little respite from the chaos of the world – an old hall near the palace that was, apparently, owned by Minalan himself now.  He wasted no time in going through the Ways to the summer capital to meet his beloved.  They found a tavern with decent food before they retired to the hall, and before he knew it, he was asleep.

His dreams that night were a restless, tortured mixture of guilt and sorrow as the events of the last few weeks caught up with him.  His subterfuge in Wilderhall, the sudden appearance of a new goddess in the Westlands, the advances Karakush was making, and Minalan’s injury all combined to send wild imaginings into his dreams.  He woke up near dawn in Gatina’s arms, apparently because he had been shouting.

“I don’t know what all was going on in that handsome head of yours,” she observed  over breakfast the next morning, “but whatever it was you couldn’t let go of it.”

“I’m just feeling a bit overwhelmed,” he admitted, as he poked at his porridge with a spoon.  “I’m worried about Master Min.  I’m worried about the war.  I’m worried about the coming battle with Karakush.  And I’m worried that Tyndal will get himself killed coming back from Anghysbel,” he added.

Gatina smiled.  “There is nothing my fierce Striker should fear,” she said, gently, using his war name.  “It sounds like your master is in capable hands.  Wilderhall is secure,” she reminded him.  “And you will handle the Nemovorti in the Westlands handily.  Alas,” she sighed, “you will have to do it without me.  I’ve been given orders.”

“Orders?” Rondal asked, curious.

“From my mother,” Gatina supplied, “and I can’t really tell you more than that right now.  Nothing terribly dangerous, but I will be gone for a few weeks.  It can’t be helped.  Hopefully you’ll have all of this mess cleaned up by the time I get back.”

“You’ve got more faith in me than I do,” Rondal said, sullenly, as he shook his head.

“You’ve proven yourself time and again, Beloved,” she said, touching his arm.  “You’re one of the best magi in the world.  Nothing is beyond your power to tame, once you put your mind to it.”

As much as he disagreed with her, he couldn’t help but admit that her encouragement was welcome, particularly at the moment.  He just did not feel equal to the tasks before him.  But if Gatina believed in him, perhaps that was more important than him believing in himself.

“So, I take it this mission of yours concerns the Garden Society?” he asked, curiously.

“Of course.  Something needs to be stolen.  I’m the best one to do it.  Perhaps I’ll steal something special for you, while I’m at it,” she said with a smile.  It was disconcerting, knowing that your future wife was a highly trained thief with an amused opinion of property rights.

They parted later that day, after checking in with Pentandra at Vorone Castle.  His superior looked almost as bad as Minalan, he noted, as she briefed them both about the emergency discussions at the Royal Palace concerning Darkfaller.  It was now the king’s highest priority to recover the castle, and he was relying upon everyone to stop their bickering and warfare to concentrate their efforts to that.

Of course, no one had any clear idea of just how to do that.  Terleman’s scouts had observed a powerful web of wardings and magical defenses arising around the great castle, and the skies above it were filling with giant wyverns.  Neither of the two armies near the place was equipped with a siege train.  And while Terleman was confident that he could, eventually, find a way through the defenses, it would take time, resources, and a tremendous amount of planning.  The best they could do at the moment, Pentandra instructed, was to eliminate Karakush’s outposts in the Westlands and hope that affected their supply lines somehow.

And that was on Rondal.  Regardless of whether or not Minalan woke up, or Mycin Amana attacked Castabriel, or Terleman and Tavard ended up fighting, his piece of the effort was certain.

He found that a great comfort.  Despite the dangers involved, it was a straightforward military engagement, something he understood.  He spent three days at Megelin Castle and at Eastwatch Tower with Bendonal as they constructed a force of warmagi they felt sufficient to the task.  Most of the recruits were High Magi, men (and a few women) Rondal was already familiar with.

Then he spent a full day at the bouleuterion at Vanador to oversee stocking some magical munitions.  That was of concern to him, as most of the stores had been depleted by the Winter and Spring wars.  It often took weeks to prepare a simple combat enchantment, and the more complex arcane constructs could take months and a full crew of enchanters to bring to life.

He was able to secure at least a few good ones on his trip.  Especially some weapons specifically designed against the Nemovorti.  With an expected assault on Darkfaller in the future, the head enchanter who handled war materials was unwilling to part with some of the more potent enchantments, but he managed to secure some of the simpler – but no less deadly – spells for the Westlands.

Finally, he set a date for the assault.  Bendonal’s forces were ready, as were some reserves, a few giant hawks from the Sevendor Mewstower were available for scouting and patrolling, a battle plan had been hammered out, and he was starting to feel confident about a surprise attack.

That is, until Ruderal contacted him mind-to-mind with the news that Master Minalan had awakened from his coma.  It was good news, thankfully.  Minalan was lucid and he was talking and he was even starting to eat.

And he wanted to speak to Rondal.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The Shadow of Anghysbel

Patience, prayer and posset cure all ills.  When nothing’s to be done, do nothing.

Wilderlands Folk Saying

“He’s alive,” Pentandra said, as she entered Old Antimei’s croft.  “He’s alive and awake.  I’ve just been speaking to him – telling him what he’s missed.”  Antimei was shelling peas at her table when she came in.  The old hedgewitch looked up, her eyebrows raised.

“Well, that’s a relief,” she said with a sigh.

“No, it’s not!” Pentandra said, irritated as she sat down in the other chair.  “Because he said he died while he was there.  Lilastien confirmed it.  She says he was dead for several minutes before she brought him back.”

“Without magic?” Antimei asked, confused.

“She’s a really good physician,” Pentandra shrugged.  “But it begs the question of whether or not the prophecy is fulfilled or not.  And what it means.  Because he died, so he saves the world . . . but not the kingdom?  Or he didn’t really die because Lilastien brought him back?  I don’t understand.”  Pentandra’s frustration was palpable.

“It’s all a bit too cloudy for me to sort out, too,” admitted the old witch, continuing to shell peas.  “I cannot imagine that a man can die in any capacity and not be changed by it.  I would probably say that it counts.  That said, if he continues to live, then . . .” she trailed off, doubtfully.

“Exactly.  As it is, he’s barely alive.  Lilastien had to keep him in a coma for days.  He can scarcely speak, and I don’t think he can stand.  Apparently, he’s going to need at least a week of recuperation before she feels confident enough to even attempt standing.  And Rard wants to see him as quickly as possible, over the Darkfaller situation.”

That was a dramatic understatement.  The king was highly agitated that the strongest castle in the land was under enemy control.  After spending most of a day yelling at his son, his nephew, and anyone else in range of his voice, he’d finally ordered the two armies facing off outside of Barrowbell to combine efforts and prepare to besiege Darkfaller.  Under Terleman’s command as a newly-appointed Royal High Marshal.  Rard invented the title and its duties on the spot, and had the commission instantly committed to parchment for his seal.

That had enraged Tavard, of course, who objected to his garrison being commanded by a man with whom he was fighting a war.  Rard would not relent, and pointed out Terleman’s long history of success, compared to Tavard’s own record on the field.  When the Prince tried to insist, Rard asked how many warmagi he could bring to bear on the matter, forcing him to reveal the Knights of Nablus he had retained for the battle.

That had upset Rard even more.  Merwyn was using the former Censors as its own Magical Corps after all, and many were being deployed in raids along the Remeran March.  To have even a score of them on this side of the frontier where they could spy for the Duke of Merwyn at Tavard’s expense was utterly foolish, as Rard explained to his son at the top of his lungs.

It had not been a good meeting.

Once Pentandra explained the situation to Antimei, including the baleful role of Mycin Amana.  The witch nodded her head with understanding.

“That would be the growing darkness, then,” she considered.  “The one at the heart of the kingdom.  So that one came true,” she pointed out, smugly.

“Yes, and knowledge of that prophecy added almost nothing to my understanding of it,” Pentandra shot back.  “Just like the prophecy of Minalan’s death.  Now I have to stall Rard for a week or so while his Spellmonger recuperates and Mycin Amana consolidates her position at Darkfaller.”

“As soon as Minalan is back on his feet, your burden will ease,” predicted Antimei.  “Here, why don’t you help me?  Shelling peas is soothing,” she said, pushing the bowl toward the center of the table.

Pentandra sighed and joined her.  She had to admit that there was something about the process.  It wasn’t something Pentandra had grown up doing, as most women did – House Benurviel had servants for that.  But once she’d married a barbarian and had to live in the woods to prove she was worthy of him, she’d found herself doing such mundane tasks a lot more frequently.  And, surprisingly, hadn’t resented it the way her mother had warned her she would.

“So here’s Minalan back, just in time,” Pentandra continued, as she reached for a pea shell.  “Just when we need him, in fact.  If anyone could counter Mycin Amana, it’s the Spellmonger.  But he’s near useless.  It’s not just his recovery and recuperation,” she revealed, “something happened out there in Anghysbel.  It affected Lilastien, the Alka Alon Sorceress who accompanied him, too.  His wife Alya tried to tell me about it, but she’s too worked up with worry to be very coherent.  And there’s a written account, a kind of journal, but I haven’t had time to read it yet.  But they’re different – even Alya.  The thing is, she seems more normal than when she left.”

“Travel often changes us,” Antimei agreed.

“What am I going to do if Minalan isn’t really Minalan anymore?” Pentandra asked in frustration as her fingers dug into the peapods.  “What if . . . what if it’s permanent?” she said, shaking her head anxiously.  “What if Terleman won’t listen to him, or he can’t manage to retake Darkfaller, or . . . or . . .” Pentandra stopped herself and took a deep breath.  “You know, this is the sort of situation where prophecy might actually help!” she said, a sour look on her face.

“So it would – and there are likely some of the quatrains that hold some useful information,” agreed Antimei.  “We know Minalan has come back from Anghysbel alive, regardless of what happened to him there.  We know there are plenty of prophecies concerning him that have yet to come to pass.  He’s quite active in some of them.  Whatever damage he sustained in the north I’d wager he’ll recover from.  Eventually,” she added.

“Eventually,” Pentandra pronounced, her eyes narrowing.  “What should I do now?”

“What were you going to do before Minalan returned?” Antimei countered.

“I was about to order the raid on Karakush’s holdings in the Westlands,” she answered, her fingers attacking the peapods with especially vigor.  “Rondal is preparing them, with Bendonal’s help.  I’ve even arranged to equip him with some prototype enchantments based on your spell.”

“Then continue to do that,” advised the witch.  “It will give you something to concern yourself with while these other things straighten themselves out.  My dear, it is timeless wisdom that sometimes doing nothing about a matter is the smartest approach.  Indeed, there is little you can do, at the moment.  The Nemovorti will take time to build their strength, the warmagi will take time to prepare their assault, the king will take time to decide what to do about the Gilmoran situation.

“But consider how some of your problems have, indeed, been postponed.  Try to appreciate that,” Antimei urged.

“Postponed, not concluded,” Pentandra grunted.  “Wilderhall is still occupied by some mysterious magelord.  Terleman is still claiming a third of Gilmora for the Magelaw.  Tavard is developing an active hatred for the magi – not something it’s wise to cultivate in your future monarch.  And then there’s the matter of Queen Grendine,” she added.

“What’s the matter of Queen Grendine?” Antimei asked, confused.

“She’s in charge of an elite cadre of assassins . . . and she’s doing nothing with them,” Pentandra revealed.  “After two decades of piling up bodies to further her rule, she hasn’t employed her killers the way I’d expect her to.  Perhaps because Rardine is now an adversary, and knows too much about her organization, but still . . . I’d expect her to do something.”

“Perhaps she understands the art of doing nothing, in a tense situation,” concluded Antimei.  “’Patience, prayer and posset cure all ills,’” she recited.  “’When nothing’s to be done, ‘tis best to do nothing.’  You could learn from that.  Or perhaps she is paralyzed by fear or worry and doesn’t want to complicate the situation needlessly.  Or perhaps she is planning and plotting something, and it just hasn’t come to pass, as of yet.”

“Any of those could be the case,” Pentandra conceded.  She realized she felt better discussing her worries with the old hedgewitch.  Antimei’s calm, patient demeanor was so different from the courtiers and arrogant magi she worked around all day.  She seemed genuinely interested in what Pentandra had to say without judgement or condemnation.  She couldn’t even expect that from her own mother.

“Grendine’s inaction is odd.  But I fear that when she does act, she may act rashly.  Rardine managed to free a few important court officials from Wilderhall and release them to her mother, which may mitigate any actions she might take.”

“The Queen is destined to play an important role, yet,” sighed Antimei.  “That much is clear.  I wouldn’t expect her to embark on a bloody campaign when so much is at stake.  I think she’s afraid,” Antimei suggested.  “She probably feels that things are spiraling out of control as much as you do.”

“I take little comfort in that,” Pentandra said, shaking her head.  “Grendine is a loyal mother, especially to her oldest son.  Even if he is making terrible mistakes and imperiling everything she’s worked for.  While Rard nearly shouted at Tavard, Grendine had very little to say.”

“When a father is yelling at his son, a wise woman intervenes only when she has to,” Antimei pointed out.  “Do not mistake that for inaction.  It sounds like she is biding her time.  There,” Antimei said, pushing the filled bowl of peas away and gathering up the discarded pods.  “It always goes faster with two people.  My advice is to ease your worries for a few days.  Concentrate on the business at hand and let the other powers in the world make their moves.  When the time for action comes, you will know it, and you will know what to do and what to say.”

“You’ve had a vision of that?” Pentandra asked, surprised.

“No,” Antimei said, calmly.  “I’ve just gotten to know you.  You’re extremely intelligent and wise.  You have good intuition.  You would have made a good hedgewitch, I think.”

Pentandra was even more surprised.  That was hardly a compliment, to most Imperially trained magi.  Hedgewitches were usually only passing familiar with standardized magic.  “Really?” she asked.  “Why do you say that?”

“Because when you aren’t beset by your own problems, you’re quite good about solving other people’s.  Unfortunately, you’re also learning that other people are usually their own biggest problems.  It’s one of the frustrating things about the hedgewitches’ art.”

Pentandra considered the old woman.  “So how do you contend with that?”

Old Antimei shrugged, as she adjusted her shawl.  “An old hedgewitch trick: I invite them to shell peas.  Or pick herbs.  Or gather nuts and mushrooms.  And talk.  By the time we’re done, they feel better and usually understand why they’re having difficulties.  And I get some peas shucked.”

Pentandra spent several hours in Vanador contending with some city business that had built up before she returned to Spellgarden for the evening.  By the time she got there, it was long past dinner, and the children had already been put to bed for the night.  That was disappointing, of course.  After not seeing them for a few days, she craved a few blissful moments with her girls more than the breath of life.

The same was true of Arborn.  He was back in Lotanz, tending to the business of resettling the long line of returning Kasari from Lemsiddons.  More than three thousand had made it to the far northern settlement, on the borders of Bransei, and both her husband and the masters of Bransei were scrambling to figure out where to put them all for the moment.

As baron, it fell to Arborn to make those arrangements.  Some, of course, would go back to Bransei and stay with their kin.  But he’d told her that many of the “wild Kasari” – the Wilderlands orphans who had joined the Great March and learned the Kasari ways, had no kin in Bransei.  They would have to be settled in Lotanz, or in Vanador.

She stopped by the kitchen and found a heel of bread and some cheese – it was enough to eat before bed, she decided.  She realized she wasn’t as hungry as she thought – likely due to her nerves.

But as she made her way into the main chamber of Spellmonger’s Hall, she was surprised to see Alya staring at the fire.

The woman looked tired – passing tired.  Pentandra knew she had stayed by Minalan’s side for days, now, ever since they’d returned through the Ways.  She looked as if she had recently bathed – her hair was still wet – and she was in fresh clothing.  But she carried an overlarge pouch on her belt and her eyes stared at the small summer fire burning on the hearth with a weary expression.

“Pentandra,” Alya said, equally surprised at her appearance.  “I didn’t expect you.”

“I wasn’t certain I’d make it back here, tonight,” Pentandra admitted.  “Nor did I expect to see you here.”

“Minalan is awake, and he told me he can’t sleep when I’m around,” Alya told her.  “Apparently, I stare at him while he’s asleep, and that makes him restless.  He insisted I come home and get some rest.”

“I’m sure it will do you good,” Pentandra assured her, setting down the tray.  “Have you eaten?”

“With the children,” Alya affirmed.  “And Ruderal.  And Caswallon.  Whose idea was it to make him the bodyguard of my children?” she demanded, curious.

“Rondal’s, I think,” Pentandra chuckled.  “Or Ruderal’s.  I had the same reaction.  But his devotion and commitment are beyond question.  I have to admit: he’s done a good job.  And the children enjoy his antics.”

“I suppose he is entertaining . . . if you’re seven years old,” Alya conceded, with a smirk.

“How is Minalan doing?” she asked, as she cut into the wedge of cheese.

“He’s speaking and lucid,” Alya related, with satisfaction.  “He’s getting better.  His sense of humor is returning.”

“And what has Lilastien said about him?” she asked, broaching a delicate subject.

“That he is on track to make a full recovery.  She’s pumped him full of spells and charms to stimulate his appetite and invigorate his body.  She’s very hopeful,” she added.  Something in the way she said it caught Pentandra’s attention.

“But you’re unsure,” she observed, as she tore off a piece of bread.

“He’s . . . it’s going to take time,” she said, as she struggled with an answer.  “He went through a lot, in Anghysbel.  Without magic, he had a very hard time.  And after what we learned . . . well, that will have to be dealt with,” she said, mysteriously.

“I haven’t had the opportunity to review your notes,” Pentandra confessed.  “Or get a complete account from you or Lilastien.  And now is not the time for that,” she stressed.  “But I do want to know.”

“The long and short of it?” Alya asked.  “The Alka Alon have betrayed both humanity and the Vundel.  Oh, and the Karshak,” she added, as an afterthought.  “We found proof of it in Anghysbel.”

“Betrayed,” nodded Pentandra solemnly.  “And we have proof?”

“More than enough to seal their fate, if it comes to it,” Alya agreed.  “I believe Minalan plans on using that proof as leverage.  I’m not certain how, or with whom, precisely, but he has a greater perspective on such things.  He thinks he knows how to save the world, now.”

She said it simply, without the drama implicit in the words.  As if Minalan did that sort of thing all the time.

“But can he save the kingdom?” Pentandra asked, not really expecting an answer.  “I feel horribly guilty – Minalan left me in charge of a perfectly good realm, and in ten weeks it’s all gone in the chamberpot.  I’m certain he’s disappointed in me,” she confessed.

“Oh, no,” Alya assured her, patting her hand.  “Pentandra, you’re the one he trusts and relies on the most – more than me, in most things.  He knew things would happen while he was gone.  Perhaps not all of it, but he knew there were things in motion.  But he had to go,” she stressed.

“I know,” sighed Pentandra.  “He did.  And he brought back what he was looking for.  I’m just worried that it’s too late.”

“Compared to dealing with the Alka Alon and contending with the Vundel, the kingdom is small coin,” Alya considered.  “I have every confidence that Min will be able to put things right just to get them out of his way.  Not even Korbal and Sheruel will present the challenges they did, I think.  He’s . . . expanded himself,” she said, struggling for the right words.  “If he can hold his mind together, that is.”

“You seem as if you’re doing a better job at that,” Pentandra observed.  That brought a smile to Alya’s lips.

“That’s what everyone keeps saying,” she agreed.  “I don’t know if it was the lack of magic or if I was already healing when we left, thanks to the Handmaiden, or if Bova’s blessing had something to do with it, but I feel more normal than I have since . . . since Greenflower.”

“That is excellent news!” Pentandra said, sincerely.  Indeed, Ruderal had come to Pentandra privately and mentioned how Alya’s once-chaotic enneagram had settled into a reasonably stable state.  Unlike Minalan’s.  From what the apprentice had told her, Min’s enneagram was hashed up worse than Alya’s had been.  While the boy was concerned about that, Minalan seemed to be recovering well.

“It’s good to have you back – both from Anghysbel and from Greenflower.  I’ve missed you,” she said, even more sincerely.  “I can’t really complain to anyone else about Minalan without sounding resentful or ungrateful.”

“Yes, the Great and Powerful Spellmonger can be an ass, sometimes,” Alya agreed with a chuckle.  “I wish more people understood that while also understanding that it’s not a flaw in his character.  It’s just who he is.”

“It actually makes him more effective, sometimes,” nodded Pentandra.  “If he goes around being a proper ass, that usually means I don’t have to.  Now if I can get Gareth back on the job, my life will be complete.  I had no idea there was so much parchment involved in running a barony before.  And so many problems.  I spent most of the afternoon just keeping the city from burning down – the bureaucracy, at least.  I’ll be relieved to turn it back over to him.”

Alya frowned.  “Didn’t anyone tell you?  Gareth won’t be returning from Anghysbel, not for another year.  Minalan put him in charge of the evacuation.”

“Evacuation?  What evacuation?” she asked, confused and distressed.

Alya studied her for a moment, then sighed.  “It’s late, and I didn’t want to start a tale I cannot finish, but this part, at least, you should know.  It all started when Forseti opened the Cave of the Ancients . . .”

Pentandra’s head was reeling when she woke the next morning.  She and Alya had stayed up talking late into the night, then both fell asleep in the same bed.  As Pentandra and Arborn had been using it while they stayed at Spellgarden, her baggage was still in the chamber, and while Alya continued to sleep Pentandra directed the servants to have it moved into one of the guest chambers.

But it was the revelations Alya had provided, not the accommodations, that had Pentandra’s mind whirling.

The implications of all that they had discussed were profound even before you got to the Alka Alon and the Vundel.  The disappointment that came with knowing that she had lost a capable Steward over her realm for a year was compounded by the knowledge that she now had to find room in this realm for another twenty thousand people of assorted races in a year’s time.  That would be challenging, she knew, particularly on the heels of the returning Kasari.

She indulged in some much-needed play with the children that morning to distract her from her unexpectedly increase in anxiety.  The triplets were thrilled to see her and competed to determine which one of them could be the most daring, the loudest, and the most worthy of attention as they played and fought and screamed at each other.  It was a cacophonous mess, but it fed her maternal soul to see her daughters happy.  Playing for a few hours with three busy toddlers also gave her the strength she needed to deal with courtiers and warmagi.  In fact, the two had a lot in common, she realized.

But as she played with her girls, the conversation of the previous night continued to haunt her mind.  Alya’s tales of the Kilnusk, the folk of Anferny, the Lakeshire Tal Alon, the secrets of the Ancients and other adventures in the lost land without magic kept intruding on her thoughts.  It all seemed fantastical, but Alya assured her it was all true.

It also helped several prophecies that had long troubled her fall into place.  Old Antimei’s predictions had mentioned the Kilnusk and Anferny specifically a few times, and other quatrains hinted that the Ancients’ would play a role in the future of the kingdom.  She could not ignore that.

She tried to make sense of all the new information and had decided to spend a few hours looking through the journal the expedition had brought back when Rondal reached her, mind-to-mind.

Pentandra, I’ve decided we’re going to attack Karakush at dawn, tomorrow,  he reported. I just got back from Henga where I spoke to Minalan.  He gave his blessing to the attack.  I’m at Megelin, now, about to address the four assault teams.  We’re going to strike all four sites at the same time, he said, boldly.

All four? she asked in surprise.  Can you do that?

It’s preferable to striking them one at a time and have them retreat from one estate to another, he reasoned.  I have the manpower to do it even if I’m light on arcane constructs and battlefield enchantments.  And waiting any longer seems to be tempting fate, after Darkfaller.  I just wanted to get your approval, first.

You have it, Pentandra agreed.  Destroy them all, if you can.

That’s my plan, he agreed.  The King’s Truce actually let me recruit a few warmagi from the Gilmoran front for the operation.  It will be a good exercise to practice for when we strike Darkfaller.

Do you think we’ll be able to strike Darkfaller? she asked, skeptically.

We struck Olum Seheri, he pointed out.  This is a lot simpler operation than that one.  I’ll be coordinating from the field, this time, but compared to Olum Seheri this will seem like a drill.  Master Min even gave me a new witchstone to help – one of the old Alka Alon stones he looted from Anghysbel.

Alya told me about those, Pentandra agreed.  Filled with sorcery and war magic.  Congratulations, she added, knowing the lad was proud to wield something that powerful.  And good luck.  This is the first time you’ve commanded an entire operation, isn’t it? she asked, remembering her own experience coordinating the Olum Seheri campaign just before she’d given birth.

Rondal paused.  The first large one, yes, he decided.  But don’t worry – if I screw up I can yell for help.  Azar is prepared to come in with some reserves if things go awry.  But we’ll be fine, he insisted.

Of course you will, she agreed.  Just let me know if I can help in any way.  I’ll be around Vanador for the next couple of days, at least, waiting on Minalan’s recuperation.  How did he seem, to you? she asked, curious about Rondal’s opinion on the matter.

He’s getting much better, Rondal offered.  We had a long talk this morning, and apart from some strangeness, he seemed more or less like my old master.  Perhaps a little more insightful, even.

Keep me apprised if you notice any changes, she ordered.  Much depends on him for the next few weeks.  If he begins acting oddly, I want to know about it.

After he closed the connection, Pentandra read the fascinating expedition journal in the garden for a few hours.  There was a little bench on the edge of it, near where Alya’s blessed herd was pastured, that made a perfect spot to begin her review without being interrupted or distracted.

She found the account a little confusing in places, as several authors had contributed to it, but she began to get a better sense for what had gone on in the lost land.  She had just come to the portion dealing with the Cave of the Ancients when Alurra joined her.

“What are you reading?” she asked with curiosity as she sat down.  Lucky the crow immediately switched shoulders so that it could eye Pentandra’s jewelry.

“A tale of wonder,” she answered, closing the book with a sigh.  “The journal from Minalan’s expedition.  It’s fascinating.  It’s hard to believe they did all this in just a few short weeks.”

“I know, summer has flown by,” groaned her apprentice.  “At least we didn’t have to spend another one in Falas.  That place is depressing.  And it stinks,” she added, wrinkling her nose.

Pentandra looked at her for a moment, then at Alya’s herd of cows in the paddock over her shoulder.  There was cow shit as far as the eye could see.

“Yes, I can see how you can enjoy the fresh countryside air,” she said, sarcastically.  Her apprentice ignored the jibe.

“I do miss all the cats at the Tower Arcane, though,” Alurra admitted.  “They’re incredibly entertaining and sophisticated, for cats.”

“I hadn’t realized that there were more or less cultured cats,” Pentandra said, skeptically.

“Cultured is perhaps the wrong word,” Alurra considered.  “I suppose they’re just more social.  Barn cats tend to keep to themselves and don’t gossip as much.  So, are we going to linger here until autumn, or are we following the court back to Falas?  Have they even announced when that is happening?” she asked with interest.

“Ask the cats,” Pentandra shrugged.  “They’ll probably have a better idea than the people.  I think Anguin and Rardine are too tied up with the Gilmoran situation to want to leave, yet.  But they won’t want to wait too much longer.  After this week, I think the roads will be safer through the Westlands.  But that may not hold true again until Yule.”

“The peasant revolt?” Alurra asked, biting her bottom lip in concern.  “I heard about that.  Some fiery cult is burning down every manor house and castle they can.  Burning nobles alive.  I can see why Anguin would want to avoid that.”

“If need be, we can take Their Graces through the Ways,” Pentandra proposed.  “The rest of the court and their baggage, however, will likely have to take the long way overland.  I’ll ask them at the party two nights from now.”  That produced a groan from Alurra.

“Another bloody party?” she asked, expressively.  “Is that all the nobility does?”

“It seems like it, sometimes,” agreed Pentandra.  “This one is somewhat important, however.  Lanara, the older of Anguin’s two younger sisters, is to be presented to society, before she goes to study at the temples of Trygg and Ishi like a proper young lady.”

“Ugh!” grunted Alurra.  “I hated that stuff.  It’s gross!”

“It’s just sex,” dismissed Pentandra.  “A rather tame version of it, too.  But something every woman should know before she decides to wed and have children.  Or if she desires to wed.  Lanara won’t have much choice in the matter, but she will receive a far more thorough education in family matters than you were subject to.”  A thought suddenly occurred to her.  “Perhaps you should go and get to know her.”

“Why would I want to get to know some bratty little noble kid?” she sneered.  “Don’t I get enough of them inflicted on me?”

“Lanara has been in one convent or another for most of her life,” Pentandra pointed out.  “She’s close to your age, but she has been a bit . . . sheltered.  It might do you both good to meet and make friends.  You have very few female friends, I notice.  Human females,” she corrected.

“The animal kind are usually far more interesting,” Alurra revealed.

“But not as useful.  Lanara will likely grow into an important and powerful noble, some day.  Whether she marries a duke or a count, or even a baron, such contacts can prove exceedingly useful for as mage.  If she wants to employ a court wizard, for instance.”

“Why would I want to be a court wizard?” Alurra asked, making a face.  “You’re constantly complaining about all the work you do. All you do is play with parchment, have meetings, and go to parties you hate.  I’d rather be a hedgewitch.  The pay is worse, but you don’t work as hard.”

“You do have to shuck your own peas, though,” Pentandra reflected.

“I like shucking peas,” Alurra shrugged.  “I like the country life far more than a stinky city.  Hedgewitches have more fun than court wizards or urban adepts.  Besides, who’s going to hire a blind girl as a court wizard?”

“Perhaps her childhood friend, Lanara?” proposed Pentandra.  “I hear she’s a lovely girl, somewhat shy, and very introverted.  You two might really get along.  Besides, I’m forcing you to go, so you’ll have something to complain to her about.”

“You’re forcing me to go?” Alurra asked, appalled.

“We only have a handful of functions left in Vorone, whenever the court decides to head south.  Thanks to this war I’ve missed half of them.  Terleman and Rondal have been preoccupied.  It’s not proper that the Duke and Duchess should be in the Wilderlands and not have the Magelaw represented at such functions.”

“You’re doing this just to torture me, aren’t you?” demanded Alurra.  “You’re going to make me wear another itchy gown that everyone is going to compliment me on that I won’t know how it looks and that makes those things so bloody awkward!”

“Torture is perhaps the wrong word,” Pentandra decided.  “I’m trying to broaden you.  You may someday choose to live the country life, but it won’t be because you don’t have other options.

“Besides, you never know who you’re going to meet at one of these things,” she pointed out.  “Court parties in Vorone have a reputation for some . . . unusual attendees showing up.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Assault On Karantos Manor

In the face of the foe the fairest and fondest plans are befouled.

Warmagic Proverb

Rondal saw Ruderal lurking in the corridor outside of Minalan’s room, huddled on a bench and looking disturbed.  That was unusual for the boy, in Rondal’s experience.  While never particularly chipper, Minalan’s apprentice usually looked more thoughtful than morose.

“What’s wrong?” Rondal asked, skipping his usual greeting.  “Something with Master Min?”

“Yes, something is entirely wrong with Master Min,” Ruderal said with a heavy sigh.  “Oh, he’s recovering well enough.  Lilastien is thrilled with his progress.  He might be able to stand as soon as tomorrow.

“But inside?” the gifted apprentice scoffed.  “Inside he’s as tangled up as a ball of string.  So is Lilastien, actually.  But she seems to handle it better.  No, Rondal, whatever happened to him in Anghysbel, it changed him.  His enneagram looks like a dog ate a dozen different colored kinds of yarn and threw up in the middle of the table.”

“That’s . . . a colorful metaphor,” Rondal considered, taking a seat next to the boy.

“It’s all too true.  He’s messed up, Ron.  He barely knows he’s Minalan.  He speaks well enough, but if you pay attention closely you might catch it.  He had me fill him in on everything that happened while he was gone, but he asked me some very unusual questions – like he’d never seen me before.  I don’t know what could have done this, but it’s like the innards of his soul are scrambled.”

“How can that sort of thing happen in a land without magic?” Rondal asked, confused.

“I don’t know how it could happen in a land with magic,” complained the apprentice.   “Look, I can see the damned things and I kind of know how they’re supposed to work, but there’s far more that I don’t know.  But one of the things I do understand is that enneagrams usually change slowly, a little bit at a time.  Master Min’s has changed more in nine weeks than a human usually does in a lifetime.  Try to explain that!” the lad demanded, exasperated.

“That’s not really my area of study,” Rondal decided, after thinking about it.  “But I do appreciate the insight, Ruderal.  “I’m just starting to realize how much depends on our master.”

“My master,” Ruderal corrected, arrogantly.  “You, Tyndal, and Dara have all escaped.  I’m still here, bound to . . . to . . . a crazy man,” he said, his head sinking into his hands.  “No, really, he’s quite mad.  He’ll fool you, for a bit, because he’s actually good at being mad.  But he’s . . . he’s slipping, right now,” he pronounced with a shudder.

“Slipping?” Rondal asked, hesitantly.

“Go talk to him yourself,” Rondal suggested with a snort.  “Go ahead.  Listen to him carefully.  Use discernment,” he instructed, emphatically.  “Really listen to him, don’t just nod like a doting apprentice.  You’ll see what I mean,” he said, with a heavy sigh.

“I will,” Rondal nodded, swallowing.  “What do you think happened to him?”

“Ishi’s tits, I have no idea,” Rondal said, shaking his head solemnly.  “Whatever it was, it was as bad as being run over by a stampede.  He and Lilastien are both tangled up.  They aren’t right, Rondal,” he declared, looking up, a distraught look on his face.  “Be careful,” he enunciated.

With that troubling advice in mind, Rondal opened the door to Minalan’s room and went in.

His old master was sitting up in his bed, supported by several large pillows and covered with a quilt.   There was a tray with a bowl of soup in front of him, and he was eagerly eating.  He looked far better, in Rondal’s estimation, than he had just a few days ago.  There was more color to his face, and someone had trimmed his hair and beard back to socially acceptable levels.

“Rondal!” he said, a smile breaking out on his face.  “Thank you for coming.  I hated to pull you away from your duties . . .”

“I’ll always come when you call, Master,” Rondal assured him, taking the seat next to the bed.  “You can fault years of training for that.”

“Ruderal said you were involved in some sort of military operation,” Minalan said, thoughtfully.

“Yes, I’m leading the effort to drive Karakush and his minions from the Westlands,” he reported.  “My teams are ready.  We strike in the morning.”

“Good, good,” Minalan nodded.  “That is one bit of rot we can cut from the apple, at least.  Then we can turn our attention back to Darkfaller.”

“That will prove much more difficult than the Westlands, by all accounts,” Rondal agreed.

“Oh, it will be a huge undertaking, and take months of planning,” Minalan said, dismissively.  “But it must be done, too.  We must drive the Nemovorti back to their crypts.  And then we must seal them away, and then begin working on the real problems at hand.”

“So, you had some success in Anghysbel, Master?” he asked, curious.

“I had every kind of success in Anghysbel,” Minalan replied with a nod of satisfaction.  “The things I’ve learned, Rondal, they’ll change the world – they’ll save the world,” he emphasized.  “I know how to make snowstone, now.  And irionite.  And things you would never think to dream of.

“But I can only do that if I have the proper tools,” he continued, thoughtfully.  “I have a few crude ones.  Enough to make the tools to make the tools that I’ll need.  If I have adequate assistance.  I know you are in service to Pentandra and Duke Anguin, at the moment, but there are a few things I’ll need from you, in the coming months.  And I will need you to do them discreetly,” he added.

“I know how to keep a secret, Master,” he assured Minalan.  He tried not to sound guilty about that.  It didn’t work.

“Oh, I know you do,” Minalan said, sharply.  “You’ve kept the secret of who ordered and organized the effort to take Wilderhall and hold it for ransom, for instance.”

The casual revelation of his most closely held secret by a man who’d just woken from a coma startled Rondal.  He considered denying it on the spot – he’d practiced his denials, should he be caught in his duplicity by Anguin or Pentandra, and he had a string of them at the ready.  But there was no uncertainty in Minalan’s voice, no trace of doubt or skepticism.  And when his master gave him that particular stare, he knew to take it seriously.  He swallowed.

“How did you know?” he asked, his voice low and hoarse.

“I suspected you from the first time I heard which mercenary companies were involved with the attack.  You know both companies, and you know how to contact them.  You know the Kasari, and you are known by them.  Ruderal confirmed it – oh, he did not break any of your confidences,” Minalan assured.  “He just told me about the ‘mysterious magelord’ who was behind it, and I realized that it was indeed you.  Besides, the lad is a terrible liar,” Minalan admitted, with a smile.  “I suppose being able to see the insincerity in everyone else doesn’t teach you to lie very well.”

“I . . . well, you see . . . I was just—” Rondal stammered.

“You were just being a wizard,” Minalan said, smoothly.  “The kind of wizard I taught you to be.  I’m assuming that you went to see the Kasari over concern for their expulsion, and then you realized the opportunity at hand.  They would not have lightly joined a mercenary company without good reason – and someone to persuade them.  And it would not occur to any of them to use the Narasi’s own laws about warfare against them in such a matter – they’re too honorable.

“But you . . . you saw opportunity,” Minalan said, approvingly.  “You saw where a little gold and a good speech could place a stone at a strategically important intersection.”

“It was actually quite a lot of gold,” Rondal said.

“Then you executed it . . . in secret, no less.  Did Pentandra not know you were doing it?  Or Anguin?  Or Rardine?”

“No, I managed to keep it from them, so far,” he said, sheepishly.  “Only Ruderal.  And Gatina.  I told no one else.”

“Good, good,” Minalan nodded.  “Let’s keep it that way, for now.  What was your intention, in doing that?  Professional curiosity,” he added.

“Oh, once it was clear the Prince was going to continue his vendetta, I just wanted to think of a way to shut down the Castali court and deprive Tavard of having a staging area in the north he could use against Alshar.  And the Magelaw,” he corrected.  “Then Tavard declared war and gave me an opportunity to do so.  I went to make sure that the Kasari would come back unmolested by Castali Wilderlords on their march home, and I also wanted to hire some mercenaries to keep them out of Tavard’s pocket and . . . and . . actually, it just sort of . . . happened,” he said, embarrassed to admit it.

“Such things often do,” Minalan said, staring off into space for a moment.  “More than you realize,” he murmured.  Then he turned his head back sharply to regard Rondal again.  “Would you allow me to use the occupation as a bargaining piece?” he proposed.  “I’m to meet with Rard as soon as I’m able.  He’s going to need my help with Darkfaller, and he needs to hear some of what I learned in Anghysbel.  There are going to be some . . . repercussions forthcoming, and he needs to be prepared.

“But I think I can use the opportunity to end this silly war, and start putting a great many things to right,” he said, thoughtfully.  “Being able to bargain with Wilderhall’s release would be helpful.  Not essential, but helpful.”

“Certainly, Master,” Rondal agreed, feeling relief from weight he was not entirely aware he bore.  He realized that as impressive as his conquest of Wilderhall was, he was not entirely certain how to end it without bloodshed and recrimination.  But perhaps Minalan’s negotiations would provide that escape.  “If you could keep my name out of things as much as possible, however . . .”

“I will do my best,” agreed his old master.  “I’m anticipating a number of important meetings in the future.  The one with King Rard is only the first, albeit a very important one.  I’d like you to be in many of them,” he requested.

“As many as my duties allow for,” he promised.

“And when the time comes, I will speak to Pentandra and Anguin about your actions in Wilderhall,” he pledged in return.  “I’m guessing that is what you’re dreading most about this affair.  Keeping secrets is a hard thing, Rondal, but sometimes it is necessary.  Don’t feel too guilty about this one: your actions gave us an additional piece with which to bargain, and likely spared many lives.  Your liege and your boss will forgive you for this success.  I’ll make certain of it.

“Now, I don’t want to keep you listening to a sick old man when you should be preparing for battle,” Minalan concluded.  “I just wanted a few words with you.  And to let you know that I’m all right,” he said.

Then he began reciting something in a language Rondal didn’t know – it sounded vaguely Alkan – and Rondal saw immediately what Ruderal had been concerned with.  It was Minalan’s voice coming out of Minalan’s body, but it did not seem like Minalan was the one speaking.

He could not put his finger on what was so strange about it.  It was something subtle.  Far too subtle for him to discern, at least.  And that troubled him.

That night Rondal crawled into a blind on the outskirts of Karantos Manor, one of the estates they were raiding and tried to get comfortable in the blind, a construction of grasses and sticks.  The simple structure had been built to keep it obscured from view by magic and craft, not for comfort.  A simple piece of oilcloth was the only thing between his armor and the rocky ground.  A stone immediately began pressing into his thigh in an uncomfortable way.  He resigned himself to it.  He was going to be there awhile.

He could have chosen to coordinate the four separate battles from a more distant location.  Pentandra had run the entire Battle of Olum Seheri from a blue barn hundreds of miles from that dark city.  But Rondal wanted to see how things unfolded personally.

He could see most of the central buildings of the estate spread out below him, including the single tower attached to a sprawling hall that dominated the center.  This was where Karakush was, now.  Whatever happened on the other three estates being attacked that morning, Rondal wanted to be nearest the villain who’d put Mycin Amana in Darkfaller.

He took a deep breath and a sip of water as he began contacting his strike teams mind-to-mind.

I’m in position above you, Noutha, he sent to the leader of the largest team.  I can see just about everything.  Are you ready?

We’re in position, the warmage once known as Lady Mask reported.  There’s three or four draugen patrolling the center and another few on the perimeter.  There’s more in that old hall near the southeast wall.  We’ll send half the team there to deal with them.  But there aren’t any human soldiers.  Just undead.

He scanned the top of the tower with magesight.  No one is on duty in the parapets, he told her.  I’ll let you know when to go.  I can collapse their wards from here, and then you should be free to advance.  But do it quickly, he warned.  The moment their wards come down they’ll know something is happening.  They just won’t know from which direction.  Be ready for anything.

I’ll be quivering in giddy anticipation, the woman said with thick sarcasm.   But it does beat guard duty at the palace, she added, grudgingly.

Noutha had gone to Kaunis with her father when he became Royal Court Wizard, taking a position as one of the warmagi employed to protect the royal family and the court.  She had leapt at the chance for real combat, after a few years patrolling the palace complex.

Do you have the new weapon? Rondal asked.

It’s not a new weapon, it’s a crossbow, Noutha argued.  But I have the eggs.  I’m looking forward to seeing what they do.

Good.  Remember, try to save them for the Nemovorti.  They probably work on draugen, but the Nemovorti are the tough ones.

Worry not.  I have Caswallon for the draugen.  And anything else that needs a good slaying, she said. I’ll handle the Nemovorti.

Rondal then contacted the other three captains, who were similarly moving their teams into position.  Tamonial, the Tera Alon warmage, was leading his first assault party after accomplishing himself well in the War of Spring.  Rustallo, a veteran of campaigns going back to Boval Vale, was preparing to attack Scafer Manor with twenty warmagi from Vanador.  And Bendonal was personally leading the wizards of the Megelini Order against the largest manor occupied by the Nemovorti, where wyverns had been housed.  Each assured Rondal that they were ready to begin on his word.

Finally, he reached out for what was arguably the fifth assault team’s leader, the one that flew overhead.

How are things looking up there, Dara? he asked the Sky Captain, mind-to-mind.

I’ve got six birds in the air over seventy miles, she reported back.  I’m about two miles north of your position.  So far, everything is quiet.  If there are any gurvani lurking in the bushes, they’re keeping very still.

Keep screening us, he advised.  I think we’re all about ready.  If your birds see anything out of the ordinary, let me know.

Well, my Wing Second, Lareta, told me she flew scouting missions for you over these places earlier this year, Dara replied.  She thinks that they all look more deserted than they did.  I’m guessing they moved most of their people – living and dead – into Darkfaller, she proposed.  That’s where I was before you called us in.

So this might be easier than we expected, Rondal reasoned.

Or it could be a trap, Dara countered.  Just be careful, Ron, she added, before breaking contact.

They sky behind the scraggly trees was starting to brighten, turning them all into silhouettes against the rising sun.  It was time, he decided, and gave the order to each of the teams to begin their attacks.

He did his part by collapsing the wards around the estate, below.  He instructed the paraclete inside his baculus, known as Bulwark, to thread a web of energy around the faint perimeter field that encircled the little tower, and then changed its vibrational allocation to counter the enemy’s spell.  He timed it perfectly.  The wards dropped moments before Noutha led her squadron across its frontier.

There was little for Rondal to do after that save watch the advance with magesight.  From his vantage he was able to witness Caswallon stabbing a draugen through the neck by surprise and then kick open the door to the hall where the others supposedly lurked.  The rest of his squadron followed him in, and in seconds there were flashes of light seeping through the closed shutters of the hall and the occasional muffled report of an explosive spell going off.

Noutha led her smaller team to the main manor house where they theorized Karakush waited.  Thankfully Rondal’s earlier scouting mission had planted the seeds for this assault: he activated the miniature thaumaturgical construct – one of his dahman -- that he used to spy on such places with the wave of his hand over a small black bowl of water.

Soon he was able to “see” in the dim shadows of the place as his little insect-like construct became active.  It was quiet, in the hall, and there was no overt sign it was under attack.  Indeed, as he remotely directed the crawling magical spy out from under the table it was hidden under, there was very little activity at all in the place.  He scurried the thing to the next chamber, which was likewise empty, and after referring to his notes from the earlier mission he chose a direction that – he hoped – would give him some good intelligence on just what Noutha and her men would be facing in a few moments.

To his surprise there seemed to be just a few residents left in the tower.  One he recognized from the last time when his enchantment revealed the next room – likely the chamber of the original lord or castellan, judging from the furnishings.  The shadowy figure he recalled as probably being Karakush was sitting near a window, his eyes closed, a short rod of iron in one hand.  It was as if he was resting, though Rondal guessed he was engaged in some sort of spellwork.

But Karakush was not alone: the magical spy also saw him being attended by an Enshadowed warrior in his larger and more menacing form, impatiently staring at the Nemovort as he wove his spells, while a goblin dressed in human fashion busied himself in the background.  But there were no more Nemovorti, no more Enshadowed, nor any draugen or regular undead in sight.

Karakush is confirmed to be on the third floor, south side of the tower, he sent to Noutha, mind-to-mind.  One Enshadowed and one gurvan are also in the room.

Does he seem to realize that he’s under attack? Noutha asked, in return.  I’m on the first-floor staircase, now, she added, so that Rondal could keep track.

If he does, he’s being very calm about it, Rondal told her.  Proceed with caution, he advised.

Just then a distant noise distracted his attention away from her.  Caswallon and his men were fighting two draugen who had spilled out of their lair, seeking to escape the flashing mageblades and the deadly spells of the warmagi.  With three-to-one odds against the red-eyed undead monsters, Rondal was confident in the outcome.

Ron, the second manor just fell, Dara reported.  Or at least it caught on fire very quickly.  There are some bodies in the courtyard, but they appear to be draugen more than warmagi.

So soon?  Any word from the first and third site? he asked in response.

I’ll wing over the first site now, she assured him.  But if they’re hiding reinforcements somewhere, they don’t seem to be deploying them.

Rondal spent a busy few minutes checking in with each team, and all of them were reporting little resistance amongst the enemy as they moved from one building or floor to another.  Tamonial had chanced upon a half-dozen normal undead milling about the main hall of his target, and each estate seemed to have draugen patrolling . . . but it appeared that Dara’s assessment was correct.  The Westwood holdings appeared to have been emptied into Darkfaller.

Still, Rondal was cautious as he directed each team to advance.  He was so preoccupied with that that he nearly missed the moment when Noutha and two of her warmagi burst into Karakush’s chamber, and it startled him.

With his magical spy he was able to watch her enter the room, her mageblade glowing brightly in one hand and a small, compact crossbow in the other.  It had been specially modified to fire not a standard bolt, but to cast the enchanted pearl o’ nymph that Pentandra’s pet hedgewitch had developed.

It was a brilliant spell, in its way.  The tiny, powerful little iridescent sphere tucked into a hen’s egg had been enchanted to burst when it struck something with sufficient force, instantly covering the target in a fine dust of powerfully charged particles attuned to pure vibrant energy.  The second part of the spell encouraged the dust to envelop the target completely, clinging to every bit of surface it touched.  Then the third part of the enchantment poured arcane power into the chaotic matrix of powder and boosted the effects of the vibrant energy dramatically for one brief moment.

What the old witch had realized was the withering power such a blast had on necromantic enchantments.  Like blasting sunshine into a mildewed corner, the brief but potent burst of power burned the spells relying on necromancy into a kind of overload.  The damage it did to the undead’s arcane architecture was sudden and brutal, like pouring cool water onto a flaming bucket of grease.  The resulting destruction disrupted complex spells and withered active necromantic enchantments, sometimes beyond repair.

To a common undead, it was instantly fatal; to a draugen it was devastating, theoretically.  And while it might not kill a Nemovort, it would provide enough pain and lasting damage to the thing that would force it to change bodies or continue to exist in a maimed, rapidly deteriorating form.

It wasn’t a perfect spell, but it was easy to deploy and very effective, according to the bouleuterion’s enchanters who’d tested it.  He looked forward to seeing it in action.  If they were going to assault Darkfaller, as Master Minalan had suggested, having a weapon that worked that well against the Nemovorti would give them a great advantage.

Alas, he never got the chance to see it work.  The moment that Noutha and her men burst into the chamber, Karakush’s Enshadowed lieutenant raised his fist and cast defensive spells, while his master stood and threw some sort of blast toward the attackers.

Rondal wasn’t terribly worried about Noutha – she was a cunning warmage, and her defensive spellwork would likely protect her from any severe damage from such a blast.  But Karakush’s spell was not, it appeared, designed to injure or impair.  Instead it enveloped the warmagi in a field of force and hurled them against the stone wall of the chamber with such energy that weapons were dropped.  Rondal expected a quick recovery and counterspells against such a simple sort of spell.  Instead, all three of the warmagi appeared stricken as they were pressed against the wall.

With horror, Rondal watched as Karakush surveyed the three with a satisfied smile.  The Enshadowed warrior continued to pour energy into the defenses, and the gurvan scurried out of sight.

That wasn’t good, he realized.  Noutha should have been able to counter that attack easily.  The fact she hadn’t indicated that there was more going on with the spell than he could discern.  She had dropped both weapons and her arms flailed around as she struggled against the force of the spell, her men writhing similarly beside her.                Karakush seemed content to watch them squirm on the wall like bugs impaled by magical pins.  Then he said a few words in Alka Alon to the Enshadowed warrior.

To his surprise, the Enshadowed stalked over to where his magical construct was hidden and quickly picked it up .  The tiny thing writhed as much as the warmagi were doing as a quick wave of enchantment washed over it.  The tiny wooden legs stopped moving . . . but he could still see through its magical eye, he realized.

Then, to his growing unease, the Enshadowed presented the construct to the Nemovort.  Karakush regarded it with some interest, tapping it lightly with his iron rod.  He seemed amused at it, for some reason.  While the construct had an enchantment that allowed for him to hear the sounds of struggle in the room, Rondal was just as surprised as the Nemovort addressed the tiny thing in slightly accented Narasi.

“To whomever is controlling this clever little thing,” he began, his voice seeming tinny but clear through the little seashell that magically relayed the sound to Rondal’s ear, “I must commend you on such a swift infiltration.  But if you wish to see the lives of your comrades spared,” he said, gesturing toward the wall, “then we can discuss the matter in person.  In fact, I very much want to speak with you and deliver a message to your superiors,” he said, a grim smile on his undead lips.

Rondal was even more surprised at the offer, and he did not know what to make of it.  The Nemovort continued to explain himself.

“I offer a temporary truce so that you may come up to the tower and bargain for the lives of your people.  In return, you may learn some valuable information.  And all I ask in return is to let me depart in peace, and for you to bear a message to your warrior princes.  Call your warriors away from this hall, for a time, and ascend the stairs alone.  I pledge no ill will befall you.  Once we have spoken, I will release your men without harm and leave this place.

“But if you do not appear in the next ten minutes,” he warned, “I will slit the necks of all three and feed before allowing them to bleed to death.  I look forward to our meeting,” he said, and then crushed the construct, breaking the connection.

Rondal sat, nearly paralyzed, for several minutes in the blind.  This was not how things were supposed to work out.  They had a plan – a good plan – to take the estate and defeat the Nemovorti within.  Now he had to make a choice to renew the assault or to accept the truce and go speak with the undead horror in person.

After several agonizing moments of consideration, Rondal finally sighed and wiggled out of the blind.  It was time to go bargain with Karakush.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Lanara’s Debut

Good counsel is above all price

Wilderlands Folk Saying

Pentandra returned the Spellmonger to Spellgarden personally, once he had stood, taken a few firm steps, and had Lilastien pronounce him fit enough to recuperate at home.  She would not entrust the matter to another – too much was at stake, after all, and ensuring that Minalan made it home and was well enough to resume his duties was her foremost goal.  Besides, it gave her some time and an excuse to talk with Minalan directly, alone.

After they emerged from the Waypoint from Henga Hospital into the joyous cacophony of Min’s wife and children, Pentandra waited patiently – and enjoyably – while everyone welcomed their husband and father back to their home.  They nearly dragged him to the bedchamber he kept in the tower, where he would continue to rest, and made a great show of demonstrating the pillows and blankets for their father as if he had not ever used such things before.

The children were starved for Minalan’s attention, Pentandra saw, each trying to out-do the others to catch their father’s eye.  Alya did her best to mediate, but four kids who hadn’t seen Daddy in two months were a force that could not be restrained.  At best she kept fights from breaking out.

Her own triplets crowded into her lap, their eyes wide with awe as they watched the Spellmonger’s children welcome him home so noisily.  Occasionally they whispered some nearly unintelligible comments to each other, when they weren’t themselves squirming for a better position on her lap, but they mostly stayed out of the way.

There were moments of concern, she saw: not among the children, but on Minalan’s face.  While clearly enjoying the reunion with his family after such an arduous and lengthy absence, there were episodes when confusion, pain, indifference, or even antipathy broke over his face as the children helped him lay down and tucked him in with exaggerated care.  Then each attempted to tell him – well, everything, every last detail of everything they’d done while he was gone, as well as the crimes and perceived slights of their siblings.

Eventually even Minalyan, Min’s oldest son, got tired of trying to recount an entire summer’s worth of adventures in one sitting, and reluctantly permitted his mother to usher he and his siblings away and back to Spellmonger’s Hall.  Pentandra summoned her own nurses to retrieve her girls, and soon she and Minalan were left alone in his bedchamber.

“I would not have missed that for anything,” Minalan sighed, once the door to his chamber was closed, “but dear gods, that was exhausting!”

“They have missed you desperately and were worried when Alya came home but you didn’t,” Pentandra informed him, as she settled into a chair next to the bed.  It was not the grand affair that he and Alya shared at Spellmonger’s Hall.  It was designed for quick naps or late nights when he was in the workshop and did not want to disturb his wife with his irregular hours.  “When they found out you’d been wounded they were beside themselves.  I think we were all fairly worried that first week you came back.”

“After a week’s rest, healing spells, and lousy food, I think I’m ready to be back,” he said, thoughtfully, as the Magolith floated a few feet over his left shoulder.  “Once I was able to walk from one end of the ward to the other by myself and prove that my bowels were moving to Lilastien’s satisfaction, it seemed like time to come home.”

“Good,” nodded Pentandra.  “Just when do you think you’ll be available to meet with the king?  That’s the most pressing matter.”

“Give me a few more days to build up my strength,” he pleaded.  “I’m healing, but I’m still weak from the poison and the surgery.  I’m certainly not ready to fight Nemovorti,” he said, and then frowned.  “So, it’s true?  Mycin Amana is wearing Isily’s body, now?”

“She doesn’t look as pretty as Isily did in it, but yes,” sighed Pentandra.  “I saw her myself, outside Barrowbell.  She barged in on our pre-battle truce and managed to scare three hells out of both Terleman and Tavard.  But by that time, she and her forces had already taken Darkfaller and it was too late.”

“So what has she been doing since then?” he asked, concerned.

“Still building her strength and consolidating her power,” Pentandra reported.  “From what I learned from Terleman this morning, she’s been sending out sorties and raiding parties to the castle’s estates.  She’s bringing captured prisoners back to the keeps of Darkfaller, as food and fodder.  Anyone who crosses those parties ends up dead or undead.  Terl thinks that she’ll start expanding her region of influence soon,” she added, forebodingly.  “Oh, and there has been a rise in the number of giant wyverns in the skies over Darkfaller – there are scores, now.  It’s kept our giant hawks from patrolling too closely to the castle, which Mycin has placed under some powerful wards.”

“It’s a tough castle,” Minalan agreed, nodding.  “It’s going to take a lot to break it and dislodge her, before she can start attacking Castabriel.  I only spoke with Mycin Amana for a few moments in the dungeons of the Necromancer, but she’s brutal, callous, and dedicated.  If she’s decided she’s Queen of Castabriel, I have every confidence that she’ll spare no effort or resource to do so.”

“But why would she want Castabriel so badly?” frowned Pentandra.  “Sure, it’s the ducal capital, but Kaunis is where the king and royal court is.  If she wanted to wound us, she would attack there, first.”

“Her goal isn’t so much in destroying us as elevating herself,” Minalan explained, somberly.  “Castabriel is symbolic.  It was once a jewel of a city, with towering spires, beautiful domes, and graceful arches.  You can still see some of them, where humanity incorporated the ruins into the modern city.  But at its height, Castabriel was the seat of Versaloti learning in this land.  Long before Anthatiel was built, Castabriel was representative of the Versaloti genius for design.”

Pentandra noted with interest that Minalan spoke as if he’d seen the place.  To her knowledge it only featured in one of the Alka Alon epics and was mentioned in only a few others.  She’d worked and lived in the city for years and had passed the remnants of the ruined old city where they’d been incorporated into temples, homes, or shops.  Even after millennia, the stonework was distinctive enough to attract attention for its graceful curves and intricate designs.  Minalan spoke as if he’d walked the original streets, once, and saw it in its glory.

“But now, it’s a hive of humanity,” he said, his voice becoming more stern, “with thrice the folk that the old city had and none of the grace.  It’s haphazard and random, to the Alka Alon eye, and a mockery of the city of old.  Donrard’s Spire was nothing compared to the tower of Carlinarel, which pierced the sky and challenged the clouds.  The temples and great buildings we’ve constructed are like filthy sheds, to Mycin Amana, the lairs of squatters pretending to own the land.  To her mind we defile that once-sacred place.  By reclaiming it, she makes a symbolic stand against humanity and elevates herself in position and power amongst the Nemovorti and the Enshadowed.”

“That seems like a selfish reason for attempting conquest,” Pentandra remarked.

“All sorts of things can motivate a person,” Minalan pointed out.  “Including vindictiveness.  Mycin Amana is an egotist who is hungry for power and hates humankind.  Don’t worry, she’ll go after the Alka Alon next, after she’s destroyed Castabriel.  They are her real targets.”

“You’re not going to let her destroy Castabriel, are you?” Pentandra asked, disturbed by the casual way Minalan had discussed it.

“What?  Oh, no,” Minalan said, shaking his head.  “Of course not.  That wouldn’t be productive.  No, once I am able, we’ll drive her from Darkfaller.  But I need to build things to do so.  Weapons.  Enchantments.  Armies.  Political will.  It won’t be easy,” he repeated.  “And it can’t be done in a civil war.  We’ll have to stop that at once.”

“And how do you propose doing that?” Pentandra asked, secretly thrilled that he was so matter-of-fact about the subject.

“First, I do need to meet with Rard.  Preferably away from his palace.  If you could arrange something . . .”

“Well, there is a party for his young niece,” considered Pentandra.  “Anguin is throwing his sister a banquet for her introduction to his court.  If he quietly asked Rard to come, we could probably find some little room for you two to talk in.”

“That’s probably the best way to start things,” Minalan said, nodding.  “Quietly.  Casually.  Without a lot of courtiers around.  I fear his palace is full of ears I’m not comfortable overhearing our private discussions.  But let him know if he wants to see me, that will be my first public outing.  Of course, he’s free to summon me directly to his court, if he wants to be dramatic, but if I know Rard he’d just as soon handle this discretely.”

“I’ll talk to Rardine,” agreed Pentandra.  “She can probably get him to come.  It is for his niece, after all.  It’s the least he can do after keeping her a virtual hostage for more than five years.”

“I doubt he’ll see it that way but go ahead and ask.  I’m guessing that he wants to get this behind us as much as I do.  But that brings me to my next issue: informing the Thaumaturgical Society what I learned in Anghysbel.  Only the inner circle, at this point.  I don’t want word to get out and spoil any surprises,” he chuckled, humorlessly.  “You’ve read the expedition journal?” he asked, meaningfully.

“Yes,” Pentandra answered, her voice just above a whisper.  “Is it true?”

“Yes,” Minalan assured her.  “Far worse than I suspected, even.  The Ancients.  The Alka Alon.  The dragon.  The vault.  It’s all true.”

“It seemed fantastical,” Pentandra attempted to dismiss.

“It’s not,” Minalan insisted.  “It’s all true, too true,” he said, shaking his head, sadly.  “The Alka Alon have abused us damnably – us, the gurvani, the Karshak, even the Tal Alon. They have betrayed the Sea Folk and humanity and the Alon on Callidore.  We’ve all been victims of their pride,” he said, shaking his head, sadly.  “The Alka Alon have moved according to their selfish interest.   We have suffered as a result.”

“That was hard news to hear,” Pentandra said.

She didn’t really know what else to say.  Minalan seemed to have a broader perspective on things that she did – and that disturbed her.  Before she headed to Boval Vale at Minalan’s request, he seemed a naïve Narasi boy who, because of his heritage, did not merit more than an associate status in the Game of Whispers.  But she was starting to understand that there was more to life than that exhaustive endeavor.

“The very worst thing is how they concealed the egg of the Celestial Mother,” Minalan continued, barely acknowledging her presence.  “They’ve had it for centuries, now, while the Vundel have been beside themselves with anticipatory grief over the rending of this world.  It was the one chance Callidore had against the Void.  And the Alka Alon preferred to cover it up rather than to turn it over to the Vundel.”

“I don’t think you can make that judgement, fairly enough,” Pentandra found herself saying, thoughtfully.  “To the Alka Alon, it might have seemed as a false path that implicated themselves more than it spared the world its eventual death.”

“Is that really an excuse, though?” Minalan asked, a strange tone to his voice.  “They had the answer to the ultimate problem in their hands.  Something the Vundel have been searching for for a million years.  And they sent it to the farthest corners of the world to hide it, rather than claim it and give it back to the Sea Folk.  What is wrong with them?” Minalan asked, sincerely.

“They suffer from long lives and a poor sense of perspective,” Pentandra offered.

“Well, I plan on giving them some perspective,” Minalan assured her, “good and hard.  I’ve got leverage to use with Rard.  Then I’ve got leverage to use with the Alka Alon Council.  Then I’ve got leverage to use with the Vundel,” he said, ticking off each point on his fingers.  “But it must be done just right, or we risk alienating each of them.

“First and foremost, the matter of the Celestial Egg has to be kept secret – a deep secret.  A state secret,” he corrected.  “If word got out to the Enshadowed, or even the common Alka Alon, it could be disastrous for everyone.  And if it reached the ears – or whatever they use – of the Vundel, it could be even worse.”

“Agreed,” Pentandra nodded, somberly.  “I’m not even certain we should trust Rard with it.”

“I see your point, but we have to,” Minalan said, after a few moments’ silent consideration.  “We really do.  He has to understand just how important this is and agree not to stand in our way.”

“What if he claims the egg in the name of the throne, or some other boneheaded feudal idea?” she asked.

“Then we . . . we’ll cross that ford when the road comes to it,” he sighed.  “I suppose this will be a very interesting party.”

Pentandra’s discrete inquiry to Rardine was answered within hours – yes, the king would be making a short appearance at Vorone in honor of his niece’s introduction to court, and he would make time for a discussion with the Spellmonger.  Indeed, Rardine’s note said, His Majesty was eagerly anticipating it.

She’d be able to share some news of her own at that party, too.  Rondal’s effort to drive the Nemovorti from the Westlands had been successful, although he had requested a meeting for the day after the party to discuss some important intelligence he’d acquired there.

Beyond having to force Alurra into a real gown for the affair, her work was done, she considered.  She could turn the fate of the world over to the Spellmonger and the King and go back to being a normal ducal court wizard . . . and sometimes spy.  Thankfully Arborn was able to attend the reception, now that the Kasari situation was in hand.  She made a brief trip to Lotanz to bring him through the Ways.

“How many more of these are we supposed to go to?” he grumbled.  “Jousts, hunts, balls, parties – does the Duke not realize that some people have work to do?”

“This is part of our work,” Pentandra insisted, gently, as they entered Castle Vorone, Alurra trailing behind them.  She was in an even worse mood than Arborn.  “This is an important occasion, though.  Anguin needs to begin looking for husbands for his sisters, and this is the first step in that process.”

“I’ve got some good Kasari boys who would do well by her,” Arborn suggested.  “Of course, she’d have to complete the rites . . .”

“. . . and that would be scandalous to Alshari polite society,” Alurra pointed out.  “I think that’s a grand idea!”

“It would be more than scandalous, it would be impossible,” Pentandra countered, as they walked through the stately outer halls, where a castellan was waiting for them.  “She needs to marry for reasons of state.  That dramatically reduces the number of suitable suitors.”

In moments they were led by the eager young man in the castellan’s sash to the great ballroom that had seen so much use this summer.  It was already mostly filled with the courtiers from Vorone and beyond.  Count Marcadine had ridden north with several of his prominent vassals for the occasion.  Sandoval was there with Carmella, representing the Magelaw.  Even some of the impoverished domains in Northern Gilmora had sent their poor but proud nobility to pay their respects, Pentandra noted.

Lady Lanara was seated next to her brother on the dais in the center of the hall, across from the grand stone fireplace.  She was a young girl, only fourteen, and seemed both bored and pleased by the party in her honor.

By tradition she was in a new white gown that set her apart from the other women at the ceremony, her blonde hair tucked under a pretty white cap that matched it.  As per custom, each of the attending nobility approached the ducal thrones to introduce themselves, offer their blessings, and give a gift to the Duke’s little sister, if they were so inclined.

During Pentandra’s turn she and Arborn gave their low bows, their flattering speech, and then Pentandra gifted the young woman with a magical broach she’d had the Dradrien make for her: a stylized silver dove with sapphires for eyes.  Pentandra had enchanted it to produce a magelight over the girl’s head when she commanded it to.  Arborn brought her a pretty little bow in the Kasari style with a quiver full of eagle-fletched arrows tipped with stainless Yltedine steel, with sufficient decoration to make it suitable for a young lady of society.  He’d heard – correctly – that Lanara enjoyed archery most compared to other socially approved athletic activities.

Much to her surprise, Alurra gave the girl a songbird, one that had been wounded and could not fly.  Lady Lanara was delighted with it, particularly when it sang at Alurra’s command.

Lanara accepted the gifts with grace, thanked them, and after a bit of small talk during which Pentandra formally introduced Alurra to the young woman, they took their leave and let the next set of nobles approach.

“See?  That didn’t take long,” Pentandra soothed her husband.

“Does that mean we can leave, now?” Alurra asked, annoyed.  Lanara had asked about both her crow and her blindness, as well as her practice of magic.  While her apprentice had politely spoken with her, Pentandra knew how uncomfortable she was in such formal situations.  But that didn’t mean she could escape.

“Before the banquet?  Don’t be silly,” she chided.  “Have some wine, talk to some people, and be friendly.  Besides, I’m waiting for a few special guests.  Court business,” she said, with a tilt of her head.

Within the hour both King Rard arrived, and then Minalan – to almost as much fanfare as the king.  It wasn’t generally known that his expedition had returned, and those who had heard about it had also learned of his illness.  Seeing him vertical for once did relieve Pentandra, but he still needed his staff to support him, she saw, and he moved slowly.  Still, he smiled, waved, greeted his friends, and impressed his foes just the way the Spellmonger was supposed to.

It wasn’t until after the banquet that Rardine told Pentandra that she’d set aside a room for he and the king to converse in.  To her surprise, Minalan asked that she attend.

“Why?” she asked, when he made the request.

“Because . . . well, I need someone I trust there,” he confessed.  “At the moment, I don’t entirely trust myself.  Besides, Rard likes you,” he reasoned.  “Having you there will help with some of the uncomfortable things I’ll have to tell him.”

So, she found herself back in the small chamber she’d met Briga in, a few months before.  The irony was not lost on her.

“Minalan, I’m pleased that you’re back.  You must get your men to stop this war,” Rard began, after Pentandra produced wine for them all and they settled into comfortable seats for an uncomfortable discussion.  Minalan shrugged expressively.

“Your Majesty, I am happy to – with some conditions.  We did not start this war, from what I understand.  Tavard did.  We’re just winning it.”

“He did,” the king conceded with a sigh.  “His enmity for the magi has only increased, I’m afraid.  But the loss of Darkfaller has tempered his ire, somewhat.”

“Meaning that he will end hostilities and sue for peace?” Pentandra asked.

“Meaning that he is willing to suspend hostilities until Darkfaller is recovered,” Rard corrected.  “Then he wants to go back to war with you.”

“So, he wants me to get him his strongest castle back so that he can attack me from it,” Minalan nodded.  “That’s not much of an incentive.”

“I know,” Rard said, darkly.  “He has much to learn about statecraft.”

“And warfare, from what Terleman says,” Minalan said, relaxing in the stuffed chair.  “Perhaps Mycin Amana will teach him.  Rard, you do understand what a great danger she poses to the kingdom?”

“Of course I do,” the king grumbled, stroking his beard.  “Indeed, I’ve heard of nothing else for days, now.  It’s bad enough we lost Darkfaller to her – or anyone.  But I would rather have had it lost to Terleman than her ilk.  She’s begun sending those miniature dragons over Castabriel and scaring the crap out of the people there.”

“Giant wyverns,” Minalan corrected.  “We faced them at Sevendor, during the dragon attack, and at Olum Seheri.  Poisonous claws.  A vicious bite.  And they can be ridden, like our giant hawks.”

“They haven’t started attacking yet, but it is only a matter of time,” Rard said, gloomily.  “Her patrols of undead have kept our scouts at bay around Darkfaller.  Those who get too close don’t come back.  So, we have no real idea what she’s doing there.”

“She’s filling the castle with undead, according to Terleman’s scrying and the giant hawks’ scouting,” answered Minalan.  “I spoke to the viscount just before I arrived to get the latest news.  From the Sky Riders’ estimates, there are thousands of them there, now.  And Enshadowed – the Alka Alon renegades that are allied with the Nemovorti.”

“This is a very dark day for the kingdom,” the king said, shaking his head sadly.  “If Castabriel falls . . .”

“It won’t, Majesty,” assured Pentandra.

“With our help,” added Minalan.  “But that help comes with a price.”

“As I knew it would,” Rard nodded.  “Tavard thinks that his armies can defeat them, and he can retake the castle.  That’s foolishness.  He’ll get a generation of Castali chivalry killed and turned against us if he tries that.  I’ve told him that only the magi have a hope of driving her out.  And that your help would cost.”

“My price is reasonable enough,” Minalan assured him.  “Please relay my terms: first, he stops the war, permanently.”  Rard nodded.  “Then,” Minalan continued, “he lifts my exile from Sevendor.”

“That is set to expire soon anyway,” the king pointed out with a shrug.

“Next, there is the matter of the territories that Terleman captured,” Pentandra suggested.  “They were taken lawfully,” she reminded, “and there is considerable support for him keeping them.”

“On that point he is likely to be even more reluctant,” Rard sighed.  “Terleman took them legally – it can be argued.  Nor can the Gilmoran desire for a restoration of Alshari sovereignty be ignored.  But if both sides agree to cooperate over Darkfaller, I am willing to intervene in the law and arbitrate their eventual settlement,” he proposed.  “The Lawfathers assure me that my sovereignty provides that right, in an emergency.”

“I would say that we have one,” Minalan nodded.  “I would be willing to submit our claims to Gilmora to your review and decision . . . if Tavard concedes to do likewise.  And agrees to abide by your judgement in the case.”

“And if my judgement goes against you?” the king asked.  “Would you continue your war?  Half the Royal Court thinks Terleman’s victories are the harbinger of a greater offensive against them.  They fear a return to the Magocracy.”

“They are right to do so – especially if they keep pissing off the magi,” Minalan said, which alarmed Pentandra.  It seemed needlessly combative.  “We would act according to your sovereign authority because that is what we agreed to,” he reminded Rard.  “Do you recall when we started this affair?  You told me if I helped make you king, you’d make me the Archmage.  I haven’t asked for that title, nor the power implied in it.  I have kept the magi on their good behavior – mostly,” he conceded

“You have kept the gurvani at bay,” Rard agreed.  “In general, the magi have been a boon to the kingdom.  Just not to the Duke of Castal.”

“If it helps His Highness make up his mind, as a token of good faith and a small, nominal payment of ransom, I think I could arrange to have the mercenaries at Wilderhall free his court and his wife,” Minalan proposed.

That took Pentandra by surprise.  From what she understood, no one knew which magelord or Wilderlord had hired them.  Minalan had barely been back . . . and he knew who it was already?  That started wheels turning in her mind.

“That . . . that might sooth his temper,” Rard admitted.  “He is highly embarrassed of losing his summer capital and his court and his family, and all so unexpectedly.  Those who aren’t laughing behind their cloaks are concerned that no common defense can withstand warmagi.  I will speak with him about your proposal, and my willingness to judge the matter of Gilmora.  How soon do you feel you can appear at court in Kaunis to face him before the throne?” he asked.  “That’s the only legal means to proceed.”

“Give me at least another week, Sire, if you are able,” Minalan sighed.  “I am still recovering, though I heal quickly.  I understand the concerns of the court.  But I was legally named the Count Palatine of the Magelaw, Terleman legally conquered those lands, and I find this interference from the Duke of Castal is interfering with more important affairs.”

“What could be more important than civil war and an invasion of undead?” Rard asked, curious – and disturbed.

“There are worse things to fear in this world than the Nemovorti, Your Majesty,” Pentandra said, quietly.  “While on his expedition to lost Anghysbel, Minalan made a number of incredible discoveries.  Some of these will become well known.  Some should be – must be – closely held state secrets,” she informed him.

“Just what did you learn?”  Rard’s face was set with concern.  “I thought there was no magic in that land?  A . . . a jevolar, I think it’s called?”

“Yes, and it is powerful.  There is no real magic there.  But that makes it the perfect place to hide secrets,” Minalan observed.  “The Alka Alon have been doing so for millennia.  They aren’t the only ones, but it is their secrets which I must inform you of – because I am a loyal member of your court and swore fealty to you as king, and you should know these things to inform your policies.  The security of the kingdom is at stake – indeed, the entire Five Duchies and beyond.”

“I agree, Your Majesty,” Pentandra said, delicately.  “I have spoken to Minalan at length about what he discovered, and the implications are clear . . . and do not bode well for either the kingdom or our alliance with the Alka Alon, if they are properly understood.  Minalan believes he can manage the Fair Folk, with your blessing and support, but he doesn’t wish to do so without your knowledge of what he is doing.  If he fails to act, it could condemn all of humanity to death or exile from this world.  Or its very destruction.”

“Those are dark words,” Rard said, shaking his head, alarmed.

“The ones I’m about to utter are far darker,” Minalan agreed.  “Nor do I embellish them for effect.  If anything, I am keeping the worst from you to spare your dreams.

“You see, Sire, this tale barely has anything to do with humanity,” Minalan began.  “It has to do with the Sea Folk, the Vundel.  And it begins hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions of years ago . . .”

Chapter Thirty

A Chat With Karakush

Full of courtesy, full of craft

Fair speech cloaks deceit and wrath.

Wilderlands Folk Saying

“Privikin!” Rondal exclaimed, as he was met at the door of the manor hall by a familiar looking gurvan.

“Primamin, actually,” the goblin said in flawless Narasi, with just a hint of southern Alshari accent.  “Privikin is my brother,” he explained.  “As is Pritikin.  Though there is some resemblance, I am often considered the most handsome one of the three,” he continued, drolly, as he led Rondal inside.

“And you all work for Karakush?” Rondal asked, surprised.

“At the moment, though we have taken positions with other Nemovorti or even Enshadowed, in the past,” the goblin explained.  He was being informative by design, Rondal noted.  “Two of us even worked in the service of His Majesty, King Ashakarl.  But Master Karakush is a far preferable patron, we find.  He is awaiting you upstairs in the inner chamber.  He pledges that no harm will befall you or your men if you take no action yourself.  My master is ruthless beyond imagining, but he keeps his word,” he added, with the utmost sincerity.

“I suppose those are predictable qualities in a superior,” Rondal agreed, his head a little dizzy at the thought of calmly discussing the affairs of the world with a blood-drinking undead fanatic.

He was taking a massive risk in coming into the manor by himself, Rondal knew.  Caswallon and the other warmagi had begged him to reconsider such a rash action, and when he insisted, they pledged to be ready to invade the tower and slay everything in their path at the slightest sign of treachery during the truce.  For his part, Rondal had nearly a dozen spells hung that could be activated with little more than a thought or a word.  His baculus was resting in its hoxter, ready to be deployed.  And his mageblade was still hanging comfortably over his shoulder.

So why did he feel so vulnerable?

“By what name and title are you addressed, my lord?” Primamin asked, politely, as he started up the stairs.  He displayed a slight limp as he mounted each step designed unmindful of his stature or age.  There were minor signs of magical violence, here and there, and two fresh draugen corpses on the stairs.  Despite his limp, Primamin stepped over them casually.

“Sir Rondal of Vanador,” he said, though he held no property in the City of Wizards.  “I am the leader of the expedition to drive you away from here.”

“Then I have the pleasure of informing you that you will be victorious, if disappointed,” chuckled the goblin, as he ascended the stair.

“Why is the place so empty?” Rondal asked looking around warily.  “When we scouted it there were a lot more . . . people here,” he said, trying to be diplomatic to the servant as he stepped over the bodies, himself.

“Most of the staff have largely moved west, I believe, in the service of Mistress Mycin Amana and her . . . associates.  Master Karakush was intending to abandon this place presently, in any case.”

“At the risk of imposing on you . . . why does he want to speak with me?  Instead of just leaving?  Or killing my men out of hand?” Rondal asked, confused.

“Master Karakush keeps his own counsel on such matters,” the gurvan assured.  “He merely bid me to pack in haste, as your attack began, and then sent me to guide you when he captured your men.

“But at the risk for observing above my station, I have seen that he has a keen eye for opportunity.  I would imagine he seeks to communicate some proposal or ultimatum to you or send a message to your masters.  Or perhaps merely to strike a bargain on some obscure matter.  I’ve seen him do each of those things when he invites a foe to discussion.  He is insightful, and always pursues his own interests.”

“That seems a commonality of the Nemovorti,” Rondal quipped, as they gained the third landing.

“My lord speaks truly,” admitted the goblin with a sigh, “but Master Karakush seems to be more adept at it than most of the others.  His stature among his fellows has grown since he was re-awakened.  He is among a very few that has yet to fail Korbal.”  The goblin turned at the fourth floor and made a show of opening the dark wooden door with a fresh and jagged hole in it.  I remind you, my lord Rondal,” he cautioned, “make no hostile move else your fellows die quickly.”

“I keep my word, as well,” Rondal agreed.  “As any gentleman would.  In truth, my curiosity compels me, more than my enmity.”

“A wise perspective to take, my lord, under the circumstances.  If Master Karakesh has given you an opportunity to survive his audience, it says much of your character that you would take it.”

The door led to the inner chamber of the tower.  Only one small, deeply set window allowed the morning light into the gloomy place, but there was enough light to see Noutha and the other two warmagi still pinned uncomfortably to the wall with some sort of spell with which Rondal was not familiar with.  They glared angrily at Rondal but made no sound.

“Bide, my friends,” he called, in what he hoped was a reassuring tone.  “I’ll have this sorted out shortly.”

“Sir Rondal of Vanador to see you, as you requested, Master,” Primamin announced as they approached the chair the Nemovort was sitting in near the window.  The Enshadowed warrior stood behind him, his spear held lightly in his hand.

“Sir Rondal . . .” the Nemovort said, raising his face to regard him.  His yellow eyes glowed dully as they darted across his face.  It was far from reassuring, Rondal noted, suppressing his horror at the sight.

The body the spirt dwelled within was a strong, middle-aged man, or had been, when he was alive and hale.  While it was well-muscled, it was also elaborately tattooed and completely devoid of hair save the eyebrows.  Not all of the tattoos were of Enshadowed design, he noted, absently.  Some were lighter, older, and of a distinctive character.  He’d seen the like before on the docks of Enultramar.  There were certain symbols he’d learned to associate with the Sea Brethren, the Seamagi who plied the great oceans of the world.

While not ordinarily a religious man, Rondal spared a brief, silent prayer for the soul of the poor seamage who’d been slain to give this monster a vehicle.

“Rondal of Boval Vale.  I know you.  You’re the former apprentice to Minalan the Spellmonger,” he spoke, his voice low and hoarse.  “Knighted after the battle of Timberwatch.  Veteran of the Gilmoran campaign.  Instrumental in the battle at Olum Seheri.  Champion of a vendetta against the Brotherhood of the Rat.  Betrothed to a southern Alshari noble. Friend and confidant of Duke Anguin of Alshar.  Currently the assistant court wizard to the duchy of Alshar.  A reputation for honor and honesty, knowledge and service.  I know you, Sir.”

Rondal was surprised.  And impressed.  “I did not know I was that well known, Master Karakush,” he said quietly.  “And I’m a deputy court wizard, not an assistant.  The position comes with a ducal commission, higher salary, livery and expenses.  But apart from that, you are correct.”

“Excellent!” clapped the Nemovort, his hands long fingered and stained with dried blood.  He gave a ghoulish smile.  “You are just the sort of human I seek, then.  I have collected intelligence on all of my foes, as a good player does.  Minalan, Pentandra, Terleman, Tyndal, Azar, Carmella . . . I have learned of the humani champions and their deeds.  One cannot prevail, without studying your foe.  You and I can speak freely, more freely than I could to that creature,” he said, gesturing toward Noutha.  The warmage continued to struggle against the wall, and had not ceased glaring balefully.  Indeed, Rondal noted, the expression suited her.

“It may surprise you, but your warrior is even better known to us than you, Sir Rondal.  Nyanuthel, here, worked with her briefly when she first enlisted in Sheruel’s armies,” he said, gesturing toward the transformed Alka Alon behind him, who nodded in assent.

“She’s a smart girl,” the Enshadowed warrior nodded.  “Quite professional.  And a good commander.  I don’t think she really got the respect she deserved from the gurvani.  She did more with hobgoblin infantry than any of them, and they were jealous, I think.”

“And yet we beat her with some Kasari rangers and an army of children,” shrugged Rondal.  “She’s loyal to us, now,” he added.  “Else she would not be here.”

“Such things happen, in war,” agreed Karakush, philosophically.  “Unlike my fellows, I have a fine appreciation for the flow of history.  Some of the most important figures have had a change of heart and loyalties along their road.  The successful often have a very flexible understanding of such things.”

“If you’re trying to persuade me to change my cloak, do not waste our time,” Rondal said, boldly.  “I am completely loyal to humanity and Master Minalan.”

“Which is why I am so eager to treat with you, Sir Rondal,” Karakush agreed, smoothly.  “Because of your reputation for honesty.  Yes, I have heard of you before, Sir Rondal.  You and Viscount Tyndal were foremost in the accounts of our enemies my spies have collected.  I make a practice of learning everything I can about my opponents.  You have both enjoyed incredible success, once you were given irionite.  And you have both fought with distinction and cunning.  Yet you have often devoted yourself to study.  Indeed, that is why I think you, of all men, are best to hear what I have to say.”

“I am no more subject to flattery than I am treason, Karakush,” he said, sternly, as he folded his arms over his chest.

“When I spoke of being flexible with loyalties,” Karakush chuckled, “I did so not to undermine your own but to suggest that mine might not be entirely inflexible.  Oh, I am still loyal to Korbal and our cause,” he insisted, raising one of his hands, “such as it is.  But I am also practical.  My goals and aspirations do not always align with my master’s or my comrades.”

“An interesting position,” Rondal said, guardingly.

“For instance, I am certain that Minalan the Spellmonger will find the power to destroy us, or at least hamper us.  Which is why I have sent assassins to follow him to the land of the jevolar to slay him and claim that fascinating Magolith he built.  Once my agents return it to me, then I will have the power to challenge Korbal,” he said, with a sense of certainty in his decrepit voice.

That told Rondal just how far Karakush’s loyalties went.  Which was, he reflected, good information to know.  As was the failure of Karakush’s scheme.

“Alas, you will have to find another way,” Rondal said, with his own sympathetic chuckle.  “Count Minalan has returned from Anghysbel.  Alive.  And he still bears the Magolith.  I spoke with him just this morning.  Indeed, from what he says he met with your assassin and slew him in a duel,” Rondal revealed.  “He took a wound, but he has already returned to Vanador and is well on the mend,” he added, apologetically.  “You’ll have to come up with a new plan.”

If Karakush had any emotional investment in the success of his plot, he did not show it.

“Well,” he said, instead, glancing back at Nyanuthel.  His manner was less angry than accepting.  “That was a misplaced confidence.  So much for the vaunted skill of Gindomel.  Yes, this changes my plans, alas.  Hopefully Pritikin will have more success.”

“I confess, I’m curious as to the story of those three?” Rondal asked, suddenly, gesturing toward Primamin.  “They speak better Narasi than most nobility.”

The Enshadowed warrior looked pleased.  “My servants were raised by a human hermit in the Land of Scars who rescued them after some beast slew their parents,” Nyanuthel revealed.  “The monk taught them to speak, read, and know the ways of men.  When I met them, I took them into my service for a while, just before the invasion.  They are extremely intelligent and capable.  Some of our most trusted and faithful servants, when they are properly appreciated.”

“Thank you, Master Nyanuthel,” the gurvan bowed, his expression pleased.  “It is good to be appreciated.  My family seeks only to be of service to the greater goal . . . but find our service to you, Master, much more agreeable than others.”

“Gurvani who understand humanity’s tongue and customs are in high demand,” Karakush agreed.  “Most went into exile with Ashakarl, alas.  But the three brothers came to me, upon Nyanuthel’s recommendation.  We share a more thoughtful approach to the lesser Alon – perhaps it’s in our family culture.  Nyanuthel is my nephew, I was pleased to find out after I was awakened.  He has cultivated the three brothers into ideal agents and servants, appreciating their high intelligence and knowledge of humani ways.  Ashakarl’s exile forced some of us to undertake our own study of the culture of the beings whose bodies we were wearing.

“That seems a disturbingly enlightened attitude,” Rondal observed.

“In truth, while some Nemovorti find the idea disgusting and repugnant, I’ve come to respect your people.  Your continual victories over our vaunted warriors proves you have some value.  But it is your cleverness that I admire the most,” the Nemovort continued.   “You must appreciate the novelty of waking up after a thousand years in a wasteland crypt only to find your world transformed . . . and inhabited by a fascinating people.”

“I can only imagine,” Rondal said, shaking his head.  It was clear that this Nemovort liked to talk more than most, yet his demeanor was almost friendly.  Arrogant and condescending, but friendly.

“It was disconcerting, to be honest,” agreed the Nemovort.  “It enraged many of my fellows who considered you worse than the gurvani.  I took a more enlightened view, particularly when I learned of your race’s particular abilities.”

“Magic?” Rondal asked, surprised.  “Only a few of us have rajira.  Perhaps one in a thousand has enough to learn real spells.”

“It’s not your magic, it’s what you do with it,” Karakush countered.  “Unlike most of my fellows, I am a sorcerer, first and foremost, not a warrior.  I have always been fascinated by the hidden nature of the universe and used magic to explore and learn about it.  My affiliation with the Enshadowed was born far more out of a desire to understand the essence of magic than mere aspirations of immortality or yearning for power.

“But you humani have produced means of utilizing what are known as the salaperan energies.  We thought them merely theoretical,” he admitted.

“I confess I’m unfamiliar with the term,” Rondal admitted.

“You know it better as ‘divine magic,’ due to the unusual method you have of producing them.”

“The gods make us clever, then?” Rondal asked, confused and amused at the same time.

“Clever?  Hardly a word I would use for your gods.  Transformational is a better description.  Did they not have a hand in producing snowstone?” countered Karakush.  “That is a substance that has never been seen before – by the Alka Alon or the Vundel.”

“I believe they may have been involved,” shrugged Rondal.

“That was fateful enough,” Karakush continued, with disturbing enthusiasm, “To manifest such power through the auspices of such basic creatures.  So I conducted some research on the subject and found it fascinating!”

“You . . . found religion?” Rondal asked, confused and surprised.

“Merely it’s fascinating mechanism of action,” Karakush dismissed.  “Salaperan, you see, is the octave which is theorized to be able to . . . well, without getting technical, it is the energy that permits pure thought to directly transform the universe.  The lower octaves require rather complex intermediary symbolic systems of thought and belief to have even the slightest effect on the universe . . . but salaperan, if it exists, transforms intent into action, regardless of the laws of nature.  But the theory was established that it could only be produced and managed by a vastly greater order of intellect than even my race.”

“Religion isn’t for everyone,” Rondal agreed.

“The only Alka Alon who managed to get close to that higher state were an ancient sect on our homeworld,” he related.  “The histories suggest that it took centuries of discipline for the Lifesingers to even approximate true salaperan through ritual and mental discipline.  Alas, their arts are long lost to us, after we came to Callidore.  The Magosphere here was so strong we no longer felt the need to cultivate such rarified talents.  But then I awaken to discover a new race who, it seems, can apparently manifest this power – collectively . . . and change the nature of the universe as a result . . . fascinating!”

“Most find indulging in religion less rewarding than that.  I’ve never been much of a temple-goer, myself, outside of the Mysteries of Duin,” admitted Rondal.

“Yes, the Destroyer – your war god,” Karakush nodded, intrigued.  “He has manifested repeatedly, from what I understand.  Oh, I thought it was all myth and folklore, of course, until I met an Alkan who happened to be present during a time when he manifested, once.  She confirmed the presence of salaperan, and its manifestation through the construct your primitive minds conjured.  Now you could say I’m a believer,” he said, with a chuckle.  “The snowstone, the bluestone, the mysterious Everfire in Sevendor, the Magolith – it all proves that salaperan is involved.

“So you like our religion and our gods,” Rondal said, suspiciously.  “Why does that concern me?”

“It is not precisely your gods I’m interested in, though they are fascinating enough.  It is in your race’s ability to project them into reality, and through them generate and control true salaperan that captivates me.  Sorcerers have been trying to do that through other means for tens of thousands of years, with little success.  It was eventually decided that either the energies were only unprovably theoretical, or that the Alka Alon had no native ability to work with them if they did exist.”

“Oh, the gods exist,” Rondal assured him.  “I’ve met some of them.  Divine magic is real.  But only the gods are able to use it, from what I understand.”

“My friend, neither of us understand a tithe of what there is to know about salaperan,” Karakush insisted.  “In that I am as ignorant as you.  But your race’s clever use of it is suggestive.  It bears further study.”

“You should talk to a priest,” Rondal suggested, uneasily.

“I have,” assured Karakush.  “Several.  They were unhelpful, mostly.  And they taste bitter, for some reason.  I would rather interrogate one of your gods.”

“You might not find that particularly helpful, either,” Rondal predicted.  “They’ve got a reputation for capriciousness.”

“What intrigued me the most, of late, was finding that one had manifested so near to me,” he said, his yellow eyes glowing a little more brightly.  “It brought the matter to my immediate attention.  As I was finished installing Mycin Amana and her cronies in Darkfaller—”

“I thought you were one of her cronies,” Rondal objected.

“My assistance in rescuing her and establishing her at Darkfaller was the repayment of an old debt,” he revealed, “not a formal or permanent alliance.  Oh, she will prove a useful ally in the short term, perhaps, but we pursue different ambitions.  Lucky for her so many of my comrades see the best way of shining in Korbal’s eye when he wakes will be to be in Mycin’s side when she conquered the humani kingdom.  I thought it was foolish of her to take such action, but she did not heed my advice after I rescued her and provided her a body.  That is her choice.  I see my debt to her well paid.”

“Yeah, thanks for that,” Rondal grunted sarcastically.  “That’s really the first time your side has really endangered the kingdom.  But we will drive her out of there, and likely kill her in the process.”

“I imagine you will,” he agreed, surprisingly.  “I warned her as much, but she did not listen.  She would rather die than be recaptured.  She told me as much.  Now she holds special vengeance for your people for the humiliation of her imprisonment and torture by the Tera Alon.  She is committed to their destruction.  But knowing your cunning and creative use of magic, I have no doubt that you’ll eventually drive her away.  It might take a few centuries, but . . .” he said, gesturing as if it was inevitable.

“We’ve developed means of hurting the Nemovorti,” Rondal promised.

“Like this one?” Karakush asked, taking a small bag from under his robe.  His long fingers turned it inside out to display a small white ball – a hen’s egg.  “A powder of pearl o’ nymph, as I’m told you wizards call them.  I took it from your friend over there.  My interest in your race is justified.  An innocuous seeming artifact with little practical use in magic – yet your folk turned it into a vile weapon.  Ingenious,” the Nemovort praised.  “The means of delivery is crude, but I cannot fault its method of action.”

“I’m more interested in its effects,” Rondal said.  “I have only seen it used once.  I was hoping to see it in action today.”  That made the Nemovort chuckle, but he obliged Rondal unexpectedly.

“That whiny witch Reshallath is still hurting from the blast she took in Inmar,” Karakush revealed.  “It has permanently scarred her host body and causes her constant pain, as well as diminishes her power.  She may not be able to transfer to a new body after that.  Detestable woman,” he said, shaking his bald head distastefully.  “Do us all a favor and slay her the next time.  She complains incessantly.”

“She’s on my list,” Rondal agreed.  “So, you’re intrigued by our gods, impressed with our thaumaturgical cleverness, and willing to speak to us mere animals,” Rondal ticked off on his fingers.  “While this is all fascinating, you said you had intelligence for me.  Useful intelligence.”

“I did and I do,” the Nemovort agreed.  “While my ambitions are my own, I have entered into the society of the Enshadowed, and Korbal’s service.  There is a hierarchy amongst his followers – what you would call his ‘court’ – and I have developed enemies and detractors among them.  Political enemies, you would say.  Right now, in Korbal’s absence, they are in turmoil, a mob willing to follow anyone who tries to champion his legacy.  Factions have broken out.”

“How terrible!” Rondal said in mock horror.

“They revolve around those of us who have the knowledge and experience to use Korbal’s technique for transferring consciousness between host bodies,” Karakush smiled.  “Mycin Amana is one.  I am another.  There are a half-dozen others who can manage the feat without Korbal.  Now that he has shown his weakness to humani magic, there are doubts among the Nemovorti of Korbal’s supremacy.  While he lies in torpor, we squabble amongst ourselves over the best course of action to take.  There are those among us I would like to see fall, yet do not wish to be perceived the author of that fall.  Like Mycin Amana,” he suggested.

“Korbal’s girlfriend?  I thought you just rescued her and installed her in Darkfaller?” Rondal asked.  “Why would you aid her if she’s your political opponent?”

“As I said, for the sake of fulfilling an old debt . . . and to witness her make a tragic mistake,” Karakush answered, with a gleam of anticipation in his yellow eyes.  “She underestimates you humani.  She fails to appreciate your nuance, just as she despises the gurvani and other lesser Alon.  It is her belief in her own inevitable superiority which gives her weakness an opportunity to display itself.

“Others have been equally stupid in their approach to the problems we face.  Alienating the gurvani, for instance, after we used them so thoroughly.  Throwing dragons around like they were infantry companies and getting them killed by you clever magi.  Bargaining with dark forces in the Deeps and in secret places of the world without understanding them.

“It is their ignorance, arrogance, and willful stupidity I despise,” he continued.  “I would see them eliminated from our counsels so that wiser, more intelligent heads can prevail.  If I can get you folk to do that for me, then why would I not?”

“Because we are working so hard to destroy you and your kind, perhaps?” Rondal offered.

“Oh, enemies can become allies, if you wait long enough,” he dismissed.  “Certainly, we are at war, right now.  But while you are clever, you do not have the commitment for the fight that we do, and will ultimately lose . . . probably to me, when I have taken command.  Or perhaps we will find a concord that both sides can appreciate.  I never expected your people and the gurvani to ever come to terms, but the Spellmonger and the Goblin King now have peace between them.  Perhaps that could happen with the Nemovorti, someday.”

“I find that very difficult to believe,” Rondal said, evenly.  “You drink human blood and wear human flesh.  And you set the gurvani upon us in the first place.”

“A temporary necessity,” the Nemovort said, gesturing to his ghastly host body, “until we can establish better bodies in which to reside,” he admitted, apologetically.  “I take no joy in it.  But it is expedient for our purpose.  By drinking blood, we can extend their use and therefore require fewer hosts.  And using the gurvani as our soldiery was an idea I never favored.  I am hopeful that both can be overcome.

“But until then, there is no reason why we cannot work together to remove some of those obstacles if it is in our mutual interest,” Karakush proposed.  “Mycin Amana, for instance.  Did you know that Korbal is not particularly happy with her, after she was captured by the Spellmonger?” the Nemovort asked.  “She may be his consort, but her failure was galling to him.  Her charms are not so persuasive that they will turn his head when he returns from torpor.  And if she has come back only to lose what position she has to mere humani wizards . . .” he suggested.

“I . . . see,” Rondal murmured.  “You intend to ensure that she does just that.”

“It would be advantageous to my position,” Karakush affirmed.  “Particularly if she was leveled by his greatest enemy – the upstart humani mage who condemned him to a slow death in a decrepit body,” he suggested, his yellow eyes narrowing.  “He is desperate to overcome the Spellmonger.  Mycin Amana seeks to elevate her place in Korbal’s eyes by taking a bold stand against him at Darkfaller.  She thinks she can redeem herself, after her capture and imprisonment, and she seeks to atone for that by luring Minalan into battle.  If her efforts should fall by his hand, it would be a harsh blow to her.”

“That is, I believe, our intention,” Rondal agreed.  “Indeed, we find it an imperative.”

“Then be willing to accept assistance when it is offered,” the Nemovort suggested, as he rose from his seat.  “I have already gifted the Spellmonger with helpful intelligence against Shakathet – an entirely distasteful idiot.  He used it to good effect and defeated his army brilliantly.  I watched that contest very carefully.

“Let that, and my mercy toward your men, prove my sincerity in this regard.  I could have slain them all the moment they crossed my threshold.”  He waved his iron rod, and the field holding the three warmagi dissipated, sending them crashing to the floor.  Rondal made certain that they were all still alive and moving before turning back to the Nemovort.

“I shall relay the message,” Rondal nodded, “although I caution you that Master Minalan is going to be highly suspicious of the one who sent assassins after him and his closest aides.  It tends to undermine any potential for trust,” he pointed out.

“If Minalan survived Gindomel, then he is more resilient and clever than I suspected,” nodded the Nemovort.  “But that changes things.  If I cannot use his Magolith to restore Korbal, then I must contrive a new plan to capitalize on his inevitable death.  I shall retreat, now, and study the matter further.  But I pledge not to send more assassins against him as long as he contends with Mycin Amana and her faction.  Afterwards . . . well, I shall reassess our relative positions,” he admitted.

“How do you propose to send Minalan such clandestine intelligence?” Rondal asked, curiously.

“I shall send an agent with whom the Spellmonger is familiar with more details,” Karakush pledged.  “The man whose life I spared when he successfully completed his mission.  He shall know the one I mean.  His very survival should prove that I keep my word.  But I urge him to consider the matter,” he suggested.  “Korbal will awaken, soon, and while he will not be at his full strength, he has prepared plots and contingencies that will be ruthlessly efficient, with his trusted consort at his side.  Eliminating Mycin Amana from power is in both of our interests.

“Are you ready?” he asked the gurvan and the Enshadowed aides.  They both nodded. And took positions behind their master.

“Farewell, Sir Rondal, and good luck to you.  Regardless of how this war plays out, I have a feeling you will rise high in the esteem of your fellows.  You have a keen mind and an even temperament,” he praised, as he began sketching a circle around the three of them with his iron rod.  “Those are qualities I can well appreciate, no matter what your race or politics.”

“It’s good to be appreciated,” Rondal agreed, as the three of them winked out of existence through the Ways, or perhaps some other sorcerous mode of transport.

When they were gone, he turned to see Noutha pulling herself to her feet, and then assisting her fellows to stand.

“I really hate him!” she said, staring at the chair the Nemovort had just left.  “He just sat there and watched me squirm the entire time he held me.”

“How did he capture you so quickly?” Rondal asked.

“Bloody necromancy,” snorted Noutha.  “I was prepared for sorcery, and I knew what the Enshadowed warriors could do.  But necromancy is . . . tricky,” she admitted.  “It is not something I have studied.  Next time, I shall be more prepared.”

“You did well enough,” Rondal assured her, patting her armored shoulder.  “And your team was entirely successful clearing the manor of draugen and undead.  It appears that Karakush was preparing for something like this, so that he could establish contact with Minalan.”

“You actually trust that thing?” Noutha asked, skeptically.  “I worked with the Enshadowed for years, and I wouldn’t trust them when they were alive.  Being undead does little for their personality.”

“Oh, I’m wary,” agreed Rondal.  “In truth, that was one of the creepiest conversations I’ve ever had.  But Master Min may find it useful to have a means of knowing what is going on inside Korbal’s camp.  And if it helps us drive Mycin Amana from Darkfaller, it could well be worth it.”

“Until Karakush comes for us all, after we’ve eliminated his competition,” she pointed out, grimly.

“That’s for Minalan to decide,” Rondal considered.  “Perhaps he has a different perspective on the matter.  My mission was to drive out the Nemovorti from the Westlands, and I believe we were successful in that.  Bide,” he added, as he started to get the impression of a mind-to-mind contact and closed his eyes.

He was expecting it to be Tamonial or one of the other team captains to report on their success or failure . . . but was surprised when a more familiar mental voice sounded in his head.

Ron!  Are you awake? it asked.

Tyndal! Ron said, taken off guard.  What are you—?

We’re back, his friend answered.  We made it to Callierd last night.  I just heard that Master Min is healing, thank Briga’s biscuits.

Yes, I’ve spoken to him recently.  He’s fully awake and lucid. He looked pretty bad when he got here, but Lilastien expects him to make a full recovery, Rondal agreed.  I heard he’s been moved to Spellgarden.

Just wait until you hear about our expedition, Tyndal told him, excitedly.  You will not believe what we found in Anghysbel.  It’s . . . well, I’m sure it will perk up your boring summer.

My . . . boring summer? Rondal asked, suppressing a mental snort.

Well, everyone knows nothing interesting happens when Minalan and I aren’t around, he boasted.  Oh . . . and I . . . I met a girl.

Chapter Thirty-One

A Renewed Sense of Purpose

Cold kale broth yet again, and I liked it never; old love renewed again that I liked ever.

Wilderlands Folk Saying

“Ah, I never tire of walking through this town.  This place is even more remarkable than my visions suggested,” Antimei said, admiringly, as she walked with Alurra and Pentandra through the Magi’s Market, in the deepest recesses of the mighty overhanging rock that protected Vanador Town from above.  Pentandra particularly appreciated the great slab of stone, at the moment, as it was raining fiercely beyond its bounds.  But there were still occasional drips and droplets the wind blew into the otherwise protected area.

She noted the market was fairly busy for a nonmarket day, as there were enough magi and local artisans about who needed supplies and groceries.  Enough to keep the shops and stalls busy even in the middle of the week, like the market squares of larger cities like Castabriel or Falas. She found it gratifying, considering how new Vanador was.

“When I first saw the city spread out from under this rock, I couldn’t believe it – literally,” Antimei continued, shaking her head at the sight of the busy square.  “I thought I was going mad.”

“Considering all of this was built in the last three years, I can understand why,” Pentandra agreed.

“I always considered this a pretty depressing place, growing up,” Alurra offered.  “It’s shady and damp, and there was moss and frogs everywhere.  Frogs don’t have very much to say, as noisy as they are.  It’s much nicer now.”

“There are still moss and frogs,” Pentandra nodded toward the shallow pond in the Enchanter’s Quarter, visible from the market.  “But now there are merchants, too.  And more coming every month.  A sign of progress.”

“Oh, it will get bigger,” assured Antimei with a smile.  “The entire city will get bigger.  It’s just beginning.  Once Viscountess Carmella completes the tunnel to the top of the Overhang through the rock, the entire top of the cliff will be filled with magnificent buildings and towers.  The town will sprawl out in every direction,” she predicted.  “Thousands of people will come here, humani and Alon alike.  Perhaps even stranger folk,” she said with a mischievous smile.

“It all sounds like a lot of work,” Alurra said, doubtfully.  “Soon this place will be like Falas.”  She didn’t sound happy about the idea.

“Soon you’ll be back in Falas,” Pentandra reminded her, causing her to make a face.  “Have you started packing, yet?”

“Ugh, I hate packing,” Alurra groaned, shaking her head.  “I don’t want to go back to Falas.  I’m having too much of a good time here,” she said, the smallest hint of a whine in her voice.  “The animals are better, the food is better, the weather is better—”

“And the winters are harsher,” Antimei countered.  “Don’t forget that.  You hate the cold, Alurra.  Even with all of these folk near and this magnificent market near the croft, there’s still the cold to contend with.”

“Yes, but Falas smells worse,” Alurra countered, sullenly.

Pentandra smiled and chuckled to herself.  She took some pleasure in the bickering between Alurra and Antimei, who acted more as mother and daughter than former-apprentice and master hedgewitch.  She did not let it concern her.  It was a small but welcome relief to the great matters that had been weighing on her for months.

She had looked forward to Minalan returning from his expedition and assuming his role as a lightning rod for the magi – the one attracting all of the attention.  And she had been gratified that Minalan had done just that, when he finally met with King Rard the previous evening.  She did, indeed, feel a sense of relief born from the rough agreement they had negotiated in her presence.  Minalan had presented a fairly reasonable proposal, and Rard had elected to discuss it with his belligerent son.  There would be a summons to the Royal Court in her future, she knew, to hear Rard’s pronouncement, but she was confident that the king would pressure Prince Tavard to accept it.  It was just a matter of when.

But that had not – quite – provided the reprieve from worry she had hoped.  While Minalan had made agile and compelling arguments for his participation, she could not shake the feeling that there was something wrong with her friend.  He was still Minalan – he ogled pretty girls and bragged about himself just like he always did.

But there were subtle hints that something was amiss that she had detected.  Things only a friend of long and intimate acquaintance might recognize.  A peculiar look, an expression of confusion, a chuckle at the wrong moment – Pentandra had witnessed dozens of such incongruities in how Minalan behaved at the party.  That disturbed her.  Clearly, more had occurred in his expedition than he’d let on.  There was something amiss with the Spellmonger, and while that frightened her, it also steeled her resolve to conceal it.

Alya knew about it, Pentandra discovered.  She’d cornered the Countess of the Magelaw at Lady Lanara’s party and asked her as much.  As defiantly supportive of her husband as Alya was, Pentandra had also made note that she did not contradict her when Pentandra pointed out a few new idiosyncrasies in Minalan’s behavior . . . and a few old ones that were missing.

Of course, Alya herself had come back from Anghysbel transformed, and that might color her perspective.  On the one hand, she seemed far more cogent and perceptive than she had when she departed.  A lot more like the old Alya Pentandra had gotten to know.

But she also seemed to have a particular fetish for tekka, an interest she’d never displayed before..  Indeed, Pentandra noticed that Minalan’s wife regularly wore some of her collection wherever she went, now.  Pentandra had no idea what the ancient devices did or how they worked or even if they worked – a lot of tekka pieces did not –  but the Countess of the Magelaw had developed the noble affectation of glorifying the Ancients and humanity’s storied, long-lost past through such displays.

It might be just a blatant attempt at currying favor with the nobility through an ostentatious display of wealth and style, Pentandra reasoned.  But Alya had never seemed concerned about such symbols of status since she’d been ennobled.  Tekka was the province of the wealthy and powerful, like jewelry or silk or fine horses and hounds.  Pentandra had a difficult time understanding why she was so devoted to the subject now.

But that did not explain the changes in Minalan.  She’d scoured the account of the expedition looking for some reason for the change.  The notes in the journal she’d read were obscure, in places, and she noted a few leaves of it were missing.  There were parts of it that seemed intentionally vague, especially those written by Minalan, himself.  Clearly the Spellmonger was hiding something, something dark.  Despite the incredible discoveries he’d made in Anghysbel, Pentandra was convinced that there was more to the story than had been recorded in that book.  That disturbed her deeply.

Perhaps she could tease the details out of the rest of the expedition, she hoped, though it might take a while to get his undivided attention for such an interview.  Tyndal had led the small party of triumphant explorers back to Vanador this very morning, spawning an impromptu parade through the central thoroughfare of the town that drew admirers and the merely curious to see and cheer on the returning adventurers.

Pentandra had been surprised at just how many – particularly young maidens – had thronged the High Street as he rode a strongly-built charger at the head of his column.  Viscount Tyndal was well known in the city for his stalwart defense of the realm and his long acquaintance with Minalan.  Being young, handsome, and charismatic did not hurt.

He’d led three wagons full of samples and trophies from the near-mythical lost land in the north, and his brave men had excited the populace as he passed through the town.  More, Lady Ithalia and Nattia the Sky Captain had returned with him, and they made a great show of flying their giant birds under the Overhang, fluttering around the great rock above like butterflies under a sheltering bough.

Everyone in Vanador was talking about their return, now.  All the folk of the city seemed to revel in the achievement – the mighty Spellmonger had journeyed to a land without magic and not only managed to survive, but he had also returned in a glorious fashion.  Even Ormar the Alchemist had been lauded by the crowd, she recalled.  Short, hairy, and cynical, the mage had seemed to enjoy a bit of adulation.  Especially when Tyndal ended the parade at a popular inn and insisted on buying drinks for all comers to celebrate their safe return.  Pentandra only grieved the loss of Gareth to the Lost Land.  It meant far more parchment for her to sort through, until she found a suitable replacement for his capable administration.

The arrival of the rest of the expedition heralded the much-anticipated meeting of the Thaumaturgical Institute, where Minalan and the other explorers would relate to the members the discoveries they had made in the mysterious land later that day.  Indeed, that was where she was traveling to, after a breakfast of biscuits and tea at Antimei’s croft.

Having read the expedition journal, Pentandra had a good idea of what most of the presentation would reveal.  What she didn’t know was how the assembled academics and thaumaturges would react to it.  Only the discussion of the egg of the Celestial Mother would be forbidden, by Minalan’s order – and with good reason.  That secret discovery would be presented to a much smaller group of magi whom Minalan trusted with such world-shattering news.

Nor would the Alka Alon be present.  Lilastien was still at Henga, where Ithalia was flying for a visit before she returned to her mewstower in the Kulines.  That, too, was by design.  While they both were aware of the egg and its implications, they had promised to keep the knowledge to themselves until the upcoming meeting of the Beryen Council . . . where Minalan would be revealing its existence.  This report was a humani-only affair by design.

The new hall of the Arcane Orders was already filling up with interested magi when they arrived, the double doors flung open for the occasion.  The steps in front of the hall were filled with men and women wearing the distinctive conic hats of the profession – not something Pentandra typically affected, but it seemed like most of Vanador’s magic community had elected to display pride in their profession by wearing them to this important seminar.

She picked out many of the town’s prominent wizards by sight: Master Thinradel and Master Theronial were milling around with the heads of the Towers to one side of the entrance, along with some mundane scholars who’d been invited due to their interests and specialties.  That included Lawbrother Bryte the Wiser, Minalan’s Luinite chancellor, and Jannik the Rysh, some sort of Wilderlands minstrel Minalan had hired while she was in the south.

To the other side congregated most of the thaumaturgically-focused warmagi.  Taren and Ormar the Alchemist were at the center of that group, but Tyndal, Rondal, Carmella, Rustallo, Heeth, and others were gathered there as well.  In between the two groups there was a smattering of lesser enchanters, field wizards, medical magi, and arcane academics who seemed to be trying to figure out which side was more interesting.  Unsurprisingly, more High Magi were arriving all the time, either on foot or through the Ways.  And some had brought guests along with them.

“This certainly is an awful lot of magi,” Antimei said, shaking her head in wonder as she looked around the crowd.  “I suppose that’s proper for the City of Wizards.”

“If this continues, we’re going to need a larger hall,” Pentandra agreed.

“Oh, you’ll get one,” Antimei assured her.  “I’ve seen it.”

Before Pentandra could make a pithy response, an older wizard with a simple brimmed hat approached them.  It took a few moments to recognize him – Fondaras the Wise.

“Excuse me, ladies, but I was informed that I could find my replacement over here,” he said, politely, after clearing his throat and giving a short bow.

“Your . . . replacement?” Pentandra asked, confused.  Then she realized what he was talking about.  “Oh!  You mean of the field wizards!  Yes, yes, she is: may I introduce Antimei, known as the greatest hedgewitch in the north.”  That caused the old woman to blush a bit.

“Antimei!  Old Antimei?” Fondaras asked.  “I believe we’ve met once or twice over the years,” he said, as he bowed to the witch.

“Fondaras the Wise,” Antimei nodded.  “Yes, yes, I’ve been directing your fellows for the last few weeks while you’ve been off in the wilderness.  And yes, we have met a few times,” she admitted.  “You’ve always been very respectful.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Fondaras asked, arching an exceedingly bushy eyebrow.  “We low magi must be civil to each other if we’re to get anything done.  I’m curious to see how the field work has been going in my absence,” he told her.  “Some of my lads are a bit . . . difficult to work with.”

“I did not find them so,” Antimei assured him.  “Indeed, they took to me quite warmly, and spoke very highly of you.”  She glanced at Pentandra.  “Would you be interested in hearing about it, Master?  I have a feeling this lecture is going to bore me, and I think I’d prefer to hear a more direct and personal account.  Would you be up for a drink and a quiet talk somewhere?” she asked the footwizard.

“I would indeed,” Fondaras nodded.  “In truth, I was not supposed to return from Anghysbel, but I had an important errand.  I know what is to be said, already.  And it seems that with all the wizards in town crammed into that hall, that the Scrying Glass is likely to be empty and quiet for a few hours.  A glass of ale?  Wine, perhaps?” he proposed.

“I’d be delighted,” Antimei agreed, offering the old man her arm which he took immediately.  “I will see you two later,” she promised.  “I think we have news to exchange that is better suited to a quiet tavern than a crowded lecture hall.”  With that the two wandered back down the street.

“That’s . . . interesting,” Pentandra murmured.

Alurra shrugged.  “They like each other.  Why is that interesting?”

Before she could answer Pentandra was interrupted again by a familiar voice.

“Penny!” her cousin Planus called loudly from behind her.  “I was hoping you’d be attending this event!  It was short notice, but as soon as word came that Minalan was back and going to be speaking about his journey I dropped everything and came to Vanador.  I figured you would be tied up with court duties in Vorone,” he said, as he embraced her warmly.

“This is my barony, I thought it important to be here, as well,” Pentandra answered.  Planus looked good, she decided – he was dressed in richly embroidered Remeran-style robes complete with skull cap, and his face was beaming.  “I’m glad that you’re here, too.  Minalan asked me to give the opening address and wanted as many High Magi as possible to hear him.”

Suddenly, a troubled expression washed across Planus’ face.

“I heard he was wounded on the expedition,” her cousin murmured.  “How is he?  Really?” he asked, his tone serious.  “I’ve heard rumors . . .”

Pentandra sighed.  She didn’t feel right discussing her misgivings about the Spellmonger just yet, especially not in public.  She kept her answer short.  “He’s healing,” she admitted, “but he’s not fully healed yet.  He faced some . . . challenges on the road.  There are things he cannot speak even to me about.  Other things he’s told me I cannot speak even to you about.  But he made enough important discoveries to fill a library.  He can’t wait to share them, which is why he called this meeting as soon as he was able.  This is going to be a very important lecture,” she promised.

And it was.

She had underestimated just how enthusiastic her professional colleagues would be to the reappearance of the Spellmonger.  After all, Minalan knew most of these people personally, and they were largely aware of his peculiarities.  Some, like Master Theronial, simply seemed relieved that their patron had not died on his dangerous journey.  Others seemed pleased that the highest-ranking mage in the world had returned to lead this prosperous new land out of a dark time.  A few even seemed genuinely interested in the news he brought back.

But when she mounted the dais and approached the podium inside, she was just as startled at the great round of applause that they gave for her.  She hadn’t done anything, after all, and while her title as both Baroness and Court Wizard demanded respect, she was taken aback at the enthusiasm shown for her.  Despite herself, it made her blush.

She smiled back and waited until the applause died away and everyone took their seats.  The hall had been built for such occasions, and when she had first seen it, the chamber had seemed optimistically large.  Now it seemed cramped as magi filled chairs from one wall to the other.  Some were reduced to standing at the back.

“My friends and colleagues,” she began, the enchantment on the podium automatically ensuring that her words could be heard by everyone in the room, “too long have I been away from Vanador, as I attend to my duties in the south.  It is good to be back in the Wilderlands, and I count myself impressed by the progress made here in my absence.

“Thankfully, you have been well taken care of by our good Count Minalan.  Vanador has witnessed three wars in less than a year and has been victorious in each.  We have seen the town grow from a few rough cottages to a thriving city.  Fine institutions such as the thaumaturgical college and the bouleuterion have sprung up and thrived beyond all expectations.  Thanks to our combined efforts, we have constructed not just a place that is safe and defensible against the threats we face, but one that encourages the practice and growth of our art in so many important ways.

“But the institutions we’ve built and the fellowships we’ve forged here in Vanador are but the foundations to loftier goals and a more profound destiny.  Here, like no place else on Callidore, the magi have established the means of both looking back to our storied ancestors and ahead to the future of our realm.  We have surpassed the Magocracy of old in enchantment, already; now we seek to improve our grasp of thaumaturgy – not for mere academic amusement, but as a vital development toward sustaining, improving, and protecting our people and our world.

“To that end, our beloved Count Minalan has ventured to the unlikeliest place for a wizard to travel: the Jevolar of Anghysbel, in the far northeast.  A place where magic does not work, and where the very gods have no power.  It has always been a near-legendary place, but Minalan sought to explore it with a gallant band of adventurous associates.  From the lost land with no magic he sought to find secrets to our craft that might be hidden here.  I recognize him now to come forward and report on his journeys.”

Another burst of applause rose from the crowd as she took her seat on the dais next to Alya and Minalan took the podium.  This time the applause was thunderous, and it seemed to shake the building.

Minalan did not disappoint, she noted, pleased.  Despite his injury and his difficult journey, he managed to smile and speak with great animation once the crowd quieted down.

For three hours he spoke with scant pause, as if he was in a hurry to deliver his words before they spoiled.  In that time he methodically covered most of what she’d read about in the expedition journal: the difficult crossing of the wastes, the various peoples of Anghysbel, the tortured lands around the smoldering volcano, the wonders of the Cave of the Ancients and the promise that it held.

He told the tale of the Kilnusk (omitting the politics of the Alon that had exiled them there, for obvious reasons) and the surprising and robust presence of the Tal Alon.  He spoke of the quaint little settlements of humans there: the Kasari, and the folk of the Anferny domain.  And then he started to expound on the exotic nature of that unmagical but deeply enchanting place.

The crowd gasped at the tale of the dragon, and the revelation that they were creatures of intelligence.  They listened with rapt attention as he described the strange race of plant-men known as the Leshi.  He hinted at darker denizens of the exotic country without delivering more than a few tantalizing glimpses of them: the lizard folk, the giant beasts known as the stora, the bizarre biberon that lived in the lakes of the place, and the truly awful-sounding kurja – giant maggots that were sure to infuse everyone’s nightmares after his vivid description of them.

But then he came to the opening of the hidden arsenal of the Alka Alon, and some of the artefacts recovered from there.  Some, but not all, she noted with interest.  He did not speak of the weaponry he’d brought back, nor the darker secrets from the ancient vault.  That is when he revealed, triumphantly, the long, smooth rod of brownish glass that had been – for the thaumaturgic community – the main point of the expedition.

“This, my friends, is striekema, the brainstem of a mature Lesh that has, alas, been slain prematurely by the forces of nature,” he said, reverently as he displayed it in both hands.  “It is a substance more rare than irionite or snowstone, but no less unique.  Fused by an unfortunate lightning strike, this wonderous material is the only known substance on Callidore that can detect and determine the nature of arcane energy in all of its forms – including divine magic,” he said, producing gasps and murmurs from the crowd.

“Nor did I simply acquire the material – I acquired the knowledge to use it,” he said, his voice soft.  “Indeed, I now know how to make irionite.  And snowstone.  And a great number of other important and powerful enchantments that we will need in the coming days,” he promised.  “We are about to see our profession elevated beyond the heights reached by the Magocracies of old.  We are about to wield the forces of nature and magic in ways the Archmagi could not have dreamt of.   With the revelations from the Cave of the Ancients we will rediscover the lost lore that was the foundation of our ancestor’s greatest works.

“But all of that relies not just on my shoulders, but on yours,” he said, reverently laying the striekema back into its casing.  “I cannot do it alone.  There are lifetimes of research involved, far more than one mage – however gifted, powerful, and handsome – can possibly accomplish.  I will need help,” he said, a note of pleading in his voice.  “I cannot do it alone.

“We must come together and act with a unified vision, if we are to succeed.  All magi – high, low, and in between – must unite our actions to purpose.  We must train a new generation of magi and instill in them all of the knowledge and wisdom we’ve acquired, and train them to improve upon our efforts into the future.  I may have provided the spark,” he concluded, “but it is up to you all to help me fan it into a roaring flame of knowledge – knowledge that will defend and improve our wonderful world!”

Pentandra was as impressed at his delivery as she was by the response he got when he finished his address.  Despite his weakened condition, Minalan seemed to speak more easily and with greater sophistication than he’d had before, she noted.  It was as if there was some deeper current to his words that everyone could sense but couldn’t identify.  He seemed to evoke a passionate interest in everyone in the chamber, and his persuasive speech had not just informed the magi, it gave them an enthusiasm for his plans that she had not anticipated.

To her surprise, she found herself subject to that enthusiasm as well.

It wasn’t that she lacked dedication to all they had worked for.  She was always committed to the kingdom, to the profession, and to the goal of magic in the service of humanity.  But her long service, first for the Arcane Orders and then to the duchy of Alshar, had blunted her enthusiasm with the tedium of bureaucracy and the endless politics of court life.

Minalan’s speech seemed to change her perspective on that – just enough.  She found herself far more enthusiastic about the future, afterword.  Her worries about the civil war and even the threat of the Nemovorti seemed to fade in importance to the grand mission he had proposed, though he had failed to specify the details.  Somehow, Minalan had managed to evoke a renewed sense of purpose in her, and she wasn’t alone.

The mood in the chamber was excited, nearly jubilant, as if these diverse wizards had realized that whatever their specialty or field of interest, they now had a common purpose.  They had a leader who could bring them to new heights of learning and power.  Minalan was a man who had gone into the unknown and returned with a trove of knowledge that could transform . . . everything.  That inspired nearly everyone in the room, including herself.

As the various wizards buzzed around her, after the lecture, Pentandra reflected on her career – not as Court Wizard or chief bureaucrat, but as a mage.  Once, learning magic and all the things it could be used for had been her greatest passion.  Discovering that sex and magic could be used together had inspired even greater excitement in her youth, excitement bordering on obsession.

But lately?  She had not indulged in anything but ordinary enchantments, common spells for conventional purposes.  She was jaded about her profession, she realized.  No, not her profession – her vocation.  Magic was once the most important thing in her life.  Now it was something that she accepted, used, and rarely thought about beyond administration.  The last significant work she had done involved developing the mind-to-mind communication spell.  And that had been years ago.

Minalan’s speech changed that for her.  Like everyone else in the chamber, her heart had been captured by his own passion, excitement, and optimism.  She felt a fresh surge of the enthusiasm she’d felt when she had first come to Alar Academy and began learning the thaumaturgical theories that powered her spells.  There seemed to be so much promise and potential in her work, back then.  After years of study and practice, even with her unusual specialty, Pentandra realized that she had lost something over time.  She had lost the sense of wonder she’d once possessed.  Minalan’s words had rekindled it in her.

She realized that she’d barely had time to truly practice magic the last few years.  Sex magic?  She barely had time for plain, ordinary married-people sex, she’d been so busy with her duties.

She watched a knot of wizards eagerly surrounding Minalan, each of them asking questions about his discoveries.  While he nearly looked panicked by the press of inquiry at some moments, he managed to fire off answers as if they came from a warwand.

Planus had wisely decided against joining the intellectual fray, and instead sat down next to Pentandra on the deserted dais.

“Is it true?” he asked, his voice low.  “Can he really make irionite?  And snowstone?” he asked, his voice torn between wonder and skepticism.

“He says he can,” she nodded.  “He’s confident that he can.  Have you ever known him to be wrong about such a thing?”

“It’s just hard to believe that he went on holiday and came back with the secrets of the universe in his pocket,” Planus said, shrugging.  “He’s good . . . but I didn’t think he was that good.”

“He didn’t either,” Pentandra sighed.  “He knew there was a great chance of failure going on this adventure.  Even death,” she said, her voice hoarse.  “But he went.  He found what he was looking for.  And he came back to show it to us.”

“Well, perhaps he is that good,” Planus conceded.  “I hope so, for all of our sake.  The kingdom is a mess, with this civil war and now this Nemovort in Castal’s greatest fortress.  If he can fix that and make irionite?”

“Those aren’t even the greatest threats we’re facing,” agreed Pentandra.  “Believe me, Minalan is keeping the worst of it from public knowledge.  He has to contend with the Alka Alon soon.  That’s an entirely different sort of mess, but he’s going to handle it,” she promised.  “Really, he’s the only one who can.”

Planus considered.  “On another topic, I thought you might want to hear something I heard the other day,” he said, casually.  “It is whispered that the duke of Remere is considering leaving the kingdom, if King Rard does not send help against the Merwyni incursions.”

“What?” Pentandra asked, surprised.

“It’s just a whisper,” he consoled, “rumors get started all the time.  But I thought you should know.  That’s not the only news I heard, either.  Master Gorthus is going to retire.”

That surprised Pentandra even more.  Gorthus was the old ducal court wizard for Remere.  His schemes to get the position in the first place, just after she was born, were legendary.  Getting a witchstone had been the culmination of his career as an adept.  But he was quite old, she considered.  And she knew exactly how hard being a ducal court wizard was.  She almost envied him his decision.

“When?  Why?” she asked, automatically.

“Soon – probably within the year,” Planus confided.  “Of course, the Game of Whispers started churning out proposals for his replacement the instant the news was learned.  A lot of names came up, apparently.  Mistress Letuandua.  Master Gurthruian . Your father.  Me, of all people.  And yours.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Negotiations and Resolutions

When faced with no better choice, make the best of a bad bargain.

Wilderlands Folk Saying

“Steady, Your Highness!” Rondal said, alarmed, as they emerged from the Ways.

“It’s not always easy, when you come through, Your Highness,” Tyndal agreed, sympathetically, catching the princess’ elbow before she stumbled.

“This is not my first time employing such an exotic means of travel, gentlemen,” Princess Almaranda said, as she bent over at the waist and seemed to suppress some desire to retch.  “I’ve been through the Ways before.”

“Of course,” Rondal said, concern heavy in his voice as the young woman fought to control herself.  “Take all the time you need to compose yourself, my lady,” he suggested, gently.

“I will . . . be fine, gentlemen,” the princess insisted stoically, finally straightening.  Her face was red with the stress of the transition, and there were little beads of sweat on her forehead.  “A moment is all I require,” she assured her escorts.  “A prisoner appreciates the indulgences of her captors.”

There was no doubt that Princess Almaranda was suspicious of the two magi who had come to collect her from her chambers at Wilderhall.  Indeed, she had treated each of them with distrust since they had appeared in the summer capital and cryptically informed her that she was summoned before the Crown.  She had kissed her daughter and baby son goodbye as if she would never see them again, and then insisted on having her maids dress her in a severe black and gold gown.  It was, Rondal noted, as if she expected to be led to the executioner.

But that was not the case.  Master Minalan had directed Rondal to retrieve the princess for a special meeting with Rard and Grendine, among others.  Knowing that he had influence over the mercenaries occupying the town – as their secret employer – the Spellmonger had requested her delivery as a sign of good faith.  The princess, however, had little faith in the magi when they came.

She had questioned the pair interminably while she dressed behind a screen, attended by two of her maids.  They had demurred over most of her inquiries – there were matters of state security involved, and they had been ordered to be circumspect in their responses.  That did not help diminish her skepticism in the slightest after they were transported to Vanador.

“Your Highness, you are a prisoner no more,” Rondal pledged, sincerely.  “Your release and that of your children has been secured.  We are to meet with the King and Queen, as well as your lord husband, this very evening.”

“That is just what cynical assassins would say before they plied their daggers,” the Remeran girl said, her eyes narrowing into slits.  That was ironic, considering her mother-in-law was far more likely to employ a hidden dagger to affect policy than any of the magi.

Rondal had learned the disturbing truth of that in detail when he’d quietly escorted Duchess Rardine and two of her ladies-in-waiting from the Garden Society through the secret vaults of Lady Arnet in Wilderhall the day before.  There she had explored records of assassinations furthering the Castali duchess’ ambitions that went back decades.  Rardine and her aides had made quick copies of some of them before returning them to the vaults, but the sheer size of the folios of secret records had troubled Rondal.  The queen had blood on her hands since she’d married Rard, rivers of it.  Even Rardine had been disgusted to learn of some of the plots concealed in those parchments.

“My lady, Sir Rondal and I were among the first to be made knights arcane by the king, himself,” assured Tyndal with that smooth, seductive voice that worked so well on women.  “We would never imperil that legacy with such a base attack on such a noble and beautiful person as yourself.”

“You are safe, Your Highness,” Rondal promised.  “Though you were never in any real danger at Wilderhall.  Tell me, were you mistreated by the mercenaries?” he asked, earnestly.  “Tell me that you were, and I vow there will be consequences.”

“Sir Rondal and I are devoted to our honor, and would brook no threat to our future sovereign,” Tyndal declared.  “Their Majesties await you in the hall of the Arcane Orders.  As does Prince Tavard, who has been nearly mad with worry about your health, and that of his heirs.  But if you wish to flee now, in any direction, you are at liberty to do so at your discretion without fear of pursuit.  Our mission was to escort you to safety, not see you consigned to chains or subject to hidden daggers,” he said, scowling at the thought.

Rondal was gratified that Tyndal had agreed to accompany him on this errand.  It reminded him fondly of days past when he and Sir Haystack had bantered easily through all manner of trials.  He fell easily into the old patterns they had developed in Sevendor and beyond, and began to appreciate them in a new way.

Working with Gatina was a challenge, as he weighed each word against the happiness of their mutual future.  With Tyndal, it didn’t matter what he said.  He knew their friendship would endure regardless of what was said.  He found that gave him the freedom of candor in an otherwise tense situation.

“I will take you gentlemen at your word, for in truth I have little other choice,” sighed the princess, finally.  “You may well be escorting me to my death.  If nothing else, I appreciate the sincerity you display.  Wizards are known for their duplicity, but you, at least, are polite about it.  I have recovered,” she declared.  “You may proceed to the place of execution.”

“I was thinking a cup of wine or two would be in order, before such a dire fate.  Something Remeran to honor your homeland?” Tyndal asked, lightly.  “Or would you prefer a noble Cormeeran vintage?  Of course, there’s always Bikavar, but I would suspect Your Highness has a more developed palate than that.”

“I’ve always been partial to Bikavar,” Rondal argued.  “It’s ill-suited to an execution, but as a precursor to a redemption it works admirably.”

Princess Almaranda looked from Tyndal to Rondal and back again, unsure if they were being serious.  “I’ve had nothing but local vintages in Wilderhall, of late,” she said, sourly.  “Bitter wines that are barely drinkable.  Pray give me better fare if you intend to slay me.”

Rondal chuckled, and began a mental spell as he twisted the iron ring that he’d named the Ring of Rations.  “I would offer Your Highness no less than the best vintage I have: a fine Cormeeran, more than fifty years old,” he promised, conjuring the bottle from the hoxter pocket.  He caught it expertly, and then summoned three silver cups from a separate pocket.  “Please appreciate that I would not consider wasting such a vintage on someone I was ordered to kill.  It would be a waste.”

“I find your reasoning . . . troubling, but sound,” Almaranda said, making a face . . . but taking the glass when Rondal poured it.  She sipped hesitantly, at first, but then sighed and nearly drained the glass in one draught.

A few moments later, much fortified, they proceeded to the chamber where, to Almaranda’s evident surprise, her husband was indeed awaiting her.  She rushed to Prince Tavard’s arms gratefully, and Rondal spent a few moments feeling uncomfortable and guilty at being the author of their separation.  It was easy to strategize to take hostages; it was much harder staring them in the face with the knowledge that you held their life in your hands.

“A token of my goodwill, Highness,” Minalan said, as he entered the chamber with the rest of her family.  The King and Queen appeared behind him and smiled at the reunion.  And behind them came Anguin and Rardine, who did not look displeased at it.  They might have been rivals, but Rondal knew Anguin had no real antipathy for his cousin or his Remeran bride.

“Thank you,” Prince Tavard said, hoarsely, to Rondal and Tyndal when he broke the embrace.

“Where are we?” Almaranda asked, suddenly, looking around the chamber.

“The chapterhouse of the Arcane Orders, in Vanador, Highness, in the Magelaw,” Pentandra answered as she, too, entered the room.  “The City of Wizards.  My city,” she emphasized.  “Duke Anguin invited Their Majesties on a tour, and Count Minalan thought it an excellent opportunity to resolve the question of this war, among other matters.  If you will follow me, I have a council chamber prepared for the occasion,” she said, gently.

“The release of the princess and her children was arranged so that the negotiations could proceed without fear of your life hampering Prince Tavard’s good judgement,” Pentandra continued, as they settled down around a table.  Rondal automatically fetched more glasses and enough wine for them all, pulling them out of the air as the negotiations began.  “The Magelaw wishes to see this matter settled, in light of the new threat from Darkfaller.  It threatens both of our realms.”

“It was a foolish war to begin with,” King Rard agreed, as he took his glass.  “Count Minalan has graciously offered to return the hostages and the city of Wilderhall to you, in exchange for a token ransom,” he informed his son, “and place the disposition of the territories Viscount Terleman has captured to my judgement,” he said, shooting the Spellmonger a grateful look.

“Yes, this war cannot be allowed to continue,” Queen Grendine said, surveying her children across the table.  “It was ill-considered and rash.  We cannot afford such a divisive conquest, right now.  It disrupts the kingdom.”

“It is my right to make war in the face of an insult to honor,” Tavard defended, sullenly.

“No one is disputing that, Your Highness,” Minalan said, smoothly.  “But war comes with a price.  Legally, Terleman is entitled to those lands outright – as vassals of Alshar.  That is the law.

“However,” he continued, glancing at Anguin and Rardine, “in light of the present emergency, and in appreciation of the esteem in which the Magelaw holds the Great Charter of Castalshar, we are willing to submit this matter for royal judgement and not waste time with the courts.”  Rondal joined Tyndal, standing against the wall where he could watch the diplomatic struggle.

“That is far more than you deserve, Tavard,” Rardine said, staring at her brother.  “Indeed, Alshar supports Terleman’s claim to the lands as his lawful due, by right of conquest.  While we support Minalan’s willingness to bargain for them, it is with some reservation.  It was sneaky, declaring war with such scant grounds . . . and then keeping the fact a secret.  You deserve to lose it all, Wilderhall included,” she said, accusingly.

“However,” Duke Anguin said, laying his hand on Rardine’s as if to restrain her, “as Her Majesty said, now is not the time for such feuds.  We have been battling Nemovorti for years in Alshar.  Now you have one on your doorstep.”

“More than one,” Minalan pointed out.  “According to our intelligence there are at least seven or eight of the undead lords in Darkfaller, now, as well as Enshadowed and a host of lesser undead.  Their leader is Mycin Amana, consort of Korbal the Necromancer.”

“I met the . . . lady,” Tavard confirmed, grimly.  “She says she has designs on Castabriel.”

“She does,” Minalan continued, “and if she marched against the city now, she might be able to take it from you.  I do not think she will proceed that quickly, or be content with mere armies for her conquest,” he added, to soothe the startled look on Tavard’s face.  “Especially not with an army in the field ready to confront her that she has yet the strength to counter.  Terleman will not allow her to proceed unchallenged.  She will build her strength, I believe, and wait until she is certain of victory.”

“By rights, I should be leading that army,” the prince said, sullenly.

“By rights, you should have been defeated on the field by Terleman who has won more battles than you have jousts,” Rardine sniped.  “Be content that he has given you command of the cavalry.”

There was nothing content with the prince’s angry expression, Rondal saw, but Tavard merely nodded, resigned.  “What about Wilderhall?” he asked, concerned.

“It was apparently taken for strategic reasons by an enterprising magelord,” Minalan said, casually – and Rondal was entirely grateful that his former master did not so much as glance at him.  “It can be returned intact, for a token ransom and assurances of the safety of the mercenaries.  But only with the guarantee that there will be no further frivolous wars against the Magelaw.  And other concessions,” he added.

“What other concessions?” Prince Tavard asked, taken aback.

“You must restore the Great Charter,” Pentandra insisted.  “You must cooperate fully with the war against the Nemovorti.  And we desire that Kasar be made a dependency of the Magelaw.”

“You want to give away a fifth of the Castali Wilderlands to the filthy barbarians as a reward for conquering my capital?” scoffed the prince disdainfully.

“The Kasari were in those lands long before Castal laid claim to them,” Pentandra answered, evenly.  “It is their land.  And you may want to remember that I am married to one of those ‘filthy barbarians’,” she said, warningly.  Rondal was impressed with the baleful stare she gave the prince.  Pentandra’s stares were more powerful than some wizard’s spells, he decided.  “Kasar will be administered as an independent territory, just as the Kasari lands of Bransei are in the Alshari Wilderlands.  They deserve no less.  But as a part of this negotiation, Castal shall permit the Kasari to pass peacefully between the two lands without recourse to the fiction of pilgrimage.”

“You want me to—” Tavard began, heatedly, when Almaranda put her hand on his arm.

“My lord husband,” she said, quickly and quietly, her Remeran accent becoming more pronounced, “the Kasari have kept me imprisoned for weeks, now.  At no time was I poorly treated.  Nor did they ransack the palace like normal mercenaries.  Indeed, they were exceedingly polite and provided excellent security.  I urge you to accept this condition as a favor to me.”

That took the prince by surprise as much as Rondal.  He gave his wife a long, searching look and then finally nodded.

“Agreed,” Tavard said, hoarsely.  “My vassals in the Wilderlands will not be happy about it, but they will follow my orders.  What else?” he asked Minalan, his face drawn.

“Cleston, Walkurjik, Harton, and Benfradine shall be placed under Royal control, for the time being,” Minalan said, reasonably.  “Their disposition can be decided by the king at the conclusion of the Darkfaller crisis.  In return, you shall receive the full support and assistance to recover Darkfaller from Mycin Amana.  But not instantly.  Retaking Darkfaller will take time,” he pointed out.

“How much time?” Tavard asked, concerned.

“I will need months to train and prepare for such an assault.  This will be no ordinary siege.  Not only is Darkfaller an extremely well-built castle, it will be protected by the sorcery of the Enshadowed.”  There was a dark tone to his voice as he pronounced the word.  “The Draolani, as they were known in ancient times.

“They are diminished from the power they were, in antiquity.  But their skill at sorcery has only grown.  The Nemovorti are just a powerful expression of that sorcery.  It will take time and effort to counter that,” Minalan said, apologetically.  “I will have to construct weapons.  Our arcane arsenals are nearly empty, after two wars.  I will have to manage an army.  Terleman is sufficient to command the defensive force we have now, but we will have to prepare our forces meticulously to have any hope of success.  Six months, at a minimum.”

“You cannot do it more quickly?” Rard asked, alarmed.  “That takes us through winter, Spellmonger.”

“I am aware of the timetable, Majesty,” Minalan agreed.  “It cannot be helped.  I have brought back mighty weapons from the Alka Alon arsenal.  It will take time to train warmagi to use them.  It will take time for the bouleuterion to craft more munitions for this purpose.  And I need to make a few useful tools in preparation.

“Until I do, those conquered provinces shall be administered by the Royal Court until Their Majesties can make a judgement on their ownership.  However,” Minalan continued, a little more harshly, “the baronies of Losara and Tantonel shall be considered part of the Magelaw, and Alshar, forthwith.”

“What?” Grendine asked, in disbelief.  “You cannot claim those—”

“They are mine to claim, Aunt,” Anguin reminded her, sharply. “I was given them as reward for rescuing Rardine.”

“As a vassal of Castal!” Grendine objected.

“Which places them and me in a difficult position – as you no doubt intended,” Anguin continued, forcefully.  “They are on the frontier of Alshar already.  Consider the border moved.”

“I will need Losara as a staging area against Darkfaller, anyway,” Minalan dismissed, before Grendine could speak.  “Baron Astyral is a powerful warmage.  Baron Gydion is the duke’s bodyguard.  It only makes sense that they become vassals of Alshar.  Sadly, you will lose the tribute revenue from each, but I’m certain you will recover that elsewhere.  Or see it as the price for your aggression.”

“I lose Losara, I lose Tantonel, I lose Benfradine, Walkurjik, Harton and even Cleston,” fumed Tavard, sullenly.  “What do I gain from this negotiation?”

“Your wife, your children, your capital . . . and a significant lessening of the ransom you would have had to pay for your captured knights,” Pentandra said, irritated.  “Not to mention an opportunity for cultivating wisdom.  Waging frivolous wars is vanity when there are real wars to be fought,” she instructed, “and you should never, ever see attacking the magi as a convenient or easy way to impress your mundane vassals.  Nor should you try to import foreign warmagi to use against us,” she added.

“Ah, yes, the so-called Red Censorate,” Grendine said, her eyes narrowing as she glared at her only son.  “You hired the Knights of Nablus against the Magelaw.  I have to concur with the wizards on this.  Hiring our opponents – and current enemies – to fight against one of the kingdom’s most important nobles is sheer stupidity!”

“How can I possibly construct a magical corps without such powerful magi?” argued Tavard.

“You cannot,” Minalan agreed, sympathetically.  “That is by design.  We magi agreed to support the established order in exchange for becoming part of it.  The knights and petty lords may not like the competition, but they co-exist with Sea Lords, and the merchant nobility of Remere with little trouble.  They can accept this new challenge to their status and power.  If they are worthy, by the gods’ own laws, they will abide.

“But magelords are not going to disappear or allow ourselves to be lightly pushed aside.  The age of the Censorate is over in the kingdom.  Nor can you afford to do so,” he added, leaning forward.  “Callidore is replete with dangers, Prince Tavard.  If you want to see any future at all for the chivalry, you will need the wisdom to see that working with the magi, not against us, is the only means to ensure it.”

“To what end?” Tavard asked, hotly, his lips pursed and his eyes narrow.  “To be ruled by wizards?  The people will not allow it!”

“The people care not which lords rule over them.  The chivalry disdain the idea, thanks to ancient prejudices,” snorted Pentandra.  “The Narasi were opportunists who took advantage of the weakness and petty tyranny of the Second Magocracy.  The empire they split apart and sought to rule was largely made up of those who had been peacefully administered by the magi for generations.  Your barbarian ancestors didn’t understand magic, so they ignorantly repressed it and everything associated with it.  We had four centuries of ignorant rule as a result,” she said, condemningly.

“Regardless,” Queen Grendine said, loudly, “inviting the enemies of the kingdom on a tour of our innermost defenses was sheer stupidity, Tavard.  They are not mere mercenaries; they are spies for a foreign power.  I would have a lesser man hung for treason over this.  Who counselled you on such dangerous policies?” she demanded.

Tavard choked back an angry response, then stared down at the table.  “The ducal chamberlain, Lord Angdaran of Borfeyd,” he answered, guiltily.  Rondal thought he looked like a child caught lying about some petty crime.  “He made the introductions to my men.”

“Lord Angdaran?  The Westlandsman?” Grendine asked, her voice just above a whisper.  Then she nodded.  “Very well, then.  I shall attend to it at once.”

“You are to discharge these mercenaries at once,” Rard ordered, sternly.  “They are to be returned to Merwyn . . . by sea,” he emphasized.  “They do not need to advise the raiders who plague Remere on our defenses.  Indeed, make sure they are taken back to Merwyn by the long route,” he advised.

“Which brings me to my last request,” Minalan said, quickly.  “My exile form Sevendor ends at once.  If I am to prepare a response to Mycin Amana, then I must have all of my resources at my disposal.  I have endured nearly two years of being gone from my home.  I cannot abide one day longer.”

“You seem to have prospered in exile, Spellmonger,” Grendine remarked, looking around at the opulent chamber.  “From the brief view of the city I had when we arrived, it appears you have rebuilt your magical city on grand scale.  And in the space of less than two years.”

“That does not reduce my need for the resources of Sevendor,” Minalan countered.  “Vanador is the City of Wizards.  Sevendor is the City of Magic.  I need both, if I am to succeed,” he promised.

“Very well,” shrugged Tavard, arrogantly.  “Your exile is lifted.  Return to your squalid little town.  But be certain your tribute is paid to date,” he warned.  “I have ransoms to pay.”

“A small one, only,” Minalan shot back.  “Two thousand for the return of your bride and your court.  Five thousand gold for the return of your capital.  And two thousand for the return of all of your captured knights and their men.  For nine thousand gold, you can purchase most of your duchy back.”

“That is far less than you would have owed had we decided the matter piecemeal, Cousin,” Anguin pointed out.  “I went over the figures with your sister, earlier.  At the commonly accepted rate you would have owed the Magelaw well over twenty-five thousand ounces of gold to recover those hostages.  The Spellmonger gives you a bargain.”

“And the Spellmonger wasn’t even involved in taking them,” the Spellmonger added with a shrug.  “I was on holiday.  Consider what would have happened had I been in charge,” he commented, with a cock of his head.

“Nine thousand seems reasonable recompense for the return of your people, your court and your capital, my prince,” Pentandra agreed, coolly.  “The kingdom is fragile.  This could go toward mending it.”

“I . . . I will pay it,” Tavard said, his jaw clenched.  “I will lift the exile.  I will . . . consent to the kingdom administering the captured territories.  I will even – most grudgingly – accept the temporary assignment of Alshari sovereignty over Losara and Tantonel.

“But I remind you, my lords and ladies, that my acceptance of this situation is contingent on the recapture of Darkfaller.  After that, should the gods will it, I will be reflecting on this matter until I ascend to the throne and then decide what actions to take,” he said, with a note of warning in his voice.  “And I will recall every . . . past . . . indignity!”

Rondal could tell that the man was barely containing his rage, as he stared at everyone around the table.  Only Almaranda was spared his withering look.

The faces that peered back were not moved.  Anguin and Rardine were visibly smug about the difficult position Tavard was in.  Minalan and Pentandra were nearly combative.  Grendine’s visage was a sculpted mask of calculated indifference as she reflected, no doubt, on her failures as a mother.

And Rard . . . the king witnessed the outburst of his son and heir with outright derision.

“Thank you, Prince Tavard,” the monarch said, his voice low and pregnant with emotion as he glared at the prince.  “The kingdom appreciates your forbearance in this matter.  And reminds you of your duty.  Your performance will inform my judgement over the captive Gilmoran territories, at the proper time.  Participate faithfully in the recovery of Darkfaller, and I will take that into consideration.  Any less effort will also be considered.”

“I understand fully, Father,” Tavard assured.  There was no doubt what his mood was.  Rondal knew he was accepting this concord for no other reason than he was forced to.  And he suspected that, at the first opportunity, Tavard would find a way to strike back at those he saw as the authors of his humiliation.

“That is no small matter, Prince Tavard,” Minalan agreed, his voice low.  “It will take the combined might of the kingdom, magical and mundane, to dislodge Mycin Amana from her perch.  She now wears the body of a woman you know: Baroness Isily.  It was taken from its ward at Holy Hill abbey, quite unexpectedly.”

“Why should the body of this Nemovort concern my lord husband?” Almaranda asked, when it became clear Tavard did not understand what was being said.

“Baroness Isily was part of Baron Dunselen’s magical experiments, Highness,” Minalan explained, quietly.  “The culmination of which was the production of Bluestone, at Castle Saleisus, on the eve of the Greenflower Magewar.  Her very body was thus transformed,” he pronounced.  “Every atomi of calcium within it was changed into Bluestone.  That gives Mycin Amana access to the Otherworld in ways no other Enshadowed has ever had.  Combined with her – admittedly profound – knowledge of sorcery, it is almost guaranteed that she will have recourse to spells we cannot even fathom.”

“So, she is beyond the ken of your own magic, Spellmonger?” Tavard asked, coolly.

“No,” Minalan considered, after a moment’s thought.  “I have an . . . accelerated understanding of the forces at play, now.  But that doesn’t make her any less dangerous.  Necromancy is afoot, my prince.  And the very energies of the gods, themselves.  There are diverse forces involved in this struggle, powers that you can scarcely understand but which could crack worlds open like eggs.  This is no mere feudal war,” he pronounced, darkly.

Rondal nearly winced when Minalan said that.  He had spent no less than five hours recounting his conversation with Karakush in the Westlands with he and Pentandra.  He had faithfully reported the Nemovort’s proposal to a clandestine temporary alliance in as exacting detail as he could, and weathered scores of questions from both Minalan and Pentandra in his briefing.

It had disturbed both of them to hear Karakush was fascinated with the human association with divine energy, which in turn disturbed Rondal.  Minalan and Pentandra had far more direct knowledge of the divine than he did.  There were implications beyond what he had considered on their minds, he knew, and it left him with a depressing feeling about the future.  If their enemies could use the powers of the gods themselves against humanity, what defense was simple magic?

“I believe we have reached an accord,” Grendine said quietly, when she realized something must be said to break the tension.  “For the sake of the kingdom we have worked so hard to build, let us focus our efforts on repairing the damage and uniting against the many dangers we face.”

“Agreed,” Minalan said, with a single nod.  His eyes shot to Rondal for a split second and blinked – that was the signal.

“Agreed,” Tavard said, slowly and reluctantly, after Almaranda clasped his hand in encouragement.

Rondal quietly retreated into the corridor and pulled out the Mirror device he’d contrived to communicate with the mercenary warmage in Wilderhall.  It took but a few moments to order the Orphan’s Band to stand down and begin to withdraw.  They had prepared for the retreat when Rondal had informed them that it was a likely contingency.  By morning, he knew, both bands of mercenaries would be leaving Wilderhall and beginning the long march to Cleston, where they would be richly paid out.

He sighed with genuine relief when it was done.  He had taken a great risk in his bold action, he knew, but it had worked out in Alshar’s favor.  More important to him, personally, was that he had accomplished it without revealing himself as the author of the audacious operation.  He had been prepared to face the consequences, if it had fallen out that way, but he was just as glad that it wasn’t necessary.

Sometimes, he reflected as he returned to the chamber, being a good wizard came down to not getting caught.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Revelations

Memory is the stone on which the house of the soul is built.

Wilderlands Folk Saying

Pentandra was disturbed as she walked back through the city, late at night.

Not by the settlement reached between the Magelaw and Prince Tavard – that had gone as well as she could have expected, under the circumstances.  Witnessing the vicious interplay of royal power and family dynamics had been revealing, in a slightly sickening way.  But Minalan had pressed what leverage he had to achieve all the goals they had discussed beforehand.  Rard had promised to revisit the matter and render some interim judgement on the captured territories at the next Curia, just a month away.

Then Minalan and Pentandra had escorted the king, queen, and two sets of dukes and duchesses on a personal tour of Vanador as evening was coming on.  The royals were genuinely impressed with the unique features of the town, as well as the speed with which it had been built.  While magelights were no longer novelties, having the king playfully insulted by a talking wooden mushroom provided some amusement to them all.

The squabbling had died down, by then.  Tavard seemed to accept the result of the negotiations without brooding overmuch about it, and Almaranda seemed genuinely pleased to be out of confinement.  She was also greatly charmed by the fountains and moss gardens under the Overhang.  Only the large number of nonhumans seemed to discomfort her – she remained inherently xenophobic, Pentandra noted.

Not so with Anguin and Rardine.  They were enthusiastic about the Malkus Alon and the Tera Alon residents of Vanador, and the entire group stood enthralled when Minalan paused the tour near a mixed group of street musicians and let them serenade the royal party.  Hearing Tera Alon singing, human instruments playing, and a Malkus drummer who seemed to delight in the rank-heavy audience was, by all accounts, a delightful experience.

No, Pentandra had not become truly disturbed until Tyndal and Rondal volunteered to return the family to their various palaces after the short tour.  Once they faded away though the Ways, she turned toward Minalan to offer some pithy remark only to find her friend positively glowering as he looked around.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, concerned.  “I thought that went beautifully.”

It was as if he had not heard her.  Minalan turned and stared at every direction, not at anything in particular, but at the entire city.

“Is this what we’re reduced to after all this effort?” he asked, more to himself than to her.  “Living in huts under a rock?”

That took Pentandra aback.  She was justifiably proud of Vanador, and had assumed Minalan was, too.  But the Spellmonger seemed irritated, perhaps even depressed, for a few short, intense moments before the cloud over his expression broke.

“Well, you do get to return to Sevendor, now,” she offered in quiet condolence.

“What?” he asked, snapping out of his mood.  “Of course.  Yes, I can return to Sevendor.  That will be . . . that will be eventful,” he predicted.  “I’ll have to notify Sire Cei so that he can make the preparations.  It will be nice to be home again.  I’m afraid the children barely remember the place.”  And then he was the Minalan she knew, once again.

That had disturbed her.  The mood changes were bad enough, but she’d noted that they did not happen in isolation.  Nor were they infrequent incidents.

Several times she found Minalan saying or doing something decidedly odd as they spoke.  He had been uncharacteristically intense during the length debriefing they’d put Rondal through, after his successful mission to the Westlands.  His news about Karakush’s proposal had surprised them both, but Minalan responded with unusual fervor, badgering Rondal for every little detail.  Perhaps a passing acquaintance might not have detected the changes, but Pentandra had known Minalan for years.  There was something amiss with the Spellmonger, of that she was certain.

She begged off joining him taking the Ways back to Spellgarden, proclaiming she had to stop by Gareth’s office to oversee some city business . . . but once he’d faded from sight, she made her way in the other direction.  Towards Old Antimei’s croft.

Pentandra had been seeking the old witch’s advice and counsel more and more of late.  Oftentimes she used some innocuous excuse to do so, pretending an errand in the area or a question about Alurra to give her a justification for seeing Antimei.  She still spoke with Arborn as often as she could about most matters, but her stoic husband – while sympathetic about her anxieties – just did not have the background to advise her properly.

He was apt to see such discussions as invocations of his aid for whatever was troubling her.  Arborn’s willingness to do anything in his power to make her life better was sweet, and a token of his love and marital devotion, but it wasn’t what she needed.  This wasn’t a problem that he could fix.  She did not need help, she needed insight.  So, like women often do in a village or small town, she sought out the hedgewitch.  Antimei seemed to know just what to say to put her mind at ease.

By the time she came to the old croft it was almost completely dark outside.  The automatic magelights around the city began activating as the illumination declined, bathing the neatly cobbled streets in an unearthly glow and casting odd shadows in every direction.  The waning crescent moon lingered on the eastern horizon, adding to both the glow and the shadows.  Only a few passersby were on the streets in this region at this hour, most heading home for a late supper and sleep after their workday.

She was surprised to see Antimei outside her croft, shutting the small wooden shutters over the tiny windows of the semisubterranean home.  The witch looked up, startled, when Pentandra called her name.

“Pentandra!  What are you doing here?” she asked, as she latched the shutters closed.

Pentandra considered another fabricated excuse, but found the truth served better, in this instance.

“I’ve been playing hostess to the King and Queen, as well as a couple of dukes and duchesses,” she said, casually.  “I was in your neighborhood and thought I’d stop by.”

“Of course,” Antimei nodded.  A lesser woman would have doubted Pentandra’s excuse, but Antimei knew her well enough to know she was being truthful.  “The peace conference.  Did the prophecy come true?  Or are we still at war?”

“The prophecy was apt,” Pentandra nodded.  She knew just the one she was speaking of.  It stuck out in her mind.  She spoke it aloud.  “ ‘A bargain is struck In Vanador’s shade, a truce is forged by wizard and prince, the king accepts and alliance is made, only the princess remains unconvinced.’  That’s more or less how it happened, too.  One of your more straightforward interpretations,” she praised.

“It’s unartful,” complained the witch with a frown.  “ ‘Unconvinced’ is such an ungainly word.  But it does rhyme with ‘prince.’  So Almaranda is not completely in agreement with the truce.”

“She didn’t say anything out loud,” Pentandra offered.  “She was as aloof as usual. Perhaps she bears a grudge from her captivity,” she suggested, as she sat on the little bench Antimei had placed outside her door.  There was little left of the old cottage garden, now, just a few essential herbs growing near to hand.  But the bench was new, and well situated to watch the street. Antimei sat beside her.

“Well, I suppose it is better for you to know her misgivings, and how that may color her actions in the future,” Antimei considered.

“But why would she distrust the truce?” Pentandra asked, confused.  “It got her redeemed and released, after all.  And her palace is freed.  I suppose she could feel humiliated on Tavard’s behalf, but that doesn’t seem like her, exactly.”

“I don’t know her motivation,” Antimei said, shaking her head, “but I do know she’s a small but important player in the next few years.”

“The bits about Remere,” Pentandra nodded, recalling those stanzas as best she could.  “More vague predictions of betrayal and treachery.  That could mean anything.  Remere considers betrayal and treachery a cultural tradition.  I did hear that Master Gorthus is retiring, though.  I don’t recall any predictions mentioning him.  Do you?”

“No,” Antimei said with a sigh after searching her memory.  “Thank Briga for that, too.  What the hell rhymes with ‘Gorthus?‘ ”

“But that means that there will be a new court wizard in the Remeran court.  My cousin Planus told me about it.  My father is being considered – oh, Planus said he was, too, but he’s probably just flattering himself.  But he said I was being considered,” she said, realizing that she felt flattered herself by the idea.

Antimei gave her a sad smile.  “You know you don’t take the position already,” she said, reminding her of the prophecies.  It was pretty clear from what they said that Pentandra would be Alshar’s Court Wizard for a long time to come.

“Oh, I know,” Pentandra sighed.  “But it means that there will be a competition, of sorts, for the appointment.  The Game of Whispers will be in full effect.  It’s just one more thing I have to worry about,” she complained.  “People have been assassinated for just being mentioned for that sort of thing in the past.  Or blackmailed.  Or threatened.”

“Lovely people, you Remerans,” Antimei said with a humorless chuckle.

“Mother will be up for the fight, as will my sister, if it comes to that,” Pentandra decided.  “But it’s one more problem on my list.”

“Which means you really came here not to discuss prophecy or gossip, but for something really compelling,” Antimei suggested.

“It’s Minalan,” Pentandra admitted.  “He’s . . . he’s different since he returned.  Really different.”

“You knew he had to go,” Antimei reminded.  “You knew he would be changed by it.”

“I did,” she nodded, “but I didn’t expect . . . this.  It’s subtle, usually, but there is something wrong with Minalan.  I’m certain of it.”

“Well, he was in the realm of the jevolar, poking around ancient Alka Alon ruins and playing with our ancestor’s toys,” Antimei pointed out.

“Oh, I read every word of the journal, and asked him about his trip,” Pentandra assured.  “But I did notice that there were a few leaves of parchment cut out of the last portion.  It could be for all sorts of reasons, of course, but I’m starting to think that there’s something Minalan isn’t telling me.”

Antimei thought for a moment.  “Perhaps you should discuss this with someone who was with him,” she suggested.  “Someone who saw what happened.”

“I’ve spoken to Alya extensively, but . . . you know, I think you’re right,” Pentandra decided.  She stared at the front door of the croft for a moment while she considered who to question.  Then she saw, tucked behind a large clay pot full of herbs, a second set of boots next to Antimei’s.

Large boots.  A man’s boots.  And Antimei had not invited her inside for tea or something.  She glanced at the closed shutters, and she knew that it wasn’t supposed to rain.

“I think I’ll go see Lilastien tomorrow.  She was his doctor,” she said, suddenly looking back at the witch, trying to keep her expression stoic.  “She can probably tell me what happened to him – what really happened to him.” She stood.  “Thank you so very much for talking.  I’ll let you get to bed, then,” she said, hurriedly.

“Good night, Pentandra.  And good luck in your inquiries,” nodded Antimei as Pentandra began the spell to enter the Ways back to Spellgarden.

“Thanks,” Pentandra said, hoping she’d adequately suppressed the blush she knew she was about to wear.

When Pentandra arrived at Lilastien’s residence at Henga the next day, she was surprised to see the Sorceress of Sartha Wood was occupied: Lilastien was already consulting with Carmella, of all people.  The unassuming-looking viscountess was deep in conversation with the Tera Alon woman, a concerned expression on her face, as Pentandra patiently waited outside.

When she was done, she smiled when she greeted Pentandra, and they spent a few moments exchanging news – both political and personal.  Carmella was feeling victorious after aiding the Magelaw’s forces in Gilmora all summer, and she was thrilled that the King had intervened in what she saw was Alshar’s favor.  She, in turn, gave Pentandra the latest field reports from the scouts who were ringing Darkfaller and peering into the enemy’s camp.

It was a brief but fulfilling reunion.  Pentandra had never been close to the warmage, but they enjoyed a mutual respect partially because their fields of expertise did not overlap.  Carmella was more comfortable around field fortifications and siege engines, defensive bulwarks, and protective warmagic.  She was not particularly good with people, outside of her project crews.  But she was very nice once you got past her introversion.

“Pentandra!” Lilastien greeted her after Carmella left.  She was wearing her traditional, ancient white coat from her time in Perwyn.  Her favorite bit of tekka was laying on the table, some odd music playing quietly from it.  “Two wizards in one day – it looks like I need to establish regular office hours.  So, what can I do for the Baroness of Vanador?” she asked, cheerfully, as she ushered her to a chair at the table.

“I . . . I wanted to ask you some questions,” Pentandra said, as she sat.  “But I cannot help but be curious what Carmella was asking about.”

“She has a very interesting problem, actually,” Lilastien said, offering a small, tight-lipped smile.  “Of course, I cannot discuss it, due to confidentiality, but you would find it fascinating.  What questions do you have?  Are your girls doing all right?”

“The triplets are fine,” sighed Pentandra.  “They’re getting packed up by their nurses today, but all three were in perfect health and destroying everything in sight when I left them, this morning.”

“Are you feeling all right, then?” Lilastien asked with some concern.

“No, no, I’m fine, too, as far as I know.  But I am concerned about Minalan.”

“As he’s given me permission, I can discuss his case with you.  The last I checked he was healing nicely,” Lilastien assured her.  “He’ll have a scar – no way to avoid that, I’m afraid – but the muscle tissue has knit together.  His nervous system has recovered from the paralysis as well as can be expected,” she reported.

“That wasn’t quite what I was talking about – but that is good to hear,” she agreed.  “No, I’ve come to ask you about . . . about what happened in Anghysbel.”

“A great many things happened in Anghysbel,” Lilastien demurred.  “There were Enshadowed.  Walking trees.  A singing dragon.  A great deal of rum.  You’ll have to be more specific.”

“I’ve read the journal thoroughly,” Pentandra told her.  “But there are some gaps in the account.  Places where there seem to be pages missing.  I’m wondering if that was the part where Minalan . . . changed.”

Lilastien leaned back in her chair with a sigh.  “I thought someone might catch that.  Yes, I removed the pages,” she confessed.  “There are some things we encountered that do not need to be public knowledge.  Or even private knowledge.  Things that could lure people into dangerous places, tempted to do dangerous things.”

“I understand,” Pentandra assured her.  “Some things do have to be kept secret.  But I need some insight.  Minalan is not . . . he’s not completely Minalan.”

“What makes you say that?” Lilastien asked, guardedly.  That caught Pentandra’s attention.

“Small things.  Things he says.  Things he does.  How he reacts.  He’ll be perfectly fine one moment, negotiating with kings and dukes and being his regular charming, cunning, and egotistical self, and then the next moment he’s looking around like he’s seeing things for the very first time.”

“That’s very astute of you to notice,” Lilastien sighed.  She reached over and turned off the music.  “The truth is, you’re correct.  He isn’t himself.  Nor am I myself,” she added.

“What do you mean?” Pentandra asked, suspiciously.

Lilastien looked out the open window into the distance where the trees were just starting to change their colors.  “Minalan did not learn the secrets of snowstone or irionite in the vaults of the Alka Alon.  He had assistance, of sorts.  Anghysbel has more strangeness than anyplace I’ve ever been before, some of it going back millions of years.”

“So I recall,” Pentandra nodded, patiently.

“Some of that strangeness is due to a creature known as the Yith,” Lilastien said, her voice hoarse with the weight of the memory.  “A creature older than this entire world.  It’s immortal, it is said.  It is also said that the Yith contain the wisdom of the ages – and that isn’t incorrect.”

“It’s a really smart creature, then,” Pentandra said, her brow wrinkled as she tried to understand what Lilastien was saying.

“It’s not a matter of intelligence,” explained Lilastien, “it’s a matter of memory.  The Yith collects them from . . . well, from everyone.  Not every individual, but selected people get possessed by the Yith from afar.  During that brief possession the Yith absorbs the memories of that person.  In return, the victim experiences the memory of the Yith.  Roughly one new memory for each second of possession.

“The Yith offered to answer our deepest questions in exchange for it adding our memories to its collection.  Rolof, the obscure wizard we discovered living with Ameras, had already survived the procedure.  He didn’t exactly recommend it.  Minalan and I thought about it, and were still thinking about it, when the Grandfather Tree sent a . . . well, call it a prophecy.  It said we could save the world if we did it by the new moon.  So we were . . . fated, I think, to accept the Yith’s offer.”

“I hate prophecy,” Pentandra stated.  Her mind whirled as she tried to appreciate what she had learned.

Lilastien smiled.  “You have uncommonly good sense, then.  Minalan and I both went to the underground mansion of the Yith.  There we learned the answers to our questions . . . through the eyes of a diverse number of people throughout the ages.”

“That doesn’t seem so bad,” reasoned Pentandra.

“You don’t understand, Pentandra,” Lilastien said, her voice even more hoarse.  “You don’t just see a few things that are important or helpful.  You gain all of their memories, from earliest childhood to the point of possession.  All of them.  All at once.  One after another.”

“That must have been brutal,” Pentandra said, nodding as she began to see what had happened.

“It is the single most traumatic thing to have happened to me in a very long and storied life,” Lilastien revealed, thoughtfully.  “For Minalan, it was worse.  He stayed in contact with the Yith longer.  Long enough for his heart to stop.  If I hadn’t revived him with an old Terran technique, he never would have awakened.”

“So that’s how he died,” Pentandra realized.

“For four long minutes,” Lilastien agreed, grimly.  “But it was the nine seconds beforehand that was the traumatic part.  Dying was easy.”

“No wonder he’s . . . a bit mixed up,” Pentandra said, shaking her head in wonder.

“He’s not a ‘bit mixed up,’ Pentandra,” Lilastien said, firmly.  “He’s mad.  As am I.  As is Rolof the Obscure.  Because when you wake up from the touch of the Yith, the memories don’t go away. They’re always here, in your head, in your mind, in your dreams, in every waking moment.  Certainly, we know the answers to our deepest questions.  But the price we pay for that knowledge . . . it nearly killed me.  It did kill Minalan.  And now we both walk around with a chorus of other personalities fighting for control and perspective.  Constantly,” she said, her tone suddenly one of expressive misery.

“That sounds . . .” Pentandra said, with a gasp.

“Hellish is the term you’re looking for.  Because there is no escaping it.  Sometimes, if you’re distracted or focused on your work, then you can keep them quiet.  But then you see something, or hear a sound, or see something interesting, and suddenly you’re in someone else’s body, in someone else’s mind, with someone else’s thoughts and feelings. Bearing someone else’s guilt and shame for things they did a million years ago on some other world.  Their griefs and sorrows.  Everything.  Hellish is the only term to describe it, and it is a poor definition at best.  I’ve woken up in a cold sweat, clawing at my face, or burst out weeping or singing or angry so many times now . . .”

“Dear gods, how do you . . . how do you survive?” she asked, her mouth agape.

“I keep busy,” Lilastien said, collecting herself with resolve.  “I’m burying myself in my work.  I’m building a hospital and a medical school and clinics and a pharmacy and laboratories and . . . and trying to atone for the crimes of my people and . . . I keep busy,” she said, calming herself once again.

“Is there any recourse?  A cure?  A treatment?” Pentandra asked.  “If Minalan is mad, then perhaps it is not best to . . . well, if he could become violent or something, there should be some safeguards.”

“Safeguards?” Lilastien asked, sharply, her expression changing.  “Safeguards?  There are no safeguards for it.  For anything.  Our lives are destined to end, and there is no escape from that.  They will likely end too soon and in tragedy.  There is no hope, no real hope, only a postponement of the inevitable.

“Then why care if you spend the pitiful few years we have completely mad?” she asked, half-rising in her seat . . . and then very deliberately sitting herself back down in it.  “Sorry,” she apologized.  “That’s the sort of thing that happens.  One of them gets a hold of your eyes and tongue, and you’re powerless to control it.”

“And you stay like this forever?” Pentandra asked, worriedly.

“Rolof says that the effect fades, over time.  Eighteen months.  Two years.  Eventually, he theorizes, they’ll mute themselves in our minds and allow us to be . . . us.  The feelings will fade with the memories.  But it’s apparently a psychologically complex process.  With no safeguards.”

“Then what are you going to do?” Pentandra asked, even more concerned, now.

“Try the Handmaiden?  Some potion or charm to ease the pain?  Drink a lot?  I’m considering all of my options,” she insisted.  “But I’m also keeping busy, because purpose helps your ego focus and keeps the ghosts of memory from overwhelming you.  Until they do.  So, I’m planning on being absolutely batshit crazy for about two years, and then I’ll reassess.”

“Maybe the Handmaiden can help,” Pentandra suggested.

“Maybe it can, maybe it can’t,” shrugged the doctor.  “We are who we are.  All of us.  And it’s hellish.  For Minalan, it’s worse.  He experienced a particularly alien lifeform from ancient times who was incredibly knowledgeable about magic, but decidedly insane by any sapient standard.  It was immortal, and it had already lived for millions of years.  Min was possessed by that,” she said, with emphasis.  “I’m not going through a tithe of what he’s suffering with.  Watch him, Pentandra,” she warned, suddenly.  “He’s a powerful man with powerful emotions.  If he snaps and something – someone – takes over, he could be quite dangerous.  As could I,” she reflected.

“But you’re feeling all right . . . right now, aren’t you?” Pentandra asked, suspiciously.

“I’m just barely holding everything in,” Lilastien confessed with a sharp exhale.  “Just barely.  Sometimes I think the only thing keeping me from climbing to the top of the Overhang and throwing myself over is going to confront the Alka Alon Council with what we found in their vault.  I want to see their faces when they find out what we know.

“Spite is keeping me sane.  Pure, unvarnished, delicious spite.  That, and to see my people atone for their crimes.  Those are things I can devote myself to, things that can distract me.  I have to use what I know, Pentandra, because to have gone through all I have suffered and then fail would be too hopeless.  So, I’m depending on pure spite, when nothing else will serve.”

“And Minalan?” Pentandra asked, her voice a horrified whisper.

“Minalan will have to find his own motivations amongst the swamp of memory he wallows in,” she said, dismissively.  “I can’t advise him on this.  Not when he’s enduring worse memories than I am.  I can’t even be trusted to watch him, properly – there’s one of my . . . clients who thinks we should end his suffering in a burst of compassion.  Put him out of his misery.  Just the one, but if that one gets to be in charge, it could get bad.

“So, watch him carefully.  He’s lost, in there, and any pretense of sanity he displays is just a lid over the seething cauldron boiling in his head.  Bits of steam are like to push their way out.  Hopefully no one gets scalded.”

“I will,” she agreed.  “But . . . who’s watching you?”

“My granddaughter, mostly,” Lilastien admitted.  “But she doesn’t really understand this any better than you do.  Or I do, for that matter.  I’ve been running scans on myself and Minalan since we got back, trying to figure out the physiological ramifications of that kind of mental assault.  It’s something I can do to keep me busy.  I need to keep busy.  I need projects to work on, things to do, and understanding what’s happening in my brain helps keep me awake.”

“Why is that important?” Pentandra asked, suddenly.

“Why is that important?” Lilastien smiled.  “Because if you sleep, you dream.  And when you dream, your ego is at bay.  That’s when they really come after you, I’ve found.  I’ve only slept maybe thirty hours, total, since we got back.  I keep working until my body simply won’t allow it anymore.

“Then I sleep until I wake up screaming in terror and anguish.  Every single day.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Domestic Affairs

Hateful and idle of purpose are brothers without love.

Wilderlands Folk Saying

It was rare when all four of Minalan’s apprentices were together.  But when the Spellmonger decided to store the weaponry he’d taken from the vaults of the Alka Alon, there was no one he trusted more.

Technically, he’d asked Tyndal to do it, and to get Ruderal to help.  But Rondal was still in town, and he couldn’t resist the chance to see what ancient Alka Alon devices the expedition had recovered.  Then Dara arrived, because she was meeting Ithalia and Nattia for a kind of Mewstower conference.  So she got to help, too, while her giant falcon stood guard on the hilltop above.

Rondal was, indeed, impressed at the amount of ancient loot they’d brought back from Anghysbel.  He barely recognized most of the stuff.  But Minalan had given strict instructions to store most of it in Forseti’s old cave, where he could keep it secure, so the four of them spent an entire day lugging one package after another deep into the hillside.  They also had to catalog each piece, to the best of their abilities.

“What’s this, and why is it so heavy?” Ruderal complained as he carried an irregular-shaped box the size of a small wheelbarrow into the inner recesses of the cave.

“I know that one,” Dara said, as she jumped down from the rock that Forseti had once rested on.  “That’s a Thoughtful Knife!  Only its bigger than mine,” she said, as she opened the box and examined the smooth, sleek artifact within.  “It’s black, and shaped differently than mine, too,” she noted.

“Well, there were three of them in the wagon, so a little help would be appreciated,” the youngest apprentice suggested through gritted teeth as he hauled the box to the back of the cave.

“Three Thoughtful Knives?” Dara asked, impressed.

“Oh, yours is apparently just some kind of training device,” Tyndal informed her.  “They kept the really dangerous ones in the vault.  You should have seen it: shelf after shelf of ancient artifacts that were too deadly to be allowed in the world anymore.  There were whole rooms of stuff,” he boasted.  “Stuff from the Alka Alon, from the Met Sakinsa, from the Vundel, and even from us.”

“What could they possibly want from us?” snorted Ruderal, as he sat on the case he’d just carried for a moment’s rest.

“Rifles, pistols, artillery you can carry in your arms, poisons, explosives, and some stuff I have no idea about.  Oh, and a shelf full of Constructed Intelligences, like Forseti.  Only they’re unprogrammed.  Reserves,” Tyndal explained.  “They’re like babies that haven’t been born yet.”

“Like Forseti?” Ruderal asked, surprised.

“A lot of them,” assured Tyndal.  “Forseti and Gareth were working on them when we left.  When he comes back next year, we’ll see how many of them still work.  We did bring back some more practical tekka, though,” he said, hefting a complicated-looking black rod the length of his arm.

“What’s that?” he asked, fascinated.

“This, my friend, is a Raytheon-Seimans plasma rifle, military grade,” he said, smugly.  “It’s like a warwand or battle staff that shoots high-power bolts of super-heated magnetic plasma.  It will burn a hole through a horse at short range.  I got to use one of these, back in Anghysbel.  They’re almost as effective as a warwand, but anyone can use them.”

“Anyone can use a warwand if it’s made that way,” argued Rondal.

“Sure, but you don’t even need a magical mnemonic for this one,” Tyndal said, touching the weapon with familiarity before stowing it away.  “The power pack should hold about five hundred shots.  Once it’s spent, we’ll have to take it back to the Cave of the Ancients for a recharge.”

“Anything else like that?” Rondal asked, his interest piqued.

“Plenty,” Tyndal nodded.  “We couldn’t bring it all, of course, but we got some of the best stuff.  I think it might be helpful when we storm Darkfaller.”

“I hope they’re pretty godsdamn powerful, then,” Dara said, skeptically.  “That place is massive!  I’ve been patrolling over it for a week, and it’s bigger than Sevendor Town.  Nearly as big as all of Sevendor domain.  And it’s completely filled with undead, draugen, and maragorku,” she reported, grimly.  “We get intercepted by giant wyverns, if we get too close.  And we have to get too close to see anything of value.”

“One of these would roast a wyvern like a chicken,” Tyndal assured her.  “Don’t worry about Darkfaller, we’ll be able to take it,” he said, confidently.

“That’s why I’m here,” Dara sighed, crossing her arms.  “Each of the three Mewstowers is being asked to contribute some riders to patrol Darkfaller, Castabriel, and Barrowbell.  We’ve been rotating that duty, up to now, but Terleman wants a permanent force available for his use.  We’re discussing how to manage that.”

“Where are you going to build the Mewstower?” Ruderal asked, curious.

“We’re using Barrowbell, for now,” she answered.  “We’ll probably have to build a permanent one at Castabriel, before long.”

“How are things between you and Nattia?” Rondal asked, gently.  “You two haven’t really seen each other since the Oxenroast.”

“We’re . . . cordial.  And that’s enough, for now,” Dara said, proudly.  “We can work together.  That’s the important thing.”

“But it’s so adorable when you Sky Riders fight!” Tyndal said, with a guffaw.  “All that slapping and hair pulling . . .”

Dara ignored him.  “It’s just lucky that I have the birds to spare, right now.  Our training wing is about to go through their final trials.  But we’ll have to figure out who is going to command the new force.  That will be pleasant,” she said, sarcastically.

“Make it a competition,” suggested Rondal.  “That’s what Tyndal and I did when we were training for the attack on Olum Seheri.”

“We’re talking about it,” she agreed, evenly.  “It’s slow going, though because it’s so . . . cordial,” she said, her eyes narrowing.  “Come on, Rudy.  I’ll help you with the next Knife,” she said, pulling him reluctantly to his feet.

“I think I understand, now,” Tyndal said, quietly, when the younger apprentices were out of earshot.

“About the Mewstowers?” Rondal asked, confused.

“No,” Tyndal sighed.  “About Gatina.  About how you feel about her, and how she feels about you,” he said, not looking at his friend.

“The girl,” Rondal nodded, understanding.  “Tandine.  You miss her?”

“More than sunshine on a cloudy day,” Tyndal said, solemnly.  “I never thought I’d ever say that about a girl, I know.  I gave you so much grief about Gatina.  But if you feel about her even a little like I feel about Tandy, I understand, now.”

“It’s . . . it’s difficult to adjust to,” Rondal said, unsure of how to proceed.  “Once you meet her, other girls . . .”

“I know,” groaned Tyndal.  “I stopped by the new abbey school dedicated to Ishi in Nandine, before I came to Vanador.  Six new nubile young maidens just took their novitiate oath.  I was more interested in what they were having for dinner than their charms,” he confessed, sounding disgusted with himself.  “They’re nothing like Tandy.”

“And you can’t stop thinking about her every day, all day, whenever your mind isn’t otherwise occupied,” Rondal supplied.  “You think about how she smells, how she looks, the color of her eyes—”

“Her laugh,” Tyndal said, sharply.  “I miss hearing her laugh.  It took so much work to coax one out of her, but when I did . . . it was like magic, only easy.”

“When Gatina giggles, it captivates me,” Rondal admitted.  “I mean, I fall apart a bit inside.”

“When Tandine flares her nostrils, I know she’s getting excited,” Tyndal revealed.  “She could be about to dance, yell, scream, or hit something, but I know she’s excited.”

“When she moves, it’s like watching someone dance.  Perfectly,” Rondal agreed.  “It melts my heart.”

“When she jousts, I want to scream like a little girl,” Tyndal admitted.

“When she picks a lock, I get a thrill when it clicks open,” Rondal recalled.

“When Tandine draws a bow and gets that intense look in her eye, it’s magnetic,” Tyndal said, a dreamy look in his eye.

“When Gatina has just stolen something she’s proud of, or sneaks up on me without me knowing, I just want to . . .”

“I know,” Tyndal said, hoarsely.  “That’s what I mean.  I understand, now.”

“You realized we’re both doomed, don’t you?” Rondal pointed out.

“Yes, I’m worthless.  I’m content with that, as long as Tandine is involved,” Tyndal agreed.  “There’s going to be weddings, you know.  In-laws.  Babies,” he emphasized.

“Yes, we’re doomed,” Rondal affirmed.  He could hear the other two apprentices grunting in the cavern.  “I can’t wait to meet her.  Does this mean you’ll stop giving me grief about Kitten?”

That got Tyndal to look at him.  “No!” he snorted, rolling his eyes.  “Don’t be stupid.”

Rondal shook his head as he went to help Ruderal lift the second, even larger irregular-shaped box onto the raised section of the cave.  He should have guessed Tyndal would still be Tyndal.  New girl or not, he really didn’t expect any less from his friend.

It was late that night when Rondal finally made it back to Spellmonger’s Hall, in Vanador.  Master Min had given him use of the opulent townhouse while he was here, to keep him from having recourse to an inn.  Tyndal, too, had permission to enjoy his former master’s hospitality, and the two found themselves in front of the fireplace that evening, sipping mulled wine against the autumnal chill that was already making the evenings brisk.

Rondal appreciated the respite from his many duties.  He was tired.  He felt as if he had done nothing but leap from one crisis to another, all summer long, and the cool breezes and red-tinged leaves around Vanador promised an end to the hectic madness.  War was a summertime affair, after all.  Only brutes and madmen tried to fight in the other seasons, he was convinced.

“This isn’t so bad,” Tyndal decided, as the butler of the house brought them more wine.  “I don’t mind the rustic life, but the occasional indulgence in luxury – or at least comfort – keeps things in perspective,” he said, philosophically.  “A long day’s work—”

“Ruderal did most of the heavy stuff,” Rondal reminded him.

“A long day supervising work,” Tyndal corrected, instantly, “after a long, tortuous holiday in the wastelands, that gives a good cup of wine a special magic.”

“Actually, today was easy,” Rondal reflected, dreamily as he stared into the fire.  “I’ve spent half the summer skulking through the Westlands.  It’s not the wastelands, but . . .”

“I remember,” Tyndal chuckled, drolly. “But you were successful,” he said, raising his cup in a salute.  “You drove the Nemovorti out.”

“They were already headed out, to be honest,” argued Rondal, with a tired sigh.  “I just . . . cleaned up the premises after they left.”

“You also managed to conquer a ducal capital in your spare time,” Tyndal pointed out casually.  That got Rondal’s attention.  He sat bolt upright, nearly spilling his wine.

“How did you know?” he demanded, surprised and disturbed.

“Master Min told me,” Tyndal dismissed.  “Don’t worry.  No one else knows.  But good work,” he said, unexpectedly.  “Really, that was well thought-out.  Devious, even.  When you’re fighting magi, you don’t expect ordinary mercenaries. Honestly, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Why not?” Rondal asked, a little annoyed.  That had been Gatina’s reaction, too, he recalled.

“Because you tend to be honest at the most inconvenient of times,” Tyndal observed.  “You might as well be a Kasari.  But using the Kasari as mercenaries?  That was inspired,” he said, sincerely.  “The one group you knew wouldn’t be tempted to loot and molest Tavard’s capital.  How did you figure that out?”

“It was . . . just an opportunity,” Rondal said, shaking his head.  “I didn’t think it through, though.  Not all the way.  If Master Min hadn’t come back and intervened, I’d . . . I’d be the target of Tavard’s ire.  And Pentandra’s,” he added.  “She didn’t know.  She still doesn’t, as far as I know.”

That raised Tyndal’s eyebrow.  “You didn’t tell Pentandra?” he asked, surprised.

“Are you jesting?  She would have refused to consider it.  I figured it would be better to beg her forgiveness.  Or change my name and run away to the Shattered Isles,” he said, with a snort.  “It would probably take her a few years to track me down there.”

“Still, it was well done.  Brilliant, in a way.  It helped get Master Min back into Sevendor, if nothing else.  He’s terribly excited about that.  He’s going to wait until the Magic Fair, just to be dramatic, but he can’t wait to get back there.  I’ve heard Sire Cei is planning a celebration – probably a banquet or something.  We should be there.”

“I’ll do my best,” sighed Rondal.  “Now that the Westlands are clear, though, I’ll have to go back to tracking down Nemovorti in the swamps.  You remember how much fun that was.”

“I don’t envy you,” Tyndal agreed.  “I’ve got to prepare Callierd for several thousand refugees from Anghysbel, next year.  I’m going to be giving the Anferny folk a good bit of western Callierd, I think.  There are seven or eight abandoned estates out there.  Arborn is apparently going to settle some of the jack Kasari out there on his side of our frontier – that’s what they’re calling the Wilderfolk orphans who joined the Great March.  They don’t have kin in Bransei, so he’s putting them out there.”

“That’s going to be a lot of work,” Rondal warned, recalling that country from the Great March.

“It’s been a lot of work,” Tyndal sighed.  “I’ve got a hundred men who are already establishing freeholds north of the castle.  And a few hundred more who are opening shops and trades in Nandine.”

“A man of means,” Rondal toasted, raising his cup.  “Who would ever have suspected it?”

“Says the Deputy Court Wizard of Alshar – engaged to a beautiful girl from an ancient noble house,” chuckled Tyndal.  “Not bad for a couple of peasant lads from Boval Vale.”

They sat in silence for a while, watching the fire.  Rondal reflected on his childhood home, and all the battles he’d endured after it was taken.

He’d spent many a night in bitter anger about losing that little scrap of valley in the Mindens.  He’d often thought about how much more peaceful and less dangerous his life would have been if the gurvani had stayed in the mountains instead of forcing him to become a warmage.

But if he hadn’t, he realized, what would his life look like now?  At best, he’d be a journeyman mage who wouldn’t have been able to support himself in Boval Vale.  Indeed, he remembered Garkesku had frequently mentioned how each of his apprentices were expected to journey, after getting their journeyman’s papers.  He could envision himself barely making a living in some squalid Wilderlands town, somewhere.  Perhaps with a wife.  But no witchstone, no glory, and no Gatina.

“Would you trade it?” Rondal asked Tyndal, suddenly.  “If you had the chance, to go back and say the goblins never invaded.  To have a chance of a life of peace and relative security.  Would you?”

Tyndal considered.  “No,” he finally said.  “I’d like to think I would have made my own fortune if the invasion hadn’t happened.  But, realistically, I’d probably end up a footwizard or something.  Maybe have a horse.  Work really hard and maybe have a shop someday.  No, I think I prefer being wealthy, famous, and powerful.  If the price of that was Boval Vale, then it was a price I didn’t seek to pay.  But I don’t regret paying it.”

“Me, too,” Rondal agreed.  “It was charming, I suppose, but in all honesty, there are a hundred places just as charming in the Wilderlands, alone.  And some of the country in Falas is beautiful.  On the balance, Boval Vale was really only special because we were born and lived there.”

“It did have a hidden molopor and a sizeable colony of Alka Alon,” Tyndal pointed out.

“But we didn’t know that.  You were shoveling horse shit, and I was working for an abusive asshole.  Boval was quaint, but it wasn’t as bright as we remember, I think.  You probably have better estates than that in Callierd.  The cheese was good, though,” he added, thoughtfully.

“Why all of the sudden nostalgia?” Tyndal asked, curious.  “We were discussing your glorious achievements, and now you’re having regrets?”

“Not regrets,” Rondal assured him, shaking his head.  “Just reflections.”

“Then reflect on this: we’ve led an adventurous life,” Tyndal said, encouragingly.  “Think of all the places we’ve been, the battles, the castles, the palaces . . . we’ve seen things almost no one else has seen.  Traveled farther than most men travel in an entire lifetime.  Befriended the mighty and powerful.  Defeated evil and punished criminals.  We helped put a king on a throne and restore a duke to his legacy.  And then we actually rescued a princess from an evil necromancer.  You served wine to the king and queen, the other night.  We’ve met the very gods.  We’re respected by our professional peers, acclaimed by the wealthy and powerful, enjoy privilege and title, and only have a few sworn enemies.  Fame, glory, wealth, and power.  And we’re still young!”

“So we are,” sighed Rondal.  “Which begs the question . . . when will our luck run out?”

“It’s not just luck,” defended Tyndal, “it’s also our training, education, and ability to recognize opportunity.  Not to mention being outrageously handsome.  Those never run out, they just improve with age.”

“Until the luck runs out and we get killed,” argued Rondal.  “Then perhaps we’d regret not just becoming a common spellmonger, somewhere obscure.”

Tyndal shook his head and snorted derisively.  “Rondal, we never would have been common spellmongers.  We would have either been complete failures or brilliantly successful.  But mediocrity is not in our nature.”

The next morning Rondal awoke to a surprise: Gatina was laying next to him in bed.  As his eyes fluttered open, he realized that two big violet eyes were staring at him.

“Kitten!” he said, startling awake.  “You’re back!”

“I got in late last night,” she said, with a tired smile.  “After I delivered my . . . package to my client, I tracked down where you were staying and thought I’d surprise you.”

“Why didn’t you wake me up when you got in?” he asked, rising to one elbow.

“Because you were sleeping peacefully, obviously still drunk, and I enjoy watching you sleep,” she said, matter-of-factly.  “I see Tyndal is staying here, too,” she added.

“Just for the moment,” Rondal yawned.  “We’ve had some business here with Minalan.  And more tomorrow.  Tavard lifted his exile, and he’s planning on returning to Sevendor tomorrow.  Just in time for the Magic Fair.  How was your heist?” he asked, as she snuggled into his arms.

“A little challenging, but only a little,” she shrugged.  “I got the thing and didn’t get caught.  That’s a success.”

“Good!  What was it?” he asked, curious.

“I can’t tell you.  But it’s really inconsequential.  So, Tavard really agreed to a truce?” she asked, eagerly.

“Once we agreed to let his wife and children go and returned his capital to him.  Everyone is cooperating until we get Darkfaller back.  Then Rard will decide what to do with the captured lands in Gilmora.  After that, we took the entire royal family on a lovely tour of Vanador.  They were impressed.  You know, we should get a house here, someday,” he proposed.  “Nothing elaborate, like this.  Just a townhouse, perhaps.”

“Certainly,” she shrugged.  “Was . . . was Pentandra angry, when she found out it was you who took Wilderhall?”

“I don’t know,” he confessed, guiltily.  “I don’t think she’s found out, yet.  I’m not looking forward to that.  But Rardine and Anguin didn’t mind, regardless of who did it.  It amused the duchess that her brother had let it happen to him.”  He stroked Gatina’s long white hair.  “I missed you,” he realized.

“I missed you, too,” she said, sleepily.  “I like working – don’t get me wrong – but the entire time I was thinking about you, not the heist.  It was distracting.  I almost contacted you mind-to-mind, just to hear your voice in my head, but I tried to stay professional.  It wasn’t easy.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you, either,” Rondal agreed.  “It must be disconcerting to have someone talking to you while you’re in the middle of scaling a building or . . . whatever it is you’re doing.”

“Scaling the hull of a ship, actually, but I appreciate your consideration,” Gatina giggled.  “I wonder when we’ll be able to go into semiretirement and just enjoy . . . well, being married.”  She sounded hesitant about bringing the matter up.

“We have to get married, first,” he pointed out.  “Have we decided when that will be?”

“After I defeat Tyndal in single combat?” she teased.  “Darkness, that man doesn’t want to let you go!”

“Oh, he’s given me his blessing,” Rondal said, reluctantly.  “That’s what getting drunk last night was about.  He met a girl he’s serious about, so it’s suddenly all right if I have one, too.  Her name is Tandine.  Wilderlord.  Not a mage.  But he’s smitten.”

“Well, that’s one less duel I’ll have to endure,” Gatina said, with satisfaction.  “Now all we have to do is find a girl for Atopol, and we can all live happily ever after.  And start having babies,” she added.

“We should probably enjoy being married a little while before we take that journey,” Rondal said, swallowing.

The idea of marrying Gatina was wonderful, to his mind.  But fatherhood still seemed like a distant, hazy dream.  He wasn’t certain he was ready for that just yet.  It sounded easier to defeat Korbal and Sheruel and a pack of Nemovorti, after what he’d witnessed Master Min and Pentandra contend with.

“Besides, we need to figure out where we want to settle.  Here?  Falas?  Sevendor?  Someplace else?”

“We can take our time and decide that,” she soothed, patting his hand.  “But you’re right: after this Darkfaller affair is settled, then we need to get our domestic affairs in order.  Plan a wedding.  Pick an estate.  Start interviewing servants.”

“Domestic affairs,” he said, half to himself, trying the words out in his mouth as if they were in a foreign language.  “You know, I’m actually looking forward to a life where I’m not running from one battle to the next,” Rondal reflected.  “And I’m looking forward to going back to Sevendor and not feeling like I’m breaking some law.”

“But it was Minalan who was exiled, not you!” she objected.  “You can return to Sevendor anytime you want.  Besides, breaking the law isn’t so bad.  I do it all the time.”

“It doesn’t feel right going back there without the Spellmonger.  It doesn’t feel . . . loyal.  I suppose that’s why I attacked Wilderhall, when I think about it.  I’ve been so angry at Tavard for him exiling Minalan after the dragon attack that I wanted to irritate him.  Capturing his wife, his court, and his capital seemed like an opportune means to do so.”

“Does he know you did that?” Gatina asked, suddenly.

“Not yet,” sighed Rondal.  “Hopefully, he won’t for a while – and by then, perhaps, he’ll forget about it.”

“He’s not the sort of man who forgets about that sort of thing,” Gatina warned.  “Not according to Mother, in any case.  He takes after the queen that way.”

“Well, Mother Grendine should be a lot less dangerous, now,” Rondal informed her.  “The Head Gardner took a clandestine tour through the Family’s secret records at Wilderhall.  She knows where the Family’s bodies are buried, now.  Literally.  If Grendine tries to interfere with Alshar again, she’ll be sorry.”

“She’s an awful person,” Gatina said, with conviction.  “She always has been.  Killing her own brother . . . I can’t imagine such a thing.  Some day that is going to come back and haunt her,” she predicted.

“I think it already does, if she has any soul left,” Rondal agreed.  “In a way, this whole Darkfaller affair goes back to her siccing Isily on Minalan back during the Timberwatch campaign.  If she hadn’t done that . . .”

“Father says that we all knit our own fates without realizing it,” Gatina reflected.  “The Darkness returns to us what we have given it, whether we realize it or not.  So he counsels that we give it only our best intentions.  It might not give us what we want, but if we’re honest about it, we sometimes get what we deserve.”

“And just what do we deserve?” Rondal asked, teasingly.

“Domestic . . . affairs,” Gatina pronounced with eager satisfaction.  “And babies.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Exile’s End

The gods lead us away, love brings us home quickly.

Wilderlands Folk Saying

The skies over Sevendor were a vivid blue, with only a scattering of wispy white clouds marring them over Matten’s Helm.  Pentandra watched from the summit of the Order of the Secret Tower’s chapterhouse, in the middle of town, but she could see the graceful spire of Lesgathael clearly against the azure background.  That was where Minalan was coming from, she knew.

Sire Cei had spared no expense or energy in welcoming home the Baron and Baroness from their exile.  The streets below her were filled with excited throngs of both Sevendori and visiting magi who were here for the Magical Fair only to find themselves in the middle of an unexpected civic celebration.  The mood on the street was jubilant, and the snowflake banners that represented the domain seemed to hang from every window and railing.

Minalan wanted to make an entrance, of course, and merely popping back in through the Alkan Ways seemed a tepid way to do so.  He’d elected, instead, to come through at Lesgathael and then triumphantly ride down the road with Alya through Hollyburrow, Jurlor’s hold, and Sevendor Town before coming, at long last, back to Sevendor Castle.

The old Sevendor Castle, Pentandra amended to herself.  That quaint old pile of stones was dwarfed by the huge construction behind it, the new mountain keep.

It had grown significantly since she’d seen it last: the two massive square towers being built against the face of the mountain were already nearly twelve stories high, and she knew they had several more to go.  When it was finally completed the highest tower would be higher than the mountain’s peak.  With the stately Mewstower already established on the northern side of the mountain, and the spires and domes of the High Street – culminating in the ever-stunning Everfire -- Pentandra could envision the eventual skyline of Minalan’s domain.  It would, she anticipated, rival the skylines of Castabriel, Falas, or any other city in the kingdom.

“It’s hard to believe it’s only been two years since the dragon attack,” she mused, as she surveyed the pretty little town.  “In Castabriel they’re still removing debris.  Here, you can’t even tell it happened.  Minalan must be so excited to be back!”

“It won’t be long, now,” Arborn said, grinning despite himself.  “You can feel it in the air.”

“I wonder if we should have brought the girls,” Pentandra said, biting her lip.  “They’d love all of this excitement.”

“They wouldn’t understand it, they’d be bored by it, and we would spend all of our time chasing after them,” her husband answered, shaking his head.  “If they didn’t just throw themselves over the side of the spire the moment they arrived,” he added, looking down at the white cobbled street below.

Pentandra giggled at the image, as horrifying as it was, and knew he was right.  The triplets were toddlers used to being the focus of everyone’s attention; the moment they were not, they typically found a means of re-establishing that in some dreadfully dangerous way.

“You’re right, I know,” she sighed, “but I hate that they’re missing it.  The Spellmonger doesn’t return unexpectedly from exile every day.  I think—look!  That’s the signal!” she said, pointing to the Alkan embassy on Matten’s Helm.  A formation of giant hawks was flying in from the west, and a moment later another line of Sky Riders emerged from the Mewstower to join them.  Minalan had invited Nattia’s Magelaw Mewstower to participate in the festivities and engage in a reunion, of sorts, for the occasion.  The two groups managed to form a beautiful spiral of gargantuan birds around the spire.  That was, she knew, the signal that Minalan and Alya were about to come through the Waypoint.

A moment later the entire spire changed color from white to green, throbbing thrice before it faded back to normal.  That meant Minalan was back.  And the crowds below knew it, from the rise in cheering and shouting.

That cheering lasted for hours, though it waxed and waned as the Spellmonger’s entourage made its way slowly down the road.  Pentandra didn’t mind the slow pace – she and Arborn were able to enjoy a relatively quiet little picnic on top of the chapterhouse.  Though there were other magi and mundane researchers in residence there, Pentandra had pulled rank and commandeered the highest level of the place for her exclusive use.  She had designed the place so that it would have a spectacular view, and on this gorgeous autumn morning she was more than willing to be selfish in using it.

Indeed, this was the first quiet moment with Arborn in weeks.  She’d figured that they would spend a lazy summer in Vorone, playing with the girls and going to parties.   Instead the unstoppable flow of events had seen them both apart on business most days.

Arborn had to manage the great forests of the north, after all, and then unexpectedly find provision for the thousands of returning Kasari he was now responsible for.  Pentandra, of course, had been the unwilling participant in a civil war she didn’t want.  They’d rarely spent more than a day together before being called away again.

But that just made the chance at relaxed intimacy all the more precious.  She’d had Banamor send over a hamper of fine victuals from the Alembic (or, more properly, his new assistant had done so) for them to enjoy.  The wine was delicious.  The weather was perfect.  And Arborn was ruggedly handsome in all the best ways.  He snacked and sipped with her like a boy watching a parade, not a dour ranger feeling overwhelmed by city life.  While it was a welcomed respite from work, she also knew how temporary it was.  By the time Minalan’s party appeared at the city gates she knew her time alone with him was limited.

Minalan did appear below them, eventually.  He had found a beautiful black horse to ride.  Alya was mounted on a gentle-looking palfrey, and Ruderal, Tyndal, and Rondal rode behind the Baron and Baroness on rouncies, each carrying snowflake banners.  It took the party five minutes to pass a hundred yards of cobbled street and vanish around a corner as the crowds cheered him madly.  He and Alya waved excitedly, beaming smiles at the people who’d come to pay their respects.  Once he disappeared from sight, Pentandra sighed and began packing up the hamper.

“We don’t want to miss him arriving at the castle,” she explained to Arborn as she crammed the remains of their lunch in the basket.  “That’s an invitation-only event.  Sire Cei is throwing a welcome home banquet for them there tonight.”

“And we have an invitation?” Arborn asked, reluctantly.

“We have a directive to attend,” Pentandra corrected.  “We have to be there to see the spectacle.  Don’t worry, Sire Cei will make sure things stay dignified and reasonable.  Hopefully, he can keep Minalan from giving a speech.”

As it happened, Sire Cei was entirely unable to keep Minalan from giving a speech.

The entire household of Sevendor Castle had turned out in their finery to welcome the Baron and Baroness home, she saw, when she and Arborn emerged from the Ways to avoid the crowds across town.  Every rampart was packed with a mixture of human, Karshak, and Tal Alon servants augmented by a number of Tera Alon well-wishers from their nearby stronghold.  That included a very pregnant Lady Falwallen, she saw, and her humani husband Sir Ryf, as well as a number of her retainers – or allies, or whatever relation the Tera Alon had with each other.

Also present were the various wizards of Sevendor who had taken up the magical slack in Minalan’s absence: Banamor, Olmeg, Zagor, Lorcus, and even Planus had gathered in the courtyard to await Minalan’s return.  They were given a place of privilege ahead of even Sevendor’s vassal knights, Pentandra saw, though none of the chivalry seemed upset by it.  Minalan’s extended family occupied one corner of the yard, between the knights and the magi.

There were a score of clergy, too, who had convened around the doorway to the castle as she joined the press of magi.  Another knot on the other side of the doorway proved to be Sky Riders, in their smart-looking demi-capes.  A few hawks perched on the white walls of the castle while others had been transformed into their smaller forms and perched on the wrists of their Riders.

Sire Cei and his wife were seated on a raised platform just to the left of the doorway, seated on the chair Minalan had used as his seat before his exile.  The Dragonslayer looked freshly barbered and properly dignified, a new mantle that seemed embroidered to resemble dragon scales laid across his shoulders.  When Minalan and Alya finally made it to the gates of Sevendor, Sire Cei rose and remained standing until the Spellmonger was, once again, at his castle.

Before Cei could speak, Minalan waved his hand and a bright green magelight formed over the tower in the rear of the castle.  That inspired a cheer that went on for minutes while he helped Alya up onto the dais.  Everyone seemed mad for the magelord and his wife.  Alya, for her part, seemed almost calm and serene at the attention – a far cry from the distracted shell of a person she’d been before she’d gone to Vanador.

And then the speech began.  And it was a long one.

Most of it was self-congratulation, laced with Minalan’s extensive gratitude for those who had kept his home safe in his absence.  He referenced the hard work and two wars he’d won in his new territories, but always managed to make Sevendor sound like the more important of his two realms.  Pentandra had no doubt that he’d do the opposite if he was giving the speech in Vanador.  Both, she knew, would be equally sincere.  No one knew how to manifest such verbal bullshit better than the Spellmonger.

It was the last section – dear gods, she hoped it was the last – which caught her attention the most: when Minalan began to sketch out his plans for Sevendor’s future.

“When I left here with my father, two years ago,” he said, some note of emotion in his voice, “I felt defeated – even after defeating a dragon.  Leaving Sevendor was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do – including defeating a dragon.  Yet I could not have left in better hands than those of the Dragonslayer – Sire Cei of Caergwynen!” he said, gesturing grandly toward the man.  The crowd burst out in cheers.

“I return after defeating two armies in six months in the Wilderlands – the Magelaw, as I have re-named my portion.  I return after building a mighty city of wizards, Vanador, where there was only deserted farms and open fields when I came.  I return a far wiser wizard, a stronger warrior, and a more discerning scholar than when I left.  But I have returned, at last!” he said, with special emphasis.

“Interesting how he takes credit for building Vanador when Gareth and Carmella are mostly responsible for that,” Arborn whispered to her.

“He’s speaking metaphorically, I’m sure,” Pentandra whispered back.  “And he did pay for most of it.”

“Didn’t Terleman really win the first war?” Arborn continued.  “And a cattle stampede won the second?”

“But he was there both times,” Pentandra argued.  “He watched very intently.  Don’t trip over the details.”

“Now that I have returned,” Minalan continued, “my beautiful baroness beside me, we shall see that magnificent castle finished and proofed against dragons.  We shall see magic as the world has never seen before.  And we shall see the Sevendori become the most prosperous, most envied people in the kingdom.  The sign of the snowflake shall become the banner of hope and a symbol for excellence as our town, our domain, and our barony grow beyond the limits of our imaginations.  The City of Magic shall rise, my friends, it shall rise to rival Castabriel, Wilderhall, Remaralon, Vorone, Falas, and Terramaton!  It shall become the jewel of the magelands, the pride of the kingdom, and the undeniable capital of magic and enchantment.

“The brightest days of Sevendor are ahead – and so are the hardest,” he promised.  “Even as I defeated the gurvani and the Nemovorti in the north, our foes have taken our flank and established a stronghold in no less than Darkfaller Castle,” he said, as the crowds cheers turned to murmurs.  “There are evil and unspeakable foes there, now, led by fanatics who have designs on the capital.  Yet the king has turned to me – turned to us – to help dislodge this festering sore from the center of the kingdom.

“And we shall,” he continued, earnestly.  “When I first came here, it was a barren and unpeopled land.  We built this glorious city with hard work and magic.  We defended it with spells and swords.  We outfought the Warbird and shattered the Shastalian Confederation, gaining new allies and making them prosper.  We elevated the Hawkmaiden and saw her create the giant birds and train their Riders to ward our skies.  And when the dragon came, we struck it out of the sky!

“We shall turn that energy and fierce determination on the worst of foes at Darkfaller,” he promised.  “For that battle is also in the future.  But my exile is past.  And together we shall surpass all we have achieved!”  He raised his tone and his volume as he spoke, and it was certain that he meant every word of it.

But Pentandra was troubled.  As elegant and well-delivered as his speech was, she could not help but note that the words did not sound precisely like Minalan’s own.  One of his new voices, perhaps?  Pentandra wondered which long-dead spirit was animating his speech, now.

When the cheering subsided and Minalan made a presentation of a long, elegantly scrimshawed war horn to his steward as a token of his gratitude, and Sire Cei said a few graceful words himself.  But Sire Cei had the good sense to keep his remarks brief.  The aromas from the kitchen were already filling the air, and it seemed that everyone was anxious for dinner.

Instead of a traditional feast – perhaps in deference to the large number of people who had come to the castle to see Minalan – a long line of trestles were laid in the courtyard, and then covered in crisp white linen and hundreds of delicacies for the guests to choose from.  While decidedly less-formal than a banquet, Pentandra had to admit it suited the occasion well, allowing everyone the chance to sample each dish while they stood around and talked to each other, made introductions, caught up on each other’s adventures, and celebrated the barony being made whole, once again.

That gave Pentandra an abiding sense of peace.  As if part of her had returned home, too.  She wasn’t a Sevendori but she was a mage, and she realized that nothing had seemed quite right since Minalan had been forced into exile.  As fulfilling as her life as Court Wizard was, there was still something glaringly wrong about the Spellmonger being separated from his beloved Sevendor – something that a wider realm and more power could not replace.

While Alya and Minalan toured the little white castle, she made a point of re-acquainting herself with those who had kept it standing in his absence.  She met the wives of Lorcus and Olmeg – sisters, and witches, and as suited to their husbands as she could ask Ishi for.  She had a short but delightfully drunken discussion with Banamor about his ideas of Minalan’s prospects, now that he had returned.  She had a nearly nostalgic conversation with Sire Cei and his wife about their newest baby, and the problems the barony had endured since Minalan had left.  She conferred with Lady Varen and Lady Fallawen, inquiring about the latter’s pregnancy and her duel with Mycin Amana and questioning the former’s insights about the upcoming Beryen Council meeting in Carneduin.  She had a cordial discussion with Master Guri, the Karshak mason building the new castle, and debated the return of the Kilnusk Alon to the civilized world.

By the time dusk started changing the color of the magnificent autumnal sky, she was feeling as if it was she who was returning home, not Minalan.

Eventually, her cousin Planus got her alone in the Great Hall of the castle.  The sophisticated Remeran looked a little out of place in the rustic hall, but he seemed well at ease there,  though she knew for a fact he owned finer estates and far more elegant residences than this.  She told him as much.

“I think I like it here because it doesn’t have all of the traditional Remeran amenities,” he revealed, as he picked at the remnants of his plate.  “Daggers, poison, character assassination, blackmail – say what you wish about the Narasi, but they tend to be honest in their approach to commerce and politics.  The Game of Whispers is almost silent, here.  Almost.”

“The Game of Whispers is never silent,” Pentandra said, shaking her head as she watched the various Sevendori drift through the hall.  “It’s when you think it’s silent that it is at its most deadly.”

“Which is why I enjoy my sojourns here,” Planus agreed.  “I’m more likely to be challenged to a duel by a country knight than seduced by a maiden with a dagger in her bodice.  It’s refreshingly straightforward.”

“I didn’t think you came here that often, save for business,” Pentandra pointed out.

“It’s a pleasant escape from Remere,” he assured her.  “Indeed, I enjoy it so much that I’ve partnered in a nearby estate.  With Zagor, of all people.  It’s quite lovely – or it will be, when we fix a few things.  But since Gorthus announced his retirement, I find it healthier to be away from Remere.”  Her cousin did not sound like he was hopeful about the outcome of his nomination.

“Why?  Have bodies started dropping in the night?” she asked, curious.  Such gossip was standard fare in Remeran culture.

“Two, so far,” Planus revealed.  “No one important, yet, but the deaths were clear warnings.  The problem is that no one knows who the warnings are from.  Tragic accidents, both, on the face of it.  But that’s traditional, isn’t it?”

“Do you even want the post?” she asked.

“Didn’t you?” he countered.

She thought about it.  “I didn’t, really, when Minalan first proposed it.  But then it sounded like something important to do, and it kept me from sinking back into Remere or getting involved with the Royal Court, so it seemed like a good idea.  Besides, it helped keep Arborn happy, when we were in Vorone.  Not that he wouldn’t be happy in a tent in the wilderness, somewhere, but . . .”

“But are you happy with being Court Wizard?” Planus pressed, as he nibbled.  “Really?  Personally, I think I’d be horrified at the pay.  I couldn’t make nearly as much as I do now in private practice without being corrupt, and honestly that’s far too much work.”

“It’s not all honey and almonds, if you hadn’t realized that by now,” Pentandra agreed.  “It’s thankless, doesn’t pay enough, and comes with a list of duties that are never written down but always expected.  That being said, the status and prestige is attractive. Almost enough to make it worthwhile.  Oh, certainly, it’s a great honor, but . . . what?” she asked, as her cousin began to laugh.

“It reminds me of the old joke,” he said, when he calmed himself.  “A corrupt aletaster was found to be extorting his clients in a rather unsavory manner and was exposed.  Local custom permitted such a criminal to be smeared with human feces, beaten with sacks full of winter squash, rolled in nettles and then paraded around the village in a wheelbarrow with a sign around his neck proclaiming his crime.”

Pentandra was horrified at the image, but also intrigued.

“Why would a prestigious court posting remind you of that?” she asked, confused.

“Afterwards, the man was said to declare, ‘if it hadn’t been for the honor of it all, I think I would have preferred to avoid it.’”

Pentandra considered the analogy.  Then she burst out laughing.  It was hard to stop.

The next morning, she and Arborn rose early at the chapterhouse and met Minalan and his apprentices, as agreed, to tour the new castle.

She had rarely seen Minalan this excited – indeed, there was something almost unhealthy about how eager he was to see all the progress that Master Guri and his lodge had made in two years.

She had to admit to herself, it was impressive.  In fact, it was the most impressive piece of architecture she’d ever seen, and she’d been to Carneduin and Castabriel.

The Karshak mason proudly led them through the gaping opening that would someday be the main gate and then deep into the interior of the mountain.  Pentandra had to gape, herself, when she saw just how huge the main hall was – Minalan’s original keep could have fit inside with room to spare.  And it wasn’t finished yet – there were still Karshak crews quarrying stone from the back walls of the gigantic hall to enlarge the space further and build the external features.

The high ceilings were carved out of sold rock and rose to seven stories at their peak.  A range of magelights shone to illuminate the grand space below where hundreds of Karshak and human laborers scurried back and forth to various construction sites.  There were four massive wooden cranes lifting block and tools and stacks of wood.  There was even a four-acre rectangular pond or pool in the center of the hall, deep enough to swim in though it was designed to water horses.  A channel, like a small stream, kept the basin filled.

Galleries and balconies supported by thick stone columns surrounded the great hall at each level and sometimes connected one portion of the castle to another.  Wooden scaffolding reached all the way to the ceiling, allowing the Karshak and their human laborers to move easily from one project site to the next.

Pentandra was impressed with the way the place was cunningly laid out: the first level was given over to storage, quarters for livestock, and future armories.  The second level had a sprawling kitchen space designed to feed thousands.  The third level was being carved into hundreds of chambers to house the large staff the castle would require.

The two great square towers that flanked the entrance were unfinished, but the lower levels of each were complete enough to allow some finishing work to be done.  The third story had decks built for archers to defend the walls, as did nearly every level above them.  Between the two towers the bulwark was curved, making it almost a keep in itself.  A portion of the roof that spanned between the two great fortresses had been left open, allowing sunlight and air to enter more easily.  It was wide enough for giant hawks to enter and leave.

There were already barracks, stables, and apartments laid out within each tower, and great storehouses were being completed on each side.  A spiral staircase allowed access to each level up to the topmost.  There, once it was finished, the roof would be large enough and strong enough to put a thousand archers upon it.

Master Guri showed them vast cisterns fed from mountain springs, platforms where siege engines would someday be installed, smaller halls that were still large enough for troops to drill or refugees to live in should there be a siege.  A complicated series of shafts and ducts connected fireplaces or opened out into larger chambers to assist airflow.

It was a massive complex, perhaps the largest castle she’d ever seen, when you added in all the side tunnels and additional towers that were planned once the basic work was done.  There would be libraries, laboratories, workshops, storehouses, stockpiles, residential chambers, feasting halls, and even garden space, eventually.  Secondary tunnels would lead to the Mewstower, to the massive gatehouse, into the Westwood and (presumably) to the old castle; there were also plans to construct concealed entrances on the back side of the mountain should escape or a quiet entry was needed.

But as impressed as Minalan seemed to be – which was nearly as much as Pentandra was – about the potential of the new castle, it was one of the older sections that garnered the most enthusiasm for the Spellmonger.

When Master Guri was nearly done, he led the inspection down the left-hand side and back into what had become Minalan’s private laboratory . . . where a certain hole in the ground had become home to the ever-changing, never ceasing crystalline artifact known as the Snowflake.

Indeed, Minalan was as giddy as a kid on his nameday as he rushed passed the workshops and libraries, vaults and conference chambers he’d commanded to be built along the route.  When they finally opened the door to the chamber, deep in the bowels of the mountain, the light from the Snowflake illuminated the corridor, it was so bright.  There was a sense of expectation as Minalan rushed in to watch the pulsating artifact shift and change its shape and size.  For a brief moment when he first caught sight of the scintillating, unceasingly changing six sided crystal he gasped, and then froze.

Minalan just stared for a while, until Pentandra started to think something was wrong with him.  It took a moment in the gloom for Pentandra to see there were tears running down Minalan’s cheek.

“It’s more beautiful than I remember,” he said, his voice filled with awe, never taking his eyes away from it.  He seemed to tremble as he reached out toward it, and for a few moments he was shaking as he regarded the quasi-molopor.  The Magolith began to pulse over his shoulder in perfect timing with the Snowflake’s oscillating light.  “It’s far more complex than I imagined.  All of the energy vortices and power nodes, appearing and disappearing through the dimensions . . . this is it: this is the fulcrum I need to defeat Sheruel and Korbal.  This is where I will forge the tools I need to drive Mycin Amana from Darkfaller.  I will change the world with this,” he promised to no one in particular.

“I think you already have,” Pentandra said, quietly.

“I’ve only puttered around,” Minalan dismissed, sounding disparaging of his previous accomplishments.  “Really, I had no idea what I was doing with it.  Once I get my equipment here and begin to work, you’ll see wonders that you’ve never imagined.  Tools.  Weapons.  Spells of such sophistication and potency that they will challenge how we think of magic.  Enchantments that will . . . that will survey the very cosmos.  This is it, Pentandra!” he said in a hoarse whisper, the Snowflake reflected in his teary eyes.

“So what do you need?” she asked, softly.

“What do I need?  I have lists,” he assured her, dazed, finally breaking his gaze away from the Snowflake.  “I have lists of lists.  I’ll need Stonetrunk’s Heart, the tipirilon, weirwood, irionite – I’ll need a lot of irionite,” he said, as if it was a sudden realization.  “I’ll need some jacasta, some Hapaxilite, and . . . a lot of other materials.

“But with this I can recreate much of what the ancient Spiritsingers were able to do.  Hells, I can recreate much of what the Vundel can do.  I’ll be able to create entirely new systems of magic.  This is the fulcrum,” he insisted, turning back to the crystal.  “Now I need to make the levers.  And when I am done, I will be able to move the very stars around the universe,” he said, confidently.  He stumbled a little closer to the Snowflake and could not take his eyes off of it.

“He’s sounding a little like a madman,” Arborn observed, worriedly, as he stared at Minalan.

“Oh, he’s far beyond mad,” Pentandra sighed, resigned.  Stanzas of prophecy whirled in her head as she realized implications hidden to all but her.  “But he’s right.  He can do those things, if he puts his mind to it.  He can challenge the Nemovorti and drive Korbal from Olum Seheri, eventually.  He can bargain with the Vundel.  He can even defeat the Formless, at need.  But only if he . . . if he can keep from killing himself with the effort.  Again.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

Gossip and Chaos

A full purse makes a gossipy merchant

Wilderlands Folk Saying

“I really have missed this place,” Rondal admitted, as he and Gatina walked the Magic Fair the next morning.  They had stayed at the Rat Trap, the ramshackle hall that he, Tyndal, and Gareth had purchased and built.  After sitting vacant for two years, the place was quite dusty and in need of some repair, but Rondal was able to clean up his bedchamber with a little work and a lot of magic.  It was good enough, at least, to spend the night in; as there wasn’t an empty inn anywhere in Sevendor at the moment, it would have to do.  “I didn’t realize how much until I came back.”

“Of course you do,” Gatina said, as she took his arm.  “You helped build it, from what I’ve heard.  You helped defend it.  It’s natural that you’d look on it fondly.  We could live here, you know,” she pointed out.  “It’s not as big as Falas, but it’s nicer.  Cleaner,” she emphasized, wrinkling her nose.  “There are parts of Falas that are just awful.  Sevendor is beautiful, in its own peculiar way.”

“It is now,” agreed Rondal, gazing out over the vale toward the castle in the distance, “but when we got here it was . . . it was kind of awful,” he recalled, with a smile.  “The castle was falling apart. The people were miserable – what people there were – and the neighbors were unpleasant.  It took a lot of work to get it to look like this.  Hells, when we first arrived there weren’t more than a dozen huts in Sevendor Village.  You could fit them all in the market square.  But live here?  Full time?” he considered.  “I don’t know.  I work for Alshar, now.  That’s a long walk to work.”

“Or a short trip by the Ways,” she reminded him.  “We could do it, if you want.  Not the Rat Trap, of course – we’d have to rebuild it, or at least redesign it.  But we could find someplace cozy while we did that.”

“Let’s see how things go,” he proposed, reluctantly.  “Things are getting complicated, right now.  Until we take care of Darkfaller, I don’t think any of us are going to have that kind of leisure.”

Gatina paused and pursed her lips.  “But that’s a Castali problem,” she ventured, as they turned toward the market square.

“That’s a Castalshar problem,” Rondal corrected.  “That’s far too close to the center of the kingdom to be ignored.  It’s one thing for Nemovorti to be skulking in the swamps or stalking across the Wilderlands; it’s quite another for them to be settling in the middle of everything.  They make poor neighbors.  The magi will have to take care of that before we can settle down.”

“But do you have to take care of it?” she asked, pointedly.  “I mean, why does it have to be you?  There are plenty of magi around, now.  With witchstones.  Can’t they do it, and let you . . . be Rondal?”

“That’s part of me being Rondal, I suppose,” he said, with a small grin.  “Master Min and Pentandra rely on me and Tyndal to do that sort of thing.  They can trust us.  Believe me, if what I’ve heard about Darkfaller is true, they’re going to need every warmage with glass and the will to fight,” he suggested, as they arrived at the big market square.

The place was packed, every stall rented and every spot where a blanket could be spread was occupied.  The fair brought hundreds of specialized vendors to Sevendor to sell their wares to the affluent magi who came every year.  Every kind of merchandise was being hawked by the merchants, from the magical to the mundane.  The Sevendor bouleuterion had a massive booth offering the latest developments in enchantments, as well as a selection of popular staples like magical chamber pots, agricultural and construction wands, and heatstones, as well as examples of new offerings.

Banamor’s stall showed off the “portable cabins” that had become fashionable among the High Magi, and the couple had a lot of fun touring each of the examples available.  The cabins had the advantage of being easily transportable by hoxter pocket and completely free standing.  They ranged from the small and relatively simple to the lavishly large and fiendishly complex.  They were getting a lot of interest from the crowd, too, Rondal noted.

Rondal was interested in the thaumaturgical elements involved in them, of course; his own work on enchanting magical constructs had made him conversant with the basic spells needed, but there were sophistications to the arcane architecture that fascinated him.  Gatina, on the other hand, was more intrigued by the styles and colors.  They spent more than an hour exploring the cabins before Gatina decided to go shopping.  Rondal started to follow her when she stopped him.

“No, you stay here, or find a beer tent, or something,” she suggested.  “I want to do this alone.  I can’t buy you a surprise gift if you’re with me,” she reasoned.

He sighed.  “All right.  Just don’t steal anything,” he warned.  “Banamor takes his Fairwarden duties seriously, and the punishment for that sort of thing is brutal.”

“As if I would ever get caught,” she said, shaking her head and disappearing into the crowd.

Rondal continued wandering the market, seeing what new wares and merchants had come this year.  Business was brisk, he noted, although prices were high.  Even the Tera Alon were out in force, browsing the best enchantments the humani could manage, to their amusement.  There were more independent enchanters selling, now, magi who rented time in the bouleuterion to craft highly specialized enchantments of their own design or do custom work for private clients.  There were also dozens of merchants selling magically sensitive or useful materials, from weirwood to arcane corals and crystals.  And hundreds of food vendors, pushing carts or carrying their wares in baskets.

But as noon approached, he found himself closer and closer to the Fair Grounds, proper.  It wasn’t long before he came to the pavilion reserved for important High Magi and special guests of the barony.  Nearby was the canopy that protected the clerks running the various contests and competitions.  Whereas the latter was a chaotic bustle of messengers and scorekeepers – not to mention disgruntled contestants – the former was as serene as an upscale tavern.  A pair of Fairwarden guards stood watch to keep the riffraff out, he noted with amusement as he talked his way inside.

He was surprised to see several comrades already congregating there, away from the press of the fairgoers.  Indeed, he recognized many old friends and acquaintances sitting around, smoking and drinking from the wine barrel provided as a courtesy to such esteemed guests.

“Rondal!” he heard his name called in a familiar voice – one with a Gilmoran accent.  Astyral stood from the knot of magi with whom he was holding forth, an elaborate ivory pipe in one hand and a richly decorated silver cup in the other.  “We were wondering if you’d come to the Fair today.  Come have a drink with us,” he encouraged.

Rondal smiled and took a seat as he greeted the others.  It was an odd cross-section of the magical community, he noted.  Not only was Astyral there, but so were Lanse of Bune, Lorcus, and Planus, among others.  In short order a cup was thrust into his hands and the gossip began.

“I would have thought you’d be busy with that little war,” Rondal said to Astyral, as he sipped.

“The king called a truce,” the Gilmoran shrugged.  “Even that boneheaded baron who thinks I’m an evil sorcerer isn’t foolish enough to defy a royal edict.  Besides, according to Rard’s proclamation Losara is now provisionally part of the Magelaw, so fighting me would also invite Viscount Terleman’s wrath.  Currently our forces are holding their positions, which is boring, so I figured I’d take a few days off and come to the Fair.  For the shopping.  I have a wedding to prepare for, you know,” he said, pleased.

“As have I, though we’ve yet to set a date,” Rondal admitted, sheepishly.  “We were just discussing it.  We may have to put things off a bit, until Darkfaller is contended with.”

“That may take some time and effort,” agreed Astyral, sympathetically.  “Still, you cannot wait forever, lad.  Seize your happiness as fast as you can.”  That produced a grunt from Lanse.

“You disagree?” Astyral asked in surprise.

“No, it’s just that I’ve been married for twenty years, now,” the warmage said, wryly.  “I might have a different perspective.  But Darkfaller will be a mighty task,” he added, changing the subject swiftly.  “I’ve been asked to start assembling a diorama of the place.  No expense is to be spared.  As soon as they select which castle to run the war from, I’ll be off to start on it.”

“That’s a lovely commission,” Lorcus agreed.  “Lucrative, too.  Me, they won’t call me in until just before the attack, probably.  Unless they want my expertise in the east,” he added.  “Things are getting spicy, over in Remere.”

“Spicy might be the wrong term for it,” Planus objected.  “Merwyn has struck deep into northern Remere.  The last I heard was they were making for Daros, north of the great lake.  That’s the farthest they’ve gone in years.  It’s got Duke Clofalin upset,” he reported, quietly.  “He’s asked Rard for assistance, but with the Darkfaller affair and a fresh civil war to consider, he’s not hopeful.”

“That is what I hear,” sighed Astyral.  “Cannot local forces contend with the Merwyni?”

“There are twenty thousand or more in their army, now,” Planus said, shaking his head.  “And a score of Red Censors leading their magic corps.  High Magi,” he informed them.  “Rumor says that more troops are on the way.  If Duke Clofalin doesn’t get some similar support, they’ll go through Daros like Terleman did Gilmora.”

“That will be high on the agenda of the Curia, in a few weeks,” Astyral noted.  “As will this civil war.  It will be interesting to see what the counts of the kingdom have to say on the subject.  And how the king will resolve it.  Speaking of which . . .” the baron said, turning to Rondal, “I wanted to mention that your name came up, Sir Rondal, when the case came to me that started my little war.”

“Really?” Rondal asked, surprised.  “What did I do?”

“That’s an interesting question,” Astyral said, thoughtfully.  “The case was fairly straightforward: a vassal of mine, a young woman and her husband, have a three-estate holding in Losara.  It was devastated during the invasion, when the lass was the last of her family to survive.  She married and rebuilt the place from nearly nothing,” he said, with admiration.  “But then another lady appeared with a lawbrother and took suit against the first, claiming that she was defrauded of her inheritance.”

“I don’t see how this involves me,” Rondal said, confused.

“It seems that you and Tyndal used her estate as a temporary headquarters during the invasion,” Astyral explained.  “The lady – Lady Arsella of Maramor, I believe – claims that you confirmed her holding when you occupied the place.  She suggested that you would vouch for her claim.  The other one – also claiming to be Lady Arsella of Maramor – insists that the first one is a servant who took her identity when she – the second Arsella – was captured by the gurvani and enslaved for a few years.”

“Ah,” Rondal nodded, trying to keep his face expressionless.  “I do recall a girl in a ruined estate Tyndal and I stayed at for a few days.  Pretty,” he admitted.  “I don’t remember much else about her,” he lied.  “We were too busy running from siege beasts – first time we’d seen them.”

That was not entirely true, Rondal knew in his heart.  Indeed, he remembered Belsi, the maiden who claimed to be the rightful heir to her family’s estates, all too well.  She was a bastard of the lord’s brother who had claimed title and name of Arsella, her cousin and legitimate heir.  When Rondal had discovered it, he had given her the choice to be truthful or to continue the deception.  She’d chosen the latter.

Of course, he’d thought the real Lady Arsella to be dead, at the time.  By Belsi’s story she should have been.  But if she had survived and somehow made her way back to Maramor, he could see why she would have called Belsi out on her deception.

“You say an entire war started over this?” he asked, skeptically.

“Well, the second one brought the first one to court, and I had to rule.  I cast a simple truthtell and the first Arsella failed it.  I awarded the estates to the second one, who passed the truthtell.  But her in-laws took exception, appealed to the locals, her knightly husband started raiding my lands, and things went into the chamberpot after that.  But now that the king has imposed a truce, Arsella – the first one – is demanding to be heard in the Yule Court.  She wants to call you to bear witness,” he informed him.

“Me?” Rondal asked, feigning surprise.  “Well, if I am available, I don’t see . . .”

“It will be interesting,” Astyral continued, “because now that Losara is provisionally part of the Magelaw, the laws have changed.  Minalan always has to be tinkering with that sort of thing.  I don’t mind hearing the appeal, considering how much blood was spilled over it, but I’m going to have to learn the new law, first.  But if you don’t mind popping in for a day or so, I’ll ensure you receive the best hospitality in Alshari Gilmora,” he said, proudly.

“I . . . if I am available,” he said, reluctantly, “I could come by and perhaps see if I even remember the maiden.  That was a long time ago,” he reminded Astyral.  “I was still using one of Sheruel’s witchstones, then.”

“That’s right, you got one of the Spellmonger’s Seven,” snapped Lorcus.  “You and Tyndal both.  Powerful stones, they say.”

“Onranion says they are equal to Alka Alon witchstones,” agreed Planus.

“Only some Alka Alon stones,” Astyral objected, proudly.  He took a little silk bag out that hung under his shirt on a cord.  A moment later he revealed a large, perfectly smooth sphere of irionite larger even than Rondal’s stone.  “I took this from an Enshadowed sorcerer in the Wilderlands during the spring campaign.  It’s filled with powerful spells and feeds them like oil feeds a flame.  I reduced two manor houses during my little war in Losara with it – simply brilliant offensive spells in there,” he nodded, pleased.

“Then I hope you won’t miss it, when you give it up,” Lorcus chuckled.

“What?” Astyral asked, sitting upright in surprise.

“I heard Minalan talking, last night,” Lorcus revealed.  “He’s asking Sire Cei to reserve some time at the Champion’s Banquet for him to hold a short baronial court.  It seems he brought back some savagely powerful stones from the Alka Alon vaults and wants to give them to deserving warmagi.  Your name was mentioned,” he said to Astyral, raising an eyebrow.

“Me?” the Gilmoran asked in surprise.  “But I already have one!”

“Apparently not as powerful as these,” Lorcus assured.  “Have you heard of them, Rondal?”

“Minalan did bring a lot of loot back from Anghysbel,” he admitted.  “He had Tyndal and me inventory it.  There were a lot of witchstones in that pile.”

“Now that is a delightful little present!” Astyral sighed.

“That also means he’ll have a lot more stones to distribute,” Lanse pointed out, as he rose for more wine.

“That will shift the balance of power,” murmured Lanse.  “How many more new High Magi, when the stones get distributed?  If the chivalry has a problem with us now, think how they’ll react to that.”

“It will be another interesting discussion at the Curia, I’d wager,” agreed Planus.  “Every new High Mage is a threat to the old order.  I know Duke Clofalin will want some of those stones for Remere,” he added.  “Yes, the Curia may well be the most important meeting of the year.  Of many a year.”

“Oh,” Rondal said, his head spinning with the gossip and speculation, “I’d say it will be second place – after the next Beryen Council meeting.  After Master Min confronts the Alka Alon with what he found at their secret vault, a great many things may change.”

“What did he find?  Beyond the new stones?” Astyral asked, genuinely curious.

“Weapons, artifacts, and secrets,” Rondal supplied, unwilling to go into more detail in public.  “The secrets will be the most devastating.  And many of those he has kept to himself.  Tyndal won’t even tell me some of the details,” he said, letting some annoyance penetrate his voice.  “You’d think a man—”

Rondal’s complaint was cut off in mid-sentence by a high-pitched scream.  It was followed in quick succession by several more.

All of the warmagi stood at once, looks of concern and panic on their faces.

“What in three hells is that?” Planus asked, alarmed.

“It sounds serious,” Lanse said as he headed for the door of the canopy as more screams and commotion sounded outside.

“Why does this happen at the Magic Fair?” Planus complained.  A short baculus appeared in his hand from a hoxter pocket.  Other wands and mageblades appeared in the hands of the others quickly thereafter.  Rondal summoned his own blade and followed Lanse.

“It had better not be another bloody dragon,” muttered Lorcus from behind him.

Lorcus wasn’t the only one who was worried about that possibility – many people emerging quickly from the tents and pavilions around the fair immediately searched the skies for a giant winged predator.

But the skies were clear, apart from the pair of giant hawks that patrolled above the fair.  The threat, it appeared, was on the land.  There was a press of panicked people moving hurriedly away from the central thoroughfare between the tents and shouts of anger and alarm – along with scattered screams – as something troubling was causing a ruckus.

“I don’t see anything,” Planus said, anxiously surveying the crowd.  “Where is the trouble coming from?”

“Spread out!” ordered Astyral, as he brandished his mageblade.  “It sounds like an attack!”

“Scrying!” Rondal announced as he cast the searching spell with Bulwark, his baculus.

Before he could get any results from the spell, the activity in the fairgrounds became more frenetic.  A moment later a horn rung out in alarm, three long blasts, and those who were looking around in curiosity began to become alarmed.  As the warmagi searched for a target, or at least the source of the commotion, the unmistakable sounds of war spells going off rang out over the screams.

Then they all saw it at the same time: draugen.  Several of them.  Indeed, there was a flood of the unnaturally fast, inhumanly strong undead running through the crowds ahead of them.  Rondal’s baculus told out a group of at least a score mixed among the fairgoers.

“Oh, Ishi’s dainty nips!” Lorcus swore.  “It’s too early in the day for this!”

The draugen weren’t merely attacking, however, Rondal noted as he ended the scrying spell and prepared for action.  As the half-naked, snarling creatures tore through the crowd they were inflicting plenty of damage.  But they were not trying to kill the fleeing fairgoers.  On the contrary, they would slash at them with their claws or weapons, inflicting largely superficial wounds, before they moved on.  It was as if they were attempting to terrorize them, not slay them.

Rondal didn’t have much time to think, but that nagged at him.  Instead of pursuing the thought, however, he and the others began to wade through the crowd throwing spells and, when they came close enough, slashing at the draugen in turn with their own blades.

Rondal’s body took over, and he focused on the immediate threat.  He sent a narrow bolt of high-energy force toward the closest of them, catching the beast squarely in the chest.  It snarled and turned toward him – only to catch Lanse of Bune’s spearpoint squarely in the face.  The next red-eyed monster did not slow down, using the impaled body of its comrade as a ramp up which it scrambled before leaping into the screaming crowd.

“There’s more on the left flank!” Lorcus called out, from somewhere behind Rondal.  As the flailing draugen swarmed through the crowd Rondal pushed forward and started flinging damaging bolts and staggering warspells wherever he could.  But soon the crowd shifted as another wave of the beasts crashed into them from the other side.  The panicking civilians made the defense all the more challenging.

Plenty of warmagi had joined the fray, once it became clear what was happening.  There were hundreds in attendance after all, from mighty warriors like Astyral to newly minted sparks who were here for the Spellmonger’s Trial.  The Fairwardens, too, had begun to respond to the attack.  Their distinctive sentry rods were not as effective at defending the crowds, but they were better than mere steel against the unliving foe.

The problem was that the draugen didn’t seem to be attacking in any kind of coordinated manner.  It was as if a pack of rabid dogs had been let loose at the fair with no better purpose than to inspire panic and terror.  That made fighting them harder, for they seemed to fling themselves into gangs of fleeing civilians instead of standing and fighting the defenders.  All was chaos, and the draugen seemed to delight in it.

“What in six hells are they after?” Planus asked, as he looked around the churning scene, his eyes wide with anxiousness.  “What do they want?”

“They’re not pushing toward the castle,” Astyral noted, as he blasted one in half with a powerful bolt while it was in mid-leap.  A shower of ichor and viscera rained down on the crowd as a result.  “Nor the town.  Keep your guards up!” he said and headed back into the fray.

It was another endless few moments before Rondal finally realized what they were doing.  He was turning to face another draugen when he noticed something odd, out of the corner of his eye.  He was protecting a bunch of fairgoers who were huddled against the side of a wagon when he saw a Tera Alon fairgoer lean over a human woman, as if to defend her . . . and they both disappeared.

It was possible, Rondal reasoned, that he was trying to protect her by taking her through the Ways.  But then he saw another Tera Alon woman reach out and put her hands on the shoulders of two enchanters cringing next to the wagon and also disappeared.  That’s when Rondal came to a realization.

“Enshadowed!” he exclaimed to his fellows.  “The draugen are a distraction!  The Enshadowed are kidnapping people!”

“Huh?” Lorcus grunted, as he whirled, and then witnessed an abduction himself.  The implications dawned on him instantly.  “It’s a raid!” he shouted.  “They’re hunting magi!”

Word spread quickly, and Astyral took charge and began shouting orders to account for the change in tactics.  He detailed half of the warmagi who had congregated around him to search for Tera Alon – or Enshadowed disguised as Tera Alon – and the other half to screen the crowd from the draugen the best they could.  Rondal found himself assigned to the former group, and soon he was loping through the chaotic fairgrounds searching for more of the renegade Alka Alon.

As a tactic, it was of moderate success.  Twice he found the infiltrators before they were able to escape with their captives.  Too often, however, as soon as he sighted one, they were able to slip away with one or more unsuspecting magi.

“They’re harvesting us!” he gasped, as two more were stolen in front of his eyes.  “Has anyone contacted Master Min?” he asked Lanse, who was whirling around with his gory spear and searching for the next target.

“I’m certain he’s aware of it, by now,” he said, dismissively.  “There’s another one!”

The chase lasted far too long for Rondal’s taste.  The Enshadowed weren’t there for a fight, they were there for loot – human loot.  The draugen were there to drive the human crowds together and create chaos.  But as more and more warmagi appeared, summoned to battle mind-to-mind, the undead were slowly overtaken and defeated.  A few Tera Alon were taken in the fight, as well, sometimes accidentally mistaken for Enshadowed or merely caught in the crossfire.

When there were no more undead nearby, nor any of the Enshadowed he could see, Rondal paused and caught his breath.  He reached out to Tyndal through his witchstone wondering if his friend had been called to battle.

I’m busy, right now! Tyndal shouted into his mind and ended the contact.  That answered that question.  He considered calling to Master Min, but realized he was probably busy with the defense.

Instead, he did the next best thing and called out to Pentandra.

We’re under attack! he informed her.  At the fairgrounds!  Draugen and Enshadowed!

I know! Pentandra answered.  They’re all over Sevendor, actually.  Some in town, some at the castle.  There are draugen raiders at both locations.

They’re raising the panic, it’s the Enshadowed who are abducting people, Rondal quickly.  Magi for their body mills, I’d wager!

So stop them! Pentandra ordered him, sounding annoyed. Take some initiative!  You’re good at that, apparently!

Just wanted you to know, Rondal said, and ended the contact.

The chaos had subsided somewhat in this corner of the fairgrounds, but there were other squadrons of monsters in other areas who were still attacking.  Rondal was headed to the nearest when someone tried to contact him again.

Rondal!  We’re under attack! Gatina said, excitedly.

I know! He replied.  I’m fighting them right now!  Where are you?

I’m still in the market, near the cabins, looking for you, she answered.  Watch out for the Tera Alon with the small yellow ribbons in their hair, she warned.  They’re not really Tera Alon!

They’re Enshadowed, I know! he replied.  They’re just using the Tera Alon spell instead of their old warrior forms . . . and they’re stealing people for Mycin Amana.  More fodder for making draugen.  And Nemovorti.  Are you safe?

No one is safe in all this, she countered.  But I’m concealed.  I’m trying to stop them, or at least keep them from escaping.  I sort of stabbed a few . . .

Good lass! Rondal grinned to himself as he headed toward the market.  I’ve told Pentandra, and there’s a gang of us here at the fairgrounds fighting them off.  But they must have gotten scores of prisoners, now.  They must have infiltrated beforehand and identified the magi they wanted to kidnap.  When the attack started, the Enshadowed moved in on us while the draugen herded us into groups.

Can’t they leave us alone for one day? Gatina complained into his mind.

Then suddenly there was a roar, a terrifyingly loud voice that echoed over the entire vale.  It was magically augmented to be incredibly loud and echoed between the distant ridges at a register that was painful to his ears.

“Thus we take our vengeance for the attack on Olum Seheri!” a female voice rang in hissing Narasi.  “We prepare for the day of Korbal’s return!  Your punishment has just begun!”

Rondal shuddered involuntarily.  He knew that voice.  It was Isily’s.  The last time he had heard it was at Castle Salaisus, but he would never forget it.  It had to be Mycin Amana.

Did you hear that? he asked Gatina.

How in Darkness could I not? his bride-to-be answered him in his mind.  It was everywhere!  Beloved, I think—

And then she was gone.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Aftermath

Adversity comes with experience in its hand.

Wilderlands Folk Saying

“I’ve been back in Sevendor one day,” Minalan said, angrily to the hastily assembled council, “and it’s as if I never left.  There was a dragon last time.  This time, I’m missing nearly two hundred people.  Two hundred people stolen under our very noses!”

There was a dangerous look in Minalan’s eye, Pentandra could see, the sort of expression she expected to see on Sandoval’s face, or Terleman’s, or even stoic Mavone’s.  It wasn’t mere anger, it was insult – an insult that the Spellmonger was clearly not willing to bear.

“Well over two hundred, Excellency,” Sire Cei reported, grimly.  “And reports are still coming in.  I should have a list of names soon.  There may be well over that number.  And we have twenty-two dead.  Thrice that are seriously wounded.”

“That does not improve my mood one jot!” Minalan declared, his nostrils flaring.  “I know you were in charge of security, Cei, and I don’t blame you for this.  However, I need to know how this happened,” he said, his voice low and dangerous in tone.  “I need to know why our defenses did not work.  How did more than fifty Enshadowed manage to infiltrate our Magic Fair?  Or more?  How did we fail to recognize what they were, who they working for?  Mycin Amana has much to answer for!” he said, as he slumped in his seat.

Pentandra was startled by his reaction, though it was reasonable enough.  In the hours since the attack Minalan had seemed to be everywhere at once – helping evacuate the wounded to temples, mopping up the few stray draugen who had lingered to complicate the recovery, chasing down the Enshadowed who had tried to return for more abductions.  He had cast a spell from the Magolith to stop their incursions through the Ways.  She hadn’t known Minalan could do that.  He had been calm and collected all throughout the day.

But not now.  As the reports of dead, wounded, and abducted had come in, his mood fell.  He was angry, and angry in a way Pentandra had rarely seen before.  There was something different about his anger than she was used to.  That disturbed her.

Minalan had convened a War Council in the aftermath of the unexpected attack, using the Great Hall of Sevendor Castle because he’d invited – nay, commanded – so many to attend that there were few spaces large enough and secure enough to house the council.  He had begun the meeting pacing back and forth in front of the great fireplace, behind the massive stone slab that still bore the crack Sire Cei had once put into it.  He was clearly agitated, Pentandra could see.  More agitated than he had been before the Greenflower Magewar, when Isily and Dunselen had rebelled against his authority and all human decency with their experiments.

This was worse, Pentandra knew.  Mycin Amana had struck the greatest conclave of magi in the world during a particularly festive period.  There were hundreds, more like thousands, of magically Talented people gathered at the Magic Fair.  Security was tight, she also knew, after the disastrous dragon attack two years ago that had wrecked much of Sevendor Town and killed hundreds.  The dragon had been devastating, that awful day.  But the goal of the attack had been straightforward.  The attacks had been designed to cripple Castabriel, Sevendor, and the seat of Castalshar’s power.

This one had been more insidious.  Mycin Amana was recruiting fresh bodies for her draugen army, and new hosts amongst the most powerful prisoners to house the consciousnesses of her fellow Nemovorti.  They needed hosts who held a high degree of rajira for the process to work, and there was no better congregation of such magi as Sevendor’s annual Magic Fair.  Pentandra was appalled.  They should have anticipated this.

“My lord,” Lady Fallawen said, a hand on her expansive belly, “we did what we could to defend the domain.  The guards at Lesgathael were overwhelmed by the draugen that came through.  Reserves were called to respond, and spells were activated to staunch the flow, but there were just too many.  Lady Varen herself stood against them,” she reported, gravely.  “She suffered accordingly.  She may yet live, if Lilastien’s art is sufficient to the task.”

“I do not blame either her or the other Emissaries any more than I blame Cei,” Minalan said, his jaw set defiantly.  “But her efforts were clearly insufficient. Lesgathael is the only natural Waypoint in Sevendor.  Why could there not be a more staunch defense of it?”

“There are limits to what response we can muster, Excellency,” protested Banamor.  “I went over the security measures myself with Varen.  There was a checkpoint at the new gate manned by the Tera Alon, and one manned by the warmagi.  There was a squadron of sparks prepared to respond to any difficulty armed, armored, and prepared for action.  They deployed as intended . . . but how could we know the force with which Mycin Amana dedicated to overcome them?”

“There is no proper means to counter the concerted and determined intent of the enemy,” Astyral declared.  “Minalan, I’m sympathetic, but blaming your allies for this is misplaced.”

“I am not blaming anyone,” Minalan said, his nostrils flaring.  “I have more than two hundred people stolen from under my nose.  Learning how that was possible is essential to correcting it.”

“You cannot ‘correct’ the abductions of over two hundred magi, Minalan,” Pentandra offered, with more intensity than she’d intended.  “This was a surprise attack from an enemy we had all decided was insufficiently prepared to mount it.  It happened.  We must contend with it as it is presented to us.  Wrath is not appropriate nor useful in this case.”  She hoped that she sounded calm and reasonable.  She half expected him, in his ire, to bark back at her – but if anyone could manage that, she could.

“Clearly, Mycin Amana is more powerful and better organized than we anticipated,” agreed Sandoval, who had come through the Ways from the Wilderlands with a number of other warmagi in response to the Spellmonger’s emergency summons.  He’d stayed to participate in the impromptu war council.  “We need to tighten up security everywhere, then, lest she try this sort of thing again.”

“It wasn’t a lack of security,” Astyral argued.  “I was on the fairgrounds when the attack started.  We had plenty of warriors prepared for the draugen, and plenty more who happily joined in the defense.  We had hawks in the air, screening for a dragon attack.  What we weren’t prepared for was the Enshadowed infiltrating the fair and selecting which magi to abduct.  That’s not a matter of security, it’s a matter of intelligence about the enemies plans.”

“We shall know more about that shortly,” Falwallen assured him.  “We have taken no less than six Enshadowed as prisoners.  I will oversee their interrogations, myself.”

“As well as you oversaw Mycin Amana’s?” asked Sandoval, pointedly.

“She was held as closely as anyone could ask!” gasped Fallawen, glaring at the warmage.  “I lost good people in that raid!  I was injured myself!”

“That’s quite enough of that!” Minalan said, angrily.  “I do not blame anyone for this situation save Karakush and Mycin Amana,” he continued, visibly exercising his patience.  “We have been the targets of a well-thought-out campaign of misdirection and deception.  I resent that, for those are supposed to be our strengths, not theirs.  They clearly knew that this would be a large gathering of Talented folk, and it would be their best opportunity to snatch as many as they could.”

“They sent in draugen to distract us while the Enshadowed infiltrated and selected their targets,” Astyral reported.  “It appears they understood the dangers of trying to kidnap warmagi, so they used the threat of the undead to separate us from the civilian magi.  My question is: where did they take them?”

“Darkfaller, most likely,” Sandoval proposed.

“Perhaps,” Lady Fallawen said, frowning.  “I think they would have gone to a different Waypoint to regroup and sort out the prisoners before heading to Darkfaller.  But either is possible.”

“Let’s face reality,” Lanse of Bune said, slowly.  “They could just as easily be in the Penumbra.  Or the Dark Vale.  Or Olum Seheri.”

“How were they able to leave without going to the Waypoint on Matten’s Helm?” Sire Cei asked, concerned.  The unexpected attack had challenged the Lord Steward damnably, Pentandra could see.  The knight had established appropriately tight security at the fair, she knew, but the success of the attack had been a blow to him.  No one was looking for Enshadowed in the humani-oriented forms.  They tended to use only their original forms or their ancient warrior shape – far more lanky and angular than the Tera Alon.

But someone had mastered the spell.  Just as someone had figured out how to get in and out of Sevendor without using the natural Waypoint.

“They used our Waystones,” Astyral realized.  “I didn’t even think of it, until now.  We strut around with these things as a matter of convenience.  I carry mine everywhere.  There must be a dozen at the fair at any one time.  So when we rushed to confront them, as soon as we came within range they were able to escape.”

“Which means they’ve solved the secret of our Apophyllite,” groaned Sandoval.  “That’s not good.”

“We’ll address that later,” Minalan dismissed.  “They were bound to figure it out eventually.  Even if they don’t understand the method of action, they understood it as a vulnerability and exploited it.

“But right now I’m more interested in knowing where our captured people are,” Minalan said, forcefully.  “Fallawen, begin your interrogations at once – and let me know if the Enshadowed are reluctant.  I have ways of making them speak truthfully.  Sire Cei, double the guards and have the hawks increase their patrols – all the way to Holy Hill.  Apparently they’re familiar with a Waypoint near there, too.  I want every wizard in town scrying and using other means of tracking them.  And if they did go directly to Darkfaller, Olum Seheri, or the Dark Vale itself I want to begin planning a rescue mission.  We may not be able to drive out the Nemovorti immediately, but we can damn sure get our people back.”

“There are a lot of draugen at Darkfaller,” Sandoval said, apologetically.

“There were a lot of draugen at Olum Seheri, too,” Minalan shot back.  “I don’t care.  We’re going to rescue our people.  I need someone to organize a strike team—”

“Bendonal has a team already prepared,” Astyral revealed.  “The same ones that struck the Westlands estates last week.  I’m certain he can get them ready in short order.”

“Rondal organized that,” Pentandra agreed.  “When he wasn’t otherwise occupied.  He could pull them back together again quickly.”  If he wasn’t too stricken by grief, Pentandra silently added to herself.  He was a level-headed enough lad – enough to quietly arrange a military operation without her knowing it or even suspecting it – but losing Gatina like this would challenge him, she knew.  The two were truly in love and completely infatuated with each other.  She couldn’t bear to think what he must be going through . . . and she was hesitant to find out.

She was angry at Rondal, right now, but she put that aside because of the emergency.  When she had found out that it had been he – her very deputy! – who had secretly organized the mercenary companies to capture Wilderhall, she was furious with herself for not seeing the obvious.  She was even more furious with Rondal for undertaking such an adventure in the middle of a civil war that threatened to split the kingdom.

But that would have to wait, she knew.  Tyndal and Rondal were still assisting the other warmagi at the fair, or at the makeshift hospital that had been set up in Briga’s temple.  She postponed her ire with Rondal until it was more appropriate to address it.

“We’ll need more than one strike team, if we’re to rescue more than two hundred, Minalan,” Astyral pointed out.  “I suggest we start recruiting volunteers.  Darkfaller has become a priority.”

“I agree,” Minalan nodded.  “I was going to wait to dole them out, but I think I need to distribute the new irionite spheres now, not wait until the Champion’s Banquet.  If there is even going to be a Champion’s Banquet, or a Spellmonger’s Trial.”

“We have not yet cancelled anything, Excellency,” Sire Cei informed him.

“Don’t,” Minalan decided.  “Keep it scheduled, for now.  Indeed, I want you to make it harder.  Only announce that the top three contestants will receive irionite . . . to make up for last year.”

“And you get to recruit three more High warmagi against Darkfaller,” Astyral guessed.

Ruderal came in, at that moment, and quietly approached Minalan with a leaf of parchment.  The boy’s eyes were red and puffy with crying, no doubt due to the day’s trauma.  He looked guiltily at Pentandra before retreating again.

He stared at it for a few moments before sighing heavily – then did a double-take as his eyes opened widely.  “Trygg’s grace!  My nephew’s name is on this list!” Minalan said, hoarsely.  “Ladra’s oldest boy, Larask.  I didn’t even know he was Talented!”

“It’s a recent development, Excellency,” Sire Cei said, apologetically.  “His rajira emerged a few weeks ago.  Banamor did the testing.  She was going to surprise you with it when you got back.”

“She’s going to be insane with grief,” Minalan said, shaking his head with anxiety as he handed the parchment to Sire Cei for inspection.  Then he addressed the rest of the room.

“It seems we have twenty-four dead, now, sixty-six seriously wounded, and at least two hundred eighty-one magi captured,” he reported, dully.  “There are names you’ll know on that list.  Olmeg the Green.  Zagor.  Gatina the Kitten.  Fantolan the Dowser.  Callwyn the hedgewitch.  Masters Drusus, Nandily, and Jastus from the bouleuterion. Master Andalnam and his daughter Corlia.  Banamor’s assistant Ravalon.  Pentandra’s apprentice, Alurra.  My nephew.  And hundreds of others.  That includes at least five High Magi.  None were warmagi, that I could see.  All civilians.  And no Tera Alon.”

There were gasps at the revelation of each name.  Pentandra’s heart dropped when she heard her apprentice’s name on the list – she hadn’t yet bothered to try to contact Alurra.  The girl’s animal friends would protect her, she figured – but not against this.  Pentandra was devastated hearing about Alurra.  She had given her apprentice permission to attend the fair with Ruderal, who’d defended her from draugen on the main concourse only to lose her to an Enshadowed agent.

Pentandra shuddered to think of her in the clutches of the Nemovorti.  She had no idea what she’d say to Antimei.  If they weren’t rescued quickly, she knew, the victims would likely all be turned into new hosts for the Nemovorti, or into draugen.  She shuddered at the thought of her sweet, sassy apprentice coming to that ignoble end.  Indeed, she would not allow the thought to form in her mind, it disturbed her so much.  It must not be allowed to happen.  The Spellmonger echoed her thoughts.

“These are not acceptable losses!” Minalan said, fervently, his brow furrowed like a freshly plowed field.  The Magolith pulsed balefully above his shoulder.

“It will take a while for them to be . . . prepared for the transfers,” Fallawen said, quietly.  “I learned much of the process from Mycin Amana, during her interrogations.  It takes at least a week to necromantically prepare a human body for possession, even for a simple draugen.  Slightly longer for the Nemovorti.  They likely took that many so that they would have a goodly supply at hand, and extras, should the process fail.  They will not be used all at once.  We have a little time.  But only a little.”

“This cannot stand,” Minalan declared, his voice low and foreboding.  “I will give a witchstone to the man who locates them.  Then we will use every effort, every resource at our command to recover them.  I don’t care if we have to rip Darkfaller apart, stone by stone.  You do not take my people without earning my vengeance,” the Spellmonger said, angrily.  Pentandra did not doubt his commitment one bit.

“We need to bring the Alka Alon into this,” Minalan said to Pentandra, after he adjourned the meeting and led her and Sire Cei upstairs to his old tower workshop.  Though his anger had subsided, somewhat, his commitment had not.  “Not just the Emissaries or the Tera Alon.  It’s time we take our case to the full Alka Alon Council and demand their assistance.”

“For more reluctant foot dragging?” Pentandra asked, irritated.  “They’ve been all but useless, up to now.”

“Not entirely,” Minalan countered, as he waved his hand and the fireplace burst into a crackling flame to blunt the chill in the air.  “Ithalia’s wing of giant hawks was instrumental, this spring.  But there is more they could be doing.   I do not intend to allow them to say no.”

“How will you persuade them, Excellency?” Sire Cei asked, thoughtfully.  “They seem to be reluctant to interfere in human affairs.”

“That’s not entirely accurate.  They interfere plenty, just slowly and over a long period of time.  But I will convince them with the secrets I retrieved from Anghysbel,” Minalan assured him.  “I have some very compelling arguments for why they should bend all their forces to assist us.”

“And if they refuse?” Pentandra asked.

“I do not plan on accepting a refusal.  Time is of the essence and wasting more of it to cater to their sense of propriety is not something we can stand in this situation.  I will not lose more than two hundred of our magi only to see them return as our foes.  No,” he said, flatly, “my patience with the Nemovorti is at an end.  My tolerance of the games of the Enshadowed is over.  And my willingness to cater to the Alka Alon Council’s patronizing attitude is finished.  Pentandra, if you could consult with Fallawen and have her summon the full council at Carneduin, I would appreciate it.”

“I’ll see to it,” Pentandra promised.

She was genuinely worried about Minalan.  The attack on the Magic Fair had been horrific enough.  She and Arborn had been back at the chapterhouse, thankfully, but the chaos of the raid had attracted their attention.  They’d rushed to the fairgrounds just as the last of the bands of draugen were being eliminated by Minalan and the assembled warmagi.

But he took the abductions of his people personally.  The fact that his nephew was among them had been a stunning blow, she knew.  Minalan was strongly motivated by family, and that revelation had made an already bad situation worse.  He looked stricken, now, worse than anytime she’d seen him since Alya had been wounded.  He looked . . . older, she decided.  As if his busy summer and accidental death and resurrection had taken something out of him.

“We have to do something about the Waystones, too,” he continued, after a long, thoughtful pause.  “If they’ve discovered how we use them and understand their capabilities, that puts everyone in danger.  Including the Alka Alon Council,” he reminded her.  He’d given each of them a Waystone, she recalled.  “Every single stone needs to be accounted for, and we need to establish stronger security.”

“How did you . . . how did you stop the Enshadowed from escaping through the Ways?” she asked.

“I have a much better understanding of dimensional magic, now,” Minalan said, quietly.  “Once I have better tools, I’ll be able to . . . but that’s a discussion for another time,” he said, shaking his head bitterly.  “Right now, we need to act.  We need to find out where they are.  And we need to get them out.  Fallawen said it took time to undergo the process, so we probably have a few days before they start consuming the prisoners.  I want to make use of every hour.”

“I’ll organize a scrying cenacle,” Pentandra volunteered.  “We can do it at the chapterhouse.  Lanse of Bune would be helpful for that, too,” she suggested.

“This might be more complicated than mere scrying,” Minalan said, shaking his head.  “They’ll have them shielded, no doubt.  Necromancy is good for that.  And we’re not even certain where they are, which complicates things.”

“None of the High Magi who were taken have answered mind-to-mind communication, either,” Pentandra reported.  “I’ve tried with Alurra, Gatina, Olmeg – nothing.”

“They’re in a necromantic field, more than likely,” Minalan decided.  “Necromancy is good for that sort of thing, too.  That’s worrying in and of itself.  They probably have neutralized any Waystones they may have had among them, too.  I—”

He was interrupted by a knock at the door.  A moment later, Ruderal, who was guarding his master against undue disturbance, permitted Lilastien to come in.

Ruderal looked inconsolable, Pentandra could see.  He saw Alurra’s abduction as his failure, Pentandra guessed.  Lilastien, on the other hand, looked gory.  The front of her white coat was splotchy with blood, but the Tera Alon sorceress didn’t seem to care.  She appeared just as worn as Minalan.

“Well, I’ve gotten as many stabilized as possible,” she said, tiredly.  “We lost two more, but Lady Varen was not one of them.  She’ll survive.  Two of her people from Lesgathael will not.  Plenty of wounded, though,” she sighed, as she sank into a chair.  “I thought you should know.”

“Thank you,” Minalan nodded, gratefully.  “And thank you for your quick response.”

“I’m good at emergency medicine,” Lilastien agreed.  “I just wish I didn’t have to be.  Have we learned where they were taken, yet?”

“I’m about to start a scrying group,” Pentandra informed her.  “We should be able to figure it out soon.  But they’re likely headed to Darkfaller.  It’s the logical place to take them, if its Mycin Amana’s new stronghold.”

“That might actually work in our favor,” reasoned Lilastien.  “I’m assuming it’s no easy task to transfer to a new body.  You remember the types of equipment and spells the Nemovorti had at Olum Seheri,” she reminded Minalan.  “They haven’t been at Darkfaller long enough to set that up yet, I’m guessing.  That should buy us a little more time.”

“I’ve already asked Dara to have her riders start flyovers of Darkfaller,” Minalan said.  “If they see any sign of them, they’ll report it instantly.  Terleman knows about the attack, too.  He’s still at Barrowbell putting together a headquarters.  He can start scrying from there, too.”

“And once you find out that they’re there?” Lilastien asked, cocking her head.

“We go in and get them,” Minalan assured her.  “I’ll have Rondal put together his strike team.  I think he’ll be fairly motivated about it.”

“We are all motivated about it!” Pentandra said, a little more shrilly than she’d anticipated.  “They took Alurra.  No one abducts my apprentice!  Why did they think they could get away with this?”

“Because you’re stupid, ephemeral humani whose only saving grace is that you’re a good temporary host for a Nemovort until they can build better bodies,” Lilastien offered.  “That’s how the Enshadowed see you.  Little better than the Tal Alon or the gurvani.  And just a little more useful.”

“They’re about to see us as warrior princes,” Minalan promised.  “Why didn’t they take any Tera Alon?” he asked her, bluntly.

“My opinion?  I don’t know,” confessed Lilastien.  “Probably for the same reason.  The Tera Alon might be diametrically opposed to the Enshadowed, but they’re still Alka Alon.  We don’t take each other’s lives lightly, usually, a few gory epics, aside.  There is always the possibility that the Tera Alon will come around to the Enshadowed’s skewed ideology, and they’d rather persuade them than kill them, even if it takes a few centuries.  They’d rather be right and have the Tera Alon admit it.  Or, at least that’s how they’re thinking about it.”

“The arrogance of the Draolani knows no frontiers,” Minalan said, with a bitter chuckle.  “It never has.  They shall pay for underestimating us.  Indeed, they shall pay for all of their past misdeeds.  Are you ready to assail the Council with me?” he asked the sorceress.

“Me?  Of course!” Lilastien snorted.  “It’s high time they took this seriously.  And I want to be there and look them in their eye when we reveal their secrets.  But don’t get your hopes up for more than a token response,” she warned.  “You saw how slow to act they were when Anthatiel fell.  This is a human city in a human region.  They won’t be anxious to get involved.”

“They’re already involved,” Minalan dismissed.  “I will find a way to motivate them.  And if they don’t help, well, that will be remembered, too.”

“You are sounding quite confident, Excellency,” Sire Cei pointed out.  While he was being respectful, it was clear he doubted his liege’s ability to strike at such a formidable enemy or compel the Fair Folk to do so.

“I find I’m enjoying a broader perspective on the matter,” Minalan said, with a flick of his head.  “If I have a week, I can build a few helpful tools while we put together a plan of attack.  I—bide,” he said, suddenly, and closed his eyes.  Mind-to-mind contact, Pentandra recognized.  The rest of them stayed respectfully silent as Minalan had a conversation with someone.  In a moment he opened his eyes.

“That was the Royal Court Wizard,, Master Loiko,” he reported with a sigh.  “This morning a score of giant wyverns went beyond patrolling and started carrying off people from along the roads and villages outside of Castabriel.  The king wants us to formulate a response.  I informed him about our attack, and he said he’d pass it along.  But if they’re being bold enough to start probing and scouting Castabriel, we’d best take their threat to the place seriously.  Mycin Amana is not wasting any time.”

“We need to get some more hawks in the air, then,” proposed Pentandra.

“Agreed,” Minalan nodded.  “We’re not going to be able to do this without air superiority,” he said, a strange turn of phrase.  “Something else we can discuss with the Alka Alon Council.  And if Tavard is so eager to start besieging the place, he can start by organizing cavalry patrols around it to keep people off the road and establish their zone of control.  He can also call his banners, as duke.  We’re going to need a lot of manpower to retake Darkfaller.  It would be best if he started preparing for it, now.

“In fact, I think we all know what needs to be done.  You have your assignments.  We’re capable of doing it.  Even the most unpleasant parts,” Minalan said with another heavy sigh as he stood.  “Like going to tell my sister that her oldest boy went to the fair . . . and ended up in a dungeon in Darkfaller.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

The Black Feather

One’s fortune is in one’s forehead.

Wilderlands Folk Saying

Rondal had never been more frightened and enraged in his entire life as he was now.  He stomped up the creaky stairs of the Rat Trap with determination, his body fatigued by the unexpected fight at the fairgrounds.  Rage motivated him to ignore the aches in his limbs.  Fear motivated him to move quickly and flawlessly.  Gatina was gone.  That, he could not abide.

He was angriest at himself, of course; it was easy to be angry with the Nemovorti who had planned the attack, or the Enshadowed who had carried it out.  But he should have stayed with Gatina, he reasoned.  He could have protected her.

He cursed to himself under his breath as he flung open a chest where he kept some weapons and armor.  It had sat untouched for two years, now, packed away after the battle of Olum Seheri.  Nor was it complete – his best armor was sitting in his office in Falas, hundreds of miles away.  He needed to be better armed now.  He didn’t know to what purpose, but it was something he could do.

There wasn’t as much available as he’d hoped – his old hauberk, a gambeson, and gorget, his third-best battle harness, a dagger, a couple of warwands, a helmet, and a pouchful of combat enchantments.  His boots.  Leather vambraces.  His field bag.  All of it smelled of a mixture of old sweat and mildew.  He didn’t care.  It all seemed entirely inadequate, but it would do until he could arm himself better.  He began stripping off his clothes.  While he dressed, he glanced over at the bed he had shared with Gatina the night before.  He turned away with damp eyes.

He was lacing up his boots when Tyndal found him.

“What are you doing?” his friend asked, concerned.

“I’m arming up,” Rondal grunted.  “This was the closest armor I had.”

“But why?” Tyndal asked.  “We defeated the draugen.  Sire Cei has extra patrols in the streets, now.  He’s bringing in more men, just in case.”

“I need to go get Gatina,” he said, through clenched teeth.  “They took Kitten.”

“I know,” Tyndal said, his shoulders sagging.  “I saw the list.  They got Alurra, too.  Ruderal was with her, he’s probably acting like you, now.  They got Lorcus’ wife.  They got Olmeg,” he said, his voice hoarse.  “Olmeg!  Can you believe that?”

“I’m going to get Gatina,” Rondal declared, as he finished with his boots and pulled his vambraces to him.

“You don’t even know where she is!” protested Tyndal.  “Ron, you’ve got to calm down and look at this properly!  Everyone is upset.  Master Min has called a war council in the castle, after he sent Alya back to Spellgarden.  He’s furious!”

“Not as furious as I am,” Rondal assured him as he fumbled with the straps.  “They shouldn’t have taken Gatina.  They’ll pay for that.”

“We don’t know where they are yet,” Tyndal repeated, a little more forcefully.  “Until we do, you need to relax!”

“I don’t need to bloody relax!” Rondal exploded.  “They took her from me!  She was standing right there, and then she wanted to go shopping – to get a gift to surprise me!  I wandered off and left her alone and they caught her!  I was speaking with her mind-to-mind when she just . . . wasn’t there!  Now I have to explain to Hance and Minny how I lost their daughter to the Enshadowed!  And Atopol!  How is he going to react to this?  She was under my protection and she was taken.  So don’t tell me to bloody relax!”

“Stomping around like a crazy man isn’t going to help her,” Tyndal said, calmly.  “Proceeding with calm, clear-minded action might.  We just got raided,” he reasoned.  “They went through the Ways with them.  They could be anywhere.”

“They’re at Darkfaller,” Rondal insisted.  “They have to be.”

“They don’t have to be – they could be at Olum Seheri, or the Westlands, or the Dark Vale, or anywhere else – but you’re probably right.  Which means that they’re in one of the strongest castles in the kingdom.  You don’t storm a place like that by yourself.”

“That theory can be tested,” Rondal said, finally getting his second vambrace strapped on.  He summoned his mageblade and sheathed it on his back.

Tyndal grabbed him by the shoulders.  “I understand what your feeling, Ron, but you have to take a pause for breath.  You have to think clearly, or you’ll get yourself killed and then who is going to rescue her?  When the time comes, I’ll be there with you, and a lot of other people will be, too.  But you have got to gather your wits before then.  We have to have a plan.”

“Killing every draugen between me and Gatina is a plan,” Rondal assured him, angrily.  “Destroying every Nemovort I see is a plan.  I should have killed Karakush the moment I set eyes on him,” he said, recalling the loathsome face of the monster.  “He warned that Mycin Amana would strike soon, and from an unexpected direction.  I should have tortured him until I knew every plot in his rotting skull!”

“She hasn’t tried to contact you mind-to-mind?” Tyndal asked.

“I’ve been trying all day,” Rondal assured him, grimly.  “Nothing.  It’s like I’m shouting into the darkness.”

“None of them have been able to do it,” Tyndal agreed, regretfully.  “They don’t answer.  Olmeg, Master Andalnam, none of them.”

“Then we’ll find another way to locate them,” Rondal declared, pulling his helmet on.  As he did so, he felt the beginnings of a mind-to-mind contact – which he leapt on eagerly, thinking it might be Gatina.  Alas, it was only Pentandra.

Where are you? she inquired, briskly.

At the Rat Trap with Tyndal, he reported.  Arming myself.

Good, then you’re close by, Pentandra replied, evenly.  I’m at the chapterhouse.  We’re organizing a scrying and detection cenacle to try to find our missing magi.  Minalan’s orders, she added. I thought you would want to be included.

Is there any news? Rondal asked, hopefully.

Very little.  The Sky Riders checked the Holy Hill Waypoint, and there were signs that it was used as a staging area, but there’s nothing there, now.  None of the basic location spells seem to be working.  Minalan thinks that Mycin Amana is using necromancy to block them.  The same with mind-to-mind contact.

How can they do that? Rondal asked.  They’ve never done that before!

They’ve never used our Waystones before, either.  My theory is that Mycin Amana has some additional power, thanks to the fact that her host body was affected by the Bluestone spell.  She may well have an augmented control of such energies because her teeth and bones are effectively bluestone.  She has a deeper connection and control over the Otherworld, Pentandra explained.

So what’s the point of scrying, if they’re blocking the spells? Rondal demanded.

Because we’re smarter than they are, Pentandra answered, testily.  We have to be.  I’ve called in some additional help from Vanador.  A specialist.  They should be here by the time you arrive.  Bring Tyndal, she added.  We’re going to need a lot of power for this, I believe.

Who’s coming from Vanador?  What kind of specialist? Rondal asked, desperate and frustrated that Pentandra didn’t seem to have the same level of concern that he did.  Or perhaps she was just controlling it better. That didn’t make it any easier to bear.

A hedgewitch, Pentandra answered.  Hurry.  Every moment counts.

When Tyndal and Rondal arrived, the main hall of the Order of the Secret Tower was rapidly filling up, as Pentandra’s call was answered by the magi.  Lanse of Bune was already unrolling maps across a trestle table to one side while other wizards were trying – and failing – to establish where the abductees had been taken.  Pentandra was directing their efforts and collecting their results, her gleaming baculus in hand, while they worked.  Her face was stoic with the effort, and while Rondal was still irritated by her calm demeanor in the face of such disaster, he also had to admit he admired it.

“Take a place on the circle,” Pentandra ordered them, when she looked up from a map.  “We’ll get started in a moment.  And take that helmet off, Rondal,” she said, with a frown.  “You won’t need it for a while, I think.”

The mood in the room was anxious – most of these magi had been on the fairgrounds or in town when the attack began, and they all appreciated how lucky they had been to avoid being kidnapped themselves.  Many were upset by the loss of colleagues or friends, and a few were still weeping a little over the assault.  One or two bore the signs of their presence during the attack by sporting fresh slings and bandages.

“At least there were no dragons, this time,” Tyndal murmured, as he led Rondal to one corner of the big room.

“This was worse,” Rondal said – and knew the moment the words left his lips that it was not true.  The dragon attack on Sevendor had been devastating.  This was a bad attack, but nowhere near the scale of destruction from two years ago.  “Pentandra said she’s called in a specialist.”  He tried to sound hopeful, but grief was coloring his perspective.

“She knows a lot of them,” Tyndal soothed.  “Don’t worry, Ron.  We’ll figure this out.”

It took another ten minutes before Pentandra finally left the maps and reports and addressed the wizards.  There were forty or fifty gathered, by then, and many High Magi among them.  They quieted down quickly when she rapped the heel of her baculus on the tiled floor.

“Thank you for coming,” Pentandra said, when she had everyone’s attention.  “As you probably know, we suffered a grave attack today.  Not only were several people killed by draugen, but nearly three hundred of our colleagues were taken from us, presumably to provide host bodies for our foes.  The Spellmonger has declared that this will not stand, and the effort to recover them is our highest priority.  But we do not know precisely where they are; the enemy is using necromancy to block our attempts at tracking them or communicating with them.

“But we have other resources,” she continued.  “I’d like to introduce you to Old Antimei, known as the greatest hedgewitch in northern Alshar.  She has a plan, she says, that might provide a means of locating our stolen friends.”  A small, frail-looking old woman entered the chamber escorted by a concerned-looking Fondaras the Wise.

“A hedgewitch?” one of the enchanters in the crowd scoffed.  “We don’t need a bad case of warts cleared up, we’re looking for prisoners!”

“We don’t have time for superstition!” declared another, despairingly.  “They’re going to kill them!”

“Young man!” the witch said, sharply, as she frowned at him.  “While I can cure warts – and give them – I’ll have you know I had my certification in Imperial magic before your parents were born,” Antimei boasted.  “I am not ignorant.  Nor am I useless.”

“Antimei was the witch who concocted the spell that has done the most damage to the Nemovorti,” Fondaras said, quietly.  “She is a great mistress of lore and understands magic both high and low.”

“For our purposes, we shall need low magic,” agreed the witch.  “From what Pentandra has explained, necromancy is prohibiting us from locating our people.  It is a powerful force that can interfere and obscure and deflect energies used in traditional Imperial magic.  Indeed, the only way to contend with it directly is the use of vibrant energy – the Life Force.”

“Ishi’s tits, I hope she doesn’t propose an orgy!” Tyndal whispered to Rondal, as he stared at the wrinkled old woman.

“I’m guessing that their interference is by design to obscure their location and prohibit a quick rescue,” Antimei continued.  “I’ve dealt with the Nemovorti before.  I’ve studied a bit about them and their methods.  Trying to break through their barriers, even with vibrant energy, is going to be difficult.

“But I also believe that they established these spells to specifically blind us to locating any of the humans they took.  But they didn’t just take humans.  Pentandra’s apprentice, Alurra, is a beastmaster.  From what the witnesses say she still had her pet crow, Lucky, on her shoulder when she was taken through the Ways.”  The old woman held up a single black feather in her bony fingers.  “Lucky left this present for us the last time Alurra visited my croft in Vanador.”

“You think we can track . . . a crow?” Rondal asked, doubtfully.  He knew such things were possible, of course, but it usually took someone like a beastmaster to do that sort of thing.  His heart started falling.

“Not with Imperial magic,” Pentandra explained.  “And it will not be easy.  But Antimei has a witchcraft spell that, with sufficient power, may well allow her to find Lucky amongst all the crows of the world.”  Pentandra went to the table with the maps and other components and opened a small box.  She turned back to the assembled with a large pale white sphere in her hand.  “With the covenstone we can combine our energy and boost the potency and area of her spell.”

“Why not just use the standard location spells?” Tyndal asked, curious.

“Because they aren’t as scalable as witchcraft,” Antimei answered.  “Sometimes you have to improvise and use some intuition, as a witch.  Most of the time, actually.”

“You’re talking about locating a crow?  There are a thousand of them in this vale alone!” a warmage said, grumpily. “We’re not trying to find a pig who wandered away from the pen.  You’re looking for one specific crow that could be anywhere in the entire kingdom – or beyond!”

“Credit me with some sense, young man!” snapped Antimei.  “The ordinary Imperial location spells you’re used to using would allow us to find a crow, but not necessarily that specific crow.  With this feather as an example and guide, I can hone our findings until I can locate this one crow out of the millions in the kingdom,” she proposed.  “But only if I have enough power.  I will have to use pathways and thaumaturgic means of detecting and identifying the precise biological and arcane signature of this feather and searching for the crow it came from over a vast distance.

“That will take tremendous power.  And a pendulum,” she added, removing a necklace from her neck and holding it up.  “This is a bit of honeycomb coral.  It’s highly responsive to this sort of energies, when properly tuned.  And yes, I’ve used it to find pigs before.  If you will prepare to send me power, I can channel it through this and get an indication of where exactly Lucky might be.”

“That’s . . . that’s actually clever,” Tyndal admitted to Rondal, as the room burst out in murmurs.  “It could possibly work.”

“How much power do you need?” Banamor asked.  Rondal hadn’t seen the former footwizard and current lord mayor of Sevendor come in.  He looked as anxious and troubled as Rondal felt.  He remembered that his new assistant had been among the missing.

“All of it,” Fondaras said, sharply.  “We’re searching the entire kingdom.  If they took them all the way to the Mindens, it will take that kind of power to detect it.  I’ll be acting as the monitor for the spell,” he added, removing his witchstone from a pouch.  “Lady Pentandra will be directing the flow of energy to Antimei.  Pray make yourselves comfortable and prepare to raise power.”

“Is this foolishness really going to work?” called someone from the back of the room, their voice heavy with skepticism.

“Do you have a better idea?” demanded Pentandra.  “The Spellmonger, himself, has tried using the power of the Magolith to search for them.  The Tera Alon have aided his efforts.  Neither have had any success.  If you want to save our friends and colleagues, this is the best means we have of locating them.  And if it doesn’t work, we’ve lost nothing but time.”

That seemed to mollify most of the magi.  They began settling down in a rough circle on the floor of the hall, and those who had them took out their witchstones.  Rondal did likewise, although he stripped his vambraces off, first.  They seemed heavy and clunky, right now, and he needed no distractions if he was going to help.  Tyndal likewise settled in with his spherical stone cupped in his palms.

Rondal watched the old witch prepare her spell with abstract interest.  Instead of casting the usual preliminaries, she consulted with Lanse about the maps, and then made a point of establishing an ordinary arcane connection between the maps and her honeycomb coral pendant.

To his surprise, she also took out a sachet of rosemary and burned a little on the fire.  That caused a few snorts of derision among the wizards – burning rosemary was a popular way of impressing a witch’s clients, perhaps, but as far as he knew there was no good arcane reason for doing so.  The old witch ignored the snickers and muttering.  Fondaras fixed anyone who was too vocally skeptical with a stark stare.

“Let’s begin,” Pentandra said, when Antimei’s preparations were complete.  “Direct your power to the covenstone, please.”

Rondal took a deep breath and began drawing power from his sphere of irionite.  It was so much more powerful than the first stone he’d had; indeed, it was more refined and flowed far easier than the crude shard he’d borne for years.  The Alka Alon stone provided a smooth, regulated energy that lent itself to being formed and shaped in his mind and transformed through the medium of the runes of Imperial magic.

But that’s not what he did – instead, he kept the energy in its raw form, and allowed it to build.  When it reached a sufficient level of potency he created an apis rune in his mind and attached it to the covenstone.  He could tell his colleagues were doing likewise, to the point where the covenstone began to visibly glow.  And then he began again, drawing more and more power.

Old Antimei took her place behind the table of maps, with Fondaras standing near her, monitoring her condition and Lanse standing on her other side, minding the maps.   Pentandra stood on the other side of the table, baculus in one hand, covenstone in the other, shunting the combined forces that were accumulating through an apis to the old hedgewitch.  For her part, Antimei held the pendulum to hang from her fingers of her left hand while she held the long black crow’s feather in the other.

At first, Rondal was very aware of the amount of power being flung around the chamber; he could feel Tyndal’s conveyance of a tremendous volume of energy as if he were standing next to a fire, and there were dozens who were managing nearly as much.  A web of energy was established around the covenstone.  So much so that the air seemed to crackle.

He allowed his sense of desperation and grief to fuel his determination as he absorbed the power from the palms of his hands.  His awareness dwindled to managing the flow, and he no longer noticed the efforts of those around him.  He was there to push that energy into the covenstone, that was all.  It wasn’t as gratifying as slashing a draugen with his blade, or charging into battle, but it was something he could do at a time when he was desperate to do something -- anything – to find Gatina.

It seemed to take forever, in Rondal’s mind.  Then his mind gave up the idea of duration and slipped into a timeless state that focused only on delivering more energy into the web.

“Contact!” gasped Antimei, pulling Rondal out of his meditation just enough that he could open his eyes.  He saw the pendulum in the witch’s hand start to move, ever so slightly.

“Direction?” Pentandra asked, through gritted teeth.  Rondal noted the tremendous effort that she was putting into holding the energies in check and ensuring their flow in the proper direction.  Her baculus was intimately involved with the undertaking, Rondal could tell.  The thaumaturgical connections between it and the convenstone were unmistakable.  The space between them looked visibly warped.

But he was hopeful.  The hedgewitch had made contact with the crow.  That was something, if the spell could be trusted.

“They’re to the south of here!” Antimei said, her voice rising.  She shifted over to another map that Lanse of Bune helpfully guided her to.  She steadied her hand until the pendulum was still.  “Keep it flowing,” she urged to Pentandra without looking up from the bit of coral on a string.

His boss nodded, and Rondal closed his eyes again.  The power continued to flow.  He tried to pour his hopefulness into his extraction, this time.

“Getting closer . . .” he heard Antimei say, and then he heard the rustle of parchment . . . but he did not open his eyes.  He just kept the flow of energy going in the right direction, as much as his mind could handle.

In truth, his mind was going numb.  Rarely had he dealt with that much power over that sustained a period – even in battle there were pauses and discrete breaks in between spells.  Enchantment used a fair amount of power, too, but not this much for this long.  A faint headache began to form behind his clenched eyes.

“Closer . . .” Antimei called, as she shifted to another map.  Her voice was rising in intensity and cracking with the effort.  Rondal redoubled his efforts.  He was starting to wish he had manifested Bulwark, his baculus, to help him manage the flow now, but he could not do so without breaking his concentration.  It was a challenge, like standing as close as you could to a bonfire without getting burnt.  Part of him wanted to flee from the onslaught of raw, unfocused power.  But as Gatina’s beautiful eyes flashed into his mind for a moment, he recommitted himself.

“I found him!” Antimei said, triumphantly.  Rondal’s eyes snapped open, as if he expected the crow to appear – and considering the amount of energy that was directed toward her, that wouldn’t be an unreasonable assumption.

“Eastern Castali Riverlands,” Lanse of Bune announced in his deep voice as he read the map, “Twenty-two miles north and east of Darkfaller!”  He hurried to mark the map with a bit of charcoal.

“It’s him!” Antimei said, her eyes wide, now, but unseeing.  “It’s Lucky!  I’m certain of it!  I’m . . . marking him!”

“Ease down your power!” Pentandra called out.  Rondal could see her own eyes bulging with the effort.  “Don’t stop abruptly!  Lower it gently!” she commanded.

Rondal was reluctant to stop, simply because it seemed wrong to do something with such passion one moment and then withdraw that passion the next.  But he’d done it before.  Such mental feats were required in the performance of magic.

It took several minutes for him to staunch the flow of arcane energy and convince his stone it wasn’t needed anymore.  It was like slowing a horse from a panicked gallop.  But soon he was able to manage to shut off the flow.

Pentandra suddenly gasped as she attempted to control the rapidly decreasing amount of thaumaturgical energy she was channeling.  Her eyes snapped closed, and for an instant Rondal could hear her voice in his head.

The magi unite to preserve our kin! It rang, loudly.  As if she were shouting.  His headache got worse.

“Ground your power!” Fondaras called to everyone.  “Ground it well, lest you injure yourself!”  He turned and after checking on Antimei, he rushed toward one of the wizards who had collapsed under the strain.

Rondal was sympathetic.  His body had already been aching when he’d arrived, and the addition of armor had not helped much.  While the residue of power gave him a certain sense of energy, he knew it was a ruse to think it had restored him.  Instead, he shunted much of it into a warmagic spell often used to fortify after battle.  The rest he grounded into the stone floor of the hall, until his body and mind had reach thaumaturgic equilibrium once more.

“I feel like three hells!” moaned Tyndal.  “Do you know how hard it is to pull that kind of power and then not do anything useful with it?”

“Intimately,” Rondal mumbled, as he sprawled out on the floor for a moment’s recuperation.  “But she said it worked,” he said, hopefully.  “They’re near to Darkfaller!”

“I heard,” Tyndal agreed with a grunt, sprawling next to him, his breathing heavy.  “So they aren’t at the castle, yet.  That’s good.”

“Maybe,” Rondal said, his head spinning.  He closed his eyes and tried to regain his composure, focusing on his breathing.  “Or it might be another secret cantonment, like the ones in the Westlands, that’s heavily guarded and . . . and . . .”

“Just relax, lads,” Fondaras said, standing over them. “Rest a moment.  You two were drawing more energy than anyone save Pentandra.  Give it a few minutes before you try to stand.”

“I find I don’t have any pressing engagements,” Tyndal agreed, with a gasp.  “And this is the most comfortable stone floor I’ve ever laid upon.”

When Rondal was able to open his eyes again, he saw Pentandra and Antimei, both exhausted, slumped over in chairs in front of the map table.  Lanse was scribbling on a leaf of parchment.  Tyndal looked like he was sleeping.

Nor was he alone.  There were bodies sprawled out all over the hall.  One by one they began struggling to their feet, sometimes helped by their fellows who felt more spry.  Rondal found it a little more difficult, due to his bulky armor, but soon he was standing and stretching his tired, aching body.  His headache had begun to subside.

“You have them?” he asked Lanse, when he managed to struggle over to the table.

“She says so,” the wizard agreed, nodding to Antimei.  “From what I can tell, it’s a natural Waypoint in a forest in the domain of Gorold, on the Castali side of the frontier.  Close enough to ride to Darkfaller.  And probably the closest Waypoint to it.”

“How soon can we get there?” Rondal asked.

Lanse looked him up and down.  “You need a day’s rest before you do anything, lad,” he advised.  “I’ve already sent word to Dara to send a bird to scout the place.  Let’s see what we’re getting into before we get into it.”

“Rondal!” Pentandra said, suddenly, jerking her head up from her conversation with the old witch.  “Thank you for that.  How soon can you get your Westlands strike team back together?”

Rondal considered.  “I’ll have to consult with Bendonal, but I think a lot of them are still at Megelin.  I can probably get the rest together, quickly enough.  A day or so,” he offered.

“They’ve been notified,” Pentandra said, a little guiltily.  “Apparently, everyone who has a witchstone was notified.  When I had to shut down the power and ground out, Everkeen decided that sending a message mind-to-mind would be a good way to do it.  So it did – to everyone.”

That surprised Rondal.  “I didn’t know you could speak to more than one person at a time, mind-to-mind.”

“No one did,” Pentandra agreed.  “I just did it for the first time, I think.  In any case, the High Magi all heard it.  All of them.  So, you shouldn’t have any trouble getting volunteers, when we finally act.  And we can’t do that until we confirm they’re there. Assemble your team.”

“How many?” Rondal asked.  “I had about forty, for the Westlands.”

“As many as you can,” Pentandra directed.  “As fast as you can.  We’re going to inform the Alka Alon of this and ask for aid, but the moment we have a target, I believe Minalan will order them in.  Including you.”

“Especially me,” Rondal said, feeling real hope for the first time since the attack.  “And I intend to destroy them all.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Recriminations

The rustling of a leaf in the wind scares a guilty conscience.

Wilderlands Folk Saying

The usual serenity that surrounded the Hall of The Wise at Carneduin was broken when the large and unruly humani delegation arrived for its hastily arranged emergency meeting.

Pentandra noticed the difference at once.  Usually, the deeply cloven vale in the Kulines was a picture of pastural tranquility reflective of its devotion to lore and learning.  But when they emerged from the Ways, the Alka Alon who lived and worked in the refuge were already anxious, or at least agitated, for some reason.  You could tell by the ears, she knew.  Sometimes Alka Alon expressions were hard to read, but when their ears started twitching like that, you knew they were nervous.

There was a chill in the air that reflected the mood; autumn had come to Carneduin.  Many of the trees that defined the steeply sided vale were already in the throes of the annual change-of-colors, while the evergreens shone darkly in contrast.  A brisk wind kept them all dancing, but it was not a comforting movement.  The wind came in bursts that twisted the limbs chaotically.

The delegation from the Beryen Council was large, this time.  Not only did she and Minalan come, but Lilastien, Onranion, and the three Emissaries were also in attendance.  Astyral, Taren, Terleman, and Carmella represented the wizards of the Magelaw, as did Tyndal and Rondal.  Arborn had joined the party to represent the Kasari, and Masters Azhguri and Suhi were there for their respective clans.

Lastly – and surprisingly – Minalan had brought Alya with him.  While her rank certainly permitted it, she was no mage.  But, then, neither was Arborn, Pentandra considered.  Likely Minalan had included her for moral support, she decided.  That was probably for the best.  His behavior of late had become a bit more extreme, and she seemed a calming influence on him.

“Are you ready, Elre?” Minalan asked Lilastien.

“Exceptionally,” assured the Sorceress of Sartha Wood.  She was in her signature white coat, the recent bloodstains removed by magic, but she had added a belt under it filled with pouches.  Her tekka device was tucked under her arm.  “I’ve been waiting for this for years.”

“How about you, Penny?” he asked.  “Feeling good and angry?”

“Until I get Alurra back, that’s how I’m going to feel,” she agreed.  “I might as well take it out on the Council.”  That earned her a grin from the Spellmonger.

“Ladies?” he asked, turning to the Emissaries.

They were a bit of a sight, Pentandra decided.  Fallawen was nearing the end of her pregnancy – with twins! – and looked far from serene and more like a pumpkin.  Ithalia was dressed in her Sky Rider gear, which made her look a bit odd.  And while Lady Varen wore an elegant humani-style gown of green silk, she also bore her right arm in a sling of matching material, and she used a cane to walk for the moment.  She’d been badly gored by a draugen just the day before.  It was a miracle and testament to Lilastien’s skill that she was standing at all.

Minalan had encouraged her to rest and heal, Pentandra knew, but the quietest of the three Emissaries was also adamant that she attend.  She was upset, herself, with the Council.  Being wounded by a draugen on her very doorstep had done nothing for her mood.  All three Emissaries assented that they were prepared for the conflict ahead.

For the conflict was inevitable, Pentandra knew, and it was necessary.  Everyone there understood that.

“Everyone else, keep quiet unless you’re invited to speak,” Minalan directed.  “There is a lot going on here that you do not understand.  It would take too long to explain the subtleties but trust me when I say that the stakes are high.  And that we have sufficient leverage.  But I expect things to get tense, once we go in.  There might be consequences.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Taren nodded.

“We’re ready to hold the goat, Master,” Tyndal assured him.  Rondal didn’t say anything.  He hadn’t said much at all since the report came in from Darkfaller.  Dara had dared to fly her falcon to where the spell had indicated the crow was.  Indeed, she had found the bird . . . alone in the trees.

Once she coaxed it out of the forest and interrogated it, she learned that yes, the victims had been brought out here, where they were rendered unconscious and searched, before they were transported . . . elsewhere.  The signs in the forest showed that, indeed, a large group of people had come through, then had been placed in wagons and driven away.  Dara guessed that they were headed to Darkfaller – and were already within the castle’s mighty gates.  She searched for stragglers from the air until darkness fell, to no avail.

Since then, Rondal had become stoically silent.  He’d had to inform his future in-laws about what had transpired.  The conversation had not gone well, Pentandra guessed.

Minalan looked around at everyone’s faces.  “Good, good.  I admit, I mostly want you all here to give me support in council.  This is important.  Remember, we’re here to save the world.  Let’s try not to mess that up.”

Pentandra winced.  That was not really the inspiration she was looking for.

They did not wait for the customary escort to the Hall of The Wise.  They knew the way.  Minalan had worn his gaudiest ceremonial hat for the occasion and carried his impressive baculus, Insight, and his height made him a difficult guide to miss in a land of beings less than five feet tall.  He attracted a number of onlookers along the way, likely because he strode with determination and purpose, instead of the timid and cautious steps most humani took in the sublime little land.  Along the way he lit his pipe, and he offered Alya his arm.

He looked bold and confident, Pentandra noted.  And perhaps a little silly.  A fitting representative of their species for these discussions.

The Alka Alon steward – or whatever the title was – on duty was dismayed at both the size of the delegation and their attitude.  Besides, they were early, and that annoyed the Alkan woman.  They were used to a more deferential side of the humani, but even Arborn seemed proudly defiant – and the Kasari had long been allies of the Alka Alon.  It discomfited them when Minalan condescendingly said that they would wait for them to find a larger chamber.  They also weren’t fond of his pipesmoke.  The steward scurried off to discuss the matter with her superiors, while the Beryen delegation milled about patiently.

Finally, a more senior steward appeared, and graciously escorted them all to the largest of the Alka Alon council rooms, where the extended council infrequently met.  Soon the cardinal members of the Council appeared: Lady Micrethiel, their host Raer Haruthel, Lord Letharan, Ringalen, and Aronin Ladas.  A few others of lesser rank came, as well, and soon the Alka Alon Council was convened for the occasion.

Master Heruthel, as usual, presided.  The Lord of Carneduin was clearly disturbed by the suddenness of the meeting, as well as the insistence of the humani.

“My lords and ladies,” he began in Narasi, with a sigh.  “As you requested, we convene to hear your report from your expedition to Anghysbel,” he said, tersely.

“That is just one matter we shall discuss today, my lord,” Minalan said with a slight bow.  “We have a full table of business to settle, I assure you.  Mycin Amana has taken one of the kingdom’s strongest castles, one which lies near to the center of our realm.  She aims to make war on Castabriel and reclaim the ancient city as her rightful stronghold.  She claims dominion over all of these lands as Queen of Castabriel,” he informed them.

That seemed to amuse the Alka Alon, for the most part.

“My lord, that is a laughable declaration,” Lady Micrethiel said, with a patronizing smile.  “She may claim the bones of the ancient city, but she cannot put flesh on them.  Castabriel, as it was, is forever gone.”

“That is no consolation to the people who currently live there,” Minalan pointed out.  “Indeed, it is the capital of our realm.  Mycin Amana poses a serious threat to our kingdom,” he said, gravely.

“You have faced the Nemovorti before, and defeated them,” reminded Aronin Ladas.  “I’m certain you can contend with this one easily enough.”

“It is not all together a matter of what we can contend with, but why we are doing so alone,” Minalan said, softly.  “We expect more from our allies.”

“Did I not provide the giant hawks you needed for your last battle?” Lord Letharan asked.

“Hawks that I developed and my granddaughter trained,” Lilastien pointed out, proudly.

“Your contribution was appreciated, Lord Letharan,” agreed Minalan, patiently, “but if the kingdom is toppled by the enemy, then they will be at your doorstep soon enough.  The Tera Alon, too, are helpful.  But Mycin Amana gathers strength whilst Korbal sleeps.  What do you think will happen when he awakens?”

“We will contend with that when it is time,” Micrethiel said, haughtily.  “I am far more concerned about your report.  Did you find Ameras?” she asked, bluntly.

“Why yes, I did,” Minalan agreed.  “Lovely girl.  A bit skittish.”

“Well?” Micrethiel asked, expectantly.  “Did you convince her to open the vault to us?” she asked.

“To you?  No, no I’m afraid not.  In fact, she didn’t really know how to open the vault,” he admitted.  “She was quite perplexed about that.”

Micrethiel slumped back in her seat with a disgusted sigh.  “She’s forgotten?” the Alkan lady said, shaking her head.  “That is problematic.”

“A way can be found to open it, I’m certain,” Master Heruthel soothed.  “This is a setback, not a disaster.”

“Oh, a way was found to open it,” Minalan said, casually.  “I figured it out.  It wasn’t that difficult, once you understood the . . . well, no need to go into detail,” he decided.

“What?” Micrethiel asked, alarmed.  “You opened it?  Without her permission?”

“I had her permission, I assure you,” Minalan nodded.  “Just not her assistance.”

“But you were not supposed to open it!” Lord Letharan said, sternly.  “That was not your commission!”

“I was told to find her, and I did.  I was told to convince her to open it for the Council, and she . . . well, she didn’t quite refuse, but she wasn’t particularly enthusiastic.  When I made my case, however, she became convinced.  She bid me to open it, if I could figure out how.  So, I did.”

“How . . . how did you manage to convince her when she . . .” asked Aronin Ladas asked, scandalized.

“I’m quite charming, when I want to be,” Minalan offered.  “The fact is I did open it, and I went within.  And I discovered all manner of wonders and marvels.”

“You went within?” Lord Letharan asked, sharply.  “You have not the wit to understand what lay in that vault, Spellmonger!”

“I managed to puzzle it out,” Minalan said, reasonably.  “Indeed, I figured out many, many things from my inspection.  The vault conceals many secrets, it seems.”

“Those weapons were placed there to keep them from being used in a horrible manner by unscrupulous beings,” Master Heruthel blustered.  “They were not meant for . . . ephemeral minds.  You endangered yourself by doing so,” he chided.

“I admit, there were many things I saw that I did not understand,” Minalan agreed.  “But there were enough that I did understand to cause concern.  And no, not over the weapons there.  It was the other secrets that were more revealing.  Luckily, I returned with some souvenirs.”  To illustrate his point, he produced something from a hoxter pocket, a box the size of his fist.  He showed it to the Council.  Most showed no interest, but Letheran and a few others looked even more distraught.

“A Level Five Constructed Intelligence, Military Grade, unused and new in the box,” Minalan pronounced.  “Do you mind telling me what the Alka Alon were doing with it?  In their most secret vaults?  As well as the other units I discovered there?”

“That . . . that is ancient history,” Heruthel said, guiltily.  “When Perwyn sank, we took them into possession for safe keeping.”

“They were not taken for ‘safe keeping,’ you lying old coot!” Lilastien laughed, bitterly.  “They were taken to deprive humanity of the continuity of their civilization.  To reduce them to no more than animals, with no more information than they could manage to put in a book.  Their tekka was their advantage, and you stole it from them when they needed it the most!” she accused.

“You do not understand what—” Aronin Ladas began, heatedly.

“Don’t tell me I don’t understand!  I was there!  I was sentenced to internal exile because of being there!  All the while you were betraying our guests by stealing their precious tekka.  The one thing that you could not control about their civilization.”

“I am assuming you have a better explanation than ‘safe keeping’,” Minalan agreed.  “Though it probably is not as wholesome sounding.  Indeed, you sound eternally patronizing about that.  As if we cannot be trusted with such mighty engines.”

“Your race did not always use them wisely,” Heruthel said, his eyes narrowing and his ears quivering.  “It was regrettable, but after what you did to Perwyn, it was thought best if they were . . . held in trust for you,” he said, after struggling a moment.  “Until your race developed a wiser perspective.”

“Or we went extinct,” Minalan countered.  “But I thank you for your trust.  On behalf of humanity, I have accepted them back,” he revealed, making the box disappear.

“You had no right--!” Micrethiel objected.

“The King of the Kilnusk thought I did,” Minalan interrupted, sharply.  “In fact, when he saw the place, he was very supportive of me reclaiming humanity’s patrimony.  Of course, he’d been in the vault once before, in his youth.  He was happy to have the bones of his father back.  It was quite an honor for him to be interred in such a unique tomb,” Minalan continued, his voice growing harsher and darker, “but he preferred to bury him with his ancestors, as is tradition.”

“What . . . what else did he tell you?” Micrethiel asked, her voice nearly a whisper.

“Very little,” Minalan answered.   “The Kilnusk are a stoic people, when they aren’t talking about themselves.  Some of the Enshadowed detailed to assassinate me in the realm of the jevolar were far more talkative.  And one treacherous but gracious gurvan.  But I learned a great deal about humanity and its dealings with the Alka Alon while I was there, a great deal.  And the Alka Alon’s dealings with the Enshadowed.  And the Alka Alon’s dealing with the Vundel,” he pronounced.

Pentandra held her breath without realizing it.  She knew this was the important part.

“Whatever are you talking about, Wizard?” Micrethiel asked, tiredly.  “That is none of your affair!”

“Oh, but it is,” Minalan disagreed.  “And you have made it my affair.  Our affair,” he said, gesturing to the others in his delegation.  “Master Azhguri and Master Suhi, once they saw what had happened in antiquity, have taken that into their consideration when deciding whether the exile of the Kilnusk would end, and on what terms.”

“Spellmonger, these are affairs for the Alon,” warned Letheran.

“Please, my lord, do not patronize me!” Minalan nearly spat.  “Lying to the Karshak and the Dradrien is bad enough – do not lie to yourself.”  Minalan was starting to look angry.  “You know very well what we found within that vault.  The secret you would kill your own king to conceal.”

“You do not have the context or the wisdom to understand the matter,” Letharan dismissed.  “It is not proper for mortals to contemplate—”

“Would they do worse than you?  And this Council?” Lilastien asked, appalled.  “My lord, you may have been new to this body when the matter was decided, but you are not without accountability for the decision.  You ordered the king of this realm executed . . . and the king of the Kilnusk.  All because you would not live up to your responsibilities.”

“You know not of what you speak, Elre!” Letheran nearly shouted back.  “Nor does this humani wizard!  It was a mistake to have included them in our deliberations,” he declared.  “We have enjoyed nothing but misfortune since they fell out of the sky.  Perhaps their race had merit, once, but this so-called alliance with their ignorant descendants is a farce!”

“I’m sorry, Count Minalan,” Heruthel said, quietly, “but you simply do not have the proper context to judge the Council’s actions when it comes to the matter of the Kilnusk.  Or our own unfortunate history with our monarch.”

“Oh, I think I understand, well enough,” Minalan promised, raising his voice.  “For an ignorant human.  One does not have to be two thousand years old to recognize treachery when one sees it.”

“And you believe you have an understanding of the matter?” Micrethiel asked, with a sneer.  She glared at Minalan.  “You are not yet forty years old and you’ll be dead soon.  I have grandchildren older than you.  Do not pretend you are our equal, Mortal,” she said, warningly.

“Equal?” Minalan scoffed.  “I would not dare.  But I do know the context, my lady.  Let me see if I understand this correctly . . .”

And then he began to quote poetry.  Alka Alon poetry.

Pentandra did not know more than a dozen words in the nonhuman’s language, just a few common terms in magic and literature that dealt with the famous epics.  She thought, at first, that Minalan was merely quoting a passage from one.

But the longer he went on, in perfect meter, the more she realized that whatever he was saying was new to the members of the Council.  There were gasps, in places, as he went flawlessly through complicated rhymes, heavy with alliteration.  There were frowns and scowls in other places.  As he came to one section, Lady Micrethiel started to weep, and the others looked uncomfortable.  Another section produced looks of profound guilt and shame on the faces of the Alka Alon Council.

The entire recitation went on for more than fifteen minutes, and for that time tension hung in the air like a massive spiderweb.  It was as if Minalan was building a legal case, disguised as Alka Alon poetry.  The humans had enough sense to listen to Minalan and keep quiet during his performance.  The Tera Alon stared at their feet in shame – save Lilastien, who glared openly at them throughout the entire thing.

Eventually, Minalan brought the poem to a dramatic conclusion.  Then there was silence in the chamber.

“Where,” Master Heruthel finally asked, visibly disturbed, “where did you hear that?”

“Hear it?  I composed it,” Minalan admitted.  “I’ve only been working on it for a little while but I think it has great promise.”

“You?  You composed a lay in the ancient language?” asked Heruthel in disbelief.

“There are few apart from scholars who even know that tongue, here!” Aronin Ladas said, shaking her head skeptically.

“I could do it in the original Alonaral dialect, if you prefer,” Minalan offered.  “But I think it loses something.   And it is just the introductory lay of a much longer – and more complete – epic in your tongue.  But I think it works better as it stands.  The history of this world should be told in the language of this world,” he said, firmly.

“I cannot believe your audacity,” Lord Letharan said, fixing Minalan with a baleful stare.  “You pretend you understand matters you know nothing about, and hide behind a bit of sloppy doggerel—”

“Doggerel?” Minalan asked, insulted.  “My lord, if you can do better, then I challenge you to do so.  And if you can find fault with the facts that I have laid out, then prove them wrong!  My account was confirmed by the Moonriders, the Met Sakinsa.  The metaphor perfectly describes the relationship between the Alka Alon and the Vundel, even if it is not to your liking.  There are some things that are a matter of personal artistic choice, I admit, and your subjective understanding of the piece might be colored by your own biased perspective.  But my meter was perfect,” he bragged.

Lilastien giggled.  Pentandra could not wait to hear what Minalan actually said, and why it was important.

“If you were an Alkan, such a statement would invite a duel,” Letheran said, glaring at Minalan.

To her surprise, Minalan pulled a spear out of a hoxter.  An Alkan spear.

“I am ready to accommodate you, my lord, if you insist,” Minalan said, warningly.  “I take my poetry very seriously.”

“Admit it, Letheran,” Lilastien called, defiantly, “Minalan speaks the truth.  You can’t hide the Council’s crimes anymore.”

“They are not crimes!” Heruthel insisted, hotly.  “We were put in a dangerous position by Beldurrazeko!  The Karshak—”

“Are victims as much as the Kilnusk!” Minalan objected.  “It was this Council who took responsibility for the crime of not revealing this to the Vundel!  Not the dwarves!”

“You speak in ignorance, Wizard!” Micrethiel said, contemptuously.  “You have no idea what pressure the realm was under, back then.  Do you realize what peril you have placed us all in, merely by speaking of this?  You doom us all!”

Minalan laughed at that.  “Me?  We are already doomed – everyone on Callidore.  Three thousand years, my lady, and we all die horribly.  Save those who have the means to escape.  Which was, I think we all know, your plan from the beginning.  That is why you wanted to enter the vault: not to gain its armory, but to reclaim the means to open the molopor and flee this world . . . when it needs you the most!”

“Bah!  Your ignorance is stunning!” Aronin Ladas said, distastefully.  “There is no way to prevent that doom.  We have studied the matter for ten thousand years, and there is no remedy.  Callidore’s fate is settled.  Why should all memory of this world perish, when it is gone?”

“I’ve studied the matter for scarcely two years, and managed to figure it out,” Minalan replied, with arrogant calm.  “Perhaps I’m just more clever than you are?”

That produced some bitter, derisive laughter among the Alka Alon.  Even Master Heruthel, traditionally one of the members who tended to favor humanity, looked taken aback by Minalan’s manner.  Pentandra sincerely hoped that he hadn’t just destroyed the alliance.

“It matters not,” Letharan finally said.  “What is done, is done.  What will be, will be.  You will keep this knowledge to yourselves – however imperfectly you understand it,” he commanded, sternly.  “You have no idea what kind of powers you are dabbling in!”

“I have a very precise notion of that,” Minalan disagreed.  “And a very good idea of what I want to do with that notion.  I think I want to tell the Vundel about it.”

That made every member of the council blanche.  Lilastien grinned broadly.  Even Onranion looked pleased.

“You cannot!” Master Heruthel said, at last.  “You must not!  They will be enraged—”

“Why shouldn’t they be?” Alya asked, suddenly.  “My lords, do you realize how badly you have treated your hosts?  For ten thousand years your race has been provided shelter by the Vundel’s invitation to Callidore . . . and this is how you repay them?” The contempt in her voice was palpable.  Her face was contorted in a judgmental scowl.  “If your shame about the treatment of your own people is not deep enough, then have you no guilt about how you have treated your hosts?  You have had the means with which they can save all the world, and you brazenly hid it from them!” she accused.

“And for good reason!” Heruthel sputtered.  “Even if we had given it to them, there is no time to properly hatch it and see it to fullness – the maturity it would need to be useful against the inevitable doom would take longer than the doom to come.  You are too late, my lady.  Would you see us tease our hosts most damnably?  Would you see us thrown from this world in rage, when we want nothing more than to preserve its unique memory?”

“You, my lords, suffer from a depressing lack of imagination and commitment,” Alya pronounced, condemningly.  She surveyed them as if she were addressing her children, or the servants’ waifs from Spellgarden’s cottages.  “My lord husband, at least, has the vision and boldness to see this crime made right.  He has pierced the cloak of obfuscation you have woven around this matter, and rightly determined your culpability in this crime – for crime it is!”

“That is not for you to say,” Micrethiel said, scowling.  “There is no reason to think that you will have success when we have failed.  It is no crime to avoid offering false hope.”

“When you have the means to put right an ancient wrong, and you choose not to, you are admitting your own small minds and selfish perspectives are too narrow to see the possibility of success.  For shame!  It does not take a thousand years to learn the difference between right and wrong.  You have, whether you recognize it or not, something most precious to the Vundel.

“And yet you have kept that secret to yourselves for four centuries or more.  How can you condemn us for the virtuous desire to do right by our hosts when you – arrogantly – have decided that you know best for all of Callidore?  When you have only been here ten millennia?  For shame, my lords.”

Pentandra didn’t think it would work – the Alka Alon were ancient, by definition, and their perspectives were colored by their belief in their own self-righteousness.  Chiding them like children misbehaving seemed a laughably hollow approach.  They had demonstrated over and over again their belief in their superior understanding of the world.

Yet, she noted, the Council seemed to shrink under Alya’s words.  The essential truth of her argument proved far more compelling than Pentandra had imagined.  It seemed as if a mother was scolding the children in her care for their short-sighted actions, not a council older than humanity’s tenure on Callidore making policy in the fullness of their wisdom.  Pentandra was amazed by the result.  The entire council looked guilty – shamed, even – by Alya’s strident words.

“Perhaps we were short-sighted when we made the decision,” Heruthel sighed.  “But it was made in defense of our interests.  Nor was it ours alone – the High Kings intervened in the matter.  But the decision, while regrettable, was made in good faith.  You cannot think to undo it now, on a whim.  I appreciate your outrage, and even share it a little.  But you do not have the capacity to bring it to the Vundel’s attention.”

“Indeed I do,” Minalan countered.  “They’re purchasing snowstone from me at an impressive rate.  I’m about to sell them another mountain of it.  My contact with the Vundel should be sufficient to broach the matter.”

“They will dismiss it out of hand,” Letharan said, frowning.  “Nor will we allow you to remove the egg from the vault.”

“The egg has already been removed from the vault,” Lilastien said, proudly.  “Minalan has it secured . . . elsewhere.  He can do whatever he wants with it.”

“You must not give it to them!” Aronin Ladas insisted.

“I have already decided to,” Minalan dismissed.  “How I present my case to the Vundel remains open to question, however.  I believe they will care far less about the details of the recovery when they get their egg back . . . unless I make it a point of discussion.  And that, my friends, will rely entirely on how cooperative you are, from now on.”

“You are extorting the council!” Micrethiel objected.

“I am protecting our interests,” Minalan corrected.  “I have already taken steps to ensure that the Vundel will learn about the egg should I meet an untimely end.  I can assure you, should that happen, you will find a few pesky humani wizards are the least of your worries.  You are aware of the Vundel’s power.  You may not understand the limits of their wrath.  It would be . . . a poor decision.”

“What are your demands, wizard?” Aronin Ladas asked, her eyes narrowed.

“For a start, I want Lilastien to be freed – completely – from her sentence.  Whatever punishment she warranted is complete.  She is free to do as she wishes and aid us in whatever manner we need.”

There were disgruntled looks between the council members, but finally Heruthel nodded.  “Agreed.  If you insist upon it.  But I warn you, based on her past behavior you are taking into your care a very dangerous Alkan.”

“I haven’t begun to be dangerous, yet!” Lilastien assured them, producing more scowls.

“Secondly, you will give us aid against Darkfaller and the rest of the Nemovorti strongholds.  Including Olum Seheri and the Dark Vale.  This war must end, and the Enshadowed must be defeated.  If I am to use the precious knowledge I returned with, I can’t be distracted by being invaded every few months.”

“I will provide additional forces,” Letheran agreed, reluctantly.  “I believe the danger we face justifies our interference.”

“Excellent.  Next, the exile of the Kilnusk is lifted.  They will return to our lands, and their status will be determined by the other clans – not this council.”

“Do you have anything to say to that, Master Azhguri?” Aronin Ladas asked the Karshak.  He stepped forward.

“Master Suhi and I inspected the Kilnusk clan while we were in Anghysbel, and we feel that they have earned the right to return.  Not as kings over us all, but as a fellow clan.”

“You agree, Suhi?” she prompted.

“I do,” the Dradrien smith nodded.  “As painful as it is for me to do so.  It is a matter of mercy.  Apparently, there will be a volcanic eruption that will kill them all if they stay, according to the humani.  They may return.”

“Fine!” Aronin Ladas said, irritated.  “Then let them return.  Are there any more demands, wizard?  More irionite, perhaps?”

“That would be helpful, but unnecessary,” Minalan shrugged.  “I now know the process for making it.  We will be producing it ourselves within a year.  A few additional stones would be lovely, but I foresee a day when nearly every worthy mage will be equipped with one.”

That caused a few of the Council members to chuckle in disbelief.  “Count Minalan,” Letharan said, shaking his head, “it takes a very long time to cure irionite.  Only a few masters of ours can even attempt it.  I don’t think you will be particularly successful.”

“But that’s where you’re wrong,” Minalan insisted.  “Time and space are merely dimensions we rarely work with.  By the time I am ready to make irionite, I shall easily have the tools to make it abundant and quickly.”

“You think you can meddle with time?” Heruthel asked, amused. “That is a sorcery far beyond even our capabilities.”

“Enough for my purposes,” he nodded, confidently.  “I shall make irionite.  I shall make more snowstone.  I shall produce wonders that will stun the Alka Alon.  And you will cooperate – gladly – or any hope of your escape from Callidore will be gone.  For I took something else from the vault, my friends: a tipirilon.”

That caused a gasp among several of the Council members.

“You . . . have the tipirilon?” Letharan asked, darkly.

“I not only have it, but I also intend to use it,” Minalan stated, matter-of-factly.

“You have no idea how to use it!” objected Micrethiel.  “We don’t even understand, precisely, how to use it!”

“Oh, I’m certain I’ll figure it out,” Minalan assured.  “With a little help, of course.  I think it will be necessary to help save the world.  But you will not get it back until I am satisfied that you are cooperating in good faith.  And I know that constructing another one is impossible . . . for you.  That knowledge died with the last of the Spiritsingers.  So, I encourage you to keep that in mind while you start secretly plotting to remove me and seize the treasures I’ve hidden from you.”

“Yes,” Pentandra said, speaking for the first time in council, “I would strongly advise against that, my lords and ladies.  This is not a problem you may simply out-live.   For enough of the High Magi know about this matter and understand the situation to take action, should Minalan mysteriously die and his holdings be destroyed.  Contingencies have been prepared.  I would not advise it,” she warned.

Heruthel looked crestfallen and defeated, while the others looked disturbed or even angry.  “I suppose we have no choice but to cooperate then,” he admitted.  “Assuming you don’t destroy yourself with your . . . meddling.  I doubt that you will accomplish any of this in your lifetime, but we will cooperate.”

Pentandra laughed, despite herself.  “My lords, at some point you will realize the folly of underestimating the Spellmonger, when he puts his mind to something.  Luckily for you, he has set his mind to saving the world.  I suggest you cooperate with him without reservation.

“Because if you don’t . . . well, you might find that the ire of your High Kings is the very least of your worries.”

Chapter Forty

Planning and Plotting

Faithful and sincere will the good friend be.

Wilderlands Folk Saying

“That . . . was intense,” Rondal said, when they emerged from the Ways back in Sevendor, at Lesgathael.  There were several Tera Alon guards present around the Waypoint, now, and he could feel the powerful spells that had been erected since the attack.  He was glad to see it, but it reminded him of the dire situation they were still in.  Gatina – and his other friends – was still in need of rescue.

“That was magnificent!” Lilastien corrected, grinning broadly.  “Minalan, you were amazing!  And now I’m free!” she added, with a giggle.

“You do realize that they’re going to immediately start plotting to undermine your efforts and remove you safely from your leverage,” Onranion pointed out.  “That’s the sort of thing they do.”

“The Council hates to be dictated to,” Lady Varen agreed.  “They resent it – even if the dictates come from the High Kings.  Coming from a humani wizard . . . well, they will try to find a way to stop it.  Even if it’s in their best interest.  It is the nature of the Council.”

“Then we had best move quickly,” Minalan agreed, staring out over his valley.  “While I have you all here, I want to give you some idea of my plans . . . and how you can each help.

“First, Terleman I want you to return to the field and continue probing Darkfaller,” he ordered.  “Rescuing the prisoners remains my highest priority, at the moment.  But we need better intelligence.  We need to find out where they are being held, precisely, within the castle complex and form a plan to extract them.  Use every method at your disposal to learn that.”  The big warmage nodded his agreement.

“Next, Tyndal and Rondal should collect your warmagi and move them to Barrowbell.  Not Castabriel,” he emphasized.  “I am guessing that Mycin Amana will continue to harass the city until she’s ready to take it, and she’ll look there for signs of resistance before anywhere else.  Barrowbell is just as close, but we should be able to work with more security there.”

“It’s also less defensible,” Terleman pointed out.

“But it will serve just as well as a staging area for this operation,” Minalan argued.  “We also need to secure a site for a Mewstower in the area, and Barrowbell and its region are filled with pretty little towers that may serve.  Ithalia, I want you and the other Sky Captains to meet and organize the new mews.  Each tower should contribute birds and riders for the effort.”

“That might prove difficult, Minalan,” Ithalia said, shaking her head.  “We are not on the best of terms, sadly.  They resent us and our birds, and they feel as if we have stolen something from them for training in secret.”

“Then overcome those difficulties,” Minalan ordered.  “Things are going to move very quickly, and I want to be able to count on the Sky Riders when we need them.  Start moving birds to Barrowbell as soon as you can.

“Lady Varen, I would like to impose on you to find me some kirsieth shrubs – two or three hundred of them,” he directed.  “I was not bragging when I told the Council that I intended on making irionite.  The first step in that process is harvesting sap, and we will need a lot of it.  There should be plenty of space on this hill for planting them, and the climate agrees with them – or will.  Once we get Olmeg back, he can fiddle with the conditions until they are optimal for the trees.”

“You said you were going to make snowstone, too,” reminded Pentandra.  “How do you intend on doing that?”

“That will actually be more complicated,” admitted Minalan.  “I will have to conduct a few more experiments – including observing some births with thaumaturgy.  Lilastien, I hate to ask you, but could you assemble a number of pregnant women who would be willing to participate?  Perhaps consult with the Temple of Trygg,” he suggested.  “I do not know how long it will take, or how many I will need to observe, but it is best we have a large enough pool for the exercise.”

“How about Fallawen?” Lilastien asked, gesturing to the pregnant Emissary.  “She’s only weeks away from her due date.”

“Interesting,” nodded Minalan as he stared at her for a moment, “and congratulations!  But I do not know if the snowstone effect would be present in a Tera Alon pregnancy.”

“I don’t see why not,” shrugged Lilastien.  “Biologically speaking, the Tera Alon are human . . . more or less.  The same arcane rules about the Divine Spark should apply.”

“I am willing to participate,” Fallawen agreed.  Rondal could tell she wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea, but then she’d been living as a human for a few years now.  She was likely used to uncomfortable situations.

“It won’t be invasive, I promise,” agreed Minalan.  “Thank you.  Now, Astyral, I want you to also return to the field.  As you are my vassal now, or will be when you swear fealty, I want you to take charge of as many men as Terleman can spare.  Then I want you to transport them east as fast as you can.  See if Count Dranus will give you accommodation in Moros.  I want you to blunt the Merwyni advance into Remere, and I want you to do it hard.”

“You do realize I’m planning a wedding,” Astyral pointed out.

“Then you should be properly motivated to do it quickly and decisively.  Or you can honeymoon in Remere or Wenshar while you’re fighting.  But we must not allow Merwyn to think that a bit of disarray in the kingdom is an invitation for conquest.”

“I will take care of it, Minalan,” Astyral agreed with a reluctant sigh.

“Excellent.  I dislike fighting a war on two fronts, and if Merwyn is thwarted we can focus on Darkfaller with more urgency.  Pentandra, please inform Anguin and Rardine of the results of today’s Council meeting.  And let them know I’m going to be . . . preoccupied for a while.  First with the rescue, and then with some special projects.”

“What kind of special projects?” Pentandra asked, warily.

“I plan on disappearing into the mountain with a number of assistants – including you, Taren and Onranion – and start making the tools to make the tools I need.  Magical tools,” he emphasized.  “There are things I need to create, enchantments that will be necessary and helpful for the tasks we have ahead of us.  Enchantments more powerful and delicate than any we’ve created before,” he said, getting a far-off look in his eye.  But then he shook himself back to the present.

“Lastly, I encourage Masters Azhguri and Suhi to return to your clans and start preparing them for the return of the Kilnusk next summer,” he continued, addressing the dwarves.  “Now that the Council has agreed to my demands, it would be best if the clans supported the idea and were ready to receive their former kings.  Preferably with some humility and discretion,” he added.  “The Kilnusk will prove invaluable for what is coming.”

“You’re planning a wrestling competition then, I take it?” the Karshak stonesinger asked, wryly.

“No, I’m planning on using them as the edge of the axe I plan on hurling at Korbal.  Darkfaller is the practice we need to prepare for a real assault on the Nemovorti strongholds in the Mindens.  With real help from the Alka Alon, we now have a chance to storm them and end this war.  Master Suhi, you should prepare to provide Yltedene steel weaponry and armor for them when they arrive.  They will need it.”

“It isn’t proof against dragons,” reminded the Dradrien master smith.

“I will have other arguments for dragons,” promised Minalan.  “Speaking of which . . . Fallawen, I’m going to need those dragon eggs back.”

“What?” asked Fallawen, surprised.  “Why?”

“Because I promised to send them to Anghysbel to be hatched by their . . . aunt.  And it will put them beyond the reach of the Enshadowed.  I think we underestimated the security of your holding, as pretty as it is.”

“Mycin Amana was stolen because of treachery, my lord, not by a lack of attention,” she said, stiffly.

“I am not casting aspersions,” Minalan soothed, “I am taking precautions.  I do not blame you for losing her.  But it very well could have been the eggs that were stolen, not Mycin Amana.”

“I’m having no luck hatching them, anyway,” the Emissary sighed.  Then she patted her expansive tummy.  “I’ll have my own little dragons to contend with shortly.”

“I believe that’s most of it,” Minalan said, after thinking for a moment.  “Oh, there will be much, much more in the coming days, but that should get you all started.  Now, let’s get to our tasks and clear the hill.  I believe the Fairwardens will want to start setting up for the Spellmonger’s Trial.”

“Master, do you really think it’s appropriate – or prudent – to go forward with the fair, after all that has happened?” Rondal asked.  It seemed like a misplaced priority, when there were still the prisoners to be freed.  His desperation for finding Gatina was growing – as was his frustration that more wasn’t being done about it.

“It’s essential,” Minalan assured him.  “We must maintain what traditions we can in this time of crisis.  And it gives me a good excuse to hand out witchstones.  The fair will not interfere with our preparations or scouting, I believe.  Besides, I don’t have the heart to tell Banamor he has to refund all of those fees.

“But I understand your concern,” Minalan continued.  “I share it.  Our friends are in a dire situation, and they are counting on us.  We will not let them down.  I make you a promise on that.  I saw what happens to someone who is being prepared for possession when we were in the dungeons of Olum Seheri.  That will not happen to our friends.  I will not allow it.”

Minalan’s confidence buoyed Rondal, he had to admit.  He’d just watched him stare down both the king of Castalshar and the Alka Alon council.  There didn’t seem to be much his former master couldn’t do.

But he also knew that Minalan was different than he was when he’d gone north to the jevolar.  There were elements to his master’s speech and even in his emotions that were different and unexpected.  That continued to trouble Rondal, though it did not deter him from seizing on the hope that Gatina would be rescued.

“Now, all of you, off to your tasks.  The sooner we get started, the sooner we’ll be done.”

“Rondal, a word?” Pentandra asked, quietly, as the party began to descend the long trail down Matten’s Helm.  Rondal gave Tyndal a nod that meant he would catch up, and he went to speak to his boss.

“I wanted to talk to you about . . . well, about Wilderhall,” she said, somewhat guiltily.  “I know it was you who hired the mercenaries.  And, presumably, directed them.”

“How did you find out?” he asked, sighing.

“You told me, in a manner of speaking,” Pentandra explained.  “One of our little flowers reported that there was an odd banner flying over Wilderhall – a snowflake banner.  Only it wasn’t Sevendor’s.  I asked Sire Cei about it, and he explained the six different lords who have incorporated the snowflake into their heraldry.  Indeed, he went on and on and on about it.  Yours was the one that matched the closest to the Wilderhall banner.  And you’re the only one who wasn’t actually in Sevendor anymore.”

“I knew I should have chosen a different banner,” he said, shaking his head.

“You shouldn’t have done it at all,” Pentandra lectured.  “It was brash, dangerous, and could have gotten a great many people killed.”

“But it didn’t,” Rondal pointed out.

“That isn’t even the reason I’m angry,” Pentandra said, her expression turning dark.  “You could have inflamed a civil war across the entire kingdom, but yes, it didn’t turn out that way.  But I’m angry because I feel my trust in you has eroded as a result.  You should have told me,” she said, accusingly.

“Would you have approved?” he asked.

“No, I wouldn’t have,” she admitted.  “Nor would I now.  It is not the place for my deputy to meddle in kingdom-level politics.  But to do so and then keep it secret from me . . . that is what truly makes me angry.”

“I apologize,” Rondal said, sincerely.  “But I would do it again, I think.  Are you going to sack me?  Because a job is not really high on my priorities, at the moment,” he argued.

“Gatina.  I know,” Pentandra said, her mood softening.  “And Allura.  And all the rest.  I know,” she repeated, with more emphasis.  “But no, I’m not going to sack you.  At least right now.  After we rescue them, we may have to re-assess our relationship, however.”

“Look, if you want to sack me, go ahead and do it,” Rondal said with a frustrated sigh.  “But if I meddled, it’s because I was taught to by the best – you and Minalan.  I didn’t do it for the glory, or the potential reward, or out of vengeance, or . . . I did it because it seemed the right sort of thing to do, in the situation.  Just like you or Master Min would.”

“And the secrets?” Pentandra prompted.

“Do you not keep secrets?” Rondal countered, accusingly.  “Great, heaping volumes of them?”

That took Pentandra aback, he could tell, and her eyes went wide for a moment.  She spent several thoughtful moments biting her bottom lip before she answered.

“I do,” she admitted.  “Some even from Minalan.  And I tell myself it’s for his own good.  Just as you thought keeping this one was for my own good.”

“It would have put you in a bad position with the Duke and Duchess – and perhaps the Crown,” Rondal agreed.  “Not knowing about it meant that you could act normally about it.  I’m sorry if that diminished your trust in me, but it really was for your own good.  Believe me, people keep secrets from me all the time.  I’m about to marry into a family that specializes in it.  It takes some getting used to.”

“But as a matter of trust . . .” Pentandra said, cocking her head.

“Fine, I’ll inform you of any other impromptu conquests I make,” Rondal said, rolling his eyes.  “And I’ll try not to keep secrets from you . . . unless I think it’s for your own good.  But you either trust me and trust my intentions and trust my judgement, or you don’t.  That’s your decision.”

“If we are to have any hope that this enterprise will be successful, then we have to trust one another,” she said, urgently.  “And yes, that includes myself.  I have been keeping secrets – too many secrets – and I fear a great number of them won’t end as well as Wilderhall did.”

“Trust your own judgement, Pentandra,” Rondal advised.  “That’s what I did.  And yes, I felt horribly guilty not telling you or Anguin.  But sometimes that’s the best you can do.”

“Go get some rest, Rondal,” she said, gently.  “You have a lot to do, and you’ve barely slept.  And eat something,” she urged, with a matronly tone to her voice.  Rondal gave her a single nod and then headed down the trail.  Tyndal was waiting for him a hundred yards down the mountain.

“So . . . did she chew you out?” he asked, curious.

“A little bit,” Rondal admitted.  “I offered to resign, she said no, it was about the trust and not the . . . she’s fine with it, I think.  We came to an understanding.  And she wants me to eat and get some sleep,” he added.

“Not a bad idea,” Tyndal agreed, as they started walking.  “While you were talking I got a message from Dara.  One of her birds spotted humans inside Darkfaller.  Living humans, not undead.  She’s putting together a report, now.  If all goes well, we should be storming the castle in a day or so.”

“That seems like an eternity,” Rondal said, gloomily.

“Ron, Gatina is a shadowmage, a highly-trained thief, and one of the smartest girls I know,” he said, sincerely.  “She’s not the type to go meekly into a cell without a dozen plans for escaping.  She probably already has, and is just trying to find a way to communicate with us.  Hells, in another few days she’ll likely be running the place,” he predicted.

“She’s smart, but she’s also impetuous,” Rondal pointed out as they came over the rise.  Hollyburrow, Master Olmeg’s estate, was spread out below them.  “And she wouldn’t escape and just leave behind all of those people.  It’s not in her nature.  I’m just worried she’ll get herself killed before we can rescue them all.”

“I can’t believe they took Olmeg,” Tyndal said, shaking his head as they paused and regarded Hollyburrow.  “I’d kill them all for that, alone.  Lorcus . . . he’s worse off than you, I think.  And Master Min has to rescue his nephew, or he’s going to have to hide from his sister.  So we have a lot of highly motivated, very powerful people working on the problem,” he reminded him.

“I just wish there was more that I could do,” Rondal said, glumly, as they continued on their journey.

“There is,” Tyndal agreed.  “Pentandra told you what to do: get some food, get some sleep.  Then we armor up.  Then we go get your girl,” he said, with his typical overconfidence.  “You haven’t had many, and I’d hate to see the decent one go to waste.”  While that was true, it was also a very Tyndal sort of insult.  Tyndal collected broken hearts and lustful encounters the way Lady Arnet collected decorative thimbles.  Rondal had comparatively few ladies in his life.

But that reminded Rondal of something.  Something he didn’t really want to discuss, but that he felt obligated to.

“Oh.  Ah, what are your plans for Yule?” he asked, hesitantly.

“Why?” Tyndal asked, suspiciously.

“Do you remember when we were stationed in Losara?” he began with a sigh.  “There was that girl . . .”

Epilogue

A candle loses nothing by lighting another candle.

Wilderlands Folk Saying

Old Antimei returned to her croft in Vanador late in the evening with a heavy heart and a mind full of worries after her brief journey to Sevendor.  The croft was dark, and she started to kindle a taper when she remembered that such a wasteful expense was no longer necessary.  She had a witchstone, now.  It took a few moments for her to cast the spell, but soon a small but bright magelight floated in the middle of the croft, providing far better illumination than a mere candle could have.

The success of the small spell did little to gratify Antimei.  She was consumed with worry about poor Alurra.  The thought of the blind girl in the hands of such foul folk made her shudder.  She had raised the girl since she was barely able to speak, after all, and loved her like her own daughter.  The news that she had been taken, among the other magi, had stricken her, and had compelled her to find some spell that could assist in the effort to recover her.  Indeed, her body was still humming from the exertion of such a powerful spell.  She had never seen the employ of magical forces in such abundance before.  Antimei now understood the true power of irionite, and how it had changed her profession forever.

But it had done little for the effort save locating the hostages.  That was helpful she knew, but she also realized just how much effort it would take to affect a rescue.  Such pursuits were the province of others.  But the waiting and the worrying were taking a toll on her.

She stared at the teapot, for a moment, and she considered making a pot.  She had scores of herbs that she knew would relax her and calm her enough to sleep.  Antimei needed sleep.  She’d spent weeks, now, tromping through fields and meadows, directing field wizards in their important work, or hiking miles across barely present roads between the far-flung settlements of the plateau.  That was far more activity than she’d enjoyed in Inmar, or even before she’d returned to the city of her birth.  Her old bones were tired, she realized.  The frenetic energies from the spell were reminding her of the number of winters she’d seen.  Tea, she decided, was not what she needed.

Instead she used her tiny stool to reach above a cupboard, and withdrew from the rear a gourd-shaped flask she’d been given years ago.  Pear brandy, from the Pearwoods, a payment for curing a horrible rash on a local yeoman.  She rarely touched spirits, save a little apple jack now and then during the winter, but if ever there was a day that called for such measures it was today.

She pulled the stopper from the flask and took a cautious sip; the intense flavor filled her mouth instantly, a medley of sweet pear, honey, and spices for which the Pearwoods were so famous.  Yet it burned like golden summer sunshine down her throat.  It was better than she remembered; age had treated it well, unlike her.  She took a larger swallow.

It was hard to be patient and put aside her worries, even though she knew that the dire situation in Darkfaller would, eventually, be remedied.  The prophecies had assured her of that.  And she’d had one or two prophetic visions of Alurra, when she was older, so she knew her apprentice would escape alive.  But that did not mean unharmed, she also knew.  Alurra could be enduring all sorts of horrors at the hands of the Nemovorti.  Knowing that she would survive brought little solace.  She knew a great many others would die before Darkfaller was cleansed.

She took another swallow, as she stared into nothingness, lost in her thoughts.  Then she startled when there was a knock at the door.

Late-night knocks were also no stranger to Antimei.  Hedgewitches were frequently subjected to them as they were sought for emergencies.  She’d delivered babies and calves, piglets and kittens in the middle of the night; treated fevers and coughs, vomiting and diarrhea and attended to all other manner of rural crises over her many years practicing.  Yet she did not expect that sort of thing now, in the City of Wizards, when there were more prestigious and practical professionals available for such urgent occasions.

“Hello!” the voice of Fondaras the Wise called softly through the door.  “Are you awake, Antimei?”

She smiled, then frowned, then smiled again, a little more slyly.

“I am,” she admitted, unfastening the catch.  “I was just collecting my thoughts before bed.  Join me?”

“Ah, terrible day, terrible day,” Fondaras sighed as he swept off his pointed hat and came in, shaking his head.  “Fortunate for us we had a hedgewitch at hand to help.”

“Is there news?” she asked, a little anxiously, as she closed the door.

“Not good news, but neither bad,” he reported, his voice sad.  “The crow was found abandoned in the wood, miles from Darkfaller.  It provided some intelligence about the prisoners, but that is the best that could be drawn from the thing.”

Antimei sighed.  “Thank you for telling me,” she said, looking up at the footwizard.

She’d heard of Fondaras for years, of course; she’d learned of all of her professional colleagues in the craft over the many years she’d practiced.  She’d even crossed paths with the man from time to time as their cases overlapped.  Antimei had found that he lived up to his reputation for both wisdom and politeness.

But when he had returned from Anghysbel and found she’d taken his position, their reacquaintance had turned into something more personal.  There were not many magi of their age in the region, anymore, after the invasion.  Nor were there many who recalled the Wilderlands from before.  Their businesslike conversation over the progress of the field wizards had kindled something a bit more intimate, as they fell into discussing older times and faces they both remembered.  They’d talked for hours in the empty wineshop in the Thaumaturge’s Quarter until they had established a friendly familiarity.  That had led to a tour of her croft.  That had led to other things.  It did not hurt that Fondaras was a quite handsome man, for his age, and quite hale.  The wine did not hurt, either.

She bore no shame from the dalliance.  Both of them had needed it, for different reasons, and she had to admit to herself that she was growing quite fond of the old gentleman.  It helped that he held her specialty in some esteem, when so many footwizards and spellmongers tended to dismiss witches as half-trained or indulging in superstition.  Fondaras took a far more discerning view, and she was grateful for that.  It was he who’d suggested that she volunteer her skills to Pentandra, this morning.

“Alurra seems like a smart girl,” Fondaras offered, hopefully.  “Even without her crow, she will endure.”

“Aye, she will,” Antimei agreed.  “Her rajira is strong, as is her beastmastery.  No doubt she’ll have the castle’s rats organized to dig a tunnel out of the dungeon,” she said, with a wry chuckle.  “Or convince a swarm of bats to bear her away.  I hold every hope that she will be all right, in the end.  But I cannot help but worry.”

“Of course not,” nodded Fondaras.  “I’ve raised three apprentices to journeymen, among the Good Fellows, and mentored plenty of young folk in my years.  You cannot help but invest a portion of your heart in each one.  The resiliency of youth is astonishing.  As is the foolishness,” he added, with a cock of his head.

“Alurra is not often prone to that, at least,” Antimei said, leading him over to her table.  “She has a good head on those shoulders.  Quite a practical girl.  Nor is she the slightest bit helpless, because of her blindness.  Indeed, she will be less afraid if she cannot see the faces of dread that surround her.  No, I have every expectation that she will come through this.  If the Spellmonger lives up to his word.”

“Minalan the Spellmonger has many faults, but shirking a commitment like that is not among them,” Fondaras observed.  “I’ve gotten to know the man well, in the last few years.  The journey to Anghysbel was instructive on his character.  He’s as loyal as a Kasari, as cunning as a charlatan, and as relentless as a hound after a bitch.  And he possesses great strength of character . . . if you can see past his ego.”

“He’s the man for our times,” Antimei agreed.

“He’s also quite mad, at the moment, which is of concern to me,” Fondaras admitted with a guilty sigh.  “Anghysbel changed him.”

“From madness alone can the mighty be drawn,” Antimei suggested.

“Ah!” Fodaras smiled.  “You’ve read Gulmany the Elder!”

“There was a copy in the temple library at Inmar,” she agreed.  “I read it thrice when I was an apprentice.  Delightful imagery and acute observations on the human condition . . . but he’s a bit of an ass.”

Fondaras chuckled as he dug out his pipe.  “I prefer his later works.  He mellowed with time, and his talent for verse only grows sharper.  But let us hope he was correct in his assessment.  Minalan might be crazed, but it may well be the type of madness that is needed in these dark times.”

That was, she knew, precisely what would happen, according to her visions.  He had a life’s worth of work to get through, but Minalan and Pentandra were the best hope for the future.  It was just unfortunate that there were so many white-knuckled moments until they fulfilled their fates.

“Brandy?” she asked, suddenly, as she remembered the flask in her hand.

“I’m grateful,” Fondaras said, removing a small gourd from his satchel, “but I came in part to bring you a gift from exotic Anghysbel: beet rum.  A spirit made by the Lakeshire Tal, distilled and aged.  It’s quite potent,” he warned, handing the bottle to her ceremoniously.

She smiled and pulled the cork from the top of the unusual-looking gourd.  A wave of powerful fumes filled her nose at once.  It was far more powerful than pear brandy, she realized.

“This particular variety is infused with herbs particular to the place,” Fondaras explained.  “I secured a small selection before we left.  For medicinal purposes.”

“I’m feeling a bit ill at the moment,” Antimei considered, and sipped from the gourd.  If the pear brandy had felt like sunshine, this spirit was reminiscent of dragonfire.

“Goddess!” she swore, as she gasped after her swallow.

“It takes a little getting used to,” Fondaras agreed, smiling sympathetically.  “But it will keep you warm at night, I think.  The Lakeshire Tal drink it like water.  They say the first cup tastes like turpentine, the second tastes like silver.”

“What about the third cup?” Antimei asked, her voice hoarse with the stinging liquor.

“No one ever remembers,” conceded Fondaras.

“I can see why!” laughed Antimei.  “It’s as potent as a punch in the nose.  Thank you,” she said, taking a second mouthful.

But just as she swallowed it, she felt a familiar feeling coming over her.  Not mere drunkenness, which she would have welcomed after such an arduous day.  But one she had come to dread and accept in equal portions.

“Oh, no!” she whispered, as she felt herself slip into a vision.  She fumbled to set the gourd down, stared at Fondaras in panic, and grasped the edges of the table to steady her.  “Not now!” she pleaded, to no one in particular.

The vision roared over her so powerfully that the effects of mere alcohol were insignificant.  She was plucked out of her skull and flung into eternity, with sights and sounds crowding her mind in a dizzying display.  The episode lasted several minutes, and while she could vaguely hear Fondaras shouting at her at the edges of her perception, the vision had near complete control over her senses.

It was a bad one, too.  Worse than most she’d experienced over the years.  The kind of vision that locked her body into a tense contortion of rigidity until her very bones complained.  She trembled powerfully; her eyes closed tight against the onslaught.

Finally, it began to abate.  Her hands were like vises on the table, and there was a loud ringing in her ears . . . one that resolved into the face of Fondaras.

“What . . . was that?” he asked, alarmed.

“I . . . I . . . I will explain later,” she gasped.  “Quickly, do you have a parchment?  A pen?” she asked, urgently.

“Yes, of course,” Fondaras said, confusedly.  He started rummaging through his satchel, though his eyes never left her.

“Write this down!” she urged in a hoarse whisper.  “Before I lose it!”

“All right,” he agreed, resigned, as he spread the parchment under the magelight and dipped his short-hafted quill into the tiny bottle of ink he produced.  “What am I writing?”

“Just write!” she insisted, and then began to speak or chant, each word being torn out of her like a fishbone.

“With sorcery and blood Draolani stain the land

The Wizards’ true wrath is revealed in its power

The Mad Mage of Sevendor fortifies his hand

As he hastens toward his appointed hour.

“Whilst dread is fought with steel and spell

The great union rises against the obscenity

In dark western caverns the doom now dwells

Against them man hath no hope save serenity.”

“That . . . is a curious piece of verse,” Fondaras remarked, diplomatically, when it was clear that she was done with her recitation.  “What does it mean?”

“I don’t know,” Antimei said, her head slumping back in her chair.  “I don’t know.  But it’s important,” she insisted.

“I see,” nodded Fondaras.  “Antimei, would you like to tell me just how long you’ve been afflicted with prophecy?”

The End